What do you think?
Rate this book
Java Girl-A Romance of the Dutch West Indies
“René van Landsberg stood alone on the deck of the steamer …there could be no turning back to Europe now. This was Java—the end of his journey—and he was a little frightened at all that the suave, exotic name implied.” In search of his future, a young Dutchman travels south of the equator to join his older brother supervising a sugar plantation on Java, circa 1900. From the day he arrives, he struggles to adapt to social, cultural and sexual mores that are alien, even contradictory, to all his previous life experiences. Despite having a “girl back home”, René soon encounters several young ladies of both his own race and Javanese. There, the complexities begin, not the least of which is Grandmother Dassam…“I have three packages,” her whining voice went on to the girl. “This one,” holding up a small package, “will kill a healthy person in one hour… This second one will kill more slowly—about a month—and this one will take several years, but he’ll suffer much and die in the end.” When in Java, expect the unexpected. *** Born in Holland in 1879, author Baron Schwartzenberg also worked on Java as a young man. Three decades later he was driven to enlist journalist Mary Bennett Harrison to help him tell this story. How many vignettes, characters or women he drew from actual experiences is unknown. But as you’ll discover, this highly credible colonial romance rings true. After a 90 year hiatus, literary archaeologist Kent Davis revives the Baron’s 1931 novel as an expanded modern edition with nearly 300 period photos showing Javanese people and places featured in the text. Plus appendices with publisher’s notes; author bios; Davis’ article “Javanese Women in Emerging Technologies and World Views”; excerpts from the 1912 travel guide, Isles of the East, and the 1929 book Malay Poisons and Charm Cures ; a glossary of Indonesian terms; and regional maps.
538 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1931
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 of 1 review
April 29, 2020
Heat, dust and love potions in Dutch Java
The story is set in circa 1900. René van Landsberg, a young Dutchman, reaches Cirebon, on the north coast of Java, to join his older brother Alfred, who has worked on the island for several years. Alfred resents the isolation from working in the countryside and longs for contact with Europeans in the city. He unleashes his pent up anger towards the natives, spitting the frustration he had been “secreting for years”.
Javanese women’s beauty is a dangerous cocktail of allure and male weakness juxtaposed against the reality of wives and girlfriends staying behind in Europe, afraid of the heat and solitary conditions in Asia. Occasionally, wives and girlfriends followed men to Asia, but not before labouring over their decision, fearing the effects of heat on young children.
White males sail for the Dutch East Indies, to work in the colonial services or plantations. They consume dangerous amounts of alcohol and gamble at will. Drinking and gambling were the vices of Dutch men in Java but French administrators in Laos fell prey to opium, to the extent that its consumption was banned among civil servants in Vientiane from 1907 (i).
Young, inexperienced René wears his heart on his sleeve. Like others before him, the girl he left “back home” eventually ditches him, and although her decision at first upsets him, soon enough he feels free to pursue local beauties. In a way, men who move to Indonesia create the right conditions for self-fulfilling prophecies. They leave behind a girlfriend who will soon tire of an absentee boyfriend. The men will seek comfort in the arms of local women, a course of action taken by both Alfred and René. However, if association with a native woman may be the inevitable course of action when posted to Southeast Asia as a single man, it is well documented that numerous administrators who brought their wives also indulged themselves with a local mistress.
Soon we are introduced to the njai, the 'mia noi' (‘minor wife’, or mistress) of Thai culture. European men falling for the exotic beauty of women in conquered Asian lands is a recurring theme of colonial literature. The British called it ‘going native’, while hapless Frenchmen tried in vain to resist the temptations of a congaï, personified by Kâmlang in George Groslier’s Return to Clay, published by DATAsia, publishers of Java Girl.
Native women are not “socially proper partners” (ii) and are found in colonial playgrounds from Burma to Indonesia, where the white man must attend to his physiological urges, as long as the brown girl is happy to remain in the shadow and any illegitimate offspring are kept well hidden from colonial circles and his immediate family back home.
French empire-builders practiced concubinage as a pleasant and easy way of “Gallicising West Africa” (iii). A temporary union with a well-chosen native woman was not only official but highly recommended as a necessary part of the French “colonial moral code”, as desirable for the health and hygiene, prestige and discipline of the French official as it was for his imperial authority and “linguistic competence” (iv).
