Namaku Alam

Here’s what I imagine were father’s final moments:

May 18, 1970.

A dark day. The sky was black streaked with violet. The moon hid behind the branches of a kapok tree. A flock of vultures perched on the wire fence. They caught the scent of a man on the brink of becoming a corpse, mingled with the smell of gunpowder. The long howl of dogs echoed in the distance. Four men stood in a line, each holding a rifle pointed at Father. Only one rifle held a lethal bullet. The rest were loaded with rubber ones. None of the four men knew who among them would be the one to end Father’s life.

__

At the age of thirty-three, Segara Alam revisits his life—from childhood to adulthood. Every event is deeply etched in his memory. Born with a photographic memory, Alam remembers the first time a grown man pointed a gun at him when he was only three; the first time his cousin called him the child of a “traitor to the nation”; the first time he fought a son of a wealthy businessman who ruled over the school; and the first time he fell in love.