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Exile in Colonial AsiaKings, Convicts, Commemoration$

Ronit Ricci

Print publication date: 2016

Print ISBN-13: 9780824853747

Published to Hawaii Scholarship Online: November 2016

DOI: 10.21313/hawaii/9780824853747.001.0001

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Exile, Colonial Space, and Deterritorialized People in Eastern Indonesian History

Exile, Colonial Space, and Deterritorialized People in Eastern Indonesian History

Chapter:
(p.139) Six Exile, Colonial Space, and Deterritorialized People in Eastern Indonesian History
Source:
Exile in Colonial Asia
Author(s):

Timo Kaartinen

Publisher:
University of Hawai'i Press
DOI:10.21313/hawaii/9780824853747.003.0007

Abstract and Keywords

Exile served two purposes in the early colonization of Eastern Indonesia. By exiling indigenous leaders to distant lands, the Dutch East India Company limited the expansive potential of their domains. At the same time, the company used exile to create colonial subjects in limited areas in which it operated as a quasi-state. This chapter asks what effect exile had on those people whom Europeans failed to control politically, and argues that colonialism in Eastern Indonesia deterritorialised indigenous societies by creating a power assemblage based on maritime mobility. Some indigenous peoples responded to it by deterritorialising their kinship networks and by forming a cosmologically mobile trading community. In the late colonial context, exile emerges as a figure for imagining the territoriality of such communities in Dutch history writing as well as in indigenous narratives and poetry.

Keywords:   colonial space, cosmological mobility, exile, deterritorialisation, Dutch East India Company, subject

Colonial governments used exile to control their opponents, to isolate them from the social networks from which they drew their support, and to populate newly created colonial space. This diversity of purposes reflects the political complexity of early colonial situations. European captains and trading companies initially faced indigenous political powers on their own ground, but soon began to establish limited bases for their own sovereign power in order to compete more effectively with one another. This colonial space created the conditions for assembling power relations in new ways. Indigenous people were drawn into these new configurations to be transported, disciplined, mobilized, and resettled, and forced to participate in military and commercial activities.

Much of the scholarship on colonial contexts has focused on the incorporation of indigenous peoples and polities into the imperial political order. A phenomenon that has received attention only more recently is what Europeans often interpreted as disorder: chaotic maritime polities,1 smuggling,2 and piracy.3 This apparent disorder is not a symptom of displacement and resistance. Some of the people responded to their incorporation into the imperial system by replicating the imperial patterns of raiding and trading. They responded to the loss of political and cultural sovereignty by turning their localized, bounded societies into mobile, commercial communities.

In this chapter I discuss the relationship of banishment and exile to other deterritorializing effects of colonialism in the Dutch East Indies. I ask what effects it had for the creation of colonial space and the broader dynamics of power that were set in motion by Dutch policies between 1600 and 1880. The emerging colonial state used banishment and exile as the means of manipulating indigenous politics and as a fix for unexpected crises of legitimacy and anticolonial resistance. The colonizing powers initially tried to turn a number of indigenous polities into surrogates of their own power. When (p.140) the leaders of these polities lost their legitimacy, the colonizers were forced to coerce and displace their opponents directly. Some of them were drawn to the space controlled by Europeans, while the rest were put on other trajectories.

Owing to its diverse political contexts and rationalizations, exile risks turning into a protean concept similar to, for instance, diaspora. Did exile mean voluntary or forced displacement? Were exiles subjected to a political order imposed by an empire or state, or did their “line of flight”4 lead away from an order of this kind? These questions lead me to compare the colonial government’s language about identity and place to that of the community of exiles.

I use “exile” in reference to movement away from “home” and into the colonial space. My argument, however, is that the deterritorializing dynamic of power under lying such movement also mobilized people in other ways. Some people remained outside the European domain of control and developed territorialities of their own. These migrants affirmed their distinct identities by naming their new settlements after the villages from which they had been forcibly removed.5 It was only in the late nineteenth century that the colonial state began to set up a bureaucratic administration focused on localities rather than ethnic groups and peoples. Exile in this context resurfaces as a punitive measure against people who resist the territoriality of this new mode of rule.

The Politics of Exile Under the Dutch East India Company

My case material is drawn from the Eastern Indonesian islands of Maluku, where I conducted long-term fieldwork in the 1990s and in 2009. This area came under the influence of European colonizing powers in the early sixteenth century when the Portuguese and Spanish sought to control it through alliances with local rulers. In the early seventeenth century, the Iberian colonizers were pushed aside by the newly formed Dutch East India Company (VOC), which was in control of the archipelago for two centuries.6 The VOC’s primary goal was to limit the cultivation of nutmeg and clove to areas under its direct control. It competed with local groups of Muslim traders and sought to eliminate them by two means: by depopulating large areas and by turning local polities into its allies. The VOC organized subordinate indigenous groups into a navy, which carried out sudden raids, known as hongis, on the villages of competing traders and spice cultivators east of the VOC bases in Maluku. Each major village provided a prescribed number of war canoes, known as kora-kora, to the VOC’s war machine.7 This navy was essential for controlling those parts of the archipelago that could not be reached by the company’s large sailing ships.

(p.141) During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the VOC operated as a quasi state. The commanders of its fleets were empowered to make contracts with indigenous polities and to deploy military force in order to monopolize spice cultivation and trade. Direct Dutch presence was limited to strategically placed fortifications and the most important ports. The VOC seized the fort in Ambon City from the Portuguese in 16058 and controlled the northern coast of Ambon Island through an alliance with Hitu, a trading settlement that had been the VOC’s most important ally in its campaign against the Portuguese.9 Treaties with the sultan of Ternate in 160710 and the sultan of Tidore in 165711 turned the two north Maluku kingdoms into surrogates of nominal Dutch rule in the largely unknown periphery of Maluku.12

Exile served several ends in this political context. It separated leaders and noblemen from indigenous political hierarchies and networks and cultivated their affinity and subordination to the company. Initially at least, such “royal exile” was distinct from the use of punitive exile against criminals, illicit traders, and the opponents of Dutch rule. The VOC saw it as a means of grooming indigenous leaders and managing the relationship between indigenous and European power.

