Remembering through Fragmented Narratives: Third Generations and the 1965 Violence (Leksana and Subekti, 2022)

=== [PDF page 1] === 1122175 research-article2022 MSS0010.1177/17506980221122175Memory StudiesLeksana and Subekti Article Memory Studies Remembering through 2023, Vol. 16(2) 465–480 © The Author(s) 2022 Article reuse guidelines: fragmented narratives: sagepub.com/journals-permissions DOI: 10.1177/17506980221122175 https://doi.org/10.1177/17506980221122175 Third generations and the journals.sagepub.com/home/mss intergenerational memory of the 1965 anti-leftist violence in Indonesia Grace Leksana Universitas Negeri Malang, Indonesia Arif Subekti Universitas Negeri Malang, Indonesia Abstract This article focuses on the intergenerational memory within families directly implicated by the 1965 anti-leftist violence in Indonesia. Under the culture of impunity, the violence remains at the margins of Indonesia’s history and collective memory, creating taboo and suppressing open talk about the event. However, taking a critical approach, we perceive this social silence as a conscious strategy of survival, rather than a fear of state repression. This strategy implicates the ways memories of violence are transferred to the following generations – when, what and how narratives are delivered or muzzled. It is also silence that actually catalyses the preservation of those memories within the families. Through the lens of the third generations in three different families of survivors, we examine how they undergo and sustain silences and narratives of violence in the family, including how they maintain those memories in the present and for the future. In relation to that, our study supports the prevailing notions that argue against interpreting silence as absence. Instead, these case studies show that in silence, memories of violence seep through what we call fragmented narratives – the incomplete, incomprehensible, irrational and sometimes mythical knowledge or experiences related to 1965 violence. In other cases, silence in the family takes the form of depoliticising figures of the first generation – detaching all their political activities and ideologies from recollection of activism. Keywords 1965 Indonesia, anti-leftist violence, intergenerational memory, postmemory, silence Corresponding author: Grace Leksana, Universitas Negeri Malang, Malang 65145, Indonesia. Email: grace.leksana.fis@um.ac.id === [PDF page 2] === 466 Memory Studies 16(2) Introduction This article discusses memories of mass violence in post-conflict society in Indonesia, particularly in a context where the narratives of violence are constantly denied. Such denial takes various forms, from justifying the act of violence, concealing the truth, to avoiding to consider the facts, and at the same time having limited knowledge of what exactly we are avoiding (see Cohen, 2001: 3-5). However, acts of denial do not necessarily result in forgetting the violence. On the contrary, memories of violence continue to exist even in such difficult contexts through, among others, intergenerational connections. Therefore, this article mainly aims to examine the processes of intergenerational memories and also their silences that occurred in such circumstances. The concept of generation that we use in this article refers not only to a certain age cohort, but also to the socio-historical structure that constitutes them. Reulecke (2008: 119) describes this as generationality, a specific characteristic resulting from a shared experience of individuals or collectives either claimed by themselves or ascribed to them from outside. In many cases, war and mass violence may define a particular generation. At the same time, these generations can also be seen as communities of experience and carriers of memory who may develop a ‘memorial resistance’ towards the official narratives of history (Reulecke, 2008: 123). This might explain why memories of violence continue to exist through different generations even under the culture of denial. Certain generations become not only victims of atrocities, but also memory agents who preserve them. To understand how memories of violence persist, we employ the concept of postmemory, coined by Marianne Hirsch. It refers to the ‘relationship that the generation after bears to the personal, collective and cultural trauma of those who came before – the experiences they remember only by means of the stories, images, and behaviours among which they grew up’ (Hirsch, 2012: 5). Hirsch then adds that the intergenerational transmission of experiences is deep and highly affective that it seems to constitute memories in their own rights. This reflects that ‘the connection to the past is actually mediated not by recall, but by imaginative investment, projection, and creation’ (Hirsch, 2012: 5). This malleability of postmemory and its embeddedness in the present enable the narratives of violence to prevail through time. Hirsch explicitly notes that her analysis of postmemory is based on the Holocaust as a frame of reference although the relevance reaches into other contexts where traumatic events form part of collective memory. When expanded beyond the context of Holocaust, the concept of postmemory triggers various critiques and developments. For example, in Latin America, Tadeo Fuica (2015) points out the differences in the contexts of past atrocities that influence how memories of the later generation are constructed and preserved. Through the analysis of two documentary films made by second generations of survivors of Uruguayan dictatorship, Fuica highlights the trauma and exile of the victims that have generated different distances and difficulties to talk about the past (Tadeo Fuica, 2015: 299).1 Being the second generation with distinct memories of past violence do not necessarily constitute them as the bearers of postmemory. Fuica also discusses Beatriz Sarlo’s criticism on postmemory, commenting that the subjectivity, and the characters of fragmented and mediated memories are not exclusive to postmemory, and therefore, ‘there is no postmemory, instead shapes of memory which cannot be divided into memory of those who experienced an event and memory of their children’ (Sarlo in Tadeo Fuica, 2015: 302). Meanwhile, Maguire (2017) draws the case from Argentina to point at the distinct expression of postmemory in that context, which encompass not only memory itself, but the intersection with generational identity, historical representation and institutionalisation of victimhood (p. 3). The case of Argentina also shows how postmemory becomes more complex when the context is subjected to competing memories: those === [PDF page 3] === Leksana and Subekti 467 constructed by the military, the human rights movements and the intermediate position which frames the violence