10 April 2011
Aku terbangun sekitar jam enam pagi di atas kasur empuk di kamar berdinding biru muda. Di sampingku, teman sekamarku masih terlelap dalam mimpinya, terbungkus piama bermotif kupu-kupu. Tidak ada niatku untuk membangunkannya, waktu masih terlalu dini.
Kubangkitkan tubuhku untuk bergegas mandi dan berjalan keluar kamar menyusuri lorong. Kuharap suara langkahku tidak mengganggu nyenyak para penghuni kamar-kamar lain yang kulewati.
Di kamar mandi, kunyalakan keran air dan melucuti pakaianku yang kotor nan kusam. Airnya begitu sejuk dan dingin saat membasahi tubuhku yang penuh debu dan kotoran—sedikit membuatku menggigil tapi menyegarkan. Sudah tiga hari aku tidak mandi.
Aku merindukan mandi membersihkan tubuh, tapi aku tahu aku tidak bisa berlama-lama. Aku tidak boleh terlambat di hari pertamaku bekerja.
Setelah sarapan, aku dan beberapa rekan kerja turun ke minimarket yang berada di lantai dasar. Mataku bergerak-gerak liar karena penasaran. Kupandangi setiap sudut rak-rak barang yang tersusun rapi dan sedikit berdebu. Cuaca di luar pintu kaca tampak mendung dan berangin, tapi aku justru sangat bersemangat menjalani pagi ini.
“Hai! Anak baru ya?” Kudengar sapaan seorang rekan kerja, perempuan yang berambut panjang dan berkaus hitam.
“Ya, Kak.”
“Siapa namamu? Saya Leni.”
“Saya…” Aku tersenyum, memantapkan hatiku. “…Hana.”
Itulah kali pertama aku menggunakan nama itu.
Inilah awal mula kehidupan baruku sebagai Hana.
Leni mengangguk dan melatihku menyusun barang di rak sesuai dengan jenisnya, misalnya alat mandi, makanan ringan, dan seterusnya.
Hari demi hari kulewati dengan semangat, bersama rekan-rekan kerjaku yang ternyata sangat baik. Sejauh ini tidak tampak kesan curiga di wajah mereka. Minimarket ini terletak di pinggiran kota Batam, di sebuah perumahan kecil yang padat penduduk. Setiap pagi lingkungan sekitar selalu sangat ramai—baru saja minimarket dibuka, sudah ada beberapa pengunjung yang datang.
Namun, setiap malam, aku selalu mimpi buruk. Rasa sakit itu masih terasa di benakku, kejadian itu masih menghantuiku, suara teriakan itu masih berdengung di telingaku. Seakan menyuruh otakku untuk terus mengingat pengalaman pahit dan sakit dari kehidupanku sebelumnya.
5 April 2011
Dulu namaku Farhan, aku lahir di Jakarta. Saat usiaku masih enam tahun, ayahku meninggal dunia. Ketika aku tujuh belas tahun, perekonomian keluarga sangat mengalami kesulitan, maka aku putus sekolah dan pindah ke sebuah pulau kecil di Kepulauan Riau untuk mencari pekerjaan dan tinggal bersama kakak kandungku dan suaminya. Banyak harapan mengendap di pundakku, karena aku terlahir sebagai anak laki-laki biologis satu-satunya, dan konon anak laki-laki harus menjadi tulang punggung keluarga.
Setelah seminggu menetap di pulau itu, aku mendapatkan pekerjaan sebagai penjaga toko peralatan nelayan. Suami kakakku juga seorang nelayan. Di pulau ini kebanyakan penduduknya adalah nelayan dan pedagang.
Sehari-hari aku berusaha beradaptasi dengan lingkungan baruku—belajar bahasa, mencoba-coba makanan, dan memperhatikan budaya setempat. Semua itu kunikmati, kecuali satu hal yang membuatku tidak nyaman. Suami kakakku begitu pulang melaut selalu saja melampiaskan amarah ke kakakku. Ia suka melempar barang-barang ke kakakku, bahkan memukulnya dengan piring dan benda-benda lain.
