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JAKARTA, DECEMBER
1964

A
kretek
was like a symbol for us. After a long discussion and sometimes heated debate about politics and the nation's state of affairs at the office, we would often end the discussion with a cup of thick black coffee and a
kretek
cigarette at Senen Market. At that time, in late 1964, Jakarta was a city that was neither calm nor comfortable.

The office of Nusantara News on Jalan Asem Lama seemed to have running through it some kind of demarcation line separating members of political camps. On one side were members of the Communist Party; people who sympathized with Party goals; members of LEKRA, a cultural organization with close links to the Party; and even people who simply liked to spend time with the artists who belonged to this organization, the League of People's Culture. On the other side and at the opposite end of the political spectrum were staff members who shunned anything that might be labeled leftist. Among them was my friend, Bang Amir, who was pro-Masyumi, the Islamic political party founded by Natsir, whose pan-Islamic philosophy was antithetical to leftist thought. As for me, I was a bit on the fence. I supported Marxist ideals and enjoyed reading all the books that Mas Hananto gave me on the subject; I enthusiastically listened to political discussions between Mas Hananto and other colleagues in the editorial room, and it wasn't rare to find me tagging along with them as they continued their debate over coffee at Kadir's stall in Senen Market. Even so, I also liked, and found much comfort in, talking to Bang Amir about things of a more religious or spiritual nature.

But that sense of wonder stopped at my body, not my soul.

Both Mas Hananto and Mas Nugroho strongly believed in the virtues of socialism, but I saw numerous weak points in their theories and, even in the face of Mas Hananto's derision, I continued to stand by my view that while there are some things that the government should ultimately be responsible for—public health and services, to name two—there are other things that are far better left entrusted to the private sector.

Lately, I had felt the political temperature in Jakarta rise precipitously, nearing the boiling point. At the top of my mind was the ever more strident war between LEKRA artists, who clung to the notion that art only has value if it serves to promote awareness of social issues, and artists who did not belong to the League and upheld the principles of individuality and humanitarianism. I then thought of literature. A literary work was, for me at least, a matter of the heart. Just because its theme or story line involved the struggle of farmers or laborers didn't mean it would have an enlightening effect. That power came from the ability of the work to touch the heart of its reader. In this matter, in particular, I was greatly at odds with Mas Hananto's point of view.

Hananto Prawiro… He was not just my superior; he was also my friend. I called him “Mas,” after all, the Javanese term of address for a man older than oneself with whom one is a friend. But he was also my guru and my mentor. Mas Hananto, head of the foreign desk at Nusantara News, was constantly lending me books he thought might help to expand my world view—which he deemed to be excessively tainted by bourgeois thought and opinion. Novels like
Madame Bovary
, for instance; plays like
Waiting for Godot
; and all of Joyce's work, for that matter, he criticized as being self-indulgent.

“They're playing with their belly buttons!” he said of such
writers one day as he was flipping through
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
“They're not concerned with this world; they ignore class differences and poverty.”

“But Joyce, through his alter ego, Stephen Dedalus, is trying to find himself through religion and art. I feel the process to be entirely rational,” I argued, trying to explain myself in a manner not even entirely convincing to myself. I had read the novel several times and never found myself bored by it. Dedalus is both a tragic and humorous figure. Sure, he might be a tad too serious about himself at times, but was Mas Hananto unable to see the bitter humor underlying such a work?

Mas Hananto had the most annoying habit of often repeating his views and opinions, so much so, I swear, that if my ears could have replied they would have screamed that he was merely sputtering clichés. Among Marxist followers in Indonesia, social-realist jargon was sacred. And anyone who wanted to curry favor with the editor-in-chief, a man who happened to be close to Communist Party leaders, had only to drop such terms or quote a few lines from
The Mother
and then act as if he had read the entire book to gain access to the editor-in-chief's inner circle of colleagues.

For me, Gorky's novel, which had been translated into Indonesian by Pramoedya Ananta Toer, was boring beyond belief. All its focus was on social issues with no concern for style or literary execution. My thought was that if the only thing a writer is concerned with is social issues, then he had better not write novels or poetry; he'd best stick to writing speeches or propaganda essays instead.

Mas Hananto once referred to me as a “Wibisono,” the younger brother of the ogre king Rahwana in the
Ramayana
, who allied himself with Rama, his brother's foe. But in Indonesian politics,
I didn't know who was Rahwana and who was Rama. What I did know was that Mas Hananto didn't quite know what to make of my views; they weren't straight forward like his. And, frankly, if I were going to be called by the name of any character from the legendary Javanese pantheon, it probably would be Bima, who, among the five Pandawa brothers, was the one with the softest heart. Even though Bima fell head over heels in love with Drupadi, when his older brother Arjuna made known his desire to have her, Bima willing stepped aside. Oh, and by the way, this reference to Bima has no relation to past Indonesian politics, but everything to do with my former love life.

Mas Hananto knew that the way to deal with me was not through a battle of wills or disputation of my tastes. He knew I had little regard for the novels that he praised for their defense of the masses. I once rebuked him by asking if it wasn't the case that we were supposed to be defending all of humanity, not just the proletariat. Why couldn't we inculcate the concept of embracing the humanity that is found in all of us? Mas Hananto guffawed at my comment. But, unlike Mas Nugroho, whose hackles would rise because of my argumentative manner, Mas Hananto seemed to take on the role of a patient older brother trying to educate his whining younger sibling. That was why, even with the demarcation line running through the office, dividing friends and foes of the Communist Party, I seemed to reside in a kind of Swiss neutral zone, and was able to move from one side to another and to engage with Bang Amir and his friends.

