Have you ever heard of "Diego Garcia?"

No, it is not a man's name. It is an island, part of the Chagos archipelago and belong to British Indian Ocean Teritory (BIOT).

The shoking thing about that name is what happened to its population. Within the 1960s, the Anglo-American decided that this island was perfect for American military base. So to cut the long story short, they (British Foreing Office and its overseas governors and soldiers) shipped the whole 2,000 individuals out of their homes into the unknown Mauritius. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depopulation_of_Diego_Garcia

I am just reading this story in John Pilger's Freedom Next Time chapter one "Stealing a Nation". So I am no expert in this part of the oppressed world history. But this story makes me wonder...

Does my partner Andy who is English know about this? Has he ever heard about the forced depopulation by his government? If yes, what version has he heard it? I shall ask him tonight.

This brings me to the thought of Timor Leste. I was lied to by my government and my history and social sciences teachers (I am sure most of my teachers were lied to as well). I grew up believing that in 1975 when I was 3, my government come to save the Timorese people from the ‘evil’ Portuguese coloniser.

Only in my early 20s that I learned that it was not true. My very government invaded the land. We were not the heroes, we were the baddies! Just then that I realised that history is just a construct written by the powerful and the winner.

With that I realised that the 'Indonesian communist upheavel' film (Gerakan 30S-PKI) that we had been watching all our lives every 30th October was not history. It was a story told by one side – the winner who ran the country and controlled the media.

By now I know very intimately that there is almost no justice in the world. It is just daily fact that we accept and then from time to time we fight against. But to accept one history book as The History... I think it is wrong. (After all, it is not only "his" story, not even "her" story, it should be "our and their" stories). I will make sure that when my son start learning the modern history of Britain, he will read the stories of the forcedly evicted people of Diego Garcia - just like I've shown him the other side of the Indonesian history.

I am going back to my reading. I once hoped to be someone like John Pilger who tells the story of the voiceless people, the 'unpeople' as he puts it. I am not sure about that hope anymore as I am now an unwanted non-European living in Britain with my unmarried partner. But one thing I am sure, is that I should never forget the stories of the 'unpeople' that I have met.

The struggle of people against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting (Milan Kundera as quoted by John Pilger)

John Pilger's book "Freedom Next Time"

I just started reading this book. Really eye-opening. Living in England has made me 'lazy' and almost forgot my root, and about what happened and still happening in the 'third world' whre I came from. This book reminds me (and hopefully will remind all of its reader) that there are injustice everywhere and we should not deny it just because we are living a nice comfortable lives. Imperialism and exploitation are still present and the mainstream Western media is too lazy (or too coward) to cover these.

God save people in third world countries...!!! (even though I am sceptical about the concept of 'God')

TRAVELLING 2005

These are pictures gathered within 2005 in my travelling time. From Aceh's Tsunami, traditional Indonesians in Bali and Badui, Philippine's tragedy, to Le Bourget Airshow and Paris in summer..

Deers, Camping, Puffins and RAF’s Hawk

Growing up amid the concrete walls of Jakarta, I have always craved for a walk on a green hill like the opening scene of Little House on the Prairie or Sound of Music. Now as an Indonesian expat in Manchester, I found my picture perfect hills in the Peak District, just 40 minutes drive. The bad news is, the weather does not always permit.

Lyme Park Saturday morning. Red deer and fallow deer grazing on the moorland, then a herd of Scottish White Cross cattle came curiously so close watching us human taking a walk.


Owned and managed by the National Trust, the 566 hectares (1,400 acres) Lyme Park was originally part of the Tudor house Lyme Hall. For those who followed BBC's adaptation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Lyme was 'Pemberley'. The back garden of Lyme Hall was the set where Mr.Darcy, played by Collin Firth, took off his clothes and dive into the pond.

There is something about Lyme Park that makes it my favourite getaway. The fact that my first date with my partner took place there was not the only reason. Lyme Park has many faces. In summer, we can sunbathe and have a picnic and sometimes watch the Morris Dancers skipping around. In winter, walking past the snow covered Lyme Hall and The Cage – an early 18th-century hunting tower – made it looks like a different world of winter wonderland.

Last Saturday the day was perfect until heaven opened and rain pissing on everyone. Yet they call this Global Warming?

For longer holiday such as the school half-term break last month, camping was a nice gamble. We booked our six days leave from work months before. We had all our camping gears ready. Then on D-day we read that the weather was going to be rainy.

Well, we decided to go anyway, hoping that Shell Island in Llanbedr, Wales, would be different than the rest of the country. At least we had three days of sun. Having Indonesian upbringing, I said to my English partner, “Three days sun and two nights rain is still better than no sun at all.”

