Writings


[Let them eat] Cake

Ray, always hot tempered, tapped his fingers every three seconds on the table. He hated waiting. Lola, as usual, hadn’t arrived just yet; Ray looked at his watch. They’ve been coming here for the past twenty years, nobody bothered to do any renovation. Even the kitchen was filthy. The place was rotting, just like their marriage.

Lola walked in and smiled at Ray. Reflected by the sun, her brown hair shone brighter than usual. “Did you get a haircut?” he asked. “I made you an appointment with the chiropractor,” Lola kissed his lips. “Never done it, don’t need it.” The waitress approached them. “Two coffees. Black. One with brown sugar on the side, please,” Lola smiled at her. “Oh, and can I have a slice of that lemonade cake?” “We’re out.” “Is this for the dog?” Ray asked. “Why yes, darling, I couldn’t walk with him this morning…” Lola said, looking at the waitress, “you know what, I’ll take the carrot cake to go then.”

A Bloody Past: On Censorship in Indonesia

On October 23, I received news from the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival: due to warnings from local police, the festival had to cancel sessions related to 1965 anti-communist massacres and their aftermath. I was shocked and outraged, especially after attending successful discussions and book launches on 1965 at this year’s Frankfurt Book Fair, where Indonesia was the focus country. Those events were sponsored by the Indonesian Ministry of Culture and Education.

In 1965, the Indonesian communist party was the biggest outside Soviet and China; the country’s president Sukarno was left-leaning and wanted to keep Indonesia’s natural resources under national control. On September 30, an alleged communist coup took place and failed. The military, aided by civilian vigilantes, waged a violent campaign against all supposed communists, killing and imprisoning millions. Out of the bloodbath a new regime was founded: the New Order, authoritarian and militaristic, with Soeharto as president.

The regime continued to demonize so-called communists by equating them with atheists and debauchers in order to gain support from religious Indonesian people for further suppressing all communism-related activities and organizations. Beyond the fight against communism, the New Order built much of its legitimacy on delivering economic growth, gained in part by sharing Indonesia’s natural resources with Western countries. The regime came to an end when massive student protests in 1998 compelled Soeharto to step down and brought forth an era of democratic reforms, commonly referred to as the Reformasi era.

A Brief Introduction to Indonesian Poetry

For better or worse, there is only modern Indonesian poetry – and what comes after. There is no such thing as medieval Indonesian poetry, for instance. For, even in the 19th century, let alone in medieval times, there was not yet a country called Indonesia.

A relatively young tradition, Indonesian poetry began in the early twentieth century as the struggle for national independence from colonialism gained strong momentum. A nationalist youth congress in 1928 issued the historic “Youth Pledge”, which, amongst other things, proclaimed Indonesian (an offshoot of Malay) as the national language of Indonesia. While centuries of inter-island trading had seen Malay widely used as the lingua franca throughout the archipelago of some 17,000 islands that would later be christened Indonesia, it was the nationalist movement – along with the spread of print-media publication – that spurred on the more conscious use of Indonesian as a means of literary expression.

Besides the national language, most of the 220-odd million Indonesians speak local vernaculars (of which there are, according to an official report,  726). Some of these languages have age-old literatures that have already produced works of some renown, such as the Buginese epic I La Galigo and the Javanese Sutasoma or Centhini. The term “Indonesian literature”, however, is generally agreed to designate those works written in the Indonesian language – in the same way that Javanese literature consists of works written in Javanese, or Buginese literature comprises works written in Buginese, and so on.

Some of the earliest poetry written in Bahasa Indonesia (as the language calls itself) appeared in the 1920s. Mohammad Yamin (1903–1962) wrote a number of sonnets with fervent nationalist sentiment as well as idyllic nostalgia, in a vocabulary that nowadays may sound rather archaic. Sanoesi Pane (1905–1968), in his attempt to achieve a synthesis of East and West, drew much inspiration from classical Indian and Javanese culture in a number of his sonnets, while Roestam Effendi (1902–1979), a determined innovator, produced a body of work that uses a somewhat mixed vocabulary, partly drawn from vernaculars such as Javanese, Sundanese and Minangkabau. In their different ways, these poets paved the way towards different avenues of expression for subsequent generations.

