The members of the Indies Council were preoccupied by the excitement and bustle of the preparations for the coming celebration. They were paying too little attention to the effect that Western education was having on the Natives. As it happened, I still hadn’t finished my report on this so the government had nothing to guide it in this matter.
According to what I could see, even if in all sorts of different forms, and with different degrees of substance, it was clear that a national awareness was growing and developing in the Indies. The seed of nationalism was secretly beginning to grow into an embryo in the womb of Native society. And the Indische Partij was, perhaps it could be said, an imperfectly formed child of this process.
As could be predicted, the Sarekat Islam, and even more the Boedi Oetomo, had no objections at all to the commemorations. The BO even decided that it would mobilize all its pupils to join in the commemorations. That was understandable. The Natives in Java had celebrations only for births, marriages, and Idul Fitri, at the end of the fasting season. If there was going to be another celebration, why object? There was the celebration and nothing else but the celebration.
But of course the Indische Partij had to have a different attitude. Their members were educated people who knew the history of Europe and its colonies. They knew that the commemoration of one hundred years of the Netherlands’ liberation from Napoleon, and one hundred years of the Netherlands Indies being liberated from England, had a real political message. Perhaps the Indische Partij would open its mouth on this issue.
Perhaps I was the only person who was waiting for them to do something.
One hundred years liberated from French occupation. One hundred years ago the Netherlands Indies was ruled by Governor-General Herman Daendels, a general and great patriot who was hailed by the Dutch people as a Hero of the National Liberation. In 1787 he fled to France when Holland was attacked by the Prussian army. But eight years later, in 1795, Daendels returned and drove out the Prussian army from Holland. He was hailed as the Liberator. In 1807 the king of Holland appointed him governor-general of the Indies.
It wasn’t long after that that an interesting event took place in front of the governor-general’s palace in Betawi. There was a military parade, commanded directly by Governor-General Daendels himself. He descended the palace steps in full uniform. Then, accompanied by a drum roll and military trumpets, the tricolor was raised. Hands were raised in salute. Then Daendels himself led the ceremony for the flag to be taken down again, also accompanied by drums and trumpets, played with the greatest respect. The next scene saw the raising of another tricolor—the French tricolor.
This event occurred in 1811 when Daendels received the news that the Netherlands had become a part of France and that King Louis Bonaparte, the brother of Emperor Napoleon, had accepted this annexation. Daendels also had agreement from the Raad van Indie to raise the French tricolor. Daendels, whose mind was full of his military experiences, mobilized the Natives to build many military roads and forts as preparation for an attack from the English who were the enemies of France and who had imperial designs on the rich and prosperous colony of the Indies. There is no way to know how many thousands of Natives died building the military road from Anyer to Banyuwangi or the great fort in Ngawi. Tens of thousands died on the road doing forced labor. And there was no attack from the British navy while Daendels ruled the Indies.
Daendels was summoned by Napoleon to join the attack on Russia. He left the Indies and was replaced by acting Governor-General Janssens. It was just a few months after he left that England, as France’s enemy, came to the Indies to seize it from French hands. Its armada landed in Sumatra and Java. The Netherlands Indies army was thrown into chaos. Janssens was caught and detained. And from that moment the Indies became a British colony.
In 1813 Napoleon Bonaparte of France was defeated by a combined attack of the armies of the European states. The Netherlands was free again. And a hundred years later, this year, that liberation was to be commemorated with great celebrations in both the Netherlands and the Indies. Preparations for the celebrations proceeded smoothly. The celebrations must be even bigger than those for the birthday of Queen Wilhelmina.
Then we began to see the true face of colonialism. As you moved farther and farther away from Betawi, the extravagance became worse and worse as the officials all lusted to be seen as the most loyal and active. Not to mention the corruptors who opened their mouths as wide as they could, hoping to catch that fattest and juiciest of all prey, the unaccountable use of money. The government had allocated funds. But there would never be enough money in the official budget to pay for celebrations that were obliged to be as huge as these.
The colonial newspapers began to publish all sorts of reports about how rotten the French and English were, so that their readers soon began to realize how grateful they should be that the Netherlands was now free of France and England. There was an uncontrollable outpouring of hatred for Daendels. And, of course, the Sarekat and Boedi Oetomo could be counted on to interfere in all this too.
It was only De Expres that didn’t join in the hysteria. It didn’t join in preparing the atmosphere. It only celebrated the liberation of the Netherlands and Indies from the French and English. It did not take part in denigrating the French and Napoleon Bonaparte.
And I was right. As the day approached, there came at last the unpredictably amazing explosions from the trio D-W-T, this triumvirate of the Indische Partij. This team of emperors who had crowns but no empire had their say. Put together as a single statement, it could be expressed this way.
