Читать книгу The Timor Man - Kerry B Collison - Страница 17

Kampung Semawi, Java - October 1965

The line extended for kilometres. In some places, the bicycles were four and five abreast as the children free-wheeled down the gentle incline enjoying the lower temperatures and light humidity of the early morning. As they rode, they talked, laughed and flirted, occasionally pedalling, as they coasted down the hill. They were happy, innocent, and eager to get to school.

The girls wore dark skirts, white cotton blouses and thin red scarves knotted loosely below the neckline. The boys wore similar colours, dressed in shorts or trousers, depending on their age, and white short-sleeved shirts without the distinguishing loose tie. The girls held themselves erect, poised like Parisian models, their backs straight, both hands elegantly touching but not gripping the handlebars as they maintained their positions in the column.

Many of the young ladies sported waist length deep black hair. Occasionally, as the bicycles passed under the trees and then out of the thin shadows into the light, the sun’s rays would touch the fine long strands causing their well-kept crowns to shine with the care, the brushing and the natural aloe vera applied each evening by their doting mothers before they retired.

Even though their appearance could cause one to think otherwise, these were not wealthy children and they wore sturdy sandals. Some wore white socks but only as an option as these were not a mandatory part of the school uniform. The boys wore an assortment of footwear. Most preferred a sandal not dissimilar to those worn by the girls, but more robust to withstand the perpetual pounding they suffered from the mid-morning and late afternoon breaks when the nearby field became a soccer battlefield.

Occasionally a scooter would pass, and then slow, to permit the driver or passenger to converse with the slower moving twowheelers. To be privileged with a scooter did not, surprisingly, create peer group animosity as young Indonesians generally applauded others’ successes.

Sharing was already a cultural trait well before the Marxist-Leninist philosophies crept into their lives. Thousands of years of cultural development had produced a people who had achieved a special ability to understand the import of preserving their way of life, to appreciate their history and respect their families and, at all costs, to coexist with their neighbours in their restrictive, suffocating dwellings. This same cultural force was also responsible for the occasional but sudden explosions of temper and violence which sometimes caused normally calm souls to run out of control, or run amok , often killing at random on a scale not understood in the West. Or at least that was so before militant religious sects eventually gained a foothold in the developed nations.

The road to the school travelled directly through the rich rice fields, the black tar macadam raised several metres above the millions of individually owned sawah under cultivation, permitting traffic to pass unhindered. Each plot, some almost unworkably small, would have been farmed by the same family over and over for many generations. Ownership would have passed from father to son throughout the centuries, the unwritten titles rarely questioned or disputed. Often these fields remained as the only real security that these betel nut chewing peasants could really rely upon.

Of course, the occasional dispute would arise as to just how much creepage had taken place when the padi fields were worked for it was relatively simple to enlarge ones area by widening the mud retaining walls over a few seasons. The gradual change to the miniature dam wall would go unnoticed as a few centimetres were added here and there until finally, after some years had passed, the plots size could differ in area considerably. If not kept in check, a farmer could conceivably lose land the size of a small suburban front yard over a period of ten or fifteen years.

Coconut groves separated these magnificent green fields from the roads. Flowers grew alongside the pathways and Hibiscus hedges were planted between the small thatched-roof dwellings. The rich volcanic soil provided food for all, including the slow-moving long-horned water buffalo. They were used to till the heavy black mud, producing a bed of fertile ground waiting to be seeded to commence the growing cycle once again. Clumps of banana trees grew in isolated spots throughout the sawah, giving shade for the farmers during the heat of the day. During the wet season, children would casually snap a large banana leaf away from its tree and use the branch as protection from the rainy squalls. To the villagers, the banana and coconut trees were symbolic of protection such as a roof may give, although one would be foolish to sit under the latter without first examining the position of the nuts. Young maidens, when courting, would often say to their lover, ‘ Please don’t use me like a banana leaf, to be thrown away casually when its use is no longer needed! ’ But often, even these life giving trees threaten man’s handiwork. Overhead telephone and power lines, hanging like huge strands of black spaghetti, were often caught up in the trees or tangled between the supporting poles, further exacerbating the already hopeless state of the power and telephone systems.

