The Betrayal of Dipati Ukur

 

In the Pasundan region—and particularly in Bandung, where the streets remember everything even when people forget—the story of Dipati Ukur isn’t just history. It’s something darker than that. Something that lingers.

His name decorates a street that winds past Padjadjaran University and the West Java People’s Struggle Monument like a scar that never quite healed right. In Bandung Regency, another road bears his name near what used to be Al Ihsan Regional Hospital, now called Welas Asih. The locals know these streets, drive them every day, but most don’t know—or don’t want to know—what really happened to the man whose name they’ve paved over with asphalt and good intentions.

The academics have their version, of course. Edi S. Ekadjati wrote his whole damn doctoral dissertation about the guy back in ‘79: Ceritera Dipati Ukur Karya Sastra Sunda. Dry stuff, probably. The kind of thing that puts college kids to sleep in overheated lecture halls. But in the classical Sundanese texts—the ones from the 17th to 20th centuries, when the menak nobility still meant something—his name appears again and again. Bandung. Tasikmalaya. Ciamis. Even Betawi, which the rest of the world calls Jakarta.

The archaeological sites are still there too. Places the locals whisper about. Places where Dipati Ukur supposedly lived, worked, schemed. Places where, if you listen carefully on certain nights when the wind is right, you might hear something that isn’t quite the wind at all.

The Exile

According to Lasmiyati—and she spent years digging through this stuff for her 2016 paper—Dipati Ukur wasn’t always Dipati Ukur. His real name was Wangsanata, and that’s important because names have power. His father, Cahya Luhur, ruled the Jambu Karang Kingdom in Banyumas. Not a big kingdom, maybe, but it was theirs.

Then Sutawijaya came. History books call him Panembahan Senopati (1537–1601) of Mataram, but to the people of Jambu Karang he was something else entirely: he was the end of everything they knew. When Mataram conquered the kingdom, they let Cahya Luhur keep his throne—kept him like a bird in a gilded cage—but they took his son. Took Wangsanata and exiled him to the Ukur region, which sprawled across what would become Bandung and part of Garut.

It was supposed to be a punishment, see. Exile always is. But here’s the thing about exile, the thing that the powerful never quite understand: it gives a man time to think. Time to nurse his grievances like a secret bottle hidden under the floorboards. Time to become someone else entirely.

Wangsanata married the Duke of Ukur’s daughter. Smart move, that. When the old duke died, Wangsanata took his throne and his name. He became Dipati Ukur, and in becoming someone new, he buried who he’d been before. But you can’t ever really bury the past, can you? It has a way of digging itself back up.

The Appointment and the Price

By the time Sultan Agung came to power, Dipati Ukur had made something of himself. The Sultan recognized this—or thought he did. He appointed Dipati Ukur as bupati wedana, chief regent over the entire Priangan region, replacing Adipati Rangga Gede of Sumedang.

It should have been an honor. It was an honor, technically. But there’s always a catch, isn’t there? Always fine print written in blood.

The price Sultan Agung demanded was steep: Dipati Ukur would lead Mataram’s Islamic forces against the Dutch East India Company—the VOC, those pale-faced traders in their black coats who’d set up shop in Batavia like a cancer that wouldn’t stop spreading. He’d fight on the front lines alongside Tumenggung Bahureksa, Mataram’s commander. He’d bleed for Mataram. Die for Mataram, if it came to that.

So there it was. The choice that wasn’t really a choice at all. Accept the appointment and the death sentence that came with it, or refuse and… well. Refusal wasn’t really an option.

The Siege

September 11, 1628. Remember that date. It’s when everything went to hell.

The plan—Sultan Agung’s plan, carefully laid out like a dinner table set for guests who’d never arrive—called for Dipati Ukur to wait. The main Mataram army was gathering in Karawang. Timing was everything. Coordination was everything. Patience was everything.

But Dipati Ukur didn’t wait.

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe the rage of his exile had fermented too long, turned into something toxic and unstoppable. Maybe he saw an opening. Maybe—and this is the part that makes you wonder, that keeps you up at 3 AM staring at the ceiling—maybe he knew what he was doing all along.

He attacked Batavia directly. Just went for it, balls-out, consequences be damned.

And he lost.

Got his ass handed to him, to put it bluntly. Had to retreat with his tail between his legs while the VOC forces laughed behind their fortifications. When the Mataram reinforcements finally showed up, they found a weakened, demoralized situation. They lost too.

Sultan Agung, sitting in his palace hundreds of miles away, decided that Dipati Ukur’s premature attack wasn’t just a tactical error. It was desertion. Worse: it was rebellion. And Sultan Agung didn’t tolerate rebellion any more than a spider tolerates flies that escape the web.