I called Amir “Bang,” a term of address that derives from
abang
or “older brother,” because he was indeed like an older brother for me. Also a journalist at the Nusantara News, Bang Amir was highly critical of “Bung” or “Comrade” Sukarno, judging the president
guilty of too closely embracing the Communist Party leadership and also of having imprisoned Mohammad Natsir, the former prime minister and one of the country's top religious leaders, on charges of treason.

What with the constant wrangling between the two camps in the office and especially because the editor-in-chief had allied himself with Mas Hananto and Mas Nugroho, who were committed leftists, my in-between position was sometimes an uncomfortable one. Yes, Bang Amir was vocal in his opinions, but he was also a top-notch journalist, and when he was abruptly moved to the marketing and advertising division, I thought the move not only surprising but an insult both to him and to our profession. Regardless of the fact that “marketing and advertising” is essential to the success of a company or institution, Bang Amir was our best reporter. With his easy-going manner, he was able to get along with and, in fact, had become close to the leaders of all the political parties—except for the Communist Party, that is, whose leadership Mas Hananto claimed as
his
key source. Furthermore, as a writer, Bang Amir was both fast and effective, the very characteristics a news agency needs in a journalist.

“Why do you mean, an ‘insult'?” Mas Hananto asked me in a shrill voice when I criticized the editor-in-chief's decision to transfer Bang Amir.

“Because it's idiotic, transferring Bang Amir like that. It was obviously done for political reasons. Isn't that so?” I asked Mas Hananto in turn. “And if that's the case, it's a bad decision.”

Mas Hananto looked at me sourly but he didn't refute my accusation. “And where is there not politics in life?” he asked instead—another habit that infuriated me, always answering a question with one of his own. Just because he was my superior,
my mentor, and better than me in many respects, it didn't mean he was always right. Sure, everything was political, but to have “exiled” Bang Amir for
any
reason—and this was for sheer political reasons—wasn't the right thing to do. And not only was it not right; it wasn't fair.

“In every struggle, we have to be ready for times that require sacrifice,” Mas Hananto told me.

God, I thought, now he's sounding like Bung Karno. What was the connection between the so-called struggle and Bang Amir's transfer?

The scowl on my face appeared to make Mas Hananto uneasy, but I was angry and I wanted him to know it. Apparently sensing this and also knowing that if he tried to counter me our argument would only grow worse, he wisely turned and walked away.

That evening I decided to visit Bang Amir at his home, which was just a
becak
-ride from Nusantara News, on a small and shady side street off Salemba Boulevard. His wife Saidah—a woman with wonderfully long wavy hair and the tender voice of a mother who never seemed angry or impatient—answered my knock on the door. She invited me in and ushered me to the living room.

“Bang Amir is praying. He won't be long. I'll make some coffee,” she said as she retreated to the kitchen in the back.

I nodded. Looking down at the coffee table in front of my chair, I saw
Capita Selecta
, one of Natsir's works, and several other titles as well along with a notebook and a fountain pen with its cap on. I knew that Bang Amir was a Masyumi follower, of course; and though I hardly knew Natsir himself and had scant knowledge of the ideology behind his Masyumi Party, the man struck me as being courteous and sincere. One day, in a conversation with Bang Amir at the office, he started talking about Natsir and told
me how he hoped that Natsir would soon be released from the prison in Malang where he was being held. Unfortunately, because of a news deadline, we were never able to finish this conversation.

“Dimas Suryo …”

Bang Amir had a low and deep voice, like that of the popular bass vocalist, Rahmat Kartolo. Sometimes I found myself talking to him just to hear the rhythmic cadence of his sultry voice. But I was interested in what he had to say—and not just his criticism of the editor-in-chief, whose management style seemed to derive from herd instinct; I was interested in his other thoughts and ideas as well.

I stood to greet Bang Amir and we warmly shook hands. I stopped myself from blurting out how shocked I was not to see him in the editorial room, but I guessed he was able to intuit the reason for my visit, namely a sense of solidarity with him as a fellow journalist and editor. I'm sure he also guessed that I strongly disagreed with the editor-in-chief's decision to transfer him to another section. Whatever the case, we jumped into ready conversation, talking about this and that, while drinking
tubruk
coffee and smoking
kretek
, completely skirting the subject that was on each other's mind.

During the course of our conversation, Bang Amir revealed how he had come to meet his wife Saidah. Their first meeting was at the wedding of a friend, he told me, and when they looked at each other, they had immediately fallen in love. Amir stressed that as long as Saidah was beside him, he would be able to overcome whatever peril might befall him. “Even a transfer to the marketing division,” he added sardonically, finally entering that taboo domain. “When I pray, I always thank God for having given me Saidah to stand beside me. Without her, I would be a boat adrift. With her, I am able to maintain my balance and feel calm.”

As if having said enough about the sensitive issue, Bang Amir immediately segued into commentary of a more spiritual nature. “I believe that Allah shows the blessings He has bestowed on me by providing, inside myself, a small and private space, a little vacuum as it were, which only He and I occupy. And it is in there I go, Dimas, whenever I am trying to understand what is happening.