Let The Mail Speaks
There’s an e-mail in my inbox. But I don’t know who the sender was. Maybe he typed the wrong address. After all there are so many e-mail addresses that are different only in two or three last character. But anyway let the Mail speaks:
Dear R.,
You know I’m not afraid of death. I never was. We all were death before we lived, weren’t we? So why should be afraid of another death? No, that’s not the reason why I ran away from the war. Really. There’s something else. Something that I felt wrong and it was begining to bother me.
You’re lucky you didn’t have to take part in this war. Separatism it was, but for freedom, my brother said me once. “It’s a holly war!” he went on to convice me to join the rebels. “We’re not rebels; we’re betrayed by the government. And now we must fight back, we must struggle for our right, for what we deserve,”.
You should know very well, the government soldiers killed my father, while, long ago, my grandfather had died by the colonial troops defending this very government. The government that drinks the blood of our tribe!
It was ten years ago, when we were fourteen. The very first time when the they came to our village. They built their post. They were looking for the rebels, they said. You, Adam and I often came there. They were kind to us. They taught us a few card-plays and let us smoked some of their cigarettes. Until one day, two days after you and your family moved abroad, they came in to my house, and Adam’s too; with their heavy boots and their terrible machine gun. They shot my father right through the head. And Adam, he lost the whole family. His father, his mother, and his beautiful sister to –they raped her before Adam’s eyes. I don’t understand why they didn’t just killed Adam too? It’s better for him, I think.
Adam must be shocked after that day. He joined the rebels—my brother and I joined latter—and killed anyone who couldn’t speaks the language of our tribe. One day, he killed an old man, just because he didn’t hear what Adam had said, and said “excuse me?” not in our language.
Human life became so worthless here. Sometimes we killed the government soldiers, sometimes we killed the villagers who betrayed us. Sometimes the government soldiers killed some of us, sometimes they killed the villagers who faithful to us. There were so many human heads separated from their bodies. You can easily find them on the roads, on the river, or in the swamp. The smells of bloody dampened earth were everywhere. It made me sick. I always slept in a kind of nightmare. Sometimes I heard the dying peoples groan in my dreams. Sometimes my father came into my dreams and cursed me ‘cause I was killing people.
I’ve had enough. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldnd’t get along no more with the rebels. One morning before dawn, I ran from the forest in the mountain side, in which the rebels stayed. I just ran and ran, leaving all the past behind. I ran until I felt tired and fainted. And suddenly, I was on the boat going to M. It was the boat that shipped illegal immigrants abroad. They helped me because the leader recognized me as my father’s son. He said he used to be one of my father’s students, and had come to my house for several times. That’s how he knew me. I know my father was a public school teacher, but I didn’t remember ever seing this man. But anyway, I thanked God for that.
I don’t know how Adam and my brother are doing now. But I’m quietly sure they’ll kill me if they can find me. I don’t mean to share this fear with you, but once Adam said, he’ll kill you and your family too. I know it’s ridiculous, but sometimes I think the way Adam does. Why you and your family moved just right before the troops killed my father and Adam’s family? Was your father responsible for the incident? Never mind, I don’t want to think badly of your father. Just avoid Adam if you see him.
Take care,
M.
***
There’s an e-mail in my inbox. I don’t know who the sender was. Maybe he typed the wrong address. Or maybe he knew I write stories, and want me to rewrite his letter as a story. But this time, I don’t write a story, I just let the mail speaks.
***
Depok Augustus 2001
Irvan Noviansyah
Originally published in C ‘n S Magazine
Vol.3 no.22 Feb—March 2004 p.48-9
