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Chapter 7

SEMARANG—THE RED CITY

[66] In July 1921, Semarang was known as Indonesia’s Red center. The present revolution, May 1947, has yet to overturn that characterization. In 1921, Semarang was the headquarters of the VSTP, the Vereeniging van Spoor en Tramweg Personeel [Union of Railway and Tramway Employees], the best-organized union in the whole of Indonesia. The VSTP was established in 1904; by 1921 it had reached a dues-paying membership of 17,000, had branches everywhere, and had a modern and well-organized printing press and newspaper.¹ Semaun was the head of the union, aided by several Dutch employees who had had strike experience in the Netherlands and who can be said to have been the pioneers of the trade union movement in Indonesia.² Apart from the VSTP there was also the PKI (Partai Komunis di India, formerly known as the ISDP, Indische Sociaal Democratische Partai), established by Dutch revolutionary socialists in 1914.³ When I arrived in Semarang, Semaun was the head of that party too. The Dutch leaders like Sneevliet and Baars had long been exiled.⁴ In 1922, after being recognized as a section of the Third International, the ISDP changed its name to PKI⁵ and issued the publications Het Vrije Woord and Soeara Ra’jat.⁶ The latter was headed by Darsono, the deputy head of the PKI. The PKI can be regarded as a cadre organization, while the party of the common people was the Red Sarekat Islam of Semarang, severed from the center by discipline imposed by the Central Sarekat Islam.⁷ To round out the picture of Semarang at that time, I must mention the Nationaal Indische Partij (NIP), which included among its leaders Dr. Douwes Dekker (now Dr. Settiabuddhi), Dr. Tjipto Mangunkusumo, and Suwardi Surjaningrat (now Ki Hadjar Dewantara).

[67] In 1921 the atmosphere throughout Indonesia approached that during the period from 1913 to 1919. The world economy had reached the peak of its upturn (in 1920) and was beginning to decline again. Except for its Deli branch, the NIP, the oldest national party, no longer made its voice heard.⁸ However, Sarekat Islam, at its third congress in Surabaya, had claimed eighty-seven branches and 450,000 members.⁹ According to the Dutch newspaper De Gids, Sarekat Islam had at one time during World War I been able to call out six million members and sympathizers to its general meetings throughout the islands. But this was all brought to an end because of the conflict with the Semarang group. The Jambi war in which the SI had taken part, the riots in Toli-toli in Sulawesi, and the Garut disturbances over Afdeling B were all ancient history.¹⁰ The actions of Dutch revolutionaries in the Soldaten-Bond, led by Sneevliet and Brandsteder, had shaken Dutch imperialism considerably.¹¹ But they were only memories now. The PKI had but a small cadre, most of which was in Semarang.¹²

With the decline in spirit of Sarekat Islam, the Garut affair, the arrest of Tjokroaminoto, and the divisions within the SI, we saw a reemergence of the confidence of Dutch imperialism, which had actually been weak in opposing SI during the First World War. This renewed self-confidence was strengthened through the introduction of various laws shackling freedom of association, assembly, press, and speech. These laws significantly restricted human and democratic rights and hindered both the nationalist and trade-union movements. Nevertheless, they were all obvious traps that could be avoided or bypassed. But there was another trap which could not be seen by the leadership and which lay like a hidden bomb that could explode at any time. This was what was known as the exorbitante rechten— extraordinary powers held by the governor general of the Dutch East Indies which enabled him to exile any movement leader regarded as a danger to the public order (read: danger to what the Dutch colonizers saw as order). As long as the governor general held these powers, anyone considered a threat to Dutch colonialism could be arrested and exiled with no opportunity for self-defense in a legal and open trial.¹³

[68] In such an atmosphere, the November Promises, wherein the Dutch colonial government under pressure agreed to independence for Indonesia, were worth nothing and were little by little withdrawn.¹⁴ What was granted was the playhouse on Pejambon, Batavia, known as the Volksraad.¹⁵ And along with this came press, assembly, and association traps and the power to exile Indonesians from their homeland and society, or to the jungle as in Digul.¹⁶

“It is a long way to the prairy [sic], a long way to go.”¹⁷ I did not arrive in the midst of a fiery political situation, where the murba strove to implement a clear program through a disciplined and tight organization.¹⁸ The time of the struggling murba was far behind and that of a national organization—united and disciplined, able to seize and hold an area larger than Europe and having seventy million inhabitants—had not yet arrived. It was fitting, then, that I should enter Semarang through the door of education.

