The Village of Angels
Aflaha Rizal Bahtiar
Translated into English by Ruby Astari
Illustration by Stephani Soejono.
His shelf was full of battered old books. Books from when Wanto was still a teenager. Wanto had reached the point where he was fed up with his old books, and it was time for him to give them to someone else who needed books to fill their head and keep their eyes busy with strings of sentences from writers both dead and alive. He picked out several children's story books that he had bought at an old bookstore, which was now gone after the army took action in response to residents' complaints that the old bookstore sold books on an ideology prohibited by the state.
Only memories remained. Memories of the storybooks that he would read all night, the whole day long, and day after day for his entire vacation. Wanto had read in the news that the natural disasters were getting worse. Many people had died terribly with shapeless faces, squashed limbs, and splattered blood everywhere. He also felt sadness for the victims’ families left behind, in addition to the memories that lurked in his every thought. Wanto piled the books of his memories in stacks, then he put them in a box which he sealed with tape. He then wrote the word Books on the box, to donate it to those in need.
The people where Wanto lived—a place with calming expanses of nature and mountains in the distance, as well as cool air—were known to love giving alms and donating to those in distress. Because of this, the place had even been dubbed the Village of Angels. The nickname had brought in tourists who were curious about this place full of good people. Reporters had also turned up, taking pictures, interviewing residents about their kindness, and the news had been published the next day. It had even made the headlines on TV and in the papers. The president himself had once come and visited the residents' homes and received gifts of fruit from their well-tended gardens. “May you all be under God's protection,” were the words of the president at that time.
Wanto set out from his small, comfortable house, a house which made Wanto unwilling to go out or talk to anyone. Wanto was not very close to people. He didn't even have a wife, though he was thirty years old, a marriageable age by the standards of that area’s residents. Besides, Wanto often said that marriage was optional and you could either reject or accept it. It was as you liked. Even though he often said this, unbeknownst to him, there was a woman who loved Wanto with all her heart. She knew Wanto, even though Wanto only knew her by name and sight. This woman liked to give away clothes that she no longer wore. In each village block was a post where donations from residents were kept. Reportedly, the donations were being collected for the grieving victims of the tsunami that had hit the bay across from them.
The villagers had gathered at the post, which was crowded like a night market. Wanto knew some of the residents there, who were donating more basic items. There were only a few clothes. But he was the only one bringing books. “I know books are also important for those who’ve had to leave their belongings behind,” said Wanto to himself. Yes, Wanto assured them that inside were books that would be needed to read, study, or used to supplement school collections, if necessary. With these books, people could see a reality they might never reach, even if it was only through stories—stories that were nothing but worthless nonsense, according to the villagers.
“Shall we place your items here at this post? They will be recorded soon,” said a stocky man approaching Wanto with a smile. He welcomed the presence of well-intentioned Wanto in the Village of Angels.
Then the voices came, like the crack of rifles shooting innocent people. These words hurt Wanto's ears, which couldn’t help overhearing: “As if those grieving victims want donations of unnecessary books from you!”
“Yeah, your books are full of ridiculous tales. Rubbish. There’s no bright future to be had from those books.”
“No wonder he’s still not married. He’s been immersed in silly stories full of fantasies.”
Wanto felt awful that he couldn’t donate some rice, for there was none at home. He also didn’t have many clothes, so the options were rather limited. He didn’t earn any income other than the proceeds from his odd jobs, which he used to buy basic necessities. The chubby man, as if he could read Wanto's mind, smiled and said, “Come, I'll put your books at the post. Perhaps they will be useful as reading material for the disaster victims.” Wanto thanked the man, but the voices around him didn’t stop. They kept gossiping about Wanto's donations in the form of his inherited books.
On the way home, his head was still flooded with their voices. Their voices, those voices, kept ringing in his head. They were like bullets fired by a troop of soldiers at his body and head, loaded with envy and disrespect for Wanto, who lived alone.
Giving alms in the form of books reminded Wanto of his father, who had passed away. His father had been stabbed to death by soldiers. His father had died without knowing his crime. His father had died amidst countless struggles against a regime that sought to enforce total silence, while fighting against projects that had entered the village and could harm other residents who lived on the land. His father had been a writer—had written about the bizarre things that happened in life, about humans and their depravity, and all of it he had furiously scrawled. “Alms can take any form. Even books are still useful, although people like them may consider them nonsense.” His father's words were still there, stored in Wanto's memory.
