The Betang
Restiana Purwaningrum
Translated into English by Zoë McLaughlin
Illustration by Jayu Juli.
“Sindai! Sindai’s here!”
I heard the pleasant sound of his voice before I’d even finished unloading all my things from the taxi. My uncle half-ran to me. His body was thin, his eyes were small, and his mouth seemed on the verge of smiling: nothing about Uncle had changed at all, not even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes or his mouth, which opened even wider to greet me. He was always so happy when I came back to the Betang*.
“You’ve finally come,” he said, revealing his black front teeth.
“I’ll always come back to the Betang, Uncle,” I said, kissing the back of his hand. “You’re doing well?”
“Healthy, healthy,” he answered brightly.
I smiled uncertainly. Secretly, I missed my uncle—my uncle, who everyone at the Betang said was ill. My uncle, who they ignored and regularly dismissed.
“Uncle, I’ve brought a book for you. You have to read it.”
My uncle’s eyes lit up. Perhaps that was why he always waited for me to come home: the books I brought were the only way he had of leaving his world and the Betang.
I was always happy to come back to the Betang. After all, who isn’t happy to return home? But, to me, the Betang was more than just a house—the Betang was an identity. Coming back to the Betang didn’t just mean coming home; it was also part of a spiritual journey—a kind of interlude that I only enjoyed once a year, to replenish my energy, which was drained by being in the city.
My return this time was also significant for other reasons, which made me a little uncomfortable. For six years I’d come and gone from the Betang, but this homecoming was unlike any other. I was to record the activities of the people who lived in the Betang for my final project—and a part of me wasn’t happy with this.
Since deciding to focus on the goings-on at the Betang as the subject of my research project, I was constantly reminded of my grandmother’s final wish: “The Betang cannot be sold; the Betang must be kept whole.” I thought of her confusing instructions, which I had only completely understood when my mother had helped to explain them. I didn’t have many memories of Grandmother because she died when I was only four years old. However, everyone who lived in the Betang, especially Mother and my older brother, remembered her as having deeply loved the Betang. Grandmother and Grandfather had often quarreled because he invited too many visitors to the Betang. Grandmother didn’t like foreigners—to her, all outsiders who came to the Betang would have a negative impact on everyone living in it. Grandmother was worried that too many outside influences would make people leave the Betang and, eventually, it would be emptied. Because of this, she always insisted, “The Betang cannot be sold; the Betang must be kept whole.”
Before I left the Betang for the city, I asked Mother about what Grandmother meant by “selling the Betang.” According to her, Grandmother meant all the activities that brought the Betang dwellers together with outsiders, including activities meant to introduce the Betang to outsiders for the purpose of preserving it. Many people came to visit Betangs because they wanted to see tattoo artists who still used traditional tools, or woven ikat cloth that was imbued with stories and profound meaning. These things were sacred to us, but unique and exotic to outsiders. Grandmother hated that. She even accused Grandfather of selling the Betang to the Netherlands just because he had once welcomed some Dutch people who had visited the Betang for their research. For Grandmother, the Betang and the customs that had taken shape inside of it were natural and all that we needed. Our way of life, one of many ways of living in this world, did not need to be blown out of proportion or privileged.
If Grandmother still lived, would she say that I’d sold the Betang too?
The Betang in which we lived was one of only a few that remained. It was located rather far from the city, about six hours away, given the poor condition of the roads. There were thirty-five rooms, occupied by thirty-three family heads. Each family head then put up a few dividers in their room. Besides the occupied thirty-three rooms, the two rooms at the far end were guest rooms—places to accommodate the city people who came and went from the Betang.
The everyday activities that happened at the Betang were, in general, very different from those of the people in cities. In the Betang, almost everything was carried out together. In the morning, we would go to the gardens or the fields to work. Late in the afternoon, the Betang’s terrace would be teeming with activities undertaken as one, such as weaving, making cloth, fashioning handicrafts from forest products, or simply trading stories and sharing food. It was the same when night came: we would gather and help each other, sometimes also undertaking traditional activities, like learning to play musical instruments or listening to elders tell stories about nature and our ancestors—stories that were full of communal values such as mutual assistance and cooperation, caring for one another, as well as living life side by side. These values were what we continued to preserve and were hard for me to find when I lived outside the Betang.
I’d lived in the Betang since I was young, and was used to all these activities. I wasn’t bothered by the noise that came from the room next to ours, or the sounds of babies crying, by women weaving fabric during afternoon rest time, or men who’d gotten too drunk shouting in the middle of the night. I enjoyed all of this wholeheartedly. I was happy to live in the Betang with all its faults and idiosyncrasies.
To me, the Betang was a wonder, and living in the Betang was a gift. However, not everyone felt the way I did. Not everyone was happy and proud to live in the Betang.
“Omai—”
“What are you burning now?”
“How many trees have you burned already?”
A familiar racket disturbed me as I awoke, having overslept. It was a commotion that I hated, but also missed—Mother’s voice chastising Uncle. Everyday, her words were high pitched, and her curses inundated Uncle’s hearing. All of it made him believe he might as well not have been born.
“This early and you’re shouting already, Mom?” I said to her as she raged at Uncle.
“Your uncle is burning kratom trees—he doesn’t know their worth.”
I looked wearily at Uncle who sat limply on the ground. His shrunken body was drenched with sweat. The smoldering embers from the burning trees had warmed him earlier that cold morning.
Looking at him then, I remembered the days I spent with him when I was little. My uncle was my friend and hero when Kak Ranggai and I were children. He was always there when Kak Ranggai or I wanted something, like a toy, forest fruits too high in a tree, or just a companion while catching crickets at night. Uncle also became our place of escape when Mother scolded us for playing too long in the forest. Uncle was our hero, regardless of how he was seen by the people around him.
The Betang dwellers had long thought Uncle was crazy. Years ago, he had fallen from a durian tree. No one knew for sure what had happened to him after he’d fallen, because Uncle was never taken to the hospital or given medical treatment. I’d only heard a story that he didn’t remember anything after his fall. Ever since, Uncle often looked dazed and acted strangely, and the people in the Betang proclaimed him mentally ill.
But to me, Uncle wasn’t crazy or sick, even if the fall had affected him mentally. In my eyes, Uncle was just a victim of the vicious circle that shackled our family.
Since I was small, I often witnessed Grandmother scolding Uncle, either because his work wasn’t done properly or because of his strange ways. Uncle liked to cut down any old tree or set fire to whatever was in front of him. He liked to ask about trivial things, and even enjoyed sitting and chatting with the Grandfather’s visitors who came to the Betang—something that irritated Grandmother because it looked like Uncle was siding with Grandfather. When this happened, Grandmother would interfere; she would shout for Uncle and berate him. A variety of abuse was all too often hurled in his direction. This happened again and again, but it didn’t bother or dissuade Uncle. Perhaps it had become necessary to him—the only way to be noticed by the people around him.
After Grandmother passed away, this task was passed on to Mother—Uncle’s only sibling, the only place Uncle could depend upon.
Mother often said her life was cursed, though she never openly complained. She felt Uncle had blocked her way. He’d impeded her from realizing her dream: living outside of the Betang.
Mother once told me how, before marrying, she and Father had made plans to live outside the Betang. She would accompany Father to the city and begin a life there. He would open a business in the city and she would continue her education. Before, it would have been possible. Uncle was capable of succeeding Grandfather as elder and of overseeing the Betang. But, after Father and Mother married, Uncle fell from the durian tree and the Betang dwellers dismissed him as mentally unfit. Mother was no longer allowed to live outside the Betang. Most importantly, Grandmother withdrew her blessing, and Father blamed Mother.
Mother’s story made me realize that she didn’t really hate Uncle. She hated the Betang.
“You can’t abandon the Betang; someone has to live in it”: those had been my grandfather’s instructions, which Mother often repeated to me. His words had ensnared her, and now she passed them down to us—me and Kak Ranggai.
Seeing Mother rebuking Uncle every day, I knew straight away why I hated my life. I hated Mother, who acted as if she hated Uncle.
That hate in my heart didn’t just thrive, it spread. It wasn’t enough just to hate Mother, I also hated Father. Father, who always smiled and said everything was fine. Of myself, Mother, and Kak Ranggai, Father was the most patient when dealing with Uncle’s ways. Father was never angry and always seemed to love Uncle. But I knew everything Father showed to us was false. Father lied, especially in front of the visitors who often came to the Betang. Father seemed very wise on the outside, but inside, he was wild and terrifying, like a cold-blooded killer.
