First Day

So I was definitely at school until after midnight last night finishing things that I procrastinated on. I am incredibly thankful for wonderful friends who actually know how to decorate and are willing to stay up with me until midnight doing so. Thanks to Melanie especially – because of her, my class looks more like a place to learn than a place to be incarcerated. Here are some pictures of my room this year!

Classroom 1!

Looking from the back of the room to the front. For the first time ever, each high school classroom has a computer and projector!

I really just love all the corners in this picture. Also, I love my class verse poster that a former student designed for me.

My computer desk. I wish I could hide all those ugly wires and cables. But I did bring a candle and a framed picture to make it look like a homey little desk.

From the front of the room looking back. My corner of the room. And my map that I just had hung today!

The three things hanging on my file cabinet. One is the verse that was my constant reminder for a lot of last school year. The other is my reminder to be happy when the sun is shining AND when it’s raining (which is does for 9 months out of the year, much to my dismay), and the last is just about the cleverest thing a student has ever come up with.

My water bottle always leaves a condensation ring on my desk which papers get laid in, and then said papers get all nasty and wet. So this year, I made myself a coaster out of felt! And I don’t want to brag or anything, but I basically think it’s adorable.

Computer corner again.

Hanging on the wall is a framed 8 x 10 print of this photo:

Aaaaaaand… My favorite part of the classroom which Melanie and I stayed up until after midnight finishing…

This is the first year that I have something other than math themed Far Side cartoons stapled all over my bulletin board. And I kind of love it. All creative credit goes to Melanie though. I just cut out shapes.

One more display is in the works. I’ve been gathering quotes from around the internet all summer, and earlier this week, I sent them to the printer. I’m having full page photo prints made of each one, and I’m going to make essentially a photo collage wall of the quotes on that blank white part between the windows because, let’s face it, this wall needs some help.

It’s not quite ready yet though, because I decided at the last minute that since I’d sunk money into getting the photos printed, I should get them laminated. Pictures tend to get kind of nasty and smudgy during rainy season. Also, geckos poop on them. So they’re still at the laminator’s. Some of the quotes include these:

I’m hoping that once they’re all ready, I can find some creative way to hang them so that they all look cool together… Maybe Melanie can help me with that.

The Last Day of Summer

School is upon us… As I was preparing my classroom today, I got slightly distracted. And by “slightly”, I mean that I still have nothing hanging on the walls, and I finally decided to just wing it for the first day of school tomorrow, but here’s what I would look like with bangs.

Abuse

It was recently brought to my attention that a little boy from a nearby neighborhood who also happens to go to my church is living in an abusive situation. According to neighbors, he is being used as a punching bag at home almost every single day. He just started second grade and can’t read yet, so his mom, thinking he must be retarded, enrolled him in SLB (Sekolah Luar Biasa – a school for handicapped children). He’s not handicapped. He is abused.

Someone only mentioned this to me in a passing conversation this past weekend. When I heard about it, my first thought was, “What can I do?” But I live in a country rife with injustice. And this kid lives in one of the poorest areas of town. The police don’t care if poor people are beating their kids. Let them do what they want. There is no child protective service here; no foster care system to speak of.

This makes me angry. And then it makes me cry.

I’ve sought out more information about the family situation over the past few days. Here is what I know: The mother is in her 20s and has had 5 children from 5 different men. There is currently no father figure in the picture. The first child got sick and died. The second child was sold for $100. The youngest three still live with mom and some extended family members. Mom is doing the beating, and one of the two younger siblings is also on the receiving end of it. The youngest is only a few months old. The neighbors all know it is happening, but there is nothing anybody can do to stop it.

I hesitated to write this post for a few reasons, one being that maybe it’s not my right to air their dirty laundry in public.

