Penghargaan dari Kembidkbud - hari kedua

Foto by Tatan Daniel

The second day of the Cultural Award ceremony put on by the Indonesian Ministry of Education and Culture built up to the crowning evening when the Minister, Dr. Anies Baswedan, was in attendance. Mid-afternoon we were brought by bus to the Theater Building in Taman Ismail Marzuki where we learned how all sixty (or so) of us were to go on and off stage. At that point some of our ranks were just beginning to put together a performance. After all there were musicians and dancers and writers among the awardees.

The final event was pulled off flawlessly. We all gasped when we realized that a full orchestra would accompany the evening. Changing slide images from the archipelago formed the backdrop. Classical was interwoven with ethnic by young and old from the entire archipelago. The speech by the Minister was of the gentle and thoughtful kind, a carefully aimed message to encourage the audience to continue to work for their cultural traditions. He gave each of the awardees a golden pin and then it was over.

Breakfast with Ibu Chitra and another award winner

The next morning I had the opportunity to discuss the ceremony with the coordinator of all of the events, ibu Dyah Chitraria Liestyati. This beautiful, personable, intelligent and kind person was able to give us her full attention during breakfast. On the face of things, the award ceremony looked like it had been a risk. The awardees had had only a few hours to put together an act. On the other hand, in this land of creative spontaneity, always very much rooted in ‘the moment’, perhaps only such an un-choreographed performance could truly reveal the genius of the performers. In that sense, it had been the smallest possible risk!

They were geniuses, every one of them. I was mesmerized by their performance. Perhaps it was the same for all of us in the audience: the awareness as the evening progressed that we were being privy to something precious if not unprecedented. We were seeing the essence of the Indonesian arts. This was no ‘canned’ performance being dished up. This was genius being given a brief stage, the whole of Nusantara working together, building on each other’s strengths, complementing each other. This was diversity unified into a single act. Many of the performers were elderly. Their movements were testament to their lives having been steeped in the practices. It seemed less that they were ‘performing’ and more that they had briefly assumed a stage where they could be who they were as artists, as cultural leaders working together. What an assembly! Where else would one be privy to the best of the best from the entire archipelago?  Such grace. Such depth of spirit. A singular moment: unexpected, powerful, impossible to plan. It ‘came together’ like a ritual. I had witnessed a miracle.

What was this? Was this the privilege of being witness to the end of the line? Or did this ceremony mark maintenance and revival, a changing of the tide? Our hostess at breakfast, ibu Chitra, the event coordinator, spoke of her excitement when she first read about the talents of the people who had been selected to receive this year’s cultural award and her deep wish to allow them to show their talents. She also spoke of the challenge facing the government in its commitment to encourage this genius, to facilitate its transfer. Two young people among the awardees included a very small boy with an indescribable singing talent and a young girl who lived to write. To me they represented hope for the future, that everything is still possible.

The Director General, Kacung Marijan and ibu Chitra

The award ceremony did me a lot of good. Prior to the two days of festivities I had been assailed by fears that it might consist of stuffed shirts and politics. I have been deeply saddened during this visit to Indonesia to learn about poverty-related suicides in Batak villages, by the haze hanging over Sumatra from burning forests, by the photographs of animals that have become the victims of this habitat destruction, of knowing that cultural traditions suffer just as much. There have been moments when my hope has sunk so low that going into an award ceremony felt like a strange anachronistic act, and more like subjecting myself to salt in the wound of helplessness than celebration. How could I be given an award for struggling to support a weaving tradition on the brink of extinction? The award ceremony re-kindled my love for Indonesian culture and it gave me hope as did the opportunity to speak to the Director General of the culture department, Mr. Kacung Marijan, and the event coordinator, Ibu Chitra, afterwards, whereupon I discovered their genius and sincerity. They also represent the best elements of Indonesian culture. May their goodness, energy and wisdom similarly prevail and be passed on.

Penghargaan Budaya dari Kemdikbud - hari pertama

Hari ini adalah yang pertama dari dua hari yang dihabiskan untuk merayakan Penghargaan Budaya dari Kementrian Pendidikan dan Budaya. Banyak orang berkumpul di sini, di Jakarta, menyemarakkan perayaan ini. Saya mendapat kehormatan menjadi salah seorang penerima penghargaan ini. Inilah tahun pertama di mana seorang asing telah dinyatakan memenuhi syarat untuk menerima penghargaan ini.

