Why ‘foreigners’ in Hong Kong should heed history’s lessons on forced deportation
- Despite assurances, history shows ‘foreign’ residents are briskly discarded when their presence appears more nuisance than benefit – just look at Indonesia
- Seemingly ironclad sureties become ‘not at all binding’, as the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration on Hong Kong has been described by China in recent times
What happens next, when some quietly muttered “witch’s warning” makes it plain that times have irrevocably changed?
When – for whatever reason – those in power want one gone, the least controversial expulsion method leaves ultimate decision-making to the individual.
Forced deportation – being dragged in handcuffs by uniformed personnel onto a waiting aircraft – simply attracts negative publicity. But should someone suddenly decide, late one evening, to fly off and “visit their old mum”, never to return – well, that was their own choice. Wasn’t it? Any broader inferences drawn from an abrupt, permanent departure are merely third-party interpretations. Aren’t they?
History’s ever-changing tides, and flotsam from sudden shipwrecks, inexorably slosh onwards. Long-ago guarantees to “foreign” residents are briskly discarded when their continued presence appears more nuisance than benefit. Seemingly ironclad sureties become “an historical document […] and not at all binding […]” as the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration on Hong Kong has been described by Chinese officialdom in recent times.
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Worth remembering, Dutch citizens in recently independent Indonesia – including two lifelong personal friends – experienced such unilateral changes first-hand, with far-reaching effects.
Under the 1949 Hague Agreement between the Netherlands and Indonesia – United Nations Security Council Resolution 67 – resident Dutch citizens were permitted to remain in Indonesia, with assured permanent-resident status, after the transfer of sovereignty. Warga Negara – voluntary acquisition of Indonesian nationality – was later made possible.
To help maintain stability and prosperity, their private property, business ownership rights, and bank accounts were all explicitly protected.
Thus reassured, my friends stayed on their family-owned tea estate in West Java, which remained a secure, sought-after village-level employer and major contributor to the local economy.
Life continued, uneventfully enough, until December 1957, when then president Sukarno’s increasingly nationalistic government – which also had ethnic Chinese business enterprises in its sights – suddenly froze bank accounts, sequestered private property and ordered the immediate departure of all Dutch citizens.
By March 1958, my friend, Jan Ploem – fourth-generation Java-born, who spoke three Indonesian languages from infancy, and was doggedly determined to remain “in my country of origin” – was the last Dutchman in the district. His wife, Peggy, and young children, “to be on the safe side”, had already departed for the Netherlands.
Late one night, a solitary flashlight appeared on the garden path; the local police chief materialised from the darkness – alone. Despite personal familiarity – his own father and my friend were childhood chums – an evening visit was unusual.
In the circuitous Indonesian manner, after pleasantries were exchanged, hot coffee sent for, family inquiries made, and clove-scented kretek cigarettes lit, the younger man finally came to the point.
“I am coming back tomorrow afternoon, Uncle, after lunch, to arrest you,” he said, quietly. A long pause followed; my friend absorbed the underlying message, as they silently smoked. “The Oranje sails from Jakarta at noon,” he continued, softly. “There’s a cabin available …”
They looked at each other briefly; nothing more was said. Soon afterwards, the police chief left, as unobtrusively as he had arrived.
Early next morning, accompanied by the tea factory foreman, my friend headed off in his nearly new American car, with a suitcase, rucksack and briefcase locked in the boot. A plausible tale to the housekeeper – should anyone drop by – outlined a long day up in Bogor on estate errands, and a late return home.
Instead, they drove straight down to Jakarta, stopping only for petrol. Just before noon, as the ship’s departure sirens sounded, he handed over the keys – “it’s your car now” – and quickly walked up the gangplank to safety.
When I visited the tea estate in 1991, the elderly retired foreman tearfully related that last detail; the unexpected gift – operated as a local taxi – had supported his family for many years. In 2001, just before he died, my friend kindly but firmly insisted – “always remember; it’s not your country – whatever you might think.”
