The Rainbow Troops

  And despite our varying degrees of poverty, there was someone even poorer than all of us, and she wanted to be our teacher. I couldn't wait to meet the young girl my father had mentioned.

  Destiny spun, fate interfered, and because of the arrival of Harun, the small girl whom I secretly admired stood in front of the class and introduced herself to us on our first day of school. She was somewhat awkward, because it was her first day teaching.

  "Call me Bu Mus," she said proudly, as if she had waited her whole life to utter those words.

  Bu Mus had just graduated from SKP (Vocational Girls' School), which was only equivalent to junior high school. It wasn't a teaching school, but more of a school to prepare young women to be good wives. There, they learned how to cook, embroider and sew. Bu Mus had been determined to go to the regency capital, Tanjong Pandan, to go to school at SKP so she could get a higher level diploma than that offered by the elementary school where she would teach.

  Upon graduating from SKP, she was offered a job with PN as the rice warehouse head secretary—a very promising position. She had even been proposed to by the son of a business owner. Midah, Aini, Izmi and Nurul, her classmates, could not for the life of them understand why Bu Mus had turned down those two attractive offers. Unlike Bu Mus, those four swooped down and seized the opportunity to become PN administrative workers.

  "I want to be a teacher," said the fifteen-year-old girl. She didn't say the sentence defiantly or with gusto.

  She spoke calmly and slowly. But whoever was there when she spoke that sentence would know that Bu Mus dug every letter of each word from deep in her heart, and that the word "teacher" bubbled in her mind because she admired the noble profession of teaching. There was a giant sleeping inside of her, a giant that would wake up when she met her students.

  Her determined choice to become a teacher would later bring Bu Mus unimaginable hardships—no one else wanted to teach at our school because there was no payment. Being a teacher at a poor private school, especially in our village, was a moneyless profession, only embarked on by those—according to a village joke—who weren't quite right in the head.

  Yet Bu Mus and Pak Harfan filled their roles wholeheartedly. They taught every subject. After a day of killing herself in class, Bu Mus received sewing orders and worked on lace food covers. She sewed until late into the night, and that was her livelihood.

  From day one, troubles endlessly came our way. Villagers jeered that our school was abysmal, and that our education would be in vain. People from the Estate made fun of our school by spelling Muhammadiyah as Selamatdiyah, meaning: May God have mercy on the students of that school. Not to mention the difficulty Bu Mus encountered trying to raise our selfconfidence, which hid in inferiority under the pretention of the PN School. In order to overcome this, Bu Mus hung her SKP diploma in a glass frame on the class wall, close to the Rhoma Irama poster. Very cool.

  Our permanent problem was money. It was so bad that we often didn't even have enough to buy chalk. Whenever this happened, Bu Mus would bring us outside and use the ground as her chalkboard. But gradually, unexpectedly, all of these trials made Bu Mus a strong, young teacher—charismatic, in fact.

  "Say your prayers on time, and later your reward will be greater," Bu Mus advised.

  Wasn't this the testimony inspired by surah An-Nisa in the holy Koran, spoken hundreds of times by hundreds of preachers at the mosque and often echoed by members of the religious community? Somehow, when spoken by Bu Mus, those words were different and more powerful, resounding in our hearts. We later felt the remorse when we were late for prayer.

  On one occasion, we were whining excessively about the leaky school roof. Bu Mus wouldn't hear of our complaints, but instead took out a book written in Dutch and showed us a picture from one of its pages. The picture was of a narrow room, surrounded by thick, gloomy walls that were tall, dark and covered with iron bars. It looked stuffy and full of violence.

  "This was Soekarno's cell in a Bandung prison. Here he served his sentence. But he studied every day, and read all the time. He was our first president, and one of the brightest people our nation has ever produced." Bu Mus didn't continue the story.

  We were astounded and our complaints fell silent. From that moment on, we never again whined about the condition of our school. One time, it was raining very hard, and thunder struck repeatedly. Rain spilled from the sky into our classroom. We didn't move an inch. We didn't want Bu Mus to stop the lesson and Bu Mus didn't want to stop teaching. We studied while holding umbrellas. Bu Mus covered her head with a banana leaf. That was the most awe-inspiring school day of my entire life. For the next four months it rained nonstop, but we never missed school, never, and we never complained, not even a little.

