Footsteps (35 page)
The resistance in Tapanuli, in North Sumatra, was announced as over when Si Singamangaraja was killed. Dutch power had begun to be consolidated in Tapanuli around 1876. The colonialists’ obituaries for Si Singamangaraja were full of insults and slander, and were spittle in the face of all Native youth. They were being faithful to the colonial way—slandering those who had been defeated, who were powerless, and especially those who had already become spirits. The most strongly voiced slander was that Si Singamangaraja was no better than any other Native leader—they were all unable to keep themselves from stealing women. They said that not long before he died he stole the maiden Natingka, the daughter of King Pardopur, the fiancée of Radja Nawaolu. When they hate, there is no slander too great; when they are pleased, there is no praise too great.
And in my own life, the daily edition of
Medan
began to appear in Bandung. There were more rumors that the paper was also a gift from van Heutsz. While these slanders remained rumors I had no way of refuting them. I could not refute them openly in the paper, as that would mean mentioning the name of the governor-general as the representative of Her Majesty.
That’s the Indies for you,
Mama wrote from France.
The papers don’t dare print the truth, afraid they will be closed down or suspended, while the greedy priyayi are mummified in their jobs, as you said yourself, and those in power know only how to punish. Life is dominated by rumors. Anyone can become a victim without any chance of defending themselves. You must stop this, Child. Make your paper the only one in the Indies that works only for justice, for truth, for your people. Frischboten is an honest lawyer; he will do all he can to help you. On first impression you may not like him, but don’t be put off by what you see on the outside. He knows the Indies well. He too once said to me that the Indies is a factory that only produces priyayi, bureaucrats, and tyrants. It has never produced a single leader, except when they produce themselves, outside the government.
I could no longer question Frischboten’s reliability. Together we had solved the problem of the News Agency’s refusal
to sell us their cable reports on important domestic news. They would sell us only international news. And our Native readers weren’t so interested in international news. We couldn’t afford to hire reporters of our own yet. In order to obtain local news we struck out on an unusual path.
Medan
opened its pages to all Natives, whether they held official positions or not, who wanted to report the problems they were facing, the troubles they confronted. Any problem, any trouble. Frischboten was ready to deal with all his strength with the cases that came in. People could get free legal advice. And underneath the name of the paper, on the front page, I printed the following explanation: “Open to any Native to present his opinion or to report his troubles.”
Within three months our office at No. 1 Naripan Street was continuously full of people coming from all over the place to report the troubles they were suffering—oppression, theft of their property, injury to their bodies by the colonial authorities and local elite, both white and brown. Sometimes it involved a conspiracy between the two of them, white and brown. Our administrative office in Bogor was also always full of village people asking for justice. Often it wasn’t only legal justice they were after but natural justice. They became the source of news for
Medan.
Within three months we had won the public’s confidence. And after three months Sandiman also turned up again.
He came to Buitenzorg one evening: “Yes, I have to admit, I have succeeded in no longer distrusting Tuan.” He started work in Bandung together with Wardi.
He had gone back to Solo and Jogjakarta to carry out the tasks I had given him, even while he distrusted me. The paper had restored his faith. He had contacted his brother in the Legion. They were making preparations to depart for Lombok. But the Legion’s officers all came to an agreement that they would not go and fight their brothers out there across from Java.
In such busy times I would have forgotten altogether about Maysoroh had she not written so often. Once she wrote:
Mama is already far advanced in her pregnancy and is going to give birth again in a few days. She hopes to be able to read the latest edition of your paper before the baby arrives.
It appeared that the last batch of papers I had sent had not reached her. Perhaps it was because one of Rotterdam Lloyd’s ships had recently sunk.
Rono Mellema is going to school now,
she wrote another time
, I had to enroll in a one-year course in French in order to be able to enroll in Gymnasium. I was so bored having to sit through all the classes so I left and have taken up violin and music lessons.
Her fourth letter was an event in itself:
I’m beginning to feel at home now in Paris. The Indies seems like an unending jungle compared with what it is like here. We like to stroll along the Place de la Concorde and in the Cité, which people say is the heart of Paris. Everywhere there are palaces and gardens. Everywhere there is music and laughter. Everywhere there are cars and electric trams.
Om
, I don’t think we’ll be coming back to the Indies. Mama says that things are so much quieter here, no evil and barbarity. What about our relationship, Om?
What about our relationship? What about it? My whole life was now dedicated to my two beloved children:
Medan
, coming out daily, and its older brother, coming out weekly. Even with these, the readers were still not satisfied. We also brought out a Sunday edition, the first in the Indies. This was something even the colonial press had never done.
The paper must be something that nourishes the Natives and gives them energy to fight for truth and justice. Within three months we overtook the circulation of
Preanger Bode
and Betawi’s
Nieuws van den Dag.
My heart full of pride, I would often shout within myself: My fellow Natives, my people, now you have a paper of your own, a place where you can air your grievances. Do not worry. No more will evil escape being shamed and exposed before the world! Now you have
Medan
where you can state your opinions, explain your views, somewhere where every one of you can come to seek and find justice. Minke will take your cases before the court of the world!
About our relationship, May,
I answered
, it is up to you. I am bound to the land and the people of the Indies. It is to the Indies that I have dedicated myself. It is only in the Indies that I can achieve something meaningful. In another country I would perhaps be nothing more than a dried-out leaf being whisked along by the wind. You can decide, May.
And like a thunderbolt I received a letter from Ter Haar, who, it turned out, had not died but only been severely wounded and had collapsed at the feet of Lieutenant Colijn:
Within the next few weeks, my friend, I will be leaving the Indies forever. I will try to call in at your office in Bandung. I make sure that I follow your paper every day, even though I cannot yet appreciate the Malay that you use. The printing is also quite good for the Indies, especially remembering that it is not being done in Betawi. It’s a pity though that you use such big type; you lose a lot of space that way. Why don’t you use smaller print? It would make the paper look much better.