Traffic was normally light during the early mornings — not that country town congestion was of any great consequence. Most vehicles were registered to the government offices or military and, although fuel was merely five cents a gallon, mechanical transport was used only when really necessary. Kerosene was even more important, for this was the fuel of the nation. The peasants were dependent on this low grade product for some of their cooking and most of their lighting. Charcoal was, of course, more commonly used in the villages; however the townspeople were developing a preference for the new fuel in their more modern kitchens. The country in general did not appreciate that this essential item on the basic commodities list was heavily subsidized as was most fuel, by the government, although not to the same extent.

These, and other economic problems which continued to plague the Republic, were of little concern to the young students as they peddled their way to their respective schools. They cruised together, chatting, discussing what may have been considered banal nonsense to others but, to them, represented essential dialogue. Their lives were isolated from the faster moving city communities.

There was no television in the village. Some listened to radios, but the majority read their books, read them over and over again until the flimsy paper became so worn that pages often needed to be glued back into place as they were passed on down to younger students. There exuded a sense of pride of achievement as many of these children were the very first in their families to be educated to read and write. Illiterate parents were still obliged to stand before an official whenever a signature was required, and first place their thumbs on the purple pad used for such purposes, before affixing their print on whatever document demanded their identification.

The emphasis on education had, understandably, become a priority with both the cities and rural communities. Kampung Semawi was no different. In this village all of the children went to school. One of the families which struggled even more than the others to achieve this aim now had two of its older offspring well advanced along the educational highway. Both had achieved exemplary results and enjoyed a certain kudos within their small community.

Even the old nasty woman (some said she practised witchcraft!), her head tied in towelling, her lips and toothless mouth bright red from chewing betel nut, would no longer whack them belligerently as she had done when they first raced across the small muddy stretch in front of her shanty in the years before. These days she would giggle like some inebriated soul, squatting still as before, but kinder to the two students whose legs would now only attract a token, but still accurate, flick of the willow branch as they passed.

Bambang and Wanti both knew that the village folk were proud of their achievements. They realized also that in an agrarian state such as theirs, the opportunity for advancement beyond secondary school was practically impossible unless one’s family had the funds to pay for the university, or a scholarship provided the necessary access and ongoing financial support.

The column continued to grow as more and more students joined the throng. Several of the older male students moved into position on each side of Wanti. Popular at school with both the faculty and her class mates, Wanti personified the concept of beauty and intelligence. She was well motivated and never failed to achieve a leading position in her class. She was rarely outspoken. Wanti’s observers were all in agreement that, given the right opportunities, she would succeed easily in life, even without her obvious intelligence, as her soft beauty was apparent even before she had turned sixteen.

On this day she was being teased by two of her classmates for sitting together with an older boy at school.

“When are you getting married, ‘Ti ?” The cyclist on her left taunted, using the familiar abbreviated form of her name.

“Ya, ja, ‘Ti,” enjoined the other, “when’s the big day?”

Wanti eased her machine slowly to the left forcing the first lad to reduce his speed placing him then behind the much sought after girl. She feigned ignorance of what they referred to and just smiled, pleased that the school would no doubt be abuzz with gossip concerning her. The boy in question was Sutarmin, a close companion to her brother, Bambang, and he was as handsome as they came, or at least Wanti thought so. The taunting continued as the first boy regained his position, although he was now content just to ride alongside without any response from the girl. Both were happy just to be seen talking to her, accompanying the popular student to school. She had become conscious that recently the boys had begun paying more and more attention to her.

She flicked her head deliberately, causing her glossy hair to move across her back. She knew the effect this would have on her two admirers. Wanti ignored the two alongside as she continued towards the school. Her brother would have arrived already to prepare for those meetings he attended each day, she thought.

Bambang, although an excellent student, was far too outspoken and often hard-nosed about his own opinions. He had leadership qualities and had his own small following of young ladies who would just love to snare the ambitious young Javanese. At the end of that semester he would graduate. Bambang was severely disappointed that he would not be attending university. The resentment he felt was not just for himself but also for Wanti and the others in his disadvantaged family.

