“Isn’t that because the Dutch decided to make Java the center of the Indies from the start?” I asked.
“On the contrary, Meneer Pangemanann. The Dutch decided to center the administration of the Indies on Java precisely because of the fact I mentioned earlier. Even before the Europeans arrived, the Javanese had sufficient social organization to make possible cultural and socioeconomic advance.”
“Seeing you heap so much praise on the Javanese, Meneer, perhaps you could also explain why they were able to be defeated by the Europeans.”
“That’s a long story, Meneer.” He held up his glass of brandy and clinked his against mine: “May you achieve success as a colonial expert!”
“And may you achieve success as an expert on Java!” I answered.
The lecture about Java was resumed the next day in the State archives before I began my work.
With that irritated feeling still there, I asked: “Do you include among the Javanese things you find so worthy of praise the serimpi dance that everybody is talking about?”
“Yes, that too. Of course, the slow, courtly serimpi is not the best example, perhaps it’s even the worst. It was born during the degeneration of Javanese feudalism. It was created not to praise the gods or ancestors or a victory over evil, or the depth or greatness of some human emotion. Certainly there is no real drama in the serimpi dance, not according to European criteria anyway. It came out of the process of degeneration, to give Native rulers, great and small, the chance to sleep with the dancers after they had shown off their body in the dance.”
“You’re making this up, Meneer, aren’t you?” I said. “Do you know that for sure? After all, you have probably never left this building, Meneer.”
“It’s possible to justify any opinion. It just depends from what angle you approach it. And Veth, that brilliant expert on Java, Meneer, he never even set foot in Java. And you too, Meneer. And now you too are studying to become a colonial expert by going in and out of these buildings? You are not throwing yourself into the midst of the people’s lives either?” He shook his head but I didn’t know what he meant by it, and: “Because documents are more reliable, Meneer. They are more reliable than the mouths of their own authors.”
I nodded in agreement. And from that time on, I became friends with him, and my wife with his wife.
“If Java is so great, why was it able to be defeated by Europe?” I repeated my question.
“First of all, there is the Javanese character. They are always seeking similarities, sameness, harmony. They ignore differences in order to avoid social conflict. These are the values to which they submit and obey, sometimes without restraint. And so, as time goes on and it happens more and more often, they end up falling from one compromise into another, finally losing all principles. The Javanese prefer to adjust rather than quarrel over matters of principle.”
“Come on, you’re making this up again,” I said, egging him on.
“You must learn more about Java. Every expert on the Indies begins with this extraordinary people. No, I’m not making these things up, Meneer. The Javanese themselves have left behind the evidence, and not just in the form of stones and copper and empty stories. How did they develop this character? Because of all the wars, one after another, never ending. Everybody longed for peace, and so people gave up their principles. A poet from the time of Hayam Wuruk in the fourteenth century, Mou Tantular, described this compromising personality in a verse of one of his poems.”
“A poem?” I cried incredulously.
“Yes, Meneer, a poem written in the fourteenth century. Roughly translated it said: Buddha, whom we honor, is no different from Shiva, the greatest of the gods. Buddha, whom we honor, is the universe. How can we separate them? The essence of Jina and the essence of Shiva are one. They are different, yet they are one, there is no conflict.” He gazed at me to keep my attention. “Another poet from the same period, Prapanca, who at that time was also in charge of the Buddhist church on Java, wrote the poem Negarakartagama. He wrote from his exalted position, a very responsible position. He also equated Shiva with Buddha. Always in the direction of compromise, where all principles are forgotten.”
“But these are matters of religion, Meneer,” I snapped back.
“In those times, Meneer, religion was also politics, a matter of power. Wasn’t it also like that in Europe in earlier times? Wasn’t the eighty-year war between the Netherlands and Spain a struggle by Protestantism to defend itself from Catholicism? And it was this struggle that created a free Netherlands. It was the same in Java. One raja was overthrown by another, because of differences in religion. One worshiped Vishnu, another Krishna, and so on.”
I could understand this, but that the Javanese had written poems in the fourteenth century . . .
“They were writing poems when most of the European peoples were illiterate, Meneer. There is archaeological evidence of their writings from the eighth century. The Dutch people were just getting to know Christianity. They were just learning to recognize writing. They certainly couldn’t read yet. They even murdered the first Bible propagandist, Boniface. Isn’t that so?”
I had to admit in all honesty that this man had a deep understanding of Java, past and present.
“Have you read any of these fourteenth-century works yourself?”
“Of course, Meneer, in classical Javanese language and script.” And he was like a snail buried in this graveyard.
“The official thinking of Majapahit at its zenith, as espoused by Prapanca and Tantular, was one of the reasons for the death of the Javanese nation. Society more and more disregarded its principles. It was the same when Islam arrived almost one hundred years later. Everybody looked for sameness between Shiva-Buddhism and Islam. So Islam was accepted in an unprincipled manner too. Only its outward form was adopted. For decades society lived without principles. Then the Europeans arrived, and Europe based itself on adherence to principles. The Europeans were much fewer in number but won because they held clear and firm principles.”
