September, 2014

In memory of my mother Juliana Goutier-Niks

In 1942 the Japanese invaded Indonesia. At that time, I was 6 years old. My dad was a Dutch sergeant-­‐major (Opper-­‐Wachtmeester), employed by the Cavalry of the Koninklijke Nederlands Indisch Leger (“KNIL”). He was taken prisoner by the Japanese. My mom (who was pregnant) and her four sons, ages 11, 9, 6 (me), and 3, went to her family home in Salatiga to live with Neneh (grandma) and my mother’s younger brother and sister. Neneh died shortly after we moved in with her. There was no income and no access to bank accounts.

We became creative and made things we could sell. Our mother sewed clothes. Our uncle and us kids made kites, slingshots and charcoal we could sell or trade for food. We made rings from the canary nuts, brooches from the kapok beetles. And we sold the goat’s milk before we ate her.

On Nov. 3, 1942, my youngest brother was born.

The Totoks (visibly “white” Dutch people) were taken prisoner and sent to Japanese camps. But because our mother was a native of Indonesia, we stayed in our home to survive on our own. Our family survived those years of war because we had a big garden with fruit and vegetables. But we also ate all our pets; the ducks, chickens and then the goat.

On July 31, 1943, my father, at 39 years old, died in Tarso, Burma. This is where he’d been imprisoned by the Japanese and made to work on the railroad in Burma. In the official version, he died of malnutrition.

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