My Heritage – ToersBijns
I haven’t said
much about my mother or my father because that has always been so personal to
me and how I feel. Some ask me, why is that and I answer ‘some things are best
left alone and not spoken or written about.’ Well, I am about to break that
rule and search for what I have left in memories about my parents and their
guidance in my life.
Certainly one
point must be made clear, I did not seek any psychological advice or been to a psychiatrist
/ counselor at any time past or present, as I deal with this experience of
reflecting my past and I seriously doubt if any of my siblings need any
treatment or counseling as well.
Over a long
silent spell, since they have passed away, we have had a lot of time to sort
out feelings of the past. Speaking for myself, I find no need or reason to do
anything else short of regret about some decisions I have made in my life. So regrettably,
I want to deal with my conscious sooner rather than later.
How my
siblings feel about this matter of clearing the closet of any guilt is unknown
and irrelevant to my own desires. I want to come clean of my inner feelings
that has haunted me for the past ten years since my mom died and in doing so, I
remember things that were not so pleasant to deal with and some things that
should never be forgotten and kept as a memory of value rather than waste,
First off, I look
at the death of my mother and father as a milestone in my own life – time has
taken away so much of my passion of life, I often forget the good times during the
bad times. My life as their son began with a sea going chest or large wooden
trunk. A bulky piece of luggage packed with a lifelong collection of clothes
and things that belonged to us when we lived in Indonesia back before 1950.
I remember
little about those days but enough to say that the day was spent playing in a
large plantation courtyard filled with plants and animals that roamed around
the house like pets but that remained free.
The collection
of native animals as well as domestic creatures like chickens and mongoose are
clear recollection of my play time friends under the watchful eyes of my family’s
housekeeper and gardener.
The family’s
personal wealth was good to the family and when my father was home from the
military, we would enjoy quiet moments in this courtyards rather than going
into the town where the hustle and noise was annoying and unwanted.
He often
disappeared without a warning – the war had been torturous for him as a
prisoner of war by the occupying Japanese army almost cost him his life. Sadly,
he lost three brothers in this horrific war and suffered greatly with his
health and his spirit as he lived on a bowl of rice and water for such a long
time.
Released from
a hospital shortly after being liberated from the prison where he was held, my
father, Carl Ernest was slow in recuperating from the dehydration, starvation
and poor medical care for bullet wounds he received before his capture. One
thing I do know for certain, he served the army well and was recognized for his
courage and leadership qualities by the opportunities and appointments as a
soldier with the Koninklijk Nederlands Indisch Leger (KNIL] - the Dutch Army.
He was a
master sergeant in the homeland army, otherwise identified as a colonial army
as the Dutch colonized the islands of Indonesia and this military force was
stationed in the larger islands of Java, Sumatra and Lampung, Sulawesi and Bali,
during the Second World War.
It is
important to talk about my father as a soldier for it shaped a large part of my
life as well as my brother and sisters. My father was the strength of our
family. His ability to keep us safe, warm, comfortable and fed was a great
attribute of his character and inner strength.
Although a much,
sometimes too obsessive man, he was a regimented man in manners, he spoke
softly and carried a heavy burden most of his life as he chose to raise a
family under the most difficult circumstances one could ever imagine. He wore
his uniform with honor – he had a collection of ribbons and medals, some
awarded for bravery and heroism and others for time and service, he stood tall
in his role as a protector for many.
This man was a
member of an elite military group. An organism that was a stand-alone homeland
defense force that had no direct relationship or connection with the national army
of Holland. Although their allegiance was sworn to the Dutch red white and blue
flag during the war, it never merged into the rank and file of the national
army.
His portion of
the army was made up of one third European descent or related soldiers and two
thirds natives of Indonesia. In all practical senses, the native companies had
largely European commanders and non-commissioned officers and my father was an
exception to that rule. No matter where he was stationed, his loyalty, energy
and courage stood above the rest and offered him many special assignments
during the course of his military career.
These soldiers
fought in Sumatra, Borneo, Sulawesi, Bali, Timor and Aceh. The Dutch were
notorious slave traders, decades behind the UK in abolishing slavery and
because Indonesia was a colony of the Dutch, these soldiers were the enforcers
for the government located thousands of miles away in Holland.
The native
troops are officered by Europeans, but the sergeants and corporals are always
of the same race as the men under them. My father, being a master sergeant, one
of the highest rank of an enlisted man before becoming an officer, was given a
sub-command of a company of native soldiers that served with honor. His brothers,
two police officers and one a lieutenant, also in the KNIL, died fighting the
Japanese and left few survivors of the family patriarchs.