But I don’t want to be quiet. There’s too much of that in this country. Do you know that if an Indonesian girl is raped, she will more than likely never tell anyone, not even her own family? And do you know that if you rape a girl, but your father is in the military, you will never be prosecuted? And if your husband beats you every single day of your life and all the neighbors hear it happening, they will never once breathe a word of it. If you get pregnant out of wedlock, your family will hide you, then pretend the baby belongs to an already married family member. Or they might send the baby to live in an orphanage so nobody ever has to know. Most handicapped kids are sexually assaulted at some point in their life by a family member or teacher. And it’s normal to rape and beat prostitutes – you can even do it in the gas station parking lot, and nobody will stop you. Children are sold, never to be spoken of again, often to brothels where their virginity goes to the highest bidder. Illegal abortions are performed behind closed doors, and if you can’t pay for it, the doctor gets to rape you afterwards.

I’m not making any of this up. Everything I just wrote above comes from real stories of real people.

In my mind the past few days, I keep coming back to the question, “What can I do?” I can’t hear that a child I know is being abused and do nothing. I have to do something.

I talked this morning with a friend of mine who really has a heart to help women and children in troubled situations. Her recommendations to me were as follows:

1. Pray for the kids and for the family.
2. Try to build a relationship with the mother and to love on the kids as much as possible.
3. Get the kid out of the school he’s in now (because the school for handicapped kids is where many handicapped kids are abused or assaulted further).

So that’s where I start. The praying part is easy. I can do that anytime, anywhere. I’m hopefully going to meet the mother on Thursday (she doesn’t come to church with the kids, so I don’t know her). As for the school, I have some information about enrolling him in a better school that will accept kids with special needs in the regular classroom (not many Indonesian schools will), and I already know of 2 people willing to help with the cost for that.

If you’re reading this, please, please, please join me in prayer for this situation. I wish I could just offer the mother $50 and take the kids home with me, but it’s not that easy. Those of us who desire to help need a lot of wisdom, and God needs to soften the heart of the mother. We can’t change her or the way she treats her children. And even if we are somehow able to remove these kids from the situation, developmentally, they are so far behind that I don’t know how long term the affects of the abuse will be in their lives.

I’m going to go ahead and post pictures of the two children, Yoga (the boy – 7 yrs) and Gibta (the girl – 4 years). (These pictures were taken in 2010, so if you’re thinking they don’t look 7 and 4, you’re right!) Print them off if you want. Hang them on your fridge to remind yourself to pray for these precious children. Message me and ask how they are doing – keep me accountable. And don’t be afraid to pray for big things. We have a big God.

That Sinking Feeling

Because I live on a walled and guarded campus, I'm not super close with my Indonesian neighbors. I do however know a few of them. And every time my street is closed for a funeral, I wonder if it's someone I know. So far it hasn't been.

Today, as I was driving home from church, the street was blocked off and a black flag was waving - the sign that somebody has died. I stopped at the road blocked sign and looked down the street to try and see which house it was that was having a funeral. The road curves slightly, so it was hard to tell, but it looked like everyone was standing in front of a house at the very far end of the street - the house of someone I know. My heart sank a little bit.

I quick drove to a parallel road so I could come around a back way to the other end of the closed road. Sure enough - it was the house of someone I know. In fact, it was the house of someone I introduced YOU to not so long ago. Remember the story of the guy whose picture I took? If not, click HERE.

Yup, it was his house. I wasn't sure if it was him or his wife who had died though. Knowing Muslim law, they were probably already burying the body, so I drove around the corner to the graveyard. Sure enough, a crowd was there. Several men were standing by the road, so I drove up and quietly asked them if it was Bapak (the man) or Ibu (the woman). One guy said, "yes". Another guy said, "Ibu". The rest just looked at me like I was crazy. So I said thank you and drove away.

It was grandmother. I only met her once. I don't even know her name. But I love how crazy about her husband she was. How she marveled at how handsome he was in every picture I showed her. Even though I'm pretty sure the woman couldn't see a thing. And I'm sad she's gone. And I'm sad that grandfather doesn't have her anymore. And I'm also sad that because of their faith, grandfather doesn't know if he'll ever see her again.



