Poetry Reading Reception at The Rotterdam City Hall

It was a long day at the Schiphol airport, 23 years ago
The summer sun faithfully sent its glare
Meadows were through radiating tulip shades
Street car wheels crunched, water rippled in Heerengracht
Rivers surmounting streets. The sea blockaded, country of wooden shoes
Rails spread out, over rhythm of precision
Flocks of Holstein Frisian, dove wings clapped over the Dam
The Queen’s Palace guard, the Round Table Conference halls
Giant harbour, godowns and wounds of War
Throng of people at the Rotterdam City Hall. A welcome reception
Various countries sent their poetry architects and engineers
Everybody laughing, all smiling, holding small glasses
Suddenly I remembered my great-great-great grandfather
From previous century. Five to six generations ago
Back from Mecca, along with his two best friends
And his disciple Peto Syarif from Bonjol, the brave one
Urging people to take arms to confront Dutch soldiers
They donned spotless garbs, white headgears
He was captured. Died hanging from the gallows
They hid his remains, his grave not announced
Dear Hadji Miskin, our great-great-great grandfather
Where were you buried
In which valley, which hill, which sea
Your remains hidden by colonial soldiers
Suddenly I woke up at the Rotterdam City Hall reception
One and a half centuries later
Everybody laughing, all smiling, holding small glasses
Whose hand did the knot on the gallows
To Hadji Miskin’s neck
In this reception everybody laughing, smiling, sipping
Whose hands, whose hands, whose hands
Perhaps, so I thought, great-great-great grandsons of the soldiers
Perhaps, one of them was present here
What if I made a small announcement
“Attentie, attentie,”
Clicking my small spoon to my glass
These people politely turned to me
“Excuse me, aaa, did your great-great-great grandfather
Come to my village last century
And join the Paderi War?”
Everybody was surprised and silent
“Pardon me, aaa, but my great-great-great grandfather
Was arrested and hung
In that war. His name was Hadji Miskin
His remains was not delivered to my family
Did your great-great-great grandfather told you about, aaa,
The hanging of a white garbed gentleman
His village was Pandai Sikek at the foot of Singgalang Mountain
White headdressed, and his grave unannounced?
Any information, at all?
My problem is, there had been no information whatsoever
From Koninklijk Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappe
None. I just would like to know the whereabout of his grave. That is all
I did not carry folded revenge card deep down in my wallet. None.”
The hall was very quiet like a deserted cemetery
In a scorching summer afternoon, two o’clock
It was so impolite, a guest of Rotterdam Kunststichting
To pose this sort of question. He was belated
For one and a half centuries.

1993