When I think of it, there is no direct connection between my family and the tragedy of ‘65. My late father’s only story was of how, one day, he passed by a place where the political prisoners of ‘65 were forced to work by the military. An officer stopped him and pushed him to raise his hand in a salute. Father refused strongly: why salute the prisoners?
Father worked his life in the P&K, the Department of Education and Culture, a member of Korpri, the corps of government employees, and voted for Golkar (Suharto’s party) of course. Mother, a member of Dharma Wanita, the corps of government employees’ wives. I regard the book “30 years of Independent Indonesia” as Father’s most precious estate. The authority of the Orba doctrines is crystal clear in my family. However, when I claimed the book as my property (none of my siblings refuted my claim), I actually had a different awareness already. I was raised within the version of Orba’s history, and when I matured, I looked for something else. As far as I remember, my sensibility changed when met with literary works, amongst others by Umar Kayam and Ahmad Tohari, which “gave face” to the tragedy of ‘65. I believe that Orba’s success was in dehumanising anyone alleged to be involved with the G30S. Then, these writers show that they are really human like us. Someone's wife, someone's husband, someone's child, someone's father, someone's mother, with a heart, and feelings. This astonished me. How could history rub so many humanly faces out of so many people, for so long? Heru Hikayat #1965setiaphari #living1965
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When I was six, my parents and I moved to the Netherlands. My mother passed away there less than eighteen months after our arrival. Not long after she passed away, a friend tended to our garden. Months later, the garden filled with flowers in the most beautiful colours.
One afternoon, I was helping my father in the garden when he went to get mail from the letterbox. He returned looking rather puzzled, but with a smile on his face. “Look,” he said, “a card so Papa can vote!”. Probably at the time I did not exactly understand why that was so special, and I can’t remember that my Dad said anything about it. But instinctively I knew it was extraordinary - in Indonesia, my father was not allowed to vote. When election day came, my Dad took me with him as he cast his vote. As long as I can remember, he never missed a chance to do so. He was able to enjoy that right in a country that was not his, while the country of his birth denied him to do so. And every time I get a chance to vote, I do. And I think of that afternoon, when the flowers bloomed. Ken Setiawan #1965setiaphari #living1965 |
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