Ever since I was little, once all the people in the Betang were fast asleep, I would often hear Mother crying. Mother and Father argued in the middle of the night. Father always dwelt on our obligation to live in the Betang and continually repeated the dream he’d once had. “If only we didn’t live in the Betang. Every opportunity would be open to us.”
Father made Mother believe her life was genuinely cursed. He, like Mother, hated the Betang. However, Father hid his hate in a sweet and well-guarded manner. Father had been the village head and was now entrusted with the position of Tuai Rumah**. He convinced everyone that his devotion to the Betang was sincere. But he didn’t succeed in fooling his youngest daughter. I knew my two parents well—as well as I knew this Betang.
I hated Father, who pretended to love the Betang.
Once, I’d even thought that Kak Ranggai was the only person in my family who didn’t lie. But I was wrong. My older brother never loved the Betang, though he had often claimed as much when we were little.
I still remembered the first time my brother returned to the Betang after attending university in the city for a year. He’d told off the children playing on the Betang’s terrace in the afternoon, and he’d rebuked the men who gathered late at night. He’d often talked about the importance of privacy, a concept that I’d never understood before. Since then, my brother no longer felt comfortable staying in the Betang. He often complained, cursing his life, saying he was going to live somewhere else.
The strange thing was, my brother had actually sold the Betang to win at the ballot box. He was running for legislative office. The streets were lined with photos of him and the Betang, and the Betang was crowded with outside visitors. He was campaigning on the importance of maintaining local culture and preserving the communal values that continued to shape the lives of the people in the Betang. He made the Betang dwellers believe that they were special and worthy of notice.
I didn’t know what my brother really wanted, what his hopes and plans were, but I became sure of one thing: my brother had never loved the Betang as I had imagined. He only wanted to sell the Betang and act on his hatred for our way of life.
I hated my brother, who was selling the Betang. I hated myself, who was no different from my brother.
One night, close to the election, I said, “You’re selling the Betang.”
My brother was quiet, seemingly unsurprised by what I had just said.
“You’re selling the Betang too, just like me.”
Now it was my turn to fall silent. Thinking of the reason for my return this time, I acknowledged the truth of my brother’s words. I was participating in selling the Betang. He was selling it for the election, while I was selling it to make a documentary film for my final project. We were selling the Betang; we were proud of doing it.
Seeing me silent, he began speaking again.
“Grandfather sold the Betang first, before all of us. He sold the Betang to the Netherlands. These are the chains on our life that we can’t break. We’ve been cursed, Sindai, by the Betang and by our own ancestors.” A cynical smile punctuated his words.
I hated him, but I hated myself even more, because I was unable to deny his statement.
Even so, deep in my heart, I knew we weren’t cursed, that the Betang and our ancestors had never burdened us.
One night, Uncle came over to me while I was reading a book in our room. He was hysterical and afraid. His lips trembled as he called my name.
“Sin... dai... Sin... dai!”
“What’s going on, Uncle?”
“Your father wants to sell the Betang!”
He began to cry. I had never seen my uncle cry before. I tried to soothe him.
“Maybe you just heard wrong, my father would never sell the Betang. He loves the Betang, like you do,” I said, though I didn’t really believe my own words.
“A palm oil plantation—the Betang is going to become oil palms,” Uncle said, his whole body shaking.
His words became even harder to understand, and I hugged him. He seemed terrified; he had never been like this before.
He grew even stranger after that. Every time he saw Father, he seemed frightened and would immediately scream, “Martin wants to sell the Betang! The Betang will become oil palms!” He chanted it every day, until the Betang dwellers became irritated.
Seeing Uncle’s condition growing worse, I raised the matter with Father, Mother, and Kak Ranggai.
“What did Uncle hear from the guest room the other day?” I asked.
My brother and father looked at each other. The two of them seemed to be hiding something.
“It’s nothing—you know yourself that your uncle is sick.”
“If you’re thinking of selling the Betang, you’re sicker than Uncle!”
My brother repeated his usual argument: “Grandfather sold the Betang first, before all of us.”
“You always blame Grandfather for your inability to accept how your life has turned out.”
“Well, who else should I blame? Myself? Me, who was born and ensnared here?” lamented Kak Ranggai.
“Why do we have to live in the Betang if we don’t actually like it? It’s not like the Betang and our ancestors ever forced us to live a life we didn’t want, did they?” While blurting out the question, I glanced at Mother, who had been quiet all this time.
She didn’t answer my question immediately. Before speaking, she took a deep breath.
“The Betang is a symbol. If the Betang collapses and vanishes, then the values we’ve preserved will be lost as well,” she said. “Remember, Grandfather was an elder—we, as his descendants, have a responsibility to safeguard the Betang. We are bound, Sindai, this Betang has bound us.” Mother’s conclusion was hesitant.
“Now,” Kak Ranggai said firmly, “you understand why I’ve always blamed Grandfather.”
After the family discussion, which was more like a fight, I had trouble sleeping. My head was full of many questions and perhaps also a realization. How complicated our small family was. How foreign our conflict and the Betang were compared to all the problems of people out there. Was there still anyone who truly kept our communal values, which our ancestors had passed down through this Betang? Was the Betang just a symbol, without any meaning to accompany it? Oh, I hated all of this.
As the night went on, the quiet tortured me all the more. On the border between sleep and the words still burning in my brain, a thought came to my mind: “What if the Betang had never been? Everything would be simpler.”
That truth, sent by my subconscious, pulled me back to alertness. I got up—not just because of the terrible realization, but also because of the commotion outside, the sound of Uncle howling, shouting hysterically.
Uncle’s cries were followed immediately by an outcry from the people in the Betang who had been woken up. The Betang was on fire! The fire had begun at the far end, on the east side, in the unoccupied, empty guest room. It seemed Uncle was the first person who had realized that the fire had already devoured the empty room.
Everyone left their rooms, trying to save what they could. Children wept with fear. People were frantically looking for a way to put out the fire that had already consumed a fourth of the Betang. But everything we tried felt useless. The fire quickly swallowed up the old wood, out of which the whole Betang was constructed.
In the middle of the confusion, Uncle ran about in the yard; it wasn’t clear if he was crying or laughing. His wailing sounded almost like a celebration of failure and loss. I sat down, weakly witnessing everything before me as if it were a play—wild, sorrowful, tormenting. I wasn’t strong enough to look for my mother, my brother, or to share my emotions with the people near me. My brain and my feelings were paralyzed. Slowly, everything in front of me fell silent. I couldn’t hear anything anymore. I saw only the people who began to catch hold of Uncle’s arms and legs, taking him somewhere I didn’t know. After that, there was only blackness. I didn’t remember anything else.
“Omai, did you set fire to the Betang?”
That was the first thing I heard after I regained my senses. My head still felt heavy and I didn’t know where I was. Maybe we’d already been evacuated to another Betang nearby—yes, it seemed like that was the case. It took great effort for me to force my body up from the bed.
“Thank goodness, you’re finally awake,” Mother said, closing the bottle of cajeput oil she had apparently been smearing on various parts of my body. I didn’t really even register her presence. I was focused primarily on Uncle and the group of people who weren’t far from where I lay.
“What’s happened to Uncle?”
“Omai burned down the Betang,” Mother answered, crying.
“No, he’d never set fire to the Betang!”
“He doesn’t want to say anything. There’s no one else crazy enough to have done it but him.”
“You don’t know him at all!”
“Who’s capable of understanding the mind of a mad man?” She spoke lightly, as if it wasn’t something hurtful to say.
My patience dried up upon hearing her words. I stood and forced myself to join the crowd. I saw Uncle in the middle of the other Betang residents, who were sitting in a circle around him. His hands and feet were tied—he could only sit in a crouch, his face downcast. My heart shriveled at seeing Uncle treated like this.
“Omai, I’ll ask you one last time. If you don’t answer, we will send you to the asylum,” threatened Father. But Uncle didn’t move at all.
“Omai, did you burn down the Betang?” Father half-shouted, startling Uncle. Uncle’s eyes suddenly focused on me—I was almost in tears, witnessing all of this.
“Sindai… Sindai… The Betang was eaten by fire; we don’t have a home anymore.”
As if awakened from sleep, my uncle began to resist. He stared at me intently, seemingly waiting for help. While struggling with the ropes encircling his hands and feet, he uttered the same words: “The Betang was eaten by fire; we don’t have a home anymore.”
He howled as well, crying out my name. He cried and raged. The Betang dwellers, who had been sitting respectfully, waiting for Uncle’s punishment, now began to shift about and panic. There were those who moved away from the crowd, as well as those who were ready to restrain Uncle.
