Memory ’77
Aprila Wayar
Translated into English by Nataya Bagya
By Dewi Candraningrum.
They say you can’t change the past. Well, not that I had a choice other than to accept it without question. Reminiscing about my past was like opening up a scar I had buried deep down in my heart. Perhaps fate did not favor me, but I won this life by striving to carry on.
The sun was still creeping up to form its full circle when my car rolled out of the garage. I didn’t take my usual route to work today, but drove instead to a hotel not too far from the Abepura Roundabout to attend a women’s workshop organized by an independent international NGO. The workshop participants consisted of women’s activists, students, journalists, religious leaders, and others.
The head of our working group participated on the first day, yesterday, and was very enthusiastic about it, but she was abruptly summoned by the Governor of Papua this morning.
I remember feeling the enthusiasm springing from her stories about the workshop during yesterday’s lunch. We had only been acquainted for a few months, but she was my only good friend, although we had different ranks at work.
Once I arrived at the hotel, a receptionist greeted me. “Are you here for the women’s workshop, Ma’am?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Please take the elevator over there to go up to the third floor.” She motioned the way.
In the elevator, I practiced the words in my head to explain my boss’s absence.
After registering, I entered the room. The workshop was about to begin. There were around fifteen women already. A man stood at the very front of the room. Perhaps he’s one of the facilitators, I thought to myself.
I knew none of the participants except for Mama Yusan. She was a female activist who once visited my village eight years ago. During her visit that year, Mama Yusan gathered women of all ages to share experiences of all sorts: everything from domestic violence to oppression by the state. Ah, it was too much to expect her to remember someone from so long ago.
Indeed, she'd forgotten me, but she knew I worked as a member of Papua’s cultural organization, which was established by the government as a result of the Special Autonomy Law of 2001. Yes, how awfully unfair the world is. Often you’re remembered because of your title or wealth, not much else.
We were seated in a square so we could see each other’s faces. I chose an empty chair in the corner, next to a young woman wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. She was typing away on her laptop while her eyes cautiously scanned the room.
A few minutes went by, and my eyes remained fixed on the speaker in the middle of the room. She spoke in the square’s center while pacing slowly about. Sometimes she would pause to look at our faces.
Her large glasses, perched on the bridge of her nose, exuded intelligence—not that glasses equals intelligence. The way she wore the purple headscarf covering her hair reminded me of an African woman. Very intriguing. Her Malay features were not extraordinary, but when she spoke, no one blinked. She received full attention from everyone, myself included.
I reached for the folder containing the workshop schedule and some stationery. In the schedule, her name was written as Nur. She was one of the founders of a local social NGO in Jakarta that provided legal advocacy concerning women and child protection. Makes sense, I thought.
During the workshop, we took part in two sessions exploring different ideas and perceptions. I particularly liked the word game: a participant was asked to say a word related to women and gender. A ‘punishment’ was awarded to biased or incorrect answers. Well, the worst punishment given was an order to sing and dance. I loved learning so much new vocabulary. Unfortunately, the session had to stop for lunch time.
“Hi,” someone said in a friendly way, tapping me on my shoulder lightly while queuing for lunch.
I turned my head and saw Nur smiling at me. I was instantly elated. I don’t know why, but I really liked this woman very much. Perhaps it was her vast knowledge and the way she delivered the workshop material competently without being condescending.
“Did you just join today?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m just filling in for my boss. She can’t come,” I said.
I chose to sit at an empty table by the entrance to the dining room. I felt a little shy about joining the others. The young woman who was next to me earlier came and sat with me at the table. We smiled briefly at each other. She explained that she was a journalist sent by her online media team to cover the workshop. That explained why she didn’t participate in the activities — just sat at her laptop and typed away.
Time went quickly, and the second session, after the lunch, began. Half the participants were still out of the hotel. Some were smoking and others were chewing betel nut leaf.
“Let’s try to look deeper into the various kinds of military oppression that happened in Papua based on data and our own experience,” said Nur.
My heart raced upon hearing her words. A feeling of anxiety began to creep under my skin. Only I could recognize this feeling. It was something that had been haunting me subconsciously, but wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. I didn’t understand what it was, but I knew it was something I had buried very deep.
To tell the truth, it is hard to describe the feeling in words. I don’t think any language has the vocabulary to explain it. I felt unease, anguish, despair, hurt, vengeance, hatred. I wanted to fight, burst into a rage, punch away—but at whom?
