In the fingers and between the ears: tangible skill and intangible knowledge

Two years ago in North Sumatra, I met Gresia Simanihuruk in Lumban Suhisuhi, one of the few remaining active centres of Toba Batak weaving. Gresia was in her late teens, polite and friendly, like girls brought up in the kampung. And what a fast weaver she was! I watched her work. She was making what everybody there makes: a shoulder cloth (uwis nipes) for the neighbouring culture, called Karo. Her village was a major supplier of shoulder cloths for the Karo. When the Karo became connected to the city by a road a century ago, the women there stopped weaving because they could earn more from gardening. Gresia's village took up some of the slack.

 

Gresia was working with her mother. Her mother would wind the warp and instruct her on how to weave it. When Gresia got home from school she would diligently and dexterously throw the weft between the warp yarns, managing the supplementary weft more than competently. She wasn’t able to answer many of my questions about the details of weaving, however.  “I don’t really know anything about wrapping a warp,” she said. “My mother does that.” Warping is when the design and quality of a cloth are determined and where weaving knowledge is key.

 

At her age and with her education, Gresia bridged generations and worlds. I found her easy to talk with and she gave me her What'sApp number in case I had any further questions. Yesterday I made use of it. "Gresia, do you remember me? I visited you a couple of years ago..." She responded immediately, and I plied her with questions.  I wanted to know about the classification and construction of warp stripes in her region. She excused herself. “I’m sorry, bu (a polite way to address someone of my age), but I don’t know how to make an ulos.” (Ulos is the name of ritual cloth in her Toba Batak culture.)

 

Then she told me that she was now studying in Medan, the capital city of her province, a good 6-10 hours away from her village by bus. She had chosen to study law. She kindly offered to put my questions to her mother and get back to me. 

 

In the meantime I pondered her response.

 

In my book, Legacy in cloth (2009), I cite M. Joustra, who wrote about the Batak weaving arts more than a century ago. He pointed out that weavers could be highly skilled and knowledgeable, but if they didn’t have the opportunity to express the extent of their knowledge and skill, the weaving arts would fall into decline. Here I was seeing something different: knowledge was not being transferred from one generation to the next. This young woman’s skill throwing weft while sitting in the loom was nothing short of impressive, but she did not "know how to make an ulos".

 

I imagine her life while she was growing up in the village. Weaving knowledge is typically passed down  starting when children are very young. They learn to wind the weft for their mother, a straight-forward, time-consuming and relatively mindless task. Once they master the skill, they are able to save their mother a lot of time. As girls grow older, they take on other tedious tasks like starching yarn and winding it into balls. Eventually they may climb into the loom and learn to weave. This is probably how it had been for Gresia because she grew up in a weaver family. By the time she was in the 6th grade, she was a  proficient weaver, helping her mother earn the income needed by the family. 

 

This video shows Gresia weaving with three shuttles and numerous sets of supplementary weft heddles.

Winding a warp is something Batak weavers once relegated to older generations of women, the ones with grandchildren. Winding a warp has to be done carefully and without error. It is absolutely key to the success of a cloth because it determines most of the design features. So it was normal that Gresia's mother performed this task and that Gresia herself had not yet learned it.

 

As I try to fathom the vocabulary of weaving, I am learning how ‘shaping’ the cloth is the central challenge for the makers.  A weaver has to keep her wits about her. She has to be skilled at a unique weaver-oriented way of counting, be able to focus, have knowledge of designs within her tradition, be able to wind with an even tension and have the ability to correct errors. The steps in the process are expressed using specialized words that frame a unique understanding of the unique way that yarn is manipulated in that culture. Weavers use this specialized language when they compare their work, discuss their challenges, share their inspiration and innovations, and teach others. They 'think' their designs and techniques in this language. It captures the conceptual core of their tradition. They can only weave 'in Batak'. A child will progress from the 'mindless doing’ of tedious, time-consuming tasks, and gradually become inducted into a more conscious awareness of her art. She will learn the designs and technical rules and also her creative latitude within that complex. Eventually, she will have developed a mental map of how it all fits together. Only then will she have the capacity to invent and transform designs in a way consistent with her tradition. Many weavers have told me that learning about weaving is a never-ending proposition; there is always more to learn. 

 

Gresia's shirt reads, "I am a Weaver"

Gresia had moved to the big city and was now focused on her books. She had developed superb weaving skills, but her mental map of her weaving tradition was unfinished. “I don’t know how to make a cloth,” she had said. Now, far from the village, she would probably never have the opportunity to pick up that missing knowledge; it takes time and focused learning, endless discussions. What she is missing out on back in the village is complex and rigorous. Even if that knowledge is rarely recognized by non-weavers.

