Straightening Out History

In the early morning hours of 1 October 1965, a group of low-ranking military officers kidnapped and subsequently killed seven army officers, including six generals, who were allegedly plotting a coup against then-president Sukarno. A military group calling itself the Thirtieth of September Movement (Gerakan 30 September, or G30S) claimed responsibility for the kidnapping and murders.Footnote ²⁰ The army, under major general and future president Suharto, responded by blaming the murders on the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), which was, at the time, a legal party and the third largest Communist party in the world.Footnote ²¹

The attacks on the PKI were brutal and sustained and encompassed physical torture as well as symbolic methods that portrayed PKI members and members of Gerwani as dangerous, immoral, and savage (Wieringa Reference Wieringa2002). The images of Gerwani women can still be seen at the Sacred Pancasila Monument, opened in 1969, and the Museum of PKI Treason (Museum Penghianatan PKI), built in 1990 (McGregor Reference McGregor2007). These images, “written in stone,” reinforce the New Order narrative about 1965 and restrict counter-narratives of the dominant history. In addition, history books, films, and other media were part of a coordinated government campaign against those who had been killed or imprisoned. The New Order orchestrated a massive propaganda machine including the movie “The Treachery of G30S-PKI” (Pengkhianatan G30 September-PKI; dir. Noer, 1984) that was shown every 30 September in schools, government offices, and on national TV. It is the most-watched Indonesian film of all time (Sen and Hill Reference Sen and Hill2006), and is still broadcast to large audiences on national television (Zhacky Reference Zhacky2020). This film depicted communists as evil and immoral and the army and anti-communists as virtuous and heroic. The glorification of the army as heroes and the PKI as villains is one of the most effective propaganda jobs in fear and suppression in history. It has been called an act of “amnesia” because of the large-scale erasure of the facts for generations of Indonesians.Footnote ²²

The military regime not only decimated the Left, but it created a culture of fear. The specter of communism was raised whenever challenges to the government emerged. Due to severe anti-communist fervour, and the rumours and gossip surrounding those imprisoned or disappeared, the children of political prisoners suffered from their parents’ alleged involvement (“terlibat”) in the coup. Calling someone a communist was enough to incite terror as children of suspected actors (referred to as “PKI children,” or “anak PKI”) were stigmatised and subjected to daily discrimination. Dialita member Ibu Irina, whose father Njoto was a high-ranking leader of the Communist Party and a member of parliament, stated, “If a kid was naughty, the teacher would say ‘don’t act like a PKI child.’ We were told not to speak about our family. Our identities were disallowed [identitas gak boleh]. We had to use our uncle’s name on our identity cards. I didn’t know I was Njoto’s daughter until I was 19 years old.” Even now the threat of being labelled “PKI” is part of the modern political discourse of a “latent PKI” threat, as referenced at the beginning of this article.

By 1980, most political prisoners had been returned to society (“dikembalikan ke masyarakat”), but neither they nor their family members were allowed to become government employees, public school teachers, or members of the military or police. Their ID cards were stamped “ET” for Ex-Tapol, or ex-political prisoner. In some cases, even their own family members resented them. Many children blamed their parents or grandparents for their own lack of education, lack of work, and for their poverty.

The state constructed a single hegemonic memory of 1965, one that lasted for thirty-two years, a uniform memory which has only recently been shattered. After Suharto’s thirty-two-year reign was forcibly ended in 1998, the walls around the cover-up began to crumble. During the last two decades, historians have been emboldened to reconstruct the past, while recognising that the truth may never be told (Adam Reference Adam2004; Roosa Reference Roosa2006; Robinson Reference Robinson2018). The collapse of the Suharto regime in 1998 opened up “new possibilities for seeing the past” (Zurbuchen Reference Zurbuchen2005:4); and a “battle for history” itself (Van Klinken Reference Klinken and Zurbuchen2005). Emerging out of the rubble, numerous counter-narratives about the tragic events of 1965–66 appeared in literature (Hoadley Reference Hoadley2005), theatre (Rachmadi Reference Rachmadi and Zurbuchen2005; Hatley Reference Hatley2006 and Reference Hatley, Day and Maya2010; Lis Reference Lis, McGregor, Melvin and Pohlman2018), music (Pitaloka and Pols Reference Pitaloka, Pols, Leese, Kohne and Crouthamel2021), dance (Larasati Reference Larasati2013), and new media, especially shorts and documentary films (Hatley Reference Hatley, Day and Maya2010; and Heryanto Reference Heryanto2014:74–105).Footnote ²³ Survivors have published oral histories (Bustam Reference Bustam2008; Nadia Reference Nadia2008; Sukanta Reference Sukanta and Lindsay2014; Marching Reference Marching2017), poetry and short stories (Sukanta Reference Sukanta2005), and memoirs (Toer Reference Toer1995; Sujinah Reference Kortschak2000; Setiawan Reference Setiawan2003 and Reference Setiawan and Lindsay2020; Wiwoho Reference Wiwoho2012; Aleida Reference Aleida2020; Tedjabayu 2020). Music has not been a focus of this literature, although it is clear that music was a central medium for the political left before 1965. Music as a form of expression and collectivity played an important and unique role in the lives of Indonesian political prisoners in the New Order’s jails. For example, in the Salemba jail, where writer Putu Oka Sukanta spent ten years, “music was one of the only things we could hold on to” (pers. comm., 20 June Reference Sukanta2019). In this article, I will demonstrate the role of contemporary music in educating Indonesians about this bloody chapter in history.Footnote ²⁴

Even though the New Order government was removed from power in 1998, the events associated with 1965 and the mass killings that followed are still shrouded in mystery, misinformation, and misunderstanding for most Indonesian citizens. Dialita’s goal of “straightening out history” is central to current strategies of national reconciliation, which involves four steps (Leksana Reference Leksana and Brauchler2009): (1) truth-finding through education, awareness, dialogue, and inclusivity of multiple voices; (2) reintegration of victims into the national community of Indonesia; (3) elimination of stigmatisation; and (4) reform.Footnote ²⁵ Reconciliation demands “that the Indonesian government right the wrongs of the past by acknowledging the truth of what happened to many of its citizens and bringing about justice for them” (Wahyuningroem Reference Wahyuningroem, McGregor, Melvin and Pohlman2018:335). However, none of the successive government administrations in Indonesia have acknowledged the fact that millions of its own citizens were massacred, imprisoned, and tortured.Footnote ²⁶ There are no state monuments or national holidays dedicated to the Indonesian tragedy (Setiawan Reference Setiawan, McGregor, Melvin and Pohlman2018). School history books continue to teach Suharto-era interpretations of history (Leksana Reference Leksana and Brauchler2009; Suwignyo Reference Suwignyo2014; Purwanta Reference Purwanta2017). Public events to raise awareness leading to national reconciliation continue to be marked by fierce opposition and harassment (Tempo, 16 May 2016).

