Soetan Sjahrir

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OUT OF EXILE

SOETAN SJAHRIR

Omf of Exile

The greater part of this book is based upon letters by Soetan Sjahrir rewrittefinnd edited in Dutch by . MARIA DUCHÂÎT/EAU-SJAHRIR , / . V . Translated, twiih an introduction, by CHARLES WOLF, JR.

An Asia Book

THE JOHN DAY COMPANY o N E W Y O R K »

* ■ ••‘ . r «- FAiv RUK. o COPYRIGHT, 1949, BY THE JOI-IN DAY COMPANY

Published on the same day in the Dominion of Canada by Longmans, Green and Company, Toronto.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FAK. HUK0M dan PENG. MASJ. \

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION BY CHARLES WOLF, JR. vii

GLOSSARY OF UNFAMILIAR NAMES Xxi

B O O K I: THOUGHT 1 r 1. Tjipinang

2. Intermezzo

3. Boven Digoel

4. Banda Neira

BOOK II: ACTION 217

cd „ ? „ Jj ?

INTRODUCTION

I. THE AUTHOR: n the summer of 1934, Soetan Sjahrir languished in a Java prison; a political “criminal” at twenty-five years of age. His “crime” had been the leadership of an or ganizationI that advocated widespread education for Indo nesians. Thirteen years later Sjahrir took a seat at the Se curity Council of the United Nations at Lake Success to present the case of the embattled Indonesian Republic against Dutch military action in Java and Sumatra. He came as the first representative of a “nonsovereign” colonial peo ple to proclaim his people s right to independence before the Council, and to ask that body s protection from colo nial domination so that his country might be free to work out its own destiny. Sjahrir’s presentation before the Council was eloquent and effective. It began with the story of a people and an area with a recorded history of more than one thousand years—a history that was singularly unfamiliar to the ears of his listeners. The islands of the Indies had their golden periods under the Shrivijaya and Shailendra empires before the tenth century, and finally under the empire of Madja- pahit in the fourteenth century stretching from Papua in the east through the Indonesian archipelago to Madagascar in the west. In the undefined rhythm of history, the politi cal and economic expansion of the West came at a period of decline in the formerly rich and powerful empire of the Indies. Portugal first extended its dominion over part of v i i I the archipelago, and in the seventeenth century the hardy Dutch seafarers came to oust their southern European pred ecessors, and to begin the process of systematically bring ing the islands under Netherlands rule. In Sjahrir’s words at Lake Success: In this process, my country lost its free dom . . . and fell from its ancient proud place to that of a weak dejected colony.” Sjahrir’s life and career have been devoted to regaining that freedom and to establishing conditions in Indonesia in which his country could revitalize its national pride and build a place for itself in the modem world. To secure these objectives, Sjahrir has long been an active figure in the In donesian nationalist movement. The nationalist movement had its informal beginning at the end of the nineteenth century under the intellectual leadership of the moderate Dr. Tjipto Mangoenkoesoemo (the “Dr. Soeribno” of Out of Exile) . Its organizational beginnings came in the first decade of this century with the formation of the Boedi Oetomo or High Endeavor” so ciety by the social reformer Soetomo. Throughout most of its history prior to World War II, Indonesian national ism was more or less unified in its longer-run objectives, but its leaders were widely divided as to the methods that they deemed advisable for attaining these objectives. There were the cooperators, like Thamrin and Tjipto, who believed in working with and often in the Netherlands In dies regime. There were also the non-cooperators who felt that collaboration with the colonial regime was impossible, and that nationalist policy must be directed against the colonial administration. Among the non-cooperative group, there were further divisions: the faction led by Soekamo favoring mass public opposition to Dutch rule; while the group organized by Harta and Sjahrir believed in education and thorough org?nization, gradually developing into mass expression. It was not until 1939 that this division within the nation- Vlll aliSt movement was partly resolved by a unification of the nationalist parties. With the proclamation of Indonesian independence by Soekarno and Hatta on August 17, 1945, the differing nationalist factions finally achieved a working unity behind the new republican government. It is, how ever, worth noting that while there has been unity during the past two and a half years, in support of the Indonesian Republican government and the maintenance of its au thority, there has been wide and vocal divergence on many of the policies of that government, particularly those that involved compromise and negotiation with the Netherlands. The strong Masjoe?jii (Islamic) and the Nationalist parties have particularly opposed many of the compromise policies for which Sjahrir has stood. As a guiding figure behind the Indonesian Revolution, Sjahrir has been one of the most moderate and undoctri naire revolutionists of modern times. President Achmed Soekarno has been the dominant rallying figure in the re publican revolution, but Sjahrir has been the architect of the new and struggling government’s policies, not only for the twenty months during which he was the Republic’s Prime Minister, but thereafter as its “ambassador at large” and its representative at Lake Success. It has been the alli ance between Soekarno and Sjahrir—the former contribut ing personal color and his command over public opinion, the latter contributing intellect and realistic shrewdness— that, to a large extent, has given the infant republic stability m the face of strong pressures, both internal and external. Sjahrir has a boyish and deceivingly ingenuous face, which makes him look younger than his thirty-nine years. With a full shock of coal-black hair and a friendly smile, the diminutive statesman has a tendency toward plumpness, which he tries to defeat by dancing, at which he is excel lent, and tennis, at which he is not so excellent. Reserved and quiet in manner, he is a man who is nearly always under estimated when met casually; and yet to know him well is

/ to know a keen, versatile, and sensitive mind. So sensitive is he, in fact, that when a Dutch Foreign Office representative recently asked him for a calendar decorated with the R e public’s motto, Merdeka (freedom), and jokingly stated, “If I hang this over my desk perhaps none of the Indonesian sweepers will take my pencils away,” Sjahrir avoided the diplomat for more than a month. Born in the Minangkabau region of Sumatra’s west coast on March 5, 1909, Sjahrir received his elementary and sec ondary education in Medan, Sumatra, and Bandoeng, Java, and thereafter went to Holland to study law at the Univer sity of Leyden. His stay in Holland affected him deeply, and he married a Dutch girl whom he was not to see for fourteen years following his internment in Indonesia. His study in Holland left him with a profound respect for Western education and culture, which is strongly presented in Out of Exile, and a devotion to the idea that he must use his life to help bring freedom to the people from whom his westernization had partially alienated him. This idea lived and grew, as he tells us in Out of Exile, throughout the whole time that he was imprisoned and exiled after return ing to Indonesia. After some socialistic and nationalistic activities in Hol land with the Perhimpoenan Indonesia or Indonesian Association, he returned to Indonesia in 1932 and joined the Pendidikan Nasional Indonesia (the “P.N.I.” referred to in Out of Exile) or Society for National Indonesian Educa tion. His original intention had been to return to Indonesia briefly to get readjusted to life there, and to work out his orientation toward the nationalist movement in the light of his Western education and affinities. He then intended to go back to Holland to complete his law degree at the Univer sity of Leyden and finally to bring his wife back to Indo nesia with him. Sjahrir had first intended returning to the land of his birth alone in order to organize and redirect his mixed feelings toward his people on the one hand, and to ward his wife and friends in Holland on the other. During x the two years away from Holland, he was continually trou bled by doubts concerning the course that his conscience had led him to take. In the meantime he had furthered the cause of the P.N.I. by advocating expanded educational facilities along Western lines for Indonesia. In February 1934, as he was on the point of returning to his wife in Holland, he was arrested and imprisoned in Tjipinang, Java. So inflexible was prewar Dutch colonial policy that after a year in prison a man of Sjahrir’s basically moderate and thoughtful nature—without even being specifically charged —was sent to internment in Boven Digoel, New Guinea, a camp that had been intended for hardened criminals and violent revolutionists. Sjahrir was sent to Boven Digoel in January 1935, along with Hatta and the other members of the P.N.I. He con tracted malaria in Digoel and endured its other physical and psychological rigors for over a year. In the early part of 1936 he and Hatta were removed to Banda Neira in the Moluccas, where they were to remain until just before the Japanese occupation of Indonesia in March 1942. Banda Neira was much less severe than Digoel. Sjahrir and Hatta no longer had a direct censorship of their mail. Their living conditions improved immeasurably, and they acquired a large degree of bodily freedom. They were not, of course, allowed to leave the Banda islands, or to engage in any political activity. They were thus still prisoners, but their prison had increased in size and comfort. It is remarkable but true that after eight long years of exile and imprisonment, Sjahrir acquired little bitterness or hatred toward the Dutch. Actually, while his exile con firmed and reinforced his already strong beliefs in Indo nesia’s right to independence and self-determination, the l°ng period only served to sharpen his tolerance and real ism. When Sjahrir eventually came to the helm of the Indonesian ship of state, his was always the side of modera tion and compromise within the framework of what was politically and economically practicable. Sjahrir’s attitude toward the coming of the Japanese had been foreshadowed seven years before in Out of Exile. Looking behind the submissive Easterner’s desire to assert himself against the Western domination under which the East had long labored—a desire that often expressed itself in pro-Japanese sentiment—Sjahrir recognized the Japanese brand of fascism and imperialism for what it was. As a foe of Western fascism and imperialism, he remained implacably opposed to these same forces in the East. Those of his people who, as he recounts in Out of Exile, had cherished other impressions of the Japanese later found out their mis take as they sweated, toiled, and died under four years of a Japanese overlordship that was more ruthless than any thing they had previously undergone. Throughout the occupation Sjahrir remained opposed to the Japanese. Leaving Banda Neira on January 31, 1942, with his three adopted children, Sjahrir was sent to Soeka- moemi in west Java. With the fall of the islands, he went to a mountain retreat in near-by Tjipanas. Here he began the task of organizing and directing a resistance under ground that operated all over Java during the occupation. Managing to keep a few steps ahead of the Kempeitai (se cret police), who thought he had retired to the mountains because of ill health, Sjahrir came under direct suspicion only toward the end of the war. His co-worker Sjarifoeddin only narrowly escaped death at the hands of the Japanese ' for resistance activities. During the early part of the occupation Sjahrir’s time was mainly occupied in traveling throughout Java to build up and cement the resistance organization. His contact with the collaborating nationalists in Batavia was thus irregular and clandestine. It was not until after the Japanese surren der that the nationalist underground under Sjahrir’s leader ship linked its forces to those of Soekamo and Hatta. When Soekarno and Hatta proclaimed Indonesia’s independence -after Sjahrir’s repeated urging-and set up the republi can government, he rallied to the common cause. W ith xii Soekamo and Hatta as president and vice-president re spectively, Sjahrir was chosen chairman of the influential Working Committee of the new Central National Indone sian Committee, or Parliament (Komite Nasional Indonesia Poesat). On November 13, 1945, he was appointed prime minister, a position that he held—except for a one-month hiatus during 1946—until June 27, 1947. During this time Sjahrir also held the portfolio of For eign Minister in his own cabinet, and conducted all diplo matic relations and negotiations with the Netherlands and other foreign governments as well. As a diplomat he has been shrewd and farsighted rather than aggressive. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that Sjahrir’s shrewdness, sincerity, and restraint—more than those of any other man, with the possible exception of the Dutch acting governor general, FI. J. van Moolc, until his point of view underwent a substantial alteration—were responsible for the formulation and signature of the Linggadjati Agreement of March 25, 1947, which set up a blueprint for co-operation between the Netherlands and republican governments in forming a United States of Indonesia. The subsequent outbreak of large-scale military action in Indonesia four months after the signing of Linggadjati were due to factors beyond the control of the “Little Boeng” (or brother), as Sjahrir is often spoken of in Indonesia. As Prime Minister and Foreign Minister of the Republic during the tedious negotiations with the Dutch, Sjahrir not only earned the admiration and respect of large groups within the Dutch camp, but he also won the open diplo matic support for the Republic of Australia, India, and the Arab League. Moreover, at the New Delhi Inter-Asian Conference in late March 1947, Sjahrir laid the groundwork for an active Indonesian role in th£ future of southeast Asia. However, while he was strengthening the Republic’s posi tion abroad, his own political position at home was weak ened. It was, in fact, to support Sjahrir’s internal position that the United States government presented an aide- xiii Tnemo'vre to the Republic on June 27, 1947, urging the for mation of an interim government along the lines suggested by the Dutch and partly agreed to by Sjahrir, and promis ing the consideration of American financial aid once the interim government had been set up. The note arrived one day too late. Sjahrir had already handed in his resignation in response to strong opposition from both leftist and rightist groups within the govern ment, which felt that he had gone too far in conceding to the Dutch on the point of having the Crown’s representa tive as the titular head of the proposed interim government. As a point of fact, within nineteen hours of Sjahrir’s resig nation the leftist group (Sajap Kiri) reversed itself and an nounced that it would support his policies and seek to reinstate him. In the light of the American note and the unprecedented leftist reversal, President Soekarno called upon Sjahrir to form a new cabinet and to return to office. Sjahrir declined. Nevertheless, with the support of the American note and of the leftists, Sjahrir felt that there was almost no possibil ity of peaceful compromise as relations with the Dutch then stood, and that under the circumstances, hostilities might be postponed but were nevertheless inevitable. That there was a political stratagem in his refusal to return is quite probable. If hostilities were to break out, Sjahrir was not the man to lead the Republic. In the course of hostilities that were almost certain to go against the Republic at the start, Sjahrir’s long record as a compromiser might have been a psychological liability, and even might have led to internal political disaffection. His possible service as an in ternational ambassador to plead the Indonesian case before the world would, on the other hand, unquestionably be a great asset to the Republic, in case it was needed. By decree of President Soekarno on June 30, Sjahrir was made “spe cial adviser to the government” and his use in this capacity was foreshadowed. Three days later, Amir Sjarifoeddin—formerly co-leader of the Socialist party with Sjahrir—was appointed Prime xiv Minister, at the head of a coalition government that con tinued Sjahrir’s policies almost to the letter during the next eighteen days, after which came the outbreak of Dutch “police action” in Java, Sumatra, and Madura. Immediately after the Dutch action of July 21, Sjahrir left the Republi can capital, Djokjakarta, by plane as a sort of world emis sary to present the Indonesian case abroad, and eventually to appear at Lake Success. ■ Sjahrir’s own statements upon his arrival in India indi cated that his moderate views on compromise with the Dutch had altered. He spoke, instead, of Indonesia “fight ing to the last man” in the struggle against Dutch attempts to restore colonialism. Aside from the political and psycho logical reasons for these statements, there is no doubt that his personal viewpoint had stiffened. Throughout the twenty-month negotiations that he had led, Sjahrir clung to the belief that he could compromise with the Dutch without compromising the basic tenets of the Indonesian Revolution, and that he could concede details without mak ing any concessions to the restoration of colonialism. From Sjahrir’s point of view, Dutch action had—tempo rarily, at least—made it impossible to compromise any further without compromising the principles of the nation alist movement for which he stood. Though a moderate, Sjahrir had decided that moderation was impossible in an atmosphere of force. His public testimony before the Se curity Council in August 1947 clearly indicated this change in his viewpoint. At the beginning of 1948, Hatta became Prime Minister and Sjahrir split decisively with Sjarifoeddin over the latter’s Communist leanings. Continuing in his position as spe cial adviser to the Republic, Sjahrir organized a new party, the Partai Sosialis bidonesia, on the platform of a third force in Southern Asia—independent of both Soviet Com munism and Western colonialism. Sjahrir and the P.S.I. currently represent the core of the non-Communist left in Indonesia: The political situation in Indonesia is still fluid. When xv Sjarifoeddin joined the Communists in attempting to over throw the Republic during mid-September 1948, Premier Hatta—supported by the Moslem and Nationalist Parties, as well as Sjahrir’s P.S.I.—moved aggressively against the insurgents. Within six weeks, the Republican army crushed the revolt, captured or killed its leaders, and forced the re maining guerrillas to flee to the East Java hills. Elimination of the immediate Communist threat led to a brief resumption of negotiations between the Dutch For eign Minister and Premier Hatta. After a promising begin ning the discussions were summarily broken off by decision of the Netherlands Cabinet on December 5 th. Two weeks later, Dutch armed forces renewed their police action, in direct defiance of the Renville Agreement and the United Nations Good Offices Committee. Jokjakarta was occupied. Soekamo, Hatta, Sjahrir, and the Republic’s Foreign Min ister, Agoes Salim, were taken in custody as they prepared to leave for India. Profoundly shocked at this flagrant resort to force by one of the most respected of European democ racies, the United Nations contemplated direct punitive action against the Netherlands with uncertainty and in decision. Sympathy for the Republic was abundant and in tense, but as the year drew to a close, prospects for decisive action in support of the embattled nationalists were dim indeed. Sjahrir’s contributions to the Republic’s survival thus far have been subtle and unique. He negotiated with the best brains in the Dutch Foreign Office and secured terms fa' vorable to the Republic before the outbreak of hostilities' He won foreign friends and support for the Republic and when hostilities began, he effectively represented the R e public at Lake Success, utilizing to the fullest the foreim support that he had built up. Since then, he has played an important if unpublicized role behind the scenes, helping- to determine Republican policy at home and abroad. „ - n l t0- w?atrhis COI}tributions to Indonesian nationalism n ! 1Uc i e.fUt" re’ 1C ls hard t0 say- S;ahrir is an idealist, as Out of Exile clearly shows. As long as he feels he can xvi materially and appreciably advance the cause of independ ence, his position in the Republic is sure to be a prominent one. When he begins to feel that the cause is well on its way to fulfillment, it is likely that he will turn from politics to study and writing. It may well be some time before he will feel free to pursue the study in which he is even more vitally interested than politics.

II. TH E BOOK

The intellectual gap between the West and the East has been appalling. One of the major reasons for this has been the lack of individual thinkers truly competent to compare, analyze, and interpret both Eastern and Western culture accordingc? to the values of both the East and the West. We have had books on the East by Westerners, and books on the West by Easterners, but we have had too few people equally familiar with both cultures to appraise and,, write convincingly about each of them. Soetan Sjahrir is one of these few, and Out of Exile is an unconscious step, how ever small, toward the spanning of that gap. The first part of Out of Exile was based on letters writ ten by Sjahrir to his wife in Holland without any intention of publication. During the war, Mrs. Sjahrir revised and edited the letters, publishing them in 1945 under the pen name Sjahrazad.* The name was derived from a combina tion of Sjahrir and Azad, a name that had often been used in Sjahrir’s family. Covering the first half of his exile from 1934 to 1938, the letters are set first in Tjipinang, then in Boven Digoel, and finally at Banda Neira. In a larger sense, however, this part of the book is not set in any local context of place. In his analysis of the attributes and failings of the rational ism and science of the West and'the fatalism and mysticism of the East, Sjahrir speaks to us not as an exile in Digoel or Neira, but as an intellectual cosmopolitan who is inti mately familiar with the mainsprings of both West and

# Indonesische Overpeinzingen, Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, 1945. xvii "East. The so-called “Eastern spirit” is analyzed by Sjahrir as a response to an unbearable life, as an adaptation to the feudal yoke of slavery that the East has not yet throwS" off. He nevertheless recognizes that “the tolerance and endur ance” that have resulted from this adaptation are “indeed real attributes, and in a certain sense one can truly say that the slave has cultivated the art of life . . . more fully than the master.” What he is groping for is a new synthesis of values. His gropings are clear in Out of Exile. The synthesis is more vague. During his exile Sjahrir read and reread the Bible, Nie tzsche, Kant, Marx, Croce, Goethe, Dante, Mill, Ter Braak, Ortega y Gasset, De Kadt, Freud, Russell, and literally everything else he could lay his hands on. As his study and thinking progressed, he became more and more convinced of the East’s growing need for Western science and ration alism and its declining need for the mysticism and resigna tion that had served to make life’s tribulations bearable to its poverty-ridden people. It is interesting to note that not a few Western intellectuals, such as Huxley and Auden, have come to just the opposite conclusions in satirizing science’s brave new world, and calling for an interpenetration of Oriental mysticism into the excessive refinements of West ern superrationalism. Again, in his discussion of the importance of and relation ship between the Spanish crisis of 1936 and the Sino- Japanese conflict, Sjahrir’s analysis is global rather than local in scope, and at times even clairvoyant. As early as March 1938 he wrote: “For a long time now, I have not believed in the possibility of a separate solution of the Span ish or the Pacific crises. They will both find their solution only in a general world-wide crisis. It is only a question of time as to when . . . the world conflict will break out. The time itself will depend on . . . whether Herr Hitler feels the need for another breathing space after his latest suc cesses. Personally, I fear that he no longer considers such a need to exist. . . [and] the eruption stands immediately before us.” xviii i Sjahrir s discussions of prewar colonial society and its psychological implications are of interest to the layman as well as to the sociologist. Colonial society in the Indies, which, as Sjahrir observes, was already undergoing marked changes in the thirties, was formerly a potpourri of mixed races, cliques, pyramidal discrimination, and social barriers. At the top of the pyramid were the Dutch or European white tuan besar, then the “Indos” or Eurasians, then the Chinese, and finally the Indonesians. The Indos felt them selves superior to the Chinese, the Chinese felt themselves superior to the Indos, the tuan besar felt themselves supe rior to both, and all three felt themselves superior to the Indonesians. In turn the Indonesian nationalists—die non co-operators, at least—reviled the Indos, ignored the Chi nese, and opposed the tuan besar. Miscegenation was widespread, and yet color and racial barriers were evident in social clubs, theaters, public swim ming pools, and restaurants. As Sjahrir points out, “the abnormality of colonial society derives mainly from the pe culiar psychic relationships and attitudes that characterize it,” but even at that time he realized that this abnormality was “slowly disappearing.” Sjahrir himself was never sym pathetic toward the non-co-operative nationalist idea, because while he realized its suitable use as a tactic in advanc ing the nationalist movement, he felt that it was essentially negative in approach. “I have never been a non-co-opera tive at heart,” he tells us in Out of Exile, “as a consequence of the fact that I have felt [non-co-operation] too bitter, too narrow . . . [and too much] a projection of the inferi ority complex that springs from the colonial relationship of subject and ruling race. . . . It could therefore never furnish a positive ideal . . . or a philosophy.” On the other hand, he is fully aware that for any real co-operation to succeed in Indonesia, it must be predicated on a “moral revolution” that eliminates both “coarse arro gance” on one side and “hypersensitivity and inferiority complex” on the other. Sjahrir admitted that this process had already been begun even before his internment. How- x ix ever, he foresaw that under the influence of both internal and international pressures it must be vastly accelerated. At the end of the first part of Out of Exile he wrote in 1938, “All this shall happen. The question is only whether it will take place regularly and according to plan, or suddenly as a surprise and an eruption.” The first part of the work is often discursive and discon tinuous. These limitations follow from the book’s epistolary background. The letters themselves are alternately light and deep, adolescent and mature, cursory and analytical. Throughout the book there is a growing sense of the des tiny of an awakening East. There is none of the morbid melancholy that might be expected of letters written over a four-year span of isolation; instead there is a buoyant touch of philosophic optimism. Sjahrir’s letters bring us into contact with a broad and resilient mind, and with the thousand and one stimulating mental experiences of the author, released from the physical confinement of his cell by the soaring freedom of his thoughts. They tell the four- year story of a personality that has, perhaps, grown as much since the book was written as while it was written. It is certainly true that the Sjahrir of 1947 is not precisely the same man as the Sjahrir of the early thirties. The second part of the book reflects some of this change. Written by Sjahrir in 1947, Part II recounts the sequence of events in Indonesia after the outbreak of war in Europe. Where Part I was speculative, Part II is pragmatic and realistic. The Sjahrir of the present tempers ideals with Realpolitik. His account of the Japanese occupation and of the activities of the resistance group that he headed are a far cry from some of the youthful idealism of the earlier letters. The spark of idealism, however, has never been lost. Out of Exile re veals Sjahrir s mind as one that takes life’s problems and competing values seriously, but that never takes itself so seriously as to lose the flavor of imagination and wit.

C h a r l e s W o l f , J r . Allston, Mass. December 23, 1948 XX ' GLOSSARY OF UNFAMILIAR NAMES USED IN THE TEXT

Blankenstein, van: a liberal Dutch journalist, who had writ ten an account of conditions in Digoel before Sjahrir was sent there. C olijn : A long-time Minister of Colonies in the Dutch gov ernment until the midthirties, who was strongly disliked by the nationalists for his policies. H afil: Mohammed Hatta, the vice-president and third prime minister of the Indonesian Republic, who was imprisoned with Sjahrir at Tjipinang, Digoel, and Neira. Hart: The prewar Director of Economic Affairs of the Netherlands Indies government, who was popular among the nationalists for his progressive ideas. Huizinga: A well-known Dutch historian and social philos opher whose writings are still highly regarded in Holland. de Jonge: The governor general before Starkenborgh. Kaja-Kaja: A primitive tribe of western New Guinea. K.P.M.: The Royal Navigation Steamship Company (Kon- inklijke Paketvaart Maatschappij), which had a monopoly of shipping within the waters of the archipelago, in return for which it provided a service to out-of-the-way and un profitable stations where there were government or mili tary posts. Mussert: Leader of the Dutch Nazi's in Holland. Parindra: The largest co-operative party among the prewar Indonesian nationalists. (Partai Indonesia Raya.) Partindo: A nationalist party that Soekarno led in the early thirties. x x i P.K.I.: The Partai Komunis Indonesia or Indonesian Commu nist party, which organized a revolt in the Indies in 1927, before it was outlawed and forced underground. Rachman, Abdul: Soekamo, first president of the Republic and long-time nationalist leader. Soeribno: Dr. Tjipto Mangoenkoesoemo, one of the first nine teenth-century Indonesian nationalists, who was already in exile in Neira when Sjahrir and Hatta were sent there. Starkenborgh, van: Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer, the Dutch governor general from 1936 until 1942. Starken borgh remained in the Indies during the Japanese occupa tion, and was interned for the duration. He is now the Dutch ambassador to France. Tham rin: The leading nationalist in the Volksraad or National Advisory Council. He was generally considered the most able Indonesian parliamentarian before the war, and died ' shortly before the Japanese invasion. W e lte r: Colijn’s successor as Minister of Colonies in 1937. After coming into office, the reputation he acquired among the nationalists proved to be second only to Colijn’s own. Book One THOUGHT

TJIPINANG

MARCH 29, 1934 h a v e now been behind bars for a whole month, but I still haven’t the least idea why I have actually been I placed here. At the time of my arrest I could get no information except that it had something to do with the i P.N.I., or Pendidikan Nasional Indonesia, but precisely 'what is at present still a mystery to me. This is naturally only an incidental point (although it is possible that in Holland one would not find it so inciden tal), and it is not unlikely that someday they may tell me. In any case I must be prepared for a long siege before that time. Evidently that is the custom in such political matters, and I have just about resigned myself to it. As a “native I do not have any rights to assert; and in such cases there remains to support your morale only the famed Oriental trilogy: “modesty,” “resignation,” and “patience.” This last month has nevertheless passed rather quickly for me. Things are not really bad here, and I have a rather large cell with a garden, although the garden is like me— behind bars. If the bars were not there, I could perhaps imagine that I was not a prisoner, but they represent, as it were, a materialization of the concept of force. As a result, you can never shake off the feeling of imprisonment and of the strong psychological effect that this feeling evokes. Fundamentally, it sharpens your consciousness of freedom and makes it impossible for you to reconcile yourself to the circumstances. Still the isolation does me good. Since I have been back from Europe I have never had the chance to think as clearly and as fully as now. Djon’s mother sends me food every day, so in that respect as well I have nothing to complain about. Sometimes it seems as though I have lost completely any idea of time. I have already read a few novels, and I have refreshed my adolescent recollections of the Bible by going through it thoroughly. I have wanted to do that for a long time, but something always seemed to prevent it. A thorough perusal of the Bible is certainly no small matter, and for ten days I have been busy with it for hours at a time. At present I have begun reading a work on world literature.

APRIL 20,1934 Today I wrote my brother in Holland that he ought to stay there if it is at all possible, even if his income seems to be insufficient. The main thing is that by so doing he can have the opportunity to make Western knowledge and cul ture his own. In three months there he can learn to under stand more of European society than he could here from all the schoolbooks on the subject thatjie might study dur ing ten years’ time. At least, that will be the case if he uses his eyes and keeps his mind open. The latter is especially important because so many of us come to Europe with the fixed idea of condemning every thing Western, and in most cases the preconceived idea proves to be successful. A short while ago I spoke with a man, a doctor of law, whose four years of study in Holland had only helped to increase his prejudices, his antipathy, and even his fanatical hatred toward everything Western and European. This attitude is certainly deplorable, for only by direct contact with Western society itself is it pos sible to understand all the culture that that society has pro duced and nourished. One then appreciates the disciplined thinking and the rationalism that are the indispensable prerequisites for un raveling and understanding the more complicated and di versified society itself. When I was in London for the first time I actually felt as though I were a cannibal. Such a tempo, such technique, and such human capacity! In one moment of direct experience the sense of science becomes clear, but without direct contact it would simply be im possible to understand. I therefore believe that the lack of scientific living and real interest among our intellectuals here in Indonesia is not to be attributed to a lack of capacity or of character, or to moral emptiness, but rather to the presence of an insuffi cient measure of the necessary stimuli in our [present day] so much simpler community. With most of our “degree holders” (I use these words instead of “intellectuals” be cause here indeed the criterion is not so much intellectual activity as it is schooling and diplomas), the concept of science remains merely a superficial thing with no deep conviction or understanding. For them science remains a dead thing, not a living dynamic entity that must be con tinually nourished and cared for. It is not their fault, par ticularly if they have not had the opportunity to make contact with that science as a living concept in Europe itself.

3 However, I know by experience that efficacious study ing is not so easy for us in Holland. The climate and the social life there can be very enervating for us. Living be hind walls in damp rooms, the restlessness of society— everything has a greater effect upon us because it is new and different. There have been many very talented students among the Indonesians who have failed only because they were not equal to the challenge, and who wasted all their energy in restlessness and even wasted their bodies away as a result. I indicated all this to my brother, and I told him that, in a proper sense, study is simultaneously character-forming, provided that the study is combined with self-control and self-discipline. I also advised him to pay close attention to the cultural life in Europe, and particularly to the litera ture, since in addition to providing him with a better in sight into the life and intellectual world of the Westerner, it will also open his eyes to the problems of Western life and to the diversity and complexity of that pattern of life in general. It will also enable him to understand social and political problems more easily, and to be more interested in them. At the same time I have written M. to help him as much as possible in this direction. It is not strange that he will need such advice, for actu ally even our top intellectuals are still, in these matters, analphabetists. We do not really “read,” except for some literature in specialized fields, as well as our newspapers and perhaps some additional light material. In Hafil’s whole library there is only one novel—for which he actually apol ogizes, mind you, with the comment that he received it as a present; and Hafil belongs undoubtedly to our most Euro peanized intellectuals. Nothing more can really be said for our own literature. There are no intellectuals in this coun- f 4 try who write, and hence there is no literature, neither in Malay nor in any of the other local languages. There is, of course, writing, and even in substantial quan tity, and there is an Institute of Popular Reading (Instituut voor Volkslectuur), which circulates books for the masses, largely translations, but some originals as well. In any case, that is still not literature. We have come only to the point where we write some stories in Indonesia, and the excep tions to this general rule remain few and far between. We are, in fact, for the most part, totally ignorant of, and pay no attention to, European or world literature, and that is why, for example, there is not yet any real attention given to the attempts of a few young nationalists to master the belles-lettres, although their efforts are sometimes publi cized as a sort of renaissance. In reality, our cultural level is still too low for a real renaissance. There is no thought, no form, no sound, and what is worse, there is not yet enough earnestness and in tegrity among us. There is still only unsavory counterfeit, which is published with great fuss, but which still has little merit. Without an evolving literature, there is also no avowal of life’s major problems, and as a result there is again a lack of real knowledge of life among us. A boy of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years in Europe, who has graduated from high school, knows sometimes more about life than our Indonesian intellectuals and scholars.

MAY 25,1934 Sometimes one suffers more from the real or fancied suf fering of others than from one’s own. In a certain sense this is understandable because one’s thoughts and feelings are, in such a case, concentrated exclusively on the suffer ing qua suffering, or let us say on the “absolute” suffering

5 of those concerned, so that one experiences an extreme in tensity in the suffering, which in reality does not exist. Not only are the proportions aggrandized in one’s mind, but one tends to idealize the suffering until it becomes a completely different thing from what it truly is. This is really the case with me, too. I am not in the least conscious of being a martyr, and the intense suffering that others attribute to me and that makes them suffer merely by thinldng about it does not exist, for me, at all. For as far as suffering is concerned, I feel cares only for what I have left behind, and so heavily does this weigh upon me that from the standpoint of providing a relief from suffering, the letter that I received this morning from home meant more for my mental condition than my actually being set free. Martyrdom is, I think, for most people not a concept, but rather a momentary emotion. Sometimes it calls forth a romantic reaction and sometimes a mystic religious reac tion, but it becomes an actual concept only when you experience the situation yourself, and that experience now lies outside the everyday life of most men. Thus it becomes a subject for fantasy and myth. Nevertheless, modem scien tific methods made it possible to understand and appreciate the spiritual and psychological make-up of a martyr. That he is an extraordinary and heroic person is merely what the romances have made of him. In reality, he still remains the same after his martyrdom as he was before: an ordinary man with the same great potentialities of all other normal human beings. Conditions and relationships, both internal and external, but with the emphasis on the external, deter mine his spiritual and psychic outlook, make-up, and final heroism. His martrydom is thus a composite of these fac tors, and he turns out, upon analysis, to be a normal man, whom abnormal circumstances make into a more-than- 6 normal man. From this point of view, the fanaticism of heroism and martyrdom becomes merely romantic and irrational. Any human being, given certain circumstances and rela tionships, can be a hero and a martyr. History, in fact, shows that even the mass, with its conglomeration of un educated individuals, can act collectively with heroism and martyrdom. There is no reason why we should regard the thousands of people who were crucified, burned at the stake, broken at the wheel, or tortured for their beliefs as extraordinary people. In fact, I am convinced that the ordinary human being of today, whose weak nerves and softness is so generally deplored, would have acted pre cisely the same way under the same circumstances. I know quite well that modem men are apparently much more impressed by such happenings of the past, and I have my self seen people faint when they saw something of the sort in a moving picture. But really that doesn’t mean very much because the screen is merely an imaginary drama, and the imagination of the observer plays tricks upon him. The swooning woman or man would actually be capable of quite different reactions if he or she were one of the players in a real-life drama instead of being merely an observer. The particular circumstances and relationships that pro duce the phenomenon of martyrdom exert a strong pressure in a social and psychological sense. For ordinary men, this pressure acts as the most extreme intensification of life, forcing all the negative, futile, and trivial whims and de sires, which are precisely the most important constituents of everyday life, into the background, and bringing the great potentialities of the individual into sharp relief in the foreground. This “psychic” pressure is to be compared with, the mobilization and concentration of all one’s physi

7 cal powers in a last jump, and at such times the goal of life and the meaning of life seem to stand directly in front of the doer s eyes. Bodily pain is subordinated in such a mo ment of psychic tension, and in fact even increases the tension itself, for physical pain is, finally, also a psychic experience. For myself, I do not feel at all like a martyr, probably because I am not living in a lions’ den or anything like it, but in a modern prison in which everything helps to pre vent you from losing your objectivity. Thus far I have been fortunate not to have had any inclination to go off on a romantic tangent by dramatizing my predicament. I think that we mislead ourselves when we place too much emphasis on self-sacrifice or martyrdom, as for ex ample in the case of Christ’s crucifixion. Primarily this emphasis has the result of making us waste valuable min utes, hours, and days in sentimentality, with a neglect of the simple reality that in our time and in our pattern of life it is usually impossible to make one’s contribution to pos terity in this way. It is true that such moments of martyr dom are elevating and can be purgative and inspiring for humanity as a whole, but if one conscientiously directs and patterns one’s life according to the values of such moments then one becomes either a passive, sentimental vaut rien or a Don Quixote, if one calls imagination to one’s aid Of course, there is more to be said for Don Quixote than for a sentimental vaut rien, but in any case Don Quixote is cer tainly not a Christ, and judged by our modem standards he is to be censured for his lack of realism and his waste of energy. If we wish to have a true idea of the word martyrdom then we would do better to look for another and more contemporaneous type, the type that one finds at the helm 8 of' all peoples’ governments in this time (for example, the Gandhi type): the type that is animated by a disposition toward objectivity, by a will to dissociate consciously all personal emotions from the contemplation of the object itself, and by a subordination of death and other things that otherwise evoke a romantic tinge to the attitude of objec tivity. This requires spiritual self-control and self-discipline, which are learned only by a maximum of diligence and by insight into humanity and into the object contemplated itself.

JUNE 24,1934 I consider myself fortunate that Soelaiman is here in Java with me. He has done a lot for me of his own accord, and there is no one else who would have had the inclination to help me as he has. Everyone else is rather afraid to inquire about me, much more so to visit me, and they remain at a safe distance in order to avoid trouble, suspicion, or some thing worse. Actually it is just another indication of our timidity toward everyone who is somehow involved with the government and its legal processes. This timidity is really much less apparent than it used to be, but it never theless remains, even among the most sophisticated Indo nesians. What a difference compared to the attitude of the ordi nary people of Holland! But even their attitude has not always been so. Under the Napoleonic regime or under Philip II the same feeling of fear and timidity prevailed in Holland as one now finds among us in Indonesia, as well as among the Indians in British India. At any rate I am thankful that°Soelaiman is here with me, since he has been brought up in Europe and therefore has no comprehension of this timidity, or, in fact, of the

9 differences between things here and in Holland in matters of this sort. It is not impossible in the meantime that this difference will soon be made clear to him from many sides, and that he will then be deterred from giving me so much attention. Thanks to his efforts, however, I have thus far been able to get books from the museum library in Batavia. That the museum can give me books pleases me and shows plainly the political neutrality of academic institutions— even of government-subsidized academic institutions. The only difficulty now concerning the books is that contact with Soelaiman remains slow, since it all naturally has to pass through the censor, and when I write him it takes at least a week before he receives my letters and an other week before I can expept an answer.

JULY 6,1934 / v / I notice that I have^a^isciously become accustomed to thinking as little as possible within a context of time. In fact, I sometimes have trouble in remembering whether a visitor has been here the same day or several weeks ago. This is due probably to the fact that so little has happened, and that the various periods of time are so empty and void, as it were, that you can hardly distinguish between them. For example, it seems to me that Egon visited me here three weeks ago at the latest, but in reality it has been al most three months ago. And the visit of Djon’s parents with their youngest child three weeks ago is so fresh in my mem ory that it seems as though it were only yesterday. I think furthermore that there is still another cause of this lack of realization or appreciation of time: the fact that my term of imprisonment has not been fixed. I think that all the other prisoners here, and there are more than one thousand, know precisely what day and 10 k at date it is. They simply figure from day to day and Il° 'v exactly how many months and how many days they from the day of their release. I have read about this enomenon often, and it must appear to them that time is ^*erely passing slowly, because they still only have that one y lri their minds: the day that represents the terminus of eif sentence and that alone separates them from freedom. e concept of time is thus dominant in their thinking. The Uration of time is for them a special reality that they are Particularly conscious of, and that they measure and calcu- ate bit by bit. I think that there are probably many who eaVe the prison far better mathematicians than they were "^hen they entered! . -None of this, of course, applies to me, since everything ls 3s indefinite as possible in my case. For me, time has a Planing only in so far as it tells me that I have now been 111 Prison so long, or in connection with the few happenings t*lat I experience, including the receiving of visits, letters, and books. My whole conception of time is governed by fhese happenings, and consequently the less often they take place, the less notion I have of time. My interest is wholly fixed on what happened; that is, on the event itself. I have thus learned that time is tied to the thinking sub ject and is more or less dependent on him; and that it is merely a thought form [denk vonn\, which has no existence apart from the thinker. Actually, one ought to say that a period of time is long whenever a great deal happens during that time, but there is also a psychological factor that must be considered, as in the case of my fellow pris oners. Actually, no more happens to them than to me, but their psychic state is fixed on time to such an extent—as, for example, is the case in waiting—that even uneventful time 11 appears to be endless to them, since it is a purely subjective time. My concept of time, due to the indefiniteness of the duration of my stay here, is more like the objective concept of time. In other words, at the moment, I seem to have no interest in time, and the few events, which act, as it were, as milestones in my thoughts, only serve to lead me further astray, because of their tendency to condense broad time gaps. If I were to concentrate on it, then of course it might be quite different, because I know that they do not usually hold one without proceedings for more than a year, and probably our case will be handled in the second half of the year. However, the unique part of the whole thing is just that I do not know what the case is all about, so that I can not possibly make any appraisal concerning the contents of the proceedings themselves. Naturally I can make a guess, and perhaps the guess will be correct. In fact, there is more likelihood that the guess will be correct the longer the pres ent situation continues, since the longer it does, the more it seems to indicate that the case will not be treated as a legal matter, but simply as a so-called “administrative” matter. But because this could be only a vague supposition, par ticularly in the beginning, I have simply set it aside in my mind and kept myself occupied with. otVier things: with my family, with everything that I had to leave behind, and above all, recently, with study. I can now see the whole field that I must still study, and it is very large. It is not that I have the conviction that all this knowledge will be necessary m practice, but rather that I have an in creasingly strong feeling that the world is presently gov erned by words. To me, all this fashionable glib wisdom that currently provides the keynote of power is only quasi 12 knowledge and pseudo knowledge conscripted into the service of politics and propaganda. It is, moreover, not difficult to find in this new and modem wisdom platitudes and long outdated axioms. As an end result of mass produc tion and of overstandardization, the spiritual level of the facile slogan has been glorified to meet the needs of the new wisdom of emotionalism, of antirationalism, of fanatical irrationalism, and of conscious emphasis on race, blood, and state. I have little faith in what is called “knowledge” in the area of the social sciences. Scientific deviations, not only in Germany but everywhere, are so suspiciously parallel to political deviations that they can be regarded only with grave mistrust. That is my problem at the moment: the former reliable and tested intellectual and scientific guides have become untrustworthy.

JU LY 22, 1934 A consuming, deep emotion, a real happiness, is never exclusive. One wishes to communicate it to others, and one becomes generous with it toward others. It is for this reason, I believe, that in the long run the highest attain- •* able personal happiness coincides with the general happi ness and well-being of humanity. I believe, furthermore, that this is why pessimists, cynics, and egoists are really unhappy men—men who simply do not know how to make life yield the highest and fullest richness and beauty. They may dazzle us with the acuteness of their intellects, or with the brilliant success of their work, but their satisfaction, or happiness if you will, is never complete. It is, at best, only one-sided and partial. On the other hand, the philosophy that gives emotion and beauty a vital place in life is something quite different

*3 from what is currently called emotionalism, volition, intui tion, and Bergsonism. These are not philosophies, but rather only doctrines of rationalized emotion and will, which in fact refine and rationalize the emotional core out o f the emotion, so that it no longer is emotional. Such trans position and confusion of mind and feeling really amount only to self-deception, and in the final analysis come to naught. It seems, furthermore, that the practice and appli cation of such doctrines yield only the dry fruits of catch words for the masses: activism, biologism, elan vital, and Gleichschaltung. This deception is to be compared only with the current exaltation and apotheosis of superficiality and mediocrity, and with the disguise of ignorance and impotence behind the mask of antirationalism. In reality, it is another example of the rule of Babbitt. It is also worth mentioning that Babbitt is not specifically an American phenomenon, but rather the archetype of man in our time, at least in so far as Babbitt represents the narrow one-track mind of the pro fessional “expert” of modem society: the specialized “expert” whose vocabulary consists only of technical terms and catchwords, of those mottos and platitudes for the common man that the press and radio spread so widely. This spiritual side of the division of labor and of special ization is a problem in itself, and a problem of real magni tude. Even in the so-called intellectual life everything is diluted, split up, and compartmentalized. There is this specialization in the technical, medical, and social sciences as well, and even 'within each of these sciences. There are engineers—specialists, of course—who know as much about each other’s specialty as a lawyer or a theologian knows. Wherever one finds this specialization, one finds its neces- H sary complement: ignorance and narrowness; and one finds them both everywhere. We may be pointed out to one another. We may meet and chat; but we remain—spiritually and intellectually— strangers. Each thinks only in the terminology of his spe cialty and his profession, and outside of his own field he faces such a gigantic unknown expanse that he feels com pletely impotent before it, and decides definitely not even to attempt to encompass such an awesome scope. He there upon shuts himself up in his own field, estranges himself and his thinking from the thinking of others, and becomes a gullible consumer of “Bata” * shoes and catchwords. This is, I think, the reason why mediocrity and super ficiality can rule at present. To create a spiritual totalitar ianism, you just have to be able to invent catchwords and slogans; the cheaper—that is, the emptier and simpler—the greater the sale and the stronger the totality of the totali tarianism. This is the strategic wisdom behind the politics of recent years. The slogans must serve to replace the ruptured spiritual and intellectual unity of the people. This substitution, of course, is shabby and illusory, and at best—where the effort is made honorably—one can only speak of an attempt to make a virtue out of need, to make the best out of a bad situation. Compare a\\ this with the unity and beauty of life in Plato and Kant! We must, it would seem, ^direct all our striving toward the rediscovery of this unity; by searching outside of our special fields, and by returning from the leaves and the branches once more

* “Bata” shoes, made from lasts imported from the famed Czecho slovakian manufacturer, are sold all over Indonesia. So wide was their publicity that the name alone became enough to sell them, regardless of quality. The phenomenon is not peculiar to Indonesia. to the roots themselves. Instead of discarding the old think ers as so much refuse on top of the heaps of waste, and consuming in their place the modem slogans, we would do better and more wisely to search with them and through them for universality and for our real unity of interest. Instead of the superficiality and the stilted, artificial emo tionalism of Bergson, d’Annunzio, Mayakovski, and innu merable others in Germany, we would do better to look for the profundity, the true beauty, and the spiritual harmony of the old thinkers. If we look along these lines, then we can also come to fathom the sense in which labor spe cialization can contribute toward real co-operation and collective unity, and can consciously serve, rather than unconsciously oppose, spiritual and intellectual unity. I am sure that I would never have been able to see any of these things so clearly if I were now, like other men, a free part of society. As long as you are in that society, you are constrained toward your post, your field or specialty, and you must contribute to the productive process. Then the problems of doing and of maintaining the pace consume your whole being, and you have no time for reflection. This is, actually, the excuse for all our actions: that we are only doing, without knowing or asking ourselves why or where. It is also the reason why so many long for au thority and leaders to whom they can turn over everything that does not immediately concern their own special field, so that they can then be safeguarded from any responsibil ity for the whole, and can function simply as mechanical parts of the single great machine. And we are, moreover, only too content when these leaders furnish us with the slogans with which to assuage our consciences. What do we know or care whether they are banalities, clichés, empty ideas? As far as the leaders are concerned, we are either 16 markets or war material, mere pawns within the outline of their strategy. At the same time, this touches the core of the question of all mass movements: the old problem of education or strategy, calling for two different types of popular leaders: the educator and the man on horseback. As soon as one rec ognizes this problem, then one can see the similarity behind all the seemingly different popular movements, whether in America, Soviet Russia, India, or Indonesia. There is no doubt that education can be used as a con scious political method, which, moreover, has in many cases demonstrated and justified this use as opposed to the mili tary method of force and strategy. Giving politics a moral basis increases its scope and appeal, and in modem terms, morality and culture can be considered as political factors. From my imprisonment, I cannot express anything po litical, but I can express moral judgments, and yet every thing I say here has, in a larger sense, political overtones. The moral factor is more common, and more personal in its influence, but not less real as a result. For example, openness and nonresistance are consider ably more than pleasant moral qualities. They are a potent weapon in life, and can even be a strong weapon in politics. The truth of this matter was brought home first and most clearly to me when I tried to interview Gandhi in London, while he was there for the Round Table Conference in 1931.1 couldn’t find him in his official residence near Hyde Park, because he actually was living in the East End slums. However, I was met by Mr. Desai, his secretary, in a room where different people were busy doing work for the con ference. Each of them was simple, straightforward, and un constrained, and they greeted me cordially and continued talking freely. Mira-Bai, Gandhi’s renowned disciple, was

17 there, and she spoke openly and freely, as well as critically, about the old fox Lloyd George.” I heard and learned a lot, and anyone else might have heard the same things. I might have been an agent of the secret police, but it would have made no difference. “Moral force,” said Mr. Desai, “that is our force.” Here was a real and consistent application of a moral principle in politics, and I think that Gandhi’s strength lies precisely in this absolute consistency, which sometimes ap pears, from the outside, to be only narrowness and lack of rationality. One can set Gandhi s system in principle against that of Machiavelli, and then one is confronted by the temptation to see this as a demonstration of the difference between the East and the West. This is, in fact, often done, but it is naturally only an oversimplification, for in reality there is as much violence, intrigue, and conspiracy on the Eastern side as on the Italian, and Gandhi certainly has learned much from the teachings of both Christ and Tolstoi. In many respects, one can view Gandhi as the disciple of the educational method in politics, as against, for example, Sun Yat-Sen, the proponent of strategy, although the moral element, m the form of a real sense of humanity, played an important role in Sun’s work as well Even if one does not agree fully with Gandhi, one can still not remain blind to the practical accomplishments of his morally inclined approach to politics. Ortega y Gasset laments that the world is suffering because it is ruled by the theory and practice of strategy and force, instead of by the theory and practice of justice. I think that he is here alluding to the same problem: the drive and ¿Ian of the struggle for justice are becoming increasingly superseded y the calculated, deliberate, strategic struggle for power 18 AUGUST 3, 1934 I have now heard nothing from Soelaiman in exactly two months, and all my contacts with the outside world have been broken for the same length of time, as well. There have been no books, either from the library or from else where, and so I guess my program of study was only a short-lived piece of luck, somehow too good to be true within the confines of prison. Nevertheless, I’ve been able to adjust myself to this new situation, and I feel regret only for the loss of time. But, of course, that is just the reason why one is put in prison!

