bataktextiles

The Back to the Villages Spirit

2012-02-27T12:35:00.000+01:00

This week I received an email from a woman in Australia whom I have never met. She made a collection of Batak textiles in the 1980s. She enjoyed learning about Batak culture at that time and even presented some lectures about her experiences and ties to that culture. She had made the decision to move into a smaller home and this had prompted her to contemplate her collection. She knew it was time to part with it. What to do? She wrote to me about her idea of giving it back to the Batak people in Indonesia. She did so hope that the collection that she had lovingly put together could be of benefit to others.

This is the Back to the Villages spirit. I was moved to read about her wishes. I was also moved that she had chosen to contact me about them. I am a perfect stranger to her, but she identified with the Back to the Villages spirit in my blogs.

I am sure that there are many people in the world who share the Back to the Villages spirit, who wish to give back to the people whom they encountered in their lives, who made a difference to their lives, who enriched them. This, too, is the cycle of life. It is not just biological. It is spiritual, cultural, emotional and probably universal. It is what binds a grandparent to a grandchild. It is the core of the maintenance of cultural tradition and it is extraordinary when it happens across the North-South divide. These bridges are antidotes to historical wrongs and arbitrary separations.

But they are not always easy to build. They require social engineering. The process of constructing them, viz. developing secure avenues to facilitate cultural repatriation, are surely as important as the final product, viz. the actual transfer of the cloths back to their original home.

It is not appropriate, yet, to disclose the content of the discussions that I am having with my new Australian friend about the possibilities that are available to her, but I have her permission to blog about her intentions. They are generous, thoughtful, noble, trusting. Nothing that she could do with her collection could be more exciting or more challenging. In my books, she is a cultural hero.

Genealogical Riddle Solved

2011-12-16T15:01:00.002+01:00

As the strange ways of luck and synchronicity would have it, not too long ago, on the very same day and at the very same moment, I received emails from two unrelated people both offering me the complete overview of the descendants of Elize van Zuylen-Niessen. Both were responding to my blogs about Pekalongan in which I scratched my head and wondered out loud about my genealogical connections with Elize, the remarkable and famous batik maker in Northern Java.

Photo by MJA Nashir
Sandra Niessen holding up a batik made by
Eliza van Zuylen Niessen

Both thought that I might be a descendant but I knew that this was not the case and that I would have to dig much further back, before the birth of Elize’s father. One of my correspondents was able to tell me enough about Elize’s father’s family that I could finally make the connection. The great grandfather of Elize’s father’s was also my ancestor, a man called Wijnand Niessen, born in 1712 in Hundshoven, The Netherlands.

In the 18th century, the enterprising son of Wijnand Niessen, named Dionicius, left home and settled in Buren further north. For generations his branch of the family, from which I hail, lived along the Lek/Rhine river leading to Rotterdam. Elize’s father’s people stayed in the region around Heerlen, Sittard and Hundshoven. Her father, Matthias Nicolaas (the spelling varies), after a long stay in the Netherlands East Indies, returned to the region of his youth where he died.

Elize van Zuylen-Niessen’s father, Matthias Nicolaas Niessen, was a KNIL (Royal Dutch-East Indies Army) officer who received a military medal called the Willemsorde. He fought in Bali in 1849, in Borneo in 1850 and Riau (Sumatra) in 1858 and 1959. He was then Luitenant.

Elize’s mother, Elisabeth Christina Anna Geertruida von Ranzow, was the fourth generation of the Von Ranzow family to live in the East. Her great great grandfather sailed for Ceylon from Germany. Two generations of his descendants lived on that VOC Island, but her father was born on board ship heading towards Batavia. His mother was a “princess” from Palembang.

In other words, aside from a common last name, probably half of The Netherlands, to say nothing of a certain family in Palembang, is as closely related to Elize van Zuylen Niessen as I am. There are 6 generations between myself and the ancestor that Elize and I have in common. Moreover, Wijnand, our common ancestor, married twice; she descends from the second wife while I descend from the first. Very distant family indeed. Nevertheless, it is always nice to have an illustrious family member; I enjoy feeling a personal attachment to her life and times in Indonesia.

I Gave a Teg Talk!

2011-12-15T07:58:00.004+01:00

No, that’s not a spelling error. TEG stands for Textile Enthusiasts Group and the group gathers in Singapore.

It was Genevieve Duggan, well known for her book, Ikats of Savu (2001, White Lotus Press) who got the ball rolling. I was going to drop in for a day in Singapore on my way home from Jakarta anyway, so, she said, why not get to know the textile enthusiasts in Singapore while I was there? Why not, indeed! I would have my exhibition textiles with me, and the co-ordinator of this TEG event, Shook Fong Tan, and her husband would be kind enough to pick me (with my heavy bags) up at the airport.

Photo by Lewa Pardomuan of me delivering my TEG Talk

The obvious thing to talk about, it seemed to me, would be the Pulang Kampung expedition and the upshot of the journey. I had all of MJA Nashir’s pictures with me to make a slide show and one of Restuala Namora Pakpahan’s first “revival textiles” from Muara coloured red with natural dye. He gave it to me just before I left Jakarta to remind me that I am the “International Ambassador of Sopo Sorha Harungguan”. I wanted to highlight the importance of bringing research findings back to the peoples from whom the information originated: they who are so deserving, have so little access to libraries and knowledge about their own culture and history, and yet are more often than not forgotten when it comes to “dissemination of findings”.

It was a warm group of enthusiasts (the name fits!), many of whom clearly had a very sophisticated level of knowledge. Spontaneously, I asked them for support for Restuala’s revival work. I had shared with them the importance of North-South partnerships when it comes to keeping indigenous art/craft traditions alive, so I decided to “walk the talk.” The donations that flowed in were so generous that I was gratified and touched.

I was pleased that Lewa Pardomuan, a new acquaintance and passionate textile collector, was in the room as well as Kim Jane Saunders (author of Contemporary Tie and Dye Textiles of Indonesia, 1997) with whom I had apparently corresponded in years past. A new acquaintance was Yvonne Koh, who contacted me through my website shortly before my talk. Because she lived in Singapore, it was possible for her to attend. She turns out to be an inveterate blogger, so I have been able to get to know her a little bit after the fact. These three people, and many more in the room, shared my sense of urgency for undertaking action to keep indigenous weaving traditions alive.

The TEG group kindly arranged for me to pre-view the spectacular Patterns of Trade: Indian Textiles For Export, 1400–1900 exhibition (15 Nov 2011 - 03 Jun 2012) in the Asian Civilizations Museum just after my talk. The tour with the Southeast Asia curator, David Henkel, was a rather special privilege as the exhibition had not yet opened. Indeed, I would not have wanted to miss it. It was inspiring, spell-binding and endlessly insightful to witness dozens of Indian trade textiles together in one place.

At the end of the day, Digna Ryan, one of the co-ordinators of the TEG group, invited some of us to dinner in her beautiful home: a gracious and delicious send-off before settling into a night of flying.

Thank you, TEG Singapore for an excellent experience.

Setting up Sopo Sorha

2011-12-03T09:19:00.000+01:00

The decline of Batak culture is not sitting well with me. Not at all. I see it most clearly from the vantage point of the weaving arts. Yes, there are still weavers. People can point to them and say, “See, the weaving craft in the batak area is still alive.” But I see something different: the most skilled and advanced manipulations of the loom have been forgotten; the social rules enforcing quality have been forgotten; most of the motifs have been forgotten; weavers have been forced by the market to adopt a division of labour and their weaverly knowlddge has narrowed. When the oldest generation passes away, the sophisticated knowledge of one of the richest and most beautiful weaving traditions in the archipelago will have disappeared, even though there may still be a few weavers left, toiling over their South Sumatran look-alike textiles that are the only ones truly viable on the market.

Restuala Namora Pakpahan’s Sopo Sorha Harungguan in the bay of Muara, where the weavers are trying to revive the weaving arts, is a precious oasis of cultural truth in the cultural sahel. The weavers there are keen to weave the cloths that they admire and that their ancestors wove. They are being aided by staff from YPBB, who are helping them recover their natural dye recipes. Before I left Indonesia, Restuala presented me with a textile, just freshly cut out of the loom, completely dyed with Morinda citrifolia, the indigenous Batak red colour. I was overwhelmed by this expression of hope.

I agree with Restuala’s initiative and goals. He has asked me to be the Foreign Ambassador of Sopo Sorha Harungguan and I have agreed to accept this posting and all of the responsibilities that it entails. I have been "in-vested" and his red natural-dyed textile is my cloak of ermine.

My horses are galloping away in front of me. I envision the following:

• the construction of a sustainable weaving centre that will provide an example of future architecture with a minimal ecological footprint

• purchase and storage of excellent collections of textiles to use as templates for the weavers

• conservation training programs for young people so that they can look after their collections

• curatorial training for young people so that they can learn how to develop high quality exhibitions

• record and revive techniques on the brink of extinction by organizing workshops with the last remaining practitioners of the techniques

• facilties for people who want to come (from afar) to learn weaving

• write children’s books about weaving

• facilities to organize and participate in a wider textile community: nationwide, ASEAN, or Worldwide (Indigenous Weavers Unite!); they can learn from each other and stimulate each other

• develop natural dyes

• develop marketing programs

• develop language training programs

• translate Legacy in cloth into Indonesian and/or Batak

• development of an annual prize to highlight the extraordinary accomplishment of a Batak weaver or weaver-champion.

I am looking for sponsors: local corporations that are active in the Batak area and want to “give something back”, individuals who want “to make a difference in the world”, granting programs, existing organizations that would like to support these initiatives. Where there is a will, there is a way.

O Tano Batak

2011-12-03T08:39:00.003+01:00

Back in The Netherlands. Home after 2 months in Indonesia. It is not yet clear what my next step will be. My mind is crowded by the possible projects I envision. I feel an overwhelming sense of urgency. The alarming statistics about the decline and loss of human cultures were once only statistics. During this last trip to Asia, they froze my heart as I witnessed the desertification of the Batak homelands. Desertification because the villages are being deserted; many have become lonely and desolate; Desertification because the villages have becomes resource deserts: no knowledge, no vibrancy, no future and, worst of all, nobody who cares.

This is Tano Batak today, physically one of the most spectacular places on Planet Earth: stunning nature surrounding an indescribably beautiful crater lake. What stands out is the merciless need for the remaining inhabitants to run after a few pennies to survive. That there are no garbage systems as a result of which the plastic of decades is cumulatively decorating but not beautifying the landscape. Opulent mausoleums built to the ancestors represent almost the only influx of capital from migrant Bataks. Tano Batak is becoming a burial ground. A place of refuse. The contrast is painful. From a vantage point overlooking Lake Toba, the heart misses a beat. The landscape is so generous. It gives its all. Down below, the culture has become so stingy, grasping, needy -- and it is eroding the natural bounty. O Tano Batak, indeed! The memories of past history, social rules and ceremonies, indigenous crafts (the mouthpiecs of thought systems), all have almost entirely disappeared. How often have young people said to me, “How can I love my culture if I don’t know anything about it?” There is nothing there anymore to teach them to love their history and culture.

Culturelessness, a state that is being encouraged by TV commercials and malls, is a social time bomb. A people that is rootless and without social norms and rules that can be enforced is vulnerable. They can fall prey to further agents of destruction: substance addictions, extremism and intolerance of thought, inability to take responsibility.

This crisis is as great as the current global economic crisis. Where are the sage heads bowing over this problem and working feverishly on solutions? The solutions need to be found in our generation.

Lasma Sitanggang

2011-10-31T23:21:00.000+01:00

After leaving the home of the last bulang weaver, it was simply a matter of turning a corner and driving up a narrow path to get to the home of the bulang weaver depicted in Legacy in cloth. The welcome that I received was extraordinarily warm. We were invited into their home where after exchanging pleasantries we talked about Nashir’s book and showed them a copy of it.
Lasma Sitanggang was one of the several young women in the room. When she came and sat down beside me, she confided that she wanted to learn to weave. I was surprised. Until then, I had only heard from young people that they did NOT want to learn to weave because it was too difficult and didn’t pay. From Lasma, I received such a clear and thoughtful answer about the importance of continuing her culture and the work of her ancestors that I asked Nashir to film it. Before the camera, her answer was just as lucid, detailed and even more extensive.

When she was finished and Nashir had put the camera down, she asked if she could tell me more. She confided that she had been selected to compete for a university scholarship, but had failed to make the final selection. She recounted bravely, but the emotions got the better of her and she broke down and sobbed bitter regretful tears on my shoulder. She was a bright, beautiful, articulate young woman with an open and engaging smile. She had lost the future that she dreamed of and felt estranged from her friends who all went off to university without her. She had no money to pay for a university education and she was doing her best to accept her fate with grace. She showed me her hands and said that she was not afraid to work hard in the fields. She would be stuck in the village, probably for the rest of her life.

I found her pain difficult to watch and decided on the spot to give her a copy of Nashir’s book because it would support her in her resolve to explore the knowledge of the ancestors. Nashir and I both expressed our belief that there are valuable forms of knowledge that are not taught at university and we pledged to bring her in touch with people who could support her on her journey to explore the Simalungun weaving tradition.

How strange and wonderful it was to have this happen around the corner from the old woman whose loom was lost amidst the broken-down motorcycles and becaks.

This morning, I shared the story by phone with Restuala Namora in Muara and Jean Howe (Threads of Life) in Bali. Both were receptive and supportive of Lasma Sitanggang. I hope that this remarkable meeting has satisfying follow-up for all concerned. Some employees of Threads of Life will be in Sumatra at the end of November. My heart and thoughts will be with Lasma. I hope that her future will be bright.

Sadness in Si Hotang

2011-10-31T22:57:00.000+01:00

There is a house in SiHotang. And a rice barn. Both are elaborately carved. They are praised and depicted in an early 20th century publication about the Netherlands East Indies. These magnificent Batak architectural accomplishments were one of the foremost reasons why the Batak poet Sitor Situmorang brought me to visit the valley in 1980. I later spent a few days in that same village inhabited by his relatives. Some pictures that I took of the house are published in my dissertation (1985). They were the reason why I wanted to bring Nashir to Sihotang in 2011. Also to visit Ompu Borsak whom I had missed in June 2010 during the Back to the Villages project.

When I visited in 1980, Darwin was there, Ompu Borsak’s youngest son. He was younger than I, a gentle, gracious fellow, shy and kind. I never saw him again. When I returned in 2010, he was dying. I spoke to him briefly on the telephone but by the time I got to Pangururan, he had passed away.

At last we found his village. There was garbage strewn everywhere. The majestic house and rice barn were now anything but majestic. There was junk lying around the buildings, the carcasses of attempts to make a living. A clumsy attempt had been made to touch up the paint on the walls and it had only succeeded in making the building garish and inconsistent. The once-proud village square was now overgrown with weeds and the stone walls had also become home to messy shrubs. It was like a desert.

There was one woman in the village, a widow with a child living in a crumbling house across from the once-magnificent pieces of architecture. I went up to her and learned that Ompu Borsak had fallen and was now living with another son (the one to which I had given Legacy when I was not able to reach her last year) in Pangururan. I asked her what had happened to Darwin. She responded scornfully. “Oh, he drank himself to death. That is what all the men do around here.”

We left SiHotang silently. I began to formulate an image of Darwin, the youngest son and required by adat to stay in the village. I imagined him day in day out, year in year out in this village of former glory (his great grandfather had been a regional leader), being able to recite his mother’s stories about his great and gracious ancestors. I imagined him unable to find employment, unable to make something of his life and everyday staring out at a Batak house fading and declining. I imagined Darwin fading and declining with the house. Perhaps the attempts to spruce it up had been his. Half-hearted, unskilled, hopeless.

Darwin is now buried just behind the house. Even in death he will forever remain in this village which could not nurture him. Those “left behind” in the villages have little future or hope. “O Tano Batak” is being hollowed out.

Without the Income from Weaving

2011-10-31T22:33:00.000+01:00

I gazed around Mamak Si Dirita’s house with admiration. ‘You are doing so well,” I said. ´Your house is very nice and your children are beautiful and healthy. When I first me you in 1986, you were very poor and your clothing was torn. (I showed her pages 495 and 496 in Legacy where she is depicted) You were harried and distraught at the time. Things have gotten better for you.”

To my great surprise, Mamak Si Dirita burst into tears. “It hurts me so much to remember that time, she said. My husband had fallen sick and I did everything that I could for his health. There is not a clinic or hospital that he has not seen the inside of. All of my children were very young and I had to make ends meet with my weaving and my agricultural work. Eventually my husband got better but it was a difficult time. It hurts to think about it.” The poor dear could not stop weeping. Her tears told me about the depth of her pain. I was sorry that I had opened it up. She and I shuddered to think what would have become of her without the income from weaving.

Now her eldest daughter has a bakery in the back of the house and they make delicious sweet breads for sale. Her husband and she are both healthy. Their eldest daughter will marry next month and their house is new, spacious and relatively comfortable.

There was no social safety net when she fell upon her hard times. Weaving was her only regular source of cash besides the one or two harvests. I have often referred to that photograph of her weaving a bulang to demonstrate the poverty of the weavers, but I had not known until this visit just how desperate her straits had been. What do people today rely on? Now weaving is more costly than helpful.

The Last Simalungun Weaver

2011-10-31T22:25:00.000+01:00

Simalungun was on the agenda for 20 October when we left our gracious hosts at DEL University. Every Batak region is special in its own way. I haven’t spent a lot of time in Simalungun, but enough to know that the crisis in the weaving tradition is very serious. During the opening of our textile exhibition, I wore a Simalungun textile because there were no Simalungun weavers represented in the exhibit. During the Back to the Villages project I had only seen one elderly weaver. Our meeting was fleeting. Now I wanted to find her and also the former bulang weaver depicted in Legacy and to whom I had given a copy of Legacy in cloth. I wanted to give Nashir a chance to work his magic there with his camera.

It was a wet, grey, cold day. First we found the elderly woman. I had not remembered that she lived in a vehicle repair shop. Literally. Now it is something that I will never forget. There were vehicles in various states of decomposition strewn around the yard and when I knocked on the door and peered into the house, I saw that the front room was being used as a garage. I wondered how anybody could call premises like those a home. I recognized the spot under the too-skimpy front eaves as the place where I had seen her weaving last year. The thin piece of plywood on which she sat and the little bench that she used to support her sword while weaving were still there. I then wondered whether that little bundle wrapped in cloth might be her loom. What shocked me most was that somebody had parked his motorcycle on top of that little piece of wood, but how would he recognize this as a place to weave? Imagining how the weaver must feel, I felt angry and hurt and tried to distance myself from these feelings to recognize the situation for what it was: the last weaver whose work and tradition was clearly not valued or respected. It was being crowded out by the more pressing business of her son’s vehicle repair shop. Probably his work brought in more money. This is the way a weaving tradition ends, I told myself.

The elderly woman appeared and at my urging unwrapped her bundle (after the man moved his motorcycle) and resumed weaving her bright red bulang.

Her son, a gentle, shy fellow with greasy black fingers, came and sat down beside us. He had seen the copy of Legacy that I had left with their neighbour and was curious about my interest in Batak cloth. He was aware that his mother was the last weaver of bulang textiles in the district, but not aware of its significance. I tried to impress upon him the age, complexity and uniqueness of her work and how highly I valued it. His response was a look of surprise, puzzlement, reflection. I thought that I detected some deep awareness that she was enacting an ancient tradition, but this may have been wishful thinking on my part. He seemed to display some shame or embarrassment about his lack of respect for her work.

I told him about Nashir’s book and how it was Nashir’s intent to raise awareness of what is happening to indigenous Indonesian culture. He thumbed through it; he was curious about its contents but he said that he could not afford the $10 that it cost. I told him to just give us what he could afford and I would be happy to subsidize the purchase because I really wanted him to have it. Planting another seed?

I gave him a gift of a Dutch handkerchief which he was delighted to immediately tie around his head. He and all of the men in his repair shop seemed happy and honoured by our visit. I gave his mother a crocheted doily explaining that it was the craft of a Dutch grandmother. She was mystified by the gift because she couldn’t imagine what it could be used for. There really wasn’t a place for such an item in a motorcycle repair shop.

Banun and Kadir

2011-10-13T01:30:00.002+02:00

In 1922 a remarkable man was born in Pekalongan. He was a joyful man who loved a challenge. When he became old, he joked to his son that he would like to swap ages because he was still so very full of the possibilities of life. The 89 years that he was allotted were too short for him. In his home where his daughter continues to lives, there is a cartoon of him hanging on the wall. Beside his head, in big letters, a single word that characterizes his life is written: “THINK”.

Kadir's son and daughter in their ancestral home.

Kadir was a conservationist and recycler before his time and he was unstymied. If materials were not available, he found substitutes. If quantities of available materials were becoming a nuisance or going to waste, he found ways to make them useful. Similarly if peoples’ talents were going to waste, he found a way to deploy them. If he was stuck with a technical problem, he turned himself loose on his library, and let the people in his surroundings apply themselves to the problem to see if their collective thought could yield a solution.

furniture made with water hyacinths

He was an inventor, engineer, intellectual and socially engaged. And he had a weaving factory. He had no use for patents. For him, the joy in life was in meeting problems creatively and sharing solutions, allowing the intellect to bubble and spread and not to be defensive. He learned how to make and weave pineapple, banana, abaca fiber and water hyacinths.

None of these materials are new today, but he was the first in his region to make use of them. He transformed waste newspapers into weft and he batikked towels. He also invented a remarkable technique that he called “banun” that collapses batik (the “ba” part of the word) and tenun (the Indonesian name given to woven unbatikked cloth, the “nun” part of the word).

The technique works like this. First a length of cloth is woven. A pattern is then wax-drawn, as though to make a batik, onto the finished cloth. The cloth is then dyed, dried and unwoven. Then the batik-dyed warp is re-woven with a new weft. This is why Kadir’s son and daughter explained to me that the cloth was “woven twice”. Why would one go to so much effort when it would be just as easy to ikat pattern the warp yarns? Moreover, there would be no waste in the form of discarded weft. “Because people here are willing to weave, but they are not willing to tie ikat patterns” was the response. The technique coincides with a social circumstance.

unwoven warp up to the not yet unwoven part

Because I was not able to conceive of “unweaving” a cloth and how the unwoven warp is put on the loom, I was taken into the back room where the looms were in use. Only part of the cloth is initially unwoven. The rest is rolled up the way a warp would be rolled on the warp beam. The ends of the warp are installed in the weaving mechanism and then weaving proceeds as normal. Weft is removed as more warp is needed. The process is not particularly cunning. It is simply yanked out of the cloth.

Batak textile "fake" made by Kadir's children

In the course of our conversation, I learned that Kadir was also the source of the “fake” ship cloths that were made at the end of the last century. It was an inventive process in which he even revived hand-spinning in Pekalonan. “The cloths were ’saleable’ for a little while and then the market for them disappeared and he stopped making them” I was told. I remember when people were just learning that “fake shipcloths” were on the market and they had to be warned that they were not purchasing “the real thing”. My visit to Kadir’s home taught me great respect for the inventiveness needed to make such “fakes”. Indeed, the history of cloth could well be framed in terms of inventiveness inspired by novelty.

Striking Gold

2011-10-13T01:18:00.004+02:00

It is easy to imagine the Pekalongan of yesteryear when the Dutch were still here. There are still so many of their buildings: the home and office of the Resident, the “societeit” (soos) where they used to gather to satisfy their social needs, the church and so on. The city centre, now a huge traffic circle built around a park, is still intact; it must have made a glorious and majestic impression.

The newly-furbished excellent Pekalongan Museum is in an old VOC building. The floors are original, so are the ceilings. Even the bars over the windows of the room where the money was imprisoned are still there.

The curator, Zahir, came up to me with his black eyes flashing mystically and said, “The money is still here. Perhaps the Dutch hid it under the floor.” I disabused him of his fantasy. “The walls of the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam are decorated with gold purchased with colonial money,” I said. Zahir was only partly joking, however. He is intensely aware of the “value added” of the beautiful museum building. Precisely its authenticity, that it has been maintained but not overhauled, means that the building has a particular aura, like a whiff of something that half awakens a memory that cannot be defined. “This building is gold,” said the perceptive and articulate Zahir. “In any other building, this museum would be so much less.”

Alas, the home and workshop of Eliza van Zuylen have been demolished.

Zahir was captivating. His passion for batik was almost palpable. While I stood gazing at a beautiful copy of a Van Zuylen batik with pastel colours, he came up to me and his black eyes started to flash again in that mysterious way. “All of the original Van Zuylen batiks have been bought up by collectors outside the country. The batiks are now unaffordable. We have none left here in Pekalongan. Maybe there are a few in private homes, but the museum has none.” In a nutshell, Zahir had expressed one of the great ironies of this grand Kota Batik (City of Batik).

