Wigati Yektiningtyas-Modouw, born, raised, and educated on the island of Java, Indonesia, has lived in Jayapura, Irian Barat, Indonesia, since 1986. She is a lecturer at the Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, Cenderawasih University. In addition to writing educational books and papers in national and international journals, she actively produces children’s stories in Indonesian, regional Papuan languages, and English. Her writing focuses on preserving the cultural heritage of Papua and improving the reading, writing, and arithmetic skills of Papuan children. In 2021, she was named as one of the Best Literacy Activists in Papua.

Modouw recently started writing short stories as one of her efforts to introduce nature, society, and Papuan culture to the world.

She lives with her husband, James Modouw, on the shores of Lake Sentani surrounded by hills.

Wigati Yektiningtyas-Modouw: wigati_y@yahoo.com.

*****

 

 

Matahari Selalu Melihat

Pagi itu aku terbangun karena kicauan puluhan burung merpati dan pipit yang bersahut-sahutan. Aku keluar dan menuju halaman rumahku. Terasa begitu damai. Samar aku mendengar gemercik Kali Koyabhu yang mengalir tidak jauh dari rumahku. Di sebelah barat Gunung Cyclop masih tertidur pulas berselimut kabut. Hutan kayu besi berjajar rapi di kakinya. Di sebelah timur sinar matahari mulai mengintip dari balik bukit di halaman belakang rumahku yang dipenuhi pepohonan mangga, rambutan, dan duku yang mulai berbunga. Benar-benar pagi yang sempurna.

Namun, kesempurnaan saat itu rusak ketika aku mendengar suara ribut dan pintu pagar kayuku yang dibuka dengan paksa. Ernes dan Ayub, adik sepupu suamiku, bertengkar dengan hebat. Aku dengan jelas mendengar Ayub membentak adiknya, “Ko tahu apa? Kau adik!”

Ernes yang tidak mau kalah membentak balik kakaknya, “Sa memang adik, tapi ko salah! Sa harus kasih ingat ko!” Aku menatap keduanya dan membiarkan mereka berbicara. Aku ingin menangkap apa yang mereka persengketakan.

“Ko tra ingatkah Bapak dulu bilang kalau kitong tra boleh jual tanah sembarang.” Ernes mengingatkan kakaknya bahwa mereka tidak diperbolehkan untuk menjual tanah tanpa tujuan pasti.

Ayub sepertinya tetap tidak bisa menerima nasihat adiknya. Aku bisa menangkap dari matanya bahwa kewibawaannya sebagai anak sulung terusik.

“Tanah itu kitong pu masa depan, ko memang tra bisa dengar sa!” Ernes tercekat menahan amarah dan tangisnya. “Ko jual tanah untuk apa?” Ernes melanjutkan.

Mendengar nasihat adiknya yang tidak diharapkannya, Ayub melangkah bergegas ke arah Ernes, mencengkeram lehernya, dan hendak mengayunkan tinjunya.

“Ayub, berhenti!” dengan bertolak pinggang aku berseru, “Pukul dia kalau ko bukan laki-laki!”

“Kakak, sa tra suka sekali Ernes bicara begitu,” Ayub membela diri. “Sa tersinggung,” lanjutnya.

“Dia yang mulai dulu, Kak,” sela Ernes yang tidak suka dengan tuduhan kakaknya.

“Kalian diam!” teriakku. “Pagi-pagi sudah bikin ribut,” lanjutku. Begitu keras teriakanku sehingga burung-burung yang bertengger di pohon-pohon cemara di sudut pagar terbang ke arah bukit di belakang rumah.

Ayub dan Ernes diam. Sebagai istri kepala suku, walaupun aku perempuan Jawa, aku sangat dihormati oleh masyarakat. Ada kepercayaan yang beredar bahwa pemangku adat adalah wakil dewa. Ada dua kata yang keluar dari mulutnya yang membuatnya amat disegani, onomi dan pelo. Berkat dan kutuk. Banyak yang percaya bahwa hak mengucapkan berkat dan kutuk juga melekat pada istrinya.

Tanpa bertanya lebih lanjut, aku sudah tahu apa yang diributkan oleh kedua kakak beradik itu. Sebagai istri kepala suku masyarakat Sentani, aku sudah terbiasa menghadapi pertikaian yang dialami oleh masyarakat. Suku Sentani sendiri merupakan salah satu dari 255 suku di Tanah Papua. Suku ini tersebar di wilayah pantai, gunung, dan lembah. Masyarakat Sentani berdiam di Jayapura, tepatnya di tepi Danau Sentani dan di pulau-pulaunya. Persoalan tanah adat, pertikaian suami-istri, pembayaran mas kawin, mengurus yung robhoni sudah menjadi makananku dan santapan suamiku setiap hari. Yung robhoni adalah suatu pembayaran adat bagi orang yang meninggal atas jasa baiknya. Sebagai kepala suku suamiku harus menyelesaikan persoalan-persoalan itu dengan bijak. Jika tidak, suamiku bisa saja jadi korban sungutan mereka.

