Sutan Sjahrir and The Failure of Indonesian Socialism By: Lindsay Rae INTRODUCTION Sutan Sjahrir was a leading

figure in the struggle for Indonesias independence. By most standards he achieved eminence and suffered political decline at a remarkably early age. By twenty-five he had made sufficient impact in the nationalist movement for the Dutch to cast him into a lengthy exile. At thirty-six he brilliantly seized an opportunity and became Prime Minister of his country, and for two years guided the young republic through some of its most difficult days. His work at this time was to have the most durable impact, largely determining the character of the Indonesian revolution, as a national rather than a social revolution, and shifting the emphasis of action towards diplomacy rather than struggle. As a young, western-oriented intellectual leader, he was successfully setting the pace of political developments, and with western liberal democracy at the height of its prestige, he appeared to represent the future. But by the time Indonesias independence strugglc ended in 1949, he was 40, and already pushed From the centre of political life; he was never again to hold high office or exert decisive influence. The years before his death were years of progressively deepening political Failure, ending with several years of imprisonment at the hands of the republic he had helped to create. Judgments of success and failure in political life often prove difficult, and this is particularly so in Sjahrirs case. In his political career it is easy to point both to outstanding successes and to devastating failures. He showed great foresight and a capacity for penetrating analysis in his attitude to the war, and considerable courage in his actions during the Japanese occupation. His success in recruiting a dynamic and talented following among the young intellectuals of occupation Jakarta has been sympathetically described by Legge. His political skill was evident in his grasping the moment to take power from the collaborationist politicians who constituted the Republic of Indonesias first cabinet in 1945, but the same events also demonstrated his integrity and acuity. The analysis contained in his pamphlet Perjuangan Kita (Our Struggle) displayed both penetrating honesty and a cool perceptiveness. He anticipated the Cold War and its implications for Indonesia at an early stage. And he represented the Republic at the United Nations most impressively, thus playing a major part in gathering international, and especially American, support for the Indonesian cause, which proved decisive in overcoming Dutch intransigence. These are testaments to his brilliance and high character, and demonstrations of his success Sjahrir was a committed nationalist with a deep abhorrence of colonialism, and hence his role in creating an independent Indonesia marks his career as one of high achievement. However, in contrast to some who worked for independence, he was never merely a nationalist, and he had good reason to be profoundly disappointed with the fruits of independence. Nationalism took a place in his political thinking alongside tolerance, democracy, internationalism, socialism and modernity. Moreover these strands in his thinking stood in a relationship of priority to one another, as the tests of political life would show. in the development of an Indonesian society to match his ideals, his ambitions remained largely unfulfilled. Indeed, from his loss of the Prime Ministership in 1947, his career followed a path of successively more intense periods of disappointment and remoteness from power. Thus, having been one of the principal architects of the Indonesian victory, he was subsequently unable to move the political current of the new Republic decisively in the ideological direction he favoured. In the brief period of Indonesias experiment with multi-party parliamentary democracy, the party which was Sjahrirs vehicle, the Indonesian Socialist Party (PSI), proved an electoral failure. The PSIs precursor, the undivided Socialist Party (PS), had been a major force during the revolutionary period, and the PSI itself had constituted a significant minority voice in some of the parliamentary cabinets of the early fifties. The party had in fact maintained a degree of influence on government far greater than its true level of support, or even its rather generous representation in the unelected provisional parliament of 195055, would have warranted. In the event, the party polled a mere two per cent of the national vote when elections were finally held in 1955. The party suffered further decline in the late fifties, and was banned in 1960 under Sukarnos Guided Democracy. In 1962 Sjahrir and several other leaders, mostly associated with the PSI or the modernist Islamic party Masjumi, were imprisoned. After the 1965 coup attempt the politicians were released but neither party was revived in its original form. Legge argues that despite this apparent failure, the PSI stream in Indonesian political thinking represents a distinctive moral and intellectual strand within Indonesian public life. Certainly significant elements in the political elite and in the wider society have continued to concern themselves with themes which were important for the PSI, such as modernity, egalitarianism, social justice and respect for individual rights; but for the most part,national policy has not emphasized these goals either before or after 1966. Public policy during the Sukarno period mostly favored "neo -

traditionalist responses to the challenge of social change and the diversion of political energies into external causes such as the campaign to gain control of West Papua and the confrontation campaign against Malaysia. The New Order government has stressed economic growth, the maintenance of social order and cohesion, and the control of such democratic institutions as exist. Nonetheless there is clearly some link between the success of the regimes economic policies and the type of economic thinking developed by those associated with the PSI in the earlier period, and indeed some former PSI members such as Sumitro have been directly involved in this policy-making. Likewise, some of the methods and standpoints which Sjahrir and his circle adopted may have continuing app to universal or humanistic values: Y.B. Mangunwijaya, a great admirer of Sjahrir, lists humanitarianism, anti-fascism, democracy, clean government, honesty in politics and historical awareness as elements of Sjahrirs thinking and action which he believes to have continuing relevance. Relevance, however, does not mean prevalence. Legge proposes pragmatism and rational policy-making as central elements in the PSIs, and Sjahrirs, mode of political action. Certainly these elements have been to the fore since 1966, and this is no doubt in part due to the enduring impact of Sjahrir and the PSI on Indonesian political culture. But can this limited impact mask the essentially failed nature of Sjahrirs endeavour? Rationality was certainly essential to Sjahrirs thinking, but it stood alongside an ideological standpoint in which democratic values and a pragmatic socialism were indispensable elements, albeit that both of these were complex and qualified. Contrasts as dramatic as that between the politically successful Sjahrir of the forties and the political frustration of the late fifties leave open a great risk of oversimplification, even caricature. Hence it is important to indicate fine shades of difference if possible, highlighting the subtlety of the contrast as well as its significance. In this sense, the recounting of history can and ought to be a matter of chromatic technique rather than dialonics, as James Boon has proposed. The biographical approach carries a rich potential for fulfilling this need, charting the slow and the sudden changes over time, alongside the evolving and the static qualities of the self in the midst of other individuals and alternative selves. It ought to reach beyond binarism and typology to convey impressions of textures and tones of a life. For our present purpose, this means appreciating Sjahrirs talents and achievements while squarely facing his shor tcomings; one should not cancel the other. CULTURE AND THE TASK OF BIOGRAPHY In dealing with biographical subjects who come from cultures different to the biographers own, it is very easy to misjudge the significance of cultural factors in shaping the su bjects development, either by resorting too readily to cultural explanations or by underestimating their value. People live in a web of culture, but they are not entirely its prisoners; they remain individuals with distinct personalities and they can make choices. They can also work towards new cultural arrangements. Moreover, their lives are played out within a historical context, so that events well beyond their personal, immediate reach can affect their consciousness and behaviour. Part of the task of biography is to unravel these interconnected elements. Examining Sjahrirs career, including the later, arguably failed phase, from a biographical perspective may make it possible to move closer to delineating the interplay of culture, personality and historical circumstance which determined the texture of his political career and his ultimate frustration. Two aspects of culture arise here: the cultural factors which helped to shape Sjahrirs style, outlook and system of meaning, and the socio -cultural environment in which Indonesian politics of his time was played out. The cultural element of Sjahrirs make up is especially difficult, in two ways. First, how much did cultural orientation affect his political life? And second, how is one to describe or define the cultural framework of his life, when he was exposed to such a complex range of cultural intluences as was available to him in colonial Indonesia? He was born at Padang Panjang in the West Sumatran highlands, the heart of Minangkabau culture, but spent most of his childhood outside the Minangkabau area in the city of Medan. His family were securely meshed into the Dutch administrative and educational systems. Sjahrirs education provided him with a deep grounding in western ideas and values: before ever setting foot on European soil, Sjahrir had spent years in a westernized cultural-intellectual milieu, and had thoroughly absorbed western values and techniques. Little of Minangkabau tradition or subjective self-identification seems to have remained with him, and he is the first choice of scholars wishing to illustrate the stereotype of a westernized Indonesian intellectual. The question of identification is important; it has been called the most important psychological aspect of culture - the bridge between culture and personality; hence, the means by which the private self accommodates the demands and options of life in society. To the extent that evidence of Minangkabau identification on Sjahrirs part is wanting, we are entitled to question the importance of Minangkabau orientation as a factor in explaining or interpreting his career. The question arises here of considering adaptability to modernizing influences as a distinctively Minangkabau cultural attribute. A disproportionately large number of I ndonesias twentieth

century nationalist leaders and other intellectuals were drawn from the Minangkabau. This phenomenon reflects the broader success of Minangkabau in economic and administrative spheres. The view that cultural adaptability, influenced by the tradition of merantau (temporary migration by men beyond the Minangkabau area), played a major part in this is a persuasive one. In this view it is a paradoxical truth that the essence of Minangkabau identity may lie in a readiness to accept extraneous cultural influences. And yet this fails to explain the great variation in the quality and extent of deculturation which various Minangkabau intellectuals exhibited. Swift points out that important Minangkabau politicians were to be found at all points on the Indonesian ideological spectrum but the differences among them go well beyond ideology in the narrow sense. One need only consider a selection of the more eminent Minangkabau intellectuals of the Indonesian mid-century - Hatta, Sjahrir, Natsir, Haji Agus Salim and Tan Malaka among politicians, and the writers Idrus, Chain! Anwar and Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana - to realize the broad spectrum of responses to cultural options: to Minangkabau identity, understandings of Indonesianness, responses to moder nity and attitudes to tradition, religious adherence and outlooks, and styles of public action. Again, we are entitled to ask how far the concept of Minangkabau culture can take us in understanding why particular individuals developed the characteristics they did. Swift also convincingly argues that a central feature of Minangkabau public life is individual competitiveness. Some other ethnic groups, such as the Bataks, have achieved economic and other success in group frameworks but this, he suggests, would not satisfy Minangkabau ambitions, as they are less prepared to give group advantage priority over, or even a place alongside, individual accomplishment. If we apply this idea to Sjahrir, complex results emerge. His style of thought was certainly individualistic; he was an intellectual with independent habits of thought, and the PSI attracted and sought to produce self- sufficient thinkers. And yet, conditions permitting, he generally worked through groups, not as an isolated polemicist, and certainly he was always concerned to recruit a following, even though he did not extend this to a mass movement. Mrazek puts forward an interesting interpretation of Sjahrirs early career in terms of a distinctively Minangkabau response to the outside world. He relates Sjahrirs outlook, and especially his western rationalism, to the interaction between the pre existing Minangkabau world view and the new dominance of the Dutch ethici which took hold in the early years of the century, and which had a prevailing influence in his education. This interaction was an effort to integrate or associate the western ideals of universalism, dynamism and rationalism with the tradisionals ideals of the Minangkabau. Minangkabau was their culture but... Dutch-ness was the cultures highest quality. This argument certainly appears to reflect the education received by Sjahrirs generation of the Indonesian elite, but it seems to fall short in explaining Sjahrirs particular case, mainly because it fails to explain why Sjahrirs response should have differed from those of others who experienced similar processes. As already noted, the products of this background ended up with all kinds of outlooks and attitudes to the conflict of tradition and modernity. Sjahrirs rejection of tradition was quite thoroughgoing, and although it may be argued that his strongest objections were to Javanese rather than Minangkabau tradition, that surely is a function of the very modernization of the Minangkabau which may have brought him to such a position rather than to any active approval of the remaining pre-modern aspects of Minangkabau culture. In other words, he disliked backwardness, regardless of its ethnic associations, rather than reacting negatively to cultural ways because they were alien to the Minangkabau world view. His antagonism to Javanese tradition was doubtless intensified by the concrete frustrations represented by political rivals drawing on this tradition. This is not to suggest that aspects of Minangkabau culture have nothing to contribute to understanding Sjahrirs development: where they can be related to his concrete experience, they should certainly be taken into account. Education is a case in point, to which I will return later; however not only the content of his education needs to be considered, but also its psychological significance. As well as Minangkabau cultural orientation sits the question of the extent of Sjahrirs attachment to a developing Indonesian national culture. This is difficult not only because Indonesias nation al culture is not easily described, but also because national consciousness was still only in a formative stage in Sjahrirs youth. Sjahrir himself played a significant role in the development of important symbols of this national culture. As a nineteen year old he participated in the youth congress which adopted the national anthem and the famous slogan One nation, one country and one language. The designation of Malay as the Indonesian national language marked an important step in the development of national culture, and a major move towards cultural independence, legitimizing for nationalistically minded Indonesians a medium for mutual communication which was not the property of the colonisers or of any one ethnic group. Twenty months earlier, not yet eighteen, he had been one of the founding members of the youth group Jong-Indonesie, subsequently Pemuda Indonesia, one of the first such organisations with a national rather than provincial character. This group adopted as its symbol the red and white banner