The next day, my host Arif Dirhamzah, took me to the computer office of a friend, named Zakaria. He teaches batik producers to access international markets using the internet. We sat at the screen of one of his computers and mas Arif showed me the photographs of Pekalongan batiks that he had found on the KITLV website. There were several from the Vlisco collection in The Netherlands, so we shifted to their website, and then I showed them the on-line collection of the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam. At one point Arif stopped when he found the name of a local producer in the documentation of a cloth. “Who is that person again?” he asked his friend. Zakaria reacted with amazement and peered at the cloth. “That was my grandfather,” he said and started to recite the names of several generations of his family. As we were about to leave, Zakaria said, “With this visit, I feel like I have struck gold. I cannot tell you how much this discovery means to me.” “Keep going with your discovery of museum collections,” I said. “There are more people in Pekalongan who will get that same feeling when they see the cloths of their ancestors. Perhaps you have struck gold in more than one way. Think of what your computer can mean to all descendants!”

Arif organized a dinner party around my visit. It took place in the gracious home of Bapak and Ibu Fatchiyah, a large Pekalongan batik producers. Mas Arif invited a remarkable collection of people who could offer memories or insights into the Van Zuylen batiks. Some brought textiles from their homes to show and I saw how deftly the people unfurled them and held them up, how they spoke the same language when discussing the cloths, how admiring their were of good designs. Again and again there were expressions of regret that the Van Zuylen pieces had been almost entirely bought up by people living outside the city and the country. There was little tangible evidence on which to rest their conflicting claims about Van Zuylen colour, dyes and designs. “Outside

Indonesia

, the collections are complete,” they said over and over again.

At the end of the evening it was my turn to say a few words. “We stand at the beginning of a new era,” I said. “The past was the era of collecting. Now is the era of sharing. The Tropenmuseum and other museums may have many textiles but these textiles do not live the way that I have seen them living here tonight. They are stored carefully, however, so that they will last. They are a priceless resource that can be consulted. They are a public resource. In this age of internet access is no longer as challenging as it used to be. I hope that you will think of them as your own collections. You can “revive” those museum collections lying “dead” in their storage chambers and make them live again, just like the cloths in this room. These collections are pots of gold waiting to be mined by you.

Looking for Eliza

2011-10-13T01:04:00.001+02:00

Upon our first meeting, mas Arif said that he wished to know how I was tied by kinship to Eliza van Zuylen. I countered in the same way: I wish to know my kinship tie with Eliza van Zuylen. We looked at each other and laughed. I am from Holland and I am looking for a family member who lived in Pekalongan. Arif lives in Pekalongan and longs for archives stored in Holland so that he can learn about his city’s history.

Living in Oosterbeek, I know what it is to be “without archives”. Our town hall was destroyed during the Battle of Arnhem. I believe that the great numbers of avid local historians in the town were spawned by the absence of those archives. We are all trying to bridge that gap that separates us from the pre-war era. This is the way in which I understood Arif’s and Zahir’s reference to the lack of information about their buildings and streets. What was the Pekalongan in the colonial era that is still so present in the streets? Suddenly I became aware of what a great luxury it is to be able to access the Dutch colonial archives. I believe that lack of this kind of access inspires a particular kind of longing and disorientation. There needs to be a large, carefully planned effort to transfer information from The Netherlands to the former Netherlands East Indies so that the people here can explore/ interpret/ construct their past.

Indonesia

is ripe for this. Over-ripe.

I am here in Pekalongan as the guest of the Pekalongan Heritage Community, a group of citizens committed to making the most of the gigantic potential of Pekalongan’s history. Mrs. Eliza van Zuylen-Niessen is an historical figure in Pekalongan who has gained world-wide attention for her signed batiks. I have my name to thank for this extraordinary invitation.

Now we have found each other. We each have access to what the other does not have. During my three days here, mas Arif showed me Pekalongan’s enormous strengths. Now it is up to me to go back to Holland and accumulate information that can be meaningful for them.

The past three days I have been examining the hopes that they have pinned on me from many angles. I would like to develop a project proposal that is mutually satisfying and beneficial. Not just a research project, but a project that demonstrates that I have learned from the Back to the Villages project and thus places the needs of batik producers, rather than researchers, front and centre. Then I will feel that I have truly left the ivory tower behind.

Pekalongan received me very warmly. I sense a longing here to have the real Eliza van Zuylen walk through the door and begin talking about her life, take them on a tour of the city as it once was, hold up her batiks and explain them.

Kedungwuni

2011-10-07T03:25:00.034+02:00

Kedungwuni, Nashir said, is where his grandmother used to live and where he was born. I love the sound of the word Kedungwuni and since hearing about the place I have formed an image of a sleepy little batik village. For me, the villages are the nicest part of Indonesia.

Yesterday Nashir borrowed a motorbike and two helmets and off we went to the village of his ancestors and his beginnings.

I prepared myself for the inevitable gap between the “sleepy batik village” of my imagination and the present-day reality with lots of traffic and noise. I was still surprised, however, when Nashir turned into a driveway of a lovely Dutch colonial house with rounded arches. This was where his grandmother lived and where he was born. Family members still lived there. We sipped tea with them before Nashir took me on a guided tour of the house.

I enjoyed the contrast between the colonial, Dutch appearance of the front of the house and the industrious Javanese appearance of the back of it where life used to really unfold. Intermediate between the two was a square concrete section with low concrete walls and skylight where Nashir’s grandmother together with her employees used to do their batik work. Her presence there is still strong because a sketch of her, drawn by Nashir, presides over it.

The back used to have a dirt floor. This is where Nashir’s afterbirth is buried, following Javanese custom, thus making his attachment to the place eternal. Now it has a cement floor. He showed me the section where the chickens were kept when they came home to roost. There was the kitchen where his grandmother prepared packages of food for everybody in the morning, wrapped up in banana leaves. “Everybody always had enough to eat” said Nashir admiringly about his grandmother. There was also the section where Nashir’s uncle began his clothing business.

Nashir’s uncle was next on our agenda. He still has a thriving clothing business transforming batik into wearable goods, now in his own large house with its clean, calm and bright front and industrious back section.

To appease our rumbling stomachs, his wife took us a few steps down the road to a warung where delicious, traditional vegetarian Javanese food is prepared and packaged in banana leaves. Food is an item of local pride. The people here talk about it so much that they may as well be French! And Nashir’s mother would be the leading chef because I have tasted nothing as excellent as her cooking.

After we were sated, Nashir’s uncle led us to the famous Oey Soe Tjoen batik workshop. We were warmly and generously received by a young woman who is taking over the business from her parents. It was an opportunity to enquire about Eliza van Zuylen-Niessen.

The Oey Soe Tjoen workshop began in 1925. During the war all of their patterns were lost. Samples were gradually recovered, however, and now about 100 traditional possibilities may be commissioned by shoppers. They are presented in a fat photo album. The industry continues in the traditional spirit. The young woman showed us a modern batik that she has invented with biblical scenes. She is allowed to sign her name to this batik and thus the available stock of patterns continues to grow. (Recently, a Japanese person contacted the family to write the history of this famous workshop. He took all of the photographs and records back with him to Japan and nothing more has been heard of him since. They suspect he was a victim of the tsunami.)

In response to my questions about Eliza van Zuylen, the young woman called her mother from the back (where the workshop is still found although most batiks are now made in the homes of the batik-makers). Her mother married into the family in 1971, coming from Yogyakarta and so had little personal experience or memory of Van Zuylen, and then just of her successor who returned to The Netherlands in the 1970’s. (Eliza Niessen died in 1947.) She did disabuse me of a false impression that there may have been cooperation between Van Zuylen’s workshop and the Oey Soe Tjoen workshop. Apparently, they all worked independently.

Harmen Veldhuisen’s book entitled, Batik Belanda 1840 – 1940, which I do not yet own but which I was allowed to thumb through a little more while visiting Oey Soe Tjoen, provided me with the most important clues for follow-up family research: Eliza’s father was a soldier in the KNIL (Royal Dutch Indonesian Army). He came from Roermond and he was stationed in Fort de Kock where Eliza was born. With hard facts like dates, and names of people and places I can move forward. When I get back home, a visit to the Bronbeek Museum library, where there are many KNIL records, I will be able to take another step in the search for my link with Eliza Niessen Van Zuylen.

Batik, Batak, Batak, Batik

2011-10-06T16:11:00.002+02:00

Last night MJA Nashir’s mother showed me her old batiks: one from Cirebon and the rest from Pekalongan, beautiful old batiks as they are seldom, if ever, made anymore.

We had just arrived from Yogyakarta. I hadn’t been to Pekalongan since 1980. At that time I fell in love with the colourful batiks that are typical of here. MJ de Raadt-Appell’s book (in Dutch) entitled De Batikkerij Van Zuylen te Pekalongan, was published in that same year but I didn’t find out about it until considerably later when both Rita Bolland and Harmen Veldhuisen asked me if I was related to Eliza van Zuylen Niessen to whom De Raadt Appell had dedicated her book. I had never heard family stories about her, and knew of no family members except my uncle who had been to Indonesia. I did not believe that I was related to this talented and now-famous woman.

Eliza Charlotte Niessen was born on 23 November 1864 in Fort de Kock (now Bukit Tinggi in West Sumatra), a century and six days before I was born. She married Alphons van Zuylen from Pekalongan. Her sister Christine married Jan van Zuylen, his brother. Christine moved to Pekalongan and one of her sources of income was a small batik workshop. When, in due course, Eliza and her family also moved to Pekalongan she helped her sister with the batik. Eventually, she started to produce it on her own turf. Eliza gave birth to twelve children. She was widowed in 1918 at the age of 54 and the war put an abrupt and ugly end to her batik workshop. It was plundered and destroyed by the Indonesian freedom fighters and she and her daughter Clementine were imprisoned. When Eliza became ill, they were transferred to the Franciscan monastery in Pekalongan. She died there in 1947 at the age of 83 and her remains were buried beside those of her husband in Pekalongan’s European cemetery.

Eliza Niessen’s workshop was one of the most famous of its time. Her signed batiks have become collectors’ items. Harmen Veldhuisen has written eloquently about them and Rita Bolland, former curator of textiles at the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam, wrote the Foreword to De Raadt Appell’s book.

Thirty years after shrugging off their question about kinship with Eliza Niessen I started to do genealogical research to find out whether my black eyes originated in Indonesia. I found some records about Niessen ancestors going off to the Netherland East Indies, but I do not know what became of them. I did enough research, however, to conclude that all of the Dutch Niessens are related.

The subject of Eliza Niessen re-emerged when I met MJA Nashir, my photographer and now author of the newly-launched book about our journey together in 2010 (Berkelana dengan Sandra, 2011). His mother was a batik maker who worked for a Van Zuylen competitor, Oey Soe Tjoen. With this surprising information I was compelled to return to the famous Niessen of batik….hence this short pilgrimage to Pekalongan.

Last night was special because Nashir showed his mother his book for the first time, just as she showed me her batiks. Nashir has gone from batik to Batak. I have gone, ever so briefly from Batak to batik and it all came together around the living-room table.

In the meantime, in the heart of Batakland, our friend Restuala Namora, the central figure in the revival of Batak textiles, has just launched Nashir’s book at a gathering of government people. In a week’s time, Batak and batik will once again mingle when he weds his love from Solo. Batik-making is among her many accomplishments.

Come to our exhibition!

2011-08-09T12:13:00.000+02:00

On September 22, our exhibition about the Back to the Villages project will open at 19.30. We are thrilled that Erasmus Huis in Jakarta agreed to this exhibition. It will include textiles by weavers depicted in my book, Legacy in cloth, Batak textiles of Indonesia and photographs of the Back to the Villages project.

MJA Nashir has just finished the poster for the exhibition. Here it is!

If you can make it to our exhibition, please do come! Also to the opening night which will be concluded with the delicious, traditional Erasmus Huis meal.

Nashir's Egg

2011-08-06T05:17:00.000+02:00

August 6, 2011. It is an important day. MJA Nashir has finished his book about the Pulang Kampung project which I initiated last June. He was the project filmer/photographer and it has been my blessing that the project entered his heart. In his book he has documented every step of our journey in colourful and compelling detail, the most important travelogue in both of our lives. It is entitled Berkelana dengan Sandra, Menyusuri Ulos Batak.

Today Nashir leaves his home in Pekalongan and travels to Yogyakarta where he will work out the last details of the editing and also the layout and printing of the book. The published version is due to be launched at the opening of our exhibition about Proyek Pulang Kampung in Erasmus Huis, Jakarta, on September 22. Just a short 6 weeks away.

MJA Nashir’s book represents a year of dedicated, single-minded effort. He has worked non-stop, producing chapter after chapter, 18 in all. He has worked idealistically, driven by his need to share his vision with his readers, fellow Indonesians. He has a message. His book will convince every reader of the importance of keeping cultural heritage alive.

Nashir has earned no income during the time that he has written the book. He has run entirely on his inner resources. They are clearly vast and powerful. He is a man who lives by his principles because life for him would otherwise be faded and unhappy.

I wish MJA Nashir Godspeed. A special, intensely deserving person on a landmark mission.

I've got mail!

2011-06-14T23:14:00.001+02:00

I’m one of those people who turns on the computer first thing in the morning. Because of the time difference between Holland and Indonesia, my Indonesian news often arrives in the night. This morning I was overjoyed to find an email from Restuala Namora. He wrote a short email in his usual modest style, but it was still possible to discern excitement and pride between the lines. There was also an attachment: a photograph of his beautiful mother holding up a blue Batak textile with red sides. Both colours, wrote Restuala, were from natural dyestuffs. He said that textile revival was well underway in Muara and that his motto is “Nothing is impossible”.

A bintang maratur textile made in Muara with all natural dyestuffs

Muara is located in the bay in the southwest corner of Lake Toba. This is the headquarters of what remains of the production of the blue Batak textiles: the sibolang, surisuri, bolean and bintang maratur. (The textile that was just woven was a bintang maratur.) My happy visit there in 1986 yielded the photo of weavers that is now found on pages 10 and 11 of Legacy in cloth. It is one of my favourite photos and so I earmarked it for years as the frontispiece of my book. Little did I know that some of those same weavers would later become active in the revival of Batak weaving in Muara.

Muara is also the bay that hosted the “weaving workshop” in October 2010 that I just couldn’t miss. When I heard about it, I made every effort to attend. Restuala Pakpahan was the engine behind this workshop and when he learned that I would be able to come, he transformed it into a celebration of me as the author of Legacy, one of the sources of his inspiration. During the workshop, he asked me to function as the foreign ambassador for Muara textiles and Muara’s intention to re-invent itself as a Batak settlement for the future: clean, prosperous, in harmony with nature, and a place where Batak culture can revive, survive and thrive.

The workshop was one of the most profoundly moving experiences in my life.

Shortly after that, I brought three members of Threads of Life to Muara. Restuala was hungry for information about natural dyes and strategies for reviving textile traditions while Threads of Life was looking for potential places in the Batak area where they could work their magic. It was a good match and a meeting of like minds. Every night the members of Threads of Life talked until the wee hours with Restuala and his right-hand man, Goodman Ompusunggu, juxtaposing Restuala’s vision with the experiences of Threads of Life. Since then, Threads of Life has been back to conduct step two in the revival of Batak natural dyes. The picture of the textile that Restuala sent me through the email today was the first product of their inspiring collaboration.

I expect that that textile will soon be on a plane heading to Bali. A group of Batak weavers has been selected to attend a series of workshops put on by Threads of Life in Ubud. There they will see the Threads of Life shop, meet weavers from other parts of the archipelago, and learn about international marketing as well as natural dyes. How I wish I could be there with them!

Congratulations to ito Restuala! Congratulations to my weaver friends in Muara! Congratulations to Threads of Life!

I see the small child in the photograph. As she looks at the textile in her grandmother’s hands, she is looking at both the past and the future of Muara. Because of Restuala’s initiative, her future is becoming increasingly bright.

The Music of Weaving

2011-03-19T09:15:00.068+01:00

When I learned how to weave from Ompu Sihol thirty-one years ago, she introduced me to some of her music: a song or two with words relating to the weaving process and the mouth harp that she played when she was tired of weaving and needed a little diversion. During our travels to make the Rangsa ni Tonun film, I asked every elderly (former) weaver whom we met if she knew any weaving songs. My enquiries didn’t unearth a single melody, for whatever reason. This is another loss that can never be recovered. It makes my single scratchy recording of Ompu Sihol singing what we have come to call 'The Weaving Song' so very precious.

Threads of Life sent me for a brief two-day trip to Timor to meet up with some of their weaver groups so that I could see first-hand how they operate in the field. Their Timor field staff, a delightful Atoni man named Willy, was my guide and he introduced me to a great deal. His insights and stories made the experience especially rich. I was excited when he told me about the importance of rhythm in Timorese weaving and how it had become the basis of a music tradition.

Pounding Morinda
bark at the YPBB studio.

There are rhythms with an audio component such as when the Morinda citrifolia bark is pounded in the large stone or wooden mortars: thump, thump, thump when the dye is being prepared. There is the sound of the weft being beaten in, not just the sword against the newly-thrown weft, but also the reciprocal clack of the warp beam against the upright posts anchoring the loom. He mentioned others as well. I knew that I was hearing about the origins of music in the percussive sounds of simple wooden tools. Melodies and collective merriment were built around them, the task of the weaver being not the lonely job that it often is today, but something engaged in by a joyful community of artists also sharing the spirit of song.

When Jean Howe took me up to a visit I Wayan Karya, a charismatic Balinese who has revived the natural dye tradition in Seraya, an eastern part of Bali, I was inspired by my Timorese experience to once again enquire about the music of weaving, mentioning Ompu Sihol’s use of the mouth harp. He enthusiastically affirmed that the mouth harp had also been used in his village. His father was a great aficionado. Pak Karya clearly remembered the tunes that his father would play in the dark before turning over and going to sleep, and he mimicked them with fervour.

Pak Karya showed MJA Nashir how
indigo dye oxydizes and turns blue.

Because Pak Karya made red dye (which we had failed to find in the Batak area) and because Bali has a cotton gin identical, except in a few decorative embellishments, to the Batak variant, and because there are still spinners in Bali, I called my filmer, MJA Nashir, to join me in Bali in the hopes that we would be able to fill some of the remaining gaps in our film. When I went a seond time to visit Pak Karya, this time with Nashir, I brought two mouth harps with me. I had found them in a music shop in Ubud! (I stored one for Mas Nashir to bring back to the Batak region. We hadn’t been able to find one there.)

I Wayan Karya's mother and their
neighbour playing in two-part harmony

Pak Karya snatched the one with the pull-cord and immediately began to play it, laughing in glee. He set to with his knife to perfect parts of it so that it made a larger and sweeter sound. Then he passed it on to his ageing mother, who was also a skilled player. A visiting neighbour said she still had one and she cajoled a child to fetch it for her. Finally we had what Ompu Sihol had talked about: two people playing a two-part mouth harp melody. It transformed the mood around the looms to one of gaiety. I was so thankful that Mas Nashir was there to film it.

MJA Nashir filming the weaver in
Seraya as she sang.

I was inspired to enquire whether there were any weaving songs (left) in Seraya. At this point, I don’t even dare hope to find them, but to my surprise and elation, there was another neighbour who knew one. She installed herself in the loom and sang in dusky, wavering tones that were reminiscent of traditional Javanese song. Mas Nashir also taped this song while the eyes of the singer glistened with pride at the attention that she was receiving. (TClick on the film to hear the music!)

I felt a return of the longing that frequently rises up in me: oh, to have several lifetimes! I would spend one of them wandering around the world looking for weaving songs.

S. Niessen standing with
I Wayan Karya in his beautiful
shop filled with natural dyed
textiles

After our musical interlude, Pak Karya said that our visit had convinced him to henceforth also dish up music for the tourists visiting his weaving centre. His bright new sign is already standing monumentally on the side of the road, his tidy little shop is built and gracefully proffers hand-woven, natural-dyed cloth, and there is a covered-over area made of bamboo where his weavers sit together to produce the textiles for his shop and demonstrate their skills. His natural dye workshop is situated higher up the hill, behind the wall encircling his compound. The wall is the first element of a planned guesthouse. Pak Karya is dedicated to reviving the traditional weaving of his culture and is turning it into his full-time business.

Before we left, we saw a group of small boys entranced by the mouth-harp music being played. One of them grabbed the simple piece of bamboo when the woman laid it down and tried it himself. They all began to mimic its distinctive vibrations. I have hopes that the attention that we gave to the songs of weaving may indeed contribute to their revival in Seraya. A more fulfilling consequence of our visit could scarcely be imagined.

Living Threads - 17 March

2011-03-19T09:03:00.002+01:00

In transit now in Singapore, on my way back to The Netherlands, I think of my first meeting with Pung and Frog in the dye studio of the research foundation arm (YPBB) of Threads of Life. They were showing me how to make red dye using the roots of the Morinda citrifolia tree because I had never had the opportunity to see it done in the Batak area. The Batak stopped using that natural dye decades ago.

Ingredients in one of the red dye recipes

Frog working on a Morinda dye bath in the YPBB studio

Pung and Frog are seasoned field workers. They love to go into the villages and speak with the weavers. They are quiet and both are good listeners, respectful of local dynamics, styles and traditions. They like to get close enough to the weavers to become the recipients of stories about their youth. Often it takes awhile before a dye recipe bubbles up in their memory. (We noticed this with Ompu Okta. It emerges gradually. They need to have the opportunity and the encouragement to re-open memories of past weaving practices.) Rarely do Frog and Pung need to teach a dye recipe because they are unable to recover/uncover the local one. And, out of respect for local traditions, they never share a recipe if it has been given to them in confidence.
Pung’s and Frog’s knowledge is rich and varied. They know the trees and plants, the composition of the soils and the waters and the chemical reactions when all the components come together. With their knowledge, they could fill tracts and tomes and contribute so richly to the academic library on Indonesian weaving (including dyeing) traditions. But “writing up findings” is not their thing. Their first love is being in the field, experimenting with the recipes they learn about, assisting the weavers and making beautiful natural colours. They showed me the results of their failed experiments with a laugh. How much work it took to learn the basic proportions needed for a good dye and the factors that influence the variations!

Ever the academic, I felt regretful that this information and their stories were not being pegged down in writing and disseminated. But there is another side to it all. I am also aware that they are preserving knowledge in a different way. When I think about it, I believe it to be a more valuable way. The West would not need or have museums if indigenous worlds were not disappearing. Many of the activities of ethnographic museum flow from the understanding that it is important and possible to “preserve” indigenous traditions in storerooms and documentation systems, the academic formaldehyde for posterity, so that when the traditions disappear forever, there is at least a record of them. Pung and Frog, on the other hand, are reviving traditions. The dye recipes that they have discovered are not being pickled and described for a rarified Western audience, they are being cultivated once again in their cultures of origin. Dissemination happens when a mother teaches them to her daughter. They are dynamic traditions susceptible to change and renewal. I recall haviong felt a little confused when I realized that the successes of YPBB were taking the urgency out of the necessity to record everything for posterity.

I am an anthropologist who has been shaped by museums and steeped in their history – yet I was curiously elated when I realized that Pung and Frog were making part of the museum endeavour redundant. How brilliantly liberating! If cultural dye traditions were to live as vibrantly as Balinese orchestras in the face of modernity, if they were available for researchers to visit at any time, if indigenous traditions were not threatened but there was room for them and respect for them in the world…it is difficult to even contemplate… the world would be transformed into a living museum and the otherwise redundant buildings called “museums” could perhaps adopt a different interactive role in support of indigenous traditions. How invigorating, satisfying...

On the day that I left Bali (16 March), Frog and Pung left as well. They were heading for the Batak area carrying with them a bag of Morinda citrifolia root, their arsenal of knowledge and their sensitivity to culture. How I wish I could be the proverbial fly on the wall as they work among the Batak. I am impatient to see their results, but they tell me the process is slow and I will have to wait for years. Impatience has no role in this process. If and when they succeed, Batak dye recipes will again be firmly rooted in a few communities, and the weavers will have Threads of Life as their market outlet making their efforts financially worth their while.

...As I post this blog from my office in The Netherlands (in the meantime, I have arrived back home) I have just received a message from Goodman Ompusunggu on Facebook telling me that the weavers in Muara have met Frog and Pung and are excitedly participating in a workshop with them. There is plenty of energy around this renewal of their weaving tradition....How I wish I could be the proverbial fly on the wall....

...A week later, now. Jean Howe has sent me an email telling me about the findings and successes of Frog and Pung. Not surprisingly, the Batak have their own unique recipes with regional variations, and apparently the Morinda root in the Batak area is of high quality. There is great anticipation that soon a natural-dyed Batak textiles will enter the collection of Threads of Life.

