“Yes, my young sir,” he said slowly and clearly, “only free labor can elevate the dignity and value of the Native. Free labor will return to the Native the knowledge and science that he lost as a result of being forced to obey the constant orders of those who do not necessarily know any better, knowledge and science that has been so long lost, lost for centuries. Free labor will free the Native of his superstitious fears, his fears of ghosts and of the police and the government soldiers. Then there will appear the real Native man.”
And how will all this benefit the Native? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. I should be the one who could answer that question. All that I was able to utter was: “Raden Saleh Sjarif Boestaman…”
“You mean the famous painter?”
“He has also proved what the Native is capable of.”
“Yes. It’s just a pity that he spends his time touring Europe, visiting the salons of the French and Dutch elites, seeking fame for himself, but making no real contribution to the advancement of his people. People are saying that he returned to the Indies no longer as a Native or a teacher of his people. He returned as a non-Native and as someone who was definitely not a teacher of his people.”
It was sad, but what he said was true.
He kept on talking and talking. The more he went on, the less I seemed to understand, and the more I started to scratch my neck. There didn’t seem to be any connecting thread in what he was saying. It all sounded like the chanted spells of the magician. He spoke about the debates in the Dutch parliament and the problems of the Indies.
Seeing that my nods were becoming deeper and less sure of themselves, he said: “Ah, perhaps you’re not catching all of this. I will send you a book about all the problems of the Indies. Published in the Netherlands. Written by a true Liberal. Then you’ll be able to study things at your leisure.”
The clock struck once. It was five-thirty in the evening. Engineer van Kollewijn had still not arrived. The clang of the delman bell and the clatter of the tram occasionally reverberated through the building.
“He’ll be here soon. It looks as if he’s going to be a bit late.” He returned to his lecture. “In short, it is the Liberals who are the chosen sons of our times, the best sons of the age of capital—an age when everything has and will be brought into being by capital, when anybody—not just the kings and sultans—will be able to have anything they like, as long as they have some capital. And there is only one condition that you need fulfill to obtain capital, Mr. Minke, and that is to work hard as a free worker.”
I could understand that. Even so, I found myself bored by this inappropriately timed and located lecture.
We hadn’t noticed several European Pures come in and sit round the big table.
Several carriages—some with one horse, some with two—stopped in front of the building. Two Europeans went out to meet them and opened the doors of the leading carriage, and then…wasn’t that General van Heutsz descending? He was wearing a military uniform, but without any marks of rank. He wore no decorations, carried no weapons, and was without any bodyguards. He didn’t come straight in, but stood facing the carriage, helping out another European, a very big man, perhaps weighing more than 260 pounds. Was that the god of the Radicals? Was that Engineer van Kollewijn? The one who looked like Bathara Narada? So plump with prosperity?
My friend the journalist from De Locomotief left me and ran outside to join with the others in welcoming their guest. Ah, who cares, I thought. None of them know me anyway. Ter Haar greeted the corpulent one and then helped steer the two guests inside, along with all the other people who had arrived with them.
My heart began pounding when General van Heutsz turned his questioning eyes upon me as he walked inside. And his gaze conveyed an order that I show him the respect that he obviously felt was his right. I showed him the due respect.
“I see there is a sinyo here tonight?” he asked Ter Haar, looking first at me, then at Ter Haar.
Ter Haar brought them both over to me, saying: “Excuse me, General, Mr. van Kollewijn, this is the young Native who has been writing in Dutch.”
“Ah!” cried the general. “This is the one, Henk,” he said to van Kollewijn, “I think he’s about to grow a mustache.” To me, “I enjoy your writing very much.” He held out his hand.
The stories of the Aceh War, that I had heard so often from my painter friend in Surabaya, meant that mine trembled as it took his. His were hands that had killed thousands of Acehnese fighters in their own land, in the land of their birth. His mustache, the metal buttons he wore on his uniform…I would remember them all as the features of this much respected and much fawned-upon murderer.
His grip on my hand was tight and painful. He shook my hand several times. And when he let go, it fell lifeless by my side. Before I realized what I was doing, I was wiping my hand clean of his touch on my trousers.
Ter Haar looked the other way when he saw that. Van Kollewijn quickly held out his hand and held my hand for what seemed a long while. That hand of his, so fat and soft, squeezed my right hand, which literally sank into his.
“And what have you been writing?” he asked with the voice of somebody who was courting me.
“Short stories!” answered van Heutsz. “And in the European style, Henk. I never realized he was so young.”
“Short stories? You don’t really mean in the European style, then, do you? You must mean in the American style” answered van Kollewijn, trying to correct his friend. “What do you say, young man?”
“I think probably in my own style, sir,” I answered.
They both laughed heartily. I didn’t really understand why.
“He is right,” Ter Haar joined in. “He does have his own style.”
“That is very great praise, then,” said van Kollewijn, as he looked me over, shaking his head. As soon as his hand let go of mine, it moved up to my back, patting me: “Come along, sir.”
