A wasted opportunity? Pulang Kampung is about access...

The Delft municipal government finds the Indonesian ethnographic collections in Museum Nusantara too expensive to keep and the central government of The Netherlands is unwilling to fork out what it takes to keep the collections in other Dutch museums. According to an article in a Dutch newspaper, the Indonesian government will receive the cast-off collections with enthusiasm and is even willing to lavish a new building on them. On the face of things, the discarded ethnographic collection from Museum Nusantara in Delft will go back to its rightful home, whence it came, Pulang Kampung in irreproachable style and glory.

Volkskrant 27 November 2015

The decision to de-accession the collections is financially rational. The Delft municipality made hefty real estate investments when the economy was flourishing. The financial crisis was especially hard on Dutch real estate and the return on those Delft investments was negative. Assets had to be discarded and Museum Nusantara was one of the victims, despite a huge public outcry especially from the academic community that was aware that the museum housed some of the oldest and best Indonesian collections in The Netherlands -- and the world.

The decision to allow a segment of the collections (we don't yet know how big that segment will be) to be repatriated appears modern, gallant, appropriately un-colonial, good for public relations, good for all parties concerned.

In museum and historical terms, however, the timing is bad. The newspaper article cites 'lack of visitors' as the reason for disbanding the collections, all the while museum specialists are writing about a new golden age for these apparently dusty institutions. An important new role is being nipped in the bud.

What is the new role for ethnographic museums? It has to do with reaping the cultural benefits of having stored ethnographic objects so long and so well. While they have lain safely and inert in their depots, indigenous cultures whence the objects originated, have gone into overdrive in the race to become 'modern'. But the value of things increases when they are lost. Now indigenous researchers, artists, and cultural leaders everywhere are trying to get back in touch with what once was. Their quest is about identity, self-respect and pride, about having a historical foundation on which to build a future -- an antidote to the seduction of terrorist ideologies and anomy.

It is not just that the objects in Dutch museums are stored well, but that they are increasingly accessible. Accessibility increased hugely in the digital age. Currently, anyone anywhere in the world can look at the Dutch ethnographic collections on-line and read about the circumstances of their collection and the data that were acquired with them. Pedestals, spotlights, sumptuous displays and restricted access present the objects of daily life as exotic treasures. The digital revolution reverses that and places the objects in the minds of anyone who has a computer or a smart phone. Collections accessibility hasn't yet been fully achieved, but museums are moving in the direction of making them truly 'public' holdings. Objects that were once collected for Western ends can now benefit the people who originally made them, precisely because the West stored them so long and so well, an ironic but very nice twist of fate.  It is not just about "us", the custodians in the West, for a change. In its noble new role, ethnographic museums can interact in mutually beneficial ways with indigenous cultures.

The newspaper article quotes the museum director as saying that the collection will remain accessible to the public. Was the director referring to the fact that the objects are going to a public institution instead of being sold off to private collectors? My concern is that, public institution or not, the collections will lose their accessibility. I know from vast, frustrating personal experience the amount of red tape that one has to wade through to gain access to Indonesian archives -- even the ones that were sent back from The Netherlands to Indonesia. Sometimes after spending time and money one ends up empty-handed. Even when the archives being sought have no political import and represent no threat. I know many first-hand stories about how Indonesian collections have been lost, stolen and even sold from public libraries, museums and archives, how important documentation has been thrown out because nobody could read the Dutch or recognize the name of the maker.

Furthermore, granting access to public collections means granting lots of money to the techniques of making them available. Does Indonesia have this intention? What will the follow-up funding be, after that expensive new building is constructed?

I am a champion of repatriation hence my focus on Pulang Kampung projects during the past five years. Precisely because I recognize the crucial importance of granting indigenous access to cultural objects of the past, I view this return of Dutch collections with a measure of skepticism. They are going back to the capital city, not to the villages. That makes sense; they can be well stored and maintained in a building suited

to that purpose. But they won't have come closer to their indigenous homes and, in terms of accessibility they may end up farther removed than ever. What a shame when these objects have been stored for so long and so well and have such great importance.

