The Pick Up
Febry Pramasta Said
Translated into English by David Setiawan
Illustration by Nadiyah Rizki.
I still can picture what happened that night vividly. It was the third night of 1966. A doomed night full of worries. Even the sentinel dogs of our village didn’t bark that night. Frogs croaked persistently as if calling for rain. Trees and bushes went mute. The wind only blew once in a while.
After the bloody episode that took place in the Capital months before, fear and suspicion spread quickly throughout the country and eventually reached remote areas, like our village. At the time, I was ten years old. Most farmers’ children didn’t get a formal education in public schools, and they were supposed to be involved in doing work in the paddy fields. But not me—I was considered one of the lucky ones.
My uncle, the youngest of my father’s siblings, was a teacher who lived and worked in city M, but he didn’t turn his back on our little village. The land where he’d been born, the land of his ancestors.
Twice a week he had come to us, teaching children to read and write. Every day, around three o’clock in the afternoon, his bike would already be parked in our yard. Mother would fix tea or coffee for him, with some fried cassava, from our farm’s produce. Then some kids would come to join us after they were done with whatever their folks had needed them to do in the fields. A woven bamboo hut built by the whole community was the place where we learned twice a week. We called it Sopo.
For three hours we would learn to become familiar with the letters of the alphabet, to combine them into sentences, to read them out loud, and to write them in notebooks purchased by Uncle. The students were few, but he had high hopes for us. He once said, “You are the ones who will someday teach your younger brothers and sisters to read and write.”
Ever since, I’d dreamed of being a teacher—teaching tens of kids and saving them from the curse of illiteracy in my village. At least that was my plan at that time. Mother said everything should be started with good and sincere intentions, so God would bless them.
My uncle taught twelve of us for two years—the twelve village kids who were saved from acute illiteracy. For our families, Uncle was a hero, like an apostle who came to enlighten his people, a twentieth century Messiah. We became proficient in reading and writing. Then he started to bring us newspapers for our advanced reading, to ignite our curiosity about what was happening outside our village. I used to read them out to my father. Father always smiled whenever I told him the news of our country before his thoughts turned back to the fields again.
“It’s a less-than-good year,” he said.
For months, the land had been stricken by a very long drought. Usually, by the middle of the year, we could already see signs of rainy days, but not this time. Father, like any other farmer, was a hard worker. When the sun was just rising, he would already be in the field. Hoeing and plowing the soil. He and other farmers also formed a farmers’ league and founded a cooperative.
Farming commodities often fluctuated in price, gabah* included. Tengkulaks** would monopolize the supply, and their practices would have grave effects, perpetuating inequality, keeping the farmers poor as ever. The league fought against them by establishing their own prices before the tengkulaks paid them in advance.
Towards the end of September 1965, an incident took place in Jakarta. The radio told us that there had been a coup organized by people of a certain party.
“Seven generals were tortured and killed, and then their bodies were thrown into an old well,” said the news we heard from a radio owned by the village chief.
Many people condemned the incident. Following this, riots and demonstrations happened in various places, in almost every region of our country. There was a frenzy of mass media reports. A week afterwards, Uncle came and brought a newspaper clipping for us to read. But that was the last time we saw him. It was as if he had drowned in the whirlpool of this country’s current circumstances. Some kids missed the hero, and I missed him the most, for I was his own nephew after all.
After the tragedy in Jakarta, the atmosphere in our village got more tense. The night became darker. Despite the fact that our village was so far away from Jakarta, the perilous presumptions about that dark event silenced our daily conversations immediately. Even more, after we heard the rumors about the kidnapping and the killing in many other places. Every corner of this country was full of fear and suspicion. You could immediately sense anxiety behind everyone’s eyes. We didn’t trust anybody because in a matter of seconds it could change your fate. You might chat warmly with somebody in the morning, but in the afternoon the coward might report you to the authorities with false accusations, without you knowing his actual reasons. Horrible. This land of ours had turned into a bloodthirsty monster. It asked for the sacrifice of blood and flesh from its own offspring. The lives of human beings were no different from those of hunted animals in the jungle. It put you, willingly or not, into a kill-or-be-killed situation.
The armed men could kill innocent people freely, with no remorse.
In the third week of 1966, the incident I mentioned above took place. At eight in the evening, the night breeze blew softly. The prayer of the frogs crept through the holes of our houses’ bamboo-woven walls. The dogs seemed to sense the ominous atmosphere—they turned pale and slunk down silently on our terraces. The owls didn’t visit us that night. It was a concert of solitude.
