By Eric Vandenbroeck and co-workers
In the summer of
1919, the embassies and hotels in Paris remained crowded with delegates for
Versailles' peace conference. It was on 18 June, shortly before the peace
treaty was signed with Germany, that yet another petition began to make the
rounds, entitled ‘Demands of the Annamite People’ and signed ‘Nguyen Ai Quoc’ –
‘Nguyen the Patriot.’ It elicited a few polite, non-committal responses. The
British Foreign Office refused categorically to acknowledge it.
The demands in
themselves were moderate enough. They called for freedom of the press and
association, the right to education; equality under the law; and government
decree abolition. They asked for an amnesty for political prisoners and
‘freedom of emigration’ and residence overseas. In many ways, it was a cri de cœur of the village abroad. There was something about the
missive – its tone, its presumption in speaking directly to power – that
instantly got under the skin of French officials. ‘Nguyen the Patriot’ was
clearly a pseudonym, and, appalled by his audacity, by what they referred to
continually as his ‘libel,’ they tried to find out everything they could about
the person or persons behind the name.
The “Demands of the
Annamite People” claimed to speak for the inhabitants of the part of French
Indochina that is today the heart of Vietnam. The petition, writes, was one of
many into which was decanted the hopes of entire peoples. It was received
politely by Woodrow Wilson and even the president of the French republic. But
its tone, of presuming to speak directly to power, got under the skin of the
French authorities, who had built an empire in Indochina on the back of forced
labor, while plantations ran their own private prisons. As the document
circulated among the diplomatic missions and, within two months, hit Hanoi's
streets, the security services knew that its author, Nguyen Ai Quoc, a
pseudonym meaning “Nguyen the Patriot” (today better known as Ho Chi Minh) was
in some way important. They were to maintain that conviction for more than
three decades. Briefly, Nguyen Ai Quoc would break cover, for instance, to
address political meetings in Paris, scruffily dressed. Yet the expanding
secret-police files on him reflected official frustration. He lied about his
age, his name, his origins, and his profession. He changed his accent to suit.
Time and again, Nguyen Ai Quoc slipped like quicksilver through the fingers of
imperial powers. His shadow was found in libraries, cafés, and boarding houses
across France, in port cities such as Singapore and New York, and even in the
London suburb of Ealing; one rumor had him as a
pastry chef under the great Escoffier. His writings surfaced in illicit
journals in China and Korea. But just when the Sûreté
Générale picked up his scent again, he was gone.
In 1902, Japan had
allied with Britain in East Asia, and now events were drawing her closer to
France. A series of sensationalist reports in the Écho
de Paris in January 1905, headlined ‘The Yellow Peril,’ claimed that Japan
planned to use Taiwan, now also a colony of Japan, as a base to attack the
French in Indochina. By strange osmosis of animosity and opportunism, Japan
responded by strengthening ties with France. A Franco-Japanese Treaty was
signed in 1907, and the French immediately used it to put pressure on Japan’s
Vietnamese émigrés.As the Governor-General of
Indochina explained it to the minister of the colonies in Paris in July 1908,
the people of Vietnam could not be indifferent ‘to the events occurring in this
theatre of nations’ when their country, because of its long border with Siam,
rail links to China and sea lanes to the ports of China, Japan, and Southeast
Asia, lay in the middle of ‘the great Far Eastern highway.’
Later, during Nguyen
Ai Quoc, the 13ème arrondissement in Paris, around the Place d’Italie, became home to those who had come to work and
study. Chinese students and workers met people from across the colonial world
in the left-wing circles of L’Humanité and at the
public meetings, which Nguyen Ai Quoc continued to haunt. He was now known to
lead French socialists, such as Karl Marx’s grandson, Jean Longuet,
who had rallied support in Savarkar’s extradition case in 1910. Longuet recommended that Quoc read Das Kapital. Quoc put it
about that he used it as a pillow. But he moved closer to the socialists and
introduced five Chinese students to party work in the 13ème arrondissement. For
this reason, he was marked as the most dangerous of men, and his name traveled
across this world.
Chinese students now
came to France in larger numbers. The André Lebon,
arriving in October 1920, brought them from far inland, after a long river
journey from Sichuan province, and then thirty-nine days in steerage from
Shanghai. Some were very young: Deng Xiaoping left home at fifteen years of
age, funded by the Chongqing Chamber of Commerce, and was assigned to a private
school in Bayeux, Normandy. By this time, there were some 1,300 Chinese
work-study students in France, twenty-one of them women. Many of their leaders
were graduates of the Hunan First Normal School. The women came under the
auspices of a Hunan ‘Embroidery Company’, a fabrication to allow acceptance of
the idea of women abroad. One of the Hunan students, Cai Hesen,
traveled with his sister, Cai Chang, and their fifty-five-year-old mother. He
formed a romantic attachment on the voyage with Xiang Jingyu,
a friend of Changsha's family circle. Xiang had already founded a new model
girl’s school back home in Hunan. In France, in May 1920, she advocated, in a
local French version of the famed New Youth, study societies, nurseries,
student loan societies for women, and free choice in marriage. When Cai Hesen and Xiang Jingyu ‘married’
in the same month, they created a prototype for a new socialist ‘free love’;
there were no formalities, just a picture of them sitting together holding a
copy of Marx’s Das Kapital.
In 1920, the ‘lost
generation’ of many nations embraced Paris as a world capital of art,
literature, and pleasure; for others, it was the terminus of bitter exile. But
the close-knit communities of work-study students were formed in very different
conditions from the literary cafés of Montparnasse or Pigalle. Like many of the
working migrants, they concentrated in quartiers on the city's outskirts, such
as at the education association in La Garenne-Colombes,
where the anarchist Li Shizeng had set up his soya
bean factory before the war, and which many used as a poste restante. Others
went to smaller factory towns, where Chinese workers and ‘students as workers’
began to live together for the first time. By 1921, the Chinese population
amounted to the largest non-European community in France: 13,000. There was
increasingly less work for the students, and with no work, there was no study.
Many of the early arrivals, such as Zheng Chaolin,
awoke to the fact that they ‘had descended from the “petty bourgeoisie” into
the “proletariat”; simultaneously – was there a connection? – I stopped
thinking as a democrat and started thinking as a socialist, and I even started
acting as a socialist’. They scrutinized Russia's news with a searing
earnestness and debated it by mail with similar groups of students in China,
particularly the New Citizens’ Study Society in Hunan. Between 6 and 10 July
1920, a group of students gathered at a college in Montargis,
south of Paris, a town where the local municipal worthies had helped support a
small community of students in the hope of encouraging republican ideals in
China itself. To some extent, the meeting was a reading party: Cai Hesen brought over 100 western publications, and these were
divided up and discussed in groups. But the difficulties they faced in France
raised a fundamental question for the work-study program: how was it possible
that education by itself would bring change? The founding vision behind
work-study was, in the words of one student leader, Xiao Zisheng,
‘anarchism – without force – a Kropotkinist-style
revolution. This is more peaceful and perhaps slow, but even though slow, it is
peaceful.’ But others, witnessing a wave of labor strikes in France at first
hand, drew a different conclusion. At the meeting, Cai Hesen
tried unsuccessfully to form a Marxist party. In August 1920, he wrote to a
classmate of his and Xiao Zisheng’s from Hunan, Mao
Zedong. He predicted a Kerensky-style February revolution in China: ‘I believe
that a few young people will take part in it, but I hope you will not do so. I
hope you will prepare for the Russian October Revolution.’ He pointed to the
new Communist International in Moscow. Now back in Beijing, Mao replied to say
that he had already come to the same conclusion. In this constant exchange of
letters and ideas over long distances, it was hard to say who led or got there
first. In time, the students' return to China would draw together the different
strands of this discussion with explosive intensity.
