1935
Little Rika ran through the plantation, her tiny feet pattering along the ground. Her cheerful laughter rang out among the lush crops and trees, mixing with the noisy voices of the children playing with her. Every now and then, a squeal of delight rose up when one of them caught a friend or found someone hiding. They filled their afternoon with simple games: tag, hide-and-seek, and other traditional games that kept the plantation alive with joy. More than once, Rika ran so fast that she nearly tripped over a tree root or stumbled on uneven ground.
Her simple white dress was no longer clean. The hem and the sides of the fabric were covered in dirt from rolling around in the grass and soil. Strands of her hair had come loose, but Rika didn't care at all. A wide smile stayed on her face, and her eyes sparkled with happiness. Among the children she played with, Rika's skin was a little lighter than the others'. But that difference was something she had never once thought about.
Then, in an instant, the joy that had filled the plantation vanished. The children's laughter and happy shouts slowly died away as several mothers walked toward them. Their faces were cold and unfriendly. Without saying much, each of them pulled her own child away from Rika, as if the little girl were something to be avoided.
"Don't play with her! She's a Londo child!" one of the mothers whispered to her son. She tried to keep her voice low, but the children nearby still heard her clearly.
(Londo: a Javanese slang word for a Dutch person.)
Some of the children turned to look at Rika. They looked confused, not really understanding why their game had to end so suddenly. A few kept glancing back at her with uncertain eyes, while others simply followed as their mothers dragged them away. Rika didn't understand what was happening. She just stood in the middle of the plantation, watching her playmates leave one by one. The smile on her face slowly faded. Her eyes followed them, as if she was still waiting for someone to turn around and ask her to play again.
"Hey, why are you leaving?" Rika asked innocently.
She took a few small steps toward a friend who was still nearby. Her hand lifted slightly, as if to greet him, or to invite him back to the game. Rika had no idea what she had done wrong. Only a moment ago, they had all been laughing and running together.
Before she could get an answer, a mother standing close to her child suddenly stormed over. With a rough swing of her arm, the woman struck Rika on the head.
"Go away! Stay away from my son!" she snapped, her voice loud, as she slapped Rika's hand aside and hit her head again.
Rika's small body lost its balance and she fell. She looked up at the woman who had just hit her, her eyes full of confusion. The woman only pulled her child away again, leaving Rika alone in the middle of the plantation. Rika didn't cry. She simply sat there for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. Slowly, her hand reached up to touch the sore spot on her head, and then she carefully pushed herself to her feet.
A stinging pain began to spread where she had been hit. Her eyes filled with tears, and a few drops rolled down her cheeks. Her little body trembled slightly. Even as the tears kept falling, Rika tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand. She even tried to pull the corners of her lips up into a small smile, so faint it was almost invisible. Then she walked away without looking back, leaving behind the place that had been full of laughter and happiness only moments before.
When she got home, Rika tried to bring back the cheerfulness that had vanished from her face. She wiped the last of her tears with the back of her hand and took a deep breath before stepping inside. Her head still hurt and her body was still shaking a little, but she tried to act as if nothing had happened.
"Mama, I'm home!" she called out brightly.
Her voice was cheerful as she hurried to her mother, who was sitting in the living room, sewing a piece of cloth. Rika stretched out both arms and hugged her from the side. Her mother, who had been concentrating on her work, was startled for a moment. But when she realized who it was, she turned and laughed softly.
"Goodness, you're filthy! And you smell sour, too!" she teased, setting her sewing aside for a moment.
She gently stroked Rika's head. The touch made Rika hold on even tighter. She didn't say anything. She just leaned her small body against her mother, as if she wanted to enjoy that warmth a little longer. But then her mother's hand suddenly stopped.
When her fingers brushed Rika's forehead, she felt something strange. She tilted her head slightly and studied her daughter's face more closely. There, a bruise was starting to form. The smile on her face slowly changed. Her eyes were fixed on the mark, her hand still frozen above Rika's head. She wanted to ask who had hurt her child and what had really happened. But seeing her daughter still trying so hard to smile, she chose to keep all those questions to herself.
"Go and take a bath first, Rika. Change your clothes," she said gently.
