My Friend Badat

By M. Anshor Sjahroni

I was a long way away when I heard a report that Badat had been shot dead by the police. I cannot give you a description of his death because I do not know exactly how it happened. Also, I have not tried to find out what really happened for the police to decide to shoot him. Obviously, or so I have heard, Badat had been targeted by the police for quite a while.

My relationship with Badat was not that close. He was a final- semester student, extremely busy with noncampus activities. He was an active member of the student senate. He was involved in student media activities. He was even active in student arts activities such as drama, gamelan music and an all-male folk theater company.

In short he was an activist. He was not afraid to engage in on-campus political activities. He talked outspokenly about injustice, social disparity, bureaucratic degeneration, collusion, corruption and nepotism. Once he even demanded that a cabinet minister be fired.

Because of his many activities, Badat could never finish his studies. Postponement followed postponement but he held fast to his conviction, namely: "We live only once. Being a student is a mere status but living is not.

"You can make a great effort to find a status but as for life, you must search for its significance." Because of this conviction, perhaps, he would do just about everything to have a better understanding of his life.

Once he told me: "To be meaningful once and then die." It was a line of a famous poem but perhaps he would be true to this himself. Now he is dead. Was he meaningful once? I don't know and I don't want to be bothered by his death. Instead, deep in my heart I thank God that he is dead, "It's good that he is dead. Life was too miserable for him."

However, secretly I keep thinking about him. The longer I think about him the prouder I have become of ever having befriended him.

It is still fresh in my mind how we first became acquainted. He asked me to get this and that. He asked me to collect newspaper clippings on students movements. He also asked me to buy him some coffee or cigarettes and he not infrequently borrowed money from me.

As a freshman I was so dumb. I simply did what he asked me to do. I simply believed what he told me and also what he taught me. Once he took me to task for not being able to read a speech in a demonstration.

I thought I was so low before him. But, perhaps, he commanded great respect. He had an air of authority, not only before me but also before other students in our movement.

Once I witnessed him make a speech on a stage at a free-speech forum. He spoke loudly. Words came out of his mouth fluently. His sentences were well ordered. His language was metaphorical and very moving. It touched my conscience. Anybody listening to his speech then must have had their conscience moved and declared themselves ready to do anything for the sake of the truth that Badat voiced.

"Badat is indeed a fine speaker," a friend said. "He'll be a famous person soon. His face will be on TV and in newspapers."

His friends were right. Many local and national newspapers reported Badat's activities. One national paper even carried a special report on his life. It gave a spotlight to the background of Badat's family. His parents were interviewed. His siblings had to answer reporters' questions. His close friends were contacted for their opinions about him. The results were published in a series of articles, accompanied by photographs of Badat and his family. So Badat made his name alongside other famous figures.

Several days afterward, however, Badat disappeared. He was no longer seen around campus, even though we were staging one demonstration after another. Sometimes we would go out of the campus and call on ordinary people to join us. Very often we were beaten by the police. Tear gas was also one of our afflictions. At other times we were almost run over by military trucks.

Yet, Badat was not among us. Several weeks passed after we lost contact with him. According to his mother, four well-built persons with crew-cuts picked him up late one night. They forced him to go along with them. At the time, his mother said, Badat was struggling with brain cancer.

"I said Badat was ill but they did not believe me and went directly into his room. I tried hard to block them but they pushed me so hard that I fell down a few meters away from them. I tried to scream for help but one of them put his pistol against my forehead. I could only witness them drag my son and put him into their car. Before leaving they threatened to eliminate all my family."

The most heart-rending scene, she said, was what happened to Badat's father. Still unaware of what was going on outside, he was hit hard by the butt of a gun at the door of the bedroom. His nose and head bled. Badat's two brothers did not dare to leave their bedroom.

We concluded that Badat had been abducted by the military. We could hardly hope to find his whereabouts.

Only then did I learn that Badat had brain cancer. In my opinion he was physically healthy. He had only a few scars, obviously the result of being beaten by the military. He also had some lumps on his head, arms and body.

"Souvenirs from the soldiers," he said jokingly after a workers demonstration in which he served as a field coordinator.

Once I reminded him not to go too far. However, he always said: "What do you know about justice in this country." And he always looked down on me.

After that I did not talk to him anymore. I returned to my lectures and became immersed in getting ready for my final examinations. I also did not try to see him although he was still seen on the campus. He was busy mobilizing the masses for a large-scale demonstration to topple the President. I did not want to disturb him with questions, the replies to which I could already guess and would also lower my self-respect before him.

The final examinations were over but I still did not see the need to see Badat. The President was still in his seat. In later days I only witnessed from afar the demonstrations led by Badat. One day I read in a newspaper that he was arrested and detained by the military for three days. After he was released, I still did not see any need to see him. I was sure he would again look down on me.

A week after his release, he was kidnapped. Nobody knew where he was kept and for how long. Then there was a report that he had been set free. Then he was shot dead by the police, only God knows where.

Now Badat is dead. I thank God he is dead. I'm not really sure about the correctness of the report I have heard though. His body has not been found. On second thoughts, I realize that I should be proud to have had Badat as a friend. And, just like his family, perhaps, I also want to know where he has been buried. I simply want to scatter flowers on his grave.

Surabaya, April 1998.

The writer was born in Sidoarjo on March 11, 1973 and is now a sociology student at the School of Social and Political Studies, Airlangga University (Unair), Surabaya. He is active in literary and art circles at Teater Puska, Unair. Some of his short stories have been published in Surya, Memorandum and Karya Darma.

Translated by Lie Hua.