of the state as a response to that of the guerrilla forces – the two devils that terrorised society (Kaiser, 2005: 7-8). These cases from Latin America illustrate the complexity of postmemory, going beyond the intergenerational connection between the first and second generation; and also the transfer to those who did not live through the violent events (Hirsch, 2012: 3). The complexities of the contexts beyond the Holocaust imply that the transfer is never a linear process, instead it is intertwined with the dynamics in the familial sphere and the broader socio-political structure where narratives of violence compete and co-exist. In relation to that, we seek to scrutinise the intertwining between post-violence trauma and intergenerational memory transfer. For this purpose, we turn to a case study in Indonesia, particularly the anti-communist and anti-leftist violence in 1965–1966 that remains unresolved. Following the authoritarian regime (1966–1998, famously known as the New Order) that was established after the violent event, denial, impunity and repression characterised memory politics under the authority. After the end of the New Order (marked by the resignation of President Suharto), Indonesia enters a democratic turn in 1998, or well known as the Reformasi (Reform) period. However, the turn to democracy did not automatically resolve the past violence. Although public discussions on the 1965 event and its aftermath have been contributing to the move towards justice and reconciliation, formal acknowledgement from the state on the violence and victims remains absent. Meanwhile, persecutions against the (accused) communists and leftists and their family still prevail in the present. In this context, how do the two elements in postmemory – connection and transfer – take place? Do they even occur? How does the culture of denial and impunity shape the processes of intergenerational connection and transfer? To explore these questions, we enter into the life of the third generations from three families of victims of 1965–1966 violence. With the Covid-19 pandemic situation, the interviews were conducted online. Based on the results from the interviews, we analyse how the intergenerational memory within these families is profoundly characterised by silence. However, contrary to invoking absence, these silences actually influence the preservation of memories of violence although the process of transmission is not straightforward and often confusing. Narratives in families are incomplete, imperfect and fragmented. At the same time, it is actually the fragmented characteristic of family narratives that helps to endure the memories of violence even under repression and impunity of the authoritarian regime, because to tell a complete story of violence to the next generation might risk the family’s social and psychological well-being. This article begins with the description of the context, consisting of the anti-communist violence in 1965–1966, the memory culture that follows, and its impact on intergenerational relations within families of victims. We then turn to narratives from the third generations, their connection with the first generations and the complex memories within their respective families. In the last part, we reflect on how intergenerational memory transmitted between generations in the context of continuous state repression. Indonesia’s collective memory on 1965 violence The trigger behind the 1965–1966 violence – followed by a series of obliteration of leftist remnants in some areas in East Java in 1968 – was a movement called the Gerakan 30 September or 30 September Movement, in which seven high ranking army officers were kidnapped and killed by a small group of military officers. Although there is still an ongoing discussion regarding the Movement itself, the Indonesian army accused the Partai Komunis Indonesia or Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) of being the perpetrator.2 This accusation was followed by an extermination project by the military in collaboration with civilian groups against the communists and other === [PDF page 4] === 468 Memory Studies 16(2) members and supporters of leftist organisations, including their family members. Approximately 500,000 to 1,000,000 people were killed during those years; others experienced grave human rights violations, such as mass killings, torture, sexual violence, forced labour and so on (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia RI, 2012). The authoritarian New Order regime led by Suharto in 1966 developed a nationwide memory project of eliminating narratives about the mass violence against the (accused) communists and members of leftist organisations, including their contribution in post-colonial nation-building throughout the 1950s–1960s. Under the New Order regime, Indonesia’s collective memory of the 1965 violence has been largely dominated by the military accounts (see McGregor, 2007). For example, the publication of the book 40 Hari Kegagalan G30S 1 Oktober-10 November 1965 (The Forty-Day of Failure of the G30S 1 October-10 November 1965) in 1966 promoted the accusation of the PKI being the mastermind behind the killings of the seven military officers (40 Hari kegagalan ‘G-30-S’ 1 Oktober-10 November 1965, 1966). In 1973, the Suharto government opened the Monumen Pancasila Sakti (the Sacred Pancasila Monument) complex in Jakarta with the intention to visually depict the violence and torture by the PKI and other leftist organisations against the officers.3 Through these memory projects and media propaganda, the regime constantly commemorated the abduction and assassination of the army officers and the ‘evil’ of the communists, while excluding the army-backed up anti-communist killings. This eventually causes massive repression and silence to talk about the mass violence and victims not only in the public sphere, but also within the families of victims. The end of Suharto’s authoritarian regime in 1998 built the path towards truth seeking and reconciliation of the 1965 case, along with the rise of democratisation and transitional justice movement in the country. Within this period of the so-called Reformasi (reform), narratives of the anti-communist and anti-leftist violence in 1965–1966 began to emerge in public, mainly through victims’ testimonies.4 The emergence of this narrative of violence paved the way for various reconciliation efforts not only at the state5 and the grassroot levels,6 but also within the international networks, such as the International People’s Tribunal on Crimes against Humanity in Indonesia 1965 (IPT 1965) in The Hague, the Netherlands, from 10 to 13 November 2015 (IPT 1965 Foundation, 2017). All of these struggles to push the repressed narratives into the public sphere illustrate historical memory, where