Nh. Dini

Several weeks ago I attended a sort-of promotion book of ARGENTEUIL by one senior writer in Indonesia, NH Dini at RUMAH SENI Semarang located at Kampung Jambe number 280. NH Dini herself as the main speaker, with Adhyanggono from Unika Soegijapranata as the moderator. NH Dini called ARGENTEUIL her autobiography which she wrote in the form of novel.

The first thing attracted my attention was when Dini said she has made herself accustomed to writing anything daily since she was very young in one special book she labeled ‘a red book’—because the cover of the book is red. The way she wrote in the red book was not like writing in diary—at least my way in writing diary --because she often used kinds of symbols recognized by herself only. From this ‘red book’ she improved her notes into many novels.

I asked whether she continued writing in her ‘red book’ after getting married. The background of my question was in the patriarchal culture—at least what I learned when I was a teenager from articles I read in magazines/books/newspapers—people believed that after getting married man and woman became one, each was the soul mate for the other. Therefore, women were not supposed to ‘confide in’ anybody else—including in their dead diary, the reflection of their own self—but to their husbands (I call ‘living diary’) that could be considered as the substitute of the dead diary. Husband and wife were supposed to be open to each other, no secrets between them. Dini said she continued writing in her diary—still using her secret symbols. Her husband let her do that and she was not ‘beaten’ by the so-called culture that I illustrated previously so that she didn’t teach her husband how to read the symbols. In other words it can be said that Dini kept doing her hobby and her husband let her have secrets. One moral lesson I was supposed to learn when I was in teenager—it was not sinful to keep something secretly from your husband—so that I wouldn’t have been beaten by the culture. Consequently, I would have had one most loyal friend, my ‘dead’ diary, when I was ‘buried’ under my sorrow because I couldn’t tell a human being. As a result, I wouldn’t have needed to be so depressed.

This is one thing I admire from NH Dini: as a Javanese woman who was born in the patriarchal Javanese culture, she already had a very progressive way of thinking. I believe this had happened before she moved to western countries to follow her husband where of course she was somewhat westernized.

The second thing I noted down from the discussion was when Dini said her two novels—PADA SEBUAH KAPAL and LA BARKA—were forbidden to be in the library of some schools in Jakarta in 1970s. The reason was because the two novels illustrated many inappropriate scenes. Surprisingly when she went to Indonesia to visit her mother in that decade, she was invited by Pondok Pabelan to give a talk about her writing career, and she found the two novels in the library there. She was questioning if some public schools in Jakarta—usually considered more receptive to anything since it was the metropolis city—forbade the students to read the novels, why Pabelan, the Islamic school, provided the novels in the library. It means Pabelan let the students read them.

When Dini asked one teacher there, the teacher explained, “We tell the students that these ‘inappropriate scenes’ are a part of western culture. We as eastern people are not to imitate what they are doing.”

This reminded me of what Ayu Utami said about her novel SAMAN. Ayu wanted to offer a new way of thinking to view women’s bodies. Women must listen to their own bodies, and not just listen to what patriarchal society demands from women. I also remember what Dewi Lestari said when she promoted FILOSOFI KOPI in Semarang around two years ago. When someone asked her converting to Buddhist, Dee explained “For someone who is going to sink in a wide sea, she/he will consider islands she/he sees the same. In Indonesia, the government (un)fortunately only gives six choices: Islam, Christian, Catholic, Hindu, Buddhism, and Confucianism. Luckily, the ‘island’ closest to where Dee was about to sink was Buddhism.” In her SUPERNOVA series, Dee illustrated her spiritual experience, to share with her readers. I could draw one similar conclusion between Ayu and Dee; that was to give a new paradigm.

This inspired me to ask Dini about her motivation to write her novels, especially the two novels I mentioned above. To my surprise (or disappointment), she said, “I didn’t have such a motivation when writing the two novels. I just wrote my experience.”

“What kind of moral lesson did you expect to convey to your readers?” I continued asking.

