Being a post-colonial, post-WWII, post-Japanese-wanted-to-eradicate-my-race-because-Eurasians-are-not-of-pure-blood child, the one label that strikes a chord with me, more than the vilest swear word you can think of, is ‘collaborator’. As much as I like to pride myself on my ability to see multiple sides to any story, I was very black-and-white when it came to collaborators. They were/are scum. End of story.
Until, that is, I picked up a copy of The Fugitive by Toer. By any definition, Pramoedya Ananta Toer was a true Indonesian patriot. That is, every action of his (mostly literary and as an educator) was geared towards the betterment of the Indonesian people as a whole. He was against the Dutch exploitation of his country, the Java-centric view of the independent government, and the discrimination of the Indonesian Chinese. And, although he died in 2006, he taught me that — like life — collaboration is also mired in grey.
The Fugitive takes place over one evening and the following day — the eve and day of the Japanese surrendering in WWII, and follows the steps of Hardo, a renowned resistance leader who will not rest until the Japanese have given up. He can feel the winds of change as he visits his home village of Kaliwangan, but the inhabitants of the village still believe the Japanese are unbeatable, and they have each come to some internal agreement within themselves on how they cope with the situation.
Hardo’s mother has died in the time since he became a rebel. Hardo’s father, once head of the village, was stripped of his title and spends his time gambling, as an escape from a life he refuses to face. Hardo was engaged, and his future father-in-law is the new village chief who — while trying to engineer the best outcome for himself and his daughter, Ningsih — ends up being a catalyst for disaster. Ningsih, Hardo’s fiancee, is the most faithful of all, still waiting for Hardo’s return, patient and gentle. Even more than the Japanese, the ostensible, mostly hidden, enemy in the book is Karmin, Hardo’s best friend, who continued serving with the Japanese rather than rebel against them in a failed coup as Hardo and two of his companions did. Hardo’s rebel friends and the villagers themselves want to kill Karmin because they view him as a traitor, but Karmin’s story is not as simple as that, even as he acknowledges the label, and Hardo, rightly, does not believe in Karmin’s unadulterated evil.
The short novel, Toer’s first I believe, is very readable. Its style is more oral rather than written, in much the same way as Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is really meant to be watched and heard rather than read. And, like Godot, the story takes place over a short period of time. Complex concepts and situations are presented in clear and simple language, giving the reader plenty food for thought amid the storyteller-type repetition. This is probably the best piece of advice I can give a prospective reader. The Indonesians have always had a very strong oral tradition, and The Fugitive, although written, feels more like a tale being woven by a storyteller to a young audience at night. There are no deep characterisations (to my disappointment), but the language is soothing and evocative. Any interpretation of motive and emotion are left completely to the listening reader. This is more a play than a novel which, I think, is why I was so forcefully reminded of Godot as I read it.
The dilemma facing the Indonesian people on the eve of WWII was never an easy one. Was it better to support a cruel colonial power (the Dutch) or put their trust in the Japanese promise of the East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere? Many, like Toer himself, initially supported the Japanese because they saw such support as the only viable route to an independent Indonesia but, as the atrocities of the Japanese became more evident, more Indonesians turned against them, like Hardo and his friends, Dipo and Kartiman. Fleeing the threat of summary decapitation, they melted into the burgeoning beggar population, biding their time, moving around and living off scraps. In one of my favourite passages, the new village chief (and future father-in-law) meets Hardo (who is fasting until Karmin approaches him and asks his forgiveness for betraying their cause) on the outskirts of the village. This is near the beginning of the book:
‘Are you able to manage in the condition you’re in?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are? That, I do not understand at all.’ The old man spoke as if to a child. ‘When you go to the city you see children sprawled lifeless at the side of the road. In front of the market and the stores, down beneath the bridge, on top of garbage heaps and in the gutters there are corpses. Nothing but corpses. The place is filled with the dead–children and old people. And you know what they do? If they’re going to die, before they take their final breath, they first gather together a pile of teakwood or banana leaves that have been used to wrap food in. And they cover their bodies with those leaves and then they die. It’s like they know that in two hours they’re going to die and that after they’re dead no one is going to prepare them for burial. These are crazy times we’re going through. And I don’t know why it is. In all my life this is the first time I’ve seen anything like it. Corpses. Wherever you go, unattended corpses. Come home, Hardo.’
‘Thank you but no.’ Hardo discounted the old man’s plea.
‘No one will betray you.’
But of course he does.
I am eager to read more of Toer’s work, and think I’ll hunt down The Mute’s Soliloquy next. This is a collection of essays and unsent letters to his family that he wrote while imprisoned at the penal colony of Buru island for eleven years without charge. For me, as a post-colonialist, Toer’s work is thought provoking and disturbing but, then again, most true education is.
The Fugitive is available in most bookstores through the Penguin imprint.
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