In his later letters, Ter Haar had written:
Van Heutsz was growing impatient with Bali’s refusal to accept defeat. If Bali was nearer to a foreign country, as Aceh had been, this war would be able to go on for ten years, and still the Dutch would not be guaranteed victory. This courageous and isolated people received no outside help at all. I’m not sure that van Heutsz will see his dream realized. The Balinese on the island of Lombok remain loyal to the king and they will not surrender so easily as their brothers of Javanese descent.
The war would go on. One by one my fellow countrymen would fall on the field of battle, unable to resist the steel of colonial bullets. How different was van Heutsz from that other colonial hero, van der Wijck. In order to conquer North Celebes, he set village against village. Each village usually had between fifteen and forty men armed to defend it. Bribing the village chiefs with cigars, he bred enmity and conflict among them. Village after village fell into his hands without his having to use more than a few score middle-level army troops. And so he obtained fame and glory as the man who conquered North Celebes.
Van Heutsz with bullets and the Korte Verklaring, van der Wijck with cigars. There were many ways, it seemed, to steal someone’s country. And the objective was always the same—to win the race being run by all the colonial powers of the world to see who was the greatest thief, the greediest, the best at sucking up the riches of the earth and of its peoples.
It made me sick.
Then one day: “It would be ideal, of course, if the Indies were unified,” said a journalist, “but won’t it mean a greater burden for the government?”
Van Heutsz didn’t answer. Instead he made the following pronouncement: “Those who resist will pay dearly for their resistance.”
“What do you mean ‘will pay dearly’?”
“As it was after the Padri War and the Java War. West Sumatra and Java were subjected to a system of Forced Cultivation.”
“But the people of the Sunda Islands, and of the Moluccas and Central Celebes, and of Sangir and Talaud are not known as farmers.”
“They will soon learn to be very fine farmers.”
Then came another idea, no less sharp than the first: “If the Korte Verklaring was inspired by Christian values, then why was it military methods that were used? Why weren’t they helped instead with priests, teachers, engineers, and money?”
But the government knew only the methods it had used ever since first setting foot in the Indies.
“This is the only way they will come to understand the good and honorable intentions of the government. Crime and sin must no longer be allowed to flourish in these small states, which have not yet subjected themselves to the authority of Her Majesty. Financial help? The people of the Indies have always been corrupt. Corruption is a part of their mentality, whether dukun or trader, whether peasant or king. They do not understand the value of money. They only understand the needs of their own lust. Only the power of the Netherlands Indies can educate them. Only the army understands their character.”
These were the words, such impressive words, that were on everybody’s lips—in official discussions and over coffee. Sometimes spoken out in the open, sometimes whispered as a rumor. Once, when van Heutsz was speaking to the press, I was the only journalist—and the only brown one also—who did not ask a question of van Heutsz. I was taking notes when the interview had finished.
Then the governor-general turned to me: “Ah, Mr. Minke. I’m glad you didn’t fire any questions at me. I was worried.” He laughed. “It’s usually the last question that is the most difficult to answer!”
Seeing that I wasn’t going to ask a question, he reached out with his eyes to the white journalists. He spoke again: “Gentlemen, this is Mr. Minke—writer, journalist, failed medical student—and now helping the government with his weekly paper, Medan, which has been explaining and strengthening our legal system here. I almost didn’t recognize you with that handsome mustache.”
His friendly laugh was overdone. His voice struck me like a bolt of lightning. Mama’s warning had been affirmed by none other than Governor-General van Heutsz himself. In my heart, I felt so ashamed and humiliated.
“Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“I know you have an important question.”
“Very simple, Your Excellency,” I answered. And the following question seemed to emerge from nowhere: “The government’s desire to eradicate barbarism and sin from these areas is truly noble. The people living there will receive protection and progress and also lose their independence and freedom.…”
“Don’t forget, sir, the people there were never independent, let alone free. It was only ever the few among the rulers who knew independence and freedom. The rest were their slaves,” van Heutsz hit back.
“There can be no doubt about that, Your Excellency. And how would Your Excellency compare their situation with that of the Javanese people, who have lived under the rule of Holland and the tricolor for three hundred years, but still live in barbarism and darkness and have lost their independence and freedom as well?”
The governor-general roared with laughter until his shoulders shook. But his laughter did not arise from a tickled sense of humor.
“Gentlemen. Java and Sumatra cannot be used as comparison. These two territories are special; they are the mother territories. If you want to make a comparison, use Ambon or North Celebes. The people there have progressed so much, it’s almost impossible to tell them from Europeans. You gentlemen are no doubt able to testify to their loyalty and bravery. As for Sumatra and Java, the problem has always been that their nobility are always plotting. When the nobility had been put in order, then the landlords started. They were put in order, now it’s the kyai and the peasants. Ah, Mr. Minke, you yourself once spoke about the peasant troubles in Sidoarjo? If only the people of Sumatra and Java would stop making trouble like this, I’m sure that even in as little as five years, they would catch up to the Ambonese and the people of North Celebes.”