This was in stark contrast with the contents of a circular issued in January 1909, warning new recruits to the British Colonial Service that disgrace and official ruin would follow any official that entered into “arrangements of concubinage with girls or women belonging to the native populations”, as a way of combating promiscuity and prostitution and in order to maintain an “imperial race” (v).
Pervasive though the concept may be in nineteenth-century Javanese urban settings, aspiring to be a njai is not every girl’s chosen career move, as exemplified by Poniem, a divorced Javanese heroine who feels better off living with someone of her own race rather than “becoming a njai” (vi).
Some stereotypes are clearly for the benefit of little-travelled audiences back home a century ago, as when René meets Missah, Alfred’s njai, and is surprised that she is not “thick-lipped”, nor is she “greasy or woolly-haired”, her skin is “rich coffee with much cream” and she is none of the things René “had imagined a native girl would be”. Alfred’s Missah aspires to white skin, is “as dumb as a donkey” and teaching her is not “worth the trouble”.
Clichés abound, from the obedient, submissive, docile njai, for whom no task is too demeaning as long as it satisfies her white master, to the ostensibly disinterested native groom whose indifferent eyes miss nothing. Local women are despised but they are practical and necessary. Not all stereotypes are works of fiction, however, as when René, a novice in Asian customs, is shown the ropes shortly after arriving in Java. He is warned about jumping into the 'mendi', the stone bath from where cups of water are poured over the body while standing on the bathroom floor. A few decades ago, I saw a similar warning posted in the modest shower room of a simple homestay in Pulau Bintan island, where I stopped for a few nights en route to Java.
The local servants are not entirely powerless, however. Although the house servants respect Alfred out of fear, when René finds himself alone at home, the male houseboys play games and give him the run around: his clothes are in terrible shape and not laid out on the bed, the food is inedible, his socks are full of holes and the house looks sorry for itself. Was René set up by the male servants, laying the ground for the local dea ex machina to enter the scene, the beautiful, “high born” Adinda, who would one day wear the njai’s uniform of white linen jacket and batik sarong?
Mutual distrust breeds dangerous situations and the locals have no other recourse but the old law. When René throws milk in Sintang’s face, a servant he suspects of adding water to the milk he has stolen, Sintang does not react because he will not tell that cook had stolen the milk. Sintang tries to get his revenge by poisoning the milk René is about to drink the next day. The young tuan would have met an untimely and painful death had it not been for Adinda’s warning.
Death by local poison, administered by a jealous njai, is the most feared retribution awaiting straying white men. This fate befell Adolf van de Wal, René’s schoolmate in the Netherlands. After a night of heavy drinking with the boys, Van de Wal was poisoned by his njai, with a local concoction ground from bamboo. The poison remains undetected when mixed with food and attaches itself to the stomach lining, causing a slow and excruciating death. Do newly-arrived white men heed the warnings of old timers like Van de Wal and refrain from drinking and gambling, becoming devoted to one local woman only? Hardly.
In the eyes of European settlers, the locals can accede to white men’s demands because they are not overworked. Indeed, this is the reason they get up at night, because they are never exhausted by hard work. Clichés are also found in reverse, as when young René professes his disinterest in local women but he too will eventually capitulate to the charms of a njai. The development from disinterest to capitulation is organic and evolves at a slow pace. René’s protestations will prove in vain and will follow Alfred’s pattern, whose own njai has been “a better companion for me than many a white girl might have been”.
The couple dynamics follow a pattern encountered often in colonial literature. A white man does not normally debase himself by cohabiting with a native woman. White men are the saviors of local women, whose “social dignity” is enhanced even when they live together without being married. A white woman’s standing in the white community is diminished by her association with a local man, whose own prestige suffers by such an association. To the local eyes, there is shame in dancing but not in being a white man’s njai. Indeed, Alfred warns René that the natives will look down on him if he should dance in public with a local girl. White women have disgraced themselves in the eyes of the locals by dancing at local events.
For Alfred, native women “don’t know what love is” but he appreciates their “primitive mating instinct”, difficult to find in the “civilized world”. The white woman makes for a good dutiful wife, to exhibit in polite circles, while the native woman is the “little cuddly animal that will keep you warm in winter, fan you in the summer, bring you tea and liquors, roll your cigarettes, prepare your pipes” (vii), to massage the white man’s ego in Java’s “infernal interior”. White men can have their fun with native women in the colony but “love must not enter into it”. Eventually, white men return to Europe and cannot take their Javanese women with them because they would be deeply unhappy and feel like social outcasts.