AUGUST 18,1934 I should like to learn Italian so that I will be able to read Croce in the original. He is of particular interest for our national rejuvenation, and his brilliant and penetrating critique can bring some enlightenment to the ranks of our' young intellectuals here in Indonesia. I have already rec ommended him to some of our literateurs, but there hasn’t been enough spirit in their reaction for them to do anything about it. Sometimes they discourage me so that I have the desire to throw the whole thing aside, and only the exam ple of the shoemaker sticking to his last restrains me from such a course. As long as these so-called “art devotees” do not broaden themselves, as long as they refuse to look out side the confines of their own borders, so long will they remain preoccupied with the bloodless, sugary, spiritless farce that they call their “art.” They cannot yet make a dis tinction between maudlin sentimentality and true, deep

SEPTEMBER 11,1934 My “proceedings” are now over, and the hearing has been held. In total, the whole thing didn’t take more than an hour and I could have made it still shorter by not an swering the questions at all or by answering more care lessly! The points in question were all regarded simply as a formality, which would not affect the decision, since in most cases of this sort they have already reached a decision in advance. Nevertheless, for my own satisfaction I an swered each question seriously, although I must admit I didn’t wrack my brain to do so. I am now expecting within a few weeks, or perhaps a month, to receive my sentence, and there is still a possibility that it will be exile. Actually, this wouldn’t be so strange since I have only recently come into the political arena, and if the times were not so “difficult” they certainly wouldn’t deem me worthy of an administrative procedure, much less a “first-class” sentence [to Boven Digoel].

SEPTEMBER 18, 1934 The meals, which I get on tin bowls here, now that I no longer receive food from outside, are hardly what you would find on hotel menus, but if you once get over your gastronomical prejudices, you must admit that they feed you surprisingly well. In fact, it gives me a certain satisfac tion since I find that without pretense I can live as simply and as ascetically as most of the [Indonesian] people are forced to live. Furthermore, I feel more “really” impris oned, now that I have to eat this prison food, than I did when I was still getting food from outside. I don’t think any of the others, except Hafil, receive any extra food from outside, and so I don’t feel ill at ease any longer out of a sense of special privilege. At first I thought that I would absolutely refuse any food from outside, but later I wasn’t sure whether that would be only a pathetic gesture—a sort 20 desired martyrdom. And I finally decided not to do it. the whole thing has worked out quite naturally. Jon’s mother could no longer send me any tiling, and I "'’as already somewhat prepared for the change, and free of initial prejudices. I even think that this solid fare has ^°ne my stomach some good, for at least I haven’t had any xtrouble from it during O these last months. Furthermore, if y°u figure your diet in terms of calories, as Hafil does, it Wouldn’t surprise me if there were more calories in these Prison meals than in the carefully prepared and diversified delicacies tilat jie probably receives. I am thus well nourished and fed at present, and I have decidedly more flesh on my body than I have ever had be fore. In fact, when Djon’s parents were here, they even asked me if I had beriberi, because they thought I looked s° swollen and round! On the other hand, I think I am for getting more and more what savor is. I now regard eating as a duty, and the satisfaction I get from it does not come from the eating, but from having eaten, in about the same Way one feels satisfied after one has properly acquitted one- Self of a task: more a spiritual satisfaction of the soul than a sensual satisfaction of the stomach; and thus, satisfaction of a spiritually “higher” grade! As you can see, it is surprising the things one can dis cover even in meals from tin bowls!

SEPTEM BER 20, 1934 I have just received a letter from Soelaiman, who has de parted for Europe again. I am happy for him, because he Was degenerating spiritually and physically in this environ ment, which to him is still unfamiliar. His experiences here Would, in fact, be an excellent subject for a modem psycho logical novel: an Indonesian who lived in Europe until he 2 1 was twenty-three years old and was brought up and edu cated as a Netherlander, then thrown back into the middle of the Indonesian community and of the colonial problem, without even knowing the language of his own people, and remaining still completely European in his thinking and his action. He conducted himself splendidly here, and it is not his fault that things went as they did. It is not his fault that he has the soul and the disposition of a naive and sensitive aesthete; a soul that has been almost destroyed by the pe culiar stresses and strains of colonial life. If that destruction had actually taken place, I would have felt myself partly guilty, since I originally encouraged him to come here. What is there for him here, with his aesthetic ideals; where could he find sympathy, let alone understanding, in our so different Indonesian community and society? Who here has an interest in Rousseau or Fujita? Perhaps a few among the European colony, but they are as far distant from us here as is Europe itself; in fact, even farther, be cause Europe can be reached by ship or airplane, whereas the social barrier, the race distinction, in a colonial society is far more difficult to overcome. I say “social barrier” because, even when one admits the existence of race prejudice in general ajnd in other environ ments, the most extraordinary and sharpest form of race distinction and racial opposition is possible only in a colo nial society, because the social basis of that society is founded on those very rubrics. How could Soelaiman, with his hundred guilders a month, hope to have entree to the Batavia art circles, or hope to come into contact with the art devotees and artists who are an integral part of the highest European society here? In Europe, on the other hand, without a single cent, he can have the Rotonde, the American, the Bohemian. 22 With the best of intentions, he came here to become fa miliar with his country and his people, and to realize his ideals in them and through them. From the beginning I saw that it would turn into a fiasco, but I still encouraged him to come here so that he would realize that the 'wayang * of Jodjana or Bali do not give any idea of what Indonesia really is like, and also because it disturbed me that he was so proud of his ivory tower of “art for art’s sake, above all political matters.” And now he has finally found out at firsthand what the colonial problem is. Deserting “art for art’s sake,” he be came one of us, with nothing else to motivate him but purely emotional convictions. But, resisting all dogmas and theories, he remained an individualistic aesthete in his ap-

He started with the discovery that everything was far different here from what he had thought. There is nothing unusual about that, and every young Dutch newcomer finds the same thing. On the one hand, instead of the ro mantic idylls he had read about the people, he found the Batavia “natives.” And he really got to know these “na tives” well because, with his salary, he was obliged to live in the village with them. He nevertheless could not under stand them, and saw only their shortcomings, because he looked at them with Dutch eyes and by Dutch standards: their “indolence,” their “dishonesty,” their “submissive ness.” This is also natural, and every other Dutch new comer goes through the same experience. He nevertheless would not let himself admit these things. He persevered and remained fast in his decision to stay with them and to understand them.

* The way m g are dolls used in the puppet shows of Balinese and Javanese folklore. 23 Then he came to learn the other side of the problem. He began to feel that he was “oddly” treated in his studio at the Museum. He found that the Europeans here did every thing “oddly.” He had his first clashes. You can’t, of course, blame the Europeans for not being able to read on his face that he, Soelaiman, had been accustomed to being treated on the basis of equality, and that he could not feel himself inferior to them. Soon he was discharged for “imperti nence,” and remained without work for months. Slowly he became more “broken in,” since he was obliged to. He gradually was becoming a part of his environment, and slowly but surely the realization of his status as a “native” forced itself upon him. The “Dutch” arrogance began to lose its striking quality, and without even being consciously aware of it, Soelaiman began to move aside to allow Euro peans to pass on the street. And here was the “native sub missiveness” about which he was at first so indignant! This process of adjustment was not completed without a struggle, but he could not fully understand what was happening. He could not explain or interpret what was happening to him, so he could not free himself from it. This experience is just the opposite to that of so many former planters and other Europeans who have lived too long in the Indies, and theirs is just as tragic. In so far as they have been victims of the abnormal colonial attitudes, they too are uprooted and lost when they return home. The former planter and Soelaiman are two different sides of the same colonial problem. Both are apolitical, even asocial, types. Both are innocently subjected to the influ ence of colonial life without being conscious of it, and both are therefore the victims of that life. Soelaiman had the same nervous symptoms as so many planters have, with their so-called tropical tempers and unusual irritability. 24 In the case of the planter, in fact, the situation is some what simpler. It becomes more a question of the relatively higher and inflated life that he leads amid the abnormal at titudes and values of colonial society, as a result of which the normal attitudes and values of his own country finally become subjectively strange and unfamiliar to him. Consequently, when he returns to his own country he no longer feels at home, becomes lonely and lost, and cannot maintain the same social level that he enjoyed in the tropics. I have further noticed that this phenomenon holds true not only for those who have been repatriated on pension, but for those who have large bank balances as well. Even the latter feel themselves no longer at home when they return, and they are only in their element if they can dream and be reminiscent about “the old days on the plantation.” It is doubtful, I think, whether these people—pensioners or mil lionaires—have made anything of their lives. To have spent one’s whole life alone on the plantation, so that finally one can end one’s days alone with one’s bank balance—I think it is really quite sad. Fortunately there remains for us the truth that life changes, and even life in a colony is changing, bringing with it a change in circumstances. Actually, the situation is no longer precisely as I have described it. In principle it remains true, but in practice there are many other modifi cations and nuances.

OCTOBER 4,1934 If someone were now to ask me to state the difference be tween freedom and restraint, I think I could give him a clear and precise answer! I recall that the headmaster of the school I attended once embarrassed me by asking: “What is freedom? No one is 25 really free!” I know now that he was both right and wrong. Philosophically and sociologically, it is perhaps true that no one is wholly free. Our lives are governed, in this sense, by physical, biological, and sociological laws. But neverthe less there is certainly a place for the concept of freedom. The area for the concept of freedom lies within the frame work of our conscious physical lives. I know, for example, without question, that I am being held here against my will. My imprisonment has nothing to do with the question of free or unfree will. It is a simple and practical, real, bodily, palpable, and concrete circum stance of restraint; a circumstance, moreover, in which I am constrained from outside myself, and in which my will is opposed by another will, perceptibly and obviously in the form of walls and bars. I think, for that matter, that the re spectable headmaster, despite his determinism, would have some observations to make regarding the reality of freedom if he were to experience what it is to be placed behind walls and bars when he wished to be in his library studying Roman and Greek documents! Even if there is no scientific and philosophical freedom, one can certainly discover and experience the real existence of practical freedom and restraint. It is quite a different matter whether your will is obstructed by natural or social conditions, or whether it is thwarted by another will, as in my case. Furthermore, it is logical and justifiable to speak of active force when this foreign will works not only in a negative way, but positively, to make you do something or to hold you upon a certain course that it wants and you do not. Ci The mistake of the old disciples of “freedom” was that they deified freedom as the highest and most expansive principle behind the world and nature, whereas the real ap- 2 6 plicability of their ideal of freedom lay rather in the reac tion against tyranny, against material and intellectual constraint, against injustice, and against arbitrary despotism, which manifested itself in concrete ways. Out of the nature of the matter, they attached great value to freedom, but at the same time they idealized and general ized it into an intangible abstraction representing the begin ning of revelation [Rede]. From this point evolved the fiasco of liberalism, which is now also threatening individ ualism. The sort of philosophical freedom that they apotheosized does not, in fact, exist, and the development of physical, and even of social and psychological, science has represented a continual refutation of that philosophy of freedom. The socialists were the first to rebel against this abstract freedom, and it was they who gave the impetus to the rise and development of social science—the study of the relation of the individual not only to the laws of nature, but also to the laws of society; the study of the individual’s constraint by the society in which he lives, and of the interaction and mutual dependence of the members of that society.

OCTOBER 30,1934 If you once proceed from the principle that there is ego ism in yourself, which must be in every case tracked down and checked, then you have thereby actually placed that egoism on a pedestal, from which it exercises a decisive influence in your life. You seek it everywhere, and come face to face so often with your own psychic reactions that require an explanation, that the psychic explanation be comes easy and temptingly simple. Compassion, love, sacri fice are all reduced to self-love and pride. The investigation of oneself, in this manner has already a tendency toward

27 egocentricity, namely in that one finds oneself interesting enough to warrant such an extensive investigation. Herein must we look for the explanation of the rise and growth of psychological knowledge during the individual istic period that now lies just behind us: the period in which the individual’s interest in himself has, of its own ac cord, deepened immensely. A psychomonistical concept of the world is possible only in a hyperindividualistic time, as a consequent outgrowth of the individualistic concept of the world itself. Thus, with the rise of the strong opposing current of “community interests” lately, there is little doubt that a reaction will set in against the psychologism of the early decades of this century, making an end to the rule of Freud, Fries, Heymans, etc. Ortega y Gasset makes the observation that the novel is a typically bourgeois form of art. In general, I think one ought to say that it is an art form of the individualistic period; the last development into the psychological novel is, moreover, a strong support of this analysis. I believe, thus, in the relativity of our psychological wis dom in so far as it is, finally, itself a socio-historic symptom. No matter how temptingly sound, simple, and obvious it may seem, I do not think we can explain life purely in terms of a psychological approach, although there is much of last ing value in this approach. Precisely what, we cannot yet be sure. In any case, we can certainly say that it has in creased our insight into the individual mind. Even this rela tive truth has its value, if it has only furnished us with a better understanding of the psychic facts of individualistic life. It appears as though the individual gains his individu ality by concentration on his life and himself, and that fur thermore such self-absorption and self-consciousness are at the same time often combined with egocentrism, self-con- 28 finement, exclusion of others, and introversion, as a result of which it becomes increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to make contact or reach a mutual understanding with others. Hence all the controversy and disputation on both sides. Meanwhile, as children of this individualistic period, we take to psychologism only too readily, and become de cidedly one-sided as a result. That is, at least, how I remonstrate with myself when ever I feel that the essentially pessimistic counsel of psy chology is threatening to rule my mind.

OCTOBER 31,1934 Since I have been away from Europe and have under gone a change in diet, I have been having periodic dreams, almost nightmares. For the most part they deal with the most copious and luxurious meals consisting of all sorts of fantastic delicacies. I am amazed about it myself! To ward off these tormenting dreams, I finally have bought some fruit for a quarter, ordinary unexciting oranges. As a result I don’t have the dreams as often, but they still occur now and then. Fortunately these dream meals are always so rich and fine that they are completely outside my reach, even if I were to use all of the little money I have. I really wonder how I come to have such foolish and fantastic dreams, since in general I have never been an epicure. I think, actually, that it is a sort of psychological reaction to the very sober meals we get here, which I partake of courageously and full of a sense of duty! Physically I feel fine, and am troubled only by a sus ceptibility to colds, which according to the prison doctor is due to being shut up incessantly and to too little exercise. On his advice I have taken to a sort of minute room gym nastics, which I think really helps. o 29 NOVEMBER 23, 1934 There is still no news, but it will come now fairly soon. According to a letter that I received from Holland, a re port appeared in the press concerning arbitrary intern ments, and it has given me much to think about. I think that perhaps my inexperience and my naïveté have thus far deceived me, and yet I don’t want to be taken by surprise. With the prevailing spirit of the times, and my knowl edge of the ideas and intentions that His Excellency the present Minister of Colonies [Colijn] developed in his brochure Colonial Problems of Today and Tomorrow, I must be prepared for anything. And then occasionally I think about the wry remark of Gyo that we originally laughed about heartily, but that really contains phe essence of truth: “The people feel that we are accomplishing noth ing, but the government says that we are actively under mining the colonial structure.” Furthermore, our own evaluation of ourselves differs, naturally, from that of the colonial government. This dif ference, however, is not substantial in my case, and there is therefore in my own thoughts still an undercurrent of unconscious hope, due to my own appraisal of my actions. I am, for one thing, certainly not an old political hand, since that would, in fact, be impossible for someone with my ex clusively academic background and of my age.# It is thus perhaps also possible that I am being deceived by the same

* The implication of this point is an important one in appraising the shortcomings of Dutch colonial policy. As a result of this policy, a man of Sjahrir’s youth (twenty-five years at the time) who was not even sure of what his offense had been, or of precisely where his sympathies lay— since he had friends and attachments in Holland as well as in Indonesia —was regarded and treated as a confirmed and hardened political agi tator. Under these conditions, the growth and crystallization of a strong and uncompromising nationalist movement was not only not surprising, but followed almost a priori. 3° psychological factor that made Sacco and Vanzetti feel that they would get their freedom even up to the moment when they were being led to the electric chair. I suppose this comes from the intense realization of one’s own innocence, or of the special extenuating circumstances attached to one’s own guilt, and from the unconscious regard of this realization as a general, rather than personal, criterion of justice, in the expectation that this criterion must be ful filled. Actually, to expect from the world justice of the same type as one feels oneself is an indication of a maudlin belief in humanity and its justice. There is a question as to whether another factor is to be considered here, namely whether disbelief in one’s own fate is caused simply by a unique and subtle expression of the will toward self-preser vation. The admirable manner in which Sacco and Van zetti finally met their fate is, however, proof that they never lacked in personal courage. The dominant fact re maining in their case is thus their naíveté, their abstract belief in the minimal justice of humanity as a whole. This is, in origin, the subjective, individual impulse to ward justice: justice that they expected to be applied individually to themselves in their particular subjective cir cumstances. And that was precisely what they ought not to have expected, because their case was political. They were simply a political stake in a play of opposing political interests. In so far as they themselves were representatives of a political faction, or were the actual or fancied symbols of a political current, they could not possibly expect that any individual, subjective justice would be shown them by the opposing political faction or current—or by those who had constituted themselves, or wished to be regarded as, the opposing political current! That Sacco and Vanzetti

3i still had such expectations was only an indication of their naïveté—but of a naïveté that is nonetheless touching be cause it represents a faith in humanity, and even a faith, if unconscious, in the sense of justice of the opposing faction. In my case, such a naïveté would be still less justifiable, because here we have to contend with an openly and franldy political problem; and there is no question of an at tempt to administer justice, as in the case of Sacco and Van- zetti.

DECEMBER 9,1934 The decision, dated 16 November, has finally been made: Digoel! So, finally, it is to be Digoel! It surprised me some what, but that of course comes naturally from my naivete. The decision read as follows: “For spreading hate and en dangering public tranquillity and order, by virtue o f Article 31 of the Netherlands Indies Government Ordinances and in concurrence 'with the Council of the Indies, seiïtenced to remain in the capital of the temporary administrative sub division Boven Digoel, in the division o f Am boina, G overn ment of the M oluccas There has thus been no specific accusation, no mention of an oral or written offense; in point of fact they have not been able to charge me with any misdemeanor. Consequently I should have thought that I would only rate a “third-class” sentence to Timor or something similar at the most. But on the other hand, of the five others who received the same sentence to Digoel, there are at least two who deserved it even less than I did! How ever, it is now final, and in any case it has brought an end to the period of doubt and the internal struggle as to whether all this was fair to those whom I must now leave behind. The decision has helped me, as it were, to rise above per- 32 sonal elements to the broader considerations. What is the purpose of it all, and why must I bring misery to those whom I love? Only because I wished to serve my people. Actually it is all due to an error in my reasoning, in that I felt myself able to fulfill both obligations: that to my peo ple and that to my family. An end has now come to all the doubt and self-reproach that I have experienced during these last two years. Now I cannot and I must not think about it any more. It was as though I were recalled to my people when I received the banishment sentence; to my people and to everything that ties me to the destiny and suffering of these millions. My personal grief is finally only a small part of that greater, general suffering, and it is just this that is my deepest and strongest bond. And now, perhaps just when I have to renounce what I love best in the world, now I feel myself more firmly and indissolubly bound to my peo ple than ever before! We have so often misunderstood one another, that people and I. I have been too abstract for my people, too far re moved from the framework of their concepts, too “West ern.” They have been, for me, too inert. They have often made me despair at their lack of will and their misconcep tions; angry and impatient at their petty faults. They filled me sometimes even with bitterness, but now I know that their destiny and the goal of my life are one; we were and we are still mutually bound to each other. Now that my people require from me the dissolution and the destruction of my personal happiness, the separation from my loved ones, now all my sorrow disappears, and there remains only my deep feeling of belonging and alliance to this down trodden people of mine. 33 DECEMBER 16,1934 What a fuss we make about life! W e are convinced that we can judge ourselves objectively, that we know the pre cise relationship between ourselves and humanity and so ciety. Yet how much time and energy do we spend in order to make our own personalities shine in the eyes of the com munity and in our own eyes as well? W hy can’t we tolerate others thinking less of us than we do ourselves? W hy do we become so disturbed if we think that our errors are be ing judged more severely than we deserve? Because of our regard for justice, or for ourselves? If it is no longer because of a bare and material impulse toward self-preservation, then it is only a refined, spiritual ized version thereof that represents itself as a preoccupation with our own lives and a recognition of our own personal ity and self-respect. The weaker we actually feel ourselves to be, the stronger is this preoccupation and recognition, and the more we wish to assert our personality. And finally, how difficult it becomes for us to take leave of our youth or our personal happiness! W e act as though the whole world were affected thereby, when in reality we are dealing only with the life and the happiness of one single infinitesimal being. But on the other hand, is the broader and idealized criterion of man’s value appropriate? Is it, for example, appropriate to apply the Christian ideal of complete self- abnegation as the criterion for judging man’s worth? If we take the Christian ideal as the standard for judging man and for humanizing people in general, then we characterize man as an ethical rather than a rational being, and what ap pears to be natural then becomes “the low and the animal instincts in man”! On the other hand, perhaps we had better simply regard 34 that idealized concept as unreal, and hypothecate man as a rational animal and a creature of nature with, as a conse quence, his struggle for life and for a pattern of living in which he experiences a maximum of pleasure and a mini mum of pain: thus, the materialistic, hedonistic man? And as a result of this last hypothesis, can we arrive at no ethic whatsoever, or at best at a rationalized ethic, a utility ethic—no absolute ethic, but only a relative, histori cal, or even class or group ethic that can be characterized only as sociological or finally biological? And then, accord ing to socialistic doctrines, we have co-operation and col lectivism as the natural, social concept of evolution, and thus co-operation and solidarity become the prime utility ethic, to which all other ethical values are subordinated! Or, from the same original premise, but now according to doctrines of liberalism, we arrive at the concept of competi tion, the creative ego-individualistic motive, the homo-ho- mini-lupus idea, as the natural and absolute conclusion, and we see the highest ethic in personal individual well-being. There is thus the choice between the biological concept of preservation of the species, and the individual concept of self-preservation. In reality the whole ethical problem can be brought back to this last question. For if solidarity represents humanity, love for fellow man, or if need be, Christian brotherly love, and competition represents human nature, then you have reached the crux of the problem with only this difference: that with the principle of social solidarity you become more mildly inclined toward the principle of life and even to ward the concept of individual self-preservation. The abso lute conviction of any absolute, idealistic ethic provides a place for an understanding, reasoned rejection of pure egoism.

35 We need the principle of solidarity or the ethic of hu manity as a guide in our personal lives and as a test of our selves and our actions. Yet many of us stand closer to the absolute idealistic ethic with its highest and strongest value of self-abnegation than we do to the more scientific and natural ethic of solidarity, which has precisely the natural life as its basis and thus cannot judge us too sharply and critically with respect to our normal thoughts of self-pres ervation. Perhaps this arises because the first ethic gives us an easier and stronger sense of security, whereas the latter still and always leaves unanswered the burning question of how self-preservation and species preservation, individu ality and collectivity can be reconciled, as a result of which one cannot find an absolute general answer, but must judge each instance and question separately and specifically. To accept the ideal man as a general criterion is easier, particu larly for those of us who are young, inexperienced, and even immature. What experience has not yet taught us, the ideal must supply. In fact, a great part of our internal con flict comes from this source. I remember how once, after I had argued with a Calvin ist friend of mine for half the night, he finally said: “Man is certainly a sinful being”—the tie between idealism and pessimism, which is also the spirit of the Bible; for exam ple, as the ideal is expressed in the Gospel according to John: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Pessimism is actually ubiqui tous, particularly in the Old Testament, beginning with the first story of man. What is often called the “sinful man” is actually the im mature man. Only mature, understanding, and experienced men do not tear their lives into two separate parts, but re- 36 tain their vision of the transitions, relations, and currents between the two. What we must learn is to accept our life and, where it is necessary, to reconcile ourselves with it, so that we can conserve our energy and use it for other, attainable and constructive, ends. W e still act too much like immature men; we worry too much about direct happiness. We must rather learn to regard it from apart so that we can reach further and higher. We must be willing to risk our happi ness in order to participate in a higher and greater hap piness. Schiller wrote (if I remember correctly): “Und setzt Ihr nicht das Leben ein, me rwird Euch das Leben ge- r,wonven sein.” (“And if you do not risk Life, you cannot conquer it.”) We must not gaze blindly at what is imme diately before us, if we wish to progress higher and further.

JANUARY 6,1935 Life will not be pushed or forced! We may try to make many reasoned, brilliant theories our own, but they ac quire full value and meaning only when, through experi ence, we are able to gain insight into their fundamental import. Until such a time, they can only remain dead and dry mental skeletons, which give us a distorted image of life, which lead us astray, and which bewilder us in life’s diverse problems. Experience cannot be learned from books; it requires years and events. That is—or should I say “was”?—the es sence of youth’s problem during this century. “Was,” be cause it begins to appear that in some countries youth itself is again calling for authority and fixed values. But there was a time—and if it is indeed already behind us, then it is only just past—when the young generation gave the impression of fulfilling a world mission. By word

37 and action, it expressed its disbelief in the old values of mankind; in age itself it found an obstacle, an impediment. And the watchword with which it stormed the world was: honesty! Honesty toward life. And who would wish to dispute the propriety and the goodness of this watchword, even though it certainly can not protect us from all life’s difficulties? On the contrary, sometimes it even seems that if we act with complete hon esty toward ourselves and toward the world at a given mo ment, we shall be confronted with the greatest difficulties imaginable! We have contended for our right to life, and our right to the pursuit of happiness. W e can, perhaps, justify that right theoretically and scientifically, but does that mean that we know what life and happiness are? Does that teach us how we can be happy, and how we must live in order to find happiness? That we didn’t learn. All we had to do was to live from moment to moment, and to think, at each moment, that there was the happiness that we needed—only to discover at the same time that it was not so after all. W e discarded all our forms in favor of honesty, and of the substance and reality of things, and does it not sometimes seem that with the form we have also discarded a piece of the substance and reality itself, that the reality we retain is without beauty, and is even coarse and repugnant? For the most part we live at such a fast tempo that we do not even consider this. After all, we are looking not for beauty but for happiness. But is happiness without beauty possible? Is, then, coarse and repugnant enjoyment happiness? Are endless nervous tension and irritation hap piness, and does it matter how we find it as long as we are honest and make no secret about it? It seems so- simple: If 38 you are only honest toward yourself and toward life, then everything must work out all right. The only difficulty is this: that because of our youth we did not know what we were and what life was. In place of real life, we were thinking of a schematized self and a schematized life, and where real life did not seem to fit into the schema, we tried to force it in. But life will not be forced. Even as the old, outdated values had constituted an impediment, so our theoretical honesty and happiness threatened to become one. What we lacked was experience; the knowledge of how to live; how to act at every given moment in accord with the direction of life, in harmony with the goal of our life and with the concepts of our life. We are not yet finished with the task of finding new values to substitute for the old. The new values of youth were, finally, just as common, just as abstract, just as rela tive and temporary, and just as susceptible to obsolescence as the old ones had been. We truly need new values if we are to make progress in the direction in which we must go, but we must never apply or accept them mechanically or automatically, since that will only return us to the original obstacles that we wish to surmount. We must search, act, and do; the emphasis here thus falls again on the individual, on the subject who must act differently at each given moment, because the circum stances differ. At such times our theories and schemas often desert us, and I think that at these times the feeling of beauty [schoonheidsgevoel\ is our best guide; not sensual irritation, not nervous intoxication; but the tranquil feel ing that brings contemplation; the feeling we have only when we have our nerves and emotions under control, and 39 when we are able to free ourselves from all distorting- psy choses. The most difficult thing of all is, indeed, that we often do not know where our happiness is to be sought. There is nothing wrong in seeking happiness, only in wrongly seek ing and in wrongly living, and if we are really living wrongly, we become aware of it quickly. As soon as we are troubled by anguish, we can look for the cause in our pat tern of life. Grief and sorrow are not what I mean by “an guish” [zielsellende\ but self-doubt and self-disdain, and the worst spiritual misfortune of all: moral decay. That is the worst that man can descend to, and it is that from which death is perhaps the only relief. Because this fate is so cruel, man often tries to protect himself against it by be coming insensible, by internal stupefaction and hardening; and the degree of his moral decay expresses itself in the ex tent of his stupefaction and hardening. Where hardness and insensibility exist, there can never be happiness because there can never be beauty. W hat we need most, above all our theories, is a feeling for beauty in life. As a theory, of course, this does not yet mean anything, because both “feeling” and “beauty” are indefinite quanti ties, and hence there is no absolute. Then are we, perhaps, reinstating the same age-old, antiquated values that we have already excoriated? Indeed, there is always a tendency toward conservatism m ‘feeling,” which is why revolutionaries almost always place their emphasis on the intellectual and the mobile, and sometimes even attack or eliminate feeling. But on the other hand, can a revolutionary be a good revolutionary ^ he has no heart? Can this subjective impulse be com pletely neglected? In any case, we can at least accept the premise that 40 beauty, as well, does not point toward any absolute. All that is posited is a proper, normal functioning and activity of the feeling, but no attempt is made to analyze that feel ing. At the most we can say that it must be in harmony with the goal, values, and concepts of our life in general. I think that this removes the danger of becoming stultified by a too dogmatic approach to the idea of feeling and sensi bility in life. To live well and properly is indeed an art. Living accord ing to instincts and impulses can signify beauty for the animal family but not for mankind. W e can no longer grope blindly, since human, intellectual, and communal liv ing has wedged itself between simple nature and simple living. Men have tried to interpret this dilemma through human ethics and religion. They have tried to understand life in terms of norms and specialties, and, unnatural as this is, it has been for the purpose of living with understanding on the basis of instinct and impulses. Man cannot con sciously wish to live as an animal, and consequently the at tempt to do so artificially and by guise is unnatural, unsavoiy, and awkward. The man who can live in such a way that his aesthetic feelings are joined harmoniously with the rest of his life is the man who understands the art of living. He is the man who is entitled to claim life and happiness for his own. But for the most part we do not follow this course any longer because we are, paradoxically, too absorbed in liv ing life and in striving to gain more and more pleasure.

4i INTERMEZZO

JANUARY SO, 1935 e have been under way now for three days, and tomorrow we come to Makassar. From there we W must change ships for Ambon. I’ve been quite troubled during the trip and haven’t slept more than twelve hours in these last three days. I am lodged in a second-class cabin, since they have assigned Hafil and me, as “intellec tuals,” to second-class accommodations although the others have to travel as deck passengers. In other words, after a year of hard prison sleeping benches, I now have a nice feather bed! Actually I have had no benefit from either the bed or the good food. I have become too unaccustomed to these comforts to enjoy them any more, and besides, I can’t feel at ease because of the difference in treatment that we have received. When I first heard about it, I immediately pro tested. If you’d rather lie on the deck, go ahead” was the mocking answer I received from the only Indonesian among the police escort that brought us on board. If I do that, of course, it becomes difficult for Hafil, and in any case I don’t want to cause a demonstration. I let it go at that. Naturally, I spend all day with the boys on deck, and perhaps I’ll now go there at night to sleep. There are eight of us: seven boys of the P.N.I. and one Chinese youth who is suspected of being the leader of some section of an anti- 42 imperialistic league. Up to now we have all been gay and in high spirits, and it sometimes seems as though we were on a pleasure trip. At present the trip is particularly scenic, and even traveling as a deck passenger is certainly prefera ble to being shut up in a prison. I had intended to enjoy as much of the trip as possible, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. Naturally I’ve gone along with the laughter and general good spirits, but I don’t feel sincere about it. Two of our boys have taken their young wives with them, and I am extremely uneasy about them. Of course, at present more and more people take their wives and children with them to Digoel and the living con ditions of the inmates are better than they were six or seven years ago, but still it is no place for a woman. The boys know nothing about all this, and I can’t find it in my heart to deprive them of their good spirits; it may be so very long before they are again in such spirits.

FEBRUARY 11,1935 We have already been waiting for three days on Ambon, and in five more days we begin our journey again. They put us in one of the rooms of the field-police barracks, be cause the prison was full. In Makassar we also spent a few days waiting in prison. All of the boys are sleeping now, next to one another on the wooden boards that were given us. The women have to sleep in the hallways right in front of our door, which is kept locked. They aren’t locked up, receive forty cents a day for food, and are allowed to go into town. Ambon is really not a town, but rather a large village. We had a chance to see something 6f it when we had to walk through on the way to the barracks. Everything seemed much friendlier here than in Java and Makassar. 43 In Soerabaya, no one was allowed to see us. There was also an extra police guard, and the wharf was fenced off. In Makassar we were taken ashore by a police motorboat so that we would not arrive at the same point or at the same time as the boat we had been traveling- on. But here it is quite easy to see that we are in the eastern and isolated part of the archipelago. Apparently nobody knew in advance about our arrival, and there appears to be no one who is in the least curious or has heard about our sentences. As one of the policemen who had to accompany us from Makassar said: “To the east of Makassar there are only villages and wilderness [doesoen dan hoetan].” From here in Ambon, there is a boat only twice a month to Makassar, which is the only connection with Java, and there is not a regular service of even one boat a month from here to Digoel. And yet how beautiful this eastern part of our country is! We had a chance to see quite a bit of it during the trip: along the coast of Celebes a beautiful blue sea, sometimes light and pellucid like mother-of-pearl, sometimes a deep, dark blue, but always beautiful. The sea remained calm, and so we had a chance to enjoy the lovely vistas, the coast and mountain of Celebes, the white and green islets, so beauti- u y set m the blue of the sea, and bathing in the gold and sometimes silver-tinted light of the sun. We dropped anchor in front of one of these islands, and how perfect it was! The blue sea up to the very edge of the shore, white rocks, the white sandy shore, and in the background the bluish-green mountains. Blue dominated everywhere, even where the sun shed all sorts of shades of gold and silver tints on the blue sea, and on the bluish-green mountains under the blue sky. It was like a world of make- believe. . . . 44 FEBRUARY 14,1935 On Ambon they are at least twenty years behind Java and Sumatra, and still they have plenty of schools, pro portionately many more than in Java. All the missions are represented in this so-called “twelfth province of the Neth erlands,” and in several places there are even Catholic missions. Missionaries, the military, men of the civil admin istration—the usual outposts of “Western civilization”—all these are here in abundance, and hence there are also mis sion and government schools. I know this part of our people too superficially to speak with authority, and yet I have no ticed that there are seldom any Ambonese # in the nation alistic movement, in contrast with the Menadonese, who are also Christian. The people here are quite handsome, and appear to be considerably stronger and more robust than those in Java or Sumatra. This is a better edition of the Negro type: they have the same good physique and kinky hair as the Negro, but not the flat noses and thick lips; in fact, the nose is quite high for this part of the world. The features, in general, show more of the Aryan or Arabian type than they do of the Negroid or Indonesian-Malay type. There are also Mohammedans in Ambon, who can be recognized by the fezzes of the men and the attire of the women. I have noticed that they are generally lighter in color than most of the other inhabitants, and in general look more like the people of Java and Sumatra. I wonder whether they are perhaps immigrants or descendants of

* The Ambonese, from the island of Ambon, have always been re nowned for their loyalty to the Dutch. They are mostly Christian, and have always supplied the best and most loyal of the native troops in the Netherlands Indies Army. By contrast the Menadonese, on the northern tip of Celebes, have always contributed to the intellectual group behind the nationalistic movement.

45 earlier Malay immigrants. As far as I can make out, they also constitute the merchant class here. That the Moslems form the middle and especially the merchant classes is something that I have noticed not only here but elsewhere; for example, in India. I would like very much to study this matter further, if I ever get the chance. I wonder whether Islam has not perhaps played the same historical role in relation to Hinduism as Protestantism played in relation to Catholicism; namely, representing the bourgeois concept of life contrasted with the feudal. So far as I know, there has never been a study made along this line, and still I think it would be important. For such a study one might even take all of Asiatic society under ex amination: a combined sociology of Islam and of Hinduism in Asia. Such a work would certainly be logically con nected with my earlier work on Chinese society, but un fortunately, I won’t have the necessary material to pursue it further.

ON BOARD THE S.S. ALBATROS, FEBRUARY 21, 1935 We have been sailing up the Digoel River since yester day evening. We left Ambon on the sixteenth of February on the Albatros, a government steamer of about eight hun dred tons. The seas that we had to cross are famed for their beauty but also notorious for their roughness and storms. Fortunately we did not experience anything of the latter, and we have enjoyed ideal weather throughout this lovely part of Indonesia. At sunset we left the Bay of Ambon. The sea and the light were still clear blue, and behind us lay the bluish- green mountains. The golden light of the sun, which was quickly becoming redder, made the sea sparkle as with 4 6 thousands of little lights. And on the sea—so full of life, color, and sparkle—fast little sailboats moved, playing spir itedly on the waves, while the sleepy blue mountains rested as quiet spectators in the background. I remained on deck until all these million little lights had disappeared, and the quiet, somber mountains began to fade against the blurring blue of the sky. Then the moon rose, seeming to enchant everything in a world of soft, tranquil, dreamy make-be lieve. Again millions of magical little lights shone on the sea. The mountains lost their somberness and again seemed to be sleepily friendly. I sat fore on the bow of the ship, leaning against the flag mast. I thought of nothing, even felt nothing. I forgot where I was, forgot myself, and lost my being in all this beauty. The next morning we came to Banda, also famed for its beauty, but for my part the Bay of Ambon was still more beautiful. The part of the Bay of Ambon in which we dropped anchor was about fifteen meters deep, but the wa ter was so clear that you could see plainly each object lying on the bottom of the sea. The sea bottom was covered with starfish, and the water in the bay, protected by Goenoeng Api [Fire Mountain], was mirror-smooth. Banda itself—that is to say, the town proper—seemed to me to be abandoned. From the ship we could see an old fort of the East India Company that was built on the side of a hill, and farther up there were large houses. But there were no people to be seen anywhere. In this part of Indonesia nature dominates. Everywhere there is the splendor of nature, and the people are more a part of that nature than a product of their society. Uncon sciously one looks at the people from that standpoint, and judges them according to their physiques, their racial fea

47 tures, and in connection with the natural beauty of their environment. Their cultural backwardness is no difficulty and suggests no social problem. From a social point of view this part of Indonesia has almost no meaning. These fairy tale islands serve only to beautify our country, but from the point of view of social production their value is very small. In the time of the East India Company, this was all quite different. At that time the products that are no longer of so much importance on world markets—such as pepper, nutmeg, and cloves—were the honey to which the Western ers flocked.* And here on these beautiful islands one of the blackest pages in the history of the East India Company was written: a page of brutality, greed, and inhumanity— the extirpation not only of flowering gardens but also, through plunder and murder, of large numbers of peaceful and industrious people. This is now all history. There is nothing here now that is reminiscent of those bloody times; even the old fort on the hill has nothing bloody about it now, and it simply blends peacefully and harmoni ously with the surroundings. The next day we arrived in Toeal. Here there were defi nite signs of economic activity. Chinese and Arab mer chants came on board offering their wares for sale. I spent the last of my money for a little table, four folding chairs, and a deck chair, all made of ironwood, and altogether costing two and a half guilders. We remained here the whole day lying at anchor, and again left the bay at sunset. That was the most memorable sunset we saw during the trip. The sky was not completely cloudless, and just before the sun sank into the water it

f y or(^s were obviously written at the depth of the depression o the thirties, when these products commanded a very low price on wor d markets. A t present, one-half ship’s cargo of any of these spices would make the owner a rich man for the rest of his life. 48 disappeared behind a cloud. It then came out as a glowing red ball that bathed the universe in a dazzling red light, and caused millions and millions of red lights to shimmer on the sea. Then the sea became a spectrum of a thousand col ors, from red and purple to all shades of green and yellow. One red band of light remained dominant between two green islands that became darker and darker as the red light got weaker and weaker. There was one small boat, rowed by a single oarsman, which drew toward the red band of light like a shadow, and of a moment the boat and the oars men were suddenly spotlighted by that red band, as sym bols of life in the midst of that great splendor of nature. Then shadow again. The colors continued to change but became weaker. The clouds that had caused that wonder- play of tints and shades lost their red color and became again white or dark. When I turned round I saw that the sun dominated only half of the universe, and behind me there was another world, the phantom world of the moon. While one half of the world was being enchanted by the sun and the clouds, the moon had conquered the other half with its cool, clear light. It had come up from behind a mountain that was now again the usual dark blue, and its light seemed purer and clearer, driving, as it were, the color play of the sun before it until finally everything was emersed in its soft, dreamy light. Again there came the million silver lights shimmering on the sea; the moon and the thousand flicker ing stars above, and tranquillity, peace, and quiet every where.

The next morning we reached D'obo, renowned as the center of pearl fishing. That there was also activity and economic life here could be seen by the metallic ware 49 houses on the piers. The first things we saw were two high radio towers. A Japanese and a few Europeans came on board to join us, and judging from their appearances they were only representatives or employees of business con cerns. Dobo has a more or less international population, and a fairly busy trade. Whether I would like it or not I don’t know, but it does seem to me as though here the in dividual occupies the primary place, and nature is, by con trast, incidental. I began thinking about the economic and strategic importance of these small islands, about New Guinea, about Australia, about the potentialities of this part of the world, and even the pressing Pacific problems that lie ahead. Here in Dobo our luck came to an end. W e at last met with wind, waves, and rain. Our boat began to rock lustily, and two of the boys and the young wives got sick. This weather continued until we reached the coast of New Guinea on the evening of the twentieth. After going somewhat off course, and running aground temporarily, the Albatros steamed up the Digoel River at night, although we were aware that in general, after sunset, ships never sailed on the river. The Digoel River is deep enough, approximately eight hundred to a thousand meters, but it is extremely tortuous and there are no warning lights whatsoever. That the danger in the evening is not imaginary we found out last night, the second night that we were on the river. The boat almost literally steamed into a tree, and had it struck solidly there would have been a serious accident. The boys—and Hafil as well—were sitting or lying on deck at the time of the collision. I was the only one who wasn’t there, since I was here in the cabin writing. Suddenly I heard the thumping and rumbling of heavy objects, and I ran on deck to see what 5° was really turmoil. Half of the deck awning had been tom away, just where the boys were sitting, and heavy beams and broken wood lay on the deck. They were all fright ened. Hafil was just able to save himself at the last minute when he saw the tree right in front of him. He ducked quickly and let it pass over him without touching. It was really a wonder that no one was hit. This river journey is nevertheless monotonous: dirty yellow water and dark, thick vegetation on both banks, no life, not even a crocodile. The vegetation is not very differ ent here from what it is in the jungles of Sumatra. There is the same oppressive thickness and the same abundance. In these jungles you feel strongly the contrast between this part of the world and the other, overpopulated areas. The difference is that here all thoughts about overdevelop ment and overpopulation seem to be ridiculous. This whole island is practically uninhabited, and yet with such a rich vegetation it is certainly not unfertile. This suggests a good deal about the future of mankind. It seems very logical that human history will shift its cen ter of gravity to the East, to the lands of the colored man, and that man will slowly but increasingly draw upon these undeveloped areas. It is an open question whether or not capitalism will be able to accomplish this task. Thus far it has preferred to lodge itself only in well-populated re gions, and for centuries this wilderness has been neglected despite the knowledge that the land must contain great natural riches such as metallic ores, oil, gold.* Is this simply because all these riches acquire value only in connection with labor and human power?

