Young Jamal Infiltrates The Enemy

A Short Story by Mochtar Lubis (1950)

I hadn’t seen my old friend young Jamal in a long time. Not since he came to me full of big plans—none of which ever panned out. Then, months later, I ran into him again. By then, everything had changed. The Dutch had launched their second big military offensive. Yogyakarta had fallen. Those who hadn’t taken to the hills to fight were left behind in the occupied cities. And among them, there were two kinds of people—those who refused to work with the Dutch, and those who, as they put it, were trying a “new strategy.”

I spotted young Jamal just as he was stepping out of a big Dutch government office, a leather briefcase tucked under his arm. I stopped and called out to him. I wanted to know how he was doing. The last I’d heard, he’d been in Yogyakarta, getting ready to head for Sumatra with some great scheme to start a massive mining operation there.

He turned and hurried over, but before I could say a word, he leaned in close and whispered, “Sshh, not here. Someone might hear.”

He acted like some kind of secret agent, and it sure surprised me. My mouth was already half open to ask him something, but I shut it again. Young Jamal grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the building. Only after we’d walked a good fifty yards, he turned to face me and he grinned.

“I’ve been meaning to stop by your place,” he said, “but I’ve been too busy. Too much work. New plans.” He jerked his thumb back at the building. “I work there now.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “But that’s a Dutch office.”

“Yeah,” he said, perfectly calm.

“So, you’re with NICA* now?”

Jamal spun toward me, his eyes flashing with anger.

“You’ve got some nerve calling me NICA,” he snapped. “That’s the problem with our people—we’re too quick to brand others as enemy spies, traitors, corrupt, lapdogs of the Dutch. You too, huh? You know me. You know what I’ve done for this country. Remember my library? All those rare books I left behind for the cause? After December 19th, I went into the mountains, fought as a guerrilla for two months. And what have you been doing? Sitting around in Jakarta, pretending to fight the good fight while you go to the movies, eat at restaurants, dance at parties. Just you wait—there’ll be a reckoning.”

He was furious I had called him NICA.

“Then what exactly are you doing?” I asked carefully.

Jamal’s anger melted away. He smiled—a knowing, self-satisfied smile. He leaned in and whispered, “I’m infiltrating.”

“Oh,” I said.

Maybe he thought I was impressed. Who knows? But whatever the case, his whole mood shifted. He laughed, slapped me on the shoulder.

“How?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, like a teacher humoring a slow student. “That’s because all you ever read are cowboy stories and detective novels. You see, in this fight, we have to be flexible. If you’d ever read Machiavelli, you wouldn’t be so quick to call me NICA. We have to adjust our tactics to the times. When it was time for bamboo spears, we fought with bamboo spears. When it was time to yell ‘Ready!’ we yelled ‘Ready!’ When it was time to riot, we rioted. When it was time to strike, we went on strike. When it was time for rallies, we rallied. When it was time for war, we fought. But if war isn’t an option anymore, we change tactics. Otherwise, we’re just bashing our heads against a stone wall. And what good is that? All we’d be doing is breaking our own skulls. What does that accomplish? Nothing. It only weakens our own side.”

To me, it all sounded like the kind of reasoning only a shameless opportunist could come up with. And honestly, if Jamal ever did bash his skull against a wall, I doubted anyone but him would feel the loss. But maybe I was just bitter—bitter because of all those grand business schemes he’d once dangled in front of me, promising fortunes from sugar, vanilla, quinine, and tens of tons of cigars. None of it ever came through.

So I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

“But,” I asked, “what if everyone did what you’re doing? What if Sukarno, General Sudirman, Hatta, Sjahrir—what if all of them started working with the Dutch? What then? The Dutch would win, wouldn’t they?”

Jamal shot me a look of complete annoyance.

“That’s an impractical question,” he said. “Of course, people like them have to keep fighting. Don’t talk like a child.”

I let it go. Arguing with Jamal felt pointless. He had Machiavelli on his side. I didn’t.

