I remember the first time I “came out”. It was in 2003, I think, five years after Soeharto’s messy step-down. I was still keeping all my family’s 1965 secrets to myself.  It was a habit nailed down at birth, my only roots. 

That day, I had lunch with ten of my friends from Uni. I remember our bonding activity was to rant about Soeharto, and even five years after the fall of his regime, that still felt relevant. 

Suddenly, without much thoughts, my big mouth defeated my brain and I blurted out. “My grandfather was disappeared in 1965.” Immediately, I felt I wanted to disappear. My heart beat so fast and so loudly as though it was venting all its opinions just before dying. The first rational thought that came to my mind was, “Who amongst these people will kill me now?”

A few seconds later, someone from the opposite side of the table uttered, “My grandfather, as well, was in prison, but he was released.”

I knew these people for more than 12 years by then. No one amongst us has talked publicly about 1965 before, and within a few seconds that day, two out of ten came out.

How many more of us are there?

Tintin Wulia 
#1965setiaphari #living1965