dad, nobody told me this
This writing was published in FOYER ISSUE 01, an independent magazine celebrating and exploring untold stories from people of mixed, third culture and second-generation cultural heritage.
*
Life in London is lively, it's what we saw in movies. London's beautiful, the writers told me this. 23 years of moulding what they call career, Dad, don't you think it was time for me to leave? Clove cigarettes, choking paychecks, household violence and survival skills.
I'm just a girl with big wishes.
"You're someone's daughter - 1 can't let her see you go". Dad you left, why can't I follow?
British weather is violent, but my dreams were cruel. They're telling me I'm far away from my Javanese home. I got Hindu's Shita on my back, the woman doesn't burn; Rama betrayed her, but life betrayed her more.
Skin-deep, the ink parades this foreigner my language often misses; so they say,
"Turn around, let me see that culture once again."
3 quids coffee, people setting up beds on the streets. Dad, nobody told me this. I worked 9 hours, breaking that back the way I did glasses - they refused to give me my money. They assaulted that little girl in the shift against the Brighton wind, can you imagine? So they kicked me out, showed me where the money is. Dad, I couldn't tell you because nobody told me this.
"Have you eaten?", my second workplace offers good pizza, but my European boss thought Indonesia was a river-cross away from Oceania. I'm an Asian other, who fucking cares? But my pride insisted he did not have to tell me that. "What's for lunch?", bus transfers and blue uniform, I saved up for Copenhagen and left the bar's front door.
"Did you make it?" Mother came through, I let my Schengen paper expire, her eyes can't be compared to Freetown Christiania. She was my first mosque, the first religion I betrayed. My Gujarati mates have more faith than I do in what comes the next day. "Baba, do you want chai?" I saw the black tea surrender to milk in a boiling pot; I think of sitting down in Jakarta's small coffee stall whose business relies on the broke and tired. No marketing, no nothing; just communities and dirty economy.
"Hana, are we cooking?" my love for spices and Sumatran soil penetrate the British home; my guy's eyes gleamed. He wants to know what I've been missing. I've lost touch, can't you see?
Job seeks, Habermas's public sphere and splitting myself between two English cities, I've missed my father's calls in exchange for train rides and opportunities.
***
3pm, East London is boiling; pret-a-manger, murals on the street, the denim-slathered girl next to me is blasting Wizkid. I smiled.
The tube runs mercilessly
and
a
photographer
is
waiting
for
me.
Mirroring the accent. Taking up slangs. Girl's just learning the pace, but this Southeast blood
anchors
her
back
in
place.
Who's she kidding?
Man from Gambia came up, he said "Assalamualaikum sister".
His eyes told me in London nobody's alone. Packed like sardines. Noodle bowls, jollof, fritters reminded me of Eid.
I paid for my sterling,
wondering how he is.
