Black Sun, Red Moon

by Rory Marron

  Whenever the Javanese crew and passengers gathered, she heard the word ‘Merdeka’. It was used as a greeting, as a farewell and even punctuated conversations. It didn’t take her long to ask what it meant. As someone from a country that had itself been a colony, Meg felt herself sympathising with the Indonesian cause almost instinctively. Yet she knew the young Javanese with their bright, determined faces were caught in a downward spiral of danger. She had seen the same look in young Spanish faces. But their dream had died, and with it tens of thousands of young men just like these. Meg had written bitterly that they had died because democracies had convinced themselves to look the other way. It occurred to her that now those same countries, exhausted by war, might prefer to look away once more.

  As she was about to sleep, she noticed a small gathering at the ship’s stern. Several passengers and some of the crew were kneeling. A single candle flickered, protected from the breeze by the gunwale. Curious, she moved closer and saw a broken comb, a small mirror and a white flower laid out on the deck. Prayers were said before the items and the candle were placed in an old pail and then lowered gently over the side. For a few seconds she could make out a faint glow bobbing in the ship’s wake.

  At breakfast she mentioned it to Jarisha. ‘Ah,’ he replied knowingly, ‘it was a ritual offering to the Goddess of the Southern Seas to ensure a safe voyage.’

  ‘But I thought the Javanese are Muslims?’

  ‘Hmm!’ He laughed. ‘Our religious convictions are sincere, but can be a little confusing. Let me try to explain. Over the millennia, our islands have been home to many faiths. Originally our people were animists who worshipped the spirits of the natural world—mountains, rivers, animals—and so on. Both Hinduism and Buddhism came to Java in the fifth century, and the existing folk beliefs merged easily with the new faiths.’

  Jarisha paused to check that he still had Meg’s attention. ‘Islam—actually Sufist Islam—arrived only in the 1400s. Sufi teaching also contains mystical elements, and these also fused with established beliefs.’ He shrugged. ‘It may seem strange, but in many inland villages people will pray at a mosque one day and leave offerings for village gods or perform a fertility rite the next. They see nothing odd in this. I suppose we are a strange people! I consider myself a good Muslim, Miss Graham, but I adore the puppets and music of the wayang, which are Hindu in origin.’

  ‘So there are still Buddhists and Hindus?’ Meg asked, smiling, encouraging him.

  ‘Most definitely! The island of Bali, for example, is entirely Hindu, and the millions of Chinese are Buddhists. Inland, the old beliefs, called Kejawan, still have a powerful hold. Before the war, anthropologists from universities all over the world came to study it. Islam has become the dominant religion in the cities and along the northern coast. Still, we are tolerant of others’ beliefs. If you get the chance, you should try to see some festivals.’ Jarisha stopped, and then chuckled. ‘I apologise. I sound like a guidebook!’

  Meg laughed with him. ‘You’re much better than a guidebook. But you haven’t mentioned Christianity? Surely the Dutch sent missionaries?’

  ‘Oh, there are some Christians but they are a minority, mainly on the island of Ambon. The Ambonese were loyal to the Dutch during the invasion…’ He frowned. ‘It will be difficult for them now.’

  ‘And the Goddess, what’s her story?’ Meg asked lightly, trying to recapture the mood.

  It worked; Jarisha’s good humour returned. ‘Well, there are several versions. My favourite is that she was an unrivalled beauty named Dewi Kadita, a favourite daughter of King Siliwangi and one of his consorts. But the King’s wives and other consorts became jealous of her and they cast a spell to make her ugly and repulsive to men. Only her maid remained faithful. Eventually the king banished her from the palace and she wandered, dressed in rags, along the southern coast. She sheltered in a cave, hoping her father would forgive her. But one day, in despair, she threw herself into the ocean, intending to kill herself. Her tearful maid saw her disappear under the waves but then rise up in the surf, safe inside a huge, open clam shell. The Golden Mirror of the Moon and the kteis, a sacred comb made of mother of pearl, had restored her beauty. That day she became Nyai Loro Kidul, the Goddess of the Southern Seas. She wears the finest green silks, emeralds and pearls. No other woman can match the splendour of her konde—her hair coil.’

