I was left sitting in my chair, reflecting on how harmonious and close were European husbands and wives, the man not making a slave of the woman, the woman not enslaving herself to the man, as was the case with my people. How beautiful would such a marriage be. I would never find the kind of woman I hoped for from among my own people.
“You’re not finished your work yet?” asked Mir. She had sat down again, her husband beside her in his clean shirt.
“It’s not work, Mir. I was just thinking about something.”
“Minke went to medical school,” Mir said to her husband. “You can ask him about your health.”
“A failed medical student, Mr. Frischboten,” I parried quickly. “And I have never gone back to my studies.”
The lawyer didn’t respond to his wife’s comment or to mine. He just nodded mysteriously.
“You like going for strolls, Meneer.”
“Yes.”
“Doctor’s advice. Hendrik must do a lot of walking, the faster the better,” added Mir.
“Ill?”
“No, Meneer, but I need a lot of exercise.”
I was beginning to understand a little about the dynamics of this family. And the little I could understand indicated that there was something wrong there. The harmony and closeness were perhaps just an outer skin covering whatever was wrong.
“At the very least the atmosphere in the Indies will be a good influence. Isn’t that right, darling? Hendrik was born in the Indies.”
I hope it isn’t a mental problem, I prayed. Working together with him in that case wouldn’t be of much benefit. But Mama would never suggest a person who had mental problems. From his sagging cheeks I guessed he might be suffering from some kind of nervous exhaustion. He wasn’t old, forty at the most. And the exhaustion was even more evident in his eyes.
“You can rest here in Buitenzorg for as long as you want before starting work,” I said. “There’s no hurry. If you need to rest, take even one or two months. There’s no problem. Whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Meneer. I would never get the chance to rest before starting work in Europe.”
The evening’s conversation ended. I listened to them say “Good evening” and watched them walk off to their room. Such rapport, such harmony. But was the reality different?
Sandiman arrived with a student from the medical school. He had come to my house in Betawi several times. He was moon-faced and he had spent most of his time gazing at the Flower of the Century’s End.
“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten me,” he said in careful Dutch.
“Of course not. But your name…I’m sorry, really, but I’ve forgotten. Forgive me.”
“Tomo, sir, Raden Tomo.”
“Oh yes, Raden Tomo,” I said, even though I had never known his name.
“I’ve come hoping to discuss some business with you, and, of course, to visit you in your new home.”
“Thank you, sir, and this is all it is.”
“It’s a very big house, much bigger than the one in Betawi.”
“Just a coincidence. This building was empty.”
“The news is that it was a gift from the governor-general?”
Whaaat! The rumors have spread that far!
“The governor-general owes me nothing. He has no reason to give me a gift.”
“They say the governor-general once thanked you openly and in public. Is that true?”
“Yes, that did happen. In a meeting with the press. But it’s going a bit far to try to connect that with my new home.”
“But you are his friend, aren’t you?”
“It’s the governor-general who wants to be friends. I am just a Native subject of the Netherlands Indies.”
“From your tone I would say that you’re not too happy to be thanked by him and to have him seek you out as his friend?”
“You can make your own judgment about that.”
Raden Tomo was quiet for a moment, thinking, then he glanced around the room.
“You don’t hang that picture any more, sir?”
“Why? Did you like it?”
“Just asking, sir. I am here on other business.”
“I hope I can be of help.”
Meanwhile Sandiman was watching us suspiciously.
“How is the Sarekat Priyayi?”
“Not so good, Meneer Tomo. It hasn’t lived up to our expectations. I went after the wrong membership. Its members are the priyayi—static, no initiative, no life in them. Their only ambition is to spend the rest of their life undisturbed working for the government. I shouldn’t have chosen them. But what can be done? It’s a mistake that has already been made.”
“Perhaps that mistake has given you a new perspective on things?”
“Yes, I’ve thought it over. I do have a new view on these things now.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“If the organization became rigid and lifeless it was because that’s the kind of members it had. We should have sought out the young, idealistic people to recruit, definitely not priyayi who have become mummified in government service, but independent and free individuals.…”
“So what will be the fate of the Sarekat Priyayi?”
“It sounds as if you’re interested in organizing?”
“Since that day, two years ago, that you first proposed the idea to us, I have followed what you have been doing and the fate of the Sarekat. I’ve thought a lot about why the organization has not even been able to carry out the things it advocates in its own constitution.”
“Or perhaps it’s my fault. I’m such a bad organizer. Isn’t that so, Sandiman?”
“A stone house cannot be built without stones, Tuan,” he answered cryptically. “And a wooden house cannot be built without wood.”
“A stone house can be built without stones. It just means that you have to make the stones first,” I answered. “If you have a capable engineer, he will be able to build the house. I’m not such an engineer. I even failed as a doctor.”
“Why don’t we stop talking about failure?” said Sandiman. “Tuan Tomo wants to talk about new initiatives.”
“Yes, Meneer. It seems that you don’t expect much more from the Sarekat Priyayi. It won’t offend you if I talk about the new initiatives—an organization being founded by young, idealistic youth?”