later to become Indonesias national flag! Of course these outward trappings are mere symbols, but the rapid succession of new symbolic representations of national identity is indicative of the embryonic nature of Indonesian national culture at the time. It also powerfully underlines the point that the culture of nationhood, like all culture, is ever subject to change and reassessment by those who adhere to it. It offers its adherents options; individuals are to a greater or lesser degree able to choose their cultural reference points. Sjahrir worked to re-direct Indonesias cultural practice towards modernity and rationality; the course of events would show the extent of resistance to these endeavours. Both by circumstance and by his own efforts, Sjahrir s youth and political career coincided with a time of momentous choices in the referents of Indonesian culture. It is interesting to note that unlike the immediately preceding generation of nationalists including soekarno and hatta, Sjahrir was never a member of a parochial or regional organization; from the start his affiliations were with group which were national as well as nationalist. but it is difficult to use the characteristics of the emergent national culture to explain the kind of of political actor that he became. To the extent that a cultural milieu produced him, he was mainly a product of the colonial state, part of a generation who created for the first time a new cultural synthesis which could accurately he called Indonesian. He was in fa ct deeply aware of the absence of a single cultural framework within which an intellectual could operate in Indonesia. In Sjahrirs view all Indonesian intellectuals were at a great disadvantage where culture was concerned: they were such a tiny proportion of the countrys people, and they were only beginning to seek a form and a unity in their outlook and culture! Nonetheless the emergent national cultural framework, fragile and fragmented as it was, is important to understanding his career, as it profoundly influenced the environment within which his political career and personal drama were played out. This took on deep significance after independence when the abiding cultural pluralism of Indonesian society emerged as a major factor in shaping the contours of politics. Cultural difference, or more specifically strong identification among the people with groups divided by cultural antagonisms, was a major element of Indonesias post -independence politics. The parties which proved electorally successful were those which managed to attract the support of a distinct sociocultural stream in Indonesian society. This was especially so in Java, where society is riven by cleavages of cultural and religious orientation, which partly coincide with economic differences. Briefly, these cleavages produced four socio-cultural streams (aliran), each of which gave substantial support to a particular political party in the 1950s. The devout Moslems or santri (a minority at the time) were split between the religiously purist, modernist, more urbanized and more prosperous stream known as santri moderen, who mostly supported the Masjumi party,and the religiously pluralist (i.e., tolerant of Javanese impurities in Islamic practice), conservative, and predominantly rural stream, especially strong in East Java, known as santri kolot who mostly voted for Nahdatul Ulama (NU). Among the non-devout, or syncretist, the aristocratic and bureaucratic elite (priyayi) generally supported the Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI), as did members of the lower classes subject to their influence. Many other members of the nondevout peasantry gave their vote to the Communist Party (PKI). To some extent this division was also connected to regionalism. Masjumi derived the majority of its support from the strongly Islamic areas of the outer islands, while the other parties support was concentrated in Java. This difference in electoral behaviour reflected not only cultural and religious divisions but also growing regional disaffection with the central government. The PSI, like the other parties which lacked clear appeal to a single aifran, performed poorly in the election, and especially so in East and Central Java. There is no question about the close connection between socio cultural orientation and electoral behaviour, but need it have been so? And need this automatically have meant political failure for Sjahrir and the PSI? Hindsight raises some questions of relevance to assessing Sjahrirs career: for example, the possibilities for promoting a political culture less tightly linked to aliran loyalties; alternative organizational and electoral strategies which the PSI might have pursued; the prospects of acquiring influence through better relations with other parties and political forces; and making better use of opportunities outside the framework of party and electoral politics. Conclusions about these questions must necessarily remain tentative but several themes recur in examining Sjahrirs career which are useful in casting light on his character as a political actor, and may go some way to explaining his ultimate failure. His determined belief in rational thought and action, and his consistency in assigning a high value to educational enterprises are of primary importance, and it is also important to understand his antagonistic relations with many of his political contemporaries. EARLY LIFE

Details of Sutan Sjahrirs childhood are scarce, but some important factors are clear. He was the eighth son of Muhammad Rasjad gelar Maha Radja Sutan of Kota Gedang, a Minangkabau noble and a lawyer, who rose in the colonial administration to become chief public prosecutor in Medan and also an adviser to the Sultan of Deli? Kota Gedang was well known for the success of its sons on the rantau, especially in govermnent employment. Though the villages population was only about 2500, no less than 165 men of the Kota Gedang lineages were government officials in 1915, about half of whom held posts outside West Sumatra. As a chief prosecutor, Sjahrirs father was am ong the most successful of these. Competition was intense for access to European education, but the familys rank and connections allowed Sjahrir the opportunity to attend Dutch-medium primary (ELS) and secondary (MULO) schools. He was a successful scholar, and education came to take a central place in his life. At the age of sixteen he travelled to Bandung to attend the more advanced Dutch middle school (AMS), where he followed the course based on western classics. This type of education was rather a late development in colonial history, and was provided to only a tiny section of society, but it was an education of great rigour and quality. Sjahrir prospered in this environment. In Bandung both his intellectual vigour and his bent towards political activism became apparent. His shyness and slight build meant that at first his classmates hardly noticed him, and when they did so it was because of his intellectual acuity and curiosity. Despite his small size, he was an enthusiastic sportsman, playing for a pan-Indonesian football team, rather than the Minangkabau team which also existed in Bandung at the time. He also loved music, and played the violin well. But it was as a student of outstanding ability that he caught his fellows attention. Hamdani remembers that Compared to the rest of us, no subject seemed burdensome or difficult to Sjahrir. Teachers always called on him to tackle difficult translations from Latin, German, French or English, but perhaps most significantly, he was unafraid to question his teachers about points of history and philosophy. He had an aptitude for asking the right question to bring clarity and understanding to his fellow students. His early political activism also centred around educational enterprises. He helped to lead campaigns against illiteracy, which eventually led to the establishment of the Cahaya Peoples University, and he took part in didactic plays? He also joined a debating club, where he made a strong impression. One debate about feudalism and the abuse of outmoded tradition became heated and emotional, as many present were themselves children of aristocrats and state officials. Hamdani recalls Sjahrir advancing objective and convincing arguments which restored calm to the situation. HOLLAND : HOME AWAY FROM HOME Educational success marked the progressions of Sjahrirs early life: from Medan to Bandung, and then in 1929 from Bandung to the Netherlands to study law, first at Amsterdam and later at Leiden. Two years later he returned home without a degree, but not without an education. His lack of academic progress was not due to a deficiency of talent or energy, but to other calls on his enthusiasm, ultimately leading him home early to fulfil a political duty. The West excited him, and he thrived there? Not all the experience was new: his Dutch education had prepared him so thoroughly that he felt he was recollecting things I had already known. In Holland he became active in leftist political circles, including the Dutch Social Democratic Party, international trade union organization, and most importantly, in the nationalist student group Perhimpunan Indonesia (PI). In this organization he first developed a close alliance with Mohammad Hatta, with whom he would maintain a very special personal and political relationship, despite important differences, for the rest of his life. Several of the characteristics of Sjahrirs political style which would be demonstrated again and again during his career were fixed at this time. But perhaps of greater significance than his formal political involvements was the social atmosphere and the opportunity for advanced intellectual exploration which Holland opened to him. His philosophical rationalism, already evident in Bandung, found its full expression and was given a firm intellectual grounding; and in Marxism he discovered a system of thought which served both his need for a coherent general philosophy and his need for tools with which to analyze the concrete situations of contemporary politics: the rise of fascism, and the historical significance of capitalism and colonialism. Importantly for the later application of his political thinking, Sjahrir was able to integrate his interpretations of the situation of Indonesia with an understanding of global forces and developments. The other major significance of his sojourn in Holland was that it gave him his first direct experience of a non-colonial society. His early life, especially his fathers position in the colonial administration, may have provided him with a close insight into the more unjust and demeaning aspects of colonial relationships. Rose suggests that he may also have been affected by witnessing the sufferings of

Javanese labourers who had been brought to the Dutch-owned plantations near Medan. In Bandung he had suffered the experience of being chased by the Dutch police (while trying to read newspaper posters telling of the PKI revolt in 1927) and subjected to insults and violence from sections of the Dutch community. Like Hatta, Sjahrir was profoundly conscious of the psychological abnormality which these unequal relationships imposed on Indonesian society, and he dwelt at length in his letters on the inferiority complex of the colonized. Colonialism had deeply corrupted Indonesia; but in exile he wrote that he could never be so happy here as in Holland...where there are no colonial relationships... Sjahrirs depth of consciousness of the human destructiveness of colonialism was only made possible by experiencing the relative liberality of conditions in the colonialis ts homeland, where racial and cultural barriers were lowered. Thus Sjahrirs two short years in Holland turned out to be a deeply liberating period for him, both intellectually and spiritually, amid of immense importance to the development of his career. When he first arrived in Amsterdam, Sjahrir shared the home of his much older sister Siti Rohana, who had been living there for sometime. Siti Rohana was herself an activist of considerable note, a journalist and pioneering feminist. Tas recalls that Sjahrir found her dominance something of an irritation and an embarrassment. Remembering that he had left the family home at sixteen, casting off whatever there may have been of the puritanism of his Islamic Minangkabau background, his chafing at having his freedom curtailed, however mildly, is hardly surprising. This minor problem aside, Sjahrir threw himself into exploration and experimentation with all the exciting possibilities that the West held. His thirst for new knowledge never lost its tempo, but his organized coursework quickly gave way to a more wide- ranging and personal search for answers to the myriad problems of life and politics. For a time he lived with a group of anarchists before returning to the mainstream of socialist thought. He also enthusiastically pursued his musical interests, attending the free peoples concerts. He also developed a relationship with Maria Duchateau Tas, wife of his Dutch socialist comrade Sol Tas; she and Sjahrir were later married (by proxy) during his exile in Banda, although the colonial authorities would not let her enter the Indies, and hence they were never re-united. They were divorced in 1948. PERHIMPUNAN INDONESIA : A SCHOOL FOR SJAHRIRS POLITICS The state of the Indonesian nationalist movement both in Holland and at home at the time of Sjahrirs Dutch sojourn has great bearing on the development of several strands of his thinking. The development of the Perhimpunan Indonesia in the 1920s and the rise of the PNI in Indonesia had brought to the surface a number of tensions within the movement, which had a common objective in independence from the Dutch, but was otherwise a motley collection of communists, democrats, reli activists, aristocratic and bureaucratic elitists. From the time of his involvement with PI in its decline, tensions with communists on the one hand and the elitists on the other would be enduring themes in Sjahrirs politics. PI had been founded as long ago as 1908, but in the early twenties it underwent a major reorganization and a shift in its focus. Originally it had been a politically moderate association, largely a social club, for Indonesian students in the Netherlands. As the number of Indonesians proceeding to higher education in Holland grew after the first world war, the PI increasingly attracted members who had been active in youth and nationalist organizations at home. Hatta had joined it soon after his own arrival in Holland in 1921, and had quickly become the dominant force within it. Under his leadership the PI developed a distinctive nationalist program, whose elements included the supremacy of national unity over regional and sectional differences, self-help, solidarity, and most importantly, non co-operation with the Dutch authorities. Hatta believed genuine co-operation was only possible among people sharing the same rights and duties, and having common interests; otherwise, it would simply be a mask for exploitation. Active non co-operation would fulfil the dual purposes of sharpening the opposition between colonizer and colonized, and promoting the internal unity of the oppressed. Over the next two decades political leadership of the nationalist movement would be split between non co-operating nationalists, including Sukarno, Hatta and Sjahrir, and those who chose to participate in Dutch-sponsored activities, including the advisory body known as the Volksraad. Expediency motivated many co-operating nationalists, but it is worth noting that as the 1930s progressed, many were also moved by their fear of the rising tide of fascism, including the growing aggressiveness of Japan, which they saw as a more serious, or at least more urgent, problem to be overcome than European colonialism. Sjahrir would later come to share this point of view. Hatta and Sjahrir were both conscious of the domination of the Indonesian movement by elitists, predominantly Javanese, sincere in their nationalism but not committed to democratic social change or democratic

