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Facts and fancies about Java (1898)

Facts and fancies about Java

(1898)–Augusta de Wit–rechtenstatus Auteursrecht onbekend

Vorige Volgende

A ‘Dessa.’

Batavia folk have a habit of alluding to the interior of the island as ‘Java,’ very much as if is were some far and foreign country with which they and the town they live in had no concern whatever. ‘Such and such is the custom in Java,’ they will say, when describing native institutions. During my stay on the Tjerimai, I began to understand the meaning of such seemingly senseless phrases, which are geographically absurd but ethnically true. Batavia is no more part of Java in the real and proper acceptation of the term, than the white-washed rafters of its houses are part of

the green and living wood. Nor are the Javanese syces, artisans, and clerks one encounters in the streets true representatives of a race, agricultural in all its instincts and habits, and at home only amidst its rice-fields and palm-groves. Whoever would see the country and the people as they really are must live for some time in a ‘dessa,’ such as the one on the hill-side near which our bungalow was situated.

The plan and general appearance of these native villages are about the same, it would appear, throughout the length and breadth of Java. A cluster of bamboo huts, all standing in their own grounds, surrounded by a quickset hedge: a main road, from which numerous by-paths diverge, leading across; in the centre, an open space or square, shaded by waringin-trees, where the mosque, and also the habitation of the village chief stand; and, surrounding the whole, like a lofty green rampart, a dense plantation of bamboo trees, which

completely hides the village from sight. Around, stretch meadows, rice-fields, and plantations of nipah-palm, which, in many cases, are the property of the community.

Where this particular form of proprietorship obtains, the village authorities assign portions of the communal fields in usufruct to such inhabitants of the dessa as will pledge themselves in return to pay certain taxes, and to perform certain duties entailed by the possession of landed property, the principal of which are keeping the roads and irrigation works in repair, and guarding the gates or patrolling the streets at night.

They are obliged to observe the prescriptions of the ‘adat,’ and such regulations as the village authorities may deem proper to make, in the cultivation of their fields. Very strict supervision is exercised in this matter, so as to prevent the occupier from exhausting, either through ignorance

or neglect, the field, which at the expiration of his lease, will be allotted to another member of the community. Disobedience to the commands of the village authorities is punishable by forfeiture of the right of occupation. In most districts, this communal right alternates with private proprietorship.

According to the ancient custom, which has been ratified by the Colonial Regulations, whosoever, of his own free will, reclaims a piece of waste ground, by that act acquires the possession of the same, and the right to transmit it to his heirs, the ‘hereditary individual right,’ as the legal term is, and any native, desirous to obtain land on these terms, can apply for permission to the Government, which, having taken the place of the ancient Sultans, is considered as the ‘Sovereign of the Soil.’ This permission is never refused. So that, under the communal regime as under the system of hereditary individual ownership, anyone who has the

will to work is sure of being able to earn a sufficiency for himself and his family. There need be no unemployed: there are no paupers in our sense of the word. Moreover, the interests of Labour are protected against the encroachments of Capital - which, in this case, means against the machinations of Chinese and Arab usurers, and eventually, against the enterprise of great landowners of the dominant race - by the Colonial Regulations forbidding natives to sell land to non-natives. but for this wise law, the Javanese, who gladly sells his standing crops at a-half or even a-third of their value, if by doing so he can obtain some ready cash with which to buy new clothes or give a ‘slamettan,’ would long since have lost every parcel of his native soil to the speculating foreigner. At the bottom, this clause of the Colonial law is nothing but an extension of the principle that pervades the native customs in the matter of landed pro-

perty; to wit, that the claims and interests of the community are in every case paramount, and override those of the individual. The Colonial Regulations consider the entire nation as a community, whilst the native law regards the dessa as such, and to its interests subordinates the claims and rights of individuals far more expressly than do the Colonial Regulations by the prohibition to natives of selling land to non-natives.* For, not only has the native law a corresponding enactment in the prohibition to the householders and landowners of one dessa to sell their property to the inhabitants of another, save under restricting conditions and subject to the approval of the village authorities, but it even empowers the

