“But a graduate of the medical school becomes a government doctor.”
“It’s all the same, Mr. Minke.”
He had succeeded in making me understand.
“The government would not provide education and training if it weren’t in its own interests. Remember what happened in the Philippines. But they have no choice.”
I understood now why Jean Marais was so sickened by the Aceh War, something he experienced himself.
Another ship came into sight as it passed us from the west.
“Look at the ship, another KPM ship. The queen’s capital is behind it—just like this one. Both made by clever engineers and tradesmen. The motors made by the best inventors. But it all belongs to capital. Those without capital are no more than coolies, no more than that, no matter if they are more brilliant than all of the Roman and Greek gods together.”
Now I thought of Nyai. She too was able to employ Europeans to do her business. They came when she called. And Mr. D——. L——., that incompetent lawyer, was tossed out of the house in front of everyone because he was no longer of use. A Native throwing out a Pure! What a lot Nyai had learned from Mr. Mellema!
Ter Haar began again to discuss the Philippines, but this time choosing material he thought I would understand. Now he used a new term that was even more difficult: nationalism. He himself had great difficulty in explaining it.
Then he stopped. Like somebody who had just remembered something, he took out his pocket watch: “I have an appointment, Mr. Tollenaar. You must be bored with this endless chatter of mine.”
“Not at all,” I said, though in fact I did feel more than a little full.
“Then we’ll take this all up again another time.”
“I have never met a European like you, Mr. Ter Haar.”
“Not all Europeans are rotten.”
“You remind me of Miss Magda Peters.”
“Quite possibly. I only heard her name after she was expelled from the Indies.” He nodded, excusing himself, and walked off, disappearing down some stairs.
Back in my cabin, I opened the dictionary. But its explanation of nationalism was just as unenlightening as Ter Haar’s. Nothing in the dictionary equated this nationlism with the greatness Ter Haar attributed to the rising up of the Filipinos against Spain and America.
I had not been long scribbling down the outline of Ter Haar’s discourse when his servant arrived with two magazines: Manual of the Indies and Research and Experiment, a German magazine. It seemed this was how he wanted to continue our discussions.
Only because I had never seen it before, I opened the German magazine first. There wasn’t a single picture. My German was terrible, but there was an article about the Philippines. I felt I had no choice but to force myself to untangle its meaning. And it was more than just difficult. Knotted up and entangled by all my own recent experiences, my mind turned the article’s complexity into complete confusion. On the other hand, it was those very experiences that enabled me to understand some things. Aided by those experiences, I came up with this picture of the situation.
The educated Natives of the Philippines put their hopes in the Spanish liberals back in Spain, just as I had put my hopes in the Pure Dutch liberals back in the Netherlands. Yes, in Europe, the land where the peak of human achievement and brilliance was stored as in a museum. And the Natives had beautiful dreams: One day the Spanish would, in their generosity, make them members of the parliament in Spain and give them the full civil rights of subjects of Spain, and they would be able to feel they could do some good for their own people in their own land.
One thing I learned, a basic piece of knowledge: that a small group with this dream tried to bring it to reality, inviting others to dream the same way. They set up a newspaper. A newspaper! Filipino Natives publishing their own newspaper! And the educated Native Dr. José Rizal was one of its leading figures.
I had never seen a picture of him. But I imagined him as someone tall and slim, with big side-whiskers, mustache, and heavy eyebrows. But that’s not so important. What was important was that the authorities in Spain cursed him and took action against him. And I was forced to think about how things were in the Indies. There had never been anything like that Filipino group here. Never. And the indications were that there never would be. Poor Trunodongso; with machete and hoe he wanted to fight them, while even Rizal had been trampled so easily.
Still fortified by his hope in Spanish charity, he carried on with his attempts to make his dream a reality: He founded the Filipino League. But the Philippines colonial government continued their attacks upon him.