Closer to Threads of Life

2011-03-11T01:03:00.004+01:00

In March 2009, I gave the first copy of Legacy in cloth, Batak textiles of Indonesia to Threads of Life. At the time, I had not yet met them. I had only heard about their work and read about them on their website. I was excited about their cause and felt that my book, while academic, was written in the spirit of their own very practical work keeping Indonesian weaving traditions alive. I wanted to use the public occasion of my book launch to highlight what they do. It is now two years later. I have now met Threads of Life and learned first hand about what they do.

It has all been sparked by Legacy in cloth. They found that the book offered potential as a foundation for working in the Batak area. Until now, they have always worked in Eastern Indonesia. When I was in the Batak region last October/November, some members of the YPBB Foundation, the research arm of Threads of Life, joined me. They wanted to pinpoint places where they could begin to work.

The men in the photograph, from left to right, are Daud, Pung, Nashir and Frog.
The women are former weavers in Sianjur MulaMula

I enjoyed Jean Howe's company alot during those travels. (Photo MJA Nashir)

Phase two of our collaborative plan is happening now, in Bali. I am being given the opportunity to explore what they do and how they do it. The visit is touching me in the very marrow of my anthropological soul. In the first place it is fun to renew my acquaintance with Pung, Frog and Jean Howe, who visited North Sumatra. They shared openly and alot at that time. Now I am seeing them on their home turf. Threads of Life is a beehive of activity. What they do is careful, thoughtful, and complex. I am discovering that I have been given an opportunity to be privy to what I will not hesitate to call one of the most extraordinary experiments in the textile world. My respect and admiration for this organization grows with each passing day.
I have seen their natural dye laboratory/studio, poked my way through their shop, gone behind the scenes in their offices to see their data banks, day-to-day operations and textile stores, and visited field sites in Timor and Bali. All the while, I have been able to talk with them endlessly about what they do and why they do it that way.

Examining one of Ompu Okta's mother's textiles in the Threads of Life office.
Frog is to the left, Jean Howe is pointing thoughtfully to the beadwork in the cloth,
and Pung is to the right. These three had joined me in North Sumatra in November.

Central to their work, and the reason why I find their work excellent, is their sensitivity to the cultures in which they operate and their intense awareness (and learning) of the role that textiles play in those cultures. The revival of textiles often (if not inevitably) resides at the heart of cultural revival. Jean Howe told me yesterday that cultural revival was perhaps their most important goal when they started their business more than a decade ago. And this is what clearly excites the members. Pung, Frog and Sujata, the dye team, have told me many tales about the discovery of natural dye recipes. They do not enter a new area with the tried and true recipes that they know, but facilitate the remembrance of the local recipes and colours. This is a sensitive process that may take years. During the process, the team works like a partner, noting (what is remembered of) the recipe, going back to the lab to try it out, returning to the people to compare results, assisting and troubleshooting aided by their knowledge of the chemistry of the dyes… until they finally get the results they are looking for. In this way, they revive not just the natural dyes, but also local recipes and colours (each dye yields a vast array of colour and each region has its own recipes and preferred tints and tones) and stimulate the revival/retention of that exciting diversity that characterizes Indonesian culture.
Colour is just one facet of the process of textile renewal. Ancient textiles may be “replicated” in appearance, but when they are revived in this cultural sense, including songs, techniques and equipment, associated rituals and so on, this is what is truly exciting and laudable. And this is what Threads of Life does.

On the first day of my visit here in Bali, I saw some “revival textiles” in the Threads of Life storage area that filled me with such emotion that I later had to sit down and try to figure out what was going on inside me. It is hard to explain. At first I described it as akin to the first time I saw impressionist paintings in Paris after having learned to love them in books and postcards. But the wellspring of my emotion was much deeper than that. I love the quality of the ancient textiles of Indonesia but for so long they have also been the source of a dull, sad ache because I know they represent a past era. Modern products are different. They are not as fine, they are more standardized so that the weaver’s hand is virtually absent as a signature, the materials from which they are made are usually inferior, and so on. In my writings, I have described and analyzed the kinds of changes that have taken place and the social and economic reasons for these changes. Seeing revived textiles has moved me to tears. It is like witnessing a miracle.

Oh Shoppers, when you go to the Threads of Life shop in Bali, know what you buy! Your purchase is supporting indigenous Indonesian culture, making a tiny bit of room for it in this world.

Showing Rangsa ni Tonun

2011-03-07T14:21:00.011+01:00

Fiber Face 3 has given us the opportunity to show our Rangsa ni Tonun film three times.

The first time was 12 February when Batak was chosen as the theme of the grand opening of Fiber Face 3. It was a very busy night -- the busiest that Fiber Face 3 has had to date -- with people lined up to the street to get in and all of the chairs taken. We don’t know how much this had to do with the Batak community coming out in full force. If they came, I think they went away satisfied. We had a full Batak gondang orchestra with the two brilliant players Marsius, amazing with his flute, and Sarikawan Sitohang mastering all of the instruments.

Sarikawan and Marsius Sitohang are wearing the red headcloths.
The set of drums was owned by Batak in Yogyakarta. The musicians
were thrilled to play with the talented Sitohang brothers.
(Photo MJA Nashir)

Mas Nashir orchestrated the opening performance. He had Ompu Okta doli (the male counterpart) recite the Rangsa ni Tonun text to the Sitohang musical accompaniment as the prelude to the premiere screening of our film.

Ompu Okta doli is reading his text while his wife, Ompu Okta boru, weaves
during the opening of Fiber Face 3 in Yogyakarta, February 2011.
(Photo MJA Nashir)

Afterwards we heard that the people who had been able to see it enjoyed the film but that many others were unable to see it because of the milling crowds. I personally felt pleased enough with the result that Nashir had prepared for this big deadline, but was aware that we haven’t yet finished our polishing; there is still plenty of work to be done.

After the opening, my brother (son of my sister in the Hutabarat clan), the protestant minister, Bonar Lumbantobing, contacted me to say that he could be in Yogya on the 17th of February and would he be able to see if he came to Fiber Face 3? This was just the spark that we needed to prepare another screening. He came with a group of enthusiastic and thoughtful theology students. First I gave them a tour of the Batak textiles in the exhibit, then showed the film.

Ito Bonar Tobing's class watching Rangsa ni Tonun on the television screen
in Taman Budaya where the Fiber Face 3 exhibition was staged
(Photo MJA Nashir)

It was followed by a discussion about culture and religion. What has been lost, why, what can be done about it? We talked about the goal of Fiber Face to stimulate an awareness of the importance of indigenous textile techniques and the thought worlds wrapped up in cloth production.

This was a special moment for me. In Medan, ito Bonar had shared with me some of the insights he had gained from his explorations of Batak language. He had discerned, among other things, that Batak missionaries gave new denotations to Batak words that placed Batak culture in the light of their own European and Christian background and biases, a distortion, in other words, that often gave a negative twist to indigenous Batak beliefs. By discovering the real meanings of some of these Batak words ito Bonar has gained insight into the beauty of Batak culture. Such discoveries are powerful to a thoughtful, discerning mind such as his. I learned from the discussion that evening that the Batak church continues to question its relationship to indigenous Batak culture. So much has been lost that the students were scratching their heads. Why was it, again, that the church forbade so many elements of Batak culture? It all seems so innocuous today. Indeed, it is innocuous. There are essentially no spirit-worshipping Batak left and the culture has receded imperceptibly, like sand between the fingers. There is historical and cultural amnesia. Now the church perceives itself as a champion of Batak culture. Church leaders are asking themselves what they can do to rescue what remains.

(Photo courtesy Paulina Sirait)

The evening was crowned by Paulina Sirait’s minutely documented review of the evening on Facebook. She was one of the students in attendance. (The photograph to the left is courtesy of Paulina Sirait. It was taken of us in front of two of the textiles in the exhibition from Muara..)

(Photo by Nelly Sitorus)

Another showing was held for the general public on Saturday evening, the 19th of February. This was an important showing for Nashir because he invited his friends and colleagues from his past in Yogyakarta. He left Yogyakarta about a year ago to pursue his future and life in North Sumatra. The decision was preceded by a set of circumstances, not all of them easy, and when Nashir got up to talk about what the film meant for him, he was overwhelmed by all of the emotions that came flooding back. The viewing of Rangsa ni Tonun was an opportunity for him to bring his friends up to date with his life and his creative accomplishments. Several of his friends stood up to give testimony to his creative talents, his courage in searching for a new path for himself, and his good heart.

Others in the audience asked crucial questions:
How much of the weaving world that was shown is still alive and how much was staged?
How vibrant is the Batak literary tradition? Does it still exist? (Thankfully, there was awareness that we had filmed a piece of Batak literature and not simply made a documentary of Batak weaving techniques.)
What is the gendered division of labour in Batak weaving?
The themes of cultural transmission and cultural loss dominated the evening.

Ompu Okta doli tells his story
about the very first ulos
(Photo by Nelly Sitorus)

Our main stars, Ompu Okta boru and doli were in the audience. A highlight of the evening was when Ompu Okta doli stood up to talk about the origin and meaning of Batak ulos in Batak culture. He did so with his customary energy and narration skill transforming our space into a cozy Batak living room. Suddenly we were all grandchildren hanging on the lips of grandfather and culture was being transmitted from one generation to the next.

Much appropriate emphasis was placed on MJA Nashir’s single-handed filming, direction and editing of this film and he received some of the appreciation that he well deserves for his spectacular accomplishment. My job that evening was to present background issues related to the text and Batak ethnography.

I was sorry that there were some mix-ups and communication failures pertaining to our equipment just prior to the showing and we received a defective cable so that the colour red was absent from the film.

This evening, too, was crowned by Paulina Sirait’s enthusiastic review in Facebook. (We are grateful for this because Nashir and I were both so keyed up with our participation that we forgot to use our cameras.) She has attended all three viewings and this time she brought a sizzling bevy of Batak beauties with her. The spirit of Batak women is indomitable! May they all take up weaving!

The Eleventh Hour

2011-02-20T12:14:00.000+01:00

(This blog was in the make for about a week....)

It almost always happens to me. Just before a project is due to be published or presented, I lose faith in its value and think that it should go in the round file. Such a moment descended upon me the day before leaving Jakarta. We had come to a difficult juncture in the editing of Rangsa ni Tonun and suddenly the film seemed like an impossibility. The text written down by Guru Sinangga ni Adji is a description of the steps in weaving a cloth, but it also has a poetic quality and plays with words, rhythms and analogies. It does not always follow the exact order in which a weaver carries out her task. Moreover, the way a weaver works varies from place to place and from weaver to weaver as well as from textile to textile. This poses an enormous challenge when editing the film. How much latitude can one take with the text? And are there errors in the guru’s recitation? Should we chop up the weaver’s work to coincide with the text? These questions lead to the inevitable: what are we doing with this filming project and why? What are our purposes and goals?

I began to question many things, but most of all, the style of the film. I think that Nashir has done well infusing the weaving description with a mythical quality. Should we have emphasized that mythical quality more and not focused on the details of the techniques? But how could we have accomplished this? I just do not know enough about film to even begin to articulate this. Our film is neither apples nor oranges, fish nor fowl. It leads me to want to explore comparable texts in other Asian cultures. (Chris Buckley has told me that such texts may be found elsewhere in Asia as well, and not just in the Batak region.) Have we stumbled into a problem of genre? Does this film require a rangsa genre? What form would that take?

On top of that, no matter how we slice it, the film is about translation of a text and of culture. We inch closer to the Batak culture of the past as we work on it, but the closer we get, the further away it seems to recede. The film appears to be an introduction rather than a conclusion. As the text reveals itself as more and more complex, the problem of translation moves increasingly to the forefront. How can plays on words, so distinctively rooted in ancient, foreign, past Batak culture, be turned into film? While I had rejected a verbal translation of the text because it would be so ponderous, now it seems easier to negotiate than a filmic translation.

And then there are all of the practical issues that we have run into. The film is undeniably a visual rendering of Batak weaving terminology. But even this goal is turning out to be increasingly daunting because so much has been lost. We tried valiantly to find people who could execute technical processes for us and we tried heroically to find weaving equipment. We reconstructed and refurbished but in the end, we can only approximate. What is lost is lost and cannot be revived. Too much time has already passed. Is approximation of a past the story that we want to be telling? All of the steps in making yarn and all of the steps in making red dye have been lost. The elderly women in Sianjur Mulamula could pantomime the activities but they are too old to perform them. The tradition is like sand slipping through the fingers. It lives only in their pantomime and memories, and they are women at the end of their lives. Anyone seeing that footage, who truly understands its significance, can only weep.

In addition, the woodworking skills required to make the instrument are gone. Even the trees and access to wood has disappeared. In this sense, our attempt to film Rangsa ni Topnun has been a lesson in the depth of social change that has taken place in the region, the extend of loss. We are making the film 100 years too late.

As I ponder all of this, and consider our resulting filmic translation of this old Batak text, I see that I have come to a crossroads. I am realizing that our own journey of discovery is a valuable story. The reasons why the filming of Rangsa ni Tonun is so difficult have great value. Nashir has coined the phrase “the last weaver” and we both know that his footage of laughing, pantomiming women in Sianjur Mulamula is as tragic as it is fun. The footage is precious and may someday be recognized as such and in demand. It depicts the last weavers talking about a tradition that ends with them. Even if it ‘revives’ and transforms into a recognized art form, it will never be what it was. Is this the real story that we should be telling? Through our film we became aware of the loss of culture. There should have been a camera filming us filming Rangsa. That story behind Rangsa is at least as important as the message of Rangsa and, let’s face it, far more timely. Is our filming of Rangsa ni Tonun just the first step in a longer filmic journey? Just don't tell me that another book about Batak weaving is beckoning me to sit down and write it…

From Porsea to Yogya

2011-02-16T12:31:00.004+01:00

On Sunday 13 February, I presented my talk about the Back to the Villages project to the Fiber Face 3 audience. Just when I began to describe the presentation of a copy of Legacy in cloth to Ompu Okta, she and her husband walked into the room and I introduced them to the audience. She walked up to the front of the room to join me and we stood there, arm in arm, just as we stood in the first photographs that MJA Nashir took of us back in her village last June. I pointed out that she loved her craft and felt fulfilled and satisfied as a weaver, except for one thing: she had no pupils. This saddened her a great deal because she knew that it meant the end of her tradition and of her own skills.

Last June feels like a light year away. I was new in Indonesia, then, having not been here in such a long time. The state of crisis in the Batak weaving arts was just beginning to seep into my awareness. Since then a vision and a discourse about the perpetuation of this threatened art have begun to take shape.

Fiber Face 3 plays an immense role in that process. It has presented a forum in which to tell the general public about what has been lost and the urgency of the crisis. It has presented a space in which to show beautiful textiles, the likes of which most people here – and specifically the Batak youth – no longer have an opportunity to see (because the heritage has been sold off and exported). Importantly, Ompu Okta is also here demonstrating the complexity of her skill and her extraordinary proficiency as an old-style weaver. (An “old style weaver” to my mind is one who takes so much pride in her work that she also takes the time and uses all of her capacities to make a beautiful product. Most weavers who work for the market receive so little payment for their work that they do not enjoy this luxury.) And finally, Ompu Okta is teaching visitors how to weave. Not only do we have her loom set up but also a second loom with the red warp that Ompu Okta made for the purposes of our film. This opportunity to teach her craft is vastly different from a “normal” situation in the village, but it fits the times and is an attempt to recruit students/apprentices in the wider world.

Ompu Okta has had hundreds of students at Fiber Face 3 in Yogyakarta where
much emphasis has been placed on the continuation of culture.
.

My very last slide was of the 90 year old weaver in Palipi pointing her finger. I told my audience that she was pointing it at them. You. Us. It is our responsibility, I said. If we do not choose to assume this responsibility, the art will be lost forever. It can’t be learned from a book; it has to be learned through apprenticeship. Culture cannot skip a generation; culture survives through transmission from generation to generation.

At the end of my lecture, a young woman from South Sumatra came up to me and said that she had been moved by my lecture. She is studying the art and science of textiles at a large, accredited institution but until hearing my lecture, had been unsure of the direction she wanted to take. Now she knew that she had a tradition to guard and a foundation on which to build: her own! She is 19, impressionable, full of promise, full of hope. Her words were the greatest expression of appreciation that I could ever receive for delivering a lecture.

Filming Rangsa ni Tonun

2011-02-09T02:00:00.001+01:00

Schedule in North Sumatra, January 2011

18 – Depart Amsterdam

19 – Arrive Medan; picked up by Pak Jerry in the airport and visited his house; picked up Mas Nashir and visited Irwansyah Harahap and Rithja Hutajulu at their home in Medan; drove to Tabo Cottages on Samosir Island

20 – Drove to Muara, visiting Ompu Okta en route to greet the new grandson; evening planning meeting with Restuala Namora Pakpahan and Goodman Ompusunggu.

21 – filming in Muara of Si Boru Hasagian and the textiles of Raja Ihat Manisia. Attempt to make pipisan. Cotton floating in the water.

22 – filming in Muara – re-take of Si Boru Hasagian and the textiles of Raja Ihat Manisia. Sigira, salaon, and the failure of the pipisan.

23 –Filming of sigira, and the shifting of the warp from the warping beam to the loom. Departure from Muara to Balige. Visit Sebastian Hutabarat and his family.

24 – Filming of the use of the sorha with Ompu Okta in Uluan. Return to Balige in the evening to examine the pipisan with Sebastian Hutabarat. Night at Universitas DEL.

25 – Filming Ompu Okta’s use of the iraniran. Visit to Ompu Okta’s home village. Packed looms for Yogyakarta. Mas Nashir and Pak Jerry return to Medan. I stay behind at Universitas DEL in Laguboti.

26 – Day of writing blogs, washing clothes, recovering from a cold, and gathering my thoughts at Universitas DEL.

27 – Meet Ompu Lambok and receive the textiles that I commissioned from her for Fiber Face 3. Meeting with Nelson

28 – To Balige to fetch pipisan. To Dolok Sanggul and Baakkara with Nelson Lumbantoruan. In the evening to Medan.

Facing Fiber Face – 1 February

2011-02-06T10:55:00.007+01:00

A page in the calendar has flipped over. It is now February and Phase I, the filming of Rangsa ni Tonun is finished (at least for now. Mas Nashir wants to make improvements – especially with the footage on spinning and the cotton gin after the first screening). Jakarta is Phase II and Yogyakarta is Phase III. In Jakarta, we will be editing the film and in Yogyakarta, at the grand opening of Fiber Face 3, it will have its first public screening.

The Fiber Face event has generated much good energy. In addition to the opportunity to make the Rangsa ni Tonun film, the opening has compounded so many of the joys of producing the film – primarily the opportunity to be with the two Ompus Okta.

Both of them have been invited as special guests to the opening of Fiber Face 3. The female will proudly demonstrate her weaving skills and the male will orate, just as he did for the film. This is generating much excitement for them. They only warmed slowly to the idea – they had to receive permission from their ever careful and protective children, and they had to be sure the conditions were all right – but now they are committed to coming. They checked out the websites of Babaran Sagara Gunung and myself and read MJA Nashir’s chapters of Berkelana dengan Sandra. Ompu Okta doli even went to an internet café to do this. Oh, how times have changes since my first fieldwork when I had to travel all the way to Sibolga to get a long-distance telephone connection!

Ompu Okta doli is excited about walking down the famous Malioboro Road in Yogyakarta and Ompu Okta boru wants to see batik being made. I am pleased that we will be guests in Hannie Winotosastro’s guesthouse because Hannie is one of the biggest batik makers in Yogyakarta and the curious may also do batik in her workshop. The female Ompu Okta also wants to take a train. As a child, there was a plan to take a train, but it fell through. This may be her one and only opportunity so we have decided to return to Jakarta by train after their stay at the exhibition. In addition, she will receive the Fiber Face prize for textile excellence. We hope to make it an exciting and pleasing high point in her life.

The last time we visited (on the fateful day with the spinning wheel), she had wrapped her loom carefully in cloth and fixed everything so that the loom parts would not fall out and make it impossible to resume her work. She said she wanted me to bring the loom to Yogya to ensure its safety. I feel this responsibility very much and so it was incumbent on me to make sure that it was wrapped in a fail-safe way for traveling. In Porsea, I had purchased a pandan mat for Ompu Okta to sit on and we decided to wrap this around the loom. And then Pak Jerry, Mas Nashir and I went out to look for wrapping materials. I wanted some sturdy plastic to emulate shrink-wrapping, but my two companions introduced me to local ways. While I kept my eyes peeled for a plastic shop, they stopped the vehicle in front of what I thought was a heap of garbage! The old flattened cardboard of every size and colour, bound together with a rope was what they had been looking for! They insisted that this was appropriate wrapping material and I could scarcely refuse because it cost less than 1 euro. The plastic that we ended up using was the one in which the mat had been wrapped and the seller had been willing to relinquish to us. Back in the village, Jerry and Nashir wrapped the loom. Their concession to the times was in the use of a modern roll of wide plastic tape. When they were done, the Ompus Okta surveyed the strewn remains of the cardboard bundle with satisfaction and said they would sell it! Everybody was happy!

As a result of all of this, I am now on the PELNI ferry to Jakarta instead of an airplane. In fact, I am carrying two looms and I don’t let them out of my sight. The second is the one that we prepared while shooting the film. It will be available in Yogyakarta for guests to weave on (and me too! I l still long to weave beside Ompu Okta.)

Leaving Balawan Harbour near Medan

Being pulled out into the famous, busy /Strait of Malacca

Before I left, I was assisting with the travel arrangements for Ompu Okta. Fiber Face 3 will pay for their journey. The Ompus Okta really would have preferred to travel with Mas Nashir and myself to Java, but we have a stop to make in Jakarta. While I still have to work out their travel from the village to Medan, on the day of their flight, Pak Jerry will pick up them and the two musicians (Marsius and his brother Sarikawan), bring them to the airport on time, and help them with check-in and the purchase of the airport tax. As Pak Jerry brought me to the ferry yesterday, we walked though the whole scenario. He is pleased to be of service and we know that we can rely on him fully. He is brilliant with details and keeps everything firmly on track. I could leave Medan with my mind at ease. I want the Ompus Okta to have a good time with no worries.

The Musical Accompaniment to Rangsa ni Tonun

2011-02-06T10:50:00.003+01:00

On the last day before leaving Medan, I made the long trek from my hotel to the home of Irwansyah and Rithaony Hutajulu. This is where MJA Nashir stays when he is in Medan. He is a great admirer of this musical couple, their tremendous artistic potential and their accomplishments. He assists them where and when he can with his computer skills. In this way, he has been able to come in close touch with them and has gotten to know the members of their musical group, called Suarasama.

Reciprocally, this couple has become familiar with Mas Nashir’s skills and have been privy to all the steps in the editing of the film. Nashir loves to show the results of a day’s edit or a recent shoot. Suarasama knows better than anyone else how he has been burning the midnight oil to make this film. They also appreciate the goals of the film. They covet knowledge about ancient Batak society and know how to value a text like Rangsa ni Tonun.

Living in their house, Mas Nashir has had ample opportunity to discuss the audio accompaniment and challenges to the film. By the time I arrived there, they had everything sorted out. When Irwansyah told me about the choices, I felt his pleasure at the selections and what he and Suarasama had made of the opportunity. He loves his work. The same smile of enjoyment is on his face when he plays music. I loved the fact that Rangsa ni Tonun is giving these people an opportunity to apply and even expand their repertory. For me Rangsa ni Tonun is not just about the recovery of the past, but a chance to build culture here and now and for the future. Art must always build on what has gone before. Like Nashir, Irwansyah and Rithaony are artists. (It would be so much fun to have a film about the text in the time when it used to be recited and then juxtapose that with our adventures with the text in the contemporary world.)

The music that they selected adds a new symbolic layer to Rangsa ni Tonun and enlivens the film. Each of the melodies is traditional and has been inserted with care according to its meaning. On the day when I was there, the members of Suarasama came out in full force, including:Marsius and his brother Sarikawan Sitohang, Ophir Yanto Sihombing and Syainul Irwan. It was the climax of the musical accompaniment for the film.

Sarikawan Sitohang put his heart in his music.

The film opens with Gondang Sitoluntuho / elekelek. This music accompanies the cotton drifting own from the Upper World. Usually it is played to accompany the arrival of guests at a Batak ritual event.

When the narration by Ompu Okta doli begins in the film, a gondang melody called Sibuka Pikiran is played. This encourages the listener to be open, to be receptive to the knowledge that will become available.

The Gondang Silage Buang follows. The name of the music refers to a woven straw mat and it alludes to a foundation, that on which other things can rest or be placed. It sets the mood and legitimizes what the narrator of the film, Ompu Okta doli, is saying.