As far as I was concerned, the Sarekat was dead. Whether that was fair or not is beside the point. There was no reason to mourn. A deformed baby will usually miscarry.
“You cannot force things.”
“Thank you, Meneer Minke. If such a new initiative did get off the ground, would you have any objections to helping?”
“As a person with ideals it would be my duty to help.”
“If Tuan Minke promises help,” Sandiman emphasized, “you will surely receive it. Once promised it will never be withdrawn.”
“Of course, I must believe you,” whispered Raden Tomo. “The stories about your relationship with the governor-general have been exaggerated, perhaps?”
“It sounds as though you would like those rumors to be true?”
“Well, Meneer Minke, I think that if you go with the stream things are always easier.”
Sandiman’s eyes almost popped out.
“It seems that Meneer Sandiman doesn’t agree. I expected so.” Raden Tomo tried to explain his views. “Everything that wants to grow must adjust to the situation. It is the situation that must bring things forth to grow.”
“Excuse me.” Sandiman rose and left the room. He didn’t reappear.
“It seems he definitely doesn’t agree. I think my opinion is sufficiently scientific, based on the laws of life.”
“At least you have an opinion.”
“I didn’t come to this opinion lightly, Meener. In fact, I base it on my observations of what happened to the Sarekat. Are you still willing to help?”
“I’ve given my word.”
He returned to Betawi satisfied. Sandiman was disappointed howe
ver. He came out and sat down across from me.
“The reports about your friendship with the governor-general are also rife in Jogja and Solo. They say this house was a gift from him and that you have received a European housekeeper, a man and wife. Is it true, Tuan?”
“You’re beginning to distrust me, Sandiman. We have worked together all this time on the basis of mutual trust. You left for Jogja and Solo on the basis of that trust. How could you distrust me now?”
“Because I also have the right to look after my own security, Tuan.
“Am I the sort of person who could betray you?”
“At the very least, Tuan, I could meet disaster because of your orders, while you would be protected by your friendship with the governor-general.”
“It’s fully within your rights to disagree with what I say and do, Sandiman, or what anybody says and does. You think that I should have refuted Tomo when he said it was better to float with the stream than resist authority. Well, I think he’s right, at least as far as organizing goes. Once the roots and stalk are strong, they will be strengthened by storms and cyclones.”
“I do not agree, Tuan.”
“You have the right to disagree, but do not force others to agree. Tomo doesn’t have the right to force you to agree with him either. At least he’s put a lot of time and effort into coming to his opinion, and into studying what has happened.”
Sandiman was not satisfied.
“So how did things go in Solo? That’s our work, not Tomo’s.”
“I am not sure that I should report, Tuan.”
“In that case, you needn’t report now.”
He looked angry. He excused himself to go back to my house in Betawi.
Outside my life, big things continued to happen. The last period of van Heutsz’s rule was laden with violence. In central Java, centered in the village of Klopoduwur, a peasant rebellion, calling itself the Samin movement, was also suppressed with arms. After a quarter of a century of rebellion these fifty thousand simple peasants finally knew defeat. They threw away their weapons, sharp and blunt, and drew a new, more powerful weapon from its sheath—social resistance, the refusal to obey all government laws and regulations. They refused to pay tax. They refused to do rodi, whatever the authorities called it, however they tried to disguise it. They gladly thronged into the jails and gladly thronged out of them again. They cleared forests and put up buildings without seeking permission. The government didn’t know what to do. In the end they decided to let the Samin peasants live the way they wanted as long as they didn’t threaten the government, the authorities, and their agents with armed force.
In Klungkung, Bali, the army launched a massive attack. Villages fell one after the other—Kusamba, Asah, Dewan, Satera, Tulikup, Takmung, Bukit Jimbul. The king of Klungkung, of Bali, I Dewa Agung Djambe, along with his wife and children, all his family and his people, dressed themselves in white ready to die. They came out of the palace and their houses and encircled the city—four miles in all—to await the army.
In Minangkabau, in southwest Sumatra, another rebellion broke out. The people there refused to pay taxes and do rodi.
The independent principalities, the enclaves, the pockets of power that the government called “landschap,” one by one fell into van Heutsz’s hands without offering any resistance, without there being more wars—in Sumba, Sumbawa, the interior of Timor, Central Celebes, Borneo…
The resistance in Tapanuli, in North Sumatra, was announced as over when Si Singamangaraja was killed. Dutch power had begun to be consolidated in Tapanuli around 1876. The colonialists’ obituaries for Si Singamangaraja were full of insults and slander, and were spittle in the face of all Native youth. They were being faithful to the colonial way—slandering those who had been defeated, who were powerless, and especially those who had already become spirits. The most strongly voiced slander was that Si Singamangaraja was no better than any other Native leader—they were all unable to keep themselves from stealing women. They said that not long before he died he stole the maiden Natingka, the daughter of King Pardopur, the fiancée of Radja Nawaolu. When they hate, there is no slander too great; when they are pleased, there is no praise too great.
