I was looking forward to going to school. To learn something. In Indonesia, I had always eagerly waved goodbye to my brother and sister when the school bus came to pick them up. The school bus was a converted truck with an open tailgate. Benches were built against the side with a roof over them. Every morning, the car came to pick up my brother and sister. We were waiting on the path past our house when the car came; there were already children in it, and a staircase was folded down, my brother and sister got in, and I looked at them longingly.
Why wasn't I allowed to go to school? My mother said I was too small. I was only two, and I wasn't allowed to go until I was four.
My brother told me to be glad I didn't have to attend school. School wasn't fun at all. It was like a prison, he said. You had to sit on your bench all day and weren't allowed to do anything. You had to pay attention; if you didn't, you could get a slap. You weren't allowed to talk because then you would get a slap. You weren't allowed to move because then they would hit you, too, and if you did all those things, you had to stand in the corner. He wanted not to have to go to school; I could do whatever he wanted, and I had freedom, but his freedom was restricted, and if it were up to him, we would swap; school was terrible. I didn't believe him. My sister liked school, and Father taught at school, so it couldn't be that bad.
Working on my memoirs this is a small part of a longer story.
Photos taken in Indonesia. Top photo: A photographer came by to take pictures of us for our grandparents in the Netherlands. I didn’t want to be photographed, and I didn’t want to wear fancy clothes or have my hair done, so I escaped. But he found me, called my name, I reacted, and he took the photograph.
In the photo below, my hair is combed. I wear a nice little dress, and together with my sister and brother, I pose for the camera, chewing on the leg of my doll.