Footsteps (28 page)

It was different from any other I had seen. Over the entrance there hung not only a picture of the queen but also of the former English lieutenant-governor of Java, Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles. From whatever angle I looked at the picture, it looked exactly like Raffles. What was the relationship between the master of this house and Raffles? No other house would ever be decorated with pictures of Raffles. Or perhaps it wasn’t Raffles at all?

And while I waited I reflected. Why was this man so influential? Because of his wealth? Because of his good deeds? Because of his intelligence? It must be because of one of these, or all of them.

My turn came one hour later. As the last guest came out of the office, he invited me to go in. Before me stood a Eurasian, wearing a
pici
, a Chinese jacket, and a Samarinda sarong. His eyeglasses perched on the ridge of his nose. He welcomed me with a smile and greeted me warmly in Betawi-accented Malay: “Ayoh, come on in, Tuan.”

I walked across to him and he held out his hand.

“You must have something important to discuss. I don’t think you have ever been here before.”

I observed his brownish hair, now graying. He was still smiling. He invited me to sit down.

“Tuan Thabrie?”

“You’re not mistaken. What can I do for you?”

I began to explain how I had come to be visiting him. He said he was sorry but he didn’t understand Dutch. We continued the discussion in Malay.

“So it was Tuan Patih of Meester Cornelis who suggested
you come see me,” he mused. “Yes, he often comes here, but never says much. Tell me what this is all about.”

And so I told him about the plan to set up an organization, and about its philosophy and aims and objectives. He pushed across a box of Cuban cigars, as was the practice among all the rich Europeans.

“If Tuan Patih thinks it is a good idea, then I certainly will also agree,” he said humbly.

Behind his glasses, I could see his rather European-looking brown eyes. I think he often found people staring at his eyes. He took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and put them back on.

“So you want to establish a sarekat?”

“Sarekat! What’s that, Tuan?”

“You’re a Moslem?”

“Of course, Tuan Thamrin.”

“Do you pray?”

“I’m sorry, Tuan Thamrin, no.”

He smiled and nodded, then:
“Laa syarikaa lahuu,”
he recited fluently, a quote from the Ifitah prayer. “There is no other united with Him, with God. Sarekat, Tuan, means a union, an association based on having a common interest.”

“What’s the best name, Tuan,
orginasasi
or
sarekat
compared to
perkum-pulan
or
persekutuan
?”

“Of course
sarekat
is best. First because it is an Arabic word, the language of the Koran. Second, because it reminds people of their
ikat
, their bond. Third, because it is shorter and simpler than
perkumpulan.
Fourth, because it has nothing to do with
kutu
—lice. To unite is more than just gathering together, isn’t it, eh? And
persekutuan
implies a gathering of people who share the same
kutu
, heh?” he laughed happily, admiring his own joke.

“We’ve just begun and you’ve already been able to pick such an exactly right, perfect word,” I complimented him. It seemed he too was pleased to be commended that way.

It was a very pleasurable meeting, with plenty of cigar smoke and a generous spread of refreshments. He was always quoting from the Koran to show that he was a Moslem. And that too was his right. His world and his personality united in this.

Once, when the conversation slowed a little, I had to ask: “Perhaps I’m mistaken, Tuan, but isn’t that a portrait of
Lieutenant-Governor Thomas Stamford Raffles that hangs above that door?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

And it struck me then, the similarity between Thamrin and Raffles. Then: “And you yourself bear quite a resemblance to him.”

“And so I decided to put up that picture.”

“Raffles is famous as a wise and knowledgeable man. Perhaps also because of that resemblance you are as wise as he.”

“Allah willing.”

“And your first name starts with the same letter. Thomas—Thamrin.”

He laughed, then shifted the conversation to another topic: “I am willing to work for the sarekat, Tuan, a sarekat that does good works, and I’m willing to give money as well, providing, providing it does nothing to violate the law.”

That day I went back to see the Patih of Meester Cornelis.