The stigmatisation against women former political prisoners and their families has endured, as Dialita member Ibu Utati recalled in a 2016 documentary film about the group:

Ibu Utati underscores the role of women in “carrying this burden by ourselves” for children and families. Ibu Utati’s statement points to the lack of progress on truth and reconciliation, despite the overwhelming evidence provided by several truth-finding commissions (see fn25). But that does not mean that people are not actively mobilising memories of the past to help heal those wounds and achieve justice outside the state judicial system.

Hersri Setiawan, a writer and member of the PKI-affiliated Institute of People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, LEKRA), who spent nine years in detention, has written about artistic activities in the Buru forced labour camp as the “Indonesian art of exile within Indonesia itself” (Hersri [Setiawan] Reference Setiawan and Foulcher1995:19).Footnote ²⁸ Following Hersri, I wish to address the music of exile within Indonesia itself as an important yet excluded part of Indonesian cultural history. In music, the “biography of the nation” (ibid.) has largely excluded composers, musicians, and songs associated with the left, which was decimated by the New Order.Footnote ²⁹ The musical biography of the nation encompasses not only the silenced histories of exiled music in the detention camps, but also the recent sonic interpretations produced by survivors, family members, and contemporary musical collaborators. As part of a larger network of survivors, activists, and artists, Dialita aims to return a hidden chapter of history, to correct the historical record, and to create new meanings about 1965, as I will describe in the following sections.

Organising

Dialita’s formation is rooted in the politics, protests, and activism of the mid- to late 1990s in Indonesia. The fall of Suharto in 1998 and the ensuing years of reform (Reformasi) established the conditions that would enable the women of Dialita, among other survivors of 1965, to gather publicly to share memories, stories, and songs. With the help of human rights organisations, activists, and women’s rights groups, survivors were encouraged to work through their trauma and to speak out about their experiences in prison.Footnote ³⁰ In the post-Suharto period of reform, survivors felt newly emboldened to “move around” (bergerak) in public. For children whose families were torn apart by the violence of 1965, gatherings were opportunities to organise. Ibu Irina recounted that, “for the first time, we finally had the freedom to meet, talk, and form community organizations.” Steps towards national reconciliation and justice were taken in the early years of Reformasi, when president and former head of the religious organisation Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) Abdurachman Wahid acknowledged the role of NU in the mass killings of communists. He offered a public apology and recommended further investigation into the matter (Fealy and McGregor Reference Fealy and McGregor2010). But due to government opposition and public hostility towards reconciliation, the matter was soon dropped; Wahid was impeached as president in 2001.

In the early 2000s, women of Dialita began getting together at informal gatherings to help the survivors and ex-prisoners who were suffering from trauma. Ibu Irina explained:

Many survivors were afraid of being outed in public because they associated public gatherings with danger. Ibu Utati explained, “It’s not easy to convince women to come forward. Most of them still want to hide their identities. Even if they wanted to bring back those memories and feelings, their family members forbid them from doing so. They aren’t allowed.” By visiting victims and families, the women of Dialita served as exemplary cadres in solidarity, mirroring the ideas and practices of women’s socialist organisations of the 1950s and early 1960s.

The act of singing together informally with other survivors was a healing experience. Dialita member Ibu Elly Runturambi, who was a student and member of the Communist Party-affiliated United Movement of Indonesian Students (Consentrasi Gerakan Mahasiswa Indonesia, or CGMI), noted that singing, both before and after 1965, felt different for people whose families had been destroyed:

The act of singing brought women survivors together to help each other work through the trauma they had been carrying for decades. The songs lifted their burden, and returned the hope and optimism that they had felt as teenage girls in the early 1960s. Ibu Elly remembered those Sukarno-era songs as expressing a revolutionary spirit, and a modern political vision that encouraged people to imagine a national community for Indonesians based on ideals of social justice and unity. The historical events surrounding 1965 created the conditions for a new kind of “family created by history.” The act of singing a repertoire of songs that belong to a time of political possibility inspired women to share their memories and restore a sense of hope. The act of repurposing those Sukarno-era songs enabled them to imagine a more just and prosperous future.

Dialita’s song repertoire and style of choral singing (paduan suara) is inspired by the many socialist choral music groups of the 1950s. Dialita includes several members of the Gembira Choir (1954–1965), which was established in Jakarta by students who had attended the World Festival of Youth and Students in Berlin in 1951 (Yuliantri Reference Yuliantri, Lindsay and Maya2012). Participation in one of the many choirs symbolised nationalism, cosmopolitanism, and modernity, and not necessarily a particular political position. In a description of the activities and significance of the Gembira Choir, Yuliantri points out that choral music was a privileged medium for LEKRA, the PKI-affiliated cultural organisation, especially during the period of Guided Democracy (1957–1965). Gembira performed at receptions for foreign guests of socialist countries at the Presidential Palace so many times that they were given the nickname “Palace Chorus” (ibid.:448). They performed at events organised by the PKI or LEKRA as well as state events to welcome foreign dignitaries and during the period of Confrontation with Malaysia (Konfrontasi) (Yuliantri Reference Yuliantri, Lindsay and Maya2012; Farram Reference Farram2014; Mohammed Reference Mohammed2016:314). The Gembira Choir was not a political organisation, but it only became political through its alignment with Sukarno and LEKRA. Due to its leftist associations, the Gembira Choir was forced to disband on 1 October 1965 (Yuliantri Reference Yuliantri, Lindsay and Maya2012:449). As a way of documenting the songs, and teaching them to others, the members of Dialita began notating the songs from memory, as described in the next section.

