Footsteps (62 page)

One afternoon Douwager came to visit me to say he was sorry to hear what had happened. My mouth had been unbandaged by then, though my lips still felt swollen.

“Where is Wardi?”

“He hasn’t been in Bandung for a while,” he answered.

“He’s been traveling around propagandizing for that new party, perhaps.”

He didn’t confirm or deny. “If he knew what had happened, he would have come straightaway.”

“It doesn’t matter. The propaganda work is important too.”

And it was then that it also became clear to me, even though my eyes were still covered—he and Wardi were not joining in the fight against the Syndicate. Not with deeds, and not in their hearts either. Indies Nationalism was more important to them.

And I was not discouraged because of it.

The trial proceeded quickly and without complications. The motive for the attack was that Robert Suurhof did not like the article in
Medan.
Why didn’t he like it? No reason. He just didn’t like it.

I tried to open up the trial to broader issues, but the court wouldn’t let things go outside the actual attack and firmly rejected moving even an inch off track.

Robert Suurhof and his friends were found guilty of premeditated assault and were sentenced to four months each. And with that, the matter was considered ended.

But for me the matter had not ended at all.

While they were shut away in jail, we published even more reports about the sugar districts. In some areas people went into action and began setting the cane fields alight. This movement began in Sidoarjo, where Nyai Ontosoroh was born, the place where my story began. One of the laboratory workers who was a member of the SDI taught people how to set the cane alight.

When the dry season had reached its peak, it was enough for one person to slip in among the cane at night and pour phosphorus over the leaves that lay on the ground after the cane had been pruned. Then next day, as the temperature rose, the phosphorus would ignite by itself. The fallen leaves would burn. If the guards looking after the cane were at all slack, the fire would spread very fast. Even if they acted quickly, they would still lose a quarter of a hectare that would be burned to the ground. And there would be another hectare of cane that could no longer be sent to the mill. To put the fire out, all of the coolies would have to be mobilized. The cost of putting out even a small fire would at least equal that of putting down a rebellion.

At first, the sugar barons didn’t understand exactly what was happening. After there had been twenty fires in just one month in Central and East Java, they organized a conference. The results—security of the plantations would be strengthened. The fire epidemic stopped, but not because of the increased security. The wet season had arrived.

Reports from the sugar areas became more and more popular in the press, especially the Malay press. There were no signs of any activity from the Indo gang, perhaps because their ringleaders were still shut away in jail.

Then came one more trial, the heaviest of all.

One afternoon a man came to see me. He was already beginning to show his age. His clothes were dirty and faded. He wore a black Malay fez, so that you could hardly see his hair. He was an Acehnese named
Teukoe
Djamiloen. This name indicated that he had been a traditional leader in Aceh.

“There is nothing else for me to do than come and see you, Tuan,” he said in a rather strangely pronounced Malay. “After living some time now in these uncertain straits, and after asking here and there, it seems it is only Tuan who can perhaps help me. So here I have come. Who knows? Perhaps it is God Himself who has led me here.”

I observed his lean dry skin. He moved lithely, and had the appearance of someone from Southern India. He was perhaps forty-five years old. He wore a week’s growth of mustache, beard, and whiskers along his neck under his chin.

“What is it you want?” I asked, impatient with his ornate and over-polite manner of speaking.

“At first I humored myself that it did not matter being here in Priangan because our leader Tjoet Nya Dhin too was exiled here. But as time passed I have found less and less consolation in this thought. The feeling that I had been treated unjustly, Tuan, began to gnaw at my soul more and more, day and night.”

“What was it that happened?”

“Yes, Tuan, just before the Aceh War ended, the army captured me in a
blang.
”

“A blang?”

