Novia Stephani – When Muji (not her real name), 61, joined Pemuda Rakyat, or People's Youth, in 1965, she never imagined her involvement in the youth wing of the Indonesian Communist Party, known as the PKI, would land her in jail for 14 years. "I was only in it for the singing, dancing and theater," she said.
That did not stop the interrogators from beating her, though, and eventually forcing her to admit that she was involved in the death of six Army generals in Lubang Buaya, a massacre that led to what was known as the Thirtieth of September Movement, allegedly masterminded by PKI to overthrow Sukarno, who was then president. Muji said she was only involved with the youth group and had no knowledge of any coup plan.
Muji is an Ex Tapol, a former political detainee who suffers discrimination in her own country. I first met her at Waluya Abadi Sejati, a home for Ex Tapols, designed by the late Sulami, a former political detainee who died in 2002, and brought to fruition by Ribka Tjiptaning Proletariyati, a child of a PKI member.
Back in the 1960s, the Army fanned accusations that the PKI had planned to overthrow Sukarno, prompting a wave of reprisals that led to massacres and arrests of both actual and suspected members and sympathizers of the PKI and affiliated organizations. There has still been no trial for most of them, Muji included.
After being shuffled from one military base to another, the then-teenager was detained for six years at the Bukit Duri penitentiary for women. Then, with about 500 other women, Muji was transferred to a "Temporary Utilization Facility" at a former leper hospital in Plantungan, Central Java Province.
Syamsu, 75, a former reporter for Kebudayaan Baru, a PKI-sponsored daily, is another Ex Tapol, and proud that he shared a truck with celebrated author Pramoedya Ananta Toer, whose writings have become symbolic of the silent rebellion against Suharto.
After interrogation at the Military Regional Command base, Syamsu was detained in Salemba prison, in Jakarta, for seven years. He was then sent to Buru Island, a week-long sea trip from Jakarta, for almost eight years.
Along with nearly 500 detainees he arrived with, who were designated as his unit, he cleared eucalyptus forests to grow rice, while foraging for edible plants to supplement their meager diet of 200 grams of rice per person per day. The camp keepers only supplied food for eight months as they believed the inmates should be able to grow their own food by then.
"We built places of worship in Buru," Syamsu said. "I resented it when people said we were atheists." He is still thankful he was not an inmate in a forced labor camp in Tangerang, on the outskirts of Jakarta.
Giri Jati, 69, who lost his job in a bank when he was arrested, spent part of his incarceration at Tangerang. He said he was fed a cup of rice a day while having to work in the rice paddies. "It was common to see 8 to 10 people die every day from starvation," he said.
After spending an average of 14 years in the so-called rehabilitation institutions, the political detainees were released into a world conditioned to treat them as malevolent and depraved. Muji found a job as a babysitter. Though he had to start as a laborer, Giri Jati managed to work his way up to managerial level in a private company.
But former political detainees were prohibited from voting, applying for a government post or even enlisting in the Armed Forces until 2003. Some lived under constant surveillance and were told to report to the police for biweekly "education."
The letters ET were also stamped on their identity cards until 2003. Worse, the stigma and alienation extended to include their families.
"My third son had already received his uniform and badge for his inauguration as an Air Force officer," Syamsu said. "When the academy found out about my status as a former political prisoner, they dismissed him from the academy."
While other citizens over the age of 60 get lifetime ID cards, Giri Jati said former political detainees still had to renew theirs every five years, even today.
An attempt by the Indonesian Institute for the Investigation of the 1965/66 Massacre, spearheaded by Sulami, to give proper burials to massacre victims was unsuccessful. Sympathizers who disinterred the bodies from unmarked graves were met with threats and ambush in March 2001 by anti-communist groups, who forcibly removed the exhumed remains from the vehicles and dumped them unceremoniously on the ground.
