|
August
2005
Published by Eye on Aceh
For further information, contact info@eyeonaceh.org
Based on a
journal by Nona, a Serambi Indonesia
journalist
Of all the stories that Aceh’s daily
newspaper, Serambi Indonesia, had covered,
this was the biggest. It should have been
headline news, but there was no edition of
Serambi Indonesia that day. The newspaper’s
printing presses had been silenced.
It was 27 December 2004, the day after the
devastating earthquake and tsunami struck Aceh,
wiping out not only the newspaper’s printing
presses but half its staff and destroying the
office; it was also the day that around
200,000 of Aceh’s population perished, and
large areas of the Indonesian province were
decimated.
The two-storey Serambi Indonesia (hereafter
referred to as Serambi) office building was
damaged that day, but is still standing,
lonely on the skyline of Laksamana Malahayati
Street, Baet village, Baitussalam
sub-district, Aceh Besar.
On 2 January 2005, as I approached the Serambi
office, the building which once housed Aceh’s
only daily newspaper could be seen on the
horizon from several kilometres away; a
poignant testament to the earthquake that
shook the land, and generated an angry sea
that had sent waves metres high sweeping over
buildings several days earlier.
I first saw Serambi’si office from as far away
as Simpang Mesra, more than two kilometres
from the building itself. Thousands of homes
that made up villages such as Alue Naga,
Kreung Cut and Baet, as well as the forest
trees that used to obscure the building from
view, were completely swallowed by the tsunami
that followed the earthquake of 26 December
2004, which measured 8.9 on the Richter scale.
Serambi’s office was about 1.5 kilometres from
the beach at Alue Naga and about six
kilometres from the centre of Banda Aceh, the
main city in the province.
Tragedy strikes!
I was working at the Serambi bureau in Jakarta
when I first heard news of the tragedy in Aceh.
It was one full day later before our bureau
chief from North Aceh, Ismail M Syah, was able
to give us news of the fate of our office in
Banda Aceh. North Aceh was less badly
affected, so Ismail and most staff there were
safe. But of our friends and colleagues in
Banda Aceh, there was only bad news, or no
news. The Serambi office in Banda Aceh was in
ruins. At head office in Jakarta, we were
devastated.
My thoughts were in turmoil: what had happened
in Aceh? What had become of my family,
friends, and work colleagues? We received no
other news that day. All telephone
communications were down. I felt an
overwhelming need to return to Aceh.
I didn’t know then that not only was the
office destroyed, but almost half of Serambi’s
staff were dead or missing. I began the
journey unaware of the scale of the
devastation that awaited us. The journey from
Jakarta to Banda Aceh was to be a four-day
drive, and one of the most difficult, sad and
frightening trips I have ever made in my life.
I left Jakarta on 28 December, two days after
the tsunami, not knowing what I would find, or
if indeed I would complete the journey.
It was a journey to a place where life and
infrastructure had been eliminated, where the
landscape was barely recognisable. It changed
my life forever. In Jakarta as I prepared to
leave for Aceh, memories of the past struggles
of Serambi came to my mind.
Background to Serambi
Serambi Indonesia was established in 1989. It
was not the first daily newspaper in Aceh, but
by late 2004 it was the only survivor. It has
always been difficult to sustain a daily
newspaper in Aceh – there were never enough
funds to subsidise the unprofitable newspaper
industry. Partly-owned by the larger
Jakarta-based Kompas Gramedia group, Serambi
survived because it enjoyed the financial
support of its owners. For the first eight
years, the newspaper struggled with a
circulation of only 10,000 to 20,000 daily;
income from advertisements was low, as
companies were yet to be convinced of the
benefits of advertising there.
The newspaper’s situation was made more
difficult because of the conflict; a violent
struggle for independence in Aceh, which began
in 1976, was in its thirteenth year by the
time Serambi was founded. The two warring
parties, the Free Aceh Movement (GAM) and the
Indonesian security forces (TNI), were never
satisfied with the paper’s coverage of their
actions.
Serambi struggled to provide non-partisan
views of the conflict, but criticism of its
editorial staff and journalists, for what both
sides (GAM and TNI) perceived as biased
reporting against them, was almost an everyday
occurrence. We all felt the burden of
responsibility to report the truth, to expose
the conflict that was ravaging our society and
economy. The paper was read by all sectors of
society, and often formed the basis for
discussions in the coffee shops of Aceh.
For Serambi, the overriding priority was to
remain in circulation, to be neutral and to be
responsible to its readership.
In 1989, Aceh was designated a “Military
Operation Zone” (Daerah Operasi Militer, or
DOM); in many areas of the province, the
conflict was brutal, bloody and violent.
Journalists found it difficult, even
impossible, to travel to assignments out of
the main towns. Those who did travel often
suffered intimidation and harassment at the
hands of the security forces. Information on
what was happening in the villages of Aceh was
difficult to obtain – and even more impossible
to verify. More or less, there was a news
blackout about the conflict areas in the
province. Theirs was a dark secret, as yet
untold.
