Theatre of life

Inside Indonesia

A new generation of Indonesian theatre activists is staging performances based on the everyday experiences of local communities

Andy SW and Muhammad Abe





Scene from the play je.ja.l.an by theatre group Garasi.
Mohamad Amin


On 29 November 2009, a group of young performers from the central Javanese cities of Solo, Semarang and Yogyakarta met in the rehearsal space of the Bengkel Mime theatre in Yogyakarta. The gathering was small, but the issue was a challenging and important one: how to form a support network for small, independent theatre groups like themselves. Groups like those represented at the meeting share a commitment to socially relevant and artistically innovative theatrical performance; they also face the same problems in finding sources of funding and spaces to rehearse and perform. They were keen to hear about each other's experiences, to get fresh ideas and develop joint strategies.

One of those attending the Yogyakarta meeting was Afrizal Malna, a well-known theatre critic and poet. Not long after the event, Afrizal published a report in the national daily Kompas entitled 'A Meeting: Theatre of Death'. The report acknowledged the enthusiasm of the theatre groups represented at the gathering, but Afrizal claimed that in contemporary Indonesia theatre is dead, its life and energy taken over by performance art and new digital media. He cited the example of his friend, Boedi S. Otong, former director of the path-breaking 1990s theatre group Teater SAE. In recent years, Boedi has moved completely away from theatre to performance art. In Afrizal's view Indonesian theatre has lost the connection to society and ordinary people that it once had. He sees it as isolated from life, absorbed with technological innovation and consumerist values, a 'theatre of death'.

For those present at the meeting in Yogyakarta that night nothing could be further from the truth. Groups such as Roda Gila from Semarang, Teater EKS from Solo, and Seni Teku from Yogyakarta may be small, and their lack of any financial backing means they often perform in spaces like backyards and street stalls rather than theatre buildings. But this means they get to interact with ordinary people in everyday places, rather than just those who can afford to buy tickets and watch a performance in a hired venue.





Cool dude in Paper Moon puppet theatre's production On a Journey
Gemaliel W. Budiharga


Groups like this are proof that Indonesian theatre is very much alive. They consist of young actors who believe they can influence society, and they have something to say to people. For them, theatre is a struggle to establish a place for themselves and their work, and they want to link up with other theatre activists to work out ways to advance this struggle. But why do these young people need to establish a new network, to start up something new? What has happened to the theatre networks of previous years?
Indonesian theatre after 1998

The fall of Suharto's New Order affected every aspect of Indonesian life. In the theatre world, the hallmarks of the long period of New Order authoritarianism had been a shared mission of political criticism and resistance to state oppression. After that era ended, many groups who had grown up in these conditions lost their focus and energy. A few of them kept going, but many abandoned theatre altogether, feeling that their work had no meaning in the new cultural context of reformasi.

But the period after 1998 was also marked by the appearance of many new groups, led by a younger generation, who were not attached to any political movement or viewpoint. These younger generation theatre activists look for new, fresh idioms that come from Indonesian daily life, new urban values and reinterpretations of village traditions in the contemporary context. They are active in various cities and regions, including Lampung (Teater Satu), Jakarta (PM Toh and Teater Syahid), Bandung (Mainteater), Solo (Komunitas Wayang Suket and Sahita, and Yogyakarta (Teater Garasi, Teater Gardanalla and Papermoon Puppet Theatre).

The theatre groups that have grown up since 1998 are richly varied in their approach. There is no one dominant idea about theatre form; each group has its own artistic idiom. They are also open to influences from other media. Some work with practitioners of visual art, music or digital technology, engaging with the cultural context of today. They also use their performances as a means to create new alternative spaces to build Indonesian cultural movements outside the mainstream culture created and controlled by government or global industry.

Their performances deal with themes taken from modern Indonesian history, as they try to present more subtle and complex perspectives than the confrontation with the state that characterised activist Indonesian theatre in the past

Performances after 1998 also represent the efforts of some theatre groups to create new forms of awareness in society. Their work raises issues of identity, gender, capitalism and religion, and deal with themes taken from modern Indonesian history, as they try to present more subtle and complex perspectives than the confrontation with the state that characterised activist Indonesian theatre in the past.

The group Garasi stages complex, sophisticated multi-layered performances reflecting on major issues in contemporary Indonesian society. Their production Waktu Batu (Stone Time), for example, combined figures from ancient Javanese myth with contemporary images to suggest the ongoing, problematic heritage of Javanese cultural tradition; Je.ja.l.an (Streets) depicted the confusion and lack of shared direction of modern Indonesian life through colourful, chaotic, conflict-ridden encounters between people on Indonesian streets.

Other groups stage simpler shows with a local focus. Slamet Gundono's Komunitas Wayang Suket, for example, criticises the booming construction of shopping malls in the city of Solo. Slamet, a shadow puppeteer, staged a wayang performance in front of a mall; he invited children to play games with him as part of the performance, to show how the attractions of the mall have replaced children's traditional games and threaten local cultural values.