Setiap kali itu terjadi, aku hanya bisa marah dalam diam—karena aku takut dan tidak memiliki kekuatan untuk menghentikan kekerasan yang menimpa kakakku.
Suatu sore, lima hari sebelum aku mulai bekerja di minimarket, sekitar jam lima, aku baru saja pulang dari tempat kerja. Sesampainya di rumah kudengar suara gaduh, berasal dari dapur. Teriakan-teriakan penuh amarah semakin jelas terdengar.
Suami kakakku melihatku dan menunjuk-nunjuk diriku. “Noh adik laki-lakimu kayak bencong! Kerja aja letoy! Mau jadi apa dia?”
Aku kabur ke kamar dan melemparkan tubuh ke kasur. Menangis dalam hening. Selama ini aku hanya bisa menerima segala cacian dan sindirannya kepadaku. Bencong! Ahli neraka! Laki-laki letoy! menjadi cemilanku setiap hari suami kakakku itu melampiaskan kekesalannya kepadaku, semakin lama semakin menyakitkan.
Pukul tujuh malam, udara dingin menyelimuti kamarku yang kecil nan sempit. Berbaring di atas kasur tipis, kubulatkan tekad untuk pergi dari sini. Aku sudah tidak bisa bertahan lagi. Seluruh jiwa dan tubuhku memohonku untuk pergi sejauh mungkin.
6 April 2011
Pagi ini sangat cerah, sedikit saja awan di langit. Pukul tujuh seperti biasa aku membuat sarapan. Kulihat kakakku sedang mencuci piring dengan mata yang masih bengkak dan pipi yang masih merah bekas tamparan suaminya.
Setelah sarapan, aku pamit ke Kakak.
“Iya, hati-hati,” balasnya, tentu berpikir aku akan berangkat kerja. Dia tidak tahu, pamitku ini adalah pamit untuk pergi dari rumah ini.
Aku berjalan dengan cepat—dengan perasaan sedikit sedih tapi juga lega. Kutarik napas pelan-pelan, udara terasa begitu sejuk.
Aku pergi ke pelabuhan dan membeli satu tiket feri ke Batam. Kutembus keramaian orang berlalu-lalang menuju dermaga. Angin berhembus pelan, seakan mendorong tubuhku menuju pintu masuk feri.
Aku duduk di baris paling belakang di dekat jendela, berharap tidak ada yang mengenaliku. Kusandarkan tubuh di bangku kusut dan sedikit berdebu, sekali lagi menarik napas panjang. Otakku menyemangati hatiku, “Kamu bisa! Pasti bisa!”
Feri mulai meninggalkan dermaga, mesinnya meraung keras dan membuat ombak kecil. Kumenghadap jendela dan menyandarkan kepala ke atas tumpuan tangan. Begitu indahnya laut di pagi hari, sinar matahari terpantul-pantul di permukaan air.
Kulihat sekitar, lumayan padat penumpang yang akan pergi ke Batam. Hanya dua kursi tersisa dari tiga puluh yang tersedia. Aku memejamkan mata, mencoba menikmati perjalanan. Tercium campuran aroma parfum penumpang yang bermacam-macam wanginya.
Aku terbangun ketika suara klakson feri dibunyikan, pertanda feri memasuki dermaga Pelabuhan Sekupang, Batam.
Kulangkahkan kaki turun dari feri dan keluar dari pelabuhan yang padat. Banyak sekali angkot berjejer sepanjang pintu masuk pelabuhan. Aku menyeberang ke simpang jalan tempat pangkalan ojek.
Kuhampiri salah satu tukangnya. Ia minta lima puluh ribu untuk mengantar ke tujuanku. Aku hanya berbekal uang seratus lima puluh ribu dan beberapa helai baju.
“Bang, aku hanya punya tiga puluh lima ribu, boleh, Bang?” tanyaku sedikit memelas.
“Ya udah angkut,” katanya.