Shell Island is famous for the many different shells on the beach, wild birds, fishing and panoramic views of Cardigan Bay and Snowdonia mountain range. Its 121.41 hectares (300 acres) camping area makes it the biggest campsite in the UK and the biggest tenting site in Europe. Having only a tent license, the site does not accept caravans or campervans unless they have a tent for sleeping purposes.

On arrival at the reception office, we paid our admission: £6 per night for adult, £2.50 for children and £1.50 for dogs. The receptionist said we can pitch our tents anywhere as long as it’s within 20 yards or more from other tents. As we left reception, we saw signs saying, “For family/couple only. No groups/lads” and “No radio/music after 11pm”. Perfect!

For pitching tents, there are choices of sand dunes, woodland or near the harbour. We picked a spot near the sand dunes. Five minutes walk from our tents, there are the main toilet and shower block. The warm shower washed away my memory of counting one two three before pouring cold water in Cibodas National Park. There are three washing basin for washing dishes, also with warm water from the tap.

Not having any kites, boomerang, nor ball to play, I had expected my son to be whiny and bored. Amazingly he did not. The minute we finished building our tents, he disappeared into the sand dunes with his new found friends. I found out later from him that there is another fun family activity: crab fishing or crabbing.

Unlike Indonesians, British people do not eat crabs or fish that they caught. Going crabbing means catching as many crab as you can, collect them in your little bucket – which conveniently can be bought in the camp store along with crab lines and even baits – then you let them go. No crab was injured during the process.

There are many other activities in Shell Island. If you go boating, there are a chance that you can see dolphins and porpoises. Kite-surfing on the beach looks challenging, and of course shell collecting.

In a grey cloudy day when sunbathing on the beach was out of the question, a visit to Harlech Castle, 15 minutes drive from the campsite, was a good alternative. The admission charge of £3.50 for adults and £3.00 for children and students is worth the expense. Picturesque view of the coastline framed by the rear gate is superb.




Built by King Edward I in late 13th century, Harlech Castle was never been used as a dwelling for royalties. Located atop a cliff close to the Irish Sea and overlooking Snowdonia Mountain, it was meant to be a statement of conquest over Wales. Ironically, in 1404 it was taken by Welsh leader Owain Glyn Dwr who proceeded to hold a parliament here. Its seven-year siege and the Wars of the Roses inspired the song 'Men of Harlech'.

Walking inside and around the ruins of Harlech Castle reminded me of Sean Connery and Richard Gere in First Knight. In fact, some scene of the 1995 film was filmed in Harlech and the nearby Llanfair Slate Mine.

Driving further North from Harlech, we visited Portmeirion on a peninsula off the coast of Snowdonia. The Italianate village was built by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis from 1925 to 1975, based on his memory of an Italian town Portofino.

The resort village is mostly famous for being the set for TV series The Prisoner, starred Patrick McGoohan. The character played by McGoohan, known only as “No. 6”, was held in a strange fantasy setting, called “The Village”. The classic 60s TV series becomes such a cult that until today fans have annual Prisoner Convention in which celebrity guests attend events and share their admiration on the series and its location.

Before heading back to Manchester, we took a detour to Anglesey Island. Two things I insisted to see before the end of our holiday: to see Hawks and puffins.


RAF Valley where world famous aerobatic The Red Arrow is routinely training is base for No 4 Flying Training School, which operates 71 Hawk T1/T1A aircraft, not much different than Indonesian Air Force’ Hawks. We parked outside the fence at the end of the runway. Just as we sat down on a rock with the runway in front and beach behind us, we heard a thundering sound of two Hawks approaching for landing. It was perfect for an anorak like me.


To see puffins, I mean the real birds (Fratercula arctica) not plane, we drove further West past Hollyhead to South Stack Cliff, a Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) reserve. The cute clown-like birds nest in spring and early summer.

We hired a binocular from RSPB visitor centre, and walked to the cliffs. It was the best reality show I’ve ever seen! I fell in love with their comedy red beaks and big red feet, swimming speed and fidelity. Puffins mate for life. They lay a single egg in spring. Both parents incubate it for 36-45 days, and they share feeding duties until the chick is ready to fledge. I also found their ‘billing’ gestures – brushing each other’s beak – like human kissing.

Bigotry

I recently made promise to my partner and my son that I will not smoke inside our flat anymore. I felt very good about this new selfless decision. Actually, I felt quite heroic about it. It was a small step toward quitting smoke.

However, an event this morning gave me a new insight. I will not quit smoking. As a heavy-smoker friend told me once, ‘only quitters quit.’

I was outside the building, in the cold in my homey pants and t-shirt, having my morning cigarette after walking my son to school. A neighbour walked pass and we exchanged greetings. Then another neighbour came. I do not know his name, only a nod whenever we passed, as a solidarity nod among mature-post-graduate students living in a student hall.