***

Aku tidak bisa menyelesaikan masalah Ayub dan Ernes. “Masalah tanah di Sentani harus diselesaikan oleh pemangku adat,” aku menatap mereka satu-satu.

Ayub dan Ernes menunduk.

“Ayub, Ernes, sa pu suami sedang di Darwin, sa tra bisa bantu kalian dengan masalah kalian,” kataku melunak. “Mari kitong pergi ke rumah ondofolo,” lanjutku. Sebagai pemangku adat tertinggi, nasihat dan keputusan ondofolo akan menjadi pertimbangan terakhir yang harus diikuti. “Kalian tunggu di sini, Kakak ambil mobil dulu, ya,” perintahku.

“Baik, Kak. Kami tunggu di sini,” sahut mereka santun dan serempak. Aku puas dan bahagia karena telah memutuskan untuk membawa persoalan itu ke sang ondofolo dan mereka mematuhinya. Bahagiaku telah menghilangkan rasa laparku karena melewatkan sarapanku. Dalam perjalanan, Ayub dan Ernes diam. Aku tidak tahu apa yang sedang mereka pikirkan atau rencanakan.

“Ayub, Ernes, kalian itu kakak-adik yang hebat, pintar cari ikan, berburu. Kalian tra perlulah bertengkar seperti tadi,” kataku di belakang setir mobil memecah keheningan.

“Yo, Kak, terima kasih,” timpal Ernes.

“Kakak tidak bisa membantu kalian, mungkin sang ondofolo bisa bantu kalian,” jawabku lebih bersemangat. Aku melirik cermin mobilku untuk mengamati wajah keduanya. Lebih tenang tampaknya. Mudah-mudahan benar dugaanku.

***

Setelah satu jam perjalanan sampailah kami di rumah sang ondofolo. Aku menghentikan mobilku di bawah pohon beringin. Pagi itu pukul sembilan. Rumah besar sang ondofolo yang dikelilingi pohon pinus sebagai pagarnya tampak ramai. Aku melihat banyak anak-anak muda duduk di para-para di bawah pohon matoa. Sayup-sayup aku mendengar mereka melantunkan ehabla, salah satu lantunan lisan Sentani. Aku disambut senyum lebar istri sang ondofolo yang mempersilahkan kami masuk. Sambil menebar senyum kepada para pelantun, aku berjalan memasuki rumah ondofolo itu. Sayup aku mendengar lantunan mereka.

Yowen neiboi eleyande, Di kampung musyawarah diadakan

Igwanei yo kla holei kenane eleyande, Untuk memelihara hutan milik Kampung Igwa

Yamwen neiboi huweyande, Di kampung musyawarah diadakan

Raeinyei yam kla kayae kenane huweyande, Untuk memelihara hutan milik Kampung Raei

Secara samar aku menangkap bahwa lantunan itu mengisahkan masyarakat Sentani yang amat peduli akan hutan dan lingkungan mereka. Lantunan ehabla, ada nama kampung-kampung, memberiku pelajaran baru, batinku. Kami dipersilahkan istri sang ondofolo untuk menunggu di ruang tamu. “Duduk di sini dulu ya, sa akan panggil Bapak dulu,” katanya ramah. Kami bertiga duduk di kursi kayu yang terbuat dari kayu besi. Sambil menunggu, mataku menyapu ruang tamu yang cukup besar. Ruang tamu dibuat tanpa dinding. Tiang rumah tampak kokoh terbuat dari kayu besi yang tidak dicat. Tampak sangat alami. Pada sudut kiri berdiri tifa. Pegangannya diukir menyerupai ular naga. Dari penampilannya, tifa itu tampak sudah tua, kayunya yang dihias ukiran khas Sentani mulai terkelupas. Penutup tifa pada bagian atas terbuat dari soa-soa dan sudah sedikit robek pada pinggirnya. Seorang seniman pernah menjelaskan kepadaku bahwa soa-soa yang menyerupai biawak ini kulitnya sangat bagus digunakan sebagai penutup tifa. Bunyinya menjadi amat nyaring. Ular naga serupa tampak di lukisan kulit kayu yang dipajang di dinding yang memisahkan ruang tamu dan ruang utama rumah. Di atas punggung ular naga terlihat duduk beberapa orang sementara ular naga itu berenang di Danau Sentani.

“Kak, ular itu kitong pu kepercayaan di sini. Sa pu nenek cerita ular nagalah yang menyeberangkan masyarakat Sentani lama ke Pulau Asei ketika mereka pindah dari Sepik Timur, Papua New Guinea,” Ayub menjelaskan. Sepertinya dia tahu kalau aku penasaran tentang keberadaan ular naga itu.

