Around 2009, when I was quite broken-hearted, I stumbled upon a book by the late Sulami and Sudjinah, two Gerwani leaders who continued their activism after 1965. I finished reading the book on my way from Bekasi to Jakarta. Their stories made my life problems felt so small. I was ashamed. Since then, the stories of the female prisoners of '65 always lighten up my struggle as a woman.
But that was not the first time I felt close to 1965 - the first time was actually when Sulami was still alive. It was 2003. I was a crew of a small documentary film about the role of the Golkar party in the events of '65. We interviewed a few survivors. Sulami was already having difficulties walking. The director asked her to recount the physical tortures she had to endure. The stories flowed quite slowly, but clearly, from her mouth. Her face looked undisturbed, with no expression. She sighed a lot. She said, "I feel that it is hard to forget, hard to forget," which then became the title of the short version of the documentary film. When Sulami left for her room, I helped and lift her. I didn't know what to say. I asked her a bit stupidly, "How do you feel now?" Sulami answered with a bit of a bitter smile, "I feel frightened when I go to sleep at night. I fear that when I wake up, I would wake up in '65." Zely Ariane #1965setiap hari #living1965
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Last year, in my home village, Bireuen, North Ache, we had a family gathering. My grandmother was ill at the time. I don't feel too close to my family, especially this grandmother, the mother of my stepmother. I didn't have any specific emotion when I thought of her. She was just simply insignificant to me.
At one point, my father told me about my grandmother's younger siblings. Her sister, it turned out, was a Gerwani partisan. She was an excellent dancer, he said. I know her, she's still alive. But her brother - he was missing, they don't know where he is. It turned out that he was the leader of the Pemuda Rakyat organisation, either for the whole Bireuen or for our village, if I didn't misunderstand. My father's story made me really want to talk with grandmother. I went to her room, and she told me, "My brother was really handsome, and so kind, and people really liked him. I don't know where they took him to. He was getting prepared to get married. I also don't understand why our fellow villagers suddenly got so angry and hateful towards him, and then he was just missing. I don't know where he is, until now. How can people be so?" Her eyes were watery. I just hung my head. I told her, "Grandma, now a lot of people are talking about this. There are many more new information, and many people are supporting and defending," She responded, "Yes, that is why I don't like watching the soaps on TV. I like the news better, like Mata Najwa in MetroTV. I am following Munir's case." She then asked me, "Oh dear, Ayie, are you not tired, continuously thinking about this?" I laughed out loud, not knowing what to answer. Actually my grandmother's story made me wanted to do a simple research about her younger siblings. But my time limits my choice of concentration. I choose to focus on helping my friends in Papua, because there are so few that are doing this. I see the position Papua since '63 as similar to '65: the destructive power over generations, the stigma, the victims. Both are the historical sins of the founders of Indonesia-post-'65. Zely Ariane #1965setiaphari #living1965 What is September?
The end of time, ceasing on the thirtieth Rotten plans meeting the good Not speaking, not knowing one another World police observe and prepare themselves Politicians prowl, between hope and fear High-ranking army officials scurry, their faces ready to leave Weapons, equipment and civilians await the order Reformers continue on, as in days past Fifty years ago Since then September has always been sombre Forced loss, weapons became masters, capital became God Ordinary people lost hope Endless wounded memories Lost even when not defeated Then comes October Army newspapers blame women Destroyers of morality, offending a sacred society Hundreds of thousands of souls lost Maybe millions Who cares The people ran amuck, they said How did they know who to target? Many deaths, varied types of torture What kind of menu, do you need and what side dish? Fifty years ago After that, October was never the same Military became victors Communists sinners Failed women enemies of the nation Obedient women pillars of the state Most of the people work too much The triumphant capital of prosperous families Death and more death, continues uninvited It's not as if there wasn't resistance But to live a good life is indeed hard Many stubborn people, many frauds, the masses play For hope Morality eroded by capital Bravery cannot appease the necessities of life Even so, unsure how, names keep Emerging The sun still shines, even if its rays cannot reach far and wide If September was a preparation for the death of October, then the other ten months are a struggle for existence. Zely Ariane Translated to English by Edwina Brennan #1965setiaphari #living1965 |
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