 

I think of another skilled weaver whom I met on Samosir Island years ago who marketed her weavings through Gresia's village to the same Karo market. “I would like to learn how to weave the cloths of my ancestors,” she told me, but she had no access to the knowledge, equipment and materials to be able to do so. Moreover, she was poor, and couldn't spare the time to travel around and search for what she was missing. She was a proficient weaver, but alienated from her heritage. She represented the end of her tradition. I assumed that Gresia's mother was in the same position, knowing only how to make uwis nipes for Karo. It turned out that Gresia's mother once did weave in her own tradition. But if income is meagre, the need for cash is acute, and a weaver can earn more by weaving for another ethnic group, she will be enticed to leave her own weaving tradition behind. Thus a cultural tradition can dwindle away. 

 

How often skill is confused with the knowledge needed to maintain an art. How commonly intangible cultural heritage is confused with the tangible because people do not know the difference. Gresia knew the difference intuitively: she could weave but she didn't know 'how to make an ulos'. She was good at the tangible but was not yet fully inducted in the intangible. In my experience, Fashion brands and even Fashion scholars, regularly fail to register this distinction. Many congratulate themselves on keeping a heritage alive by hiring skilled indigenous craftswomen to perform their craft for the needs of the industry (embroidery, dyeing, beadwork etc.). However, the industry of Fashion is like the Karo market. It can  seduce craftswomen away from their own traditions with the promise of a wage. Accurate performance of technical skills is tremendously important but it is not the same as perpetuating a tradition. A tradition is also about what is between the ears. It, too, can be forgotten and lost if it is not exercised. Working independently and creatively within the cognitive frame of one's own knowledge system is different from being a skilled labourer for an employer within a different cultural system. Even when the skill is the same, there is a cognitive world of difference. Indigenous traditions can be eroded even when intentions are the best. A wage is critical for craftspeople, as it is for everybody, but when it costs them their tradition, it is a stiff and eternal price to pay for a wage.

 

In Gresia's case, the end of her role in her tradition is paired with gaining a formal education, no doubt something her mother strongly supports so that her daughter will not be trapped in tedious craft labour that is poorly remunerated and has no future. In the city and at the university, Gresia has entered a different cultural universe. Distance is a factor. If Gresia is able to build a career, she will only occasionally have the opportunity to return to the village -- for marriage and death rituals -- and never for long periods.  Craft is socially so poorly valued that she may be pushed to feel shame that her family had to rely on weaving for income. But even if she is able to maintain a feeling of pride for her skill, without the accompanying intangible knowledge she will not be able to pass her tradition on to her children. 

The comb is used to assist with creating supplementary weft pattern sheds in the sides of the uwis nipes. 

A Double Gestation!

 Lasma br. Sitanggang, Ny. Damanik, Mak Sandi, has been busy with a great transition in her life. She has married and now she has two children. It has been a busy time for her and so she needed to place the matter of weaving on the back burner while she turned her attention to her role in her culture. Her son Sandi was born within a year after her marriage, so the changes that she went through were significant. 

About a year ago I learned that she was pregnant with a second son. And shortly afterwards, out of the blue, she sent me video clips of herself weaving a bulang. I just about fell off my chair! I hadn’t known that she had once again turned her focus to weaving! Being a perfectionist, she had been shy to divulge the news.

 

So she was having a double gestation! She was very anxious to get the cloth done first because she knew that after the birth there would be little time for weaving. It was slow going because her belly was swelling and because she was doing it entirely herself, although with her Mother’s expert guidance. “It is about counting and counting and counting,” she told me laughing. She had known that the bulang was complex numerically, but hadn’t realized quite the full extent of how extremely and meticulously arithmetic it was. “If you don’t get the count during warping right,” she said, “nothing after that works properly.” Each stage of weaving determines the success of the next stage, because each part of the cloth builds on the previous part. She is like her mother in being very careful and attentive to detail. I believe it shows in the cloth. I remember her father telling me that not everybody can weave a bulang. You have to have focus and precision and determination and patience. 

 

After the birth of her second son, I didn’t know whether to dare to ask her whether she had finished her bulang, but finally I did so with great trepidation. I knew that it would be hard on her if she hadn’t met her goal, and also how difficult it would be at a later stage for her to pick up where she had left off. To my surprise, pleasure and great relief, she didn’t hesitate for a moment and immediately sent me this video of her finished oeuvre. I was so proud of her the tears rolled down my cheeks.