“Menyeberang Danau Sentani?” tanyaku.

“Ya Kak, begitu sampai di tepi Danau Sentani, nenek moyang kami ingin menyeberang ke Pulau Asei, mereka ingin berdiam di sana,” terang Ernes.

“Apakah kalian tahu mengapa mereka memutuskan untuk tinggal di Pulau Asei, bukan pulau yang lain?” kejarku.

“Tidak, Kak,” jawab Ayub dan Ernes serempak. “Tidak pernah diceritakan juga oleh nenek moyang kami,” tambah Ayub.

Mungkin karena sudah kelelahan berjalan jauh mereka memutuskan untuk tinggal di sebuah pulau paling timur, pulau pertama yang mereka lihat. Mungkin mereka juga mempertimbangkan keamanan, aman dari serangan manusia lain dan binatang buas, aku menyimpulkan sendiri.

Aku menjadi paham mengapa masyarakat Sentani menjuluki Pulau Asei yang merupakan salah satu dari dua puluh dua pulau yang tersebar di Danau Sentani sebagai pulau tua. “Jadi Pulau Asei adalah pulau yang pertama kali dihuni nenek moyang kita?” tanyaku sekadar memeriksa pemahamanku.

“Kakak pintar,” puji Ayub.

Mendengar pujian Ayub aku tersenyum karena sepertinya suasana hatinya telah berubah. Di sudut kiri ruang tamu terdapat busur panah besar dan beberapa anak panah yang disusun rapi di dalam gentong keramik yang berhiaskan, lagi-lagi, ular naga. Anak-anak panah berukuran antara 80 cm–100 cm. Batang anak panah yang terbuat dari sejenis bambu hutan bergaris-tengah kira-kira dua cm ini, diukir sangat rinci dan rapi. Pada ujungnya terdapat kayu yang dibuat lancip yang juga diberi hiasan ukiran. Ketika aku ingin menyentuhnya, aku dengar Ayub berteriak cemas. “Kak, jangan sentuh barang itu!”

Aku kaget dengan teriakan Ayub. “Kenapa, Dik?” Suaraku agak bergetar karena kaget.

“Alat berburu itu milik laki-laki, tidak boleh disentuh perempuan bahkan oleh istri sang pemilik,” jawabnya tegas dengan mata yang penuh kekhawatiran karena aku hampir saja menyentuhnya. “Menurut kepercayaan, jika sampai alat berburu tersentuh perempuan walau tak sengaja sekalipun, nanti pemiliknya dapat sial,” lanjut Ayub.

“Kak, betul sekali, bukannya dapat babi hutan, tapi si pemburu malah bisa celaka dikejar babi hutan,” imbuh Ernes.

Ketika kami sedang membahas alat berburu, sang ondofolo keluar dari dalam rumah. Aku pun bergegas duduk sambil minta maaf telah berkeliling di ruang tamunya tanpa seizinnya. Beliau malah tampak merasa senang saat kami tertarik pada benda-benda yang ada di dalamnya dan membahas adat leluhurnya.

“Ade Ipar,” sapanya memanggilku. Aku dipanggil adik karena suamiku secara adat berkedudukan sebagai adik. “Alat berburu itu milik sa pu Bapak. Beliau adalah pemburu hebat yang tidak pernah pulang dengan tangan hampa. Paling tidak, beliau membawa seekor babi hutan yang besar.”

“Wah, dahsyat,” selaku. “Apakah beliau berburu seorang diri?” tanyaku ingin tahu.

“Biasanya ada yang menemani, satu atau dua orang. Mereka juga yang bantu bawa hasil buruan,” terangnya.

“Yang jelas Bapak selalu ditemani paling tidak dua ekor anjing pemburu yang hebat, yang membantu Bapak mudah mendapatkan hewan buruan,” lanjutnya penuh semangat. Sebagai orang kota, agak sulit aku membayangkan bagaimana berburu di hutan lebat yang masih dihuni hewan-hewan buas. Aku mencoba untuk bisa memahami kepercayaan yang melarang perempuan memegang alat berburu laki-laki supaya pemburu tidak celaka.

“Ade Ipar,” lanjut sang ondofolo membuyarkan pikiranku yang tiba-tiba menerawang lebatnya hutan yang dihuni berbagai hewan buas.

“Ya, Kakak Ondo,” tanggapku santun.

“Sa pu Bapak selalu membagi daging buruannya kepada masyarakat. Sebagai ondofolo, beliau tidak pernah mementingkan diri sendiri. Beliau tidak ingin ada masyarakat yang lapar,” terangnya membanggakan bapaknya.

“Sa pu Bapak bilang, Ondo pu Bapak adalah ondofolo yang hebat,” sela Ayub.

