Footsteps

  “Very well. So we should consider this congress as the congress of the government’s priyayi?”

  “Be careful. The princes and the representatives of the government will also be there.” He was sounding more and more like a priyayi. “It’s lucky you’re not one of our leaders. This democracy of yours could ruin all our efforts to educate the country’s children. In just another twenty years—may God give us the time to achieve our victory—BO will change this people and awaken them.”

  This big mouth was putting up his embattlements now—the priyayi’s arrogance. And these were the corps of people I had tried to unite, and were now united as Javanese under the banner of the BO. I closed my eyes and pretended to be about to drift off into the world of dreams. But the thought that it was not right that I leave this argument unresolved made me open my eyes again. I added: “Government priyayi and the princes are no better than anyone else who is not a priyayi or a prince.”

  “Yes, people have to be educated to know who are their betters. You’re from a bupati’s family, aren’t you? You were taught to know the difference between a street urchin and someone who has been to school? Those who have a schooling have been taught to honor the priyayi, the officials, the raja and their families!” His face was turning red with anger.

  “And what honor do they who are neither priyayi nor prince have? Do they have no dignity and honor at all? Are they just garbage?”

  “If everyone had honor and dignity, then there would be no honor at all.”

  “If one is to be honored and the other not, then it means one has stolen the other’s honor.”

  “There is no question of stealing anything,” he answered nervously. “We were born into a world where there are already raja and their families, where there is already a government with its priyayi. There are those who are honored, and those who have no honor, and there are those who are humiliated, because that is the world. There are men and there are women. There are the high and the low. There is the earth and the sky. There are the poor and the rich. You were taught in school too that for everything there is a plus and minus…”

  “…and that humankind moves from minus to plus and that is called struggle? Or have you forgotten, Koen? Or has BO forgotten? It is not the intention, is it, of the BO to maintain things as they are? So that the poor remain poor, the ignorant remain stupid, and the sick just lie waiting for death to arrive?” And because I had now begun to study the Islamic religion in a more systematic manner, these additional words also came out: “And our prayers, what are they if not also movement from minus to plus? Do you know what is the meaning of prayer? A request to God, a movement from the most minus to the most plus.”

  And I closed my eyes, pretending to yawn. From underneath my eyelids I could see him bite his lips, take out his copy of Medan, and then start reading.

  I was still restless. Was this the face of the educated Native? So what was the point of an organization if not to move from minus to plus? If Sadikoen was representative of the BO, then it would just become a salon club without a salon.

  I heard Sadikoen clear his throat. Once. Twice. It seemed he now had a reply and was trying to wake me up. But I chose just to listen to the clatter of the train and feel it trembling. He didn’t know that without Sandiman the Boedi Oetomo would quickly meet the same fate as the Sarekat. How could it be otherwise when the raw material was just the same old stuff? If the only difference was that its leaders were from among the young priyayi?

  The Boedi Oetomo was also propelled by the so-called “demonstration effect,” everyone was infused with the spirit to copy whatever was done by their superiors, everything that the rich and powerful did was turned into a fashion, even their way of life. As soon as someone powerful joined the BO all his followers and underlings followed suit. And wasn’t that also the way the religions were spread in Java, and wasn’t it also in that spirit that the raja had handed over themselves and their peoples and their countries to the Dutch?

  I gave thanks that my meeting with Sadikoen had been productive, had led me to thoughts that now made easier my struggle to understand the mistakes of the past and find a way forward for the future. There were no mistakes that could not be corrected.

  As usual the carriage was not full. This was especially the case for the Betawi-Surabaya express. The fare was too expensive for anyone without position or a major business, especially for first class. There were even very few Europeans.

  From underneath my eyelids I saw Sadikoen stand up and walk away. Perhaps he was going to the toilet. Not long afterward he returned with a man wearing overalls, who just stood there beside Sadikoen, with a bit of a bow in the way he stood. He clasped his hands before him. He didn’t dare sit down, only because the priyayi caste system classified him as being of lower status.