Seeing them, I moved quickly. I gathered my uncle, who was becoming wild, in my arms. He didn’t resist at all. Seeing Uncle chastened in my embrace, the people nearby were astonished. I, myself, was moved at realizing how strong my bond with Uncle was. The old man who the Betang dwellers thought had no purpose was indeed the one and only hero of my childhood, the only person who was always there whenever I needed help.
I couldn’t contain my emotion. My tears fell along with Uncle’s, whose wailing hadn’t ceased. We cried together, feelings raging. For a moment, with me at his side, he was peaceful. But it didn’t last long. Suddenly, he pulled at me. He stood and ran outside. While running about aimlessly, he kept shouting only that one thing.
“The Betang was eaten by fire; we don’t have a home anymore!”
“The Betang was eaten by fire; we don’t have a home anymore!”
Seeing Uncle’s actions becoming stranger and stranger, people began to feel scared. Meanwhile, beside me, Father was speaking with the other elders. They planned to take Uncle to the mental hospital. Of course I protested, because to me he wasn’t sick; maybe he just needed time to accept the fact that the Betang had burned down.
“We can’t keep this crazy man any longer, Sindai. You saw it yourself. Your uncle set fire to the Betang. He was the first to know that the Betang was burning—if it wasn’t him, who else could it have been?”
Father’s words were echoed vociferously by the Betang dwellers, who were weary and searching for a scapegoat to blame for the tragic event that had befallen all of us. “It’s true—Omai has to be shut away. We don’t want anything else bad to happen.”
Still crying, I countered Father’s statement, which had revealed his true self. “Uncle is sick, but he’s isn’t crazy enough to set fire to the Betang. He’s probably the only person who loves the Betang with their whole heart.”
I ran out of words and didn’t have any energy left. In the morning, an ambulance picked up Uncle, to take him to the mental hospital in the city. I had run out of tears; my voice meant nothing amid all the frightened people condemning Uncle. He had stopped raging; his body shriveled, wrapped in the too-large hospital clothes. His face was pale and he didn’t show interest in anything anymore, including me. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me anymore. I kissed the back of his hand, which was weak and helpless, hoping he would become aware of my presence and say something. But what happened was quite the opposite: he was completely quiet and didn’t move. Perhaps only his body remained; perhaps his soul had already merged with the ruins of the Betang, which we had loved and now was only a story.
“Sindai... Ranggai... Ranggai... Sindai... Ranggai…,” When I made to leave, Uncle suddenly called my name and my brother’s.
“Ranggai will visit you in the city. I will too. Don’t be scared,” I said.
“Ranggai is…wicked, Sindai.”
Uncle’s words ran dry there. Without explanation, without any questions.
Two months since Uncle’s exile, many things have changed. Everyone has agreed to blame Uncle for the Betang fire, but in everybody’s mind, the question of who really set fire to the Betang still remains.
“How does it feel to leave the Betang?” I ask Mother. “Are you happy?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just stares blankly at the glass of hot tea, held between her two hands.
“Do you feel more alive? Like Father who’s now openly in support of the palm oil company? Do you feel free now that Uncle isn’t a burden on your life? The life outside the Betang that you and Father dreamed of, is it yours now? Why do you keep silent? Why can you only blame others? Why don’t you do anything?”
My words slide out easily. One month after it had happened, everything in our lives had changed: our living space, our habits, our way of life. While waiting for an agreement as to whether we would rebuild the Betang or live separately, the people of the Betang are living in emergency shelters, and we now stay in the house of a friend of Father’s. If it was easy for us to communicate with each other before—because we lived under one roof—now the Betang’s people are scattered, because the capacity of the emergency shelters is certainly not enough to hold all the families together in one home. The changes have been deeply felt, especially by those who’ve never experienced living outside the Betang before. These days weigh heavily not only on me, but on all the people of the Betang.
Meanwhile, Father is completely unwilling to fight to rebuild the Betang. He even openly supports the expansion of the palm oil plantation onto the Betang’s land. And Kak Ranggai, one month after the Betang burned down, was officially sworn in as a member of the legislature. Since he took his seat in parliament, my brother has become harder to communicate with. I don’t know if he’s actually busy or if he’s avoiding something—I can’t tell for sure. He doesn’t even bother with the Betang dwellers who’ve asked him to fight to rebuild the burned Betang. Kak Ranggai is denying his origins; he seems as if he’s forgotten that the Betang was his path to the seat he now occupies. His sweet promises to bring tranquility and prosperity to the Betang dwellers and to preserve local culture—how did he forget them all?
In my ever-growing despair, I take out my frustration on Mother, who stays silent, mute, as if silence is enough to make everything all right.
There’s a knock on the front door of the house, and with a heavy heart I rise from my seat to open it. It isn’t good to welcome guests in such a disagreeable state.
From behind the door, I almost don’t recognize the person in front of me. If the face didn’t resemble mine so much, I might already have asked who he was and why he’d come to our house.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “Did you remember you still have a family?” I ignore his condition—he doesn’t seem well. He’s thin, like he hasn’t been taking care of himself.
Even though this is the first time he’s visited this house, Kak Ranggai walks without confusion to the inner room, where Mother and I were just talking. He sits in front of Mother, without any greetings or apologetic small talk; he doesn’t care at all about the disaster that had befallen us.
“Why are you two so quiet? Why don’t you answer my questions?” I’m frustrated seeing my brother and mother like this.
“Kak Ranggai, is sitting in that parliament seat so nice that you don’t care about us anymore?”
More silence. No one answers my questions. Why is everyone suddenly so fond of keeping quiet?
Finally, a weary expression on his face, he speaks up. “Isn’t this all for the better?”
“What’s better, exactly? Dozens of families losing their home and having to worry about what they’re going to do? While you and father, the people who they depend on the most, go away, leaving behind the people who believe completely in you? Is that what you mean by better?”
“The Betang has always been a source of unhappiness for our family,” Kak Ranggai retorts. “Mother and Father always fighting, Uncle who was always unwanted, lies that were normalized. Now that the Betang has burned down, everything should be better.”
“You’ll be cursed by your ancestors if you did it on purpose,” Mother finally says, eyes glistening.
He repeats his usual assertion: “We’ve been cursed from the beginning—you just didn’t want to admit it.”
“No. We’ve never been cursed.” I’m finally able to counter my brother’s words. “The Betang and our ancestors have never burdened us. We choose how we live our lives!”
“I can’t stop thinking about what sort of demon has nestled inside your body that you’ve become so selfish,” says Mother between sobs.
Now it’s his turn to explode. “You think this is easy for me? I’m suffering, but you just don’t want to know! Sindai, before you began hating life and your own family, I’d already spent five years experiencing the same thing.” He stabs a finger at me. “The things you understood later, I understood before you. What child can grow up well, knowing his parents are always fighting?”
“Father and Mother have never been at peace with their lives,” he continues. “Every night, Mother was tortured because she bore the burden of living in the Betang. And every night, Father made Mother believe that because of her, our family got stuck in the Betang.”
Hearing him talk like this, Mother begins to cry in earnest.
“You think all this is easy?” Kak Ranggai screams, crying as well. “Being in a family that can’t be grateful for what they have and always wanting what’s out there? You think this is easy? It’s not. I’m facing it alone! Even though I got out of the Betang, all that pain still haunts me!”
I’ve never seen him so worked up. It’s as if all the burdens that have piled up over the years have finally found a way out. I hold him as he becomes more hysterical. I want to curse him and blame him, but I know he’s just a victim. It turns out my brother was more sensitive than I’d realized. The discord in Father and Mother’s relationship affected their son, forcing him to hold everything inside until he grew up, until now.
Aware of how removed our family’s conflict is from the concerns of outsiders, I cry as well. Why did our life have to become so complicated?
In my embrace, my brother still can’t calm himself. He weeps with all his strength. Even when he was little, he very rarely cried; the Betang women always praised him because he was tough and wasn’t a crybaby. He was different from me—I felt like my strength redoubled after a good cry. Today, seeing my brother crying, I know he wasn’t able to withstand all the pressures that had settled on his body over so many years. I hug him even tighter, and our mother follows suit. Only now do I feel a strong emotional connection to them. Perhaps we’re all just tired because this whole time we’ve held a sadness inside ourselves that we’ve battled alone. Maybe if we had fought it together, everything would have been better. I can’t say.
It's been almost two weeks and my brother hasn’t left the room—he just remains inside. A few times Mother and I have tried to coax him out, but he won’t budge. He’s even ignored close friends and people from his office.
His state grows worse when rumors break out in the news about who burned down the Betang and about his mental state. Father no longer works too closely with the palm oil company. Anything suspicious sets the media on Mother and me. There is also a lot of pressure from environmental and cultural activists continuing to demand that the case of the Betang fire be thoroughly investigated. Besides taking care of my brother, I have to attend to the media and undergo questioning as a witness.
