by Rory Marron
The lorry lurched to a stop, its brakes squeaking. From the irregular rattle of the motor and the smell of the exhaust, Lamban guessed it was running on alcohol. Its solid rubber tyres were badly perished. Faded letters on the lower part of the door read ‘East Indies Tea Estates’.
Two slim, thin-faced men in their mid-twenties jumped out of the cab. They wore the dark headscarves and green-check sarongs favoured by the devout and white, short-sleeved shirts. Lamban would have paid them no further attention except that as one of them retied his headscarf a lock of hair dropped well below his ear. Swiftly he pushed it back under the scarf, glancing warily at Lamban as he did so.
They bought two coconuts and joined Lamban under the awning. The one with the long hair was half-turned away from him but the other chose to watch him keenly.
‘Salam aliyah kum,’ said the man using the formal Arabic greeting to a stranger.
‘Aliyah kum salam,’ Lamban replied equally politely.
The man’s eyes were bright and restless. He kept looking repeatedly back down the narrow, dusty road. ‘Have you travelled far?’ He continued in Javanese.
‘From the east, near Semarang,’ volunteered Lamban.
‘And where are you heading?’
‘Djakarta.’
His eyes widened. ‘On foot? That’s a long way!’
‘My bicycle was stolen.’
‘Disgraceful! And people call themselves Muslims!’
‘Perhaps it was a Communist?’
His inquisitor was not put off. ‘Let’s hope so. Do you have relations in Djakarta?’
‘No,’ replied Lamban. He had no desire to talk, so he decided to be slightly rude. ‘If possible I intend to work for Sukarno.’ Sukarno was not noted for his piety or for his good relations with the Masjumi. For an instant Lamban thought he saw a flash of genuine amusement in the other’s eyes. He rose to leave.
‘A noble cause,’ replied the man. ‘I wish you a safe journey. May God watch over you.’
‘And over you too,’ replied Lamban automatically.
A short time later the lorry passed him on the narrow road. Except for two wooden crates the flatbed was empty. Plenty of room there for a tired traveller, thought Lamban. But the lorry did not stop and it swept round a tight bend. Seconds later he heard the harsh squeal of breaks followed by angry shouts.
Lamban quickened his pace, moving instinctively into the cover of the bushes at the roadside. He peered round the bend. A rope was strung across the road. Four men, the two Masjumi and two others, one holding a pistol, were standing by the lorry’s cab. Two more men were prising open the crates. Lamban slipped off his pack and crept closer until he was level with the cab.
A triumphant shout from the flatbed sent one Masjumi dashing for the undergrowth. By the cab, a powerfully built man, spun quickly, flicking out his arm. With a gasp the runner went sprawling at the edge of the road. He lay motionless a little more than five feet from Lamban, His headscarf had slipped off and long hair hid his face. A knife was buried deep between his shoulder blades.
The killer moved to retrieve his weapon, Lamban watched the other Masjumi. He had moved around slightly, keeping the other bandit in view. Something told Lamban he would make a move when the other man was farthest away. He gauged the distance to the gunman and from him to the flatbed.
When the killer reached his victim he placed his foot casually on the man’s back for purchase then bent to reach for the hilt. Lamban sprang forward. As the killer’s head jerked up in surprise Lamban’s shin slammed against his throat, crushing his windpipe. His eyes bulged and he went down in near silence, clutching frantically at his throat, his legs thrashing. Lamban was already rushing for the gunman.
Distracted, the bandit with the gun turned. Instantly the Masjumi grabbed for the weapon and the two men began to struggle. The bandit shouted. Two seconds later Lamban was chopping at his elbow, numbing his arm. The pistol fell to the ground. Lamban gave him a low thrust-kick and felt the knee-cap dislocate. With a howl the now-crippled man toppled. The Masjumi snatched up the gun.
One bandit jumped down from the flatbed with a half-drawn machete at his waist. Lamban’s instep slammed upwards into his groin, bending him double. Grunting, the bandit slashed wildly with the machete. Lamban sensed rather than felt his keris in his hand as he closed and thrust. His assailant crashed against him, then slumped to the ground dead, his aorta severed.