We heard the sound of a vehicle—a truck stopped some houses before ours. We heard the stomping of boots on dry soil. Mother took a peek through the gaps of a window shutter. A group of soldiers raided Pak Kosim’s house. Soon cries broke out. Pak Kosim, my father’s colleague from the farmers’ league, and his newlywed son were put into the truck with their hands tied. Then the soldiers moved on to Pak Bahar’s—he was the chief of this village and also the head of the farmers’ league. He was arrested without any struggle and shoved into the truck like a sheep after slaughter.
A darker and darker night with a pale moon shining menacingly in the black sky. It was as if the leaves of the trees were holding their breaths as long as they could. The cattle didn’t make a sound at all. The dogs lost their courage to yelp. Maybe it was because their instincts were stronger than those of humans when sensing monstrous danger. We only heard the restrained weeping of the wives who had suddenly lost hope for the fate of their husbands, and the cries of their innocent babies and kids.
A gunshot came from Pak Khaidir’s house, followed by loud cries from his wife and children. The horror we didn’t expect hit us like stones, thrown without mercy. My mother’s face turned white. She ran into the bedroom and began gathering clothes in a bundle. Father changed hurriedly out of his sarong into pants. My youngest brother woke up and began wailing. I saw through a window what was happening outside. Someone was being interrogated.
“Where are the others?” a soldier shouted, pressing the butt of his rifle to Bang Mansur’s forehead. “If you don’t talk, I’ll shoot you dead!”
With one blow, Bang Mansur fell down, unconscious. Then his hands were tied and his body was carried into the truck.
Some soldiers walked toward our house. I ran to Mother, who was packing up. She hadn’t yet finished when the door was smashed down. A man with a loud voice called my father’s name. His harsh voice and the thundering sound of his boots made my brother cry harder. Father was caught just when he was opening the back door. A blow hit my father’s wiry chest and it brought him down but didn’t make him unconscious. Father was dragged out of the house, and then his hands were tied with rope. He too was brought into the truck. Mother cried and begged them not to take her husband away. It was useless. Mother collapsed before the front door. Her teary eyes followed the truck until it vanished into the darkness of the night. After that, our village was consumed with wailing. The dogs at last started to bark. Lightning and thunder tore the sky. The smell of truck exhaust, gunpowder, and blood hung in the air for a long time. It was asphyxiating, yet my chest felt like a void. Now all we could do was wait for news. We could probably only expect the worst.
Years after that incident, we didn’t hear a single report on the fates of Father and the other men. Mother has already helplessly accepted the circumstances, even if it means that Father might be dead. Now only God knows where he is. I think only her prayers and wishful thinking have enabled her to survive until today.
After that night, Mother, my two younger brothers, and I moved to Grandpa’s house. Mother has been trying to bury that memory deep down. People told us our house got burned down. Our field was snatched away by other people. I don’t know exactly how Mother deals with her eternal grief. What I do know—there’s a bitterness in her smile now.
I, too, try to forget. Growing up, I tried to conceal the anger and the resentment inside me. I told my mother that I wanted to go to the city to seek a job—any job. The jobs that are not available in our village. With the skills taught to me by Uncle, I go to a government office. I enter the supervisor’s room. I give him an envelope with my application letter inside. He opens and reads it. Then he fixes his eyes on mine in a sharp gaze. For a long time that’s all he does. Then he quickly rereads my CV. I sit silently. I can’t understand his body language. At last, he speaks to me, slowly.
“You’re a son of a political prisoner?”
There is fire in his eyes. They shoot arrows straight into my heart. I’ve been paralyzed. I’m unable to respond. Before I can even say a word, his index finger points to the door. Now I get it. It doesn’t need any further explanation. Neither now nor any time in the future. His finger is a blade plunged into my chest. It tears out the blue sky of my existence. A choking feeling that I felt that night, seemingly a hundred years ago, now is back. I command my feet to walk out of there, and head toward the faint smile my father gave me when he was picked up that night.
[1] Unhulled rice grain
[2] Brokers; first middlemen in distribution chain
© Febry Pramasta Said
English translation © David Setiawan
PENJEMPUTAN TERAKHIR
Febry Pramasta Said
Ilustrasi oleh Nadiyah Rizki.
Aku masih sangat ingat peristiwa malam itu. Malam ketiga awal tahun enam puluh enam. Malam penuh cemas dan sunyi menyelubungi seluruh isi kampung. Anjing-anjing penjaga kampung sekalipun tak berani menggonggong. Kerumunan kodok ijo di persawahan terus meminta hujan. Pepohonan dan semak membisu. Angin juga sesekali bertiup tanpa suara.
