The Potent Dead: Ancestors, saints and heroes in contemporary Indonesia (Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA))

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ThePotentDead 10/1/02 2:36 PM Page i

ASIAN STUDIES ASSOCIATION OF AUSTRALIA Southeast Asia Publications Series

THE POTENT DEAD

ThePotentDead 10/1/02 2:36 PM Page ii

ASIAN STUDIES ASSOCIATION OF AUSTRALIA Southeast Asia Publications Series Titles in print The Challenge of Sustainable Forests: Forest Resource Policy in Malaysia, 1970–1995, F.M. Cooke Fragments of the Present: Searching for Modernity in Vietnam’s South, Philip Taylor The Emergence of a National Economy: An Economic History of Indonesia, 1800–2000, Howard Dick, Vincent J.H. Houben, J. Thomas Lindblad, Thee Kian Wie Power and Prowess: The Origins of Brooke Kingship in Sarawak, J.H. Walker The Riddle of Malaysian Capitalism: Rent seekers or real capitalists? Peter Searle The Seen and Unseen Worlds in Java, 1726–1749: History, Literature and Islam in the Court of Pakubuwana II, M.C. Ricklefs War, Nationalism and Peasants: The Situation in Java, 1942–1945, Shigeru Sato Writing a New Society: Social Change through the Novel in Malay, Virginia Matheson Hooker Editorial Committee Professor Virginia Hooker (Editor) Australian National University

Professor Barbara Andaya University of Hawaii

Dr Tony Day

Dr Howard Dick University of Melbourne

Dr Jane Drakard Monash University

Professor Kevin Hewison City University of Hong Kong

Professor Anthony Milner Australian National University

Professor Graeme Hugo University of Adelaide

Professor Rey Ileto Australian National University National University of Singapore

Professor John Ingleson University of New South Wales

Professor Lenore Manderson University of Melbourne

Dr Milton Osborne

Professor Anthony Reid University of California, Los Angeles

Dr Krishna Sen Murdoch University

Professor Carl Thayer University of Hawaii

Dr John Butcher Griffith University

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THE POTENT DEAD Ancestors, saints and heroes in contemporary Indonesia

Edited by Henri Chambert-Loir and Anthony Reid

Asian Studies Association of Australia in association with ALLEN & UNWIN and UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI’I PRESS HONOLULU

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First published in 2002 Copyright © this collection Henri Chambert-Loir and Anthony Reid, 2002 Copyright of individual pieces remains with the authors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10% of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Published in Australia by Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Published in North America by University of Hawai’i Press 2840 Kolowalu Street Honolulu, Hawai’i 96822 National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: The potent dead: ancestors, saints and heroes in contemporary Indonesia. Bibliography. Includes index. ISBN 1 86508 739 4. 1. Dead. 2. Death. 3. Ethnology—Indonesia 4. Ancestor worship—Indonesia. I. Chambert-Loir, Henri. II. Reid, Anthony, 1939-. 393.09598 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The potent dead: ancestors, saints, and heroes in contemporary Indonesia / edited by Henri Chambert-Loir and Anthony Reid. p. cm. — (Southeast Asia publications series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8248-2555-1 (alk. paper) 1. Funeral rites and ceremonies—Indonesia. 2. Ancestor worship—Indonesia. 3. Cemeteries—Indonesia. 4. Death—Symbolic aspects—Indonesia. 5. Indonesia—Religious life and customs. 6. Indonesia—Social life and customs. I. Chambert-Loir, Henri. II. Reid, Anthony, 1939- III. Series GT3280.A2 P68 2002 291.2'13—dc21

2001057018

Set in 10/11 Times by Midland Typesetters, Maryborough, Victoria Printed by South Wind Productions, Singapore 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Contents

Maps and illustrations List of contributors Preface Introduction by Henri Chambert-Loir and Anthony Reid 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Castrated dead: the making of un-ancestors among the Aoheng, and some considerations on death and ancestors in Borneo Bernard Sellato How to hold a tiwah: the potency of the dead and deathways among Ngaju Dayaks Anne Schiller Witnessing the creation of ancestors in Laboya (West Sumba, Eastern Indonesia) Danielle C. Geirnaert Reciprocity, death and the regeneration of life and plants in Nusa Penida (Bali) Rodolfo A. Giambelli Remembering our dead: the care of the ancestors in Tana Toraja Elizabeth Coville Island of the Dead. Why do Bataks erect tugu? Anthony Reid Modernising sacred sites in South Sumatra: Islamisation of Gumai ancestral places Minako Sakai Ancestors’ blood: genealogical memory, genealogical amnesia and hierarchy among the Bugis Christian Pelras Saints and ancestors: the cult of Muslim saints in Java Henri Chambert-Loir v

vii ix xiii xv

1 17 32 48 69 88 103 117 132

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10 The Tembayat hill: clergy and royal power in Central Java from the 15th to the 17th century Claude Guillot, (translated by Jean Couteau) 11 Interpreting the historical significance of tombs and chronicles in contemporary Java James J. Fox 12 The role of a Javanese burial ground in local government George Quinn 13 ‘National ancestors’: the ritual construction of nationhood Klaus H. Schreiner Notes Bibliography Index

141 160 173 183 205 220 237

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Maps and illustrations

Maps Map 1 Map 2 Map 3 Map 4 Map 5 Map 6

Indonesian Borneo (Kalimantan) Bali administrative divisions (Kabupaten), with Nusa Penida South Sulawesi: Toraja and Bugis Sumatra: Toba Batak and Gumai Research sites in South Sumatra Java

3 49 72 89 104 134

Illustrations Figure 2.1 Figure 2.2 Figure 2.3 Figure 3.1 Figure 3.2 Figure 3.3 Figure 3.4 Figure 4.1

The sangkaraya is erected to begin the Ngaju tiwah ceremony Ngaju preparing the bones of the dead for interment The senior government official plays his part in the tiwah Traditional Sumba village of Wujimate Descendants of Raja Laboya (West Sumba) Layout of houses and graves New tomb built for Hoga Bora in front of his house Collective washing of the ancestor’s bones after exhumation: Pendukaha Kelod, Nusa Penida, 1990 Figure 4.2 The sanggah kemulan during a family festival, at Karangdawa, Nusa Penida Figure 6.1 Simarmata tugu in the shape of a lighthouse, northern Samosir Figure 6.2 Manihuruk tugu, built 1993 to house the bones of hundreds of descendants Figure 6.3 1940s cement grave and 1980s tugu in northern Samosir Figure 7.1 Renovation of an ancestral grave in Lubuk Raman village Figure 8.1 The fake grave of Pua Sanro at Wotu in Luwu Figure 10.1 Entrance to the mausoleum of Kajoran

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24 25 30 34 39 40 41 55 62 90 91 98 110 128 142

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Figure 11.1 Genealogy of Ki Ageng Giring Figure 11.2 The tombs of Senopati and his Mataram ancestors at Pasareyan Kota Gede Figure 12.1 The mausoleum of Jaka Kaiman, founder of Banyumas Figure 12.2 Jaka Kaiman’s tomb Figure 12.3 Actors portraying Jaka Kaiman and his wife in the 1994 procession Figure 12.4 Portraits of previous bupatis paraded through the streets of Purwokerto Figure 13.1 The national monument at Taman Makam Pahlawan Nasional, with the tomb of the ‘unknown hero’ Figure 13.2 The ‘monument to sacred Pancasila’, featuring statues of the seven slain generals

168 170 176 178 179 179 191 196

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List of contributors

HENRI CHAMBERT-LOIR is a senior research fellow at the Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, Paris, and represented that institute in Jakarta over 15 years from the 1970s to 1990s. He has published a number of editions of Malay literary and historical texts, as well as essays on Malay traditional and Indonesian modern literature. He also edited (with Claude Guillot) Le Culte des Saints dans le Monde Musulman (Paris, 1995) and wrote (with Claude Guillot), ‘Pèlerinage aux neuf saints de Java’ in Mohammad Ali Amir-Moezzi (ed.), Lieux d’Islam: Cultes et Cultures de l’Afrique à Java (Paris, 1996). ANTHONY REID is now Professor of History and Director of the Center for Southeast Asian Studies at UCLA, Los Angeles, USA. Until 1999 he was at the Research School of Pacific Studies at the Australian National University. His books include Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, c.1450–1680 (2 vols, Yale U. Press, 1988–93) and The Blood of the People: Revolution and the End of Traditional Rule in Northern Sumatra (Oxford University Press, 1979). ELIZABETH COVILLE is an Adjunct Assistant Professor in the Anthropology Department at Hamline University in St Paul, Minnesota, USA. She has published ‘Centripetal ritual in a decentered world: changing Maro performances in Tana Toraja’ in Susan Russell and Clark Cunningham, (eds), Changing Lives, Changing Rites (CSSEAS, University of Michigan, 1989). JAMES J. FOX is Director of the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies at the Australian National University. His recent publications on Java include ‘Ziarah visits to the tombs of the Wali’ in M.C. Ricklefs (ed.), ix

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Islam in the Indonesian Social Context (Clayton, 1991), ‘Sunan Kalijaga and the Rise of Mataram’ in P. Riddell and A. Street, (eds), Islam: Essays on Scripture, Thought and Society (Brill, 1997), and ‘Wali’ in J.J. Fox (ed.), Religion and Ritual, Indonesian Heritage Encyclopedia (Singapore, 1998). DANIELLE C. GEIRNAERT studied social anthropology in the Netherlands and is now Professor of Anthropology at the University of Paris X, France. Her publications include The Woven Land of Laboya: Cosmic Ideas and Values in West Sumba (Eastern Indonesia) (Leiden, 1992) and ‘In honour of the seaworms in West Sumba’ in Signe Howell (ed.), For the Sake of our Future: Sacrificing in Eastern Indonesia (Leiden, 1996). RODOLFO A. GIAMBELLI currently works as a Social Forestry and Rural Development Consultant. His publications include ‘The coconut, the body and the human being. Metaphors of life and growth in Nusa Penida and Bali’ in: L. Rival (ed.), The Social Life of Trees (Berg, Oxford, 1998) and ‘Working the land. Babad as forest clearing and the analogy between land and human fertility in Nusa Penida (Bali)’ in BKI 153, iii (1999). Dr Giambelli can be contacted at: [email protected] CLAUDE GUILLOT is Directeur de Recherche at the CNRS and Directeur d’Etudes at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales in Paris. In collaboration with Henri Chambert-Loir, he edited Le Culte des Saints dans le Monde Musulman (Paris, 1995). CHRISTIAN PELRAS recently retired from his position of senior research fellow at CNRS (1964–99), during which time he directed the research teams DEVI and LASEMA. His publications in English include The Bugis (Blackwell, 1996) and ‘Religion, tradition and the dynamics of Islamisation in South Sulawesi’ in Alijah Gordon (ed.), The Propagation of Islam in the Indonesian-Malay Archipelago (Kuala Lumpur: Malaysian Sociological Research Institute, 2001). GEORGE QUINN is Head of the Southeast Asia Centre in the Faculty of Asian Studies at the Australian National University. He is author of The Novel in Javanese (KITLV Press, 1992), The Learner’s Dictionary of Today’s Indonesian (Allen & Unwin, 2000) and an English translation of Anak Agung Panji Tisna’s novel as The Rape of Sukreni (Lontar, 1998). ANNE SCHILLER is Associate Professor of Anthropology at North Carolina State University. Her publications include Small Sacrifices: Religious Change and Cultural Identity Among the Ngaju of Indonesia (Oxford, 1997) and ‘Talking heads: capturing Dayak deathways on film’ in American Ethnologist 28(1), 32–55 (2001).

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CONTRIBUTORS

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MINAKO SAKAI is currently the program co-ordinator and lecturer in Indonesian Language and Culture, University College, the University of New South Wales. She is the editor of Beyond Jakarta: Regional Autonomy and Local Societies in Indonesia (Crawford House, in press) and author of the forthcoming The Nut Cannot Forget Its Shell: Ritual Practice and Identity of the Gumai of South Sumatra. KLAUS H. SCHREINER is currently head of the European Liaison Office of INFID (International NGO Forum on Indonesia), but previously was lecturer in Southeast Asian Studies at the University of Frankfurt. His publications include Politischer Heldenkult in Indonesien. Tradition und Moderne Praxis (Berlin, 1995), ‘The making of national heroes. Guided democracy to New Order, 1959–1992’ in Henk Schulte Nordholt (ed.), Outward Appearances: Dressing State and Society in Indonesia (Leiden, 1997) and, as editor, Islam in Asiën (Unkel, 2001). BERNARD SELLATO has been working in and on Borneo since 1973. He is the author of Nomades et Sédentarisation à Bornéo (1989), Hornbill and Dragon. Arts and Culture of Borneo (1989, 1992), Nomads of the Borneo Rainforest (1994), and Borneo. People of the Rainforest (a CD-ROM, 1998). He now heads the Institute for Research on Southeast Asia (CNRS) in Marseille, France.

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Preface

Death is the central fact of life—the source of our most extravagant hopes and fears. Religious and ritual activity has always sought to cope with it by regulating the most important of life’s passages, channelling the spiritual forces it unleashes, and allowing the living to grieve and move on. No substantial part of the human family has given richer examples than the Austronesians (of whom Indonesians form the current majority) of these processes at work. At least since Arnold van Gennep a century ago the preoccupation of Austronesians with death ritual has provided the most important field for ethnographic exploration and theoretical speculation. None of the authors in this book, however, set out to study this phenomenon as such. Yet each of us, whether anthropologist, historian or literary scholar, has been struck by the continuing importance of the recently dead for our Indonesian friends and informants. When Henri Chambert-Loir was able to take a few months away from his duties in Jakarta to become a Visiting Fellow at the ANU, therefore, it seemed to us both that we should use the opportunity for a workshop on this topic. Henri had long been concerned with the kramats of Java and the role they play in pilgrimage, an interest he shared with George Quinn and James Fox at ANU. I had recently returned from fieldwork among the Toba and Karo Batak, still puzzling about their attitude to the dead. Chambert-Loir, Reid, Fox, Quinn and Sakai were able to participate in this workshop, and became interested enough in the phenomenon to wish to pursue it further. Gradually the net widened to scholars working in other parts of Indonesia. Henri was able to extend it to a Francophone circle of scholars whose work is not always sufficiently appreciated by Anglophones. We are grateful especially to those who were willing to contribute to the volume despite not having been part of the initial excitement. xiii

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The editors thank Clare Guenther, Jude Shanahan, Wendy Mukherjee and Linda Poskitt for their help in getting these papers into a uniform format and ironing out many wrinkles, Barbara Andaya for helpful comments, and the RSPAS Cartography Unit for drawing some of the maps. Anthony Reid Henri Chambert-Loir

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Introduction Henri Chambert-Loir and Anthony Reid

Frankly, there is an impression among the public that the President spends more time visiting the tombs of old figures than living people. — NU cleric Attabik Ali, quoted Jakarta Post 16.6.2001

Abdurrahman Wahid, the first democratically elected President of the world’s fourth most populous country, made many decisions in a way that puzzled not only analysts but his own close followers. One of the most damaging moves in the first year of his presidency, for example, was to sack two unusually competent economic ministers of Vice-President Megawati’s PDIP party, whose presence had been part of the careful political compromise that had brought him to power. According to a report in Indonesia’s most respected news magazine, Tempo, this decision was taken immediately after someone told the President that a long-dead spiritual leader of Nahdatul Ulama, Wahid’s own organisation, was unhappy that Wahid had not visited his tomb. The President mobilised three helicopters to rush him to the small East Java town of Situbondo, where he prayed before the tomb of this leader in a manner very familiar to traditionalist Javanese Muslims. He emerged from the tomb with new confidence and resolve, and announced the sacking of the ministers immediately thereafter (Quinn 2001). Nocturnal communing with the spirits of the ‘potent dead’ was normal for Abdurrahman Wahid, and to his most passionate Javanese followers it demonstrated the authority and sanctity of a man supernaturally marked for leadership. It could be unsettling, however, to the many people in Indonesia and abroad who rightly saw Wahid as a great democrat who might secure an open, pluralist future for modern Indonesia. In May 2001, just before a crucial cabinet meeting he should have presided over, he left Jakarta at short notice on a special train. He headed for the small Central Java town of xv