This time, he stopped by and smiled. I said hi and good morning. Then out of a sudden, he asked me where I am from. I said, ‘Indonesia.’ He said, still smiling, ‘I do not know that Indonesian people smoke.’

A-ha! Here we go again, I thought. If he were going to the road I had thought he would, it would not be the first time. Yet I played along.

‘Oh yes they do! Heavily. Indonesian people are one of the heaviest smokers in the world. In fact, we have very good strong cigarettes with cloves far better than any western cigarettes,’ I told him.

Then he smiled again. By now I know that his smile is the most insincere smile men would use before making their sexist remarks. ‘What religion are you? Are you a Muslim or a Christian?’ he asked.

‘I am not a Muslim,’ I told him politely. He looked a bit disappointed. Then he started again, ‘I have never known any Indonesian… (paused) smoke.’

I would happily filled the blanks and re-phrase for him. I would bet my bottom dollar that what he meant was ‘I have never known any Asian woman smokes.’
As I mentioned, he was not the first man making this remark to me. There had been a new security guy in our building, thanks good God that he is not here anymore, who told me directly, ‘Why are you smoking? You are a woman. Are you a Muslim?’ At that time, I was so shocked that someone who lives and works in this modern European society would make such a sexist prejudice remark. This time I was not as surprised.

I smiled as sweet as I can. The most insincere smile I could do to return my neighbour’s bigoted smile. ‘Oh, I’m surprised you know many Indonesian people in Manchester. I know almost not all Indonesian people in Manchester, there are only about 100 of us. We have routine gathering. Who do you know?’

My neighbour took his time to answer. I cannot decide yet whether he needed time to overcome his shock on my question or to search for names. He came up with a name did not sound Indonesian. I could almost swear that there was no Indonesian person in Manchester by that name. But as a sweet and kind person, I had to save him from embarrassment.

‘Ah, is that the guy living in Cheetam Hill? I think I have met him once. Any other Indonesian you know here?’He gave up for that day. He mumbled something like where he met this bloke and said goodbye to me.

The next time I saw him outside the flat, he said to me, "Are you still smoking?" No need to reply as I was indeed, smoking. This time I was fed up, and this is what I said, "Please help me, I cannot decide: are you sexist or racist or both?"  I could see with great satisfaction the shock and defeat in his face. I puffed my last smoke to the cold air, threw the cigarette butt to the bin, and went upstairs to my flat leaving him thinking.

If I were an angry mean woman I had been ten years ago, I would have said to this bigot, ‘And yet you demand to be treated the same as all human regardless of your race and gender? Go back to your little tribal village wherever it is, man!’

In this age of political correctness, with a little remark by a white person towards other race considered racist and bigotry, I cannot help but thinking, who is the bigot here? Who needs more education?

* * *

(Written in March 2007, originally posted on http://adelinemt.blogs.friendster.com/scribles/)

Postscript: We have now moved to Manchester city centre and I have never met that sexist-racist ex-neighbour again.

Showers Or Baths?

I have never really given a thought of how we wash ourselves. It just comes automatically. I needed soap and lots of water to clean myself from head to toe. Period. Shower or bath, whatever. In my own language there's only one word for washing, mandi.

But since I came to England and live in sort of old-style British flat with only a bath and no shower, I started thinking - Big difference. Big cultural and even language difference.

For me and my 9-year-old son, having a bath tub with two separate taps, hot and cold, and no shower, was a big puzzle. We enjoyed bubble baths for a month. It was our dreams come true. Bubble baths had always been a luxury we had when we travelled and fortunate enough stayed in a star hotel.

After a month of bubble baths everyday, I felt really filthy. I needed water, clean water, to run down the dirt from my soapy body. How did the British, in the old days as well as nowadays, wash themselves?

We finally came for a solution. A very traditional Indonesian way of washing, using bucket and little pan we called gayung. There's no English word for gayung, I've checked the dictionary, for there are no such thing known to the Anglo-Saxon culture. But my son and I made it.

I finally feel clean enough the way I always liked it. Here is our hybrid tribal Indonesian and British washing ritual. Hop into the bath tub. Fill the bucket with both cold and hot water until we got the right temperature. Scoop the water with the gayung [we use small plastic measuring pan], wet ourselves. Soap the body from head to toe. Then finally rinse with clean water from the bucket with gayung.

It's far from simple. But I had my peace thinking that I don't waste water as I was with having the whole tub filled and I don't have to soak in my own dirt.
I thought my family was the only crazy people in England who thought about this thoroughly, until I heard a talk in BBC 2 radio, one Saturday morning. They were talking about shower and bath, the American and British way of washing.
Uh-uh! So there it is, the Americans use shower and they feel clean because they don't have to soak in their own filthy water. The Britons like bath because how would they clean their toes in the shower when they have to stand on their feet? Good point!