 

Mak Sandi is critical of her work. I see skill and focus, while she sees every tiny error. Nevertheless, she is also ambitious. She wants to weave another and make it even better. What a steadfast and determined young woman. Congratulations, Mak Sandi. This is a major accomplishment. I think about how proud her late father would have been. He passed away during the gestation period and didn’t get to see either finished product. He had been the one to encourage his wife and his daughters to weave so that they would be proud keepers of their culture. 

A celebration of intangible heritage? I don't think so.

Certificate of registry from FB page of Enni Martalena Pasaribu

A year ago, the Indonesian Ministry of Culture registered traditional Batak ‘ulos’ as ‘warisan budaya tak benda nasional’, that is, ‘national intangible cultural heritage’. This was celebrated in Jakarta and North Sumatra on 17 October 2015 as National Ulos Day with the additional resolve to make it an annual event.  

Invitation and line-up of events
from FB page of Enni Martalena
Pasaribu

The event was celebrated in grand style. There were the requisite speeches; the festive Batak traditional music (gondang) was played, and traditional dances (tortor) were performed; a fashion show of clothing items made of ulos was staged; MJA Nashir’s and my film Rangsa ni Tonun about Toba Batak weaving techniques was shown, and Panusunan Simanjuntak recited his poem about ulos to a highly appreciative audience. Everybody was asked to wear ulos and they did. There was pride, even euphoria.

Panusunan Simandjuntak recited his poem about ulos.
Photo credit: Tatan Daniel

I am here in The Netherlands and I can do little more than follow the proceedings on Facebook. At one point I made a comment that the ulos tradition could also be celebrated as tangible heritage (budaya benda). It is difficult to determine from Facebook reports where the ‘intangible’ part came into the celebrations (or even if it was the intention), but my remark about Batak tangible heritage was meant to make people think about the difference between intangible and tangible ulos.

As far as I have been able to determine, the usual things were being cited about ulos: it is a sign of Batak identity, a carrier of blessings  from wife-givers to wife-takers, and a vehicle of prayer because without it prayers are not able to reach the traditional Batak spirit world (not that anybody anymore will confess to believing in that traditional spirit world because it carries an anti-Christian stigma). Was that it, then? Was that the sum of the intangible heritage?

Intangible Heritage, according to UNESCO (no doubt the inspiration behind this event) includes not just physical items (the tangible) but “also encompasses living expressions and the traditions that countless groups and communities worldwide have inherited from their ancestors and transmit to their descendants, in most cases orally.”…” As a driving force of culturaldiversity, living heritage is very fragile.”

To my mind, there was a sad and deep irony in the celebration of the intangible heritage of ulos because precisely that component has gone extinct. I still wonder if the ‘intangible’ part of ulos was broached in any way on the 17^th of October? My concern is that very little is known anymore about the ‘intangible’ part of ulos. If the organizers and those present wanted to celebrate this facet of ulos, would the day not have looked different? I mean this in a literal sense. It looks like the day was based on the status quo of tangible ulos in current times.

From the pictures I saw, most of the textiles worn were of the sadum design type. The sadum is not originally a Toba Batak ulos; it originates from Angkola. It made inroads slowly during the 20^th century, first into Silindung, then the rest of Toba, then Simalungun and Karo. Initially it fell outside adat but only towards the end of the last century gradually became accepted, or at least no longer banned, as an adat textile. Now it has become the dominant ulos design eclipsing almost all others (with the occasional exception of the Ragi Hotang, Ragidup and Pinunsaan and the suji Batak). How ironic that people were using precisely this Angkola textile design to celebrate the intangible weaving heritage of the Toba! An unwitting symptom of the extinction of the intangible heritage of the Toba, and not a way to encourage its perpetuation.

Second, I saw that the majority of the ulos being worn had been woven on ATBM (semi-mechanized) looms and not the traditional backstrap loom. They were embellished with synthetic yarns that have nothing to do with the local textile heritage, but are symptomatic of relatively recent external influence. In my experience, intangible ulos heritage is expressed primarily in the traditional way Batak textiles are made on backstrap looms and not just in how they are used in ritual. Rules of design and technique (intangible ulos) result in a physical outing (tangible ulos) of traditional Batak thinking or worldview (intangible heritage). Precisely this has disappeared in ulos production for the market. There are several reasons for this. One is that the Church has discouraged the traditional Batak worldview. Another is that for a long time now, the ulos market has not supported the best work that a weaver can make at the slow tempo required to produce high quality. Now weavers just produce quickly, quickly. They have to compete with the faster production on semi-mechanical looms, and that means that they will always fail. They will always have a sense of being deficient because their work is slower and their income less than that of the factory owner and workers. It has also got to the stage that the quality of their work is also lower.

