In the weeks leading up to 21 May, Indonesia experienced a cultural explosion of new life.
Marshall Clark
On the humid evening before the riots of Jakarta's Black Thursday, May 13, Pramudya Ananta Toer, Indonesia's leading novelist who has spent much of the last twenty years under house arrest, was participating in what in hindsight can be regarded as the 'Last Supper' of the Suharto era.
The occasion drew a large crowd of students, activists, writers and literary critics. It marked the launch of Saman, a best-selling novel by Ayu Utami, an attractive 27-year old journalist. (See the review of it elsewhere in this issue of Inside Indonesia). The novel had already gone through its first edition in two weeks, and there were even rumours that its blatant political message was strong enough to bring down Suharto's New Order regime.
Although hard of hearing and now both unable and unwilling to read works of literature, Pramudya's presence at the launch, at considerable personal risk, said a lot. He was there as much out of respect for Ayu Utami as out of defiance to the New Order powers-that-be.
In the chaos of the last months of the regime, Indonesia's extensive intelligence network could evidently no longer cope with the rising tide of anger. Undercover spies had often been wheedled out of crowds and dealt with violently. In an act of self-preservation, even policemen had taken to wearing civilian clothes on their way home from work. Thus once again Pramudya could roam the streets of Jakarta, unwitnessed and unknown.
To open proceedings at the book launch, Sitok Srengenge, a well-known Jakarta-based poet, read out a proclamation signed by a number of leading writers, poets and playwrights. It denounced the military's shooting of six students at Trisakti University the day before.
After a communal prayer and a sombre rendition of Hymne darah juang, one of the student 'anthems' for what was later to be labelled the 'velvet revolution', the next few hours were spent in communion with Ayu and Saman. Almost as a weary backlash against the highly charged political atmosphere of the previous few months, politics were avoided. Instead, animated discussion of literature, language, feminism, style and form proceeded well into the night.
Yet in the previous month or so, the Indonesian literary scene was - as it has tended to be in a nation where the mass media suffer from strict self-censorship - highly political. What's more, in the midst of the country's greatest turmoil since the 1960s, the arts scene was literally on fire.
Exorcism
Apart from the appearance of Ayu's award-winning novel that evening, hundreds of artists and performers united under the banner of Ruwatan Bumi '98 (Earth Exorcism '98), a cultural movement designed to heal the nation's woes. Not unlike the Chinese 'cultural fever' accompanying the democracy movement in Beijing in the late 1980s, the Earth Exorcism was designed to use art as the medium of liberation, to reinvigorate the badly bruised political consciousness of the Indonesian people.
Historically, cultural exorcisms are a relatively common phenomenon in Indonesia. In ancient Javanese kingdoms, whenever the royal court was faced with a calamity of one form or another, all the court's writers, poets and puppeteers were sent out into the neighbouring villages to rid the kingdom of its defilement.
Over the space of one month - between the start of April and the start of May - at least 170 performances occurred in almost every major city. The performances included drama, music, video, pantomime, prayer, wayang shadow puppet theatre, poetry, dance and installation art. The cultural explosion was organised by a number of regional committees linked through the internet.
With the steady increase in Indonesia's economic fortunes over the last few decades, a highly educated, urbanised and western- oriented middle class has emerged. Consequently their children, the driving force behind the student movement, have long been accustomed not only to computers but also to the internet and email.
Just as the mass media played such a crucial role in bringing down the Berlin Wall, the internet in Indonesia proved a godsend not only for communicating the latest political rumours and analyses, but also for mobilising cultural and political activism. Unable to even keep a check on the whereabouts of celebrated dissidents such as Pramudya Ananta Toer, the authorities couldn't possibly monitor the millions of messages criss-crossing the borderless horizons of cyberspace.
Earth Exorcism performances were advertised primarily via the internet, email and the mass media, radically 'postmodernising' what is essentially an ancient ritual. According to its internet web-page 'manifesto': 'The Earth Exorcism is a number of small steps on the way to the path of a beautiful dream, the very beginning of a brave move to break free from the dead-end which has pinned down [Indonesians]. The Earth Exorcism rejects all the calamity that we have been burdened with. It is an effort to reinvigorate social cohesion, which can release the creative energies of the individual and society.'
Another characteristic of the exorcism was its highly democratic nature. For once Indonesia's artists managed to forget their artistic and ideological differences and participate as a unified, yet diverse, cultural movement.
Whilst Indonesia's more established cultural icons such as Emha Ainun Najib and Y B Mangunwijaya lent their considerable intellectual influence to writing essays in the mass media and addressing student rallies, the exorcism was also a chance for Indonesia's younger artists to come to the fore.
Fringe artists such as Jalu G Pratidina, Afrizal Malna, Erick Yusuf and Slamet Abdul Syukur were suddenly prominent. Music- drama was a common performance medium used by each of these artists, with dialogue at a minimum. Jalu's performance used almost 60 types of percussion instruments. Slamet Abdul Syukur's 'Wanderer' used a simple bamboo reed and a recording of a woman making love.
Afrizal Malna collaborated with choreographer Boi G Sakti in 'A Panorama of dad's death', a minimalistic performance involving dance, violins and poetry. As in many of the Ruwatan Bumi performances, in this drama sounds and movements often jarred, defying cohesion. Yet one unifying element was an almost overpowering sadness, with each dancer and darkly robed foot soldier expressing an existential angst that words couldn't possibly express.
Another performance without any coherent dialogue, Erick Yusuf's 'Bread and circuses', also used image and music to reflect the fragile state of Indonesia's collective psyche.In this unsettling drama, a soldier, a public servant and a sarong-clad villager sat at a table greedily eating bread and Pepsi. Naturally, as soon as the bread ran out, chaos took over. The public servant crouched into a foetal position, the soldier waved his gun around threateningly, and the villager circled the table, gesticulating angrily for more. Eventually, accompanied by a terrifying cacophany of synthesisers, each character was dragged off the stage to an unknown fate.
According to Erick Yusuf: 'Indonesia's present problem is a problem of bread and circues. As the people's access to their "daily bread" is hampered by the government's inability to provide economic equality, and as the circus comes to an end, it's only a matter of time before the people's anger will explode.'
Prostitutes and princesses
In the largest student city of Indonesia, Yogyakarta in Central Java, the performances were strongly oriented towards 'the common people', both in terms of the artists and their audiences. Popular pantomime artist Jemek Supardi brought his silent protest to the streets, and beside the Code River the Girli street people performed drama. Elsewhere some prostitutes performed their own play, humorously bemoaning the lack of business since the onset of the monetary crisis.
On buses it was not unusual to hear buskers singing self- penned songs venting their frustration and anger. In Jakarta unemployed actors walked bus aisles with outstretched hats, reciting poetry not only to criticise the government but also to pay for their next plate of rice.
Throughout Java the traditional wayang shadow puppet theatre thrived, using Java's much-loved puppets to present sharp satire. Many performances depicted stories from the Indian epic the Ramayana, which tells of the kidnapping of beautiful Sinta, Prince Rama's wife-to-be, by the evil king Rahwana. The political allegory was clear. Somehow the Indonesian people had to try and rescue the kidnapped nation from the clutches of their very own evil king, commonly perceived as President Suharto.
As with much of Indonesia's day-to-day politics, the student struggle was often seen in wayang terms. Two of the first students killed by the military happened to be named after wayang characters who had similarly unfortunate fates despite fighting for the 'good side': Moses Gatotkaca and Elang Lesmana. This fact added a certain element to the despondency that gripped the nation in their deaths.
Yet just as significantly, one of the student leaders, Rama Pratama, was, like his mythical namesake, eventually successful in rescuing his kidnapped beauty from the evil ruler.
Ascension
It is well known that May 20th 1998 was a highly significant date for the 'velvet revolution'. It was a national holiday charged with political significance. National Awakening Day marks the day in 1908 when student nationalist movements were born, dedicated to independence from Dutch colonial rule. Eventually, at 11pm on the 20th, Suharto decided to resign from his position as president.
What is not as well known is that the following day was also a national holiday, to mark the ascension of Jesus Christ. Whether Suharto deliberately chose May 21st to resign formally as opposed to another, less auspicious date is yet to be seen. Yet if the world is a stage and the last few months of the New Order were following a script to be played out, one could not ask for a more symbolic - nor more ironic - denouement.
Marshall Clark is writing a PhD on Indonesian literature at the Australian National University.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
A fresh wind is blowing
Why is it so hard to remember the evils of the past? ROB GOODFELLOW explores the pain, and the exhilaration, of memory.
ROB GOODFELLOW
Over three days from the 1st of August 1997 a remarkable national campaign against violence towards women in Indonesia was launched at the Benteng Vredeburg Museum in Yogyakarta. There was music and drama. It featured an impressive exhibition of fine art, installation, sculpture and print-making. And the campaign was launched by powerful and passionate speeches. One speech in particular marked a significant departure from contemporary Indonesia's dominant culture of suppressing hitherto 'un-resolved historical issues'.
Nyi Mardiyem was a slave forced into prostitution by the Japanese Army, a jugun ianfu. Now ageing, she spoke of her experiences during World War Two. She explained to the spell-bound audience in reserved but confident tones how, together with other young girls from her village outside Yogyakarta, she was forcibly recruited into a life of shame and degradation. Campaign organiser Dewi Ratnawulan comforted Nyi Mardiyem as the latter ended her speech with an emotional prayer to Allah for long life, so that she could 'continue to bear testimony to the violence and humiliation committed against her and tens of thousands of other Indonesian and foreign women'.
Watershed
The event received wide media coverage, at least in Yogyakarta. Half page advertisements in leading local dailies and popular magazines promoted the event, stating the movement wished to expose the intimidation, discrimination and abuse of women and children by men.
Western researchers such as Norma Sullivan have studied domestic violence in depth. The Indonesian press, however, has tended to embrace the issue only when it becomes sensational - such as the July 1995 home invasion and rape of a mother and her two young daughters in Jakarta, or the murder of 42 women by the North Sumatra mystic 'Datuk' (in Amandamai village, the name means 'safe and sound').
The interest of journalists in Nyi Mardiyem's story marked something of a watershed in reporting on both historical and contemporary violence. Indeed the very existence of a movement dedicated to raising, and then dealing with what are generally considered to be Indonesia's 'historical problems' marks a watershed. According to Dewi Ratnawulan, a public and painful discussion of the plight of ex-jugun ianfu would not have been possible even two years ago. Clearly a fresh wind has blown over the issue.
In a local newspaper article two days later, the exhibition's curator Dr M Dwi Marianto made the important point that the primary function of the exhibition was to raise public consciousness and thereby 'plant ideas into the feelings, thoughts and desires' of everyone involved.
Ex-jugun ianfu Nyi Mardiyem was permitted to play a significant role in raising public consciousness. She elaborated to reporters that rape was only one level of violence in society. There were other, deeper examples of violence, 'below the surface', which had not been exposed, both physical and non-physical, she said. These comments had an invigorating effect on the press in Yogyakarta.
Marsinah
Media expert Ashadi Siregar, writing for the local Kedaulatan Rakyat, took the opportunity to raise a raft of issues constructed around the life of R A Kartini, turn-of-the-century nationalist heroine and champion for women's rights. After providing the censors with a painless first paragraph, Siregar went on to examine discrimination and violence in a broader context, from AIDS to worker's rights and conditions, from labour market segregation to the 'structural problems and interpretation of the state ideology Pancasila in the context of capitalism'.
Finally Siregar raised the cause celebre of the murdered factory activist Marsinah who, according to Siregar, was singled out 'first because she was a common worker, second because she was an activist, and third because she was a woman'. Towards the back of the newspaper, in that remote place where the minions of the Ministry for Information seldom venture, he went on to construct a bold analytical comparison between Marsinah and the 'structure and ideology' of violence and discrimination in Indonesia. He drew strong comparisons with the case of Megawati Sukarnoputri, the deposed leader of the Indonesian Democratic Party PDI. This, the author argued, was another, but different case of 'ideological violence', in fact a 'portrait' of 'naked discrimination and intimidation in the public rather than private domain'.
Critique brutality
Naked intimidation was also the subject of a dramatic production staged in Vredeburg on the second night of the exhibition. Carousel, atau komidi putar ('Carousel') was produced by a group of political science students from Gajah Mada University calling themselves the Sanggar Garasi Group.
Nyi Mardiyem's evocative comments about deeper examples of violence in society, 'below the surface', appears to have given Sanggar Garasi a powerful opportunity to critique brutality - through the prism of communal violence. Producer Baskoro Darmawan was obviously being very careful when he described the play in the press as 'designed to resolve', or rather 'open up', unresolved contemporary issues.
In stark contrast to these modest comments, the performance was a dramatic and disturbing graphic representation, indeed a gruesome feast of violent images. The play represented a critique of both the genesis and finale of communal violence. This encompassed a number of issues including the rape and murder of women by men, but it actually focused on the 'hypothetical' subject of an urban street riot.
A spectacle of flaming props contributed to the dramatic effect. An enormous back-drop slide screen flashed images of savagery from Jalan Thamrin in Jakarta to the West Bank of the Jordan River, from the Vietnam War to caged political prisoners in Chile, and to Nazi execution squads shooting old Jewish men into a ditch. The play's final act was unforgettable, a crescendo of pathos and destruction. The association with the July 27th riots in Jakarta was unmistakable, as were echoes of a previous and more brutal 'historical problem', 1965-66.
Sitor Situmorang
On the evening of the 11th of August, one week after the launch of the anti-violence campaign against women at Vredeburg, Basis magazine sponsored a night of poetry reading in honour of the poet Sitor Situmorang. It was hosted within the royal palace, the kraton, in Yogyakarta, at one of the residences of the younger brother of Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono X, Gusti Joyokusumo.
A prominent literary figure during the 'Old Order' era, Sitor was chairman of the National Cultural Institute (LKN) from 1959-1965. Both Sitor's chairmanship of LKN and his literary career were abruptly terminated in the violent, military-led anti-communist backlash of October 1965.
A question fielded from the audience through the moderator asked why Sitor had not published anything between his Sastra revolusioner ('Revolutionary literature') of 1965 and his Dinding waktu ('Time wall') of 1976. As if people did not know! The question gave Sitor the opportunity to put aside issues of literary merit and syntax. In a humorous yet profound way he explained what, according to him, did or did not constitute a 'dark period' in a writer's life and whether the non-publication of work could be considered as 'unproductive'.
Any direct mention of Sitor's imprisonment following the night of the 30th of September 1965 was avoided by the use of intimation, double-entendre and punning. This cleverly embellished the poet's veiled views about the years after 1965 without once having to explicitly raise them. In turn it had a profound effect on the audience, who were clearly unaccustomed to discussing the massive human tragedy of the early New Order in a public forum.
