Short Stories

Aug 31st, 2009, in News, Opinion, by

Two short stories on the theme of cultural change and Islamization in Indonesia.

  1. Duke Of Jaksa“, by Ross
  2. The Pilgrimage“, by Timdog.

Vote for your favourite below.

1. “Duke Of Jaksa”, by Ross

Duke, out of Jakarta on family business, left Lestari to cope with the rainy season’s rigours and Ramadan’s. She’d look after their kontrakkan, time still to help out in her pal Sinta’s warung.

When Duke touched down at Soekarno Hatta, he rang. No answer, no worries – probably shopping or at Sinta’s. He shouldered past rip-off cabbies,caught a Bluebird.

Disembarking on the corner, he sensed something amiss, quickened his pace. Faces peering over fences, normal nosiness, but this day unsmiling, Something in the pembantus’ expressions raised his hackles, on edge immediately.

Their garden gate lay flattened. He charged through, as Sinta called his name.

“Pak Duke! Ma’afkan saya!”

Tearful bursts of ululating prose told him of the DOGS, Defenders of God’s Statutes. They’d raided her warung (despite respectful curtains shielding hyper-sensitive fasters from the horrors of Christian meal-times) white-capped faces snarling at this ‘blasphemous’ affront to the devout.

In vain Sinta declared herself a Christian, unobliged to puasa; should she demand customers’ KTPs before serving them?

They’d slapped her about, shredded the curtains, wrecked the warung. Lestari interceded, till a spiteful tukang jammu yelped that here was a Muslim living with a bule – the huffy old bag’s seasonal sembako’d fallen short of expectations.

That revelation provoked fearsome rage, the thugs heedless of the fact that Duke had ‘converted’ when they’d married.

‘ A bule’s cheap bitch!’

They turned on her,

‘Where’s your jilbab?’

She’d fled, along the little kali, swollen by the floods. Panic blinding her to danger, she’d stumbled into a cavernous flooded pothole, fast swept away.

‘She surfaced once, Pak, called out, then…gone,’

Sinta choked up, led Duke indoors, scenes of ransacked chaos. Hoodlums, not content with manslaughter, had returned to loot the bule’s home.

“The police?”

Busy, it transpired (hadn’t they also been too ‘busy’ to relieve the siege of Tempo by a tycoon’s hired gangsters?) with riots, flood problems; after all, the DOGS hadn’t killed her. Death by misadventure, they’d said.

“Because she was fleeing terrorised by those swine.’

Duke’s wrath frightened Sinta, her broad Javanese face convulsed.

‘We put up decorations together when I was young, she helped at Christmas, me at Ramadan…’

By invoking civilised times past, Sinta sought to distance all the wong cilik from the new jihadism.

He put a hand on her shoulder, thanked her…by waiting for him here, she ‘d done more than anybody else, he realised. If only he’d returned a day earlier. if only she’d stayed out of it…
Lestari’s demise never made the papers, Islamist depredations these days barely rating a paragraph.

Duke quietly strove to rebuild his life, sought solace in favoured Jaksa watering-holes with buddies, Falatehan’s finest sedulous in their efforts to assuage his stress..

But alone at home, cecaks his sole companions now, he slithered down King Lear’s path – ‘this way lies madness.’

Fury gnawed relentlessly as he hassled officialdom and the media. No body, no funeral…a missing person, he’d been advised, so not a lot they could chase the perps for, except ‘disorder,’ and God knew Jakarta had plenty.

He”d been in the Big Durian long enough to understand that but also to have met useful people.
If Lestari’s killers weren’t to answer for their crime, anguish pointed another way to give her her day in court.

A late-night tryst with an amiable preman in Pappa Cafe on Jalan Jaksa secured what he most required, a country-boy’s life-long love, a gun.

Availing himself of the internet, he tracked down the DOGS’ kennel, a notorious pesantren school in Grogol, run by the elderly fanatic, camelious-faced Ustad Basam, who thrived on propagation of hatred.