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Kroya, where he arrived after nightfall to pray at the tomb of Haji Muhammad Barokah, a locally revered Islamic leader. Reportedly he prayed for 15 minutes, both for the repose of Barokah’s soul and for the salvation of the nation. Then he headed back to his train, returning at 3 am to a Jakarta whose busy politicians had begun to despair of him. All Indonesians understand this behaviour, even if they do not approve of it. To some the dead saints have such power to guide the living that no leader would be safe without their blessing. Many, including normative Muslims, Christians or modernisers who deeply disapprove of such connections, believe that these powerful dead connect Indonesians to their local place and to their past, Almost all Indonesians have a respect for deceased ancestors and role models that to outsiders borders on the supernatural. This book explores the phenomenon across a broad spectrum of Indonesian societies. INDONESIAN RELIGION In historical terms, the universal religions penetrated the Indonesian archipelago with its established belief systems relatively late. Hinduism and Buddhism were introduced from India around the middle of the first millennium AD, and helped to stimulate the earliest kingdoms in Java and parts of Sumatra and Borneo. Islam began to spread around the 14th century, while Christianity did not arrive until the 16th. Local religions also faced a wide range of other influences, stimuli and coercions—the rise of polities with territorial claims over various part of the archipelago, the expansion of maritime communications, the use of Malay as a lingua franca for both trade and Islam, the colonial experience which united the whole archipelago under a government that claimed to be both Christian and rational, and the post-Independence development of education, mass media and state ideologies. Responses to these pressures spanned the whole spectrum, from enthusiastic conversion to firm resistance and reaction. Despite these outside pressures a few indigenous religious systems gained official recognition, at the price of themselves changing in a modern direction. The Aluk To Dolo of the Toraja, the Agama Pemena of the Karo Batak and the Agama Kaharingan of the Ngaju Dayak (in 1969, 1977 and 1980 respectively) have been acknowledged by the Indonesian state as separate branches of the Hindu Dharma religion, alongside the long-recognised Hindus of Bali (Volkman 1987: 166; Steedly 1993: 69; see also Chapter 2). At the other end of the spectrum, many individuals and groups that had been part of the old belief system became uncompromising devotees of the universal religions, like the exemplary Muslim santri of Java, or the Salvation Army converts in Central Sulawesi described by Aragon (1987: 152–6). Conversion, however, is a complex phenomenon, seldom obliterating what went before even when it claims to do so (see Hefner 1993). The

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chapters in this volume repeatedly affirm the resilience of one trait that is common to almost all indigenous religions—namely, the worship of ancestors. This remains at the core of Indonesian praxis in all of the five universal, or scriptural, faiths recognised by the Indonesian government— Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Catholicism and Protestantism. THE INDONESIAN NATION According to official statistics, more than 85% of Indonesians are Muslim, giving it the largest Islamic population in the world. Catholic, Protestant, Hindu and Buddhist adherents are substantial minorities, each with over a million adherents.1 This simplicity of categorisation is sanctioned by law. Nobody is an atheist, and a population of 200 million inhabitants is presumed to follow only these five religions. The rationalisation of political life during the 32-year regime of Soeharto (1966–98) helped legitimise this superficial simplicity. It recognised only three parties, required all mass organisations to accept the Pancasila as their ‘sole foundation’, and limited the two strong Islamic organisations, Nahdatul Ulama (Javanese/traditional) and Muhammadiyah (modernist), to religious activities. During Soeharto’s New Order government the religious landscape seemed to require little attention, and the view that the five religions lived in relative harmony became basic to the government’s portrayal of the Indonesian model of tolerance. Incidents that occurred with increasing frequency (cultural oppression of the Chinese, arson against churches, harassment of Catholic bodies) were systematically minimised in the media and their religious character denied. In the official credo, religion was immovable and unquestionable. Together with ethnicity (Suku), race (Ras) and ‘intergroup relations’ (Antargolongan), religion (Agama) remained one of the four taboos (SARA) of public discourse. Accordingly, although worship of sacred graves is a phenomenon of immense importance throughout the country, especially in Java, involving thousands of sites and hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, it has been largely ignored by the national media. The Muslim community is divided about the legitimacy of such practices, and it is feared that open discussion could cause social unrest. Taking up an important but neglected topic, this book addresses the role of the ‘potent dead’: that is, it seeks to examine the power that certain dead—ancestors, saints and national heroes—exert over the living in contemporary religious thinking and practice in Indonesia. These three terms require some clarification. The chapters examine ancestors, who may have survived in a Christian or Muslim form in the context of indigenous religious practices, as well as saints within the larger Islamic environment. In discussing the ‘indigenous’ (or ‘traditional’, ‘ethnic’, ‘autochthonous’, ‘archaic’) elements that survive in modern religions, however, we are not looking back at what such belief systems may have been but are focusing on this specific category of religious

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phenomena in contemporary Indonesia. Ancestor or saint worship is never an isolated practice. It is but one of the many manifestations of a creed. Though the cult of the ‘potent dead’ is not in itself integral to any of the universal religions, it must be emphasised that (with one exception) the essays in this book deal with Muslim, Christian and Hindu societies. While the pilgrims who visit the Javanese sacred graves may direct their prayer to the local ‘saint’ rather than to God, their faith in Allah remains the pillar of their devotions. In no society in Indonesia and in probably no society in the world is the worship of ancestors a religion of itself: it is only one part or one aspect of religion. Moreover, as Schärer (1963: 152) remarked about the Ngaju: ‘We find no support in Dayak religion for the assumption that worship of the sacred dead is the beginning of religious development, and that from it first spirit-worship and then the worship of a God developed’. It is impossible to point to the ‘source’ of religious development, although the German and Dutch anthropologists who initiated research on indigenous religions (for references, see Stöhr 1968) were obsessed by origins. They conceived of religion as an essentially coherent and autonomous system derived from the knowledge of a unique God: ‘The worship of the dead is based only on the conception of God and can only be understood in relation to it’ (Schärer 1963: 153). As Stöhr himself succinctly put it: ‘The principle [of a tribal religion] is the idea of God and creation’ (Stöhr 1968: 173). This approach was abandoned after World War II, with the result that contemporary scholarship displays a very different approach to such concepts as ‘religion’ and ‘belief’. In speaking of the Kodi district in West Sumba, one anthropologist notes: ‘We can see how the indigenous system of worship, initially defined as a system of practices and rules of ritual procedure, was later reinterpreted as a system of belief’ (Hoskins 1987: 137). Contrary to the ‘religions of the Book’, indigenous belief systems are not based on an elaborate body of doctrine from which all elements of religious life necessarily derive. They are composed of a multiplicity of disconnected elements, the coherence of which—the ‘system’—is obscure. Many of them (Batak, Ngaju, Toraja, Sumba, etc.) incorporate rich cosmological, mythical and eschatological traditions. However, as they remain in the oral realm, these traditions are only partially codified and manifest multiple versions and variants, a characteristic that may have made them more permeable to outside influences. Even literate societies like the Batak and the Bugis did not produce any work that could have functioned as a religious code. The use of the term ‘religion’ in this context is justified by the overall importance of the supernatural in everyday life, not because indigenous religions deal with a supernatural or sacred sphere distinct from the natural or the secular. They encompass the totality of human activity, comprising the political and economic spheres as well as the spiritual one.

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ANCESTORS Ancestors, as we deal with them here, are involved in every activity of the living. The term ‘ancestors’ has two different meanings, an issue specifically addressed in Chapter 1. The first embraces all genealogical forebears, however distant; the second is the limited category of forebears regarded as more potent than others, whose prominence the living society acknowledges. It seems that most pre-Islamic societies in Indonesia (one exception is discussed below) were characterised by ancestor worship, or at least practised it. Surviving societies either worship all forebears in a collective way or venerate selected ancestors who have acquired superior status and are endowed with particular powers. The Nage of Flores make no distinction between forebears and ancestors (Forth 1998: 243), whereas Chapter 3 shows that the Laboya of Sumba attribute the status of marapu (ancestors) only to individuals who distinguished themselves while still alive. Because these exceptional individuals had some kind of power on earth (rank, wealth, progeniture), they now constitute an elite in the world of the dead. The most revered among them are the ancestors who founded a village, lineage or clan, whose legitimacy remains based on the memory of present occupants or members. Indeed, numerous communities have maintained a category of ‘memory specialists’ who are in charge of remembering the genealogical continuity linking present society to its origins. Such examples are seen in the junkuk and the juru kunci, cultural guardians whom Minako Sakai and James Fox discuss in relation to two different Muslim societies.2 In such societies it is common, though not universal, to exclude from this system people who died in a violent fashion or before due time (‘the bad dead’ in Schärer’s terms), the influence of which is unanimously considered as harmful. The spirits of the bad dead are malicious and dangerous because their anti-natural death has automatically excluded them from the system of exchange that links the living and the dead. They do not dwell in the land of the dead.3 The conditions of the afterlife for the souls of the dead are conceived in great detail, but also in an infinity of variants from one community to another. The path that souls have to follow to reach their destination in the afterworld is usually long in time and space. At the moment of death, the soul separates from the body and is often transformed, either giving birth to one or two different souls or being replaced by one or several new souls. Stöhr (1968: 205–10) gives examples of a ‘vital soul’ and a new ‘soul of the dead’ in five different groups (Ngaju, Toba, Nias, Maanyan and Toraja), but these communities are probably too large to permit generalisations. Even within the Ngaju Dayaks variations are marked, so that the descriptions given by Stöhr, Weinstock (1987: 79–80) and (in Chapter 2) Anne Schiller are all somewhat different. The ultimate destination of the souls is named, localised and often described with precision. The soul or souls usually travel to the land of the

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dead under the guidance of ancestors already living there, or of special spirits, or of a mediating deity (Schärer 1963: 143; Stöhr 1968: 38, 207). Located far away, the land of the dead is sometimes associated with the group’s legendary territorial origin. The route there is dangerous and can be reached only after a cycle of ceremonies. The land of the dead is represented as similar to that of the living: the dead have occupations resembling those of their descendants, but everything is reversed (day is night, right is left and so on). Death provokes a rupture. The family of the deceased is excluded from the community. Family members embark on the period of mourning while the corpse begins to disintegrate. The soul wanders around the corpse or its former house in a state of distress, while the living are charged with pacifying it and preventing it from re-entering the corpse. The deceased is still a ‘living dead’. Funeral rites are extremely complex, even more diverse. A remarkable effort of synthesis was made by Robert Hertz in 1905–06, on the basis of data pertaining mainly to Borneo. A few years later (1909) Arnold van Gennep published his famous Rites of Passage, mainly drawing on material from Madagascar. Both studies (originally in French) appeared in English translation in 1960. Hertz concluded that death represents the most dangerous of all the metamorphoses through which a human life passes. The body is transformed through putrefaction, the soul wanders in expectation of its final abode, the relatives of the deceased are contaminated by the impurity of the corpse, the whole community is in a state of emergency. This situation prompts the performing of a double burial with a long transitory (‘liminal’ in van Gennep’s terminology) period, which can last from a few months to 10 years. During the time required for its total decay the corpse is highly dangerous, as ‘the evil power which resides in the corpse and which is linked with the smells must not be allowed to escape and strike the living’ (Hertz 1960: 32). Siegel (1983: 8–9) has remarked on the terror caused by the smell of putrefaction in modern Javanese society, ‘when the flesh of the corpse [has] not completely decayed’.4 It is only when the flesh and the fluids have disappeared and the bones are perfectly dry that the pacified soul can reach its ultimate abode. During that transitory period it undergoes ‘a kind of probation, during which it stays on earth in the proximity of the body, wandering in the forest or frequenting the places it inhabited while it was alive’ (Hertz 1960: 34). It is liberated only through the secondary burial, a lavish ceremony that ‘has three objects: to give burial to the remains of the deceased, to ensure the soul peace and access to the land of the dead, and finally to free the living from the obligations of mourning’ (1960: 54). The mourning period can actually end much earlier through a far less important intermediary ritual, like the tiwah ceremony of the Ngaju to which Hertz referred and which is discussed in detail in Chapter 2. Even among the Nage in Flores there are still three burial rituals, although these are generally simplified (Forth 1998: 249–52).

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The dead who have gained the status of ancestors are not the only entities with which the living maintain a relationship in the supernatural world, for it is also inhabited by a large number of spirits and gods. However, it seems that the souls of the dead have an autonomous existence, without direct contact with either gods or spirits. According to Weinstock (1987: 79–80), ‘there are two parallel, and yet overlapping, realms of spirits in Kaharingan cosmology. One realm is that of spirits of the human soul, both of the living and of the dead, while the other realm is of spirits which are non-human’. These various categories of supernatural beings have specific powers, specific functions and specific relations with the living. The ancestors are not intercessors with any other category of spirits: they are worshipped for the protection and the benefits they can provide the living.5 As in Africa, however, use of the term ‘worship’ can be misleading (Uchendu 1981: 286). It has been remarked that ‘lineages are communities of the living and the dead’ or, in Schärer’s terms, ‘the total community comprises not only the living but also the dead’ (1963: 142). The relationship between the living and the ancestors is one of reciprocity, interaction, ‘exchange of services’ (Hertz 1960: 61), ‘one of the basic social relationships’ (see Chapter 3). Ancestors are by definition benevolent: they protect their descendants, they guarantee their prosperity and guide them in all important actions of life, on condition that they are honoured and fed. If the living neglect their duties towards the ancestors, the latter will punish them by inflicting all kinds of calamities: illnesses, bad crops, accidents. This reciprocal relationship is not apparently governed by any moral considerations. Ancestors do not punish offences against any overarching ethical code; they seek retribution for any lack of proper attention to themselves. The relations between ancestors and the living are almost permanent: ancestors manifest themselves through their gifts or the signs of their wrath, and often appear in dreams. In return, they are invited to all the ceremonies of the living and are worshipped, collectively or individually, on many occasions. This picture is so overwhelming that any counter-example appears to be merely an inconvenient exception. Nonetheless, Bernard Sellato’s discussion (Chapter 1) of the central Borneo Aoheng, who do not recognise any ancestors, is unsettling—particularly as this ‘exception’ seems to extend to all the peoples of the Kayanic group. But this case presents the anthropologist with an unexpected touchstone: among the distinctive traits of Aoheng society, it is its rigid stratification, Sellato stresses, which makes recourse to ancestors unnecessary to status legitimacy and, thus, explains the Aohengs’ neglect of ancestors. As ‘status is not negotiable’, a cult of the ancestors would not modify the social situation of either the living or the dead. On the other hand, other stratified societies in Indonesia do acknowledge ancestors. It is possible that the peculiar case of the Aoheng is related to their (former) nomadic condition.