Some of the books on his shelves were left to him by his father. However, nowadays, most of the books on his shelves were from street stalls; from bookstores, bought at quite high prices; or left to him by a friend—an ill-fated fellow book reader. His friend was found dead a few days after they disappeared, without anyone knowing who the perpetrator was, or the motive, which had confused the villagers on the day of the funeral.
Wanto took a book from the shelf titled 3 Years, by Anton Chekov. This book reminded him of that woman—the one named Lina, who secretly loved him. The book had been passed on to Wanto by a mosque guard, when Wanto had helped organize a religious event to fill his spare time back when he’d been unemployed.
He had finished the book twice. Wanto had no problem rereading the same story. For him, stories were a consolation amidst the reality of life's endless madness. He noticed increasingly just how much easier it was becoming for people to speak with the intent of finding fault in others. For him, humans were no better than demon children who always gossiped about other people. Wanto had been having trouble finding anyone lately who was actually a good person.
“I will never give up this book, not to book destroyers or anyone else,” murmured Wanto to himself.
Wanto saw the woman's face a few days later, after the book had reached his hands, at a small park where Wanto was planning to spend time alone. Wanto learned the woman’s name from the mosque guard, who said, “That woman loves you,” when he had given Wanto the book.
The awful news didn't stop. It was like a torrent of rushing water. Wanto felt very guilty about his book donations. Their voices, those people, kept making fun of him until Wanto could hear them from his room, which stopped him from reading. “No grieving child would ever want to accept Wanto's rubbish books,” said a man whom Wanto overheard.
“Impossible! Children affected by the disaster need food and clothing. Not Wanto's fantasy books,” declared another.
“Books can't fill their stomachs. Wanto should be more aware of their circumstances,” said the loud man, his voice sounding as if he were itching to spread the chaos of war. He was obviously inviting people to keep gossiping about Wanto.
Wanto felt as if he were in a stuffy room steeped in a rancid smell—a place for useless, dysfunctional people, which was the state of most people in general. He wanted to stop both ears with plugs that would only give birth to silence for himself, which would protect him from these other human beings. The people started to leave, heading somewhere else—Wanto didn't want to know where. From their last conversation, before their voices faded completely, they had brought up the name of the woman who secretly loved Wanto.
“I don’t understand how that woman could love penniless Wanto. It would be better if she married a soldier with a good future.”
At this, Wanto felt isolated. He’d been born during an era in human civilization that did not accept other people's differences when it came to donation. He felt he was living in the bottom of a valley in hell. He felt choked by this annoying life. One day his anger would peak, drowning his patience, which had its limits.
People of the Village of Angels did good deeds. Unfortunately, their hearts were still hampered by trivial matters that they shouldn't meddle in. Who knew how good could be wrapped in evil and that they could go hand in hand? Wanto did not understand, because he was only able to give alms in the form of books, and that didn’t happen often. He dreamed of sharing his love for reading, not gossiping about something that was no one’s concern and none of their business. Wanto merely wanted to take care of his own business and see to his own life. He did not understand why the Village of Angels was inhabited by people who acted weird.
He ran into Lina again at a small shop, when he was about to go home after shopping. A black plastic bag swung from his hand. “Would you like to give my books away?” offered Wanto.
Lina smiled shyly. Stuttering, she said, “O-Of course. For the disaster victims?”
“No, that's already been done. Give them to someone you know, or people you’ve met who have no books, whoever they are.”
“All right, I’ll give them away, along with the five old books I have, to some poor people I know, not far from here.”
Wanto walked on, with Lina following behind him. But people kept staring at Wanto and gossiped about him—in an area famous for its charitable citizens! If visitors came to the Village of Angels, they would never know what lurked behind the people's attitudes. Even the president, who had visited this place would have no idea.
“Give them away.” Wanto handed his inherited books to Lina, there, on the veranda of his house. “Someday, they will need to read them, in order not to become stupid people. This way, they can fight ignorance through books.”
Lina squinted at his face full of anger, at Wanto frowning as if he were suppressing something within, which he had to spew out. Lina asked wonderingly, “Is there something wrong? Do you have a big problem or something?”
“Yes, I have a big problem with people looking down on books. Also with the confiscation of books!” His eyes grew even more fiery but Wanto immediately swallowed the anger, mixed with resentment against the people of the Village of Angels.