Mysterious gunmen
Perhaps by coincidence, early August 1997 also marked the local publication of the novel Ojo dumeh, by Agnes Yani Sardjono. Ojo dumeh is a story set in Yogyakarta around the 1983-5 killings of thousands of organised criminals and others by specially trained army 'hit-men'. The so-called petrus affair, from penembak misterius or 'mysterious gunmen', provides the social canvas for Sardjono's central character, the freelance journalist Samhudi. The book is about a dilemma. It is about friendship, trust and betrayal. But it is also about the rich, dark world of the organised criminal gangs that 'ruled the streets' of Yogyakarta and other Indonesian cities, the gali or preman, before their violent extra-judicial annihilation.
Ojo dumeh is, once more, about unresolved 'historical issues', about un-excavated memories. Samhudi's novel puts literary flesh and bones on characters who otherwise remain anonymous victims of the 'mysterious gunmen'. Nyi Mardiyem's story, told so powerfully at Vredeburg, transforms the myth and speculation surrounding ex- jugun ianfu into historical discourse. Sitor's description of the effect of his literary 'dark period' of 1965-1976 personalises, or rather humanises, the experience of thousands of Indonesian writers, poets and artists who were sucked into the historical vortex after September 1965. Each of these examples has raised the prospect that Indonesians may soon be able to confidently 'clear the historical air'.
Is it possible that the time is approaching when stories may be publicly told about the killings and mass arrests of 1965-66? Those of us who are patient, and who listen, are waiting for the 'fresh wind to blow'.
(Contact the campaign against violence towards women: Gerakan Anti- Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan Indonesia (GAKTPI), Jl C Simanjuntak 8, Yogyakarta 55223, Indonesia, tel/fax 0274-588605).
Rob Goodfellow lives in Wollongong, Australia. He spends a lot of time in Yogyakarta and is writing a PhD dissertation on Indonesian memories of violence. He expresses his thanks to Herb Feith for support and encouragement.
ROB GOODFELLOW
Over three days from the 1st of August 1997 a remarkable national campaign against violence towards women in Indonesia was launched at the Benteng Vredeburg Museum in Yogyakarta. There was music and drama. It featured an impressive exhibition of fine art, installation, sculpture and print-making. And the campaign was launched by powerful and passionate speeches. One speech in particular marked a significant departure from contemporary Indonesia's dominant culture of suppressing hitherto 'un-resolved historical issues'.
Nyi Mardiyem was a slave forced into prostitution by the Japanese Army, a jugun ianfu. Now ageing, she spoke of her experiences during World War Two. She explained to the spell-bound audience in reserved but confident tones how, together with other young girls from her village outside Yogyakarta, she was forcibly recruited into a life of shame and degradation. Campaign organiser Dewi Ratnawulan comforted Nyi Mardiyem as the latter ended her speech with an emotional prayer to Allah for long life, so that she could 'continue to bear testimony to the violence and humiliation committed against her and tens of thousands of other Indonesian and foreign women'.
Watershed
The event received wide media coverage, at least in Yogyakarta. Half page advertisements in leading local dailies and popular magazines promoted the event, stating the movement wished to expose the intimidation, discrimination and abuse of women and children by men.
Western researchers such as Norma Sullivan have studied domestic violence in depth. The Indonesian press, however, has tended to embrace the issue only when it becomes sensational - such as the July 1995 home invasion and rape of a mother and her two young daughters in Jakarta, or the murder of 42 women by the North Sumatra mystic 'Datuk' (in Amandamai village, the name means 'safe and sound').
The interest of journalists in Nyi Mardiyem's story marked something of a watershed in reporting on both historical and contemporary violence. Indeed the very existence of a movement dedicated to raising, and then dealing with what are generally considered to be Indonesia's 'historical problems' marks a watershed. According to Dewi Ratnawulan, a public and painful discussion of the plight of ex-jugun ianfu would not have been possible even two years ago. Clearly a fresh wind has blown over the issue.
In a local newspaper article two days later, the exhibition's curator Dr M Dwi Marianto made the important point that the primary function of the exhibition was to raise public consciousness and thereby 'plant ideas into the feelings, thoughts and desires' of everyone involved.
Ex-jugun ianfu Nyi Mardiyem was permitted to play a significant role in raising public consciousness. She elaborated to reporters that rape was only one level of violence in society. There were other, deeper examples of violence, 'below the surface', which had not been exposed, both physical and non-physical, she said. These comments had an invigorating effect on the press in Yogyakarta.
Marsinah
Media expert Ashadi Siregar, writing for the local Kedaulatan Rakyat, took the opportunity to raise a raft of issues constructed around the life of R A Kartini, turn-of-the-century nationalist heroine and champion for women's rights. After providing the censors with a painless first paragraph, Siregar went on to examine discrimination and violence in a broader context, from AIDS to worker's rights and conditions, from labour market segregation to the 'structural problems and interpretation of the state ideology Pancasila in the context of capitalism'.
Finally Siregar raised the cause celebre of the murdered factory activist Marsinah who, according to Siregar, was singled out 'first because she was a common worker, second because she was an activist, and third because she was a woman'. Towards the back of the newspaper, in that remote place where the minions of the Ministry for Information seldom venture, he went on to construct a bold analytical comparison between Marsinah and the 'structure and ideology' of violence and discrimination in Indonesia. He drew strong comparisons with the case of Megawati Sukarnoputri, the deposed leader of the Indonesian Democratic Party PDI. This, the author argued, was another, but different case of 'ideological violence', in fact a 'portrait' of 'naked discrimination and intimidation in the public rather than private domain'.
Critique brutality
Naked intimidation was also the subject of a dramatic production staged in Vredeburg on the second night of the exhibition. Carousel, atau komidi putar ('Carousel') was produced by a group of political science students from Gajah Mada University calling themselves the Sanggar Garasi Group.
Nyi Mardiyem's evocative comments about deeper examples of violence in society, 'below the surface', appears to have given Sanggar Garasi a powerful opportunity to critique brutality - through the prism of communal violence. Producer Baskoro Darmawan was obviously being very careful when he described the play in the press as 'designed to resolve', or rather 'open up', unresolved contemporary issues.
In stark contrast to these modest comments, the performance was a dramatic and disturbing graphic representation, indeed a gruesome feast of violent images. The play represented a critique of both the genesis and finale of communal violence. This encompassed a number of issues including the rape and murder of women by men, but it actually focused on the 'hypothetical' subject of an urban street riot.
A spectacle of flaming props contributed to the dramatic effect. An enormous back-drop slide screen flashed images of savagery from Jalan Thamrin in Jakarta to the West Bank of the Jordan River, from the Vietnam War to caged political prisoners in Chile, and to Nazi execution squads shooting old Jewish men into a ditch. The play's final act was unforgettable, a crescendo of pathos and destruction. The association with the July 27th riots in Jakarta was unmistakable, as were echoes of a previous and more brutal 'historical problem', 1965-66.
Sitor Situmorang
On the evening of the 11th of August, one week after the launch of the anti-violence campaign against women at Vredeburg, Basis magazine sponsored a night of poetry reading in honour of the poet Sitor Situmorang. It was hosted within the royal palace, the kraton, in Yogyakarta, at one of the residences of the younger brother of Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono X, Gusti Joyokusumo.
A prominent literary figure during the 'Old Order' era, Sitor was chairman of the National Cultural Institute (LKN) from 1959-1965. Both Sitor's chairmanship of LKN and his literary career were abruptly terminated in the violent, military-led anti-communist backlash of October 1965.
A question fielded from the audience through the moderator asked why Sitor had not published anything between his Sastra revolusioner ('Revolutionary literature') of 1965 and his Dinding waktu ('Time wall') of 1976. As if people did not know! The question gave Sitor the opportunity to put aside issues of literary merit and syntax. In a humorous yet profound way he explained what, according to him, did or did not constitute a 'dark period' in a writer's life and whether the non-publication of work could be considered as 'unproductive'.
Any direct mention of Sitor's imprisonment following the night of the 30th of September 1965 was avoided by the use of intimation, double-entendre and punning. This cleverly embellished the poet's veiled views about the years after 1965 without once having to explicitly raise them. In turn it had a profound effect on the audience, who were clearly unaccustomed to discussing the massive human tragedy of the early New Order in a public forum.
Mysterious gunmen
Perhaps by coincidence, early August 1997 also marked the local publication of the novel Ojo dumeh, by Agnes Yani Sardjono. Ojo dumeh is a story set in Yogyakarta around the 1983-5 killings of thousands of organised criminals and others by specially trained army 'hit-men'. The so-called petrus affair, from penembak misterius or 'mysterious gunmen', provides the social canvas for Sardjono's central character, the freelance journalist Samhudi. The book is about a dilemma. It is about friendship, trust and betrayal. But it is also about the rich, dark world of the organised criminal gangs that 'ruled the streets' of Yogyakarta and other Indonesian cities, the gali or preman, before their violent extra-judicial annihilation.
Ojo dumeh is, once more, about unresolved 'historical issues', about un-excavated memories. Samhudi's novel puts literary flesh and bones on characters who otherwise remain anonymous victims of the 'mysterious gunmen'. Nyi Mardiyem's story, told so powerfully at Vredeburg, transforms the myth and speculation surrounding ex- jugun ianfu into historical discourse. Sitor's description of the effect of his literary 'dark period' of 1965-1976 personalises, or rather humanises, the experience of thousands of Indonesian writers, poets and artists who were sucked into the historical vortex after September 1965. Each of these examples has raised the prospect that Indonesians may soon be able to confidently 'clear the historical air'.
Is it possible that the time is approaching when stories may be publicly told about the killings and mass arrests of 1965-66? Those of us who are patient, and who listen, are waiting for the 'fresh wind to blow'.
(Contact the campaign against violence towards women: Gerakan Anti- Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan Indonesia (GAKTPI), Jl C Simanjuntak 8, Yogyakarta 55223, Indonesia, tel/fax 0274-588605).
Rob Goodfellow lives in Wollongong, Australia. He spends a lot of time in Yogyakarta and is writing a PhD dissertation on Indonesian memories of violence. He expresses his thanks to Herb Feith for support and encouragement.
Ethnic stereotyping by politicians
Ethnic stereotyping by local politicians in Lombok fails to please all
Kendra Clegg
The end of President Suharto’s New Order government and its authoritarian cultural policies has meant greater freedom of cultural expression for many ethnic and religious groups in Indonesia. However, for the people of Ampenan, Lombok, who practice a version of Sasak culture different from elsewhere on the island, cultural politics under regional autonomy resembles that of the New Order. The Ampenan Sasak community find themselves marginalised as local political elites present a single view of Sasak culture.
Praying at a gravesite in Bintaro cemetery on the outskirts of Ampenan, a devout Sasak pilgrim (peziarah), pours water over the grave, sprinkling flowers, betel leaf, and lime powder. The ceremony, known as Lebaran Topat, is held in the seven days after the Muslim celebrations to mark the end of the fasting month (Idul Fitri). This uniquely Sasak tradition is said to bring good luck and health to those who take part and is celebrated by many Sasak living in West Lombok. Since regional autonomy, the local government, keen to promote this ceremony as an example of Sasak culture, has provided financial and other support for it. Yet for the people of Ampenan itself, who also identify as Sasak, Lebaran Topat is regarded as non-Islamic and has never been a part of their traditions.
In addition to supporting the Lebaran Topat, the government has promoted musical ‘gendang beliq’ (literally ‘big drum’) performances and competitions, stick fighting, and old Sasak poetry reading competitions. These activities are normally held on national days or for special events and resemble the types of exhibitions supported by the New Order. Until now, the Ampenan Sasak people have simply chosen not to partake in activities that they see as un-Islamic, and which they believe do not truly represent Sasak culture.
Returning to the New Order?
Regional autonomy has opened up new avenues for political decision-making at the local level. In the Mataram municipality, the politically dominant Sasak have gained greatest access to administrative power, providing this one group with the means of controlling public expressions of the local culture.
New Order cultural policies focused on controlling cultural differences and perceptions of ethnic identities. Under the New Order, the central government determined the ‘authentic’ or ‘traditional’ culture of every region as well as how to present local cultures to the outside world. Under this policy, the nationally recognised symbol of Lombok and of Sasak culture was the lumbung, a distinctive rice barn found in rural areas of the island. This symbol was used extensively in government publications, and tourism brochures used images of the lumbung as emblematic of Lombok. Ironically, it was only after these images were disseminated in this way that urban Sasaks began to think that the lumbung might be relevant to them.
Local governments in the post-New Order era have also recognised the power of symbols and ritual and the need to control them. With regional autonomy, local governments are now able to allocate funding to promote traditional and religious cultures without presenting them for approval at the provincial or central levels of government. With its new powers, the municipality of Mataram has given higher priority to, and allocated more funding for, local ceremonies like the Lebaran Topat. Despite some inclusion of other prominent ethnic groups — namely, Balinese and Chinese — most activities relate to Sasak customs.
Ampenan’s minority culture
Sasak communities are happy that their culture is being promoted. But has it occurred at the expense of minority cultures also falling under the banner of ‘Sasak’? Definitions of Sasak identity are diverse and perceptions of what constitutes ‘Sasak’ in Ampenan differ from those in neighbouring districts.
The Sasak are generally recognised across Indonesia for being particularly devout Muslims. Of the two million people who call themselves Sasak, however, there are also several thousand —the Sasak Bodha — who are Buddhists. Moreover, throughout Lombok, aséects of Sasak culture that are unrelated to Islam form the basis of the region’s identity. Herein lies the problem. For the devoutly Islamic people of Ampenan, Sasak culture is synonymous with purely Islamic culture and tradition.
ümpenan is a city in the western sub-district of Mataram. The population of this area, according to the Ampenan bureau of statistics 2000 census, is 42, 515 people. Its urban identity is distinct from the neighbouring sub-districts of Mataram and Cakranegara, although all three have multi-cultural and multi-religious populations. The historical role of Ampenan as a trading centre has shaped the city’s character. Through centuries of foreign control, followed by the nationalist movement and local political transitions, the dominant Sasak ethnic culture in Ampenan has experienced a shift away from the traditional forms of the culture practiced in rural Lombok and in neighbouring cities.
The government’s eagerness to reinvent Sasak culture has been largely ignored in Ampenan. Here Sasak customs are increasingly represented as Islamic tradition. An example of these differences in perception occurred at a local government sponsored ‘traditional fisherman ceremony’ where a cow was sacrificed to the sea. One prominent Sasak member of the Ampenan community, Pak Haji Nur, was dressed in typical Muslim prayer costume. He explained his choice of clothing, saying ‘the invitation requested we specifically wear adat (customary) clothing – so I’m wearing hajio(pilgrimage) clothing’. With that he threw his hands in front of him in a demonstration of the Muslim prayer.
Most residents in Ampenan’s housing districts do not own Sasak adat clothing. Instead, as the situation requires it, people like Pak Haji Nur simply wear what is for them the closest thing, Muslim clothing.
Cultural politics
Regional autonomy allows local communities to strengthen their cultures and identities. However it may also marginalise minority groups. Politicising Sasak identity has meant the promotion of a single cultural identity, which disguises the great diversity of understandings of ‘Sasak’.