The Betrayal

Here’s where it gets interesting. Where it gets dark.

Sultan Agung ordered Tumenggung Bahureksa to bring Dipati Ukur in. Dead or alive—though alive was probably preferred, for what came after.

Now, there are different versions of what happened next. Some people say Dipati Ukur faked his death, pulled a disappearing act, lived out his days as a farmer or a fisherman or whatever. Nice story. Happy ending. Complete bullshit, probably.

Others claim he ran to the Sultan of Banten, one of Sultan Agung’s biggest rivals. That’s got more teeth to it. Makes a certain kind of sense.

But there’s a third version. A version that comes from a Sundanese text called Sajarah Sukapura, and this one—this one doesn’t pull any punches. This one tells you exactly what happened, in detail so vivid you can almost smell the blood.

The manuscript Emuch Hermansoemantri used for his 1979 dissertation dated to 1886, written by Raden Kartinagara (also known as Haji Abdullah Saleh). But Hermansoemantri suspected the original text went back to the 18th century. Old stories. The kind that don’t die because they’re too terrible to forget.

The story appears in the third pupuh—that’s canto to you Western folks—and it starts with betrayal. Because it always starts with betrayal, doesn’t it?

Four of Dipati Ukur’s district lords—his umbul—turned on him. Cihaurbeuti. Sukakarta. Indihiang. Sindangkasih. Remember those names. They went to Sultan Agung and volunteered to help Bahureksa capture their master. Just like that. No hesitation. No loyalty. Just naked ambition dressed up as duty.

When Bahureksa showed up at Dipati Ukur’s base in Kampung Bungbang, he couldn’t take him. Failed completely. Retreated with his forces intact but his pride in tatters.

And then—and this is the part that doesn’t make sense unless you understand that some men would rather choose their own death than have it chosen for them—Dipati Ukur surrendered. Just walked up to Bahureksa with eight loyal umbul at his side and gave himself up.

The Execution

They brought him to Mataram. Brought all nine of them—Dipati Ukur and his eight loyalists—and seated them before Sultan Agung like students before a particularly cruel teacher.

The interrogations came first. One by one. Each man forced to account for himself, knowing that every word was another nail in his coffin.

Then Sultan Agung delivered his lecture. Oh, it was a long one, according to Sajarah Sukapura. All about sin and defiance and sacred principles. All about how Dipati Ukur had violated everything—everything—that mattered. The ancestors would be ashamed. The gods would turn their faces away. Life itself had been cheapened by his actions.

There was only one punishment that fit.

Death.

But not just any death. Oh no. Sultan Agung had something special planned.

Dipati Ukur, as the leader, got it relatively easy: beheading. Quick, at least. Merciful by comparison.

The others… Jesus Christ, the others.

Demang Saunggatang was wrapped tight in palm fiber—can you imagine that? Can you imagine the itching, the scratching, unable to move?—and burned alive. They lit him up like a torch and watched him scream.

Ngabehi Yudakarti, the Umbul of Taraju, got strung up at the palace gate with his hands bound. Every man and woman who passed—and they had to pass, see, it was the palace gate, you couldn’t avoid it—was ordered to slice him. Just a little cut. Just one. But there were a lot of people in Mataram, and death by a thousand cuts isn’t just a figure of speech. It’s a promise.

Tumenggung Batulayang was boiled. Boiled. Like a lobster in a pot. The water starting cold, probably, so he’d know exactly what was coming. So he’d feel every degree as the temperature climbed and his skin began to blister and his screams turned to steam.

The other five—Malangbong, Cihaur Mananggel, Sagaraherang, Kahuripan, and Medangsasigar—were stabbed to death together with krises. At least they had each other at the end. Small comfort, maybe, but sometimes that’s all you get.

The Reward

And the four traitors? The ones who’d sold out their master?

Sultan Agung made them regents. Gave them Bandung, Sukapura (Tasikmalaya), and Parakanmuncang (Rancaekek–Jatinangor). New districts. New titles. Clean hands, officially speaking, though I imagine they saw Dipati Ukur’s face every time they closed their eyes for the rest of their lives.

There’s even a metal inscription commemorating it all, dated 1641 CE. Same date that Bandung Regency celebrates as its founding anniversary: April 20.

Isn’t that something? A city built on betrayal, celebrating its birthday every year, and most folks driving down Dipati Ukur Street don’t even know what the name really means. Don’t know about the blood. Don’t know about the screaming.

But the street knows. The street remembers.

Streets always do.