The Rainbow Troops (19 page)

"What is Brunei Darussalam's national anthem?"

Buzz!

"Team F!"

"Allah Peliharalah Sultan!"

"One hundrrred!"

But we were still on shaky ground, down by 100 points.

The second to last question was about a man named Ernest Rutherford.

"What did this New Zealand born man contribute to science?

"He was a pioneer in separating nuclei into smaller particles," Lintang answered calmly.

"One hundred!"

Our supporters' enthusiasm erupted again because of the tied score: 1,800 to 1,800. The suspense reached a climactic level—there was only one question left. Everyone left their seats to jostle their way up front. Bu Mus and Pak Harfan looked like they were praying. Even the questioner was tense.

"Listen carefully. This is the last question," she said shakily.

"A scientific breakthrough regarding color concepts in the early 16
^th
century started intense research in the field of optics. At that time, many scientists believed that mixing light and darkness created color, an opinion that turned out to be erroneous. This error was proven by reflecting light onto concave lenses ..."

Buzz! Buzzz! Buzzzz! Lintang barked, "Newton's rings!"

The question asker smiled wide. She had silently been on our side. The guy calling out
one hundred
also smiled happily. His goldfish mouth wailed, "One hundreddd!"

Our supporters roared and jumped for joy. We won! I couldn't believe it—our Muhammadiyah village school won! I hugged Lintang. He threw his hands up high. We jumped up and down merrily. But it didn't last long. During our euphoric victory celebration, we heard someone shout from a bench in the back: "Your honor! Your honor! Your honor head of the jury! I believe that the question and answer are false!"

Everyone fell silent and looked to the back. The person who shouted from the back got up and angrily walked to the front. Oh, it was Drs. Zulfikar, the model physics teacher from the PN School. Oh no! This could mean trouble. Sahara and I were upset, but Lintang remained calm. When he got to the front, that teacher took a cocky stance with his hands on his hips and began to speak in an authentic academic fashion:

"The experiment with concave lenses has nothing to do with the critique of the earlier theory of color involving light and darkness. The understanding regarding the creation of color is not an optical matter, that is unless the jury would like to disagree with Descartes. Optics and the color spectrum are two completely different matters. In this ambiguous situation, we are faced with three possibilities: the wrong question, the wrong answer, or a baseless question and answer, it's not contextual!"

Oh man! This comment was way beyond my understanding; it was foreign and high. This had become like a debate to defend a master's thesis in front of three professors. But didn't the model teacher's words form a "u"— critical and almost circular but not quite complete? And he was so clever in making the judges waver by quoting Descartes' opinion. Who had the audacity to disagree with that legendary scientific expert?

Hopefully Lintang would have an argument. If he didn't, we were through here. I mused worriedly but didn't know what to do.

Pak Harfan was taken aback. Bu Mus was bewildered, with a pale face as if a golden dove had just slipped out of her grasp. If it weren't for the genius Drs. Zulfikar, we would have already won. It was obvious that Bu Mus would have liked to defend us, but it was also obvious that her knowledge of physics was far below that of Drs. Zulfikar.

I looked at Sahara. She quickly hid her face as if she had never met me and Lintang in her whole life. The spectators and jury were baffled by this seemingly intelligent objection. Responding was out of the question, since most didn't even know what he was talking about. But someone had to save us from this situation. The head of the jury stood up. Lintang still remained calm and smiled a little; he was very relaxed.

"Thank you for your wellargued objection. What can I say, my field is
Pancasila
moral education ..."

Drs. Zulfikar grumbled. He felt he had the upper hand. The corners of his eyes looked like they were declaring he has read Isaac Newton's
Principia
, that he also sub scribed to international physics journals, and that he was a laboratory mouse full of experimental experience. He was an arrogant fresh graduate who knew the world. His indulgent speech was sprinkled with erratic scientific quotations and terms because he wanted to give off an extraordinary impression of himself. But now, I guaranteed that he was about to swallow an APC pill, the bitter pill taken by back country Malays to cure all illnesses.

Because he felt he had already won, Drs. Zulfikar, un able to resist the temptation to further belittle us, went from arrogant to just plain rude.

"Perhaps these
Muhammadiyah
students or the jury could be so kind as to explain Descartes' theory on the phenomenon of color?"

