I am opting to remain anonymous while sharing my story here. This is partly because my family has asked me not to pursue a project to learn about my maternal grandfather. A few years ago, I found out he was imprisoned following the events of 1965.
My parents rarely spoke about my maternal grandfather. All that was ever said about him was that he simply passed away before my birth. For most of my life, that was all I ever knew about him. I didn’t know his name, I had never seen a picture of him and it seemed like he had never existed. Several years ago, my father and I were discussing the film The Act Of Killing with each other. After a while, I asked him whether we knew anyone who was a victim. It was then that he told me that my maternal grandfather was in fact imprisoned following the events, and that he was released in 1980. I realised then that was the reason why my parents never spoke about him. I remember going through a lot of emotions at that moment. I was horrified to learn about what had happened to my family. At the same time I felt dismayed as well. How could my parents have not told me this for over twenty years. He was my grandfather, did I not have the right to know about this? I quickly learned about the intense burden that was thrust upon my grandmother and her children during that time. How their lives were suddenly turned upside down and everything became a struggle. It’s a period in their life that is very painful to remember. And it is not a period that has been approached with dignity. Up to this day, these events are still stigmatized. Since discovering my grandfather’s fate, I have dedicated myself to learning more about his life, and the ordeals he went through. I am putting this together in the form of an art project which hopefully will dignify these events. However, my family has been content to let the past be the past, rather than opening up old scars. Hopefully in time I can not only open up about these events to people, but to my family as well. Anonymous #1965setiaphari #living1965
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My father runs a home-based tailor business. Many of the tailors who work for with my father were from Klaten and Solo. In the 80s, when I was in primary school, one day I found the back room – where the noise normally only came from the crowds of sewing machines – was suddenly swarming with a conversation about bodies that were butchered and thrown away to the river, making it red with blood.
“It was the soldiers who butchered those people.” “Ora mung tentara. Wong-wong sipil sing dikongkon tentara yo akeh sing mateni.”* “Yes, they were believed as PKI, then were butchered like chicken. Beheaded, then thrown away to the river.” Such horror, their stories. I did not know what made them start talking about the horrors. I suspect that this was triggered by the recent premiere of the film Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI in the cinemas, which not long after was also broadcast on TVRI, the one and only television channel in Indonesia back then, broadcast by the government. I remember I and my fellow students were brought by our teachers to watch that film in the cinema theatre. I also remembered how quite a few times I had to close my eyes with my hands because of the bloodbath scenes full of violence. I remember the little me then viewed PKI as something that was very scary. I often quietly watched one of my neighbours, Mr X, whom I heard was somewhat involved with PKI, as though any second he could suddenly pull a sharp item out and kill everyone cold-bloodedly. What puzzled me was, both my parents were always friendly with Mr X. They even chatted like very close friends. When I asked my parents why they were friends with Mr X who was a PKI, their answer was not long, “So what if he's a PKI? Mr X is a good man.” I was confused. When I heard the horror stories about the river becoming red of blood in that back room, which quite a few people admitted seeing with their own eyes, I could not help asking, “So which of these people are actually the evil ones?” They who heard my question could only stare at one another. There was no clear answer. A while later, the room was again silent. The noise of the sewing machines continued to fill the room. And that question that I asked in the 80s was one of my initial questions that gradually piled up in the coming years, on the truth and lies of history devised by the New Order about PKI and 1965. Sari Safitri Mohan #1965setiaphari #living1965 * In Javanese: “Not only the soldiers. Many civilians were also killing, as instructed by the soldiers.” 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 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 I spent my childhood in Jakarta. Sometimes, we went for a holiday in Yogyakarta - and we would visit our paternal grandma's grave. There was only one gravestone there, and that was grandma's. That was why one day I asked where grandpa's grave was. Father answered that grandpa's grave was in Semarang - but we never visited it. Something happened around 1984, when I was about 8 year-old, third grade, and I always remembered it. One day, father and I were looking through our family's photo album. When we stumbled upon a significantly larger photograph of grandpa, father told me, "If you see this man when you're on a bus, or when you're walking, quickly call him, okay? Tell him that you are his grandson, the son of Bima!" I was confused, and I said, "Really? But grandpa has passed away, right?" This question apparently struck father and he then kept silent. Only now I can understand the context: that father has always been hoping to find grandpa alive. This is what differentiates a missing subject and a dead one. Rangga Purbaya #1965setiaphari #living1965 For a very long time, all I wanted was an ordinary family. This is the family I was born into and the one I received. It's extraordinary. Today, my kids walked into a bookstore and found their grandfather's book, which is also dedicated to them. They may still be too young to completely understand their grandfather's history and what it means to our family, but one day they will - because he wrote it down. His story is their story. As a family we are stronger because of it. Ken Setiawan #living 1965 #1965setiaphari Sri Sunardi was the architect of the scouting grounds in Cibubur and was the holder of the highest honour of the World Organisation of the Scout Movement (WOSM). He was married to a leftist lecturer of the Pedagogy Department at Gajah Mada University in Yogyakarta.
