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With Alam and Bimo busy setting up free-speech platforms at campuses and elsewhere, I've had to go to interviews on my own. One was with Djoko Sri Moeljono—a former political prisoner who was exiled to Buru Island because of, he guessed, his activities with SBBT, the Trikora Steel Workers Union. Before being sent to Buru, Pak Djoko was first imprisoned in Serang in 1965. After that, he was held at the Nusakambangan penal island and only after that was he sent to Buru, where he remained until his release in 1978.

                   
Pak Djoko described for me in great detail life on Buru Island, where he served as head of the barracks in which he and
other prisoners lived. Until the day of his release, he said, neither the government nor the military authorities ever informed him of his alleged crimes. What I have found to be most tragic—both for him and the other political prisoners I've come in contact with—is the difficulty all of them had had in finding gainful employment after their release because of the stigma of having been a political prisoner.

                   
I'd love to tell you about all the other interviews I've conducted, but there is not enough time for that right now, plus I think it will be more satisfying to watch my documentary film, which will both give a bigger picture and be more in-depth than anything I could put down on paper.

                   
I was happy to hear that you had dinner with Nara at the restaurant. What did you cook for him? I hope it wasn't too spicy. I'm guessing that he will come to the restaurant often now that I'm away.

                   
Give my love to Maman, Om Nug, Om Tjai, and Om Risjaf. Take care of yourself and remember that I always love you.

             
Your loving daughter,

                   
Lintang Utara

BEKASI, MAY
1998

That day was a fateful one. It started in the afternoon when Alam took the time to accompany me to Bekasi, to the east of Jakarta, and to the home of “Mrs. D,” a former member of the Kediri branch of GERWANI, the leftist Indonesian Women's Movement. Although I know the woman's real name, I think it best not to reveal it because of the trauma she continues to feel. Mrs. D is
a woman of about sixty, but still in quite good physical shape: she walks erectly, her eyes are clear, and she's able to speak in a clear and crisp voice.

In my interview with Mrs. D, she told me that when she was a member of GERWANI, her job had been to teach village women to read and write. After the events of September 30, she and her husband, who was a member of the Kediri branch of the Indonesian Farmers' Front (BTI), were arrested and imprisoned in separate incarceration facilities for nine years. After their release in 1974, they came to see firsthand the difficulty their entire extended family was having in finding and keeping steady employment, all because they had relatives—Mrs. D and her husband—whose identification cards included a numerical code indicating that they were former political prisoners.

Her father, Mrs. D said, was imprisoned for two years simply because of his relationship to her; her brother, who was also arrested, was sent to Nusakambangan prison and not released until sometime in the early 1970s. (She wasn't sure of the year.) Except for their home, almost all their goods and belongings had been confiscated by the military.

My interview with Mrs. D lasted for almost four hours, after which she invited Alam and me to share a simple meal with her. Finally, when we were ready to go, she gave both Alam and me a hug.

After saying goodbye and leaving her house, Alam and I headed back toward the main street to look for transportation back to Jakarta. Suddenly Alam tapped me on the shoulder and whispered for me to walk faster. Even though I didn't know why, I did just what he said and began to walk at a much faster pace, as if in pursuit of something. Looking around furtively, I saw, next to a cigarette vendor's stall, two men sitting down. Both had crew
cuts and were dressed in civilian clothing—obviously undercover military personnel assigned to tail us. Fortunately, they hadn't seen us leave Mrs. D's house. But when we arrived at the intersection that led to the main road and started to hail a taxi that was coming our way, we saw the men suddenly jump to their feet and start walking quickly in our direction. As soon as the taxi stopped in from of us, Alam yanked open the back door, pushed me inside, jumped into the taxi himself, then slapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to go and to step on the gas.

For the first few minutes of the ride, neither of us could speak, and Alam kept turning around, looking out of the rear window, until the taxi merged with traffic on the main road. Only then did he start to relax. He took my hand and kneaded it with his.

“Do you think they were watching me?” I asked.

Alam paused before answering. “Jakarta is on the move. Actually, I'm guessing they were watching me.”

“But you're going to be OK, aren't you?” I truly was worried about him.

Alam smiled and said, “I'm just fine,” then put his arm around my shoulder.

When we arrived at Satu Bangsa, Bimo informed us that three “flies” had come to the office looking for me. I was shocked—I'd never before had dealings with intelligence agents—but the surprising thing was that it didn't disturb me.

“What did they say?” Alam asked.

“Basically, they know who Lintang is,” Bimo replied, “and they came here to check her travel documents and to see whether she had obtained official permission to make a film.”

Now, I was taken aback. What pesky flies they were! “And so…?”

Bimo spoke as if I wasn't present. “I told them Lintang was just a visitor to this office and that they couldn't meet her here.”

I broke into a cold sweat. “How did they find out so fast what I've been doing here?”

“Don't let them get to you,” Bimo said to me with a smile. “What do you think flyswatters are for?”

Alam rubbed my shoulders with his hand. “Just be calm. Let them do their own thing. Want to order something to eat?”

Bimo looked at us, shaking his head: “Be careful, Lintang. You've got one rabid and hungry dog on your leash.”

Odi then stuck out his head from behind his computer to shout at me: “Yeah, you listen to what Bimo says. Be careful. Alam has an attention span of two weeks. After that, it's
ngehe
. Yup, it's just bye-bye!”

“Or maybe, just maybe,” I sparred, “I'm the one who's stringing him along! Ever think of that?”

