Honoring the Women (Part III)

I have to show this picture for its imperfection and quirky story behind it which led to her eventual life mate. This is my mother at the age of 17 in Indonesia (1935). She had many suitors in her day and each one proved to be to her dissatisfaction. Originally, this picture had another person in it, her beau at the time. I believe he was standing to her left (our right). Well, she decided she did not like him any more because he was too bossy, snoopy and too tall and he hovered over her constantly. She broke up with him. In the meantime, the picture was already developed. So when she received the final picture, she took her scissors and cut out his image (pre-photoshop).

Why is this honor worthy ? Because she was true to herself. Despite her flaws, she was always genuinely herself. You got what you saw. I hope I am like that. You cannot pretend to be someone you are not because at some point the truth will come out. She came from a pseudo-aristocratic colonial background and married my father late in life. He was Indonesian. He was a champion boxer in his day. He was a tough KNIL (Royal Netherlands East Indies Army) soldier. He was a former POW. In a colonial social hierarchy the color of one's skin determines the treatment one receives. He was dark brown. She was light-skinned. He stole her heart and for whatever reason, out of all the suitors he fit the bill. They faced many challenges which are beyond comprehension today and even divorced from each other, two times. As teenagers, we attended their second wedding ceremony. However, they remained committed to their children and to each other as parents. There was so much history between them that it functioned as the glue. In the twilight of their years, they lived only 5 American freeway minutes apart.

She was true to herself.

Postal History of Dutch East Indies

The handwriting on this postcard reminds me of my parents', especially my mom's. There was a certain artistic flair to it and I always recognized her handwriting immediately above all others. My father's was more structured and controlled and looked like a piece of art. This particular postcard is from 1903 from Sumatra to Holland "Greetings out of Sumatra".

Kopi Luwak - World's Most Expensive Coffee

At $160 per pound, what makes this coffee so expensive ? Apparently, the cherry beans of the coffee plant are eaten by a nocturnal animal called a Luwak. Oh..this gets better. The entire bean does not get digested, just the outer layer. So it basically passes through the animal's digestive tract and is excreted..yes..pooped out. It gets washed, and then sun dried. Locals believe that the "animal stage" provides some kind of enzyme which ferments leading to the exquisite flavor it yields. It is described as a rich flavor with hints of caramel or chocolate. In short, Indonesia produces the world's most expensive coffee because of this unique processing.

Descendants of Shipwrecked Survivors

This subject has always fascinated me. During the massive maritime trade routes of the 16th century many ships were destroyed and ended up at the bottom of the ocean. Along with the shipwrecks were a handful of survivors who made it to shore. Statistics were hard to obtain for obvious reasons, but it was known that they were missing.

My colleague and friend Mike Hillis has met an incredibly unusual man named Goyo. He is believed to be a descendant of some European sailor/adventurer type several generations back having mixed with the local women. His features clearly are not pure Indonesian because he is tall and has big feet and hands and has some kind of non-Asian features. Here are Mike's words:

"This man is an Indo from the jungle of the Spice Islands. His name is Goyo and he was born and lives in the jungle. I met him in April, 2009 in a small coastal village on a remote island. Most Indos learned how to eat with cutlery a long time ago. Goyo does not own shoes, eats off banana leaves and hunts wild jungle boar. He is known as the Raja Hutan (King of the Jungle)...."

I also recently read about a DNA study that was done in Australia to determine how much Dutch DNA is mixed with the Aboriginals in a particular area where there were shipwrecks. The study is being done by the VOC Historical Society in Perth.

Old East Indies Map

For Our Heritage

This is a "pre-announcement". In the next month you will be notified of some very exciting news regarding my people.

A documentary project is underway as we speak. This film will chronicle the Indo's (Dutch-Indonesians/Eurasians) historical journey from their birth in Indonesia to their adopted countries, spanning over 350 years. It is an untold story in North America and our intention is to share this magnificent legacy. One of my partners appropriately calls it a "historical cold case". A case we will revive with this narrative film and other initiatives on the agenda. Hang on to your seats. More information will be posted as the project develops.

