The Rainbow Troops (2 page)

IT ISN'T very hard to describe our school. It was one among hundreds—maybe even thousands—of poor schools in Indonesia that, if bumped by a frenzied goat preparing to mate, would collapse and fall to pieces.

We only had two teachers for all subjects and grades. We didn't have uniforms. We didn't even have a toilet. Our school was built on the edge of a forest, so when nature called, all we had to do was slip off into the bushes. Our teacher would watch after us, just in case we were bitten by a snake in the outhouse.

We didn't have a first aid kit either. When we were sick, whatever it was—diarrhea, swelling, cough, flu, itching—the teacher gave us a large, round pill that resembled a raincoat button. It was white and tasted bitter, and after taking it you felt full. There were three large letters on the pill: APC—Aspirin, Phenacetin and Caffeine. The APC pill was legendary throughout the outskirts of Belitong as a magic medicine that could cure any illness. This generic cure-all was the government's solution to make up for the underallocation of healthcare funds for the poor.

Our school was never visited by officials, school administrators, or members of the legislative assembly. The only routine visitor was a man dressed like a ninja. He wore a large aluminum tube on his back and a hose trailed behind him. He looked like he was going to the moon. This man was sent by the department of health to spray for mosquitoes with chemical gas. Whenever the thick white puffs arose like smoke signals, we cheered and shouted with joy.

Our school wasn't guarded because there wasn't anything worth stealing. A yellow bamboo flagpole was the only thing that indicated this was a school building. A green chalkboard displaying a sun with white rays hung crookedly from the flagpole. Written in the middle was:

SD MD Sekolah Dasar Muhammadiyah
There was a sentence written in Arabic directly under the sun. After I mastered Arabic in the second grade, I knew the sentence read
amar makruf nahi mungkar
, meaning
"do what is good and prevent what is evil"
—the primary principle of Muhammadiyah, the second largest Islamic organization in Indonesia with more than 30 million members. Those words were ingrained in our souls and remained there throughout the journey to adulthood; we knew them like the back of our own hands.

If seen from afar, our school looked like it was about to tumble over. The old wooden beams were slanted, unable to endure the weight of the heavy roof. It resembled a copra shed. The construction of the building hadn't followed proper architectural principles. The windows and door couldn't be locked because they were not symmetrical with their frames, but they never needed to be locked anyway.

The atmosphere inside the class could be described with words like these: underutilized, astonishing, and bitterly touching. Underutilized, among other things, was a decrepit glass display case with a door that wouldn't stay closed. A wedge of paper was the only thing that could keep it shut. Inside a proper classroom, such a display case usually held photos of successful alumni or of the principal with ministers of education, or vice-principals with vice-ministers of education; or it would be used to display plaques, medals, certificates, and trophies of the school's prestigious achievements. But in our class, the big glass display case stood untouched in the corner. It was a pathetic fixture completely void of content because no government officials wanted to visit our teachers, there were no graduates to be proud of, and we certainly hadn't achieved anything prestigious yet.

Unlike other elementary school classrooms, there were no multiplication tables inside our classroom. We also had no calendar. There wasn't even a picture of the President and VicePresident of Indonesia or our state symbol—the strange bird with an eight-feathered tail always looking to the right. The one thing we had hanging up in our class was a poster. It was directly behind Bu Mus' desk, and it was there to cover up a big hole in one of the wall planks. The poster showed a man with a dense beard. He wore a long, flowing robe and had a guitar stylishly slung over his shoulder. His melancholic eyes were aflame, like he had already experienced life's tremendous trials, and he appeared truly determined to oppose all wickedness on the face of this earth. He was sneaking a peek at the sky, and a lot of money was falling down toward his face. He was Rhoma Irama, the dangdut singer, a Malay backcountry idol—our Elvis Presley. On the bottom of the poster were two statements that, when I first started school, I could not comprehend. But in second grade, when I could read, I learned that it shouted: RHOMA IRAMA, HUJAN DUIT! Rhoma Irama, rain of money!

Displaying the President's and VicePresident's photo and the state symbol
Garuda Pancasila
—which includes that strange bird with an eight-feathered tail always looking to the right (the Garuda) and the five state principles (
Pancasila
)—is mandatory in Indonesian schools. When being evaluated as a model school, these photos are a determining factor. But at our school it didn't matter because it wasn't a model school—let alone ever evaluated. No one ever came to inspect whether or not we had the mandatory pictures hanging, since the school board barely acknowledged our existence. It was as if our school was lost in time and space. But whatever, we had an even better picture: Rhoma Irama!

Imagine the worst possible problems for an elementary school classroom: a roof with leaks so large that students see planes flying in the sky and have to hold umbrellas while studying on rainy days; a cement floor continually decomposing into sand; strong winds that rattle the nerves of the students and shake their souls with the fear of their school collapsing; and students who want to enter the class but first have to usher goats out of the room. We experienced all of these things. So, my friend, talking about the poverty of our school is no longer interesting. What is more interesting is the people who dedicated their lives to ensuring the survival of a school like this. Those people are none other than our school principal, Pak Harfan, and Bu Mus.

LIKE OUR school, Pak Harfan is easy to describe. His thick mustache was connected to a dense brown beard, dull and sprinkled with grays. His face, in short, was a bit scary.

If anyone asked Pak Harfan about his tangled beard, he wouldn't bother giving an explanation but instead would hand them a copy of a book titled
Keutamaan Memelihara Jenggot
, or
The Excellence of Caring for a Beard
. Reading the introduction alone was enough to make anyone ashamed of having asked the question in the first place.