Even as the man fell, Lamban was reaching for the machete, ready to face the fourth bandit. But he had jumped down on other side of the lorry. Lamban could hear someone plunging through thick vegetation. He let him go.
‘Ampun!’—Mercy! ‘Ampun!’
Lamban turned. The Masjumi was kneeling, holding the pistol to the injured bandit’s temple.
‘Allahu akbah!’—God is great! The Masjumi’s voice was solemn. There was a muffled report and the bandit was still. The man glanced indifferently at the body and then at Lamban. His expression was cold and quite calm. ‘Is that one dead?’
Lamban nodded.
‘Your timing was perfect! Thank you, my friend!’
‘Are we friends?’ Lamban asked staring at the pistol.
The man smiled thinly, then looked deliberately at the machete in Lamban’s hand. ‘At least we are not enemies. We should go,’ he said confidently, stuffing the pistol into the top of his sarong. ‘First, let’s hide the bodies. We must also take poor Wodjana with us,’ he added glancing at his late companion.
For some reason Lamban was not surprised that the Masjumi did not want to report the attack. He did not complain. The idea of talking with the kenpei or even the local police did not appeal to him either. He dropped the machete.
The Masjumi bent to take hold of the man’s ankles and waited for Lamban to take the man’s wrists. ‘Communists!’ he spat dismissively. Then he looked up at Lamban and laughed. ‘Perhaps they were the ones who stole your bicycle?’
It took them only seconds to dump the bodies in the vegetation beside the road. Then, in silence, they wrapped the dead Masjumi in a tarpaulin and put him on to the flatbed. The Masjumi began to collect the wads of religious pamphlets that had been emptied from the crates. Lamban did the same. As he went to replace them the man moved quickly to block his way, taking the pamphlets from him but not before Lamban had seen the automatic pistols in the crate. He said nothing. Five minutes later they were driving west.
‘My name is Sarel.’
‘I am Lamban.’
‘Are you a student?’
‘No, just a traveller. And you?’
‘Masjumi! Isn’t it obvious?’
Lamban turned and looked at Sarel. ‘You are dressed as Masjumi,’ he said calmly.
Sarel grinned but did not reply.
‘What did the bandits—I mean the Communists—want?’ Lamban asked blandly.
‘Oh, they wanted me dead.’
‘Why?’
Sarel turned to look deliberately at Lamban. ‘Because once I was one of them.’ A second later his easy affability returned. ‘Please be patient, my friend, everything will be explained soon. You have my word.’
Kalisari Village, Central Java
Sarel spoke rarely during their journey, so Lamban had plenty of time to think back on the fight. He had taken life for the first time. What surprised him was how little it bothered him. In one sense, since robbery and murder were abhorrent to his faith, his actions had been no more than his religious duty to aid the innocent. He had not hesitated to draw his keris and kill. Taruna had trained him well.
By the time they reached Kalisari the sun had set.
‘Nearly there!’ Sarel announced as he braked and swung off the main road and on to a narrow but unpaved track. After a few hundred feet three men armed with staves barred their path. Sarel flashed the headlights and they moved aside. Two minutes later they were among the village huts.
Kalisari was much larger than Sadakan, Lamban’s home, but there were few villagers in sight. As Sarel pu
lled up outside a large hut several young men emerged. Sarel told Lamban to stay in the cab and got out. As he whispered and gestured, the men crowded round him, glancing keenly at Lamban. Then they began to unload the boxes and the body.
After a few minutes Sarel returned. ‘Bring your things,’ he said. ‘You are safe here. But please, for now ask no questions.’
Lamban followed him. The boxes and body were nowhere in sight.
Sarel clapped him on the back. ‘You must be hungry! We have enough food here. Tonight your hut will be guarded. Please do not be offended. Tomorrow we will talk.’
Lamban was shown into a small, windowless hut. After a few minutes a youth brought him a small portion of roast chicken and rice. The youth did not speak to him. Lamban ate with gusto then lay down to sleep.
Familiar, early-morning sounds of village life woke Lamban just before dawn. Soon there was a knock on his door and a different youth invited him to bathe. He was led down a steep track to a river. A rock cascade formed several pools accessible by stepping-stones. The residents of Kalisari used the lower ones for laundry, the deeper top ones for bathing. When he returned to his hut a breakfast of coconut milk, banana and cassava was waiting.