‘chiefs and elders’ of the dessa to dispose of ground, belonging to the inhabitants, for the purpose of constructing new habitations for immigrants upon whom they have conferred the rights of citizenship. Measures like these are not felt to be tyrannical or unjust by the Javanese of the dessa, born and bred in the conception of his individual dependency on, and solidarity with, the community of which he is a member. In him, the inherited communistic sentiment is so strongly developed, that he but rarely, if ever, avails himself of the facilities, affored him by the Government, of converting his right of usufruct under the system of communal possession of the ground, into that of hereditary individual property; he prefers that the dessa should remain the owner of the land.

This sentiment of solidarity makes itself more or less felt in all the manners and customs of the Javanese. Private festivities, with them, become matters

of public concern. In the dedication of a house or a field, in the ‘slamettan’ given at the birth of a child, in the solemnities of a burial, in the rejoicings at a wedding, the entire population of a dessa participates. During our stay on the Tjerimai, we had occasion to convince ourselves of this. A marriage was being arranged in the neighbouring village, between a good-looking youth and a pretty maiden, who had made each other's acquaintance in the usual manner, during the long days of common work and play in the ripe rice-fields. The village scholar, consulted as to the young couple's chances of happiness, had declared the cabbalistic signification of their added initials to be ‘a broadly-branching waringin-tree,’ which is the symbol of health, riches, and a numerous progeny. Thus reassured as to the future of their children, the parents had discussed the dowry, and, after a great deal of haggling and protesting, at last agreed upon a sum

about half-way between the amount originally offered by the bridegroom's parents and the demanded by the father of the bride. In due course, then, the youth had sent the customary presents of food, clothes, and domestic utensils to the house of his bride. And now he was busy preparing himself for the great day. He had had his teeth filed almost to the gums, and blackened till they shone like lacquer, so that his enthusiastic mother and sisters compared his mouth to the ripe pomegranate, in which the black seeds show through the red flesh. And, day by day, he went to the village-priest to recite to him the words of the marriage-formula, which he did, sitting up to his chin in the cold water of the tank behind the mosque, the priest standing over him, Koran in hand. The bride, on her side, had been living on a diet of three teaspoonfuls of rice and a glass of hot water per diem, so as to lose flesh and - according to Javanese notion - gain

beauty for the important day: and, to the great satisfaction of her family, she was now so thin that they could almost see the flame of the oil-wick shining through her.

Meanwhile, the entire population of the dessa was busy with preparations for the marriage-feast. The women might be seen all day long, under the pent-roof of the bride's house, at the rice-block, in the kitchen, pounding rice, boiling vegetables, shredding cayenne pepper and all manner of condiments, for the innumerable dishes which figure at a festive Javanese repast. And the young men were chopping fire-wood and carrying water, as if for their livelihood. On the wedding-day, these youths formed the escort of the bridegroom on his way to the mosque, where the marriage-contract was concluded between him and the representative of the bride, and from thence they conducted him in solemn procession to the bride's house. Afterwards, they acted as bearers of the

litter in which the bride and her maidens sat.

These young men and the girls who had been so busy with the cooking of the meal, all belonged, as I was told, to a society, or village-club, established for the purpose of conducting festivities, private of public. This club possesses mats, crockery, kitchen utensils, and other requisites; the necessary money is obtained by fines levied on such of the members as neglect the duties assigned to them, and the membership is compulsory on landowners and their families. Societies of this kind are found in every community. As might be expected, the principle of solidarity, which pervades all these laws and customs, manifests itself even more strongly in the domestic life of the dessa-folk. The ties of kinship (though not those of marriage) are much respected by them. Parents are so absolutely sure of the love and filial piety of their children, that they often, as they grow older, abandon all their

