by Philip Dwyer
A result like this is the rule, not the exception. Not only for the Marine Brigade in East Java, but also for Dutch forces in other regions of the Indonesian archipelago, incidents of arson or theft as well as skirmishes with the enemy during routine patrol activity were barely deemed worthy of a cursory mention. Considering the lack of corresponding Dutch sources, the credibility of the Indonesian reports is sometimes difficult to gauge. Soekardono’s lists appear relatively trustworthy due to his balanced reporting and the absence of sensational claims based on second- or third-hand rumours, while some other Indonesian officials clearly exaggerated in their reports, either to place blame on their adversaries or to impress their superiors. Nevertheless, given the large frequency with which arson and pillaging are reported, it seems justified to conclude that this kind of small-scale—but very disruptive—violence was commonplace.
Such small-scale violence is an endemic part of warfare, which often escapes mention in official sources. In this case, however, it also has a specific colonial dimension. One of the big differences between colonial and metropolitan law , in Indonesia as elsewhere, concerned the protection of private property. To put it bluntly, it was easier to destroy or steal property in a colonial setting even though military regulations officially warned against the practice for opportunistic reasons. 36 Destruction of enemy or suspected property and houses did indeed have a long colonial pedigree, also outside of official wartime. Whereas arson and theft are common in warfare more generally, in the colonial situation the barriers against these kinds of transgressions were lowered.
Arrests and Sweeps—or Kidnappings and the ‘South-Sulawesi Method’?
Apart from the evidence for arson and pillaging, Soekardono’s reports also offer illustrations of yet another conspicuous difference between the Dutch and the Indonesian sources: the way in which arrests were perceived and experienced, especially the large-scale ‘screenings ’ of villagers. In the months described by Soekardono, the months following the conclusion of the first ‘police action’, the Marine Brigade carried out extensive patrols and large-scale mopping-up operations throughout East Java, usually referred to as sweeps. Both during the routine patrol activity and the sweeps, significant numbers of villagers were detained. When studying the VDMB’s operational reports and weekly summaries for this period, we encounter the arrests of dozens of people on an almost daily basis, with comparatively few weapons captured. 37 The total casualties inflicted by the Marine Brigade between 21 July (the start of the ‘police action’) and 1 November 1947 amounted to 5621 enemies ‘shot down’ (neergelegd) and 3467 taken prisoner. 38
Indonesian officials describe these mass arrests rather differently. Soekardono consistently designated the arrested as having been ‘kidnapped ’ (ditjulik). For 2 November 1947, for instance, he notes that Dutch forces had ‘kidnapped’ 50 people from the village of Dorogowok and brought them to Lumajang. ‘About 3 days later, 10 people returned home reporting that they had been severely beaten by the Dutch, because they had been suspected of planning a nightly attack on Lumajang.’ 39 In other cases of individual arrests Soekardono equally describes the prisoners as ‘kidnapped ’. On 10 November at 5 a.m. for example, the djurutulis (clerk) of the Yosowilangun sub-district was dragged out of his bed and ‘kidnapped’ to Lumajang by six Dutch soldiers. 40 A Dutch intelligence report for that day only notes that a patrol went to said village and confiscated 33 rolls of barbed wire as well as 140 iron corkscrews. 41
The distinction between ‘arrested ’ and ‘kidnapped ’ may seem like a semantic triviality, but it is a clear example of the different perspectives that Indonesian and Dutch sources offer. Indonesian officials considered Dutch rule over Indonesia as illegitimate and therefore interpreted their actions as ‘kidnappings’. 42 On the other hand, the Dutch authorities invariably described as ‘kidnappings’ attempts by Indonesian authorities or ‘gangs’ to arrest village heads and others suspected of cooperating with the Dutch. 43 These diametrically opposed viewpoints in themselves may be unsurprising, but things become problematic when we consider the effect on Dutch historiography: the Indonesian strategy to take out pro-Dutch civil servants is still today referred to as a campaign of large scale ‘kidnapping’, a term that is rarely if ever used for the Dutch strategy of ‘arresting’ suspicious or unsympathetic village heads—a strategy that is in some respects very similar. 44
Because of the semantic continuity with Dutch sources in the historiography, the Dutch perspective on the war has equally been perpetuated, a perspective in which Indonesian authorities did not even have the theoretical possibility to ‘arrest’ officials who in their eyes were disloyal. It should of course be granted that many of the arrests by Indonesian groups did indeed qualify as ‘kidnappings’ by most standards. The boundary between official policy, individual acts of revenge, and criminal intent was often vague. We know for example that several Indonesian irregular bands engaged in kidnappings in order to extract ransom. Nevertheless, this cannot take away from the fact that in the eyes of officials of the Indonesian Republic, many ‘arrests’ of pro-Dutch civil servants were entirely lawful. By not acknowledging this semantically, Dutch historiography perpetuates a perspective that inherently treats all Indonesian groups as ultimately illegitimate.
