The Last of the Perkeniers of Banda
The Jakarta Post - WEEKENDER | Sun, 10/26/2008 4:46 PM |
Pongky van den Broeke knows all too well how life can be as bittersweet as the prized nutmeg that brought his ancestors to Maluku’s fabled “spice islands”. Today, he relives for Hugh Collett the tragedy that changed his life.
It’s late afternoon as Pongky takes me across the road from his simple concrete-block home to the van den Broeke family cemetery, with graves dating back 200 years.
As Pongky takes me back to his destroyed old home and I take his photo with his two young daughters in the gateway of the old mansion, he points to the new nutmeg trees he has planted in the land across the road from his home. In a few years they will bear fruit, replace older trees, provide income and renew his family’s stake in this place. In a similar way, his daughters and grandchildren and all young Bandanese growing up after 1999 carry the hope of renewal as they grow up in a more peaceful and harmonious Banda.
Pongky van den Broeke sits on the steps of his former home and waves me goodbye as I head back across the harbor. His friendly salute, the quiet lap of the waves and the tranquil harbor hide his personal turmoil. For the grand house he once lived in is a gutted shell, burned and ransacked by an angry mob who then, 10 meters from where he sits, brutally murdered most of his family – his wife, two daughters, mother and aunt. Only his son survived.
That was in 1999. Now, almost 10 years later, he sits and quietly, patiently, reflectively tells the story of his life.
But the van den Broeke story is bigger than this one man: The family’s history is tied up with that of the Bandas, a tiny group of 13 islands in eastern Indonesia, southwest of Ambon.
For five centuries, when the islands were the sole source of the world’s nutmeg and mace, successive colonial powers – Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, French, British – battled for control of the spice, which at the time was worth more in Europe than its weight in gold. The Dutch, through the Dutch East Indies Company, had the most enduring influence. The 17th century Dutch settlers divided the islands into 68 perken or plantations. Those who settled were the perkeniers of Banda. One of the first was a van den Broeke.
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The gutted shell of a house that stands on the van den Broeke land on Banda Besar today was once a grand mansion, built from the tremendous earnings that nutmeg generated in its heyday. During my visit, I tried to imagine it in its glory, thinking of the restored mansions in nearby Banda Neira: colonnaded fronts, large windows, high ceilings with heavy wooden beams, glittering chandeliers, tiled floors and the most luxurious furnishings that nutmeg could buy.
The house was a solid sign of the family’s presence in the Bandas, a presence dating back to 1624, when Paulus van den Broeke, convinced by his older brother to take up a perken, established a nutmeg plantation on the island of Ai. It was later expanded to include four other concessions, including two on Banda Besar, the largest of the islands.
But by the late 19th century, fluctuations in the nutmeg trade combined with natural disasters saw the family’s holding shrink to one 43-hectare concession, “Groote Waling”, on Banda Besar, managed by Pongky’s grandfather, Heer van den Broeke. Heer, however, seems to have done all right. He lived comfortably in his well-furnished seafront mansion and was later able to send all his four children to study in the Netherlands. Only one of them, Benny William – Pongky’s father – came back.
What Pongky remembers best about his grandfather is his positive attitude in the face of losses – and great losses they were. When the Japanese occupied Banda in 1942, Heer was interned in Makassar, returning after three years to learn that not only had his former plantation been neglected, but the government of the newly independent Republic of Indonesia had nationalized all of the perken. Heer lost everything, living out his days in virtual poverty on Banda Neira.
Where Heer failed, Benny succeeded, winning in 1978 the right to farm 12 of the 43 hectares of Groote Waling – the rest was allocated to local residents – and reclaimed the original van den Broeke home.
Pongky, born and raised in Surabaya, had little interest in Banda, an isolated, undeveloped place; it was inaccessible, and without electricity, good communications or adequate health or education. He stayed in Jakarta where he married and had four children.
But someone had to take over as his father aged. In 1990, Pongky and his family moved to the island where he learned about running a nutmeg plantation. He found that, in the end, it wasn’t so bad. With his fine residence and 12 hectares of nutmeg trees, free of the pressures and pollution of city life, Pongky was content. His plantation was productive; most seasons were good. His children went to school and the family – Pongky, his wife, children, elderly mother and aunt – were happy in their new home.
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On the night of April 19, 1999, the power failed in Pongky’s house. The only noise was his mother coughing. Maybe that, he thinks, was what alerted the mob prowling around outside.