“Well, I just wanted people to know that this kind of experience happened, especially in an intermarriage involving one Indonesian and a westerner.”

Furthermore, when someone asked her why she wrote, Dini gave four reasons:

First, she realized that she had a talent in writing, so she improved that gift.

Second, her mother knowing that she had a talent in writing asked her to write books. It means Dini wanted to make her mother happy.

Third, she could earn her own money by doing her hobby.

Fourth, she got satisfaction when knowing that other people enjoyed reading her books.

And I was not supposed to expect ‘deeper’ and more critical reasons just like the contemporary writers.

PT56 12.40 060408
cited from: http://afemaleguest.blog.co.uk/

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From bottle poet to sufism

Sutardji Calzoum Bachri: From bottle poet to sufism

"I am not `Malin Kundang' like Goenawan Mohamad is. I am not the `Man of the Frontier' like Sitor Situmorang. I am not the `Heir of the World's Culture' like Chairil Anwar was. I just bequeath and the world transliterates," said Sutardji Calzoum Bachri in one quick spurt of words while delivering his Cultural Oration during the Jakarta Academy Awards Ceremony on Dec.10, 2007.

With those words he affirmed his position as one of the links in Indonesia's historic chain of poetry, which as a mode of cultural communication arts introduces signals to itself and to each poet of the passing generations and eras; it is his sensitivity to these signals that has distinguished Sutardji Calzoum Bachri from other poets.

Sutardji's relationship with the art of poetry was revealed in his intimate, almost confessional oration.

He said of his working process, "I write on a piece of paper that already bears text. I write upon those texts; the mantras that are the cultural manifestation of the subculture with which I am best acquainted, namely the culture of Riau."

As artists and creative souls often do, when Sutardji delivered his oration, he deviated from the precisely set out text that he was holding in his hands. He let his mind wander, once again, creatively -- his talent emerging, and inspiration flowing and filling his oration with confessions and observations, replete with energetic interlacing expressions of thoughts about the art of poetry, human character, cultural roots, the history of the nation, and the oaths of youths.

"In creating history, poetry has its own unique role. On one hand, poetry is the fruit of history. On the other, poetry becomes the seeds for history. One of the bitterest fruits forced down the craw of the Dutch colonialists was to us a sweet, big fruit in the form of a piece of writing titled the Youths' Oath ... Like that of a poem, the content of the Youths' Oath is imagination.

"This Youths' Oath poem became the seed that grew into the history of the nation's struggle to attain its independence; rendering the imagination behind the words therein into reality."

Sutardji, who is most often called Tardji among his friends, is not only an authentic poet, but also an authentic intellect.

His way of reinterpreting the Youths' Oath (Sumpah Pemuda) is evidence of this.

The Melayu Stage Foundation (Yayasan Panggung Melayu) celebrated his birthday for one week in Taman Ismail Marzuki, July 13 - 19.

A thick book that documents the Working Papers of International Seminars and a number of essays concerning him, including writings from local and foreign writers, was published under the title The President of Poets, The King of Mantras (Raja Mantra Presiden Penyair).

"Apparently Sutardji is even bigger than Chairil Anwar," writes the editor Maman S. Mahayana.

The moniker "The President of Poets" was first uttered by Sutardji himself "in 1974, when he was really drunk," said a friend of his, painter Hidayat LPD.

Also present during the "self-baptism" were Sanento Yuliman, Jeihan, Wilson Nadeak, Jakob Soemardjo, Hamid Jabbar, and a number of other artists and friends.

It was already common among his colleagues to refer to him as "poet of booze" at that time. His performances then were always accompanied by a bottle.

Later, however, this "bottle poet" developed a strong urge to turn to Sufism when in 1989, with Mustafa Bisri and Taufiq Ismail, he was invited to the International Poet Conference in Baghdad, Iraq.

