That Day In May 1998

Bryan cleaves apart the beige curtains from his living room. From the window of his 20th-floor apartment, he can see the thousands of people gathering on the road. The people who are sacrificing their bodies under the bright sunshine, with sweats sticking the crowds altogether. The crowds who are holding big banners with their handwriting defaming the new law, staring angrily at the police officers who are disciplining them. The horde who are shouting out loud, raising their fist in unison to attract the government’s attention.

And that makes Bryan let out a sigh.

A sigh that displays his fear and anxiety.

A sigh that comes whenever a protest is in his sight.

A sigh that makes him remember that traumatizing incident in 1998.

***

Young Bryan had just turned eight in May 1998, when the teacher suddenly stopped the class midway, and asked the students to go back home.

“No more school for the day? Oh, lucky!” Remembering how he hadn’t finished the homework for the next drawing class, young Bryan happily packed his pencil into the robot-shaped case, shoved his math textbook into his backpack. Then he followed the rest of his classmates, reached the school gate to find his driver, Joko, to pick him up.

But no matter how many times his head swayed, Young Bryan couldn’t spot the familiar, Indigenous-born, middle-aged man with his sun-kissed skin and the pointy-moustache. He waited for another half an hour, yet the one waving hands at him was a lady with permed hair.

“Mama?” Young Bryan squinted his eyes, clarifying what he had just seen. Yet the more he observed, he realized that the woman in the red, silky dress was indeed, his mother.

Mama never picked me up from school. The family store would always be too busy to be left alone by the time school ends. This is unusual.

But back then, his mother drove the car and brought him back home for the day. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself thinking about that rare occurrence.

But back then, young Bryan did not quite understand what was happening in the centre of the city.

***

Young Bryan changed out of his uniform as soon as he got home, ready to play in the backyard as his usual after-school activities. He changed out of his uniform, slipping his toes into the sandals, dragging his three-wheeled bike. With only one small hand pushing the gigantic wooden entrance door connecting the living room with the garden, he struggled to walk out of the house.

“What are you doing, Bryan?!” A high-pitched voice shrieked. Noticing the rising tone from his mother’s voice, Young Bryan shuddered in panic when the sound of the footsteps stormed towards him. And when the lady of the house arrived on his side, her hand quickly attached the metal lock, securing the door from getting opened. Her eyes gleamed with anger, and with a strict voice, she commanded, “No, you aren’t playing outside today.”

Young as he was, Bryan threw a tantrum.

“Why can’t I play outside, Ma?” He asked as he pouted his lips. But his mother kept her lips tight, giving no solid reasoning. Instead, she put the young boy in front of the TV and played his favourite cartoon to keep him company throughout the afternoon.

Mama usually hates me watching cartoons for more than an hour. It will hurt my eyes, apparently. But now she wants me to sit and watch for the whole day? This is unusual.

But back then, all Mama complained was the loud volume of the show, before disappearing into her business. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself thinking about that seemingly weird condition.

But back then, young Bryan had not grasped any single thing about the event that was taking place throughout the nation.

***

Young Bryan got tired of the cartoon, so he changed the channel. His hand reached out to the remote control on the entertainment unit, clicked on the arrow button, and a clip from the news popped up on the screen. The clip in black and white that showed the mass on the road, along with a newscaster who was elaborating about the protest.

As curiosity took the best out of the little boy, he ignored his mother’s previous complaints and ramped up the volume. However, as soon as the loud jeers from the TV pierced the house, Mama rushed back into the house.

With her back against the gadget, Mama’s slim, hourglass figure immediately blocked Young Bryan’s view on the screen. Her hands nimbly snatched the remote, pressed the red button, letting the display to turn black and the silence to fill the house.

“Why did you change the channel?! You are too young to watch this!” Mama scolded. She continued rambling about how a kid shouldn’t pry on adults’ issues, how a young boy should just watch his cartoon, how a good child should follow their parents’ instructions.

Young as he was, Bryan could not understand a single thing about the message that his mother was trying to deliver. All that was registered to his brain was how Mama was angry at him. It was then, young Bryan could feel the bullet of tears starting to form at the corner of his eyes and slowly rolling down his cheek.

His cry was enough to stop Mama from reprimanding him, prompting the two to be enveloped in a hug. Mama’s slender fingers caressed the young boy’s back, and as her lips inched closer to the boy’s ears, she whispered, “I’m sorry, my son, but could you please play in your bedroom instead?”

In between his blurry vision, young Bryan glanced at his mother. Her face was frowning, her dark pupils trembled, her limbs holding on to the kid had grown shaky.