I would have preferred it if an innovative 'accessibility program' had been developed collaboratively between the Indonesian and Dutch museums and departments, in the spirit of shared cultural heritage. After all, the objects do also represent Dutch cultural heritage to an extent too often forgotten (embedded in the who, the rationale and the circumstances of collection and donation). I would have preferred it if the Indonesian money had been earmarked, not for a piece of architecture on one of the most expensive plots of land in the world, but for inventing a path breaking program for expanding access to the objects for the people outside the capital city. A program to translate the Dutch documentation into Indonesian would have been a really good start. Focus on accessibility would have allowed Indonesian researchers and collections managers to develop an expertise that is unique in the world and Indonesian society would have been able to reap the rewards in terms of cultural regeneration and health.

I fear that the objects are being brought back as treasures. The status of 'treasure' stands in the way of cultural regeneration. The Indonesians could have left the punctilious task of maintenance and storage to the Dutch who have established their credentials in that field, and just reaped the benefits. I fear that they are saddling themselves with the burden of ownership for the sake of a museum-going elite and for the face of things. This is a step backward if one considers what these collections could have meant for Indonesian society if they had remained, for the time being (not forever), in The Netherlands and strategies had been developed to expand indigenous access to them. Indonesia could have chosen to assume a leadership position rather than a follower position.

Recommended additional reading:
https://www.grasac.org/about-grasac-and-gks
http://research.carleton.ca/wp-content/uploads/CRC_Ruth_Phillips_2015.pdf
http://www.attheedgeofcanada.com/2012/11/the-controversies-of-ruth-phillips.html

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. 

The Decision to Return to Tano Batak is one I Value Highly

Harian Boho nestled beside Lake Toba as seen from above

A highly educated Batak woman, born in Tano Batak but brought up outside, has sought my anthropological opinion about returning to her homeland. The prospect is daunting to her. She has not been there for a long time. Will she and her family be able to adapt? Understandably, she is a bit nervous about the big move.

Maybe there are others who find themselves in the same situation? And perhaps some who long to return to their homeland. For you I would like to share my advice to her:

First, I would like to compliment you. I value your choice to Pulang Kampung. I am convinced that Tano Batak needs your presence and your influence more than anything else. I am convinced not only that you will be able to adapt, but that you will be able to create an important niche for yourself and your family and you will be able to do good things for your culture.

We all know that Batak culture has been drained. Young people who want to make something of their lives have to leave Tano Batak to obtain an education and find a job. Villages are emptying out. The people who remain behind feel that their contributions to the world have no value. It is a sad and regrettable situation.

Nevertheless, Tano Batak remains the centre of Batak traditional culture. If it is not healthy and vibrant, Batak culture will continue to decline. The region is beautiful and unique. It needs to be cared for by an educated and vocal population or it will continue to degrade. For decades voices have been raised about the decline in the quality of the physical environment. There needs to be a turnaround and soon! I am convinced that people like you, who decide to return to Tano Batak, can turn the tide and make the difference. Tano Batak needs to be turned back into a home, a place that is valued, championed, and cared for. Alas, it has been the victim of people who milk it for what it has to offer, leaving it depleted, degraded and compromised.

I hope that you will return to Tano Batak with the resolve to good things for the area. To my mind, this is key.

You mentioned that you once lived in Harian Boho. When ompu Sitor Situmorang died and was buried in his village (January 2015), a group of artists came to pay their last respects. They spoke about making Harian Boho a centre of artistic activities: theatre, music, dance. Ompu Sitor’s widow, Barbara Purba, spoke about the need to set up historical markers to remind young people in the village about their own background and heritage. Other family members who live far away spoke about wanting to return and care for the houses that they have left behind.  There is a nostalgia, a longing, to restore Harian Boho to some of its former glory and to start building a future glory. I don’t know whether you will return to Harian Boho. If you do, you can be part of this energy that links Harian Boho and its past with artists and historians and cultural specialists who live all around the world. It is so important to have someone like you living there who can serve as a bridge between the worlds. You could be the spark to make the change.