In the predawn
darkness of 1 March 1942, Japanese Sixteenth Army units landed at three points
on the north coast of the 650-mile-long island of Indonesia and captured all
who were assigned to defend this land against the Japanese Empire. The struggle
against Japan lasted until 7 March 1942, when the Dutch commander-in-chief was
forced to capitulate. After the Japanese surrendered in 1945, civilian
politicians still advocated cooperation with the Dutch colonial government,
which did not satisfy military leaders, who preferred armed struggle to gain
Indonesian freedom from the Dutch-J Day, 15 August 1945, marked the end of
World War II but not the end of military operations for the KNIL.
The Dutch
colonial conflict in Indonesia (1947-1949), which ended with the independence
of the former Dutch colony in 1949. This was the year I was born and it was
hostile to say the least as we were moving constantly to avoid being targeted
by the civil war and those fighting on the side of the native rebels. By 1948
the Dutch Army was estimated as about 120,000 men, well-armed and equipped.
The
independent Indonesia government, located in Java with CP at Jakarta, refused
to go along with the Dutch, as it demanded complete independence. A "Round
Table Conference" resulted in the acquisition of complete independence by forming
an independent state and the country Indonesia was formed as orders came down
to expel or banish all Dutch citizens from the island and directed them to
return to their homeland, Holland as soon as possible.
This was happening
at a rapid pulsed rate as the newly installed government was busy stripping
most Dutch citizens of their wealth and possession before boarding ships headed
for Holland. Therefore, my comment of our disappearance in a sea-going chest or
wooden trunk relates to those heavy wooden ship loaded crates we used to pack
all our personal belongings to travel to the homeland, Holland.
The journey to
Holland was a lengthy and difficult occurrence in our lives. There wouldn’t be
any good memories from the sea sickness to the sparse food available for those
horded onboard of antiquated passenger ships ill equipped and poorly suited for
comfort or reasonable living accommodations for such a extended voyage.
Regardless of
all the adversities experienced onboard that ship and all the sea sickness suffered
along with side effects of conditions contributed by the environment and because
of poor sanitation and hygiene conditions, this was a drawn-out prolonged nightmare
for all of us to endure without complaining and relief of such confinement
conditions. It was my father who kept us all together and strong throughout the
ordeal.
My father was
a traditional man; he ate Indisch meals and preferred rice over potatoes. A stranger
to meat, our family ate mostly fish, poultry and other vegan items as the price
of beef or pork were too expensive or exorbitant to bare. My mother was a well
skilled cook and made him his favorite gado with his steamed rice, shrimp and
vegetables, as a meal fit for a king. It was the specially prepared sauces that
made the meals so delicious. I could see it in his face with contentment and
satisfaction.
I never ever,
recalled my father cooking a meal – he was rarely allowed in the kitchen by my
mother as I recall it and for that I am forever puzzled as she cooked almost
every day until she went to work to help the family meet its financial
obligations. Helping in the kitchen was a chore assigned to all of us. From the
second we got up to the moment we went to sleep, house chores and kitchen responsibilities
were clearly defined and expected to be done and carried out without a sound or
whimper of whining or complaining.
My father was
never a cruel man; he was a man of understanding, patience and we all missed
him when he was away on military duty. Never a stranger to us, he made sure
that whenever he came home, we would all receive a personal loving hug from him
and a big smile on his face showing his pleasure of being with us for one more
time. While we were in Holland, my father worked at the Dutch military ministry
building in downtown Amsterdam and later on in the first year we were there,
transferred to another military building in The Hague.
He was one of
the fortunate ones who were able to transfer from the KNIL to the Dutch regular
army after the independence of Indonesia was declared. Here he was only thirty
minutes out from work as we found an apartment high rise building in Voorburg
where we settled in and went to school as my mother stayed home and sewed and
cook as a part-time job to make ends meet.
My father
played an important role in my life and my work history as his values rubbed
off on me with strong favor in integrity and boldness. I can honestly say, my
brother and I benefited from his morality and personal characteristics as he
taught us through role modeling what it was like to be a responsible person as
well as how to act to become a man.
Inside the
home, there was no poetry or music – that’s not to say we didn’t have a radio
or a record player for we did but it was rarely used. For certain, the
television was not yet affordable or available for our family. There was a lot
of quiet time in our house and the reasons were mainly due to my father’s
exhausting profession and long work days plus a strong contributing factor - my
mother’s irritability factor to noise or other inconvenient interruptions.
