in memoriam.

The last time I met Sobron was in November 2006, at his daughter Nita’s place in Almere, the Netherlands. I stayed over, chatted with Nita, Bregas and their son Berry for the first time, and a bit with Nita’s daughter Laura (whom I have met in Bali once before) as well. The next day Sobron arranged a meeting with his brother Asahan in Amsterdam Schiphol. I remember noticing that Sobron has lost a tooth – I am not sure exactly which one or why.

During the 3 days I followed him in Paris in 2004, the one afternoon we spent over warm drink in Kuta, Bali, and the 2 days I was with him and his family in Almere, he mentioned several times to me, to Nita, and to Asahan, that I have got the most footage of him. He told me that there were a few other people that have filmed and interviewed him as well, but no one has the amount of footage that I have. He has told me a lot of things – sometimes he would tell me that he has written about the particular story that he was recounting, but other times he would say that he should write more about an event, or a character that he just remembered then.

I remember asking him, or rather telling him, that we should meet again in Indonesia in 2007. Perhaps in one of his book launches, or something else. I thought it would be nice to see him as part of a public event in Indonesia after such a long exile – not only his personal life and his closest family as I have experienced so far. When we parted I asked him to be all right. Please take care, Pak Sobron, I said. We should meet again.

When I look back now, I think I was half begging. Now I feel that I should have pleaded more.

In February 2007, while doing My 24 Hours: Australia, I was in Ann’s car with Sam and Fithri on our way back from shooting at Ellen’s place in Blackwood. I remember my mobile beeping, a text message from my brother Edo, saying that he heard Sobron has passed away the day before.

I broke down. It was truly unexpected. I felt that I owe him, and remembered that we still had a plan for more shooting. He shouldn’t have passed away so soon. I didn’t – and still don’t – feel ready with my footage, no matter how much he said I have recorded. It wasn’t fair.

I learned that he fell off just on his way out of the Luxembourg train station to the internet café where he usually would write. I remember those places very well. We spent quite some time in that station, me finding the relevancy of him waiting for the right train to ride on, to continue his journey. He told me he has spent so many hours waiting there – waiting to go home from work, waiting to write, waiting to go home – waiting to go Home. To Belitung. He would sometimes say Indonesia, but it seems to be specifically Belitung, where he spent his childhood, that’s really always in his mind.

I remember how proud Berry was of his grandfather. Berry would demonstrate how he would cook. Seperti kakek,(1) he said to me. I remember Nita told me that Berry exclaimed how lucky he was to have a famous grandfather – so famous that people would seek him to interview him and follow his life with a camera. I asked Berry what he is – the boy was born in France, can only enter Indonesia with his French passport, and has been a Dutch resident practically all his young life. Berry said, firmly, I am Indonesian.

Scatters of small things like these keep echoing in my mind. So many different worlds, so many different dreams. Sorga ada di Kebun Belakang, Sobron once wrote. [L]antaran jalannya pincang // berdebam jatuh terkapar // kena batu-batu dan akar-akar //
sejak itulah kehidupan semakin terkepung. (2)

I remember looking at Nita’s backyard. A simple backyard that Sobron mentioned in his version of heaven, a simple backyard of a strong daughter who has gone through triple-tangled lifetime. I imagine the shallow interpretation of life in – or since – 1965 that I had before I met Sobron. I remember my limited understanding of what happened to my family back then, having had my mouth shut, no questions allowed by invisible socio-political forces. Nothing as shallow and limited as that would enable me to even start reading his writings.

I still feel that I cannot understand fully. I do feel, however, a perhaps similar stream of urgency that Sobron felt, of having to say whatever he felt out loud. I owe myself 33 years of writing, Sobron told me. Instead of serving time, he decided to fight. Perhaps feebly – like a tiny little ant biting on Goliath’s toenail – but ever so persistently. Nothing will ever keep a raging soul silent.

Perhaps we could talk, he said to me once, about what you want to do with those footage. I have worked on a 50-odd minutes draft by then, and have continuously felt that I shouldn’t have cut anything out. Everything that he told me was invaluable, no matter how meticulous, how slow, how boring, how dragging, how long. I told him a million reasons why I felt I wasn’t ready to finish it.

Perhaps out of those million reasons, the real reason is one that was left unsaid; perhaps I am afraid?

But of what?

::

(1) Just like grandpa.
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(2) Heaven exists in our backyard
alas, the limped walks
plummeted and paralysed
on rocks and roots
since then life was systematically besieged.
~ an excerpt from the poem Siksaan Kecil (Tiny Torment),
written by Sobron Aidit in Almere, the Netherlands, 4 September 2005,
published in the budaya_tionghua mailing list. My own translation.
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