My mother rubbed my hair with shoe polish

My mother is of Indonesian descent, a wealthy family. I believe my grandfather was a doctor or something, and my mother completed high school in the Dutch East Indies. At young age she married a man of Persian-Armenian descent. They led a comfortable life in Surabaya, a big house, almost a palace, and a livery stable full of horses, so I'm told. After the invasion of the Japanese her husband was murdered by the Japanese and Pelopor. My mother was left with three young children, they all four ended up in a Japanese camp. My mother had to witness many atrocities. Her cousin was ripped open by the Pelopor in her presence. After the war, she vowed to herself that she would never marry any black man. She only wanted to deal with white men!

Her maiden name was' Van Kempen', Daisy van Kempen, and after the war she used her Dutch-sounding maiden name again for her and her children. The house where she had lived with her husband, was nationalized, and she had to find a tiny little house. She worked for eighteen of the twenty-four hours to feed her children. I believe she worked in the kitchens of the barracks in Surabaya, or maybe she deliverd food there. Despite the anxieties my mother remained a very beautiful woman, and coquettish. And then my father, a Dutch soldier, fell in love with her. She must have been thirty-four or thirty-five years old and my dad probably around twenty-four, twenty-five.

The white sheep

My older brother and sisters, or rather half sisters and half brother although I don't perceive them so, have really known my father. He came by almost daily. He was really a nice man. At least that's how my older sister Mary remembers him. Always cheerful, always whistling. He played with them, brought them toys or candy. But he was also a gas bag. When they yelled "Dutchman" at him he went after them. On his own, you know! And then my mother would say "Dude, you're crazy, once they'll skin you." But he was not afraid.

I was born on 26 July '48. In this dark family of my mother, I was the blond baby, the white sheep. My father had me, his own son, in his arms. And suddenly, from one day to another, he did not return. Without notice, without leave. Nothing! My mother went to the barracks to ask what was going on. But they stopped her: "Who are you?" That was the short answer ....

Here Belanda, for you!

My father must have been a big man, because I am too. In the village I was the 'londoh' the 'belanda' or 'white man'. I was just a blonde, a white. I was the favorite child of my mother and my older sister Mary was fond of me. I was her living doll. But for others, I still was the maverick. And in the village itself ... The Indonesians would come along: ' Belanda nekat, kita sekat! We wipe you off the earth ... or Get out you, you're a white man, get lost.' And I would be standing at the front of the yard, and then my mother would quickly call me inside. "Come in, those fools are back!" But I would not step aside. I was seven, eight years. Once I was also shot in my knee with a sharp, flat stone from a catapult. "Here Belanda for you. This is what happens to a Belanda!" the boy shouted. He lived in my neighborhood. The stone actually had to be pulled from my kneecap, it was stuck there. "The white dog" I was also called. My mother held her breath every time. Because I would look for trouble, it interested me nothing. We lived in a neighborhood with many Indo-Europeans and Chinese, that was not so bad. But not outside. My brother Arie, who was dark, could easily go deep into the compound, but not me. So my mother always tried to keep me at home. I could not leave the property. My neighbor, a former Indo-European soldier, would always say: Johnny, not too far, otherwise come to Uncle Karel, tell where you want to go and I'll go with you. Because my mother would be out working.

Shoe polish

She often tried to dye my blonde hair with shoe polish and also give my skin a darker tint. She used a sort of seasoning for that, mixed with salad oil to make it more flexible. I looked ugly of course. Because some spots were darker than others. I was like a running dead rat. I guess that's why I'm still suffering from rashes, because that substance was corrosive. What is more aggressive than shoe polish? It was never-ending because after a few showers it would have faded of course. So in the end she just left it. But I did get a little cap to disguise my blonde hair. I'm on many photos with a cap.
Sometimes it was quiet, there was relative peace and we had no problems. It was heaven on earth then. But in the last years we were there, fifty-five, fifty-six, it was very bad in Surabaya with Pelopor. I had to go to school with a becak (pedicab), I was not allowed to go alone.

The white in Indonesia, the brown in The Netherlands

At one point my mother had to choose: to stay permanently in Indonesia and become an Indonesian national or go to the Netherlands. But my mother said, "I, an Indonesian national? Over my dead body! I am Dutch so I leave for the Netherlands." And then she signed up for our departure. So we ended up in the Netherlands. Maybe it was because my father the Dutch soldier was very Catholic, that we also sort of appeared Catholics. So we were sent to the Catholic south, to Limburg, when we arrived in The Netherlands. I was baptized in Limburg. I still live in the house where our family in 1960 finally ended. I really had to adapt in the beginning because in Indonesia I was the white man and here I suddenly was the brownie. But I persisted. I am a gas bag, like my father must have been.

When my older sister Mary was dying, she called me. That's only a few years ago. And then she said out of the blue: "I still have to tell you, Johnny. Do you know who your father is? "I was not sure I wanted to hear. I had always had a wonderful mother. Of course I was jealous sometimes when guys said that their father joined them playing football, but I immediately thought: 'Well, I can do soccer without a dad! ". I myself thought that our father was dead. But no one had ever told me that I had a different father than my brother and sisters. Of course I had always suspected it because I was so much whiter than them. But I had never asked myself. And certainly not my mother! I did that out of respect for her. Because she fought for us and she was both mother and father to us. I did not want to bother her with my questions. Because her entire history, the prison camp, it was all so painful. You would feel that as a child, one would not ask about it. My mother was ab-so-lute-ly not talking about the past. And my brothers and sisters, they never told me. Never. Never. Never.

So a few years ago I heard everything for the first time from my sick sister. That he was a military. And how nice he was. She described him to me. A nice, big, blond guy. A handsome guy. And his name, Munk or Bunk or something. But she could not tell me what rank he had. She had seen stripes on his sleeve, that was all. Later I called my other sister, who is a little older. And she confirmed the name and also knew how you should spell it: Bunck. C.P. Bunck, she thought. Or C.P.J.? My name is John, Johnny's in my birth certificate. My mother loved the English language, and I believe his name was John or something? Well, hold me for the better...

I did not really search. Until my wife found your website. Then it started to itch. Actually, I still do not really want to. Cause he will have to be well over 80, and maybe he's married and has a family. I would have to hurt them. And when he needed, he would have found me perfectly well. If he REALLY wanted, he could have moved heaven and earth and find me. But apparently he does not want to. And that is a little bitter. If I could hear his part of the story, at least I could say, "You're a bastard. Or I would close him in my arms and embrace. I need nothing from him anymore. I do not need subsidies, no alimony, no house. Nothing. And honestly, if he comes here and he says he is regretting and has nothing, I would take care of him. Because just as a father should not abandon his child, a child must not abandon his father. That's another thing: because I've had no father, I want to be evrything for my children. Nothing is too much, when it comes to them.

Here in Limburg I heared conversations between women from Indonesia about Dutch soldiers who made them pregnant and who wanted to marry them, but were prevented by the Dutch Army. These men were repatriated irrevocably. Maybe that happened to my father. Or maybe he was already married in the Netherlands before moving to Indonesia, and he and my mother were only dreaming under the palm trees. However you look at it: I'm a bastard. You can use different words, but let's keep it simple, in plain language. A little bastard. But I'm a happy person, because I was made in a happy manner. And I'll tell you frankly: I'm glad he made me. I can be a little bastard or a half-half, I do not care. I have enjoyed life so much, I truely live like God in Palemig."

(text based on an Oral History interview with Johnny van Kempen by Annegriet Wietsma, 2009)