Shared misery in shadow of violence

By: Sarah Putri Larasati
The Jakarta Post/Jakarta

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The house in Kampung Cipinang Muara 2, East Jakarta, is modest and a bit cramped, with only a patched-together roof over the bathroom. There’s a well-used fan in the living room and an aging television whose only color is an alien-like green.

Bu Pur, 60, and Pak Pur, 73, have lived there for about 40 years.

Bu Pur is the breadwinner of the family. Every morning at 4 a.m., she wakes up to sell vegetables at an alley near her house. Her husband, Pak Pur, hasn’t worked since the 1980s. Earlier this year, he was diagnosed with Parkinsons disease and diabetes, along with a heart problem.

Together, they had four sons, but of the four, only two remain. Sunardi, the third son, is the secretary for the neighborhood unit (RT), while Joko, the youngest, works as a driver. Sunardi is married and his son is currently a sophomore at a university.

Pak Pur said he was born in 1945, the same year Indonesia declared its independence from the Dutch colonial administration. It took five years of warfare for the fledgling republic to gain real independence. In their modest living room Pak Pur and his wife reminisce about life back then.

“You could work for a week and still couldn’t afford a plate of rice,” he said. “Times were tough back then.”

“I ate cassava and greens from the fields,” Bu Pur added. “It was hard to obtain rice back then.”

At that time, Indonesia was still fighting the Dutch, who insisted that their colony should be ruled by the queen of the Netherlands. The Dutch undertook two acts of military aggression to retain Indonesia, the first in 1947 and the second in 1948. It only acknowledged Indonesia’s sovereignty on Dec. 27, 1949.

Sixteen years later, at the end of September, a power struggle occurred, which Indonesia’s history books attribute to the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). As many as 500,000 individuals believed to be affiliated to the now defunct PKI were slaughtered nationwide. This paved the way for Soeharto to take the presidency.

“One of my friends’ parents was labelled a communist,” Pak Pur said. He was reluctant to say any more about what happened in 1965, but he did live through it.

Thirty-three years later, one of his sons would become a victim during several days of rioting in May 1998, which forced Soeharto to step down. It was during the May 1998 riots that the couple lost their second son, Juli Misdiantoro, known as Toro, who was 12-years-old back then and had just graduated from elementary school.

One day, during the chaos, Toro came home from school for lunch. He then told his mother that he was going to fish with his friends nearby.

Two days later, his mother identified his burned remains at the Cipto Mangunkusumo Hospital (RSCM) morgue.

“I knew that it was my son because he had a tooth missing,” she said, her face contorted in anguish as old as time.

“He had lost his tooth, after a severe toothache. It never grew back,” she added.

Toro had apparently gone to the doomed Yogya Plaza Klender (now Citra Mall) with his friends and met his fate there. According to Bu Pur, his friends survived, but Toro didn’t. Bu Pur found him with the help of her (now deceased) uncle who worked in the morgue at RSCM.

Bu Pur’s friend, Bu Maria Sanu, 70, however, wasn’t as lucky. Her son, Stevanus Sanu, 16 at that time, is still missing until today.

“My only prayer is, if he is dead, that may God gave us strength,” she said, in Bu Pur’s living room, with the smell of the strong, black coffee that Bu Pur had served to her guest in a glass mug.

“If he is alive, then please, God, let my child find his way back to me,” Bu Sanu said.

The prolonged misery suffered by Pak Pur and Bu Pur, along with Bu Sanu, is perfectly reflected in a quote by Tan Malaka, a freedom fighter who died in the upheaval of the mid-1960s: “The history that the people of a country experience continues to influence the character and actions of that people.”

Just as in 1965 and 1966, the tragedy of May 1998 took many victims. Sandyawan Sumardi, a member of the Joint Fact Seeker Team (TGPF) for the May 1998 riots and a human rights activist, said that as many as 1,800 people died in Jakarta within the historically brief period of eight days. Toro and Stevanus are among the many whose memory still haunts the psyche of the nation.

“My son was not a looter,” Bu Pur insisted, sadness pouring from her usually warm dark eyes. “He was a child; he understood nothing.”

She is convinced that someone started the fire that destroyed the mall because the blaze was so extensive. “The fire was so big that it was impossible for it to spread so fast without a provocateur, right?

