(Remembering a story from the experiences of Joesoef Isak from 1966 or 1967.)
The dried eel of Indonesia.
The humidity was from sweat and not the air. The sad singing was the whimpers as they dabbed alcohol on the wounds. The music was the brushing of bodies and clothes against each other in the tiny room. The percussion introduced pause was the clang of an opening gate. The crescendo followed the approach of booted footsteps. It ended as another human being was thrown to the floor. The notes were the scores left by the spikes of the dried eel across his back. Another was taken. Do not fear the pain, one said, you do not die, you do come back. For most, yes, it was true. But not for the other one million.