[nasional_list] [ppiindia] Coup '65: Tag That Doesn't Go Away
- From: "Ambon" <sea@xxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <"Undisclosed-Recipient:;"@freelists.org>
- Date: Fri, 11 Nov 2005 11:27:42 +0100
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September, 30 2005 @ 07:18 am
Coup '65: Tag That Doesn't Go Away
It is hard to start a story where the writing concerns the very personal issues
of someone, and that someone is me.
For people having a birthday in September, the month is usually greeted with
happiness and thankfulness. I was born in this month back in 1960 in a village
called Bantul, about 20 kilometers from Yogyakarta. Unfortunately, September
brings me mixed feelings. I am grateful to God that I have survived another
year, but it is also a harsh reminder of an event the nation calls G30S/PKI and
of society's continuing stigmatization of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI)
and its followers (as well as those alleged - most of the times with very
little evidence - to be the party's supporters, sympathizers and their
families).
For me, the pain is very close to home as my family is a victim of this
stigmatization. The pain remains to this day.
In the nights after September 1965, I remember we had to turn the lights out
early. Kids played in the dark, sometimes lucky to get enough light from the
moon. An atmosphere of fear pervaded villages. People gathered outdoors only to
share stories in hushed whispers, all the while keeping their ears open. "The
air of danger," they called it. Sometimes we heard fighter planes flying low,
the sound of marching boots, and sometimes, we heard screams, people begging
for pity, family members pleading with soldiers not to take their fathers or
brothers away. I kept silent. I did not know what was going on because I was
only five at that time. My oldest brother usually sat me on his lap while my
mother carried my baby brother. I had six siblings back then.
In the mornings, I usually heard stories. Lek Nyono had been "picked up", so
had Pak Prapto. Pak Parsih, meanwhile, was being sought by military officers
and the Muhammadiyah youths. The term "picked up" was terrifying to us at that
time. Every day for years I heard similar stories, even though I did not fully
comprehend what was being talked about.
On one evening, several soldiers came to our house and took my father (to this
day I am not sure of my father's involvement in the PKI). After he had been
gone for three days, my mother told my oldest brother to try to find him at the
general employment office complex. So he went, taking me along. We were
frightened and sad. When we got to the office complex there were hundreds of
people detained there. Eventually we spotted father about 30 meters from us. He
also saw us and waved to us. The office complex was already called "the camp".
My brother cried on the way home. I was still lost in confusion. My brother
told mother about father, and she did her best to put on a brave face, trying
to calm the children. Since then on, I sat outside the camp every day for
weeks, witnessing people being whipped, hoping it would not be my father's turn.
The year 1966 ushered in the beginning of a hard life for my family. We had to
move around from one rented house to another. We did not have many possessions;
my father did not leave any valuables. Mother sent my oldest brother to the
town of Salatiga, afraid he would be picked up next.
In 1967, father was released. The family was happy again. But father had no
job. Before he was taken into camp, he had been a high-ranking civil servant at
the Department of Agriculture. I still remember he used to drive about in the
office's Land Rover, often taking it home. He also had a motorbike, the only
one in our village.
But father's homecoming did not last too long. When he was joking around with
me and my younger siblings, a military officer came to pick him up again.
Father simply obliged. He kissed us, one by one, and bid farewell. A few weeks
later, the military had my mother report to the district military command
(KODIM) headquarters. Father was being held there. Mother never allowed me to
visit him at KODIM but stories were always passed on of how my father was
tortured. He always had bruises every time mother or my older siblings visited
him. Father said the soldiers crushed his toes under chair legs every day and
had pulled out his toenails one by one. The military moved father a number of
times. Sometimes he was detained in KODIM, sometimes in police stations and
finally in Wirogunan Prison in Yogyakarta. I did not understand what he had
done wrong.
Father was considered lucky though. Many of his cellmates were transferred to
Buru Island and Luweng Ombo. Many were never heard from again. We also heard
stories of people being ordered to line up on a bridge near our village,
whereupon they were shot dead and fell into the river, which carried the bodies
out to sea.
Mother worked as hard as she could to keep the family fed. In 1968, she gave
birth to another child. She was supporting eight children by that time. Even
though we were barely surviving, we often had relatives staying at our house
and sharing our meals. Mother never complained. For five years until 1972, we
regularly visited father at Wirogunan Prison. Father always tried to hide his
sadness. He kissed us and smiled, but he could not hide his red eyes.
In 1972, father was officially released from prison. He took a bicycle - I am
not sure how he got it - and rode all the way to Bantul. Neighbors gathered to
congratulate him on his return. I did not know what had happened between mother
and father, but mother said she could not take him back. My family was actually
doing well enough financially, probably much better compared to the other
villagers. Mother did a great trade at the local market. She also worked as a
makeup artist for weddings and was always in demand. Once in a while she
tailored clothes for people.
Father eventually moved out to Magelang. He found shelter in the house of an
old woman, who he later married. He passed away in 1977. My siblings and I were
devastated. We missed him and to this day we still don't fully know what he had
endured. He kept most of the pain and horror to himself to the day he died.
I was in my second year of high school when father died. At first, I felt no
impact of his PKI status. Neither were any of my siblings given the tag of PKI
kids. High school days were great. I was popular with the girls, won the
district singing contest, joined the volleyball team, and took the high school
science major. I was doing very well academically and socially. I was accepted
at the University of Gadjah Mada's Faculty of Political Science. Mother was
very proud of me.
But finally reality struck. The minister at my church told me bluntly: "You're
in college, you're smart, but this is of no use to you. You won't be able to
become a civil servant. Your father is PKI." The minister said he was going to
leave the church and join Golkar, the ruling party at that time. He said that
as a person trusted by the government he had to "screen" people of their
political background.
I was shocked. I was so hurt. What did I do wrong? Did I have to be burdened by
my father's mistakes (if he had even done anything wrong)?
I was at that time in a relationship with a woman. For the first time in my
life, I was in love. The other issue raised by the minister was whether my
girlfriend (or her family) would accept my status. He was right. Once the
family found out who my father was, they forbade us to meet. "There's no future
with a PKI kid," said the parents. My girlfriend's father was an employee of a
state bank and his daughter's relationship with me jeopardized his career. We
broke up.
After I graduated, I was offered a teaching job at the State University of
Bengkulu. Worries of political screening clouded me, but I took a risk and went
for it. I started the job and at first it went very well. A year later, I had
become a civil servant. But shortly after that, the university's dean called me
to see him. He did not say a word. He just cried. He finally told me to see the
deputy rector of employment. "We can't do anything, it is already decided by
the state, you are asked to resign, you are not clean," he said.
I called my brother. The next day, we both met with the rector. He said the
same thing but was kind enough to give me a recommendation letter.
The whole campus found out about me. Many expressed their dejection but could
not do anything. I left Bengkulu. Another love interest went down the drain.
When I got back to Bantul, I did not tell mother what had happened. I went to
my best friend's house and shared my story with him and his mother. She cried.
I tried to stay tough. I had to face this reality.
As time goes by, I have landed good jobs. I am better paid than most of my
childhood friends. But the "PKI kid" tag remains. Some people have gone even
further by labeling me a "Christian PKI". It seems like the sins of the PKI are
unforgivable. It seems like society knows more about sins and forgiveness than
God does.
Do I hate my father or the mother who gave birth to me? Not at all. I am proud
of them for their love, courage and determination among others who also
suffered.
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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