David Korten | July 16, 2025
Introduction
A disturbing film, a forgotten history, and a deeply personal journey through Indonesia helped my wife Fran and me better understand both the horror and hope that dwell in the human spirit—and what that might mean for healing the divisions we now face in the United States. Many of the divisions rooted in the deep, age-old traumas have never truly healed, and the current level of polarization, fueled by the drastic measures of the current administration, further tear at the social, cultural, and economic fabric of our nation and threaten our very democracy.
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Prompted by a recommendation, I recently watched the 2012 film, The Act of Killing. I was curious to see how it might shed some light on what my wife Fran and I experienced while visiting Indonesia in 1966, and later when we lived and worked there. The documentary features perpetrators of Indonesia’s 1965–66 mass killings reenacting their crimes on camera, casting themselves as heroes in surreal, self-directed dramas. I found it utterly revolting—one of the most disgusting and disturbing films I’ve ever seen. But it forced open a long-closed window to an experience that has haunted me for decades.
In 1966, just after the height of Indonesia’s mass violence, Fran and I visited the country briefly. We were on our way home from having lived in Ethiopia for three years. We had no real understanding of what had just occurred, but we sensed that something terrible had happened. We met with friends who, while gracious, seemed to carry a silent tension. There were hints that some stood on opposite sides of a conflict we didn’t understand. We felt no personal danger, but the atmosphere was profoundly unsettling. We left shaken and agreed we would never want to live in Indonesia.
Yet in the 1980s, Fran accepted a position with the Ford Foundation, and we lived in Indonesia from 1983 to 1987. During those years, we came to know and love our Indonesia colleagues—warm, resilient, communal, and kind. The sense of fear we’d felt in 1966 was no longer present. It felt as though the trauma had passed. Only much later did I begin to understand the truth: the trauma had not passed. It had merely gone underground.
Photo Courtesy of Fran Korten – David in Bali, 1984
Political Repression by Other Means
The 1965–66 mass killings—triggered by a failed coup and blamed on the Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI)—led to the deaths of an estimated 500,000 to one million people. In the immediate aftermath, hundreds of thousands more were imprisoned without trial. Under General Suharto, who rose to power through the violence and ruled until 1998, political imprisonment, surveillance, and censorship replaced mass executions as tools of state control.
When Fran and I lived in Indonesia, that repression was still active. People were still being jailed—not for violence, but for their ideas, associations, or criticisms of the regime. Many who had been imprisoned in the 1960s remained in detention or under restriction. The regime sustained its rule by invoking the continued threat of communism and silencing dissent through intimidation, censorship, and blacklisting.
Yet amidst this repression, there were people working patiently and courageously for meaningful change. One of them was Dr. Soedjatmoko, known affectionately as Koko.
A Quiet Voice of Conscience
Soedjatmoko was one of Indonesia’s most respected public intellectuals—an advocate for human dignity, democracy, and development grounded in cultural values. During Suharto’s authoritarian rule, he served in diplomatic and international roles, including as rector of the United Nations University and as a member of the Ford Foundation board.
Although he never openly opposed the regime—doing so would have led to swift reprisal—he stood for a moral vision that transcended authoritarianism. He believed in democratic governance, community empowerment, and development that honored traditional wisdom and cultural identity. He was a dear friend to us, and his encouragement of Fran’s work remains one of our most cherished memories.
A Breakthrough for Democratic Governance
Fran’s work with the Ford Foundation focused on supporting Indonesian-led efforts to restore traditional community control over local irrigation systems. Under Suharto’s regime, local organizations were prohibited from operating across village boundaries—a policy that made it impossible for communities to manage irrigation systems, which rarely aligned with a single village’s borders. The result: small-scale systems fell under national government control, undermining local knowledge and responsibility.
Indonesian researchers, village leaders, and reform-minded civil servants recognized this dysfunction and began organizing to change it. Fran, in her Ford Foundation role, helped fund and amplify these Indonesian-led efforts—supporting research, convening conferences, and facilitating inter-ministerial dialogue. The breakthrough came in September 1987, when, following a major policy conference, the Indonesian government announced a plan to return management of over 4,000 small irrigation systems—covering more than one million hectares—to local farmer-run water user organizations.
A Quiet Voice of Conscience
Soedjatmoko was one of Indonesia’s most respected public intellectuals—an advocate for human dignity, democracy, and development grounded in cultural values. During Suharto’s authoritarian rule, he served in diplomatic and international roles, including as rector of the United Nations University and as a member of the Ford Foundation board.
Although he never openly opposed the regime—doing so would have led to swift reprisal—he stood for a moral vision that transcended authoritarianism. He believed in democratic governance, community empowerment, and development that honored traditional wisdom and cultural identity. He was a dear friend to us, and his encouragement of Fran’s work remains one of our most cherished memories.
