Have you ever heard of "Diego Garcia?"

No, it is not a man's name. It is an island, part of the Chagos archipelago and belong to British Indian Ocean Teritory (BIOT).

The shoking thing about that name is what happened to its population. Within the 1960s, the Anglo-American decided that this island was perfect for American military base. So to cut the long story short, they (British Foreing Office and its overseas governors and soldiers) shipped the whole 2,000 individuals out of their homes into the unknown Mauritius. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depopulation_of_Diego_Garcia

I am just reading this story in John Pilger's Freedom Next Time chapter one "Stealing a Nation". So I am no expert in this part of the oppressed world history. But this story makes me wonder...

Does my partner Andy who is English know about this? Has he ever heard about the forced depopulation by his government? If yes, what version has he heard it? I shall ask him tonight.

This brings me to the thought of Timor Leste. I was lied to by my government and my history and social sciences teachers (I am sure most of my teachers were lied to as well). I grew up believing that in 1975 when I was 3, my government come to save the Timorese people from the ‘evil’ Portuguese coloniser.

Only in my early 20s that I learned that it was not true. My very government invaded the land. We were not the heroes, we were the baddies! Just then that I realised that history is just a construct written by the powerful and the winner.

With that I realised that the 'Indonesian communist upheavel' film (Gerakan 30S-PKI) that we had been watching all our lives every 30th October was not history. It was a story told by one side – the winner who ran the country and controlled the media.

By now I know very intimately that there is almost no justice in the world. It is just daily fact that we accept and then from time to time we fight against. But to accept one history book as The History... I think it is wrong. (After all, it is not only "his" story, not even "her" story, it should be "our and their" stories). I will make sure that when my son start learning the modern history of Britain, he will read the stories of the forcedly evicted people of Diego Garcia - just like I've shown him the other side of the Indonesian history.

I am going back to my reading. I once hoped to be someone like John Pilger who tells the story of the voiceless people, the 'unpeople' as he puts it. I am not sure about that hope anymore as I am now an unwanted non-European living in Britain with my unmarried partner. But one thing I am sure, is that I should never forget the stories of the 'unpeople' that I have met.

The struggle of people against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting (Milan Kundera as quoted by John Pilger)

John Pilger's book "Freedom Next Time"

I just started reading this book. Really eye-opening. Living in England has made me 'lazy' and almost forgot my root, and about what happened and still happening in the 'third world' whre I came from. This book reminds me (and hopefully will remind all of its reader) that there are injustice everywhere and we should not deny it just because we are living a nice comfortable lives. Imperialism and exploitation are still present and the mainstream Western media is too lazy (or too coward) to cover these.

God save people in third world countries...!!! (even though I am sceptical about the concept of 'God')

TRAVELLING 2005

These are pictures gathered within 2005 in my travelling time. From Aceh's Tsunami, traditional Indonesians in Bali and Badui, Philippine's tragedy, to Le Bourget Airshow and Paris in summer..

Deers, Camping, Puffins and RAF’s Hawk

Growing up amid the concrete walls of Jakarta, I have always craved for a walk on a green hill like the opening scene of Little House on the Prairie or Sound of Music. Now as an Indonesian expat in Manchester, I found my picture perfect hills in the Peak District, just 40 minutes drive. The bad news is, the weather does not always permit.

Lyme Park Saturday morning. Red deer and fallow deer grazing on the moorland, then a herd of Scottish White Cross cattle came curiously so close watching us human taking a walk.


Owned and managed by the National Trust, the 566 hectares (1,400 acres) Lyme Park was originally part of the Tudor house Lyme Hall. For those who followed BBC's adaptation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Lyme was 'Pemberley'. The back garden of Lyme Hall was the set where Mr.Darcy, played by Collin Firth, took off his clothes and dive into the pond.

There is something about Lyme Park that makes it my favourite getaway. The fact that my first date with my partner took place there was not the only reason. Lyme Park has many faces. In summer, we can sunbathe and have a picnic and sometimes watch the Morris Dancers skipping around. In winter, walking past the snow covered Lyme Hall and The Cage – an early 18th-century hunting tower – made it looks like a different world of winter wonderland.

