A Tribute to Riski: A Journey Through Names, Struggles, and Sacrifices

We used to call him Riski. Not his real name. He was born as Haris Sitorus. The name Riski was adopted after leaving Jakarta and migrating to Surabaya. Following the shocking events of July 27, 1996, many PRD cadres were dispatched to specific areas. They were given tasks to advance the resistance against Soeharto to the next phase.

PRD cadres were required to use fake names. To conceal themselves, anticipate danger, and elude threats. At that time, PRD cadres were still pursued by the New Order government. They were declared enemies of the state. Hence, they were not allowed to reveal their true identities.

Sometimes, some had more than one alias. I don’t know how they managed to juggle three or four different names that appeared interchangeably in daily life. Over time, these fake names became familiar. They were used so frequently that even after Soeharto’s rule ended, people continued to call him Riski, instead of Haris.

My first encounter with Riski took place in a small rented house on the outskirts of Jember Regency. A region in the eastern tip of Java Island. On that day, he arrived with a handful of leaflets, a stack of party books, and several large-sized posters. Riski wore a slightly oversized shirt, clinging to his thin body. As one of the party leaders, his appearance was far from polished, let alone neat.

As a young person with great curiosity, I welcomed his arrival with joy. I spent nights talking to him. Riski patiently entertained my questions. He responded to everything I asked with patience. He mostly rambled about ideas and what needed to be done.

He seemed to enjoy reading, not the kind of ‘deaf cadre’ who only rely on eavesdropping for knowledge. Slowly, I grew fond of him. I admired him, even though he never sought it.

Riski was the one who pushed me to speak out in the middle of the market. He urged me to explain the party’s program loudly, unafraid of being ridiculed by enemies. Riski was also the one who got me accustomed to walking for kilometers. He did it not for health reasons but because we needed to save money.

On a scorching day, I walked with him until evening. We hadn’t eaten that day, hunger danced in our stomachs. We could only drink mineral water repeatedly and continue chatting here and there. Sometimes, we exchanged jokes, although we knew that humor wouldn’t alleviate our hunger.

Several hours later, we arrived at the party headquarters in the evening. At that moment, our friends were buying packed rice. How lucky. The main course and side dish arrived. Our stomachs would soon be liberated from the torment of hunger.

Soon, the rice buyers arrived. My heart shouted ‘hooray’ loudly, even though my mouth remained shut. The packed rice was quickly distributed. It turned out that the amount of rice was one short. Our money wasn’t enough to buy more. What bad luck.

“Go ahead, eat this. I’m already full. I ate outside earlier,” Riski said as he handed his portion of packed rice to a laborer.

I was stunned. I looked at Riski for a long time. He glanced at me briefly with a pale, relative smile, then looked away and went to his workspace. I knew his stomach was empty. He intentionally sacrificed for others. A gesture I will never forget. A gesture that solidified my commitment to the movement. I felt I was with someone true. A nobility of character.

Years later, for a principle I considered important, I decided to step back. While some others were facing dismissals. It was a tumultuous period in the party. Various sides attacked each other, engaging in sharp disputes. Often, conflicts escalated into baseless accusations. I wrote a farewell email. Riski read it too.

A day later, he sent a short message via SMS.

“I respect your decision. Keep fighting. Socialism will prevail!”

The socialism we believed in has yet to prevail until now. Perhaps it has been forgotten by many who once strived for it. I use the word ‘yet’ and not ‘not’ or ‘failed’, at least out of respect for the hopes that some still hold, even in the depths of their hearts that can never be probed.

It was an ideal that consumed a significant portion of our lives and time. It took you away for a long time, leaving your parents, as in the lyrics of a song. Asking you not to worry about personal fate, replacing it with the fate of the public. Until time passed, and some departed from this life.

At the funeral of an old friend, I met Riski again. This time, he looked very different. Clean, fuller, and handsome. He had withdrawn from political struggles for many years. He worked in a law office, reportedly. Riski avoided talking about politics, a subject that used to consume his life almost 24/7.

We embraced. Not too tight. Riski didn’t linger at the funeral procession. He bid farewell and left. Riski seemed a bit awkward, I didn’t know what made him so hasty. I caught a glimpse of his smile. A smile that was no longer the same, unlike the one he gave when he offered the packed rice.

What once existed cannot be replicated. For years, I haven’t been surprised by small examples of virtuous behavior in the movement. Why it’s becoming rarer, I don’t understand. I just remember that at some point, someone taught me how a leader should behave.

He was willing to be the last to eat, even though he was the hungriest. He allowed prosperity to come later, even though he was the most lacking. ‘Leiden is Lijden’, ‘leading is suffering’. It’s a simple phrase. Anyone can say it, but I haven’t found it. Not even in myself

Penulis : AF