He was told to wait. Later there was another knock on the door and Sarel entered. ‘Good morning, I hope you spent a comfortable night.’
‘Very,’ replied Lamban.
‘Good. I must leave for a short time. When I return we will talk. Please feel free to move around.’ He closed the door abruptly and Lamban heard him give instructions that he was to be watched discreetly throughout the day.
Lamban enjoyed an easy day wandering around the village. Dusk had fallen before he saw Sarel again. ‘Tonight you will meet some people who feel very much as you do,’ Sarel said cheerfully. ‘I will be there soon.’ He left a young boy to guide Lamban to the much larger hut where they were to have dinner.
A teenage girl in her best but threadbare kebaya and sarong greeted Lamban politely and invited him inside. Eight young men were sitting quietly on the floor around a mat laden with rice cones, fruits, grilled fish and chicken. Each of them had at least shoulder-length hair. They eyed him cautiously but with a certain respect.
The girl brought Lamban a finger bowl and showed him to his place. Then she served him a piece of fish and some rice. Lamban’s stomach was growling but he noticed none of the others had started, so he waited. After a while the youths began talking among themselves.
Sarel joined them a few minutes later. Now bareheaded, thick, loose coils of hair hung past his shoulders. He sat and raised his hands for silence. ‘Lamban, it is time for me to keep my promise. You should know with whom you share the funeral feast.’ He looked around him, deliberately holding the gaze of each of the youths in turn. ‘As you have already guessed we are not Masjumi. We call ourselves the Banteng Hitam—Black Buffaloes. We have dedicated ourselves to securing independence, first for Java and then for our Muslim brothers in the rest of Indonesia. This village is just one of our bases.’ Satisfied, he sat back affably, his palms open. ‘Eat! Eat!’
Still the others did not reach for their food.
Sarel sighed, ‘We must look forward’, he said sombrely. ‘Yesterday we lost Wodjana. I, too, came close to death. Tomorrow it could be anyone of us. Have you forgotten our pledge so soon? No mourning until we can mourn as free Indonesians! We cannot fight for independence if we are weak with hunger. Now eat I say!’
Slowly, the youths reached for the food. As they did so, Sarel began to recount at length how Lamban had saved his life.
Gradually the others livened up except for one who sat in glum silence. When Sarel described the fighting they looked at Lamban with undisguised admiration.
‘Pentjak silat!’ said one excitedly, ‘No-one round here knows it anymore. The Dutch banned it years ago.’
Another cut in, ‘And the selfish Chinese won’t show us their way of fighting.’
Lamban said nothing. He thought of Taruna who had shared with him the deadly kuntao.
‘Indeed, you are fortunate to have been taught the silat of old,’ Sarel enthused. All we know are the festival dance routines! Of course the Japanese taught those of us in the militia some unarmed combat but it is nothing compared to your skills. You all should have seen him! We are very lucky to have found you, Lamban.’
‘I am obliged to you,’ said the glum youth suddenly. Lamban turned to look at the young man. His eyes were tearful. ‘I am Kurja. Wodjana was my brother. Thank you for avenging his murder.’
‘I’m sorry I could not prevent his death,’ said Lamban softly. The young man got up and left them.
‘Give him time,’ Sarel said with a shrug. He turned to Lamban looking at him earnestly. ‘So you want to work for Sukarno and the National Party. That’s very worthy but why waste your time giving out leaflets and collecting alms for Djakarta’s poor? Don’t you want to do more?’
‘I want to help us to became free in any way I can,’ said Lamban proudly. Sarel became thoughtful as he heaped rice on to his own plate and then Lamban’s. ‘Many people say they want freedom. It means different things to people in Java. Some, like our aristocracy and the upper-class priyaji bureaucrats, want freedom from the Japanese, naturally enough. But they also want the Dutch to return.’
‘Why?’ Sarel continued confidently, ‘because they, too, like their Dutch-given privileges and position over us! And let’s not forget that the Communists want the freedom to make us all godless Marxists!’
