Footsteps (39 page)

“Advertise.”

“Yes, I think we will have to do that. I’m glad we’ve met like this. I can thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“What have I done to deserve such thanks?”

“Your paper. It’s helped a lot of people in Kroja too. And I should also beg your forgiveness that I was unable to do anything to help your wife. I was assigned to the hospital to do my practical while your wife was ill. You didn’t have much time to wait upon her.” But then he looked at me carefully and said: “You were a medical student. How could you let your wife develop such extreme complications? You were studying medicine. You should have recognized all the symptoms.”

“Both of us were too busy.”

“Who isn’t busy?”

“Let’s not talk about the past?” I suggested.

A little piece of my sad past had returned to visit me. Seated beside me now was someone who—for I don’t know how many hours—had looked after Mei. And his words sounded like accusations. He had sat me in the accused’s chair as a husband who had not been good to his wife. And worse still, as an educated man who had not been correct, not paying enough attention to the person who was closest to him.

“Yes. It’s better not to talk about unpleasant things of the past. But there was something your wife said to me that I have never been able to forget: ‘Why are you humoring me, Tuan? I am not going to get well again. I have seen what I have wanted to see of the world. I have done what I have wanted to do.’ She spoke in quite good Malay. She had no regrets about her situation; she was ready to face her death. She spoke as if to herself, as if she was coming to terms with the course of her life.”

The longer he spoke the more I was drawn back to think about the past. And I didn’t like it. My relationship with Mei had ended when God had intervened in our lives. And death was not my responsibility.

“Did you know that your wife was color-blind?”

Color-blind? Good God, and I had never known that. So she had never seen the beauty of the world’s colors! How little this life had given her. The world had not given her health, nor a long
life, and neither had she ever seen its colors. Yet she had given everything she had to the world. I bowed my head in remembrance of her soul, the soul of a wife I had never known well enough.

My traveling companion kept on talking. “Do you know what the people say to the rich and powerful in Kroja when they need to frighten them? We will tell His Excellency Honored Lord Editor of
Medan.
And so they are freed from the oppression they were suffering.”

“Yes, let’s be grateful the Indies now has a Native paper,” I answered. “At the very least we can say that things will not be worse because of it.”

“I was amazed, though, to read your article on the boycott. You gave people information that turned upside down everything that educated people, especially the priyayi, believed. Do you think it’s proper that this kind of information be given to the public? You’re teaching people to use it, even though you don’t make clear against whom.”

“Boedi Oetomo esteems democracy, doesn’t it?”

“We have never discussed it.”

“But you agree with it, don’t you?” I pressed him. “Modern organizations are born out of democratic choice and consent, aren’t they?”

“Of course, and we know that democracy does not need boycotts.”

“Democracy means that everyone may know everything we know. Are you worried that other people may know what you know?”

“That’s not the issue. You are giving a weapon to people who don’t need it.”

“If they don’t need it, then they will store it away. If they need it, they will use it.”

“For what? To fight the government?” he chipped in. “Anyway, aren’t you the golden boy of the Governor-General van Heutsz?” He turned to look out the window.

Once again I heard the clitter-clatter of the train and felt its rattling. And my body was conscious once more of swaying from side to side on the seat. As soon as he pulled his head back inside, I asked: “Do you still remember Tanca?” He nodded without looking at me. “The science of medicine can also fall into the wrong hands, into the hands of people not worthy of it. He used it not to save life but to kill.”

He was startled out of his priyayi world. His eyes were open wide and he was gazing down at me as if I were his subordinate. He felt that a priyayi was much superior to a free worker, and such a comment implying that a priyayi could be unworthy seemed to offend him.

“Do you think it is appropriate to say such a thing to a government doctor?”

“Of course it is, Koen. Wasn’t Tanca after all first mentioned to us in the midst of medical students and witnessed by our teachers, themselves doctors? Do you consider our teachers to be of lesser status than a government Java Doctor who has not yet graduated? I’m just talking in general now. You’re angry?”

“You forget that I am an employee of the government. You, being such a special friend of the governor-general, should know better how to speak to an official of the government.”

“Very well. So we should consider this congress as the congress of the government’s priyayi?”

“Be careful. The princes and the representatives of the government will also be there.” He was sounding more and more like a priyayi. “It’s lucky you’re not one of our leaders. This democracy of yours could ruin all our efforts to educate the country’s children. In just another twenty years—may God give us the time to achieve our victory—BO will change this people and awaken them.”

This big mouth was putting up his embattlements now—the priyayi’s arrogance. And these were the corps of people I had tried to unite, and were now united as Javanese under the banner of the BO. I closed my eyes and pretended to be about to drift off into the world of dreams. But the thought that it was not right that I leave this argument unresolved made me open my eyes again. I added: “Government priyayi and the princes are no better than anyone else who is not a priyayi or a prince.”

“Yes, people have to be educated to know who are their betters. You’re from a bupati’s family, aren’t you? You were taught to know the difference between a street urchin and someone who has been to school? Those who have a schooling have been taught to honor the priyayi, the officials, the raja and their families!” His face was turning red with anger.

“And what honor do they who are neither priyayi nor prince have? Do they have no dignity and honor at all? Are they just garbage?”

“If everyone had honor and dignity, then there would be no honor at all.”

“If one is to be honored and the other not, then it means one has stolen the other’s honor.”

“There is no question of stealing anything,” he answered nervously. “We were born into a world where there are already raja and their families, where there is already a government with its priyayi. There are those who are honored, and those who have no honor, and there are those who are humiliated, because that is the world. There are men and there are women. There are the high and the low. There is the earth and the sky. There are the poor and the rich. You were taught in school too that for everything there is a plus and minus…”

“…and that humankind moves from minus to plus and that is called struggle? Or have you forgotten, Koen? Or has BO forgotten? It is not the intention, is it, of the BO to maintain things as they are? So that the poor remain poor, the ignorant remain stupid, and the sick just lie waiting for death to arrive?” And because I had now begun to study the Islamic religion in a more systematic manner, these additional words also came out: “And our prayers, what are they if not also movement from minus to plus? Do you know what is the meaning of prayer? A request to God, a movement from the most minus to the most plus.”

