Pelajaran Bahasa Indonesia

By Luci Ostheimer ‘21, Syiah Kuala University Fellow 2021-2023

Something I hear constantly in Aceh is menikmati hidup saja, which means “just enjoy life” in Bahasa Indonesia. I’ve heard it from friends, Gojek drivers, students, teachers, fruit sellers, neighbors; I’ve heard it at weddings, beaches, meetings, classrooms, parties, coffeeshops, on social media, everywhere. People tell me to santai, or relax, and enjoy. Duduk duduk dan ngopi - sit and drink coffee with friends. Pelan-pelan, slowly slowly. Tidak apa apa, no problem. Ini hidupku, jadi harus menikmati. It’s my life, so I must enjoy. Just take your time. Jangen lupa bahagia. Don’t forget to be happy. 

My Bahasa Indonesia is still pretty rudimentary, but these are phrases that always play on repeat in my mind. They’re at odds with many of my natural tendencies to overthink and ruminate about all things past and future, often forgetting to pay attention and enjoy what is happening right in front of me. I’ve certainly had challenges in Aceh, a lot has happened in the eight months I’ve called Indonesia my home, however, I’ve become better at taking them in stride. Every instance of discomfort or frustration is countered by a kind word, an exchange of smiles with a stranger, a cat crossing my path and saying hello, a beautiful sunset, a delicious meal, the sweet smell of clove wafting through the air, the way sunlight illuminates the shades of green in the leaves of a tamarind tree, how the ocean retains a rainbow of purples and turquoise despite distant gathering stormclouds, swimming among coral reefs and parrotfish, the satisfaction and relief when a class genuinely laughs at my silly antics, the comfort and release of catching up with a good friend at the end of a long day; and those encounters with the good usually shine brighter than whatever bad thing had happened earlier. In Aceh, I’ve learned to savor those moments, not because they are fleeting or ephemeral, but more because it’s become easier to notice how numerous they are, day by day. Bountiful. I don’t know if I’ve ever smiled as much anywhere else. 

Menikmati hidup. Enjoy life. It sounds like an oversimplification. And perhaps it is. I am a bit hesitant to write about it because while finding reasons to enjoy life here can be as simple as walking out onto the balcony and watching butterflies chase each other or boys racing motorbikes down the street, life in Banda Aceh is not easy. There is a painful history here, and there is still a lot of hurt echoing implicitly through the city. The tsunami is memorialized by a museum converted from a barge swept five kilometers inland, areas are named after the countries that helped rebuild them, and when you drive out into the countryside, the land is flattened and waterlogged, though green with new growth. Everyone has a tsumani story, and everyone above a certain age lived through the conflict. Just today, in fact, my Gojek driver pointed at his leg told and me about how he was shot during the conflict, when had he joined GAM (Free Aceh Movement) at just 12 years old.  

Sunset in Sabang

There’s a joke here, all conversations in Aceh are either about the tsunami, the conflict, or ganja, and while this has not always been my experience (for one, everyone talks about coffee too), I do believe there’s some truth to it. The themes are similar when I travel elsewhere in Indonesia to Jakarta or Bali; people who have heard of Aceh always ask about the tsunami, the conflict, weed, with the addition of questions about Sharia Law and its oppressive implications — if I have to wear a hijab (no) or have seen any canings (I haven’t and don’t plan to). Those who are more in the know ask me about Sabang and surfing. Acehnese friends tell me that when they travel outside Aceh, even just one province to the south, North Sumatra, people are afraid of them, equating them with the violent, painful past. Aceh carries a certain presence and reputation throughout Indonesia, one that is very different than what I’ve experienced here. The people I have met have been nothing short of good-natured, caring, and honest. Duduk, ngopi, ngobrol, menikmati. Sit, drink coffee, chat, enjoy. 

I have only been in Aceh for eight months, enough where I feel settled, yet I know, in the grand scheme of things it’s nothing. The more time passes, the more layers and nuances are revealed; many things can be true at the same time. Despite having a strong dominant culture, Banda Aceh contains a myriad of stories, stories that are only further complicated outside forces like the tsunami and Covid. In these past few months, I’ve found myself learning from a spectrum of experiences, ranging from the devout to the disgruntled, the abject to the contented, all uniquely informed by belief, history, and the day-to-day. These stories have helped give shape to my understanding of the province and people, as well as give meaning to my time here. 

