Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

Sex, money, power

Amidst screaming headlines, the tabloids are recreating political culture John Olle Politics always comes to us mediated, transformed, and interpreted through the mass media. It is not unusual that the media should be partisan. Under the New Order, 'reading between the lines' was an essential skill to understand anything approximating reality as most people saw it. This skill is even more necessary in the euphoria of press freedom since the fall of Suharto. If previously the skill needed was to fill in the gaps for yourself, now you need a healthy scepticism and access to a variety of media in order to estimate what to discount and what to pay attention to. One of the most striking aspects of the current wave of press freedom has been the growth in the number of new publications. Since Suharto's resignation, the Ministry of Information has approved almost 1000 new permits. This is in addition to the 200-300 existing ones under the New Order. Much of this press explosion consists of politically oriented tabloids produced weekly, available at a cheap price and with a mass distribution network (often supported by an existing daily). Such tabloids often claim to report the 'news behind the news', full of 'scenarios', conspiracy theories, sensational language, accusations and counter-accusations. The first to appear in the early post-Suharto days was DeTak. This was in fact a reappearance, being a reincarnation of DeTik closed down by the New Order in 1994 together with Tempo and Editor. Although its circulation is now smaller than newer, cheaper and more sensational tabloids, DeTak relies on a reputation for quality journalism. Competition is intense and tabloids without an established reputation, a captive market, or some kind of special characteristic ('ciri khas') have little hope of surviving. A major 'special effect' is to be as sensational as possible. This tendency is prominent in the cheaper tabloids such as Oposisi and Bangkit, which appeared respectively in August and October 1998. Bangkit, entering the market at only Rp1000, became an immediate hit with its prominent white on black background headlines announcing such things as: 'WATCH OUT - THE NEXT 40 DAYS RIOTS EVERYWHERE' ('AWAS 40 HARI INI RUSUH DI MANA-MANA'), or 'RAPED... and for heaven's sake... their livers EATEN RAW' ('DIPERKOSA dan astaga... hati mereka DIMAKAN MENTAH-MENTAH'). Bangkit is part of the Kompas media group. Through its regional newspaper network, the Kompas group has also established several regional political tabloids including Kontras (Aceh), Demo (Palembang), Bebas (Banjarmasin), and Vokal (Yogyakarta). The latter is aimed largely at students and takes a more educated approach. Oposisi, from the rival Jawa Pos group, appears to be more conscious of its mission ('critical and on the side of truth' is its slogan) rather than just chasing sensation for the sake of it. Judging from its circulation figures, which are always sensitive to price rises, Oposisi is probably the most popular political tabloid at the moment. Other political tabloids with a national scope include Realitas (associated with Surya Paloh's Media Indonesia group), Tokoh (mostly interviews with public figures), Siaga (established by Golkar figure Eki Syachrudin), Berita Keadilan (focussing on the law and published by the same company that produces the PDI-P tabloid Demokrat ) and Perspektif. Many others have national pretensions but are really only regional in scope. This includes Format and Mimbar Demokrasi from Semarang, Gaung Demokrasi in Jakarta and West Java, Penta (Jakarta), Asasi (Aceh), and Opini (Solo). There are no doubt many more. Although political tabloids flood the market, and more seem to appear every day, the public is gradually becoming bored with a diet of pure politics. The established tabloids are diversifying into other fields such as crime, mysticism, entertainment, and sex in order to maintain sales. Bangkit and Oposisi have not been averse to including fortune telling (ramalan) and mystical stories, especially if a political connection can be found. Posmo (also Jawa Pos) combines politics, alternative medicine, and mysticism. Selling at the rather high price of Rp1500 it remains the most popular of the politically related tabloids in Yogyakarta. No one seems concerned whether the predictions of future bloodletting come true or not (most don't). The main factor in their popularity is their entertainment value. The Jawa Pos group also produces Gugat, which focusses on politics and sex-related crime. It will soon give birth to another more 'specific' tabloid provisionally named