Free Child of All Nations by Pramoedya Ananta Toer Page A

were strong as well? The Yellow Peril, sirs, the Yellow Peril. Be careful, very careful. Japan is already a reality; China can likewise become a reality, whether we like it or not. Perhaps we won’t ever see it ourselves. But be very careful, because time keeps moving on, whether we like it or not.”
    Then one day a letter from Nijman landed on my desk—for me. He hoped that I could come to the editorial offices to write up an English-language interview with a Chinese youth.
    An interview in English, not Dutch! If there is anyone who cannot see that this is a great advance, I don’t know what to say to them. Mama had no objections. Like my own mother, she never forbade me anything. Also like Mother, she supported everything I did, as long as I was prepared to bear the risk and as long as it did not harm anyone else.
    So it seemed that it was only Jean Marais who objected. He began the argument a week ago. “Minke, I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time, but I’ve always held back,” he said, “even though I feel it my duty.”
    “What is it, Jean?”
    “It’s like this, Minke. You have become famous and respected because of your writings. No one can deny that. But my opinion is different. Perhaps my opinion originally comes from you. Look, Minke, I feel the respect you have obtained doesn’t come from your writing. It is respect for your character. You present and show things differently. It is all uniquely Minke. Your writing is only an emanation, no, not even that, just a reflection of your character. You are a very interesting individual. Fortunately you have mastered Dutch, so you write in Dutch.”
    From the beginning my suspicions were aroused. Perhaps his opinions were only secondhand too—he didn’t read Dutch. And he didn’t normally speak for so long at once. I didn’t like being lectured to like this. If all he wanted to do was to free himself from his dependence on me, I didn’t see why he had to start off with a speech. It was his right to stand on his own feet. It was good if he felt he could stand alone now. I too would join in thanking God.
    But the way he delivered his little speech made me feel he was letting out some suppressed emotion, ready to explode.
    “Yes, Jean?”
    “There is something I feel is a great pity. Something that thousands of other people feel is a great pity too: Why do you only write in Dutch? Who do you only speak to the Dutch and the others who understand their language? You owe nothing to them, just as your mother once told you. What do you expect from them that makes you want to speak only to them?”
    My prejudice made me feel his words were jumping out atme, without any humility: arrogant, piercingly lecturing, even reprimanding me. My anger welled up and overflowed. I sensed he was preparing to entrap me. He wanted me to write in Malay so that he himself could read my writings directly, while destroying my fame and achievement and prestige. I gazed at him with bulging, angry eyes.
    “Are you angry, Minke?” he asked in an arrogant tone of voice.
    I restrained my fury. Whatever else, he was my friend, not an enemy. He must not become a former friend. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to face reality: my character, my individuality, could not be separated from the Dutch language. To separate these things would only make this person named Minke nothing better than roadside rubbish.
    “So you want me to write in Malay,” I asked, “so that no one will read what I write? In a language that you can understand?”
    “You’ve got it wrong, Minke. I personally am not a factor in this. I’m only speaking like this for your own benefit. Malay is used more than any other language in the Indies, much more than Dutch.”
    I rejected his proposition. “Why don’t you accept reality? Only those with little or no education read Malay.”
    Jean seemed to be offended, perhaps because he himself couldn’t speak Dutch. And indeed I wanted him to be offended, to be hurt.