BONG Jung, my uncle, never returned from death like the characters in magical realism or horror stories. But everyone in our house knows very well that he is still among us. It was as if he had never gone anywhere after that wretched night. Yes, he is always present in our midst, even if we are invisible, even though he is only whispering among us who are often overly anxious. Although, you know, sometimes according to my grandmother, she would also appear in the reflection of the mirror. Yes, only according to my grandmother.
"He still hasn't changed the sleeping pajamas he was wearing when he was taken," said the grandmother with twinkling eyes. "He was still as handsome as ever. I thought he would look sad and pale. But no, his face looks fresh and happy. And he smiled when I caught him passing in front of the mirror. Oh, my son, who is loved by many girls! ”
My dad sounds burp. However, the grandmother continued the story about her eldest son's pride with eyes slowly turning into glazed.
Yes. Apart from my grandmother, indeed none of us had ever seen the reflection of my uncle in the mirror. But, once again, we all knew that he had never left us, that he remained in our midst as a story that was repeated over and over again.
Of course I really hope to catch Uncle Bong Jung's reflection reflected on the mirror's surface. Maybe he will smile at me or just pass by a large mirror on the wall of our shop. Even just being able to watch the shadows of his body under the bright lights (as my grandmother had seen in the kitchen) was enough to relieve me. So that I can sleep more soundly without having to wake up in the middle of the night because I dream of reviving as a robot after dying because my brain is transferred to the machine.
But not. No one of us, you know, can see uncle's shadow, except grandma. As if he was only pleased to show himself to his mother. Unlike people who have died in other families. Which sounds so often visited their families. Either by appearing openly or making scary sounds, or even possessing a family member. Especially on holidays such as Chit Ngiat Pan and Chin Min, when people hold prayers for the spirits.
"There is no ghost," my father said one time when we were both burning spirits money to my late grandfather in a large barrel after the Chinese New Year's prayer. At that time I was in elementary school.
"In that case, what do we burn these ghost money for?" I asked, watching the thick yellow paper turn gray in the fiery flames in a used kerosene barrel.
"This is only to honor your grandfather while he was still alive," answered the father as he tossed another pile of money into the barrel. Then, with a serious expression, he continued: "We must always remember the services of our parents and ancestors. However, our people, you know, are often outrageous in interpreting Kong Fuzi's wise words. "
Obviously I feel disappointed at the answer. The image of my grandfather's happy face receiving much of our money immediately dispersed. "That means it's useless to burn this money for grandfather," I snorted, putting a pile of spirits in my hand, throwing them into barrels. My father was surprised, "Eeh ..."
I've never been afraid of ghosts. Unlike a number of my friends who immediately turned into pyroes every time someone tells a haunted story or the Sasha, my boyfriend in high school, who never wanted to be watched horror films. In fact, he once confessed to me that he had just witnessed the appearance of a neighbor who had died.
"At first, I was completely unaware when the aunt greeted me on the street. After a few minutes he passed, then I remembered that the person was dead! I think I pissed my pants ... "he cried in my arms.
As a child I had seen the hair of a dead man appear in an old grave mound when searching for gum on the hill behind the shop to bet. Two of my friends ran helter-skelter, but instead I squatted to observe the hair attached to the skull that was half sticking out to the surface of the ground. I also urinated in the banyan tree next to a school that was famous for being haunted and nothing happened. Unlike a senior in my class who had gonorrhea shortly after releasing his body under a lush tree with dangling roots.
No matter how many times I pass through places that are believed to be haunted by people, no spirits are willing to appear to me even if only in the form of shadows. Apparently the ghosts and all the djinns had conspired to stay away from me. And this is sad. In fact, I was determined to find evidence to refute my father's insistence that ghosts did not exist ...
HOWEVER , however, Uncle Bong Jung still continues to haunt me like Robocop. Both of them tormented me with questions about life after death. Yes, even though I have never really known my father's eldest brother, apart from the photographs stored in a pile of photo albums and of course the stories that are repeated throughout my family.
"The walls, the floor and the roof have ears," my father said. I used to not understand what he meant. Also when my mother warned me not to tell anything I heard about Uncle Bong Jung to just anyone, especially my friends at school.
