Leila Chudori - Home

We arrived at Trisakti a few minutes after 10 a.m. The campus was being guarded by student regiments —resimen mahasiswa , shortened to menwa— which was another new term for me. Alam grumbled when I took the time to write down the term’s acronym in my notebook. The Sorbonne has no such a thing as “student regiments,” which is something important to note. These guards were being very selective about whom they allowed to come onto campus. I don’t know how they knew Alam, but they let us enter. Meanwhile, many of the other people who had come to mourn entered through the campus of Tarumanegara University, directly adjacent to Trisakti.

A sea of people dressed in black clothing was evidence of the grief that was in the air. Even though by this time the corpses of the students who had been killed had already been moved to the homes of their families for private rites prior to their burial, the grounds in front of the imposing Syarief Thayeb Academic Building became the center for people to pay their condolences. I recorded people mourning and showing their respects, but I also recorded objects that spoke poignantly to me as well: flower arrangements, the dried pool of blood from Elang Mulia still on the tiles, and thick panes of glass pockmarked with bullet holes. Why were these lifeless things considered to be lifeless? Sometimes such things are more alive and more honest than any living witness.

In addition to the Trisakti students and alumni who had thronged to the campus, I saw numerous public figures participating in this act of public mourning: Amien Rais, leader of Muhammadiyah, one of the two biggest Muslim organizations; Megawati Sukarnoputri, opposition icon and daughter of the former president; Emil Salim, a leading economist and former cabinet minister; Ali Sadikin, former governor of Jakarta; and Adnan Buyung Nasution, a leading human rights lawyer and activist. I tried to make my way close to the center of the crowd, in front of the speakers’ podium, to record them as they gave speeches. The feeling in the air was different today. Yesterday, the students had been in grief and shock, but today what I felt was anger and oppression. Aside from that, I felt that the entire country had its eyes on this campus and was sending its sympathy.

“Love live Bang Ali! Long live Bang Ali,” the students shouted in greeting at the popular former governor when he was given a microphone to address the crowd. I wedged my way forward in order to be able to better record his image and what he said.

“I helped to establish the New Order government,” he said in a loud and clear voice, “but I am disappointed!”

“Long live Bang Ali!” the students shouted again.

The former governor’s oration was rousing for me, and I forced myself forward again even though I was being pushed here and there by the crowd.

Suddenly, I found Alam with his hands on my shoulders. “Be careful, baby,” he said, “the situation off campus is heating up too. We should probably think about leaving.”

Baby?

“That’s Amien Rais, isn’t it?” I asked to cover the silly thrill I suddenly felt hearing him call me “baby.” Damn! Even in a situation as this, I still found time to indulge in pubescent, self-centered fantasies.

“Yes, but I have to find Mas Willy. Gilang said he’s here meeting with some of the other big names. I’m going up to the twelfth floor where they’re supposed to be meeting.” Alam scanned the crowd looking for Gilang.

“‘Mas’ who, did you say?”

“The poet, Rendra. People call him Mas Willy because his first name used to be Willibrodrus.”

“Oh, Rendra! You’re going to meet with Rendra? Do you know him? I’m coming with you. I’ve got to get him on video!” Obviously, I was getting overexcited.

“Better not, babe, this isn’t a poetry reading,” Alam shouted in my ear to make himself heard over the crowd’s continual cry of “Reform!” “I need to talk to him about something.”

Giving in, I nodded to Alam; but before he went off to find Rendra he promised that if anything happened, he would come back to look for me around the same spot. After Alam left, I turned my attention back to Amien Rais and his oration. After he had spoken, it was now Adnan Buyung Nasution’s turn at the mike. With his thick snow-white mane of hair and because of his frequent interviews with the foreign press, the lawyer was easy to recognize. As soon as he began to speak, he was given a loud and boisterous round of applause and cheers. Suddenly, I saw in the distance a face I recognized. I felt my heart skip a beat.

“Rama!”

Rama turned toward me. I rushed towards him, as best I could, through the pulsing throng. When I finally reached his side, he smiled at me.

“I didn’t know you were coming here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m here,” he said, bowing his head towards mine. “I came straight from my house. Dini called to say that she’s coming, too, along with some of her friends.”

“Yeah, I know, but I haven’t seen them yet.”

Rama looked at Adnan Buyung and clapped when the lawyer said that no matter what happened, the process of reform must begin today. I studied Rama’s face; his features were twitching with evident emotion. The cause, I guessed, was not because of his breakup with Rininta or the glare he was now under as a result of his family’s “political hygiene.” I guessed it was because of his sense of belonging with this campus. Maybe.

He looked as if — how can I describe it? — as if he was proud to be part of what was happening. Were my eyes deceiving me?

Rama looked at me as if he wanted to say something but was reluctant to speak. Finally: “Lintang …”

“Yes …”

“Thank you.”

That was a true shock.

I sought the meaning for his expression of thanks and I think I found the answer. I nodded and took his arm, then told him that I was going to look for Alam. But just at that moment we heard an announcement roll off the loudspeakers that the people who were now on the campus grounds were not to leave through the main gateway. Apparently, right outside the main gate, a mass of unknown people had gathered and were egging on the students to fight. The students were becoming more restless, moving this way and that. Once again, anxiety suffused the air.

“What’s going on?”

“I heard that some people are setting fires.”

“Where?”

“Near the overpass.”

The speeches continued, but not in as orderly a fashion as before. From a distance I could see campus security officers trying to keep the students away from the main entrance and the unknown people outside. Not knowing Alam’s whereabouts, I too began to feel anxious there in the crowd by myself. I tried calling him on my cell phone but he didn’t answer. I then called Mita, who did. I was grateful to learn that she was still on campus. We promised to meet me ASAP outside the front door to the Syarief Thayeb Academic Building.

As I made my way there, I saw her coming toward me in the distance. “Mita!” I called out. And somehow, even with her loaded knapsack, she managed to run to me. I was overjoyed to see a face I knew.

“Where’s Alam?” she asked.

“I was just going to ask if you’d seen him. He went off earlier to find Rendra.”

“Well, most of the big shots just left. I saw them come down the elevator from twelfth floor. Where are Gilang and Agam?” Mita asked, looking at her wristwatch.

The yells of the crowd were growing louder. And then, suddenly, I couldn’t hear anything clearly at all; even the loud cries were drowned out by the sound of engines. At first I thought the source of the clamor was from a bulldozer or some other kind of machine outside the campus. But no, the sound was coming from the air. Everyone looked upwards. There were helicopters flying overhead. My God. One, two, three of them, green and dark gray in color. What were they doing, flying so low and circling over the middle of campus like that, as if they were in battle? A shiver went down my spine and my heart beat faster. Were they carrying machine guns? Or were they just showing off, trying to frighten the crowd as they circled around? I started to shake and I could see that Mita was nervous too.