Achdiat Karta Mihardja, one of the greatest Indonesian writers, passed away this morning (last Thursday). His legacy includes many works of literature, the most famous being Atheis, a romance novel published in 1949. He also wrote play scripts, such as Bentrokan Dalam Asrama (Conflict in the Dormitory) (1952) and Pak Dullah in Extremis (1957); short stories, including Keretakan dan Ketegangan (Rift and Tension) (1956), Kesan dan Kenangan (Impressions and Memories) (1961) and Belitan Nasib (Entangled in Fate) (1975); and novel Debu Cinta Bertebaran (The Spread of the Dust of Love)(1973).
Atheis has been translated into English and is included among UNESCO’s collection of representative works. In the review of Atheis, Boen S. Oemarjati commented that, in Atheis, Achdiat had amazed his contemporaries, not only because its themes were so brave and honest, but also because of its unique writing technique and a lively language style. In an interview, Achdiat said that he never learned a particular writing technique, but was influenced by some of history’s most famous writers, including Shakespeare, Bernard Shaw, Tolstoy, Faulkner and Andre Gide.
During Indonesia’s struggle for independence, Achdiat worked as a reporter. He worked for publishing house Balai Pustaka and wrote in a number of Indonesian magazines. He also attended a number of international congresses as an Indonesian representative.
His move into the academic realm started with a tenure at the University of Indonesia and in 1961 he moved to Australia to teach Indonesian literature and culture at the Australian National University (ANU) in Canberra, up until his retirement.
I met Achdiat for the first time last March, to congratulate him on his 99th birthday. He and his wife were in Narrabundah nursing home, Canberra. That meeting inspired me to read his works at ANU’s Menzies Library.
Achdiat was a man of simple pleasures. His last wish was to return to Indonesia before he died, but didn’t make it. He passed away at Canberra Hospital.
I wrote this poem for him, as a memorial, to remind people of the great writer and great man.
The last hope
The morning sun has embraced
The red sky gave a warm greeting
A weak figure covered with age flake
Lay down frail
That wrinkled face
And a pair of old eyes
Stared at the window
It was the ninety nine times
The green maple leaves
Turned into orange, red and purple
Fell ….. blew away …. scattered on the ground
Almost one hundred years the old figure has sailed
Swayed by the wave, blown by the storm, striven to survive
Created thousand pages of literature work
Brightened the knowledge, a light that never dies
Yet ….. his glory was at an end
The radiant sun was dimmed
His passion was alive
But his fingers were too weak to write
In Narrabundah, Canberra, Australia, he stopped by
But … he didn’t want to anchor there
A faint voice before his last breath was heard:
“I am dying …
I am not a traitor …
I still want to contribute to my country …
I love Indonesia …
I want to go back to Indonesia …”
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