Ten years later, in 1998, with the status of
DOM lifted, people throughout Aceh were hungry
for the information that had been impossible
to gain during the previous decade. The paper
began to publish articles highlighting several
incidents of human rights abuses that were
directly linked to the military presence in
Aceh. As a picture of systematic abuses such
as extrajudicial killings, arbitrary arrest
and detention, torture, disappearances and
rape – most allegedly perpetrated by the
Indonesian military and police – emerged,
Serambi’s circulation doubled, to more than
40,000 per day. Aceh’s people, her economy and
infrastructure had been under attack for ten
years, and the news was just beginning to
emerge. The people of Aceh wanted the
information that Serambi Indonesia was
beginning to give them.
The journey to Aceh
My family’s
house was next to the Lamnyong bridge in
Lamreung, only three kilometres from Serambi’s
office in Banda Aceh. My heart pounded in
panic as I realised that my house might also
be gone.
I was trying to book a flight to return to
Aceh, but it was impossible. Too many people
were trying to do the same thing – all flights
were full. Remaining in Jakarta was not an
option; I had to return to Aceh – as soon as
possible.
I went to the Sukarno-Harta airport in
Jakarta, hoping to persuade the airline staff
that my need to go home was urgent. But many
others had queued overnight; emotions were
running high at the airport ticket offices as
others also pleaded with the same airline
staff who were helpless to meet so many
demands. My sister Yanti, also in Jakarta, was
almost hysterical with worry. She called me
many times, crying, and asking if I had been
successful in securing tickets. My answer was
always the same: no.
I didn’t want to wait any longer. Yanti and I
made the only decision possible: we would
return to Aceh by car. We wasted no more time;
enlisting the help of a male friend, Zulkifli,
as a second driver to take us home to Aceh, we
made plans. We needed a male companion as
women rarely travelled alone through
conflict-racked Aceh. To do so would leave us
vulnerable to robbery and intimidation. Also,
there was a history of kidnapping and car
hijacking as lonely travellers ventured
through some of Aceh’s most violent and
hostile areas. Anxious to leave enough space
in the car for the food and other items we
would carry, we packed only a few personal
belongings. My mind raced over many issues; I
was driven by fear for the fate of my family
and friends. We made some quick checks of the
car tyres, oil and brake fluid, and left
Jakarta on the afternoon of 28 December.
It was a slow and tortuous journey, not only
because each of us was harbouring our own
fears about what we would find, but the roads
were flooded along the way. We saw many
vehicles carrying Acehnese, all trying to get
home as quickly as possible. Convoys of trucks
full of relief aid were also on the road by
that time, carrying what were to be some of
the first life-saving supplies to arrive in
Aceh.
Along the road, food and other supplies were
added by the local people of Sumatra who had
heard the news of the terrible tragedy in Aceh.
Throughout our journey, we tried desperately
to call family and friends from our mobile
phones, with no success. All communications
had been disrupted by the earthquake and
tsunami.
As we passed through Southern Sumatra, my
mobile phone suddenly (but briefly) came to
life. The news was bad: a relative in Malaysia
told me that my younger brother Syuhada was
dead. Yanti and I were devastated. My sister
Mary and a driver had raced Syuhada to the
nearest hospital in Lhokseumawe, five hours
from Banda Aceh by car. Syuhada didn’t survive
the journey. His body was taken immediately
back to Banda Aceh for burial. I cried as I
drove; the reality of the desperate situation
towards which we were heading was only just
beginning to take shape in my head. Zulkifli
offered to drive as I struggled to see through
my tears and I listened to Yanti’s
heart-breaking sobs rack her body. But I told
Zulkifli: “I’m still strong, I want to drive”.
I didn’t want to sit as a passenger as he
drove. I would rather have my mind occupied
with the practicalities of driving.
When we finally reached the border of North
Sumatra, I received a long-awaited SMS from
another relative in Banda Aceh. The message
said simply: “Other relatives and family have
not yet been found. Firman, [my younger
brother] is still looking for them. Mother and
others are in Indrapuri. Please bring as much
food as possible.”
That was to be the first and only message from
my family during the journey. The mobile phone
network was disrupted; no more messages could
be sent or received. We stopped briefly in
Medan (North Sumatra) to buy additional
supplies to add to the food and medicines we
had brought from Jakarta. I finally met up
with my family a day later.
I spent my first day in Banda Aceh with my
family who were living with friends in
Indrapuri, about half an hour’s drive from our
own home which I discovered had been damaged
by the waters of the tsunami. I also visited
Syuhada’s grave. The grief I felt for Syuhada,
and for other family and friends, was
overwhelming and too difficult to describe
here.
The following day – 2 January – I visited the
Serambi office.
Return to Serambi
Accompanied by Firman, I set off full of dread
for my return to the Serambi office. As we
came closer, we were confronted by swampland
where once homes had stood. The sea water had
swept over the land, gouging huge holes in the
earth as it raged, leaving in its wake a swamp
area where nothing lived, and nothing could
live.
From Krueng Cut bridge, we could now see the
Serambi Indonesia office. The houses and trees
were all gone, the busy streets no longer
visible among the swamp and the wreckage. The
landscape had been changed – perhaps forever.
I thought to myself, “Nobody will want to live
here in the future”.