Until then, enjoy the holiday season !!!

My Adventures in Indonesia (1988)

Okay, it's now 2009 and I'm finally writing this down for all the world to see. Indonesia in 1988 was quite different as it was in 1955. But it is still the wondrous tropical motherland from where we originate.

A window of opportunity came and I snatched it up. With some careful planning, I began with teaching English in Tokyo for just under a year, went to Hong Kong and on to Jakarta and the adventure began. This was before computers and travel blogs and WiFi cafes. So the only information we had were our little guidebooks with some phrases and whatever information other travelers shared with us. One of my best friends (a seasoned traveler) met me in Jakarta and we proceeded onward. In a way it's kind of nice not to know a lot. That way it justifies our outrageous Western behavior to the natives. Like climbing over a chain link fence to catch our train at 4:30 in the morning. Not only that, but my friend was wearing a dress and the hem got caught on the top of the fence but the rest of her body was already on the ground so all the world got to see what was underneath the dress. We were laughing so hard of course. I'm sure the locals thought we were off our rocker (they get up early). Oh well.

Most people write about the temples, rice paddies, flora and fauna, etc. So I'll just zip ahead and write about our perspective as two single women traveling amongst a traditional society such as Indonesia. I'm pretty sure I confused everyone. If not that, then it was curiosity. I don't exactly look American but I wore American clothes and walked and talked the jive. On the other hand, I don't look completely Indonesian but clearly there's a hint of it particularly as my skin got darker and darker by the day. In the process of haggling or negotiating a price I definitely noticed I kind of had an "edge". Thanks to my genes. Okay, enough of that.

On to "Johnny"... This young Javanese guy became our shadow initially showing us the local sites and then continued following us even by train as we headed to Bandung. He showed up a couple days later and popped up out of nowhere. We learned quickly if you showed any hint of interest, they're on you like flies. On to Bali, Lovina Beach... what a riot ! The guidebooks never warned us that there would be Balinese gigolos pumping iron on the beach scoping out the western chicks. We were whisked away to a makeshift "nightclub" which had a rotating disco mirror light ball and blasting music. We danced all night stumbling back to our little losmen and plopped down in our beds as the sound of ocean waves lulled us to sleep.

What I loved about traveling this way is the unpredictability of everything. I ended up traveling up to Sumatra with my new "friend-Francois-from-France". He was great, more like a brother than anything. It was completely different traveling with a male. I did not feel as much on edge and there was an instant sense of order and protection. He became like a brother to me and we had a great time exploring Lake Toba territory, home of the Batak people. He accused me of brushing my teeth too much. It was time to part.

This was all back when I had good feet, a backpack and little sense. It was a turning point and my orientation started to point more towards my heritage and where it all began - this wondrous rich island nation.

Honoring the Women (Part II)

As I look through the old photos of my family, I started to notice a certain trend.  I don't know if it's just my own family (mother's side) or if it was part of the culture of their day, but I saw more photos of women together than couples.  For instance this photo, it is my mother at around age 19 with her mother.  There were other siblings and I believe her father had passed away around that time.  It looks like a formal portrait.  Isn't it kind of interesting ?   Can you imagine nowadays going to a portrait studio only with your mother and posing for a picture together ?  I saw other photos of two sisters or a two female cousins.  Now that I think of it, the females in my family are all strong.  My eldest tante (aunt) is 97 years old.  A year ago, she still flew to the USA for her annual visit from The Netherlands.  On her return to Schiphol airport in Amsterdam her pickup party was not there due to some miscommunication.  So here is this elderly lady stranded after an 11-hour international flight.  After waiting a while she hailed a cab and ended up using all the birthday money she got at her party in the USA.  We all admire her.   After my mother died (her younger sister) with a forlorn look on her face, she said there was no one left from her youth.  