Rewriting

As they began gathering and singing with fellow survivors, the women of Dialita discovered many songs that had been composed in prison. Ibu Utati re-wrote three songs that she had composed in prison, as well as others that she remembers singing. As a child, Ibu Utati had learned gamelan music and dance, and she pursued these artistic activities as a member of Pemuda Rakyat, the youth wing of the PKI, which was banned in 1965. Ibu Utati was captured in 1967 and imprisoned for eleven years. Ibu Uchikowati, who was thirteen years old when her father, D.A. Santosa, the regent (Bupati) of Cilacap and a prominent nation-builder, was kidnapped by the army. She encouraged Ibu Utati to write out the lyrics and cipher notation for all the songs she could remember. Ibu Uchikowati reflected, “it was a documentation project. We thought: ‘Who knows, maybe at some point in the future, a youngster will encounter this notation and make some sounds out of it’.” She referred to this collection of songs as an archive (arsip), which contained about thirty songs in 2019.

The collection, rewriting, and publishing of songs is significant because documents, books, and family photographs belonging to members of leftist organisations and suspected sympathisers were destroyed after October 1965. On this point, I quote Wieringa at length (Wieringa Reference Wieringa2002:21):

In this context, “returning [the songs] to writing” takes on heightened significance beyond the practical function of cipher notation used to teach the songs. As part of the rewriting process, the group gathered information about the songs, and published the information as liner notes on two CDs. Liner notes contextualise the songs according to historical time (pre-prison/during prison; year), composer; social conditions of composition and singing (e.g., which prison; when they were sung); and meaning for prisoners. For example, Figure 2a and Figure 2b show Ibu Utati Koesalah Toer’s handwritten text, cipher notation, and notes for “Relakan” (Let it Go). Ibu Utati recounted the conditions under which the song was composed and performed. Sudiyami, a teacher and political prisoner in the Bukit Duri prison, composed the poem before she was relocated along with other prisoners to a different prison. Not knowing where she was being taken, Sudiyami left behind the poem and Zubaedah Nungtjik A.R. set it to a melody. A group of remaining prisoners, including Ibu Utati, hid behind a vent inside the prison building as they watched Sudiyami being taken away. It was then sung every time a group of prisoners was relocated.

Figure 2a.

Ibu Utati Koesalah Toer’s handwritten lyrics, cipher notation, and notes for “Relakan”; melody (lagu) by Zubaedah Nungtjik A.R. and text (syair) by Sudiyami (nicknamed “kancil” [deer] because she walked quickly).

Figure 2b.

Lyrics and notes for “Relakan” with translations by the author.

In prison, music was a way to normalise the harsh conditions of isolation, depression, and violence.Footnote ³¹ In an interview with members of Dialita, Ibu Irina explained:

In the prison camps, women composed new songs, and taught them to others. But they had to hide the songs from the prison administrators. Ibu Utati stated, “there were many prisoners who composed songs and hid them. And there are many who composed them, who still haven’t told anyone.” They were allowed to sing as a group only on birthdays, national day celebrations, and for religious purposes.Footnote ³² Under these conditions, music gave prisoners the strength to carry on.Footnote ³³

Songwriters had to be careful about inserting certain words into their songs (such as the word “red”), and songs associated with Communism or the PKI were forbidden (e.g., “Nasakom Bersatu”). Poet Putu Oka Sukanta reiterated this point: “All the songs I composed in prison definitely had feelings of anger (kemarahan) entwined with feelings of longing for our families and our lives before prison. Songs composed by prisoners had an element of protest, but it wasn’t realized. We had to use metaphors to protect ourselves” (pers. comm., 20 June Reference Sukanta2019).

Dialita’s repertoire of memories in song includes songs associated with the political Left before 1965, and songs composed in prison. The songs composed before 1965 were considered compulsory songs (lagu wajib) that were sung in schools and official national events in the 1950s and 1960s. These songs unified the nation in sound through the “echoed physical realization of the imagined community” (“unisonance”; see Anderson Reference Anderson2006[1983]:145). They often emphasised Indonesia’s relationships with non-aligned countries in the global south. For example, “Asia Afrika Bersatu” (Asia and Africa Unite, comp. Sudharnoto, 1955) is about the unification of Asian and African countries as a neutral third force during the Cold War; “Padi Untuk India” (Rice for India, comp. A. Alie, 1946) sounded a new socio-political alignment between Indonesia and India; “Viva GANEFO” (Long Live GANEFO, comp. Asmono Martodipoero, 1963) celebrates GANEFO, the Games of New Emerging Forces in 1963; “Nasakom Bersatu” (Nasionalism, Religion, and Communism Unite,” comp. Subroto K. Atmodjo, 1965) was a Sukarnoist slogan to bring the three main ideological streams in Indonesian politics together in 1965. They are referred to as revolutionary songs because of their association with anti-colonialism, anti-imperialism, and independence. Some of these songs associated with the left still cannot be performed in public, for example, “Nasakom Bersatu,” due to the syllable “kom” [short for Communist] in the title.

In addition to nationalist songs, Dialita’s repertoire consists of songs composed in prison, mostly by women.Footnote ³⁴ The songs do not directly address the tragic events of 1965; the violence of being captured; the massive numbers of people killed; or the torture that they endured in prison. Rather, they communicate hope for the future through personal experiences, feelings, and emotions. Ibu Utati explained, “The songs are all about surviving until we are released. They are about our lives in prison. They aren’t political songs per se, although our situations were created by politics.” The song texts of Dialita emphasise struggle, perseverance, and hope. In the following section, I will describe how Dialita transformed the rewritten songs into public performance.

Performing

In 2006, a group of women who would later form Dialita performed in public for the first time when they sang the leftist anthem “The Internasionale” at a ceremony in memory of the revolutionary intellectual and Indonesia’s most famous author, Pramoedya Ananta Toer. In 2009, they performed the song again at the funeral of publisher Joesoef Ishak (who had bravely published Pramoedya’s quartet of novels during the New Order).

As the choir grew, they discussed their identity and purpose frequently and decided to be a choral group to remember 1965. Ibu Uchikowati stated, “our goal was not to make recordings, or to struggle for human rights, but to make a little money to share with survivors.” On 12 April 2011, they formed Paduan Suara Dialita (The Dialita Choir) to perform at celebrations of family and friends. In 2015, they enlisted a group of officers and began collecting dues from members. Men have served in the capacities of vocal trainer, rehearsal leader, and choir conductor, but they do not formally belong to the organisation nor do they have a voice in its direction.Footnote ³⁵ Ibu Uchikowati stressed this point as a way of “singing back” to the gendered ideology of the New Order.