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SAINTS Like ancestors, saints are humans who have successfully crossed the gap between the world and the afterworld. They are aware of the mystery of life and death, and are familiar with the supernatural forces that govern human life. As Christian Pelras puts it in Chapter 8, their graves ‘are so to say an access gate to [the invisible, parallel] world’. The transition from ancestors to saints is actualised through mythical and legendary ancestors and cultural heroes. In two Muslim societies where genealogy as proof of the legitimacy of the social order is highly regarded (the Gumai in Sumatra and the Bugis in Sulawesi), the most revered ‘ancestors’ are beings who came down from heaven. In Chapter 9, Henri Chambert-Loir reviews the various categories of saints in Javanese society. Like ‘ancestors’, the term ‘saints’ is problematic, for the concept of sainthood (walâya) is extremely elaborate in Islam and should properly be restricted to a very few among those revered dead. Nonetheless, walâya and its derivatives are popularly used throughout the Muslim world, from Morocco to India, to designate all the dead revered on the site of sacred graves. Indeed, the worship of saints is so common that it can be regarded as a characteristic of Islamic praxis. Introduced to Indonesia as a foreign phenomenon in the early time of Islamisation, saint worship naturally replaced or merged with pre-existing ancestor worship. That this shift had already occurred within the first generations of converts is suggested by the condemnation by an orthodox Javanese tract as early as the 16th century of those who ‘put the saints above the prophets, or even above our Lord Muhammad’ (Drewes 1978: 38–9; also Reid 1993: 164–73). There is an obvious continuum between ancestors and one large category of Javanese ‘saints’, that of village founders (cikal bakal). Like ancestors, the saints revered on the site of their graves are a source of protection, blessing and advice. One of the many differences between saints and ancestors concerns their role in the social order, and specifically the issue of morality. Graves may be visited with trivial or even dubious aims,6 but on the whole saint worship is associated with a respect for the laws of society and a craving for spiritual perfection. This makes it possible for the orthodox to say that the source of the saint’s beneficence may be in the heart of the worshipper. HEROES ‘National Heroes’ are historical characters from the past whom the state has institutionalised as ‘fathers’ and ‘mothers’ of the nation. The rituals (annual ceremonies, reburial, purification of the bones), the sites (exclusive cemeteries) and the atmosphere of sacredness nurtured by the government have engineered an effective cult of National Heroes. The Soeharto regime was particularly careful to select heroes from various periods and from all provinces, and to make participation in the nationalist or anticolonial

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struggle the principal if not sole criterion for inclusion. In so doing, the government represented National Heroes as the founding ancestors of the whole nation, which is thereby united as a large family. National Heroes are undoubtedly potent dead. However, they cannot be equated with either ancestors or saints other than metaphorically. Only a few graves of National Heroes are individually revered, like those of Diponegoro, leader of Java’s anti-Dutch rebellion of 1825–30, and Kartini, the young aristocrat whose published letters gave her the status of Indonesia’s first feminist. Reverence for them has little to do with their nomination as ‘heroes’ by the Indonesian state. National Heroes may best be regarded as a collective group of the dead whose potency was called into being by the state as an aspect of its legitimacy. In the past the graves of the most prestigious kings of the archipelago’s varied monarchies were honoured by their reigning successors for similar reasons. Indonesia’s inherent pluralism, however, made it essential that its pantheon be equally plural, with no ethnic group content until it too had been recognised by an officially designated hero. CONVERSION AND THE POTENT DEAD Ancestor rituals are observed in the indigenous religions still practised by people who have resisted incorporation into the universal religions (including many Ngaju, Toraja and Karo Batak, for example). These rituals and beliefs are also influential, albeit in a partial or modified form, among a far larger number of Indonesians who are already part of Islam or Christianity. The process of conversion is long and complex. Transformations caused by the impact of an external religion or ideology do not result in radical substitutions of practices and beliefs—rather in new formulations and interpretations. These come about as a result of progressive negotiation, of a continuing ‘dialogue’ (Hoskins 1987: 137), and of ‘transactions with the dominant society’ (Atkinson 1987: 173). Conversion is partly a process of translation. The Christian missionaries who endeavoured to translate the Bible into the various languages of the archipelago were confronted with the difficulty of naming God. Their answer was often to give the name of the local superior divinity to the Christian God. (Stöhr 1968: 31, 88, 111 gives examples in Borneo, Nias and Mentawai, and Forth 1998: 19 in Flores.) By so doing they invested a new meaning in a name that already had its own signification. The ambivalence of this approach is illustrated by the opposite shift in meaning that had taken place, ages earlier, when the Ngaju and the Toba underwent the influence of Hindu, or Hindu-Javanese, religion. Do the Sanskritic names of some divinities point to imported gods or to new names given to indigenous gods? Some similar creative acts of translation undoubtedly assisted the progress of Islam. Sembahyang, in particular, remains the most general and

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popular word for prayer in Indonesia, including the prescribed Islamic prayer, although its origins must lie in the reverence (sembah) for gods and powerful spirits (yang) (Reid 1993: 168). Unfortunately we have few documents on the process of conversion to Islam in comparison with the numerous records left by Christian missionaries. Examples collected by Jones (1979), Ricklefs (1979) and Chambert-Loir (1985) in local literatures are legendary or mythical texts, which account for conversion as a political and social phenomenon but leave its spiritual and ritual aspects in the dark. What can we then say about earlier conversions to Hinduism or Buddhism? During the Hindu-Buddhist period prior to the arrival of Islam, the Javanese principalities of the 14th–16th centuries had their religious centres (mandala, dharma), some of which represented the sacred core of the kingdom. Claude Guillot’s Chapter 10 is a pioneering study of the perceived need to convert one of those sacred centres before the kingdom itself could be brought into the new faith. In Indonesian Muslim societies (we have to use a plural form, as the differences in regional practice are evident in the chapters below), rituals bear the mark of past transformations, either through reinterpretation (sacred graves are tolerated on the understanding that the intention of the pilgrims is to pray to God, not to the deceased) or through grafting onto new rituals (the Gumai perform their agricultural rituals during the two main Muslim yearly festivals). Similar phenomena are to be found in societies converted to Christianity. As Elizabeth Coville notes in Chapter 5, the Toraja effigies ‘were not acceptable if they were considered to house the spirits of the dead, but they were permitted if they were considered to be a memorial to the dead’. Toba Batak funeral monuments (tugu) are considered by some as ‘the Batak way of carrying out the Christian injunction to “honour thy father and mother”’ (see Chapter 6). However, Dutch interference with indigenous religions was not limited to endeavours to convert. For reasons which could be moral (orgies in the Moluccas), economic (drastic diminution of cattle caused by the second burial feast) or hygienic (contact with corpses), the colonial government forbade a number of rituals and practices (Hertz 1960: 29; Stöhr 1968: 151; Weinstock 1987: 90). The political and economic evolution of local societies, by transforming social structure, also had an influence on religions. Education and the civil service provided new sources for the social status which always determined the rank of the living and subsequently the selection of ancestors among the dead. These various interventions were radicalised by the Indonesian government. The majority of Indonesian societies were converted (most to Islam, some to Christianity or Hinduism) at the time of the country’s independence in 1945, and the state ideology, by limiting the number of acknowledged religions, exerted new pressure on the as yet unconverted societies. As the state’s hold on local administration was progressively intensified, the source of authority often switched to a new elite. In Bugis territory, for instance, the

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worship of mythical founding ancestors started to decline when the nobility lost its traditional social function (see Chapter 8). Many other factors linked to ‘modernity’ and ‘development’ have had an impact on rituals. The staging of spectacular rituals that tourism encouraged, especially among the Batak, Toraja and Balinese, has given rise to questions of authenticity and identity (see Volkman 1987: 165–7). Technical changes have also played a role in the evolution of rituals, which are intimately linked to the ecological milieu. Any innovation has the potential to upset the rhythm, tools and functions of agricultural life, as Forth (1998: 20) noted following the introduction of irrigated rice cultivation in Flores in the 1930s. Not only did the modification of the nature and rhythm of crops cause a modification of the rituals, but the buffaloes which were until then ‘used only as sacrificial victims and marriage prestations’ became draught animals with a new commercial value. In a similar manner, the transformations of the landscape—creation of roads, apparition of urban centers, increase of transportation and commerce, architectural evolution—have contributed to the modification of the context of ritual performance. The variety of effects mirrored the diversity of causes. The Indonesian government not only required that each individual or community should adhere to one of the five acknowledged religions; it also, in the wake of the colonial government, imposed a new definition of religion (agama) independent of custom (adat) and culture (kebudayaan). Indigenous religions had not made any distinction between the religious and the secular, but appeared as a set of rules and procedures that governed all aspects of life in society. Confrontation with the national ideology imposed both a definition of religion in a restrictive way and a codification of religious beliefs. Atkinson (1987: 174–8) thus traces the Indonesian concept of agama, its (foreign) origin and the various influences it had undergone before it came to mean what she calls Indonesian ‘civil religion’. It is noteworthy that Clifford Geertz’s famous title, The Religion of Java, could not be translated into Indonesian as ‘Agama orang Jawa’, because the scope of the book makes it closer to the concept of budaya, where ‘Agama orang Jawa’ is simply Islam.7 Agama had to be made distinct from adat. If this process was disruptive, it was also an open door to negotiations. If agama was strictly limited, adat on the other hand was apt to accommodate a great part of traditional practice. Discussing the Toraja in the early century, Volkman (1987: 164) comments: ‘One no longer had to renounce everything traditional in order to convert, since adat, being secular and social, was deemed acceptable. Only aluk, by definition heathen and religious, was threatening to the church and would be forbidden’. The result was thus a dichotomisation (agama/adat) of what used to be an overall system answering to all social needs. Another transformation of indigenous religions brought by state authority and contact with world religions was the growing prominence of the

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concept of religion as identity marker. Increasingly, religion had to conform to the definition of the group as perceived from outside. Coville and Schiller (see Chapter 2 and 5) both describe how local practice was moulded by the systematisation of regional models. In this dynamic context, migration to the cities and shifts in authority in each community brought further changes. First, traditional definitions of social status were overturned: ‘With the religious, political, and economic changes set in motion by the arrival of the Dutch, achieved status (education, Christianity, income) has challenged inherited rank as a source of prestige and success’ (see Chapter 5). Geirnaert’s Chapter 3 on Sumba similarly focuses on this switch of status sources. Second, the perantau, those people who have moved away from their home village to pursue a career and who usually return periodically with relatively high financial power, use the funerary rituals to affirm both their place in the community and their newly acquired status. Reid (Chapter 6) shows the competition among ‘urban, affluent, Christian and educated’ Tobak Bataks in erecting larger and larger monuments to the dead, while Volkman (1987: 165) talks about the ‘inflation of rituals’ organised by Toraja perantau on their return to their homeland. The potent dead, as this book demonstrates, are omnipresent in modern Indonesia. Their interventionist role in the wellbeing of the living is part of the conceptual framework within which modern society has to be interpreted. Both Soekarno and Soeharto, the first and second presidents of the Indonesian republic, are known to have had a predilection for certain sacred graves, where they meditated in search of supernatural assistance. Since Soekarno’s death in 1970, his grave has itself become one of the most important pilgrimage sites in Java. The modern avatars of ancestor worship have more than one link with politics. Indeed, Quinn’s Chapter 12 demonstrates how the cult of a distant founding ancestor can be diverted to the benefit of current ideology. Observing the transformation of Indonesian religions in our own time helps us to understand earlier processes of conversion to Hinduism and Islam. The present informs the past as much as the past explains the present.

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1 Castrated dead: the making of un-ancestors among the Aoheng, and some considerations on death and ancestors in Borneo Bernard Sellato

‘She doesn’t know what an unbirthday is!’ [said the Mad Hatter of Alice]. —Walt Disney’s, Alice in Wonderland

In the course of the past 15 years, the misuse of the term ‘ancestors’ in the context of Borneo’s ethnic arts has plagued a number of otherwise interesting books.1 Everywhere one finds photograph captions reading ‘ancestral figure’, ‘ancestor effigies’ or ‘representation of an ancestor’, as if Borneo were another Nias or another Leti, two islands famous both to anthropologists for their somewhat ubiquitous ancestors and to dealers and collectors for their very dear art. Strikingly, older works on Indonesian art were much less inclined to see ancestors everywhere.2 While some Bornean ethnic groups do honour their ancestors in certain circumstances and some even seem to have a cult of the ancestors, it has become exasperating to see again and again the same misinformed captions under a photograph of anything as remote to an ancestor’s figure as a Bahau carving of a spirit to ward off evil, a Ngaju hampatung statue, the painted dragon face on a Kayan shield, a Busang hudo' mask—or even a Kenyah row of smoked skulls of enemies (the caption reads ‘Ancestral skulls’). What is an ancestor? In a quick survey of the literature I found only hazy and often contradictory definitions of such terms and expressions as ancestor, ancestrality, cult of the dead, and cult of the ancestors. A first point should be made here. Obviously there is some confusion due to an indiscriminate use of the ancestor of our common vocabulary, which 1


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carries no more subtle an idea than that of ‘forebear’, and the anthropologists’ ancestor, which is a more complex concept. I return to the subtleties of anthropological concepts later. Meanwhile, I use the term forebear in place of the common language ancestor, and do not use the anthropological ancestor. As a starting point I deal with a straightforward phenomenon—death— and move on to the concepts of the soul of the living being, and of the spirit of the dead, investigating in the process the concept of passage and the rites associated with the passage of death. The Aoheng, who may or may not constitute a special case in Borneo, offer an opportunity to look into the concept of death and the funerary rites in a historical, cross-cultural perspective, and to review, in their relationship to systems of social organisation, the main views held by the peoples of Borneo on funerals and the afterlife. Death, at first sight, transforms a deceased person into something else. The phenomenon of death turns a living being into a corpse. This is a natural passage. At the same time, for most of the world’s societies, the soul of the living person either turns into a spirit of the dead, or simply vanishes while a new spiritual being comes into existence. The concepts, vague or elaborate, of the soul of the living being and of the spirit of a dead person seem universally acknowledged. Someone’s death is generally viewed as both a sad event for the deceased’s family and an inauspicious one with potentially deleterious consequences for the whole of the community of the living. The spirits of the dead are considered dangerous. Immediately after death they are believed to go to some transitional place (limbo), or to remain in this world in the vicinity of the corpse. As these spirits are dangerous, most societies stage a ritualised passage, consisting in transferring them from their temporary dwelling place to a final abode (heaven), where they can no longer threaten the living. This passage is the obsequies or funerals. In Borneo, most societies did (and some still do) perform ritualised passages in the form of various types of simple or multi-staged funerary rituals. THE AOHENG The Aoheng are a 3000-person-strong Dayak group living in the centre of Borneo. Their historical territory is the Long-Apari district on the uppermost reaches of the Mahakam River, where they are distributed in five settlements. One community split off long ago to settle in the upper Kapuas region of West Kalimantan, and two more have migrated recently to the middle Mahakam area (see Map 1). Ultimately derived from nomadic hunting-gathering bands, the Aoheng first underwent the influence of the Ot Danum (Uut Danum), a group of non-stratified agriculturalists now in Central Kalimantan. After 1800 the Long-Gelat, a stratified Kayanic group


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BORNEO SABAH

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BRUNEI

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WEST KALIMANTAN

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CENTRAL KALIMANTAN Banjarmasin

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EAST KALIMANTAN

SOUTH KALIMANTAN

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Map 1 Indonesian Borneo (Kalimantan)

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0


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of the upper Mahakam area, forced them to settle, and the Aoheng ever since have been rice swiddeners and longhouse dwellers (Sellato 1986, 1992). The descriptions below are in the ethnographic present tense, unless an explicit reference is made to past or present time. A major feature of Aoheng social organisation is stratification, showing three categories (strata): aristocrats (süpï), commoners (kovi) and slaves (dïpon). The ideology of stratification stresses that aristocrats and commoners are human beings of different essences. Social ascription to one stratum is very rigid, and vertical social mobility very limited within one’s lifetime. Social status has little to do with wealth: a poor aristocrat always remains an aristocrat, while a rich commoner can never become one. While their wealth may become an important factor when it comes to inter-village aristocratic marriages and alliances, the aristocrats do not rely on it to legitimise their social position within their home community. Kinship is cognatic and genealogies are reckoned bilaterally, sometimes over some 10 generations. Genealogic lines (koturun or puhu') are resorted to in order to establish kinship ties with individuals from other villages. If a knowledge of genealogies may be needed in dynastic claims and disputes, a recourse to the spiritual intervention of dead forebears has no relevance to the legitimising of power and status in Aoheng society. Kinship terms include aké' (PP), düo keaké' (PPP), and toü ko aké' (PPPP).3 The expression aké' hau' refers to any forebear, beyond or including PPP. Another expression, do (aké') né moni maé, ‘they (forebears) of long ago before’, refers collectively to the Aoheng of a remote past. No patronymic appellations exist, whereas in other regions of Indonesia such appellations are more or less tightly linked to lineage founders and to cults of particular forebears. A personal name (aran) is given to a child at the name-giving ceremony, but an individual or his/her parents may change it once or more according to circumstances (e.g. sickness), often following a dream. The use of teknonyms is the norm, but a teknonym is often combined with one or several other types of names—kin and affinal terms, necronyms, nicknames, reciprocal appellations, honorific titles—each of which may also be used alone or in combination with another, according to the relationship between the speaker and the person addressed or referred to. The fact that some personal names are those of animals may hint at an ancient system of appellations including some forms of totemism, but is of no relevance to today’s situation. In aristocratic as well as commoner families, the personal name of a dead grandparent or a more remote forebear is commonly picked up again (ngokat aran, ‘to raise a name’), insofar as it is considered a ‘good’ name. This corresponds to a vague belief that a forebear’s qualities may pass on to any offspring bearing the same name, although no particular ritual is attached to this. Certain names, especially of dead aristocrats, may not be used by families of the lower strata, as these ‘noble’ names are for the aristocratic stratum’s exclusive use.