 

Saya tersentuh oleh kemurahan hati yang demikian anggun dari negeri yang besar ini, Indonesia. Pada banyak kesempatan sampai saya sering kewalahan atas kebaikan hati, dukungan dan kesetiaan dari masyarakat.

Hidup saya telah secara khusus diperkaya dengan bakat kreatif yang besar yang ditemukan di negeri ini. Saya terpesona dengan bakat ini ketika saya mendengarkan musik Indonesia, misalnya, atau melihat kain-kain Indonesia. Indonesia memiliki salah satu warisan terkaya kain pribumi di dunia: halus, kompleks, bercitarasa tinggi, sulit dibuat, unik, dan membutuhkan kesabaran, penguasaan teknik, pengetahuan alam, dan landasan spiritual yang kuat. Produk budaya adalah wasiat bagi kapasitas dan prestasi umat manusia. Prestasi budaya yang besar inilah alasan mengapa saya datang ke Indonesia, mengapa saya mencintai Indonesia, dan mengapa saya mengabdikan diri pada seni tekstil Indonesia. Tiada yang lebih memuaskan dalam hidup ini daripada menjadi dekat dengan prestasi spiritual dan berbudaya yang membanggakan dunia.

Saya berharap orang-orang Indonesia menjaga warisan budaya leluhur. Warisan yang agung dari leluhur Anda yang dapat Anda sampaikan kembali kepada anak-anak Anda. Ada nilai-nilai lain dari sekedar nilai uang dan inilah satu-satunya nilai yang abadi dan yang memperkaya pikiran dan jiwa. Bukan masalah bagaimana keadaan moneter negara dan rakyatnya, Anda bangkrut bilamana tanpa nilai-nilai budaya yang kekal. Jagalah, promosikanlah, peliharalah, hormatilah warisan budaya. Bagikan, ajarkan mereka kepada anak-anak Anda. Warisan ini mudah rapuh namun sangatlah berharga. Pengabdian eksklusif pada nilai moneter akan menghancurkan mereka.

Selama masa lalu saya berada di Indonesia, saya telah bekerja pada proyek-proyek Pulang Kampung. Proyek-proyek ini telah mewakili cara memberikan sumber daya ke desa-desa untuk mempertahankan dan mendorong warisan budaya. Saya memohon orang-orang Indonesia untuk mendukung dan merayakan para pencipta warisan budaya Anda ini. Dan itu adalah hal yang sama dalam mendukung identitas Anda, semangat Anda, anak-anak Anda dan memperkokoh dasar cita rasa Anda sendiri atas kepuasan dan kebanggaan. (Terima kasih kepada  Mja Nashir atas terjemahan ini dari bahasa Inggris.)

Harna's Heritage

The consequences of the first Pulang Kampung journey, of distributing copies of Legacy in Cloth among Batak weavers and their families, have evidently not yet achieved completion. The pebbles that I threw into the water then are still creating rings.

In 2010 I gave a copy of Legacy in cloth to Ompu Sihol’s only child (a son) and his youngest son (i.e. Ompu Sihol’s grandson), Juni. Ompu Sihol was my weaving teacher in 1980, the one who so thoroughly taught me the basics of weaving that this knowledge served as the foundation for all my subsequent understandings and documentation of Batak weaving techniques. I described my emotional Pulang Kampung moment, back in her village in Harian Boho, in one of my blogs. It was confrontational to be back in the village where I began my anthropological career as a 24-year old. The lessons with Ompu Sihol had been challenging. She was strict and I was unsure of myself, suffering greatly from culture shock. We managed to muddle our way through our respective cultural misunderstandings and I gradually discovered her good and kind heart and she forgave my confusions. On the last day when we ate our ritual lunch together, we had chicken and I was given the wings (I had given up my vegetarian lifestyle in the village). Ompu Sihol flapped her arms and said that the wings were to help me weave back in my village. I hope that I have done those wings proud even though I have never really become a weaver. I recorded her singing a weaving song on that day. Little did I know that thirty years later it would become the theme song of my film, Rangsa ni Tonun. Her daughter-in-law repeatedly urged me to “not forget the family” and I gave her my promise. “How would I be able to forget you?” I asked in return. When in 2010, thirty-five years later, I gave a copy of Legacy in cloth to Ompu Sihol’s son, his wife was already deceased, he was blind and could not witness the book, and his granddaughter (son Juni’s daughter) had never seen a Batak weaving loom. Times had changed drastically. Ompu Sihol's son was the only one living in the dying village. There were no more weavers in the valley. When I handed over my book, I offered it to three generations that descended from Ompu Sihol, three generations that represented the end of weaving in Harian Boho.  I could not help but wonder how the book would be received, not just then, but on into the future. What would it mean to them? At least they would have a record of an ancestor who was a master weaver and she could be a source of pride for them.

