Asian Individualist

The following is a feature article and two interview excerpts by Sumit Mandal that first appeared in Vox, 24 September 2000, pp. 8-13 (Vox is the Sunday magazine of the Malaysian daily The Sun)

ASIAN INDIVIDUALIST

by Sumit Mandal

Pramoedya Ananta Toer speaks about his past with marked self-restraint,enveloped in an almost perpetual cloud of smoke from his trademark Djarum Super clove cigarettes. At 75, his recollections are not at all like the nostalgic journeys people tend to take in their twilight years, where they recount difficult pasts, interspersed with lessons for the young delivered in a fatherly tone. While Pramoedya recollects hard times as well as injustices, he neither pontificates nor glorifies himself.

He renders his past with the skill of a storyteller. His low voice registers sadness, fear and joy with a natural dramatic ease. The control he asserts over his story exceeds the power of a more emotive rendition as he entertains and moves the listener while conveying ideas with ease. It is not surprising that the best known of his works, the series of four novels beginning with Bumi Manusia (This Earth of Mankind), were initially narrated to his fellow prisoners on Buru,Indonesia’s island penal colony. Hence, these novels are known also as the Buru quartet.

It is not shining brilliance, not sage-like wisdom, and not a flair for the aesthetics of language that is striking when Pramoedya speaks. Rather the author conveys most vividly a profound awareness of his own self. He speaks from the kind of solitude that many artists seek in order to recreate the world in their own imagination. Such solitude does not necessarily mean being above worldly matters but cultivating a creative disposition. Pramoedya’s life and work in this regard are intimately tied to the vicissitudes of his nation’s history.

Contemporary portrayals

Pramoedya Ananta Toer has welcomed prying journalists and academics, to name but the most nosy professions of the many visitors who have sought him out since his release in 1979 from Buru. It is quite amazing just how easy it is to call on the author given his standing as a writer whose works have been translated into more than 25 languages. It was easy to visit him even during the heyday of Suharto’s New Order regime.

At the time, his movements remained restricted and visitors suffered the fear of being observed by intelligence operatives stationed near his house. Indonesians over and above foreigners were likely targets of punitive actions. As such, the traffic in and out of his house consisted largely of the latter, mainly Europeans and Americans. It was nevertheless not hard to feel a little more emboldened upon meeting the author, for he spoke strongly and convincingly against the ruling regime.

As it was then, today - with freedom of speech gaining considerable ground in Indonesia - Pramoedya is valued by the international mass media for voicing his opinions with a punch. In too many instances, however, his views serve merely as a platform from which journalists launch their own critique of the government. Meanwhile, a story dedicated to him is likely to be a snapshot at best. More often than not, it turns out to be a poor caricature of the author where his comments are unfailingly rendered in contraposition to the political winds of the moment. It seems impossible to dispense with the portrayal of dissidents or former political prisoners as the obstinate and even ornery purveyors of contrary positions. Given these circumstances, Pramoedya’s imprisonment under the New Order and indeed previous regimes - Soekarno as well as the Dutch - make his life particularly well-suited to myth-making.

Numerous articles have reduced the author to a single mood where he is ‘angry’, ‘bitter’, ‘unrepentant’, ‘frustrated’ or otherwise locked in a defensive posture. Typically, the story is woven so Pramoedya is said to be simply immovable in his political positions - degil (obstinate) is the word frequently heard in Indonesian circles - and correspondingly consumed by the suppression of himself and his works under Suharto’s rule. Thus, Pramoedya’s daily preoccupation with burning rubbish near his home has been portrayed as the means by which an embittered man habitually relieves himself of his bile. In contrast, the author explains in a rather good-natured manner that he keeps the dump burning slowly in order to prevent it from becoming a festering health hazard.

Besides the rare consideration given the man and his work from time to time, contemporary portrayals of Pramoedya often caricature him in much the same way the New Order pegged him and thousands others as ‘Communist’. This label nevertheless cost him and others much more than any present-day caricature. Some 500,000 to one million people were killed in anti-Communist pogroms in the course of Suharto’s ascension to power between 1965 and 1966. Like hundreds of others, Pramoedya suffered the lesser punishment of more than a decade of imprisonment - over 14 years, from 1965 to 1979 to be specific.