These events posed a
fundamental question about the direction and purpose of universal history.
Liang Qichao and other late-Qing reformers had placed China within
world-historical time and broken away from the cyclical time of the old
dynastic order. This heightened awareness of both the synchronicities and
imbalances with other countries' experience, which the many journeys to Europe
had deepened. Now the Bolshevik Revolution had begun to create a new order,
albeit fragile and increasingly isolated in Russia. But Russia was an Asiatic
country and stood apart from the epicenter of capitalism's birth in western
Europe. A reappraisal of China’s place in time and the world followed from
this. How were Asian countries to be positioned within this new
world-historical moment? Did Europe always have precedence? For many voyagers,
especially those who had witnessed, at first hand, the crisis of Europe during
and after the First World War, the front line of the global struggle against
capitalism and imperialism lay not there, but in Asia, in remote, little-known
places seemingly at the wildest frontiers of human empire.
Then on Saturday, 14
August 1937, a bomb landed outside the Great World in Shanghai, killing 1,047
people and injuring 303 more. The amusement palace had been distributing free
food and drink to city dwellers under siege. The bomb was from a Chinese plane
and had been aimed at the Japanese cruiser Izumo. The Izumo had fought at the
Battle of Tsushima in 1905 and now bombarded Shanghai from the Huangpu River.
Other bombs exploded outside the Cathay and Peace Hotels. They marked the
beginning of the end of the international city. Chiang Kai-shek had chosen
Shanghai to make a stand because of the presence there of western residents and
the major news agencies. Over the coming weeks, his wife, Soong Mei-ling, would
make a radio address in English to broadcast the city’s plight to the world.1
The events in China in the summer of 1937 marked an escalation of the long
struggle to succession to the western imperial order. The Great Asian War could
trace its beginnings to 1914 when Japanese troops were committed to the siege
of Qingdao; it intensified with the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931 and
became global in compass after Japan launched its push to the south and across
the Pacific on 8 December 1941. It was longer and bloodier than the European
war, claiming 24 million lives in Japanese-occupied Asia, 3 million Japanese,
and 3.5 million more in India through the war-related famine. In the twelve
years after 1947, the foreign concessions in China would be swept away, the
British Raj and the Japanese empire would fall; so too would Chiang Kai-shek,
and new revolutionary regimes would arise in China, Vietnam, and
Indonesia.
From its earliest
stages, the Great Asian War absorbed many of the struggles of the Asian
underground. It came to Singapore early, with the arrival of political
refugees, many of them from Shanghai. This represented an unprecedented influx
of intellectuals: writers transformed local newspapers; artists discovered in
the archipelago new utopian possibilities; teachers took their radical outlook
into small-town schools. Tan Malaka was at the heart
of this, teaching English in a Chinese school in Singapore, living in a Chinese
neighborhood with Chinese friends, and a Chinese passport. A second united
front in China from 1937 brought the old adversaries, Chiang Kai-shek’s
Kuomintang and the Chinese Communist Party, into an uneasy alliance. In
Singapore, Malaya, and elsewhere, ‘National Salvation’ was a catalyst to a new
mass politics. The communist underground had hitherto failed to recover from
the arrests of 1931. It now seized the opportunity to widen its support in
schools, cultural circles, and trade unions. By 1939, as many as 700
associations, with over 40,000 members and ten times as many sympathizers, came
together to enforce a new boycott of the Japanese and rekindle the spirit of May
Thirtieth. The poet Yu Dafu, a one-time associate of
Guo Moruo, declared his arrival in exile in Singapore
that ‘there should be no dividing line between politicians, the military and
the intellectuals.’2 But the young men and women who heeded his call to struggle
tended to come from a more insular, small-town milieu: they were a different
generation, with a very different experience of the world. Over time, they gave
the movement a local rootedness within Malaya and a purchase in the countryside
it had hitherto lacked.3
For some of the older
generation, Japan’s vision for a ‘Greater East Asia’ still carried emotive
force. When Japan effectively occupied Indochina after France's fall in 1940,
Prince Cuong De campaigned to be its ruler, but in
vain. When Singapore fell to the Japanese on 15 February 1942, and large
numbers of Indian troops fell into their hands, Rash Behari Bose traveled south
to provide civilian leadership for an Indian National Army to fight in Burma
alongside Japan for the liberation of India. Rash Behari was soon to pass the
mantle to the man M. N. Roy had repeatedly tried to win to his cause: Subhas
Chandra Bose, whose road to Singapore, after his exile from India 1941 to evade
the British, was through an Axis underground from Berlin and Tokyo. In
Singapore, Bose rallied the Indians overseas on a scale never seen before; his
platform oratory was equally an inspiration to others. But Japanese pan-Asianism after 1941 was in a very different key to the
radical internationalism of the 1920s and 1930s. The ‘New Asia’ had the
imperial palace in Tokyo as its perpetual political and spiritual nucleus.
Nevertheless, many Asian nationalists seized the opportunity of the Japanese
occupation to advance their own cause. They adopted a martial militancy grounded
in an emotive appeal to youth, blood, and sacrifice, drawing on older
anti-colonial resistance memories. Subhas Chandra Bose’s movement followed many
old revolutionary networks pathways across Asia, drawing in South Asians across
class and religion from Tokyo, Singapore, and Bangkok. The military goal of
attacking Assam through Burma revived the central objective of the Ghadarites in 1915 and the Comintern
in 1931. Subhas Chandra Bose’s writings and speeches echoed older pan-Asianisms and the idea of Asia as a place for concerted
action against the empire. The veteran Rash Behari Bose lived long enough to
see the proclamation of a provisional government of Azad Hind in Singapore on
21 October 1943 and died in Tokyo on 21 January 1945.
The British did
everything in their power to prevent news of the Indian National Army from
reaching India. The new global conflict widened the fissures in Indian
politics. In September 1939, Lord Linlithgow took India into the war, as his
predecessor Lord Hardinge had done in 1914, without
consulting a single Indian. After 1942, Congress withdrew its cooperation with
the Raj, and most of its senior leadership went to jail. The Quit India
disturbances in 1942 were the most elemental challenge to the Raj since 1857.