*N ow , about twelve years after Sjahrir wrote these words, Aus tralian, Dutch, and American oil companies have become increasingly interested in New Guinea’s undeveloped petroleum wealth, and have undertaken new projects for investment and development in this area. 51 BOVEN DIGOEL

TAN AH MERAH, MARCH 7, 1935 am now beginning to understand why the police in spector who brought us on board at Ambon asserted 1 so positively that we were administrative “punitives” [gestraften]. At the time that seemed to me to be a mis conception in conflict with everything I had studied about juridical principles, but now I understand the legal error of the inspector. In reality, the opinions of Van Blanken- stein concerning Digoel still apply in full, even though there is no longer any coal godown [Goedang Areng] for the inmates to sleep in, and even though Tanah Merah is now, superficially at least, more like an ordinary village, differing little from any typical village in Java or Sumatra. This place consists of two separate sections that are cut off from one another by a ditch. One section contains the government buildings, the barracks, the prison, and the houses of the government employees and other nonexiles. The other section is the exile camp. The two sections are strictly separate from one another, and inhabitants of one camp can go into the other only if they obtain a permit from the head of the local administration, who is also the commandant of the military establishment. At present the commandant is an army captain. In the exile camp we have a nvedana # and a native police A wedana is an Indonesian appointee to the civil administration who serves m the village as the representative of the Dutch administration. 52 staff from the civil administration and also a kind of com plete village administration: a village chief (who is called here nvahil kampong), with village police, called “law and order guards.” The whole so-called administration is not actually a village administration, since it consists only of men under sentence. They are, furthermore, not official civil servants, although they are paid. At present there are about four hundred exiles here, and about sixty of these are isolated from the others in Tanah Tinggi,* which is about five hours up the river. The pris oners here in Tanah Merah are divided into two categories: the voluntary workers, and the so-called “naturalists.” The first group consists of those who are engaged in work for the Dutch administration for which they are paid: the po lice, the teachers, the medical attendants—all drawing monthly wages—and the much larger group of day laborers who do coolie work for forty cents a day. Also included in this category of voluntary workers are those who have declared themselves as such, but who actually rely on their own trade for their livelihood. These are the vegetable farmers, fishermen, etc. There are about fifteen of this group, and they receive from the administration only so- called “basic support,” i.e., 18 kilos of rice a month. The real voluntary day workers don’t get this and have to get along solely on their forty cents a day. The “naturalists” are those who do not wish to do any work for the government, either because of their principles or for opportunistic considerations. They receive from the

* Tanah Tinggi was the remote part of the Digoel camp—located farther up the river—where the incorrigible or troublesome cases were sent. The Boven Digoel prison camp was“ divided into two sections: Tanah Merah at Digoel itself, and Tanah Tinggi located five hours up the river. Escape from either was impossible because of the location, inaccessibility of transport, and surrounding jungles.

53 government nourishment in kind or “natural nourishment —hence their name—up to a value of not quite three guilders a month; that is, 18 kilos rice, 2.2 kilos salted, dried fish, .6 kilos katjang id jo * .48 kilos salt, .18 kilos tea, .36 kilos cooking oil, .6 kilos brown sugar. No meat, no vegetables, no lighting material, and no clothing. What they lack they must provide for themselves, which they generally do by growing vegetables or fishing' in the river. For the most part it is impossible for members of this category to earn money, because the only possibility of making money is by working for the government. There is among this group, therefore, no special industriousness, and yet I am convinced that if the government did not exert a sort of pressure in that direction, there would be even fewer voluntary workers than there are now (about 150)! About a week after our arrival we were officially told that we had the choice between becoming voluntary work ers or naturalists, and it was strongly emphasized that the voluntary workers were regarded as “having shown regret for what they had done,” and thus it was they who would first come up for probationary consideration. I suspect that this is why you see many former officials of various popular parties working industriously for forty cents a day at clean ing or scrubbing, or doing some other kind of coolie work. It is obviously not simply an economic consideration on their part! t Of our seven P.N.I. boys, there is now just one volun teer worker (Alim, whose sentence I had particularly won dered at) and six naturalists.

* A sort of leguminous plant, something like peas, t Sjahrir s implication is that the party officials were willing to work or the administration so that they might be set free sooner in order to begin again the nationalistic pursuits for which they w ere originally sent to Digoel. 54 For us, actually, the choice was not very difficult. The fraction of forty cents a day for coolie work during the best part of the day was just too little to make us even hesi tate. All the day laborers—after their work from seven in tbe morning until twelve noon, the coolest part of the day— are no longer in fit condition for any other, intellectual, Work. The afternoons are too hot for any work—on an average ° f over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, since you are housed in a s°rt of iron box, which is unbearably hot. In the evening, Moreover, you have to get under your mosquito net in or der to protect yourself against the malarial mosquitoes. Besides, you have to spend a good portion of the day pre paring the meals and keeping the hut clean. Except for Hafil, who was assigned to the only empty hut by the administration, we all have to build our own little hovels. Part of the construction material is supplied by the government—the roof covering and other metallic material. Wood for stakes and walls must be found on your own, and for this reason we have to go into the forest, cut down trees, and work the wood so that it is suitable for building purposes. At present you can find suitable wood only about seven kilometers [4.2 miles] distant from here, and so we must all—naturalists or not—work voluntarily- At least one must work unless one prefers to sleep under the sky to provide pleasant company for the malarial mos quitoes! I had heard that there were a movie, an ice factory, and electric lighting in Tanah Merah, but evidently I wasn’t too well informed. Here in the exile camp there is none of this. In the government section of Tanah Merah there is electric lighting and also an ice factory, but this has very

55 little to do with us because of economic considerations: the ice costs ten cents a pound.

MARCH 9, 1935 My existence in the Tjipinang prison was certainly ma terially better than it is here, where I get only food valued at perhaps 2.60 guilders a month. I was able to live hygieni- cally there, with plenty of light and water, and food that, while it wasn’t palatable, was solid enough so that I got fat on it. What we get here is, I think, insufficient from a purely scientific point of view in terms of calories. In addi tion, I have to build my own hut, which requires that trees first be cut to supply wood. I have to take care of my own clothing, which, since I have no other source of income, al most means using tree bark for material! Moreover, the soil does not seem very suitable for grow ing edibles. Rice cannot be grown here. There is still some fishing in the river, but people here have been doing that so much and so long that near Tanah Merah the river is just about fished dry. On the other hand, you can’t go too far away looking for fishing water, lest you be regarded as a fugitive with all the consequences that would entail. My goodness! The things you have to be and do here: architect, carpenter, farmer, and, last but not least, chef!

MARCH 15,1935 Now I can allow myself the luxury of sorrow even less than in Tjipinang. I need all my energy to defend myself against climate, nature, and sickness, and above all against the demoralizing effect of life in an exile community with all its pettiness, shabbiness, and psychological anomalies. Fortunately I have kept free of malaria, but I doubt whether that will continue much longer. There,is really no 5^ prisoner who does not have the sickness despite the regular doses of quinine.

MARCH 27, 1935 As long as the will to live remains with us, so long are we able to recognize and enjoy the beauty of life even un der the most trying circumstances. We can—in fact, we should—be realistic and critical, but why should we embit ter our lives with skepticism and cynicism? Why and where fore should we give in to disbelief in ourselves and in the world? There is room for life’s beauty in a sharply realistic concept of life as well. Modem psychology can help us to leam to know our selves, to penetrate and understand when and where we have been dishonest with ourselves. Realistic self-analysis thus naturally has its use, but it can never teach us what life is. Life is actually much more than all the separate, un raveled pieces placed next to one another; more than all the thousands or even millions of glimpses into mental ex istence that we place under the microscope of our critical, analytical minds. What does all this finally teach us about life as life, as a movement and a growth, and what does it teach us about love for life and for the beauty of life? That kind of love and the feeling for beauty are syn thetic in so far as they concern our intellect. They repre sent, as it were, a harmony and a synthesis between feeling and intellect—and is not that to be gained only by experi ence? Are not these synthetic moments the bright spots for which we strive in our lives? And after all, what would life be without them, but darkness and death? It is completely natural that man struggles and strives for these bright spots, and the struggle is good and worthy. Absolute harmony and synthesis, however, do not ex

57 ist, in my opinion. We human beings strive toward them as toward the absolute ideal, but the absolute actually lies only in our striving and in our struggle, and that forms the real content of life!

APRIL 6,1935 I will tentatively give my opinion about the community here, although I would prefer to wait until I feel I under stand the whole matter more thoroughly. The phenomena that I can write about now, however, touch on other, larger, issues, and are related to broader and more impor tant questions that I cannot yet fully appraise. Nevertheless, I have a chance here at Digoel to penetrate more deeply than ever before into the psycho-physical make-up of our people. Tentatively, I can only say that my first impressions seem to have been confirmed: spiritual and intellectual limi tations, immaturity, and narrowness not only are great handicaps in life, but in certain respects and under given circumstances they can have disastrous consequences even on the individual’s physical condition. They may, for ex ample, lead to the disintegration and breakdown of his whole nervous system. There have been many interesting psychological and psychiatric instances of this phenomenon. I once saw the play White Ballast performed in Amsterdam, and the situ ation here at Digoel parallels that of the play. As the white people looked in the play, so the prisoners here look, and you find, moreover, the same psychic condition and the same problems here as well—except that here the subjects are Indonesians in exile, rather than white people. Many of them are nothing but complete wrecks. All the levels of our people are represented here, and I 58 have noticed that their real characters stand more nakedly evident here than was ever possible when they were at home. Back home, in their own villages, their true selves— or lack of self—often remained concealed behind newly ac quired customs and “modem” propaganda catchwords and phrases, which often misled one because they were so glibly used, although so seldom understood by the user. One sees here that the ideology is primary and the ideal is secondary; that the latter is defined and understood not by the use of a misleading word or name that is attributed to it, but only by an investigation into the ideology itself. And this ideology must, in turn, finally find its explanation in the social relations of communal life, and in the economic-technical structure of the community itself. I hope to write more about this later on.

APRIL 21,1935 For the present, I am living together with Abdoel and Wahab in a one-person dwelling that really belongs to someone else, a certain Hamid of Medan; a Partindist who arrived one group before us. I knew him before, but I cer tainly never had a thought that I would see him again here. And I’m sure he himself never thought so either; he is such a young fellow and still so new in the nationalist movement. He is certainly no older than twenty-five. There are, for that matter, still younger men from the Partindo, and one of them, in fact, is not even twenty-two. God only knows what such boys can have done to warrant exile.* We are all busy building new houses. We are beginning with Abdoel’s hut, because he is expecting his wife soon,

* Sjahrir himself was not yet twenty-seven at the time, although throughout the book his approach is obviously that of one considerably older than his years. 59 and we have already been into the forest a few times to bring wood for him. In general the huts are constructed pretty much on a hit-or-miss basis, made without any plan or foundation, simply of tree trunks from which the bark has been removed. You finally get a house that is to a large extent made of zinc plates and thus supplies very little light. The roof covering is also generally of zinc, so that it be comes terrifically hot in the house if the sun shines strongly for even a short time. But because you sometimes get stiff breezes here (almost like Holland in November), most of the people prefer zinc roofs to the surprises they would be exposed to if, for example, they were to use palm leaves for a roof covering. The layout of our prison quarter is completely unimagi native. There is one “main street” (really nothing more than an alley of about three meters’ breadth), which di vides the camp into two parts: villages B and C. At the beginning of this street there is a crossroads; and the ad ministrative office, the house of the head of the village, the administrative school, and the largest shop of the camp are located at the crossroads. The shop is the property of a Chinese, who is the only free person allowed to five in the exile camp. Parallel to the main street there are footpaths in both kampongs of from one and a half to two meters in breadth, which are intersected by other walks leading into the main street. The dwellings of the prisoners are situated on the main street and on the footpaths, and at present there are something under two hundred such dwellings. In gen eral the dimensions of the huts are about six by seven meters, and while there are some smaller ones, there are also some bigger ones of about eleven by nine meters. . . . The only house that has the luxury of a cement floor is the one occupied by the village chief. All the other huts 60 * have the ground as the floor. The ground is a sort of clay, and when it is pounded hard it provides a fairly nice floor. In general it appears that not much attention has been given to a hygienic arrangement of houses. Rather they seem to have been built in a helter-skelter way, as though the houses were to be regarded as only temporary buildings. There are only a few of the old houses that were more solidly con structed, and these are the ones built in stories after the manner of American apartment houses. In the houses of this type it is usually relatively cool downstairs, if there are not zinc walls. The other old houses are simply ordinary boxes in which you practically suffocate from the heat. There are only a very few houses with ceilings that check the radia tion of the hot zinc plates. The new huts are better. They are higher and lighter, and they make as little use of zinc as possible; that is, they use it only as roof covering. In general, they look consid erably more attractive, and I have even found a few among them built along a Soekarno style,* I think! .. .

MAY 11,1935 Now that the first avalanche of visits is over, we are let more and more alone by the other prisoners. For myself, I am becoming more and more isolated and filling my time with study as much as possible. Nevertheless, I am not par ticularly satisfied either with the study or with the isolation. I sometimes have the feeling that it is just a sort of escape for me from the daily difficulties, or even a kind of defeat for me in the community of exiles, which I can still not quite understand. I still do not understand most of the other prisoners:

* Sjahrir is referring to a modernized hut style designed by Soekarno after he left the architectural school in Bandoeng. 61 what lies behind their words and actions, and what their train of thinking really is. On the other hand, perhaps it is an error on my part to look for things in their lives that may very well not be there at all. Perhaps all that they do are merely spontaneous reactions, instinctive actions; and perhaps, finally, they are only primitive and simple beings moving and hiding behind the modem phrases that they use. That there is spiritual suffering among them is certain. The weary faces, the shy, sometimes queer-looking eyes, with deep, dark lines under them, bear testimony to this suffering. Most of them appear to be permanently broken in spirit, and that applies even to the newcomers, who found here upon their arrival a more or less normal village, and who, in a material sense, did not have to make so many adjustments. For many of them, it seems that the severest grievance is something quite different from material suffering. It is, however, possible that the mental distortion of some mate rial difficulties to unreasonable proportions has been the cause of the physical and spiritual decay of many of them. Whenever the physical element plays the outstanding role, then the cause is to be sought in the nerve centers and in the brain, which may have been affected by a lack of calcium in the diet. From a purely bodily standpoint, how ever, most of the men do not appear to be very miserable. The average prisoner is even strong in body, and the man ual labor and generally rugged life that is led here produce quite a few well-muscled physiques. But the faces are flabby and the eyes are weary, and you see this same weari ness in the children and women. The climate, sickness, and inadequate nourishment may certainly play an important part in all this, but I am con vinced that, the real moral undermining comes from the psychic reaction of the individual to this situation of im prisoned exile, and the transmutation of this reaction into a profound spiritual misery. Furthermore, they speak of pergaoelan sempit, meaning literally “oppressive living pat tern,” by which they mean that the breadth and relation ships are so narrow that there is a real sense of spiritual oppressiveness. I wonder whether this is not, perhaps, an other form of the well-known “amok” psychology. I remember the murder that took place in Utrecht, when an Indonesian houseboy murdered the whole family of an Indonesian veterinary apparently without even the slightest reason. The conclusion: a primitive nature, excessive spir itual pressure acting on an undeveloped mind, and finally a blind, primitive, groping reaction. The judges, who sen tenced him to the gravest punishment, did not give the im pression of having the slightest understanding of the background of the deed. It took place, moreover, in the Netherlands, where it was absolutely unnecessary to punish him so severely, certainly not from the standpoint of “mak ing an example of him” or of “the preventive working of punishment.” I must admit that try as I might, I could never fully un derstand this amok psychology. Goethe wrote somewhere that there was no crime that he was not capable of doing, and thus that all crimes were human. But it seems to me that that can still not mean that he could place himself in the different psychological frame of mind of each criminal, or that he could thus fully understand every crime and every criminal. I think that that would be impossible. Such a complete understanding would be’possible only if one had lived fully through a similar psychological predicament oneself, even if one had not actually come to the decision

63 and execution of the deed. It seems to me that complete understanding of the psyche of another person is possible only if one has completely or partially gone through the same experience as that person. Perhaps that is also why the murder psychology of a Dostoevski or the suicide psy choses of the Russians or the French are closer to us than the amok psychology of a primitive and half-civilized individual. I have approximately that same feeling here now, some times even with such intensity that I find the others incom prehensibly strange. And yet they are my own people, with whom I have lived the greatest part of my life. It all fatigues me somewhat, and then I temporarily re turn for the greater part of the day to my books. I am at present busy with John Stuart Mill’s Principles of Political Economy.... It is lucidly written, and I find in it the basis of the whole substance of economics and even of the most modem economists, albeit as a germ of the future. Mill has presented Smith and Ricardo better than they themselves did, and yet it is still useful as a handbook for modem economics. The attraction of classicists like John Stuart Mill lies, to a large extent, in the fact that in them you meet with a much greater degree of objectivity and a breadth of thought that you^seldom find among economists of this day and age. At present they all seem rather to belong to a special branch of the study, or to a special school with the definite and limited approach of that school.

MAY 30,193S For weeks now I have in vain resought my enthusiasm for study. I have be™ able to study no more than three hours consecutively without slackening and becoming en- 64 N ervated. It may be due to the inadequate nourishment; I am at least strongly inclined to this conclusion. But I do not have malaria yet. Meanwhile we have had a visit from the Resident [offi cial] of Ambon. Hafil and I were called to appear before him to answer a few questions. The result was that, after we had formally declared that we did not favor “the forceful overthrow of the existing social order,” we were classified as “nonextremists.” For this reason we can now claim a gratuity of seven guilders and fifty cents a month in place of the two guilders and sixty cents’ worth of food a month we have received thus far. Furthermore, we are now to be allowed greater freedom in providing for what we lack, for example by writing articles for the press, which will then only have to be passed on by the regular censor. Perhaps I shall make use of this last prerogative, although it will be with some distaste, since I had definitely decided not to publish anything during these first years. In any case, I certainly won’t write any political articles, not only be cause there is a great danger that the censor will not pass them, but because I propose to remain silent on this subject for a few years. Perhaps I’ll write some ethnological sketches or studies, although I am not much of a believer in such dilettante writings. That is what they would be, after all, since I do not have the necessary texts or my own books for deeper study. The latter are still roaming around in Java, and I don’t seem to be able to get them here, despite the many attempts I have already made. The friends who ought to take care of this for me don’t have the money to send them here, since the freight would be about forty guilders. Perhaps they are also afraid qf getting into trouble with the government.

65 *

JUNE 20,1935 Am I perhaps estranged from my people? W hy am I vexed by the things that fill their lives, and to which they are so attached? Why are the things that contain beauty for them and arouse their gentler emotions only senseless and displeasing for me? In reality, the spiritual gap between my people and me is certainly no greater than that between an intellectual in Holland and, for example, a Drents farmer, or even between the intellectual and the undeveloped peo ple of Holland in general. The difference is rather, I think, that the intellectual in Holland does not feel this gap be cause there is a portion—even a fairly large portion—of his own people on approximately the same intellectual level as himself. And that portion is, moreover, precisely what con stitutes the cultural life of Holland; namely, the intellec tuals, the scientists, the artists, the writers. That is what we lack here. Not only is the number of intellectuals in this country smaller in proportion to the total population—in fact, very much smaller—but in addi tion, the few who are here do not constitute any single entity in spiritual outlook, or in any spiritual life or single culture whatsoever. From the point of view of culture, they are still unconscious, and are only beginning to seek a form and a unity. It is for them so much more difficult than for the intellectuals in Holland. In Holland they build —both consciously and unconsciously—on what is already there. They stand on and push forward from their past and their tradition; and even if they oppose it, they do so as a method of application or as a starting point. In our country this is not the case. Here there has been no spiritual or cultural life, and no intellectual progress for centuries. There are- the much-praised Eastern art forms, but what are these except bare rudiments from a feudal 66 culture that cannot possibly provide a dynamic fulcrum for people of the twentieth century? What can the puppet and other simple and mystical symbols offer us in a broad and intellectual sense? They are only parallels of the out dated allegories and wisdom of medieval Europe. Our spir itual needs are needs of the twentieth century; our problems and our views are of the twentieth century. Our inclination is no longer toward the mystical, but toward reality, clarity, and objectivity. In substance, we can never accept the essential difference between the East and the West, because for our spiritual needs we are in general dependent on the West, not only scientifically but culturally. We intellectuals here are much closer to Europe or America than we are to the Boroboedoer or Mahabharata or to the primitive Islamic culture of Java and Sumatra. Which is our basis: the West, or the rudiments of feudal culture that are still to be found in our Eastern society? So, it seems, the problem stands in principle. It is seldom put forth by us in this light, and instead most of us search unconsciously for a synthesis that will leave us internally tranquil. We want to have both Western science and East ern philosophy, the Eastern “spirit,” in the culture. But what is this Eastern spirit? It is, they say, the sense of the higher, of spirituality, of the eternal and religious, as op posed to the materialism of the West. I have heard this countless times, but it has never convinced me. Did not Hitler also say that the Aryan Geist was the sense of the higher, the spiritual, the moral, the religious? And is this spirituality actually such a pre-eminently Eastern attribute and ideal? It seems to me definitely iri'accurate. It is possible that climatic and racial factors have hi*d an influence on the present differences in development between the East and 67 the West. However, it is no longer possible to determine the direction or magnitude of that influence, because of the more direct and apparent expression of the influence of economic and sociological factors. If one looks at world history as a whole and endeavors to understand its total gradual development, then the peren nial so-called “essential” differences between the spiritual ism of the East and the materialism of the West disappear; and instead the emphasis centers upon feudal culture with its spiritualism and universalism, on the one hand, and the bourgeois-capitalistic culture with its bourgeois ideology, its materialism, and its modem objectivity on the other. Meanwhile, this remains the problem of the so-called “awakening Easterner.” Turkey and China orient them selves principally and consciously toward the West, whereas India—with Gandhi and Tagore—seeks a “national, Eastern form of life” and resists, as it were, westernization, or mod ernization. Gandhi places the greatest emphasis on what is “eastern,” on the spiritual, the moral, and the religious. Tagore, on the other hand, wants Western science and modernism, but in a new, Indian form that will be steeped in the “Eastern wisdom of life” [levemavijsheid]. In point of fact the whole thing is hardly clear. This latter approach of Tagore cannot be the answer to the problem either, for in the East everything is more deeply rooted than in the West. This must be taken into consideration particularly if one is to understand the psy chology and the spiritual position of the Eastern intelligent sia. They feel no foundation whatsoever under them. In Indonesia, for the most part, they go along unknowingly perhaps, but in Turkey, in China, and in India they are consciously searching for some secure foundation. c 68 JU LY 20, 1935 I received a calendar in the last mail with paintings by Jo Spier of Dutch shipping in bygone centuries. It is strange that such national romances now seem spurious for Europe and in particular for western Europe, and in fact that they now are even somewhat repulsive. There is certainly no need for such vain and coarse bombast, and I feel that tal ents such as those of Spier are wasted and thrown away when they are used in the service even of what is called “healthy” or “modest nationalism.” In the service of a dis proportionate use of national colors shown on his paintings, his art seems dishonorable and ugly. Technique alone can accomplish nothing. The artistic ideal and the artist’s ideal of life alone can give rise to art. Great souls and great characters alone can accomplish great works of art, and great souls do not let themselves be im prisoned in narrow ideas and ideals. The great works of art have always been broadly human, and the artistic ideal that has inspired these works has been a human ideal—an ideal that contains something of mankind in general, and that has as its aim mankind itself. Genius rises above itself, its surroundings, and its epoch, so that we can enjoy for all time the great, broad humanity of its creations. That would, moreover, not be possible if these creations were rooted in the service of ideas and ideals of one time or one country, which themselves were transi tory and relative. The great ones of the past actually seem to be our own spiritual relations and our current companions because of that element which is broadly human and atemporal in their work and which they reached perhaps unconsciously. Every work of art gives the impression—and, in a sense, is —a panegyric on humanity, for it is always a manifestation 69 of a specific human attribute. More than science, art is a broadly human possession and characteristic; it is that which distinguishes us from the rest of nature, and that is why all mankind can see itself best and most clearly in art, despite differences of race, culture, and civilization. In art there is possible a more immediate and spontaneous recognition and appreciation of the broadly human bond between all men. It is therefore not simply a matter of taste that the degradation of art to national and racial art seems to me unnatural and in conflict with the essence of art. This is particularly true of the western European art of Goethe, Beethoven, Shakespeare, Dante, and Plato. For how can a D’Annunzio ever be compared with a Dante? Art uses temporal ideas as its material content, but it acts as a form of expression for broadly human thoughts and feelings. This is precisely why the high points of artistic life are possible only with, are determined by, and in fact coincide with the high points in human history. Great works of art are products of those periods of material and spiritual progress in which great ideas flourished on a basis of faith in humanity and in humanity’s powers. This argument can also be cited as an explanation of the paltry art produced in times that are lacking in spirit and intellect, since there is neither material nor intellectual pros perity at such times. This explanation, however, implies a factor of intellectual values, an evaluation that I mentioned above—that great works cannot arise from narrow ideas and ideals. To put it more strongly, only distortions can arise from confused and disabled minds.

JULY 24,1935 I am now living n my own hut, which I was lucky enough to get as is. ^ Menadonese fellow lived in it first, 70 and it was he who built it. He has now been sent for the second time to Tanah Tinggi, the camp for so-called “in- corrigibles,” which is about twenty kilometers up the river from here. The house is well situated, high, and with a view of the river, which is about 150 meters wide at this point. On the opposite bank there is a thick forest, but the lower section of the bank on this shore is well irrigated and under culti- vation. I can see these little green patches from here, and every morning I find it pleasant to look toward the river, the forest, and the gardens. Sometimes the water is mirror-smooth as though there were no current in the river, and at other times it seems to come to life as it ripples and shimmers with the sun shining upon it, and the green background of the forest seeming to move with it. Except for a few small fishing craft belong ing to the prisoners who are trying to provide themselves with fish, there is seldom any sailing on the river. Although I now live in a pleasant hut that is certainly large enough for a bachelor existence, at first I was not particularly anxious to go into it. Actually it is hardly more than a zinc box! The roof and the walls are zinc, and if the sun shines brightly for even a moment, the heat is un bearable inside. Furthermore, since it is so close to the river, there is much more chance of getting malaria. Yesterday we had one of the regular spleen examinations, and it seems that I am still free of malaria although my supply of red blood corpuscles has decreased. Of our group, I am the only one who is still without malaria. Mahmoed is in the hospital with malaria, and Abdoel has already been there for over a month without our knowing what is the matter with him. His hous.:: is progressing well, nevertheless, under Wahab’s direction, and his wife and

7i child are expected soon. I think that the poor fellow must be pretty homesick by now. My new hut is situated bn a sort of peninsula. On the tip of the peninsula a Menadonese named Liantoe lives, and next to him is a young and interesting chap named Achmad. Achmad has been married and had several children, but his wife couldn’t stand it here, and has since returned to Java, where she married someone else. Between Achmad’s hut and mine there is a Batak fellow called Gagah, and in the last house on the other side is a former official of the P.K.I.,* a rather old man, with his equally old wife. My first impressions of the climate here were not wholly accurate. Actually it is quite rainy; hardly a week goes by without rain. The river is quite high at present and it may get still higher. Already a few of the little green gardens on our side of the bank have been washed away.

AUGUST 9,193S Water is a great problem here. In addition to drinking water and water for household purposes, we also have a critical need of bath water, since one naturally needs at least one and preferably two baths a day here. Formerly everyone went to bathe or to wash in the Digoel River, but ever since one of the men was pulled under by a crocodile there has been less inclination to go to the river. Most of the people now go to another small river called Kali Bening, which is farther away, and there are also several public washing and bathing facilities of which we make use.

* Partai Konmnis Indonesia—Indonesian Communist party. In the late 1920 s, after a Communist "evolt in 1927, all Indonesian Communists were jailed by the Dutch. Bove^Digoel Camp was, in fact, originally intended or the imprisonment of communists only, but the intention was later altered. i i For drinking and cooking water we mainly use rain water. There are a few who have dug wells behind or in their houses, but well water is evidently not good here, and besides, it is necessary to dig very deep before you strike water. Fortunately we have had a lot of rain recently, which has made the weather somewhat cooler. It is not unusual, however, for a whole month to go by without a drop of rain, and then the wells and the Kali Bening dry up, and we all have to go to the Digoel River.

SEPTEMBER 10, 1935 Before we came here—that is to say, first the Partindists and the Menangkabauers from the religious parties came and then our group followed—only so-called communists were exiled here. It is well enough known—since van Blanken- stein and others have already made it quite clear—that in general they were actually not communists, and I am say ing nothing new when I say that I have thus far not met in Tanah Merah even one communist in the true sense of the word. The term “revolutionaries” or “extremists” would be more accurate, although there are even very few of them to be found. With respect to the first prisoners who were sent here after the famous [Communist] uprising of 1927, the largest • part of these men, who followed the command of the P.K.I. at that time, did so with the same sort of disposition that they would have followed any prince or venal quack or lunatic. The largest number of them were undeveloped villagers, and the percentage of illiterates was high. It seems to me plausible that even if a large majority of them were not communists, they still were in ravor of a rebellion. However, I think that they did not even quite know what they wanted to represent thereby. For'many it was perhaps 73 nothing more than a crude mystical impulse, and for others it was perhaps a case of direct economic ambitions. Immediately upon my arrival here, it struck me that the average man, whom I had mostly dealt with in the [nation alist] movement before my arrest, seemed to be more moderate and slightly more developed than these exiled prisoners. Part of the explanation lies in the fact that since they were exiled here [in 1927] they have experienced eight years of intellectual stagnation. However,' it is also an indication that the intellectual caliber of the nationalist movement in Indonesia has improved during the last few years. Among these prisoners, in the first place, I recognize a part of our ordinary Indonesian people; and they are abso lutely “ordinary” regardless of whether they are called communists or rebels. They are, simply and fundamentally, Indonesians: that is to say, Javanese, Menangkabauers, Bantammers, or Soen- danese. If one wishes to understand them, one must regard them in this light first of all, and only then can one really evaluate the so-called communism that many of them profess. And if one then makes such an evaluation, one finds that it is a strange sort of communism indeed, a mystical Hinduistic-Javanese, Islamic-Menangkabau, or Is- lamic-Bantam sort of communism, with definite animistic tendencies. There are not many European communists who could recognize anything of their communism in this Indo nesian variety! This is actually true not only of the majority of the villagers but also of the city and town dwellers, although it sometimes appears 'Otherwise on first glance. There is no sharp contrast to be'^made between city and village in this country for the most;,part, and there is even less distinction 74 to be made between the mentality of a town and a village inhabitant. At the most, there are only gradual differences in degree, rather than sharp difference in kind. The Java nese factory worker is often just the ordinary peasant [orang tani), and the Soerabajan is still thinking in rural terms even if he rides in an electric tram or drives a taxi. . Oh the other hand, our boys here from the P.N.I. are of a very different caliber. They are not narrow-minded fa natics. They are more liberal and hence more dispassionate and more sober, and as far as a rebellion is concerned, they haven’t even dreamed about it. That is why we were, I suppose, immediately classified with the nonextremists after the Resident of Ambon came here. On the other hand, it is a little peculiar: if we are nonextremists, then why are we exiled? For my own part, I consider the lack of a militant spirit among our boys a great fortune under these exile condi tions. They are more tranquil and steady as a result and accept their fate more readily. Consequently the time passes more easily and quickly.

OCTOBER 1, 1935 Last week I sailed up the river in a fishing boat to one of the settlements of the Kaja-Kajas. They live in high stilt houses, with floors of wooden boards and roofs of braided palm leaves. These houses have no rooms, and the space is simply divided into two parts. In such a house, with a surface of not more than a small worker’s house in a Dutch town, more than twenty men, women, and children live next to one another, not to mention the many dogs and piglets. The piglets, in fact, are carried by hand just as the children are, and sometimes the Kajft-Kaja women even J 75 nurse the piglets at their breasts as they do their own chil dren! When I arrived at the settlement the Kaja-Kajas began to scream to me and waved their hands about. I stepped out of the boat and went toward them. As soon as I landed, the Kaja-Kajas came out of their houses on all sides down the stairs—which were not European stairs but simply long, straight tree trunks with notches in them—and surrounded me. Naturally, the children were the first ones there, and they made all sorts of grimaces at me, just as mischievous children throughout the world would do. The men asked me for tobacco, because they are avid smokers. One of them also wanted to exchange his piglet for my ax, but I didn’t agree to it. I did give them some tobacco, and I received in return a substantial quantity of sago.

OCTOBER 18, 1935 Now, finally, I also have malaria. I had my first serious attack of fever last week. It has subsided but I am far from feeling normal.

NOVEMBER 24, 1935 My unconstrained fatalism is definitely the best mental attitude under these circumstances. I am only surprised that I am capable of such fatalism, and of the internal confidence that I find in myself that there is no limit to this fatalism. When I first came here, and regarded most of the prisoners here as intellectual and spiritual ruins, I thought: At least I would never let it go that far. If I really had no more hope for the future what soever, and felt that I was intellectually dying, I would certainly make an er;d to myself. Moreover, I wondered at 76 the time that there had been so very few who had thought of this solution. So far as I have been able to find out, there has been only one case of suicide during the eight years that the camp has been functioning. I am no longer surprised about it. It seems paradoxical but it is nonetheless true: fear of death brings death closer, whereas fear of life estranges death. For, from an analytical point of view, I do not think that the almost boundless tol erance of our people—and in general of all Eastern peoples, with the exception of the Japanese—finds its cause in the Easterner’s greater fear of death. On the contrary, I think that for the more dynamic Westerner, the prospect of death is much more terrifying than it is for the passive Easterner. The Eastern philosophy of death is actually the Eastern philosophy, and it is not limited to Buddhism. The quality of nonexistence as the highest ideal of life is a sort of gen eral philosophy in this passive East. It is not the philosophy of death but rather of shunning life, of a fear of life. It is a mental attitude of disdaining life, of turning from life, and thus of passively accepting life and the world, without making any attempt to change or oppose it. Consequently, there is the Eastern concept that life is suffering; and there fore, the contrast between life and death is seen and inter preted in a light that is entirely different from that of the Westerner. The Westerner defies death in order to act upon and influence life, whereas the Easterner accepts life and waits for death, which itself signifies for him the solu tion to his suffering. The Westerner says with Schiller: uUnd setzt Ihr nicht das Leben ein, nie 'ivird Euch das Leben genjjonnen sein.” Life is the main thing, the goal, and death is thus the highest price to pay for it. The Westerner struggles and suffers to live. 1 By contrast, the Easterner lives to suffer, and he accepts

77 suffering. The Westerner makes demands upon life and shuns death. The contrast between death and life dominates everything for him, and is delineated as sharply as possible in his thinking. If life can give him nothing, and if it only signifies a total failure, then there is only death, 7Z0?Z-Iiving, 7z07z-existence. And thereby he is still dynamic and active. He still chooses, and he prefers, as it were, death in place of life. On the other hand, the Easterner accepts a life of suffer ing, and in fact shuns death. His shunning is not conscious, but he comes to the same result by never making a sharp distinction between life and death, and by not asking any thing from life. He never comes to a choice between life and death, and never undertakes an action from which the choice appears. He does not act, and he does not struggle. The nonviolence and satyagraha of Gandhi—which has at tempted to make this passivity into a weapon—is a case in point. And even the most militant part of our Indonesian people —who are for the most part presumably here in Boven Digoel because they attempted rebellion (at least in so far as the members of the former P.K.I. are concerned) — remain still a part of this passive East. Tradition and history still press inevitably upon them, and thus it is that escape and suicide have so seldom been attempted in this exile community. 4 BANDA NEIRA *

BANDA NEIRA, FEBRUARY 11, 1936 i ^ o d a y Hafil and I arrived in our new island of intern- I ment. Although the newspapers had written about -J-L- it for several months, and hence I could more or less expect something of this sort, nevertheless the change took place suddenly. There was not much formality, and they only asked us for a signed statement that as long as we were interned on Banda Neira we would not engage in any political activity. We left Boven Digoel on January 30, and we were thus under way for about ten days. First we went along the coast of New Guinea, along Mimika—notorious for the savage Kaja-Kajas—then Fak-Fak, and via Ceram to Banda Neira, the capital of the Banda Islands. W e are not restricted to the capital, however, but to the whole group of Banda Islands, and these stretch more than two hundred kilometers from here, according to the com mander. We thus have extensive “living space” now, as well as vast, ineffable natural beauty.

* After approximately one year’s time at Digoel, Sjahrir was moved from New Guinea to Banda Neira in the Molucca Islands; a far less severe internment. At Banda Neira he was allowed much more freedom of movement. There was no longer direct censorship of his mail, and his status was that of an exile rather than a prisoner. He was not, of course, allowed to leave the Banda Islands or to go to any other islands in the archipelago. H e was still a prisoner, but his prison had increased in size and comfort. \\

79 Banda Neira is a step upward in other respects as well. We are closer to the world, and closer to the tin mines, even though only by the airplane connection. Moreover, there is no longer any censorship of my letters, or at least no open censorship. In a financial sense, it is also an im provement, since I’ll receive a fair allowance here. Notwithstanding these facts, the change has not stirred me as it has Hafil, who has become quite happy. Actually I have been almost indifferent toward both the report of the change and the whole trip here. For in a real sense, this has hardly changed anything in my life, and it is even pos sible that I will feel more alone in the more normal and lively community of Neira than I did at Tanah Merah. Furthermore, I will be put in a milieu that I always avoided before my arrest: the well-to-do bourgeois milieu that I won’t be able to get away from completely no matter how I try, in a little town like this. There is something of a “society” here, and for the Moluccas there is a very high percentage of European and Indo-Europeans. Banda Neira is a very old Dutch settle ment, and the fort dates back to 1617, while the Portuguese fort, which is now a ruin, is still older. In the last century Neira was still flourishing, and there are large, former Dutch and other houses with dozens of rooms, left from the end of the last century, which one can rent for ten or fifteen guilders a month. The house of the commandant of the city—which formerly was the governor’s palace—is al most a whole block long.

FEBRUARY 19, 1936 I do not yet know, the place very well, but as far as its size is concerned, it can best be compared with a Dutch pro vincial town. There fjre shopping and residential districts, 8o and lovely small streets with old, tall trees. The popu lation is not more than a few thousand people, but unfortu nately they seem quite nondescript and uninteresting. The original population of these islands actually was almost completely exterminated during the time of the early Dutch plunder. Those who did survive fled to other islands of the East, and even as far as New Guinea. The Dutch and their business comrades established them selves as planters at that time, and in the last century there were still many Dutch nutmeg plantations, for which many coolies were imported from Java. These later arrivals make up what is now the population of Banda Neira: the de scendants of the planters—for the most part Indo-Europeans —Indonesians from other islands, particularly Java, and many Arabs and Chinese. The latter are here, as every where in this country, the shopkeepers and artisans. The population is not so dark here as on the other islands of the Moluccas. Among the so-called Europeans, you find some Negroid as well as Mongolian and Semitic [Arabian] types. Physically, these blood mixtures seem to be particu larly successful. The kampong population is predominantly Malay, which is to say, of Javanese or Boetonese origin, and there are many Javanese and Boetonese who live as agriculturists in the hills of the Goenoeng Api. It is really remarkable that the Boetonese come here to earn a livelihood. They come in their own small sailing craft, which are shells of sometimes no more than ten meters in length, across the seas of the archipelago. They stay here for a year or two and then re turn to Boeton with the money they have saved—if they have been able to save. The Boetonese are the salaried workers and laborers here, and the servants, coolies, and porters; are almost all Boe- 81 tonese, as well. They are Malay, but the race is represented at its best by these Boetonese. Physically, they are stronger than the Javanese or the Sumatrans, and they are generally better-looking, although their physiognomies are often somewhat simple and uncivilized. The living standard of the ordinary village inhabitant is quite low, as is indicated by the low rents that I have men tioned, and the average daily wage for a coolie or a servant —that is, the unskilled worker—amounts to about fifteen cents. The language here is Malay, but of a Banda dialect with many Dutch words. Bread, for example, is b ro t* and furthermore, the Malay that is spoken here contains many tonal variations, and sometimes it seems to be like the Ma lay of the Mandailingers. The Arabian element is also quite noticeable, and while for the most part they are Bandanese Arabs, some of them still understand Arabian, and they often wear red fezzes on their heads. Another noteworthy fact, which perhaps can not be found anywhere else in Indonesia, is that the Arabs here engage in all kinds of work, and not only their tradi tional professions of moneylending and house renting. They also engage in wage labor, and one meets with Ara bian shoemakers, tailors, bicycle mechanics, and so forth. We also have here our Morgan, Ford, and Rockefeller, although they are all three rolled into one person: the “ruler” of Banda. He is of Chinese origin but he has been “assimilated,” and hence is considered to be a European! He holds in his hands all the economic threads of Banda: export (mainly nutmeg) and import, housing, the major businesses, the ice factory, etc.

* After the Dutch word brood, rather than the Malay word roti. 82 FEBRUARY 21,1936 W e are not the first exiles to be sent here, and besides Dr. Soeribno, who has been an exile since 1929 and lives here with his whole family, there is also a Mr. Soebana, with his wife and children. I have only hasty impressions of Dr. Soeribno, one of the fathers of our nationalist movement. He is a subtle sort of person with a somewhat belligerent nature, but I haven’t the least idea whether I can expect intellectual enlighten ment from him. There is, in fact, some talk that he may be moved from here to another, larger place. Judging by the views he has expressed to me, they would actually do just as well to let him go back to Java. I am really curious whether the colonial government may now gradually put another policy into effect. In fact, I think that they cer tainly ought to make use of a part of the nationalist move ment in their foreign policy. I am certain of at least one thing, and that is that this colonial regime, and even more so, the “colonial-minded” Dutchmen, will be sorry that they have not pursued a policy of wide perspective suited to the modem, changing structure of the world. They will be sorry that they never —not for a single moment—paid any attention whatsoever to a sensible, uplifting cultural policy for the benefit of the Indonesian people. For my own part, I am convinced that this shortsightedness, this famed Dutch “stolidity,” and this lack of imagination and daring will “return to plague the inventor” from now on. This viewpoint has become strong in my mind as a result of my acquaintance with Soeribno. It seems to me that they could make good use of a man of his type. He is indeed so thoroughly westernized, and perhaps they will actually dare to take that “risk” now. In the final analysis they will, 83 of course, have to follow this line, but by that time it may well be too late. As an exile, I can only say: W e shall see!

FEBRUARY 26,1936 I have now been in Banda Neira for two weeks, but it already seems as though I’d been here for years. Time cer tainly moves slowly. Probably the main reason is that I am so impatient to receive some news from home in Holland. I guess that the mail still goes to Digoel first, and from there comes back here, which is why I will have to wait a few months between letters. Moreover, we live in such an out lying district that I almost feel as though I were back in the Digoel community. I see it in my own impatience in wait ing for the arrival of the steamers and the mail! After living with Mr. Soebana for a week, Hafil and I have now found a house of our own. It is really quite a large place covering an area of four hundred square meters. It has six rooms with a front and rear veranda and adjacent servants’ quarters of about eight more rooms. The rear veranda, in fact, is almost as large as a tennis court. It seems like an impractical waste of space, but actually it is a real luxury since we now have almost no discomfort whatsoever from the heat. And for all this we pay a rental of twelve and a half guilders a month! From the advance that we received on our allowance * we purchased some furniture, but the articles are almost unnoticeable in these huge rooms. Only our studies seem to be furnished, since this is where we shall spend most of our time in Banda Neira. We live in the so-called Dutch village in the European section, near a pleasant and clean street. In general, Neira is

* A fairly liberal subsistence allowance granted by the Dutch govern ment. 84 quite clean, even the sections in which the poorer inhabit ants live. Our neighbors are not pure-blooded Europeans, but they seem to be good-natured and simple people who call themselves “Europeans”—as distinguished from the “natives”—despite their dubious command of the Dutch language and their totally indigenous appearance. They also have European names, and hence are probably de scendants of the old planters or other Dutch residents.

MARCH 9,1936 For my relative unpopularity in nationalistic and intel lectual circles in Indonesia, I can largely thank what they call my “Western inclinations” and sometimes even my “Hollandophile” sentiment. I have always known that such attitudes were inevitable in every nationalist movement that pits itself—as an independent movement—against a rul ing nation. Masaryk was obviously anti-German, the Egyp tians anti-English, and so one finds among us an always growing anti-Dutch—and even anti-Western—disposition or ideology. This disposition is, in fact, strongest among some intel lectuals and petty bourgeois, and hence precisely among those who are not yet active contributors to the political movement. In these circles one finds the most unreasonable attitude toward Westerners, and especially toward the Dutch. Most of them are civil servants or white-collar workers, and because they are afraid of losing their jobs, or because they pay too little attention to political affairs and too much attention to the subordinate but connected issues, they merely grumble bitterly to one another. Although I understand this, I have never been sympathetically inclined toward such an attitude, and I have never wished to make any concessions in this direction. 85 MARCH 16,1936 What I predicted to Hafil months ago has now taken place: They have tried to make political capital out of our removal from Digoel to Banda Neira. I predicted to him that they would certainly not miss a chance to use us as an example of moral victory on their side, and that when they finally did move us, they would make sure that we should leave behind a few scraps with which to feather their politi cal nests. Indeed, no one has ever been able to leave the Digoel hell without sustaining damage in some way. They have now tried it with us. When they set that dec laration before me in which we were supposed to promise that we would have nothing further to do with politics, I involuntarily laughed. Hafil was actually astounded, and I had to “negotiate” with the commandant about it. If my wife had not been in my mind, I wouldn’t have even thought it worth while to “negotiate,” since our case had already been decided upon by that time, and it would have been a nice way to thwart the gentleman. I could certainly have confused our case by refusing to make any concessions whatsoever from my side. Moreover, this would have been the easiest and most gratifying line to pursue, because I could play the part of a hero, and at the same time remain on the noble and righteous path in the eyes of others. At present, the whole political struggle has a very strong moral element for us in the East. For most of the people, politics is not planning and premeditation, but ethical and moral eminence and actions. Political leaders must thus be heroes and prophets, and because I realized this, I was sure that there would be difficulties for us connected with our removal to Banda—and even more difficulties for Hafil than for me. For he is probably the father of the non-co-opera- 86 tion idea in Indonesia, and in any case he is certainly one of the most outstanding champions of this idea. I have never held with that idea, and I have never helped to spread non-co-operation as a political doctrine. Our promise that we would refrain from political activity on Banda implied, certainly, co-operation in the matter of our removal from Digoel. I knew it beforehand, and I was quite aware of what would happen as a result. When we left the office of the head of the local administration in Tanah Merah, I really laughed to myself, and I had occasion to laugh still more later on. When we were on the ship en route here, the second officer asked us if we had signed a declaration, and Hafil—before I could prevent him—naively told him everything, so that we even “co-operated” in this aspect of the case as well. At the time of our arrival at Banda Neira the press re ported that we had arrived safe and sound on Banda after we had signed a declaration that we would have nothing further to do with politics. Naturally the press made out that we had been “converted,” and if I am not mistaken the second officer was the source of the report. We tried to rectify the matter by sending a statement to the press. Hafil drew the statement up, because I didn’t want to bother myself with the matter further. Thus far the statement has not appeared in the Indonesian press, although it is possible that it will still come out. Even if it doesn t appear, however, it will not surprise me, and if it appears too late, the original report will have already accomplished its purpose, particularly in Digoel. It cannot help but have depressing effects there, and finally, while it is not true that we are “converted,” something of the insinuations that have been started will always hang over us. 87 MARCH 21, 1936 During these last years—or to be more accurate, during my stay at Tanah Merah—I have acquired a certain hardness that I never had before. I learned by direct experience that notwithstanding all the culture, humanity, religion, and ethics that we claim to have, there is still an animal factor in us that makes all our culture, humanity, and religion almost laughable. I saw there how one individual can be hard and subtly cruel toward another without the slightest realization on his own part; and how crude and unfeeling he thus really is. Formerly, I wanted to be a realist with all my heart, but I remained an idealist. I looked at the world through the rose-colored lenses of my ideals and my optimism. My benevolence—even toward my opponents—was the natural consequence. They have now made a realist of me, and to this extent Digoel was truly an educational school al though it had not been so intended by others. When I was at Tanah Merah, I thought of Henriette Roland Holst. Did she really believe that any real hope could be based on man’s veneer of culture and ethics? What I have thus far learned is that bread comes before conscience. Conscience is able to force itself into all sorts of forms and shapes, pre cisely in accordance with the dictates of self-preservation. And there is, besides, the lust for power, which is the human form of the animal’s thirst for blood. The human being of Tolstoi and even of Gandhi, whom I had long held before my eyes, has left me. In reality, man is stupid, vulgar, cruel, and brutal. He may be taught, he may have scientific terminology to conceal himself behind, he may wrap himself up in his academic titles and the whole mirage of his refinement and culture, but nevertheless, the 88 animal in him, which he doesn’t want to recognize, projects from all sides. Intellect is not autonomous, and it is not governed by the categorical imperative as the idealistic Kant posited it to be. When it can be measured statistically, it will probably be found that that famed intellect is really nothing more than the slave of the animal in man, of Nietzsche’s undefined will, of the animal’s Triebleben.