Last Saturday the day was perfect until heaven opened and rain pissing on everyone. Yet they call this Global Warming?

For longer holiday such as the school half-term break last month, camping was a nice gamble. We booked our six days leave from work months before. We had all our camping gears ready. Then on D-day we read that the weather was going to be rainy.

Well, we decided to go anyway, hoping that Shell Island in Llanbedr, Wales, would be different than the rest of the country. At least we had three days of sun. Having Indonesian upbringing, I said to my English partner, “Three days sun and two nights rain is still better than no sun at all.”

Shell Island is famous for the many different shells on the beach, wild birds, fishing and panoramic views of Cardigan Bay and Snowdonia mountain range. Its 121.41 hectares (300 acres) camping area makes it the biggest campsite in the UK and the biggest tenting site in Europe. Having only a tent license, the site does not accept caravans or campervans unless they have a tent for sleeping purposes.

On arrival at the reception office, we paid our admission: £6 per night for adult, £2.50 for children and £1.50 for dogs. The receptionist said we can pitch our tents anywhere as long as it’s within 20 yards or more from other tents. As we left reception, we saw signs saying, “For family/couple only. No groups/lads” and “No radio/music after 11pm”. Perfect!

For pitching tents, there are choices of sand dunes, woodland or near the harbour. We picked a spot near the sand dunes. Five minutes walk from our tents, there are the main toilet and shower block. The warm shower washed away my memory of counting one two three before pouring cold water in Cibodas National Park. There are three washing basin for washing dishes, also with warm water from the tap.

Not having any kites, boomerang, nor ball to play, I had expected my son to be whiny and bored. Amazingly he did not. The minute we finished building our tents, he disappeared into the sand dunes with his new found friends. I found out later from him that there is another fun family activity: crab fishing or crabbing.

Unlike Indonesians, British people do not eat crabs or fish that they caught. Going crabbing means catching as many crab as you can, collect them in your little bucket – which conveniently can be bought in the camp store along with crab lines and even baits – then you let them go. No crab was injured during the process.

There are many other activities in Shell Island. If you go boating, there are a chance that you can see dolphins and porpoises. Kite-surfing on the beach looks challenging, and of course shell collecting.

In a grey cloudy day when sunbathing on the beach was out of the question, a visit to Harlech Castle, 15 minutes drive from the campsite, was a good alternative. The admission charge of £3.50 for adults and £3.00 for children and students is worth the expense. Picturesque view of the coastline framed by the rear gate is superb.




Built by King Edward I in late 13th century, Harlech Castle was never been used as a dwelling for royalties. Located atop a cliff close to the Irish Sea and overlooking Snowdonia Mountain, it was meant to be a statement of conquest over Wales. Ironically, in 1404 it was taken by Welsh leader Owain Glyn Dwr who proceeded to hold a parliament here. Its seven-year siege and the Wars of the Roses inspired the song 'Men of Harlech'.

Walking inside and around the ruins of Harlech Castle reminded me of Sean Connery and Richard Gere in First Knight. In fact, some scene of the 1995 film was filmed in Harlech and the nearby Llanfair Slate Mine.

Driving further North from Harlech, we visited Portmeirion on a peninsula off the coast of Snowdonia. The Italianate village was built by Sir Clough Williams-Ellis from 1925 to 1975, based on his memory of an Italian town Portofino.

The resort village is mostly famous for being the set for TV series The Prisoner, starred Patrick McGoohan. The character played by McGoohan, known only as “No. 6”, was held in a strange fantasy setting, called “The Village”. The classic 60s TV series becomes such a cult that until today fans have annual Prisoner Convention in which celebrity guests attend events and share their admiration on the series and its location.

Before heading back to Manchester, we took a detour to Anglesey Island. Two things I insisted to see before the end of our holiday: to see Hawks and puffins.


RAF Valley where world famous aerobatic The Red Arrow is routinely training is base for No 4 Flying Training School, which operates 71 Hawk T1/T1A aircraft, not much different than Indonesian Air Force’ Hawks. We parked outside the fence at the end of the runway. Just as we sat down on a rock with the runway in front and beach behind us, we heard a thundering sound of two Hawks approaching for landing. It was perfect for an anorak like me.