For the first time in his life, Duke appreciated his erstwhile in-laws’ intransigent intolerance. They’d forced his conversion to Islam. Indonesian marriage law, bigotry entrenched, lovers of diverse faiths persecuted if they lived outwith wedding vows, yet banned from marrying – unless one of them turned apostate. Muslims who chose that option, said the venerable Basam, merited death.

So Duke had knuckled under, for love. Subsequently he’d eschewed participation in its rites, but first he’d explored the doctrines, trying to comprehend how anyone these days justified pedophilia or polygamy, affronts, indeed, to decent Muslims; but not confrontable, misguided adherence to the ‘ummat’ concept, sectarian solidarity above all.

Turning that very concept to his advantage. Well-versed in Islamic lore, he knew the format and timing of prayers, could blend into any mosque, even Basam’s, which had once echoed to exhortations to assault foreign tourists.

Night fell at 6pm, as always in Grogol, when Duke approached, his tanned but patently foreign features drawing askance glances. But he assured the toughs by the entrance that he was a convert, come to pay his respects. They’d heard of Aussie turncoats serving with the Taliban, whose heroic exploits – throwing acid into unveiled faces and burning girls’ schools – they admired.

Duke, nodded through to an unassuming back-seat, heard the obnoxious brute enliven his flock, another rant against Zionist-Crusaders.

Basam revelling in rapturous appreciation from the ‘born-again’ preman who constituted his audience, Duke stepped forward, levelled the hand-gun under his floppy shirt, put one in the head, one in the gut, a classic free-lance execution.

Swirling around, racing for the street, before anyone grasped what was afoot. (his armed status meant few of the yellow-bellies would seek to obstruct his exit) he’d no wish to escape. He wanted be taken by the police.. for that day in court.

Touch and go, but the police van escaped the mob, who, once Duke was disarmed, went frenziedly after him. Solitary confinement ensured survival in pre-trial custody. Worldwide headlines made Lestari famous.

Months passed till the big day. Cretinous Islamists frothed publicly for hukum mati; international awareness had diplomats in attendance for the guilty verdict – ’twas how he’d pled.

But his speech from the dock echoed round the archipelago, reinforcing the shame his Lestari’s fate had inspired among thinking citizens.

“Basam’s life was an ode to hatred. Who hates humanity is an enemy of God, who created mankind. Don’t all your religions denounce Satan, not the pura2 Great Satan those mongrels..’

here he pointed at the DOGS…

invoke to stoke prejudice, but the real Satan, who delights in death and mayhem. I’ll serve my sentence. But I killed a pig, not a High Court judge, Your Honours!. And I did it myself, not second-hand. Five years max, please! I’ve exorcised one demon. Up to Indonesian justice to get the rest!

Even in the Istana Negara, heads jerked up, took notice. In Pappa Cafe, a chorus of ‘Good on yer, Duke!’ erupted. Fights broke out there, and at universities.

The judges weren’t fools, deliberated for ten days. ‘Diminished responsibility.’ ‘Temporary insanity.’

Time served in custody, plus deportation.

Rioting lasted till next Ramadan, but so antagonised police and public that finally the DOGS were banned and simliar dregs of society rounded up, interned, pursuant to prosecution for treason against the Pancasila State.

Deprived of access to his duchy, Duke of Jalan Jaksa drank himself to death in exile in Dili instead. But he died happy, no virgins waiting in Paradise, just Lestari…

2. “The Pilgrimage”, by Timdog

The ferry showed first as a flickering blemish between towers of dark cloud on the melting horizon; then it loomed tall in middle distance; now it was turning on the oily water of the inner harbour.

The ferry was big and beige with a high, sharp prow. Stocky men in blue boiler-suits were flinging ropes and shouting. There was a clamour of voices on the quayside, and behind it the tock-tock-tock of the bakso-seller tapping a cracked bowl with a dirty spoon. There were piles of bulging white sacks, and second-hand motorbikes, armour-plated with sheets of old cardboard, ready for shipping.

