Three Poems

A Dutch Boy Came to My Reading and

for Ellen

1) he followed me on Instagram, I followed him back just to be kind,
he sent me DMs about doing research on Indonesian lit, for his PhD
in Postcolonial Studies, and he asked me recommendations
(documentaries to watch, people to talk to, bookshops to visit) and if
I would have a coffee with him to practise his ‘Bahasa Indonesia’
and I said no because I was busy and tired and depressed
and then he silently unfollowed me

2) he followed me on Instagram, I followed him back
just to be kind, he sent me DMs about his PhD research,
his exigent need to practise his ‘Bahasa’, the oral test
he must take next week, how desperately he wanted to graduate,
and I agreed, and we met over coffee, but he said my ‘Bahasa’
was bad, ‘Saya tidak mengerti sama sekali,’ and I left,
and then he silently unfollowed me

3) he followed me on Instagram, I followed
him back just to be kind, and over the years
he liked all of my photos, sent me love emojis,
asked how I felt after my book won an award,
and I replied: OMAGAAAAAAA!!! and until now
we have a cordial, distant relationship
like he was an old friend from the middle school
even though nobody would befriend me in the middle school
because I was fat and effeminate

4) he followed me on Instagram, I followed him
back just to be kind, and he asked if I would
watch these real movies about the Dutch colony,
so I would have a more balanced perspective,
‘It wasn’t all that bad, you know!’
and I said no, as I was tired and depressed, and he silently unfollowed me

5) he followed me on Instagram, and I blocked him
because he sent me DMs about how I should be grateful to the Dutch,
‘YOUR SAVAGE ANCESTORS USED TO EAT PEOPLE!’

6) he followed me on Instagram, and I ate him,
the idea of him, the idea of a Dutch person
wanting to have a coffee with me
to practise his ‘Bahasa’, the idea that
to start this postcolonial connection
I am still the one who has to furnish, has to provide,
has to be the giving one, the forgiving one

7) he followed me on Instagram, I
followed him back just to be kind, we sent DMs here and there,
he said he liked how perfectly toned my skin was,
and I said it was all the chicken feet, he
visited, we kissed, we danced, we dated briefly,
he wouldn’t touch the chicken feet, or the intestines,
we broke up because he got a fellowship to Albany, New York
to study the Dutch colonial past there, and I said, Whoa,
and he left, and then my conservative aunt,
oh, don’t even get me started with my conservative aunts

8) he followed me on Instagram, I followed him back
just to be kind, and he introduced himself as a physicist
building a time machine and asked if I
was interested to go back to the precolonial Tapanuli
because he had the white man’s guilt,
the Dutch person’s guilt, the coloniser’s guilt,
but also the urge
to verify if my ancestors were really man-eaters,
‘Aren’t you at least a bit, teeny, tiny, curious?’
he replied, ending it with a chicken leg emoji

9) he followed me on Instagram,
I followed him back just to be kind
and he offered to fund my novel
and I sent him my account details
and he transferred €50.000
and three weeks after that, after
the Dutch embassy approved
my visa application,
we met
in Amsterdam, we conversed in English,
‘You can practise your Indonesian with me,’
I teased him, he sipped the tea nervously,
and a year later I completed my magnum opus,
the one novel that would
decolonise us all, the one novel that would rule
all the postcolonial novels, the one novel that would reclaim
all Tapanuli people of our long gone ways of life,
‘Like entering a time machine,’ a Dutch reviewer,
also a famous local poet, wrote 

10) he followed me on Instagram,
I followed him back just to be kind,
and I silently unfollowed him after seeing his Instastory
complaining how the locals overcharged his nasi campur
‘I am just a regular person, like all of you!’
and he silently unfollowed me back

11) he followed me on Instagram, I followed him just to be kind,
we sent DMs here and there, he visited, we dated, we decided
to get married and that one of my uncles would
culturally adopt him, so he could get a Toba Batak name,
so the tarombo wouldn’t finish with me
so my culture continues despite colonialism
despite cholera, despite Christianity, and my conservative aunt asked
which one of us the girl, which one of us the boy,
and I became wrathful and threw my thick
novel draft at her teacup collection,
and she fell down to the floor and cried,
mourning her dead teacups, and she
said it wasn’t her fault, it was the tradition, the cousin
you should marry and the cousin you could never marry,
and I screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeamed,
‘Can’t he just be another Toba Batak boy?’
and my conservative aunt, still tearful, pinched my arm

12) he followed me on Instagram,
I followed him back just to be kind,
and he asked if I would do a collaboration with him
for his new YouTube channel, a Dutch boy living, thriving
in Canggu, Bali, ‘I can also sublet all the unused rooms
in the Airbnb,’ he said, and I said no, and he silently unfollowed me

13) he followed me on Instagram,
I followed him back just to be kind,
and we sent each other DMs day through night,
and he admitted his attraction to me, but the guilt,
he said, the guilt, what should he do with the guilt,
and I said to him without pity, I have no idea,
I was born in the modern-day Jakarta,
the past was state-delivered to me in summaries
and he asked if I wanted to watch a movie
about a postcolonial love story,
and I said yes, and in the dark of the theatre,
he reached for my hand, and it was warm, and I said,
this is how I feel, about me, he asked, about my culture,
this darkness I can’t grasp, this faceless darkness
I can’t speak to, the lives of my ancestors
before the Dutch came
and ruined us, but that silver screen
the shimmering surface of the Toba Lake, at night,
where my old, old mothers once danced.

Tell Me What Happened

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the postcolonial.

Is there anything here that hasn’t been fingerprinted by the Dutch?

Is there anything here that hasn’t been stomped by their boots?

Is there anything here that hasn’t been burned by their greed and shame?

Is there anything here that hasn’t been blood baptised by the German mission?

Is there anything here that hasn’t been surrendered, given up and forgotten, for a fist

of medicine?

Is there anything here left alone whole and perfect for us to remember?

Ompung hasian, tell me everything

Your Life before the ghostful war greeted You

Teach me to dance to Your Singing

Steer me to the remains of Your Prayers

Help me love the God they’ve taken from me

Potret Ibuku Sebagai Sosok Tanpa Nama di Mimpi-Mimpi Biasa

ia selalu lapar
ia duduk di buritan dan sungguh lapar
ia menatapku dan bilang, ‘Uman, aku lapar. Mamak lapar.’
ia melihat tanganku mengayun dan menyelip ke saku, demi laparnya
ia melihat tanganku terbang, telanjang, demi laparnya
ia melihat tanganku menukik turun dengan luka tembak di sayap, demi laparnya.