Andrea J Mandal

Timor Feto

You awake with the sun around 5am. In the single bed you most often must share you push aside some token family member, clamber over their sweaty frame, and make your way to the adjoining living area of your family home. The concrete floor and walls and the low corrugated iron roof have never seen a lick of paint that would expand its drab color spectrum beyond that of ‘Institution Grey’. The only window at least has glass which you’re grateful for despite it being heavily tinted, as became tradition from the days of rebellion against the Indonesians. There’s little enlivening this central space except a scatter of plastic furnishings, a much prized television and curtains across internal doorways.