Wanto's books were now in Lina's hands. In this village, after the raid, the old bookstore with books that were banned by the state was no more. That old bookstore was where Lina had bought used books for her studies, and where Wanto had also bought his.
“Okay, that's all,” said Wanto, oh so quietly.
Lina smiled, but the beating of the heart in her chest seemed endless. Wanto stood there in front of her like a statue frozen in time. Then she turned away from Wanto's house. She brought Wanto's books with her. But after returning home, she could not find the name for the beating of her heart, which resonated within her, even in the absence of any voice acknowledging the man so infused with anger.
In the village inhabited by angels, people lived as usual. But the rumors, when someone else came to visit, were incessant. They had started with Wanto, and moved on to a person with an unfamiliar face. Lina sat quietly on the floor that night, after she had worshipped God, and prayed her most sincere prayers, straight from her heart. The prayers echoed his name. Wanto.
© Aflaha Rizal
English translation © Ruby Astari
DESA PARA MALAIKAT
Aflaha Rizal Bahtiar
Ilustrasi oleh Stephani Soejono.
Rak miliknya penuh buku-buku yang telah usang. Buku-buku lama dari umur Wanto yang dahulu masih remaja. Wanto telah menuju di titik paling jenuh dengan buku-buku lamanya, dan sudah saatnya ia beri kepada seorang lain yang butuh buku-buku untuk mengisi kepala, menyibukkan mata, dengan sederetan kalimat kata-kata dari seorang penulis yang telah meninggal maupun yang masih hidup. Ia mengambil beberapa buku cerita anak-anak yang pernah ia beli di sebuah toko buku tua, yang kini telah tiada karena ulah tentara menanggapi aduan warga bahwa toko buku tua itu menjual buku paham-paham yang dilarang negara.
Hanya kenangan tersisa. Kenangan buku cerita anak-anak yang ia baca semalaman, membacanya satu hari penuh, dan berhari-hari selama sepanjang liburnya. Wanto telah membaca berita, bencana alam itu kini semakin parah. Banyak orang mati dalam keadaan yang memprihatinkan, wajah yang tak berbentuk, tubuhnya yang tertiban bangunan, dan darah yang berceceran. Juga kesedihan atas keluarga yang ditinggalkan selain kenangan yang mendekam di setiap ingatan. Wanto tumpuk buku-buku kenangannya itu, lalu ia masukkan ke dalam kardus dan ia selotip. Ia tulis kemudian kata “Buku” untuk disumbangan kepada mereka yang membutuhkan.
Orang-orang di tempat Wanto tinggal, dengan hamparan alam yang tenang dan gunung yang tampak dari kejauhan, juga dengan udara yang dingin, dikenal gemar bersedekah dan suka memberi kepada orang-orang yang susah. Karena itu, tempat ini pernah dijuluki Desa Para Malaikat. Julukan itu mengundang para wisatawan yang ingin tahu perihal tempat yang penuh orang-orang baik itu. Para wartawan juga tak lupa datang, mengambil gambar, mewawancarai warga tentang kebaikan mereka, dan terbitlah berita itu esok harinya. Berita-berita itu bahkan menjadi berita utama yang disiarkan di TV dan koran-koran. Presiden sendiri pernah datang dan berkunjung ke rumah warga dan mendapat bingkisan buah dari kebun mereka yang terawat. “Semoga kalian berada dalam perlindungan Tuhan,” begitu kata-kata Pak Presiden kala itu.
Wanto beranjak dari rumahnya yang kecil dan nyaman, rumah yang membuat Wanto tidak ingin keluar dan berbicara kepada siapa pun. Wanto tak begitu dekat dengan orang-orang. Istri saja ia belum punya, walau sudah berumur tiga puluh tahun, usia yang cukup matang bagi para penduduk daerah itu. Lagipula Wanto sering berkata bahwa pernikahan adalah suatu pilihan dan dan kau bisa menolaknya, atau menerimanya. Sesukamu. Meski ia sering berkata seperti itu, diam-diam ada seorang perempuan yang mencintai Wanto dengan penuh. Ia mengenal Wanto, sedang Wanto hanya mengetahui dan sebatas kenal. Perempuan itu gemar bersedekah pakaian yang sudah tidak dipakai. Di tiap blok desanya, ada satu posko tempat penyimpanan barang-barang sedekahan milik warga. Kabarnya, sedekah itu untuk para korban tsunami di teluk seberang yang sedang berduka.