EDIT - Immediately after writing the above post, I had to leave again. On my way to town, I stopped to buy phone minutes from a neighbor that sells them from his house. However, the guy who usually sells them to me was at the funeral, but his wife assured me he would be home soon. So I hung around a minute, and as promised, he was there quickly. As he worked on transferring minutes to my phone, I said, "So grandmother died, huh?" And he replied, "Oh, no, it wasn't her. Grandmother and grandfather are healthy as can be. Their 40 year old daughter died. Their second child." I was SHOCKED. So I asked how she died. The guy started LAUGHING as he told me that she got hit by a vegetable truck last night. LAUGHING. Oh, my...

Sumatra

I love going to Sumatra, but it’s hard to be there. I had thought of moving there full time 2 years ago, but at the time, I felt that God was calling me to stay here. I don’t regret that decision at all. I see how God has used me in my students’ lives and how He has used them in mine, and I’ve built so many wonderful relationships with people here over the past 2 years. But sometimes I wish I was there rather than here. Wistful thinking… One of my closest friends, Yohanes, who used to be my neighbor but now lives on Sumatra asked me what my favorite part about being there is, and my immediate response was, “I feel like I’m home here”. It was a no-brainer. So when it’s time for me to leave and return to my real life on Java, I never want to. My friends, my students, my house, my church, my job are all on Java. But my heart is still on Sumatra.

Here are just a few of the things I love the best.

1. Danau Toba, the largest (and most beautiful, in my opinion) volcanic lake in the world. I have many good memories of days spent by this lake with friends.

2. The farm on the mountaintop. I love love love being out of the city and in a place where I can breathe clean air and where there’s not 7 mosques within 3 blocks and where I can’t see or hear a single neighbor. I love the sunrises and sunsets. I love the stars at night. I love the mountain air. I love working with my hands. I love living off the land. I love being around animals. I love being the only white person working shoulder to shoulder in the fields with the other workers. I love being able to put a lifetime of farming experience to good use. I love taking black and white pictures of the things I find there. : )

3. Seeing how blessed this place is in how it continues to expand and thrive, and seeing the fruit of years of hard work, dedication, prayer, and stepping out in faith.

When I was there two years ago, the cattle were fresh off the boat from Australia, and all but one heifer was extremely wild. Part of my work there was to tame them. This was the littlest calf I tamed two years ago, and this time, as I walked through the fields, she chased after me and rubbed on me wherever I went. I love that feeling of accomplishment. It may not be much, but I did something to help that had a long lasting affect.

This is me two years ago with the calves I tamed. The one in the photo above is the calf on the right in the photo below.

New barn! Yohanes learned to weld, and this barn was largely built by him. I’m so impressed with the design and quality of work! The barn they had two years ago was small, crowded, and was only some poles with a roof. Now there are troughs for food and water, separate stalls, a stanchion, and lots of other fancy features!

There’s also a new house on the farm. Last time I was there, I was living in a room underneath a church halfway up the mountain and having to drive up and down every morning and night. There are now also many new plants – several imported – that they are introducing to the area and teaching other farmers to cultivate as well.

4. Ferns. I don’t know why, but every single time I go there, I end up taking about 100 pictures of the ferns that grow wild and rampant everywhere you look. They may only be annoying weeds, but every single fern speaks of the glory of its Creator as it unfurls its leaves toward Heaven.

5. The people. I’m not much of a people picture taker, but here’s a few of some of the awesome people I got to spend time with there!

Stephen really liked taking pictures with my camera. When I got home, I found about 120 pictures on my camera of various things, mostly blurry, that he had taken. Here’s one of his... His father passed away about a year ago, and he, his mom, and his little sister, Filia, just moved to join the work here only a day before I arrived! We quickly became great friends – in fact Stephen and I were just about joined at the hip for most of my time there! Both Stephen and Filia have the same passion for animals that their dad, a vet, had.

Yohanes has been my friend for 4 years, but we haven’t talked as much since he moved to Sumatra two years ago, so it was great to get to catch up with him and to help him out with his welding work in the barn.

