Where Are You, My Little Scapegoats? Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (Bielecki, 2025)

=== [PDF page 1] === Where Are You, My Little Scapegoats? Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah) as a Performative Memory Practice around the Indonesian Genocide of 1965–1966 MichaÅ‚ Bielecki Asian Theatre Journal, Volume 42, Number 1, Spring 2025, pp. 215-245 (Article) Published by University of Hawai'i Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/atj.2025.a962141 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/962141 [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary === [PDF page 2] === Where Are You, My Little Scapegoats? Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah) as a Performative Memory Practice around the Indonesian Genocide of 1965–1966 Michał Bielecki This essay analyzes the performance Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (SACS, or Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah), staged on 30 November 2018 at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Directed by Irfanuddien Ghozali and collaboratively created with women survivors of the 1965–1966 genocide in Indonesia, the performance honors the late survivor Sumilah. The story of her life forms the thematic core of the production and is interwoven with themes from Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s Buru Quartet, enriching the performance with additional layers of cultural and historical significance. This analysis explores and contextualizes the performance as a medium through which memory activists shape and negotiate Indonesia’s collective [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary memory landscape. Michał Bielecki works as a lecturer at the Department of Asian Studies, Faculty of International and Political Studies, University of Lodz, Poland. He completed his Ph.D. in Sociology at the Institute of Philosophy and Sociology of the Polish Academy of Sciences in 2023. The Indonesian mass killings that took place in 1965–1966 are sometimes called a forgotten, hushed-up crime. The memory of the atrocities is deemed forbidden, repressed, unnecessary, even damaging. Still, the space of secrecy created around the events is not monolithic, which is especially apparent in the field of art. This essay analyzes one instance of the culture of silence being broken: the theatrical performance Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (SACS, Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah), which was written and directed by Asian Theatre Journal, vol. 42, no. 1 (Spring 2025). © 2025 by University of Hawai’i Press. All rights reserved. === [PDF page 3] === 216 Bielecki FIGURE 1. A poster of the show. The character portrayed is the eponymous Sumilah, a recently deceased genocide survivor. Sumilah’s life story is the main topic of the performance in question. The poster was designed by Leo Mulyono, a friend of Sumilah and a fellow former political prisoner. (Courtesy of Pipit Ambarmirah) Irfanuddien Ghozali and produced by Venti Wijayanti and Anas A. H. under the artistic direction of Yesandia O. Utomo and Agung Kurniawan. The play was cocreated with Kipper, a group of women survivors from Yogyakarta, and a group of students from Gadjah Mada University (UGM). It was presented to the public only once, on 30 November 2018, in the auditorium of the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences at the UGM. It was created to commemorate the life of a deceased Kipper member, the eponymous Sumilah. Rich with meaning, the performance reveals to the audience the voice of a socially marginalized group: the victims of historical violence and their descendants. The essay attempts to answer the following questions: Why did the creators decide to speak publicly on a matter enshrouded in a === [PDF page 4] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 217 cultural taboo? What did they want to tell their audience? What does the performance say about the Indonesian memory culture? Historical Background On the night of 30 September 1965, six high-ranking Indonesian generals and a lieutenant were captured and killed.1 The perpetrators—a group of mid-ranking officers calling themselves the 30 September Movement (Gerakan 30 September, G30S)—established a Revolutionary Council. The G30S formed a new government, whose members were arrested within hours by General Suharto with the support of the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat, or Kostrad) and units of the Siliwangi Division. Accounts of the brutal murders of the generals traveled across Indonesia. Members of the Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) were accused of attempting to seize power in the country.2 Although the autopsy results unequivocally indicated gunshot wounds as the cause of death, Kostrad-controlled media broadcast a different version of events. They alleged that the generals had been mutilated by members of the Gerwani Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia),3 who had supposedly gouged the generals’ eyes out and cut off their genitalia in a frenzy of erotic dancing. “These icy lies were planned to create an anticommunist hysteria in all strata of Indonesian society,” Benedict Anderson would later comment (2000: 9). What ensued was a wave of anti-Communist violence initiated by the Indonesian army and supported by politically involved Muslim circles, among other groups. At least several hundred thousand people were slaughtered in the span of months. The exact number of victims is unknown, and estimates from various sources cite as many as two million.4 At least a million were imprisoned, many for more than ten years.5 The crimes were committed by special squadrons of the Indonesian army, members of trained civilian militia, and sometimes local gangsters. The perpetrators targeted members of the PKI and other leftist organizations, their families, people suspected of Communist sympathies, and ethnic Chinese. Some victims had no connection to the PKI, other organizations, or even politics in general. Genocide became the foundation of General Suharto’s military dictatorship—an authoritarian regime that continued until 1998. === [PDF page 5] === 218 Bielecki Kipper—Survivors and Memory Activists Kipper (Kiprah Perempuan, Women’s Initiative) is an apolitical forum of former political prisoners who are known in Indonesia as eks-tapol (eks tahanan politik). All active members of the semiformal community are women. Kipper’s activities are coordinated by Pipit Ambarmirah, a daughter of two survivors. The organization was officially inaugurated on 19 March 2006, and the meetings of women survivors (sometimes including victims’ wives or close relatives) living in and around Yogyakarta are held until this day. When asked why the forum she cocreated has become exclusively a women’s space, Mbak Pipit explains that men tend to talk about politics and dominate the conversation all too often.6 Their presence prevents the Ibu-ibu from feeling at ease.7 “We didn’t necessarily want to tackle difficult, deep subjects at our meetings. The Kipper members preferred the formula of relaxed, casual meetings among friends.”8 One key aspect of the community’s operations is mutual aid in challenging life situations (including financial help). Kipper members engage in art and charity projects. They organize and participate in training sessions, lectures, and discussions. Thus, the community fulfills various needs—including bold acts of memory animation (the performance described in this paper is one example)—while maintaining its fundamental function of creating a safe space for being together and improving its members’ life situations. After its inception, the organization grew quickly, from about a dozen to fifty members. At present, due to natural causes, it is systematically shrinking. Activities of Kipper are supported by Fopperham (Forum Pendidikan dan Perjuangan Hak Asasi Manusia, the Human Rights Education and Advocacy Forum)—an organization established in the early 2000s by a group of activists, including Pipit Ambarmirah. Fopperham counts many young people in its ranks, particularly students and researchers. It acts as a safety buffer for the Kipper community; many initiatives undertaken by Kipper are run under Fopperham’s name. As Mbak Pipit explains, “if Kipper became more