But not all followed its logic of resistance. In May 1940, Roy held a ‘study
camp’ at the house he had taken with Ellen after joining him in India, in Dehra
Dun, in the Himalayan foothills, at some remove from the main national center's
politics. There, Roy argued that the global fight against fascism must take
precedence from his own long struggle logic. But when he stood for the
presidency of Congress in 1940 based on this policy, he was beaten by 183 to
1,864 votes by another global revolutionary from Bengal, Abul Kalam Azad,
standing on a platform non-cooperation. Roy’s sworn enemies, the Communist
Party of India, came to the same position as Roy after the Molotov-Ribbentrop
Pact's termination in June 1941. By standing aside at this high water of
anti-colonial protest, both groups played a high political price. Roy was
expelled from Congress and founded his own Radical Democrat Party. There was a
moment in early 1944, when the new viceroy, Lord Wavell, considered him for a
seat on his Council when he might have joined the mainstream of politics.
Wavell was well briefed on Roy’s past: ‘has been a Bengal terrorist,’ he noted
in his diary, ‘a worker for Germany, the Indian representative of the Comintern, expelled from France, imprisoned in India.’ But
Roy overplayed his hand, and Wavell concluded that he was still viceroy ‘and
did not propose to be vice-Roy.’4 In Dehra Dun, although he wrote prolifically,
producing far-sighted blueprints for India’s economic development and federal
governance, Roy was largely a bystander to the great events of the end of
empire in South Asia. It was Azad who led Congress until 1946 and, on 15 August
1947, became the first education minister of independent India, in the
government of the man Roy still referred to as ‘the Harrow Boy,’ Jawaharlal
Nehru.
The issue of war now
determined political futures. In China, the rural strategy set in motion by Mao
Zedong in Jiangxi in the aftermath of the Nanchang Rebellion's failure was
strengthened after a second Long March in 1934–5 to the base area of Yan’an in the north. This allowed the party to emerge after
the united front in 1945 with the peasant support and military resources
finally to take back the cities. Across East and Southeast Asia, the sudden
collapse of Japanese rule in Southeast Asia in August 1945 was merely a hiatus
before a new, deciding wave of civil war and anti-colonial rebellion, led by
groups that had also built up their own military resources, whether under
Japanese tutelage as in Indonesia or through guerrilla warfare in Malaya,
Vietnam, and the Philippines. Although some of the leaders of these struggles
had links to the global underground of the first decades of the century – Zhou
Enlai and Deng Xiaoping proved to be consummate political survivors – the rise
to the paramountcy of Mao within the Communist Party represented the
playing-out of his long struggle against the so-called ‘Moscow faction.’ Many
of those who inherited power had little direct connection to the pre-war
village abroad by fate or design. The leader of the Malayan Communist Party who
took it into open rebellion against the British in 1948, Chin Peng, was born in
Malaya in 1924.
More fundamentally,
this period marked the end of an era of imperial globalization. In many ways,
the kinds of connections that had made the Asian underground possible were
broken. In Japanese-occupied Asia, long-distance shipping all but ground to a
halt; the posts were erratic, and in some places, there was a virtual blackout
on international news for three and a half years. Borders became battlefronts.
During the Japanese occupation, the largest migrations were compelled, as in
the conscription of forced labor, or romusha, for
railway projects; of women for sexual slavery in so-called ‘comfort stations’;
or in the flight of refugees from devastated areas. At the war’s end, travel,
trade, and remittance resumed. There was a cascade of internationalist
sentiment. Migrant communities raced to restore ties with their homelands. But,
in the longer term, the great political upheavals in India and China turned
inward. The partition of South Asia in 1947, the establishment of the People’s
Republic of China, and the retreat of the Kuomintang regime to Taiwan in 1949
raised harder borders and gave these journeys a new finality.5 As Roy saw it,
the new territoriality embraced even the left. Echoing Lenin’s comments on the
Baku Conference of 1920, he wrote in 1952: ‘Asian communism is nationalism
painted red, the means become the end.’6
In early 1941, the
long journey of Nguyen Ai Quoc finally led home. He had, after years in the
wilderness, been permitted to leave Moscow for China in 1938. Traveling via Mao
Zedong’s base area in Yan’an, he acted as a liaison
officer with the Vietnamese in southern China, writing reports, producing
propaganda, and traveling, including Chiang Kai-shek’s capital at Chongqing to
report to the party representative there, Zhou Enlai. When, after the fall of
France, Indochina came under the Japanese's effective occupation, he gathered a
group of radicals and communists in Guilin for a new training program. Over
Chinese New Year 1941, they took their skills to the border area. On 8 February
1941, after thirty years abroad, Quoc crossed the way-marker into Tonkin, to
set up a secret base in a cave near Pac Bo in Cao Bang province, a mountainous,
ungoverned area into which the party had already made substantial inroads.
There he was able finally to launch his long-range, broad-front strategy and
build a coalition of national resistance, led by the communists but called a League
for the Independence of Vietnam, the Viet Minh. As the Communist Party within
Vietnam was hit hard by repression at the Vichy government's hands, Quoc urged
caution. He remained in the background and took on a new identity, ‘Ho Chi
Minh,’ or ‘He Who Enlightens.’
In August 1942, he
made for Chongqing for news of the international situation. Still, he was again
arrested by a Chinese regional military commander in Guanxi province in
September and held in eighteen different prisons and then house arrest until
his release in March 1944. This further burnished his legend. By returning to
Cao Bang after nearly two years, the base area had expanded. This was the work
of many hands, but, by August 1944, the French had discovered that the man
behind its propaganda, Ho Chi Minh, was none other than Nguyen Ai Quoc. The
head made the connection of the Sûreté, Louis Arnoux, the very same man who had tracked him down in Paris
in 1919 when he had sent his insolent demands for freedom to President Woodrow
Wilson.7 Crucially, the remaking of Quoc, from the son of a mandarin to a
plebeian, from a cosmopolitan into a patriot – his training and guidance, his
ability to read the international situation, his revolutionary charisma –
helped the Viet Minh to seize its moment and declare a provisional government
in Hanoi on 2 September 1945 with Ho Chi Minh at its helm.8 But this
was only the beginning.
Tan Malaka was in Singapore in 1942 at its fall and witnessed
the worst horrors of the Japanese occupation. He was present at the screening
and mass killings of Chinese men and was lucky to escape with his life. He left
for Pen and took advantage of the lapse in border controls and crossed to Medan
in Sumatra. He felt like Rip Van Winkle, awakening after twenty years. But his
mystique, as a once and future king, traveled before him. As he browsed a
bookstall in the market, the seller sidled up to him: ‘This is a good book, and
it’s prevalent.’ It was Padjar Merah, by Matu Mona. The seller added: ‘You know, Tan Malaka is in Padang. He spoke today in Padang Square. He
has a high position with the Japanese army.’9 These stories were everywhere, so
he had no option but to abandon his plans to visit his parents’ graves and
travel on, again via Penang, by steamer, and by sailing prahu to Java. He
settled for a while in one of Batavia's outer kampongs so that he could travel
into the city to use the museum library at Gambir and
write. With the resources available to him and from memory he wrote, he
calculated in 720 hours, his magnum opus, a philosophical work entitled Madilog: Materialism, Dialektika
dan Logika, ‘Madilog:
Materialism, Dialectic, and Logic.’ It was no less than an attempt to rewrite
Marx, as if Marx were writing from within an Indonesian, Islamic or, more
particularly, a Minangkabau world view.10 It was a lesson in the purpose and
power of reason, to instruct the young people of Indonesia. War conditions and
political propaganda privileged the spirit and strength of youth, or Pemuda,
over the elite bureaucratic finesse of the zaman normal. Thousands of Pemuda
were recruited into armed militias, led by Sukarno, who had emerged from
internal exile to national pre-eminence under the Japanese. In the later stages
of the war, Tan Malaka worked at a labor camp in west
Java and saw more of its most brutal war conditions amongst the coerced
workers, the romusha. It was here that he encountered
Sukarno, who visited the camp. Tan Malaka was
unimpressed by Sukarno’s cautious, mendicant approach to the struggle for
freedom, and although they spoke, Tan Malaka did not
reveal his identity.
