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Chapter 6

DELI

[47] A land of gold, a haven for the capitalist class, but also a land of sweat, tears, and death, a hell for the proletariat. The very memories of Deli at the time I was there (December 1919 to June 1921) even now tear at my heart.¹ There the sharp conflict between capital and labor, between colonizer and colonized, was played out. The natural wealth of Deli gave rise to the most wealthy, cruel, arrogant, and conservative colonizing capitalist class as well as that most oppressed, exploited, and humiliated class, the Indonesian contract coolie. What the Dutch had called “the gentlest people on earth” changed its character after suffering so much torment and cruelty, and, to take an analogy from the world around Deli, became “like a buffalo charging and trampling its enemies.” When I was there, between one and two hundred Dutch people were killed or wounded in attacks by coolies every year.²

Was there anything that Deli did not have? On the border between Deli and Aceh, in the region around Pangkalan Brandan, Pangkalan Susu, and Perlak there was oil.³ If I am not mistaken, there was iron on the border between Deli and Jambi.⁴ Jambi itself had tin, as did Singkep, Bangka, and Belitung. There was bauxite in Riau and alumina in Asahan. If all this wealth were linked with the coal in Sawahlunto or the waterfall on the Asahan River (the second or third largest in the world), then the area around Deli could support any kind of heavy industry, even more so if it had access to the iron, tin, and other metals on the nearby Malay Peninsula, which has long historical ties to Deli.⁵

[48] But the Dutch did not look in that direction, and indeed it was impossible for them to see the opportunities for heavy industry, which involves many difficulties in its early stages. Usually the Dutch are attracted by enterprises that are easy and involve little risk but that are nevertheless solid and provide a large investment return. They go in for profitable monopolies that can be quickly started up, but which will never, or at least not in the short run, give rise to competition.

All the conditions that meet this kruidenier spirit were to be found in Deli, particularly in the tobacco industry. The tobacco of Deli has a special place in the world market as the wrapping leaf for Manila cigars. Of course in the beginning it was hard to recruit the labor force, but once profits started coming, obtaining even larger numbers of workers was easy. Within three or four months of planting, tobacco leaves are ready to be picked. Around the tobacco plantations, enterprises producing latex, palm products, tea, and hemp grew up in addition to Deli’s oil industry.

It was tobacco that gave birth to the first Deli millionaire. Cremer was famous for his wealth and cruelty, qualities that led to his being known in the Netherlands as “Coolie Cremer.”⁶ The forerunner of all those who later made millions from latex and oil, he was the first to sacrifice contract coolies by the hundreds in an effort to drain the swamps and clear the jungle in Deli three-quarters of a century ago.

I do not have the statistics to elaborate on the climate of Deli, the metals hidden in the ground, or its development in matters of population, industry, plantations, and trade over the last three-quarters of a century. In any case, it is not my intention to analyze all this here. It will suffice to present some of the facts that I have stored in my head for nearly thirty years, giving a picture of the atmosphere of Deli when I was there.

[49] There were some five hundred estates in Deli at that time.⁷ Travel between them was very easy and could be accomplished either by car or truck on the many roads that crisscrossed the area, or by the Deli railway. Belawan harbor was one of the largest in Indonesia. If I am not mistaken, in terms of exports it had already equalled, if not surpassed, Java by 1927.⁸ A rough estimate of the number of coolies in plantations, oil fields, mines, and transport at that time was about four hundred thousand.⁹ At a rough calculation, of the total population of Deli, numbering around two million (consisting of nearly all the nationalities of Indonesia—Javanese, Batak, Minangkabau, Bugis, Banjar, Deli-Malay, and so forth),¹⁰ about 60 percent of the families were genuinely proletarian.¹¹ (Here I am assuming that each contract coolie, or former contract coolie, had only one child.) In short, Deli was a region of the modern Indonesian nation, and a region of the true proletariat also. Even a quick glance at its social system reveals that the upper class consisted of foreign bourgeoisie, primarily European and American, and secondarily Chinese. And the Indonesian bourgeoisie, even though it consisted of only a few individuals, cannot be dismissed out of hand. The Sultan of Serdang and the Sultan of Deli, as a result of their oil concessions, were capitalist aristocrats who had to be taken into account.¹²

At the top of the European bourgeoisie, sitting high on his throne far away in the Netherlands or in some other foreign country, was the great master, known by the contract coolies as the Tuan Maskapai and by the Dutch as the director.¹³ Beneath him as the viceroy resident in Deli was the Tuan Kebun, or chief administrator.¹⁴ Only after this level do we come across those called by the respectful title of Tuan Besar, known to the Dutch simply as administrators.¹⁵ Senembah Mij. consisted of several branches and thus had several Tuan Besar. To complete our sketch of the capitalist class we must include those appendages known as Tuan Kecil, or assistants.¹⁶ The word kecil (small) must not be interpreted as being derogatory. Here it means apprentice or prospective. Every lazy good-for-nothing and schlemiel who came to Deli from the Netherlands had hopes of becoming a Tuan Kecil, a prospective Deli capitalist.¹⁷