Everything falls into greater disarray and becomes more exhausting. Sometimes, in my unending confusion and disappointment, I wish I were mad like my uncle and my brother. Perhaps warring with the contents of my own head is better than having to put this formless chaos to rest.
I wish my feelings were like what my brother said, that I could feel we were cursed by the Betang and our own ancestors, but in my heart of hearts, it’s the opposite. I really do hate my own life, but I’ve never hated the Betang. I love the Betang with my whole heart, with all its faults and idiosyncrasies.
We aren’t cursed—the Betang and our ancestors have never burdened us.
Author’s notes:
*Betang (longhouse) : Traditional Dayak home found in Kalimantan, especially near headwaters. Often the center of a Dayak settlement.
**Tuai Rumah : The leader, manager, or head of a Betang.
© Restiana Purwaningrum
English translation © Zoë McLaughlin
BETANG
Restiana Purwaningrum
Ilustrasi oleh Jayu Juli.
“Sindai! Sindai datang!”
Suara renyah itu terdengar bahkan sebelum aku selesai menurunkan semua barangku dari taksi. Paman setengah berlari menghampiriku. Tubuhnya yang kurus, matanya yang kecil, bibirnya yang seolah selalu tersenyum, segala yang tampak dari Paman tak sedikit pun berubah. Termasuk sudut matanya yang selalu berkerut dan bibirnya yang akan terbuka lebih lebar saat menyambut kedatanganku. Paman selalu girang ketika aku kembali ke Betang*.
“Akhirnya kau datang juga,” katanya, menampakkan barisan gigi depannya yang hitam.
“Aku akan selalu pulang ke Betang, Paman,” kataku sambil mencium punggung tangannya. “Paman sehat?”
“Sehat, Paman sehat,” jawabnya tangkas.
Aku tersenyum simpul. Diam-diam aku merindukan Paman. Paman yang dianggap sakit oleh orang-orang di Betang. Pamanku yang dipandang sebelah mata dan seringkali diabaikan.
“Paman, Sindai bawakan buku untuk Paman. Paman harus membacanya.”
Mata Paman menyala melihat buku yang kubawa. Barangkali itulah alasan ia selalu menanti kepulanganku. Buku-buku yang kubawa, hanya itu satu-satunya cara Paman keluar dari dunianya dan Betang.
Aku selalu senang kembali ke Betang. Ah, tentu saja demikian, siapa juga yang tidak senang kembali ke rumah? Namun, bagiku Betang lebih daripada sekadar rumah, Betang adalah identitas. Kembali ke Betang tak hanya berarti pulang, tetapi juga bagian dari perjalanan spiritual—semacam waktu jeda yang hanya dapat kunikmati setahun sekali untuk mengisi ulang seluruh energiku yang banyak terkuras selama beraktivitas di kota.
Pun kepulanganku kali ini punya kepentingan lain lagi, dan jujur saja hal itu sedikit membuat perasaanku tidak enakan. Selama enam tahun aku pergi dan kembali lagi ke Betang, kepulangan kali ini adalah yang paling berbeda. Aku harus merekam aktivitas orang-orang yang tinggal di Betang untuk kepentingan tugas akhirku—dan sebagian dari diriku tidak menyukai hal itu.
Sejak memutuskan untuk merekam aktivitas masyarakat di Betang sebagai objek penelitianku, aku seringkali teringat pesan mendiang Nenek, “Betang tidak boleh dijual, Betang harus tetap utuh.” Pesan yang samar-samar kuingat dan baru sepenuhnya kumengerti setelah Ibu bantu menjelaskannya. Aku tidak banyak mengingat kenangan bersama Nenek, karena Nenek meninggal saat usiaku masih empat tahun. Namun, semua orang yang tinggal di Betang, terutama Ibu dan Kakak mengenang Nenek sebagai orang yang sangat mencintai Betang. Nenek dan Kakek seringkali bertengkar hanya karena Kakek menerima terlalu banyak tamu berkunjung ke Betang. Nenek tidak suka orang asing—bagi Nenek, semua orang luar yang datang ke Betang akan membawa dampak buruk bagi kehidupan masyarakat yang tinggal di Betang. Nenek khawatir, pengaruh luar yang terlalu banyak akan membuat orang-orang meninggalkan Betang dan suatu saat Betang akan punah. Oleh sebab itu, Nenek sering berpesan, “Betang tidak boleh dijual, Betang harus tetap utuh.”
Sebelum aku meninggalkan Betang dan pergi ke kota, aku pernah bertanya pada Ibu perihal apa yang Nenek maksud dengan “menjual Betang”. Kata Ibu, yang dimaksud Nenek adalah segala aktivitas yang melibatkan warga Betang dengan orang luar, termasuk aktivitas yang dianggap mengenalkan Betang untuk tujuan melestarikannya. Banyak orang datang mengunjungi Betang karena ingin melihat pembuatan tato yang masih menggunakan alat tradisional atau kain ikat tenun yang punya cerita dan makna mendalam. Hal-hal yang sebetulnya sakral bagi kami tetapi dianggap unik dan eksotis bagi orang-orang di luar sana. Nenek sangat membenci hal itu. Nenek bahkan menuduh Kakek sudah menjual Betang kepada Belanda hanya karena Kakek pernah menerima orang Belanda yang mengunjungi Betang untuk keperluan penelitian. Bagi Nenek, Betang dan kebiasaan yang sudah terbentuk di dalamnya adalah sesuatu yang alami dan cukup. Cara hidup kami, hanya salah satu dari sekian banyak cara hidup manusia di dunia ini yang tidak perlu dibesar-besarkan atau diistimewakan.
Kalau Nenek masih hidup, akankah Nenek juga berkata bahwa aku menjual Betang?
Betang yang kami tempati adalah satu dari sedikit yang masih tersisa. Lokasinya cukup jauh dari kota, sekitar enam jam perjalanan dengan kondisi jalan yang rusak. Ada tiga puluh lima bilik, diisi oleh tiga puluh tiga kepala keluarga. Masing-masing kepala keluarga menempati satu bilik dengan beberapa sekat ruangan di dalamnya. Selain tiga puluh tiga bilik yang terisi, dua bilik paling ujung dijadikan bilik tamu—tempat menampung orang-orang kota yang silih berganti datang ke Betang.
Segala aktivitas harian yang terjadi di Betang jauh berbeda dari masyarakat di perkotaan pada umumnya. Di Betang, hampir semua aktivitas dilakukan bersama. Pagi hari kami akan pergi ke kebun atau ke ladang untuk bekerja. Menjelang sore hari, teras Betang akan ramai oleh aktivitas yang dilakukan bersama, seperti menganyam, menenun kain, membuat kerajinan dari hasil hutan, atau sekadar bertukar cerita dan berbagi makanan. Begitu juga saat malam datang, kami akan berkumpul dan saling menguatkan, kadang juga melakukan aktivitas yang merupakan tradisi, seperti belajar memainkan alat musik atau mendengarkan para tetua bercerita tentang alam dan leluhur kami. Cerita-cerita yang sarat dengan nilai-nilai komunal seperti tolong-menolong, gotong-royong, saling peduli, serta hidup bersama dan berdampingan satu sama lain. Nilai-nilai tersebutlah yang terus kami jaga dan sulit kudapatkan saat hidup di luar Betang.
Sejak kecil aku tinggal di Betang dan terbiasa dengan segala aktivitas tersebut. Aku tidak risih dengan keributan yang ditimbulkan oleh bilik di sebelah kami, suara bayi menangis bersahutan, perempuan-perempuan yang menenun kain saat jam tidur siang, atau teriakan para lelaki yang kadang kelewat mabuk pada tengah malam. Semuanya kunikmati sepenuh hati. Aku bahagia tinggal di Betang dengan semua kekurangan dan keunikannya.
Bagiku Betang adalah sebuah keajaiban, dan tinggal di Betang adalah anugerah. Namun, tidak semua orang merasakan hal yang sama sepertiku. Tidak semua orang senang dan bangga tinggal di Betang.
“Omai...”
“Apa lagi yang kau bakar?”
“Berapa banyak pohon yang sudah kau bakar?”
Keributan itu kembali mengusikku saat bangun tidur, terlalu siang. Keributan yang kubenci, tapi juga kurindukan—suara Ibu memarahi Paman. Setiap hari ucapan bernada tinggi dan umpatan selalu membanjiri pendengaran Paman. Segala hal yang membuatnya percaya kalau ia terlahir sia-sia.
