Violence, Colonialism and Empire in the Modern World

by Philip Dwyer

  Through the case studies discussed below, we identify four aspects of the Indonesian war of decolonization that appear in a new light when seen through Indonesian eyes: the notoriously thorny distinction between combatants and civilians in guerrilla warfare ; the role of small-scale violence like arson and theft; the interpretation of the practice of mass-arrests; and the consequences of artillery, aerial and naval bombardment. To date, Dutch historiography has remained in the dark on the disruptive effects of Dutch warfare on Indonesian society and has consequently clung to a colonial perspective. Colonial violence seen through the eyes of the (formerly) colonized appears not only more everyday, more invasive and more arbitrary than we have so far been able to see, but also more conventional than the simple framing of these wars in terms of ‘colonial violence’ has merited.

  Embedded Historiography

  The Indonesian War of Independence developed after the capitulation of Japan and the subsequent Indonesian declaration of Independence in August 1945. The Dutch had expected to quickly restore their colonial sovereignty, but instead upon arrival found themselves confronted with an independence movement determined to break away from the Dutch empire, if need be by force. The Dutch never officially recognized the ensuing conflict as a war—which on the Indonesian side also contained elements of civil war and revolution—even though it claimed large numbers of casualties on both sides. For most of the time, the conflict consisted of guerrilla actions by Indonesian (regular and irregular) forces and counterinsurgency efforts by the Dutch. Two large-scale campaigns initiated by the Dutch in July 1947 and December 1948 were designated ‘police actions’ to avoid the appearance that this was in fact a war. But neither campaign could end the conflict on terms favourable to the Dutch. Ultimately, after international and economic pressures were mounted against the Dutch forcing them to relent, a transfer of sovereignty was brokered. Taking effect on 27 December 1949, it brought the war to an end. 4

  As is the case in any modern war, this conflict was also fought on paper, 5 which can partly explain the differences between Dutch and Indonesian sources. But just as importantly, the authors of these sources quite literally had different perspectives, which gave them access to different information and allowed them to come to different interpretations. As historians we are taught to read our sources critically, and when possible to carefully weigh sources with different backgrounds and origins. Yet somehow, when writing about the Indonesian war of Independence, this lesson seems to have been forgotten. When we consider the Dutch historiography , the literature is almost exclusively based on Dutch sources. The Indonesian archives have simply not been consulted. 6 Anglophone literature traditionally has paid more attention to Indonesian sources, but generally has little interest in the Dutch military effort. 7

  Since the end of the war, the topic of Dutch military violence in Indonesia 1945–1949 has made intermittent appearances in Dutch historiography as well as in Dutch public discourse. The central question, debated over and over again, has remained the same over these past decades: was the use of ‘excessive’ violence (read: war crimes ) by Dutch forces a structural feature of the military effort, or were such events mere incidents, perpetrated by ‘derailed’ individuals? The most recent public debate started in the late 2000s as a consequence of two civil court cases brought against the Dutch state by representatives of Indonesian victims, which were more or less concurrent with similar debates in Britain about state responsibility for violence during its wars of decolonization in Malaya and Kenya. 8

  Recent academic publications, meanwhile, seem to agree that the Dutch military breached the laws of war on a regular basis and most likely in a structural way, engaging in such acts as summary executions, the bombardment of civilian targets, arson and pillaging. 9 Although Dutch historiography has become more critical, the absence of Indonesian voices in these more recent works remains palpable. This exclusive focus on Dutch sources has produced a form of embedded historiography: the Indonesian adversary or civilian only comes into view over the shoulders of Dutch soldiers.