In 1980, I made a very brief recording of Ompu Sihol playing the mouth harp (sagasaga). She explained that when a weaver was tired, she might retire briefly and play this little instrument to relax herself with a change of pace. She also explained that you really needed two people to play the melody, but she was the only one left who still knew how to play. We have decided to include this ancient recording in the film when the cotton is being fluffed using a bow. Incomplete as it is, it is still a rare recording of a musical tradition that has disappeared. It was tempting to insert a melody played using a musical bow, but in the end I think that we did the right thing by opting for Ompu Sihol’s mouth harp.

On our last day together in 1980, when we had our communal meal, Ompu Sihol sang a song for me and I recorded that as well. She said that weavers were courted while at their loom and they often sang teasing songs about their suitors. The young man courting them had to really want them badly enough if they were going to accept his attentions! This kind of song was sung while winding spun yarn (mangiran). Weavers used songs to help them keep count when winding yarn, a melodious way to measure. In the film, we use the scratchy, old recording of Ompu Sihol’s wavering voice as an introduction to the fully accompanied version that Irwansyah has composed based on that recording. It leads into Rithaony’s silver and crystal voice and all of Suarasama put their hearts into the piece. Without question this Weaving Song has to be the theme song of the film (see blog Iraniran: Symbolism and Song).

The next musical component of the film is a hasapi solo. The hasapi is a wooden guitar-like instrument with only two strings. There are various kinds of hasapi and Irwansyah has had some exquisite ones made for his use. The solo that he plays is improvised.

Towards the end of the Rangsa ni Tonun text we have a representative of the first Batak weaver, Boru Hasagian, standing in prayer at the edge of Lake Toba. This beautiful image is graced with a so-called andung melody. Andung is sad and haunting, and fits the meditative mood of this special moment. It is played by the brilliant Marsius Sitohang, probably the best Batak sulim (a kind of flute) player alive today.

As the film cycles around to end where it began, the Gondang Hasahatan Sitotio emerges. This melody is played at the end of every Batak ritual and ceremony. Every Batak recognizes it. It will be especially satisfying, therefore, for the Batak viewers of the film.

When the day was done, the sound had been professionally recorded by Avena Natondang (another member of Suarasama) and Mas Nashir had filmed the players, I went over to thank Irwansyah for the great privilege of having his participation in the film. I also expressed my admiration for the quality of the music and for how fitting it was to our needs. He and Ritha explained that it was rare that they received requests to do absolutely traditional music, although this is what all of the members of Suarasama love to do most. They had enjoyed the opportunity – and recovered an old melody as a result of the recording of Ompu Sihol. When they perform it in the future, they wish to announce it as a tribute to this excellent weaver who would have died in anonymity like hundreds and thousands of others, had it not been for our historically accidental meeting – part of the legacy of Sitor Situmorang who advised me, some 31 years ago, to look for a “traditional” weaver in Harian Boho….
Thirty-one years ago! At the time, she was the only one left in Harian Boho….The decline in the Batak weaving arts has accelerated in the intervening years. Nashir, Irwansyah, Rithaony, Suarasama…by re-constructing they are building anew a culture that will win respect, that will be loved, appreciated, admired.

Iraniran: Symbolism and Song

2011-02-06T10:38:00.002+01:00

Working on the film, Rangsa ni Tonun, while simultaneously preparing for the exhibition ‘Fiber Face 3’ has yielded some satisfying, serendipitous overlap. The looms that we are bringing, the Ompus Okta, their heirloom textiles, the heirloom textiles from Muara – all will lend coherence to the opening of Fiber Face 3 because they also appear in the film. When they enter the “spotlight” section of the exhibition where the Batak textiles will be hanging, observant people will feel like they have walked into the ambience of the film.

The object of central symbolic importance is Ompu Sihol’s iraniran or reel. I brought it with me from The Netherlands because we hadn’t been able to find one in the Batak area (the one that we tried to make was big and clumsy). Ompu Sihol (my weaving teacher in Harian Boho in 1980) had shown me, more than 30 years ago, how to use it and the yarn that she had wrapped was still on it. We used it to re-shoot the iraniran component of the film. Ompu Okta said she had never used one before. (She told me that in Uluan the warp winder without a central peg had been used to wind newly-spun yarn. Such are the regional variations in Batak weaving techniques and equipment.) It took her awhile to get the hang of it, but eventually she could wrap flawlessly, though more carefully and slowly than Ompu Sihol who had mastered it and could do it quickly and without thinking.

Pak Jerry congratulates a satisfied Ompu Okta on her new yarn wrapping skill.

When Ompu Sihol demonstrated it for me, she had sung a weaving song and I had recorded it. At my request, Joop Bal in Oosterbeek had digitized the old cassette and I passed it on to Nashir. It had been my hope that we would find more such songs in the Batak area, but we did not. They have also disappeared. Nashir, in turn, played Ompu Sihol’s song for the ethnomusicologists in Medan, Irwansyah Harahap and Rithaony Hutajulu who are collecting old melodies. He hoped that Ritha would be willing to learn the song and sing it while wrapping yarn for the film. What actually transpired was far more exciting.

We used Ompu Sihol’s old, crackly voice in the film while Ompu Okta winds yarn...and it leads into the Suarasama version. Irwansyah worked Ompu Sihol’s song into a new composition. It will be the theme song of the film. We are calling it The Weaving Song and it is dedicated to the memory of Ompu Sihol. Nashir is fond of pointing out that the iraniran symbolizes the essence of the film: it belonged to Ompu Sihol and it is used by Ompu Okta who plays the first Batak weaver. It represents the passage of knowledge from one generation to the next and it celebrates the vast weaving knowledge of the two most important weavers in the film.

The symbolic heart of the film: Ompu Okta using Ompu Sihol's iraniran.

On the last day of January, Irwansyah invited members of Suarasama to his home and, playing by ear, listening to Ritha sing the song and also listening to the recording of Ompu Sihol, they completed the joyful melody with its teasing words and added complex original Batak instrumentation (percussion, wind and strings). I watched and listened as the musicians presented different alternatives, discussed amongst themselves which would be better and why, settled on one, and then rehearsed it until it seemed to be part of their flesh and blood and they could play it with heart and soul. Another member of Suarasama recorded it professionally. Then Mas Nashir did a video recording of it. I hope that it becomes an add-on at the end of the film. The film, Rangsa ni Tonun, has revived not just an ancient text and some weaving techniques, but also some forgotten music.

Postscript: All of the players dressed up in Batak textiles for Nashir’s video recording of the song. I noticed that the shoulder cloth that Ritha was wearing had precisely the ikat that I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to find for the exhibition. She was willing to allow me to include it in the exhibition, yet another overlap with the film.

Trouble Shooting the Sorha or Spinning our Wheels

2011-01-30T12:37:00.003+01:00

On our last night in Muara, Ompu Okta called to ask how things were going with the rehabilitation of the sorha. She was very clear: bring it to her so that she could do the spinning for the film! I loved it! She made me giggle and hug myself in delight. She and her husband are doing all that they can to ensure that the film is done right! We have taken up so much of their time already, and this is a busy time in the rice fields transplanting the seedlings, but she was still anxious to spend more time on a weaving technique that she hadn’t practiced in a long, long time. In fact, she was itching to do it! Weaving skills are such a great source of pride to her.

In a previous blog (Muara, O Muara II) I expressed my joy at seeing a working sorha in the Batak area once again. We proudly stashed it in the back of our spacious vehicle and in the morning, when we left Sebastian Hutabarat’s home, we headed for her village. We decided that we should bring lunch to the village as a matter of courtesy and when we stopped I noticed that we were parked in front of an iron smith’s shop. Restuala and his carpenter had tried very hard to make the wheel as original as possible, using no nails or glue. And not knowing that the early Batak were skilled in metalworking, they even made the spindle from wood (and gave it a hook at the end, not knowing that it just came to a clean point). I had brought metal spindles from The Netherlands, but this had gone over like a lead balloon in Muara because the steel was shiny (they called it chrome). So in front of the iron smith’s shop, I asked if he could use a rusty iron staff of narrow diameter to make me a spindle. He was willing. He had no materials thin enough, so I agreed to one of wider diameter. As soon as the smith was finished, he started to polish the whole thing so that it gleamed and I caught him too late. So then he had to do it over again and not polish it. When we arrived at Ompu Okta's house, her first words were, “You’re late”.

Oh well. We proudly carried the little jewel of a spinning wheel into her house.

I pulled out the new spindles just as Ompu Okta doli was pulling out his own spindles! He, too, was prepared! And he told me that my new ones were much too large and clumsy. Neither of them was happy with the gizmo that the Muara carpenter had devised to hold the spindle because it was made of wood rather than sugar-palm fiber. They explained that a thin, strong, slippery sheath or lining of bamboo was inserted inside the sugar-palm fiber ring to make sure that the spindle could spin optimally. So we learned something new.

The first thing that Ompu Okta did was replace the string that turns the wheel,

The two Ompus Okta decided in consultation with each other to replace the string connecting the big wheel to the little spindle, and they took the whole apparatus apart to connect the two components using a black string with elastic qualities. It had to be tight enough to actually turn the spindle. But then it became evident that the spokes of the big wheel had been tied incorrectly. This meant that the big wheel was too weak to accommodate the tension of the string connecting it to the spindle. This time it was Mas Nashir who went to work. We still had some old rattan that we had purchased from the woman who had sold us the wheel in this very same village last November. Nashir soaked it in a bucket of water and then split it to get some pieces manageably thin to re-tie the spokes of the wheel. It all took time.

The replacement of the string that turns on the wheel
led to the discovery of the flaws in the wheel.

The male Ompu Okta expressed his disappointment that he had not been the one that we had asked to re-furbish the wheel. (We agreed.) He saw that the entire end piece of the wheel, that had originally been there when we purchased the wheel, had been replaced with a clumsy, inelegant piece of wood. Everyone was disappointed by the look of it and Ompu Okta said that the hole in it was the wrong shape and size, but we had to make do with what we had.

When Nashir was done and tension was applied to the string connecting the wheel to the spindle, it seemed to work and we all heaved a sigh of relief. The woven pandan mat was fetched. Ompu Okta put on her film-clothes and we moved out into the village plain to commence filming. “This isn’t hapas Palembang” Ompu Okta said at that point. “No, it is cotton from Bali” we said. I was stricken with worry. This too? Ompu Okta was not pleased and said that she didn’t know if she would be able to spin it. She tried though, only to realize that the big wheel wouldn’t turn correctly. The kind of cotton that we had was turning out to be the least of our worries. The wheel seemed to turn fine in the opposite direction! As the wheel needed to turn for the filming to be successful, Nashir dismantled the whole thing, turned the wheel around and put it all back together again.

To no avail, however. And then it started to rain. So we packed everything up and brought it back to the house. In the meantime, the handle that Ompu Okta had been using to turn the wheel had broken. Now Pak Jerry, our chauffeur shifted into gear. By now, we were using nails and plastic string and searching the edges of the village square (unsuccessfully) for pieces of wood of the right shape and size.

Then Ompu Okta doli tried to improve the functioning of the wheel by using a different rope that wouldn’t slip around so much. After changing it all, he saw that it had worked better with the original, so he changed it back.

Eventually the whole family was at work: the two Ompu Okta and their son
all did their best to get the wheel to work

The next option was to change the spindle. First we tried Ompu Okta’s spindle, but it was too thin and the clumsy wooden holder (instead of palm fibre) that had been made was too large and the spindle wobbled too much. Now we switched to the spindle of wider diameter that I had just purchased at the market. It seemed to work a little better.

Everybody kept his temper, told stories, tried not to get peeved (Nashir told me later, in a rare confession of negative emotion, that he had felt like kicking the thing into the next village) and tried to think creatively. At one point, my head cold and fatigue got the better of me down and I just had to lie down for a few minutes. The circumstances were not the best, but I do remember lying there on the back seat of the car thinking that despite everything, I was terribly privileged. Pak Jerry, Mas Nashir and the two Ompu Okta were all fully intent on making this bloody wheel work. All were fully dedicated to the film. All were creative and skilled and good-tempered. What a team! What amazing luck for me to be able to work with these people! I conked out for about 10 minutes and nobody missed me. They just worked on.

When I returned, Ompu Okta doli told us that one of the persons with whom he drank palm wine in the evenings also turned out to have a spinning wheel.
Let’s go get it, I said.
Don’t said Ompu Okta doli. It will cost too much.
I’ve already spent so much on this project, it would be silly to start to scrimp at this stage, I said.

But I noticed that the female Ompu Okta looked at the male Ompu Okta in a meaningful way. I didn’t know how to interpret the look. But they put their foot down. No, they said, it would be of no use to fetch that wheel. So we didn’t. I did wonder, at that point, what I would have been willing to spend on it….

Now Nashir was using all of his film-director’s creativity. He suggested that Ompu Okta hold the luli pinale (the cotton to be spun – prepared for us in November in Sianjur Mulamula) in her hand, and behind it the already-spun yarn. She would then have the appearance of spinning when she stretched out her hand but she would only be unraveling the already spun yarn. Alas, after many valiant attempts, this didn’t work because the un-spun cotton got all scrambled up with the spun cotton. And each time the spun cotton got wound up on the spindle, we had to unwind it again, wind it into a ball, and start over again. The day was beginning to wane.

Filming didn't go smoothly. Nashir spent more time on the technology
of the wheel than of the camera

The male Ompu Okta decided to do something about the wobbly way the spindle was turning, so he sacrificed a flip-flop sandal to attach to the end of the spindle as a kind of stopper. Foam rubber was a far cry from the original materials that Restuala had been so proud of, but we were punchy by this time and ready to try anything.

“I think that I could turn this film into an advertisement for machine-spun yarn,” said Mas Nashir. “Oh, for T.D. Pardede!” (the Batak from Balige who had set up the first spinning factory in Medan)

The female Ompu Okta had her newly-born grandson in her arms while she was waiting for each new reparation of the sorha and she told me stories about the last time she had spun. It had been when her children were still young and it was for an elderly woman in the village who still made her own cotton blankets. The woman was only a minimally skilled weaver and didn’t know how to make supplementary patterning. Ompu Okta and her children all assisted with the spinning. It was lovely to do, she said. If (because?) the wheel turned correctly.

Because of the rain it was impossible to film in the village plain. We fetched a pandan mat that we had just purchased in Porsea and we tacked it up to hide the cement of the wall of the modern bungalow. Now the male Ompu Okta, still working on the big wheel, tried to keep it from shifting on its axle so that it would turn more smoothly. By the time we were ready to proceed again, the rain had stopped, so we packed everything up again and shifted back to the village plain.

Nashir and Ompu Okta worked together. He taught her how to fake the spinning process. Finally he claimed that he had a few frames of useable film that he was going to try to splice together into a series of images that would delude the audience into thinking that Ompu Okta, on this fateful day, using this gem of an “original” Batak spinning wheel, had managed to spin some yarn.

But it is a lie. We didn’t spin on that fateful day. And Nashir told me that when he had time to improve the film, after the exhibition Fiber Face 3 in Yogyakarta, he wanted to go to Toraja where his dear Nenek Panggao lives and where spinning gives meaning to her life. He would then dress her up in Batak clothes and ….would I go with him?

On that fateful grey, rainy, frustrating day, we learned an awful lot about Batak spinning wheels and it kindled in us respect for the Batak makers of functional spinning wheels because they knew how to balance all of the parts and make them work as a whole with the correct size and shape of wheel, the correct tension of yarn, the correct kind of spindle, and all of this making use of the materials available close at hand: the right kinds of wood, the right kinds of bamboo, the right kind of yarn, rattan and rope, And then there was the knowledge of physics…. Some truly great minds were at work in the “primitive” historical past. And nature and knowledge of it were so much richer then….

Another time we will continue to work on this. Restuala wants to have some functioning wheels in Muara for his weaving centre. A tall order, as it turns out!

Pondering the Pipisan OR... The Ponderous Pipisan

2011-01-29T05:08:00.020+01:00

The story of the pipisan (cotton gin) is at least as old as the one about the sorha (spinning wheel). My search has always been for both of them simultaneously. Perhaps the spinning wheel has claimed more attention because people at least know what it is! The pipisan has receded so far from memory because essentially nobody works anymore with cotton appropriate for spinning and all of the processes involved in cleaning the cotton are unknown. People don’t even know that there are pits in the cotton and that they are awfully hard to remove. Furthermore, it does not appear that the pipisan was used everywhere. Ompu Okta was under the impression that the pits were always removed by hand.

Unfortunately, I could find only one archival photograph depicting the use of the pipisan and this single photograph was very unclear, so we couldn’t even make do with that for the film. We had no choice but to try to re-make the instrument. All of my attempts to import one from Bali were to no avail.

Restuala, with his eternal goodwill, agreed to try to help us in Muara while I was in The Netherlands. When we arrived in Muara, little progress had been made, however. This was primarily because nobody had a clear idea of the function of the machine – and also because my diagram was only two dimensional. It is that gearing mechanism, with two pieces of wood essentially ‘twining’ around each other, that is presenting the problem. It takes considerable skill to make this.

Carpenter in Muara struggling with the pipisan without the
right wood or tools or ever having seen a pipisan or perhaps
even knowing what the pits in cotton are like.

When I got to Muara this time around, I tried to explain it to the craftsman. He could understand the principles and he did his best to execute the gearing mechanism, and despite having a sleepless night thinking about it, he was not able to come up with the right formula in time. Nor did he have appropriate wood and tools to work with.

For this reason, I decided once again to trust to fate and to let go of this experiment in Muara. On the day of our departure, my mind was buzzing with what I should do next. Go to Tarutung and look for a woodworker? Afterall, our Guru Sinangga ni Adji, the writer of Rangsa ni Tonun, was from Tarutung and there might be some vague memory of the device there. The major inhibiting problem was that there simply was not enough time left. Even if I could get to Tarutung and even if I could locate a skilled craftsman, both of which would take days, he would need more time than we had available to accomplish the task. What then? The only other option that I could think of was to return to Ompu Okta and see what magical things might happen--- like finding a pipisan on a neighbour’s balcony the way we found the sorha!

En route to Ompu Okta, we had been invited to spend the night with Sebastian Hutabarat, my dear nephew in Balige doing wonderful experimental things with eco-lifestyle and art. He wanted to talk to Nashir about film and it is always a pleasure to talk with Sebastian so we were more than happy to accept his invitation. Sebastian also took the opportunity to show us what he had been doing with salvaged wood to build his future café.

When we left, I sat in the back of the vehicle and once again pondered the pipisan. I had seen wood at Sebastian’s place that struck me as perfect for the rollers….hey! Sebastian also had some excellent wood workers! Eureka! I phoned him right back to ask if we could prevail again on his goodwill and his woodworking skills! Dear Sebastian was immediately ready and willing. Come back again in the evening, he said.

And so we did, bringing the spinning wheel with us and computer images. He called over one of his new employees, a young man named Alfred Manurung who has just graduated from art school. Alfred was quiet, thoughtful, up for the challenge, and had time to work on it. I gave him until the end of the week.

Yesterday morning early, I visited Sebastian Hutabarat’s house to view the progress on the pipisan. Alfred had done a good, solid job. It wasn’t yet finished, though. There were some confusions and these related to my two-dimensional diagram. I did my best to explain the instrument and said I would be back at the end of the day.

Alfred is a clever young man and a sound and innovative wood worker. The vision he had in his mind did not exactly overlap with my vision, however. His work was therefore innovative and not exactly what was intended, but the product is hopefully good enough for us to work with for the film. If Nashir films close-up, we may be able to get away with what Alfred has made and without the inauthenticities in his version of the pipisan being evident to the viewing audience. Unfortunately, on the very last day, after I left him yesterday morning, Alfred put the gearing mechanism between the vertical elements instead of outside them as had been the original plan. This means that cotton will get stuck in them and gum up the machine. It also means that we won’t even be able to film the rollers in their entirety. I was very regretful about this last-minute change. In addition, the gear mechanism that he made won’t squeak the way the original does, so we will have to develop another squeak for our sound recording. That should be possible. Alfred cleverly made a tray for catching pits. It was a misinterpretation of my drawing of the mechanism that puts pressure on the two rollers so that the pits can’t slip between them. Our pipisan also has a gap between the rollers because of the way he made the gear mechanism and this means that it will not do a good job of removing the pits. Oh well. I explained all of this to Alfred, and said that I hoped he would be able to finish the apparatus sometime in the future for us. I will do my best to find an example in Bali next month and ship it back to the Batak area. It would be wonderful to finally once again have a real Batak cotton gin / pipisan.

It has been aa special experience to see all the work, thought, and time that goes into understanding and making a new machine. How much innovative thought must have gone into creating the first one! The real one is a simple but clever device, much better, to date, than the ones we have been able to come up with, even though we understand the principle! I have also learned that the craft of woodworking has declined as much as the craft of weaving.

All of the materials laid out and ready to film the
removal of cotton pits using the pipisan.

A Rainbow in a Pothole

2011-01-26T08:46:00.006+01:00

There is a line in the Rangsa ni Tonun text that we are filming that reads “na songon halibutongan di lupaklupak” We didn’t have a clue how to film it mostly because we didn’t know the meaning of the word lupaklupak nor, therefore, how a halibutongan (rainbow) related to Batak dye. We asked Restuala and he thought that a lupaklupak was the natural sink that forms where the water in the rice terrace falls down to the next level. That little waterfall sometimes creates a spray and if the light is just right, a little rainbow results. We then went off looking for potholes and rainbows thinking that the text was using the rainbow as an anology for the colour that the dye process would give to the yarn.

We found many lupaklupak. The search was delicious. Suddenly we became aware of the structure of rice field irrigation. We saw many little waterfalls that we had never noticed before. We learned to see a micro-beauty in Muara that had been there all the while we had focused our prime attention on the panoramas. Our search took us down roads where I think that tourists seldom go and Restuala even took us to a rather large waterfall hidden in the woods where we saw and enjoyed the gurgle of the stream. What a way to make a film!

Restuala showed us what lupaklupak look like in the sawah
and then we looked for rainbows. It turned out to be as
successful as looking for a pot of gold.

Nevertheless we failed to see a rainbow. Nashir did his best with trick photography but only came up with stars of light playing with the falling sawah water. Only later did we learn that, while close, we were not looking in quite the right place to make our visual translation of this line of the text. Our next stop after Muara was Ompu Okta’s village where she would demonstrate the use of the spinning wheel. The rather long and arduous process of getting the spinning wheel to work (the subject of another blog) meant that I had plenty of time to talk with her. The Rangsa ni Tonun text had continued to play in her mind because her childhood memories of the weaving process were still emerging. (How the film and the text has inspired weavers never ceases to thrill me.)

This time she also took us to the village and house where she had been born (a carved and painted original Batak house on stilts). She showed us pictures of her mother, who passed away in 2008, and her grandmother who would have been born around 1900. Her grandmother’s photo was reminiscent of so many that had been taken during the colonial era, a nice posed black and white shot of the whole family gathered around the grandmother and grandfather seated in the middle.

Ompu Okta's grandmother is sitting in the middle with an ulos over her shoulder.
OmpuOkta herself is the child sitting first on the right, cross legged, in the foreground.

Ompu Okta and her husband both expressed their joy that they had been born at a time when it was still possible to soak up some of the old culture. She had never made red dye herself, she said, but her mother and her grandmother used to make it and she had watched them. It reminded me that her knowledge is, indeed, the result of knowledge that has been passed down for many generations.

This is what she could remember:

The leaves of a mountain tree (hau dolok) called haramonting as well as saduluk and other plants were mixed together with water and boiled in a clay pot (like the one used for indigo dyeing). The water in the pot turned rather red.

The pot was then taken to the rice fields, to the butak: runny mud beside the river. A hole was carved out and the mud heaped up in the middle. Yarn was put in this natural "pot". When well permeated, the yarn was taken out of the clay pot and “planted” in the mud (she called this sigira as well) and pushed down in it so that it would become well-permeated with the mud. The liquid in the clay pot was added to the lupaklupak, as she called it!!!! and this was the reddish “rainbow” in the lupaklupak. The whole process might be repeated three times until the colour was deep enough. This is a colour that won’t fade, Ompu Okta said, extolling is virtues proudly while shaking her head disparagingly about modern, synthetic colours.

Now, I am not positive that I have recorded all of the details of what Ompu Okta said exactly correctly and I would like to go back and check them with her without too many other people and goings-on around us, but I do feel confident that in sitting with her in front of her house in the village, we had stumbled upon the rainbow in the hole in the rice fields that the Rangsa ni Tonun text referred to. The connection with dyeing couldn’t be stronger. It was the critical moment when the red mixture was added to the mud and the dye solution could work its magic on the yarn.