individual and social processes continued to be intertwined in representing the past in the present (Zurbuchen, 2005: 7). In other words, personal histories become the core in bringing narratives of violence to counter the sustained anti-communist memory culture. However, Dwyer and Santikarma (2006) have criticised this counter memory approach by arguing that memories of violence are highly contextual and therefore, they should not be seen as ‘homogenous repositories of shared understandings of the past’ (p. 202). Advocating to remember the counter memory of violence tends to override the need to understand how memories of violence are constructed, maintained, reshaped or even forgotten in various contexts. In this article, we incorporate further Dwyer And Santikarma’s criticism to examine the process of intergenerational memory within victims’ families. Today, despite the increasing public discussions of 1965 violence through media, academic forums or digital platforms, persecution and stigma against communists and the left still exist. This is what Eickhoff et al. (2017: 458) regard as dualism: although Indonesians still believe in the formal narrative about communism, it does not necessarily mean that they do not sympathise with victims. The memory culture of 1965 violence in the present seems to differ from the early postauthoritarian period. While in the early years of democratisation, narratives of violence were used to counter the dominant memory against the left; today, both the formal and counter narratives co-exist and influence Indonesia’s collective memory. === [PDF page 5] === Leksana and Subekti 469 Family experiences of violence and the notion of silence The 1965 violence disrupted family life, as numerous family members were detained, killed, missing and unable to reunite. PKI leaders were imprisoned, executed or disappeared, as was the life of Irina Dayasih, one of the daughters of PKI Vice Chairman, Njoto. Irina’s family had to move from one place to another, live in separate places, while their mother was detained until 1978. The children had a difficult time finding employment because of the stigma and of the government regulation of bersih lingkungan (hygiene of environment) for state officials.7 Irina finally knew about her father’s identity in the 1980s, but even then, conversations about him rarely occur and she still conceals her family background (Marching, 2017: 134-140). Other PKI women activists had to give away their children in facing the risk of detention while their husbands had been missing. Even when they eventually reconnected with their children after being released from imprisonment, their relationship remained estranged (Hearman, 2018: 166-68). Other women stayed silent for decades, keeping experiences of violence as a ‘family secret’ (Wiludiharto, 2004: 84-85). Meanwhile, others had to spend years in exile, separated from children and families,8 such as the life story of Fransisca Fanggidaej, Indonesia’s progressive women journalist in the 1950s who spent 38 years as an exile in China and the Netherlands (see Setiawan, 2006). Looking at these disruptions of families and the stigmatisation that followed them, living in silence seems to be their only option. State repression entered domestic realm, transforming into familiar fear. As what Soe Tjen Marching (2017) calls the mutation of fear, the fearful memories were passed onto subsequent generations, transmitted, replicated and even mutated through several channels (pp. 18, 35). However, as we shall see in the next session of this article, not all families experience stigmatisation from their surroundings. The reason behind this relates to the victims’ act and contribution to the society before 1965 violence erupted. On the contrary, several activities initiated by victims’ groups and the younger generation show more than just fear that lingers in the family. For example, in 2005 in Jakarta, a group of former political prisoners with the help of the Legal Aid Foundation (Lembaga Bantuan Hukum) filed a class-action lawsuit that demand a full restoration of their civil and political rights, the rehabilitation of their good names, a government apology to be issued through national media and monetary compensation for their past suffering (Conroe, 2017). Although the lawsuit was dismissed and triggered anti-communist demonstrations, it somehow presented a public statement of the victim’s past experiences of violence. Furthermore, it also became a moment for the children of ex-political prisoners to share their postmemorial experiences by voicing the silences and stitching the disjuncture in family narratives, while also suggesting the kinds of intergenerational bonds that could develop in spite of these limitations (Conroe, 2017). The more recent activities initiated by the younger generations – either from the victims’ families or those who sympathise with them – took to digital platforms to preserve narratives and memories of the violence (Estrelita, 2021). Those examples illustrate that intergenerational memories of violence are much more complex. The process of memory transfer between generations goes beyond the notion of fear and trauma, and it also transcends beyond private familial connections. Therefore, interpreting silence in these processes merely as a result of state repression on collective memory seems to limit our understanding of the agency behind the act of silence and the impact that this option brings. Argenti and Schramm (2012: 19) have pointed to the limitations of the trauma paradigm; it lacks the recognition of human agency in remembering violence and glosses over the fact that the process of remembering is a political act – a constructive engagement with a fractured past, involving moral judgement of its political significance. Perceiving this limitation on trauma also brings us to rethink the meaning of silence. As Carol Kidron (2009) proposes, rather than absence, silence is a medium of expression, communication and transmission of knowledge in its own right or as an alternative === [PDF page 6] === 470 Memory Studies 16(2) form of personal knowing that is not dependent on speech (p. 6). Resonating with Kidron, Thongchai Winichakul also argues against the juxtaposition of silence and forgetting. He proposes the term unforgetting, which refers to the symptom of the inability to remember or forget, to articulate memories in a comprehensible and meaningful fashion, or to depart completely from the past In the case of 1965–1966 violence, Santikarma (2008) has noted that silence and hidden narratives have created their own language and distinct ways of representing the past in the present (p. 207). The violence could not be articulated, yet it does not mean that the memory never existed. In a similar argument, Vanessa Hearman (2013) states that the silence of ex-political prisoners becomes a strategy to hide their political past and select which information of their political activism to be shared publicly (p. 15). In other words, silence becomes a strategy of survival. Developing further from these arguments of silence as a form of active remembering, through the case study on 1965–1966 violence in Indonesia, we aim to show how the memories of violence are processed in a rather guarded and obstructed way through silence in intergenerational memory. The story of three families The first generations in these families have different backgrounds, but they became victims of the 1965 violence because of their activities in PKI or activism in agrarian issues. The second generations persisted under the oppressive regime of the New Order. They grew ‘silent’ while coping with their family disruptions. Meanwhile, the third generations have a different approach to their family memories, and this will be our main focus in this section. The names in this article are written according to our interlocutor’s consent; some are written in full while others are accorded pseudonyms. Dianto (pseudonym) is a Yogyakarta/Central Java-based artist born in 1976 and raised in another part of Central Java. His paternal grandfather, Susilo (pseudonym) (1916–1965), was a member of the Barisan Tani Indonesia or BTI (Indonesian Peasants’ Front) and an employee of the Economy Department of the Special Region of Yogyakarta. This position and activism led him to detention and disappearance in October 1965. Along with Susilo, his son Rumanto (pseudonym), an activist of Consentrasi Gerakan Mahasiswa Indonesia or CGMI (Indonesian Student Movement – a leftist organisation affiliated to PKI) was also detained during his first year in the Faculty of Economics, at Gadjah Mada University, Yogyakarta. In January 1966, in Wirogunan prison in Yogyakarta, Rumanto heard his father’s name summoned by an officer. Not knowing that his father was also imprisoned in the same place, this turned out to be the last moment that Rumanto heard about him. The first generation of Dianto’s family appeared to have been a strong progressive-revolutionary characteristic, intensely involved in Indonesia’s decolonisation project and nation-building in the 1950s. Dianto’s maternal grandparents were members of PKI and Gerakan Wanita Indonesia or Gerwani (Indonesia Women’s Movement – a leftist women organisation closely related to PKI) and his maternal grandfather was a regent of Cilacap. They were both detained in 1965 and only released decades after. As a result, the progressive character of his family soon turned into oblivion after the 1965 violence. During the New Order, Rumanto and his wife deliberately hid the background of both Dianto’s grandparents, including Rumanto’s experience as a political prisoner. While living under secrecy in order to keep their children safe, both Rumanto and his wife continued to search for information on Susilo. As a child, Dianto grew up believing that his grandfather died years ago without knowing exactly the cause of his death. === [PDF page 7] === Leksana and Subekti 471 Dianto’s knowledge of his paternal grandfather, Susilo, was built through pieces of information obtained at different times. His first encounter with the puzzling story of Susilo appeared during the tradition of nyekar, or the grave visit ritual in the last week of Ramadhan. His family regularly went to the graves of their maternal grandparents and of Dianto’s paternal grandmother in several areas in Central Java, such as Yogyakarta, Magelang and Salatiga, but never to that of Susilo. When Dianto asked about this, his parents never gave a clear answer. The information was also inconsistent, stating that his grandfather’s grave was in Salatiga, but at other times, it was in Semarang. Another confusing moment came when Dianto and his parents were looking at an old family album. He saw a photo of Susilo and asked, ‘Is this grandfather?’, and Rumanto instantly stated that ‘If you ever see this man, anywhere, tell him that you are my son’. ‘But didn’t grandfather die?’, said Dianto in confusion. This question, as many others, remains unanswered. In this case, Dianto’s puzzles connect the silence in the family, expressed in fragmented narratives that are incomplete and irrational. It also raises many questions, but at the same time implies a distinct feature of the past. The first turning point for Dianto and his family was in 1998, right after the fall of Suharto. Both his parents, who were living in Jakarta at that time, purposefully came to Yogyakarta to talk to Dianto, who was finishing his Bachelor’s at the Indonesian Art Institute. This meeting became a moment when the family’s ‘secret’ was revealed – that Susilo disappeared in 1965, his maternal grandparents were victims of 1965 violence, and his father was detained during that period. In this period, Dianto’s parents then became involved in an organisation founded by victims of 1965 called Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965 or YPKP 1965 (Foundation for Research into Victims of the 1965–1966 Killings) established in 1999. Another turning point for Dianto happened in October 2013 in Yogyakarta, when a social gathering of the 1965 survivors’ families, where Dianto’s mother participated, were disbanded by a group who called themselves Indonesian Anti-Communist Forum. It was a moment of apprehension for Dianto, that Indonesia’s collective memory of 1965 was highly contested, leading to continued persecution even towards the elders. Since then, 1965 is deeply entrenched in Dianto’s artworks. In 2002, together with his friends, he co-founded an artist’s collective, and in 2016, he held an art exhibition based on the existing documents of Susilo, such as photographs and letters. In 2020, together with musician and artist, Farid Stevy (whom to be discussed), they developed a collective digital platform that displays sites and information of 1965–1966 violence in Indonesian map.9 The empty grave Farid Stevy Asta, born in 1982 and currently living in Yogyakarta, is an artist, musician and the lead singer of a rock band named FSTVLST. He was born and raised in Gunung Kidul Regency, Central Java and spent most of his early teenage years in the care of his grandparents. Within those years, Farid was told to call his grandparents aunt and uncle. After being reunited with his parents, Farid discovered that this term of address was because the grandfather whom he grew up with was not his biological one. Farid’s biological grandfather, Wasirin, died long ago. Every year, they regularly visited (nyekar) Wasirin’s grave before Eid al-Fitr. A watershed for Farid came in 2008, when out of his habit, his father, Asto Puaso (born in 1961), came to Yogyakarta