Karmasutra. SkandaL, another new tabloid more distantly related to the Jawa Pos group, has the slogan 'sex, money, power'. Islamic Other tabloids have a more 'Islamic' slant. Adil was originally resuscitated by the ICMI newspaper Republika. It is now independent and fairly objective in its approach. Not so the newer Republika tabloid Tekad, which seems to have a great deal of trouble in its approach to reformasi, unable to decide whether it should be attacking or defending the governing party Golkar and the military. Along with the smaller Islamic party tabloids, Tekad now prefers to focus its attention on the disagreeable aspects of Megawati's PDI-Perjuangan. The range and diversity of tabloids available indicates the great diversity of political opinion and cultural orientation previously hidden but never extinguished under the monolithic New Order. These differences are more clearly seen in the tabloid press than in the dailies. During the election campaign the tabloids gave a clear picture of the battle between different political discourses in Indonesia. The battle mainly revolves around the definition of the words 'reformasi' and 'Islam'. On the one hand, the more popular, business-oriented and less ideological mainstream tabloids still promote the struggle of 'reformasi versus status-quo', terms promoted by the opposition parties PAN, PKB and PDI-P in order to defeat Golkar. The trouble is that the meaning of reformasi or status quo has never been clearly stated even by the opposition parties. The 'reformist' party with the largest vote, Megawati's PDI-P, has not emphasised opposition to the military's involvement in politics, nor does it clearly support amendments to the constitution or bringing Suharto to justice, all demands of the reformasi movement that brought down Suharto. Besides that, all the supposedly reformist parties (particularly PDI-P) have within them many major ex-New Order figures, not all of whom have a record of opposing Suharto and the New Order. On the other hand, Tekad and the smaller Islamic tabloids promote a long running and previously 'underground' discourse of 'Islam versus sekular'. At the present time this discourse has the political implication of supporting Habibie as a 'representative of Islam', in distinction to Megawati and the PDI-P who are accused variously of promoting secularism, syncretism, Christianisation or communism. The problem here is that the word 'Islam' is also in contention. Both Abdurrahman Wahid, the leader of Indonesia's largest Muslim organisation Nahdatul Ulama, and Amien Rais, the leader of Muhammadiyah (and of the reformist party PAN) are both 'pro-reformasi' and opposed to Habibie. It is also clear that Megawati's PDI-P received many more Muslim votes than any other party. Many saw the 'Islam vs sekular' discourse as simply promoting the interests of Habibie. In any case, who can really hope to represent 'Islam' when even the representative organisations can not often agree, as shown by the conflict over whether a woman may become president? Most voters accept the reformasi/ status quo division rather than the Islam/ secular division. But there will be an on-going battle over the meaning of reformasi and the extent of 'openness'. As the tabloids not only 'open up' politics but also publish what is interpreted in Indonesia as 'pornography', protest over the trend has arisen. Post-Suharto Does reformasi mean a more public acceptance of 'Islamic values', or does it mean an acceptance of other supposedly 'western' values besides democracy, human rights, and so on? Or something in between? Or neither? It would be misleading to see this as simply a battle between Islam and a 'western style' reformasi. When the tabloid press depicts the extremes of discourse it is not only chasing sales but is engaged in a process of defining the limits of a post-Suharto field of politics and culture. In following the media principle that negative stories have greater news value, they succeed in 'stretching' the discourse in different and often conflicting directions to see how far it will go. It is no accident that the largest selling tabloids are those that emphasise conflict, use the most sensational language or provide the most graphic photos. Although New Order press laws are still officially in force, real control seems to be left to the media proprietors themselves, or to the community. In this respect Indonesia is beginning to resemble other democratic countries. It remains to be seen whether the new discourses will serve to maintain that democratic environment or not. John Olle (john_olle@mailcity.com) is a PhD student at Deakin University in Melbourne, Australia. Inside Indonesia 60: Oct-Dec 1999