The cultural policies carried out in this district since regional autonomy, like those of the New Order, are seeking to promote a single, unified notion of culture. The difference is, this time it is serving a distinctly local, rather than a national agenda.
Kendra Clegg (kendra@deakin.edu.au) Kendra Clegg is researching a Ph.D. at Deakin University in the Cultural Heritage Centre for Asia and the Pacific. Her fieldwork was carried out over 23 months between September 1999 and November 2002 in Ampenan, Lombok.
Kendra Clegg
The end of President Suharto’s New Order government and its authoritarian cultural policies has meant greater freedom of cultural expression for many ethnic and religious groups in Indonesia. However, for the people of Ampenan, Lombok, who practice a version of Sasak culture different from elsewhere on the island, cultural politics under regional autonomy resembles that of the New Order. The Ampenan Sasak community find themselves marginalised as local political elites present a single view of Sasak culture.
Praying at a gravesite in Bintaro cemetery on the outskirts of Ampenan, a devout Sasak pilgrim (peziarah), pours water over the grave, sprinkling flowers, betel leaf, and lime powder. The ceremony, known as Lebaran Topat, is held in the seven days after the Muslim celebrations to mark the end of the fasting month (Idul Fitri). This uniquely Sasak tradition is said to bring good luck and health to those who take part and is celebrated by many Sasak living in West Lombok. Since regional autonomy, the local government, keen to promote this ceremony as an example of Sasak culture, has provided financial and other support for it. Yet for the people of Ampenan itself, who also identify as Sasak, Lebaran Topat is regarded as non-Islamic and has never been a part of their traditions.
In addition to supporting the Lebaran Topat, the government has promoted musical ‘gendang beliq’ (literally ‘big drum’) performances and competitions, stick fighting, and old Sasak poetry reading competitions. These activities are normally held on national days or for special events and resemble the types of exhibitions supported by the New Order. Until now, the Ampenan Sasak people have simply chosen not to partake in activities that they see as un-Islamic, and which they believe do not truly represent Sasak culture.
Returning to the New Order?
Regional autonomy has opened up new avenues for political decision-making at the local level. In the Mataram municipality, the politically dominant Sasak have gained greatest access to administrative power, providing this one group with the means of controlling public expressions of the local culture.
New Order cultural policies focused on controlling cultural differences and perceptions of ethnic identities. Under the New Order, the central government determined the ‘authentic’ or ‘traditional’ culture of every region as well as how to present local cultures to the outside world. Under this policy, the nationally recognised symbol of Lombok and of Sasak culture was the lumbung, a distinctive rice barn found in rural areas of the island. This symbol was used extensively in government publications, and tourism brochures used images of the lumbung as emblematic of Lombok. Ironically, it was only after these images were disseminated in this way that urban Sasaks began to think that the lumbung might be relevant to them.
Local governments in the post-New Order era have also recognised the power of symbols and ritual and the need to control them. With regional autonomy, local governments are now able to allocate funding to promote traditional and religious cultures without presenting them for approval at the provincial or central levels of government. With its new powers, the municipality of Mataram has given higher priority to, and allocated more funding for, local ceremonies like the Lebaran Topat. Despite some inclusion of other prominent ethnic groups — namely, Balinese and Chinese — most activities relate to Sasak customs.
Ampenan’s minority culture
Sasak communities are happy that their culture is being promoted. But has it occurred at the expense of minority cultures also falling under the banner of ‘Sasak’? Definitions of Sasak identity are diverse and perceptions of what constitutes ‘Sasak’ in Ampenan differ from those in neighbouring districts.
The Sasak are generally recognised across Indonesia for being particularly devout Muslims. Of the two million people who call themselves Sasak, however, there are also several thousand —the Sasak Bodha — who are Buddhists. Moreover, throughout Lombok, aséects of Sasak culture that are unrelated to Islam form the basis of the region’s identity. Herein lies the problem. For the devoutly Islamic people of Ampenan, Sasak culture is synonymous with purely Islamic culture and tradition.
ümpenan is a city in the western sub-district of Mataram. The population of this area, according to the Ampenan bureau of statistics 2000 census, is 42, 515 people. Its urban identity is distinct from the neighbouring sub-districts of Mataram and Cakranegara, although all three have multi-cultural and multi-religious populations. The historical role of Ampenan as a trading centre has shaped the city’s character. Through centuries of foreign control, followed by the nationalist movement and local political transitions, the dominant Sasak ethnic culture in Ampenan has experienced a shift away from the traditional forms of the culture practiced in rural Lombok and in neighbouring cities.
The government’s eagerness to reinvent Sasak culture has been largely ignored in Ampenan. Here Sasak customs are increasingly represented as Islamic tradition. An example of these differences in perception occurred at a local government sponsored ‘traditional fisherman ceremony’ where a cow was sacrificed to the sea. One prominent Sasak member of the Ampenan community, Pak Haji Nur, was dressed in typical Muslim prayer costume. He explained his choice of clothing, saying ‘the invitation requested we specifically wear adat (customary) clothing – so I’m wearing hajio(pilgrimage) clothing’. With that he threw his hands in front of him in a demonstration of the Muslim prayer.
Most residents in Ampenan’s housing districts do not own Sasak adat clothing. Instead, as the situation requires it, people like Pak Haji Nur simply wear what is for them the closest thing, Muslim clothing.
Cultural politics
Regional autonomy allows local communities to strengthen their cultures and identities. However it may also marginalise minority groups. Politicising Sasak identity has meant the promotion of a single cultural identity, which disguises the great diversity of understandings of ‘Sasak’.
The cultural policies carried out in this district since regional autonomy, like those of the New Order, are seeking to promote a single, unified notion of culture. The difference is, this time it is serving a distinctly local, rather than a national agenda.
Kendra Clegg (kendra@deakin.edu.au) Kendra Clegg is researching a Ph.D. at Deakin University in the Cultural Heritage Centre for Asia and the Pacific. Her fieldwork was carried out over 23 months between September 1999 and November 2002 in Ampenan, Lombok.
Reformasi Killed the Poetry Superstars
Two poets tour Australia
Marshall Clark and Giora Eliraz
It seems that the days of superstar poets - who bravely spoke up for the common people and criticised the Indonesian state, in front of large audiences in between being banned - have passed. When Rendra, who was Indonesia�s leading poet throughout the New Order era, toured Yogyakarta several years ago, one writer in the letters page of Bernas suggested that Rendra had become like an old pillow - nostalgic and comfortable yes, useful and relevant no.
Since the fall of Suharto, Emha Ainun Nadjib, another of Indonesia�s more oppositional cultural activists, has also kept out of the public spotlight. For several years, Emha hosted Gardu, a popular talk-show. However, TV audiences soon tired of the incredible over-abundance of talk shows following Suharto�s resignation. When Emha himself grew tired of all the �collusion� associated with organizing and rewarding guests, he pulled the plug.
Besides, Emha has never been able to shrug off his close association with Suharto. It is common knowledge that Emha, together with several other Muslim leaders, met with Suharto several times in the days before 20 May. It was at this point that Emha publicly transformed himself from an oppositional figure to something quite different. Some would say that his decline in popularity has mirrored Suharto�s fall from grace. Long considered as one of Indonesia�s foremost poets, these days Emha barely rates a mention.
It was as enjoyable as it was nostalgic, therefore, to see Emha reading poetry and dazzling audiences with his unique wit and political insight in Australia for several weeks in May and June. Invited by the Australia Indonesia Arts Alliance, and supported by the Australia Indonesia Institute and Garuda Indonesia, Emha gave lively poetry-readings in Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne. Like Rendra in the 1990s, Emha was able to draw enthusiastic audiences, consisting of as many Indonesians as Australians.
Accompanying Emha was another Indonesian poet, Fathyen Hamama Handry, also known as Fatin. Born in Padang in 1967, Fatin grew up in West Sumatra and has spent over a decade in Cairo, where she has studied theology at the Women�s Faculty of al-Azhar University. Her poetry is not quite as sensational as Emha�s, yet it contains its own fair share of social criticism. Fatin writes of riots and military violence in Semanggi and elsewhere in Jakarta, as well as the problems faced by Indonesian women, farmers fighting against poverty, women suffering in Aceh, and the struggles of the urban poor.
Like Emha, Fatin does not consider herself as one of Indonesia�s more popular poets. In terms of literary figures, Fatin is no trendy Sitot Srengenge, nor a young and sensational Ayu Utami, or even a marketable �woman poet� in the mould of Dorothea Rosa Herliany. Yet like Emha, in the midst of disappointment and frustration, Fatin continues to imagine a better Indonesia. It is for this reason that her poetry is worth examining, at the very least for the buffer it provides for the harsh coldness of Indonesia�s post-New Order, and perhaps even post-reformasi, reality.
Fatin�s latest collection, Papyrus (2002), exhibits the strong Islamic slant of her poetry. The opening poem, �Al Fatihah�, is the same name given to the opening sura or chapter of the Koran. Like the first chapter of the Koran, this poem is merely a few lines long: Segala puji bagi-Mu/ Tuhan/ lempangkan bagiku/ jalan/ amin [All praise to You/ God/ straighten out for me/ a path/ amen].
These poems - and their titles - are an indication of Fatin�s position within a global Islamic historical consciousness. Her allusion to Islam is based on an effort to verbalise the thoughts and emotions arising from her deeply personal Islamic faith.
The distinctive Egyptian context of Fatin�s poetry is also important. Many of the poems were written in Cairo, where Fatin leads the Cairo-based literary group, Komunitas Sastra Indonesia [Indonesian Literature Community]. Thus we see poems such as �Samira dan Sariyem�, a poignant tale of the sad life of an Eqyptian belly-dancer.
Fatin�s poetry also includes many references to the pre-Islamic era of Egypt. The title of the collection Papyrus refers us back to another world, the world of ancient Egypt and the dawn of civilisation. Elsewhere, by arranging a set of poems under the title �Cleopatra�, Fatin alludes to a fascinating and defiant Egyptian woman and queen, who was, of course, from a non-Islamic context.
This engaging combination of the worlds of Indonesia, Egypt, Islam and pre-Islam makes Fatin�s poetry fascinating and rich, speaking to us from both a global and local perspective. Besides placing Fatin�s name on the map of Indonesian literary studies, Papyrus also suggests that Fatin�s poetry can be seen as a representation of a deep pluralist view that has come to take hold amongst many contemporary Muslim intellectuals in Indonesia.
Marshall Clark (Marshall.Clark@anu.edu.au) is a lecturer at the Australian National University, on leave from University of Tasmania. Giora Eliraz (Giora.Eliraz@anu.edu.au) is a Visiting Fellow at the Southeast Asia Centre, Australian National University.
Marshall Clark and Giora Eliraz
It seems that the days of superstar poets - who bravely spoke up for the common people and criticised the Indonesian state, in front of large audiences in between being banned - have passed. When Rendra, who was Indonesia�s leading poet throughout the New Order era, toured Yogyakarta several years ago, one writer in the letters page of Bernas suggested that Rendra had become like an old pillow - nostalgic and comfortable yes, useful and relevant no.
Since the fall of Suharto, Emha Ainun Nadjib, another of Indonesia�s more oppositional cultural activists, has also kept out of the public spotlight. For several years, Emha hosted Gardu, a popular talk-show. However, TV audiences soon tired of the incredible over-abundance of talk shows following Suharto�s resignation. When Emha himself grew tired of all the �collusion� associated with organizing and rewarding guests, he pulled the plug.
Besides, Emha has never been able to shrug off his close association with Suharto. It is common knowledge that Emha, together with several other Muslim leaders, met with Suharto several times in the days before 20 May. It was at this point that Emha publicly transformed himself from an oppositional figure to something quite different. Some would say that his decline in popularity has mirrored Suharto�s fall from grace. Long considered as one of Indonesia�s foremost poets, these days Emha barely rates a mention.
It was as enjoyable as it was nostalgic, therefore, to see Emha reading poetry and dazzling audiences with his unique wit and political insight in Australia for several weeks in May and June. Invited by the Australia Indonesia Arts Alliance, and supported by the Australia Indonesia Institute and Garuda Indonesia, Emha gave lively poetry-readings in Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne. Like Rendra in the 1990s, Emha was able to draw enthusiastic audiences, consisting of as many Indonesians as Australians.
Accompanying Emha was another Indonesian poet, Fathyen Hamama Handry, also known as Fatin. Born in Padang in 1967, Fatin grew up in West Sumatra and has spent over a decade in Cairo, where she has studied theology at the Women�s Faculty of al-Azhar University. Her poetry is not quite as sensational as Emha�s, yet it contains its own fair share of social criticism. Fatin writes of riots and military violence in Semanggi and elsewhere in Jakarta, as well as the problems faced by Indonesian women, farmers fighting against poverty, women suffering in Aceh, and the struggles of the urban poor.
Like Emha, Fatin does not consider herself as one of Indonesia�s more popular poets. In terms of literary figures, Fatin is no trendy Sitot Srengenge, nor a young and sensational Ayu Utami, or even a marketable �woman poet� in the mould of Dorothea Rosa Herliany. Yet like Emha, in the midst of disappointment and frustration, Fatin continues to imagine a better Indonesia. It is for this reason that her poetry is worth examining, at the very least for the buffer it provides for the harsh coldness of Indonesia�s post-New Order, and perhaps even post-reformasi, reality.
Fatin�s latest collection, Papyrus (2002), exhibits the strong Islamic slant of her poetry. The opening poem, �Al Fatihah�, is the same name given to the opening sura or chapter of the Koran. Like the first chapter of the Koran, this poem is merely a few lines long: Segala puji bagi-Mu/ Tuhan/ lempangkan bagiku/ jalan/ amin [All praise to You/ God/ straighten out for me/ a path/ amen].
These poems - and their titles - are an indication of Fatin�s position within a global Islamic historical consciousness. Her allusion to Islam is based on an effort to verbalise the thoughts and emotions arising from her deeply personal Islamic faith.
The distinctive Egyptian context of Fatin�s poetry is also important. Many of the poems were written in Cairo, where Fatin leads the Cairo-based literary group, Komunitas Sastra Indonesia [Indonesian Literature Community]. Thus we see poems such as �Samira dan Sariyem�, a poignant tale of the sad life of an Eqyptian belly-dancer.
Fatin�s poetry also includes many references to the pre-Islamic era of Egypt. The title of the collection Papyrus refers us back to another world, the world of ancient Egypt and the dawn of civilisation. Elsewhere, by arranging a set of poems under the title �Cleopatra�, Fatin alludes to a fascinating and defiant Egyptian woman and queen, who was, of course, from a non-Islamic context.
This engaging combination of the worlds of Indonesia, Egypt, Islam and pre-Islam makes Fatin�s poetry fascinating and rich, speaking to us from both a global and local perspective. Besides placing Fatin�s name on the map of Indonesian literary studies, Papyrus also suggests that Fatin�s poetry can be seen as a representation of a deep pluralist view that has come to take hold amongst many contemporary Muslim intellectuals in Indonesia.