 A few months ago, in October, I attended Aceh’s Film Festival, a tiny yet potent run of films from across Indonesia and Southeast Asia. I learned about it by pure coincidence one evening at Sophie’s Library, a beachside cafe and library that also doubles as a jam space, complete with guitars, a piano, and a drum set run by two retired reporters passionate about Acehnese history and education, inviting children and youth from around the area to practice English, art, and music. I was at the shore painting the sunset in watercolor with my friends Cutmon, Dara, and Riza, relaxing after a long week at work. Cutmon was showing Sophie, the reporter couple’s oldest daughter and cafe’s namesake, how to paint starbursts using the wet-on-wet technique. As the sky dimmed, the three of them suddenly started whispering in hushed voices, pointing back at Sophie’s. When I asked what was going on, Cutmon gestured to look behind me, but be sneaky about it — apparently a famous Indonesian actor had just arrived. I glanced over my shoulder, as inconspicuously as I could, and saw a group of people sitting importantly around a table at the front of the cafe. Not too well-versed in Indonesian cinema, I wasn’t sure who she talking about, but took her word for it. A few moments later, someone from the table came over and invited us to join them. We looked at each other. Cutmon urged me to go with him, the three of them were a bit shy to join and were content to keep painting with Sophie. “I guess why not?” I said and followed the man back to the table and joined the circle of very poised individuals, all wearing black tee shirts and smoking cigarettes, and tried to interrupt their conversation as politely as I could. Sitting across from me was a tall and distinguished-looking man who had a quiet charisma about him. This must be the artis, or celebrity in bahasa. He introduced himself as Rifnu Wikana, and is known for his work with Joko Anwar, Indonesia’s horror auteur. Even though Wikana is from a city in North Sumatra, his family is of Acehnese descent so he has been claimed as a local celebrity. When he asked if I had seen any of his movies I shook my head a bit embarrassedly and said, “Maaf, belum,” - sorry, not yet. He chuckled and gave a few recommendations, and explained that he was in Aceh to lead a workshop about stage fighting for the upcoming Aceh Film Festival, its 2022 theme being “Disobedience”. 

Sunset at Sophie’s

If you’re familiar with Aceh, the fact that there is anything celebrating film might come as a surprise — it definitely caught me off guard. As per Sharia Law, movie theaters in Aceh are banned, as gender-intermingling in the dark is strictly prohibited. What’s more, where film, art, and song are often used as a means to disrupt and critique social systems, in Aceh, the art I had seen up until then was wholesome and traditional, evoking a sense of pride and divine tranquility in the status-quo. Some also lean into the more conservative facets of Acehnese culture with very intense religious messaging. So with a theme like “Disobedience”, I could only imagine what might be shown at the festival.

 The festival was held in Garuda Theater, an abandoned movie theater and relic of pre-conflict Aceh. For some very brief historical context, before Aceh entered its conflict in the 1970s, things were actually much more liberal. Women did not need to wear hijabs, there was a small expat community, and there was a relatively vibrant music and film culture. During the conflict, where GAM, the Free Aceh Movement, fought for Aceh’s independence, religious and nationalist conservatism seeped throughout the province, though there were still social movements for peace in the capital city. In 2001, the Indonesian government granted Aceh its semi-autonomous standing, complete with its Sharia Law governance, though there was still violent unrest in many parts of the province. A few years later, the tsunami hit and decimated Banda Aceh and many areas of the province. This prompted a ceasefire and Peace Agreement with the Indonesian government, as well as further religious revival, many seeing the tsunami as a sign of impiety and sin sent by Allah. Additionally, relief efforts brought waves of international influence from around the world, though the local culture remained conservative and reflective. The collective sense of repentance can still be felt today, though over time it has slowly softened, and spaces like Sophie’s and Aceh Film Festival have begun to open up for discussion and historical reconciliation.

 Garuda Theater is located at the heart of Banda Aceh in Peunayong, or China Town. Finding it was a bit of a challenge, most people do not  know where it is in the city. It is dusty and shabby, minuscule when compared to the mega theaters of Jakarta or Jogja with just one screening room. There are no seats in the screening room at Garuda Theater so we all had to sit in beanbag chairs on the floor. There was a makeshift musholla, or prayer area, curtained off in the back corner.  It was unlike any theater experience I have ever had, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. When I arrived, I was greeted by some of the people I had met at Sophie’s and joined them in the audience, settling into my little beanbag chair. As I said, I had no idea what to expect from the film selections, and I was honestly shocked by the programming. There were documentaries about the ethical questions of using dogs to hunt boar in West Sumatra and the unsustainable, invasive fishing industry in East Aceh, a short narrative meditation on what it’s like to be closeted and queer in the face of violent, toxic masculinity in Sulawesi’s football culture, and feature films about the the murky boundaries of gender in traditional dance and magic in central Java and the agency of a child to question her Islamic upbringing after her mother dies of cancer in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. These beats were unexpected and provocative, and are definitely not things that I have ever heard publicly discussed elsewhere in the city.