When I left Deli for Semarang, I was convinced that I wanted to set up an educational system suited to the existing needs and spirit of the masses. I had already determined the basic direction to take, and my experience at Deli for nearly two years served to reinforce this. What I needed now was a place where I might work in freedom, raw material in the form of pupils, a building and equipment, and, what was of equal importance, an environment that placed value on the work of education.

When I stopped in at the house of my teacher Horensma, now promoted to inspector of Indonesian primary schools and based in Jakarta, he asked whether I wanted to work in the capital and what I wanted to do, so that he could try to help me.¹⁹ I answered that I wished to continue the endeavor that he knew about and that he had never opposed and had even encouraged. His reply was brief: “Go right ahead with it.”

In Yogyakarta I stayed with a new friend, Sutopo, a former editor of the Budi Utomo newspaper.²⁰ I had a letter of introduction to him from a friend of mine in Medan, the chairman of Budi Utomo there.²¹ Sutopo immediately pressed me into leaving the hotel and coming to stay in his house, where I was treated like a brother who had just returned from a long journey. He introduced me around and tried to set up a school for me to run. However, by chance Sarekat Islam was meeting to discuss the conflict inside the organization resulting from the “Darsono criticism,” and Sutopo introduced me to Tjokroaminoto, Darsono, and Semaun.²²

[69] Tjokroaminoto also treated me like an old friend. He acted as though he were unaware of his great influence throughout Indonesia and of the fact that Westerners called him “the uncrowned king of Indonesia.”²³ He was friendly to everyone who approached him. “Once you are Tjokroaminoto’s friend it’s hard to part from him, let alone become his enemy,” a member of the PKI and a former follower of Tjokroaminoto said to me. “Tjokroaminoto’s voice holds the heart of the Indonesian people,” said another friend. And Tjokroaminoto left me saying, “The doors of Sarekat Islam are open to you.”

Before the meeting everyone was exceedingly busy. I was taken to see Darsono. He said: “Our people still take political differences too personally. They are not yet able to separate people’s political positions or words from the individuals themselves, especially with people they love dearly.”

Darsono was visibly affected by the personal attack that had been launched against him. Indeed, he had even been threatened when trying to defend his position at meetings. It must be stated that Tjokroaminoto’s popularity was still extremely high at that stage. But the committee that examined the “Darsono criticism” affirmed his right to criticize and found fault only with the manner in which he had done so.

Semaun, who dressed simply but attractively, in harmony with his expression and his smile, asked no questions. He just said, “Get ready to come to Semarang with us tomorrow. We shall try to put you in charge of education. It certainly is time for such a step.” Unfortunately, I had to part from Sutopo, who urged me to remain in his house in Yogyakarta, because he really had been trying hard to get a school established for me.²⁴

It often happens that when we are spurred on by strong desires we forget that our physical beings are subject to the laws of nature. When my body was adjusting to the European environment, its climate, and my shortage of necessities, my health was severely threatened. It was restored only when I adjusted myself to the lifestyle there, one which I continued in Deli, in fact to an even greater degree.

[70] At first I was not aware that I was now in Java, in a physical situation as different from Deli as the earth from the sky. I did not notice that houses in Java were not like those in Deli or Bussum, and neither was the food. Nor was I aware that the climate in Semarang was different from that of the other places. I forgot all this because I was in a new context, one in which I could speak freely to my comrades in the struggle. On the first day there, I fell ill and was stretched out on a bed in Semaun’s house in Suburan kampung. I had a bad fever and finally had to be taken to the hospital. I was suffering a lung inflammation and had to be nursed for a month.²⁵

Our bodily organs are not able to endure sudden major changes. Just as glass plunged into boiling water will certainly break, so even a strong body will fall ill if suddenly put into a very different situation. But as glass will not break if it is slowly lowered into the boiling water, so this mortal human body must be gradually acclimatized to new and different surroundings. We often forget this, particularly if our spirits are in a secure and pleasing environment.