Aku jadi ingat penjelasan suamiku sekian tahun lalu bahwa ondofolo adalah jabatan adat Sentani yang diturunkan kepada anak laki-laki tertua. Demikian juga kepala suku.

“Ehm, adik-adik datang ada keperluan apa?” tanya sang ondofolo.

Aku sampai lupa tujuan utama kedatangan kami.

Ayub dan Ernes juga tampak sudah tidak tegang seperti ketika mereka datang ke rumahku.

“Aduh Kakak Ondo, sa minta maaf. Sa antar Ade Ayub dan Ade Ernes,” jawabku. “Dorang dua tadi pagi datang ke rumah. Mereka bertengkar tentang jual tanah apalah begitu,” terangku. Aku lihat wajah Ayub dan Ernes mulai panas lagi tetapi tidak bisa bertingkah banyak karena ada di depan orang yang disegani sekaligus ditakuti masyarakat.

“Begini, Kakak Ondo,” jawab Ayub dan Ernes bersamaan.

“Aduh, satu satulah bicaranya, sa pusing nanti!” kata sang ondofolo dengan wajah sabar disertai senyum khasnya.

“Ya sudah, Ayub dulu, ko kakak, bicaralah dulu,” sang ondofolo mempersilahkan Ayub bicara.

“Begini, Kakak Ondo, sa mo jual tanah di sebelah sa pu kebun yang dekat Hutan Ratha itu,” terang Ayub.

“Terus sa larang, Kakak Ondo,” sela Ernes. ”Terus dia marah sa, maki-maki lagi, dia bilang sa tra tau apa-apa,” kata Ernes seolah mencari pembelaan sang ondofolo.

“Aduh! kenapa kalian masih saja bertengkar tentang tanahkah? Harusnya kalian tahu, tanah tidak dijual sembarangan. Tanah di kitong pu adat itu milik ulayat, dikelola ondofolo yang dibantu oleh para kepala suku untuk kepentingan orang banyak,” terang sang ondofolo dengan sabar. Beberapa tahun yang lalu kitong lepaskan tanah untuk pembangunan bandara, pertokoan, dan perumahan di Sentani,” lanjutnya.

“Sepertinya sudah marak penjualan tanah di Sentani sejak tahun 1970an ya, Kakak Ondo?” aku menyela bertanya untuk mencari penjelasan lebih lanjut dari beliau.

“Begini, Ade Ipar,” sang ondofolo menghela nafas dan jeda cukup lama dengan mata menatap ke depan seperti sedang mengingat sesuatu. “Kita tidak punya banyak pilihan, ketika Jayapura ditetapkan menjadi ibukota Provinsi Papua pada tahun 1970an, banyak tanah yang harus kita lepaskan. Untuk pembangunan perkantoranlah, pertokoanlah, perumahan pendatanglah, sekolahlah, dll.

“Cara pelepasan pun tidak gampang karena tanah ulayat sifatnya, bukan milik perorangan. Jadi jika dilepaskan harus dipimpin ondofolo, disepakati para kepala suku dan masyarakat. Uangnya juga harus dibagi adil. Jika tidak, su tau to, akan ada pertikaian, permusuhan, dan sampai yang lebih parah lagi akibatnya,” lanjutnya. “Jadi tanah tidak bisa dijual secara perseorangan. Ondofolo pun tidak boleh menjual tanah tanpa alasan jelas.” Sang ondofolo meneruskan penjelasannya dengan penuh semangat.

“Kalau ondofolo atau seseorang menjual tanah sembarangan, apa akibatnya, Kakak Ondo?” Ayub mulai terpengaruh.

“Begini, Ayub,” jawab sang ondofolo kilat. “Tanah buat orang Sentani adalah sumber hidup. Kalau kitong jual, kita mau wariskan apa buat anak cucu kita? Kita justru harus merawatnya, bukan merusaknya dengan menjualnya kepada orang lain yang mungkin tidak menggunakannya dengan baik.”

“Kalau dia tetap keras kepala menjualnya, bagaimana, Kakak Ondo? sela Ernes penasaran.

“Orang Sentani percaya pada ungkapan yang mengatakan Hu Jokho Erele yang berarti dewa selalu melihat. Dulu sebelum agama datang kitong percaya pada dewa-dewi kan? Matahari dalam kepercayaan Sentani juga sering dianggap sebagai mata dewa. Dialah yang selalu mengawasi kita dan akan memberikan onomi untuk yang berbuat baik dan pelo untuk yang berbuat jahat,” sang ondofolo menjelaskan sambil membetulkan letak kacamatanya. “Sa tanya ko dulu,” kata sang ondofolo menatap Ayub. “Kalau ko lakukan sesuatu yang tidak boleh dilakukan itu benarkah?” tanyanya.

“Tra benar, Ondo,” jawab Ayub. Hatinya tampak ciut. Kepalanya tertunduk.