Deli was full of these Dutch layabouts and schlemiels. Big sticks, empty heads, and loud voices: this is the picture of the shabby bourgeois of Deli. They could get rich quickly, since they received high wages and, after a certain number of years’ work, a fixed portion of the profits. If I am not mistaken, apart from his salary of some tens of thousands of rupiah annually, a Tuan Kebun received some two hundred thousand guilders as his share in the profits.¹⁸ And the Tuan Maskapai got even more: not only did he get his salary as a director and advisor of several companies, and the dividends from the capital he had invested in them, but he also received a large share of the profits. The Tuan Maskapai was the principal shareholder and the director and advisor, but he did not work there and usually resided far away, tripping around Europe.

The rich get richer: such was the dream of the empty-headed Dutch schlemiels on the Deli plantations, sitting with their big sticks in the pool room in front of their glasses of beer and whiskey.

[50] The class that slaved from dawn till dusk, paid only enough to line their bellies and cover their nakedness, the class that lived in sheds like goats in their pens,¹⁹ who were constantly abused and beaten and whose wives and daughters could be taken away at the whim of ‘ndro Tuan, this was the class of Indonesians known as contract coolies.²⁰ The plantation coolies, male and female, usually got up at 4:00 A.M., for the plantations where they worked were far away. They would return home at seven or eight o’clock at night. According to the contract, they were paid only forty cents a day.²¹ Their food was usually insufficient for the hard work of hoeing in the heat for eight to twelve hours a day, and their clothes were quickly torn to shreds from working in the jungle.²²

This deprivation in all things gave rise to the uncontrollable desire to tempt fate by playing dice, a desire deliberately fostered by the company on payday. Those who lost—and usually more people lost than won—were allowed to incur debts. Because they were bound by such debts, 90 percent of the coolies were forced to sign up again on the expiration of their contracts. The debts produced the desire to gamble and the gambling gave rise to ever greater indebtedness.²³

Ninety out of a hundred coolies had not the least hope of being promoted. In fact, only one or two out of a thousand had any real possibility. They would become overseers and eventually head foremen, or they would be taken on as workers or caretakers in garages, electric plants, or hospitals. But their wages remained low: twenty or thirty guilders a month for an overseer and sixty guilders for a head foreman, that is, someone who had been working there some fifteen to twenty years.²⁴

I can recall several incidents that took place at Tanjung Morawa, the main office of Senembah Mij., where I worked.²⁵ Tuan V. D., an electrical engineer, was at his wits’ end because the generator would not work. He had figured out all the possibilities and all his orders for repair work had been carried out, but the machine still would not function. Kario, the electrical caretaker and a former contract coolie, was called. Without saying anything he crawled under the machine for a moment, turned his screwdriver and . . . chug, chug . . . it turned over normally. Kario, the former contract coolie, had long received a wage of twenty guilders a month, while Ir. V. D. got five hundred guilders plus any number of fringe benefits.²⁶

[51] The late Professor Walch, my close acquaintance who was formerly at Tanjung Morawa with his wife, also a doctor, had the following experience.²⁷ A guest—I think it was the well-known malaria expert Schüffner—came to his laboratory.²⁸ The two were engrossed in a discussion about a certain species of mosquito that had been found in only one place on one occasion and had such and such characteristics. But they had forgotten in which of the hundreds of bottles they had placed this specimen. Naturally the name of this mosquito was written in Latin. When they had given up hope of finding it, Parman produced the bottle with its specimen and its Latin name. Parman was only a graduate of the H.I.S., was paid only twenty-five guilders a month, and lived in a lean-to with his wife and children.²⁹ Dr. Walch told me that Parman was then given the “independent” job of examining the mosquitoes of a certain location for which he was paid fifty guilders a month. The doctors Walch were not reactionaries, but, as Dr. Walch said to me, “I can’t get any more out of the company.” Such stories could be repeated over and over, but these two are sufficient to give a picture of the situation.

