Me, a mysterious killer<\/p>\n
By Agus Noor<\/p>\n
The scorching tropical sun is really unfriendly today. Even
\nunder a shady tree, where I stand watching angry students vent
\ntheir rage at a government policy, I feel the intolerable heat.<\/p>\n
The young people carrying posters bearing malicious slogans,
\nwield their fists and shout thunderously against the authorities.
\n\"Now our people are united. Nobody can crush their power,\" they
\nbark. The road is lined by thousands of people shouting support
\nfor the students' cause.<\/p>\n
In this situation anybody can be easily incited to join a
\nprotest rally. I strongly believe it will soon erupt into a riot
\nin which the students and troops will clash.<\/p>\n
I grab the gun which is attached to my belt and covered by my
\njacket. But in my heart I first have to answer a question: Do I
\nhave to shoot more students today? If only I had the freedom to
\ndecide I would say \"No.\" How at peace I would be if I had the
\nfreedom to stay at home, taking a nap while listening to
\ndangdut*) music on the radio. Or smoking clove cigarettes while
\ndaydreaming.<\/p>\n
But who I am to have such a beautiful afternoon when the
\ncountry is still deep in a political crisis? I'm only a low-
\nranking soldier, who has been ordered to carry out the mysterious
\nkilling of radical students.<\/p>\n
However, please don't think that I have no conscience. Believe
\nme, I hate this situation because in my heart I am not a killer.
\nMany people tend to accuse me and my fellow soldiers of being men
\ntrained to shoot and kill those who oppose policies introduced by
\nthe regime. I don't mean to deny it, but please believe me that
\nduty like this gives me a sense of being alone and empty inside.<\/p>\n
Sometimes when I see dead bodies scattered in the streets and
\nfresh blood everywhere and the incessant cries of innocent people
\nI weep in my heart. How tormenting it is. Often I wake up during
\nthe night. I feel uneasy breathing, and my life ceases to have
\nmeaning. I am haunted by a sense of guilt.<\/p>\n
While I was deep in my soul-searching under the tree, my
\nwalkie-talkie bleeped. I pick up the ear plugs and put them in my
\nears. I first hear the sound of the wind blowing fast, and after
\nthat a familiar voice. While listening to my superior's
\ninstructions I watch the mounting student movement.<\/p>\n
By now it appears even more likely that a clash is
\nunavoidable. Now the young men start stoning the soldiers, who
\nretaliate by hurling tear gas canisters. The students then set
\nfire to military vehicles.<\/p>\n
The troops act to halt the students' advance and continue to
\nhurl tear gas canisters. Gradually the students retreat. Amid
\nthis chaotic situation the orders I receive through the walkie-
\ntalkie are clear. I have to move and shoot them.<\/p>\n
To tell the truth, I'm a mysterious killer. But please
\nunderstand that no sane person would aspire to be a hit man.
\nAll I dreamed about as a young boy was to be a military officer.
\nMy hero was my father. I enjoy looking at a photo of him, which
\nto this day still hangs on the wall. In it he is wearing a
\nveteran's uniform.<\/p>\n
I also liked to listen to the heroic stories about his role in
\nthe war for independence in the 1940s. He was a good story-
\nteller. The way he described his experiences was so real that I
\nfelt like I was really hearing the sound of bullets fly past my
\nears. I could also hear the noise of enemy machine guns from
\nafar.<\/p>\n
I also imagined one dark night that I was crawling in the
\nbrush beside my father in an effort to reach the Dutch defense
\nline under a rain of bullets. In a bad situation we also
\nretreated to a darker forest while carrying a soldier who had
\nbeen seriously wounded in the leg. When we reached a village,
\nlocal people warmly welcomed us, lending us their helping hands.
\nThey seemed to have prepared food and fruit for us.<\/p>\n
My father continued his story: \"They were the happiest moments
\nof my life, son, because I saw how great the people's love for
\nthe soldiers was. My advise to you is: If one day you become a
\nsoldier never intentionally hurt the people's feelings.\"<\/p>\n
Now I'm a soldier, for which my father never tried to hide his
\npride. Every time I arrived home he would boastfully welcome me,
\n\"Oh, how handsome you are, son.\"<\/p>\n
Now assigned close to the battle field in readiness to punish
\nthe students, I try to imagine what my father would say to me if
\nhe was still alive. Would he express the same sense of pride?<\/p>\n
The road is now an arena of chaos, blanketed by dark smoke.