“A field, Tuan. They caught me after we had been surrounded. Then they beat us. Several of my comrades were killed. They took the rest, all badly wounded. It was about the same time that Tjoet Nya Dhin was caught in the jungle and exiled here to Priangan. I and some of my friends were put in jail—for five years. After they let me out, I lived in Kotaraja back in Aceh for four years. I got married again and had a child. Then one day I was summoned to the office of tuan of Kotaraja. All he asked was: Is this Teukoe Djamiloen? Then and there I was taken to the harbor and put on a ship. I had nothing with me. I was brought here to Priangan in Java, and then just let go like that.”

I took him to see Frischboten and I told him to repeat his story.

“Barbarians!” hissed Hendrik, who himself was unable to control his fury. His eyes burned.

“Then how did you live after that?”

“I have trodden all roads, Tuan, all roads—and they all led to jail.”

“You’ve been in court?”

“Several times.”

“The matter of your being exiled here from Aceh without any court order has never been raised?”

“Never.”

“Can you prove what you have told us?” I asked.

“I am an Acehnese, Tuan, and a teukoe, who for more than fifteen years fought in the battlefield. Is it right that I should now lie?”

“We’re sorry, don’t be angry.”

“What is the point of lying and cheating if I can still use my muscles and my mind? Yes, I have stolen, fought, and robbed. But lie, Tuan, and cheat, that is not in my character. I am a true Acehnese.”

“Fine,” said Hendrik. He took some paper and started to question the Acehnese in more detail.

Two hours passed. The questions were finished. Teukoe Djamiloen was asked to come back the next morning to continue the interview.

“Have you ever met Tjoet Nya Dhin?” I asked.

“I have never been able to find her. How could I look for her when my situation is like this?”

“This is enough now. You can go.”

He didn’t seem to want to go.

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“If you would allow me, I could guard your door at the office?”

He had no place to stay.

Hendrik looked at me, nodding. He believed all that Teukoe Djamiloen had told him. And that meant that the Teukoe’s request was agreed to, and so he joined Marko’s men.

As soon as he had left, I asked Hendrik; “Could a kontrolir exile someone without any recourse to the law like that?”

“It’s happened before, hasn’t it, Minke. Not just in the Indies, but in all the colonies. This is not the only case.”

“And the person has no way of defending himself?”

“He could, if there was someone who could handle his case.”

“So it is because he has no money that he can’t defend himself?”

“No, it’s more than that. Look, Minke, according to the law, the only person who can act arbitrarily like that, who has a legal right to do that, is the governor-general. You know yourself about the extraordinary rights, rights that only the governor-general has. But there are those local officials who, because they’re crazy with power, or because they don’t understand the limits of their authority, or because they’ve been bribed by the local Native rulers, come to think that these rights extend down to them, and they use them. They use them without ever requesting permission from the only one who has such rights under the law—the governor-general. It’s always been like that.”

“We can take legal action, can’t we?”

“Yes. The kontrolir of Kotaraja will lose, but nothing will happen to him. He will not undergo any punishment.”

“Even if found guilty?”

“Even if found guilty. Because he has the right to request his
superiors to give him the protection of his office. And they always agree.”

“In that case we should just publish the story then.”

“That is the best thing to do.”

And so it was that the case of Teukoe Djamiloen was launched in
Medan.
I was immediately summoned by the authorities. A preliminary investigation took place. However, they were not concerned about whether the report was true or not but rather with why I had decided to publish it. The examination wasn’t even completed, and I was further summoned to meet the assistant resident.

“How could you believe, Meneer, that such a thing could actually happen?”

“The man is with me now, Mr. Assistant Resident. I can bring him here if you wish. Perhaps that is the best thing to do.”

“What is the point of bringing a madman here?”

“Madmen are not sent into exile, Meneer.”

“Are you prepared to bring witnesses that he is not crazy?”

“Why not, Mr. Assistant Resident?”

“Be careful, Meneer. Your report has already come to the notice of those above. It is better that you withdraw the story before things go too far.”

“
Medan
intends to report further on this case.”

“It’s better that you don’t, Meneer. The world is still going to go on. There is still much time ahead, and this life is so enjoyable.”

He escorted me to the door.