“If he agrees, Raden Mas, then all will go smoothly. Many people are in his debt. Once he says yes, the others will say yes, yes. You can prepare as many invitations as possible and copies of the Constitution and Aims and Objectives. Don’t use Dutch. Malay, Tuan. Only a few Natives can speak Dutch. You can give me one hundred invitations.”

“We’ll have to find a place that can take that many people.”

“This pendopo can take over two hundred.”

I agreed, and he was very pleased that his place was going to be so honored.

“You’re right. This pendopo is going to be honored indeed. The sarekat we will found here will be the very first Native modern organization. And you and I are the initiators.”

He was very satisfied with my comments. The conversation then turned to Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie.

“Yes, he does look like a European. But his heart and soul are genuine Native. He was brought up and educated here in Betawi. His education? Well, perhaps he had a little more schooling than his playmates.”

“Why has he hung a picture of Raffles in his house?”

“While Raffles was living here in Betawi, he lost his wife. She died, Tuan.” He hesitated to continue, but he went on anyway. “She was buried in Jati Petamburan.” He stopped; he wasn’t
going to continue after all. “Ah, it’s just a coincidence. His father looked just like Raffles. At least his face, anyway…the more you move among the Betawi, the more you’ll learn about him.”

And as I mused on this, I remembered the rumors that the Bupatis of Kedu had been descendants of Governor-General Daendels. Ah, what does it matter whom people are descended from? What matters is how a person treats his fellow human beings.

As soon as I arrived home, I instructed Sandiman to duplicate two hundred invitations. He worked until two in the morning. He seemed to be very enthusiastic.

“I was hoping that something like this would happen in Mangkunegaran, Tuan.”

“Why didn’t you start something?”

“No one knew how to start.”

“Now you know.”

“Now I know, Tuan, but who must make the first move? If it was only someone like me who initiated something like this, who would listen? And who should be invited to join is also a problem. If a criminal—whatever he had done—received an invitation, attended, agreed, and said he was willing to join…then what, Tuan? So in Mangkunegaran we just sat and talked. May I attend also, Tuan?” he asked suddenly.

“Of course. We’ll go together.”

It was a beautiful day for me, the day God led me to chair that meeting in the Patih of Meester Cornelis’s pendopo.

There were many more there than had been invited. Some had brought their children. There were primary school children. Some brought their wives. There was no lack of babies either. The laughter of children, the cries of babies as they suffered the heat, babies silenced with their mother’s nipples.

The Patih of Meester Cornelis sat in a place of honor but did not speak. Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie, ever humble, sat among the crowd, in one of the middle rows.

Tasty snacks and drinks were continuously being served. I was the only speaker. No one else tried to speak.

I talked about many, many things, drawing from all I had learned from the people I had known, and from my reading. There were two things I deliberately avoided talking about—the Acehnese War and the Balinese War.

“And we will call our organization Sarekat Priyayi because
it is the priyayi who are most educated and most advanced. All priyayi can read and write. So does everyone agree?”

For the umpteenth time, there was no answer. Instead, everyone kept looking in the direction of the Patih of Meester Cornelis.

“And the Sarekat will use the Malay language because all priyayi speak Malay. Do you agree?”

And still no one answered. Perhaps I was repeating the experience of the old Java Doctor, crying out to the desert-dry hearts of all those present.

The Patih could see I was in trouble. He stood, came across, and positioned himself next to me. He asked my permission to speak.

“Heh, all you who have come here tonight. You are not in audience tonight with a patih, or a raja, even though this is a patih’s pendopo. Tonight there are no raja, no patih, no wedana, and no
mantri.
Everyone is equal here tonight. So, if you agree, say that you agree; if you don’t, then speak out and say so. Now, who agrees with the formation of the Sarekat Priyayi?”

No one answered. Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie also sat silently in his seat.

“Tuan Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie, Wedana of Mangga Besar, perhaps you agree?”

Thamrin suddenly stood, his tall body towering above those around him. Everyone looked at him. “Not only do I agree, I put myself down as its first member.”