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AOHENG GODS, SPIRITS AND SOULS Nature is host to scores of local guardian spirits (otü nya'an), residing at mountain tops or passes, and in certain trees and big boulders. Generally rather impartial to humans, they may become aggressive if neglected, and travellers are always careful to make offerings when passing a place hosting a spirit. These guardian spirits fall into vague categories, such as the otun danum (river spirits), rather well disposed, or the otun duno (fig-tree spirits), easily irritated. The Aoheng, therefore, may be viewed grossly as animists (in the sense of Tylor and Durkheim; see Durkheim 1960: 67ff). Although, as elsewhere in Borneo, there seem to be some hints of naturism (see below), this is not the place for a discussion of its past or present importance in traditional Aoheng religion. The Aoheng also believe in a pantheon comprising eight or ten deities coming in pairs—Tingai and Tipang, Kito and Bangka’an, Halung and Ha’an, Oü and Büan—and in a number of heavenly spiritual entities of lesser importance, generally not named. The gods are listed in one breath in invocations. Pairing stresses either their association (Oü mo Büan, Sun and Moon) or the fact that a god has two names. The Aoheng are not too clear about the different gods’ quality, specificity or function. They stress that Tingai, also called Amun Tingai, is the highest god, which conforms to the ideas held by the neighbouring Kayanic groups whose Taméi Tingéi was borrowed by the Aoheng. Amun Tingai was later confirmed in its status by the Catholic missionaries, who identified it with God. The names Tipang and Bangka’an seem also to have been borrowed from Kayanic groups. As for Kito, it is the high god of many nomadic groups and is also found among some Kenyah groups (Sellato 1994: 161–2). On this earth, a relevant distinction is made between a safe human (cultural) sphere—the village and fields—and a threatening outer (natural) world—the forest. Negotiations with the spirits are carried out on a daily basis by the individual and the nuclear family, primarily entailing propitiation (repelling spiritual danger). They do not involve or concern the gods. Conversely, contact is established between men and the heavenly gods only in extraordinary situations (the consecration of a new village, epidemics, a succession of crop failures). Such contact involves the community as a whole, and acts to attract blessings from the gods to restore the old alliance of men and gods, a harmonious relationship that is perceived to have weakened, entailing misfortune. These half-forgotten gods, viewed as distant or in semi-retirement from human affairs, are called for assistance, generally through a mediator (e.g. a sacrificed pig), to ensure health and prosperity for the village, its population and its crops. The major occasion for communicating with the gods occurs in the course of the pengosang (or mengosang) religious festival, the highest and most sacred manifestation of the Aoheng’s ritual life (see Sellato 1986, 1992).


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Other categories of spiritual entities reside in heaven, which have no connection with the spirits of the dead, nor perhaps with the gods. They include healing spirits (otü penyangon, otü habai), who help the shaman in curing a patient in exchange for an animal sacrifice; and singing spirits (otü kelisum), who either inspire a singer of kelisum (spirit songs) or sing through his/her mouth. Finally, spirits residing in the severed heads of enemies (otun tekohong; see below), formerly wrapped in leaves and kept hanging from rafters in the longhouse gallery, were ritually fed, then dismissed, in the final stages of the pengosang festival. The soul of a living person is called berüon—a term derived from düo, ‘two’, as in many Bornean languages, hence a spiritual alter ego. The term kesongan, more physiological, refers to the breath, while songan, more abstract, is akin to the Western concept of ‘conscience’. At death, the berüon disappears, while a spirit of the dead comes into existence, otü or otun kovo, which is of a different nature. The otun kovo remains in the deceased’s house, until it is ritually accompanied to heaven (havun), where the spirits of the dead finally dwell. There it belongs to an undifferentiated category of unnamed entities, the otun kovo. The Aoheng have only a vague concept of what life after death might be like, and their cosmological and cosmogonic ideas, particularly concerning the topography of havun and the spirit’s route to get there, were heavily borrowed from the Kayanic groups (on Kayan religion, see Rousseau, 1998). The Aoheng may mention the deceased—as Kovo Nyangun, ‘the late Nyangun’—when recalling or referring to episodes of his life, but they would never allude to the spirit Nyangun has become. The otun kovo no longer have an individual existence in havun, and never intervene in the affairs of the living. The Aoheng’s major cultural hero, Sengiru (Tiger), should be mentioned. Tiger introduced various rituals, at a stage of their history when the Aoheng were still ‘savage’ nomads—he even introduced the night. He has been identified as a true historical character, a Long-Gelat aristocrat whom the Long-Gelat chief (named Liju, ‘Tiger’) married to an Aoheng band leader’s daughter in order to pacify and ‘civilise’ them. A tiger spirit can heal the sick, although it is mainly known to punish transgressors of taboos. Clearly Tiger, a remote forebear not quite connected to remembered genealogies, has been identified with an ancient, now obsolete meteorological deity (the tiger-thunder), but he is neither a divinised cultural hero nor an ancestor, and he is never given offerings or invoked, let alone given a cult.4 AOHENG FUNERARY PRACTICES As stated briefly above, the Aoheng, a set of nomadic hunting–gathering bands, underwent first the influence of the Ot Danum, an ethnic group belonging to the Barito Group (see Sellato 1986, 1989, 1992, 1994; also below), then that of the Long-Gelat, a stratified Kayanic group (see


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Rousseau 1990). The Ot Danum, to this day, perform double funerals, whereas the Kayanic groups as a rule practise simple funerals. Before their massive conversion to Christianity (Roman Catholicism) in the 1930s, the Aoheng practised both types (see Sellato 1986: 407–9), encompassed in the expression ‘custom for the dead’ (adet do né kovo). In simple funerals, by far the most common, the corpse is kept within the house for a prescribed number of days, and the spirit of the dead remains around the body. The living keep the spirit company and entertain it. During the last night, an elder ritually accompanies (nemotang icu') the spirit of the dead along its journey to its last heavenly abode (havun), and a rite of separation is held. The next morning the body in its log coffin is carried to its grave, in the past a cave or rock shelter, now a burial in the ground. Mourning taboos remain in effect until the next new moon, when the living are reintegrated into society, life is regenerated and returns to normalcy, and sociocosmic harmony, upset by death, is restored. Rare occurrences of double funerals (norang) were in the past reserved for certain aristocrats. After primary transition rites the body was kept to weather on a platform near the village, normally until the following new year (i.e. the new rice harvest). Meanwhile, a headhunting expedition was organised. The severed heads procured were meant to provide the receptacles for spirits which would serve as slaves to the spirit of the dead in its final residence. The secondary funerals consisted in retrieving the dried-up bones and placing them in a valuable ceramic jar. The ritual to accompany the spirit of the dead to havun was held during the night preceding the transfer of the jar to the caves. FUNERARY RITES AND SOCIAL ORGANISATION: THE BROADER PICTURE The Aoheng case shows a combination of two main methods of handling the dead in Borneo, corresponding to two distinct cultural spheres that in the past have influenced the Aoheng.5 A set of groups belonging to what is called here the Barito Group are found mainly in Central Kalimantan, with some in southern West and East Kalimantan. The name Barito Group really stems from a linguistic group (in the sense originally used by Hudson 1967), the members of which all display significant cultural similarities, particularly the double funerals. However, I have called the Barito Complex (see Sellato 1994: 187–90) an ancient set of societies forming a single cultural sphere, which probably covered the whole of the island’s interior in the first millennium, before the spread of the Kayanic groups and their culture. These agricultural (or, rather, horticultural) societies were very competitive (see Sellato 1987), focusing prestige-seeking on great feasts of redistribution at secondary funerals and the erection of extravagant monuments. Today such societies, having all to a certain extent converted to rice farming, are still found in


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various, often far apart regions of the island. Some still practise double funerals, which offer to the families organising these feasts an opportunity to enhance their status and prestige. Although they often are considered the most ‘archaic’ Dayak groups (e.g. Stöhr & Zoetmulder 1968: 29), the groups called Kayanic (really also a linguistic grouping; see Hudson 1978)—or, at least, the original speakers of these tongues—are probably relative newcomers to Borneo. They may have landed on Borneo’s north and east coasts in the first half of the second millennium AD. They contributed to the wider diffusion of iron technology, rice swiddening, a system of strict social stratification, and various new beliefs, some of which concern funerary rituals. Better armed, warlike and expansionist, they penetrated as far as the remote plateaus of central Borneo, heavily disrupted the earlier ethnocultural setting, and culturally assimilated many pre-existing groups in the north, east and centre of the island (see Sellato 1993). The Aoheng are located right at the southern edge of Kayanic cultural expansion, in a region previously occupied by groups of the Barito Complex. The general idea, among both the Barito and Kayanic groups, is that the world of the dead is analogous to that of the living but more pleasant, and that its society is organised in the same way as it is in this world (see van Gennep 1960: 152; also Hertz 1905–6). As the society of the dead mirrors that of the living, we find two distinct conceptions of life after death, which corresponds to contrasted ideologies of social organisation. Among the groups of the former Barito Complex, the family must make sure that the spirit of the dead obtains in the afterworld, where wealth and social status are critical factors, ‘living’ conditions matching those the person enjoyed in this world. A disgruntled spirit will return to earth to complain and may harm the living, especially its family or descendants. The family, therefore, must hold a big funerary feast, including the sacrifice of pigs or cattle (formerly a human sacrifice), to secure the spirit’s social status. A grand mausoleum may also be erected. Meanwhile, the spirit, still in transit, is ritually settled in a temporary residence, where it is harmless to the living. It may take years or even decades for a family to gather the financial means to hold the feast. The family will ruin itself but will procure prestige, both for the spirit in the afterworld and for itself in this world. During the secondary rites, the spirit is transferred to heaven along with all its riches. A similar situation prevails among a set of minor groups spread across the northern half of Borneo (see Metcalf 1975, 1982). Among the peoples of the Kayanic group, status is not negotiable for either the living or the dead. The spirit of the dead is given grave goods only as deemed necessary for the journey to heaven (e.g. a hat, sword, paddle and some food). Once there, all is perfect, life is easy, wild boar, fish and fruit are plentiful. A lavish funerary feast will not procure extra status to the spirit of a dead aristocrat, and that of a commoner will not be socially upgraded in the afterworld. As for the living, no measure of liberal


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spending will modify a family’s strictly ascribed social status. Burial is individual, never collective, and standard single-staged funerals, with a formal procedure determined by custom (adat) and commensurate with the deceased’s earthly status, thus suffice to achieve their primary goal, that is, to dispatch the spirit to its last abode. The spirit, in principle satisfied with its prospect, never returns to this world. For both sets of groups, ‘[t]he immediate concern is to remove the soul of the dead person from the living as quickly as possible, and hold it at bay’ (Winzeler 1993: xv), by either seeing it off in single-staged funerals (Kayanic) or detaining it in a temporary residence through primary rituals while waiting for its final send-off in the secondary funerals (Barito). In principle, once the spirit of the dead has been satisfactorily installed in its last abode, it will not of its own initiative return to visit the living. In principle, unless its intervention is solicited, the affairs of the living are no longer its business. Whatever the length and sophistication of the rituals death is surrounded with, the crucial element for the living always is the rite of separation, however brief and simple it may be. Among the Kayanic groups the individual coffin is left to decay, the grave is never visited again or maintained, no further rituals are held, and the spirit of the dead is never invoked or given offerings. The separation rite, or in any case the lifting of the mourning taboos at the next new moon, marks the definitive end of any form of association with the living. The Barito groups generally store their dead in collective mausoleums located in the middle of their villages. Such a mausoleum entails social prestige, and is a visible symbol of the bond linking a genealogical group. As a rule, however, these groups also certainly want to thwart any unsolicited visit from spirits of the dead. But the living wish to retain the possibility to summon the spirits of the dead to attend certain ceremonies. There seem to be several types of situations, which I will not describe or list here,6 where the spirits of ancient dead may be called on to attend a ritual, are given offerings and prayed to, and are expected to provide protection to and bestow blessings on the living. These visits, however, are occasional or contextual, and not linked to recurring, cyclical manifestations of ritual life. As a common example, when the remains of a recent dead are deposited in the mausoleum, those of remote forebears are disturbed, and their spirits are invited to attend the feast. THE LEFTOVERS OF THE SEPARATION RITE Whatever the sophistication of the funerary rituals, and the idea that the separation rite terminates for good all relations between the living and their dead kin, there is among the Aoheng the notion that ‘something’ remains behind. By the end of a burial, for fear that the spirit of the dead might hold the souls of some of the living present at the graveyard and take them along, the Aoheng hold a ritual to recall those souls. Moments later, when leaving


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THE POTENT DEAD

the graveyard, the Aoheng place two saplings across the path after the last attendant has passed, in order to forbid the spirit of the dead, missing its family, to follow the living back to the village. What is that spirit, said to have departed for good the night before? Does it, or some part of it, remain in residence in the grave, at least until the lifting of the mourning taboos? The Aoheng are not clear about this. As among the Kayanic groups, however, there is traditionally no subsequent maintenance whatsoever of the grave and no further rituals held on it. This remaining ‘something’ is by no means a phenomenon unique to the Aoheng. While Christian Europeans generally believe that the souls have gone elsewhere (Heaven, Hell or Purgatory), many also believe in ghosts and are not too fond of graveyards at night. Most often, the existence of ghosts is linked to the occurrence of ‘bad deaths’, meant as violent and untimely deaths. This idea also exists among the Aoheng, as it does among all Bornean groups. For the Aoheng, such bad deaths include death during the delivery of a child, by severing of the head (a result of headhunting), fatal falls, drowning and suicide. Such a deceased is called kovon cota, where cota refers to the ‘unripe’ (untimely) character of the death. The spirit coming into existence then is not an ordinary spirit of the dead. Called tovoran, it roams around the site of death and is extremely dangerous to the living. The Aoheng are at a loss when it comes to dealing with ‘bad death’. They just do not know how to get rid of a tovoran. The standard funerary procedure is useless and fails to transfer it to heaven, and no propitiation, prayer or offering is able to assuage its implacable anger. Anger is said to be the reason why the tovoran cannot undertake the journey to heaven. The living carefully avoid the site of a bad death, which is said to be ‘hot’ (lasü'). Even whole villages have been moved to other sites after bad deaths. The site of a bad death is left to ‘cool off’ for a long period of time, years or decades, until it is again ‘cool’ (singom) or simply forgotten. In due course, thus, the tovoran apparently do reach their final abode as the Aoheng, following the Kayanic groups, ascribe a special place in heaven for those spirits. Leaving aside the Aoheng case, it is interesting to stress that societies like those of the Barito and Kayanic groups, with very elaborate cosmologies and cosmogonies and complex funerary rituals, fail to take care of those ‘homeless dead’ (see van Gennep 1960: 161) and get rid of their spirits. These societies’ disposal techniques are not 100% efficient, and the leftovers of the separation rites remain on earth and pester the living. Why is that so? Certain societies seem to be helpless, even in the event of ordinary deaths, against the appearance of the spirits of the dead. The Punan and other nomadic groups of Borneo state that, in the past, they did not know how to achieve the transfer of the spirit of the dead to heaven—of which they had extremely vague notions. As this spirit was potentially harmful, they left the corpse on the spot and moved camp immediately (see Sellato 1994: 158–60).