 Beyond the stellar outsider selections, there were also a number of films from Acehnese filmmakers shown in a series called Film Kampong, or “village films”. They were made by filmmakers from around the province, from as close as Banda Aceh’s city center to as far as Aceh Singkil in the south, oftentimes the characters only speaking Acehnese. While their topics were not as discursive as the films from other places, treading on familiar themes such as the tsunami, conflict, and Acehnese heritage, they held a different kind of resonance, acting as mirrors to shared cultural experiences. One short film that I think about quite often is Puing Paling Sunyi, or Silent Ruins. It follows Wahadin, a young fisherman, who begrudgingly returns to his tiny hometown to care for his ailing mother after five years of separation. When Wahadin arrives, he doesn’t recognize his mother, who moves like a ghost in her traditional Acehnese house, overcome by the burden of decades of grief. We hear Wahadin’s inner monologue as he struggles to process his mother’s condition and piece together her history, having lost her husband during the conflict and countless others with the tsunami. At one point, Wahadin walks along a beach watching birds fly above, reflecting on their ability to keep going despite their “worn out wings,” an image that feels apt for the way Acehnese people have to carry on, despite unspeakable trauma.

 The summer before the festival, Puing Paling Sunyi was taken on the road, screened at coffeeshops and village squares around the province, giving people who had never left their village before the same opportunity to watch these films as those in Banda Aceh. They only showed Acehnese films from the Film Kampong series because sharing stories from different places within the province is enough to shake people’s views of the world. I sat down with some of the founding members of the festival a few weeks ago to catch up a bit and pick their brains about the festival. When I asked if they would continue the practice and show the Film Kampong series to rural communities again, they were apprehensive. They said maybe, but, despite achieving their mission to bring communities together with film, the whole process had been exhausting. And I don’t blame them. Aceh is big, it takes a long time to travel. When I asked the broader question of how such a strong and unlikely festival as Aceh Film Festival can exist, they were honest and said that it was hard. Art for the sake of disobedience and critique in Aceh is largely stagnant and unorganized, and there is little motivation to question openly. Besides the film festival, I haven’t seen much else. Those who can afford it leave for more cosmopolitan cities like Jogja and Jakarta, or elsewhere in the world. Those who are still here prefer to cook and critique within their circles at home, joking that they are more “eaters” than “artists”. Santai saja. Just relax. Go to a coffee shop with friends. Menikmati. What else can you do?

 And they do enjoy, from what I can tell. Many of my friends have definite bones to pick with Aceh, there is a lot to be frustrated and angry with, yet when I ask why they don’t want to leave, they say that there is nowhere else where they can go to the beach or ngopi all day and hang out. I later asked my Bahasa teacher and friend, Vivi, about this, how a culture of ngopi dan menikmati can exist in a place with such a painful history. Vivi, who has had to deal with passive racism and outright violence in addition to trauma from the conflict and tsunami, told me that this culture of duduk, santai arose from that place of suffering and instantaneous disaster. Just enjoy the moment, for as long as you can.

 It’s hard for me to explain in writing without sounding reductive, and I’m not sure if I’ve grasped everything yet, but there is something about Aceh that invites you to slow down. When people visit, they are always taken aback by how calm and easygoing it is here. Days spent around the city, hopping from coffeeshop to coffeeshop, are days well spent. Bisa santai, bisa pelan-pelan. You can relax and take your time.

