GAGAH
Text by Bolby NasutionGatri and I stood in the corner of the field kitchen. Girls our age are bustling around, taking ingredients from shoppers (Gatri and I) while racking their brains to find ways to transform low-quality ingredients into something edible.
Our military training in the Laskar Putri—a paramilitary force specifically designed for young women—began five months earlier, inviting girls from Surakarta and nearby cities, mostly students, to ‘fight alongside the men against the Kompeni1’.
Gatri was easily recognizable, towering over the other recruits. She stood tall in the front row, while, due to my shorter stature, I stood far behind her.
One of the older girls glared at both of us. In complete silence, she reprimanded our idleness. As of now, our purpose in the field kitchen should ensure we do not leave the soldiers, the men force, dead of starvation instead of like a heroic noble act of sacrifice.
But Gatri and I just walked a really long distance to buy the ingredients we brought. The first market we came to was low in supply; the Kompeni forcefully took the staples, so we had to walk to another market. Staying still was my last act of escapade, maybe I could melt into the shadow of the corner, forgotten and well-rested.
But Gatri walked towards the others, letting out a faint murmur that only I could catch. “A terrible waste of time.”, then offered a hand for the waiting girls.
Truthfully, I was not sure why Gatri joined the Laskar. When I asked the other young women, they told me how they strived to defend the homeland, to banish the Londos alongside the men, or to find purpose. Their reasons were loaded, wrapped with dignity. I began to echo these answers. Confessing that my family pushed me to join sounded way too feeble, too insignificant.
But when I asked her, Gatri told me: “I look masculine and strong with this training, with these clothes! A dashing soldier like the men!” Her answer sounded peculiar, but I just nodded. Nodding and agreeing could send a woman far from an easier life, as my late mother often said.
Gantri was fixated on becoming men, to walk gallantly with our uniforms, and to be virile when we hold firearms. While she was a proud militia of our Laskar, she despised working in the field kitchen or delivering magazines for the soldiers’ entertainment. When I asked her why, Gatri answered that it was all too feminine and futile, and that we should only work for things that matter.
I nodded and hummed in agreement, even though I was not, though I could not put my finger on why. I just remembered the gratitude on the soldier’s face the last time I was on courier duty, and the light that brims out of his face while carrying scraps of magazines and books to the others with him.
One afternoon, Gatri confided in me about her obsession with masculinity.
“Because it’s brave, the opposite of my name. Gatri. Fear,” she said. “And also because my Pak Lik2 would stop hugging me at night. Maybe he will stop saying I’m beautiful. That it was a pity I’m his niece.“
When I looked at her, Gatri looked small and as breakable as sticks, so fearful that she actually lived up to the meaning of her name, a contrast to what she wanted. I did not respond to Gatri’s words; I did not try to ask anything further. I just knew that Gatri threw herself into a warzone to escape hell.
I got along well with other girls. Sometimes, we gathered the night before some of the girls went to the frontline or to smuggle firearms and weapons, passing the Kompeni’s lines. During this gathering, I heard grueling stories of the girls who went to the frontline, how the girls fell victim to the vile men, and how they were haunted. I cursed the Kompeni and its forces for this.
Only when I was finally sent to the frontline did I realize I had never heard the full tales directly from the victims. It was always a story of a friend, of the girls in the other dorms. No one told me that the vile man could come from our side. Of all the possibilities for the lingering ghosts, I did not expect to have one not during a bloodbath against the faceless, but at the comfort of the shared tent and an unwelcome touch from a familiar face. I cried in silence that night, and the night that followed.
When I got back to the dorm, I told Gatri as she hugged my trembling body. I expected Gatri to reprimand me, to say that maybe I am not masculine or brave or strong enough, that the time I spent training was wasteful when I was unable to fight a man in the quiet of the night.
But Gatri just quietly hugged me and gently stroked my head; she did not console me, nor did she ask me to stop crying. Gatri left words between us void, and I was relieved. Silence meant I was not required to perform as an agreeable young woman.
Since then, I kept the sharpest dagger that I had under my pillow.
