And so it was that the police had become both my life and my prison. I was a policeman and, at the same time, the prisoner of the police. It was as if I no longer had a will of my own, as if I had become blind to all the teachings about what was right, no longer faithful to what I was taught by Monsieur De Cagnie and his wife, by Uncle and Aunt Pangemanan.
I had read many books in Europe and I had gained much knowledge about the liberation of men from oppression—spiritual and physical, economic and political. So I fully understood that colonial rule over any part of the world was evil. I was disgusted by the work I had been doing ever since I was promoted to adjutant commissioner. I felt as if I had been robbed of all my dignity in order that I could feed my family.
All that I had been imagining and had been afraid of became reality. On my first day back at work, Meneer De Beer greeted me with the words: “Meneer Pangemanann, you look very well now. There is some new work awaiting you.”
“Another special assignment?”
“Correct, Meneer.”
The instructions I received were exactly as I imagined after I heard Meneer K— speak at the Harmoni Club. My new assignment was to study the writings of the Natives that were being published in the newspapers and magazines. Analyze them. Interview the authors. Compare them. And make some conclusions about their caliber, the direction of their thinking, and their attitude toward the government of the Netherlands Indies.
The police had never done this kind of work before. And the first person to receive the honor of carrying out such an assignment was me—Commissioner Pangemanann. From that day I became a painter who would show to the government the true colors of these writers. My work was not done for the sake of furthering knowledge, but so that the government might forever perpetuate its rule.
According to the colonial Europeans, everything that is done by the white race for the colonized people is superior to that which the Native rulers had previously done for them. Everything that is done to the colonized people is motivated by the whites’ sacred duty to civilize them. How great was this sacred duty! At one moment it was the banner under which any and all actions could be justified. The next moment, it became an opiate putting their consciences to sleep. And what about me? I, whose soul had already been penetrated by humanism, either through the church or otherwise, could not accept this, yet here I was being dragged into carrying out such things as an instrument of colonial power.
There was only one way for me to protect myself now—to be two-faced and to consciously entertain different emotions at once. After growing used to cultivating so many different and opposing feelings and appearances, my soul also grew strong enough to create a new Pangemanann. But I always longed for the old Pangemanann, who was honest, who was simple, who believed in the goodness of humankind. And no one knew better than I that sometimes you could not keep it up, living such a divided and splintered spiritual life as this, without giving in to battles within yourself, fighting back and forward, destroying your different selves, each part of you humiliating the other. All this mixed together to make a great, tumultuous battlefield. But both sides must win! They must! One is called principles, the other livelihood.
Madame Paulette Pangemanann and children, André, Henri, Mark, and Dede—perhaps you see me as a husband, a father, and an official who is strong, reliable, and successful. Yes, I hope you will always see me in that light. A husband and father who loved you, and an official who could always be trusted to do his duty. But I will not have been fair to you if one day, when I am gone, you lose this respect and sense of pride because of my playacting.
This must not happen. So I have decided to write all this so you will know, my wife, so you will all know exactly who was this person Pangemanann. He was not as good as you all think. Perhaps he was in fact the opposite, totally the opposite. And you, my children, do not copy your father’s example, a slave of his livelihood who lost all his principles. You all know that in European civilization a person without principles is the most contemptible of all people, human scum. Do not follow my example. Look upon your father as a personality who was destroyed completely, a defeated person, a slave. Be instead a person pure of heart, principled, with integrity. These are the ideals of European civilization. Be people who are free of pretensions and ambition. Be civilized people. Forgive your father for being incapable of providing you with the kind of example, the best of examples, as was his wish.
You must never speak well of me in front of your own children. This would go against all that is good and honorable, even though my failure as a human being was because of my dedication to your interests. Look upon me as a representative of a defeated generation of Natives, defeated by colonial force and power.
I began this project at the age of fifty. I think that being half a century old means that I am now able to evaluate all that has passed, which I have experienced and witnessed. It is right and proper that educated people, when they reach such an age, look back and make a judgment on what they have done, the good and the evil, the right and the wrong.
It would not be right to leave this world silently, pretending to be good and pure before my own wife and children! I want my children to succeed, to be far better than I, to be better people, to do more good, and to be wiser. My first evaluation of my life during the last half century is clear—from when I was little up until I became a police inspector, I walked along a path that was in accord with God’s will. From the time I became an adjutant commissioner until now, when I am full commissioner, there is no doubt that I have been walking in mud. As time goes on I walk farther and farther into this field of mud, and farther and farther away from God’s path.
It is you, my children, who must judge me. You will know everything about me and about the whole of the Indies, the country where I was born and worked as a servant of the government for the sake of a living and the pleasures of life. Perhaps it would be more honest if I said it was the place where I became coated in mud.