If you do not return to Harian Boho, but to some other place, I am convinced the situation will not be radically different. In Pangururan, for instance, I am so proud of the work of ibu Tetti Naibaho. She works with women and the church to build a stronger and healthier community. She has taken the initiative of planting cotton so that weavers will be able to produce their own yarn. To do this, she works with schools and inspires weavers. One person can make a huge difference to the lives of children and adults, and the physical and cultural environment.

You will soon be in a position to create a lifestyle that is a model for a sustainable future, in the cultural and the physical sense. You can provide a badly needed role model for the people living there and for politicians who govern the area. If you do this, you will become a community leader and a focus of admiration and appreciation. You can ensure that you dispose of your garbage responsibly and look after your yard and street so that it becomes a place of beauty. You can rescue and beautify local Batak architecture. You can insist on purchasing organic produce and thereby support local farmers who grow organic crops. You can help children to follow their dreams and make their way into the future. You can encourage the people to feel pride for their culture and history. Each of these tasks can fill your life with activities and satisfaction. There are wonderful people in Tano Batak who will work with you. You could get involved to make the new Geopark initiative a success and the Geopark initiative could give you a focus to invest your energy.

You will probably have more wealth than the local people around you. Instead of spending it on useless and wasteful displays of status, you can deploy it to create opportunities for a better future for the community and your culture: purchase solar panels and community computers, create jobs, protect cultural monuments, plant trees, set up a workshop facility for adults education, assist schools, the list is endless.

If you have time and the inclination, I would be very grateful if you chose to work with me to encourage the revival of Batak weaving with natural dyes and fibre and traditional techniques. We need people everywhere in Tano Batak to begin to work on this common goal so that Batak textiles will survive into the future.

I am sure that if you set yourself goals and you keep a positive outlook, you will be very happy in your new situation. It won’t always be easy. In many ways you will be doing the job that governments should be doing. At times the work will be frustrating. And the rewards will be in your successes but may not translate into financial rewards. Your choices will reflect your values.

Have respect for “local knowledge” and get to know the people as well as you can. You will learn about your own culture. This will enrich you and your family. There is much to learn and the process is exciting. Little projects could help you learn about the cultural wealth in your Batak community. For example, you could work with the people in your community to create an exhibition of photographs of the ancestors. They all have a precious store of photographs. If you wanted, you could even create books about the local knowledge that you discover around you. What better way to instil pride and encourage the culture!

These are my ideas as an anthropologist. You are a doctor and have your own training and talents. I am sure that if you devote yourself to good projects for your community you will enjoy your stay among your people.

Please keep in touch. I would love to visit you and find out how your initiatives are going.

May your path be blessed.

Jesral

I have a wonderful team here in Tano Batak – we’ve become known as Team Pulang Kampung. Nashir and I have collected the members serendipitously. They all have pure hearts, bright minds, individual talents and a sincere desire to do something for their culture. This blog is devoted to one of them: Jesral Tambun. If Tetti Naibaho’s three huge bags of soft, fluffy cotton provided the foundation for the workshop, it still could never have happened without the talents of each of the team members.  This blog bears witness to the power of one. Never doubt that the talents of a single person can change the course of history.

Jesral as he was when I first met him

Jesral was a young fellow that I met in Ompu Okta’s village on one of the last days of the Pulang Kampung III journey. He became an honourary member of the team even though circumstances had prevented him from participating in the voyage of the Boat Budaya. Almost two years have gone by since then and I, and especially Nashir, have kept in close touch with the remarkable Jesral.