Papermoon Puppet theatre uses human-sized puppets rather than real actors as performers. Each moved by a single actor, these puppets can walk, speak, express sadness, happiness, laugh, or even cry. Once the group brought their puppets to a traditional morning market and held a performance there. They asked the audience to help create a story about an old husband and wife who keep on selling vegetables in the market. Ria, the Papermoon director, explained that the performance was aimed at entertaining the traditional market visitors and seeing their response to this kind of event. Ria was surprised that many people laughed and enjoyed the show, and tried to interact with the puppets.





Family threatened by wild dog developers in Mak! Ana Asu Mlebu Omah
Ana Franz Surya


Some other groups stage performances that connect in daring and innovative ways with their social context. Mak! Ana Asu Mlebu Omah (Mum! There's a Dog Coming into the House), a play written and directed by Andy SW about the real-life takeover of a Yogya neighbourhood by developers, was performed by local actors in the front yard of an old house in the very community where the events portrayed had taken place. Kintir (Drifted), written and directed by Ibed Suragana Yuga and performed by the group Seni Teku, mixes Javanese myth with modern everyday life. It depicts children deprived of their playground, who play on a dark and ghostly swamp until one of them falls and drifts away. His mother has already lost seven children in this way, like the goddess Gangga in a shadow puppet story from the Mahabharata epic, who gives up seven children to the river, then must farewell her last son, Bisma, as he leaves for the battle that will claim his life. The performance was staged in a village pendopo, an open pavilion traditionally used for shadow puppet performances, watched by an audience of villagers sitting around on mattresses.
A new theatre culture

All these groups are trying to build theatre culture in a contemporary context, creating their own language by writing new texts for their performances. More than their New Order predecessors, they are attuned to global cultural networks that are calling for openness and inclusiveness in social and political life as well as in performance art.

Far from being a 'theatre of death', as Afrizal suggested, they are breathing new life into Indonesian theatre and reconnecting it with the society from which it has evolved. The meeting last November did not solve their shared problems and challenges. But it did give rise to intensive debate on email discussion lists and plans for future meetings and joint performances.

Most importantly it strengthened their sense of participation in a dynamic and diverse new movement, their commitment to ongoing sharing of ideas and experiences, and their confidence that what they are doing is artistically exciting and socially worthwhile.

Andy SW (andysw80@yahoo.com) is the artistic director of Bengkel Mime Theatre.

Muhammad Abe (Muhammad.abe@gmail.com) is a theatre activist studying theatre at Gadjah Mada University.




Inside Indonesia 101: Jul-Sep 2010

Inside Indonesia - W.S.Rendra (1935-2009)

The peacock is no more

Barbara Hatley

Rendra (wearing white T-shirt) and other members of Bengkel Theatre in 1976 rehearsing outside Rendra’s home in the kampung of Ketanggungan, Yogyakarta, where Bengkel had its base Barbara Hatley

On Thursday 6 August W.S. Rendra, the renowned dramatist and poet, famed for his flamboyant, strutting ways as well as his huge literary talent and bold, anti-authoritarian political positions, passed away in Jakarta.

Rendra was a controversial figure, and opinions differed about some of his political and personal choices. But no-one who ever saw him perform in a play or read his poetry could doubt his amazing acting talent and magnetic personal charisma. No-one who knew the arts scene in Yogyakarta in the 1970s when his Bengkel theatre was active there could deny the centrality of his presence to the cultural life of the city. The impact of his model of theatre, politically-critical and closely tied to its social and cultural context, has been enormous, shaping the course of modern Indonesian theatre until today. His poetry too, from the early free-flowing ballads to the extended political reflections of later years, presented a distinctive and powerful voice that was influential for many.

Born in 1935 in Solo, from 1955 to the early 1960s Rendra attended Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta. In 1964 he was awarded a scholarship from the American Academy of Dramatic Art and spent three years studying in the USA. When he first returned to Indonesia in 1967 he performed to startled audiences abstract, non-linear, virtually wordless dramas, termed mini kata, Indonesian responses to the Western avant garde theatre of the time. Then he settled into the pattern of play writing and theatre production which was to become his trademark, an eclectic mix of regional cultural traditions with influences from foreign sources.

First there were Javanese-style adaptations of Western classics, then original plays in which settings and dramatic styles become more and more explicitly Javanese/Indonesian, and the references to corrupt powerholders and social injustice clearly locally-based. After 1974 a government ban put a stop to Bengkel’s performances in Yogyakarta, although their outdoor rehearsals for shows in other cities drew keen audiences. On two occasions when the prohibition was lifted, first in 1977 for a performance of Sekda (The Regional Secretary) and then again in 1978 for Kisah Perjuangan Suku Naga (The Struggle of the Naga Tribe), huge crowds of students and other youthful supporters roared with approval at each perceived jibe at state authority. Similar reactions from enthusiastic youthful crowds greeted Rendra’s readings of the poetry he was producing at this time, the savage portraits of greedy decadent leaders, confused, corrupted youth and suffering poor he called ’pamphlet poems’ sajak-sajak pamphlet. Rendra was giving voice to the shared sense of anger of young people who had vigorously supported the rise to power of the New Order but now felt betrayed by its corruption, repression and perceived lack of concern with social justice.