Mom had another sister who was the eldest.  I think their age difference was almost 12 years, so she was kind of like a second mom to her.  Her name was Tante Ellie.  Apparently when Mom was about 15 years old, an Arab sheik spotted her at the local pasar (market).  Later, when they returned home someone knocked on the door.  Tante Ellie answered the door and a man representing this sheik said my mom was chosen to be his master's next wife and asked for her hand in marriage.  Tante Ellie was shocked !   Immediately she wanted to shield and protect her little sister.  She told the guy to wait on the veranda.  She went out through the back, ran to the pasar to buy a cheap ring, came back, put the ring on my mom's finger, went through the front door to the veranda dragging my mom behind her, pulled out my mom's hand clearly showing the ring and said she was already spoken for.   The sheik's rep honored this, bowed and left.  I love this story !

Memories

There are some things I just cannot part with.  This is one of them.  It is one of the original suitcases my parents brought with them to the USA when we emigrated from Holland in 1962. It still has a piece of the US Customs inspection sticker on it.  Sitting on top is the leather briefcase in which my dad carried all our important immigration papers, documents, etc.  He was very good about record-keeping.  I am not positive but I believe these two items also came from Indonesia back in 1950 because even in 1962 they looked very old and worn.    As I touched the suitcase and briefcase tears swelled up and rolled down my face.  So much history and energy is connected to these items.  Their lives were are stake as they fled Indonesia.  Papa was on the Indonesian Revolutionists's hit list as a Dutch sympathizer and collaborator.   He worked with very sensitive information as an undercover reporter for the Dutch military.  Since he was dark (Ambonese origins) and he had extensive knowledge of all the dialects, he served the Dutch well.  Mom said they had to flee and were the first of our extended family to leave.  With a 2-yr-old under one arm and a 4-yr-old under the other arm, she said they walked up the gangplank of the huge oceanliner never to see their homeland again.   They were the only family.  She said the rest of the passengers were young Ambonese men heading to Holland for work.

It was only in their old age that my parents really started to reflect and share these kinds of stories.   It's almost like the gravity of a lifetime had settled in and their minds can now review all that they've experienced.  Also, maybe it was because I had more one-on-one time with them.  The story about walking on the gangplank occurred in the car.  After an appointment I drove mom to a scenic waterfront near our home.   Living in the Pacific Northwest we are surrounded by scenic water and mountains and never tire of it all.  We stayed in the car looking at the beautiful water and it must have evoked a memory in her as she proceeded to share this story.  She had a very far away look on her face and we sat in silence together.   That's the kind of energy I feel when I handle this old suitcase and briefcase.  

May parents lived through tremendous losses and upheavals, but never did I see them complain or feel sorry for themselves.  Both parents are gone now.  I cherish and honor their memory with all my heart and soul.  I still miss them very much.  Thank you Mom and Pap for everything !   God bless you.

Family Ties

2009-Aug-26:  Summer is coming to an end.   Time for reflection as the air begins its transformation to another season.  I can hear it by the way the wind moves between the leaves on the trees.  I love this in-between time.  

My sister just left with her kids to go home to France.  This is their annual sojourn to America. Each visit marks the many changes in our family over the years.  What struck me the most this time is how the little ones are not little any more.  I see in their features traces of their grandparents and hints of a mixed heritage.  My 16-year-old French niece is asking questions and wants to know about her mother's side of the family.

We reconnected with cousins, nieces, nephews and various relations.  I also realize that now I am my parent.  The generation before us is no longer at family gatherings.  Onse lieve oudjes (our loving elderly) have left this earth and now we are stepping up the generation ladder.  This makes me more compelled to tell our story.  We have a very special legacy to share and pass down.  We are the in-betweens.  Perhaps that is why I like this time of year as the season transitions to the next.

My Travels

 

The pins are where I've traveled so far.  

Looks like I need to go to Africa and Australia.

• Create your own travel map or travel blog
• TripAdvisor has airfare search

Me and My Little Angklung

What can I say ?    I love the sound.   Even this little one has that soft muted sound bamboo makes.  My dream is to see an entire orchestra performing on the big versions.