\nThe sound of gunshots is deafening. Many students run to safety.
\nI watch as some of them are gunned down. But I also see my
\nfather's ghost emerge from the smoke. He angrily stares at me,
\nbut after a while he disappears.<\/p>\n
Sometimes I feel that the burden of the nightmare is too heavy
\nfor me. I should rid myself of it as soon as possible. But what
\nwould I do? Quit the military? No way, business is not my line.
\nSo every time I feel tortured by the guilt I try to distract
\nmyself by thinking of the hardship of overcoming temptations that
\nGod puts in my way. He must have predestined me to be soldier.<\/p>\n
When I pray I always express hope that the Almighty will
\nunderstand and pardon my actions. Praying gives me a sense of
\npeace. And apart from all the obscene actions, I'm a humble
\nhusband and a good father to two children. I am fully responsible
\nfor their daily necessities. On the other hand, as a soldier I
\nhave to take orders from my commandant. And my main duty is to
\nkill those who challenge the authorities. My colleagues have said
\nthat I'm the fastest gun alive. It seems that for that reason I
\nwas assigned to the Army unit of sharp shooters.<\/p>\n
In my journey as a hit man I have gunned down thousands of
\npeople, not just criminal suspects but also opposition leaders,
\nantigovernment activists, some of whom I and my colleagues
\nkidnapped before we sent them to hell.<\/p>\n
Many times I've asked myself why I became the best sharp
\nshooter in the regiment and why not the worst. They say even a
\nbad sharp shooter from the Army can still make money out of his
\nduty.<\/p>\n
But I live modestly. I and my family occupy a one-room house
\nwhich has a small, dark kitchen with running water, although the
\nwater supply cuts off from time to time.<\/p>\n
If I were a civil servant I would be luckier, perhaps, because
\nthen I could get could supplement my income with kickbacks from
\nillicit business practices, etc. If I was an activist working for
\na non-governmental organization I could save some money from
\nforeign aid for myself. I make this comparison so that the people
\ncan try to understand me and my colleagues, instead of berating
\nus every day.<\/p>\n
It is true that I shot dead students who were holding an
\nantigovernment rally in Jakarta the other day, but it was not at
\nmy own initiative. I did as I was told.<\/p>\n
While I was brooding on this problem my walkie-talkie bleeped
\nagain. Through the earphones I got an order, a very clear one. I
\ngrabbed my long gun. After scrambling up to the roof of a
\nbuilding and positioning myself, I aim my weapon at the crowd of
\nstudents on the main road. They are trying to pull down the
\nbarricades, set fire to car tires.<\/p>\n
Troops guard the road under the clover-leaf bridge. It is
\ndusk. I ask myself when the demonstration will end, but find no
\nanswer. What I am witnessing is brave students who give no sign
\nof relenting after a full day of displaying their outrage.<\/p>\n
I am sure that it has never crossed their minds how tired the
\ntroops have become, soldiers who always have to be combat-ready
\nwhile their families restlessly wait at home for them. The people
\ntend to consider military duty as a consequence of a soldier's
\nchoice. But is falling victim to a clash in a demonstration a
\nconsequence of a holding demonstration?<\/p>\n
The evening is darker now. Through infra-red binoculars I can
\nclearly see the students gathering in the middle of the road.