He had gone too far! That was completely uncalled for. Drs. Zulfikar only wanted to disparage our intellect and bring down the prestige of the jury. He believed that none of us knew nothing about Descartes, and if that was the case, then it would annul the question or prove our answer wrong. And if our answer was wrong, then we would lose 100 points and the PN School would win. What hurt the most was the way he said
Muhammadiyah
, deliberately emphasizing it to remind everyone that we were just an unimportant village school.

I didn't understand optical theories, but I did know a little about the history of the discovery of color. I once read the story, and I knew that Descartes worked with prisms and sheets of paper to test color, not to manipulate optics. It was Newton who was the great guru of optics. Drs. Zulfikar was clearly being a smart aleck, and with his big mouth he was trying to bully everyone by giving the impression that he was the most knowledgeable about color theory. I was furious and wanted to protest against Drs. Zulfikar, but my own knowledge was limited.

Drs. Zulfikar's behavior was a classic problem in Indonesia: smart people talking in circles with lofty terms and highlevel theories not for the sake of scientific progress, but to trick the poor who were silent and unable to find the words to argue. Oppression and highhanded intellectuality, as demonstrated by Drs. Zulfikar, occurs everywhere. Those who practice this are no more than knowledge manipulators; false scientists who rule haughtily in uneducated communities for the sake of selfexaltation and fattening their own pockets.

I stared at Lintang, begging for his help if later I spoke up against Drs. Zulfikar's transgression. I really needed his support. But what if it turned out that I was the one who was wrong? What if I were attacked repeatedly? Ah, the risk was too high. I could be put to even more shame. This was a classic problem for people like me who only possessed partial know ledge. So my heart was torn between the desire to fight and my hesitation. But I was angry because my school had been insulted, and I was furious because I knew that Drs. Zulfikar had used Descartes' name incorrectly for his own benefit.

Seeing my anger, Lintang gave me a little smile. It was a peaceful smile. I knew, as usual, he had read my mind. He answered my stare with a soft one that said:
Patience, little brother. Let your older brother take care of this
. He was still very calm. Sahara and I shrunk back; we shriveled under the protective arms of the invulnerable and allknowing master of knowledge.

Upon hearing Drs. Zulfikar's unfriendly challenge, the head of the jury drew a deep breath. He looked around to his colleagues, the other members of the jury. They all shook their heads as a sign that they were unable to go head-to-head with Drs. Zulfikar.

"I'm sorry, young teacher. On behalf of the jury, I have to say that our knowledge is lacking in that area."

His words were humble, the poor old man. He was a senior teacher with a kind heart, very respected for his dozens of years of dedication to education in Belitong. He appeared embarrassed and hopeless. He directed his gaze to Team F, our team. Lintang smiled and gave him a slight nod. unexpectedly, the head of the jury said, "But maybe this Muhammadiyah student can help."

The room was very quiet and laced with discomfort, and it grew even more uncomfortable because Drs. Zulfikar filled the air with another unfeeling comment.

"I hope his argument is as accurate as their previous answer!"

He went
beyond
too far! He had deliberately provoked Lintang, and this time, Lintang was hooked. He stood up to speak.

"Sir, if your objection was about the answer not being in line with the question, then maybe it would be an acceptable objection. But the jury asked a question and the answer was already written on the paper read by the woman asking the questions. I am certain that Newton's rings is written there, and our answer was Newton's rings. That means we have the right to 100 points. Even if it weren't contextual, well, that would only mean that the jury asked the right question in the wrong manner."

Drs. Zulfikar was not willing to accept this.

"In other words, the question was erroneous because the other contestants expected a different answer!"

Lintang rebutted. "There's nothing erroneous except for you, sir, disregarding the substance of the theory of Newton's rings and wanting to bring down our score for the sake of triviality."

Drs. Zulfikar was offended. He became angry. The atmosphere grew even tenser. He lunged forward.

"Well if that's the case then you can explain to me the substance of that theory! You all have gotten your points by lucky guesses, not really knowing anything at all!"

Oh boy, that was really boorish. Sahara scowled. After drifting off into space, she had returned as a leopard, her eyebrows came together. The audience and the jury were astonished, mouths agape as they listened in awe to the high leveled scientific argument heating up before them. They couldn't even contribute. It was an obscure issue for them.