Performing in a musical group enabled individual survivors to feel a sense of belonging and solidarity with other survivors. Ibu Irina explained, “I still don’t like to speak to people I don’t know. I get calls every September 30th from journalists asking me about my family, but I refuse them. But with Dialita I am able to speak up in public. I like to sing, but I don’t want to do it alone––Dialita gives me a chance.” Public performance established the conditions for Dialita to collaborate with activists and artists who have been using the arts to create broader historical awareness about 1965. For example, Dialita performed in a theatrical programme entitled “Nyanyi Sunyi Kembang-kembang Genjer” (“The Silent Song of Genjer Flowers”), written and directed by feminist and cultural activist Faiza Mardzoeki, in celebration of International Women’s Day 2014.Footnote ³⁶ Testimonials of women survivors formed the content of the programme, and Dialita performed in the background. Based on the positive reception from the audience, Dialita began receiving invitations to perform at other events associated with art, activism, and politics.

Performing provides a newfound public visibility and audibility, but still produces instability and trepidation.Footnote ³⁷ Ibu Irina revealed, “We have to be careful. First, we judge the situation: Who is inviting us? What kind of event is it? Where will it be held? If the program takes place indoors, we may do it. But if it’s outdoors, there is more room for something dangerous to happen.” Getting permits to perform from the police presents administrative obstacles and arbitrary refusals. Often permits are granted, only to be taken away at the last minute (a common occurrence with events dedicated to 1965 in general, especially around the time of the fiftieth anniversary of 1965, such as the 2016 Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in Bali). This unpredictability limits the scope of performances, and forces them to either cancel performances, or perform at places that do not require as many permits.

Public performance opens a space for “apolitical politics” (Hofman Reference Hofman2021:209), from informal family gatherings to official state events. However, this strategy is often mis-recognised in reviews of their performances. In the following section, I will discuss the nature of apolitical politics in performances by Dialita, as they are mediated in reviews of performances by a younger generation of writers.

The 2016 Sanata Dharma Catholic University concert in Yogyakarta was a record launch attended by writers, artists, activists, intellectuals, and students.Footnote ³⁸ The concert had the aura of something alternative and progressive due to Dialita’s collaboration with several well-known indie musicians whose music is associated with socio-political critique (for example, Cholil Mahmud, Kartika Jahja, and Sisir Tanah, among others). Framing the audience space in the open-air plaza, the organisers had set up their own distribution outlet (or “distro”), with tables for vendors to sell books, CDs, zines, and merchandise. Spectators were served food associated with the rakyat, the common people of the 1960s, including plain-tasting wheat porridge (bulgur) and leafy vegetables (beluntas and genjer). In between songs, the group explained the formation of the choir around issues of 1965; publicised the biographies of songwriters and singers; and recounted how the songs were learned and sung in prison.

In a review of the concert, researcher and critic Michael HB Raditya stated that the women of Dialita faced false allegations, illegal imprisonment, and continuing social sanctions after their release.Footnote ³⁹ But those political rights issues surrounding the group were “nothing new” (“bukan soal baru”; Raditya Reference Raditya2018:101). Rather, the concert was a happy event, a coming-out party in a public space for a group of women who had previously been discarded and forgotten by society (“telah dibuang dan tidak dianggap”; ibid.:102)—they smiled, sang loudly, with enthusiasm and energy, and in sync with young musicians and audience members. Eliding the socio-political context that had brought them to this point, Raditya focused on the affective quality of the performance. For example, the “tinkling on the piano made the audience feel warm and comfortable” (ibid.). The song “Friendship” was “so emotional as to produce goosebumps, and teary eyes, even more so while seeing the smiling faces of women who could not contain their enthusiasm” (ibid.:105). Although the quality of the musical performance “would have bothered people with well-trained ears (because the melody and harmony were not always in sync), most of the audience did not mind because the emotions and messages were so effectively presented” (ibid.:106).

The moving review by Raditya is evidence that Dialita’s music is effectively communicating with a younger generation of listeners. Raditya’s focus on emotions is central to Dialita’s contestation of the pervasive and persistent Suharto-era memory of 1965. For Dialita, affect and politics go hand in hand. As Ibu Uchikowati stated, “through the medium of music, we touch the emotions of listeners. People whose hearts have been touched have been moved to study the history of 1965.” But to represent the concert in terms of emotions and musical quality, without discussing the social political context of performance, potentially discourages further inquiry into the historical-political context of 1965. For example, Raditya notes that the song “Friendship” “seems to communicate that it is time to build friendships [among people on opposite sides of the issue] and to accept them [survivors] as an important part of history and social life” (ibid.:105). This narrative of reconciliation without truth does not account for the clash of memories that stand in the way of reconciliation and places the entire burden of achieving “acceptance” on the survivors rather than on the society that had discarded them in the first place. Further, Raditya states that the song “The World Belongs to Us” “seems to confirm that it is time to erase our differences and live together” (ibid.:104–105). Erasing differences is not the way that Dialita envisions reconciliation. Rather, it involves an acknowledgement of responsibility by the Indonesian government for past atrocities. Only then will the survivors feel a sense of shared ownership of the world (after the clever title of the song, “the world belongs to us”). These sentiments resonate more loudly for women who were denied equal rights in Indonesian society before 1965 (Blackburn Reference Blackburn2004:98).

Another review of a Dialita performance reveals the strategic and subtle way that Dialita performs 1965, and the way the group is represented in journalistic accounts. In January, 2018, Dialita used a festive event of the political elite as an opportunity to promote an identification with an alternative memory of 1965. Guruh Soekarnoputra, the son of Sukarno and a member of the Indonesian People’s Representative Council (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat), invited Dialita to perform at a birthday celebration for his sister Megawati Sukarnoputri, who had served as Indonesia’s fifth president from 2001 to 2004. Guruh had heard Dialita perform songs associated with the Sukarno regime, and he wanted to present his sister with a live performance of two songs composed by their mother Fatmawati, “Buah Hati Pengarang Jantung” (My Sweetheart, My Beloved) and “Alam Desa” (The Village World). Guruh, an established pop musician, conducted the performance, which took place at the prestigious Jakarta Arts Centre (Taman Ismail Marzuki or TIM) in central Jakarta. TIM was established in 1968 by Suharto’s New Order regime to support “anti-Communist artists, in ascendency after the purge of the left wing in 1965–66” (Hill Reference Hill and Hooker1993:245). TIM is named after Ismail Marzuki (1914–1958), a celebrated composer and a National Hero of Indonesia (Pahlawan Nasional Indonesia). In front of President Jokowi, high-ranking government officials, and representatives from the army and police, Dialita sang the two songs followed by a third song, “Resopim,” which they had purposely left off the programme (in agreement with Guruh). “Resopim” is the title of a speech given by Sukarno on 17 August 1961 in which Sukarno presented his programme of Revolusi, Sosialisme, and Pimpinan (Revolution, Socialism, and National Leadership).Footnote ⁴⁰ The song “Resopim” was composed by Subronto K. Atmodjo (1929–1982), a close associate of Sukarno during the early 1960s and a member of LEKRA who was imprisoned on the island of Buru (1968–1977). Footnote ⁴¹ Ismail Marzuki belongs to the official musical “biography of the nation,” whereas Subronto K. Atmodjo has been largely forgotten.