The longest ulos from FB page of Enni Martalena Pasaribu

I wondered if any component of the celebrations had been designed to encourage the best and traditional work of weavers? Were any weavings commissioned because of their traditional intangible content? I doubt it because that is precisely what has been lost. The ‘longest ulos’ that was celebrated on that day was made on a semi-mechanized loom. Are there any Batak left who remember that very long ulos used to be made on backstrap looms to use during the horja bius, the great annual rite celebrating the continuity of life?

Photo from FB

Third, there was a fashion show of textiles made from so-called ‘ulos’ but from all appearances these had also been made on ATBM looms. Fashionalization is a function of global economic forces that incorporate the indigenous but leave it little or no room to function on its own terms. I perceive fashion production using ulos cloth to be antithetical to the celebration of intangible heritage. Fashion may celebrate the ‘appearance’ of ulos, celebrate two-dimensional design to the exclusion of the multi-dimensional intangible component. Fashion ulos are shown to demonstrate that the Batak have entered the realm of so-called ‘modernity’. Ironic again that people wish to demonstrate that they are modern, when in fact ‘modernity’ is all that they have. Their ancient history of intangible heritage has been lost. Fashion moves the ulos tradition even further away from the great intangible heritage of the past.

I wonder if ulos can be revived. It will be an anachronism if it is revived, a reference to the world of the Batak of the past. I believe there is value in such revival because I notice that many Batak people are hungry and thirsty for knowledge about their heritage. It will yield a fuller understanding of their identity. The days of the past will never return, but a weaving tradition can still be passed down in a treasured, artistic, limited form. Does it still exist anywhere in its intangible form? Because revival of the ulos tradition depends on the accessibility of this intangible knowledge. Intangible knowledge is the inspirational source of the tangible cloth. Did intangible Batak heritage benefit from National Ulos Day? Did backstrap weavers benefit?

I would like to issue a challenge to the organizers of National Batak Ulos Day. I challenge you to harness the energy and the enthusiasm of this ulos celebration in future years to benefit Batak weavers. I challenge you to investigate the ‘intangible character’ of Batak ulos (beyond the function of the cloth) and then make it known for posterity; celebrate it for your children and grandchildren so that future generations may also have access to it. What point is there in celebrating intangible heritage if that heritage is extinct? What exactly was being celebrated on 17 October? Was it perhaps just Batak ethnic pride?

"Why do you love Batak Textiles?"

I was interviewed many times during the Pulang Kampung III journey in which my team brought our film, Rangsa ni Tonun to the Batak area. The first question when I was interviewed was always, “Why do you love Batak textiles?”  I found this question difficult to respond to in a sound bite while standing on a windy field, hence this note.

I once impatiently answered in return, “What does it matter? The Pulang Kampung expeditions are not about me and my likes and dislikes, they are about the repatriation of material and intellectual culture. What I love is not the point.”

Was I wrong?

Many interviewers seemed poised to have a truth unveiled, the microphone pointed expectantly at my mouth. In the not too distant past, white-skinned newcomers entered the region and said that the textiles and most of the rest of Batak culture were of the devil. The White Man’s views achieved dominance through the hegemony of the new church and state. Sometimes I sense that only a white-skinned newcomer can release the culture-bearer from the burdensome yoke that my ancestors placed on them and, like a kiss from the prince, awaken them to the beauty of their own culture. These textiles have value, I say; do not underestimate them! What makes you love them? they press in return. Tell us what it is! They have been taught that modernity has value, not indigenous culture. Why does this white woman spend so much time, money, energy, so much of her life, on this textile tradition? What on earth does she see in these cloths?

Beautiful supplementary warp. Are there any weavers left
who know how to do this?

I could have waxed lyrical about the complex, beautifully executed, supplementary warp patterning (jugia) that is sometimes found in old textiles. I love the innovative combinations of supplementary weft (jukkit) and ikat. I love the way the same patterns are sometimes executed in all of the textile techniques in a single cloth: ikat, supplementary weft and warp and twining. I love the clever ways that weavers have adapted external influences and ‘Batakized’ them on their backstrap looms. I love the micro-regional traditions that used to be so vibrant, yielding ever so slight differences in weaving equipment and the resultant textiles. I love the deep, ancient colours that were obtained by methodical hard work, knowledge of nature and infinite patience. I love the way weavers once had the latitude and the opportunity to express their creativity at their looms. I love that I had the opportunity to work with Ompu ni Sihol and to catch a glimpse of how a textile was made in pre-colonial culture. But how could I share all of that when the people who were interviewing me probably didn't know the fine details of the old textiles and the names for the techniques that constructed them? The tradition is dying.

