Max Boon, SBY & Merah Putih: Messages of Hope
The Jakarta Globe published correspondence exchanged between Bombing victim Max Boon and Indonesian President Dr. Susilo Bambang Yodhoyono on the occasion of Indonesia's 64 year of Independence. Max Boon is a Dutch national and resident of Jakarta who was seriously wounded in the July 17th, Black Friday bombings. I have posted a PDF of the letters here: Boon and SBY Independence Day Letters This weekend a new Indonesian movie, Merah Putih, from the father and son team of Rob and Connor Allyn was released. Merah Putih, which means "Red-White", the colors of the Indonesian flag, was directed by Sugandi Yandi and is subtitled in English. The movie, set in 1947, is about "young Indonesian cadets who bond together despite their differences in religion, ethnicity, class and culture, to become guerrilla fighters for Indonesia's independence (Jakarta Post, Aug. 9, 2009)." It has the feel of those American black-and-white WWII movies we used to watch on weekend afternoons and late nights.
The film was inspired by "the real life experiences of the brave cadets massacred in Lengkong, and all the men and women who fought for a free and united Indonesia between 1945 and 1948." If the scenes depicted in the movie are true, and the violent, wonton massacres and deliberate destruction of property perpetrated by the Dutch soldiers really happened, then the relationship which exists today between the Dutch and Indonesians is truly a testament to the Indonesian's people’s warm hearts and forgiving spirits.
These letters between Boon and SBY, reaching me so soon after watching Merah Putih, made me hopeful. More hopeful that I have been since Black Friday. If after all the fighting, the killing, the destruction and oppression, Indonesians and Dutch Nationals have managed to reach the place Boon and SBY have—one of mutual respect and common humane goals (just as many other opponents from other wars have)— then one day, if we can manage to lift these children from poverty, if we can alleviate some of the suffering and hopelessness of poor families, if we can provide them a more hopeful future than that which comes from martyrdom, we have a chance.
As an aside, what is truly amazing and deserves to be emphasized with regards to Indonesia's fight for freedom is that the young people who came together from all over Indonesia did not share a common language. Yes, in 1945, along with Indonesian’s declaration of Independence from the Netherlands, the constitution stated that Bahasa Indonesia (bahasa means language) would be the official language. However, at that time, there was no clearly defined Bahasa Indonesia. People of each different region spoke different dialects and often completely different languages. If there was any common language it was Dutch, which was spoken by those who were either educated by or worked for the Dutch.
According to the Jakarta Post article, the idea for the film came after Rob Allyn (Don't know if that's the father or son) asked his friend, Hashim Djojohadikusumo, the owner of PT Media Desa Indonesia, about "two old portraits of Indonesian youths in uniform on his wall. Hashim told Allyn they were pictures of his two uncles, First Lt. R.M. Subianto Djojohadikusumo and Cadet R.M. Sujono Djojohadikusumo, who had died in the battle of Lengkong in 1946. Hashim's uncles were the brothers of Sumitro Djojohadikusumo, one of the founding fathers of Indonesia and the economic guru who helped win recognition of Indonesia's independence by the United Nations."
In 1945, after the Japanese surrender, the Dutch, recently liberated from the Nazi's, set about retaking control of Indonesia. After all, for around 300 years, Indonesia had belonged to them and they wanted it back. Many Indonesians wanted Independence strongly enough to fight for it. Intent on sharing the story of "brave young Indonesians willing to sacrifice their lives for the independence of Indonesia" with this younger generation of Indonesia - and to the world outside" the Allyns and Hashim set to researching and writing.
To know more about the movie: http://www.watchmoviesonlines.us/watch-merah-putih-2009-movie-online/
Indonesian Independence Day--Forecast Cloudy
August 17th is Indonesian Independence Day. This Monday marked its 64th year of Freedom. Here in Jakarta, Independence Day is an important holiday. The streets are festooned with Red and White banners and flags. Neighborhoods host block parties with food, games and competitions for the children. It’s like Fourth of July in the U.S.—minus the fireworks and potato salad—but with plenty of watermelon.