In 1606 Matelief de Jonge, leader of the fleet that tried to conquer Malacca from the Portuguese, took with him three sons of central Maluku chiefs “in order to groom them into princes.”13 One of them, Halaene, the twenty-year-old son of Kapitan Hitu, traveled all the way to the Netherlands and returned to Ambon in 1611.14 The Dutch hopes for Halaene’s political ascendancy were realized when he received the office of hukum.15 The VOC had ensured his father’s loyalty by granting him title to Ambon’s best clove estates and a trading license. The extensive political networks of the kapitan family had helped the company against the Portuguese, but by the 1630s they had become a potential threat to the VOC’s own interests. Halaene became the VOC’s enemy when he was denied the trading rights enjoyed by his father.16

In a report from 1634, Artus Gijsels—the VOC director of trade in Ambon—warned his superiors that, in spite of befriending the company, Hitu was becoming a center of Muslim opposition against it throughout central Maluku. The new Kapitan Hitu—Halaene’s father’s successor—was a charismatic leader whom minor chiefs “followed like a shadow.” Gijsels recommended that the company support Hitu’s “legal constitution”—the formal superiority of its “king.” Again, exile seemed to be the best way to manage the kapitan. “In short,” Gijsels wrote, “I wish the Kapitan Hitu were in Batavia.”17

Dutch policy toward Hitu reveals the territorializing effect of exile. In Maluku, kapitan is often the title of leaders who stand for society’s capacity (p.142) to engage in warfare and trade. Exiling them removes this expansive potential; the authority that remains is concerned with strictly local issues such as land and matrimonial rights. Evidently Gijsels understood this. The kapitan stood for a deterritorializing power similar to that of the VOC, and it was essential to make him a Company man.

Punitive Exile and the Creation of Subjects

The exile of leaders and royalty served a wide range of purposes: education, diplomatic pressure, political blackmail, and punishment. Colonizers deemed exile to be an effective way of bending the will of colonized elites because of its “culturally degrading” effect on the convict (see Anderson, chapter 1 in this volume). Robert Townsend Farquhar, the officer who oversaw the short British occupation of Dutch colonies in Maluku during the Napoleonic Wars, argued that native inhabitants were “strongly affected by a sense of shame, and banishment from their country and families is one of the most mortifying and exemplary punishments” for them.18 The Dutch initially staged spectacular public executions to deter their political opponents,19 but the VOC regulations, found and translated by Farquhar in 1796, had a separate decree for exiling indigenous leaders. They would suffer “[p]erpetual banishment, confiscation of goods and incapacity of their children or kindred to succeed to any regency” if they allowed non-VOC traders to enter their area.20 Evidently, however, the status claims of exiled Southeast Asian nobility often survived long-distance banishment and exile, and their kinship with rulers outside their own society was a source of legitimacy that the colonizers had to reckon with.21

The VOC used punitive exile on ordinary people as early as 1688, when it arrested a man called Toual for his involvement in the murder of VOC’s Christian allies and exiled him permanently to Ceylon.22 Not all exile meant removing individuals to great geographic distance. The VOC’s early priority was to limit indigenous spice cultivation and trade, and the most effective means for this was the forced depopulation of villages and islands it could not control. When the VOC took over the Hoamoal Peninsula of Seram in 1656, the defeated villagers were turned into the company’s direct subjects.23 Low-class people were resettled near the company fort in Luhu, and their political and religious leaders in an Ambonese neighborhood known as Batu Merah.24 Thirty children were seized and trained into a military company at VOC service.25 In 1657, Hoamoal’s leading figures were exiled further to Batavia.26

The census kept by the VOC government from 1671 onward27 reveals that indigenous Maluku society had between five thousand and (p.143) seven thousand slaves, who constituted 12 to 13 percent of the population. A comparable number of slaves were owned by the VOC government.28 In addition to the VOC’s local opponents, they included captured traders and prisoners of war from Makassar, the Sulawesi kingdom that defied the company’s trade monopoly in Ambon.29 After conquering Makassar, the last entrepôt of indigenous trade, in 1669,30 the VOC turned its attention to the manpower needs of the nutmeg and clove estates managed by its free subjects. Many company slaves were sent to work on spice farms in the Banda Islands, where they eventually integrated in a growing population of mardijkers, or “freed slaves.”31

The plantation slavery typical of New World colonialism was limited to Banda.32 In spite of attempts to ensure that planters in Banda employed the slaves “not for their own private purposes, but in attendance of the nutmeg-trees,”33 slaves were soon integrated in their masters’ house hold economies.34 For indigenous people, slavery was primarily a social relationship based on patronage and debt.35 Slaves living in cities and towns discovered many possibilities to contest and shift their positions.36 Ultimately, the use of exile for punishment and oppression created a diverse urban population of VOC subjects.

A War Machine and Sovereignty

Both VOC ports and Southeast Asia’s precolonial trading states were organized around trade and contained a heterogeneous immigrant population. But whereas precolonial states in Maluku sought to incorporate foreign rulers and symbols in their social and cosmological relations, the VOC mobilized its local subjects and turned them into a war machine operating at sea. The company classified the population of its towns, plantations, and forts as “free citizens,” “foreign Asians,” “indigenous subjects,” and “slaves,” and it kept a careful account of the hongi fleets and indigenous child soldiers it needed to project power outside these areas. VOC documents rehearse the number of kora-koras of each subject village, and contemporary books lovingly portray them in line drawings.

Deleuze and Guattari37 stress that numbering individuals, boats, tribal segments, and military units is essential for distributing people in space and submitting them to a state framework. Royal exile, whether it was intended to promote the exile’s political career or to exclude him from power, bears a similar effect to mobilizing and transforming power.38 In legal terms, bringing someone into exile presupposes sovereign control of territory. This was a problem, particularly for the Dutch, whose defense of the “freedom of the seas” was an argument against Portuguese, Spanish, and English colonial (p.144)

Exile, Colonial Space, and Deterritorialized People in Eastern Indonesian History

The war canoe of Titaway, a village on the island of Nusa Laut (Ambon).

(Valentyn, Beschryvinge van Amboina, 1724.)

claims. Hugo Grotius, whom the VOC enlisted to defend its right to seize Portuguese ships at open sea, argued that “[e]very nation is free to travel to every other nation and trade with it.”39 Initially, then, the VOC recognized indigenous groups as “nations” rather than territories or estates claimed by its mother country. In spite of their ruthless use of the “freedom of the seas,” the Dutch put huge legal importance on their monopolistic trade contracts with local leaders. Faced with the argument that the Dutch simply claimed for themselves a trade monopoly they denied to others, Grotius argued that these treaties were made in the domain of “Municipal Laws,” presumably modeled after the Dutch city-states.40

Exiling politically influential persons from this municipal domain, and drawing them into the naval and military sphere of VOC towns and garrisons in Ambon, Ceylon, Cape Town, and Amsterdam, was not just an exercise of sovereignty but a way of constituting it. For Grotius and other seventeenth-century scholars, the maritime space that extended between “nations” fell in the domain of natural law.41 Arguably, however, moving indigenous leaders into the colonial space had a positive42 legal effect: it turned them into singular markers of controlling their place of origin. In this space, the “municipal” authority of persons and contracts articulated with an abstract, state-like power that some indigenous leaders identified with their own status.

