either in my speeches or my writings, would not it have sufficed to take normal measures: to accuse me, to try the case in open court, and impose the sentence prescribed in the regulation? Such an approach would not only have raised the prestige of the Dutch East Indies government in the eyes of the world, it would also have given a feeling of satisfaction, however limited, to the Indonesian people. In particular, it would have given rise to a feeling of certainty among the leaders of the people; however many traps lay in their path, the location of those traps would be known, as would the consequences of falling into them—the laws of the Dutch East Indies government.
But the exorbitante rechten of the governor general were like a machete held in the dark to be used to strike anyone considered an enemy. From the legal point of view, these special powers were arbitrary and despotic, while from the point of view of morality they were un-ksatria-like and even cowardly. Philosophically, they can perhaps be understood, but they cannot be regarded as noble or even fair.
Such exorbitante rechten cannot be viewed solely as an outgrowth of legal relations between people, and between the Netherlands and Indonesia in particular. The governor general’s exorbitante rechten were intricately tied to the economic, social, and political relationships between the Dutch imperialist-capitalists and the colonized workers of Indonesia.
A small gang of Dutch people, with their capital, police, army, and prosecutors, cannot establish laws in a democratic way in cooperation with seventy million oppressed Indonesian workers. This small gang must wield special powers that can be based neither on complete agreement of all interested parties nor on agreement from genuine representatives of the people. These special powers arise from the desire of this small group to defend its own interests, and they therefore rest on arbitrariness rather than justice.
The few living off the sweat of the many cannot listen to the representatives of the seventy million workers in an open manner, engaging in discussion to obtain the truth. They are forced onto the path of the back-stabber, arresting, jailing, and exiling without regard to the niceties of trial, justice, and truth. This is the way of cowardice.
[85] As an afterthought, let me relate some facts pertaining to my exile. I was in Semarang for only six months.25 Ninety-nine percent of that time was devoted to work related to teaching. At the most I spoke in public for six hours: three hours at the PKI congress, one hour to the members of the VSTP, one hour before the oil workers in Cepu, and the remaining hour split up among various places.26 And this six hours is the highest possible estimate. Clearly, restrictions on press and speech would not have ensnared me; if they could have, Dutch imperialism obviously would have reveled in proving the existence of the rule of law. The police would have been thrown into action with all available witnesses and evidence, and I, the accused, would have been convicted on charges made by the Dutch East Indies lawyers and sentenced according to clear, written laws. But because the Dutch East Indies government did not have sufficient legal cause to bring me before a legally constituted court, it resorted to foul play. Statements of the intelligence agents who had tailed me everywhere were used as evidence to justify exiling me from Indonesian society. Like a player who, unable to win by playing the game, kicks and elbows the opponent, they threw the law aside and resorted to force.
Now for a brief description of my departure. We Indonesians recall and long for our country and its climate only when we are in a place where we shake from the cold and face freezing winds whipping up the snow from the bare ground, rocky hills, and leafless trees. Only then do we realize the meaning of the sun that is always with us and of the green vegetation that refreshes our gaze. We recall and long for Indonesian society only when we are in the midst of another people whose language, joys, and sorrows are foreign to us; only then can we compare it with our situation when we were still surrounded by our family and our comrades in the struggle.
We appreciate a vocation that has a clear direction and motivation only when we are in a foreign land, in a society with a different language and desires, when we feel like a grain of sand tossed about by the waves, wrenched from the ties of the society we know and from our life’s desires and our daily work.
[86] It takes a long time to adjust ourselves to the climate of a new country and, at the present level of international development, to a new society and new vocation: all the more so if we are living in poverty in the midst of this strange climate and society. Under such conditions many a faith is broken; exiles return in secrecy and silence, kill themselves, or live demoralized as animals. Seldom are we able to hold firm to our original beliefs, desires, and faith.
This was not the first time that I had parted from Indonesia’s climate and society, and from my family. But it was the first time that I was to be separated from my comrades in struggle and my life’s work. My farewell to my comrades took place hurriedly in Semarang, two or three days before my departure at the end of March 1922. I was permitted to leave the jail for one day to wrap up my affairs.27 Although I had not been in Semarang long, the spiritual bonds between us in the struggle were strong indeed.
In the early hours of the morning, about 4:00, before I was to leave, supposedly forever, I was awakened by the late Partondo, former editor of Soeara Ra’jat. (I was in jail, where I had been returned prior to my departure.) I had heard beforehand that he had been fasting for two or three days. His face was calm, but more serious than usual, and his voice was sterner. He said to me: “Tomorrow after you have left, Marco and I and another comrade are going to visit Mt. Lawu. We have made a pact together.”
I was surprised and was about to ask their aim, but apparently he understood and gave me no time to ask. “Of course,” he said, “this is not something we would always suggest, and it is only we ourselves who have thought of it. It’s Kejawen.28 We feel we need to cleanse ourselves and seek inner strength. It was Marco’s idea! Farewell!” I never saw his face again. When I was in China I heard that Partondo had died in Semarang. Marco, known as a taciturn man with an honest heart and strong as steel, died in Digul.
[87] I could cite many other events to show the strength of the bonds between us. But suffice it to say here that I have longed to meet again these comrades in struggle wherever they are. That this desire has not been fulfilled is a tragedy of my life in this transitory world.
I was taken from Semarang jail to the ship in a car that took a circuitous route to evade the crowds wishing to bid me farewell. I did not get to meet even one of the people who had come to see me.29 It was only when I was in jail in Jakarta that I was able to hear a little of what had happened when I left Semarang.30
The reports about those who came to see me off were distorted by the Dutch press in Jakarta. While I was playing checkers with my jailer in one of the cells, he showed me one of the Dutch papers. It said something like: “Tan Malaka was accompanied by cooks and servants (koki-babu) and pupils of the Sekolah Rakyat, who fought with the police because of their disappointment at not being able to see him.”
We have heard enough of the calumny that Indonesians consist only of cooks and servants. This is what stimulated us to educate and change these people from being servants of foreigners to being servants of the Republic of Indonesia.
As to the report on the attitude of my pupils, I began to be concerned that the Sekolah Rakyat might not be able to resist provocation. I was afraid that the basis of their education might be shifted to propaganda and political agitation alone. According to my plan, instruction in skills that are useful for earning a living, such as technical, agricultural, and administrative skills, was not just an incidental objective. I hoped to awaken Indonesian youths of a new type, with a pure ideology and faith of steel, and to give them what they needed for their own and their families’ livelihood. The question of diplomas was not regarded as important, and later experience strengthened this belief of mine. Not a few times have I found that an official diploma is no guarantee of efficiency, but only an indication of potential.
[88]
