Soleman

Christian Dicky Senda

Soleman, 81 yeasrs of age, is talking to his three grandsons about the past. From an old radio-tapedeck in the man’s bedroom comes the lilting sound of keroncong music. The three boys, unable to conceal their delight, listen to their grandfather’s monologue with wide-eyed expressions.

“These aren’t bones but iron,” Soleman announces proudly as he rolls up the sleaves of his shirt. “It’s these iron bones of mine that made me strong!”

The old man’s words hold his three grandsons in their embrace. The boys fall under the spell of their elderly grandfather’s heroic tale as he relates it for them.

“It was at that time, when the battle in Semarang took place, that a Japanese bullet went right through my right arm. Could have been cut right off but in the end it was that little bit of metal that refreshed my power and spirit.”

That was lucky! Or maybe it wasn’t just luck. The boys had recently learned that their grandfather got his strength and his ability to survive on the battlefield because of a le’u, a powerful amulet that he wore.

Even though Grandpa and Grandma were well on in years, in the twilight of their lives you might say, they continued to live on their own own, in their own home, professing to be more comfortable there than in the home of their daughter, our mother. For her part, Mother didn’t put pressure on them to move. After all, the distance between their home and ours wasn’t more than kilometer or so. Our mother was their only child. Fortunately, God had been kind and given grandparents a larger number of grandchildren and because our father often had to move locations because of work, we kids were often placed, for extended stretches of time, in our grandparents’ care. Grandpa always argued that it was best that way—so that our schooling wasn’t interrupted, he said. But even when Father was home, and we returned to our parent’s home to live, we happily spent almost every evening at Grandpa’s place. We even took turns staying overnight at his home. The routine was a pleasant one for us; it really was because it gave us the opportunity to hear our grandfather’s heroic tales. To us it seemed like, between Grandpa and Grandma, there was no end to the stories they had to tell. We were proud of our grandfather and in the future, when we became adults, his tales of long ago were to become the faithful bellwether that always reminded us to maintain an optimistic view towards life.

The name of my grandfather was Soleman. He was born in 1909, eight years after Sukarno was born, in an agriculturally rich valley by the name of Manesat Anen. Fresh water was plentiful there, flowing down into the valley from the Mollo range of limestone hills of which Mount Mutis was the king of all the hills. Grandfather said that he was born in the shade of a tamarind tree whose fruit, known as kiu mina in the Dawan language of Timor, was known for its sweetness. His father was Leu Mnasi, a powerful shaman who was nearly blind yet somehow retained the vision of a cat. It was he, grandfather said, who had brought his wife to the tamarind tree and had her give birth to their child there, as he prayed to Uis Neno, god of the skies, to grant his son a life as sweet as the fruit of that tamarind tree.

In 1936, as a young man of twenty-seven Soleman moved to Kupang and joined Koninklijke Nederlandsch-Indische Leger, the Royal Netherlands Indies Army or KNIL as it was more popularly known. Three years later he was assigned to Magelang, in the moutains of Central Java, but thereafter was moved to the northern port city of Semarang where he remained with KNIL until it was disbanded in 1950.

“The date was June 26, 1950 and it was a Thursday; I remember it well. That was the day your grandmother had just come home from the hospital after checking on Rika, the mother of you boys, who was their with a high fever. She was just three years old. The situation didn’t look good at the time, and so that’s when I decided to pick up stakes and come back to Timor.”

As always, Grandfather told his story well, charming us with his enthusiasm and the intensity of his expression, like that of a stage actor swept away by his own monologue.

My grandmother’s name was Yohana, which was a new name, in fact. Before that she had been Siti Aminah Binti Rajimin, which is a Muslim name. After marrying Grandpa, she had been baptized and been given a Christian name. In Semarang, Grandma has worked at the home of a Dutch family, that of Buurman van Vreeden. In addition to cooking and making bread, she also had to look after Mr. van Vreeden’s two children, Wilhelmina and Ludwig.

“Every day, there always had to be bread on the table,” Grandma told us, which is why, until this day, she is the number one baker in our parts of all kinds of bread and foods that are special to the Netherlands.

Semarang, 21 February 1942

I heard the news on the radio that 23,000 Japanese soldiers under the leadership of Commander Koichi Fukumi landed outside of Kupang. It was also mentioned that 600 KNIL soldiers were stationed there. Just 600 men to face all those Japanese. I couldn’t believe it. My thoughts immediately went to my family living in Timor.

Fortunately, I thought, KNIL had the assistance of Sparrow Force troops from Australia who had arrived three days previously but two days later I was forced to correct myself; there was nothing fortunate about the situation at all. The Allied Forces were beaten back by Japan to the forested area of Camplong, 30 kilometers from Kupang. Strange that was because, to my knowledge, there were hundreds of bunkers throughout the area of Kelapa Lima, Oebufu, and on up to the Penfui hills. Whatever the case, they proved to be insufficient as a protective barrier against the Japanese assault.

Their destruction of Pearl Harbor by flying craft had given the Japanese a big head. In Timor, too, they used an air route to drop hundreds of parachuters into Oesao to cut off the Allied retreat. The situation was becoming desperate and it was like a nightmare for me, I knowing that what was happening might obstruct my plan to propose to Aminah, the cook for the Vreeden family. If I end up being dragged into this war, fate might alter all my well thought out plans.