One hundred years ago the Netherlands and Indies were conquered by France. It took just a few years to complete. Then later the defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte returned freedom to the Netherlands as well as the Indies. But why should we celebrate this? Isn’t it true that when the tricolor was once again raised into the sky symbolizing the victory of the Netherlands, our own flag was trodden into the ground? Are we to celebrate the trampling into the ground of our own flag? And why should the liberation of the Netherlands and the raising up once again of the tricolor mean that every family must pay the contribution that the authorities demand for a celebration that is not its celebration? And if they do not have the money, do the heads of these families have to pay with their labor? Native laborers must work for four days to pay their festival dues, while hunger has its own festival in the stomachs of his wife and children?
It was impossible to imagine such a challenge coming from the Sarekat or Boedi Oetomo. The thing that amazed me most was Wardi’s article, Nederlanders als Kolonialen. It was so beautifully written, full of sincerity, and so moving. Perhaps that was the best thing he had ever written, or would ever write again. Perhaps precisely because it was so beautiful, many people did not sense the anger and rage that he was expressing.
As soon as that issue of De Expres appeared my boss came rushing into my room without even knocking. That was how he behaved whenever he had lost control of his nerves.
“Monsieur,” he spoke as usual in French, “it’s shameful. You of all people, Monsieur, must understand how I feel about this. After all, I am a Frenchman.”
“I sympathize with you,” I said to calm him down. “His article gives the impression that France has no honor or glory in its history. It was Napoleon Bonaparte himself who elevated Europe to its present level of civilization. They don’t want to discuss anything else except the wars.” He began to grumble like an uneducated villager, as if he weren’t a lawyer, just because his feelings had been hurt. I watched his face go red because of his impotent anger.
“You have a French education. You have a French wife. How do you feel?” he asked, unable to control himself.
“I, Monsieur?” I was forced to grope around for some words.
“You always have an opinion,” he pressed, seeking even more sympathy. “Isn’t France too great a nation to be treated like this? As if this is some kind of court where history is being judged. Why don’t you say s
omething?” he continued to press. “Very well. You do not wish to answer. Now I ask you. How do you feel as a Dutchman?”
I knew his nerves could not take suffering like this.
“Monsieur, it’s a pity, but this is not part of my work.”
“Or do you prefer to take the position of a Native?”
I don’t know, but for a moment I felt insulted by his question.
“I am sorry, Monsieur. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I see all these things simply as a problem, nothing more,” I answered.
“Exactly. So you do not feel the resentment of a conquered Native, heh? Isn’t that exactly where the problem lies?”
I could sense that danger was threatening. Was my boss, whose recommendations to the governor-general had always been well received mainly as a result of my work, now going to pounce on me, just because his Frenchness was being tormented? Yes, a wild pig. I had to escape this attack and play along with him.
“Don’t just be quiet,” he said.
“Your country, France, has conquered and occupied the Netherlands and the Indies. I, as a Dutchman, have participated in subjugating the Natives. As a Native myself, I have joined the Dutch in their subjugation of the Natives. What else can I say?”
“There must be something you can say.”
“The Indies Natives have not been conquered for just a few decades but for hundreds of years. The fiercest tiger is thus turned into a big, fat, tame cat.”
“It is true that you have succeeded in taming the Native organizations. But haven’t you also given contradictory advice? Wasn’t it you yourself who once said that the Indische Partij would one day become a real danger because of its ideas?”
I gazed at my boss calmly. It seemed his mind was off balance as a result of his national pride being offended. He could easily forget himself and sacrifice me as proof of his loyalty to the governor-general.
“And now you say a fat, tame cat?” my boss repeated what I had said. He threw down a copy of De Expres onto my table. “You have studied this, no doubt.”
“Of course, Monsieur.” I could hear him panting. Perhaps there was something wrong with his heart as well.
“What these Indische Partij people have written has only provoked the colonial press into hurling more insults at France.”
“Your national pride has been hurt,” I said speaking directly to the problem. “That is your affair, of course. That has nothing to do with the Indische Partij, or De Expres.”
“No, you are wrong,” he cut in. “The more De Expres pursues this line, the more responses there will be from the colonial papers.”
“And so you will be tortured even more, because even more people will start shouting about how good it is that the Netherlands was liberated from France. It is not De Expres that is tormenting you but the colonial papers, the government papers.”
“Monsieur,” he said, starting to get angry, as if he were not an educated European, “this has nothing to do with my personal feelings. This is a problem to be analyzed. As far as French national pride is concerned, Monsieur knows very well about that. The problem now is, how do we stop De Expres?”
So now he was showing me his true colonial face. Here was a bureaucrat who was going to use his power to achieve his own personal ends, his own personal victory. And I, as a person with a French education, a product of those liberated and free human beings, educated also to always use common sense, felt ashamed to bear witness to his colonial face. He, a Frenchman himself, preferred to turn his back on all that his ancestors had taught us and was going to use his colonial privileges to achieve his own personal ends.
“Close the paper? The Netherlands has the right to celebrate its victory over France. Why are you so upset? It is not De Expres that has decided there should be these celebrations.”
