Me, a mysterious killer

Me, a mysterious killer

By Agus Noor

The scorching tropical sun is really unfriendly today. Even
under a shady tree, where I stand watching angry students vent
their rage at a government policy, I feel the intolerable heat.

The young people carrying posters bearing malicious slogans,
wield their fists and shout thunderously against the authorities.
"Now our people are united. Nobody can crush their power," they
bark. The road is lined by thousands of people shouting support
for the students' cause.

In this situation anybody can be easily incited to join a
protest rally. I strongly believe it will soon erupt into a riot
in which the students and troops will clash.

I grab the gun which is attached to my belt and covered by my
jacket. But in my heart I first have to answer a question: Do I
have to shoot more students today? If only I had the freedom to
decide I would say "No." How at peace I would be if I had the
freedom to stay at home, taking a nap while listening to
dangdut*) music on the radio. Or smoking clove cigarettes while
daydreaming.

But who I am to have such a beautiful afternoon when the
country is still deep in a political crisis? I'm only a low-
ranking soldier, who has been ordered to carry out the mysterious
killing of radical students.

However, please don't think that I have no conscience. Believe
me, I hate this situation because in my heart I am not a killer.
Many people tend to accuse me and my fellow soldiers of being men
trained to shoot and kill those who oppose policies introduced by
the regime. I don't mean to deny it, but please believe me that
duty like this gives me a sense of being alone and empty inside.

Sometimes when I see dead bodies scattered in the streets and
fresh blood everywhere and the incessant cries of innocent people
I weep in my heart. How tormenting it is. Often I wake up during
the night. I feel uneasy breathing, and my life ceases to have
meaning. I am haunted by a sense of guilt.

While I was deep in my soul-searching under the tree, my
walkie-talkie bleeped. I pick up the ear plugs and put them in my
ears. I first hear the sound of the wind blowing fast, and after
that a familiar voice. While listening to my superior's
instructions I watch the mounting student movement.

By now it appears even more likely that a clash is
unavoidable. Now the young men start stoning the soldiers, who
retaliate by hurling tear gas canisters. The students then set
fire to military vehicles.

The troops act to halt the students' advance and continue to
hurl tear gas canisters. Gradually the students retreat. Amid
this chaotic situation the orders I receive through the walkie-
talkie are clear. I have to move and shoot them.

To tell the truth, I'm a mysterious killer. But please
understand that no sane person would aspire to be a hit man.
All I dreamed about as a young boy was to be a military officer.
My hero was my father. I enjoy looking at a photo of him, which
to this day still hangs on the wall. In it he is wearing a
veteran's uniform.

I also liked to listen to the heroic stories about his role in
the war for independence in the 1940s. He was a good story-
teller. The way he described his experiences was so real that I
felt like I was really hearing the sound of bullets fly past my
ears. I could also hear the noise of enemy machine guns from
afar.

I also imagined one dark night that I was crawling in the
brush beside my father in an effort to reach the Dutch defense
line under a rain of bullets. In a bad situation we also
retreated to a darker forest while carrying a soldier who had
been seriously wounded in the leg. When we reached a village,
local people warmly welcomed us, lending us their helping hands.
They seemed to have prepared food and fruit for us.

My father continued his story: "They were the happiest moments
of my life, son, because I saw how great the people's love for
the soldiers was. My advise to you is: If one day you become a
soldier never intentionally hurt the people's feelings."

Now I'm a soldier, for which my father never tried to hide his
pride. Every time I arrived home he would boastfully welcome me,
"Oh, how handsome you are, son."

Now assigned close to the battle field in readiness to punish
the students, I try to imagine what my father would say to me if
he was still alive. Would he express the same sense of pride?

The road is now an arena of chaos, blanketed by dark smoke.
The sound of gunshots is deafening. Many students run to safety.
I watch as some of them are gunned down. But I also see my
father's ghost emerge from the smoke. He angrily stares at me,
but after a while he disappears.

Sometimes I feel that the burden of the nightmare is too heavy
for me. I should rid myself of it as soon as possible. But what
would I do? Quit the military? No way, business is not my line.
So every time I feel tortured by the guilt I try to distract
myself by thinking of the hardship of overcoming temptations that
God puts in my way. He must have predestined me to be soldier.

When I pray I always express hope that the Almighty will
understand and pardon my actions. Praying gives me a sense of
peace. And apart from all the obscene actions, I'm a humble
husband and a good father to two children. I am fully responsible
for their daily necessities. On the other hand, as a soldier I
have to take orders from my commandant. And my main duty is to
kill those who challenge the authorities. My colleagues have said
that I'm the fastest gun alive. It seems that for that reason I
was assigned to the Army unit of sharp shooters.

In my journey as a hit man I have gunned down thousands of
people, not just criminal suspects but also opposition leaders,
antigovernment activists, some of whom I and my colleagues
kidnapped before we sent them to hell.

Many times I've asked myself why I became the best sharp
shooter in the regiment and why not the worst. They say even a
bad sharp shooter from the Army can still make money out of his
duty.

But I live modestly. I and my family occupy a one-room house
which has a small, dark kitchen with running water, although the
water supply cuts off from time to time.

If I were a civil servant I would be luckier, perhaps, because
then I could get could supplement my income with kickbacks from
illicit business practices, etc. If I was an activist working for
a non-governmental organization I could save some money from
foreign aid for myself. I make this comparison so that the people
can try to understand me and my colleagues, instead of berating
us every day.