“Pagi-pagi dah ribut, Bu,” kataku kepada Ibu yang sudah beringas mengomeli Paman.
“Pamanmu itu bakar pohon kratom, tidak tahu dia berapa harganya.”
Aku memandang lelah Paman yang sudah terduduk lemas di tanah. Tubuhnya yang semakin susut itu penuh keringat. Bara api bekas membakar pohon telah membuatnya hangat pada pagi hari yang dingin.
Melihatnya pagi ini, aku teringat hari-hariku bersama Paman ketika aku kecil dulu. Paman adalah teman dan pahlawan masa kecilku dan Kak Ranggai. Paman hadir ketika aku dan Kak Ranggai menginginkan sesuatu, seperti mainan, buah-buah hutan yang pohonnya terlalu tinggi, atau sekadar teman menangkap jangkrik pada malam hari. Paman juga menjadi tempat pelarian kami ketika Ibu mengomeli kami karena terlalu lama bermain di hutan. Paman adalah pahlawan kami, terlepas dari bagaimana ia dianggap oleh orang di sekitarnya.
Paman sudah lama dianggap gila oleh orang-orang Betang. Belasan tahun lalu Paman pernah jatuh dari pohon durian. Tidak ada yang tahu pasti apa yang terjadi pada Paman setelah jatuh, karena Paman tidak pernah dibawa ke rumah sakit atau mendapatkan tindakan medis. Aku hanya mendengar cerita bahwa Paman sempat tidak mengingat apa pun setelah jatuh. Sejak itulah Paman sering terlihat linglung, bertingkah di luar kebiasaannya dan kemudian dianggap tidak waras oleh masyarakat Betang.
Namun, bagiku Paman tidak gila, Paman bukan orang yang sakit. Kalaupun Paman pernah mengalami gangguan mental, aku tak peduli. Di mataku Paman hanya korban dari lingkaran setan yang membelenggu keluarga kami.
Sejak kecil aku selalu menyaksikan Paman dimarahi Nenek. Entah karena kerjaannya tidak benar atau karena tingkah Paman yang aneh. Paman suka menebang sembarang pohon atau membakar apa saja yang ada di hadapannya. Paman suka menanyakan hal-hal yang remeh-temeh, pun senang duduk dan berbincang bersama tamu Kakek yang datang ke Betang—hal yang membuat Nenek kesal karena Paman tampak berpihak kepada Kakek. Kalau sudah begitu, Nenek akan turun tangan, Nenek akan berteriak memanggil Paman dan mengomelinya. Beragam umpatan kelewat sering dilontarkan. Hal-hal itu terus berulang, tetapi tidak membuat Paman jera atau terganggu. Barangkali hal itu sudah menjadi kebutuhannya. Satu-satunya cara agar ia dianggap ada oleh orang-orang di sekitarnya.
Setelah Nenek wafat, tugas itu diwarisi oleh Ibu—satu-satunya saudara Paman, satu-satunya tempat Paman bergantung.
Ibu sering berkata hidupnya sial, meski tak terang-terangan mengutuki hidupnya. Ibu menganggap Paman menghalangi langkahnya. Paman membuatnya tidak leluasa bergerak untuk mewujudkan mimpinya: hidup di luar Betang.
Ibu pernah bercerita bahwa sebelum menikah, Bapak dan Ibu sudah menyusun rencana untuk tinggal di luar Betang. Ibu akan ikut Bapak ke kota dan memulai hidup di sana. Bapak akan membuka usaha di kota dan Ibu akan melanjutkan sekolahnya. Dulu hal itu memungkinkan karena Paman dianggap mampu meneruskan Kakek sebagai tetua adat dan menjaga Betang. Namun, setelah Bapak dan Ibu menikah, Paman terjatuh dari pohon durian dan dianggap tidak waras oleh orang-orang Betang. Ibu tidak lagi mendapat restu untuk tinggal di luar Betang—terutama dari Nenek—dan Bapak menyalahkan Ibu.
Cerita Ibu membuatku sadar, Ibu tidak benar-benar membenci Paman. Ibu membenci Betang.
“Betang tidak boleh ditinggalkan, harus ada yang menempati,” begitu pesan Kakek yang sering Ibu sampaikan kepadaku. Ibu terjerat oleh belenggu itu dan mewariskannya kepada kami—aku dan Kak Ranggai.
Melihat Ibu setiap hari memarahi Paman, aku lantas mengetahui alasanku membenci hidupku sendiri. Aku benci Ibu yang berpura-pura membenci Paman.
Kebencian itu tak hanya tumbuh subur di hatiku, tetapi juga berjangkit. Tak cukup hanya membenci Ibu, aku juga membenci Bapak. Bapak yang selalu tersenyum dan menganggap semuanya baik-baik saja. Di antara aku, Ibu, dan Kak Ranggai, Bapak adalah orang yang paling sabar menghadapi tingkah Paman. Bapak tidak pernah marah dan selalu terlihat menyayangi Paman. Namun, aku tahu semua yang Bapak tunjukkan kepada kami adalah palsu. Bapak senang berpura-pura, terutama di depan tamu-tamunya yang sering berkunjung ke Betang. Bapak terlihat sangat bijaksana di luar, tetapi liar dan mengerikan di dalam, seperti pembunuh berdarah dingin.
Sejak kecil, ketika semua orang di Betang tertidur lelap, aku sering mendengar Ibu menangis. Ibu dan Bapak sering bertengkar tengah malam. Bapak selalu mengungkit kewajiban kami untuk tinggal di Betang dan terus mengulang mimpinya, “Andai saja kita tidak tinggal di Betang, pasti segala kesempatan akan terbuka lebih lebar.”
Bapak membuat Ibu percaya kalau hidupnya memang sial. Bapak, tak ubahnya Ibu, sama-sama membenci Betang. Namun, Bapak menutup kebencian itu dengan cara yang sangat manis dan rapi. Bapak pernah menjadi kepala desa dan kini dipercaya sebagai Tuai Rumah**. Bapak membuat semua orang percaya kalau ia tulus berbakti untuk Betang. Namun, Bapak tidak berhasil mengelabui putri bungsunya. Aku mengenal dengan baik kedua orangtuaku sebagaimana aku mengenal Betang ini.
Aku membenci Bapak yang berpura-pura mencintai Betang.
Dulu aku sempat berpikir kalau Kak Ranggai adalah satu-satunya orang yang tidak berpura-pura di keluargaku. Tetapi aku salah. Kakak tidak pernah mencintai Betang, seperti yang sering ia katakan ketika kami kecil dulu.
Aku masih ingat saat pertama kali Kakak kembali lagi ke Betang setelah satu tahun kuliah di kota. Kakak sempat mengomeli anak-anak yang bermain di teras Betang saat siang hari, juga pernah memarahi bapak-bapak yang berkumpul kelewat malam. Kakak sering membicarakan soal pentingnya privasi, sebuah konsep yang dulunya belum kumengerti. Semenjak itu, Kakak tidak merasa nyaman tinggal di Betang. Kakak sering mengeluh, mengutuki hidupnya sendiri, dan berkata kalau ia akan tinggal terpisah dari Betang.
Anehnya, Kakak justru menjual Betang untuk memenangkan kotak suara. Kakak sedang mencalonkan diri menjadi anggota legislatif. Potret dirinya dan Betang berjejer di sepanjang jalan. Kakak membuat Betang ramai dikunjungi orang-orang asing. Kakak mengampanyekan soal pentingnya menjaga kearifan lokal dan melestarikan nilai-nilai komunal yang selama ini membentuk kehidupan masyarakat yang tinggal di Betang. Kakak membuat orang-orang Betang percaya bahwa mereka istimewa dan patut untuk diperhatikan.
Aku tidak tahu apa yang sebenarnya Kakak inginkan. Apa yang ia harapkan dan rencanakan. Satu hal yang hingga kini semakin kuyakini, Kakak tidak pernah mencintai Betang seperti yang kubayangkan. Kakak hanya ingin menjual Betang untuk melampiaskan kebenciannya pada hidup kami.
Aku membenci Kakak yang menjual Betang. Membenci diriku yang tak berbeda dari Kakak.
“Kakak menjual Betang,” kataku pada suatu malam menjelang hari pemilihan umum.
Kakak hanya terdiam, tidak tampak terkejut sama sekali dengan apa yang baru saja kukatakan.
“Sindai juga menjual Betang, sama seperti Kakak.”
Kini giliranku yang terdiam. Menyadari maksud kepulanganku kali ini, aku membenarkan perkataan Kakak. Aku turut serta menjual Betang. Kakak menjual Betang untuk memenangkan kotak suara, sementara aku menjual Betang untuk membuat film dokumenter sebagai tugas akhirku. Kami menjual Betang, kami bangga melakukannya.