  Meg sighed, ‘How sad! Did she get her revenge?’

  ‘Most certainly!’ Jarisha declared emphatically. ‘She sided with a rival kingdom to cause eternal trouble for her father’s descendants. Today, her cave is a shrine and girls make pilgrimages to seek her blessings for beauty and guidance in affairs of the heart. But she preys on young men; especially those who dare to wear green, her sacred colour. She appears naked, entices them into the ocean, and then causes them to drown. If a man escapes her, she flies into a rage and creates storms. To placate her, fishermen and sailors make offerings like those you saw last night.’

  ‘Oh dear! Nothing like a woman scorned!’

  ‘Indeed not,’ he laughed.

  There was a shout from the wheelhouse. She listened as the Captain chatted with Jarisha, pointing to his watch and then at the sun. Jarisha explained. ‘He thought you’d like to know that shortly we will be crossing the Equator. Let me be the first to welcome you to the Southern hemisphere!’

  The morning of the third day was cloudless and fresh. Passengers and crew were delighted to be nearly home. Meg saw Jarisha growing more relieved by the hour. During the voyage he had given her a detailed summary of the events in Java since the Japanese surrender and the declaration of independence. They were sitting together near the prow. Sensing it might be her last opportunity, Meg touched on politics again.

  ‘Why the guns, Doctor? Surely the Dutch will follow Britain’s example in leaving India?’

  Jarisha looked pensive. ‘I think most people would agree that the concept of empire has had its day. Alas, colonies can be highly profitable. To put things simply, the British were stretched. They needed Indian troops in Europe to fight the Nazis. Independence was Mr Nehru’s price. The Dutch have ruled my country far longer than the British have ruled India. Their East India Company seized Batavia in 1619… These islands are beautiful and bountiful. I can understand the Dutch being reluctant to give them up.’

  Meg was surprised. ‘You don’t hate them?’

  ‘Hate them?’ His eyes widened. ‘Good Heavens, no! I have many Dutch friends. Our oil, rubber and coffee industries are all Dutch creations. Without their irrigation techniques we could not grow sufficient wheat and rice to feed ourselves. And they have built hospitals, railroads, roads and schools. Overall, they have been benevolent conquerors—but conquerors nonetheless.’

  Meg nodded in understanding. ‘The Japanese conquered the Dutch. Is that why the Javanese didn’t resist?’

  Jarisha stared at the ocean. She heard the controlled anger.

  ‘At first we welcomed the Japanese. Their propaganda was very good. They promised to help us, even give us independence. But it was a sham. I saw them strip my country bare. Machinery, locomotives and rolling stock went to Malaya or Japan. They only took—oil, rubber and rice—they cared nothing for us. Coffee and tea plantations were left to go wild, and our rice went to their armies in Asia. But we could only just feed ourselves before the Japanese came. There was no foreign trade, so people lost their livelihoods. Tens of thousands were sent overseas as slaves for “Dai Nippon”—the Great Japan. Speak to those who boarded with you at Singapore. Each saw fifty or more die of starvation, injury or disease!’

  Meg caught a glimpse of the passion that drove the man. His voice was becoming softer, almost mournful. ‘The Japs demanded a huge rice levy but they couldn’t maintain the irrigation systems. Much sawah—what we call paddy—was lost. Then last year the rice harvest failed.’

  He turned to face her. ‘And do you know what was so utterly ridiculous? Even though the Japs had no freighters to ship the rice, they increased
the levy! Now it lies in warehouses while people are starving.’

  He looked away in frustration and, Meg realised, despair.

  Jarisha had not finished. ‘Last year, one of our militia units rebelled at a place called Kediri. It was a protest by a hundred boys with a few old rifles. But the Japs sent in tanks and elite troops. It was a slaughter! Later they beheaded fifteen of them in public. They were just boys!’