“Tss, tss, the short of it is that I want you to find a way to put a stop to De Expres.”
“But it is not a Native matter. It is not in my area of work.”
“There are Natives working on the paper.”
And so this new task also fell upon me.
I knew that it would be very easy to silence the paper. And I didn’t need any rational excuse either. But that would not be sporting. That would be corrupt and would corrupt me too. When I had to deal with Raden Mas Minke, there was resistance. And if there was no such thing as the governor-general’s Extraordinary Powers, then perhaps it would have been I who was defeated. D-W-T did not play dirty. Must I play dirty?
I didn’t want to. It would be too easy. And the Indische Partij was just a few months old and had not yet had a chance to show what it could achieve in politics. And now my task, my colonial task, set for me by my boss, was to find a way to take action against them. How contemptible!
A few days before, there had been a number of plantation managers from Central and East Java who had come to the office to see Monsieur R—. It was my guess that they were there to try to buy his services in getting him to influence the governor-general in some decision or other. And it was also very likely that this new, disgusting task of mine had something to do with their arrival.
Just after my boss left me, there was a visit from a delegation of all the West Java plantation managers. Such a big delegation hadn’t come here just to chat. Something big was in the wind.
I left a note on my table explaining that I had taken my work home. Then I went home. After I had eaten, I went straight to bed. I woke again at seven in the evening. Not because my wife or children had woken me up, or because I had quenched my desire for sleep. There was an alien voice at the front door.
“Good evening,” came the voice of a man, speaking in French.
Nobody ever spoke French in the house except my wife and the children. I jumped out of bed. I knew who it must be. My boss, driven by his anxieties, had come looking for me at home. This wild pig was becoming more desperate in his efforts to treat his wounded feelings. I went into the bathroom.
As soon as I came into the parlor, my boss asked: “So, Monsieur, have you finished your task yet?”
I felt very offended. My wife left the room when she heard the question.
“I haven’t even worked out where to begin yet,” I answered.
“Disaster!” he cried. Suddenly he changed the subject, asking: “It is hot. Don’t you have a fan?”
Just as he finished speaking, Mark walked in carrying a fan and gave his greetings. He put the fan down on a coffee table. Silently, while stealing glances at my boss, he wound up the fan forty times, then left.
Knowing that the fan still hadn’t been turned on, my boss stared at me with blazing eyes. He asked stabbingly: “Is that fan broken?”
I stood up and turned it on. The fan whirred. My guest started ahemming threateningly.
“I hope this makes you happy,” I said.
I didn’t understand why it all seemed like some prearranged drama. Now Dede came in too, and asked: “Would Sir like to hear some music?”
“Thank you, sweetie, that would be very nice.”
Dede left and not long after we could hear a popular French song coming from the phonograph. It was being sung by a singer whose fame was rising at the time—May Le Boucq. The song was “My Love Is Afraid of the Sun,” a true Parisian song.
My guest was absorbed by this. His eyes no longer reflected anxiety. He bowed his head and mumbled: “Paris! There is nothing man has made that is more beautiful than Paris!” He raised his head and looked at me. “What Frenchman does not know that voice?”
“May Le Boucq!” I confirmed.
“And is there anyone who sings more beautifully than the French?”
“You’re right.”
Now my wife came in as if she wanted to bring this unhappy scene to an end. She sat straight down in a chair and said: “It’s been too long since we have seen France, Monsieur.”
“We all miss it, Madame.”
“When do you think we will all get a chance to see it again?”
“Well, we all can’t see it yet, Madame. I myself will be going back next year.”
“And my husband’s leave?”
“Aha, that’s what you’re getting at? I am afraid there is nothing that can be done, Madame. His Excellency still needs your husband’s ideas.”
“That is exaggerating, Monsieur,” I protested. “I can decide to quit at any moment, perhaps today, perhaps the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow?” My boss jumped up, startled. “Impossible. Our work still piles up.”
My wife left, realizing that her little drama had failed.
My boss took out the latest copy of De Expres. He asked: “And have you read this?”
I nodded with my eyes focused on the columns marked in red, with notes down the side, and some sentences underlined. “Things have reached a climax. Let’s discuss this together.”
We didn’t finish our discussions until two in the morning. My head started to throb. My boss pressed me to devise some action that could be taken against the Indische Partij triumvirate. I refused. What they had written was to be expected from young nationalists, if we can call them that, a little intoxicated by the freedom that they were still able to enjoy. I was still under the influence of the very moving article of Wardi’s that I had read the previous morning. His Dutch was beautiful, full of true literary value. I defended with all my soul my view that what they had written was quite to be expected from people with a European education. If you don’t like these sorts of statements, I said, then it is best that Natives stop being given a Western education.
“And it is you who have stopped me from finishing my work on the influence of Dutch-language teaching,” I said.
“Meneer Pangemanann, I know you are starting to get angry. And you know too that I am not happy with your work at the moment. But we must finish this task this morning no matter what.”