Members of Dialita expressed pride about singing “Resopim,” a song composed by a political prisoner of 1965 that contains the reviled term “socialism,” for an official government event. In fact, the members of Dialita had considered it too radical to perform previously in public or record on their albums. However, they felt emboldened to perform it for this occasion because Guruh had instigated the performance and would take responsibility for any repercussions. In a remarkable example of unisonance, members of the audience and (some) government officials sang along. In this moment, Dialita had successfully reanimated a Sukarno-era song in an effort to shape the public memory of 1965. Further, Dialita members expressed hope that their voices were being heard by the political elite, who could actually do something about the social status of survivors as well as those who had been denied justice in their lifetime. For Dialita, the public performance of “Resopim” represented a collective victory in the struggle for truth and recognition against a government that continues to deny justice for victims and survivors of 1965.

In a review of the concert, journalist Purba Wirastama represented Dialita as “a group of middle-aged women sympathetic to the victims [korban] of the 1965 event. They sing songs left by victims of political imprisonment as a form of reconciliation of the dark past” (Wirastama Reference Wirastama2018). On one hand, the story makes it clear that in Indonesia the perception of Dialita as a group of middle-aged women (perempuan paruh baya) makes them unthreatening and therefore, listen-able, in relation to 1965. In this way, their apolitics provides the conditions that enable their politics. On the other hand, their voices were not being heard at all. In Wirastama’s narrative, 1965 is a bounded and fixed temporal event (often referred to as the “dark past”) that has been disarticulated from the present. Victims (korban) are portrayed as passive casualties of Indonesian political history, which matches the definition of victims as “sacrifice” in a religious or ritual context. According to Wirastama, “performance-as-reconciliation” provides living proof that the issue has been put to rest. However, there is no mention that Dialita performs for communicating historical awareness to spectators and listeners, or struggling towards reconciliation. There is no acknowledgement of Dialita’s performance as an active participant in challenging the dominant memory of 1965. Like the previous concert review, this way of inscribing 1965 takes the onus off the reader/listener to pursue memory politics further.

By the end of 2019, Dialita had released two albums, performed in public approximately fifty times, and had been featured in a thirty-minute film (“Bangkit dari Senyap” [“Rising from Silence”], dir. Shalahuddin Siregar, 2016). Hundreds of news stories have been written about the group. The national television talk show “Kick Andy” devoted an entire episode to Dialita in May 2019 (Metro TV).Footnote ⁴² International recognition followed when Dialita was awarded the 2019 Gwangju Prize for Human Rights (Special Award) given by the May 18 Memorial Foundation in South Korea.Footnote ⁴³ Performing music in public has taken on great political significance for ex-political prisoners and their families who were forced into hiding and prohibited from participating in the public sphere for decades. As Ibu Uchikowati stated, “After Dialita began performing and becoming known, women began coming out of the woodwork, including exiles in the Netherlands, to share songs and stories with us that they had composed or remembered.” In all of these performances, Dialita “sings for” survivors who are afraid to speak out about their own experiences.

For Indonesian musicians who were prevented from learning about the state violence of 1965–66 in school, prison songs and patriotic songs of the 1950s and 1960s are something fresh and new. Composer Petrus Briyanto Adi (b. 1974), who co-produced Dialita’s second album, stated: “for me and my generation of musicians and listeners, it was new territory to hear and perform these historical songs. The dark history was not the history of Ismail Marzuki, Kusbini, and other popular artists that we knew from the 1950s and 60s.” As the truth came out, younger people started to question their history as one that needed to be “straightened out” (Sabarini et al. Reference Sabarini, Ekarahendy, Krismantari, Firdaus, Theo, Wieringa, Melvin and Pohlman2019). In the final section of this article, I will show the significance of collaborating and recording with young musicians, and circulating those recordings in the form of albums and online videos.

Sound Recording

Dialita’s two CD recordings narrativise a history that has only recently been made audible through music. These recordings document the history of music in the detention camps, and demonstrate how modern musicians are making history knowable through sound. In 2014, human rights activist and scholar Ita Fatia Nadia brought Dialita to the attention of music producer Woto Wibowo (aka Wok the Rock) and artist Agung Kurniawan, who co-produced the 2016 album Dunia Milik Kita (DMK).Footnote ⁴⁴ Ita Fatia Nadia had been researching and writing about the victims and survivors of 1965–66 for decades, and became involved with Dialita to promote national reconciliation through cultural forms (which she referred to as “cultural reconciliation”). Working with musicians in Yogyakarta, the choir created new arrangements to appeal to a young audience who have little or no understanding about Indonesia’s violent and bloody history. Producer Agung Kurniawan describes the album as follows:

Kurniawan describes how the music was strategic for teaching a younger generation about a form of Indonesian history they had never learned about in school. His curation of the “monument to the tragedy of 1965 in the form of music” displaces the dominant memory of 1965 attached to the many New Order stone monuments, such as the Pancasila Sakti monument discussed earlier in this article. In this way, Dialita moves 1965 away from static sites of memory to fluid acts of remembering.

Kurniawan and music producer Wowok worked with Dialita and contemporary popular musicians, mostly indie singer-songwriters, to instill an alternative history of 1965 among a younger generation of listeners. In Indonesia, indie musicians are “a loose conglomerate of teenagers and twentysomethings committed to producing music and media ‘on their own terms’, that is, apart from the commercial or political interests of major corporations and state-financed institutions” (Luvaas Reference Luvaas2009:247). Educated and middle-class, indie musicians are the first generation to adopt a wide variety of global musical choices available through MTV and the internet during the late 1990s and ensuing period of economic reform (Reformasi). Frustrated with the Suharto regime, they distanced themselves from “forms of expression associated with marginalized ethnic identities, governmental nation-building efforts, and the hegemonic categorical schema of the international music industry” (ibid.:248). As a result, indie music is modern, politically engaged, and eclectic in style. The producers of the album picked bands from a variety of genres and gave them free reign to interpret the lyrics in their own way, so that fans with diverse tastes in music would be encouraged to learn more about 1965.