For the white man, life in Indonesia was a burden to be endured because their earning power in the host colony was greater than in the Netherlands. A bevy of domestic servants and affordable creature comforts more than offset the scorching heat and dusty roads: “In each colony one found this grimly amusing tableau vivant: the bourgeois gentilhomme speaking poetry against a backcloth of spacious mansions and gardens filled with mimosa and bougainvillea, and a large supporting cast of houseboys, grooms, gardeners, cooks, amahs, maids, washerwomen, and, above all, horses. Even those who did not manage to live in this style, such as young bachelors, nonetheless had the grandly equivocal status of a French nobleman on the eve of a jacquerie” (viii).
Prejudice abounds towards the natives, who still walk in single file even though roads are now wider, because “natives do not readily change their customs”, an assertion that recalls the statement by George Cœdès, for whom “even in prehistoric times the autochthonous peoples of Indochina seem to have been lacking in creative genius and showed little aptitude for making progress without stimulus from the outside” (ix).
Local men went naked to the waist, often wearing a loin cloth, while Dutch men and supervisors wore the European colonisers’ uniform of white linen suit, tie and pith helmets. Local policemen went barefoot but their uniforms were adorned with brass buttons and the sword dangling by their side was held in place by a yellow leather belt buckled with a shining brass plate bearing the coat of arms of the Netherlands. The conqueror’s insignia is more important than providing shoes for the natives.
Java Girl will infuriate readers for its depictions of colonial arrogance and lack of compassion. When a raging storm wreaks havoc and causes extensive damage, as well as the death of buffaloes and chickens, there is no display of compassion for the considerable loss suffered by the natives, just like there is no sympathy on display when the buggy that Alfred and René were travelling in crashes, killing the driver. Alfred’s emotional baggage is not wired to feel sympathy for the locals, nor can it process the notion that the local driver may have been the only means of support for an extended family. He arranges for another driver to replace the dead one and by seven in the morning sits down to a business breakfast with the manager of a sugar factory. Business as usual.
White men do not come out unscathed from relationships with native women. Daisy Vermeer, the fragrant daughter of European settlers blessed with a diaphanous complexion, is Ulysses’ siren, posted by the colonial gods to test René’s affections for his njai. Fearing a dangerous ménage à trois brewing ahead, Alfred pours cold water over the hot coals by telling his younger sibling that Daisy’s complexion is no whiter than many other girls’ back home: it is just that René is used to brown girls. Alas, René can never marry Daisy because his white purity has been sullied by living with Adinda. But it is now the white woman’s turn to accept the constraints of colonial life, when Daisy tells René that she understands, because that is what white men do in Java, including her father, Col. Vermeer, who has both a Dutch wife and a njai of his own.
Adinda indulges her white master’s every whim, but she is also the alpha female who has set her eyes on René and pursues him relentlessly, despite local man Sonario’s marriage proposal and the promise of a dowry of batik sarongs, gold and silver ornaments. René encourages Adinda to marry Sonario because, as a white man, he could never be happy away from his white people, just like Adinda would be miserable away from her (brown?) people. But Adinda will not be dissuaded.
Alfred sneers when René swears to seek only the company “of decent white women” and will not degrade himself by getting mixed up with local girls. René is torn between Daisy and Adinda but to divulge more would be a terrible spoiler.
The book is enriched by useful notes and research undertaken by Kent Davis, the editor. These additional sections span from biographical notes about the authors, to essays on Javanese women in photos, Malay poisons and charms, glossaries and maps.
Java Girl is in the genre of love novels, where unions rarely have a happy ending in the birth of a baby, although the plight of mixed-blood children is often discussed. As a novel, Java Girl is entertaining and eminently readable. It will challenge or corroborate a myriad of colonial stereotypes.
Lia Genovese, PhD
Bangkok, 24 April 2020
(i) M. Askew et al. 2010. Vientiane: Transformations of a Lao landscape, p. 90.
(ii) T. Kato. 2003. Images of Colonial Cities in Early Indonesian Novels. In Southeast Asia over Three Generations: Essays presented to Benedict R. O'G. Anderson. Studies on Southeast Asia, p. 96.
