first published as "Seusai Revolusi" in Kenedi Nurhan (ed.), Dua Tengkorak Kepala: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 2000, Jakarta: Penerbit Harian Kompas, 2000, pp.73-81.
He had always intended to return home and visit his aging mother after he had finished traveling throughout the world. Over the past two months he had read on the Internet and in newspapers, and seen on television that the situation in his country was improving. A colleague had written him an email telling him that it was safe enough for him to go back to his kampung without being harassed by anyone.’
But things were much better than simply ‘on the improve’ or ‘safe enough’. When he got off the plane, he and other passengers were greeted by something which was truly amazing: the customs official were polite and courteous. They didn’t seem at all to be looking for anything illegal. At the arrival gate there weren’t any dodgy taxi drivers looking for customers. The registered taxis and airport buses formed neat queues in front of the terminal.
The capital city’s streets were clean and the environment was green and shady. Traffic flowed freely. At intersections there weren’t any hawkers, buskers, let alone beggars. There weren’t any scalpers at the bus terminal. People formed queues in front of the ticket counters.
It was impossible for Hendaru to imagine how his country which had been racked for decades by injustice, barbarianism and the perils of a dictatorship which had collapsed into a state of lawlessness, demonstrations, rioting and civil war, could finally become a calm, peaceful and safe place to live in.
Now, since the fall of the ‘order of impression’ led by President Amangkurat, life had improved dramatically. The Supreme Court had held a general election which the UN considered to be highly credible. The new president – Prof. Dr. Gunadarma, B.Law, B.Econ., M.Sc – had formed a trustworthy government. The rule of law was the founding principle of their policies and they were carried out consistently, without deviation.
***
‘Where do you want to get off, mas?’ Hendaru was startled out of his daydreaming. Only now did he realise that he was the last passenger on the mini-bus.
‘At the next intersection. The one with the road to Sekartji.’
‘You want to visit your mother?’
‘Huh? How do you know?’
‘I saw the television news yesterday afternoon. It said that you were going straight home to have a rest.’
‘Oh...’
‘To be honest, I’m really proud that you’re taking my mini-bus.’
‘Who do you think I am?’
‘Everybody in the village knows that you were the fiercest leader of the revolution. I always followed the stories about the demonstrations which you led. In the past, I didn’t believe that posters could bring down such a powerful government. But now, I know that they can. I’m truly in awe of you, Mas Hendaru.’
‘But, my struggle wouldn’t mean anything were it not for the support from so many different sections of society.’
‘Absolutely, mas, absolutely. Do you want to get out here?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Hendaru took out some money to pay the bus driver. But the driver wouldn’t accept it.
‘Don’t worry about it, mas. It’s on me.’
‘Just accept it, pak. I’m just like anyone else. I still have to pay.’
‘It’s me who should have to pay you, Mas Hendaru.’
‘What for?’
‘Thanks to your struggle, my daily costs have plummeted. The price of petrol has gown done, spare parts are cheap, and credit interest is low. It was even easy to get the credit in the first place. I actually own this vehicle. I bought it with credit from the Village Credit Bank.’
‘We should be thankful that things are cheap. But I still have the obligation to pay for this service. You don’t need to refuse it, pak.’
After a rather long time arguing the driver finally accepted Hendaru’s payment. But before he put the money into his pocket, the driver was a little confused. ‘I’m sorry, mas, but what kind of money is this?’
‘Ooops. Sorry. That’s an American dollar.’
***
Hendaru’s mother greeted him with eyes and cheeks soaked with tears of happiness. Initially she hadn’t believed it when her neighbours had said that he was coming home, what’s more when they said they knew from the television news.
‘So, is it true that you’ve become an important person?’
‘Ah. That’s just what other people have said, mum.’
‘But is it true, you’ve been throughout the world and have even been to the States?’
‘Well, I haven’t been throughout the whole world, but, yeah, I was in the States for a little while.’
‘What type of work do you do?’
Suddenly, Hendaru found it difficult to answer this question. He didn’t want to say ‘activist’ as then she’d say, ‘what’s an activist?’ He also didn’t want to say, ‘a pro-democracy fighter’, because he didn’t know how to explain democracy to his mother. So, after thinking for a short while he finally answered, ‘my job is like Pakde Tarmiji’s.’
‘Oh…so, you’re an adviser?’
‘Yeah, something like that. The difference is that Pakde Tarmiji gives advice to people in the village about farming, while I give information about our country to people overseas.’
‘Oh. Thank God. So this means that you’re a government official?’
‘Not yet, mum. I mean, no. I’m still a student.’
‘Huh? You mean you haven’t even graduated yet?’
***
While resting in his peaceful home village, Hendaru’s body began to ache. His leg which had been broken with a rifle butt began to hurt once more. Previously he had been able to ease the pain by using several kinds of cream. His kidneys which had been kicked while he was kidnapped were also sore. He also realized that his lungs hadn’t fully recovered from breathing in the foul air while imprisoned for months in solitary confinement at the Kampung Manggis jail.