It is true that I shot dead students who were holding an
antigovernment rally in Jakarta the other day, but it was not at
my own initiative. I did as I was told.

While I was brooding on this problem my walkie-talkie bleeped
again. Through the earphones I got an order, a very clear one. I
grabbed my long gun. After scrambling up to the roof of a
building and positioning myself, I aim my weapon at the crowd of
students on the main road. They are trying to pull down the
barricades, set fire to car tires.

Troops guard the road under the clover-leaf bridge. It is
dusk. I ask myself when the demonstration will end, but find no
answer. What I am witnessing is brave students who give no sign
of relenting after a full day of displaying their outrage.

I am sure that it has never crossed their minds how tired the
troops have become, soldiers who always have to be combat-ready
while their families restlessly wait at home for them. The people
tend to consider military duty as a consequence of a soldier's
choice. But is falling victim to a clash in a demonstration a
consequence of a holding demonstration?

The evening is darker now. Through infra-red binoculars I can
clearly see the students gathering in the middle of the road.
Will they stay like this until midnight? I have no idea. But I
also see many people distributing food to the young men. The
students relish it. I myself am dead hungry because I have had
only one biscuit since morning. Two biscuits remain in my pocket
but I have no desire to touch them.

I wonder what my wife is doing at home at the moment. I am
sure she is watching the student activities broadcast on TV. She
never misses news on demonstrations, not because she is
interested in politics but because she is eager to know what her
husband is doing.

I remember one night in particular. Before she fell asleep
beside me, while staring at the low ceiling, she said in a low
voice: "Darling, I'm concerned about your safety."

I took a deep breath and looked at her pensive face. And I
wondered what was really on her mind.

She seemed to be more serious this time. She posed another
question: "So were you amid the students?"

"Hmm."

"Did you shoot them?"

I did not answer.

I wished to hug her to convince her that I would be OK, but
the walkie-talkie suddenly bleeped. I jumped and grabbed the gun
from under the pillow, put it on my hip, donned my military
jacket and readied myself to go. Before I left we glanced at each
other without saying anything. She looked like she wished to say
something but didn't have the strength to do so.

"I'm scared," she said in a voice that trembled.

"Hmm."

"I'm worried about our daughter." Her eyes were about to shed
tears.

I did not have time to say anything. I hopped out but my heart
was disturbingly intimidated.

Arriving at the trouble spot my mind was still disturbed by my
wife's dismay. I understood that she was not only worried about
my safety but also that of Iza, our oldest daughter. To tell the
truth my wife's anxiety was also mine.

Iza is a very active university student, and is very involved
in student activities. I have repeatedly warned her to keep out
of politics, but she said: "I'm grown up, Papa, I know what I
should do."

Since then we rarely talk any more, although I've had never
tried to force my opinion on the current political situation on
her. Besides, every day Iza leaves home very early. It seems she
avoids having any conversations with me.

Lately we meet less and less. Iza rarely comes home. She told
her mother that she has to spend her nights with fellow students
at the campus. I understand that Iza might hate my activities. As
a father I do feel myself in an awkward position.

Suddenly, a voice from the walkie-talker disrupts my musing.

"Spider One," it calls.

"Ready," I reply. There is an important order for me.

I listen to it carefully, and then I notice a fire break out
nearby, close to the campus. Panic-stricken people run to safety.
Three trucks of troops pass by amid the wailing sound of sirens.
Curious students run fast toward the campus. I aim my gun at
them. I am awed by their bravery, although I do not really
understand what they stand for. Do they aspire to be heroes? What
kind of heroes? They seem to thrive on false ambition. The most
they will get is a street named after the most radical among them
after he is slain.

I myself never dreamed for heroism. I'm just a mysterious
killer. My job is to pull the trigger, followed by a quick
hissing sound, and watch a student fall.

Several hours later, I am absolutely exhausted but still have
to inspect the situation at other places. Burned cars are
scattered everywhere. Curious onlookers venture out to see what
the riot left behind. They are no challenge to me. I did want to
go home but than changed my mind after I realized I would not
find anything exciting there. I decide to sit at a small food
stall on the roadside and drink a bottle of locally brewed
alcohol. It is cheap and tastes good, refreshing enough to make
me forget the ugly demonstration.

At the corner I see a poor old man dozing off. He looks very
worn and tenuous. He seems to need food or at least compassion.
But I do not care. I just imagine that I might be as pitiful and
penniless as him when I get old. Meanwhile, the radio placed
nearby continuously reports the ongoing chaotic situation in
Jakarta.

I ask for another bottle of alcohol. The stall owner gives me
what I want, while collecting empty bottles and cleaning the
tables.

"Do you want to close the shop now?" I ask him.

"Yes, I've to go home. I'm scared, riots have taken place in
every cook and cranny of the city," he says.

I care little about how he feels. The whole situation disgusts
me.

"Can I sit here for a few more minutes?"
He says OK. It is nothing to him because the stall has neither
walls nor a door.

Hours later, I leave the stall and go straight home. It is the
wee hours and I have a headache. Arriving home I find my wife
waiting for me at the front door. I greet her with a smile but
she does not react as expected. Her eyes are brimming with tears.

"What has happened?" I asked.

"Iza has been killed by a bullet," she says, embracing me and
sobbing. Her warm eyes fall on one of my shoulders. I tremble.

-- Translated by TIS

*) Indonesian songs which are heavily influenced by Indian music.