His adjutant signaled that the interview was over. But van Heutsz didn’t seem satisfied with the explanation he had just given. He asked the journalists: “Have any of you heard about the peasant rebellion calling itself the Samin movement?”
No one answered.
“They began their rebellion at the beginning of the Aceh War. They’ve been in rebellion now for a quarter of a century! They too are going to be taught a lesson in the near future.”
The interview was over.
I cycled home slowly. It was a beautiful, cool evening. The sky was full of sparkling stars. Nighttime quiet had settled down upon the town of Betawi. Everywhere there were lights and lamps. The gaslit streetlights and the oil lamps of the street peddlers shone all along the streets. It was only in my heart that no light shone. Pitch darkness reigned there. I did not deserve to be able to walk upon the earth beneath my feet, to enjoy the beauty of the sky above me, or the respect of the people who moved about me. Mama had warned me. And now the governor-general himself had said it. I was helping the government with my magazine Medan, while across to the east, my fellow countrymen, the Balinese, were laying down their lives as they faced the rifles and cannons of the army—sent there by none other than van Heutsz himself. Where could I hide my shame? What was the meaning of all my efforts of these last two years?
I felt small and without meaning. A Troenodongso, fleeing wounded by an army sword, understood things better than this so-called educated man. He had fought back, wounded and defeated. But he had never helped the government as I had been doing during the last two years. Neither had Mama. Nor Panji Darman. And Jean Marais himself had been ashamed that he had fought in the Aceh War. And now I, yes I, had indeed aided the militarist, van Heutsz.
Was I no more than just a dog?
Speak! Why are you silent, conscience; come on, speak!
Very well. I am more than just some street dog. And I will never be just a dog! I will be myself. Fully, not a dog. Never! Believe me. Ne
ver!
Heh, you, riding the bicycle! Your dislike for the governor-general is just because he’s Dutch? But look at the army—most of the soldiers are your own people. Would it make any difference if the governor-general were a Native and most of the soldiers were European? What do you think? What’s your position? Or what if the whole of the army was made up of your own people? A Native governor-general would have the same goal—a “unified” Indies. If you think van Heutsz is vicious, then what is your opinion of Sultan Agung, who did exactly the same thing? Without ever thinking about such an ideal as unifying the archipelago?
These thoughts were painful thoughts. I pedaled faster. I leave you behind here in the middle of the road, you wild thoughts! Leave me alone!
I was still feeling ashamed and guilty when I arrived at the printer’s later that night. Sandiman and Wardi were waiting for me.
“They won’t print our paper,” Sandiman reported.
To hell with the paper, I wanted to cry out. But out of my mouth came: “Very well. We have no right to force them to print for us. They have no enforceable legal commitment to us. There is nothing we can do. We’ll have to look for another printer tomorrow. Let’s go home.”
Three weary people walked out of the printer’s.
From behind us came someone’s sneering laughter.
“Don’t turn around,” I said.
But the laughter became louder and was even more obviously being put on. It seemed we were being deliberately provoked into looking around. It was only I who turned. Behind us stood a Eurasian, tall and heavily built, with a big, thick mustache. He was flexing a long cane stick held between his two hands. He wore a cap pulled down over his forehead. His eyes were bulging out and his teeth were bared at me.
“The Last Days of Pompeii are upon us,” he muttered in Dutch.
The word “Pompeii” reminded me of a book that I had once owned and had lent to Robert Suurhof: The Last Days of Pompeii. He had never returned it. And that grumbling voice…The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Could it be? I looked again. He was following us. And yes, it was Robert Suurhof.
I quickened my pace and headed for my bicycle. Wardi and Sandiman, who knew that something was wrong, followed on behind me. And I found my bike lying on the ground without a single spoke of its wheels left unbroken.
This is what I get for helping Governor-General van Heutsz, my heart wailed.
If you knew all that had happened today, Mama, you would withdraw all your offers of help. And Panji Darman had long ago warned me about Robert Suurhof. And now there he was, threatening me behind my back.
That night I couldn’t sleep. Even Flower of the Century’s End and Ang San Mei’s picture could not give me inspiration. They had both become lifeless for me. I had asked Sandiman to report the attack on my bicycle first thing in the morning. It was Wardi’s job to find a new printer, a routine task.
And what about Medan? Would I continue with that shameful work? And Ter Haar had never once said anything about my magazine. He had only written about the struggle of the Balinese. Perhaps he had never had any respect for what I was publishing. Why was I only beginning to understand now? After he had died on the blade of a Balinese fighter?
When I awoke the next morning, I found that Sandiman and Wardi had left. I began to reflect on the contents of this magazine whose publication was now under threat and which were themselves under question. And what had Robert Suurhof to do with the printers? And why should he try to stop the publication, when van Heutsz had said it was helping the government?
I had not yet found the answer when Wardi returned. All the European and the Chinese printers refused to accept Medan. Only one Arab printer was interested and he wanted a two-year contract.
“Do we have to have a press of our own?” I asked.
