LAMPUKI, an isolated village tucked away in a quiet corner of this mountainous district, is actually not that far from the town of Lamlhok, which up until about six years ago was famed for its wealth. The town is all but destroyed now, having succumbed to war and plundering, most of its buildings smashed and burnt by residents of the nearby villages who were angry at the corruption and vice that they witnessed in the town. Thirty years ago, when I was still a teenager and the town had yet to be cursed by God, Lamlhok was a non-place, little more than a dozen flimsy shops dotted either side of the Medan-Banda highway, cheek by jowl with a few wooden houses that were pretty well indistinguishable from the shops. To the north were the sea and the swamplands, to the south row after row of impenetrable mountains.
Despite the fact that the highway ran through it, very few trucks and public vehicles passed this way before the giant gas refineries were built. The only vehicles the local people were familiar with were the local forms of transport; hardly anyone had ever seen other weird and wonderful motorized vehicles. Even the wealthiest people in my village could only afford a Japanese motorcycle, most of which now resemble a heap of junk. Only a handful of businessmen in the town had the wherewithal to buy a car, and my dad had to be content with his bicycle, which is now rather decrepit but which I can still use to go about my daily chores, whether it be to the mosque, shopping or to work on days when Sulaiman can't pick me up on his old motorbike that keeps breaking down.
It was not long before I and everyone else in the village became accustomed to seeing huge vehicles and heavy machinery powered by engines that resembled some kind of magical device. Later we would discover that those devices had been imported from America through a port that had been purpose-built to cater to the needs of drilling and the construction of two giant gas refineries, to which three more were subsequently added. The first refineries were built in Lhoksukon, then in Batuphat; they were the refineries that dredged and depleted the natural richness from the earth in Pasai for the benefit of the government in another island. Then three more big refineries appeared, subsidised by the demand for gas in Geukueh; these refineries produced fertiliser and paper, leading to deforestation, barren hills and infertile soil.
Those five enormous refineries absorbed a huge workforce. Thousands of workers, with round faces and sharp dispositions, suddenly appeared, the majority of them working in the refineries, others taking advantage of the opportunity to set up business selling food or clothing, and a few young women - none of whom had ever worn the headscarf - sold themselves to the workers. These new arrivals found it easy to get work, while my father was left out in the cold because he hadn't had any school diploma. The newcomers quickly achieved positions of respect, and got the most important jobs, while the original inhabitants had to be content with jobs as manual labourers. Here, in their own country, they had to work as coolies, their bodies always covered in dust and their hands always dirty, while a bunch of immigrants became their landlords.
Long beforehand the tall white infidels had come to oversee and organise the construction of the refineries, followed by a number of managers and high-ranking employees who were far superior to the section heads, whom the high-ranking employees could kick around. The people of my village were of the view that it was because of these infidels that the gas waste from the refineries smelt so bad, just like the farts of the infidels.
Ships the size of small islands out in the middle of the ocean kept berthing at the dock in Blang Ancang, unloading goods such as vehicles, heavy machinery and steel equipment for the needs of the refineries. Five years later, the ships that weighed anchor were no longer bringing goods, but were rather loading and carrying away all sorts of riches processed from our land: gas, timber, fertiliser, paper. The swamplands were reclaimed and magically transformed into beautiful luxurious housing complexes for the officials and the workers. The face of the town changed so quickly, so dramatically, that someone returning after a time away would no longer recognise their own hometown. Simple wooden houses had been replaced by multi-storey mansions with walls of concrete.
The people in my village were so amazed annd overawed by the changes taking place in the town that they became complacent and lazy. Some were even excited to witness our nation's rapid progress, whereas in fact we had all been duped, taken in by a corrupt government, something of which we only became aware much later. The powerbrokers in this country, the bastards as Ahmadi calls them, are hand in glove with overseas operators. The only thing they know how to do is bow and nod, without ever giving a thought to the suffering of their own people, who are increasingly marginalised, destitute and neglected.