Now, all I do is picture my Aminah’s sad face and the fear my family in Timor must be suffering, the fear of losing the people they love.

S

In the midst of the uncertainty of being able to thwart the Japanese invasion, time seemed to pass slowly. Sometimes, when thinking of Aminah, I’d write down my thoughts and feelings on paper which I’d store in a manilla portfolio. On one of those pieces of papers, I wrote down my plans of marrying her and returning to Timor.

On Desember 20, 1943, I finally married Aminah who had changed her name to Yohana. There was no special reception and I married before my right arm had properly healed. The next day Mr Vreeden chanced to come toour barracks to give his congratualations. “Wel gefeliciteerd! Good luck,” he said but then also urged me to allow my wife to continue working at his home. Ludwig, his younger child, was always asking about her, he said. “He’s come down with chickenpox,” the man reported. “I do hope you will be able to stop by the house?” He just kept on hoping.

After two bombs were dropped on their country, the short soldiers in their strange hats, began to leave the city of Semarang. Funny though, because I had memorized their national song, “Kimigayo”, I kept singing it over and over in my head. It had daily been broadcast over the radio—just another form of propaganda, I guess. On August 17, 1945, Indonesia declared its independence. A month later, Aminah miscarried again, the second time this had happened. I was beginning to think that we would never have any children.

“On February 23, 1947, at five o’clock in the morning at Saint Elizabeth Hospital, your grandmother gave birth to your mother, our daughter, whom we named Rika. Two kind nuns from the Franciscan Order helped with the birth,” Grandfather recalled. “About an hour later, one of them came to me and asked, ‘What do you want to name your daughter, Mr. Soleman?””

“’Elizabeth!’ I sputtered, without thinking, which caused the two nuns to laugh. I hadn’t planned on giving my daughter that name at all; it came to me unconsciously— probably because my wife and my daughter were at that moment lying together in a nice clean room in Saint Elizabeth hospital. I then corrected myself, saying that I wanted to name my daughter Ferderika—Ferderika Elizabeth, which was the name name I had thought of long before. ‘Mooi! How lovely!’ the nuns said. At that very moment Rika began to whine, as if wanting to give her consent to my choise of name for her.”

Based on the results of the Round Table Conference between the Dutch and Indonesian governments, on July 26, 1950 at zero zero hundred hours, after 120 years of existence, KNIL was disbanded by the Dutch government. Of the former KNIL soldiers, an estimated 60,000 were to be absorbed at their same rank into the United War Forces of the Republic of Indonesia. Grandpa, too, joined the UWF but then immediately submitted a request for retirement. He wanted to make good on his wish to take his wife and daughter back home to Timor. Finally, In June 1954 his prayer was answered and, on board the Victory II, they made their way to Timor. At that time, Mother was seven years old.

“I’m glad to see you finally come home, Sae,” said Leu Mnasi, that cat-eyed man who was overjoyed to see his son. As is custom among the Dawan people, he had called his son “Sae”, the name of their home village, which is always given to a child in addition to his or her baptismal name. Leu Mnasi was proud of his son and said so loudly, remarking at length how had successfully taken a Javanese girl for his wife. Thereafter, he slaughtered some pigs and a few head of cattle to celebrate the homecoming of his son, daughter-in-law, and beautiful young daughter.

“This land is yours, you know, just as are the rice fields, the coconut grove, and the apple and orange orchards. The cattle and the the pigs in the pen are also yours.” Leu Mnasi had always been good about preparing inheritance for the people he loved (even though, in the future, quite sad to say, the inheritance would cause numerous fractures in Grandfather’s family, because there was always someone who was greedy).

Even with the riches his father offered, Soleman no longer found life in Manesat Anen to be for him and, in the end, he had to say goodbye to his father once more.

“I’m going to move to Kapan,” he told his father. “Life there might be better for us. Rika can go to school and Yohana, who’se such a good cook, can open a foodstall. I’ve heard that numerous traders from Kupang come to Kapan every week to buy up the vegetables, fruit, and garlic that are grown there,” Soleman further explained.

And life in Kapan did prove to be sweet for them, as sweet at the tamarind fruit. Everything went along well and smoothly. There, in Kapan, he came to witness the emergence of eight shining stars from the womb of his daughter, our mother, Rika.

“Do you know the words to ‘Kimigayo’?”

We boys shook our heads.

He began to sing… “Kimigayo wa Chiyo ni yachiyo ni… ” His was a nice-sounding voice. “Sazare-ishi no Iwao to narite, Koke no musu made...”

“What do the words mean, Grandpa?” I immediately asked.

“It’s kind of like there is a hope among the Japanese people that the power of their imperial ruler will continue for thousands of generations to come, until a pebble becomes a stone that is covered by moss!”

Grandfather realized how odd it was for him to remember that song but he also knew how the prayers and hopes that were found therein flowed through and affected his life. To his grandchildren, he admitted the strength reflected in the characters of those short soliders. If you want to do something, put all your strength into doing it and do it to the best of your ability, even the most bitter of things, in order to achieve the best outcome. That is what is called Gambaru.

From where he sat upon his chair plaited with rubberized fiber, he had cast his spell on us. It was eleven o’clock and I could smell the fragrance of pomade from the hair on the side of his head,

“Time for you to go to bed …”

Translated by John H. McGlynn
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