MARCH 24,1936 Naturally there is much exaggeration in this pessimistic attitude. I already discovered in Tjipinang the unusual re sults of the mind’s influence on the body and the nervous system. Only through the analysis of one’s feelings and impulses can one sometimes free oneself from them. And, in fact, the realization and analysis of one’s passions implies already a measure of control over them. This concept has significance particularly for the indi vidual. For example, if one investigates thoroughly and honestly why one feels attracted toward a particular idea, a particular theory, or a particular line of thinking, then one comes to the conclusion that not only logic has led one to this idea, but that there are other elements involved ac cording to which the particular thought or theory appears to coincide with the truth. It is these elements that mold that theory or idea into your particular concept of truth. In each certainty there is thus an element of wish, and the less developed the indi vidual is, the weaker his intellect and the narrower his mind—then the greater the role that this element of wish plays in the formulation of his thoughts. In other words, among backward peoples the intellect per se has less influ 89 ence on wishes and passions than among those whose minds are more broadly and fully developed.

APRIL 12,1936 Consciousness must, in the first place, include self- criticism and appraisal of one’s own thinking. Why, for example, do we search for new theories and reject the old? Why is it that the old ideas no longer contain sufficient truth for us, and why do we no longer find any certainty in them? Is it because they no longer jibe with the facts? And if so, then what facts are we referring to? Simply those facts that we have chosen in order to justify our doubts. And are these, then, really facts, or only facts from the point of view of the individual concerned; facts that he has formulated in his own mind; that is, only certain selected aspects of the facts that have been picked out and put for ward as the whole truth? Why then do we search for new truths? Is it in the interest of truth itself, or is it only be cause we wish to move in a certain direction different from the old? What are, really, our deepest and basic motives in looking for new truths? This subjective factor in knowledge plays an especially large part in the area of the social sciences. In fact, all theo ries in this area have only a very relative value. This is why the practical value of such theories is of so much import. It is true that the theory, and not the practice, specifies practical aims, but it is the practical aims themselves that determine the choice and feasibility of a given theory. The theory itself is thus also not absolute, but quite relative. The time of the absolute and exclusive truths is well past now, as is that of the theories that proclaimed the “whole” truth. We can actually speak only of theories that are or are not useful to us, personally. And then we come directly 90 up against the question: Why are they not useful? Simply because they are of no practical use, because they are not appropriate for the attainment of our particular goal; and thus one comes to the final recognition that that goal itself is a very vital factor in shaping our thoughts. If one analyzes that goal, and tries to understand its place in his thinking and his emotions, its function, and also its origin and its genesis, then one has uncovered one side of the question of truth; a very important, perhaps the most important, side, as far as he himself is concerned, for it is that which makes it possible for him to control his thoughts and his passions. This is why I am sometimes so vexed at the supreme posi tiveness and assertiveness of new theories. For the most part they simply give the impression of narrowness and one sidedness, and above all of a pretense of having now, finally, discovered the complete truth. In most cases, it even appears that the formulator is unusually ignorant, that he has be come the victim of his own Triebleben—and that he is sometimes even a psychological, if not a psychiatric, case. All this is not argued in order to cast doubt upon the value of scientific thinking or of science itself. Moreover, it does not by any means imply that I do not attach any value to social theories. All I wish to point out is the strong ele ment of relativity in all these cases. I also feel that while each one of us has the right to choose the theory that seems most valid to him, we must never thereby allow ourselves to become fanatics whose minds are warped by this theory. We must still try to main tain as broad and objective a viewpoint as possible by the recognition of the relativity of even our own convictions and our own truths. We must try to make our knowledge as wide and extensive as we can. 9 i And again, this does not mean that a strong purposiveness in life [wilsleven] is wrong. On the contrary, by recogniz ing the influence of the goals and the purposes and even of the Triebleben, we also recognize the value thereof. But through the effort of understanding and analyzing them, we attempt to arrive at a higher consciousness and knowl edge. In other words, we attempt to live in such a way that we take advantage of all the potentialities of life that are— in a subjective sense—available, and we utilize them in a proper combination and relationship, and in mutually func tional harmony.

APRIL 24,1936 There are many things that I thought about at some length in Digoel, but that I could not or did not want to write about while I was there. I was held back by the idea that something of my personal state of mind would come under the foreign and hostile eyes of the wedanct and the captain—who exercised the censorship there. With a prison warden, you stand in a different light because he often sees himself as the leader of a social educational foundation. He may even cherish the thoughts of his inmates, because he feels a sincere sympathy toward social misfits and psycho logically unbalanced people who are the so-called “crim inals” under his care. Such a man may have a positive and constructive attitude toward his work. But at Boven Digoel the situation is quite different, de spite the fact that it is still assumed that enlightened prison methods are used toward the internees. For example, in what social concepts can the inmates be educated? What would the aim of a modem probation system be there? And if indeed there were enforced a creed of educating and helping the psychologically unbalanced (let us say, the 92 politically high-strung!), of treating the cases of rashness and inconsiderateness, or even the psychiatric cases of the politically “asocial” or “antisocial” who have committed such crimes as murder and attack—if indeed there were any intention of regarding Digoel as a task for responsible direc tion-then they would never have selected a civil or military commander to be in charge, with the aid of a wedana who maintains “contact” with the internees through his network of spies. Instead there is no question but that an educated, trained, and experienced probation officer would have been chosen for the difficult task, if such had been the intention. At least no one has the impudence to call Digoel a gen uine “reformatory,” although on the other hand the institu tion of a concentration camp is not yet officially recognized in the laws of the Indies. As far as that is concerned, they are still far behind Germany here, although on the other side of the picture, Germany ought to be able to learn a good deal from the Digoel practices as far as the regulation of the institution is concerned. Germany has taken the in stitution into its laws, but here they have not, probably because of their conservatism; or perhaps, indeed, because they are not yet wholly sure whether such a thing as a concentration camp like Digoel can be justified to the democratic conscience that they still recollect from Hol land. In any case, Boven Digoel has now been in existence for almost ten years without its being regulated by law!

MAY 5,1936 It is understandable that technology has been made into an object of worship and fear, not only in western Europe. Nevertheless, technology is only a means, and an inanimate means cannot be blamed for the disequilibrium in man’s 93 affairs. As far as there is a question of blame, it must be attributed to man himself. Only the user of the means can be held guilty for the method by which, and the goal to ward which, he employs the means. * That technology has outgrown humanity is really only true of the peculiar relationships in which we now live. As long as there is only an impotent minority among mankind that wishes to direct and utilize technology for the welfare and benefit of humanity, and for propelling humanity in a forward direction, so long can the world not be regulated constructively and so long must we accept the fact that our development proceeds blindly. We can rail against human beings for their ignorance and lunacy, we can assert that they are simply living as animals; but as long as their natures are more animal than human, they cannot live otherwise. Instead, they remain driven by their passions; they trample and destroy one another in a mad national, social, and indi vidual struggle for existence. And now the world is ruled by the men of passion. They are masters because they form the overwhelming majority, and it is they who decide the immediate fate of mankind. And the rest of us can only recognize this fact. The best we can try is to prepare for what this fate will be. W e can only attempt to prosecute our tasks within the limits of the possible. If the men of passion start another war of annihi lation, then there is nothing we can do to prevent it. But there will certainly come a reversal even in this. When these men begin to realize—as even they will—that their attempts at annihilation of other men will amount in the final analysis to suicide and self-destruction; when a realization of the ultimate equation of murder and suicide sets in, then they too will listen to reason, and then it will 94 be up to the rest of us. Until such a time, we must under stand our role as a purely scientific one.* As long as men live as animals there is a blind regularity in their lives, and they follow the same natural laws that govern animal life. Marx sought to demonstrate this at length in his theory of social development. He has been accused often of naive optimism, but in reality his theory rests on a strongly pessimistic realism, on a recognition of the ignorance of man, and on the idea that man is not to be understood in terms of what he thinks, but rather—as a physical being, as an animal—in terms of what he uncon sciously does. That was—and still is—man. That, and that alone, is why it is possible to accept a regularity in history and in social life, and that is, moreover, why it is not strange to find a mechanical causality in hu man history so that the paths of human development can often be calculated in advance. Mankind—as it still exists at present—is the price for which the tigers are fighting. The tigers are those who struggle for power, and who stop at nothing to ensnare the ignorant mass; those who cast a spell over the mass by their demagoguery, and who appeal to and seek to give domi nance to the animal in man for their own advantage. And as long as the animal in man remains dominant, any propa ganda attempting to bring him to reason is doomed to failure. In our times, power and brutal, material force alone can do all, but this itself is only because the peculiar rela tionships of our current epoch make this possible. To my way of thinking, this does not yet give reason for despair. It has always been so, but we have still made some progress, and I feel that we shall continue to do so. * Written three years before World War II, and nine years before the atomic bomb, these last two paragraphs are particularly interesting, regarded in retrospect. i 95 These are really only the subjective factors of the ques tion, and that, perhaps, puts the problem in a one-sided light. But after all, is it not precisely this subjective side that is the most vital for those who seek to grapple with the problem? What, after all, is to be done? What is wrong in ourselves, and how can we better ourselves? For most of us, these are the questions of the moment. And nevertheless the questions must be answered from as many-sided an approach as possible; that is, both subjectively and objec tively. In my exile status, I cannot, however, go into the objective approach!

MAY 6, 1936 There is considerable tension in the world today. Lit vinov states that “peace is indivisible,” or, in other words, war cannot be localized. Wherever it breaks out—either in Europe or here in Asia—this time it will become one great world conflagration. And poor Ethiopia is now being sacri ficed in advance to it. There may naturally be some quick relief, but if there are no delays, even that will not materialize. And one thing is certain: This time a war will also be at the expense of Holland. A short while ago I wrote that the Dutch would be sorry that they have never pursued a cultural policy or a broad policy of reconciliation in this country. As the situation now stands, they can expect no help whatsoever from the people of Indonesia. Colijn’s authoritarian ideas will not be worth one half a cent, from the standpoint of international politics. As far as that is concerned, Holland is absolutely dependent on foreign events. Both the eight million Dutch men and the seventy million Indonesians are alike in having absolutely no military strength whatsoever. And further- 96 more, the Dutch and the Indonesians, in the meantime, have only learned to distrust each other. But then, the Dutch petite bourgeoisie cannot be anything but narrow and short sighted.

MAY 9,1936 I am busy with In the Shadows of Tomorrow [In de Schaduwen van Morgen] by Professor Huizinga. Within one year there have been five editions of this book, which is something quite remarkable for a work written in Holland. And why is it so successful? Certainly because it is so perti nent, and because it deals with problems that the whole world is concerned with at present. It gives a “diagnosis of the spiritual misery of our time,” and above all, it is written in a clear and appealing style. There are, in fact, a few sec tions—for example, the first—that are almost monumental in their style. I feel, however, that these are not the qualities that have been behind the book’s success, but rather it is due to the fact that Huizinga’s pattern of thought and feeling is so closely linked to that of the whole Netherlands people. I recollect another writing of Huizinga, the brochure The Spiritual Characteristic of Holland [Nederland’s Geestes- merk], in which he showed how Dutch history has plainly left its mark on the Dutch people, and how the unity of the Dutch people arose between 1500 and 17 00, during the period of the Protestant struggle against the Catholic Church. The new faith found its adherents among the lower middle class and the tradespeople of the time, in op position to a Catholic king and his lords. This Calvinist philosophy has become the heritage as well as the burden of the Dutch people, who have retained it up to the present day. It can, indeed, no longer be called pure 97 Calvinism, because it is equally present in the Dutch Cath olic, liberal, and atheist. It has really become the national heritage, the spiritual characteristic [geestesmerk] of the Netherlands. It might, in fact, be called the Dutchman’s concept of life [leveîisgevoel]. And of what does this concept actually consist? Holland itself—so full of hedges, canals, and boundaries—gives a perfectly accurate picture of the Dutch mind. The Dutch ethic finds its origin in Calvinism, colored with typical Dutch characteristics: the feeling of tranquillity, order, balance, and a more or less static intellectual life. In Dutch life there are more boundaries than free ground; its prin ciple and its goal is to live without ever overstepping these boundaries, which themselves are determined by religion, tradition, and propriety. Dutch life stands for solidity and spiritual conservatism.Throughout the centuries this same concept of life has been represented by the great names in Dutch history: Olden Barneveldt and Jan De W itt in the sixteenth and seventeeth centuries, Thorbecke in the nine teenth century (and with the great Thorbecke, who was actually educated abroad and brought the results back with him to Holland, there were Droogstoppel and the Kegge family at the same time); Kuyper and Colijn in the twen tieth century, and from Colijn through Aalberse and Al- barda, and even the writer of In the Shadows of Tomorrow himself—Professor Huizinga. . . . There is no people in the world who employ the word “balance” in their thinking and in their living as extensively as do the Dutch. In fact, the worst fault that one can speak of to a Dutchman is the accusation of “unbalance,” and it is precisely in defending and maintaining that balance in the extreme that he himself goes astray and becomes “un balanced”! 98 Professor Huizinga is ready to give his life to maintain his law and order, and he extols the value of “balance” and harmony in a society that is actually based on opposition— opposition of one group’s power to that of another group. And supposing these groups are nations or classes, then how can you anticipate harmony in the world? And if this opposition between the different groups becomes sharper and more intense, then how can he expect that any atten tion will be given to humanism and the forces that bind men together? As the forces of opposition become stronger, morality becomes weaker, since morality is based, simply, on com monly shared values, and thus has a collective basis. As the collective spirit becomes more and more dissipated, moral ity becomes torn in pieces, shattered and cut by the differ ent groups into which mankind becomes divided. Morality has never led the thoughts or the feelings of man in relation to his enemy in the struggle for power. Morality exists only between men who live in peace with one another. It is thus not surprising that man has conveniently dis carded morality as an impediment to the conduct of his daily affairs, where the opposition between groups is so sharp and strong. There is even a certain forthrightness in this. Can it then still surprise us that morality is being re placed by the blackjack, the club, the whip, the concentra tion camp, internments, and poison gas? In fact, many of these substitutes for morality are even accepted by Professor Huizinga, provided they are used to protect or defend his law and order, or to serve the father land. Nevertheless, he is troubled and indignant over the situation in Germany, where again men are trying to main tain a system of law and order—which he himself admit tedly would defend by killing—by Gleichschaining and

99 Judenhass, by mass stupefaction, mass deception, black jacks, Schutzhaft, and concentration camps, simply because of the fact that they do not know any other way to accom plish their goals. Foreign ventures are undertaken because, as Mussolini has stated, “We Italians have the choice be tween spreading our wings abroad or starving at home.” His criticism of fascism and Hitlerism simply does not strike the core of the matter. He deals with symptoms and has only insufficiently sought causes. What is the reason that the concept of power dominates the world in our time? What is the cause of the ubiquitous supremacy of conscious irrationalism? The investigations of Ortega y Gasset go much more deeply into these basic questions in his La R e belión de las Masas and particularly in his El Tema de Nuestro Tiempo* althougti .ey^n these do not wholly pro vide satisfactory answers^ / Ortega y Gasset is ^¿^/philosopher who has steeped himself in the leamingSof past centuries. He is really not ethical but aesthetic, and his concept of life is basically different from that of Professor Huizinga. He is not a Calvinist and he is not a Hollander. Instead he dares to soar to greater heights. He is not afraid to evaluate his own liv ing ground and his own law and order candidly, and he ventures to surmount the different “hedges” that he for merly perhaps thought were necessary in his own thinking. He does not swear by “balance,” and his intellectual mood stands closer to the universal spirit, that of Goethe and Nietzsche. One can also see the shortcomings in Huizinga as a cultural critic and philosopher if one compares him with Benedetto Croce. To each of these three thinkers one can ask the following

* Revolt of the Masses and Theme of Our Time, by the Spanish philosopher whom Sjahrir read and admired. IOO question: Will the concept, doctrine, and practice of power, as represented so blatantly and coarsely by fascism and nazism at present, ever disappear from the world, as long as the fundamental underlying causes—that is, the opposition of forces based on the conflicting interests and desires of different national or class groups—remain? This question can be answered only by abandoning Pro fessor Huizinga’s frame of reference. Only outside the hedges and the furrows, and outside “law and order,” can an evaluation of the world and of man be developed that will strike to the core of the question. Only from there can one build a new world and a new man, different from the man of today, who is engaged in self-destruction by the oppression of his fellow man. Only there can one arrive at a deeper understanding and a more fruitful evaluation of man’s destiny.

MAY IP, 1P36 The “communist” situation here is really quite amusing. Everything and everyone who is in the slightest degree suspected of “leftist” sympathies is immediately denounced as “communistic.” So, in fact, the paradoxical situation sometimes arises where one of our very moderate, middle- class nationalists who actually is firmly entrenched in his narrow bourgeois prejudices is arrested as a “disguised com munist” by some highly placed government people, who must then be kept busy writing a long report about his life. Because the unfortunate fellow happens to be in the nation alistic camp, they cannot even recognize him as one of their own spiritual brethren! Often, of course, someone is accused of being a com munist in order to make it easier to start a procedure against him. According to Colijn, the name has nothing to do with

IOI / it. The question is only whether the colonial government pleases you or not, and if it does not, then you are to be eliminated. It is thus no sin for the Colijnists to call anyone a com munist if they fear or cannot tolerate him from a political point of view. Such a confusion of names and aims is hardly an indication of intellectual attainment, and it is, moreover, to be expected, since there is really no intellectual attainment in colonial society, even among the European veneer. . . .

MAY 21,1936 The sea here is ideal for swimming and rowing, and when the weather isn’t stormy, the bay is mirror-smooth, and there hardly appears to be a sea between the islands of Great Banda, Banda Neira, and Goenoeng Api. When I visit the Soeribnos’ house in the evening, we sit on the front veranda, and we look out at the sea. Their house is situated along the so-called Herennjueg, a lovely street with huge old trees running along the sea front, and separated from it by a grass lawn. In front of the com mandant’s house, which is also on this street, there is the jetty, which projects into the sea like a pier. This is where the government’s ships lie at anchor, while the K.P.M. har bor is on the other side of the island, opposite Goenoeng Api. Sitting there in the evening on the veranda watching the sun set behind Great Banda and the white houses of Lontor, you can’t help but be touched by the beauty of it. Even the Soeribnos, who have been living here for eight years, never tire of watching the beautiful spectacle. The people here enjoy the natural beauty unconsciously rather than con sciously, and when the weather is good and the moon is 102 shining there is always abundant activity. They go for long walks, and everyone stays up until late at night. Although Banda has retrogressed in recent years, it is nevertheless certain that the population is far better off than that of Java. The kampong people are much stronger and more robust, and there are even some giants among them. The women, as well, are pretty and healthy. In general, they are less subject to cares and worries here than else where, and they love their celebrations. There are many feasts and parties given, although naturally on a much smaller scale than formerly. There is no doubt that a profound process of assimilation has taken place here. Even the Banda Europeans prefer to speak Bandanese—that is, Malay—to one another, and for the most part they observe some Dutch and some Arabian, but mainly Indonesian, habits and customs. On the other hand, the Indonesians here have copied a good deal from the Dutch and the Arabs. What you have is thus a composite. For example, there is the practice observed here of exchanging visits between two and four o’clock in the afternoon—the time at which elsewhere in the tropics people take their afternoon naps unless they are busy at the office. Then there is the greeting of “Good day,” according to the Dutch habit, which peo ple exchange on the street, and there are also many Dutch words used in the kampongs without the inhabitants’ actu ally being conscious of their origin. Arabs, Europeans, Indonesians, and Chinese are very often mutually related here, because there has been general and widespread miscegenation. And so the outward appear ance of Banda has itself a strongly mixed quality. For ex ample, you find a child whose mother is a cross between a Chinese and a Swiss, and whose father is a cross between io3 a Menadonese and a Eurasian, and again this latter also has a separate history of mixture, in which some Arabian stock is likely to be found. This is one of the reasons why the people are all quite docile, except for pure nationalists of “the holy war”!

MAY 29,1936 I have just read J. de Kadt’s book From Czcrrism to Stal inism. Throughout the book, the writer reiterates that it is not what might be called an objective, scientific, historical work, but rather a “critical” work. By “critical” he seems to mean the evaluation and appraisal of the people and the events that are dealt with by the writer according to his own fixed standards. The standards themselves are not made known to the reader, but they seem to amount to a “socialistic” policy and approach as the author understands these terms. The arrangement of events, and especially the interpreta tion of the events—to which is closely attached the evalua tion and appraisal by the use of qualifying terms—are plausible for anyone who consciously or unconsciously accepts the same criteria as the author. Actually, however, the criteria themselves hardly seem to be plausible. . . . You could draw an excellent parallel between De Kadt and Hafil. They are really very similar to one another. Both have a great affinity for ratiocination and the abstract. Both have so much faith in reasoning that they consider it sufficient for knowing reality. Hafil, too, would be capable of writing about something that he knew only from other books—although he might have had the opportunity to observe the same phenomena himself, and to see and know the same people at firsthand. And that is precisely where they fall short. Hafil has the 104 same didactic, positive, and narrowly one-sided tone of the schoolmaster. De Kadt has perhaps the advantage that he is more broadly educated, but it seems to me that there are the same basic fallacies in his approach and in his whole nature. There is no doubt that while he also writes about revolutionary movements, he is definitely not the sort of man to whom the leadership of revolution could be en trusted—except, perhaps in the role of a Robespierre! But as a leader in the true sense of the word, he has too little of the “human” and too much abstraction and ratiocination in his make-up.

MAY 30,1936 To return to Huizinga for a moment. I really feel a kin ship with his humanism, but I consequently feel even more sharply the limits that he arbitrarily applies to it. It is true that he drinks from the source of the noble and beautiful, the ethical and aesthetic. The history of culture is thus more for him than the history of mankind. But again this is why his ^hole approach, which is indissolubly tied with the past, is out of keeping with the present. In his ethical and aesthetic outlook, he never frees himself from that past; not from the breadth of the Greek classicists, and still less from the Christian ethic of Luther and Calvin, and particularly not from the narrowness of Dutch Calvinism. Perhaps that is why the bases of his thoughts and feelings leave me cold, however honorable and sincere their inten tions may be. My mind reacts too strongly against the petty elements of Calvinist stiffness and hardness, which to my way of thinking are incompatible with the noble, expansive spirit of the Greek classicists. It is perhaps true that we have formulated this expansive spirit in our own minds, since we really have only frag 105 ments of literature or sculpture or architecture remaining to go by. For me, however, that Greek spirit signifies toler ance, greatness, and hence nobility. . Take Plato, for example. Despite everything that can be said against his aristocratic thinking, one can never accuse him of narrowness, and one never meets with forbidding barriers in his intellectual world. Throughout, it is broad, free, beautiful, and noble. In this sense, Goethe also has the real classical soul, as well as Beethoven and Marx, but not, for example, Kant. The best in Goethe’s romanticism is in essence similar to classicism. The culture of the petite bourgeoisie, the false panegyric of middle-class emotions into which romanticism later developed, these are not to be found in Goethe. Through Goethe, in fact, one can return to the true classi cal spirit of Plato. Huizinga has unquestionably steeped himself in the tradi tion of ancient classicism, and yet one still finds in his attitude the narrowness of the Dutch lower-middle-class character. And is not this the best indication that the mind is indis solubly bound to material and environmental relationships, and to the reflexes that these produce in the spirit itself? To the Dutch people, who now also have their spiritual prob lems—their “spiritual suffering,” as Huizinga calls it—this book must seem to have been taken right from their own hearts, and it is for this reason that the book has had such a great success in Holland.

MAY 31,1936 At the expense of a small exchange of words with Hafil, I have managed to free myself from the Soebana’s Satur day-evening “soirees.” Hafil really seems to enjoy them, 106 but they were a source of torment to me. They always pro ceeded the same way: After dining, at about seven-thirty, we went to Soebana’s house. The whole family would be seated around a table waiting for us, and an extraordinarily garrulous Arab, Mr. B., would also be there. As soon as the whole group had gathered, Mr. B. would begin his stories from The Thousand and One Nights. As a raconteur, moreover, he was not without merit, and while he was busy with his stories, tea and cakes were served. This recounting of sage lessons from the time of Harun al-Rashid, with simultaneous disposal of large quan tities of tea and cakes, continued until after midnight. It was not only that I had the feeling of having wasted an evening, but the next Sunday I never felt well because I hadn’t had enough sleep. Hence last night, for the first time, Hafil went alone, and while my nonappearance will certainly be held against me, I’ll just have to bear it. Instead, I spent a very quiet and pleasant evening alone in the house with Gustav Mayer’s biography of Engels. While it is not nearly as good as, for example, Mehring’s biog raphy of Marx, from a literary standpoint, it is still very interesting, mainly because Engels’ life is so enthralling. It is, in fact, a pity that his life has not been written by an art ist. As it stands, the book is almost wholly documentary, and you become acquainted with Engels’ ideas alone, and only very slightly with the man and his real life. For example, in the complete work of two parts and al most one thousand pages, there are only two pages de voted to Mary Bums, although Mayer himself writes that this Irish working girl, whom Engels lived with for more than a decade, had a great influence on his life and on his de velopment toward socialism. Despite the fact that Mayer admires Engels, he treats him so objectively as to make an 107 Übermensch of him. His own sympathies are only very sel dom apparent, and he simply presents the dry facts in an orderly relationship almost without comment. There is much that in the hands of an artist would be delightful and vital, but that here appears banal, and sometimes vain or superficial. Engels was, in fact, an ordinary man endowed with both good and bad qualities like all other human be ings, but with an unusually strong character and a clear goal in life, as well as the virtues of modesty, courage, and intel ligence. He was a fighter, but not a prophet. His public life, as far as it can be presented by documen tation, is thoroughly dealt with in the book. This, of course, arouses all sorts of objections in itself, but I feel in addi tion that by his particularly sober and objective treatment, and by his inability or unwillingness to put himself in En gels’ own position, Mayer does not give a wholly true pic ture. Engels’ internal intellectual development is inaccurate and inconsistent, in so far as we draw our conclusions from this objective, documented presentation of his public life. And sometimes, where the author is tempted into an evalu ation, one gets the impression that he is too small to con ceive fully the idea that he wants to evaluate, and that instead he succeeds only in bringing the idea down to his own level and to his own dimensions. At first I was somewhat disappointed to become ac quainted with such an Engels, but later, after thinking the matter over, I understood that this Engels, because of the sobriety and excessive objectivity of the scholarly writer, was not true to life, and that he sometimes was nothing more than a caricature of the real Engels. But there are also some advantages in this treatment, and they lie in the ob jections themselves. There is, for example, no fanaticism here, and we are 108 thus not in a dreamland or a make-believe world of giants and dwarfs. As a result, we do not feel or see any unbridge able gap between the great leader and ourselves—between Christ and man, or between the perfect and the imperfect. We see, instead, an ordinary human with the ordinary banalities of all men, with virtues and faults, but still a strong human, a fine human, and a great fighter. Com pletely shut out by this treatment is the sort of pessimism that says, “We eternal sinners are evil; we strive, but we shall not succeed because we are evil.” And finally, another advantage is that the work stimulates our thinking, pre cisely because the image of Engels sometimes appears to be a caricature, and we are obliged to look for the true propor tions in the portrait ourselves.

JUNE 1,1936 Besides writing to my wife and children, I’ve had so much other correspondence that it has been difficult for me to keep up with it. For the last few weeks I have been giving lessons to a foster son of Dr. Soeribno. He is thirteen years old, but he has never been to school because he was sickly. Otherwise, he is a bright lad. In addition to my teaching, I walk and swim a great deal here. This spot is really a paradise; the natural beauty is overwhelming, and everything is in perfect harmony. There is a custom here of cultivating flowers, and almost all the grounds have beautiful blossoms. In fact, I too have planted a little flower garden, and there are now orchids on the desk from my own garden. There is lavender of all shades, from light to dark purple. I have also seen white orchids here, and in addition all sorts of other flowers—roses, car nations, dahlias. 109 Life here is very provincial, and indeed the village gossip seems to provide a good part of the intellectual life of the inhabitants. Fortunately we have very little to do with this, since we live retiringly and tranquilly. At the start we had rather frequent visits from the Indonesian municipality doc tor and the head teacher with their respective families, but this soon stopped after they had received a comment from the Resident of Ambon! Actually, that was a good thing from our point of view also, since it was often very difficult for us to resist their visits, and out of courtesy we were obliged to make many concessions to their shallow chatter. Hafil went so far, in fact, that one night he played bridge with them until early in the morning, at the same time con versing about the most fatuous things imaginable. How shortsighted, dull, and ignorant it was for the gov ernment to take such an action. That state of affairs would have been unquestionably the best and surest way to neu tralize Hafil politically, and to keep him off the political track. He had really almost no resistance whatsoever to these people. Soeribno, on the contrary, always treated them coolly, and they were never at their ease with him. Soebana, however, was quite agreeable to them.

JU N E 17, 1936 It seems as though changes are about to take place at Digoel. Wahab wrote me that the Resident addressed the exiles at his last visit. It was mentioned that the government would probably agree to extend help in bringing the wives and sweethearts of the exiles to Digoel, and that may mean that things will be somewhat improved for the ones who are there. I hope so with all my heart, and if they can only find some efficacious preventive against malaria, then Di goel will be at least bearable. The latter seems very un likely. However, they may be able to combat it or rather decrease its incidence by providing better nourishment for the exiles—and who knows, maybe even that will occur someday! In any case, the bringing of women to Digoel will cer tainly be a step forward for the colony there. As soon as the people can get accustomed to setting themselves up for good or at least for a long time, life will change for them there. If, in fact, the government had taken that action sooner, Digoel might perhaps be more like a model exile colony now, or at least a much better colony than some of the others maintained by the government. Even now, actu ally, Digoel is no worse a camp than some of the colonies for Eurasian delinquents. I believe that Digoel may have a new period ahead of it. If the government holds fast to the idea that revolutionary movements must be combatted by exiling to Digoel all who are not “loyal,” then this new period will still lie a long •way off. For unless I am very wrong, the political situation on Java is just about the same now as it was three or four years ago. If they were consistent they ought really to send several hundred more exiles to Digoel, as they did several years ago. Personally, I wonder whether they really expect any constructive result from such a policy—but that, of course, is not my worry. On the other hand, if our new governor general adopts a different policy, then there are several hundred exiles in Digoel who might be allowed to return home; namely, those who, even according to the criterion of the governor general, long since have been ready for return because “they have had enough of politics.” And then there is the question whether a final solution of the problem of Digoel will be found by eliminating or exposing the institution. I

111 am actually very curious as to what is going to happen now, but in any case there are likely to be some radical changes from the new administration. These last few years must have taught even the blindest of them some things!

JUNE 28,1936 It is no wonder that our nationalists have taken such a fancy toward Japan, particularly during the last few years when the grievances against the white administration have increased, and oppression has been felt more strongly than ever, while, on the other hand, Japan acts so amiably and even offers Korea autonomy. There is a significance and a direction to this winning of sympathy among Eastern peo ples by the Japanese, and it will appear more plainly in the future. Unless I am very much mistaken, the Dutch government itself has been responsible for turning so many of our mid dle-class and white-collar people toward Japan for the edu cation of their sons and daughters, as well as for their cultural interests. During the last few years, in fact, it has become quite the fashion to go to Japan on vacation. Of course the white authorities see all this, but they have such a blind faith in their bayonet, their prisons, and Digoel that they never think it is worth while to adopt a definite “policy” in this respect. “We have ruled here for three hun dred years with the whip and the club, and we shall still be doing it in another three hundred years,” His Excellency De Jonge assures us through the correspondent of the Deli Courant. Truly his faith is grounded only on his public prosecutor, his soldiers, and—Digoel! / JULY 23,1936 I have little diversion here. Besides my regular visits to I 12 Dr. Soeribno and Miss Cresa—a very alert and amusing in valid whose house I visit occasionally to listen to gramo phone records—I have only the Arabian children to whom I give lessons. I now have four of the local children every afternoon in addition to the two foster sons of Dr. Soeribno. The young est is almost six, and the oldest not quite ten, but they are all poor children who have never been to school because their families did not have enough money. At first they were somewhat coarse, but they are gradually learning bet ter manners. They are able to read and write now, and it really goes quite quickly with them. There is one girl of about eight years who is especially quick, and you can al most see her make progress every day.

JULY 24,1936 I cannot help thinking of Digoel and of the boys whom I had to leave behind there. I have always been convinced that those of us who were sent there were simply victims of our times. If we had had another governor general, or even the same one with a colonial government that did not favor taking such radical economic and political measures to maintain its position in the face of the growing crisis in Indonesia, then there would not have been any question of such sentences. And then to think of those fellows in Digoel who had nothing more on their records than membership in a social istic youth organization or a student association in Holland. They were all so completely idealistic, and the only thing with which they could be charged was making propaganda for their ideals. They had not the faintest idea of how to realize these ideals, or that there were opposing forces that had to be systematically countered. In any case, I hope that 113 the internment will quickly correct their misconceptions, and I look forward with expectation to the results of the pending elections in Holland, which may improve their lot in Digoel. In the meantime, I try to send them as much printed matter and books and clothing as I can.

JULY 25, 1936 Banda is certainly one of the most lovely places in the Moluccas. Furthermore, a simpler people seem to live here than on Ambon, for example. Occasionally I go out to the old jetty to watch the sun set, and in front of me stretches the magnificent bay, be side me the clear, light blue water, in the background dark, rugged Great Banda Island, and in the east the silver cone- shaped silhouette of Goenoeng Api. The stars are surpris ingly bright here, and I have never seen either the moon or the stars as clear and large as they seem here. It almost seems sometimes as though the moon is giving warmth, so brightly does it shine; and when it is at its brightest, it is quite possible to read by its light. There is thus little wonder that the population of these paradise islands cherish the moon so deeply. Whenever the moon is clear, everyone is outdoors, and they often hold moon feasts. At such times the people who stay indoors all day go walking—and especially the unmarried girls! For the most part, however, they observe the Arabian or Is lamic custom, which is also practiced in Spain, of keeping the nubile girls pretty much under lock and key—although among the Christians one finds the typical shyness of young girls toward strange men. Actually, there is an excess of women here, and while you find many children, there are few young men. Appar ently the population is very prolific, and I know one family 114 with twenty-three children, all of the same mother. For the most part, however, the male youth leave Banda when they are adult, to look elsewhere for life that they cannot find on this quiet island. .More recently this tendency has been less in evidence because conditions have been so bad elsewhere. Nevertheless, there is no overpopulation here, and there is hardly any apparent poverty.

JULY 27,1936 The reports of the civil war in Spain have taken me com pletely by surprise, since even the Nieuive Rotterdamsche C our ant never hinted at this possibility. From the expur gated telegrams—or rather the radio reports that we get here—one cannot become much wiser, and I certainly do not understand the situation in Spain at all. It is a source of continual vexation to me to be dependent on such a thor oughly corrupt reporting service as we have in Indonesia. Another disturbing thing is that absolutely no one here, except Hafil, appears to have any interest whatsoever in the events in Spain. At the moment, I consider it by far the most important happening in Europe, notwithstanding all questions of alliances and German armament. New events have begun in Spain that reach out to France and Belgium and will finally spread throughout the whole of Europe. If, on the one hand, the democratic forces can maintain themselves, then the rest of Europe, and Holland as well, will feel the effect of a wave of rejuvenated democracy. If, on the other hand, the reactionaries in Spain win out, then the triumphal march of fascism throughout the world will gain further momentum, and the defeat of the French, Bel gian, and Dutch democracies will be at hand.*

* Sjahrir’s prognostications in this section are particularly remarkable in retrospect. US And if the latter is the case, then we shall face a period of imminent chaos; barbarism will make the world into a still greater hell, and there will be a greater destruction of mankind than has ever before been seen in the world. And, moreover, it will not be only an Untergang des Abend- landes, but a cataclysm of the whole world, because we in the Far East also have a supemationalism in the form of Japanese fascism, with its vast reserves of human cannon fodder.

AUGUST 14, 1936 Whoever avers that the mind can forestall a primary physical function is harboring a misconception. On the con trary, the mind is not even able to restore balance to men tal and physical life once that has been disturbed. The mind is capable of such accomplishment only through and in connection with the senses, the so-called autonomic nervous centers. Only when the mind functions in harmony with these autonomic nervous centers is it capable of exerting a regulatory influence; and the necessary conditions for this harmony lie in the sphere of feelings, in the sphere of in stincts, and, still more important, in the affinities that have been formed in the individual by his social environment: namely, his prejudices, morality, ethics, and aesthetics. The latter, of course, are not really autonomic feelings in the same sense as the primitive instincts of hunger, thirst, and reproduction. But for most people—even for those who live a very restricted intellectual life—the social affinities have the same force as though they were inherent instincts. It is therefore with such people that these secondary affini ties act as a brake on the primitive instincts, and create the conditions for the regulative functioning of the mind. But on the other hand, with those who have recognized 116 these secondary affinities for what they are—namely, social products—and who have analyzed their relativity, and then have rejected them from the sphere of the mind, among these people one often encounters helplessness of the mind against the autonomic nervous system. There is, of course, no one who lives without any moral, ethical, or aesthetic factors whatsoever in his life. The contents thereof differ with different attitudes and philosophies of life, but if you assume that the individual’s philosophy of life has not yet emerged, and that he consequently vacillates but is free of prejudice, then precisely in this case do you find the strong est conflict between the individual’s mental and physical lives, and between his heteronomic and autonomic nervous systems. Our generation is more or less undergoing a change at this time. W e have a concept of life, we have conviction, but it is not yet mature within us. It has not yet become a vital artery for us, particularly not in the field of ethics. And this can hardly be different under present conditions. We want a new ethic constructed on free, mature, think ing man, and at the same time we are forced to apply that ethic to the real world before us, to the man of today as he now lives, thinks, and feels. That new ethic is not feasible in the world as we find it, and we are thus obliged to search for a compromise in order to live, holding to our hopes and ideals and simultaneously accepting the world as it now is. That compromise ethic is, moreover, simply a utilitarian and changing freak. It never provides us with an encompass ing norm. It is incidental, and is simply a means of temper ing the autonomic nervous system with a popular palliative. This period in history of Um'wertimg allet' Werte is one of confusion, wandering, and spiritual suffering, but it is a necessary phase. Without the demolition of the old, the 117 new is not possible. From this confusion and suffering, the better, more satisfying, and higher ethic must emerge. Be cause we belong to this generation of transition, we un dergo not only our own personal suffering, but that of our generation and of humanity.

AUGUST 24,1936 The last few days I have been feeling ill, and I have now come down with malaria. I haven’t contracted it here be cause they do not have malaria on Banda; it is something that I brought with me from Digoel, and it has again come to the surface because of my weakened powers of re sistance. I’ve taken to a quinine cure, and fortunately I’m over the worst part of it. Yesterday I had a high fever, but today it has abated, and left me with a heavy head and a general feeling of weakness. Tomorrow I shall probably get another attack, but that will be the last, since with quinine one is over it in a maximum of four days. In any case, I’ll continue talcing quinine for at least two weeks.

AUGUST 26, 1936 I’ve begun a series of articles on Engels for Djon’s new monthly magazine, although it is not going too well be cause I lack the necessary material to work with. Hafil has received many of his books, but mine, for the most part, are still wandering around Java. His library, however, has only very limited philosophical works in it, the most modem be ing Windelbrand and Ricket, and if I am to go on with my work, I shall have to procure additional material.

AUGUST 30, 1936 I have indeed not been able to escape fully from the pes simism of our time, and my own skepticism itself definitely 118 bears a pessimistic color. I am no longer capable of anything approaching fanatacism, and I am even less capable of the idealism that I still had six, five, or even three years ago. Sometimes I wonder whether these are simply indica tions of weariness, and sometimes, again, I think that only people with the least personal experience—people who spend the greatest part of their lives in their studies with out knowing or making contact with the real world out side them—are capable of a maximum of objectivity; and that all others find the pressure and influence of their own personal experiences too strong for them to be objective. Experience, perhaps, may in many cases be a burden. This, of course, is not necessarily true, but such intense experi ences as those of my last few years cannot help but leave their irrevocable mark on my vision. Fortunately, I think I recognize the value and effect of such personal experience, and I can thus regard it critically. But I could in no case, whether I would or not, free my self from it wholly. And yet I nevertheless feel that with all my expended idealism, with my loss of fiery certainty, I have still not adopted a negative and bitter attitude toward the world. If there is often doubt within me, and if much has broken away of what I formerly thought was true and changeless, then I want first to work it out myself, until I have found again a new—perhaps also relative and temporary—truth.

SEPTEMBER 9, 1936 Sometimes I can hardly refrain from commenting to Miss Cresa on the relative value of all religion, but I try to avoid discussing it with her as far as possible. She is too sick to warrant any risk of losing the last bolster that she has in life. On the contrary, I sometimes go so far as to read ser 119 mons to her, and I do it in such a way that she is absolutely convinced that I believe every word I read! She has evi dently informed others of this conviction, because the curate here, who is otherwise really a fanatic on the sub ject, is particularly solicitous and says that he finds me most congenial. One evening he even went so far as to suggest that I ought to replace him if he leaves, and he expects to be sent to Amahei in about two weeks. It is really a shame, because I could get along quite well with him, and particu larly with his wife. She is a refreshing Dutch Frisian girl, probably a simple farm girl by origin, but still quite re fined. When I talked to her, it was as though I could feel something of the best and finest of what I had come to know in Holland; something of the fresh, clean air, as well. They were also quite well disposed to Miss Cresa and me, although elsewhere they were generally misunder stood. Their refreshing candor was regarded here as coarse ness and rudeness, and they for their part found the people here rather backward. Furthermore, there are not many people on Neira who feel fully at ease when speaking Dutch, and it is character istic of the Hollanders that they are sensitive to and disturbed by any strange pronunciation of the Dutch lan guage. They react by mockery, sarcasm, and vexation, whereas in other countries of Europe the situation is quite different. There the people marvel that a foreigner can un derstand their language, and they are happy and grateful if you can converse with them in their own tongue. When ever you say anything well, they are enthusiastic about it, and if you make a mistake they find it completely under standable. Even the English do not have as strong a feeling on this matter as the Dutch. The curate has a particularly strong feeling about this, 120 and it is the language itself—the somewhat differently- spoken Dutch that one finds here—that makes it so difficult for him to come in close contact with the people of Neira. Of course, there are some people here who do speak Dutch as well as himself, but they are, in his opinion, bad Chris tians with whom he cannot associate. As a result, you have the amusing situation of a Calvinist curate’s family that gets along best with a “communist”—be cause I have certainly not been anything else to them! Ac tually, they have now begun to doubt and wonder themselves, and they have found so much in me that is familiar to them that they are gradually beginning to regard me as an “ordinary” person. As a matter of fact, my association with Christians does not seem to be to the lilting of the Moslems on Banda, and particularly of the Arabs. We are no longer troubled by their visits, and even Soebana doesn’t come to visit us any more. Hafil, of course, is completely guiltless, but he has derived an advantage from the situation, since he can now devote more time to his work. Dr. Soeribno is also not regarded as a real Mohammedan by these people, and they are certainly right in this respect. He has, in fact, a more pantheistic attitude toward life, and admits himself that he finds the Hindu religion most pleas ing, personally. I suppose that now I shall be regarded in somewhat the same light, but I do hope they will not make the same accusations against Hafil. I think that the poor fel low would be deeply troubled by it, for he is unquestion ably a modem edition of the upright Islamite.

SEPTEMBER 21, 1936 * The study of the social sciences is hardly satisfying in these times. Most of the theories involved seem to hang 121 in mid-air, and they posit a world that is pretty hard to accept or to be objective about. This is a period of struggle and tension, and the realization of this fact makes it difficult for me to adopt the tranquil and calm frame of mind neces sary to become engrossed in my study. I am still working on questions of methodology and I shall not yet be finished with this by the end of the month. My program is going very slowly, but the cause lies within myself, and though I try to bring about an improvement, I have thus far been unsuccessful. For a while I work normally, and then the letdown sets in. I am not yet able to stay with it for ten hours a day, and yet that is what I must do to complete the work I want to do. In addition to the fact that I am working so slowly, there is the fact that I am not yet convinced by any of the epistemology that I have hitherto studied, and perhaps that is why I still wander about, in an intellectual sense. At every point, I am forced to return to a consideration of the philo sophical value of what I am trying to learn, but I now intend to put an end to this dilemma if I can. I first want to delve thoroughly into the whole field of economics, par ticularly the economic phenomena and facts of life. That may provide a solution to the epistemological questions that have been troubling me. For the most part, students of the natural sciences do not have a need for epistemology. They work with the uncon scious conviction and premise that their minds and their way of working and thinking are good and are suited to their study. The decisive factor of all they do is, finally, their organs of sense; that is to say, the faculties that per ceive the facts—including the instruments they make use of. If the phenomena perceived do not coincide with the logic of their theories, then the latter are rejected and new ones are formulated. I am not particularly familiar myself with the contents of modern scientific thought, and as a result I have tried to get the works of Eddington and Bertrand Russell, which I would like to study—particularly the math ematical analysis of the latter. Unfortunately, here in Indo nesia we are uniquely devoid of modem investigators in the natural sciences.

