Jakarta, May 12, 1998.
The sky above Trisakti University had turned pale from the haze. The stench of burning filled the air. On the overpass facing the campus, thousands of students crowded the road, pushing against barbed wire fences and lines of armed officers.
Stefanus Urip Mulio stood in the back of an old pickup truck. The megaphone in his hand was nearly detached at the wire, but he kept shouting.
"Brothers and sisters!" he cried, his voice trembling yet firm. "We're not just demanding reform! We're here to save the nation's future!"
"Reformasi! Reformasi!" the crowd chanted.
"Our future isn't decided by Suharto! Not the army! But by us! The people!"
The crowd roared. Students raised their fists, held up banners now torn by the hot wind and dust. Some cried, others sang Darah Juang—their voices shaky, emotional.
Behind Urip, Jojo, his friend from law school, held up the red-and-white flag tied to the end of a broomstick. He was eyeing the police line, which had started to move.
"Urip! Wrap it up! They're shifting already!"
"Just a second!" Urip replied. He lifted the megaphone again.
"If not us, then who? If not now, then when? Brothers and sisters! We—"
Suddenly, his pager vibrated in his back pocket.
He ignored it.
The second vibration came. Then a third—longer. His personal emergency alarm.
He tucked the megaphone under his arm and pulled out the pager. The screen was tiny, monochrome, with a slight crack in the corner.
One message.
Siska Sulaiman: Help me
Urip's eyes widened. His breath caught. The world around him shrank, as if only those two words existed.
Jojo turned. "What's wrong, bro?"
Urip didn't answer. He just stared at the screen.
Jojo climbed into the truck bed. "Bro, you look pale."
"It's from Siska," Urip murmured. His voice was barely audible.
Jojo stepped closer. "Your girlfriend? The one in Kelapa Gading?"
Urip nodded slowly.
"What did she say?"
Urip showed him the screen.
Jojo read it quickly. Fell silent.
"Oh God," he whispered. "Is this for real?"
Urip looked north. Far, far beyond the rooftops and school buildings, black smoke billowed into the sky. North. Toward Siska's house.
"She called me this morning," Urip said softly. "She was scared. Said there were riots near her place. Shops were being burned."
"You didn't tell her to get out of there?"
"She wouldn't leave. Said her house was still safe. Didn't want to abandon her sick mother."
Jojo looked worried. "Bro, if she's texting 'help me' now, that means..."
Urip slipped the pager back in his pocket and reached for the megaphone.
"What are you doing?"
"I have to go."
Jojo yanked the megaphone from his hands.
"Are you nuts? Go to Kelapa Gading now? That's the worst-hit area! You see that smoke? How the hell do you plan on getting there?"
"I have to try!"
Urip moved to jump down, but Jojo grabbed his arm.
"You're our field leader, Rip! The crowd's watching you. Don't be selfish. We're fighting the system here too. There are people suffering worse than your girlfriend!"
Urip glared. "She's not just my girlfriend, Jo. She's the only reason I'm here."
Jojo sighed. "I get it... But we need you. Don't disappear now. We're at the edge of everything."
Urip looked at the crowd. The banners. The flags. Eyes filled with hope. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"One hour, Jo. I just need one hour—I have to save Siska and our child. I'll be back."
Jojo was about to reply, but a loud crack split the air.
Bang!
Live rounds. Then screams.
Bang! Bang!
Panic. Some students fled. Others ducked. Some collapsed.
Urip stood frozen, turning toward the sound—
—but before he could move, a sharp pain pierced his chest.
Warm. Wet.
His hand reached up. Red. Slowly, his body wavered and fell into the truck bed. His eyes remained open, but they saw nothing.
Jojo screamed, "URIP!"
Chaos erupted. Screams overlapped. Smoke spread. Urip's body rolled off the truck, trampled by fleeing feet.
His pager fell, its screen cracked—but the last message still flickered faintly:
Help me
A blinding white light filled his vision.
Urip opened his eyes slowly. White ceiling. Shiny walls. Blinding LED lights. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor pulsed to his right.