Rosemary is the closest neighbor up on the farm. I spent a lot of time working in the fields with her last time I was there, and even though she’s no longer working for the farm, we picked up right where we left off! Awesome, awesome lady. She came to the house one day with a feed sack, and when I asked her what was inside, she opened it up to show me one of her new puppies! After I cooed and rubbed its nose and took lots of pictures of it, she told me that she needed me to deliver it to someone for her on my way down to town that night. She went on to tell me that the husband of one of the ladies in the closest mountaintop village had recently walked out on her and their 4 young children, so she wanted them to have the puppy to eat!! Rosemary hoped that none of the other neighbors would be jealous, because lots of people apparently want to eat her fat little puppies.

Then she asked me to take a picture of her and I with Kim so I can send it to her as a remembrance of our time together.

6. Some people just really love flying. I was that person 10 years ago on my first flight ever. For about 5 minutes. Then I got bored. And I’ve been bored ever since. I’m to the point now where I just really dread flying anywhere. However, there is one flight that I absolutely love. It’s the flight from nearby the ranch up to Medan, the fourth biggest city in Indonesia. From Medan, you can catch a flight back to Jakarta, and from there, back to Central Java. But that first little flight is always a highlight of my trip there. It’s about a 45 minute flight (but takes the place of a 7 – 9 hour drive) on a 12 seater plane that takes off from the most ghetto little airport you’ve ever seen. In fact, I think it’s someone’s house. Basically, the plane flies in from Medan, lands on the one tiny little airstrip, lets off a few passengers, picks up the new ones, turns around, and takes off again right away. It’s the kind of flight where you really wonder if the plane will even make it off the ground before the asphalt runs out and the jungle starts, and then once you’re in the air, it bounces around so much, you basically just expect to die. But I love that flight! The plane never gets very high, so you can see the lake and the mountains and the villages from above, and it all looks so beautiful from that perspective! Sadly, we were flying through the clouds of a rainstorm this trip, so everything was hazy for most of the flight. The only good shots I got were when we were coming in over Medan.

The only other part of the flying portion of the trip I like is when I see my volcanoes, Merbabu and Merapi, peeking through above the clouds. That’s how I know I’m home.

7. There are so many, many other things that I love about Sumatra that I can neither capture with pictures nor express with words. It just holds that sense of “home” for me. Maybe someday I’ll be able to live and work there, but for now, I’ll just call it my vacation home. I always thought it would be cool to have one of those.

Seesters

Leaving at 4:30 AM tomorrow for the trek to Sumatra with seester.

So far she has...

• Been to an animal market where she saw some black magic guys performing, barns of Indonesian livestock, a man skinning cobras, draining their blood, and selling it as medicine (people paid to drink it!), owls, jungle cats, giant bats, flying squirrels, pythons, etc.
• Eaten soto 3 times.
• Visited a nearby village to bring gifts to some friends of mine. While we were there, we witnessed all the men of the village competing to walk out onto a greased bamboo pole situated over a dropoff with a mud pit below. They had to jump off the end of the bamboo to grab baggies filled with prizes hanging overhead.
• Gone to church. Twice.
• Drank coffee and tea.
• Eaten cow brains. On accident.
• Been to Jogja.
• Shopped for batik fabric.
• Ridden the motorbike like a pro.
• Had lunch with my boss.
• Seen two weddings and a funeral (all happened in my neighborhood on the same day).
• Been to the combined birthday party of four of my good friends.
• Eaten approximately 4 meals per day.
• Toured an ancient palace + mosque and learned about the sultans of old.
• Visited a horse ranch and riding school.
• Met just about all of my friends who are currently in country.

And tomorrow begins the biggest adventure of them all!

Church

My pastor has a pretty good grasp on the English language, and for some reason, he likes to use it a lot in his sermons.  I would estimate that about 25% of what he says is in English pretty much every single time he takes the stage. You can count on it.

Now, my church has a very wide demographic. There are extremely old people, and there are hordes of babies. One of the wealthiest families in town goes to my church, as do several families who live in the closest thing my town has to a slum. We have doctors, and we have people who never learned how to read or write. We have people from at least 15 different tribes/islands. But there are only two white people - me being one of them. And both of us speak Indonesian. So there's really no need to use English at all.