Huge crowds of students and other youthful supporters roared with approval at each perceived jibe at state authority

In mid-1978, after a bomb exploded during one his poetry readings at the Taman Ismail Marzuki Arts Centre in Jakarta., Rendra was arrested and imprisoned for several months on the grounds that his activities threatened public order. After his release he was banned from public performance for seven years. When he re-established his Bengkel theatre as Bengkel Teater Rendra, in Depok on the outskirts of Jakarta in 1985, it operated on different lines and in a very different social environment to the original Bengkel theatre in Yogya.

During the 1980s and 1990s Bengkel staged several large-scale performances and Rendra continued to hold dramatic, sell-out poetry readings. Over the last decade or so however, Bengkel Theatre has been more important for its support for other artists, providing a venue where young artists or smaller groups from the regions have been given the opportunity to perform their work. Rendra himself moved more into the role of grand old man of the literary world than the young iconoclast of earlier years. Yet it is the younger Rendra who will be remembered, the daring artist taking on Suharto and the military in his poems and plays, speaking out for a generation who felt silenced by their social and political circumstances.

His passing, along with that of Pramudya Ananta Toer three years ago, a completely different kind of artist but similarly larger than life, feels like the end of an era in both modern Indonesian culture and wider Indonesian history. During the long years of the New Order regime, Rendra kept up a spirit of cultural and political resistance that inspired a generation. For that alone he is assured of the honour and gratitude of those who come after him. ii

Barbara Hatley (Barbara.Hatley@utas.edu.au) is Professor Emeritus in the School of Asian Languages and Studies at the University of Tasmania, and author of Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage (NUS Press 2008).

See also an interview article Rendra speaks [Inside Indonesia 86: Apr-Jun 2006] by Susan Piper from when he toured Australia in 2005.

Inside Indonesia 97: Jul-Sep 2009

The Aceh Party

Blair Palmer

Victory for the Aceh Party, but will it sink or swim? Adrian Morel

April’s legislative elections may have seemed like business as usual in most of Indonesia, but in Aceh the poll was preceded by mysterious murders, widespread intimidation, and a series of arson attacks against party offices. There was also intense concern, both in Aceh and in Jakarta, about what the results would mean for Aceh’s peace process. In the end, although the shortcomings were many, widespread violence did not break out, there were no major disruptions on polling day, and the results mean that peace is likely to continue at least into the medium term.

The elections were an important part of the peace process which had put an end to a three-decade conflict between GAM (the Free Aceh Movement) and the Indonesian government. The Helsinki Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) of August 2005 stipulated that local parties could be formed in Aceh to contest these elections, unlike in other parts of the country where only parties showing they have a broad nationwide presence are allowed to run. Former GAM members formed the ‘Aceh Party’ (Partai Aceh, or PA), and five other local parties were formed, to contest parliament seats at the district and provincial levels (but not seats in the national parliament, which were still reserved for national parties). The opportunity for GAM members to compete for political power without having to work through the national political parties was a vital part of the peace deal, since without this avenue to access power in Aceh GAM may have been unwilling to give up demands for independence.

The 2009 elections were actually the second stage of political inclusion of former combatants. The MoU had also mandated that independent candidates could contest local elections (for district heads and governor) held in Aceh in 2006 and 2007. Former GAM members or nominees won as governor and as district head in ten of 21 of Aceh’s districts. After these victories, it was widely anticipated that the Aceh Party would do well in 2009. The main other contender among the local parties was believed to be SIRA, the party of the deputy governor, which had a following particularly amongst post-1998 activists in the Aceh student movement.

Violence and intimidation

However, the lead-up to the 2009 elections was marred by heightened tensions and violence, and there was widespread intimidation during the campaign period. A number of party offices throughout the province became the target of arson, grenade attacks, and drive-by shootings, causing no fatalities but raising political tensions dramatically. The Aceh Party was the most frequent target. From September 2008 until April 2009 there were 32 such attacks, with 27 targeting Aceh Party offices, four targeting the offices of other local parties, and only one targeting the office of a national party.

five mysterious murders of people associated with the Aceh Party or the KPA

There were also five mysterious murders of people associated with the Aceh Party or the KPA (the Aceh Transitional Committee), an organisation representing former GAM members. These murders were not solved quickly, and although some seem to have been related to economic competition rather than political grudges, they heightened tensions and augmented the image that cadres and supporters of the Aceh Party were oppressed.