Mama has never been this mad at me before, even when I accidentally knocked over her favourite porcelain vase. But now, she explodes just because I watch the news? This is unusual.

But back then, young Bryan simply noted that something was off, before eventually deciding to follow Mama’s request for the evening. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself thinking about his mother’s odd behaviour.

But back then, young Bryan had not noticed that a lot of strangers were watching from the outside of the house.

***

Young Bryan jolted up from his nap when he heard the entrance door swinging open. The plush dolls were laying around his body, along with his toy cars scattered on the carpet underneath the bed he was at. The room stayed bright, allowing his eyes to wander to the side of the bed, finding the short clock hand had turned to ten. The little boy then brushed his eyes, about to continue his sleep. Yet, he could hear the familiar husky voice that was talking with his mother, not too far from where his bedroom was.

Smile immediately painted Young Bryan’s face as he recognized the voice. The boy got up and stormed past the hallway, hopped downstairs to welcome his father.

“Papa!” Young Bryan cheered loudly. The little boy was expecting a hug from the hard-working man, but instead, the scold welcomed him.

“Shhh, Bryan. Be quiet for today, okay?” His father strictly dismissed him. The finger, darkened from counting cash and working hard, stood upright atop the old man’s thin lips. Combined with such a gesture were Papa’s bushy eyebrows who rose up and the furious glint on his eyes.

Young as he was, young Bryan bursted in tears. He didn’t understand why he was getting told off for a seemingly faultless action. All he understood was how his parents were treating him unfairly for the whole day.

But unlike Mama, the old man didn’t hug and comfort him. Instead, Papa rushed to his side and put his palms on Bryan’s lips, covering the bottom half of the kid’s face, letting the cry to be muffled. In a split second, Young Bryan noticed his father’s eyes widened, and whispered in a threatening voice, “I told you to be quiet, son.”

I know Papa doesn’t like me crying. He always said how boys shouldn’t cry, as it is not manly. But he had never been this enraged when I did. Just like with Mama before, this is unusual.

But back then, Young Bryan was scared of his father, so he nodded and stopped his act. He then quietly helped his father to close up all the curtains, turning off all the lights in the house. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself thinking about his parents’ strange course of actions.

But back then, young Bryan had not known the consequences of his actions.

***

Young Bryan went back to his bedroom, shrouded in darkness. His parents continued their adult talk in the dining room, and being on his own inside the gloomy room, the little kid felt restless. So he lit up a candle, then folded one finger, crossed it against the other, making the shape of a dog on the wall with the shadow. His pinky moved up and down, mimicking the jaw of the animal, and laughed at his own production. However, his bright bedroom seemed to attract people, and from the back of the curtain, he could hear rumbling footsteps marching towards the house.

It was then Mama came upstairs. Sweats had rolled down the mother’s forehead, watery eyes that trembled at the sight of the candle, and combined with how her jaw tightened, young Bryan could sense anxiety from the woman. Huffing and puffing from all the running, the woman blew the candle off, held the young boy tightly, and carried him. Her slender arms flung open the wooden wardrobe, placed Bryan in between the hanged clothes, and instructed, “Don’t ever come out, okay?”

Before Bryan could reply, his mother closed the door of the wardrobe, and he could hear a lock clicking afterwards.

Young as he was, he realized that his mother had locked him.

“Ma? Ma?!” Bryan screamed out. His hands balled up, and gathering all the power inside his small body, he punched the wardrobe door with all his might. The loud thudding sound echoed inside, but the door wouldn’t budge. So the kid kept on punching, kicking, and it was enough to make him get another scolding.

“Shhh! Be quiet, Bryan!” Mama shrieked.

Mama would never lock me up, no. She’d get mad, she’d scold me, but never in my life she slapped me nor hurt me physically. This is unusual, very unusual!

But back then, the young boy could only rely on his senses to navigate what was happening. Darkness had surrounded him, and the gap in between the wardrobe door was the only light source he could use. The fabric from the clothes hanging on the railing brushed his skin, occasionally blocking his eyes from the thin gap. But even then, he could see his mother holding tightly to the knob of the wardrobe door, tearing up in silence. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself thinking about that one particular night.

But back then, young Bryan could not have predicted what was about to befall his family.

***

Young Bryan could hear Mama’s footsteps walking away from where he was, and soon enough disappeared. The little boy, locked up in the wardrobe, put all his focus to his ears.

Few minutes passed in silence, then Bryan could hear the wooden door being opened, as well as the strangers’ voices raising their tones while speaking to his parents.