“Please call me Minke.”
“Javanese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The son of which bupati?”
“The Bupati of B—–”
“Near Jepara, isn’t it? That’s where that famous young woman lives. Do you know her?”
“I know the name, sir.”
Ter Haar, myself, and the others accompanied the two guests to the assigned area. Those who had arrived earlier and were sitting around the table rose to greet the guests.
It was a great long oval table covered in green material, like a judge’s bench or a billiard table. But the covering was made from velvet. Silver ashtrays shone all around the table. As soon as all the guests sat down, every pair of eyes rained their curiosity down upon me. I pretended not to notice.
The host introduced General van Heutsz and van Kollewijn. Then he introduced the various guests. One of the two journalists present was Marie van Zeggelen.
“I haven’t seen anything by you for some time, Miss van Zeggelen. Are you planning any more articles about the heroism of the Natives?”
“Yes, I would say so, General.”
The host introduced everyone but me. The general and the member of parliament both stared at me. Then the general decided to speak: “And let me introduce to you all a young writer named Minke,” he said, indicating with his hand that he meant me.
All eyes examined me with amazement.
“Or, more accurately, a short-story writer,” van Kollewijn corrected him, in that personal way of his, that Dutch way.
Under such a deluge of gazes from such important personages, whether because of the color of my skin, or my age, or because of my very appearance, I felt like a monkey that had been put in the wrong cage. Just where had I let myself be taken?
The old man across from me nodded, slowly smacked his lips, and said: “Ah, gentlemen, let us begin the evening’s proceedings,” because he was the host. And he himself gave the first speech.
Engineer van Kollewijn had come to Java to witness for himself the developments that were takin
g place as a result of the efforts, both inside and outside parliament, of the Free Democratic party.
There then followed a series of questions and answers whose meaning I didn’t really understand. I felt even more like a monkey in the wrong cage. The questions and answers went on for quite some time. Drinks were served twice. Almost everyone had a chance to go to the toilet. Still the interview continued. The eight o’clock cannon had long been quiet, and the barracks bugles long silent. I need not say that it was only I who did not ask questions. All I could do was look first left and then right to see who was speaking.
“You surely have plans for other activities while you are here.” The old grandfather across from me spoke.
“Of course. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in these beloved Indies,” said van Kollewijn. “It would be a great waste if I concerned myself only with party affairs while I was here.”
“So what else might you be planning?”
“Well, for example, I very much hope that I can meet some of the educated Natives. It’s very important to know what they are thinking now as we enter this new age. Will they be able to adjust or not? Will they welcome the new age or reject it?”
“Is there any connection between the educated Natives and your party’s campaign, Mr. van Kollewijn?” someone asked.
“The ties between Holland and the Indies are growing closer and closer. The demands of the modern world are bringing these two distant countries closer together. The qualifications needed to work in a modern society are higher today. This is true in the Indies as well as in Holland. This means we have a responsibility to prepare educated Natives to enter into the modern age. If we do not do this, then all the factories and machines, no matter how fantastic, will be useless because the Natives will not be able to use them.”
“Couldn’t the factories be run just by Europeans?”
“Aha, that is the old way. But it is no longer appropriate. Gentlemen, just look at the situation today where all the railway machinists are European. There is not a single Native machinist in the Indies. Indeed, even the rock crushers used for road construction are not run by Natives but by Indos. But the coming of trains to the Indies has not only brought new ways of doing things but also new laws. And these laws must be obeyed by both European and Native. And so why should the Natives be expected to learn the new ways and obey the new laws when, on the other hand, they are told it is only they who must make the sacrifices?”
The longer the discussion went on, the more confused I became trying to follow it, and the more convinced I was of how little I knew and understood. And I truly tried to understand what they were talking about. Every single pronouncement of such a person as van Kollewijn, so highly esteemed, with such a fiery tongue, must be heeded closely.
He repeated what I had once read in that anonymous political pamphlet. He explained that the first decades of the Culture System, also called Forced Cultivation, had saved Holland from the bankruptcy it faced due to the huge debts that were incurred through the wars in Europe in which Holland too was involved. The profits from the Indies had also paid for Holland’s own development and provided it with working capital. The Indies, he said, had not only paid in money but also in lives. Thousands of Natives died because of the Forced Cultivation system. And without those sacrifices from the Indies, Holland might have been wiped off the face of the earth.
“We owe a lot to the Indies—there is a moral debt. A debt of honor, which as Europeans, as Christians, we are obliged to repay. We must now do good for the Natives, in return for the good they have done us. And this should not just amount to a few regulations in their favor. They must be helped to become equipped to deal with the new times. And the best bridge across to the Natives in order that they may be so helped is the educated Natives.”
“Could Your Excellency tell us which educated Natives you will be meeting?”