Defining waria

Indonesia’s transgendered community is raising its profile.

Challenge to political parody on Indonesian television.

The waria community in this East Javanese city are out in the open, but misunderstanding and prejudice are still widespread.

The green iguana

Review: Goodfellow has drawn on his deep knowledge of Indonesia to excavate from daily events the realities that lie behind them Ron Witton One's first visit to Indonesia is filled with incredible images and perceptive insights. On each subsequent visit these things become more familiar, and finally 'normal'. Rob Goodfellow transports us back to that first visit. Filled with 21 anecdotes (which he labels 'short stories'), Rob has drawn on his deep knowledge of Indonesia to excavate from daily events the realities that lie behind them. He wrote this (bravely self-published) collection while living in Indonesia with his two children. This allows us also to see Indonesia through their eyes - he includes a letter from his son Simon to his grandparents ('The green iguana'). My favourites include his tales of dealing with the bureaucracy ('The police station'), and with one's daily experience of Indonesians who wish to practise their English on you ('Hello mister I lub you'). For anyone who has lived in or around Yogyakarta, his tale of superstition ('It's Jum'at Kliwon again') will reawaken memories. The cartoons by Weldon Neville are delightful. If you are looking for a gift for an 'old Indonesia hand', look no further! Rob Goodfellow, The green iguana, Kang Djoko Books, 1999, 96pp, ISBN 0-646-37741-8, Rrp AU$19.95 Ron Witton (rwitton@uow.edu.au) first visited Indonesia in 1962. Contact Kang Djoko Books: 48 Matthew's St, Wollongong, Australia 2500, sujoko@ozemail.com.au. Inside Indonesia 61: Jan - Mar 2000

Standard Tetum-English dictionary

Review: How standard? Catharina van Klinken Geoffrey Hull's dictionary of the East Timorese lingua franca Tetun (pronounced 'Tetun', but Hull follows the Portuguese spelling with final 'm') has a clear and simple layout, with most entries having a single part of speech and a short English meaning. The word 'standard' in the title is unfortunate, since there is as yet no agreement on what constitutes standard Tetun. The compiler seems to acknowledge this himself when he includes words from rural dialects as well as from the urban and lingua franca variety called Tetun-Prasa, without always specifying which variety they are from. In a conscious attempt to enlarge and modernise the vocabulary, Hull has included many Portuguese words which are not, so far at least, actually used in Tetun. Unfortunately these additions are not marked as innovations. Meanwhile the compiler consciously rejects those words which have been borrowed from Indonesian over the last quarter century. He does make a concession to the fact that such borrowing is widespread by including an appendix of 'Indonesianisms in current colloquial use'. This dictionary uses what Hull calls 'the standard orthography of Eastern Tetun'. This description, too, is misleading, as there are several spelling systems currently in use for Tetun in East Timor, and the one used in this book is Hull's own innovation. Hull spells Portuguese loans as if they were Tetun (eg Portuguese ciclone 'cyclone' is written siklone), making this system easier for non-Portuguese-speaking people to use. The main unnecessary complication in Hull's spelling system is that he sometimes writes long vowels using a double vowel, and sometimes with a single vowel (with or without an acute accent). So if you can't find moos, try looking up mos and m?s as well. For Tetun-Prasa, ignore any glottal stops (marked by apostrophes) as they are only pronounced in some rural dialects. In short, use this dictionary cautiously to give you an approximate idea of the meaning of a word, but do not use it to try to write in Tetun, as a lot of it won't be understood. Geoffrey Hull, Standard Tetum-English dictionary, Sydney: Allen & Unwin in assoc with Univ of Western Sydney Macarthur, 1999, 340+xxvi pp, ISBN 1-86508-206-6, Rrp AU$24.95 Dr Catharina van Klinken (cvk@webfront.net.au) is the author of A grammar of the Fehan dialect of Tetun, an Austronesian language of West Timor, which is soon to appear with Pacific Linguistics (Australian National University). Inside Indonesia 61: Jan - Mar 2000