Marshall Clark (Marshall.Clark@anu.edu.au) is a lecturer at the Australian National University, on leave from University of Tasmania. Giora Eliraz (Giora.Eliraz@anu.edu.au) is a Visiting Fellow at the Southeast Asia Centre, Australian National University.
Where is Wiji Thukul
The dreadful silence of an outspoken poet
Richard Curtis
Wiji Thukul wrestled with the daily realities of poverty and violence. During the late New Order he was acknowledged as one of Indonesia's best poets, and he remains a standard bearer for radical grass roots democratic change. His celebrated catch cry, Hanya satu kata: Lawan!Peringatan (Warning, 1986). Striking workers and protesting students still use it. It seems incongruous that till recently little was done to investigate the mysterious disappearance two years ago of this important contributor to Indonesia's democratic movement. (There's only one word: Resist!) is taken from his poem,
Living in Solo, Central Java, Wiji Thukul always identified first as a poor urban kampung resident who faced the same struggles as his neighbours: factory workers, street hawkers and scavengers. The son of a pedicab driver and with limited formal education, he worked as a day labourer before assisting his wife, Sipon, a tailor, working from home. They have a daughter, Wani, and a small son, Fajar Merah. When I first met them in 1993 they were subsisting on about AU$2 per day.
Through the irony of bewilderment, Wiji Thukul's poem, An odd puzzle (1993, see box), articulates the frustration of working class families who struggle to obtain the most basic necessities. They work long hours, producing a myriad of products, most of which they can never afford. The poem evolved from an evening conversation at a roadside stall.
Wiji Thukul's searing commitment to real change was not only uncomfortable for Suharto's New Order. The pro-democratic pretensions of many 'progressive' intelligentsia did not escape his sting. His larrikinism at an all-Java poets' convention held in Solo in 1993 shattered the sombre atmosphere of their aloof readings on human rights. He engaged his enthusiastic audience with 'Displacing the clever people' (1993 - see language insert elsewhere in this edition). Thukul was wary of many 'cultural activists', students or NGOs who, despite much rhetoric, were unwilling to engage with the marginalised.
I remember a hilarious skit performed under Thukul's guidance by a group of local children to celebrate Independence Day in 1993. The children pretended to wash themselves in the public bath. They could never quite finish before someone pressed a buzzer informing them their time was up. Through play, music and theatre these children became critical observers of the social reality shaping their lives. Their parents were jailed for drinking, gambling or fighting, they were exploited as child labourers, a nearby dye factory dirtied their water, their homes were always flooding, they queued daily for the public amenities.
Thukul, and a few who dared to associate with him, were under continual surveillance. In December 1995 he almost lost an eye after he was bashed while security forces broke up a large protest he helped organise with local textile workers.
Around 1993-4 Thukul became affiliated with the PRD, a radical left-wing political party outlawed by the Suharto regime. Thukul headed the PRD's Peoples Art Network (Jakker). After the 27 July 1996 riot following the military-backed invasion of the PDI headquarters in Jakarta, the PRD were made scapegoats. Thukul went into hiding, as did other PRD leaders. Sipon and children met secretly with Thukul in December 1997, then lost contact with him. He was in contact with some of his friends up until April 1998.
When I met Sipon again in February this year, she recounted that for about two years after Thukul vanished she lived a sleepless nightmare of not knowing his fate. Her family was constantly harassed. She secretly burnt many reference materials critical of the New Order, and buried some of Thukul's more important writings, before security personnel entered the house and stole what was left. The family was isolated and the children's workshop disbanded as neighbours stayed away. Sipon lived in constant fear that her children might be kidnapped to draw Thukul out.
Though still deeply traumatised, Sipon has worked on courageously. She recently paid off a loan for a second, better sewing machine. Slowly winning back her neighbours, she has also recommenced the children's workshop.
There have been several unconfirmed sightings of Thukul over the last two years in Jakarta, Kalimantan and East Java. It is doubtful he ever left Indonesia. But it is difficult to understand why he should remain in hiding. PRD leader Budiman Sudjatmiko has said he fears Thukul became the victim of a government purge.
Sipon recently registered Thukul with Kontras, the Commission for Missing People and Victims of Violent Acts. Her determination attracted media attention. Two Yogyakarta groups, Taring Padi and FKRY, organised readings of his poetry and started a petition. They want Thukul's case raised as part of a full investigation into the 27 July incident.
Richard Curtis (curtisr@spectrum.curtin.edu.au) teaches at Curtin University in Perth, Australia. More information on Thukul is in his PhD thesis 'People, poets, puppets' (Curtin University, 1997). Readers who know of Wiji Thukul's whereabouts should contact Richard.
Love poems from behind bars
From Sajak-sajak cinta dari balik terali
(Love poems from behind bars)
by Bambang Isti Nugroho,
published by Penerbit Widya Mandala, Yogyakarta, 1994.
Born in 1960, Bambang Isti Nugroho is a Yogyakarta-based writer active in journalism, theatre and literature. In 1985 he was one of the founders of Palagan, a study group concerned with issues of social justice and literature. In 1989 he was arrested, along with two other student activists from Yogyakarta, and tried under Indonesia's infamous 1963 Subversion Law. (See Inside Indonesia 19, July 1989). Sentenced to eight years, he served a term of six years in Yogyakarta's Wirogunan Prison.
Keith Foulcher was the translator.
Dreaming I was a bridegroom
The white bread you sent
I've already eaten
and the letter you slipped in
I've already read
I was so moved
by the dignity of your feelings
and the strength of your spirit
In my narrow cell under military detention
with its cold and smelly floor
my sleep was decorated with dreams
dreams of being a bridegroom
But there was something that made me nervous
for all who were there at the wedding
were wearing uniforms
and carrying guns
We were handcuffed
and I could hear
someone pounding a judge's gavel
Yes, it was a strange and frightening dream
but still I enjoyed
dreaming I was a bridegroom
Even with my hands bound
sleeping in my narrow cell
that was cold and full of mosquitoes
Something made me sad
when I was awoken from the dream
it all disappeared
And I felt again
what it was like to be under investigation
and feel fear
District Military Command, August '88
Bermimpi jadi pengantin
Roti tawar yang kau kirimkan
sudah aku makan
surat yang kau selipkan
juga sudah aku baca
Aku begitu terharu
betapa mulia hatimu
betapa tegar jiwamu
Dalam sel sempit tahanan militer
yang lantainya dingin dan bau
tidurku berhias mimpi
mimpi jadi pengantin
Ada yang membuat aku gelisah
yang hadir dalam pernikahan
semua berseragam
semua membawa senjata
Tangan kita diborgol
telingaku mendengar
orang mengetok-ngetokkan palu
Mimpiku memang aneh dan menakutkan
tapi tetap saja aku suka
bermimpi jadi pengantin
Biarpun tangan diborgol
tidur dalam sel sempit
yang dingin dan banyak nyamuk
Ada yang membuat aku sedih
bila aku terjaga dari mimpi
mimpiku jadi buyar
Aku merasakan kembali
sedang dalam penyidikan
merasakan ketakutan.
Kodim, Agustus '88
(Love poems from behind bars)
by Bambang Isti Nugroho,
published by Penerbit Widya Mandala, Yogyakarta, 1994.
Born in 1960, Bambang Isti Nugroho is a Yogyakarta-based writer active in journalism, theatre and literature. In 1985 he was one of the founders of Palagan, a study group concerned with issues of social justice and literature. In 1989 he was arrested, along with two other student activists from Yogyakarta, and tried under Indonesia's infamous 1963 Subversion Law. (See Inside Indonesia 19, July 1989). Sentenced to eight years, he served a term of six years in Yogyakarta's Wirogunan Prison.
Keith Foulcher was the translator.
Dreaming I was a bridegroom
The white bread you sent
I've already eaten
and the letter you slipped in
I've already read
I was so moved
by the dignity of your feelings
and the strength of your spirit
In my narrow cell under military detention
with its cold and smelly floor
my sleep was decorated with dreams
dreams of being a bridegroom
But there was something that made me nervous
for all who were there at the wedding
were wearing uniforms
and carrying guns
We were handcuffed
and I could hear
someone pounding a judge's gavel
Yes, it was a strange and frightening dream
but still I enjoyed
dreaming I was a bridegroom
Even with my hands bound
sleeping in my narrow cell
that was cold and full of mosquitoes
Something made me sad
when I was awoken from the dream
it all disappeared
And I felt again
what it was like to be under investigation
and feel fear
District Military Command, August '88
Bermimpi jadi pengantin
Roti tawar yang kau kirimkan
sudah aku makan
surat yang kau selipkan
juga sudah aku baca
Aku begitu terharu
betapa mulia hatimu
betapa tegar jiwamu
Dalam sel sempit tahanan militer
yang lantainya dingin dan bau
tidurku berhias mimpi
mimpi jadi pengantin
Ada yang membuat aku gelisah
yang hadir dalam pernikahan
semua berseragam
semua membawa senjata
Tangan kita diborgol
telingaku mendengar
orang mengetok-ngetokkan palu
Mimpiku memang aneh dan menakutkan
tapi tetap saja aku suka
bermimpi jadi pengantin
Biarpun tangan diborgol
tidur dalam sel sempit
yang dingin dan banyak nyamuk
Ada yang membuat aku sedih
bila aku terjaga dari mimpi
mimpiku jadi buyar
Aku merasakan kembali
sedang dalam penyidikan
merasakan ketakutan.
Kodim, Agustus '88
poetry of Li-Young Lee
A Story
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don't go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1990. Reproduced from The City in Which I Love You, with kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
Early in the Morning
While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.
My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.
But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1986. Reproduced from Rose with the kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
The Gift
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.
I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1986. Reproduced from Rose with the kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Lee, Li-Young. 1986. Rose (Brockport, NY: BOA Editions, Ltd.)
Lee, Li-Young. 1990. The City in Which I Love You (Brockport, NY: BOA Editions, Ltd.)
Lee, Li-Young. 1995. The Winged Seed: A Rememberance (NY: Simon & Schuster)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Li-Young Lee: "Early in the Morning" and "The Gift" copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. Reproduced from Rose, by Li-Young Lee, with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., 92 Park Avenue, Brockport, NY 14420 USA. Li-Young Lee: "A Story" copyright © 1990 by Li-Young Lee. Reproduced from The City in Which I Love You, by Li-Young Lee, with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., 92 Park Avenue, Brockport, NY 14420 USA.
CAUTION: Users are warned that this Work is protected under the copyright laws of the United States, and that downloading is strictly forbidden. For information concerning rights via any medium, contact BOA Editions, Ltd., 260 East Avenue, Rochester, NY 14604 USA. E-mail: boaedit@aol.com Phone: 716.546.3410.
Li-Young Lee
Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesia, of Chinese parents. In 1959, his father, after spending a year as a political prisoner in President Sukarno's jails, fled Indonesia with his family. Between 1959 and 1964 they traveled in Hong Kong, Macau, and Japan, until arriving in America.
Mr. Lee studied at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Arizona, and the State University of New York, College at Brockport. He has taught at various universities, including Northwestern University and the University of Iowa. In 1990 Li-Young Lee traveled in China and Indonesia to do personal research for a book of autobiographical prose.
Li-Young Lee's several honors include grants from the Illinois Arts Council, The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1989 he was awarded a fellowship by the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation; in 1988 he was the recipient of a Writer's Award from the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation. In 1987 Mr. Lee received New York University's Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award for his first book, Rose, published by BOA Editions, Ltd. in 1986; and The City in Which I Love You, Li-Young Lee's second book of poems, was the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets. He has also won the Lannan Literary Award.
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don't go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1990. Reproduced from The City in Which I Love You, with kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
Early in the Morning
While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
She sits at the foot of the bed.
My father watches, listens for
the music of comb
against hair.
My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tight, rolls it
around two fingers, pins it
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.
But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1986. Reproduced from Rose with the kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
The Gift
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he'd removed
the iron sliver I thought I'd die from.
I can't remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy's palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife's right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he's given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
-- Li-Young Lee, ©1986. Reproduced from Rose with the kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Lee, Li-Young. 1986. Rose (Brockport, NY: BOA Editions, Ltd.)
Lee, Li-Young. 1990. The City in Which I Love You (Brockport, NY: BOA Editions, Ltd.)
Lee, Li-Young. 1995. The Winged Seed: A Rememberance (NY: Simon & Schuster)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Li-Young Lee: "Early in the Morning" and "The Gift" copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. Reproduced from Rose, by Li-Young Lee, with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., 92 Park Avenue, Brockport, NY 14420 USA. Li-Young Lee: "A Story" copyright © 1990 by Li-Young Lee. Reproduced from The City in Which I Love You, by Li-Young Lee, with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., 92 Park Avenue, Brockport, NY 14420 USA.
CAUTION: Users are warned that this Work is protected under the copyright laws of the United States, and that downloading is strictly forbidden. For information concerning rights via any medium, contact BOA Editions, Ltd., 260 East Avenue, Rochester, NY 14604 USA. E-mail: boaedit@aol.com Phone: 716.546.3410.
Li-Young Lee
Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesia, of Chinese parents. In 1959, his father, after spending a year as a political prisoner in President Sukarno's jails, fled Indonesia with his family. Between 1959 and 1964 they traveled in Hong Kong, Macau, and Japan, until arriving in America.
Mr. Lee studied at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Arizona, and the State University of New York, College at Brockport. He has taught at various universities, including Northwestern University and the University of Iowa. In 1990 Li-Young Lee traveled in China and Indonesia to do personal research for a book of autobiographical prose.
Li-Young Lee's several honors include grants from the Illinois Arts Council, The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1989 he was awarded a fellowship by the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation; in 1988 he was the recipient of a Writer's Award from the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation. In 1987 Mr. Lee received New York University's Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award for his first book, Rose, published by BOA Editions, Ltd. in 1986; and The City in Which I Love You, Li-Young Lee's second book of poems, was the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets. He has also won the Lannan Literary Award.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Poetry Contests and How to Win Them
Poetry Contests have sprung up like wildfire around the internet. And why not? It's a fun way to test your skill at poetry writing.
There are poetry contests that are judged by a few people at a time. They assign the poem points. The poem with the most points wins. Seems simple enough and it's a good strategy.
What they don't tell you is what they're looking for. Let's face it. Poetry contests are biased. And that's a matter of fact. After all, you're being judged by people predisposed to a certain way of writing. If they like it, it passes the test. If not, it's put away and quickly forgotten.
Having said this, a good way to win poetry contests is to find out what the editors are looking for. They're probably not going to tell you. You must read the kind of poems they like (or find out someway) then tailor your work towards that end.
I know it's not the most "artsy" thing to do. You have your integrity and special way of writing. And the poetry contest editors also have their way of reading and judging what they think is a "good" poem. Once you understand that it's not about you or your poetry but what that particular editor's bias is, you're on your way to winning.