She smiled again, trying to keep her voice sounding normal. Her hand stroked Rika's hair one more time before she let go of the hug. Rika nodded. Without a word, she walked out of the living room toward the bathroom. Her dirty white dress swayed with her small steps until she slowly disappeared from view.
Rika's mother kept watching until the sound of her daughter's footsteps faded away. She was still sitting in the same spot, both hands resting on the cloth she had been sewing. The smile she had forced all this time finally disappeared. Slowly, her face grew sorrowful. Her eyes drifted back to the doorway where Rika had vanished. She bowed her head, trying to hold back the weight that had been pressing on her chest. The tears she had been holding in finally spilled down her cheeks. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the cloth in her lap. She lowered her head even further, as if trying to hide her sadness from anyone who might be watching.
In the silence of the living room, small sobs could be heard, breaking now and then. Her shoulders shook quietly.
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That Night
That night, little Rika woke up to the faint sound of crying coming from her parents' room. At first, she just blinked a few times, trying to figure out whether the sound was real or just part of her dream. But then she heard it again, clearer this time, mixed with sobs that slowly pulled her fully awake.
Rika pushed herself up from her bed. Her hair was messy and her eyes were heavy with sleep as she climbed down and walked slowly toward her bedroom door. She turned the handle carefully, so it wouldn't make too much noise.
When the door opened just a little, Rika peeked out into the dimly lit hallway. There was no one there. She stepped out and tiptoed toward the sound of crying, which was coming from her parents' room.
When she reached the door, she stopped. She pressed her small body against the wall beside it and slowly leaned her ear against the wooden door, listening without letting her parents know.
"Why haven't they accepted us, Papa?" her mother's voice was soft and trembling, breaking between sobs she couldn't hold back.
Rika frowned. She didn't fully understand what they were talking about, but the sound of her mother's voice told her that something was very wrong.
"Mama, I've told you, let's go back to the Netherlands. For your safety. For Rika's safety," her father answered.
His voice was gentle, but there was an unusual firmness in it. It was as if he had thought about this many times and was now only trying to convince his wife to make the decision he believed was safest.
"I love this land, Papa. I was born here. I love its people, its culture. What did I do wrong?"
Her crying grew louder. Her voice sounded so fragile, as if every word carried the sadness she had kept buried for so long. It was as if she was asking a question that even the person closest to her couldn't answer. Inside the room, Rika's father fell silent. He fought to hold back the anger rising inside him. It wasn't aimed at his wife, but at the situation that was hurting the person he loved.
"Because of you, Mama. Because of your blood..." he said quietly.
The words were heavy. He paused for a moment before moving closer to his wife. "It's all right, my love. Let's go home to the Netherlands."
Behind the door, little Rika slowly pressed her palm against the wood. Her heart ached at the sound of her mother crying. She wanted to touch her, even though the door stood between them. She didn't understand why her mother was crying. She didn't understand why her father wanted to take them to the Netherlands. To her, the Netherlands was just the name of a faraway place her parents often mentioned. All she knew was that the people around her didn't want to accept her.
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The days passed, but things did not get better for Rika. Since that day at the plantation, she was treated badly more and more often. Wherever she went, people looked at her differently. Some even shouted insults as she passed, and the children who used to play with her now kept their distance. Rika often heard names she didn't understand. They called her "Londo child," and even made her the butt of their jokes, just because she looked different from the other native children.
Some of the children even began throwing small stones at her. Sometimes the stones only hit the ground near her feet, but often they hit her hands or legs. Rika could only dodge and try to protect herself with her arms. More than once, she came home with small wounds on her hands and legs. Some were red scratches. Others were scraped skin from falling as she tried to escape the stones.
Every time her mother saw the wounds, she asked with deep worry. But Rika never really told her what had happened. She only smiled and gave short answers, as if it was nothing more than the result of ordinary play. She still remembered the night she heard her mother crying with her father, and she didn't want to add to her mother's sadness by telling her how badly she was being treated.
One day, as the sun began to sink toward the west, Rika sat in her mother's lap. Her mother was stroking her hair gently, now and then tucking loose strands away from her face. Rika seemed calmer than usual. Her hands rested on her mother's lap while her head leaned comfortably against the chest of the person she loved most in the world.
"Why do they hate me, Mama?" she asked innocently.
