Happy Birthday M! February 15

This year February 15 commemorated the birth of Prophet Muhammad, or Maulid Nabi Muhammad. Our school observed the national holiday by conducting various class competitions including Arabic calligraphy, reading the Holy Qur’an, cooking/presentation of yellow rice, soccer for the boys, and performing various passages referencing the Prophet. The teachers and students also participated in a blood drive…set up a bit differently than what I’m used to in the US, but it was great to see the student involvement nonetheless. We have so many talented kids at our school, and I was continuously impressed with the showcase of their various abilities throughout the day. The first, second, and third place winners for each competition received an envelope for their class, each enclosed with a set amount of rupiah to use as they wish. Back when I was in school, we just earned a pizza party. Given my current situation however, I would have much preferred a gigantic slice of pizza...New York style; the kind that you can fold in half and the grease runs down your arm and drips onto the newly transparent paper plate. I’m not gonna lie, food is a very close second behind family, as far as things I miss most from home. Luckily the food here is relatively delicious, and Maulid Nabi Muhammad was no exception. The day ended with a communal feast of yellow rice with various side dishes, spread across the floor atop banana leaves and eaten with our hands. Everyone says it’s more delicious if you eat with your hands, and I have yet to find otherwise.

1. Performance 2. Blood Drive 3. Yellow Rice Presentation 4. Eating with our Hands

Camp Trawas February 20-21

Not sure what I was expecting. I went in with mixed emotions; part of me was excited to be spending a night away in the mountains, the other part was baffled as to where the money came from for all the teachers to have this 2-day workshop-outbound experience.

PROS: It was great to see other parts of the teachers’ personalities come out…I talked with the one English teacher who has rejected speaking to me for the last 9 months -it was only a few words, but it was definite progress…I tried my first ropes course…made new friends…the scenery was absolutely incredible: terraced rice fields intertwined with copious banana trees and mountain trails.

CONS: I don’t understand how our time there improved our teaching capabilities in the slightest: punctuality wasn’t encouraged, a blind eye turned towards cheating during competitions, and there was no reflecting on how we could apply any of the experience in the classroom…it was always the men who took the leadership role, both because most of them have loud, dominant personalities and because the women automatically defaulted to them to make the decisions; I imagine that if only female teachers participated they would be perfectly capable of accomplishing the tasks, maybe even in a more efficient manner…everyone threw their trash/cigarette butts throughout the pristine environment, as if plastic is somehow eco-friendly…EACH teacher was given 75,000 Rp in cash for transportation costs, even though we all carpooled together and our location was less than a 30-minute drive from school.

Each of these circumstances represents a more significant problem that I’ve perceived during my time at site, with my own biases of course. Whether relating to the environment or corruption or gender roles, I’ve been faced with the realization that injustice is alive and well in my community. In my PC position, I feel like I should somehow improve these situations, but I have no idea where to start; it seems so overwhelming. I can’t force (and don’t want to force) people to change their ideologies, and if only a small handful of people think there’s a problem, maybe the minority is in the wrong? I know what I believe in, but I can’t help but feel like an outsider imposing her modern views in a traditional society. Being a PCV is more than teaching English in a classroom…but what’s the next step?

Ultimately, I did enjoy spending time with the teachers outside of a school setting; but I don’t think that our little getaway warranted missing school for a day or the use of school funds. Several of the teachers were ‘too sore’ to teach the subsequent few days, but still managed to come in to school in order to scan in for attendance and hang out in the teachers’ room. As a ‘mandatory workshop’, I was expecting to benefit somehow as a teacher. Instead I became more frustrated with the teaching mentality at my school. As customary in Indonesia, we each received a certificate of participation to add to our portfolios; and my photo ended up in the Jawa Pos. As far as the majority of the teaching staff is concerned, that’s the sign of a successful teaching workshop.

a sadder side

My phone goes off at midnight, but I’m completely beat after a long day of teaching followed by an intense evening of reading Highlights magazines with Fani and Wanda from next door-who knew taking turns reading aloud in English could be so much fun for third-graders and so exhausting for me? I don’t answer and turn my phone to vibrate, but still keep it near as my morning alarm clock. An hour later, an SMS from one of the teachers, but it’s in Arabic and I don’t understand most of it. I’ll try again in the morning. Another SMS. This one I understand even in my sleepy state. It starts with a prayer in Arabic and ends with the words suami b han meninggal…my principal’s husband just passed away.

I knew he’d been diagnosed with cancer. I knew he was really sick. I knew they went on a second pilgrimage to Mecca a few months ago in hopes that prayer and holy water might help. But I was still unprepared for the midnight message.

Bu Han lost her mother two weeks ago. As if by protocol, school let out early so the teachers could all go to Batu to pay our respects, but no one informed me via SMS, let alone in the middle of the night.

I never met her husband; he was always in the hospital whenever I’d been to her house. But I know the rest of her family- I spent time with her son in Bali; I was introduced to her mother the same day I met her at Swearing In back in June; I’ve seen pictures of them all happy and healthy together. This was my first funeral in Indonesia where I felt any emotional connection. I later cried.

