Footsteps

  So the fighting continued. One by one the Knijpers were put out of action as they came into contact with a wrench or a crowbar. The fighting ended as the Knijpers started grabbing up their fallen comrades.

  This incident wasn’t reported in the press either, but it did bring an end to the activities of the Knijpers.

  The SDI could breathe easily again. Except that we never came forward with any further proposals, like the one to buy ships, that could threaten European control over big business.

  Whenever I had the chance, when things were quiet, I would try to understand why Mama’s businesses never suffered this kind of harassment. Perhaps because the SDI was a big movement while Mama just worked quietly away without frightening the Europeans?

  Frischboten couldn’t answer this question either.

  “This is a new phenomenon,” he said. “There’s nothing like this discussed in any book. We have to study it more closely, and we must study it carefully. If we come to the wrong conclusions we could end up in big trouble.”

  He had asked me several times to come and visit them at their home. Mir missed me, he said. And it was true. I hadn’t been to see them for quite some time. Mir’s greetings were always like a spear that pierced through my heart. I knew she didn’t mean any harm. But it was a torture I could hardly bear: “Is the Princess pregnant?”

  My wife still showed no signs of being with child. And so I now faced a personal problem of my own: Was I a failure as a man, despite being a lover of women—a true philogynist?

  It was only the huge amount of work I had to deal with that made me forget these personal problems. The SDI was another new child that I had to look after. It needed never-ending care and attention and protection.

  There were no more reports in the international press about SDI, but it kept on growing and growing, turning into a giant tree with fifty thousand members. No European organization had ever grown to that size in the Indies.

  The art of self-defense flourished throughout West Java, just in case it should become necessary once again to confront the Knijpers. We continued to assist some of the nongovernment schools. Requests for legal assistance in overcoming cases of injustice flooded onto Frischboten’s desk. Medan’s circulation continued to increase, not by leaps and bounds but steadily. A comradeship started to develop among the membership. Native commerce blossomed wherever there were SDI branches. Rivalry among Native traders was replaced with cooperation.

  And the activities of the Knijpers had stopped as if whisked suddenly away by a whirlwind. That meant that they would reemerge later in some new form.

  In any case, the organization had passed its second test without injury.

  I conducted several tours around Java to observe the organization up close. Either Sandiman or Marko always went with me. Neither of them would let me travel by myself. So I was like a maharajah inspecting his realm. Everywhere I went the people came out to pay their respects and honor me. That’s what it was like! Multatuli had once dreamed of becoming a white emperor in the Indies. But he never had the chance to witness how the people greeted me. Everywhere!

  Don’t lose your balance! I cried out to myself, reminding myself of the dangers. Behind honor, there lay in wait annihilation. Behind life, death. Behind greatness, ruin. Behind unity, division. And behind every show of respect, a curse. So the best way was the middle way. Neither honor nor destruction. The middle way—the road to balance, to survival.

  And this organization had to be able to create the foundations for even further advance. It was not an end in itself, but a means to an end. It was not the ultimate destination, just a starting point. Everywhere I went I had to refuse the offer of titles. I had to order people not to squat or kneel before me. We were aiming for a new society, where everyone was equal as human beings.

  “Why does Sudara still use the title of Raden Mas?”

  “Only to ensure that I retain my rights to forum privilegiatum, so they can’t haul me up before some Native court where I can’t defend myself.”

  And the term sudara began to replace all the other forms of address that had hitherto existed. One Moslem was the brother, sudara, of all others.

  Princess never accompanied me on any of my journeys. Neither Marko nor Sandiman would allow it. And even at home there were always seven fighters from Banten on guard. They all wanted to ensure our safety, husband and wife.

  On every tour there was always somebody—once three in one tour—who proposed that I marry their prettiest daughter. The reason—so that I might leave my seed among their family. And so I had to become a teacher who taught that it was not blood or ancestry that determined whether a person would be successful or not. Rather it was a question of the education he received from those around him and a question of his own determination. Success was not a gift from the gods, but a result of of hard work and study.

  This wrong view about blood and ancestry had such strong roots in the literature of Java. The Mahabarata and Bharatayuddha provided nothing to grab hold of for those who wanted to enter the modern era. These great epics had become obstacles to the people’s advancement. These centuries-old teachings had lost touch with real life. They did not teach how rice was planted, or houses built, or how it was that people must sell what they produce. They taught only about fighting, and how good it was to become a lover of the gods, and thus further and further away from being human.

  A pathetic people, Herbert de la Croix had said. For me too it was pathetic. This people waited for the Gong, the Messiah, the Mahdi, the Just King. And he whom they awaited never came. That power that could change everything and all the prevalent thinking never arrived. Every time somebody emerged claiming the mantle of the Just King, from whatever village, wearing whatever kind of cloak and fez, he was always welcomed and hailed as savior. Then the people would return to passivity, though never tired of waiting for the new Messiah. And Minke is no savior; neither is it his work. At the most, I am a drum that introduces some disharmony into the melody.