Warga desa sudah berkumpul di posko, beramai-ramai bagai pasar malam. Beberapa warga yang Wanto kenal, mereka lebih banyak menyumbangkan sembako. Pakaian hanya seberapa. Namun buku-buku, hanya dirinya sendiri yang membawa. “Aku tahu, buku juga penting bagi mereka yang tertinggal barang-barangnya di rumah,” ucap Wanto dalam hati. Ya, Wanto meyakinkan akan ada buku-buku yang kelak mereka butuhkan untuk membaca, belajar, atau sebagai pelengkap sekolah jika perlu. Dengan buku-buku itulah, mereka dapat melihat realita yang tak pernah mereka jangkau, meski hanya dalam sebuah cerita. Cerita yang bagi para warga desa ini hanya bualan omong kosong tak tahu harga.
“Bisakah barang-barang Bapak kami letakkan di posko ini? Karena akan segera didata,” seorang lelaki bertubuh gempal menghampiri Wanto, tersenyum. Membuka diri pada kehadiran Wanto yang berniat baik di Desa Para Malaikat ini.
Suara-suara kemudian datang bak gaung senjata berpeluru tajam yang menembaki orang-orang tak bersalah. Kata-kata itu melukai telinga Wanto yang tak abai mendengar. “Memangnya korban-korban di sana yang sedang berduka mau menerima sedekah buku-buku tidak penting darimu?”
“Ya, buku-buku kamu itu penuh cerita omong kosong. Bualan belaka. Tidak ada masa depan cerah yang bisa didapat dari buku-buku itu.”
“Pantas saja ia tidak kawin. Ia terbenam dalam cerita-cerita omong kosong penuh khayalan.”
Wanto merasa sedih, ia tak bisa memberikan beras, di rumah sedang tak ada. Pakaian miliknya pun terbatas, tak begitu banyak. Ia belum memiliki rezeki selain perolehan dari pekerjaanya yang serabutan untuk membeli sembako. Lelaki bertubuh gempal tadi, seakan dapat membaca pikiran Wanto, tersenyum kemudian dan berkata, “Mari, buku-buku milikmu saya masukkan ke posko. Barangkali akan bermanfaat untuk bacaan korban bencana sana.” Wanto berterima kasih kepada lelaki itu, tapi suara-suara di sekelilingnya tak berhenti. Mereka tetap menggunjing perihal sedekah Wanto berupa warisan buku-buku miliknya.
Di jalan pulang, kepalanya masih tergenang dengan suara-suara itu. Suara itu, suara itu, terus terngiang di kepalanya, bagai peluru yang ditembakkan oleh gerombolan prajurit tepat ke tubuhnya beserta kepalanya, penuh dengki dan rasa tidak hormat pada Wanto yang hidup sendirian.
Memberi sedekah berupa buku, Wanto teringat kenangan ayahnya yang telah tiada. Ayahnya mati ditikam tentara. Ayahnya mati tanpa tahu apa salahnya. Ayahnya mati dalam gerombolan perjuangan melawan rezim serba pembungkaman, saat berjuang menolak proyek yang masuk ke desa yang dapat merugikan warga lain yang hidup dengan bertanah. Ayahnya seorang penulis, menulis tentang keganjilan yang terjadi semasa hidup, tentang manusia dengan kebobrokannya, semua ia torehkan dengan kemarahan. “Sedekah bisa berbentuk apapun, bahkan buku sekalipun yang masih bermanfaat. Walaupun buku bagi mereka adalah omong kosong.” Ucapan ayahnya itu masih tersimpan di ingatan Wanto.
Beberapa buku di raknya adalah peninggalan ayahnya. Namun, kini kebanyakan buku di raknya didapatkannya dari lapak jalanan, toko buku dengan harga yang lumayan mahal, atau peninggalan temannya yang sesama pembaca buku dengan nasib yang naas. Temannya mati beberapa hari selepas penghilangan tanpa tahu pelakunya siapa, dengan motif yang tidak diketahui dan sempat membingungkan warga desa saat hari pemakaman.
Wanto mengambil buku berjudul 3 Years, yang ditulis Anton Chekov. Buku ini mengingatkan pada perempuan itu, perempuan yang diam-diam mencintainya, bernama Lina. Konon buku itu diberikan kepada Wanto oleh seorang penjaga masjid, ketika Wanto sedang membantu menyusun acara keagamaan untuk mengisi waktu senggangnya saat belum memiliki pekerjaan.