After a few years, a young woman named Alph Kianna Harna contacted me through Facebook saying that she was one of Ompu Sihol’s great grandchildren. She had seen the copy of Legacy in cloth that I had left behind in Ompu Sihol's village and she had googled my name. Her father was one of the little boys living in the village when I was there, one of the sons of that daughter-in-law and that now blind man. I met Alph Kianna Harna briefly when she came to Taman Mini at the launch of Pulang Kampung III and we hugged each other. She felt like family. I liked her equanimity and presence. She said that she worked for Singapore Airlines. We stayed in touch.

Harna had her first meal in The Netherlands with us.

Wonder of wonders, when I last returned from Indonesia (29 September 2015), Harna landed at Schiphol during her first visit overseas. Our planes landed at the same time and we fetched our luggage in the same hall. We met as we were both exiting that hall and I brought her home with me to give her a cozy bed where she could get over her jetlag. Our plan was that I would show her Ompu Sihol’s weaving equipment and textiles.

Harna looked at the pictures of her great
grandmother in my book.

I showed Harna her great grandmother's loom.

Harna said that she didn't know about
Batak weaving.

And we did that. We thumbed through the many pages in Legacy where her great grandmother is depicted. I shared my stories with her and she shared her reactions -- also to my collection of pictures taken during those fateful months. 

It turned out that the grandson who had been given the task of
looking after the chicken for our lunch grew up to be Harna's father.

It felt so odd to be in the position of sharing information about Batak weaving to a descendant of my erstwhile weaving teacher. It must have felt just as odd for Harna. I experienced the need to point out that I had purchased the weaving equipment, that I had exhibited it on several occasions, that I hoped that I had sufficiently honoured it through my work, that I hoped that one day it would all go back to the Batak area. I was gratified when Harna said that she was pleased that I had looked after it all so well. I had been a good custodian but I felt also strangely guilty. It is Harna’s heritage! Our bond is therefore very strong. I care about her as though she is my own family because she is inextricably bound up with the most important heritage of my career. How remarkable to share that heritage with her in The Netherlands! I remembered carrying out the wooden implements on my head as I walked from Ompu Sihol’s village to the edge of the lake, then packing it in crates to be shipped out to The Netherlands: my “anthropological study collection”.

My “stuff” is not unlike collections in anthropological museums: material that can rekindle culture in the places where it was acquired. But it needs to be shared with the descendants. What will Harna’s path look like? I hope I attain a great age so that I can keep track of her and her future children.

And I hope that Ompu Sihol and her daughter-in-law, Harna’s great grandmother and grandmother, were smiling down on us, nodding in approval. How many times Ompu Sihol had shaken her head while watching me fumble my way through a weaving technique and shared her amazement and dismay with her ever-curious neighbour. I gave Harna my blown-up picture of the two of them sitting together. 

Recognition from the Indonesian Government for my culltural activities

Today is the first of two days being spent on celebrating the Culture Awards issued by the Indonesian Ministry of Culture and Education. There are many people gathered here in Jakarta to help celebrate. I have the  honour of  being a recipient of one of the awards. This is the first year that foreigners have been eligible to receive the award. I am touched by the gracious  generosity of  this great country, Indonesia. On many occasions I have been overwhelmed by the kindness, support and loyalty of its people.

My life has been especially enriched by the great creative talent that is found in this nation.  I am awed by this talent  when I listen to Indonesian music, for example, or look at Indonesian textiles. Indonesia has one of the richest legacies of indigenous textiles in the world: fine, complex, refined, tasteful, difficult to make, unique, and requiring patience, know-how, knowledge of nature, and a strong spiritual foundation. Cultural products are testaments to the capacities and achievements  of mankind. These great cultural achievements are the reason why I come to Indonesia. They are why I love Indonesia. They are why I have devoted myself to the textile arts of Indonesia. There is nothing more satisfying in life than being close to the greatest spiritual and cultural achievements that the world can boast.