There was not a single person to be sighted
between where I stood on the bridge and the
Serambi office. Firman and I were alone. The
gate and concrete walls, and the many trees
surrounding the office, were now gone, fallen
and dead.
As I surveyed the destruction, I felt a panic;
I couldn’t breathe. I remembered the struggles
of the newspaper throughout years of the
conflict in Aceh, and the constant fear felt
by many of the staff and their families as we
struggled amid a volatile security situation
to bring news of the abuses and atrocities
perpetrated against the Acehnese people, often
by unknown armed groups.
Serambi in ruins
I hesitated before entering the office. My
heart was pounding. Eventually, I took a few
steps towards the entrance. Firman looked
around outside – I entered alone. I
desperately wanted to see my workplace of 15
years.
The printing room located at the front of the
main building now lay in ruins. The printing
presses, folding machine and other machines
were completely smashed; some other machinery
had been swept away by the waves. The main
printing press – the single largest piece of
equipment in the building – had been relocated
by the tsunami. Later we heard that the
machine was lying about one kilometre from the
office, swept away by the water.
The offices were emptier than before, and
looked bigger: the furniture had been smashed
by water; some of it had disappeared. The
floor was covered in debris, the windows were
broken, air conditioning and lights were
damaged. The waves of the tsunami had reached
up to the first floor.
On the floor among the piles of rubble I
noticed a bank book belonging to Nurlaili, a
Serambi Indonesia staff member, torn but still
readable. Later, I would learn that Nurlaili,
together with her four children and husband,
were missing. The payslip of Najamudin Oemar,
a Kompas reporter based at the Serambi office,
was also among the debris. It sat in an open
envelope; I picked it up and thought how Enje
(Najamudin’s nickname) must have been pleased
to receive his December pay cheque early for
the holiday season. He was also listed as
missing.
Many more similar documents, printed with the
names of journalists and staff all so familiar
to me, were scattered on the floor. As I
wondered about the fate of these absent
friends, my head exploded with grief. “Please,
oh please, let them be safe.”
And what about Serambi’s accumulated
documents? Hundreds of carefully documented
cases of human rights abuses during and after
DOM, the result of years of investigation by
Serambi journalists? These and other important
papers were kept in the library, located on
the top floor. If the library was destroyed,
what else could serve as evidence of the
atrocities, when justice finally arrives in
Aceh? Later I was to find out that many of the
precious documents gathered by Serambi to use
as evidence had been destroyed.
The staircase to the second floor was shaky,
but I felt the need to go up. The second floor
was where I had worked for so many years;
where I had enjoyed the camaraderie of the
journalists and editorial staff, and where at
other times I had felt frustrated and even
betrayed by the paper’s often cautious
decisions on content.
As I climbed the stairs, I felt so sad, as if
a cloud full of memories was hanging over my
head, dripping the rain of pain and sadness. I
couldn’t say anything out loud – it felt
inappropriate. But suddenly my sadness turned
to fear as the smell of dead bodies reached
me. From the top of the stairs, I yelled:
“Who’s there? Is there anyone?” I yelled to
rid myself of my sense of fear and horror. My
voice echoed back and into the quiet corners
of the warehouse. No reply. There was, of
course, nobody there.
As I reached the entrance to the second floor,
the smell of bodies got stronger. I kept my
head looking down, close to my chest. I could
feel my feet stepping onto something
slippery…blood! Blood that was turning black
on the floor. Blood from a life that was gone.
I turned and ran down in fear. I ran to the
car where life was real again. As I breathed
the fresh air, I felt safer.
Only two bodies were found in Serambi’s
office; bodies of the townspeople, not staff.
The first, the body of a woman, was found on
the ground floor. A man’s body was found near
the stairs on the top floor. His family
finally claimed his body on the sixth day.
A major news story
I was not the only person who wanted to reach
the Serambi office in the immediate aftermath
of the earthquake. Watching the giant waves
roll in over parts of Lhokseumawe in North
Aceh, Ismail, the local Serambi bureau chief
who had sent us the first news, had an idea
that the events he had just witnessed might
constitute a major news story.
Convinced that the massive earthquake and
tsunami were front-page news but unable to
contact any other colleagues in other parts of
Aceh to confirm the scope of the disaster,
Ismail wrote the story based on what he had
witnessed personally in Lhokseumawe.
Throughout the day Ismail failed to contact
colleagues in Banda Aceh. He explained: “I
called the office many times, but no one
answered the phone. I didn’t really think it
was strange as the telephone connections are
often problematic in Aceh”. Ismail thought he
should deliver his story and photos personally
to Banda Aceh. It was, after all, headline
news.
As Ismail set off for Banda Aceh in his car,
he did not consider that the city might have
been almost entirely wiped out in the
disaster. All the same, he took along a friend
for company on the five-hour journey; it was
night time and an area of conflict where few
lone travellers journeyed after dark. As the
two drove beyond the Lhokseumawe area, it soon
became apparent that much of the area between
Lhokseumawe and Banda Aceh had been affected
by the same tragedy. In fact, some areas
appeared worse.
Arriving at Sigli town, which was about the
halfway point in the journey, all
communication signals were lost. Ismail and
his companion were alone on their journey. It
was about ten o’clock in the evening when they
finally arrived in Banda Aceh.