In fact, it may be more important to get a feel for what the judges consider to be "good" than actually submitting what you think is your best work. Remember, what's best is in the mind of the beholder. You don't have to sell out or even think you are selling out to win poetry contests. On the contrary, look at it as a game and you'll be way ahead of your competition!
There are poetry contests that are judged by a few people at a time. They assign the poem points. The poem with the most points wins. Seems simple enough and it's a good strategy.
What they don't tell you is what they're looking for. Let's face it. Poetry contests are biased. And that's a matter of fact. After all, you're being judged by people predisposed to a certain way of writing. If they like it, it passes the test. If not, it's put away and quickly forgotten.
Having said this, a good way to win poetry contests is to find out what the editors are looking for. They're probably not going to tell you. You must read the kind of poems they like (or find out someway) then tailor your work towards that end.
I know it's not the most "artsy" thing to do. You have your integrity and special way of writing. And the poetry contest editors also have their way of reading and judging what they think is a "good" poem. Once you understand that it's not about you or your poetry but what that particular editor's bias is, you're on your way to winning.
In fact, it may be more important to get a feel for what the judges consider to be "good" than actually submitting what you think is your best work. Remember, what's best is in the mind of the beholder. You don't have to sell out or even think you are selling out to win poetry contests. On the contrary, look at it as a game and you'll be way ahead of your competition!
Modern Poetry - Poetry for Everyone
Poetry has changed over the years, and modern poetry is not the same eclectic and elitist prose you may remember from your high school reading. Modern poetry is written in plain English, filled with imagery and emotion, and is so much easier to read than poetry of the past. If you haven't read modern poetry, you don't know what you are missing!
Edgar Allan Poe wrote the Raven, which is a wonderful piece of prose or poetry, and it is filled with imagery, emotion, metaphor, and hidden meaning. It's also filled with Old English and esoteric lines, making it difficult to read without having to stop and analyze the deeper or hidden meaning behind it.
Even some current poets write in the eclectic poetic stylings of the past, but the reader will spend so much time trying to figure out what the writer meant, that the meaning and emotion behind the writing is all but lost. Poetry is not something most readers want to analyze. It is something readers want to feel and experience.
The old style of poetry writing is great if you have the time and inclination to sit and read through it and study the meanings and imagery behind it. However, with today's busy schedules, only the literary types or students have the time to stop and put that much thought into something, when poetry should really be evoking emotion, not analysis.
That's what makes modern poetry works!
Modern poetry creates a short story, with visual imagery, in a few lines rather than a few pages. Modern poetry touches your heart, by evoking emotion with which you can relate, about things you probably have experienced yourself.
The common themes for modern poetry are love and romance, nature, beauty, and loss and grief. These are all things that everyone can relate to, and when written in verse form, with modern language use, a poem or piece of prose can bring about feelings long forgotten, remind of times of strong emotion, or speak of dreams for the future...all in a few lines, instead of pages of story.
A good book or a novel makes you think, striking the imagination...poetry and prose makes you feel, striking the emotions. Why not give modern poetry a chance? You can search online for samples or go to your local bookstore and pick up a copy and check it out. You may just be surprised how much you enjoy reading modern poetry!
Edgar Allan Poe wrote the Raven, which is a wonderful piece of prose or poetry, and it is filled with imagery, emotion, metaphor, and hidden meaning. It's also filled with Old English and esoteric lines, making it difficult to read without having to stop and analyze the deeper or hidden meaning behind it.
Even some current poets write in the eclectic poetic stylings of the past, but the reader will spend so much time trying to figure out what the writer meant, that the meaning and emotion behind the writing is all but lost. Poetry is not something most readers want to analyze. It is something readers want to feel and experience.
The old style of poetry writing is great if you have the time and inclination to sit and read through it and study the meanings and imagery behind it. However, with today's busy schedules, only the literary types or students have the time to stop and put that much thought into something, when poetry should really be evoking emotion, not analysis.
That's what makes modern poetry works!
Modern poetry creates a short story, with visual imagery, in a few lines rather than a few pages. Modern poetry touches your heart, by evoking emotion with which you can relate, about things you probably have experienced yourself.
The common themes for modern poetry are love and romance, nature, beauty, and loss and grief. These are all things that everyone can relate to, and when written in verse form, with modern language use, a poem or piece of prose can bring about feelings long forgotten, remind of times of strong emotion, or speak of dreams for the future...all in a few lines, instead of pages of story.
A good book or a novel makes you think, striking the imagination...poetry and prose makes you feel, striking the emotions. Why not give modern poetry a chance? You can search online for samples or go to your local bookstore and pick up a copy and check it out. You may just be surprised how much you enjoy reading modern poetry!
Rules for Writing Poetry
You’ve been writing poetry since that first assignment in your high school writing class. You know the rules about writing poetry, right? Are there rules? Well, if you frequent the poetry forums across the Internet as much as I do, you’d find that there are a lot of amateur poets who adamantly declare that there are no rules for writing poetry and if someone even suggests reading poetry or books on poetry, many of the amateur poets will throw up a defensive front. My opinion seems to swing fervently toward the opposition. You have to know the rules before you break them; at least that’s what I always say.
I know that writing a sonnet in iambic pentameter is an art that has been buried in the tombs of the renaissance, but understanding it, along with the numerous other dying closed forms of poetry, is a powerful tool when writing that prosy contemporary piece. Being a great poet demands an intricate understanding of the way in which language works its edges into a reader’s conscience. A poem is a mosaic of sounds, syncopations, and images. All of the little fragments of a poem must work together in a unified fashion to culminate in something refreshing and new.
Refreshing and new? Well, you might wonder how understanding such archaic attributes of poetry such as meter and rhyme might help a contemporary poet craft a refreshing new poem. It is all about the sound and the innovation of it. Even scientists stand on the shoulders of those before them. You don’t have to manage a perfect rhyme or a measured foot in a poem to be jumping from the inspiration of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but having those rhythms and rhymes teetering in and out of the wrinkles in your brain will send a very subtle vibration of sound through your very own pieces.
In summary, read, read, read, know the rules, and then break the rules. Goodness help you, please break them.
Here are some references to help you along the way:
-Books:
The Practice of Poetry: by Robin Behn
Writing Poems: by Robert Wallace and Michelle Boisseau
A Poetry Handbook: by Mary Oliver
-Websites:
www.poetrylessons.org
www.poetrymagic.co.uk
http://www.unc.edu/depts/wcweb/handouts/poetry-explication.html
http://www.poetry-portal.com/poetry.html
-And don't forget to read some contemporary poetry:
www.poems.com
http://www.pedestalmagazine.com/
I know that writing a sonnet in iambic pentameter is an art that has been buried in the tombs of the renaissance, but understanding it, along with the numerous other dying closed forms of poetry, is a powerful tool when writing that prosy contemporary piece. Being a great poet demands an intricate understanding of the way in which language works its edges into a reader’s conscience. A poem is a mosaic of sounds, syncopations, and images. All of the little fragments of a poem must work together in a unified fashion to culminate in something refreshing and new.
Refreshing and new? Well, you might wonder how understanding such archaic attributes of poetry such as meter and rhyme might help a contemporary poet craft a refreshing new poem. It is all about the sound and the innovation of it. Even scientists stand on the shoulders of those before them. You don’t have to manage a perfect rhyme or a measured foot in a poem to be jumping from the inspiration of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but having those rhythms and rhymes teetering in and out of the wrinkles in your brain will send a very subtle vibration of sound through your very own pieces.
In summary, read, read, read, know the rules, and then break the rules. Goodness help you, please break them.
Here are some references to help you along the way:
-Books:
The Practice of Poetry: by Robin Behn
Writing Poems: by Robert Wallace and Michelle Boisseau
A Poetry Handbook: by Mary Oliver
-Websites:
www.poetrylessons.org
www.poetrymagic.co.uk
http://www.unc.edu/depts/wcweb/handouts/poetry-explication.html
http://www.poetry-portal.com/poetry.html
-And don't forget to read some contemporary poetry:
www.poems.com
http://www.pedestalmagazine.com/
Monday, February 4, 2008
Poem and the Other
By Cecep Syamsul Hari
It was July 15th, 2006.
And it was rain in Myon-dong. In the middle of the night, in the noisy big room, I was tied in the circle of people. They were artists from many countries. Most of them were Korean.
Suddenly I felt that I was disappeared from the room. It’s seemed like a dream. Far in the distance, I heard Mr. Kim Geun sang with his breathtaking voice: “arirang… arirang… arirang….”
I picked the words from the air and wrote a poem in my heart.
Then, I completely became the other in my own poem.
**
I always believe that the fundamental aspect of the poem is the other.
For years, I write my poems based on my individual experiences of how “khudi” (is mean: a unique I in Mohammad Iqbal’s term) in my poems dealing with “the other.”
Once upon a time Sartre said that the other is nothing but the hell itself: “Hell is other people….” Fortunately, as Octavio Paz, I never believe in Sartre. In Octavio Paz’s case, the other is a different voice that leads us to learn a different person. And in my case, the other is a divine spirit in human body that sent by the universe not only to interact but also to engage with khudi in my poems.
Without the other, I will never finish even a single poem of mine.
In my poems, I put my all respect on the other. The other is my garden where the flower of words grows and blossoms; the other is my sorrow and my happiness as well; the other is my inspiration. In short, the other is my imagination.
Imagination is not a dream or fantasy. It is one quality of conceiving reality or something that happen in the past, present or in the future. It is a mental faculty forming images of object not present to senses. A mental faculty that made poems such as wrote by Chairil Anwar reached the excellence of timeless.
**
Chairil Anwar had a big influence on me during my teenager ages.
Chairil Anwar was the primary architect of the Indonesian literary revolution in poetry. He released poetry from the bonds of traditional forms and language, and his idealistic challenge, "I want to live another thousand years," have made him an artistic icon. With his energetic devotion to literature he is regarded one of the greatest poets of my country.
My first interaction with Chairil Anwar, as the other, was engaged with enjoy experience of reading his poetry. Two of the first Indonesian poems that was introduced to me in my teenager ages was “Derai-derai Cemara” (“Pines in the Distance”) and “Senja di Pelabuhan Kecil” ("Twilight at Little Harbor"). Both poems wrote by him. Both poems also had deep of feeling of Erich Fromm said as “the art of loving”.
From these both of poems I’ve learned how to transcend love and her passions (sorrow, anguish, sadness, happiness, rejoice, etc.) become a kind of poetry-experience.
(1) PINES IN THE DISTANCE
Pines scatter in the distance,
as day becomes night,
branches slap weakly at the window,
pushed by a sultry wind.
I’m now a person who can survive,
so long ago I left childhood behind,
though once there was something,
that now counts for nothing at all.
Life is but postponement of defeat,
a growing estrangement from youth’s unfettered love
a knowing there’s always something left unsaid,
before we finally acquiesce.
(2) TWILIGHT AT LITTLE HARBOR
This time no one's looking for love
down between the sheds, the old houses, among the twittering
masts and rigging. A boat, that will never sail again
puffs and snorts, thinking there's something it can catch
The drizzle brings darkness. An eagle's wings flap,
brushing against the gloom; the day whispers, swimming silkily
away to meet harbor temptations yet to come. Nothing moves
and now the sand and the sea are asleep, the waves gone.
That's all. I'm alone. Walking,
combing the cape, still choking back the hope
of getting to the end and, just once, saying the hell with it
from this fourth beach, embracing the last, the final sob.
I remember many years ago I rewrote these poems on the paper. Attached those with glue on the mirror of my window in my tiny study-room. And every night, before I sleep, I recited these poems silently. And it was happen a lot, I weep silently, and my tears dropped on my willow.
My first deep interaction with other was with these two Chairil Anwar’s poems. Those two poems for me like “the other voice”, in Octavio Paz’s term, that becomes a part of me as a poet and khudi in my poems as well.
**
A long with khudi, there are many names can be found on my poems, explicitly or implicitly, and especially, women name.
Nevertheless, in my heart, there is only one name of a woman. All of my life, I’ve been adoring and long for this woman. I have dedicated, and I will dedicate, all my poems to her. This woman had transcended become a symbol in my poetry.
That’s why I wrote this poem:
The Last Thing I Remember
When time stopped,
the cities wiped away the footprints of your tears
with their silent memories.
I can no longer recall
when the love stories began,
or when they finished.
Possibly one twilight
in the whispers of a strange and dirty town
on the veranda of a hotel at the end of a noisy street.
Or in a café with no name, no menu.
The cities left late in your heart.
But your smile is eternal, like the poems of Po Chu-i.
The twilight I remembered is now broken
and covered with moss.
But I can hardly distinguish between wonderful fairy stories
and past sorrows.
When time stopped,
I remembered your dancing tears:
The twilight was unforgettable.
And love was welcomed with thousands of names.
Give permission the name of the woman who has eternal smile and dancing tears in this poem remain secret. She’s firstly was the other to me and then become a part of me. She’s the poem herself. She’s like my favorite novel character in Boris Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago, Larissa Feodorovna.
**
Besides reading novels, I loved to travel.
“Why read novels?” E.M. Forster said, “To meet people.” Yes. I read novels to meet characters (of people) as much as I can. “Why go travel?” The same reason: “To meet people”. Not only the characters, but “the real-people”.
My gathering with characters in the novels and the real-person on my travels shows me the way to understand the other.
Understanding the other becomes my epistemology of my poetry.
**
It was rain in Myon-dong. In the middle of the night, in the noisy big room, I was tied in the circle of people. They were artists from many countries. Most of them were Korean.
Suddenly I felt that I was disappeared from the room. It’s seemed like a dream. Far in the distance, I heard Mr. Kim Geun sang with his breathtaking voice: “arirang… arirang… arirang….”
I picked the words from the air and wrote a poem in my heart.
Then, I completely became the other in my own poem.
**
Then, I jog my memory to the trip that failed to reach Kang Wun-do because the heavy rains.
In the motel that I forgot its name, when we were all gathering in the big room, talking each other, sing a song, I realized that I was in the middle of “moment of poetic”. All poets, wherever they came and whenever they lived, always search this moment of poetic.
I had a delight impression of my Korean poet friends there: Kim Geun-ssi, Kim Kyung Ju-ssi, Kim Ja Heun-ssi, An Hyon Mi-ssi, Lee Jae Woong-ssi, Yun Seok Jung-ssi, Son Heung Kyu-ssi, Ryu Je Man-ssi, and many others poet friends that I couldn’t mention one by one. They are all fascinating, cheerful, hard-working, and friendly persons. They are all the moment of poetic themselves.
Now, each of them is the other who lives with khudi in my poem.
The other who become a part of me. **
Seoul, July 27th, 2006
(Written for the Korea Association for the National Literature.)
Cecep Syamsul Hari
32 Variations on C Minor
With their hair smooth and bodies fragrant
a young couple
stand in the yard of a hotel
facing the cynical day.