The Muslims floated like pale ghosts in the middle of the shifting crowd – men in their best black pecis, women in pink head-scarves – watching the ferry eagerly as it backed against the buffers. They had hired the best vehicle on the Island – a minibus, silver-grey with tinted windows – and made a banner for the occasion. It was strung along the side of the minibus, marked in childish block capitals: “WELCOME HAJJIS OF THE YEAR 2008”.

The ferry squeezed up against the jetty and dark boys in long shorts launched themselves up the mooring ropes like broken spiders. A first rush of passengers surged down the narrow gangway and head-carried loads bobbed in the crowd.

The Muslims shifted and strained:

“Where are they?”

And then three men appeared at the top of the gangway and they hissed excitedly –

“There they are!”

The three men were paler ghosts even than the Muslims on the quayside. They wore white skullcaps and long shirts and yellow sarongs. All three had red-and-white Arab keffiyehs draped across their shoulders. There was a lean youth with a tuft of black hair at his chin and a dark, stocky man. Between them they supported a thin old man with papery skin. From the top of the gangway the old man looked out with cloudy eyes, beyond the rotting roofs of the little port, north along the empty coastline of the Island.


The Island was small and far in the east. It drifted alone and behind it was the emptiest ocean on earth. Half a century ago the islanders believed only in their own ancestors. They lived in tall houses and the Ancestors lived above them. But they called themselves Christian now, and in their own language they called the church the Bitter House.

The Muslims – a dozen families – lived only in the little port. They had been there for four hundred years and their forefathers came – the story used to go – from Makassar, riding on the back of a giant swordfish. The swordfish beat across shining water between curls of white foam and the Muslims clung to its quivering sail and it ground ashore at the Turtle Beach, a strip of white sand north of the little port.

That used to be the story, and every year, on the day of the first full moon in August, the Muslims would walk to the Turtle Beach and kill ten chickens, and the blood would run into the hissing water and they would remember the swordfish.

But it had been more than twenty years since anyone killed a chicken at the Turtle Beach. The Muslims all claimed Arab blood and no one mentioned the swordfish.

If you wanted to hear the story now you had to ask the Bitter House People. They could still tell you how the swordfish had charged the bright water, its purple fins humming, and how the Muslims had stepped ashore amongst the laying turtles and founded the little port. Some of them could even tell you how, long before the swordfish, the Muslims had washed from the sea in Makassar as fish eggs the colour of milky pearls, and how they had swum onto the land like raindrops on glass and coagulated in the form of men.

But none of the Muslims would tell you that story any more.

Things changed when the Arab arrived, one hundred years ago. The Arab came from the pirate port at Ende to buy horses and sandalwood. He wasn’t really an Arab. His grandfather had indeed come from Yemen, but he was of slave stock, not a Sayyid. He came to Java and married a woman from a village in the trees below Gunung Muria, and his son married a Madurese girl.

The Arab traded on just one-quarter of his bloodline, but he told everyone that he was a Sayyid, and the Muslims of the Island made small changes because they thought it would please him.

First they stopped eating pigs. Then they stopped drinking palm wine. Later some of them learnt to say their prayers, and after the Arab went away they began to intimate that the Arab had been their own grandfather. The truth was that too much palm wine in Ende had made the Arab impotent long before he arrived. But no one remembered that.

The Muslims were shopkeepers and traders. In a hundred years they had earned money to send their children to schools in Java. The girls came back in pink headscarves; the boys came back with tufts of black hair on their chins.

They earned money to buy televisions and motorbikes and they stopped going to their neighbours’ ceremonies. Once a year, in August, they still went to the Turtle Beach, but by the end it was just a picnic with sticky rice and dirty blankets and men going off to piss in the yellow scrub and at midday the kyai saying some prayers. No one killed any chickens, and only the old women thought about the swordfish.