OCTOBER 9,1936 Yesterday evening I went to a wedding celebration in the kampong, simply out of curiosity to find out how such things are conducted here. Actually I didn’t see very much, because the ceremony I attended was not actually the wed ding itself, which was to follow the next morning. Yesterday evening they had what is called the pat jar: the bridegroom came to the bride’s house, but they remained apart and were not even allowed to see each other. In the patjar, they sit in different parts of the house on cushions, and the women paint the bride’s fingernails with patjar,* and the men do the same to the bridegroom. At the same time, different Arabian songs were sung, and there was a continual beating on Arabian drams, something like those that accompany Carmen when she dances, but somewhat larger. Tea is served and cakes are eaten, and the whole thing often goes on until late in the night. I stayed for an hour only, and while I saw the bridegroom arrive, I didn’t watch the ceremony of painting his nails with patjar. Today the couple will be married by a Mohammedan priest. In the wedding ceremony, the man declares before the priest his intention to wed the girl, and they profess the same vows and marital obligations that one might find in a

* A plant from which a red dye is made. I23 Dutch civil wedding. In addition, they promise to live ac cording to the laws of the Koran. Then tomorrow they will be married with a real feast, and placed upon a sort of ped estal where they will be the cynosure of all glances, and even of criticism. I used to be quite familiar with this ceremony when I was a boy, but since then the wedding ceremonies in both Java and Sumatra have taken on a much more Western stamp. They no longer have a three-day celebration there, and the bride and groom act as host and hostess rather than as cynosures for the guests upon the wedding pedestal. The customs that one finds here are all typically Malay, such as used to be observed in all the Mohammedan areas of Sumatra, Borneo, Java, and Malaya. Now, rather, the weddings in Java and Sumatra are very much like European weddings, which is again one of the innumerable indications of the extraordinary adaptability of the Indonesian people. And this is no wonder, since there is hardly any country in the world that has been so con tinually subjected to foreign pressures as this country of ours. During his journeys throughout Asia, Soetomo was amazed to observe that the Indonesian people were the least conservative of any people in all of Asia, and consequently the most westernized of any Eastern people, including the Japanese! One would certainly not think that, and yet it is nevertheless true. Among our people, Western influence has penetrated into the masses, into the people’s customs, and into the group imagination; whereas with the Japanese—except for those who have been educated along Western lines in the cities—westernization is only superficial, and they remain 100 per cent Japanese beneath the surface. Even the West I24 ern-educated Japanese often still lives in a purely Japanese manner, and is comfortable only with such a pattern of life. Westernization there is a veneer, and has not had the same effect that it has had here among our people. It would in deed be justifiable to say that among the upper classes here —except in the palaces—there is no longer any national pat tern of life. In the households of Indonesian regents, doc tors, wedanas, clerks, and well-to-do merchants, the same sort of pattern is observed as in European households, and this does not apply only to the household itself, but to the habits and even to the meals as well. Only in the outlying places like Banda is there still some thing characteristic of the past remaining, something that is definitely not European—although on the other hand, it is not Indonesian either, since the marriage ceremony and the attendant rituals were all actually Arabian. These are customs that we have retained from our period of busy contact with Arab culture, as we have retained evidences of those historical periods that were characterized by Hindu and Chinese influences. It is an extremely important fact to note that we are now in the midst of our European period, as before we have had our Hindu, Chinese, and Arab periods. In a relative sense, we Indonesians are the most nationally characterless people in the world, and there has therefore never been possible among us the same sort of fanatical nationalism as some of the other peoples of Asia have shown. In reality, we have drawn close to our white rulers to a considerable extent. There has not been the same sort of repugnance and revulsion at the actions of the white man as has been the case with other Asiatic races. Moreover, there has never been a fanaticism in religion in Indonesia as elsewhere, and hence the Christianity of the white ruler 125 has not yet made his presence here distasteful from a reli gious point of view. This is why our nationalism will al ways remain political and economic. Other indications to the contrary will be as mere fringe, and will never manifest any real strength. This does not mean that our people love the white man, and it is still possible to speculate about the feeling of for- eigpness and even of hatred toward the white that exists here as well. And yet that hatred is not what the Chinese or the Arabs or Indians or even Japanese feel toward the white. That hatred is in reality only superficial, because the haters themselves have actually assimilated the patterns of living and thinking of the whites. This sort of antipathy can thus be traced to an expression of the inferiority complex and to the feeling of impotence of the Indonesian toward the white man. In Banda this is particularly conspicuous. The Indo- Europeans, the Indo-Arabs, and the Chinese live and think precisely as do the people in the kampong. They constitute one kind of people, differentiated only in terms of the classes to which they belong. Recently there were a few full-blooded Europeans here, who were at first rather for eign to the whole community. They did not feel foreign toward me, and after a short time they came to understand the kampong people also, which shows that there are com mon grounds for mutual understanding, and probably to a greater extent than there would have been in middle Java, with the Bataks at Sibolga in western Sumatra, or with the Atjenese in northern Sumatra. This is, furthermore, to be expected, because the wide spread mixture and social intercourse of people on this island exemplifies, in a sense, the mental attitude of the whole Indonesian people. In general, they are more tol- 126 erant here than elsewhere, and one of the first things that strikes one here is the friendliness of the people. In fact, there are almost as many Christians (“Seranis,” as they are locally called) as there are Moslems, and in general there is no common separation of the two into groups or cliques. In so far as there is such a tendency, it has been imported from the other islands, and in any case it is never manifested

For example, at the wedding last evening there were Christians as well as Moslems present. The Moslems here are still orthodox, but despite their orthodoxy they are tol erant toward infidels. As a case in point, Soebana, Hafil, and I always are seen in trousers, and either bareheaded or with a hat on, whereas in general the use of a sarong and skull cap [koepia] are considered as necessary for all Moslems. Nevertheless, we are still regarded as coreligionists, although we dress like nonbelievers even at the temple. Moreover, there is a mod em Arab here from Java who dresses as we do, and they raise no objections to him either. We have never experi enced any unpleasantness from all this, whereas if we were to act in this way in Atjeh or in Bantam, we might really be in danger of losing our lives! We are thus, unconsciously and unintentionally, actively undermining their orthodoxy. They, of course, do not dare to emulate us, but they are becoming more and more ac customed to an Islam that at least is superficially followed in this way. Naturally, the fact that they look up to us as “intellectuals” and perhaps even as “exiles” is to be consid ered in this connection. These simple people are, in a sense, flattered to have such exalted coreligionists in their midst, but it is nevertheless an indication of great tolerance on their part; tolerance that would not be possible in other 127 parts of Indonesia, such as Atjeh or Bantam. Even in Men- angkabau fifteen years ago, one would have been assaulted, or at best ostracized, for such transgressions.

OCTOBER 12,1936 My life here is a particularly healthy one: seven hours’ sleep, brisk walks, and regular gymnastic exercises, gener ally in the morning. At first I also enjoyed playing football, but I’ve had to discontinue it ever since I refused to play on the Queen’s birthday! Sunday I had an appointment to go sailing with the chil dren. I was up at half past four in the morning, and we were on the sea by half past six. There was enough wind for us to sail briskly for three hours, and we handled the sails and the rudder ourselves, riding the waves, and watch ing a beautiful sunrise. Afterward we went back to the beach, had our lunch, and stayed there for the rest of the day. There is one great advantage at the beach here compared to the much broader strands in Holland. Shade trees come right up almost to the edge of the water and there is no need to have beach chairs. W e bathed together, and we sailed, swam, and rowed in the water for four consecutive hours. It was really a very pleasant day, and the children enjoyed it even more than I did. There is no doubt of the fact than you can have the most wholesome and uncon strained fun with children, and although I was somewhat stiff and burned dark red on the following day, I felt better than I had in a long time.

\ OCTOBER 14,1936 In many respects, Banda Neira is a more or less ideal community compared to the rest of the world. Of course, 128 there are some things even in such a paradise that are not ideal, but they are less sharp and less severe in this village Eden. I already wrote elsewhere that there is hardly any apparent poverty here, but that is actually only partly true. It is true that most of the people who live in Neira or in the kampong have their own little houses or live as domestic servants with others and are not undernourished, and for the most part even have money left over to spend on pretty clothes and feasts. On the plantations, however, there is malnutrition. Dr. Soeribno, for example, has a houseboy now who has come from Goenoeng Api and is very emaci ated. The starvelings on the plantations on Goenoeng Api earn hardly more than ten cents a day, if they earn any thing! Many of them try to get along by raising vegetables, but without some capital to start with, that doesn’t go very well, and in any case, the most fertile stretches of ground are always owned by someone else. The coolies also live on the plantations in the hills, and although they once made as much as forty or fifty cents a day, they now consider it a lot if they get twelve to fifteen cents. For the most part the coolies also are in dire straits. And yet the planters themselves are not exploiters. For the most part, they can no longer pay decently because nutmeg is worth almost nothing on the world market at present. Many of the planters actually operate at a loss, but they have to go on, because neglect of their plantations would mean a still greater loss. The rich people here are also not uncongenial. There are no longer any very rich people, but there are quite 3 few well-to-do families with bank balances of a few hundred thousand guilders and private incomes of four or five hun dred guilders a month. They too live simply, they don’t 129 waste their money, and they put on none of the airs of a moneyed aristocracy. They too have the characteristic Banda tolerance and friendliness. The farmers on Goenoeng Apf are to a large extent origi nally from Boeton, to the south of Celebes. They come here in their sailboats, packed in tightly like herring in a barrel, so tightly that they are not able to stretch throughout the whole trip, and the trip itself can take a full month, if the wind is not active. In such cases they have to eat, sleep, and do everything standing up or kneeling, but apparently they do not have any accidents at sea. They must certainly be remarkable seafarers. Once they get here, they try their hand at anything, and even if they make only twenty cents a day, they are still able to put something aside. When they think they have saved enough—between ten and twenty-five guilders—they return to Boeton on another little sailboat, which costs them three guilders. The return trip generally takes less than a week, but it too can take very much longer. Banda is thus not exactly a cornucopia, and it is true to see that the so-called “lazy native” has to toil to the bone in order to earn a few cents. The money that he makes goes generally to the family in order to build a little house. The Boetonese men here are unmarried because they can not set up a household on ten cents a day, since the wom an’s clothes alone would cost more than that. The problem of marriage now manifests itself here in Banda, and evidently it is present in Java as well. The so- called European problem, which was no problem for us here ten years ago, has now also become an Indonesian problem. Life has become so hard, even in this fortunate land where a minimum of clothing and shelter is necessary, that the people have to consider marriage soberly and ap- 130 praise its economic aspects. In many cases the young men cannot marry because they realize that a wife would cost them half of their already small plate of rice.

OCTOBER 19,1936 Yesterday, Sunday, we went out again with twelve chil dren for a whole day at the beach. Besides my daily study, my morning walks, and my visits to the Soeribnos and to Miss Cresa, this is my only diversion, and I am glad that the children occupy part of my time. The children’s par ents are quite happy and grateful to have me take care of them. If I were to tell them that it is they who take care of me, they would certainly think it strange, and yet such is actually the case.

OCTOBER 31,1936 The same boat that took my letters for Eurdpe to Java brought me a letter from Digoel. According to the letter Liantoe tried to put an end to his misery at Digoel. He slashed his wrists, not only so that he would bleed to death, but also so that he would be able to make an impression on the life that he was leaving. With his own blood, he sought to write a political testament on the wall. His attempt failed. He was brought to the hospital and it appears that he has now recovered but that he has grown increasingly shy of people since the occurrence. And a few months ago a book was published about Digoel in which the writer—the former doctor of Tanah Merah, L. A. Schoonheyt—averred that things were “very good” for the exiles! The only excuse for the utter nonsense that this gen tleman wrote is that he himself, as a former inhabitant of Digoel, has become feeble-minded, if not actually a mental case. Some of what he writes is pure gibberish, and the book x3i is full of inconsistencies. Occasionally the tone of the book is simply sadistic. Liantoe’s case, however, is the first attempted suicide in Tanah Merah. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, wearing his tom pajamas and digging in the intense heat of his gar den. A Menadonese Christian, Liantoe was a fine and culti vated man with a real humanity in his character, which he derived from the Christian ethics of his upbringing. He was also one of the first Indonesian socialists, and an early mem ber of Douwes Dekker’s* party, the so-called Indies Party He has had a hard life. Two years before his sentence he left the nationalist movement, but in 1926, just as he was about to get married, they arrested and exiled him. Liantoe came of a rich family, and he had been a wealthy landlord in Menado. His married sisters are all well fixed, and one younger sister is still at law school. For nine years he has been at Digoel, from the very be ginning. He remained unmarried, and the harsh life of the camp was terrible for him. His worst suffering, however, was due to the misunderstanding of others, of his comrades toward him, and also to his own failure to understand them. He made two attempts to escape, and the first time he almost succeeded. He managed to get over the Australian border [of New Guinea], but they turned him back to the Dutch. The second time they caught him somewhere in south New Guinea, and the native policeman who came to arrest him—a certain Bintang—asked him where he was going. “I’m looking for Stalin and Trotsky, but it seems

* A descendant of the earlier Douwes Dekker, who (under the pen name of “Multatuli”) was the author of the famed Max Havelaar, which in the nineteenth century exposed some of the evils of the colonial sys tem. The book created a furor in Holland, and produced some social reform. Dekker organized the Indies Party, which became an active part of the nationalist movement. 132 that I am able to find only Uncle Bintang,” answered Li- antoe. That was Liantoe: apparently always full of good humor and optimism on the surface, but within he was something else again. Within he was broken. He had been in Tanah Tinggi too long, but after his second attempt at escape he was kept in Tanah Merah. He finally went to work as a teacher at Merah, but they later forced him to become a “naturalist.” His was probably the worst case of malaria in Digoel’s history, and he averaged one attack almost every month. He was, furthermore, not built to withstand quinine or urotropine, and he became permanently overwrought because of these medicines, which he had to take for his malarial attacks. In official circles it is a well-known fact that almost all the inmates of Digoel soon begin to show signs of mental wandering. Even Resident Haga drew up a report on Tanah Tinggi in which he called the Tanah Tinggiers “psycho paths.” Then why do they do absolutely nothing about it? Is it simply because they want to appease the tropical dis tempers of mentally abnormal people like L. A. Schoon- heyt and those of his kind who sit behind the editorial desks of the fascist press in Indonesia? What do they accomplish by driving these exiles to something approaching lunacy? Is it for “the benefit of the government”? Is that what is meant by the term “inspir ing respect and reverence for the government”? I know that the bureaucracy is cumbersome and inert, and that a wedana who has never even had the benefit of a high school education, and an infantry captain as well— although he may be a capable officer—can hardly be ex pected to accomplish any better results in their probationary work than have thus far occurred. Such people can, more

133 over, never be capable or qualified to do the work for which they were sent there; namely, to judge whether each indi vidual case is ready to be returned to normal society or not. Such officials are not in any shape, manner, or form suited or trained for work of that nature. Because they are in capable of anything better, they simply regard all the in mates as hardened criminals who must be spied upon, and who must demonstrate their “conversion” by easily recog nizable and open indications such as “co-operation” with the government, which in turn is understood to include spying and informing on other inmates, celebrating govern ment holidays, wearing orange ribbons, and singing the Wilhelmus! [the Dutch anthem.] In addition, they consider their task to be the discovery of “conspiracies” and the banishment of the “incorrigible” culprits to Tanah Tinggi. Then, too, the policy of “co operating” with mentally and morally broken individuals —that is, the informing camp “spies”—has the further con sequence that the so-called “probation” officers themselves come to value “cunning” and “clever plans”—which may only be expressions of mental deviations—and hence because of their own incapacity for the task they unconsciously let their methods be strongly influenced by mental defectives and semilunatics. There is a lot more that can be told about Digoel, and perhaps I’ll do that later when I again am free. My eyes were not active to no purpose during the year that I was in Digoel. Those mental defectives and semilunatics who have al ready demonstrated their “conversion” are gradually sent home; megalomaniacs, or those cases who despite their lu nacy do not show any of the strong and obvious signs of *34 moral “conversion,” are sent to Tanah Tinggi as “incor- rigibles,” or remain at Tanah Merah. There are dozens of examples that I could cite in these connections. There is the younger brother of Hadji Ha- schim, who has been mentally unbalanced for his whole life. In fact, he was completely lunatic for a whole year, and just because of that fact he couldn’t control himself and spoke all sorts of gibberish—sometimes “revolutionary” gibberish. As a result, he was never considered ready for “probation,” although he made several speeches during his lunacy in which he proclaimed, in the name of his fellow exile lunatics, the hope that Dutch rule might continue here for centuries to come. During this same period of lunacy, he went so far in his “co-operation” as to become a member of the Digoel police. There is no question but that by far the greater part of the exiles—particularly at Tanah Tinggi—are mentally ill. Liantoe is now another who has become sick as a result of his years there. It is almost unthinkable, and yet it is true, that all the inmates of Digoel are tortured without the tormenters’ and torturers’ knowing consciously what they are doing, because they haven’t the least idea of the mental suffering they are inflicting. The exiles are simply “trash, scum, and criminals”; how could they possibly experience mental suffering? Such suffering is only for Europeans with their more highly developed souls and sensitivities! And yet, nevertheless, even the government officials cannot be completely ignorant of the situation at Digoel. They must certainly wonder at reports such as those of Resident Haga.

NOVEMBER 16,1936 I think I have been able to form a fairly clear picture of the world outside Banda at present, despite the press we 135 have here. Newspapers here, and particularly the Euro- pean-language papers, give very different information about Germany than the newspapers in Europe. Here the Eu ropean press is openly fascistic. As a result, the average newspaper reader in Indonesia has acquired an almost pathological hatred toward everything that is “red,” and has come to regard fascism as the savior of the world. Even on Banda there are quite a few people who openly profess their fascist sympathies. There is, for example, the wife of our new doctor, who greets her friends with the fascist slogan “He'll Hitler.” She finds it modem and smart, but she doesn’t understand anything more about it. Japan seems to be very popular in most of Indonesia, al though most people do not dare to express their feelings. Japan, nevertheless, has the sympathy of most of the peo ple, and the Japanese are the most popular foreigners in our country—no doubt because our people have come to know only their good sides. As a parallel case it is true that only when I actually had been in Europe did I come to realize that France—and not Germany—provided the best example of European culture. Before it is possible to under stand and distinguish between cultural values, some culture and education are required, as well as experience.

DECEMBER 1, 1936 There is a mutual familiarity in my association with Miss Gresa that actually remains superficial because she knows nothing of my internal thoughts and feelings. She is con tent with it so, because as an invalid she feels helpless and has the need simply of friendly association. On my side, that I am capable of such superficial association is an indi cation to me that I have grown older and more mature. I have lost my shyness and my inferiority complex. I now 136 know better than I did what I can reveal to the world with out risking internal injury, and what I must retain within me. People are no longer passive or potential enemies for me, but rather instruments to be played upon in order to provide agreeable music. My evaluation of the meager in tellectual activity of most people has not changed since I last wrote about it. Sometimes, in fact, I cannot free myself from a feeling of superiority toward some people, but at the same time I have become more tolerant toward others. I think I now realize that most people do evil or wrong because of stupidity or ignorance, because they are victims of their heredity, their tradition, their education, and of all sorts of distortions and complexes that express themselves in unbalanced thought and action. Human beings cannot choose their ancestry, and they have even less choice as to the world in which they are bom. I am now no longer as retiring as I used to be. The last few years have given me such abundant experience that I can often laugh at life as though it were something silly or foolish. I often even forget to be vexed by people who oppose me or try to thwart me, because I can make sport of their foolishness. It is not coincidental that people here all seem to find me friendly and hearty. I cannot be any thing else to them because I find no great value in them, because I find it possible only to laugh with and at them, because I feel that there is more within me, and that there fore I can be kindhearted toward them and can feel free to be accommodating toward them.

DECEMBER 24, 1936 The P.N.I. boys who stayed behind at Digoel seem to be somewhat better off now that they have successfully withstood the first long and hard test. In the beginning

*37 things went really badly, and I truly felt that they might become mentally defective as a result: the recurrent ma larial attacks, the tasteless, monotonous food, which some times felt like sand or stone in the stomach. By turns they were taken ill and had to go to the hospital. And there were the concomitant misfortunes, difficulties with their young, sickly wives, undesired births, family separations and quar rels. And then the building of their own houses. They came, all of them, as soft city people, and they had to get to work immediately—and grueling work, at that. Only great physical exertion made it possible for them to maintain their mental soundness. They worked all day long in the broiling sun in order to earn a few cents for kero sene for the lamp, or for the other things that the govern ment did not supply; or passed days at a time on the river trying to hook the few fish. I left them with great fear and trouble because I had always felt that while I was not physically the strongest of the group, still I was certainly not the softest. I had even thought that they might not be able to get along without me, and that they would find things even more difficult after our departure from Digoel. Perhaps this was partly true, and perhaps the little money that I left behind helped a great deal, but it now seems that they have been able to get along far better just because they have been completely on their own. They began fishing and raising vegetables, and it was not very long before they were able to earn a little money by their efforts. Even lazy Wahab, who used to go around with a surly expression on his face and did nothing but lie down although he was a robust fellow, has finally rolled up his sleeves and begun gardening. He has now written me that he stayed at the river for seven days and nights in 138 a canoe, to catch the timid fish. The result was a catch for which he received one guilder and sixty-five cents. He wrote me that he had figured out that he had worked at the rate of one cent an hour! And fishing in a little canoe on a stream with as strong a current as the Digoel River is heavy and strenuous work. I know, because I’ve done it myself. To start with, you have to row upstream for hours, or even for a whole day. Then you have to look for worms at the side of the river, and stretch your lines at the most suitable places, and then wait, wait in the middle of the river in the sweltering sun, because at the river shore the air is black with mosquitoes; or if there is a sandy bank, then you build a fire, while the fresh tracks of a huge crocodile are still visible in front of you. Sometimes you have a hard time chasing the old fel low away before you can use the bank; and then, when evening comes, there are the noises of the jungle all around you. At first there are all sorts of birds calling, and then when it becomes darker, thousands of other sounds as well. And later you encamp in high Kaja-Kaja stilt houses, you eat dirty sago cakes with your hosts, and you adopt new standards as to agreeable and disagreeable smells. As a mat ter of fact, I went out on such an expedition myself just before I became sick. Evidently the malaria thrived inside me because of the excessive physical exertion of those four consecutive days and nights of fishing. I am so glad to learn that our boys have managed to get through it so well, and despite all the heavy work, it seems that they have still had the time and the inclination to study. And it is still more remarkable that they have now apparently made greater progress than they did when we were there to help them verbally. Hafil left more than a hundred books behind, but even that was not nearly enough. 139 They were especially handicapped by their lack of knowledge in modem languages, which they have now started to learn from Dutch textbooks. They are now ap parently diligently working on languages, and there are a few who have already made sufficient progress with Eng lish to read books in that language. It is really a great accomplishment for them, and I think I have certainly un derestimated their abilities. One thing is certain, however, and that is that when they do eventually return to normal society, they will be much more enlightened and wiser than when they left it. In the meantime, there have been still more exiles sent to Digoel; sometimes even people who have been in prison elsewhere ten to twelve years for the same political offense for which they are now being banished. In addition, this year no one has been sent back from Digoel. Furthermore, there is at present considerable propaganda being spread by fascist elements on the advantages of Di goel, and I have come to the conclusion that that institu tion will not disappear until Indonesia is finally free. Evidently it seems so easy to the government to govern in such a way: simply to send all the troublesome cases to Digoel, and to intimidate the population as a whole into the bargain. If only they had a bit more wisdom, they would realize that it is too simple and easy a method to be good. It will become increasingly evident as time goes on that it is the government itself, by its own policy of political aggression, that is creating a revolutionary situation here; a situation that makes the whole population more and more politically conscious, and a situation that is evolving in a way much more dangerous to the government itself than the existence of hundreds of Soekamos, Hattas, P.N.I.’s, and Partindos. 140 That they should be able to realize this cannot, of course, be expected. Instead they will continue along the same lines until of a sudden they will perceive with a shock the ines capable consequences of their own actions. I had hoped that the new governor general might be inclined to try something somewhat less “simple” in his administration than was formerly the wont, but thus far there have been no signs in this direction. Raison d’état is not calculated in terms of human lives. Raison d’état? We will have to wait a while to see whether raison is to be equated with reason ableness and wisdom in this particular case. Anyhow, it is not my problem to deliberate on what is and what is not advisable for the perpetuation of colonial ism in this country!

DECEMBER 29,1936 Occasionally I leave the work that I am doing for pure literature, such as one of the books of Nietzsche or Ter Braak. Apart from that, however, I feel particularly attracted at present toward the pursuit of a study of French and English positivism. The niceties of playing with ideas and words that one finds in German philosophy are gradually begin ning to lose their charm for me. The depth of Kant or Hegel no longer seems to me to be superior to that of a Comte or a Spencer, or a Hume or a Mill. After completing Mill, I want to go further with a study of the modem phi losophers: Bertrand Russell, Eddington, and Julian Huxley. I had already conceived this plan at Digoel, because I don’t think I can go any further in my present ideas until I know for sure whether the results of their investigations belie the conclusions that I have tentatively reached. I have gradually been able to free myself from my former 141 slavish idolatry to academic authority and “officially rec ognized” knowledge. Authority in knowledge no longer signifies very much to me, and the change is as though my mind has grown freer. Neither officially nor unofficially recognized authorities rule my thoughts, blinding me by their brilliance and killing or banishing any original think ing on my own part. What I am now trying to accomplish is, furthermore, not a study aimed at justifying the knowledge of the past, or at making a choice between different teachers or schools of thought. It is, rather, an attempt to arrive at a harmonious, personal truth after taking full cognizance of what has al ready been learned, thought, and accepted as positive, and of the criticism that has been directed toward this body of accepted knowledge and toward the whole structure of the modem world. Whether this “truth” can be integrated or joined with another system or school makes no difference to me. The important thing is not the name or the school, but the firm ness and equilibrium that such a vital conviction can perhaps give to one’s life; a conviction, moreover, that may serve as a solid basis for one’s thoughts and actions. Of course, I shall never reach such a goal, but I mean this in a relative sense. The firmness, harmony, and equilibrium to which I am referring are rather to be regarded as points of stability in an endless cycle of flux and movement. What I seek is not a fixed and perpetual balance, but a process of development evolving in such a way that one feels life is expanding and that he himself is growing in spirit. That feeling is not a negative opposition to change. It is instead a positive quantity, and the internal satisfaction to which it can give rise is what I mean by “equilibrium.” The “harmony” of this state of existence implies the reconcilia- 142 tion of the demands of the intellect with the requirements of emotional life—the requirements of flesh, blood, and senses. It implies the consequent linkage of actions to this reconciliation. This is really the whole question of the art of living, and because the factors involved are different in every man, the problem and the solution differ for each of us. The in tellect of a Papuan exercises entirely different demands than our intellects, and there is even a great difference be tween my intellect and that of my closest friend. What ap peals to and satisfies his intellect does not suit me, and vice versa. At the moment, I feel that the emotions are primary to life in the same sense that nature is the most basic and strongest force in the world. I think, furthermore, that both intellect and action—but particularly the latter—are depend ent upon, and receive their stimuli from, the broadly natu ral—and not specifically human—passions and emotions. Marx and Freud showed their genius in making a distinc tion between the conscious and subconscious lives of the individual. The conscious—that is, the life of the intellect— is often not really life, but rather a veneer, a life of self- deception and appearance only. It is simply a channel for appeasing conscience, and for preventing an internal con flict with the general ideas and concepts that we all accept, if only subconsciously, in ourselves, as norms. On the other hand, I know definitely from my own ex perience that the intellect can make demands upon the nat ural, emotional life; that the intellect can influence and, to a certain extent, even govern it. Even an understanding of the primacy of the life of flesh, blood, and sense is actually already gained as an intellectual insight. It is, in fact, only through this insight that the intellect can be put at rest.

H3 There is no question here of a one-sided dependence of the intellect on the emotions. It is, rather, simply a question as to whether we are able to make a proper distinction, ac cording to realistic criteria, between intellect and emotions. On this point, I feel a special need for finding out more. The explanations and assertions that I have thus far read concerning relief for the difficulties encompassed in the question of intellect, body, and life have not satisfied me. In most of these assertions, the intellect is concerned with concepts, abstractions, and with theories, thus with what is not seen but is experienced internally; and yet the intel lect seems to possess a confidence and a certainty that it is not being active in vain; it applies its findings to the world, and regards its predictions and conclusions as reality. The intellect seems to subdue the world before it, and yet who could deny the usefulness of pure intellect in the field of the natural sciences? On the other hand, however, the natural, empirical sciences have not yet been able to in vestigate the intellect itself, or to explore the method by which our theoretical knowledge arises, or the continuity of our emotional and intellectual lives—not only in a formal sense, but in a substantive sense as well. This does not necessarily suggest that everything derives from a concept of matter, but rather that such a basic con cept is connected with the most positive knowledge and most exact manner of thinking to which we have attained, the exact sciences.

DECEMBER 31,1936 For me, the West signifies forceful, dynamic, and active life. It is a sort of Faust that I admire, and I am convinced that only by a utilization of this dynamism of the West can the East be released from its slavery and subjugation. 144 The West is now teaching the East to regard life as a struggle and a striving, as an active movement to which the concept of tranquillity must be subordinated. Goethe teaches us to love striving for the sake of striving, and in such a concept of life there is progress, betterment, and en lightenment. The concept of striving is not, however, nec essarily connected with destruction and plunder as we now find it. On the contrary, even in Faust, striving and strug gle have the implication of constructive work, of under taking great projects for the benefit of humanity. In this sense, they signify a struggle against nature, and that is the essence of struggle: man’s attempt to subdue nature and to rule it by his will. The forms that the struggle take indicate the development and refinement of the individuals who are engaged in the effort. What we need is not rest—or death—but a higher form of living and of striving. We must extend and intensify life, and raise and improve the goals toward which we strive. This is what the West has taught us, and this is what I admire in the West despite its brutality and its coarseness. I would even take this brutality and coarseness as accom panying features of the new concept of life that the West has taught us. I would even accept capitalism as an im provement upon the much famed wisdom and religion of the East. For it is precisely this wisdom and religion that make us unable to understand the fact that we have sunk to the lowest depths to which man can descend: we have sunk to slavery and to enduring subjugation. What we in the East admire most in the West is its in destructible vitality, its love for life and for the fulfillment of life. Every vital young man and young woman in the East ought to look toward the West, for he or she can learn 145 only from the West to regard himself or herself as a center of vitality capable of changing and bettering the world. The East must become Western in the sense that it must acquire as great a vitality and dynamism as the West. Faust must reveal himself to the Eastern man and mind, and that is already going on at present. It is, I suppose, not so unusual that I am sometimes called a “half Westerner,” and that I am often distrusted by those who are fanatically inclined toward Eastern civilization and culture, and who reject Western “materialism.” It is true that I hate self-deception and submissiveness, and that in stead I support the desire and courage to live that the West represents. , This does not, however, mean that I idealize the West as it now is. On the contrary, I am quite aware that there is deceit and decay in the West as well, but I nevertheless feel that it represents an improvement over what is gener ally and commonly implied by the term “Eastern.” What I value most highly in the West is its resilience, its vitality, its rationality—and it is only rationality that can possibly control human life.

JANUARY 14,1931 The press reports of the kidnaping of Chiang Kai-shek by “Communist troops”—which later turned out to be the troops of Chiang’s own subordinate, Chang Hsueh-liang— give another indication of the revolution that is going on in China. The revolutionary process itself is not hard to understand and even to calculate in advance, but the political conduct of the leaders, and thus the apparent course of events, which receives the major share of publicity, are absolutely bewildering. . . . 146 Nanking, or rather Shanghai, where the so-called “strong man” of China, Chiang Kai-shek, is headquartered, is a vortex of international activity. All the foreign powers that have vast interests in China are active, and besides, the Chi nese bourgeoisie is at its strongest there. It is this latter fact that makes Chiang Kai-shek stronger than his old rivals. He and his power—that is to say, his soldiers—are not directly dependent on foreign nations. It is, rather, the Chinese bankers and industrialists who have made it possible for him to become the “strongest man with the most orderly administration in China.” It is a well- known fact that Chiang is the executor of the wishes of the Soong family, who in turn are the leaders of Chinese bank ing. Chiang is, finally, bound firmly to the Soongs through his wife. When Chiang bargains, he does so in the service of the “Soong dynasty”; and all the slyness that is so highly valued and publicized by the press as the maneuvers of Shanghai and of Chiang Kai-shek actually find their source in the ac tive and self-conscious bourgeoisie of China as represented by the Soongs. This bourgeoisie has, moreover, no higher aspirations than the maintenance of its position and its prof its, and it is far too weak in China to have any expansive dreams. Shanghai is satisfied with Shanghai and does not dream of mastery over China. This is why I feel that a uni fied China, a Chinese nation, can never be expected from Shanghai. Shanghai has no desire to form a real, centralized govern ment. It is content with the profits it now reaps, and it is quite willing to earn these profits by acting as the servant of the greater world bourgeoisie, and as the latter’s paid agent. Shanghai does not want, and will never want, a war with Japan, but on the other hand, it also wishes to remain

H 7 on good terms with the English, the Americans, and, in short, with all wealth and power in the world! To look at the other side of the picture: the lower mid dle class in China is now restive, and nationalistically revo lutionary. The peasants are also revolutionary, and the workers too are revolutionary and even communistic. Can ton’s opposition to the Central Government makes use of the nationalism of the lower middle class, and this particu lar brand of nationalism connotes two things: weakness in the foreground, and English influence behind the scenes. But the members of the lower middle class seem to be satis fied with this pretext of nationalism. They revile the Japa nese, and they also revile Chiang Kai-shek, but that is as far as they go. For the rest, they willingly leave leadership in the hands of Shanghai because they feel too impotent to seize the leading position themselves. There are also the millions of peasants and workers and the tens of thousands of students who are stirring under the influence of idealism. They want a revolution, and they want to cleanse China of the domestic and foreign enemies of the Chinese people. They find their nuclei in the so- called communist bands, which are spread throughout China, not only in the “Soviet” provinces. They are every where in China, wherever there is a spirit of resistance and opposition. In a few provinces in middle China, west-south west China, and north-northeast China they have finally seized political power. Actually this element amounts to a peasant revolt under Communist leadership. Its success lies neither in its military might nor in its strong and efficient organization, but rather in the response and sympathy that its aims and actions elicit from the millions of poor peasant farmers and workers in China. It has the silent support of those millions, and it 148 finds its inexhaustible reservoir of man power in those mil lions. Anyone who is somewhat more familiar with the Chinese situation than is possible from the press reports knows that those communist bands can never be eradicated, because of the fact that even with foreign assistance, the Chinese bour geoisie cannot be strong enough, in a country as huge as China, to subjugate millions of people, as now is the case in Germany, for example. Even if there were no Soviet Russia, there would still be communist bands in China. That they are in effect now receiving aid from Soviet Russia is highly probable, and this would be true if it were only due to the fact that hundreds of their leaders have re ceived their education in that land. It is, furthermore, both probable and logical that Soviet Russia attaches value and importance to the movement in China, and that it there fore considers and uses this movement as a factor in its for eign policy. However, there is no doubt that the movement itself has ready access to a core of the best and most gifted Chinese youth, and that it is fully able to chart its own course. Mao Tse-tung, the genial leader of the movement, is now about forty years old, and he is particularly adept at at tracting the best of China’s youth to his cause. Of course, the intellectual bourgeoisie of Shanghai would have to be quite stupid not to realize all this, and not to understand that their greatest danger comes from that source. Conse quently there are the incessant punitive expeditions to ex terminate “communists,” and these expeditions please the foreign interests, who sometimes even show their pleasure by contributing material support for the maintenance of the Central Government armies involved. It is certainly re markable that Chiang Kai-shek has so many foreign friends 149 and advisers, as well as the sympathy of the whole world’s bourgeoisie! And now the accretion of resistance to the Japanese in vasion is being accompanied by a growth in the resistance movement against the Chinese bourgeoisie. All revolution ary elements, whether they are really communistic or not, are being integrated into the revolutionary movement of the communist bands. That does not, however, indicate that Chang Hsueh-liang must have been acting on behalf of Soviet Russia when he captured Chiang Kai-shek, and when, as ransom, he made certain political demands upon the Kuomintang concerning the forthcoming elections—demands that seem to be simply a duplication of the demands of the communist bands. Rather, Chang knew that by such an action he was appeal ing to the vast, invisible, and latent might of the whole Chi nese people, and that Shanghai well realized that the communist bands were growing strong, and would become a more and more decisive factor as time goes on in the de velopment of both the internal and external situation. That Chang finally allowed himself to be paid off by Soong is quite understandable, particularly if one is aware that the son of Chang Tso-lin could not possibly have or have had any real sympathy toward the communist bands. From his point of view, it was nothing more than black mail against Shanghai, and I wonder whether he really un derstood the content of the demands that he made. I think it is more likely that the demands were drawn up for him by others, by real revolutionaries who were using him for their own purposes. It is thus similarly likely that the spirit of the communist bands may finally spring forth among Chiang Kai-shek’s own troops as well. That is really the ma- 150 jor lesson that we can learn from these recent develop ments. The formulation of those communistic demands was not so much dependent on Japanese or Soviet Russian intrigue as it was on the feeling and sympathies of the people, par ticularly of the soldiers and officers, involved. With this factor in one’s mind, one can learn to distinguish between the vital and the incidental events in the Chinese scene. Finally, the Japanese advance is the greatest propaganda for the ideas of the communist bands, because resistance to Japanese aggression has always been prominent in their pol icies.

JAN U A RY 20, 1931 To my surprise, I have recently noticed that the short stories in American magazines have undergone a real change, and that they now are a class above those found in Dutch publications. This alteration seems to have occurred during the last few years of the Roosevelt administration, and from the improved caliber of American films, it also appears that under Roosevelt the Americans have acquired more and more spirit, refinement, and taste. Moreover, the common, banal films at present no longer come from America, but from Germany and Holland and the rest of Europe; and it is, in fact, the American films that have the higher spiritual stature now. An American culture is thus apparently developing, for the spirit behind these films is definitely not European. I find the new, de veloping American culture better, because it contains a sort of dry objectivity that is nevertheless permeated with spirit and humor. In the magazines there are the same tendencies. It seems to me that these American attitudes and feelings are closer 151 to us in Indonesia than the questions occupying the Van Gogh-Kaulbachs, the Dekkers, and the Vestdijks. There is no fatuous shopkeeper’s nonsense, none of the false pe tit bourgeois emotionalism. There is no prolixity from men who are poor in mind and experience, and there is no at tempt to apply cumbersome and literary intellectualism to the treatment of psychological varieties, complexes, and the problems of life and death. By contrast, in America life and the mind are regarded as phenomena that are interesting in themselves, and the means of expression are of secondary importance. It might be called simply old-fashioned realism or “Americanized” nat uralism, but the most important thing is that it is eminently suited for the representation of American life. To portray American life, it appears that this dry objectivity, this em phasis on brevity and intensity, rather than volume of verbiage, is the natural means of expression. And reading these magazines, one arrives at the surprising conclusion that the caliber of these stories rests on the caliber of the American masses, and that this caliber has thus risen above that of the European masses. There can hardly be any doubt that the ordinary stories and articles currently appearing in American publications compare very favorably with the best that the top Dutch literary magazines—such as Mork’s Magazine, Elsevier, or Groot Nederland—have to offer. One indication of the wisdom at which they have ar rived in America lies in the key words “relax” and “relaxa tion”—both mental and physical—which seems to be an important theme in most of the short stories. The impor tance of relaxation, actually, is one of the most recent of psychological revelations, and the fact that relaxation is now regarded in America as a sort of cure-all is itself some r5* thing of a psychological phenomenon. After the idolatry of “strain” and “business,” it is only logical that the gospel of relaxation and internal tranquillity should come to the fore. You hardly ever notice the words “success” or “business” in the American stories now, and instead you encounter “reflection,” “internal harmony,” and “balance.” What par ticularly concerns me is the intellectual problems of that new America seem to be so closely related to our own in this country, which I think indicates that we are not excep tions, but only representatives of our generation. At present I am following what our neophytes in Indo nesia are producing in this field, and while there are cer tainly signs of progress, there is still insufficient knowledge, so that all remains awkward and primitive. We are not yet intellectually as well equipped as Europe, by any means. We must build here a completely new culture, because the old is effete and useless for our time. There are no link ages to make possible a gradual transition and amplification from the cultural expressions of the fifteenth century— which are still in our midst—to our own times. Still, the main hindrance to our youth remains their lim ited knowledge and experience, and I do not think that that tempo can be forced. Compared to the tempo of the past, and of other Eastern peoples, we are already progressing quickly enough. Among our own magazines, the intellectual level is not yet very high, and there is not yet any originality; there is still too much repetition without sufficient understanding of what is actually being said.

JAN UARY 25, 1931 Among the few people whom I occasionally visit here, there is an old fisherman and his wife with their two grand-

*53 children, who live in a little hut on the beach. If I have been swimming or if I pass by during my walks, I occasionally drop in on them. I find it so pleasant to sit and listen to their stories about fishing, and about the islands and their people. For the most part, the stories are lore and legend that have largely originated in Lonthor, a small town on Great Banda. Lonthor was the former center of the prin cipality that these islands constituted before they came in contact with the Europeans. The Portuguese and Spaniards who first came here dealt with the prince of Lonthor, and Neira itself became more important only after the Europeans built their first fort there. It seems that through all the centuries, the people of Lonthor have kept up a written chronicle, which is now kept in the kampong meeting house and is regarded as sa cred. It has never been lent out, and they say that a great deal of money has been offered for it. At times of feast and celebration connected with their history, they read to the villagers from the book, and as a result the people—on Neira as well—all are familiar with the contents of the stories. I would guess that only a historian could distill the true and the factual from the chronicle, because they say that it begins with history of the first peo ple who lived on these islands! They of course were royal children, seven in number, but they were not, like other royal children, bom of human beings. Instead, they al legedly had no parents and came from a flower. Elsewhere in the chronicle, they probably say that our Goenoeng Api is the wayward spouse of the Goenoeng Api of Temate! For the simple people here, this is the history of their is lands, and not legends or myths. In their customary law (adat), moreover, this belief—or superstition, as the strict Islamites call it—is strongly expressed, and there is again, J54 in this sense, something unreal and mythical about these is lands.

FEBRUARY 2,1931 The children are not coming for their lessons this after noon, since they are going to the boat with a family that is leaving. This family will first go due east with a Japanese boat, and then back to Macassar. The roundabout trip is half as cheap as the direct K.P.M. boat. Actually the Japa nese service is quite remarkable, and it must be a K.P.M. concession, since the K.P.M. has a monopoly in Indonesia. In general, Japanese interest in this outer eastern part of our archipelago has grown considerably of late. Hundreds of small Japanese fishing boats sail in these waters, and they say there are also larger schooners and other ships. The whole business hardly seems to be completely tranquil and peaceful, since otherwise we should not receive continual visits from Dutch warships here. Moreover, Ambon has been made into a secondary base for the fleet, and an Eng lish cruiser is now lying in our lovely bay. It has been here for four days. The cruiser is part of a fleet group that for some time now has been cruising in these waters. Of course, everything occurs quietly, and I think there is no mention of it in the press in Holland. Nevertheless, we in this out- of-the-way place feel that something is going on.

FEBRUARY 9, 1931 A few days ago we had some visitors here from Digoel, who were on their way back to Java and Sumatra. Their faces were obviously malarial, and in Neira such drawn faces are particularly conspicuous. We must have looked something like that when we came. I wonder whether Digoel has now really become a per-

*55 manent, integral part of the Dutch colonial system. These people who came to call on us were being sent back at the cost of the government, but they did not have a cent with them. Hafil and I had nothing to give them, and I was really troubled by it. One of them was a woman, also an exile, whose husband has remained behind at Digoel. She had received permis sion to leave four years ago, but stayed with her husband until now. During the last year, however, she was continu ally ill, and had to leave finally because of her health. She certainly looked like a ghost when we saw her. Naturally, her family is gone, and after ten years in ex ile she hasn’t the least idea where to begin looking for them. Mentally she is broken; for example, she told us, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, how she had participated in the celebration of Princess Juliana’s birth day, and how her husband had sung the Wilhelmus on the occasion. Hafil responded with a virulent verbal attack, but fortunately I was able to stop him before it had gone too far. He had not realized that she had become feeble-minded, and that she was a mentally and physically broken person as a result of the long internment. W e heard from her news of the situation in Digoel, and of the others who stayed behind there. It seems that they are managing to get along fairly well now. Sometimes Digoel seems to be far away from me, and yet I don’t think that the Digoel period will ever be effaced from my mind; at least, not unless Digoel itself completely disappears, and the whole thing becomes simply a bad dream. For the present, at least, that doesn’t seem likely. I have now also heard that Liantoe is not yet fully recovered. If he has to stay there for another few years, I think it is very likely that he will go completely mad. 156 FEBRUARY 18,193 7 It is fortunate that not all the officials sent here by the Dutch become demoralized in the long run. There are men like Lefebvre, to say nothing of Multatuli,* and many oth ers as well. There are also Dutch women who do not un dergo psychological distortion and disintegration under the abnormalities of a life among “colored races” and “starving submissives.” Furthermore, our society already has manifested consid erable change, and time has acted as a strong leveler. There is, for example, less megalomania and arrogance among the Dutch rulers now than fifteen years ago, and there is also more self-confidence among the Indonesians. The abnor mality of such a colonial society, which derives mainly from the peculiar psychic relationships and attitudes that characterize it, are slowly disappearing; not because of an ethical policy and not because of intent on the part of either the rulers or the ruled, but simply because of the inexorable process of society adapting itself to the needs of the modem productive apparatus. That process of modernization progresses with or with out crisis. Crisis merely has the effect of hastening the proc ess. In addition, the place that the Indos [or Eurasians] occupy in the colonial society has been altered. In spite of everything, the Indos are gradually becoming Indonesians, or one could say that the Indonesians are gradually coming to the level of the Indos. The evolution of the deeply in-

* Lefebvre was an assistant resident on Sumatra’s west coast. He re signed after a dispute with the government. Multatuli was the pen name of the Dutch writer E. Douwes Dekker, who wrote the famous Max Havelaar, a book exposing and condemning the evils of the “culture system”—a sort of share-cropper agriculture—in the nineteenth-century colonial order.

l57 grained process of transformation in our society first es tablished the Indos in a privileged position, and now that same process is withdrawing those privileges. . Even if they retain their “European” status before the law, they will still be on a level with the Indonesians, be cause there are and will continue to be many more edu cated Indonesians than Indos. Their privileged position thus is losing its social foundation, and as a result that posi tion itself will also disappear. There are, however, very few of the Indos who realize this. In Indo circles there is certainly a lack of foresight and idealism, and yet this lack is understandable. They are, in deed, spiritually more oppressed than we Indonesians, since they are oppressed from both sides. It is sad but true that as a result they are all psychologically somewhat distorted. There are only very few among them who are able to free themselves from the psychic, squeeze, and for the most part these are the ones who reach top positions in the colonial administration. Actually, they are then no longer really Indos, and they go to Holland to spend their savings and their pensions when they are older.

FEBRUARY 25,1931 Less than six months ago I started to teach my little Arabian pupils their ABC’s. The most advanced among them are now as far as pupils of the fourth grade of the lower school. The progress is really quite rapid, but this tempo is due to the great powers of absorption of children of their age. The most advanced of the group is a nice little girl of eleven years, who is most decidedly a bright child. They are all exceedingly nice children. They are my best friends here and we are truly close to each other. Since I have begun with them, their whole lives have changed a 158 little, I think, and they look so neat and bright now that I am really proud of them. / Hafil also teaches, but—except for Dr. Soeribno’s foster son—he gives lessons only to adults, to whom he teaches bookkeeping. According to the gove*nrnent’s educational ordinance, we are not allowed to give, lessons to members of more than three families, and henc:e Hafil teaches three adults, and I teach the children frorn three families, five in number.