Once the period of active campaigning began in March 2009, various forms of intimidation put pressure on both campaigners and voters. Many parties reported feeling ‘not brave enough’ to campaign in regions where GAM was traditionally strong, such as along the east coast. Party representatives explained that people tore down all non-PA posters and banners as soon as campaigners left PA base areas, and that they could not hope to get many votes in such places anyway as most of the people were loyal to PA. Those who were not, they said, were subject to intimidation by PA cadres warning them not to listen to other parties. Although all parties were assigned dates and locations to hold open rallies, in such PA-dominated areas very few parties used these rights. One election official described this situation by saying that in his district, ‘there was no democracy at all’.

In parts of the province where GAM had not been strong during the conflict period, it was PA supporters who felt intimidated. There were some reports of bureaucrats and military figures advising citizens to stay away from local parties. In the central highlands district of Bener Meriah, an event was held in February to remember victims of the ‘GAM separatist conflict’. According to a member of the SIRA party, the district head had spoken at the event, reminding locals not to vote for local parties as they were all GAM people. Flyers also circulated containing slogans meant to denigrate local parties, such as that Hasan Tiro (the supreme leader of GAM) had a Jewish wife and that he would sell all of Aceh’s natural resources to foreigners if PA won.

The five other local parties were caught in the middle, intimidated by both PA supporters who viewed PA as the only valid local party and by Indonesian nationalists who viewed all local parties as traitorous. In some locations PA supporters campaigned by spreading the word that PA was the only party that had signed the Helsinki MoU, and other local parties were therefore incapable of continuing the peace process and were stooges of Jakarta. From the other side, rumours circulated that all local parties would push for independence if elected, and that this would lead to a resumption of conflict. Several officials from a local party based on the east coast reported receiving three to four death threats per day by text message throughout the campaign period. They shared the opinion that there was no democracy in this election.

Results

Election day passed with relatively few reported incidents. However there were allegations that order and security at voting booths was poor in some areas. In areas with strong PA support it was claimed that PA supporters gathered near the booths and pressured voters, and that many polling booth officials were loyal PA supporters. In areas with low levels of support for GAM in the past, it was local parties which claimed there was intimidation towards their supporters at the booths.

‘there was no democracy at all here’

The results were counted behind schedule, and many allegations of fraud in the counting process emerged, although most were small scale. Results at the provincial and district levels showed a clear victory for the Aceh Party, which won 33 of 69 seats in Aceh’s provincial parliament, plus a majority of seats in seven of Aceh’s district parliaments (of which there are now 23 due to administrative changes since 2006). In another nine districts, PA got between 20 per cent and 36 per cent of seats, a minority but more than any other party got. The remaining seven districts were very fractured, won by national parties (PD and Golkar) but with seats split between many parties.

Aside from PA, the big winner in Aceh was Partai Demokrat (PD), the party of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. PD won seven of the 13 Aceh seats in the national parliament, but also did well at the provincial and district levels, taking second place behind PA at provincial level and coming first or second in many districts.

These results show strong support for the peace process. PD got votes in areas where it did not campaign at all, with many voters seemingly voting for PD as a show of their appreciation for the peace process organised under the president’s direction. Even though presidential candidate Jusuf Kalla was also instrumental in achieving peace in Aceh, his Golkar party did not receive a windfall of support as did PD, perhaps because of ongoing distrust towards the party which was in power during many of the conflict years. While the success of the Aceh Party clearly shows this party enjoys wide support, from interviews in the field it appears that some voted for PA not because they had supported GAM’s struggle for independence in the past but more in the hopes that a PA victory was the best method of securing the peace for the future.

Local parties other than PA did not fare well. PDA (the Aceh Sovereignty Party) was the only local party other than PA to get into the provincial parliament, with a single seat. At the district level, local parties other than PA obtained far fewer seats than they had hoped. Of the total 645 seats in the 23 district parliaments, PDA got 11 seats, SIRA got seven, PBA (the Aceh Unity Party) got four, PRA (the Aceh People's Party) got two, and PAAS (the Prosperous and Safe Aceh Party) did not get any. Election regulations stipulate that local parties must get at least five per cent of seats in the provincial parliament, or five per cent of seats in half of the district parliaments, in order to be able to contest the 2014 elections. Of the six local parties, only PA exceeded this threshold, and thus the other five will not be involved in the next elections.

Female candidates did not fare well in this election in Aceh. While many women were recruited in order to meet the stipulated 30 per cent quota for each party, the majority of these candidates did not earn enough individual votes to be elected. This was related to several factors. Some of these female candidates were inexperienced politicians recruited merely to achieve the quota, and did not campaign actively. Additionally, many voters in Aceh still see men as more appropriate for leadership roles. As one male official from a (non-Islamic) national party told me: ‘the world was created for men, women cannot be leaders…women cannot think rationally for one week per month, so how could they make decisions?’

PA and PD, the two big winners, stood out amongst the other parties in that their supporters tended to vote for the party in general, not for a particular candidate. Votes for other parties tended to be cast for particular candidates rather than for the party. This is related to campaigning styles. PA deliberately emphasised party solidarity, with candidates campaigning together. Candidates of other parties usually campaigned individually and competed with each other for seats. Also, PA candidates generally lacked private wealth with which they could run individual campaigns. PD probably received mostly party votes because in many cases voters were not swayed by a particular PD candidate, but rather wanted to make a general statement of support for SBY’s role in achieving peace in Aceh.