Still living under a
borrowed name, Tan Malaka was back in Batavia, now
Jakarta, on 17 August 1945, when Sukarno and Hatta stepped forward to declare
the Indonesian republic of which Tan Malaka had been
the prophet. The radicalized Pemuda became its vanguard. Their zeal inspired
tan Malaka. ‘We are,’ announced the writers of the
self-styled Generation of 1945, ‘the heirs to world culture.’ But the worldview
of most of them had been shaped from within Indonesia itself during the slump
of the 1930s and the dearth and isolation of war. Tan Malaka
tried to reach them, initially in vain. The republic began to arm itself, and
the Pemuda militias formed the core of a Tentara
Nasional Indonesia (TNI), an Indonesian National Army. But it soon became clear
that the Netherlands was determined to reoccupy the Indies at any cost, using
the British, who had reoccupied Singapore in September 1945, as their proxy.
Believing that a firm show of popular resistance was needed to forestall
British troops' imminent landing, Tan Malaka
approached a friend from his days in the Netherlands, now acting as foreign
minister. He then met, in secret, with the new president, Sukarno. At the end
of the meeting, believing that the British were likely to arrest him, Sukarno
told Tan Malaka that if he and his deputy, Hatta,
we're unable to act, Tan Malaka should lead the
republic in their place. This message was repeated at a second meeting. These
private undertakings formed the basis of a formal Political Testament, to
which, at Hatta’s insistence, four other names were added after Tan Malaka’s. There would later be much controversy over the
intent and status of this Testament. But Tan Malaka
viewed it as wholly binding.11
To test the
leadership’s resolve to resist the British, Tan Malaka
suggested it hold massive ‘ocean’ rallies in the cities. The largest was on 19
September, when a crowd of 200,000 people gathered in Ikeda Square in Jakarta,
many armed with sharpened bamboo staves. Sukarno, increasingly worried about
provoking the Japanese or the Allied troops, tried to prevent the assembly.
But, in a moment of supreme political theatre, he arrived on the rostrum and,
in a short speech, demonstrated his control over the masses by persuading the crowd
to disperse without violence. To Tan Malaka, it was
clear that Sukarno had not tried to inspire the crowd to action, ‘but to
request the masses to “have faith” and “obey” and to order them to go home.’12
On 1 October, Tan Malaka left Jakarta in disgust,
never returned, and headed east. Rumors of his presence flew ahead of him, and
there were sightings of ‘false’ Tan Malakas across
Java and Sumatra. British intelligence believed that he was in peninsular
Malaya and behind the foundation of a new radical nationalist party
there.
Instead, he witnessed
the aftermath of the British occupation of the city of Surabaya in October
1945. British and Indian occupying troops were resisted street by street; tanks
were confronted by the people from the urban kampungs, the arek
Surabaya, armed with bamboo staves and knives. Thousands perished. Sukarno
again appealed for order and calm. But, moved by the city’s sacrifice, on 3
January 1946, Tan Malaka finally revealed himself at
a large ‘people’s congress’ at Purwokerto in Central
Java. He announced a ‘minimum program’ for the revolution, under the cry:
‘One hundred percent
independence.’ This was defined as the immediate departure of all foreign
troops from Indonesian soil, a people’s government, and the people’s ownership
of the economy. It set a new yardstick for freedom movements across Southeast
Asia, and his Persatuan Perjuangan,
or ‘Struggle Union,’ rallied Pemuda and radicals from a wide spectrum of other
bodies. But it was too much for the new government, who were now seeking to
negotiate with the British and Dutch. In March 1946, Tan Malaka
was jailed for a fourth time by the Indonesian republic.13 One of the TNI
officers responsible for his arrest described their reasoning:
Tan Malaka lived more than twenty years in exile, in jail, or
hiding. He lived in a world full of ideas, a troubled world of dreams and
fantasies of a utopia. It was a solitary world. Thus, it should not be
surprising if he did not always think or act based on the reality of the time's
situation and atmosphere. Furthermore, he was surrounded by radical followers …
who thought nothing of the consequence of his radicalism … [and] wanted to
spread their own radical ideas through Tan Malaka,
who had been cut off too long from the Indonesian struggle people.14
Tan Malaka wrote prolifically, critiquing the national
leadership and memoir, Dari Penjara ke Penjara, ‘From Jail to
Jail.’
This was Tan Malaka’s longest stretch behind bars. By the time of his
release eighteen months later, in September 1948, the republic was in crisis.
It had been pushed back by a Dutch ‘police action’ into smaller territory
pockets, with its capital now at Yogyakarta. Old adversaries also confronted
tan Malaka. On 11 August 1948, Musso
came out of exile in Moscow by airplane via Prague and New Delhi, secretly at
first, although not for long. He still, as his old housemate from Surabaya
days, Sukarno, observed, possessed the air of a Jago,
or street fighter.15 Alimin had arrived ahead of Musso, although a visit to Ho Chi Minh in Hanoi had
tempered his approach. At every opportunity, Musso
invoked his Moscow credentials as he attempted to revive the old PKI on a
militant platform called a ‘New Road for the Indonesian Republic.’ To Musso, Tan Malaka was a
Trotskyite renegade. As they refuted 1926 and 1927, Tan Malaka
established a Partai Murba,
a proletarian party, but failed to regain the momentum he had lost during his
time in jail.
Within the
revolution, the cleavages came to a head-on 18 September, when leftist troops
seized Madiun's central Javanese town. Musso decided to support them. In a radio broadcast, the
next morning, Sukarno decried it as a ‘coup.’ Replying by the same medium
ninety minutes later, Musso condemned Sukarno as a
Japanese collaborator and released the ‘criminal’ Tan Malaka.
He announced that Madiun was ‘a signal to the whole
people to wrest the state's powers into their own hands’. But the communists
were unprepared for a full revolt, and republican forces and Muslim militias
crushed them within ten days. Musso died with perhaps
10,000 others in the mopping-up operation.16
Tan Malaka wanted nothing to do with the affair. But events
thrust him center stage. In December, a further Dutch ‘police action’ took
Yogyakarta, and Sukarno and Hatta were captured. Tan Malaka
headed east and sought the protection of a militant, brutal fighter called Sabarudin and his notorious Battalion 38, in the village of
Blimbing. On a battered typewriter, he continued to
attempt to rally the revolutionary forces under his leadership. He invoked the
Political Testament of 1 October 1945, claiming that, now Sukarno and Hatta
were under arrest, the revolution's mantle fell to him. But he was an outcast
on all sides, a target of both the Dutch special forces in the area and the
TNI, who had no truck with his alliance with a renegade battalion. On 19
December 1948, Tan Malaka was arrested by a TNI
company and held at a village ten miles from Blimbing.
