Home by Leila S. Chudori Page A

villages, I was fed up with the absolutism of the Cultural Revolution being crammed down the throats of the Chinese people. I was sure that Mas Nugroho, despite his unflagging optimism, and Risjaf, with his deep found sense of loyalty, felt the same kind of unease.
    One night, after many nights of sleeplessness in the guest house where I was living in the Red Village, I finally came to a decision. I lit a match and began to rouse Risjaf, who was asleep on theupper bunk of the bunk bed we occupied. I patted him softly on the cheek so as not to startle him.
    â€œSjaf … Sjaf … Wake up, Sjaf…”
    Risjaf moaned and rubbed his eyes, then sat up. “What time is it?”
    â€œIt’s still dark outside. I want to go to Paris, Sjaf.”
    â€œWhere?” he asked, his eyes still shut, in a voice as hoarse as a crow’s.
    â€œParis, I want to go to Paris. Tjai has already said that he’d be willing to move to Paris or Amsterdam. We could meet him there.”
    Risjaf looked unsure as to whether he was dreaming or awake. He probably thought I was just the bedpost talking to him in his dreams. He mumbled “OK,” then shut his eyes and lay down again, ready to go to sleep again.
    I said nothing and started to count from one to ten as I waited for Risjaf to reach a normal level of consciousness. It worked. On the count of five, he swiftly rose and sat up again. His curly hair was a mess, his eyes red and open wide.
    â€œParis? As in Europe?” he shouted, still with a hoarse voice.
    I put my hand over Risjaf’s mouth, afraid that he would wake up other members of the commune.
    His eyes shone brightly, a mixture of glee and fear. “But how?” he asked in a whisper.
    â€œI don’t know yet, but we’ll figure something out. Tomorrow we can talk to Mas Nug about this. Tjai is ready to join us—but coming from Singapore that won’t be hard. Getting out of here, however, I’m sure will mean lots of hoops to jump through and bureaucratic rigmarole.”
    Once I’d expressed this crazy idea of mine, neither I nor Risjaf was able to fall asleep. I kept staring at the metal cross braces onthe bottom of Risjaf’s bunk. Risjaf, meanwhile, kept turning on his side, to the left and to the right, trying to find a comfortable position, but causing the braces to creak.
    â€œCalm down, Sjaf,” I finally whispered.
    â€œHow am I going to calm down?” he whispered back. “You said ‘Paris’ and now the only thing in my mind is the beauty and the lights of that city.”
    I smiled.

    I arrived in Paris in early January 1968, when winter’s cold racked the bones. At first the four of us were separated. I was in France; Mas Nug in Switzerland; Risjaf in the Netherlands; and Tjai in Singapore. But after I arrived in Paris, I immediately hooked up with Tjai and his wife, Theresa, who had come to the city just before Christmas, a few weeks previously.
    It was not long before Risjaf made his way to Paris and moved in with me in my small and shabby apartment. Mas Nug, who had fallen for a Swiss woman, delayed his arrival in Paris until April, when I finally got him on the phone and barked at him to come join us in Paris as we had planned. I reminded him that while he was in Switzerland thinking only of himself, Rukmini and Bimo were no doubt still living in fear as a result of the continued madness in Indonesia. Only then did he consent to break off his affair and join us.
    Initially, the thought of moving to the Netherlands had seemed more attractive than France, what with the country’s historical relations with Indonesia, as well as the ease of finding there most anything one wanted from Indonesia. But, in the end, we had chosen to gather in France because of the country’s long history ofproviding a warm embrace to political exiles like ourselves. France was the terre d’asile , the land of asylum for exiles like us—the