visible, it would quickly be dissolved” (personal interview, 11 February 2018). Pipit herself only learned about her parents’ past as a university student, and she is not an isolated case. Some survivors never shared their stories with their families. “Many friends warned me to be careful and never give away the secret of my past to my children,” recalls Pipit’s father, Pak Leo Mulyono (personal interview, 7 February 2018). Conversely, many children who do know the stories of their parents or neighbors prefer to cut themselves off from their past. === [PDF page 6] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 219 Memory-Dread My conversations with the survivors demonstrate that being a member of a so-called PKI family is often a closely guarded secret associated with recurring fears for one’s own safety and for the safety of one’s family. In Indonesian society, the memory of the genocide is inextricably tied to fear, resulting in a phenomenon similar to what Alexander Etkind, a scholar specializing in Russian collective memory, calls “memory-dread” (2012: 184). He writes: If the difference between the catastrophic generation and their descendants is not so climactic; if the second and third generation live in the same territory where the catastrophe happened; if the political regime on this territory, even though having been changed after the catastrophe more than once, remains indistinct and ambiguous in its treatment of its catastrophic past; if the perpetrators were not condemned, the victims were not compensated, the criminal institutions were not banned, the monuments were not built—the post-memory of the catastrophe acquires intense and peculiar forms. (2012: 184) The category of post-memory, as constructed by Marianne Hirsch in her discussion of Holocaust survivor descendants (1997, 2012), does not entirely fit the Indonesian social reality if, as Etkind writes, “the subject of remembrance continues into the present and shapes the future” (2013: 42). In this case, the addition of the prefix “post-” seems inaccurate because it suggests a sharp temporal boundary between the traumagenic event and the subsequent process of remembering and post-remembering. Meanwhile, time in the posttraumatic reality undergoes a peculiar transformation. Etkind observes: In these conditions, memory of the past becomes indistinguishable from the obsessive fear of its repetition in the future, and mourning merges with warning... In the aftermath of social catastrophes, mourning over real losses merges with an anticipation of new and imagined ones, creating a ghostly amalgam that resists conceptual analysis. It is not that fear is connected to memory in these situations; these cultural domains become literally the same experience. (2012: 184) Although it was conceptualized with post-Soviet Russia in mind, the term memory-dread, coined by Etkind, seems more universal. The generational shift in Indonesia has not achieved a transformative character as the descendants of the victims, survivors and perpetrators grew up in a society ruled by the genocidal dictator for over three decades; successive governments have made no attempts at a reckoning, often directly copying the narrative of the previous regime; generation after generation matured not only in the same country but also in the very same villages, living next door to the executioners of their parents and grandparents; the perpetrators were never tried, the victims never === [PDF page 7] === 220 Bielecki rehabilitated; redress is not even a subject for public debate; many organizations complicit in the atrocities have not been dissolved. In his reflections, Etkind devotes particular attention to ghosts, asserting after Freud, Benjamin, or Derrida that facing them is the key to social mysteries: In the post-Soviet economics of memory, where the losses are massive and the monuments in short supply, the dead return as the undead. The innocent victims turn into uncanny monsters. There is nothing sentimental in this theatre of memory, nor is it tragic. It is scary. (2012: 184–185) Ghosts—or “ghostware”—are one of three main components of Etkind’s memory theory, alongside text (software) and monuments (hardware). However, the ghastly aspects of memory seem to supersede all of its other fields. Ghosts, through their uncanniness, combine memory and dread into one entity. The undead impact the present that they haunt, easily surmounting the obstacles posed by the living. The Selamatan Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah (SACS, Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah) is part of a broader phenomenon in the Indonesian memoryscape of the last ten to fifteen years: the members of the new generations,9 born after 1965, have been showing an interest in the subject of historical violence, making bold attempts to break the taboo around it, and recognizing the need to reconstruct history and to seek truth-based reconciliation. It is often the language of art, including the performative arts,10 which becomes the vessel for new narratives [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary that counter the official memory and history policies of the Republic.11 In many cases, the source material for artistic initiatives is gathered through oral history research methods as the creators interview people affected by the violence, their own family members, and the inhabitants of their neighborhood. Outside the sphere of art, critical roles in the creation of new narratives and the commemoration of anti-Communist violence have been played by activism (by nongovernmental organizations at various degrees of formalization and territorial scope),12 and academia, whose interest in “the subject matter of 1965,” both in the country and abroad, has been rising in recent years. Closely linked together, the circles of academia, activism, and art are one faction in the mnemonic battle waged in modern Indonesia. Here, one should also mention that a vital (global) impulse that prompted the steps to commemorate the historical genocide was the success of Joshua Oppenheimer’s cinematographic diptych The Act of === [PDF page 8] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 221 Killing (2012) and The Look of Silence (2014), which are among the most acclaimed documentary films in the history of the genre.13 Selamatan for the Descendants of Sumilah was written and directed by Irfanuddien Ghozali and cocreated by Kipper and Fopperham.14 The production was supported by the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences at the UGM and several smaller partners (for a complete list of creators, see note 11). The performance is an example of how these organizations and the people who collaborate with them work as “memory activists” (Gluck 2007) or “memory agents” (Winter 2010): the creators of narrative alternatives to the official memory politics. Despite the decades-long marginalization and intimidation of the victims of anti-Communist violence, the members of Kipper strive to break the socially sanctioned silence and overcome the memory-dread. In Javanese culture, a selamatan is a collective feast symbolizing the social and mystical unity of the diners.15 According to Clifford Geertz (1976), the seemingly modest ritual occupies a central place in the Javanese belief system. The feasts are organized on various occasions: births, weddings, deaths, illness, harvest, and Muslim festivals—in short, cyclical liminal phases for individuals and communities. The meal consists of special dishes which symbolically refer to the intention of the selamatan. The aim of the ritual is to offer sacrifice to the spirits, restore harmony to the community, and express readiness for collaboration and mutual support. All neighbors interrupt their daily activities, gather in a ceremonial atmosphere, and then return to their homes and routines transformed as a more unified, solidary collective (Geertz 1976: 11, 14). SACS was staged to celebrate the memory of a late member of Kipper: Ibu Maria Goreti Sumilah. The introduction to the performance informed the audience that through the telling of the Bu Sumilah story, the creators wanted to give prominence to a certain group of victims of the 1965 atrocities: those who had not become “somebody,” who had not been associated with a singular experience, unwavering bravery, or activism, art or