Jakarta definitely didn’t need fireworks or bombs bursting this year. We have had our share. Exactly one month ago, on July 17th, suicide bombers wreaked havoc in two Jakarta hotels, the Ritz and the Marriott. Employees and guest died in the blast, many others were injured and are still struggling to recover. We are all suffering and who knows when or how our world will recover?
On August 11th, it was officially announced that Noordin Top: Terrorist, martyr recruiter, horror organizing, terrorist, believed to have masterminded the Black Friday bombings, was not killed in the 18 hour-long shoot-out with police last weekend. Rather, the dead man-who does not deserve to be named here-was a florist at the Ritz Carlton Hotel. “It was ironic,” stated the What’s New Jakarta Newsletter of Aug 12th, “that someone who is capable of attempting mass murder was considered a funny and talented flower arranger by his colleagues.” I call it frightening.
As for the suicide bombers themselves: One has been identified as an “18 year old from a complex in Bogor” (a city near Jakarta). According to neighbors, this boy—a victim of Top’s particular brand of brainwashing—which includes the promise of heaven with virgins for the using and monetary payment and glory for the bomber’s families—was “described by neighbors as quiet and polite even though he came from a troubled home with his father imprisoned a year ago for robbery and his mother living in Kalimantan after a messy divorce.”
Who can celebrate freedom and independence when boys and girls are so trapped and hopeless they can be conned into believing in Top’s “ticket to heaven”? That their salvation comes in the form of explosives strapped to their backs?
I Wrote That?
I just received a note from my publisher's publicity department (my publisher, I love typing that). They want me to send them my website info and to update my bio and photo. It is wonderful that they asked. I’m delighted that they want their authors’ and illustrators’ info to be current. But that is not the truly thrilling and part. The list of people on the group e-mail is what is amazing. Candlewick Press publishes fabulous books by brilliant authors, with art by amazingly talented illustrators—check the list for yourself! I don't want to check the list again, it makes nervous. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to say, “gotcha” Kelly and strip me of my “Author” title the way Jason McCord had his stripes ripped off at the beginning of every episode of Branded.
That’s the way it is for lots of us writer types. (I know, I’ve asked around.) Often we really don’t know where our best writing comes from and when. And more often than not it turns out that the “author” has not created the story as much as he or she “channeled it” that is, stepped aside and allowed it room to happen. We all have our ways of letting the creative spirit bubble up. I tend to circle the process like a cat, getting close, but not too close, until I’m ready to pounce. By pounce I mean write it…yep, no matter how the story comes to us, in the end we all have to spend the time in the chair writing it (That’s why they call us writers.) And while I may not remember where the ideas for my stories come from, or how I thought up that magnificent, fabulous, incredible Title/last line: Not Norman, I do remember all the time I spent BIC (Butt in Chair as Robyn Weaver, the Book Doctor, says www.robynweaver.com.) writing, writing, writing.
I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to challenge this notice from Candlewick. I’m going to take full credit as “author” and update my photo, bio, and website info as requested...even if I don’t recall writing those wonderful words I said I did.
Birthday Wishes
Birthdays are a mixed bag. When we are young our birthdays are an event—we can’t wait for the big day to come. When Max started school, the first day was the day before his birthday so he thought everyone was there just for him. Lexi used to count down the days on her calendar. She just turned 26 and still believes her birthday should be an International holiday. Beginning weeks before she reminds us “do you know what day two weeks from tomorrow is?” As we age, we begin back pedaling as birthdays approach. “Thirty-nine again,” my friend, John, answers when asked his age. I prefer no one mention my birthday at all—but then, I am royally miffed if anyone important to me misses it. Of course I enjoy cards and gifts, love receiving them, love looking at them, but often don’t open them until after the big day has passed, after I have spent my birthday my way—in agonizing reappraisal. For me, each birthday is reckoning day. I think back over goals I had set for myself and evaluate whether I met them, how well, or why not. I make new goals, I feel the years racing and long to dig in my heels and slow the passage, I agonize, moan, regret… And yes, as you might expect, I am usually, absolutely miserable on my birthday. I used to say “give me two Valium and wake me when it’s over” and I wasn’t kidding. But this year, maybe because I have, as my friend Dick wrote, “fully crossed over” something is different.