  For us, Bu Mus and Pak Harfan were true patriots without medals of honor. They were our teachers, friends and spiritual guides. They taught us to make toy houses from bamboo, showed us the way to cleanse before prayer, taught us to pray before bed, pumped air back into our flattened bicycle tires, sucked poison from our legs if we were bitten by a snake, and from time to time made us orange juice with their bare hands. They were our unsung heroes, a prince and princess of kindness, and pure wells of knowledge in a forsaken, dry field.

  Chapter 7

  His First Promise

  FILICIuM DECIPIENS are usually planted by botanists to attract birds. Their bountiful leaves know no season. Gorgeous parakeets would often visit them, and before attacking our filicium, those lovely green birds would first survey the area from the branches of a tall ganitri tree behind our school, scouting out the possibility of competitors or enemies. Then, with lightning speed, those voracious birds would dive down and plunder the small fruits of the filicium with their razor-sharp beaks. While eating, they constantly turned their heads to the left and right in a paranoid fashion. Moral lesson number three: If you are gorgeous, you will not lead a peaceful life.

  After the parakeets would come a flock of jalak kerbau birds, relaxed as could be because their appearance attracted no one's attention. They had no predators, not even humans. They enjoyed each bite of fruit carelessly left behind by the parakeets, then defecated as they pleased—even when their mouths were full. Those bloated little birds, full of fruit, meandered about, to and fro.

  As afternoon approached, a few ashy tailorbirds birds would land in silence on the branches of the filicium. Calm and beautiful, they would peck at caterpillars crawling on the tree, eating less greedily than the parakeets, and then fly off again, as noiselessly as they had arrived.

  Like those birds, our days were oriented around the filicium. That tree was a witness to the dramas of our childhood. In its branches we constructed tree houses. Behind its leaves we played hide-and-seek. On its trunk we carved our promise to be forever friends. On its protruding roots, we sat around listening to Bu Mus tell the story of Robin Hood. And under the shade of its leaves, we played leapfrog, rehearsed plays, laughed, cried, sang, studied and quarreled.

  For us, school was amazing. I often heard that kids complained about going to school. I couldn't understand it at all, because despite the poor appearance of our school, we were crazy about it from day one. Bu Mus and Pak Harfan made us fall in love with school, and more than that, they made us fall in love with knowledge. When the school day was over, we complained about going home. When we were given ten homework assignments, we asked for twenty. When it came close to Sunday, our day off, we couldn't wait for Monday.

  The whole first week, we didn't touch a book.

  Bu Mus and Pak Harfan told stories all day long. We were intoxicated for hours by magical stories from faraway lands that taught about life struggles and wisdom, like the moral stories from The Arabian Nights. They touched our hearts and taught us empathy.

  Then, the first day of our second week.

  I came really early. I couldn't wait to see Bu Mus and Pak Harfan. I was surprised when I opened the door to the class. Off in the corner was a drowsy cow, and in the opposite corner, s
itting just as calmly, was Lintang. Even though his house was the farthest, he always came earliest.

  On that happy day, after practicing singing Rukun Iman, the Six Pillars of Faith—a great song, the author of which, unfortunately, remains anonymous—Bu Mus taught us A, B, C, D and E. We chanted cheerfully.

  The next week, slowly, we learned to write the first seven letters of the alphabet, from A to G.

  "Seven letters per week," said Bu Mus.

  "Within one month, you will know all the letters, and after that, we will learn to write them!"

  The third week, I was incredibly delighted, because I had discovered new, strange letters, like O, Q and V. I only saw these new letters in Indonesian sentences every so often. Why did they make something that was rarely used? Just to make our lives more difficult. As I was sighing about that, someone sitting beside me raised his hand.

  "Ibunda Guru," he shouted excitedly.

  Bu Mus looked over, "Yes Lintang?"

  "Can I have the enrollment form from the first day of school? I want to fill it out."