I remember how the hairs of the black of your neck
stood up last night, I shouldn’t have worried
when I was jostled by the demonstrators at one of the crossroads
in this increasingly dirty town.
Once or twice a week we should feel sorry,
and almost regretful, and purify ourselves early
in the morning.
Perhaps we should find another way
to express the routines of our love, perhaps we should learn
origami or look after lizards.
Which is of course rather strange.
What if we sometimes slept in a cheap boarding house,
you and me I mean, and pretended to be newly weds
on our honeymoon?
As I expected, you sat shyly near the bright gas stove
and looked at today’s menu and then a few hours later,
if I was not busy and you didn’t forget,
we went to the dining room for almost thirty minutes
swallowing our questions.
Then I would be lonely again in my proud,
cold, and silent study.
Strange thoughts about being old before my time
suddenly appeared and in some delightful madness
I would imagined someone playing 32 variation on C minor
in my house, at three o’clock in the morning.
Who would be kind enough
to listen to me on the telephone when I said
I had written nine or even eleven lines of a poem and when I asked
what tomorrow’s date was, where were you going,
and wasn’t it rather dangerous volunteering
to be with people who had been kidnapped,
attacked or raped in my bitter and indifferent land.
Of course, they are still so young,
and they leave the hotel with a light tread and happy smiles.
I smile too,
tell you something trivial,
feeling like a nervous refugee,
excited from his own country
at the time when people are crazy about politics,
music, and making love.
While you sleep in the next room
and my final task before dawn will simply be to see
whether I have locked all the doors and windows.
1998-2006
32 VARIASI PADA C MINOR
Dengan rambut licin dan tubuh bacin
di halaman sebuah hotel
sepasang remaja berkulit terang
dihadang siang yang sinis.
Terkenang tengkukmu yang tegang
tadi malam, aku tak harus cemas jika mesti terdesak arak-arakan
demonstran di tikungan jalan
kota yang makin kotor ini.
Satu atau dua kali seminggu kita selalu menyesal,
dan nyaris sebal,
terpaksa mandi pagi sekali.
Mungkin harus kita cari cara lain menyatakan
cinta yang rutin itu, barangkali dengan belajar origami
atau memelihara sejenis reptil.
Tentu saja agak ganjil.
Bagaimana jika sesekali kita tidur di losmen,
kau dan aku maksudku, dan pura-pura menjadi pasangan
kawin tamasya?
Seperti telah kuduga, kau tersipu di depan kompor gas yang menyala
seraya melihat-lihat menu hari itu dan beberapa jam kemudian,
jika aku tak sibuk dan kau tak lupa,
kita akan duduk di bawah tiga puluh menit
di ruang makan, menelan sejumlah pertanyaan.
Lalu aku menjadi penyendiri lagi di kamar kerjaku yang angkuh
dan dingin dan sunyi.
Pikiran aneh tentang menjadi tua sebelum waktunya
muncul tiba-tiba dan dengan kegilaan yang menyenangkan
kubayangkan seseorang memainkan 32 Variasi pada C Minor
di rumah ini, pada pukul tiga dini hari.
Siapa yang hendak setia
bersikap ramah kutelepon setelat itu hanya untuk mendengar
telah kutulis sembilan atau sebelas baris puisi liris dan bertanya
esok tanggal berapa, mau ke mana, dan apakah tak terlalu berbahaya
menjadi relawan pendamping korban penculikan, penjarahan
dan perkosaan di negeriku yang pendendam dan ringan tangan.
Begitulah, mereka masih sangat muda,
keluar dari pintu hotel dengan langkah lepas dan kulum puas.
Aku tersenyum sendiri,
Bercerita kepadamu sesuatu yang remah
dengan perasaan pelarian yang resah,
terbuang dari negerinya sendiri,
pada musim orang-orang tergiur partai,
bermain musik dan bercinta.
Padahal kau tidur di kamar sebelah
dan pekerjaan terakhirku menjelang fajar sekadar memeriksa kembali
apakah telah kukunci semua jendela dan pintu rumah.
1998-2006
With their hair smooth and bodies fragrant
a young couple
stand in the yard of a hotel
facing the cynical day.
I remember how the hairs of the black of your neck
stood up last night, I shouldn’t have worried
when I was jostled by the demonstrators at one of the crossroads
in this increasingly dirty town.
Once or twice a week we should feel sorry,
and almost regretful, and purify ourselves early
in the morning.
Perhaps we should find another way
to express the routines of our love, perhaps we should learn
origami or look after lizards.
Which is of course rather strange.
What if we sometimes slept in a cheap boarding house,
you and me I mean, and pretended to be newly weds
on our honeymoon?
As I expected, you sat shyly near the bright gas stove
and looked at today’s menu and then a few hours later,
if I was not busy and you didn’t forget,
we went to the dining room for almost thirty minutes
swallowing our questions.
Then I would be lonely again in my proud,
cold, and silent study.
Strange thoughts about being old before my time
suddenly appeared and in some delightful madness
I would imagined someone playing 32 variation on C minor
in my house, at three o’clock in the morning.
Who would be kind enough
to listen to me on the telephone when I said
I had written nine or even eleven lines of a poem and when I asked
what tomorrow’s date was, where were you going,
and wasn’t it rather dangerous volunteering
to be with people who had been kidnapped,
attacked or raped in my bitter and indifferent land.
Of course, they are still so young,
and they leave the hotel with a light tread and happy smiles.
I smile too,
tell you something trivial,
feeling like a nervous refugee,
excited from his own country
at the time when people are crazy about politics,
music, and making love.
While you sleep in the next room
and my final task before dawn will simply be to see
whether I have locked all the doors and windows.
1998-2006
32 VARIASI PADA C MINOR
Dengan rambut licin dan tubuh bacin
di halaman sebuah hotel
sepasang remaja berkulit terang
dihadang siang yang sinis.
Terkenang tengkukmu yang tegang
tadi malam, aku tak harus cemas jika mesti terdesak arak-arakan
demonstran di tikungan jalan
kota yang makin kotor ini.
Satu atau dua kali seminggu kita selalu menyesal,
dan nyaris sebal,
terpaksa mandi pagi sekali.
Mungkin harus kita cari cara lain menyatakan
cinta yang rutin itu, barangkali dengan belajar origami
atau memelihara sejenis reptil.
Tentu saja agak ganjil.
Bagaimana jika sesekali kita tidur di losmen,
kau dan aku maksudku, dan pura-pura menjadi pasangan
kawin tamasya?
Seperti telah kuduga, kau tersipu di depan kompor gas yang menyala
seraya melihat-lihat menu hari itu dan beberapa jam kemudian,
jika aku tak sibuk dan kau tak lupa,
kita akan duduk di bawah tiga puluh menit
di ruang makan, menelan sejumlah pertanyaan.
Lalu aku menjadi penyendiri lagi di kamar kerjaku yang angkuh
dan dingin dan sunyi.
Pikiran aneh tentang menjadi tua sebelum waktunya
muncul tiba-tiba dan dengan kegilaan yang menyenangkan
kubayangkan seseorang memainkan 32 Variasi pada C Minor
di rumah ini, pada pukul tiga dini hari.
Siapa yang hendak setia
bersikap ramah kutelepon setelat itu hanya untuk mendengar
telah kutulis sembilan atau sebelas baris puisi liris dan bertanya
esok tanggal berapa, mau ke mana, dan apakah tak terlalu berbahaya
menjadi relawan pendamping korban penculikan, penjarahan
dan perkosaan di negeriku yang pendendam dan ringan tangan.
Begitulah, mereka masih sangat muda,
keluar dari pintu hotel dengan langkah lepas dan kulum puas.
Aku tersenyum sendiri,
Bercerita kepadamu sesuatu yang remah
dengan perasaan pelarian yang resah,
terbuang dari negerinya sendiri,
pada musim orang-orang tergiur partai,
bermain musik dan bercinta.
Padahal kau tidur di kamar sebelah
dan pekerjaan terakhirku menjelang fajar sekadar memeriksa kembali
apakah telah kukunci semua jendela dan pintu rumah.
1998-2006
Ahmad Tohari
Ahmad Tohari is an Indonesian author born in the village of Tinggarjaya, Jatilawang, Banyumas on the June 13, 1948. He is married with five children, and continues to live in the Banyumas area. His formal education was only until high school in Purwokerto. He explored several faculties of economics, social and political studies and medicine, but did not graduate from any of them. Until now, his experience of growing up in a small village still color his literary works.
He has published seven novels, three anthologies of political and religious essays, two collection of short stories, and numerous individual short stories and essays. The following three novels made out a trilogy (later published as one book, Ronngeng Dukuh Paruk), describing the dynamics of a ronggeng - a dancer/prostitute in an isolated village in Central Java: Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk [A Dancing Girl of Paruk Village], Lintang Kemukus Dini Hari [A Shooting Star at Dawn], and Jantera Bianglala [The Rainbow's Arc]. He is one of only a few Indonesian writers who have written stories set against the background of the 1965 Communist uprising and resultant mass killings.
His books have been published in Japanese, Chinese, Dutch and German. An English edition of Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk is being prepared for publishing with the University of Hawaii and the Lontar Foundation in Jakarta.
He has received several national and international awards for his work, including the Southeast Asian Writers Award and a Fellowship through the International Writers Program in Iowa City. He has often written for the national newspaper Suara Merdeka, and the famous weekly Tempo. He was staff editor for the Jakarta newspaper, Merdeka from 1979 until 1981, and General Editor for Amanah, a political and religious magazine, from 1986 to 1993. With his family, he runs an Islamic school (pesantren). Finally, he is a well-known export of Javanese folk arts, and a consultant for the regional office of the Indonesian Ministry of Culture and Education.
He has published seven novels, three anthologies of political and religious essays, two collection of short stories, and numerous individual short stories and essays. The following three novels made out a trilogy (later published as one book, Ronngeng Dukuh Paruk), describing the dynamics of a ronggeng - a dancer/prostitute in an isolated village in Central Java: Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk [A Dancing Girl of Paruk Village], Lintang Kemukus Dini Hari [A Shooting Star at Dawn], and Jantera Bianglala [The Rainbow's Arc]. He is one of only a few Indonesian writers who have written stories set against the background of the 1965 Communist uprising and resultant mass killings.
His books have been published in Japanese, Chinese, Dutch and German. An English edition of Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk is being prepared for publishing with the University of Hawaii and the Lontar Foundation in Jakarta.
He has received several national and international awards for his work, including the Southeast Asian Writers Award and a Fellowship through the International Writers Program in Iowa City. He has often written for the national newspaper Suara Merdeka, and the famous weekly Tempo. He was staff editor for the Jakarta newspaper, Merdeka from 1979 until 1981, and General Editor for Amanah, a political and religious magazine, from 1986 to 1993. With his family, he runs an Islamic school (pesantren). Finally, he is a well-known export of Javanese folk arts, and a consultant for the regional office of the Indonesian Ministry of Culture and Education.
Ali Akbar Navis
Ali Akbar Navis (born in Padang Panjang, West Sumatra November 17, 1924) was a prominent Indonesian author. One of his excellent short novels is "Robohnya Surau Kami" stories about culture bankruptcy in Minangkabau.
List of Books and Novels
Antologi Lengkap Cerpen A.A. Navis (2005)
Gerhana, novel (2004)
Bertanya Kerbau Pada Pedati (2002)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat 3 (2001)
Kabut Negeri si Dali (2001)
Dermaga Lima Sekoci (2000)
Jodoh (1999)
Yang Berjalan Sepanjang Jalan (1999)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat 2 (1998)
Filsafat dan Strategi Pendidikan M. Sjafei: Ruang Pendidik INS Kayutanam (1996)
Otobiografi A.A. Navis: Satiris dan Suara Kritis dari Daerah (1994)
Surat dan Kenangan Haji (1994)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat (1994)
Hujan Panas dan Kabut Musim (1990)
Pasang Surut Pengusaha Pejuang, Hasjim Ning autobiography (1986)
Alam Terkembang Jadi Guru, minangkabau culture (1984)
Di Lintasan Mendung (1983)
Dialektika Minangkabau (editor) (1983)
Dermaga dengan Empat Sekoci, poets (1975)
Saraswati: Si Gadis dalam Sunyi, novel (1970)
Kemarau (1967)
Bianglala (1963)
Hudjan Panas (1963)
Robohnya Surau Kami (1955)
List of Books and Novels
Antologi Lengkap Cerpen A.A. Navis (2005)
Gerhana, novel (2004)
Bertanya Kerbau Pada Pedati (2002)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat 3 (2001)
Kabut Negeri si Dali (2001)
Dermaga Lima Sekoci (2000)
Jodoh (1999)
Yang Berjalan Sepanjang Jalan (1999)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat 2 (1998)
Filsafat dan Strategi Pendidikan M. Sjafei: Ruang Pendidik INS Kayutanam (1996)
Otobiografi A.A. Navis: Satiris dan Suara Kritis dari Daerah (1994)
Surat dan Kenangan Haji (1994)
Cerita Rakyat dari Sumatra Barat (1994)
Hujan Panas dan Kabut Musim (1990)
Pasang Surut Pengusaha Pejuang, Hasjim Ning autobiography (1986)
Alam Terkembang Jadi Guru, minangkabau culture (1984)
Di Lintasan Mendung (1983)
Dialektika Minangkabau (editor) (1983)
Dermaga dengan Empat Sekoci, poets (1975)
Saraswati: Si Gadis dalam Sunyi, novel (1970)
Kemarau (1967)
Bianglala (1963)
Hudjan Panas (1963)
Robohnya Surau Kami (1955)
Goenawan Mohamad
Goenawan Mohamad (born 29 July 1941) is a renowned Indonesian poet and man of letters.
Goenawan Mohamad was born in Batang, Central Java. His early writings include Potret Seorang Penyair Muda Sebagai Si Malin Kundang (The Portrait of A Young Poet as Malin Kundang) (1972) and Seks, Sastra, Kita (Sex, Literature, Us) (1980). His more recent writings include Pariksit dan Interlude (2001), Setelah Revolusi Tak Ada Lagi (Once the Revolution No Longer Exists) (2001), and Kata, Waktu (Word, Time) (2001).
He is the founder and editor of Tempo ("Time") magazine in Indonesia, which was twice forcibly closed by the Suharto's New Order administration because of its vocal criticism of the authoritarian regime.[1] In 1999, Mohamad was named International Editor of the Year by World Press Review magazine. In 1998, he was one of four winners of the CPJ International Press Freedom Awards.
As a writer, Goenawan Mohamad earned renowned for his weekly column in Tempo, "Catatan Pinggir" (Sidelines), the concept of which is mainly comments or critique of the 'headlines'. He expressed criticism of one-dimensional, narrow-minded viewpoints and thoughts in Sidelines, which have been compiled into six books. In Sidelines, Mohamad never ended with a definitive conclusion, but always with either questions or open-ended comments intended to encourage readers to continue thinking.