Ghost town
Ismail explained:
“I was very scared. Banda Aceh was like a
ghost town. The lights were out everywhere,
everything was black. But from the outline of
things, I knew much had changed in that city.
We saw many survivors, wandering or just
sitting in the street; many were wounded, and
all in shock. They were shocked and hungry and
took refuge in the mosques or homes that were
only partly destroyed.
Many of the streets in Banda Aceh were
impassable, blocked by rubble from fallen
buildings, smashed vehicles, including ships;
we could see the bodies of thousands of
people, hanging from buildings and trees, and
strewn all over the ground.”
Ismail explained how he often was forced to
stop his car to push aside debris that blocked
his path. He was further shocked by what he
found at the newspaper’s office…
“….Arriving at the front of the Serambi
building, we saw no signs of life. The horror
of the surroundings pierced my soul. Even in
the darkness, we could see that an area that
used to be full of people and houses was now
flattened to the ground.
Where houses and businesses once stood, alive
with people, was flat; among the debris and
fallen coconut trees were the bodies of men,
women and children; overturned vehicles, and
rubble from homes and other buildings – all
covered with a thick black mud.
I wasn’t brave enough to enter the Serambi
office that night. We had seen too many
bodies, and were too shocked standing alone
there in the dark. We left the area and went
to Ulee Kareng (a suburb of Banda Aceh), one
of the few local areas untouched by the
tsunami.
The journey from the Serambi office to Ulee
Kareng would usually take 30 minutes, but that
night it took more than twice as long. As we
drove in silence, I thought of the fate of the
journalists and staff of Serambi, many of whom
lived in the area that I had just seen
flattened. Their fate was as yet uncertain,
but in my mind I could imagine that many were
dead.”
By nine o'clock the next morning, Ismail had
already set out for the Serambi office again:
“I had to check and re-check what I had seen
in the dark the night before. I still could
not believe what I had seen.
However, as I drove out that morning, I could
see that all around the city was destroyed.
The fate of the Serambi office was no dream,
it was very real.
My journey was over. I was still carrying my
front-page story, but it was not to be printed
in Serambi Indonesia. Only silence greeted me
as I entered the office; silence, and the
ghosts of my friends who had been swept away
by the tsunami to places as yet unknown.”
Ismail did, however, run into a friend who had
seen Serambi’s Chief Editor, Sjamsul Kahar,
Deputy Editor, Mawardi Ibrahim, and journalist
Akmal Ibrahim. All three were on the road on a
work assignment, travelling from Lhokseumawe
to Banda Aceh, when the waves struck. The
friend informed Ismail that Sjamsul’s group
was safe, arriving in Banda Aceh after the
disaster.
But Mawardi’s entire family, including his
wife, mother and father, were lost. His house
was completely crushed. He was the sole
survivor, safe because he was working out of
town that day.
Ismail also received sad news about journalist
Erwiyan Syafri. A few days after the tsunami,
Ismail told us that he had met with Erwiyan
Syafri’s mother-in-law that morning. Erwiyan
and his family – his wife and two children –
were confirmed dead. His house was also
destroyed. These are just a few of the losses
suffered by the ‘Serambi family’ that day.
Serambi’s struggles…
While the small team of Serambi’s journalists
and editors who survived desperately searched
for missing family and friends, their
attention also turned to work. Driven by the
belief that Serambi, as the only local
newspaper, had a critical role to play in
helping people reunite, and in providing
much-needed news on the situation throughout
the province, it was decided that the name of
Serambi Indonesia must return to the printing
press – as soon as possible.
It seemed ironic that the many years of
conflict-related struggle endured by the
paper, the intimidation and harassment of
staff and the very real threat of violence
that was part of our everyday existence at
Serambi, had rarely silenced us. Yet this
natural disaster had stopped not only Serambi,
but those responsible for that violence. I
thought about how we are all equal when
confronted with a power much greater than the
power of a gun; the power of nature’s own
force.
The life of Serambi Indonesia had never been
an easy one; reporting conflict-related news
in Aceh was fraught with risks. The newspaper
was always careful to try to give balanced and
non-partisan coverage of often harrowing
events. It was a fine line to tread, and it
was common for one side – GAM or the
Indonesian military – to be angry with stories
written by Serambi staff, accusing the
editorial staff of bias towards the other
party, visiting the offices, making threats
(sometimes carrying out these threats) and
generally intimidating staff. Hardly a day
passed without Serambi journalists and editors
receiving at least one phone call expressing
displeasure, or demanding that the content be
changed or deleted completely.
There were many occasions where vehicles
carrying journalists were attacked by the
military and by groups of unknown armed men,
and undelivered copies of Serambi burned.
With the fall of the dictator President
Suharto in May 1998, Indonesia had taken its
first tentative steps towards long-awaited
reform. Criticism of the government became
more common, and the Indonesian media,
including that in Aceh, enjoyed more freedom
than it had had for decades. At Serambi we too
enjoyed a “relative” taste of this “freedom”.
