Yulianus Irwan

The maniac’s machete gleamed in the moonlight as he ran slashing madly from house to house through the village, his terrifying screams resounding through the lanes. Panicked villagers fled wildly as his manic screams never stopped, until finally the cool hand of my roommate slowly shook me out of my nightmare as he passed by my bed. I was woken earlier than usual from my deep sleep, a very satisfying one which was unusual while I was away from home, but fractured by a combination of dreams connected to facts. The screams in my dreams actually came from neighbours drinking “ sopi ” (a local alcoholic drink) from their “Penti” thanksgiving ceremony. I also slowly realized I wasn’t at home, but in the house of Pastor Ino Sutam. I needed a warm drink when I woke up. I made sure I had my sarong with me as I threaded my way quietly through those still sleeping on the floor nearby, as the morning was cold in this mountain village of Tere, our last stop before trekking to Golo Mompong. I w

A ceremony is a time when all relatives get together again. For married women, the ceremony is a very appropriate time to see families who have been left behind since marriage and mainly because of the Manggaraian culture which requires women to follow their husbands after marriage. Just 3 years ago in September, all my relatives from the village came to Ruteng to get involved in the a ceremony to prepare for the wedding. It was the first time my family held a “ Kumpul Kope ” ceremony or a ceremony that aims to collect dowry. In this ceremony, relatives brought some money and animals such as chickens and pigs. These main items are collected as the dowry which will be brought to the bride's family on the day of the wedding or known as " Belis ".    Relatives who had known previously that the ceremony would be held in Ruteng felt it was right to see how the city looked like. Some relatives came with their children only because the children screamed for their mothers t

Sofia Ngawul My mother and I had prepared our clothes, bread and water in my backpack. Blacky, my old-fashioned motorbike had been freshly repaired as its old fashioned problems had been so annoying. But now we were all ready to set off for the two and a half hour journey to visit my mom’s cousin who had been sick for a while. One of the main things we could not forget to bring was the medicines we had bought b ased  on the recommendations of the doctor, to carry to the Lumu, where my mother’s cousin had spent her life while suffering from diabetes. All packed, we put on our face masks and helmets ready to leave Ruteng for Lumu. When we were about to get on the motorbike, my Mom’s phone rang and she had to pick up a call from an unknown number.  Within a few seconds I saw my mom’s face dropped and her eyes reddened. I immediately asked “What happened?” My Mom replied “She’s dead.”  But who? I continued to ask. “Mama Esti” she answered, with tears dropping down her face. It was so

During my break after spending three weeks working in the fields in Wakos, I came back to my home in Ruteng to relax and enjoy some time with my family. At noontime, I decided to visit the reading house which is located just a few minutes away from my home. Yes, Rumah Baca Aksara is the name of that place where I could find books to read, located on the outskirts of my small town. My steps slowed as I approached the house. I couldn’t believe my eyes seeing so many newly planted vegetables by the front yard of the building. Green beans tied up by bamboo to grow, some new seeds in the bags, used bottles to fence the vegetables, coffee flowers spreading their scent strongly, and flowers set beautifully around to welcome guests before entering the house.  There was a clear message appeared in my mind, that this is how a reading house should be. This feeling would undoubtedly give anyone a warm welcome. The building of Rumah Baca Aksara ( Source ) Just a year ago before this Rumah Baca Ak