by Multatuli
It is these Residents who represent Dutch power in the eyes of the Javanese. The people don’t know who the Governor-General is, nor the members of the Council of the Indies, nor the directors in Batavia. They only know the Resident and the lower-ranking officials ruling over them.
A typical “residency”—some count up to a million souls—is partitioned into three, four, or five regencies, each headed by its own Assistant Resident, in whose name administration is carried out by controleurs, inspectors, and numerous other officials necessary for tax collection, supervision of agriculture, public works, policing, and justice.
Each regency has its native chief of high rank, titled “regent,” to stand by the Assistant Resident. Despite a regent’s status and function as a salaried official of the government, he invariably belongs to the highest local nobility, and is often related to the princely family that used to rule supreme in that area. Their age-old feudal influence—of great importance in Asia as a whole, and for some peoples an affair of religion—is shrewdly turned to political advantage, for when engaged as officials these chiefs form a hierarchy with at its pinnacle the Governor-General as the personification of Dutch authority.
There is nothing new under the sun. Were not the “land-graves,” “mar-graves,” “gau-graves,” and “burg-graves” of the Holy Roman Empire similarly appointed by the emperor, and customarily chosen from among the barons? Without going into the origins of nobility, which reside entirely in Nature, I would like to point out how, in our part of the world just as in the distant Indies, the same causes had the same effects. In the case of a country that has to be ruled from afar, officials are needed to represent the central authority. Under the system of military autocracy, the Romans chose for this purpose prefects, most of whom would have been in command of the conquering legions. Such conquered territories became provinces, that is, territories to be exploited for gain. But when, later on, the Holy Roman Empire sought to secure the allegiance of distant peoples by other means than military force alone, the need arose—as soon as a far-flung region was considered an integral part of the empire through similarity in origin, language, and customs—for administrators who were not only native to the region but also of a higher rank than their fellows, so that obedience to the emperor would be eased by the people’s natural inclination to defer to the individuals charged with enforcing the emperor’s orders. Besides, the cost of a standing army could thus be partially or wholly avoided, and with it a burden on the central treasury, or, as was usually the case, on the regions requiring such an army to guard them. The early graves, or counts, were therefore chosen from among the local barons, and the term “grave” was not, strictly speaking, a title of nobility, but merely a designation of the holder of a particular office. Indeed I believe that while it was customary in the Middle Ages for the Holy Roman Emperor to appoint counts, i.e., provincial governors, and dukes, i.e., army leaders, the barons for their part claimed to be equal to the emperor by birth, and to serve God alone as their master, with the exception of their duty to the emperor, provided he was chosen with their approval and from their midst. A count filled an office to which he was called by the emperor. A baron considered himself a baron “by the grace of God.” The counts were the emperor’s representatives, and as such bore the imperial banner. A baron rallied men under his own banner, as a knight-banneret.
Since the counts and dukes were mainly chosen from among the ranks of barons, the importance of their function was enhanced by their high birth, and it seems that this was what led to these other titles eventually gaining precedence—especially when the functions became hereditary. Even today there are baronial families without an imperial or royal patent—in other words, families whose noble lineage goes back to the birth of the country, families who have always been noble by definition, i.e., autochthonous—who would decline elevation to the rank of count as demeaning. Such cases are known to exist.
Of course, the men charged with ruling counties were eager for the emperor’s support in getting their sons—or, failing that, other blood relations—to succeed them in office. This duly became normal practice, although I do not believe the right of succession was ever legally acknowledged, at least not with respect to these officials in the Netherlands, such as the counts of Holland, Zeeland, Henegouwen, or Flanders, the dukes of Brabant, Gelderland, and so forth. First a favor, then a custom, and finally a necessity, this hereditary concession never became law.
The same applies—regarding the choice of individuals, that is, not their duties, although those are somewhat similar—in a Javanese regency headed by a native official who combines his autochthonous influence with the rank accorded to him by the government, thereby smoothing the path of the European functionary representing Dutch authority. Hereditary succession has likewise become the norm, without being established by law. The matter is usually settled in the Regent’s lifetime, the assurance that he will be succeeded by his son being regarded as a reward for diligence and loyalty. Only the gravest of circumstances result in deviation from this rule, and even in that case the successor is likely to be chosen from the same family.
The relation between European officials and ranking Javanese grandees is of a highly delicate nature. The Assistant Resident is the person in charge. He receives instructions, and is taken to be the head of the regency. This, however, does not detract from a regent’s far superior status, which derives from his familiarity with local affairs, his high birth, his sway over the people, his financial resources, and the attendant lifestyle. Moreover, a regent, as the representative of the Javanese element of a region and the presumed mouthpiece of the hundred thousand or more souls in his domain, is far more important in the eyes of the government than the common European civil servant, whose displeasure need not be feared, as plenty of other men can be found to take his place, whereas the annoyance of a regent might breed unrest or rebellion.