Ia telah menyelesaikan buku itu dua kali. Wanto tidak mempermasalahkan membaca cerita yang sama. Baginya, cerita adalah penghiburan dari realitas kegilaan hidup yang tiada henti. Ia melihat semakin hari manusia semakin mudah berbicara dengan segala pencarian kesalahan di dalam tubuh seorang lain. Baginya, manusia tak lebih anak-anak titisan setan yang selalu membicarakan orang lain. Wanto sulit menemukan seorang yang baik akhir-akhir ini.
“Aku tak akan merelakan buku ini, bahkan di hadapan para penghancur buku dan manusia sekalipun,” gumam Wanto dalam hati.
Wajah perempuan itu Wanto ketahui beberapa hari setelahnya, selepas buku itu berada di genggamannya, di sebuah taman kecil saat Wanto hendak menyendiri. Nama perempuan itu Wanto ketahui dari si penjaga masjid, katanya, “Perempuan itu mencintaimu,” saat buku itu diberikan kepadanya.
Berita itu semakin tidak berhenti. Bagai aliran air yang deras. Wanto merasa amat bersalah pada pemberian sedekah itu. Suara-suara mereka, orang-orang itu, terus mengolok-oloknya sampai terdengar di dalam kamar Wanto, menghentikannya membaca. “Tak ada anak-anak yang berduka mau menerima buku omong kosong Wanto,” umpat seorang lelaki yang Wanto dengar.
“Mana mungkin? Anak-anak yang terkena bencana itu membutuhkan makanan dan pakaian. Bukan buku khayalan Wanto,” ucap seorang yang lain.
“Buku tak bisa membuat mereka kenyang. Seharusnya Wanto tahu kondisi,” kata lelaki yang lantang itu, suaranya seperti ingin menebarkan kericuhan peperangan. Mengundang orang-orang untuk senantiasa ikut menggunjingkan Wanto.
Wanto merasa berada di ruang pekat dengan bau busuk mengitarinya. Tempat bagi orang-orang tak berguna, tak berfungsi, sebagaimana manusia hidup. Ia ingin menutup kedua telinga itu dengan penyumbat yang hanya melahirkan kesunyian untuknya sendiri, yang melindunginya dari manusia-manusia itu. Orang-orang itu mulai pergi, menuju entah ke mana, Wanto tidak ingin tahu. Pada percakapan terakhir sebelum suara mereka pudar sama sekali, mereka membawa nama perempuan yang diam-diam mencintai Wanto itu.
“Aku tidak mengerti, mengapa mau perempuan itu mencintai Wanto yang miskin itu. Lebih baik ia menikah dengan tentara yang masa depannya baik.”
Wanto merasa terkucilkan. Ia lahir pada masa peradaban manusia yang tidak menerima sedekah perbedaan orang lain. Ia merasa hidup di bawah dasar lembah neraka. Ia merasa tercekat pada hidup yang menjengkelkan ini. Suatu saat akan memuncak kemarahannya, menenggelamkan kesabarannya, yang berbatas.
Orang-orang di Desa Para Malaikat, mereka berbuat baik. Tetapi hati mereka masih terganjal oleh sesuatu yang sepele dan seharusnya bukanlah mereka yang urus. Entah, bagaimana kebaikan berbalut dengan kejahatan yang saling seiring. Wanto tak mengerti, ia hanya mampu memberikan sedekah berupa buku, itu pun tidak terlalu sering. Ia memiliki impian untuk menyebarkan kecintaan membaca daripada bergunjing perihal sesuatu yang bukan jalur mereka dan bukan urusan mereka. Wanto hanya ingin mengurus urusan Wanto sendiri untuk kehidupannya sendiri. Ia tak mengerti, mengapa Desa Para Malaikat dinaungi oleh mereka yang memiliki kelakuan ganjil.
Ia bertemu kembali dengan Lina di sebuah warung kecil, saat hendak pulang selepas berbelanja. Sebuah kantung plastik hitam berayun di tangannya. “Kau mau memberikan buku-bukuku?” tawar Wanto pada Lina.
Perempuan itu tersenyum malu-malu. Begitu tergagap bicaranya. “Bo-boleh. Untuk para korban bencana?”