The whole class began to relax. A woman was presenting some findings on the issue she had researched. Some participants began nodding off.
“Okay, let’s all now stand up,” said Nur, her voice abruptly filling the room.
I had been concentrating on listening to the other woman’s presentation, but I stood up eagerly. Then we played a game to shake off the lethargic atmosphere. Next, we were asked to sit down again, in a circle. Instrumental Taizé music wafted from the sound system. Nur asked us to close our eyes. She invited everyone to tell their unpleasant stories. This time she didn’t mention military oppression.
A middle-aged woman seized the opportunity to share about when her nephew raped her only daughter. She was in tears as she told it. All she wanted was to share her sorrow. She said her daughter had had to live with the social punishment long enough.
“If I could, I would take her sorrow upon myself and let her be free,” she said, concluding her story.
Some of the participants began to sob. And, maybe because of the music too, the atmosphere turned somewhat solemn. Suddenly I found myself raising my hand. I wanted to tell my story. Then, for a second, I hesitated, but Nur was already walking toward me.
“Please, Ms. Selfi,” Nur said.
This is the story of when I was ten years old, I began. Our village was destroyed by the soldiers. I was playing by the river with my cousin, Paulina, who was four years older, when we heard a series of gunshots. So we ran back to the village.
When we arrived, I continued, our village was quiet. Our mothers’ and our honai was quiet, and so was the men’s. Besides us two, there were other children—boys and girls who’d also just arrived at the village—and they started to panic. A few minutes went by before we realized that our village was completely empty.
In panic, we heard more gunshots from the forest behind us. Paulina pulled my hand and we ran as fast as we could to the woods ahead. Paulina didn’t stop running even though I was already exhausted.
“They’re behind us,” Paulina said in our mother tongue.
“But why are they chasing us?” I was confused. “Are they going to kill us?”
I couldn’t believe what I saw behind. Two Malay-looking men in uniform were chasing us, fully armed. My feet froze. I fell and couldn’t run any further.
“Keep going, Paulina! Save yourself!” I screamed.
When she realized I’d fallen, Paulina returned, and that was when the two soldiers pointed their guns at us. Paulina tried to reach her woven bag, which had been hanging from her head before.
“Stand up!” one of the soldiers ordered.
I stood up slowly. Before long, my feminine instincts were on alert. Both men stared at Paulina’s breasts—the kind of stare I now know was indecent. They stared at me too, or at my adolescent breasts to be exact. Oh God, I was terrified. Where were my father and my brothers, I thought. I was hoping my fear would kill me instead.
Everything happened so quickly. Paulina was raped in front of my eyes! I couldn’t do anything to save her. Within seconds, the other soldier did the same to me.
Paulina was forced to stand up with her bloodied loincloth.
“The pain is unbearable,” I said, once the two soldiers left. All Paulina and I could do was be strong for each other in the middle of the woods. We didn’t know where to go. We had lost our parents and our home. I hadn’t gotten my period yet, but poor Paulina had. She got pregnant and gave birth to a boy. She chose to end her life.
“When I became an adult, I found out that the tragedy we experienced was called Case ’77 in Jayawijaya. But I call it Memory ’77.”
Yes, a memory I wished never to recall. A memory that had tainted my future as a woman.
My story was the last one of the workshop. Nur and all the other women hugged me. I felt reborn. Receiving moral support was something I had never experienced.
My heart felt at peace after sharing my Memory ’77 story. I’d never told a soul. It was something I had buried deep within.
I told Nur more stories after the workshop. She advised me to learn to let go of my past in order to move forward peacefully. Yes, I would start by forgiving myself—the one who was unable to forgive.
I saw the young journalist I’d met earlier approach us quietly.
“Excuse me, Ms. Selfi. Can I just say that I really admired your strength in sharing your traumatic past. I was enraged at hearing that such injustice happened. Hence, for the sake of fighting such injustice, and taking full responsibility, I would—I would like to ask for permission to write your story up,” she explained with care. “You can give your real name or remain anonymous. It’s up to you, Ms. Selfi. I can also show the article to you for your approval before publishing it. Here’s my card. You can contact me if you need anything. Can I have your card or email too?”
I glanced over at Nur.
“I think there’s some good in telling your story and letting the world know,” she said, “in order to strengthen other women in your situation or those in much worse circumstances. But it’s your call.”
I knew what I wanted to do. I nodded at the journalist. She squeezed my hand, thanked me repeatedly for my trust in her, then left.