MARCH 12, 1931 Many Europeans long for tiie East, which signifies to them tranquillity and reflection- reahty, the East is no longer that promised land of peace °f mind and spirit. Precisely as we were accusf^ idealizing Europe fifty years ago, the Europeans are ,now looking toward an East that several philosophers have idealized, but that in fact has never existed. The East of Augusta de W it exists only for people like Augusta de V^it, just as the East of the Buddhists exists only for the Bilc^hists. What is there of that East in Hong Kong or S h a n g h a i or Tokyo, or even in Soerabaya or Batavia? Everywhere1-311^ here in the East as well—the tempo and rhythm of lif^ has been accelerated. That much coveted tranquillity ari$ peace can now be found only in remote places such as ]Neira, and even then it is not complete, because the radio has1- penetrated this iso lation. The pulse of the world rhythm m'akes itself felt here as well. I don’t wish to exaggerate it, and it is true that there is still a difference in tempo that the city dweller of western Europe can’t miss. There is no doubt that the people here are calmer and more easygoing. But is it proper to exalt a constrained and far from pleasant situation of poverty and

159 slavery as an \ideal, simply by referring to it as “carefree ness” and “morjl superiority”? Similarly, one might say that the inhabitants of New Guinea are better cff than we are, and yet I know that isn’t true. Certainly they would be unhappy if they had to live our life, but on the ort.er hand, could we possibly be happy with their life of endless skin disease and eternal fear of evil spirits? After all that I have learned about the West through my education, my orientatioi., and my experience there, I cer tainly cannot and do not idealize it. On the other hand, I know only too well what the Eastern attributes, so admired by the Westerner, really arage slavery is worse and more mis erable than feudal bondage. Wage slavery is accompanied by greater mental suffering because of the greater cares of existence and the constant pressure of insecurity and the dependence on others. But do we want to return to feudal bondage in order to escape the evils of the wage system? That is what an idealization of the East signifies, because, in a spiritual ?.nd intellectual sense, we are still living here in the tim^; of feudal servitude. All the so-called admirable Easter.i attributes are remnants of a feudal system of pov 160 erty and indolence, as a result of which we have finally al most become people who don’t care, and who are experts at doing nothing. It is a fact that there are people here, especially in Java, who can sit for hours thinking about absolutely nothing; “woolgathering,” as the West would call it. And is that an attribute, a virtue of the East? Perhaps, but only of that East which still lives amid feudal relationships that show none of the stimuli of modem life; only of that East in which millions have extra time because they have nothing else to do but produce their single plate of rice every day. People who have been indigent for generations have in deed become well versed in “Eastern” life; in other, words, in the negation of the world and life. They have become experts in the art of negation, which they take to spon taneously and naturally. And now there are many West- terners who are envious of these people, because they themselves have forgotten what rest is. But they lose sight of one other vital fact, and that is that this sort of “art” can be developed and applied only under the heel of a ruler, and that it exemplifies only the virtue of endurance and adapta tion. And even here, the fact again appears that life is stronger than all negation, because the negation itself is in the service of life. The East’s negation of life is really only an adaptation that makes an unbearable life bearable. That the ruler envies the slave is, again, understandable. For tolerance and endurance are indeed real attributes, and in a certain sense one can truly say that the slave has culti vated the art of life—that is, the art of self-adaptation—more fully than the master. Still, there are only very few who wish to exchange places with the slave. In the final analysis why must we choose between the slave and the ruler, be tween the capitalistic West and the servile East? We do not 161 have to exchange or wish for one or the other. We can reject them both, since indeed they have both become, and will continue to become, antedated.

MARCH 11,1931 Here in Neira we are at present living in the time of the tjoelik. A tjoelik is someone—according to the custom—who hunts heads for the government. And why does the govern ment need these heads? Simply as an offering and a spirit for a bridge that is going to be built, since each new bridge will need a head to be placed on top of a special pillar. Without such a head the bridge cannot be built, or it will be so weak that it will soon crumble. As calm and tranquil as the people here usually are, they are nervous and fearful now. After seven o’clock in the eve ning almost no one ventures out in the streets, and all the houses are tightly locked. Behind the doors and windows the people sit with anxious faces, shuddering every time they hear a noise. Although I heard of tjoeliks when I was a boy, I have never encountered anything like this before. I always thought it was a device used by maids and servants to frighten the children and make them obey more readily. The source of the present situation lies in the fact that the government is now rebuilding the jetty. There have, naturally, been a few accidents connected with the work, and as a result the local people have been living in fear of the tjoeliks for over a week. In fact, all of Neira is suffer ing from the tjoelik fear at present. At first I didn’t pay any attention to it, and the houseboy laughed a little when he told me about it. Gradually, however, I realized that people were talking and whispering about it everywhere, 162 including people of all sects and beliefs, and those of whom you would never have expected such superstition. Nervously and fearfully they gather each morning, with new gossip about where the tjoelik was seen the previous night, or where he was heard. If two women meet each other on the street in the morning, invariably the talk turns immediately to the tjoelik. In fact, a few days ago our houseboy came to my room to tell me about the happenings of the night before. It seems that they chased the tjoelik until late in the night, but of course they couldn’t catch him. Certainly, if they had, the whole world would now know about it! On the other hand, the tjoelik is never able to catch up with any heads, so he too must be disappointed! At first I tried to talk them out of all this nonsense. They listened, laughed a bit, but still remained frightened and convinced of the existence of the tjoelik. The whole thing is unbelievable: calm “loyal” Christians, who support the House of Orange and who are glad to follow Dutch lead ership, are now fully convinced that the same government for which they have so much respect and loyalty hires peo ple to waylay them. One fellow told me in dead earnest that at night criminals who have been imprisoned by the Dutch are let loose on the inhabitants of Neira, and that under cover of Dutch police guards, these prisoners, to gether with head-hunters of Borneo who are brought here at night from a certain island, Poelau Manoek, do the tjoe- liking! I even said to a few of them that they could be sent to prison for five years if the government found out that they were spreading such gossip. They replied simply that they knew it, but they went on with their gossip anyhow. There was one old woman who pleaded with me never to go out in the street after seven o’clock. I asked her how old she 163 was, and when she said she was over sixty, I asked her if, during her whole life, she had ever heard of or known a case where a tjoelik had actually been able to get a head. At first she looked at me with great surprise, and then ad mitted that she had not. I told her that the tjoelik must cer tainly be stupid if that is the case, and that he therefore was no one to be afraid of. She nodded shyly in reply, but she remained frightened. For that matter, the whole thing is a good example of mass psychosis, and reasoning can actually do nothing about it. I then asked her why the tjoelik let me alone, and the others wTho dared to be on the street after seven o’clock. She answered that they would naturally not attack me, and they let the other rich people alone because they paid such high taxes! There are certainly people who have been sent to Digoel for very much less than this, and here is this gos sip among these good “loyal” Christian natives, whose ideal is to become soldiers in the Dutch army! The whole thing was really new to me and I am trying now to find out more about it. I no longer argue with them, but simply listen to them in order to find out just exactly how they conceive of it. Every morning there are new sto ries, generally about footsteps or voices, or a house that was bombarded with stones, or an attack on somebody by a tjoelik with a noose, or a cowboy lasso. Naturally, the person who was attacked got away from the tjoelik in the nick of time! In the mornings if I go walking through the kampong, there is always commotion there. The people stand or crouch in little groups on the side or in the middle of the path, speaking and acting nervously and in a way that is not at all like their normal habit. It seems that there is a “tjoelik time” every year, and this 164 is probably a phenomenon for the psychoethnologist, or perhaps for the psychiatrist. It is impossible to say who starts it, but the fact is that everyone contributes, and each one gossips with the deepest conviction about the activities of the tjoelik. It all remains more or less innocent gossip, since the tjoelik has never been able to catch up with any body. This is really a remarkable characteristic of our peo ple. They are not afraid of sharks, and they are certainly profound fatalists in almost all matters. Yet they are so frightened by a phantom such as the tjoelik that they com pletely lose their balance. It is easy to see here again that individuals who have a fear psychosis are simply not sus ceptible to reasoning. I think, in fact, that the passions and emotions of man can never be completely eliminated by the mind. On the contrary, the mind can govern only in so far as these emotions permit it to, and whenever the emo tions themselves become fully active, the mind is shut out or is subservient to them.

MARCH 20, 1931 I usually keep Saturday evenings free to read a novel or some magazines. At present I have Stiefmoeder Aarde [“Stepmother Earth”] by Theun de Vries. And sometimes I read something of Nietzsche or Goethe, whose collected works I now have here. Things have been quiet during the last few days, and we are hardly disturbed by any visitors, since everyone is afraid of the tjoelik. This morning I even heard that a certain Mrs. P., a full-blooded Swiss, is living in mortal fear of the tjoelik! I also heard that the doctor is now suspected of be ing a tjoelik, because he was seen one afternoon with two agents of the police in the woods. The thing is thus becom ing still more aggravated. i6 5 It is on such elements in the human make-up that the suc cess of the Hitlers and the Musserts depend, to a large extent, and not only their success, but the wild enthusiasm for the House of Orange in Holland, and for the marriage celebrations of Juliana as well. It is literally a sort of spir itual infection, which the average man simply cannot resist. Besides the tjoeliks, they have ghosts on Banda. We, for example, are living in a “haunted house,” and the respect in which we are held is augmented not inconsiderably by this fact. Moreover, women who die in childbirth—and par ticularly Christian women—are believed to come out of their graves and wander around the islands in the forms of evil spirits, or pontianaks. There is no legend of their hav ing harmed anyone, but the people are nonetheless deathly afraid of them. And it is really a form of death fear, a fear of the living and arisen death. It is a primitive fear, but it is nevertheless there. I think that one might be able to define and measure a people’s civilization and development according to the re finement of their death fear. We, too, have that same in stinctive fear, although we express it in more “refined” ways. One has only to consider Mrs. P. in order to realize that ours is, in kind, the same basic death fear as that of the primitive, and that there is even possible a spiritual meeting of minds between a Swiss and a Kaja-Kaja. The worry and fear of these people throughout the night is absolutely undescribable. The tjoeliks and the pontianaks still rule in this beautiful paradise, which Europeans find so peaceful and happy. The materialistic West knows nothing of all this. In Europe there exists only the dread of material failure, of class struggle, and of spiritual and intellectual confusion—all signs of the rule of Mammon. The presence here in the people’s beliefs of these ghosts 166 and tjoeliks—which indeed should be more at home in hell! —is the best indication that we are not in paradise, but in the world—the world that is simultaneously a paradise and a hell!

MARCH 22, 1931 Last evening I read a piece of Jef Last’s Huis zonder Vensters [“House without Windows”] to Nellie Cresa. I doubt whether she understood much of it, because it in volves a world of thought that is so remote from her that she could not possibly follow it. Sick and sequestered on her chair as she has now been for so long, she no longer reads any newspapers, and formerly she probably read only local news and the woman’s page. She is not familiar with any of the political figures in Europe or Holland, and this is true of all the women here, the Indonesians, the half-bloods or Indos, and the pure Europeans. For the most part they have gone only to grammar school or junior high school, but even those who have been to high school or another secondary school are no better off. The same is true in Java as well. In any case, from House 'without Windows I read her the conversation between Mohammed and Paul; the first as the representative of the East, and Paul as the most ad vanced representative of the West. I must say that Jef Last hasn’t done very much with the whole thing, and the best that Paul brings to bear against Mohammed is rather feeble. In all fairness, I think that my criticisms of Eastern “wis dom,” compared with those of Paul in his argument with Mohammed, mark me—an Easterner—as a better defender of the West than Paul, alias Jef Last! Instead of exposing the inaccuracies of Mohammed’s standpoint by going into them more deeply, Last merely presents a weak defense 167 about the service of technology in the world to come. In fact, I find the whole book weak and unconvincing. The same characteristics were apparent in his Lief de in de Por- tieken [“Love in the Porticoes”]. Last has too pathetic a nature to be an accomplished novelist, and he should rather attempt the genre poetic prose, in the style of van Schendel or Stefan Zweig. With Last, word artistry remains the major concern. In other words, he is too much of an artist with words, and too little of a psychologist, to be a good novelist. Each of his main characters lacks depth and substance. It is as though the writer doesn’t understand the people with whom he comes in contact, or as though he is sufficiently occupied with their superficiality not to be desirous of penetrating more deeply into their motives and reactions. Such a deeper penetration can, in fact, be accomplished by the use of modern means, as the Russian novels and the work of some of the younger European writers show. Mal- raux’s Les Conquérants is a case in point: objective, but so minutely and accurately observed and depicted that the spiritual motion of the characters can be followed clearly without the aid of any critical commentary. It is certainly true, however, that this art of objectivity can be appreciated only by the most sophisticated readers, because the masses still require education even to under stand the happenings of their own everyday life. Objec tivity in writing requires active participation on the part of the reader, independent conclusions, and personal penetra tion into the minds of the characters. I can thus understand why Last sometimes seems old- fashioned in his desire to be clear. It may have been a con cession to his mass audience, and yet, precisely in this treatment, he shows that he does not understand his charac- 168 ters. His Captain Dujardin, for example, is simply a model from a well-known formula that the trade widely uses. I did not, in fact, expect a really good novel from Last. His style is more suited to battle songs and declamations than to the novel form. It is certainly a pity, because he has been able to see much more of the world and of people than perhaps all of the other young writers in Holland put together. His natural inclination toward pathos has always prevented him from transforming his quantitative experi ence of breadth into a qualitative experience of depth. Compared with the other Dutch writers, however, he has the advantage that even his superficial experiences are more interesting than their toiling with psychological hobbies and with the narrow, petit bourgeois problems of life in Holland.

MARCH 24, 1931 The Arabian children to whom I give lessons are children of Sajids; that is, of Arabs who are considered and respected as direct descendants of the Prophet. They are thus what might be called Arab nobility; the boys are called sajids and the girls sjarifas. Furthermore, a sjarifa is supposed to marry only a sajid, whereas a sajid, as representative of the priv ileged sex, is allowed to marry a nonsjarifa, or even a non- Islamite woman. Here in Indonesia the sajids constitute, in general, the most conservative group among the Arabs in their prac tices. As soon as a sjarifa becomes a woman she is koeroenged, or shut up. In Arabia the practice involves only the wearing of a veil and leaving the house only in the eve ning when accompanied by a chaperon. The sjarifas are considered to be women when their menstruation begins, and from this time on, they cannot be seen by any men ex- 169 cept the members of their immediate families. Here the confinement itself is called the koeroeng. Outside of Java, the Indonesians have adopted this cus tom as well, in those areas where Islamic influence is strong. And here on Neira, for example, the Indonesians also con fine their daughters. Among the Arabs themselves, the koeroeng practice applies mainly to sjarifas, but oddly enough the Arabs on Neira generally have more liberal at titudes on this subject than do the Indonesians. For exam ple, it would be unthinkable among the Arabs in Java for the parents of two girls like Mimi and Lili, who are both sjarifas and are still far from being women, to allow their children to come to me every day for lessons. In Java, actually, the only education that the sjarifas can and must have is religious education, or reading the Koran. They are, moreover, brought up only to serve their future husbands with the feminine Arab virtues: first of all obedience, and then feminine grace, cleanliness, and bodily care. They are thus brought up to be harem wives, and according to the Arab idea, intellectual development is bad for them. Here, for the most part, the sjarifas go to the European school, although they generally do not go beyond the sixth grade because their confinement begins at about that time. The koeroeng itself also takes place in a different way from the custom in Arabia. Not even the sjarifas wear veils, but instead the koeroeng simply requires that they stay at home with their sarongs and kabajas, instead of dresses. The koeroenged girls sometimes appear on the street, but much less frequently than before the koeroeng goes into effect. The same custom exists in Spain, and the sjarifas here are considerably better off in this respect than many Spanish girls. Mimi and Lili are nice, bright children, and considerably 170 brighter and quicker than the so-called European children here. I was surprised to find this to be the case when I first saw them, but now I understand why. They are both grandchildren of the famous Baadilla, the “pearl king of Banda,” who personally presented to Queen Wilhelmina a pearl that he himself had dived for, and that she now has among her diadems. Formerly he was very rich, but he be came .poor and finally died in extreme poverty, leaving his sons and daughters in dire circumstances. That old Baadilla was evidently very progressive. Of course he could afford to be, because he was rich and the head of the Arab community here, so that the Arabs never dared to oppose his extravagant and even immoral ideas and actions. His daughters, for example, although they were not sjarifas, received a European education, and were even al lowed to dance with Europeans. Dancing Arab girls are never found in Arab countries except in the dance houses. Mimi’s and Lili’s fathers are sajids, and they themselves are thus sjarifas, although their mothers are daughters of the old Baadilla. In reality, these people are no longer Arabs, and so extensively have they mixed with other races that they do not have any more than a maximum of 20 per cent Arabian blood. In general, there is no doubt that among all the inhabitants of Neira, Indonesian blood dominates—and that includes the Arabs, the Chinese, and the so-called Eu ropeans. It is my impression that the true Bandanese—those who can, for example, trace their genealogy back four genera tions—are physically weaker than the other inhabitants. There are also many feeble-minded, tubercular, and leper cases among them, and I think that the cause lies in the fact that a sort of inbreeding has been practiced. The island is 171 small, and hence people of such a type usually marry others of the same type. The Europeans and the Arabs are almost all somewhat degenerate types; and only the Chinese, who either go to China to marry or choose a wife from the working class— since they do not pay so much attention to class distinction —seem to maintain their physical stature. I think a biologi cal study of the miscegenation and blood mixtures of Banda and their effects would certainly be a worth-while project. In reality, I think that inbreeding and social taboos would tend to make such a study very difficult. As is everywhere the case, the “sociality” of the individual and his psychic determinism—and in turn the effect that these have on phys ical qualities and on the nervous, thinking, and emotional systems—make this problem temporarily insoluble. More over, I doubt whether we stand to lose very much if we simply regard the problem as insoluble and hence as non existent. In any case, racial mixture here in the East is certainly more of a question for psychology and sociology than it is for biology. The key to the whole question is, I feel, the inferiority complex, since the mixtures in general are judged, regarded, and felt as social deviations, with all the consequences that such an attitude entails for the deviators. Actually, the best indication that this question is not a biological but a social and psychological problem lies in the fact that there is no such problem whatsoever among well- to-do Indos. Who, for example, would possibly think of calling that famous general or this prominent minister de generate, because they obviously have Indonesian blood in their veins? Even the well-educated Indo here could not be called a degenerate. The determining factor is thus plainly not bio- 172 logical, but simply the social relationships involved. And it is therefore much safer to analyze intellectual and spiritual attributes in terms of social patterns than in terms of blood mixtures. Of course, I do not deny that blood mixture must also have an influence, but it seems to me that this influence could really be analyzed only among very primitive peo ples—as, for example, would be the case in a cross between a Negro from middle Africa and a Lapp from the Arctic. But even this would make us no wiser as to the psychic and biological consequences of a cross between an Arab and a Chinese, a Britain and an Indian, or a Turk and an Egyp tian. I believe, furthermore, that among civilized peoples it is impossible to speak of races in the same sense as the term is used in biology or in the animal kingdom. During the course of centuries there have been far too many mixtures among these people, which cannot possibly be analyzed fully. There is, in fact, a question as to whether the pure sense of the term “race” even applies to Negroes and to Kaja-Kajas. In appearance, the Kaja-Kajas often seem to differ in racial characteristics. Sometimes they show Ne grito characteristics, but then also they manifest Semitic or Arab characteristics—and this diversity is typical not of a few individuals, but of the whole tribe.

MARCH 28, 1931 Yesterday at Nellie Cresa’s house I met a German curate from Saparoea who came here to conduct Communion. Nellie is a great admirer of this curate, and I am sure he is a good preacher, because he certainly seems to talk smoothly and abundantly in private conversation. For a German he spoke an excellent Dutch, and he seemed to be I73 considerably more refined than most of his colleagues whom I have thus far known. He seemed to be intelligent, though not wholly free of hypocrisy. He came in with an ironic, more or less challenging look —evidently intended for me—and immediately launched into a discussion of his work and the courses he had taken at Leyden. Then I saw what he was trying to do: He wanted to show that at college he too had listened to professors! Moreover, he wanted to give the impression of being a full- fledged minister! When I helped him along by modestly hearing him out, he became more at ease, and his challeng ing and belligerent attitude disappeared. He then even tried to be unusually polite to me, which his native hypocrisy made quite easy. I tried to start a conversation with him, and asked differ ent questions to find out what sort of man he really was, for Mrs. Soeribno also seemed to have great respect for him. He told me that he expected to go to Germany on leave very soon. (And it is not hard to deduce that when he gets there he will certainly turn into an ardent fascist.) I asked him about his impressions, experiences, and work in Indo nesia, and he replied at some length, although carefully avoiding reference to anything about which he thought I might disagree with him. He began by stating that he had had almost nothing to do with the social life of the population as such, and had had no chance to form any opinions about it. (And that after having lived as curate for six years in one small village community!) He also found it necessary to speak to me about the difficulties that can arise between church and state. I had already understood him, and he gave himself, away further by referring to the “animism” of the people, *74 and the police inspector who “could handle the people well.” He was perhaps more intelligent and refined than most of his colleagues, but he certainly does not deserve the es teem that Mrs. Soeribno accorded him. I suspect that he managed to put himself over by his German graciousness. I am encountering experiences here that I would never have been able to encounter in any other part of Indonesia. For example, I am getting to know the Christian element of our people better than I possibly could in the Batak lands or even in Java. The Christian community here is already approximately three hundred, but both here and in Sap- aroea—according to the German curate—the Christianity practiced is a unique sort. It is often Christianity in word, but paganism—that is, animistic—in spirit and content. In addition to the tjoeliks, there is the belief in the transmigra tion of souls, coming from the Kaja-Kajas of New Guinea. Real development will not come here through religion, but only if the people themselves are placed more in contact with the intellectual life of the rest of the world. The peo ple here still live in a way that is far behind that of Java.

JUNE 10,1931 This is the time of the year when marriages are per formed in Neira. We have already attended several mar riage feasts, and early this morning there was another wedding invitation. I have also heard that there are several more next week, which we will be invited to attend. Actually it is beginning to be a little annoying, for I have already had enough of those feasts. The difficulty is that since I readily accepted the first invitations, I can’t very well refuse the others without causing offense. For the kampong people, such a wedding is a great event and an op

I75 portunity to emphasize or demonstrate the high social posi tion of the families concerned. The richer and more substantial the family, the more numerous and more impor tant the guests. Those who invite us are thus showing that they can suitably receive guests who are “better situated.” If you don’t give them the chance to prove this, they are naturally disappointed and offended, since they feel they are too important to be ignored. The feasts themselves are really social events. People who earn hardly fifteen guilders a month often spend more than one hundred guilders for such a wedding feast. Usually the bridegroom pays most of the expenses, and among the Is lamites the girl is literally bought from the father. The pur chase price is called nvang antaran or “present of money,” and the more wealthy the bride’s family, the larger the wang antaran. In some cases, in fact, the money may really be a purchase price, and if the girl, though of a poor family, is lovely, and there are many who seek her hand, then the wang antaran may be competitive and may reach a level of hundreds or even thousands of guilders. On Sumatra’s east coast this was formerly a normal procedure. Here, how ever, the people are more modest. There are, furthermore, no wealthy Indonesians, and we—the “exiles”—really con stitute the “upper ten.” As a result, the wang antaran is generally only fifty guilders, and often even less. This money is then used for the festivities. A few goats are killed, rice is served, and naturally there are all sorts of cakes, tea, and coffee. The feast is also ac companied by music of a brassy variety from the kampong orchestra. Among the wealthier families there are often two bands—a kampong group and a “jazz band,” both con sisting of Indonesians who, besides being musicians, are also fishermen, carpenters, cleaners, or sellers. None of 176 them can read notes, and yet they play the latest tunes, and on key! They learn them from the gramophone records and more recently from the radio. Later in the evening there is Arab dancing to Arab music. The bridegroom is usually dressed in the Arabian mode and the bride according to European fashion. Both receive congratulations in the European manner. How such things have changed during the last fifteen years in Indonesia! Formerly one would find such practices only among thor oughly Europeanized Indonesian families. In the kampongs one would see a sorrowful and shy bride with her eyes al ways turned toward the ground, and her face caked in powder, which made her look horribly unnatural. On the other side, there was the groom, who looked as though he would rather cry than laugh, and who never dared to look at his bride but turned his head the other way. Absolutely no handshaking took place, and it was practically incon ceivable that anyone should touch the bride. And now one sees here, among the simplest people of the kampong, two laughing youngsters, dressed in their best clothes, exchanging happy glances, laughing back when others laugh at them, and shaking hands all around. I am curious whether this is also the case in the out-of-the- way areas of Sumatra and Borneo. I have been told that this has all taken place here only during the last fifteen years, too. Our people are certainly not a conservative folk. In fact, one can say of the whole East that in these matters revolu tionary changes are taking place. In the last fifteen years, for example, the Chinese have discarded customs of thou sands of years. In the cities they have even become ultra modern. The Chinese youths speak of sexual freedom, and they live as loosely and freely as though they were in New

ill York rather than Nanking or Hankow. It has not been so bad among us, but on the other hand we have never held to tradition and custom as hard and fast as the Chinese. For centuries we have allowed foreign influences to affect and modify our customs. We have always been a supple, easily adaptable people. Even among us it is clearly evident that the tempo of change has accelerated during the last quarter century, and that a revolution is actually going on that most people remain unaware of, because they do not com pare what they now see about them with what they can still remember from fifteen or twenty years ago. If the dead of a quarter century ago were to return for even a moment, they would think themselves in another world, and perhaps would wish they were back in their graves. But the living—and even the aged among them—are undergoing the changes without any resistance. There is al most no struggle between young and old now. The younger generation rules, pushes ahead, and gives the old no time to realize what is actually taking place. Women who have themselves spent most of their lives in their houses without being seen by any strange male eyes seem to accustom themselves with remarkable ease to the habits of their bobbed-haired daughters who dance, bicycle, and have boy friends. The East is being westernized. It can be deplored or ap plauded, but the process goes forward inexorably and rapidly. It is a fact that must be accepted and considered. If it is true, as some say, that we are living in a period of “the decline of the West,” then I think one can as well speak of the “decline of the world,” because that Western soul is no longer exclusively Western or European. I com pletely disbelieve this talk of decline, even if another world war soon breaks out. 178 I am convinced that the cause behind our people’s weak ness is also really an unusual virtue; namely, its almost lim itless tolerance and its extraordinary adaptability. Originally, Hafil and I went to all the Mohammedan religious festivals bareheaded. Soebana did likewise, and later another Arab from Java followed suit. At first the people regarded it strangely, but there was no protest. And when their scribes and scholars explained that the head cov ering was not really an integral part of the Islamic religion, they regarded the revelation as something quite new, but they nevertheless accepted it as some new wisdom. Now they find it quite normal, and in a few more years they may even do likewise themselves. Here everything new is allowed to grow, and sometimes there are the strangest syntheses between old and new. It is certainly a fine trait in our people, but it is at the same time the secret behind the three hundred years of white rule. What I have said applies, in the first place, to Java and the other islands that have always had contact with the out side world, and not to the interiors of Sumatra, Borneo, or Celebes. In Atjeh (north Sumatra),* for example, the people have not been so tolerant. As a result, the Atjenese were able to rid themselves of foreign rule several hundred years ago. This people of ours, in general, has the Christian (and 'Buddhist) virtue of tolerance, but, as Ludendorff would say, they also “have no grit and no character.” That is why we are the “gentlest people of the earth,” and that is why

* The Atjenese of north Sumatra have probably been the most war like local group among the whole heterogeneous Indonesian people. T hey have continually resisted by force Dutch attempts to establish a functioning civil administration in their land, and as a result acquired a greater degree of autonomy than did other more docile groups. Throughout the three hundred years of Dutch rule in the islands, die Atjenese revolted almost regularly once every quarter century. *79 we have been able to bear three hundred years of foreign rule without crumbling, and, on the contrary, increasing vastly in numbers. If one looks beneath the local difference, one can discern this common attribute of the people as a whole.

JULY 1,1931 Sometimes I consciously try to be superficial in order to prevent myself from brooding. I refuse to become de pressed because I am convinced that that can serve no pur pose besides disturbing my mental balance. I have myself so completely under control in this respect that I never have any trouble from sleeplessness or from my nerves, except when I have an attack of malaria, such as during the last few days. That is my weapon against the force that holds me here and that separates me from the world. As long as I can per sist in this attitude, force cannot harm me. I am, of course, still troubled by certain manifestations of this force. And my disturbances sometimes degrade me to the intellectual level of my stupid masters, so that I indulge in reactions of anger or vexation. But here my weapon is mockery—and even self-mockery. As long as I can retain this self-mockery, the ability to see the humor in my own situation, I can free myself from vain and stupid reactions to the vain and stupid actions of my captors to which I am subjected. So, in fact, I even ap pear to be internally immune from any further actions that the powers that be may attempt to enforce on helpless ex iles. And if my internment continues much longer, then they will be unable to affect me further. Despite my posi tion as an exile and a prisoner, I can be amused by the ludi- 180 crous demonstrations of power that the authorities seek to impress upon the helpless. Mockery can be a wonderful weapon—the weapon of the helpless and the materially impotent. Although it always has an unconscious feeling of weakness as its foundation, it is still a strong and sometimes even fatal weapon to the op position. Might flourishes on prestige, enhanced by terror if necessary. But how can prestige exist if it becomes the object of mockery? Mockery can bring prestige to naught, and it is a fortunate thing. For otherwise the materially im potent would really and finally be impotent against the material force of the rulers. Even the bayonet requires a spirit and a prestige behind it. Without prestige, it is para lytic and dead.

JULY 8,1931 Hafil has told me that Jan R. is to be sent to a western post (in Indonesia) after his furlough. He hasn’t written to me, and for that matter, I don’t think that he will ever do so. I think that upon further thought he realized that he could achieve a greater degree of spiritual contact with Hafil than with me, and I also think that he was right. In a way I am sorry, because I think he is a congenial chap. Nevertheless, like seeks like. They are both slightly “soft-boiled”! In any case, Jan will certainly shape a career for himself, because I foresee that another period of “pro gressive policy” is unavoidable; not only because of the current international situation, but also because the spiritual structure of the Indonesian people has changed. The old-fashioned autocratic rule is becoming less and less satisfactory. The large increase in the number of edu cated Indonesians requires that more and more of them be absorbed into the colonial government, unless the govern 181 ment itself wants to make these people into an ever growing source of opposition to it. And thus a democratization that is at least confined to these upper layers is as inevitable as has been the case in In dia. Even though no such policy has been announced, we are already moving in that direction, and there has even been a partial success achieved in this regard. For there is no question that the inclination to co-operate with the colo nial government is growing among the nationalist intellec tuals. There is, for example, the Parindra, which is now the largest and strongest nationalist party in Indonesia. Most of the party’s leaders already occupy positions in government bodies, even though they provide the opposition to the ad ministration in those bodies. At present the government suppresses every radically inclined movement with force, but as soon as it finds another part of the nationalists ready to co-operate, it will have to adopt a more lenient attitude even toward the left-wing groups of the nationalist move ment, since such an attitude will be a prerequisite to ensure the real loyalty of even the co-operatively inclined na tionalists. In such a case, any further action that may be taken can be covered by these moderate co-operative na tionalists themselves. For such a type of colonial administration, people like Jan R. are certainly the most suitable civil servants. They work with heart and soul because they think that they are working for their own ideals. Such a colonial policy pro vides scope for such an idealistic disposition, and in fact requires it from the government administrators.

JULY 10,1931 We are at present particularly curious over the first pub lic statements of the new government in Holland. Welter 182 certainly does not have a pleasant history, but that does not necessarily signify very much. The director of eco nomic affairs here, Mr. Hart, is himself one of the estate and plantation owners, but at present he is anything but popular with these owners, because of his liberal ideas. The same thing may be the case with Welter. In any case, he is an independent minister of colonies and not simply a subordinate of Colijn. Both Dr. Soeribno and Hafil are pessimistic, and they expect that they will still have to stay here for five or six years more. I don’t agree with them, and the reason is not only that I am so anxious to get away from here. I think the reason lies in the fact that I try to judge colonial policy by putting myself in the government’s position. In reality, colonial policy is not dependent on party poli tics in Holland, and even less on the people who happen to become the ministers of colonies. The appearance of the new reactionary Christian party cabinet does not in itself mean a great deal. If, for example, one compares the colo nial program of the liberal Democrats or of the Labor party with that of the Catholics or even the Antirevolu tionary party, one sees that there is actually little difference in their aims. We are living at a fast pace, and any moment something may happen that will also sharply alter things here. I am thus not counting on magnanimity or kindness or ethics or anything of that sort. I know that little Holland is neither magnanimous nor kind, and perhaps it cannot allow itself to be. Everything the colonial government does takes place out of necessity, conceived from the point of view of pure self-interest. The Dutch “grocers” * may have little imagi-

* The Dutch have been sarcastically referred to as kniideniers, or grocers, in the same way that the British have sometimes been charac terized as “a nation of shopkeepers.” 183 nation, but they know their direct interests by instinct. It is a pity that that instinct is not sufficient to shape a colonial policy for a country of seventy million people.

AUGUST 5,1931 Today I had a visit from two officials: Captain W., the garrison commandant and chief of the local administration at Tanah Merah whom I know from my time in Digoel, and a commissioner of police from the residency of the Moluccas, a former classmate of mine. Both were en route from New Guinea to Ambon. From the Captain I heard some news of Digoel: that there will be some repatriation of exiles this year, and that thirteen bandits from Magetan have been banished to Digoel. The number of malarial attacks also seems to have diminished, owing to the daily supply of quinine, and the attitude of the exiles themselves presumably has improved considerably. If they intend to make Digoel gradually into a deporta tion colony, that will be a relief to the present exiles, since then perhaps the political internees will not be needed to keep the place going. Up until now, that has been the rea son for keeping many there who might otherwise have been sent home. Tanah Merah requires a population and work ers. At present, however, I understand that a policy of colonization for New Guinea is gaining favor in govern ment circles.

AU GU ST 6, 1931 Our radio reporting service is abominable. The reports we receive serve only to arouse our curiosity because of their incompleteness. For more than a week now they have contained nothing about Spain or about whether there 184 is still a civil war going on there. Today there was only something about a nonintervention commission and a rap prochement between Italy and England. Naturally it was presented as unclearly as possible. In any case, I hope that during all the conferences and negotiations France will be smart enough to send sufficient soldiers and material to Spain to neutralize the preponderance of the Germans and Italians. Concerning China, there were only reports about troop concentrations and about the loan that has been granted by the British government for 120 million pounds. That will certainly anger the Japanese, and the expected clash has now come out into the open. Thanks to American air planes and the foreign loans, China is no longer helpless. It is also no longer divided by a civil war, since a pact has been concluded between the Kuomintang and the Com munists. As a result, China also has achieved firmer relations 'with Soviet Russia, and that signifies a great deal more than formerly, because Russia has now again become a power in the East. Moreover, England is now not passive in the Far East, so that China has the support of three powerful friends, to say nothing of France and the Netherlands, who would also side with China in a conflict with Japan. The troops now opposing the Japanese are the former commu nist groups, who have long been anxious to resist Nippon. They have now, in a sense, really become troops of the Central Government. This time the conflict will not fizzle out. It is a pity for the Pacific situation, although in a larger sense there is even enough material in China to cause a world conflict. The colonial rulers here regard all this as such a distant danger that they do not see the necessity for bringing about a basic alteration in the old, time-worn method of ruling over 185 this country. Instead, they continue at the same old stand. By themselves, these “grocer” rulers are not capable of seeking and finding new methods and of applying them to the changing circumstances and relationships. In fact, they are now even trying to stamp out the self-government that the government itself has instituted, for example in Temate and Goa. The purpose here is absolutely unintel ligible. Perhaps we can attribute it only to moments of wistful recollection of the strong-arm days of Colijn. Ac tually, the whole thing is as senseless and unrealistic as it possibly can be. It is absurd to revive the absolute, reac tionary methods of old colonial policy, in opposition to the forces of popular awakening. The notorious Colijn had crazy hobbyhorses in his colonial wisdom, as a result of which his famed militant past played tricks upon him.

AUGUST 19,1931 As far as I can make out, the whole Islamic population of our country is now pro-Japanese! Japan is continually increasing in popularity, as was formerly the case with Germany. I still try to make the people here realize that the Japanese are really not angels, and that what they are now doing is nothing else than murder and pillage. I do not, however, really doubt that Japan will still be able to profit from the sympathy that our people now feel toward that country. ( Not only here on the island, but throughout the whole of Indonesia, even in the most remote kampongs, they are firmly convinced of the power of the Japanese, and of Dutch impotence in the face of it. Periodically there are stories about Japanese daring and Dutch confusion. Of course, the government also knows about these stories, but 186 they are so widespread that nothing can be done about them. Besides, on Java there is a popular belief* that after the white rule there will be a rule for “a hundred days” of yellow people who will come from the north. This belief is already centuries old, and now the people say, “It is the Japanese who will come.” If the Japanese indeed have the idea of taking a hand in things here, they will find the people ready to apply the old maxim to them. The Japanese have a great advantage over the whites, despite all propaganda that may be attempted to offset it; for the sympathy that most of the Indonesians cherish to ward the Japanese is not due to propaganda. It is simply due to the fact that the Japanese habits and general manner have won the people’s hearts. The Japanese are, for exam ple, very polite, and their usual facial expression looks something like a smile. It has not been without reason that the Japanese have acquainted the people here with this impression of themselves. Now Indonesians regard the Japa nese as “fine people,” “civilized,” they say; and they regard the Chinese and the whites as kasar or coarse. Their dis affection with the whites derives, naturally, from the three hundred years of white rule, and their dislike for the Chi nese is due to the latter’s economic position as middlemen (approximately in the same way as the Jews in Europe). Even Hafil, until recently, showed unmistakable signs of Japanese sympathies, and the nationalists on Java are also inclined in that direction, although they don’t dare to talk about it. As the attacked and the underdogs, the Chinese necessarily should have sympathy and support, and yet nevertheless in this Japanese-Chinese war (which is not yet called a war), Japan has a measure of the support of our

* The so-called Djojobojo myth. 187 people; and this despite the propaganda that our nationalist movement has spread during all these years against all im perialism, the yellow included. There are deeper things in volved here than propaganda.

AUGUST 28,1931 Through the photographs that I have received from Hol land, I can again see that country clearly in my mind. Aside from the cold, the dampness, the ditches, and the narrow ness of the people, there is still much that is charming in the lowlands. I am, as you know, no Hollandophile, al though I know that through my education I am already half Dutch; but I do have pleasant memories of that little country which is so hated by most of us. I have always felt that way, perhaps because Holland has occupied such an important position in my mental life from earliest youth, because of the hundreds of boys’ books and novels, and the whole pattern of my intellectual ori- ' entation. There was not much that was strange to me when I came to Holland, and when I first arrived, it was as though I were recollecting things I had already known. I felt at home, and I experienced absolutely no homesickness. I never was able to feel so much at home on Sumatra’s east coast, where I lived so long; and this was true even when my parents were still alive and I had never seen any other large cities. Despite all the natural beauty, I could never feel attached to Menangkabau, and the lovely Batak lands also remained distant and strange to me internally. Actually, I first felt a kinship with Java, and more with middle Java than west Java. I also feel a real affection for Banda, and all the beauty that we have in and around these islands. I like the people here much more than those in Hol land, although I clearly see their faults and weaknesses, but 188 I can never be happy here. I could never be so happy here as in Holland or elsewhere in the world where there are no colonial relationships to corrupt and vitiate life. One can try to accept with tolerance and understanding this colo nial life with its senseless relationships and its psychopathic participants: on the one hand the sadists and the megalo maniacs, and on the other hand the souls that are warped by inferiority complexes. One can accept it in so far as one sees that it is impossible to mold a new world overnight. One can go so far as to emancipate oneself—to a certain extent; that is to say, one can arrive at a point where neither sadism and megalomania nor an inferiority complex disrupts one s equilibrium. One can go so far as not to hate these sick or lunatic people, but to feel only a smiling compassion toward them in so far as one is not able or is not called upon to help them. One can guard against becoming the victim of colonial life oneself, on the side of either sadism or inferiority. One can also keep oneself free from senseless, impotent hate. I think I am able to do all this. But one can absolutely never forget that he is still living among these sufferers and sad ists. One must even exert all his will so that he never for gets this vital fact, because forgetting it would signify such an egregious adaptability that it would amount to living lunatically in a society of lunatics. And this idea is hardly enticing, although to a certain degree one is obliged to conform to it. For unconsciously one has to make some adaptation toward accepting both the sadists and the apparent cowards: the cowardly East erners who tolerate everything from the white man, and who, even in their hate, feel themselves so much the in feriors of the white man. And if one were not willing to make any such concession whatsoever, then one would be 189 absolutely unable to have any traffic with them at all. That such an adaptation is simply a prerequisite for living and working in this country is a fact that cannot be overlooked. I love this country and its people, and particularly the Indonesians even more than the other peoples, perhaps be cause I have known them as the sufferers and the losers. It is only normal, in any case, to feel a sympathy for the underdogs.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1931 We are now in the midst of the feasts celebrating the Queen’s birthday. Throughout the Moluccas it is celebrated for three days, and during this time all government offices and schools are closed. I took a brief glimpse at the cele bration during the first day. Many people were in the streets, but otherwise there was nothing particularly note worthy. It was a still more barren demonstration than the celebration of Juliana’s wedding. In reality, the people here have no idea about how to organize such a celebration. To day there are the competitions for the school children, but aside from the children concerned, I don’t think there is any interest in the matches. There was also a ball given by the representative of the Crown here, although actually it was not an official ball, but one given by a club of which the commandant is an active member. There is now a sign in huge letters on the government building: “Banda Festival Club.” It is amusing that no one else seems to be the least disturbed by the fact that all of a sudden the government associates itself with such light hearted doings. And I find it still more amusing that I, as an exile, seem to have a greater feeling for the dignity of the government than anyone else here. The Dutch talk a good deal about authority and government, but to a large extent 190 they still remain anarchistic petite bourgeoisie: they are either scrupulously and narrowly confined, or almost li centiously abandoned. They miss a true feeling for har mony and proportion. I even heard, for example, that at the ball the commandant, as an indication of his satisfaction with the celebration, sang a slightly off-color song for the guests, who included heads of families, government people, and sundry others. Actually this particular commandant is no less refined than his predecessors. He is only a trifle younger—not yet thirty—but perhaps he has become slightly eccentric during his five-year stay among the Kaja-Kajas and the malarial mosquitoes in Digoel. Looked at from the pleasant side, this is only another indication of the good disposition of everything on these islands—even the governmental authorities! That no one is in the least shocked by it shows the mentality of the people of Banda.

SEPTEMBER S, 1937 This week I received some letters from Digoel.. .. Soeka writes that he would appreciate any old clothes that I might send him. Soebana got a letter from Tanah Tinggi on the same boat, and it seems that in Tanah Tinggi they have recently had trouble with Kaja-Kaja attacks, which have occurred twice in the last six months. Several houses were thoroughly pillaged, but fortunately there was no loss of life. The Kaja-Kaja land has certainly not yet been pacified and it will be some time before such is the case. The few government posts there really signify nothing in that far-off part of the world. On Tanah Merah there are rumors of returning some internees home, and they have mentioned that sixty people will be returned. Actually, I don’t think that number is 191 large, and, in fact, they could send 80 to 90 per cent of the internees of Tanah Merah back to Java, even accord ing to the criteria of the government itself. That they still are kept at Digoel is due to the fact that both the com mandant of Digoel and the resident of the Moluccas in terpret these criteria in their own way, and also because the authorities in the home area—where the exiles will be returned—prefer to take no risk, and hence oppose the re turn of the internees. That is also the reason why the greater percentage of the exiles are from Menangkabau. If that area were to be opened to the return of exiles, Tanah Merah would be almost emptied. The letters carry no mention of the recent visit of a member of the Council of the Indies to Digoel. He must have visited Tanah Tinggi, but there is no further mention of him, and so everything must still be the same. The resi dent has also visited the place recently, but I won’t be able to find out the results of his trip until later. I still have the feeling that one of these days there will be changes in Digoel. The reports in the papers concerning the latest deportation indicate that there has not been a banishment of political deportees, but rather of ordinary criminals; namely, the so-called bandits of Magetan. If this becomes a general rule, Digoel may acquire a com pletely different character. It is certainly true that bandits can be considered and treated as people who constitute “a threat to public law and order,” but thus far they have simply been brought before a magistrate and punished. This would be the first time that the government itself has acted, as it were, as the magistrate in a pure and simple criminal case by withdrawing the case from the courts and exercising the magisterial powers itself. 192 The boys have written that these so-called bandits are simple and honest village people, not at all the criminal type. This is probably the best indication that the robbery and murder in Magetan had a social background to it, and, in general, that phenomenon is not an abnormal one; i.e., the phenomena of robbery and murder as reactive resistance to arbitrary authority and force. If the government has reflected on this, then these non political internments are quite understandable. In point of fact, there is really no question of criminals here, but rather of a resistance to constituted authority. Again it is typical of the press in Indonesia—the colonial European as well as the Indonesian and Chinese press—that there has been no mention of this matter in the papers. Actually, it was given attention only in the Nieunve Rotterdamsche Courant. In any case, I must admit that an internment camp is cer tainly logical in this colonial system. As long as the colonial government shows no inclination to eliminate the causes of the social unrest that are rooted in the very bases of the Indonesian community and its reaction to colonial life, so long must they intern; that is, so long must they attack the symptoms instead of the disease itself, although they know better. And finally, the colonial government will not be able to cure the disease as long as colonial leadership remains convinced that the art of governing these lands involves the suppression of these millions, and that Dutch authority depends on this art; that is, on keeping the people in the same intellectual and material circumstances that they have already been in for countless years. The principle itself is basically unsound, because it does not take into consideration the requirements not only of Western capital and industrial progress, but of the changes that must take place in the apparatus of government out of 193 practical necessity. And there is also the awakening of the people and the nationalist movement, which is the re sult and at the same time the stimulus of all this. Even officially they are gradually recognizing the fact that the popular movement is a natural and necessary phenomenon, and yet they still continue to follow the old and fundamen tally unsound principle. In fact, they try at the same time to modify the old usage out of practical necessity. But the essence of this practical necessity, the new frame of reality from which a new principle must be distilled, this they perhaps see, but they refuse to recognize it, for if they did, they would have to abandon their old principle. Their line of thinking is that the old has demonstrated its utility for centuries, and it must therefore still be of use. The old methods are, after all, the easiest, and perhaps the new might even require prior changes in the administrators themselves. As a result, we see a modern colonial govern ment that is still founded on an antiquated principle. Already the old principle has become completely un realistic and even illusionary. It fulfills its role only in a psychological sense, as the orthodox belief of the executors of the colonial regime, as belief that is divorced from prac tice and reality. And thus, in practice, the colonial govern ment often acts in conflict with its own principle, as a Christian who lives in an unchristian way. In practice, colo nial rule often becomes unprincipled and opportunistic, be cause of the unreality of its starting principle. Others have maintained and written this before me. It is in fact remark able that despite that old principle they still plod along, that they still can take practical steps and sometimes appro priate action despite the blindfold they have bound before their eyes. 194 OCTOBER 28, 1931 W e are living here in a period of high tension, and events in China and Palestine are gradually stirring the people. Everyone is becoming concerned about these events, and some of the queerest rumors are currently circulating. Naturally the Indonesian situation is connected with these other happenings, albeit indirectly. One can, in fact, say that people here, in their sympathy for the Japanese, have gone so far that they even dare to show an unfriendly attitude toward the Dutch, which otherwise would hardly have been the case. Indirectly, the popular support for Japan is a means of expressing feelings of antipathy toward the Dutch rule. It is never openly spoken of in this way, and often the feeling is unconscious and often even unin tentional. Nevertheless, the sympathy for Japan has sub conscious causes, and these lie in the Asiatic inferiority feelings, which seek compensation in a glorification of the Japanese, since the other alternative—open hatred of the whites—may involve personal danger. Affection for Japan is thus only one side of the whole problem; the safer side for the intimidated colonial Easterner. The pleasure that people here take in the difficulties that the Japanese are causing the white man is a strong indication of this phenomenon. When it was recently learned that a Dutch patrol boat had acted highhandedly toward a few Japanese fishing boats, the people were surprised and disappointed at what had befallen the Japanese. Naturally, they didn’t dare to express openly their sympathy for the Japanese. But for the past week, rumors have been circulated as to the punitive measures that the Japanese have taken against the reckless Dutch. In the kampongs they whisper that the ship that fired upon the Japanese, the Flores, has “disappeared.” De spite the unlikelihood of this, it is said in such a significant *95 tone as to be accepted as fact. Naturally, they attribute the “disappearance” to the Japanese, and take some delight in the Dutch predicament. None of this is openly expressed, because they have learned that it is wiser to keep any such feelings to them selves. They can, however, safely esteem the Japanese, and thereby give expression to their hidden feelings without be ing branded and prosecuted as communists. It is not that the people regard the Japanese as guardian angels, or that any one wishes to exchange the Dutch for the Japanese. They don’t go that far, and there are even those who, however begrudgingly, admit that the Dutch are better rulers than the Japanese would be. Rather, their delight applies simply to the difficulties that the “brave little Japanese” are caus ing the hated but still feared white man. It is, in fact, precisely the ones who are affected most by feelings of inferiority who feel sympathetically inclined toward the Japanese in this way. For the most part, they retain a faith in the immovable power of the colonial rulers. They admire Japan, they are even fanatical toward Japan and toward the supposed might of Asia that they think they see in that land. They identify their own striving for position with the strength and ven tures of Japan, and they are therefore even angered by unfortunate China, which Japan is warring against, and which might thus destroy the erroneous but self-gratifying opinions that these people now enjoy. And sometimes, in a disguised, seldom voiced opinion, they think that China is playing the cards of the hated and feared white man.