Tertiary education was only available to those with the finances or political affiliations which would see them through the arduous five and six-year courses. His family, not unlike most of the others from his class, were poor and, although he knew he should be grateful that he had been given the opportunity to reach as far as he had, Bambang still felt bitter that he was limited by what was effectively his caste. He had discussed this with his best friend, Sutarmin, on many occasions.

‘Min had the foresight to anticipate his own funding problems and the year before, despite Bambang’s heated objections, joined the Young Communist League, hoping that this would enhance his position when applying for one of the several scholarships the Party provided annually to students at their school.

‘Min had been lucky. He had been informed just the day before of his scholarship and upon learning this news he’d grabbed his best friend, lifting his well developed body off the ground, and whooped loudly with excitement.

Bambang was, of course, pleased for his close friend but unhappy with himself when he admitted that the slight pangs of jealousy were real, and not just anger at the system, as Sutarmin’s grades were well below his own. His friend had acknowledged the reaction and later that day decided that, although it was too late for Bambang it was not necessarily so for his sister. And so, without discussing the matter with his classmate, Sutarmin went in search of Wanti, finding her sitting with friends gossiping between classes.

As she cycled along she remembered with a wry smile that the meeting was not at all romantic as her girl friends had imagined. Wanti was extremely pleased to have a senior approach her and invite her to walk with him to discuss something, in private. Especially when her girl friends, without exception, thought that the handsome ‘Min was unapproachable considering the strong competition from the older ladies in year twelve.

Sutarmin sat her down near the teacher’s room under the loudspeakers which blasted forth each morning with what had become a very scratchy recording of the national anthem, Indonesia Raya .

He was still shaking with excitement.

“‘ Ti ,” Sutarmin commenced, “I have won the scholarship!”

Wanti’s eyes opened wide in disbelief.

“Bohong!” she responded, accusing him of gross exaggeration as she knew that only two scholarships were awarded at their school each year and that it would be impossible for him to receive such acknowledgment for his scholastic efforts as ‘Min was no academic giant.

“No, ‘Ti, I am not lying. I really did win the scholarship! ” he replied, laughing and taking both her hands in his and squeezing them with affection.

“How is this possible, ‘Min?” Wanti asked, not entirely convinced that it was true, her doubts giving way to laughter at the wonderful surprise.

“The League, Wanti, the League,” he answered hurriedly, his excitement bubbling.

Wanti’s reaction was mixed. Her excitement at Sutarmin’s good fortune was tempered by the mention of the Communist body responsible for his exuberance. Her mood changed quickly as the ramifications of what might now follow dawned on her and she sat, hands still clasped in his, looking into his eyes.

“I am happy for you ‘Min,” she said but in her heart she had doubts.

“Wanti ,” he whispered, “listen to me. Join the League now, and you too could have the same chance next year. With your excellent grades you would certainly be selected. ”

She slowly extracted her hands from his grasp, so as not to offend, then sat smiling at her naive friend. It was not necessary for her to respond, as both knew that what he suggested would be impossible. Her brother’s anti-League activities in the Student National Front would exclude her from selection. She would have little chance unless Bambang ceased his damaging activities on campus and even then it would be highly unlikely that the League would be that forgiving. Wanti smiled again and turned to see if her friends were still watching them together.

“I must go now, ‘Min .” She tried to sound bright. “I am really very happy for you. ” Smiling, she rose and waited for him to leave before returning to her girl friends, all of whom were now giggling together, anxious to discover what had taken place between the couple in private conversation. To their dismay she simply refused to be baited, electing to smile and leave the rest to their vivid adolescent imaginations.

That evening she had discussed Sutarmin’s scholarship with Bambang without mentioning that he had encouraged her to consider joining the League. She did not sleep that night and,unknown to her, neither did Bambang. Both deep in thought, their eyes wide awake as they considered their futures, imagining ‘what if? ’ and the extrapolations of these possibilities and their nebulous consequences.