His body felt heavy, as if submerged in syrup. When he moved his fingers, the first thing he noticed—his skin.
White. Translucent. Not his brown Javanese skin. Not his hands. These were too clean, too pale. Like... Chinese or Korean.
The door burst open. A young woman rushed in with a clipboard. She wore mint-green scrubs.
"Lim Gabriel-ssi? Jeongmal dasi dolawa julsun... gomawo."
(Lim Gabriel? I can't believe you came back… thank you.)
Urip stared at her, confused. Who was she calling?
"Neo gyesok simjang-i meomchwoss-eo. simjang moniteoga geunyang... jigeumdo sang-ganghaeyo."
(Your heart stopped for real. The heart monitor just... It still feels like a dream.)
Another nurse followed, turning on a medical tablet.
"Saengmyeong jisu hwaginhalgeyo."
(I'll check your vitals.)
They approached. The first nurse checked his pupils, the second reattached cables to his bandaged chest.
Urip whispered, "Who… am I…?"
The first nurse paused, looking at him intently.
"Gabriel-ssi… jinjja gwaenchanta?"
(Gabriel, are you really okay?)
Footsteps hurried in from the hallway. Three young adults entered in white coats—two men, one woman, probably in their early twenties.
"Ya! Lim Gabriel! neo jinjja nal michige haess-eo!"
(Lim Gabriel! You nearly drove us crazy!)
"Neo simjang meomchwossdaneun mal deudgo, urin da umjigiji do mothaess-eo."
(When we heard your heart stopped, we were all frozen.)
"Neoreul bonael jul al-ass-eo..."
(We thought we'd lost you...)
They stood by the bed, faces a mix of relief and confusion. One of them, the tallest, placed a hand on Urip's shoulder.
"Cham, yeonghwa gateun iri jinjja saeng-gagdo mothaess-eo."
(Swear to God, this was like a movie scene. Never thought it'd happen for real.)
Urip studied them. The language was unfamiliar, yet somehow... he understood.
The girl with braided hair opened a tablet and said,
"Ajig abeonim-ege neun yeonrag andwaess-eoyo. simjang-i meomchwossda gyesok sangtaelul bwatjiman, dasi dorawatseunikka..."
(We haven't contacted your father yet. Your heart had stopped for a while… but now you're back.)
"My father…?" Urip murmured.
The man with glasses nodded.
Urip's mind drifted. "Where am I? Did they mistake me for someone else?"
He touched his chest. No pain. No bullet wound. Just heart monitor cables. The last thing he remembered—screams, sirens, gunfire, burning heat in his chest. Then darkness.
Now… just soft beeps from a stable heart monitor.
His hands slowly lifted. He stared at his palms.
White.
Not the Javanese brown he once had. Too white. Too clean. Like someone Chinese.
He inhaled gently. The room smelled of antiseptic—familiar, but foreign in every detail.
His clothing resembled a hospital gown, but it was modern. Light blue, embroidered with strange symbols on the chest—not Chinese, not Japanese. They flowed like tiny worms—was this Hangul?
He turned his head.
On the nurse's desk, a computer screen… thin. Not the bulky CRTs that buzzed when powered on. This was flat, shiny, like glass.
His eyes caught something in the nurse's hand—a flat, glowing object she tapped with her fingers. It came alive, images and text flickering instantly.
She tapped it again and said,
"Gabriel-ssi, jogeum deo swieodo dwaeyo. ulineun simjang chugjeong-eul haessseubnida."
(Gabriel, you can rest now. We've re-recorded your heartbeat.)
Urip simply stared, barely blinking. That object… touchable and reactive. What was it?
A phone? But not one he recognized.
Some of his friends had Nokias or Ericssons—big phones with antennas and monophonic tones. But he only had a pager. A device that could only receive messages.
But this… this wasn't a pager. It could show images. Type text. Call people?
Urip's throat felt dry. He could still hear the young "doctors" talking—but his thoughts began to drift far, far away.