In this section, I describe two different contemporary musical interpretations of two songs, “Ujian” (Test) and “Taman Bunga Plantungan” (Plantungan Flower Garden), on two Dialita albums. These recordings of the same song were made three years apart and illustrate the networks of solidarity between Dialita and a variety of contemporary musicians and their audiences. The members of Dialita recognised that the survival of the songs depended on transforming them for a younger generation of listeners, and so they encouraged musicians to create new interpretations. The collaboration with younger musicians, some of whom have little or no knowledge of 1965, aims to instill their particular collective memory of 1965.

Ujian

Ibu Siti Juswati Djubariah was a teacher imprisoned from 1965 to 1978 in Bukit Duri, Plantungan, and Bulu. She composed “Ujian” (Test) in the Bukit Duri prison in 1971. Dialita member Ibu Utati recalls learning the song from her (referred to as Ibu Jus): “In Bukit Duri, we did not have access to pen and paper, so we had to remember the songs to document them. After the prison administration office had closed, and it was safe to sing, we gathered under a cherry tree and Ibu Jus taught the song to us line by line.” At Bukit Duri, political prisoners were allowed to gather in an outdoor area across from the administrative office for incarcerated women criminals (Lembaga Pemasyarakatan Chusus Wanita; LPCW). They shared the space, separated by a low wall. It was not safe for women political prisoners to sing during office hours because they feared the songs might anger the prison officials. It was better to be safe and silent rather than risk offending them. Further, the words and message expressed in the song “Ujian” could potentially attract unwanted attention from the guards, which could have negative effects on prisoners later (Ibu Utati, pers. comm., 24 March 2021). “Ujian” is a testament to the unity and steely resilience of women prisoners to withstand years of isolation and suffering, as shown in Figure 3a and Figure 3b.

Figure 3a.

“Ujian” lyrics, composed by Ibu Siti Juswati Djubariah.

Figure 3b.

Lyrics for “Ujian” with translation by the author.

Indie musician Leilani Hermiasih (a.k.a. Frau) created the arrangement and played the piano accompaniment for the recording of “Ujian” on Dunia Milik Kita (see Figure 1). Frau’s version of “Ujian” uses several narrative framing devices to create a dialogue with the past in song. The setting of the text forms a verse (question) - refrain (answer). An intro and outro enclose three main sections: A (verse-refrain-verse) – B (instrumental interlude) – A’ (refrain). In the dream-like instrumental intro, wandering major and minor chords bleed into each other and lead to the question: “Am I real gold or just an imitation?” (“am I a true cadre or not?”).Footnote ⁴⁵ The sparse piano accompaniment lays out the chord progression and weaves a counter-melody around the sung verse. Although the choir sings the refrain, the soloist has the dramatic final line (“it is certain that in the future we will return”) and the piano punctuates the statement for emphasis. The choir then sings the verse, but the refrain is delayed and unresolved. The middle section features an instrumental section on piano that repurposes material from the introduction, and then develops through several keys, syncopated rhythms, and moods. The virtuosic middle section uses light and shade to paint a visual or filmic setting for a turbulent scene, as depicted in the lyrics. The volume and tempo increase as a reflection of the wind, rain, and stormy weather in the text. In the final section of the song, the choir sings the refrain in a faster and more spirited tempo, and then abruptly slows down to exaggerate the final line: “it is certain that in the future we will return.” After a long seven-second pause that challenges the listener to ask, “is it finally over?,” the soloist repeats the line, but broken into parts, and accompanied by dissonant chords and single tones on the piano. The effect is haunting and dramatic. After all, no one had expected these women to return, either through the physical bodies and voices of the singers, or through the ephemeral songs of survivors.

In 2019, Dialita recorded a second album Salam Harapan (SH), produced by the Jakarta-based Rumahbonita Label and Dialita. All of the songs on the second album were composed by women. The concept for the second album came about after Dialita had performed at a 2017 concert “A Woman’s Concert for Humanity: The Songs of Dialita” (Konser Perempuan Untuk Kemanusiaan: Lagu Untuk Konser Dialita). The album launch was very different from the Dunia Milik Kita launch described earlier. Held at the arts and cultural center Taman Ismail Marzuki (TIM), the concert featured well-known singers in Jakarta’s music and entertainment scene. Large video screens set up on back of the stage showed short video clips between songs in which members of Dialita explained their ideas, activities, and strategies for educating the public about 1965.

The musical arrangements on the two albums were also very different. Arrangers Junior Sumantri and Petrus Briyanto Adi (aka Adoy) incorporated “world music” styles (Celtic, Hawaiian, Gospel, Country, Electronic, Pop, and Rock) and instruments (jembe, bagpipe, synthesisers, tone-glass, steel guitar) to communicate the global human rights message of the songs (Petrus Briyanto Adi, pers. comm., 1 July Reference Adi2019). Adoy’s intention was to create light pop songs intended for sing-alongs, or, in his words, “songs you could sing together with friends and family”:

The simplicity of the arrangements is intended to emphasise the original spirit of the lyrics. He noted that “Ujian” consists of a melody and accompaniment, “the way the singers remembered it” (pers. comm., 23 Feb 2021). On one hand, “Ujian” can be dark and dramatic (as on the 2016 DMK), but the 2019 SH version is a light pop song accompanied by electric guitars, synth, electric bass, drum kit, piano, and violin. The straightforward forms (e.g., verse-chorus) and unambiguous harmonies stress the collective nature of the songs, which are easy for others to sing and play. The straightforward unornamented vocal style of delivering the lyrics, accompanied by soft-rock drumming, communicate an uplifting message. The ending “we will return” is calm, as if to state “we have returned,” before a short fade-out. Indeed, the singers have returned, and the songs have survived. However, this is not to say that the problems of 1965 have been resolved, as stated by Ibu Uchikowati:

Although the upbeat song comes across as lighter in the SH version, it still reflects on the continuing social marginalisation of children whose parents were killed or imprisoned in 1965–66. “Ujian” asks about belonging to the nation and to history: are they real Indonesians, with the full rights of citizens, and not people erased from history? If they are, then why are they still stigmatised? Echoing the unresolved musical endings in both versions of this song, these questions are left unresolved.

