At home in Siliragung

                   some things that are cannot be told in prose
                   evincing poetry, these acts unrhyme
                   the past, the present, future, and all time,
                   rewriting all that happened, all we chose

                   a son returns a man still aged fifteen
                   his dreams as flowers scattered on a stone
                   remember still the land where they were sown
                   so he his heart unearths, uncrushed, unseen

                   too large, let it be written as it may
                   mine eyes have seen it, truly, through a veil
                   a tear in time admits one lately born
                   to regions where the mind can surely stay
                   awaiting all that left behind must trail
                   until all shall be mended that was torn

Going home and being at home take on many shades of meaning.
For Yudhie, the village of Siliragung had never been his home, though it was his mother's village, and he continues to have relatives there—his aunt (his mother's sister), his cousins, and their children. He had not been here in Siliragung since he was brought here for Indiyati's funeral when he was just a boy of fifteen. His mother was never well, and one day she told her daughter and son that she needed to return to her village in far away Banyuwangi. They were living in a small village near Lampung, Sumatera. That was the only home Yudhie had known up till then. But Indiyati wanted to return to her home village and see it for the last time. She knew she was going home to die, to be with the Lord. One of the last things she asked was, 'Who will take care of Yudhie?'

Back to the present, riding in a reliable old car piloted by our friends from Banyuwangi town, navigating our way through the beautiful countryside of southeastern Java—at the time I didn't realise how close we were to the sea—we were finally in Siliragung. Mir guided our driver to the first stop, the first of the many relatives we would meet that day. As happened to us before in Nakao village, in Sumatera, people, especially children, poured out of the house. Here the houses were constructed a little differently, but still they were brick with woven bamboo walls and shutters. We removed our sandals and left them outside, and entered the small ante-chamber and then a large living room.

Greetings and introductions were made, and I understanding hardly a word, except for the universal language, smiles and handshakes. We were made to sit down while a ceremony of bringing snacks to the table began. After a bit I walked around and took a few photos. Our camera was not adjusted properly for the first couple of images, which are too dark, but you can see in the second of them, the people sitting around the table, our only photo of Azan. He's the young man in the center facing us. He would stay with us and be our guide from now until he saw us off at Gilimanuk, safely on the bus to Denpasar.

As all farmers' homes in every land, the place was homey and comfortable, 'a place for everything and everything in its place.' I admired the gracious naïveté of my surroundings, the display of pictures hanging on the walls reminding me of what I saw as a child in the homes of my own farming relatives, and of peasant cottages I had visited in the Orthodox homeland of Alberta when I lived there as a young man. Religious images intermingled with secular photos and artwork, cute little knickknacks and souvenirs in a shadowbox just like my own home growing up in Chicago. Life can be simple and unpretentious when you let it be.

After a short visit with the family in this first house—because the time we had before evening was limited—we reluctantly said our goodbyes and proceeded to our next stop, following Mir. This was to visit Yudhie's aunt, his mother's sister and, according to him, she resembles his mother quite a bit. It was in this house that Indiyati passed away. It was a small, clean cottage with packed earth floor, not the concrete floor that was in the first house and every other farmhouse we'd visited. We still removed our foot gear as we entered, of course. The floor was clean and dry. It was the first time, I think, that I'd actually been in a house with an earthen floor.

People crowded around and welcomed us as we entered, and they gave us the best seats they had to offer. Yudhie's young second-cousin was particularly interested in us, and we in him. He is the boy wearing what looks to me like a Simpsons T-shirt, but it's some kind of cartoon character anyway. He stayed close to us the whole time. When Yudhie returned here for his mother's funeral, this boy was eight years younger, just a little tyke, and even then he stayed close to Yudhie, and was his only comfort. I look forward to coming back to Siliragung in the years ahead, and see how everyone is doing, especially this young lad.

Yudhie's aunt was tearful and quiet when she came out to meet us, and sit next to Yudhie for a photograph. She was slender and graceful, her movements careful as a dancer's as she greeted us and sat down. 'Nobility,' I thought to myself. In this land, nobility of spirit, artistic refinement and sensibility, are not restricted to those who have money and social status. I already understood this from knowing my son, and him explaining to me how traditional Javanese culture was gentle and courtly, coming down through time from the days of the ancient kings, being preserved by the common people. How true what I'd heard, they are all artists.

