*written a few months back*

My memories of Soeharto are heavy with smoke and chaos, as it was during my first return to my country that Indonesia fell from its glitz and glamour into a cloud of erupted suppressed frustration, hurling itself at any passing target, wreaking havoc all over the archipelago with Jakarta, its capital, sustaining the most damages. The May 1998 riots are still embedded in my mind as I, at the mere age of 16, was right in the middle of it.
Soeharto was away in Egypt, if my memory serves me well, and it was the day following the deaths of the Trisakti students who fell at the hands of the authorities during a protest. Indonesia was suffering from an economic crisis (krismon we called it) and the dollar was ridiculously high at 12000 Rupiah for 1 US Dollar. Prices for the basic goods sharply rose, and Soeharto had been re-elected again as President.

The people would have no more. Students came out in throngs to protest the re-election results and the rising prices. They sat in hordes atop the Parliament building in Jakarta. I remember passing them one day and begging my mom to let me join. She, of course, denied my requests seeing how I was just 16 and a female, with an American accent no less! I would become prime target should anything happen.

And something did happen.

Last day of finals started of normally, I came home preparing for my mother’s birthday. It was just the two of us as my father and sister were still here, in the States. A few hours after I settled in at home from a long day at school, my mother called, her voice frantic. She said riots were breaking out down the block from her office, the Department of Defense building, at the National Monument (Monas). Massess of people were congregating there and started throwing things, turning over cars, etc. She left work early, with her secretary, Fifi, and walked the opposite direction as no cab were in sight. Somehow she ended up at my uncle’s residence in Central Jakarta, and will try to take a cab home from there as the situation there was still calm.

I turned on the TV, and all six of Indonesia’s channels at the time, were openly and freely airing this overt display of dissent against the government. News broadcasts were heavily censored before, but today, with the President overseas, they were finally doing what they should have been doing all the time: freely disseminating news, embracing freedom of speech and free press (as so stipulated in the Indonesian Constitution).

Jakarta was literally up in smoke, a horizon shot showed dark, grey smoke billowing out of the heart of the capital city. The sky above it alight in orange and red. For a moment, I believed I was in the States, watching this chaos from CNN in the confines of my small but comfortable apartment nestled between the hills of West Virginia, father and sister beside me.
Reality set in when Mbak Salmi, our pembantu (maid) and my dear friend, told me my mom was on the phone. Her voice resolute, but shaky, she said she is on the way home with her secretary. Details will be provided later as she cannot talk much.

She came home an hour or two later, her face quite pale and her voice very shaky. Fifi was pallid as well. Fear was etched deeply into their countenances despite their efforts at putting a brave front for me. They recounted the horrors they saw on the way back. Apparently the cab or car in front of them were pulled over and they watched in terror as the occupants were pulled out and the mass of people crowded around them. The cab driver did not want to know what was about to happen next, and he pushed the gas pedal and sped out of there as fast as he could. Somehow, miraculously, they were overlooked. I do not want to think what could’ve happened if someone spotted them and made them their next target.

With my mom in a suit, and Fifi (who was also of Chinese descent) beside her, they were the perfect targets for the rioters: the epitome of the upper class and Chinese elite that they felt have long suppressed them.

Anyone who seemingly looked elitist or Chinese were prime targets. Women especially bore the brunt of the chaos, many were raped, tortured, murdered inside their homes, and many in front of their loved ones.

The neighborhood across from us were ransacked and set a fire, word spread that our neighborhood was next. My mom and Fifi did not sleep a wink that night. They stood vigil, immersed themselves in prayer, and waited–perhaps even dared anyone to cross their paths.

I tried to stay awake but eventually sleep overtook me.

I awoke the next morning to a more calmer atmosphere. Rioters were still wreaking havoc in Jakarta, confining everyone to their homes for a few days more, but they did not reach our neighborhood. Somehow they were stopped. And I am very thankful that they did.

The passing of former President Soeharto brought back these memories I have long tucked away in my mind. Though it happened almost exactly 10 years ago, it will be 10 in May, they are still fresh and I am not sure if they can be erased. And maybe I don’t want them to be erased. These experiences opened my eyes to what was important in life, and the teenage woes I, and many other teens, dwell on became very trivial. Though it will take me a while to finally find my voice, I would not have been searching for it had it not been for that one, eventful year in Indonesia.

The heartache, the frustration, that came pouring forth in a show of violence and chaos still breaks my heart, especially since conditions of my native land are still pretty much the same. Soeharto, from his 32 year reign, left Indonesians a broken nation, and its citizens are in charge of picking up the pieces.