When morning came neither spoke again of Sutarmin’s scholarship. Both realized the doors were permanently closed to them and it would be best to resign themselves to the fact that neither would ever see the inside of the famous university in Jogjakarta, the object of many a student’s dreams. Or at least, in their case, certainly not as undergraduates. Neither should have had such grand designs, they knew. They were farmers’ children and should therefore contain their ambitions. These serious yet despairing thoughts passed sluggishly through Wanti’s mind as she and her group finally arrived at the Sekolah Menengah Atas , her high school.

The red dust was their only welcome as they pushed their bicycles into the grounds. There were no gates. There was nothing to steal here. The class rooms were inadequate and the demand for learning was so great that classes were organized on a shift basis so that two full sessions could be run each day. Unfortunately, the same poorly paid teachers were obliged to cover both the morning and the afternoon classes.

Bambang had mixed emotions when the reports first spread through the school. He, like many of his contemporaries had become instantly excited while many of the other students were just a little frightened and confused. They had gathered together to listen to the Voice of America on the short-wave band, quite in violation of the government’s ruling regarding foreign broadcasts, when news broke internationally for the first time.

Often the youngsters would use the village head’s old cabinet set to listen to the overseas broadcasts. Its valves were always running hot, threatening to destroy the entire apparatus. Foreign pop music was just not available anywhere at that time and the boys (girls were banned from participating as they could never keep a secret) prided themselves on being able to recite the words to such fabulous songs as the Beatles A Hard Day’s Night. They all, without exception, adored the wonderful music. Life was dull in the village and these clandestine gatherings added untold excitement to their young lives. The lurah would leave the boys alone in the care of his son Sutarmin, as he disliked the strange sounds and could not understand what the young men saw in the racket which blasted from his Grundig with its thirty centimetre speakers.

The old Bedford truck and this radio were the prized possessions of the village head — even he couldn’t remember how both these antiquated items originally turned up in their village. Not that it really mattered. These items were his, a warisan, left to him by his father and no one in the kampung questioned their origins nor their use. The villagers would always know when the headman was returning from an outing as, during the dry season clouds of red volcanic dust would trail behind his noisy truck, distinguishing it from the government machines of Soviet manufacture.

When the old man drove down the four kilometres to the sealed highway he would load the truck with children, their parents, and their produce, and a large number of caged chickens for sale at the roadside markets. He was a good man. A simple man. But he was not a Communist.

There was a small foot track from their kampung which cut the distance by half to the main road and the outside world. The children took this path when walking as all they had to do was step carefully along the hardened tops of the mud-caked walls separating the paddy fields and, within the hour, they could reach the small market. When the heat was intense, just before the storms which heralded the beginning of the ‘Wet’, the old man would stop and load the school children, some with their bicycles, up into the remaining space after his trip into town. He knew they would be near to exhaustion, hot and in despair climbing the last few hundred metres over the small knoll and down to their hidden corner of the world. He loved all of the village children and certainly didn’t object to their using his wireless.

On this day, as he brought the Bedford to a halt he could see a large number of them, more than usual, crowded outside his hut. Immediately concerned, he approached and heard the intermittent foreign voice fluctuating across the air waves. The radio squawked sending out a signal piercing the young listeners’ ears.

They sat silently trying to comprehend the words as the broadcast continued. Only Bambang and Sutarmin, due to their constant use of the radio, were capable of understanding the general gist of the commentator’s message. One of their group, frustrated with not understanding the broadcast reached across and moved the large tuning dial throwing the program into another frequency, which happened to be broadcasting music, the oscillating sound waves providing a much distorted Jerry Lee Lewis singing Shake, Baby Shake.

The smaller children laughed. Bambang whacked the errant member and quickly re-established the correct frequency. They all sat huddled together, transfixed, as Sutarmin interpreted what he understood from the foreign broadcast. And long after the news was over they continued to sit there in silence, dumbfounded, as Bambang, reality slowly sinking in, glared angrily at his close friend.

The report they had just heard was not specific with detail but the message was very clear. The Indonesian Communist Party had made its move. They were taking over the country’s leadership.

Bambang, unlike his sister Wanti, was regularly involved in political rallies so he was used to political disturbances. Was it not correct for students to do so, to lead the uninformed village people through to better lives, to attempt to achieve a standard of living that was all but an impossible dream to his nenek mojang, his forefathers, under colonial rule?