  Another common conclusion of the recent literature, in this case with a longer tradition, has been to assign a large part of the responsibility for the most extreme Dutch violence to the Dutch colonial army (the Royal Dutch-Indies Army or KNIL , consisting of locally recruited soldiers) rather than the metropolitan Army (The Royal Army or KL , consisting of conscripts and volunteers shipped in from the Netherlands to assist the colonial army). Many authors identify a colonial ‘genealogy of violence’ as a key contributing factor to the extreme violence of the war of decolonization (and colonial rule in general). 10 But the fact alone that the KL provided more than twice as many soldiers as the KNIL should make one wary. More importantly, although the Dutch supreme command in Indonesia was largely made up of officers from the KNIL, they took their cues not only from previous colonial conflicts but also from lessons learned from their British and American allies in the Second World War . The commander of the army, General Simon Spoor , for instance, spent formative years as head of the Dutch East-Indies Intelligence Service during the Second World War , in which he aimed to put this service on a modern footing. Much of his energy in the early years of the Dutch-Indonesian war was spent thinking about the applicability of ‘modern’ war organization and technology—air power, artillery, special services—to the Indonesian theatre. 11 Closer attention to the Indonesian source material might have opened our eyes more readily to the extent to which the Dutch military violence in this war was actually ‘conventional’ rather than a simple continuation of age-old colonial practices.

  ‘Civilians’ or ‘Enemies’?

  One of the most striking differences between the Indonesian and Dutch sources is their classification of Indonesian casualties : were these ‘civilians’ or ‘enemies’? Only traces of what must have been a daily struggle to discern between civilian and combatant can be found in Dutch military reporting. Wildly lopsided numbers of casualties—friendly losses: none, enemies losses: several dozens—are common. 12 Yet all inflicted casualties are simply designated ‘enemy losses’. In Dutch reports, then, actions with such discrepant numbers connote successful military operations with heavy enemy casualties. The correlating Indonesian sources meanwhile frequently speak of large numbers of ‘civilian casualties’.

  The disparity between the Dutch and Indonesian sources on these issues can be seen as typical of strongly politicized and asymmetrical armed conflict. In guerrilla and anti-guerrilla warfare—as practised in Indonesia between 1945 and 1949 and during many other colonial wars and counterinsurgencies—making the distinction between civilians and combatants is crucial yet notoriously difficult. 13 The problem is reflective of the nature of guerrilla warfare in general. Take for example the action at Tanjung Balai, 4 August 1947. On that final day of the first large-scale Dutch military offensive of the war, a column of armoured cars supported by infantry from the Z-Brigade was tasked with capturing the town and smugglers’ haven of Tanjung Balai on Sumatra’s north coast as quickly as possible, before the ceasefire would be effective. 14 From the report of one of the infantry units involved, we learn that after a successful advance the town was occupied at the cost of 300 ‘enemies’ killed, out of an opposing force of an estimated 4000 fighters. The Dutch attacking force itself did not suffer any fatalities. 15 According to the report of the armoured car squadron, the enemy had been ‘completely surprised’ and subsequently suffered ‘many killed, total impossible to determine’ while trying to escape across the river. 16

  Two commemorative works written shortly afterwards offer a more personal view of this action, dubbing the enemy retreat over the river a ‘tropical Dunkirk’ 17 and describing the ‘destruction’ that was inflicted upon the enemy. 18 The description as a ‘tropical Dunkirk’ is revealing: the frame of reference of this author is the Second World War , rather than some previous colonial war. The various descriptions in Dutch military sources offer the view of a successful surprise attack on an enemy st
ronghold in which many perished, although the amount of weapons captured was relatively small.

  When we read an Indonesian source on the same attack, a very different story emerges. According to an internal report of the Indonesian Ministry of Defence, the Dutch troops descended on the town ‘like blind pigs’, randomly shooting at shopping locals in the market place and firing at people trying to escape over the river. In the harbour, clerks and workers were lined-up and mowed down with machine guns. The total number of ‘victims among the population’ amounted to 300 people, according to the Indonesian Defence Ministry. 19 Clearly, the Indonesian report deals with the same incident in which 300 people were killed. But the Dutch and Indonesian reports differ starkly in their description of the behaviour of the Dutch troops and the character of the victims: were they civilians or combatants? In short, Dutch sources speak of a successful military action, while the Indonesian source speaks of a war crime .