We served the Laskar for about three years before it was disbanded. I did not bother to know about the details; I knew it was the doing of the self-proclaimed politician in our newly independent country. Instead, I should look for Gatri, I thought, but Gatri found me first.
I didn’t like her gaze; it’s too full of fear, too vulnerable, unlike Gatri.
She asked me to go back to her house with her. In truth, Gatri and I never talked about her Pak Lik after Gatri’s first story. But her request was telling enough; if my ghost lived in the military, Gatri’s ghost still lived under Gatri’s supposedly familiar sanctuary.
That day, we went back to Gatri’s house. I had two bags, while Gatri had only one. We left the Laskar with less than what we had three years ago.
When I first met him, Gatri’s ghost looked like my late father. He sat on Gatri’s porch and greeted us with a warm smile. Gatri forced a smile to her Pak Lik; she kissed his hand—a sign of respect for an older person —then excused herself.
I found no traces of other family members. They have all left or died, according to Gatri. Brothers moved to nearby cities to earn more for their family, and sisters were married off to ease expenses. In the house, it was only the two of us and the Ghost, the one with the warmest smile.
Gatri showed me a room where I would sleep. She then entered another room directly beside her own room.
The day before, Gatri quietly whispered to me:
“When we are at my house, Pak Lik would surely come to my room at night. I am a trained militia, I carry firearms and shoot the Londos before they can raise their weapons. At night, we would sleep in different rooms, and I would kill my Pak Lik.”
When I heard Gatri, I nodded. She didn’t ask me to do anything, but at that moment, I vowed to bury Gatri’s ghost for her.
Indeed, that night, I heard faint footsteps outside my door and the sound of the door being cracked open. Gatri’s ghost moved as if he knew about the plan, but I knew that a bastard this vile did not possess the intelligence.
How could he, a fragile, ugly, old man, think that he could easily overpower one well-trained militia?
I sensed Gatri’s ghost on my bedside. By now, I knew when I opened my eyes, I would mix up Gatri’s ghost and mine, and that would make my anger, frustration, and resentment flood my body. The ghost moved, but I grabbed my dagger—the one that I always kept under my pillow after meeting my own ghost—faster and stabbed him. Gatri barged in at the same moment, and apparently, I let out a screech without knowing.
I felt the red liquid flowing on my arm; the warmth of his blood was probably as warm as the smile he gave us earlier.
I stabbed him again. And again. And again. Until he dropped down to the floor, lifeless like the Londo3 in my battlefield. Like the imagination of my own ghosts inside my head.
Gatri was beaming with pride as she approached me. She looked at her Pak Lik, the Ghost, lying lifelessly on the floor. When she finally looked at me, she declared, “You look gallant, like the men on the battlefield!”
I almost automatically nodded, as a habit, but stopped myself immediately.
Gatri mistook working in the field kitchen during the warzone as futile, and that delivering magazines was a waste of our training. Just like that, she also mistook my act of violence for an act of protection, just like she mistook my resentment for an act of kindness. She was probably unaware that wrath fueled my blood and that desperation moved my body. I might stab the man, but what killed the man was his masculine ego.
The blood in my hand, and spluttered on my face, a lying old man in my feet. And Gatri.
I shook my head, denying Gatri’s statement.
I have never felt more feminine than I do now.
—
1Kompeni or sometimes written as Kumpeni is a word commonly used to refer to the settler Dutch government during the colonization of Indonesia.
2Pak Lik is a Javanese word to refer to an uncle.
3Londo is a Javanese term to refer to the Dutch, often in a derogatory manner.
Artist Statement Stories of women are often dismissed when they are alive, and overlooked when they have become history. We often glorify women’s power by holding masculinity as the standard. Sometimes, we act as if becoming a modern society woman is the same as becoming a man. To be successful is to achieve what men achieve (sometimes way later than a woman or a queer). Sadly, achievement does not include the act of care, often manifested in daily, trivial tasks, the overlooked infrastructure of support that sustains a community and a society.
‘Gagah’ is an Indonesian term with a complex English rendition. Without any weight, Gagah can simply mean masculine. Within the historical context, Gagah is a term of praise for a heroic soldier on the battlefield. As a gendered word, it becomes a standard for how men are expected to behave. With the two women, Gagah is a connecting thread that also serves as an intersection between their beliefs.