"Including grandma's story about the appearance of uncle's reflection in the mirror?" I asked then. My mother chuckled, but then looked at me seriously, he said again, "We don't know anyone who secretly doesn't like us. What is clear, your uncle had a lot of enemies. You don't want your father to be taken to custody? "
I shook my head in surprise. Instantly I remembered the tin can of a neighbor next to our shop that was forcibly picked up by the police and the security company of the tin company. Everyone was asleep by then. My mother said, it was near dawn, but how could I wake up in shock to understand time? What is clear, everyone at that time, including other neighbors, woke up with screams accompanied by loud banging on the door of Uncle Ho's shophouse. None of us dared to speak. I think the door to our neighbor's shop house was almost broken down before someone - who knows, maybe one of Uncle Ho's oldest sons - was forced to open the door. There were sobs and screams of fear from the adjoining shophouse, which was confined to a wooden wall: the wailing of Uncle Ho's wife and children, a dozen of them.
My grandmother suddenly cried. Sobbing.
"Mama ... Ssssttt ... !!" my father glared.
"Bong Jung ... My child!" Grandma instead sniffed loud enough.
Again came the sound of screaming from the side of the wall, "Ho, get off you! Down!" Then followed by the sound of wooden stairs crackling on heavy shoes.
It was long after the incident that we learned that that night Uncle Ho was peeing under his bed upstairs. He was taken to custody on charges of buying tin bars for soldering from a stolen tin collector. But, after all, he returned alive two years later. Only much thinner and with one-sided eyes.
"They also took my sister away before dawn like that," my father said softly after stressing the rest of the coffee in his cup. Yes, that is so. The story that has not been counted again how many times told in our house finally found a new way to open again. Of course with my grandmother who has the most detailed memories of all the events. He even remembers how many minutes past those uniformed people came to pick up my uncle, also how many of them there were and how exactly the atmosphere of that wretched night was.
"The A Men SHOP was only one door. "Teacher Liu is still alive and every afternoon comes to drink tea with me," my grandmother hurriedly welcomed the opening story of my father.
"People always think we have a relationship in the past," my grandmother then laughed until her eyes stayed in line. "But, that is just a gossip talk. Teacher Liu is an acute tea connoisseur. He said, only the tea I made steeping tasted like tea in my hometown. Yes, you know, his own wife was born and raised here ... "
Then, grandma looked up, her eyes began to look teary. We can clearly see how smiles fade from her lips and wrinkled faces.
"Somehow the night was so quiet, far quieter than usual. There were no sounds of the patrollers, nor were there any barking dogs or howling of cats which usually like to make noise above the roof. In fact, that night Uncle Chong didn't sound coughing. Ah yes, said the Afung's son-in-law, apparently that night Uncle Chong fell asleep after taking the herbal medicine made by Doctor Ng ... "
At that time my grandmother was almost 90 years old. However, his memory did not fade at all, as did his vision recovering towards the age of 70. Of course he still remembers the big events that followed one after that.
"Everything begins with the appearance of a large broom in the sky ..." grandma's voice seemed choked. "Comet," interrupted my father quickly as he turned to me. Yes, the appearance of the comet shaped like a giant broom was seen by all the residents of our small town. He passed so close as if he were going to sweep the shop roofs, said grandmother.
"Everyone was scared at the time. People learn from similar experiences when in 1942 Dewa Kwan Kong revealed a long machete in the sky. And before long the Japanese arrived. But, at that time we could only guess what other catastrophe would happen ... "
Grandmother was silent for a while so that again gave me a slightly gripping effect of tension. It was only after asking if the clothesline had been lifted by my mother, he continued.
"At first, we only knew that Sukarno was sick and was being treated by doctors from China. The Ajung at that time said that if the president died, the army would seize power, "grandmother sighed. And my father interrupted again, "It turns out they have indeed planned to overtake for fear that the president will die and the communists will win the election."