In Aceh, student groups and others began to
protest issues as broad as human rights,
government corruption, peace and democracy,
and environmental policies. Nationally, the
issue of conflict in Aceh and West Papua (in
the most eastern part of Indonesia) also
gained more attention. In those two years,
1998–2000, the media in Aceh had already begun
to address the imbalances of the past, and to
report in more detail the atrocities and
repression that characterised Aceh’s recent
history. But it was to be short-lived. By
early 2000, even as a shaky peace process had
begun under new President Abdurahman Wahid,
GAM and military visits to the Serambi offices
were becoming frequent once again. The
creeping increasing militarisation in the
province was already visible on the horizon.
Journalists in the line of fire
To be a journalist in Aceh came with known
risks. Not only were individuals attacked and
copies of the newspaper burned in a number of
incidents, but Serambi was also forced into
silence on more than one occasion.
On 20 June 2001, the newspaper stalls in Aceh
did not carry copies of Serambi. GAM was angry
with an article that had appeared in the paper
the previous day: “Corpses Found Spread
Throughout Greater Aceh, An Entire Family
Discovered Dead in Lampuuk”.
The story was about a series of killings in
Greater Aceh, including those of a family
killed by what the paper called “armed
individuals”. Although it did not say so
explicitly, the article was widely interpreted
as implicating GAM in the killings. The
organisation angrily denied any involvement in
the incident. According to GAM, it was the
work of the government’s paramilitary police
force. On 19 June, in retaliation over the
article, GAM issued a statement threatening to
kidnap or attack Serambi journalists and also
the office. The next day, Serambi didn’t go to
press.
A few weeks later, in August, Serambi ran into
the same problem: an order issued by GAM
forced the paper to close for 13 days. GAM
felt that Serambi’s report that an “unknown
armed group” had visited a plantation company
in East Aceh, and massacred 37 workers,
implicated the separatist group. In fact, this
had not been the newspaper’s intention. The
so-called “Bumi Flora Massacres” (named after
the plantation company) became yet another of
Aceh’s well-known massacres. Following a
public outcry, an investigation was undertaken
which produced overwhelming evidence that it
had in fact been TNI which had carried out the
killings.
As Serambi’s influence increased in the
villages and towns of Aceh, the warring
parties – GAM and the Indonesian government –
came to realise the potential influence and
impact of the information carried by the
broadsheet. Both GAM and the military
increased their pressure on Serambi staff and
sought to interfere with the editorial
integrity of the paper: both parties sought to
use Serambi as their propaganda machine.
There were several occasions when management
made controversial decisions not to publish a
particular story for fear of incurring the
wrath of one of the warring parties. Such
decisions often caused internal problems among
both journalists and editorial staff, many of
whom felt that the paper was betraying the
trust of the readers who expected uncensored
news.
For two years, the peace process waxed and
waned, finally resulting in the signing of the
Cessation of Hostilities Agreement (CoHA) on 9
December 2002. Serambi celebrated the “end” of
the civil war with the headline
“Alhamdulillah, RI-GAM Teken Kesepakatan Damai”
(Congratulations, Indonesia-GAM have signed a
Peace Accord) on 10 December 2002.
Unfortunately, CoHA was fraught with its own
problems as both sides frequently violated the
peace agreement.
After only a few months, it became
increasingly obvious the agreement might
collapse. The news in Serambi was reminiscent
of the dark days of the conflict: gun clashes,
deaths, disappearances, threatening statements
by TNI. In return, GAM’s statements were bold
and defiant; analysis became increasingly
based on worst-case scenarios.
Finally, the Indonesian government issued an
ultimatum to GAM to “drop the push for
independence or the government would withdraw
from the peace agreement”. GAM rejected the
demand, and the CoHA collapsed on 18 May 2003.
At midnight the same day, martial law came
into force.
Martial law
Initially imposed for a period of six months,
martial law in Aceh was later extended to one
year. Seven months before the tsunami, the
security status of the province had been
downgraded from martial law to a civil
emergency, but in reality nothing much
changed. The level of militarisation – not
seen in Indonesia since the invasion of East
Timor in 1975 – remained even as the raging
waters of the tsunami swept people to their
death.
Several weeks before the imposition of martial
law, the board of Serambi and its parent
company met a number of times to discuss the
possible implications of the impending
security operation on the newspaper’s ability
to function independently, and what the
newspaper should do in the event that media
restrictions were imposed. The conditions for
reporting would surely become more difficult
and were likely to be repressive. Perhaps
Serambi should close for six months?
A contingency plan was prepared: operations
would be consolidated in Banda Aceh and
Lhokseumawe; all satellite offices would
close. A special fund would also be
established to pay a minimum salary to all
staff. Two days before martial law was
imposed, Serambi published a statement by
Muzakkir Manaf, the military commander of GAM.
In the article, accompanied with his picture,
Muzakkir was quoted as saying that he was
ready to go to war against the TNI and
Indonesian police.
The same day, the Serambi office received a
phone call from Major-General Endang Suwarya,
chief commander of Aceh’s military command.
Endang requested a meeting with all Serambi
editors and senior journalists.
The message from Endang was clear: the
statement by GAM’s military wing published by
Serambi that day must be the last. Endang
explained that once martial law was imposed,
the military would censor the news carried by
Serambi and all other media: “No more GAM
statements to be published by this – or any –
newspaper”, the General ordered.