Melihatku yang diam, Kakak kembali angkat suara.
“Kakek sudah lebih dulu menjual Betang, sebelum kita semua. Kakek menjual Betang kepada Belanda. Ini adalah rantai kehidupan yang tidak bisa kita putuskan. Kita sudah dikutuk, Sindai, oleh Betang dan leluhur kita sendiri.” Dengan senyum sinis Kakak menegaskan kata-katanya.
Aku membenci Kakak, tapi aku lebih membenci diriku sendiri yang tidak mampu menyangkal pernyataannya.
Walaupun, jauh di dalam lubuk hatiku aku percaya, kami tidak dikutuk, Betang dan Leluhur tidak pernah membebani kami.
Suatu malam, Paman menghampiriku yang sedang membaca buku di bilik. Paman terlihat histeris dan ketakutan. Bibirmya bergetar memanggil namaku.
“Sin... dai... Sin... dai!”
“Ada apa, Paman ?”
“Bapakmuuu mau jual Betang.”
Paman seketika menangis. Aku tidak pernah melihat Paman menangis sebelumnya. Aku berusaha menenangkan Paman.
“Mungkin Paman salah dengar, Bapak tidak mungkin jual Betang. Bapak mencintai Betang, sama seperti Paman,” ucapku, walau meragukan perkataanku sendiri.
“Kebun sawit, Betang akan jadi sawit,” Paman berkata dengan seluruh tubuhnya yang bergetar.
Kata-kata Paman semakin sulit dicerna, aku memeluknya. Paman tampak ketakutan, Paman tidak pernah begini sebelumnya.
Semenjak itu, Paman semakin bertingkah aneh. Setiap melihat Bapak, Paman terlihat takut dan langsung berteriak, “Martin mau jual Betang! Betang akan jadi sawit!” Paman merapalkan itu setiap hari, hingga membuat orang-orang Betang risih.
Melihat kondisi Paman yang semakin buruk, aku mengajak Bapak, Ibu, dan Kak Ranggai bicara.
“Apa yang Paman dengar dari bilik tamu tempo hari?” tanyaku.
Kakak dan Bapak saling berpandangan. Tampak bahwa keduanya menyembunyikan sesuatu.
“Bukan apa-apa, kau tahu sendiri kalau pamanmu itu sakit.”
“Kalau Bapak dan Kakak berpikir untuk menjual Betang, kalian lebih sakit daripada Paman.”
“Kakek sudah lebih dulu menjual Betang sebelum kita semua,” Kakak mengeluarkan kalimat andalannya.
“Kakak selalu menyalahkan Kakek atas ketidakmampuan Kakak menerima hidup sendiri.”
“Lalu, siapa lagi yang harus kusalahkan? Diriku sendiri? Yang terlahir dan terjebak di sini?” keluh Kak Ranggai.
“Kenapa kita harus tinggal di Betang jika kita tidak benar-benar menyukainya? Bukannya Betang dan Leluhur tidak pernah memaksa kita untuk menjalani kehidupan yang tidak kita inginkan?” Sembari memuntahkan pertanyaan itu, aku menatap Ibu yang sejak tadi diam.
Ibu tidak langsung menjawab pertanyaanku, ia menarik napas panjang sebelum angkat bicara.
“Betang itu simbol, jika Betang runtuh dan punah maka hilang pula nilai-nilai yang selama ini kita jaga,” kata Ibu. “Ingat, Kakek adalah tetua adat, kita sebagai keturunannya punya tanggung jawab untuk mempertahankan Betang. Kita terikat, Sindai, Betang ini mengikat kita.” Kata-kata Ibu terdengar seperti kesimpulan yang enggan diutarakan.
“Sekarang kau harusnya paham kenapa aku selalu menyalahkan Kakek,” tandas Kak Ranggai.
Setelah perbincangan keluarga yang lebih mirip pertengkaran itu, aku mengalami kesulitan untuk tidur. Kepalaku dipenuhi dengan banyak pertanyaan dan mungkin juga sebuah kesadaran. Betapa rumitnya keluarga kecil kami. Betapa terasingnya konflik kami dan Betang ini dari seluruh permasalahan orang-orang di luar sana. Apa masih ada yang benar-benar menjaga nilai komunal yang diwariskan oleh Leluhur di Betang ini? Apa Betang ini hanya tinggal simbol tanpa makna yang menyertainya? Ah, aku membenci semua ini.
Malam yang semakin larut dan sunyi kian menyiksaku. Pada batas antara lelap dan kata-kata yang masih menyala di kepala, sebuah kesimpulan menyembul di benakku, “Andai Betang tidak pernah ada, semua akan lebih sederhana.”
Kalimat paling jujur yang dikirim oleh alam bawah sadarku, menyentak kembali kesadaranku. Aku bangkit—tak hanya karena kesimpulan yang mengerikan itu, tetapi juga karena suara gaduh dari luar. Suara Paman meraung, berteriak histeris.
Teriakan Paman lantas diikuti jeritan orang-orang Betang yang terbangun. Betang terbakar! Sumber api berada pada bilik paling ujung, sebelah timur. Bilik tamu yang kosong dan tidak ditempati.. Paman tampaknya orang pertama yang menyadari kalau api sudah melahap bilik yang kosong itu.
Semua orang keluar dari biliknya dan berusaha menyelamatkan apa pun yang mereka bisa. Anak-anak menangis ketakutan. Orang-orang sibuk mencari akal untuk menghentikan api yang kini sudah melahap seperempat Betang. Namun, usaha apa pun yang kami lakukan rasanya sia-sia. Si jago merah terlalu cepat melahap kayu-kayu tua, bahan dari keseluruhan konstruksi Betang.
Di tengah kekalutan itu, Paman berlari-lari di halaman, tak jelas apakah ia menangis atau tertawa. Raungannya lebih terasa seperti sebuah kehampaan dan kehilangan yang dirayakan sekaligus. Aku terduduk lemah menyaksikan segala hal yang ada di depanku—seperti pertunjukan teater yang liar, pilu, dan menyiksa. Aku sudah tidak punya kekuatan untuk mencari Ibu, Kakak, atau berbagi perasaan yang sama dengan orang-orang di sekitarku. Otak dan perasaanku lumpuh. Perlahan segala hal yang ada di depanku menjadi hening. Aku tidak bisa mendengar apa-apa lagi. Yang kulihat hanya orang-orang yang mulai menangkap kaki dan tangan Paman, membawanya entah ke mana. Setelahnya hanya hitam. Aku tidak mengingat apa-apa lagi.
“Omai, kau membakar Betang?”
Kalimat pertama yang kudengar setelah sadar. Kepalaku masih berat, aku tidak tahu berada di mana. Mungkin kami sudah dievakuasi ke Betang lain yang terdekat—ya, sepertinya memang begitu. Susah payah kupaksakan tubuhku bangkit dari pembaringan.
“Syukurlah, akhirnya kau sadar,” kata Ibu sembari menutup botol minyak kayu putih yang rupanya sejak tadi sudah melumuri beberapa bagian tubuhku. Aku bahkan tidak menyadari keberadaan Ibu. Fokus utamaku adalah Paman dan sekumpulan orang yang berada tidak jauh dari tempatku berbaring.
“Ada apa dengan Paman?”
“Omai membakar Betang,” sahut Ibu sambil menangis.
“Tidak, Paman tidak mungkin membakar Betang.”
“Dia tidak mau bicara. Tidak ada yang begitu gila untuk melakukan itu selain dia.”
“Ibu benar-benar tidak mengenal Paman!”
“Siapa yang sanggup mencerna pikiran orang gila?” Ibu mengatakan itu dengan enteng, seolah itu bukan hal yang menyakitkan.
Kesabaranku habis mendengar perkataan Ibu. Aku bangkit dan memaksakan diri untuk bergabung ke dalam kerumunan. Kulihat Paman berada di tengah orang-orang Betang yang duduk melingkar. Kaki dan tangannya diikat, Paman hanya bisa duduk meringkuk dengan raut wajah yang menyedihkan. Hatiku kecut melihat Paman diperlakukan seperti itu.
“Omai, ini pertanyaanku yang terakhir. Kalau kau tidak menjawab, kami kirim kau ke rumah sakit jiwa,” kata Bapak mengancam. Namun, Paman masih tidak bergerak sedikit pun.
“Omai, kau membakar Betang?” Bapak setengah berteriak, membuat Paman terkejut. Namun, matanya sontak tertuju kepadaku yang hampir menangis menyaksikan semua ini.