One such leader was Sultan Hamzah of Ternate. Before rising to power as an ally of the VOC in 1628, he spent more than twenty years in Spanish (p.145) Manila. Hamzah’s exile years exposed him to Spanish absolutist ideas of royal power that he later exercised on his compatriots. In spite of his “mild manners,”43 Hamzah removed several members of his royal council,44 and when one of them refused to go he asked the VOC to help dispose of him. This leader, Kaicili Luhu, was brought to Ambon and publicly beheaded in 1643.45

The VOC’s attempt to use Hamzah as a proxy of its interests was largely a failure. Hamzah died in 1648 and his successors could not control Hoamoal, which the VOC then conquered by force.46 In the eighteenth century, the VOC no longer tried to turn its local allies into puppet rulers. Instead, Cakraningrat IV of Madura was exiled to the Cape of Good Hope in 1746,47 and Kamaluddin Kaicili Asgar of Tidore to Ceylon in 1779,48 while the company appropriated their power at home.

Kamaluddin was raja muda49 under Sultan Jamaluddin, who refused to fight against rebellious subjects of Ternate straying on his territory. After deposing Jamaluddin, the VOC tried to govern Ternate through a council of five regents.50 Kamaluddin’s exile sparked offa rebellion led by Kaicili Nuku, another Tidore nobleman, who demanded that the VOC either restore Jamaluddin or appoint Kamaluddin or himself as sultan.51

Nuku’s self-imposed exile in the eastern islands led to an accidental intertwining of the Dutch and British imperial projects, a theme also explored in Anderson’s chapter 1, in this volume. After Nuku’s men rescued the crew of a wrecked British ship, he sent Mohamad Saleh and another court official to Bengal to negotiate an anti-Dutch alliance with the British. The proposed alliance fell through after the British-Dutch peace treaty of 1784. The British officer charged with bringing Nuku’s diplomatic mission back to Maluku left it stranded in Bengkulu, the British trading post in southwest Sumatra, in 1786.52 Mohamed Saleh was allowed to remarry and work on a nutmeg plantation, but other wise he shared the fate of the Indian convicts the government of Bengal began transporting to Bengkulu in 1787.53

The VOC presence created a space for the interaction of what Leonard Andaya54 has called the two “worlds” of Maluku: the Christian oecumene of the Iberian colonizers and the cosmological polities of indigenous Maluku. Until the VOC period these worlds remained largely separate because the Portuguese and Spanish empires were content to include new lands and people in their geography of power. Short of erasing the boundary between the two worlds, the Dutch added a third element, a space of unmediated interaction between the Company and its indigenous subjects. In addition to helping populate Company space, exile provided a vector for expanding it. But this mode of assembling power also mobilized indigenous people whom the VOC could neither count nor govern. The rest of this chapter is concerned with this unintended consequence of exile.

(p.146) The Conquest of the Spice Islands

The Bandanese are arguably the most famous Indonesian group displaced by the colonization of Eastern Indonesia by the VOC. The Company conquered the Banda Islands in 1621 and massacred most of their original population. Yet, some Bandanese survived in the Kei Islands, the site of my fieldwork in 1994–1996. Unlike many other displaced groups of Maluku, the descendants of the Bandanese have maintained their distinct language, oral tradition, and Islamic faith.

Colonial sources suggest that one thousand people out of a preconquest Bandanese population of fifteen thousand survived in the hands of the company. In 1621, the VOC removed 789 persons—287 men, 256 women, and 246 children—from Banda to Batavia on a ship called Dragon.55 These people were sent to Batavia to work as slaves who built canals and fortress walls.56 The demographic composition of the exiled group suggests that the company also intended to use them to populate its new strongholds in Java and Maluku.

Not all surviving Bandanese were captured by the VOC. A substantial number survived and sought refuge in nearby Muslim communities. On 16 May 1621, after the main Dutch force had left Banda, some people pulled out their boats, which were hidden in the forest of Great Banda, and crossed the one hundred kilometers of high seas that separated them from allied Muslim villages in Seram, the largest island of central Maluku. The Dutch tried to pursue them in the sea but had to give up due to adverse weather conditions.57 A month later another few hundred people were hauled to safety in twenty Seramese boats.58

The descendants of these Bandanese insist that their ancestors were not exiles but left Banda of their own will. Some settled in the coastal villages and islands of Seram. Others moved on to the Kei Islands some five hundred kilometers from their ancestral homeland. In Kei they founded two villages, Banda Eli and Banda Elat, which were the focus of my fieldwork in 1994–1996.59

Present-day oral tradition does not represent a “people’s history” of the Bandanese. It consists of narrative songs that belong to specific clan groups and describe the sea voyages of their founding ancestors. The songs stake a claim to an ancestry in Banda but do not present a uniform picture of the Bandanese migration to the Kei Islands. Instead, their focus is on the enduring relationship between the two Bandanese villages and a large number of other places in Maluku. History, for the Bandanese, is not about singular past events but about relations that can be revived and encounters that can be repeated in the present.

(p.147) My fieldwork among the Bandanese aimed at understanding their historical discourse in the context in which it was performed and contested. In 1994–1996 I worked with a number of singers who knew the ancestral songs of their families. Knowledge of the songs is passed from older to younger generations of women, and because women usually change their clan affiliations at marriage, their sung poetry circulates among groups of different ancestry. Because the songs justify men’s claims to political status, men take the role of interpreting their meaning. In doing so, they develop authoritative narrative texts around the ancestral and place names in the songs and contest alternative narratives presented by competing groups. Historical discourse among the Bandanese is intensely dialogic. People recognize the existence of different interpretations within their community, and the truth of each interpretation is tested by presenting it to ethnic outsiders.

My fieldwork in Ambon in 2009 revealed several different ways in which the Bandanese presented themselves publicly as an ethnic group. They responded to the national model of local, cultural difference, but at the same time they made specific historical arguments about their shared ancestry with landowning Ambonese groups and about their indigenous status in the Banda Islands.60 The question of indigeneity is the main context in which the Bandanese affirm the historicity of their tradition. They deny being exiles and argue that they fought for their land.