I know these notes won’t be of much interest to anyone, but I have no choice but to include them. Why? Because these thoughts are so much a real part of my environment, the world I inhabited. Ah, knowledge: Trunodongso would never know that there is a nearby country called the Philippines. And knowledge, the result of my reading this article, made the Philippines a part of my own world, even though only as an idea. The wonder of knowledge—without their eyes ever seeing the world, it makes people understand the breadth of the world: its richness, its depth, its height, and its womb, and all its pests and plagues as well.
And Rizal still dreamed of the honor and nobility of Europe. But European power was a monster that became hungrier and hungrier the more it gobbled up. I found myself thinking of the greedy ogre in the wayang stories of my ancestors.
But other groups of educated Filipino Natives had long lost their faith in Spanish colonial power. They took up arms and rebelled. Poor Trunodongso and his friends: They knew no geography; they thought that if they could rid Tulangan of the sugar mills they would win an eternal victory. But Rizal was even more pathetic than Trunodongso. When his comrades took up arms, he was still dreaming of the generosity of the Spanish governors of the Philippines, even after he was arrested and exiled. And a few days before he was executed he was still urging his fellow Filipinos who had taken up arms to stop fighting. He was more pitiful than Trunodongso. Him—Rizal! Truno was defeated because of his lack of knowledge, Rizal because he did not believe in what he knew…in his intellectual conscience.
The Filipino revolution broke out. The goal was to run the Spanish out of the Philippines. In my soul’s eyes I could see the educated Filipino Natives rising up, leading their fellow countrymen, uneducated like Trunodongso, in attacks against the Spanish garrisons—a war that could never be depicted on the wayang stage. Even in my fantasizing I could not imagine it. They weren’t led by individuals, but by a spirit of resistance, represented in that organization of theirs. Represented too in its top leadership: Andres Bonifacio. Seven years ago. Poor Trunodongso—he knew nothing of such leadership. Poor Minke—I had only found out a few hours ago. Tens of thousands of Native Filipinos mobilized the whole people into resistance. And they did resist, they did fight back. The whole land seethed with rebellion, marching out of the houses to take part in the fighting, to live or to die. The Spanish in the Philippines were pressed hard and then pressed even harder. And the Filipino Natives chose their first president: Emilio Aguinaldo. In 1897! The first republic in Asia.
And they built their own government on the French model! No wonder Khouw Ah Soe was so excited about the Philippines! He was still at the stage of crying out to his people like Rizal, at a time when his own country was suffering under the Americans, the English, the French, the Germans, and the Japanese, as well as being parched by drought, the whole country, north to south, east to west. He too died, just as Rizal did. And this Javanese—he is still nothing. He is nobody.
The Filipino revolution was thrown into turmoil by traitors who loved money more than freedom for their country and their people (another piece of basic knowledge for me). The rebels, in their defeat, accepted the hand of friendship from America. The warships of America sailed to the Philippines and surrounded the Spanish armada. On land the Filipinos worked together with the American marines. No different from the wayang stories.
I have
heard the explosion of a cannon on Queen Wilhelmina’s coronation day. But in my soul’s eyes thousands of cannon explosions tore apart the garrisons and the earth of the Philippines. The sky was dark with cannon smoke. Death arrived to the sound of tumult. Not like the death that silently throttled the people to the south of Tulangan which Surati witnessed. How different is killing to the sounds of shouts and cries, from the strangulation of smallpox.
But the Filipinos, still inexperienced in these things, were finally deceived by the Americans. In the battle of 13 August 1898—a show battle between Spain and America, like the show battle between two ancient Javanese kingdoms—Spain was defeated, America won. The Filipino patriots were the real losers; they were freed from the Spanish, but fell into the hands of the United States, which became their new master.
So far I had learned one thing clearly: White power was equally greedy everywhere. Greed. No longer just a word, its meaning fused in my mind as the starting point for all understanding. Greed. But that was still better than war, killing, destruction. Especially a war where there is no hope of victory, as in Aceh, in the Philippines, like the one Trunodongso wanted to wage. No, Ter Haar the Coaxer, I still need Europe as a teacher, including you yourself. Only through your own strength can we confront you, Europe.