Obviously, tobacco, latex, palm, and hemp plantations require extensive and complex knowledge and long experience to deal with seed, soil, soil conservation, seedlings, and the crop. You could not expect the good-for-nothings and the schlemiels just arrived from the Netherlands to know about such matters. But they had white skins, the skin of the colonizer, and they carried big sticks and used loud voices against the colored, colonized people, “the gentlest people on earth.” With their white skins, big sticks, two or three words of “bazaar Malay” and thirteen different swear words, they could use the knowledge and experience of the head foremen or overseers.³⁰ These Deli schlemiels started at a salary of 350 guilders a month plus free housing, free this and free that.³¹ A few of the Dutch assistants did have a smattering of general knowledge but, in general, very few in any way smacked of “erudition.”

The conflict between the white, stupid, arrogant, cruel colonizers and the colored nation of driven, cheated, oppressed, and exploited slaves—a conflict which found a few Indonesians as skilled labour caught in the middle—fouled the atmosphere in Deli and gave rise to constant attacks by the coolies on the plantation Dutch. Frequently just one insult or criticism was enough to cause a coolie to draw his machete from his belt and attack the Tuan Besar or Tuan Kecil then and there, for his heart was filled with such a hatred for it all.

[52] This conflict between the Dutch capitalist imperialists and the Indonesian inlander coolies was also clearly reflected in the Deli courts. The Dutch person who acted “accidentally” or “only in self-defense” against a coolie attack was generally let off with a sentence of three months or less, which could often be avoided through payment of a fine. But the coolie who killed would seldom escape hanging. When I was there Dutch opinion was strongly in favor of punishing, “with immediate and most severe punishment so as to frighten the others,” the coolie who was brave enough to attack a white.

In this situation, which could turn human beings into beasts, one felt amazement mixed with awe on hearing of coolies mutilating Dutch people and then going straight to the police to give themselves up. It appears that the tales of the ksatria handed down over the centuries by the dalang in the village wayang performances were not without their effect on the people.³² Was there a place for me in the Deli society that I have tried to sketch above? Was there a place for a radical-minded Indonesian in the midst of a society with such supremely sharp contradictions?

When I got the job in Amsterdam from the director, Dr. Janssen himself, I was not really conscious of the difficulties I was to face in Deli. After living for six years among Dutch people in their own country, I did not feel any great differences in the respect accorded human beings on the basis of their skin color alone. When children or old people made fun of us Indonesians in the Netherlands because of the color of our skin or when someone in the street yelled out “Nigger, dirty nigger,” we regarded this as an aberration originating in the most backward elements of this “civilized” country. We did not really pay much attention to it. Indeed, the difference in public attitudes towards colored people in France, for example, and the Netherlands was striking.³³

[53] Experience convinced us that most Dutch people in the Netherlands did not measure us according to the standards of color. It was my conviction that in the future, even if after decades, color distinctions as well as those of class would wither away together with the disappearance of capitalism and imperialism. For these reasons the society I was to enter in Deli did not intimidate me. There I hoped to free myself in a short time from the debts that were weighing me down, while at the same time obtaining valuable experience in relating to the most oppressed, exploited, and humiliated of my own nation, thus killing two birds with one stone.³⁴

But apparently Dr. Janssen was well aware of the difficulties I would encounter in Deli. I later heard that before my arrival the Dutch officials were advised by the company, on behalf of the directors in the Netherlands, “to treat Tan Malaka like a European.”

How did it turn out in practice? My initial contact with a Dutch employee of Senembah Mij. went smoothly enough, for in Tanjung Morawa I was close to the schoolmaster Tuan W, a socialist opposed to the head teacher concept and a former Indonesian language student of mine.³⁵ But the second encounter did not give me much hope.

It was the custom for new Dutch arrivals to introduce themselves to the old employees. I was supposed to be accepted into the European group there, so I began by sending a letter to the first bookkeeper, Tuan G, and his wife, asking if and when they would be prepared to receive me for an introduction.³⁶ A reply came quickly from Nyonya G stating that “we do not now have the time to receive you.”

Nyonya and Tuan W were themselves quite surprised to hear the contents of this letter. They agreed that it was not up to me to write further. If they had the time to receive me, then the invitation should come from the Nyonya Besar herself.³⁷ I never did receive such an invitation; neither did I on any other occasion present myself to the Tuan Besar’s first bookkeeper and his wife, whom I considered to be no more worthy of respect than I myself.