Isn’t it all clear? Whether as an inspector or as commissioner, my work has been nothing other than to monitor closely my own people for the sake of the security and perpetuity of the government. All Natives, especially the modern Pitungs who so disturbed the peace and serenity of the government—yes, I have and will continue to put all of them into a house of glass which I will place on my desk. I will be able to see everything. That is my assignment—to watch every movement that takes place in that house of glass. That is also what the governor-general wants. The Indies must not change. It must be maintained as it is forever. So if I am able to preserve this writing of mine and it comes into your hands, I would like you to give these notes of mine the title House of Glass.
3
Then one day I received new orders. These were also in accord with the work program that I myself had prepared and that had been approved by my boss. So at nine o’clock the next morning I arrived at the State archives building with a letter of introduction from the General Secretariat of the governor-general.
I myself had no idea why my letter of introduction came from the Algemeene Secretariat, headquartered in Buitenzorg, and not from the police office in Betawi. It was a puzzle to me just why such a high office had involved itself in my work, though it did mean that all the archives officials jumped from their chairs to look after me. The Algemeene Secretariat was just one step away from His Excellency the governor-general. A few people held the view that power had moved out of his hands when the Indies Council was established. The reality was different. The Raad van Indie or Indies Council was nothing more than an advisory council to the governor-general. The Algemeene Secretariat continued the work of implementing the government’s policies.
As soon as he saw the letter of introduction, the relevant official came rushing out of his office and greeted me. He stared at me skeptically. How could I have obtained such a letter? After all, such a letter amounted to nothing less than a direct commission from the Algemeene Secretariat. He quickly changed his attitude and s
aid politely: “Ah, Meneer Pangemanann. What is it that I can supply you with, Meneer?”
He was a Pure-Blood Dutchman, young, an archivist not well known to the public, called Meneer L—. He liked to wear a lorgnette with a thin gold chain. He wore a white cotton shirt with a buttoned-up collar. He also wore white cotton trousers. He had blond hair, parted in the middle. He wore black shoes and was quite tall and solid.
“At this stage, Meneer,” I said, after introducing myself, “I want to study whatever documents you have about the Philippines.”
“Ah, an important question,” he said, responding. “Hardly anybody is paying it any attention here. But, Meneer, I will need several days to gather all the material together. Are you after any documents in particular?”
“Everything there is.”
“Everything? Yes, well, that will be easier. Our archives are not as well organized as in America, Meneer. If you had wanted specific documents it would have been quite difficult. Could you come back, in, say, three days’ time?”
I returned exactly three days later. The front grounds that stretched a long way in from the street, the green lawns on either side of the pathway up to the main building, and the red-painted main building itself, all reminded me of the palaces of the landed nobility in the French countryside. It was said that three governors-general had used this building as their palace. I am not sure who they were—De Eerens maybe, or Van Hogendorp or Rochussen. I didn’t know for sure. The path leading to the main entrance was also flanked by two rows of pine trees. I had heard that they were planted after the building was no longer used as the palace.
Meneer L— met me in the pendopo, which had, in its day, been used for receptions. And people had danced to the music of the waltz there too. But now it was silent. There was just a guard, who also received any guests, and Meneer L—.
I was taken straight inside, into a big room that was even quieter, where the air was damp and it was cooler.
“Ah, here is your table, Meneer.” He left me and returned a few moments later with an attendant carrying a pile of papers. “All that you need should be among these, Meneer. If you need anything, then just tell Meneer De Man here,” nodding toward the attendant: “Meneer De Man, this is Meneer Pangemanann. Please look after him properly. Good luck with your work, Meneer Pangemanann.”
“But, Meneer L—,” I interrupted his departure, “must I read everything here? Can’t I borrow them?”
“No, Meneer. These documents must not leave this building. I’m sorry. You will have to study them all here.”
He nodded, excusing himself, and disappeared into another room.
And I was not allowed to touch the almost twenty-centimeter-tall pile of documents until I signed the receipt of loan that De Man put in front of me. After I had signed it and he had put the receipt away, he removed himself to the corner of the room. I felt as if I were under the observation of some petty clerk.
His ever-vigilant eyes, guarding that not a single sheet of paper disappeared into my pocket, made the atmosphere in that still and silent room increasingly distracting. The great high ceilings and all the furniture from the days of the Company, the large windows as big as doors, with the wind blowing freely in and out, with nobody there except De Man and me, all reminded me of a mausoleum. I myself began to feel a part of the mausoleum, as old as all of its furniture.
The indistinct echoes of the traffic from the main road outside made their way into the room and bounced around from wall to wall, sounding like the never-ending rumbling of the earth underneath. While the papers that lay before me represented a past full of secrets, the building itself represented the ghosts of the past. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
De Man sat motionless in the corner. It was only his eyes that never rested from watching me and the pile of papers before me.
