They write us from MEDAN: I promised to tell you something about Medan. That it is a shadow of its former self, you will surely believe. The well-kept houses, the neatly trimmed lawns—no longer there. Everywhere that dirty gray war color instead of the bright white of earlier times. Here and there a front gallery with a torn screen. In the gardens, overgrown hedges and paths full of weeds. You hardly see flowers. On the building of the Netherlands Trading Company, grass is growing. Even Hotel de Boer is neglected. But how could it be otherwise? The years of occupation—years of decay and breakdown—did not pass Medan unnoticed.
But this image of decline will disappear. Work is being done, and De Boer is no longer an “Amacab” hotel; it has been returned to its rightful owners, who will surely do more than just raise the prices. Maybe now we will get bread without boeboek (weevils) and not corned beef every single day. Corned beef as croquettes, as omelette, as ragout, as steaks, as Gelderland sausage—we could not stand the sight of it anymore!
The Esplanade, Medan’s lungs, though now lying rather off-center, has also not improved. The English, who spoiled much, laid out a hockey field on it, using a sort of prepared jute sacks. Otherwise, the Esplanade now looks a bit like the Bilt sand dunes. Trenches were dug there, later partly filled in and now overgrown. The Esplanade has become pasture. Outside it was unsafe, so cattle had to graze in the city. Understandable. Bearded Bengalis now herd their big, stocky cattle there, watering them at the Nienhuys fountain. But this won’t last long either. Work is being done on the Esplanade, too, and it will come right.
And work is being done on the roads. Dark-skinned Indians carry black tar, cooking it in big iron drums. They scrape the roads clean and fill the holes. Progress is slow but steady, improving day by day. The old Deli spirit revives.
Let me name a few people. There is J.J. Priebee. Much honor has already been paid to Nienhuys, Jansen, and Cremer. Let us now pay tribute to Priebee. Getting older, but working as though gifted with eternal youth, he managed—under very difficult conditions—to call into existence an enterprise. Small perhaps, but still an enterprise. Tobacco is being planted again. From Helvetia the victory begins, and Priebee deserves the Order of Orange-Nassau. There is Teun Priebee, moving mountains of work, grumbling mostly about the food—which truly is poor, for what can be obtained or supplied here? Almost nothing.
There is Prins Visser, the man of the Deli Railway. A diplomat, a fine spirit. Do not trust too much the innocence of his blue eyes. Since the Linggadjati Agreement was signed in Batavia, Colonel P. Scholten, commander of Dutch forces in North Sumatra, took the initiative for a conference at the Residency House in Medan. Dutch and Republican civil and military figures attended, discussing the entire East Coast situation.
The Deli Railway runs “European” again from time to time. It’s a beginning, and Prins Visser chuckles. He looks forward to leaving in May, yet I know he would not have missed this period with all its difficulties and worries.
There is Kolkman, president of the AVROS, fighting in Batavia for the interests of the plantations, which are also the interests of this country. No better champion is imaginable. There is Dr. Verbef, who also returned to do his part. There is Hoefsmit of the R.C.M.A., busiest of us all—because Hoogendijk made the books so complicated, as he daily laments. Do not start him talking about stamps!
There is Hein Oldigs, the prototype of the Deli planter, now living in a tent on Mabar (an Arendsburg estate), because bandits besieging Medan found it necessary to burn down the compound. There is Van Houts of the Deli Bank, who recently presented himself over the microphone as the oldest resident, which he is not—surely it must be one of those two old gentlemen who were kidnapped by extremists when they ventured too far along the Bindjei road. They are back now.
There are so many. So many who have set themselves to help make Deli into Deli again. To rebuild. Do not think the labor awaiting them will be light. The inconveniences suffered so far will be child’s play compared to what is to come. But that is not counted. Prosperity will return. Plantations will deliver their products again. Ocean steamers will call at Belawan again. Prosperity and growth will come. And the men who went out now will—of course—be forgotten. But that does not matter. They did not come to immortalize themselves, but to make a beginning. They came because it is the tragic fate of all who have known these lands that they are always called back. They may leave for good, open to all the opportunities of the Old Country, but sooner or later the Call of the East returns. And how urgent was that call now that Deli was in distress! For this land, reader, this once-flourishing land, is in peril! Salvation must come soon. The political game has dragged on too long. It must end before it is too late.