On that trip, he visited holy and historical places like Najjaf, Karballa, Kufa, the tomb of the king of Sufis Abdul Kadir Jaelani, and the Abu Nawas Garden. Sufism became the new direction of his works. He even went on the pilgrimage to Mecca.

According to Abdul Hadi WM, the Sufi spiritual tendency was actually visible in his early works, but was always hampered by the skepticism and nihilism that were also somehow strongly alluring to the poet.

During the Jakarta Academy Awards 2007 program, the title "The King of Mantras" was never heard. The term "The President of Poets" was also unheard. The Director of the Jakarta Academy, Taufik Abdullah, without mentioning the names of the award recipients, simply said, Jakarta Academy Awards are given to recipients with lifetime achievements, not merely monumental works."

Alfons Raryadi, one of this year's judges said regarding the basis of the choice of Sutardji Calzoum Bachri for the honor, "A long time ago Chairil Anwar coined the phrase "Three Unravel Destiny", and now "One Tarji Unravels Chairil'."

Leon Agusta
The Jakarta Post, Monday, December 24, 2007

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Chairil Anwar's poems

Read Chairil Anwar's poems, love your country

Gravestone

It's not death, no, that stabs my heart
But your willingness to go
Nor do I know how high
You are, now, supreme over dust, over sorrow

(Chairil Anwar, October 1942. Edited and translated by Burton Raffel)

Poetry and nationalism. These are things that are definitely not on our daily, weekly or even monthly to think about list.

We barely have time to ourselves, let alone time to read classical poems and ponder what we can do for our country. We usually read poems when we are in love and we often talk about nationalism when Independence Day approaches.

"If you look people today, they no longer have that passionate love for their country," said poet Taufiq Ismail after speaking at a seminar on the works of Indonesia's most esteemed poet, Charil Anwar, at the Habibie Center on Tuesday.

"They don't have that passion Chairil had when he wrote his poetry," he said.

Amid a presumably declining sense of nationalism and interest in poetry, students and people in general are encouraged to develop their spirit of nationalism by reading Chairil Anwar's poems.

"His poems contain universal values and can be read anywhere, any time," said playwright Ikra Negara, who annually recited Chairil's poems when living in the United Sates.

Chairil was born in Medan, North Sumatra, on June 26, 1922. He moved to Jakarta at the age of 19, soon after his parents got divorced. There, able to read English, Dutch and German, he fell in love with books and literature.

In 1942, his poems were published in several publications in the city -- most of them were about death.

"Literary critics always highlight his attitude, which was based on the spirit of freedom, as he tried to break the boundaries of 'isms' and conventions," said Maman S. Mahayana, a University of Indonesia literature academic.

"His belief in freedom as the most fundamental element in the creative process can be seen in his repulsion of the political policies of the Japanese colonial administration," he said.

However, Chairil's health was not as vivacious as his poetry. He died before he was 27 and produced only 74 poems.

Taufiq Ismail said six of his poems excite a strong sense of nationalism -- "Diponegoro", "1943", "Siap Sedia" (We're Ready), "Persetujuan dengan Soekarno" (Agreement with Soekarno), "Prajurit Jaga Malam" (A Sentry at Night) and "Krawang Bekasi".

How do we relate the poems to contemporary Indonesia?

"We have to find its spirit. Krawang Bekasi, for instance, is a poem about sacrifice, which is a timeless value. It is something we now lack. Look at our people. How many of us want to sacrifice ourselves for our country?" Taufiq asked.

Ikra Negara said, however, about 20 poems by Chairil, including his personal ones, could be reinterpreted in the light nationalism of today.

"Nisan is one poem that emanates the spirit of nationalism, although it was originally dedicated to his passing grandmother," he said.

He considered Chairil a poet who was skillful at "aesthetical distance". His poems, he said, were never blunt, enabling different interpretations if read over and over again.

"This is the power of Chairil's poems. Many poets do not leave enough distance between their works and their meaning. Their poems have now become irrelevant," he said.

