Leila Chudori - Home

History depicts the May 1968 revolution in a heroic light, but when I read historical accounts of the time, I find myself feeling somewhat uneasy; the generation of that time comes across as overly serious and full of themselves. When Maman first used the term coup de foudre in a conversation we were having about the May 1968 movement, I almost choked. The water I’d been drinking immediately surged up the wrong pipe and came out of my nose. The literal meaning of “ un coup de foudre ” in French is “lightning,” but if used in the context of a meeting between two people which makes their hearts pound, the term is laced with emotion and means “to instantly fall in love.”

Whenever Maman told me how romantic her first meeting with Ayah had been, even after their divorce, I could not stop myself from laughing. Like Maman, I guess — before she met Ayah, that is — I simply rejected the possibility of le coup de foudre . For me, the road to love is much more simple and predictable: two people meet, get to know each other, and gradually find themselves attuned and comfortable with one another. That is love. Love at first sight is a phrase cooked up by greeting-card companies to sell Valentine’s cards and Hollywood, which employs every means to sell love on the big screen. I once suggested to Maman that perhaps she and Ayah thought of May 1968 as such a monumental time for France only because of the meaning it had for them as a couple.

In response to my insolence, she warned me: “Be careful what you say. The time will come when you might have to eat your own words.” And now it seems that time has come and I am being forced to eat my own words.

I’d always been sure that I would never experience what my mother did: being struck helpless by a flash of lightning. I already had Narayana, after all, who could never be described as a bolt of lightning. He was a giant umbrella, protecting me from the threat of storms. Having him, why ever would I worry about being struck by lightning?

Yet, the fact is, I was stuck by le coup de foudre , in the form of a man named Alam: Segara Alam. Tall, with wavy hair, chocolate-colored skin richly darkened by the sun, and chiseled facial features roughened by the stubble of his beard. The shirt he was wearing could barely conceal the muscles of his arms, the breadth of his chest, and the flatness of his stomach. At first I thought he might be an athlete but that guess made no sense at all. After all, I met him at Satu Bangsa, a political activist organization. He was the son of Hananto Prawiro, my father’s friend, but also one of the Jakarta contacts Om Nug had recommended me to meet.

At our initial meeting, Alam didn’t appear enthusiastic to see me. It was as if I was an intrusion on his busy schedule. He kept looking, back and forth, at his watch and his cell phone, which wouldn’t stop ringing and which he declined to turn off. Maybe it was his flashing black eyes, darting here and there, not looking at me; maybe it was his brisk and clipped way of speaking, as sharp as the knife my father used to slice onions; or, quite possibly, it was his dismissive attitude, which said to me that my presence at his office was a waste of time and space and that he had more important work to do. Whatever, I found myself suddenly nervous in his presence and had difficulty forming complete sentences. I sounded stupid when I spoke, especially with my every phrase being immediately contradicted by this supposedly brilliant and experienced activist.

I became irritated with him for constantly disputing whatever I said, and I began to pout — something I find embarrassing — but he still wasn’t in the least bit swayed. With Narayana, I was able to get what I wanted: besting him in arguments (not because I was always right but because he always gave in); the choice of a restaurant; the choice of menu; the choice of where to sleep, at his place or mine; even the choice of position and location when we made love.

Why I suddenly began to think of Nara in the middle of my dialectical duel with this rude individual, I didn’t know; but it was clear that Alam couldn’t hold his tongue when he was impatient or didn’t like the person with whom he was conversing. He refused to let me call him “Mas” even though Ayah had insisted that I was to use this honorific when speaking with Alam and Bimo, because they were ten years older than me.

Initially, at the beginning of our conversation, I thought that Alam might just be testing my knowledge of Indonesia, as if I were a naïve college student who readily accepted whatever she was told. In the end, however, I finally had to conclude, from both his cynical tone of voice and the anti-government protests that were picking up steam — which he pointed out more than once was making his schedule packed — that he would have no free time to give to me and that I would have to do my work without his assistance. But with him being like that, I thought, who would want his help? Enough was enough, I decided. It was time for me to leave. Taking the Titoni watch from my bag, I rose abruptly, and placed it on the desk before him, causing him to stop mid-sentence and look up at me — finally straight in the eye.

“My father sent you this. It was your father’s,” I said before turning and walking away.

Marching out of the Satu Bangsa office, I found myself back in the roar of a Jakarta afternoon. The yowling of three-wheeled bajaj , like that of lawnmowers; the jumble of cars parked every which way, both beside and on the curb; and the pockmarked sidewalk with loose and missing bricks, made me trip several times and swear out loud. Damn, damn, double damn! Why was I suddenly crying? I wasn’t a woman who sniveled. I wanted to walk away from that office with my pride intact. Merde!

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry…”

It was Alam’s voice, behind me. “I’m sorry,” I heard him say again, as he followed at my back along the dusty roadside of Jalan Diponegoro. I did not want to turn around or to look at him. Damn, damn! I was embarrassed by my tears, my runny nose, and the sweat now pouring from my flushed face. I rifled through my bag. God damn it! Why was it was impossible to find my packet of tissues with that snide but attractive man behind me?

That was the moment I felt it. At that moment, he again called my name and put his hand on my arm. What was it called: an electric shock or a bolt of lightning? I didn’t know and I’d suddenly forgotten the three languages that I can speak: French, Indonesian, and English. Through his touch, so shocking in sensation, I felt something from inside of him move into my body, which made my blood move faster. My sudden inability to speak in any of those languages — in any language at all — left me paralyzed. Maybe that was the reason he sought a way to make me speak again. He invited me to go with him to Lubang Buaya to visit the museum there: “Museum of the Treachery of the Indonesian Communist Party.”

The afternoon sun was biting hot and even Alam, who was born and had lived in Jakarta all his life, was constantly having to wipe the sweat from his neck and forehead. And I, being from a country where the sun shone brightly for only four months a year and not nearly as fiercely as it did in Jakarta, could hardly bear the heat. The incredible humidity made me feel like a dampened rag.

In this suffocating weather, with sweat dripping from my brow, I tried to read the booklet which provided explanations about the sites to be found on the museum’s nine-hectare plot. I used the booklet’s table of contents as a guide to what I then visually recorded with my video camera: each of the thirty-four dioramas portraying acts of heinousness allegedly perpetrated by the Indonesian Communist Party. I then understood why Alam had invited me there. Everything must have a starting point, and President Soeharto’s New Order government saw this place and all that was depicted in it as its raison d’être , the very basis for its authority. As if preparing a shooting script for a film, I made notes about each of the dioramas, rooms, and other objects I captured on camera.