research, and thus had not achieved iconic status. Anonymous, they had become “invisible” for the wider society, their stories a blank spot on the map of collective memory. The performance creators showed how Bu Sumilah and her friends had found themselves among the victims of 1965. Their stories attest to the diversity of reasons why people were stripped of their freedom, dignity, and often their lives. Many victims were directly or indirectly tied to PKI and related organizations. The repressions often struck their family members, even though many did not identify with the Communist Party or its ideology, frequently not even knowing or understanding its tenets. Although the victims were collectively called pengkhianat— === [PDF page 9] === 222 Bielecki FIGURE 2. A blueprint of the performance’s stage design. In the center is a guard tower, with tables arranged in the shape of a cross around it. At the back are grills for cooking meat. To the right, there is an exhibition of archival photos presenting the experiences of former political prisoners. (Authors: Bayu Wijaya and Agung Kurniawan) traitors (Melvin 2018)—the vast majority had no knowledge of the G30S. As Bu Sumilah’s story shows, people could even be arrested by mistake. The number of victims also continues to be contested. However, the distortion of history goes further as the official narrative almost completely omits the violence experienced by the “Communists.” As Geoffrey B. Robinson has observed, Indeed, from the outset, [the Indonesian authorities] have sought to focus attention almost exclusively on the killing of the six generals, making these the centerpiece of an elaborate official history that glorifies the military, while relegating the mass killing of leftists to a mere footnote. (2018: 120) The performance creators—the artists, activists, and survivors— oppose this version of history. SACS was presented to an audience once on 30 November 2018, on the campus of the UGM in Yogyakarta. It started with the singing of a popular Indonesian song, the cheerful Anak Kambing Saya (My Baby Goats). The simple rhythm, catchy melody, and playful words had made it a hit in the kindergartens, schools, and playgrounds of the archipelago. However, in the performance, the “baby goats” (anak kambing) from the original version were replaced with “scapegoats” (kambing hitam): Where are you, my little scapegoats? === [PDF page 10] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 223 Here you are, here and there. Caca marica, hey, hey! Caca marica, hey, hey! My little scapegoats are here and there. (Ghozali 2018) Multiple repetitions of the rhythmic melody throughout the performance added to it a trance-like quality, which is typical of Javanese rituals (with the rhythmic repetitions inducing trance in the participants). They also brought to mind the genre of the funereal lament. In the selamatan discussed here, while Sumilah’s name also appeared many times, the phrase “little scapegoats,” returning like a mantra, was especially striking. Sung by survivors who were accompanied by a group of students, including members of the Saikorale Choir of the UGM Department of Psychology, the cheerful, plain melody gained a dramatic, even bitter undertone. The children’s song was given a drastically different meaning, becoming instead an expression of sorrow after the loss of a loved one, a recollection of a painful past, and—juxtaposed with Sumilah’s life story—an outpouring of grief for her youth that had been unjustly taken away. “Where are you, my little scapegoats?” sings the chorus of genocide survivors, like wailers lamenting over the deceased, bidding their final farewell to their friend, their fellow survivor. The category of a scapegoat connects the mourners and the lamented, blurring the boundary between life and death. “Where are you, my little scapegoats?” exclaim the aged survivors on the stage, lamenting Bu Sumilah’s fate and their own. In René Girard’s theory of the scapegoat mechanism (1977), the ritualistic violence inflicted on an individual or a group is supposed to alleviate social upheaval. The community members’ conviction that the threat has been eliminated becomes the founding act of a new social order. The Orde Baru, or New Order, constructed on the foundation of anti-Communist violence, ended over two decades ago. Now, its victims demand their place in the collective memory. Has the death of one companion reminded them how little time they have left to achieve this purpose? Many components of SACS point to its ritualistic character, including the presence of the survivors and the family of the deceased woman, the fact that the performance only occurred once, or the rhythmic repetition of the lament song. Most crucially, the eponymous selamatan is a ritualistic communal feast. This aspect was also integrated into the performance. Bu Sumilah’s loved ones were cooking satay during the show,16 and sharing the meal with the audience was part of the event. The selection of the dish was no accident. At the literal level, the choice was straightforward—for many years, Bu Sumilah had earned a living selling satay. The space of the auditorium featured such === [PDF page 11] === 224 Bielecki FIGURE 3. A genocide survivor assisted by a student volunteer. On the table in front of her is a bamboo plate filled with food intended for shared consumption during the performance. Members of the Saikorale Choir of the UGM Department of Psychology are visible in the background. (Photo by Dwi Oblo) objects as small charcoal grills, mats for sitting, banana leaves to serve the food, and containers with traditional snacks, making the audience feel like they were dining in a traditional Javanese eatery. The stage design even included the actual sign from Bu Sumilah’s food stall. Moreover, Irfanuddien Ghozali explained that the decision to incorporate the communal cooking and eating of a meat dish into the performance was also motivated by the need to find a metaphor for the experiences of 1965 and beyond that would avoid the direct display of violence on the stage, which may have retraumatized the participating Ibu-ibu. As the director said in an interview with The Jakarta Post, “The process of satay making is a subtle metaphor depicting the various forms of torture inflicted on people [charged with supporting the PKI]” (Muryanto 2018). In another public statement, Irfanuddien Ghozali believed that fighting was not the only path to survival. He said, “Selling satay, supporting a family, is also a form of life. A form of resistance, a form of struggle. Life struggle” (“Selamatan Anak Cucu The space of the auditorium also contained artifacts that conveyed the experiences of the survivors on stage. They included tableware used by a former prisoner during his incarceration at Wirogunan === [PDF page 12] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 225 FIGURE 4. Actors (a UGM student and three female survivors) in the space of the selamatan. In the background are elements of the set resembling a traditional Javanese food stall with pieces of meat hanging on it. The meat was later cooked and shared with the audience. (Photo by Budi N. D. Dharmawan) [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary FIGURE 5. The participants of the show prepare meat skewers. (Photo by Dwi Oblo) === [PDF page 13] === 226 Bielecki in Yogyakarta; sports shoes and socks that one of the survivors wore as a prison volleyball team member; and hollowed-out bars of soap that showed how families sent clandestine messages to their loved ones in prison. Another component of the stage design was historical photographs of the survivors that told their life stories, including imprisonment. The pictures were exhibited inside cages, which could easily be associated with prison bars. The Dramatic Persona Maria Goreti Sumilah was born on the outskirts of Yogyakarta in 1951. Her parents made a living selling satay and gulai.17 After four years of education, she had to leave school to help them care for her younger siblings. Her childhood was cut short by the tumultuous events of 1965. The audience learns about Sumilah’s life from her Kipper friends, who reminisce about her on stage: It was 53 years ago, on a Kliwon Friday,18 April 19, 1965, when Bu Sumilah was arrested in Prambanan and transported to Wirogunan Prison in Yogyakarta. She was put