Millenium hopes

Australia ended the twentieth century by refusing to endorse even a mild change in its hundred-year old constitutional arrangements. Its two major parties are look-alikes who do not dare to step out in faith for fear of being branded ideological. It supported self-determination in East Timor leading to independence, but cannot sort out its own relation with the Queen. Indonesia, by contrast, passed the millenium mark with much greater ambition and hope. Out of a huge field of pretty ideological parties, it successfully elected a new parliament by means of a system that had been cobbled together in just a year. That new parliament first agreed to abandon the blood-soaked colonial experiment of East Timor. It then elected a president and vice-president who enjoy genuine popularity in much of the country. If we don't appreciate the extent to which hope has lifted as Indonesia moves into the twenty-first century we have missed something. But yes, it will take more than some new faces at the top to turn Indonesia around. Yes, the new cabinet is a compromise. And yes, there is now no clear-cut opposition. We would like this edition of Inside Indonesia to capture at least a glimpse of those lifted hopes. God knows they, and we in Australia, are going to need it. The new government is weighed down by debt accumulated by a corrupt and super-wealthy elite in the Suharto years. Its seas and forests are being cleaned out in broad daylight by well-connected mafias. Meanwhile it faces demands from Aceh and West Papua that are every bit as insistent as those the East Timorese put up. The arts make a strong appearance in this edition. Below the surface of political action there flow currents of consciousness, where Indonesians ask Who am I? What does my history mean to me? Why can't I understand the poor? We hope you enjoy these reflections. If you do, we might make space for more in the future. East Timor is no longer an unwilling part of Indonesia. This edition tells the inside story of how its people seized the moment to free themselves. How will Inside Indonesia report on this new country? Someone needs to start Inside Timor Lorosae! We will certainly continue to highlight East Timor as a post-colonial issue for Indonesia - inspired by Yeni Rosa Damayanti's humanitarian example in this edition. Inside Indonesia 61: Jan - Mar 2000

On the mend

In Jakarta and Yogyakarta, the election brought renewing hope Laine Berman From a distance we heard the deafening roar of scooters, shouting voices, the honking of horns and blaring music, all under the pale yellow-grey blanket of exhaust emissions which already hung heavily in Jakarta's morning sky. We approached Jalan Thamrin with apprehension, caused by terrifying memories of previous election campaigns. In 1992 in Yogya I witnessed the naked violence and widespread fear of Indonesian street campaigns: the threatening spectacle of scooters with no mufflers, their 'ninja' drivers and menacing passengers with sticks in hand ready to use on any bystander who failed to raise the appropriate hand signal. This was Jakarta, it was day one of the campaigns, and I was scared. The first day of campaigning was the only one when all 48 parties were permitted to march. 'Experts' of all kinds predicted riots. But from the moment we reached Jalan Thamrin and began the hike south to the Hotel Indonesia roundabout, all my concerns disappeared. Instead of open intimidation, we had a celebration. Vehicles from one party happily gave way to the next. Buses carried flags from many parties under the banner 'Bis Koalisi'. People helped each other. Whereas in 1992 Chinese bystanders were harassed for 'petrol money', now they too were visibly relieved and joined the throngs on the roadsides. When we finally reached the roundabout, the carnival atmosphere was in full swing with acrobats, clowns, floats, colourful banners, and a great deal of good cheer. Jakartans had beaten the odds, confounded the 'experts', and enjoyed themselves immensely to boot! In Jakarta and in Yogyakarta the campaign and the election itself went surprisingly well. Very few incidents marred the festivities. On June 7th, in my kampung in central Yogyakarta, men sat in the shade of the fruit trees in my front yard discussing politics. They joked about the old days before reformasi, when nobody bothered to vote yet the kampung tally still showed full participation for Golkar. Now things were different. Men of all ages were enjoying the atmosphere, while women lined up to vote first. 