Bandanese songs are performed in two languages: the ancestral Bandanese language, called Turwandan, and the majority language of the Kei Islands, called Evav. In Bandanese-language songs, the poetic figure that comes closest to exile is “drifting,” or being driven by gusts of wind along the sea. In these songs, the Bandanese leave their islands in response to the VOC’s standard practice of “uprooting” the nutmeg trees of the company’s opponents, but political insecurity and Dutch persecution are described only as a cosmological force.61 The Keiese-language songs commonly describe the condition of an absent, traveling person as marvotun, a word with strong connotations with the social alienation of “strangers.”62 The Bandanese always explained that this word refers to someone traveling overseas in tana dagam, the “trade lands.”63 This phrase makes no reference to specific geographic territory, unlike the Indonesian word asing, often used for foreign nationals and also the root for pengasingan, “exile.”

Bandanese narratives about early colonial events stress their armed resistance against the Dutch, which included the assassination of the Dutch commander Verhoeven by the Bandanese in 1609.64 They also acknowledge Jan Pieterszoon Coen’s massacre of numerous Bandanese on 6–7 May 1621. Secular and religious leaders of Lonthor, the most important city in Great Banda, were brought to VOC ships and executed by six Japanese mercenaries.65 (p.148) The Dutch record singles out eight orangkayas, or members of the Bandanese trade aristocracy, as the main victims of the VOC’s punishment. The Bandanese associate the same event with the murder of thirty imams, or Islamic leaders of their community.

The Bandanese do not recognize that any high-ranking people were exiled by the Dutch, and they choose not to speak about the humiliating fate of the ordinary people who escaped murder only to be shipped as slave laborers to Batavia, where the VOC was building its new headquarters. Dutch historians state that the last Bandanese who escaped to Seram were led by several aristocrats.66 The Bandanese, for their part, insist that the surviving ancestors had already left Banda before the war against the Dutch. By this account, the Bandanese community was already a cosmopolitan trading group spread far and wide along the trade routes of Eastern Indonesia.

The Dutch saw the Bandanese as a local society and failed to distinguish them from other traders based in Makassar, the last independent trading state in Eastern Indonesia.67 They were also present in East Seram, an area the Dutch never managed to properly control. After the Dutch conquest of Banda in 1621, populous islands like Seram Laut, Goram, and Keffing, near the eastern tip of Seram, took over the role of Banda as the rendezvous point for the Asian traders whose activity had been disrupted by the VOC.68 This was also the first refuge of the Bandanese who escaped Coen’s massacre in May 1621. Many clan (etar) names in East Seram point to the names of old Bandanese villages, and the relocated Bandanese also paid regular visits to their former homeland.69

By around 1630, the Dutch were aware of the Bandanese presence in the remote islands of Kei, some five hundred kilometers southeast of Banda, where they lived in two large villages: Banda Eli and Banda Elat.70 The people of these villages have kept their Muslim faith and continued to speak their own language, called Turwandan, or Bandanese,71 which is different from the language of the Kei Islands majority. Whereas other exiled Bandanese merged into the larger community of Muslim traders in Eastern Indonesia, the two villages in Kei embody the continuous existence of Bandanese as a distinct cultural group.

Cultural isolation is not the explanation for the survival of the Bandanese language and tradition in the Kei Islands. The two Bandanese villages lie in the best harbor sites of Great Kei Island, and throughout the colonial period the Bandanese have continued to visit other coastal trading sites in their own boats. They refuse to intermarry with their Keiese neighbors and frame their relationship to distant trade partners as ancestral kinship.

Chris Gregory72 defines territoriality as the ethnic belonging among nonlocalized mercantile groups. It refers to the spatially extended regions in (p.149) which a commercial group identifies its accumulating capital as a supreme good. Capital here signifies kinship and contiguity within the community of traders, just as the inalienable farmland of an Indian farming community, under the guardianship of a particular family, is the source of social hierarchy and belonging.

The privileged relationship of the Bandanese to a wider community of traders in Maluku is an example of territoriality in Gregory’s sense. Kinship with distant places demarcates the Bandanese community from other people in Kei. Territoriality is not merely about social boundaries: above all it is an ideological phenomenon. Rather than being incorporated in the indigenous elite of the Kei Islands, the Bandanese chose to pursue prestige and recognition in the trading centers near their homeland in central Maluku.

In Jonathan Friedman’s73 terms, the Bandanese long-distance trade is a strategy of cosmological mobility. This term describes situations of imperial conquest that reshape the conquered population into class structures or semi-independent societies and implies that a member of the local elite “must strive to define himself as a member of the conquering group.” Under the VOC, the sign of “conquerors” was their independent trading rights. In affirming such rights, the Bandanese constructed the commercial domain as a vast kinship network. But Friedman notes that when commercially organized societies form enclaves within larger bureaucratic empires, their dynamics of commercial accumulation and cultural identity may conflict with the imperial structure.74

The antagonism between the Bandanese and the Dutch in the nineteenth century, long after the Bandanese ceased to be a military threat, is evidence of such conflict. The Bandanese were not just another local society colonized by the Dutch. Their territoriality and mobility are features of the very same space the VOC created through building coastal forts, populating them with indigenous people, and exiling indigenous rulers.

Overseas Kinship and Trade

The special position of the Bandanese after the colonization of Maluku makes it understandable that they refuse to call themselves refugees or exiles, even if Dutch observers used such language in noting their presence in east Seram and the Kei Islands. These areas were never effectively controlled by the VOC, and the Kei Islands were hardly ever visited by Dutch officials or traders until the late nineteenth century. This was a prelude for a “new colonial age”75 in which the Dutch East Indies government undertook to govern, tax, and develop the entire population in its territory. In the Kei Islands, the period between 1860 and 1880 is particularly interesting for (p.150) observing the dynamic between elements of the older, loosely connected trade empire and those of modern state power.

These changes should not be viewed as representing a clear-cut historical transition. In his discussion of Deleuze and Guattari’s opposition between the war machine and the state, Bruce Kapferer76 argues that the two figures should not be seen as totalizing accounts of actual societies but as modalities of forming or assembling power. As I have argued, exile served more than one strategy by which the VOC tried to stabilize its territorial control. Exile recurs in the Dutch historical imagination as a figure of movement away from home and into the colonial space. In the Bandanese imagination, the space between the islands is full of trajectories to other homes, or places in which one is recognized as a relative. In the remainder of this chapter I claim that exile had a stabilizing ideological effect for two modes of territoriality: that of government officials and that of indigenous travelers.