On this first day, Pak Harfan wore a simple shirt that at some point must have been green, but was now white. The shirt was still shadowed by faint traces of color. His undershirt was full of holes and his pants were faded from being washed one too many times. The cheap, braided plastic belt hugging his body had many notches—he had probably worn it since he was a teenager. For the sake of Islamic education, Pak Harfan had been serving the Muhammadiyah school for dozens of years without payment. He supported his family from a crop garden in the yard of their home.

Because Pak Harfan looked quite like a grizzly bear, we were scared the first time we saw him. Small children would throw a fit at the sight of him. But when he began to speak to us that first morning, his welcome address emerged like poetic pearls of wisdom, and a joyous atmosphere enveloped his humble school. Almost immediately, he won our hearts. Pak Harfan's threadbare collar hung loose as he told us the tale of Noah's Ark and the pairs of animals saved from the epic flood.

"There were those who refused to heed the warning that flood waters were coming," he said, beginning his story animatedly. We watched with enchantment and hung onto his every word.

"And so, arrogance blinded their eyes and deafened their ears, until they were crushed under the waves ..."

The tale left a big impression on us. Moral lesson number one for me: If you are not diligent in praying, you must be a good swimmer.

He went on to tell a mesmerizing story of a historical war during the time of the Prophet in which the forces were comprised of priests, not soldiers: the Badar War. Just 313 Muslim troops defeated thousands of evil, well-armed Quraisy troops.

"Let it be known, family of Ghudar! You will fall to your deaths within the next 30 days!" Pak Harfan shouted clearly while looking intently through the classroom window at the sky, yelling out the dreams of a Meccan prophesying the destruction of Quraisy in the great Badar War.

Hearing his shouts made me want to jump up from my seat. We were flabbergasted; Pak Harfan's heavy voice had shaken the threads of our souls. We leaned forward waiting for more, straining our spirited chests wanting to defend the struggle of our religious forefathers.

Then Pak Harfan cooled down the mood with a story of the suffering experienced by the founders of our school— how they were suppressed by the colonial Dutch, abandoned by the government, cared about by no one, but nonetheless stood firmly to pursue their big dreams for education.

Pak Harfan told all of his tales with the enthusiasm of his telling of the Badar War, but at the same time, with the serenity of the morning breeze. We were spellbound by his every word and gesture. There was a gentle influence and goodness about him. His demeanor was that of a wise, brave man who had been through life's bitter difficulties, had knowledge as vast as the ocean, was willing to take risks, and was genuinely interested in explaining things in ways that others could understand.

Even that first day, we could tell Pak Harfan was truly in his element in front of the students. He was a
guru
in the true sense of the word, its Hindi meaning: a person who not only transfers knowledge but who also is a friend and spiritual guide for his students. He often raised and lowered his intonation, holding the edges of his desk while emphasizing certain words and then throwing up both hands like someone performing a rain dance.

When we asked questions in class, he would run toward us in small steps, staring at us meaningfully with his calm eyes as if we were the most precious of Malay children. He whispered into our ears, fluently recited poetry and Koranic verses, challenged our comprehension, touched our hearts with knowledge, and then fell silent, like one daydreaming about a long lost love. It was so beautiful.

Through humble words, as powerful as raindrops, he brought to us the very essence of the simple life's righteousness. He inspired us to study and dazzled us with his advice to never surrender in the face of difficulties. Our first lesson from Pak Harfan was about standing firmly with conviction and a strong desire to reach our dreams. He convinced us that life could be happy even in poverty, so long as, with spirit, one gave, rather than took, as much as one could.

We didn't even blink watching this magnificent storyteller. He was a worn-out looking man with shabby clothing, but his pure thinking and words shone brightly. When he spoke, we listened, fixed in enchantment and observing intently, impatiently waiting for his next string of words. I felt unbelievably lucky to be there, amidst these amazing people. There was a beauty in this poor school, a beauty that I wouldn't trade for a thousand luxurious schools.

When Pak Harfan wanted to test us on the story he just finished, our hands shot up—even though we weren't sure whether or not we knew the answer—and vied for the chance to answer before he even had a chance to ask his question.

Sadly, the energetic and captivating teacher had to excuse himself from the class, because his session was over. One hour with him felt like one minute. We followed each inch of his trail until he left the classroom. Our stares could not be torn away because we had fallen in love with him and he had already made us fall in love with this old school. The general course from Pak Harfan on our first day at Muhammadiyah Elementary School strongly imbedded in our hearts the desire to defend this nearly collapsing school, no matter what.

Bu Mus then took over the class. Introductions. One by one, each student came forward and introduced him or herself. Finally it was A Kiong's turn. His tears had subsided, but he was still sobbing. He was asked to come up to the front of the room, and he was delighted. In between sobs, he smiled. He clutched an empty water bottle in his left hand—empty because Sahara had spilled its contents—and strongly held onto its lid with his right.

"Please say your name and address," Bu Mus tenderly told the Hokian child.

A Kiong stared hesitantly at Bu Mus, and then went back to smiling. His father made his way up through the crowd of parents, wanting to see his child in action. However, even though he had been asked repeatedly, A Kiong did not say one word. He just continued smiling.

"Go ahead," Bu Mus nudged once more.

A Kiong answered only with his smile. He kept glancing at his father, who appeared to be growing more impatient by the second. I could read his father's mind:
"Come on son, strengthen your heart and say your name! At least say your father's name, just once! Don't shame the Hokians!"
The Chinese father had a friendly face. He was a farmer, the lowest status in the social ranks of Chinese in Belitong.

Bu Mus coaxed him one last time.

"Okay, this is your last chance to introduce yourself. If you aren't ready yet, then you need to return to your seat."

But instead of showing dejection at his failure to answer, A Kiong became even happier. He didn't say anything at all. His smile was wide and his chipmunk cheeks flushed with color. Moral lesson number two: Don't ask the name and address of someone who lives on a farm.

And so ended the introductions in that memorable month of February.