When I felt somewhat stronger again, Semaun organized a special meeting of the members of Sarekat Islam Semarang to discuss the question of establishing a school. This proposal was well received, and that very day we began registering pupils. A school building was no problem since Sarekat Islam Semarang had its own building for meetings, which we could use temporarily. We quickly obtained benches, blackboards, and other equipment, and in one or two days I was able to commence with around fifty pupils.²⁶

In my small pamphlet S.I. Semarang dan Onderwijs [Sarekat Islam Semarang and Education] I outlined the principles and aims of our school, as well as the means by which we might achieve those aims.²⁷ We did not try to educate our pupils to become clerks, as did the government schools. On the contrary, apart from teaching them to earn a living for themselves and their families, we taught them to help the masses through the movement. Obviously, then, the basis we used was the democratic principle appropriate under colonialism: to live together with the masses in order to raise their level, and not to become a member of a class apart to be used as an instrument of oppression against one’s own people. With such principles and aims, the methods by which the intelligence, emotions, and desires of the pupils were advanced were harmonized with the interests, the daily work, and the ideals of the masses and with the people’s movement and organizations.

[71] Since nearly all the pupils were children of peasants, laborers, or small traders and low-level employees with direct or indirect ties to Sarekat Islam, relating their education to the daily work of the people and to the ideals of the movement was not difficult. It was not surprising that after a short time the pupils’ parents began to see their children as the inheritors of their work and their ideals.²⁸

I still remember the children’s first performance, held for an audience of Sarekat Islam members. One or two of the fourteen-year-old pupils had enlisted the aid of some parents and pushed their friends into a project organized by the pupils. They staged a performance: wearing red trousers, the pupils marched out and lined up in front of the audience and sang the Internationale . . . for the first time among the Indonesian people.²⁹ They carried it all off without a hitch and I awaited the crowd’s response. But there was no sound. I saw that several of the spectators had tears of admiration trickling down their faces. Were they sad or happy?

They felt both of these emotions: sadness because they were conscious of their own and their children’s fate, as well as the shortcomings of the school and its equipment; happiness because their children were being educated not to become lackeys of colonialism but to raise their own class, the oppressed, exploited, and humiliated masses. They felt that they saw before them the heroes of the future. Only after several minutes did we hear faint clapping, immediately followed by wild applause and cheering.

Pupils continued to stream into our school until we had over two hundred. Letters from people wanting to become teachers in our school arrived from everywhere; there were those who wanted to give up well-paid jobs to work in our school for nothing. In the afternoons I held my own classes to instruct pupils of the fifth grade who wanted to become teachers, and to help existing teachers orient to the people.³⁰

[72] Misfortune and good luck came from all directions, for the requests to set up schools all over the country had both fortunate and unfortunate aspects: unfortunate because our personnel was still limited and even the center in Semarang was not yet strong, and fortunate because such national interest would ensure that the program would later extend throughout Indonesia and that we could count on support from the whole population. With the interest and assistance of at least a large part of the poorest people, we could hope for a good climate and fertile soil for the introduction of middle schools. After graduating from agricultural schools, pupils could head up people’s cooperatives in the villages; those from the trade schools could direct cooperatives for various trades, while those from commercial schools could set up different types of trade cooperatives. In this way, if the schools could work together with the trade unions and the political organizations, the nationalist movement would gain people having all sorts of skills—strongly forged cadres.