'Women shouldn't have to stand in the heat', the men said as they stepped aside to let the women through. The process was long. It took over an hour from queuing up to casting the three ballots to confirming their legitimacy to staining a finger in ink (meant to prevent double voting). No one complained. Everyone seemed to enjoy the experience and the chance to discuss it all with neighbours. For weeks prior to this day, TV, radio, and all print media educated the nation on the voting process. Each night speakers from the different parties were introduced through open debates and speeches. Immediately upon Suharto's resignation, the talk show format seemed to have taken over evening TV. Now there were discussions of election topics, reviews of party platforms, training videos, guest speakers, and viewer call-ins. Through TV videos, advertisements, posters, pamphlets, and print media cartoons, the nation was assured that this election was unlike all the previous ones. Women's voice People were taught to recognise various ways of cheating, and to reject gender bias by assuring women that their votes were personal and very important. Women make up over half the electorate. Media campaigns incessantly told them that 'for the first time, we do have a voice. Women will determine the nation's future!' TV ads assured women that their vote was secret and should be cast for the party that best supported women's issues. Disappointingly, no one I asked knew of such a party. Other ad campaigns encouraged voters to follow their own preference and conviction and not just follow husbands, village heads, or religious leaders. Yet others warned of 'politik bayaran' or vote buying. They actually encouraged people to take the money but vote according to their preference. As the day approached and for weeks afterward, the media campaigns shifted. Now, the nation was encouraged to accept the outcome as free and fair, regardless of who won. Scenes showed friends and family fighting over differences of opinion, then pointed out how wasteful such arguments were. No one doubted the significance of this election. Everyone in my kampung said how important they felt personally. While most agreed that no candidate stood out as a true leader, all felt confident that Indonesia was finally on the mend. After the polls closed, as many people as the hall could fit took part in the counting. Many kept their own tallies. During three days of counting, the crowds in the hall and those hanging around outside never abated. Nor did their enthusiasm and desire to be part of the great occasion. Fathers led me to the window of the hall to point to their sons and daughters and with great pride said: 'That's my child, an election monitor!' During the long counting process, each ballot paper was read out aloud. Each one was greeted by a flurry of comments: cheers (Megawati's PDI-P), boos (Golkar), laughter (the youthful PRD). Any discrepancy was carefully checked. On the night of June 7 and for the rest of the week, kampung celebrations were visible all over town. Men gathered in roadside party huts ('posko') to shave their heads and/or to cook dog meat stew, both common ways of giving thanks and celebrating a blessing. Their reasons were numerous. 'No, I didn't vote for Mega, but that doesn't matter. What is important is that the election was a success.' 'We are celebrating the new era for Indonesia.' 'We are celebrating because Golkar is finished.' 'We don't care who wins as long as it is clean.' 'Yes, it will take a long time to clean up Suharto's mess, but we have already begun!' The only people who remained cynical and had no inked finger (alias they didn't vote, saying they were 'Golput') were the older generation of Yogya activists. These were the university students who had helped Muchtar Pakpahan create the labour union SBSI, had helped Megawati rise in the PDI and later to form PDI-P, and had helped Amien Rais form his PAN, among others. Before Suharto's fall they had pitched in to write their platforms, and organised their rallies and protests. Many of them had now graduated (or dropped out) and are working for non-government organisations. They felt they knew the candidates too well. They were too familiar with their flaws to vote for them. Open minds All in all, the changes Indonesia has experienced (in some places) since 21 May 1998 are phenomenal. In just over one year a wave of openness has flooded into the media, the streets, the kampungs, the campuses, and people's minds. Rather than blindly follow provocateurs, people are beginning to feel their responsibility in the future shape of the nation. They question the motives of troublemakers. The group of men I sat with as they waited for the women to vote talked about their roles in preventing corruption and in ensuring the next president really does represent the people. The idealism I witnessed was touching, if not a bit naive. Indonesia has a long way to go before the effects of oppression, social inequality, and institutionalised violence subside. At least in the kampungs of Yogyakarta and Jakarta, the 'little people' are ready to face the changes. Let's hope both the old and the new generation of leaders can do the same. Laine Berman is a research fellow in the Centre for Cross-Cultural Research, Australian National University. Inside Indonesia 60: Oct-Dec 1999