in a truck full of people from different places. Straight to Wirogunan Prison. Bu Sumilah did not know why she had been arrested. She was just a fourteen-year-old girl with four years of elementary education. Her parents were two of many gulai vendors, they weren’t part of any organization. “Maybe it’s because I danced to Genjer-genjer on Pitulasan in the village,” 19 she thought. But she was just having fun—she didn’t even know what it was, what the dance might mean. She loved dancing, and the melodic song was perfect for it. (Ghozali 2018) Six months later, Bu Sumilah was transported to the Bulu Prison in Semarang, then, in 1971, to a camp in Plantungan. At one point, a question is asked on stage: “Did anyone present here go to the ‘school’ in Plantungan with Bu Sumilah?” (Ghozali 2018). The friends of the deceased share story after story with the audience. Bu Sumilah was.... She was always full of joy, always helpful. When someone asked for her help, she always said “yes.” Always “yes,” no matter if they were rich, poor, young or old. When she was in Plantungan, Bu Sumilah worked in a farming unit. She was very hard-working, so her superior was very happy.... So happy to have a subordinate like her. One day, the camp was celebrating Eid al-Adha,20 when animals are killed. She skillfully skinned a goat because she used to help her parents sell satay. When she had returned home, she tried to sell clothes, but it didn’t work out. Then, she married a man, and her marriage was blessed with two children.... Bu Milah followed in her parents’ footsteps and started selling satay,21 but if anyone asked for her help, she left her stall and helped. === [PDF page 14] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 227 Her son married, then her daughter, then her husband died. Bu Sumilah lived with her son Bayu until the moment God decided that her time had come to a close. There was a sad story about Bu Sumilah going around the Plantungan camp. When she was already in prison, Bu Sumilah learnt that her arrest was a mistake. It wasn’t supposed to be her, but another woman with the same name. An SD teacher in Prambanan,22 Kranggon, Brosot, Kulon Progo, member of PGRI Non-Vaksentral.23 So.... if her story was ever turned into a screenplay, it would be titled The Tapol That Was Switched. What did the prison guard commander say to that? To the young Bu Sumilah? “You just have to live with it. That’s your fate,” he said. So what happened to Ibu Sumilah, the teacher? She was also caught, but she wasn’t thrown into Plantungan. Little Bu Sumilah only met her after they were freed. Bu Sumilah, the teacher, was freed first. They met at a friend’s funeral. They shook hands, they hugged.... Then Bu Sumilah (the teacher) said: “I’m sorry, Dik.”24 “It’s alright, it’s all behind us. It’s not your fault, Mbakyu.25 It’s the officers’ fault.” (Ghozali 2018) Pramoedya Ananta Toer In the performance, the memories of the deceased Bu Sumilah were complemented with writings by Pramoedya Ananta Toer (1925– 2006), whose life and work reflect the significant events and ideas that shaped the archipelago in the 1900s. As a young writer, Pramoedya spent the years 1947–1949 in prison, arrested by the colonizers for his involvement in the Indonesian independence movement. In the 1950s, he started collaborating with Lekra, a social movement that attracted writers, artists, and teachers, and was tied to the PKI. In 1960, he was incarcerated again, this time as a political prisoner of the Orde Lama regime.26 His views, especially his opposition against the systemic discrimination of the Chinese minority, were unacceptable to the authorities at the time.27 In 1965, Pramoedya was held as a political prisoner for the third time. He was sent to Buru Island in one of the first transports and was only freed in 1979. A tetralogy of novels known as the Buru Quartet, comprising This Earth of Mankind, Child of All Nations, Footsteps, and House of Glass, is one of Pramoedya’s most important works (Toer 1990 [1980], 1991 [1981], 1996 [1985], 1997 [1986]). The plot centers around the character of Minke, a Javanese born to a noble family, and takes place in Java at the turn of the twentieth century. The protagonist was based on the historical figure of Tirto Adhi Soerjo (ca. 1880–1918), a writer, journalist, and editor, one of the first native Indonesians to publish in Malay,28 and one of the leaders of the Indonesian national movement. === [PDF page 15] === 228 Bielecki During his exile in Buru, Pramoedya created a fictional story inspired by Tirto’s biography. He recorded the stories he told to the people interned with him, and the manuscripts were smuggled out of Buru (Samuels 1999). First published in Indonesia in the 1980s, the novels were immediately banned. Incorporating Pramoedya’s work into SACS reflects the creators’ admiration for his role in reuniting survivors with society and restoring dignity to the victims. As Mary S. Zurbuchen points out (2002: 577), the publication of Pramoedya’s memoir The Muteʼs Soliloquy: A Memoir (1999),29 and the following international tour was a watershed moment in the shaping of the discussion on the experience of political prisoners. It gave many other former prisoners the courage to share their stories. The main character of the Buru Quartet, Minke, grapples with the most pertinent problems of his moment in history: identity and freedom of both the individual and the developing nation, his role in a reality of injustice and ethnicity-based discrimination that surrounds him, and a clash between the Javanese culture and the ideas brought to the Archipelago by its European occupants. The reader witnesses Minke’s transformation from a lost teenager to a mature and conscious Indonesian nationalist. In the SACS performance, an important space is occupied by the policeman Pangemanann, a character drawn from Pramoedya’s tetralogy. He is Minke’s main antagonist, who causes the young activist to be exiled in the third volume (Footsteps) and tells the story from his own perspective in the fourth volume (House of Glass). A Menadonese adopted by European parents, Pangemanann receives a comprehensive education in France. This enables him to have a career in the administration of the Dutch East Indies. His privilege causes an identity crisis as the character feels no sense of belonging to the community of the oppressed Indonesians while realizing that the Dutch would never treat him as equal. In the performance, this character—using words from Pramoedya’s novel—talks about his encounter with Minke and the activist’s sentencing to exile. Although the Buru Quartet pertains to the period of Dutch colonization, one cannot help but conclude that the events described are an allegory of the reality in which the books were written: General Suharto’s Indonesia. As indicated by Razif Bahari (2003), Pramoedya’s tetralogy criticizes not one but two systems: Dutch colonialism and the New Order. The realities of the two regimes, the writer Pramoedya and his protagonist Minke, and Bu Sumilah as a person and the Kipper community members are all linked by the motif of exile, recurring throughout Indonesian history. Minke’s banishment to the remote === [PDF page 16] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 229 Ambon in the Maluku Islands concludes the third novel in the tetralogy. In the real world, exile was experienced by the vast majority of Indonesian nationalists striving for independence. In 1927, the infamous Boven-Digoel Camp was established in South Papua. From that point on, most exiles were sent there—to a camp surrounded by the jungle, plagued by malaria, as distant from the archipelago’s “center” as possible. Among the thousands of prisoners interned at Boven-Digoel were Sutan Sjahrir,30 a future prime minister, and Mohammad Hatta, Indonesia’s vice president. Indonesian Communists constituted a major part of the exiles. John Roosa and Ayu Ratih write: The idea of exile is central to the collective memory of Indonesians, which is why the Buru Quartet is structured around cases of exile and why the Suharto regimeʼs re-creation of Boven-Digoel on Buru Island represented such an astonishingly obvious betrayal of the nationalist Ibu Sumilah and many Kipper friends were sent to Plantungan Prison in Central Java, a “rehabilitation camp” for women accused of having ties to the