In a report written after his visit to the Kei Islands in 1887, Baron van Hoëvell, a central advocate of the study of customary law, commented on the lack of a narrative historical tradition about the circumstances in which the two Bandanese-speaking villages were founded. According to van Hoëvell, “they know that they originate from there [Banda], but stories about the reason of their expulsion are no longer carried on.”77

Van Hoëvell was clearly expecting to find a narrative that matched his territorial sense of the areas under the Dutch colonial state. Nineteenth-century Dutch observers like him were romantics who wanted to locate traces of their own history, intensely documented during the 1880s, from remote places such as Kei. Around the same time, Johann Riedel78 mentioned that Eli and Elat were “populated by people who fled from Banda in 1621.” In the eighteenth-century Dutch narrative, however, the rebellious Bandanese escaped to Rarakit, a pirates’ nest in East Seram, “where, or around which, they have mostly held to themselves after their escape.”79

The Bandanese who migrated to eastern Maluku were difficult to pin down because they did not form a discrete community. Their political challenge to Dutch rule did not consist of a territorial struggle. Instead, the Bandanese survived by virtue of a system known in Maluku and Western New Guinea as sosolots, localized “trade franchises” led by resident middlemen who belonged to the regional mercantile community.80 It is likely that this system also facilitated the settlement of the Bandanese in the Kei Islands. As late as the 1960s, people of Banda Eli exercised trading rights among their old allies on the New Guinea coast.

Until the late nineteenth century, the VOC’s main concern in Maluku was its spice monopoly. In the late nineteenth century, the colonial gaze turned to the problem of governing indigenous populations. The interest in (p.151) early colonial events among the historians writing in the 1880s reflects the imperial sentiment of the time, but it is also an effort to find precedents for the emerging geography of power. Van Hoëvell sought in vain the mythical geography of the Bandanese because it was expressed in narrative songs about the sea voyages of ancestral figures. Their destinations included Mecca, Ambon, Banda, and a number of islands between central Maluku and the Kei Islands. I have argued elsewhere81 that these songs are part of a larger complex of cultural motivations related to seaborne travel: they encourage young men to look for wealth and self-knowledge by visiting other places. Present-day Bandanese still regard the experience of overseas travel as part of men’s initiation into full adult status: men who speak in public meetings are expected to have some experience from migrant work elsewhere.

The songs maintain a view of the Bandanese as a social network rather than a localized group. They underline that the Bandanese are strangers in the Kei Islands society. Keiese mythology revolves around powerful strangers—men or women—who give autochthonous people the knowledge of cooking, marriage exchange, and political authority. The people of Banda Eli claim that their whole village consists of strangers, intensely connected to the inter-island trade network that connects Kei to other places. Whereas the status of other chiefly groups in Kei was based on their ability to control reproductive exchange and the circulation of valuable objects within society, the Bandanese avoided marriage with the Keiese. Marriage in Kei binds persons into domestic hierarchies and long-term relations of exchange. It creates what the Keiese call inan lifan, a lifelong debt toward one’s in-laws and the ancestors buried in Keiese soil. The Bandanese, on the other hand, imagine that their ancestors are present in faraway places that are accessible only for individual travelers. Their kinship is not limited to localized social relations but flows82 toward the world of interisland trade.

This cosmological perspective turns the politics of exile on its head. I have suggested that Dutch colonizers used exile as a means of turning people into colonial subjects who would populate and expand the space under their control. Exile deprived these people of the social and political conditions to which they desired to belong. In their place of exile, they were expected to learn new desires and subject themselves to new social classifications, such as the colonial constructs of race. The Bandanese, however, slipped away from this territorializing project. In central Maluku and Sulawesi, they were happy to merge into larger ethnic categories and political orders that stood for opposition against the Dutch. At the same time, particularly in Kei, they remained strangers in the place where they lived.

Van Hoëvell’s oral historical concerns were not purely academic. As a proponent of the Dutch ethical policy, he wanted to define groups with a (p.152) stable cultural identity and develop their legal institutions. The colonial state could extend its legal order to remote areas only by creating systems of customary law. Paradoxically, the Bandanese stood in the way of this project because they had assumed the role of legal experts among their Keiese hosts. The uncomfortable presence of Bandanese and other outsiders was the occasion for the nineteenth-century use of punitive exile, discussed in the next section.

Imam Budiman’s Exile

In the 1860s, the Dutch administration began to expand its presence to areas in which the people of Maluku had effectively governed themselves. One of these areas was the Kei Islands, an archipelago that lies due west from Aru and some one hundred kilometers from the New Guinean coast. Due to the “blood-thirsty nature of the natives,” as Robert Townsend Farquhar put it,83 the free traders of Banda avoided visiting the islands. Even so, Banda depended on the areas farther east for its food supplies, and indigenous traders from Great Kei sailed to Banda every year with their own boats, bringing oil, sago, coconuts, and earthen pots.84 The export of pots is evidence that Banda Eli had a major role in this trade: pot manufacture in Great Kei is limited to this village.

It is safe to say that the Bandanese living in Kei were informed of the events that changed the colonies of the VOC into a modern colonial state. Eastern Indonesia was in British hands for two short periods during and after the Napoleonic Wars, and the VOC declared bankruptcy in 1799. When Dutch rule in Ambon was restored in 1817, people in Ambon revolted against the renewed policy of suppressing the indigenous clove trade.85 It was only in faraway places, such as Aru and the Southwestern Islands, that the Dutch could pretend they were simply carrying on the colonial presence started by the VOC. When the Dutch Captain Dirk Hendrik Kolffsailed around southeast Maluku in a warship, he focused on such areas and passed, but did not stop in, Banda Eli—even though he noted that it was regarded as the most important place in Kei.86

Dutch reports from half a century later present a very different picture of the same area. In 1862, a Dutch official called H. C. Eijbergen made a thorough inspection of northern Great Kei, with the orders to “put an end to the lawlessness and irregularities which had taken place in recent years.”87 The administration’s concern with law and order would have been based on the reports of traders and disaffected villagers because there had been no Dutch visits to the area in more than a decade.88 Local people were not aware of the Dutch ship that had visited in 1850; they remembered only (p.153) that two ships had called at a nearby village some thirty years before—a visit that Eijbergen dates to 1833.89

In the mid-nineteenth century, an increasing commercial interest in Kei Island forests produced resource conflicts, and the Bandanese took the role of mediators toward their Keiese neighbors.90 Their traditional legal interventions were an obvious nuisance to outside traders, who asked the Dutch administration for help. On his first trip, Eijbergen took the side of Ismael, an ally of the Bandanese, who told him in confidence that Budiman, the imam of Banda Eli, demanded that he should pay an annual fine for eloping with a slave of the imam’s family.