The language of the gods

The author of a recent play reveals how the personal and the political intertwined as he wrote it. Louis Nowra Sometimes a play has a long genesis. My latest, The language of the gods, set in the Sulawesi of 1946, had one longer than most. In many respects its gestation can be traced back to my childhood in Melbourne. One of my first memories is of a terrifying wooden statue about half a metre high that rested on our mantelpiece. It was seated on a throne and had a wide mouth full of vicious shark-like teeth. It also had bat-like wings and large popping eyes. Later on I was to find out it was a Garuda. It was one of the few mementos my mother kept from her time in Java. Hers is an unusual story for the times. During the second world war she married a Javanese man who had fled from the Japanese with the Dutch and was living in Queensland. After the war he took her back to Java. Her marriage was a brave, even stubborn thing to do because in those days very few white women married brown men. Later on she was to divorce and I became the product of her second marriage. When she became nostalgic she would talk about her first husband and her time in Java. We lived on a housing commission estate and I think we would have been the only family who ate Indonesian food, which she'd learnt to cook in Java. But this was not the only Indonesian connection I had as a boy. My two aunties had also married Javanese men who, unfortunately for them, had chosen to fight for the Dutch during the war of independence (1945-49). Both men became exiles in Australia and were on a black list of those Indonesians not allowed to return home. What I vividly remember is how upset they were when, years later, they still weren't allowed to go home to visit their dying relatives. It seemed unfair to me, given I admired these men, but it also gave me a sense of the consequences of choosing the wrong side in a political struggle. Although I had visited Indonesia briefly I didn't have a deep and personal interest in it. In 1986 I heard that there was to be an Indonesian translation of my play The precious woman, which is set in China during the 1920s warlord era. I was curious as to why such a play would have been chosen, and doubted that I would hear anything more. But a translation was made by actress and lecturer in English Tuti Indra Malaon, and I looked forward to going to Jakarta to see the production, to be directed by the veteran film-maker Teguh Karya. However, from then on I heard nothing. Then in the early 90s I was visited by an academic from the University of Indonesia, who told me the reason why the play didn't go on was that there had been 'problems'. What the problems were I didn't find out until The precious woman was published in a dual language text (English/ Indonesian) in 1997. In it, the editor Philip Kitley explained that when Teguh was about to direct the play the political climate had changed drastically. Cultural productions with any sort of Chinese associations were viewed with suspicion. Just as my uncles' lives were changed by politics, so a play of mine had been stopped by politics. It reinforced my previous view of Indonesia as a place where politics were personal and dangerous. But then a curious thing happened. I was invited by a Japanese film company to write a screenplay based on a novel they had bought. The book was a woeful mixture of bad plot and New Age gibberish set in Bali. Having been to Bali and read a little I realised this supposedly factual book was fiction. I asked the film company if I could research the topic in Sulawesi. The whim was based on my childhood fascination with the shape of the island. My mother's talk about Java always sent me to an atlas, but I thought the shape of Java was boring compared to Sulawesi, which seemed like an octopus caught in an electric blender. Going to Sulawesi proved to be one of the most important times of my writing life. Sulawesi I travelled to Sulawesi knowing little about it and found in the Tana Toraja region a world so far removed from the Balinese or Javanese cultures that I was shocked. I forgot to research the screenplay I was working on and instead travelled widely, profoundly moved by the simplicity of the dancing (compared to the baroque Balinese), the funeral ceremonies and the music. Then one day I discovered a reference to the Bissu, the transvestite priests, a tradition that goes back some four to five hundred years. A town was mentioned where there might still be some Bissu. I hurried down south to Segeri with my translator, who tried to talk me out of it. 'These men,' he said, 'are not normal.' We found a Bissu who was a curious mixture of camp and dignity, of the temporal and of the priest. He showed me photographs of himself and then took me across the road to a wooden house where he used to hold many ceremonies. In the back room was a wooden chair, a throne, which held offerings. He spoke of how he talked to the gods and how he could walk through fire and cut himself without bleeding. He was one of the most extraordinary men I have ever met. I was deeply moved, because he represented a tradition that was dying out. Once there were many Bissu, now hardly any, once the wooden house throbbed with many dancers, now few young boys wanted to learn, once the Bissu's magic was feared, now only the old thought these men had powers. Back in Australia I read as much as possible about the Bissu. Then I came across the infamous soldier Captain Westerling, who created bloody havoc in the Celebes (as the Dutch called Sulawesi) during their 'Police Action'of 1946-47 directed at Indonesians wanting independence. I read his memoirs and thought he was a cross between a psycho and Errol Flynn. I read as much as possible about the Dutch in the Celebes. And then I came upon the Dutch novelist Louis Couperus and his extraordinary novel The hidden force. Somehow all these things coalesced in my mind and from it came the idea for my play The language of the gods. The play is set in 1946, when Braak, the Dutch administrator, having returned to the Celebes from exile in Australia, with his new Australian wife Alice, finds a country on the verge of upheaval. He adores the traditional Indonesia as represented by Dely, the Bissu, but realises that even though he loves the Indies, like the rest of the Dutch, he will be cast out, and because of Captain Westerling's rampage the locals are beginning to hate him. He can't control Westerling, or his own private life, and the very person whom he respects, Dely, will be the one to destroy him. I suppose you could say that the play is in keeping with the idea I have had ever since I was young that in Indonesia politics is personal. Even though he would have liked to have separated the two, Braak in the end realises too late that he can't. This probably makes the play sound too much of an ideas-driven work, but really it is a character-driven story and certainly not moralistic about who was right and who was wrong in those fraught times. The opening night in the Playbox Theatre on 8 September was a strange one. The chaotic situation in East Timor was on everyone's mind, so there seemed to be a desire that the play have parallels to it. But it was written without any such parallels in mind. Yet history is a curious thing. It repeats itself, Hegel said as farce but he was wrong. Sometimes when history repeats itself there is an overwhelming sense of deja vu, which does not make one laugh at all but makes one cringe at how little we learn from past mistakes. Louis Nowra (lnowra@aol.com.au) is a playwright, novelist and screenwriter. Scripts of 'The language of the gods' and 'The precious woman' are available from Currency Press (email currency@magna.com.au, web www.currency.com.au). Inside Indonesia 61: Jan - Mar 2000

