Between Passion and Gloomy Destiny
Then, time passed, and Indonesian literature found its way into the 20th century. In those days, poetry grew wildly, like shrubs growing in the cracks of city sidewalks. The poets are everywhere: on campus, in the canteen, in roadside coffee shops. Maybe some people think this is a revival. Perhaps. Indonesian poetry transformed from mantras into modern poetry: full of celebrated wounds, cherished dreams, and melodious sadness. The poet conjures words, challenges tyranny, and curses through metaphor. They scream softly, whisper loudly, and somehow, they believe the world will change with a line of poetry. To that extent, Indonesian literature looks like something a passionate teenager wrote on a school wall, hoping the history teacher would never read it.
Besides poetry, short stories or short stories began to appear like mushrooms after the rain. The writers found fun playing with short narratives, exploring new spaces to tell stories about humans, homelands, love, even mice in the closet. They dig from everyday life, from never-ending poverty, from bitter humor, from unmatched absurdity. But, of course, there are limits: short stories must be short, concise, and biting—like a forgotten lebaran cake in the can. They say that a short story should be readable on a public toilet seat; perhaps that's what makes it so memorable.
Novels, on the other hand, become a longer medium to unravel complexities that cannot be resolved in short narratives. Indonesian novels, with all their courage, began to break through taboo boundaries: questioning history, criticizing the government, even trying to reconstruct a past that was never finished. Some of their writers fled abroad, some ended up in prison, some simply disappeared under the pressure of the regime. These novels try to depict truths that can never be said directly, taking their readers down the dark corridors of life. These novels are often thick, complicated, full of layers of meaning, perhaps because they know that only a handful of readers remain. So, why not write for those few, but loyal ones?
Theater scripts also do not want to be left behind, even though they have to find their place in increasingly narrow spaces. At certain times, theater becomes more political, becoming a more effective means of resistance than oration. The stage is no longer limited to a magnificent building with red curtains, but at night markets, in dirty alleys, or in dusty campus yards. Indonesian theater tries to speak directly to an audience that might be more interested in the cries of street vendors. They present the irony of life in a more literal way: the dialogues reflect the noise of the city, the scenes are accompanied by the sound of horns and screams. These scripts are monologues of life written in conditions far from comfortable, and that is precisely what makes them so alive.