[54] As to the Tuan Kebun (head administrator) and his wife, I was unable to reach any conclusion about them.³⁸ I was invited everywhere by Dr. Janssen the Tuan Maskapai, the great god himself, whom they worshipped, so I never knew whether or not they agreed. But as usual, in the get-together at the house of the Tuan Kebun and his wife, Dr. Janssen immediately turned the conversation towards matters requiring general knowledge probably outside the ken, let alone the understanding, of the hosts. Dr. Janssen had received his doctorate from a German university on the basis of a dissertation on the customs and traditions of the Batak, one of many issues that interested him. Now came the turn of the Tuan Besar (administrator). He was a real German who still could not speak Dutch. His wife, who was much younger than he, came from the German upper class and had had a superior education.³⁹ At first glance I could see that Nyonya and Tuan Besar Herr Graf were far apart in both age and culture. It was quite common after the First World War, especially among the aristocracy, for young, educated German women who had lost their fathers in the war to marry older, wealthy war-profiteers for their money. A moment’s thought convinced me that such young women would usually indeed be safe in the hands of rich old men. But there was no real security in Deli society, and certainly none among the Tuan of the plantation, for this young German woman at a time when her society was in Gaerung (ferment). Herr Graf was strongly opposed to progress for the inlanders. From other sources I heard some of the insults he directed at me. But he was loyal to Dr. Janssen, who was also of German extraction. Though my skin color was the same as that of the plantation coolies, Dr. Janssen had set the example of how I should be treated, and since the good doctor was still present in Deli, Herr Graf followed the wise policy of sugar-coating his bitterness. Fortunately the interest of Frau Graf, who had heard of names like Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, could not be shackled by discussions of tobacco, latex, profits, shares, leave, and pensions. On parting late at night she said, “Kommen Sie uns bald wieder besuchen” (come and visit us again soon) with an emphasis on the word “bald” (soon).

My visit with Ir. V. L.⁴⁰ went in a similar fashion.⁴¹ A graduate from a German university, and a conservative in politics, he was not too sympathetic. His philosophy was concerned with wages, profits, and pensions. But Nyonya was a sports enthusiast, interested in everything from tennis to horseback-riding, and she was, no less important, a lover of literature. Her conversation flowed smoothly from strikes in the Netherlands to the Russian Revolution, from the works of Gorter and Henriette Roland Holst to Dostoevsky, Gorky, and Lenin.⁴² When we parted she lent me some books. Tuan looked astonished and disapproving, but Nyonya followed up by saying, “I shall arrange to have the books picked up.”

[55] In another visit, to the home of the deputy Tuan Kebun, I met guests from the other branches of the company. They were the plantation’s Tuan Besar and had the typical political outlook. The deputy was quiet, as was indeed his wont. But his wife was broadminded and hospitable. The conversation turned to the Indonesian nationalist movement. One of the Tuan Besar showed his colors by saying: “Sarekat Islam would be better if there were no hajis among its members.”⁴³ This was the same as saying, ‘The National Party would be better if it had no nationalists in it,” or “The Bolshevik Party is fine, but what a pity it has Bolshevik members.” I was familiar enough with this reactionary position from the newspaper Deli Courant.⁴⁴ This particular Tuan Besar was a moderate reactionary and was restraining his words in front of the hostess. From other mouths and in other places, one would not hear such “polite” criticism. Here on my own turf, I had no more trouble dealing the knocked-out blow to this avid reader of the Deli Courant than I had had with the Dutch students and future B. B. ambtenaren⁴⁵ at the Deventer congress.⁴⁶

My acquaintances with my neighbors, the doctors Walch, was based on equality in all respects. As I mentioned earlier, this couple was interested in studying and experimenting on the malarial anopheles mosquito. Nyonya was fluent in Indonesian and paid considerable attention to the nationalist movement in Medan. She even wanted to meet the prominent Indonesians there. She reminded me that there was no need for me to send a letter first if I had the time to drop in.

While all these relationships were conducted on a formal basis according to adat, in the clubs and on the tennis courts and playing fields, there were many other acquaintances.⁴⁷ And apart from these there were two or three Dutch people in Medan who had become my friends. They were the left social-democrats and the president of the Assistentenbond.⁴⁸

[56] In general an anti-inlander spirit was concealed but still strong among the Tuan of the plantation. However, I had a few honest, genuine friends. An example is my relationship with the three “hares”: Hazevoet, Hazewinkel, and Hazejager.⁴⁹ All three were employees of Senembah Mij. and were close to me. Hazevoet, a friendly Dutch youth who often dropped by my house, was a socialist and worked in the pharmacy.⁵⁰ Hazewinkel had come out on the same ship as I. He had lived for a long time among the Kaffir and other African peoples, and he no longer differentiated between people on the basis of skin color but of character. In the Netherlands he had been promised that he would be put in charge of a palm-products factory that Senembah Mij. was to set up. This was because he had had considerable experience in this field in Africa, working as a skilled labourer. But he was extremely disappointed and upset by both the rank and salary awarded him. Before he broke off all connection with Senembah Mij. and went to Java, he asked me to consider him as a faithful friend. Hazejager was a real German, a patriot still saddened by the continued occupation of the western part of Germany. He was married to an Indonesian Batak, not a Muslim or a Christian but a genuine Batak from the hills. He did not marry her as a concubine, as was customary on the plantation, but according to Batak tradition, which was not easy. Batak women are well known to be very difficult to win over, and for three years he struggled to win her heart and trust. He had to go through the traditional marriage ceremony and eat authentic Batak food. Their one child he loved as dearly as he did his wife. Hazejager did not have a developed philosophy concerning politics of nationality and peace. “First restore the original German boundaries, then there will be peace with the Germans.” I did not need to explain to him my ideas about the boundaries of the Indonesian nation and state. Time and again, when I was in conflict with the reactionaries in Senembah Mij., Hazejager revealed the plots that the Tuan Besar of the plantation had formed against me.

