Footsteps

  I jumped up from my chair, marveling at whether the logic here was right. I thought it over again and again.

  Suddenly I was interrupted. A postman arrived and asked me to sign for a registered letter. From the director of my former school. A summons to come back to school? What did school mean to me now?

  But it was something else. He wrote to say he was sorry and that they had overcharged me regarding the money I repaid the school. There was another letter giving me authority to obtain a refund from the State Treasury Office—eight hundred and sixty-five guilders.

  I would return it to Mama in Surabaya.

  A good omen. A good omen.

  None of the newspapers would publish my article. They turned it down coldly. All the editors I had got to know returned it without comment. Finally I took it to a small paper that carried no advertising. Its pages were small too. After reading it the editor asked me: “So what do you want the Natives to become, Meneer? You want them to become white people?”

  “I want them to stand equal with and not under your people,” I answered.

  “Here is not the place for this,” he said. “I don’t think the paper that would publish this has been born yet.”

  What Kommer had always said turned out to be right. They allowed no road that leads to a better life for Natives. The Natives would have to struggle for themselves. This is a basic truth that must be faced.

  The clerk I had hired for a week had finished his work. He had made twenty-three copies of my translation of the Constitution of the Tiong Hoa Hwee Koan. I had changed it here and there according to my own thoughts. There was also a covering letter and another calling on people to help establish the organization. I also had these copied.

  I checked over the copies and addressed them. The clerk put them in envelopes and put stamps on them.

  “Post them now and then come back here,” I said.

  Ten minutes later he was back. And so his work was done. He would collect his pay and go.

  “Tuan,” said Sandiman, “if you’re satisfied with my work…” He didn’t go on.

  “What is it, Sandiman?”

  “Were you disappointed with my work?”

  “There was not one word that was wrongly written.”

  “Allow me to work for you.”

  “I can’t afford to pay a monthly wage.”

  “I have no wife or child, Tuan. Any wage will be all right.”

  “Ten guilders?”

  “That would be fine, Tuan.”

  “And what happens when I don’t have any money?”

  “Whatever you decide, Tuan.”

  “And if I have no work for you?”

  “There will always be work, Tuan. I can also sweep.”

  “And if one day I can’t afford to supply you with rice anymore, then what?”

  “I don’t think things will ever reach that stage, Tuan.”

  And so it was that I obtained a helper.

  He was born and raised in Solo. His older brother was a soldier in the Mangkunegaran Legion. His brother had suggested several times that he also join, but he did not like the soldier’s life. He left his brother and came to Betawi seeking new experiences.

  “Why didn’t you look for a job in a sugar plantation?”

  “No, Tuan.” He always spoke in Malay.

  “What are your hopes for the future, working for me like this?”

  “It is not my future that concerns me now.”

  “Very well, that’s your business.”

  It turned out he did not have a place to stay so he moved into my house. He stayed in the room at the back. And his only clothes were the ones he was wearing. That was all he owned in the world that could be touched and seen. He did not bow and bend all the time like most Javanese. And he did not raise his thumb every time he told me something was ready. He spoke school Malay, not bazaar Malay.

  Sandiman soon proved himself to be a very good assistant. Every morning when I awoke there was a newspaper beside my coffee. Breakfast was waiting in the front room. He noted down both my ingoing and outgoing correspondence, washed the floor, swept the yard, fixed up the garden, scrubbed the window frames and tidied up the tables and chairs, as if I were some rich man whose money he could hope for.

  One afternoon when I arrived home he handed me a bundle of letters. There was a letter from Ter Haar and some replies to the materials I had sent out. Not everyone replied and only four supported the idea. One of these was the Bupati of Serang.

  The Bupati of Serang was well known in educated circles as a student of Dr. Snouck Hurgronje. He was the student Mir had told me about long ago, the boy Snouck Hurgronje had used as a guinea pig. Guinea pig or not, he was well respected by both educated Natives and Europeans. People said that he not only always scored nine out of ten for his French, but he was a diligent reader and was never afraid to speak his mind, no matter to whom.

  If someone as widely respected as the Bupati of Serang publicly supported the formation of a new organization, then no one would have any excuse to be suspicious or apathetic. People would flock to join. I would try him first.

  The next day I handed the house over to Sandiman. To Serang!

  The train journey was slow. The rain meant that every time the furnace was stoked thick, black smoke spewed out. It was evening by the time I arrived. I had to book into a very simple inn.

  I believed this Western-educated bupati would be a modern man. He would certainly be different from Bupati Lebak Kart-awidjaja of the time of Controller Eduard Douwes Dekker, as told in Max Havelaar. He was the first Javanese to use a surname. He would be somebody with whom you could have an open and frank discussion.

  A messenger took me to the pendopo. And, ya Allah, I would have to once again crawl across the floor to seek audience with him. No doubt to be followed by innumerable genuflections of obeisance. How could it be like this between two modern people? This kind of barbaric custom could not be accepted.

  The messenger bowed before me and then backed far away.

  Should I cancel this initiative? It would be very easy. But I needed this person. The organization would need public acceptance. And his blessing would help. It would even be good if he were to join. This kind of tactic must not be given up. The organization must be founded and must succeed.

