What does it feel to be independent, Grandma? | Tebuireng Online

“What does it feel to be an independent person, Grandma?” The question just rolled out of Ratna’s mouth, a 4th grade boy, when they sat on the veranda of the old stage house from her grandfather. That night, the sky was full of stars, and the sound of crickets shouted like the song introduction to the story. In his hand, Ratna was still holding a shabby photocopy paper containing the national anthem which he would sing tomorrow morning during the ceremony at school.

Grandma Mawir, who is usually called “Grandma Wir”, stopped the movement of his hand which was patching a shabby sarong. He looked at his grandson deeply. The light of the oil lights illuminated its wrinkled face, as if every line there had a long story about life and loss.

“What did you ask before, son?” Ask the plan, make sure he doesn’t hear it wrong.

“What does it feel … Be an independent person?” Ratna repeated, her eyes staring at the sky.

Grandma Wir took a deep breath. “Merdeka is … not just a matter of war and lifting weapons. For us, small people who live mediocre at the end of this village, independence is when we can be free to breathe and be grateful for this life.”

Ratna was silent. The words hung on his head, like a kite caught in a mango tree branch. In his age that hasn’t even been ten years old, he does not yet understand the meaning of independence that is often mentioned in PPKN lessons. But that night, for the first time, he felt like knowing more than anything.

“Grandma, when I was a child, Grandma had seen a plane?” he asked suddenly.

Grandma chuckled, her voice was hoarse. “No, son. Even now, I only heard the plane from the radio. In the sky of this village, birds rarely stop.”

“Then, take the city bus ever?”

“Not really. The road to the city is still land when your grandmother is your age. Even now, who wants to go to the city? Just here, we are enough.”

Ratna nodded slowly. He remembered his teacher once said, independence means we are free to choose, free to think, free to learn and achieve goals. But, Ratna was confused. Just the school, the roof is leaking. When it rains, they moved to sit to the part that was not wet. The uniform is narrow, torn shoes at the end, and her favorite food is fried tempeh which is bought every two days if grandma has more money.

“In the past … grandma had a goal?” he asked again, getting deeper.

Grandma Wir smiled. “In the past, grandma wanted to be a teacher. But in the past, women were not all schools. Grandmother’s family was poor, and since childhood had participated in the fields.”

“If now, Ratna may go to school. But Ratna’s school … ugly, Grandma,” Ratna said softly, her eyes began to glaze over. “Yesterday the class wall almost collapsed. The books have been torn all. But the teacher still said tomorrow we are ceremonies. Why do we have to be a ceremony, if everything is still difficult, Grandma?”

That night, the village’s wind was blowing slower. As if you want to hear more clearly.

Grandma Wir held her grandson’s hand gently. “Ratna, you know, many people used to die so that we could live now. They were not warriors with weapons, but farmers, housewives, village youths, like us. They struggled by maintaining the land, maintaining customs, feeding the soldiers, even just by not giving up.”

“Are they poor too?” Ratna asked quickly.

Grandma nodded. “Poor. But their enthusiasm is rich. Their hearts are full of hope. Like you, who even though their schools are damaged, keep the spirit of wanting to learn. That is also the name of the struggle.”

Ratna hugged her knees, leaning against Grandma’s shoulder. “Means … Ratna is also a warrior?”

“Of course. You are a small warrior. Fighters who study with perforated shoes, but a heart full of dreams.”

The night is getting late. But Grandma’s story continues to flow. About his grandfather who used to secretly help the Laskar people bring logistics to the battlefield. About his mother who sewed the red and white flag from a used cloth. About his missing friends somewhere when the Dutch army combed their village.

Ratna listened with her eyes widening and a heart full of admiration. For him, Grandma’s story was more exciting than a cartoon on television that she could only watch while stopping by the house of Mr. RT who had electricity from the generator.

“Grandma,” Ratna said quietly. “Tomorrow Ratna wants to sing the loudest Indonesia Raya song. Let the roof of our class that collapsed.”

Grandma chuckled, her eyes glazed. “Sing from the heart, Ratna. Because you are singing hope.”

And that night, they fell asleep on the wooden couch, under the stars, with a dimly lamp.

*****

Morning arrived. Karangrawa Village began to live. Crows crowded, dew hanging on the tip of the leaf, and the aroma of wet soil out of the rice fields. Ratna woke up earlier, wearing a school uniform that was ironed by grandmother last night with a charcoal iron.

His shoes were torn cleaning clean. Her hair was braided in two, the red ribbon was slightly faded to be tied proudly. In hand, he held a small flag from bamboo and plastic torn at the end.

The school is only half a kilometer away from home. The ground road filled with stones and puddles was passed by different enthusiasm. In his eyes, he was not just a village boy. He is a small warrior. A child who understands that independence is not a matter of branded food or big mall. But the problem can get up early in the hope, learn even though it is hard, and continues to love the ground where he is standing.

When the national anthem was echoed, Ratna’s voice sounded the most loud. His eyes looked at the rusty flagpole, but his heart imagined the red and white fluttering in the blue sky. At home, Grandma Wir stared to the distance. He knew, his grandson had grown into an independent child, in his own way.

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Writer: trough
Editor: Rara Zaryry