Leila Chudori - Home

Even though this is only my second week in Jakarta, I find myself here when the country is entering an era where the Indonesian people have found the courage to demand that the president step down. This is exciting. When I read your e-mail a few days ago, I couldn’t stop laughing, imagining my uncles placing bets on whether or not Soeharto will step down. Are Om Nug and Om Risjaf really going to slaughter a goat if that happens? And are you and Om Tjai still so pessimistic?

Please give my thanks to Om Nug, Om Risjaf, and Om Tjai for all the nights they took turns explaining Indonesian politics and history to me — even if their own stories of the country did end in 1965—but also tell them that Indonesia has changed greatly from the images in the documentary films I’ve seen and from the stories I heard from the Four Pillars. Of course, not all things have changed, as Om Risjaf has already related. One thing I’ve noticed is that despite the extraordinary tragedy they endured, Indonesians are still able to survive and to forget. (Either that, or they have been forced to forget? I’m not sure.) They don’t seem to put too much importance on history (or maybe they’re trying to forget it). Something I find strange here is that so few of the young people I’ve met are interested in the subject of history. I get the distinct impression that people like Alam and Bimo are not representative of the younger Indonesian generation at all. They are activist-intellectuals who have been formed by history.

Alam is coming by later to pick me up and take me to Trisakti campus, where we’ll meet Bimo and Gilang. This afternoon, we’re going to pay our last respects to the students who were shot yesterday — one event I hope that the present-day generation never forgets!

Don’t worry about my equipment. My video camera has some dents in it but I was able to fix the lens. Lucky for me, the damage to my laptop was only on the outside. All my files are safe and the LCD screen works fine, which would have been awfully expensive to replace. Bottom line is that my laptop looks pretty bad on the outside but on the inside she’s brilliant. I’ve been going with Alam every day to the Satu Bangsa office, where I’m editing the results of my interviews from the copies of footage that Alam and Mita saved for me.

Rama has spent the past few nights here at Om Aji’s instead of at his own place. He was ordered by his office to take “home leave” while they run a background check on him. Alam has tried to be friendly to him and invited Rama to join the protest movement, but he’s shown little enthusiasm, almost no response. He stares into space with empty eyes. His girlfriend, Rininta, broke off their relationship. But that’s one thing none of the rest of us are mourning because, to quote Andini, “I can’t imagine having a sister-in-law who can only talk about the shoes and purses she’s bought instead of asking the more appropriate question of where the money for them came from.”

Om Aji and Tante Retno haven’t said anything, but I think they are secretly thankful for this development. Whatever my personal feelings, I try to show sympathy to Rama. No matter what, I still feel guilty about the entire incident. Heartbreak is not easy to get over.

Yesterday, like the days before the incident at Trisakti, I started the day re-compiling and re-editing my footage of interviews with former political prisoners. Even though it was a chore to have to repeat all the work, I was relieved to be able to do it; the most important thing is that my documentation is still complete. After graduation, when I begin to work, I intend to imitate Satu Bangsa’s standard practice of always keeping a neat and well-organized duplicate archive.

In the afternoon, Alam, Gilang, and Agam went off to meet some City Forum activists. That evening, I’m not sure what time it was, Mita dashed into the editing room and started shouting at me in a loud and dramatic voice. (Usually, Mita is flat and dry — a young female version of Om Tjai.) She said that Gilang had called to say that some students had been shot at Trisakti University and that he, Alam, and Agam were already on their way to the campus now. Without another word, Mita and I gathered up our stuff and set off as well. Mita took her motorbike. This was the first time I had ever ridden a motorcycle — and in Jakarta, no less. My God! Mita didn’t drive. She flew, dodging in and out of traffic to avoid traffic congestion.

We arrived in Grogol where Trisakti is located at around 8 p.m. The grounds of the campus were dark and the air was tense, filled with the sound of crying and angry screams. At that point no one knew for sure how many students had been shot. There were still lots of students there crying and mourning, but then one student we spoke to said that most of the student body had gathered at Sumber Waras Hospital, a couple kilometers down the road. Mita and I decided to go there.

At the hospital, Mita ran into some people she knew. I tried, as politely as possible, to record the hundreds of students who were milling around the hospital corridors, sobbing and screaming hysterically. Everyone was angry. Everyone was mourning. All were in shock. I didn’t know the people there, but I couldn’t help feeling crushed by the sight. It was heartbreaking.

In talking to some of the students, I found out the names of the known dead: Elang Mulia Lesmana, Hendriawan Sie, Heri Hartanto, and Hafidin Royan. They said that two other students had also been killed, but they still didn’t know their names.

At around 9 p.m. we finally met up with Alam and Gilang, just at the same time that a military officer — Alam said he was a high-level military police officer — appeared at the morgue. When he showed his face, an argument broke out between him and the students who were there. They weren’t going to let him in. I recorded this fracas from a safe distance. I know the footage won’t end up being part of my final assignment, but I think that one day I might be able to use the footage in a different documentary.

I’ve seen my fair share of protests and demonstrations on the Sorbonne campus, but now I think that Alam is right in saying that protests in Europe are mostly polite affairs. I never thought I’d witness anything as wild and chaotic as what I’ve seen here. This is certainly one side of Indonesia I didn’t know before.

We stayed with the students at the hospital until almost dawn. Some journalist friends invited us to go with them to a press conference that had been called by the head of the Regional Military Command for Greater Jakarta, Major General Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin. But we decided not to go along

and stayed with the mourning students instead. We waited with them and their families until the four corpses of the students were taken to lie in state at one of the buildings on the Trisakti campus.

We didn’t get back to Om Aji’s home until about five in the morning. Then I tried to close my eyes for a while.

I have to stop for now, Ayah. We’re going back to Trisakti campus this afternoon.

Take care of yourself, Ayah. In the midst of this heat, I always pray that you are well and taking your medicine. Kisses for you and Maman.

As ever,

Lintang Utara

I didn’t think that morning about my sore back or my puffy eyes, which had managed to stay shut for just three hours. I was sure that all of Jakarta, all of Indonesia for that matter, would be all the more on edge because of the killing of those students at Trisakti University the day before. At Om Aji’s urging, we used his van this time to go to the campus. He predicted that what with all the universities in the city holding events to show their solidarity, it would be difficult to find a taxi when we needed one.