The Serambi team protested that by not
carrying GAM statements, the newspaper might
risk accusations of biased reporting from GAM,
and were afraid. Endang offered a solution; he
would send troops to guard the newspaper’s
office.
Serambi offered its own alternative; the
newspaper would stop publishing for the six
months of martial law. The General did not
agree. He said: “We [TNI] and the government
have an interest in Serambi. Serambi must help
the government to socialize the instructions
and other messages to the people”. He said the
same “duty” would also apply to the tabloid
Kontras. Therefore, Serambi and Kontras must
continue to publish.
“But, if we do not carry out balanced news,
what will happen to our journalists and
vehicles in the field? For sure, aggrieved
parties who feel that they had been harmed by
our report may burn our cars”, Serambi's board
had argued.
In response, the military offered an armed
escort for Serambi’s vehicles and staff. “And
if need be”, said Endang, “We will carry the
newspaper by helicopter”. Serambi rejected the
General’s offer, but agreed to continue to
publish – under the watchful eye of Endang and
his men.
True to his word, a number of Brimob
(Indonesian military police) arrived at the
Serambi office later that night to guard the
premises against possible attack by GAM. The
paramilitary presence generated quite a bit of
concern, anxiety and even fear among the
staff: life at Serambi Indonesia would never
be the same again.
Manipulating the press
During the first
few weeks of martial law, Serambi and other
national media reporters were able to travel
around Aceh either as journalists embedded
with the military or independently. Foreign
journalists were also allowed to cover the
situation as it unfolded.
But as stories became increasingly focused on
the suffering of civilians and destruction of
infrastructure, the martial law authorities
decided to close Aceh to the media, and to
stop the flow of information.
They did this by introducing presidential
decree 43/2003. This was aimed at restricting
movement and what could be published. For
example, GAM statements and interviews were
forbidden. And all stories and data had to be
checked and approved with the martial law
authorities prior to publication – just as
Endang had predicted. The media was ordered
that all coverage must be in the spirit of
nationalism, in aid of the government’s war
effort.
In addition to controlling the print media,
journalists’ movements were also restricted by
the martial law authorities. All journalists
had to receive written permission before
carrying out journalistic activities. As for
foreign journalists, many applied to Jakarta
for permission to enter Aceh, but very few
applications were approved.
Taking a lead from the US method of media
control in Iraq, Indonesia introduced a policy
of embedded journalism. The location of
journalists, and the content of the stories
they wrote, was subject to direct control:
there was no freedom of the press in Aceh.
When travelling with the military, getting
comprehensive and truthful information from
civilians was impossible.
In response to a flood of criticism by the
media throughout Indonesia, and from civil
rights and other groups, the Indonesian
government simply sought legitimacy by
reminding critics that this was exactly the
system used by the Americans in Iraq.
The morning of…
My mind flicked back to the present. I thought
how lucky the Serambi family was that 26
December 2004 had been a Sunday; the office
was less busy than on weekdays. Even those who
were due to work that Sunday had not arrived
by 8.30 am when the earthquake first shook the
building.
Eyewitnesses spoke of how many people sat in
the street outside the Serambi office, waiting
for the earthquake to stop, and unaware of
what was to follow. Then suddenly, a loud roar
was heard – like an aeroplane flying too low
overhead. In the next few minutes, the sea
could be seen, grey and angry, racing towards
where people were gathered. Everyone panicked
and began running in all directions, many to
the Serambi office because it was the tallest
building in the area. Some entered the
building.
They described how the water swirled and raced
as if angry, carrying with it furniture, cars,
children’s toys; thousands of people were also
swept along in the torrent. The level of water
continued to rise, people were panicking,
trying desperately to reach a higher place to
gain safety, going to the second floor of the
Serambi office.
A Serambi security guard who survived said: “I
saw people from the villages, including the
older folks, run to the back of the office. I
saw the waves hit them and then they were
gone. I don’t know what happened after that.
The waves were really violent and very strong.
The water reached as high as six metres.”
A major news story: Serambi must publish!
In Jakarta, journalists from the Serambi
network were asked to travel to Aceh to help
cover the disaster, but also to give the Aceh
staff moral support and imbue them with the
spirit to continue.
The management in Jakarta, Ismail and the
Lhokseumawe team said: “We must strengthen our
hearts and minds. We must make preparations
for Serambi to continue. We can do that from
Lhokseumawe. There’s a printing machine
there.”
Serambi opened its first emergency office in
Lambaro, about seven kilometres from Banda
Aceh, in a shop that used to belong to a
member of Serambi’s staff. And so, six days
after the tsunami, on 1 January 2005, the
first post-tsunami edition of Serambi appeared
on the news stalls of Aceh with the headline
“Cholera is threatening our refugees”.
Eventually, the computers and other items that
were on the top floor of the destroyed Serambi
office and that had not been damaged were
brought to the temporary office in Lambaro.
Serambi’s staff crowded into the small office
at Lambaro with what few things could be
saved.