I would like to ask the Indonesian people to safeguard its ancient cultural heritage.  This  is the greatest legacy of your ancestors that you can pass on to your children. There are values other than the value of money and these are the only values that are enduring and that enrich the mind and spirit. No matter the monetary wealth of a national and its peoples, you are bankrupt without these enduring cultural values. Guard them. Promote them. Nurture them. Honour them. Share them. Teach them to your children. They are as fragile as they are precious. Exclusive devotion to monetary value will destroy them.

During my past in Indonesia, I have worked on Pulang Kampung projects. These projects have represented a way of giving resources to the villages in order to sustain and encourage them. I ask the  people of Indonesia to support and celebrate the makers of your heritage. That is the same thing as supporting your identity, your spirit, your children and strengthening the basis of your own sense of pride and satisfaction.

Goodbye Ompu Sandra, Selamat Jalan

The Pulang Kampung team met Ompu Sandra in 2013 when we moored at Hasinggaan to show our film Rangsa ni Tonun and thus restore to the Batak people in that isolated little bay a sacred and beautiful piece of Batak literature about weaving. Ompu Sandra lived in the village next to the harbour.

This is the shore where our boat put in. Ompu Sandra lived in the house
to the left with the blue trim around the bottom.

Without knowing anything about her or the village, we knocked on her door to ask where there were weavers and to make an initial contact. We needed to find a place to show our film.

Ompu Sandra woven underneath her house
where she was shaded from the sun.

It was bull’s eye immediately. Ompu Sandra turned out to be a weaver and we were able to watch her carefully thread her weft through her warp. Then she left her loom and made her house available for an impromptu film showing. It was a small gathering but it was important for all of us because of Ompu Sandra’s reaction. She wept as she watched the film.

Ompu Sandra was very moved by the film.

She knew all the weaving techniques show in the film.

She identified with the weavers in the film. 

I needed to know why she wept and I asked what it was that had touched her so deeply. She expressed admiration for her ancestors; was touched to see all of these processes in the film, processes that she had not seen for decades. “But why are you crying”, I asked, “if you are filled with admiration?” The cat gradually came out of the bag: because the work was so very arduous. She was empathizing with the weavers of the past. She was imagining how difficult and time-consuming all the processes of weaving had been, from spinning to dyeing to setting up the loom to finishing a textile. “Is it the hard work that makes you cry?” I asked in all innocence. But then the cat emerged fully. No, because there is no recompense for the effort expended!

Ompu Sandra was living the end of the Batak
weaving arts and experiencing the pain of it.

Ompu Sandra launched into her tale of woe. She had brought up her children on the proceeds of weaving. She worked very hard. Morning and night. Under her house on stilts that sheltered her from the burning sun. But now the money that she was receiving for the sale of a finished textile was so paltry that her long hours were for almost no recompense at all. How could women be expected to look after their families? What was to become of them? She asked us to show our film to everybody who would pay attention to it, especially government, consumers, anybody who might be able to ameliorate the problem. She advised us to penetrate deeper into Hasinggaan and to play the film again and again.

I gave Ompu Sandra a copy of Rangsa ni Tonun. We gave
all of our hosts a copy so that they could refer to it after we were gone
 and share it.  

The screening of Rangsa ni Tonun with Ompu Sandra is not something I can forget. Nor do I want to forget it. I later looked for a market specifically for her but circumstances made it hard to get in touch with her. I hoped that, when finally successful, I would not be too late and she would have stopped weaving altogether.

But I am too late. Ompu Sandra has stopped weaving forever. Lasma knows someone who hails from Hasinggaan and thus she learned of Ompu Sandra’s death. She shared the news with me on the telephone. We don’t know the circumstances of Ompu Sandra’s death. Given my brief association with the elderly weaver, I have a dull, heavy sense that she died of grief from the hardship of weaving fruitlessly. If it didn’t kill her, this grief accompanied her to the grave. It is hard to know how to stop mourning this fact, especially knowing that Ompu Sandra is not alone in reaching the end of the market and the end of her tether at the same time as Batak weaving, as the world has known it, also comes to an end.

We did as Ompu Sandra bid us to do: we showed Rangsa ni Tonun again and again, to consumers, to government, to everybody who would pay attention to it. All agree that it is a crime if the Batak weaving arts disappear. Nobody knows exactly what to do to ameliorate the situation. Ompu Sandra’s plea lives on, even if she does not. May she rest in peace.

(All photographs, except the first, are by MJA Nashir)