“Bukan, itu sudah selesai. Berikanlah kepada seseorang yang kau kenal, atau orang-orang yang tak punya buku yang pernah kau temui, siapa pun itu.”
“Baiklah, akan kuberi, beserta lima buku lamaku pada orang-orang miskin yang kukenal, tak jauh dari desa ini.”
Wanto berjalan, diikuti Lina di belakang. Namun, orang-orang tak henti-hentinya menatap Wanto, dan menjadikannya bahan gunjingan di daerah yang terkenal dengan warganya yang suka bersedekah. Bila para pengunjung bertandang ke Desa Para Malaikat ini, mereka tidak akan tahu ada apa di balik sikap-sikap warga. Bahkan presiden yang kala itu berkunjung ke tempat ini juga tak akan tahu sama sekali.
“Berikanlah,” Wanto memberikan warisan buku miliknya kepada Lina, tepat di beranda rumahnya. “Kelak, mereka membutuhkannya agar menjadi orang yang tak bebal. Agar mereka bisa melawan kebodohan lewat buku.”
Lina menatap wajah yang penuh amarah itu, kerut Wanto yang seperti sedang menahan sesuatu untuk segera dikeluarkan. Lina bertanya-tanya, “Kau punya masalah besar?”
“Ya, aku punya masalah besar dengan manusia yang meremehkan buku. Juga perampasan buku!” Kedua matanya itu semakin nyalang, tapi Wanto segera tahan amarahnya yang bercampur dendam kepada warga Desa Para Malaikat ini.
Buku-buku milik Wanto berada di tangan Lina, di desa ini sudah tak ada toko buku tua selepas razia yang menyangkut buku-buku yang dilarang oleh negara. Toko buku tua itu merupakan tempat Lina membeli buku bekas untuk bahan belajarnya, toko buku yang juga tempat Wanto membeli buku-bukunya.
“Baik, itu saja,” ucap Wanto begitu pelan. Lina tersenyum, tetapi dalam dadanya detak itu seperti tiada ujung. Wanto berdiri tepat di depannya seperti patung yang beku oleh waktu. Lina kemudian berbalik dari rumah Wanto. Buku-buku milik Wanto ia bawa. Namun, selepas pulang, ia tak dapat menemukan nama dari detakan yang dirasakannya itu, yang bergaung, meski tak ada suara pengakuan untuk lelaki yang bercampur amarah itu.
Di desa yang dinaungi para malaikat itu, orang-orang hidup seperti biasa. Namun, gunjingan, bila seorang lain bertandang, tiada henti-henti. Mulai dari Wanto, hingga seorang lain yang wajahnya tampak asing. Lina hanya diam dengan duduknya di lantai, pada malam itu selepas ia menyembah Tuhan, dan mendoakan dari dadanya sendiri yang paling tulus. Doa itu bergaung menyebut namanya. Wanto.
© Aflaha Rizal
AFLAHA RIZAL BAHTIAR was born in Bogor in 1997. His published works include the short story collections Cuaca Sama (2016) and Cuaca Sama II (2017), and a poetry collection Kenangan Tidak Terbuka (Kuncup, 2019). Several of his poems have been published in anthologies and online media. They have also appeared in Radar Selatan (2019), Tempo (2019), and Mata Puisi magazine (2020). He was invited to the 2019 Bengkulu Literature Festival as the best poet. His latest work is included in a poetry anthology commemorating Aceh titled Seperti Belanda (2020). Say hello to him via Instagram @Aflaha.rizal, Twitter @aflaha_meteora, or Medium Aflaharizal87.
RUBY ASTARI was born in Jakarta, in November 1981. She writes fiction and non-fiction in addition to translating texts from Indonesian to English and vice-versa. A number of her works have appeared in kaWanku, SPICE!, and Story Magazine, and online in Jendela360.com, Magdalene.co, Lakilakibaru.or.id, Konde.co, Empuan.id, and Voxpop.id. A freelance columnist for Guesehat.com and freelance writer for Kontenesia.com, she has written a YA thriller novel called Reva’s Tale (published by Ice Cube, Gramedia). Her English-language poetry collection, A Phoenix Speaks, is in the process of being published.
STEPHANI SOEJONO is an illustrator and comic artist from Jakarta, who is interested in the history and culture of Southeast Asia. Her first graphic novel Tale of the Bidadari was published by Maple Comics in 2016. Her works can be seen at stephanisoejono.com and @soejon0stephani on Instagram.