(iii) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, p. 419.
(iv) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, p. 419.
(v) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, pp. 419-420.
(vi) T. Kato. 2003. Images of Colonial Cities in Early Indonesian Novels. In Southeast Asia over Three Generations: Essays presented to Benedict R. O'G. Anderson. Studies on Southeast Asia, p. 122.
(vii) J.S. Williams and J. Sayers. 2000. Revisioning Duras: Film, Race, Sex, p. 97.
(viii) B.R.O'G. Anderson. 2006. Imagined communities, pp. 150-51. The name ‘jacquerie’ originates from the French popular insurrection of 1358, when peasants were referred to as ‘Jacques’, or ‘Jacques Bonhomme’.
(ix) G. Cœdès. 1966. The making of South East Asia, p. 13.
The story is set in circa 1900. René van Landsberg, a young Dutchman, reaches Cirebon, on the north coast of Java, to join his older brother Alfred, who has worked on the island for several years. Alfred resents the isolation from working in the countryside and longs for contact with Europeans in the city. He unleashes his pent up anger towards the natives, spitting the frustration he had been “secreting for years”.
Javanese women’s beauty is a dangerous cocktail of allure and male weakness juxtaposed against the reality of wives and girlfriends staying behind in Europe, afraid of the heat and solitary conditions in Asia. Occasionally, wives and girlfriends followed men to Asia, but not before labouring over their decision, fearing the effects of heat on young children.
White males sail for the Dutch East Indies, to work in the colonial services or plantations. They consume dangerous amounts of alcohol and gamble at will. Drinking and gambling were the vices of Dutch men in Java but French administrators in Laos fell prey to opium, to the extent that its consumption was banned among civil servants in Vientiane from 1907 (i).
Young, inexperienced René wears his heart on his sleeve. Like others before him, the girl he left “back home” eventually ditches him, and although her decision at first upsets him, soon enough he feels free to pursue local beauties. In a way, men who move to Indonesia create the right conditions for self-fulfilling prophecies. They leave behind a girlfriend who will soon tire of an absentee boyfriend. The men will seek comfort in the arms of local women, a course of action taken by both Alfred and René. However, if association with a native woman may be the inevitable course of action when posted to Southeast Asia as a single man, it is well documented that numerous administrators who brought their wives also indulged themselves with a local mistress.
Soon we are introduced to the njai, the 'mia noi' (‘minor wife’, or mistress) of Thai culture. European men falling for the exotic beauty of women in conquered Asian lands is a recurring theme of colonial literature. The British called it ‘going native’, while hapless Frenchmen tried in vain to resist the temptations of a congaï, personified by Kâmlang in George Groslier’s Return to Clay, published by DATAsia, publishers of Java Girl.
Native women are not “socially proper partners” (ii) and are found in colonial playgrounds from Burma to Indonesia, where the white man must attend to his physiological urges, as long as the brown girl is happy to remain in the shadow and any illegitimate offspring are kept well hidden from colonial circles and his immediate family back home.
French empire-builders practiced concubinage as a pleasant and easy way of “Gallicising West Africa” (iii). A temporary union with a well-chosen native woman was not only official but highly recommended as a necessary part of the French “colonial moral code”, as desirable for the health and hygiene, prestige and discipline of the French official as it was for his imperial authority and “linguistic competence” (iv).
This was in stark contrast with the contents of a circular issued in January 1909, warning new recruits to the British Colonial Service that disgrace and official ruin would follow any official that entered into “arrangements of concubinage with girls or women belonging to the native populations”, as a way of combating promiscuity and prostitution and in order to maintain an “imperial race” (v).
Pervasive though the concept may be in nineteenth-century Javanese urban settings, aspiring to be a njai is not every girl’s chosen career move, as exemplified by Poniem, a divorced Javanese heroine who feels better off living with someone of her own race rather than “becoming a njai” (vi).
Some stereotypes are clearly for the benefit of little-travelled audiences back home a century ago, as when René meets Missah, Alfred’s njai, and is surprised that she is not “thick-lipped”, nor is she “greasy or woolly-haired”, her skin is “rich coffee with much cream” and she is none of the things René “had imagined a native girl would be”. Alfred’s Missah aspires to white skin, is “as dumb as a donkey” and teaching her is not “worth the trouble”.