Mao's ghost in Golkar

1960s Artists struggled to create solidarity with the oppressed. One of their slogans survived in Golkar, but not their spirit. Julie Shackford-Bradley Turba' is an acronym for 'turun ke bawah', meaning 'descend from above'. It has a complex historical lineage from the 1950s and 1960s to the present. In New Order parlance it has cropped up to refer to visits by state officials out beyond the limits of the metropolis. Thus we read that World Bank President James Wolfensohn, during a recent visit to Indonesia, 'turba' to the slums (kampung) to witness the effects of the economic crisis. National Development Planning Board bureau chief Triono Soendoro also 'turba' to a central Javanese village to gather research on infant malnutrition. In a different context, former vice-president Try Sutrisno, as chairman of the Association of Armed Forces Retirees, 'turba' to the regions beyond Java to create interest in his political party the PKP, a spin-off of Golkar. The contemporary usage of the word amounts to a misappropriation of a concept and practice developed by leftist thinkers in the 1950s. The word turba gained its initial currency when it was used to refer to the movement of urban artists and activists to rural areas as part of a programme sponsored by the Communist Party PKI and the People's Cultural Association, Lekra. Through interviews conducted with Lekra organisers, and from readings on the topic, it has become clear to me that the term evokes a variety of interpretations of the Maoist concept of xia fang, to go out into the countryside. Mao himself outlined the concept in the following way in 1953: 'China's revolutionary writers and artists, writers and artists of promise, must go among the masses... go into the heat of the struggle, ... in order to observe, experience, study and analyse all the different kinds of people, all the classes, all the masses, all the vivid patterns of life and struggle, all the raw materials of literature and art.' As writer and Lekra member Hersri Setiawan describes it, part of the purpose of turba in Indonesia was to introduce urbanised leftists to the physical deprivations and psychological hardships of village life, in the hope that they would be transformed in a deeply personal way. This element of personal transformation was, however, subsumed in a larger, politically-oriented structure in which turba participants were sent out to specific areas to conduct research and create revolutionary art forms. The intention, in essence, was to set up a two-way flow of information between village and city. Participants would practise the 'three togethernesses' (tiga kesamaan): eating, living, and working together with village farmers. They would honour the four 'don'ts', which included prohibitions against lecturing to farmers or taking notes in their presence, along with the four 'musts': humility, learning the language and cultural practices of the area, and contributing to the farmers' households. Lekra members I interviewed in Amsterdam in 1998 emphasised that a great deal of research was gathered about Javanese villages through the turba programme. This information became the basis for Communist Party chairman Aidit's discussions of the '7 Demons' village farmers faced, which in turn sparked programmes in land reform, among others. Lekra artists and dramatists practised turba as a way to study the village-based arts, including the ketoprak, wayang, and ludruk, to determine how these forms could be utilised to disseminate information and radical ideologies. Lekra member Kuslan Budiman recalls discussions of the politicisation of the shadow puppet theatre (wayang). It was determined, for example, that it would be more appropriate to have clowns talking about politics than to merge the identities of the mythical hero Arjuna with the revolutionary president Sukarno. New art forms For some turba artists, however, the goal was to go beyond the politicisation of the wayang. These artists wanted to create new art forms by blending elements from the local genres of drama, dance, and music with Marxist ideology. Tragically, the results of this kind of artistic experimentation exist only in the memories of the participants still living. When they are re-collected, these memories reveal an underlying ambivalence. Hersri suggests that, according to prevailing opinion at least, the art produced in the turba programme was a 'failure'. It did not bring about the desired effect of conscientising the masses and spurring them on toward revolution. One problem was that turba dramatists and choreographers who wanted to incorporate local forms found themselves trapped within a 'feudal' sign-system when they evoked rhythms and dance movements that audiences associated with pleasure and entertainment, rather than those that would spur defiance or revolutionary fervour. Recalling Lekra dramatist