day one: time unknown.

It is World War Three. Holding my weapon close to my chest, I gaze up to the sky. The sky is a shade of grey hued with yellow, little silhouettes shooting across at the speed of sound. I am in a truck bound for Surabaya, a 14-hours journey from Banten. Only a mere fourteen. The traffic so well-known to Indonesians, especially to the residents of Java Island, is no longer a part of us. Somehow the joke of Java being traffic-free doesn’t sound amusing, not when it’s true. 

Everything that happens feels like a dream. There are others in the truck, sitting like melancholic shadows we are, forlorn eyes fixed outside, watching for a sign of the end. The trip feels like a dream. No one has ever thought there will be a time where a two-day’s journey will be so short. We are heading into a war. 

I remember a time where I visited Surabaya. It wasn’t a green road"the mind-numbing boredom, loud exclamations of annoyance, weary faces hoping we’ll get there as fast as possible. The streets were stuffed with people and smokes suffocating us. Water ways filled with trash. Useless police stopping people only for the money, accusing them of trivial crimes. 

Sometimes we pass a particularly gorgeous rural landscape, a vast expanse of paddy fields stacked like stairs to life against the looming green mountains and we remember why everything was worth it. The windows were open and I could taste the fresh breeze, the soft blue of the sky, the sun shining down upon us like heaven smiling at the sight of tall trees and plants bobbing into the tune of the wind. I could still see the statue of the crocodile and shark, Sura and Baya, inside my mind and hear my father’s voice as he explained the story behind them. We once stopped by a homely, traditional restaurant with the owner greeting us like a mother seeing her children after a long year. Things I disregarded as common, everyday pleasures. I remember a time where Java is gorgeous with its ugliness and it’s heart-wrenching. 

The silence is like something holy with no one daring to break it. I don’t try to, as anything that comes out of my mouth will inevitably wander back home. A home that is no longer there, destroyed by fire and ammunition. Looking outside, I see the roads used to be bordered by shops and houses filled with burning ashes and debris. 

On my right is a man with years of experience, face hardened with battle and eyes like dark stalagmite. His posture is straight, a soldier to the very core, and he reminds me of history classes back in elementary times. My teacher, donning formal dirt-coloured clothes and pants, her footsteps echoing in our ears as she walked back and forth. Her eyes stared at us like she was trying to see deep inside us, looking for a trickle of emotion. Her voice was strong as she recounted the revolutions, the Second World War, the Netherland forces controlling us. Persistent leaders who never ceased fighting with the revolution forces across Nusantara, from Sabang to Merauke, even after banishments to remote islands. Devoted people willing to fight with only sharpened bamboo in arms, all to ensure the next generation could live in a free country. No one ever cried when the teacher lectured about their efforts and what they have done for us, but now I can feel my throat clenching and my sight is blurry with little iridescent reflections. 

I watch him as he glances outside, and his eyes, like stones, cracked under the water. But as his eyes meet mine, I know that those tears are what built the man he is now. I crack a smile, and he returns it. Armed with rifles and hand guns, we are fragile. 

Author's Note

critique away. Assuming anyone read this, haha.