The drive back home was different this time. I felt the heavy load I’d been carrying for decades had been lifted. I didn’t feel shackled or paralyzed anymore. I was reborn. At least, I didn’t need to try to be somebody else. I would be my true self, starting from that day. By living on, I had overcome my past.
My thoughts returned to the fact that if my story were published tomorrow in the paper or online, I would be ready to face all the consequences.
Because life belongs to the survivors.
© Aprila Wayar
English translation © Nataya Bagya
MEMORI ’77
Aprila Wayar
Kata mereka, masa lalu tak dapat diubah. Ya, memang tak ada pilihan bagiku selain menerima tanpa mempertanyakannya. Mempertanyakan masa lalu sama dengan membuka luka lama yang kusimpan di lubuk hati yang paling dalam. Takdir memang tak berpihak kepadaku, tetapi bertahan untuk terus hidup adalah kemenanganku atas masa lalu.
Sang surya belum lagi menunjukkan wajahnya dengan sempurna saat roda mobilku bergelinding keluar dari garasi rumah. Hari ini aku tidak menuju kantor seperti biasanya, aku menuju sebuah hotel berbintang yang terletak tidak jauh dari Lingkaran Abepura guna menghadiri sebuah pelatihan bagi perempuan yang dilaksanakan sebuah lembaga swadaya masyarakat internasional. Pelatihan ini melibatkan beberapa kelompok perempuan seperti aktivis, mahasiswi, jurnalis, pimpinan agama, dan lain-lain.
Pimpinan kelompok kerja kami mendapat undangan rapat mendadak bersama Gubernur Papua pagi ini, padahal ia sangat antusias mengikuti pelatihan ini pada hari pertama, kemarin.
Ya, aku dapat merasakan semangat dalam ceritanya saat kami makan malam bersama kemarin. Kami baru saling mengenal dalam hitungan bulan, tetapi ia satu-satunya teman baik yang kumiliki saat ini, walau jabatan kami berbeda.
Setelah aku tiba di hotel itu, seorang karyawan di meja resepsionis menyapa, “Ibu akan menghadiri pelatihan perempuan?”
“Iya,” singkat saja jawabku.
“Silakan langsung ke lantai tiga, Bu, bisa menggunakan lift di sebelah sini,” katanya lagi sambil mengarahkanku.
Selama berada di dalam lift, kusiapkan kata-kata dengan baik di dalam hati untuk menjelaskan ketidakhadiran pimpinanku.
Setelah melakukan registrasi, aku memasuki ruangan. Rupanya pelatihan baru akan dimulai. Ruang pertemuan dipenuhi tidak lebih dari 15 perempuan. Ada seorang laki-laki yang berdiri di bagian depan ruangan. Mungkin dia salah satu pemateri, pikirku.
Tak ada satu pun peserta yang kukenal, kecuali Mama Yusan. Ia adalah seorang aktivis perempuan yang pernah mengunjungi kampungku hampir delapan tahun yang lalu. Saat itu Mama Yusan mengumpulkan perempuan-perempuan di kampung dari segala umur untuk bercerita tentang apa pun. Mulai dari kekerasan di dalam rumah tangga hingga kekerasan oleh negara. Ah, waktu yang terlalu lama untuk mengingat seseorang.
Tentu ia tidak ingat padaku di masa lalu tetapi ia tahu siapa aku di masa kini karena jabatanku sebagai anggota sebuah lembaga kultural Papua yang dibangun oleh negara berdasarkan Undang-undang Otonomi Khusus 2001. Ya, sungguh aku merasa dunia ini tidaklah adil. Seringkali seseorang akan melekat di dalam ingatan orang lain karena, jabatan atau kekayaannya. Tidak karena hal yang lainnya.
Tempat duduk peserta dibentuk persegi sehingga kami dapat saling melihat wajah peserta yang lain. Aku memilih duduk di kursi sudut yang masih kosong, bersebelahan dengan seorang perempuan muda yang mengenakan kemeja hitam dan celana jeans berwarna biru. Kedua tangannya terus sibuk di atas tuts laptop sedangkan matanya awas memperhatikan isi ruangan.
Beberapa menit berlalu, mataku tak dapat beralih dari wajah pemateri di tengah-tengah ruangan. Ia berbicara sambil berjalan berkeliling di tengah. Kadang berhenti untuk memperhatikan wajah peserta.
