There is More to This Grief
My grandmother’s passing marked not just the end of her earthly journey, but also the start of a grief that had quietly settled long before
My grandmother passed away in October, but I had mourned her loss for much longer.
We lived with her until I was three years old, during which time she would enchant me with folklores before bedtime. My earliest fragment of memory was her singing of a Javanese’s nursery rhyme titled Menthok, menthok, a playful song about lazy ducklings. When I was a baby, she would wake up earlier than anybody in the house to cook mung bean porridge for me, alongside preparing breakfast for the family. Once a week, she always took me to the local market on pasaran day — a bustling day when the local market was livelier and more crowded than any other day of the week — so I could buy various snacks and toys. When both of my parents went to work, she stayed with me at home or took me to visit other relatives within walking distance. She played the most significant role in taking care of me during my earliest childhood.
Eventually, we had to move out because both of my parents work at the regional hospital, which is two hours away from the house. My parents decided to buy a house in a housing complex in the suburban part of the region, where they raised me solely, if not mostly, in Indonesian, rather than Javanese.
I was seven and my parents left me to spend the Eid holiday with my grandmother. Eid, a significant religious holiday celebrated by Muslims, is especially notable in Indonesia, which has the largest Muslim population worldwide. It’s a national holiday where families gather to feast and celebrate.
We were preparing ketupat and opor for Eid together with a few relatives. As any other curious little girl, I asked my grandmother many questions, which all of it I mindlessly uttered in Indonesian. Which some of it ended up unanswered. Suddenly, a close relative of mine remarked my now-lost fluency in Javanese when I was in such a young age, followed by laughter and comments suggesting that I should try speaking in Javanese so that my grandmother could understand.
Little did they or anyone know, it became something I had always been secretly grieving for. It was not only about the loss of mastery of a language. It was, in fact, also about the humiliation I faced at elementary school for lacking in Javanese, but it was mostly about my strained communication with my grandmother I had just realized.
I did eventually learn Javanese at school as they had it in our curricula, but I never kept up with it as naturally as I did before.
The house was full of people on that evening of October. My father parked our car in the yard as the gebyok — a woodwall panel of Javanese house — was being taken off by the men. The house was fully bare at the front as I stepped inside. At the back of the house, women were busy with cooking and dividing the dishes into small servings. Some of them were occupied with packing grocery items into hampers. At this moment, it just struck me that I came from the same long line of these wives and mothers, of which I mostly did not even know their names. Immediately, someone called my name and asked me to help with the groceries. This was not my first time participating in rewang and yet, I could not shake the feeling of being a stranger to these scenes.
Rewang, as the Javanese refer to it, is a traditional communal work system where people gather to help one another without any monetary exchange. The rewang today was intended for my grandmother’s first tahlilan, a ritual that is also done communally: people were brought together to recite Surah Yasin and offered prayers for her soul, for three consecutive nights. As I put a pack of sugar, cooking oil, and instant noodles into plastic bags, I recalled a memory of doing rewang during the time of community service I did a year ago with my friends at university. We busily arranged seats and prepared dishes, preparing for our farewell event.
I joined the mothers at the kitchen with some of my friends, assisting them with the cooking task. Our work was not only collaborative but also systematic: One friend rinsed the onions and chili, passing them to me to chop, then I handed them off to another to grind, and so on. As if seamlessly, we continued the work. But it was not always as ‘harmonious’; we often broke into laughter and friendly banter. In the midst of those disruptions, I found a moment of camaraderie that is just as integral to rewang as the tasks themselves. It was a poignant reminder of the formed bonds when people came together, be it to pack staple food or chop vegetables.
I called one of my cousins to help with tying the plastic bags. We joked around a little and finished the work. As the night wore on and the prayers for my grandmother’s soul echoed through the house, I made a silent vow to accustom myself to these traditions more.
Today, these memories of my grandmother flooded my mind. However, amidst the nostalgia, there was also a pang of realization. I realized that there is more than just missing out on the Javanese language: there’s also my unfamiliarity with traditional customs. My family’s move to a more urbanized area also meant better access to education, healthcare, and employment opportunities. Of course, I could grieve the things of which I had missed out as a Javanese, or even as my grandmother’s granddaughter. But, it would be unfair to only ruminate on this, ultimately victimize myself, and ignore the rest of my privileges, when in fact, having simply more access to these resources was not something everyone commonly enjoyed.
In the comfort of my parent’s home, I had been shielded from all these harsh realities. The availability of top schools, advanced healthcare facilities, and ample job opportunities seemed like the norm to me. I also realized that these principles were not often the reality for many people. However, another question arose. I started to wonder whether these standards — my standards — of education, healthcare, and employment were truly reflective everyone’s idea of a “good life”.
Education, for example, was often seen as the great equalizer, promising of upward mobility and a better life. Yet, formal education was not always seen as necessary for leading a fulfilling life. Instead, there was a deep-seated appreciation for traditional knowledge and skills passed down through generations. I tried to vividly picture the bustling market days, the rhythmic chants of prayers during tahlilan, the mirth in the kitchen — they all painted a tightly-knit community bound by tradition and shared experiences. Could this community involvement be valued higher than formal schooling? Could agriculture and craftmanship worth more than urban job sectors?
While I did not want to diminish the disparities that are present in today’s society, I thought that it could be worse off to blindly impose these standards instead.
After all, who was I to dictate what constituted a “good life” for others? My grandmother, despite living in a rural area with limited access to modern amenities, had cultivated a rich life surrounded by community, tradition, and familial bonds. Her days were filled with the warmth of shared laughter, the comfort of familiar rituals, and the support of neighbors who were more like extended family.
In contrast, my upbringing in the suburban region had been marked by a different set of values — ones that prioritized formal education, career advancement, and material wealth. Yet, as I reflected on my grandmother’s life, I couldn’t help but wonder if we had lost something precious in the pursuit of progress. Was it possible that in our quest for modernization and development, we had overlooked the intrinsic value of community, connection, and cultural heritage?
As I mourned the loss of my grandmother, before and after her passing, I also grieved the loss of a way of life that seemed increasingly distant in today’s rapidly changing world. But amidst this sadness, there was a glimmer of hope — a hope that by embracing the lessons of the past and valuing the richness of diverse traditions, we could build a future that was not only prosperous but also deeply fulfilling for all.