The 1930s witnessed the rise of the influential literary magazine Poedjangga Baroe (New Writer) that published works by a younger group of writers. The sonnet and quatrains were two favourite forms often used by these “new poets” to express what they considered the novel sensibility of modern Indonesia. Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana (1908–1994), the magazine’s editor as well as its most eloquent spokesperson and polemicist, urged Indonesians to adopt the modern West as the ultimate role model. In their effort to break away from the old tradition, they claimed to draw their literary influences from abroad, such as the Dutch ’80s poets (de Tachtigers). Meanwhile, Amir Hamzah (1911–1946), widely recognised as its greatest poet, composed melodious, hermetic poems steeped in allusions to Sufi as well as other mystical traditions.

A major breakthrough arrived in the shape of the modernist work of Chairil Anwar (1922–1949). Chairil’s poetry is terse, vibrant and rife with extremes covering a broad range of emotions: from hope to despair, solemnity to playfulness, calmness to rebelliousness. Even today after half a century his poems somehow still retain their freshness and contemporary feel in their use of the Indonesian language. Chairil and his peers Asrul Sani (1926–2004) and Rivai Apin (1927–1995) – the writers of the cosmopolitan “Gelanggang Credo” of 1950 – saw themselves as “heirs to the world culture”.

In the wake of Chairil Anwar, Indonesian poetry found distinctive new voices in the works of Sitor Situmorang (1924), Subagio Sastrowardoyo (1924–1995), and Rendra (1935–2009). Sitor Situmorang, in his long career as poet-errant, has written some of the most vivid and piercing lines in Indonesian in his poetry about the loneliness and ennui of a wanderer taking respite and finding solace in the sensual and sensuous present, as well as in fleeting memories. Subagio Sastrowardoyo’s poems, intimate and at times enigmatic, are poised between the subconscious desires and longings of everyman and the solitary thoughts of a learned man. Rendra, also a great actor, has an assorted poetic repertoire that ranges from the lyric, epic and dramatic to protest poetry (“pamphlet poetry”) – his special legacy being the whole body of narrative poems unique in Indonesian literature.

The 1970s was undoubtedly something of an experimentalist decade – with performance art, concrete poetry and sound poetry stealing the show. The avant-garde poetry of Sutardji Calzoum Bachri (1941), invoking the primal power of mantra as well as the play of signifiers bordering on poetic frenzy, brought something singular and unprecedented to Indonesian literature. And from the 1980s onwards, Afrizal Malna (1957) introduced a kind of mongrel poetry of discordant images and rhythms, born in the chaotic urban life of mass-marketed desires and its discontents.

Indonesian poetry today still looks vigorous and bountiful, with younger poets finding broader and more varied outlets for publication of their work, from conventional book-publishing to the literary section of newspapers and the Internet. The search is on for new possibilities of poetic expression, in a field seemingly already exhausted by the “old masters”, and there is no end in sight.

This first publication of the PIW Indonesia domain features Sapardi Djoko Damono and Goenawan Mohamad, two eminences grises of contemporary Indonesian literature who are still very active as writers. The oeuvres of the two poets are, in effect, the living forces that continue to have a shaping influence on today’s Indonesian poetry.

A Poem in Its Becoming…

GOENAWAN MOHAMAD’S OPENING SPEECH AT THE WORLD POETRY FESTIVAL – KUALA LUMPUR, 17 AUGUST 2004

I would like to thank you for having me here, in this extraordinary gathering of poets, and for giving me the honour to begin our conversation.

However, I must confess my nervousness; I know that each time poets get together they become acutely self-conscious of their peculiar trade, especially in today’s world. When words relentlessly multiply, like they do nowadays, the verbal deluge makes us wonder what will happen next to the hidden side of language, which is silence.

I hope you understand my hesitation. From this rostrum I will be speaking about silence, yet I cannot help using so many words.

But could I have chosen a more appropriate subject? We are living in a time when language moves like the horse in the ancient Indian ritual of Ashvamedha. Like the sacrificial horse, it is the powers-that-be who decide that language has to be seen as free as possible to roam. In practice, however, a host of officials follow it and claim whatever territory it enters. At the end of the day, language, like the horse, is slaughtered to enhance the mystic of the throne and the pulpit.