On 21 February 1949, the camp came under attack from the Dutch; the prisoners
were abandoned and began to flee. Slowed by a wounded leg, Tan Malaka struggled towards a TNI post at Selapanggung.
He was identified by its commander, who decided he was too dangerous to remain
at large. Like so many in those days of chaos and violence, Tan Malaka faced summary military justice and was shot the same
day, at the foot of nearby Mount Wilis.17 The Indonesian revolution, like all
revolutions, was quick to eat its own.
AND DREAMS, AND VISIONS, AND DISENCHANTMENT
To the victor, the mausoleum
in a city square: to the vanquished, the shallow grave in the woods. Many of
those with whom Tan Malaka’s path crossed during his
years of exile met a violent end. After eluding the Nazi occupiers for two
years, Henk Sneevliet was shot alongside other
members of the Dutch resistance in the Amersfoort concentration camp on 12
April 1942. Sneevliet’s comrade of his Java days,
Asser Baars, died in Auschwitz in 1944. Sneevliet’s successor in China, Mikhail Borodin, survived
the purges and the war as editor of the English-language Moscow News, only to
be arrested in a fresh purge in 1949 and died a gulag in 1951. His one-time
ally, Chen Duxiu, was released from prison in 1937,
but he too was an outcast from the party he had led and died in obscurity in 1942,
after working for a time as a schoolteacher near Chongqing. Chen’s successor,
Li Lisan, after the collapse of the ‘revolutionary
high tide’ in 1931, was sent on a long period of rehabilitation in Moscow. He
returned to play a central role in the foundation of the People’s Republic in
1949. After the Sino-Soviet split of 1956, his past told against him, and he
perished in the Cultural Revolution in 1967. His Russian wife, Lisa Kishkin, survived him, a citizen of China.
The hybrid family
histories of the Asian revolution were one of its most enduring legacies. Musso was survived by children from two Russian wives and a
son in Indonesia born before his departure in 1926. Musso’s
fellow exiles, Semaoen and Darsono,
returned to Indonesia after independence to public service careers. They played
no role in the revival of a ‘new’ PKI after 1954. Alimin
was the last of the old guard to remain with the party and was one of its
staunchest critics. A scholar who interviewed him in Jakarta in 1960 described
him as ‘old, senile, ailing, lonely, and no longer visited by party members.’18
Alimin died in 1964, in the midst of the party’s
final push for power, before its destruction in 1965–6 in slaughter and
detentions on a massive scale.
The moral journeys of
this generation took very different paths. Of the members of India House, Har Dayal’s trajectory was unique in that, obstructed by the
British, he never returned to India. He did, however, return to London and
completed a doctoral thesis in 1932 at the School of Oriental and African
Studies. He died in Philadelphia in 1939 while on a lecture tour. Vinayak
Savarkar returned from the Andaman Islands, his prison writings traveling ahead
of him, and became a foundational thinker for Hindutva, or Hindu nationalism. When
his old adversary Gandhi was assassinated in 1948 at the hands of a Hindu
extremist – an event which had parallels to the Dhingra affair that had
bitterly divided them nearly forty years earlier – Savarkar stood trial and was
acquitted, for his alleged role in it. By contrast, his closest associate in
London, M. P. T. Acharya, lived in Berlin and Amsterdam after leaving Moscow
and the Communist Party of India and moved back to anarchist internationalism.
He was allowed to return to India in 1935, wherefrom Bombay, he continued to
write on anarchist and pacifist themes and where the paintings by his Russian
wife, Magda Nachman, were much sought after by the city’s elite.19 The friend
who traveled with Acharya in 1910 to Morocco and turned back, Sukhsagar Datta, brother to the convicted terrorist Ullaskar, worked as a doctor in Bristol active in Labour Party politics, and died there in 1967, after nearly
sixty years in the UK.20 The origins of many of these choices can be seen in
the radical movement from its earliest inception. Ghadar
charted paths to anarchism, nationalism, communism, Islamism, and Sikh
militancy.21 Many of the British empire’s most-wanted men in 1915–17 remained
committed to international causes and what one writer has described as ‘the hard
slog of forging and sustaining alliances across an uneven and unequal
geopolitical field.’22 Taraknath Das and Bhagwan Singh stayed in America after serving the prison
terms handed down in 1918 at the San Francisco conspiracy trial. Taraknath Das married an American supporter, Mary Keatinge Morse, herself a founding member of the National
Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and became a professor at
Columbia and Georgetown Universities. Bhagwan Singh
also lectured widely on India and spiritual themes. He was invited to return by
India's independent government in 1958 and died in Chandigarh in 1962. In a
way, M. N. Roy too abandoned active politics or was left outside them and took
a more scholarly path. While in prison, he wrote to a friend:
I concluded that
civilized humanity was destined to go through another period of monasticism,
where all the treasures of past wisdom, knowledge, and learning will be rescued
from the ruins to be then passed on to a new generation engaged in the task of
building a new world and a new civilization.23
Largely alienated
from the intellectual circles in Bengal and elsewhere, he surrounded himself in
Dehra Dun with a small circle of ‘Royists’ and
devoted himself to a Radical Humanist Movement. However, Visitors observed that
Roy kept a photograph of Stalin on his mantelpiece to the end of his life. He
survived the older man by less than a year: after two years of illness
following a bad fall, he died on 25 January 1954. The national press carried
brief obituaries. His wife Ellen continued to organize his movement and edit
its mouthpiece, The Radical Humanist, from Dehra Dun. Until she was beaten, the
dead body was discovered on the morning of 14 December 1960. From the long
police investigation and resulting prosecutions, there were signs that it was a
political murder, but the mystery of its motive was never really solved.24
Roy’s first wife, Evelyn, remarried and lived quietly in California until she
died in 1970, reluctant in later life to talk publicly of her role in the world
revolution, and unmentioned in the memoirs Roy published in the Radical
Humanist in his last years.
Most of these men and
women lived long enough to write histories of their lives and times. They
maintained a global web of correspondence, reliving encounters from long ago.
