Dimas laughed and mussed his daughter’s hair. “In the ’60s, before I left Jakarta, the political situation was explosive. You were either on the left or the right. You were red, pink, green, or maybe even greenish. Jargon and catchphrases were an essential element of any kind of discussion or discourse. There were all kinds of accusations thrown around. Nouns instead of adjectives were used to describe you. You might be a ‘Manipol,’ a person who supported the ‘Political Manifesto’ that Sukarno espoused. Then too, you might be a ‘Nekolim,’ standing for a person bent on ‘Neo-colonialism and Imperialism.’ If not one of those, you might be a ‘Revolusi’ or a ‘Kontra-Revolusi,’ a person who either supported the goals of the revolution or was against them. These are just a few of the terms that were being thrown around, but there were hundreds of other epithets, atrocious acronyms, most of them not worth remembering, much less studied or researched. The point is, in that time, Indonesia had no neutral zone. There was no gray: you were black or white, either with ‘us’ or ‘them.’”
Lintang listened to her father with rapt attention. She had never really discussed Indonesian political history with her father before.
“I was friends with everyone,” he added, “with Om Hananto, Om Nug, and so on… Well, I wasn’t completely of one mind with the editor-in-chief of Nusantara News Agency, where I worked at the time, but I was friends with Amir, or ‘Bang Amir,’ as I called him. Even so, I was seen to be in bed with leftists and had committed acts of political fornication with them. As such I was a Red, a Communist Party supporter. I won’t dwell on this. That was the risk for anyone who did not want to choose. Not to choose was seen as the same thing as making a choice.”
“Who’s Bang Amir?” Lintang asked.
“Bang Amir was a member of the Masyumi Party. There were two political parties that Sukarno banned: the Socialist Party and Masyumi. …You’ll have to read up on Indonesian political party history to keep all the characters and factions straight.” His eyes studied his shelves of books.
“Later, Ayah. I can look myself. But I’m curious about this Bang Amir.”
“Amir is my friend, Mohamad Amir Jayadi. I don’t know how it happened really, but for whatever reason, we were close and saw eye to eye on many things. A lot of the things he said seemed logical to me. Maybe I couldn’t always grasp Natsir’s reasoning — that’s Mohammad Natsir, chairman of the Masyumi political party and one of the country’s leading Muslim thinkers at the time — but Bang Amir was able to make me think about spirituality without having to link it to organized religion.” Dimas looked enlivened and leaned towards Lintang. She followed suit, leaning closer towards him. “Spirituality was something older and deeper than religion, something that was honorable and integral to the essence of mankind. When I talked to Bang Amir, it was like two normal people talking, without all the trappings of color, symbols, parties, ideologies, or groups. We spoke together as friends, as two reporters curious about the relationship between man — that small and finite creature — and the greatness of nature.”
Lintang felt that her father was entering an area completely foreign to her, but she savored it.
“Did he — Bang Amir, that is — share the view that you had committed political fornication?”
Dimas shook his head slowly. “No, he didn’t.”
Lintang could see that her father thought highly and fondly of this man, that he had not been her father’s political enemy.
“He wasn’t the kind of person given to sticking political labels on everyone. By the way, that term is one that I came up with after years of trying to figure out why I was never able to obtain permission to go back to Indonesia.” Dimas took another breath, then exhaled. “And that’s what you have to be ready for: that you too will be seen in the same light. They see it as an inherited sin. Will you be able to deal with that kind of small-minded prejudice? With having people shun you for the blood you carry in your veins?”
“I think I can. What with all the documentaries I’ve watched and with all the books I’ve read…”
Dimas raised his hand. “Watching and reading are very different from experiencing, my sweet.” He then took her face in his hands. “It’s a terrible thing to experience, one that could haunt you for the rest of your life.”
Lintang knew her father was right. Ever since childhood, she had a capacious mind and a gift for detail. Past events were as clear for her today as when she had experienced them: the feel of the grass and the smoothness of gravestones at the Père Lachaise cemetery when she visited as a child; the pungent scent of spices in her parents’ kitchen when her father prepared Indonesian food; the gaiety of discovering a secondhand book at Antoine Martin’s bookstall; the titles of books that lined the shelves at Shakespeare & Co. She remembered everything very clearly. Not only could she remember all the events that had happened in her life, but she was able to remember their sensations and smells. Yes, indeed, her father was right. If anything bad were to happen to her, she would not be who she is if she could expunge that experience from her memory.
“I want you to be prepared,” her father went on. “Your decision to make a documentary film will not be easy to carry out. Will you need permits? I cannot imagine the trouble you’d have if you were to seek official permission, especially with my name on the back of yours. You know, don’t you, that most former political prisoners use pseudonyms when they write for the mass media and that their children don’t use their father’s name?”
Lintang nodded. “I know that, Ayah. I read about that; but, still, I’ve never felt more prepared than I do now.”
“One more thing,” Dimas added. “I know that you know — from articles in the paper and news on the television — that Indonesia is going through a very unstable period at this time.”
“Yes, I know. President Soeharto installed his daughter as Minister for Social Affairs and packed the cabinet with his cronies! That stuff has been widely covered by the media.”
“I know,” Dimas agreed. “Ever since the Asian economic crisis at the end of last year, problems have been growing: economic, political, and social. Indonesia appears to be on the brink of chaos. In this situation, not only will it be difficult for you to focus on your work, but you yourself might be put in danger’s way. You must be very careful.”
“I will be,” she promised.
“If your mind is made up and you are going to do this, Om Nug and I will send messages to friends and family members who will be able to help you locate sources. But before we can do this, you must clearly define what your film is to be about. Once you’ve done that, we will do everything we can to help.”
Lintang leaned against her father’s shoulder and smiled. “Oui … Merci, Ayah.”
Dimas smiled. Beginning to feel the effect of the medicine he had taken and the drowsiness it induced, he yawned.
Lintang felt it was time to speak of something she had been avoiding for months. “About that argument of ours, Ayah, I…”
Dimas waved his hand, a sign that he’d already forgotten about it. He closed his eyes as he leaned against the arm of the sofa. “I’ll just lie down. I’m not sleepy yet.”
Lintang rose to give her father more room to rest. No sooner had he stretched out on the sofa than he fell asleep. Lintang covered her father with a blanket. He looked pale and tired. Lintang leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.