Suyud's sung poem Blanja wurung ('No more shopping'), Hersri describes a piece that might, in other contexts, be categorised as experimental performance art. Against the soothing gamelan background, a voice chants: 'Ngono ya ngono, mbok ya 'ja ngono!' ('it's like that, ya, like that, but don't let it be like that'). As an alternative, choreographers dismantled existing structures to create new forms, as in the case of Tari ronda malam ('Dance of the night watchman'). Here only the gamelan's kendong drum accompanies the dance, a representation of the rhythms and movements of the villagers' labour. But did the rural audience 'get it'? In Hersri's estimation, they did not. But, as fellow Lekra member Agam Wispi responds, this was not the only measure of success or failure for artists of the period. 'I did not write poetry for the farmers,' he says, but rather 'about the farmers,... studying their songs, and voices... in order to portray their strength and courage.' The Lekra members with whom I spoke agree to disagree on whether the primary objectives of Lekra and of turba were artistic or political. Those who participated in the turba movement do agree, however, that their village experiences forced them to confront their class-based prejudices in a transformative way. Personal recollections of turba experiences reveal the tensions that arose between the urbanised youths and rural folk. For those who went 'down' into the villages, according to Kuslan and fellow Lekra artist Mawie Ananta Yonie, class differences were only magnified when they were experienced on the physical level. Contrary to their own intentions, turba participants struggled not to make value judgments about village farmers when forced, for example, to defecate unsanitarily in the river, or when watching 'boys become men' in the ritualised prostitution called tayuban. At the same time, the Javanese farmers could not help but treat the city boys as guests, offering them greater portions of the best food they had. This caused some turba participants to eat elsewhere, at local warungs for example. Many also tired of the labour after a few days. 'Our bodies were not suited to that kind of work,' Kuslan recalls. 'Our muscles were not developed, our hands were not properly callused.' Moreover when only 'sleeping together' remained of the three togethernesses, anti-communist critics, as Hersri notes, jumped at the chance to exploit the sexual innuendo inherent in the phrase. In the heat of the moment, turba participants were hesitant to confront such tensions, much less write about them. As these tensions surface in retrospect, however, they cannot be separated from the biases inherent in the term itself. The very concept of 'descent from above' is based on a spatial configuration of class that is uncompromisingly hierarchical. 'Descent' to the slums In recent New Order usage, 'turba' retains that hierarchical quality, while ignoring the original philosophical intent. We can see from the examples above that the term is now used in such a way as to gloss over the ever-larger gaps between metropolis and village, between elite enclaves and kampungs, and between Java and the 'outer regions.' The term becomes a shorthand, when used in the context of 'descending' to the slums or to the regions beyond Java, for crossing a boundary that has been made to look so 'natural' as to need no explanation. The contemporary usage reminds us that the means by which that boundary is traversed will determine how the boundary itself is conceived. Even if we now consider the three togethernesses, the four don'ts and musts as a throwback to rigid communist rhetoric, these mottoes forced the turba participants to acknowledge the class divide for what it was. When turba is practiced in an air-conditioned Mitsubishi, the wall between the classes is only strengthened, and that is precisely the point. Misappropriation of the term reaches an ironic pinnacle in recent pro-Golkar political activities. Try Sutrisno, for example, uses the word turba in the context of 'socialising' (mensosialisasikan) the retired generals' new political party PKP. As with all misappropriations, there must be some convergence between the original and the copy that creates the basis for a relationship. Here, PKI is replaced by PKP, and land reform is replaced by the 'socialising' of development projects with military support. Indonesian newspaper readers and Western observers have gotten used to this tactic of misappropriation through the decades of New Order rule. In the period of change now taking shape, such practices can now be openly challenged in the interests of uncovering lost histories. Julie Shackford-Bradley (jsbrad@uclink4.berkeley.edu) is conducting doctoral research at the University of California at Berkeley. Inside Indonesia 61: Jan - Mar 2000

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