That was when Lamlhok transformed into a big, grandiose, expensive city. The local government, which had been based in Lhoksukon, was immediately transferred to the middle of the reclaimed swampland, and the area underwent rapid development with the construction of a range of buildings, from shops selling textiles, clothing and gold to five and dime stores, to drink stalls, boarding houses, cinemas, entertainment venues to brothels; everything was made available for those who had money and craved entertainment.
Brothels sprung up along the seafront. Women with bare heads, dressed in sleeveless tops and tiny skirts, had no qualms about parading themselves in the entertainment establishments, showing off their curves to the men in their neat suits and ties who, it was said, never carried any small change. The loud music went on all night, coloured lights illuminating the couples as they ate and drank themselves into a drunken stupor until they lay sprawled on top of each other in a perfumed room, and stayed there undisturbed so that the next day they could do it all over again.
Despite the proximity of Lamlhok to my village - only one other villageseparated us to the north - and despite the fact that Lamlhok was in the Sagoe Peurincun municipality, all of which was under the authority of Ahmadi, it was as if there was an invisible barrier between the town and our wretched village. That was why I and the other Lampuki villagers rarely set foot in the place, unless there was a celebration of some sort, or we needed to go shopping for something we couldn't buy in the local market. Prices had gone up and were completely disproportionate to the wages of people in the village, and the upshot was that the lives of the poor farmers became even more impoverished because of those damned refineries. In fact the villagers often turned in the other direction and did their shopping in Geudong or Lhoksukon, where the prices were much cheaper than in Lamlhok.
The town, decadent and hostile, was naturally at a remove from our increasingly powerless lives, and its bright shining lights often distorted our vision. Night was an unknown phenomenon in the town; there were no dark crannies - every corner of the place was bathed in brilliant light, giving the impression of constant daylight. Transport vehicles and luxury cars continually glided back and forth on the smooth bitumen roads. Entertainment and performance venues were open until dawn; it was as if pleasure was something neverending.
In the time before the city was destroyed, Sulaiman would sometimes invite me to go out on the town with him when I was home from boarding school. If we were short of cash we were happy enough just to ride around on our bicycles, stopping to sit in a shop doorway and eat cheap noodles, or just take in some of the amazing sights of the town. I nearly always had to borrow money from Sulaiman to buy various necessities, because I had no job, apart from focussing on the books. Back then, in our adolescent years, Sulaiman already had a job as a builder's labourer, helping his father who was an overseer.
So with his money I was able to enjoy food and entertainment, until he got married - after that he became very stingy. When war broke out he left his family and ran away with me, who was still in my enforced bachelorhood. Sulaiman has three children now; his oldest is already a young woman.
Our friendship, which is more like a blood relationship, continues to this day. He's an overseer himself now, and thanks to his kindness and generosity I am now his workmate, working alongside him wherever the job takes us. I do that as well as teaching Q'uran recitation to children in the evenings, a job for which I never expect any payment, although occasionally a parent will give me a modest reward; anything else is a gift from God.
Once we watched a pornographic movie. I had never in my life seen anything so disgusting, depicting human beings behaving like animals, and perversely made with the express intention of being shown to masses of people. Although I was ashamed of myself, and fearful, too, when I thought about God's law, I watched the whole film with a strange sort of pleasure, after which I was tortured by both guilt and by a powerful urge to perform a similar act. Throughout the film my mouth was dry and my Adam's apple was going up and down . It wasn't until it was over that I realised that my trousers were wet....
But plenty of people who'd never seen a performance like the one I saw could be found sitting around daydreaming in the local market. Their awed response to the rapid and widespread changes in the town was no different to that of someone watching a porno movie; these were vulgar changes that marginalised us so that we became the most backward population in the country, strangers in our own land.
The newcomers got richer and richer by exploiting our natural resources and behaving as if they were in control, while the farmers became poorer and more miserable. To add insult to injury, the refineries spewed out waste and poisonous gas into the villages, polluting the air and causing the plants to wither and die. People referred to the acrid aroma as the farts of the old infidels, and several people fainted, unaccustomed as they were to inhaling rotten gas.