Sejak peristiwa berdarah akhir tahun lalu, ketakutan dan kecurigaan lalu-lalang di pikiran kami. Waktu itu aku masih berusia sepuluh tahun. Kebanyakan anak seusiaku, yang juga anak-anak petani, tidak mendapatkan pendidikan resmi di sekolah rakyat, hingga kami pun turut terjun ke sawah. Tetapi, aku salah satu orang yang beruntung.
Pamanku, adik paling bungsu dalam keluarga bapakku, seorang guru di Kota M. Meskipun ia seorang guru dan merantau ke kota, ia tak pernah melupakan kampung kami. Tanah kelahirannya. Tanah buyutnya.
Dua kali dalam seminggu ia datang ke kampung, mengajari anak-anak kampung membaca dan menulis. Setiap awal sore, sekira pukul tiga, sepeda kumbangnya sudah terparkir di halaman rumah kami. Ibu menyeduhkan teh atau kopi dan menggoreng beberapa potong singkong yang diambil dari ladang. Berdatanganlah anak-anak lainnya yang baru selesai membantu ibu-bapaknya di persawahan. Sebuah pondok bambu yang dibuat dari gotong royong masyarakat kampung menjadi tempat belajar kami dua kali seminggu. Kami menyebutnya Sopo.
Selama tiga jam kami belajar mengenali huruf-huruf, menyusunnya menjadi kalimat, membaca, dan menuliskannya di buku yang dibelikan oleh Paman. Tidak banyak memang anak yang belajar dengan pamanku, tapi itu tidak menjadikan hati Paman mengecil dan putus asa. Ia pernah berkata, “Kalian-kalian inilah nantinya yang akan mengajarkan adik-adik kalian menulis dan membaca.”
Sejak saat itu, aku bercita-cita menjadi guru—seseorang yang mengajari puluhan anak-anak membaca dan menulis, menyelamatkan satu generasi dari garis kebodohan di kampungku. Paling tidak, itulah niatku. Kata Ibu, segala sesuatu harus dimulai dengan niat yang baik dan tulus agar Tuhan meridhoi keinginan tersebut.
Dua tahun Paman menjadi guru bagi selusin anak di kampung kami. Dua belas anak seusiaku terselamatkan dari buta huruf. Bagi keluarga kami dan sebelas keluarga lainnya, Paman adalah seorang pahlawan, seperti seorang rasul yang datang membawa pencerahan bagi suatu kaum, seorang Mesias di abad dua puluh. Kami pun sudah pandai membaca dan menulis. Paman mulai membawakan koran untuk kami baca, untuk mengetahui apa-apa yang sedang terjadi. Aku membacanya dan memberitahukan setiap peristiwa yang tercatat di surat kabar kepada Bapak. Bapak selalu tersenyum ketika aku menjelaskan peristiwa-peristiwa apa saja yang terjadi di negara ini. Kemudian Bapak melihat sawahnya kembali.
“Tahun ini memang kurang baik,” kata Bapak.
Berbulan-bulan kampung kami dilanda kemarau. Biasanya, pada pertengahan tahun sudah terlihat tanda-tanda akan memasuki musim hujan, tapi tidak tahun ini. Bapak memang seorang yang giat bekerja. Belum lagi matahari meninggi, Bapak sudah berada di sawah. Mencangkul atau membajak. Bapak juga salah satu anggota kelompok tani yang tujuannya membangun koperasi petani di kampung kami.
Harga bahan pangan sering naik, begitu pun harga gabah. Tengkulak-tengkulak sering memonopoli harga gabah, akibatnya petani yang terus didera kerugian. Beruntung Bapak salah satu anggota kelompok tani yang mengelola hasil panen dan menentukan harga padi sebelum diserobot para pengijon.
Memasuki akhir bulan September tahun enam puluh lima, siaran warta radio memberitakan di ibukota telah terjadi kudeta yang dilakukan oleh sekelompok orang yang terorganisir dari sebuah partai, tujuannya untuk merebut kekuasaan.
“Tujuh jenderal disiksa dan dibunuh, lalu dimasukan ke dalam sumur tua,” begitu kata warta berita yang kami dengar di radio milik kepala kampung.