NOVEMBER 2,1931 Whether or not to send children, particularly girls, to school is a controversial question among the people of 196 Neira, which shows that in this respect they are many years behind Java and Sumatra. There, school is regarded as nor mal and necessary. Actually, change is coming here, too. Life itself teaches people to desert many things that they once considered advantageous but that they have found are untenable in the economic struggle for existence. At first they try to retain appearances, and some evasion is permit ted if only the appearance is maintained. Finally, they even quit the appearance, and they admit that the old no longer is adequate and may even be ruinous, and that adaptations must be made to the changed circumstances. There is always something tragic in such a process of adaptation. For when the adaptation has finally been made, then they are again behind, because in the meantime the world has gone ahead still a little farther. And so it goes. The struggle between generations, which has also come to Indonesia since the people have begun to awaken, is becom ing sharper. Concepts change slowly, and perhaps still only outwardly, but they are changing. A spirit is arising that drives tradition away, and will finally destroy it. And even if it does not go forward so quickly as we should like it to, it is nevertheless clear that there is movement, that there is progress in an intellectual and spiritual sense. That does not yet signify, however, that there has been moral prog ress. And, in fact, it is always difficult to make such an evaluation, because it is so completely subjective. It is also a question of inclination, and what one may consider to be moral progress another regards as deterioration. One can certainly observe a growth of self-consciousness despite the warped impression one gets from recent politi cal developments. The manifest political developments give a false impression because they carry the stamp of Digoel and police terror. It is thus not a true image, and cannot be 197 a true image, of the real disposition and intellectual orienta tion of the Javanese people. The form of the popular na tionalist movement is more or less fashioned according to the tastes of the government leaders. Everything that does not suit these tastes is rooted out by increasing arrests, by police orders, by prohibiting gatherings, by Digoel, and by other measures that they have not yet felt it necessary to employ. This police suppression is really only incidental to the great movement in the midst of which we are living. It con cerns only the political expressions and aspects of that proc ess, which in turn are only consequences of the changes in vision, attitude, and' relations toward life that are taking place. Against these aspects, even the government leaders can do absolutely nothing. Here on Banda there is also movement in that sense. And here too it is proceeding at an Indonesian—that is, relatively quick—tempo. Even here, we are not completely isolated from the quick pace of world events. Oil capital is begin ning to initiate great changes in Ceram and New Guinea. We are increasingly being influenced by the capitalistic tempo around us, and this is stimulating progress here too. Most of our young people, in fact, are swarming to these new areas. Often they return with their new experiences and new attitudes toward the world, and these have con sequent repercussions here. They often marry and then take their wives with them to the new areas. Thus the bonds between these islands and the outside world are be ing strengthened and increased, and as a result Banda is reacting more quickly and more deeply to external hap penings. This is the process in the midst of which we now are living. 198 NOVEM BER 12, 193 7 As long as there is no change in the government’s policy toward banishments and exiles, there is no prospect of a change in our situation. If the government maintains its “iron-fist” policy, then there is not a grain of hope for any concessions to exiles. W e exiles stand outside the law, and our fate thus depends exclusively on the disposition of the colonial rulers. W e are therefore never troubled by the need to refer to laws or other general regulations. Justice, in the sense of a political theory based on principles of law, does not apply to us. The government is related to us as a conqueror to prison ers of war. This is the system, and ^11 my reasoning and calculations proceed from this fundamental premise. In turn, the disposition of the colonial rulers is determined by what they regard as their own interests. Naturally, it is not always in the interest of the conqueror to kill off his prisoners. On the contrary, it is sometimes even necessary to free hated enemies who have been taken prisoner. Then the official disposition that is publicized is humanistic, phil anthropic, benevolent, and just. At other times, they are all ruthlessly slaughtered; or, in so far as consideration must be taken of public opinion, the humane feelings (or preju dices) of foreigners, or the world press, they may be al lowed to live. The question is not how, but just live, and the Hitler concentration camps are the best examples of this. And it is sometimes the case that they wish to use the prisoners not only for the negative purpose of avoiding moral reproach from the rest of the world, but to secure positive advantages. In these cases, the prisoners of war are “cared for” in such a way as to reap not only satisfaction from the degradation of those who have stood in the way 199 of the central power, but to win “moral” victories, in the form of the “conversion” of morally and physically broken peoples who retain only enough life in their bodies to shout hurrah for the regime that has broken them. This is the relationship between the government and political exiles in its sharpest form. There are at present certain indications of the appear ance of a disposition in the colonial government that may hold promise for exiles in our position. Besides developments in the international situation, there is still another important factor stimulating the existence and growth of such a dis position; namely, the development of our own people. If these two factors continue to evolve in a favorable direc tion, then the chance will grow that the government’s dis position toward us may alter and that a “humane,” “ethical,” “wise” (or whatever other name it may be given) policy will be adopted with respect to the people and their move ment-including their political movement. It is thus possible that the flagrant attitude of “conqueror toward conquered” will be replaced by a more supple, more farsighted policy of “consolidation in the long run.” Apparently the latest succession of exiles belies this like lihood. However, if the matter is looked at from the stand point of amoral, purely practical policy, this is not the conclusion one reaches. In this case, one can understand that these new exiles represent an accentuation of the so- called political standpoint of the colonial government to ward the existing and evolving currents in the popular movement. The new government under Tjarda van Stark- enborgh has inherited from the previous administration the faith that if it is not possible to stop these currents, it is still possible to propel them in a desirable direction; and that 200 by the use of force, a “public opinion” favorable to the government can be formed and nurtured. That, of course, is not new, and every dictatorial regime has this same faith. The apparent success that such methods have achieved in Germany and Italy must certainly have an encouraging effect on other dictatorial regimes, includ ing those in the colonial countries. What it amounts to is the belief that a positive, loyal mentality can be formed through intimidation. At the moment, the aim apparently is to make the pop ular movement positively loyal; and this is interpreted to mean that the movement will neither acquire a character nor give vent to sentiments opposed to the maintenance of Dutch rule. The previous government thought it was ob vious and simple that this could be done. The intellectual father of the doctrine, Mr. Meyer Ranneft, was at first not so sure of it, but now he also cheers: “It can be done!” They are now convinced that the police can be “politically educational,” that exile, intimidation, even some terror ap parently can be used as methods of political pedagogy. I expect that this is the belief of the current administra tion. While the current regime may not have as naive a faith as the unintelligent Mr. De Jonge, the current admin istration still believes at least in the partial effectiveness of such political pedagogy. Hence they wish to show clearly by the latest exiles that they will not tolerate a certain attitude in the popular movement, and thereby to accen tuate and bring into sharper relief the attitude that they will tolerate. That is, the progressive and more or less compro mising attitude of the so-called “co-operative movement.” The non-co-operative attitude is thus, literally, being ex pelled. . . . The aim is positive loyalty, but in a superficial sense at 201 best. For they at least do not have such a complete faith in the miraculous workings of intimidation and force in political education as to overlook the possibility of opposi tion behind this apparent loyalty. For this reason, the es pionage service is being expanded at the same time as the new pedagogy is being attempted! It is all as old as the world, and it is perhaps logical with every dictatorial, absolutist system. This method, moreover, will continue to be used here as long as autocracy is main tained in the colonial administration. The altered disposi tion that I referred to before will thus be possible only if at least an expansion in the democratic trimmings of this rule occurs.

MARCH 7, 1938 Despite the fact that I have now been away from Digoel for two years, and apparently have experienced no ill ef fects, I am still not yet fully normal. I am still inclined to be distrustful and suspicious, and I cannot yet forget those bitter experiences. True, this is less the case than it was two years ago, but I am by no means as ingenuous in outlook as I was three or four years ago, before Digoel. The same is true of Hafil. Formerly he was a non co-operator by political conviction, and yet in many re spects he still had faith in the conventional morality and humanity of colonial government. He never thought about secret police and the possibility of terrorist methods being used against political opponents; opponents who, like him self, intentionally and consciously acted within legal limits. In other words, in the background of his thoughts he still maintained a high opinion of the respectability and methods of the colonial rulers against whom he made a stand. He now thinks quite differently about these things, 202 thanks to Digoel. He is no longer as grim a non-co-operator as he used to be, but in a moral sense he was perhaps more of a co-operator then than he is now, because formerly he regarded the government with unconscious faith in its rea sonableness and respectability. He thus had an unconscious respect for the rulers, and certainly much more than a co-operator such as Thamrin ever had. The same is true in my case, as well. In those days, we co-operators propagated suspicion toward the government, but we did not realize that we ourselves regarded it with a measure of moral trust. At one time, Hafil did not believe that he would be banished, and certainly never dreamed that he might be sent to Digoel. The same was true to an even greater extent of the others in our party. Most of them, in fact, still don’t understand how it is possible for them to be regarded as dangerous to the state for what they have done—or rather, haven’t done; or for them to be placed with people who have actively employed weapons, people who have even aimed at a direct seizure of power, something our P.N.I. boys themselves never dreamed of for a single moment. It was really a revelation for Hafil, and he has learned more from it than he did during all his years of “political life” in Europe. It is a paradoxical fact that most of the present co-operators—and also those who are not in the government oppo sition—actually have less trust and less respect for the colonial government than most of the former non-co- operators. Among these co-operators, one found less moral co-operation with the government than among the non co-operators. The point is that the co-operators co-operate because they do not think they will be safe against the methods of force that they deem the rulers capable of if 203 they don’t co-operate. In other words, they have such a low opinion of the humanity and the morality of the rulers that they think it safer not to be opponents of the regime, or at least not openly. On the other hand, the young non- co-operators had such a high opinion of the same rulers that they considered it natural that frankness and openness, even if troublesome to the administration, would be tol erated by the government as long as they remained within the bounds of the law. Hafil had a great deal of this faith in the human and democratic disposition of the colonial government. While he attacked and criticized colonial conditions in his articles, and while he expressed his disbelief in the good intentions of the government and in the possibility of co-operation with that government in order to lift the Indonesian people to a really national status, nevertheless in his heart he was still a Netherlander. He was still a Netherlander in the sense that he did not really regard that government as a foreign and enemy element, but considered it in the same way that, for example, a left-wing socialist opponent con siders the Netherlands government in Holland. Hafil thus unconsciously accepted many of the same mutual norms and recognized one very important common basis for co operation with the Dutch: namely, an internal faith in the humane, democratic, and reliable methods of a government that outwardly he called unreliable. In reality, this accusation of unreliability is considerably more ingenuous than the silent distrust of many co-opera tors. Formerly, the greatest fault I found with Hafil was that he was so naive. Although it has often been said that he .was the most outspoken representative of the non co-operators, in his heart he was nothing else than a co- operator and a member of the “loyal opposition.” He had 204 as a basis for his real political thinking this faith in the possibility of a democratic political life in the midst of a colonial atmosphere. He believed in an education toward social, economic, and even political autonomy, through an open opposition to the colonial government! Hafil was thus an evolutionist, because he believed in the possibility of gradual political development 'within the colo nial sphere, even though opposing it in principal. This edu cational concept is, after all, parallel to the educational theories of the Social Democrats, who think that they can thus increase their political influence to direct political change along the lines they wish. Hafil felt that there was perhaps as much scope for evolutionary political develop ment in the colonies as he had found to be the case in Holland. One step further, and one arrives at the conclu sion that the colonial framework is sufficiently broad for a normal development of our national life in a political sense as well. In such a case, one finally becomes a real and hon orable 100-per-cent co-operator! I do not think the colonial government has ever looked at the matter in this light, and I doubt if it has ever asked itself whether this frankness among the non-co-operators rests on anything besides boldness and recklessness. Thus, Hafil formerly was really a co-operator in his heart, as Dr. Soeribno still is. He will certainly never again be one to the same extent as before his exile. Moreover, exile has made him very much less co-operative in the sense that he is now more bitter and more distrustful toward the colonial government than when he was supposedly a fierce non-co-operator, and he now considers it capable of things that he never formerly would have deemed possible. I dwell upon this at such length because it is not impos sible that that same colonial government may suddenly 205 realize that it ought to scrutinize the non-co-operative ele ments more closely. And if it does, it will make the discov ery that the government itself has destroyed the potential forces for a real co-operation because it has not formed them into an official and formal government opposition. The government will then find that it has placed more credence in outward expressions of support, and has anni hilated the esteem and the faith in shared norms that consti tute the moral basis of true co-operation. As for myself, I leave that out of the present discussion. I have always been less naïve than Hafil, and yet I had al ways been sufficiently naïve so that what I say about Hafil really applies to myself as well. Perhaps that is why I can so readily criticize him. With me, everything has been in a lesser degree. I have, furthermore, never been a non-co- operator, and I have rather been able to regard non-co-op eration as at best a tactical means. Although I was troubled to a lesser extent than Hafil, there were still surprises and disillusionments to which Digoel opened my eyes. Conse quently, a sudden distrust—even a light touch of the perse cution complex—developed within me also.

MARCH 11, 1938 It is certain that there must be a gradual change in the direction of colonial policy. They cannot continue giving merely lip service to a policy dealing with public welfare. Furthermore, the developments in the foreign situation con stitute a reason why there must be a real element of syn thesis in the colonial policy. A changed disposition and attitude will obviously result, despite the present reserve and aloofness that they consider necessary in order to prepare for the transition. As soon as there is a real attempt to co-operate with the 20 6 people, as soon as the general mentality of the rulers has changed and improved in the sense that the offensively supercilious persecution of political consciousness among Indonesian intellectuals disappears, as soon as the customary attitude of looking down upon Indonesians is altered—as soon as all this has been accomplished, there will no longer be any ground for the non-co-operative movement. Although I do not belong to the sentimental non-co operatives, who derive their strength from what they call “irreconcilable hate” toward the foreign rulers, but what really amounts to an inferiority complex, still I well under stand their mentality. I know that the source and lifeblood of all nationalist extremism is the socially and intellectually inferior station in which the Indonesians are forced to live. Extremism springs from the resentment that they, the op pressed millions, feel at being looked down upon as an inferior race. This fact cannot be eliminated by any welfare or ethical colonial policy. “Well-meaning” regard for the rising strength of the people’s awakening merely plays upon the Indonesian in feriority complex. The basis for this profound resentment toward the rulers can be eliminated only by giving the Indonesians an opportunity to acquire more self-respect. And that will take place only if there is a fundamental change in the attitude of the white rulers toward the Indo nesians; if there is a departure from the well-meaning con descension of the old father toward his child, a departure manifesting itself in an intelligent and real valuation and respect. That respect cannot arise as long as government affairs continue to be regulated according to the wishes of the rulers, without any Indonesian intelligence or decision being called upon. That respect cannot arise as long as the colonial government pretends to have no real need for 207 Indonesian leaders, and instead attempts to rule over and without the people. Whether the new tendency will be noticeable in the immediate future will depend entirely on developments in the world situation, and particularly in the situation here in the Pacific. As soon as circumstances require the change, then the disposition of the noble rulers and executives of colonialism will change. Then, and only then, will their intentions not be subject to doubt and suspicion, since the intentions themselves will be dictated by these international circumstances. On the other hand, if colonial policy continues to be orthodox—that is, based on the psychology of van Heutz— if prestige, which they consider necessary for the main tenance of their rule here, continues to be based on the superiority complexes of the rulers and the inferiority com plexes of the ruled; if their policy continues to be motivated p by the theory that the rulers must have a superabundance of self-confidence and conceit, and the ruled must be de prived of all self-confidence—if this happens, then hate and antipathy will continue and spread, no matter what the government thinks it may accomplish materially. And in this case, the nationalist movement will, and can only, have a non-co-operative mentality—and I mean the real moral and spiritual non-co-operation that also, and perhaps espe cially, characterizes the formal co-operators at present. As long as the colonial government remains steadfast in the belief that the Indonesians, if not politically inept, are uneducated and immature, so long can there be no possi bility of any real co-operation. There can, of course, still be formal and spurious co-operation, and that is what is now taking place and is being extolled and rejoiced in. There is certainly the possibility that this formal co-opera- 208 tion may become real co-operation in the future. The men tality of the rulers has already changed somewhat and will change considerably more, intentionally and unintention ally, as a result of circumstances. Even though we national ists would know that it was a case of having no choice but to go forward, still there would be ethical merit in a readiness to go forward, and in the spirit of going forward as quickly as possible, accepting any and all consequences that might result. In any case, I do not expect that from this administration. This administration will progress only bit by bit, if condi tions force it to do so. By itself it does nothing, and, antici pating events, I should say that it 'will do nothing.

MARCH 25, 1938 For a long time now I have not believed in the possibility of a separate solution of the Spanish and the Pacific crises. They will both find their solution only in a general world wide crisis. It is only a question of time as to when the nadir will be reached, and when the world conflict will break out. The time itself will depend on the fascists; or whether Herr Hitler feels the need of another breathing space after his latest successes. Personally, I fear that he no longer considers such a need to exist, and thinks that he can reach all his defined objectives at one jump. If this is true, the eruption stands immediately before us. We can only hope that miracles may still happen, as most pacifists still hope and believe. In the light of this new world situation, I have again ex amined my thoughts on the future of our popular national ist movement in Indonesia. That situation has become such that it would be idiocy to think and to act as though, since 209 we are still only a colony of the Netherlands, nothing has changed. Formerly our action was opposed to the imperial rela tionships between the Netherlands and Indonesia. It was thus directed against the Netherlands and Netherlands im perialism. Our national self-consciousness, our ideology itself, was hence constituted in antithesis to Dutch past history in our country, and to the present Dutch rule here. The inevitable consequence of this attitude was that each element in the diverse nationalist movement was anti- Dutch; perhaps not in an intellectual sense, but certainly as a spiritual basis, as a point of view, as a frame of mind. I have already discussed one of the main sources of this disposition. I should almost say that our nationalism is a projection of the inferiority complex that springs from the colonial relationship of subject race and ruling race. Thus the basis of nationalistic propaganda has been an irrational^ but existing feeling—a reality, and in fact the main reality. The non-co-operative movement is the purest expression of this colonial nationalism. I have never been a real non co-operative because I have felt and understood that the mentality, the spirit, behind co-operation, while it could be a source of strength for our movement, could never really furnish an ideal. It was too bitter, too narrow, and was often connected with baser feelings and instincts. I have always been able to accept non-co-operation only as an effective instrument of nationalist propaganda, and as a means of spreading the nationalistic idea. I have never been able to base a philosophy upon it. When I returned to Indonesia, I accepted non-co-operation as a traditional propaganda device. In practice, how ever, it seemed to me increasingly clear that there were many disadvantages connected with it, and I particularly 210 felt this when I became acquainted with the trade-union movement here. Non-co-operation served a purpose as long as there was no constructive, practical policy that could be followed. The fault of the non-co-operators has been that they cultivated their doctrine as a religion, as a question of honor. Hence the constrained co-operation that takes place does so too often in a spirit of self-degradation, in the conviction that non-co-operation is the true course, but unfortunately is not feasible because the government perse cutes it so ruthlessly. I have now come to the conclusion that the situation in the world has changed so much that opposition to the Dutch rule can no longer be the primary task of national ist propaganda or of the nationalist movement itself. A greater, more direct and more gratifying task has arisen that makes it possible to push the old nationalistic propa ganda methods into the background, and thus to discard the whole idea of non-co-operation. Whether this will be temporary or permanent, we do not yet know. A real basis for co-operation between the Netherlands and Indonesia is going to arise, because the situation in the world at present is a threat not only to the Dutch realm, but to the independent future of Indonesia as well. It is now clear that we must take a stand in the same camp as Holland. More profound antitheses have now come to the fore, which overshadow and depreciate the conflict be tween Holland and Indonesia. Co-operation with the Dutch will now be a political problem for the national movement. There is now practical political work of great importance to be accomplished; work that contains greater potentialities than many of the adherents of the motto “Free Indonesia from Holland, now !” have ever dreamed of. It is not possible—now less 211 than ever before—to regard the independence of Indonesia as an abstract question that concerns only the Netherlands and Indonesia. That independence is now bound up in the complexities of world problems, and especially of Pacific problems. Indonesia has now become involved in the strug gle of opposing world forces that is again in the process of unfolding. The fate of the Netherlands Indies depended entirely on the balance of power in the Pacific. The old period repre sented the open-door policy of a neutral Netherlands. Now there is actually no balance, either in the Pacific or any where else in the world. The word “balance,” in fact, affects the so-called “dynamic” states only as a sort of red cloth in front of the bull. The existence of the Netherlands Indies and the existence of the Netherlands itself are both now threatened. This is the crux of all my recent thoughts and reflections. Present world conditions being what they are, an independent Indonesia would be in precisely the same position as Holland is now in—and probably in an even more unfortunate position, because at least Holland has England as its natural ally, owing to the geographic position of the Netherlands in Europe. Without allies we in Indonesia cannot maintain our ex istence. W e are now helpless, and even more helpless than Holland would be without its English ally. W e are thus obliged to make and to find allies. That has always been true, but it is now the major problem of the popular move ment, and it is more urgent and more important than all the propaganda about independence, and all the abstract, theo retical disputes that that entails. This is where the real political possibility of co-operation with the Netherlands lies. Holland has always heretofore needed our wealth, but the time is now coming when she 212 will also need our national movement—not to do good, but simply to maintain her very existence. Holland has always asked for co-operation, with, of course, the retention of all the privileges she had gained. It was natural that she always pressed for co-operation, but the prerequisites for such co-operation, particularly the moral and psychological prerequisites, did not yet exist. As its natural course of action, the national movement thus directed itself against the Netherlands. Now this is all going to change. The national movement can also learn to realize that, from the point of view of its own self-interest, it can and does need the Netherlands as an ally. And if that insight and that realization dawn, then there will really be a possibility of co-operation, because then both members of this alliance will voluntarily and con sciously need each other. Apart from the moral co-operation that I have already written about, there is also the problem of the organiza tional forms and the practical execution of these potenti alities. Those forms already exist. They comprise Indonesia as it now is, politically, economically, and socially, and this is what I accept as the starting point for such co-opera tion, because any other beginning can be only theoretical for the present. Naturally, theory is useful and helpful, but this is at present a question of practical, political tactics. While the form may be obvious, the co-operation itself is certainly not. The co-operation itself cannot be so simple and obvious, because it must take place within the frame work of the colonial structure. There must be many changes in these Netherlands Indies before there can be any talk of real co-operation— that is, co-operation without an evasion of reality. In the first place, ' there must be a moral revolution among the Netherlanders. 213 In the second place, there must be a basic psychological change among the Indonesians themselves. They must free themselves of their distrust, fear, and hate, and of their collective inferiority complex. One might say that everything I have said before be comes unreal and visionary because I now attach to it these profound mental alterations. In reality, the mentality of both sides has been changing for many years. The many spiritual impediments to mutual understanding and real co-operation do not now have the same significance as they did twenty or even ten years ago. There is no longer any of the old grievous and coarse racial delusion among the Dutch; and the hypersensitivity on the Indonesian side has also decreased. Regarded and understood in the light of the three-hundred-year contact between Netherlanders and Indonesians, the psychological changes on both sides during the past few years can really be called revolutionary. Unconsciously, impelled by history, we have already made progress in this direction, particularly as concerns the still changing attitudes toward life of the two groups. By a conscious and even organized effort, the process can pro ceed more quickly, so that a level can be reached wherein the spiritual and moral prerequisites for true co-operation will be fulfilled. In practice this psychological alteration will have organ izational consequences. There will be an acceleration in the so-called ethical policy,” according to which the Indo nesian people—as high a percentage as possible at present, and particularly the literates among them and their repre sentatives, the intellectuals—will acquire real responsibility for the running of the country by joint government, and by representation in all governing bodies. This is the direct political prerequisite for co-operation. 2 I4 The Philippines and India have been examples of this type of co-operation. Naturally it is not possible to imitate the structure of these countries. Nevertheless, when the differing factors existing in these other examples are taken into account, the fact remains that co-operation, as these instances clearly show, is feasible only if there is equal re sponsibility on both sides. It is possible only if there is equal moral and political stature on both sides. The old, dear cant of the rulers that “the Indonesians are politically immature, and for the present must not be con cerned with political matters,” will have to be discarded. In the period just past, the Indonesians have been advised: “Build, socially and economically. W e are prepared to sup port you and co-operate with you. Do not, however, meddle with, or talk about, politics! For that only vitiates the atmosphere of co-operation. You are still immature, and do not know anything about politics.” Now the Indonesians must be officially encouraged: “Come on, everyone! We are now going to taclde the job together. Let us see what you can do. You are now acquiring political responsibility, and that acquisition presupposes that you can bear it.” That same people which has hitherto been kept as far away as possible from government affairs must now be consciously drawn into them. That people must be made politically conscious. Its political interest must be stimu lated and maintained. And all this shall happen. The question is only whether it will take place from now on, regularly and according to plan, or suddenly, as a surprise and an eruption brought about by circumstances.

215

Boolk .Two ACTION

y w ^ he war in Europe began in September 1939. During I May 1940 Hitler’s hordes crushed the Netherlands JJL in less than a week. The Dutch government and the Queen moved to London, and after the shock of the first few days subsided, everything in Indonesia went on as usual. There were no mail deliveries from or to Holland, and no foreign furloughs were granted. But somehow peo ple hoped that everything would work out all right—al though they were not quite sure how!—and that the final solution could be awaited calmly without having to worry about being drawn into the war. During the last years before the war, many of the Dutch in Indonesia had openly expressed pro-German sympathies. They were thus led to hope that even if Hitler were vic torious they would be no worse off. A lot of fuss was made about the treason of the N.S.B.—the Dutch Nazi party, which in Indonesia included many people from the army, the police, and the civil administration—but aside from the internment of German subjects and the arrest of a few out standing N.S.B. leaders, nothing was done. It could not be otherwise, because in a sense the entire white community was fascistic. And there was certainly no inclination to fight a war against Hitler Germany. Even after the occupation of Holland few of the colonial Dutch felt anger or hatred toward Germany. They were contented if they heard the Dutch were being treated decently by the Germans. But despite harsh words and an open renunciation of the N.S.B., 217 the mentality of the colonial Dutch remained the same as before. In Indonesia things went on in the same old way. In so far as there was greater interest and concern for the seventy million brown subjects, it was expressed by a strengthened police force, an increase in political arrests, and further restriction of freedom of action. And finally, it was felt that the educated Indonesians could be mollified by pre tending to pay attention to their political aspirations. The Visman Commission held hearings to ascertain the political views of the outstanding members of the Indonesian com munity, but this was the only liberalizing consequence of the occupation of Holland as far as Indonesia was con cerned. The loyal and legal Indonesian nationalists offered to form an Indonesian militia and to assume responsibility for it in support of the war effort. Their offer was ignored. It was felt to be unimportant; experiments with nationalists, which might later be a source of disturbance, were consid ered unnecessary. The government maintained its super cilious attitude right up to the Japanese invasion. Among the Indonesians, plans were made to prepare the nation and the nationalist movement for the dark and difficult days ahead. The Indonesians did not have either the confidence or the complacence of the colonial Dutch. Even in villages and remote islands such as Banda, people seemed to feel that things were happening and great events would come to pass. The fall of Holland evoked secret satisfaction, and it was expected that there would be still more radical happenings. The Djojobojo rumors appeared again, and were whispered everywhere. The consciousness of foreign domination coupled with an intense desire for freedom and independence became increasingly strong. As 218 the war developed in those first years, the people derived a vicarious satisfaction from the misfortunes of their rulers. And this provided a stimulus for further estrangement from the Dutch and for a growth of national self-conscious ness. For the average Indonesian, the war was not really a world conflict between two great world forces. It was simply a struggle in which the Dutch colonial rulers finally would be punished by Providence for the evil, the arro gance, and the oppression they had brought to Indonesia. Among the masses, anti-Dutch feeling grew stronger and stronger. This was naturally reflected in the nationalist movement and in its leadership, part of which expressed sympathy for the Axis openly. Essentially, the popularity of Japan increased as one aspect of the growing anti-Dutch animus and as a projec tion of frustrated desire for freedom. According to the Djojobojo myth, the Dutch would be driven out of Indo nesia by a yellow race that would come from the north, and for the ordinary people this meant the Japanese. The idea grew that the liberation of Indonesia would begin with the expulsion of the Dutch by the Japanese. The Japanese would thus be the liberators, or so it was thought. Long before Pearl Harbor it was widely felt that they would invade Indonesia. While many of the colonial Dutch still thought and hoped that Indonesia could be kept out of the war—and even a few thought, like the French in Indo- China, of reaching an agreement with the Japanese—among the mass of the Indonesian people the conviction was generally held that war would come to the islands. In general, the leaders of the nationalist movement real ized that the Axis was a more dangerous threat to Indo nesian freedom than existing Dutch colonialism. Everything 219 possible was done to make this clear to the colonial rulers. The nationalist leaders even tried to shatter the illusion held by the Indonesian masses that liberation could be expected from the Japanese. From a psychological point of view, almost nothing had been done previously along this line, and the efforts of the movement often made it unpopular. As soon as the war in Europe broke out, the left-wing leaders of the movement immediately declared their sup port for the Allies against the Axis. Even those of us who were in exile did this. In our little exile colony on Banda, the four of us quickly agreed to adapt our views to the great changes that were talcing place. Dr. Soeribno, who was always the most progressive and impulsive of the group, immediately began to correspond with Thamrin and Soekamo on this problem. W e chose the Allied camp against the Axis and we were prepared to accept all the consequences our position would entail in Indonesian poli tics. Dr. Soeribno especially became devoted to the new idea, and lost no time in bringing his feelings to light. He quickly sought an interview with the local representative of the colonial government in order to exchange views, and was received in a rather cool and noncommittal way. Prob ably Dr. Soeribno’s efforts were merely regarded as a change in his personal feelings toward the colonial govern ment. He was thus simply regarded as having become less dangerous, and therefore as being nearly ready for repatri ation. The government had already asked him on several occasions to request a reprieve because of health, but Dr. Soeribno would never hear of it. He did not want any per sonal favors, and certainly not from the colonial govern ment. Thus his attempts to approach the government after the outbreak of the European war were also construed as a change in heart on this score. At the beginning of 1941 Dr. 220 Soeribno was moved from Banda to Makassar for “reasons of health.” Mr. Soebana, who had long since submitted his request for repatriation, followed shortly afterward. Soe bana had become politically vacuous, and had long been ready for return. In Makassar, Dr. Soeribno continued his efforts to come to an understanding with the colonial government, and he kept us regularly informed about his activities. Actually, it seems that his efforts were never taken seriously in colonial circles. His younger brother, who had just entered the colonial service because of his pro-Allied convictions, was sent to find out precisely what he had in mind. Meanwhile I had become convinced that there would be no change in Dutch policy as we had hoped and antici pated. There was absolutely nothing to indicate that the Dutch realized that great things were taking place, and would take place in the future. Our suggestions for re prieving political exiles met with no response. On the con trary, political arrests were increased and police strength was reinforced. I felt certain that dark days lay ahead for us. Japan’s ignition of the spark of war in the Pacific seemed to be only a matter of time. Until that time we were doomed to remain passive, and afterward—utter dark ness. I had learned with satisfaction that my party, which was only semilegal, had taken a proper position in the current crisis. I could only hope that with the remaining members—four consecutive heads of my party had been exiled to New Guinea during the course of the preceding six years—we might still retain an organizational nucleus for work in the dark days lying ahead. As 1941 drew nearer, I became more and more convinced that the colo nial regime was destined to a catastrophic collapse; and, in addition, that the national movement not only would be 221 out of the struggle against Hitler, but would be threatened with destruction. When Dr. Soeribno came to Banda briefly before his repatriation to Soekaboemi, he still expressed his hope and enthusiasm for co-operation with the Allies and hence with the colonial government. W e could only admire his opti mism, but we were convinced that he would be disillu sioned as soon as he returned to Java. Meanwhile he was risking his popularity. His new attitude was not understood at large, and he was spoken of as though he were sick and irresponsible. From this time until his death, Dr. Soeribno showed he was one of the greatest fighters we have ever had in the nationalist movement. Personal attacks did not affect him. He remained steadfast in his convictions, never hesitating or vacillating. He was always forthright and candid. He knew nothing of political maneuvers, not to mention intrigue, and did not even recognize them in the actions of others. During this last period I rarely agreed with him concerning the manner he thought best to fulfill his duty to his country and his people. And yet it was then that I most admired and respected him. I admired his sim plicity, honesty, loyalty, and courage, and also his contempt for anything morally unworthy. He liked me and had faith in my judgment, and yet I felt that he seldom was interested in my political calculations. He often found them too involved and suspicious, although he might agree with their conclusions. As soon as he arrived in Java, he tried everything to secure our release. He wrote me that he would not be able to carry out his plans if he had to do it alone. During 1941 many other attempts were made by the movement to secure the release of all political exiles and of Hafil and me on Banda in particular. The two of us saw little of this. Each night we listened to the radio reports attentively, and it seemed that Banda had suddenly come nearer to the rest of the world. Each evening scores of people came to see me to ask my views on the war; and each evening I was vexed by the sentiments that the people voiced. The Moslems were for Hitler and anticipated the coming of the Japanese, while the Christians, though anti- Japanese, were often not opposed to Hitler. One of my Christian friends, for example, had this theory: Hitler had occupied the Netherlands in order to prevent the British from coming and turning it into a battlefield; he now pro tected Holland, and as soon as he won the war—which was a foregone conclusion—the Queen would return in honor and respect. Both the English and the Japanese would be punished by the Germans. And the Americans would re main neutral because they understood that Hitler was the right man to put Europe in order, and to control the Rus sians, the English, and the Japanese! But during these days it became clear that anti-Dutch feelings were widespread even among the Christian popu lation of the Moluccas. Our popularity had grown consid erably in Banda since the outbreak of the European war, and it increased further as the situation became more threat ening for Indonesia. By the end of the year, our influence had become so strong on the little island that the civil officials even came to seek our advice on various problems. This was all linked with the perceptible growth of a unity among the various population groups: Moslems and Chris tians, Chinese and Arabs and Indo-Europeans drew closer to one another, impelled by a common feeling of danger. The old Chinese shopkeeper became such an ardent fan of mine that he gave me a radio set as a gift, although he knew he might thereby come under suspicion. He also felt he had acquired a right to more of my commentary on the radio reports than the others, because of the gift.

In December 1941 I received the first reports of Pearl Harbor from Hawaii and Manila. Later in the day every one on the island heard the news. The atmosphere became charged with anxiety and tension. Even the simple fisher men understood that something startling had happened. The Christians formed a crowd in front of the commandant’s office. The Moslems gathered in groups around the little square, and hundreds of people came to see Hafil and me to ask if it were true and what would happen next. We naturally tried to calm them, and to point out that on Banda there was little to fear because the people had long been prepared for the possibility that we might be cut off from the rest of the world. W e had cassava fields in abundance, and even if our rice imports were completely stopped, there would be no lack of food. With dozens of others, Hafil and I heard the Governor General’s declaration over the radio. Indonesia also was now at war! It had been expected for so long, and yet it came as a shock. Civil precautions were taken on Banda: an air-raid alarm service, first aid for the wounded, and civil watches were organized. It went as a matter of course that Hafil and I were to become part of all this. Hafil was made head of the food distribution service, and I of the listening posts, along with a former sergeant major of the Royal Netherlands Indies Army. When the higher and wiser authorities on Ambon were informed of the appoint ments, they were alarmed. The Banda officials were told they must have lost their heads to put exiles in such respon sible positions, and they were immediately instructed to cancel the appointments. On Banda the orders of Ambon 224 were considered bureaucratic and were only partly obeyed. We were no longer to be official chiefs, but instead were asked to give our “advice” as to how the services must be handled. In these days Banda became a close community. W e saw and chatted with almost everyone daily. My house became a gathering place for the community “war workers,” as well as the center for radio reports. W e were no longer treated as exiles by the authorities. They realized that the people came to us in their restiveness, and needed advice and leadership. Our relations with the people were closer in these months than ever before. Later we received an offer from the colonial government to be repatriated to Soekaboemi, where Dr. Soeribno was staying. W e thought it the result of Dr. Soeribno’s efforts, but were naturally not certain. In order to find out pre cisely what was behind it, we did not immediately accept the offer. Instead, we proposed that the Digoel camp be discontinued before we would accept the offer of repatri ation. To the local authority our Attitude seemed to be absurd and ridiculous. He told us it signified our rejection of the offer. Meanwhile, the people of Banda were quite pleased over the outcome because they were not anxious to see us leave Banda with the Japanese and the war drawing closer to the little island. But unexpectedly, a few days later, we received a message from Ambon that the exiles in New Guinea would also be cared for, and that the colonial government was particularly concerned over our personal safety. It now seemed clear to us that the colonial govern ment desired our repatriation. W e proposed several further conditions, and they were all accepted. As a result, I was able to take with me, at the expense of the colonial gov-

225 eminent, five of the dozens of children who had been my friends on Banda. Our departure was far from definite, however, because travel prospects were no longer certain. In the last week there was no connection whatever with Java by sea or air. W e heard that the Japanese had taken Minahassa and the Kendari airfield of south Celebes; the day before we left they were reported to have landed on Ambon. Friends came to wish us good-by although they evidently still hoped we would not go. But on the thirty-first of January 1942, early in the morning while it was still dark, a large flying boat circled over the little place, waking the people before it came to rest in the bay. Ten minutes later we were told we had a quarter of an hour to get ready. W e had to leave before daylight, because otherwise it would not be possible. The Japanese were on Ambon and their planes were expected to follow the Catalina at any moment. All of Banda was on the dock—half awake, half dressed, un washed, and frightened—to see us off. The people had ac quired such confidence in us that I felt as if I were commit ting desertion. I later heard that a half hour after we left, the first Japanese bombs fell on Banda. Only three of the five children whom I was to take were able to go with me. The youngest was Ali, a little boy of three. Two were not allowed to go at the last minute, be cause their parents were frightened at the thought of putting their children on the Catalina. This Catalina was the only one remaining of six American flying boats stationed on Ambon. It had received orders to return to Java and to pick us up en route. It was attacked on its take-off from Ambon, and we saw the holes that had been tom in it by Japanese machine-gun bullets. The flight from Banda to Java was also dangerous, because Kendari had fallen into 226 Japanese hands and an attack on Bali was expected mo mentarily. During the thirteen-hour flight we had several tense moments when we thought we saw Japanese Zeros far below us. During the flight we conversed with the crew of five American Marines. What struck me was their complete lack of excitement or even of tension. They talked about the war and their experiences objectively and matter-of- factly, as though it concerned their factory or office work in peacetime. They foresaw the future course of the war clearly. The Japs would, according to them, not be stopped temporarily because they had too great a superiority in the air and on sea. But the farther they pushed to the south, the longer their communications lines would be, and the more vulnerable their defense would become to the increasing strength of America’s war machine. They thought the Americans would have enough planes and ships in the Pa cific to begin the counterattack in a year. According to their views, Java would be able to hold out at least three months, as there were still a number of fighter planes on Malang and Morokrembangan. Actually, the fall of Java went much quicker when it came to the real fighting. As average, simple Americans, they thought it perfectly natu ral that we were struggling for our independence, and they shook their heads when they heard how many years we had lived in exile. They knew Java, but they didn’t ask, as a European political pundit or statesman would have, whether the Dutch had been efficient colonizers! For us the trip was naturally very interesting: our first flight and contact with a world from which we had been separated for years; and hence with the war itself. Except for the few times we thought we saw Jap fighters below us, the flight was calm. After dark we reached Soerabaya and 227 descended with the help of searchlights. The breeze was strong and the water choppy as we came down. A strong rain was falling. A motorboat brought us to the docks, and here we had our first taste of the situation on Java. Five Dutch marines under command of a warrant officer were waiting for us. Each of us got a marine with bayonet fixed to his rifle to guard and lead us: Hafil and I, the two little girls, and the three-year-old baby! W e were welcomed by a gruff command from the war rant officer to carry our own baggage and to march in file. WTe stood there on the dock in the rain, discomfited at the unfriendly reception, and rather hopelessly surveying the abundant baggage that had just been unloaded. There wasn’t the slightest chance that Hafil and I and the chil dren could carry all of it. W e were thinking of leaving some of it behind as booty for the fighting Dutch marines when the pilot of our Catalina—probably attracted by the barking of the Dutch warrant officer—came over to us. When he heard what our problem was, he asked the war rant officer why the robust marines couldn’t help us and how he could possibly expect a baby of three to pick up his baggage and march in file. The Dutch officer replied roughly that that was the way it had to be, and there was nothing else to it. Thereupon the American captain took Ali up in one arm, one of our grips in the other, and asked two of his own crew, who had come over in the meantime, to help with the baggage. The pilot then told the Dutch officer that we were ready to leave. The latter was some what nonplused, but we began to walk toward a bus that was waiting a few hundred feet from the dock. The Dutch officer then suddenly barked an order to his marines to take the baggage from the Americans, and we finally reached the bus with the Dutch and the American air force each carry- 228 ing a piece of baggage, and with Ali still held in the pilot’s arm. The Americans gave us a roguish look before we left. One of them, in fact, was of Dutch descent. By the wink he gave me before leaving, it was clear that he considered his blood brothers strange fellows. Our marine guards looked stem, and when we were in the bus one of them sat next to each of us so that little Ali— small but important—sat with a rugged, stem-faced Dutch marine with rifle and bayonet held in front of him. It was so absurd that even the girls were amused. On the way to the police office, we sat dead-tired after our long trip, but diverted by the conduct of the grim, stalwart, bayonet armed Dutch marines. Strange, but really I felt sorry for them. I had the feeling that these simple, young, and still very inexperienced Dutch boys maintained such stem vis ages because they didn’t quite know what else to do; and perhaps also they were a little ashamed over what had hap pened with the baggage and the Americans. I think the incident also showed how sternness and apparent strength do not always contribute to awe and authority. W e were turned over to the head police office, and after waiting a few hours, we were brought into a dazzlingly lit room. I noticed that dozens of people came to look at us in turns through a window; evidently informers who would identify us. W e had been away from this police state for so long. Certainly they must have had police photos of us, but I suppose we might have changed in all the years. It was almost midnight when we were brought to the jail. Except for a snack in the plane, we had had nothing to eat since leaving Banda. Ali and the girls had thus far held up admir ably, but now little Ali began to complain that he was hungry. In the bus I had reminded the police agent that the 229 children had had a very long trip and had not eaten. He said we would get food in jail. W e had to wait still longer before the superintendent came. It was another hour after his arrival before we were led in and given something to eat. Once inside, we had to separate to go to the cells. Hafil and I were directed to the men’s section, and the children to the women’s and children’s section. This was too much for Ali. While he was with us he did remarkably well. When he was taken away from me he began to cry. Long after he was out of sight I heard him screaming: “I want to be with Uncle. Why did they take Uncle away? ” I found out later that he quieted down when he was alone with the girls in a cell. And when the girls began to cry, he quickly composed himself and consoled them by saying that Uncle would be back later on! The next morning we were all brought to the police of fice, where they told us we had been put in jail by mistake. W e were then allowed to go to a Chinese hotel for a few hours before being taken by train to Batavia. W e stayed another few hours in a European hotel in Batavia before the police put us in two passenger cars to go to Soekaboemi. Arriving in Soekaboemi on February 1, 1942, we were immediately taken to the police school. W e were interned there, but were allowed to go into town occasionally, and told to report to the local head of the civil administration. During our stay in the Soerabaya jail Hafil became very- suspicious. He was afraid we might be put into a concen tration camp along with the Germans and Japanese. On the train he also wondered whether we would again be asked to sign a statement promising not to meddle in politics. I did not think they would do it this time, and when we were in Batavia the acting police chief was friendly and solicitous. It was a surprise to Hafil. W e were told we had 230 been taken from Banda because the government felt re sponsible for our lives and safety, and we would surely have been killed by the Japanese if we had remained. Yet in Soekaboemi we had no shelters when the Jap bombardment actually began. Instead we got the impression that no one was particularly interested in our lives or safety, so that the removal from Banda remained a riddle. We also heard little news of Dr. Soeribno. He had found out, after his return to Java, that for co-operation more than one party was necessary; and that the party with which he thought to co-operate was not very much inter ested in the sort of co-operation he had in mind. It surprised me in Soekaboemi that there were so many young Europeans or Eurasians of service age who were in police uniforms, and so few in military service. There was no warlike atmosphere, and everything went on quite nor mally. After the fall of Singapore no one thought the Japs could be kept out of Java, and yet the prospect evidently did not seem frightening. I made contact with my former party mates, and was even able to hold a few clandestine meetings with them. W e prepared for a quick collapse of colonial authority, and made plans for keeping our organi zation intact and continuing our fight for freedom during the Japanese occupation. We were convinced that Hitler and his allies would fi nally lose the war. For me, America’s joining the war on the Allied side was the decisive factor in determining the further course of both the European and Asiatic wars. Some who were strongly impressed by Pearl Harbor feared that Japan would be subdued only if she got into war with Rus sia; and that was not expected soon. They were also pessi mistic about the possibility of a quick Japanese defeat. On the contrary, a long and hard Japanese occupation of our 231 country was foreseen, and hence an extremely difficult time for our organization and for the nationalist movement. During our first days in Soekaboemi little notice was taken of us. W e saw Dr. Soeribno occasionally, and several members of my family came to see me. Later my youngest brother and my sister-in-law with their two children came to stay with me. They had been surprised by the war, and could not return to Banten, to which they were in transit. Even with the little contact we had with the people, it was clear to us that the majority rejoiced over the Japanese victories. The nearer the Japanese came to Java, the more openly the people displayed their wish for the coming of the liberators. Hafil was particularly vexed over this. Just before we left Banda he wrote an article for the Indonesian press in which he declared his support of the Allies and his opposition to the Axis. When he sent me a digest of the article, I immediately went to see him to advise against pub lishing it. I felt that its publication might have unforseeable consequences for us, and that it was not worth while to support the Hollanders in that way. Unfortunately he had posted it an hour before, and we had no success in our at tempts to get the envelope back. During the last days of the colonial regime, Dutch propaganda made extensive use of this article. It was translated and distributed in several dia lects, while Hafil himself was still interned. Hafil’s antifascist and pro-Allied leanings were genuine. He had always been a profoundly democratic individual, and he was particularly disturbed over the pro-Japanese at titude of the people. And the longer we were in Soeka boemi, the clearer it became that they hoped for a Japanese victory and for a quick collapse of the colonial regime. During the last weeks, the police were feared no longer. People said openly that the Djojobojo story would be ful 232 filled, and that the days of white rule were over. The com ing of the Japanese, they said, would bring liberation. After a hundred days of their occupation, the promised days of freedom would be at hand. Nothing could be done to coun teract this spreading belief. I felt that there would be noth ing for us to do but to keep silent and await our chance. The Dutch had vitiated or neglected any possible basis for stimulating popular support. Any attempt by the nationalist movement to oppose the feeling of the mass would only isolate and estrange it. I was convinced that the people would be disillusioned only after the arrival of the Japa nese. My advice to the others was based wholly on the as sumption that a complete turnabout in popular sentiment would take place after the occupation began. Under these circumstances, it was understandable that Dr. Soeribno got nowhere in Java, and that he even was suspected by some Indonesians. During the last days of February, when the Japanese had occupied all of north ern Celebes and Borneo and were expected to attack Java and Sumatra any day, we received a visit from Mr. Boe- dit")itro, the younger brother of Dr. Soeribno. He had be come a member of the Governor General’s staff, and came to see us in a semiofficial capacity. He told us that the colo nial government suddenly had begun considering the possibility of soliciting the active co-operation of the na tionalists, and particularly of the leaders. I had always had a liking for Boeditjitro. I knew him from his student days as a talented and intelligent fellow, and realized that he was working with the colonial govern ment, not for his own welfare, but because he wanted to apply the principle of co-operation that he believed in as strongly as his brother. He had never been a political fig ure. At one time he tried his hand at politics, but soon

