Mitrardi
Sangkoyo
"The names of people in this essay have been altered, but their stories are real, gathered from interviews and conversations during several trips to the Mountain. ‘Asep,’ the late ‘Ujang,’ ‘Titin,’ and their histories really do exist, and somewhere along the northern slope of Mount Halimun, you will find a ‘Munjung’ and its grief-laden family of miners. The insertion of a narrative—a snippet, so to speak—of the daily experience of commoners is for the sole purpose of bringing back in a long-ignored detail in political science: that of the human factor."
"The names of people in this essay have been altered, but their stories are real, gathered from interviews and conversations during several trips to the Mountain. ‘Asep,’ the late ‘Ujang,’ ‘Titin,’ and their histories really do exist, and somewhere along the northern slope of Mount Halimun, you will find a ‘Munjung’ and its grief-laden family of miners. The insertion of a narrative—a snippet, so to speak—of the daily experience of commoners is for the sole purpose of bringing back in a long-ignored detail in political science: that of the human factor."
The words came out almost
incomprehensible, but with conviction. Asep squeezed his mother’s hand and gave her a gentle kiss (it’s alright), gave his father a slow nod, opened
the door, and walked out.
The tears would not come. Nor would he
let them—not yet.
“Lā ḥawla wa lā quwwata illā billāh,”[2] he whispered.
The words rang hollow in the chill
of the night.