Honoring the Women

Orchids.  This is one of my favorite flowers.  My wedding bouquet consisted of orchids.  Our wedding cake was designed line a staircase with the layers detached and orchids were draped over each layer cascading down.  Orchids are not only beautiful but very resilient.  I had one sitting over the winter time totally neglected.  I thought it was a goner, but kept it because it was a gift.  Then in the spring I got that wanting-to-plant feeling and decided to nurse it back. Well, it didn't take much.  Just some watering and plant food and sunlight.  Now it is absolutely glorious sitting in my little laundry room window which gets a lot of sunlight.

Why am I going on about orchids ?  They remind me of the women in my family.  My mother, my sisters, my aunts (tantes), my grandmother and greatgrandmother, and all the women in the extended family.  They were beautiful on the outside and made of steel on the inside.  Instead of "steel magnolias" they were "steel orchids" (the Asian version).   When the men were taken away during the war, the women had to fend for themselves.  My mother said they knitted socks for the Japanese soldiers to make extra money.  She said they had one light bulb and used an oatmeal box (Quaker's ?) to cover the light bulb as a shade because all lights had to be out at night.   So they knitted socks under that one light bulb.  She told me her older sister had a knack for making peanut brittle which they sold to bring in money to the household. Oma was a short little squat mother hen who would do anything to protect her brood.   Her husband (my Opa) was a very tall man who held her in the highest esteem unfortunately died early, but fortunately for him before the war when all hell broke loose.  

Another "steel orchid" is Oma on my father's side.  She also was a little spitfire, 4 ft 11 ft who raised 16 children (long story).   Japanese soldiers stormed into their house, but Oma had prepared her children well, particularly her daughters.   The daughters took their places on the couches and beds throwing up red vomit into pails and buckets.  Oma knew the Japanese had a deep fear of diseases.  She knew plants very well and was known for her herbalist skills.  Her daughters were instructed to chew on a plant which when mixed with saliva turned red.   This mimicked spitting up blood which gave the appearance of a very serious disease.  The Japanese soldiers fled and Oma saved her daughters.

These are but a few of the many untold stories of the women's role during this tumultuous time of history.  I will disperse more of such in the coming posts.  As orchids, these women are beautiful and resilient.

Solute to our precious "Steel Orchids".....

SLAVERY

No one wants to think or talk about this subject but it is important to acknowledge. Why ? Because it is still happening today in the form of human trafficking ! Us humans never seem to learn. This is an article written by my friend Nancy Ricci. Her ancestry goes back to Suriname in South America one of the biggest plantation labor populations that Dutch colonials established in the 1800's. They were notorious for transporting human lives across oceans to fulfill their labor shortage on plantations and also in their military rank and file. The pain and loss in slavery remains in the collective gene memory through generations as evidenced by this article.

In which a Coconut evokes Memories and Ponderings

June 6, 2008

Just the other day, I was craving for a traditional Javanese dish prepared with freshly grated coconut. I was so happy to find some fresh coconut at my grocery store and could not wait to prepare my Javanese dish!

As I am getting ready in my kitchen to crack open the hard shell of the coconut, I could not foresee that the whole handling and preparing process of my craved after dish, would evoke strong and loving memories of my parents and ponderings about my great grandmother.

Cascade of Memories

A fresh coconut contains water inside of it. When you shake the coconut firmly you can hear the water going back and forth. Before I crack the nut open I make sure to poke a hole with an icepick in one of the “eyes”, drain the delicious liquid, and then crack it open with a hammer in order to release its yummy white “flesh”.

While I watch the coconut break open into two pieces, I suddenly see my mother and father standing in the kitchen of our old appartment in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. My father is cracking open a coconut, while my mother patiently waits, her bowl and grate tool right at her side on the kitchen’s countertop.

Funny how memories are suddenly summoned like that…

As I am releasing pieces of coconut from the broken hard shell, I remember how my father did that too, with a frown on his forehead out of mere concentration. As soon as the pieces are all peeled and cleaned, he passes them to my mother who then starts grating.

Just like my mother I have my bowl and tool ready and I start grating. The movement of my right hand holding a piece of coconut going up and down the grate tool is repetitive and together with the grating sound, my mind is put in a state of ease and I ponder about the family recipe I am about to make.