“The Arab will do the job without a contract but in that case his price is very high.”
Even with all the new questions I had, I was not prepared to let this magazine die after I had kept it alive for so long and with so much effort.
“Accept the offer,” I said, and Wardi left to arrange it.
Sandiman returned about an hour after Wardi left. He had been taken by the police to the scene of the crime, and was ordered to watch the arrest of the worker who had done the damage.
“The police will be here in about an hour to take the bicycle as evidence.”
“Sandiman!” I called to him, taking no notice of his report. “Would you be willing to go back to Solo to meet with your friends and your brother in the Mangkunegaran Legion?”
“If the purpose was clear, Tuan.”
“You yourself said you had heard the rumors that the Legion was going to be sent to Bali to fight there. Well, the rumors have become even stronger now. It seems likely that the Dutch will give the order soon. They are going to have to expand the war to Lombok. The people there are loyal to Klungkung. The Dutch need many more soldiers.”
“Yes-yes, I understand, Tuan. I will leave straightaway.”
“And what will you do there?”
“That which you’re asking me to do?”
“And what is it that I want?”
“To stop the Legion from going.”
“Good. You can leave tomorrow.”
Our conversation was brought to a halt by a suspicious-sounding rumble. It became louder and louder, and the louder it became the closer it sounded. The two of us swung around to face the street. There appeared a big four-wheeled box, which stopped in front of the house.
“An automobile!” I shouted excitedly.
Immediately we both descended the front steps and headed for the horseless carriage. But before we made it to the gate, the car was surrounded by people. It was shaped like a normal carriage, except there were no horses. Its wheels were made from wood. Its hood was folded back. Smoke and dust were still spewing out of the back.
This was possibly the first car to arrive in the Indies from England. And whose was it?
A European, in a yellow-green civilian uniform, wearing a cap of the same color, and civilian shoes, alighted. Another European, sitting behind the wheel, stayed put. The one who had alighted came through the gate into my front yard.
“Does Mr. Minke live here?” he asked in Dutch. “Ah, it’s you yourself? What luck.” And he gave me a letter from the palace summoning me to an audience with the governor-general in Buitenzorg, and suggesting I try out riding the automobile.
The automobile raced along faster than any train. I felt I was in a box that had been thrown down from the heavens by San Hyang Bayu, the God of Wind. Everybody and everything in the car was shaken by its vibrations. Ascending hills gave it no problem. And when going downhill it raced even faster. Unlike a horse, it did not have to worry about breaking a leg because of a too-heavy load. The view along the road was also different than that from the train. And the wind rushed past with such gusto!
People made way for the automobile as soon as they heard it coming from far away—carriages, buffalo carts, pedestrians. Everyone stopped to admire, even the buffaloes and workhorses. Only once did a surrey race off, diving into the paddy fields. There were even more admirers once we entered Buitenzorg. Everyone wanted to be the first to report what they had seen.
The automobile came to a halt in the palace gardens. The governor-general, wearing civilian clothes, was seated by himself on a white-painted cane chair. I alighted and greeted this wild beast whom I was meeting now in his own lair. He held out his hand.
“Ha, Mr. Minke! How did you like traveling by automobile? Good, heh?”
“A most exquisite experience, Your Excellency, a true product of the modern age.”
“It won’t be long before there are many traveling the streets of Batavia and Buitenzorg. You’ll no doubt be getting one yourself.”
“How would that be possible, Your Excellency?”
“How would that be possible? Why wouldn’t it be possible! Anyone can order one and have it brought out here. Without
exception.”
“Huh.”
“Please, be seated. Why are we standing like this?”
As soon as we sat down I thanked him for this honor and for his being prepared to make time to receive me.
“Yes, it’s nice to be able to chat quietly in the evening like this. How do you like to be called? By your pen name? Or your real name?”
“My real name, Your Excellency.”
“Ah-ha, this is not an official function, you can drop the ‘Your Excellency.’”
“Very well, sir.’
“I’d like to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, Mr. Minke. The government has high hopes that the educated Natives will help it carry out its work, its work in implementing the new Ethical Policy, a policy based on the Netherlands’ repaying its debt to the Indies. You can see for yourself how we have moved many people from Java to Lampung so as to alleviate the poverty on Java. The roads and railway system of Java are now among the best in the world—something you should also remember. Then there are the forests—they are the most beautiful giant plantations in the world. There is all the work done in expanding the irrigation system so that now we can get more than one crop per year from the same land. There is still a need to do some research into the education question. Especially as concerns financing it. And if the result of educating Natives is simply to produce a question factory like yourself, then that, of course, would be disappointing to the government.”
“But, sir, all my life I have asked you only two questions, once when you were a general and once as governor-general.”
“Yes, but questions asked in public, and such sharp questions.” He smiled and smacked his lips a little. “Yes-yes, perhaps you didn’t realize just how sharp your questions were. The government’s efforts will have been of little use if all they produce are such cutting questions as yours. And of not much use to the Natives either.”