Oosthoek’s chains clashed and clanked as the anchor was lowered into the waters off Semarang. Night had fallen. Lamps flickered on land and sea. Stars twinkled in the sky, and the surface of the sea glimmered in shining yellow waves. Ter Haar was to be seen neither on deck nor in the dining room.
I went to his cabin. Not there either. His things were already tidily packed.
From the loudspeakers came an announcement: All passengers not leaving the boat at Semarang could make a four-hour visit beginning at eight o’clock the next morning. Passengers for Semarang were asked to disembark now.
I used the time to walk around watching the people disembark. I found Ter Haar speaking to another European near the gangway. It was he who spotted me first: “Mr. Max Tollenaar, may I introduce you to my friend from De Locomotief.”
“Pieters,” he said.
Ter Haar explained who I was and about the Soerabaiaasch Nieuws.
“Oh, Mr. Max Tollenaar is really quite young. I thought you’d be middle-aged at least. There is much wisdom in your writings.”
“We will be going ashore in a minute,” said Ter Haar.
“You will be visiting ashore tomorrow?” asked Pieters.
“Of course.”
“Good. Don’t head off before we come to fetch you,” he said. “You must come and visit our newspaper offices. Who knows?”
They boarded a small rowboat and waved good-bye. Not long after, the few passengers for Semarang went ashore.
“Eh, Mr. Minke.” Someone spoke to me. Beside me stood a Pure European—a police officer.
“I’m not mistaken, am I?” he asked. “Tuan Raden Mas Minke? Officer Van Duijnen. How was your journey? Enjoyable?”
“Very much so, sir—my first trip by ship.”
“Not seasick?”
“The weather has been beautiful and the sea calm.”
“Very good. You’re not going ashore?”
“Tomorrow, sir, in accordance with the ship’s announcement.”
My heart beat with suspicion. There had to be some reason for his approach. Perhaps Trunodongso had opened his mouth under interrogation. Truno, yes, that Truno. Who knows what stories he came up with.
“I think it would be best if you went ashore now, sir,” he advised me. I became even more suspicious.
“A pity, sir, but I still need some rest.”
“You can rest in the hotel.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“I’m not joking, sir. Let’s go ashore. Where are your things?”
Yes, Trunodongso had betrayed his promise. The policeman was obviously arresting me. I headed off to the cabin. He followed me. I packed all my things. He helped me.
“You got around to making notes even on this journey?”
“It seems you need me ashore?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.” He presented me with the order. “There’s no need to worry. You can see for yourself that it is an official order. I’m not here to kidnap you.”
“My destination is Betawi, not Semarang.”
“There’s plenty of time to go to Betawi. Why didn’t you go by train? The trip through the south is much more interesting.”
He was suspicious of me. I didn’t answer, pretending not to hear. I picked up my suitcase and bag. I left the food basket behind.
“Let me help you,” he said. He carried my suitcase. “You don’t have anything stored in the hold?”
“Nothing, sir.”
We descended the steps under the gaze of many eyes. A young criminal had been arrested on board.
“What have I done wrong, sir?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t be anxious. I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”
“How can I be detained like this? I’m a Raden Mas. You know that.”
“Precisely. That is why a district police chief has been assigned to meet you.”
“Meet me?” My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. In the end I couldn’t escape the thought of Trunodongso. New troubles hovered before me. More newspaper reports. More suffering for Mother. I still have given you nothing, Mother. It seems I can only fall into predicaments like this.
The last time I was met by a police agent, Father was made a bupati. Now it is a district police chief, but certainly Father has not been made governor-general of the Netherlands Indies.
A special boat took us ashore. A government carriage was waiting to take us.
“Where to, sir?”
“No need to worry.”
The carriage took us to a hotel. “The best in Semarang, sir,” he said.
Semarang was fast asleep in the light of the gas street lamps. He was not joking; it was indeed the biggest hotel in town. People looked after us very politely. I was given a big room, for two people, a bit too beautiful.
“Tuan Raden Mas Minke, just stay here and be good. Don’t go out. Don’t leave the hotel until someone comes to get you.”