methods of operation. There was considerable tension between Sjahrir and older, opportunist elitist nationalists; some leading figures in this tradition, such as Ali Sastroamidjojo and Subardjo, continued this antagonistic relationship right through to the events of the forties and fifties. By the twenties the Indonesian nationalist movement, and PI, included many communists. The Russian Revolution was still a recent memory, and Lenins anti-imperialist posture attracted many Indonesian activists to the communist cause. The Indonesian Communist Party, Asias oldest, impressed many PI members as the most vigorous force opposing Dutch power. Even those who would later espouse violent hostility to communism, like Hatta and Sjahrir, often became deeply interested in Marxist ideas. Apart from the vision and critique of society, both men were impressed by Leninist organizational principles, and both would continue to admire the efficiency of tightly disciplined cell-based organizational arrangements throughout their careers, despite their otherwise democratic outlook. But this common ground notwithstanding, there was already in the twenties a clear and growing mistrust between communists and non-communist nationalists. In the mid-twenties, Hatta had close relations with the communist leaders Semaun and Darsono, both of whom became members of PT for a time. But the relationship was never unambiguously friendly. To Hatta the alliance offered substantial organizational and propaganda benefits, but also carried the risk of harming the cause by alienating important elements in the united nationalist movement he hoped to build. Two such elements were the Sarekat Islam, some of whose leaders, such as Haji Agus Salim, had already crossed swords with the communists, and the nationalists centred around the Bandung Study Club. However, given the urgent need to build a strong national bloc, Hatta urged nationalists to co-operate more fully with the communists. The alliance was sealed in an agreement signed by Hatta and Semaun in December 1926 providing for PI/PM co-operation, PI leadership of the nationalist movem ent and access to the PKIs material resources. But within weeks the PM abandoned the pact on instructions from Moscow, where the Soviet government was growing increasingly intolerant of the refusal of Asian nationalists to submit to communist leadership. This sequence of events convinced Hatta of the communists inability to put the national cause ahead of their sectional (and foreign) interests. The discord intensified in 1928 when the Comintern, angered at the failure of both Chinese and Indonesian communists in preceding years, altered its strategy by eschewing co-operation with bourgeois nationalists. Hattas growing distrust was confirmed at the July 1929 congress of the International League Against Imperialism in Frankfurt, where the communists attempted to dominate proceedings.As higher educational institutions opened in Indonesia, and the Dutch government attempted to curtail student political activities, the number of Indonesians traveffing to Holland slowed dramatically after 1925; also, many of the leaders who had injected life into the PI completed their studies and went home. Furthermore the creation in 1927 of a fully-fledged nationalist party in the homeland, the PNI, drew the focus of nationalist activity away from the PI; only ever attracting minority involvement among Indonesian students, by 1928 it had declined numerically and qualitatively. Thus it had lost much of its former significance by the time Sjahrir arrived. At the same time, the PI executive had come increasingly under communist control, led by Rustam Effendi, who was a secret member of the Dutch Communist Party. Hatta now openly opposed the communists, and in this he was joined by Sjahrir, who became vice-chairman and secretaly of the PI, and took on the role, not for the last t ime, of Hattas trusted deputy. In the last days of 1929 the Dutch authorities in Java arrested hundreds of PNI members, including Sukarno, who a year later was sentenced to four years of imprisonment. Taking his and other convictions as a signal that it would no longer be tolerated, the remaining PNI leadership dissolved the party in April 1931, after the defendants lost their appeals. In its place they established the Partai Indonesia (Partindo). All this was done without reference to the mass membership. Hatta and Sjahrir had been uneasy about the mass agitational style of the PM before Sukarnos arrest, but they were highly critical of the dissolution of the party, fearing that it was a capitulation to Dutch pressure which represented a major setback to the momentum of nationalist activity. Also, the undemocratic procedure by which the decision was made stirred their egalitarian distaste for the elitist Javanese leadership. Accordingly, they lent their support to those PNI members who wished to maintain an active non co-operating movement, difficult though that might be under the increasingly repressive conditions which the Dutch were imposing. Those members were now gathering themselves into groups known as Golongan Merdeka who hoped to form a new, secular, non co operating nationalist party which would be more democratic in tone than the PNI had been, and would move towards new organizational methods, heavily centred on education. All of this was closer to Hattas original conception of the nationalist movement, which had been at odds with the PNIs elitist leadership. The PI executive, now dominated by communists, decided to expel both Sjahrir and Hatta from the organization, using their criticism of the PNI dissolution as a pretext. Sjahrir, contemptuous of the communists and appalled by the hypocrisy of their posturing in defence of the PNI leaders, resigned and claimed that he had advised Hatta to do the same. Hatta, however, was less nonchalant

about losing his position, as he valued the PI more highly, and regarded it as important for establishing his leadership credentials in anticipation of his return to Indonesia. He was also hurt by the personal betrayal of former close associates. RETURN TO INDONESIA Hatta recognized the urgency of his return to Indonesia if he was to stake his claim to leadership of the renewed movement, but he did not want to return without completing his studies. So in 1931 it was agreed that Sjahrir, whose leadership and intellectual qualities Hatta had come to admire, and with whom he felt close ideological sympathy, should return to Indonesia as his representative. Sjahrir intended to return to Holland a year or two later, but for the moment he was needed to fill the leadership gap in the nationalist movement. The trip home i llustrates Sjahrirs resourcefulness. Friends organized a passage home for him but the ticket failed to arrive in time. Sjahrir boarded the ship anyway, believing that in the event of a ticket inspection, at worst he would be forced to leave the ship at its next port of call, Genoa. On board he found himself next to a middle-aged Dutch woman who was curious that a student should be returning home in the middle of the academic year. He explained that his trip was urgently necessary as his parents were ill, and confided that he was travelling without a ticket. The woman turned out to be an officials wife returning from home leave, and she prevailed upon her husband to pretend that Sjahrir was their servant, thus allowing him a free passage. His conscience troubled him, however, because he was afraid that his arrival was being anticipated by the Dutch secret police; fearful of causing his benefactors trouble, he disembarked at Singapore.The Golongan Merdeka held a conference to form a new party in Yogyakarta in December 1931. They chose the name Pendidikan Nasional lndonesia (Indonesian National Education). This seemingly odd name held three advantages. First, it signalled the groups commitment to the educational strategy for developing the nationalist movement, implying the deep involvement of the masses in political activity, not merely as followers, but as autonomous activists. Second, by avoiding the word partai, there may have been some hope of reducing the hostility of the authorities, since its aims could conceivably be construed as other than political. This seems improbable in view of the groups genesis in opposing the weakening of the non co-operation principle, and in any case such a transparent ploy could hardly have fooled the authorities. Finally, the name allowed the continued exploitation of the goodwill associated with the name PNI. In June of the following year the new party held its first congress in Bandung, and elected Sjahrir as its temporary chairman until Hatta returned. The group was true to the education idea contained in its name. Hatta had stated his intention to engage in social pedagogy on his return and he followed through on his promise? In contrast to the mass agitation favoured by Sukarno and Partindo, the PNI Bans emphasized the development of a cadre group of intellectual quality. To this end Hatta produced a famous document, a party manifesto called Ke Arah Indonesia Merdeka. This was followed by another document, which was a virtual catechism, consisting of 150 questions on subjects ranging from the aims of the Pendidikan to complex questions of political theory, together with prescribed answers, which were to be circulated to PNI Bans branches and to be regarded as required knowledge of members. This work is generally attributed to Hatta, and was published under his name, but both Subadio Sastrosatomo and Burhanuddin say that the idea originated with Sjahrir ARREST AND EXILE : THE END OF YOUTH Sukarno was released at the end of 1931, but two years later he was arrested again, and three months after that, Sjahrir and Hatta were also detained. Sjahrir had already bought his passage back to Holland, and had left Bandung for Jakarta to meet his ship. This was the beginning of eight years of imprisonment and exile, during which the material and psychological freedoms of his youth vanished. At first Sjahrir was held at Jakartas Cipinang prison for ten months. In the first week of 1935, he and Hatta, with five others, were sent to the notorious penal settlement at Boven Digul in West New Guinea. This was a vile place, in an isolated, swampy location over a hundred miles upriver from the nearest town, ravaged by disease and cruelty. If Holland had inspired Sjahrirs idealism by giving him an inkling of the heights to which a society might aspire, Boven Digul gave him a contrasting experience with profoundly negative effects upon him. Firstly and fundamentally, life at Digul damaged his health. Prisoners were allowed only a very meagre ration unless they agreed to work; for the non co-operating nationalists this was impossible since the authorities made it clear that those who volunteered to work would be regarded as showing remorse. After a few months Sjahrir and Hatta were re-classified as non-extremists and given a somewhat larger allowance. Also, water was short. In October, Sjahrir contracted malaria, and then tuberculosis, which would affect him spasmodically for the rest of his life. In addition this incarceration had grievous psychological effects, as Sjahrir suffered deep depression; but he surprised himself with the reServe of fatalism on which he

could draw for mental strength. He retreated into study to escape from the pressures of this abnormal daily life, but even this enthusiasm waned; he reflected sadly that he could manage no more than three hours of study at a stretch. The close living with others at Digul forced Sjahrir to consider the psychological distance between himself and most of his compatriots; he asked himself, Am I perhaps estranged from my people? He realized that a wide gap separated intellectuals from the mass of the people, yet his understanding of this distance seems rather one-sided. He is concerned with the vexation that the underdeveloped character of the people could provoke among the intel ligentsia, but does not seem concerned with what meaning the intellectuals world might have for the masses. After a year he was moved to an exile in more congenial surroundings at Banda Neira in the Moluccas, where he shared a comfortable villa with Hatta and Tjipto Mangunkusumo. Another nationalist exile, Iwa Kusuma Sumantri, lived nearby. They were permitted to travel freely within the island, to have free access to books and to write. Sjahrir was able to enjoy sailing and swimming and his health improved. Sjahrirs relations with Hatta at this time have been the subject of some misunderstanding. Naturally living so closely for such a long time would be bound to produce some conflict, but although their temperaments differed, they shared enough of a common outlook to make serious disagreements rare. When Sjahrirs letters to his wife were published in Holland after the war, some critical comments about Hattas intellect were included; but it should be noted that Sjahrir did not authorize publication, and the letters were edited by Maria Duchateau and Sjahrirs brother. Sjahrirs self-image as an intellectual, at a psychological remove from other people, was apparent in his attitude to some of the local people with whom he interacted. Befriended by the local doctor and school principal, he was glad when authorities warned them off, relieving him of the need to make many concessions to their shallow chatter. Similarly, he was irritated at the pretensions of a socially inept German curate who visited them and endeavoured to show off his own education while belittling Sjahrirs. But these instances of drawing himself away from others were largely a reaction against the pretentiousness and triviality of a small-time elite, not a remoteness from the people in general. Indeed, at one time he refused to visit Iwa Kusuma Sumantris home because of Iwas wifes haughty attitude towards the local villagers. One of Sjahrirs most valued pursuits in Banda was teaching a number of children, including Tjipto Mangunkusumos two foster sons (one of whom had never been to school due to illness) as well as four Arab children whose families were too poor to send them to school. He also enjoyed the company of children when swimming or sailing, which he did often. After a day at the beach with twelve children, he reflected that while the childrens parents were pleased that he took care of them, in reality it was the children who took care of him. His other main occupation was a daily routine of study. He did not abandon Marxism entirely, but his letters chart the development of his thought beyond the Marxist orthodoxy of his days in Holland, which would have its fullest flowering in his social democratic stance in the post-war years. Tas remembers Sjahrirs reluctance to part from Marxist dogma, though this may be a post hoc rationalization for Tas having published a crude defence of the dialectic which Sjahrir had written some time earlier, which embarrassed him and misrepresented his current position. In particular Sjahrir was affected by the writings of Croce (he considered learning Italian in order to read them in the original) and also by Ortega y Gasset , who illumined his view of totalitarianism. Fascism was a manifestation of the ubiquitous supremacy of conscious irrationalism which elevated the concept of power to a supreme place. Underlying this, Sjahrir now believed, was the very principle of the dialectic, the opposition of forces based on the conflicting interests and desires of different national or class groups. Here one can see developing Sjahrirs repugnance towards all totalitarianism, which would become manifest in anti-fascist and anti-communist thought and action over the coming years. Like so many western intellectuals he was deeply affected by what might be termed post- totalitarian disappointment. This bespeaks a capacity for genuine intellectual development and engagement with events, not merely the adoption of a fixed posture on the one hand or unbridled pragmatism on the other; this attribute was not widely shared among his nationalist colleagues. As the thirties progressed, Sjahrir was increasingly aware of the looming prospect of a world-wide struggle against fascism, and the likelihood of a Japanese invasion, but he was convinced of the ultimate outcome of the struggle. Moreover, he believed that Indonesias prospects in the post -war environment would be closely linked to Allied perceptions of Indonesian opposition to the Japanese Sjahrirs hostility to the Japanese was intense and formed early. He ha d no illusions about the fascist character of the Japanese regime, and viewed its rise as utterly inimical to Indonesian aspirations. By the late thirties he regarded Japan as a more serious hurdle to Indonesian freedom than the Dutch, and the fascist tide as the fundamental fact of the world situation : he now felt nationalists ought to make the anti-fascist struggle their priority, even to the point of co-operating with the Dutch. Indeed, he now felt that non-cooperation had become obsolete. This depended, however, on a changed