The conflict between me and the plantation’s Tuan Besar centered on four issues: (1) skin color, (2) the education of the coolie children, (3) articles in the Deli newspapers, and (4) my relationship with the plantation coolies. These four issues actually had their origin in the conflict between the colonial, capitalist Dutch and the colonized coolie Indonesians.

[57] Skin color! This feeling of being “different from the inlanders,” as reflected in the difference in skin color would not vanish as long as the white Dutch people monopolized the position of capitalist colonizers over the brown colonized inlanders. Their arrogance was coated with “politeness,” but if it had been left entirely to Dutch “politeness” we would still feel humiliated. We always had to be ready to bare our teeth and, if necessary, to attack. In the Netherlands my experiences with the insolent, both in the streets and on the sports field, led me to understand that one should never, even once, give in. If you give in to the Dutch, then they become even more insolent and do just as they please. When in the lanes and main roads they yelled out “dirty nigger” or “water Chinees”⁵¹ we went up to them and commanded “just try saying that again.” While we were prepared for anything, in 99 out of 100 cases they would only say “nothing, sir” or make no reply at all. And when on the ball field Dutch players got a bit annoyed at something and started abusing us, we would be careful never to answer in kind. If we had responded they would only have become even more obstreperous and insulting. We had to smash them-but in a sporting manner. Then they would quiet down and apologize or shut up. In short, my prescription was, never once show pity for the Dutch.

The characteristic reserve of Eastern peoples and Indonesians in particular is not found at all among the Dutch. Either they are afraid and bow down, or they feel superior and demand everything and trample all over you. Over three centuries ago the Japanese, after some bitter experiences, expelled all white people and forbade their own people to leave their shores. The only Europeans who stayed in Japan, on the tiny island of Dhasima, under an agreement that the other nationals thought unacceptably humiliating, were . . . the Dutch.⁵²

When the Lord of the Skies in the Middle Kingdom (China) demanded that all foreign envoys, like representatives of subject nations, kowtow to him at the sound of a bell, the British envoy had to quickly grab the Dutch envoy around the waist to stop him from kowtowing. The British envoy understood that even one blackleg flatterer could undermine respect toward all white people then in China. Like the true kruidenier with his minimum program of profit, the Dutch are capable of carrying out any strategy or tactics, from bullying to kowtowing.

I still remember an incident on the tennis courts of Tanjung Morawa when we were visited by tennis players from the other branches of Senembah Mij. At the request of the tennis director, Bookkeeper No. 2, I gave up my racquet to visiting women players twice in a row. Asked for a third time to defer, though there were many Dutch men who could have been asked, I was forced to refuse bluntly. Afterwards my colleague, the schoolmaster Tuan W, cautioned me that I had been too quick to defend my honor. I answered that the truth was just the opposite.

[58] Not long after that I came into conflict with even this colleague. I don’t know whether it was the lack of an afternoon nap (and in the Netherlands he certainly would not have known that habit) or because he had got out of the wrong side of the bed or because tropical fever was on the rise, but he apparently forgot the socialism and antiauthoritarianism that he had believed in the Netherlands less than a year before.⁵³

One afternoon he came to where I was working. Standing right beside me, he began to criticize the work being done by my pupils—the hoeing was not deep enough, the wickerwork was not strong enough—in a loud voice like that used by the Tuan Besar. I was not going to stand for that. I reminded him that the children had already had a long day and that hoeing and weaving were only supplementary lessons performed so that the poor children could get some pocket money. The most important lessons for them were those given to children of their age in any country, that is, the normal education of the primary school. Furthermore, if he came to where I was working he should first say hello and ask my permission to enter. Neither would I permit him to criticize or reprimand the pupils under my care. And, finally, if the work had to be carried out according to his wishes, then he should come himself to explain the instructions, but he should not tell me what to do. With a red face he asked, “Who is the boss?” I answered, “There is no boss; I came here to work together with you. If there had been any other arrangement I wouldn’t have accepted it. Only I am surprised that a person who not very long ago was struggling to overthrow the head teacher concept in his own country has now forgotten his own principles.” He did not answer me. Without another word he went straight to the Tuan Kebun, the head administrator, Tuan T.