“My son knew nothing. Surely you wouldn’t accept this kind of treatment if it happened to your family,” Bu Pur told The Jakarta Post, as she ate her dinner in front of the television, which was offering a view of another reality, a world without raw sadness.

Her family received little assistance after her son’s death because he and all of the others who died in the mall had been classified as looters.

“I’ve gotten Rp 500,000 [US$35] and that’s all,” she said.

She had recently stopped going to Kamisan, a peaceful protest held every Thursday in front of the State Palace by the family of victims of the May 1998 tragedy. She said that no one helped her with the transportation costs and she began to think that nothing would come of it. Bu Sanu, however, is still going after 11 years.

The two women had found each other during a memorial for the victims of Yogya Plaza in 1999. Their community still commemorates the political tragedy that cost them their sons. Bu Pur said that community members who had lost family members in the riots gathered monthly at her house to keep the bond between them alive. They have also established a cooperative-based savings-and-loans organization.

“It would be enough for the tragedy of May 1998 to be classified as a crime against humanity,” Sandyawan said. “It was systematic and well-planned. We know that on the eve of May 14, 1998, Special Forces troopers arrived at the Halim Perdanakusuma Air Base, East Jakarta. The unrest expanded rapidly into riots across the capital shortly after their arrival,” he added.

“Things like this happened not only in Jakarta, but also in Solo [Surakarta, Central Java] and Palembang [South Sumatra]. There were clearly efforts to disrupt the radio stations, so people couldn’t find out what was happening. The potential for conflict exploded because it was triggered,” Sandyawan said.

“I’m afraid of demonstrations,” Bu Pur admitted. “Everyone has different opinions about them. Someone might think they are still needed, someone else might not. That’s why I can’t decide. I am just afraid of them.”

Laying out her hopes for the future, Bu Pur said she wanted the government to be held accountable. “I hope they will get to the bottom of the case, find out who did it and give them just punishment. How could hundreds of people just die like that?”

Bu Sanu echoes her friend’s frustration. “There is no compensation that could replace a child, whom you conceived and raised yourself.”

“I can forgive them in words only,” Bu Sanu said, tears running down her cheeks. “Who, in their hearts, could forgive the people who took away their children like that?”

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Mothers remain united 20 years after 1998 tragedy

By: Ayu Annisa
The Jakarta Post/Jakarta

An alley in Cipinang Muara II, Klender, East Jakarta, erupts with nervous chatter and hurried footsteps as people rush toward a house on the other side of the narrow pathway. One woman makes a brief stop in front of Bu Pur’s house to inform her that a neighbor has just passed away from what seemed to be a heart attack.

With teary eyes and a tremble in her voice, Bu Pur, 60, leaves her home to pay her respects to the deceased and to the grieving family. A lot of people have gathered at the home of the deceased to set up chairs and a tent and to set out dishes of food and other things that would help the family host visitors.

“In this village we have a community that is always prepared to help grieving families with the funeral and tahlilan [prayers for the dead],” Bu Pur told The Jakarta Post. “We deposit a certain amount of money monthly with the treasurer in case things like this happen.”

The quick response reflects the community’s unity in the face of adversity, which has intensified since the night of May 14, 1998, when tragedy swept through the community affecting many residents like Bu Pur personally.

On that day, Bu Pur’s 12-year-old son, Juli “Toro” Misdiantoro, rode his bike cheerfully around the narrow alley in celebration of having passed his elementary school’s final exam. He told his mother that he would go fishing with his friends after lunch. That was the last time Bu Pur ever saw her son.

That evening, the news on the television told her that there were riots all over Jakarta following the monumental 1998 economic crisis under president Soeharto. Ri-oters were looting buildings that caught fire, killing all of the people inside.

The fact that Toro had not come home yet made Bu Pur feel anxious. Her greatest fears became reality when Toro’s friends told her they had not seen him since he had gone inside Yogya Mall, now called Citra Mall, one of the buildings that were burned.

“Even a mother duck would look for her duckling when it goes missing, let alone humans,” Bu Pur reminisced about that day over cups of tea in her living room.

Firefighters did not put out the mall fire completely until the next day. When Bu Pur arrived, she was greeted by nothing but piles of burned bodies lined up neatly in front of the building. At that moment, she set aside the hope that her son was still alive and began trying to locate Toro’s body.