Some of Chairil's poems were dedicated to the women he adored, while some others expressed a strong sense of individualism. He also lived a bohemian way of life, leaving his job at the Statistics Office to follow his calling as a poet.

"He was an individual, but he could never detach himself from the society in which he lived," Taufiq said.

Ary Hermawan
Cited from The Jakarta Post, Tuesday, April 22, 2008

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Muhammad Yamin

Muhammad Yamin

Indonesian writer and politician, member of the leftist Murba Party. Yamin became President Sukarno's principal 'myth-maker'. He started his career as a writer in the 1920s, when Indonesian poetry was marked by an intense and largely reflective romanticism.

Yamin was one of the pioneers of modern poetry in Indonesia. He was born in Sawah Lunto in West-Sumatra. Yamin started to write in Malaya in the Dutch-language journal Jong Sumatra in 1920. His first published collection of poems Tanah Air appeared in 1922. His early works were tied to the clichés used in Classical Malay.

Yamin studied law in Jakarta, graduating in 1932. Yamin worked in Jakarta until 1942 specializing in international law. Yamin's political career started early and he was an active participant in the nationalist movement. In 1928 the Second Congress of Indonesian Youth proclaimed Malay, since known as Indonesian (Bahasa Indonesia), the language of the Indonesian nationalist movement. Yamin made an initiative through the organization Indonesia Muda that Bahasa Indonesia be made the foundation of a national language. Today it is the republic's official language and the principal vehicle for innovative literary expression. Nevertheless attempts at writing modern literature have been made in most of Indonesian major regional languages.

During the Japanese occupation (1942-1945) Yamin worked for the Japanese-sponsored confederation of nationalist organizations, the Centre of People's Power (Putera). During and after the struggle for independence Yamin held important posts in the governmental administration. He died in Jakarta on October 17, 1962.

Yamin's first works appeared in the 1920s. He made much use of the sonnet form, borrowed from Dutch literature. At that time among the major writers was the national activist Abdoel Moeis (1898-1959), whose central theme involved the interaction of Indonesian and European value system. In 1936 Pandji Tisna's (1908-1978) Sukreni, gadis Bali was published, which remains possibly the most original work of pre-independence fiction, and deals with the destructive effect of contemporary commercial ethics on Balinese society. Distinctly innovative poetry began to appear in the 1910s. The European sonnet form was especially popular, but the influence of traditional verse forms remained strong. Although Yamin experimented with the language in his poetry, he upheld the classical norms more than the younger generation of writers. He published plays, essays, historical novels and poems, and translated works from such authors as Shakespeare (Julius Caesar) and Tagore.

Indonesian literature from the 1920s to the 1960s: The earliest Indonesian novels were published in the 1920s. Punjagga Baru (The New Writer) literary school, which was established in 1933, influenced greatly the development of Indonesian literature. Another movement, 45 Group, reflected the ideas of the independence struggle. Among its members was the poet Chairil Anwar, who died at the age of 27, but released the poetry from the bonds of traditional forms and literary language. Other important writers: Sanuse Pane, Idrus, Surwarsih Djojopuspito, Achdiat Karta Mihardja, Toha Mohtar, Mochtar Lubis (imprisoned by the Sukarno regime for four years), Pramoedye Ananta Toer. The first Indonesian dramatist to gain wide recognition was Utuy Tatang Sontani (1820-1979). Poetry in Javanese since independence has been dominated by St. Iesmaniasita and by Muryalelana (b. 1932), preindependence fiction in Sundanese was almost synonymous with the name of Mohamad Ambri (1892-1936). The finest Chinese-Indonesian novelist was Liem King-hoo. The most substantial work of fiction in Dutch by an Indonesian author was the novel Buiten het gareel (1940) by Suwarsih Djojopuspito.