Clichés abound, from the obedient, submissive, docile njai, for whom no task is too demeaning as long as it satisfies her white master, to the ostensibly disinterested native groom whose indifferent eyes miss nothing. Local women are despised but they are practical and necessary. Not all stereotypes are works of fiction, however, as when René, a novice in Asian customs, is shown the ropes shortly after arriving in Java. He is warned about jumping into the 'mendi', the stone bath from where cups of water are poured over the body while standing on the bathroom floor. A few decades ago, I saw a similar warning posted in the modest shower room of a simple homestay in Pulau Bintan island, where I stopped for a few nights en route to Java.
The local servants are not entirely powerless, however. Although the house servants respect Alfred out of fear, when René finds himself alone at home, the male houseboys play games and give him the run around: his clothes are in terrible shape and not laid out on the bed, the food is inedible, his socks are full of holes and the house looks sorry for itself. Was René set up by the male servants, laying the ground for the local dea ex machina to enter the scene, the beautiful, “high born” Adinda, who would one day wear the njai’s uniform of white linen jacket and batik sarong?
Mutual distrust breeds dangerous situations and the locals have no other recourse but the old law. When René throws milk in Sintang’s face, a servant he suspects of adding water to the milk he has stolen, Sintang does not react because he will not tell that cook had stolen the milk. Sintang tries to get his revenge by poisoning the milk René is about to drink the next day. The young tuan would have met an untimely and painful death had it not been for Adinda’s warning.
Death by local poison, administered by a jealous njai, is the most feared retribution awaiting straying white men. This fate befell Adolf van de Wal, René’s schoolmate in the Netherlands. After a night of heavy drinking with the boys, Van de Wal was poisoned by his njai, with a local concoction ground from bamboo. The poison remains undetected when mixed with food and attaches itself to the stomach lining, causing a slow and excruciating death. Do newly-arrived white men heed the warnings of old timers like Van de Wal and refrain from drinking and gambling, becoming devoted to one local woman only? Hardly.
In the eyes of European settlers, the locals can accede to white men’s demands because they are not overworked. Indeed, this is the reason they get up at night, because they are never exhausted by hard work. Clichés are also found in reverse, as when young René professes his disinterest in local women but he too will eventually capitulate to the charms of a njai. The development from disinterest to capitulation is organic and evolves at a slow pace. René’s protestations will prove in vain and will follow Alfred’s pattern, whose own njai has been “a better companion for me than many a white girl might have been”.
The couple dynamics follow a pattern encountered often in colonial literature. A white man does not normally debase himself by cohabiting with a native woman. White men are the saviors of local women, whose “social dignity” is enhanced even when they live together without being married. A white woman’s standing in the white community is diminished by her association with a local man, whose own prestige suffers by such an association. To the local eyes, there is shame in dancing but not in being a white man’s njai. Indeed, Alfred warns René that the natives will look down on him if he should dance in public with a local girl. White women have disgraced themselves in the eyes of the locals by dancing at local events.
For Alfred, native women “don’t know what love is” but he appreciates their “primitive mating instinct”, difficult to find in the “civilized world”. The white woman makes for a good dutiful wife, to exhibit in polite circles, while the native woman is the “little cuddly animal that will keep you warm in winter, fan you in the summer, bring you tea and liquors, roll your cigarettes, prepare your pipes” (vii), to massage the white man’s ego in Java’s “infernal interior”. White men can have their fun with native women in the colony but “love must not enter into it”. Eventually, white men return to Europe and cannot take their Javanese women with them because they would be deeply unhappy and feel like social outcasts.
For the white man, life in Indonesia was a burden to be endured because their earning power in the host colony was greater than in the Netherlands. A bevy of domestic servants and affordable creature comforts more than offset the scorching heat and dusty roads: “In each colony one found this grimly amusing tableau vivant: the bourgeois gentilhomme speaking poetry against a backcloth of spacious mansions and gardens filled with mimosa and bougainvillea, and a large supporting cast of houseboys, grooms, gardeners, cooks, amahs, maids, washerwomen, and, above all, horses. Even those who did not manage to live in this style, such as young bachelors, nonetheless had the grandly equivocal status of a French nobleman on the eve of a jacquerie” (viii).
