"Juvenile Delinquent"

Am I a juvenile delinquent? I’m a teenager. I’m young, young at heart in mind. In this
position, I’m carefree; I enjoy doing nothing but to drink the wine of pleasure. I
seldom go to school; nobody cares! But instead you can see me roaming around,
standing at the nearby street. Or else standing beside a jukebox stand, playing the
nerve tickling bugaloo. Those are the reasons, why people, you branded me
delinquent, a juvenile delinquent.
My parents ignored me. My teachers sneered at me. And my friends, they neglected
me. One night I asked my mother to teach me how to appreciate the values in life.
Would you care what she told me? "Stop bothering me! Can’t you see? I had to
dress up for my mahjong session, some other time my child". I turned to my father to
console me, but, what a wonderful thing he told me. "Child, here’s 500 bucks, get it
and enjoy yourself, go and ask your teachers that question".
And in school, I heard nothing but the echoes of the voices of my teachers torturing
me with these words. "Why waste your time in studying, you can’t even divide 100 by
5! Go home and plant sweet potatoes".
I may have the looks of Audrey Hepburn, the calmly voice of Nathalie Cole. But
that’s not what you can see in me. Here’s a young girl who needs counsel to
enlighten her way and guidance to strengthen her life into contentment.
Honorable judge, friends and teachers, is this the girl whom you commented a
juvenile delinquent?
"I Killed Her"
I killed her because I do love her. These hands, these hands that gave life to many,
killed her because of my love for her.
Ladies and Gentlemen of this honorable court, please listen to me, listen to my story
before you give my verdict. I am Dr. Radya, a cancer specialist. I was born in a slum
district of Bogor. My father oh! I don't know him for I am a child of faith. My mother
brought me up in such determination, and my ambition was to escape the filthy and
horrible place of Bogor. I was nourished with hope that someday I might live a life
different from her. My mother had a burning faith that she turned the nights into days.
All her efforts were not in vain for I pushed through with flying colors. My mother who
had given her whole life to me had tears in her eyes as she pinned the gold medal
on my proud chest.
Later on, I was sent as a scholar of Indonesia to the United States of America. I
embraced my mother… tightly as I've reached the plane. "Mother, mother..." I
whispered. “You will always be my best mother in the world.”
After four years, I came back with laurels. I became a cancer specialist. I gave my
mother everything, but I was too late. I, who had used to ease the pain of many,
came too late for the life of my dying mother. I gave the best treatment but the grasp
of death was so tight around her. My God, what is the use of ten years of study if I
couldn't even use it at my mother's pain!
Then one night, I heard a strange cry. I run to her room. "Do you love me, child? She
asked as I embraced her. " Yes, mother. If only I could get all your pain and agonies"
"Then, if you love me, end my sufferings, kill me… Let me die."
"But, mother, I promise to give life and not to end it."
God, she did not deserve the unhappiness. She deserved to be happy.
I ran to my room and came back with a syringe.
"Mother, forgive me. God, please understand me."
"Mother, mother, you must not die. Don't leave; I love you. It was only a distilled
water. Mother… Mother... MOTHER…"
Now, ladies and gentlemen, give me your verdict. Yes, it was only distilled water
which ended the sufferings of my mother.
Judge me. Punish me.
Go, punish me. Thy will be done!
“Vengeance is Not Ours; it’s God’s”
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so
young, so thin, and so ragged. Why are you staring at me? With my eyes, I cannot
see, but I know that you are all staring at me. Why are you whispering to one
another? Why? Do you know my mother? Do you know my father? Did you know me
five years ago?
Yes, five years of bitterness have passed. I can still remember the vast happiness
mother and I shared with each other. We were very happy indeed.
Suddenly, five loud knocks were heard on the door and a deep silence ensued. Did
the cruel Dutch discover our peaceful home? Mother ran to Father’s side pleading.
“Please, Danendra, hide in the cellar, there in the cellar where they cannot find you,”
I pulled my father’s arm but he did not move. It seemed as though his feet were
glued to the floor.
The door went “bang” and before us five ugly beasts came barging in. “Are you
Captain Danendra?” roared the ugliest of them all. “Yes,” said my father. “You are
under arrest,” said one of the beasts. They pulled father roughly away from us.
Father was not given a chance to bid us goodbye.
We followed them mile after mile. We were hungry and thirsty. We saw group of
Dutch eating. Oh, how our mouths watered seeing the delicious fruits they were
eating.
Then suddenly, we heard a voice called, “Ayasha. . . Deva. . . Ayasha. . . Deva. . .
Ayasha. . . Deva. . .” We ran towards the direction of the voice, but it was too late.
We saw father hanging on a tree, dead. Oh, it was terrible! He had been badly
beaten before he died. And I cried vengeance, vengeance, vengeance! Everything
went black. The next thing I knew I was nursing my poor invalid mother.
One day, we heard the church bell ringing “ding-dong, ding-dong!” It was a sign for
us to find a shelter in our hide-out, but I could not leave my invalid mother. I tried to
show her the way to the hide-out.
Suddenly, bombs started falling; airplanes were roaring overhead; canyons were
firing from everywhere. “Boom, boom, boom, boom!” Mother was hit. Her legs were
shattered into pieces. I took her gently in my arms and cried, “I’ll have vengeance,
vengeance!” “No, Deva. Vengeance, it’s God’s,” said mother.
But I cried out vengeance. I was like a pent-up volcano. “Vengeance is mine not the
Lord’s”. “No, Deva. Vengeance is not ours, it’s God’s” These were the words from
my mother before she died.
Mother was dead, and I was blind. Vengeance is not ours? To forgive is divine but
vengeance is sweeter. That was five years ago, five years. . .
Alms, alms, alms. Spare me a piece of bread. Spare me your mercy. I am a child so
young, so thin, and so ragged. Vengeance is not ours, it’s God’s. It’s. . . God’s…
It’s…