They gathered at Sydney harbor in October of ‘45, more than
a thousand Indonesians pressed together like cattle in a slaughterhouse pen,
their faces taut with a mixture of hope and dread. The Esperance Bay
loomed before them, not just a ship but a promise—their ticket home after years
stranded in a foreign land that had become, for better or worse, a temporary
shelter.
You know the type of goodbye scene I’m talking about. The
kind where lovers cling to each other as if their fingers might fuse together
if they just hold on tight enough. Where friends who’ve shared cigarettes,
beers, and secrets for years suddenly find themselves with nothing to say
except “Take care of yourself,” which is both everything and nothing at all.
(Oh, but they had plenty to say later. Just you wait.)
The Esperance Bay was technically a British passenger
ship, but on that day, it might as well have been the chariot of the gods.
Muhammad Bondan—who survived to write about this day in his memoirs years
later—called it the first naval fleet to reconnect Indonesia and Australia.
Fourteen hundred sailors going home at last. Fourteen hundred souls with fire
in their eyes.
I wasn’t there, of course. Neither were you. But close your
eyes and you can almost smell it—the sharp brine of the harbor, the sweat of
anticipation, the metallic tang of revolution in the air.
Something happened then that those Sydney dock workers would
remember until the day their memories began to crumble like old newspaper. The
Indonesians—men who had spent years serving silently, keeping their heads down,
doing what they were told—suddenly erupted into song. Not the timid humming of
the powerless, but the thunderous chanting of people who knew they were on the
right side of history.
And they weren’t alone.
The Australian Trade Union Movement had sent
representatives, hard men with weathered hands and unwavering principles. They
weren’t there for show. They were there to make damn sure these Indonesians
would be delivered to ports in Java not controlled by the Dutch. Because they
knew—oh, how they knew—what would happen otherwise. The Dutch colonial forces
would be waiting, guns drawn, smiles thin and cruel.
(They’d seen this movie before. They knew how it ended for
people who dared to dream of freedom.)
E.V. Elliot stood on that makeshift podium, the kind cobbled
together from crates and conviction. As Federal Secretary of the Seamen Union,
he had clout. But more importantly, he had something to give.
“I present to you this flag,” he said, his voice carrying
across the suddenly silent crowd. “Take it with you to your young Republic, as
a symbol of the support of the Australian workers in your fight for
independence.”
The young Indonesian who accepted that flag—God, if you
could have seen his face. It was the face of a man witnessing the birth of his
child, the face of someone seeing light after years in darkness.
“Friends,” he said, and his voice trembled just enough to
let you know this wasn’t rehearsed, “in the name of the Indonesian Republic, I
thank you for this flag. We will never forget the great help of Australian
labor, has given us in a vital first day of our Republic when we need that
help. And may Australia and Indonesia be united forever!”
Then it happened.
From somewhere in that seething mass of humanity, a voice
called out: “Indonesia merdeka!”
Indonesia is free.
Have you ever heard a crowd transform from a collection of
individuals into a single organism? It’s like witnessing evolution in
fast-forward. One moment: separate beings. The next: a monster with a thousand
voices, all shouting in perfect unison.
“Hip hip, hooray!”
“Hip hip, hooray!”
“Hip hip, hooray!”
The Esperance Bay pulled away from the dock that day,
beginning its journey across waters that had separated these men from their
homeland. But this wasn’t the beginning of the story. No, this was the climax
of something that had started a month earlier—something that would later be
called one of the most extraordinary maritime boycotts in history.
The Black Armada.
---
Here’s something they don’t teach you in school: revolution
doesn’t always start with gunfire and speeches. Sometimes it starts in kitchens
where Indonesian wives learn to cook with Australian vegetables. Sometimes it
begins on playgrounds where Indonesian children play with Australian kids,
their accents merging into something new. The lines between “us” and “them”
blur until they’re practically invisible.
Margaret George wrote about these connections years later,
but by then, most people had forgotten. People have a way of forgetting the
parts of history that don’t fit neatly into textbooks.
When news broke on August 14, 1945, that Japan had
surrendered, Sydney’s Martin Place exploded into celebration. Among the
revelers were Indonesian musicians playing songs from their homeland. The
crowds didn’t understand the words, but they understood the music. They opened
their wallets and purses, throwing money into collection plates. Thousands of
pounds—not for the musicians, but for the cause those musicians represented.
The next day, Indonesia declared its independence, and the
news crackled across radio waves to reach Indonesian ears in Australia. The
street parties grew wilder. There was dancing—ancient dances that predated
European colonization by over a millennium. The Australians watched,
transfixed. This wasn’t entertainment; it was witnessing resurrection.
But morning always comes after the wildest night, doesn’t
it? And with morning comes the sober reality of what needs to be done.
