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.
Some fermented cassava sellers sometimes wondered about Darsem’s fermented cassava. Hers wasn’t mushy, very sweet, and seemed beautiful. When asked what the secret was, Darsem couldn’t answer. She just did what Narsem taught her. All the processes were the same as the usual fermented cassava making. Once smeared with yeast, the soon-to-be fermented cassava would then be placed in woven baskets lined with banana leaves, then tightly covered with banana leaves. The soon-to-be fermented cassava would be left for 1-2 days, and when opened, the cassava would turn into delicious and sweet fermented cassava. Some fermented cassava sellers in the market where Darsem sold often spread rumors that Darsem used magical ingredients to make her fermented cassava tasty. Something funny, according to Darsem. Because if she did indeed use magical ingredients, her fermented cassava would not only be delicious but also very popular and prosperous. Then she would have enough money to fix her house with concrete and cement, not just bamboo weaving that was already rundown and had holes here and there. And what is more certain is that on this Eid day, she would definitely wear new clothes and a new prayer rug. If there really were magical ingredients, surely.
However, as delicious and special as her fermented cassava was, Darsem still came to the mosque for Eid prayers wearing clothes that were not new, a prayer rug that was not new, and a prayer mat that was also not new. The clothes she wore were a worn-out white dress. The color had faded, it was shabby, and yellowish. No matter how hard she tried to wash it with cheap bleach costing a thousand rupiahs. But that was the only best dress she had. The prayer rug she wore was just as worn-out as her clothes, while her prayer mat, the only one she had, had a few holes at the bottom that were usually stepped on by her skinny legs when standing to pray.
And on that morning, Darsem walked to the mosque with long steps. Meanwhile, her mother, Narsem, stayed at home because she could no longer walk far. Although the distance from Darsem’s house to the mosque was five kilometers. Age made Narsem unable to walk more than two kilometers without panting in exhaustion. That’s why Narsem stayed in her rundown house while Darsem headed to the mosque to pray on Eid al-Fitr.
Upon arriving at the mosque, dozens of people from Tajur village had already crowded inside and spilled out into the mosque’s yard. Darsem smiled at the people she met, extending her hand for a handshake. Some who greeted her handshake merely reciprocated, their faces still sour, not a hint of a smile. It was quite different when it was the respected people in the village who invited handshakes. Like the teacher, the neighborhood chief, the community leader, and the wealthy individuals who controlled the village’s economy as rice merchants, palm sugar merchants, or owners of stalls. Their way of shaking hands was different. With Darsem, they only extended their hands, without a firm handshake or embracing, let alone cheek kisses.
Darsem scanned the area, looking for an empty spot to spread her prayer mat. Up front, the ladies in the latest Muslim attire, with bright colors, jingling gold bracelets, and prayer mats adorned with flower embroideries, raised their chins as they laid out their prayer mats resembling tapestries. Their little children were dressed like princesses, in glamorous outfits, colorful prayer mats, and cute little prayer rugs. Darsem smiled wistfully, imagining that someday when she got married and had a daughter, her child would surely bow beside her, too afraid to raise her chin due to the glare of all the glittering adornments worn by her friends on their necks, wrists, and fingers. Such a small child surely wouldn’t know that the world they carry on their bodies would oppress and burden them for a lifetime. Asking for more and more to fulfill their need for the glittering allure of those around them.
However, Darsem, though sidelined in the back corner, on her worn-out prayer mat, smiled nonetheless. She understood that perhaps this was God’s way of making her bow, not raising her head in arrogance when her lips uttered the takbir. So she went through the morning ritual with a wide smile. Even though those who shook hands with her failed to create a single smile on their lips adorned with expensive lipstick. And Darsem smiled even more, reminded of the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000 arranged on the table in her rundown house, which she would present to the guests who might visit her house to exchange greetings. A can of biscuits alongside a few plates of sweet fermented cassava she made with love, so that whoever ate them would always feel that even in the bitterness of life, there was sweet fermented cassava to bite into and enjoy.
And Darsem, when her greetings with her mother were over, sat staring at her table, alternating between looking at the worn-out door leaf in their house, waiting for someone to knock to greet her elderly mother, and hoping that someone would come so she could make a cup of tea without sugar, to enjoy with her fermented cassava and the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000.
“Throughout your life, dear, I’ve never been able to buy you biscuits like that. Just taste one or two, so you’ll know how it tastes,” suddenly said Narsem.
“For you only, Mother, I’m not interested… let you and the guests enjoy them,” replied Darsem, who always called her mother Biyung.
Darsem gazed at the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000, alternating with staring at the worn-out door leaf in their house. Waiting, perhaps someone would knock to greet her mother. Waiting, perhaps someone would enjoy the tea and the fermented cassava she made, along with the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000 that she had never tasted before. However, Darsem and the can of biscuits turned out to be a pair that also deteriorated along with their increasingly rundown house. Because, until the 7th day after Eid, not a single person in the village knocked on Darsem’s door to enjoy the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000 that Darsem always looked at alternately with staring at the door leaf in their house.
Notes:
1. Mingkem: The intended meaning of the ending “mingkem” is a bilabial consonant like the letters ‘m’/’p’/’b’.
2. Pereng: Land with a higher elevation than its surroundings but with a slanted position, making it prone to landslides.
3. Tabag: House walls made of bamboo weaving.
4. Mbojo: Married.
5. Randa: Widow.
6. Gula Jawa: A type of brown sugar made from coconut palm sap.
7. Benyek: Mushy.
8. Biyung: A Javanese term for addressing a mother.