Jacob Rumbiak & Louise Byrne
Bravo, Kirsty Sword and Xanana Gusmao, with Sarah Niner (writing Xanana’s biography) in Xanana’s cell in Jakarta in 1998.
For quite some time I lived in Block E in Kalisosok Prison in Surabaya, and also in Block A in Cipinang Prison in Jakarta. These blocks were reserved for political prisoners from East Timor and West Papua. There were other blocks in these prisons, just as big as ours, and always one distinguished by the presence of a number of cats, mostly rather fat, who hung around a certain type of inmate we all called ‘the korruptors’.
For years in Indonesia the smartest businessmen have been korruptors. They win a government contract, stash the money, get caught, and go to jail for two or three years. Thus, with minimal effort, their families accumulate a huge amount of money (with bank interest added) and only one member takes the rap.
Life in prison for the korruptors is fairly easy. Family and friends visit with meat, fruit, fish, cigarettes, rice, knives and money. There is a special room for sex if they want it, or they can always go home for a couple of days if they pay off two or three guards.
None of this applies to political prisoners. Jakarta is two thousand kilometres from East Timor and more than three from West Papua, so unless the Red Cross manages to keep track of where the army takes you, the military can hide its torture sessions in institutions that are situated all over the archipelago. One little lady followed me to eleven different prisons, and I'll never forget the humbling experience of eventually discovering that she wasn't a soldier-spy dressed in civilian clothes, but was in fact from an Indonesian Christian church
As a political prisoner you assume your sentence will be shortened by one way or another. Forced to eat prison-prepared food, many die poisoned. Others hang themselves in shame after their wives have been raped by Indonesian soldiers - or have run off with them. Many are trussed and dumped in the sea. Others are simply shot. I drew solace from the surity that Jesus loves me, and my life is part of his design.
Two men from West Papua inspired me to use my time in prison constructively. The first was Drs. Albert Sefnat Kaliele, a very spiritual man, jailed in 1989 for subversion. We were in Kalisosok together. When Abdurrahman Wahid was elected President of Indonesia, he released Kaliele from his eighteen year sentence (although he is now back in prison in Jayapura, this time on a charge of corruption for the misuse of a few rupiahs—the equivalent of seven Australian dollars).
The other was Dr Thomas Wainggai, one of West Papua's most powerful intellectuals, and the architect of our non-violent campaign for independence. In 1988 Dr Thomas was sentenced to life in prison for proclaiming the independence of 'West Melanesia'. He died in Cipinang Prison in 1996. His wife, who is Japanese, was jailed for eight years because she sewed a new West Papuan flag. When I see Cathy Freeman on television with the beautiful flag of indigenous Australia, I think about Dr Thomas and his wife.
Unlike most political prisoners I had a cat. A unique and clever cat called Bravo, who was my security and my very best friend. I found him a lonely lost and hungry kitten, who soon befriended my family of baby birds who had fallen out of a tree. I taught the pigeons to carry messages to other prisoners, and Bravo learned to look after a key to my cell that I'd acquired by means of a small (but somewhat korrupt) manoeuvre. With the key I was able to go to meetings at night—I'd lock my cell, and push the key back inside through the grill. It was attached to a pink soccer bootlace, which Bravo then dragged to a secret place. After my meeting, I'd whisper our code, and he'd bring me the key so I could let myself back inside the cell. Bravo's intelligence thus enabled us political prisoners to talk about democracy and justice—the very principles whose defence had condemned us to torture and imprisonment.
Bravo stayed lean and clean catching little fish in the drain in our exercise yard. He usually gave these morsels of protein to me, or else he laid them, unmarked, at the feet of other prisoners he liked. Joao Freitas from East Timor, was a regular recipient, perhaps because he spent so much time treating my injuries. By the time I got to Cipinang Prison, my body was a wreck. Ulcers had gouged holes in my legs, my heart was weak from electric torture, and I thought my eyes would never recover from my incarceration in a dark stone cell at the top of a thirty-foot tower for more than two years. Joao's love and dedication, and his skill with traditional medicine and acupuncture, enabled my remarkable recovery.
When Habibie was President, I was transferred to a military institution. Bravo got left behind and adopted the patronage of Xanana Gusmao. Six months later Xanana was also put to house arrest, but the cat, now called 'Rumbiak' accompanied him to a well-guarded house in central Jakarta. Here, apparently, he occupied himself entertaining the numerous diplomats and dignitaries who visited East Timor's imprisoned Chief. Later, during the violence that attended East Timor's referendum, Xanana was moved secretly, in the middle of the night, to the safety of the British Embassy; and in the rush, he forgot to take Bravo.
Vicki Tchong is one of those unsung heroines. In 1975, after the brutal invasion of East Timor, the Tchong family escaped to Melbourne where Vicki spent years creating a relationship between her wealthier Chinese-Timorese community and other more politically-motivated Timorese who never had any money but nevertheless ran a successful independence campaign. In 1999, just before the historic referendum, Vicki moved to Jakarta to arrange for the return of East Timorese students. She was living dangerously, moving from one dingy rent-a-room to another and with nothing except a cheap mobile phone she managed to find the students, organise visas, buy air tickets, and arrange safe exits. Eventually she had fifty frightened young Timorese sitting in the airport, ready to fly to Dili. And Bravo was with them; as usual, in the middle of the mob.
The Garuda officer said he couldn't fly, not without a cat box, so money was paid to find one. Then it was deemed he needed insurance, so money was paid to get some. Then, a separate compartment was required, so money was paid for that too. Then finally, the officer simply said it was impossible for the cat to fly to Dili. Since the students' escape was paramount, Vicki quickly re-christened Bravo “Kay Rala Jose Alexandre Gusmao, the President's Cat” and left him behind with some Chinese friends in Jakarta.
A month later the world gave birth to a new nation. It was a bloody struggle, delivering heroes, heroines, martyrs and a corpus of evil yet to be called to account. There is pain, and trauma, and much grieving to be done; but, free at last, the East Timorese are facing the challenges of democracy with the same fortitude and courage that characterised their resistance. Indonesians are trying to be democratic too, but are struggling with the concept—primarily because there are still too many ‘fat cats’ skulking about and too many foreign governments continuing to fuel a military regime that was thoroughly condemned by its performance in East Timor.
A few are thinking more creatively about the troubles. In April 1999, students from East Timor, Aceh, West Papua and Indonesia met for a two-day seminar in Jakarta organised by Parti Rakah Demokrasi (more readily known, as usual in Indonesia, by its acronym of PRD). We concluded that independence of the eastern and westernmost provinces of the Republic does not have to mean the dissolution of Indonesia; that changing political boundaries is a normal and regular feature of international life. Conference participants recalled the birth circumstances of ‘Indonesia’ and eventually agreed that the separation of Aceh and West Papua is inevitable. It's simply a matter of time.
When my country does become an independent Melanesian nation on the western rim of the Pacific, I sincerely hope that Bravo will be there to pull the rope that raises the flag. That would be appropriate compensation for a lean clean and personable cat who always got left behind. With a bit of luck, he'll be invited to pull the rope in Loksamawi as well, for the brave, proud people of Aceh also had freedom on their minds long before the Unitary State of the Indonesian Republic was born.
"Inside Indonesia" No.67, Jul-Sep 2001.
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