Ah, the Dutch! Bambang would sit for hours listening to his parents rhetoric recounting the Revolusi . Heroic tales of untrained soldiers armed only with bamboo spears fighting the Dutch Army stabbed his heart until he, in chorus with the other children would cry out in unison ‘Merdeka !’ ‘Freedom!’ each time the story gave an opportunity for their participation. Their dislike of the Dutch turned quickly to hate as each tale they heard depicted the horrors and cruelty of the War of Independence, which raged from 1945 until early 1949, and there would be tears on the cheeks of all when they listened to the sad tales of incarceration suffered by Bung Karno, their leader.

Bambang was the only male child and consequently cherished dearly by all. Often in trouble, but always forgiven, Bambang managed to survive his mischievous childhood ways, becoming serious with his studies as he entered senior high school. He developed into a handsome young man. Diligent at school, he was regularly selected to accompany the gurus when they attended political meetings. Almost without exception they participated in the President’s guided democracy policy of NASAKOM - Nationalism, Socialism and Communism.

Wanti was determined to succeed. If nothing else, at least she would be able to escape the potential trap of being obliged to marry while still very young, bearing a multitude of children and remaining in an almost destitute state for the rest of her life.

Although the eldest of the children, she had started school behind her brother. Wanti had no desire to participate in the political groups. Chided by her brother, she would feign interest; however her ambitions lay elsewhere. Wanti’s aim was to finish high school and hopefully study a part-time course at a secretarial college. As in most village families, money was almost never seen in their household.

The postwar economy was sluggish due to lack of investment and corruption. Wanti realized early in life that to survive she would need to leave the village and find employment in Solo — perhaps in a Batik factory or even in the government service. To achieve this end she would require high grades at school and some political influence in order to be accepted. Competition was enormous on this small island as the population grew dangerously close to sixty million. Her classic face and figure would not burden her and being of Javanese descent was a distinct advantage.

Wanti placed her bicycle in line with the hundreds of others and moved slowly towards the main school building. That day her first lessons were history and geography. She was pleased with this as Wanti enjoyed the opportunity to daydream of other places and other people. The bell had already been rung loudly, calling the children to their classrooms and she had followed, talking to others as they entered the overcrowded halls.

She had been uneasy during the morning class when rumours spread throughout the school of massive political unrest in the capital, Jakarta. The school was abuzz with excitement. None of the students understood what it all meant to them. Jakarta seemed a far away place, one that only a very few from their village would ever have the opportunity to visit. The previous evening they had listened, mesmerized by the charismatic idol, President Soekarno, as he harangued the masses packed into Freedom Square. Tears were evident — tears of pride and in some instances, fear, as their Great Leader of the Revolution, President for Life, screamed “Revolusi kita belum selesai !” Our Revolution is not yet finished! just moments before collapsing on the rostrum witnessed by hundreds of thousands of his faithful followers.

What happened next is history. An extraordinary and significant series of events changed the nation’s course and resulted in the deaths of some half a million souls. The children had no idea at the time that they had witnessed the beginning of a very dangerous era which would scar their lives forever. Few would ever forget the events that followed.

Wanti wondered what these rumours would mean to them and their family if the reports were true. She went in search of her brother for reassurance. He would know, she thought, just how serious the rumours were. After all, was not Bambang a popular political activist himself? She hurried through the maze of corridors until finding her brother in the headmaster’s office grouped with his classmates and teachers listening to Radio Republik Indonesia’s broadcast. They were all very quiet, their eyes glued to the speaker fixed to the wall above the President’s photograph. A solemn voice made the announcement over and over as throughout the country the people listened in shock.

The President had fallen ill, they heard, and might even be dead! Acting swiftly, Communist elements had initiated action to take control of the country. The capital was in turmoil. There were riots. Armed groups had taken control of the communication centres. A coup d’etat!

There was an abrupt, crackling interruption, then the broadcast ceased. The students sat in silence, stunned. Fear gripped them all, immediately. Even this far from the city there would be trouble.