Blue and black and mud all over

2011-01-26T06:09:00.009+01:00

One of the things that we had to tick off our To Do list was the salaon (indigo plant) growing in the wild. We tackled it in Muara. Restuala taught us to recognize it and took us initially to a garden where it was growing as one plant among many in a scrubby thicket. In the end, however, Nashir decided to stalk a patch growing on the side of the road because the lake formed a stunning backdrop. He has come to the insight that the lake gives identity to the Batak. Without the lake, so much more of the ancient culture would be lost .

Muara was also the place to film sigira, a dye process that I had never witnessed before and only read about. Muara weavers used to practise it. Apparently, after they had finished dyeing their yarn with indigo and they wanted to transform the deep, rich blue colour into black, they took it to the rice fields where the iron content in the mud did the trick.

Restuala holding the indigo-dyed yarn that we will
eventually submerge in the mud of the rice fields.

A basin-like sink was dug in the sawah (the mud is so liquid that this can be done with bare hands) and, after heating the yarn in a vegetable mixture, it was dumped into the sawah basin. The dyer turned the skein, hand over hand, just as she turned it in the dye pot.

Our indigo dyer passed on the task to a fellow villager and off we trekked to the rice fields.

Our indigo dyer was working on her coffee harvest, so she passed on the
task of re-enacting sigira to her neighbour in the village, explaining how it was done.

At this time of year, everybody is working hard transplanting the tender young, fresh green seedlings and the fields are very wet. The first basin that our weaver dug was half in the shadow and so Nashir asked her to make another one in the light.

The sigira dyer in the rice field hears that she
has to make another hole, this time in the light.

Finally, the third basin was just right. We didn’t have the room in our agenda to do the full process complete with the boiling of the yarn, so we cut a corner because the Rangsa ni Tonun text is very short on this issue, essentially: “from blue-dyed yarn, it can be turned black, and from black it can be starched.” We know that a true documentary film of Batak weaving techniques would involve all sorts of regional variations of each step of the process (for example Restuala said that some sigira was done without heating the liquid mixture) and perhaps I will one day make a 20 hour serious documentary film. For the time being, however, Rangsa ni Tonun is a magical, poetic text related to weaving. It must inspire and delight. Nashir is the perfect filmer for this task because his heart is that of a poet and he understands the intention of the text. Our sigira moment in the film takes advantage of yet another extraordinary vista, this time of rice fields leading down to the blue calm lake, and the wonderful tangible quality of the slippery mud. How could we help, in these settings, but capture the deliciously earthy quality of the ancient textiles created from materials close at hand given by Mother Earth?

The sigira setting in the rice fields was wonderful with Lake Toba
in the distance.

As I did my own documentation of the process, I ended up with a socked and sandaled foot in the sawah mud and even managed to photograph the muddy feet of my cat-like, bird-like, mountain-goat-like, gymnastic-dancer-photographer who also couldn't help himself from slipping into it. The camera is still whole.

Even Mas Nashir got muddy feet.

Panatapan

2011-01-26T06:02:00.004+01:00

Our two days in Muara (arrived Thursday night, and absolutely filled Friday and Saturday with filming) have been intense and immensely productive. Tomorrow we leave for Uluan.

We have been ticking off the items on Mas Nashir’s list as fast as we can, our time being so limited and the absolute, cut-in-stone deadline being the opening of Fiber Face 3 exhibition on 12 February. Luckily Nashir has made an initial first edit and so we could also use this trip to amplify visual themes that he has developed. The close tie between weaving and nature is one of them; Muara’s beauty seemed to lend itself to this emphasis.

Muara has stunning views

The words mist and mystical may not be related except in the way they sound, but the hazy view of Lake Toba in the morning connected them in my mind – and in the film. It was a gentle way to start the day on Friday. If I hadn’t already fallen in love with the great Lake, Friday morning’s shoot would have settled matters forever.

Filming in a rather bird-like way

Searching with our guide, Goodman Ompusunggu, a member of Restuala’s team, Mas Nashir settled on a gentle bay just outside of Muara’s centre, to film the arrival of the cotton from the clouds. Once again Pak Jerry and I made ourselves useful by tossing cotton into the air. The currents of the air were changeable that morning, sometimes blowing the cotton in one direction and sometimes in another. The currents in the water were just as frustrating. In the end, we waded out into the water and balanced perilously on slippery rocks to try to get the fluffy stuff to float down to where Mas Nashir was balanced like an acrobat on his own slippery rock, camera in hand. Although I had decided on previous shoots that he was half mountain goat and half cat, on this morning, he became a sure-footed bird.

Perched on a rock, filming cotton from the heavens.

In the meantime, Restuala was assembling a collection of beautiful textiles, some the villagers would lend to me for the exhibition next month in Yogyakarta and some for our filming needs here. He was finished before we were, and tactfully sent a text message asking us whether we had changed our plans??? After a longed-for breakfast (in Muara, this is no different from lunch and dinner and consisted of rice, vegetables and fish in the one and only restaurant that we wished to visit) we headed over to Restuala’s house to fetch him, the textiles and Nai Evi, our actress. She was going to be the personification of Boru Hasagian sian ipar ni lautan, a line in Rangsa ni Tonun about the first weaver at the edge of the sea. Nashir’s idea was to film her at the top of the great hill overlooking Muara and the lake. The road leading there was marked by a sign reading Pamatapan. I thus learned the Batak work for view or panorama. Indeed, it is one of the most spectacular views of Lake Toba. Such a vista does something for the soul. Openness, overview, vision. It gives hope, clarity and a sense of possibilities.

Boru Hasiagan played by Nai Evi, a weaver of harungguan textiles

The day was not clear, but the mist was mystical and we were happy enough. Mas Nashir became a gymnastic dancer moving with sure-footed balance to shift his camera angle around our Boru Hasagian who stood like a statue at the edge of the precipice.

The next morning, he discovered that a piece of grass had infiltrated his camera behind the lens and it marred all of his images. I encouraged him to re-shoot the scene rather than spend the hours that it would take to remove that offensive blotch from each frame of the film. Our kind Nai Evi was patient and willing. And it was not a painful procedure for anyone to return to the scene of such beauty. Even the little children who go to the hill after school to try to earn a penny or two from tourists by selling drinks and chocolate bars were approaching us more bravely and not running away or covering their faces with their bags if we aimed a camera at them.

The second day was more clear than the first.

We also had to re-shoot the textiles that we had selected to represent the possessions of the first apical ancestor of the Batak, Raja Ihat Manisia. Mas Nashir wanted them laid down on the ground at the crest of the hill. Because the second day was so clear and beautiful, the backdrop was intensely beautiful.

It must have been those wonderful textiles in combination with the view of the lake that inspired Restuala, Goodman and Nashir to become Tiga Raja. They dressed up in the cloths during the break between the shooting of Boru Hasagian, the first weaver, and the textiles of Raja Ihat Manisia, the apical ancestor of all Bataks, posing as great raja of the past, overlooking their ancestral lands. I took an irresistible photograph of this comic but also nostalgic moment. I also couldn’t resist mimicking Mas Nashir and circled around them, camera in hand, pretending that I was filming them while doing dance and gymnastics. It seems to me that he is having the most fun!

Muara, O Muara II

2011-01-23T16:22:00.009+01:00

I wake up to the sound of boat engines. It is market day in Balige and the traffic from here to there across the lake will be heavy. Although it is still dark I can see the lake from my balcony.

The view from my balcony in the morning

I have jetlag and I want to sleep longer, but Restuala Namora said he would be coming by to fetch us at 7 am. When we arrived yesterday evening, we immediately had a planning meeting.

Restuala Namora Pakpahan, MJA Nashir and Goodman Ompusunggu

watching the first edit of Rangsa ni Tonun on the balcony of our palatial acommodations.

The scene is now set and today we must try to finish filming as much as possible of the still outstanding parts of the film, Rangsa ni Tonun.

That is why I am here.

I made the decision to come only last Saturday as I was checking flight availability for the first week of February. It became clear that I could fly right away and it wouldn’t cost me extra. Moreover, my photographer/filmer needed some assistance finishing Rangsa ni Tonun. I was beginning to realize that if I flew to Indonesia immediately, as the film’s producer, I would actually be able to be present at all of the filming and the fine-combed editing. It suddenly seemed grossly unfair to have thrust all of this work into the hands of my filmer. As enthusiastic, capable and willing as he is, he is neither a weaving expert nor a Batak scholar and the Rangsa text is difficult and esoteric. It was time to assume my responsibility. I started to pack and within three days, I was in Medan.

Last night was my second night in Indonesia. I am back in Muara, the valley that received me so indescribably warmly last November (see blog Muara, O Muara). Once again my team is complete. Pak Jerry, my beloved chauffeur was available and Mas Nashir was ready to return to the lake.

And then there is Restuala, my host in Muara last November. Here in Muara, he is a key member of our team. While I was working in Holland during the past six weeks preparing the Fiber Face 3 exhibition “spotlight” on Batak textiles (Exhibition Yogyakarta 12 – 25 February), he was working on our sorha (spinning wheel). When we arrived last night, it was sitting tidily and ready for use on his living room floor. Nevertheless, for me it was like a phantom, a mirage; it was eye-rubbingly unbelievable to once again see a spinning wheel in the Batak area. And when I turned its handle, it worked!

Restuala knows everyone in the village. He was born and raised here. Like all Batak children of his generation, his aspiration was to leave the village and seek his fortune in the wide world beyond. He was successfully and energetically building his career in Jakarta when he was called back home. He is the youngest son (siampuan). It is his responsibility to return and perpetuate the family presence in the village. Restuala has embraced this fate with the same energy that so far characterizes everything that I have seen him do.

He is an enthusiastic fellow and he has a vision. His dream for Muara is to bring the village into the future in a way consistent with what the future needs: a sustainable community socially, culturally, economically and environmentally. He sees that the best talents of Muara have left, just as he did. This successively erodes the culture. It is a vicious circle: the village has little to offer to the youth and they leave, whereby the village builds little to offer to the youth of the future. Restuala wants to break this cycle.

I decided to do an "Edward Curtis photo" with Restuala.

Muara has everything, he is fond of pointing out: a beautiful location on the edge of one of the most extraordinary lakes in the world set against a backdrop of steep hills offering panoramic views as stunning as one would ever want to see. The soil is fertile, fresh water is abundant; fruit trees, rice and fish are plentiful. The culture is sufficiently intact to build on. If handled properly, Muara could become a tourist destination of allure. Restuala has assigned himself the goal of realizing this potential. From our discussions last night, it is clear that he is not wasting a single moment.

But our focus for the moment is on the filming of Rangsa ni Tonun.

The enterprising Restuala has managed, courtesy his connections, to put us up in a palatial white house with pillars, with every possible comfort (the owner is in the city).

My unexpectedly palatial accommodations in a Batak village.

This morning, the world outside is beginning to throb. A man has gone to fetch a group of children to bring them to school and he is teaching them songs under my balcony; their sweet and trusting voices fill the air. The future of Muara is waiting for us. Restuala will be here at any moment and we will see what the day will bring. In the evening, we will hear more about Restuala’s plans and activities. He is a person to watch. Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, I will be able to say, “I met Restuala when he was just beginning to work on his vision. He started with ulos, the textiles that represent the soul of Batak culture.”

Muara, O Muara

2010-12-24T21:10:00.013+01:00

Muara is a bay in the southwest corner of Lake Toba. The long descent by road is spectacular. Hairpin curves open onto breathtaking views. The sign reads, Muara na Uli, Beautiful Muara. Muara has been posted as a new tourist destination. It used to be a rather out-of-the-way place, approached best by boat, with not much to offer to tourists who like a little bit of comfort. But now a new future lies clearly before it.

Today, exactly a month ago, I visited Muara. Restuala Namora Pakpahan had told me that there would be a weaving workshop on 23 November based on my book. This reaction to my book exceeded my wildest dreams but fit with my secret hopes and longings. I knew that I had to be present.

We arrived in Muara on the evening of the 22nd and the next morning made our way over to Huta na Godang, the village where all the weavers in the frontispiece of Legacy in cloth live and where Pak Restuala has his home. I had no inkling of what was about to transpire, but I had been unable to sleep the night before. When Pak Jerry pulled up and I looked out of our vehicle, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of something enormous about to happen. Scaffolding had been built around the yard to the right and in the road I saw a person walking with a Batak textile over his shoulder. This only happens when there is a bona fide ceremony.

It was Pak Restuala. He greeted us warmly and showed me the red-painted sign hanging at the gateway to his yard announcing a (in translation) Weaving Workshop of Batak Ulos with Sandra Niessen. Elegantly-dressed dancers bade us enter the textile-clad space.

Muara textiles were hung on the scaffolding surrounding the yard
where the "workshop" took place on 23 November 2010.

First Pak Restuala’s mother wrapped a beautiful harungguan textile around my shoulders, the most prestigious cloth woven in the region.

One of only three remaining Muara weavers who know how to make the
harungguan textile, the kind that was wrapped around my shoulders on that
unforgettable day.

Then I was greeted by a long line-up of friends. They included Ompu Ester and Ompu Josua and their husbands, to whom I had given copies of Legacy four months prior. I cannot ever remember having received a warmer welcome and I was ushered over to the seat of honour next to Pak Restuala. I found myself amid dozens of women working at all different aspects of textile production from winding the warp to twining the decorative edging on the finished cloth.

Women were executing every aspect of weaving.

Their husbands were there, too, most of them sitting on chairs.

Ompu Josua doli, who later presented a speech to me.

Pak Restuala began to speak. He told me that he had seen me when he was a small schoolboy, when I had come to Muara the first time in 1980. Now a grown man of 35 years old, with vast and varied life experience, including a career in Jakarta, he had returned to Beautiful Muara. He wanted to be one of the architects of change for a better future. He is particularly interested in perpetuating Batak culture so that it may survive undiminished in the world of the future. When he saw my book, he decided that he wanted to begin with Batak ulos, the cloth that is indispensable at all stages of Batak life. Essentially I was being pressed, ever so gently but just as unmistakably, into serving as an ambassador of Muara and Batak culture.

And my arrival on the 23rd was a catalyst to kick-start the revival of weaving in Muara. I remembered the brief and sincere discussion with Ompu Ester before I left in June, when she asked me to assist in reviving weaving in Muara and had told me that it was not possible to produce indigo dye anymore. Now, before my eyes, there were indigo pots containing indigo.

Alot had changed in four months. I imagined the long discussions, the will, the synergy, the vision, the energy, the co-operation needed to bring this special day together. And now I saw the joy and the spirit of the villagers.

Ompu Josua is sitting to the left and I am handing her photographs. As always, she has a smile on her face. Pak Restuala is sitting to the right holding a copy of my book. In the foreground, just barely visible, is the wooden dish (sapa) with corn and peanuts. I have that beautiful harungguan textile wrapped around me, but it is slipping off my shoulder.

I had one additional copy of Legacy with me and I gave it to Pak Restuala while I expressed my amazement at the number of different kinds of Batak textiles lining our ceremonial space, the skill of the weavers in making such cloths and the ancientness of the tradition, all this by way of emphasizing why this art form must not be lost. I then introduced MJA Nashir as he has already done so much to document (in written, photographic and filmic form) our travels, work that will one day be even more accessible to the Batak than my own. I did not want him to disappear into anonymity on this occasion. Later, he too was diulosi, wrapped in a Batak textile, again by Pak Restuala’s mother.

MJA Nashir receiving an ulos from
Pak Restuala's mother.

MJA Nashir's happy receipt of the ulos.

Then it was breakfast time and a huge, ancient wooden plate, the kind used by the Batak a century ago, was placed before us laden with boiled corn and local fruits. Ensuring the perpetuation of Batak indigenous culture was his goal, Pak Restuala emphasized again, as we all nibbled on corn and I gave away some photographs that MJA Nashir had taken when we came in June.

Our attention then turned to music, another threatened aspect of Batak culture.There was a youthful band directed by a very energetic music-lover, and they played tune after tune. Our visit was also giving them occasion to play in public. Their talent was admirable.

The youthful musicians of Muara.

The mood was warming up. We danced, posed for group photographs, toured all of the different weaving techniques and reviewed the hanging textiles.

The school teacher is to the left.
Pak Restuala is in the middle.

The delicious lunch in the home of a school-teacher was an example of the best cuisine that indigenous Batak culture has to offer. I was deeply impressed by the initiative to present indigenous culture in so many of its aspects and by the way the challenge had been met.

But I have been slow to put pen to paper to write this blog. I have felt far too overwhelmed by the energy of the people of Huta na Godang: the trust, the caring, the hope, the expectations. When I sat there listening to Pak Restuala’s words, I scarcely knew how to accommodate the lot that life was dealing me. The best in life is not always what we choose. Sometimes, we are chosen by life. Muara now feels like my Batak home and I am tied to it forever, just as the women of Huta na Godang in Muara will always grace the front of my book.

A last hug from the
indigo dyer.

At the end of the day.

Muara, O Muara.
(All photographs in this post, except those of himself, are by MJA Nashir)

Reviving a Text

2010-12-23T09:59:00.027+01:00

Rangsa ni Tonun is a Batak text that I am using as the basis for the film about Batak weaving techniques to premiere at the Fiber Face 3 event in Yogyakarta in February 2011 (see blog The Merapi has Spoken).

It is an oral text, but it was committed to paper, presumably at the behest of Ludwig Ingwer Nommensen (6 February 1834 – 23 May 1918), the German Lutheran missionary who is renowned and revered for establishing the Christian church in the Batak world. Such texts were spoken by datu or traditional knowledge specialists. I found the text in Nommensen’s archive.

Since Nommensen’s day, the works of the datu are considered by the Christianized Batak to be just a little too close to the spirit world that they have been taught is the work of the devil. The art of the datu (hadatuon) went into sharp decline, therefore, during the twentieth century. During my travels, I did not meet a single Batak who knew what “rangsa” means.

Looking up the word in my Batak dictionaries, reading other rangsa texts, finding descriptions of rangsa texts in early publications, and speaking about the word with the great Batak poet, Sitor Situmorang, I have been reminded of the power of words in Batak indigenous thought. The datu was a magician with words. He manipulated them in many ways to influence the spirit world, all the while amazing his audiences, often striking fear in their hearts. His use of words (just part of his large arsenal of trappings) set him apart from “the average person”. Rangsa ni tonun is perhaps best translated as “description of weaving”. However, the word ‘description’ does not do the Batak word 'rangsa' justice. The Batak word is special because it captures the magical, spiritual essence of something, the sacred power of origins. Origins, in indigenous Batak thought, are a font of power. All acts of weaving are descendants, as it were, of the original act, performed by a daughter of the gods as described in this 'description of weaving'.

Before setting off to 'translate' the text using filmic images, I made photocopies of my typed-out version. It is not that I wished to undo the work of Nommensen, but I am a great admirer of indigenous Batak literature, and I feel that the Batak who grow up in the villages today miss out when they do not learn about the rich tradition that is their birthright. It seemed only fair to me to hand out copies of the text to the villagers who clustered around as we worked on the film so that they could see what we were up to. I was thankful that I could tell them that I had found the text in Nommensen’s archives; it gave it a rather ironic stamp of approval.

In Tarutung, I visited the village of Sait ni Huta in the hopes of finding descendants of Guru Sinangga ni Aji, the datu who wrote out the text for Nommensen. I was unsuccessful and the text attracted little interest. It was immediately apparent that the language was difficult for most people, even if Batak (and not Indonesian) was the language in which they operated most easily.

Nobody remembered Guru Sinangga ni Aji
in his village of Sait ni Huta (foto MJA Nashir)

Statue of LI Nommensen in Sait ni Huta (foto MJA Nashir)

Not altogether unexpected for me was that weavers understood the text better than most other people. This is because of the many weaving terms in the text. One would learn these words only if one had some close association with weaving, e.g. if one’s mother or wife was a weaver or if one wove oneself. Young people had little or no interest in the text while elderly people enjoyed the words that they had not heard for a long time. Many of them pored over the text with rapt attention.

An elderly woman (Ny Pakpahan) in Muara read the text with rapt attention

Her neighbour looked on

The neighbour was pleased when I gave her a copy, too

We needed a narrator, someone who would read the text for the camera, and it made sense to look for a male narrator because literature, in indigenous Batak life, is part of the male world and the writer of the text was also male. Amongst ritual specialists and those familiar with Batak opera, we did not find a suitable candidate because they stumbled over the words and could not orient themselves to their meaning. We met with success in the village, however. Ompu Okta doli was the husband of one of the weavers who did demonstrations for Nashir’s camera. He was a natural. He remembered the technical words from his youth and from his association with his wife. When I asked him where he learned to orate so well, he revealed that he was often called upon to use the microphone as the Master of Ceremonies at rituals and that he also frequently read in church. He was immediately so taken by the text that he worked on it enthusiastically on his own, adding comma’s, developing cadence, and even catching errors in the transcription. He was a diamond in the rough.

Ompu Okta doli studied the text carefully before he read it in front of the camera

Ompu Okta, husband and wife, "stars" of our film.
(foto MJA Nashir)

When we returned to his village some weeks later, we found the villagers still citing words and phrases from the text with much merriment. The text had begun to live for them.
I can hardly wait to see how people react to the finished film.

WISDOM Conference in Yogyakarta, 5 – 8 December 2010 and "Back to the Villages" in Java

2010-12-22T22:10:00.025+01:00

I was honoured to be invited to speak at the colloquium prior to the WISDOM conference in Gajah Mada University, Yogyakarta.

The colloquium was “In honour of Ann Dunham Soetoro and Prof. Dr. Mubyarto.” I spoke on Ann Dunham Soetoro’s book, entitled Surviving Against the Odds (Duke University Press, 2009) and used her title as the title of my talk. Ann Soetoro, the late mother of US President Obama, is rightly recognized as a champion of craft producers whose voices have systemically been unrecognized and poorly represented in decision-making processes. In my review of this published and abridged version of her doctoral dissertation, however, I was critical of the exclusively economic slant that left out “the cultural stuff”. The theme of the WISDOM conference was inspiring: “It is important to focus on how local wisdom can thrive in the sea of globalization, and how indeed it can make a significant contribution to humanity’s future.” I was emboldened by it and by the work of Wade Davis (most recently, The Wayfinders, Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World, House of Anansi Press, 2009) to make the exclusion of Ann Soetoro’s cultural data the focus of my review. I argued that if we wish to rely on local wisdom, we will first need to ensure that it survives. Download my paper.

In advance of the conference, I visited the village of Kajar where Ann Soetoro did some of her fieldwork.

The perapen or metal workshop had changed little or not at all.

I brought a copy of the recent lavishly republished version of Isaäc Groneman’s The Javanese Kris (C. Zwartenkot Art Books and KITLV Press, Leiden, 2009). My intent was to bring this 19th century information about the sacred Javanese kris “back to the village” and to compare the return of this information to the return of my own work on Batak weaving. My visit was an exceedingly interesting lesson in contrasts.
There was nobody left in the village of Kajar who made kris. The tradition had died out. I met the son of the kris-maker that Ann Soetoro had known and mentioned in her book.

He was quite old but continued to labour on some simple production metalwork.

While he claimed to have learned how to make kris from his father, what he showed us was so simple and rough that I knew that very little had been handed down to him.

Simple implements lying atop Ann Dunham's book about Kajar village craft.
The Groneman book on The Javanese Kris is lying beside Dunham Soetoro's book.

When I showed him the book, his interest was minimal. I wasn’t able to make him understand that the book was about the Javanese tradition of kris-making; he assumed that krisses were being made in Europe... In the end, I did not even leave a copy of the book behind in the village because I met no interest in the topic whatsoever. This the central reason for my question, relative to Ann Soetoro’s book: what, in fact, is "surviving against the odds"? The zenith of the Javanese metalworking tradition is long past and has been utterly forgotten.
Interest in Ann Soetoro's book, on the other hand, was great. People remembered her, but none of the villagers had seen her book. They loved seeing their fellow-villagers and workshops in the photographs.

In the end, I gave my copy to the family of Pak Sastro with whom Ann had spent the most time. They recognized themselves in many of her photographs.

Pak Sastro's widow and daughter. (I am wearing the "WISDOM T-shirt"!)

The Yogya conference was gracious, superbly well-organized, stimulating and fun. I sang its praises in a note in Facebook. Below are some images of the spectacular performances, most of them by students, to which we were treated periodically during the conference.

The Filmer at Work

2010-12-22T15:32:00.004+01:00

In my blog entitled "The Merapi has spoken", I shared with the followers of my blog one of the goals of my journey to Indonesia in November 2010, viz. to produce a film that will premiere during the Fiber Face 3 exhibition 12 - 25 February in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. The film is based on the ancient Batak text, Rangsa ni Tonun. This blog is a kind of visual appetizer (that I have already published on Facebook primarily for an Indonesian readership) showing the photographer, MJA Nashir, at work.

Mixing the rice starch.