Although the numbers of prisoners taken by the Dutch as mentioned above for the Marine Brigade are by no means insignificant, they represent just the tip of the iceberg even for this unit. The 3467 arrestees over a period of 10 weeks only include individuals who eventually were sent off to a prison or detention centre, not the much larger groups of people occasionally detained only for a short period of time. 45 In the operational area of the Marine Brigade, sweeps in which several hundred civilians were ‘rounded up’ (bijeengedreven) were common. 46 These groups were subsequently ‘screened’ for the presence of enemy fighters, after which those found innocent were sent home. 47
The marines involved seem to have considered such screenings as a relatively harmless and humane method. Those ‘rounded-up’ probably felt differently. We saw this with Soekardono, who spoke of the ‘kidnapping’ of 50 inhabitants of the village of Dorogowok. The difference in perception becomes even clearer if we look at the sweep that was conducted on 31 January 1948 in Kebonsari and Jrebeng, two villages a few kilometres south of the garrison town of Probolinggo. In the relevant VDMB intelligence report we find that around 900 (male) inhabitants were taken to Probolinggo. During the rounding-up, some ‘escapees’ were shot. 48 The Indonesian authorities (in this case the Department of Information of the Malang residency in a letter to the Ministry of Information) described this sweep in much more violent terms: ‘The number of inhabitants from the villages of Kebonsari-kulan and Jrebeng-lor shot by means of the “South-Sulawesi method ” amounted to 125, according to information received from Dr. Santoso, Head of the General Hospital.’ 49
The term ‘South-Sulawesi method ’ refers to the ruthless counter-guerrilla campaign conducted by Dutch special forces under Captain Raymond Westerling in South Sulawesi between December 1946 and February 1947. This campaign, in which at least 3000 and possibly more people were killed, has since become the most infamous atrocity committed by Dutch troops, and had already at the time gained notoriety. The central element of Westerling’s modus operandi—which the author of the citation above references when speaking of the ‘South-Sulawesi method’—was to surround a village, round up the inhabitants and ‘screen’ them on the basis of previous intelligence or the help of other prisoners, and then to summarily execute those found ‘guilty’. 50
Whether or not this method was used on the central square of Probolinggo on 31 January 1948, and whether the number of 125 people executed comes close to the reality, we simply do not know. Indonesian propaganda regarding this ‘atrocity’ prompted an internal investigation by the Dutch army command, for which none other than the commander of the Marine Brigade himself was commissioned. He concluded that there was no basis for accusations that marines had ‘ra
ndomly shot villagers’ or for ‘treacherous shooting after an order to run had been given’. The commander was taken at his word, ending the investigation. 51
Interestingly, during the investigation no-one seems to have expressed concern over the wording of the order for the sweep itself: ‘Clear the kampong Kebonsari south of Probolinggo […] and round up all male inhabitants to be handed over to the VDMB’. Apparently, screenings on a massive scale in which an entire population was ‘rounded up’ were normal and even desired, as long as no inhabitants were ‘randomly’ shot. 52 This attitude seems to echo a long-standing colonial tendency to consider the entire population as potentially threatening and (implicitly) to not consider habeas corpus to apply to the colonized population. Mass arrests and internments are a feature of counterinsurgency also beyond colonial contexts, and certainly were practised widely in various theatres of the Second World War . But still the tactic’s ubiquity in the colonial context should not be glossed over. 53 Dutch sources provide no Indonesian voices, lacking insight into how these supposedly non-violent methods were perceived by the objects of the screening. The reports by Soekardono and the Ministry give an indication: they felt subjected to a largely arbitrary policy of kidnapping and abuse. ‘Subaltern’ sources from the period of decolonization thus throw new light on an aspect of colonial oppression with a long pedigree.