“Nah, now we have a real answer. Who else agrees?”

Everyone stood up, including all the little children, except the babies asleep in their mother’s arms.

“I also agree and put myself down as member number…you all agree, don’t you? Then perhaps I’m member number two hundred and ninety.”

And for the first time, I heard someone laugh.

“Do we agree the Sarekat’s language will be Malay?”

The pendopo echoed with shouts of agreement.

“So our organization is now formally founded? Legitimate and valid?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Now they’re all trying to out-bray each other, Tuan,” he whispered to me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered back.

“Good. Tomorrow we’ll apply for registration from the government. Now all those wanting to become members must write down their names and addresses. Also their ages and occupations.”

Sandiman circulated notebooks, one for every row of those present.

In half an hour, amid the buzz of many voices, we collected four hundred and eighty names, including those of four-year-old children, who at that moment were at home asleep in their mothers’ arms. That was also good. There was not a single woman’s name.

It was easy to guess who would be chosen president—Thamrin Mohammed Thabrie. I became secretary. And the meeting broke up with everyone feeling relieved and satisfied. The sky was overcast. It was a pitch-black night. The thunder cleared its throat and the lightning tried to flash away its headache. The rain poured down without letup. Sandiman was busy duplicating. As soon as the sheets were dry, he addressed them and they were posted that night, to the major towns in Sumatra, Borneo, the Moluccas, and especially Java.

Membership applications flooded in over the next few days, from Java, Madura, and elsewhere. But Sandiman was clearly unhappy about something.

“There’s something bothering you,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Tuan. Only, well, yes, how can I say it? The Sarekat Priyayi, Tuan. I don’t have the right to join.”

“You’re already a member; you’ve put your name down.”

“But I’ve never felt myself to be a priyayi.”

It was a statement that at once surprised me and annoyed me.

“Why didn’t you say anything at the meeting?”

“What should I have said, Tuan. I’m just an ex-soldier. Are soldiers priyayi?”

“So what class are soldiers?”

“How would I know, Tuan? This name means the soldiers in Mangkunegaran will hesitate to join.”

“Ah, you, such an important idea. Why didn’t you say something earlier, at the meeting?”

“I don’t actually know what is the meaning of priyayi, Tuan.”

And I didn’t really know what the real and accurate meaning of the word was either. It has generally been used to refer to those in government employment who came from the local nobility.
But who was included and who left out had never been made clear.

“So what is my status as a member, Tuan? Am I a priyayi or not?”

“And if your membership is declared valid, will you then know what is meant by a priyayi?

“Declared valid or not, I will still not know, Tuan.”

“Then it makes no difference either way; you remain a member.”

“But I still don’t feel right about this, Tuan.”

“If you spice up something enough it will taste good in the end, won’t it?”

He was still unhappy about it, I perhaps more so. Our organization would not be able to recruit from the lower classes because of that word
priyayi.
The traders will be wary too. There was nothing that we could do now. That name had been accepted by the meeting. It had already come into effect. The government had also registered and published it in the
State Gazette.
The organization now had legal status, and a legal identity—like that of a European.

And so it was that the year 1906 passed, it too producing something new to savor.

T
he work of the secretary of an organization is like that of a weaver. Ideas from the eight directions of the wind have to be woven together with those from the middle direction, the ninth direction, from the direction of the secretary himself. The result: a tapestry woven out of suggestions—a reflection of what actually exists in society. And as the secretary of a legally registered organization, with the same status as a European citizen, my room to move and to make connections expanded dramatically. It was as though each step I took no longer came down on colonial ground. It was as if I had become legal owner of this earth. Experience, knowledge, wisdom, and most of all, enthusiasm for life, all combined to build up a giant entity, stronger than the sum of the strength of all its members. Its self-confidence was enough to drill through to the center of the earth.

On the other hand, my income started to dwindle. I was living off my savings. Only the weak-hearted and weak-kneed hope for free blessings. What is there that is free? Everything has to be paid for first or paid back later.