Hello Bandung!

The Promise

My parents used to promise me that one day we would return to the country where I was born. I held on to that promise like a lifeline. It became my survival strategy. If I could just make it to that future moment, I might see my homeland again. Maybe I would even see my Indonesian mother. The idea gave direction to feelings that otherwise had nowhere to go.

When I turned sixteen, my parents asked if I wanted to search for her. It was 1991. I remember the question landing in my body before it reached my mind. I wasn’t ready. I doubt I showed it. I had become very good at appearing unaffected. So I probably shrugged and said something casual, something like, “Yes, why not?” My father wrote to the orphanage to announce our visit and to ask whether they could help locate her. Their reply was warm: we were welcome, and they would try their best. When we boarded the plane, they had not yet found her.

The Orphanage

In Indonesia we were greeted by Ms. Jane and Ms. Utari. They were pleased to see that I looked healthy and that I was doing well in school. Their eyes scanned me with an intensity that made me feel inspected, as if I were proof that the system had worked. I felt relieved they didn’t pinch my cheeks or ask me to open my mouth. The bar for comfort was low. Then my parents asked about my mother. Suddenly, they said they had located her after all. It had not been difficult. She had remarried. She was living in Bandung. They watched my face carefully, measuring my reaction. I had none to give. Everything inside me went quiet. They added that she had recently lost her youngest daughter. Now, at the same time as that loss, she would regain her eldest. I didn’t know what to do with a sentence like that. We decided to go sightseeing first and visit her later. I was grateful for the delay. Numbness can feel like protection.

The Road to Bandung

Back in Jakarta, we picked up Ms Utari and her daughter, who would interpret. During the drive, she told me we had played together when I lived in the orphanage. I searched my memory. Nothing. The closer we came to Bandung, the tighter my chest became.

The Meeting

We parked along a busy road. Ms Utari went ahead to tell the family we had arrived. Then I saw her. A tall, very thin woman walked toward me and wrapped her arms around me with such force that I could barely breathe. I noticed her bright white teeth immediately. And at the same time, I saw how ill she looked. She cried. She spoke words I could not understand. The translation came: she asked me to forgive her. Giving me up had been for my own good. She dropped to her knees. The neighbourhood gathered. I stood there, a teenager, in the middle of a public drama that everyone seemed to understand except me.

Inside the House

We went to an aunt’s home. I still don’t know why not hers. I remember the green walls, the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. I remember the large television. At that exact moment, Dallas was playing — oil, wealth, power, glamour — flickering inside a house described to me as poor. The contrast almost made me laugh. My reality often had that strange, surreal edge.

Trying to reconnect without language felt impossible.

My Dutch mother kept the conversation moving, asking about my father, about the scars on my body. My Indonesian mother said he had died. The burns, she explained, came from hot coals from a fire. While we talked, she examined my ears. I arrived in the Netherlands with pierced ears, but they closed because I didn’t like wearing them. She removed her own hoops and pushed them through. I let her. It hurt. When she was done, she said I could keep them. Then she led me into the bedroom. She spoke rapidly. I didn’t understand. She pressed a letter into my hand and put her finger to her lips while glancing toward my adoptive parents. That gesture needed no translation. I hid the letter in my pocket and followed her back. For decades, my mind would replay that moment, dissecting it from every angle.

Gratitude and Departure

My parents were kind throughout the meeting. Emotional, open, present. My father filmed everything. He must have known how important images are when memories are fragile. They gave her money. I had not asked them to. My father said it would help her for months. It comforted them to do something practical in a situation that had no clear rules. I never told them how proud that made me. They had kept their promise. They had brought me back. And even after we left Bandung, I still felt relieved. Relief to step back into the van. Relief to continue travelling. Relief to move away from a reunion that was supposed to answer questions but had only created so many new ones. And though it was difficult to admit, I felt relief that I would eventually leave Indonesia again and return to the life I knew.