But, for some, the underground was a dark cave from which they did not return –
like those who perished in Stalin’s purges – or left behind only the slightest
traces. This web of infinite connections was a fragile one that could all too
easily break or never even fuse at all. To go overseas was always a battle
against being forgotten. The work of the memorial was central to the village
abroad from its very beginnings. The first histories of Ghadar
were martyrologues, which shaped future waves of anti-colonial violence. The
landscape of Punjab is dotted with shrines to the men of 1915. ‘India House’ is
reconstructed in a memorial park over fifty-two acres at Shyamji Krishnavarma’s birthplace in Mandvi
in Gujarat. In Vancouver, Mewa Singh, the assassin of
W. C. Hopkinson, is commemorated annually, and for Canada, the Komagata Maru
has become a potent symbol for national reflection. More quietly, Vietnamese
visitors to Canton's modern city still visit Pham Hong Thai's tomb to pause
there to bow in homage to his memory, but as a patriotic martyr, not an anarch
internationalist. Similarly, sites such as that of the Nanchang uprising and
the Canton commune are commemorated as the People’s Liberation Army's
birthplace, or as a step, or misstep, along China’s revolutionary road. For
many years, the memory of the global underground dissolved into national
stories. In this sense, it remained a lost country: a history of revolutionary
failure or something that did not happen. But, as it re-emerges, the view from
the underground shifts our understanding of larger events in significant ways. Bhagwan Singh later insisted that the Ghadar
mutiny was a close-run thing. Had there been arms from Germany, had the German
troops in China not ‘been lost us’ when they were marched into captivity at the
fall of Qingdao, had leaders within India not actively recruited for the
British, events may have played out very differently. As it stood, he argued,
it was Ghadar, in its stimulus to action, to repression,
that brought a ‘mass awakening’ to India: ‘it was these shocks of [the] Indian
Army’s disloyalty and undependability that convinced the British that India
could not be held against her will’ and, by its propaganda overseas, ‘destroyed
the moral justification of British Rule in India.’25 Despite the illusion of
‘normal time’ in the 1930s, the empire's foundations were fatally undermined.
This view is borne out by much later scholarship.26 In China, too, the events
of 1923–7 can be seen as the beginning of a decades-long cycle of military
violence that ‘unmade’ and remade the nation and extorted a horrendous toll
from its people.27
Seen from the
underground, time is loosened further. The history of what later became known
as the ‘global Cold War’ takes on a longer duration, with its beginnings in the
Bolshevik panic across empires in the 1920s or even back in the earlier
struggle against international anarchism. This protracted conflict is a window
on human movement experience in the twentieth century, its ebbs and flows,
surveillance, and obstruction. Some ten years after the fall of the Berlin
Wall, an installation by the artist Arnold Dreyblatt
displayed a ‘mirror archive’ of around 4,000 intelligence documents drawn from
multiple sources, including the archive of the Shanghai Municipal Police,
seemingly relating to an individual called ‘T’ (born in Hungary in 1879, died
in Shanghai in 1943). ‘T’ is revealed to be a composite life of the multiple
individual names in the files, which are shown redacted and cross-referenced to
suggest strange, aimless, subversive journeys across America and Eurasia. ‘T’
becomes an Everyman whose obscure purposes are followed by the police of many
countries. The archival fragments are constantly cut up, reorganized, and redisplayed
so that ‘any desire to recover an original moment of intention or of action or
observation or of inscription or of transmission (and the multiplication of
possible starting points already testifies to a crisis of determination) gives
way … to other fascinations’.28 Part of the purpose of this kind of history is
to reveal a sea of stories that other historians will navigate in their own
ways.
Some of these led to
later internationals: the 1947 Asian Relations Conference in Delhi, held in the
full heat of the freedom struggles in India, Indonesia, and Vietnam, or the
Afro-Asia Conference in Bandung in April 1955, where Sukarno and Zhou Enlai
dominated a new world stage. But Bandung was more a meeting of established
nation-states than a common front of peoples. Perhaps the most important
legacies of the old Asian underground were the internationals it spawned
outside of states – of trade unionists, artists, or scientists – that are now
again coming into historical focus.29 Equally significant were how old networks
of smuggling people, funds, and arms across Indochina's borders, across the
Straits of Malacca, sustained the Vietnamese and Indonesian revolutions at
their most vulnerable moments.30 In a strange twist of fate, the internees from
Boven Digoel, evacuated to Australia in 1943, played
a pivotal supporting role in this by coordinating by aerogram a global boycott
of Dutch shipping.
The underground of
1905–27 was a singular moment in time. As an anarchist chronicler described it:
Besides a constant
exchange of ideas from country to country by translations of questions of more
than local interest. In this way, every good pamphlet became very soon known
internationally. This intellectual exchange sphere ranged from Portugal to
China and New Zealand, and from Canada to Chile and Peru. This made every
formal organization, however loose and informal it was, really unnecessary; to
such an extent, one of the purposes of organization, international friendly
relations, was already realized in these happy years when the globe seemed to
have become a single small unit, while today it is split up and scattered into
atoms, separated from each other in a worse degree than in the darkest medieval
times; at least this is so in the greater part of the European continent at
present, and is supported in dumb submission.31
The ‘today’ of the
passage was 1924, the crescendo of this revolutionary age. Several shared
qualities drew these stories together and made them something more than the sum
of their parts for all its partings of ways and divergent destinies. Foremost
among these was patience. The pathfinder, Phan Boi
Chau, published a memoir in 1940, from his house arrest in Hue. ‘My history,’
he wrote, ‘is entirely a history of failure, and the maladies that have caused
this failure are indeed obvious.’ He was, he admitted, excessively
self-confident, overly open with others, impetuous in his judgments: ‘on many
occasions, because of small things, a big plan failed.’ ‘All the same,’ he
continued, ‘I do not venture to say that there is nothing of which I can be
proud.’ Here he listed his audacity, ability always to remember ‘a good
thought’, and above all his optimism: ‘I always look forward to reaching the
goal and achieving victory at the last moment; even though the means and
strategies may change. I am not distressed.’32
This extraordinary
fortitude came from a conviction that revolutionaries stood at, and had a
unique perception of, the defining moment of the age when there was a
possibility of them acting as an agent of elemental change whereby the
previously disempowered – the ordinary worker or peasant, women, even the
poorest of the poor – might reach for a new future. They constituted, in the
Indonesian term, an aliran, an unstoppable wave of
collective consciousness. Across the terrains of exile – cities and
neighborhoods – this vision gathered force and conviction as revolutionaries
shared resources and skills, forged alliances, or simply witnessed each other,
drawing strength from a sense of co-presence.33 These places were fertile
ground for radical new ideas. The political thought of the underground emerged
in motion; it was fluid, instinctively eclectic, and endlessly creative in its
work of translation. The most fertile minds did not remain doctrinal Marxists
for long. Ideas were not principally found in philosophical treatises, although
these certainly existed, as in Tan Malaka’s Madilog, written as a treasury of hard-won wisdom. They
were often published in mosquito journals that rapidly came and went, or as
pamphlets whose only later traces were often in police archives, or they were
spoken and taught. At the heart of the underground was a worldwide experiment
in mass education, in political instruction, in creating a ‘new culture’ and a
new type of popular intellectual – what was termed in China a ‘Red literati.’
They shared a premonition that Asia lay at the forefront of human futures, and
that, however much they adapted its learning, in M. N. Roy’s phrase, Europe was
not the world.
