Leila Chudori - Home

After saying goodbye and leaving her house, Alam and I headed back toward the main street to look for transportation back to Jakarta. Suddenly Alam tapped me on the shoulder and whispered for me to walk faster. Even though I didn’t know why, I did just what he said and began to walk at a much faster pace, as if in pursuit of something. Looking around furtively, I saw, next to a cigarette vendor’s stall, two men sitting down. Both had crew cuts and were dressed in civilian clothing — obviously undercover military personnel assigned to tail us. Fortunately, they hadn’t seen us leave Mrs. D’s house. But when we arrived at the intersection that led to the main road and started to hail a taxi that was coming our way, we saw the men suddenly jump to their feet and start walking quickly in our direction. As soon as the taxi stopped in from of us, Alam yanked open the back door, pushed me inside, jumped into the taxi himself, then slapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to go and to step on the gas.

For the first few minutes of the ride, neither of us could speak, and Alam kept turning around, looking out of the rear window, until the taxi merged with traffic on the main road. Only then did he start to relax. He took my hand and kneaded it with his.

“Do you think they were watching me?” I asked.

Alam paused before answering. “Jakarta is on the move. Actually, I’m guessing they were watching me.”

“But you’re going to be OK, aren’t you?” I truly was worried about him.

Alam smiled and said, “I’m just fine,” then put his arm around my shoulder.

When we arrived at Satu Bangsa, Bimo informed us that three “flies” had come to the office looking for me. I was shocked — I’d never before had dealings with intelligence agents — but the surprising thing was that it didn’t disturb me.

“What did they say?” Alam asked.

“Basically, they know who Lintang is,” Bimo replied, “and they came here to check her travel documents and to see whether she had obtained official permission to make a film.”

Now, I was taken aback. What pesky flies they were! “And so…?”

Bimo spoke as if I wasn’t present. “I told them Lintang was just a visitor to this office and that they couldn’t meet her here.”

I broke into a cold sweat. “How did they find out so fast what I’ve been doing here?”

“Don’t let them get to you,” Bimo said to me with a smile. “What do you think flyswatters are for?”

Alam rubbed my shoulders with his hand. “Just be calm. Let them do their own thing. Want to order something to eat?”

Bimo looked at us, shaking his head: “Be careful, Lintang. You’ve got one rabid and hungry dog on your leash.”

Odi then stuck out his head from behind his computer to shout at me: “Yeah, you listen to what Bimo says. Be careful. Alam has an attention span of two weeks. After that, it’s ngehe . Yup, it’s just bye-bye!”

“Or maybe, just maybe,” I sparred, “I’m the one who’s stringing him along! Ever think of that?”

At this, Bimo, Odi, and Mita clapped their hands and whooped so loudly that Alam started swearing under his breath, “ Bangsat, bangsat, bangsat— you sons of bitches!” When I took out my notebook to write down this new word for me, Bimo grabbed the pad and began to read out loud all the slang words that were written there: “ Nyokap, bokap, yoi, yoa, nyosor, koit, asoy, bokep, jajaran, ngehe, bangsat… ” Bimo choked with laughter. “These are Alam’s words.” I grabbed the notebook from his hand.

“As they aren’t to be found in the dictionary, I’m interested in looking into their etymology.”

“One is pretty and the other one is crazy,” Mita said. “No wonder you get along!” She then took the film cassette of my interview with Mrs. D from my hand and returned to her room, where she helped me writing down the time-coding into my footage so we could begin to edit it. From her room, I could hear Alam and Bimo still mocking each other, sounding like high school children.

“You’re the one who says ‘ bokep’ for ‘porn flick,’” Alam grumbled at Bimo.

“I say bokep , because you act like you’re in a blue film,” Bimo retorted.

My collection of interviews and notes was growing and beginning to look very well organized — all thanks to Mita, who was an incredibly gifted editor. Even with all the other work she had to do — handling film footage from demonstrations, public rallies, and the free-speech platforms, all of which she had to time-code and index — she kindly took time to help me. She probably felt sorry for me, knowing that in addition to editing the film footage, I also had to transcribe the interviews and translate the written transcripts into French and into English as well, as per the request of Professor Dupont.

That night we worked until late, dining at the work table on nasi uduk that Ujang bought for us. By midnight, I was bushed and decided to go home; but, because I still had a lot of work to do, I decided to leave my equipment at the office. I would be back first thing in the morning. Besides, I trusted that when Mita went home, she would lock the cabinets and drawers where I put my things. I simply was too tired to lug all my things back to Om Aji’s house.

By the time I arrived home, it was almost midnight, and I was a total wreck. Not even bothering to bathe or change out of my clothes, I plopped my body on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours when suddenly Andini’s cell phone began to ring with that tone so awful to my ears. I swore that I had to ask her to change the ringtone. I answered the phone quickly, afraid that it would disturb Andini, whose room was next to mine.

“ Oui …” I said, my eyes still closed.

“Lintang.”

Now my eyes opened wide. Alam’s voice. Tense and firm.

“What is it?” I asked.

“There was a break-in at our office. I’m coming to pick you up now,” was all he said.

I had no idea who broke into the Satu Bangsa office, why they broke in, what was taken, or why he had to call me so early in the morning.

About twenty minutes later, Alam appeared at Om Aji’s house in Gilang’s jeep, which he had borrowed just a few hours earlier to take me home. On the way to the office, Alam told me that he didn’t know all of what had happened, only that Bimo had called him earlier to tell him that the office had been broken into.

“But what happened?” I asked. “Who did this? Was anyone hurt?”

“Odi and Ujang were the only ones there; they sleep there at night. I guess they got a fright but they’re all right.”

The look on Alam’s face said differently — that everything was not all right.

By the time we arrived at Satu Bangsa, most of the staff members had already gathered inside. That’s when I experienced my first shock of mental terror: the office looked like a tornado had gone through it. I scanned the room with my eyes. Gilang and Odi were squatting wearily in front of a pile of books and documents as if not knowing how to begin to put things back in order. Agam was righting overturned tables and chairs. Ujang, with a broom in his hand, was sweeping up broken glass, all the while cussing and swearing about the five men in civilian clothes who had broken into the office without him being able to stop them. Mita, meanwhile, was trying not to cry as she attempted to rewind a spool of video tape that now resembled a pile of tossed linguini. And Alam, now back at work, was visibly shaking with anger. In front of him were several computers that looked broken beyond repair. Even as he began to ascertain the damages, he was also on the phone, informing other activists of what had happened. Every room in the office looked like a shipwreck.