Eijbergen visited the Kei Islands again in 1864. On this trip he began to pay more attention to people who in his view resided in the wrong place. The first person he took away was Abdullah, a man who introduced himself as the imam of Kataloka, an island near the east coast of Seram. Abdullah had stayed in Aru as the home instructor of a Buginese man’s children for four years. Then he had eloped with the wife of his Buginese host.91 Eijbergen told Abdullah that he had no right to stay in Aru and put him on his ship, to be brought to the custody of the governor at Banda, where he would be sent home to Kataloka.92

As a Muslim from East Seram, Abdullah was part of the same Islamic trade diaspora that Eijbergen suspected for breeding unrest in other places he visited.93 Eijbergen was already suspicious of such people after hearing the complaints against Imam Budiman two years earlier.94 When he reached Great Kei on his second trip, Budiman came to meet him with a large entourage and sat down smoking a cigar.95 Hiding his annoyance, Eijbergen went on to another village, where he had summoned all village heads from northern Great Kei. Budiman had assured Eijbergen he had sent word to chiefs who were in dispute with him, but when these did not show up in the meeting, Eijbergen decided to arrest Budiman.96 He sent the imam to his boat under the guard of two soldiers in order to give a separate hearing to other Banda Eli chiefs. They revealed that Budiman had imposed a large fine on a chief who disputed his land rights and attacked his village when all was not paid.97

Budiman’s arrest marks a turning point in the relations between the Kei Islands and the colonial state. During Eijbergen’s visit, Banda Eli and other Muslim trading communities were not resisting state authority but appropriated it by turning Dutch flags and other insignia of the government into signs of their own power. Recently they had sent a hongi—a fleet of war canoes modeled after the punitive expeditions of the VOC—to punish the village of the killers of an alleged witch.98 In order to limit such activities, the Dutch established a governing post in the Kei Islands in 1882.

(p.154) There is no information about Budiman’s fate after he was exiled from Kei. Budiman’s relatives, however, have kept his memory alive. Both of his sons served as imams in different Banda Eli mosques. Wahab, the elder son, became imam of the prestigious Friday mosque, while the younger, Ismail, became imam of the mosque in Futelu, the southern end of the village. During my fieldwork in 1994–1996, the imam of the Friday mosque was Haji Jeilani Salamun, Budiman’s direct descendant in the male line.99

Haji Jeilani’s story did not give many details about the circumstances of Budiman’s exile. Instead of suggesting that Budiman resisted Dutch power, Jeilani stressed his conviction that Budiman was his absent relative. According to a story that Jeilani repeated to me many times, he had met a very familiar-looking person from the central Javanese city of Semarang on a visit to Ambon. The man told him that he was descended from a man who had moved there from Banda Eli. Jeilani was convinced that this person was indeed his kinsman, another great-great-grand son of Budiman.100

Jeilani’s story follows a line similar to those of the traditional songs of Banda Eli. The most profound, self-revealing encounters with kinsmen happen in a distant place, where one never expects strangers to show affection and kindness similar to what one receives from relatives. This case, as well as myths of exiled ancestral figures, shows kinship in an expansive mode, as a source of personal identity and distinction.

I have already suggested that Dutch officials were interested in stabilizing cultural institutions that stood for legal order and helped manage the diverse population of the expanding colonial state. Transporting people away from areas where they did not belong is consistent with this policy. Budiman’s punishment, however, is more reminiscent of the VOC practice of royal exile. Not knowing where to “return” him, the Dutch officials moved him to the colonial space, presumably to a prison in Ambon or Java.

Clare Anderson and Carol Liston, in chapters 1 and 8, respectively, in this volume, argue that in some circumstances punitive exile can be perceived as having beneficial results, for instance, when it points to new possibilities of access to the colonial domain. Although Budiman’s exile was intended as a politically repressive gesture, it had unintended consequences similar to those that concerned the British authorities in the case of Maharaj Singh, discussed in Anand Yang’s chapter (chapter 3 in this volume). Budiman’s family has held its claim to the most influential chiefly office in the village and still thinks of him as one of the ancestors whose overseas travels underlie the Bandanese kinship with faraway places. Because of Eijbergen’s published account of Budiman’s arrest, he is prob ably the only nineteenth-century Bandanese who stands out as an individual in the historical record. For Budiman’s relatives, the forced relocation of their ancestor extended (p.155) their imagined ethnic space to locations identified with education and bureaucratic power—two aspects of Indonesian modernity that many Bandanese have successfully pursued from the 1960s onward.

Exile and the Formation of Colonial Space

The VOC’s monopolistic practices and violence were in conflict with contemporary Dutch sensibilities as much as with indigenous notions of legitimate power in Maluku. This is why the early stages of colonization have far less to do with state building than with its opposite: what Deleuze and Guattari101 have called the war machine. It is difficult to not see the VOC’s hongi fleets as a “tribal” organization, which almost spontaneously gathered to raid neighboring tribes a few hundred kilometers away.

Royal exile was an obvious means for depriving the indigenous polity of order and turning it into a war machine. François Valentyn and other contemporary writers hardly ever noted this because of their commitment to a state-like legitimacy of the VOC. Colonial writings refuse to see massacres and deprivations of indigenous people as contingent, tragic events and represent them as the outcomes of deliberate decisions and policies. The depopulation of Hoamoal and the conquest of Banda are represented as sovereign actions that restore, rather than displace, existing political and legal order. Royal exile, however, reveals the ambiguity of this state-oriented narrative. Even if exile was sometimes dressed as a benevolent way of inculcating modern statecraft in indigenous aristocrats, it confronted them with the colonizer’s coercive, punishing power—something the exile was expected to internalize and apply. Sultan Hamzah’s exile to Manila, for instance, familiarized him with absolute monarchy exemplified by Philip II but deprived him of sensibility toward the way legitimate authority was understood among his subjects in Maluku. In his case, exile created an unexpected void of state power quite near to the VOC base in Ambon, forcing the company into a troublesome military campaign that it prob ably had wanted to avoid.

What I have called colonial space was created by such unpredictable events. Space should not be confused with territory, the geographic distribution of specific social forms and relations. The VOC conquest of Banda and Hoamoal displaced their inhabitants and turned many of them into slaves and soldiers. Colonial space in central Maluku arose from such deterritorializing events. This space was not simply the “modern” counterpart of the indigenous states in the VOC sphere of influence. We might call it a “haeccic” space102 because it did not draw in people so much by offering them an alternative ideological horizon and identity, but simply by depriving them of their former home, personal status, and relationships. (p.156)

Exile, Colonial Space, and Deterritorialized People in Eastern Indonesian History

Fort Victoria, the Dutch garrison in Ambon, in the eighteenth century. The VOC’s indigenous subjects were settled in the area to the left of this view.