“Sindai... Sindai... Betang dimakan api, kita tidak punya rumah lagi.”
Seperti terbangun dari tidurnya, Paman mulai menunjukkan perlawanan. Ia menatapku lekat seperti menanti sebuah pertolongan. Sambil meronta dari ikatan yang membelenggu tangan dan kakinya, ia merapalkan kata-kata yang sama. “Betang dimakan api, kita tidak punya rumah lagi.” Ia juga meraung memanggil namaku. Paman menangis dan mengamuk. Orang-orang Betang yang tadinya duduk takzim menantikan penghakiman Paman, kini tampak panik dan beranjak. Ada yang menjauh dari kerumunan, ada yang bersiap menghentikan Paman.
Melihat mereka, aku bergerak cepat. Kupeluk Paman yang mulai liar. Ia tidak melawan sedikit pun. Orang-orang di sekitarku takjub melihat Paman yang luluh begitu saja dalam pelukanku, aku justru terharu menyadari betapa kuatnya ikatanku dengan Paman. Lelaki tua yang dianggap tidak berguna oleh orang-orang di Betang ini justru adalah pahlawan nomor satuku di masa kecil. Satu-satunya orang yang selalu ada saat aku membutuhkan pertolongan.
Aku tak sanggup menahan emosiku. Tangisku tumpah bersama Paman yang sejak tadi belum berhenti meraung. Kami menangis bersama dengan perasaan yang berkecamuk. Untuk sejenak Paman damai bersamaku. Namun, itu tidak berlangsung lama. Tiba-tiba saja Paman mendorongku. Ia bangkit dan berlari ke halaman. Sambil berlarian tak tentu arah ia meneriakkan kalimat yang itu-itu saja.
“Betang dimakan api, kita tidak punya rumah!”
“Betang dimakan api, kita tidak punya rumah!”
Orang-orang mulai takut melihat tingkah Paman yang semakin aneh. Sementara itu, di sebelahku Bapak berbincang dengan para tetua lainnya. Mereka berencana membawa Paman ke rumah sakit jiwa. Tentu saja aku protes, sebab bagiku Paman tidak sakit, mungkin Paman hanya butuh waktu untuk menerima kenyataan bahwa Betang sudah terbakar.
“Kita tidak bisa lebih lama lagi menyimpan orang gila, Sindai. Kau lihat sendiri pamanmu membakar Betang. Dia orang pertama yang tahu Betang terbakar, kalau bukan dia siapa lagi?”
Perkataan Bapak dibenarkan dengan lantang oleh orang-orang Betang yang lelah dan mencari kambing hitam dari kejadian nahas yang menimpa kami semua. “Betul, Omai harus diamankan. Kita tidak mau hal buruk lainnya terjadi lagi.”
Masih menangis, aku menyangkal perkataan Bapak yang hari ini menunjukkan dirinya yang sebenarnya. “Paman memang sakit, tapi ia tak cukup gila untuk membakar Betang,” kataku. “Mungkin Paman satu-satunya orang yang mencintai Betang dengan sepenuh hati.”
Selain kehabisan kata, aku juga tak punya daya upaya. Keesokan harinya Paman dijemput ambulans untuk dibawa ke rumah sakit jiwa yang berada di kota. Aku sudah tidak sanggup menangis, suaraku tidak berarti apa-apa di tengah orang-orang yang ketakutan dan menyalahkan Paman. Paman sudah berhenti mengamuk, tubuhnya semakin kering dibalut baju rumah sakit yang kebesaran. Wajahnya pucat, ia tidak menunjukkan ketertarikan pada apa pun lagi, termasuk padaku. Paman mungkin tidak mengenalku lagi. Kuciumi punggung tangannya yang lemah tak berdaya, berharap ia menyadari keberadaanku dan mengatakan sesuatu. Namun, yang terjadi justru sebaliknya, Paman benar-benar diam tak bergerak. Barangkali hanya tubuhnya saja yang masih berada di sini, jiwanya mungkin sudah melebur bersama puing-puing Betang kami tercinta yang kini tinggal cerita.
“Sindai... Ranggai... Ranggai... Sindai... Ranggai...” Ketika aku sudah beranjak pergi, Paman tiba-tiba memanggil namaku dan Kakak.
“Ranggai akan jenguk Paman di kota, Sindai juga. Paman jangan takut,” kataku.
“Ranggai... jahat, Sindai.”
Kata-kata Paman habis begitu saja. Tanpa penjelasan, tanpa pertanyaan tambahan.
Dua bulan berlalu sejak Paman diasingkan, banyak hal telah berubah. Semua orang memang sepakat menunjuk Paman sebagai kambing hitam pembakaran Betang, tetapi di dalam benak masing-masing, pertanyaan tentang siapa pembakar Betang sebenarnya masih bersemayam.
“Bagaimana rasanya keluar dari Betang? Menyenangkan?” tanyaku kepada Ibu.
Ibu tidak langsung menjawab, ia justru menatap hampa gelas berisi teh hangat yang ada di genggaman kedua tangannya.
“Apa Ibu merasa lebih hidup? Seperti Bapak yang kini terang-terangan mendukung perusahaan sawit itu? Apa Ibu merasa bebas setelah Paman tidak lagi membebani kehidupan Ibu? Kehidupan di luar Betang yang Ibu dan Bapak impi-impikan itu, apakah Ibu mendapatkannya sekarang? Kenapa Ibu diam saja? Kenapa Ibu hanya bisa menyalahkan? Kenapa Ibu tidak melakukan apa-apa?”
Kata-kataku meluncur begitu saja. Satu bulan sejak kejadian itu, segala hal dalam hidup kami berubah. Mulai dari tempat tinggal, kebiasaan, hingga cara hidup. Sembari menunggu kesepakatan apakah akan membangun Betang kembali atau tinggal terpisah, masyarakat Betang tinggal di Rumah Darurat, termasuk kami yang kini tinggal di rumah salah satu kerabat Bapak. Jika dulunya kami mudah berkomunikasi satu sama lain—karena tinggal di bawah satu atap—kini masyarakat Betang tercerai berai karena kapasitas Rumah Darurat yang tidak memungkinkan semua keluarga ditempatkan di rumah yang sama. Perubahan benar-benar terasa, terutama bagi mereka yang belum mempunyai pengalaman tinggal di luar Betang sebelumnya. Hari-hari berat tidak hanya dirasakan olehku, tetapi juga seluruh masyarakat Betang.
Sementara itu, Bapak sama sekali enggan berjuang untuk membangun kembali Betang, Bapak justru terang-terangan mendukung ekspansi perkebunan kelapa sawit yang akan dilakukan di lahan Betang. Lalu, Kak Ranggai, satu bulan sejak Betang terbakar, resmi dilantik menjadi anggota legislatif. Sejak ia duduk di kursi parlemen, sungguh, Kakak semakin sulit diajak berkomunikasi. Entah ia betulan sibuk atau menghindar dari sesuatu, aku belum dapat memastikan. Ia bahkan tidak ambil pusing akan tuntutan orang-orang Betang yang memintanya berjuang untuk membangun kembali Betang yang terbakar. Kak Ranggai tak ubah kacang yang lupa akan kulitnya, ia pura-pura lupa kalau Betang adalah jalan utama menuju kursi yang didudukinya saat ini. Janji-janji manisnya akan masyarakat Betang yang lebih sejahtera dan kearifan lokal yang harus dilestarikan, bagaimana bisa ia melupakan itu semua?
Dalam keputusasaan yang semakin menjadi aku melampiaskan semuanya kepada Ibu, yang hingga kini hanya bisa diam membisu seolah diam cukup untuk membuat segalanya baik-baik saja.
Pintu depan rumah kami diketuk, dengan berat hati aku bangun dari dudukku untuk membukakan pintu. Bagaimanapun, menerima tamu dalam kondisi hati yang tidak mengenakkan seperti ini bukanlah hal yang baik.
Dari balik pintu, aku hampir tak mengenali orang yang ada di depanku. Jika saja wajah itu tidak terlalu mirip denganku, mungkin aku sudah bertanya soal keperluannya bertandang ke rumah kami.
“Dari mana saja kau? Ingat juga masih punya keluarga?” tanyaku tanpa menghiraukan kondisi lawan bicaraku yang kelihatan tidak baik-baik saja. Ia tampak kurus dan tidak mengurus diri.
Kak Ranggai berjalan tanpa kebingungan menuju ruang tengah tempat aku dan Ibu berbincang barusan, padahal ini adalah kali pertamanya bertandang ke rumah ini. Ia duduk begitu saja di depan Ibu, tanpa menyapa terlebih dahulu atau berbasa-basi meminta maaf sebab sama sekali tidak peduli pada musibah yang menimpa kami.
