For the support and help from the people of Indonesia that I

Host: The sun hung low over Jakarta, a molten orange sinking into the haze of the city. Motorbikes buzzed through the crowded streets, their exhaust merging with the heat. The faint sound of the adhan from a nearby mosque drifted through the air — slow, melancholy, timeless.

In a small warung, the ceiling fan turned lazily above two figures seated at a cracked wooden table. The walls were lined with faded portraits — Sukarno, Suharto, flags worn thin by decades of dust. The radio whispered fragments of an old speech — Suharto’s farewell address — replayed to mark the anniversary of his resignation.

Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes soft but sharp, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of kopi tubruk. Jack sat opposite her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable, his voice low and deliberate.

Jack: “Suharto said, ‘For the support and help from the people of Indonesia that I received during my leadership, I ask for forgiveness if there have been any mistakes or shortcomings. Hopefully the people of Indonesia will remain victorious based on Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution.’ Funny thing, isn’t it — asking for forgiveness after thirty years of control?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t funny to him, Jack. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to step down — not with pride, but with a plea.”

Host: The radio static wavered, the voice of a bygone era dissolving into soft distortion. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed down the street, followed by the clatter of bicycle spokes and the scent of fried tempeh drifting through the humid air.

Jack: “A plea? He built an empire of silence. Millions lived in fear, and he walked away with a speech about gratitude and unity. Doesn’t that sound… convenient?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But forgiveness isn’t convenience. It’s confession. And confession — even a broken one — matters.”

Jack: “You think history forgives that easily?”

Jeeny: “History doesn’t forgive, Jack. People do. Or they try to.”

Host: The light from the doorway flickered, cutting shadows across Jeeny’s face. Her voice carried a quiet steadiness — not naïveté, but understanding, shaped by the long, uneven rhythm of memory.

Jeeny: “When Suharto spoke of Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution, he wasn’t just reciting ideals. He was reaching for the spine of what Indonesia believed it still was — unity in difference, strength in democracy, belief in justice.”

Jack: “Big words from a man who strangled dissent.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even the guilty can still name the truth. Sometimes they just forget to live it.”

Host: The fan hummed above them, stirring the scent of clove cigarettes and coffee. Jack’s eyes flickered toward the radio again, his reflection dim against the glass — the image of a man torn between disbelief and reluctant empathy.

Jack: “You think asking for forgiveness wipes the slate clean? After corruption, suppression, blood?”

Jeeny: “No. But asking is still human. Even tyrants are human, Jack. That’s what makes them terrifying — and tragic.”

Jack: “Tragic?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because to rule so long that you forget your own people, and then to end your life begging for their forgiveness — that’s tragedy. Power isolates, until even remorse becomes a kind of exile.”

Host: The sound of rain began again, soft and hesitant, tapping on the tin roof like memory returning drop by drop.

Jack: “You’re giving him too much grace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But grace doesn’t excuse — it exposes. It lets us see how fragile the mighty really are. Suharto’s last words weren’t defiance. They were surrender.”

Jack: “You think they were sincere?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in perfection, but in exhaustion. There’s a kind of truth that comes when a man’s legacy begins to crumble — when even he starts to see the cracks.”

Host: The rain thickened, washing the city in silver. The sound of the azaan returned, threading through the drizzle like a hymn to forgiveness itself.

Jack: “So what does forgiveness mean then — in a country’s heart, not a man’s?”

Jeeny: “It means remembering without revenge. It means rebuilding without forgetting. It means believing that the ideals he mentioned — Pancasila, the 1945 Constitution — belong not to him, but to the people he failed.”

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “I am. Not in men — in endurance. Nations outlive their leaders, Jack. That’s their quiet miracle.”

Host: The streetlights outside began to glow, turning the puddles gold. A young couple passed by, laughing under a shared umbrella. The world kept moving — indifferent, forgiving, alive.

Jack: “Still… I can’t help wondering if a speech is enough to heal what he broke.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it starts a conversation — like this one.”

Jack: “You think people can forgive their oppressor?”

Jeeny: “They don’t forgive the oppressor. They forgive themselves for surviving him. They reclaim their dignity from the shadow he left.”

Host: Jack stared down into his cup — the black surface reflecting his own tired eyes, the faint ripples distorting his face like memory rewriting itself.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real meaning behind his words — not what he said, but what the people heard.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because forgiveness doesn’t belong to power. It belongs to those who endured it.”

Host: The radio clicked off; silence filled the air — heavy, intimate, forgiving. Jeeny leaned back, her face half-lit by the glow of the street outside.

Jeeny: “Suharto’s plea wasn’t about politics anymore. It was the sound of a man asking to be human again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what nations — like people — eventually learn to do: to let history judge, but to let mercy heal.”

Jack: “Mercy. You always bring it back to mercy.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only thing that outlasts power.”

Host: The rain began to ease, leaving the world gleaming and tender. A faint breeze carried the smell of wet earth — the scent of renewal, ancient and stubborn.

Jack lifted his cup again, the bitterness of coffee grounding him in the present. He looked at Jeeny, then out at the flag fluttering on a distant pole, its red and white stripes illuminated by a single streetlight.

Jack: “Forgiveness for the past. Faith in the present. Hope for the future.”

Jeeny: “That’s not just theology, Jack. That’s survival.”

Host: The city breathed — scarred, restless, alive. In that quiet warung, two voices lingered in the echo of a fallen leader’s words, not as judges, but as witnesses — to the strange, fragile truth that even nations must learn to say:

“We forgive, not because you were right, but because we choose to move forward.”

And outside, beneath the watch of the fading light,
the people — imperfect, resilient — kept walking.
Still building. Still believing.
Still victorious, as the General once hoped —
but this time, not for him.
For themselves.