“Makasih, Bang,” ucapku sambil tersenyum.
Sepanjang perjalanan aku tak henti-hentinya berpikir, apakah kepergianku ini salah? Tidak, jawab hati kecilku, ini jalan satu-satunya buatku meminta tolong kepada salah satu kerabat kakakku. Ia memiliki kos-kosan di dekat DC Mall.
Sesampainya di sana, ternyata kos-kosan itu sudah berubah menjadi bengkel mobil.
Aku terkejut dan bertanya kepada salah satu pegawai di sana. “Permisi, Bang, bengkel mobil ini dulunya kos-kosan kan, Bang?”
“Iya, Dek, sekarang udah dialihkan fungsi,” jawabnya.
“Kira-kira pindah ke mana ya, Bang, kos-kosannya?”
“Abang kurang tahu, Dek,” jawabnya dan berlalu meninggalkanku.
9 April 2011
Kuangkat tubuh bangkit dari pangkuan pelataran ruko. Langit sudah terang, begitu banyak manusia berlalu-lalang, tak satu pun memedulikan kehadiranku. Sudah tiga malam aku tidur di jalanan.
Kusapu air mata yang mulai mengering—semalaman aku menangis karena tubuhku berselimut kedinginan. Aku tak kuat lagi. Uang pun sudah hampir habis.
Kutatap orang-orang yang berkumpul di salah satu halte bus dekat tempatku tidur. Mungkin aku bisa minta tolong kepada mereka. Aku berjalan ke sana.
Di depanku ada seorang perempuan paruh baya mengenakan jaket dan berkacamata. Kuberanikan diri untuk bertanya kepadanya. “Kak, permisi, kantor polisi di mana ya, Kak?”
“Mau ngapain, Kak, ke kantor polisi?” tanyanya, menatap mataku yang sudah tak sanggup membendung tangis. Selama tinggal di jalanan, airmataku tak pernah lama mengering.
Seketika aku menjadi pusat perhatian orang-orang di halte. Beberapa dari mereka menghampiriku.
“Kenapa, Dek?” tanya seorang bapak yang memakai jaket jins dan sepatu kulit.
“Antar aku ke kantor polisi, Pak,” pintaku sambil menangis.
“Ayo, ayo, ikut Bapak ke kantor polisi,” katanya sambil menarik tanganku.
“Jangan! Dia adikku!” Seorang laki-laki lain berkaus kusut mencegat kami dan melepaskan genggaman tangan bapak tadi. “Adek jangan mudah percaya sama orang. Di Batam ini banyak orang jahat, apalagi Adek perempuan!” katanya lantang.
Bapak tadi bergegas menjauh sambil menelepon.
“Adek percaya sama Abang! Abang berniat baik bantu Adek. Adek mau?”
Sesuatu di wajahnya dan suaranya meyakinkan aku untuk percaya kepadanya. Aku hanya mengangguk kecil, sambil menghapus airmata yang sudah membanjiri pipiku.
Kerumunan yang tadi memperhatikanku perlahan-lahan bubar. Abang tadi mengajakku naik salah satu angkutan umum. Tubuhku tidak bisa menolak, hanya bisa pasrah.
Angkot mulai meninggalkan halte. Kusandarkan kepalaku ke jendela, memandangi setiap detik perjalanan dan terus saja menangis. Pertanyaan demi pertanyaan terus-menerus berdengung di kepalaku. Aku tidak tahu di mana angkot ini akan berhenti.
Di depan sebuah taman kecil, abang tadi berseru kepada kondektur, “Aku antar Adek ini dulu ya ke rumah. Kau dulu yang narik angkot!” Ia menggandeng tanganku turun.
Kami menyeberang jalan ke sebuah rumah mungil.
Pintu dibuka.
