Fictionalized Account of a Real Uprising on the Alliance
Plantation
Ruth Shields MacNiven
Ruth MacNiven composed a series of
“letters” as a school project in 1922 that recounted a supposed 1912 trip to
Suriname. The “letters” were published in the Norwester, the annual for her
high school, Detroit’s NorthWestern High School. Ruth wrote in the first
person, addressing them to a possibly fictitious friend “Jane”, and signed the
letters Ruth. However, she was not old enough to have been in Suriname on her
own when the events—an insurrection among the indentured laborers—occurred in
1912. She told John and Laurel that her older sister had actually been there
during the incident, so she probably based the letters on what Margaret Shields
told the family upon her return to Detroit.
I found
these “letters” on a Dutch language website about the Alliance plantation. I am
not sure how the Dutch historians discovered them. The only way I found the
copy of the 1922 Norwester was through the url on their website. The letters
were presented as the high school’s “First Prize Story”, so it seems Ruth
presented them as fiction at school. The Dutch author noted problems with the date of the story and
Ruth’s age. Here is a translation of the
researcher’s commentary on the material:
“Http://www.archive.org/details/norwesterof1922nort
“A story from 1922 on
some events that took place in 1912 in Alliance; the story is written in the
form of 4 letters. It is not clear whether it is fiction or the truth – Ruth
Shields must have been young for about 17 years when she wrote it, and the
events on which they wrote had taken place when she was 7. “
Ruth's senior photo from the 1922 Norwesters Yearbook
No matter
whether the account is based completely on facts, is partial fiction, or is
complete fiction, it is a fascinating portrait of life at Alliance. It draws
attention to the simmering tensions that existed on the sugar plantations.
History shows the workers were frequently mistreated and dissatisfied with
their lot; the Dutch plantation records and contemporary newspaper accounts refer
to frequent uprisings.
The indentured workers were
imported from distant lands, under desperate circumstances. Most were
illiterate and signed contracts they could neither read nor understand, and as
a result were often misled about the type of work, conditions and term of
“employment” they would face on these plantations. Many had no idea what country or part of the
world they were being sent to—they were often told the ship voyage would only
be just a few days when in reality it was months in length. Indenture contracts
may have only specified terms of five years or so, but it was often difficult
for workers to return to their homelands after their contracts were finished,
due to lack of funds, fears of what they would face in their homelands, or due
to marriages to people outside their culture.
The
plantation owners had little respect for their imported workers. These workers
were completely dependent on their employers for food and shelter, both of
which were inadequate. Most plantations housed the indentured workers in the
old slave quarters, which were little more than shacks. The work was brutal.
The workers suffered through intense heat and humidity doing back-breaking
labor. They were plagued with insect
bites and vermin. Many sickened and died. I bought a wonderful book called Coolie
Woman: The Odyssey of Indenture by Gaiutra Bahadur which describes the
miserable conditions indentured women endured in colonial Guiana and Suriname.
The power differential between the indentured, who were seen as barely one step
above slaves, and their “masters” meant that most white colonials expected and
demanded sexual favors of the women.
We know, due to discoveries that
Steve Aird made through DNA matches and contacts that resulted from those
matches, that Archie Shields was sleeping with one of his Javanese female
plantation workers and impregnated her. While it is unpleasant to think of
Archie as a sexual abuser, given what we understand in the #MeToo era about
relationships between powerful men and powerless women, we know that such a
relationship could never truly be called consensual. Even if the woman appeared
to welcome Archie’s attentions, she probably feared saying no to him, given his
power over her livelihood and future.
As Steve
has documented, the Javanese woman, Asih, was 23 when she gave birth to
Archie’s son Julian Hadi Soewarno Shields in 1926. At that time, Archie was 62
years old and had been married for 19 years. His oldest daughter Margaret was
only six years younger than Asih. I doubt Asih would have chosen a man old
enough to be her grandfather as a lover if she had had any real say in the
matter. One has to wonder if any other men in the family took advantage of any
more indentured women during the decades they managed plantations in Guiana and
Suriname. They were living in a very
different time and culture where such behavior was the norm, so of course we
can’t judge them by modern standards.
Ruth’s
composition about Alliance in 1912 offers insight into the complicated relationship
between the indentured workers and the Shields family, and the potential for
violence between the different nationalities of workers. Ruth was an excellent
writer—it’s hard to believe she was only in high school when she wrote these
fictionalized letters.
Here is Ruth’s 1922 composition:
Tajah Time by Ruth D. Shields
Plantation Alliance, Dutch Guiana. October 1, 1912.
Janey dear:
The lazy atmosphere of this place has already gotten into my
blood and must serve as a sufficient excuse for my not writing you sooner.