Medan is no longer Medan. The houses are unkept, the lawns neglected. There is no barrel of beer, no cold-storage goods. The water we drink is often lukewarm, boiled, and without ice. But the spirit is strong. The old guard stands ready for its final leap. There is tragedy in it, but also heroism. They know they can leave once the task is fulfilled; once the beginning is made, the younger generation will come. Then they will depart, for good. The old guard prepares for the leap: once more the fierce, busy, seething life—and then, slowly, the evening of life, with the memory of something great. Something great that could never have been achieved without love for this land.
Aside from the neglect Medan has suffered, it has endured little. I am not speaking of the thefts committed by British Indian soldiers, nor the destruction of furniture and other belongings, which was revolting. In degree, there was little difference between Raffles’ interregnum and the “rule” of the British generals. But once houses and gardens are put in order again, outwardly little will differ from before the war. Inwardly, however, some things have changed. Whether these changes are lasting remains to be seen.
If you walk on the Esplanade in the morning, you will see in front of our Town Hall some stalls selling local delicacies, from es krim to pisang goreng. You will see groups of brown brothers sitting on the steps, legs dangling over the balustrades. And, to your surprise, you will see the red-and-white flag waving. The explanation: our Town Hall has been taken and held by Mr. Joesoef, a respectable man, exercising the honorable office of mayor. You may find it odd that, while our lives outside the demarcation line are never safe, an Indonesian mayor freely exercises his office among us. But that is how things are. Like our soldiers, who may fire—but only after having served first as targets. That is our indulgence, our patience, our weakness. We must especially spare the sensitivities of our opponents. We must not think we still have a say. That is why we cautiously call our Resident: Head of the Temporary Administrative Service.
You will also notice that the police force is partly Indonesian—another strange phenomenon—and that the Deli Railway is in Indonesian hands, though you already knew that.
We have now looked at the Esplanade and calmly walk up the Kesawan. You will not find Toko Epperlein anymore. Further along are two Chinese businesses: the Medan Restaurant and Broadway. By European standards, not very attractive. You would probably not go there with your wife. You may have read in the Netherlands about the chaos in Medan—that many shops were closed and thousands of Bombay traders fled. On the Kesawan, not a single shop is closed, except Seng Hap. The Ionic columns on a Chinese shop in an Eastern street still look just as odd. But otherwise, all doors are open.
As for those thousands of fleeing Bombay traders: my friend Pertap-Singh told me indeed about 2,500 men, women, and children who left after the war, but these were people who had already wanted to return home during the war. The correspondent’s statement was not entirely untrue, but tendentiously presented. But absolutely untrue is his claim that Japanese officers were still living in luxury in Medan as late as December. That belongs to the realm of fables.
It is also not true that “very many Chinese have closed their shops.” I would not know where that is supposed to be. Certainly not on the Kesawan. I have been told that a “kedeh” (shop) there costs ƒ15,000 N.I. as wang koppie (the right to take over a business). If such sums are paid, trade cannot be doing too badly.
The social center for the European community is “the Soos,” housed in the H.V.A. office building. Essentially a military club, but civilians are admitted in limited numbers. Pleasant it is not. The building, though a fine office, is not suited to a club. Despite good concerts and decent theater, life in Medan is still not enjoyable. The feeling of being trapped is unpleasant. Eating almost the same vegetables every day is unpleasant. The sense that your salary is never enough, and you cannot explain it to your directors, is most unpleasant. It is high time for change.
We are not supporters of Linggadjati. We expect no salvation from it. Yet we almost wished the agreement were signed, because our hands itched to get to work. (A few days after this letter was sent, the writer had his wish: Linggadjati was signed.) What the outcome will be, we shall see. Everything has always “turned out” in the East. We are ready to work with the Indonesians. We are preparing for it already. We expect Indonesian labor inspectors, Indonesian assistants, later Indonesian administrators. Why not? If they have character, knowledge, and the ability to deal with their own countrymen as we have always done, then they must have a place in their own land—even in the great plantations. We understand this completely.
This I can tell you, esteemed reader: if our opponents think as we do, then things will go well. But let it happen soon, for the land is languishing.
📖 Source: Oost en West, April 1947.
Oost en West; maandblad der Koninklijke Vereeniging, jrg 40, 1947, no. 9, 25-04-1947
Stories from Deli 
Leave a comment