Her mother's hand stopped moving. She looked at her daughter's small face and tried to give her the best smile she could. The question wasn't new to her. She knew Rika was beginning to notice how differently people treated her. She also knew that one day her daughter would start asking why she and her family were not accepted.
Rika's mother stroked her hair once more. Her eyes grew misty, but she hid her sadness behind a soft smile.
"That's because they don't know how sweet and kind my little angel is," she answered lovingly.
She playfully pinched Rika's cheek, trying to distract her daughter from a question that was far too heavy to answer. Rika blinked. She studied her mother's face for a moment, and then a small smile appeared on her lips. The answer sounded simple, but it was enough to ease her heart a little.
"Mama, when I grow up, will I have friends?" she asked hopefully.
Her mother was quiet for a moment, then took a slow breath. She nodded, keeping her smile in place even as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
"Of course, Rika. You will have friends," she answered softly.
Hearing that, Rika's face lit up at once.
"Yay! I'll have so many friends, right, Mama?" she cheered.
She threw both hands up in excitement, as if she could already see all the friends who would one day play with her. She even wiggled in her mother's lap, too happy at the thought. For little Rika, her mother's promise was enough to make her hopeful again. She didn't know when that day would come, but she wanted to believe it. And in her mother's arms, for a little while longer, Rika could still imagine that one day the world outside would welcome her with a smile just as warm.
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1938
That day, the air around Rika's house felt very different from usual. Tension hung over the neighborhood as a group of armed men began to gather and surround the small family's home. Some carried machetes and long knives, while others held whatever they could use as weapons.
"Come out!"
"Don't hide! We know you're in there!"
The shouting grew louder. Some of them began pounding on the outside of the house, while others tried to get close to the door and windows. In no time at all, the calm turned into terror. Inside, Rika's father quickly realized things had gotten out of control. With a tense face, he, a man of pure Javanese descent, stepped outside to face the crowd, hoping they would be willing to talk things through peacefully.
He opened the door slowly and walked out with both hands slightly raised, to show that he had no intention of fighting back.
"Please, don't do this. Let's talk calmly," he said in a steady voice.
He kept his tone gentle so as not to provoke them, hoping that someone in the crowd would still be willing to listen. Instead, some of them only moved closer. Their shouts piled on top of each other, drowning out his voice as he kept trying to reason with them. Before he could say another word, someone in the crowd swung a wooden beam. It struck Rika's father on the head with terrible force. His body fell to the ground at once. Blood poured from his head, soaking his face and clothes.
Inside the house, Rika's mother rushed to hide Rika in the wardrobe.
"Don't come out, Rika. No matter what happens, don't come out, okay?" Her voice trembled. She tried to speak gently as she held her daughter close, for the last time.
Rika could only stare at her mother's face, full of fear and confusion, before the wardrobe door was closed. From behind the door, she heard footsteps coming closer, followed by shouting and chaos that wouldn't stop. Rika tried to peek through a tiny gap between the doors. Through it, she saw several men enter the house and head straight for her mother. Without giving her any chance to fight back, they grabbed her by the hair and dragged her outside.
Rika wanted to run to her mother, to hold her hand so those men couldn't hurt her or take her away. But fear froze her whole body. Her legs wouldn't move, and she couldn't even make a sound. Her mother was dragged all the way to the porch. Then she was thrown to the ground in front of her husband's lifeless body.
Her eyes fell on her husband, and she broke down, sobbing, collapsing as if she couldn't accept what was happening. But one of the men grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head up, forcing her to face the people standing around her. The pain twisted her face. Even so, her eyes kept searching for something in the crowd. At last, she caught a tiny glint of light from behind the door, and their eyes met.
"Rika, keep smiling, sweetheart. Mama and Papa may have to miss you for a very long time," she said softly, smiling with all her heart, even though her face was covered in wounds. Her last smile looked peaceful, as if she wanted to assure her daughter that everything would be all right.
But that peace was shattered when one of the men swung his machete. Rika's mother was struck down by the blade at her neck, and her body went limp. Rika's eyes went wide. She clamped her small hands over her mouth, trying to hold back the scream that wanted to burst out. Tears streamed down her face without stopping. All she could do was sit behind the door, watching everything, her body shaking. Her heart was shattered, but her mother's words kept echoing in her ears:
"Keep smiling, sweetheart."