\nWill they stay like this until midnight? I have no idea. But I
\nalso see many people distributing food to the young men. The
\nstudents relish it. I myself am dead hungry because I have had
\nonly one biscuit since morning. Two biscuits remain in my pocket
\nbut I have no desire to touch them.<\/p>\n
I wonder what my wife is doing at home at the moment. I am
\nsure she is watching the student activities broadcast on TV. She
\nnever misses news on demonstrations, not because she is
\ninterested in politics but because she is eager to know what her
\nhusband is doing.<\/p>\n
I remember one night in particular. Before she fell asleep
\nbeside me, while staring at the low ceiling, she said in a low
\nvoice: \"Darling, I'm concerned about your safety.\"<\/p>\n
I took a deep breath and looked at her pensive face. And I
\nwondered what was really on her mind.<\/p>\n
She seemed to be more serious this time. She posed another
\nquestion: \"So were you amid the students?\"<\/p>\n
\"Hmm.\"<\/p>\n
\"Did you shoot them?\"<\/p>\n
I did not answer.<\/p>\n
I wished to hug her to convince her that I would be OK, but
\nthe walkie-talkie suddenly bleeped. I jumped and grabbed the gun
\nfrom under the pillow, put it on my hip, donned my military
\njacket and readied myself to go. Before I left we glanced at each
\nother without saying anything. She looked like she wished to say
\nsomething but didn't have the strength to do so.<\/p>\n
\"I'm scared,\" she said in a voice that trembled.<\/p>\n
\"Hmm.\"<\/p>\n
\"I'm worried about our daughter.\" Her eyes were about to shed
\ntears.<\/p>\n
I did not have time to say anything. I hopped out but my heart
\nwas disturbingly intimidated.<\/p>\n
Arriving at the trouble spot my mind was still disturbed by my
\nwife's dismay. I understood that she was not only worried about
\nmy safety but also that of Iza, our oldest daughter. To tell the
\ntruth my wife's anxiety was also mine.<\/p>\n
Iza is a very active university student, and is very involved
\nin student activities. I have repeatedly warned her to keep out
\nof politics, but she said: \"I'm grown up, Papa, I know what I
\nshould do.\"<\/p>\n
Since then we rarely talk any more, although I've had never
\ntried to force my opinion on the current political situation on
\nher. Besides, every day Iza leaves home very early. It seems she
\navoids having any conversations with me.<\/p>\n
Lately we meet less and less. Iza rarely comes home. She told
\nher mother that she has to spend her nights with fellow students
\nat the campus. I understand that Iza might hate my activities. As
\na father I do feel myself in an awkward position.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, a voice from the walkie-talker disrupts my musing.<\/p>\n
\"Spider One,\" it calls.<\/p>\n
\"Ready,\" I reply. There is an important order for me.<\/p>\n
I listen to it carefully, and then I notice a fire break out
\nnearby, close to the campus. Panic-stricken people run to safety.
\nThree trucks of troops pass by amid the wailing sound of sirens.
\nCurious students run fast toward the campus. I aim my gun at
\nthem. I am awed by their bravery, although I do not really
\nunderstand what they stand for. Do they aspire to be heroes? What
\nkind of heroes? They seem to thrive on false ambition. The most
\nthey will get is a street named after the most radical among them
\nafter he is slain.<\/p>\n
I myself never dreamed for heroism. I'm just a mysterious
\nkiller. My job is to pull the trigger, followed by a quick
\nhissing sound, and watch a student fall.<\/p>\n
Several hours later, I am absolutely exhausted but still have
\nto inspect the situation at other places. Burned cars are
\nscattered everywhere. Curious onlookers venture out to see what
\nthe riot left behind. They are no challenge to me. I did want to
\ngo home but than changed my mind after I realized I would not
\nfind anything exciting there. I decide to sit at a small food
\nstall on the roadside and drink a bottle of locally brewed
\nalcohol. It is cheap and tastes good, refreshing enough to make
\nme forget the ugly demonstration.<\/p>\n
At the corner I see a poor old man dozing off. He looks very
\nworn and tenuous. He seems to need food or at least compassion.
\nBut I do not care. I just imagine that I might be as pitiful and
\npenniless as him when I get old. Meanwhile, the radio placed
\nnearby continuously reports the ongoing chaotic situation in
\nJakarta.<\/p>\n
I ask for another bottle of alcohol. The stall owner gives me
\nwhat I want, while collecting empty bottles and cleaning the
\ntables.<\/p>\n
\"Do you want to close the shop now?\" I ask him.<\/p>\n
\"Yes, I've to go home. I'm scared, riots have taken place in
\nevery cook and cranny of the city,\" he says.<\/p>\n
I care little about how he feels. The whole situation disgusts
\nme.<\/p>\n
\"Can I sit here for a few more minutes?\"
\nHe says OK. It is nothing to him because the stall has neither
\nwalls nor a door.<\/p>\n
Hours later, I leave the stall and go straight home. It is the
\nwee hours and I have a headache. Arriving home I find my wife
\nwaiting for me at the front door. I greet her with a smile but
\nshe does not react as expected. Her eyes are brimming with tears.<\/p>\n
\"What has happened?\" I asked.<\/p>\n
\"Iza has been killed by a bullet,\" she says, embracing me and
\nsobbing. Her warm eyes fall on one of my shoulders. I tremble.<\/p>\n
-- Translated by TIS<\/p>\n
*) Indonesian songs which are heavily influenced by Indian music.<\/p>", "url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/me-a-mysterious-killer-1447893297", "image": "" }, "sponsor": "Okusi Associates", "sponsor_url": "https:\/\/okusiassociates.com" }