Tuesday, October 27, 2015

My Heritage _ToersBijns - Part I


My Heritage – ToersBijns

 Knowing my Mother and Father
 
 Part I –
 
Reaching the later stages of my life, I often reflect back to the days of my youth and the memories I have of my mother and father, as these two people were instrumental and pivotal influences in my life. One might say that I have become what they were and no regrets set foot in my mind that this isn’t so bad at all for me to recognize. I know that my brother and two sisters agree with me that their sustained and sometimes tainted influence over us made us who we are today.

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.

 What the rebels (natives) wanted was a lifting of the Dutch blockade and the right to sell their products to any other nation without requiring them to pass through Dutch hands. Eventually, the Dutch were forming a United States of Indonesia where the natives had local autonomy, but where the real power including foreign relations and public defense, was under Dutch control.

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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