I don't have to go into detail of Indonesian traditional way of washing. Enough to be said that we use a bucket and a gayung. That's the way it has always been for ages in villages. Although my parents have shower in their big-city house, I could do with traditional Indonesian kampoeng (village) of washing.
Still I wonder. How do Britons living in old-style houses or flats wash without shower?

* * *

(Originally posted on Chevening website www.chevening.com on August 2006)

A Conversation About God

Religious freedom and freedom of expression have been the hot topic in every single media that I read or tuned to these last few weeks. Should the [Western] media self-censor themselves against publishing caricatures that might insult others? Are we entitled to beat or even kill those who make fun of our belief?

Whatever grown up people – religious or not – think about these issues, for my son Jack (9) and his two British friends Sam (12) and Jessica (10), the issue is not that.

A few nights a go I went swimming with Jack, my neighbour Rachel and her two children Sam and Jessica. As we walked home from the local swimming pool, a regular childhood chat amongst the kids suddenly became a heated discussion about God.

They were chatting and imagining about planets and aliens, talking in strange-made-up language of a made-belief planet. Then suddenly Rachel and I heard the word "God". We looked at each other, smiled and kept our ears open but pretended not to listen.

Rachel, a single mother like me, whispered, "You see, I never raised them religiously. We went to church once or twice when they were very small, but that was it. Sam now said he doesn't believe in God. Jessica doesn't want to be Christian because she thinks God is a woman".

At some point of their discussion, Jack grabbed my hand almost crying and said, "Mom, please tell Sam that God does exist!". "Well, here it is", I thought. My three years of philosophy study finally felt useful.

Before I had a chance to open my mouth, Sam came and walked between me and Rachel. He said, "Science can prove anything. There is no such thing as God. Religions are lying about the first creation and everything".

I saw Jack's face is turning red. Back in Jakarta, he went to a Catholic school, and even though we don't go to church anymore, he still automatically performs the sign of the cross if he prays before going to bed. He is also used to see our Moslem friends in Aceh pray five times a day and the prayer call, adzan, was always some kind of music to our ears when we were in Indonesia.

Looking at my son's face, Rachel snapped at her son, "Sam, you may believe whatever you like, but don't you force others to share your opinion!".

It was my turn to say a word. I told both Sam and Jack, "Nobody has any proof of whether God exists or not. So some of us belief that God is there, looking after us and that belief would make people want to be better then themselves. Some of us thinks God is just an image we created, and what matters is to be a better person no matter anyone is looking or not. I don't say that any of these opinions are right or wrong. It is just a choice that people are free to choose, as long as it makes you a better person".

Rachel seemed relieved. She nodded and said, "See Sam, you are free to choose but you don't force others to be the same. Whatever makes you comfortable and whatever makes others comfortable".

As if our parental speeches weren't enough, Jessica stepped in and took her mother's hand. She said, "Mum, I changed my mind. I want to be a Christian. I want to be baptised".

Rachel and I tried hard to hide our laughs. I saw her took a deep breath before saying, "Yesterday you said you didn't want to be a Christian because the religion is run by men".

"Yes mum, but I want to be a Christian". No explanation. The 10-year-old just wanted to be baptised.

"If you really want to be a Christian, you'll have to research the religion yourself, study its teaching then decide. You can use my computer for that. If you are really serious, I'll take you to a church and you can ask there yourself", said Rachel.

"But some kids were baptised when they were babies. Jack did. They did not have to study first", protested Jessica.

"Well you are not a baby anymore, young girl. So you should really find out before making your choice", Rachel said her final word as we arrived on the gate of our building.

We said good night and parted. Rachel, Sam and Jessica went to the second floor; Jack and I went home to our flat in the ground floor.

Back in my kitchen as I prepared dinner, the radio broadcasted news about more riots in Afghanistan and Gaza concerning the Danish cartoon – at least five people killed in the protest in Kabul. I chopped the onion slowly and thought.


Jack would never have that kind of conversation if we were in Indonesia. A question about God's existence would certainly result in me being summoned to his school principal's office – he went to a Catholic school for a few years in Jakarta. Just like those innocent Danish expats should leave Indonesia because of a cartoon published in their country a few months a go.

On the other hand, if only people in Afghan, Gaza, and Indonesia could have a discussion like Sam, Jessica and Jack without throwing stones and bombs. Maybe Mohammad, Jesus, Siddhartha and all the 'holy men' are smiling over the chaos people caused on Earth. After all, they were once only human.

* * *
(originally posted on August 2006 in Chevening website http://www.chevening.com/home/index.html)

Note: My son Jack is now 11 and has since changed his mind about religion and God (or gods). He is now agnostic about the whole supernatural thing and has been obsessed about quantum physics for about a year. His blogs will be published soon and I shall post the link in this blog.