A Breakthrough for Democratic Governance
Fran’s work with the Ford Foundation focused on supporting Indonesian-led efforts to restore traditional community control over local irrigation systems. Under Suharto’s regime, local organizations were prohibited from operating across village boundaries—a policy that made it impossible for communities to manage irrigation systems, which rarely aligned with a single village’s borders. The result: small-scale systems fell under national government control, undermining local knowledge and responsibility.
Indonesian researchers, village leaders, and reform-minded civil servants recognized this dysfunction and began organizing to change it. Fran, in her Ford Foundation role, helped fund and amplify these Indonesian-led efforts—supporting research, convening conferences, and facilitating inter-ministerial dialogue. The breakthrough came in September 1987, when, following a major policy conference, the Indonesian government announced a plan to return management of over 4,000 small irrigation systems—covering more than one million hectares—to local farmer-run water user organizations.
Photo courtesy of Fran Korten – Irrigation in West Java
The reform required the cooperation of three powerful ministries—Public Works, Agriculture, and Home Affairs—each of which gave up some jurisdiction. It was a bold and rare step toward local democracy under an otherwise highly centralized regime.
At a Ford Foundation board meeting shortly after, Dr. Soedjatmoko praised the achievement, calling it “the most significant breakthrough for democratic governance” he had seen during the Suharto years.
That moment affirmed a profound truth: even in times of repression, meaningful transformation is possible—when rooted in partnership, trust, and respect for people’s traditional capacity to govern their own lives.
What This Teaches Us About Reconciliation
What Fran and I experienced in Indonesia was not national reconciliation in the formal sense. There was no truth commission, no public reckoning, no official apology for the killings. Many survivors and families of victims remained silenced and stigmatized. Yet we found deep human connection, kindness, and healing. How?
Indonesia’s reconciliation was quiet, informal, and incomplete. It occurred not through national confession, but through the resilience of communities and the moral leadership of individuals like Soedjatmoko. People found ways to live together again, often without speaking about the past. They chose relationship over revenge, community over grievance.
That silence had its costs. The trauma remained buried for decades. But the warmth we experienced was real. It showed that love and dignity can survive even without justice—though they flourish more fully when truth is acknowledged.
Indonesia’s Cautious Reckoning
More recently, Indonesia has begun to take its first official steps toward national acknowledgment. In January 2023, President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) publicly recognized that the Indonesian state had committed “gross human rights violations”—including the 1965–66 mass killings. He expressed “deep regret” and pledged support for victims through scholarships, health care, and social rehabilitation programs.
It was a historic admission—only the second such acknowledgment since the Suharto era ended in 1998. There was no apology, no naming of perpetrators, no legal action. Civil society leaders welcomed the gesture but warned that healing without truth remains fragile.
Still, this moment matters. It shows that even decades after atrocity, nations can begin to face their past. It also affirms that official acknowledgment, even if partial, can open doors to broader dialogue, dignity, and repair.
What Does This Say About Human Nature?
The Indonesian experience also raises a timeless question: are we humans by nature violent and competitive—or caring and cooperative?
You might conclude, from the horror of the 1965–66 killings, that humans are irredeemably brutal. But look deeper, and a different truth emerges.
The violence in Indonesia was not spontaneous. It was engineered by political elites, fed by propaganda, fear, and the demonization of imagined enemies. Many of the perpetrators were ordinary people swept into acts they later struggled to explain or justify.
By contrast, what Fran and I saw in the 1980s—a society of mutual care, humor, and hospitality—emerged when fear receded and people had space to rebuild their lives. The irrigation reform project, grounded in traditional communal values, like gotong royong (mutual help), showed that when systems enable care, people step up to care for one another.
Human nature, in other words, is not fixed. It is shaped by context, culture, and power. As Soedjatmoko often emphasized, development is not about GDP—it is about deepening human dignity and moral purpose.
A Lesson for the United States
In the United States, we face a different but equally urgent challenge. Our nation is being pulled apart by polarization, resentment, and historical amnesia. We’ve never truly reckoned with our foundational traumas: slavery, Indigenous genocide, economic exploitation, and structural racism.
These are realities best acknowledged openly, not irreparable barriers to significant change.
- A public narrative that acknowledges historical wrongs and current divisiveness without shaming or blaming.
- Community-driven processes for dialogue, healing, and repair.
- Rebuilding our economic and political institutions around justice and care, not wealth and domination.
As in Indonesia, this work does not require perfection. It requires moral courage, persistent effort, and deep listening. And, as Fran’s experience shows, it can begin even under difficult conditions—when we trust in the power of partnership, local knowledge, and a shared commitment to human dignity.
A Final Thought
What Fran and I learned in Indonesia stays with us: that even in silence, people can carry hope; that even within oppressive systems, breakthroughs are possible; and that healing is not only a national task but a deeply personal and communal one.
The United States now stands at its own crossroads. Will we bury our divisions beneath denial and fear? Or will we find the courage to face our past and acknowledge the current reality, speak our truths, and build together a future grounded in justice, compassion, and trust?
The work begins with us. And it begins now.
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