Our military training in the Laskar Putri—a paramilitary force specifically designed for young women—began five months earlier, inviting girls from Surakarta and nearby cities, mostly students, to ‘fight alongside the men against the Kompeni1’.
Gatri was easily recognizable, towering over the other recruits. She stood tall in the front row, while, due to my shorter stature, I stood far behind her.
One of the older girls glared at both of us. In complete silence, she reprimanded our idleness. As of now, our purpose in the field kitchen should ensure we do not leave the soldiers, the men force, dead of starvation instead of like a heroic noble act of sacrifice.
But Gatri and I just walked a really long distance to buy the ingredients we brought. The first market we came to was low in supply; the Kompeni forcefully took the staples, so we had to walk to another market. Staying still was my last act of escapade, maybe I could melt into the shadow of the corner, forgotten and well-rested.
But Gatri walked towards the others, letting out a faint murmur that only I could catch. “A terrible waste of time.”, then offered a hand for the waiting girls.
Truthfully, I was not sure why Gatri joined the Laskar. When I asked the other young women, they told me how they strived to defend the homeland, to banish the Londos alongside the men, or to find purpose. Their reasons were loaded, wrapped with dignity. I began to echo these answers. Confessing that my family pushed me to join sounded way too feeble, too insignificant.
But when I asked her, Gatri told me: “I look masculine and strong with this training, with these clothes! A dashing soldier like the men!” Her answer sounded peculiar, but I just nodded. Nodding and agreeing could send a woman far from an easier life, as my late mother often said.
Gantri was fixated on becoming men, to walk gallantly with our uniforms, and to be virile when we hold firearms. While she was a proud militia of our Laskar, she despised working in the field kitchen or delivering magazines for the soldiers’ entertainment. When I asked her why, Gatri answered that it was all too feminine and futile, and that we should only work for things that matter.
I nodded and hummed in agreement, even though I was not, though I could not put my finger on why. I just remembered the gratitude on the soldier’s face the last time I was on courier duty, and the light that brims out of his face while carrying scraps of magazines and books to the others with him.
One afternoon, Gatri confided in me about her obsession with masculinity.
“Because it’s brave, the opposite of my name. Gatri. Fear,” she said. “And also because my Pak Lik2 would stop hugging me at night. Maybe he will stop saying I’m beautiful. That it was a pity I’m his niece.“
When I looked at her, Gatri looked small and as breakable as sticks, so fearful that she actually lived up to the meaning of her name, a contrast to what she wanted. I did not respond to Gatri’s words; I did not try to ask anything further. I just knew that Gatri threw herself into a warzone to escape hell.
I got along well with other girls. Sometimes, we gathered the night before some of the girls went to the frontline or to smuggle firearms and weapons, passing the Kompeni’s lines. During this gathering, I heard grueling stories of the girls who went to the frontline, how the girls fell victim to the vile men, and how they were haunted. I cursed the Kompeni and its forces for this.
Only when I was finally sent to the frontline did I realize I had never heard the full tales directly from the victims. It was always a story of a friend, of the girls in the other dorms. No one told me that the vile man could come from our side. Of all the possibilities for the lingering ghosts, I did not expect to have one not during a bloodbath against the faceless, but at the comfort of the shared tent and an unwelcome touch from a familiar face. I cried in silence that night, and the night that followed.
When I got back to the dorm, I told Gatri as she hugged my trembling body. I expected Gatri to reprimand me, to say that maybe I am not masculine or brave or strong enough, that the time I spent training was wasteful when I was unable to fight a man in the quiet of the night.
But Gatri just quietly hugged me and gently stroked my head; she did not console me, nor did she ask me to stop crying. Gatri left words between us void, and I was relieved. Silence meant I was not required to perform as an agreeable young woman.
Since then, I kept the sharpest dagger that I had under my pillow.
We served the Laskar for about three years before it was disbanded. I did not bother to know about the details; I knew it was the doing of the self-proclaimed politician in our newly independent country. Instead, I should look for Gatri, I thought, but Gatri found me first.