Goenawan Mohamad was born in Batang, Central Java. His early writings include Potret Seorang Penyair Muda Sebagai Si Malin Kundang (The Portrait of A Young Poet as Malin Kundang) (1972) and Seks, Sastra, Kita (Sex, Literature, Us) (1980). His more recent writings include Pariksit dan Interlude (2001), Setelah Revolusi Tak Ada Lagi (Once the Revolution No Longer Exists) (2001), and Kata, Waktu (Word, Time) (2001).
He is the founder and editor of Tempo ("Time") magazine in Indonesia, which was twice forcibly closed by the Suharto's New Order administration because of its vocal criticism of the authoritarian regime.[1] In 1999, Mohamad was named International Editor of the Year by World Press Review magazine. In 1998, he was one of four winners of the CPJ International Press Freedom Awards.
As a writer, Goenawan Mohamad earned renowned for his weekly column in Tempo, "Catatan Pinggir" (Sidelines), the concept of which is mainly comments or critique of the 'headlines'. He expressed criticism of one-dimensional, narrow-minded viewpoints and thoughts in Sidelines, which have been compiled into six books. In Sidelines, Mohamad never ended with a definitive conclusion, but always with either questions or open-ended comments intended to encourage readers to continue thinking.
Putu Wijaya
Putu Wijaya (1944 - ), whose real name is I Gusti Ngurah Putu Wijaya, is an Indonesian author who was born in Bali on 11 April 1944. He was the youngest of eight siblings (three of them from a different father). He lived in a large housing complex with around 200 people who were all members of the same extended family, and were accustomed to reading. His father, I Gusti Ngurah Raka, was hoping for Putu to become a doctor, but Puti was weak in the natural sciences. He liked history, language and geography.
Putu Wijaya has already written around 30 novels, 40 dramas, about a hundred short stories, and thousands of essays, free articles and drama criticisms. He has also produced film and soap-opera scripts. He led the Teater Mandiri theatre since 1971, and has received numerous prices for literary works and soap-opera scripts.
He's short stories often appear in the columns of the daily newspapers Kompas and Sinar Harapan. His novels are often published in the magazines Kartini, Femina and Horison. As a script writer, he has two times won the Citra prize at the Indonesian Film Festival, for the movies Perawan Desa (1980) and Kembang Kertas (1985).
Putu Wijaya has already written around 30 novels, 40 dramas, about a hundred short stories, and thousands of essays, free articles and drama criticisms. He has also produced film and soap-opera scripts. He led the Teater Mandiri theatre since 1971, and has received numerous prices for literary works and soap-opera scripts.
He's short stories often appear in the columns of the daily newspapers Kompas and Sinar Harapan. His novels are often published in the magazines Kartini, Femina and Horison. As a script writer, he has two times won the Citra prize at the Indonesian Film Festival, for the movies Perawan Desa (1980) and Kembang Kertas (1985).
Sutardji Calzoum Bachri
Sutardji Calzoum Bachri (born Riau,1941) is a famous Indonesian poet.
The peak of Tardji's literary career is considered to have been during the 1970s. Back then, he successfully launched a credo of 'freeing words of their meanings'.
He was also famous for his habit of drinking cheap alcoholic beverages during his readings. His style of reading is often explosive in the manner of old Indonesian Dukun, incantations stemming from Indonesian pre-Islamic shaministic practice, still used today.
The style of Tardji's poetry has been described as that of a mantra. He has been quoted to say that the mantra is the true use of words.
Currently Tardji is thought of more as a philosopher or a sufi than a poet. The man once known as 'The President of Indonesian Poets' often shows up in public gatherings and will usually make his presence known.
Tardji is said to have taken some new, mostly female, writers to be his disciples.
The peak of Tardji's literary career is considered to have been during the 1970s. Back then, he successfully launched a credo of 'freeing words of their meanings'.
He was also famous for his habit of drinking cheap alcoholic beverages during his readings. His style of reading is often explosive in the manner of old Indonesian Dukun, incantations stemming from Indonesian pre-Islamic shaministic practice, still used today.
The style of Tardji's poetry has been described as that of a mantra. He has been quoted to say that the mantra is the true use of words.
Currently Tardji is thought of more as a philosopher or a sufi than a poet. The man once known as 'The President of Indonesian Poets' often shows up in public gatherings and will usually make his presence known.
Tardji is said to have taken some new, mostly female, writers to be his disciples.
Lontar Foundation
Lontar Foundation
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Lontar Foundation, a not-for-profit organization based in Jakarta, Indonesia, was founded in 1987 by four Indonesian writers: Goenawan Mohamad, Sapardi Djoko Damono, Umar Kayam, and Subagio Sastrowardoyo and the American translator, John H. McGlynn.
The foundation is an independent organization, neither affiliated with nor intended to promote the interests of any particular political cause or group. The Foundation's core activity is the translation and publication of Indonesian literary works for use in the teaching of Indonesian literature and culture abroad.
One of the more significant ventures of the publishing venture was the book published in 2005 - Indonesia in the Soeharto Years - Issues, Incidents and images - written by John H. McGlynn and a large number of other writers - in its thoroughness and coverage - it is probably the most fitting requiem - visually and textually for the Soeharto era.
References
McGlynn, John H. et al. 2005. Indonesia in the Soeharto Years - Issues, Incidents and images Jakarta: Lontar Foundation. ISBN 979-8083-57-1
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Lontar Foundation, a not-for-profit organization based in Jakarta, Indonesia, was founded in 1987 by four Indonesian writers: Goenawan Mohamad, Sapardi Djoko Damono, Umar Kayam, and Subagio Sastrowardoyo and the American translator, John H. McGlynn.
The foundation is an independent organization, neither affiliated with nor intended to promote the interests of any particular political cause or group. The Foundation's core activity is the translation and publication of Indonesian literary works for use in the teaching of Indonesian literature and culture abroad.
One of the more significant ventures of the publishing venture was the book published in 2005 - Indonesia in the Soeharto Years - Issues, Incidents and images - written by John H. McGlynn and a large number of other writers - in its thoroughness and coverage - it is probably the most fitting requiem - visually and textually for the Soeharto era.
References
McGlynn, John H. et al. 2005. Indonesia in the Soeharto Years - Issues, Incidents and images Jakarta: Lontar Foundation. ISBN 979-8083-57-1
Subagio Sastrowardoyo
Subagio Sastrowardoyo (February 1, 1924-July 18, 1995) was an Indonesian poet[1], short-story writer, essayist and literary critic. Born in Madiun, East Java, the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia), he was educated at Gadjah Mada University, Cornell University and Yale University. For many years, he was a director of Balai Pustaka, a publishing firm in Indonesia, as well as a senior lecturer at Salisbury College of Advanced Education and Flinders University in Adelaide, South Australia. In the summer of 1984, he was a guest instructor at Ohio University, teaching Indonesian.
Family
Mr. Sastrowardoyo was a son (the 11th of 14 children) of Raden Mas Sutejo Sastrowardoyo (1876-1968), a wedono of the Uteran District in Madiun[2], and Raden Ayu Ratna Suyati Sastrowardoyo (née Kartokusumo) (1887-1980), a noblewoman descended from a minister of the Majapahit Empire. His wife was Sumarni Sastrowardoyo (?-2002). They are survived by three children -- Saraswati Sastrowardoyo[3], Rukmiati (also known as Minuk) Richards and Prakoso Sastrowardoyo – and two grandchildren, Anton Nortkus and Kristof Nortkus.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo's siblings included Prof. Mr. Soenario, S.H., minister of foreign affairs from 1953 to 1955; Dra. Sukanti Suryochondro, a former instructor in women's studies at the University of Indonesia; Subekti Sastrowardojo, who died in infancy during the 1918 influenza pandemic; Suryono Sastrowardoyo, a career diplomat whose posts included Singapore, Italy, the United States and Poland; Dr. Sumarsono Sastrowardoyo, a physician, surgeon and memoirist; and Sumarsongko H. Sastrowardoyo, M.A., formerly of the staff of the Consulate General of Indonesia in New York City. (Subagio had been the best man at his brother Sumarsongko's wedding in 1962.)
His family name was derived from sastra (Sanskrit, writings) and wardaya (Sanskrit, heart), so literally meant "writings of the heart." In the old Dutch spelling, the family name had been spelled Sastrowardojo but, even prior to the spelling reform in Indonesia in 1972, some members had changed the j to a y -- and one brother, Sudibbyo, spelled the name Sastrowardhoyo, reflecting the aspirant d.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo's first name has also been spelled Soebagio and Soebagyo.
His father, Sutejo Sastrowardoyo, traced the family's ancestry back to 15th century Java.
Awards and legacy
In 1986, Mr. Sastrowardoyo, as a representative of Balai Pustaka, presented the Pegasus Prize for Literature to Ismail Marahimin, author of And the War is Over, in New York City[4].
In 1987 he was one of the founders of the Lontar Foundation.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo was awarded the S.E.A. Write Award in 1991.
A year after his death, Mr. Sastrowardoyo was quoted in an essay by Barbara Crossette for the Week in Review section of The New York Times:
A few years ago, [John] McGlynn's foundation collected Indonesians' impressions of the United States, many of them unsettling, in a book called On Foreign Shores. One of the poets, Ajip Rosidi, reacted to New York in a poem titled "Manhattan Sonnet." "Is it within these strong and rigid walls / one's sense of safety nestles? / All I find here is vigilance, the source of apprehension." His compatriot Subagio Sastrowardoyo wrote about a city "where life is cheap." New York's greed, he said, "has made this place too confined for prayer or a human voice."[5]
President Megawati Sukarnoputri posthumously awarded Mr. Sastrowardoyo the Satya Lencana medal in the field of literature in (year?)
The Australian composer Betty Beath based a composition, "Manusia Pertama di Angkasa Luar...The First Man in Outer Space" on a poem by Subagio Sastrowardoyo.[6] The composition is included on the CD Music from Six Continents (see bibliography).
Bibliography
Poetry
Simphoni (1957)
Daerah Perbatasan (1970)
Keroncong Motinggo (1975)
Buku Harian (1979)
Hari dan Hara (1982)
Kematian Makin Akrab (1995).
Literary Criticism
Sastra Hindia Belanda dan Kita (1990)
Anthologies
On Foreign Shores: American Images in Indonesian Poetry. Jakarta: Lontar Foundation, 1990. ISBN 979-8083-02-4 ISBN 978-9798083020
John H. McGlynn and E.U. Kratz, eds., Walking Westward in Morning: Seven Contemporary Indonesian Poets. School of Oriental & African Studies, 1990. ISBN 979-8083-03-2
John H. McGlynn, ed., Menagerie 1. 1992. ISBN 979-407-238-9 Jakarta: Lontar Foundation, 2006. ISBN 9798083075 ISBN 978-9798083075
Iem Brown and Joan Davis, eds., Di Serambi/On the Verandah: A Bilingual Anthology of Modern Indonesian Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. ISBN 978-0-521-47202-9
Erica Manh, comp. Sharing Fruit: An Anthology of Asian and Australian Writing. Melbourne: Curriculum Corporation, 1998. ISBN 1863663851
Family
Mr. Sastrowardoyo was a son (the 11th of 14 children) of Raden Mas Sutejo Sastrowardoyo (1876-1968), a wedono of the Uteran District in Madiun[2], and Raden Ayu Ratna Suyati Sastrowardoyo (née Kartokusumo) (1887-1980), a noblewoman descended from a minister of the Majapahit Empire. His wife was Sumarni Sastrowardoyo (?-2002). They are survived by three children -- Saraswati Sastrowardoyo[3], Rukmiati (also known as Minuk) Richards and Prakoso Sastrowardoyo – and two grandchildren, Anton Nortkus and Kristof Nortkus.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo's siblings included Prof. Mr. Soenario, S.H., minister of foreign affairs from 1953 to 1955; Dra. Sukanti Suryochondro, a former instructor in women's studies at the University of Indonesia; Subekti Sastrowardojo, who died in infancy during the 1918 influenza pandemic; Suryono Sastrowardoyo, a career diplomat whose posts included Singapore, Italy, the United States and Poland; Dr. Sumarsono Sastrowardoyo, a physician, surgeon and memoirist; and Sumarsongko H. Sastrowardoyo, M.A., formerly of the staff of the Consulate General of Indonesia in New York City. (Subagio had been the best man at his brother Sumarsongko's wedding in 1962.)
His family name was derived from sastra (Sanskrit, writings) and wardaya (Sanskrit, heart), so literally meant "writings of the heart." In the old Dutch spelling, the family name had been spelled Sastrowardojo but, even prior to the spelling reform in Indonesia in 1972, some members had changed the j to a y -- and one brother, Sudibbyo, spelled the name Sastrowardhoyo, reflecting the aspirant d.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo's first name has also been spelled Soebagio and Soebagyo.
His father, Sutejo Sastrowardoyo, traced the family's ancestry back to 15th century Java.
Awards and legacy
In 1986, Mr. Sastrowardoyo, as a representative of Balai Pustaka, presented the Pegasus Prize for Literature to Ismail Marahimin, author of And the War is Over, in New York City[4].
In 1987 he was one of the founders of the Lontar Foundation.
Mr. Sastrowardoyo was awarded the S.E.A. Write Award in 1991.
A year after his death, Mr. Sastrowardoyo was quoted in an essay by Barbara Crossette for the Week in Review section of The New York Times:
A few years ago, [John] McGlynn's foundation collected Indonesians' impressions of the United States, many of them unsettling, in a book called On Foreign Shores. One of the poets, Ajip Rosidi, reacted to New York in a poem titled "Manhattan Sonnet." "Is it within these strong and rigid walls / one's sense of safety nestles? / All I find here is vigilance, the source of apprehension." His compatriot Subagio Sastrowardoyo wrote about a city "where life is cheap." New York's greed, he said, "has made this place too confined for prayer or a human voice."[5]
President Megawati Sukarnoputri posthumously awarded Mr. Sastrowardoyo the Satya Lencana medal in the field of literature in (year?)
The Australian composer Betty Beath based a composition, "Manusia Pertama di Angkasa Luar...The First Man in Outer Space" on a poem by Subagio Sastrowardoyo.[6] The composition is included on the CD Music from Six Continents (see bibliography).
Bibliography
Poetry
Simphoni (1957)
Daerah Perbatasan (1970)
Keroncong Motinggo (1975)
Buku Harian (1979)
Hari dan Hara (1982)
Kematian Makin Akrab (1995).