Jesral was orphaned when he was a teenager and his house burned down. He has very limited financial resources. He mentioned that period of his life during this past trip. He can’t imagine a worse phase to have to undergo, but he made it through intact. This is what he emphasizes. He now feels fearless and strong, convinced of his inner resources. He has not yet run up against his personal boundaries.

Nashir had met Jesral earlier, during the last film shoot of
Rangsa ni Tonun and had given him a copy of Berkelana
dengan sandra.

If Jes was just a quiet boy with a wound when I met him, he is definitely a man now, with a strong  presence. He has come into his own. Recently he wanted to show Nashir a waterfall in the forest. They set out and walked for an entire day traversing rivers up to their armpits using roots as ropes to keep them from being swept away by the current.

Luckily Nashir did not lose his hat. And Jesral kept his camera dry.

The journey was long and when darkness was about to fall, they had still not reached their destination. Nashir was prepared to spend the night in the rainy woods but Jesral decided he wanted to return to his lonely house in the woods. They made the return trek armed only with Jesral’s knife and Nashir’s Wakawaka light. Jesral said afterwards that it was his father’s voice that guided him. They made it back barefoot (they had burned their sandals to meet some need) but alive at 3 a.m. My Western and Canadian being condemns the folly of such an unprepared journey into the wilderness, but both men returned invigorated; I could see it in their faces. Nashir felt that he had discovered the capacities and character of Jesral.

This is Jesral a year ago.

Jesral feels that it is time he had company in his home -- at the very least so that he doesn’t have to do everything by himself. He is looking for a weaver so that he can return home in the evening to the sound of the sword beating in the weft. In the meantime he knows that it is the task of the boyfriend -- and later the husband -- to make the weaving equipment for his weaver. Jesral is a woodworker and he wants to fulfil this obligation well. An elderly woman in the village has given him her weaving equipment now that she no longer weaves. This  is allowing him to learn about the kinds of wood that comprise the loom.

And this is the Jesral who filled me with awe during
the Bonang Batak (spinning) workshop

When we decided to hold the spinning workshop this was predicated on Jesral’s willingness to help us with the equipment. We are so lucky to have a man who loves to work with wood on our team. We still had the spinning wheel that we ordered from Kalimantan for filming Rangsa ni Tonun but it didn’t work well enough for the workshop. We didn’t have a bow of the right size for fluffing the cotton and we didn’t have enough bamboo “cores” so that all of the participants could make cotton rolags. Nashir went early to Jesral’s home to oversee the collection and preparation of the wood that we would need for the workshop. Once in Pangururan, they and Paul worked non-stop for three days and eventually, after a lot of trial and error, got it all right. The spinning wheel was the hardest. I watched Jesral learn the physics of it and then work with the materials that he had available. We didn’t have an appropriate string to connect the big wheel to the spindle and Jesral eventually cut a strip of rubber from an old tire and that did the trick.

Jesral working on the spinning wheel with Nashir documenting the process

The workshop is now over. We gave a bow to each of the participants. They will have access to cotton from ibu Tetti and they will be able to clean the cotton by hand; the cotton gin is not an absolute necessity. They have bamboo ‘cores’ to make the rolags. The only thing they don’t have is a spinning wheel. Jesral has worked himself into the position of being the only man in Tano Batak who can supply a wheel. I will encourage Ibu Tetti to order wheels from him for the weavers in her village.

Strength, skill, precision

Words cannot describe my thankfulness to Jesral and my appreciation of his talents in making this workshop possible. Each of us had a role to play and all of us were indispensable, but Jesral’s role was singular. Who else could have worked with wood with such steadfast and stubborn determination? We had the workshop lined up before we had a working spinning wheel! Jesral rose to the challenge with grace and humour. Unpaid, just like the rest of us, his only compensation was the sense that he was contributing to his culture – and learning to meet the needs of his future weaver. Where once I felt concern for Jesral’s future, he now fills me with awe. The workshop was a historic moment in which threatened skills were passed down from an elderly Batak spinner to three younger women. Jesral has every right to feel proud about his contribution to this event.