 And now, as time ticks away, the phrase menikmati hidup saja has taken on a whole new weight. I really have not been in Aceh for too long. I arrived in May, it is March now, we are beginning to make plans for my moving out and on into the world. I have taken forever to write this report, largely because there is just so much I wish I could share. Eight months feels like forever and just a singular moment all at once. Sebentar. I feel settled, and yet there is still so much for me to do and see. But, I know that in just a few months, I will be packing up my room, trying to fit the little keepsakes I’ve picked up around Asia now scattered around my room into my little suitcase and getting ready to say goodbye to people and places who have come to be home for me. I still have to buy batik and a sarong from Aceh, with real, authentic designs. I still have friends’ weddings to attend in May, I still have to go to Takengon and Pulau Banyak and Leuser and every other beautiful place in Aceh, I still need to learn how to make mie Aceh, I still have to go to the beach with friends, I still have to get involved in that documentary project, I still have to say goodbye to a friend leaving for his PhD in Australia, my co-fellow Jack still has to try durian (!), I should probably take my cats to the vet, I need to practice Bahasa more, heck my final FKIP classes haven’t even started yet. There is still so much to do, but now, whereas a few months ago time felt long and endless and the answer to “how long have you been here?” was shorter than “how much time do you have left?”, my eventual departure from Aceh is coming into view, and the rest of my life beyond that. A student the same age as me asked if I had ever experienced a quarter-life crisis the other day. I burst out laughing, simultaneously shocked and flattered that he thought I would be some kind of authority on the matter. I answered, “I’m in one right now.” He smiled kindly and said, “Me too.”

In Sabang with my co-fellows, Jack and Mickey, Shanxi Agricultural University ‘24

 In moments like these, where I can see everything I should and still need to do, those aforementioned short, little nuggets of Indonesian wisdom, santai, duduk, dan ngopi saja and menikmati materialize in my mind. Pelan-pelan. Take your time. I take a step back, away from the loud mysteries of what is to come, and turn my gaze behind me, and think back to everything that has brought me to this moment. Eight months is, in the grand scheme of everything, nothing, and yet so much has changed from where I started. When I first arrived in May, I went a full month without seeing another foreigner, besides my dear friend and housemate Alagie. I received so many stares and “hello miss!”’s from passersby. I still do, but now try to embrace it, and sometimes even do the unthinkable like sing karaoke with a bunch of ibus from Medan on the ferry to Sabang (shout out to Shanxi Fellow Mickey for joining me up there <3). When I went to Lhoknga or Sabang the first time, I was told how popular they used to be with surfers and divers from all over the world, yet I would be the only bule for miles, tourism was still barred because of Covid. Now when I go, I meet people from Portugal, New Zealand, the UK, France, some of whom reminisce to me what it was like when they were in Aceh eight, fifteen, twenty, thirty years ago and how much has changed since then. When I first arrived, I had a mental checklist of the names of every student I had had in my Zoom classes, determined to meet all of them. I finally crossed the last name off when I tracked down my IEC student Denny very soon after he moved back to Banda Aceh in January. I am also lucky enough to see many of my former students every Friday in the audience of Movie Club, along with current students and friends from around the city. When I first arrived, during my first night out, I sang along to “Don’t Look Back in Anger” by Oasis with my old student and her friends and felt like I could feel at home here. Now, I can’t go to a coffeeshop without hearing it, for better or for worse. When I first arrived, I felt like I was trying to follow in the footsteps of Shansi Fellows from the past, trying to imagine what their lives were like here before the world fell apart. I wondered if I was doing it right, if there was anything I was missing, whether it was teaching classes, making friends, exploring new places, adapting to cultural hurdles, or just passing the time in a meaningful way. I still wonder if I’m doing it right, though I’m more comfortable doing things my own way - and I finally have a wonderful co-fellow to share the experience with. When I landed in Aceh on May 15, I enjoyed my very first Acehnese meal with Pak Faisal, Pak Usman, and Pak Kismullah, people I had up to that point known through email only, and tried kari kambing, goat curry, and sie reboh, spicy fried beef similar to jerky. Today, Pak Usman has just returned from Hajj and Pak Faisal is in Australia studying for his PhD. Earlier this afternoon, I had kari kambing and sie reboh for lunch with Pak Kis, and they taste just as good as they did eight months ago.

 The sunsets are still as beautiful as they were in May, and I do not doubt that will ever change.

 There are several words in Bahasa that mean “happy”, the most common being senang, which describes a general feeling of happiness. Another, gembira, describes a reflexive instance of joy and excitement. The third, bahagia, implies a warmer, long-lasting feeling of contentment, a word that has really resonated with me lately. It’s a feeling I’ve been able to find easily, in moments as simple as a sunset or a conversation over a cup of coffee, strung together over the course of a day, week, month. Things will continue to ebb and flow in Aceh when I’m gone, just as they have for forever, and I feel lucky to be able to enjoy this brief moment of my life here. Jangen lupa bahagia. Menikmati moment. Duduk, duduk dan ngopi dengan teman. Bisa santai, bisa pelan-pelan. There is time.

With my wonderful TOEFL prep students