And in my own life, the daily edition of Medan began to appear in Bandung. There were more rumors that the paper was also a gift from van Heutsz. While these slanders remained rumors I had no way of refuting them. I could not refute them openly in the paper, as that would mean mentioning the name of the governor-general as the representative of Her Majesty.
That’s the Indies for you, Mama wrote from France. The papers don’t dare print the truth, afraid they will be closed down or suspended, while the greedy priyayi are mummified in their jobs, as you said yourself, and those in power know only how to punish. Life is dominated by rumors. Anyone can become a victim without any chance of defending themselves. You must stop this, Child. Make your paper the only one in the Indies that works only for justice, for truth, for your people. Frischboten is an honest lawyer; he will do all he can to help you. On first impression you may not like him, but don’t be put off by what you see on the outside. He knows the Indies well. He too once said to me that the Indies is a factory that only produces priyayi, bureaucrats, and tyrants. It has never produced a single leader, except when they produce themselves, outside the government.
I could no longer question Frischboten’s reliability. Together we had solved the problem of the News Agency’s refusal to sell us their cable reports on important domestic news. They would sell us only international news. And our Native readers weren’t so interested in international news. We couldn’t afford to hire reporters of our own yet. In order to obtain local news we struck out on an unusual path. Medan opened its pages to all Natives, whether they held official positions or not, who wanted to report the problems they were facing, the troubles they confronted. Any problem, any trouble. Frischboten was ready to deal with all his strength with the cases that came in. People could get free legal advice. And underneath the name of the paper, on the front page, I printed the following explanation: “Open to any Native to present his opinion or to report his troubles.”
Within three months our office at No. 1 Naripan Street was continuously full of people coming from all over the place to report the troubles they were suffering—oppression, theft of their property, injury to their bodies by the colonial authorities and local elite, both white and brown. Sometimes it involved a conspiracy between the two of them, white and brown. Our administrative office in Bogor was also always full of village people asking for justice. Often it wasn’t only legal justice they were after but natural justice. They became the source of news for Medan. Within three months we had won the public’s confidence. And after three months Sandiman also turned up again.
He came to Buitenzorg one evening: “Yes, I have to admit, I have succeeded in no longer distrusting Tuan.” He started work in Bandung together with Wardi.
He had gone back to Solo and Jogjakarta to carry out the tasks I had given him, even while he distrusted me. The paper had restored his faith. He had contacted his brother in the Legion. They were making preparations to depart for Lombok. But the Legion’s officers all came to an agreement that they would not go and fight their brothers out there across from Java.
In such busy times I would have forgotten altogether about Maysoroh had she not written so often. Once she wrote:
Mama is already far advanced in her pregnancy and is going to give birth again in a few days. She hopes to be able to read the latest edition of your paper before the baby arrives.
It appeared that the last batch of papers I had sent had not reached her. Perhaps it was because one of Rotterdam Lloyd’s ships had recently sunk.
Rono Mellema is going to school now, she wrote another time, I had to enroll in a one-year course in French in order to be able to enroll in Gymnasium. I was so bored having to sit through all the classes so I left and have taken up violin and music lessons.
Her fourth
letter was an event in itself:
I’m beginning to feel at home now in Paris. The Indies seems like an unending jungle compared with what it is like here. We like to stroll along the Place de la Concorde and in the Cité, which people say is the heart of Paris. Everywhere there are palaces and gardens. Everywhere there is music and laughter. Everywhere there are cars and electric trams.
Om, I don’t think we’ll be coming back to the Indies. Mama says that things are so much quieter here, no evil and barbarity. What about our relationship, Om?
What about our relationship? What about it? My whole life was now dedicated to my two beloved children: Medan, coming out daily, and its older brother, coming out weekly. Even with these, the readers were still not satisfied. We also brought out a Sunday edition, the first in the Indies. This was something even the colonial press had never done.
The paper must be something that nourishes the Natives and gives them energy to fight for truth and justice. Within three months we overtook the circulation of Preanger Bode and Betawi’s Nieuws van den Dag.
My heart full of pride, I would often shout within myself: My fellow Natives, my people, now you have a paper of your own, a place where you can air your grievances. Do not worry. No more will evil escape being shamed and exposed before the world! Now you have Medan where you can state your opinions, explain your views, somewhere where every one of you can come to seek and find justice. Minke will take your cases before the court of the world!
About our relationship, May, I answered, it is up to you. I am bound to the land and the people of the Indies. It is to the Indies that I have dedicated myself. It is only in the Indies that I can achieve something meaningful. In another country I would perhaps be nothing more than a dried-out leaf being whisked along by the wind. You can decide, May.
And like a thunderbolt I received a letter from Ter Haar, who, it turned out, had not died but only been severely wounded and had collapsed at the feet of Lieutenant Colijn:
Within the next few weeks, my friend, I will be leaving the Indies forever. I will try to call in at your office in Bandung. I make sure that I follow your paper every day, even though I cannot yet appreciate the Malay that you use. The printing is also quite good for the Indies, especially remembering that it is not being done in Betawi. It’s a pity though that you use such big type; you lose a lot of space that way. Why don’t you use smaller print? It would make the paper look much better.