  Sadikoen coughed twice to wake me up. I opened my eyes, pretending to rub away the sleep: “I seem to have fallen asleep.”

  “For quite a while,” said Sadikoen, which was obviously not true. “This is one of the brakemen. He wanted to talk to you. He is also a member of the Kroja Branch of the BO.”

  “Your servant’s name is Ja’in, Bendoro,” he said in High Javanese.

  I glanced at Sadikoen. He didn’t feel uncomfortable at hearing kromo being spoken to me.

  “Why don’t we just use Malay?” I asked.

  “Very well, Bendoro.”

  “Sit here, beside me,” I invited him.

  “Forgive me, Bendoro. I’m happier standing like this. I’m used to working standing up. And please don’t be angry with me for seeking an audience with you, Bendoro. I am also a subscriber to Medan. Happily Bendoro Doctor told me that Bendoro was also on the train. When else, if not now, would I get such an opportunity?”

  “What is it that you want?” I also stood.

  “Please sit down, Bendoro,” he begged.

  But I remained standing. Sadikoen was watching each of us closely.

  “Many of my friends, either individually or together in groups, subscribe to Medan. We like it very much. Truly, Bendoro. Medan is not just something that entertains us, it has also become our leader. Bendoro has been able to help my fellow railway workers three times now. The publication on the law as well as the extremely interesting Sunday supplement have all helped us a lot.”

  Such praise had become by now extremely boring. Yet I had to listen. It usually ended with either some biting criticism or with some pathetic request, depending on the opening. The more the praise, the more biting the ending. And I had to listen and pay attention, just like Multatuli’s Droogstoppel, because who knows if one day I will need his voice? His services? His agreement?

  “Bendoro, Medan has published a newspaper and a magazine explaining the law. I would very much like to request Medan to publish a special magazine for us, the railway workers.”

  “A special magazine?”

  “Yes, Bendoro, like that published by the Railway Workers Union.”

  “But you can follow what’s in the union magazine.”

  “It’s in Dutch, Bendoro. We can’t read Dutch. And it is only for union members and we Natives aren’t allowed to join.”

  It was only then that I learned that the union was organized along racial lines, enrolling only Dutch and Eurasians.

  “Give me time to think about it, Ja’in,” I answered.

  “Medan won’t lose money, Bendoro. All the railway workers have a decent wage. They also want to advance. And if Bendoro will not hold out his hand, then who else will?”

  No one else will help except Medan. Once more someone is hoping that a new project will be begun. And once it is begun, in the spirit of dedication to one’s people, then one after another from that people come more demands, even more substantial and with even more worth. Each time you take up one of their demands, another comes forth. If you had decided to simplify your life and be a doctor, perhaps in a hospital or on a ship, or in an army barracks, your work would never have been as exciting as this. You hav
e chosen. Every word that comes from you, whether written or spoken, challenges your abilities, and pushes you to limits where the law too always makes its own demands.

  Ja’in continued his stories about the lives of the railway workers, their joys and sorrows, the fact they had little hope for advancement in their work because all the senior positions were reserved for Europeans. Their only distraction was their endeavor to advance themselves generally, to learn and understand more about the world and its ways. They would never have an opportunity to advance in their work beyond what had been determined officially.

  The brakeman bowed hurriedly and excused himself, making his way quickly out of the carriage. Not long after, the conductor entered checking tickets.

  Mas Sadikoen handed over his ticket without looking at the conductor, who accepted it while bowing in deference. “Ndoro Doctor is on his way to Jogja?” asked the conductor.

  “Yes. Mmmmm. Could you check on Madame Ndoro?”

  “Very well, Ndoro. Have a good trip, Ndoro Doctor.”

  The conductor left through the same door as Ja’in.

  Mas Sadikoen was still looking at me.