“Masih ingat seorang ondofolo dari Kampung Dobon yang setelah terima uang tanah milyaran rupiah meninggal pada malam harinya? Padahal dia tidak sakit sama sekali. Mengenaskan, bukan?” tanya sang ondofolo mengingatkan tentang akibat penjualan tanah yang kurang beres.

“Ya ingat, Ondo, kitong ingat,” Ayub dan Ernes menjawab serentak.

“Nah, tujuan penjualannya tepat, yaitu untuk pembangunan sebuah sekolah, tapi karena dia melanggar batas tanah yang bukan hak keondofoloannya itulah yang menyebabkan kematiannya,” sang ondofolo melanjutkan keterangannya. “Masih ingat seorang lelaki yang dibunuh di Bukit Isele?” tanyanya lagi. “Dia dibunuh oleh orang yang tidak puas akan pembagian uang hasil penjualan tanah. Kampung Khending dibakar oleh masyarakat Kampung Khabham pun karena masalah tanah. Seorang kepala suku di Kampung Ru sakit hampir selama hidupnya karena dia menjual tanah dan hasilnya dihamburkan untuk menyenangkan diri sendiri,” sang ondofolo menceritakan berbagai peristiwa pahit karena penjualan tanah. “Yang lebih parah adalah beberapa orang menjual tanah, dibayar dengan cara dicicil. Uangnya tidak bisa digunakan untuk membeli apa-apa. Uang tanah yang dibayarkan sedikit demi sedikit justru digunakan untuk membeli minuman keras. Uangnya habis juga dan orang itu kehilangan tanahnya yang biasa digunakannya untuk berkebun. Akhirnya dia tinggal di sepetak tanah. Untuk memenuhi kebutuhan hidupnya, dia menjadi pembantu di rumah orang yang membeli tanahnya,” sang ondofolo mengakhiri kisahnya dengan nada sedih. Matanya menatap ke depan. Setelah sedikit jeda, dia melanjutkan “Hu Jokho Erele, Ayub! Ernes. Ingatlah bahwa matahari selalu melihat. Jadi walaupun luput dari pengetahuan manusia, tidak ada perbuatan seseorang yang luput dari perhatian Sang Kuasa,” terangnya.

Aku melihat Ayub tertunduk, kedua matanya basah, dadanya tampak naik-turun menahan tangisnya.

“Ondo, sa paham sekarang. Sa menyesal. Tadi sa baru berencana menjual tanah saja, sa sudah berkelahi dengan Ernes. Kami kehilangan kasih,” sesalnya. “Maafkan sa, Ondo, maafkan sa Ernes,” lanjutnya dan seketika itu juga Ayub memeluk adiknya. Mereka berpelukan sambil menangis.

Air mata haruku pun mengalir membasahi pipiku.

“Baik, tra apa, Ayub, Ernes, yang penting kalian sudah memahami akibat buruk jika kitong tra merawat tanah. Orang Sentani lama sangat menjaga alam: tanah, gunung, danau, hutan, sungai yang ada di lingkungan kita. Kepada alamlah kita mengandalkan hidup kita,” lanjut sang ondofolo bijak.

Tiba-tiba aku terusik dengan suara lantunan ehabla sehingga aku bertanya kepada sang ondofolo. “Kakak, dorang melantun ehabla, sedang latihan saja atau akan ada acara?” Aku penasaran mengapa mereka sudah melantun di rumah sang ondofolo pada pagi hari.

“Oh ya, Ade Ipar, betul sekali, mereka sudah datang dari pagi. Mereka mau isi acara peringatan Hari Lingkungan di Gunung Merah nanti,” jawab sang ondofolo.

“Oh pantas, tadi sa dengar mereka melantun tentang bagaimana harus merawat tanah, hutan,” aku menyela.

“Betul sekali, Ade Ipar, tanah, hutan, danau itu harus dirawat, dijaga. Kita tra boleh menebang pohon secara liar. Ada aturan dalam menebang pohon. Jangan membuang sampah di danau,” sang ondofolo menutup penjelasannya.

Aku lega, sepertinya masalah yang dihadapi oleh Ayub dan Ernes telah diselesaikan oleh sang ondofolo. Sebelum kami memohon diri, aku tekankan kepada kakak-beradik itu, “Jangan menyia-nyiakan alam anugerah Sang Kuasa.”

*****

Purwanti Kusumaningtyas teaches at the English Literature Bachelor’s Program, Faculty of Language and Arts, Satya Wacana Christian University in Salatiga, Central Java. She earned her master’s and doctorate degrees from the American Studies Graduate Program, Faculty of Cultural Science, Gadjah Mada University, Yogyakarta. She has a wide range of interests, including mountain climbing and hiking, as well as poetry and short-story writing.