I am in Indonesia for my birthday this year. This may have something to do with this strange sense of wellness bubbling inside. Since Indonesia is over the International Date Line, my birthday here came a day early and so it really didn’t feel like my birthday, and then, when my birthday time arrived in California, at 8 am on the 8th day of the 8th month, it felt like it was already behind me. So, on one hand it was like my birthday was two days long, and on the other it was like it was over before it started. This is not to say the day (days) were not emotionally charged:
- I woke to an e-mail from my agent that a story I had high hopes for was rejected in committee.
- Curtis came home early so we could do something fun.
- I couldn’t think of anything “fun” to do that didn’t involve traffic or spending, so we went to work out.
- While I was working out, news reported that the terrorist Noordin Top, the villain responsible for the Ritz and Marriott bombings, the man responsible for recruiting countless suicide bombers had been killed in an 18-hour long shoot-out with police.
- Came home, checked my e-mail. Birthday greetings and e-cards were popping into my mailbox.
- Baked myself a birthday cobbler and an antipasto platter for tonight.
- Checked my e-mail a few more time—many more than usual—and my face book “Wall” because now, thanks to Max and Chelsie, I know what it is and how to find it.
- The galley of my new picture book, Dance Y’all, Dance arrived via e-mail. It was my first peek at the illustrations.
- The friends we invited to dinner arrived, we went to dinner, had a delightful time, but one didn’t feel well so we didn't pop the bubbly.
- We came home early from dinner, changed into our jammies, then Curtis and I sang “happy birthday to me” and shared the birthday cobbler and I fell asleep in the middle of the movie I had chosen, Duplicity.
- Woke up this morning and because it is still my birthday but not really, I could enjoy it. Curtis made coffee, I opened cards and gifts. Especially touched because Rusnati had given me a lovely stone and silver fish with a tiny note in Indonesian.
- Lexi called at 8 pm her time and she and Curtis sang to me. Then she put Ryan, her beau, on the phone and we tried to get him to sing. He started to, then caught himself and said no, “no matter how many trips we take, Kelly, I am not going to sing…” Which might have been the best birthday gift of all because it prompted this memory of our last trip.
It all goes back to Lexi’s birthday (as it rightfully should, she believes.) She and I always do something together for our birthdays. This year we spent a long weekend in Montauk, Long Island. It was a kind of beach holiday/birthday/ongoing search for a place for Curtis and I to retire trip. Ryan went with us. We took the train and he drove his car and met us at the station in Hicksville (not Lexi’s preferred stop—she is not the type of girl one “picks up in Hicksville.)
We had booked a room at Sole’ East a resort in Montauk. One of many we researched. It was well reviewed and seemed like the better of the not-so-expensive lodging options. Most were either way over our budget or looked like by-the-side-of the highway motels. Ryan had scoped out the best places to eat, watch sunset, drink bloody marys, have oysters, etc. and one by one we checked them off our list—great fun! As it turned out Sole’ East is not some quiet little motel, although the rooms are tiny, circa 1950 motel rooms. It is a happening spot, where singles (mostly groups of 30ish women) and hipster families, with hipster tots in tow, weekend in summers.
Most nights the three of us would go out, eat, enjoy a nightcap and then I’d turn in while Lexi and Ryan went out. But one night, Lexi crashed with me, leaving Ryan on his own. As he does, he went out to see what was up. About three in the morning, Ryan woke me. He tried to wake Lexi, too, but she wasn’t moving. It was Saturday night and Sole’ East was hopping. A bunch of bongo buddies had started jamming and Ryan wanted to share the experience. “Come on, Kel, you gotta see this," he told me. So I got dressed and we went out to enjoy the show.
