I’ve seen the darkness that men do. Not the kind that
slithers out from under beds or howls at the moon—though sometimes I think that’d
be easier to fight. No, the worst kind of monster wears a suit and sits behind
a mahogany desk, making decrees that crush souls while smiling for the cameras.
In Jakarta, they called him “Father.” President Soeharto.
The way folks might talk about the town patriarch who everyone respects but
nobody really knows. You ever notice how in small towns—and sometimes in
not-so-small nations—there’s always someone who gets to decide what’s best for
everyone else?
This Father, though… he didn’t just send you to your room
when you stepped out of line. He rewrote the goddamn rules of the house.
The Javanese Household
The thing about power in Indonesia during what they called
the “New Order” is that it wasn’t just political—it was cultural, woven into
the fabric of society like the threads in one of those batik patterns tourists
buy in Yogyakarta. The state wasn’t a government; it was a household. And in a
Javanese household, Father’s word might as well be carved in stone.
Mikul dhuwur mendhem jero. That’s what the old folks
said. “Lift high and bury deep.” Respect the Father, hide his sins. It’s funny
how pretty words can justify ugly things.
I knew a kid once who got beaten black and blue by his old
man. Neighbors knew. Teachers knew. But nobody did a damn thing because, well,
that was family business. Private. Sacred.
Indonesia wasn’t so different, just larger scale. Sixty
million “children” learning to keep their mouths shut.
The Minister’s First Move
Two weeks. That’s how long it took Daoed Joesoef after
becoming Minister of Education to drop the hammer. April 19, 1978—a date that
would make university students shudder the way Halloween makes the kids nervous.
Normalization of Campus Life. NKK. Such a harmless name,
like those prescription medications they advertise on TV where they show happy
families playing in fields while a soothing voice quickly mumbles all the side
effects. May cause totalitarian control, suppression of critical thinking,
and death of democracy. Consult your dictator if symptoms persist.
The following month brought the Student Coordination
Body—BKK—like a second punch after you’re already dizzy from the first. The
government line was that they wanted to “reorganize” student groups, make
universities “scientific institutions” again. Keep politics out of education.
Sure. And Cujo was just a misunderstood puppy.
The Sleeping Pill
The Father was prescribing sleeping pills to a generation.
Not the kind you swallow—the kind that swallows you. The kind that paralyzes
your mind while leaving your body functioning.
This didn’t come from nowhere. Reality rarely does. There’s
always a build-up, a history. Like how you can’t understand why the Overlook
Hotel wants to possess little Danny without knowing its bloody past.
January 15, 1974. They call it Malari now, short for “January
Disaster.” Six thousand students in the streets. Two power-hungry men—Ali
Moertopo and Soemitro—playing chess with human pawns, each trying to impress
the King.
But in every horror story, there’s always collateral damage.
Always innocent blood.
Seven hundred seventy-five students locked up. One hundred
twenty with minor injuries. Seventeen seriously wounded. Eleven dead.
Let that sink in. Eleven students. Dead. Young folks with
dreams and bad haircuts and half-finished term papers who woke up that morning
not knowing they’d never see another sunrise.
The Second Wave
September 9, 1977. End of the legislative term. Students saw
their chance, formed their own shadow parliament. Bold move. Desperate move.
Their goal was simple and terrifying: stop Soeharto from getting a third term.
The kids got gutsy. Universities across the archipelago
erupted like a string of firecrackers lit at both ends. They fought back
against Minister Sjarief Thayeb’s Decree No. 028/U/1974, a document that might
as well have been written in barbed wire for all the freedom it left them.
They weren’t just angry; they were threatening to topple the
Father himself.
Power doesn’t take kindly to threats. On January 21, 1978,
Pangkopkamtib Decree No. 02/Kopkam/1978 came down like a headsman’s axe,
suspending student councils nationwide.
Then came Daoed Joesoef, the new Minister, the “fixer” sent
to clean up what his predecessor couldn’t. The architect of nightmares.
The Occupation
Ever notice how the most horrifying things happen in the
most ordinary places? A high school prom. A small hotel in the mountains. A
sleepy town in Maine.
Or a university campus in Jakarta.
November 3, 1979. Students at the University of Indonesia
decided they’d had enough. They occupied their campus overnight, gave speeches
until their voices went hoarse, and—in what might be the most poignant gesture
of defiance—lowered the flag to half-mast.
The response was swift and merciless.
University Rector Mahar Hardjono—imagine your high school
principal, but with the power to crush your entire future—banned the Student
Family Association statutes. Student councils dissolved like bodies in acid.
At Gadjah Mada University, sixteen student coordinators
stormed the rector’s office. They might as well have been storming Castle Rock’s
sheriff station during a full moon.
“Normalization has no right to interfere with interests
created by students, for students, and from students,” they declared.
Pretty words. Brave words. Words that bounced off the walls
of power like pebbles off a tank.
The Unlikely Allies
Then something strange happened. Something unexpected, like
when the town drunk suddenly becomes the hero.
The Indonesian parliament—the DPR—the very body students had
written off as Father’s lapdogs, started growling at the master.
Commission IX challenged the legality of NKK/BKK. They
argued that education policy needed proper legislation, not just a minister’s
signature. They said it violated Pancasila—Indonesia’s five founding
principles—and the 1945 Constitution.
Twenty-five members—twenty-one from the Development Party
Fraction and four from the Indonesian Democratic Party Fraction—filed a
lawsuit. H.M. Sjafi’i became their voice.
For a moment, just a moment, it looked like the system might
correct itself. Like maybe there was still hope.
The Plenary
February 11, 1980. The plenary session. Three hundred
eighty-two DPR members gathered while forty students watched from the gallery.
Five hundred more waited in the lobby, hearts pounding, hope dangling by a
thread.
One hundred one votes for the interpellation. Two hundred
seventy-nine against. Game over.
The majority of those against? The Armed Forces Fraction. No
surprise there. In horror stories, the military rarely sides with the
teenagers.
Akbar Tanjung, speaking for the opposition, called the whole
thing an exaggeration. Said tensions between campus bureaucracy and students
were “mere rumors.” Called the interpellators provocateurs exploiting emotions.
It’s always the same, isn’t it? Call the victims crazy.
Gaslighting on a national scale.
The Aftermath
The interpellation failed. NKK/BKK stayed. But something had
shifted.
The DPR had shown a pulse, however faint. For the first time
in years, they’d reached for public involvement in policy decisions.
Sometimes, in the darkest stories, that’s the best you can
hope for—not a happy ending, but a sign that not everyone is asleep. That
someone is still fighting.
Because that’s the thing about Father figures who rule
through fear—they can put you to sleep, but they can’t control what you dream.
And sometimes, those dreams become tomorrow’s revolution.
Just ask anyone who survived the New Order. They’ll tell
you: the deepest darkness comes right before dawn.
And Jakarta has seen some very dark nights indeed.
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