“Will you be presenting this thesis for a doctorate?”
“No, Meneer, all I want are better facilities for this office and some additional budget for a few specific items.”
“Have you ever submitted a proposal for a new budget?”
“I never get any response. We are operating on guidelines drawn up last century.”
I returned to my study of the documents. Were there any signs that Germany had desires to replace Holland in the Indies? I didn’t find any. The Germans had lost their opportunity to become a colonial power. I wouldn’t find any signs of their wanting to take over the Indies. I did come across some interesting papers about Governor-General Van Imhoff’s five-year term in office. In the history of the VOC he was the only German and he had brought out a large number of German soldiers to the Indies. Among these documents were many that seemed to be hinting that Van Imhoff wanted to Germanify the Indies. Of course, there wasn’t a single sentence anywhere that came out and made a direct accusation. And the Dutch were suspicious of anything remotely German. One thing that I did find that amazed me was a poem, a story in poetry, in Malay, entitled Syair Himon, a kind of self-criticism by Imhoff himself, and a flurry of correspondence concerning people’s objections to the establishment of a Lutheran congregation for the German soldiers.
I also came across some old, decaying papers from the case of Pieter Elberveldt, a German trader born of a Native woman. That was an interesting case. He had allied himself with the Mataram kingdom against the VOC. His aim was to win the Indies for Germany. The aspect of his case that had become common knowledge in the Indies was the cruel nature of the traitor’s punishment. All four of his limbs were torn from his body by four horses.
His body was then sadistically chopped up and his head stuck upon a spear. It was displayed in Pasar Ikan, over the entrance to his own front courtyard. It was clear from these documents, however, that not everything about his activities had been announced at the time.
What interested me was the idea of following the trail of any German who wanted the Indies for Germany. And if there had been such people in the past, why not today? Weren’t those Turkish boys preaching under the guise of Pan-Islamism also evidence of German activity?
Then I read about the activities of the German missionaries. Were there any signs that they were preparing their region of operation as a base that could communicate with the colonial authorities in East Papua? To be honest, I don’t dare come to a conclusion, or make a statement about this. I tidied up the documents and put them away, as if I had never read them. Being a Catholic, I could find dealing with these sensitive issues too difficult to handle.
Taking further material from a number of specialist studies on colonial affairs, I began to write my report about the educated Natives and the possibilities of their coming into contact with other educated Natives from the neighboring colonies. That was the longest report I had ever written. It took me almost one year to complete.
Perhaps I have not made it sufficiently clear what my duties were after I was promoted to commissioner. I had no authority at all. All I did was swim among papers and write. My only power to give orders was to order a messenger boy to buy me some cigarettes or drink. It was different from when I was an inspector. Then I had command over a combined brigade of field police.
After I finished my report, I handed it over to the chief commissioner. Then there was nothing. Every day I returned to my office and sat nailed at my desk. This situation changed under Idenburg. I was given a difficult job, but in line with my earlier research—to keep watch over the educated Natives. And, of course, the figure in the vanguard of the Natives was—Minke. And it was because of this task that I came to know him so well, even though he never knew me.
I carried out this job right up until his exile to Ambon, where I handed him over to the assistant resident of Maluku, as I have related to you. He was kept under house arrest there. He had to report every time he had any contact with somebody from outside the house. He had to submit a list once a week of where he wanted to go and whom he wanted to see. He had to hand in a list of everybody he had met. He received an allowance equivalent to the wage of a new graduate from STOVIA, except that as he hadn’t graduated, he received fifteen guilders a month and not eighteen. He could receive letters but could not send any without permission. He was allowed any publication he wanted but could not publish a single word in any publication.
I knew that for somebody who was used to expressing his opinion, such regulations would be terrible torment to him. It would be spiritual torture for a modern person like him.
On the boat trip home, I continued writing in my notebook.
This was the once in my life where I had been present at a historical event, the exile of somebody whom I considered to be my teacher—Raden Mas Minke. He was the first victim of colonialism’s effort to prevent the Indies from becoming a second Philippines.
At the end of these notes, I wrote: A Servant of the Government! Somebody who is always responsible to the government and feels responsible to the government, such people never accept responsibility themselves, except to ensure their own security and enjoyment.
When I arrived back at headquarters, my boss summoned me to his office. He congratulated me on a job well done, and told me that I was being watched sympathetically by those higher up. And what official was not happy to hear that his superiors liked his work?
He ordered one of the boys to bring coffee and cakes, as if he were very keen to enjoy the results of my work. I had found out from someone in the personnel section that he was an Anglican, and perhaps he had absorbed some hostility toward my religion. So I must be very careful of him.
He whispered good-naturedly: “There is an official letter for you, Meneer,” and he took the letter out from his pocket and gave it to me. He stood up, as if he were waiting for me to read it and as if he wanted to read it as well. Realizing this, I opened the envelope and read it. My head started spinning. Everything went dark. As from today I was being retired! Oh, my God, so this was the boon I was to receive from the government, after I had sold myself, sold my principles, become so contemptible a person.
