Unloved
Dear Diary,
I have been so down to it since Wednesday. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Don't know what to do with myself ... It's getting so that each day is just so darn hard to get through.
Dear diary, must it come to this? Must your dear Suharto suddenly find himself at a loose end, with nothing to occupy his days, unwanted and unloved by his own country?
It's a terrible feeling. Sometimes I'm sick to my stomach when I think of it. Then late at night I feel so low it becomes too much for me and before I know it I'm bawling my eyes out. Me, a grown man, a soldier and a general, lost in self-pity.
(Here I go again. Out come the tears. Sniff. Sniff.)
It's times like these that you really value the companionship of friends and family. I know I'm not the best company in the world, but the kids have come to see me each day, taking it in turns to sit with me. Tutut made me jemput-jemput to cheer me up. She even flew in some Baskin and Robins ice-cream from Singapore to go with it and offered to buy me the company. But after a cursory bite, I gave up and let the dog have it.
And the Australians ... they don't seem to be able to do enough for me. They've been simply marvellous. It's nice to know that I still have such loyal "mates" (as they say), at least in Canberra.
Maybe I'm not so alone in the world after all. It heartens me to think so. But then each day when Habibie visits me to get his orders, the whole sorry episode comes rushing back and I feel so ashamed and disheartened knowing that he fulfils the day-to-day duties that once were mine.
He's the prez now. Not me.
(Hang on. Here I go again. Sniff. Sniff.)
It will pass. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. I get so easily upset, I know it. Any little thing sets me off.
But I suppose you need to take the good with the bad times. C'est la vie, as those French say. And I've had my share of both. My only hope is that I'm not remembered for what happened last week. (Shudder.) I like to think that the name Suharto means something in world history; that the name Suharto rises above the bloodied business that bore it to world prominence and is remembered for other statistics: the net growth rate in annual GDP, unit labour costs as a quotient of gross domestic investment, annual change rates in corporate profitability compared to all other Asian NICs.
Let them look up those figures. That's me there. That's a Suharto to be proud of! Written up large, figured out to the nth degree.
And those who call me butcher can't even do their sums. I ask you: in the sixties did I kill 1.5 million or was it only 500,000? In East Timor, it's the same yakety-yak: was it one or two hundred thousand?
Buggered if I know! Who's counting?
By Dave Riley