The veranda of the house, a place where everything paused for a moment to rest, became the witness of Mujima and Pramono sitting side by side. They sat on a wooden chair crafted by Pramono; one of Mujima's feet still dangled in the air, while the other had just begun to reach the wooden floor.
That day, Mujima looked small. His hands and feet could only manage simple things like any other child. But the words that came from his mouth surprised Pramono slightly.
"I want to become a Santo warrior like you, Father."
Pramono turned to him. "Why so suddenly?"
"Because I want to be strong like you."
Silence settled between them for a moment.
From inside the house, a woman stepped out. Her skin was as white as jasmine, her jet-black hair cut short, with matching eyebrows and dark pupils. In her hands, she carefully carried a tray with two glass cups.
"Ginger tea for my son, and black coffee for Father," said the woman, Sekarjati, in a gentle voice.
She placed the two cups on the small round wooden table. The empty tray she held close to her chest.
Pramono nodded and thanked her immediately. Meanwhile, Mujima looked displeased with the drink she had brought.
"Ginger tea is bitter, Mother," Mujima complained, turning his face toward the yard. "When I played with my friend, he said ginger tea was bitter. I like your tea better."
"Is that so?" Pramono replied, pretending not to believe it. "Let me try."
With one motion, Pramono took the cup of ginger tea placed before Mujima. Warm steam rose and touched his nose before he took a sip. He drank it deeply, then released a soft sigh of satisfaction.
"This is good, Son. My throat and stomach feel warm and relieved," he said. "Try it. There's no harm in trying."
He placed the cup back on the table with a soft tap.
Mujima still looked hesitant. Sekarjati, who was still standing while hugging the tray, finally spoke.
"Never let go of that curiosity, Child. When you grow up one day, there will be times when you need to try things on your own. Don't let other people's opinions close your heart."
As if a spark of courage had struck him, Mujima lifted the cup of ginger tea. He drank it in one go, his eyes closed, and a soft sigh escaped his lips.
Pramono and Sekarjati exchanged glances, smiling gently.
"It's warm," Mujima said as he looked down at the cup.
The three of them laughed together. The warmth that day did not only come from the simple ginger tea, but also from the veranda that embraced them.
"You're very brave, my son," Pramono said as he stroked Mujima's head. "Courage deserves praise."
Mujima smiled at those words, then asked, "If I'm brave, can I become like you?"
Pramono's hand moved from the boy's head to his small shoulder. His grip was large and firm, as if he wanted to say many things—though not all of them could be spoken.
"Be brave, but do not be reckless," he replied softly.
After that, the three of them continued talking like any ordinary family. Laughing while recalling past moments, looking up at the moon shining above them, and watching neighbors walk along the narrow path in front of their home.
Courage is a trait possessed by someone who does not tremble before anyone, a quality born from confidence in what they have, or from a person's surrender to the fate of their life.Mujima felt all three at once. He was unafraid of whatever awaited him ahead, confident in the small things he had at that moment, yet at the same time he carried a deep fear because he now lived without the protection of his parents. From that fear, hatred began to grow.
Hatred was an emotion Pramono had never taught him. It came like a scent that lingered in the air, something he could only follow without knowing where his life was supposed to go. Hatred has never been noble. It cannot heal anything that has been taken from someone. In the end, hatred becomes nothing more than a support for a person who has lost their purpose in life.
When Pramono was stabbed, his body bent forward and blood filled his throat as he collapsed onto the cold ground. The warmth of the veranda that once comforted him no longer existed. Leaves and flowers that usually held color now looked faded in Pramono's weakening vision.
His sight grew dimmer. Through the blur, Mujima's face appeared, covered in tears that would not stop falling.
Pramono could no longer speak. He understood that God had perhaps given him one last chance to see his son. The smile Mujima showed him yesterday or last week felt warmer than anything he could see in his final moments.
Tears began to fall from Mujima's eyes again, salty on his lips, while his heart felt as if it were being pierced over and over as he looked at his father's body. He wanted to hold him tightly, but Pramono's body was too heavy. The only part he could embrace was his father's wrist.
Outside, the invasion continued. Nippon soldiers moved from house to house, killing the men and dragging away the women and children. Screams, cries, and the sound of blades clashing still reached Mujima's ears, becoming the backdrop of that day's destruction.
His gaze returned to Pramono's hip. The machete that always hung there was gone. The tiger motif with swirling cloud patterns was nowhere to be seen. The answer was clear. The invaders had taken it.
With tears and mucus covering his face, Mujima took a hoe from the yard. For more than thirty minutes he dug the earth to match the length of his father's body. The deeper he dug, the more memories struck him like waves. The longer he worked, the heavier his tears fell. He marked the grave with small stones.
Mujima's clothes were dirty, and his fingernails were filled with soil. He then picked up a katana, a masterless blade that had witnessed Pramono's death. Now, that blade rested in his hands.
With a face stained by dirt and dried tears, Mujima began to walk. Each step washed away the gentle teachings Pramono once gave him. Inside him, one emotion had grown strong enough to consume everything he had left.
It was the desire to kill every Nippon soldier still standing in the village and to reclaim his father's stolen machete.
The door of the house was now shut tightly. The window Mujima had used to watch his father had also been closed, just like Pramono's eyes and life that had already fallen completely silent. With that, Mujima stepped out of the yard, following the narrow path stained with blood, marked by fleeing villagers, and lined with the bodies of fallen men.
Those bodies carried horrifying wounds, long gashes, deep stab marks, and even some that no longer had heads at all. Yet none of it slowed Mujima's steps. He walked forward as if death around him no longer meant anything.
Some houses were burning. Smoke drifted upward, while splinters of wood and ash floated through the air with glowing embers that still clung to life. Deep scratches on the walls and shattered doors were clear evidence that the Nippon soldiers had passed through the village without mercy. The sight forced painful memories to surge inside his mind.
He continued walking, passing along a stone path that had turned into a trail of red. Wooden fences were bent and broken, and the place where he usually bathed his buffalo was now murky with a mixture of mud and blood.
Not far ahead, a woman was running while screaming for help. Her short hair was in disarray, and the shawl tucked around her pale neck swung wildly with every frantic step.
"Help! Please help me!" Her voice cracked with fear, rushed and desperate. Her black clothes were wrinkled and disheveled as if they had been pulled forcefully.
Behind her, a young Nippon soldier was running, deliberately slow, as if he enjoyed the cruel chase. With a harsh grab, he caught the woman and slammed her onto the cold ground.
"No!" The woman screamed.
Her arms and legs kicked wildly, trying to escape, but her strength was no match for the soldier. He pressed her down, tore her black clothing, and threw her shawl onto the muddy earth.
Her eyes squeezed shut, but her mouth still cried for help. In her mind, she could only apologize to her husband, for they had just married and now she was facing a death filled with humiliation.
From a distance, Mujima saw it. His slow steps turned firm, then shifted into a furious sprint. The katana in his hand gleamed in the reflected light of burning houses.
With a single powerful swing, Mujima struck the Nippon soldier's neck. The sound of flesh splitting echoed sharply, cold and crisp. Blood gushed out, splattering onto the woman beneath him.
But Mujima did not stop. He swung the katana twice more, cutting into the lifeless, headless body.
The woman finally slipped free from the grip that no longer held her, and the soldier's body collapsed motionless.
Her hysterical screams felt distant, drowned out by the sound of Mujima's own heartbeat as he watched himself plunge the katana again and again into the soldier's chest and stomach.
"Die! Die! You have to feel it too!"
"Just like my father! You have to feel what it is like to be stabbed by a bastard like you!"
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