specifically to have a private conversation with him about Wasirin’s grave. Asto began by saying that the grave that they regularly visited was actually empty. The date written on the gravestone (22 September 2003) was not his date of death. It was actually in 1965 that both Asto (then 4 years old) and his older brother, Sutakdir, (then 10 years old), witnessed the disappearance of their father. Hearing nothing from him since then, Wasirin’s family believed that he had died. His empty grave was built by Wasirin’s younger brother for the purpose of the yearly nyekar === [PDF page 8] === 472 Memory Studies 16(2) tradition. Although Farid was already familiar with 1965 in his university years, Asto’s story confounded him due to the connection of this national upheaval with his own family. It never occurred to Farid that his family fell victim of this violence. At the end of their conversation, Asto left Farid with a mission to search for the real location of Wasirin’s grave, or in other words, the site where he was believed to be killed. Farid believed that this request was his family’s unfinished business. Because of this request, Farid started to ask his family members about Wasirin, but all of them kept silent. There were no documents or photographs of his grandfather. Talking about Wasirin was not welcome in the family. Farid’s grandmother did not even answer when Farid asked what Wasirin looked like. A small piece of information then was received from Farid’s uncle, Sunyoto, who was a former political prisoner detained in Buru Island.10 Sunyoto only said that Wasirin went missing because of the 1965 violence. It was through the family’s outer circle, such as the village elders, that Farid obtained more details, such as his physical appearance, speech and habits. However, they were also reluctant to talk about Wasirin’s work, his activity or political affiliation – similar to how Farid’s family avoided talking about him. Farid’s grandmother also tends to avoid conversations about her husband. Later on, Farid discovered that it was his grandmother who destroyed his grandfather’s documents to remove the traces of him. At this point, Farid discerned that his search was at a dead end. Nevertheless, thanks to his wife’s (who only discovered Farid’s family mission in 2020) encouragement and his meeting with Dianto that the search of Wasirin’s grave re-commenced. From Dianto, Farid learned about an execution site called Luweng Grubug, in Gunung Kidul, Yogyakarta. It is a vertical cave where political prisoners of 1965 were executed, presumably including Dianto’s grandfather, Susilo. Another experience connected Farid to Luweng Grubug; Tukirah, Wasirin’s younger brother, told Farid that his neighbour dreamt about Wasirin. In that dream, Wasirin appeared shirtless, soaking wet, with the right part of his trousers folded to his knee and his face was covered with wangkong (Ipomoea carnea) leaves, an endemic plant in Gunung Kidul. From this mystical experience and his encounter with Dianto’s story, Farid visited Luweng Grubug for the first time on 1 August 2020 with his wife, guided by nearby villagers. From the locals, Farid found that water runs at the bottom of this vertical cave, and from another source, Farid discovered that near Luweng Grubug lies a ngrakung (another name for wangkong) forest.11 Combining the spiritual experience with pieces of information from different sources, Farid believes that Wasirin was also executed in Luweng Grubug. This discovery, along with the motivation to keep the memory of his grandfather alive, drove Farid to add ‘Sirin’ to his full name. Farid reported his findings to Asto, and on 15 September 2020, both of them along with Farid’s daughter went to Luweng Grubug.12 The next person to be informed about Luweng Grubug was Sunyoto, or Wasirin’s brother-in-law. Discovering the grave became a turning point that revealed the hidden story about Wasirin. From Sunyoto too, Farid discovered that Wasirin was a member of the PKI Central Committee in the Playen District in Gunung Kidul Regency. At the regency level, Wasirin was an orator and propagandist of the party. He also worked in an agrarian office in Yogyakarta, and served as the village secretary. While working in this office, Wasirin succeeded in implementing land distribution of a former government land for villagers, which later on became a separate hamlet in the village called Dusun Galih, the latest hamlet in the village. Those who did not own any land were allowed to build their own home in the new hamlet. After the 30 September Movement, Wasirin went into hiding, but feeling safe, he returned to Gunung Kidul. Thinking that everything had returned to normal, he rode his bicycle with the right side of his trousers folded to his knee in order to avoid the black oil from his bicycle chain – similar to the dream – to his office in Yogyakarta. From that day in October or early November, Wasirin never returned. Sunyoto tried to look for him in several detention centres without any results. Later === [PDF page 9] === Leksana and Subekti 473 on, Sunyoto was also detained together with other students and teachers from Ganesha High School, Yogyakarta. Upon learning that her husband and brother were detained, Farid’s grandmother instantly took the initiative to destroy all of Wasirin’s documents, including his pictures. As a member of PKI Central Committee and a village secretary, having those files may endanger not only his family, but also the villagers. The whole village of Plembutan, Playen District, was actually affiliated, either as active cadres or sympathisers of leftist organisations. However, only three of them, including Wasirin, were taken because of their direct affiliation with PKI. Therefore, Farid’s grandmother’s act of destroying Wasirin’s documents and silence were considered as an act to save the villagers of Plembutan. Due to this initiative, Farid’s family was never stigmatised by their surroundings. Even then, Farid’s grandmother – who turned out to be a member of Gerwani – never revealed to Asto, about Wasirin and his disappearance in 1965. Her effort to erase the trace of their leftist affiliation in the past was also expressed in a strange habit in the family. For example, young Farid was always sent to bed after seeing and listening to the national song ‘Garuda Pancasila’, aired every day at 7 p.m. in the national television. During the New Order period, the Surhato government developed massive anti-communist propaganda actions. National symbols were juxtaposed with anti-communist messages in public media, such as this airing of the national Garuda Pancasila song. Later on, Farid interprets this habit as a symbolic gesture of his grandmother to disconnect the family’s leftist orientation, and to make sure that the following generation