Starching the warp yarns with the rice starch

Starching the warp yarns

Winding the warp

Weaving (inserting the sword)

Weaving

Weaving with a pattern shed

Removing pits from the cotton bolls by hand

Adding water to submerge the indigo in the preparation of dye

Mixing the indigo dye

The narrator or "the speaker of the ancient text" that is the basis of the film.

Reviewing the take

A truly innovative new textile - 2 December

2010-12-02T23:20:00.012+01:00

Since giving a copy of Legacy to Ir. S. Tambun in Kaban Jahe last June, I have had a few opportunities to chat with him through Facebook. He wasn’t home when I presented the book to his sister and we hoped to meet another time. My visitors from YPBB seemed pleased at the prospect of meeting him and so we dropped in unexpectedly before heading back to Medan on 2 December. Luckily, Ir. Tambun was there.

He received us warmly in the front room where someone else was pulling textiles out of the glass case and showing them to a buyer. It was clear that his textiles were of high quality. I remembered my quandary about giving a book to someone who had a workshop of semi-mechanized looms and ultimately my decision to do so was because of his reputation for reviving old Karo textile motifs and designs.

He was a serious, clearly very dedicated person and immediately explained why it was better to weave on semi-mechanical looms than backstrap looms: you can weave many cloths from one warp (while you have to wind a new warp for each textile woven on a backstrap loom), the weaving goes much faster, the result is regular and standardized without any of the flaws found in backstrap weaving; the semi-mechanical loom has a comb so that the warp is constantly evenly-spaced. When I asked him why he wouldn’t just opt for a mechanized loom, he explained that much of the currently fashionable Batak supplementary-weft patterning had to be inserted by hand and could not be performed using the jacquard system. It was true that the fine yarn and regular weave made his products look and feel better than the backstrap woven, much-flawed variants that he showed us made of coarser yarn.

Of course, I am a strong proponent of backstrap weaving, but not to the exclusion of products on other kinds of looms. What Ir. Tambun showed us underscored, for me, why backstrap weavers should not compete with machines: they will always lose. It is a worst possible scenario: the poor weavers work like mad without any hope of making a decent wage, while the quality of their work declines because they weave too fast. No, I am a proponent of backstrap weaving because of the quality that it can have. No machine or semi-mechanical loom can compete with a Batak weaver of excellence in the old style: someone who takes her time, who executes each step with love and pride, and who yields a product with beautiful irregularities that shows the “hand of the weaver”. Such products are works of art. They are not handwoven versions of mechanized production. The two paths must diverge. The selling prices of the two products must also diverge. Hugely.

I have accepted the decline of Batak weaving as a consequence of the forces of modernization. But I also believe that room must be created for the art product and for weavers working in the traditional fashion with beautiful yarns and earthy colours. The weavers who make such cloths will be much fewer and father between. They will be called ´artists’. Creating the room and support for artistic textile production is, I believe, a social need and responsibility.

All the while, the semi-mechanical “textile industry” may develop in the Batak area with all of my blessings! An environmentally-friendly, weaver-friendly employer of many would only be a boon to this rather economically-depressed area. And the more competitive on the external market, the better! Ir. Tambun showed us beautiful textiles that his workshop made in the “Karo style” and explained that his buying public was limited to those who made purchases for ritual needs because the design of the textiles announced Karo identity. He then pulled out an all-blue textile, of very fine yarn, that did not announce Karo or Batak identity. He showed how it had been inspired by Batak patterns.

The final product, however, had been redesigned so skillfully that it was simply “a lovely cloth”. It reminded me of an Indian khadi cloth that I frequently wear because it of its great versatility and I found myself longing to own this blue cloth made in Kaban Jahe.

I asked Ir. S. Tambun if I could purchase it. He smiled saying that it was a new creation and that, so far, he had only given one to the wife of the Governor of North Sumatra; it had not yet been launched on the market….but that he would like to give me one to thank me for my book, Legacy in cloth! We walked over to the loom where it was being woven and he cut one off for me. I immediately had visions of myself wearing it at the upcoming WISDOM conference in Yogyakarta and stuffed several copies of Ir. Tambun’s business card in my bag. I want to tell people about him and his work!

I am thrilled with his creation. It is the kind of creation that I find appropriate for semi-mechanized weaving. It is rooted in the Batak tradition but has universal appeal and does not compete with traditional cloth. When I wear it, I will feel that I am wearing the future of the commercial textile industry in North Sumatra and the product of a truly clever and innovative designer.

I hope that the industry will develop with much concern for its environmental impact so that it will come to mean far more than just income for participating weavers. Weaving industries are notorious for polluting dyes and noisy working conditions. May this industry encourage health as well as financial well-being for its weavers and owner as it moves towards the future. May the industry become as sustainable as the ancient designs from which it takes its inspiration.

Thank you, Ir. S. Tambun for this beautiful textile that, for me, represents an exciting vision of the future.

P.S. Later, though facebook, Sahat Tambun gave me these details about the textile:
Kain disebut tenunan dobby, terbuat dari bahan full spunsilk ex China, desain sebangun dengan uis julu jongkit (uis Karo), penggunaan multi purpose.
[Translation: The cloth you are referring to is woven with a dobby (mechanism that makes small patterns that are simpler than those made with a jacquard loom); it is made from "full spunsilk from China"; the design is derived from uis julu jongkit (a Karo textile); it has a multi-purpose function.]

Sorha - 1 December

2010-12-01T23:09:00.027+01:00

Sometimes the sublime and the ridiculous are the same thing. We finally found our sorha. And then not just one, but two. The story is as crazy as it is unexpected.

---

We left Muara to go to Berastagi with the plan of stopping in the Porsea area. It was market day on Wednesday in Porsea, and the team from YPBB that we were travelling with would be able to find information about ulos in that market. They would set out from there to find weavers who would be able to answer their questions. MJA Nashir and I would use the opportunity to make a quick visit to Ompu Okta. We needed our narrator, Ompu Okta doli, to say a few words about the busur (cotton bow/fluffer) that we had with us and also the luli pinale (the rolls of cotton prepared for spinning) so that his presence as narrator would continue to bind all parts of the film. We needed to film him holding the respective objects when it came to that part of the text.

Coming back into Ompu Okta’s village was like homecoming. The van dropped us off and went straight back to meet the YPBB crew at the market. We entered the little home that had been ours during the early days of filming and told our tales of Sianjur Mulamula, finding the Palembang cotton growing there and the elderly weaver who was able to make luli pinale (the little bundles of cotton prepared for spinning), of traveling throughout Samosir even to the isolated northwest shore and ending up in Muara. We told of our frustration over and over again at not being able to find a sorha (spinning wheel) at any of these locations. In the end, our generous host in Muara, Restuala Namora, offered to make it for us, but he needed an example to work from and he only had the photograph in my book. Furthermore, we didn’t know anybody who would be able to use it in an expert way. He had been successful in making the busur (bow to fluff the cotton) and iraniran (frame to wind the cotton) though, and we carried them proudly with us.

We sipped tea as we chatted, occasionally running outside to look at a weaving instrument or to care for the busy little granddaughter, Dina, until Ompu Okta doli, in an off-hand manner, standing in the doorway of his house, announced that he was looking at a spinning wheel as he spoke. It was on the veranda of the Batak house across the village square. He made his announcement in such a low-key way, that it didn’t initially quite register. Could this highlight possibly be conveyed in such a matter of fact way? I couldn’t believe my ears. But looking across the village square, I also saw it poking up, a hunk of wood that I would never have recognized. Ompu Okta said that he had always known that it was there. Perhaps he had always known that it was broken and parts were missing and perhaps that is why he had not mentioned it earlier to us.

He called across to his neighbour who brought it down for us to inspect. And then he went out to the back kitchen of his own house and found the even more meager remains of yet another spinning wheel. How strange it is when you search everywhere only to find what you are looking for in the place where you originally began the search.

Where the sorha was found.

The neighbour with her sorha.

The spinning wheels need some repair and our time is now terribly short. We have to repair the rattan on the wheel and find straight metal to serve as a spindle. Will we find someone who can actually use the wheel? Can we bring it back to Ompu Okta boru? I don’t have that kind of time available. Will Mas Nashir be able to do that? Ompu Okta now says that she is able to spin. This is not only the 11th hour, but 5 before 12. Ridiculous, really, after our month of travels. So close and yet still so far.

---

Ompu Okta doli was immediately willing to speak more text as film narration and pulled on his adat clothing. We squeezed it in before the rain pelted down. Timing seemed to be on our side in this instance.

And then Ompu Okta boru expressed her willingness to try to work with the cotton fluffing bow. We had some film of it taken in Muara, but for the sake of continuity in the final film product, it wouldn’t hurt if Ompu Okta also performed this technique, so we filmed it again.

Ompu Okta fluffs cotton using the bosur

It was a satisfying homecoming. The van pulled up when we were finishing off, and we were soon in it again, heading for Berastagi to introduce our YPBB crew to indigo in the Karo area. But now we had two rickety old spinning wheels in the back.

The sky, the earth and the lake

2010-11-22T19:06:00.003+01:00

This afternoon (Nov. 22), we filmed Mas Nashir’s vision of soft, fluffy cotton dropping out of the sky as though the clouds themselves were dropping down into the lens. The Rangsa ni Tonun text that we are filming is all about the connection between Batak weaving and its powerful spiritual origins. Nashir has been excited about this idea for months. I don’t think that he can see a cloud without thinking of cotton. Luckily, the day offered us lovely, white clouds piled dreamily atop each other.

We found a spot north of Tuktuk where there was quite a rapid decline down to the lake. Sprawling on the ground, Nashir oriented his lens so that the clouds were swirling close to the earth and the lake. It was the job of Mas Jerry, our chauffeur, and myself to toss wisps of cotton into the air, to be carried on the breeze into the view of the camera. We had to rehearse because the breeze was not constant and so that we didn’t get our hands in the picture. We tried all kinds of things, but eventually stood just below the crest of the hill and as one of us tossed out the cotton bits, the other fanned them upwards with a piece of cardboard. By the time we were done, the grass was littered with clouds, and our noses and mouths and eyes were filled with them as well. Through the camera, it looked like the clouds were scudding right into the lens.

didn’t accomplish much today by way of finding our pipisan, bosur, sorha and iraniran, but nature was kind to us because the skies were just right, the lake was gorgeous and the wind was light and he day was crowned by a rainbow that Mas Nashir compared to our missing bosur (it is bow-shaped). It arched over Samosir Island etched luminously against an iron-grey sky. They say that a pot of gold is buried at the end of the rainbow. This rainbow cascaded with intense light right to the place where the sky, the earth and the lake met.

The man and the museum (21 and 22 November)

2010-11-22T17:03:00.002+01:00

Near the northern tip of Samosir Island there is a museum. Not the Simanindo Museum, but the Gok Asih museum. We spied it from the road, a big sign saying MUSEUM in front of a Batak house. We didn't want to leave a single rock unturned. It seemed that what we were looking for (the pipisan, busur, sorha and iraniran) were simply too old, and of no use for far too long, to be likely to be found in some shed or still stored in someone’s attic. Our chances seemed greater if we looked to a museum for help or some facility that consciously wanted to preserve old Batak objects.

The museum did not seem well cared-for. The path beyond the house was overgrown with the weeds testament to the fact that few people had walked on it recently. It was even difficult to know exactly where one should walk. Suddenly, I caught sight of a man washing his face in a full rain barrel and I called out to him. His reaction was warm and enthusiastic; he came straight over to me and as we walked over to the Batak house cum-museum together, he asked me if I had lived in Balige and been associated with the hospital. I said that I had lived in the nurses’ residence some 30 years ago but that I had had nothing to do with the hospital. And then he amazed me by recounting our meetings 30 years ago. He had provided the entertainment at Carolina Hotel (on Samosir Island) when I had stayed there, and he had joined us when I was with the man, Sidauruk, whose vision had created the Simanindo Museum. He explained that he had brought his Batak house (to serve as a museum) down from the higher land of Samosir (by deconstructing it and then reconstructing it here) and had filled it with objects that he had found and purchased here and there.

By the time we had climbed the steps into the house, he was tearfully explaining that because tourism had slowed down dramatically and he had no land, he had been forced to sell his collection bit by bit. The objects that we were looking for were no longer there. The spinning wheel (sorha), he recalled, had been purchased by an Italian museum but he didn’t know in which city. He could get a job as a driver in the city, he pointed out, but then he would have to leave the house and it would fall into decay. His sad fate seemed to me to tell the quintessential story of the decline of culture in the Batak area. Even the best of intentions are fruitless in the face of economic conditions that force one to destroy even one’s own culture to stay alive. I could understand his emotion and wished that there could be some way to help him. It seemed so utterly tragic and the tragedy was so much greater than what was happening with this man’s life and possessions. It was the story of his culture.

After reviewing what was left of his museum collection, I told him about our textile project. He was convinced that he would be able to find the missing instruments so that we could get on with things. One would have to search in the hills, he said, far away from where the tourists had purchased everything of value. I gave him some money to compensate him for his efforts and he promised he would call later that evening. He did not, but he called this morning and said that he had had success and that we could meet to see the objects at 2 p.m.. The owner was working in the fields until 4 p.m. but we could take the longish journey and meet them there.

When we finally managed to reconnoiter, it turned out that the owners of the instruments were in Jakarta and he had sought an alternative source for the objects. The people whose help he had marshalled were bringing us right back to the museum in Tomok where we had had our first disappointment upon arrival in Samosir two days earlier. Once again, there had been a confusion between weaving equipment and yarn-making equipment. Obviously, few people anymore know what yarn-making involves, let alone the instruments needed. We had no more time to search further and as we turned our vehicle around and headed towards the ferry from the island to the mainland, I saw the very sad face of our one-hopeful helper and host. The regular wall (the disappearance of culture) that we had stumbled up against again and again on this journey had been a painful experience for him. I know that he really had wanted to help me. I had paid him well, in advance, and he had let me down. I could not help but think that given the painful circumstances surrounding his museum, it was a misfortune that he should not have had to endure on top of everything else.

Origins and Endings (20 – 21 November)

2010-11-21T16:57:00.005+01:00

Another golden day. It started out with that hopeless feeling that throws one back onto one’s intuition and grim trust that things will go well. Sometimes one must sail without a compass. One shrugs one’s shoulders. One sets out with a brave smile and leaves logic and fear behind. One simply sets out on blind trust. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

It was fairly late in the day to “just set out”. 2 pm and we still hadn’t found any of the yarn-making equipment that we were looking for to demonstrate the ancient textile techniques that haven’t been practiced in many places for more than a century. We were getting no luck. There were so many people who said that they had the equipment, but they were people who didn’t know the difference between weaving and yarn-making and we were led again and again to looms rather than spinning wheels. Museums didn’t have it in their collections or their collections were inaccessible. Some remembered having had the equipment, but when they searched for it, they came up empty-handed. Some had burned it as firewood because it no longer had any use. We could have found the items if we had been looking 30 years ago. That was when Ompu Sihol had showed me her equipment. And I remember that the spinning wheels were hard to come by even then. We need a pipisan to squeeze the pits out of the cotton, a busur to fluff it, a sorha to spin the fibres, and an iraniran to wrap the spun yarn.

Where to go next? What to do? Where to turn? Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Every house that we pass as we drive down the Samosir roads may have a piece of the equipment stored there somewhere. How many have we passed without knowing it? Or have we reached the stage when there really is not a single one left in the Batak area?

And now we were heading for Sianjur Mulamula, the village, as its name says, where the Batak people originate. Si Boru Deak Parujar, the goddess of weaving, the Earth Mother, came down there from the upper world on her spun yarn. This was her village on the edge of Pusuk Buhit, navel mountain. If I could name a place where I would most like to find this equipment and see it demonstrated, it would be Sianjur Mulamula, the village of origins. It was late to head in that direction and it was a long shot. I didn’t know anybody there, but I had a longing to go there again (especially since I didn’t go there in June) . I have only been there twice, very briefly, before. So we tossed caution to the wind and simply set out. Pak Jerry, thankfully, was, as always, up for the adventure.

Jerry and Nashir and I pretending to be relaxed, but we were sitting

on the edge of a precipice. Nashir used the self-timer on the camera.

Limbong was the first village where we stopped. We pulled up beside an enormous mausoleum being constructed by a ragged crew. I called out in Batak to one of the workers and he came over to talk with us. He had a beautiful face and was friendly, but he tried to discourage us. Our search would be fruitless, he said. The ancient houses had been renovated and in the process they had been cleaned out. Besides, most things had been sold in the 1980s. I couldn’t tell if he was being realistic or a good gate-keeper. In any case, we could not afford to be discouraged, so we pressed on, back to the main road. At Sianjur Mulamula, I saw a road leading to the right and asked Pak Jerry to back up and turn into it. It took us to another village.

The area is spectacular: rocks and boulders strewn everywhere, or nicely arranged into formidable walls. Many traditional-looking villages with ancient Batak houses are made of pillars and planks so huge that one is left gasping at the knowledge that the forests of old-growth trees that once grew here must have been spectacular giants. The villages are now modest brown blotches nestled against the sides of the mountains. The open stretches are desolately beautiful, or deliciously fertile patchworks generously supplied with water from laughing, gurgling streams originating in the hills. This area even feels more ancient than any other area in Batak country. The magical origins are almost tangible.

In that next village, we were greeted by a man who seemed unperturbed by our visit and quite open to whatever our plans might be. I always worry about disturbing the peace and privacy of the inhabitants of a village knowing that in the past a visitor was required to request permission from the village leader in order to enter legitimately. I put my question about yarn-making equipment to this easy-going man and he pointed to an elderly woman who had difficulties straightening her back and walked bent over. Later, I would learn that she was Ompu Sabar, the Grandmother of Sabar. She set off to look for her spinning wheel (sorha) and disappeared into a Batak house on stilts behind us. A while later, a younger man followed her with a bleached, wooden ladder, wider at the base and narrower at the top. Then we saw them on the veranda of the house where musical instruments used to be installed during Batak rituals. Eventually both re-emerged on the village plain. Once again, no luck.

Mas Nashir sitting at the corner of the house where

Ompu Sabar looked for her old spinning wheel.

Then she climbed the ancient, wooden staircase to the sopo (rice barn) where she used to weave. I clambered up after her and she showed me the equipment that she had used to weave the great sibolang textile, the central, majestic textile of the repertory in this region. Then she fetched her textiles to show me. Surely her sibolang was the most beautiful one I had ever seen. She had been a brilliant weaver. This was “boanonna”, the textile that she wished to be buried in.

A crowd of elderly women had gathered at the base of the sopo. When I explained our desire to document ancient weaving techniques, they all turned out to be former weavers who remembered the techniques and began to pantomime them, complete with sound-effects and outbursts of laughter and enjoyment. The mood was warming up and becoming festive. In this village of origins, we had found women who knew the first steps in the weaving process: the production of yarn. But they were also the last of their kind and represented the end of the tradition. All of them elderly grandmothers.

One of them, especially, was a ham and most detailed in her representation of the making of yarn. Suddenly she called across to the young woman living in the house on stilts next door, asking her to bring over the hapas Palembang. I couldn’t believe my ears? Hapas Palembang? Suddenly, in this village of origins, we had stumbled across the very origins of textile-making: the fibre. After we had gone to so much trouble to ship some cotton here from Bali? What was this Palembang cotton used for? I braced myself against all reason to hear that they were still making yarn, but that was silly. They had one little shrub, less than 1 year old, and the little bit of cotton that it had managed to yield they were going to stuff into a cushion. But our elderly former weaver was able to show us how she extracted pits from it and roll it up to make bundles ready for weaving.

The film project had perhaps switched to Plan B. If it was no longer possible to demonstrate the old techniques because too much time had elapsed, it would be possible to show how it was remembered, in pantomime, by older women. The film would be about the last remaining memories of the last weavers.

The elderly weavers were uncomfortable using Indonesian and spoke a pure Batak. Many, though not all, were illiterate. Their way of speaking reminded me of Ompu Sihol, although their weaving vocabulary was closer to what is used in the northern regions of Lake Toba and not the Samosir Island region to the south. We passed the time in silly hilarity, not yet having time to let our discoveries sink in. But I still had hope that they might be inspired by our generosity and the good mood that prevailed and may begin to expand the search for the missing equipment. We exchanged mobile phone numbers with members of the younger generation in the village.

The next day it occurred to me that, given the memory of one weaver and the presence of her cotton, we could go back and at the very least film, in a detailed fashion, the making of luli pinale, the rolags or rolls prepared for spinning. The only equipment required was a plank and a couple of joints of narrow bamboo. So we went back to do this, carefully, in the sopo, the rice barn where weaving traditionally took place. We didn’t have a plank especially for the job, but used the lovely planks of the floor of the sopo. Ompu Sabar handed several of her hasoli (bamboo joints used for wrapping weft) up to us, so we were set to make luli pinale.

We are now carrying around our little bundles of carefully rolled cotton, still in the hopes that we will stumble across a spinning wheel. They said that they had located an iran2 or reel in the meantime, but none of the other required pieces of equipment.

Our search continues, but we have the origins down pat: the cotton plant, the plucking of the cotton, the de-pitting of it by hand, the fluffing of it by hand and the making of the rolls or rolags to prepare it for spinning.

Back to Boru Panjaitan’s Village (17 November)

2010-11-17T16:51:00.002+01:00

Boru Panjaitan is depicted in Legacy on page 461. She is weaving a tumtuman textile. I knew that she lived in the then Kecamatan Lumban Julu (a political division), one of my favourite regions for spectacular cloths rarely found in museums. I recalled how much I had enjoyed visiting her and how amazed I was at her capacity to weave in her old age. During the Back to the Villages project last June, I had her plasticized photograph in hand and we stopped here and there along the road looking for someone who could tell me where her village was, but we could find nobody who recognized her.

…..

Ompu Okta’s village in Lumban Julu has been the most important site for filming our Rangsa ni Tonun text about Batak weaving techniques. Ompu Okta boruboru (Okta’s grandmother) is our weaving star Ompu Okta doli (Okta’s grandfather) turns out to be our narrator because of his wonderful voice and his affinity to our project. In the evening, he likes to go to the local café – a little wooden structure at the edge of the padi fields where he purchases a glass of tuak (local palm wine) and exchanges the news. Early on in our project, he explained to me that he often met up there with the son of someone depicted in my book. “The first time I opened the book, it was to that page,” he explained. “The weaver is a member of my family”.

How amazing that this should be the case, given that I had sought br. Panjaitan and because my search was in vain, I had given a copy of Legacy to Ompu Okta, a weaver that I had never met before, because I wanted to be sure that a copy of Legacy would be left behind in this amazing weaving region. It turns out that Ompu Okta is not only related to Boru Panjaitan, but a close neighbour. Standing on the bridge by the river beside Okta’s village, br. Panjaitan’s house can be seen nestled against the trees scarcely more than a stone’s throw away.

I had two copies of Legacy left over from the Back to the Villages project. I had stored them in Medan and I now had them with me. My friend, Loan Oei in Amsterdam, with whom I have shared my love of textiles as well as the vicissitudes of life) for many decades, had given me a text and urged me to donate a book in her name if the occasion ever presented itself during this filming project. I decided to pair her up with br. Panjaitan’s descendants.

At the end of our stay in Ompu Okta’s village, when our favourite driver from the back to the Villages project, Pak Jerry, had come to pick us up and we were loaded and ready to go, Ompu Okta doli climbed into the vehicle too and brought us to br. Panjaitan’s home. Luck was with us because her son had already returned from his work in the padi fields and his wife was there, too.

The house was as I remembered it; a beautiful wooden colonial structure. They had made some changes to the interior by removing a wall and this had only enhanced its airy spaciousness. Br. Panjaitan’s daughter-in-law fetched some coffee and they told me stories about her. She had continued to weave until the end. Her son, my host, had also learned to weave and knew all of the steps in the process, but was so mercilessly teased about being a weaver that he had stopped. Someone had come and claimed her weaving equipment. Only one baliga was left, a heavy, sword-like piece of wood used for beating in weft. Br. Panjaitan’s was very narrow. They fetched it for me from the room where she used to work and gave it to me to remember her by. It was an extraordinary gift to receive on my birthday. I promised that I would oil it as this is how weaving swords are maintained.

Just like many other people in this region, br. Panjaitan’s son knew all of the steps in yarn production, but had none of the instruments that we were looking for: pipisan, busur, sorha and iraniran.

….

On our way to the main road, we dropped off Ompu Okta at the bridge leading to his village. We were a threesome once more, back again with our favourite chauffeur, the skilled and indomitable Jerry Hermansyah. While I was talking inside, mas Nashir had been inspired to take a few stunning pictures of him while he waited for us. When he pretended to do a bit of a Moon Walk, I dubbed him Jerry Jackson and the name has stuck. Mas Nashir has even set up a facebook account for him under that name. Our winning team was back together and we were heading off for new adventures.