And then the Muslims earned money to go on the pilgrimage to Mecca, and after that no one ever went to the Turtle Beach.


This year three men had gone on the outbound ferry to Java, and then on an aeroplane. The aeroplane was the same colour as the ferry and it beat across shining sky between curls of white cloud and landed on a strip of black tarmac in Saudi Arabia. The three men were a youth who had studied in Java, his shopkeeper uncle, and his grandfather who had eyes like milky pearls.

In the desert heat the youth was voluble and intense. The uncle smiled like he was on a picnic. The old man was silent.

The old man had never eaten pig or drunken palm wine, and one day, sitting in the heavy shade of the veranda, looking out at the dark ridgeback where the villages were, he had said to his sons

“These people are infidels.”

It was the first time anyone on the Island had ever said that teeth-to-lip swearword.

“One day there will be trouble here,”

he had said, putting down his cup of grainy black coffee and placing the sticky metal cap over it to keep out the flies.

“What kind of trouble?”

asked his sons.

“Poso trouble. These people are infidels.”

But now, in the desert, he said nothing, and when he slept at night in the mortuary ranks in the white tents his sleep was rotten with dreams. He dreamed of a giant swordfish.

The next day the old man said nothing, and saw nothing but a blank white crowd turning like water at the bottom of an emptying tank. His son and grandson had to carry him back to the white tents.

Two days later, on the Hill of Forgiveness when he should have been praying, he dreamed again of the giant swordfish. It ran hard through a shining sea and the water bulged before it and it came bigger and bigger under a sky scattered with tumbling white birds. The old man was on the scorched sand of the Turtle Beach watching its sail-fin looming tall in middle distance, and it grew larger and larger and roared onto the shore and its sword plunged into the old man’s heart and he woke with the desert sun in his eyes and said,

“I am dying.”

The youth was with him.

“Praise God,”

he said.

“If you die here it is a great thing, Grandfather. There is no better place for a Muslim to die.”

“There is a better place for me to die,”

said the old man.


The last sunlight was coming through the clouds in bright bars and the ferry was rolling against the jetty like a bound buffalo. The youth and his uncle were bearing the old man down the gangway and the Muslims on the quayside were shifting like cotton plants in the wind.

As the old man stepped onto the concrete the red-and-white keffiyeh slipped from his shoulder and went under the feet of the crowd. The youth tried to bend to pick it up, but he could not reach it. And then they were in the floating white midst of the welcoming party. The wind was chasing waves through the cloth of the banner – “WELCOME HAJJIS…”

Women in pink headscarves were beaming and men in black pecis were holding out their hands. Everyone was muttering phrases of mispronounced Arabic, and real questions between them:

“How was it?” “Praise God!”

The old man’s pearly eyes shifted over them.

“I am dying,”

he said, but no one heard him.

“How do you feel now?” “God is great!” “Was it hot?” “God has willed it!”

“I am dying,”

said the old man, a little more loudly this time. A pocket of silence grew around him.

“Take me to the Turtle Beach.”


[poll id=”5″]


81 Comments on “Short Stories”

  1. Suryo Perkoso says:

    Talk about repeating yourself Suryo.

  2. Achmad Sudarsono says:


    Bullshit. Ross’s story was shit. End of story.

    Sorry, Ross. You know it. Get your snout out of that Bintang and write a proper short story. It’s hard: there’s so much good fiction no one will ever read, but what you’ve done is just offensive on an aesthetic level.

    Timdog: I prefer your satire – the Ayu Utami spoof was really good – but at at least yours was a proper attempt. Ross’s stuff was such shit I couldn’t stay quiet.

  3. Achmad Sudarsono says:


    We might re-interpret Samuel Johnson’s quote to only a blockhead writes for nothing or no reward. He was a wine-and-ale-soaked hack (nothing wrong with that), after all. There’s no telling what mindset he wrote that in. But he had little tolerance for humbug or pretension and I’d give it, say, two minutes, before he’d engage Ross in fisticuffs if our Thatcherite-Bacteria friend dared peddle his shit in those days.