  I took off my shoes, I adjusted my destar, and I crawled across to the appointed place. I crawled, though not as slowly and slimily as a snail. Crawling!

  The pendopo was no different from any other in Java, even its decorations were standard issue. And I stopped, sitting squatted in front of his chair. What kind of show was this?

  I must not be offended, for the sake of the success of our enterprise. My hands moved naturally together to make obeisance to him when he came in and sat down. As soon as my hands came down, I heard his voice, speaking in rapid Dutch: “Is it Raden Mas I find before me here?”

  “You are not mistaken, Gusti Kanjeng.”

  “Greetings, Raden Mas.”

  “A thousand thanks, Gusti Kanjeng,” I answered and once again raised my clasped hands in obeisance. “May Gusti Kanjeng always be blessed with happiness.”

  “I have received your letter and I understand your intentions, Raden Mas.”

  “I thank you a thousand times for giving my letter your attention, Gusti Kanjeng. I have come in the hope that Gusti Kanjeng may be willing to spend some time further discussing the idea.”

  “It was very interesting. When will such an organization be founded and what will be its name?”

  “That will depend on its founding meeting. If Gusti Kanjeng could find time, perhaps, to attend…”

  My words disappeared in the wave of uproarious laughter that burst forth. I could see that his kain was shaking because of his laughter.

  “The Bupati of Serang attend such a meeting. Heh, Raden Mas, who do you think the Bupati of Serang is? Your equal?”

  Was this the person that everyone talked about as being brilliant, his French never
scoring below nine, a diligent reader, charismatic, educated, a modern person, and well liked?

  “A thousand pardons, Gusti Kanjeng.”

  “I’ll tell you, Raden Mas, two years ago a retired Java Doctor came to see me. He sat right where you are sitting now. He was just a Mas. He made the same suggestion that you have. My answer was the same. Who do you think the Bupati of Serang is? You are a Raden Mas. Even so, my answer is still the same.”

  My blood boiled. I raised my head and looked at him without bowing: “I came here to meet with an educated man, to have a discussion with a fellow educated person, to exchange thoughts, not to deliberate over the greatness of anybody. I thought you were genuinely concerned about what I had suggested, as was indicated in your letter. Did you think I came here just to admire you?”

  I had stood up. I looked him straight in the face. His eyes were glowing with rage that a Native dared stand up before him.

  “Perhaps the retired Java Doctor was willing to endure being humiliated by you but I am not. There is no law compelling anybody to crawl on the floor before you and make obeisance to you like a slave. Good morning.”

  “Raden Mas!” He called me back.

  I stopped and turned around. I saw that he had got up from his chair. I went back and said: “If you are angry, you can bring a case before the courts charging me with violating protocol.”

  “That would be easy, Raden Mas. But, in any case, a meeting that began with good intentions should not end badly.” He held out his hand.

  I took his hand. I could feel my hand shaking with anger, and I could feel his shaking as he restrained his.

  “As an idea, your proposal is good, but…”

  “I looked forward to meeting the Bupati of Serang as an educated Native, not as a Dutchman’s bupati.”

  “You forget that it is not whether people are educated or not, but rather what they do, what position it is that they hold. You forget that I am bupati.”

  I left him in his pendopo, bearing his own pain brought about by his own arrogance. I left Serang straightaway. Perhaps the old Java Doctor had been even more pained than I. Fine. And this was the result of my first foray.

  It took me several days to get over my anger. Fortunately another letter arrived from Ter Haar, which boosted my spirits. It was from Bali.

  My friend, now that Denpasar has been taken, the Dutch have decided to move against Klungkung. This means they intend to conquer all of Bali.

  Here, standing on the Balinese earth, it is only the spirit of heroism that I feel. I came to Denpasar so I could have a chance to follow the army’s movements. They banned me from following. But eventually, with the help of a Lieutenant Colijn, I was given permission to join a brigade that was ordered to go to Klungkung, which is about thirty miles from where I am now.

  They had to march over the bodies of men, women, and children for two months just to make three to six miles and then fight for another thirty-two days to actually take Denpasar. How many more thousands will die over the thirty miles to Klungkung, not to mention in the battle for Klungkung itself?

  Denpasar is deathly silent. The dead no longer move. Those inhabitants, men, women, and children, who are alive have moved to the east of the town, about three miles away, where they have built a fortress on a hill surrounded by deep gorges. They call it Gelar Toh Pati—the place where we lay down our lives in battle.

  My friend, the battalion that attacked Denpasar was almost wiped out. They had to continually bring in reinforcements. The troops’ morale was collapsing. Lieutenant Colijn never stopped going around encouraging his men. Take whatever you can get from these people, he told them, their lives, their possessions, their women! Pillage everything there is to pillage!

  I should tell you how the Balinese fought. I can’t tell you all that much as this war is different from that fought in Aceh. The army’s soldiers were marching along. The place seemed deserted except for the trees and beetles. Then, all of sudden, soldiers were falling to the ground everywhere, covered in blood. Their bodies were pierced by spears and keris. But nobody ever saw where the attack came from. The Balinese are like chameleons who can blend in with their surroundings. No one ever sees them when they attack.

