Works (Originally in English)
A collection of works originally published in English.
Apr 26, 2021
I have a confession to make: I prefer writing in present tense because I don’t really know my tenses. I did learn English when I moved to Singapore at the age of 7, but since I moved back to Indonesia seven years ago, I feel my grasp of the language slipping. Plus, the other two languages that I speak (very badly, I might add), Indonesian and Mandarin, don’t have tenses. So I find myself always speaking in present tense, which gets a bit confusing…and embarrassing.
My Broken English Isn’t an Excuse for Your Disrespect
by Jesse Q. SutantoI have a confession to make: I prefer writing in present tense because I don’t really know my tenses. I did learn English when I moved to Singapore at the age of 7, but since I moved back to Indonesia seven years ago, I feel my grasp of the language slipping. Plus, the other two languages that I speak (very badly, I might add), Indonesian and Mandarin, don’t have tenses. So I find myself always speaking in present tense, which gets a bit confusing…and embarrassing.
Mar 26, 2021
In my Chinese Indonesian family, massage has been the sole consistent method to work through pain, to recover our sense of choice. My massage training began when I was 4 years old. On Sundays after church, my father would lie belly-down, head hanging off the side of the bed, while my mother guided me, step by step, up and down his back. The first few times, her arm hovered beside me as a guardrail in case I slipped. Beneath the human skin are many valleys, mounds, crevasses, and knobs. Balance and concentration are required to read this landscape of aches. Because I was small, I needed to use my full body weight to apply pressure. When my father groaned from the pain, my mother instructed me to press down with the heel of my foot until I could feel the hard spot crack inside him.
My Mother’s Pain
by Cynthia Dewi OkaIn my Chinese Indonesian family, massage has been the sole consistent method to work through pain, to recover our sense of choice. My massage training began when I was 4 years old. On Sundays after church, my father would lie belly-down, head hanging off the side of the bed, while my mother guided me, step by step, up and down his back. The first few times, her arm hovered beside me as a guardrail in case I slipped. Beneath the human skin are many valleys, mounds, crevasses, and knobs. Balance and concentration are required to read this landscape of aches. Because I was small, I needed to use my full body weight to apply pressure. When my father groaned from the pain, my mother instructed me to press down with the heel of my foot until I could feel the hard spot crack inside him.
Feb 11, 2021
Watching her mom’s condition deteriorates through video calls from overseas, she is weighed by the heaviness and helplessness of grief in the time of pandemic.
Grieving in the Time of Pandemic: Watching My Ailing Mom from Overseas
by Tita Alissa BachWatching her mom’s condition deteriorates through video calls from overseas, she is weighed by the heaviness and helplessness of grief in the time of pandemic.
Aug 27, 2020
This blog post is part of issue 125 of Feminist Review, which explores theories of the archive within feminist, queer, crip, decolonial, and diasporic studies. The issue, which brings academics, artists, and archivists into conversation with each other, launched in July 2020. Blog posts in this series can be found here. While writing this piece, I had a flare up, or a relapse, of extreme pain (in fact, two relapses); words that inadequately describe what is more akin to a bomb exploding inside of you. And I thought: My god—I would be so enraged if someone told me not to describe this pain as the searingness it is, the stabbing knives, for hours on end, days. In previous years, for months. Brutality that fragments all sense of space, time, speech and even self.
Hurt and Words: On Language and Pain in Public
by Khairani BarokkaThis blog post is part of issue 125 of Feminist Review, which explores theories of the archive within feminist, queer, crip, decolonial, and diasporic studies. The issue, which brings academics, artists, and archivists into conversation with each other, launched in July 2020. Blog posts in this series can be found here. While writing this piece, I had a flare up, or a relapse, of extreme pain (in fact, two relapses); words that inadequately describe what is more akin to a bomb exploding inside of you. And I thought: My god—I would be so enraged if someone told me not to describe this pain as the searingness it is, the stabbing knives, for hours on end, days. In previous years, for months. Brutality that fragments all sense of space, time, speech and even self.
May 30, 2020
Intan Paramaditha is the author of Apple and Knife, a collection of dark stories about disobedient women. Her first novel, The Wandering, won a PEN Translates Award and is published by Harvill Secker.
Books That Changed Me: Intan Paramaditha
by Intan ParamadithaIntan Paramaditha is the author of Apple and Knife, a collection of dark stories about disobedient women. Her first novel, The Wandering, won a PEN Translates Award and is published by Harvill Secker.
Mar 02, 2020
"Travel was and will always be about exclusion." Jakarta, 1994: I wanted to write a story about magic slippers that would take me anywhere. I ended up writing a novel about demonic red shoes as an adult, with more complex reasons than fulfilling my simple wish to go to Singapore, but there were times when travel was an unattainable obsession. I thought of Singapore because my imagination as a Third-World 90s teen did not stretch far enough. Japan was too costly, Cambodia was unthinkable, and America only existed on TV. Singapore was the place where my wealthy friends would go shopping, although they also visited other countries. In one girl’s house, I saw a family photo in Dutch costume taken in Volendam, and in another girl’s mansion, photos of family vacation to Disneyland California were hung on the wall. Our friendship lasted long, despite being occasionally haunted by the not-so-ghostly presence of different class. My parents lived in Jakarta as common people, raising two kids who would be common people, doing whatever common people do.
