Footsteps (2 page)
These struggles and adventures taught Minke many new things. They also taught him about many old things. He is Javanese, a descendant of the
ksatria
caste, of the noble knights of Java. His father had given up his heritage to become a salaried official of the Dutch, a noble and aristocrat in outward form only. In his mother he finds the best of the wisdom of Java. But what does the wisdom mean for him, graduate of the HBS, speaker of Dutch, child of all nations, creature of this earth of mankind?
Minke, as narrator of
Footsteps
, tells us that
This Earth of Mankind
and
Child of All Nations
were novels he wrote while waiting in Surabaya for the school year to start in Batavia. They were his story of what first made him look at the world around him. In
Footsteps
, we see how he is still unable to turn away from reality. It presses in on him. Others force it on him. Sometimes depite his own best—or is it worst?—efforts, he becomes addicted to it. But it is not simply a story of another series of revelations. It is truly a second beginning—Minke goes beyond simply wanting to understand the world to wanting to change it, not just for himself but for all the peoples of the Indies.
Today in Indonesia all of the writings of Pramoedya Ananta Toer are banned. This includes all his novels and short stories from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. His publications in the 1980s after his release from Buru Island in 1979 have also been banned. These include the novels
Bumi Manusia (This Earth of Mankind), Anak Semua Bangsa (Child of All Nations), Jejak Langkah (Footsteps), Rumah Kaca (The Glass House)
, and
Gadis Pantai (Coastal Girl)
, as well as the anthology of writings by Tirto Adi Suryo titled
Sang Pemula (The Pathbreaker)
and the historical essay on and anthology of early Malay-language fiction, titled
Temp Dulu (Bygone Days).
All the books published by his publisher, Hasta Mitra Pty Ltd., have been banned.
The accusation against Pramoedya’s own works is that they surreptitiously spread “Marxist-Leninist teachings,” an accusation regularly made by the Indonesian authorities against anyone standing up for the values of independence and critical-mindedness. Pramoedya’s works, available freely in Malaysia and indeed included in educational curricula there, have been welcomed throughout the world as a great contribution to world literature and to the world’s understanding of Indonesia. In Indonesia, he is feared by the government not so much because of “hidden Marxist-Leninist teachings,” but because he represents a genuine Indonesian tradition that the current regime cannot accept, a tradition that follows in the footsteps of Tirto Adi Suryo, a tradition of standing up for the truth. The regime also fears him because, despite what it says, his books are enormously popular among all those who get a chance to read them.
But the repression goes beyond the banning of books. Pramoedya cannot leave Jakarta for any other part of Indonesia without permission from the local military command. All his inquiries about obtaining a passport have been unanswered. He has been regularly interrogated about his works. His editor, Yusuf Isak, and his publisher, Hasyim Rachman, have also been interrogated a number of times. Both have been detained in relation to the publication of his books. Yusuf, and his son Verdi, spent several weeks in a Jakarta jail after Pramoedya spoke at a seminar at the University of Indonesia that Verdi helped organize. Like Pramoedya, both Hasyim and Rachman spent long periods in jail in the 1960s and 1970s.
The absorbing story of struggle so engrossingly told by Pramoedya,
through Minke, continues today as more and more people in Indonesia follow in the footsteps of Tirto Adi Suryo and the thousands of others who created the idea of
Indonesia Merdeka, Adil dan Makmur
—a free, just, and prosperous Indonesia.
—M
AX
L
ANE
Canberra
1
T
he earth of Betawi finally spread out beneath my feet. I took a great deep breath of the shoreside air. Farewell to you, ship. Farewell to you, sea. Farewell to all that is past. And the dark times, neither are you exempt—farewell.
Into the universe of Betawi I go—into the universe of the twentieth century. And, yes, to you too, nineteenth century—farewell!
I am here to triumph, to do great things, to succeed. And all of you will be swept away, everything that is in my way. But not for me the banners of veni, vidi, vici. I’m not here to conquer; I’ve never longed to be a victor over others. He who wanted to unfurl those banners of Caesar’s—he was never once victorious. And now he and his banners have crashed to disaster. Robert Suurhof, my nemesis, is in jail—and all because of his greed for overnight glory.
No one is here to meet me. So what! People say only the modern man gets ahead in these times. In his hands lies the fate of humankind. You reject modernity? You will be the plaything of all those forces of the world operating outside and around you.
I am a modern person. I have freed my body and my thoughts of all ornamentations.
And modernity brings the loneliness of orphaned humanity, cursed to free itself from unnecessary ties of custom, blood—even from the land, and if need be, from others of its kind.
I don’t need anyone to meet me. I need no help! Those who always need help are people who have allowed themselves to become dependent, almost like slaves. I am free! Totally free. From now on I will be bound only by those things in which I have a real stake.
With my heart, body, and mind in this state of freedom I sat in the corner of the tram. There were no comfortable trams like this in Surabaya, traveling on steel rails, with a brass bell to chase away the sleepiness. Third class was crammed. First class, where I sat, was rather empty. I didn’t have much with me: an old suitcase, dented in many places; a bag; and a woman’s portrait in a wine-red velvet cover wrapped again in calico.
The tram moved along smoothly. The aftereffects of the ship left my body plunging up and down as if I were riding a thousand waves. There’s talk that trams will soon be pulled along by electricity! How could electricity possibly pull a tram along?
