Click here for:

Eye of God

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.”

*****