Familiar with political violence, the teachers urged the students to flee the school for the security of their homes. The younger children were ushered out bewildered by the urgency, and soon the whole school was deserted. The inherent ability of the Chinese shopkeepers to identify danger was signalled by the closed and boarded shops. Within minutes, the Chinese had retreated into their houses fearful of retaliation. For whatever historic reason their race always suffered the brunt whenever violence erupted. The simple fact that they were Chinese was usually sufficient to warrant the wrath of rioters and looters.

People everywhere returned to their homes and waited for the unknown to happen, as they knew it would. Electricity was immediately cut off to the villages and, by nightfall, an uneasy quiet descended upon the kampungs everywhere, throughout the nation.

The terror had begun.

In the weeks that followed, life developed a limbo quality for the people of Indonesia. Gangs from the cities gathered to avenge the savage deaths of their country’s generals, whose bodies had been grossly mutilated. The Communists were held responsible and so too were the Chinese. None were safe to leave their homes and many were butchered without any comprehension of what their misdeeds may have been. Many groups led by students formed vigilante squads to burn out the Chinese and Communist sympathizers. Totally misguided, these groups, often supported by the military, murdered hundred of thousands of simple farmers whose only wrong was often a matter of simply being related to or merely being acquainted with a Communist follower.

General Sarwo Eddie was misquoted, or misunderstood, when he reportedly stated that the Communists should be driven from the land and their roots torn from the ground and destroyed. Tens of thousands of innocent young children were then slaughtered.

Wanti heard stories of entire villages being razed to the ground and that tens of thousands of innocent young children had been slaughtered. She realized too that Sutarmin’s membership in the League and his recent scholarship would just about guarantee him a death sentence unless he could hide. What originally he had thought would be a blessing now amounted to a deadly threat to his life and family. Maybe even the village also, she thought desperately. The country had gone crazy.

Two agonizing weeks passed. Bambang and Wanti were instructed by their parents to visit the neighbouring kampung . Word had reached their village that rice stocks had been plundered by marauding gangs, creating shortages throughout the countryside. Without delay, the two eldest children were dispatched to bring their grandparents to safety.

They left quickly and quietly followed the small paths which zig-zagged between the paddy fields and through small streams until Bambang decided to rest close to a tall stand of thick bamboo trees. Neither spoke for fear of being overheard and shortly thereafter they continued with their journey. They were hot and thirsty but knew not to drink from the small streams.

Wanti couldn’t understand why she felt so tired. Distressed at having to leave the safety of their village they plodded on, each with thoughts they wished would leave their taunted minds alone.

It had never seemed this far before, they thought to themselves. Why is it taking so long to arrive? Were they being watched and would they be safe? They were tormented by fear with every step away from the safety of their own village.

Suddenly Bambang stopped, and Wanti almost slipped down the wet slope to avoid stepping on his heels. She stifled a small cry. Her brother was frozen in his tracks. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out.

Lying across the well worn path, half hidden in the grass was an outstretched arm facing upwards, fist clenched. “Wanti, stop there, ” he hissed.

“What is it Bambang?” she called but her brother merely waved his hand urgently, ordering her to remain still. Slowly he bent down and with both hands cautiously pushed the long grass aside which covered the body. He gasped as his gaze fell on the headless corpse and he released the grass, quickly jumping to his feet, bumping heavily into Wanti.

“What is it?” she shrieked, her view of the body remained blocked by her brother and the tall grass.

“Someone’s had an accident,” he lied, turning and grabbing her hand, moving quickly away.

Wanti closed her eyes as she was dragged past the grotesque scene, only opening them again as she almost fell on the slippery path. Alarmed, they hurried towards their destination. Three kilo-metres from their first gruesome discovery they came upon worse horrors. Stacked on the side of their path were more bodies. Some had been young men.

All had been hacked to death with parangs .

The quiet terror of death caused Wanti to cry out. They broke into a run, fearful of being caught up in the nightmare of butchery. They slipped as they ran, now urged on by the possibility that they too would be slaughtered, running faster and faster until they fell in total exhaustion together down the slippery slopes into a small deep stream besides a field of near mature corn.