The Merapi has spoken

2010-11-13T12:31:00.008+01:00

Mount Merapi 13 Nov 10. AP

The sky here in Medan, North Sumatra, is grey and heavy. I wonder if it is part of the great Merapi’s speech? The mountain has changed the course of many lives. It gave me cause to waste a day in Jakarta trying to figure out whether or not to go to Yogyakarta as planned. The whole point of coming to Indonesia at the beginning of November was to participate in the WISDOM conference in Yogyakarta. By the time that I became conscious of the fact that I was crazy to be considering entering a disaster zone just when everybody else was leaving it, the airline companies had cancelled their flights anyway and the conference had been postponed “until further notice”. The gods of the Merapi seemed to be saying, “Go to Medan” and so that is what I did.

The fire-spewing mountain generously offered me unexpected time to be with Nia Fliam. She happened to be in Jakarta exhibiting her wonderful batik textiles. Nia and her husband, mas Ismoyo, are the central organizers of the Fiber Face 3 event scheduled to take place in the springtime in Yogyakarta . The WISDOM conference had given me an excellent opportunity to piggy-back so that I could work on the preparations for the exhibition. Nia had asked me to curate the “Batak spotlight” of this Fiber Face 3 event, and I had accepted with alacrity. A special synergy had begun to emerge relative to the Fiber Face 3 event and now it even had the Merapi co-operating. The discussions with Nia were rich and helpful. And now the Merapi was telling me to use the extra time to go to the Batak country and do “the job” properly!

What is the job? It has two aspects: a documentary film about weaving techniques and a specific collection of photographs and textiles for the Fiber Face 3 exhibition..

The film is based on an ancient Batak text, Rangsa ni Tonun, committed to paper in the 19th century by Guru Sinangga ni Adji who lived in the village of Sait ni Huta in the Silindung Valley (south of Lake Toba). It describes the techniques of weaving from the purchase of raw cotton on the market to the completion of the finished textile. The description of these techniques in the flowery and esoteric language of the Batak knowledge specialist lends the text a sacred and mythical air. The text is so technical that it is hard to translate it without an unwieldy quantity of footnotes. I have always loved the text but never really knew what to do with it. I discussed it as early as 1980 with my weaving teacher in Harian Boho, Ompu Sihol and many times afterwards with different weavers. The exhibition in Yogyakarta offers the perfect occasion to “do something with it.” One of the goals of the exhibition is to link the ancient knowledge of the villages with modern know-how. The text represents ancient knowledge. Filmer, MJA Nashir, will transcribe it into the timeless, international language of images through the medium of film and make it accessible to all.

He is sitting in front of me in this fast-food chicken restaurant in Medan with a frown on his face. His hands are moving as he spins and weaves imaginary yarn. Occasionally he jumps out of his seat as he visualizes the succession of scenes that will comprise the film. He is writing the “screen play” and it entails understanding the techniques of weaving. I have given him the original Batak version of the text, called Rangsa ni Tonun, as well as my English translation. He is inspired by the text particularly because of its sacred and mythical qualities and enjoys the challenge of transporting that into the technical component.

All of the techniques related to the preparation and spinning of cotton have disappeared since spun yarn has come onto the local markets. In a few days, we will head off again to the villages to film not only the techniques that are still being practised, but also to reclaim for posterity the last, faded memories of techniques of yarn preparation. I am curious what kind of success we will have. When I did my fieldwork thirty years ago, the memories were already faded.

The organizers of Fiber Face 3 have recognized the importance of building bridges in the textile world between village practitioners and urban fiber artists and between ancient knowledge and modern know-how. Ancient Batak textile knowledge is threatened but this text is an archival jewel that deserves attention.

I am assuming that the Merapi knew that it was important to give us this extra time to devote to the documentary.

Introducing MJA Nashir

2010-10-31T15:46:00.006+01:00

I have posted links to the chapters of MJA Nashir’s serial publication of the Back to the Villages project on this blog spot. After the project concluded on the last day of June 2010, his role as photographer also concluded and he decided to pick up, of his own accord, the role of chronicler to document and share his experience of the project. This came as a complete surprise to me, but it is a terribly welcome and gratifying surprise adding a layer that serves the central goal of the project, viz. to make the presentation of Legacy to the Batak as effective as possible. MJA Nashir’s elegant and accurate account is reaching a broad Indonesian and especially Batak public; he is writing for his public as only a fellow Indonesian could do. Back to the Villages touched his life and he, in turn, is touching the lives of others with his memories and reflections on it. Many people crowded around to bear witness to each presentation of Legacy in North Sumatra, but through MJA Nashir’s accounts, many more people will be able to bear witness and for much longer.

I approached my own blog more or less thematically, keeping in mind my English-speaking readers, most of whom have never visited Indonesia, let alone the Batak area of North Sumatra. MJA’s writings document our path day by day, book presentation by book presentation in a very detailed step-by-step fashion. We both indulge in our own reflections on what occurred, how people reacted and the significance of it all. In his writings, these reflections fill the empty hours and empty stretches of road, as it were, while in mine they are the central focus. Our writings are like different layers of a many-layered event. It is now my pleasure to add a layer about the photographer-chronicler (soon to be filmer and film-producer) of the Back to the Villages project.

MJA Nashir sent me a text message this morning from his home in Pekalongan, North Java, to let me know that he had just posted Chapter VII of his chronicles on Facebook. I can barely contain my curiosity. This chapter is about Muara, one of the highlights of our journey, and the weavers depicted in the opening double page spread in Legacy. But I have to swallow my impatience because I am on the road to Oxford and have no access to internet. Of course I know better than anyone else what happened on our journeys, but through his writings I am gradually discovering who that photographer is, that fellow who joined me quite serendipitously on my journey.

The filmers who had initially agreed to work with me withdrew at the eleventh hour, leaving me high and dry and wondering what to do. I started to look for a photographer, having given up on the idea of a film, but still needing to meet my obligation of giving donors to the project a photographic record of the presentation of “their” book. I wanted a female photographer, presuming that weavers would be more at ease with a female photographer, and the atmosphere more “female” and relaxed. Weaving is a female activity, I am a female researcher, the book designer was female and the person who had guided the printing process was also female. It appealed to me to have a project for, by and about women. But I had no luck finding this female photographer. Finally, when I had begun to despair and felt quite despondent, I received, out of the blue, one of my first text messages from MJA Nashir asking me how things were going. Having heard, from our mutual friend, Nia Fliam, a batik artist in Java, that I needed a photographer, he had already offered his services, but I had responded in a non-committal way for the reasons given above. This time, however, I immediately invited him to join me; it felt destined. He accepted with alacrity. The invitation was driven by necessity and it was a leap of faith. I didn’t know anything about this person. I only knew Nia’s estimation that he was “very special.” My expectations, by then, had been reduced to the bare minimum: as long as there were the required pictures to give to the project donors, I would be satisfied.

MJA turned out to be quiet, undemanding and easy-going. I had difficulty understanding his Javanese accent and my Indonesian had grown so rusty in the years since my fieldwork that there were few fluent exchanges between us. We relied, more or less out of necessity, on observation. It wasn’t difficult to become aware that I was with someone who not only understood the principle and intentions of the project, but was technically so skilled that I didn’t have to worry about his work. I didn’t even have to give guidance. He was an expert in making photo and film documentations. Conveniently, we both had the same make of camera. His had a different lens and mine had a filming capacity, so he used whatever the occasion demanded. Trusting in his expertise, I just focused on my own role in the project.

With time I noticed that I was increasingly taking account of his reactions to situations, asking his counsel, and relying on his judgment. I had not only a filmer and a photographer who turned out to be a professional of high calibre and standards, but someone who was quietly but actively supporting the project and “thinking with”, never imposing his wishes, but ever-ready to offer his opinion and advice when asked. It began to feel, increasingly, like “our” project.

Words had also begun to replace the muteness that had characterized the beginning of our journey. This visual person turned out to be a wordsmith, too. He sat in the front of the vehicle beside the driver. Charmed by the beauty of Lake Toba he was a fully engaged passenger and occasionally turned around to make a pronouncement. More often than not, it was in the form of an aphorism or a poetic couplet. Sometimes, he expressed anger over the environmental degradation that we came across and then his usually gentle black eyes gleamed so brightly with fury that I would have to turn away. “Alam” (nature) was an important theme, to him. At one point, he asked whether I would mind if he took some photographs for himself and he indulged his urges to shoot both the beauty and the decline in the landscape. Of course he had my blessing.

He turned out to be quite open and delighted in telling stories about his life, and was patient with me as I did my best to grasp what he was saying, contributing new wear marks to my Indonesian-English dictionary in the process. He told me about the importance of the poet Rendra in his life, and the words hadir (being present in a full and creative way) and mengalir (to flow, adapting oneself to circumstances) that had become axioms for him. He spoke much about a Batak, the late Donald Hutabarat, who had lived in Toraja and had impressed him deeply for his moral fibre. My adoption into the Hutabarat clan had apparently been a factor in his decision to join the project.

When the project came to an end, it was as sudden as it began. We gave away some books in Kaban Jahe in the morning and then drove to Medan. I was in a rush to catch a flight to Aceh, and dropped MJA Nashir off en route. That was that, it seemed. But it felt strange. There had been no debriefing and I missed some quiet moments at the end of the trip to just talk with him as a fellow human being rather than “the project photographer”. While he had shared much and generously, he had only succeeding in generating more questions than he had answered.

Luckily this is the age of internet and MJA Nashir is a writer. As he types chapter upon chapter of his chronicles about the delivery of Legacy to the Batak villagers and posts them on Facebook, my sense of satisfaction grows richer and richer. I am one of his addicted readers waiting for the next installment. Obviously I am different from the other readers because I know “what happens next” and I even help out by providing photographs, my own memories, and names of people. I have different questions and longings, though, than other readers. MJA Nashir is giving me the privilege of finally discovering who sat in front of me in the vehicle all that time, this person of unusual grace, artistic talent and intelligence, who bestowed a special magic on the journey.

Links to MJA Nashir's Menyusuri Ulos Batak, Berkelana dengan Sandra
Map of Back to the Villages and Menyusuri Ulos Batak, Berkelana dengan Sandra

To Dye For

2010-09-29T16:40:00.000+02:00

I was able to use my last hours in San Francisco on 26 September to visit “To Dye For, A world saturated in color” a small exhibit in the De Young Museum dedicated to textiles decorated using the resist-dye technique. The various techniques were explained briefly, but really the focus of the exhibit was on the exquisite cloths that have been made using these techniques: a mordant-dyed cloth from India, batiks from Java, Thailand and Toraja, ikat from Sumba, the Iban Dayak and Afghanistan, shibori from Japan, mud resist from Africa and so on. Each example was a perfect jewel and thus the exhibit earned the double entendre on its title. I particularly enjoyed the blend of modern textile art pieces and traditional textiles in the exhibit, although the preponderance of California artists skewed the otherwise balanced, universal representation of the resist techniques. Related books and textile art souvenirs were available for purchase at the entrance of the exhibit.

Exhibit Review - Batak Textiles in San Francisco

2010-09-29T16:33:00.004+02:00

On Friday 24 and Saturday 25 September, the Indonesian Consulate of San Francisco celebrated Indonesia’s Independence Day. Consul General, the Honourable Asianto Sinambela, made good use of the traditional reception of the diplomatic community in San Francisco to promote Indonesian culture. This time, the textiles of the Batak people of North Sumatra received their full due by means of an exhibit of superb examples both old and new. The diplomats were treated to a preview and a delicious Indonesian meal. The next day, the general public was free to come and take in the exhibition as well as a demonstration and a talk by yours truly.

The old textiles belonged to the collections of Noeleke Glenn Klavert of Indoarts and Curt and Keith Clemson of Dancing Threads and filled three rooms of the beautiful residence, Wisma Indonesia. The fourth room was dedicated to modern textiles and the explanation by the owner and dealer, Naomi Butarbutar, who came from Jakarta especially for this event.

Both days were very successful; more than 200 people attended each day. The mood was warm and friendly. The days were a true example of the highly esteemed Indonesian hospitality and the great wealth of Indonesian culture.

On the day of my departure, there was a group photograph
with the consular staff including the Consul General
Asianto Sinambela (to my left) and his wife (to my right).
It was a special moment when I felt very touched by their warmth.

Indigenous Prize Winners

2010-08-13T09:48:00.000+02:00

Merdi Sihombing, a leading Batak clothing designer, has just won the 2010 first prize for KAIN TENUN NASIONAL (Indonesian woven cloth). He is a modern, urban fashion designer. His winning design, however, is a recognizable, traditional Batak textile, a so-called ulos runjat. (Merdi has altered colour and fibre.) It is exciting that a Batak designer has won this prize. For me, it is striking that an indigenous design, developed by centuries of Batak weavers in the villages, has been the foundation for this illustrious modern cloth. This insertion of the ancient and indigenous into the modern and urban says alot.

My journey Back to the Villages in June was good and successful in many respects, but upon my return, I appear unable to find any capacity within myself to accept the total decline of Batak weaving. My mind dwells on my journey; constantly I find myself examining avenues for the future survival of this precious art form.

Recently, the Tribal Textiles forum sent out a reminder about the Tinkuy, a gathering of weavers, that will take place in Sacred Valley, Peru in November 2010. I find this inspiring. It is being organized by the Center for Traditional Textiles of Cusco (CTTC) . They write, on their website, precisely what I could write about Batak textiles (and what countless others could write about indigenous textiles elsewhere).

It is becoming clear that the survival of diversity contributes to the valuable storehouse of world resources.

Textile systems developed in Peru over the millennia represent a treasury of techniques rare in the world. Most remain unknown outside of Peru. They are passed on, not by writing, but by the Andean process of person-to-person communication, by watching and practicing.

Peruvian weaving is a ritual activity with many layers of meaning.

The so-called “Tinkuy” that they are organizing is bringing people from everywhere together to learn about Andean weaving and to practise it -- together! Everybody – from every culture and every age – is invited. The community that must learn about and support this ”world resource” is, indeed, the whole world. The Centre has reconized the importance of creating fora in which information can be shared and transmitted between generations and between peoples. The key is communication.

What an innovative and inspiring initiative! I can immediately think of powerful and useful variations on the theme:

It would be so useful to have a Centre for Traditional Batak Textiles, or a Centre for Traditional Textiles of Sumatra, or a Centre for Tribal Textiles of Indonesia - or ASEAN. A World Centre for Tribal Textiles! What would it be like (especially for the weavers themselves) to bring Toraja, Dayak and Batak weavers together? To have representatives of closely-related cultures who otherwise never meet up, come together to share their closely-related weaving knowledge while working at their looms! What would it be like to bring Toba Batak from different regions together with Simalungun and Karo Batak weavers together? What about Acehnese and Minangkabau and Batak weavers, as they have so profoundly influenced each other in the past? And, speaking of profound influence in the past, what about bringing weavers from India together with weavers from Indonesia? The opportunities are legion, the possible spin-offs exciting to contemplate. It is about cross-fertilization, learning, the preservation and growth of knowledge and traditions, mutual appreciation, stimulation and encouragement. The survival of diversity. The survival of the creative history of man – and woman – kind.

In May, under the auspices of Voyage & Culture in Amsterdam, I hope to lead a tour to the Batak area, specifically to kindle/nurture/satisfy external interest in the Batak weaving arts. There will be hands-on opportunities for the participants. On the flip side, this is a way to celebrate the weavers, give them an additional source of income and encourage pride in their skills. It is another way to give a boost to the Batak weaving arts using international support, and to get knowledge about their techniques out there in the world. A little drop in an exciting bucket – that could expand to have the dimensions of Lake Toba.

I think of my friends, Nia and Ismoyo of Brahma Tirta Sari in Yogyakarta. These batik artists have long recognized the importance of indigenous traditions to their own modern art forms.

Cross-cultural collaboration is another critical and enriching aspect of the Brahma Tirta Sari creative process. Their commitment to cross-cultural exchange is rooted in the ideal of human unity and recognises the creative life force not only inherent in ancient Javanese traditions, but also in the traditions and knowledge of indigenous cultures. As Ismoyo describes

“Tradition is the DNA strands of our world culture. We are truly indebted to these threads that continuously flow to make the present the past and form the basis for creativity in each subsequent era.”

(Joanna Barrkman, Curator, Southeast Asian Art and Material Culture, Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory, Darwin, Australia)

Currently, they are developing plans to bring modern textile artists in touch with village producers. Their argument, that I whole-heartedly endorse, is that they both need each other to grow and develop. Mutualism. Nia and Ismoyo, themselves, grab every opportunity that they can find, or create, to work with indigenous practitioners, and have done so in Africa (Nigeria), Australia (Utopia and Ernabella), and especially in the batik villages of Java (e.g. Giriloyo).

They are working on a variant of the same theme as the organizers of the Tinkuy in Peru: communication across artificial boundaries that have emerged socially, geographically and historically that can get in the way of the growth of the art form.

I am going to closely follow The Gathering of the Tribes, a comparable initiative in Malaysia that is heating up. It is scheduled to take place January 14 - 16 2011. It will do just as its name says: bring the different tribal peoples together where they will focus on specific cultural heritage issues.

These initiatives are emanating inspiring rays of hope.

Back to the Villages - the map!

2010-08-03T20:04:00.001+02:00

See a map below for the routes in North Sumatra taken for the Back to the Villages project. Click on the image to see a larger one.

Schedule in North Sumatra, June 2010
5 - arrive in Medan from Jakarta
6 - Gunung Leuser (Orang Utan rehabilitation centre)
7 - Medan to Berastagi
8 - Kaban Jahe
9 - Tongging, Paropo, Silalahi
10 - Berastagi to Tuktuk via Simalungun and Parapat
11 - Lumban Suhisuhi
12 - Simanindo, Ambarita, Tomok
13 - Silindung Valley
14 - Silindung Valley
15 - Tuktuk to Medan
16-18 - Medan
19 - Medan to Parapat and Tuktuk
20 - Tuktuk to Simanindo, Lumban Suhisuhi, Pusuk Buhit, Harian Boho and Sihotang. Overnight at the foot of Pusuk Buhit on the shore of Lake Toba
21 - Back to Samosir, and from Pangururan to Simbolon to Nainggolan, back to Tuktuk, Parapat and all the way south to Muara
22 - Muara
23 - Silindung - to Parapat at the end of the day
24 - from Parapat to Balige
25 - Balige to Kaban Jahe and Berastagi
26 - Berastagi to Medan - then an afternoon flight to Aceh
27 - Banda, Aceh
28 - Banda to Medan
29 - Medan - to Amsterdam over KL

Memory

2010-07-25T22:49:00.003+02:00

I remember the children of Harian Boho when I lived there in 1979-80. They ran around in packs, and had huge, limpid black eyes. They were beautiful.

This time, when I was back to give a copy of Legacy to Ompu Sihol’s grandson, now a grown man, I was once again struck by the children of Harian Boho. Several crowded around in front of me. They were very young, perhaps 5 years old, and just like I remembered, fully innocent and unself-conscious. They stood in front of me, staring, unblinking, their eyes fathomless and black. They stared intently, uncompromisingly. It wasn’t just their deep eyes, their full attention was focused on me. They were recording everything, every movement I made, every hair in my nose. I am certain that when I go back to Harian Boho in 10 years time, and I run into them, teenagers by then, they will still be able to recount every single detail of what transpired on that day in June 2010.

I am sure of this because that was my experience this time around. When we arrived in Harian Boho and I got out of the vehicle to ask a group of young men how I could make my way to my weaving teacher, Ompu Sihol’s village (I no longer remembered the path), they asked me if I was Sandra. I had spent few months there in 1980, 30 years earlier, and since then had been back only once for an hour or two. I was taken aback that they should know who I was. Perhaps they had this knowledge from stories? What other white woman would want to know where Ompu Sihol lived? But who were they? I had no notion of even how to reciprocate their attentiveness.

More than once, I was taken aback in the same way.
When I knocked on Nai Ati’s door in Silalahi and asked her if she still knew me, she responded with no hesitation after 24 years: “Si Sandy?”
In Berastagi, Nande Pulung, after 24 years, still knew everything that transpired during my last visit. She was surprised that I no longer knew the way to Nande Peringitten’s house because, as she pointed out, she had taken me there the last time! For my part? Quite honestly, I would no longer have recognized Nande Peringitten’s house house if my life had depended on it (although I recognized the interior because I had a photograph of it), and I had no recollection of ever going there on foot, let alone with Nande Pulung.
And then there was Boru Pandiangan Ny. Siregar in Muara for whom the picture of her in the front of Legacy was no surprise because she still had the snapshot that I had sent to her 24 years ago and fetched it easily.
Nai Ganda had an accurate recall of the textile types that we had talked about 24 years earlier, she knew which ones I had purchased and she critically inspected the pages of Legacy with an eye to which ones I had included and which ones had been left out;
Ompu Si Masta remembered that we didn't go through the bargaining ritual when I purchased textiles at her stall; she gave me a fair price and I trusted her. I no longer remembered this when we spoke this last time (but I pretended I did).

And everywhere I went, the children watched me with their deep, black eyes.

At first I made light of it: probably not too much out of the ordinary happens in these places, I told myself, so if something unusual does happen, it must be memorable for them.

But contemplation leads me to believe that there is so much more to it.

Batak rituals or indigenous legal "courts", were public fora out in the open. The bystanders were witnesses. To acknowledge their role, they were given a few token coins. The events were thus parked in memory. The witnesses served as the archive; there was no other kind, and cultures need their stores of information.

There were no schools and there were no books as recording devices. As I pondered it further, I developed the awareness that memory and accurate observation were everything, everything in the sense of history and the perpetuation of culture.

Memory is apprenticeship; memory is the ability to re-stage a ritual; memory is oral history; memory is mythology, legends, tales; memory is the kinship system that the Batak used to be able to trace 25 generations back; memory is the way to get to the market a week’s walk away along mountain paths; memory is the ability to recite prayers, to play that marvellously complex and subtle Batak music, to dance, to cook, to look after the garden, to conduct rites of divination. Memory is the knowledge that is available when books (and now the internet) are not. A thought world is pecisely that: the way of life that is hung on the framework of socially recognized ways of perceiving that are transferred from one generation to the next. The thought world is merged with life as it is lived.

I began to consider the mnemonic tools that I know that the Batak had. The pustaha, or bark books, were mnemonic tools par excellence. They were used in combination with memory, to jog it. There were little ditties that Ompu Sihol sang so that she could keep track of the complex counts of yarn and cycles involved in producing a perfectly symmetrical textile. The conventions in weaving, too, were memory joggers: right and left, forward and back, up and down, so that you could resume where you left off. I have made the argument in my Back to the Villages project that the textiles themselves are mnemonic devices; they allow the reproduction of the designs they exhibit. Logically, therefore, weaving is the merging of memory with physical performance -- which is yet another form of memory. This, surely, is the essence of ritual: incribing memory, including that known by the body, into the tactile, the visual, the perceptible world. Ritual is memory generating expression. In turn, the expression is committed to memory. A cycle of life.

It was as if those little children in Harian Boho became so absorbed in the task of observing me that they had become one with me, inhabiting my skin. It was only when my eyes shifted and intentionally caught theirs, when I said something gently and directly to them, thus introducing a boundary over which could be given and received, that they were suddenly overcome with the shyness that comes of self-consciousness and they shrank and looked away.

Those eyes. Those terribly endearing, unfathomable, relentless eyes. Already to the roots of their very beings, they were children of another culture.

See Back to the Villages - the map!

A revolutionary act (for an academician)

2010-07-23T23:20:00.004+02:00

At the beginning of my journey, Rithaony Hutajulu said that she thought that my book could be important to Suarasama, the music group that she and her husband have started. I knew that she wanted to have a copy and I wanted to give her one, but I was hesitant. The books were earmarked for weavers and those depicted on Legacy’s pages. By the end of the journey, I knew that I wanted Suarasama to have a copy (and not just because there were fewer weavers out there). I handed it over to Ritha’s husband, Irwansyah Harahap, also an ethnomusicologist, performer and professor at the University of North Sumatra, on 26 June.

Much had changed in my thinking in the interim and I had begun to see these people as key figures in Batak cultural promotion and revival. They were connected to all the right people who would be able to contextualize the importance of my work. They would use my book in their own work. They figured, now, among my most important recipients!