She has published her poems and short stories in anthologies, among others, “Furtive Notions” (DeePublish 2022) and “They Are Here” (DeePublish 2023). Some of her poems have been musicalized and performed in various non-profit, humanistic events, including LETSS Talk, a prominent feminist initiative in Indonesia, and Festival Musik Rumah (FMR). She has worked with Dalang Publishing since 2013, after discovering that she and the publisher share a passion to preserve and introduce Indonesia’s diversity to the world.

Purwanti can be reached at: purwanti.kusumaningtyas@uksw.edu

*****

 

 

Eye of God

I woke that particular morning to the chak-chak of magpies and the coo-coo of doves. Out to the front yard I went to walk in peace. I could hear the faint gurgling of the Kali Koyabhu River that flowed near my home, in Papua Province, Indonesia. To the west, the Cyclops Mountains slept beneath a cozy blanket of fog, rows of ironwood trees standing tidy at its foot. To the east, the waking sun pushed through the mango, rambutan, and langsat trees. The flowers had opened to the warmth. It really was a perfect morning.

That tranquility was ruined by arguing voices and the forceful clang of my gate opening. Ernes and Ayub, my husband’s cousins, were quarrelling. “What do you know?” Ayub shouted at his little brother. “You’re just a youngster!”

“That’s right!” Ernes yelled back. “I am just your little brother, but you’re wrong, and I am going to tell you so!” I watched them without interrupting, wanting to know what they were fighting about. “Father told us that we cannot sell our land without a good reason!”

Ayub bristled at his little brother’s admonition. I could read it in his eyes. As the first son, his dignity had been challenged.

“You never listen to me!” Ernes choked in his anger and tears. “That land is our future! Why do you want to sell the land?”

Ayub lunged toward Ernes, grabbed his collar, and raised his fist.

“Ayub, don’t!” I shouted, my hands flying to my hips. “If you hit him, you’re not a man!”

“I don’t like it when Ernes speaks to me that way,” Ayub huffed defensively. “It offends me!”

“He started it!” Ernes interrupted, clearly indignant.

“Quiet!” I shouted, scattering the birds roosting in my yard’s pine trees. I glanced up as they flew toward the hill behind my house. “It’s still early … what’s all this noise about?”

Ayub and Ernes didn’t speak. Even though I was originally from the island of Java, as the wife of the Sentani tribe’s chief in Papua Province, who was believed to represent the gods, I was highly respected in the village. Two words gave me that respect: onomi and pelo, blessing and curse. Many believed that the chief’s right to confer blessings and curses was shared by his wife.

I didn’t have to ask; I knew what the two brothers were fighting about. As the chief’s wife, I was accustomed to disagreements among people. The Sentani tribe was only one of 255 tribes in the Land of Papua. Our tribe occupied the shore, the mountain area, and the valley. Sentani people lived in Jayapura — more precisely, around Sentani Lake and on its islands. Land disputes, marital discord, dowry disagreements, yung robhoni discussions to collect money for paying tribute settlements between a husband and his deceased wife’s family — all these matters were a part of my husband’s and my daily diet. As the tribe’s chief, my husband had to solve those problems wisely. If he failed, he would become the target of the people’s complaints.

***

Being the chief’s wife, I could not solve the two brothers’ quarrel. I looked at each of them and said, “In Sentani, land disputes must be settled by either the chief or the traditional elder.”

Ayub and Ernes bowed their heads.

“Since I can’t help you, and my husband is away, we’ll go to the ondofolo’s house.” As the highest ruler of tradition, the traditional elder’s advice and decisions would be the final ruling. “You two wait here; I’ll get the car.”

I was pleased with my decision to bring the problem to the respected ondofolo, and the brothers had obeyed me. It would mean missing breakfast, but my accomplishment made me forget my hunger. On the way to the ondofolo, Ayub and Ernes kept quiet. I wondered what they were thinking about.

“Ayub, Ernes,” I said, breaking the silence. “You two are intelligent brothers. You’re good fishermen and hunters. You don’t need to fight like you just did.”

“Yeah, thank you,” Ernes replied.

“Even though I can’t help you, perhaps the ondofolo can.” I glanced in the rearview mirror to catch their expressions. They looked calmer than before. I hoped I was right.

***

After an hour’s drive, we arrived at the ondofolo’s big house, and I parked my car under the banyan tree. It was nine in the morning. The ondofolo’s house, fenced by pine trees, was crowded with people. Several young people sat on the benches under the matoa tree. I heard the faint chantings of Sentani’s ehabla. The ondofolo’s wife welcomed us. As I walked into the house, I smiled at the chanters and listened.

Yowen neiboy eleyande
In the kampong we have discussions

Igwanei yok la holei kenane eleyande
To preserve the forest owned by the Igwa village

Yamwen neiboi huweyande
In the kampong we have discussions

Raenyei yam kla kayae kenane huweyande
To preserve the forest owned by the Raei village

I caught the chant’s meaning. It was about the Sentani people, who cared deeply about the forests in their environment. I realized the ehabla chant had taught me something new.