Dan aku disambut hangat oleh istri abang itu. Ia mengajakku masuk dan menghidangkan makanan. Kami duduk bersama di meja makan. Abang memimpin doa dalam keyakinan yang berbeda denganku. “Berdoalah dengan caramu,” katanya tanpa bertanya apa agamaku. Aku mendengarkan mereka berdoa dengan khusyuk, dan aku kembali menangis terharu—aku merasa sangat damai dan tenang bersama mereka.
Setelah aku beristirahat beberapa jam, Abang dan istrinya mengajakku ke sebuah minimarket. Di atasnya terdapat plang dengan hiasan lampu bertuliskan MINIMARKET USAHA BARU.
Kami masuk ke dalam, dan Abang berbicara dengan Cici pemilik minimarket yang berdiri di belakang konter. “Ci, aku ada adik nih perempuan. Tolonglah kasih kerja, Ci. Dia tak ada tempat tinggal juga, Ci, bolehlah tinggal di sini.”
Cici menatapku. Ia perempuan umur tiga puluhan, berambut ikal, berkulit putih, dan bermata sayu. Katanya, “Bolehlah, di sini pun kurang karyawan.”
Saat itu juga aku menangis sejadi-jadinya, meluapkan perasaan syukur dan terima kasihku pada Abang dan istrinya yang sudah begitu baik kepadaku. Kepada Cici yang langsung percaya dan mau mempekerjakanku. Aku peluk mereka erat-erat. Mungkin mereka takkan pernah tahu betapa besar jasa mereka untukku.
Juli 2011
Tidak terasa sudah tiga bulan aku bekerja dan tinggal di minimarket itu. Selama itu pula Cici dan semua rekan kerjaku mengenalku sebagai Hana. Mungkin karena fisikku memang feminin, tidak satu pun dari mereka yang curiga.
Tidak ada niat jahat, tidak ada niat menipu, aku hanya khawatir mereka tidak bisa menerimaku. Aku pun tidak punya jalan lain untuk bisa tetap hidup.
Setiap hari terus terselip ketakutan mereka akan mengetahui tentang diriku. Aku bahkan membeli pembalut setiap bulannya dan berpura-pura mengalami kram datang bulan. Tetap saja, aku takut ketahuan dan dituduh melakukan penipuan.
Akhirnya aku memutuskan untuk menghubungi keluargaku di Jakarta. Kutabung gajiku untuk membeli HP dan menelepon mereka.
Mamaku yang menjawab telepon. Suaranya terdengar begitu berat, sedikit terisak dan merintih. Dia menangis saat aku mulai bicara.
Katanya ia jatuh sakit setelah berminggu-minggu memikirkan aku yang kabur dari rumah kakakku.
“Nak, Nak, pulang ya, Nak, ke Jakarta, Mamah kangen! Maafin Mamah!” ucapnya sambil menangis.
Aku ikut menangis meraung-raung. Sungguh aku rindu dan mencemaskan mamaku. “Iya, Ma. Aku pulang.”
Keesokan harinya kuceritakan semuanya ke Cici, tentang mengapa aku pindah ke Riau, tentang suami kakakku yang sering melakukan kekerasan, dan bagaimana aku sampai di Batam. Tapi aku masih belum berani mengungkapkan bahwa diriku bukan perempuan biologis.
Cici memberikanku izin untuk pulang ke Jakarta dan melarangku untuk pulang ke tempat kakakku.
Hari itu juga aku berpamitan ke rumah Abang dan keluarganya yang sudah membantuku. Abang mengelus kepalaku sambil berucap, “Kamu kuat, sampai detik ini kamu bisa bertahan. Kamu perempuan hebat. Sudah saatnya kamu pulang. Abang ikhlas membantu kamu.”
Malam itu aku berkemas dan memesan tiket pesawat ke Jakarta. Akhirnya aku bisa meninggalkan segala kesedihanku.
Sebelum pergi, aku menatap balik ke papan nama MINIMARKET USAHA BARU yang selalu memberiku semangat. Kutitipkan segenap rasa terima kasihku kepada Abang, Cici, dan keluarga yang sudah memberiku jalan agar tetap hidup.