attitude on the part of the colonial authorities, and this was not forthcoming, even after the Nazi occupation of Holland. Japan became more and more popular among Indonesians as anti-Dutch feeling mounted, and many derived secret satisfaction from Hollands plight. He had not long to wait for a close encounter with the Japanese. In December 1941 war with the US began, and the Governor-General declared the Indies also at war. Sjahrir was even given a job, in charge of the listening posts on Ambon. After some hesitation, he and Hatta accepted an offer of repatriation to Java. Sjahrir was particularly concerned that he be allowed to take with him some of the children he had befriended in Banda; he was permitted to take five, but only three actually made the trip. On January 31, 1942, with the Japanese advance in full swing, the long exile ended with a flight to Surabaya in an American flying boat. The friendly attitude of the American crew contrasted with the reception awaiting them. There was a Dutch marine with rifle and fixed bayonet to escort each of Sjahrir, Hatta and the three children to jail. But the Dutch, for the moment at least, were no longer Sjahrirs main concern; in little more than a month, all of Java was under Japanese control. OCCUPATION TO INDEPENDENCE If I have dwelt at some length on what may appear inessential aspects of Sjahrirs early career, this is in order to cast light on his post-war political conduct. From the brief account I have given of his life as a student in Bandung and Holland, as an activist in Java and as an exile in Banda, certain threads repeatedly appear; by exploring his part as leader of the Indonesian Socialist Party in the 1950s, we may grasp something of the continuity which personality lends to a political life despite changing historical circumstance and developing political culture. When a full-length biography of Sjahrir is written, it will doubtless devote much attention to the occupation period. Sjahrirs activities at this time have been extensively explored by Legge. Here it will be sufficient to briefly recount some events of this period. Alter returning to Java, Sjahrir and Hatta went to Jakarta where they met Sukarno who had been released from his own exile in Bengkulu. This meeting has been the subject of contradictoly reports. According to one version the leaders agreed to pursue a double strategy; but although both Sukarno and Sjahrir stated this to be so, it has been suggested that no explicit agreement was made. Either way, the result was thatSukarno and Hatta co-operated with and accepted office under the Japanese to gain whatever patronage may have been available to the nationalist cause, while Sjahrir avoided contact with the occupiers and would develop underground resistance - although the term resistance may be misleading, suggesting a military or saboteur organization akin to those of Nazi occupied Europe. His work focused mainly on the creation and maintenance of an extensive network of contacts in various parts of Java to promote nationalist propaganda and pass on news of local and foreign events, including information gleaned from foreign broadcasts which Sjahrir listened to illegally. Sjahrir lived as quietly as he could, first in official internment at Sukabumi and then at his sisters house at Cipanas. He made an extensive incognito trip through Java to help organize his network and periodic trips to Bandung and Jakarta; in the last year of the occupation he spent more time in Jakarta than at home. He expected arrest but it did not happen; Hatta was ordered to travel to Jakarta but Sjahrir was left alone. To maintain a low profile he encouraged the idea that he was at Cipanas trying to overcome tuberculosis, and other nationalists avoided mentioning him to the Japanese. Sjahrir never wavered in his refusal to become part of the Japanese administrative and propaganda apparatus, although towards the end of the occupation he was made an offer he could not refuse to give lectures to students at the Japanese sponsored Asrama Indonesia Merdeka, which worked under the patronage of Vice-Admiral Maeda, who was sympathetic to Indonesian aspirations. Central to Sjahrirs activity during the occupation was the formation of a solid group of supporters through the recruitment of young intellectuals, independent of Sjahrir in thought but generally sharing his main concerns. Legge has given a detailed and sympathetic account of this work, which built on the personal links and political concerns which had already been evident in the Pendidikan Nasional Indonesia in the early thirties. The major significance of this for our present purpose is that to a large degree the PSI had its genesis in this project, as several of the young people who became members of Sjahrirs circle at this time would later become leading members or supporters of the PSI, including Soedjatmoko, Sitorus, Soebadio Sastrosatomo, T.B. Simatupang and Hamid Algadri. His activities were linked to the similar work of his nephew Djohan Sjahroezah based in Surabaya and with those of Sudarsono in Cirebon. After initially exploiting nationalist feeling, the Japanese dragged their feet on the issue of Indonesian independence. In late 1944, as their military position deteriorated, the Japanese government announced that independence would be granted, but the process of preparing for it was quite slow, and as the surrender became imminent, still had not been completed. As late as 11 August 1945 - five days after Hiroshima - Sukarno and Hatta flew to Vietnam to be assured by Marshal Terauchi, the commander-in- chief for the southern territories, that independence would be

granted when requested by the Indonesian independence preparation committee. Sjahrir favoured a unilateral declaration, both because of his distaste for the Japanese and in order to signal to the world that Indonesia was seizing its independence as an act of defiance towards the defeated Axis powers, not the victorious allies. He argued this course of action to Sukarno and Hatta on the afternoon of 14 August, but fearful of Japanese reaction, the two leaders resisted. Hoping to force their hand, a group of youth leaders, some of whom were Sjahrirs supporters, visited Sukarno. When their pleas failed, some of the youths kidnapped Sukarno and Hatta. Sjahrir did not support the kidnapping, which did not in any case succeed in persuading the leaders to change their minds, and he took no further part in the events surrounding the declaration of independence. The two major leaders were finally released, and met with various colleagues at Admiral Maedas house on the night of the 16th. Finally, the next morning, Sukarno and Hatta proclaimed Indonesias independence in a very simple ceremony at Sukarnos house. Sjahrir did not attend. The post -Japanese transition period was extremely confused, even chaotic in some parts of the country. Revolutionary activities of varying character were taking place in some regions. Despite the nominal continuity of authority from the occupiers to Sukarnos government, an effective power vacu um existed once the Japanese were discredited. Throughout Java, large numbers of young men, many with little effective leadership, were taking the revolution into their own hands, seizing weapons from the Japanese. There was an upsurge of violence, some of it well organized, and some more or less arbitrary. Attacks on Europeans, Eurasians, Chinese, Ambonese and Menadonese were frequent. In places there was bloody fighting between Japanese and Indonesians. In general, centralized authority was disintegrating. Meanwhile, British troops were beginning to land, to be followed by the returning Dutch. It was in this atmosphere that Sjahrir published his famous pamphlet Perjuangan Kita. This assessment of Indonesias position reflected his concerns both about the p revailing disorder and about the character of the countrys new government. He criticized the lawlessness of the youth, anxious as he was about its potential to damage the republics reputation, especially with the Allies, as well as about its potential to promote and maintain fascist attitudes. Importantly, he also condemned those who had collaborated with the Japanese as men without real character accustomed to kowtow to and run errands for the Dutch and the Japanese. He went further, calling for the elimination from leadership of traitors to our struggle running dogs and henchmen of the Japanese fascists, specifying those who have worked in the Japanese propaganda organizations, the secret police, and the Japanese fifth column in general. The effect was immediate and profound. Sjahrir allowed people to make sense of an otherwise confusing political situation by putting forward a clear distinction between those responsible for recent sufferings and those who were not. The pamphlets clarity and its anger captured a growing mood of frustration among large sections of the people, including much of the youth of Jakarta. The pamphlet appeared within days of Sukarnos announcement of his cabinet, which contained a preponderance of members who could be tagged as collaborators. Of the entire cabinet, only the information minister Amir Sjarifuddin (who was still a prisoner of the Kenpeitai at the time of his appointment) and the economics minister R.P. Soerachman could claim to be free of Japanese conne ctions. Sjahrir himself had declined Sukarnos offer of an appointment. Sjahrirs attack on collaborators left a legacy of deep frustration and personal hostility on the part of some of the deposed ministers, not only because of their private disappointment but also because of the bitterly accusing tone of Sjahrirs polemic. This brought him continuing antagonism from the older nationalists who lost out in these events; and even many decades later, traces of bitterness are to be found in the memoirs of Subardjo, for instance. During the next few months Sjahrir capitalized on this polemical success to alter the shape of the political institutions of the embryonic republic. The original constitution had provided for a powerful president, head of both state and government, with the right to form cabinets, rule by decree and veto measures adopted by the legislature. The committee which had been preparing for independence, the PPM, was enlarged and transformed into the Central Indonesian National Committee (KNIP). In October Sjahrir proposed, and Sukarno agreed, to convert this body into the formal legislative one envisaged in the constitution.m A few weeks later he proposed the establishment of political parties, and again Sukarno agreed, with reluctance. Then, in a third move, he called for the resignation of Sukarnos cabinet, to be replaced with a cabinet led by a Prime Minister chosen by the KNIP. Again Sukarno agreed. Sjahrir favoured these changes both as a matter of democratic principle and also in order to rid the state apparatus of its pro-Japanese, totalitarian cast. This related closely to the need as he saw it to impress on the Allies that the republic was not a Japanese creation, as the Dutch were claiming, in an effort to avoid negotiation. Also, of course, all the moves assisted Sjahrir to move closer to the centre of political power. In October 1945 two separate socialist parties were formed. Sjahrir and his followers established the Partai Rakyat Sosialis (Paras), while Amir Sjarifuddin, freed