He laughed, rubbed his hands together like a man with an ace up his sleeve. “You’ll see soon enough. I’ll bring some of my work over to your place. I’m a deputy head of a public information office now. We publish magazines, books. We support theater groups and the arts. Imagine if I wasn’t there—some weak-kneed fool would take my place, someone the Dutch could easily manipulate. Then all the propaganda would be pure poison against us. But with me there, I can make sure things don’t get too bad. I can even slip in a little propaganda for our side.”

“And the Dutch don’t notice?”

Jamal laughed.

“They don’t know a damn thing. I tell them what’s good and what’s not, and they just nod and go along with it.”

Then he turned the conversation on me, asking if I had a job yet. I told him no.

“You’re an idiot,” he said. “Come work with us. There’s an opening. Better us than someone loyal to the Dutch, right?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said.

Jamal smirked. “It takes guts. It’s not easy. If your faith isn’t strong, you can slip. Big salary, plenty of perks, a car to ride around in. Of course, some people will call you names.” He laughed, slapped my shoulder. “You’ll see for yourself. I’ll drop by soon. We’ve got plans. Big plans for the struggle ahead.”

Then he flagged down a taxi and climbed in. I thought to myself, he sure looks impressive. But I was also annoyed. He didn’t even offer to let me ride with him. I could have saved half a rupiah on the tram fare.

A few days later, he showed up at my place, arms full of books, magazines, and posters. He laid them on the table, waved his hands like a magician about to perform a trick.

“Look at my work.”

He divided the materials into two piles.

“This is from before I started there,” he said, pointing to one stack. “And this is from after I came in. See the difference?”

I skimmed through them. In one of the older magazines, it said, “The Royal Netherlands Army is here to liberate the Indonesian people from the oppression of Republican troops, who rob, burn, and murder.”

In a newer one, it read, “Now the people demand justice and independence, and it’s the duty of the Royal Netherlands Army to protect and restore this freedom.”

“See the difference?” Jamal said, grinning.

I nodded.

“We’ve already brought in plenty of people who think the same way,” he said, pleased with himself. “Think it over. The position is still open. If you’re a real nationalist, you have to be brave. Ignore the fools calling us names. History will prove us right.”

Then he was off.

Weeks later, I ran into him again. He was waiting for a tram, standing in the hot sun.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

Jamal smiled. “I quit.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m moving into business now. Big opportunities. Modernizing Indonesian commerce. The office is already full of people willing to work with the Dutch.”

Before I could ask about his big business plans, the tram arrived. He jumped onto the running board. From the step he shouted, “I’ll drop by soon. We’ll talk plans.”

When he does, I’ll tell you about it. Maybe I’ll call that story Jamal Becomes An Importer.

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*NICA – Netherlands Indies Civil Administration (Dutch: Nederlandsch-Indische Civiele Administratie

Source: Si Djamal Berinfiltrasi (Young Jamal Infiltrates The Enemy) is a story from the short story collection of Lubis, Mochtar. Si Djamal : dan tjerita2 lain / oleh Mochtar Lubis Gapura Djakarta 1950, p. 25.

Featured image credit: Nederlands: Collectie / Archief : Fotocollectie Van de Poll, Reportage / Serie : Oorlogsvrijwilligers in Malakka en Indonesië; Beschrijving : Aankomst van medewerkers van de NICA (Netherlands Indies Civil Administration) op het vliegveld Kemajoran; Datum : 19 november 1945; Locatie : Indonesië, Kemajoran, Nederlands-Indië; Trefwoorden : auto’s, vliegtuigen; Fotograaf : Poll, Willem van de, [onbekend]; Auteursrechthebbende : Nationaal Archief; Materiaalsoort : Negatief (zwart/wit); Nummer archiefinventaris : bekijk toegang 2.24.14.02; Bestanddeelnummer : 255-6947; Date 19 November 1945; Source http://proxy.handle.net/10648/aee6c4e8-d0b4-102d-bcf8-003048976d84; Author Willem van de Poll