Literary Criticism
Sastra Hindia Belanda dan Kita (1990)
Anthologies
On Foreign Shores: American Images in Indonesian Poetry. Jakarta: Lontar Foundation, 1990. ISBN 979-8083-02-4 ISBN 978-9798083020
John H. McGlynn and E.U. Kratz, eds., Walking Westward in Morning: Seven Contemporary Indonesian Poets. School of Oriental & African Studies, 1990. ISBN 979-8083-03-2
John H. McGlynn, ed., Menagerie 1. 1992. ISBN 979-407-238-9 Jakarta: Lontar Foundation, 2006. ISBN 9798083075 ISBN 978-9798083075
Iem Brown and Joan Davis, eds., Di Serambi/On the Verandah: A Bilingual Anthology of Modern Indonesian Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. ISBN 978-0-521-47202-9
Erica Manh, comp. Sharing Fruit: An Anthology of Asian and Australian Writing. Melbourne: Curriculum Corporation, 1998. ISBN 1863663851
Subagio Sastrowardoyo
Subagio Sastrowardoyo
Born February 1, 1924
Madiun, East Java, Dutch East Indies
Died July 18, 1995
Occupation poet, short-story writer, essayist, literary critic
Nationality Indonesian (Javanese)
Writing period 20th century
Genres lyrical poetry
Born February 1, 1924
Madiun, East Java, Dutch East Indies
Died July 18, 1995
Occupation poet, short-story writer, essayist, literary critic
Nationality Indonesian (Javanese)
Writing period 20th century
Genres lyrical poetry
Cecil Rajendra
"My Message"
And now you ask
what is my message
i say with Nabokov
i am a poet
not a postman
i have no message.
but i want the cadences
of my verse to crack
the carapace of indifference
prise open torpid eyelids
thick-coated with silver.
i want syllables
that will dance, pirouette
in the fanatasies of nymphets
i want vowels that float
into the dreams of old men.
i want my consonants
to project kaleidoscopic visions
on the screens of the blind
& on the eardrums of the deaf
i want pentameters that sing
like ten thousand mandolins.
i want such rhythms
as will shake pine
angsana, oak & meranti,
out of their pacific
slumber, uproot them-
selves, hurdle over
buzz-saw & bull-dozer
and rush to crush
with long heavy toes
merchants of defoliants.
i want every punctuation --
full-stop, comma & semi-colon
to turn into a grain of barley,
millet, maize, wheat or rice
in the mouths of our hungry;
i want each & every metaphor
to metamorphose into a rooftop
over the heads of our homeless.
i want the assonances
of my songs to put smiles
on the faces of the sick,
the destitute & the lonely,
pump adrenaline into the veins
of every farmer & worker
the battle-scarred & the weary.
and yes, yes, i want my poems
to leap out from the page
rip off the covers of my books
and march forthrightly to
that sea of somnolent humanity
lay bare the verbs, vowels
syllables, consonants . . . & say
"these are my sores, my wounds:
this is my distended belly:
here i went ragged and hungry:
in that place i bled, was tortured;
and on this electric cross i died.
Brothers, sisters, HERE I AM."
And now you ask
what is my message
i say with Nabokov
i am a poet
not a postman
i have no message.
but i want the cadences
of my verse to crack
the carapace of indifference
prise open torpid eyelids
thick-coated with silver.
i want syllables
that will dance, pirouette
in the fanatasies of nymphets
i want vowels that float
into the dreams of old men.
i want my consonants
to project kaleidoscopic visions
on the screens of the blind
& on the eardrums of the deaf
i want pentameters that sing
like ten thousand mandolins.
i want such rhythms
as will shake pine
angsana, oak & meranti,
out of their pacific
slumber, uproot them-
selves, hurdle over
buzz-saw & bull-dozer
and rush to crush
with long heavy toes
merchants of defoliants.
i want every punctuation --
full-stop, comma & semi-colon
to turn into a grain of barley,
millet, maize, wheat or rice
in the mouths of our hungry;
i want each & every metaphor
to metamorphose into a rooftop
over the heads of our homeless.
i want the assonances
of my songs to put smiles
on the faces of the sick,
the destitute & the lonely,
pump adrenaline into the veins
of every farmer & worker
the battle-scarred & the weary.
and yes, yes, i want my poems
to leap out from the page
rip off the covers of my books
and march forthrightly to
that sea of somnolent humanity
lay bare the verbs, vowels
syllables, consonants . . . & say
"these are my sores, my wounds:
this is my distended belly:
here i went ragged and hungry:
in that place i bled, was tortured;
and on this electric cross i died.
Brothers, sisters, HERE I AM."
Sapardi Djoko Damonno
"Siapapek engkau [Who are you]"
I am Adam
who ate the apple;
Adam suddenly aware of himself,
startled and ashamed,
I am Adam who realized
good and evil, passing
from one sin to another,
Adam continuously suspicious
of himself,
hiding his face.
I am Adam floundering
in the net of space and time,
with no help from reality:
paradise lost
because of my mistrust
of the Presence.
I am Adam
who heard God say
farewell, Adam.
I am Adam
who ate the apple;
Adam suddenly aware of himself,
startled and ashamed,
I am Adam who realized
good and evil, passing
from one sin to another,
Adam continuously suspicious
of himself,
hiding his face.
I am Adam floundering
in the net of space and time,
with no help from reality:
paradise lost
because of my mistrust
of the Presence.
I am Adam
who heard God say
farewell, Adam.
Chairil Anwar
Chairil Anwar, "At The Mosque"
I shouted at Him
Until He came
We met face to face.
Afterwards He burned in my breast.
All my strength struggles to extinguish Him
My body, which won't be driven, is naked with sweat
This room
Is the arena where we fight
Destroying each other
One hurling insults, the other gone mad.
Chairil Anwar, "Me"
When my time comes
No one's going to cry for me,
And you won't, either
The hell with all those tears!
I'm a wild beast
Driven out of the herd
Bullets may pierce my skin
But I'll keep coming,
Carrying forward my wounds and my pain
Attacking
Attacking
Until suffering disappears
And I won't give a damn
I want to live another thousand years
Chairil Anwar, "Heaven"
Like my mother, and my grandmother too,
plus seven generations before them,
I also seek admission to Heaven
which the Moslem party and the Mohammedan
Union say has rivers of milk
And thousands of houris all over.
But there's a contemplative voice inside me,
stubbornly mocking: Do you really think
the blue sea will go dry
--and what about the sly temptations
waiting in every port?
Anyway, who can say for sure
that there really are houris there
with voices as rich and husky as Nina's,
with eyes that flirt like Yati's?
Chairil Anwar, "Willingness"
If you like I'll take you back
With all my heart.
I'm still alone.
I know you're not what you were,
Like a flower pulled into parts.
Don't crawl! Stare at me bravely.
If you like I'll take you back
For myself, but
I won't share even with a mirror.
Chairil Anwar, "Twilight at Little Harbor"
This time no one's lookng for love
down between the sheds, the old houses, among the twittering
masts and rigging. A boat, a prau that will never sail again
puffs and snorts, thinking there's something it can catch
The drizzle brings darkness. An eagle's wings flap,
brushing against the gloom; the day whispers, swimming silkily
away to meet harbor temptations yet to come. Nothing moves
and now the sand and the sea are asleep, the waves gone.
That's all. I'm alone. Walking,
combing the cape, still choking back the hope
of getting to the end and, just once, saying the hell with it
from this fourth beach, embracing the last, the final sob.
I shouted at Him
Until He came
We met face to face.
Afterwards He burned in my breast.
All my strength struggles to extinguish Him
My body, which won't be driven, is naked with sweat
This room
Is the arena where we fight
Destroying each other
One hurling insults, the other gone mad.
Chairil Anwar, "Me"
When my time comes
No one's going to cry for me,
And you won't, either
The hell with all those tears!
I'm a wild beast
Driven out of the herd
Bullets may pierce my skin
But I'll keep coming,
Carrying forward my wounds and my pain
Attacking
Attacking
Until suffering disappears
And I won't give a damn
I want to live another thousand years
Chairil Anwar, "Heaven"
Like my mother, and my grandmother too,
plus seven generations before them,
I also seek admission to Heaven
which the Moslem party and the Mohammedan
Union say has rivers of milk
And thousands of houris all over.
But there's a contemplative voice inside me,
stubbornly mocking: Do you really think
the blue sea will go dry
--and what about the sly temptations
waiting in every port?
Anyway, who can say for sure
that there really are houris there
with voices as rich and husky as Nina's,
with eyes that flirt like Yati's?
Chairil Anwar, "Willingness"
If you like I'll take you back
With all my heart.
I'm still alone.
I know you're not what you were,
Like a flower pulled into parts.
Don't crawl! Stare at me bravely.
If you like I'll take you back
For myself, but
I won't share even with a mirror.
Chairil Anwar, "Twilight at Little Harbor"
This time no one's lookng for love
down between the sheds, the old houses, among the twittering
masts and rigging. A boat, a prau that will never sail again
puffs and snorts, thinking there's something it can catch
The drizzle brings darkness. An eagle's wings flap,
brushing against the gloom; the day whispers, swimming silkily
away to meet harbor temptations yet to come. Nothing moves
and now the sand and the sea are asleep, the waves gone.
That's all. I'm alone. Walking,
combing the cape, still choking back the hope
of getting to the end and, just once, saying the hell with it
from this fourth beach, embracing the last, the final sob.
Chairil Anwar (1922-1949)
Indonesian writer who lived wildly and died young, but who had a deep influence on Indonesian postindependence poetry and prose. Chairil was the primary architect of the Indonesian literary revolution in both poetry and prose. He released poetry from the bonds of traditional forms and language, and his idealistic challenge, "I want to live another thousand years," have made him an artistic icon. With his energetic devotion to literature he is regarded as the principal figure of the Angkatan Empatpuluh Lima ('generation of 1945') and one of the greatest poets of his country.
Though bullets should pierce my skin
I shall still strike and march forth
Wounds and poison shall I take aflee
Aflee
'Til the pain and pang should dissapear
And I should care even less
I want to live for another thousand years
(from 'Aku', 1943)
Anwar Chairil was born in Medan, East Sumatra, into a family which had moved to Djakarta. Nothing much is known about his parents. Chairil's formal education was short. He attended elementary school and the first two years of a Dutch-language middle school in Mulo. He began to write as an adolescent, before he moved to Djakarta in 1940, but none of his early poetry have survived. According to the author, he destroyed them. Among his earliest spared poems is 'Life' from December 1942: "The bottomless ocean / is always banging, / banging, as it tests the strength of our dikes." (...)
In Djakarta he became the pioneering force among young writers and artist, the "Generation of '45." Chairil served on the editorial board of one of the most important literary journals of the period, Siasat (Strategy), which appeared in 1947. Its cultural column, called "Gelanggang" (Forum), attracted a number of young writers belonging to the "Generation of 45". Charil also was active in political and patriotic issues. The politically conscious literary and cultural movement, describing itself as the voice of the Indonesian revolution, identified with European modernism in the search for new literary forms and accents. From this generation emerged among others such writers as Pramoedya Ananta Toer , often called Indonesia's greatest modern prose-writer, and Mochtar Lubis, a courageous political journalist and novelist.
The most celebrated work of fiction in Dutch by an Indonesian author was the novel Buiten het gareel (1940) by Suwarsih Djojopuspito. Bahasa Indonesia, a language which formally came to exist in 1928, became through Chairil's writings a vital literary language. The earliest Indonesian novels were published in the 1920s. Pudjangga Baru (The New Writer) literary school, which was established in 1933, influenced greatly the development of literature. It advocated the idea that traditional literary forms had to be replaced by modern means of expression. Its founders and first editors were Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana and Armijn Pané, the brother of Sanusi Pané. Another movement, 45 Group, reflected the ideas of the independence struggle. It has been said that the difference between the Pudjangga Baru generation and that of 1945 was the difference between hope and impetuosity. Chairil Anwar and other its members tried to released the poetry from the bonds of traditional forms and literary language. Other important writers were Idrus, Surwarsih Djojopuspito, Achdiat Karta Mihardja, Toha Mohtar, Mochtar Lubis (imprisoned by the Sukarno regime for four years), Pramoedye Ananta Toer. The first Indonesian dramatist to gain wide recognition was Utuy Tatang Sontani (1820-1979). Poetry in Javanese since independence were dominated by St. Iesmaniasita and Muryalelana (b. 1932). In preindependence fiction in Sundanese the central figure was Mohamad Ambri (1892-1936). Liem King-hoo has been considered the finest Chinese-Indonesian novelist.
Chairil's poetry is marked by his emotional, and sometimes unconventional use of language. His works convey a powerful, vitalistic individualism; they have a strong sexual tension, as in the poem "Lagu biasa" (1949). Chairil absorbed influences from such Western writers as Rilke, T.S. Eliot, Emily Dickinson, and Dutch writers (H. Marsman, J.J. Slauerhoff). Although he had little formal education, he translated the poems of Rilke, Marsman and Slauerhoff, and modelled his Indonesian poems on them. His own approach to writing he once described: "In Art, vitality is the chaotic initial state; beauty the cosmic final state."
Among Charil's most famous poems is "Aku" (1943), a cry for freedom and life ("Aku mau hidup seribu tahun lagi"). Another poem from this period is 'Dipo Negro,' the title referring to an early nineteenth-century hero of the Indonesian national struggle: "Better destruction than slavery / Better extermination than oppression. / The hour of death can be an hour of new birth: / To be alive, you have to taste living."
During his lifetime Charil published only in periodicals, but there are several posthumous books, first of which were Deru tjampur Debu (1949), Kerikil Tadjam and Jang Terampas dan Jang Putus (1951). Chairil wrote fewer than seventy poems, some essays and radio addresses, and some fragmentary translations. He died on April 28, 1949, in Djakarta. Due to his influence, the developing Indonesian language attained equality with other languages as a literary medium. Chairil's complete poetry and prose has been published in English in The Voice of the Night (1992), translated by Burton Raffel.
For further reading: The Encyclopedia of World Literature, vol. 1, ed. by Steven R. Serafin (1999); Modern Indonesian Literature, vol. I, by A. Teeuw (1979); Cultural Options and the Role of Tradition by A.H. Johns (1979); A Thematic History of Indonesian Poetry: 1920-1974 by H. Aveling (1974); Chairil Anwar: the poet and his language by Boen S. Oemarjati (1972); Chairil Anwar, Pelopor Angkatan 45 by H.B. Jassin (1968); The Development of Modern Indonesian Poetry by B. Raffel (1967); 'My Love's on a Far-Away Island' and 'A Room', trans. by Burton Raffel and Nurdin Salam, in Contemporary Asian Poetry, Winter (1962-1963); Pokok dan Tokoh by A. Teeuw (1959); Chairil Anwar by H.B. Jassin (1956) - See also: Anwar Chairil by Sobron Aidit - Chairil Anwar: 'Aku'
Selected works:
Deru tjampur debu, 1949
Kerikil tadjam dan Jang terampas das Jang Putus, 1949
Tiga menguak Takdir, 1950 (with Asrul Sani and Ribai Apin)
Chairil Anwar, Pelopor Angkatan 45, 1956
Selected Poems, 1964 (trans. by Burton Raffel and Nurdin Salam, rev. Robert H. Glauber)
The Complete Poetry and Prose of Chairil Anwar, 1970
Voice of the Night: Complete Poetry And Prose Of Chairil Anwar, 1992 (revised translations by Burton Raffel)
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