© Keinarra Hana
I AM HANA
Keinarra Hana
Translated by Nathania Silalahi
10 April 2011
I woke up around six in the morning on a soft mattress in a baby-blue-walled room. Beside me, my roommate was still deep in slumber, cozy in her butterfly print pyjamas. I had no intention of waking her up. It was still too early.
I dragged my body out of bed for a quick shower, and walked out of my room down the hallway. I hoped my footsteps wouldn’t disturb the others sleeping in the rooms I passed.
In the bathroom, I turned on the tap and stripped off my dirty clothes, grey with grime. The water was so fresh and cold when it wet my body, coated in dirt and dust. It made me shiver a little, but it was refreshing. It had been three days since I’d last showered.
I yearned to take a longer shower to properly cleanse my body, but I knew I couldn’t stay for long. I couldn’t be late for my first day of work.
After breakfast, a few coworkers and I went down to the minimarket on the ground floor. My eyes darted here and there, wild with curiosity. I peered at every corner of every shelf, with their items arranged in neat rows and their light coating of dust. Outside the glass door, the weather seemed gloomy and windy, but nonetheless, I was really excited about this morning.
“Hi! New kid, huh?” I heard a coworker greet me—a woman with long hair wearing a black shirt.
“Yes!”
“What’s your name? I’m Leni.”
“I am….” I smiled and steadied my beating heart. “… Hana.”
It was the first time I was using this name.
This was the beginning of my new life as Hana.
Leni nodded and showed me how to organize items on the shelves according to type—toiletries, for example, and snacks, and so on.
Day after day, I carried out my duties with enthusiasm, together with my coworkers, who turned out to be very nice. So far, there was no sign of suspicion on their faces. This minimarket was located in the outskirts of Batam, in a small, densely populated residential area. Every morning, the neighbourhood was always bustling with life— just moments after the minimarket would open for business, customers would start coming in.
Yet, every night, I would always have nightmares. The pain was still in my mind. The incident still haunted me. The piercing screams still rang in my ears—as if telling my brain to never forget the bitter and painful experiences of my previous life.
5 April 2011
Back then, my name was Farhan. I was born in Jakarta. When I was six years old, my father passed away. When I was seventeen, my family began struggling to make ends meet, so I dropped out of school and moved to a small island in the Riau Islands to look for work and live with my older sister and her husband. I had a lot of expectations to shoulder because I was the only biologically male child, and as they say, boys must be the backbone of the family.
After a week of living on the island, I got a job working at a fishing equipment store. My sister’s husband was also a fisherman. On this island, most of the residents were fishermen and traders.
Every day, I tried to adapt to my new environment—learning the language, trying different foods, and observing the local customs. I enjoyed all this, but there was one thing that made me uncomfortable. Whenever my brother-in-law returned home from the sea, he would always take his anger out on my sister. He liked to throw things at her, even hitting her with plates and other objects.
Every time this happened, I could only be angry in silence—because I was afraid and didn’t have the strength to stop the violence that my sister suffered.
One afternoon, five days before I started working at the minimarket, around five o’clock, I was just arriving home from work. Upon entering the house, I heard noises coming from the kitchen. As I got closer, the rage-filled screams became louder and clearer.
My sister’s husband saw me and stabbed his finger angrily at me. “And just look at your little brother! He acts like a bencong! He even works like a sissy! What’s he going to do with his life?”
I ran to my room, threw myself on the mattress, and wept silently. All this time, I’d been unable to do anything but accept all his insults and sneers. Bencong! Burn in hell! Sissy boy! had become my daily portion whenever my sister’s husband took out his frustration on me. His words were wounding me more and more over time.
At seven o’clock in the evening, a blanket of cold air settled over my small, cramped room. Lying on the thin mattress, I made up my mind to leave this place. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My whole body and soul were begging me to run away as far as I could.
6 April 2011
It was a very bright morning, with just a few clouds in the sky. At seven o’clock, as usual, I made breakfast. I saw my sister washing dishes, her eyes still swollen and her cheeks still red from being beaten by her husband.