  4. Suryo Perkoso says:

    Well Achmad, the failure to get the little language snippets right was a turn off, that and the veritable tomes go soft when used as axle stands.

    Do you remember the “Mas Yarakat” episode? Oh such happy days, and I do miss you so much.

    Have you had many “palang merah” moments recently?…..

  5. David says:

    Genuinely no offence to either of you as I ordinarily like having you around, but Suryo (keeps talking about things which only he and somebody else has any clue about) and Achmad (waltzes back in to whine and say “shit” a lot) should probably pipe down. Timdog doesn’t need to pipe down but should probably consider having a serious look at one of those Tamil matrimonial sites, clearly needs to settle down, doesn’t stay put somewhere for more than five minutes.

    Here’s the Ayu Utami spoof that A mentions in case anyone hasn’t seen it.

  6. Ross says:

    Sounds like Achmad has been on the sauce, or fantasising an action replay of the insult duel.
    One always has a degree of concern if a story or a book is up to the mark, but spoutings from such a source as him makes me feel re-assured that it’s not a bad wee yarn. And despite Achmad’s feeble endorsement, I see merit in timdog’s too.

    Incidentally, Patung, when DOES the voting end. And is the KPU showing interest?

  7. Ross says:

    timdog, i thank you for the congratulations, but we have had no bell ringing yet so I’m assuming the race is still open. The contest has meanwhile become a popular topic of conversation in certain watering-holes.

    I actually missed Achmad’s predictable wimpy outburst, on how we should try to be ‘understanding’ with demented vermin like the FPI. They are blood-thirsty thugs, and if some good guy were to waste them, I’d buy him a beer anyday.
    Achmad would probably report the good guy to the cops. He exemplifies the decline of Occidental civilisation, forever trying to find fault with itself instead of defending itself.

    Afghanistan? A 100% Muslim Government, being supported against an armed
    equivalent of the FPI -should we leave them to get on with it? Up to you, Achmad…take a stand..or, in your case, sit wringing your hands about how misunderstood are such policies as throwing acid into girls’ faces or cutting off noses for voting.

    The trouble with the West, at least as much as Indonesia, is that we don’t waste the terrs. In Scotland, you can kill 270 harmless travellers and get sent home to a hero’s welcome!
    (though thankfully the Scottish Parliament subsequently distanced itself from that craven misdeed)

  8. Rad says:

    Duke and Lestari story is quite depressing.
    On the other hand I hope I live to see those Taliban-wannabes be executed for treason against the Pancasil State.

  9. David says:

    Wasn’t thinking of expiring it at all but if you want then I guess tomorrow/Friday is ok, turnout pretty disappointing though, virtually all of the people who’ve commented on this post haven’t voted, well that includes me.

  10. Achmad Sudarsono says:

    Hey Patung,

    Not fair. I took a brief stab at commentary and there were only two “shits,” albeit in the lead. There were a couple of points, unlike a lot of comments:

    * Ross’s story was a Clint Eastwood fantasy.
    * He seems to be advocating one-on-one offing of militants, the same way JI were thinking of doing to foreigners a few years ago.

  11. Achmad Sudarsono says:


    Actually, looking back, there were three shits. So, yes, feel free to take them out, if you think they dirty up the website. But yes, agree that casual use of shit or as a term of abuse isn’t cricket. More important to demonstrate how the story is shit. Apologies to Ross for the shit but the other comments stand.

  12. David says:

    Alright, you made some interesting points. As did Timdog, as did Ross. I’m sitting on the fence where I belong.

  13. Ross says:

    Waking up is hard to do! This ‘solidarity’ rising at strange hours is wearisome, esp.. when I’m not fasting.
    But a nice surprise to see Achmad retracting his expletives. We all feel strongly about our bete noires, but criticism is much more effective if delivered clean and fresh, and it is true I am a big Clint Eastwood fan.

