Dini Djalal, Jakarta – Tragedy is routine for Munir, Indonesia's foremost human-rights advocate. But the early September day when he learned of the death of Jafar Siddique Hamzah was especially grim. The body of the 36-year-old human-rights worker, an American citizen, was among five found in a ravine near Medan, trussed and bearing the marks of torture. Hamzah, who had worked to draw international attention to government-sanctioned atrocities in Aceh, had been missing for a month.

Munir is no stranger to such violence. But of late, things have been particularly bad. "It was a warning for us," says Munir of his friend's murder. While Indonesia strains under its painful transition to democratic norms, the Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence, or Kontras, which he heads, is dealing with an increasing number of kidnappings. In Aceh, scores of activists have disappeared. Four land-rights campaigners recently returned from two weeks in abduction. Fear is returning to the community of non-governmental organizations, spreading outward from kidnap victims and their families.

Compounding the mood of unease has been a constitutional amendment, passed last month, that rejected the use of retroactivity in human-rights prosecutions, meaning new legal standards cannot be applied against those suspected of past atrocities. Many in the NGO community suspect the measure will provide a blanket amnesty to perpetrators of abuses.

"Before, our biggest challenge was legal reform. Now we have an even bigger enemy – it's the constitution!" laments Munir. The public, he says, is again losing trust in the legal system, hampering efforts to get victims to push for prosecution – and efforts to convince families to keep searching for their missing sons and daughters. Kontras says more than 900 people have gone missing in recent years.

But Munir, a lawyer, is no stranger to crisis. It's challenging enough under normal circumstances to seek justice for victims of abuse. Under the smothering constraints of the Suharto regime, such litigation amounted almost to a suicide mission. Munir didn't care. Instead he honed his troubleshooting skills, set up Kontras in March 1998, and held tight to that most vital tool for change: optimism. "I get discouraged and cynical," he says, "but I don't let it get to me. If you want reform, you have to go on."

Today Kontras, which functions nationwide, is run by 22 full-time staffers and hundreds of volunteers, among them journalists who give their spare time to help Munir's team compile a database. It's a modest, unconventional operation; Munir describes it as "a big family, rather than a typical NGO." Indeed, his tiny office at Jakarta's Legal Aid Foundation, with its filing cabinets held together with tape, has a feel of family bustle. Seated beneath a poster that reads "Destroy the New Order," Munir gossips and jokes about the current rash of tawdry political scandals. He's happy to talk straight politics, too – even with those he often chastises: Munir's human-rights work involves occasional lectures at police and military academies.

He doesn't count the military as an enemy, but he understands why some generals think he is theirs. "When they snicker and make slanderous remarks, that's to be expected," he says. "After thirty years of being in power, it must be difficult for the military to face criticism."

One could assume the politicking is preparing Munir for a bigger podium. But he declines offers to join political parties. Politics is a tool, he says, but not his game.

Sure, he helped the Independent Election Monitoring Committee supervise Indonesia's first free vote in decades last year, but he himself didn't vote – there's no one to vote for, he maintains.

The hope for happier outcomes motivates Munir to press on. "Telling the parents that their son or daughter has been found – that's what I love about this job." For this privilege, he forsakes personal safety. Together with his wife he campaigned for labour rights in Surabaya, getting detained along the way. But he refrains from disclosing his own bitter history with the police, maintaining that others have had it worse. And he doesn't like what he calls "cry-babies, because they spread this myth of terror, and I want the public to stop being paralyzed by this myth." Unfortunately, with more people disappearing, terror will likely become more entrenched.