We could not restrain Bandung any longer. A fine school building with a large garden and playing area had been provided by a wealthy member of Sarekat Islam. We had to mobilize all our teachers to set up the second Sekolah Rakyat, with between two and three hundred pupils, in Bandung.³¹

I was not able personally to witness the progress made. But according to reports I received after I was exiled, Sekolah Rakyat sprang up like mushrooms in the rainy season. (When Sarekat Islam Semarang became Sarekat Rakyat, the schools also changed their names.)³² Wherever the Semarang pupils attended mass meetings a school would be established on the Semarang model. The pupils with their red trousers and their Internationale were like the pied piper of Hamelin, whose pipe attracted all animals to follow him wherever he went. There were even pupils from Surabaya who followed their friends without asking permission of their parents.

An echo of our educational movement can be found in the Encyclopaedie van Nederlandsch Oost [sic] Indie VI (supplement), p. 534:

Everywhere Sekolah Rakyat were established on Tan Malaka’s model; and the youth work also included the formation of youth militias (Barisan Muda, Serikat Pemuda, Kepanduan)-all this being in accordance with the Comintern system. Wherever possible crash courses to train active propagandists were held. These people would form the warga rumekso (cadres) of the organization, initially in open meetings, and later in membership or restricted meetings. The (government) regulation on inspection of private native schools (Ind. Stsb 1923, No. 136 jo 374) was clearly incapable of eradicating this sort of propagandistic education. (See “Government Statement on Several Matters in the Public Interest, April 1924,” Appendix A, Koloniaal Verslag.)³³

[73] And in an interview given during the recent 1947 May Day celebration Alimin, who has seen revolutionary schools all over the world, felt obliged to acknowledge the Sekolah Rakyat, expressing his high regard for them.³⁴

I recall a conversation with the late Haji Busro, who was prominent in Sarekat Islam Semarang and was a resolute supporter of the educational movement.³⁵ He said to me: “Don’t speak at public meetings. Let other people do that for the time being. It’s best if you devote all your energies to education. After three or four years there will be people who can take your place if you get involved in politics and get exiled.” As usual he concluded the sentence with his characteristic “jo, rak?”³⁶

This is what I did at first. Indeed it was sound advice. But because there was a real shortage of people in all fields, I was forced to immerse myself in public meetings. Several friends urged me to go to Surabaya for a Sarekat Islam meeting.³⁷ The political atmosphere was still dominated by the conflict between Sarekat Islam and Semarang-ism (Islamism versus communism) that had caused the split. After some time among my friends in the struggle, I felt that the conflict was not based on concrete and precise economic and political differences. Furthermore, the manner in which the dispute was being carried on was only giving rise to mutual hatred. The result would obviously be to cripple both sides. Before I began to speak in Surabaya, the chairman warned me not to present any communist propaganda. When I referred to the alliance between Turkey and the Soviet Union against imperialism, I got another warning from the chair. However, the audience appeared not to have any objection to my continuing my speech on the importance in Indonesia of unity between Islam and communism against our common enemy. I had been given only five minutes in which to speak, but with five minutes of Semaun’s time and another five from another PKI comrade, I was able to squeeze out fifteen minutes.³⁸

The visit to Surabaya was very rewarding. Several Islamic leaders agreed to attend the PKI congress to be held in Semarang, at which we were again to discuss the question of cooperation between the Semarangists and Sarekat Islam.

[74] Now I was stepping onto the slippery ground of politics, and once your foot is on it, it is hard to pull back. One day, with no preliminaries, Semaun said suddenly: “I hope you’ll go to Cepu next Sunday. I have just returned from setting up the Serikat Buruh Pelikan Indonesia [Indonesian Miners Union]. I proposed that you should be the vice chairman, and they agreed.”³⁹

This was the beginning of my entry into the trade-union movement. There was such a shortage of people in all fields that even Busro could not deny it. After rumors here and there, suddenly and secretly Darsono left for Moscow. Not long after, following similar rumors, Semaun left for Moscow.⁴⁰ Our inadequate forces were even further depleted.

In such a situation of insufficient forces in all areas even our reserves had to be mobilized. It was not surprising that at the PKI congress in December 1921 (?) the leadership managed to bombardeer me into becoming the supplier of all the speeches.⁴¹ But what really did amaze me was that at the closed membership meeting which followed the public meeting, they were able again to bombardeer me into accepting the PKI chairmanship. I objected, but I was powerless in the face of unanimity and discipline. I had not only stepped onto the slippery field of politics; I was now sliding toward a ravine.