"Until finally we really heard of a military movement that tried to overthrow Sukarno," the grandmother continued, ignoring my father. "Yes, we are all relieved to hear that he survived and the generals who wanted to stage a coup have been secured. But soon the reverse news was announced repeatedly by the army over the radio. At that time your grandfather heard it at Aliong's house. They said, there were seven officers kidnapped and the masterminds were communists who wanted a coup. Later news became increasingly confusing and hard to believe. He said, the army was forced to take power to save the country and Sukarno was arrested ... Then, the communists began to be hunted down like wild boar. "
Of course the stories differ greatly from what I read in PSPB textbooks or what I heard from my teachers since first grade in elementary school.
"Your books and teachers are all lies," my father said, grinning. But, as usual, he hurriedly added, "Eit, but don't ask your teacher or tell your friends at school, huh? Keep in mind, boy! "
I can only nod weakly.
RIGHT , there are too many memories in the house - exactly the shop - we are making Uncle Bong Jung constantly haunting us even though the so-called ghosts do not exist. Perhaps because he loved us too much or because of his sad departure, I thought now.
Just look at how my late grandmother relentlessly told how smart uncle, who jumped four times so he could finish elementary and secondary education faster than other children, who had been mentioned by many Chinese in our small town as young revolutionaries in Nanyang. There is always pride that is clearly implied in his voice, also covered in his old face when telling stories or mentioning the name of Uncle Bong Jung ...
"If that's the case, I don't agree! He is not a revolutionary at all. That's far-fetched, "my father grunted every time he heard that word came out for his brother in both Hakka and Mandarin. An old friend of my uncle told me that when they were students of Zhonghua Xue Xiao, my father and Uncle Ajung had a dispute. In fact, both of them should be bitter enemies if they already talk about ideology. Understandably, my father was a supporter of Red China, while Uncle Bong Jung was a nationalist, a loyal follower of Kuo Min Tang as was my grandfather.
"Yes, that was before he was consumed by the concept of integration of Siauw Giok Tjhan," my father still sounded curt.
"So, uncle is not communist, right?" I asked for the number of times.
"Not. Your uncle even hates communist teachings which, according to him, deny human instinct to try, "my grandmother quickly answered before my father overtook him. "He only invited Chinese people, especially those born here, to join Indonesian citizens. He told them we were born, big, and looking for food in this country. Therefore, we should serve this country. Not that we forget China. China is still the ancestral country that we respect, but we must become one of the tribes of the Indonesian people. I have looked far ahead, "he said.
However, people in uniform still banged on the door of our shop like a demon possessed along with the removal of Sukarno. Even though Uncle Bong Jung never tried to run or hide, even on that wretched night he quietly opened the door to invite the people who came to pick him up.
"Yes, because he entered the peranakan organization, which is what it's called. "Aiss, I still can't spell it now ..." Grandma's story stopped, then she coughed a little so my mother rushed to pour her a cup of tea from the teapot.
"Baperki," my father finally said. "Yes, just because the PKI often supports the damn Baperki in defending the fate of the Chinese people, they are also considered part of the PKI," this time my father's voice was heard between a mixture of furious and sad. All of us then fell silent. My own father, although a Mao worshiper, never agreed to join the PKI. Although the PKI often participated in fighting for the rights of the Chinese, even though the PKI was so close to China.
"That is the Indonesian political party. I am not an Indonesian, "the reason is as simple as that for us. It was only in 1981, after I was five years old, that he was willing to register himself as an Indonesian citizen.
"Is there still another choice?" he asked angrily, "If that Ajung didn't plead with our father to stay, we are all now in China."
"But, not your children! If you went back to China, you wouldn't marry Amui. And you could have been killed during the Cultural Revolution like the youngest son Liu Kong Fui, "said the grandmother sharply, but then glanced at me with a soft look.
AH, whether or not there are ghosts, my uncle Bong Jung has never returned since being taken at night 54 years ago. Not in a state of life like the tin can of our neighbor, nor as a curious spirit like those who have died in other families as I often hear.
However, as I said at the outset, he and his stories never left us, as if so determined to continue to haunt us as beautiful or sad memories; as anxiety, pent-up anger, and a sense of helplessness that you know knows enough to cut ...
And while writing all this down, for some reason I suddenly felt anxious to burn the spirits of money to him and imagine that he was buying new clothes in nature to replace his sleeping pajamas. (*)