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The Punan’s incompetence in handling all spirits of the dead, entailing a general attitude of avoidance of and flight from death, the corpse and the site, seems to parallel the Aoheng’s and other settled groups’ incompetence in handling the spirits born of a bad death (such as the tovoran), while they are generally quite able to handle ‘normal’ deaths. SACRED PLACES AND OLD SKULLS This may be an appropriate place to proffer some comments on the concept of kramat. According to Guillot and Chambert-Loir (1995: 238–40), in the Malay and Indonesian (more precisely, Javanese) context, a kramat is a place endowed with power, where pilgrims from nearby or faraway places visit and worship, often in order to request assistance, favours, blessings, spiritual guidance or enlightenment. In certain cases, a kramat is the historic grave of a Muslim holy man. It appears, however, that in a number of Javanese cases the site of the kramat has little if anything to do with Muslim graves. In Borneo, where I had the opportunity to visit a number of such sites, worship at kramat places is not restricted to Muslims. Taking as an example West Kalimantan, which shows an interestingly plural society, the same sites may be the objects of pilgrimage and worship by Muslim Malays, Christian Dayak and Chinese of diverse religious denominations alike. I need mention here only an old Dayak graveyard on the Tayan River, showing a dozen large pebbles, some of which are erect, and a rock shelter near Ketapang, showing Neolithic wall paintings. At both sites the local Dayak pray for good crops, the Malays for children and the Chinese for luck. Indeed, in a number of Javanese cases a particular natural site (e.g. a cave, spring, large boulder, or mountain top) may have been, since prehistoric times, endowed with power. Such a site probably remained to the local residents a holy spot, used successively or concomitantly by ‘animistic’, Buddhist, Hindu and Muslim worshippers. The same ecumenical character pertains to manmade sites— Neolithic stone terraces and megalithic monuments, or Buddhist and Hindu ruined buildings—which continued to serve as worshipping places through the centuries (see Guillot & Chambert-Loir 1995). Among the Iban, a rare case has been described (Uchibori 1984) of the grave of a local man of some fame having been ‘enshrined’ or turned into a sanctuary. The grave has become a site of pilgrimage, appropriated by a vast crowd of believers well beyond the limits of the man’s family and local community, and visitors trust that their wishes will be granted in return for offerings. It is not clear whether pilgrims believe that the spirit of this man is present at the site. In the case of Muslims worshipping at a holy man’s grave or Iban worshipping at an Iban ‘shrine’, there may indeed be a cult to one particular potent dead. In view of many other cases, however, it is more appropriate to view the phenomenon of kramat in general as a cult of the place rather than a cult to a given dead or ancestor, and to consider that it is the physical site


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THE POTENT DEAD

that is believed to be endowed with supernatural power. Even in the Javanese case, a holy man’s spiritual power is to be found at his grave only, and nowhere else can he be prayed to (Guillot & Chambert-Loir 1995: 238). Moreover, many such graves are simply fictitious (1995: 244, 253). To proceed further along this line, one may note that, in Borneo as elsewhere, the kramat character applies to a wide range of objects as well as to a site. Such objects, among Dayak groups, include old Chinese ceramic jars, rare glass beads, sacred old swords, commemorative spears and revered bronze cannons.7 In all cases they refer to the Malay concept of pusaka (sacred heirlooms). These objects, believed to house a spirit, are given offerings, or at least treated with respect. Not everybody is entitled to touch them for fear of supernaturally sanctioned misfortune (tulah), and families often derive substantial social prestige from their ownership. Among such objects are the dried or smoked human skulls, kept by the warriors who took them, or their descendants, or the community as a whole. Such a skull, among most Bornean groups, is believed to host a spirit, although not that of the enemy who originally provided his head. Such spirits, periodically fed, entertained and propitiated, are believed to ensure the community’s welfare and prosperity. I will not enter here into a discussion of the origins or ultimate significance of headhunting.8 It should be enough to say that, because of the beneficent spiritual power believed to dwell in skulls, many a Bornean group was eager to procure more of them. This has led some authors to write of a cult of the skulls, and cult indeed there was, according to Durkheim’s definition (see below). This widespread interest of Borneans in skulls, however, has been misinterpreted often enough as a cult of the dead or a cult of the ancestors. In fact, in most cases the skulls concerned are those of enemies, not forebears, and the spirits they contain have nothing to do with the spirits of the dead enemies, let alone with those of forebears. Indeed, after the loss of one of its members to a headhunting raid, the group (the ‘head-givers’) knows only of the coming into existence of a tovoran (see above)—as after ‘bad deaths’ of other kinds not entailing head loss—and has no notion of another spiritual entity associated with the lost head. This suggests that, for the ‘head-taking’ group, the much sought-after skull is nothing more than a type of container or residence believed to be most favoured by the otun tekohong (above), a kind of spirit of unclear origin. As for kramat sites, one may draw a parallel conclusion that a place (grave, spring, menhir), like an object, may be endowed with supernatural power, and that the spirit attending the site, like that dwelling in a skull, might not be connected in any way whatsoever with the spirit of any dead person. ANCESTORS, CULTS AND PASSAGES Let us return briefly to questions of definitions. Clear anthropological definitions of the term ancestor are few, and many anthropological works rather


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casually use the term ‘ancestor’ in the straight sense of ‘dead forebear’ (e.g. Metcalf & Huntington 1991). In one extreme case, such various terms and expressions as ‘ancestor’, ‘ancestor spirit’, ‘ancestral spirit’ and ‘spirit of the dead’ are found indiscriminately used to seemingly refer to the same ‘spirit agencies’, some of which, however, are derived from the souls of important, named dead leaders, whereas others are fused into an anonymous collectivity. A recent definition reads: ‘To the community and to the individual within the community, an ancestor is a being used as a reference and honored through appropriate rituals’. (Krauskopff 1991: 65; my translation). For Indonesia, Stöhr and Zoetmulder (1968: 222–3) appear to concur: ancestors are an ‘elite’, the spirits of remarkable people whose deeds are meaningful to society, and these particular spirits are ritually installed as ancestors. So does Lemonnier for New Guinea: ancestors are successful dead, those whom the community for some reason wants to remember (pers. comm. 1996). Even among the Chinese, true ancestors are few among the multitude of dead (see Granet 1980: 65–79). Obviously, not everybody becomes an ancestor. It may be interesting to note that the semantic field of the protoAustronesian term PAN *e(m)pu for ‘ancestor’ and its various derived forms (see Barnes 1979), covering also the meanings of ‘lord’, ‘master’ and ‘affine’, suggests respect shown to any person of superior status. (See also comments by Fox 1988b.) In Borneo, most languages do not display a specific term for ‘ancestor’. Terms or expressions used to refer to forebears are alluding to either kinship (‘grandparent’, ‘great-grandparent’) or antiquity of times or people (‘the ancient ones’). The ritual installing of a spirit of the dead as an ancestor should not be confused with funerary rituals. Ambiguous statements are found in the literature: ‘Death does not automatically turn a dead person into an ancestor. In many societies, this transformation results from a ritualised passage, which may occur in two stages, as the very widespread practice of double funerals bears witness’ (Krauskopff 1991: 65; my translation). Such statements are misleading. This particular one seems to suggest that any deceased for whom funerary rituals have been performed will automatically become an ancestor. Even elaborate secondary rituals do not, in my view, function as ‘a kind of ancestor factory’—as Metcalf (1982: 23) phrases it, regarding the nulang festival of the Berawan. Whether there is a cult to these ancestors is another question. Funerary rituals have often been called ‘cults of the dead’ (e.g. Stöhr & Zoetmulder 1968: 219) or ‘cult of the ancestors’ (e.g. Metcalf 1982: 243). A cult, however, ‘is not just a set of ritual precautions that man must take in certain circumstances; it is [rather] a system of rites, feasts, and various ceremonies, which all display a character of periodicity' (Durkheim 1960: 89; my translation, emphasis in the original). Whatever contacts occur between people and the spirits of their dead parents or forebears in only an


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occasional manner do not warrant the designation of a cult. Probably, Stöhr and Zoetmulder (1968: 219) should have retained the expression ‘ritual of the dead’. What distinguishes between a cult of the dead and a cult of the ancestors? In Christian Europe, for example, the dead are honoured but do not interfere in the affairs of the living. Some of them, the Catholic saints, are the objects of a cult, and they do intervene in human affairs, if only to help find lost property. In a cult of the ancestors, dead forebears, moreover, are figures of authority, punishing transgressors (Krauskopff 1991: 66). The Chinese distinguish between the cult of the ancestors and the cult of those dead who are not, or are no longer, ancestors (Granet 1980: 79). However, whether ancestors or the dead are in focus, the fundamental purpose of a cult is for the living to obtain something—blessings, prosperity, or just guidance—in return for prayers or offerings. Thus, is the ‘figure of authority’ criterion the only one—and a valid one—to distinguish a cult of the dead from a cult of the ancestors? Durkheim himself seems to have used both expressions with the same meaning. And is there a real difference between the cult of the dead described among the Ngaju (see Schärer 1966) and the cult of the ancestors reported among the Lawangan (see Mallinckrodt 1925), insofar as they qualify as cults? It may be somehow more interesting, at least in the limited context of Borneo, to envision this question of ancestors in terms of passages. I have mentioned above the natural passage from the state of a living being to that of a corpse, and the concomitant spiritual passage that terminates the existence of the soul of the living and permits the coming into existence of a spirit of the dead. Both the single- and double-staged funerals achieve the transfer of the spirit of the dead from a transitional place—it remains roaming in this world or is ritually settled in a temporary dwelling—to its final abode in heaven. This transfer, once satisfactorily completed, is immediately followed by a rite of separation, which severs definitively the links between the living and the dead. This is the case among societies that do not have ancestors. Among certain societies, however, a distinct type of ritualised passage must be held in order to turn some of these spirits of the dead into ancestors. The separation rite may make provisions for spirits of the dead to be able occasionally to return to this world whenever summoned by the living, while preventing them from dropping in unannounced. But would these spirits qualify as ancestors? Rather, as Stöhr and Zoetmulder (1968: 222–3) report about some groups of western Borneo, like the Kendayan,9 there must be a special ritual establishing certain outstanding dead as ancestors. In short, in my view ancestors are only a selected few among the multitude of ordinary deceased forebears. I presume that a special rite must be held to install these selected few as ancestors, beyond the ordinary funerary


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rituals that transform a dead person into a spirit of the dead. In any case, it appears clearly from the above that the Aoheng, and along with them, most probably, the whole set of the Kayanic groups, do not know of ancestors, let alone of a cult to the dead or the ancestors. Moreover, only a few groups of western Borneo may indeed have ancestors, in a stricter sense. I would suggest here that, among Borneo groups practising secondary funerary rituals, the spirits of the dead are generally treated like, if not quite viewed as, just another sort of spirit, that is, entities endowed with the power to either harm or assist the living. With them, as with other types of spirits, an ad hoc bargaining takes place, making use of offerings and prayers, and aiming at both assuaging their potential ire and procuring favours and services. EPILOGUE: THE AOHENG IN THE OPEN WORLD (ERA GLOBALISASI) Some recent developments in Aoheng funerary practices are worth reporting briefly. The Aoheng converted massively to Catholicism in the 1930s, and stopped interring their dead in caves as they had done for centuries, to bury them in graveyards a short distance downstream from the village. In the past 15 years the Aoheng have started to ‘cement’ (nyémen) the graves of their dead. This operation most commonly consists in pouring a plain, rectangular slab of cement (sémen), inscribed with a name and dates, above the grave, and sometimes in erecting a roof structure to protect the slab from weathering. It may be performed immediately at the end of the burial, if the family is financially well off, or several years later, often on the anniversary of death. In the latter case, a ritual is held at the time of nyémen, consisting of Christian prayers. Although in these prayers the name of the deceased is pronounced, its spirit is not believed to be present at the ritual. Interestingly, this nyémen ritual fulfills several functions. First, it allows the Aoheng to believe that they are better Christians, as they no longer leave the markers of the graves of their dead to decay and disappear in the bushes. Also, the relative permanence of a cement slab engraved with a name and dates, as compared to the earlier shaky wooden structures erected above the grave, seems to give them a sense of belonging to the mainstream of the modern world. Moreover, in this brave new world where tribal lands are so easily appropriated by outsiders, permanent ownership markers are always welcome. A major social feature of nyémen, however, is that, just like secondary funerals among other groups, it confers status and prestige on the family holding the ritual, which is followed by a big feast. In the modern melting pot of Kalimantan, certain features of one religion tend to overlap with believers of others. For instance, some Christians fast during Ramadan (ikut Puasa), and some Muslims celebrate Christmas (ikut Natalan). Some Aoheng families have been known to follow Muslims in celebrating the 40th- and 100th-day anniversaries of death.


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With the disintegration of social stratification and the emergence of individualism in modern village society, the Aoheng tend to opt for strategies of prestige-seeking. Aristocratic families, which did not need to seek prestige, now do so in order to retain some of their vanishing privileges, and commoner families, which could not seek prestige, now do so in order to succeed in a more open, less constraining society. Christianity (the missionaries) and later Islam (via the administration), both of which played a major role in the evolution of traditional society, now curiously provide with their rituals many opportunities for competitive displays of wealth by an emerging new elite. Hence, the Aoheng’s clear new inclination towards a social behaviour reminiscent of that of Barito groups. It would not be totally surprising if at some point in the future the Aoheng started focusing their ethnocultural identity on some famous chief of old, unconsciously installing him as an ancestor and at the same time starting a cult to him. The recent Gengis Khan phenomenon in Mongolia appears to be of this type. Ancestors, in the end, might not be so much a religious as a social phenomenon. Not everybody will agree.


2 How to hold a tiwah: the potency of the dead and deathways among Ngaju Dayaks Anne Schiller

By early July 1996, the secondary mortuary ritual at Petak Putih, a Ngaju Dayak village on the banks of the Katingan River in Central Kalimantan, Indonesia was fast approaching its climax. Within days, the souls of 89 of the village’s dead would be sent on a journey to the afterlife. Rosters were scrutinised to guard against anyone being inadvertently left behind. Physical remains would receive final treatment, too. Sponsors had begun to arrange neat piles of dry bones alongside the ironwood ossuaries that would be consecrated as final resting places. Each stack was perfumed and the bones gleamed from generous dustings of talc. Hundred-rupiah notes were tucked in every pile, slipped beneath femurs and anchored between ribs as pocket money for the dead in their imminent travels. The conspicuous ‘ritual centerpiece’, of tiwah, the bundle of bamboo poles and pennants called sangkaraya, had stood before the head sponsor’s door for nearly three weeks. A towering bamboo fence at the river’s edge, the hantar bajang, alerted the outside world that the tiwah was in progress. Ossuaries, sangkaraya and hatar bajang are among the standard accoutrements of tiwah. As an anthropologist who has carried out fieldwork among the Ngaju over the course of 15 years, mostly on the neighbouring Kahayan River, these structures were familiar sights to me. Thus I was surprised by my hosts’ insistence that they had never been to a celebration like this one. One participant told me that he had never seen so many traditional priests gathered together. Several others claimed not to know when they should perform the mortuary dances. Some were anxious because they were unsure what to include in offerings for the supernatural beings who would aid their enthusiastic, albeit perplexed group in bringing the ritual to conclusion. Despite the apparent air of confusion, this was not the village’s first tiwah. According to local estimates, Petak Putih had been founded 500 17


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years earlier. The oldest remains of any structure there were from a bone repository said to be 350 years old. Furthermore, all residents of Petak Putih, past and present, were reportedly adherents of Ngaju traditional religion, now known as Kaharingan or Hindu Kaharingan. Secondary mortuary rituals are carried out on every adherent’s behalf. This tiwah was different from those of the past, however. The difference was that although Petak Putih is on the Katingan River, the tiwah was being enacted in the ‘Kahayan River’ style. Why an alternative format was chosen, and how that choice articulates with broader issues concerning religion in Central Kalimantan today, is the subject of this discussion. This chapter examines the performance of the Petak Putih tiwah and relates it to the regularisation of Ngaju indigenous rituals more generally. The regularisation of Ngaju deathways can be traced to the growing influence of the Kaharingan administrative bureaucracy, headed by the Great Council of the Hindu Kaharingan Religion (Majelis Besar Agama Hindu Kaharingan), or MBAHK. In 1980 MBAHK won official sanction from the Indonesian Department of Religion when that ministry recognised Kaharingan as a variety of Hinduism.1 Although the council does have an official mandate, it has limited autonomy and must make some decisions in consultation with the leaders in the provincial office of the Council for Hindu Religion (Parisada Hindu Dharma). As part of a larger program of religious modernisation, MBAHK has sought to devise and popularise generic death rituals (as well as other kinds of rituals) throughout the province.2 In the past, the performance of tiwah in a manner so plainly characteristic of another community would have been unlikely. Writing about a celebration carried out in the 1960s, for example, Douglas Miles described one Mentaya River Ngaju family’s quandary over whether to perform a Katingan or Kahayan ritual for an elderly relative (1976: 80–1). To understand why this group of Katingan River villagers agreed to carry out a Kahayan-style celebration, we must attend to the relationship between deathways, religious modernisation, and the evolving political consciousness of many adherents of Kaharingan. Kaharingan is a religion practised by one of the many minority peoples composing the Republic’s citizenry. That citizenry is profoundly diverse, with hundreds of ethnic groups and a population dispersed over 6000 inhabited islands. Much public debate in Indonesia surrounds the issue of religious tolerance. The ideal of tolerance is delineated in the Pancasila or ‘Five Principles’, the nation’s ideological underpinnings. The first of the Five Principles is ‘Belief in God’. That principle establishes Indonesia as a religious state, but not as one based on a particular religion. There are five official religions in Indonesia. Like the others, Hinduism has distinctive regional inflections. The ideal of the peaceful coexistence of religion notwithstanding, some citizens have grown wary of what they perceive as their nation’s drift