They shared too a
pervading dilemma over the means for achieving these futures, over the
necessity of political violence, its temptations, and its costs. Asia’s first
age of revolution ended as it had begun, in violence and trauma. The question
of its ethics remained unresolved. In the spring of 1949, Jawaharlal Nehru
visited Muzaffarpur, where Khudiram Bose had thrown
the bomb at Mrs. Kennedy and her daughter's carriage on 29 April 1908, killing
them both, and arguably setting in motion a long cycle of terror and
repression. Nehru refused a request from local political worthies to lay the
foundation stone of the town’s martyr’s memorial to Khudiram
because ‘the principle of non-violence was involved.’ Just over a year had
passed since the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi. Writing at the time, M. N.
Roy observed that even a couple of years earlier, Nehru would not have been so
weighed down with the burdens of state to refuse such a task. The prime
minister of India, Roy claimed, was a beneficiary and ‘not morally entitled to
be censorious about acts of violence prompted by selfless idealism.’
Nationalists in power continued to commit mass violence; as Roy had seen at
first hand in China in 1927, it was the direct consequence of these earlier
acts. To Roy, ‘one can never be a nationalist and yet be sincere in the
profession of non-violence.’ Roy recalled how, over forty years earlier, in
April 1907, he had met Khudiram on the very eve of
his ‘fatal pilgrimage’ to Muzaffarpur. As long ago as 1917, in Mexico, he had
repudiated his youth's religious violence, as he had later that of Leninism,
for the methods of reason and cultural transformation espoused within Radical
Humanism. But Roy still held that the claims to the idealism of Khudiram and the first generation of martyrs were such that
‘the grandeur of their selflessness outshines the smallness of their
mistakes.’34 After 1927, for that matter, after 1949, the cycle of imperial and
revolutionary violence unleashed around 1907 had a long way to run.
But, for all this, by
1927, there was a sense of the passing of an old guard and the rise of new
leaders, more dogmatic thinking, and iron party discipline. By the 1920s, in
orthodox Stalinist circles, the term ‘anti-nationalism’ was a term of abuse
reserved for anarchists, Trotskyites, and bourgeois internationalists. Vera
Vladimirovna-Akimova had to wait for forty years to
write about her Canton and Wuhan experiences in 1926 and 1927. She explained
that she wrote not just for herself but also for ‘other voices that are now
stilled forever would resound.’ It was a testimony of a ‘remarkable’ moment of
Sino-Soviet friendship: remarkable because it no longer was a possibility.35 As
her translator noted, her richly evocative memoir ‘reads like a roll call of
the dead,’ a history of loss, of lives robbed of their historical salience.36
Such loss is omnipresent in writing on this era of Asian connections: the
mourning of old elites for bygone influence; a grieving for lost cities and
vanished neighborhoods – the closure of Shanghai to Tan Malaka,
or Berlin or Colonia Roma to Roy – for loss of mobility itself.37 This is not
merely a tolling for lost friends, family, and comrades, nor liberty, for what
was destroyed. There is a particular cadence to this loss for the underground,
grief for which people were unable to build, for a lost heterotopia. But as
another witness to this, Walter Benjamin wrote from a similar time but another
place, a moment of loss is also a ‘moment of danger’ at which future
possibilities can be grasped.38 In this, the underground image carries its
specific sense of mutability and mobility, of the possibility of new places,
new beginnings, and new struggles: the ‘old mole’ of history, burying,
burrowing, and resurfacing elsewhere.
For many decades
after his death in Java, Tan Malaka was a spectral
presence in Indonesia. He was never forgotten. In 1963 Sukarno remembered his
debt to him and declared him officially a ‘national hero.’ But after Sukarno's
fall and the bloody crushing of the leftist movement, he remained a ‘lonely’ and
problematic figure. In 1991, a three-volume English-language translation of his
memoirs appeared, but it was little read outside a circle of Indonesia's
specialist scholars. It was only with the restoration of democracy in 1999 that
Tan Malaka re-emerged as ‘the forgotten father of the
republic’; his works were republished and became popular with a new generation
of politicized youth. His image was seen on posters and T-shirts, a Che Guevara
for Nusantara. The slower work of academic history had an important role to
play in this, with the publication in the Netherlands in 2007 of a 2,194-page
study of his life and times based on multiple archives and interviews over many
years, entitled Verguisd en
Vergeten, ‘Despised and Forgotten.’ As its author,
Harry Poeze, observed, it was completed when Tan Malaka’s times were vanishing from the memory of living;
such a study would not be possible again. It soon made a larger impact on
Indonesian translation.
As it did so, in
2009, a grave was opened at the foot of Mount Wilis
in East Java. A portrait of Tan Malaka in middle age
was placed over a makeshift attap tomb. The ‘lonely revolutionary’ had left no
heirs. Still, a surviving cousin raised the possibility of DNA testing and
reinterring his remains in the heroes’ cemetery in the capital, Jakarta, or in
his Minangkabau homeland. The science, however, was inconclusive.39 In 2011, a
theatre production opened in Jakarta called Opera Tan Malaka.
It was staged in Soviet-era constructivist style, with a libretto by Goenawan Muhamad, one of Indonesia’s leading writers. But
an attempt to hold the production in East Java was blocked by the authorities.
Tan Malaka remained an uncertain, dangerous presence.
In the opera that bears his name, Tan Malaka does not
appear. As the narrator tells it: ‘I disappear; therefore, I exist. I am
present. Tan Malaka will not die in this story. Maybe
that is what I need to say.’40 These words echo Tan Malaka’s
own, to his British interrogators in his cell in Hong Kong in the summer of
1932: ‘Remember this. My voice will be louder from the grave than ever it was
while I walked the earth.’41
1. UNW. See Hans van
de Ven, China at War: Triumph and Tragedy in the Emergence of the New China,
1937–1945, London, Profile, 2017, and also Rana Mitter,
China’s War with Japan, 1937–45: The Struggle for Survival, London, Allen
Lane, 2013.
2. Yeo Song Nian and Ng Siew Ai, ‘The Japanese Occupation as Reflected
in Singapore-Malayan Chinese Literary Works after the Japanese Occupation
(1945–49)’, in Patricia Lim Pui Huen
and Diana Wong (eds), War and Memory in Malaysia and Singapore, Singapore,
ISEAS, 2000, pp. 106–22.
3. This section draws
on themes of Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper in
Forgotten Armies: The Fall of British Asia, 1941–1945, London, Allen Lane,
2004.
4. Penderel Moon
(ed.), Wavell: The Viceroy’s Journal, London, Oxford University Press, pp. 51,
55.
5. For this, see
Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Wars: The
End of Britain’s Asian Empire, London, Allen Lane, 2007.
6. Samaren Roy, The Twice-Born Heretic: M. N. Roy and Comintern, Calcutta, Firma KLM,
1986, p. 188.
7. For an elegant
summary of Ho Chi Minh’s movements in this period, see Pierre Brocheux, Ho Chi Minh: A Biography, Cambridge, Cambridge
University Press, 2007, and for Arnoux pp. 84–5.
8. David G. Marr,
Vietnam 1945: The Quest for Power, Berkeley, University of California Press,
1997.