On the Complicated Questions Around Writing About Travel
by Intan Paramaditha"Travel was and will always be about exclusion." Jakarta, 1994: I wanted to write a story about magic slippers that would take me anywhere. I ended up writing a novel about demonic red shoes as an adult, with more complex reasons than fulfilling my simple wish to go to Singapore, but there were times when travel was an unattainable obsession. I thought of Singapore because my imagination as a Third-World 90s teen did not stretch far enough. Japan was too costly, Cambodia was unthinkable, and America only existed on TV. Singapore was the place where my wealthy friends would go shopping, although they also visited other countries. In one girl’s house, I saw a family photo in Dutch costume taken in Volendam, and in another girl’s mansion, photos of family vacation to Disneyland California were hung on the wall. Our friendship lasted long, despite being occasionally haunted by the not-so-ghostly presence of different class. My parents lived in Jakarta as common people, raising two kids who would be common people, doing whatever common people do.
Jan 18, 2020
Hello, When you receive this letter, which I stored in a used milk can, please hand it to the one it is intended for, my mother. Of course, I know I shouldn’t really throw used milk cans into the ocean. Maybe sometime later, you can come by my house – I wrote the address on the back of the can – so you can tell me that you handed the letter to my mother, and that you disposed of the can in the proper place, because according to Bu Salimah, my teacher, waste tins will pollute the ocean and make fish sick. Please forgive me, but I so want to talk to my mother and I don’t know how else to send her this letter. Okay, you can have a look at it, for I am pretty certain that – in the end – you will be the one handing it to my mother.
Letter in a used milk can
by Angelina EnnyHello, When you receive this letter, which I stored in a used milk can, please hand it to the one it is intended for, my mother. Of course, I know I shouldn’t really throw used milk cans into the ocean. Maybe sometime later, you can come by my house – I wrote the address on the back of the can – so you can tell me that you handed the letter to my mother, and that you disposed of the can in the proper place, because according to Bu Salimah, my teacher, waste tins will pollute the ocean and make fish sick. Please forgive me, but I so want to talk to my mother and I don’t know how else to send her this letter. Okay, you can have a look at it, for I am pretty certain that – in the end – you will be the one handing it to my mother.
Dec 05, 2019
A half century after the first defeat of the imagination of a short story in court, leading to the imprisonment of leading literature critic HB Jassin, we have lost a second battle against irrationality, arrogance and backwardness. Again we are witnessing the curbing of creativity that should otherwise flourish and bring this nation forward into the realm of reason and progress. Back in 1968, Jassin, then-chief editor of Sastra (Literature) magazine, was jailed for blasphemy as he had published a story which had personalized God and Prophet Muhammad, a taboo in Islam. Titled Langit Makin Mendung (The Darkening Sky), it was written by Kipandjikusmin, a pen name whose real identity Jassin refused to disclose.
Trials of fiction: We lose the battle again
by Okky MadasariA half century after the first defeat of the imagination of a short story in court, leading to the imprisonment of leading literature critic HB Jassin, we have lost a second battle against irrationality, arrogance and backwardness. Again we are witnessing the curbing of creativity that should otherwise flourish and bring this nation forward into the realm of reason and progress. Back in 1968, Jassin, then-chief editor of Sastra (Literature) magazine, was jailed for blasphemy as he had published a story which had personalized God and Prophet Muhammad, a taboo in Islam. Titled Langit Makin Mendung (The Darkening Sky), it was written by Kipandjikusmin, a pen name whose real identity Jassin refused to disclose.
May 22, 2019
I was still in high school when the May 1998 riots, which targeted Chinese Indonesians and their properties, broke out just outside of Catholic high school (Bunda Hati Kudus). I was among the lucky ones who could go home right before the riots went out of control. But as a Chinese Catholic, I still remember what I experienced that day and the following weeks as if it was just last week.
I Left Indonesia to Pursue a Life without Fear
by Tita Alissa BachI was still in high school when the May 1998 riots, which targeted Chinese Indonesians and their properties, broke out just outside of Catholic high school (Bunda Hati Kudus). I was among the lucky ones who could go home right before the riots went out of control. But as a Chinese Catholic, I still remember what I experienced that day and the following weeks as if it was just last week.
Apr 11, 2019
What we lose when Indonesian writing is evaluated according to Anglophone preferences. When I entered the world of Indonesian literary translation several years ago, I was blissfully unaware of how dysfunctional it was. (Nor did I suspect that I would eventually become so troubled by its colonialistic aspects that I would write a controversial and impassioned Tweet thread on the subject.) What I’ve found, though, is that unequal power dynamics are determining how literature from Indonesia is being curated for consumption by the English-speaking world. The problem is systemic, evident in the condescending attitudes of Anglophone publishers and advocates of Indonesian fiction and poetry—and also which authors get to regularly represent Indonesia on the international stage.
Why Are Indonesians Being Erased from Indonesian Literature?
by Tiffany TsaoWhat we lose when Indonesian writing is evaluated according to Anglophone preferences. When I entered the world of Indonesian literary translation several years ago, I was blissfully unaware of how dysfunctional it was. (Nor did I suspect that I would eventually become so troubled by its colonialistic aspects that I would write a controversial and impassioned Tweet thread on the subject.) What I’ve found, though, is that unequal power dynamics are determining how literature from Indonesia is being curated for consumption by the English-speaking world. The problem is systemic, evident in the condescending attitudes of Anglophone publishers and advocates of Indonesian fiction and poetry—and also which authors get to regularly represent Indonesia on the international stage.