The Mother of Mohammed

by Sally Neighbour

  On the day of the rally, the mood was incendiary. Several days earlier an army sergeant had walked into a local mosque with his shoes on and smeared water from an open sewer on the walls. His action sparked a riot in which the crowd set his motorcycle on fire and four men were arrested. As the rally got underway one of the speakers declared that, unless the detainees were released by that night, there would be a ‘bloodbath’. When the deadline passed, a crowd of about 1500 set out to march on the north Jakarta police station and the district military command headquarters. According to eyewitness accounts cited by Amnesty International, the organisers urged the crowd not to use violence: ‘Listen, brothers! We don’t want a fight with the Armed Forces. We will come and ask for our four friends … Brothers, I ask you, don’t do any damage! Brothers, behave like Muslims!’

  The marching mob was met by a column of soldiers with armoured vehicles and tanks, who blocked the road and surrounded the crowd in a pincer movement, said the eyewitness accounts. Then they opened fire. The official death toll was eighteen; witnesses said they saw sixty to one hundred people killed.

  An estimated two hundred people were arrested on charges ranging from spreading false information to subversion and destruction of property. Many of those scooped up in the dragnet were bystanders who had been shot and were later dragged from their hospital beds for interrogation. Amnesty International reported that they included a 21-year-old banana seller who followed the crowd, was shot in the stomach and buttocks, and then spent seven months in detention with bullets still festering in his body. Another was a 19-year-old student caught up in the march while running an errand at the market. He was shot in the head, leaving half his body paralysed, then interrogated while barely conscious. He signed a confession without having read it. A third was a 16-year-old ice seller who had heard the crowd and gone to see what was going on. After falling in the chaos, he was beaten unconscious by a soldier with a rifle, and later agreed to whatever his interrogators wanted him to say.

  In the months after the infamous events at Tanjung Priok, the crackdown was widened to include scores of usroh activists across Java, who were arrested and charged under Suharto’s antisubversion law. Several dozen were convicted and sentenced to jail terms of between four and eleven years, not for crimes of violence, but for undermining the Suharto regime. In the single case that was heard on appeal, the conviction was overturned, in a rare show of independence by the Indonesian Supreme Court, which judged that usroh activity did not constitute subversion. Amnesty International called the detainees ‘prisoners of conscience, detained for their non-violent religious activities or their concern about government policies’, and called for their immediate release. As usual Suharto ignored their calls.

  Many of the detainees were followers of Sungkar and Ba’asyir; some were Rabiah’s friends and colleagues. She describes the case of a teacher at Ngruki who was arrested in the crackdown. ‘After Tanjung Priok his wife and daughter were raped by soldiers. While they were interrogating him they put a table with metal legs on his foot and the soldiers sat on it. They kept adding soldiers to it until it pierced his foot, then they did the other foot. They did horrific things, young men aged only seventeen and eighteen years old had their hair ripped out. They used electrodes, and drugs.’

  Other methods documented by Amnesty International included ‘beatings, submersion in water, threats on their lives, denial of food, and confinement for up to three months in cells without sunlight and without any exercise allowed’.

  As Suharto’s crackdown continued, some of Sunkgar and Ba’asyir’s followers retaliated with violence. In the months that followed, a homemade bomb was set off at the Borobodur Buddhist temple in central Java, and explosive devices erupted on a bus and at a Christian church. A teacher at the Ngruki school would later be convicted of supplying the explosives and sentenced to fifteen years in jail.

  While Rabiah was still in Jakarta, an order went out from Ngruki that Sungkar and Ba’asyir’s followers should stay wherever they were and suspend all travel to avoid arrest. Rabiah was told that her name had been on a list of speakers at Tanjung Priok which was now in the hands of the authorities. It was considered unsafe for her to return to Solo. ‘I was told not to go back to Ngruki because they would probably pick me up. They were picking up people by the hundreds. And the government was saying they were going to re-arrest Abdullah Sungkar and Abu Bakar Ba’asyir.’