Times were tense. The inter-religious fighting that had begun in Ambon earlier that year was starting to threaten other areas. As the troubles escalated in Ambon, a steady stream of refugees, mainly Christian, came to find new homes. After the killing of a Muslim man by a Christian on the island of Hatta in the Banda group, the violence spilled over onto the otherwise peaceful Banda Neira. Despite the trouble, the van den Broekes stayed: Pongky had promised his late father he would not abandon the land and never imagined what could happen.
When Pongky heard the mob trying to enter the compound, he fled, thinking they were after him and his important land documents. He sought refuge in the hills, believing no one would harm defenseless women and children, and the neighbors would protect them. But his neighbors were terrified as the mob torched the house and other buildings on the property and then cut the family’s throats with machetes – Pongky’s Javanese wife, two daughters aged 8 and 12, mother, aunt and 15-year-old son.
Pongky heard of the massacre while still in hiding, but did not return for another two days. He came back to find his home a smoldering ruin, his workers’ houses and the nutmeg processing plant destroyed. The women had been buried by then so all that remained were five freshly dug graves. The only ray of light was that his son, Edo, had survived the attack; he later recovered fully in a hospital in Jakarta.
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It’s late afternoon as Pongky takes me across the road from his simple concrete-block home to the van den Broeke family cemetery, with graves dating back 200 years.
The biggest and most recent grave is a large slab of concrete marked into five sections. He points to his wife’s grave at the end, his two daughters next to hers, then his mother’s and aunt’s. There is no gravestone. Those who matter know who lie here so names seem unimportant.
The police tracked down the killers, who were tried and sentenced to eight to 20-year prison terms. Some were local Bandanese – some even his near neighbors – and others Ambonese who had provoked the local people in their attacks.
Some of the killers, now free and walking the same streets as Pongky and Edo, have asked for forgiveness but only God can grant that, Pongky says. His face is impassive and strained as he tells me that he is slowly getting over the shock of that night. He has remarried, with a Bandanese Muslim (and has converted) and has two more daughters. He still cannot explain why he and his family were targeted that night.
Maybe, Edo suggests, because Pongky and his family were Christian (although no other Christian families on the islands were killed). Maybe his ownership of land was a source of jealousy. Maybe there were long-standing grievances against the van den Broeke family. Or maybe it was just revenge, stoked by outsiders and injustices in far off Ambon, or raw anger inflamed by the recent killings and violence on neighboring Banda Neira. No one else I spoke to on Banda could offer exact reasons either – or were reluctant to talk about them.
Seeking revenge, Edo tells me, won’t bring back the loved ones back, any more than seeking compensation will bring back the family land.
Fate has dealt the van den Broeke family a harsh hand at times. We talk of fate and of the will of Allah. Pongky smiles and shrugs. Talk will not change the past.
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As Pongky takes me back to his destroyed old home and I take his photo with his two young daughters in the gateway of the old mansion, he points to the new nutmeg trees he has planted in the land across the road from his home. In a few years they will bear fruit, replace older trees, provide income and renew his family’s stake in this place. In a similar way, his daughters and grandchildren and all young Bandanese growing up after 1999 carry the hope of renewal as they grow up in a more peaceful and harmonious Banda.
But with nutmeg now fetching a reasonable Rp 50,000 per kilogram, Pongky’s 12 hectares give him enough to live on, he says. He knows the rest of the family land is gone forever: To reclaim it now would mean taking land away from others.
Edo too sees his future here in Banda. He misses city life, but has a strong desire to continue his family legacy. So he and his family – he is now married with children, and has become Muslim like his wife – he will one day take over the van den Broeke plantation on Banda Besar, the 14th generation of perkeniers to do so.
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As I say goodbye to Pongky, I think of the tumultuous history of this place, the turmoil and intrigue, rivalries and conflict, extremes of wealth and poverty, excesses of colonialism and freedom and the war and bloodshed these islands have witnessed and endured. The events of history seem at odds with the lush forested islands, tranquil seas and quiet, sleepy towns with their friendly people.
Pongky tells me his father’s and grandfather’s favorite place to sit in the afternoon sun was on the steps of their mansion where they could look over the water to the town of Banda Neira. And that’s where he sits as I leave, a piece of living history waving from the shore.
With sincere thanks to Pongky and Edo van den Broeke, Banda.
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