from prison, led the Partai Sosialis Indonesia (Parsi), not to be confused with the party of the same name formed by Sjahrir in 1948. Within weeks their similarity of outlook and their common interest in supporting Sjahrirs position within the KNIP moved them to merge into a single Partai Sosialis (PS). Masjumi, the PNI, Catholic and Protestant parties also formed, and the Communist Party began to resume its activities openly. Tan Malaka, the veteran communist who had returned to Indonesia secretly during the war and was now gaining a considerable following, was a major rival, not only for Sjahrir but also for Sukarno himself. While Sjahrir was working towards a form of government which would enable negotiations with the Dutch to commence, Tan Malaka called for a social revolution and armed struggle, epitomized by his rejection of the Political Manifesto which Hatta issued in early November. This document, while rejecting all Dutch claims, was moderate in its tone.Tan Malaka began moves to replace Sukarno as president. He approached Sjahrir as early as September proposing that they join forces to overthrow Sukarno, Tan Malaka becoming president and Sjahrir gaining all the major ministerial portfolios. Later he made a second proposal with the positions reversed. Sjahrir, however, had no presidential ambitions, and despite his lack of enthusiasm for Sukarno as a political leader, he recognized the important unifying role that no one but Sukarno could fill.For his part, Sukarno agreed to Sjahrirs proposals partly because he knew that Sjahrirs position would necessarily depend on his and Hattas retaining their office, while Tan Malakas aim would be to replace him.The fact that these events ended with Sjahrir becoming Prime Minister, and with the temporary end of the presidential system of government, laid him open to suspicion of acting merely out of concern for short-term advantage, or of seeking to curry favour with foreigners. But his strategy did carry considerable risks, and his actions were wholly consistent with his democratic and antifascist principles. Certainly he was an immediate beneficiary, but in this case opportunism and principle coincided. PRIME MINISTER AND BEYOND Sjahrir began his term as Prime Minister on 14 November 1945, and from the outset he had to contend not only with the Dutch but also from antagonists within the republic. His strategy of diplomacy drew continual opposition, especially as the Dutch proved intransigent in negotiations, insisting in early 1946 that the republic could only be allowed control of Java within the framework of a federal state. Tan Malaka formed a new group, the Persatuan Perjuangan, rejecting any conciliation with the Dutch and advocating 100% Freedom based on armed struggle and seizure of foreign property. Sukarno and Hatta headed off this campaign by renewing Sjahrirs mandate, while including the 100% Freedom slogan in the new cabinets program. As Dutch forces occupied Jakarta early in 1946, life in the capital became increasingly difficult for the leaders. Sjahrir narrowly escaped an assassination attempt, and Amir Sjarifuddin was also attacked. Sjahrir, Sukarno and Hatta decided the government should be moved to Yogyakarta, but Sjahrir remained behind to continue his negotiations. His absence from the centre of nationalist political life gave strength to the resurgence of the dwitunggal as the leading force in politics, and gave Sjahrirs enemies an opportunity to undermine him. This was easier from Yogyakarta as the dimensions of Dutch physical power, and hence the republics need to negotiate, were not so evident. Sjahrirs commitment to democratic methods came into question when Tan Malakas group organized a congress at which the governments position was condemned, thus undermining Sjahrirs attempt to present a united front to his Dutch protagonists. He asked Sukarno and Hatta to arrest Tan Malaka and four other PP leaders temporarily. But soon Sjahrir would become the victim rather than the agent of imprisonment, as he was kidnapped in June 1946 while travelling from Jakarta to Yogyakarta. Among the instigators of the kidnapping were Tan Malaka, Subardjo, Sukarni and Iwa Kusuma Sumantri, with all of whom Sjahrir had crossed swords on previous occasions. As a result of the kidnapping, Sukarno resumed his executive authority until October, when Sjahrir, released and rested, formed a third government, which finally reached an interim arrangement with the Dutch, the so-called Linggadjati Agreement. This provided for a federal state comprising the Republic (with de facto authority in Java and Sumatra) and two Dutch-sponsored states covering the remainder of the archipelago, the whole to be known as the United States of Indonesia. The KNIP seemed likely to reject the agreement, but Sukarno used his powers to appoint enough new members of the pro-Sjahrir SayapKki group, which included the Socialist and Communist Parties, to give the agreement majority support. Nonetheless there remained much high feeling against what many saw as a humiliating agreement, and Sjahrir found himself under attack from left and right alike. The so-called Benteng Republik faction, made up of Masjumi and the PNI, denounced the agreement; but more importantly, those ideologically close to Sjahrir in the Sayap Kiri withdrew their support. It is important to note that the agreement was a pretext for this withdrawal rather than its true cause; three months passed between the conclusion of the agreement and the withdrawal of support. Left with no basis of support in the KNIP, Sjahrir had no

choice but to resign, and was replaced by his deputy Amir Sjarifuddin, even though Amir had taken the same position as Sjahrir on the Linggadjati agreement. Notwithstanding the agreement, the Dutch soon launched a major military offensive on the Republic, and made considerable territorial gains in Java and Sumatra. As we have seen, Sjahrirs hostility to communists stretched back to his days in Holland, but according to Subadio Sastrosatomo it was his trip to the Inter-Asian Conference in New Delhi in March 1947, where he struck up a good relationship with Nehru, which made absolutely clear to him the emerging divergence between the international communist line in foreign relations, later to be proclaimed under the aegis of Zhdanovs two camps doctrine, an d the thinking of non-communist nationalists. He made another trip abroad in 1948, when he agreed to represent the Republic at the United Nations, then headquartered at Lake Success. He was the first Indonesian to speak there, and his trip improved the Republics prestige. An interesting sidelight on the trip is that it was paid for by the sale of opium. Financing activities abroad required hard currency, and the Republic had for some time used opium smuggling as one source of revenue for this. On leaving J akarta, Sjahrirs party took a quantity of opium and quinine, to be sold by the Indonesian representative in Singapore, the first stop on the trip. In case of detection, a doctor travelled with the group to certify that the goods were for therapeutic purposes. While Sjahrir was away, Amirs government was facing a new crisis. By this time a second agreement with the Dutch, even less favourable to Indonesian aspirations than the Linggadjati agreement, had been concluded, and was widely opposed. This provoked Amirs resignation and the installation of a presidential cabinet led by Hatta. The two wings of the Socialist Party now split, Sjahrirs supporters backing Hatta, while Amir opposed him. Amir refused to call a meeting of the whole party, where upon Sjahrirs associates seceded and formed the new Partai Sosialis Indonesia (PSI). The remaining Amir socialists joined with the Communist Party, the small Labor Party and the socialist youth organization Pesindo to form the Front Demokrasi Rakyat (FDR). New battle lines were emerging for a struggle within the republic which partly paralleled those developing globally. On Sjahrirs return he tried to heighten awareness among his followers of the developing Cold War. But he now withdrew from the centre of the repub lics struggle; Hatta offered him the post of Foreign Minister, but he declined since the continued Dutch aggression in spite of negotiated agreements had now destroyed his faith in bilateral negotiation, although he did accept an appointment as a special adviser. Sjahrir played little part in the train of events which led to the Dutch finally accepting the inevitability of Indonesias independence. But when Dutch forces overwhelmed Yogyakarta in December 1948 and captured Sukarno and Hatta, Sjahrir was also detained, although he held no official position. They were taken to places of confinement in Sumatra; Sjahrir and Sukarno were held together at the holiday resort of Prapat, not a congenial arrangement for either of them. Under American pressure, however, the Dutch were forced to enter a new round of negotiations. Once again, Sjahrir declined an offer to take a leading role, though he consented to give advice. Sukarno reportedly took offence at Sjahrirs attitude, feeling it was directed at him, which it may have been. The PSI were among the small minority who opposed the final settlement, partly through bitterness towards the Dutch. In an uncharacteristically critical comment, Hatta later accused Sjahrir of pique because he had not done the negotiating which led to success. On December 27, 1949, ceremonies took place in Jakarta and The Hague to mark the transfer of sovereignty. As with the proclamation of independence four years earlier, Sjahrir was absent from the great event. THE SOCIALIST PARTY After the transfer of sovereignty, Indonesia embarked on its independent life in a state of some political disorder. Under the Round Table Agreement, the country was for the moment stuck with a federal system which most politicians did not want, and with a multiplicity of parties whose future was unclear. The parties were the focus of an experiment in constitutional democracy, but their position was not yet sanctioned by a concrete act of the popular will. Elections would be held, but exactly when and under what rules was not agreed. Some parties were quite tiny, and none could be certain of future success, although Masjumi was very, confident that the demographic fact of Indonesias overwhelming Moslem majority would ensure its success when elections were held. The extent of Masjumi support was widely exaggerated ; in 1950, it was even reported to claim a membership as large as twenty million. Wild though some of the claims may have been, the superiority of its support to that of other parties was generally accepted. As an interim arrangement, a parliament was appointed by the President, in consultation with Hatta and party leaders. The parties were given a level of representation commensurate with their estimated level of support, taking into account also the part they had played in the independence struggle. The PSI was well rewarded for its efforts, being granted sixteen seats, making it the equal third largest party after the PNI and Masjumi. Its influence was actually even greater than this, however, because of the energy and calibre of its

representatives, and because other parties were willing to make use of the partys intellectual strength as a kind of brains trust. The PSI entered the new era in a state of organizational weakness. Its membership was no more than a few thousand spread throughout the country, loosely organized and in some cases still reeling from the confusion of the split with Amirs socialists. Thus organization was clearly a major priority. This was in any case consistent with Sjahrirs long-held belief in the importance of the organizational task. This issue raises a fundamental dilemma confronting Sjahrir, how to reconcile a democratic temperament with the discipline required of a tight organizational structure. Other parties also turned their attention to organization, and most tried to recruit a large mass membership. The PSI, however, adopted a dual strategy of attempting to maximize its short-term influence by manipulation of the political elite, while basing its long-term development plans on cultivating a cohesive and welleducated membership, reflecting quality rather than quantity. Hence the party at first devoted relatively little effort to developing a large following among the general public or a local-level organizational machine. This reflected Sjahrirs preference for taking the long view of events, and his experience. In the PNI Baru of the 1930s Hatta and Sjahrir had built a movement which emphasized quality and political education in its members, and this had given the organization the resilience to continue through the thirties, albeit in attenuated form, despite considerable repression. Drawing on his experiences under the Dutch and Japanese, Sjahrir felt that the most basic protection for the party against any prospective totalitarian menace was a solid core of politically well-educated cadres. At the same time, it must be recognized that in this case the protection may contain the seed of the disease. But nonetheless, it was his firm view. In the thirties he had written : A mass party does not mean that all the tens of millions of Kromos and Marhaens must enter as members of the party to be a real mass party.A party is a mass party if it is based on the importance of the mass and interprets the masses. He had reiterated this idea in Perjuangan Kita in 1945 : Its membership need not be large, provided that it forms a tight disciplined army, efficient and modern in organization and armed with a powerful and developed ideology and wide general knowledge. This emphasis on cadre-building and education implied a rather exclusive attitude to recruitment, and a resistance to mass participation, again a retreat from democratic purity. By the time the PSI began its serious organizational effort, there were additional strong reasons to follow this line. The split with the Amir socialists had indicated the danger of a party lacking internal coherence, and there was also a fear of communist infiltration, especially while the party was numerically weak. This exclusiveness was reflected in the careful screening of recruits; new members had to be nominated by two existing members, and in line with Sjahrirs pedagogic style, had to pass a test on political theory. Also, the party maintained two categories of membership, full and candidate. Less than twenty per cent of PSI members attained the more advanced status. The party proclaimed that it was not against having a large membership in principle, but not until the organizational work necessaiy to ensure the partys strength was completed. Originally it was intended to maintain the barriers to new members only as a temporary measure, to be reviewed in two years : the terms of admission...would be relaxed. It would then be possible to proceed to the second phase in which the party would have to work as a popular organization, or as a mass party In practice, however, the party was very slow to implement the second phase, partly for fear of communist infiltrators, but mainly because the partys preferred strategy simply did not require such a development. Sjahrir was especially concerned that the top leadership of the party should reflect quality in intellect and experience. The PSIs leadership was certainly of a high calibre. Apart from Sjahrir, who held the position of party chairman, the partys Politburo included: Djohan Sjahroezah, Sjahrirs nephew and long time political associate, who was general secretary; L.M. Sitorus, head of the organization section; and Subadio Sastrosatomo, leader of the PSIs parliamentary fraction. Other import ant figures included the financial expert Dr Sumitro Djojohadikusumo, and Soedjatmoko, one of Indonesia most highly regarded intellectual figures (and also Sjahrirs brother-in- law), who was an important influence even though he did not formally join the party until returning from overseas travel in 1955. Although the PSI has generally been seen as hostile to Javanese traditionalism it is worth noting that many of its leading figures - Soedjatmoko, Sumitro, Subadio, Wijono - were Javanese. The quality of the leadership group is sufficient to demonstrate that the PSI was not merely a vehicle for Sjahrir, but he was the unquestioned dominant figure in it. His centrality is even more apparent when one considers that most of the other leaders were drawn from the group of younger activists whom Sjahrir had nurtured during the occupation. One of Sjahrirs deepest concerns was to resist the totalitarian potential he had discerned in the nationalist movement, and in the Communist Party. As noted earlier, however, he was impressed at an early age with the virtues of Lenins organizational principles. Therefore his democratic, anti -