The ondofolo’s wife invited us to have a seat in the living room. “I’ll call my husband,” she said kindly. The three of us took seats on ironwood chairs. As we waited, I looked around the big great room The bare hardwood pillars gave the area a natural, sturdy ambiance. A tifa with a dragon-shaped handle stood in the left corner. The hourglass-shaped drum looked old. The decorative carvings in a special Sentani motif, had begun to peel. The drumhead was made from soa-soa, and the stretched lizard skin was a bit frayed at its edge. An artist once explained that the soa-soa skin made very good tifa tops, as it produced a sonorous sound. On a large piece of bark, a painted dragon, swimming in Sentani Lake carrying people on its back, served as the room’s space divider.

Ayub noticed my curiosity about the dragon. “In Sentani, the dragon is our national symbol,” he volunteered. “My grandmother told me that a dragon took the old Sentani people across the lake to Asei Island when they moved from East Sepi in Papua, New Guinea.”

“Across Lake Sentani?” I asked.

“Yes,” Ernes answered. “When they arrived at the edge of Lake Sentani, our ancestors wanted to cross to Asei Island to live there.”

“Do you know why they decided to live on Asei Island, instead of any of the other twenty-two islands?” I asked.

“No.” Ayub and Enes answered simultaneously. “No one ever told us,” Ayub added, “not even our ancestors.”

I drew my own conclusions: Maybe they were so tired after their long trip they decided to settle on the first island they saw, which just happened to be the most eastern island. Maybe they also took into consideration their safety, from other people and wild animals.

“So, Asei Island was the first island that our ancestors lived on?” I asked, starting to understand why Sentani people referred to Asei Island as the old island.

Ayub looked at me. “You’re quick!”

His compliment made me smile. His mood must have improved. In the corner of the room, a big bow and some arrows were tidily arranged in a pottery jar that was, again, ornamented with a dragon. The arrows were three feet long and almost one-inch around, with shafts made of forest bamboo. Each was decorated neatly with detailed carvings. The points were carved as well. I rose to go touch them, when Ayub shouted in terror, “Don’t!”

Startled, I froze and looked at Ayub.

“Hunting equipment belongs to men,” he said sternly. “Women, including the wife of the owner, are forbidden to touch them. Bad luck befalls the owner if his hunting equipment is touched by a woman — even if it was done accidentally.”

“That’s right,” Ernes added. “For instance, instead of the hunter catching wild boars, the wild boars might catch the hunter.”

While we were talking, the ondofolo entered the room. I quickly sat down and apologized for having moved around the room without his permission. But he didn’t seem to mind and even looked pleased that we showed interest in the ancestors’ traditions.

“Ade Ipar,” he said, addressing me as “little sister-in-law.” According to Sentani tradition, my husband ranked the same as his little brother. “The hunting equipment belonged to Bapak. My father was a seasoned hunter who never returned empty-handed. He would bring home at least one big boar.”

“That’s impressive,” I said, my interest piqued. “Did he hunt alone?”

“Usually there were one or two others who went with him,” the ondofolo explained enthusiastically. “They helped carry the prey. But always, Bapak was accompanied by at least two hunting dogs that would help him locate the quarry.”

“I see, Kak Ondo,” I replied politely. As a former city dweller, I had trouble imagining how to hunt in the jungle with so many wild animals. And why, I wondered, was a woman not allowed to touch the hunting equipment?

“My father always shared the meat from his hunt with the villagers,” the ondofolo continued proudly. “As an ondofolo, he was not selfish. He did not want anyone to go hungry.”

“My father said your father was much admired,” Ayub said.

I remembered my husband’s explanation some years ago that it was the Sentani tradition to pass on the rank of ondofolo to the first son. The same applied to the chief of the tribe.

“So now, what brings all of you here?” the ondofolo asked.

I had almost forgotten the purpose of our visit. Ayub and Ernes had calmed down since earlier that morning.

“Oh, Kak Ondo, I apologize,” I answered. “Earlier this morning, Ayub and Ernes were quarrelling about selling their land.” I saw the brothers’ faces tighten, but in the presence of the ondofolo, they were expected to remain composed.

“So, this is the story, Kak Ondo,” Ayub and Ernes interrupted simultaneously.

“Oh, my, please talk one at a time!” the Ondofolo exclaimed with a patient chuckle. “I don’t want to get a headache! Ayub, you’re the eldest. You go first.”

“Here’s the story, Kak Ondo,” said Ayub. “I want to sell the land next to my field near the Ratha Forest —”

“— and when I did not allow him to do it, Kak Ondo, he became angry!” Ernes interrupted, indignant. “He started yelling at me, saying that I don’t know anything!”

