to move into the Red Village, a commune on the outskirts of Peking where members of several Indonesian social organizations who had also been stranded in Peking were practicing dong bei fang, which can be literally translated as “Facing the Eastern Sea.” Among the Indonesian exiles were other journalists, writers, teachers, and a number of Communist Party cadres. Through instruction in how to work together in a collective manner, we came to understand the kind of communal system the Chinese government sought to promote: a highly structured agricultural system where the members of the commune were obliged to turn over to the state a certain portion of what they produced. In observing this way of life, I became increasingly certain that Marxist theory, which I had once admired, had little more than theory to its credit. I longed to engage in a discussion about this with Mas Hananto—but he was now being hunted precisely because of this ideology and his belief in it.
The name of the village in which we lived was one that stood out for me. As this was the time of the Cultural Revolution, the word “red” in Chinese stood for “happiness” or “revolution.” But as it was there, in the Red Village, that we Indonesians learned of what was happening at home, the word “red” for us symbolized the color of rivers in Java and elsewhere which were clogged with corpses.
So many deaths, whose number grew from hundreds to thousands and on up to a million or more. While some people were “only” interrogated, intimidated, or tortured, many more were killed straightaway—on roadways, in the forest, on river banks, and at the edge of ravines. We heard that in Solo, around the time of the September 30 Movement, some Communist Party members or sympathizers had killed a number of non-Communist youth activists and thrown their bodies into the Solo River. In East Java, the same thing had also happened, with the victims’ bodies thrown into the Brantas River. So what happened was that after September 30, the region’s strongly anti-communist military, paramilitary, and religious groups reclaimed the Solo River and turned it into their dumping grounds. According to the information that made its way among the Indonesian residents of the Red Village—news conveyed in whispers and hushed voices—so many corpses had been dumped into it that at bends in the river, where the corpses accumulated, one could walk atop the bodies from one bank to another. After hearing this news, and for weeks on end, the distance between the Red Village and Solo suddenly evaporated, and I could smell in the air the putrid scent of decomposing bodies.
When this mood came upon me, I grew furious, no longer caring about any threat to myself. Almost hysterical, I sent off a cable begging Aji to move Mother to Jakarta. I don’t know why, but I felt Mother would be safer in Jakarta.
During our fourth week in the Red Village, friends in Peking brought word to Risjaf that most of our colleagues at Nusantara News had been detained. Miraculously, Mas Hananto was not among them. Somehow, he had managed to vanish without a trace.
“Probably disguised himself,” Risjaf quipped in a low and mysterious-sounding voice.
“What as? A beggar?” I scoffed.
Mas Nugroho spoke firmly, optimistically: “Hananto can be slippery. I can see him being able to go most anywhere, without people catching his trail.”
“I’m sure he’s in disguise,” Risjaf repeated.
I didn’t have the will to rebut Risjaf’s foolish notion. In the dark and depressing atmosphere of the Red Village, the only thing we had to bolster strength in one another was a sliver of hope and a gram of energy.
Mas Nug received news from his mother that Rukmini and Bimo had gone into hiding in Yogya a few weeks previously. He sent back the suggestion that they move back to Jakarta to live with his brother.
We received the welcome news that Tjai and his family had made it safely to Singapore. Although Tjai was the most apolitical person among us, he had two strikes against him: he was of Chinese descent and he worked at the Nusantara News office. Because of this, in the current conditions—even though he was not a senior staff member—the odds were not in his favor. Fortunately for Tjai, he had an uncle in Singapore where he and his family were able to find refuge.
There was always a two- or three-week lag in the news we received—sometimes even a month or more. In early April 1966, for instance, we received news dating from early March that was difficult to believe. On March 11, we were told, three army generals had gone to see President Sukarno at the presidential palace in Bogor, where he had taken refuge from demonstrations in Jakarta. There they asked him to sign a statement known as “Super Semar,” an acronym for “The March 11 Letter of Command.” The effect of this command was to transfer the power of the executive office to army commander Lieutenant-General Soeharto. That same letter authorized Soeharto to take whatever measures “he deemed necessary” to restore order to the nation. It was hard to get my head around what was happening in Indonesia. How was it possible for a cabinet meeting that Bung Karno was leading to be interrupted by a demonstration and why had our “Great Leader of the Revolution” felt forced to flee to safety in Bogor? What kind of pressure had those three army generals exerted to make the president sign such an important document, one with repercussions of such great magnitude for the fate of the nation? That day, that event, determined the course of all things to come. I was beginning to grow extremely tired of the political circus taking place at home.
After three years of life in Peking and having to constantly raise our fists in praise of Mao Tse Tung and calling out “Long Live Chairman Mao!” all the while studying agricultural production in a number of villages, I was fed up with the absolutism of the Cultural Revolution being crammed down the throats of the Chinese people. I was sure that Mas Nugroho, despite his unflagging optimism, and Risjaf, with his deep found sense of loyalty, felt the same kind of unease.
One night, after many nights of sleeplessness in the guest house where I was living in the Red Village, I finally came to a decision. I lit a match and began to rouse Risjaf, who was asleep on the upper bunk of the bunk bed we occupied. I patted him softly on the cheek so as not to startle him.
“Sjaf … Sjaf … Wake up, Sjaf…”
Risjaf moaned and rubbed his eyes, then sat up. “What time is it?”
“It’s still dark outside. I want to go to Paris, Sjaf.”
“Where?” he asked, his eyes still shut, in a voice as hoarse as a crow’s.
“Paris, I want to go to Paris. Tjai has already said that he’d be willing to move to Paris or Amsterdam. We could meet him there.”
Risjaf looked unsure as to whether he was dreaming or awake. He probably thought I was just the bedpost talking to him in his dreams. He mumbled “OK,” then shut his eyes and lay down again, ready to go to sleep again.
I said nothing and started to count from one to ten as I waited for Risjaf to reach a normal level of consciousness. It worked. On the count of five, he swiftly rose and sat up again. His curly hair was a mess, his eyes red and open wide.
“Paris? As in Europe?” he shouted, still with a hoarse voice.
I put my hand over Risjaf’s mouth, afraid that he would wake up other members of the commune.
His eyes shone brightly, a mixture of glee and fear. “But how?” he asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure something out. Tomorrow we can talk to Mas Nug about this. Tjai is ready to join us—but coming from Singapore that won’t be hard. Getting out of here, however, I’m sure will mean lots of hoops to jump through and bureaucratic rigmarole.”
Once