  ‘Now the food shortage has turned people against each other. Smuggling is rampant. Village suspects village of stealing livestock or rice. There is violence and robbery on the streets. People show no respect for the law, village headmen, teachers or even priests. Civic officials are intimidated—’

  ‘Can’t the Allies give you food and medicines?’

  ‘Who outside Java knows or cares?’

  ‘What about the Dutch?’

  Jarisha sounded weary. ‘Every day Holland Calling broadcasts about a “new Commonwealth” but in the next breath they promise to hang our leaders! “Holland Warning” it’s called now!’

  He sighed. ‘They think they can put the clock back and carry on as before. I have been fortunate to study at universities in Holland and Great Britain. In contrast, most Javanese have never been more than a few miles from their village. They are not sophisticated but they understand betrayal. The Dutch promised to defend us. Instead, they deserted us, leaving us defenceless against the Japs and their brutal secret police. We’ve had enough of foreign masters. For better or worse, Indonesia must now stand on its own feet. We must make our own decisions and face the consequences. If we act quickly, with the authority of a government recognised by the United Nations, we have a chance of success.’

  ‘And if the Dutch won’t accept that and try to force their way back?’

  ‘The Japanese did us two great favours. First they showed us the Dutch could be beaten. Second they gave our young men some military training. If we are forced to fight, then we will do so.’

  Suddenly Meg felt very afraid for Jarisha. ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

  ‘So do I,’ he replied quickly. ‘Alas a lot depends on the British. They have authority over the Indies. If it had been the Americans, the first Indonesian embassy would be opening now in Washington! But the British and Dutch are close allies. Unfortunately, there is a strong rumour in Singapore that they have agreed to reinstate the Dutch. We shall see.’

  Jarisha gestured to a bank of clouds ahead. Beneath it, barely visible in the haze, was a dark mass. He relaxed and pointed. ‘Over there is Java. You can start work soon…if we don’t hit something on the way in!’

  He stood up, his expression serious. ‘I ask no favours for Indonesia in your despatches, Miss Graham, only the truth.’

  Meg met his gaze. ‘I write what I see, Doctor.’

  ‘That might make you unpopular in certain quarters.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m used to that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you are,’ he said quietly. ‘But take care, please. Today life is cheap in Java.’ Jarisha excused himself and left her.

  Meg spent the best part of an hour engrossed in jotting down notes of their conversation. When she next looked up, the haze had lifted and the island of Java stood before her. She let out a gasp of surprise. The coastline forest shimmered in rich blues and greens. The Goddess’s colour, she thought to herself. Inland she could just make out the towers and spires of Djakarta’s cathedral and churches. Far beyond the city, the dark angular slopes of Mount Salak rose steeply until they were lost in voluminous white clouds that rolled in off the ocean.

  Tandjong Priok harbour, Djakarta (Batavia)

  Gently the Melchior Treub swung to port to avoid a chain of small islands that appeared to stretch to the looming coastline. Around them the water was startlingly clear. Meg glimpsed shoals of thousands of brightly coloured fish feeding off long expanses of luxuriant coral reef.

  She was in awe of the natural beauty before her. The islands ranged in size from just a few yards across to large enough for a group of fishermen’s huts. Others boasted more substantial structures set back in shaded clearings with views to secluded, golden beaches. Meg assumed these were the weekend retreats of the wealthy. She did a quick calculation of the real estate value of this mini-Keys that lay virtually within the city limits and was impressed.

  Jarisha reappeared and came to stand beside her. Much of his unease had gone. Meg gazed at the islands. ‘They’re idyllic,’ she said softly, lulled by the scenery.

  Jarisha, too, was lost to the view. ‘So beautiful!’

  ‘What are they called?’

  ‘To the Dutch they are the Agenietens. We call them the Palau Seribu…the Thousand Islands.’ He laughed. ‘Actually, there are only about a hundred and twenty!’

  After a few minutes the ship entered a large bay and Meg caught her first real glimpse of the city’s larger buildings. They stood white and angular, topped with red, brown and blue roof tiles. Above them she could make out the twin, openwork-metal spires of the cathedral. Jarisha’s comment about names had started her thinking. ‘Doctor, tell me, what about the other places. Where am I reporting from? Is this Djakarta or Batavia?’