was in line with the New Order’s nationalistic rituals. Rice is revolutionary Mintarto (pseudonym), born in 1951 in Klaten, Central Java, is a psychologist and children’s rights activist. His grandfather, Jagus, was an agrarian and crop researcher born in Madiun, East Java, but later on moved to Klaten. His innovation on crops started during his years in a Dutch plantation in Pandan Simping, Klaten. In 1935, he succeeded in developing a tobacco plant resistant to disease (Jagus, 1964a). This success granted Jagus a house within the plantation area, a privilege for a Javanese during the colonial occupation. This was also the start of Jagus’ contribution to crop research in Indonesia. Jagus continued to produce numerous crop varieties and wrote publications based on his research. This was conducted shortly after independence (1945–1950), when Indonesia was struggling as a new state, facing food crop problems and the danger of starvation.13 Therefore, for Jagus, increasing crop production was an important part of the national economy and revolution agendas, which was as important as other revolutionary agendas (Jagus, 1964b). After his success with the tobacco, he dedicated his life to developing rice varieties that could grow in dry fields (meaning they need less water) and produce many rice grains on each stem that could be harvested rapidly. He continued his research and founded other types of rice variety, which later on caught President Sukarno’s attention. With the President’s support, the Jajasan Lembaga Penjelidikan Keilmiahan Pertanian dan Pembibitan or JLPKPP, (Research Institute for Farming and Crop Seeds) was established in 1959 in Klaten. Jagus’ research on food crops had its ideological roots. In line with the spirit of independence, Jagus was striving for self-sufficiency in seeds production by farmers themselves. Presumably, this idealism connects him with the BTI. In 1963, Jagus gave a presentation in the Seminar of Farm Production and 1001 Movement by the BTI. Here, he stressed the need to build a collectively maintained nursery garden in every village that would provide seedlings for the local farmers. Furthermore, every village should also establish a collective seeds barn as the storage and distribution centre of seeds for the farmers (Jagus, 1963). Jagus envisioned a distribution mechanism from JLPKPP to this village barns so that farmers would receive top quality rice seeds in every farming === [PDF page 10] === 474 Memory Studies 16(2) season. Jagus also taught at the Egom Peasant Movement – an institute developed by the BTI – and served as a member of the People’s Representative Council of Mutual Assistance (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Gotong Royong or DPR-GR), a council appointed directly by Sukarno during the period of Guided Democracy (1957–1966).14 Jagus’ rice varieties and his vision of a villagebased seed bank perished along with New Order’s capitalist oriented agrarian policy. Through the Green Revolution project, the use of seeds, fertilisers and pesticides from multinational corporations became central under the New Order (White and Huskens, 1989), which was highly in contrast with Jagus and BTI’s idea of collectivity and farmer’s self-sufficiency in the farming process (Slamet-Velsink, 1988). Outside his work and contribution to agriculture and research, Jagus and his wife raised eight children. Their second one is the mother of Mintarto and his twin brother, Munarjo. These two brothers were born and raised in a house nearby Jagus’. They often visited him after school, observed his experiments and asked many questions about his work. The memory of his tools, pots and Dutch-style home remain vivid in Mintarto’s memory of his grandfather. As a school boy, Mintarto did not really understand the significance of Jagus’ works or his organisational activism. Not until Sukarno’s visit to Klaten and the president’s meeting with Jagus around 1958, did Mintarto realise that his grandfather was an important person for the country. It was this visit, rather than his activism, that Mintarto reasoned as the cause of Jagus’ arrest. In contrast with Mintarto’s memory of Jagus’ home, the events surrounding Jagus’ arrest was vague. It was not clear when it happened, but Mintarto remembered that the army went to his house and took Jagus. Interestingly, throughout the interview, Mintarto never mentioned the term ‘army’, instead only referring to it as ‘them’. Mintarto also did not describe explicitly the place where Jagus was detained although he mentioned a Christian school and a Chinese school in Klaten that were turned into detention centres during 1965. After his grandfather was taken, Mintarto and his family moved into his grandparents’ house to accompany his grandmother. One moment that Mintarto never forgot was when Jagus and other prisoners were herded by the army from the detention centre to a river near their house to bathe and clean themselves. From behind a window, Mintarto saw his grandfather walking with a bowed head and his grandmother looking away from the window while Mintarto and his brother were shouting ‘There is grandfather (Itu Eyang)!’. This was the last time that Mintarto saw his grandfather. Jagus was released and returned to his home and family, although it was not known exactly when he was released. He never returned to his research, as all of his documents and experiments were either confiscated or destroyed. Mintarto himself did not have further contact with Jagus until Jagus died in 1970. His wife followed years after. Because of this incident in his family, Mintarto moved out from Klaten. Initially, he planned to continue his high school in Yogyakarta, but then his uncle asked Mintarto to live with his family in Surabaya, East Java. He spent 3 years there and decided to move to Jakarta after failing to be admitted to the Faculty of Medicine. There, he started his career as a psychologist and develops an expertise in children’s rights and child development until today. Perhaps since Mintarto is a highly recognisable child psychologist, with a career in the public eye, including frequent appearances in the press and television, he tends to avoid the topic of his grandfather’s activism throughout our conversation. Mintarto never pointed to Jagus’ affiliation with BTI, instead he repeatedly stated his grandfather’s wise words, such as ‘God never sleeps’ or ‘Stay calm, God is fair’ when describing Jagus’ detention. Mintarto also juxtaposed his family with Sukarno’s children who were marginalised under the New Order government. Furthermore, Mintarto mentioned his role in building the Istana Anak (Indonesian Children Palace) in Tien Suharto’s – first lady of the New Order regime – project of Taman Mini Indonesia Indah, Beautiful Indonesia in Miniature, a theme park