In this home, like the other we visited, family iconography was mixed. On one wall, for example, there is a Roman Catholic print of Jesus Christ pointing to His Sacred Heart, and beside it is a photo or print of a couple of long-haired guys in cutoffs. Then a little further to the right, above a curtained doorway (there seem to be no interior doors in Javanese country homes) was a wayang, a traditional Javanese shadow puppet, usually a character from one of the national epics, Mahabharata or Ramayana. Yudhie is himself named after the oldest of the five Pandava brothers, Yudhisthira, in the epic Mahabharata. Even the Christian Javanese often take names from the ancient Hindu epics.

After we visited the home of Yudhie's aunt and her family, it was time to walk down to the village cemetery to visit and pray at the grave of Indiyati. Somewhere on the way here, we had stopped and bought some bags of fresh flower petals to strew on her grave stone. We made sure we had everything we needed as we headed down the road, a small procession of family members, one with a little brother on his back.
I followed behind them all, because I didn't want to miss a thing. I took a couple of photos on this walk, but already I was sensing we were leaving the world behind, and going to a place where, though we might take photos, the reality of our experiences would elude them.

The cemetery appears to be set in a farmer's field, or at least is surrounded by them. Following the cousins, we approach a very plain, uncared-for gravestone. The center of the grave stones here are hollow, so the whole is something like a rectangular planter, in which people can plant flowers.

It is Indiyati's grave, her name traced in the concrete perimeter at the head. We surround the little grave as Yudhie squats down and opens the first bag of flower petals, and begins to scatter them on the surface of the dry soil.

Then the bag is passed and another opened, so the rest of us can offer flower petals. There is no ceremony. I would like to sing the memorial service for Indiyati in Greek, but it isn't the right time. Not now, not yet.

God knows what is in our hearts, and who is singing what, why and when. He honors the desire as much as He praises the deed we do out of love. Yes, I took some photos, but they only show the externals. The sonnet at the beginning of this story I wrote only much later, after I returned to America, and seeing Yudhie at his mother's grave in the picture, and remembering what cannot be photographed.

After this, we all follow Yudhie to another grave, an older one it seems. It is the grave of his grandfather, and there we again deposit more flower petals and dedicate more secret prayers. This is the field where on the Day of resurrection, everything that we have broken in our lives will be unbroken, everything we unmade will be remade, all dreams dashed by the world's reality awaken to the Only Reality. Here we will meet again as we always wanted to meet on earth. Here Yudhie will be able to finally embrace Indiyati, his mother. Yes, it is an old story, but it is true.


We returned to another house in the village, where more relatives were gathered. Yudhie and I were seated at a table in the first room. Again, snacks and refreshments were brought. Most of the cousins were seated together opposite us and in front of an old TV set. Yudhie discussed with them the state of his mother's grave, and how much it would cost to have it fixed up and cared for. We had already decided to leave money for the family to refurbish the grave and care for it until we visited again. An amount was proposed. I asked, 'Is that really going to be enough? Please tell them what you have in mind, and find out what it will really cost,' I said to Yudhie. With some hesitancy they talked further, and came up with a more realistic sum.

We counted out the banknotes and handed them over to Mir, who was going to be in charge of the project. Then it was time to take a few photos before we had to leave. Yudhie's young second-cousin, the one who follows us with his eyes, volunteered to get a couple of shots of Yudhie and me sitting together at the table. Then, we took some other photos of the family, but—too bad—all but one of them (the one above) were just blurs.

Then, a real surprise and for me, a joy. Mir, who doesn't speak any English and was very reserved as well, suddenly leapt out of his seat and flung himself into mine and put his arm around me, and smiled. He wanted to be photographed with me! Yudhie got up and took the photograph, and though I still look a bit stunned in the picture (at least to myself), Mir looks exactly the way I want to remember him, until I see him again.

At home in Siliragung? Well, not this time in the 'real world,' but my heart is at home here, with the lovely people from whom my son Yudhie drew his human life, and maybe next time, with more preparation and time, we can stay with them a few days.

Next… An unexpected welcome