Kacamata yang bertengger di atas hidung sudah cukup menunjukan kecerdasannya. Yah, walau tentu tidak semua orang berkacamata demikian. Cara ia mengenakan jilbab ungu yang digelung menutupi rambut ala perempuan Afrika ini sangat menarik. Wajah Melayunya biasa saja, tetapi penguasaannya terhadap materi pelatihan langsung menyedot perhatian semua peserta, termasuk aku.
Map berisi jadwal pelatihan dan peralatan tulis kuraih. Dari jadwal pelatihan kuketahui namanya Nur, ia salah satu pendiri lembaga swadaya masyarakat yang bergerak di bidang hukum, khususnya isu perlindungan anak dan perempuan, berbasis di Jakarta. Pantas saja, pikirku.
Di sela-sela pelatihan, kami disajikan dua kali permainan untuk mengeksplorasi wawasan. Permainan tebak kata sangat menarik bagiku. Peserta diminta menyebut satu kata yang berhubungan dengan perempuan dan gender. Yang bias atau tidak mampu menjawab diberi hukuman. Yah, hukuman paling besar paling hanya diminta menyanyi atau berjoget. Aku mendapat begitu banyak kosakata baru dan aku suka. Sayangnya, materi harus berakhir pada saat jam istirahat makan siang.
“Hai,” sapa bersamaan dengan tepukan lembut mendarat di pundakku saat antre mengambil makanan.
Aku langsung menoleh. Nur tersenyum melihatku. Ah, hatiku langsung gembira. Entah mengapa aku merasa sangat menyukai perempuan ini karena pengetahuannya yang luas dan cara memberi materi yang mudah kupahami tanpa membuat aku merasa kecil karena tidak tahu apa-apa.
“Kamu baru datang hari ini?” tanyanya.
“Ya, aku sebenarnya hanya mengganti pimpinan yang berhalangan hadir hari ini,” jawabku.
Aku memilih duduk sendiri di sebuah meja kosong di dekat pintu keluar ruang makan. Aku belum percaya diri untuk bergabung dengan perempuan-perempuan yang lain. Perempuan muda yang tadi duduk di sampingku datang dan bergabung di mejaku. Kami bertukar senyum singkat. Ia bercerita bahwa ia seorang jurnalis yang ditugaskan media online tempatnya bekerja untuk meliput jalannya pelatihan ini. Pantas saja ia tidak terlibat dalam berbagai aktivitas di dalam ruangan tadi—ia hanya duduk di depan laptop, sesekali tangannya menari di atas laptop.
Tak terasa, sesi kedua pelatihan setelah jam istirahat makan siang pun dimulai. Saat itu, baru setengah dari peserta telah berada kembali di kelas. Rupanya tadi mereka keluar gedung hotel. Ada yang merokok, sebagian lagi memakan pinang.
“Kita akan mencoba melihat lebih dalam berbagai persoalan kekerasan militer yang terjadi di Papua berdasarkan data dan pengalaman yang kita miliki,” kata Nur.
Hatiku berdebar mendengar kata-kata Nur. Ada rasa khawatir yang mulai menyelinap perlahan. Hanya aku yang dapat mengerti perasaan ini. Perasaan yang menghantuiku di bawah alam sadar. Perasaan yang tak ingin kuperlihatkan kepada siapa pun, perasaan yang entah apa namanya. Ingin rasanya kukubur dalam-dalam.
Sungguh, aku kesulitan menggambarkan perasaan ini dengan kata-kata. Yah, karena memang tidak ada satu kata dalam bahasa apa pun yang mampu menjelaskan rasa ini. Ada gelisah, sakit hati, sedih, terluka, benci, dendam, ingin memberontak, ingin marah, ingin memukul—tapi pada siapa?
Kelas mulai tenang, seorang perempuan sedang memberikan beberapa temuan dari penelitian yang dilakukannya terkait isu ini. Beberapa peserta mulai terkantuk-kantuk.
“Ayo semua bangkit berdiri,” tiba-tiba suara Nur memenuhi ruangan.
Aku yang sedang serius mendengar pemaparan langsung berdiri. Sebuah game dimainkan agar kami tidak suntuk. Setelahnya, kami diajak duduk bersama dengan membentuk lingkaran. Musik instrumen Taize dibunyikan melalui sound system. Nur meminta kami menutup mata. Ia mengajak siapa pun yang ingin bercerita tentang apa saja pengalaman kami yang menyakitkan. Kali ini ia tidak lagi menyinggung kekerasan militer.
