Leila Chudori - Home

I enrolled in the Faculty of Law, which is somewhat ironic, because I couldn’t help but laugh about the gaping chasm in Indonesia between the code of law and its implementation. Had I not kept my mind focused on Ibu, whose irritation with me and my obstinate behavior easily brought her to tears, I most likely would have chosen to drop out of school and spend my time in bed with the gorgeous assistant lecturer instead.

Not surprisingly, when I did finally graduate, Ibu looked to be the happiest person in the world. Om Aji, Tante Retno, and my two sisters joined her in shedding tears of happiness for my success. Good lord…

Ibu didn’t particularly care how I was going to put my degree to use; she just wanted to see me graduate and was happy that I did. So it was that after interning at various places, from corporate law firms to institutions like the Center for Legal Aid, Ibu seemed to understand why it was I chose to establish Satu Bangsa or “One Nation,” whose primary activity was advocacy for minority groups being treated unjustly. Even though the idea for the organization was mine, its “front man” is Gilang Suryana, who is only a couple years older than me but, more importantly, has nothing at all “suspicious” in his background.

Gilang, the son of an editor at Harian Massa , holds a dual master’s degree in history and political science from Leiden University in the Netherlands and bears none of the burden of the past or that cargo of revenge that Bimo and I do. Our small office is in the annex of a house owned by a friend of Gilang’s father, a man who prefers to keep his name anonymous. He is businessman and a member of the old rich class who admires our goals but can only help us on the sly. Though Gilang uses a light hand in running the office, he is a master of authority and planning — the very traits one needs in a leader.

JAKARTA, MAY 2, 1998

My watch said eleven and my cell phone was yelping at me. The call was sure to be from Bimo, who was out of patience with me for my courtesy in waiting at the office for our “special visitor” to arrive. Ever since the day before, when Bimo’s father called from France to ask that we give a hand to Om Dimas’s daughter and watch over her while she was here, Bimo had been grumbling half to death. The situation in Jakarta was heating up; it was the wrong time and the wrong place for anyone to come here to play tourist.

“She’s not playing tourist,” I reminded Bimo. “She’s here to finish her final assignment.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Despite Bimo’s grumbling, he couldn’t ignore his father’s wishes. Bimo was always polite and respectful towards this man he hadn’t even met until he was an adult and had gone abroad to meet him, once in Singapore and another time in Europe. That was because Om Nugroho, like Om Dimas and my father’s other friends in Paris and Amsterdam, had never been able to come back to Indonesia. At any rate, when Om Nug called to say that Om Dimas’s daughter was coming to Jakarta to undetake her final assignment, the real message was that he expected our help, which is why I was waiting there in the office while Bimo was out on the streets. And now he was calling for the umpteenth time.

When I punched the accept-call button, he started barking in my ear: “Where are you, fuckwit?”

“Take it easy. Gilang is out there now.”

I immediately punched the off button, tired of hearing him complain. I knew that many of our fellow activists were already out there in the streets, showing their support for the Allied Student Movement. Salemba Boulevard and the streets leading to it in Central Jakarta were sure to be filled with a sea of people and protest banners, whose common theme was economic issues: the rise in the price of staple foods, electricity, and fuel. Even though the atmosphere was like a powder keg ready to explode, we’d heard that the government — President Soeharto, that is — was still intent on raising fuel prices. He probably thought the situation now, in 1998, was the same as it was in 1967 and 1968 when, after taking power, he had increased the price of fuel with no overt protest. I for one felt sure that this issue would lead to a change in cabinet and a special session of parliament. This waiting was frustrating, but because I’d already promised to meet this girl, I couldn’t leave the office.

I was just about ready to leave the room when Ujang came in, bringing with him… Wow! What the …?

“Alam, this is Lintang,” Ujang said with a huge grin on his face. “She said she has an appointment to see you,” and then in undertone: “Sheesh, I thought she was a movie star.”

So this is Lintang? Hot damn!

“Hello…Mas Alam? I’m Lintang, Dimas’s daughter.”

“Dimas Suryo… Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” I said quickly, interrupting her to hide my sudden goofiness, and immediately shook her hand. From all accounts, I knew that Om Dimas was a good-looking man but, my God, what must her mother look like!?

Ujang was still standing at the side, looking left and right as if waiting for instructions.

“What’s with you?” I asked him.

“Maybe she’s thirsty…? She came here by motor-taxi. That’s awfully gutsy,” Ujang tittered as if something were funny. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea, or maybe a bottle of cold tea?” he asked Lintang, eager to help. Usually by this time he would have forgotten the visitor and plopped himself in his chair outside and started to snore. Hmm…

“Oh, water will do, thank you.”

So polite.

Ujang turned and walked toward the kitchen, giving a thumbsup sign as he left. Asshole.

“Please, have a seat. Did you just come from Om Aji’s? When did you get in?”

“Last night. Yes, I’m staying at Om Aji’s house.”

“And how is Om Nug? And your father? Is he in good shape?”

“Om Nug is fine. He misses Bimo and gave me a letter and package to give to him. My father, well, he’s fine too. Om Tjai and Om Risjaf are also in good shape.”

Ujang returned with a glass of water in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face. Ujang was always the first to act up whenever I received a female visitor in our chaotic office. He pitied me because I was still single and was always giving me advice — and more attention than any woman would — about the importance of tying the knot of intention with a good and honorable woman, or some kind of bullshit like that.

Though Ujang could see that I had begun to lose my patience with him, he just stood there, rolling his eyes.

“So, how can I help you?” I asked Lintang while peeking at my watch. At that moment my cell phone started to ring and this time I was forced to answer because Bimo is one person who does not understand the emphatic use of the word “no.”

“Yup…?”

“Where the hell are you?” Bimo demanded to know.

“Our visitor just arrived. Hold your horses, OK?” I glanced at Lintang and shut off my phone.

Lintang was seated directly in front of me.

Tall for a woman, almost the same height as me, but with fair skin and brown eyes, and a student at the Sorbonne. Daughter of Dimas Suryo, a political exile who had married… God, I’d suddenly forgotten her mother’s name. Whatever. A Frenchwoman.

“I’m sorry, Mas Alam. I’ve caught you at a bad time. It looks like you have to go somewhere.”

She seemed nervous as she rummaged through her knapsack, apparently looking for something.

“That’s all right. And call me Alam, by the way, without the ‘ mas. ’ So, you’re here to work on your master’s thesis?” I asked, trying to start the conversation in order to bring it more quickly to an end. Bimo was helpless sometimes, almost unable to function unless I was beside him.