Just as I arrived the group ripped off their shirts and really got into it. The bongo players ranged in age from dreadlock front boy of about 23 to Jack Lalanne. They pounded out the rhythm and women and men of all types danced and sang. As the room got hotter, we all moved outside to a lounge area beside the pool. Around 5 Lexi showed up. She had woken, found us gone “I wasn’t worried that Ryan was gone,” she told us, “but Mom, too?” So she came out to find us.
By then, a red-haired lawyer/stock broker-used-to-wanna-be-Cat Stevens-and-maybe still-does picked up his guitar and began playing and singing. He had a great voice—and knew all the words Dire Straits to Bob Dylan. Earlier, a blonde back-side-of 30 came over to ask Ryan if he had a light, then whispered to me that it had been way too long and she was long overdue. After catching Lexi up on the what was what, we three sat back, watching the action, wondering if she was going to get lucky, wondering if guitar man was going to get lucky, cheering when they both did.
Throughout the evening people had been asking “Where’s Winston? Where’s Winston?” Around 5, Winston showed up. He was an older Rasta guy who picked up the guitar, said yes to a drink, and busted into reggae Thank you Mama blues. Sitting there, in the velvet night with Lexi and Ryan, sipping a cocktail, listening to the music, I wasn’t “crossed over or crossed out,” I was the "short white hair chick", Winston asked Ryan about--
--still young enough and interested enough to jump out of bed when adventure calls.
Happy Birthday to me—and many more!
Peer Presure
I have succumbed to peer pressure and signed up for Face book. I really, truly, honestly didn’t want to, but they made me... Everyone else is doing it… Especially all the really cool folks…
Now, suddenly, I feel so popular. My mailbox is stuffed with notes from people asking to be my friend. People I haven’t seen for ages are writing on my “wall”! Dang, people I don’t even know are asking to be my friend. I’ve never had anyone ask to be my friend before….it’s exciting!
But now what? There seems to be so much to Face book. All sorts of information to fill out (and the temptation to lie is so strong…) It feels sort of like a dating service crossed with a job application. It asks for photos…references…wants me to identify my relatives…and then search my contact list for others who might be on Face book…It all feels a little scary and weird. On one hand it’s great to connect with friends and family, to see their photos, to read what they and theirs are doing; but on the other hand, I have a feeling that all of us are just helping whoever is behind the Face book Curtain find out all of our business. Somewhere, someone is compiling a massive database of everything you ever wanted to know about anyone list…and I don’t know that I want all my biz on that list.
All that deep stuff aside, right now I have one major, major problem. Notes are piling up in my e-mail box, notices that Face book friends have “left a comment on my wall”…But what the heck is my “wall” and how do I find it?
Angels on Watch-Reno Fire
Shortly after 1:00 this morning, a soft voice in my ear woke me. It wasn’t a familiar I love you voice, or my conscience telling me I forgot something. It was the night aide at the Retirement Home where my mother lives. I squinted at her, trying to gain recognition. “Are you serious?”
Had she really sneaked into my room to check on me? Or ask for my credentials? Or why…
“Yes, I’m serious,” she whispered. “There is a fire…”
I was thinking “fire drill,” marveling that they could have scheduled a fire drill in the retirement home and incredulous that the drill could be scheduled for the one night—first night—I was in Reno, sleeping on the pull out love seat in my mom’s studio apartment.
The aide is obviously accustomed to having to repeat herself. “It’s a fire, across the freeway—“
“Fire?”
“In the buildings across the freeway. And we might have to evacuate everyone. I don’t want to wake your mom and scare you, but I wanted to let you know.”
“Oh my gosh, okay….okay….thank you…,” I stammered.
“See,” she pointed to the patio door.
The sky blazed orange. Flames roared, shooting into the blackness. On the highway, squad car lights flashed on the highway stopping traffic from both directions. On the other side of the highway, the fire crackled and roared like thunder and raging water. My eyes and thoughts were glued to the blaze. I peered into the darkness, into the bright billowing smoke, searching for glimpse of the fire fighters, of ambulances, of evidence of life.