We all studied
hardy in the evenings. Homework was important and our parents checked up on our
work often. There was no slacking on homework – that was a firm rule and no
exceptions were allowed. I was not good in math. I despised math. I loved
history and spent my time in school and at home, day dreaming about journeys
over land, sea and air using all the imagination I could muster to make an
imaginary vision of my exciting life come true in my dreams.
My sister was
more poetic and my brother was well skilled with his hands and also had an
imaginary mind. My sister rehearsed her poems until she knew them by heart. At the
same time, she would sing her favorite American songs and learn the words quite
well even when not knowing what they meant but remembered them phonetically and
sung in tune to the sounds of music on the radio.
Perhaps we day
dreamt so much to escape the boredom of the stillness in the rooms at night as
we all sat silently and watched the coals burn in the coal fed hearth, that
kept us all warm on a winter night or day.
By the measly
detour or diversion of a dream or a conversation, my mind came into contact
with the past of the island and never forgetting the sounds or faces we had as
we remembered our moments in the courtyard and the huge spacious plantation dwelling.
Going from
that monstrous dwelling to a three bedroom apartment was quite a switch but the
mood was positive and the love was swelling to keep us all warm and content
night after night, day after day. This was not the kind of home we came from. It
was much too small for us to call home but with the situation being like it
was, we accepted it and enjoyed its comforts accordingly. In her own way, by
planting familiar and native flowers around the house, it made us feel like
home and found the adjustment would take some time but that the peace we had
was worth every sacrifice made so far.
My father was
an artist or so we thought when we looked at his drawings and masterpieces of
plastic models consisting of war planes of all sorts. His fascination with
airplanes was evident as he could draw a P-50 Mustang in full detail and not
miss a dot to represent a bolt or piece of the fuselage in his schematics. We enjoyed
seeing a full grown man drawing and coloring these airplane models that were so
vividly engrained inside his mind once he saw them in a book or photograph and
then copy it without having to look again or trace the outline to make it look
real.
In the
meantime, my mother, the cook and seamstress was always busy doing the kind of things
that needed mending or washing or in some cases, altering or sewing. Her skills
were so good, other people hired her to do those things as the money she earned
was significant and allowed us a higher level of comforts than we had experienced
a few years before.
She even went
as far as starting a catering business and fixed or prepared nothing but
Indonesian cuisine and specialties. A chef by heart, she knew exactly what
spices were needed and what made the meal so deliciously edible and delightful
that others wanted to order more food than she could handle by herself.
Thus we had a
mixture in our family – we were Dutch by citizenship and Indonesian by culture.
There was no denying we were living in a mixed language environment or scene as
my parents spoke Malaysian fluently and spoke it when it was something to do
with their personal affairs or business. As a family, we were an outgoing group
and enjoyed those moments enormously with satisfactory bliss.
The harsh European
winters drew us all closer together and the pleasant Dutch summers gave us good times outside where
the open fields offered us fresh air and plenty of space to run and exercise
our wildest rides on our roller skates, bicycles and long walks in the dairy
fields filled with crops or flowers.
Regardless how
we spent the days, it was always side by side with my brother and sister and
for special events like carnivals, pageants, parades or civic oriented
festivals, our parents would take us and endure the wind, the rain and the sea
whenever we went out on an outing that usually ended up as a picnic or other affair.
What turned
out to be a routine day at the beach or park, turned out to be a special
influence in our life that made us grow stronger and wiser with the guidance of
our parents by our side giving us a sense of security and belonging that never
left us until the day their died. So special was their influence, it connected us
with everything in our acquaintances with life itself.
One day my
father came home and sent us straight to our rooms. His demeanor was seriously
different than those of other days and as he sat down at the table with my
mother Edith, he whispered to her something that was purposely withheld from
our ears and kept a secret for days before they brought us in and shared their
secret with us.
The two of
them had been planning another journey. Another challenge and this time, it was
not by sea but by air. They wanted us to pack up and leave to move to the
United States of America. A place we had often talked about since the arrival
in Holland but never quite mentioned in a conversation that divulged a wish or
desire to live there or at the least, go visit it as a vacation outing. None of
us had any idea what difficulties this would entail.
The visas,
sponsorship and the finances for such a trip were ridiculously expensive and to
the best of my knowledge, we were never rich enough to afford such a trip, let
alone an new place to pack up and leave to like we did before. Certainly, we
were aware my mother’s sacrifices of working extra hard and long on catering
projects, sewing works and other side jobs but never imagined she was saving
enough money for us to travel to America.
We were
migrating to another world; a world that had been the envy of the rest of the
world as it was painted to be a land of opportunity and freedoms. Looking on a
global map of the Earth, we saw how far this destiny of another voyage would
take us and slept soundly that night with dreams of coming to America.
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