Not long afterwards I was called to the office. There I was confronted by both Tuan T and my colleague Tuan W. Tuan T showed me a letter from Tuan W asking for clarification as to who was the head of the school system in Senembah Mij. I reminded the Tuan Kebun that my agreement with Dr. Janssen was that I should work together with Tuan W to develop an educational system suited to the needs of the plantation coolie children. The Tuan Kebun was not concerned about a suitable system. He merely said that of course in the plantation there was a “head” and that Tuan W was older and more experienced than I.

[59] I stated that it may well be that the plantation needed a “head”; that was something I knew nothing about. But in my work, and particularly in trying to find a suitable educational system, the question of heads and bosses was quite out of place. And, in any case, the person who was acting as the head was someone who, when I had known him in the Netherlands, was strongly opposed to head teachers. Naturally I conceded that Tuan W was older and more experienced than I. But his experience was among Dutch children. As to understanding the spirits of the Indonesian pupils, I was not going to concede that his experience was greater than mine. And understanding the spirits of the children was the most important part of our work in the school.

Perhaps because the Tuan Kebun was not all that concerned with education, perhaps because he was shortly to go on leave, or even perhaps because Dr. Janssen was due back in Tanjung Morawa soon, he decided to conclude the affair by asking, “Do you both want to apologize to each other and then work together again?”⁵⁴ I had no objections, and we went home as usual.

It was Tuan W’s practice to go around from kampung to kampung in his car and to send in a report at the end of the month on his work at Senembah Mij. For me, on the other hand, the method and basic principles for teaching coolie children were beginning to become clear: I felt I had to know the character, wishes, and inclinations of each child. I also felt it necessary to establish one school as a model. In order to accomplish all this, one could not play Tuan Besar with the coolie children, nor fool around driving in a car from school to school. At first I did accompany Tuan W on these jaunts, but after several trips I became aware that they only wasted time and gasoline.

I considered it crucial to be close to the parents as well as to the children. This would be very easy in genuine Indonesian society, but it was difficult on the plantation. I was caught between the society of the Dutch mad with tropical fever and that of the contract coolies. If I were too close to the Dutch, then I would not have the full confidence of my own people. But, on the other hand, if I were too close to my own people the Dutch would be suspicious of me.

[60] On this question of choosing a position, the decision was always made according to my conviction and obligations. Gradually I was able to get coolies or other workers to come to my house to discuss things. Naturally it was not only the life of the coolie children that we would discuss, but all aspects of the life of the plantation coolies. I understood immediately how difficult it would be to improve the lot of the coolie families. They were bound by all kinds of regulations in their contract, which they could not even read, much less understand, but of which they lived in fear, like a pact with the devil.⁵⁵ They were bound by conservatism, ignorance, darkness, and the evil desires deliberately fanned by gambling. They had absolutely no right or possibility to improve their fate through a legal trade union. The whole of colonial society was full of traitors or prospective traitors, and the society of the contract coolies had more than its share.

The fever-maddened Tuan Besar were whispering among themselves and had their clubs ready to beat me. It was not only my contact with the contract coolies that they thought was insupportable, for they were also concerned about some articles in the liberal Medan newspaper, the Sumatra Post,⁵⁶ and about my connections with leaders of the Deli railway strikers.⁵⁷

One night Hazejager rushed into my house. “They have it in for you,” he said. “They (the Tuan Besar of the plantation) think that Pontjo Drio (a correspondent of the newspaper Sumatra Post) is really Tan Malaka. They think that you have something to do with the Deli railway strike since you have spoken with the strike leaders and have even been visited by them here. They have also been hearing about the meetings in your own house with the contract coolies.”⁵⁸

The next day I was called to the office of the deputy Tuan Kebun, the Tuan Kebun himself being on leave. The deputy presented all these charges to me and asked whether they were in fact true. I denied the accuracy of some of the assertions, for they had indeed been distorted. As to the Pontjo Drio matter, I asked him to check with the Sumatra Post to see for himself who was lying. Furthermore, I stated my right as a free Indonesian to help raise the level of my own people and to have contact with whomever I thought fit. Finally, I protested against the plotting behind my back by people whose names I did not have to mention. I told the deputy Tuan Kebun that if such slanders were continued I would, if necessary, ask to meet these secretive slanderers head on. We parted amicably.

[61] I had indeed written for the Sumatra Post, though not under the name of Pontjo Drio.⁵⁹ But such an activity was my absolute right and my own responsibility. Similarly, my contacts with the leaders of the Deli railway strike or with the contract coolies were entirely my own affair.