For further reading: Modern Indonesian Literature by A. Teeuw (1979); The Emergence of the Novel in Modern Indonesian and Malaysian Literature by Ali A. Wahab (1991); Southeast Asian Novel: Indonesia in Encyclopaedia of the Novel, Vol 2., ed. by Paul Schellinger (1998)

Selected works:

TANAH AIR, (1922)
INDONESIA, TOEMPAH DARAHKU, (1929)
KEN ANGROK DAN KEN DEDES, (1934)
SEDJARAH PEPERANGAN DIPANEGARA, (1945)
GAJA MADA, (1948)
REVOLUSI AMERIKA, (1951)

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Goenawan Mohamad

Writing Under Duress
Goenawan Mohamad tries to stop the fire

By Felix Cheong

Goenawan Mohamad, Indonesian poet, and founder and editor of the influential weekly magazine Tempo, was born in 1941 in a small town in Central Java. He grew up in a family whose destiny was intricately tied to politics. His parents were detained in the 1920s in an internment camp for their involvement in a left-wing nationalist movement. In 1947, his father was re-arrested and executed.

As a young poet in his 20s living in Jakarta, Goenawan was drawn into a bitter literary and political controversy when he signed a manifesto protesting social realism in the arts, which was being imposed by the then powerful Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). Deemed a 'counter-revolutionary', Goenawan fled to Europe with the help of friends, and studied in Belgium.

Back in Jakarta in 1971, he co-founded Tempo, which despite a two-month ban in 1984, managed over the years to carve out an independent voice in an increasingly controlled political environment. It was eventually banned in 1994, driving Goenawan and his colleagues to write in a network of underground publications until reviving Tempo in 1998, after President Suharto's fall.

Goenawan has won a Harvard University Nieman Fellowship for journalism and the International Press Freedom Award of the Committee to Protect Journalists. In 1999, he was nominated by World Press Review as International Editor of the Year.

The sprightly 62-year-old poet was in Singapore in January for the Wordfeast Poetry Festival. Felix Cheong interviewed him over coffee at the Swissötel The Stamford’s café.

FC: As someone who’s been in the press for more than 30 years, what’s your definition of free press... one that’s arrogant?

GM: An arrogant press is better than an arrogant government in power. At least it has no monopoly on violence. [When] the state has a monopoly on violence and it’s arrogant, it is dangerous.

The question is how you would define which behaviour is arrogant and which is not, and who is entitled to give such a definition or criteria.
My idea of free press is a press that doesn’t have to have a permit, a license, from the government to publish, a press that is not open to censorship, from behind the doors or from above.

FC: Under current president Megawati, is there greater press freedom in Indonesia?

GM: [The greater press freedom was] not because of Megawati, but was in fact started by Habibie. The first move to free the press was under Habibie’s administration. Megawati just followed the rule, because the law now prohibits the government from censoring the media.
It’s just a question of whether things have changed a little bit since Habibie’s time.
FC: You once compared being an editor with being the captain of a hijacked plane. Was there any point over the past 30 years when you feared for your life and your family’s?

GM: Not that dramatic! But of course, the pressure was there. I don’t think the Suharto regime would have touched me physically. It had already created a problem by arresting Pramoedya [Ananta Toer] and banning his novels from being read. I don’t think they would’ve liked to repeat the same mistake by arresting me.

FC: But was there harassment?

GM: Harassment – in the sense that sometimes you’re summoned by the department of information and threatened.

After Tempo’s ban, I joined an alliance of independent journalists that protested the banning and censorship and licensing. Three of the members were jailed because we published an illegal underground newspaper. We worked mostly underground. That was very risky, yes.

FC: Has it ever occurred to you that Tempo might, at some point, cease to be relevant?

GM: To be honest, I’ve never thought about that, because it’s hard to measure your relevance. The only thing you get is the response from the public – letters to the editor, sales, and the way the magazine is being used as part of the public discourse. Otherwise, we could never guess how relevant we were.

FC: Has the editorial team done a lot of soul-searching about the role of the magazine in Indonesian society today?