depicting Indonesia’s various ethnic groups, built in 1972. Mintarto even received a === [PDF page 11] === Leksana and Subekti 475 beautiful gift from the Suharto family for his wedding. All of these facts were presented to us as proof that Mintarto’s family, from the generation of Jagus onwards, was never involved in politics, let alone the leftist politics. Making sense of silenced memories These stories of the three families show the prominence of silence but at the same time the persistent memories of violence. The changing political contour in Indonesia definitely influences how families deal with their personal memories of violence. This reflects what Winichakul (2020) describes as chronopolitics of memory, the complex and changing structure, political and public discourse, embedded in a society (p. 9). For example, the transformation from the New Order to the Reformasi in Indonesia influenced the revelation of Dianto’s family secrets about their leftist activism and the disappearance of Susilo. Even during the New Order, Dianto’s parents’ option to stay silent about this particular past could not contain the fragmented narratives that intermittently emerged. When they were looking at an old family album, Dianto’s was surprised when Rumanto said ‘If you see this man, tell him you’re my son’, while pointing at the picture of Dianto’s grandfather. Dianto suspected that something was hidden, because he was told that his grandfather had died. This illustrates that ‘traumatic memory does not appear in neat, told narratives, but belongs to a diffuse, inchoate, embodied world’ (Warin and Dennis, 2008). Moreover, from Dianto’s family, we also understand that silence is not a linear manifestation of trauma and fear, nor forgetting; instead it navigates between family narratives that are re-authored and retold in the changing political context. In other cases, silence is expressed in irrational or mystical experiences, such as the case of Farid’s family. The realm of the spiritual world, in this case a combination of tradition and religion, is a ubiquitous characteristic of Indonesia and to a larger extent, Southeast Asian culture (Chambert- Loir and Reid, 2002). However, approaching spiritualism as a cultural manifestation per se inhibits us from going further to the socio-political grounds that trigger these experiences. In order to go beyond the cultural approach, we turn to Avery Gordon for a more sociological oriented lens of ghostly experiences. For Gordon (1997), ghosts are not merely a dead or missing person, but a social figure that reflects the connectivity of history and subjectivity in social life (p. 8). Gordon also points out that haunting is a notification that ‘what’s been suppressed or concealed is very much alive and present, interfering with us and with the systems of repression that produce concealment and blockage’ (Gordon et al., 2020: 339). Therefore, Gordon continues, haunting relates to the socially present demand for something to be done (Gordon et al., 2020: 339). For Farid and his family, the appearance of Wasirin in a neighbour’s dream is a sign that something needs to be done – that Wasirin’s story should be unravelled. It is this ghost of Wasirin that actually sustains the memory of 1965 violence. In a research on sites of violence in Central Java, Kar Yen Leong argues that it is the spiritual universe that provides reflection of a denied reality when the realm of the living is unable to offer any sort of closure (Kar-Yen, 2021: 17). Therefore, the ghost in the dream becomes a transformative force, which does not only aim to reveal a family secret, but also to sustain the collective remembrance of the violence that shapes a country. Unlike Dianto’s and Farid’s, Mintarto’s family memories of the violence are highly depoliticised. Jagus’ character is reduced to simply an influential agrarian researcher, without any closeness to PKI, BTI or his progressive ideas of farmer’s self-sufficiency. None of these terms emerged in our conversation with Mintarto, including the word ‘army’. The memory of Jagus as an apolitical figure was constructed in order to secure Mintarto’s career and reputation as a famous children rights’ activist, including his close affiliation with Suharto’s family. In other words, memories and forgetting are related more to the present, rather than to the past itself. Furthermore, the silences in === [PDF page 12] === 476 Memory Studies 16(2) Mintarto’s family are selective. On one hand, they do not avoid talking about Jagus (different from the way Farid’s grandmother eschews to talk about Wasirin), but on the other, the family is reluctant to say anything about his leftist orientation. For the third generations and after, Jagus is reduced merely to an innovator of rice crops, circumcising him from his leftist ideas of self-sufficient farmers. Conclusion The experiences of the families in this article show that intergenerational memory of violence is affected by the coexistence of both the formal and counter narratives of violence. The repressive and structural memory projects created during the New Order regime have lost their authoritative power in constructing Indonesia’s collective memory of 1965 violence as the democratisation processes have risen since 1998. Young generations of Indonesians grow up not only under the formal narrative of anti-communism that still dominates the society and historiography, but also the counter narrative of mass killings and violence that occurred throughout 1965–1966. From the three families, we can see how these narratives intertwined and affected the memories of violence in the third generation. For example, the knowledge of Wasirin’s disappearance enables Farid to understand his grandmother’s habit of listening to the national song ‘Garuda Pancasila’. In other words, different narratives of violence should not be perceived in binary opposition to remembering and forgetting, but as being in a continuous process of interaction between them. Furthermore, these cases in Indonesia has shown the complex processes of memory transfer between generations, where silence takes a central place. However, far from creating absence, silence continues to preserve the memories of violence through different means. From our case studies, we identify three strategies where memories of violence are preserved through generations. First, through fragmented narratives, where particular events, incidents or statements about the past emerged in incomplete forms. Their emergence creates questions and indicates hidden information. Although the complete story is not yet known, the fragments imply that an uneasy past constitutes the family’s memory. Second is through mysticism and spirituality. Figures of the dead who appear in dreams or their sites of death become an important