Prejudice abounds towards the natives, who still walk in single file even though roads are now wider, because “natives do not readily change their customs”, an assertion that recalls the statement by George Cœdès, for whom “even in prehistoric times the autochthonous peoples of Indochina seem to have been lacking in creative genius and showed little aptitude for making progress without stimulus from the outside” (ix).
Local men went naked to the waist, often wearing a loin cloth, while Dutch men and supervisors wore the European colonisers’ uniform of white linen suit, tie and pith helmets. Local policemen went barefoot but their uniforms were adorned with brass buttons and the sword dangling by their side was held in place by a yellow leather belt buckled with a shining brass plate bearing the coat of arms of the Netherlands. The conqueror’s insignia is more important than providing shoes for the natives.
Java Girl will infuriate readers for its depictions of colonial arrogance and lack of compassion. When a raging storm wreaks havoc and causes extensive damage, as well as the death of buffaloes and chickens, there is no display of compassion for the considerable loss suffered by the natives, just like there is no sympathy on display when the buggy that Alfred and René were travelling in crashes, killing the driver. Alfred’s emotional baggage is not wired to feel sympathy for the locals, nor can it process the notion that the local driver may have been the only means of support for an extended family. He arranges for another driver to replace the dead one and by seven in the morning sits down to a business breakfast with the manager of a sugar factory. Business as usual.
White men do not come out unscathed from relationships with native women. Daisy Vermeer, the fragrant daughter of European settlers blessed with a diaphanous complexion, is Ulysses’ siren, posted by the colonial gods to test René’s affections for his njai. Fearing a dangerous ménage à trois brewing ahead, Alfred pours cold water over the hot coals by telling his younger sibling that Daisy’s complexion is no whiter than many other girls’ back home: it is just that René is used to brown girls. Alas, René can never marry Daisy because his white purity has been sullied by living with Adinda. But it is now the white woman’s turn to accept the constraints of colonial life, when Daisy tells René that she understands, because that is what white men do in Java, including her father, Col. Vermeer, who has both a Dutch wife and a njai of his own.
Adinda indulges her white master’s every whim, but she is also the alpha female who has set her eyes on René and pursues him relentlessly, despite local man Sonario’s marriage proposal and the promise of a dowry of batik sarongs, gold and silver ornaments. René encourages Adinda to marry Sonario because, as a white man, he could never be happy away from his white people, just like Adinda would be miserable away from her (brown?) people. But Adinda will not be dissuaded.
Alfred sneers when René swears to seek only the company “of decent white women” and will not degrade himself by getting mixed up with local girls. René is torn between Daisy and Adinda but to divulge more would be a terrible spoiler.
The book is enriched by useful notes and research undertaken by Kent Davis, the editor. These additional sections span from biographical notes about the authors, to essays on Javanese women in photos, Malay poisons and charms, glossaries and maps.
Java Girl is in the genre of love novels, where unions rarely have a happy ending in the birth of a baby, although the plight of mixed-blood children is often discussed. As a novel, Java Girl is entertaining and eminently readable. It will challenge or corroborate a myriad of colonial stereotypes.
Lia Genovese, PhD
Bangkok, 24 April 2020
(i) M. Askew et al. 2010. Vientiane: Transformations of a Lao landscape, p. 90.
(ii) T. Kato. 2003. Images of Colonial Cities in Early Indonesian Novels. In Southeast Asia over Three Generations: Essays presented to Benedict R. O'G. Anderson. Studies on Southeast Asia, p. 96.
(iii) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, p. 419.
(iv) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, p. 419.
(v) M. Hyam. 2010. Understanding the British Empire, pp. 419-420.
(vi) T. Kato. 2003. Images of Colonial Cities in Early Indonesian Novels. In Southeast Asia over Three Generations: Essays presented to Benedict R. O'G. Anderson. Studies on Southeast Asia, p. 122.
(vii) J.S. Williams and J. Sayers. 2000. Revisioning Duras: Film, Race, Sex, p. 97.
(viii) B.R.O'G. Anderson. 2006. Imagined communities, pp. 150-51. The name ‘jacquerie’ originates from the French popular insurrection of 1358, when peasants were referred to as ‘Jacques’, or ‘Jacques Bonhomme’.
(ix) G. Cœdès. 1966. The making of South East Asia, p. 13.
Displaying 1 of 1 review