GM: We did a lot of self-censorship in the past. We made a mistake by doing this. Like, the situation in East Timor could’ve been better if there were a free press. Many abuses of human rights could’ve been prevented if the government could just allow the press to stand up and report what had happened.
We had our mistakes; we made our compromises.

FC: Such as?

GM: I remember there was a group of young ethic Chinese men who came to my office and told me their father was being tortured by the local military. He was arrested and accused of selling pornography, and tortured and murdered. They wanted this story to be out, but I didn’t dare [report it]. So I feel guilty about it.

FC: So the role of the journalist is not just to report the facts but to also be responsible for exposing evil?

GM: It’s not about exposing. It’s about giving the voice to people who have no means or access to speak, or to express their need for survival. Exposure is only the consequence of that kind of journalistic duty.
Journalism is not to tell the truth, because sometimes we don’t know about the truth. Journalism is part of a common effort to tell the truth, to the best of knowledge and information. We should not be regarded as the messenger of truth and justice. It would be presumptuous.

Sometimes people think freedom is something akin to responsibility. Actually, if you’re not free, you’re not responsible. How can you be responsible if you’re not free? Parrots cannot responsible. Robots cannot be responsible.
When you have freedom, you can say something that can help people from being abused. And that’s responsibility.

It’s also the media’s responsibility to tell the government not to make mistakes. It’s kind of an early warning system. That could also be part of promoting the quality of public debate and discourse. That’s also responsibility.

FC: How is journalism as practised in the West different from that in the East?

GM: Let’s not think of journalism as a monolithic entity. There’re many different kinds of newspapers, many different kinds of media. For example, I don’t really like American television. But I’d be happy to read the New York Times, Washington Post, LA Times as examples of good journalism. Different degrees of quality and sense of responsibility among different media in the world.

The [notion that the] difference between western and eastern media is mostly ideological – it’s not true. It’s not accurate.

I don’t think The Straits Times is, in that sense, very Asian, expressing Asian values. What are those values actually? You have to answer those questions.

FC: Has Goenawan the journalist ever interfered with Goenawan the poet?

GM: Yes, oftentimes. When I was an editor, I hardly wrote any poetry. I started to be active only towards the later part of my career as editor.

The language used is different. In poetry, you don’t negotiate. You don’t quote other people. You quote yourself, something that’s closer to yourself.

That’s why I’m no longer a journalist, basically. I just write my column once a week, that’s all. I don’t even have an office in Tempo.

You have a Senior Minister. I’m a Senior Editor. That’s powerful though… not as influential as Mr Lee Kuan Yew – he’s an institution, I’m not.

I interviewed him before he came to Jakarta for the first time. Long time ago. Very smart, very bright. Of course, he was a man in power; I’m not. So, different perspective. But no doubt a first-class brain. Not that I like him.

FC: Auden once said poetry makes nothing happen. To what extent do you agree with this?

GM: That’s a normal excuse of a poet: that you write poetry that claims it’s going to make things happen. And then he’d sit back and do nothing. A poet is just like an ordinary citizen or human being. When there’s a fire you have to stop the fire, not write about it. Otherwise, you won’t be part of the world.

Let’s remember that Mao Zedong’s poetry didn’t change the world. His revolution did. So it’s not enough just to be a poet. You have to have people too.

FC: Writer, journalist, editor, activist: by which label would you like to be remembered?

GM: A writer. I’m not really an activist. I was forced to be an activist. I prefer to write.

FC: What’s next for Goenawan Mohammad?

GM: Writing, writing, writing, dying. I don’t know what retirement is. I’m a retired editor. I’m no longer in charge. A new person has taken my place. I’m happy with it. So technically, I’m retired now. But can you retire from writing? Maybe you could, when you feel your writing has become very stupid, predictable. Then you should stop writing. But not many writers are aware of that decline. I don’t know whether I’m on the decline. I hope I’m still good in my skills.

(cited from QLRS Vol. 3 No. 4 Jul 2004)

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