Conflict resolution?

The election suffered from many failings, including intimidation, lack of freedom to campaign, mysterious violence, and allegations of fraud. Yet as a post-conflict election, it was not a failure. It does not seem that the final tally massively misrepresents the will of the people, and PA’s success in this election means that large-scale conflict is very unlikely to resume in the short to medium term. Former GAM supporters now have the chance to pursue their goals through the extensive power they wield in the executive and legislative branches of local government.

Several officials from a local party based on the east coast reported receiving three to four death threats per day by text message

However, challenges remain. The transition from a military movement to a political one with democratic processes reaching down to grassroots level has not yet been completed. Some PA members may have difficulty in adjusting to the challenges of legislative work, and tensions may rise if PA legislators find their policy goals thwarted by administrative procedures or by opposition within parliament.

Will the new PA legislators manage to change the way local parliaments are run, using their pro-poor stance to reduce corruption and incompetence, or will they eventually operate just like the political elites they have long criticised? Those former GAM members who won executive positions a few years ago are facing challenges of their own, with several district heads being investigated for corruption.

One of PA’s main policy goals is to struggle for full implementation of the Helsinki MoU, which they say was watered down in the Law on Governing Aceh of 2006. Their struggle to revise old laws and to produce new ones in order to do this is likely to cause significant tensions between the Aceh parliament and the national parliament, and also within the Aceh parliament itself. If these tensions can be dealt with through democratic process with good will from all sides, then democracy in Aceh will have played its role in establishing peace. ii

Blair Palmer (blair.palmer@anu.edu.au) is a PhD candidate in Anthropology at the Australian National University, and conducted research on conflict and elections in Aceh for a study being conducted jointly by the World Bank’s Conflict and Development Program and Syiah Kuala University’s Center for Peace and Conflict Resolution Studies. The views in this article are those of the author rather than of the institutions conducting the study.

Inside Indonesia 97: Jul-Sep 2009

The Eagle Has Crash-landed

Despite an unprecedented media campaign, Prabowo Subianto’s political comeback has fallen flat – for now

Dirk Tomsa

‘Beware! Killers surround us! We remember those who were abducted and killed. We do not forget, we do not forgive.’ An image popular among Indonesian users of Facebook

Ten years ago it seemed as if Prabowo Subianto’s political career was over before it had really begun. During the twilight days of the New Order, the former commander of the notorious special forces unit Kopassus had lost a power struggle against his arch-rival Wiranto and was subsequently dismissed from the military. Accused of involvement in the abduction of student activists and the instigation of the anti-Chinese riots in Jakarta in May 1998, the former son-in-law of ousted president Suharto considered it safer to leave the country and go into temporary hiding. In self-imposed exile in Jordan he turned his attention to business, making a fortune on the international oil and gas market and through a number of high-stake deals aided by his billionaire brother, business tycoon Hashim Djojohadikusumo.

In the meantime, Prabowo’s arch-rival from his days in the army, Wiranto, enjoyed a brief moment in the sun. Having outmaneuvered Prabowo during the turbulent days of the transition, the former adjutant of Suharto was instrumental in helping Abdurrahman Wahid to an unexpected stint at the presidency in 1999. But to Wiranto’s disappointment, his support for Wahid did not bring the desired recompense. Instead of being rewarded with the vice-presidency, he had to make do with a ministerial post. Shortly afterwards, Wahid added insult to injury when he sacked Wiranto from the cabinet. Thus, merely two years after the fall of Suharto it seemed, for a short time at least, as if there was no place for either Wiranto or Prabowo in Indonesia’s new democracy.

Two years after the fall of Suharto it seemed there was no place for either Wiranto or Prabowo in Indonesia’s new democracy

It did not take long for the two to attempt political comebacks. In 2004, Wiranto and Prabowo were both candidates in Golkar’s national convention to select a presidential candidate. Wiranto in particular invested huge amounts of money at the convention in order to secure a place in Indonesia’s first-ever direct presidential election. In the end the former commander-in-chief of the armed forces did manage to win the convention, but he failed to make it all the way to the palace, finishing third in the presidential poll. Undeterred by the defeat, Wiranto then moved on to found his own party (Hanura) and soon began preparing for the next elections in 2009.

His old foe Prabowo, meanwhile, was not just sitting idly by. In fact, it seemed as if defeat at the Golkar convention had only whetted his appetite for politics. Watching Wiranto’s activities carefully, Prabowo too began to get ready for the next elections. In contrast to his half-hearted campaign in 2004, however, this time he meant business. Assisted by a high-profile media consultancy firm from the United States, Prabowo crafted an elaborate strategy which he hoped would eventually elevate him to the highest office. The strategy consisted of three main pillars: first, mobilisation of support for his bid; second, enhancing name recognition for his organisational vehicle; and third, finding a niche in the political spectrum that he could use to distinguish himself from other candidates.