To see puffins, I mean the real birds (Fratercula arctica) not plane, we drove further West past Hollyhead to South Stack Cliff, a Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) reserve. The cute clown-like birds nest in spring and early summer.

We hired a binocular from RSPB visitor centre, and walked to the cliffs. It was the best reality show I’ve ever seen! I fell in love with their comedy red beaks and big red feet, swimming speed and fidelity. Puffins mate for life. They lay a single egg in spring. Both parents incubate it for 36-45 days, and they share feeding duties until the chick is ready to fledge. I also found their ‘billing’ gestures – brushing each other’s beak – like human kissing.

Bigotry

I recently made promise to my partner and my son that I will not smoke inside our flat anymore. I felt very good about this new selfless decision. Actually, I felt quite heroic about it. It was a small step toward quitting smoke.

However, an event this morning gave me a new insight. I will not quit smoking. As a heavy-smoker friend told me once, ‘only quitters quit.’

I was outside the building, in the cold in my homey pants and t-shirt, having my morning cigarette after walking my son to school. A neighbour walked pass and we exchanged greetings. Then another neighbour came. I do not know his name, only a nod whenever we passed, as a solidarity nod among mature-post-graduate students living in a student hall.

This time, he stopped by and smiled. I said hi and good morning. Then out of a sudden, he asked me where I am from. I said, ‘Indonesia.’ He said, still smiling, ‘I do not know that Indonesian people smoke.’

A-ha! Here we go again, I thought. If he were going to the road I had thought he would, it would not be the first time. Yet I played along.

‘Oh yes they do! Heavily. Indonesian people are one of the heaviest smokers in the world. In fact, we have very good strong cigarettes with cloves far better than any western cigarettes,’ I told him.

Then he smiled again. By now I know that his smile is the most insincere smile men would use before making their sexist remarks. ‘What religion are you? Are you a Muslim or a Christian?’ he asked.

‘I am not a Muslim,’ I told him politely. He looked a bit disappointed. Then he started again, ‘I have never known any Indonesian… (paused) smoke.’

I would happily filled the blanks and re-phrase for him. I would bet my bottom dollar that what he meant was ‘I have never known any Asian woman smokes.’
As I mentioned, he was not the first man making this remark to me. There had been a new security guy in our building, thanks good God that he is not here anymore, who told me directly, ‘Why are you smoking? You are a woman. Are you a Muslim?’ At that time, I was so shocked that someone who lives and works in this modern European society would make such a sexist prejudice remark. This time I was not as surprised.

I smiled as sweet as I can. The most insincere smile I could do to return my neighbour’s bigoted smile. ‘Oh, I’m surprised you know many Indonesian people in Manchester. I know almost not all Indonesian people in Manchester, there are only about 100 of us. We have routine gathering. Who do you know?’

My neighbour took his time to answer. I cannot decide yet whether he needed time to overcome his shock on my question or to search for names. He came up with a name did not sound Indonesian. I could almost swear that there was no Indonesian person in Manchester by that name. But as a sweet and kind person, I had to save him from embarrassment.

‘Ah, is that the guy living in Cheetam Hill? I think I have met him once. Any other Indonesian you know here?’He gave up for that day. He mumbled something like where he met this bloke and said goodbye to me.

The next time I saw him outside the flat, he said to me, "Are you still smoking?" No need to reply as I was indeed, smoking. This time I was fed up, and this is what I said, "Please help me, I cannot decide: are you sexist or racist or both?"  I could see with great satisfaction the shock and defeat in his face. I puffed my last smoke to the cold air, threw the cigarette butt to the bin, and went upstairs to my flat leaving him thinking.

If I were an angry mean woman I had been ten years ago, I would have said to this bigot, ‘And yet you demand to be treated the same as all human regardless of your race and gender? Go back to your little tribal village wherever it is, man!’

In this age of political correctness, with a little remark by a white person towards other race considered racist and bigotry, I cannot help but thinking, who is the bigot here? Who needs more education?

* * *

(Written in March 2007, originally posted on http://adelinemt.blogs.friendster.com/scribles/)

Postscript: We have now moved to Manchester city centre and I have never met that sexist-racist ex-neighbour again.