The worst thing was, no one with any authority from either the factories or the government would admit that the gas had polluted the environment, nor would they take responsibility for the crop failure that was followed by other natural disasters attributable to the infidels' farts.
And so, for several years our natural wealth in Pasai was relentlessly exploited and carted away, with no regard for the suffering of the local people and the consequences of all the disasters they created here. Most of the profit was used for development in the big city, home of the government, and the rest was embezzled by corrupt officials who proceeded to become filthy rich, in the midst of people suffering malnutrition. It was clear that a number of leaders were covertly exploiting their own people, whose circumstances were no different to ours here.
Because the people of that country were descended from lamit - literally, slaves of God - and were a society of farmers and coolies who had been enslaved by the Dutch for 350 years, the only way they knew how to respond was to remain silent and allow themselves to be treated unjustly, with nobody even attempting to challenge those dirty rulers. Not like we firebrands; we loved nothing better than a fight. The leaders of that nation are corrupt to the core, even worse than the rotten colonial army, because, however evil they may have been, to my knowledge the Portuguese, Dutch and Japanese leaders - who devastated this country - never colonised and oppressed their own people.
It was the evil nature of the leaders that triggered Hasan Tiro's anger. He assembled a group of supporters in the jungle and staged a rebellion against the central government. Furthermore, the arrogance of the immigrants was increasingly aggravating people; they behaved like thieves, they were hostile and they were downright rude. They were extremely disrespectful and disdainful and they treated us as if we in Pasai were slaves that could be treated like wild animals.
Hasan Tiro's rebellion was greeted by a military force ten thousand strong. The soldiers made their judgment and a number of men suspected of being dissidents were forced to take responsibility for their actions and women who knew nothing of what was going on became victims of rape. And the soldiers continued the constant exploitation and plundering of our wealth. "That's their response to the gold and the aeroplane that we've given them. We have helped them unconditionally, never taking into account our own poverty. And this is how they respond!" said Ahmadi to the crowd gathered in the market.
And so began the terrifying Years of Slaughter. For three years I moved to boarding school, sometimes joining Sulaiman on his journeys, and as a result I avoided the ferocity of the machine gun bullets that continually blew apart the bodies of the villagers, leading to an ongoing and increasing decline in population because villages were constantly being destroyed.
Too many relatives, friends, comrades and neighbours died during those dreadful years; years that were shrouded in sadness and gloom like an eternal cloud that surrounded and engulfed the villages, day and night. Death was a constant companion, like a close neighbour who might knock on your door at any moment.
In these perilous circumstances, while the local people found themselves constantly surrounded by danger, Lamlhok became a bright and shining place, a place where the lackeys could party, proudly and arrogantly reviling their land and their religion. Immorality took root and spread, and it was as if the city was inhabited by bandits of all shapes and sizes; their laughter filled the night air and it seemed that the world would never end.
But - whoever would have guessed it - not long afterwards a man with the disposition of a woman - known as Ahmad Peurincun - almost destroyed the entire town.
Anyone who had ever witnessed the sophistication and brilliance of the lights of Lamlhok at that time would not believe what they saw now. The town has become dark and gloomy and the flames from the refinery chimneys are fading because the gas and the natural wealth of Pasai has been almost exhausted, sucked up by the ferocity of the American machines.
Large-scale commotion and disorder very nearly submerged the town in a wave of anger. Ahmad Peurincun, who could no longer bear to witness the degradation, mobilised people from the surrounding villages and took them to the town with the intention of destroying the brothels and gambling venues on the sea front; stores and clothes shops also became targets of violence and looting. The immigrants - the ones with flat noses as well as some with pointy noses - fled in panic, dispersed in fear, the same fear that gripped the faces of Selangkang residents when they saw the wrath on Ahmadi’s moustache.