A few people from my church have a very basic grasp of English - mostly students who have learned it in school. Even fewer have a very excellent grasp of English, one being an English teacher himself. But other than that handful, nobody understands what is being said when the pastor uses English. And sometimes it frustrates me when he uses English because I know I'm part of only a select group that understands the ENTIRE sermon.

Today was a funny example of that. After the sermon, pastor asked everyone to stand up for prayer. But for some reason, he said it in English. Aswan, who speaks fairly good English, jumped right up. I started to, but then I realized that with the exception of Aswan, NOBODY was standing. He looked around, embarrassed to be the only person in the whole room standing up, and then he whispered to me, "Why is nobody moving?" I whispered back, "Because he said it in English and nobody understood him. Sit down."

So he did.

Aaaaand now that I'm writing it, it seems way less funny than it did at the time. There's a chance I may have had to stifle my laughter during the closing prayer...

Weird Fact

Go to Google images and type "pakfilemon" into the search box and press enter. The first 20 images that come up are photos I have taken that all link back to my blog. And I have no clue why.

Seester

Sister is here safely.
Took her to a cock fight this morning.
Then we watched a guy skin a cobra, drain its blood, then drink it.
Then we ate opor ayam (a chicken dish) and rice.
Now she is sleeping.
All is well.

Conversations With Ibu

Since I'm the only person left in my building, I've been spending lots of time with our shared helper, Ibu Sri. I've always liked her a lot. She is a hard worker, an amazing cook, extremely trustworthy, and just an all around wonderful lady. She likes working for single people because she enjoys being a mother figure and taking care of us when our parents are far away. This is the first summer that she's worked for me that I've actually been here for the whole summer, so I've been spending a lot more time than normal with her. We've had some really interesting conversations in which we both learned a lot from each other. Usually those conversations start out with her asking a question out of the blue such as:

"Do Americans circumcise their children?"
"Are Americans allowed to have more than one wife?"
"Did you fight with your siblings when you were little?"
"Can you please pray for my Muslim neighbor who is going to Papua to persecute Christians?"
"Are you more like your mom's side or dad's side of the family?"
"What are you making, Nona?" (Nona is the formal word for Miss. She always calls me that.)
"How hot is it in America right now?"
"The internet tells you THAT?"
"Are you lonely?"
"What kind of food does your sister like?"
"American kids are a lot different than Indonesian kids, huh?"

Usually when I start a conversation, it begins with:

"Ibu, do you know where I can get. . . ?"

I'm realizing more and more what deep thoughts this woman has. I've seen some of the burdens she carries in her heart. I've seen her love for the Lord and how that overflows into love for people. I know some of her biggest regrets. I know her favorite color. We've laughed together and cried together. I wish that I had written down every conversation we've had this summer so that I could read them again and again.

Today she told me she wanted to buy some flowers for my sister who is arriving tomorrow. I asked if she wanted to use my money, and she said, "No. I will use my money." So she drove all the way across town to the pasar (market) to buy a few different kinds of flowers. She brought them home and spent some time arranging them in a vase. When she finished, she brought them to my apartment to ask what I thought. I smiled so big because I'm pretty sure she's almost as excited about my sister's arrival as I am.

I'm going to Jakarta tomorrow to get her.

Fun Times With an Old Guy

A few weeks ago, I went on a picture taking walk with some friends (Walk #2). You might remember seeing this picture that I took on that walk:

When we saw this kakek (grandfather) sitting there cleaning his sandals, we asked him if we could take his picture, and he told us, “Oh, please do! But can you give me the pictures later?” We said we would.

Three weeks later, I finally remembered to get the pictures from my friends and go get them printed. They look like this:

So tonight, I drove to his house, not knowing what to expect or what to say. “Hi, is your grandfather home? I’m the crazy white girl who took pictures of him three weeks ago.” Luckily, his wife (or so I assume, given that she looked about 100 years old) was sitting outside on the porch, so I told her that I had some pictures for grandfather, and she hollered for the guy, who came out. As he walked out the front door, I asked him if he remembered me. Sharp as a whip, he replied, “Yes! You took my picture when I sat there!” and pointed to the bench. So I told him I brought the pictures for him like I promised.

