The Fifth Season by Kerry B. Collison Page A

flooding back the moment she had stepped down from the train. On those all too frequent occasions, she would return home from school, her face wet with evidence of tears. It had been difficult and demeaning to follow her mother’s advice, to ignore the insults. Lily found it impossible for the hurtful racial slurs and intimidating language so often encountered in this small, isolated community in East Java, not to leave some scars.
    For Lily, shocked by the minister’s death, the evidence before her only reaffirmed her belief that racial hatred for the Chinese was more than a passing phenomenon. This perilous culture of envy had spread over the centuries, its origins dating back in Indonesian history to a time when her people had been given special status over the indigenous by the Colonial Dutch. Now, that legacy had all but disappeared, displaced by deep-rooted tribal animosities which lurked dangerously close to the Indonesian society’s fragile surface. It would seem, she felt disconsolately, that contrary to what the nation’s leaders would have the international community believe, there was, in fact, no unity in diversity; at least, not in this nation of more than three hundred ethnic groups, each clamoring for recognition and autonomy from the Javanese.

    * * * *
    Lily glanced over once again at her mother and smiled weakly, wishing she could escape the demanding duties and stuffy conditions. Since word of the carnage had swept through the small country town, not one Chinese family dared venture more than a few steps from their homes, most of which were situated above the endless rows of shops they controlled. Even the iron-barred windows had been locked firmly shut and, for a fleeting moment, Lily feared that she might faint, struggling to control her rising fear in the hot, humid, suffocating atmosphere where the bodies now lay together, awaiting burial.
    â€˜Lily, go outside and get some air,’ her mother demanded, and she did so, not wishing to spend any more time in the room than was necessary.
    The smell of formaldehyde had permeated the room, her clothes and hair, causing her discomfort.
    â€˜I won’t be long, mother,’ she replied, thankfully, then smiled weakly before escaping the smell of death which she knew, would require time to wash from her memory.
    Once outside Lily squatted on the footpath, bent her head forward, and drew long, deep breaths filling her lungs until the giddying effects threatened to exacerbate her nausea. Slowly, with one hand against the concrete wall to secure her balance, she rose to her feet and remained still for some minutes until assured that the panic attack had passed. At that moment, a truck rumbled past, the driver blowing the horn unnecessarily just as the vehicle reached the point where Lily stood recovering her composure, choking in the wake amidst billowing clouds of dust.
    Her pale face in no way reflected the anger she felt inside, not just towards the inconsiderate driver, but also with having to live in constant fear simply because she and her family were of Chinese extraction. Lily had wanted to wave her fist angrily, but instead, had merely wiped her face with her hands. Remembering, suddenly, where these had been, she struggled to prevent the flow of tears which threatened and quickly wiped her face again, this time with the back of her arms.
    Lily Suryajaya peered down through the provincial backwater’s commercial district. The pot-holed, dusty street, lined on both sides with aging two-story multi-purpose shops and dwellings, caused her to sigh. She counted the number of days remaining before she would return to Jakarta, wondering if she could last. She was anxious to leave, and this impatience was further fueled by the knowledge that her uncle there planned to move into new accommodations within the following weeks, where they would all enjoy access to the condominium’s private facilities. For Lily, this meant time in the