  She spent the next three months in virtual hiding, moving from place to place in Jakarta to avoid detection. She was desperate to get back to Ngruki, having left her children there in the belief she would be gone only a few days. It was several weeks before she was finally able to make her way back to Solo, in late 1984, chaperoned by her Quranic studies teacher, Abdul Rahim Ayub. When they arrived in Solo, Abdul Rahim proposed marriage, to Rabiah’s professed surprise. At thirty-one, she was ten years his senior and, mindful of her disastrous union with the similarly youthful Pujo, she baulked at the suggestion. ‘I thought he was delusional, because of the age difference’, she says. But Abdul Rahim was persistent, pointing out that being married was a central tenet of their faith and that age was no barrier in Islam. ‘He reminded me that you have to follow Islam in everything you do and that I should at least consider it and pray istikharah. And if the only reason I didn’t find him suitable was that he was younger than me then that wasn’t a proper reason, because the Prophet Mohammed was fifteen years younger than Khadija (his first wife).’

  While Rabiah had no great wish to remarry, there were persuasive practical reasons to do so. In devout Islamic society the peer-group pressure to marry was extreme. She didn’t want to return to Australia and could not resume working at Ngruki in the tense political climate. In order to stay in Indonesia she needed financial support for her and the children and a male companion to accompany her on her travels. Apart from their age disparity, Abdul Rahim was a suitable candidate. He came from a religious family: his father was a clerk in the Department of Religion, while his mother worked in an Islamic hospital in Jakarta; his twin brother was an equally devoted student activist and his sisters wore hijab. He was also genial, intelligent and sincere. And he had the imprimatur of Sungkar and Ba’asyir.

  They were married by Abdullah Sungkar at the Ngruki pesantren in early 1985. The minimal formalities consisted of a simple ceremony to sign the Islamic marriage contract known as an akad nikah. The bride herself did not attend. ‘It was not necessary for the woman to attend because it was just the legal signing of a contract which was done by men, so there was no need for the woman to go. Ustadz Abu (Ba’asyir) was my wali (male representative) so he went on my behalf’, Rabiah explains. Afterwards there were two separate wedding parties—one for the men held at the Ngruki school, another for the women at Rabiah’s home.

  Abdul Rahim’s family could barely conceal their consternation when their son brought home his new orang bule bride. ‘His family didn’t approve of him marrying a divorced woman with three children and ten years older than him’, says Rabiah. ‘It was a big shock to them. But they said, it’s not haram (forbidden) and if that’s what Allah has written for you, then we accept it. I don’t think I would have been their number-one choice as a daughter-in-law, but after the initial shock I was welcomed into their family.’

  In the prevailing climate of confusion and uncertainty Rabiah made a decision that is hard for an outsider to fathom, and which she would later profoundly regret. It is not an episode she discusses willingly as it has been the cause of deep angst within her family. In early 1985, she arranged for her 10-year-old daughter Devi to be contracted to marry 21-year-old Abdul Rahman Ayub, the twin brother of her own husband, Abdul Rahim. ‘It was only a betrothal’, she hastens to explain. ‘It was Islamically legal (and) it was a way I thought I could keep the family together.’

  In conservative Islamic tradition, girls are considered mature enough to marry from nine years old, the age of the Prophet Mohammed’s third wife Aisha when they married. In s
ome societies girls are betrothed before school age, although the union may not be consummated until after the girl reaches puberty, at which point she is supposed to be asked whether or not she wishes to continue the marriage. There are two parts to an Islamic marriage. The first is the signing of the formal contract, the akad nikah, which denotes that the couple are betrothed; it is akin to the Western tradition of becoming engaged. The second stage of the marriage occurs when the couple starts living together as man and wife, which occasions a more festive celebration known as a walima.

  Abdul Rahman was about to travel overseas to study Islam in Saudi Arabia or Pakistan. Rabiah’s explanation is that she believed that by arranging his marriage to her daughter it would help cement their family. It was agreed that Devi would stay with her until she was several years older and Abdul Rahman had completed his studies and returned to Indonesia. While she maintains it was ‘Islamically legal’, Rabiah’s decision was greeted with dismay and anger within their community. ‘It was not accepted by anyone. No one could understand why I would do something like that. Even ustadz and Aba (Ba’asyir and Sungkar) disapproved. Aba thought it was ridiculous. But I was insistent, that’s what I wanted. I didn’t think about the implications, I underestimated the negative effects it would have on her and I never took into account the potential problems due to the fact that they were brothers. I honestly thought it would be a way we’d all be able to be together and extend the family.’ She typically ignored the objections and the signing of the marriage contract proceeded, although it would prove short-lived.

