Mukminah cried for help

By Sori Siregar

"What I told you was true, not a fabrication," Mukminah said to the foreign journalist through a female interpreter. The journalist nodded repeatedly.

"The soldiers usually come during the night, pound on house doors and force adults and even boys in their teens to come out to be examined. They often beat adults with the butts of their rifles following a brief interrogation if they didn't get what they want. One night I saw them drag a man they suspected of being a rebel collaborator with a long rope tied to a truck. They did it mercilessly," Mukminah said softly, in a serious tone.

The foreign journalist shook his head in disbelief. How could soldiers of a religious country do that to their compatriot? Was that the only way to extract a confession from a suspect? What is really happening here? It is true that the rebels had caused soldiers such a great amount of trouble?

According to Mukminah, the rebels attacked a number of military posts and burned them down. She said they also forced villagers to contribute foodstuffs to them and ordered the villagers not to inform the soldiers about their whereabouts.

The villagers were in a very difficult position. They fully realized what the rebels were fighting for. What they wanted was to make the province an independent state, while the central government was determined to maintain the province as an integral part of the country.

That is the root of the insurgency. Villagers were the main victims of clashes between security forces and rebels. Security forces were suspicious villagers were cooperating with the rebels, while the rebels suspected villagers of not supporting their cause and informing soldiers about their activities.

So villagers became the victims of both sides. But the insurgents did not commit brutality against villagers as often as the soldiers did. What Mukminah told the foreign journalist was absolutely true. She tried to be sincere. Though her husband was kidnapped and killed by security forces, she told her story without a hint of bitterness.

"How many are missing or dead?"

"You mean from this village?"

"Yes."

"More than 20. Ten are definitely dead while those abducted have never come back, including my husband."

The journalist was taken aback upon learning that this woman could show such composure after the horrible nightmare she had experienced.

"Do you know if those abducted are still alive?"

"No one really knows anything," Mukminah responded. "Some people from the neighboring village said they had all been killed and buried in a mass grave in a hilly jungle two kilometers from here. I don't know if it's true."

Mukminah didn't looked depressed, nor did she show any sign of anger toward the soldiers when talking about her missing husband. How could she stand the suffering? Was she only concealing her feelings? The journalist knew he had no right to judge. What he had in his heart was the sympathy this young woman's story had aroused.

As a foreigner, he didn't know much about this country, not to mention this village or its residents. He had only been in the country for two months, assigned here by his paper. At first, he came to the village to write a story about the impact on the village of the province's largest town.

He didn't know anything about the security operation in the area because not a word had ever been written about it in newspapers or aired by television stations since his arrival in the country. His interpreter also was not well-informed about the tragedy.

That's why they were surprised to find the village was so quiet, as if deserted. They were happy when they met Mukminah, who was hanging her washing on the clothesline. A friendly greeting offered by the interpreter was warmly returned by Mukminah. The young woman's surprise by their visit was the key to unlocking the tragic story of the village.

The journalist politely asked Mukminah to keep them company as they took a tour of the small village. The young woman pleasantly nodded and smiled. The journalist took some pictures of the village. He was curious where the other villagers were. Before he could satisfy his curiosity he saw something unusual. He turned his head to Mukminah and questioned her carefully.

"What is that?" The young woman came nearer to him and looked in the direction he pointed.

"Oh, that's only a fish pond," Mukminah said.

"What's that around the pond?"

The young woman was silent. Then her voice was heard haltingly.

"The village chief was tortured in the pond. Before he was thrown in the pond, the soldiers kicked him in the stomach, beat him in the head with their rifle butts and strangled him. The village chief cried in despair and said he didn't know anything. The whole village heard his cry."

"Then the soldiers threw him in the pond, holding his head under the water over and over until he died. After they were convinced he was dead, they left the village in anger, threatening those in sight that whoever cooperated with the rebels would receive the same treatment. It was the first horror which occurred in the village. That's the reason why some villagers put a fence around the pond. Some others decorated the fence with flowers and a flag of truce as symbols of the sincerity of the village chief."

The journalist thought he had more than he wanted. It was enough, more than enough. He couldn't bear another story. That's enough. He looked at his wristwatch and turned his head to his interpreter.

"It's time to leave," he said, then spoke softly to Mukminah.

"I thank you very much for your story and kindness. I admire your perseverance. But I'll tell you frankly, this village is not safe for you. Please be very careful. If I write this story, you will be in danger. I won't take that risk. My coverage will appear in the newspaper only if I am very sure that you are no longer living here".

Mukminah smiled.

"Believe me," she said, "after you are a few kilometers away, someone in the village will go to the nearest military post and file a report. Then you know what will happen. I may be the next victim in the mass grave. I will be the next victim of the current tragedy. All the victims are innocent people, but no one believes them. No one listens to their cries for help."

The journalist wanted to stop her, but she put her finger to her lips.

"Please, don't say anything. I'll pray for your safety along your journey."

Then Mukminah bid them farewell. The journalist asked his interpreter to drive for fear he couldn't concentrate. Yes, he knew his heart was tender; too weak to hear such stories.

"No one will hear your cry for help, woman, no one," he murmured. Shaking his head, he said loudly, "I will, I will. But I can't do anything." His interpreter turned her head and saw him wipe the tears from his cheeks.