The first 10,000 copies of Serambi were
circulated free of charge; many people in Aceh
did not even have enough money to buy food,
let alone a newspaper. Publishing those first
copies of only eight pages was the result of a
supreme effort by the small team of just eight
reporters and two editors from the original
Serambi staff. Later, reporters were sent from
sister newspapers such as Bangka Pos, East
Kalimantan, Surya, Metro Bandung, and others
to assist with those early post-tsunami
editions. Writing, editing, laying out,
printing and distributing those first editions
of post-tsunami Serambi Indonesia was a
testament to the endurance of the human mind
and spirit, and to the bravery of the Serambi
team.
From 9 January onwards, the newspaper was sold
for 1,500 Rupiah but remained at only eight
pages, eventually increasing to 12 pages in
February.
The fate of our staff
As well as reporting on the tsunami, those
early editions of the paper also placed
advertisements appealing to its own
journalists to report into the temporary
office in Lambaro or into their respective
regional bureaus. Too many of our staff were
missing; it was an appeal not only to come
back to work, but to know whether our friends
and their families were safe.
One by one, staff and journalists called into
the office, but not all wanted to return to
work immediately. Many had moved away from
Banda Aceh to stay with friends or family
elsewhere, and promised to return sometime in
the future.
Those Serambi journalists and staff who did
return to work were often to be seen weeping
as they sat quietly at a computer writing a
story to meet a deadline. The tears did not
stop them working; there was much private and
shared grief in the Serambi office. Sometimes,
a colleague would appear without warning;
everyone thought he or she was dead – the
feelings were emotions none could describe.
This emotional rollercoaster lasted several
weeks as some staff had fled Aceh after the
disaster and only slowly returned. It was a
common sight in the Lambaro office to see
people hugging and crying, sometimes holding
each other as if scared to let go.
Photographer Bedu Saini, 38, was one
journalist who suddenly showed up on the
second day of the newspaper being published.
Bedu cried when he met his surviving
colleagues.
He told us how, during the quake, he had
driven his motorcycle to the centre of Banda
Aceh to take pictures of the destruction. It
was while he was in the Simpang Lima area,
taking photos of coffee shops and offices,
that he heard the roar of water and saw the
sea heading his way.
Bedu abandoned his professional duties, and
quickly headed home to Kajhu, about eight
kilometres away. But his journey was slowed by
the debris that lay on the roads, and the
panic as people ran everywhere. When Bedu
reached home, he found his house destroyed.
His wife and one child survived, but his other
two children perished in the mountain of water
that swept through the area where they lived.
Nevertheless, Bedu had enough spirit to
continue working, helping take post-tsunami
photos. He had almost forgotten about his lost
Nikon camera, which he had left on an
abandoned coffee shop shelf when he first saw
the waves sweep in.
The owner of the coffee shop brought Bedu’s
camera to the Serambi office on 13 January
after hearing of the paper’s new address. The
camera was intact, and the photos it contained
were also undamaged. Bedu had precious
pictures of the immediate aftermath of the
earthquake. He also managed to catch on camera
the initial moment when the sea had hit the
city in all its ferocity: it was clear from
the images that the people of Banda Aceh had
very little chance of escape.
These photos were printed by Serambi, and many
were later picked up by the international
media.
The financial realities…
With most of the surviving now back at work,
Serambi moved to a better office in Beurawe
Shopping Centre in order to try to get the
newspaper running more efficiently and to
increase the number of pages and scope of
coverage.
Everyone at Serambi carried their own personal
loss and sadness, and therefore the struggle
to continue to work was a very personal one.
Serambi’s management were not strict about
staff coming into the office by a certain
time. A number were still not on active duty.
Some staff also took extra time off to
overcome their trauma.
As surviving members of the families of
Serambi staff who had died began to arrive at
the office asking for help, a special fund was
established to give out aid such as food
packages and other essentials. There was also
planning for immediate financial assistance,
and for claims to be made by these families
from insurance and the existing workers’
social fund.
The Serambi finance manager, Ahmad Bakti, was
also missing, and so no salaries were paid to
staff during January. However, this was at a
time when people really did need money to buy
what basic foodstuffs were available. In fact,
Ahmad returned to work two weeks later; he had
lost his wife and children in the tsunami.
Knowing Ahmad’s personal tragedy made the
issue of salary payment less of a priority;
everything about Ahmad’s physical appearance
told us that this was a man who struggled each
minute of every day with overwhelming loss.
For those working in the emergency office,
they were only able to “borrow” – the term
used was “kas-bon” – from the office. Each
person received about 500,000 Rupiah each.
Even without a salary, we continued to cover
the news. We continued to write, as this was
our duty.
Serambi’s fifteenth birthday…
Fifteen days after the earthquake and tsunami,
9 February 2005, was Serambi’s fifteenth
anniversary, the same day as National Press
Day. A small ceremony took place in the
original ruined office in Baet village in Aceh
Besar .
The gathered crowd listened in silence as we
were asked to remember the 52 Serambi staff
who had died or were missing in Banda Aceh –
only 11 of Serambi’s journalists remained.
Several of the newspaper’s staff based in
other tsunami-hit districts of Aceh were also
lost. In total, 58 friends and colleagues were
gone.
Among them were senior journalists such as
Erwiyan Safri, Syahrul Rahman, Muhammad Rokan,
Thondi Rizal Putra, Karta Gusti, Erismawaty,
Muharram M Nur, Sayed Alwi, Ridwan Ishak, M.