Young Bryan could hear the same rumbling footsteps as earlier, realizing that they might be the same people currently coming into their house. Hence, the boy tried to listen to the words these people uttered.

The strangers bickered with his parents, then yelled out swear words, raised their tones, seemingly outraged. Soon, their bickerings were replaced by the loud thudding noises as if blunt items had been knocked off to the ground, intermingling with the crunching voices as if the glasses around the house had been shattered.

Young as he was, he wasn’t able to help his parents. The boy knew he would be useless against the strong men forcing their way into his house. He decided that the best thing he could do was to follow Mama’s advice: to hide and to be as quiet as he could.

But this is already quite late at night. I’ve never seen Papa bringing a guest at around this time, even arguing against them. This is unusual…

And then, all of sudden, a loud thud happened.

The next thing Bryan could hear was the cry of his mother. A loud cry for help for several minutes, along with a screeching voice as if a heavy object had been dragged around the flooring. And what came after was the laughing voices of the strangers. A nasty snark, devil-like laugh that managed to send the shudder down Bryan’s spine.

“No, please don’t come near me!” Mama shrilled. The next second, Mama’s cry had been substituted by her high-pitched scream, yet that didn’t seem to bother the group of people. Instead, the bad guys grunted in between their laughs, occasionally letting moans escape their lips.

But back then, the scared young boy had no place to escape. He could only hide his face with a plastic bag full of his old clothes, and scooted his body to the deepest corner of the wardrobe. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself shaking in the darkness.

Something has gone terribly wrong out there… What is happening?

But back then, young Bryan had zero knowledge about the tension between the races.

***

Young Bryan held his breath as he heard a footstep that gradually came upstairs. It wasn’t the same rumbling voice as before, and so, the little kid shut his eyes, hoping that it was Papa or Mama, or anyone kind enough to help him. At the same time, he mumbled his wish in a soft voice.

“Please not those scary strangers, please, please, please,” young Bryan curled up, hugging his body tightly, as if it was enough to make him invisible.

Bryan could hear the footsteps reaching the front of the stairs, then turned right, walking down the hallway. The feet then passed his parent’s bedroom, coming straight to the front of the wardrobe that the little boy was in. He could hear a knock on the wardrobe door, yet Bryan chose to stay silent. He bit the bottom of his lips, tightly clutching his mouth from making any sort of noise.

No. No. No. I have been found. Now these bad guys would hurt me the same way they hurt Mama.

“Go away, go away, go away,” young Bryan shut his eyes, muttering his wish while his hands and shoulders had turned shaky. However, he could hear the metal of the lock click, and the kid gulped nervously while waiting for the person to reveal himself.

Yet under the moonlight piercing through the broken window, he could see the familiar, pointy-moustache man.

“Joko?”

“I am happy that at least you are safe, young master Bryan!” the 50-year-old man smiled at the unharmed little kid.

Young as he was, Bryan immediately cried. His limbs then slowly crawled out of the hiding, hugged the middle-aged man in front of him tightly as he felt immense relief. Joko then piggybacked him, and the two tiptoed down the stairs.

And as Bryan passed the dining table, he could see the small flame that slowly grew to engulf the whole room. He rested his nostrils upon Joko’s shoulder, and it was enough to keep the smoke away from getting inhaled.

And as Bryan was being carried out of the house, he could see a different shade of red in between the fire. The orange-coloured sparks that took the furniture apart, breaking his house, as well as a puddle of dark red liquid overflowed from his father’s head lying beneath wooden sticks.

And as Bryan turned his head to the other corner of the living room, he could see another puddle sourced from his mother’s body, who was left on the floor, ripped off all the clothing.

But back then, young Bryan could only capture the scenery in his mind. The unusual scenery he had never seen in his entire life, the last time he would ever meet his parents. And up until twenty-two years later, Bryan still remembers himself being utterly enraged with that view.

But back then, young Bryan knew nothing about the reason behind the chaos.

***

Bryan shakes his head, closes the beige curtain, then sits at the sofa. Clenching both of his hands, he lets out a prayer.

Please, God, no more riot like that day in 1998.

***

That day in May 1998, a riot broke in Indonesia. Triggered by the food shortage, unemployment, and economic crisis, the public started a protest against the current president. The riot led the public to loot the stores and burn the houses owned by the well-off ethnic Chinese. It is reported that more than 1000 ethnic Chinese were dead in the incident.

In modern days, the ethnic Chinese who reside in Indonesia still get anxious whenever protests happen in the country.

Because they could see themselves becoming the victim if hell breaks loose one more time.