Short Story: Bloodlines

By Wombat | August 8th, 2006 | No Comments

And yet another great story by an emerging writer in Indonesia. This one is written by Isna Marifa.

Bloodlines
By Isna Marifa
Tomorrow will be the dreaded day of reckoning. The day when we must settle accounts, seek ablution and deal, once and for all, with untold histories, family secrets kept silent and hidden in wooden boxes in the basement of our memories.

The headline in today’s Daily Lantern newspaper said it loud and clear: “RESULTS OF MASS DNA TEST TO BE ANNOUNCED TOMORROW”. I quickly put down the paper as soon as the letters jumped out at me.
My husband quickly left the house for work. The paper looked untouched, but laid on the breakfast table with the headline facing up in full view. No doubt he had seen it too.

***
We had all been quietly preparing ourselves for this fateful day since tests were taken three months ago. It’s been an edgy time for everyone.

Since terror attacks became everyday news and the new security order passed an edict on mandatory DNA testing and filing, our lives have been haunted by a new reality of knowing who we really are.

There was little resistance from the public. We all knew this was coming. But when the time came, we were faced with another reality just as frightening.

Whose child am I? Are my brothers and sisters truly mine to claim?

It was time for past indiscretions to be laid out on the table for all to see.

We went for the DNA tests at the local hospital — my husband, two sons, one daughter, myself and my elderly father. The day had been a beautiful one, the sun shyly peaking out of the light clouds above.

We picked up my father, who lives with his male servant in a small house two blocks away. My mother had passed on two years ago, and we insisted that my father move closer to us. He walked with a wooden cane, which has become more of a security blanket. Yet, he was becoming frail, both physically and mentally.

Without his servant reminding him to eat his meals, he would pass the entire day poring over ancient editions of National Geographic and Tempo magazine that had collected dust.

We had argued to the local health official that there was no need for elderly people to be tested, knowing full well that they would not have the physical capacity to commit crimes against humanity.

But the official was vehement that the edict made no exception for anyone. To me that looked more like pathetic oversight.

We went to the hospital as if we were going on a picnic. Our stride was light and unburdened, we chatted while queuing for our turn at the needle and syringe. For me, it was compensation for the gurgling feeling inside that grew above my stomach — a queasy uneasiness of what this test would do.

I held my 5-year-old daughter’s hand and continued to reassure her that the process would not hurt.

“I’m not afraid, Mama,” she said. “Are you?” So innocent a question, yet so poignant.

“Of course not. It’ll just be a little bit of blood, they say,” I reassured her, trying hard to conceal my discomfort as we edged closer to the laboratory booth.

My husband was very focused. He looked straight ahead as if to engulf the booth with his intense eyes. He said little since we left home, and appeared absorbed in his own thoughts — a state I am never inclined to interrupt.

My two boys were distracted by the electronic games they shared. Thank goodness for positive distractions at a time of tension!

My father sat on a plastic chair that reminded me of a bus terminal. He shifted seats every time we moved up in the line; making sure that he would be able to follow us quickly when our turn came. I could hear him mumbling under his breath, “Too slow, too slow.”

***
Since that day, our outlook on life has changed dramatically. I now look at my father with more critical eyes. Is he really my father?

We don’t share any features. I have thin wavy hair, a small nose, a small set of ears, while he has thick straight hair, a rather broad nose and large Buddha ears that supposedly depict wisdom. My only similarity to him is some personality traits from his side of the family — a quick temper but quiet demeanor.

I am glad that my mother is now longer with us, for she would be consumed with worry about the plight of all five of her siblings, 14 cousins, eight nephews and seven nieces.

She always claimed that she knew all the secrets in our extended family, but she had vowed not to tell anyone. She did just that until the day of her death.

When I tuck my children into bed, I look at them intensely. I am almost sure my husband is their father. But what if — I stopped my thoughts there. I quiver inside ….