The aide was watching from the neighboring balcony. I asked her what was burning.
"New apartments.”
“Is anyone living there?”
“Not yet,” she told me. “They just started leasing them.
We have had our home catch fire before—twice. I know what it’s like to dress in the middle of the night and rush out of the house, heart pounding, as the windows crack and pop behind me. I know what it’s like to take inventory in the charred remains afterwards. Thankfully I don't know what it is like to lose loved ones to fire. I was grateful to know that kind of horror was not happening across the freeway.
Security personnel from the retirement home and the adjoining hospital circled the parking lot, watching for burning ember. A super truck pulled into the lot. I assumed it was another employee until a woman in a tank-top and a guy in jeans and a t-shirt climbed down from the truck and stood swilling beer and watching the show. Security guards shooed them away.
Maureen, the director of the facility, and another aide came out of the lobby. “We are ready to evacuate,” Maureen explained in hush tones. “We’ll take everyone out through the double doors on the hospital side. The shuttle buses and ambulances are waiting there.”
The blaze devoured one apartment building and lept to another at the same time it spread north across a field lining the highway.
“The medication cart is by the door; the patient files are there, too…” Maureen was directing this to me, but she wasn’t actually talking to me. She was reciting her emergency check list of all she had to do if the fire wasn’t controllable, if the wind blew up, if instead of racing north through the scrub lining the highway, the fire spread south, if the glowing embers landed wrong…
Standing there, watching the blaze, I wondered what I would do, could do, if the fire did spread. In that moment the enormous weight of the load Maureen, the aides, security people, and the hospital personnel next door carried beared down on me. I had never before contemplated just how much responsibility they and others who work in hospitals and care facilities assume when they take on the job. I had a car, I was strong and healthy; I could get my mother out of the building and drive clear of harm. But what about all the others inside?
Fortunately, we didn’t have to experience an evacuation. As I watched, water arched up and onto the diminishing flames and the billowing smoke gradually turned from black to gray to white. The firefighters won this battle.
Around three, I crawled back into my cozy sleeper love seat. The fire wasn't completely out yet; across the highway, firefighters still battled. But I wasn't worried any more; the Angels of Monaco Ridge were standing guard. I joined my mother and the other sleeping residents.
Jakarta Bombing; Indonesia’s Children
Post bombing news is circulating quickly as authorities piece together events leading up to the suicide bombings of Friday morning, July 17th. In conversation, when the bombing is mentioned, the second or third question people ask me, as a resident of Jakarta, is “how do I feel about living there?” The question is asked in that cocked head, furrowed brow way meaning, “Aren’t you scared?” I am scared. Although not because I feel a sense of personal danger. I am scared for Indonesia, for its children—children who will suffer if the factions who plan, coordinate, finance these bombings get what they want. Especially scared for these children, so desperate or brainwashed, who willingly strap on bombs and blow themselves to bits.
Another bomb was found in a guest room at the Marriott. Purportedly, those who orchestrated these bombings checked in on Wednesday and “check out” was that day, Friday July 17th. No reports have said whether a room had similarly been rented at the Ritz as no unexploded bombs or bomb-making equipment has been found there. This Wednesday-Friday stay means these bombers spent time in the hotel; it wasn’t just a walk by. What went through their minds as they walked through the opulent lobby outfitted with plush carpet, mirrored and gilded walls and ceilings? Did they flop into the middle of the bed and sigh as they sank into the cushy down comforter and mound of pillows the way my daughter does when we check into a hotel? Did they luxuriate in a warm, scented bath? Slather themselves with lotions? Try on the terry robes and slippers? Did staying in that room—large enough to fit 2 of their mean family homes, and costing more rupiah per night than they may have ever seen—delight or sicken them? Did watching the wealthy toss back coffee and cocktails costing more than they might have earned in a week of manual labor fuel their zealotry?