Expressions on the faces of the Buffalos hardened at the mention of their chief rivals for the affections of young Javanese.
Sarel’s contemptuous tone grew louder. ‘As they do so, a select few, while expressing sincere regret, will become rich and powerful.’
Heads were nodding rapidly in agreement.
‘And let’s not forget the Chinese! All they want is the freedom to get rich at our expense. Even as our people go hungry, they still put their profits first!’
Lamban thought of the lynched Chinese shopkeeper he had seen a few days before.
Sarel was warming to his theme. ‘Politicians like Sukarno-tuan and Dr Hatta talk of grand ideas like freedom of speech and freedom of assembly, of rights to this and that and about elections. Yet they still co-operate with the Japs! Isn’t it strange how our leaders oppose the West with one hand but cling to Western ideas with the other? It’s all they know! Dr Hatta is a most pious, dedicated man, of that I am sure. Yet they expect to lead us! Why? Because they are wealthy and because they speak Dutch, so they can “negotiate” with our masters! Isn’t that rather arrogant?’
He paused slightly for effect. ‘Now, Dr Sjahrir, true, will have no truck with the Japs and I respect him for it. But he and Dr Jarisha want a parliamentary democracy!’ Sarel laughed scornfully. ‘What use are the debates and referendums of democracy for millions of half-starving peasants and illiterate shanty dwellers?’
Sarel’s eyes settled on Lamban. ‘Take Sukarno, he is a wonderful orator who can hold a crowd in the palm of his hand. And he is a true Javanese. His vision of a free, united Indonesia is a powerful one. But he, too, knows only western methods. The temporary political alliances he favours will only make him weaker in the long run.’
Lamban shifted on his cushion and reached for some rice. He knew nothing of political alliances but felt the need to say something. ‘What about the Masjumi?’
Sarel looked pleased. ‘A good question! It is true they are our Muslim brothers but like the aristocracy and the religious associations their eyes are fogged. They have become dependent on obligation and patronage. They want only a symbolic change at the top and nowhere else. If not, they might have to prove anew that they are worthy recipients of the peasants’ respect and, of course, their donations. That prospect scares them.’
He sat back, raising his arms for emphasis. ‘In truth, Lamban, none of them has anything new to offer. Who else is left? Only we pemuda—the youth—can go forward without the trappings o
f the past.’
Lamban found himself nodding with the others. He had seen too much pining for the old days.
‘The world is changing,’ Sarel continued. ‘The Japs lied to us. They would never have given us our freedom even if they had won. Soon they will be defeated. Sukarno and Hatta know it. But still they keep asking the Japs to approve this committee or that association. You’ve heard Sukarno on the radio. Why does he keep asking us to meet ever-higher rice levies when people are dropping dead in the street from hunger? Why does he ask us to send our young men to work for the Japanese in Burma and Malaya, even though he knows they are treated like beasts of burden and are dying like flies? Why does he encourage our young women to nurse the brave, wounded Japanese, knowing they will end up in Jap brothels? The answer, Lamban, is because he thinks that by doing so he can remain a leader. But how can the Japs help him after they have lost the war?’
‘No!’ Sarel’s expression was one of despair. ‘Things are happening, Lamban. For three years we have waited, our lives stalled. I was a law student in Bandung. Wodjana was my classmate. The Japs closed our institute. I returned home with no qualification, no job. My wedding had to be cancelled because I had no future. There are thousands like me. But we did not give up. We set up study groups to circulate ideas and news. Our numbers grew. When the Japs formed the Angatan Pemuda—the Indonesian Youth Movement—it was a perfect cover for us. There is an IYM co-ordinator in almost every large village!’
‘All the time our elders encouraged us to think and question. They thought they could use hormat to control us but they miscalculated.’ Hormat was the traditional respect offered to an older or socially superior person. Sarel rocked back on his hips. ‘It works between ignorant peasants and aristocracy but not when debating independence, suffrage and tithes. Let me give you an example. A month ago the Japanese organised a national IYM conference in Bandung. I was there with two hundred others. Two resolutions were carried unanimously. The first was a demand for immediate independence for Java. The second was a declaration: Merdeka atu mati!—Freedom or Death!’