“You don’t like getting a pension?” my boss asked.
“I am still young, Meneer.”
“Then there are probably a dozen other letters here for you, Meneer,” he said, playing about. He pretended to search all his pockets, then brought out another letter. “Yes, you are young, Meneer. You’re not ready yet to be some pensioned grandfather. Another letter, Meneer Pangemanann.”
But I had lost all hope. I took the letter and stuffed it in my pocket.
“Why don’t you read it now?”
“Thank you, Meneer. But I had better go home.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and escorted me out to the office veranda, then ordered an officer to get a vehicle for me. He had never been so friendly.
“Greetings to Madame,” he told me, to be passed on.
On the drive home, my heart was busy accusing the government of ingratitude. I had been thrown away like garbage on the road. What was Pangemanann with two ‘n’s worth without position? And what about his European wife who would no longer be able to protect her standing? Who would Pangemanann be without his police uniform? A civilian and elderly pensioner! The government buildings would no longer open their doors for him. People would no longer bow or tip their hats. He would be just a blank piece of paper without meaning.
Even in exile, Minke kept his integrity, and the government respected him. In retirement, who was Pangemanann without a job in the government? What was left for me now? All my principles had been thrown aside for the sake of the government.
As soon as the car stopped at the veranda, the driver jumped out and took my briefcase straight into the house.
“You look so pale, Jacques!” my wife greeted me. She quickly caught me when she saw I was staggering. My legs felt heavy, my joints weak. What had become of me that I was like this?
The driver helped support me inside and into my room. He bowed and then left.
I sat dispirited on the bed while my wife took off my uniform—a uniform that I would never wear again. Retired, without any kind of ceremony, no special ceremonies or parades for me . . . and my pistol in its holster dropped onto the bed. She undid my shoelaces, and struggled to take off my shoes, then, holding her breath, pulled off my socks, put my legs up on the bed, and laid my head down on the pillow.
“You’ve been so weak lately, Jacques. Two of your children aren’t even grown up yet.” She pulled down the mosquito net, came over to me, kissed me, and said, “Don’t I love you enough, Jacques?”
“Get rid of that dirty uniform, darling.”
She went and did what I wanted. She took out the leather belt and, as she always did, hung it on the hat stand. She put the pistol in the cupboard and locked it. She took the dirty clothes outside. Shortly after, she returned, took off my shirt and: “There is an official letter for you, Jacques. It’s still unopened. Why don’t you read it?”
My fault, I thought: “Put it in the drawer, darling.”
“No, you can’t do that!” she answered back. “All letters to do with work should be read straightaway. Why are you so lazy these days, Jacques? Do you want me to read it?”
“You read it. I am very tired.”
I heard her tear the envelope open. I closed my ears and tensed my body, also shutting my eyes. I did not want to hear anything!
Suddenly: “Jacques!” she cried out.
I pressed the pillow harder around my ears. She would no doubt start to cry once she read the list of my failures and mistakes.
She rocked me back and forward. For the sake of politeness, I was forced to turn over and pay her attention. She wasn’t crying. Her face was shining with joy.
“What is it, darling?”
“Jacques!” she cried out joyfully. “Why don’t you say something? A promotion, Jacques. A promotion!” She hugged a
nd kissed me. “It hasn’t been wasted, all this exhausting work you’ve been doing, Jacques. Jacques! Jacques!” she wept in her joy.
She didn’t understand Dutch properly. I would receive a pension of 200 guilders. The Harmoni Club would be closed to me now forever. My name would be crossed off the membership list. Total ruination.
As soon as she let go of me, she stood and crossed herself. I couldn’t bear to see her disappointment once she realized she had misunderstood the letter. Suddenly: “We will move to Buitenzorg, Jacques. I will like it there. It’s cool and quiet, not restless and busy like here. Except the children will have to change schools.”
Move to Buitenzorg? Why to Buitenzorg?
“But what a pity, Jacques, you won’t be able to wear your uniform anymore. You began your career in such a uniform. Since Vlaardingen, then s’Hertogenbosch, and after that here in Betawi.”
“You haven’t misunderstood the letter, darling?”
“I understand every single word.”
“Are you happy, darling?”
“Who wouldn’t be happy, darling, if their husband was promoted to the Algemeene Secretariat . . .”
I jumped up from the bed. I grabbed the letter from her and read it myself. My wife had not misunderstood a single word. I was being transferred to the office of the Algemeene Secretariat with an increase in salary of 200 guilders. I would have to move to Buitenzorg. A house had been allocated for me.
The Algemeene Secretariat! Just one or two steps from the governor-general!
I dropped to my knees and crossed myself, giving thanks. The government had not forgotten Pangemanann . . .
4
If my wife had not pulled me along, perhaps I would still be standing openmouthed in front of our new house in Buitenzorg. The children raced each other to be the first inside. My wife could not restrain herself any longer; she wanted to see if everything had been put where she ordered.
House of Glass Page 11