After breakfast, I said goodbye to my sister.
“Yes, be careful,” she replied, thinking I was leaving for work, of course. She didn’t know I wasn’t just leaving for the day, I was leaving for good.
I walked quickly, feeling a little sad but also relieved. I took deep breaths. How cool the air felt.
I went to the port and bought a ferry ticket to Batam. I made my way through the crowd of people milling around near the dock. The wind blew softly, as if pushing my body toward the ferry’s entrance.
I sat in the back row by the window, hoping no one would recognize me. I leaned back in the worn and slightly dusty seat, and took another deep breath. “You can! You can do it!” said my brain, willing my heart to believe.
The ferry began to leave the dock, its engine roaring and making small waves. I faced the window and rested my head in my hands. How beautiful the sea was in the morning, the speckles of sunlight shimmering on the water’s surface.
I looked around. There were quite a lot of passengers heading to Batam. Only two seats were left of the thirty that were available. I closed my eyes, trying to enjoy the journey. I could smell the different passengers’ perfumes blending together.
I woke up at the sound of the ferry horn blaring, announcing that we had entered Sekupang Harbor in Batam.
I stepped off the ferry and left the crowded harbor. Lots of angkot were lined up outside the entrance. I crossed to the intersection where a number of ojek were waiting.
I approached one of the ojek drivers. He asked for fifty thousand to drive me to my destination. I only had a hundred and fifty thousand rupiah and a few clothes to survive on.
“I only have thirty-five thousand. Is that okay?” I asked, pleading a little.
“Yeah, alright,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile.
All along the way, I kept thinking, was it wrong for me to go? No, answered my heart, this was the only way for me to get help from one of my relatives. He owned a boarding house near DC Mall.
When I got there, it turned out that the boarding house had become a car repair shop.
I was surprised and asked one of the employees there, “Excuse me, didn’t this car repair shop used to be a boarding house?”
“That’s right, but it changed hands,” he replied.
“Where do you think the boarding house moved?”
“I don’t really know, kid,” he replied, and left.
9 April 2011
I roused myself and sat up on the shophouse steps that had served as my bed. The sky was already bright. So many people were passing by, and not one of them paid any attention to me. I had been sleeping on the streets for three nights.
I wiped away my tears, which were beginning to dry up. Engulfed by the numbing cold, I had cried all night. I had no strength left. I couldn’t do this anymore. My money was almost gone too.
I looked at the people gathered at one of the angkot stops near where I slept. Maybe I could ask them for help. I walked over.
In front of me was a middle-aged woman wearing a jacket and glasses. I worked up the courage to ask her a question. “Excuse me, where is the police station?”
“Why do you need to go to the police station?” she asked, staring into my eyes, which could no longer hold back my tears. I’d been crying almost continuously for the past three days.
Instantly, I became the center of attention of all the people at the angkot stop. Some of them came over to me.
“What’s wrong, kid?” asked a man wearing a denim jacket and leather shoes.
“Could you please take me to the police station?” I begged, crying.
“Come, come. Yes, I’ll take you,” he said, taking my hand.
“Stop! That’s my little sister!” A young man in a wrinkled shirt stopped us and loosened the man’s grip on my hand. “Little sister, don’t trust people so easily,” he said loudly. “In Batam, there are many bad people. Even more so because you’re a girl!”
Meanwhile, the man from before had hurried away, talking on his phone.
“You can trust me, little sister! I want to help you. Are you okay with that?”
Something in his face and voice convinced me to trust him. I gave a small nod and wiped away the tears streaming down my cheeks.
The crowd that had been watching slowly dispersed. The man took me over to board an angkot. My body could not refuse, resigned to its fate.
The angkot left the stop. I leaned my head against the window, keeping watch every second of the journey and continuing to cry. Question after question kept buzzing in my head. I didn’t know where this angkot would stop.
In front of a small park, the man called out to the conductor. “I’ll take this girl home first. You go ahead!” He held my hand as we stepped off.