On August 18, Indonesians flooded Sydney’s streets again.
This time, they weren’t dancing. They were swearing allegiance to their newly
independent homeland. They weren’t just proclaiming their right to freedom—they
were getting ready to fight for it.
You see, the Dutch weren’t exactly thrilled about losing
their cash cow colony. They were planning to take it back, and they were doing
it right under everyone’s noses, in Australian ports.
---
E.V. Elliot saw what was happening. In September ‘45, he
approached an Indonesian seaman leader named Tukliwon with an idea that would
change everything: organize a boycott against Dutch ships in Australia.
Twenty-five ships, sitting in Australian harbors, loaded
with supplies bound for Indonesia. But these weren’t care packages or
humanitarian aid. These ships carried soldiers. Weapons. Death, packaged and
ready for delivery.
The Indonesian seamen looked at those ships and saw what
they really were: instruments of their people’s continued oppression. The Dutch
were using Australian ports to launch a reconquest of Indonesia. And these
Indonesian workers were expected to help.
(Imagine being asked to sharpen the knife that will slit
your mother’s throat. That’s what they were being asked to do.)
Something snapped inside them—that invisible tether that had
kept them obedient through years of colonial rule. In a single moment of
clarity, they made their decision: they would not serve. The Indonesian
Seafarers’ Union refused to operate Dutch ships. Not one more bullet would
reach Indonesian shores with their help.
And so began the Black Armada boycott.
It wasn’t just a few men. It was thousands, walking off
ships simultaneously, leaving engines silent and offices empty. Even some Dutch
soldiers, confronted with the raw moral clarity of the situation, refused their
duties.
Imagine the courage this took. These weren’t wealthy men
with safety nets. These were workers thousands of miles from home, risking
everything. But they did it anyway, gathering at docks in impromptu rallies,
voices rising as they talked about colonialism, about exploitation, about
centuries of Dutch cruelty.
They organized parades, cars honking and marchers chanting
for Indonesian independence. This wasn’t just about labor conditions or wages
anymore. This was about human dignity. About the right of people to rule
themselves.
The support spread like wildfire through Australia’s working
class. Ship painters suddenly decided Dutch vessels were “too black” to paint.
The Clarks shipping company mysteriously lost the ability to place calls to
Dutch businesses. At Sydney port, workers from every trade imaginable—plumbers,
coal miners, traders, firefighters, dockworkers, printers, blacksmiths,
electricians—kept constant vigil to ensure no Dutch ship set sail.
They played cards. They smoked. They talked. And they
watched.
The boycott took on a life of its own. Walls and sidewalks
became canvases for protest graffiti:
1938 NO SCRAP FOR THE JAPS
1945 NO ARMS FOR THE DUTCH
From Brisbane to Melbourne, Adelaide to Sydney, the sight
was the same: massive Dutch ships, rendered impotent, floating uselessly in
Australian harbors.
Then came the moment that ripped away any pretense.
Dockworkers in Melbourne discovered that the ship Mercy—supposedly
carrying only food and medicine—was actually loaded with tommy guns and
ammunition. The Dutch official responsible claimed ignorance, but Australian
Prime Minister Chifley confirmed the truth publicly on September 28, 1945.
There it was, the ugly truth exposed for all to see: the
Dutch were smuggling weapons under the guise of humanitarian aid.
Meanwhile, 1,600 Dutch soldiers stood stranded on the deck
of Sterling Castle, unable to reach Java, their faces masks of
frustration and rage.
An Australian miner stepped forward to address them,
followed by a representative from a Dutch labor union. Both declared their
support for Indonesian independence:
“Australian support to free Indonesia!”
The Dutch soldiers’ response came as a bitter chorus:
“Booo… booo… booo…”
(They hissed like this because the truth burns when you’ve
been raised on lies.)
Word of the Black Armada spread around the globe. Support
poured in from world leaders: Pandit Nehru and Jinnah from India, Manuilsky and
Vyshinsky from the Soviet Union, President Romulo from the Philippines. They
all condemned the armed repression threatening Indonesia.
Jim Haley, Secretary-General of the Waterside Workers
Federation, invoked the Atlantic Charter—a document agreed upon by
Britain, the United States, and the Soviet Union—declaring that all Pacific
forces were obligated to resist Dutch imperialism in Indonesia.
And so the Dutch ships sat, paralyzed by the solidarity of
workers who understood that freedom isn’t just a word—it’s something you fight
for, even when it isn’t your own.
While those Dutch ships remained shackled to Australian
docks, the newly established ships of the Republic of Indonesia continued to
sail, their bells ringing out in defiance and triumph.
Sometimes, you see, the most powerful weapons in a war aren’t
guns or bombs. Sometimes they’re the simple words “No. Not with my help.”
And sometimes, those words are enough to change the course
of history.
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