  Rabiah was eager to resume her teaching duties at the Ngruki school. But the clerics insisted it was too dangerous for her to stay, and told her to return to Jakarta and lie low there until it was safe to come back to Solo.

  So in early 1985, during a school break at Ngruki, she bade farewell to Abdullah Sungkar and Abu Bakar Ba’asyir.

  ‘What are your plans?’ Sungkar asked her.

  ‘I’m not really sure but I’ll be back here before school starts’, she assured him.

  Ba’asyir and his wife gave her gifts to take to their friends in Jakarta.

  ‘Mbak (sister) Rabiah, you must have patience’, Ba’asyir counselled her, before turning to Abdul Rahim. ‘Sometimes she loses her temper, but the good in her outweighs the bad’, he said with a grin.

  Ba’asyir’s wife, Ecun, and Rabiah embraced. ‘May Allah reward you both’, said Ecun to her friend; and to Abdul Rahim, ‘Pak (father) Rahim, you are a brave man’.

  It was the last time Rabiah would see her mentors for more than five years. Within days of her departure from Ngruki, the Supreme Court of Indonesia heard a belated appeal by the Suharto Government against the reduction in the prison sentences meted out to Sungkar and Ba’asyir after their arrest in 1978, which had seen them serve only three years and ten months instead of the original sentence of nine years. The court upheld the government’s appeal and ordered the two clerics be rearrested to serve another five years in jail.

  But this time, Sungkar and Ba’asyir were a step ahead of the regime. By the time the military police arrived to arrest them they had fled, accompanied by a small band of supporters. Abdullah Sungkar later boasted to Rabiah and others of how they had made good their escape thanks to a tipoff. ‘An army officer sent a message to Aba (Sungkar) that they were going to be arrested again. They left that day. Aba rode out while the soldiers were there—he rode straight past them.’ Sungkar told Rabiah he thought of her as he rode to freedom on his motor scooter through the green wrought-iron gates, disguised in a pair of blue jeans and a lairy short-sleeved batik shirt: ‘Rabiah reckoned the safari suit was bad—if only she could see me now’. By nightfall he and Ba’asyir were on a fishing boat to Malaysia, which would become their home in exile for the next thirteen years.

  When she learned of their escape, which they likened to the Prophet Mohammed’s historic hijrah from Mecca to Medinah, Rabiah wanted to follow them.

  ‘Of course I wanted to go to Malaysia but it wasn’t possible. They reminded me I was an orang bule, I was too recognisable. They were going there to hide and blend in.’ Key lieutenants including Abu Jibril were among those who would follow the clerics into exile, without Rabiah. ‘I remember Abu Jibril saying the only way we can take you to Malaysia is if you wear a motorbike helmet for the rest of your life.’

  There was more bad news to follow. The men left in charge of the jemaah believed it was now too dangerous for Rabiah to remain in Indonesia, and that she should return home to Australia. She protested but to no avail.

  ‘I was devastated’, she remembers. ‘That was a very sad time for me because as much as I wanted to be part of it, at the end of the day I wasn’t an Indonesian. I didn’t really belong, I was different. I was always accepted as a Muslim, but what was happening in Indonesia and what Abdullah Sungkar and Abu Bakar Ba’asyir were calling for was an internal thing. It was not that I was rejected, but for me it was a choice, while for Muslims in Indonesia there was no choice.’

  In the autumn of 1985 Rabiah boarded a plane to return to Australia with her three children—and a fourth on the way; she was now pregnant with her and Abdul Rahim’s first child. He was to follow them a few weeks later after his visa was approved. Their lives were about to take a very different course. ‘When Abdul Rahim and I married, I had no intention of coming back to live in Australia. I had no desire to come back and I certainly didn’t intend to bring my children up here. The decision to come to Australia was not one that we made. It was forced upon us. So from the outset it was something that caused major problems between us.’