I went to school like any other day. But instead of starting the day with the standard 15-minute reading from Al Quran, a special prayer was said over the loud speaker. From inside the teachers’ room I could hear the students following along in unison in a melodious mantra. I’ve become familiar with the rhythm even though I don’t understand the words, the rhythm which asks Allah for a peaceful afterlife for the departed.

My co teacher was in Mojokerto for the day, so I entered class alone, anticipating that the end-of-school tone would sound early and interrupt the lesson. It did. My students let out a loud cheer which was eventually drowned out by the combination of the other 23 classes shouting in merriment too. It was strange to me. Someone had died, we had just finished a 30-minute prayer for the loss, and the students acted like class had been cancelled because the ice-cream man was giving out free cones.

I was in a somber state. Didn’t know how to react. Hopped in a car and headed to Bu Han’s house for the service, less than 12 hours after her husband had been pronounced dead. The house was packed with students and family and teachers and friends. Being one of the last to arrive, I stood in the back, my view of the casket blocked by a protruding wall. But I heard the grief-stricken shrieks of his daughter as they lifted his body, preparing to go to the cemetery. That’s when I cried. He left behind a wife and two children, none of whom were ready to say goodbye.

Covered in a green cloth (the color of Islam) with gold embroidered Arabic script, I saw the body being carried out via a reflection in an advantageously placed mirror. An empty feeling overcame me, the feeling of how absolute death is regardless of how much you pray for a promising afterlife.

We followed to the cemetery where a pack of men were already surrounding the newly petal-covered grave, squatting in prayer. Too far back to hear what was being said, I focused my attention on the three survivors who were now holding each other with blood-shot eyes and that empty look in their faces. Tonight won’t be the same as last night. Dad’s gone forever.

Another Sunday morning expedition on foot with Bu S, this time to the local landfill. I had run by it once when I first arrived here, not yet aware of the taboo of unaccompanied female joggers. Bu S suggested it as an interesting place to visit and a chance to meet people whose paths I might not otherwise cross.

A beautiful vegetable garden immediately welcomed us after we entered, and just a few steps further were the composting silos. Two rows of five white buildings whose sole purpose was to process organic waste. How ignorant I’d been- I thought for certain I was bringing this revolutionary idea of composting to my uninformed students and neighbors. I thought for certain if they knew about composting they would immediately opt not to burn all of their trash, but instead set aside old mango peels and apple rinds to create eco-friendly fertilizer for their small gardens. I thought for certain that the only reason they weren’t composting already was because they didn’t know it existed…because it was too advanced of an idea for them. I feel ashamed that I’d ever assumed that my knowledge on the matter was somehow superior. I quickly swallowed my pretentiousness and acknowledged the positive progress that was already taking place.

Bu S asked if I was prepared for the smell. Naturally I was, given the location, but I wasn’t prepared for the copious amounts of flies whose collective buzz made it difficult to hear at times. And the small clusters of people, with their large woven baskets and sorting tools, sifting through piles of decaying garbage also took me slightly by surprise.

Had I been alone I would have lacked the courage to approach them, but Bu S confidently greeted an elderly woman walking a few steps ahead of us. In rapid-fire Javanese, I understood little of the conversation, but the woman’s warm smile made me realize that Bu S had made yet another immediate friend. People are instantly drawn to her nonjudgmental friendliness, and I’m continually grateful for it.

We tagged along towards a cluster further down the fly infested path and gradually infiltrated the small group. Most Indonesians’ perceptions of a young, white American female don’t fit in the backdrop of a landfill, and I could tell they were slightly self-conscious of our surroundings and the less-than-glamorous work they were doing. But we gradually made new acquaintances and learned about why they go there every day, without fail.

And this is where the heart-wrenching, true-life, self-sacrificing story of determined parents comes in. Every day they come straight after morning prayer (sunrise) to sort through mountains of trash before a truck comes to pick up their collections of paper or plastic for the day, usually around 4 in the evening. They tie a handkerchief around their faces to mask the stench and fasten a bamboo hat to their heads to shield the scorching sun. The combination of intense heat and humidity is brutal when united with the rotting piles of garbage; not at all a pleasant work environment. So why go through this miserable set-up day after day, including holidays? “To pay our students’ school fees,” everyone proudly concurs. So for 500 Rp (the equivalent of 5 US cents) per kilo, they sort out the suitable paper and plastic from the mounds and mounds of other trash. Every three days they earn about 50,000 Rp, or US$5. My math is a little rusty, but I think that’s 100 kg or 220 pounds of sorted material! Low income by Javanese standards, a ruthless environment, and no recognition for hard work, all so their children will have a better future than they had. I asked if I could photograph them working in order to share with friends and family back home. They were somewhat embarrassed to have their picture taken in that setting, but pleased that I would be sharing their story.

So there is a harsher side to life in Indonesia. A group of students, who study at my house once a week, informed me yesterday that Indonesia is ranked third as the most corrupt country in the world. Something they’re not proud of, but something their generation is going to change. The students are the future, as cliché as that may sound. They have the motivation and the opportunities that their parents were never afforded. I look forward to seeing where Indonesia is at in 15 years.