Herr Graf, the leader of the plot against me, possessed Ausdauern (persistence) in his slanders, as he did in all his work.⁶⁰ But Hazejager was also endowed with this well-known German characteristic, only with him it was a persistence in honesty to his friends. And neither was the Tuan Maskapai ready to accept accusations against someone he knew, and his German Ausdauern made him want to come face to face with the accused before believing anything.

Once more Hazejager raced up to me. “Tuan Besar Graf is continuing to whisper all those accusations against you. And now he is adding to his own opinion that Tan Malaka does not know the meaning of gratitude. ‘Just think,’ he says, ‘that inlander Tan Malaka, who was formerly supported by Herr Dr. Janssen in the Netherlands, is now betraying him. Schrecklich nicht wahr? [Terrible isn’t it?]’”

The following morning a rushed and panicky Dr. Janssen arrived at my house. I had not yet got dressed nor had a chance to invite my guest to take a seat before Dr. Janssen was sitting down and speaking with a red face and labored breath. All the accusations—about meetings with the contract coolies, writing in the newspaper, and having contact with the strike leaders of the Deli railway—were laid out before me once again.

“If this is true,” said Dr. Janssen, “it is a stab in the back.”

I answered with a question: “And do you also believe the other slander, that I studied in the Netherlands at your expense?”

“Ach, ja,” said Dr. Janssen. “I don’t believe a word of it, and that is why I came to see for myself. Get dressed quickly,” he continued. “This morning there is a meeting of some of the Dutch employees from the whole of Senembah Mij. and I would like you to be present.”

[62] I did not for one moment imagine that that morning I would be among the Tuan Besar from all branches of Senembah Mij. And what was even more amazing, none of the Tuan Kecil were present, and neither was my colleague who had wanted to become the “head” above me. It is understandable that I was quite surprised when Dr. Janssen addressed a question to me about the plantation schools. In fact my colleague Tuan W should have been present to give such information.

The question came out of the blue, while I was looking out of the corner of my eye at all the Tuan present. I knew only one or two of them, including the Tuan Besar from Tanjung Morawa, Herr Graf, Enemy No. 1. Whenever my eye caught his, he quickly turned away. He was indeed a deceitful person; even if he did possess that German Ausdauern, he was unable to meet the eye of an inlander who stood in the right.

In such an atmosphere I felt it inappropriate to give a lengthy discourse on the education of coolie children. In addition, I had already made a decision as to my future work. I spoke briefly, directing my remarks to the following conclusion: “The primary goal of the education of coolie children, as with children of any nation or class, is to sharpen their intelligence, strengthen their will, and refine their feelings. Aside from this, we must implant the desire and habit of working with the hands, and the feeling that such work is valuable for the society and is no less honorable than work with the brain alone. Senembah Mij. in particular, and Deli in general, would not lose by having many skilled and unskilled laborers in the area who were capable and efficient and who possessed the desire to have a high standard of living. It is true that there would be no immediate return on the money that Senembah Mij. invested in this way, but in the long run this expenditure would be repaid many times over in increased efficiency and consumption.”

[63] I was aware that I was speaking to the deaf, but it was well for these Tuan Besar of the plantation to hear that the coolie children were human too. Here and there I had heard many arguments that schooling for the coolie children was just a “waste of money.” What is the point of educating coolie children? They will become even more “impertinent” than their fathers. This or that foreman can write and count a little, and for this five years in primary school was not necessary. Kario had only attended the village school but was able to run the electrical system. What sort of schooling did Mubal or Sastro have? Yet they could make up all kinds of medicines. Ninety-nine percent of the coolies on the plantation were illiterate, but they could plant tobacco. You just have to order the coolie children to hoe, and that is the end of the matter. To give them schooling in agriculture, trades, or teaching would only be creating havoc in the plantation, increasing the number of malcontents, and increasing the membership of Sarekat Islam.

This was the logic of the Dutch on the plantation, the former idlers of the Netherlands. I knew also that these Tuan Besar saw Dr. Janssen, who had proposed the setting up of schools for Senembah Mij., as an idealist, an ethisch, and a stupid person, and that they ridiculed him behind his back.

In the time of Tsarina Katharina in Russia, if I am not mistaken, there was a prime minister by the name of Potemkin. In answer to the Tsarina’s questions he would simply say, “The people are happy, the crops are flourishing, hai Tuanku.”⁶¹ If the Tsarina wanted to see with her own eyes the happiness of the people and their economic progress, Potemkin would take her to a beautiful village, specially prepared beforehand. This beautiful village decorated for the Tsarina’s visit was known as Potemkin village. The Tsarina was kept in Potemkin’s pocket to keep her from seeing the dirty and miserable villages, and was brought out only to admire this decorated one so that to her it seemed true that “The people are happy, the crops are flourishing.”