Aerial, Artillery and Naval Bombardments
A final blind spot in the Dutch sources are the effects of bombardments , so-called ‘indiscriminate’ fire. It has been frequently noted by historians that the risks of collateral damage and civilian deaths were high with the use of heavy weapons. The number of casualties caused by bombardments possibly exceeds the total deaths caused by infantry violence. Nevertheless, precious little has been written on this type of violence. 54 This is all the more significant because (as we know from Dutch military sources) the use of bombardments was more explicitly informed by recent lessons from the Second World War , whilst the various forms of extreme ‘contact violence’ (summary executions , torture , intimidation ) have clearer origins in colonial tradition, at least for the Dutch-Indonesian case. 55
The lack of interest in bombardments means that its effects only receive cursory attention in most Dutch sources: the physical distance involved in bombardments and the fact that such attacks were not necessarily followed by a ground attack meant that the consequences were frequently not known. Indonesian sources tell us more. We have already encountered the use of artillery bombardment in the case of Karanggede, while Kebon Tengah was shelled by mortars. Aerial bombardments also appear frequently in the Indonesian sources. Take, for example, the combined aerial-naval attack on Indonesian gun positions in Lhokseumawe (Aceh) on 3 June 1949. In a report from the military governor of Aceh to the temporary emergency government of the Indonesian Republic, we find that around 2 p.m. four Dutch aircraft and a naval vessel off Lhokseumawe bombarded and strafed the town, continuing their attack for an hour and 20 minutes. The military governor further reported:[A]mong the targets hit by machinegun fire were two schools, and some other houses. The number of casualties on our side was 3, including 1 fighter and 2 girls who were still in the school benches. Furthermore, two houses burned down […] and three others were heavily damaged. 56
Tracing this action in the Dutch archives is not difficult. Each aerial and naval operation was carefully recorded. Regarding the attack on enemy gun positions in Lhokseumawe, the headquarters of the air force reported one hit and a few ‘near misses’; one bomb ‘accidently’ hit the local graveyard. During the operation, an ad hoc decision was taken to attack several other enemy positions in the town (a military camp and some air-defence positions). The result of the attacks are merely described as follows: ‘Results: enemy guns probably destroyed as there was no returning fire.’ 57 We do not learn where the ‘near misses’ actually hit.
The same pattern repeats itself in all cases of aerial bombardment that we investigated in both the Dutch and Indonesian sources. In Dutch sources the focus is on the achievement of the action’s goals and the amount of ammunition and ordinance used. Where information was available a few words would be spent on the operation’s efficiency, but usually very little was known. In the Indonesian sources, by contrast, we find many reports relating the collateral damage and civilian casualties resulting from these kinds of attacks. Particularly prominent are accounts of civilians on public roads becoming the target of strafing from Dutch aircraft—what must have been the ultimate terror experience.
The discrepancy between Dutch and Indonesian sources in these cases does not consist of a fundamental disagreement on what happened, but rather it challenges the received perspective on these events. For the Dutch military leadership—and in its wake for many Dutch historians—the air force was an instrument to conduct concentrated attacks on enemy targets without too much risk of friendly casualties. For many Indonesians, the Dutch use of the air arm was a case of arbitrary mass-violence: it was as if the sky came falling down. In that regard, it is also noteworthy that such air attacks feature prominently in Indonesian pictorial representations from this period. 58
In the case of Lhokseumawe described above, as in most other cases of Dutch (aerial) bombardment, the attack seems to have had a legitimate target. Moreover, we should not forget that legal and moral opinions on ‘military necessity’ and ‘collateral damage ’ have undergone radical change since the late 1940s. 59 At the very least, however, cases like Lhokseumawe once again demonstrate that an exclusive focus on Dutch sources delivers a one-sided view: the view from the cockpit, not the view from the street under fire.