Taman Bunga Plantungan

Plantungan was a women’s prison for about five hundred political prisoners in central Java (south of Semarang). This isolated place served as a leper colony in the Dutch colonial period. The inhabitants referred to the region as “Plantungan” (or “Pelatungan”) because the earth had black clay, which Javanese called lantung (Lestariningsih Reference Lestariningsih2011:4–5); lantung/latung oil refers to crude petroleum. In the Plantungan prison, women were assigned to labour groups with different tasks, including cooking, sewing, and farming. The DMK album booklet has recipes for cooking some of the plants grown in the Plantungan garden, including the famous genjer (a type of lettuce) immortalised in the outlawed song “Genjer-genjer” (Arps Reference Arps2011; Wieringa Reference Wieringa2014).

Most of the women political prisoners in Plantungan were active in politics, arts, or sports (Lestariningsih Reference Lestariningsih2011).Footnote ⁴⁶ They were involved in pre-1965 struggles against colonialism, polygamy, child marriage, and discrimination against women (Wieringa Reference Wieringa2002). Many of the women were teachers and activists in the PKI family, including Ibu Zubaedah Nungtjik A.R., who composed the song “Taman Bunga Plantungan” (Plantungan Flower Garden) in 1971. She was a prolific composer, teacher, and musician who played guitar and accordion, and led an angklung group at Plantungan.Footnote ⁴⁷ A Gerwani leader, she was imprisoned at Bukit Duri (1965–1971) and Plantungan (1971–1978), where she composed many songs and performed with her Islamic-inspired qasidah group. In Plantungan, Ibu Utati recalls hearing her singing seriosa (semi-classical) songs in a nearby cell at night.

The cipher notation and lyrics for “Taman Bunga Plantungan” were stored by fellow prisoner and activist Mia Bustam, who is listed by name on the notation as one of three prisoners in charge of the Plantungan flower garden (see Figure 4a). After Mia Bustam’s death in 2011, the song was discovered by her daughter Dialita member Ibu Nasti in 2014. Ibu Nasti brought the song to Dialita and it was taught to the group.

Figure 4a.

Ibu Zubaedah A.R.’s handwritten lyrics, cipher notation, and notes for “Taman Bunga Plantungan”; melody (lagu) and text (syair) by Zubaedah Nungtjik A.R.

Ibu Endang Lestari, a Plantungan inmate, explained that women prisoners transformed the ground previously occupied by a hospital into a flower garden (taman bunga) (pers. comm., 4 July Reference Lestari2019). They brought in rocks and grass and other materials to make something beautiful to behold. These everyday tasks made things seem normal. Caring for Plantungan with their own hands was their way of humanising the cruel and de-humanising conditions of imprisonment. She explained that in the song, the flowers of Plantungan symbolise the women who stand firm in the garden, waving gracefully in the wind. Grounded by stones from the mountains, their strength never wavers. Pride of place translated to ownership and control of their fate. Figure 4a and Figure 4b show Ibu Zubaedah Nungtjik A.R.’s handwritten text, cipher notation, and notes for “Taman Bunga Plantungan.”

Figure 4b.

Lyrics and notes for “Taman Bunga Plantungan” with translations by the author.

In the following section I will compare two versions of “Taman Bunga Plantungan” from Dunia Milik Kita and Salam Harapan, respectively, in order to show how Dialita has encouraged two different groups of young musicians to generate new meanings about the past. As younger musicians add their own interpretations, the songs become part of an evolving repertoire of memories. “Taman Bunga Plantungan” is associated with the ensemble and popular music genre called kroncong, which likely derives from the music of Portuguese sailors who settled in Batavia (Jakarta) in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In conjunction with the early recording industry in the first half of the twentieth century, kroncong developed into the predominant form of popular music in what would become Indonesia (Yampolsky Reference Yampolsky2010:7). Kroncong was considered to be “uniquely Indonesian” in the 1950s (Yuliantri Reference Yuliantri, Lindsay and Maya2012:439) and it was popular in the detention camps of the 1960s and 1970s (Setiawan Reference Setiawan and Foulcher1995:7). Prison guards or administrators would often request kroncong songs from musical groups made up of prisoners during national day celebrations. Tunes could be romantic and sentimental, but they could also be made revolutionary by composing new words (Yuliantri Reference Yuliantri, Lindsay and Maya2012:431). Kroncong versions of popular songs could also be threatening to officials in the New Order’s jails.Footnote ⁴⁸ Kroncong’s national popularity faded in the 1980s, although it is still practised and loved. As a form of music that was popular in the post-WWII period and in the prison camps, kroncong evokes the patriotism of the Sukarno period.

My comparison is based on four musical elements in the kroncong genre: song-form; vocal style; musical instrumentation; and idiom. “Taman Bunga Plantungan” belongs to a song-form called kroncong asli (“original kroncong”), which is characterised by a particular harmonic progression.Footnote ⁴⁹ Although they share the same song-form, the two versions sound quite different from each other because they are performed using different vocal styles, musical instrumentation, and musical idioms (Figure 5).

Figure 5.

Musical characteristics of “Taman Bunga Plantungan” in two versions: Dunia Milik Kita and Salam Harapan.

I show how producers, composers, and musicians in the present have used these four musical elements as signs to construct new interpretations (meanings) about the past. In my analysis, I cite formal and informal interviews with producers, composers, and musicians to demonstrate how they mobilise these particular musical elements to represent images, feelings, places, and temporalities. Further, they juxtapose musical elements associated with different temporalities, in this case, as a way to bring the past and the present into dialogue. They combine these asynchronous elements to produce unexpected, jarring, and destabilising effects for listeners. For example, listeners have remarked that the music sounds new, unusual, and “aneh” (lit. “strange”), which, in Indonesian, can have multiple meanings. In this case, “aneh” has a positive connotation (as in, “that’s interesting!” or “wow, I’ve never heard anything like that before!”). This is not to say that all listeners hear and interpret these examples the same way. My framing of this process of making meanings around sound as new, unusual, and strange is based on observations of Dialita in performance, as well as conversations and interviews with producers, musicians, and listeners. But instead of being buried for its non-conformity, Dialita is perceived as a welcome intervention in transitional justice.