As it left the port the tram seemed to become lost in swampland, with only clumps of forest and jungle here and there. The air was pregnant with the mustiness of rotting leaves. Monkeys hung from the vines and branches, untroubled by the clanging bell. A few of them tumbled happily along. One even pointed at us with a branch. They were, perhaps, all conspiring to examine me especially, and now, in their own language, were crying out: That’s him, Minke, the “modern man”! Yes, that’s him, sitting there in the corner by himself. That one, with the beginnings of a mustache, but his chin still bare. Yes, that’s him all right, the Native who prefers European clothes, who carries on like a
sinyo.
He even travels in “white class”—first class.
Ah, that must be the Golden Star Villa, famous because of all the stories about the slaves who toiled there in the time of the
Dutch East Indies Company.
Perhaps one day I’ll have time to write their story.
The villa was the only thing decorating the swamps. Everything else was boring, nothing worth describing. Yet it was these swamps that had swallowed up one third of the Company’s soldiers
when they first arrived to occupy the area. The swamp has sided with the Natives for a long time now. On the other hand, it was this same swamp that killed sixty thousand Natives as they built Betawi. Most had been prisoners of war. And the glorious Captain Bontekoe, who began his rise to fame transporting sand and rock from Tangerang to Betawi, had also been almost killed by swamp fever.
“What is this place called?” I asked the Eurasian conductor in Malay.
His eyes blinked open, startled by this extra burden: “Ancol.”
“Can the sailboats out there go right into Betawi?” I asked in Dutch.
“Of course, sir, if they go up the Ciliwung.” He moved along, selling his tickets.
Then the tram entered the city. The streets were just as narrow as in Surabaya, made from the same whitish-yellow stone. Old buildings, standing from the days of the Company, lined the streets. The streets were lit by gas. Another fairy tale, that Betawi had begun to asphalt its streets. Just more talk. And how many such fairy tales are told in this world?
The city of Betawi! So this is the capital of the Indies, built by Governor-General Jan Pieterz Coen at the cost of sixty thousand Native lives. Who was it who worked out that figure? This is the city that was attacked and laid siege to by
Sultan Agung
in 1629. My Dutch school friends used to taunt me during our history lessons. How many soldiers did Sultan Agung have? Two hundred thousand? How many Company soldiers defended the city? Five hundred! The Dutch had cannon. But so did Agung! How come your sultan’s army was beaten, then? Yes, there’s no doubt about it. They were defeated. That’s the reality. The Dutch have controlled everything since then. Even now! Even though Coen himself died during the defense of the city and was never to see his homeland again.
Two hundred thousand soldiers, my friends had said. With cannon too. I believe Agung had cannon. But two hundred thousand men! Who can disprove it? But neither could they produce real evidence to back their claim. Ahh, that’s enough of thinking like this, or I’ll die of frustration!
Betawi was not as busy as Surabaya. And so clean. Big wooden rubbish bins stood in appropriate places, and the people
placed their garbage there. Not like Surabaya. And there were little parks everywhere, their brightly colored flowers adding a touch of festivity.
In Surabaya all you ever saw were bamboo-hut slums and fires, and rubbish everywhere.
1901. The paper I’d bought at the harbor announced that
Priangan
women were being sold to Singapore and Hong Kong and Bangkok. I was reminded of the past—of the Japanese prostitute Maiko’s evidence to the court in Surabaya about how much prostitutes were bought and sold for. I put away those memories. What purpose is there in dwelling on the past? The past should not become a burden if it is not also willing to be a help.
There was one interesting editorial comment—the Malay-Chinese press was refusing to use Ch. Van Ophuyzen’s new Malay spelling. We don’t use school Malay, high Malay, the press was saying. Our subscribers aren’t graduates of the state schools. We’re not going to risk bankruptcy by using such foreign spelling.
The report went on to complain about the new postal regulations obliging letter writers to use the new spelling. Trying to stop mail that used the old spelling would be like trying to hold back the sea with your bare hands, they said.
What! Why didn’t I see this headline before? Staring at me in such large print? Japan was laying claim to Sabang Island with its coal station. Was this true? And the paper’s comment: “This clown’s behavior is getting more and more out of hand.” As expected, there was also a small item about an urgently called meeting of naval personnel.
The tram moved on smoothly to the clanging of the brass bell. Betawi! Ah, Betawi! Here I am now in your center. You don’t know me yet, Betawi! But I know you. You’ve turned Ciliwung into a canal, with boats and rafts going back and forth, laden with goods from the interior. Almost like Surabaya. Your buildings are big and grand, but my spirit is bigger and grander.
It was said that the Ciliwung was once lined by a long unbroken line of sumptuous buildings. Now they had been turned into shops and makeshift workshops, mostly Chinese-owned. And in the middle of all this, I stood out as something extraordinary. I wore shoes; most others went barefoot. I wore a felt hat; most others wore bamboo
destars.
I wore European clothes; others wore shorts, went bare-chested, or wore pajamas.
The scenery was full of color. My heart was even brighter,
full of joy. Where are you all, maids of Priangan, famed for your grace, beauty, and smooth, satin skin? I haven’t seen even one yet! Come on out of your houses! Here I am now. Where are all the Dasimas that
Francis
wrote about?
I could not find what I was looking for. The first-class compartment contained mostly Eurasians, with their dried-up skin and arrogant posing. Next to me sat an old Eurasian grandmother scratching her hair—probably forgotten to comb out the lice. Opposite sat a thin middle-aged man with a mustache as big as his arm. Next to him was a European Pure engrossed in his newspapers. One item caught my eye. A Dutch poet was soon to arrive and would read Dutch and Shakespearean poems at the Comedy Hall in Pasar Baru. The report said that he had just finished successful readings in the European capitals and also in South Africa.
No! I will not use this time to think about anything. I’ll just sit here soaking up the Betawi scenery.