anchor of preserving memories of violence. The third mechanism is by depoliticising figures of the first generations. To preserve the memories about the first generation held by their descendants, the experience of violence is disconnected from the socio-political structure that caused the event itself. All of these expressions of silence show that in contexts where spaces to discuss openly about mass violence are limited, narratives are conveyed in incomplete and fragmented form within families. This illustrates that rather than a disarray in remembering past violence, fragmented narratives within families became a strategy to preserve memories of violence. These various mechanisms of silence also led us to understand that state repression and denial are not the only factors in determining collective memory in post-violence society. Even when structural repression existed, the memories of violence still persist from one generation to another through the processes that we have described above. However, we do not generalise that every silence that occurred in post-conflict society is able to be interpreted. In many cases, silence still has its confining feature and is intended to forget. Still even then, silence also becomes an option and a manifestation of the individual’s agency. As Veena Das puts it, containing memories of violence is itself the expression of it (Das, 2007: 54). Moreover, scrutinising silence in families brings us to the conclusion that silence should also be considered as a source of understanding the past, similar to how diaries or memoirs are used to reconstruct past atrocities. Examining why and in what contexts people decided to stay silent about their past will help us to understand how memories continues to live in the present. === [PDF page 13] === Leksana and Subekti 477 Acknowledgements The authors would like to thank Farid Stevy and two other interlocutors for the openness to share their family stories. The authors also thank the two anonymous reviewers for their valuable comments. ORCID iDs Grace Leksana https://orcid.org/0000-0003-1475-4041 Arif Subekti https://orcid.org/0000-0001-7606-0294 Notes 1. Fuica noted that Hirsch’s concept of postmemory emerged from the context of Holocaust. Although Hirsch stated that the concept can be applied to a broader context beyond the Holocaust, but according to Fuica, Hirsch did not elaborate this statement. Fuica’s article aims to take further Hirsch’s work and examine the specificity of Latin America’s Southern Cone. 2. Analyses regarding the actor behind the movement have been largely discussed. For example, Anderson et al. (1971) argue that it was an internal army coup of junior officers. Meanwhile, Roosa (2006) argues that there is no clear mastermind of the movement. 3. This is very much in contrast with the autopsy report of the officers’ bodies, which found no signs of torture, but only gunshots as the cause of death (see Anderson, 1987). 4. Many of these survivors and political prisoners published their memoirs and other literary publications. Works from Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Hersri Setiawan, Putu Oka Sukanta and Martin Aleida, for example, have added to a specific genre of Indonesia’s literature world. 5. The latest effort from the state occurred through the Simposium Nasional: Membedah Tragedi 1965, Pendekatan Kesejarahan (National Symposium: Examining 1965 Tragedy, A Historical Approach) on 18–19 April 2016. This was the first official collaborative work among government institutions, NGOs and academics to openly discuss this issue (Utama, 2016). 6. Several victims established organisations such as the Foundation for Research into Victims of the 1965– 1966 Killings (see McGregor, 2012) or the Dialita choir who took cultural approach (Pitaloka and Dutta, 2021) towards reconciliation. Apart from victim’s organisation, religious-based organisations, such as Syarikat, also participated in initiating reconciliation programmes between Nahdlatul Ulama/NU (one of the prominent Islamic organisations that was actively involved in the killings of communists) and the victims of the 1965 violence (see Budiawan, 2004). 7. This hygiene of environment policy means that all civil servants should have no connections to the PKI, including any family relations to (accused) members and activists of PKI. 8. There are around 1400 Indonesians living in political exile in European countries. Most of them were diplomats, students or correspondents who worked in socialist countries such as Cuba, China, the Soviet Union or other Eastern European countries when the 1965 violence occurred. They refused to acknowledge the 1965 violence as a coup attempt by the communists, so the Indonesian government through the embassies revoked their passports. Without proper documents, it was impossible for them to return to Indonesia. They were also threatened to be detained if they decided to return to their homeland 9. See http://fis.1965.or.id 10. The Buru island in Maluku was built as a detention centre built in 1969 (based on a decree signed by the Senior Military Commander of Operations Command to Restore Security and Order) for category-B political prisoners, defined as clearly indirectly involved in the 30 September Movement. In the same year, around 10,000 prisoners were sent to Buru in different stages. In 1979, the prisoners were finally released and the centre was closed permanently (Adam, 2014: 351,357). 11. The source that Farid refers to is the investigation report from Tempo magazine, based on the narratives of the perpetrators of 1965 violence (Kurniawan, 2013). One source in the report described that political prisoners were dropped at the last village in Gunung Kidul, separated in groups and walked 3 km through Ngrakung forest to Luweng Grubug, guarded by the army. === [PDF page 14] === 478 Memory Studies 16(2) 12. The visit to Luweng Grubug was filmed and made into a music video titled ‘421’ by Farid’s musician friend, Jason Ranti. This music video became a preservation of Farid’s family memory and also a motivation to continue to search Wasirin’s grave. The video can be accessed here: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=P_dJtM-FGkc 13. Rice and total food crop production was at its lowest between 1946 and 1950 (only 3,675,000 tonnes) (Booth, 1988). 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Beginning to Remember: The Past in the Indonesian Present. Singapore: Singapore University Press, pp. 3–32. Author biographies Grace Leksana and Arif Subekti are both assistant professors in the History Department, Universitas Negeri Malang, East Java, Indonesia. Both of them coordinate the research cluster on memory politics and violence in the History Department. Contacts: grace.leksana.fis@um.ac.id; arif.subekti.fis@um.ac.id.