“Oh, my!” the ondofolo said gently. “Why are you still fighting about land? You know that Sentani land is not to be sold on a whim. Our land belongs to our people. It is managed by the ondofolo with help of the tribal chiefs for the good of all. For example, some years ago, we sold some land to build an airport, shopping area, and housing in Sentani.”

“Kak Ondo, if I remember correctly, hasn’t a lot of land been sold in Sentani since the 1970s?” I was curious to know more of the story.

“This, Ade Ipar, is the story.” The ondofolo took a deep breath and looked away, gathering his thoughts. “When, in the 1970s, Jayapura became the capital of Papua Province, we had to give up much land — it was needed. Offices, shopping centers, migrant housing, schools — many facilities had to be built.

“We did not give up the land easily, because it was ulayat — land that belonged to the community. The land did not belong to any individual. So, the decision to sell this land had to be made by the ondofolo, with the consent of all tribal chiefs and their people. To prevent discontent and internal conflict — which could cause discord in our community for decades — the money had to be distributed fairly. So, you see, Sentani land cannot be sold by any individual — even the ondofolo cannot sell land without consent of the people.”

Ayub was listening closely. “What would happen if an ondofolo or an individual sold a piece of land randomly?” he asked.

The ondofolo’s response was immediate. “For Sentani people, land is our source of living. What will we leave our offspring if we sell our land? We have to look after the land, not destroy it by selling it to other people who may not use it wisely.”

“What happens if the person disobeys the law and sells the land anyway, Kak Ondo?” Ernes asked.

“Hu Jokho Erele,” said the ondofolo. “Sentani people believe in Hu Jokho Erele, which means: The gods are always watching. Before we knew any religions, we believed in gods, didn’t we? The sun, in Sentani belief, is the eye of god. The gods always watch us and will grant the best onomi for those who are honorable and inflict pelo on those who are evil.” The ondofolo adjusted his glasses and turned to Ayub. “I want to ask you: Is it okay to do something that is forbidden?”

“No, Kak Ondo, it isn’t.” Ayub hung his head and looked at the floor.

“Do you remember the incident in Kampong Dobon, where land was sold for building a school?” the ondofolo continued. “The purpose of selling the land was proper, but the ondofolo trespassed the border of some land that was not under his jurisdiction. After the ondofolo received billions of rupiahs from that land sale, he dropped dead that very evening. He was not ill at all.”

“Yes, I remember, Kak Ondo,” Ayub and Ernes answered simultaneously.

“Do you remember the man who was murdered on the Bukit Isele hill?” the ondofolo continued. “He was murdered by a person who felt cheated with the amount of money he received from the land sale. Kampong Khending was burned down by its people, also because of a land issue. A tribal chief in Kampong Ru became ill for the rest of his life because he sold a piece of land and used the money strictly for himself.” The ondofolo had plenty of bitter stories that demonstrated the consequences of selling land for the wrong reason.

“The worst-case scenario is when the land is sold using installment payments,” he said. “Those small amounts of money are only enough to buy vices. By the time the land seller receives the last installment payment, he has already spent the money — and lost the land he used to farm for income! Eventually he’s forced to live on a small piece of land and, to make his ends meet, becomes a tenant on what was once his own land.”

The ondofolo’s voice was sad. After a short pause, he continued, “Hu Jokho Erele, Ayub! The gods are always watching. Even if a misdeed is invisible to a human being, nothing can hide from the eye of God.”

Ayub bowed his head. His chest heaved as he attempted to hold back his tears. “I apologize, Kak Ondo; I understand now,” he said. “I regret my plan to sell the land. And while fighting with Ernes, we lost some of the love between us.” Ayub turned to Ernes and hugged his brother. “Forgive me, Ernes.”

I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

“That’s good, Ayub, Ernes.” The ondofolo nodded. “Most importantly, you now understand the bad impact we create if we don’t look after our land properly. Sentani people are the caretaker of nature: the land, mountain, lake, forest, and river. In our lives, we rely on nature.”

I was suddenly aware of the sound of the ehabla chant. Curious why they had been chanting ehabla in the ondofolo’s house all morning, I asked, “Are they practicing, or is there a celebration?”

“The chanters arrived this morning,” said the ondofolo. “They will perform in the commemoration of the Environment Day in Gunung Merah later today.”

“Oh, so that’s why they’re chanting about how to take care of the land, the forest.”

“You’re correct, Ade Ipar. The land, forest, and lake have to be taken care of and protected by us. We cannot fell trees carelessly; we cannot throw garbage into the lake.”

Relieved that the quarrel between Ayub and Ernes had been solved by the respected ondofolo, I wanted to reemphasize the lesson we had learned. Before asking permission to leave the ondofolo’s house, I turned to the brothers. “Never waste what the Almighty has granted us.”

*****