Surinam, or Dutch Guiana as it is called on the map, is like
to no other place in the world. It is apart — isolated. As a friend of ours
says, "It is the last place God made and He isn't finished with it
yet." As one approaches it from the ocean, the first hint of land is the
change in color of the water from blue to muddy brown. Suddenly palm trees
appear and then houses under the palms, then a low seawall extends along the
coast as far as the eye can see.
Paramaribo, where we land, is a quaint, old-world Dutch
settlement. Its wide unpaved streets are lined with priceless mahogany trees, a
hundred years old. It is the seat of government of the colony, and has a very
imposing Government House.
Plantation Alliance is up the Commewyne River from the town.
We take the little river steamer, Johannah, and proceed up with the tide. The
Commewyne is a muddy, silent river, the home of alligators, peri, eels and
sometimes sharks, flowing on and on between densely overgrown banks, past
deserted, tumble-down, abandoned plantations, to empty at last into the
tropical sea.
Just as the sun is setting with all the fiery splendor of a
tropical sunset, there comes a break in the everlasting hush and I behold
Uncle's house, my new home, its windows blazing in the rays of the setting sun.
The launch chug-chugs up to the landing; it could hardly be dignified with the
name of wharf. We leave it, stretching our cramped limbs thankfully. We walk
along in the cool shade of giant tamarind trees, whose branches form a leafy
arch overhead.
Halfway up the path a high, white picket gate is opened for
us. Past it the tamarinds give place to a seven-foot box hedge of jasmine. The
road widens in front of the house to make room for a conventional tropical
garden with all its walks leading to an ancient sundial in the center.
The house itself is built so high off the ground that one
could ride under it on horse-back. A high flight of steps leads up to the wide
gallery which surrounds the house. I was so charmed with what I saw that it was
with difficulty that Auntie persuaded me to enter the house to prepare for my
first night at Alliance. I love it, Jane!
Sleepily yours,
RUTH.
Alliance, November 5, 1912.
Dearest J.
Yesterday at tea a rather interesting thing happened.
I shall begin with Tjuni bringing in the tea things. Uncle
had been out in the canefields all day and as usual, when he came in, he began
to "talk shop."
"I've been looking for rain," he said. "The
canefields are simply burning up. If it doesn't come soon, we'll have a very
short crop'. There have been fires in the bush and our water supply is mighty
low."
"I wouldn't worry," Aunt Louise put in, "it's
bound to rain soon. I wonder if the Sheddons didn't plan on coming for tea. You
remember they were coming for the week-end."
"Yes, I remembered. The houses for that new gang of
workmen were finished today. I hope the agent sends us more Javans than coohes.
There are more Hindoos now and it's best to keep the number about even."
"Archie, Mrs. Sheddon is having two new dresses sent
out from London," began Auntie, but Uncle Arch was still rambling on.
"I'll need one — no, two — new overseers," he said, "and
overseers are harder to find than needles in haystacks just now."
“I wish you'd have the court rolled, Archie. We might have
some tennis tomorrow after tea."
"Uncle," said I, feeling that the time had come to
speak, "who are those two perfectly awful looking men coming up the
drive?"
And indeed they presented a strange appearance, these two
unkempt, ragged-looking scarecrows approaching' the steps. Uncle looked for a
moment, frowned, and then without a word went out to meet them. I followed.
Closer inspection revealed haggard, white faces, under several weeks' growth of
beard, clothing tattered and torn, and bare, scratched feet. Uncle talked to
them for some time in a language which I recognized to be French, but could not
understand. During what seemed to me quite a lengthy conversation, the whistle
of the "Johannah" sounded, and shortly after it docked. Mynheer
Kroesen, the Dutch bookkeeper, with Tjuni in tow, brought up several fat bags,
which I knew contained thousands of guilders, for tomorrow was pay-day. He
paused at the steps to receive some directions, in Dutch, about disposing of
the money. Did I imagine it, Jane, or did the shifty eyes of those wild
creatures exchange significant glances?
I went back into the house and when Uncle came in, he
explained to me that the men were French convicts. "Those men," he
said, "have come all the way through the bush from French Guiana, sometimes
walking, sometimes swimming, always on the verge of starvation."
"Why were they in Cayenne?" I questioned,
thirsting for knowledge.
"Cayene is where France sends all her political and
incorrigible prisoners. The prison is on Devil's Island, just off the coast.
It's the most wretched place you could imagine. Not a tree on it, just rocks
and sand. The sea around it is alive with sharks, so escape is almost
impossible. It seems to me they deserve a chance to live after coming through
all that. They want to work here and earn money to get to America."
"Are you going to let them?" I asked.
