He is no longer him, today. At ten, he saw a chicken beheaded in his backyard, he too, an accomplice. He roamed his village, sometimes barefoot, wading through streams, backyards of his neighbors’ houses where young men were high, smoking ganja. He once saw a group of men in red headbands with Arabic words on them, ready to march to the capital city to slaughter many. He fought demons, wept when the family dog died battling a cobra. He saw men in a trance, munching on broken glasses and hibiscus petals, high on Javanese trance-dance music, turning into horses. A spaceship landed on the school field. He thought he died, shot by Martians. He was saved from being a Taliban. Saved by the music of the American Hippies. He confronted a boy in a green robe and white turban, preaching jihad against Western music. He chased the young mullah out of the school. His story told in the language of the Sixties. Of Beat poetry. Of rap, joyfully, he now narrates with melancholy.