When in mid-1966 I came home from Nusakambangan, dishevelled and covered in scabies like a homeless person, Mrs Sunardi made me a pair of shorts from a shirt that belonged to our fellow female political prisoner in Bastion, Fort Willem Een in Ambarawa. Mrs Sunardi was released before I was from Bastion. When she was released, she gave me a handkerchief. She told me her husband had given it to her as he was taken away from Fort Vredeburg forever. She told me to keep the handkerchief, because she could not do so herself. “Take care of it, Dja!” she said as she embraced me, crying. I took the handkerchief with me wherever I went, to Buru and when I came home in 1979. I have looked after that historical square piece of cloth, until today. Tedjabayu Sudjojono #1965setiaphari #living1965 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 Good afternoon, and good wishes to all.
The esteemed Dr. Erwan Agus Purwanto, Dean of the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences of Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta. The esteemed Dr. Hilmar Farid, Director General of Culture at the Ministry of Education and Culture of the Republic of Indonesia. Esteemed teachers and academic community of the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences of Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta. Esteemed guests. Today is an important day for me, as I am coming “home” to my alma mater, the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences at Gadjah Mada University. Previously, it was known as the department of Law, Economy, Social and Political Science. It was situated at Pagelaran, at the northern town square (alun-alun utara). After fifty-one years “the lost son” has been found by his “mother”. Fifty-one years is truly a long time in history. And that can even be longer if we do not act, if we do not dare to take a step to break the chains of silence. I thank the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences of Gadjah Mada University, and in particular the Dean, who has taken the responsibility to resist the efforts of forgetting, which are ongoing. For fifty years, we have been made part of a political system that has enforced that which should be remembered and that which should be forgotten - to the extent that we have lost our awareness and our memories of the past. Both of which are very important to rebuild life today. This award is not for me, but for the hundreds of friends who disappeared and did not return. This award is also to remember and to give a voice and dignity to the victims of 1965, in an effort to express the truth, to rehabilitate and reconcile. I thank my wife and children who, with love and mutual affection fight together in a pilgrimage for humanity, to spread the seeds of civility and justice. I will end with a poem for my late friends Ibnu Santoro (lecturer at the Faculty of Economy) and Sunardi (lecturer at the Faculty of Pedagogy), as well as the students of Gadjah Mada University, who disappeared in 1965 and 1966. Hersri Setiawan #1965setiaphari #living1965 Here is an artefact from Buru Island; my older brother Tedjabayu sent this to Mother. It is the “padi kemanten” (first harvest) from the island of Buru, Unit 1, Wanapura, in 1976. The commander of this unit was Sri Murtonoputro, First Lieutenant of the Military Police, registration number 309303. Although rice kernels usually disappears from within the hulls within 4-5 years, surprisingly many of these rice hulls still contain the kernels now, even after nearly forty years. Sri Nasti Rukmawati #1965setiaphari #living1965 |
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