"Ordinarily, I wouldn't, but it happens that I need two
overseers badly. They seemed rather decent and, from what I gather, they know
something about raising cane. I'm giving them a chance."
"Well," I said, "I hope they don't raise
anything worse than sugar cane."
And the incident closed. I think this letter had better do
the same, so
Au revoir, Jane,
RUTH.
Alliance, December 30, 1912.
Rejoice, Jane!
This is Tajah time ! All the Hindoo women are going about
decked in their finest laces and jewels. Such gorgeous hairdresses ! and
earrings —
This afternoon, according to custom, the Hindoos brought the
tajahs up to the house for us to see. A tajah is a sort of movable temple, erected
to Mohammed and his sons, Hoosan and Hassan. It is made of bamboo, twisted into
many varied fancy shapes and lined or covered with gorgeous colored paper. The
largest one this year was between twenty and twenty-five feet high with a huge,
red, mosque-like dome on top. There were four smaller ones. The Mohammedans
fill them with rice and money and throw them into the river. After the ceremony
at the river tomorrow, there will be games and a tug-of-war between the Javans
and the Hindoos.
By the way, those two Frenchmen that I told you about have
been training the natives for the games. One has the Javans, the other the
Hindoos. There is a great deal of rivalry between the two teams. The
ex-convicts have gotten along very well. Uncle is proud of them. I'll tell you
about the games later.
Lovingly,
RUTH.
Alliance, January 3, 1913.
Jane ,
So much has happened since I wrote you last. Let me indulge
my story-telling instinct just this once.
After the last tajah had sunk beneath the muddy, brown water
and the wild yelling had ceased, the excited, brown mob moved with one accord
to the compound, where the games were to be held. The Javans were already there
— had been for several hours — and the gambling was fast and furious. Many had
lost their jewels and money, and some their wives as well. The overseer's
whistle blew and the games were off. They danced. They fenced. And they
wrestled. But the climax came with the tug-of-war.
The overseer stepped out and announced: "Kemshan
leading the Javans, Rugabeesin leading the coolies." The whistle shrilled.
In an instant the line had stiffened, every muscle taut. For a space of several
minutes, which seemed like hours to both contestants and spectators, neither side
gained nor lost. The onlookers shrieked encouragement, screamed and gestured
wildly. Just as the rope seemed bound to break, an almost imperceptible quiver
ran down the Hindoo line.
A sharp command rang out in Javan. There was a tremendous
concerted pull. Inch by inch, at first, then more swiftly, the followers of
Mohammed lost ground. Suddenly, the struggle was over. The Javans had won.
Victors and vanquished sprawled on the ground in a kicking, writhing mass.
The temptation was too great for the hot-blooded eastern
natures. Fist met fist. Blows rained harder and harder. From the fist to the
cutlass is but a short step for the excitable coolies. Quick as a flash the
wicked, curved knives appeared and found their way into the protesting flesh of
many an unfortunate Javan. They carry no weapon but their own fists, which, of
course, are worse than nothing when pitted against cutlasses. Who can blame
them for deciding that discretion was the better part of valor — and departing,
those that were able, quite hastily from the field.
When my uncle reached the scene of the conflict, having been
hastily summoned from the factory, the field of battle was empty, except for
the groaning, bleeding forms of some who were unable to drag themselves away.
The Javans had taken refuge in the canefields, the coolies were plundering the
homes of the vanquished.
Great was Uncle's indignation on discovering that the two
French overseers on duty at the celebration had disappeared from the scene of
action shortly after they had stirred up the trouble. Imagine his wrath, when
on returning home, he found the watchman bound and gagged, under the house, and
all that was movable gone from his safe.
"It's a mighty lucky thing," he said to Auntie and
me when we got back from town (of course I had to be in town and miss it all),
"that I just happened to take the pay money right to the factory instead
of keeping it overnight at the house as usual. But I can't think how they knew
the money ought to be there on Friday night, as only Tjuni and Kroesen are supposed
to know, and of course I trust them absolutely."
"Oh, don't you remember," I said, "Mynheer
Kroesen brought the money up from the boat while they were here that first
night. You spoke to him in Dutch, but they must have understood."
"I'm so glad they didn't get the money, Archie."
said Auntie, "now I can order some new clothes from London." And she
did!
As for the two Frenchmen — they disappeared completely.
And that's my tale. Write and thank me for this long letter.
Lovingly, RUTHIE.
Ruth D. Shields, '22.
In Part II of this blog topic, I will evaluate Ruth’s
composition, looking for the truth amongst the fiction.
Sources:
https://www.insideindonesia.org/the-javanese-of-suriname
Http://www.archive.org/details/norwesterof1922nort