Finding the right vehicle

Prabowo’s first step was to assume control over one of Indonesia’s biggest mass organisations, the national farmers’ association HKTI (Himpunan Kerukunan Tani Indonesia). Created during the New Order as a corporatist tool for Suharto to monitor Indonesia’s millions of peasants, this organisation had descended into political oblivion after 1998, but its vague affiliation with the rural masses made it an ideal vehicle for Prabowo because it provided him with an opportunity to begin his image-building campaign by presenting himself as a champion of the poor. In December 2004 he was elected HKTI chairman with 309 out of 325 votes – never mind that he was not even a member of the association at that time.

The HKTI position provided Prabowo with valuable access to an organisational base, but with a view to the 2009 elections he needed more than the chairmanship of a mass organisation. Indonesia’s electoral rules dictate that only candidates who are nominated by political parties are allowed to contest a presidential election, so in order to avoid dependence on the goodwill of an already existing party, he decided to emulate what various other retired generals had done before him: he created a new party of his own. And so Gerindra (Movement for a Great Indonesia) was born, a party with a fierce-looking Garuda eagle on its logo (the Garuda is the centrepiece of Indonesia’s national coat of arms). From the day of its formation in February 2008, Gerindra dedicated itself almost exclusively to promoting the presidential ambitions of Prabowo Subianto.

At first sight, Gerindra appeared to be not much different from the various other parties that had been established by retired generals in recent years. Just like Edi Sudradjat’s PKPI, Hartono’s PKPB and more recently Wiranto’s Hanura, Gerindra too seemed to stand for little more than conservative nationalism imbued with a touch of New Order nostalgia. And yet, many observers were much more concerned about Gerindra than the other parties formed by retired officers. A closer look at the composition of its leadership board and its advisory council reveals why. Formally led by a largely unknown forestry professor called Suhardi, Gerindra provides a political home for a number of controversial former generals who continue to be dogged by persistent allegations of gross human rights violations. Amongst the most prominent are Gleny Kairupan, a former intelligence officer with a dubious track record in East Timor, Muchdi Purwopranyoto, who despite his exoneration by a Jakarta court is widely believed to have masterminded the murder of human rights activist Munir in September 2004, and of course Prabowo himself, whose list of alleged crimes includes abduction, torture, and instigation of large-scale anti-Chinese riots. For this reason, Gerindra and Prabowo caused particular alarm among human rights advocates, many of whom protested openly against his presidential campaign this year.

In order to dispel this image, Prabowo pursued an ingenious plan. To the disbelief of those human rights activists who now opposed his candidature, Prabowo approached some of his former victims and persuaded them to join his party. Why exactly former student activists like Desmond Mahesa or Pius Lustrilanang, and Haryanto Taslam, a former leader of Megawati Soekarnoputri’s PDI-P, all three of whom were kidnapped by Prabowo’s troops in 1998, agreed to support the presidential ambitions of their former tormentor has been the subject of much speculation. Some observers have argued that they were simply bought off while others claim they may suffer from Stockholm syndrome (a psychological condition in which victims of abductions become emotionally attached to their hostage-taker). The three men themselves have rejected all such speculation and simply maintained that after Prabowo had apologised to them, it was time to move on.

An unprecedented media campaign

For Prabowo, people like Haryano, Desmond and Pius represented important human capital that could be used in his bid for the presidency. But the real weapon in Prabowo Subianto’s struggle to polish his image was an unprecedented media offensive which in mid-2008 ushered in the second phase of his presidential campaign. While other parties were still in the planning stage, Prabowo began to inundate the Indonesian public with an unparalleled bombardment of political advertisements.

Buoyed by a self-confidence bordering on hubris, Prabowo used these advertisements to liken himself to statesmen ranging from Napoleon and Sukarno to Barack Obama

Buoyed by a self-confidence bordering on hubris, Prabowo used these advertisements to liken himself to an array of past and present statesmen, ranging from Napoleon and Sukarno to Barack Obama. All television advertisements featured the majestic Garuda eagle and consistently highlighted the alleged failure of post-Suharto administrations to realise Indonesia’s huge economic potential. To fund this media onslaught, the soldier-cum-businessman-cum-politician had to dig deep into his pockets (and those of his brother Hashim). According to a Gerindra official, the media campaign alone cost about US$100 million, leaving plenty of room for speculation about just how much more was spent on other campaign activities.

Throughout his media offensive, Prabowo portrayed himself as the only presidential contender capable of liberating Indonesia from the yoke of rural poverty, unemployment and foreign debt. So far, so predictable. What very few observers had predicted, however, was the solution Prabowo proposed for the country’s alleged malaise. Driven by the need to distinguish himself from his rivals, the man who owed his fortune largely to strategic maneuvers on global financial markets and to his connections to some of Indonesia’s most powerful elite families campaigned on a quasi-socialist platform, criticising the government’s privatisation agenda and proposing revisions of existing contracts with foreign companies such as Freeport and Exxon. Given Prabowo’s background, this may sound cynical, but the ‘anti-neoliberal’ label helped him to stand out from his rivals. And in view of the electoral success of other big-spending leftist populists like Hugo Chavez or perhaps Thaksin Shinawatra the strategy made sense, especially in times of a global financial crisis.