A written recipe I have not, all instructions have been passed down by spoken word. As I wonder why the recipe has never been written down, I realize that my great grandmother never knew how to read and write. Born in the poorest part of West Java, Indonesia, she never received proper education and remained illiterate for the rest of her life.

My right hand is still going up and down the grate tool, and the pristine white grated cococnut is accumulating in my bowl. In the same speed, questions start to accumulate in my head regarding my family’s history.

Pondering about my great grandmother

In early 1900 at the very tender age of barely 17 years old, my great grandmother was taken against her will to a ship called Djebres & Prins Willem. This boat was destined to sail to a country she did not know even existed called Suriname where she and many other Javanese people were destined to work on the sugar cane plantations.

Was she scared during her journey at sea? Did she make friends during her journey? Did they cry together and comfort eachother, telling each other that everything is going to be allright and that they will return to their families really really soon?

And when she finally arrived in Suriname, South America, what emotions and feelings would run through her whole being? Would she ask her self: “Where am I? Why am I taken here? When can I go back home to my family?”

I pause grating for a moment, hang my head and cry for my great grandmother. She never returned to Java, Indonesia and was never to see her family again as long as she lived.

How I wish I can talk to her now. How I wish I can tell her my ongoing story. I would tell her that I have grown to become a confident, well educated, well spoken young woman. I would tell her that I speak several western languages but only master two of those languages: Dutch and English.

I would tell her that just like her, my parents crossed an ocean to go to a far away country called the Netherlands. I on my turn traveled even further to the United States of America. The significant difference, however, is that neither my parents or myself traveled against our wills. We were free to make that choice ourselves.

I would tell her that her forced travel, trials and tribulations have not been for naught.

The recipe you might wonder..?

I may share little knitting patterns.
I may share pattern tutorials.
I may share my knowledge of knitting.
I may share stories.
I may share pictures.

However, a family recipe that has been passed down for generations… I will share not.

So I just leave you with a photo of beautifully, hand grated coconut, ready to be transformed into a yummy traditional Javanese dish.

Thanks for reading and until the next entry..!

IDENTITY

Not long ago, I read about a small group of Basque sheepherders who were recruited from Europe to tend sheep in Nevada. No one else in the USA wanted to do the work. They grew in number from 300'ish to several thousand and then petered off when they started to realize it did not make economic sense to leave their home country. This occurred during the early 1960's after Franco's reign ended in Spain. Today exists a thriving tight community of Basque descendants who gather once a year for a Basque festival/family reunion. I was so impressed as I learned more about this group and wondered about my "own people".

It all comes down to identity doesn't it ? We tend to manipulate our identity according to the circumstances in our environment. Call it a political/social/economic chameleon depending on one's situation. There is no denying that most immigrants experience a tremendous drive and thrust towards fitting into their newly adopted country. An incredible amount of energy on the psychological and physical levels are geared toward making it happen in their new environment. In that intense process, the children tend to lose sight of their beginnings - their roots. It may not be on a conscious level as their identity gets lost in the game of surviving.

At a recent dinner party attended by folks with connection to the former Dutch colonies, we agreed about the vast complexity our heritage entails. So many of us are able to lay claim to lineages derived from Dutch, Chinese, American, Swiss, Armenian, Spanish, Belgian, Portuguese, German, African, Arab, French, etc., etc. Because of this complexity it seems to be an everlasting question, who am I ?

There is debate about the term "melting pot" versus "salad bowl" versus "mosaic" - all labels and terms aimed at defining mixed blood and distinct ethnic groups. I don't get too hung up on terminology but documentation seems to demand a system of categorizing and labeling in order to make sense.  Some people have a very strong identity such as the Basque people.  It seems to be a primordial sense to know one belongs to a certain tribe... not surprising the contemporary explosion of social networks such as Facebook - we all want to be connected and moreover know where we belong.

