Many Indo people (Indo = Dutch/Indonesian blend) are curious about the stories within their own families. Yet, when it comes to sharing family history, trauma is often left unspoken, leaving emotions avoided and untouched. The third generation recognizes this “Indonesian silencing” (Indisch zwijgen) and feels the weight of it. This generation understands that to heal family trauma, you must be willing to look deeply into yourself and engage in dialogue with your ancestors. We can shed light on their suffering, ensuring that those who come after us are no longer burdened by it.
In my family, there are no longer any living people with whom I can have this conversation. Nevertheless, I’ve decided to share some of my story, how the Indonesian silencing has affected me and my family of origin. This is part one: it began during the preparations for a work trip to Japan.
In 2023, we were invited to host a retreat in Japan. We were thrilled, a retreat in such a beautiful country! I had been there once before, in 2008, as a tourist. But in the months leading up to the trip, Indo people in my acupuncture clinic said to me: “You’re going to Japan, George? You do know what the Japanese did in the Dutch East Indies, right?”
“Yes, I know,” I replied, somewhat uneasily. I would have preferred not to be reminded.
These remarks got me thinking. My father was from Indonesia. His father died as a forced laborer during the construction of the Burma Railway. My father never shared stories about Indonesia. He was deeply scarred by what he experienced as a child and rarely spoke about it.
I never imagined that this trip would become the beginning of a deeper connection with my Indo ancestors.
Indonesian Silencing: Trauma Left Unspoken
My father’s trauma and the Indo silence were part of the family I grew up in. In Indonesia, worse things happened, things that were never spoken about. His mother and one of his sisters were murdered after the war, during Indonesia’s fight for independence. Many Indo people shared this fate. To survive after independence, my father, his surviving sister, and his ‘nonnie’ (caretaker) fled to the Netherlands.
The history of my family, the war and the suffering in Indonesia, was shared only in fragments or not at all. There are few photos, and I know only a handful of family stories. My father didn’t teach us the language or culture from there. He had been uprooted at a young age.
When my parents divorced, I was nine. After the separation, my father withdrew more and more from my upbringing. That didn’t mean I didn’t miss him. On the contrary, I became confused. I was Dutch, but I also felt Indo, though I didn’t know what that meant. I sensed the Asian culture within me, yet I knew nothing about it. There were no family stories to share, and no one talked about the emotions of this loss. I felt my father’s trauma while slowly losing sight of him.
At 21, I experienced a breakdown. I was angry and confused. I paused my studies and decided to travel to Southeast Asia, making my way to Indonesia, to the land of my father. He often said, “You’re being raised the KNIL (Royal Dutch Indonesian Army) way,” which I had interpreted as a strict, distant way of upbringing. But when I arrived in Medan, I saw Indonesian men in sarongs lovingly interacting with their children, playing with them, cuddling them. Being in Indonesia myself shifted my perspective on my upbringing. I realized how deeply my father’s trauma had affected him and how it had shaped my view of masculinity.
This first major trip marked the start of my quest: Who am I? Am I more like my father or my mother? During that trip, I slowly concluded that I had to stand on my own two feet. I am myself, independent of my parents’ storylines. This autonomy brought a responsibility to heal: to heal from my parents’ divorce, to heal from the anger within me, to heal from the distance between my father and me and his trauma, without denying the Asian part of me.
Finding Healing in My Heritage
Looking at my life now, I see how strong the Asian culture continues to live within me. I work as an acupuncturist and with Chinese herbs. Spirituality and meditation are vital to me. I practice yoga and meditate in a classical Indian tradition. When I meditate, I feel connected to the great meditation masters before me, and it feels like coming home.
I’ve worked hard to heal my childhood traumas and learned to speak about my feelings and emotions. But opening myself to the suffering of my ancestors felt, for a long time, like too much… too difficult, too painful.
The stories in my family line are intangible. When Indo people at my acupuncture studio reminded me, “You know what the Japanese did in Indonesia,” it brought back the fragmented story of murdered and missing relatives. But I never knew those Indo ancestors. Who were they? How could I approach my upcoming trip to Japan without stepping over the suffering in my family? What does it mean for me, a descendant of victims, to travel to Japan, the land of the perpetrators, and lead a retreat on healing there?
In meditation, I asked myself: Can I bring my ancestors with me to Japan? Can I carry their story to that country? Silence followed. But sometimes, silence is not a ‘no.’
A Journey to the Javanese Night
This journey to Japan felt like an assignment I didn’t yet understand. I received help from Renée Gloudemans, who offered to explore this with me. Renée works with shamanic techniques.
The session with her felt like a meditation. We first traveled through the chakras, and I deeply tuned into my body. This connection brought forth images. Vividly, I found myself in another place. It was pitch black, but I knew where I was. I called it “the Javanese night.”
It reminded me of how quickly it gets dark on Java, how humid the air is, and how warm the nights are. In that meditation, I saw a young woman. She had a tanned complexion and long brown hair. She was sitting on a chair, her back to me, her head turned slightly over her shoulder, looking at me. I knew who she was: my father’s sister, who had been murdered in Indonesia.
She sat with her back to me, shielding me from the loud shouting and laughter of others standing before her, family. Despite the crowd, it was quiet between us. My heart warmed with the feeling of being with family I had never known before. For the first time, I could see and feel them. Tears streamed down my face.
After the session, Renée told me: now that you can connect with your ancestors, you can explain to them what you’re going to do in Japan.
A Ceremony for My Ancestors in Koyasan
The retreat we hosted in Japan was beautiful. Our group gathered in a stunning location overlooking Mount Fuji. In our retreat, we dedicate time to honoring ancestors. We were touched by the sensitivity of our participants, who vulnerably shared their stories. After the retreat, we planned a short tour for ourselves. During this tour, the theme of ancestral reverence seemed to weave even deeper. Japanese culture values ancestor worship. At a beautiful Shinto shrine deep in the forest, we saw massive trees, one representing the father, the other the mother.
The highlight of our tour, we had decided, was a “temple stay” in Koyasan. Here, we could attend the morning ceremony with the monk. After checking into our room, I noticed a form indicating that you could ask the priest to dedicate the morning ceremony to your ancestors. I approached the monk and asked him to do this. I gave him the names of my father and mother and asked him to dedicate the ceremony to my Indo ancestors as well. “I will pray very hard,” he said.
And he did. At Koyasan, Buddhism is practiced as it was in the year 800. The monk chanted the Buddhist verses in a beautiful voice. His loud chant helped me meditate deeply during the ceremony. Few other people were also present, tourists and Japanese attendees, but it felt like the entire ceremony was meant for me.
As the ceremony progressed, he named my ancestors and me. Tears streamed down my face. These weren’t my tears, they were the tears of my ancestors.
Toward the end, the energy intensified. The field became restless, and I had to summon my ancestors to stay present. “This is about you… right now, stay with here!” I told them.
After the ceremony, I felt as though I had emerged from a deep meditation. I was emotional yet calm. Who could have imagined that a Japanese monk would conduct a ceremony for my Asian ancestors? It was beautiful, it was wholesome.
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