And I closed my eyes, pretending to yawn. From underneath my eyelids I could see him bite his lips, take out his copy of
Medan
, and then start reading.

I was still restless. Was this the face of the educated Native? So what was the point of an organization if not to move from minus to plus? If Sadikoen was representative of the BO, then it would just become a salon club without a salon.

I heard Sadikoen clear his throat. Once. Twice. It seemed he now had a reply and was trying to wake me up. But I chose just to listen to the clatter of the train and feel it trembling. He didn’t know that without Sandiman the Boedi Oetomo would quickly meet the same fate as the Sarekat. How could it be otherwise when the raw material was just the same old stuff? If the only difference was that its leaders were from among the young priyayi?

The Boedi Oetomo was also propelled by the so-called “demonstration effect,” everyone was infused with the spirit to copy whatever was done by their superiors, everything that the rich
and powerful did was turned into a fashion, even their way of life. As soon as someone powerful joined the BO all his followers and underlings followed suit. And wasn’t that also the way the religions were spread in Java, and wasn’t it also in that spirit that the raja had handed over themselves and their peoples and their countries to the Dutch?

I gave thanks that my meeting with Sadikoen had been productive, had led me to thoughts that now made easier my struggle to understand the mistakes of the past and find a way forward for the future. There were no mistakes that could not be corrected.

As usual the carriage was not full. This was especially the case for the Betawi-Surabaya express. The fare was too expensive for anyone without position or a major business, especially for first class. There were even very few Europeans.

From underneath my eyelids I saw Sadikoen stand up and walk away. Perhaps he was going to the toilet. Not long afterward he returned with a man wearing overalls, who just stood there beside Sadikoen, with a bit of a bow in the way he stood. He clasped his hands before him. He didn’t dare sit down, only because the priyayi caste system classified him as being of lower status.

Sadikoen coughed twice to wake me up. I opened my eyes, pretending to rub away the sleep: “I seem to have fallen asleep.”

“For quite a while,” said Sadikoen, which was obviously not true. “This is one of the brakemen. He wanted to talk to you. He is also a member of the Kroja Branch of the BO.”

“Your servant’s name is Ja’in, Bendoro,” he said in High Javanese.

I glanced at Sadikoen. He didn’t feel uncomfortable at hearing kromo being spoken to me.

“Why don’t we just use Malay?” I asked.

“Very well, Bendoro.”

“Sit here, beside me,” I invited him.

“Forgive me, Bendoro. I’m happier standing like this. I’m used to working standing up. And please don’t be angry with me for seeking an audience with you, Bendoro. I am also a subscriber to
Medan.
Happily Bendoro Doctor told me that Bendoro was also on the train. When else, if not now, would I get such an opportunity?”

“What is it that you want?” I also stood.

“Please sit down, Bendoro,” he begged.

But I remained standing. Sadikoen was watching each of us closely.

“Many of my friends, either individually or together in groups, subscribe to
Medan.
We like it very much. Truly, Bendoro.
Medan
is not just something that entertains us, it has also become our leader. Bendoro has been able to help my fellow railway workers three times now. The publication on the law as well as the extremely interesting Sunday supplement have all helped us a lot.”

Such praise had become by now extremely boring. Yet I had to listen. It usually ended with either some biting criticism or with some pathetic request, depending on the opening. The more the praise, the more biting the ending. And I had to listen and pay attention, just like Multatuli’s Droogstoppel, because who knows if one day I will need his voice? His services? His agreement?

“Bendoro,
Medan
has published a newspaper and a magazine explaining the law. I would very much like to request
Medan
to publish a special magazine for us, the railway workers.”

“A special magazine?”

“Yes, Bendoro, like that published by the Railway Workers Union.”

“But you can follow what’s in the union magazine.”

“It’s in Dutch, Bendoro. We can’t read Dutch. And it is only for union members and we Natives aren’t allowed to join.”

It was only then that I learned that the union was organized along racial lines, enrolling only Dutch and Eurasians.

“Give me time to think about it, Ja’in,” I answered.

“
Medan
won’t lose money, Bendoro. All the railway workers have a decent wage. They also want to advance. And if Bendoro will not hold out his hand, then who else will?”

No one else will help except
Medan.
Once more someone is hoping that a new project will be begun. And once it is begun, in the spirit of dedication to one’s people, then one after another from that people come more demands, even more substantial and with even more worth. Each time you take up one of their demands, another comes forth. If you had decided to simplify your life and be a doctor, perhaps in a hospital or on a ship, or in an army barracks, your work would never have been as exciting as this. You have chosen. Every word that comes from you, whether written or spoken, challenges your abilities, and pushes you to limits where the law too always makes its own demands.

Ja’in continued his stories about the lives of the railway workers, their joys and sorrows, the fact they had little hope for advancement in their work because all the senior positions were reserved for Europeans. Their only distraction was their endeavor to advance themselves generally, to learn and understand more about the world and its ways. They would never have an opportunity to advance in their work beyond what had been determined officially.

The brakeman bowed hurriedly and excused himself, making his way quickly out of the carriage. Not long after, the conductor entered checking tickets.

Mas Sadikoen handed over his ticket without looking at the conductor, who accepted it while bowing in deference. “
Ndoro
Doctor is on his way to Jogja?” asked the conductor.

“Yes. Mmmmm. Could you check on Madame Ndoro?”