  Wherever I went, I came across such superstitious thinking, thinking that had lost touch with even the most basic of realities.

  “Sudara, this is what I think: It is best that this branch of the SDI doesn’t accept any more members, because we have already reached the figure of—”

  “Why can’t you go beyond that figure?”

  “The number nine is a perfect number, Sudara. If we go beyond it by one, there we arrive at the emptiness of zero, only having to start over again from one.”

  Or: “There is no way we can hold our branch conference during this coming month, Sudara. We can’t find any auspicious days, not on the Javanese calendar either. In fact, the month is riddled with unlucky and inauspicious days.”

  “Has Sudara ever heard of the Roman Empire?” I replied that time.

  “No, I have only heard of Rum from the dramas.”

  “Rum is the city of Constantinople; Istanbul it is called now. It used to be called Eastern Rome. Now the Roman Empire dominated the world for almost eight hundred years. And they never bothered about looking for auspicious days or any such thing.” Perhaps I was wrong about this but that was what I told them. And so I had also to tell them a little about the Roman Empire, and about Julius Caesar, whose greatness was such that even the rulers of today still used his name as their title, such as kaiser and czar.

  In another branch I came across this kind of Javanism: “There is no way the Knijpers will ever come around our branch, Sudara. We have quite a few members whose powers make them invulnerable. They will tear apart anything like the accursed Knijpers.”

  And so patiently and with great caution I had to explain that in the modern era those with invulnerability were no longer the objects of special admiration. We were aiming for a democratic society where nobody stood above another. There were no special people who stood closer or were the special beloved of the gods or of God.

  “See, Sudara, if those with invulnerability were so special, we would not have co
ntinually been defeated by the colonial armies. It’s not that I don’t believe in invulnerability. I do. But in the modern era, the position of such people is no more than that of a magician. As invulnerable as anyone might be, he is still bound by the earth, nature, and his fellow human beings. And it is the organization of people together that now looks after people’s interests and unites them in defense of those interests.”

  Such explanations were not really in tune with many people’s sensitivities. They didn’t depict a world of supermen in which they could immerse themselves. But this Javanism was potentially dangerous for any future democratic society. Every tendency for people to be elevated to the status of gods was a danger to this endeavor. Explanations had to be presented sensitively and gently because the new ideas went to the very heart of Javanism, those beliefs that had become so embedded in people’s consciousness over centuries of colonization.

  Excuse me for using the term Javanism. Perhaps it offends some people. But what can I do? I couldn’t find any other term. Of course, not every Javanese is a Javanist. And not all Javanists are even Javanese. It seems that many Indos are Javanists as well.

  Every aspect of life had come under the influence of Javanism. Words, for example, had been made into mantras. They were considered to have their origins with powers above humankind, and not with social and economic life. They were not seen to come from an agreement in society to make sacred some object or situation, a symbol or concept. These words were looked upon as some kind of supernatural acronyms, freed from semantics, cut off from their etymology, severed even from the word’s own meaning. This people of mine had become isolated from the development of science and modern knowledge, deliberately isolated by their European conquerors. They were the residents of colonialism’s special nature reserve.

  So it was that one day a young leader from one of the sub-branches challenged me: “Just think, Sudara, just think. There is no way we can defend ourselves from these latest insults. They are saying that the word sarekat comes from the two Javanese words save and jepat, meaning ‘sleep’ and ‘erect.’ So they say now that the Sarekat is an organization whose only activity is swapping wives and beds. They say it is an organization of the devil. How can we answer this?”

  So my journeys through Java consisted not only in accepting half the honor bestowed upon me. They also meant entering the jungle that was Javanism. And the torch I took to show the way? Small and weak. No one knew better than I that my knowledge and wisdom were hardly sufficient for this task. Sometimes I asked myself whether there was anyone else who would undertake such a strange task as this. So far there was no one else but me. And there was always the possibility that I might lose my way in this jungle. My torch might go out. And doing this kind of work based on my little knowledge and wisdom alone made it all a very personal endeavor. There was a great danger that people might lose their faith and trust in me if I were to offend this Javanism of theirs.

  Syech Ahmad Badjened had been unable to give me any advice based on religious teachings. He didn’t know anything about Javanism. He knew only about faith and superstition, taqwa and musyrik. He did tell me about a religious movement aimed at freeing religion from superstition, mysticism, and other burdens of history, across the seas in some other country. But I never found out any more about it.

  In this kind of work, I could only grope about in the dark. There were no models to follow—I was pioneering the way and thus would be making many mistakes. Mistakes, yes, that was for certain.

