Bambang and Wanti survived the holocaust physically, but spiritually they became just empty shells. They passed from kampung to kampung begging for food, working when they could until they arrived in Jakarta, destitute. Without identification and, more importantly, a letter certifying their good conduct and noninvolvement in the abortive coup it was legally impossible to obtain employment. They found shelter on the outskirts of the city amidst thousands of other refugees who were camped along the canals, their homes also destroyed, many having suffered a similar fate to that of the young brother and sister from Kampung Semawi. Within months, their numbers increased until an outbreak of cholera convinced Bambang to risk entering the Capital in search of safety from the disease and constant violence now evident in the growing shanty town.
Slowly they made their way through the outlying areas of Ragunan and Kemang, along the unsurfaced roads until finally they spent the night resting amongst the old tombs in the Pattimura graveyard. The following day they were chased by passing police but managed to escape. Bambang took his sister down to an area behind the Asian Games complex where many thousands were also camped, sleeping at night under the derelict military vehicles that had been unceremoniously dumped there when spare parts had become unavailable. There were many soldiers camped inside the sporting complex and, as Bambang spent time around their billet, some of the younger Javanese soldiers befriended the pair, offering them an occasional meal of rice and vegetables.
As they became more familiar with their surroundings and less intimidated by the size of the city Bambang and Wanti learned to survive. As did another half a million itinerants who had flocked to the capital for safety. Many did not find the security they had hoped for as troops had inundated the city, bullying the terrified inhabitants.
Time passed slowly as the city moved to recover from the terrifying year of civil war and its aftermath bringing an air of hope to those who had survived the slaughter, starvation and disease. A new government was installed. The years of undeclared war with the Federation of Malaysia and Singapore known only to the Indonesians as ‘ Konfrontasi ’ was declared over and quickly forgotten. The capital’s inhabitants breathed a sigh of relief as the Military gradually moved its tanks from the centre of the city to the outskirts and regular police commenced patrolling the suburbs in an effort to reduce crime. Law and order appeared to be restored. The New Order was now completely ensconced and the Chinese reopened their shops.
Life had returned to normal in Indonesia.
Chapter 4
Magelang Detention Centre for Communist Detainees
The screaming prisoner curled his body in the foetal position, in terror, pressed hard against the wall, holding his hands at first around his legs and then quickly up before his face to protect his head from the blows. The other prisoner lay groaning on the floor as the interrogator took his knife and swung the bladed weapon with the skill of a butcher, severing the man’s left ear and two fingers, cutting the soft bone and tissue with a quick slicing motion of the wrist.
The prisoner remembered being struck. The severity of the blow brought him to his knees as the wind gushed from his lungs. He knew he should have anticipated the elbow to the stomach; Allah knows he had learned enough to understand the dangers of silent insolence; the failure to accept total subjugation at the hands of those in command at the detention centre for political detainees.
These guardians of the malcontents, runaways, perpetual troublemakers and other lost souls were hand selected for their unswerving obedience and callousness. Mean and extremely vindictive, they vented their frustrations on the inmates, most of whom were guilty of no greater crime than that of ignorance.
How many times had he already been struck? Twenty? Thirty? The pain was extreme. He dry-heaved momentarily then, agonizingly, dragged himself upright. His eyes were partly glazed but reflected the hate he felt for his new found jailers. His stomach heaved again. More blows. Then more pain followed by a vicious onslaught of kicks to the back and thighs.
To his right were other custodians. He knew there would be no respite should he react to the guards’ onslaught. Obedience was the key and one might survive only if perceived to be subservient. Opposition was for fools and would be counter-productive. He knew this much. He had sufficient experience as an interrogator to appreciate the hopelessness of his situation. God how quickly the transition had occurred!
Another kick. He groaned with the pain. And then another, this time causing him to fall again. He knew that he should not remain on the ground. This would only invite further punishment. His mouth was dry and his mind confused. He knew from the force of the blow that someone had kicked him in the head as he fought to maintain consciousness. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could identify what was happening. He had seen it before. He knew he had seen others struggling in fear, attempting to avoid the inevitable.
But now there was something wrong. He was the prisoner and someone else was delivering the cruel blows! It was a nightmare. Next would come the interrogation. Followed by total submission. He knew. It had been his duty before; in another lifetime. Blood filled his mouth. He was losing consciousness again. Next would come the final interrogation and the ultimate loss of one’s self respect as he would be obliged to plead for his life. Total submission. The pain would far exceed the requirement placed on one’s honour and he would accept the inevitable. He tried to grimace but his jaw was broken.
Honour! He wanted to scream. What would they know about Honour!
Another dogma instilled during one of those courses — which one was it now, the Code of Conduct or the Interrogation Techniques Course? His chest heaved, convulsed, and finally slowed as he forced his mind to maintain control over his battered body. Then he lost consciousness. His custodians instructed other inmates to drag him through the yards, his boots drawing almost identical snail-like tracks in the ground. The semi-conscious body was dumped unceremoniously on the floor in a solitary cell. Someone doused him with water. The surrounds stank of the previous tenant and those before him, for this was the ultimate in seclusion, and he slowly recognized the hopelessness of his predicament.
The beatings recommenced. He screamed and cursed as he willed his body to maintain consciousness, fighting off the waves of darkness sweeping over his body urging him to surrender, to sleep. He had been observed. The silent figure stood there watching the intense beating, watching every blow delivered as the prisoner’s body jumped and bucked, involuntarily spasms twisting the torso, reflecting the excruciating pain as the punishment continued on and on, in one final attempt to break the man’s spirit. Occasionally the stranger drew heavily on his cigarette to disguise his own disgust. He had to know if this prisoner could be the man he had searched for: his instrument.
The beatings continued. The punishment was inhuman but he didn’t interfere. He had to know. The nauseating stench of the cell was more than offensive. Yet it was not just the accumulated human waste which offended the nostrils.
It was the smell of fear. Of death.
The punishment ceased momentarily. Some minutes passed and the prisoner groaned. Somewhere in the darkness of his mind he thought he heard someone speak. The voice had that deep-throated pitch, the resonance almost soothing as he tried to identify what was being said. His fatigued mind groped for reality. He knew someone was talking about him. Maybe there to do a body count. He raised his head a fraction and was unable to establish whether he was in the cells, or dead, and if the body men were perhaps waiting quietly to take his mortal remains away. He fainted.
Somebody coughed. The prisoner awoke. His surroundings had changed. He was positioned on a chair, his head resting on an old table. The room was poorly lit. A light hung low, perilously close to his face. He opened his eyes, moaned, then passed back into semi-consciousness. The shock of the cold water thrown over his head and neck partially revived his senses. The guards retreated, leaving him to his misery. He collapsed into sleep, exhausted,