totalitarian party somewhat ironically adopted an organizational structure which in many ways resembled the arrangements normally favoured by communist parties, an irony not lost on Sjahrir himself. In principle, authority in the party lay with the party congress, but this body only ever met twice, in 1952 and shortly before the 1955 elections. Between congresses the party was subject to the authority of a plenary party council, which was also the Central Committee. This body had fifty-one members, and was thus too unwieldy to meet on a regular basis, so in practice policy was in the hands of the Politburo of four members mentioned above. The day to day administration was in the hands of a two-member Executive Committee, namely Sjahrir and Djohan Sjahroezah. The partys central activities were handled by a secretariat with five departments: general affairs, organization, finance, foreign affairs and education, information and publications. Reflecting Sjahrirs stress on education, the activities of the organization department were closely co-ordinated with the education and information department. Thus the partys development of membership was t ightly linked to a cadre training program for which the education department developed courses. The PSI program aimed to achieve a socialist society by democratic means, that is, not by violence. By this time the refinement of his attitude to Marxist orthodoxy which Sjahrir had begun in the thirties had progressed to a social democratic position which rejected the notion of class struggle, on several grounds. He believed that class analysis was inapplicable to Indonesia since the country lacked an indigenous bourgeoisie, hence there was no one to struggle against within the Indonesian state, which in any case needed to preserve its still fragile national unity. Also, he adopted the social democratic view that economic and technological conditions had changed the conditions of life under capitalism to make class struggle obsolete. Finally he felt that class struggle ran counter to humanitarian principles. This was all rather different in tone from Sjahrirs concern in the early thirties for the emancipation o f the Indonesian people, that is, of the millions of landless who do not aspire to be capitalists, of the farmers, labourers, Kromos and Marhaens. In the first instance social progress required development of the economys productive capacity through rational economic management: calculation and planning, using technology science and organization. Only after increasing production could underdeveloped countries like Indonesia turn their attention to the problem of distributive justice. In order to implement its program the PSI aspired to power, but rejected the notion of taking it by force, though with an important reservation. Sjahrir expressly reserved the right to revolt if faced with a totalitarian, feudal, absolutist or arbitrary state. He had c oncerns about threats to political freedom from both right and left: Sukarno and the elitist leaders of the PNI were untrustworthy, and the PKI posed a major challenge. His greatest fear was that they might act in concert. Sjahrir, more than most Indonesian politicians, saw the Cold War and communism as central issues in Indonesian politics. His analysis of the Indonesian party system turned on this point. He advanced a threefold classification: the PKI and its mass organizations; those who opposed them (the PSI and the religious parties); and those who were not necessarily sympathetic to the communists but who failed to understand the need as he saw it to oppose them. This last group included the President and the PNI. In Sjahrirs view this group hid their lack of program and principle behind a mask of nationalist unity: This group claims to appreciate the Communists...power to influence and stir the masses.... This group is also of the opinion that all ideological differences should be avoided, including differences with the Communists. ...this group has never clearly expressed its views on socialism. For them it is sufficient to proclaim themselves as anti- imperialists, and as good nationalists... For the same reasons, they refrain from expressing their views on Communism of the Cominform variety, or on Communism in general. Sjahrir viewed a government as losing legitimacy if it did not measure up to standards in human rights and political freedoms. This was a matter of principle but also of selfinterest, since the socialists maintained a rationalistic self-confidence that their political program, if effectively taught, would inevitably succeed unless interdicted by repressive force. In the short term, at least, aspiration to power was principally a question of obtaining influence rather than office, however. Socialist tactics in the fifties were strongly oriented towards exerting influence through state agencies, the army and alliances with other political parties, especially Masjumi. Hence, although seeing itself as democratic, the PSI was not necessarily wholly committed to the formal processes of Indonesias constitutional democracy, i.e., the electoral process and parliamentary government, especially if these processes were unfavourable to the partys own interests. This was true even in the early fifties, when the PSI enjoyed a comparatively strong parliamentary influence. During this time the PSI and its close allies worked hard to take advantage of extra-parliamentary opportunities to exert power and influence. However, these efforts were not always successful. This was apparent in the events surrounding the attempted coup of October 17, 1952.

The Indonesian army of the early fifties was badly affected by disunity, as much of its officer corps had formed alignments with one or other of the political groups in the country. The Wilopo cabinet, which governed in 1952-53, was a coalition dominated by the PNI (especially its more socialistinclined wing led by Wilopo himself), Masjumi and the PSI. The cab inet and the army leadership wished to rationalize the army, and targeted in particular units formed from the Japanese-trained military organizations of the occupation period, which were strongest in Central Java and had strong links with Sukarno and the PNI, to whom they now looked for support in opposing the reform. The army reform can in a sense be seen as a PSI project, in that its key proponents were all PSI sympathizers: Major General T.B. Simatupang, chief of staff of the armed forces; the Sultan of Yogyakarta, minister of defence; and All Budiardjo, secretary-general of the ministry of defence.In September there were rumours of a planned military coup, and the PKI alleged PSI connivance. Both the Sultan and PSI parliamentary leader Subadio denied this, but the party clearly sympathized with the army leaders and, in an effort to solidify this relationship, it campaigned against the influence of parliament. Democratic principles notwithstanding, the PSI was pleased at the prospect of a coup, as they hoped to exercise greater influence through, or in co-operation with, the military authorities than they could through parliament. Meanwhile, Colonel Nasution, the army chief of staff, had proposed the dissolution of the parliament, and held discussions to this effect with the president and vicepresident, which were inconclusive. On October 16, parliament passed a no confidence motion in the cabinet over the army reform plan, with most PNI members opposing Wilopo, even though he was from their party. Next morning, troops filled Medan Merdeka and demonstrators demanded that parliament be dissolved. Nasution and other officers met Sukarno to press this demand but he refused to intervene and the attempt to remove the authority of parliament collapsed. The incident had important consequences for the PSI, almost all negative, and in retrospect it can be seen as a disastrous turning point for the party. First, many of its leading sympathizers lost their positions: the Sultan had to resign when the cabinet refused to punish army officers who defied their leaders, and Nasution was temporarily replaced by a Japanese-trained officer. Over the next few years others, including Simatupang, also lost their positions. Wilopos failure severely damaged his prestige in the PNI, and henceforth that party was much more heavily influenced by its elitist leaders, with whom Sjahrir had had mutually antagonistic relations for many years. The incident did nothing to enhance the prestige of either parliament or the army, and also crystallized the divisions within the army; hence the position of Sukarno, with whom the PSI had minimal influence, was strengthened. The armys disunity also destroyed the PSIs hopes of gaining a position in or close to a prospective military government. More broadly, the incident made clearer the deepening political hostility between those forces based primarily in east and central Java and those based elsewhere. Perhaps most importantly for the PSI, the affair reminded parliament of the hollowness of its authority in the absence of elections; within six months, the desire to overcome this handicap had moved the legislators to pass the electoral act. For Sjahrir and his party, time was running out before they would have to test their support in the public arena. Wilopos government had lost its vitality, but held on until July 1953 when Ali Sastroamidjojo became Prime Minister. His two years in office were catastrophic for Sjahrir and the PSI. The Ali cabinet was made up of PNI, NU, minor party and non party ministers; the PSI and Masjumi now adopted an overtly oppositional stance. The growing polarization of politics was reflected in the exclusion of Masjumi and PSI representatives from the central electoral committee, which subsequently made many rulings which favoured the other parties. More damaging, however, was the fact that the PSI continued to gather numerical strength only slowly during this period. Many in the party were privately unenthusiastic about the elections even though the party publicly supported them. Meanwhile the other major parties worked assiduously to build their membership and support, and the PSIs bitterest enemy, the Communist Party, was especially successful in this. For two years after the Madiun disaster, the Communist Party had continued to be racked by internal dissension and by 1951 it could still only boast 10,000 members; within four years they increased this to half a million, and by February 1956, a miIlion. Like the PSI, the PKI was concerned to maintain party coherence, but they achieved outstanding success in avoiding the exclusiveness of the PSI recruiting system by using a third category of membership, that of the supporter member".One factor in the PSIs half hearted approach to recruitment was its trust in Masjumis pros pects of success. The Masjumi faction led by Sukiman, which was based in Java and was culturally conservative, did not have good relations with the PSI, and the PSI did not participate in Sukimans cabinet. But after the Masjumi congress of 1952, at which Mohammad Natsir became party chairman, the PSI had grown increasingly close to the Moslem party, which had always been regarded as the likely dominant party in an elected parliament. The PSI had good grounds for believing that a Masjumi-based government with a solid basis of support in the parliament would prove receptive to the PSIs policy direction, as long as the PSI could at least attain a respectable degree of support. The election demonstrated that

the belief in Masjumi dominance was, however, misplaced; so too was any hope of the PSI itself achieving a good result without devoting more of its energies to acquiring a mass following. Just a few months before the elections, Alis cabinet fell; once again, trouble in the army sparked the governments demise. But this time the army leadership was opposed to the government of the day, and this time the army leaders prevailed. With the retirement of the temporary chief of staff who had replaced Nasution in 1952, the government tried to install Bambang Utoyo, a strong PNI supporter. The army simply refused to accept the appointment and a crisis of authority ensued. Ultimately the army leaders won the day, the cabinet was forced to resign, and later Nasution regained his old position. The incident affected the PSI in two ways. Immediately, it now joined Masjumi and other friendly forces in a new cabinet under Burhanuddin Harahap. In the long term, the affair signalled the beginning of a new unity in the military, and increased its capacity to act independently of its dealings with other political elements, thus creating an important new force in national politics. There was some feeling in the new government that the opportunity should now be taken to postpone the elections, but it was clear that some elements of the government as well as the opposition would not stand for such a course, so the election date was left unchanged. The central electoral committees membership was adjusted, however, to include Masjumi and PSI members. The PSI held its second party congress in early June 1955 as a central feature of its election campaign. The congress exhibited an optimistic mood and was well-attended. The opening ceremony was held before an overflow crowd in Jakartas main sports stadium, and President Sukarno was even invited to attend, which he could not refuse as he was theoretically above party politics, despite being closely identified with the PNI. Sjahrirs closing speech in the citys main square a week later also attracted one of the biggest crowds ever seen there. The congress disguised the reality of the PSIs weakness in the countryside; it was one thing to attract a large and enthusiastic crowd in Jakarta, quite another to secure the votes of millions of peasant farmers whose lives were barely touched by modern communications. If the PSIs work throughout the early fifties had been a great game of political bluff as Myers believes, then the party congress was certainly its zenith. Through August and September Sjahrir led the campaign with a speaking tour which took him to Sulawesi, Kalimantan, Sumatra, Java and Bali, but only to major towns; the party still had little contact with rural voters. His main theme was popular dissatisfaction with government and falling living standards; in his home town of Medan, Sjahrir rode from the airport to the city in a becak to contrast with the limousine lifestyle of rival politicians. Polling proceeded fairly smoothly on September 29, and the PSIs failure was quickly apparent. Nationwide its vote was only two per cent, eighth in overall terms. Only in Bali, where there was hostility towards Javanese traditionalism but none of the religious parties had any significant following (there was no Hindu party) did the party figure as a major vote-winner. As expected Masjumi and the PNI polled fairly well, but especially startling was the similar success of Nahdatul Ulama and the Communist Party. The PSIs hopes of wielding influence on a Masjumi government proved vain. Masjumi gathered over 20 per cent of the vote; it was the second largest party, and the only party to gain an absolute majority of votes in any province. But its hopes of a clear victory proved unfounded; secular parties proved more attractive to Javanese voters, and other Islamic parties were able to exceed Masjumis vote. The PSIs disappointment was profound and various analyses were conducted, from which several themes emerged. The reaction focused on two areas: the weaknesses of the party and criticism of the parliamentary system. Some of the partys shortcom ings were material. Organization was weak generally, and especially in the populous provinces of East and Central Java; it simply lacked the apparatus for village-level vote gathering which the other parties enjoyed. Its fund-raising had also been poor compared to the large parties. The PNI had corruptly used government funds during the Ali governments term to boost its finances, while the Moslem parties had been able to have donations to their cause regarded as fit payments of the zakat, the obligatory religious contribution. The PSI had employed honest methods, and many of its campaigners had lacked militancy, and had thus been unable to demonstrate the kind of conviction needed to show the partys sense of purpose. Also, Sitorus revealed that the party had underestimated the voter turnout in rural areas, and overestimated the level of city participation. In Sjahrirs opinion, however, the PSIs greatest weakness lay in its miscalculation of the political maturity of the electorate, especially the degree to which they could still be dominated by religious and civil authority. Far from his focus on educational techniques having caused the failure, the problem lay in their insufficient vigour. Education therefore remained the key : If we were to be successful in our efforts to move the ranks of the people and nation towards progress and welfare we must first implant in them a confidence and a desire for progress and welfare. All these clearly have a relationship with the level of their understanding and intelligence. His failure had shown him the faults in his earlier attitude to organization, and he now called for an organization

