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Suharto’s Fall 59

sixteen national banks. Though two stations had already advertised the event, the
ministry insisted on its cancellation, claiming that a broadcast by stations other than
the government-run TVRI would violate the 1997 Broadcasting Law. In the end, even
TVRI did not air it, denying audiences any chance to watch this widely anticipated
conversation on economic reform.
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The underground press, which by now included the online Tempo Interaktif ,
reported some of these public secrets as news, including detailed exposés of Suharto’s
hidden wealth by George Aditjondro, an activist exiled to Australia. His reports, with
revelations in the international media heavily censored by the regime, were dissemi-
nated on the growing email lists, such as Apakabar, Pijar, and SiaR. Yet while this
dissemination revealed much to a small online public, its function was still largely
symbolic, demonstrating continued journalistic defiance.

The Student Movement
Despite eff orts to suppress debate, by the end of 1997, rumblings of discontent
grew into overt criticism of the government’s performance, though only tangentially
through the mainstream media. As the rupiah continued its free fall, losing nearly
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90 percent of value, and parliament’s selection of the next president approached, criti-
cism found voice in protests emerging across the country, defying government restric-

tions. Many were led by newly laid-off workers. But the rising number of student
demonstrations was, in retrospect, the clearest sign of a dramatic shift in the coun-
try’s political climate.
In Indonesia’s comparatively brief history, university students had twice before
played a pivotal role at moments of crisis, lending this upsurge of activism a pow-
erful symbolism that helped protect demonstrators from outright repression. These
protests also represented rising anger among middle- and upper-class Indonesians,
whose children were forming the front lines. By spring of 1998, observers noted a new
confidence on the streets as students realized that the government’s fear of interna-
tional attention was making officials cautious. Even students left relatively unscathed
by the crisis, aware of the leverage their privilege afforded them, felt compelled to
speak out on behalf of others. Within the larger public, many Indonesians—from
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taxicab drivers to business leaders—viewed the students as defenders of the nation’s
interests. As one university president said, “Somebody has to represent public opin-
ion.” There were even rumors, corroborated by later events, that segments of the
military were quietly backing the students as part of their behind-the-scenes efforts
to force Suharto’s resignation.
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As the plight of the poor worsened, idealism infected the reformasi movement,
and students saw themselves as the voice of the rakyat , an emotive term for Indo-
nesia’s vast impoverished underclass. Indeed, early demonstrations were relatively
conservative and centered on economic rather than explicitly political issues. Seth
Mydans observed, “One telling sign posted on a bulletin board here suggests their
priorities. ‘Wanted,’ it reads, ‘Rice. Sugar. Cooking Oil. Democracy.’” A student leader
explained, “We want change but we don’t want to be involved in conflict.” Soon,
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however, conflict became unavoidable.
In February 1998, student leaders started disappearing. According to Allan Nairn,
insiders acknowledged that the disappearances were part of a terror campaign by mili-
tary intelligence units. Others speculated that they were part of the military’s carrot-
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and-stick approach to contain and co-opt the rising opposition—offering “dialogue”