    One must not fall into the ABC (Australia) trap of referring to terrorists as militants – I refer to the Oz pinko clique’s ban on pejorative references to the Taliban – because I have met many militants who are not into murder as a tactic, and many would say my own views are quite militant.

    I was talking about the Laskar Jihad, who went to Maluku speciufically to kill, and did so, and to that piece of c##p Lubis, who called on his thugs to ‘kill, kill, kill’ Ahmadiyah. Also to those who tell their audiences that people who opt out of Islam deserve the death penalty..and who are not evidently urging legislation to that effect but rather direct action.
    Such swine ought to take the consequences of their evil, and yes, they are evil, Achmad,but they are, I think, a small minority of Muslims.

    What are the large majority doing to put them down? What, for example, has SBY or any of his Cabinet had to say about the latest idiocy in Aceh, where they are proposing to execute people for adultery.
    The essence of my story was not Duke’s perfectly understandable decision to go after killers whom nobody else was prepared to apprehend, but his much more purposeful tactic of getting the matter before the courts, of justice and opinion.

  14. fanglong says:

    I enjoyed both texts for different reasons and I have spontaneously voted for Timdog.
    I feel sorry my English isn’t that good : Ross’s way of writing is a little too spicy for my illiterate palate. Achmad is true with his Clint Eastwood comparison, but who has never wanted to do in the insincere blood-baying swines ? Not only in order to unwind but also because one is fed up with the same old horror story…
    Timdog’s short story is a languorously dreamy thing I like very much — maybe for a question of style, after all.
    As a (French) writer myself, I’m very sensitive to all attempts (and successes) in writing for the sake of writing. And, btw, I thank Patung for the production.

  15. Ross says:

    Thanks, Fanglong, it’s nice to get a view that’s genuinely objective. I liked Timdog’s tale also.
    Our styles are very different, so if I weren’t me (2nd conditional) I’d have found it hard to vote.

  16. timdog says:

    fanglong – as Ross says, it’s very nice indeed to have your view, an objective one, and, I think, one based on literary merits.
    And any praise of my style goes straight to my heart, so thank you very much for the vote!

    It’s all about style. I guess, Achmad, that’s why I’m quite good at parodies (even if I do say so myself). A hyper-awareness of style makes it very easy to pick up the key elements in other people’s, and then mockingly to exaggerate them for comic effect.

    Mas Patung – on settling down: “The man wants to wander, and he must do so or he shall die”; “All things told there are two kinds of men, those who stay at home, and those who don’t”. The first is Burton; the second is Kipling, just to reiterate what an odd kind of liberal I am. I’m now, just to spin you out some more, in Surabaya, but not for long…

  17. David says:

    Hi Timdog, yeah I know I just wanted to get in the line about the matrimonial sites, I thought it was pretty good…you’ve picked a good time to be in Surabaya I guess, quietish, I will shout out if I see a likely looking fellow on a motorbike, “Naipaul rocks my world”, or “Liberals suck!”, something like along those lines, unmistakeable so you know it’s me.

  18. timdog says:

    A fabulous time to be in Surabaya indeed, Mas Patung. Been blazing around those deliciously empty roads this very morning on the bike. I’ll keep an ear out for that tell-tale shout 😉

    Oh, and it was a good line about matrimonial sites…

  19. David says:

    Dragging this one out of the depths of time; an English literature teacher at University of Melbourne has taken a fancy to Timdog’s story and has produced this slideshow to accompany her teaching of it to her international students:

  20. itinerantman says:

    both excellent-very different styles-the first staccato and immediate,the second nostalgic with beautiful imagery-perhaps i shall not regret retiring in indonesia 🙂

  21. itinerantman says:

    incidentally, how many of you posting are in surabaya? i shall be rolling in mid july and would like to make some new friends 🙂

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