Indonesia's Haunted Legacy: The Battle Over a Dictator's 'Hero' Status

It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it, how a nation grapples with its own ghosts? For Indonesia, that reckoning is taking center stage, and it's stirred up quite the storm. Imagine, if you will, a proposal making waves right now—a push to declare the late, controversial authoritarian ruler, Suharto, a national hero. And, well, you can probably guess how that's going over: with a mixture of fervent support, sure, but mostly, a profound and deeply unsettling backlash.

Suharto, for those perhaps less familiar, presided over Indonesia for a staggering 32 years. His "New Order" regime, from 1967 to 1998, was a period of undeniable transformation. Some point to a time of stability, of economic growth, a steady hand guiding a nascent nation. And in truth, those were indeed aspirations he held. Yet, for countless others, his rule—and this is crucial—was synonymous with brutality, with a chilling suppression of dissent, and with the kind of human rights abuses that leave indelible scars on the collective psyche.

The arguments against bestowing this "hero" title upon him are, frankly, harrowing. There’s the haunting shadow of the 1965-66 anti-communist purges, for instance; a period where, it’s estimated, somewhere between half a million to a million innocent lives were extinguished. Just try to wrap your head around that number. And then, consider the dark chapter of East Timor, now Timor-Leste, where the Indonesian occupation under Suharto led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands more. This wasn't just about political opposition, you see; it was about entire communities, entire families, being swept away in a tide of violence. His regime was also notoriously steeped in corruption, with his family and cronies allegedly siphoning off billions, leaving a nation poorer while they grew rich.

Now, to be fair, there are voices, predominantly within certain political circles like the Golkar party—a party that, by the way, was Suharto’s political vehicle—who argue differently. They speak of the order he brought, the foundation he laid for modern Indonesia's economy, lifting many out of poverty. They see him as a necessary strongman in a tumultuous era. And you could say, in a way, that perspective is part of Indonesia’s complex narrative. But does economic progress, however significant, truly outweigh the sheer human cost, the unimaginable suffering, the systemic injustices that defined his reign?

The emotional impact of this debate cannot be overstated. Families of victims, still reeling from losses decades ago, see this proposal as a profound betrayal, a cruel attempt to whitewash history and deny the atrocities their loved ones endured. Human rights activists are, understandably, up in arms, warning against the dangerous precedent of glorifying a figure so deeply implicated in mass killings and corruption. And indeed, a number of politicians and public intellectuals have joined the chorus, asserting that true national heroism simply cannot coexist with such a stained legacy.

It's not entirely surprising that this conversation is resurfacing now. There's a certain political calculus at play, perhaps a nostalgic appeal to a perceived golden age of stability, or even an attempt to consolidate power by invoking a figure from the past. But whatever the motivations, it forces Indonesia, as a society, to look squarely at its past—the good, the bad, and the truly ugly. It's a crucial, albeit painful, process.

Ultimately, this isn't merely about bestowing a title; it’s about a nation’s soul, its moral compass, and its commitment to justice and truth. How Indonesia ultimately resolves this deep, deeply personal debate about Suharto’s legacy will speak volumes about the kind of future it envisions for itself, and, honestly, the kind of history it chooses to remember.