Part 1 — Women’s Stories

21

Ibuku

Khas untuk Seminar Wanita Dan Pekerjaan, April 16-17, 1984.

Ibuku mempunyai seribu mimpi

yang dipikulnya tiap hari

sambil menimangku ia pun menyanyi

timang tinggi-tinggi

dapur tak berasap

bila besar nanti

jangan masuk lokap.

Ibuku tidak mengenal buku dan sekolah

tiap pagi terbongkok-bongkok di lumpur sawah

menggaru betisnya yang dikerumuni lintah

Hatinya selalu teringat

suaminya yang mati melarat

setelah dikerumuni lintah darat.

Ibuku tangannya kasar berbelulang

mengangkat batu-bata bangunan

wajahnya dibedaki debu berterbangan.

Ibu tidak pernah mengenal supermarket

tinggal di bilik sempit /

upah buruhnya sangat sedikit.

Ibuku tidak punya peti TV

tidak berpeluang pula menontonnya

tak pernah mendengar ucapan menteri

tak depat mengikuti laporan parlimen

atau ceramah bagaimana menambah jumlah penduduk

tidak pula tau adanya forum kemiskinan

atau pertunjukan masak-masakan

dengan resepi yang menakjubkan.

Ibuku setiap pagi berulang ke kilang
bekerja dengan tekun hingga ke malam
Mikroskop itu menusuk matanya dengan kejam
kaburlah mata ibu diselaputi logam.

22

Ibuku tidak tau tentang hak asasi

apalagi tentang seni dan puisi.

Jika ditanya makna melabur

nama-nama saham yang menjanjikan makmur

atau tentang dasar pandang ke timur,

ibu tersenyum menunjukkan mangkuk bubur

yang melimpah kanji beras hancur.

O ibuku sayang

di negerimu kau menumpang.

Sesekali kudengar ibu menyanyi

pantun tradisi caranya sendiri

siakap senohong

gelama ikan dun

bercakap bohong

boleh jadi menteri

Usman Awang

Women’s toil goes on and on: three generation of women set out for work in the rice fields, Sarawak Malaysia.

Photo: Hedda Morrison.

23

My Mother

This was specially written for a "Women and Employment" Seminar, April 16-17, 1984.

My mother has a thousand dreams
that weigh her down every day
as she dangles me in her arms
this is the song she sings to me

up-a-daisy, baby,

our kitchen's larder's empty,

when you grow up

keep clear of the lock-up

My mother knows no books, no school,

every morning she bends over the muddy rice-fields

scratching her leech-tormented legs.

Her heart often recalling

the husband who died suffering

tormented by money-lending leeches.

My mother's hands are rough and gnarled
from carrying bricks at a building site
her face powdered by the flying dust.
My mother knows no supermarket
living in her little garret
the wages of her labour being too meagre.

My mother owns no television

nor has she the chance to watch any

she never hears ministerial speeches

nor follows parliamentary reports

nor talks on how to increase the population;

she little guesses there are forums on poverty

or programmes on cookery

with recipes that would astound her.

My mother works in the factory
concentrating hard from morn to night
the microscope cruelly pierces her eyes
clouding her vision with a layer of metal.

24

My mother has not heard of basic rights

or of art and poetry.

If she's asked the meaning of investment

or of shares that promise enrichment

or about the Look East Policy,

she'll smile, and show you her porridge bowl

overflowing with cheap rice broth.

O my beloved mother

you don't quite belong in your own land.
Now and then I hear my mother sing
her own version of a traditional pantun

siakap senohong

gelama ikan duri

leaders who lie and deceive

the people won't receive.

Usman Awang