Oftentimes, the state, the religious authorities, and the high priests of the media create a ritual for the dead language, solidified in a single book with a secured meaning and commanding content. Without claiming to be original, I would call it the Book of the Father, meaning any text held up by a prevailing linguistic and social order that imposes its authority on truth and falsity.

At this juncture, language becomes an intimidating presence, (Roland Barthes called it “fascist”), and we are left with no other possibility but to perpetuate the ideology of the symbolic order. It is the ideology that generates a false belief that language, with all of its pleasing vowels and compelling consonants, is quite capable of adequately representing everything that happens in the unarticulated life-world. But we know that it is not the case. An Indonesian poet, Toto Sudarto Bachtiar, put it succinctly: “karena kata tak cukup buat berkata” – “since words are not an adequate means with which to speak”.

Yet the ideology of the symbolic order transforms a human into a cognitive centre. In no time, an overriding drive for truth prevails. It was such a drive that brought Plato, the ancient Greek philosopher, to launch a polemic against rhetoric and design a Republic without Poets.

The Platonic temper is to belittle the poet’s use of words, insisting that he or she does not speak or write for truth.

Such a frame of mind persists. In fact, it is more pronounced in our time. This is an era shaped by two seemingly contradictory forces, i.e. the compulsion of modernity and the return of the absolute faith that take poetry as a suspect.

“The poets lie too much,” says Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. But let me add that Zarathustra, himself a poet, seems to understand that there is a problem with the easy notion of lying, just as there is a problem with the easy notion of truth.

We all remember the famous tale by Hans Christian Andersen about an emperor whose only ambition is to be well dressed. His passion for clothes was such that one day two swindlers succeeded in befooling him, promising to create an extraordinary outfit for a parade. The dress, so they told the emperor, was made by material invisible to any body unfit for his office or anyone unforgivably stupid.

The clothes were, of course, non-existent. But for fear of being called stupid, everybody, from the emperor down to the city’s commoners watching the parade, insisted that the royal outfit was truly magnificent. Only a child in the crowd saw what happened, and shouted, “The emperor has nothing on at all!”

On hearing the child’s words, the entire crowd realised how untruthful they had been to each other and to themselves. They decided to yell, “The emperor has nothing on at all!”

His Majesty was, of course, not deaf to the clamour. But Andersen ends his story by describing how the emperor decided to continue the parade until its scheduled end. Obviously he was determined to show that the crowd failed to grasp “the truth”.

As I see it, the emperor’s final act is to defy the idea that “truth” is what you see. “Truth”, for the sovereign, is nothing to do with the senses.

Andersen’s tale, written in 1837, is probably a commentary of his rationalist time, when the ruling idea wrote off the body as a site where truth could take place.

It is no coincidence that in the story it is the child who sees the truth differently. Put as a caveat, the child does not signify a human subject with a powerful claim that he can dismiss his own senses, set his own body aside, and by doing it, produce something out of nothingness. In other words, the child is closer to the realm of the senses, a being-in-the-world unschooled by the Cartesian doubt pondering the existence of the body and the physical world.

The language of the poet is like the child’s voice. It is marked by what Julia Kristeva calls le semiotique, where the body connects with the word, where rhythm, pulse, tone, and motion, all the physical attributes of language, are born. That’s why the language of the poet is shaped more by sounds and images than by concepts and ideas. In fact, poetry can expel concepts and meaning from the words.

Sutardji Calzoum Bachri, one of the most innovative writers in the Indonesian literature, is a poet with such a belief. He claims that the words of his poetry can “create their own selves, play with themselves”, unburdened by meaning or concepts. Let me read an extract from his poetry:

siapa sungai yang paling derai siapa langit yang paling rumit siapa laut yang paling larut siapa tanah yang paling pijak siapa burung yang paling sayap siapa ayah yang paling tunggal siapa tahu yang paling tidak siapa Kau yang paling aku kalau tak aku yang paling rindu?

The sounds and the cadence, repetitive and yet intense, and the fleeting images, mournful and yet sprightly, all seem to strive towards a fascinating, indefinable, and probably sacred presence that is, at the same time, absent. Not governed by the need to be symbolic, the poem sounds like an echo – “das Gedunkelte Splitterecho”, the “darkling splintered echo” of Paul Celan.

It is the darkling side of a poetry that makes it a suspect, or an alienated pursuit, in an era driven by the technological need for clarity and the politics of religious and ethnic purity.