Hearing the word
rings
over and over again, Lintang stared off blankly. He then stared at his puzzled mother in the corner. His face swelled up, his chest heaved in and out. He looked like he was holding onto a very heavy load. I soon understood his reaction. The issue of Newton's rings surely reminded him of that smarting incident when he was forced to sell his mother's wedding ring so he could continue going to school. He was visibly infuriated. This matter with Drs. Zulfikar had become very personal for Lintang, and this was how a genius went berserk:

"The substance is that Newton clearly succeeded in pointing out the errors in the color theories of Descartes, Aristotle, and even the more contemporary Robert Hooke! Those three people thought that color has discrete spectrums. Through concave optic lenses, which later gave birth to the rings theorem, Newton proved that colors lie along a continuous spectrum and that spectrum is not produced by glass characteristics, but by light's fundamental characteristics!"

Drs. Zulfikar was stunned. The audience was lost in optical physics theory, unable to nod even a little. I was delighted. My hunch proved true! I wanted to jump up from my seat, stand on the mahogany table in front of me, and yell:
You guys know what? This is Lintang Samudra Basara son of Syahbani Maulana Basara, a brilliant boy and my deskmate! So take that, everyone!

Lintang wasn't yet satisfied.

Lintang wasn't yet satisfied.

Year-old proven scientific manuscript, that the density of transparent particles determines which particle they reflect. That's the relation between the thickness of the layer of air and optics according to the color rings theorem. All of this can only be observed through optics. How can you say, sir, that these matters are not interrelated?"

Drs. Zulfikar slumped weakly, his face pallid. He sunk his flat bottom onto a chair, as if his skeletal structure was gone. He was all out of clever words. His glasses slid feebly down the curved bridge of his nose. He realized that blindly engaging in polemics about something he hadn't mastered would make his own stupidity known in the eyes of bright people like Lintang. So he waved his white handkerchief; Lintang had knocked him out. Lintang forced him to swallow the bitter APC pill without water, and that efficacious pill was now stuck in his throat.

Our supporters jumped around like dancing monkeys because Lintang's argument had automatically secured our school's place as the winners of this year's Academic Challenge, something we hadn't been able to achieve for dozens of years. It was something no one had imagined we could ever achieve.

Bu Mus snatched the Muhammadiyah flag from Flo's hands. She waved it strongly. Her eyes were glassy. Her mouth trembled as she said
subhanallah, subhanallah, Allah is most holy.

I hugged Lintang again. I congratulated him for making us win, and especially for fulfilling his second promise—made to his mother—to win the Academic Challenge to repay the sacrifice of her wedding ring.

When Lintang held the victory trophy up high, our first hero, Harun, whistled like a cowboy calling the cows home. Harun was moved by pride of Lintang, but he congratulated Trapani. No matter how great Lintang was, he still idolized Trapani; that was who he wanted to be. In the meantime, Ibu Frischa, the PN School principal, sat on a big chair, fanning off the mugginess. She sat restlessly, her face giving off the impression that at that moment, her mind was somewhere else altogether.

THE NEXT day, we lined up in front of the glass display case. It was now Lintang's turn to receive the honor of placing the trophy in the display case. The Academic Challenge trophy took its place next to the carnival trophy contributed by Mahar.

Those two trophies answered our question as to why God had given us these two gifted boys. Mahar gave us the courage to compete. Lintang gave us the courage to dream.

The trophies were truly marvelous. They were like a pair of smitten sweethearts. They stood united, inseparable, as if they were making a statement that they were the property of brave warriors ready to face any difficulties and never felt sorry for themselves, even though fate was always cruel.

Before, everyone believed that our mentality, our system, and even our school would collapse within weeks. No one ever expected us to win these amazingly prestigious awards. But look at us, with our two glorious trophies. Look at how proudly we stood in front of our glass display case. We were stronger and sturdier than ever. Bu Mus' and Pak Harfan's perseverance and persistence in educating us were starting to show promising results. Those two fought hard to hold back tears as they gazed at the trophies because they knew that from this moment on, no one would ever insult our school again.

Even though his health was deteriorating, Pak Harfan was even more enthusiastic to teach after our victory in the Academic Challenge. He tirelessly prepared us to face our final exam.