Beautiful ikat. Nobody makes this anymore.

How quickly and radically things have changed! I confess that I don’t like the brightly coloured, modern Batak textiles with gold yarn that are made on ATBM looms. I find them gaudy. They make me sad. I see in them the careless, simplified, purely market-driven dead end of a rich and dignified heritage. This is not the part of the tradition that I love. But it may be all that the reporters are familiar with. Hence their question, perhaps? Hence my difficulty in responding.

But even my admiration for Batak weaving techniques and patterning could not have sustained me for all of these years were it not that they opened a window onto something much larger that never ceases to fill me with awe: the entire complex and tradition of Indonesian weaving. There are a few places on the world’s surface where weaving has attained a dazzling height of complexity and achievement. The Indonesian archipelago is one of those places.The weaving of the Batak people of Sumatra is a small, though very special, variant in that giant corpus of Indonesian weaving.

A stunning bintang maratur ikat. This textile is no longer made.

This makes Batak weaving all the more precious. Its distinct and special value emerges when it is juxtaposed with all of the other traditions in the archipelago. The value of the Indonesian textile tradition as a single, great complex is greater than the sum of the weaving traditions that comprise it. Each individual tradition is a building block or a link in the mesh. Each gains additional meaning from that larger whole and contributes to the fabric of that larger complex. Only as an assemblage is it complete. When people ask me why I love Batak textiles, one of my stock answers is that my focus on Batak textiles is a fluke of fate. I could have chosen any of the textile traditions in the Indonesian archipelago. All are rich. All are deserving of deep scrutiny within a comparative context.

Frankly, I am dismayed that UNESCO chooses to select bits and pieces (batik, Sumbanese weaving) to promote as intangible world heritage. This well-intentioned attempt to preserve the finest cultural contributions in fact demonstrates how little UNESCO knows about what is special about the weaving culture of Indonesia. Its recognition of pieces of the whole undermines momentum to recognize that larger whole. By focusing on the individual pieces of the puzzle, UNESCO fails to see the larger image. There is a need to recognize and protect the entire complex.

Only a simple twined edge, but so well made and the colours blend beautifully.

Through my own work I do what I can to raise awareness of the value of the Batak tradition. My means are limited. I have no institutional backing and no source of funding. (I am very lucky to have the loyal support of MJA Nashir who understands and shares my vision and goals and hugely augments my ability to pursue them.) The Batak tradition is more than rich enough in all of its facets to fill my anthropological career. Research of the Indonesian textile tradition is a multi-person project.

An ikat pattern that is no longer made. It combines three different ikat patterns.

Combination of supplementary weft and ikat. Soft and beautiful.

Sometimes I want to answer the question of why I love Batak textiles by invoking an even larger context. I want to point out that it is not Batak textiles per se that I love. Rather, I am committed to doing what I can to make room in this world for indigenous culture. The world is in deep crisis. Indigenous cultures are endangered. Languages and cultures are disappearing at an ever-increasing rate. Contrary to what some Batak people think and thank me for, my intent is not to “promote Batak culture outside Indonesia”. Instead, I confront people, and especially Batak people, with the fact that Batak culture is a victim of so-called progress. The spectacular cultural accomplishments of the Batak people are diminishing daily. Do I feel love for this? No, I love the possibility of cultural diversity. I feel horror, sadness, disgust at cultural loss. Will the Batak people choose to nurture, protect and promote their own cultural contributions or will they continue to turn their backs so that they can march to the drum of modern materialism? To my mind, a well-made Batak textile has greater and more lasting value than a Mercedes Benz fresh off the assembly line, but my views are not supported by the global economy. Will the Batak safeguard their cultural identity? How will they do it if they choose to do it? It is a huge challenge and it faces all of the indigenous peoples of the world.

An unusual sibolang ikat. This is the only one I know.
An individual weaver's creative impulse?
Thankfully she had the time to experiment.

During my first ‘Back to the Villages’ project, I gave a copy of my book, Legacy in cloth, Batak textiles of Indonesia (2009) to a weaver and I watched her reaction. She ran an emotional gauntlet. The book confronted her with the fineness of the textile achievement of her culture and simultaneously with its loss. Memories surfaced. The book made her silent. Another weaver said she felt happiness on the one hand and pain on the other when she witnessed the achievements of her culture. My original intent was just to say thank you to the weavers by giving them my book. I am an anthropologist. It is my obligation to give my research results to the people about whom I conduct research. I had not reckoned on the impact that the return of cultural heritage would have. This is not about objects, not just about cloth. This is about identity, hearts, minds, memories, the sense of the past and the future.