He was forced to undergo a month-long treatment at the local hospital. But he finally had to say goodbye to his mother and return to the capital city. There, he would return to his movement’s headquarters, which he missed dearly.
But now, when he returned to the headquarters, it seemed so quiet. There weren’t dozens of cars and motorcycles parked in the front yard anymore. There was no longer a great uproar when politicians on television made statements supporting Amangkurat. There weren’t any packets of rice and vegetables prepared to be taken to other pro-democracy base camps.
Nonetheless, Maruli was still there. He was the youngest, most militant and most loyal member of the group. He was sleeping on a bench in a room at the back of the rented house which was used as their base. In the past, he was a bright student with broad knowledge. But unfortunately, an anti-riot policeman had shot a rubber bullet which lodged in his head causing his brain to bleed and damage his nerve system. His emotional condition was unstable and sometimes he acted as if he were a primary school kid.
Maruli was surprised to wake up and see Hendaru standing before him.
‘Ah! How long have you been away? Everybody has already left. I’m the only one still here. I live and work for this office and for our struggle!’
‘What about living costs?’
‘Our friends still give me money every month. How about yourself?’
Hendaru suddenly realized that he also needed to survive, to eat and to drink just like everyone else. His savings were quickly running out. The problem was: what work could he find?
He turned on the computer and checked the movement’s financial report. Only a little more than five million remained. The last injection of funds had come from the Benz Foundation four months ago. Most of these funds were used for supporting the long march of 2,000 students from the capital city to ‘celebrate freedom’ in front of the Supreme Court. Even though they hadn’t received any more funds, they had still been able to pay for electricity, the telephone, and water.
Hendaru then telephoned some of his activist friends. However, he could only get in touch directly with a few of them. And of those whom he spoke with, there were even fewer whom could make time to see him. One of them was Bagaskoro – the former movement’s secretary, who was now the youngest governmental minister, holding a key position in the Department of Commerce and Trade.
***
As soon as Hendaru his office, Bagaskoro opened his arms to give Hendaru a big hug. He then said loudly: ‘Long live the hero of our Revolution! Hendaru Jatisulistyo!’
Then, after exchanging news about their lives and reflecting on the past, Hendaru started to talk about his future. Then, Bagaskoro became quiet for several moments. He spoke softly and cautiously:
‘Actually, Hendaru, I want to help you out by giving you a project. But it is impossible for me to do so. As you know, the government has recently passed the Anti-Nepotism and Anti-Cronyism Laws, as a result of our demands made during our demonstrations against the Amangkurat regime. If I help you now, it means that I could be found guilty. And if I did so, it would also mean that I would be betraying the ideals of our struggle.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I understand. I actually didn’t intend to ask you for a project. I just wanted some ideas.’
Hendaru left and went to meet some other friends, including one who was the director of a large company. But, he only heard the same answer.
‘As a friend, I want to make you one of the directors of this company. But it is impossible for me to do so as I don’t want to besmirch the spirit of anti-nepotism and anti-cronyism which now colours all aspects of life in this country. Outside this office there are dozens of graduates of great capability waiting for me to reply to their applications. Should I accept you – someone who hasn’t even finished his studies – just because you are my friend? Isn’t this just what we hated most about the Amangkurat regime? Isn’t this just what we fought against in the past?’
***
Days and months passed. Hendaru and Maruli tried to find a way to earn some money. They sent their writings to the media, but most were returned, as they were not considered ‘appropriate for the post-revolutionary era’. They even used the machine which had once been used for making political posters to make advertisements.
They managed to survive, but they longed to make great speeches in front of the masses. Maruli, who once diligently watched the television news and read newspapers grew increasingly bored. The stories were all so ‘good’, ‘circumscribed’ and ‘constitutional’. It was just like during the Amangkurat era. There was no dynamism, no tension, everything was cold and emotionless.
Until one night, when it was almost midnight, Maruli began to shout as if possessed by the devil: ‘Bang! Bang! Wake up! Bang!’
Hendaru woke up and said cautiously, ‘what’s up?’
‘Bang, a female worker has been killed in the grounds of a factory! I just saw it on the news. This is a huge story, bang. This is going to make the international news – because, it happened now – under a supposedly democratic government. This is a threat. A single drop of poison can infect a whole river. Our struggle has been in vain because of this event. The remnants of violence still remain from the Amangkurat regime. We’ve got to do something, bang! We’ve got to hold some demonstrations! I’ll contact my friends in the workers’ movement and make a new proposal so that we can look for some funding. All we’ve got to do is change the name of the victim. Our budget can be as big as it was in the past. What’s more, with the exchange rate as it is, we’ll have heaps of rupiah. We’ll be able to contact this house for at least another year. We can pay for the outstanding telephone, electricity and water bills..’
Hendaru got up and lifted the telephone receiver. He started to call a few of his contacts. Then, afterwards, he lay down, yawned and closed his eyes.
‘You’re talking crap, Maruli. The worker died because she fell into a drain when the factory grounds were flooded. She wasn’t killed because she was demanding a higher salary!’
Jakarta, 15 April, 1999
Trans. A.C.S.Fuller, Setia Budi, 31 October, 2005
