in Indonesian politics, I didn’t know who was Rahwana and who was Rama. What I did know was that Mas Hananto didn’t quite know what to make of my views; they weren’t straight forward like his. And, frankly, if I were going to be called by the name of any character from the legendary Javanese pantheon, it probably would be Bima, who, among the five Pandawa brothers, was the one with the softest heart. Even though Bima fell head over heels in love with Drupadi, when his older brother Arjuna made known his desire to have her, Bima willing stepped aside. Oh, and by the way, this reference to Bima has no relation to past Indonesian politics, but everything to do with my former love life.
Mas Hananto knew that the way to deal with me was not through a battle of wills or disputation of my tastes. He knew I had little regard for the novels that he praised for their defense of the masses. I once rebuked him by asking if it wasn’t the case that we were supposed to be defending all of humanity, not just the proletariat. Why couldn’t we inculcate the concept of embracing the humanity that is found in all of us? Mas Hananto guffawed at my comment. But, unlike Mas Nugroho, whose hackles would rise because of my argumentative manner, Mas Hananto seemed to take on the role of a patient older brother trying to educate his whining younger sibling. That was why, even with the demarcation line running through the office, dividing friends and foes of the Communist Party, I seemed to reside in a kind of Swiss neutral zone, and was able to move from one side to another and to engage with Bang Amir and his friends.
I called Amir “Bang,” a term of address that derives from abang or “older brother,” because he was indeed like an older brother for me. Also a journalist at the Nusantara News, Bang Amir was highly critical of “Bung” or “Comrade” Sukarno, judging the president guilty of too closely embracing the Communist Party leadership and also of having imprisoned Mohammad Natsir, the former prime minister and one of the country’s top religious leaders, on charges of treason.
What with the constant wrangling between the two camps in the office and especially because the editor-in-chief had allied himself with Mas Hananto and Mas Nugroho, who were committed leftists, my in-between position was sometimes an uncomfortable one. Yes, Bang Amir was vocal in his opinions, but he was also a top-notch journalist, and when he was abruptly moved to the marketing and advertising division, I thought the move not only surprising but an insult both to him and to our profession. Regardless of the fact that “marketing and advertising” is essential to the success of a company or institution, Bang Amir was our best reporter. With his easy-going manner, he was able to get along with and, in fact, had become close to the leaders of all the political parties—except for the Communist Party, that is, whose leadership Mas Hananto claimed as his key source. Furthermore, as a writer, Bang Amir was both fast and effective, the very characteristics a news agency needs in a journalist.
“Why do you mean, an ‘insult’?” Mas Hananto asked me in a shrill voice when I criticized the editor-in-chief’s decision to transfer Bang Amir.
“Because it’s idiotic, transferring Bang Amir like that. It was obviously done for political reasons. Isn’t that so?” I asked Mas Hananto in turn. “And if that’s the case, it’s a bad decision.”
Mas Hananto looked at me sourly but he didn’t refute my accusation. “And where is there not politics in life?” he asked instead—another habit that infuriated me, always answering a question with one of his own. Just because he was my superior, my mentor, and better than me in many respects, it didn’t mean he was always right. Sure, everything was political, but to have “exiled” Bang Amir for any reason—and this was for sheer political reasons—wasn’t the right thing to do. And not only was it not right; it wasn’t fair.
“In every struggle, we have to be ready for times that require sacrifice,” Mas Hananto told me.
God, I thought, now he’s sounding like Bung Karno. What was the connection between the so-called struggle and Bang Amir’s transfer?
The scowl on my face appeared to make Mas Hananto uneasy, but I was angry and I wanted him to know it. Apparently sensing this and also knowing that if he tried to counter me our argument would only grow worse, he wisely turned and walked away.
That evening I decided to visit Bang Amir at his home, which was just a becak-ride from Nusantara News, on a small and shady side street off Salemba Boulevard. His wife Saidah—a woman with wonderfully long wavy hair and the tender voice of a mother who never seemed angry or impatient—answered my knock on the door. She invited me in and ushered me to the living room.
“Bang Amir is praying. He won’t be long. I’ll make some coffee,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen in the back.
I nodded. Looking down at the coffee table in front of my chair, I saw Capita Selecta, one of Natsir’s works, and several other titles as well along with a notebook and a fountain pen with its cap on. I knew that Bang Amir was a Masyumi follower, of course; and though I hardly knew Natsir himself and had scant knowledge of the ideology behind his Masyumi Party, the man struck me as being courteous and sincere. One day, in a conversation with Bang Amir at the office, he started talking about Natsir and told me how he hoped that Natsir would soon be released from the prison in Malang where he was being held. Unfortunately, because of a news deadline, we were never able to finish this conversation.
“Dimas Suryo …”
Bang Amir had a low and deep voice, like that of the popular bass vocalist, Rahmat Kartolo. Sometimes I found myself talking to him just to hear the rhythmic cadence of his sultry voice. But I was interested in what he had to say—and not just his criticism of the editor-in-chief, whose management style seemed to derive from herd instinct; I was interested in his other thoughts and ideas as well.
I stood to greet Bang Amir and we warmly shook hands. I stopped myself from blurting out how shocked I was not to see him in the editorial room, but I guessed he was able to intuit the reason for my visit, namely a sense of solidarity with him as a fellow journalist and editor. I’m sure he also guessed that I strongly disagreed with the editor-in-chief’s decision to transfer him to another section. Whatever the case, we jumped into ready conversation, talking about this and that, while drinking tubruk coffee and smoking kretek, completely skirting the subject that was on each other’s mind.
During the course of our conversation, Bang Amir revealed how he had come to meet his wife Saidah. Their first meeting was at the wedding of a friend, he told me, and when they looked at each other, they had immediately fallen in love. Amir stressed that as long as Saidah was beside him, he would be able to overcome whatever peril might befall him. “Even a transfer to the marketing division,” he added sardonically, finally entering that taboo domain. “When I pray, I always thank God for having given me Saidah to stand beside me. Without her, I would be a boat adrift. With her, I am able to maintain my balance and feel calm.”
As if having said enough about the sensitive issue, Bang Amir immediately segued into commentary of a more spiritual nature. “I believe that Allah shows the blessings He has bestowed on me by providing, inside myself, a small and private space, a little vacuum as it were, which only He and I occupy. And it is in there I go, Dimas, whenever I am trying to understand what is happening.
I wasn’t quite sure what Amir meant by this “private space” or that “little vacuum” but I was charmed by the imagery and dissolved in it like cocoa power in hot water. Whether it was because of his mellifluous voice or as a result of what he’d said, I said nothing in reply.
He took another sip of coffee and then asked out of the blue, “So, why don’t you want to get married and settle down?” yanking me back to the profane world.
I smiled. Suddenly, the image of Surti flashed before me. Bright. Shining. A kitchen smelling of turmeric. A kiss that overwhelmed my senses. I was startled.
