For Darsem, Eid was a moment where she truly witnessed how, in the world she trod upon, material wealth overshadowed the god revered during the takbir. Don’t fret just yet, let me explain. When lips reverberate the takbir, they should be exalting the greatness of God, and in that moment, one should feel small. But what often happens is quite the opposite. It’s a pseudo-takbir, so to speak. Magnifying the name of God yet oblivious to one’s own insignificance. Magnifying the name of God but also feeling grandiose at the same time.
In this village, called Tajur, Darsem lived with her mother, Narsem. She was named Darsem because according to Narsem, girls should be named with a humble ending letter. Because humility is the philosophy of sturdy Javanese women who, despite being marginalized by the world, enduring hardships here and there, must remain silent. Bearing everything with fortitude, without the need to shout in anger, protest, or cry. Fighting against everything, working with hands and body, but lips still remain silent. For Narsem, work was done with hands, not with mouths. This philosophy was ingrained in Darsem, who learned not from books and pencils in schools, but from her mother who had no schooling tradition.
Darsem lived in a small, cramped area, with walls made of bamboo weaving, with her mother who had been a widow for a long time. Her father had joined the independence army and fought against the Japanese, sacrificing his left leg. Years ago, when her father was still alive, they had applied to the government to receive veteran benefits. Of course, they failed to obtain it until her father passed away. The bureaucratic process was too complicated, and they were too ashamed to ask repeatedly, always returning empty-handed and without any clarity. The veteran benefits were not much, and her father didn’t really want to demand compensation from the country for his struggle in the pre-independence era, but life was too hard for him, and the unbearable hunger forced him to ask. Although in the end, he never received it.
The roof made of zinc had begun to rust, turning black, and some parts were leaking. But this small house, for Darsem and her mother, was heaven. A heaven they bought with their blood, sweat, and tears from selling fermented cassava. With a husband who lost one leg and started to fall ill and a daughter who was still a toddler, Narsem struggled to make a living until she was able to buy a plot of land where they still lived and supported herself by selling fermented cassava. Though humble, even rundown, for both of them, this house was a palace. A house bought with their own money, not just an inheritance or legacy of past wealth.
This year’s Eid in Tajur village was the same annual routine as in previous years. Not only the resounding takbir echoing incessantly since the night before, but the tradition of preparing large meals, serving Eid cakes, and wearing new clothes were also routines that never changed. For Darsem, whose daily routine was making fermented cassava, what was served on the table – not any less humble than their house – was a few plates of fermented cassava and a can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000. There was something intriguing about finding out that Darsem bought a can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000. For some people, Rp 36,000 might not mean much. Some people might even buy canned biscuits that cost more than Rp 50,000 per can. But for Darsem, who only worked as a fermented cassava seller, Rp 36,000 was a significant amount.
Darsem’s daily income averaged around Rp 20,000-25,000. That would later have to be spent to buy cassava for about Rp 7,500 for 5 kg of cassava and yeast for about Rp 1,500. Per kilogram of raw cassava, when processed into fermented cassava, could generate about Rp 4-5,000. Everything was just enough. Not commensurate with Darsem’s hard work, having to traverse market after market to find good-quality cassava that she could afford with her minimal money. After that, the cassava had to be peeled, grated, washed, then steamed until cooked before being fermented. It seemed simple, but perhaps the assumption that the fermented cassava itself chose the maker’s hands might be true. In Darsem’s hands, the fermented cassava transformed into a sweet, soft snack, white in color, not reddish.