Was it all in vain?

So why did it not work? Even though Prabowo had implemented his campaign strategy meticulously from the start, Gerindra got less than five per cent of the vote (Wiranto’s Hanura party fared even worse, achieving only about three per cent). A number of reasons probably account for this poor result, including persistent discomfort amongst many Indonesians about Prabowo’s hardline image and his human rights record, as well as widespread apprehension about his links to the Suharto family. Taken together, these factors apparently provided a substantial deterrent for many voters. Arguably the most important reason, however, is that despite the global financial crisis the overall socio-economic conditions in Indonesia were simply not ripe for the emergence of a populist saviour.

The man who owed his fortune to strategic global financial markets and connections to some of Indonesia’s most powerful elite families campaigned on a quasi-socialist platform

Thanks largely to the government’s three-phase ‘direct cash assistance’ (BLT) program, many poorer Indonesians appear to be quite satisfied with President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s performance. Significantly, the third phase of the BLT program was implemented in late March 2009, which meant that merely two weeks before the election more than 18 million poor families received yet another government-sponsored cash injection of Rp 100,000 per month, to be distributed over a period of two months. In view of these measures taken by the incumbent president, it is hardly surprising that few of the millions of farmers and fisherfolk targeted by Prabowo saw a need for a radical overhaul of the economic system. Moreover, even those who may actually have seen this need were apparently reluctant to believe that the person to implement it would be, of all people, Prabowo Subianto, who, to put it lightly, is hardly famous for his philanthropy.

Another important reason for Prabowo’s failure to push Gerindra to a better result was that his campaign was essentially regressive. Despite the professional outlook of the advertisements, Gerindra appeared to be preoccupied primarily with romanticising the past rather than outlining the future. This nostalgia was epitomised in a statement by Gerindra’s deputy chairman Fadli Zon who maintained that Gerindra ‘would like to rebuild Indonesia just like how it was in the past when people gained prosperity from agriculture and fishing’. Clearly, the election result showed that very few Indonesians share this desire to go back in time. Thus, it could be argued that Prabowo may have revolutionised the style of political advertising in Indonesia, but he failed to match his impressive style with a convincing message.

So Prabowo will not become Indonesia’s next president, and neither will Wiranto. Does that mean that at long last there really is no place for these two in Indonesia’s democracy? Not quite. Despite the clear verdict at the ballot box and poor approval ratings in most opinion polls, both Prabowo and Wiranto are running as vice-presidential candidates for Megawati and Jusuf Kalla respectively. This may look like a consolation prize only, but it will ensure that the two will continue to have a place in the system for years to come. And don’t be surprised if they run for president again in 2014. ii

Dirk Tomsa (Dirk.Tomsa@utas.edu.au) is a lecturer in Asian Studies at the University of Tasmania.

Inside Indonesia 97: Jul-Sep 2009

A Second Revolution?

Dangdut music continues to be a vital part of Indonesian popular culture

Sandra Bader

The Soneta Group performing at the launching of Sonet 2 Band Sandra Bader

The slogan ‘Dangdut Never Dies’, written in big letters, immediately leaped out at visitors entering the South Jakarta studio of TPI (Indonesian Education Television) on a Monday night in January this year. As they strolled through the building waiting for the event, they saw a number of famous dangdut legends hanging around, relaxing and chatting to each other. It appeared as if a big reunion of veteran dangdut stars of the 70s and 80s was taking place.

In fact, these celebrities were uniting to support and promote a new star in the dangdut community. They had gathered to celebrate the launching of Ridho Rhoma and his Sonet 2 Band. With this launch, Ridho is following in the footsteps of his famed father, Rhoma Irama, known as the ‘king of dangdut’. Through the Sonet 2 Band, Rhoma and Ridho are aspiring to breathe new life into the dangdut scene which has, according to them, run aground.

The king of dangdut

‘I am the founder of dangdut.’ This was the first thing Rhoma said to me when I interviewed him, before he set off on a narrative adventure that began just after the dreadful anti-communist massacres of 1965-66. It was around that same time that Rhoma Irama, a young musician, made his creative debut. Inspired by western rock music and the Malay sounds of the Orkes Melayu, Rhoma experimented by fusing Malay music with elements from rock, Indian and Arabic music. His new, energetic style invigorated the Malay music with fluid and dynamic rhythms and with this innovation he invented the distinctive genre now known as dangdut.

‘I am the founder of Dangdut.’ This was the first thing Rhoma said to me

With his Soneta Group and co-performer Elvy Sukaesih, Rhoma became the most widely recognised contemporary Indonesian musician and was crowned king of dangdut. ‘I created a musical revolution by transforming the Orkes Melayu into dangdut.’ Rhoma explained.