Banyak orang mengutuk keras kejadian itu. Koran-koran ramai memberitakan kekacauan, demonstrasi, dan huru-hara di berbagai daerah. Sepekan setelahnya, Paman datang membawakan sepotong koran untuk kami baca. Setelah ia kembali ke kota, tak terdengar kabar sepucuk pun dari Paman. Seperti ikut tenggelam bersama pusaran keadaan. Anak-anak di kampung merasa kehilangan sosok pahlawan dalam hidup mereka, tanpa terkecuali aku sendiri sebagai keponakannya.
Sejak tragedi yang terjadi di Jakarta, kampung kami semakin mencekam. Semakin pekat gelapnya malam. Meski kampung kami berada sangat jauh dari Jakarta, kampung kami semakin sunyi. Apa lagi sejak tersebar isu-isu tentang penculikan dan pembunuhan di beberapa tempat. Tampaknya semua sudut negeri ini semakin dilanda ketakutan dan kecurigaan. Rasa was-was membuntuti tiap-tiap pasang bola mata di kampung kami. Kami tak lagi memiliki rasa percaya pada siapa pun, karena di setiap detik apa saja bisa berubah. Beberapa detik yang lalu menjadi seorang teman, beberapa detik kemudian bisa menjadi seorang pembunuh. Mengerikan. Bumi kami seperti kehausan darah. Negeri kami terus meminta tumbal daging. Nyawa manusia tak ada bedanya dengan hewan buruan. Masing-masing saling membunuh agar tidak dibunuh.
Mereka yang bersenjata dengan leluasa dan tanpa merasa berdosa membunuh yang tak berdaya.
Malam ketiga awal tahun enam puluh enam, peristiwa yang kusebut di awal tadi terjadi. Pukul delapan, angin berhembus pelan. Suara kodok minta hujan merayap masuk ke dalam lubang-lubang tepas rumah. Anjing-anjing penjaga kampung seperti memiliki firasat yang ganjil—mereka terlihat pucat dan hanya rebah di teras-teras rumah penduduk. Burung hantu tak bertamu malam itu. Konser keheningan melanda kampung.
Terdengar suara mesin, sebuah truk berhenti beberapa rumah dari rumah kami. Derap sepatu lars berlompatan ke tanah kering. Ibu dan aku mengintip dari balik tirai jendela. Sepasukan tentara mendobrak pintu rumah Pak Kosim. Tak lama pecahlah suara tangis dari rumahnya. Pak Kosim, teman bapakku di kelompok tani, dan anaknya yang baru saja menikah dimasukan ke dalam truk dengan tangan terikat. Lalu berpindahlah mereka ke rumah Pak Bahar, kepala kampung yang juga menjadi kepala kelompok tani. Ia disergap tak berdaya, lalu dicampakkan bagai mayat binatang ke dalam truk.
Malam semakin pekat warnanya. Bulan kian pucat di langit. Daun-daun terdiam di pohon. Ternak tak miliki nyali untuk bersuara. Anjing-anjing kampung tak berani melolong. Memang setiap makhluk memiliki insting. Yang terdengar hanyalah isak tangis para perempuan yang ditinggal suami dan lolongan bayi-bayi menangis keras.
Sebuah tembakan pecah di rumah Pak Khaidir. Pecah pula tangis istri dan anaknya. Ketakutan merajam kampung kami. Wajah ibu kian putih pucat. Ibu berlari ke kamar dan mengemas pakaian-pakaian menjadi gembolan. Bapak terburu-buru berganti sarung dengan celana. Adikku paling kecil terbangun dan menangis. Aku mengintip lagi ke luar jendela. Seseorang diinterogasi.
“Mana yang lain?” bentak seorang tentara, lalu menyodok gagang senapannya ke dahi Bang Mansur. “Kalau kamu diam, kamu mati saya tembak!”
Dengan satu pukulan, Bang Mansur rubuh dan jatuh pingsan. Tangannya diikat lalu tubuhnya dibawa masuk ke dalam truk.