“Kenapa kalian berdua hanya diam dan tidak menjawab pertanyaanku?” Aku frustasi melihat Kakak dan Ibu seperti ini.
“Kak Ranggai, apa duduk di kursi parlemen itu sebegitu nikmatnya sampai kau tidak hirau pada apa pun lagi tentang kami ?”
Masih diam, tidak ada yang menjawab pertanyaanku. Kenapa semua orang tiba-tiba gemar menjadi bisu?
“Bukankah ini semua lebih baik?” Akhirnya wajah yang tampak begitu lelah itu angkat suara.
“Apanya yang lebih baik? Puluhan keluarga kehilangan tempat tinggal dan kini harus berpikir keras apa yang harus mereka lakukan? Sementara kau dan Bapak? Orang-orang yang paling bisa diandalkan, pergi begitu saja meninggalkan mereka yang percaya penuh kepada kalian? Apa itu yang kau sebut lebih baik?”
“Betang selama ini adalah sumber ketidakbahagiaan keluarga kita. Ibu dan Bapak yang senantiasa berkelahi, Paman yang tidak diinginkan, kepura-puraan yang menjadi kebiasaan. Seharusnya setelah Betang itu terbakar, semuanya menjadi lebih baik,” sanggah Kak Ranggai.
“Kau akan dikutuk oleh leluhurmu kalau melakukan itu dengan sengaja,” Ibu akhirnya bicara dengan mata yang berkaca-kaca.
“Kita sudah dikutuk sejak awal, Ibu hanya tidak pernah mau mengakuinya.” Kakak mengeluarkan kesimpulan pamungkasnya lagi.
“Tidak. Kita tidak pernah dikutuk. Betang dan Leluhur tidak pernah membebani kita. Kita memilih jalan hidup kita sendiri!” Akhirnya aku sanggup menyangkal perkataan Kakak.
“Aku tidak habis pikir, setan apa yang bersarang dalam tubuhmu sampai kau seegois itu.” Ibu berkata sambil sesenggukan.
“Kalian pikir ini mudah bagiku?” Kini giliran Kakak yang meledak. “Aku menderita, kalian hanya tidak mau tahu! Sebelum kau membenci hidup dan keluargamu sendiri, aku sudah lima tahun lebih dulu mengalami hal itu, Sindai.” Kakak menunjuk mukaku. “Hal-hal yang kau ketahui belakangan, sudah kuketahui duluan. Anak kecil mana yang bisa tumbuh dengan baik ketika mengetahui kedua orangtuanya selalu bertengkar?”
“Bapak dan Ibu tidak pernah bisa berdamai dengan hidupnya,” lanjut Kak Ranggai. “Setiap malam Ibu tersiksa karena menanggung beban harus tinggal di Betang. Setiap malam pula Bapak membuat Ibu percaya bahwa karena Ibu-lah keluarga kita jadi terjebak di Betang.” Mendengar Kakak berkata begitu, Ibu benar-benar menangis. “Kau pikir ini semua mudah? Berada di dalam keluarga yang tidak bisa mensyukuri apa yang ia punya dan selalu menginginkan hal lain di luar sana? Kau pikir itu mudah? Itu tidak mudah. Aku menanggungnya sendirian! Bahkan ketika aku berada di luar Betang, semua kepedihan itu ikut menghantuiku!” Kak Ranggai berteriak sambil menangis.
Baru kali ini aku melihatnya sekacau itu, seolah segala beban yang tertumpuk belasan tahun akhirnya menemukan jalan keluarnya. Kupeluk ia yang semakin histeris. Aku ingin mengutuk dan menyalahkannya, tetapi aku paham kalau ia juga korban. Ternyata, Kakak tumbuh lebih peka dari yang kukira. Ketidakharmonisan hubungan Bapak dan Ibu memengaruhi tumbuh-kembangnya hingga ia dewasa dan membuatnya menyimpan semuanya hingga sekarang.
Menyadari betapa terasingnya konflik keluarga kami dari perhatian orang-orang di luar sana, aku ikut menangis. Kenapa hidup kami harus menjadi serumit ini?
Dalam pelukanku, Kakak masih saja belum sanggup menenangkan diri. Ia menangis sejadi-jadinya. Sejak kecil Kak Ranggai jarang sekali menangis, ia selalu mendapat pujian oleh ibu-ibu di Betang karena tegar dan tidak cengeng. Berbeda denganku yang merasa mempunyai kekuatan berlipat ganda setelah menangis. Hari ini aku melihat Kakak menangis, dia pasti sudah tidak mampu lagi menahan semua tekanan yang sekian tahun mengendap di tubuhnya. Aku memeluk Kakak semakin erat, disusul oleh Ibu. Baru kali ini aku merasa punya ikatan emosional yang begitu kuat dengan Ibu dan Kakak. Barangkali kami semua hanya lelah karena selama ini menyimpan sendiri kesedihan dan berjuang seorang diri menghadapinya. Jika saja kami menghadapinya bersama, mungkin semuanya akan jadi lebih baik. Entahlah.
Sudah hampir dua minggu Kakak tidak keluar rumah dan hanya berdiam diri di kamar. Beberapa kali aku dan Ibu membujuknya, tetapi ia bergeming. Bahkan teman dekat dan orang-orang yang mencarinya karena pekerjaan pun tidak ia hiraukan.
Keadaan semakin buruk ketika desas-desus soal pelaku pembakaran Betang dan keadaan mental Kakak mulai terkuak ke media. Belum lagi aktivitas Bapak yang terlalu dekat dengan perkebunan kelapa sawit. Semua kejadian yang mencurigakan itu membuat media mengejarku dan Ibu setiap hari. Banyak juga desakan dari aktivis lingkungan dan kebudayaan yang terus menuntut kasus kebakaran Betang itu diusut tuntas. Selain mengurus Kakak, aku harus meladeni media dan menjalani pemeriksaan sebagai saksi.
Segala hal semakin berantakan dan melelahkan. Kadang, dalam kebingungan dan rasa kecewa yang tak terbendung, aku berharap aku sakit jiwa seperti Paman dan Kakak. Barangkali berperang dengan isi kepala sendiri itu lebih baik ketimbang harus menyelesaikan segala kekacauan yang tidak berbentuk ini.
Ingin rasanya aku membenarkan perkataan Kakak bahwa kami sudah dikutuk oleh Betang dan Leluhur kami sendiri, tetapi dalam relung hatiku yang paling dalam, aku menyangkal itu semua. Aku memang membenci hidupku sendiri, tetapi aku tidak pernah membenci Betang. Aku mencintai Betang sepenuh hati dengan segala keunikan dan kekurangannya.
Kami tidak dikutuk, Betang dan Leluhur tidak pernah membebani kami.
Catatan penulis:
*Betang (rumah panjang) : Rumah adat khas Kalimantan yang dihuni oleh masyarakat Dayak terutama di daerah hulu sungai yang biasanya menjadi pusat pemukiman suku Dayak.
**Tuai Rumah : Orang yang dipercaya sebagai pemimpin/pengelola/tuan rumah di Betang.
© Restiana Purwaningrum
Restiana Purwaningrum was born and lives in Sintang, West Kalimantan. In February 2020 her first novel, Bumi Ayu (Pataba Press 2019), was adapted into Balada Bumi Ayu, a collaborative performance of dance, traditional music, monologue, and audio visual content held at the Canopy Center, Sintang. Professionally, she writes communication products for several agencies working on environmental and natural resource issues. She is also the initiator of a writing community in her city, Sintang Reading. In 2019 she participated in Peretas Berkumpul 01, Pakaroso. Meet Restiana on Instagram @restiiaichty.
ZOË MCLAUGHLIN is a writer, translator, and the South and Southeast Asia librarian at Michigan State University. She was a Shansi Fellow in Yogyakarta, Indonesia and a Darmasiswa scholar studying traditional Javanese dance in Solo, Indonesia. Her research interests include current trends in traditional Javanese performance, the portrayal of Chinese-Indonesians in contemporary literature, and decolonial practices within area studies librarianship. She was an American Literary Translators Association mentee. Her creative writing has been published in Wilder Voice, Nowhere, and Prairie Scooner’s blog.
JAYU JULI works at the Gudskul Ecosystem art collective (affiliated with RuangRupa-SERRUM-GHH). As an artist, she also has a studio there, at Gudside. With her husband she creates an audiovisual performance project called PlusMinus. Jayu likes to work with watercolor best. See some of her works on Instagram @jayujuliproject and on her website www.jayujulie.id.