9. Tan Malaka, From Jail to Jail, vol. III, p. 122.
10. Until recently, the
only extended English-language account of this work was Rudolf Mrázek, ‘Tan Malaka: A Political
Personality’s Structure of Experience,’ Indonesia, 14 (1972), pp. 1–48. But see
the important new interpretation by Oliver Crawford, ‘The Political Thought of
Tan Malaka’, PhD thesis, University of Cambridge,
2018, esp. ch. 5.
11. H. A. Poeze, ‘Soekarno’s political testament’, in H. A. Poeze and A. Liem (eds), Lasting
Fascination: Essays on Indonesia and the Southwest Pacific to Honour Bob Hering, Stein, Yayasan
Kabar Seberang, 1998, pp. 291–305.
12. Tan Malaka, From Jail to Jail, vol. III, p. 100.
13. For Tan Malaka and the revolution, see Benedict Anderson, Java in a
Time of Revolution: Occupation and Resistance, 1944–1946, Ithaca, NY,
Cornell University Press, 1972, pp. 269–83.
14. Aboe Bakar Loebis, ‘Tan Malaka’s Arrest: An Eye-Witness Account’, Indonesia, 53
(1992), pp. 71–8.
15. For an engaging
profile, see Budi Setyarso et al., Musso and the Madiun Movement,
Jakarta, Tempo Publishing, 2013.
16. Ann Swift, The
Road to Madiun: The Indonesia Communist Uprising of
1948, Singapore, Equinox, 2010, Musso quotation at
pp. 159–60. For Moscow's importance, see Harry A. Poeze,
‘The Cold War in Indonesia, 1948’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 40/3
(2009), pp. 497–517.
17. The definitive
account is Harry A. Poeze, Verguisd
en Vergeten: Tan Malaka, de Linkse Beweging En de Indonesische Revolutie,
1945–1949, 3 vols, Leiden, KITLV, 2007, especially vol. III, pp. 1393–494. I am
grateful to Anne-Isabelle Richard for providing an English-language summary of Poeze’s findings on Tan Malaka’s
death.
18. Donald Hindley,
The Communist Party of Indonesia: 1951–1963, Berkeley, University of California
Press, 1966, pp. 105–6.
19. These essays have
been republished in M. P. T. Acharya, ed. Ole Laursen,
We Are Anarchists: Essays on Anarchism, Pacifism, and the Indian Independence
Movement, 1923–1953, Chico, California, AK Press, 2019.
20. For a brief
biography see
http://www.open.ac.uk/researchprojects/makingbritain/content/sukhsagar-datta
(last accessed 25 September 2019).
21. A central theme
of Maia Ramnath, Haj to Utopia: How the Ghadar
Movement Charted Global Radicalism and Attempted to Overthrow the British
Empire, Berkeley, University of California Press, 2011. See also Neeti Nair, ‘Bhagat Singh as “Satyagrahi”: The Limits to
Non-Violence in Late Colonial India’, Modern Asian Studies, 43/3 (2009), pp.
649–81; Chris Moffat, India’s Revolutionary Inheritance: Politics and the
Promise of Bhagat Singh, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2019.
22. Manu Goswami,
‘Imaginary Futures and Colonial Internationalisms’, American Historical Review,
117/5 (2012), pp. 1461–85, quotation at p. 1464.
23. Roy, The
Twice-Born Heretic, pp. 189–90.
24. Tapan Ghosh, ‘Ellen Roy Murder case’, in Ray (ed.), The
World Her Village, pp. 159–77.
25. Letter from Bhagwan Singh Gyanee to Jagjit Singh, 18 June 1956, Bhagwan
Singh Gyanee Materials, South Asian American Digital
Archive, https://www.saada.org/item/20120805-916
26. For example, for
the Indian army as a theme of the end of empire see Bayly
and Harper, Forgotten Armies and Forgotten Wars.
27. Hans van de Ven,
War and Nationalism in China, 1925–1945, London, RoutledgeCurzon,
2003, p. 296.
28. Arnold Dreyblatt and Jeffrey Wallen, ‘Hands on the Document:
Arnold Dreyblatt’s T. Archive’, in Sonja Neef, José van Dijck and Eric Ketelaar
(eds), Sign Here!: Handwriting in the Age of New Media, Amsterdam, Amsterdam
University Press, 2006, pp. 134–49, quotation at p. 142. The online version is,
alas, no longer available, but see
https://www.dreyblatt.net/installation#/tmail-1999/
29. See Su Lin Lewis and Carolien Stolte, ‘Other Bandungs:
Afro-Asian Internationalisms in the Early Cold War’, Journal of World History,
30/1–2 (2019), pp. 1–19, and the other articles in this special issue.
30. Christopher E. Goscha, Thailand and the Southeast Asian Networks of the
Vietnamese Revolution, 1885–1954, London, Routledge, 1998; Yong Mun Cheong, The
Indonesian Revolution and the Singapore Connection, 1945–1949, Leiden, KITLV,
2003.
31. Max Nettlau, Errico Malatesta: The
Biography of an Anarchist, New York, Jewish Anarchist Federation, 1924, p. 59.
I was alerted to this passage by Davide Turcato,
‘Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1885–1915’, International Review
of Social History, 52/3 (2007), pp. 407–44, and here quote it more fully.
32. Phan Boi Chau, Overturned Chariot: The Autobiography of Phan Boi Chau, Honolulu, Hawaii University Press, 1999, pp.
45–6.
33. I first
encountered this idea in Verne A. Dusenbery, ‘Diasporic Imagings
and the Conditions of Possibility: Sikhs and the State in Southeast Asia’,
Sojourn: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia, 12/2 (1997), pp. 226–60;
John Urry, ‘Mobility and Proximity’, Sociology, 36/2
(2002), pp. 255–74.
34. M. N. Roy,
‘Nationalism and Non-violence’, The Radical Humanist, 13/15 (17 April 1949),
pp. 167–8.
35. Vishnyakova-Akimova, Two Years in Revolutionary China, p. xvii.
36. Ibid., p. viii. A
provocative account of loss of salience in another context has shaped my
thinking: Christine Stansell, ‘Louise Bryant Grows
Old’, History Workshop Journal, 50/1 (2000), pp. 156–80.
37. Will Hanley,
‘Grieving Cosmopolitanism in Middle East Studies’, History Compass, 6/5 (2008),
pp. 1346–67.
38. We are paraphrasing
here Volker Braun on the fall of the German Democratic Republic: ‘What I never
had is being torn from me,’ as quoted and discussed by Charity Scribner, ‘Left
Melancholy’, in David L. Eng and David Kazanjian
(eds), Loss: The Politics of Mourning, Berkeley, University of California
Press, 2003, pp. 300–319, quotation at p. 300; for Benjamin see also Eng and Kazanjian, ‘Introduction: Mourning Remains’, ibid.,
pp. 1–28.
39. Asvi Warman Adam, ‘Tomb of Tan Malaka,
finally’, The Jakarta Post, 17 February 2014.
40. Prodita Sabarini, ‘Tan Malaka: An Opera of Absence’, The Jakarta Post, 7 May
2011.
41. Tan Malaka, From Jail to Jail, vol. II, p. 49.
For updates click homepage here