In the north of the VOC port that long time ago was nothing except those bay and that delta. Sunda Kelapa’s now is still the same as a thousand years ago, what’s different, maybe, just the iron whales that replaced those wooden shipyards. A sedimentation that piled up eventually spread until 500 families inhabited that area, brooding and just small numbers that still commit to being a fisherman, trawling fish that decreased in number just because of the competition.
Seventy years ago, those land was tasting the independence just the same as the proclamation on the other part of that city. But, who did say? The fact that some people still ask, whose land is that, they had been relocated. The money that the government spent on cleaning up those land is indeed not a joke. Just like the sadness, loss, stress, trauma, and every single thing that related to the sorrow that the refugee felt, as it is not a joke. The rich become the poor. The poor become miserable. They are all the same, the one against their own nation who colonized their own people.
Afternoon comes, while remembering the independence that has been long, whose land is now vast, just like a football field, and shelters along the sides instead of bleachers, time to go home. Faraway apartments with a sea at their windows, seagull’s calling in the background, flies in between kites as the children are the shepherd. The cold drink from the modest kiosk in front of the filed instantly feels so refreshing. Is that what the independence feels like? Just like an artificial sweet, refreshing, but just in a blink of an eye. But after, just like a usually hot and humid day in the equator.
And everyone just wants to buy those cold drink, just like dreaming to be free in their own land.
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