The DMK version of “Taman Bunga Plantungan” mirrors the song as the producers imagined it would have sounded at the Plantungan detention camp during the 1960s and 70s. The musical instruments belong to the “standard” kroncong ensemble of “voice, violin, flute, two small plucked lutes ([including] ukulele, mandolin, banjo), guitar, and cello” (Yampolsky Reference Yampolsky2010:9). Instrument roles and the relationship between parts also adhere to the “standard” kroncong idiom (ibid.). The violin, flue, and voice carry the main melody heterophonically and the cello imitates the kendang (drum) in Javanese gamelan (ibid.). In the DMK version, the producer, arranger, and musicians chose a type of musical arrangement to emphasise what happened at that place and time. In contrast, the unison singing and square “on-the-beat” rhythmic sensibility does not concur with the conventional performance practice of kroncong in that era. Therefore, it sounds “out of [historical] time.” One explanation may be that, for both women in the detention camps and Dialita, unison singing was a way for choirs to demonstrate a group’s solidarity in sound. In fact, unison singing for other kinds of music was common in choirs of the 1950s and 1960s, notably in compulsory songs about the nation (lagu wajib), such as school songs and marches used for national celebrations. For a younger generation of Indonesians who have never heard these authentic sounds of the past, the music of Dialita sounds new, interesting, and strange.

DMK producer Agung Kurniawan stated that “as an artist, I was mainly concerned with how to reach a younger generation that didn’t know about 1965, or only knew about it from state propaganda films or LSM [NGO] propaganda. I was interested in this on a personal [artistic] level rather than a political one” (pers. comm., 4 July 2019). Although purposefully creating a portrait of the historical past (retro), the DMK version was not intended to be a relic, nor even necessarily for survivors. Rather, it was an artistic collaboration between producers, musicians, and the Dialita choir. Its targeted audience was “hipsters,” urban Indonesians in their teens and twenties who see themselves as modern, transnational, and politically engaged. As Kurniawan noted, “We were drawn from the perspective of retro to kroncong. We knew that it would appeal to hipsters who are always looking for something fresh and new” (pers. comm., 4 July 2019). The producers created [a representation of] something old, for people who repurposed it into something new. Indeed, favourable reviews have appeared in online zines catering to hipsters including Rolling Stone (Indonesia), Pophariini, Whiteboard Journal, Hai, Siasat Partikuler, among others.Footnote ⁵⁰

For hipsters, however, not just anything considered old is appreciated as something new (retro). In this case, the connection to the tragedy of 1965 appeals to hipsters’ taste. As arranger and musician Erie Setiawan stated: “The aim of this album is to introduce political history through music to a younger generation. I personally do not know much about the political history of that era. As an Indonesian, the history of 1965 is tragic” (pers. comm., 27 March Reference Setiawan2018). In putting together the arrangement, Setiawan stated, “I tried to feel the singers’ world full of conflict, and to articulate their profound struggle, strength, and love of life” (pers. comm., 14 March 2021). Setiawan created the arrangement in the kroncong idiom of beautiful flowing melodies with florid accompaniment of plucked strings, flute, and violin. But he embellished the style in order to improve on the past for a present (and future) generation of listeners. For Setiawan, “as an arranger, I have to make the song better. I looked at photos of the Plantungan prison online to imagine what it looked like. Then, I put in some modulations here and there and arranged the harmonies to make [the song] stronger and more beautiful” (ibid.). His musical contributions aimed to synchronise the singers’ struggles with the present sensibilities of their audience.

These multiple voices, and their symbolic associations with different moments in the history of kroncong, participate in a dynamic conversation about old and new, past and present, in-time and out-of-time. These extra-temporal musical voices destabilise the dominant Suharto-era narrative about 1965, and instead model in sound a public dialogue about history. As a group choral activity, the style of unison singing gave the women of Dialita the confidence to express their sorrow and anger about the past, as well as their aims and aspirations for the future. But it was the contemporary musical arrangement and performance of something considered old (or retro) that appealed to young urban hipsters.

In the Salam Harapan (SH) version, sung by kroncong star Endah Laras, the arrangement borrows the violin from the standard kroncong ensemble, and the vocal part is reminiscent of post-1950s kroncong. But it has modern instruments: electric guitar, electric bass, piano, and synthesisers, as well as a drum kit. The musicians constitute a backup band or rhythm section whose role is to provide the rhythmic pulse, harmonic accompaniment, and groove for the vocalist. The performance idiom of accompanying instruments derives from a “category of ‘progressive songs’ (lagu2 progressive) consisting of Euro-American-style songs played in cocktail lounge, non-kroncong arrangements…which would come to be called ‘entertainment’ (hiburan)” in the 1950s (Yampolsky Reference Yampolsky2013:33).

The virtuoso style of singing, and the prominent position of the voice in the recording, compels the listener to identify with the beauty, emotion, and skill of Endah Laras’s voice. Sung in a slower tempo, the vocal style reflects a post-WWII style of kroncong, which had become dignified, nostalgic, and patriotic. Endah Laras’ vocal style is similar to seriosa, a semi-classical style modelled on European art songs that rose to prominence in the 1950s and 1960s and often contained nationalist sentiments.Footnote ⁵¹ Her vocal ornaments (cengkok) adhere to high standards of correctness. Endah admires Plantungan from a distance, and listeners admire the beauty of Plantungan through Endah’s voice. This arrangement foregrounds an identification with the singer admiring something beautiful, rather than someone who experienced it firsthand (as in the DMK version). By interpreting the song as an artistic presentation by Endah Laras, the musical style draws the listener to the beauty of Plantungan. But what could possibly be beautiful about a prison? It is the beauty of a flower garden in the midst of oppressive conditions of prison that gave women hope, optimism, and strength to carry on. Under these oppressive conditions, the women created something beautiful to behold. This arrangement emphasises the prisoners’ agency to interpret oppressive conditions in their own way.

However, the vocal part and the chord sequence of the accompaniment, like the DMK version, embody the structure and feeling of kroncong asli. The slow tempo allows the singer to demonstrate her artistic skills at ornamenting the long flowing melodies (with glissando, vibrato, ornaments specific to kroncong, and singing over the bar lines). These characteristics constitute good kroncong asli, which is meant to be sung by a solo singer (not a unison choir, as in the previous example).Footnote ⁵²

These examples demonstrate different sonic frames from which to view and hear Indonesian women and politics in history, not only in relation to the Suharto-era interpretation of history, but to each other. These two versions of the same song destabilise a fixed memory of the Indonesian tragedy, and generate dynamic and fluid interpretations, opportunities for discussion and debate, and new information about 1965–66. These examples show how the music has survived in multiple versions performed by different groups of musicians, in different locations, and for diverse audiences. They expand the space for remembering and leave loose ends and gaps that no singular account can fill.