Conclusion
The only way to fully understand the nature of colonial counterinsurgency , and especially its consequences, is to study the sources on both sides of the conflict. This might seem obvious. Unfortunately, it does not frequently occur in the context of Indonesia’s war of decolonization. Studying the era of decolonization, in Indonesia as elsewhere, offers new opportunities to investigate colonial violence from the perspective of those subject to it.
In this chapter we examined both Dutch and Indonesian sources on the 1945–1949 Indonesian War of Independence, and identified critical aspects of the war that can be understood in more detail or in a new light by using Indonesian sources. Our findings suggest that some specific forms of violence, such as the destruction of property and mass arrests , had an especially strong colonial pedigree, while others were more in line with recent developments in conventional forms of military thinking and practice. Of course, as the Dutch military endeavour in Indonesia was that of a colonial state attempting to preserve its authority, Dutch violence in this war was, in a narrow sense, by its very definition ‘colonial violence ’. The problem is that simply characterizing all violence that occurs in a colonial situation as ‘colonial violence’ tends to suggest that such violence must therefore also be uniquely ‘colonial’ in nature. But focusing on the colonial-ness of the violence seems to add little explanatory value in terms of understanding when, why, and how violence was actually used. We therefore suggest that it may be more useful to shed the facile equation of all violence in a colonial situation as ‘colonial violence’, and instead to examine more thoroughly to what extent colonial violence was, indeed, ‘colonial’ in nature.
Our findings also demonstrate the degree to which Dutch historiography has retained an enduringly colonial perspective on the disruptive effects of Dutch military practice on Indonesian society in the struggle for decolonization. Closer attention to Indonesian sources can help to address hiatuses in our knowledge, shed new light on incidents previously considered of little importance, and teach us not only about the goals and targets of colonial violence but also about its nature, effects and consequences. That former colonizers and former colonized still often have fundamental differences of memory on war and decolonization partly results from not studying each other’s sources .
Notes
1.See Dierk Walter, ‘Warum Kolonia
lkrieg?’, in Thoralf Klein and Frank Schumacher (eds), Kolonialkriege: Militärische Gewalt im Zeichen des Imperialismus (Hamburg, 2006), 14–43.
2.Frantz Fanon, The wretched of the earth (New York, 1963, paperback edition 1991), 39.
3.The classics of counterinsurgency literature include Robert Thompson, Defeating Communist Insurgency (London, 1966); David Galula, Counter-insurgency: Theory and Practise (Westport, 1964). For an overview see, Ian F.W. Beckett, ‘British counter-insurgency: a historiographical reflection’, Small wars and insurgencies 23: 4–5 (2012), 781–798; Martin Bürgin, ‘From the Classics to Cultural History: Perspectives for Insurgency und Counterinsurgency Research’, in Thijs Brocades Zaalberg, Jan Hoffenaar and Alan Lemmers (eds), Insurgency and Counterinsurgency: Irregular Warfare from 1800 to the Present (Den Haag 2011), 245–255.
4.The Anglophone literature on this war is limited and draws almost exclusively from the Dutch historiography: Jaap de Moor, ‘Colonial warfare, theory and practice: the Dutch experience in Indonesia 1816–1949’, Journal of the Japan-Netherlands Institute, 2 (1990), 98–114; Petra Groen, ‘Militant response: the Dutch use of military force and the decolonization of the Dutch East Indies, 1945–1950’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 21:3 (1993), 30–44; Bart Luttikhuis and A. Dirk Moses (eds), Colonial Counterinsurgency and Mass Violence: The Dutch Empire in Indonesia (Abingdon, 2014). More has been written in English on the Indonesian side of the ‘revolution’, though mostly with little interest for Dutch actions (see Note 8).