“Bambang. Save me, Oh Tuhan save me!” Wanti screamed as she struggled to claw her way out of the wet muddy bog. She continued to scream while Bambang unsuccessfully attempted to calm her racking sobs of fear.

“Djangan panik, Wanti! Don’t panic! It will be all right. Our grandpar

ents’ village is close by. Be calm, please Wanti, be calm. ” Bambang whispered urgently. He was terrified that they may be heard by violent marauders roaming nearby.

They sat wet, dirty, cold and afraid on the edge of the ladang . Bambang held his sister close, whispering soothing words of comfort while his own insides churned with fear. Hours passed and, after what felt like a lifetime, evening fell. But the darkness brought little comfort as Bambang could see the sky ablaze with night fires. He understood the terrible danger they were in. To proceed to the next village would invite certain disaster. To return home would be as dangerous as it was now apparent that the gangs had reached out as far as even the most isolated kampungs .

Bambang explained to Wanti that he had decided they should stay where they were until morning. Wanti cried, urging Bambang to take her home, but he refused.

“We’ll sleep here until morning and then the killers should be gone ,” he told her.

“I don’t want to go on Mas, please don’t make me go! ” she cried.

Bambang thought for awhile. “Tomorrow we will return home, ” he promised.

“Then we don’t have to go to Nenek’s village? ”

“No ,” he answered, “we’ll go straight home .”

She whimpered, trying to choke back the tears, petrified that her sobs would give their position away to the killers out there in the darkness. Exhausted, finally, she fell asleep in her brother’s arms until awakened by the sticky damp surrounds and discomfort of the Indonesian outdoors.

The two children stood exhausted, staring with disbelief at the carnage. Bodies lay twisted grotesquely wherever their murderers had cut them down, their life’s blood making curious patterns around their mutilated corpses.

Bambang vomited out of control, his stomach heaving long after it had emptied itself. Wanti had stood in shock, motionless, the full impact shutting down her mind to assist her to cope with the death that lay before her.

Her three sisters lay sprawled in the garden. Beheaded. Her parents had been hacked into pieces now almost unrecognizable as once being human bodies. As she turned, the carnage continued to be evident. Bodies. Everywhere bodies. Over there an infant no more than a few months. What was her name, Elly? Or was it Atun? No, it was not Atun for Wanti could see Elly’s body at the base of the brick wall against which she had been thrown. Death had snatched her from the hands of those twisted minds which had slaughtered over three hundred of her fellow villagers in this small kampung.

Their world had been destroyed.

Hours passed. Bambang led Wanti into the forest taking whatever food and clothing he could carry. His fear had now been replaced by hate and anger. His first concern was to secure a safe camp until the madness had ended.

As night fell they hid in the alang-alang, the long grass offering temporary refuge. They remained there, arms locked together in dread of being discovered until finally, exhaustion overcame fear and they slept.

A bird screeched loudly close by. Bambang awoke, startled. He turned his head slowly observing Wanti. His sister remained undisturbed, almost as if she had ceased breathing, her body was so still. He looked closer, panic rising in his chest. ‘ Oh Tuhan,’ he thought, ‘what if she is dead?’ He raised his right hand to her neck to see if she was still warm. His face twisted in horror as he recognized the disgusting slimy body of the lintah darah, the leech, attached to his hand. He jumped to his feet examining the rest of his body.

It was worse than he had feared! The bloodsucking worms covered his body. He moaned and writhed pulling at the disgusting creatures undressing as he wailed. Then he remembered his sister!

“Wanti! Wanti! Bangun, wake up, quickly!” he screamed.

Wanti jumped to her brother’s command, instantly overcome with fear, expecting to see the killers approaching. Seconds passed before she was sufficiently conscious to identify the reason for her brother’s panic. She screamed.

“Aduh! aduh !” she wailed pulling at the leeches stuck to her arms.