PKI. It held around 500 prisoners (Pohlman 2015: 13). In the performance, the word Plantungan represented more than a specific prison: it epitomized the motif of exile itself—its historical weight and context. The figure of Plantungan symbolically links the experiences of the living and the dead as the fictional and the real. This was expressed on stage in a conversation between the participants of the ritual: “People are saying that you finally caught Minke and sent him to Plantungan?” “Right, to Ambon. But how did that all happen?” (Ghozali 2018) The seemingly unintentional slip (in fact, Ambon rather than Plantungan was Minke’s place of exile) suggested a continuity between the oppressive colonial reality and the experiences of the victims of 1965. One dialogue united two characters from two distant space-times yet connected by many analogies. While the exile and imprisonment of Communists on the remote Buru Island was the New Order government’s method to physically dispose of inconvenient people and push them into collective oblivion, paradoxically, at a symbolic level, it also meant the inclusion of 1965 victims to the pantheon of national heroes. Although in light of official Orde Baru propaganda Communists were regarded as national traitors, the punishment meted out to them—exile—seems to undermine that judgment symbolically, against the administration’s intentions. === [PDF page 17] === 230 Bielecki In the performance, the analogies between colonial rule and the New Order regime (or even a symbolic blurring of the boundary between the two) were then the key to rehabilitating the reputations of Bu Sumilah and other victims of anti-Communist violence. Tormented by pangs of remorse, Pangemannan, time and again, in both the novel and the performance, accuses himself and the colonial system he serves of moral decay and the persecution of innocent people. While he never strays from his chosen path, he repeatedly expresses admiration and respect for defeated opponents. He utters the words, which the members of Kipper and other survivors are still waiting to hear from the Indonesian government. The incorporation of Pramoedya’s cultural text into the performance and creating a dialog with the former prisoners of Plantungan gave survivors a modicum of the desired reconciliation. The theme of remorse was repeated in the performance like a refrain. The participants of the selamatan exclaimed as a chorus, “Death for us, honors for you, Mr. Pangemanann!” (Ghozali 2018) while waving away invisible specters. The explanation for these words can be found in the plot of Pramoedya’s novel. Having first crushed bands of villagers who rebelled against exploitation on plantations and then caused the exile of Minke, who rebelled through writing, Inspector Pangemanann is haunted by visions of the defeated opponents. Their ghosts remind him that his career in the colonial administration was built on their death and suffering. Pangemanann loudly chases away the phantoms, fearing that he is losing his mind. These ghosts are what Slavoj Žižek (2000: 58) calls “spectral fantastic history,” a telling of a [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary traumatic event that “cannot be inscribed into the very symbolic space it brought about by its intervention.” The specters demand that they tell their own story, that it be admitted into the social consciousness. Until that happens, ghosts will haunt the living, and the memory of the painful past—rather than unite and empower—will frighten and remain a toxic memory-dread. Pangemanann’s appearance in the performance was also meaningful on another interpretive plane. The entire final novel in the tetralogy consists of this character’s personal notes, and he addresses their future finder, asking that the notes be given the title House of Glass. He explains that the glass house is a model of an ideal colonial state: a building transparent to the officials’ eyes so that no revolutionary thought or deed can hide from bureaucratic surveillance. Pangemanann’s vision brings to mind the idea of the panopticon,31 an innovative prison design developed in the 1700s by Jeremy Bentham. The panopticon is a cylindrical building divided into prison cells along its walls. A single guard is stationed in a central tower whose windows === [PDF page 18] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 231 overlook the cells, and he remains invisible to the prisoners so that they may never know the direction in which he is looking. The prisoners are always within his field of vision. In the performance, the concept of the panopticon came to life through an inventive arrangement of the stage and audience. A structure of metal bars resembling a guard tower served as the vertical axis of the whole arrangement. Megaphones placed on it periodically emitted the sounds of sirens and announcements, calling the audience to sing along and eat the dishes prepared by Bu Sumilah’s loved ones. The dishes were being prepared in a circle further away from the tower. The audience sat closer to it, while Kipper members and other actors sat the closest, surrounding the building—which was empty but barked orders at all the people gathered. Its presence begs the question of where the dividing line between the actors and the audience actually ran. Parallel to Bentham’s model of the panopticon, everyone was being watched, never seeing who was looking at them, and the single, absolute observation point was the tower—which may as well have just been empty. In this sense, the tower was the audience, and everyone around was on stage. Singing and eating together made the viewers active participants in the ritual. The selamatan unified the organizers of the performance, its actors, and the audience into a solidary, self-aware collective. To take this interpretation further, although the main actors were direct victims of genocidal trauma, all of the people present had been affected by the unfinished chapter of history and were branded by (post?)memory. The UGM as a Source of Violence and a Site of Reconciliation At the end of the performance, one of the young volunteers on stage spoke up. She announced that on 15 October 1965, UGM Rector Professor Herman Yohannes issued a decree suspending students affiliated with organizations linked to the PKI, listing several individuals affected by the order, including a Kipper member, Sri Muhayati, who stood beside her on stage. A visibly distraught Bu Sri Muhayati then addressed the audience, expressing gratitude for the chance to share her story and inviting university authorities to partake in a meal prepared in memory of Bu Sumilah. Then, Ulya Niami Efrina Jamson, lecturer at the FISIPOL (Fakultas Ilmu Sosial dan Ilmu Politik, Faculty of Social and Political Sciences) UGM, which hosted the performance, took the floor: === [PDF page 19] === 232 Bielecki FIGURE 6. A view of the “stage.” A fragment of the metal bar structure resembling a guard tower is visible in the center. Kipper members sit at tables arranged around the tower. A UGM student involved in the performance addresses the audience. (Photo by Dwi Oblo) Good evening.... I represent the Faculty of Social and Political Sciences of the UGM. We all know, we all must admit, that the UGM was a party to the conflict and the violence. But today’s gathering proves that the UGM can also be a place of reconciliation.... Reconciliation that’s not possible without acknowledging the past and seeking the truth. The truth must be revealed, repeated, it must resound.... I am very happy to see new faces. This means that the message resonates outside our small circle. Once again: let’s never stop spreading the truth! Let’s pray for our safety and a swift victory in this fight. The goal is not simple, it cannot be reached in one or two days. This can take a whole life, but we must follow the example of these Ibu-ibu [Kipper members] who have a great power and enthusiasm within. Once again, I ask for applause for these women! Such an honest statement concerning the events of 1965 is rare, especially if made by a public institution. The UGM’s participation in the wave of anti-Communist violence was brought to light during the inquiry of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 in The Hague in November 2015. An anonymous female witness, who had been a student at the university, identified