Since 1995 over 70 indonesian football fans died. For the Persija Jakarta ultras, every away trip could be their last. 11FREUNDE takes a road trip through a war zone.
We set off at around 7pm. There’s a prayer as we get underway. The fans ask god to grant the Persija players strength and speed. You’ll Never Walk Alone blares from the speakers – it’s a cover version by the Indonesian punk band Keotik. Next up is Oasis’ Live Forever – the original this time. “Maybe I just want to fly,” sings Liam Gallagher, “Want to live, I don’t want to die…” For these fans, it’s the perfect soundtrack. We make our first stop after 17 kilometres, at a rest area, and for the first time I get a sense of how big this tour is. It’s not just the Crazy Boys hitting the road to Surakarta; there are hundreds, thousands of people, a whole convoy travelling down the highway tonight. Some are even making the journey by moped. Fans stumble out of buses and cars and head towards the satay seller. Ciu bottles are passed from hand to hand. “Mister, mister, drink!” They won’t touch beer. It costs too much – and has too little effect.
“In 30 kilometres, it’s going to get dangerous.” Where’s the police escort, I ask. “The police? They’re not coming anymore.”
Before we drive off again, Rifki Haikal checks the route on his phone. The 20-year-old is wearing a windbreaker and British flat cap – Leeds in West Java. “We’re still safe for now,” he says. “But in 30 kilometres, it’s going to get dangerous.” Where’s the police escort, I ask. “The police? They’re not coming anymore.” Rifki used to work in a local supermarket, but currently he’s unemployed. He dreams of having his own company, wants to produce his own clothes, print cool slogans on T‑shirts, like he imagines young people in England do. He was present last year, when Persib fans attacked a convoy with stones, killing two of his friends. One of them was already on the ground, when an attacker took an axe to him until he stopped moving. No mercy. Rifki stares out of the window. He can’t explain how the incident has affected him, nor why he’s making a similar journey tonight. “I’m following my heart,” he says. “May god protect me.” Then he falls silent.
The first sign of trouble comes at kilometre 39. A bus has been attacked and one of its windows is shattered. Thankfully, no-one is hurt. We make a quick stop, in the middle of the motorway. Dinar and Raina take a seat on the nearest crash barrier. They are 15 and 16 respectively and the only girls on our bus. They’re still at school and aren’t keen to talk about their fears either. They’d rather talk about their hopes for a strong Persija performance. What about their parents? Hati-hati, they say, be careful. Near them Anas sits on the tarmac, a 17-year-old, who is also still at school. He’s wearing an extra-small Oasis T‑shirt over his tiny frame; he’s like a half-portion, so skinny, you worry the next gust of wind might blow him back to Jakarta.
“That’s just how it is with rivals, like Liverpool and Everton, West Ham and Milwall. It’s the same everywhere,” he says, trying to look tough. “It’s about life and death.” He takes a swig from a bottle of Ciu, washing down some crisps. Does he know any Persib fans personally, I ask? “Sure,” he says. “A lot of my classmates are Persib fans, even some of my friends.” So what happens if he encounters them tonight? “They’ll have to die.” He smiles. His friends smile with him and from out of the bus Liam’s voice sings, “Lately, did you ever feel the pain?”
Eventually, a couple of policemen do make an appearance. They stroll along the roadside barriers at a leisurely pace, with their pump-action shotguns in hand, as if they were actors playing policemen, waiting for someone to yell, “Action!” What’s real here? What’s fiction? Where did the attackers disappear to? Who knows anymore?