When I told the Ex Tapols of an acquaintance who had unearthed human bones he suspected to be the remains of murdered PKI members in his backyard, and later buried them with proper rites, they grew quiet and eyed me with breathless intensity. "Thank you, thank you," was the only heartfelt whisper I heard in the unnerving silence.
Muji said only the local leaders in the neighborhood knew she was Ex Tapol, "because we have to see them when we need to renew our ID cards." "Our children only learned about it recently. Nobody in my church knows," she said.
A group of Ex Tapols acquired a building in Jakarta to use as a home for the former detainees, thus founding Waluya Abadi Sejati. After Sulami's death in 2002, Ribka, a member of the House of Representatives who wrote the book "I Am Proud to Be a Child of a PKI Member," completed the facility.
The building was officially opened in 2003 by Abdurrahman Wahid, then president, who sparked controversy by apologizing on behalf of Nahdlatul Ulama, the country's largest Muslim organization, for the atrocities imposed on the victims of the 1965 "incidents."
Uchi, also a child of an Ex Tapol, said there were cases where former detainees were barred from seeing their children, or conversely, forbidden by their children to socialize with neighbors. But at the facility, neighbors know of the history of the 15 women and 5 men who live at the home, and have no objection to their presence. "Even when the ladies begin singing leftist songs," Uchi said.
The facility's costs are covered by donations. Ribka arranged for the residents to get free medical care in several hospitals in Jakarta and they do their own cooking, cleaning and laundry. The home has a long waiting list and is often visited by former detainees who live elsewhere but come regularly, because, as Giri Jati said: "You can discuss a lot of issues with the residents. They are people who kept their idealism and ideals."
When a group of 10 young professionals on a leadership training course chose Waluya Abadi Sejati as the target of their project to change the lives of people around them, they expected their fund-raising to be difficult.
"We assumed people would be prejudiced about the residents' past and refuse to contribute to our cause," said Ayke, a group member. "Yet in two weeks, we collected 90 percent of our proposed budget and at the last minute exceeded it, mostly from individual donors."
Over one month, the group spent time with the residents, helping them improve their home. "We wanted [the project] to leave a mark," Ayke said. "But that's not all. We wanted to touch [the residents'] heart as well."
A close encounter with those I was taught to fear
I joined the youth group in Ciseeng, Bogor, where they had taken the residents for a day at a hot spring.
I had never met a former political detainee before and to suddenly find myself surrounded by dozens of them was surreal. None of the history books I read in my school days mentioned their existence, let alone their plight. Everyone my age had been herded to cinemas to see a movie condoned by Suharto, Sukarno's successor, about the murder of the generals.
The film was compulsory viewing for elementary school students, and shocked millions with its scenes of graphic violence. It was aired every year on Sept. 30 until Suharto fell from power. As a tool to brainwash a generation that everything associated with PKI was evil and dangerous, it was chillingly effective.
But I questioned my preconceptions in Ciseeng, under a wide awning where young Indonesians sat and chatted with the elderly political detainees, listening to their stories and learning old songs about peasants and greedy landlords. Far from the sinister, savage and depraved beings I had been conditioned to expect, the former detainees impressed me with their intelligence and eloquence.
"It's been a rewarding time. I gained new knowledge and learned from their courage," Ayke, a fellow young professional, told me later.
Lestari, 79, told me of the night she was arrested, of her march in the dark and the barbed wire that slashed her ankle. "When we stopped to rest, suddenly a soldier sidled over to me and whispered, 'Don't worry. Your children have been taken to safety," she said. "I've been trying to find out who he was ever since."
Thirty-two years later, through the help of an nongovernmental organization, Lestari was reunited with her youngest child, then a baby and now a teacher with children of her own. She still does not know what has become of her other child, who was 4-years-old when taken from her.
Later, as I hugged the women goodbye, Lestari did not seem to want to let go. "Keep up the fight. Struggle on," she said, her trust a heavier burden than her frail hands seemed capable of putting on my shoulders, until I remembered they were hands that survived decades of turmoil and estrangement, with her conviction intact and her spirit unflagging.