The rich people working in the giant factories were in a state of utter confusion, some died in the violence, some hightailed it out of there without ever looking back. Many held their ground, because the military immediately intervened to take control of the situation, after which a number of soldiers were tasked with guarding and securing the factory and the employees, the housing complexes and other areas as a form of safety guarantee for those who were obliged to stay on and keep the refineries running. The soldiers would show no mercy to anyone who dared try to disturb the peace.
Soon afterwards there was the sound of gunfire and a battle broke out that was more ferocious than any other in the history of retaliation. But unfortunately for Ahmad Peurincun, he was killed as he attempted to intercept the troops on the highway. The rifle launcher that he was aiming at a military lorry became jammed and could not release the bullet, and it was his body that crumpled in a heap, torn to shreds by bullets that rained on him from the weapons of dozens of soldiers.
He was the only one who died in that tragedy because he adopted an attitude that was too playful - a bit like a girl lusting after Jibral. In demonstrating his bravery to his followers his intention was to show them that confronting the might of dozens of soldiers did not need crowds of people, he alone was enough.
Three of Ahmad Peurincun's followers, who had been hiding in the bushes, were unable to do a thing when they saw their leader's bullet-riddled body collapse, covered in blood. They were stunned momentarily then, in a state of semi-consciousness, they ran in fright, their eyes brimming and then running over into a flood of tears. They mourned the fate of their brave, resolute leader. The whole population of Sagoe Peurincun, which comprised more than fifty villages, including Lampuki, were in mourning for months, until the military rose up and hunted down a number of other rebels, which resulted in the deaths of more villagers.
Thinking about the greed of the government and the brutality of the murderous soldiers during those years filled everyone's hearts with hatred, wrath and revenge. At that time God preordained that Ahmadi's moustache would grow very thick, and would strike fear into everyone's hearts!
IT is characteristic of the Lampuki people to be rather withdrawn, they really hate outsiders coming to the village, even if they are their own clansmen. They don't like strange faces appearing in their midst, because nobody can enjoy success and happiness in this blighted village, whose people are known as the most corrupt in the whole of Pasai.
As well as being lazy and whinging, they have a propensity to swear, so forgive me Dear Reader if in my conversation with you I get carried away by that habit, one which I actually abhor. So obscenity, cursing and abuse are our daily mantras. And if you don’t go along with that sort of behaviour, then you’ll be ostracised, and you will feel as if you have been punished by God.
The village is part of the Peurincun settlement, comprising seven villages, and the rebels gave the name Puerincun to the district known as sagoe, a district on a par with what is known elsewhere in Indonesia as a kecamatan, which has authority over more than fifty villages. Because Lampuki is in a lowland area, people often refer to it as Kampung Bawah, or ‘Lower Village’ because there is also an ‘Upper Village’ (Kampung Atas), Lampuki’s nearest neighbouring village – but the two settlements have never been on friendly terms. It was Upper Village that was taken over and defiled by foreigners, people from that other island, and some of our own people even mixed with them and are now unrecognisable from their physical appearance. A number of the residents there are office workers, stooges and slaves of the government, working as public servants, police or soldiers..
In Upper Village there are three rather extensive housing complexes comprising more than six hundred houses; the style and shapes of the houses is not that different from those in the complex at the bottom of the hill. The original inhabitants, the farmers, live well away from the complex, because they are now regarded as a virus. The attitude of the people who live in the complexes reveals their perception that they are superior to the originalinhabitants, and that they deserve to live close to God rather than close tohuman beings, similar to the views of the people of Lampuki, who are extemely high status.
It was only in Lower Village that the military housing development failed, with only fifty houses being completed of the two hundred that had been planned. This could be attributed to Ahmad Peurincin’s rampage – not only did he destroy the town, he also opposed anything that smacked of the military. I, along with the other coolies, had to make ourselves scarce whenever he mobilised his opposition, which would instantly give rise to widespread chaos in which nobody could ever feel at peace. It all came to a sudden end when Ahmad Peurincun was shot dead due to his own arrogance, and that legacy of stupidity was bequeathed to his followers.