Loekman Soetrisno—a lecturer and professor who died in 1999—as one of the cruelest perpetrators of sexual violence, actively involved in interrogations. The publicization of the woman’s testimony provoked a heated debate in social and traditional media on the UGM’s role in the 1965–1966 violence. Despite === [PDF page 20] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 233 the pressure, university authorities made no apology. In a publication entitled Counterrevolution in a Revolutionary Campus: How Did the “1965 Event” Affect an Indonesian Public University?, Abdul Wahid summarizes the university’s position at the time: “the Rectorate was reluctant to respond to these demands, and considered the torture incident to be an isolated event and not associated with the University institutionally” (2018: 174). In his work, Wahid lists the actions that the university authorities carried out under the New Order, calling them a systematic and structural investigative process which resulted in the “removal” of the so-called 30 September Movement element from the school. This meant the suspension or expulsion of over 100 employees and around 3,000 students suspected of ties to Indonesian Communists or of membership in forbidden organizations. A person’s left-wing political views were often reason enough, and in some cases, entirely fictional reasons sufficed. The purge was accompanied by changes in the curriculum and the “adjustment” of library contents to the new political reality. Wahid concludes that the events of the mid-1960s “left a prolonged historical trauma for the University, so much so that it still has not been able to formulate concrete steps to come to terms with this difficult past” (2018: 175). The statement made by the lecturer at FISIPOL UGM quoted above offers hope that the university may ultimately acknowledge its role in the past violence. FISIPOL’s collaboration with Kipper and Fopperham goes further than the performance discussed here, and it is not the only subdivision of the UGM that is open to discussing the social taboo. Nevertheless, another public institution, the prestigious cultural center Taman Budaya Yogyakarta (TBY, the Yogyakarta Cultural Park), managed by the local government, withdrew its permission to host the SACS performance after it learned about the performance’s details. According to Pipit Ambarmirah, the subject proved “too sensitive” for the Taman Budaya (personal interview, 13 October 2018). SACS as an Attempt to Modify the Collective Memory and to Process Grief SACS was a performance which foregrounded its own social function. The performers created a particular lieu de mémoire, in which here and now “memory crystalize[d],” as Pierre Nora (1989: 7) puts it. This was socially engaged, post-dramatic theatre, at times closer to the formula of performance art, questioning the surrounding social reality more than the limits of traditional theatrical practices. For the duration of the show, an improved version of the social reality was created, one where everybody’s attention was drawn to the people === [PDF page 21] === 234 Bielecki who had previously been silenced: the theatre became a laboratory of social change. The attendance turned out to be impressive. An audience of about 250 filled the space of the selamatan. The largest group consisted of young people, mainly students. The creators intended to bring them closer to a silenced chapter of Indonesian history. Young people were also involved in the production of the play. Irfanuddien Ghozali has stressed that from his point of view, it was important to arrange a situation where a group of thirty students (from various UGM faculties) would regularly meet with the survivors during their weekly rehearsals. He said: “They are the millennial generation. Born in 1996/1997, they are unfamiliar with the traumatic experience of ‘65. This is what is very valuable for me. These women are living monuments” (“Selamatan Anak Cucu Sumilah,” 2020). When asked about her reasons for participating, one of the UGM students involved in the production, Ajeng Chandra Purnamasari, answered (personal interview, 3 June 2024): I decided to take part in the performance because last year’s performance (Gejolak Makam Keramat, Turmoil at the Sacred Grave) was an exceptional experience for me, even a spiritual one, I could say. I wanted to learn more about the Ibu-ibu, discover their unique talents that had been hidden for years, spend more time with them, and hear more stories from them. I also wanted to help in doing background research for the play. I think the participatory format is the play’s greatest strength. It allows many people to take part, so it makes room for a dialog between the younger and the older generations.... Gen Z or young students might think it is “too distant” from their lives. But SACS has reopened the discussion, at least among the students who came to watch the play. My friend even wrote a poem for the Ibu-ibu after watching SACS because she was super amazed with their strength and resilience. She told me she had zero knowledge about ’65 before. According to producer Venti Wijayanti, SACS was a way to control the narrative of the difficult past, which, she says, “is being ignored by the government in this country” (personal interview, 3 June 2024). One should acknowledge that the formula chosen by the creators necessarily translates into a relatively narrow reach, especially considering the event’s limited press coverage. The creators said they intended to arrange a situation that would impact a small group of people with an intensity that could not have been achieved by watching a film or reading an article. The crux was personal encounters with the “living monuments” rather than merely learning about past events. By employing a traditional ritual, the performance laid the framework for commemorating the genocide and its legacy. As Yael === [PDF page 22] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 235 Zerubavel points out, “[e]ach act of commemoration reproduces a commemorative narrative, a story about a particular past that accounts for this ritualized remembrance and provides a moral message for the group members. In creating this narrative, collective memory clearly draws upon historical sources. Yet it does so selectively and creatively” (1995: 6). The performance analyzed here was an act that did not only reproduce the commemorative narrative, but it also negotiated its content, “[made] it possible to introduce new interpretations of the past” (Ibid.). It was therefore an example of counter-memory, an alternative to the memory’s metanarrative. Writing about the commemorative narrative, Zerubavel emphasizes the close ties between memory and literary fiction. She believes that festivals, rituals, monuments, stories, and—crucially here—theatrical performances contribute more strongly to the reproduction of the collective memory than scientific facts recorded by historians. Blurring the boundary between the real and the imagined is natural for acts of commemoration. Zerubavel asserts that the impact of collective memory resides in simple images which unambiguously express its main narrative line and can appeal to emotions. In the performance, this function is fulfilled by the figure of imprisonment (or exile), which connects Minke’s story to the lives of Bu Sumilah and her fellow survivors. Thus, the New Order regime and its successors, who still refuse justice to the genocide victims, were equated with the colonial rule that persecuted Minke. The temporal distance was removed, as was the differentiation between literature and historical events. Zerubavel observes that, by undermining the way even a single event or fragment [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary of history is commemorated, counter-memory overthrows the hegemony of the entire metanarrative of memory. Following this premise, SACS becomes a form of social protest against the official narrative of denial, silence, and forgetting. “The history of theatre knows many examples of theatre’s active participation in the process through which societies recall past and forgotten events,” Kazimierz Braun writes, calling such performances “memory reconstruction theatre.” (2007: 57). It may seem surprising that the memory of events proximate enough that the physical presence of their