Rizal and Razali Idris.
National poet Fikar W Eda, also a Serambi
journalist at the Jakarta bureau, read a poem
written in their memory: a dedication to so
many lives ended prematurely and suddenly.
Fikar was in Aceh to pay respect to the dead.
As he read his poem, “The Pain of Aceh is Our
Pain”, (“Nyeri Aceh, Nyeri Kami”), each line
echoed in the vast emptiness of the destroyed
Baet office. The words echoed also in the
hearts of every one of those who were present.
THE PAIN OF ACEH IS OUR PAIN
Within the soil of Aceh lies our pain -
Aching in our muscles, our bond is painful,
The pain is in our blood, in our crying,
The pain makes us tremble and smart,
The pain is our bond, this is our pain:
The pain of waves battering the shoreline,
Smashing our houses,
Tearing up trees by their roots,
And our bodies, our very bodies
Are torn from the earth too,
Washed away through the mossy woods,
Floating through broken bridges,
They float into drains and culverts
They are hooked, frozen and ragged
In the branches of trees,
They are breached on wet pavements.
Within the soil, our pain
The soil of the veranda of Mecca, our pain,
Aching in our muscles, our bond,
Aching in our blood, we voice it in our cries,
We tremble and smart from our pain,
The pain is our bond, this is our pain:
Innocent children
Running across the sand
To catch the fish at the shoreline
Before the sea recedes -
And then comes thunder
The sky is dark
The waves are a blanket
To fold frail flesh and brittle bone,
The waves tear up the walls we have built
Tear up the lives we have nurtured,
Like twisted cotton caught in a storm
Our children are carried ashore into the
flooding land,
Their footprints are gone from the sand
Their smiles are washed away
Their jokes and games and laughter
Will never be heard again.
The pain of Aceh says you will smart and
grieve
It says
Do not search anymore for Meuloboh,
Do not ask for Aceh,
Do not search for Calang, Teunom, Lamno,
Lhokseumawe, Bereunuen or Sigli.
Because the map is torn
And is dissolving in the folding blanket of
the sea.
And so Ya Allah
Lay them down,
Our children,
Our elders,
All of our lost people,
Lay them down
Above your fragrant carpet;
Place them there
Beside your greatest
We smart from the pain, ya Allah,
We grieve and smart,
The mirror you hold to life is painful to see,
But there must be some wisdom within,
Something there to ease our pain.
(Re-interpreted by Alex Jones, June 2005)
No one was too shy that day to show their
emotions; to cry the tears wept when sorrow
and pain are so overwhelming. Women and men
cried the same, as we thought of all the good
and the bad times of our lives and those of
our colleagues – of the struggles of being a
Serambi journalist and staff member during the
long and violent conflict.
The memories, some sweet and some painful,
were recalled by the large Serambi family
present that day. Around 200 survivors, both
Serambi journalists and their families,
attended the ceremony. And other journalists
and media friends were also present. Also
present was the Deputy Governor of Aceh, Azwar
Abubakar, and other community leaders.
Even Mawardi Ibrahim, a man known to show
little outward emotion, was seen wiping tears
from his eyes. Mawardi had lost everything,
including his most precious friend and
colleague, Muhammad Rokan.
Bang (brother) Rokan – as those who were close
had called him – was as close to Mawardi as if
they had been born of the same mother. So it
was not strange for Mawardi, who had lost his
parents, his wife and his entire family, his
home and all his material possessions, to
admit that the saddest thing for him was to
have lost Bang Rokan.
“Bang Rokan was more than a brother to me. He
was loyal. We have been friends for almost 20
years, even before we started working at
Serambi”, Mawardi said in his speech.
Looking to the future…
It was announced that a new warehouse would be
rebuilt in a new location. With fresh capital
injection from a friendly donor, the building
would be located in Lueng Bata, Banda Aceh,
about five kilometres from the city centre and
– most importantly – far from the beach.
“The building will be earthquake-proof”, said
M. Din representing the newspaper’s
management. Meanwhile, the old Serambi
warehouse, a part of it completely crushed,
may in the longer-term future be renovated and
fitted out for other purposes.
“We could turn it into a restaurant, or
whatever. Because now it is located right by
the beach. Before the tsunami, it was about
1.5 km from the sea. Now, it has become 1km.
And from the office, you can see the beach.
This is because the houses and the villages
that were in front of the office are no longer
there”, he said.
For me, my future can never be as I imagined
it before the tsunami. Not only for me, for
all the Serambi family – how can we forget
those we lost, how can we forget the struggles
of the conflict times, and how the tsunami
washed away our friends, our colleagues, our
documents, our work – our lives? This story is
told through my eyes and from my thoughts, but
in reality it is the story of so many. Serambi
lives on; so too do those who were lost – they
live in our memories, never to be forgotten.
Nona worked for Serambi Indonesia in Aceh for
several years before threats to her safety
forced her to relocate to the Jakarta office.
She was one of the first journalists to be
consistently critical of the Indonesian
military’s tactics during the war in Aceh.
The original text has been rewritten and
edited by Eye on Aceh.
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Analysis
EYE ON ACEH