I would never have come here if I hadn’t been instructed to do so.
The papers, following the practice now of who knows how many archivists, were divided into groups according to issues: crime, immigration, the instructions of the various governors-general . . . but there was no separate section on the Philippines, let alone about Bonifacio or Rizal. There was one document, an instruction from Governor-General Sloet van de Boele, that really startled me. It was not the original, just a copy. It ordered the government’s boats patrolling the Indies waters to watch out for American pirates who worked out of a small Philippines island. These pirates were kidnapping young men from the North Celebes coast to be sold as laborers to the mines of South America. They were replacing the Chinese labor that the pirates could no longer get from the Chinese coast. The order was dated 1864, when my older brother, whom I never met, was still alive.
I was reminded of the old peoples’ stories of white pirates who captured the fishermen out in the sea. The fishermen never returned to their villages. Nobody knew where they were taken. From that time on, every fisherman would set off in his boat as soon as he saw a big ship approaching. But I had never imagined that those pirates might be Americans. And if, say, those Menadonese did not die during the trip like so many Negroes did during the previous century, and did not die from the hard labor in the mines, then they probably multiplied their numbers with the local people. And they would no longer be recognized as Menadonese but Chinese.
The revolts of my own people in North Celebes, the Menadonese, against the Spanish were not of interest to me, not at this time anyway. I was after more recent information about the revolts of the native Filipinos themselves. Most of the documents were written in the old spelling. Some were written in Spanish so that I had to work through them very slowly. There were no notes to indicate where the Spanish-language documents came from. This did not make my work any easier.
Five hours later I asked De Man if he could get me a drink. He did not move from his chair where he kept watch on the papers before me, but called another attendant. And it was this other man who brought me my glass of warm milk.
“Meneer De Man.” I summoned him, and he came over to me. “It’s very difficult to work like this. Perhaps I could hire a scribe to make copies of the documents I need?”
“Unfortunately, that is not possible, Meneer.”
“In that case, please take these documents back. I will come again tomorrow.”
“You don’t seem well, Meneer.”
He was right. Enveloped in this very disagreeable atmosphere, I was beginning to feel dizzy.
He began to check the papers against the list of material I had borrowed. There was no change in the number of papers.
“You may return tomorrow, Meneer.”
I left that cemetery of the past with a sense of relief. As I climbed up into my carriage, I couldn’t help glancing back. The reddish-colored building did indeed look beautiful and imposing from afar. It used to receive all the important people in the colony. Now only gravediggers visited there, and I was one of them.
The next day Meneer L— visited me where I worked in the archives building.
“I have been checking if there are any other papers that might be of interest to you, Meneer,” he said. “I have four people working on it now. But no results so far, Meneer. We haven’t worked out a way to organize the archives properly. Just imagine, Meneer, seven kilometers of documents! Most of them have not been touched by human hands since they were deposited here. There are no schools to train archivists. Everything is worked out as we go, trial and error, using just ordinary clerks. No money has ever been made available for us to go to see how other more advanced archives are organized.”
I listened to his complaints and gripes. It was easy to guess that he thought my letter of introduction had originated with an instruction from the governor-general. He was hoping that his complaints would reach Idenburg’s ears. A vain hope, Meneer, I answered to myself, as I smiled compassionately. The bureaucracy in the Indies was as rotten as colonial power itself.
“And what makes things worse,” he spoke again, “is that muc
h of our material is stored in Buitenzorg.”
“Oh, up in Buitenzorg?” I responded, humoring him politely.
“But they don’t receive guests there. It is just a warehouse. If we don’t train some people to be expert in this soon, then perhaps we will be left with just a pile of paper that will give us very little benefit.”
“I can understand,” I said.
“It seems you will be coming here often. I hope you will forgive us if we are not able to find what you want quickly. That is why I have told you about our difficulties. Seven kilometers of closely packed papers.”
“Yes, I can understand how difficult it must be.”
“Thank you for your understanding,” and he nodded happily. “I will not disturb you any longer. I hope your work goes well.”
As soon as he left De Man added: “You are the only guest that has ever come here with a mandate from the Algemeene Secretariat. Meneer L— has great hopes that you will understand our difficulties. We will all be grateful if Meneer is able to help us solve some of these difficulties.”
He returned to where he was sitting yesterday and I threw myself into my reading. I did not need a lot of documentary material. What I had been given was sufficient to give me a handle on things. A lot of what I read made it seem that the neighboring country of the Philippines was located far away, up near the North Pole. I discovered a document from the period of Governor-General Van Der Wijck, dated 1898, which ordered that there be no public reporting on the rebellion in the Philippines.