Beberapa orang tentara berjalan menuju rumah kami. Aku berlari menghampiri Ibu yang berkemas. Belum selesai Ibu memasukkan pakaian dan surat-surat, pintu didobrak kencang. Seseorang dengan suara keras memanggil nama Bapak. Suara dan derap sepatunya semakin mengencangkan tangis adikku. Bapak disergap waktu hendak membuka pintu belakang rumah. Sebuah pukulan menghantam dada Bapak yang kurus. Bapak terjatuh, tetapi tak pingsan. Bapak diseret keluar rumah. Kemudian, sepasang tangannya diikat dengan tali. Bapak ikut dibawa ke dalam truk. Ibu menangis dan memohon agar Bapak tidak dibawa. Sia-sia. Ibu terjatuh di depan pintu. Matanya yang ditenggelamkan airmata mengikuti laju truk yang makin lama makin menghilang dalam kegelapan. Kian menjadi suara tangis di kampung kami. Anjing-anjing penjaga akhirnya melolong memecah sunyi. Kilat petir memecah langit yang pucat. Asap truk, bau mesiu, dan amis darah menyerang hidung kami. Udara terasa sesak. Rongga dadaku begitu hampa. Tinggallah kami menunggu kabar, mungkin sekali berita duka.
Bertahun-tahun setelah peristiwa itu, aku tak mendapatkan sepucuk kabar pun tentang Bapak. Satu pun tidak. Begitu juga dengan Ibu. Teman-temannya yang ikut dibawa pergi juga tidak ada kabarnya. Ibu sudah pasrah dan merelakan kepergian Bapak. Baginya, hanya Tuhanlah yang tahu di mana Bapak sekarang ini. Hanya doa dan harapan yang membuat Ibu tetap bertahan hidup sampai sekarang.
Setelah peristiwa malam itu, Ibu pulang ke rumah Kakek membawa aku dan kedua adikku. Ibu belajar mengubur peristiwa malam itu di hatinya yang paling dalam. Kata orang, rumah kami dibakar. Sawah kami digarap oleh orang asing. Entah bagaimana cara Ibu memendam duka abadinya. Yang aku tahu, senyum Ibu tidak seperti dulu lagi.
Aku mencoba melupakan itu semua. Seiring aku tumbuh dewasa, marah dan dendam juga kukubur di bawah tumit kakiku. Aku meminta restu kepada Ibu untuk pergi ke kota. Mencari pekerjaan. Mencari kehidupan yang barangkali tidak akan ditemukan di kampung ibuku. Dengan keterampilanku menulis, berkat ajaran Paman, aku mendatangi sebuah perusahaan jawatan. Aku masuk ke ruangan kepala jawatan. Amplop cokelat yang berisi surat permohonan untuk bekerja aku serahkan. Kepala jawatan membuka dan membacanya. Kemudian matanya menodong mataku. Lama ia terdiam menatap kosong wajahku, diselingi dengan mengecek kembali daftar riwayat diriku. Aku terdiam. Aku tidak mengerti isyarat tubuh orang lain. Pelan-pelan terdengar suara keluar dari mulut kepala jawatan dengan mata yang masih menodongku.
“Kamu anak eks Tapol??”
Matanya menyalak. Menembakkan anak panah tepat di jantung. Mati seketika mesin di tubuhku. Aku terdiam. Aku tidak tahu harus menjawab apa. Sebelum mulutku mengeluarkan kata-kata jawaban, tangan si kepala jawatan menunjuk ke pintu. Aku paham isyarat satu ini. Aku takkan bisa lagi menjawab pertanyaan itu. Untuk sekarang ataupun pada waktu selanjutnya. Sebuah belati sudah ia tusukkan ke dadaku. Menembus langit biru di luar sana. Rasa sesak yang dulu pernah datang, seolah beratus-ratus tahun lalu, kini kembali. Kuseret kakiku keluar, menuju senyum terakhir Bapak di malam penjemputan itu.
© Febry Pramasta Said
FEBRY PRAMASTA SAID was born in 1992 and currently resides in Medan, North Sumatra. He’s an independent creator who has worked in several theatre studios in Medan, including Sanggar Teater WC UMUM and Sanggar Teater Rumah Mata. He is also actively involved in various literary activities and art performances in North Sumatra. Together with friends he founded the Medan Street Library movement in 2016, Medan Poetry Night in 2013, and the Pitu Room Art and Culture Night in 2014. He can be reached via Instagram and Twitter @pramastasaid, or email pramastasaid@gmail.com.
DAVID SETIAWAN was born in West Java. He studied Russian Literature at Padjadjaran University, as well as Sociology in the Faculty of Social and Political Science at Gajah Mada University, but did not complete his degrees. His foray into translation began in 2012, when he took up translating subtitles, and in 2017, he started translating literary works, including texts by Gordimer, Borges, Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Conrad. In addition to translating, he edits and curates manuscripts for Yogyakarta-based publishers.
NADIYAH RIZKI is a freelance illustrator and comic artist who lives in Bandung. Her work can be seen at nadiyahrs.com.