His wife sidled right up next to me - far within the American personal space bubble that I have long since abandoned – and asked to see the pictures. Based on the severe cloudiness of her eyes (they were almost blue – Indonesians don’t have blue eyes), I’m not sure how well she could actually see the photos, but she cooed and marveled over each one in turn. Grandfather just stood there smiling at us both until I handed him the pictures and told him thank you. He replied, “No, no, I’m the one who says thank you”, and shook my hand. As I got back on my motorbike to drive away, he sidled over to the same bench and sat down. And as I pulled out into the street, I glanced over again to find him smiling as he looked at his pictures.

CUTEST.KAKEK.EVER.

Some Very Important Things

Ah, summer. Wednesday was the Fourth of July. It didn't feel like a holiday here. A few of us Americans (those left in town) grilled some hot dogs and shot off a few mortars in the driveway. The most festive part of the day was probably when I got to Bible study late (due to the cookout and mortars) and an entire room full of Indonesians shouted "MERDEKA!" (freedom) at me as I walked in the door. It was good of them to remember my favorite holiday.

Both of my neighbors have now moved out. I have an entire apartment building all to myself. I've been pilfering things left behind. I got a whole bottle of parmesan cheese and some delicious looking mustard as well as a ridiculous number of potted plants. I also have access to a TV and a place for my sister to stay when she comes next week (!!).

My helper has been working on deep cleaning both of the apartments next door, and I've mostly left her to it. She hasn't cooked for me yet this summer. I don't know if she's happy or sad about that. When she spots me in the kitchen, she makes a point of coming in and asking if I need help. I don't know if she's more afraid that I'll think she's shirking her duties or that I'll burn the kitchen down or somehow poison myself. Sometimes I make a little extra so I can give some to her so she can see that I am somewhat capable. So far she's liked all but one thing I made (it was the pesto; she said it wasn't spicy enough).

Yesterday's lunch was an experiment. I found a can of Campbell's condensed cream of chicken that I had tucked away half a year ago. I decided to see what I could concoct with that, so into the pot it went. Along with some water to un-condense it. Then a bunch of white rice that was about to go bad. Then some cheddar cheese and rosemary. Then a lot of ground pepper and a little oregano. And then I found the chunks of buffalo meat. In went bits of that. And then I ate it on toast. It ended up being quite delicious. If you'd like the recipe, just message me. However, the success of the dish depends on the buffalo bits, so if you can't get that, don't bother. Given that I was skeptical about the outcome of that meal, I did not share it with Ibu Sri.

One of my goals this summer was to read more books. A week ago, I went to visit a student, and her mom cooked a boatload of Indian food for me, which was particularly amazing given that THEY ARE INDIAN. That food was as legit as legit can be. So so so good. BTW, if you've never tried Indian food, get on it. Back to the point though, that student is moving to American in a month, but she lent me a book that she says I HAVE to read. So I've been working my way through that in an attempt to finish it before she leaves the country. The book is Roots by Alex Haley. I would consider it a mix between fact and fiction. The author, an African American, traced his family history back 6 generations to a man named Kunta Kinte, a boy from The Gambia brought to America on a slave ship in the 1700s. It's been a week since I got the book, and I'm halfway through the nearly 700 pages of Haley telling the stories of his ancestors. A lot of it is historical fact, and it is about real people and their stories. But it reads like a novel, so obviously things like the conversations and relationships the characters have are largely fiction. I would strongly, strongly recommend the book for anyone over 16. Unless you are Amish because there are a few curse words in it. And I only say "anyone over 16" because the descriptions of the torture he endured on the slave ship and at the hands of his white master are pretty graphic and difficult to read at times.

And I've been drinking lots of apple juice. I found a place where I can buy it by the gallon. I'm a happy camper.