Many see this alienation a loss, and there have been attempts to redress the “problem”. One of them is to draw poetry out from its marginality and push it back into the (Platonic) Republic, to adopt the language of knowledge and laws, and to play a role moulded by the Book of the Father. In the process, poetry becomes a story of knowledge, power and geniuses, in which the poet can claim, without the slightest embarrassment, that he/she is the “legislator of the world”. Poetry will thus work to meet the common desire for any kind of finality. It is incited by linguistic and cultural systems which constantly propose themselves as possessing the ultimate quality of truth.

But of course, at the end, no authority possesses the truth: what it can offer us are merely words which are bound to defer the meaning ever onwards.

For that reason, I am more inclined to follow a different path – the one taken by Amir Hamzah, the lyric poet celebrated in different parts of the Malay world.

He, as you may well know, was the one who defied the Book of the Father. One of his prose poems of the 1930s recounts an exciting journey to a place “cursed by all the holy books in the world”, “dikutuk segala kitab suci di dunia”. But his heart, he wrote, “has its own text” – “tapi kau, hatiku, punya kitab sendiri”.

Amir Hamzah’s way was a “nyanyi sunyi”, a “song of solitude” – the words he used to sum up his own poetry. It signifies his refusal to be part of the symbolic order’s politics of meaning, in which language is largely moulded by the society’s drive for nothing but the truth. He opted for silence, for sunyi. It is, however, a silence that is not the antithesis of language, but the unrecognised part of it. Poetry’s silence is the kind of muteness that is also an intimation of being. In the famous lines of Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish believes that

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

In a sense, silence is poetry’s alter ego. In the silence of poetry lies a poetic language that circumvents the repetitive noise of verbal exchanges. In poetry’s silence, truth is a happening before language is regulated by a social and cultural order. It is truth experienced as an event. It takes place when language is no longer signs alluding to something already given, and yet something emerges in our consciousness.

In such a moment of truth, like in Amir Hamzah’s poetry, one can regain what silence, the unrecognised part of language, opens to us, i.e. a world of unpredictable differences.

This is not merely an aesthetic argument. It is primarily an ethical position. By adopting a “language without words”, as Emmanuel Lévinas puts it, by not trying to grasp and sculpt the Other using my verbal cast, I will always be able to encounter the irreducible face of the Other as the undying Other.

For that reason, recognising silence as the dark, hidden part of language is also an act of humility. Words will always confront their own limits. That’s why in the life of a poem, the most important part is not its closure, but its becoming.“Sebuah sajak yang menjadi adalah sebuah dunia”, “a poem in its becoming is a world”, goes one of the famous aphorisms of Chairil Anwar.

In its becoming, in being “a world”, poetry cannot but attend as well as engage the revealed and the obscure, the sacred and the profane, the sinful and the pious, truth and un-truth. All are a constellation of surprises. There is no way I can apprehend and forge them into an identifiable entity under my control.

Hence a poem in its becoming is a witness, that there is a site where I fail, you fail, even the Book of the Father fails. It is a site where freedom begins as a gift and ends as a demand.

Thank you.

After ’98: Censorship, compromises and resistance

October 2015 was a busy and controversial month for Indonesian literature dealing with the history of the 1965–66 mass killings in Indonesia. First, there was the Frankfurt Book Fair where Indonesia was the focus country then, two weeks after that, the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival (UWRF) was held in Bali. In Frankfurt, the Indonesian delegation, sponsored by the Ministry of Education and Culture, held discussions with writers who have written about the mass killings; in Ubud, UWRF planned to feature events on the same topic but cancelled them after receiving warnings from the local police.

Police interference with UWRF’s program was the latest sign of paranoia about 1965-related events. In February, civilian groups working with the police disbanded a discussion with the victims of 1965 violence in Bukittinggi. In March, before a screening of Joshua Oppenheimer’s film, The Look of Silence, a crowd attacked the Sunan Kalijaga State Islamic University in Yogyakarta. Students and the police protected the campus, and the film was screened as planned. Two weeks before UWRF, under pressure from Salatiga police, the Satya Wacana Christian University banned and burned its student publication, Lentera, after its latest issue highlighted human rights violations in 1965. How to address, recognise and reconcile the trauma of 1965 remains extremely polarising in Indonesia.