  Bu Mus smiled, "Patience, Lintang. We've just learned the alphabet. Later, in second grade, when you learn how to write, you can fill it out."

  The boy from the coast stood up, "I would like to fill it out now, Ibunda. I already promised my father."

  We were all startled. Bu Mus hesitated, "You can fill it out?"

  "I can, Ibunda," Lintang answered clearly.

  Even though Lintang insisted he was able, Bu Mus was still doubtful. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out the form and moved toward Lintang. We all got up at once and crowded around him.

  Bu Mus set the form on his desk. Lintang took a pencil from behind his ear, bit the end, and reached for the form. As she watched Lintang's thin and dirty fingers carve each letter of the words, I saw Bu Mus get goose bumps. Slowly but surely he crossed the t's and dotted the i's in the names he added to the form—in cursive!

  Name of Student : ... Lintang Samudera Basara ... Name of Parent : ... Syahbani Maulana Basara ...

  We could only gawk at him—Lintang could write, and he could write well! Bu Mus was awestruck, she just stared at Lintang as if he were a stunning pearl in a clam. A moment later, a soft voice escaped her mouth, "Subhanallah, my goodness, Lintang, praise Allah's holiness, praise Allah's holiness..."

  Lintang filled in every last part of that form, and with a relieved smile, returned it to Bu Mus. That day, we hadn't even been in school for a month, yet Lintang had already fulfilled his first promise—to defend his father's dignity.

  Chapter 8

  Mental Illness No. 5

  MONTHS BECAME years, and before we knew it, we were approaching our teenage years. Our poor school was still poor, but it was increasingly fascinating.

  Through our shared trials and tribulations, we gradually grew to be siblings and knew each other's quirks inside and out.

  Syahdan . His body was the smallest, but he ate the most. He never turned down food. It was as if his mouth weren't able to differentiate between delicious and disgusting food; he inhaled it all. It was baffling, he was so small— where did it all go?

  Syahdan's deskmate, the honorable A Kiong, was somewhat of an anomaly. God only knows what possessed his father—A Liong, a devout Confucian—to enroll his only son at this Islamic school. It must have been because of the impoverished condition of his Hokian family.

  Nevertheless, when seeing A Kiong, anyone would understand why he was destined to end up at this poor school. He had the appearance of a true reject. He looked like Frankenstein. His face was wide and box-shaped, and he had porcupine hair. His eyes were tilted upwards like sword blades, and his eyebrows were virtually nonexistent. He was bucktoothed, and the rest of his teeth followed suit. One look at his face and any teacher would feel depressed imagining the difficulty of cramming knowledge into his boxy aluminum head.

  Surprisingly, A Kiong's tin can head quickly absorbed knowledge, but it turned out that the friendly, sweet-faced and intelligent-looking boy sitting in front of him nodding knowingly during lessons was not very bright. His name was Kucai.

  Kucai was rather unfortunate: He suffered from serious malnutrition as a small child—a condition that had a large effect on his eyesight. His eyes couldn't focus correctly, so when he spoke, he thought he was looking at the person he was talking to, but his eyes were really gazing about 20 degrees to the left.

  With all of Kucai's other characteristics combined— opportunistic, self-centered, a little deceitful—plus his know-it-all attitude, shamelessness and populist tendencies, he met all of the requirements to be a politician. For that reason, we unanimously appointed him class president.

  Being class president was not a pleasant position. He was supposed to keep us quiet, but he himself could not shut up.

  One day, in our Muhammadiyah Ethics class, Bu Mus quoted the words of Khalifah Umar bin Khatab, one of the apostles of the Prophet Muhammad, "Anyone appointed as a leader and accepts anything beyond his determined wage is committing fraud."

  Bu Mus was definitely furious about the spreading corruption in Indonesia.

  "And remember, leadership will be justly rewarded or punished in the afterlife."