All this gives rise to the curious situation where, in effect, the inferior commands the superior. An Assistant Resident charges the Regent with reporting on developments. He charges him with providing men to work on bridges and roads. He charges him with levying taxes. He summons him to take a seat in the council over which he, as Assistant Resident, presides. He reprimands him if he neglects his duty. This highly unusual relationship can be maintained only through a great formality of etiquette, which, however, excludes neither cordiality nor, on occasion, severity, and I believe that the tone that should prevail in these dealings is quite properly indicated in the Assistant Resident’s official brief: the European civil servant shall treat the native officer assisting him as his younger brother.
But he should not forget that this younger brother is much loved—or feared—by his parents, and that, in the event of disagreement, his own seniority would be held against him for not treating his younger brother with more leniency or tact.
However, the innate courtesy of the Javanese grandee—even the Javanese peasant is far more polite than his European counterpart—does much to smooth this ostensibly troublesome relationship.
If the European official is well bred and discreet, if he behaves in a dignified, friendly manner, he can be sure the Regent will facilitate his administration. Directives phrased as requests rather than offensive commands will be strictly complied with. The difference in rank, birth, and wealth is effaced by the Regent in person, who raises the European representing the King of the Netherlands to his own level. In due course, then, a relationship that is, on the face of it, contentious can often become a source of agreeable association.
I have said that such regents also had precedence over the European civil servant by virtue of their greater wealth, which is only natural. The European called upon to govern an area many times larger than the average dukedom in Germany is generally middle-aged, married, and a father. He holds an office for his living. His income is barely sufficient to provide for his family, and often not even that. For the Regent, who may be a tumenggung, an adipati, or even a pan
géran, i.e., a Javanese prince, it is not merely a question of living well but of living in such a way as the people have come to expect of their aristocracy. Whereas the European official lives in a house, the Regent’s residence is often a kraton, with many houses and villages contained within it. Whereas the European has one wife and three or four children, the native chief has several wives, with all that entails. Whereas the European rides out with a handful of officials, no more than necessary for providing information during his tour of inspection, the Regent goes forth with a retinue of several hundred, and the people regard this as inseparable from his high rank. The European official leads a bourgeois existence; the native chief lives—or is assumed to live—like royalty.
But all this has to be paid for, as the Dutch government, having founded itself on the power of the regents, is well aware. Consequently, nothing could be more evident than that it should raise the regents’ incomes to a level which might appear exaggerated in the eyes of the non–East Indian, but which nonetheless frequently proves insufficient to cover the expenses attendant on the native chief’s lifestyle. It is not unusual for regents enjoying an annual income of two or even three hundred thousand guilders to be manifestly short of funds. This is to a large extent due to their regal indifference to squandering money, to their failure to keep their underlings under control, to their mania for worldly possessions, and above all to the exploitation of these tendencies by Europeans.
The Javanese chief’s income may be seen as deriving from four sources. Firstly, there is his fixed monthly salary; secondly, a fixed indemnity for certain rights that have passed to the Dutch administration; thirdly, a reward in proportion to his regency’s yield of goods such as coffee, sugar, indigo, cinnamon, and so forth. And lastly, there is the native chief’s arbitrary disposal of the labor and property of his subjects.
The latter two sources of income require some explanation. The Javanese is by nature a farmer, as the land of his birth promises much for little labor. He is dedicated heart and soul to the cultivation of his rice fields, at which he is most adept. He grows up among his sawahs, gogos, and tipars,15 and accompanies his father from a very early age to help with the plow and the spade, and to work on the dams and ditches for irrigation. He counts his years by harvests, reckons time by the color of his standing rice-crop, feels at home among his fellow paddy-cutters,16 looks for a wife among the désa girls singing cheerful songs in the evening as they pound the rice to remove the husk,17 aims to own a couple of buffalo to plow his field—in short, the paddy-field is to the Javanese what the vineyard is to the wine growers in the Rhineland and southern France.
But then strangers came from the West, taking possession of the land. Seeking to benefit from the fertile soil, they ordered the inhabitants to devote a portion of their time and effort to growing other crops, which would yield more profit on the European market. It took no more than a very simple policy to implement this order. The common man obeys his chief, so once the chiefs were won over with promises of a share in the profits . . . the rest took care of itself.
The massive quantities of Javanese goods being sold in Dutch auctions provide ample proof that this policy is effective, though hardly noble. Should anyone ask whether the farmer’s recompense is commensurate with these figures, the answer must be a definite no. The government obliges the farmer to grow particular crops on his own land on pain of punishment if he sells the yield to anyone other than the government, while it is up to the government to decide how much he will be paid. The cost of transport to Europe, carried out by privileged trading companies, is high. The money given to the chiefs as encouragement further inflates the purchasing price, and . . . since the business as a whole must necessarily make a profit, the only solution is to pay the Javanese farmer just enough to keep him from starving and thereby reducing the nation’s potential yield.
Even the European officials receive a reward in proportion to the yields.18
The fact is that the poor Javanese farmer must serve two masters; the fact is that he is frequently forced to abandon his rice fields, a measure which often results in famine. And yet . . . the Dutch flag is happily flown in Batavia, Semarang, Surabaya, Pasuruan, Besuki, Probolinggo, Pacita, Cilacap, and aboard all those ships laden with the harvests that make the Netherlands rich.
