Shelled

Counting down each second made the bird’s chirping morph from a musical composition to individual rhythmic beats: slow, steady and still. I clenched the brown rayon of my two-day-old batik, embroidered with oblique stripes. Each pattern was silk-threaded; they swayed under the sunlit rays beaming from a stained window. Or perhaps I was just imagining movement in hopes that something would cut through the ripples outside. That the water encasing my home — burying us deeper in isolation — would be sliced by a sliver of rescue. 

Dawn at 5:30 a.m. Jakarta, Indonesia. June 15, 2016. Day eighteen with toasted pistachios.

“The bake on them is different today. Couldn’t use too much energy considering we are limited on generator gas. Still managed to make them slightly golden, however.”

My father spoke serenely despite the intensity flickering within his almond eyes. Our conversation, parted by a temporary pause, left a crevice of tension that permeated through the pistachio fragrance and the atmospheric humidity pressed against my cheeks. 

He continued. 

“I received a local alert; the flood is progressively subsiding and barricades have been installed to temporarily hold off the dam water. It’s not been the most effective but we have some resources. Enough, at least, to last us a few more days.”

“No one’s coming to help us. Right?” I hesitantly asked.

The looming dread of hearing that persistent reminder of “soon” hung in the air. Threaded with a long chorus of silence, the distorted radio tunes anchored us back to reality, jolting a half-hearted response from my father.

“They will come soon. I promise.” 

There it was again. A never-ending chain of false promises. 

As the days progressed, my father’s utterances wavered more and more, mimicking the involuntary motion of my cracked lips as I chewed on a brittle pistachio chunk. We sat only thirty centimeters apart at the dining table, a slight gap between the raven leather chairs, yet the distance extended beyond any canyon’s depth as hope slowly slipped away. Over time, I could tell my father’s distress was suppressed under recurring “we’ll be fine” phrases, just as my mother’s blank stares signaled hopelessness. 

I was gravitating toward a pit of memories. The 2013 Jakarta flood. A momentary flashback of raging waters reminding me how the fragility of life often prevailed where darkness would be the vivid and hope would be the vague.

For throughout these weeks of being surrounded by roaring currents, I was a pistachio. Frail and fragile, vulnerable to everything but the stillness I preserved. I was an olive green nut cradled in tan walls, swimming in a ready-to-eat package on a shelf of Wonderful’s Roasted & Salted Pistachios in an empty grocery aisle. Anguished as feet passed by, hands swayed across and the expiration date inched closer. Waiting for a pair of hands to crack open my two-tan shells. Hoping that a response team would emerge from the distant waters. Praying that a light laid at the end of this darkening tunnel. 

Ironically, as much as Jakarta’s flooding isolates people, its prevalence is not an isolated problem. No one-size-fits-all solution of simply sending more response teams, more emergency resources and more promises of investing in dam management will suffice. The flooding’s roots are grounded in the effects of rapid urbanization: a country walking the fine line between the remnants of poverty and industrial development. When infrastructural progress is localized in central Jakarta, the capital’s coastal outskirts often fall to the unwatched threats of land subsidence and poor drainage systems.

2024 was a testament to this overlooked phenomenon and an indication that struggles faced a decade ago can amplify in reach, rippling towards greater communities and displacing extensive families. As tidal floods continue to sweep Sunda Kelapa, dominating North Jakarta’s seaports, environmental sustainability and climate concerns have resurfaced local conversations. Local soon evolved into national, as governments began to increasingly shed light on Jakarta’s rural challenges. Spanning from east to west, these conversations have woven diverse experiences through a string of social justice. They created a social spirit seeking to renew the nation’s stronghold of political intervention for the climate by merging the stories of the people in a united voice. 

Jakarta’s floods may have started as a fight for survival. But now they are a fight for rights. A fight for life. A testimony that cannot be spoken by one, but must be voiced by many. 

These revelations first started to flow as I was cleaning up after that morning’s pistachio breakfast, 8:00 a.m. now striking on the clock. I lowered a tissue onto the pan, as pistachio fragments latched onto the sheet, forming an interlocking pattern of crumbs. I observed the chain intently, its textured surface against the burnished layer of the paper towel, its dynamic shades against the white of the tissue: light green, light brown and tan, all harmonizing in collectiveness.

In the spur of that moment, I truly realized life was not designed for the alone. The Wonderful’s box of roasted and salted pistachios contained others; hundreds of pistachios emitting parallels of light green, brown and tan hues. Though uncertainty swarmed, we were interconnected by faith, enclosed in one box, purposed for one life. We were conjoined by the continuous anticipation for a pair of hands to arrive, for two fingers to unlock liberty as they open our shells, for the abrupt diversion in the tranquil flood to emerge.

Acknowledging that humans are social creatures may seem self-explanatory. Yet, its importance is often overshadowed by competition, pitting people to fall prey to the bystander effect and take a stand only when it benefits themselves. Jakarta’s flooding has shown me that we are all humans in need of one another, residing in a space where community supersedes our ability to individually fend for ourselves. It is pressing instances like these — when life is literally on the line — that humanity’s strength is precisely tested. 

And there it was. After eighteen days, cradled in my decaying pistachio shell, silence was sliced by hope.

I clutched the tissue, reobserving the shaded tones that evolved from streaks into a homogenous blur of colors. Time briefly stopped, as a crescendo of voices arose from downstairs with the faint sound of boat propellers that trailed in the distance. 

“Akhirnya, mereka datang! (Alas, they’re here!),” yelled my sister from below. Her footsteps becoming faint while mine gained momentum.

I weaved through the couches toward a window, hearing a muted crack as I anxiously clenched my palm into a fist. A grey boat was chopping through the surface of the waves, the brown water lapping inconsistently in its wake. Liberty flowed through the atmosphere as I pulled back the pleated curtains. The birds’ melodic chirps became soothing again, reverting back to their musical composition. The silhouettes on the boat gestured their arms emphatically to indicate that aid was on its way. The pair of hands we anticipated was here to hoist the lid of the Wonderful’s box of roasted and salted pistachios; the lid that confined hundreds, similar to me, encapsulated in a situation that relied on faith. Amidst a destructive, isolated and unjust world, I gained a glimpse of hope in humanity, beautifully echoing the symphony of life. 

In the heart of my palm lay a pistachio shell, golden-tan in the radiance of afternoon sunlight, shattered into pieces. The breeze swept each fragment away as the somber figurines on the polymer boat became clearer. I envisioned two fingers gripping the tan walls that surrounded me, cracking it open gently as my olive skin became exposed: a pistachio, bare without its shell.

For I now know, not anticipate, that the pair of hands are here — that within life is also hope.

Statement Columnist Tiffany Sudijono can be reached at tsudijon@umich.edu.

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