I was born and bred in exile, where we constantly had to move from one village to the other, each time assuming a different name. So change for me was the only constant. What never changed, however, was my late father and mother’s “meetings”. They would always go to “meetings”. And in these meetings they would always talk about ’65. This happened since I was born, all the way to my adult years. They simply always talk about ’65 - every little thing was about ’65.
One day this made me extremely annoyed, so I said to my father, “Father, what is wrong with you oldies - you always talk about ’65. What do you want? Isn’t life suppose to move forward, instead of being nailed in the past?” This apparently tickled my father - he laughed, “Actually, you’re right, Nita, isn’t that funny? So, you’d call us ‘The Clan of 65’, or something like that?” My children, because they were very close to their late grandfather, definitely got all the stories about ’65 as soon as they were old enough to think and ask questions. And really, even when this quite annoyed me, I think my children are quite lucky. It is natural for us as human to look for our roots - just look at an adopted child, who would usually try to find their origin the moment they know they were adopted. I can’t deny that ’65 is part of our life, and part of my children’s late grandfather’s life. I think these stories must go on, because these stories are our roots. Anita Sobron #living1965 #1965setiaphari
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My aunt, Siwi Kartini, who we usually call Bu Niniek, is the youngest sibling of my father’s. She was born in 1959. When grandfather, Boentardjo Amaroen Kartowinoto, was disappeared in 1965, Bu Niniek was only 6 year-old. After her mother’s – my grandmother’s – death in 1967, she moved to Jakarta. Around the end of the seventies, Bu Niniek decided to do her uni studies in Yogyakarta. Her family members objected to her choices, but she still did it, because she had a hidden agenda. Niniek always walked to get to school, and she would stop if she found an old man on the road. Being the youngest child of the family, she was not too familiar with her father, and was really missing him. That was why she moved to Yogyakarta with the hope to find her father there. But this never happened. I took this photograph on Solo street, in Yogyakarta. I deliberately chose this location because Bu Niniek used to live in Kepuh, an area on Solo street close to her campus in the Accounting Academy. It so happened that when I first moved to Yogyakarta, my only friend at the time lived there. This is why I often hung out in Kepuh, and got to know that area quite well, even before I heard of Bu Niniek’s story. When I heard that story, I could immediately imagine my aunt’s daily setting. I always hung out until morning there, where the street became so empty. This is the mood that came to my head when I heard my aunt Niniek’s story. This is why I chose to capture the moment at dawn, when the street is forlorn. Rangga Purbaya #1965setiaphari #living 1965 This is Luweng Grubug, a vertical cave located in Wonosari, Gunung Kidul, Yogyakarta. It is known as a killing location of communist party members and supporters. Between November 1965 to January 1966, around 1500 people have been killed in this place. In the beginning of the reformation period just after the fall of Soeharto, my father and mother immediately joined the research team formed by the Foundation for the Research into Victims of the 1965-1966 Killings (YPKP 65). Luweng Grubug is an outcome of their investigation and research with the YPKP 65 team. Therefore, especially for my father’s generation, Luweng Grubug is an answer, an end point for their probings. However, for me, this is not an end point at all. Luweng Grubug becomes a starting point for me, for many other questions regarding my missing grandfather’s background, and why he had to be disappeared. Rangga Purbaya #1965setiaphari #living1965 Dayu is my cousin, the son of my aunt Niniek. I took this photograph for the exhibition Stories Left Untold in iCan Gallery, Yogyakarta, in 2015. That day, I went to my aunt Niniek’s house in Jakarta to interview her about our family’s life after grandfather was gone. I have met Dayu previously on a separate occasion, and he was willing to be photographed for the work that I would prepared for the show.
After the interview with Bu Niniek, I went with Dayu to a junior high school in East Jakarta. Dayu is a trainer for their soccer team. After the photo session, we talked about grandfather. I told him about grandfather’s history since the beginning of his career as a teacher in Tamansiswa, the period of war for the independence, his activity in BTI, Scouting and his job as an agrarian counsellor. Besides telling the story I also asked what he knows about grandfather. Like my other cousins, Dayu knew that grandfather was missing in 1965 but he did not know what really happened. It was the first time we spoke about grandfather. Dayu said, “He is my pride forever, and not to be hidden and ignored.” Rangga Purbaya #1965setiaphari #living 1965 Sarah Intan is the daughter of my Aunt Niniek. When I was preparing for the exhibition Stories Left Untold in 2015, Sarah agreed for her photograph to be included in the exhibition.
That day, I went to my Aunt’s house to interview her. Then I went with Dayu to take his photograph. When I came back to the house, Sarah had just returned from work. We talked about Grandfather again. Just like I did when I photographed Dayu, I told that Grandfather was a teacher at a Tamansiswa school, fought in the independence war and was active in the Peasant’s Front, in the Scouting Movement, and worked as an educator for farmers. I asked Sarah and Dayu’s opinion about the violence, the disappearances, the killings and the discrimination that leftists experienced in 1965. Like anyone who uses logic and has empathy, they could not accept what happened. The more so as Indonesia follows the rule of law, where one should be considered innocent if the case has not been brought to court. Knowing more about Grandfather made them feel more proud of him. They became increasingly convinced, that he had not done anything wrong. That was the first day we talked about Grandfather. Sarah said; “I will always be proud of Mbah Boen and his ideals”. Rangga Purbaya #1965setiaphari #living 1965 Another year has passed, and here I am, yet a year further from 1965. The further away I am from 1998 and all those years of losses. The further from the reason I am here, but never further away from the truth.
I wish my grandmother hadn’t passed away in 2009. I would ask her again, and again, to explain her reason to stay. You could’ve left the country, I said – I would have. No, she said, in her own words, limited by pain: if I had left, they would’ve thought they were right, that we did wrong. She said no more, no less, and knowing her, she was right. She was always right. She was right to send all her younger children away from her in chaos while she rebuilt everything. She was right to go back, no matter how mortifying, to the exact same spot her husband was taken away from her, exactly the same spot their house was burned to death, exactly the same spot she gave life to all her children except for her eldest, my father. The same spot she said, proudly, in her wordless persistence: I am here, and we are still alive. Kill me if you can. Kill me, if you can, the same way you killed my husband. Kill me, if you can, the same way you killed my husband, in any way you told me you had killed my husband. Some said, with satisfaction, that he was shot under a tree, squealing like a pig. Some said, with admiration, that he was detained and tortured before he was eventually killed, and oh how good a man he was. And she kept this, the good man that he was, the grandfather I have never met, very close to her guts. I wish my grandfather hadn’t been disappeared in 1965. I would’ve asked him, in 1998, whether 1965 was less scarring. I would’ve asked him, in 1998, why his wife called me then out of the blue, blurting out such toneless, wordless fear. I would’ve asked him why I had to grow up keeping his disappearance a secret. I would’ve asked him whether he had once agreed with Marx or Mao. I would’ve asked him why he stayed. You could’ve left the country, I would’ve said, knowing he wouldn’t have, the nationalist that he was. I would’ve asked him why we were so broken. I would’ve asked him why we kept silent. I would’ve asked him why we’re different. But another year has passed, again, and here I am, still asking, yet another year further from the day he was disappeared. I keep going back, exactly because it is mortifying, to these same places of losses, to the same spot where my grandmother had said, with pride: I am here, and we are still alive. Kill us if you can. And it’s not only for her do I keep him, the good man that he was, the grandfather I have never met, very close to my guts. Tintin Wulia #living1965 #1965setiaphari |
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