A novelist, in Europe paid a political group in an African country to stage a coup d’état. The novelist carefully noted every aspect of the process of replacing those in power and wrote about it in a famous novel which was marketed and produced more than the cost of the coup. And you, sipping on your coffee in some little food stall after witnessing a fight between pedicab drivers and minivan drivers say bluntly: Ah, why isn’t the novelist interested in countries in Asia! Then you laugh to yourself, and grumble Why have we come to the point where a nightmare about blood has become the only dream that feels beautiful?
On Saturday November 2, 2019, a public seminar will take place in cooperation with the National Archives. During this seminar we will focus on (archival) research: what does research look like in practice? Which sources are used for the research programme and what do they tell us? How do the researchers deal with one-sidedness and inconsistencies in the sources? And how do they ensure multi-perspectivity?
The programme researchers and some external experts share experiences from their research practice in workshops and presentations. In addition, the National Archives gives workshops on archival research, as well as tours through the depot and the exhibition Highlights in perspective.
The seminar comprises of a morning and an afternoon session, with an almost identical program. Conference registration for one of the half-day sessions is possible via Eventbrite. Both parts of the day contain Dutch and English sessions. The main language of the plenary session is Dutch, with English surtitles. The full program is available on our website.
You can register for the morning or afternoon session at Eventbrite. Conference registration is possible until Sunday October 27, 11.30 p.m.
A joint research programme of the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV), the Netherlands Institute of Military History (NIMH) and the NIOD, Netherlands Institute for War, Holocaust and Genocide Studies. Read more here.
We relaxed in the front guestroom. My younger siblings who weren’t grown up yet, who still appeared so wild, now began to draw near and we talked a great deal, about Djakarta, about Semarang, and about cars. The conversation wasn’t boring, it made me happy and it usually carried on for a long time.
And at one point I asked, “How’s father’s health?”
Suddenly everyone went quiet; not one person was looking directly at me. Suddenly the animated joyful conversation was gone, replaced by an air of seriousness.
And I asked again, “How is father’s health?”
Carefully and slowly my sister answered, “We received the pills and the blanket you sent for father. I also received the money order and we used it to buy milk and eggs, just as you instructed.”
My wife and I listened silently. She continued, “I also collected the shirt for father from the post office. And I took the blanket, the shirt, and the pills to the hospital. But father said, ‘Just take them all back to the house.’ So I brought them home again.”
I was surprised and asked, “And the pills?”
“He has finished one container.”
I was pleased a little.
“And the milk and eggs?” I asked again.
“Father didn’t like them. ‘I’m bored with eggs and milk,’ he said.”
I was lost for words. I looked at my wife, but in her face, I did not find an answer. I glanced outside the house. I noticed the orange tree which father had long ago planted. It was dry now and almost dead.
“And father’s health?” I repeated my question.
My younger sister didn’t reply. Her eyes reddened with tears.
“Why don’t you answer me?” I asked fearfully.
“Yesterday and up to yesterday father just smiled, smiled a lot. But then, then…”
She was silent. I did not force her to continue what she was saying. I didn’t say anything either. Both of us sat for a time with our heads bowed. My youngest sister, who had just begun to speak to me, now wouldn’t say a word. The time was only just half-past twelve in the afternoon and the sound of frying could be heard clearly coming from the kitchen.
My younger sister continued, her voice still slow, foreboding and careful. “…and then this morning father wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice was weak and almost inaudible.” Her voice trailed away.
“And what did the doctor say?” I asked.
“The doctor has never said anything to us. There is just one doctor here. And there aren’t enough medicines.”
Then my younger brother, who by chance was home on leave with permission from his commander said, “I’ve discussed father’s illness with the doctor too. He said, ‘I already know about your father’s illness.’”
“Is that all he said?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s all. Then they told me to go home.”
The atmosphere turned serious once more. Everyone sat silently with their own feelings and their own thoughts. Then without realizing it, my younger sister changed the subject of the conversation to a new topic. She mentioned that my third younger sister, the one who was married, was currently in Blora too. Straight away I asked her where she was.
Her hand pointed to the door of one of the bedrooms. All eyes followed the direction she indicated. In my mind, I could see my sister’s face and I imagined she was thin. I knew it; she had to be sick. But I opened my mouth and said, “Tell her to come out.”
My younger sister went over to the door and opened it carefully. Every eye was on her. She disappeared into the room, then she emerged red-eyed and said, half crying, “She’s still asleep.”
We talked about other things. But the image of my sick younger sister filled my mind. It was because of her I wrote the letter to my father, the unpleasant letter, for allowing her to become sick. But at the time I was still in jail. My father had replied:
Yes, my child, throughout my life of fifty-six years I have realized that people’s efforts and means are very limited. For my part, I wouldn’t have allowed your sister to become ill if only I had some power over people’s fates. She became sick when she was detained by the red militia in an area that was swampy, an area rife with malaria. And maybe you can understand yourself the situation with medicines in a war zone, and especially if you yourself are not a soldier.
That reply melted my anger. The question had been clear in my heart, “Did I sin by writing that angry letter?” The answer had come back by itself, “Yes, you have sinned.” And it had been because of that answer I had felt up to this time that I had sinned. Before seeing father again. But that long wandering conversation had removed these terrible memories. I looked at my six younger siblings surrounding me, surrounding my wife and I, starting to be free of the atmosphere of seriousness, while I was still stuck with so many thoughts and memories pressing in.
I noticed my watch. We had been talking for an hour. Then looking at my smallest sister I said slowly, “Please look in on your big sister. Maybe she’s awake.”
She got up, went to the door and called out in her childish voice, “Sister, sister. Big brother’s here.”
She vanished into the bedroom.