(Valentyn: Beschryvinge van Amboina, 1724.)

(p.157) These qualities of colonial space may explain the many unexpected outcomes of exiling colonized people, as well as the fact that they often associated exile with new economic, cultural, and political possibilities. The indigenous traders’ ability to challenge the VOC’s monopoly was based on earlier historical patterns, but the migration of the Bandanese to East Seram and Kei also created a new connection between local trading sites and markets around the world. The new territoriality of the Bandanese put them in a position of power relative to more sedentary societies: through their commercial activities, they participated in the system created by the Dutch. At the same time, they were aware that full involvement in the colonial system would deprive them of the special deterritorialized ethnicity that they expressed as kinship with faraway relatives. Dutch attempts to put them into their place in the late nineteenth century did not erase their sense of kinship with other places: paradoxically, Imam Budiman’s arrest and exile connected his family to yet another, distant site where they expect to feel welcome.

The fact that the development of colonial space did not follow a predictable historical logic also means that the qualities and meanings of exile kept shifting throughout the colonial period. In the context discussed in this chapter, colonial practices of exile shifted between an affirmative and a punitive regime. Exile was used to transform indigenous political authority but also to demonstrate the VOC’s exceptional power toward people holding it. In the late nineteenth century, exile had become obsolete as a tool for managing indigenous states, but it reemerged as a central figure of historical imagination, driven by the pride about the Dutch Empire, the guilt about its violent past, and the need to put the colonial population on the map.

It is not clear if the Malay word asing (alien) ever had the same connotation as the word exile (pengasingan) before the firming of Indonesia’s national boundaries. The colonial state was always able to send people away, but its subjects created new, socially meaningful identities for those arriving in a new place. The Bandanese memory practices are remarkable for their power to turn the alienating, depersonalizing effect of displacement into its opposite: a peculiar intimacy with ancestral relatives and homelands and with figures of religious and political power.

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Notes:

(1.) Timothy Barnard, Multiple Centres of Authority. Society and Environment in Siak and Eastern Sumatra, 1674–1827 (Leiden: KITLV Press, 2003).

(2.) Eric Tagliacozzo, “Smuggling in Southeast Asia: History and Its Contemporary Vectors in an Unbounded Region,” Critical Asian Studies 34, no. 2 (2002): 193–220.

(p.158) (3.) Roy Ellen, On the Edge of the Banda Zone: Past and Present in the Social Organization of a Moluccan Trading Network (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003), 120.

(4.) Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (London: Athlone Press, 1988), 131.

(5.) Leonard Andaya, The World of Maluku: Eastern Indonesia in the Modern Period (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1993), 111; Ellen, On the Edge of the Banda Zone, 84.

(6.) See M. A. P. Meilink-Roelofsz, Asian Trade and European Influence in the Indonesian Archipelago (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1962), 173–206, for an overview on VOC competition with other European powers.

(7.) The role of the indigenous navy in controlling the periphery of VOC-held Ambon has been described in G. J. Knaap, Kruidnagelen en Christenen: De Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie en de bevolking van Ambon 1956–1696, Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 125 (Dordrecht: Foris Publications, 2004), 67–76; and in Meilink-Roelofsz, Asian Trade, 217. Dutch archival and historical records contain precise accounts of the number of war canoes in each VOC-allied village; see, e.g., G. J. Knaap, ed., Memories van Overgave van gouverneurs van Ambon inde zeventiende en achttiende eeuw (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1987), 177, 224–228, and François Valentyn, Beschryvinge van Amboina. vol. 2, pt. 1 of Oud en nieuw Oost-Indiën (Dordrecht: Joannes van Braam; Amsterdam: Gerard Onder de Linden, 1724), 185–189.

(11.) Ibid., 171.

(12.) Ibid., 84.

(13.) François Valentyn, Ambonsche zaaken, vol. 2, pt. 2 of Oud en nieuw Oost Indiën (Dordrecht: Joannes van Braam; Amsterdam: Gerard Onder de Linden, 1724), 11, 32.

(14.) Ibid., 37.

(15.) Ibid., 80. Hukum translates as “magistrate,” a title used in the sultan’s court at Ternate; see Andaya, World of Maluku, 70. Hitu is a village on the north coast of Ambon Island. It originated as a Javanese trading settlement, but hukum and other courtly titles suggest that it modeled itself after an Islamic polity.

(18.) J. E. Heeres, “Eene engelsche lezing ontrent de verovering van Banda en Ambon in 1796 en omtrent den toestand dier eilanden groepen op het eind der achttiende eeuw, uitgegeven en toegelicht door J. E. H,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde van Nederlandsch-Indië 60, nos. 3–4 (1908): 325.

(21.) Kerry Ward, “Blood Ties: Exile, Family, and Inheritance across the Indian Ocean in the Early Nineteenth Century,” Journal of Social History 45, no. 2 (2011): 445.

(23.) James T. Collins, “Language Death in Maluku: The Impact of the VOC,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 159, nos. 2–3 (2003): 251.

(24.) See Collins, “Language Death,” 252, and Valentyn, Beschryvinge van Amboina, 204, for an account of these events. Batu Merah and Merdeka, two neighborhoods north of the VOC fort in Ambon, are living reminders of the city’s exiled slave populations. Valentyn, Beschryvinge van Amboina, 134, calls Batu Merah “Roodenberg,” or “Redhill,” in (p.159) Dutch, and mentions a stone bridge connecting the company fort area to Mardyker Street. Mardyker was originally used for indigenous Christians affiliated to the former, Portuguese occupants of the fort in Ambon. On page 256 Valentyn describes them as “Black Freemen,” free-bought or manumitted slaves occupied with sailing, fishing, and trade.

(28.) Ibid., 163.

(29.) Ibid., 163.

(30.) Leonard Andaya, The Heritage of Arung Palakka (Leiden: KITLV Press, 1981), 137.

(31.) G. J. Knaap, “A City of Migrants: Kota Ambon at the End of the Seventeenth Century,” Indonesia 51 (1991): 112; Phillip Winn, “Slavery and Cultural Creativity in the Banda Islands,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 3 (2010): 371.

(32.) Gert Oostindie and Bert Paasman, “Dutch Attitudes towards Colonial Empires, Indigenous Cultures, and Slaves,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 31, no. 3 (1998): 352.

(35.) Anthony Reid, “Introduction: Slavery and Bondage in Southeast Asian History,” in Slavery, Bondage and Dependency in South-East Asia, ed. Anthony Reid (University of Queensland Press, 1983), 1–43.