When my husband and I are in bed, and I pretend to be asleep, I wonder whether he has other children he is worried about.

Perhaps in some village or other town that he visits for business?

We avoid any conversation on the matter of DNA results. We go about our daily activities as if the DNA test was just an innocent test to determine blood-type. We pretend there is nothing to fear, nothing will be changed by the results.

However, in the past three months, my husband has gained a new habit of dropping things. We’ve lost three coffee mugs and a soup bowl; he drops books he is reading, forks, knives, toothbrushes.

And I’ve become forgetful. I don’t remember whether I’ve put salt in the meals I cook, causing either an over-salted meal or a completely bland one. Twice, I’ve forgotten my car keys in the ignition — fortunately in our garage. I’ve ventured out to the grocery store with curlers in my hair.

I suppose my husband and I are even then.

***
The quest to find security in this world may in fact break down families.

Would I trust my husband again if the DNA results showed that he has children outside our happy little family?

Would my father suffer a heart attack if he found out that I do not share his genes? Would my husband be kind to the children I’ve borne if it turns out that one of them came from my single act of indiscretion in 20 years?

At this point, I did not want to hear the answers to the questions. I wanted to continue my daily existence, as it is, with all its flaws, with all its flaws.

***
Tomorrow we would read, in the special insert of the newspaper, our DNA identities. The government had decided to announce the results publicly, referring to some law on Information Disclosure that ensures all information relating to public security be accessible to all. The inserts would be organized by each subdistrict.

Then we would line up, once again, with receipts in hand, to receive a printout of our DNA test results. The government would reserve a copy in their identity database, and would issue a revised identity card with our DNA code printed on it.

Should we become victims of a terrorist act, or should we be involved in a terror attack, our identities could be easily traced. So the theory goes.

***
This evening, my husband will come home late. He has a business dinner with potential clients from out of town, he told me.

I am a little relieved, for my nervousness will no doubt be easy to detect by now. Dinner is eaten quietly with my children sharing stories of mischief and achievement in school. Their laughter and gaiety release some of my tension.

I wash the dishes, and retire to my room early to shut out the noise from outside and calm the cacophony inside my own head.

Close to midnight, my husband tip-toes into the room.

***
Break of dawn, I jump out of bed, with my husband still deep in slumber.

Must prepare extra food for the children, I say to myself in case my husband asks. I want to beat him to the newspaper today. I want the first peek at the DNA test results.

I run down the stairs, quickly pick up the newspaper, open it and leaf through the middle pages. Nothing. No list. No insert. No DNA results!

I check outside to see whether there was a section left out in the driveway. Empty. I leaf through the pages once again, just to make sure.

No DNA results!

I open the front page. In enormous letters, the headlines say: “DNA RESULTS NOT TO BE ANNOUNCED”.

The story further reports that the Government had a late-night meeting and decided that the DNA test results would not be announced. Instead, the government will keep the records in a “classified” file. Individuals or families requesting the results must submit an official request to the Department of National Security. The reason given by the Government was that the cost to release the information and issue new identity cards was too high.

No list! No announcement! My heart was pounding hard.

I took a deep breath. No announcement! I let my heart settle.

Settle, quiet down …, breathe …, I told myself. I slumped onto the floor, feeling a heavy burden lifted off my shoulders.

An internal smile emerged from the depth of my gut. We won’t know! We don’t need to know! We are free from knowing. I am relieved ….

I wonder, though, what really happened. Was it really cost that was the obstacle? Or was it fear of a social meltdown from too much information?

I imagined government officials themselves feared their own family secrets. Whatever the reason, my own fears dissipated.

In the end, some ignorance is good.

My husband came down the stairs, looking disheveled from sleep, or lack of it. My children followed behind him ready for breakfast.

“Where is the paper?” he said in a decidedly nonchalant tone of voice.

With a smile I tried hard to hide, I handed him the paper, saying, “Nothing new today …”

– Jakarta, March 2006