  9

  MUHAJIRIN

  Australia, 1985–1990

  The imam of the Darwin mosque was startled to find a heavily pregnant Australian woman in a hijab with a clutch of small children on his doorstep, demanding shelter. Rabiah and her tribe had got off the plane and gone straight to the mosque. They had no money and didn’t know anyone in Darwin. They had flown to Australia’s northernmost city because it was the closest and cheapest to get to from Indonesia.

  ‘I’m a muhajir, and it’s your duty to look after me. I’m going to stay here at the mosque because I don’t have anywhere else to go’, Rabiah announced. A muhajir is a Muslim pilgrim, named after the companions who accompanied the Prophet Mohammed on his hijrah from Mecca to Medina, to escape their persecutors and find a safe haven for the Islamic faith. The mantle of muhajirin was also donned by Ba’asyir and Sungkar when they fled into exile in Malaysia. Islamic tradition obliges Muslims to provide sanctuary to muhajirin, as the perplexed imam was well aware.

  ‘As a spiritual leader I had to accommodate her and look after her children’, remembers the Indian-born imam, Abdul Qudus. ‘There is a covenant in Islam that if a Muslim has nowhere to go or needs assistance, they can go to the mosque. It is the duty of the community to take care of them.’ Abdul Qudus recalls Rabiah as a ‘very good lady’ and a ‘loving, caring mother’. He gave them clothes and blankets and spread out prayer mats for them to sleep on in the ladies’ section of the mosque, where they stayed for two or three weeks. After that, he arranged for them to stay with an Indonesian family, the Siregars, who lived with their 13-year-old daughter in suburban Wagaman nearby. The Siregars remember little except that Rabiah was heavily pregnant, ‘very outspoken’, and liked to regale them with stories of her life in Indonesia ‘even without being asked’. Later a hat was passed around at Friday jummah prayers, to help pay the first month’s rent on a small flat found by the imam for Rabiah and her family across the road from the giant Casuarina Shopping Square and a short walk from the mosque.

  Rabiah enrolled Devi and Mohammed in the local public school system, where they were streamed into a special ‘ESL’ school for children who spoke English as a second language. After three years in Java, the children spoke better Indonesian and Arabic than English. Ten-year-old Devi was a bright, diligent pupil who adjusted easily and was soon back in the mainstream. But eight-year-old Mohammed, w
ho had been born and spent most of his life in Indonesia, struggled to adapt.

  ‘Mohammed just hated Australia’, says Rabiah. ‘When he lived in Ngruki he used to spend his time playing in the streets or in the rice fields. He didn’t speak English. It was just a culture shock.’ It was later learned that the boy was severely dyslexic. He compensated by playing the class clown, amusing his classmates with outrageous stories and antics. It was never the dog that had eaten his homework; more likely a sabre-toothed tiger that had snuck out of its underground cave to devour his project book. In an echo of her own troubled school days, Rabiah was often summoned by the principal because her son was being ‘disruptive’. It was little wonder the boy was unsettled, given his chaotic life so far.

  ‘Devi and Mohammed had absolutely no stability in their lives’, Rabiah admits. ‘They went through dramatic changes. They were there in the “Robyn turns to Rabiah” stage—it was traumatic for me so it must have been for them, there’s no denying that, because I went through such a transition in a short period of time.’

  Two months after they landed in Darwin, Rabiah’s husband, Abdul Rahim Ayub, was still in Indonesia waiting for a residency visa. The Australian authorities wanted proof that the couple were legally married under Australian law and had urged them to formalise their union with a civil ceremony in Jakarta before she left, which she refused to do. ‘My principle was that I was married under Islamic law in Indonesia—it was recognised and legal. So I refused, and the more they told me “just do it”, the more I dug my heels in.’ Apart from the principle, she did not want a marriage certificate that would indicate her unborn child had been conceived out of wedlock. Hence, Abdul Rahim was still waiting in Jakarta when their son Abdullah Mustafa (known among the family by his second name, Mustafa) was born on 21 October 1985. The birth was quick and relatively painless. She left the children at the mosque with the imam, got a lift to Royal Darwin Hospital, gave birth, was discharged, fetched the children and went home, all in the same day. Abdul Rahim arrived three days later, with a fresh ‘permanent resident’ stamp in his Indonesian passport.