I had been away from the region for a long time. During my trip, I began to discern and increasingly understand a new set of ideas. Like an undercurrent, concern for the loss of indigenous culture is growing. The proportions of this loss are vastly more disturbing than most of us know. The Canadian anthropologist, Wade Davis, said it well in the first of his CBC Massey Lectures entitled The Wayfarers (2009):

“... just as the biosphere, the biological matrix of life, is being severely eroded by the destruction of habitat and the resultant loss of plant and animal species, so too is the ethnosphere, only at a far greater rate. No biologist, for example, would suggest that 50 percent of all species are moribund. Yet this, the most apocalyptic scenario in the realm of biological diversity, scarcely aproaches what we know to be the most optimistic scenario in the realm of cultural diversity.” (Davis, 2009, pp 2-3)

The loss of Batak textiles is not just the loss of a few techniques and patterns, it is the loss of cultural knowledge in which a thought system, cultural history, and a way of life are inscribed. It can be written down and recorded, as I have made an attempt to do in Legacy, but words can only point to non-verbal knowledge, capture it the way formaldehyde can preserve biological species. The only true preservation is life itself, or when it comes to weaving, practice. By practice I do not mean the execution of techniques but rather the performance of culture in a holistic sense. While manipulating a backstrap loom, Batak weavers enact and perpetuate a way of seeing and thinking, they operate within a paradigm and if they are skilled, they add to it, making it grow, allowing it to adapt, ensuring its vitality. This is what apprenticeship is about for the youth, and teaching on the part of the elderly: the intergenerational links that ensure cultural survival.

It was satisfying to learn that my Indonesian ethnomusicologist colleagues were practitioners as well as recorders of ancient knowledge. They understand it and they are Batak. When I think about this, I long to go and sit in a backstrap loom to truly learn what I have written about. During my 30-year labour over the book, I neglected to weave!

How misguided our institutions of higher learning have been to so strongly privilege the word (logocentrism) above practice! I perceive the legions of anthropologists at great and costly international conferences, in painful contrast to the loss of cultural practice by indigenous peoples due to lack of support, in these terms. Documentation is perhaps a symptom of doomsday thinking, a pathetic way to hang onto a shadow of what is fated to disappear. It is a style and product of Western ego and Western culture that earned its predominance through our technical prowess (Industrial Revolution). Our consequent blindness has yielded our greatest proceeds, but they are now proving to be our greatest weakness. Western academics “play the game” while that which we study dies out.

Perhaps the distribution of Legacy this past month has been my greatest revolutionary act in the history of my involvement with the book and with academe. Breaking the tacit boundary between the researcher and the researched, allowing Legacy to potentially have a legacy for practitioners!

Biodiversity is not saved in a bottle; it is allowed to run free in viable habitats. So, too, cultural diversity. I find myself reiterating what I have also heard others say: the Batak weaving arts, while specific to the Batak, are a Universal Human Legacy, a well-explored product of a facet of human thought and culture. They are irreplaceable. Loss of this rich vein of culture is a loss for all of humanity.

Ritha! Irwansyah! I am so happy to have been able to present you with one of my books! It was given to you courtesy the largess and insightfulness of the very admirable Volkenkunde Museum in Leiden, The Netherlands. Please do use it!

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Memorable moments with memorable people

2010-07-23T23:05:00.039+02:00

On the afternoon of 23 June, we decided to go to Parapat rather than Balige. My former research assistant, Linda Hutagalung, lives there but has a restaurant in Silindung. She spends half of each week in each place. The long busride is tiring for her. She had been such a wonderful hostess and guide, so generous to us, that bringing her to Parapat in our vehicle so that she wouldn’t have to face the journey on the bus was the one thing we could do to reciprocate a little bit. But we had a stop to make before we could leave.

The first was Pasar Horas, the Tarutung market. We had been there earlier in the day. On page 80 of Legacy there is a photograph of a textile shop in Tarutung. I wanted to find the owner and give her a copy of the book. Linda knew her (yet another member of the family). Apparently the shop had not survived the earthquake in the 90s and the owner, Rosella boru Hutagalung, now had a stall in the market. Linda had led me to it first thing in the morning. Rosella boru Hutagalung was a real pleasure to meet. While I had photographed her shop, I had never met her. I was impressed by her calmness and her kind eyes. She was overjoyed with the book which I presented in the name of a dear friend, Marion van der Heuvel, in The Netherlands. Her stall was very nicely furbished with the latest fashions in ulos and she was knowledgeable and obviously in close touch with weavers. If ever a textile stall proprietor was going to make good use of the book, she was it.

She insisted upon giving something in return for the book but searched to no avail for a particular textile with the latest in supplementary weft patterning. We were returning that evening, at her bidding, to receive it. With much merriment, I was diulosi, i.e. in a semi-ritual fashion it was hung around my shoulders. And I do very much admire the cloth. While I had seen the rose motif executed with beadwork (p 501 of Legacy; see also Ompu Si Tohap’s Ulos Sirara pp. 61 and 377), I had never seen it executed in supplementary weft – and such fine work it is! This was a particularly joyful way to be introduced to a new invention. May it become a popular fad and Rosella boru Hutagalung benefit from it!

Our responsibilities in Silindung having been filled, all 5 of us clambered into our vehicle (our chauffeur, Pak Jerry loved keramaian or merriment and lots of people, so he was only too happy to oblige) and started on our journey to Parapat.

Then there was another stop, this time at Si Singamangaradja University (see the blog on Student Needs) and after that, we found Pelangi Kasih, the residence where Ibu Nuria Gultom is spending the twilight years of her very full and active life. She was the head of the diaconess school in Balige (next to the associated nurse’s residence) when I lived there in 1979-80. She had befriended me with such boundless kindness that I knew that I could never repay her. Certainly, the gentle caring that she and Ibu Ria Hutabarat (see blog Hutabarat) provided were driving forces behind completing Legacy. Ibu Gultom had also given me a very precious textile (page 364 Legacy) when I left in 1980. I wanted to tell her with my book how much I valued her, her gift, her culture, her trust in me. I gave the gift in the name of the Soroptimists of Arnhem as I felt the kinship between Ibu Gultom’s striving for the betterment of women and that of the Soroptimists. In addition, I knew that the book would do well on her bookshelves because many women would gain access to it. Ibu Gultom was still very active and involved in projects for the betterment of lives, a singularly dear and admirable woman.

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Holbung/Uluan

2010-07-23T23:02:00.001+02:00

On the 24th of June, our task was to get from Parapat, on the East side of the lake, to Balige, on the plain south of the lake, to complete the presentations for Uluan and Holbung.

I wanted to give a book to the elderly weaver depicted on page 461 (it is her loom on page 6) – she had been wonderful to talk with - but I knew that she would be deceased. We made a few stops but were not able to find her descendants or anyone who knew her. Still, I wanted to make sure that I left a book behind in the Lumban Julu region where she had lived. I admire the textiles from this region. It was annexed relatively late and some of the nicest old pieces still come from there, but it still feels like one of the most difficult regions to connect with.

By once again letting the spirits of Toba guide us, we found Ompu Okta, and it was both one of the most richly satisfying and one of the saddest meetings of the project (see the description in blog entitled Dilepaskan).

We drove on to Porsea. I remembered very clearly where the couple standing there proudly on page 534 lived in Huta Parparean. When I did a customary Batak yell and knock at the door, the woman who came out immediately recognized the couple depicted on the plasticized picture; it turned out that she -- and everybody else in the village -- was related to them. There were alot of them and they all gathered around me, the strange phenomenon in their midst. There were no weavers among them, so I elected to give the book to the little worried boy in the photograph being held in line by his grandfather’s hand.

The villagers fetched him and he arrived, all vibrantly grown up, half wet and half naked, apparently interrupted in his work at the fishpond in the back. Overjoyed with the book, he offered me a goldfish in return and we joined him on the trek to the pond. From the clutter and chaos of his village we were suddenly greeted by a beautiful, green and peaceful vista and we expressed our admiration spontaneously and bountifully. The villagers warned us that our delight was a delusion because if we looked carefully at the hills in the background, we would see that they were being clearcut and it was already disturbing their peaceful pond. Such is the environmental drama unfolding right now in Porsea.

In the end, I came to my senses and turned down the goldfish, pointing out that I had no tank in the car in which to carry it and, at the end of the road, no fire to cook it with (I didn’t say that I was vegetarian). They understood my argument and forgave me and we undertook the trek back to the chaotic, tumultuous village and said our good-byes. The villagers promised that they would show the book to the weavers (probably of ragi hotang textiles) they knew living close by Porsea.

The book was a gift from Sandra Sardjono who is using textiles to explore the mysteries of her homeland.

The next stop was Laguboti. I was anxious to find Ompu Si Masta (depicted on page 143 of Legacy). I last met her in 2003 in the Balige market. Although we had built a strong tie during my research in 1986, we no longer recognized each other; we had both changed. I sat in her stall and began to ask questions, apparently just as then, about the names of textile types. She gave me the superficial answers typically given to the casual shopper but I kept pestering her for more details. Finally she looked at me and said, “There used to be a Canadian girl who knew all the names of Batak textiles. She used to come to me to learn them all.” “What was her name,” I asked, suspecting that she would mention my name. When she did, I let the cat out of the bag. “That’s me”, I said. “I’m her.” Then she fell on me and smothered me with hugs.

It was a long search, but we finally met up with her in her home. Her son led us there and we waited until she emerged from a meeting with a Bibelfrau. I warned Mas Nashir to be prepared for her exuberance and keep his finger on the shutter release of the camera... And so we were launched into a joyful afternoon. She took us all out for an extended lunch and entertained us in her extroverted way, remembering so many incidents and details. “You were my friend,” she said. “I treated you fairly and we never haggled on the prices of the textiles I found for you.” She had been a wonderful source of textile types and taught me a great deal.

Now she was well into her 70s but had too much energy to stop her work. She still sold textiles at the market, three times a week, still liked it, and wanted to continue with it for as long as she could. I didn’t get a sense of what she thought of the book. Perhaps she will only formulate her impression after she has found the time to study it. I wonder if she will take it with her to the market? May it remind her of our many discussions about textile types the way it reminds me of her. I had been so worried that I would never have the opportunity to see her again and rejoiced at this opportunity to meet her in her home together with her family.

Her book was donated by the Soroptimists of Arnhem.

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Hutagalung II

2010-07-22T20:03:00.003+02:00

I lived in Hutagalung for 8 months in 1986. A colonial house in that little village filled with drying rice was my pied-á-terre. Not surprisingly, I had various presentations of Legacy to make in the village and was not able to fit it into the 15th of June. I was able to return again on June 23rd with my photographer, MJA Nashir.

Nai Ratna had been my closest neighbour (see pages 157 and 472 of Legacy). She wove the side panels for one ragidup textile type each week. When her two daughters came home from school, they wove the centre panel. Diligent and precise workers, they supported themselves through school in this way. Hutagalung is known as the “ragidup village”; that cloth type is its specialty. Everything I learned about the techniques used to weave a ragidup (e.g. p. 490-491), I learned from this family.

Nai Ratna was at home when we visited. She was old now and she had “retired” from weaving. One of her daughters, Monna, was still living with her. She had married a man who had learned how to make tofu and together they had gone into business becoming the biggest tofu producer in the valley. Their operation was located in the back of the house. She no longer wove, either.

Our visit was brief but light-hearted. Nai Ratna and Monna were happy to receive the book courtesy of Tomas Murray who expressed great pleasure at being able to give something back to the people whose textiles he admired and enjoyed so much.

saying goodbye to Nia Ratna and Mona

And then we took a tour of their tofu-plant, alas so much more lucrative than textile-production. But they are doing well with their business and I am happy for them.

Nai Arta lived a few doors down. I didn’t know her well. I remembered her as being shy, diligent, poor, working until the wee hours on her ragidup sisabulung using the light of an oil lamp -- and rubbing and complaining about her sore eyes. When we peered in on her, she was weaving the centre panel of a ragidup (not a ragidup sisabulung; she only did that on commission, she explained). She looked very well and she was wearing glasses (perhaps that had been the problem, so many years ago). Her adult daughter who was with her also looked hale and hearty. I felt relieved to see this.

Nai Arta was overjoyed with the book and her face was wreathed in smiles. I explained to her that my former professor, Shuichi Nagata (University of Toronto), had selected her specifically as the recipient of his gift. He wished her well, especially hoping that her eyes were handling the strains of weaving. His message touched her.

It was a memorable transfer for me, as Professor Nagata had introduced me to Batak ethnology during my Master’s year at the University of Toronto. He was my first guide on the path that culminated in Legacy in cloth and with this visit.

Nai Ganda’s house was a few villages deeper into Hutagalung. I had spent endless hours with her (pages 86, 156 and 442 of Legacy). Her store of knowledge seemed to have no limits. In addition, I had always admired her strength. Her lot in life was not easy, but she was always positive and cheerful. It seemed to be a decision and a discipline. She was hard-headed and she worked very hard. As an ikat-maker, she remembered the lessons she had learned from her talented and knowledgeable mother-in-law and frequently referred to her as the most important source of her own knowledge. Now she had become old and she didn’t recognize me until she peered into my face in the light. Then her greeting was so warm and dear that I felt my tears come. I was so grateful that I was able to meet with her once again. Her husband was also still alive and we all sat together in the front room.

It had been refurbished. Nai Ganda produced an old photograph that reminded me of the way it had been. I was sitting at a low table writing down the information that she was giving to me. I had no recollection of the photograph and wonder who took it. Mas Nashir made a copy of it for me. Nai Ganda also had old letters that I had sent her, and a copy of my PhD dissertation that was well thumbed through.

the old photo of me writing down information from Nai Ganda

Nai Ganda was one of my most precious contacts and so I had suggested that my mother donate her gift of Legacy to Nai Ganda. I know that this was meaningful to Nai Ganda.

We went through Legacy together and talked about her textile design experiments; she was curious to see which ones I had put in the book (pages 201, 277, 409) and she pulled out several more to show me how her thinking had developed. She was older and she no longer wove, but she hadn’t changed. I have given her my book, but I don’t think that she could ever know how much I appreciate and care for her.

rice drying outside Nai Ganda's house

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Hutagalung

2010-07-22T19:37:00.002+02:00

Traditional Batak time is circular, like the warp of a textile, like the composition of ritual music, like the phases of the moon and the annual passage of the stars through the night sky, just as kinship categories repeat every 3 generations, just like the rice season that returns over and over again. Everything changes and everything remains the same.

When I went to Hutagalung on 15 June, they were bringing in the harvest. The village square was full of rice spread out thinly on mats to dry in the sun. My thoughts immediately went back to the first time that I saw Linda, who later became my assistant. She was working on the harvest and the village looked exactly like it did this time. I remember that I liked Linda immediately.

Linda was with me now again, and her brother Jonny who was wielding my camera. We entered the house where Linda’s parents had once lived and where her sister now lived. In that house were Mamak and Bapak of Selamat Scott, their first child, now 24 years ago. In the photograph on page 89 of Legacy, while his mother and father were ritually eating goldfish and rice and being encircled by a ragidup textile to bless their union and the coming generations of their budding new family, he was suckling at the breast. Selamat was now almost the same age as his parents at that time. Linda’s parents were now deceased. The generations are continuing.

I gave the three of them a copy of Legacy in the name of a donor who prefers to remain anonymous for the internet. The whole village, the extended family, gathered to bear witness (and to satisfy their curiosity).

Then the first drops of rain fell. As soon as decorum would allow it, the house emptied and they all ran out to shove the rice into sacks (goni – derived from the same Sanskrit word as the English gunny) so that they could bring it in from the rain. Just as they have been doing for generations. This was their food for the coming year.

The Batak ritual name for their rice-fields, as the gift from the father to ensure the well-being of his married daughter, is “the ulos (textile) that does not wear out.”

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Unexpected Twists

2010-07-20T15:54:00.001+02:00

Giving away books in North Sumatra sounds like an easy job but by times, selecting recipients was challenging. Very often I found myself wondering how things would pan out and I flew by the seat of my pants. A favourite example of this took place in Nainggolan, the southernmost tip of Samosir Island on 21 June. On page 523 of Legacy, there is a picture of a male twiner whom I met back in 1979-80, but I have no recollection of how I met him, his name, or whom I was with at the time. Moreover the likelihood that he was still alive was remote as he was already fairly senior thirty years ago. Nevertheless, by virtue of being depicted there, he - or his descendants – had a right to the book.

As luck would have it, it was market day in Nainggolan when we arrived. The streets were teeming with people from all of the neighbouring communities. I threw my hands in the air and rolled my eyes. “It will be a miracle if we find him,” I said to Mas Nashir. But we both believe in miracles and did not give up. We jostled our way into the market, asking how to get to the textile sellers. There turned out to be several stalls, but one caught our attention because of the fineness of the hand-plaited straw bags that the proprietor was also selling. We admired them, learning that they, too, are teetering on the edge of extinction, when Mas Nashir advised me to ask the seller if she recognized the man on the plasticized page of Legacy that I had brought with me. Bingo! Immediate jackpot! Not only did she know him and was thrilled to be reminded of him by way of the photograph, she was a family member well-connected with his children and was willing to pass on the book to them. He had indeed already passed away.

Our luck seemed like a stroke of divine intervention, but in retrospect, I wonder what our chances would have been at finding him by asking anyone else. Our stall proprietor immediately yelled across to her neighbour in the stall next to hers to come and see Parhusip’s picture. Nainggolan is the place of origin of the Parhusip marga and a goodly number of the people in the town would have been related to him.

In Balige, the home of the Pardede clan or marga, our luck was different, however. The morning of June 24 found us searching diligently for the home of Ama ni Paung Pardede. I had a vague recollection of the house where the photograph on page 146 of Legacy was hung, but I couldn’t remember where it was in the town. My cousin (in Batak kinship terms), Peiza Hutabarat, guided us to the Pardede kampungs and even in the rain, jumped out of the vehicle again and again to ask people for help. We couldn’t find anybody who knew Ama ni Paung.

Because I have an unshakeable belief that my world is unfolding as it should, when my luck appears to have totally run out, I switch gears and ask myself what lesson I should be learning from the situation. That question is always disorienting at first but usually the answer is right under my nose and I have to learn to see it. Suddenly, in Balige, I knew the answer. I ran over to Peiza while she was knocking at yet one more door (luckily the person was not at home) and I asked her to come back to the car. “I want to give the book to you,” I said. Peiza had shown such appreciation for it, had understood the goals of the Back to the Villages project and had helped me so sincerely and unstintingly in so many ways that I suddenly became aware that there was nobody in Balige who could be a better recipient. She was delighted and promised to show it to as many people as possible. She explained that she was building a lending library and she would add Legacy to it.

Peiza is a lawyer who came back from Jakarta to assume family responsibilities back in her home town of Balige. “What if I find the owner of the picture (on p. 146 of Legacy)?” she asked. “You could give him the laminated picture,” I said, “but the book is yours.” The decision felt right. One more transfer solved in an unexpected way. Such are the twists in the road linking the past and the present. Another seed planted.

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Hutabarat

2010-07-20T15:44:00.001+02:00

Hutabarat is the name of a village in the Silindung Valley and the name of a marga or lineage. The Hutabarats hail from Hutabarat.

Today marks three weeks since my return to The Netherlands. It always takes awhile to adjust. My transition has been smoothed, this past weekend, by two guests, Ibu Bonaria Hutabarat and Dr. Kristel Westerhausen. Ibu Hutabarat was the head of the nurse’s residence in Balige where I stayed in 1979-80; Dr. Westerhausen worked at the hospital across the street for many years, but returned to Germany in 1982. The depth of kindness and caring in these two women endeared them to me forever.

Moreover, we are sisters. By chance, I was adopted into the Hutabarat marga and I am as many generations removed from the apical ancestor as Ibu Ria. The same goes for Dr. Westerhausen who was also adopted by the clan. We three sisters were together again for the first time since 1980.

Giving a copy of Legacy to Ibu Ria was high on my list of priorities in North Sumatra but she was visiting her sister, Dr. Westerhausen in Germany during the month of June. I didn’t get my chance until this past weekend.

Ibu Ria, now a vibrant 81-year-old, is the daughter of Raja Renatus Hutabarat about whom I write on page 84 of Legacy. I know the textiles that he sent to J.E. Jasper’s Annual Market in Surabaya in 1909, for which he won first prize, because they are now stored in the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam. I will never forget the day that Ibu Ria came to me in Balige and showed me the certificate that he had received on that occasion; she had saved it carefully for many years.

Before I left Indonesia in 1980, Ibu Ria and her brother gave me the textile depicted on page 395 of Legacy in a little goodbye ceremony in their home. (Ibu Ria told me this past weekend that the textile was very old and had been a gift from a member of the Siregar clan, from the southern Batak area.) The son and daughter-in-law of Ibu Ria’s brother are depicted on p. 73, when they baptized their baby Helen. There were many reasons, therefore, to visit their home during this past trip, even though Ibu Ria was then in Germany.

The visit took place on June 15. Jonny Hutagalung, my Batak brother, took the photographs. I sat down with Mamak Helen (Duma, Br. Simunjuntak) and presented her with the book courtesy of the Indonesian Heritage Society. The moment when I showed her her picture was very merry. Afterwards, her father-in-law inspected the book very carefully. I wish I knew what his impressions were.

See Back to the Villages - the map!

Gratifying look

2010-07-15T10:33:00.002+02:00

My friend and webmaster, Pamela Cross, asked me upon my return whether I look differently at Legacy in cloth now that I have taken it to Indonesia. The answer is an unequivocal “yes”.

I remember how anxiously I lived towards the first presentation of the book to a Batak weaver. I had talked up my Back to the Villages project for so long and had received so many donations. I felt that alot was at stake. To many people the project seemed a bit strange given that the book is in English and not yet translated (I brazenly write “yet” because I am immodestly convinced that it will only be a matter of time). I believed that the book would be of use to weavers because they can read the photos better than anybody else, and because they need and deserve a pictorial record of their repertory. Anything I could write or say would, relatively speaking, be of less importance. How relieved and gratified I was when the book was received by the weavers with such intense interest and appreciation.

One of my favourite illustrations of this happened in the Silindung Valley, in the twining village of Sait ni Huta. When we pulled up, there were several women of all ages twisting fringes and twining edges in front of their homes. I selected one person to sit with and gradually more and more villagers clustered around us. Because of their weaving speciality, I opened the book to the pages of twined patterning (pp. 526 - 528) and watched them react. They immediately pointed out the patterns that they were familiar with, fetched textiles out of their homes to show me modern edges that are not represented in the book, enquired whether I had illustrations of beadwork as well (luckily, I did - p. 530 – taken in their village!) and discussed the differences between their work and that of their colleagues in Laguboti (near Lake Toba) and Kaban Jahe (Karo Batak area). The discussion was animated and enthusiastic.

On a whim, I showed them the twined bag on page 406. I was so curious how they would react to this rare and old bag. None of them had ever seen one and at first they doubted that it could have been twined. Then they started offering suggestions as to how it had been made. If the conversation had been lively, it was now almost a brawl with alternate, competing suggestions but nobody had the courage to take me up on my offer to pay for a replica of the bag. When I left, they still had not yet come to a conclusion about how it had been made. I realized that they needed more detailed photographs of the bottom of the bag and visual proof that it had not been made flat and then stitched up the side. But I didn’t leave discouraged. I thought, “They invented this bag once in the past and they are clever and skilled, so they can re-invent it or devise something entirely new.” I left them with the book and in the knowledge that they had enjoyed the puzzle.

What I don’t know, however, is whether their pride was bolstered by the book. For the most part, they don’t know much about books and what a major undertaking Legacy represents. It could be the implications of this book won’t sink in until later when they have had the time to ponder the celebration of their art that the book represents.

My next step that day was the village of Parbubu where Ompu SiTohap used to live (p. 61). She was no longer alive and so her son and daughter-in-law received the book. I witnessed their happiness at seeing her in the book showing off her favourite textile (now in Jakarta, inherited by her daughter). Whether there was pride in her weaving skills and her being a representative of Batak weavers, I don’t know.

Time may provide the answer to this question: will weavers show off the book to prove their technical excellence? Will it inspire young women to take up the art and older women to once again try their hand at it? Will it spark the development of an exhibition or two? Will local politicians heed a new urge to acknowledge and display the works of weavers within their jurisdictions? Before I left The Netherlands to return to the Batak villages, an employee at the Indonesian Embassy paused for a moment while looking through the book, “I have grown up seeing weavers and textiles for sale at the markets; I just always took it for granted, but now I see that it has potential for tourism...”

I do not think that I made a wrong decision to give copies of Legacy to weavers and villagers who could never afford to buy it (even imaging they were ever able to find it on the publisher’s (KITLV) website!). The hunger for information in the villages alone means that the gift was useful. Will there be concrete outcomes to the Back to the Villages project? (No funding agency would support me in my project because I couldn’t demonstrate this.) I have to sit back and be patient, allow the books to develop their own life in the villages....Maybe the effects will never be measurable.

..............

In Medan, when the project was completed, I received a text message on my mobile phone from Ompu Okta (see blog “Dilepaskan”). She wanted to know what the title of the book was in Indonesian....Obviously, she was still preoccupied with her gift....

See Back to the Villages - the map!