  Jarisha paused. ‘Ah, in fact both are foreign names: “Djakarta” is a Japanese contraction of the old “Djayakarta”. When the British arrive I am sure they will call it Batavia. After all, it’s what will be on their maps… I’m sure most people will understand both! It’s just a name.’

  Meg’s tone was cautious. ‘Sometimes words can take on a power out of all recognition to their size. People can die for them. We Americans have a few. “All men are created equal…certain unalienable rights…life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. I know one of yours already, “Merdeka”. “Djakarta” could become another. You just have to be sure it’s worth the effort.’

  Jarisha pursed his lips. ‘You are right of course. I speak four languages. My first is Dutch. I think in it, write speeches in it, even love letters!’ Yet to many it is now the language of the oppressor. The other day I realised that I could not translate some western concepts such as universal suffrage or even democracy in a way that would make sense to many Javanese. Most of the new government are men like me, privileged Javanese or Sumatrans nurtured in a colonial system. Not long ago you could have called us Uncle Toms and been right. In truth, our claim to represent the people of Java is no more valid than anyone else’s. That is what the Dutch will say.’

  Meg looked at him reprovingly. ‘Don’t get cold feet, Doctor. It’s a big job but someone has to do it. At some point the Indonesians will have to negotiate in Dutch and, perhaps, English. Your country is lucky to have you. If it makes any difference, you’ve already got my vote.’

  Jarisha seemed a little taken aback. He bowed. ‘It does. Thank you, Miss Graham.’

  She took his hand gently. ‘Please call me Meg.’

  Jarisha held her gaze as he kissed the back of her hand. ‘Thank you, Meg.’

  A sudden booming, piercing blast from a Klaxon brought Meg’s hands to her ears. Instinctively she ducked. Two more blasts followed the first. When she looked for Jarisha he was leaning over the side, staring astern.

  Directly in their wake was a warship. It was bearing down on them fast but, as she could see, not quite fast enough. As if to confirm her guess, the Captain leant out of the wheelhouse and signalled to Jarisha not to worry. The ship would not catch them.

  Jarisha glanced at Meg, widened his eyes and then let out a large breath in exaggerated but genuine relief. ‘The water is too shallow for it here. At least I hope it is,’ he said, still unsettled.

  Even as he spoke the warship turned sharply and then steamed parallel to the coast. The captain shouted to Jarisha, who interpreted.

  ‘He says it’s a British destroyer.’

  The Melchior Treub’s engines suddenly slowed and Meg thought they had cut out. In fact, they were only slowing to steer through the narrow entrance of the concrete breakwater. The graceful U-shape barrier ext
ended about a mile and a quarter from the shore. Masts and funnels of another ship were visible behind it. As they drew closer, Meg saw the structure had seen better days. Cracks and splits ran along it and in several places large clumps of concrete had fallen away.

  Nervous shouts from the crew distracted her. A pipe draped with seaweed was sticking up out of the water. Her stomach tightened as she thought it was a periscope but it was only the mast top of a sunken ship. Forty yards from it she saw another. She understood why the captain was manoeuvring so carefully.

  They slid through the narrow gap at a snail’s pace. The large steamer she had seen from outside the breakwater sat low in the water with its deck awash. Above the water-line its superstructure was peppered with rust. Meg saw it was called Montoro. It was another name from her guidebook. She felt a little uneasy.

  She looked at Jarisha. ‘Was it bombed?’

  ‘No, scuttled… It came to evacuate women and children. Unfortunately, by the time passengers were assigned to ships the Japanese had invaded. Captains were ordered to block Java’s harbours with their ships. It didn’t make any difference.’

  Ahead of them were the entrances to three long quays. The ship slowed yet again as it nosed carefully into the middle one. Directly in front, beyond the harbour and half-hidden by the dockyard warehouses, stood an imposing building topped with a radio mast. ‘Radio Holland’ was set out in contrasting brickwork just below the eaves. Some of the letters in the second word had been defaced.