Pagi – good morning - can you hear them? The birds are chirping away, mourning doves cooing, their voices the first layer of sound greeting me on the Balinese Day of Silence. There are no cars or their horns, no trucks in low gear, no motorbikes on the road. No one is allowed outside of their family compounds or hotels or guesthouses for almost 36 hours. All roads, all shops, even the airports are closed. The only sound heard is the wind in the palms, children laughing, adults chattering, roosters crowing.
Today is Nyepi, celebrating the Balinese New Year, and one of the main reasons I come home at this time of the year. The dramatic contrast from last night is stark. Annually, on the night before Nyepi, the “evil” or “low” spirits are given a huge, island-wide welcome. Extremely loud gamelan music, drumming, and communal chanting lured them out to party, as young Balinese carry the Ogoh-Ogoh throughout the villages, inviting the wildness to earth. (These homemade, larger-than-life, huge foam and paper mâché scary creatures embody the demonic spirits.) Then, by dawn the next morning, the whole island retreats for the Day of Silence, and the craziness ceases full stop. The quiet is so palpable - the party animal spirits find the island too quiet, terribly boring, and seemingly abandoned, so they retreat and seek another wild party elsewhere. It is truly a magical happening that seems impossible to believe - yet it really happens each year, and it is truly transformative.
For Balinese Hindus, this is a time of reset, a purification for all the shrines and community members to cleanse the bad things and spirits from the past year and start afresh. Elements of the purification sentiment echo the Jewish Yom Kippur and the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, with Idul Fitri at the end to ask forgiveness and start the new year anew. But, in Bali, the rituals around this renewal astound me still. Each village has a Melasti ceremony a few days prior to Nyepi, calling all to rise early morning, gather at the village center to transport their temple shrines down to the sea for purification and benediction. I rose at 5 AM to witness my family and friends take off in the four buses filled with the women dressed in their beautiful sarongs and lace kebayas holding ceremonial offerings on their laps. Following behind them, seven open backed trucks tightly packed with standing men in crisp white tops and pressed sarongs, transporting the sacred shrines and souls to the beach an hour drive away. Gamelan music eased their journey, a well-orchestrated parade for the benediction.
Ages ago I arrived in Indonesia, but really, it’s only been three weeks, as I keep a quick pace working and visiting longtime friends and family. Upon my arrival, I immediately flew to Yogyakarta where I lived for years and love, in a very different way than Bali. A city of almost four million, it feels like lots of little villages where the mystical old flavors permeate the daily life still. I lived and studied batik there for years in the early 90’s, and my body cries regularly when I return, greeted by the locals with bright smiles and customary head bows. I look like such a seasoned regular that on the flight over, I was assigned to the emergency exit row with the assumption that I speak Indonesian (I do, but not perfectly), and that I could follow instructions. Or perhaps they just assumed I was a big white woman who could push open the emergency exit window in case of an emergency.
On the train ride into the city, we passed bright green swaths of rice fields sprinkled with bustling neighborhoods. Seeing all this open land, it is difficult to remember that Java is top of the list of the most populated islands in the world, with half of the 280 million Indonesians on only 7% of the country’s land mass, or more than 2,600 people per square mile. Mind boggling. Across the aisle from me sat an exquisitely beautiful Javanese woman in a full black head to toe Jilbab, something that almost all Americans judge as a very repressive sign of the Muslim world. Yet, after years of living in Indonesia, home to the largest Islamic population in the world, I respect these beauties and the way they move with such grace and confidence. Who am I to judge? My seatmate snakes her hand underneath her hijab (head covering) seamlessly to put on her earbuds as easily as an American teenager with a pixie cut.
She appeared to be talking to herself, and as I eavesdrop, she speaks about me, unaware I understand her Indonesian, describing me to whoever was on the other end of the line: a tall bule (boo-lay or foreigner) with a sweet smile, white hair (!), probably Dutch. When we disembarked the train, I spoke to her in Indonesian “Excuse me Ibu (Mrs.), I am actually from the U.S. but my ancestors were from Eastern Europe. See you later!” Of course, surprised, we chatted after she apologized for gossiping about me. Once again, I pulled my secret language tool from my back pocket, and it didn’t disappoint.
As one can imagine, being outside the United States at this time has been a salve for my whole being, breathing deeply with as much of a news blackout as humanly possible. Indonesia itself has a new President, Prabowo Subianto, since last year, and he is no peach himself. An elected military general with a horrid past that the current younger generation did not live through, and thus do not connect those atrocities to him. He is slowly chipping away at Indonesia’s democracy, sliding back towards a military dictatorship that Indonesia escaped through hard-fought victories over the past 30 years. He, and the previous President Jokowi, have changed laws to cement more executive powers. (Sound familiar?) As most countries that have overcome their colonized oppressors, this country has a very strong national pride. However, I was beyond surprised when one morning, while shopping at a huge department store, at 10 AM sharp, everyone – all the staff and all the customers – stopped, stood at attention, and sang the national Indonesian anthem together as it blared over the intercom. Supposedly this is a new move by the new President. (Back home, I get a bit queasy singing the national anthem at basketball games, but nobody sings it at Target...)
My dear friends and neighbors from Philly were traveling in Indonesia when I was there, and we met up in Yogyakarta. They toured around while I worked, and we met for dinners and catch-up. Ulrike and David invited me to join them for a special outing to visit Prambanan Temple, the largest Hindu Temple in Indonesia, a place I had not visited for over 35 years. This stunning temple compound was built in the 9th century AD, with over 225 small temples left in ruins from earthquakes, neglect, volcanoes, and political shifts. Yet, still standing are the majestic three main temples (dedicated to Hindu gods Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma), and a dozen others surrounding them, all a testament to time, ancient architecture, craftsmanship, and worship. I felt very humbled by the antiquity of the stones around me, especially because, since my last visit, there was a massive earthquake (in 2006) that caused significant damage. To imagine a place so historic that still shifts and changes over time, gives me hope. If we build a strong foundation, then we, too, can persevere through the most challenging of circumstances.
As I finish this letter from my dining room table again home in Philadelphia, I am struck how my writing captures different time periods from present to past tense and back again. It seems regardless of where I write, from - be it Bali, Java, or Philly - my heart flows from one place, one moment in time, to another. Right before departing home in early March, we spent a few days in Tampa celebrating the 95th birthday of my amazing mother-in-law, Adele Baydin. Surrounded by her dear family, our matriarch basked in sunshine and love. As a profound bookend on one side of my trip, the other came only three weeks later when our Adele died, her body peacefully letting go after a rapid decline of just weeks. Being overseas, I was reminded of only a year ago when my father was dying (and the year before that my mother) as I was in my Bali home. I managed to return in time to be with him the few weeks before he passed last April, and this time I was able to make it back for Adele’s funeral just days ago.
The juxtaposition of time and space from home here to my Indonesia and back again, enables me to appreciate the loss of our great elders even more. Witnessing Prambanan Temple continuing to stand the test of time, so do my ancestors whose shoulders are the foundation on which I stand. They are the ancient temples that I worship at, I learn from, and that I seek to preserve as a bond through the generations. In these tumultuous times, we all need to draw on the strength of those who have lived long, loving lives. Here’s to becoming the elders our children will miss dearly. We should be so lucky.
Today, at home, in desperate need of nature, and despite the cold temperatures, off I go to walk among the pink cherry blossoms and full magnolia petals. As springtime brings rebirth and new growth, I am uplifted in this new Balinese year. From my very grateful heart to yours, I wish you all the love you may need, and all that you have to give.
Laura