And we continued our campaign on Teukoe Djamiloen’s behalf.

Everybody’s spirits at
Medan
were high because of all the victories we had won. The Syndicate was clearly not going ahead with its plan to lower its rent payments to the peasants. We had so far got away with only a mild warning from the assistant resident. The Zweep were still shut away in jail. SDI was bounding ahead—its membership had trebled.

For me the whole world had opened up. All obstacles moved out of my way, running away in embarrassment and shame. All the
Medan
publications, newspapers and magazines, circulating more and more widely, were entering the minds and hearts of their readers, and were leaving behind seeds that would surely one day grow.

Haji Moeloek’s serial was almost finished. I had begun to
prepare another story, called
Nyai Permana.
It was also a story of the sufferings of a farmer and the unworthy behavior of the Native officials. A few years ago, the government had carried out a land redistribution. But the Native officials had grabbed the land for themselves, and had often sold it for their own profit as well. I wrote the story myself. I based it on real events but mixed in things reflecting the dreams of the girl from Jepara, especially about the rights that must be possessed by women—the right of a woman to divorce her husband, for example. Such a right should not lie only with the husband, who can then get rid of his wife whenever he likes.

I was so involved with writing this story that all the many other major problems had to wait their turn for my attention.

But then came our greatest trial, as I have mentioned earlier.

As soon as I had stepped off the train in Bandung, Sandiman was there, along with Teukoe Djamiloen. Both of them seemed exhausted. Sandiman was carrying a big package. I could tell from his eyes that he was very worried.

“This is all I could get, Tuan,” said Sandiman, opening proceedings.

“What is it?”

“The manuscripts and papers from your office.”

“Why have you brought it here?”

“We have all been evicted from the print shop and the editorial office.”

The Zweep have moved into action again, I thought. “There wasn’t any fighting, was there?”

“How could we fight, Tuan. They all carried rifles. The police!”

“The police have evicted us?” I asked unbelievingly. “What for? What reason did they give?”

“They just threw us all out. They didn’t say what it was about. The office has been locked and sealed. These papers were all I could save.”

We left for No. 1 Naripan Street. The office was sealed. Marko was sitting on the step, his head in his knees.

“You all go home. Keep these papers safe,” I gave orders.

I jumped on a dokar and headed off to the assistant resident’s office. He had no other visitors, but I still wasn’t invited in from the waiting room. My legs and arms all wanted to do something. My patience was wearing thin. The assistant resident came out
and pretended not to see me waiting. He went in again, having looked at me, still pretending not to know anything. That was enough. So the sealing up of the offices was on his orders. His direct orders!

Without waiting to be summoned, I knocked on his door. He nodded, smiled sweetly, and invited me to sit down. Then he stood. I sat down and he pretended he was busy and had to go outside again. As if I didn’t know how busy an assistant resident really was!

Now I sat waiting at his desk. There were no papers on it anywhere. There were no books of law statutes or dictionaries. Nothing. In a sideboard there were a whole lot of porcelain ornaments and a collection of pipes. When I saw them, I realized that the room was permeated with the smell of tobacco.

Was he punishing me for knocking on his door and ignoring protocol? To hell with it, my business with him is also important. If
Medan
doesn’t publish, it will confuse the whole of the Sarekat and the campaigns against abuse of power will stop, because only
Medan
is capable of carrying out those tasks, at its own risk.

Five minutes went by. He still hadn’t come back. Damn! Why are you avoiding me? Don’t worry, I have no power over you, do I? Or are you afraid, Meneer Assistant Resident?

A servant came in and placed a glass of water on the desk. He pushed the glass away from me. Then he left, disappearing behind the door. It was another five minutes before the assistant resident of Priangan appeared again. There were no signs of perspiration on his neck or face. Perhaps the business he had to attend to involved nothing more than moving his pipe from hand to mouth and back again. His pipe was back in his mouth now, and he mumbled: “Forgive me, Meneer.”