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.
Mita again came to me and put her hand on my shoulder. Her voice was calm and without emotion: “Lintang, listen to me. You have to calm down. The more miserable you are, the happier they’ll feel. That’s what terrorism is about. We know who did this and we know why. That’s how they operate.”
All I could think of was my lost work. Monsieur Dupont’s comments. “But all my recordings, Mita… All the interviews for my final assignment: Pramoedya, Djoko, Tante Surti, Om Aji, Bimo, and all the other former political prisoners and political observers… All of them are gone, along with my laptop, my notes, my schedule planner.”
At that moment, Alam appeared with my video camera in his hand. It was a bit worse for wear, but it hadn’t been destroyed.
I yelped with glee and threw my arms around him, but he quickly extricated himself from my embrace. Odi was smiling broadly at the sight — perhaps their first smile since earlier that morning.
“I found your laptop, too,” Alam said, “beneath one of the benches. It probably needs a re-boot, but try not to be so down. I’m sure everything will be fine. We’ll get everything taken care of, one by one.”
I suddenly found myself embarrased. My loss was nothing compared to the damage the office had incurred, much less the suffering of the former political prisoners and the members of their families I had interviewed. What was the value of this material, collected in only a few weeks’ time, compared to the lost years of people’s lives?
“Thank you,” I blurted out, once again about ready to burst into tears, not because of my own predicament but because of the patience and kindness everyone had shown to me. Alam patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry for being so childish and thinking only about myself. Forgive me, please. Did you lose much stuff?”
I felt ashamed for not having asked this question before and for not having immediately pitched in to help them put the office back in order. I took a deep breath and stood up, then began to help Ujang straighten the desks and bookshelves and drawers that were lying about.
“Yeah, we lost some film footage and some document folders,” Agam said, but more to Alam than to me.
Alam nodded: “OK, I’ll check and see what’s missing.”
They both seemed calm when they spoke. Though obviously upset, they nonetheless were able to remain calm.
I again offered to help but my mind was going all over the place, thinking about what I would say to Professor Dupont. Suddenly, I began to panic again. “I’m going to need to borrow a computer and get online,” I said to Alam. “I have to request an extension from Professor Dupont. And I’ll have to repeat all the interviews with my respondents. This is a force majeure,” I almost shouted. “I have to send an e-mail to Professor Dupont! …Or maybe I should call him. Yes, that would be better. I should call him!”
Mita stared at me, then said to Alam, “Alam, why don’t you take Lintang to your house and try to get her to calm down. Either that or give the girl a valium.”
Alam smiled at Mita and then told Gilang that he was going to take me to his house and that he would be back as soon as he could.
“Good idea,” Gilang said. He raised his right thumb in agreement with Alam’s suggestion. “Make sure everything’s OK.” He then glanced at me. “And there’s no need to rush back soon.”
“Alright, will do. Can I use your jeep again?”
Gilang waved his hand as if to shoo us out the door. “Take it. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”