  The army attacked Gelar Toh Pati from three directions. They were almost all killed, including their commander, a captain. They had to call in more and more reinforcements. The Dutch decided to postpone their final assault. They had learned from some Balinese traitors that the Balinese position was too strongly fortified. Toh Pati was two and a half miles long, with several layers of embattlements. The Dutch decided to call in extra troops from outside the army, from the Mangkunegaran Legion.

  To take Klungkung, the Dutch were forced to bypass Toh Pati. It might be several more years before they can overrun it. A remarkable people, the Balinese, to fight so fearlessly against a modern army like this. You can truly be proud of these people.

  Praise of the Balinese danced and swayed before me. He was too clever a writer. He had aroused my sympathy for this people whom van Heutsz wanted to subjugate. If all the Indies had fought back like the Acehnese and the Balinese, perhaps today we would be as strong as Japan. The island of Java had run out of men, mobilized by the kings and the Dutch army, and killed on so many battlefields.

  “Sandiman!”

  He was washing the bicycle. From my window I could see him leave a rag on the handlebars and go to the well and wash his hands. He came inside to report, nodding like a military man.

  “Perhaps you too were once a Legion soldier?” I said, fishing about.

  “What legion do you mean, Tuan?”

  “Mangkunegaran, of course.”

  “Yes, it’s true, Tuan, for five years.”

  “What was your rank?”

  “Very lowly, Tuan.”

  From his quite un-Javanese attitude, I guessed that he had, in fact, held a high rank. He could tell me a lot about the Legion.

  “Have you heard that there is a war going on in Bali?”

  “I’ve heard, Tuan.”

  “Have any of your family been involved?”

  “Yes, it’s true, Tuan. You have not guessed wrongly.”

  “Did you resign properly from the Legion or did you desert?”

  I watched him closely at that moment and so I began to suspect he was a deserter.

  “I will not tell anyone,” I said, encouraging him. “You can be honest with me. You could be in trouble if it was anyone else.”

  “Thank you, Tuan.”

  “Then you have heard the rumors that the Legion will be sent to Bali?”

  “All of them know about it.”

  “And so you don’t agree?”

  “More than just don’t agree, Tuan. And it’s not just me. Our duty is only to defend Mangkunegaran. The war in Bali has nothing to do with the defense of Mangkunegaran. We didn’t join the Legion to die in Bali. We often discussed this. People said that Balinese and Javanese had the same ancestors. Why should we be fighting each other?”

  “If you were forced to take sides between the Dutch and the Balinese, whom would you choose?”

  “I wouldn’t choose either. But neither do I want to fight against Bali.”

  “Good. Get the bike ready. Can you ride it?”

  “Not yet, Tuan.”

  “Then learn.”

  I pocketed the letters from the others who had responded positively to my call. I left for the first address—the Patih of the district of Meester Cornelis. As far as the Bupati of Serang was concerned, I struck his name off the list. I crossed off the other three bupatis as well. All the bupatis would behave the same way. I would have to look one level lower.

  And I was right, the Patih of Meester Cornelis was much more polite. He invited me to sit in front of his desk.

  “Bendoro Raden Mas?” he asked in Malay. “I have discussed Raden Mas’s letter with a number of other wedana. They have also discussed it with others outside my district. Congratulations, Raden Mas. Most of them a
re also in agreement. And if the wedana agrees, then his subordinates will also support the idea.”

  “Thank you very much indeed, Tuan Patih. And what about yourself? What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I’ve heard that you have had quite a bit of experience with the press. I think Raden Mas knows better than I. You must know a lot about what is happening in the world and here in the Indies. You will know what is best for us here. But yes, there must be efforts to advance our people, to improve their lives and their way of life. An honorable goal, Raden Mas, to build schools, educational hostels, and to explain to the Natives their rights under the law. Of course, you intend also to publish your own newspaper.”

  “That will depend on the decision of our first assembly, Tuan Patih.”

  “Good, good. There is something else you should know, Raden Mas, if you care to listen…”

  There was a wealthy man, of only lowly official position, who had long dreamed of starting an endeavor such as this. But because of his lowly position, he had always held back from starting. He was a charitable man who was always prepared to help a good cause.

  “…try contacting him. One man like him is worth a thousand like me, even though I have a higher position.”

  The person he was referring to was the Wedana from Mangga Besar, Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie.

  A wedana! My thoughts dashed about trying to guess what kind of education he might have obtained. At the most he would have finished primary school, wouldn’t be able to speak Dutch, and would know very little about the ways of the world. So I didn’t take the Patih’s suggestion seriously.

  “And you yourself, Tuan Patih, are you prepared to help with getting this organization of ours started?”

  “Contact the Wedana of Mangga Besar first. If he agrees, then everything will be much easier.”

  That’s all he would say. I couldn’t get anything more out of him. I asked to be excused and he escorted me to the front door.

  I went about on my bike visiting the other people on my list, each time trying to find out more about Mohammed Thabrie, who certainly seemed to be held in very high regard by the Patih of Meester Cornelis.