Famine? In the rich, fertile, blessed land of Java—famine? Indeed, reader. Only a few years ago entire districts died of starvation.19 Mothers offered their children for sale to obtain food. Mothers even ate their own children . . .
But then the Motherland stepped in. Objections were raised in Parliament, whereupon the Governor-General was instructed to ensure that the expansion of so-called European market production was not pursued to the point of famine . . .
I grew bitter in the Indies. Can you imagine anyone capable of making the foregoing statements doing so without bitterness?
All that remains for me to discuss is the last and primary source of the native chiefs’ revenue: their arbitrary disposal of their subjects and their subjects’ properties.
Throughout most of Asia, the common man, with everything he owns, is regarded as belonging to the ruling prince. The same goes for Java, and the descendants or relatives of the former princes make ready use of the ignorance of the population, who fail to realize that their tumenggung or adipati or pangéran has now become a salaried official, having sold his own rights and theirs in exchange for a fixed income. Poorly paid labor on a coffee or sugar plantation has therefore come to replace the taxes formerly levied by the lords of the land. So there is nothing unusual about hundreds of families being summoned from afar to work, without payment, in fields belonging to a regent. Supplying food to a regent’s court, without pay, has become the norm. And if the horse, the buffalo, the daughter, or the wife of the common man happens to catch a regent’s fancy, refusal to give up the prize promptly is unheard-of.
There are regents who make only moderate use of such arbitrary powers, and don’t exact more from the lowly than the minimum required for maintaining their rank. Others go a step further, but nowhere are these unlawful dealings completely absent. It is very difficult, impossible even, to eradicate such abuse entirely, as it is so deeply rooted in the nature of the people, despite their suffering. The Javanese are generous, especially when proving allegiance to their chief, the descendant of the family obeyed by their ancestors. Entering a kraton without gifts would make a Javanese visitor feel deficient in the respect he owes to his hereditary lord. These gifts tend to be so trifling in value that their refusal would humiliate the giver, so that the custom resembles that of the child giving its father a small gift as a token of affection, rather than a compulsory tribute to a tyrannical despot.
But still . . . in this way a charming custom becomes an obstacle to putting a stop to abuse.
If the alun-alun in front of a regent’s home is in a state of neglect,20 it brings shame on the locals, and it would take considerable authority to actually stop them from clearing the space of weeds and bringing it up to a standard worthy of the Regent’s rank. Any payment for this labor would be considered an insult. But adjoining that large open square, or further off, are the rice fields waiting for the plow, or for a channel to bring water, often from miles away . . . and these sawahs belong to the Regent. In order to till and irrigate his fields he conscripts the population of entire villages, whose own sawahs are no less in need of work . . . and therein lies the abuse.
The government is aware of this, and anyone taking the trouble to read the official gazette containing the laws, instructions, and recommendations for civil servants will rejoice at the ostensibly humanitarian spirit underlying them. The European with authority in the interior is reminded throughout of his duty to protect the population against its own servility and the greed of the chiefs—indeed, that is one of his prime responsibilities. And, as if it weren’t enough to prescribe this duty as a general principle, the Assistant Resident, upon assuming office, is required to take a special oath r
egarding this obligation to take paternal care of the population.
Truly, it is a noble calling. To stand for justice, to protect the lowly against the highly placed and the weak against the strong, to demand the return of the poor man’s lamb from the princely robber’s stables . . . is not the mere thought of being called to such a glorious task enough to swell the heart with pride? Any Assistant Resident disgruntled with his pay or with his posting to the interior of Java should consider the loftiness of the duty assigned to him and the profound satisfaction that fulfilling this particular duty can bring, and he will desire no other reward.
But . . . this duty is not easy. First of all it is necessary to establish at which point use ceases and abuse begins. And . . . where abuse is found to exist, or where misappropriation or unfair treatment has occurred, the victim is often accomplice to this out of excessive obsequiousness or fear, or because he lacks confidence in the will or power of the person supposed to protect him. Everyone knows that a European official may be called away at any moment to fill another post, and that the mighty regent stays put. And there are so many ways of appropriating the possessions of a poor, ignorant man! If an overseer tells him a regent wants his horse, the animal soon finds its way into the royal stables, but this doesn’t mean to say that the Regent concerned has no intention of paying a good price for it . . . someday! If a chief has hundreds of people working his fields without payment, it doesn’t automatically follow that it is for his own benefit. Surely it could be his intention to grant the harvest to them, for the charitable reason of his land being better situated, more fertile than theirs, and therefore more rewarding for their toil?
Moreover, where would the European official find witnesses brave enough to testify against their lord, a much-feared regent? And if he dared to make an accusation without the means to prove it, how would that reflect on his role as the elder brother, who would thus have needlessly offended his younger brother? Where does that leave him in the eyes of the government, which provides him with bread for his service but can withhold that bread and dismiss him as incompetent should he cast aspersions too lightly against a high-ranking chief such as a tumenggung, an adipati, or a pangéran?