  “You’re angry at the way I answered his questions?” I asked, without bothering to defer to his priyayi-ness.

  “Could be. I have to say, at the very least, you have strange ideas that I need to understand better.”

  “You’re looking at me as if I were some monkey lost in the night market.”

  “Could be. I still don’t understand you. Everywhere you go you’re famous and people look up to you. People come to you to ask your help, to appeal to your heart.” All of a sudden he changed the subject: “Eh, in Kroja there’s this Indo. He’s been wanting to meet you for some time now. Actually he has a house in Kroja but is rarely there. At the moment he’s on leave from his job in Jeddah. He works in the Dutch Consulate there. A real Indo; everything about him is Indisch. Would you like to meet him?”

  “He also wants something from me?”

  “Maybe he’s like everyone else.”

  “Why doesn’t he just go to the BO?”

  “He’s an Indo. He asked to join the Kroja branch but was rejected. He went to the Betawi Committee, but they rejected his application too. He’s also going to Jogja, not to attend the congress but to protest.”

  “So what does he want with me?”

  “He has some suggestions and would like to discuss things with you. He’s a very interesting chap. I can assure you that you won’t find him boring. He’s called Hans. I met him playing cards.”

  And he studied me, as if I were one of his patients. The train raced on, rattling and shaking. Paddy fields, crops, and villages all chased after each other. But it was the telegraph poles that sped by the fastest.

  “This Indo is truly an extraordinary person. He prefers to be called Pak Haji, ‘Father Haji.’ Wherever he goes—at least wherever I have seen him—he wears the Moslem fez. He calls himself Haji Moeloek.”

  “He may incur the anger of the Moslems,” I said.

  “He has gone on the pilgrimage himself twice already. I said he was an employee at the Dutch consulate in Jeddah. You mustn’t forget that his Dutch is as good as—in fact, better than—any graduate from a religious school on Java. He will be returning to his job in Jeddah next month.”

  “He must be a person with many experiences,” I said.

  “His stories are always fascinating.”

  “Good. Then I would like to meet him.”

  The brakeman didn’t appear again. It wasn’t until the train had stopped at Jogjakarta that I saw him. He was waiting outside the ticket gate.

  “I wish you all the best at the congress, Bendoro,” he said, then went off to his work.

  The second congress of the Boedi Oetomo was the first big meeting I had ever attended. The main auditorium of the teachers’ college was packed full. There was the president of the Betawi BO, Raden Tomo, who spoke in Dutch, never having had a Javanese education, unable to express himself in Javanese. God have mercy on us! The bupatis and the princes paraded their smiles. Six soldiers of the Mangkunegaran Legion silently stared at all around them. The old retired Java Doctor, who was now the president of the congress, had unilaterally renamed it Boedyatama. The pendopo at the front of the building had been extended on all sides by several yards of temporary roofing. It was truly an event to be remembered for the rest of your life.

  Of course, the front rows were taken up by the high nobles and the senior officials of the Netherlands Indies government, as well as the Sultanate and Residency of Jogjakarta, including the resident himself. They were all seated in rows according to their rank. There was the retired Bupati of Karanganyar, Tirtaningrat, who was the Life President of the Tirtayasa organization and the first Javanese to establish a traditional organization and school on his own initiative. There were also the Bupatis of Blora, Temanggung, Magelang, and Jogjakarta city, as well as several other senior district officials and many teachers and high school students, prospective new-style priyayi. Almost everyone, except a few people from outside Java, wore traditional priyayi clothes. The nobles of Jogjakarta wore locally woven clothes. The priyayi from outside Jogjakarta wore white blouses. Not everyone wore keris, as they would at a reception. There were many who ventured to wear leather slippers, either black or brown, except those who wore full European dress. And everyone carried a briefcase, as if they were on duty in a government office.

  The columns around the auditorium were decorated with the Dutch flag and tree leaves. There were also decorations all around the building made from green woven banana leaves.