Hurriedly, they had both stripped, pulling, brushing, occasionally assisting each other until their bodies were free of the terrible sticky animals. They inspected their bodies thoroughly and discovered that there were ticks as well, full now from their bloody diet. They slowly checked again. Their mother had told them that once a tick had entered the body, certain death would follow. Bambang vowed to sleep away from the damp ground in future. Later, he could not coax his sister into bathing in the small kali , which flowed nearby, for fear of the slimy creatures.

They stayed in the jungle for several days on the assumption and with the hope that the marauding gangs would have left their district, having already destroyed all of the local kampung settlements. Their village was one of perhaps twenty in the area spanning a radius of some ten kilometres. Wanti wanted to remain hidden a little longer but Bambang had convinced her that they must seek help from the army detachment billeted at Kampung Kawi just twenty kilometres to the north.

Wanti had reluctantly agreed, insisting that they cut through the mountain forest to avoid running into the gangs. Her brother felt certain that the murderers would have moved in a direction away from the Army, not wanting to engage a well armed force.

He discovered his error the following day when they almost stumbled into their camp. His fear was so great, Bambang felt his bowels begin to betray him again. He turned, grabbing his sister, and fled, not once looking back to see if they had been detected. They ran for what seemed to be an eternity, oblivious to the direction their legs carried them. They rested. Wanti complained that her feet were tired and sore so Bambang agreed to rest there through the rest of that day. They were hungry, and nearing exhaustion but still they couldn’t sleep for fear of being discovered.

Bambang was not to know that this was not just one short spell of terror. Throughout the Archipelago, villages were raided and old scores were settled — the spark which ignited the countryside flared from home to home, village to village, town to town, and island to island until the number of dead blocked waterways and roads, corpses floating far out to sea where passing ships witnessed the bloated bodies by the thousands.

Muslims killed Chinese; Balinese killed Javanese; Sumatrans killed each other; and so the madness continued until one strong man emerged to take the country’s helm and correct the savage course it had taken.

The new leader, an unknown, acted quickly and managed to restore order. As the country’s leadership had been all but eliminated, General Soeharto assumed full control. He placed President Soekarno under virtual house arrest where he would remain for five years until his death, a hero in disgrace with few remaining followers.

Bambang and Wanti survived the holocaust physically, but spiritually they became just empty shells. They passed from kampung to kampung begging for food, working when they could until they arrived in Jakarta, destitute. Without identification and, more importantly, a letter certifying their good conduct and noninvolvement in the abortive coup it was legally impossible to obtain employment. They found shelter on the outskirts of the city amidst thousands of other refugees who were camped along the canals, their homes also destroyed, many having suffered a similar fate to that of the young brother and sister from Kampung Semawi. Within months, their numbers increased until an outbreak of cholera convinced Bambang to risk entering the Capital in search of safety from the disease and constant violence now evident in the growing shanty town.

Slowly they made their way through the outlying areas of Ragunan and Kemang, along the unsurfaced roads until finally they spent the night resting amongst the old tombs in the Pattimura graveyard. The following day they were chased by passing police but managed to escape. Bambang took his sister down to an area behind the Asian Games complex where many thousands were also camped, sleeping at night under the derelict military vehicles that had been unceremoniously dumped there when spare parts had become unavailable. There were many soldiers camped inside the sporting complex and, as Bambang spent time around their billet, some of the younger Javanese soldiers befriended the pair, offering them an occasional meal of rice and vegetables.

As they became more familiar with their surroundings and less intimidated by the size of the city Bambang and Wanti learned to survive. As did another half a million itinerants who had flocked to the capital for safety. Many did not find the security they had hoped for as troops had inundated the city, bullying the terrified inhabitants.

Time passed slowly as the city moved to recover from the terrifying year of civil war and its aftermath bringing an air of hope to those who had survived the slaughter, starvation and disease. A new government was installed. The years of undeclared war with the Federation of Malaysia and Singapore known only to the Indonesians as ‘ Konfrontasi ’ was declared over and quickly forgotten. The capital’s inhabitants breathed a sigh of relief as the Military gradually moved its tanks from the centre of the city to the outskirts and regular police commenced patrolling the suburbs in an effort to reduce crime. Law and order appeared to be restored. The New Order was now completely ensconced and the Chinese reopened their shops.

Life had returned to normal in Indonesia.