property to them, content to live for the remainder of their days as their sons' and daughters' pensioners. And, even the most distant relation, who, like the nearest, is termed brother of sister, may count, in case of need, upon assistance and hospitality. Parents are free to bequeath their property as they like; and they sometimes give everything to the first-born son or daughter, without any of the other children protesting. But, just as frequently, the heritage is left to all the descendants in common, when the paternal house is enlarged, so as to afford room for all the married sons and daughters and their families, and the produce of the fields is equally divided amongst them, just as they equally divide the labour and the toil. Thus, through all chances and changes, the communistic principle is still maintained in the small community of the family, as just as it is in the greater one of the dessa. And indeed, it might be said that the dessa is but the enlarged

paternal house of the Javanese. All the inhabitants of it are his kinsfolk and nearest of blood, whose interests are his own, whose prosperity or misery is bound up with his, and who are his natural allies in defending the common inheritance against the stranger. The bamboo enclosure which defines and defends the dessa, and the environing fields - the common possession of all - are symbols and outward visible signs of this.

The colonial policy of the Dutch - which is based upon the principle that the natives should be governed through the intermediary of native chiefs, and as much as possible after the spirit of native institutions - has recognized the peculiar character of the Javanese dessa, by granting it an almost absolute autonomy in all strictly local matters. The affairs of the community are managed by the village-chief, chosen by popular vote from among the landowners of the dessa. He is confirmed in his office by a decree of the Government, sanction

being withheld only in case of unfitness on account of had conduct or mental or physical debility. The village-chief is assisted by a council, likewise chosen by the inhabitants of the dessa, and, in some places, he shares his authority with the elders of the village. Between them, they manage the daily affairs of the dessa. They distribute the communal fields; assign to each landowner the labour he is to perform for the dessa, and his share in the taxes and the service-duty imposed by the Government; fix the dates for the preparation of the fields, the sowing, transplanting and reaping of the rice, and for the public festivals celebrated on these occasions; decide quarrels; impose fines; and control the village school. The official in charge of the district, to which the dessa belongs, and the relation between whom and the native chiefs is expressed in their official denominations of ‘elder and younger brother,’ abstains from all direct interference in these

matters. He controls ‘his younger brother’ in the use he makes of the authority entrusted to him, in the double capacity of protector of his dessa and agent of the Colonial Government. He forbids such measures only as would infringe upon established rights, or are contrary to the public interest. Thus, the village-chief is left free to govern his dessa according to the prescriptions of the ‘adat,’ the immemorial unwritten code, which to the Javanese is supreme.

The colonial policy of the Hollanders has respected many of these peculiarities, which as government less liberal in its conceptions and with a bureaucratic zeal for uniformity would long since have obliterated. Local colour and romance are all the better for it: and so, it would seem, is the native population. If, at least, I may be allowed to judge from impressions gained during visits to dessas in several districts of Java - impressions, I grant it, necessarily superficial and incomplete - I would

venture to say, that the people of the villages lead a happy life.

I shall never forget my last glimpse of one of these hill dessas - the village road, clean and trim like a garden path, with the neat brown huts on either side; the rice-barns, in shape like a child's cradle full of sweet new rice, and the stables, where small dun-coloured cattle stood patiently chewing the cud. The men were all out in the fields; but plump, merry-eyed children were playing in the road, and, here and there, under the pent-roof of a house, a woman sat at her loom, or was painting with gandy colours the white sarong cloth. The brown monotony of bamboo walls and roofs was broken, in places, by the green of banana groves, by clusters of fruit-laden palms, and by the dark verdure of jambu trees, which dyed the ground purple with falling blossoms. My road lay through the stubbly dessa-fields, golden in the setting sun, where the labour for

the new harvest - the second the year, which would be followed by a third - had already begun. A pair of powerful grey oxen, yoked to a plough, were drawing a straight furrow through a field, slowly but surely: the owner's little son, sitting perched on the handle of the plough, directed them. That night, long after the last cricket had eased his song, the thin clear notes of the gamelan resounded from the heights.


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