  The entire class was stunned, but Kucai was visibly shaken. As class president he was worried about being held accountable for his actions after death, not to mention the fact that he already loathed looking after us. He couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and said very pointedly: "Ibunda Guru, you must know that these coolie children cannot be kept under control! Borek acts like a mental hospital patient. Sahara and A Kiong fight nonstop. It gives me a headache. Harun does nothing but sleep. And Ikal, Masya Allah—My God, Ibunda, that boy was sent by Satan!" Kucai was much better than other Indonesian politicians. While they smeared others' names behind their backs, Kucai just came right out and said it to our faces.

  "I can't take it anymore. I demand a vote for a new class president!" he said emotionally. Years of built up frustration exploded from his body. He almost seemed to be having difficulty breathing as he huffed and puffed unevenly. He stared at Bu Mus, but his gaze fell on the Rhoma Irama Rain of Money poster.

  Bu Mus was shocked. Never before had one of her students protested something in such a direct manner. She thought for a moment, and then forced her face to reflect neutrality. She instructed us to write the name of a new class president on a piece of paper and to fold it in half. "In accordance with the principles of democracy, it is your right to vote and your choice must be kept confidential."

  Kucai was beaming. He believed that justice had been served and was sure that after years of wanting to not be class president, his suffering would finally come to an end.

  We folded up our pieces of paper and gave them to Bu Mus. The moments leading up to and during the vote count were tense. We nervously anticipated the results — who would be our new class president? Bu Mus opened the first piece of paper and read the name inside. "Borek!" she shouted.

  The color drained from Borek's face and Kucai joyously jumped up and down—it couldn't have been any more obvious that he himself had voted for Borek.

  "Paper number two," said Bu Mus. "Kucai!"

  This time Borek jumped up and down and the color drained from Kucai's face.

  "Paper number three ... Kucai!"

  Kucai smiled bitterly.

  "Paper number four ... Kucai!"

  "Paper number five ... Kucai!"

  And so it continued until the ninth paper.

  Kucai was distraught. He was irritated with Borek, who was shaking from trying to hold back his laughter. Kucai was trying to glare at Borek, but it looked as though Trapani were his target.

  There were only nine papers because Harun couldn't write. But Bu Mus still respected his political rights. She shifted her gaze over to Harun. Harun let out his signature smile, exhibiting his long, yellow teeth, and shouted sharply, "Kucai!"

  Kucai's body drooped limply as it admitted defeat.

  SITTING
off in the corner was our prince, Trapani. He was as fascinating as the cinenen kelabu bird, and he was our class mascot. He was a perfectionist with a most handsome face, the type of boy girls fell in love with at first sight. His hair, pants, belt, socks and clean shoes were always spotless and impeccable. He smelled good too. His shirt even had all its buttons.

  Trapani didn't speak if it weren't necessary, and when he did, his words were impeccably chosen. He was a wellmannered, promising young citizen who was a model of Dasa Dharma Pramuka—the Boy Scout promise. He wanted to become a teacher and teach in isolated areas when he grew up to help improve education and the condition of life for backcountry Malays—a truly noble aspiration. Everything in Trapani's life seemed to be inspired by the song Wajib Belajar, a song about battling illiteracy, by R.N. Sutarmas.

  Trapani was very close to his mother. No discussion was interesting to him other than those related to his mother, perhaps because among six children, he was the only boy.

  Sahara, the only female in our class, was like the parakeets—firm and direct. She was hard to convince and not easy to impress. Another one of her prominent characteristics was her honesty—she never lied. Even if she were about to walk the plank over a flaming sea and a lie could save her life, not one would escape her mouth.

  Sahara and A Kiong were enemies. They would have huge fights, make up, and then fight again. It was as if they were destined to always be at odds with one another. One time, Trapani was talking about a great book, Tenggelamnya Kapal Van Der Wijk—the Sinking of the Van Der Wijk—Buya Hamka's legendary literary piece.

  "I've read that book too," A Kiong commented arrogantly. "I'm sorry, but I didn't care for it. There are too many names and places, difficult for me to remember them."

  Sahara, who really appreciated good literature, was offended. She barked, "Masya Allah! My God! Where do you get off criticizing excellent literature, A Kiong? Maybe if Buya writes a book called The Bad Little Boy Who Steals Cucumbers, it would be more suitable for your literary tastes!"