aimed specifically at winning votes in elections. But still he did not abandon his ideal of a strong and exclusive cadre: the electoral organization should be separate from the party itself. But action to shift the strategic focus of the party followed when the party council met in Jakarta early the following year. The council agreed that it was time to wipe out any impression that our party life resembles that of an educational organization or study club. Restrictive membership conditions were relaxed and the party decided to actively build mass organizations. This belated action saw membership grow from 55,077 in 1955 to 217,490 in February 1958. The second half of the decade was dominated by the problem of accommodating regional interests and demands with the unitary state structure which had been adopted in 1950. Dissatisfaction grew as the central government was widely seen as inefficient, corrupt and uninterested in the concerns of the islands beyond Java. The PSI strongly supported decentralization and regional rights, and at one time advocated a senate to uphold these rights at parliamentary level. The partys policy position had little influence on the actual events surrounding the regional question, but it profoundly affected the fortunes of the party itself. The election brought Ali Sastroamidjojo back to the premiership, in an uneasy PNI-Masjumi-NU coalition. Alis return underlined the failure of the electoral process to produce changes which might meet regional concerns. Economic deterioration exacerbated the problem, and the fact that proceeds of Outer Island exports were not being directed to development in those regions heightened resentment. An unrealistic exchange rate further compounded the problem. In November 1956 Colonel Zulkifli Lubis attempted a coup, which was easily suppressed but which revealed the fragility of the governments authority. Hattas resignation followed, which had a deep psychological effect in the Outer Islands since his continued presence had been a source of reassurance and of hope that there could be a return to economic and administrative rationality. Outright rebellion erupted throughout 1957 and 1958 in Sumatra and Sulawesi. Military commanders seized control of their regions, using the legitimizing device of a state of war and siege; Sukarno, acting on Nasutions advice, extended these declarations to have nationwide effect. This move signalled the indisputable arrival of the army as a central player in Indonesian politics. Although army and regional leaders were keen for Hatta to form a new cabinet, Sukarno announced that he would form one himself, which he did, with Djuanda, not a member of any party though close to the PNI, as Prime Minister. The ministers were party members but were chosen as individuals, so that parties were no longer the basis of the governments composition. Sjahrir was deeply suspicious of Sukarnos actions, fearing that he was aiming to create a dictatorship, but he though it best not to attack the president too strongly for fear of driving him into the arms of the Communist Party, and in parliament the PSI voted in favour of the Djuanda government. During the following year or two regional problems dominated politics, but by this time the PSI had ceased to have more than a slight impact on events; increasingly, the party was merely responding to the successes of its enemies. As a party, the Socialists did not support the regional rebellions, although they generally sympathized with regional demands. When the North Sumatran rebels established a revolutionary government, the PRRI, Subadio called on Djuandas government to resign. When Djuanda refused to do so, the PSI maintained its loyalty to the central authorities. Among the PSIs leading members, only Dr Sumitro, who had been overseas since 1956, publicly identified with the rebels. Indeed, some PSI members in West Sumatra were arrested and even executed by the rebels because of the partys moderate position. Nonetheless, the Socialists, like Masjumi, were associated in many minds with the rebel activities whether they liked it or not. The army banned both parties in rebel areas as they were recaptured, and from September 1958, throughout the troubled provinces. The multi-party system had been to some extent Sjahrirs creation, when he worked to negate Sukarnos preference for a single state party and a presidential system in 1945. It is then rather ironic that after its failure in the 1955 elections, the PSI was willing to go along with the idea of abolishing all political parties, believing that this would give PSI policies a better chance, and would most harm the PKI. As it turned out, however, the parties were not abolished entirely; rather, their activities were selectively curtailed, and the PSI was among the major casualties. In 1960, Sukarno decreed that the party system should be simplified, by eliminating the opposition parties, including the PSI. He called on the leadership of the PSI and Masjumi to show cause why they should not be prohibited. Sjahrir and Subadio, together with their Masjumi counterparts, were compelled to endure not one, but two formal ceremonies where the president. Two parties were dissolved. In 1961 an attempt was

made to assassinate Sukarno while he was visiting Makassar. Sukarno came to believe, wrongly, that the attempt was part of a conspiracy against him which he associated with various opposition politicians who had recently gathered in Bali, to attend to funeral of the father of Anak Agung, the former foreign minister. The group included Sjahrir, Subadio, Mohamad Roem and Sultan Hamid of Pontianak. In January 1962, these leaders, together with Anak Agung himself and Mas jumis Prawoto, were arrested on Sukarnos orders.The conditions of their confinement were comparatively comfortable, but for Sjahrir, this imprisonment was very trying, because of his declining health, but especially because of the loss of family life. At his funeral Hatta observed that Sjahrir had trained himself to withstand all manner of suffering, but not separation from his wife and children. For the first two months, Sjahrir was kept in an ordinary house in the suburbs of Jakarta, then under military guard for nearly a year in the old prison of Madiun, where the six politicians were the sole occupants. Roems account gives the impression of a subdued and somewhat solitary man, a far cry from the gregariousness which had marked most of Sjahrirs life. At the end of the year his blood pressure was so high that he had to be moved to a military hospital in Jakarta for treatment. He remained there for eight months, and was then confined to a house near the centre of Jakarta. In February 1965 he was moved without explanation to the Military Detention Centre, an old and unsanitary prison. He was kept in a damp room and was not permitted to receive any food from outside. Within a few weeks he suffered two strokes. A fellow prisoner curious to see the face of his famous fellow inmate went to his room one night and found him lying on the bathroom floor. He was not allowed medical treatment until the next morning. An operation at the army hospital proved unsuccessful, and his family successfully pressed the government to let him travel, with his wife Poppy and their two children, to Switzerland for treatment. He never recovered from his illness, and he died far from home on April 9, 1966. After the 1965 coup attempt, which ultimately brought General Suharto to power, the PSI leaders were politically rehabilitated, but the party itself did not revive. The positive, rational approach to the nations economic development which the PSI had advocated found favour with the new regime, and some of the partys many talented leaders were given the opportunity to serve in high positions: Soedjatmoko became Ambassador to the United States, and Dr Sumitro entered the cabinet. But as a distinctive ideology and a self-sufficient political movement democratic socialism in Indonesia ended with the death of the PSI. UNDERSTANDING SJAHRIR We have seen that Sjahrirs career was a long struggle to achieve a set of ideals which were formed at an early stage, and which remained constant in their essence throughout his life, but were tempered by experience. Despite his intellectual brilliance and his many achievements the final phases of his career were unsuccessful, and ended in deep personal suffering. The failure of the Socialist Party to find a durable place in Indonesian politics was the central feature of this period of his career. To make sense of this failure in biographical terms, we must examine several aspects of his personality and style of action. Finally, although it is necessarily a rather speculative enterprise, it is worth asking whether alternative strategies might have produced any different result. We have already seen that education was the medium of Sjahrirs personal advancement in his early years, and that he was driven by a strong pedagogical impulse. Indeed, education was to him the essential task. In his own words, it was the greatest work there is. This preoccupation is apparent in his rhetoric, in his mode of political action and in his personal relations. Sjahrirs rhetoric reveals a teacher rather than an orator. His political utterances reflect his pedagogical preoccupation, as he constantly employs the language of the schoolroom, both lexical and structural, to make his thinking clear. The rhetorical style of a politician like Sjahrir could easily be a study in itself, but here only a few points need be noted. Implicit in his recorded thought is the idea that political ends can best be sought by teaching, convincing, demonstrating the validity of ones views. For instance, he often speaks of ideas he believes in, like socialism and democracy, as ajaran, which may be translated as doctrine but has the essential meaning of teaching. For him political conflict was largely a contest between teachings. At the root of this is a belief that consciousness can determine or at least strongly influence action. If people can be educated, convinced, made aware, then desirable actions will follow. At the same time, since rational understanding and planning should link desirable actions with desirable results, education becomes the key to progress. Thus political action becomes inseparable from the educational project. Hence for Sjahrir, socialism is a teaching and a movement seeking justice in human life.The rational approach contained in Sjahrirs effort to teach is re flected in the literal quality of his language. In this he contrasts starkly with many Indonesian politicians, notably Sukarno. Sjahrir rarely uses symbolic techniques to convey meaning, and rarely slips into the use of slogans. He consciously rejected slogans, seeing them as a poor if superficially attractive substitute for explanation. His arguments are therefore generally concrete and immediate in their content and

logical in their structure, and resemble nothing so much as thoughtfully constructed lectures, which indeed they are. Longer pieces are carefully divided into manageable, tightly argued sections. He often describes general conditions before moving on to specifics, and he gives his audience considerable help by frequent definitions, use of topic sentences and generous use of introductory and summary phrases which help the audience keep track of the development of his argument, such as We will now consider a number of things which we believe to be important factors... or Now that we have explored and stated frankly what we regard as shortcomings...we may draw the conclusion that... It is easy to see how closely Sjahrirs rhetoric resembled the academic discourse in which he had so excelled as a youth. This was not wholly unconscious; indeed, this kind of political language was a source of some pride to him. Tas remembers Sjahrirs pleasure in remarking after his 1955 speaking campaign that all my speeches were lessons to which the people had listened with patience. One possible interpretation of Sjahrirs preoccupation is to view education as a quasi -reproductive activity. This has a psychological as well as a sociological aspect. Education may be considered as a social process which not only contributes to the development of the individual s knowledge, skills and attitudes but also acts as a conduit for the perpetuation or reproduction of norms and values, of ideology. To the extent that ideology is intimately connected with an individuals identity, as Erik Erikson suggests, the kind of political education which Sjahrir strove to impart involves an attempt to reproduce an aspect of the educators identity. According to such an interpretation, Sjahrirs educational work was not only the implementation of a rationally arrived at strategy of political action, but also the fulfilment, perhaps dimly conscious, of a drive towards a quasi-parental nurturing relationship with his followers. From a historical angle, this pedagogical concern can also be linked to the educational heritage of the Kota Gedang tradition. A major concern of parents in the Kota Gedang lineages was to achieve educational openings for their children, especially because of the connection between education and government employment. Their patronage of the many private schools which sprang up around the turn of the century, as well as their dominant position in the Dutch schools, even beyond their own region, demonstrates this. Thus a strong connection was established between promotion of a childs formal educational career and the quality of parental nurture. To such a way of thinking, to leave a child in unschooled ignorance might be an unconscionable neglect. More generally, a deep concern for the work of nurturing is discernible in Sjahrirs life quite apart from his educatio nal principle. This is reflected in his love of children, his reluctance to cause or allow suffering in others, and broadly in his attitude towards the Indonesian people. In his letters it is clear that he does not love the people because of identification or kinship, but because they are the sufferers and the losers, the victims of colonialism and other avoidable evils. He feels sympathy for the underdog, but as a detached person who sees the people as them. An endearing aspect of Sjahrirs character is his love of children. He had only two children of his own, but was regarded as an adoptive father by many others. Even during his brief, youthful sojourn in Holland he adopted a child. During his exile, during the years of occupation and revolution, and later after his second marriage he sought out the company of children and is said to have always taken an unaffected delight in their company. And he was not simply with them; rather he invested energy and emotional commitment. Tas calls his way of playing with them a passion, an act of release. This may be interpreted as a search for a lost childhood, though not necessarily for a distinctively Minangkabau childhood as Mrazek suggests. In the company of children, Sjahrir could find the psychQlogical strength he needed to manage the complexity and hostility of adult life, an emotional framework in which relationships were simple and supportive. But most of all it bespeaks a simple joy in the creative work of nurture. Sjahrirs long -term view of events and his unbending adherence to certain principles inevitably engendered conflict, and sometimes personal animosities, with colleagues more inclined to pragmatism and less concerned with democratic ideals. In particular, he was brought into deep conflict with Sukarno and with the elitist politicians concentrated in the PNI. The Sjahrir-Sukarno antagonism was personal, cultural and political, and went back all the wa y to Sjahrirs days in the Pemuda Indonesia in Bandung. They clashed in public as early as 1928, when Sukarno addressed a youth gathering which Sjahrir was chairing. In the course of the debate Sukarno entered into a disagreement with a woman delegate, Suwarni; he raised his voice, and swore in Dutch. Sjahrir, a mere nineteen years old, intervened in her defence, scolding Sukarno for speaking Dutch at a nationalist gathering, and for using coarse language to a daughter of Indonesia. Sukarno accepted the younger mans reprimand but cannot have forgotten it. Twenty years later, prisoners of the Dutch at Prapat, the two grated on