In Senembah Mij. there was also a Potemkin village and a Tsarina Katharina. Potemkin was incarnated as the Tuan Kebun and the Tsarina as Herr Dr. Janssen enthroned in the Netherlands. The Potemkin village in Senembah Mij. had been set up at Dr. Janssen’s request for the contract coolies who had worked for a long time. They had their own houses and gardens. Now, aside from the Potemkin village, we had a Potemkin school to warm the heart of the idealist ethisch Dr. Janssen. The Tuan Kebun kept Dr. Janssen in his pocket (read, his Chrysler auto) to see and admire only the Potemkin village and school.

[64] I knew that not long afterwards Dr. Janssen would be returning to the Netherlands. I, his protege, would be left alone among the Tuan Besar who hated my skin color, my political views, and even my work. My main objectives had already been achieved. I had gained experience among the contract coolies and I had earned enough money to repay the debts to my village and to my former teacher. In fact a large part had already been repaid, and the reserve funds I had been putting away would be sufficient to erase the rest if necessary.⁶² I had been shutting my eyes and ears too long to the situation in this unfortunate society. Once it seems I went too far in writing of the behavior of the Dutch on the plantation, particularly towards the women contract coolies. A written response came from a woman whom I had known as Miss Mathilde Elizas, an educator, now the wife of Horensma, my former teacher.⁶³ The short message read: “If you don’t like it there, then come back to us. Really, there is enough other work to do.”

After the meeting of the Tuan Besar, Dr. Janssen invited me to take a stroll with him. I was no longer hesitant to make the decision, and I said, “You’ve seen for yourself the atmosphere on the plantation, particularly toward me as an Indonesian. When you leave Deli shortly, the school for the coolie children will be turned into a school for hoeing. It’s better that I ask permission to leave from you personally.”

I do not remember what Dr. Janssen said; perhaps he made no comment at all. How could someone as sensitive as he not understand my course in life, my struggle, and the difficulties I faced? That night Dr. Janssen invited me to the house of Dr. Pel.⁶⁴ Also present was Professor Schuffner, the prominent malaria expert. This was the night of our parting. Dr. Janssen had already instructed the office to pay me two months’ salary and to purchase a first-class ticket to Java for me.⁶⁵

From my friends I heard, “By inviting you to the meeting of the Tuan Besar and by wishing you farewell, Dr. Janssen has shown his appreciation and has restored your honor, which has all this time been trampled on by the Tuan Besar.” But Bookkeeper No. 1, who had been the first to reject my request to become acquainted over two years ago, was whispering right and left: “What’s the use of buying a first-class ticket for that inlander Tan Malaka? He probably won’t even enjoy it (how could an inlander appreciate good things?).”

One day before I had left [the Netherlands] for Indonesia, I received an envelope containing money to cover my expenses and to serve as a mark of appreciation for a lecture on the institutions and traditions of a certain region in Indonesia, which I had been asked to give by Tuan Boissevain of the Amsterdam Chamber of Commerce.⁶⁶ This was a normal enough event. But what happened afterwards was unusual indeed. As I was traveling on the train from Bussum to Amsterdam, an old man sitting beside me in the third-class carriage asked, his eyes sharp as he spoke: “Are you Tan Malaka?” I acknowledged this with a little hesitation since I did not know the man. “I am Janssen,” he said. “I have received a report on schools for the coolie children in the Deli plantation. Why don’t you take a look at it?” When I began to read he said, “Just put it aside for now, and read it when you get home. After that I would like you to come to my office in Amsterdam to give me your views on it.” So it was that in his Amsterdam office Dr. Janssen offered me the job of working with Tuan W in Deli to develop an educational system suited to the conditions there.

[65] After parting from Dr. Janssen, and after being in Semarang several months, I received a letter from my teacher Horensma, which contained greetings from Dr. Janssen. The letter also said that Dr. Janssen was still extremely interested in me. And, in fact, after I arrived in the Netherlands, having been exiled from Indonesia at the beginning of 1922, I heard from my friends that he was present at one of my talks on education. And in one of the meetings during the campaign for the election to the Netherlands lower house, for which I was a candidate, I saw a relative of his.⁶⁷ But I never met Dr. Janssen again. (His son, P. W. Janssen, is well known as a Dutch philanthropist.)⁶⁸

Although possessing such noble ideals, he was sufficiently intelligent to sense the wide chasm between our political positions. It was not only on this occasion, nor only with white people either, that I was to experience the playing out of this tragedy of life: that you can go through good and bad with someone, eat and drink together, and yet be on opposite sides of the barricades.