  Another example can be found in the context of a Dutch ‘mopping-up operation’ (zuiveringsactie) on 13 October 1947 in the hilly countryside surrounding Karanggede, Central Java. Abdul Haris Nasution , 20 one of the most important Indonesian military leaders during the conflict and the author of a multi-volume chronicle of the war of independence (Sekitar Perang Kemerdekaan), paraphrases an Indonesian military report on this action:Two Dutch companies, supported by a tank and 3 airplanes, attacked 2 villages in the Karanggede area. Many civilians have been shot and kidnapped. Along their entire route [the Dutch] destroyed and set fire to the houses of inhabitants. […] The Petak mosque (Karanggede sub-district) was shot to pieces by the Dutch. The number of casualties among the people [korban rakyat] as a result of the Dutch attack on those two villages was 89 killed (including two babies), and three people kidnapped. 21

  Such a large operation is not difficult to find in the archives of the Dutch armed forces, but the description is markedly different from Nasution’s . The action reports from units involved identify seven enemy fighters killed with a further 30–40 estimated. They do describe the destruction of a mosque by artillery fire, but they also explain that the mosque was used as an ammunition and explosives dump. During this action large amounts of landmines, ammunition and other explosives were captured. 22 As in the case of Tanjung Balai, we see in the case of Karanggede that the numbers of casualties were counted by the dozens in both the Indonesian and Dutch sources, whilst the characterization of these casualties differs.

  When we compare the Indonesian and Dutch sources in these and similar cases it is often challenging to come to a final assessment of what really happened, and how the casualties should be interpreted. The golden mean is not always to be found exactly in the middle. It appears, for instance, that the latter case described here, the Dutch attack on Karanggede and the bombardment of a mosque, leaves room for an interpretation where most casualties (possibly including civilians) were the result of an attack on a legitimate target: the ammunitions dump in the mosque. The attackers probably took less effort in avoiding the risks of collateral damage than we would find acceptable today, but the Indonesian source in this case shows selective reporting by not mentioning that the mosque was used for ammunition storage. 23 Conversely, in the case of Tanjung Balai it is the Indonesian report that gives us more explicit detail—indiscriminate fire on civilians in the market place, executions near the fish market—while the Dutch sources give no indication of even an attempt to differentiate between civilians and combatants. In this case the Indonesian source seems to fill a hiatus in the Dutch sources, instead of directly contradicting them. The assessment is therefore not necessarily always the same: the context determines the relative credibility of sources.

  Carefully weighing the content and context of different sources can sometimes help us move forward and make an educated guess of what may have happened. Yet sometimes, we fail to even get that far and have to satisfy ourselves with simply juxtaposing two divergent views. Take for example another incident recorded by Nasution , which in his wording clearly amounts to a war crime:At 8:00 a.m., 28 August 1947, a Dutch section surrounded the village of Kebon Tengah, 3 km southwest of Kedungwuni (Pekalongan). The houses were shelled with incendiaries, setting the village ablaze in no time. Inhabitants who tried to flee were mowed down by machinegun fire, killing 96 people. The total number of houses burned was 55. 24

  Through memoires and testimonies from Dutch veterans of the conflict, we know that methods like these were in fact used at times. 25 Yet we also know that Indonesian sources could frequently exaggerate the number of victims. 26 In this case of Kebon Tengah, our contextual knowledge is too limited to determine an accurate interpretation. The report of the Dutch battalion (2-4 RI) stationed nearby merely states: ‘23 August–30 August [1947, BL/CH]. This period too was marked by intensive patrolling and mopping-up operations […]. 28 August: received fire near Kebontengah.’ 27

  Comparing the different sources does not therefore always resolve ambiguity surrounding cases like Tanjung Balai or Karanggede, let alone about Kebon Tengah. But what the inclusion of Indonesian sources does contribute is a clue about where to look. After all, if we had only used the Dutch archives, none of the three cases mentioned above would have caught our attention. Only the comparison between Indonesian and Dutch sources shows us the limitation in the discourse of either: not every ‘enemy killed’ was a combatant, and neither was every civilian casualty the result of intentional ‘cruelty’. Moreover, the Indonesian sources in all these three cases highlight (possible) atrocities perpetrated with the help of ‘modern’ technological weaponry (machine guns, artillery) by units of the metropolitan Dutch army, rather than by members of the Dutch colonial army.