At this, Bimo, Odi, and Mita clapped their hands and whooped so loudly that Alam started swearing under his breath, “
Bangsat
,
bangsat
,
bangsat—
you sons of bitches!” When I took out my notebook to write down this new word for me, Bimo grabbed the pad and began to read out loud all the slang words that were written there: “
Nyokap
,
bokap
,
yoi
,
yoa
,
nyosor
,
koit
,
asoy
,
bokep
,
jajaran
,
ngehe
,
bangsat…
” Bimo choked with laughter. “These are Alam's words.” I grabbed the notebook from his hand.

“As they aren't to be found in the dictionary, I'm interested in looking into their etymology.”

“One is pretty and the other one is crazy,” Mita said. “No wonder you get along!” She then took the film cassette of my interview with Mrs. D from my hand and returned to her room, where she helped me writing down the time-coding into my
footage so we could begin to edit it. From her room, I could hear Alam and Bimo still mocking each other, sounding like high school children.

“You're the one who says ‘
bokep'
for ‘porn flick,'” Alam grumbled at Bimo.

“I say
bokep
, because you act like you're in a blue film,” Bimo retorted.

My collection of interviews and notes was growing and beginning to look very well organized—all thanks to Mita, who was an incredibly gifted editor. Even with all the other work she had to do—handling film footage from demonstrations, public rallies, and the free-speech platforms, all of which she had to time-code and index—she kindly took time to help me. She probably felt sorry for me, knowing that in addition to editing the film footage, I also had to transcribe the interviews and translate the written transcripts into French and into English as well, as per the request of Professor Dupont.

That night we worked until late, dining at the work table on
nasi uduk
that Ujang bought for us. By midnight, I was bushed and decided to go home; but, because I still had a lot of work to do, I decided to leave my equipment at the office. I would be back first thing in the morning. Besides, I trusted that when Mita went home, she would lock the cabinets and drawers where I put my things. I simply was too tired to lug all my things back to Om Aji's house.

By the time I arrived home, it was almost midnight, and I was a total wreck. Not even bothering to bathe or change out of my clothes, I plopped my body on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

I couldn't have been asleep for more than a few hours when suddenly Andini's cell phone began to ring with that tone so awful
to my ears. I swore that I had to ask her to change the ringtone. I answered the phone quickly, afraid that it would disturb Andini, whose room was next to mine.

“
Oui
…” I said, my eyes still closed.

“Lintang.”

Now my eyes opened wide. Alam's voice. Tense and firm.

“What is it?” I asked.

“There was a break-in at our office. I'm coming to pick you up now,” was all he said.

I had no idea who broke into the Satu Bangsa office, why they broke in, what was taken, or why he had to call me so early in the morning.

About twenty minutes later, Alam appeared at Om Aji's house in Gilang's jeep, which he had borrowed just a few hours earlier to take me home. On the way to the office, Alam told me that he didn't know all of what had happened, only that Bimo had called him earlier to tell him that the office had been broken into.

“But what happened?” I asked. “Who did this? Was anyone hurt?”

“Odi and Ujang were the only ones there; they sleep there at night. I guess they got a fright but they're all right.”

The look on Alam's face said differently—that everything was not all right.

By the time we arrived at Satu Bangsa, most of the staff members had already gathered inside. That's when I experienced my first shock of mental terror: the office looked like a tornado had gone through it. I scanned the room with my eyes. Gilang and Odi were squatting wearily in front of a pile of books and documents as if not knowing how to begin to put things back in order. Agam was righting overturned tables and chairs. Ujang, with
a broom in his hand, was sweeping up broken glass, all the while cussing and swearing about the five men in civilian clothes who had broken into the office without him being able to stop them. Mita, meanwhile, was trying not to cry as she attempted to rewind a spool of video tape that now resembled a pile of tossed linguini. And Alam, now back at work, was visibly shaking with anger. In front of him were several computers that looked broken beyond repair. Even as he began to ascertain the damages, he was also on the phone, informing other activists of what had happened. Every room in the office looked like a shipwreck.

It was only then I suddenly remembered my own belongings: my films, video camera, laptop, transcripts, and notes. I rushed to Mita's workroom. Usually tidy and neat, the room was now in complete disarray, and the top of the desk where I had left my things was bare. I yanked open the desk drawers, wildly searching their contents. My hands shook and I sniffled as I tried to chase away the unbidden tears.

Mita stopped what she was doing and came over to me. She looked shocked by my desperate state of confusion. She took me by the shoulders and began to say something but, suddenly feeling my stomach turning, I yanked myself away from her and bolted towards the bathroom.

Everything that had been in my stomach before now filled the porcelain bowl of the office toilet. Partially digested kernels of rice from the
nasi uduk
I had eaten the night before still clung inside of the porcelain bowl. I wearily sat down on the bathroom floor still facing the toilet seat. No more than a second later I heard the sound of someone—I knew it was Alam—bounding through the door. I could feel him gently embrace me from behind but I could do nothing but cry.
Merde, merde
. The tears fell faster.

A half hour later I was still sitting listlessly in a chair in the middle room. On the side table beside me was a glass of warm water Alam had placed there. Ujang had given me some kind of mentholated oil in a small green bottle, which he told me to rub on my temples, but the smell of it almost made me want to retch again.

Mita now looked much calmer and was putting together an inventory of items that had been damaged, stolen, or destroyed. I was continually having to wipe away my tears.