Two days before August 17th, the afternoon felt stifling. Laras sat on her porch, her sketchbook open to a blank page. But her pencil remained still. Her mind was still filled with the image of the grinning skull wearing a straw hat. That Jolly Roger flag kept fluttering in her thoughts, feeling more alive and honest than the half-hearted red-and-white pennants strung along the streets of their housing complex. Those younger kids, with their naive rebellion, had found an imaginative freedom far more compelling than the ceremonial independence force-fed at school.
"Laras! Could you buy me a quarter kilo of sugar from Bu Haji's shop, dear? We're out," her mother's voice from inside broke her reverie.
"Yes, Bu!" Laras replied. She set down her sketchbook, grabbed some money, and walked out the gate.
Bu Haji's shop was only a few houses away. As Laras arrived, she saw a gleaming black SUV parked right in front. Its rear door was open. Laras recognized the owner – Pak Said, a neighbor from the next block, famously the wealthiest in their RT. What made Laras frown was what Pak Said was doing. Casually, the man in a polo shirt was loading two bright green 3kg LPG gas cylinders – the kind clearly stamped "For Low-Income Households Only" – from the front of the shop into his car's trunk.
Pak Said spotted Laras and grinned broadly, guiltlessly. "Eh, it's young Laras. Shopping too?" he greeted warmly.
Laras only nodded stiffly, her eyes glued to the green cylinders.
Noticing her stare, Pak Said chuckled lightly. "What, dear? Surprised?" He shut the trunk with a soft thud. "Embarrassed? Embarrassment is expensive, dear. What's cheap is being clever!"
Laras stayed silent, unsure how to respond.
Pak Said stepped closer, patting her shoulder like he was offering sage advice. "Besides, it's pointless paying steep taxes if we get nothing back. If I don't take this gas, someone else pretending to be poor will. The system's broken. We're just playing it smart," he said with a tone of cynical self-justification. This is Pak Said's version of "freedom," Laras thought bitterly. Freedom to game the system. Freedom to take what wasn't his.
That evening, the complex grew livelier. From her porch, Laras could hear raised voices drifting from the community hall where the RT meeting for the Independence Night preparations was underway. She'd deliberately skipped it, preferring to finish a caricature sketch in her notebook. Faintly, snippets of conversation carried on the breeze:
"...the catering budget is ridiculous!"
"Which committee report is that? Don't make baseless accusations!"
"Be transparent, Pak RT! This is residents' money!"
The voices overlapped, sharp and suspicious. The debate about celebrating independence sounded more like a squabble over leftover spoils. Laras sighed, closing her sketchbook. Over there, in that hall, history was being auctioned off in the form of an accusation-filled meeting. She could only be a silent listener from afar.
Dinner that night felt starkly quiet. Only the clinking of cutlery broke the silence. Her mother looked more tired than usual.
"Trouble at work, Bu?" Laras asked softly.
Her mother set down her spoon, staring blankly at the rice on her plate. "Nothing major," she answered wearily. "Just... I 'had to' buy some cookies today. From the Head of Department's wife. Three jars. Almost five hundred thousand rupiah."
Laras stopped chewing. "Had to? Why?"
"Said it was for 'participating' in the office Independence Day welcome. All the staff bought them. If I didn't join in... well, you know. Might be seen as not being a team player, not loyal. You understand, dear."
Laras looked at her mother's exhausted face. In it, she saw the same dilemma she felt. Her mother, an honest civil servant, knew this "culture" was wrong. But she was powerless, forced into this auction of loyalty for job security and family peace. The anger smoldering in Laras's chest instantly died, replaced by a deep ache. She couldn't be angry at her mother. Her mother was a victim, just like Bu Dian, just like the suspicious residents at the RT meeting.
They were all bidders and items for sale in a much larger system. That night, Laras realized her idealism had a painful weak spot: she couldn't hate the victims.