What must the circumstances of these childrens’ lives be that they would willingly blow themselves to bits? A few days before the bombings an armored car was robbed. Something like a million and a half in US dollars was stolen. The belief is that at least a portion of the stolen money was given to the families of the suicide bombers. A reward for given their child to the cause. Their child detonates a bomb, murders him or herself and countless others and they move uptown with the proceeds. Is their status in the community elevated because they gave—sold—their children for the cause?
What about that other bomb? The unspent bomb left behind in the luxury suite. It may have been brought along just in case…or maybe there was supposed to be three children sacrificed that day. Three bombs detonated. More humans murdered and maimed. More destruction. Did that third child back out? Did he or she balk at murder—of him or herself or others? Maybe a tiny hopeful feeling, an inkling of desire for a future, still smoldered within that third child. I hope so.
Bombings in Jakarta
Shortly before 8:00 the morning of Friday, July 17th, 2009, bombs exploded in two of Jakarta’s luxury Hotels, the Ritz-Carlton and the Marriott Hotel. The hotels are across the street from each other, in central Jakarta. They are hotels where visiting expats often stay and where local expats--Curtis, me, our friends--gather for charity events and balls, bazaars, and meals. Sunday brunch at both of these hotels is a popular. We enjoyed Mother’s Day brunch at the Ritz this year. One man with whom Curtis works was staying at the hotel, but was not near the blast. Here is an excerpt from the first security company report I received:
Up to nine people were killed in nearly simultaneous explosions at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and the Marriott Hotel in central Jakarta today, Friday 17 July 2009. Police sealed off the area... Police report the use of a high explosive. Damage to the Ritz Carlton, especially to the Airlangga Restaurant, is reported to be extensive. Damage to the JW Marriot to is at the car park entrance area with extensive blast damage to glazing in the interior lobbies of the hotel. The majority of fatalities had been at the Ritz Carlton and include foreign nationals among them. Sources at the scene report the possibility of more bodies inside the hotels. Witnesses reported that one of the explosions also damaged the lobby of the nearby Plaza Mutiara building.
Victims have reported seeing a very bright white flash at the point of the explosion at the Marriott hotel, with burns reported and a fog-like smoke. One of the explosions reportedly occurred on the third floor of Ritz Carlton, where a restaurant is located.
Indonesia police have subsequently reported that they found an unexploded bomb in a room of the JW Marriott hotel in Jakarta today. It was found in what police said was the “control centre” for the attacks. It was defused as police searched the hotel.
Later in the day the report was updated:
This morning's attacks appear to have been sophisticated, well planned and coordinated in order to carry out almost simultaneous attacks on two separate, well guarded and iconically named targets. Both locations deploy extensive security personnel.
So far no group appears to have taken credit; but the level of sophistication, the obvious amount of pre-planning that would be necessary for such an attack and the targets and timings would tend to indicate the implication of the Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) terrorist network in the attack. This supposition is supported by the fact that at least one of the attacks is believed to have been a suicide bomber, and this was the method of attack used by JI in the 2002 Bali bombings. Expert sources have suggested that the JI’s Noordin M. Top maybe behind the blasts.
Police sources at the scene have indicated that the Ritz Carlton attack was the work of a female suicide bomber (the first of its kind in Indonesia) as traces of a suicide vest have been found with her head separated from her body (indicative of a suicide attack). It is not yet clear as to what the delivery mechanism was at the Marriott Hotel, but the apparent size of the blast could also be that of a suicide/motor cyclist bomber.
In the years between 2002 and 2005 there were other similar bombings: The 2002 Bali bombings which killed 202 people; the previous Marriott Hotel was badly damaged by a car bomb attack in 2003, which killed 12 people; in 2004, the Australian Embassy in Jakarta was bombed, killing 10 people and wounding 161; and in 2005, Bali was bombed again and more people were wasted.
Nine humans—daughters, mothers, fathers, sons, friends—were murdered by these July 17th bombings; 40 others were physically wounded. And all of us—all of Indonesia, all of humanity—was injured.