He coached us for hours. He worked like he was chasing something. While our workload was heavy, we were extremely happy. Pak Harfan's teaching methods made memorizing material seem like a delicious treat. Complex problems became challenges, difficult arithmetic became entertainment.

On the weekends, Pak Harfan rode his bicycle 100 kilometers to Tanjong Pandan with a basket of
palawijaya
crops from his garden: pineapples, bananas, galangal, and sweet potatoes. He sold the produce in order to buy us school books. On his way home he stopped by the municipal library. There, he borrowed books with sample final exam questions from years past.

But Pak Harfan's asthma was becoming more critical. He was coughing up blood, and we often had to remind him to rest.

"If I don't teach, I'll get sicker," he always answered.

"And if I die, I want to die at this school," he joked with a smile.

Pak Harfan continued to work hard. He corrected our homework until late into the night. He wrote detailed comments on our answer sheets for how to overcome our individual weaknesses.

Every evening for several months, after studying the Koran, we rushed back to the school to get extra lessons from Pak Harfan.

However, one evening, after we waited awhile inside the classroom, Pak Harfan didn't come in. We went to his office beside the school garden. We knocked on his door, but there was no answer. We opened the door and saw him sitting with his face down on his desk. I called his name, but he didn't answer. I got a bit closer and he seemed to be fast asleep. I said his name again once I was close. He was silent. I touched his hand, and it was cold like ice. He wasn't breathing. Pak Harfan had passed away.

Pak Harfan had been teaching since he was a teenager, for more than 51 years. He himself had chopped the wood from the forest to build the Muhammadiyah School. He had carried the first—and heftiest—piece of wood on his own shoulders, and that was the main support beam in our classroom. We had measured our heights on that beam throughout the years, leaving it full of pocketknife scratches. For us, that beam was sacred.

They say that a long while back, Pak Harfan had many students and teachers. But slowly, the community lost faith in the school and the teachers lost pride in their jobs. The educational discrimination applied by PN dampened the people's enthusiasm for school. That discrimination made native Belitong inhabitants believe that only the children of PN staff could be successful in school and get the chance to go on to university—and that the only teachers with a future were PN School teachers. This led village children to drop out of school one by one, and one by one the village teachers began to step down as well. They either became PN coolies or fishermen.

"What's the point of school?" village children asked accusingly. "We won't be able to continue anyway."

The situation actually worsened with the "success" of small village children not in school. They drew earnings from working as pepper pickers, shop keepers, boat caulkers, coconut graters and errand boys for fishing boats.

For them, school was relative—especially for those who found work with good compensation, like those courageous enough to go into the jungle to look for agar wood and yellow sandalwood. They could afford motorbikes while Pak Harfan, a school principal, had to save up, rupiah by rupiah, just to be able to change his decrepit bicycle tire. Education soon became a bleak endeavor for children trapped in a devilish circle with little hope of schooling, striving for life's necessities in the face of discrimination.

But Pak Harfan never tired of trying to convince those children that knowledge was about selfrespect, and education was an act of devotion to the creator, that school hadn't always been tied to goals like getting a degree and becoming rich. School was dignified and prestigious, a celebration of humanity, it was the joy of studying and the light of civilization. That was Pak Harfan's glorious definition of education. But that enlightenment didn't get through to the young children who were marginalized by discrimination and blinded by enticing material goods.

Pak Harfan never gave up trying to convince them to go to school. He'd even bring them books in the middle of the sea. He'd search for them on the floodplains of the rivers where they caulked boats. He'd wait for them under pepper trees. But no one accepted his invitation. Some times their bosses, and even the children themselves, would chase Pak Harfan away.

On a silent evening, a poor man with a heart as big as the sky passed away. One of the wells of knowledge in the forsaken, dry field was gone forever. He died on his battle field, the school he fought to keep alive until his last breath. A noble death, just like he always wanted.

There were no rounds of gunshots to salute him, no flower arrangements, no awards from the government or speeches from education ministers, no glorifying monument of any kind from anybody. But he had left a pure well in the hearts of eleven students, a well of knowledge that would never dry up.

We wept in the classroom. The one who sobbed most heart wrenchingly was Harun. Pak Harfan had been like a father to him. He sobbed and sobbed; he couldn't be con soled. His heavy tears streamed down, soaking his shirt.