I didn’t like her gaze; it’s too full of fear, too vulnerable, unlike Gatri.
She asked me to go back to her house with her. In truth, Gatri and I never talked about her Pak Lik after Gatri’s first story. But her request was telling enough; if my ghost lived in the military, Gatri’s ghost still lived under Gatri’s supposedly familiar sanctuary.
That day, we went back to Gatri’s house. I had two bags, while Gatri had only one. We left the Laskar with less than what we had three years ago.
When I first met him, Gatri’s ghost looked like my late father. He sat on Gatri’s porch and greeted us with a warm smile. Gatri forced a smile to her Pak Lik; she kissed his hand—a sign of respect for an older person —then excused herself.
I found no traces of other family members. They have all left or died, according to Gatri. Brothers moved to nearby cities to earn more for their family, and sisters were married off to ease expenses. In the house, it was only the two of us and the Ghost, the one with the warmest smile.
Gatri showed me a room where I would sleep. She then entered another room directly beside her own room.
The day before, Gatri quietly whispered to me:
“When we are at my house, Pak Lik would surely come to my room at night. I am a trained militia, I carry firearms and shoot the Londos before they can raise their weapons. At night, we would sleep in different rooms, and I would kill my Pak Lik.”
When I heard Gatri, I nodded. She didn’t ask me to do anything, but at that moment, I vowed to bury Gatri’s ghost for her.
Indeed, that night, I heard faint footsteps outside my door and the sound of the door being cracked open. Gatri’s ghost moved as if he knew about the plan, but I knew that a bastard this vile did not possess the intelligence.
How could he, a fragile, ugly, old man, think that he could easily overpower one well-trained militia?
I sensed Gatri’s ghost on my bedside. By now, I knew when I opened my eyes, I would mix up Gatri’s ghost and mine, and that would make my anger, frustration, and resentment flood my body. The ghost moved, but I grabbed my dagger—the one that I always kept under my pillow after meeting my own ghost—faster and stabbed him. Gatri barged in at the same moment, and apparently, I let out a screech without knowing.
I felt the red liquid flowing on my arm; the warmth of his blood was probably as warm as the smile he gave us earlier.
I stabbed him again. And again. And again. Until he dropped down to the floor, lifeless like the Londo3 in my battlefield. Like the imagination of my own ghosts inside my head.
Gatri was beaming with pride as she approached me. She looked at her Pak Lik, the Ghost, lying lifelessly on the floor. When she finally looked at me, she declared, “You look gallant, like the men on the battlefield!”
I almost automatically nodded, as a habit, but stopped myself immediately.
Gatri mistook working in the field kitchen during the warzone as futile, and that delivering magazines was a waste of our training. Just like that, she also mistook my act of violence for an act of protection, just like she mistook my resentment for an act of kindness. She was probably unaware that wrath fueled my blood and that desperation moved my body. I might stab the man, but what killed the man was his masculine ego.
The blood in my hand, and spluttered on my face, a lying old man in my feet. And Gatri.
I shook my head, denying Gatri’s statement.
I have never felt more feminine than I do now.
—
1Kompeni or sometimes written as Kumpeni is a word commonly used to refer to the settler Dutch government during the colonization of Indonesia.
2Pak Lik is a Javanese word to refer to an uncle.
3Londo is a Javanese term to refer to the Dutch, often in a derogatory manner.
Artist Statement Stories of women are often dismissed when they are alive, and overlooked when they have become history. We often glorify women’s power by holding masculinity as the standard. Sometimes, we act as if becoming a modern society woman is the same as becoming a man. To be successful is to achieve what men achieve (sometimes way later than a woman or a queer). Sadly, achievement does not include the act of care, often manifested in daily, trivial tasks, the overlooked infrastructure of support that sustains a community and a society.
‘Gagah’ is an Indonesian term with a complex English rendition. Without any weight, Gagah can simply mean masculine. Within the historical context, Gagah is a term of praise for a heroic soldier on the battlefield. As a gendered word, it becomes a standard for how men are expected to behave. With the two women, Gagah is a connecting thread that also serves as an intersection between their beliefs.