Pivotal disposition: individualism

Much is lost of the man and the writer in the pegging. Pramoedya’s individualism is marked neither by mere obstinacy nor vociferousness, but an independence of person and mind closely grounded in his nation’s history. He may caricature himself as much as others do through his own penchant for singularly firm or even rough-and-ready pronouncements. Placed in longterm perspective, however, his may not be a ‘penchant’ but a profound, consistent and pivotal detachment from the norms of the dominant authority or political culture.

Pramoedya’s individualism is both derived from nationalist discourse and in contraposition to it. The author characterises this disposition succinctly when he maintains that ‘writing is not only a personal task but also a national task’ while resisting any effort to be identified with the Indonesian literary canon (see interview, page 13). The ‘national task’ in his mind is an ongoing engagement with truth and justice rather than a circumscribed literary or political agenda. Hence, he sees writing as a highly individual act that has national ramifications. Individualism, as defined by Pramoedya, is not only a fine complement to nationalism, but a condition necessary for its healthy life.

As much as the author identifies himself till this day as an avowed Indonesian nationalist, he rests his sense of self on an independence that perpetually sets him apart from the mainstream. Thus, his is neither a simple nor blind identification with nationalism and the anti-colonial Revolution of 1945-1949. On the one hand, his nationalist credentials were affirmed when the Dutch caught him red-handed with anti-colonial documents in 1947 and subsequently imprisoned him for two years. On the other hand, he did not shy from ‘betraying the cause’ by vividly recounting in the short story entitled Dendam (Revenge) the political violence that pitted Indonesians against Indonesians during the Revolution.

Pramoedya does not wax lyrical about Indonesia’s early years unlike the official histories of the nation. When asked if independence was freeing, he responds as follows: ‘Well, in the beginning it did bring about freedom. But later... the military’s capriciousness became a burden[.] When nationalisation took place, workers controlled the factories. Once taken over by the workers, the military arrived and plundered. The economy deteriorated immediately, it dived’. Although his encapsulation of the times is all too simple and brief, it shows his rejection of the official nationalist myth that independence led unquestionably to improvement.

Pramoedya defied the dominant politics of the day at great cost when he published the book Hoakiau di Indonesia (Chinese in Indonesia) in 1960. Racism against Chinese Indonesians had masked itself under the cover of nationalism following several years of economic and political problems as well as the military’s antipathy towards the People’s Republic of China. So effectively had the ‘nationalist’ mood dominated the public arena that few intellectuals spoke up against the anti-Chinese pogroms that were carried out by the military in 1959-1960. Pramoedya defied the authorities and the public mood by retracing the contributions of Chinese peoples over centuries of Indonesian history. Based on archival research, he showed how elements of Chinese and local cultural practices had merged so much so that one was inseparable from the other. Angered by the book and perhaps also its incipient popularity, the military imposed a ban and confiscated existing copies. Pramoedya’s passport was seized and he was imprisoned for about a year. While the formal ban on the book remains till today, it was republished without obstacle 38 years later in 1998 under the changed circumstances that followed the end of Suharto’s rule.

Radical empathy

Pramoedya’s individualism frees him from the bounds of a narrow nationalism and thus enables him to enjoy a markedly different relationship to language in comparison with other Indonesian writers. His spoken and written language remains quite distinctive even in Indonesia today. Asked how he wrote when he was held by the Dutch in Bukit Duri prison, he replies: ‘Saya dapat kertas dari kiriman dari pacar (I got paper sent to me by my girlfriend)’. The construction of this sentence would appal the contemporary grammarian of Indonesian - and Bahasa Malaysia for that matter. Pramoedya speaks in the untutored language of his peers from the Revolution for whom formal education more or less ended with the Japanese occupation. His language is not far removed from Bahasa Melayu pasar (market Malay) and carries over much of this everyday street language’s simplicity and vitality. In sum, he is hardly confined by the linguistic conventions that often chokes writing in Indonesian today.

Freed to speak a language of his own, Pramoedya has correspondingly developed a relationship with cultural others that is unparalleled in Indonesian intellectual history. Few others have spoken publicly against racism and engaged its alienating cultural politics in quite as sure and consistent a manner as this author. He has accepted the often dire consequences of non-conformism on more than one occasion, driven by his own unflinching nationalism. His actions with respect to the anti-Chinese pogroms cannot be characterised only as a political defence of a minority group. He was moved by a profoundly inclusive sense of nationhood. Pramoedya described Chinese Indonesians as ‘orang asing yang tidak asing (strangers who were not foreign)’, thereby both rendering the cultural distinctiveness of Chinese Indonesians and making them an inextricable part of the nation.