Bu Pur’s last hope was the Cipto Mangunkusumo General Hospital where some of the bodies had been taken. One of her relatives who worked there managed to identify Toro through his dental records. Bu Pur, who fell unconscious upon confirmation of her son’s death, says that now she feels that finding her son made her one of the lucky ones.

Maria Sanu, 70, has been friends with Bu Pur since 1999. She has lived with uncertainty for almost 20 years because her son’s body was never recovered in the aftermath of the fire at Yogya Mall that devoured more than 400 souls.

“I’ve always uttered the same prayer all these years that is if he’s still alive, may God lead him home; if he’s not then may God give us, who are left behind, strength,” Bu Sanu said when visiting Bu Pur’s house on a recent Friday.

Like Toro, Stevanus Sanu, who was 16 years old at the time, was inside the Yogya Mall when it burst into flames. Their children’s similar fates have forged a bond between Bu Pur, Bu Sanu, and other family members of 1998 riot victims over the years. They all believe this solidarity to be the silver lining of the tragedy.

“We usually meet monthly and we talk about other things too. This routine keeps us closer as we always try to set aside our differences,” Bu Sanu remarked.

Bu Sanu had been contacted by others in the community in 1999 with an invitation to attend a memorial event to mark the first anniversary of the tragedy. She was the only Catholic in the community at the time, so while everyone around her prayed according to the faith of Islam, she said a Catholic prayer.

Despite the differences in religions and backgrounds, the members of the association of 1998 victims’ families, with the help of volunteer teams and organizations like the Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence (KONTRAS), have carried out a lot of activities that have managed to strengthen their bonds.

“Together we have held charity events, carried out scholarship distribution and many other things that help ease the pain of the families,” Bu Sanu said.

Bu Pur echoed Sanu’s explanation, saying the family members of the 1998 victims always try to make an effort to maintain ties with one another.

“We always try to keep in touch. One of the way is through setting up a cooperative that enables individual savings of about Rp. 120,000 [US$8.31] per month and loans,” Pur added.

Another way that keeps them close is the Kamisan demonstrations, also known as the Black Umbrella protests, in which the families of 1998 riot victims and others who have lost relatives because of political clashes gather together on Thursdays in front of the Presidential Palace to demand acknowledgement of human rights violations by the government.

Bu Pur used to participate. She would usually leave for Kamisan after she finished selling vegetables in the afternoon. However, this year she has decided to stop participating.

“Kamisan, when I think about it, is rather useless because at the end of the day we only end up getting tired,” she explained.

While recounting her experience with Kamisan, Bu Pur insisted that she respected those who still have hopes for the action, like Sumarsih, the mother of Wawan, one of the Trisakti University students killed in the Semanggi demonstrations, and Bu Sanu herself.

Bu Sanu has actively participated in Kamisan 563 times in the span of 11 years. Her determination proved effective as President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo invited her and 19 other Kamisan participants to discuss the matter at the Presidential Palace on May 31.

“For Kamisan, we usually leave for the Presidential Palace at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and gather in front of the building at about 3,” she explained.

Although 20 years have passed since the tragedy, both Bu Pur and Bu Sanu remain firm on their principles and hopes.

“We only ask for a development of the case, a sign of responsibility from the government and for the unsolved cases to be investigated and if the people who are responsible are caught, then we want them to be punished,” Bu Pur stated.

Both of them believed that any kind of compensation, however big, would never be satisfactory unless those who caused the riots could be held accountable.

“What we keep telling each other is to never be lured into accepting money just because it seems like a quick way out because, in truth, no amount of money will ever bring them back,” Bu Sanu said.

Bu Pur, however, admitted that she did once receive compensation from the government in 1998.

“It was only about Rp 500,000 and that was right after the tragedy,” she said.

The two mothers have now moved on. Bu Pur now lives with her 73-year-old husband, her two sons, one daughter-in-law and a grandson. Meanwhile, Bu Sanu is a single parent taking care of nine children.

Questions may still be left unanswered, cases may remain unsolved, while broken hearts have failed to heal, but the comraderie of Bu Pur and Bu Sanu, as well as the other family members of the 1998 riot victims, continues to significantly reflect how tragedy has always been a powerful tool to unite people.

Shared memories: Pak Pur (right), his wife Bu Pur (second right) and Bu Sanu (left) pose with a reporter from The Jakarta Post during a recent interview in Bu Pur’s home in Cipinang Muara, East Jakarta.(JP/Ayu Annisa)