We crossed the road to a tiny house.
The door opened.
And I was welcomed warmly by the man’s wife. She invited me to come in and served us some food. We sat together at the dining table. The man led a prayer in a different faith than mine. “Pray in your own way,” he said without asking what my religion was. I listened to them pray earnestly, and I cried again, touched. I felt peace and calm with them.
After I had rested for a few hours, the man and his wife took me to a minimarket. Above it was a sign decorated with lights that read, MINIMARKET – NEW ENDEAVOR.
We went inside, and he spoke to the woman who owned the minimarket, who was standing behind the counter. “I have a girl here. Could you please give her work? She doesn’t have a place to stay either. Do you think you could let her stay here?”
The woman looked at me. She was in her thirties, with curly hair, fair skin, and gentle eyes. “Sure,” she said. “We’re low on workers here anyway.”
At that moment, I began crying uncontrollably, bursting with feelings of thanksgiving and appreciation for the man and woman—Brother and his wife—who had been so kind to me. And for this woman, Sister, who had believed in me straight away and wanted to hire me. I hugged them tightly. Perhaps they would never know how much they had done for me.
July 2011
Before I knew it, I’d been working and living at the minimarket for three months. And still, all that time, Sister and all my coworkers knew me as Hana. Maybe my feminine physique helped dispel any doubts.
It wasn’t out of malice or intent to deceive. I was just worried that they wouldn’t accept me. I didn’t have any other means of living either.
Every day, there was a creeping, constant fear that they would find out about me. I even bought pads every month and pretended to have menstrual cramps. Even then, I was afraid of being caught and accused of deception.
In the end, I decided to contact my family in Jakarta. I saved up money to buy a cellphone and called them.
My mum answered the phone. How heavy her voice sounded—out of breath, and in pain. She began crying when I started to speak.
She said she had fallen ill after weeks of worrying about me running away from my older sister’s house.
“Child, come home, please. Come back to Jakarta. I miss you! Forgive me,” she said, sobbing.
I burst into tears too. I genuinely missed my mother and worried about her. “Yes, Ma. I’ll come home.”
The next day, I told Sister everything—about why I moved to Riau, about my sister’s husband who was often violent, and about how I came to Batam. But I was still too scared to reveal that I wasn’t biologically female.
Sister gave me permission to go back to Jakarta and forbade me to return to the house I’d run away from.
That same day, I stopped by Brother’s house and said goodbye to him and his family, all of whom had helped me. Brother put his hand on my head. “You’re strong. Strong enough to have made it this far. You’re one amazing girl. It’s time for you to go home. I wish you the best with all my heart.”
That night, I packed my things and bought a plane ticket to Jakarta. Finally, I could leave all my sorrows behind.
Before I left, I looked back at the MINIMARKET – NEW ENDEAVOR sign that I had always found so encouraging. In my heart, I sent all my gratitude to Brother, Sister, and the family that had given me a way to keep living.
© Keinarra Hana
English translation © Nathania Silalahi
Keinarra Hana is a trans woman who grew up in the Riau islands and decided to leave her hometown to go to Jakarta in 2015. Currently, she works as finance officer for an organization that works for the transgender community. In addition, Hana is also a mother of two furry children, Kenichi and Kimochi, and often cares for domestic animals that live in the streets, for example by conducting street feeding with friends from the animal-lovers community.
Nathania Silalahi is a Chow Chow owner interested in literary translation and short story writing. She has a B.A. in Philosophy, Politics & Economics and currently works in the education sector.
Cindy Saja is a freelance graphic designer and illustrator. Her works are mostly about social issues in Indonesian society. She has been drawing since childhood, and after completing her fine arts degree in 2011 she started working as an illustrator. She has collaborated with writers and artists such as Gouri Mirpuri, Butet Manurung, Erikar Lebang, Rene Suhardono, Rani Pramesti, and many more. Currently, Cindy is freelancing at the book publisher Kompas, and is preparing a personal project.
Story-writing mentor: Eliza Vitri Handayani