  Arson and Pillaging

  Another aspect of Dutch warfare in Indonesia that tends to be underappreciated when only Dutch sources are consulted is the disruptive effect of small-scale violence such as arson or pillaging. The public and academic debates in the Netherlands about ‘excessive’ violence perpetrated by Dutch troops in Indonesia have focused on a limited number of shocking affairs in which large numbers of Indonesians were summarily executed. 28 But for many Indonesians, smaller-scale (but more pervasive) forms of violence hit closer to home. In particular it seems to have been a common practice among Dutch patrols to burn down houses in the villages they visited—at least if we follow the Indonesian sources. Arson, or indeed theft and pillaging, is rarely ever mentioned in official Dutch military reporting, although we do sometimes encounter it in veterans’ memoirs. 29

  In the archives of the Indonesian National Police we discovered four reports dating from October 1947 until January 1948, composed by a certain Soekardono , the head of police in the Lumajang area (East Java). 30 Lumajang at this time was (formally) controlled by the Dutch, which means that Soekardono must have written his reports from hiding places in the surrounding countryside. He reported on various incidents and events to his superiors in Yogyakarta, listing both Dutch and Indonesian acts of violence. For 7 November 1947, for example, we read:At eleven o’clock in the morning, Pak Potjet and his wife were apprehended in Dorogowok (Kunir) by Moeki’s band [a local irregular Indonesian guerrilla group, BL/CH], because they were suspected of espionage for the Dutch army. His house was set on fire. Pak Potjet and his wife were eventually murdered by Moeki’s band. 31

  As for Dutch actions and violence, Soekardono describes acts ranging from a case of rape, the arrests of local village heads and other dignitaries, to the unwanted installation of a new village head, or the simple fact that a patrol passed through a certain village. 32 But featuring most prominently in Soekardono’s list (as in fact in similar reports from other regions that are kept in the same archive file) are instances of arson and theft. He reports such acts taking place around the district of Lumajang several times a week, usually registering the incurred damage in minute detail: anything from burned houses worth several thousand Rupiah to a stolen hat worth Rp30.

  Take, for instance, an action on 28 October 1947. Accordin
g to Soekardono, 48 Dutch soldiers came to the village of Jatirejo, where they burned down two houses. The first to be set alight was the house of Mr. Tarah, ‘a house with a tiled roof and a kitchen, including the household effects consisting of tables, chairs, cabinets, wooden beds’ and various foodstuffs. Before setting the house on fire, the Dutch soldiers had stolen from Mr. Tarah items worth Rp5000. The local community house was also set on fire, amounting to a damage of Rp300. The soldiers subsequently entered several houses, all of which they ‘left empty’. Soekardono lists eight houses, each with an exact list of the items stolen and their respective worth. Finally, the account reports that one of the inhabitants of the burgled houses, a certain Murijam, had been beaten and subsequently taken away to the local Dutch headquarters. 33

  Tracing incidents like this—reported with great frequency by Soekardono and his colleagues elsewhere in Indonesia—in Dutch military sources turns out to be much more difficult than in the case of large-scale actions like Tanjung Balai or Karanggede. For some events it is impossible even to find a reference at all, apparently because the daily patrol activity was deemed so mundane that it was not considered militarily relevant to specify. In other instances, we merely find records that a patrol had indeed passed through the village in question but without any further details. It was not uncommon for units to report only in the most general terms. ‘Apart from normal patrol activity nothing to report’ and similar phrases abound. 34 In any case, Dutch sources almost never mention the damage inflicted, let alone confiscation of household effects. Regarding the incident in Jatirejo described above, a long search ultimately yielded no more than a succinct reference in a report from the field security section of the Marine Brigade (Veiligheidsdienst Mariniersbrigade, VDMB): ‘Detachment Tempeh 28/10 during patrol in vicinity Jatirejo […] 2 men arrested.’ 35