(36.) Eric Jones, “Fugitive Women: Slavery and Social Change in Early Modern Southeast Asia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 38, no. 2 (2007): 215–245.

(38.) Ricci, in chapter 4 in this volume, stresses that exile was not simply about isolating people but about moving them within a single imperial realm. The geographic distance covered by this movement varied in proportion to the severity of the exile’s crime and the colonizer’s ability to punish it. I would suggest that the commensurability of crime and punishment was key to turning the exile from a member of a conquered local society into an imperial subject.

(39.) Karl Zemanek, “Was Hugo Grotius Really in Favour of the Freedom of the Seas?” Journal of the History of International Law 1 (1999): 54.

(40.) Ibid., 56.

(41.) Ibid., 53.

(44.) Ibid., 160.

(45.) Ibid., 161.

(49.) “Junior king,” an office created by the company to prevent a succession dispute; ibid., 217.

(50.) Ibid., 219.

(51.) Ibid., 231; Heeres, “Eene engelsche lezing,” 279–280; Muridan Widjojo, The Revolt of Prince Nuku: Cross-Cultural Alliance-Making in Maluku, c. 1780–1810 (Leiden: Brill, 2009).

(53.) Anand Yang, “Indian Convict Workers in Southeast Asia in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries,” Journal of World History 14, no. 2 (2003): 191.

(55.) P. A. Tiele, Bouwstoffen voor de geschiedenis der Nederlanders in den Maleischen archipel, 2nd ser., vol. 1 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1886), 280.

(56.) J. A. van der Chijs, De vestiging van het Nederlandsche gezag over de Banda-Eilanden (1599–1621) (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1886), 161; Collins, “Language Death,” 249.

(59.) Timo Kaartinen, Songs of Travel, Stories of Place: Poetics of Absence in an Eastern Indonesian Society. Folklore Fellows’ Communications 299 (Helsinki: Academia Scientarium Fennica, 2010).

(60.) Ibid., 101; Timo Kaartinen, “Handing Down and Writing Down: Metadiscourses of Tradition among the Bandanese of Eastern Indonesia,” Journal of American Folklore 126 (2013): 400; Timo Kaartinen, “Perceptions of Justice in the Making: Rescaling of Customary Law in Maluku, Eastern Indonesia,” Asia-Pacific Journal of Anthropology 15, no. 4 (2014): 333.

(61.) In Bandanese oral traditions, gusting, “five-faced” wind (anin pancarupa) regularly appears as a counterforce to a boat’s directed movement at sea.

(62.) Cecile Barraud, “Wife-Givers as Ancestors and Ultimate Values in the Kei Islands,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde (1990): 199, 201, notes that people of the Kei Islands use marvotun as the opposite of people who “belong” to the village community and as an attribute of a woman who will become a “stranger” at her marriage.

(65.) Ibid., 158.

(66.) Ibid., 162.

(67.) Andaya, World of Maluku, 164, notes that historical literature usually identifies the Bandanese who continued their commercial activities in Maluku during the VOC time as “Makassarese.” This category also includes Malays who relocated to Makassar after the Portuguese conquest of Malacca in 1511. See Andaya, Heritage of Arung Palakka, for a detailed account of the role of VOC’s indigenous allies in this war.

(68.) Knaap, Kruidnagelen en Christenen, 68; Pamela Swadling, Plumes from Paradise: Trade Cycles in Outer Southeast Asia and Their Impact on New Guinea and Nearby Islands until 1920 (Boroko: Papua New Guinea National Museum, in association with Robert Brown & Associates, 1996), 137.

(70.) P. A. Tiele, Bouwstoffen voor de geschiedenis der Nederlanders in den Maleischen archipel, 2nd ser., vol. 2 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1890), 165; J. E. Heeres, “Dokumenten betreffende de ontdekkingstochten van Adriaan Doortsman 1645–1646,” Tijdschrift voor de Indische Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 6, no. 2 (1896): 246–279; 608–619; 635–662.

(71.) James Collins and Timo Kaartinen, “Preliminary Notes on Bandanese: Language Development and Change in Kei,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 154, no. 4 (1998): 521–570.

(72.) C. A. Gregory, Savage Money (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1997), 165.

(73.) Jonathan Friedman, Cultural Identity and Global Process (London: Sage Publications, 1994), 33.

(74.) Ibid., 32.

(75.) M. C. A. Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia, c. 1300 to the Present, 2nd ed. (London: MacMillan Press, 1993), 151.

(p.161) (76.) Bruce Kapferer, The Feast of the Sorcerer: Practices of Consciousness and Power (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 284.

(77.) C. W. W. C. van Hoëvell, “De Kei-eilanden,” Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 33 (1890): 158.

(78.) J. G. F. Riedel, De sluik-en kroesharige rassen tusschen Selebes en Papua (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1888), 217.

(80.) Ibid., 126; Thomas Goodman, “The Sosolot: An Eighteenth Century East Indonesian Trade Network” (PhD diss., University of Hawai‘i, 2006).

(81.) Timo Kaartinen, “How a Travelling Society Totalizes Itself: Hybrid Polities and Values in Eastern Indonesia,” Anthropological Theory 14, no. 2 (2014): 241.

(83.) W. G. Miller, “An Account of Trade Patterns in the Banda Sea in 1797, from an Unpublished Manuscript in the India Office Library,” Indonesia Circle 23 (1980): 50.

(84.) Ibid., 52.

(85.) Richard Chauvel, Nationalists, Soldiers, and Separatists: The Ambonese Islands from Colonialism to Revolt, 1880–1950, Verhandelingen van het Koninklijk Instituut tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 143 (Leiden: KITLV Press, 1990), 21–22.

(86.) Dirk Hendrik Kolff, Voyages of the Dutch Brig of War Dourga through the Southern and Little-Known Parts of the Moluccan Archipelago and the Previously Unknown Southern Coast of New Guinea Performed during the Years 1825 & 1826 (London: James Madden & Co., 1840), 344.

(87.) H. C. Eijbergen, “Verslag eener reis naar de Aroe-en Key-Eilanden,” Tijdschrift voor Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 15 (1866): 252.

(88.) Ibid., 338.

(89.) Ibid., 253.

(90.) Ibid., 256.

(91.) Ibid., 305.

(92.) Ibid., 307.

(93.) Ibid., 320, 324, 326.

(94.) Ibid., 336.

(95.) Ibid., 338.

(96.) Ibid., 341.

(97.) Ibid., 344.

(98.) Ibid., 340.

(99.) Jeilani’s father, Muhammad, was Budiman’s great-grand son through Budiman’s son Wahab.

(102.) Ibid., 261.