I recall that my most important speech at that congress was an analysis of the effect of divisions in our ranks, that is, between the Muslims and Communists, and how this related to the “divide and rule” policy of Dutch imperialism. Our past divisions, exploited through the ‘divide et Impera’ policy, had led us to the vale of colonization. Our present position as a colonized people resulted from divisions between Raja and Rakyat and among the Rajas themselves.⁴² If we deepened and accentuated the divisions between Islam and communism, we would only give our ever-watchful enemies the opportunity to exploit our internal hostilities and weaken the Indonesian nationalist movement. We should stress what we have in common and apply those common positions to concrete political and economic problems. Such was the thrust of my speech.

[75] The response from both Sarekat Islam and PKI members was better than I had hoped. But unfortunately Abdul Muis, the representative from the Central Sarekat Islam, arrived late and did not hear a word of my speech. Also, Haji Agus Salim, who had promised to be there, was not present. In a moment, though, the atmosphere of unity was sullied once more, for Abdul Muis began his speech by opening old wounds. To answer him, three representatives from Semarang—from Sarekat Islam Semarang and the PKI—spoke in turn. Tension rose, as it had before in Yogya and other places. Then Kiai Hadikusumo came forward as a mediator, even though he was a member of Sarekat Islam. By his demeanor as well as his word, he calmed the prevailing tension. The Kiai agreed strongly with the proposed unity and he considered those Muslims who did not agree to unity in the face of common enemies to have strayed from the path. He also agreed with the plan to hold another joint meeting to implement this unity.⁴³ (After I had left Indonesia, this meeting was in fact held. But then, in February 1923 at the congress of Central Sarekat Islam in Madiun, discipline was imposed and the Communists were expelled from Sarekat Islam.⁴⁴ It is indeed difficult in any organization to do away with emotion and to attain unity in the form of a single clear program.)

In January 1922, several days after the PKI congress in Semarang, a strike broke out among pawnshop employees. They asked for our assistance, which was given sincerely and to the fullest, as it should have been. As leaders of the Revolutionaire Vakcentrale (Revolutionary Trade Union Council),⁴⁵ which linked the VSTP and harbor and oil workers, we agreed that if the government, as the employer, did not rehire the strikers, all the workers united in the Vakcentrale would be mobilized in a supportive strike.⁴⁶

As the representative of the Vakcentrale I attended a meeting of the strikers in Yogyakarta and relayed that message on behalf of the workers under our leadership. At another meeting in Semarang, where I spoke to a variety of workers, the atmosphere was fiery. The railway laborers too were debating their own situation, and they supported the strike of their fellow workers in the pawnshop.⁴⁷

[76] For me things were looking very grim indeed, as I could see from the face of Haji Busro. My comrades in the struggle were whispering of what might happen to me. The inlander agents, who had not left my side since Semarang, increased in number and vigilance.⁴⁸ But I had considered all the possibilities before leaving for Semarang, and I was prepared to accept all the consequences of my actions. My fate would be consistent with my beliefs, words, and deeds, which I felt had not departed from the road of truth and honesty in any way. In such a situation, then, my motto was simply to submit to fate. As the old proverb says: it is the fate of a husk to float and of a stone to sink.⁴⁹

Here I want to make a light aside. In all my wanderings I have experienced many surprising events that could not have been anticipated. I shall mention some of these, so that people do not think that my views are based on insufficient experience. Not a few people believe that whoever visits Borobudur will suffer a misfortune, for instance having to leave Java.⁵⁰ And, in fact, on my way from Yogyakarta to Semarang I stopped at this famous temple. Similarly, last year, before I was arrested in Madiun, I visited the site.⁵¹ I shall leave it to the experts in superstition to relate these visits to my exile in March 1922 and my arrest in Madiun in March 1946. It is true that such strange occurrences are common in Indonesia. But for those who rely on rational explanations, I shall present only the facts regarding the struggle in which I was involved on those two occasions.