Echoes of Jakarta
By Jack, Year 10
I remember the roar of the motorcycle,
the wind rushing past in a blur,
the scent of street vendors filling the air—
sweet, smoky satay sizzling on the grill,
the warmth of Siomay Bandung,
wrapped in the vapour of bustling streets,
a world I didn’t fully understand but could feel in my bones.
My uncle’s hand, steady on the handlebars,
guiding us through narrow, familiar roads,
his grip sure, but the world swirling faster than my words.
I’d stumble over the Rs,
broken Bahasa slipping from my tongue,
my voice swallowed by the noise around me.
My face scrunched in concentration,
while my aunt’s smile—gentle, patient—
reminded me that it wasn’t about perfection.
It was about trying,
about being part of the rhythm of a world
I was still learning to belong to.
I can still hear her laugh,
the sound of approval when I finally got a word right.
The small victories,
a nod, a glimmer of pride,
even when the word came out wrong.
It wasn’t the words that mattered,
it was the effort,
the bond forged in those fleeting moments.
The house still lingers in my mind,
the big blue sliding door,
its creak a sound I can almost hear now.
Rust stains on the frame,
cracks in the concrete beneath my feet,
each one a silent marker of time’s passage.
Cousins running, laughter spilling into the air,
Lisa—older, wiser—
music playing softly in the background,
games of hide and seek filling the space between us.
I’d sneak off to my room,
cracked tablet in hand,
watching videos in the dim light,
but always hearing the chatter downstairs,
the sounds of life continuing without me,
a reminder of how far away I was,
yet how close I felt to them.
We’d gather in the dining room,
steam rising from the food,
mingling with the humid air,
clothes sticking to my skin,
but I didn’t care.
The food was always so good,
the laughter, the prayers,
the simple gestures—
passing water, sharing stories—
it felt like home.
But there was always something else hanging in the air,
something I couldn’t understand then.
My mother’s face, slightly furrowed,
her voice light, like a shield,
hushed conversations in the late hours,
whispers we weren’t meant to hear.
We’d sneak downstairs,
catch fragments of something heavy,
but we were always sent back to play,
to forget what we didn’t understand.
I missed Grandpa.
I barely knew him—
just faint memories from when I was three,
too faint to hold onto.
I’d ask about him,
always the same answer—
“When you’re older, we’ll tell you.”
And when I finally was older,
the story came,
but it wasn’t the one I had imagined.
I wonder what it would’ve been like,
to meet him,
to talk to him,
even just once.
Would he have been proud?
Or disappointed?
Sometimes, I find myself haunted
by questions without answers.
The ache is still there,
woven into the fabric of who I am,
quiet but constant,
a reminder of what was lost before I could understand
and what remains even now,
a thread unbroken,
connecting the past to the present.
This poem, Echoes of Jakarta, by Jack was written as a part of Snapshots. Think of the small moments in time that are significant in our lives, or that contribute to the story of who we are. How do you capture that moment on camera? In words? Who takes the picture? What happens outside the frame? What stories do they tell? In this workshop series, students will consider the relationship between photography and poetry and create short poems, vignettes and flash fiction pieces inspired by the work of a range of local and international writers, and visual and photographic artists, as well their own photographs.