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towards ‘Islamisation’. Since the early 1980s, every Indonesian social organisation, religious or otherwise, has been required to adopt Pancasila as its ‘sole foundation’ (asas tunggal). Some leaders draw extensively on Pancasila in their public discourse as a means to press for continued religious tolerance (Ramage 1995). MBAHK’s leadership is typical among religious minorities in this regard. For example, in the organisation’s fouryear plan, adherents are instructed to combat elements that would incite disturbances based on ethnicity, race, religion, or between classes or groups (SARA), and reminded that although all social and political organisations in the country have accepted Pancasila, the faithful must remain alert against possible threats by extremist groups (MBAHK 1992: 3). MBAHK’s stake in promoting religious tolerance and organising the Kaharingan congregation to function as an interest group is clear. Among the council’s strategies in this regard is to downplay longstanding ritual differences between Ngaju speakers on different rivers and to promote tiwah as a regional attraction. The latter in particular is problematic for some non-Kaharingan Ngaju, however, who also accuse MBAHK of disseminating the idea that Kaharingan is a primordial constituent of Ngaju identity. Thus, on the one hand, tiwah is a profoundly Ngaju expression of identity and culture. On the other, not all Ngaju are agreeable to showcasing it. This case illuminates the interplay of two notions of potency, both associated with deathways. One is the potency of the ancestors, who are expected to reward their children and grandchildren for performing tiwah ‘correctly’. The other is the political potency of the ritual itself. In asserting control over the enactment of tiwah, MBAHK has made strategic claims on the symbolic capital of local Dayak culture. In this way, MBAHK has begun to solidify its authority as well as to call new attention to the circumstances of its congregation, which is mostly composed of the region’s poorest, most isolated citizens. THE KATINGAN RIVER NGAJU AND THEIR NEIGHBOURS The Indonesian name for Borneo is Kalimantan, and approximately twothirds of the island are part of the Republic of Indonesia. Indonesian Kalimantan is divided into four provinces, one of which is Central Kalimantan (Kalimantan Tengah), which comprises an area of nearly 154 000 km2 of jungle, swamp, secondary forest and swidden fields (see Map 1). Eleven major rivers and at least 80 small ones are located in the province. One of the longest rivers is the Katingan, located in the East Kotawaringan Regency (Kabupaten Kotawaringan Timur).3 The population of Central Kalimantan is ethnically diverse. It includes transmigrants from Java, Madura and Bali, and civil servants from throughout the archipelago. The majority of East Kotawaringan Regency’s 419 000 inhabitants, however, are Dayaks, the indigenous people of the region. There are many kinds of Dayaks, and their customs and languages differ.4


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The indigenous peoples of the middle and upper-middle stretches of the Katingan River are among those known as Ngaju Dayaks, and their language and traditions are related to those of people on the Mentaya, Kahayan, Rungan and Kapuas rivers and their tributaries. The Ngaju are the largest linguistic/ethnic group in the region. The total number of Ngaju may approach 800 000 in a province with a population estimated at about 1 600 000, but exact census figures are not available. The Ngaju language, in particular the Kahayan dialect, is the lingua franca for a large part of Central Kalimantan. Although this chapter refers to Katingan River Ngaju and to the Ngaju Dayaks generally, it must be emphasised that, for the most part, Dayak identity traditionally centred on kin groups rather than on ‘tribes’ or ethnic groups (Ind. suku). People on different rivers often considered their geographical neighbours to be their enemies, and as such potential sources of heads or of slaves. The word ‘ngaju’ itself originally had pejorative connotations. It means ‘upriver’, and to some extent still carries connotations of rusticity and backwardness (Schiller 1997a). In general, people identify themselves with the river on which they live or an even more delimited locale. They point to dialectical and ritual variation to underscore their differentness from other Dayaks, including other Ngaju speakers. Katingan River people, who refer to themselves as ‘uluh Katingan’, are no exception. Katingan River Ngaju live in villages of several hundred inhabitants called lewu. Most villages have a population of fewer than 500 (Rusan et al. 1986). The village of Petak Putih has about 300 residents. Villagers’ primary occupation is swidden horticulture, and families in Petak Putih plant one rice crop each year. Many try to supplement their income by growing cash crops such as rubber or rattan. The residents of Petak Putih are adherents of Kaharingan, a decidedly minority faith within the province and even among the Ngaju. According to the Ministry of Religion’s recent census, 67.76% of the province’s inhabitants are Muslim, 14.31% are Protestant, 2.25% are Catholic, 0.31% are Buddhist, and 15.37% are Hindu, a category that includes Balinese Hindus as well as practitioners of Kaharingan (Departemen Agama 1995). The majority of the Ngaju are converts to Protestantism, although some have become Muslims. Christian missionaries have been active among the local peoples of the region for about 150 years, although in 1946 the local church, known at the time as the Gereja Dayak Evangelis, became autonomous (Ukur 1960: 60). Questions of ethnicity among the Ngaju are complicated by the contested relationship between religious affiliation and identity. In former times some converts to Islam or Christianity changed their ethnic affiliations when they changed their faith, claiming that as a result of conversion they were no longer Dayaks. This is not the case today. Local estimates place the number of contemporary adherents of Ngaju indigenous religion at 250 000. In the past, these indigenous religionists of Central Kalimantan engaged in mostly private ecstatic rituals and an array


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of kin group-centred rituals. By the mid-1950s, this indigenous configuration of beliefs and practices had been given the name Kaharingan. Kaharingan is characterised by the propitiation of supernatural tutelaries. While most prayers and oblations are directed at ‘mid-range’ supernatural beings, including the village guardian and other upper- or lowerworld beings known as sangiang, there is also belief in a high god with male and female aspects called Ranying Hatalla Langit-Jata Balawang Bulau.5 It is widely recognised that the most involved and complex Kaharingan rituals are associated with Kahayan River practice. Many require the participation of ritual specialists known as basir. Basir traditionally learned their craft through apprenticeships extending over many years. Only the most highly skilled basir can serve as head specialists at Kahayan River tiwah, as only they are said to understand how to transport souls to the afterlife. According to adherents of Kaharingan, all that exists in the universe, material and immaterial, has a sensate conscious essence called gana. Everything therefore has an obligation to act in accordance with its hadat (Ind. adat), that is, rules and expectations concerning the proper way to live. At the same time, such a simple gloss fails to communicate fully the many dimensions and complexities of the indigenous notion of hadat. For example, most Kaharingan Dayaks would agree that hadat has a religious dimension. Many Christian and Muslim Dayaks would not, nor would the state. Adat or custom falls into the administrative ambit of the Department of Education and Culture, whereas religious matters (agama) are administered by the Department of Religion. In 1980, in response to a campaign for some form of official religious recognition that had been waged by core activists for decades, the Indonesian Department of Religion declared Kaharingan to be a variety of Hinduism (Schiller 1996). One striking development in Hindu Kaharingan today is the rapid growth of its administrative bureaucracy. Indigenous religious affairs are supervised by the aforementioned Great Council, MBAHK. MBAHK maintains its headquarters in Palangka Raya, the capital of the province, located on the Kahayan River. Yet its reach extends far beyond that city. The Kaharingan bureaucracy includes regency (Majelis Daerah) and subdistrict offices (Majelis Resort), as well as hundreds of representatives at the village level (Majelis Kelompok). Many of the council’s efforts are directed at the codification of doctrine and the regularisation of ritual across Central Kalimantan, including primary and secondary funerals. The latter are the most complex and lengthy of all Kaharingan celebrations. Among Kahayan River villagers, tiwah may last up to 33 days and involve expenditures totalling tens of thousands of dollars.6 While similarities between tiwah as celebrated by Ngaju-speakers on various rivers are obvious, Kahayan practice is widely held to be the most elaborate. The decision to hold the Petak Putih’s tiwah in the Kahayan River style was made by some of MBAHK’s highest-ranking members including the head sponsor, a 39-year-old priest raised in the village but now affiliated


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with the council in Palangka Raya. The decision had special import, in that this celebration was to be touted as the first tiwah promosi or ‘promotional tiwah’ by the Tourism Development Office of East Kotawaringan Regency. Although few if any tourists were actually expected to attend, the office produced colour pamphlets in Indonesian and English featuring a narrative outline of the ritual’s key moments, photographs of previous tiwah, and a map including air routes from major cities. The decision was also significant because of the media attention that the tiwah had attracted at home and abroad.7 Sponsors hoped to use this opportunity to showcase their village by inviting important dignitaries, including the regent (bupati), the subdistrict head (camat) and possibly even the Governor, to the celebration. SECONDARY MORTUARY RITUALS IN CENTRAL KALIMANTAN The inhabitants of Central Kalimantan are known in ethnological literatures for their extraordinary mortuary rites. Within the past 30 years, anthropologists have produced accounts of the Ma'anyan ijambe, the Luangan wara, and of course the Ngaju tiwah.8 A number of descriptive accounts are also available from the pre-Independence period. This chapter follows common practice in referring to tiwah as secondary treatment of the dead. In point of fact, however, tiwah is the third set of rituals associated with death. Among the Kahayan River Ngaju, the three stages of treatment of the dead are burial, called mangubur, which provides primary treatment for the physical remains; priestly chants that provide initial treatment for souls and cleanse the survivors from part of the supernatural pollution of death called balian tantulak matei mampisik liau; and finally tiwah. The goals of tiwah are varied, but three have particular importance. The first is to transport the souls of the dead to the ‘Prosperous Village’ located near the zenith of a cosmological upperworld. But it is not only the souls of ancestors that are removed to the upperworld by means of chants performed by basir. The gana of repositories, sacrificial animals and even ‘servants’ are transported there.9 After the souls are gone, the bones are deposited in permanent repositories called sandung. Once they have been relocated to the Prosperous Villages, ancestors pass eternity in the comfortable surroundings that their descendants have provided. Ancestors dwell together in the animate essence of their bone repository that, in the upperworld, transforms into a magnificent house. During subsequent tiwah, sandung may be reopened and more remains added, thereby increasing the size of the upperworld household. The second goal of mortuary celebrations is to reunite the three souls of the dead. According to Kaharingan doctrine, during life human beings have just one soul, called hambaruan.10 At death the hambaruan trifurcates: it becomes panyalumpuk liau or the soul of the intellect; liau balawang panjang ganan bereng or the soul of the fleshy parts of the body; and liau karahang tulang, silu, tuntang balau, or the soul of the bones, nails and


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hair. During the second stage of mortuary ritual, chants performed by a chorus of basir transport the soul of the intellect to the upperworld abode of a particular supernatural being, where it awaits further treatment. For a time, souls of the soft and hard body parts remain in the grave.11 During tiwah, all three souls are transported to the Prosperous Village, and brought together by means of chants performed by basir.12 In some cases a particular type of basir, called the duhung handepang telun, may be called on to transport the soul of the intellect before the other souls are processed. Whether sponsors employ a duhung handepang telun usually depends on their resources and on the prior requests of the deceased.13 The third aim of tiwah is to secure blessings and benefits for the living. Survivors expect to receive these as recompense from the dead, usually in the form of material goods, for having attended to their funerals and secondary mortuary rituals. The dead are considered a potential source of karuhei tatau, a term which refers roughly to kinds of esoteric knowledge that bring good fortune as well as to the actual riches themselves. It is in this sense that Kaharingan ancestors are ‘potent’. During the Petak Putih tiwah, for example, mourners discovered that the bones of the head sponsor’s father, previously exhumed and stored temporarily in a makeshift ossuary, had become infested with a variety of bees. As a result, the remains were coated with honey. Some family members took this as an indication that the dead man was satisfied with their efforts. The honey that dripped from his bones augured the karuhei tatau that would accrue to his descendants as a result of this tiwah. Survivors sometimes directly address requests for karuhei tatau to their deceased kin. In other cases they request that a basir or other intermediary contact the dead on their behalf. The dead may also choose to visit the living in dreams to make further demands or to announce gifts forthcoming to their descendants. Prosperity following the enactment of a secondary mortuary ritual is taken as evidence that the dead are content with their celebrations. Good harvests, repaid debts, or success in endeavours as diverse as trading or panning for gold, are taken as proof of ancestors’ potency. Likewise, misfortune, illness or behaviours attributed to spirit possession may be interpreted as signs that either the dead or the various supernatural beings involved in the performance of tiwah are displeased with the ritual performance. Among Kahayan River Ngaju, the enactment of a secondary mortuary ritual may last for more than a month. Some of the key events in the celebration are as follows. First, gongs and drums are carried to a specially constructed hut, the balai garantung, in front of the head sponsor’s house. The gongs and drums are sounded to mark the start of tiwah (muluh gandang garantung) and the sangkaraya is erected (Figure 2.1). Sponsors then travel to other villages to pick up the various specialists (basir and duhung handepang telun) who will perform at tiwah. These specialists invite upperworld beings, or sangiang, to take up residence in the balai


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THE POTENT DEAD

Figure 2.1 The sangkaraya; Petak Putih, 1996. The village headman, Duhung Handepang Telun, and head sponsor are in the foreground

garantung and request their permission to proceed. They petition them in the course of chants, called balian mampunduk sahur. Having arrived in the village, sangiang engage in projects that parallel sponsors’ own efforts to ready their surroundings for tiwah. This work includes erecting mortuary edifices, sweeping the village, gathering wood and so on. Chants known as balian sangiang baramu and balian mangkang lewu huma describe these activities. Next the bones of the dead are exhumed (nalampas) and prepared for further treatment. While some villagers go to the graveyard, others stay behind and busy themselves with the erection of posts to which larger sacrificial animals will be tethered (mampendeng sapundu). A few days later, offering ships (lanting laluhan) carrying rice, coconuts, animals and more may arrive from neighbouring villages. If such a ship is sent, a mock battle ensues between givers and receivers before its crew is permitted to tie up. Animal sacrifices, tabuh, commence thereafter. They are soon followed by chants (magah liau) that transport the soul of the intellect to the Prosperous Village. Within the next day or two bones are deposited in repositories (nyakean tulang) (Figure 2.2). The souls of the soft and hard body parts are also transported to the upperworld by means of chants. Then the rituals on behalf of the dead are finished. Those intended specifically to benefit the living begin. All participants are subject to an ablution in the river (kangkahem) that is intended to wash away remaining supernatural pollution. At balian patandak, specialists and sponsors receive honorific names in

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Figure 2.2 Preparing the bones for interment in the Sandung; Petak Putih, 1996

recognition of their role in tiwah. During basarah and balian balaku untung, sponsors request benefits from the supernatural beings whom they have honoured alongside their dead. PREPARATIONS FOR TIWAH IN PETAK PUTIH Above I described some Petak Putih villagers as being unsure how to perform tiwah. Most of their confusion could be traced to their unfamiliarity with the Kahayan practices that were required on this particular