“What’s really happening? Why am I being detained like this?”
“Have you been treated improperly, Tuan?” It was exactly as the police agent had behaved the last time.
Before leaving, he repeated his warning. Once again I was a pawn in a chess game. Certainly, Father had not been made a governor-general. Perhaps he had been awarded the Lion Cross for his services to the state. Well then, it was Trunodongso I had to think about. Or Robert Suurhof?
Dinner was brought by a waiter. And the way he served me—how careful he was, as if he were afraid. All my questions went unanswered. Perhaps outside the door there was another policeman?
How I missed Ter Haar now—that broadcaster of ideas. His whisperings still buzzed around me: They, those people, Mr. Minke, build their power upon the ignorance and backwardness of the people of the Indies. Who are you, Ter Haar? A police spy? My suspicions were set in motion again. Maybe that’s it. That school report of mine—that my moral character was wanting—that would be noted down in all the books of the offices that administer candidate civil servants for the bupatis. As an individual, I could do nothing to defend myself against those books, or the silence of the police chief.
For the rest of the night I lay with my eyes blinking open and shut, on that incredibly soft and comfortable mattress.
At four o’clock in the morning knocks on the door startled me awake. My heart beat like the mosque drums at festival time. A first-class police agent, a Mixed-Blood, was standing beside my bed. A short nod from his apparently wooden neck informed me it was time to get ready, to bathe, eat, and depart, though not a sound emerged from his mouth. Like a lamb who had lost its mother I did everything those preemptory gestures seemed to order.
Then District Police Chief Van Duijnen came to
take me. Without much talking we left for the railway station. Five in the morning, and the train left for the southeast on my first journey into the hinterlands of central Java. Dry and bare. Gray-colored earth. Long bridges, wide riverbeds, yellow water, mountains.
The locomotive huffed and puffed wearily towards the central Javanese kingdom called Vorstenlanden, past indigo warehouses, coconut, sugar, tobacco, rice, cinammon—all property of the European landlords.
Locomotive! Locomotive! Locomotive! It announced itself constantly with its own incessant rhythm. Lo-co-mo-tive! Hissing crazily along the rails, spouting black smoke into the sky, screaming with its whistle, it woke the people from their dreams, declaring itself the mightiest being on earth.
Ter Haar had not repeated the clichés of others. “It was this locomotive that inspired the Semarangsch Nieuws—en Advertentieblad to change its name to De Locomotief. Everybody remembers the year: 1862.” No, it was different with this person Ter Haar; he had had his own story.
“Mr. Minke, after Prince Dipanagara was defeated, the Culture System went on to great successes in the Vorstenlanden. Yes, isn’t it so, Mr. Minke; it is only in the Vorstenlanden that peasant farmers can be squeezed clean of everything and end up as dregs. It was to there that Dutch capitalists migrated to steal the peasants’ land and to become great landowners. Isn’t it so? Yes? And when their warehouses could take no more indigo and sugar for export to Semarang, and the aristocrats’ warehouses were full too, then the matter of transportation to Semarang became a problem. You couldn’t ever have heard this story. I say couldn’t, Mr. Minke—why? Because it involves another bigwig. Another minister for colonies, that lawyer Baud. He sent camels to Java. Real camels, truly, Mr. Minke. Almost four dozen. And the thing was, in the experiment of transporting the indigo, there was no trouble. From the Vorstenlanden to Semarang, those animals with their serious faces, like a caravan of philosophers, walked along in a line doing their duty.
“But then the forts at Ungaran and Semarang ran short of rice. Now the behavior of the camels from Tenerife was different. You know where Tenerife is? Over on the west coast of Africa. After carrying the rice for a week, these immigrants from the Canary Islands lost their seriousness. They all began crying and howling; they couldn’t stand the smell of the rice they carried. Every few moments they were turning around, scratching at the stones on the road, then knocking into each other and falling down. After two weeks of carrying rice there wasn’t one that could stand. Some dropped beside the road; others died in their pens.