Friday, October 26, 2007

Timor Wayang

(After W. S. Rendra)

Dalang, Dalang, whose strings do you pull?
Dalang, Dalang, whose lands do you steal?
Dalang, Dalang, whose shadows do you cast?
Dalang, Dalang, whose face is your mask?

The old man sways with the train
barrelling through the South Australian night,
I can't sit for long" he says,
“an old war wound, shot down over Timor in 1942."

He tells me his story as the night lights flick on,
taking me back to a Japanese zero attacking
from the sun,
guns chattering, his bomber hit,
crashing into the jungle,
fire, explosions, crawling from the wreckage,
fire, pain, blood, agony,
blackness.

A young boy stands over him,
pours water between his parched lips.
The boy speaks in faltering English,
says he will get help.

Blackness.

Voices, voices speaking a language he doesn't understand
occasionally an English word,
he hears "Australian".
looks around,
the crashed bomber is still burning in the distance,
the boy is nearby talking with several men,
hears "Japanese" and "Australian"
but doesn't understand the context.
The men look worried,
hurriedly they build a stretcher out of vines and leaves.
The boy smiles and says, "we take you to Aussies, they fix."

Dalang, Dalang, whose plays do you perform?
Dalang, Dalang, whose children do you kill?
Dalang, Dalang, whose wars do you fight?
Dalang, Dalang, is might always right?

They carry him through the jungle moving silently and swift.
The boy says his name is Xanana,
that he is the only one in the village who speaks English,
that he is nine years old,
that Australians are friends,
that the Japanese army is near,
that they are taking him to some Australian commandos,
that he is going to be alright,
“I look after you”.

They stop for a rest,
one of the men changes his bandages,
he is given water and fruit,
the jungle is alive with birds and insects,
the stars are bright.
They continue into the mountains
along nearly invisible tracks
then stop beneath a rocky outcrop.

Xanana disappears into the night then returns with
a tall figure dressed in combat fatigues.
“Sergeant Murphy" he says, offering a hand,
“we'll get you out of here mate."
The soldiers carry him to a cove where an Australian ship is moored.
Young Xanana smiles and wishes him well.

The ship sails immediately for enemy patrols are near.

He is hospitalised in Darwin for several months,
the war for him is over.

A few days before he is to be discharged a commando from Timor
is admitted to his ward.
He is anxious for news of his friends.
Yes, says the soldier, he knows Murphy,
but of Xanana he is reluctant to speak.

The Japanese discovered the villagers had been helping Australians.
Xanana had been shot,
his body thrown into a mass grave,
his village destroyed.

The Overlander rumbles through the early morning,
the other passengers are all listening intently,
I hear sobs, a hard fisted miner passes me a stubby.

The old man stands swaying in the dim light.
I think of friends dying,
of honour and obligation,
of the strong devouring the weak,
of courage and loyalty.
Xanana’s ghost sits next to me
and I feel guilty,
think of all that was done
and all that should have been done.

Dalang, Dalang, whose trust have you broken?
Dalang, Dalang, whose wealth have you stolen?
Dalang, Dalang, how can you atone?
Dalang, Dalang, is your face my own?

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