Stooges

By Sori Siregar

After looking Jalil right in the eye the old man asked, "Can I trust you?". Jalil should have been offended by such a question. But he wasn't as he was well informed of the surrounding situation. The question made even him more convinced that suspicion among the villagers had reached its highest level.

If someone unknown came to the village and asked for someone's address the villagers would shake their head, apologize and then leave in a hurry. The eyes of everyone encountered gazed at others with suspicion. The hospitality and politeness that used to characterize the villagers had completely gone.

"It's up to you to trust me or not. I just want to tell him something about his son who is studying in a university in Jakarta and to render him a letter from his son".

"Where are you from, son?" the old man asked.

"Salang. I am also studying in Jakarta. I am coming home to see my ailing father. He is okay now. Pak Amin's son is my neighbor and concurrently my classmate".

The old man, who was busying himself throwing grains of rice to his laying hens in the front yard of his house, nodded.

"His house is at the end of the row of houses, where the motorcycle is parked. But please don't tell him it's me that told you his address."

Jalil nodded. After expressing his gratitude Jalil left the old man and walked to the house he was looking for.

***

"It must have been difficult for you to get here. All residents living in this village are haunted by fear. Afraid to ask and scared to answer", Pak Amin said, after asking Jalil to have a seat.

"Lots of informants are at large here. I prefer to call them "stooges", hirelings who have the heart to sell their fellow villagers to their boss who pays them. Most of the villagers they have reported as collaborating with the insurgents or helping the guerrillas are good people who have nothing to do with those insurgents. You can imagine how wicked those stooges are".

"Are they also from this village?" Jalil asked.

"Some of them. The others are outsiders. Those from this village do their job stealthily. But the outsiders are operating openly and frequently come along with soldiers pretending to patrol and maintain security."

"Why don't you move to another village?"

"Which one? All villages are in a similar situation. Moreover, my wet rice field is here and I earn my living from it. Ali is able to study in a university in Jakarta because of the rice field, and some additional financial assistance given by his uncle who lives in Kuta Banda. Two of Ali's brothers are living with their uncle. Only the youngest child is living here with me and Ali's mother."

In the two-hour encounter, Jalil heard Pak Amin's tragic stories about those residing in the village, their missing or fled family members, frequent tortures and assassinations. Jalil kept listening. At last, as he couldn't bear to keep listening to the heartbreaking stories, he interrupted and told the old man about Ali, who was persevering in his studies and was a model to his friends, including Jalil.

After handing over Ali's letter and telling the old man all he knew about the young man, Jalil asked to be excused to leave, but Pak Amin asked him to wait. Just as he finished reading Ali's not-too-long letter, Pak Amin turned his head to Jalil.

"Ali has suggested I move to Kuta Banda. He has asked me to help my younger brother who works as a rice wholesaler there. But who is going to tend the ricefield. If I put it on sale, who is going to buy it?"

He didn't expect Jalil to answer his question, he only put forward the problems surrounding a move to another place.

"In this letter Ali asks me to put you up here for the night."

Jalil was startled. He hadn't expected such an invitation. All of a sudden he felt tremendously frightened. Staying for a night in a village that was often the target of security forces? Jalil had never imagined such a prospect. Security operations had been conducted in the village and other surrounding villages for the last seven years. Hundreds had been killed and tortured for alleged insurgency or cooperation with guerrillas. And all of these events had never appeared in any media.

Long before, Jalil had heard part of this from Ali who knew the stories from his uncle in Kuta Banda. Most of the victims were villagers who had never been proved guilty. They became victims only because of reports filled out by the stooges of the security forces. Human life had been made cheap in such security operations. And it had never become news. What circulated were stories from mouth to mouth, and not even a single journalist had the guts to, or even intended to, check their truth.

Journalists seemed to choose the safest way. They only ran stories saying that security operations were undertaken in the villages to eradicate insurgents, in order to bring about peace so that villagers could carry out their daily tasks in an orderly way.

Why should I take a risk and spend the night in this frightening village, Jalil thought, while not wanting to refuse Pak Amin's invitation.

"I have no spare clothes, Pak," Jalil tried to turn down Pak Amin's invitation subtly.

"Oh, you can wear my shirt and sarong. Ali seems eager to see you spend the night here."

No more choices were left. Jalil had to accept the invitation.

****

At about 3 a.m., a volley of loud gunshots were heard. Jalil was startled and got up from his bed. He opened his room's door slowly. Pak Amin was already there, right in front of his room. His wife stood behind him wiping her eyes. Only Ilyas, Ali's youngest brother had kept on sleeping.

"In the neighboring village, not here," Pak Amin said without anyone asking him, after calculating the distance and direction of where the shooting was coming from.

"For two weeks this village has had no shootings. Who is going to be the victim?", he said as if asking himself.

Aware that Jalil stood stupefied looking at him, still wearing a kopiah and his hand still holding a cigarette, the old man quickly calmed him down.

"After tahajud prayer I couldn't sleep, I don't know why. It might have been a hunch that something would happen."

"Everyday Bapak does the early dawn prayer, to ask God for protection. These days, we are only able to call on God", his wife continued.

Jalil was moved to hear the words of Pak Amin's wife. It really is most appropriate to yield to God. But aside from God, wasn't there anyone -- a friend, neighbor, or relative -- who was willing to listen to their consciences, anxieties, worries and fears? Had brotherhood been so badly damaged in this village?

"Forget it, there is still time to sleep before the dawn prayer," Pak Amin told Jalil.

Jalil lay down again on an old mattress covered by a dull green bedsheet. He couldn't close his eyes. He was now knowledgeable and understood deeply why Ali's countenance in Jakarta had always been gloomy and never happy. He only laughed once in a while. He studied hard, as he wants to finish his education and start working so that he can help his parents.

The young man might all this time have been anxious about the plight of his parents and younger brother. How are they today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow and the following days?

***

"Tell Ali, I will never leave this village. I was born here, went to school in a small town five kilometers away and I was also brought up here. It is enough that only my brother and two of my children live in Kuta Banda. Then there is Ali who is studying to reach his goal. My wife, my youngest son and I prefer to stay here to manage the ricefield that provides sustenance for us."

Jalil stood in amazement before the front door of the house; he remained silent when listening to Pak Amin's words, as the old man saw him off. He couldn't do anything to change the mind of the obstinate old man.

"Don't worry, things will look up later. Tell Ali to study hard because he has nothing to worry about."

Jalil nodded, shook hands with Pak Amin and his wife and kissed the forehead of Ilyas, who was about to go to school. Then Jalil took his leave. He walked faster and faster, not intending to look back because the tender-hearted young student felt unable to look at the sad faces of Ali's parents; he wanted to forget his presence in the village.

He didn't believe everything he had heard, and he hoped all the stories he heard from Pak Amin had never taken place. At the same time, Jalil was hopeful that Pak Amin's expectation would come true and one of these days he would visit the village again with Ali in a peaceful, friendly and warm atmosphere.

And he was determined not to tell all the tragic stories he heard from Pak Amin to Ali. To work harder at his studies the young Ali ought to have a peaceful mind.

Glossary: Pak: Mr. Bapak: Daddy kopiah : headdress worn by Muslims and Indonesian in general as a symbol of national identity. tahajud prayer: early dawn prayer