He asks for smaller print. He is a true Dutchman, not a Native. He does not know and does not want to know that the Natives cannot afford to buy spectacles. Many priyayi are forced to retire at forty-five and cannot afford to buy them.
Jean Marais wrote:
We’ve now received several issues from your first year of publication. As it happens I have a friend here who is a journalist. He was totally amazed that there were Netherlands Indies Natives capable of publishing a newspaper of their own. He thought that you and your people were still eating each other. Then he found out that you were among the top students in medical school. He asked whether there were proper grammar schools in the Indies. I told him that there were not. All he could do was stand openmouthed in bewilderment. I did the same.
I happily translated some of the news items for him as well as your editorial. He said—and please don’t be offended—that they weren’t proper news reports like
those to be found in the European papers. He said that they were more like short articles. I said that these were the types of reports that people needed in the Indies. They tell you what has happened—when, what, who, and why—and there is also commentary. It wasn’t so important whether the comment was correct or not. The Native readers would always forgive you. The comment gives them something to discuss as well as something to curse. He said he was sorry for them.
But he ended up using material from
Medan.
He even used material from
Medan
to write about how there had been a rebellion in the Philippines and how it had been suppressed by the Americans. There are still no signs of rebellion in the French colonies of Africa, Asia, and America. You are doing more than just publishing a newspaper; you are beginning the rising up of a people. If this wasn’t the case, then people wouldn’t be reading your paper and it would not be able to survive. You are pioneering the way even if it is just the beginning. You should be very happy. I am proud to have a friend such as you.
Ai, my heart swelled as big as a mountain. The goings-on of this beloved child of mine had made it into the French press—it didn’t matter how or exactly what was said. It’s always harder to reply to praise. Whenever I’m insulted or challenged, there is a kind of automatic machine inside me that reels out all kinds of responses, replies, attitudes, actions, already tied together with a string of words. The only words I have to answer praise are “thank you.” And I did have a lot to thank Jean Marais for—for teaching me French and for bringing me to an understanding of an educated person’s duties and responsibilities toward his country and people. He too was the one who taught me to distinguish between colonial Europe and free Europe. And it was free Europe that created the colonial mentality even while it retained its own stature. The colonial was condemned for all time to remain colonial.
Nyo,
wrote Mama
, I am so happy to be able to pass on to you two pieces of news. First, you now have a pretty little sister. Jean has called her Jeannette. It’s right that
she doesn’t have a Javanese name because she looks just like a Pure-Blood. Jean is also very, very happy to have another child. Second, Child, I am so proud to read your newspaper. Even though I feel it is not very tightly edited, I enjoy it very much and am now able to follow what is happening with my people. I would never be able to read that kind of news in the colonial press.
Congratulations. I’m so proud of you, my son. Now you have begun to be the kind of person you yourself always wanted to be. You have found a way to truly express your thoughts and feelings. But I worry about your safety. The Indies is like the wild jungle. Do you remember someone called Darsam? Without him our business would never have flourished. Without him we would have been at the mercy of all kinds of bandits—white, brown, and yellow. Have you thought about this, Child? Don’t ignore this. There will be many people—white, brown, and yellow—who will not like what you are doing. Frischboten will be a good friend. You can rely upon him at all times. Involve him in everything. And don’t put any faith in your friendship with Governor-General van Heutsz. He may treat you well now, but the moment his shirt is soiled by you or because of you, he will not hesitate to bring disaster down upon you. Don’t forget this, Child, don’t ever forget.
They are all the same, the priyayi, whether white or brown. Their mouth speaks only for their pockets. If you know what is in their pocket, then you will know everything there is to know about them.
If you can’t get on with Frischboten, then telegraph me straightaway. We’ve also got to know a good Dutch lawyer here in Paris. He’s going to open an office in the Indies. His mother is French. He has lived in poverty ever since he was a child. He understands what it means to be poor.
Om,
wrote May
, may I have permission to study singing?
Of course, May, do not feel bound because of me. With Mama beside you, you will grow into the woman you want to
be. She is a goddess who understands the inner workings of people’s souls. Follow her guidance and accept her advice and you will never regret it.
Mr. Minke,
wrote Ter Haar
, please forgive me that I will not be able to visit you in Bandung or Buitenzorg. I haven’t been able to find anyone to take me, so there is no way I can get there. I will sail straight to Europe. Before I leave the Indies, allow me to say one more thing. Never let your very good newspaper ever be used to further personal ambitions. Your paper and yourself now belong to your peoples, the peoples of the Indies.
I belong to the peoples of the Indies! Honored and enslaved together! Like other people, I too like to be honored. I accepted the honor. But I also accepted my fate as a slave, the lowliest of slaves serving the peoples of the Indies.
I, Sandiman, Wardi, and
Medan
—newspaper and magazine editions—labored on like the wheels of a locomotive.
And another letter arrived from Maysoroh:
Om, on this peaceful night tonight, I am writing to you to thank you with the most sincere of hearts for all the help you gave Papa and me during those difficult times in Surabaya. What would have happened if you hadn’t come to us? Papa often tells of all your kindness to us, how you always respected and helped us. I listened to all Papa’s stories with my head bowed with emotion. Through these stories your goodness has become one of the most beautiful things in our lives, something we will never forget. How can we ever repay you? Mama often talks about selflessness. And that is what rules your heart, says Mama. And that too is what I think; you are a great and good man. May you have a long and happy life. May God always bestow upon you happiness, safety, and success.…
