In the 60’s, in the midst of cold war, Indonesia was caught in the middle of ‘should we choose a bloc?’ situation. Located strategically near the east bloc, but also surrounded by commonwealth countries like Malaysia and Australia. Staying non-bloc was slightly precarious.
So some political trickery happened, and a president rose from the ashes of revolution. One who claimed to be non-bloc but not very secretly leaning to the west. Soon after that, a rampant anti-communist propaganda program was launched. Anything that is remotely communist was persecuted.
Just like Hitler during the height of his political power, this president needed a black-sheep. People who can be sacrificed as a symbol of banishing communism from Indonesia. Easy peasy — Chinese Indonesian. Since then, anything that remotely Chinese needed to go.
This is where my name came from.
As a child of Chinese Indonesians, I no longer bear the traditional Chinese name. I could not even speak Mandarin, or any Chinese regional dialects like Hokkian or Cantonese. For years we did not celebrate the Lunar new year (Chinese New Year for some). Our love to the colour red was treated as if it was the representation of our allegiance towards communism.
Red is the colour of luck, and the colour of celebration. White, on the other hand, is the colour of mourning.
Now we are celebrating our weddings in white dresses.
But it does not matter, it is just superstition. It is the loss of tradition, and identity that saddened me the most.
I could have given a cutesy answer by telling you that my name came from the ‘baby names book‘ my mother picked randomly in one of the bookstore. She then settled with a name that was popular then (I knew it was popular that time because I shared the same name with at least 3 friends). This is not a lie, though…
But that is not how my name should have been chosen, right? In our tradition, my parents (or grandparents) would have chosen a name that is actually meaningful. A name that actually shows my lineage, and heritage. Instead my father was forced to choose a name that is ‘acceptable’, for the sake of my future. Luckily he insisted to keep our family name.
God how I hated my family name when I was a child. It was difficult to have a name that is ‘different’. People made fun of how it sounds, the fact it did not sound ‘Indonesian’. Until now, I cannot help being triggered when someone made a stupid comment about someone’s surname here in the UK.
Only when I wised up a bit, and matured a bit, I realised what it is in my surname. There lies my father’s father’s father’s name. The bloodline that reminds me my root wherever I go. The heritage I inherit, and for some sad patriarchal reasons, cannot be passed on to my offspring even if I have one.
When I married my husband, some well meaning friends would ask why I never changed my last name into my husband’s. Well… I wasn’t lying at that time that it would be easier keeping my name because at that time, every other year I had to renew my visa. Keeping my name the same with my visa documents would smooth things up a bit.
And just in case anyone asking… My husband never cared if I ever going to change my name or not. But he likes my name as it is, and more than happy for me to keep my family name.
But really… that surname is probably the only thing in me that is still connected to my ancestors.
What’s in a name? Our Bill knew exactly what’s in a name. Or at least I do.
Mellow Yellow 