233 turned away, disappointed and frustrated, to pursue cul tural and literary studies. Now, however, he was enthusi astically in support of the democratic fight against fascist aggression. He was disheartened when he did not find the enthusiasm he had expected from me for a co-operative struggle with the colonial government against Japan. Dur ing the years since the fall of Holland, I told him, and par ticularly since coming to Java, I had become convinced that a reciprocal and co-operative defense of our country with the colonial rulers had not the slightest chance of material izing, because the Dutch had a completely different and even truculent attitude. He reluctantly agreed with me. Even my conclusion that we would have to fight on alone, and that we still had a chance to win in the longer run, did not comfort him. He abruptly felt that I thought ill of him. He came a few more times, and we came to understand one another better, but he remained depressed. For him, the coming of the Japanese signified the end of the world. For me, after the first months of intoxication, it meant a new beginning of our struggle. In this regard, I believed the Dutch would destroy or hide their archives, and that when the Japanese came they would be greatly handicapped by a lack of familiarity with the nationalist supporters. After Mr. Boeditjitro, a Mr. Siregar came to see Dr. Soeribno and told him that he would like to speak with us. Siregar was the leader of a left-wing people’s party. He was a gifted orator and was particularly popular among the edu cated youth. Boeditjitro was enthusiastic about him because he had given up the non-co-operation point of view and had become a staff worker with the colonial government. Siregar had not, however, entered the government for the same reasons that Dr. Soeribno favored co-operation. He had already forsaken the non-co-operation principle in 234 1938, after being arrested on suspicion of communist activi ties. At that time he was given the choice of exile or of adopting a different political attitude. After conferring with his party mates, he chose the latter and entered the government service. He found a new source of political in spiration in the fight between demlocracy and fascism, and became a strong advocate of opposition to the Axis and of support for the Allies, and hence for the colonial regime. I knew him only as a political opponent during a period of conflict between our parties before my exile. From my cousin Djon and exiles in Digoel who were in prison with him, I heard that he was a well-rounded and idealistic fel low. But from what I myself knew of his political past, I had the impression that stability was not one of his out standing characteristics. A t our meeting in Dr. Soeribno’s house that impression was strengthened. Siregar appeared to be overexcited, and I felt the expressions he used to de scribe the situation were too strong. For example, he said the colonial government had lost its head and was prepared to turn over a large share of responsibility to us, if we would co-operate. It seemed extremely unrealistic to me, especially because by that time Palembang had fallen and the Japanese were expected in Java momentarily. In fact, Japanese planes flew over Soekaboemi daily. Hafil and Dr. Soeribno were present at the conversation and I remained quiet throughout. Even Dr. Soeribno was less enthusiastic than would have been expected. W hat Siregar proposed was that we formally declare ourselves in favor of co-operation. He would then take the declaration to the colonial government as an indication of our position. Steps would then immediately be taken to draw the whole nationalist movement into the prosecution of the war. W e would be placed in charge of the radio

235 propaganda, perhaps, and if the Dutch had to surrender to Japan we would be evacuated to Australia. Especially Dr. Soeribno and Hafil would be considered for evacuation. Hafil did not quite know what to make of it, and hesitated. W e discussed it, and I told him I thought Siregar exag gerated somewhat but was probably sent by the colonial government to sound us out on these matters. I felt it was obviously too late, and hence absurd, to speak of political co-operation, but I approved of the plan to evacuate Hafil. I advised him not to refuse the proposal point-blank, but to go along with it at least far enough so that the plan for his evacuation might work out. At first Hafil was cool to this suggestion; he agreed to it only when I promised that I would go with him initially, and would return later to lead our underground work in Indonesia. He drew up the state ment Siregar had asked for, but his attitude toward the Netherlander was so indifferent that it was unlikely to en courage them. However, Siregar was satisfied with it, and promised to return to see Hafil in a few days. Evidently he did not have much interest in me, probably because I had remained so quiet. A few days later a certain Professor Fluiter came to see us. I never found out why he came, but he stayed for hours, and while he appeared to have something on his mind, he did not tell us much about it. From Bandoeng I heard that Parto, one of my oldest and closest coworkers, had gone with Siregar to east Java. I was not too enthusiastic about it, because I discovered in the meantime that Siregar had made plans for a large resistance movement to operate im mediately after the Japanese invasion. He had gone about it in such an awkward and indiscreet way that many people knew about it even before it got started. I therefore did not want to risk our projected organization by connecting it 236 with his. But, by making use of the statement Hafil had given him, Siregar introduced himself to several of our peo ple and got them to go along with him. My fears were not wholly unjustified. Immediately after the Japanese land ings, Siregar’s group was tracked down. Numerous arrests were made, and a few of our people were included. On the night of February 28 the first Japanese landings on Java took place. In almost no time they had reached Bandoeng. By the ninth of March everything was over. It went so quickly that at first people hardly realized what had happened. In Soekaboemi everything went on as usual. The Europeans continued to take their daily walks, visited restaurants, and did not change their attitude toward the people in the slightest. The head of the local government continued to function, issuing various orders on behalf of the Japanese army; such as the order that everyone bow before each Japanese guard or officer. Apparently the Euro peans intended to please the Japanese. This was not an easy thing to do, because the first troops were really barbarians. For the least thing one might be decapitated. They natu rally understood only their own language, and misunder standings were thus quick to develop. Later, however, it became clear that even these rough and tough troops were under strict discipline. The first few days of theft and plunder brought a preliminary disillusionment to the Indo nesian populace. Afterward the troops behaved quite well for an invading army, because of the disciplinary measures imposed by the Japanese: thieves had their hands cut off, and more serious crimes were punished by beheading. Nev ertheless, it soon became difficult for our people to regard the Japanese as liberators. The police, who had been ag gressively pro-Japanese in the beginning, changed their at titude in less than a week. They became anti-Japanese, but

237 still not pro-Dutch. People began to hope that the Japanese plague would last only for a hundred days, as had been pre dicted by the Djojobojo, and that afterward freedom would be born. • During these days I began to leave my place of intern ment more and more frequently to confer with my cowork ers. While returning from Bandoeng after one of these meetings I noticed I was being followed. When I reached the Soekaboemi station I saw immediately that a Japanese civilian and an Indonesian were watching me. The Indo nesian tried to keep himself under cover, but I recognized him as one of our movement who had always been sus pected of having connections with the colonial political police. Apparently he was acting as guide for the Japanese. Instead of going directly home I went into a restaurant op posite the station to see what would happen. Two Japanese then came and sat at a table next to mine. One of them came toward me, made a deep bow, and asked if the other Japanese could speak with me. I agreed. The other Japa nese, who was introduced as a high personage, asked me who I was. I gave him a false name, though without any il lusions that he would believe me. He then told me all In donesians should co-operate with the Japanese, and that the Japanese would soon go away and leave the country to the n onesians to govern themselves. He spoke Japanese and t e other fellow translated in high Malay, addressing me with great respect. They also looked with suspicion at a ew English books I had brought from Bandoeng. I pre pared myself for arrest, because I had come from a clandes tine political meeting in Bandoeng, and it was clear I had been followed. When I got up from the table I thought it would occur, but I was mistaken. Nothing happened and I was soon back at my place of internment. 238 I was telling Hafil about Bandoeng and about what had happened afterward, when the same Japanese suddenly en tered his room. They told him the identical story they had told me, but they added a request for Hafil to go to Ban doeng to meet the high Japanese officialdom. Hafil waved it aside, but they remained insistent and finally he said he would think it over. Hafil, even more than I, had expected arrest, because so much publicity had been given his decla ration of support for the Allies. Siregar had told him many stories about Japanese atrocities, and in fact Siregar was convinced that he himself would immediately be put before the wall because of the anti-Japanese radio speeches he had made. The solicitous attitude of the Japanese was thus a surprise for Hafil. I was not entirely surprised. When I had urged him to leave the country, I told him one of my main motives was that I feared he would otherwise be misused by the Japanese for their propaganda. I thought it impossi ble for him to be active in an underground movement. He was too well known and the people were still too pro-Japa nese. Therefore, when there was no further talk of evacu ation (Siregar did not show up again), we had counted on the fact that Hafil would have to lead an open existence, and perhaps would be obliged to work with the Japanese up to a certain point, for the good of our movement. I would then lead our organization and direct our underground work. Two days after the Japanese had visited Hafil he re ceived an order to go to Batavia. He left under Japanese escort. No notice was taken of me. I was left with the three children, and it was not easy for us to find new accommodations. Hence we remained calmly in the police offices, ignoring hints from the police authorities that we would have to leave because we were prisoners of the Dutch, and they didn’t want to be mixed 239 up in. the matter. Finally we were ordered to leave within twenty-four hours. I took the chidlren to stay with a rela tive of my brother-in-law, and set out on my travels over Java. Disillusionment had spread everywhere, and we could again begin our work. I heard from people who had seen Hafil that he had gone to some trouble to put the Japanese off Siregar’s track and had succeeded. When I came to middle Java I quickly learned that Siregar was in hiding in Solo. I sent him a message that I would be in Semarang for a few days and gave my address. He came to see me there. Siregar had let his beard grow, but was still easy to recog nize. I told him what I had heard about Hafil, but I found out nothing of what happened after he left us in Soeka- boemi. I later found that out from Parto, who went with him, and had a rather exciting return trip from east Java to Bandoeng. Traveling in overcrowded trains to east Java, I found the sentiment still strongly pro-Japanese. I nowhere tried to make immediate contact with my old party workers. In stead, I tried to survey the situation carefully, because pro- Japanese sentiments among formerly reliable nationalists made the work extraordinarily dangerous. This sentiment facilitated the work of the Japanese secret police in the early days. People at first regarded the Japanese as their friends, and hence they were free and open in speaking to them. This lasted several months before they learned by bitter experience to hate and fear the Japanese secret po lice. In middle and east Java it happened more than once that I could afford to make no contact whatever because the old contacts had become unreliable. But we managed to form an organization, even though it was hurt by the arrests. In setting the organization up, my old friend and 240 coworker Ganda worked energetically with me. From my sister, who approved of my decision not to have anything to do with the Japanese, I received an offer to tend her orange garden, her rice fields, and her house in Tjipanas in the mountains. I thought it a perfect place for my plans. I first took the children to Semarang, and later two of them came to Tjipanas with me. Several of our members fixed the house up as our work ing headquarters. W e brought the equipment needed for a radio listening post, and throughout the occupation this lis tening service continued in operation. Even after we had extended our work to practically all the big cities of Java, none of our workers got into trouble, despite the arrests and house searches that were going on. We daily heard of arrests, particularly of Siregar’s group and of those of our people who had been in touch with him. Siregar was per suaded to give himself up and go to Batavia, on the assur ance that if he would work with the Japanese nothing would be done to him. Boeditjitro also found that he could survive the Japanese invasion. He too went to Batavia, where he helped Hafil, who had been placed in charge of a sort of advisory bureau for nationalist affairs. Dr. Soeribno remained in Soekaboemi and was left in peace by the Japanese. He persisted openly in his anti-Japa nese attitude, but until his death they disregarded him com pletely. And at his death a wreath was sent by one of the most notorious of the Japanese agents. During his last days Dr. Soeribno was very sick. He had always had asthma, but during the last years of his life he suffered terribly from it. One of the most remarkable things about him was that even when he was suffering most horribly from his asthma at tacks, his mind remained as clear as ever. He remained an optimist and a fighter to the end. He later moved to Batavia 241 for medical attention, and after spending a few months in a clinic, settled in one of the suburbs with his wife and his two adopted children. Members of his family and friends, including Hafil, made sure that he did not lack anything. Hafil’s relationship with Dr. Soeribno was indeed unique. Dr. Soeribno had only contempt for the nationalists who co-operated with the Japanese. But from the very begin ning, although he was disappointed that Hafil became a leading figure under the Japanese authority rather than a democratic martyr, he always defended Hafil, if not po litically, then morally. He never spoke harshly of him, not even when I occasionally expressed my dissatisfaction with him. Hafil’s loyalty to Dr. Soeribno also remained as strong as always. During a time when only anti-Japanese people were accustomed to visit Dr. Soeribno, Hafil still came to see him. He came and bore all the sarcasm and invective directed against the so-called “collaborating” Indonesians. Hafil had never made common cause with those Indone sians who went to work for the Japanese because of either material designs or political sympathies. He always regarded himself as a democrat and a nationalist who had been pre vailed upon to accept a position by force majeure. Using this position, he tried to do what he could for our cause. Moreover, he accepted his position at the behest of our party. To him were delegated the tasks of securing funds for us and of facilitating the travel of our workers. Hafil acquitted himself of these tasks capably and faithfully. He also received our reports and warned us when he heard that something was brewing on the Japanese side. I heard from him everything that took place among the Japanese and among the collaborating Indonesians. Right up to the present time, he has always been regarded as a loyal sup porter of the national cause. 24 2 One of the goals I sought as soon as we became active was contact with other resistance organizations. I real ized that we needed the active guidance of a military ex pert and also of groups having connections in the secret police and the civil administration. Contacts were needed among the Eurasians and the Chinese as well. The point was not only to prevent each group from impeding the others’ work, but to provide for co-operation among them where possible, as for example through the exchange of reports. Another thing we were particularly interested in was ob taining information concerning weapons: if and where the Netherlands Indies Army had left or hidden weapons, and how we could lay our hands on them. In the meantime, at tention was also devoted to the framing of political pro grams for eventual co-operative action by the various underground groups. In this regard, I made contact with progressive Dutch groups, including that of the well- known writer de Willigen and the reformed Dutch polit ico Jacques. I had several meetings with these groups in Bandoeng, the result of which was the formulation of a po litical program of co-operation among all the democratic resistance organizations, with Indonesia’s independence as its goal. Both our groups and the Bandoeng undergrounds circulated this program. I gave a copy to Hafil, but he was never personally a partner to the program. In order to maintain contact with these dispersed groups I traveled con tinually. My connections with the nationalists in Batavia thus remained limited. When, for example, Boeditjitro and Siregar learned of this common program through other channels, they never knew we had been its originators. About six months after the coming of the Japanese, all the Netherlanders were finally interned, including the lead ers of this Bandoeng group. However, we continued to

243 work with de Willigen in Soekaboemi and a few remain ing Eurasians, but in general it appeared that the colonial government had made very inadequate preparation for un derground action. Several English and Australian officers were arrested in the Banten and Buitenzorg districts, and every day there were mass arrests of young Eurasians, Chi nese, Menadonese, and Ambonese suspected of anti-Japa- nese activities. But as for indications of a well-organized and integrated action by pro-Dutch elements, there were none, especially after the extensive arrests during the first year. It appeared that a few former Dutch army and marine officers were still at large around Soerabaja, but they evi dently caused no trouble. After this year, we realized we would have to rely on ourselves alone during the Japanese occupation. Our hope that the Chinese might be a reserve support for us was only partially realized. However, we did later get some weapons through the Chinese. During my trips I was residing, for all public purposes, ° at Tjipanas. I also came to Batavia incognito to hear the news from Hafil and to keep informed of the activities of our intellectuals and nationalists. Boeditjitro remained ac tive and tried to form an organization among the younger intellectuals and students. He also helped to support our work financially. I once met Siregar, who had returned to his office at the Department of Economic Affairs, but he appeared to be very nervous and I realized he must be still under police surveillance. I learned more about him and his predicament from Boeditjitro, who was in regular touch with him. His difficulties were mainly caused by the fact that many of his former coworkers talked under the influ ence of the Kempei torture methods. Soon Siregar himself came under suspicion of provocative acts, and a year after the Japanese invasion he was arrested. He remained in

2 4 4 prison until the Republic’s proclamation of independence, and must have been terribly maltreated during this time. I also found that in Batavia there were still a few small groups that tried to do such resistance work as they could. A Frenchman and a Ceylonese were involved. The Cey lonese occupied an important position from our point of view; he was a translator of Allied news in the Japanese radio monitor service. W e managed to keep in touch with these people, and also with an Indonesian major who had been connected with the nationalist movement. The major was closely watched by the Japanese police, but he was still active among the Eurasians, the Ambonese, the former mili tary people, and later also among our students. W e kept in touch with this type of activity by placing our people in the organizations themselves, while initially avoiding con tact with the leaders. This was done because we knew from experience how awkwardly such organizations worked and how difficult it was for the average member to be silent, particularly if the Japanese police were determined to learn the truth. The more we extended our work, the more diffi cult it became for us to remain immune to suspicion. Finally, toward the end of the occupation, we were impli cated as a consequence of arrests among the major’s group. Two weeks before the surrender, the first of my closest coworkers was arrested, and the investigation turned di rectly to me. During the first few years I had little contact with the politically collaborating Indonesians. The popular leader, Abdul Rachman, was brought to Java from Sumatra under police escort, at the request of the nationalists in Java, sup ported particularly by Hafil. On the day of his arrival Rachman, one of his trusted confidants, Hafil, and I met at Hafil’s house to discuss the general situation. It appeared

2 4 5 that Abdul Rachman had been strongly affected by the Japanese successes. Evidently he had also been treated rather roughly in Sumatra by the Japanese. He regarded them as pure fascists, and felt that we must use the most subtle countermethods to get around them, such as making an appearance of collaboration. He furthermore considered the future to be far from promising, because he thought the war with Japan would last at least ten years. I presented the thesis that the war would be much shorter, and we must therefore develop our revolutionary aims. Neither he nor Hafil opposed this, and we agreed that they should do everything legally possible to give the nationalist struggle a broader legal scope, and at the same time secretly support the revolutionary resistance. W e realized that the Japanese would try to capitalize on Rachman’s popularity for propa ganda purposes, and we agreed that political concessions from the Japanese for the nationalists must be pressed for in return. For several months Abdul Rachman kept me fully in formed concerning the course of his discussions with the Japanese, and he occasionally came to ask my advice. He was seeking zealously the legalization of an all-inclusive national organization. In the beginning it looked as though the idea had a chance of success, but it soon became clear that the Japanese had a very different intention. Instead, they launched an all-out propaganda effort in support of the so-called “Greater Asia” idea and against Indonesian nationalism. The “Three A’s Movement” * was an undisguised attempt to achieve a Greater Japan. For this purpose, the Indonesians had to be educated and indoctrinated as good Asiatics, ac-

* The “Three A’s,” organized under Japanese auspices in 1942, sought to popularize and glorify Japan as the “Savior, Leader, and Life of Asia.” 246 cording to the Japanese understanding of the term. This meant that the Indonesians must be educated as good Japa nese. They must learn the Japanese language, manners, and customs, and they must also acquire a Japanese soul. Japa nese had to be taught in every school, even ahead of the In donesian language, and instruction in only Japanese history could be given. This attitude made it particularly difficult for the collaborating nationalists, but it facilitated our work. By way of reaction, a strong nationalistic feeling flared up, particularly among the students and intellectuals. The or der to all students to shave their heads, and the use of the slap on the head as a pedagogical technique, contributed considerably to strengthen the feeling of self-consciousness and self-confidence. The first anti-Japanese actions by stu dents were induced by the shaving order and the pedagogi cal slaps. Everywhere disappointment grew into resistance, and into nationalistic resistance. Under these circumstances, the efforts at legal collaboration made by Abdul Rachman and Hafil came to nothing. There was no longer any imme diate reason for Rachman to see me, and I lost touch with him until just before the proclamation of our independence. After a while the Japanese intelligence service naturally found out I had some influence in nationalist circles, par ticularly among the popular movements and the younger intellectuals. Everyone, however, professed ignorance, and never approached me directly in the first two years. Hafil and Abdul Rachman both agreed never to mention me. Originally the Japanese must have wondered when Hafil did not draw me into his work. In Indonesia it had been the custom to speak of Hafil and me in the same breath. Hafil was regarded as the famed leader, and I was considered his right-hand man. In the beginning, therefore, it was expected that I would work with Hafil. But I turned aside all at-

2 47 tempts by Indonesians to draw me into Japanese circles, even for social get-togethers. I felt that otherwise my un derground work would be impeded by a sort of social sur veillance, at least. Officially I was almost always in the mountains in Tjipanas. The nationalists who were working with the Jap anese politically were naturally somewhat unfriendly to ward me. The rumor circulated among them that I was not working with Hafil because I had suffered a nervous break down, or that I was in Tjipanas convalescing from tuber culosis. But since they did not know what I was actually doing, there was not much active belligerence against me. I received an offer from a Dutch lady who was soon to be interned to rent her house in Batavia inexpensively, and I made use of the opportunity to set up a station there. Dur ing the last year, in fact, I was in Batavia more than in Tjipanas. As I look back at the Japanese period it is clear to what' extent everything in the Indonesian community, spiritually as well as materially, was shaken loose from its old moor ings. The fall of the colonial regime was in itself a cause, but what the Japanese showed our people afterward dealt the decisive blow to the old standards and norms. The Japa nese gave the people a surprise that was widespread and general. People had expected them to be quite different, stronger and more clever than the Netherlanders they had defeated. What people saw were barbarians who were often more stupid than they themselves. Almost all work, and particularly technical work, was turned over to the Indonesians; and they soon realized that the Japanese su pervisors who had been placed over them generally knew nothing about the work they were supervising. The same thing occurred in the government service. The 248 old, experienced Indonesian administrators of the colonial service felt only contempt for the political ignoramuses who were placed over them. As a consequence, all layers of society came to see the past in another light. If these bar barians had been able to replace the old colonial authority, why had that authority been necessary at all? Why, in stead, hadn’t they handled the affairs of government them selves? Under the Japanese, the people had to endure indignities worse than any they had known before: bowing before people for whom they had only contempt in their hearts, bearing physical abuse, and being treated as though they were wholly unfeeling beings. At the same time this treatment stimulated a consciousness of self, a feeling of self-confidence—partly as a psychological defense against the indignities, but also by virtue of their own work and experience. The national self-consciousness of the Indone sian people developed a new and powerful drive beyond anything known before in our country. To the Japanese, governing seemed to be very simple. Apparently it consisted only of the bayonet, propaganda, seizure of food and other goods, force, and conscript labor. Crops were expropriated and in return Japanese army money was given, for which nothing could be bought be cause everything had already been seized and there was no governmental distribution service to the villages. Where food crops were cultivated, hunger was often most preva lent. Elsewhere the peasants were arbitrarily forced to plant whatever the Japanese thought might be of use; sometimes castor-bean seeds, sometimes cotton. Experiments were conducted on a large scale with both the ground and the people. If the experimental crop failed, the work of hun dreds of thousands of people came to nothing. Hundreds of thousands of strong villagers were taken from their villages 2 49 to work for the Japanese. Many were shipped abroad as slaves. If they lived through the new conditions they were made to work at one of the many military fronts. Barely a handful survived this experience. The villages were deci mated by starvation and sickness, particularly malaria, for which no medicine was available. At the same time the quinine factory in Bandoeng, which had produced quinine for the whole world, operated day and night at full ca pacity, producing for the Japanese military forces. In some villages the Japanese labor conscription took such a heavy toll that only women remained. Want and suffering in creased so terribly in the villages that more and more re bellions occurred out of desperation. In the last year of the occupation they were especially widespread. At the same time the air was filled with the palaver of the Japanese propaganda machine. Public radio sets were set up in the remotest villages, and the propaganda squads came with their films and equipment. At first propaganda helped to appease the hungry people. Later it became scorned and hated. And along with the propaganda, physical and mili tary training were instituted. The object was to train the villagers for guerrilla fighting. In the offices, schools, and fields, the hungry people were forced to exercise in the burning sun and to shadow-fight with bamboo sticks and wooden rifles. Those who resisted ran the risk of being considered suspicious figures. The Japanese set up a spying system to make it easier for the military police to control the people and to keep their eyes on those who were sus pected. Not the least attention was given to old customs and vil lage habits. The Japanese acted in whatever way suited them at a given moment. The existing pattern of relation ships was discarded and no constructive new pattern was 250 substituted. The situation clearly became more revolution ary as time went on. Everywhere unrest grew. The Japa nese military were obliged to act against the simple people. Tens of thousands filled the prisons. Disturbances and re sistance multiplied. Even the Indonesian troops trained by the Japanese as reserve forces began to rebel. The Japanese position in the war against the Allies also grew worse and hope of a victory became weaker and weaker. The political policy now altered slightly. Nationalism was no longer so vigorously opposed. Some of the Japanese —in Java particularly the navy, which was not immediately responsible for the administrative machinery began to woo the nationalists. It was just about this time that I first came into direct contact with the Japanese. The Japanese information serv ice sent a Japanese to find out my views on the general situation. I thought it best to take a nationalist position, be cause I realized that they already had a certain amount of information about my views. Thereafter I had at least one visitor a week from the information service: first a Japanese and then an Indonesian. I realized that my movements were being watched. They had evidently found out that I trav eled considerably and had many visitors. In fact, toward the end they tried to restrict my movements. They re quested me to give courses dealing with nationalism and the Indonesian popular movement in a so-called nationalist in stitution that had been set up, called the Asbrama Indo nesia Merdeka (Association for a Free Indonesia). As the situation then stood, I could not refuse. I realized that it was an indirect means of making my travel difficult, and at the same time of keeping an eye on my movements and my ideas. I also found out soon enough that the institution, al though apparently directed by Indonesians, was sponsored 251 and controlled by Japanese. The courses I gave concerned nationalism and democratic principles, and I must admit that I derived some pleasure from the results. Quite a few of those who took the courses later became capable fighters for our freedom and our republic. There was, however, one exception, a fellow whom I had originally regarded as one of my best students. Fie went to work for the Japanese in formation service, and later became one of the leading fig ures behind my kidnaping in Solo.* During this time the Japanese began to permit Indone sians to assume positions that previously had been reserved for Japanese. An advisory council to the Japanese authori ties was set up, with Abdul Rachman as chairman. Indo nesians who had disdained me before sought to reach me, and one of them even asked me, in the name of his Japanese chief, if I would set down on paper my ideas concerning the general situation and what I thought of the future. Nat urally I did not accept the proposal. The collaborating nationalists now became more hopeful and confident. They began again to think that a kind of self-government for Indonesia might be possible even un der the Japanese: a Dokurichu, or home rule for Indonesia, as the Japanese called it. Not quite like Burma,t but in that direction, anyhow. The Japanese idea was that home rule would provide a sort of training school for administrative co-operation with the Japanese. During the last months, when the Japanese army and navy were being forced out

* Sjahrir was kidnaped in June 1946, when, as the Republic’s prime minister, he was returning to Djokjakarta from discussions in Batavia. T h e kidnaping aimed at a coup d'état of the Soekamo-Sjahrir govern ment, and opposed the compromise discussions that the Republic was carrying on with the Dutch. It was quelled within a week, and Sjahrir returned to his post. t Burma was granted a partly self-governing status by the Japanese in the summer of 1943. 2 5 2 of the southwest Pacific, a constitutional convention was called for framing Dokurichu. When the final phase of the war set in, Abdul Rachman, Hafil, and a few others were called to Saigon to speak with the highest Japanese military authorities concerning the setting up of home rule for In donesia. Before they left I had a long conversation with Hafil. I told him I thought it was all over for the Japanese, and that our chance had at last come for a total national effort. I ad vised him to draw the line between our position and the Japanese as sharply as possible, so that we would be forced into a position of open conflict with them. My point was that the situation must be made as revolutionary as possible in order that there would be no division in the nationalist camp between those of the resistance and those who had collaborated. National unity was the vital thing. He agreed with me. The people in our resistance organization throughout Java were informed that the moment for which we had waited and prepared might arrive within a few days. Communication with all branches of the organization was accelerated. . , Hafil was gone for three days, but durrng h.s absence we had a report that Japan was going to capitu ate. e t us had no time to lose. On the day of his return I asked Hafil what the results of the discussions had been. He to d me 11 i anA -un'rh the constitutional con- that the plan was to go ahead w1 , , . / • „ of Dokurichu, and that the mne- vention for the setting up or w i r * . j rhosen as the date for the teenth of August had been cn . , , assembly. It was then August 14.1 rephed that th,s was a Japanese swindle, because their surrender would be an nounced at any moment, and they would no longer be in a position to call such a convention. I suggested to him that our independence be proclaimed immediately. Everyone

253 would then think that the proclamation was the result of the Saigon discussions. Hence the Indonesian components of the Japanese regime (i.e., the administrative personnel, the police, and also a part of the army) would go along with us, and in any case would certainly not oppose the proclamation. At the same time, for those of us in the re sistance, the proclamation would be a sign to unleash mass action against the Japanese. I was vehement because of my conviction that the moment to act had arrived, and it was now or never. If we were to let this opportunity pass, the ignominy of a new colonial period might be unavoidable. Hafil was convinced, but he felt that a proclamation not made by Abdul Rachman would not have significant re sults. Abdul Rachman had to be persuaded. Hafil was to approach him and inform me of the result within the hour. I passed the word to our people in the city to prepare for demonstrations and perhaps fighting if the Japanese tried to use force. The sign for the demonstrations was to be the proclamation. W e had already drawn up the draft and sent it throughout Java to be printed and distributed on the same day. At noon Hafil came to see me. He told me that Abdul Rachman was not convinced that things were really so bad for the Japanese. He feared giving them provocation for retaliatory measures. I then went with Hafil to see Abdul Rachman, and he finally promised that the proclamation would be issued after five o’clock that afternoon. Orders were given as quickly as possible and preparation for the demonstrations was accelerated. Our students were espe cially active in these preliminaries, as were the fellows who were working at Domei, the Japanese press office. After the arrest of several of my close coworkers, I moved to another house, and this became our headquarters. 254 The Japanese had not yet realized that something was up. The secret police were looking for me because they re ceived a report that I had said the Japanese had surrendered. Five o’clock arrived. On the outskirts of the city we had assembled thousands of the youth, who would move into the city as soon as the proclamation was broadcast by our boys at the radio station. Our people at the Japanese press office were to make sure it would be transmitted through out Indonesia and abroad simultaneously. The word had been sent to all of our most important posts in Java that the proclamation would be made after five o’clock that day. In Batavia the demonstration was to be concentrated at the Gambir Park. The radio station and the Kempei building would be seized. Just before six o’clock, a message came from Abdul Rachman: He could not yet issue the procla mation, and he wished a day’s postponement! The situation now became dangerous for us, because the secret police might have discovered everything in the meantime. Moreover, several thousands of people were al ready concerned. A sort of angry disappointment and despair grew among our followers. A multitude of frenzied plans were offered, plans to go ahead without Abdul Rach man and Hafil. I was against such a course because it would bring us into opposition with our own people, and we could not allow that to happen under any circumstances. Ac tually, we were not able to communicate with our people in Cheribon, and they went ahead with the publication of the proclamation anyhow. As a result several of them were arrested. The leaders of the prospective demonstrations thereupon called a meeting. They felt they could not sim ply dismiss all the people who had assembled without giv ing them at least an acceptable explanation. At midnight a delegation from the meeting came to see me with the plan

255 of prevailing upon Abdul Rachman and Hafil to go through with the proclamation. I had no faith in the plan, but I did not oppose it. An hour later they returned, almost desperate, with the information that Abdul Rachman had curtly and sharply refused. At two o’clock in the morning they came again , with a suggestion to kidnap Abdul Rachman. I said that that was not necessary, and I guaranteed that the following day I would push the proclamation through. An hour later the same group returned to tell me that contrary to the consensus of the meeting, one clique in the assemblage had kidnaped Rachman and Hafil; and what must be done now? I then stressed that in any case there must be no trouble or dispute among us. W e simply had to ensure that the proclamation would be made rapidly. The same night some of our people from west Java arrived, and the following day those from east Java. W e were ready for the grand performance. Abdul Rachman and Hafil were held prisoners in a gar rison about thirty miles outside the city by some of the Indonesian military who had come over to our side. The kidnaping itself had taken place largely under the direction of students with the help of the Indonesian military. The proclamation had to be made that day, because oth erwise we would definitely be put on the defensive and might be picked up by the police. But everything remained surprisingly calm and undisturbed in Batavia. The majority of the population did not have the least idea of what had happened and what stood in the offing. Only the leading nationalists were nervous and excited. In their circles they whispered that I must be behind the kidnaping. I gave the police no chance to reach me. Every three hours I moved to another house, and only my closest confidants knew where 256 I was. W e had by then decided that if Abdul Rachman re mained steadfast we would issue the proclamation ourselves and begin our direct action. Retreat was no longer possible. On the afternoon of the fifteenth I received a report that the Japanese had found out where Abdul Rachman and Hafil were being kept, and that they would try to persuade our boys to bring them back voluntarily. I then made a visit to one of the collaborating nationalists who I knew had very close connections with the Japanese information serv ice. He was disagreeably surprised, but I gave him no chance to make outside contact while I was in his house. I heard from him that there had been no mass arrests that day, thanks to the intervention of his Japanese naval friends. The navy had intervened upon request from the collaborating nationalists, who wanted the return of Abdul Rachman and Hafil alive and unharmed. When it was found out where they were held, a delegation consisting of a leading Indonesian collaborator and a Japanese had been sent to the garrison to negotiate for the release of Ab dul Rachman and Hafil. He further told me that his Japanese naval friends would definitely not oppose a procla mation of independence. I began to feel that events were taking an unexpected and unfortunate turn for us. The whole kidnaping affair troubled me because it had brought into prominence a clique that had just entered our ranks on the previous night. I immediately called my top people together to dis cuss the situation. But while we were conferring, one of the boys who had been involved in the kidnaping and had been guarding Abdul Rachman and Hafil came in. He an nounced that they were back in the city, and had been brought to the house of the Japanese Admiral Maeda. The guards had freed them after Abdul Rachman promised to

257. issue the proclamation the following day, the sixteenth. In the meantime, Rachman convened all the delegates of the constitutional convention in the Admiral’s house in order to frame the proclamation. I realized that the game was temporarily spoiled for us. Because of the inexperience of the young guards, the initiative had been taken from our hands. Immediately thereafter a delegation from the constitu tional convention came to me with a request that I take part in the meeting. I naturally could not accept. W e had sought a revolutionary proclamation, and instead it was to be is sued from the house of a Japanese admiral. Our own draft proclamation was discussed that night at the meeting, but all the passages that reflected our struggle against Japanese oppression and extortion disappeared from the draft proc lamation of the constitutional convention. However, they declared themselves to comprise a truly national convention instead of simply a constitutional convention for the reform of the Japanese administration. I was later told that the use of the Admiral’s house didn’t have the slightest significance, because no Japanese was connected in any way with the meeting. The house had been borrowed, presumably, be cause otherwise the Japanese army authorities would not have allowed the meeting to take place, since they con sidered it illegal. The Admiral, so I was told, had a sort of immunity from the army, and was personally sympathetic toward Indonesian national aspirations. Admiral Maeda and a few of his staff were later put in a Dutch jail in Java. On the sixteenth the proclamation was ready. But there was still hesitation, for it was apparent that the Japanese army regime was definitely in opposition. Our people in Domei forced the issue by broadcasting the proclamation to the world, and on the seventeenth Abdul Rachman fi 258 nally read the proclamation on the lawn of his home. He was to be the president and Hafil the vice-president of the new republic. The effect of the proclamation was tremendous. It was as though our people had been electrified. A majority of the Indonesian civil servants, administrators, police, and military groups immediately declared their support of the Republic. National strength and unity reached greater heights than anything we had known before. In Batavia the Japanese prevented a mass meeting at which Abdul Rach man was to address the people. But everywhere there was a noticeable growth of open resistance and contempt for Japanese authority. I started to travel over Java at this time, to find out how the situation stood and how it was likely to evolve. Our people in Batavia were to ensure that there was no turning back and that the revolutionary spirit continued to expand. While I was in Bandoeng, Abdul Rachman issued a decree instructing all Indonesian civil servants to ignore orders from the Japanese and to heed only instructions from the republican government, at whose helm he stood. The de cree stated that henceforth only the republican red-white flag should fly from all offices, in place of the Japanese red ball. This latter provision seemed to me to be particularly apt. The red-white flag became the symbol of our struggle. The raising of that flag everywhere was the immediate cause of conflict and open resistance to the Japanese. Within a few weeks after the decree, there arose through out Java a large and strongly militant national front in op position to the now apathetic Japanese authorities. This conflict over the flag grew into a mass struggle for leader ship and direction of offices and administrative seats. And a widespread people’s revolution was born. Where the Jap 259 anese did not show much resistance, the revolution was bloodless. Where fighting occurred—and this took place in areas where the Japanese had made themselves particularly hated—primitive instincts arose to the surface and blood baths and atrocities resulted. But the apparatus of govern ment became republican. Large groups of Japanese were disarmed by our republican police and military forces, and especially by the raging masses. Republican power now be came an armed power. The Japanese had by this time surrendered officially, and they became different people in the process. Now passive and apathetic, many of them committed suicide and many more were killed by the people. During this whole period the attitude toward the Dutch who gradually came out of the camps was definitely neutral if not friendly. I can certify this personally from the trip I made throughout Java in these days. Quite often I was in a third-class railway car with dozens of Indonesians and groups of Dutch people who had just come from their camps. The trains were all overcrowded, and the Dutch people invariably were asked all sorts of questions by the Indonesians concerning their experiences in camp. At the time we had already begun fighting the Japanese, and no Japanese could have remained unharmed in such a group. I personally visited several of the internment camps in Java to familiarize myself with the mentality of the Dutch internees, and also to speak with some of my former co workers who had not yet come out of camp. Those of our friends who had drawn up the program with us for under ground work in behalf of democracy and freedom in the early days immediately declared their support of the Re public. In general the Netherlanders who came out of the camps were not inclined toward enmity against the Repub- 260 lie. It was clear, however, that they did not really under stand what had happened. Most of them were physically exhausted and mentally deranged by their internment. When I returned to Batavia after a two-week journey throughout Java, the situation appeared to be strongly rev olutionary. Japanese were murdered daily, and fighting was widespread. We had not succeeded in occupying all the offices and the Japanese police still ruled in the Gambir Park. However, we were issuing communiqués and even government decrees in printed form by this time. The situ ation was still confused and Allied troops might be expected to land any day. The young students formed the driving force in those days. We organized a sort of joint executive bureau in the students’ assembly hall to direct action in Batavia, and more decisions were made there than in Pe- gangsaan, where the republican government assembled daily. All the action organizations were directed from the Students’ hall. The first Allied troops arrived in September, but by then the greater part of Java was under republican control. Through my former connections I learned that the Dutch were urging the arrest of the republican government lead ers. The British command wisely did not agree, because it evidently had information concerning the republican posi tion outside Batavia. Throughout Java there were still tens of thousands of Netherlanders in camps now under the con trol of the nationalist government. Then, too, there were the thousands of Japanese prisoners of war we had taken. Furthermore, the troops that arrived at the first landing amounted to no more than a battalion. Immediately aft erward the Dutch group that urged the arrest and de struction of the republican government started recruiting soldiers from the released internees and former soldiers of 261 the Netherlands Indies Army. They also took Eurasian minors who had never been interned by the Japanese. All of them were provided with weapons to perform so-called policing services along with the Japanese soldiers. The Jap anese soldiers were now encouraged to take harsher meas ures, and as a result fighting in Batavia began to spread, until the city finally became a bloody battlefield. Hun dreds of people were wounded each day, and still more were killed and kidnaped. Japanese, Eurasian, and later es pecially Ambonese soldiers of the Netherlands colonial army rode around the city in military vehicles shooting with automatic weapons at practically anything they thought was red-white—that is, republican—without asldng any questions. Sometimes they fired on any group of peo ple they saw, for the pure game of it. From then on, hatred against the Netherlanders and the returning Netherlands Indies Civil Administration (NICA) began. The national, struggle turned from the Japanese to the NICA and the Dutch; the NICA became our number-one enemy. Throughout the country the attitude toward the Dutch changed and violence against them flared up. The struggle crystallized into the protection and maintenance of the Re public’s freedom against the colonialism that sought to re turn and nullify that hard-won freedom. Meanwhile, more Allied troops landed and the danger of an extension of the conflict increased. For the feeling to ward the English was also deteriorating. Originally, the re publican government assured the British of support in the prosecution of their assigned tasks, the disarmament and evacuation of the Japanese troops and the release and evacu ation of the internees. The Republic’s readiness to follow Allied orders for these purposes had also been indicated. But 262 the spirit and intent behind the reoccupation began to change. As the threat of general fighting throughout Java in creased and the situation in Batavia grew more and more confused, we decided to join our forces directly with the republican government. Thus far I had purposely remained out of the government so that I would be free to lead the popular movement and the direct-action groups. Under the urging of the action committees to take part in the govern ment, it was necessary to enunciate a definite program in order to make our position clear. I issued a pamphlet * set ting forth our position in regard to past history and the present struggle, and explaining what we regarded as the stakes and the goal of the revolution. Our position against Japanese influences in the government was sharply empha sized, because we wanted our people to play a leading role in the present critical phase of the revolution. In the second half of October 1945 I accepted an invitation to join the national committee. On the same day I was chosen to be chairman of that body, which temporarily represented the people. At the first meeting of the committee a smaller “working” committee was chosen to frame regulations and to work with the administration in governmental affairs. During these turbulent and difficult days this working com mittee functioned more and more as the real government, especially when Abdul Rachman had to leave for the moun tains because of the dangers threatening him in Batavia. When the English landed their troops in Soerabaja, where we had complete control, they were unable to come to an agreement with our people concerning their positions and especially concerning the landing of Dutch troops. As

* The pamphlet was later issued under the title Verdjoangan Kita (Our Struggle). 263 a result, large-scale fighting flared up. The whole country now arose in indignation, and a feeling of enmity toward the British grew. Fighting also spread to where there were no foreign troops. In Bandoeng our people made several vain attempts to wrest the city from the Japanese, but they still remained in charge. At this time the Allied command in Batavia exerted strong pressure on the republican government because of the unexpected turn of events. The inflamed passion of the people provided another source of anxiety for the Repub lic. On the fifteenth of November I was asked to form a new government. Departing from the constitution, which provided that the president would be the chief executive, I was charged with the task of forming a cabinet responsible to the Parliament. For this purpose, the representative as sembly was called in plenary session, and I accepted the first premiership of the Republic of Indonesia. At about this time the Dutch began to realize there was ( no escape from the necessity of negotiating with the Re public. The first contact was made between Mr. van Mook and the Soekarno government; but the points of view ex pressed, were still too far apart to provide a real basis for discussion.

From then until my resignation at the end of June 1947, the Republic experienced two years of progressive stabili zation and consolidation. The discussions with the Dutch led to the well-known Linggadjati Agreement, which rec ognized the Republic as exercising de facto authority over Java, Sumatra, and Madoera. Before the departure of the British, an armistice agreement was also reached, according to which troop strengths were specified and limited. It be gan to appear as though the period of revolution was over 264 and that of co-operation with the rest of the world had arrived. But new difficulties arose, especially concerning’ military strengths and positions. Apparently the Dutch were not prepared to go as far as the discussions that led to the Ling- gadjati Agreement seemed to indicate. By the use of artificial interpretations, after the initialing of the draft agreement, they tried to retract commitments they had made. And the more troops they sent to Indonesia, the more just they found their own interpretation and the more they ac cused the Republic of holding an erroneous interpretation and of ill will and deception. During the last month before my resignation, it had al ready become clear there was a likelihood of war. I did my best to avert this catastrophe, and resigned only when it appeared to be unavoidable. At the outbreak of hostilities I was sent abroad at my suggestion to present our case to the -world. Our struggle has reached a new phase. Our ultimate victory—the establishment of Indonesian freedom—is as sured. '

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