participants on stage is possible would require reconstruction. Yet this attests to how effectively Indonesia’s past regime and current administration manipulated the collective memory. The cultural taboo established through their agency was overcome within the social microcosm of the selamatan. Like other undertakings by Kipper, SACS was also an attempt to process trauma, which the group’s participants often emphasized. In our interviews, the women repeatedly said that too many survivors === [PDF page 23] === 236 Bielecki of “the 1965 tragedy” remained silent, trying to forget about the past instead of facing it. The creators of the performance believed it was necessary to confront the past and incorporate it into the canon of the Indonesian collective memory. Therefore, SACS should be treated as a claim by trauma carriers—using Jeffrey C. Alexander’s term—that the collective memory of Indonesian society be modified (2003). As I watched the performance, I had the impression that the performers were not merely reciting their lines but also acting out the trauma process alongside their audience. The selamatan combined personal and collective perspectives. On the one hand, the essence of the telling was to rescue Bu Sumilah’s story from oblivion, with all of its simplicity and absurdity (like being arrested by mistake). On the other hand, her fate served as a metaphor for the experience of an enormous group of victims. The portrayal of ordinary people invited viewers to feel empathy and to bond with the survivors of New Order violence. The performance can be interpreted as a funeral rite in which the victims’ dignity was restored, and their spirits symbolically came together with the community of ancestors. Bu Sumilah’s loved ones tried to make sure that her spirit would not join the ranks of the “undead” who haunt the imagination of Indonesian society. After her death, Bu Sumilah, a modest woman whose life had been deeply marked with the stigma of being an eks-tapol, was celebrated through a ceremony fit for an important public person. Dominick LaCapra (1998) names the perpetrators’ acknowledgment of guilt and the social support for victims as the indispensable conditions of processing trauma. The 1965 genocide survivors have experienced neither. However, as SACS proves, even in such situations some forms of self-therapy are possible. Instead of contrition being expressed by the actual perpetrators, remorse was shown in the performance by a literary character: the policeman Pangemanann. In place of widespread acceptance in Indonesian society, the support of a relatively small community had to suffice. The fact that the survivors spoke up on the stage may have been the most important event in trauma processing: their reclamation of the historical narrative and their recovery of a sense of agency. In this sense, the performance was a ritual form of memory work. How to interpret SACS’s unusual, hybrid form, which combined components of theatre and ritual? Clifford Geertz (1973) posited that cultural frameworks fully reflect the social structures only in communities that remain in a state of homeostasis. Indonesian society, burdened by colonialism, rapid population growth, and unresolved historical crimes, remains far from peace. Therefore, traditional cultural forms and rituals may struggle to address its social conflicts. The selamatan === [PDF page 24] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 237 originally concerned the closest neighbors—the main criterion for participation was close proximity in the physical sense. This is only possible as long as communities are undivided by religious or political conflict. However, even when Geertz was recording his observations in the 1950s, such a situation—while sustainable in rice-growing villages where all the work was done collectively—was already being disrupted by social and economic changes in developing cities. Next-door neighbors could differ from one another so much that they no longer constituted a community in the ritual sense. The events of 1965 added another dimension to the destructive character of the changes. When neighbors could suddenly transform into victims and executioners, the basic conditions for the selamatan ritual were radically violated. This did not end when the murders stopped or when the prisoners were freed. At no point did the division between the victims and the rest of society scar over. Thus, the “selamatan” organized by the creators of the performance was not aimed at solidifying the existing social arrangement but at attempting to reform the reality that they found unjust. Kipper members decided to pay tribute to their deceased friend in a theatrical form in which they took control over the narrative on their own past. However, reducing the performance to mere theatrics would be a mistake; an actual confrontation with trauma took place on that stage. In this sense, the performativity of the memory practice could be understood twofold: this was an act of performance art which could not have happened in daily life, and at the same time, the survivors performed an actual change in collective memory. It seems that the SACS performance was successfully able to unite the people gathered: in their mourning over Bu Sumilah’s death, in sorrow over her friends’ fates, and over Indonesia’s painful past. The séance of remembrance to which the people present in the room of FISIPOL UGM bore witness that day transformed the individual memories of the surviving women into the memory of the celebratory selamatan’s micro-community. Indonesian memory activists can only hope that as time passes, the phenomenon will encompass a community much larger than the performance participants who said their final goodbyes to Bu Sumilah. Afterword As I write the final sentences of this essay in March 2024, five years have passed since the staging of the performance. The Indonesian memoryscape is now gaining more and more bold cultural projects that wrestle with the subject of the difficult past (one example being the distribution of the 2022 film The Exiles by Lola Amaria in cinemas). On the other hand, the political power, which plays a key role in creating === [PDF page 25] === 238 Bielecki Indonesia’s memory politics, remains unyielding. The activists’ calls for the acknowledgment of wrongs and for the restoration of memory and reconciliation are being consistently ignored. The hopes associated with Joko Widodo’s presidential term were disappointed; experts largely agree that his rule was a regressive period for democracy (see, e.g., Power and Warburton 2020). On 14 February 2024, Indonesians elected Prabowo Subianto as their new president. How will the new administration shape its historical policies? What stance will it take on civil rights and liberties, including the right to memory (which should, after all, be considered as a human right)? Creating the conditions conducive to a reckoning with the sins of the past regime will likely not be a priority of the new government. Prabowo—a former general under President Suharto—is at the center of numerous allegations of human rights violations. His meteoric rise in post-Suharto Indonesia seems to be another catalyst of Indonesian memory-dread—a phenomenon caused by the lack of a clear temporal boundary of the trauma-genic reality. In a certain sense, the source of trauma lives on. NOTES 1. This paper is based on a chapter of the author’s doctoral dissertation entitled Repressed Memory: Testimonies and Representations of the Trauma of the 1965–66 Indonesian Genocide, written in Polish under the supervision of Prof. Anna E. Kubiak at the Institute of Philosophy and Sociology of the Polish Academy of Sciences. For their help during my research in Yogyakarta and my work on this paper, I would like to thank Ajeng Chandra Purnamasari, Prof. Anna E. Kubiak, Irfanuddien Ghozali, Pipit Ambarmirah, Tedy Harnawan, Venti Wijayanti, and the members of the Kipper community. I also want to thank Aleksandra Paszkowska for translating this essay from Polish into English. 