The Child Who Waited

I am receiving messages from the many lingering memories of the children who were victims during the colonial era; they want their stories to be told so they will be remembered.

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Historical Background:

It was a time of fear, a time when childhood was stolen before it could bloom.

After Indonesia declared its independence on August 17, 1945, the Dutch, unwilling to let go of their former colony, returned with force. Villages became battlegrounds, and homes turned into graves. Any man who dared to dream of freedom was labeled a rebel, an enemy. They were taken—ripped from their families, accused without trial, and executed without mercy.

But the bullets did not only silence the fathers; they shattered the hearts of those left behind.

Children stood in doorways, waiting for footsteps that would never return. Mothers clutched their infants, whispering names that would never be answered again. The soil drank their sorrow, and the wind carried their grief across a broken land.

For these children, war was not a distant story—it was the cold, empty seat at the dinner table, the fading scent of a father’s embrace, the nightmares that never faded. They were forced to grow up too soon, their innocence buried beneath the weight of loss.

Some learned to forget.

Others carried the pain,

Turning their wounds into stories—

So that the world would never forget.

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"The Child Who Waited"

The moon hid behind veils of sorrow,

The wind carried whispers of grief.

At the edge of a silent village,

A boy clung to his mother’s trembling hands.

Father hadn’t come home.

The door remained open,

Like his heart—aching, waiting.

They said the soldiers took him,

Led him away beyond the bridge,

Called him a traitor, a rebel—

When all he wanted was for his child to grow free.

Morning came, but Father did not.

Only foreign boots at their doorstep,

And a voice, cold as steel,

“We have served justice.”

The boy ran to the bridge,

Searching for footprints,

But found only the earth—

Stained deep with crimson rain.

Since that day, the night lost its warmth,

Their home—a hollow shell of silence.

And the boy, once filled with wonder,

Grew into a man who knew only loss.

@poembyselly