No-one was paying much attention to her and the conversation broke out again. But when my smallest sister emerged, the conversation halted. She approached me and whispered, “Sister’s crying.”
I took a deep breath.
Slowly I stood up and went over to the bedroom. And there sprawled on the iron bed devoid of mosquito netting, half blanketed by a light cotton sheet, was my little sister, covering her eyes with her arm. I lifted her arm and I beheld two eyes looking up at me, red and moist. I hugged her. She started to cry and I too wept, and among the sobs, I could hear my own voice ask, “Why are you so thin?”
Her crying subsided and she composed herself, so she was calmer. And I did the same.
“I’ve been sick for a long time, brother,” I listened to her broken voice.
“Have you been to the doctor?” I asked, my voice cracking too.
“I’ve seen the doctor, but my condition just stays like this,” her voice still breaking.
“Maybe it would be better if you went to a large city. There are a lot of specialists there,” my voice still breaking.
There was just sobbing.
“Do you have any children, sister?”
“Where are they?”
Our crying had subsided, but my sister now broke out in tears again. She answered without emotion, “He passed away, brother. He’s not here anymore.”
She snatched back the arm I was holding and covered her eyes again. I took out my handkerchief and wiped the tears running down her face.
“What do you mean not here,” I asked.
“I gave birth at six months. He cried a lot. I could hear him crying. Then God took him back again.”
Once more I started to weep openly and she too sobbed uncontrollably. All I could hear now was the storm heaving in my chest. And all I could see was her thin body, the single cloth sheet, the small mattress covering only half the bed frame, and the iron and the bamboo slats protruding next to the mattress.
“You’re still young, little sister, you still have the chance to have another child,” I said to comfort her.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s doing training in Semarang, brother.”
Our crying, which had filled that room, now subsided and eventually died.
I straightened the blanket, kissed my younger sister on her cheek and I said, “Go to sleep.”
She took her arm away from her eyes. She was calm now. Slowly she closed her eyelids. Once more I kissed her on the cheeks, cheeks that had once been so full and which were now so drawn. Then I left the room.
Suddenly those thoughts died as my eyes fell on one small hamlet in the middle of rice fields surrounded by bamboo thickets and trees. I knew the conditions in this hamlet only too well. At that time, the hamlet had been under the control of a gang of outlaws. Once with my platoon, I was on patrol there and made a detailed report. The report would now be lying buried in some cupboard. I had become acquainted with one particular very attractive woman. As the hamlet was owned by a large landowner, the thought occurred to me that the woman would have to have been mixed race. But that didn’t matter and her father had made me an offer. “If you marry my daughter, I won’t have to work anymore. There’s a sizeable amount of land here and you can take half of my fields.” As I listened, I was completely intoxicated by the offer. At the time, poverty always circled overhead in the sky ready to swoop down on your head. Yes, at the time, the thought of the offer had made me smile. But the patrol was to last no more than a day and a night, and before long our platoon was on its way returning to base.
I did return to the place later though, but the beautiful woman had been kidnapped by the gang of bandits. I would return home again filled with regret, but happy also that I had not sold myself out. Nevertheless, the beauty of the woman and her fate would continue to haunt my thoughts.
Then in my heart, I told myself a story that went like this.
“The woman was now living contentedly with the bandits who had kidnapped her. She would by now have given birth to two young children and her body was adorned with silk and gold and diamond-studded jewelry.”
The train thundered on at high speed. The hamlet too vanished, from my view, and from my memory.
“You are too close to the window,” said my wife.
We changed places. I drew the collar of my coat up tightly around my neck then I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. I dropped off to sleep, but my sleep was not to be secure as the train was beginning to fill with new passengers. Then I drifted back to sleep once more. Arriving in the district that had only recently been cleared of the threat and terror presented by the Darul Islam movement, we could see damaged telegraph wires, tangled and twisted around their poles which were lying bent, strewn on the ground.
“Well, not a chance the telegram has arrived there,” I said.
“No, the telegram couldn’t possibly have arrived,” my wife echoed. The train roared on, and on. And on, all the way to Semarang.
We slept the night at a hotel and although the hotel was grubby, we were nevertheless able to sleep soundly.
I swung my head, and my eyes too, from her stare and gazed out through the train window again.
We were at Lemah Abang now.
All at once an old memory shimmered into my mind. Before, four years ago. Completely out of the blue, the Dutch had rained shells on our defenses from three directions using between eight and ten Howitzers. The number could be worked out by the fighters who had previously been soldiers in the Netherlands East Indies artillery. The people had panicked and run out in the direction of the rice fields. I still remember the time. I cupped my two hands and shouted, “Don’t run! Get on the ground!” But there were too many of them, and they were too confused, too frightened, and they were incapable of hearing my voice. And when I fell to the ground behind a large tree I was able to see one, then two, three, four, five artillery shells explode among the mass of scattering people. Bodies. Corpses. And my mind ran through the blood, injuries, bodies, to the letter, my uncle, and finally, to my father.
I sighed. My heart ached. I was indeed sensitive. And my family was full of sensitive creatures.
I closed my eyes tightly so I couldn’t see the scene around Lemah Abang. But the remnants of those memories would not leave my mind. The extraordinary achievement of the Dutch shooting, four sheep killed in front of their pen. And this is what was so upsetting: one old sheep, pregnant, eyes gazing into the sky, head resting on the rail of a pen post, with its two hind legs kneeling and its forelegs standing up straight. And the sheep was dead. I rocked the body of the sheep slightly and it tottered to the ground. It didn’t move. Really, it was dead. A friend suggested, “Let’s just cut it up.” I stared at its open, pallid eyes. I could feel a shiver run down my spine, and I ran all the way home. It was three days before I could get the vision of the sheep gazing into the sky out of my head. The sheep! My memory circled back again, the sheep transformed into a person, and that person was, my father.