aren’t you, Mr. Minke?” asked van Kollewijn.
“You’re not mistaken, Your Excellency.”
“I’m quite amazed to hear you ask such a question, Meneer Minke. Have you perhaps been in contact with the peasants?”
“No, Your Excellency, but I did by coincidence witness such an incident.”
“Where did it happen, Mr. Minke?” asked van Kollewijn very politely.
“Sidoarjo, Your Excellency.”
“Sidoarjo!” one journalist cried out.
“You mean, Mr. Minke, that you witnessed what happened among the Sidoarjo peasants last year?” van Heutsz suddenly asked with rather excessive respect.
Something had given me the courage to bring forward this otherwise unknown incident. Meanwhile Ter Haar was nudging my foot under the table. He was obviously warning me. But it wasn’t his warnings that were foremost in my mind at that moment, rather it was the fate of those peasants and their families, and their friends. I had made a promise to them. So I told the whole story, from the beginning until the peasants’ uprising and the deaths of all the peasants.
As soon as I had finished Ter Haar hurriedly spoke out: “Excuse me,” he said, “Mr. Minke is a medical student.”
“You mean he hasn’t studied the law?”
“That is right, Your Excellency.”
I remembered all the problems I had experienced with the law in the past. And I became somewhat afraid. No doubt this god before me would seek to entangle me again with the law, and would accuse me of not reporting what I had witnessed.
The atmosphere became tense again. And I too was tense.
“Yes, it does seem that Mr. Minke here does not understand the law. You could be in trouble because of this, Mr. Minke. You should have reported what you knew before the uprising occurred; then the authorities could have acted to prevent it.”
“I am not speaking just about the uprising itself,” I spoke out, overcoming my fear. “The question is, does ‘free labor’ mean the freedom to evict farmers from their own land?”
Among all those present, only Ter Haar and Marie van Zeggelen did not seem to be offended by my question.
“Your question, and indeed your whole story, is not so important,” answered van Kollewijn, “but even so it could bring you into contact with the police. They could charge you with covering up evidence.”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency, but I do not have any business with the police.”
“But Mr. Minke, it’s very difficult for anyone to say they do not have business with the police. The security of the state is protected by the police. Therefore everyone, from the smallest baby to the oldest grandfather, has business with the police. Also, you knew of the situation before the uprising took place. And you didn’t report it.”
“Yes, it’s true, I didn’t report it to the police. But I did write a report for everyone to read, before the uprising,” I answered, and my fear disappeared with my next sentence. “But the newspaper refused to publish it; the editor was even angry with me.”
Van Kollewijn nodded, like some kind of all-knowing god.
“Furthermore,” I went on, “as far as I know—and I hope I’m wrong—the police have never taken action to investigate the eviction of those farmers by the sugar mill.”
“Do you think I could read that article of yours?” van Heutsz asked.
“Because I was so disappointed after it was rejected,” I replied, “I tore it up on the way home from the newspaper office.”
And it couldn’t have been otherwise: All eyes were now focused on the wayward child present, that is to say, me. Van Kollewijn did not answer my question. Neither did van Heutsz. And the, according to himself, all-wise host looked at me with accusing eyes: You, uninvited, a rotten Native, you have ruined this meeting, which should have been a beautiful evening.
He spoke: “The discussion has been very useful tonight. Our thanks to His Excellency the Honorable Engineer van Kollewijn and also to His
“You’re not mistaken, Your Excellency.”
“I’m quite amazed to hear you ask such a question, Meneer Minke. Have you perhaps been in contact with the peasants?”
“No, Your Excellency, but I did by coincidence witness such an incident.”
“Where did it happen, Mr. Minke?” asked van Kollewijn very politely.
“Sidoarjo, Your Excellency.”
“Sidoarjo!” one journalist cried out.
“You mean, Mr. Minke, that you witnessed what happened among the Sidoarjo peasants last year?” van Heutsz suddenly asked with rather excessive respect.
Something had given me the courage to bring forward this otherwise unknown incident. Meanwhile Ter Haar was nudging my foot under the table. He was obviously warning me. But it wasn’t his warnings that were foremost in my mind at that moment, rather it was the fate of those peasants and their families, and their friends. I had made a promise to them. So I told the whole story, from the beginning until the peasants’ uprising and the deaths of all the peasants.
As soon as I had finished Ter Haar hurriedly spoke out: “Excuse me,” he said, “Mr. Minke is a medical student.”
“You mean he hasn’t studied the law?”
“That is right, Your Excellency.”
I remembered all the problems I had experienced with the law in the past. And I became somewhat afraid. No doubt this god before me would seek to entangle me again with the law, and would accuse me of not reporting what I had witnessed.
The atmosphere became tense again. And I too was tense.
“Yes, it does seem that Mr. Minke here does not understand the law. You could be in trouble because of this, Mr. Minke. You should have reported what you knew before the uprising occurred; then the authorities could have acted to prevent it.”
“I am not speaking just about the uprising itself,” I spoke out, overcoming my fear. “The question is, does ‘free labor’ mean the freedom to evict farmers from their own land?”
Among all those present, only Ter Haar and Marie van Zeggelen did not seem to be offended by my question.
“Your question, and indeed your whole story, is not so important,” answered van Kollewijn, “but even so it could bring you into contact with the police. They could charge you with covering up evidence.”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency, but I do not have any business with the police.”
“But Mr. Minke, it’s very difficult for anyone to say they do not have business with the police. The security of the state is protected by the police. Therefore everyone, from the smallest baby to the oldest grandfather, has business with the police. Also, you knew of the situation before the uprising took place. And you didn’t report it.”
“Yes, it’s true, I didn’t report it to the police. But I did write a report for everyone to read, before the uprising,” I answered, and my fear disappeared with my next sentence. “But the newspaper refused to publish it; the editor was even angry with me.”
Van Kollewijn nodded, like some kind of all-knowing god.
“Furthermore,” I went on, “as far as I know—and I hope I’m wrong—the police have never taken action to investigate the eviction of those farmers by the sugar mill.”
“Do you think I could read that article of yours?” van Heutsz asked.
“Because I was so disappointed after it was rejected,” I replied, “I tore it up on the way home from the newspaper office.”
And it couldn’t have been otherwise: All eyes were now focused on the wayward child present, that is to say, me. Van Kollewijn did not answer my question. Neither did van Heutsz. And the, according to himself, all-wise host looked at me with accusing eyes: You, uninvited, a rotten Native, you have ruined this meeting, which should have been a beautiful evening.
He spoke: “The discussion has been very useful tonight. Our thanks to His Excellency the Honorable Engineer van Kollewijn and also to His
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