each other. Sukarnos vanity irked Sjahrir, who was unable to restrain himself and treated the president to a stinging outburst. Even Sukarnos singing in the bathroom provoked Sjahrir to his own flurry of coarse Dutch. When Sjahrir received his letter of appointment as adviser to an Indonesian negotiating team, his first reaction on seeing Sukarnos signature was, Who is he? Why doe s he have to appoint me? Hatta reports that the story got back to Sukarno, who was suitably insulted. Arnold C. Brackman remembers witnessing a heated exchange between the two men when working as a journalist in Yogyakarta in 1948. Sjahrir repeatedly derided Sukarno, whose anger grew as the conversation went on, especially as Sjahrir deliberately spoke English so that their guest would see the presidents discomfort, while Sukarno replied in Dutch. Sukarno needed the approval of others and his rank and position were vitally important to his sense of self. Sjahrirs repeated barbs cannot have failed to engender deep hostility. Hence Sukarno was easily susceptible to suggestions that Sjahrir might be disloyal to the state as well as to himself, not that the distinction was always obvious : And what actually did Sjahrir do for the Republic? Nothing except criticize me, he wrote later. Another aspect of the Sjahrir-Sukarno relationship is their relative generational position. Sukarno was born in 1901, Sjahrir in 1909. Sukarnos generation of tertiary educated politically active Indonesians those whose college days were in the early and mid 1920s - was somewhat larger than Sjahrirs, because of the restrictions on study in Holland after 1925, and the crackdown on political activity in the early thirties. Only Sjahrirs precocity allowed him to achieve a leadership position by the time the repressive wave began in earnest. He was, after all, only twenty-four at the time of his exile. This created an interesting position for him in terms of his inter-generational relations, since he was junior to Sukarno and many of the other nationalists (who were rather hierarchically minded) yet in a good position to appeal to the youth of the Generation of 45. In a sense h e formed a bridge between two generations, but did not actually seem part of either. This was a great strength for him in building his youthful supporter base, but it must have created some resentment in the minds of many older nationalists. Certainly there was deep antagonism between Sjahrirs rationality and Sukamos use of emotion and symbols in his politics. This antagonism was made into an irreparable breach by the personal hostility which broke out between the two men by 1948. Likewise his distaste for the elitist nationalists of the PNI, and for the communists, which Sjahrir had learned in his student days in Holland grew as the years passed, and ultimately became impossible to repair. His dislike had much to do with a determined clinging to his principles, but the result was to leave Sjahrir in a rather isolated position which severely damaged his political prospects. ALTERNATIVE STRATEGIES Alternative strategies for the PSI revolve around two basic ideas, both of which the party was unwilling or unable to carry out, at least until it was too late. The Socialists might have fostered closer relations with other political forces, not only by improving links with other parties but also by better handling of the discontent which existed in key sections of society, especially in the army and outer islands. However, as we have seen, their attempts to develop a closer relationship with the army were undermined by the divided nature of the army leadership and the misfired October 17 affair. By the time the army gathered strength as a political force, the PSI had spent much of its own strength, and was no longer needed as a partner. And rallying support among the discontented outer island constituency proved a dangerous business, as the 1957-58 rebellions demonstrated. As for other parties, no one but Masjumi was amenable to the PSI either in policy or tactics; and Masjumis supposed strength proved exaggerated. Another strategic option lay in making more serious endeavours to build the PSIs mass basis in order to compete more directly with the other parties in the electoral arena. It would have been no easy task for the PSI to become a genuine mass party in the same way that the other parties did - that is, a party with a large membership of mostly uninformed followers who would be expected to identify with the party, vote for it and campaign for it, but not necessarily to develop more than a simple grasp of its intellectual foundations. But it would not necessarily have been impossible. As mentioned earlier, the successful parties in the election each gathered to themselves substantial support from one or other of the aliran which constituted Indonesian, and especially Javanese, society. However, this is not to say that the party-aliran bond was a natural, pre-determined one; it had a lot to do with the parties consciously striving to attract this support. On a local level, party division had much to do with local rivalries, the exact shape of which varied from one area to another, but outside large towns the party presence was extremely slight before 1953. Only then did the parties make a serious effort to extend their influence to village level, usually by seeking to win over the influentials in local communities. To win these social resources, material resources were called for. For the PSI to build a mass party would have meant competition with one or more of the large parties: Masjumil,NU, the PNI or the PKI.

Also, the party would have had to chase rural as well as urban support. To compete successfully without abandoning the PSIs distinctive character - secular, democratic, progressive - would have limited options here. Religious notables held strong influence over devout Moslems, and these people would have been extremely difficult to win over to a secular party. Approximately half of all voters chose a religious party in 1955, and clearly a large segment of the vote would always remain inaccessible to secular parties; even after the 1971 consolidation of the remaining parties, the vote for a fairly unappealing but distinctively Islamic party has remained considerable. Clearly, then, if the PSI were to seriously seek a mass following, it would have to be in competition with the PNI or the PKI. The PNIs greatest success was in its ability to attract the su pport of lurah and other village functionaries. Several factors helped here. The lurah were dependent on the patronage of civil servants, who were predominantly PNI supporters; also, they identified with the aristocracy and were generally much wealthier than other villagers, hence were attracted to the elitist party. The PSIs socially progressive attitude put it profoundly out of sympathy with most of these people, and it was in no position to compete in terms of bureaucratic patronage. However, despite sharing all these handicaps and more, the Communist Party was able to attract a following: among the proletarianized section of the. rural labour force, i.e., miners and plantation workers, among. the large body of youths who in various ways did not fit into the village traditions, and among the poorest peasants in general. In some cases, they were able to work in the opposite direction to the PNI, acquiring the lurahs support by impressing him with their strength among the villagers. The point is that there did exist in Java a constituency which was to some degree free from village authority or which was capable of being reached through that authority even by a party which did not support the interests of the village leaders as a class. In other words, in spite of the power of tradition, there was a left constituency, which the PKI organized successfully for electoral purposes. As a leftist party, the Socialists might well have been in a good position to compete with the PNI for its constituency, but this would have called for a less cerebral style of political discourse and the promotion of socialist policies aimed at attracting the poorer elements of society. Most of all, it would have needed a less defensive attitude to recruitment and the active cultivation of close relations with mass organizations. The relative speed of the partys growth after the belated adoption of the latter measures in the late 1950s indicates the potential for success here. The massive growth of the PKI and its related organizations in the early fifties underlines the cost to the PSI of failing to move in this area. By its repugnance towards mass political activitybefore 1956 the PSI abandoned the participation of the left in this area wholly to the PKI. Soedjatmoko conceded after the PSIs dismal electoral showing that the PSI, of all parties, ought to have been in the best position to compete with the PKI for the support of the detraditionalized section of society. As things turned out, the PKI was able to achieve a monopoly in attracting the new dynamic forces which had emerged in Indonesia. The PSI did have some assets which could have been employed here. First, its position in relation to mass organizations was reasonably good at one time. After the 1948 split in Socialist ranks, the PSI retained significant positions in the peasant organization Barisan Tani, which quickly became a PKI front organization; also the PSI enjoyed a real, if limited, following in trade unions. Although Amirs followers controlled the youth o rganization, Pesindo, there were some PSI supporters in the leadership, and the former youth minister, Supeno, might have been an influential figure in building up this presence. As was the case with membership generally, the PSIs changed tactics in deali ng with mass organizations after the election produced some good results: a peasant organization, Gerakan Tani Indonesia, a trade union confederation, Kongres Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, and a socialist youth movement, Gerakan Pemuda Sosialis, all attracted a significant following. They did not rival their counterpart communist organizations in size, but it must be remembered that by the time the PSI began to pay attention to its mass organizations, the party was already in much the weaker position. This had not been the case at the moment of independence, however. The PSI might have taken advantage of the weakened state of the PKI in the wake of the Madiun disaster. The affair had badly damaged the communists prestige, deprived it of much of its leadership, and left it divided. PSI action in this direction would have required some speed, but there were three years between the Madiun affair in 1948 and the resolution of the PKIs leadership problem in late 1951, which allowed it to regroup under its new young leaders such as Aidit, Lukman and Njoto. This would also have required a considerable relaxation of the pedagogical discipline of the party, though by no means need it have stripped the party of its educational enterprise altogether. But it would have meant something of a climbdown from the rarefied tone of the PSIs political discourse. Sjahrir himself realized that a major factor in the partys electoral failure was that they had addressed the public on a level that is far above their actual level. To su ccessfully compete as a left-wing party, a left-wing program would have been needed, that is, policies which

offered something tangible to the poorest members of society, those who became the PKIs clientele. As a socialist party, the PSI may have been in a position to move in this direction, but Sjahrirs socialism was only part of a much broader ideological complex, which was tempered by a strong philosophical rationality, including a firm faith in rational economics, a deep dislike of inflammatoiy oratory and a global perspective on events, which in the fifties meant a cold war consciousness, deeply concerned with opposing the threat of totalitarianism. On the one hand, as a socialist he wanted a radical transformation of the bases of human intercourse, so as to eliminate imperialism and capitalism from the world. But on the other, he felt it absolutely essential to be in the right camp in the cold war, and his considered view of Indonesias material position was that the first priority had to be the development of the nations productive capacity through rational planning. Also, his intellectual integrity and political honesty may well have flinched from any large-scale effort to compete electorally by means of simple bribery. That is not to say the PSI would never engage in any electoral stunts: witness the last-minute, ineffective efforts to promote bridge-building and a kampung clean-up program just before the 1955 elections. But Sjahrir and his associates would hardly be attracted to a politics based on material inducements which subverted their plans for national economic development. Some PSI members attributed their failure, with some justice, to the fact that they had played fair, compared to other parties. Sitorus contrasted the PSIs commi tment to winning their arguments by reason with what he saw as the intellectual dishonesty of their rivals, especially the PKI. There was also the question of electoral abuses and intimidation. Actual electoral fraud was not common, but intimidation was reported to be more widespread. It was most severe in the insecure areas of Aceh and some parts of West Java where Moslem guerrilla activity was a factor, and above all in many villages in East and Central Java. The principal beneficiaries of intimidation were Masjumi in the first case, and in the second, the PNI and to some extent the Communist Party. The most common situation was that of a PNI lurah putting pressure on villagers to vote PNI; in more blatant instances, this involved issuing threats of the consequences of not doing so. These threats included jail, fines, withholding of supplies and expulsion from the village. Communist youth groups practised physical intimidation in many areas. The PSI not only lacked the funds and organized supporters to match these efforts, but would on principle have been disinclined to do so. But it was not in the main a matter of dirty tricks or abuses of democratic procedure: throughout the PSIs work there is a suggestion of an indisposition towards the energetic activism, the detennination and the ruthlessness demanded by the vocation of politics, as it was practised in the time and place in which the party operated. This is true of Sjahrir, and of most of his followers. By opting out of the competition to build mass parties, the PSI showed its distaste for what were at the time the rules of the game of politics. From all of this it might seem not only that Sjahrir and his associates were failures as politicians, although successful as intellectuals, but that they were not really politicians at all. Assessing Sjahrirs makeup, one can see the intellectual acuity, the trust in rational knowledge, the nurturing warmth, the reluctance to harm, that are the elements of a great teacher; and yet, politics, not teaching, was the path he chose to follow. And while vitally important, education is not the whole of politics as Max Weber remarked, politics is made with the head but it is certainly not made with the head alone. The experiences of his youth in Bandung and in Holland , his subsequent intellectual development and the ideological polarization of the cold war had isolated Sjahrir from the emotional radical nationalism represented by Sukarno, from orthodox Marxism and from the mere nationalism of the elitist politicians. And yet his distaste for the dirty work of politics, and his fear of intra-party discord, kept him back from building a broad basis of support at a time when circumstances demanded it. The depth of the partys failure was the measure of their error. In ch oosing the vocation of politics, they staked a claim to a place in national life, and became the major representatives in the Indonesian political spectrum of the democratic left. This was a position of some responsibility. Their failure to establish any enduring place left the Communist Party as the sole inheritor of leftist political potential, a potential which events later proved that party incapable of fulfilling, given the irreconcilable hostility between it and many of the most powerful forces in society. Whether a militant and massbased Socialist Party might have fared differently is impossible to say. In the last analysis it seems that Sutan Sjahrir lacked the calling for politics in the sense that politics calls for one who has ideals, but is also willing to take a chance, to pay the price of using morally dubious means or at least dangerous ones - and the possibility or even probability of evil ramifications.