Seorang perempuan setengah baya memulai kesempatan ini dengan menceritakan kesedihannya kala anak perempuan satu-satunya diperkosa keponakan kandungnya. Ia menangis sambil menceritakannya. Ia hanya ingin berbagi beban. Sudah cukup sanksi sosial yang diterima anaknya.
“Seandainya diizinkan, biarlah aku yang menanggung semua ini, bukan anakku,” katanya menutup testimoni.
Beberapa peserta lain mulai terisak-isak. Ya, mungkin karena pengaruh musik, suasana menjadi begitu syahdu. Tiba-tiba saja tanganku terangkat, aku juga ingin memberi testimoni. Sedetik kemudian, aku bimbang, tetapi Nur sudah berjalan mendekatiku.
“Silakan, Ibu Selfi,” kata Nur.
“Ini kisahku saat berusia 10 tahun. Kampung kami dihancurkan aparat keamanan. Aku sedang bermain bersama Paulina, saudara sepupuku yang terpaut empat tahun lebih tua, di sungai saat itu. Saat mendengar bunyi tembakan beruntun, kami berlari kembali ke kampung,” kuawali kisahku.
Saat sampai, lanjutku, kampung kami telah sepi. Honai ibu dan kami sepi, demikian juga dengan honai laki-laki. Selain kami berdua, ada beberapa anak lain, laki-laki dan perempuan yang juga baru sampai ke kampung dan mulai panik. Setelah beberapa menit berlalu, kami sadar kalau kampung memang benar-benar kosong.
Di tengah kepanikan kami, tiba-tiba terdengar bunyi tembakan beruntun dari dalam hutan di belakang kami. Paulina langsung menarik tanganku. Kami berlari sekencang-kencangnya ke arah hutan di depan kami. Paulina tidak juga berhenti berlari meski aku sudah sangat lelah.
“Mereka ada di belakang kita,” kata Paulina dalam bahasa ibu kami.
“Tapi mengapa mereka mengejar kita?” aku bingung. “Apakah mereka akan membunuh kita?”
Aku tidak ingin memercayai apa yang kulihat di belakang. Dua laki-laki Melayu berseragam militer mengejar kami dengan tangan menenteng senjata. Kaki terasa kaku. Aku terjatuh, dan sudah tidak lagi sanggup berlari.
“Teruslah berlari, Paulina! Selamatkan dirimu!” teriakku.
Saat sadar aku terjatuh, Paulina kembali dan pada saat itulah kedua tentara itu menodongkan senjata ke arah kami. Paulina berusaha meraih noken yang sebelumnya digantungkan melingkari kepalanya.
“Berdiri!” perintah salah satu tentara itu.
Aku berdiri perlahan. Tak lama, naluri perempuanku langsung bekerja. Keduanya menatap payudara Paulina dengan tatapan yang kini kupahami sebagai tatapan penuh berahi. Mereka juga menatapku, walau sebenarnya lebih tepat memandangi buah dadaku yang baru akan tumbuh. Oh Tuhan, aku benar-benar ketakutan. Di mana ayah dan saudara-saudara laki-lakiku, batinku. Aku hanya berharap ketakutan ini dapat membunuhku.
Semuanya berlangsung singkat. Paulina diperkosa di depan mataku! Aku tidak dapat melakukan apa-apa untuk membantunya. Hanya dalam hitungan detik, tentara yang satunya melakukan hal yang sama kepadaku.
Paulina dipaksa bangun dengan sali yang berlumuran darah.
“Sakitnya luar biasa,” kataku setelah kedua tentara itu berlalu.
Aku dan Paulina hanya dapat saling menguatkan di tengah hutan rimba karena kami tidak tahu harus ke mana. Kami kehilangan orangtua dan rumah. Aku masih belum mendapat haid saat itu, tetapi malang nasib Paulina. Ia hamil dan melahirkan seorang bayi laki-laki. Paulina kemudian memilih untuk mengakhiri hidupnya.
“Setelah dewasa, aku mengetahui kalau peristiwa yang kami alami itu dikenal dengan Kasus ’77 di Jayawijaya, tetapi aku menyebutnya Memori ’77.”
Ya, memori yang tak ingin kukenang. Kenangan yang menghancurkan masa depanku sebagai perempuan.