  Numbers, days, even the hour, the syllables of a person’s name, the year, month, the points of the compass were all given a numerical value in Javanism. Then they would be added together in some combination or another and the result used to foretell what would happen or to decide what shouldn’t happen. No one had ever sat down and figured out if all these predictions had actually come true. And the predictions continued. All of this had the same origin—the refusal to face reality, the unwillingness to think for oneself. They were like Sastro Kassier, who when faced with what seemed like impossible difficulties, surrendered himself to the supernatural, thereby not having to fight back against his situation. Once you pawn your intelligence and power of thought, putting it in the grip of the supernatural, it, like false teeth, can suffer no decay.

  How do you actually lead people who live in a world of ideas rusted over by Javanism? Especially when they themselves still admire this rust? There is no other way than to approach things as politely as possible, peeling off one layer this year, and one layer the next. For how many years would it have to go on? I didn’t know.

  The chairman of the branch in Pemalang was someone I had known when I was a child. He was two years older than I.

  “Dik, ‘little brother,’ ” he called me. “Why do we have to use Malay?”

  “In branch meetings where everyone understands Javanese, there is no need to use Malay. But at congresses and at the national level or when you’re communicating with the national level, you must use Malay.”

  “Why should Javanese be subordinated to Malay?”

  “You have to be practical, Mas. In these times whatever is impractical will be pushed aside. Javanese is not practical. All the levels it contains are just pretentious ways of allowing people to emphasize their status. Malay is simpler. The organization doesn’t need statements as to everyone’s social status. In any case, all members are equal. No one is lesser or greater than another.”

  “But Javanese has a richer literature. It has a greatness because of that which Malay does not have.”

  “You are not mistaken. When the Javanese held sway over all the islands of Nusantara, the language of diplomacy was also Javanese. But that time has passed. The times have changed and so have the demands of the times. During the time that the foreigners have controlled the islands, it has not been Javanese that has been the language of diplomacy, but Malay. Our organization is not a Javanese organization, but an Indies organization.”

  “But the Javanese members are in a majority.”

  “The Javanese don’t have to spend so much effort and time to learn Malay. It comes easily to them, if they don’t know it already. On the other hand, if we required the other peoples to learn Javanese, it would take them years and years to master it. We make the practical choice. And what harm is there if we Javanese let go of the greatness and richness of the past, a past that is no longer in accord with the needs of our age? For the unity of the Indies!”

  “But the other peoples outside Java, they have no history or heritage of any worth.”

  “Oh, no! Everyone has such history and heritage. In any case, our business is not the past but the present. The modern present. A time where people calculate what is useful and what is not, and discard what is not useful. It is a time when you go forward or you stagnate. And when everything is calculated precisely.” And I prayed to myself that he would not ask me what the word “modern” actually meant.

  A long debate ensued. He was too firmly committed to his Javaneseness. I failed. Well, what could I do? Anyway, he obeyed the rules of the organization. But what would happen later? We would split no doubt, and the organization would be safe.

  Dropping in on this friend of mine in Pemalang became a habit. Even though he too had had a European education, he could not or would not free himself of the burdens of history. Rather, the past for him was a greatness and a thing of pride for his people.

  And his, and mine, are a people who have been conquered now for centuries, a people who have lost land and sea as well as our own selves. All that is left is our history, which we still carry. And now I come along and want to steal that too.

  I did not suceed in everything I did. And even where it did seem I was succeeding it was not always the case. The human heart has a million facets.

  There was an initial incident, then a confrontation took place. And the story should properly be told like this.

  “Look here, Mas,” Princess began on a quiet evening, “there is a reque
st for something to be written about Dewi Sartika.”

  I remembered the letter from the girl in Jepara to Mei about Dewi Sartika: I admire so much the firmness and resilience of that Sundanese girl. Dewi Sartika did not face so many problems; she could use the freedom to move socially that her environment allowed her. You said, my dear friend, that I too could be as free as that. Those are such beautiful words.

  That was a letter that Mei received before she and I went and visited the girl in Jepara. It was a long time ago now. But the problem she was addressing was still there: How did one find the way, the path, the right character that would reveal the gateway out of this wild jungle into the modern era?

  Mei dived headlong into organizational work. The Jepara girl, despite all the doubts she had lived with, had written much of eternal value in her letters. Dewi Sartika had established her schools. And the Princess of Kasiruta? She was among the first group of Native women to edit a magazine in the Indies.

  Some said that women began their life with the wedding bed. The governors-general of the Indies had the opinion that women could be silenced by bringing them to the wedding bed. Princess, it seemed, was following an old saying—without actually doing it—marry, divorce, become a widow, and live as one pleased.

  “So what do you think?” I asked.

  “No, Mas, what is your opinion?”

  “Try to learn to decide for yourself.”

  “I don’t have enough experience yet.”

  “Go and meet Dewi Sartika. You’ll get a lot of material that way.”

  No Native woman had ever conducted an interview. She didn’t yet have the courage. Put together a list of questions first, I said. It didn’t take her long to do that. But she still hesitated.

  “What will people say? A strange woman arrives at the house of a good family and then begins to ask all sorts of personal questions.”