threefortyseven.

It is 3:47 am now and I am still up. I have just finished watching Living Dangerously on TV. It is about a journalist’s experience living in Indonesia in the sixties. Communism was flourishing in the country. It was not clear which side Sukarno had been. Rumor has it that he was with the communist—hence the CIA-backed military coup, led by Suharto. This fact aggravated me so much. Growing up in Indonesia, we were never told about a coup. It was a peaceful transition, they said. It was Supersemar, they said, a declaration of order signed by Sukarno, giving Suharto the authority he needed to restore order. It had been false history we were learning—what a waste of my braincells.

It has been almost thirteen years since I left Indonesia and I have adopted America as my country. But recently something has been tagging at my heart. When living in Indonesia, I have never felt to be truly an Indonesian due to my Chinese descent. And truly a Chinese, I am not either. Moving to Singapore was also a strange experience. Being an Indonesian Chinese, some of my Chinese friends claimed me to be their Chinese friend, while my Malay friends claimed me as their Melayu friend. Moving to America has added my nationality confusion—I am not Asian and/or Indonesian enough, neither am I white. As my time into becoming an American citizen is getting closer, I started to think and miss Indonesia more and more. I miss Indonesia.

Sigh. I might be just reminiscing my past. I was elated when mom told us about the move to Singapore. I was an unhappy girl spending her time wishing she could start her life over. Singapore was the chance to start over, or so I thought.

But now… I don’t know… I have always wondered how my life would have been different had I stayed. I have never really got to know Indonesia and I really want to be friends with her.