Pramoedya’s Indonesia is constituted through the influence and settlement of peoples from throughout the world as he so evocatively portrays in Anak Semua Bangsa (Child of All Nations), the second novel of the Buru quartet. Minke, the protagonist based on Tirtoadhisoeryo the pioneering Javanese leader and journalist, speaks with wonder as much for modernity as he does for the nation’s many and inextricable selves:

‘Not only Europe! This modern age delivered breasts to suckle me, from the people of this land themselves, from Japan, China, America, India, Arabia, from all the peoples on the surface of this earth. They are the mother wolves who nurtured me to become the builder of Rome! Are you truly going to build Rome? Yes, I answered to myself. How? I don’t know. I humbly admitted: I am the infant of all peoples from all ages, past and present. Indeed, the place and time of birth, the parents, were merely a coincidence, not at all something sacred.’ (Anak Semua Bangsa [Melaka: Wira Karya, 1982], p. 165)

Through his novels, short stories and historical essays, Pramoedya displays a sense of self and belonging to Indonesia that does not bend with the winds of chauvinism or other forms of political opportunism. He conveys citizenship not in bureaucratic terms but as a liberating condition. He shows unflinching respect for human beings whatever their cultural origins. He is committed to the making of an Indonesia free from exploitation, cruelty and discrimination of any sort.

An Asian writer

On 18 September 2000, Pramoedya was conferred the Grand Prize of the 11th Fukuoka Asian Culture Prizes. Describing him as ‘one of Asia’s leading writers’ the organisers note of Pramoedya’s achievement that he ‘has persistently questioned the issue of national identity and mankind’ and that his work conveys his ‘ardent message of wishing for the independence of Indonesian nationals and emancipation of mankind everywhere’. Although he has received numerous international awards, the Fukuoka prize next to the Magsaysay award of 1995, is the second major Asian honour conferred on Pramoedya.

These honours are a recognition by Asian institutions of Pramoedya’s profoundly nationalistic and self-assured Asian journey in an era when individualism has been narrowly, negatively labelled as ‘Western’ by those in power in the region. Opponents of individualism propose ‘Asian values’ as an alternative, though providing little if any historical and cultural substantiation for their choice besides valorising a simplistic sense of communitarianism. Proponents of these values refuse to come to terms with the conditions and challenges of individual lives as societies in the region have faced economic and infrastructural upheavals equal to any in the great changes in world history. Political leaders instead speak of Asian values as timeless and exemplary to the region.

As a cultural construct, Asian values seems to be as seductive as the narrow nationalisms of the past - characterised by inward-looking cultures, xenophobia and racism - and may signal a revival of such politics. Its most immediate value is to ruling elites, for Asian values extol and encourage political conformism and order while rendering distant or non-existent the political violence and repression that has been as much a part of the region’s recent history as the remarkable economic growth. East Timor alone is a fine example. Some 25 years of efforts by Suharto to integrate the island nation into Indonesia has marked it as a site of unremitting Asian political violence.

The Fukuoka Grand Prize conferred to Pramoedya this year is meaningful because it is a recognition within Asia of this author’s very Asian individualism. Far from being a self-involved condition, Pramoedya’s self-assured and emphatic disposition has been pivotal in shaping his sense of nationalism and belonging to Indonesia and the world.He does not allow himself to be seduced by political gestures toward blind conformism such as narrow nationalism or Asian values. Instead, he exemplifies how much individualism and nationalism have come together with significant cultural and political ramifications for Asia.

The author's women

Strong women figure prominently in Pramoedya’s works. The author suggests that his views on women have been influenced by the example of his mother. Below, in an excerpt from an interview conducted in Jakarta in 1998, Pramoedya reflects on his mother during the years of economic hardship in the 1930s at which time as well the Indonesian nationalist movement to which she belonged was gaining momentum. Despite the difficult times, she assisted him financially in his efforts to seek training as a radio technician around 1940. Pramoedya begins by calling to mind an incident involving a singer:

There’s this fat singer... what’s his name... he married a young woman in Pelabuhan Ratu. It turns out the woman was not a virgin. She was divorced immediately. I’ve been offended by that incident until now. And no women’s organisations protested.

When was this?

About four years ago. What’s his name? Harja... Harja... the fat guy. I don’t remember his name. Strangely, the women’s movement just kept silent. I on the other hand felt offended. Because, talking about women, it is my mother who comes to mind. An extraordinary woman.

