Memory
Year 1935
Little Rika ran across the plantation, her laughter ringing in the air as she played tag, hide and seek, and other traditional games with the local children. Her simple white dress was smeared with dirt, but she didn't care. Even though her skin was slightly lighter than theirs, to her, they were all the same: friends who made her day bright.
But that joy vanished in an instant. A few mothers walked over, pulling their children away."Don't play with her! She's a Londo's child!" one of the mothers hissed to her son.
The children looked at Rika in confusion, while their mothers glared at her as if she carried some disease.
Rika froze, standing still."Why are you leaving?" she asked innocently, trying to greet one of her friends. But the boy's mother slapped her head harshly."Go away! Don't you dare come near my child again!" she shouted.
Rika stumbled and fell. Her head throbbed, and tears welled in her eyes. Yet she didn't cry out loud. She slowly picked herself up and walked away, clutching her bruise. Her small body trembled, but her lips forced a smile—just as her mama had always told her.
When she got home, Rika forced a cheerful voice."Mama, I'm home!" she called, hugging her mother, who was weaving in the living room.
Her mama looked at her and chuckled softly."Oh my, you're so dirty! And you smell sour too," she teased, stroking Rika's hair. But her hand froze the moment she saw the bruise on Rika's forehead.
"Go take a bath, dear. Change your clothes," she said gently, hiding her pain behind a smile.
After Rika left, her face changed. The tears she had been holding back finally fell. Her hands trembled as she clutched the fabric in her lap, soft sobs breaking the silence.
That night Rika woke up to the sound of muffled crying from her parents' room. Carefully, she tiptoed out of her own room and pressed her tiny body against the door.
"Why can't they accept us, Pa?" her mama's broken voice trembled.
"Honey, I've told you… let's go back to the Netherlands. For your safety, for Rika's," her father said, his voice calm but firm.
"I love this land, Pa. I was born here. I love the people, the culture. What wrong have I done?" her mama wept harder, while her father tried to suppress his anger.
"Because of your blood, dear…" her father said softly. "Enough. Let's just go back to the Netherlands."
Rika pressed her palm against the door. Her heart ached hearing her mama cry. She didn't fully understand what was happening. All she knew was that people didn't want her.
Day after day Rika was constantly shunned. Each time she went outside, she was met with insults, sometimes even small stones thrown by children. More than once she returned home with cuts on her hands and feet. But whenever her mama asked, Rika only smiled.
"Mama, why do they hate me?" she asked one day, sitting on her mama's lap.
Her mama smiled gently, though her eyes glistened with tears."That's because they don't know how sweet and kind Mama's little angel really is," she whispered, stroking her daughter's hair.
"Mama, when I grow up, will I have friends?" Rika asked, her voice full of hope.
Her mama nodded, holding back her tears."Of course, Rika. You'll have friends."
"Yay! I'll have sooo many friends, right, Mama?" she exclaimed joyfully, making her mama laugh despite her sorrow.
Year 1938
That day, the air was thick with terror. Their house was surrounded by a mob wielding machetes and sickles. Shouts and threats echoed into their home.
Rika's father, a native Javanese, stepped outside, hoping to calm them down."Please, let's talk this through peacefully," he pleaded. But they didn't care. One man struck him brutally on the head with a wooden beam. He collapsed instantly, blood streaming from his skull.
Inside, her mama rushed to hide Rika in a cupboard."Don't come out, Rika. No matter what happens, don't come out," she whispered, holding her daughter tightly one last time.
Little Rika, trembling with fear, could only nod. Through the small gap in the cupboard door, she watched as her mama was dragged outside. She wanted to run to her, but her body was frozen stiff.
On the terrace, her mama wept uncontrollably in front of her husband's lifeless body. Her hair was yanked back harshly, forcing her to face the raging crowd. Yet in that chaos, her eyes caught sight of Rika peeking from behind the door. Their gazes met.
"Rika, keep smiling, dear. Maybe Mama and Papa will have to leave you for a long time," she said softly, smiling tenderly despite her bruised and bloodied face. It was her last smile—serene, as if to reassure her daughter that everything would be alright.
But peace shattered when a machete slashed across her neck. Her body crumpled instantly.
Rika's eyes widened. She clamped her small hand over her mouth to silence the scream clawing at her throat. Tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks.
She sat trembling in the dark, her heart breaking apart. Yet her mama's last words echoed in her ears:
"Keep smiling, dear."