Happiness Within Disaster

Sadness covered the atmosphere of an refugee camp located in Bumi Perkemahan Babarsari, Sleman (5/11). While most of the refugee were sad after losing their houses, Cahyo (23) seemed happy while having conversation with his friends. “It’s nice to stay here, I don’t have to do anything and the army fed us all occasionally”, he said.

Cahya is a refugee whose village has been devastated by Wedhus Gembhel (a local name for Pyroclastic Ash). He lived in Cangkringan village which endured most damage and casualities.

When he’s asked why did he enjoy to live in the camp, he said it because everything he needed was fulfilled in an instant. “Back to my life in the village, I didn’t have any job”, he said while having a smoke. “I’m un umployeed, so it’s hard to make a living”.

Cahya is not the only one with such thought. Oyop, a 45 years old with a wife and four children explained no worriness while laughing. “I lost my home but don’t worry, the government will pay for the reconstruction”, he said. It may sounded easy for him, but he talked based on an experience. The government reconstructed his village after the last eruption on 2006. He also has been guaranteed for having his destroyed house reconstructed by the government. In other words, these became a fact for him that he will regain his life if he get back to his village.

But of course, this happiness don’t come from nothing. Most of the refugee believed that this disaster is just another form of “gift”. A gift presented by the spirit that guards the volcano itself. “even our village is destroyed, the ash will vertalizing the soil”. Oyop said. “Our plants will grow well and the volcanic sand will make us money”. He also added that the euption is just a test from then. So, if they can endure and being thankfull for it, they may live for the other day.

A Letter To Mbak Dina

Good Morning Mbak Dina Oktaviani

I hope you read this in the morning so my greeting won’t be in vain.

My name’s Hary Prasojo S, a 20 years old boy who usually called Jojo by my friend. Mr .., oh no Mas Labo Dalih, since he doesn’t want to be addressed with ‘Mas’, showed me your letter in our previous class. As I mentioned in the previous sentence Mas Dalih only showed us the letter and then he asked one of us to read it for the entire class. I was so excited because it seems that your feeling and idea are just flowing into every sentence wrote, informal and casual.

Well what I learned from your letter is that your past, your childhood seems miserable. You lived a difficult life with your family, home, and even in the school. In the age of 13 you started to write and I assume now you are a good writer, even though I haven’t read any of your writing but this letter. Well, If you ask me what makes me think that you are a good writer? The answer is because of your letter and Mas Dalih showed it to the whole class, which makes me sure that you are a good example for us.

What I’m trying to say is why is every good writer or someone who very good at writing always dealing with such horrible past? I don’t know how terrible it was for you but still it was worse for me. My writer friends whose name can’t be mentioned also met the same fate in their past. Some of them ware abused and abandoned by their family, lived with danger that could kill them at any time, and growing up while taking care of their parents in the asylum.

You also said that we don’t have to suffer, to feel what you felt, to start or to be a good writer. But still you experience adds the fact that most of the good writer raise through the suffering. Well, it’s just a personal opinion and observation, maybe you can tell me it there are other good writer who never feel the suffering, it will raise my knowledge too.

For the last, I wanna ask you one thing. What does it takes to be acknowledged as a writer? Is our writing must be published first and then taking compliment from the writer?  Or is it enough to have it only as our hobby and keep the writing for some friends?  Because Sometimes I think the one who mostly called as a writer is the one who’s work has been read by many people and the one who has a good writing skill with published work is considered as a person with writing as the hobby.

However, personally I think that whether you are a famous writer or not, those who write are writers. And writing is an activity to carve something for the civilization and to be known as an existence through the ages.

Thank you very much.

Yogyakarta, 13 March 2013

Secretariat of Unit Fotografi UGM

Hary Prasojo Stafa’atillah

Me and My Bike

            One day I was staring on my motorcycle, an orange Supra X 125R manufactured in 2006. As I was standing and staring at its shabby body while looking for my writing idea, a conversation started to echo inside my brain.

            Me       : (Staring blankly)

            Supra   : Hey dude what are you doing?

            Me       : Nothing, just staring at you.

            Supra   : For what? Is there something strange with me?

            Me       : Nothing, I’m just going to write something about you.

            Supra   : What are you going to write about me?

            Me       : That’s exactly what I’m thinking about.

            Supra   : You just don’t know what are you doing, aren’t you?

            It has been ten minutes since i stepped to the parking lot. I have been walking around the corner to find something to write about until I stopped at this place. Perhaps because this 4 feet height    thing has been accompanying almost all the time, my heart is unconsciousnessly bounded, and I just walked to its side. Now ‘Supra’, that’s what most of the people including me called the Supra-branded motorcycle, is talking back at me.

            Supra   : Hey dude, have you finish staring at me yet? I have an idea for you.

            Me       : Great, what is it Supra?

            Supra   : Why don’t you write down about how do you treat me?

            Me       : Mmm..that’s a good idea. Why don’t you just tell me to make it more objective?

            Supra   : Okay pal. Suit your self, i’ve been holding this inside my heart for a long time.

            Me       : (Preparing my pen and book)

            Supra   : You really make me upset, look at my body, it’s so dirty. You are rarely get me washed as I deserve to. Everyday you let me burned down by the sun, washed down by the rain, sometimes the birds dumped their poop on me.

            Me       : Well if you got pooped on, that’s not my fault. It’s a normal thing for a parked vehicle like you.

            Supra   : I know, but you never do anything good afterward. Now let’s take a carefull look on me, some of my parts are terribly scratched and you do nothing about me. Don’t you care about my appearance?

            Me       : Well I actually do care. If I don’t i won’t spent my money on you in the first place.

            Supra   : That’s not the only ones. You are rarely take me to the monthly maintenance even it doesn’t cost a lot, the oil inside my body is getting rotten, i oftenly choked up every time you turn me on. You only spend your money for your self, you don’t care with me. I’m getting sick of this. Just sell me out to another people or maybe just dump me away. I better get dumped and crushed instead of living like this.

                        I was just keep writing as the imaginary conversation continued. Then a man walked in front of me, perhaps he was also wondering about my i was doing by sitting on the ground while writing down something.

                        Several minutes have passed and I stopped writing. The conversation suddenly ended when i realized that it was almost time to go back to the class. Then I just walked away from my motorcycle, wondering why such theme tuned out to be an imaginary conversation, perhaps since what Supra said came from the reality of how i treated him. My pace was getting faster and surprisingly something came up on my mind: I gotta take my Supra to the maintenance next week!