Kisahku menjadi satu-satunya kisah di akhir pelatihan ini. Nur dan semua rekan perempuan memelukku. Aku seperti terlahir kembali, mendapat dukungan moril adalah hal yang tak pernah kuterima selama ini.
Hatiku rasanya damai setelah menceritakan Memori ‘77 yang tak pernah kuceritakan kepada siapa pun. Peristiwa yang menjadi rahasia terbesar yang kusimpan rapat-rapat untuk diriku sendiri.
Aku bercerita banyak dengan Nur seusai pelatihan. Ia memintaku untuk belajar memaafkan masa lalu agar langkahku ke depan lebih ringan. Ya, aku akan memulainya dengan memaafkan diriku sendiri yang tidak mampu memaafkan masa lalu.
Kulihat jurnalis perempuan muda tadi mendekati kami dengan perlahan-lahan. “Maaf, Ibu Selfi, kalau boleh saya ingin bilang, saya sungguh-sungguh mengagumi kekuatan Ibu membagi cerita yang sangat pahit itu. Saya merasa sangat murka mendengar ketidakadilan seperti itu masih saja terjadi. Karena itu, Bu, untuk melawan ketidakadilan itu, dengan penuh tanggung jawab saya—saya ingin minta izin kepada Ibu untuk menuliskan kisah tadi menjadi berita,” katanya dengan hati-hati. “Bisa dengan menyebut nama atau anonim, terserah Bu Selfi. Saya juga akan memperlihatkan tulisan saya itu dulu kepada Ibu untuk disetujui terlebih dahulu sebelum diterbitkan. Ini kartu nama saya supaya Ibu Selfi bisa menghubungi saya kalau ada apa-apa. Boleh saya minta kartu nama atau alamat email Ibu juga?”
Kulirik Nur. “Kupikir ada baiknya kisahmu ditulis dan dibagikan ke seluruh dunia untuk menguatkan perempuan lain yang berada dalam posisi yang sama atau bahkan lebih sulit,” katanya. “Tapi keputusannya terserah kepadamu.”
Aku tahu apa yang ingin kulakukan. Kuanggukkan kepala ke arah jurnalis itu. Ia meremas tanganku, berterima kasih berkali-kali atas kepercayaanku kepadanya, dan berlalu.
Perjalananku pulang ke rumah petang ini terasa berbeda. Rasanya seperti beban berat yang kupikul puluhan tahun telah terangkat. Aku tidak lagi merasa berada di bawah tekanan yang mengimpit tubuhku hingga nyaris tak dapat bergerak selama ini. Aku seperti terlahir kembali. Paling tidak, aku tak perlu berupaya menjadi seperti orang lain. Aku akan menjadi diriku sendiri sejak hari ini. Setidaknya dengan tetap bertahan hidup, aku telah menang atas masa laluku.
Pikiranku kembali pada kenyataan bahwa bila berita tentangku akan dimuat dalam surat kabar atau media online besok, aku telah siap menghadapi semua konsekuensinya—karena hidup itu milik pemenang kehidupan!
APRILA WAYAR is a writer and freelance journalist. Her novels are Mawar Hitam tanpa Akar (A Black Rose without Roots, 2019), Dua Perempuan (Two Women, 2013), Sentuh Papua (Papua’s Touch, 2018), and Tambo Bunga Pala (2020). The documentary film Aprila, which narrates her journalistic life, won a prize at Tahiti Film Festival 2019. Produced by a Dutch filmmaker, Rohan Radheya, the film also won an award at Ânûû-rû âboro Film Festival, New Caledonia, 2019. Aprila was invited as an emerging writer to Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in 2012, and was invited back in 2015 and 2018. Her journalistic writing has been published in Dili Post, SuaraPapua.com, GangSiput.com, Kabarmapegaa.com, and other media. In October 2019 she founded Fawawi Club, a literary community that meets monthly to read and discuss literary works. She is currently the coordinator of the division for women and marginalized groups, Independent Journalists Alliance, Yogyakarta.
NATAYA BAGYA has been a playwright since 2007, a screenwriter since 2010, and translator and writer for the longest time. She also founded Heha Production (@hehaproduction) in April 2019, a theater company and a non-formal acting and performing arts studio for aspiring and skills-hungry actors.
DEWI CANDRANINGRUM is the founder of Jejer Wadon and a lecturer of gender, literature, and ecology. She graduated from Monash University and Universitaet Muenster. In her spare time she paints with her autistic son Ivan Ufuq Isfahan.