“Well, I have met with Mr. Minke, who is here with us tonight”—he nodded in my direction—“a young man who has written short stories, not simply in the European or American fashion, but, according to Mr. Ter Haar, in his own, personal style. This is indeed true praise. I’m glad you have asked me this question, gentlemen. But I wish also to ask you all a question. Is it actually possible for a Native to develop a personality, a character, of his own? I am sure this is an issue that none of you have ever really considered. The development of a personality, of individual character, is a sign that a man and his times are in harmony.”
“And do you have hopes for Mr. Minke?” asked Marie van Zeggelen.
“Science and modern knowledge, gentlemen, no matter how advanced, have no character. The most fantastic of machines, built by the most fantastic of men, also have no real character. But the simplest of the most simple stories that somebody can write—they can really represent somebody’s personality and character, or, indeed, could also bear inside them the personality and character of a whole people. Isn’t that so, General?”
The general nodded silently.
“You yourself are a writer, are you not, miss?” van Kollewijn asked in turn.
“Has Your Excellency ever read any of Mr. Minke’s writings?”
“Not yet, unfortunately. But General van Heutsz has read them, and, I expect, so have most of you here. Is that not so, Mr. Ter Haar?”
“He is extremely talented. And his writings show true character. If you were not aware who the author was, you would swear they were written by a European or an American—with the Indies just as their setting.”
“Once again high praise indeed,” van Kollewijn continued.
“Which other educated Natives are you interested in meeting, Your Excellency?”
“Well, according to the advice of the director of education and culture, Mr. van Aberon, I should, of course, meet the girl from Jepara.”
“So Your Excellency will also visit Jepara, as did Mr. van Aberon?”
“That would be very interesting. Then I could not only meet the person concerned but also see for myself the environment in which she lives and works.”
“Very impressive, sir,” cried van Zeggelen, “but could I also ask what it is about this woman that interests you?”
“She has done more than just write and more than just tell stories. She has dedicated her life to an ideal. She writes not to seek fame for herself. As a spiritual child of Multatuli, she has, in her own way, struggled in the name of humanity to lessen the suffering of humankind.”
General van Heutsz cleared his throat.
“Ignorance is always a barrier to prosperity. This is true in Europe, America, the Indies, or wherever,” van Kollewijn went on. “Mankind needs prosperity that he may live in conditions worthy of his humanity.” He glanced across at van Heutsz. “That is the importance of the educated Native.”
“Your Excellency, Honorable Member of Parliament, you have praised the idea of free labor. Are you therefore also in favor of the abolition of forced labor, of rodi?”
“Rodi is a traditional form of collective labor which has been used by the Indies for the benefit of the state and of society as an alternative form of state tax. It will be some time before rodi can be abolished because the circulation of money in the villages and hamlets is very limited. It is only in the cities that a cash economy prevails. The important thing today is to ensure that the system is not abused. We do not want to see the abuses of power that happened in Multatuli’s day.”
“If we view rodi as a form of tax, Your Excellency,” asked Ter Haar, “doesn’t that mean that the revenue received by the Netherlands Indies is much, much greater than that which is set down in the official budget? Doesn’t it mean that the official statement of annual income of the Indies is much smaller than it should be?”
Engineer van Kollewijn was silenced. There was sweat on his forehead. Hurriedly, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. General van Heutsz’s fingers tapped upon the table. Marie van Zeggelen bit her lip. Everyone there, except the military man, waited ex
pectantly for his answer. And van Kollewijn still didn’t answer.
“Just think, Your Excellency, ten million Natives each working twenty days’ rodi per year. At seven and a half cents per person per day of work, that’s ten million times twenty times seven and a half. That’s equal to fifteen million guilders a year. Fifteen million guilders that has never been accounted for or documented. Where did it all go?”
Silence.
Ter Haar went on. “And that’s not all, Your Excellency. I hear that the villagers themselves have to organize village security, something that the police should look after. And there’s the emergency services too—the fifteen million should probably be doubled. See, the villages have had thirty million guilders a year sucked out of them. Once, when the government was pressed for money, it thought of selling one of the Sunda Kelapa islands to an Arab. He was said to have offered one hundred and eighty thousand guilders. The equivalent of just a year of our debt to the villages would be enough for an Arab to buy the whole of Sunda Kelapa islands ten times over! Has Your Excellency given this matter any thought, either as an individual, a member of parliament, or a member of the Free Democratic party?”
“As free labor becomes more and more widespread, taxes in the form of rodi will gradually die out.”
“Yes, Your Excellency, if we calculate that rodi has been going ever since the Indies became the property of the Empire, at least from 1870, since the Forced Cultivation period, then the government of the Netherlands Indies and the Netherlands itself owes the Natives thirty times thirty million guilders or nine hundred million guilders. And if we count too all those hidden services provided by the people to the state free of charge, the figure will probably go up to one billion guilders. The Netherlands is unable to fully repay the debt we owe the Natives as a result of the Forced Cultivation system, Your Excellency, let alone if we add all this unaccounted-for money.”