At that time Ahmadi was already a follower of Ahmad Peurincun, but not many people were aware of the fact. Even the mountain people themselves were unconvinced by his oval-shaped face. He had a very thin moustache, just like that of Jibral the Handsome when he first appeared on the scene and in whom nobody placed much hope – in fact people just took pity on him and couldn’t really bring themselves to look at him. It was only because of the grace of God – or so many people believed – that not long afterwards the moustache began to grow thick, very thick in fact, and nobody could have predicted that it would ever be as luxuriant as it is now. That moustache would also grow into an irritating thorn for many people.
The enemy could never track him down, even when he was running around in military territory. He was able to casually infiltrate himself in the ranks of the soldiers as they spread across the land attempting to cleanse the villages of the rebels they regarded as vermin. Ahmadi was known for his skill at evading any military in his vicinity. Like someone evading a punch in a self-defence class, there was no need for him to evade it by much, just enough to ensure that the punch didn’t meet its target.
"The key things are precision, vigilance, cunning and agility!" he would boast when people expressed their admiration of him. And so right till this present day he is still out there roaming the streets showing off his moustache that gets more luxuriant with every passing day. He's responsible for striking fear into the hearts of those who live in the housing complexes, with the result that none of the original owners of the houses are still there, apart from the odd farmer.
At the crossroads there's a market that consists of no more than five small wooden shops: a grocer selling rice and other daily necessities; a rice granary that also sells fertiliser, pesticide and various agricultural implements; a shop with no walls that sells fish and vegetables; and two coffee shops. Although separated by the rice granary, the two coffee shops are in constant competition with each other, and the owners are always bagging each other out, leaving no doubt in the minds of their customers and the other shop owners about their mutual animosity.
Crossroad Market, as we used to call it, used to be bustling with customers, from the housing complex as well as from Upper Village. The situation has now changed dramatically, things are so quiet that the shops are suffering a steep decline in business even as they attempt to expand. Although the shops are still used for trading, the buildings are never properly maintained, giving an impression that they have long been abandoned.
You only have to look at the crumbling walls with peeling paint, the rotten pillars, the leaking roofs - and the owners doing nothing about any of it. None of the traders have any desire to repair the buildings as long as they can still be used. They are worried that repairing them would only attract the government troops who would burn the buildings to the ground in a fit of pique as they tried to flush out the rebels in the village.
Life here is not that different from the picture we have of the lives of the original settlers in the old days. Nothing has changed, even though the cursed government has exploited all the riches of our land: oil, gas, timber, not to mention our body and soul. The people of my village live like a tribe of outcasts, and they're still oblivious, arrogant and proud. Wearing their clothes of indiscernible colour and pattern, they still believe that this nation and this country is glorious and noble.
They are still deluded by the fantasy that the glorious sultanate of Aceh will soon rise up again and wipe out every government soldier who has ever slapped their stupid faces. They think that Allah will defend this land - just as they are convinced that this land is sacred and noble, part of the land of Mecca, which will always be protected by Allah, and they believe that Allah will send his soldiers to defend Aceh the way He sent Ababil birds to destroy Abraham’s mighty army - while they themselves neglect their prayers and are hypnotised by the braggarts in the coffee shop at the Crossroad Market as they idle their days away, forgetting about work.
So it is understandable that Lampuki has never progressed, and the lives of its people have sunk deeper and deeper into misery. The only thing they do all day is hang around, bad-mouthing their neighbours, starting arguments, and inciting hatred, all of which eventually gives rise to a drawn-out dispute that ends with people attacking each other with machetes.
That's the sorry state of the people of this blighted village. They're quick to make things difficult for a new arrival from their own clan, but powerless to do anything when a military outfit, whom they regard as a real enemy, develops their extravagant housing complexes in Lampuki and Upper Village. The terrible thing is that I've supported that development by becoming a coolie, something that has only recently occurred to me. But everything has now reverted to how it was in the past; my village is no different to what it was like in the olden days, much the same as it was when the Dutch soldiers were carrying out their brutal rule.
-translated by Pam Allen