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occasion. At the same time, anxiety over how to enact tiwah properly is characteristic of the Kaharingan approach to ritual generally. Participants’ desire to ‘get the ritual right’ is linked to the aforementioned ideas regarding hadat. Hadat theoretically encompasses every aspect of human activity, from how to speak to an elder or how to open a field, to how to carry out a death ritual. All thoughts, behaviours and speech that are not in accordance with hadat are ‘forbidden’. The term connoting this sense of the forbidden is pali.14 Like hadat, pali extends to every sphere of human and non-human activity. Transgression of pali may evoke supernatural reprisal, and a ritual must be held to ‘sweep away’ (mapas) the supernatural pollution that is caused by a transgression of hadat. Until restitution is made, the transgressor, his or her kin and sometimes the entire village are potentially prey to supernatural reprisal. One cannot predict who will be targeted and when. Because the Petak Putih villagers were largely unacquainted with Kahayan hadat, many worried that they might transgress it and anger their dead kin. At the same time, according to some of the guests, by not performing tiwah in the Katingan manner participants were already at risk of pali and apt to face sanctions. A few potential sponsors had even gone so far as to withdraw their dead when they learned that the head sponsor was planning to host a Kahayan-style celebration. Katingan River villagers describe their death rituals as shorter and simpler than those of Kahayan peoples. At least in Petak Putih, balian tantulak matei, or chants to transport the soul of the intellect to temporary quarters on the journey to the Prosperous Village, are not always performed prior to tiwah. On the Kahayan River, balian tantulak matei is usually carried out on the seventh day following death. In Petak Putih, 12 of the 89 individuals on whose behalf the 1996 tiwah was performed had never received balian tantulak matei. Many insist that Katingan tiwah last no more than a week and do not involve the participation of basir. Instead, the souls are transported by means of chants performed by a tukang tawur, a kind of lesser skilled ritual functionary. Indeed, there are far fewer basir among Katingan River people than among their Kahayan and Kapuas River neighbours. A similar portrait of Katingan practice emerges from older reports. According to Carl Lumholtz in ‘Funeral Customs of Katingans’, the celebration ‘lasts for one week, during which food and tuak [rice wine] are provided’ (1920: 362). Then a blian, whom Lumholtz describes as a male or female priest-doctor, ‘inaugurates’ a kapatong, or carving of a servant for the deceased (1920: 365). Animal sacrifices are a part of Katingan as well as Kahayan tiwah, but are more often limited to a pig and a few chickens rather than water buffalo and cattle. In Katingan River villages as elsewhere, sponsors of tiwah try to satisfy the obligations imposed by their bereavement as best they know how, in accordance with their tradition. But today the ancestors, the village guardian and other sangiang are not the only ones to whom they must


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answer for the quality of their performance. Sponsors must also contend with a host of new official regulations pertaining to the celebration of secondary mortuary rites that have been established by the members of MBAHK. These rules have had a tremendous effect on how tiwah in Petak Putih and in other Ngaju areas are now constructed. In the past, for example, tiwah were held at sponsors’ discretion and could take years to plan. Most begin after the harvest, in May, June or July, when demands on participants’ time are fewer. There is enough rice to feed the hundreds of family members and guests who will turn out for the celebration, and family members who have moved away have more opportunities to make the journey home. The post-harvest season is also the time of school holidays. But when planning tiwah today, sponsors must keep in mind that it can take up to 12 months just to secure the requisite official permissions. Approval must come from several sources, including the subdistrict head (camat) and the police, who issue permits allowing sponsors to hold public gatherings. Neither the police nor the subdistrict head will consider an application unless it is accompanied by a formal recommendation from MBAHK. Before MBAHK will permit a group of villagers to hold tiwah, sponsors must compile and submit several documents for inspection. One is a registry with the names of the head sponsor and those who are serving as that individual’s advisers. Another is a list of expenditures detailing the number and kind of animals to be sacrificed, the number of bone repositories that will be constructed or refurbished, and the fee to be paid to ritual specialists. The head sponsor must provide MBAHK with the names of all the participating heads of family and their various ‘assignments’ (e.g. ‘head of equipment’, ‘head of consumption’, ‘head of security’) and, when possible, the names of all the dead for whom the celebration will be held. He or she must also disclose the names of the ritual specialists who will be employed. The lists are subject to amendment as well as scrutiny. For example, if the council is dissatisfied with the sponsor’s choice of specialists, those already contacted must be replaced. Finally, sponsors must formulate a schedule detailing the ritual activities planned for each day of the tiwah. Of all the required documents, this schedule is usually the one most difficult to prepare. Its contents clearly reveal participants’ level of knowledge concerning the format of tiwah. Submission of the schedule opens the way for their further ‘education’ in ‘correct practice’ by the council. In the case of the Petak Putih tiwah, which was planned entirely in consultation with basir and MBAHK, the schedule was extremely detailed. For example, participants knew that on 27 June, from 4.00 pm to until midnight, basir would travel from house to house to perform balian mangkang lewu huma, and that on 3 July, at 6.00 am, everyone would dance around the sacrificial animals that were already tied up to sapundu. Not every sponsor had a copy of the schedule, however. In order to keep


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participants apprised of activities once the tiwah was in progress, the duhung handepang telun and the head sponsor met with the heads of participating families nearly every evening to review the next day’s events. As the duhung handepang telun explained on the evening of 2 July to the crowd that was assembled at the head sponsor’s house: Tomorrow there will be a great deal to do for this tiwah. We will begin dancing around the sacrificial animals promptly at 6:00 am. We will beginning stabbing the water buffalo at 7:00 am. Listen to the directions that you will be given about how to stab the sacrificial animals. There will be a loudspeaker so that everyone will hear the directions and understand what to do. At 10:00 am we are scheduled to dance around the shrine to the village guardian. At 2:00 pm I will begin to transport (magah liau) all the panyalumpuk liau to the Prosperous Village. At first we had planned to dance around the shrine to the village guardian at 11:00 am, but as that would mean that I wouldn’t have a chance to sleep before beginning [magah liau], I’m asking that we move the dance up to 10:00 am. When we dance around the water buffalo everyone may dance. Men and women. But when we dance for the village guardian only men may dance. And before I begin to escort the souls, you orphans will have to bring the required offerings here. I will need rice, tobacco, the bristles of the pigs and some of the skin of animals you have sacrificed, cooked meat [the list continues at length]. Remember, widows and widowers must wear white. When I begin at 2:00 pm, I will scatter the rice all over the room. No one who is pregnant should let themselves get struck with that rice. Then I will transport the souls.

A lively question-and-answer period followed, during which most of the offerings that had to be delivered to the duhung handepang telun were repeated, and sponsors looked for reassurances about their respective roles in the sacrifices. The head sponsor reiterated most of this information and reminded everyone that they shouldn’t be late in arriving at the site the next day because they had to do everything correctly, and nothing could be done twice. In accordance with MBAHK’s usual practice, lists of foods that were proscribed for the duration of the tiwah (and which could not be carried past the sangkaraya) and announcements concerning kinds of behaviour that would not be tolerated (gambling, fighting, drinking, illicit sexual relations and elopements) were sent to Petak Putih and prominently posted near the balai garantung. THE POTENT RITUALS OF THE DEAD IN CENTRAL KALIMANTAN When Kaharingan was declared ‘Hindu’ 20 years ago, there were many adherents and non-adherents who predicted that it would only be a short while before its local cast disappeared entirely and that the rites of Ngaju Dayaks would closely resemble those of Balinese Hindus. To the contrary,


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however, Kaharingan has not disappeared. In fact, some Dayaks have even decided to ‘return to Kaharingan’ (kembali Kaharingan), that is, to convert to the old faith. MBAHK has sought to foster Kaharingan’s continued dynamism in various ways. For example, Indonesian students are required to take classes in religion throughout every stage of their educational career. To ensure that there are sufficient Kaharingan teachers for interested students, MBAHK has established a college with a program in religious education (Sekolah Tinggi Agama Hindu Kaharingan, or STAHK). That institution also offers a certificate program in religious philosophy or, more specifically, a short course in becoming a basir. Other innovations within Kaharingan have included the introduction of weekly prayer meetings and the strategic positioning of an extensive bureaucracy with branches at every administrative level. The organisation’s staff enforce adherence to council-sponsored programs and oversee the regularisation of tiwah and other celebrations through a system of written warnings and fines. These successes notwithstanding, it remains to be seen whether Kahayan ritual forms are destined to become widespread in other areas. As one group of guests from a neighbouring village commented during their visit to Petak Putih: ‘Next year we’ll perform our tiwah our way. Ours will be a Katingan ritual. Kahayan people and Katingan people are different people, so we do our rituals differently. That’s hadat’. It was noted earlier that several sponsors withdrew their ancestors’ names rather than take part in a tiwah performed in the Kahayan style. And some guests at the celebration pointed out that they were not surprised to see a subdistrict representative of MBAHK stumble and fall when he attempted to stab one of the sacrificial animals, or that it rained at strange intervals throughout the celebration. They interpreted these events as indications of the Katingan ancestors’ dissatisfaction at being subjected to the ritual of their former enemies. Current efforts to regularise tiwah in the Kahayan style are in some sense paradoxical. For example, adherents of indigenous religions in Central Kalimantan, as elsewhere in Indonesia, are sometimes accused of wasting money by performing elaborate death rituals. In response to these criticisms, members of MBAHK often opine that Kaharingan ‘need not be an expensive religion’. Some privately criticise Christians, whom they suspect of providing costly tiwah for their deceased Kaharingan parents in order to intimidate nonChristians to convert to a more ‘affordable’ faith. As seven or nine basir and a duhung hadepang telun are usually contracted to enact one of these celebrations, Kahayan-style tiwah are indeed expensive. But given that one of the sponsors’ goals is to accrue blessings and karuhei tatau from their spiritually potent ancestors, some participants argue that Kahayan tiwah actually make sense from an economic standpoint. The more elaborate the tiwah, the more comfortable and inclined to be generous the deceased will be in the afterlife. I have also noted that MBAHK seeks to publicise tiwah as a tourist attraction. As the most visually exciting and lengthiest tiwah, Kahayan


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Figure 2.3 The Regent of East Kotawaringan Regency prepares to stab a water buffalo at a tiwah; Petak Putih, 1996

celebrations are perhaps the easiest to promote in this manner. One sponsor of the Petak Putih tiwah spoke for many Kaharingan religionists when he remarked, ‘This province needs tiwah. The government knows it. So do people who have converted [to other religions]. The government wants tourists to come here. Tourism contributes to development. What will tourists come to Central Kalimantan to see if not Tanjung Puting and tiwah?’.15 By doing their part to facilitate tourism, the sponsors of tiwah hope to reap the accompanying benefits of enhanced infrastructure. For example, shortly after the head sponsor of Petak Putih’s tiwah applied to MBAHK for permission to enact the celebration, he applied to the Governor’s office for a grant that would help to fund it and assist in the village’s ‘social development’. Part of the social development money would be used for a generator, so that villagers could install electric lights and use them throughout the tiwah and after. When the Regent of East Kotawaringan Regency arrived in Petak Putih to behold the tiwah-inprogress, he was accompanied by an entourage that included newspaper reporters and cameramen from a national television station. The latter had been sent to film him assisting in the sacrifice of a large water buffalo (Figure 2.3). In the videotaped speeches that preceded the sacrifice, the Regent pledged financial support for several village development initiatives. The head sponsor, who had issued the Regent’s invitation, seized the occasion to announce that he hoped to apply for additional development


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monies to finance building a hostel where tourists could stay overnight while they visited the bone repositories and experienced ‘genuine Ngaju culture’. Earlier I described Indonesia as a profoundly diverse society where the ideal of tolerance is a strategy for coexistence. By demanding adherence to monotheistic religion and to a national model of religious practice, some national leaders may hope to foster a milieu in which minority attachments and primordialism decline. Indigenous religious activists in Central Kalimantan are discovering, however, that even as they operate within the parameters set by the Department of Religion, their program of religious reform has won positive publicity and economic benefits for adherents of Central Kalimantan’s local faith, and assisted their efforts to objectify Ngaju culture and religion as a resource for political mobilisation.16 Although the council’s totalising schemes have not yet met with complete success, nor has its purported insistence on religion in the formulation and representation of identity gone unchallenged by non-adherents, it is likely that the potent dead and the powerful rituals performed on their behalf will be the focus of attention among the Ngaju for some time to come. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The research on which much of this article is based was supported by funds from National Geographic Television (1996). My initial research in Central Kalimantan (1982–84) was supported by a Fulbright-Hays Award for Dissertation Research Abroad, a Wenner-Gren Foundation Grant-in-Aid, and grants from Wellesley College and Sigma-Xi Scientific Society. Other trips to the field were funded by the Association for Asian Studies (1991 and 1995), the Wenner-Gren Foundation (1991), and a North Carolina State University Faculty Development Fund Award (1995). I thank all of these institutions for their generous support. I also thank Mantikei R. Hanyi, Duhung Handepang Telun Tian Agan and the villagers of Petak Putih for their kind assistance and hospitality throughout my most recent stay.


3 Witnessing the creation of ancestors in Laboya (West Sumba, Eastern Indonesia) Danielle C. Geirnaert

The purpose of my chapter is to draw attention to the fact that in Sumba, Eastern Indonesia, ancestors still play an important role today. This is so, in spite of the growing pressure from many local government and religious institutions on the people to abandon their traditional beliefs in the powers of their forefathers, for one of the religions that are officially recognised in Indonesia. I present a recent funeral ceremony that I witnessed, as it may show part of the Sumbanese response to a changing situation experienced as coercive and even dangerous by some, because the extent of the wrath of ancestors is unpredictable. I have already described social organisation among the Laboya of West Sumba and written on the traditional way in which the dead are slowly transformed into venerated ancestors. In the present study of Laboya funerary rites, I am obliged to recapitulate part of these earlier analyses.1 THE LIVING AND THE ANCESTORS, THE MARAPU As in many parts of Eastern Indonesia, in Sumba funerals are the most important rituals of the human life cycle. The Laboya, a community of about 14 000 members who live on the southern coast of the island, have developed elaborate funerary rites. Even today, the better-off organise large ceremonies to help the recent dead to depart to the realm of the ancestors, and the success of this perilous journey is a prerequisite for the wellbeing of society. The dead have to be fed regularly, and it is the task of the descendants to make the proper food offerings to them. The care for the dead as well as preparing one’s own death are then the main concerns of the living. During his life, a wealthy man will often build his own gravestone, a ritual requiring much manpower to pull together the megalithic stones that make up the tomb. This is an occasion to show the 32


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extent of one’s authority as well as one’s riches ostentatiously so that one may acquire prestige and hence a big ‘name’ (Laboya: ngara). Funerals are part of the system of competitive feasting that characterise Sumbanese social life. Wealth, prestige and the quality of being a nobleman all contribute to the achievement of the status of marapu, or an ‘ancestor’. For the Laboya, ideally, a marapu is someone who died long ago, and above all is remembered as having been a particularly powerful and rich person. A marapu is a man who acquired a ‘big name’ during his lifetime. The Dutch forbade headhunting at the end of the first decade of the 20th century, but the warriors of great repute of those bygone days are still considered by the Laboya as either having reached the status of marapu or being on their way to do so. Women can acquire a ‘big name’ and become marapu also, not as warriors but as mothers who gave birth to many children. All founding ancestors are marapu, but not everybody becomes a marapu after death, and some deceased take longer than others to reach this stage. It depends for a great part on the status that the deceased had in life and on the capacity of his descendants to make the proper funerals for him, that is, to sacrifice enough buffaloes and pigs to honour him. If they are well fed and addressed regularly in prayers, the deceased—and especially the most powerful among them, the marapu—bestow their blessings on the living, particularly in the form of life-giving rains that ensure good harvests of rice, maize and tubers. Blessings come from the ancestors and are conceived as being acts of ‘cooling down’ (Laboya maringi: to cool down, to refresh; to bless). Dissatisfied ancestors, on the other hand, who may feel that they are abandoned by their descendants, feel ‘hot’ and send diseases on man, cattle and crops. Angry ancestors strike the living with premature, violent, accidental death that is considered to be a ‘hot death’. This is associated with the sun, unlike normal death, which is ‘cool’ and related to the refreshing and life-giving rains (Geirnaert 1989, 1992). The link between the living and the dead is one of the basic social relationships of Laboya society, and the wellbeing of the people depends on the quality of this relationship. When asked about their religious belief, the Laboya, like all Sumbanese who have not yet adopted one of the major religions of Indonesia, answer that they belong to the ‘marapu religion’. The introduction of Christianity in Laboya in the first quarter of the 20th century and recent Christian proselytisation do not seem, so far, to have substantially influenced the nature of the relationship between the living and the dead. As is shown below, even when they become Christians the Laboya still need, and hence create, ancestors. Life between house and tomb The configuration of a Laboya settlement reveals the importance of the link between the living and their ancestors. The core of a traditional Laboya


