I remember the first time I “came out”. It was in 2003, I think, five years after Soeharto’s messy step-down. I was still keeping all my family’s 1965 secrets to myself. It was a habit nailed down at birth, my only roots.
That day, I had lunch with ten of my friends from Uni. I remember our bonding activity was to rant about Soeharto, and even five years after the fall of his regime, that still felt relevant. Suddenly, without much thoughts, my big mouth defeated my brain and I blurted out. “My grandfather was disappeared in 1965.” Immediately, I felt I wanted to disappear. My heart beat so fast and so loudly as though it was venting all its opinions just before dying. The first rational thought that came to my mind was, “Who amongst these people will kill me now?” A few seconds later, someone from the opposite side of the table uttered, “My grandfather, as well, was in prison, but he was released.” I knew these people for more than 12 years by then. No one amongst us has talked publicly about 1965 before, and within a few seconds that day, two out of ten came out. How many more of us are there? Tintin Wulia #1965setiaphari #living1965
0 Comments
When my grandpa was “picked up” from his house in 1965, he said exactly that: that he was not afraid, because he had done nothing wrong. Still, he was disappeared, just like that.
My grandma, who had lost her husband - when I asked her why she didn’t just leave the country, why against all odds she returned exactly to the place where her house was flattened to the ground, to rebuild everything, said the same thing: if I had left and never returned, people would think I had indeed done something wrong. I am not afraid, because I had done nothing wrong, she said. Sometimes I feel quite angry thinking about this - because of this stupid principle, they didn’t only sacrifice themselves, but also all their family and their descendants. There are times though when I feel quite proud, although sometimes I think feeling proud of this is actually quite naive. What I know for sure is that even when their persistence edges on stubbornness, they’re good people - and I want to be like them. Tintin Wulia #living1965 #1965setiaphari 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 |
Archives
September 2017
Contributors
All
|