How was she extraordinary?

She was born to a wealthy family. She wasn’t even allowed to enter the kitchen. Sweeping the floor was considered a disgrace.

From a noble family?

[No], religious leaders. Penghulu. In the colonial era, penghulu acted as [religious] advisors to the Bupati [Regent]. That was in Rembang [in East Java]. And as my mother, she hoed. Hoed in the fields. Think about it. Before that, just holding a broom was considered a disgrace. She wasn’t allowed to enter the kitchen. Then, she went on to do all the work.

What was it that motivated her?

Well, she became the wife of a [nationalist] fighter.

She too was a fighter?

Yes. She was in the women's movement....She passed away at thirty-four. My mother passed away when I was seventeen, and I alone made all the arrangements, bore the costs, as the eldest child.

How did you get the money at the time?

Oh, I sold all kinds of things. Sold drinks and what not. Looked for things to sell, rode a bicycle thirty kilometers back and forth, looking for tobacco, cloves to resell. As the eldest child, I paid for everything when my father died. Though, in his lifetime, he had many children, as many as eight of them. Other people’s children. My mother raised them. My father put them through...Teacher Training School in other cities [as well as] Technical School. As such, when I passed Primary School, I asked to be moved up to [Lower Secondary School]. My father’s reply was, ‘Stupid child, go back to Primary School!’ When I recall that, my eyes still start to tear from feeling humiliated. Especially when other people’s children were sent to school wherever they wished.

Why so?

Oh, according to him I was a stupid child. According to my father. I returned to Primary School when the new school year began. My teacher asked me: ‘Why are you back, you have passed, you have received your diploma’. I took the books from my desk drawer and ran, without asking for permission, I ran. I stopped at the cemetery. I held a castor oil tree and screamed. I was feeling very resentful. The problem was that my father was a star student. From Primary School until Teacher Training School. His Dutch was so good he no longer consulted a dictionary. That’s not even counting his Arabic. Then, during the Japanese occupation, he was runner-up in Japanese. So, he saw me as stupid because I took seven years for Primary School, and for three of those years I was held back. I was much too young when I started school. I was only four years old. Ah, when I ponder the reasons for my father’s attitude toward me, it looks like his words were probably aimed at my mother. There was conflict. I’ve come to this conclusion about my father in my old age. Today, it may well be concluded that my father suffered from megalomania. That’s because his children, my younger siblings are also like that. Sorry that I should say these things.

But your mother was steadfast in her support?

She supported me. As a result of my father’s objection, I was out of school for a year... At half past five in the morning I’d be woken up, to go the bridge that... linked the village to the city. There my mother bought harvested paddy... that she then stored for the seeds. And then she resold the seeds to farmers. From these efforts my mother was able to give me an opportunity. ‘If you want to go to school, go ahead and find an opportunity, whatever school you wish. Wherever. The earnings from this paddy are your very own,’ she said.

As a result of my mother’s words, I looked for a school that did not take long [to complete]. One and a half years. Three classes. At the Radio School. ‘That’s your own money’, [she said]. I was given one ringgit when I was about to leave. ‘Buy shoes’, [she said]. That was the first time I had shoes. [Laughs]. I went to Surabaya and it was a painful journey for me because my feet were all chafed. [Laughs].

Writing the book

Several months after Suharto stepped down as President in May 1998, the question of democratisation informed the practices and discussions of Indonesians from all walks of life. When asked of the role of literature in democratisation, Pramoedya provided a glimpse into what drives him as a writer.

What is the role of literature in democratisation?

Oh, when it comes to literature, I am not the spokesperson for Indonesian literature, I cannot say.

What is its role according to you then?

Well, all this while, the function of books has been to democratise life. The whole function of books. Because they can be read by everyone, can be criticised by everyone, and books themselves are handed down unchanged. Everyone can criticise, everyone can find fault. That’s democratic. That’s the function of books. As far as the function of literature goes, sorry, I am not the spokesperson for literature. That’s work which is of a very individual nature.

Of a very individual nature?

Individual.

If so, as an individual, what do you realise by writing?

Well, I want the cultural ceiling to rise as opposed to fall.

What does ‘rise’ mean?

Well, understanding humanism better. Understanding justice, truth better. That’s why, for me, writing is not only a personal task but also a national task. I don’t write works for entertainment.