Family Stories

[Colonial home in Sumatra 1939]

This photo evokes in me echoes of stories told by my parents as I was growing up. Why is it that we begin to appreciate those stories more after our parents are gone ? The bond my mother had with her parents was so evident as tears welled up in her eyes at just the mention of her mother or father. Her father died when she was 17 years old. He died on the operating table from what sounded like a reaction to anesthesia. She said he went into the hospital and never came out. She was intensely angry at the doctor who took away her father. Her entire life she witnessed a love and affection between her parents which led her to an idyll childhood. Her mother made cotton candy for her birthday parties, her favorite treat. When she was a young woman she saw the night sky lit up with fireworks in celebration of the engagement of Queen Julianna to Prince Bernard in 1932. She said the fireworks cleverly took on the shapes of the engaged couple's heads facing each other.

We all carry with us family stories and legacies that are more precious than any material possession. The Dutch East Indies seems so remote, but it was alive and thriving. As complex as it was with all the social, economic and political layers it was an era embedded in our blood and memory.

Keep those stories alive through your children and their children, etc. These stories are who you are.

Supreme Court Justice could be an Indo

It is possible that the first Indo could be nominated to the Supreme Court. Read this article from LA times about California State Supreme Court Justice Joyce Kennard. Read article for more details.... Bianca President should look West for Supreme Court nominee Los Angeles Daily News - Los Angeles,CA,USA Born to a Dutch-Indonesian father and a Chinese-Indonesian mother in West Java, Indonesia, she shares with Obama a multi-ethnic, multi-racial background ...

Silenced Voices by Inez Hollander (review)

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Like a number of Netherlanders in the post World War II era, Inez Hollander only gradually became aware that her family had significant connections with its Dutch colonial past, including an Indonesian great-grandmother. Unlike the majority of memoirs that are soaked in nostalgia for tempo doeloe, Hollander’s sets out to come to grips with her family’s past by weaving together personal records with more general, academic views of the period. Hers is a complicated and sometimes painful personal journey of realization, unusually mindful of the ways in which past memories and present considerations can be intermingled when we seek to understand a difficult past. Silenced Voices is an important contribution to the literature on how Dutch society has dealt with its recent colonial history.

More details

Silenced Voices: Uncovering a Family's Colonial History in Indonesia

By Inez Hollander

Edition: illustrated

Published by Ohio University Press, 2009

ISBN 0896802698, 9780896802698

312 pages

Silenced Voices by Inez Hollander

This book must be read by all who have a connection to the former Dutch East Indies. It has opened the floodgates to dialogue for many of us who grew up with the memories of war, imprisonment, great loss, pain, displacement and survival. The survivors of war and their descendants must know their pain and their memories are shared. To compound it, our history textbooks has left us out including in Holland. It is like we never existed. When I say "we" I mean not only the Indo people, but the pure Dutch, the Chinese and all those caught between the waring factions in Indonesia during WWII and the dark bersiap period. It has been over 60 years and it is time for recognizition and honor which I believe Inez has been able to craft in this book. My review on Amazon.com states that the atrocities and raw details described in the book are a necessary evil to convey the weight and impact it had on the survivors and their descendants. We need to know. The world needs to know. The time has come.

Click on title to access web site. Also available on Amazon.com

Indos in the USA-Where Are You ?

Pasadena, California, early 1960's the first Indos, De SOOS club

It is estimated that around 60,000 Indos (Indisch or Dutch-Indonesians) emigrated from The Netherlands to the USA in the early 1960's under the Paster-Walter Act which allowed us to come to the USA outside of the immigration population quota of 3000. I have not been able to verify this Paster/Pastor/Pastore-Walter Act through any of the government archives available on line. If anyone out there have another means of verification please send it my way.

Because Nederlandse/Dutch-Indonesians were classified as Dutch it is unclear as to how many actually landed on U.S. soil. The highest concentration started out in California. However, we know now that we are all over the North American continent. For instance, my family started out in Wisconsin the first couple years and ended up in Washington state because we had extended family there. My father's side of the family started out in Massachusetts and ended up on Oregon. What is your story ? If you'd like to volunteer, please leave comment on what state/country you live in.