  There were three rows of chairs along the sides for the journalists who had come from all over Java—Native, Dutch, Malay, and Chinese. I also sat with the journalists. Among them was my old Surabaya friend Kommer, and I noticed that Douwager, that protégé of Multatuli so often mentioned in Mir’s letters, was also there.

  Together with these people, assembled with one purpose and one spirit, I felt a part of them all. I felt so proud. The hubbub from the auditorium felt like the rumbling of my own heart. And the colors that abounded everywhere reflected my own joy at the occasion. The trembling in the atmosphere was the trembling in the crucible of my own soul. Everything loomed so large. Even the strangeness. It was as if slithering along the floor, crawling and bowing down, were now alien to the ways of the Javanese. Amazing!

  The president of the congress, the retired Java Doctor, in the manner of the priest who, in the wayang, had just descended from meditations on the mountain, explained the meaning of the name Boedyatama. Then he gave this advice—master the Dutch language, because it is a weapon. And then followed more talk. Before, there were only two classes—the priyayi and the peasant. Now there is a third group—the middle class.

  Go to school! To school! one of the students of the Native civil service schools exhorted. He spoke school Malay, and most of the people there didn’t understand. Foreigners had come to our country and they had all become wealthy. Not because of their own cleverness, but because of the ignorance of our own people. To school! To school!

  Study and copy how the Europeans do things, admonished a Java Doctor from the Surakarta palace. Then the debate started. The issue: Most of the Javanese felt they did not need to learn anything new, that they did not need the Europeans. Rather it was the Europeans who needed the Javanese. After all, wasn’t it true that it was the Europeans who had come to Java?

  Raden Tomo spoke: The government has now set up many primary and vocational schools. We are grateful, but they are still not enough. Indeed, it would be too great a burden for the government if it were to build all the schools we need. We must ourselves take on the responsibility of advancing our children even while waiting upon the compassion of the government as it increases the numbers of schools and courses.

  And the opening speeches then concluded. The Java Doctor from Kroja did not speak. He sat in the ninth row.

  Back at the hotel I made only a few note
s. They all assumed that it was the natural role of the priyayi to lead. This was the thinking that led me to found the Sarekat Priyayi and the same thinking that took it to total disaster.

  And who would have guessed that on that very evening I would receive a visit from a bupati! The Bupati of Temanggung! And he did not require me to bow and scrape before him. He went straight to the matter that concerned him. He had also founded an organization—a local organization called Sasangka Purnama. It was a traditional-style organization. It had no constitution or organizational rules. He was dissatisfied that his organization was unable to grow outside Temanggung.

  This was a remarkable bupati. He had come to listen to the opinion of another person, who wasn’t even a priyayi. What was even more amazing was that he understood that there were other subjugated people in the Indies besides the Javanese, such as the Arabs and Chinese. And he could understand and indeed agree with the need for a multiracial organization.

  The congress moved quickly to adopt a constitution and organizational rules. There were thirteen candidates for the position of central president: five bupatis, two doctors, four teachers, a major in the Pakualam palace regiment, and an architect. I knew only Dr. Tjipto Mangoenkoesomo and the Bupati of Serang, Djajadiningrat.

  While sitting in the auditorium during the counting of the votes, everyone was busy introducing themselves to each other. A young man came up to me and invited me to go and eat at one of the Jogjakarta street stalls with him. He looked like an office assistant. He was still very young, and he wore his destar the way the clerks do. He was barefooted, his traditional blouse was held together by discreetly placed pins, and his widely pleated sarong was held in place with clips. He said it was important. While gulping down coffee and savoring the aroma of frying tape and newly harvested durian, he took out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket, as yet unadorned by a pocket watch. And he never said a word. Like any priyayi meeting with his superior, he just bowed his head with his eyes fixed below. He paid for our drinks, excused himself, and then disappeared who-knows-where.