This new rhythm, with its lyrics dealing with the burdens of everyday life and love but touching also on social criticism and class discrimination, became immensely popular throughout Indonesia. Dangdut’s egalitarian character was an especially crucial factor in its popularity, for the music cut across class lines, appealing to the sensibilities of Indonesians of all sorts and most importantly, demonstrating sympathy with the life-worlds of the lower classes.

However, this sympathy with ordinary Indonesians devalued the music in the eyes of the upper classes, for whom it represented the culture of the village (kampungan). Moreover, dangdut’s development towards sensual and sometimes erotic dance movements has prompted some Indonesians to connect it not only with ignorance and a lack of sophistication but also with tasteless sexual displays.

A second revolution

Rhoma and Ridho duetting Sandra Bader

In conversation about the development of dangdut music, Rhoma clearly expressed his dissatisfaction with the music’s evolution over the last few decades. Bewailing its current association with sensual and erotic dance movements, he insisted that there is only one way to dance (goyang or joget) to dangdut. Showing considerable pique, he jumped to his feet to demonstrate what ‘proper’ joget should look like. According to Rhoma, the new erotic dance style is one of the reasons for the ostensible decline in dangdut’s popularity. He remarked, ‘Since dangdut became eroticised the Indonesian people have begun to feel annoyed. Anybody who sees dangdut on TV will turn it off right away.’

Consequently, his burning ambition is to ‘safeguard’ dangdut from obliteration. He envisages a second revolution of dangdut music, to be achieved by encouraging and endorsing his son’s Sonet 2 Band. His objective is to take a stand against dangdut performers such as Inul Daratista and her characteristic ‘drill dance’ (goyang ngebor) which became extremely popular in 2003.

Dangdut’s development towards sensual and sometimes erotic dance movements has prompted some Indonesians to connect it not only with ignorance and a lack of sophistication but also with tasteless sexual displays

Inul’s dance style led to a massive controversy about the nation’s ‘moral health’. Indonesia’s senior Islamic clerics, the MUI (Council of Ulama), described her dancing as pornographic. The MUI regarded her appearance as a threat to morality and perceived the social stability of Indonesian society to be at risk. As a result, the MUI issued a legal opinion (fatwa) against her and she was banned from performing in several regions of Indonesia. Inul’s body became politicised, in the process bringing a number of important issues about Indonesia’s politics, culture and moral values to the surface.

Is dangdut disappearing?

A number of newspapers and magazines have recently published articles arguing that by and large, dangdut is disappearing, an interpretation which seems to affirm Rhoma’s impression that the music is currently in decline in Indonesia. This concern might appear to have substance if one observes the programs currently screening on Indonesian TV stations. For a long period, almost every station broadcasted dangdut programs as they jumped on the bandwagon created by Inulmania. ‘Indonesians love sensations.’ explained TPI’s production manager and Inul was certainly a sensation, becoming a star overnight with her trademark dance.

But then other ‘Inuls’ sprang up, like Dewi Persik with her ‘saw dance’ (goyang gergaji) and Annisa Bahar with her ‘broken dance’ (goyang patah-patah). After a while, the product became mundane and several TV stations, especially those with middle and upper class target audiences, turned away to search for new crowd-pleasers. As a result, only a few TV stations are currently airing dangdut shows.

Nonetheless, dangdut is still the genre in Indonesia’s popular music scene. It has the highest turnover of music recordings, albeit mostly pirated. More than two thirds of all dangdut recordings are reproduced illegally, causing financial difficulties for recording companies who have consequently refrained from producing new recordings. Very few new albums have been released lately, partly as a result of this persistent pirating of CDs, VCDs and DVDs. Dangdut also has to compete fiercely with the current surge of Indonesian pop music.

Sonet 2 – a second revolution?

Sonet 2 Band performing at the Trans7 studio Sandra Bader

Rhoma and Ridho and the five members of Sonet 2 Band are determined to counteract these recent developments, which appear to have left dangdut withering on the vine. For one thing, they are eager to improve what they regard as dangdut’s ‘seedy’ reputation. Apart from that, they aspire to achieve popularity on par with famous Indonesian pop and rock bands such as Slank, Dewa, Peterpan and others. They have been working hard towards this goal. They perform often and at diverse events, have released their first album and produced their first videoclip. Their album, called Menunggu, features 10 songs selected from Rhoma’s ample repertoire. The Sonet 2 Band has modified these songs by adding a dominant pop-drum beat in place of the beat of the tabla (an Indian percussion instrument) and the new guitar parts have given some of the songs a subtle rock strain. They have already attracted quite a following and if all goes well they will not be just another sensation but could succeed in opening a new chapter for dangdut. ii

Sandra Bader is a PhD student in Anthropology at Monash University researching dangdut music in Indonesia.

Inside Indonesia 96: Apr-Jun 2009