2. Until the 1965 events, the PKI had been the largest nonruling Communist party in the world, comprising as many as 3.5 million members (Mortimer 2006: 366). As a result of the first universal election in the independent republic, held in 1955, the party had become the fourth most powerful political group in the nation, with 16.4% of the vote. 3. The Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Gerwani) was a left-wing organization associated with the Communist Party, although never formally tied to it. The total membership of organizations allied with the PKI or collaborating with it in various capacities amounted to 23.5 million people (McGregor 2009). Apart from Gerwani, such major organizations included the === [PDF page 26] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 239 Central All-Indonesian Workers Organization (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, SOBSI), the Peasants Front of Indonesia (Barisan Tani Indonesia, BTI), People’s Youth (Pemuda Rakyat), and the Institute for the People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, LEKRA). 4. For more on the number of victims in the Indonesian genocide, see, for example, Cribb (2001). 5. Some estimates (even the Indonesian authorities lack certainty on the matter) reach as high as 3 million. The number of 1 million imprisoned is most often repeated by scholars. For more on this, see, for example, Robinson (2018: 3). 6. Mbak is a Javanese honorific for young women, literally meaning “elder sister.” 7. Ibu, abbr. Bu, pl. Ibu-ibu is an Indonesian honorific for an adult woman who is older than the speaker or of higher status, literally meaning “mother.” The masculine counterparts of these terms of address are Bapak and Pak (literally: “father”). 8. In 2017–2018, I conducted field research in Yogyakarta and Surakarta, which led me to collaborate with three local survivor communities. With my coworkers Ajeng Chandra Purnamasari and Tedy Harnawan, I conducted a series of interviews with their members. 9. Director: Irfanuddien Ghozali Assistant director: Lupita Producer: Venti Wijayanti and Anas A. H. Coproducer: Muhammad Abe Playwright: Irfanuddien Ghozali Scenic designer: Bayu Wijaya and Agung Kurniawan Operational manager: Pipiet Ambarmirah Stage manager: Adam Okviantoro and Yudhistira A. K. Music director: Garrin Faturrahman, Hengga Tiyasa, Maya, and Neil Syahrru Costume designer: Atinna Rizqiana and Hilly Documentation: Bunga Trotoar Researchers: Ajeng Chandra, Ayu Diasti Rahmawati, and Nabila Auliani Cast: Arie Widya, Hanafi F. Fauzi, Bu Aminem, Bu Deborah Oni Ponirah, Bu Endang Lestari, Bu Erlina Pertiwi, Bu Hartiti, Bu Kadmiyati, Bu Kuatini, Bu Mungsinah, Bu Premiyati, Bu Sarjiyah, Bu Sri Muhayati, Bu Sri Wahyuni (Nik), Bu Svetlana Dayani Choir: Saikorale (students of the Department of Psychology, UGM) Organizer: Teater Selasar, Kiprah Perempuan, Teater Gadjah Mada, Studio Malya Sponsors: Indonesia Untuk Kemanusiaan (IKA), Fopperham, Kedai Kebun Forum, Program Peduli. === [PDF page 27] === 240 Bielecki 10. An example of such an initiative is the work of the internationally acclaimed Papermoon Puppet Theatre from Yogyakarta—a collective that makes puppet theatre for adults. A number of their performances (including Mwathirika [Victim in Swahili, 2010] and Setjangkir Kopi dari Playa [A cup of coffee from Playa, 2011]) concerning themes related to the genocide of 1965–1966 have been presented to audiences in the country and abroad. For more on this, see Lis (2018). Furthermore, SACS is not the first theatrical project in which Kipper members have participated as actors. In 2017, on the premises of the UGM in Yogyakarta, a performance entitled Gejolak Makam Keramat (Turmoil at the Sacred Grave) was staged by Agung Kurniawan and Irfanuddien Ghozali. For more on this, see Dirgantoro and Hatley (2020). Another example of a stage collaboration between former political prisoners and the young generation of artists is the Dialita Choir from Jakarta, which is composed of women survivors and their loved ones. For more on this, see Weintraub (2021). 11. The memory and history politics in post-Suharto Indonesia regarding the 1960s wave of anti-Communist violence is based on similar principles as the one that had been adopted by the former regime. The initial years of the reformasi period were characterized by criticism toward the former system that came from many directions as well as a broadly understood democratization of Indonesian social and political life. At the time, the subject of anti-Communist violence entered the public sphere. However, as the leading Indonesian researcher of the 1965–1966 atrocities, Baskara T. Wardaya, has observed (2015), just several years after the fall of Suharto’s regime, the authorities returned [136.159.235.223] Project MUSE (2026-10-14 00:53 GMT) University of Calgary to almost the same rhetoric as under the Orde Baru. A fictional tale that demonized Communists and erased the genocide became the mainstream narrative again, which I interpret as a return to the “narrative fetishism” (Santner 1992) that was created by Suharto’s regime: a strategy to conceal the source of trauma that prevents its processing (the work of mourning) and leads to deformations in the collective memory. Geoffrey B. Robinson (2018: 265) also believes that a withdrawal from the new openness which was seen soon after the fall of the Orde Baru has been evident in Indonesian social and political life since the early 2000s. 12. An example of a nongovernmental organization that works to recover the memory of the difficult past is the Foundation for the Research of the 1965/66 Massacre (YPKP 65), which was established in 1999 on the initiative of former political prisoners. The YPKP is currently the largest organization that brings together survivors and the families of victims. One of its main objectives is to locate mass graves. === [PDF page 28] === WHERE ARE YOU, MY LITTLE SCAPEGOATS? 241 13. On the role of Oppenheimer’s films in the shaping of a new memory narrative, see, for example, Wandita (2014), Espena (2017), and Dragojlovic (2018). 14. Irfanuddien Ghozali is an Indonesian director and actor based in Yogyakarta. He has a background in theatre and sociology. 15. Or selematan, slametan, slamatan, sometimes also called kenduren. 16. Satay (also: sate) are meat skewers originating in Indonesia, often sold from street stalls. 17. Gulai is an Indonesian dish resembling a curry. 18. Kliwon is the fifth and last day of the week (or pasaran) in the traditional Javanese calendar. 19. The song Genjer-genjer comes from Banyuwangi (East Java) and describes village life, including the cultivation of a plant called genjer (Limnocharis flava). It was written under Japanese occupation to express the plight of the local community. Popular in the 1950s and 1960s, it became associated with the PKI during the Orde Baru and was banned. Pitulasan is the colloquial name for Indonesia’s Independence 20. Eid al-Adha is the most important Islamic holiday of the year. 21. Indonesians often abbreviate names longer than two syllables, for example, by omitting the first syllable. In the case of “Bu Milah,” the common prefix in Javanese names, “Su,” is omitted from “Sumilah.” 22. Sekolah Dasar, SD—elementary school. 23. Persatuan Guru Republik Indonesia Non-Vaksentral was a teacher’s union associated with the PKI. 24. Dik, short for adik, is an honorific that means “younger sister” or “younger brother.” Indonesians sometimes address their younger friends this way. 25. Mbakyu is a Javanese term of address meaning “elder sister.” 26. Orde Lama (Old Order) refers to the period under President Sukarno, from 1945 until General Suharto seized power. 27. For more on Pramoedya’s activism in the final years of the Old Order, see Abel (1997). 28. For centuries, the Malay language had been the lingua franca of the Indonesian Archipelago, whose inhabitants communicated in hundreds of diverse languages. The modern Indonesian language is based on Malay. 29. The book was first published in Indonesian in 1997 as Nyanyi Sunyi Seorang Bisu (The Silent Song of a Mute). 30. As early as March 1929, the camp held 2101 prisoners (Kahin 1999: 297). 31. Cf. Roosa and Ratih (2001). === [PDF page 29] === 242 Bielecki REFERENCES Abel, Ben. 1997. “Beholding a Landmark of Guilt: Pramoedya in the Early 1960s and the Current Regime.” Indonesia 64: 21–28. Alexander, Jeffrey C. 2003. The Meanings of Social Life: Cultural Sociology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Anderson, Benedict R. O. G. 2000. “Petrus Dadi Ratu” (Killer Becomes King). Indonesia 70: 1–7. 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