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Figure 3.1 Traditional Sumba village of Wujimate

village consists of a circle of houses (uma) built around a central square (natara) on which rise large gravestones. The front side and the main doors of the dwellings face the tombs, so that the living members of each house live opposite their buried ancestors. Laboya has a few main ancestral villages, that is, settlements which according to myth were created by the first founding ancestors, the eldest marapu, who were immigrants to the region. In these oldest villages in particular, the spatial arrangement of house and tomb to face each other represents the link that binds the founding ancestors to their descendants. Also, this territorial relationship expresses the idea of origin as all descendants of the founding ancestors who have migrated out to build new settlements elsewhere remain the ‘children’ (ana) of the ‘eldest’ or the first house built in the oldest village. The village of Hodana, now considered to be the origin of all other settlements in Laboya, is situated at the top of a hill. It consists of a conglomerate of houses and central squares. Most Laboya villages are situated lower than Hodana (Figure 3.1) and are considered to be the ‘younger siblings’ or ‘children’ of Hodana. Territorially, a relative position on higher or lower ground represents ongoing life through successive generations. This ‘flow of life’ (Fox 1980) is associated with the water that flows from the water springs to the sea as well as with the downpouring rains. The spatial order in a village is closely related to the social organisation of the Laboya. Laboya society is divided into kabihu and uma. The terms kabihu (kabisu in other regions of Sumba) and uma are often translated as


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‘clan’ and ‘lineage’ respectively. Elsewhere I have argued that these translations are misleading (Geirneart 1992: 16–17). Indeed, although kabihu and uma have a strong patrilineal connotation, they are not exclusively defined in relation to a male founding ancestor. The founding members of a kabihu consist of a man as well as his wife (or wives). All prayers start with an address to the ancestral couples, who are referred to as ‘Mother, Father’ (Inya, Ama). An Uma (literally ‘House’2) is a subdivision of a kabihu but it is also created by a male ancestor and his wife or wives and consists of their descendants—that is, all sons with their wives as well as their unmarried daughters (Geirnaert 1992:18): . . . a kabihu encompasses a number of smaller units called Uma. The relationship between Uma are conceived of in terms of patrilineal descent. The ranking order of the ‘Houses’ is determined by the mythical order of birth of their founding fathers. A kabihu consists of an ‘elder House’ (Uma pa kaya) and of several ‘younger houses’ (Uma pa ali) . . . A kabihu consists of a set of founding male siblings and their wives; Uma indicates the siblings’ order of birth within each kabihu.

Brothers and sons remain members of their father’s kabihu and Uma, whereas sisters and daughters leave their father’s village and social unit on marrying to become part of their husband’s graves. Hence a tomb represents not only patrilineal descent but also past and present affinal ties with the kabihu and Uma, who are wife-givers, that is, classificatory mothers’ brothers. In marriage, women bring new life to a ‘House’. As they gave birth to children, they enable male members of a ‘House’ to ensure the continuity of that particular ‘House’ through descending generations. I have argued that during their lifetime men accumulate prestige and wealth and strive to acquire the ‘big name’ or ngara which protects the life-giving capacity of all male and female members of a ‘House’. Formerly, a man increased his name mainly by becoming a great headhunter. Nowadays, to a certain extent, feasting has replaced war as a prestige-making activity. The number of animals that are sacrificed proclaims a man’s ability to monopolise his wife-givers’ and wife-takers’ willingness to partake in the ostentatious slaughtering of buffaloes and pigs. In this way, a man shows off the extent of his social relationships and the strength of his authority. The increase in the number of animals slaughtered emphasises the competitive aspect of feasting. In order to understand the nature of the spatial and social link between a house and a tomb, it is essential to recall what is a person according to Laboya’s belief and what happens after a normal, ‘cool’ death or ‘mate ta we’, or literally ‘death to the water’.3 A person consists of a body and of two components called mawo and dewa. With the growing process of


36

THE POTENT DEAD

Christianisation, dewa and mawo are increasingly interpreted as being one and the same thing, translated into Indonesian as ‘nyawa’ (soul). I have insisted on the fact that they should not be mistaken for one another, because they play a crucial role in the traditional beliefs of the Laboya. Mawo can be understood as ‘shadow, reflection and breath’. Before death, mawo is contained in the breath and in the body fluids. The shadow of one’s silhouette in the sun is mawo, so is one’s reflection in the water. Mawo may have a smell, and the presence of the deceased of certain kabihu can be recognised by their good or bad scent. In the fetus, that is in the future body, mawo is joined to dewa; but at death, mawo separates itself from dewa and rots away. Mawo induces the rotting away of the body. Mawo becomes the putrefied fluids of the dead that flow back to the water springs where the ancestors wait for the deceased. Mawo then evaporates from the water springs and from the earth and rises into clouds to become fertilising rains. The ancestors lead the recent dead back to the land of origin that is situated, for the Sumbanese, beyond the northern coast of the island, at Cape Sasar in West Sumba, where the first immigrants landed. The dead go back to the origin to accomplish their transformation into marapu. Mawo is associated with breath, mist, clouds and, incidentally, the fluffy form of raw cotton. After death, the individual mawo melts into impersonalised, collective vapour which eventually turns into life-giving rains. Dewa contrasts strongly with mawo. It is associated with the reputation and hence with the name of a person. Dewa is imputrescible and its path after death is entirely different from that of mawo. During his lifetime, a person may increase his reputation and hence his dewa by being successful. For men, success consists essentially in being able to have large harvests of rice and maize and increasing substantially the number of cattle herds, particularly the count of buffalo. These basic resources will be exploited during feasting in order to proclaim one’s success and hence the greatness of one’s name. Also, men should be able to procreate in large measure. For women, to give birth to many healthy children is the prerequisite for increasing prestige during one’s lifetime and an honourable reputation after death to build up the status of the marapu. After death, after the separation from mawo, part of the dewa, mainly that part that is linked to the name, is called back by the living descendants and invited to come and dwell in the attic of the house. Dewa is essentially a social, domestic quality that is inherited through the patrilineal line, just as is the name. Dewa can be considered as a pool of ancestral ‘big names’ residing in the attic of the house, and whose reputation protects the living descendants. At birth, a child inherits some dewa from his House: that is, he receives a small amount of the collective, ancestral ‘Big Name’ of his Uma. A child’s dewa increases as he obtains the protective name of an ancestor during a name-giving ceremony. Yet throughout his life he will have to increase his dewa through valorous deeds. His success will



37

contribute to the increase of the ancestral, protective pool of the dewa of his House. The path of dewa after death is essentially a social one. Dewa is for a large part reintegrated into the social realm when it is called by its name and requested to live among the other ancestral dewa of the house. In contrast to this, mawo is part of a cosmological cycle that involves the passage from the protected social realm into the fearful domain of the ancestors and back again. Mawo is recycled into beneficial life-giving rains for the community. Only the dry bones buried in front of the house remain of the body of the deceased, while the other components, mawo and dewa, go on to the realm of the ancestors where they stay for a long time, the time that is required for the dead to become an ancestor. After that, mawo and dewa are recycled, the former in the universe in the form of rain, the latter in the social realm as a protective name for the descending generations. It is believed that the more powerful—the ‘bigger’—the name of the deceased, the more beneficial his blessings for Laboya society as a whole. The bones that are buried in the tombs in front of the dwellings are the dry, imputrescible remains of the deceased. They should be rid of all rotting flesh, of all mawo. The dry bones in the tomb facing the houses in the central square testify that mawo and dewa have separated appropriately and that the deceased is on his way to the realm of the ancestors, and not able to disturb the living any more. On the contrary, from now on the deceased is expected increasingly to send his blessing. The ancestors are active at night and sleep during the daytime, but otherwise they live as the living do, with the advantage that they possess everything in abundance. They have large numbers of buffaloes and pigs and plenty of rice. They are divided just as the living, in kabihu and Uma, and they organise feasts for their pleasure. They partake in the festive activity of their descendants as they come to share food with the living. Also, each day they receive several mouthfuls of rice placed by their male descendants on the top of one of the main pillars of a house. However, they differ from the living in one important respect: they cannot copulate and hence cannot reproduce themselves. Ancestral dewa can and do wish to enter another life cycle, but this will never be an exact replica of a forefather. What makes an individual unique is his personal combination of mawo and dewa. From childhood and through adulthood, his deeds will increase his name and hence consolidate the strength of the link that binds his mawo to his dewa. Someone with a weak dewa is apt to lose his mawo, and this is a characteristic of low-status people. It is important to stress that never again will an individual live another life under the same combination of mawo and dewa. Yet part of his mawo and his dewa will be transmitted to the descendants of his Uma. Part of his dewa will be inherited by one of his descendants who will be given his name during the name-giving ceremony. One generation at least must be skipped before the name of a dead person


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THE POTENT DEAD

can be given to a child. In Laboya, apparently, this is the minimum amount of time for a particular combination of dewa and mawo to disintegrate completely and to become ancestral, collective mawo and dewa. Some comments of informants suggest that the disintegration of the link between mawo and dewa of noblemen of repute may require more time than for commoners. Within a particular kabihu, there are only a small number of personal names available. Even when the rule according to which one has to skip one generation before giving the name of a deceased to a child is respected, one finds that a small pool of names is repeated from generation to generation. In fact, these names constitute part of the pool of ancestral, protective dewa that is continuously transmitted downwards. The process of name transmission ensures the continuity of the life of a kabihu and of its constitutive Uma. The name represents the first social link inherited by a child, that is, his relation to his father and to his mother. The latter includes his relationship to his mother’s brother, the person who in the past made a gift of life to his father by giving him a bride. The growth of the individual’s name and hence of his dewa throughout his life will depend on his ability to consolidate these original relationships. Tombs are identified by the names of the famous ancestors whose bones have been buried in them. The protective powers of the ancestors are contained not only in the attic of a house. The space between house and tomb reminds the living of the eternal bond that must exist between the buried forefathers of repute with their wives and their descendants. This link is a prerequisite for the continuation of society. To build a tomb for a well-known man proclaims and strengthens the reputation of an Uma. At times, it may also be a device to create a new Uma, as it has been in the past. THE STATUS OF HOGA BORA In January 1996 I went back to Laboya as a member of an audiovisual team.4 With the exception of a short stay in the summer of 1993, it had been 10 years since I had last lived among the Laboya. The children I remembered as toddlers had now become teenagers, and many more had been born. Unfortunately, many older people I had known well were either in poor health or had died. It was particularly distressing for me to meet again in his home Mr Hoga Bora, the gentleman who had been my first host and informant when I started my fieldwork in 1982, as it was clear that he would not recover from his serious illness. He and his wife, Ibu Julie, were now courageously preparing the funerary rites.5 Special circumstances made his death, at the end of February, all the more sad and dramatic. His eldest brother, Lero Bora, the eldest son of the former Raja of Laboya, had died six weeks before him (Figure 3.2). People clearly remembered the lavish ceremonies, which included the sacrifice of many buffaloes and pigs, that had been organised for Lero’s funeral. As


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Raja Laboya R

Wawo

=

=

Lero

= Dorkas

=

1

Maradi Julie

=

Hoga Bela Bora

= David Bora

Juile

=

2

=

3

= Kole

= Tina

David Bintang Camat Octapianus Kole

Figure 3.2 Family of Raja Laboya, Eda Bora (David)

weeks went by, the size and beauty of the animals were recalled and perhaps embellished in their memories. The people who had taken part in the ritual exchange of buffaloes and pigs spoke proudly of the animals they had been able to give away. The exchange of gifts at funerals follows the rules that govern the Laboya marriage system, according to which a man should marry his real or classificatory mother’s brother’s daughter. At funerals, wife-givers and wife-takers must bring buffaloes and pigs to be killed ostentatiously on the village square. Also, wife-takers bring golden jewellery and weapons in exchange for textiles, the gift of wife-givers. A relative, either a wife-giver or a wife-taker who is unable to provide an appropriate animal, may prefer to decline the invitation to attend a funeral, but he will then suffer a loss of prestige and feel shame for himself and the members of his household. From a classificatory point of view, Lero and Bora had many wife-givers and wife-takers in common. The question, never discussed in public but often commented on in private, was whether the number of animals to be sacrificed for Hoga would equal that for Lero. The acuteness of the situation was intensified by the fact that, traditionally, the funerals of younger brothers were ideally held in the house of their elder brother. If a younger brother was not able to erect a gravestone for himself during his lifetime, his body was buried in the tomb that stood in front of the dwelling of his eldest male sibling. At the time of his death, Hoga Bora had not yet built his own megalith, and some people speculated whether he would be inhumed in the same grave as his brother, Lero. Yet just before he died Hoga expressed the wish to be put in a new tomb that was to be built in front of his own house (Figures 3.3 and 3.4). He told his wife that the


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THE POTENT DEAD

Figure 3.3 Layout of houses and graves

‘Raja’s grave was too crowded’. Indeed, apart from the Raja and Lero, the tomb contained the remains of two of the Raja’s wives. The funerary rites would be carried out partly in Hoga’s house and partly at that of his brother. In due course, Hoga wanted Ibu Julie to join him in the new grave facing the house where they had lived for all their married life. For the second time in a few weeks, the central square in front of the house of the former Raja would witness the number and the size of the animals to be killed in honour of a deceased of high rank.6 Long talks were taking place between wife-givers and wife-takers in order to solve the problems arising from the fact that two important men had died in such a short time. The main part of the ceremonies—that is, the slaughtering of the animals during the last phase of the rites at the secondary funeral—would take place on the large grass field lying between Lero’s house and the former Raja’s grave, in which Lero himself was buried. During their lifetime the two brothers had been on good terms and lived next to each other (Figure 3.3), so that their wives and children often helped one another, as they still do. They were both the sons of the former Raja’s first wife (see Figure 3.2) and belonged to the kabihu Marapate, considered to be one of the oldest kabihu in Laboya. Before Indonesian Independence, Sumba was divided into regencies administered by local men, who were appointed ‘raja’ by the Dutch. Laboya was just such a regency until the Indonesian government took over and deposed all rajas, including the father of Lero and Hoga. But even today local people are respectful towards the members of the families of former rajas. Traditionally in Laboya nobility is inherited through the mother’s line only, but in the present case



41

Figure 3.4 New tomb built for Hoga Bora in front of his house

the descendants of the raja are considered to be noblemen as well, because of their father’s former status. Under the Dutch the rajas and their families became Protestant Christians and their children were encouraged to go to school. Hence, to this day local Sumbanese administrators belong mostly to the influential former rajas’ families. This was also the case for Lero and Hoga: Lero became a Kepala Desa, and Hoga, Laboya’s tax collector. However, the lives of the two men had taken a slightly different course. While Lero stayed in Sumba and married a noble Laboya girl, Ibu Wawo, Hoga went to study in Java and chose a Javanese partner, Ibu Julie, who came to live with him on Sumba. At first the Laboya community had difficulty in accepting this choice. Not only was


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THE POTENT DEAD

Ibu Julie a foreigner, she was a Roman Catholic as well. Later, as she raised many healthy children—a prerequisite for female prestige in Laboya—and worked relentlessly running a small food stall, she earned the respect of all, and by the time of Hoga’s death she had long been fully accepted. But according to her own account the beginnings had been difficult. One may remark that her ‘foreign’ origin must have contributed to the fact that visitors came and stayed at Hoga’s house and not at Lero’s. While Lero had stuck to the traditional high-peaked, thatched Sumbanese house on pillars, Hoga had chosen a one-storey modern-style dwelling with a corrugated iron roof. Hoga and his wife became the semi-official hosts of visiting government people and foreigners of all kinds in the village of Kabukarudi, the modern administrative centre of Laboya. In the eyes of many people, Laboya people as well as outsiders, Lero stood for the traditional way of life and Hoga for an acceptance of change and the outside world. Both were highly respected as noble and powerful men, and were sometimes feared, but they were perceived differently. It is noteworthy to remark that Lero’s widow, Ibu Wawo, a Protestant, regularly insisted on the fact that the rains had been plentiful since Lero’s death. In the eyes of many, Lero had already become a marapu, able to bestow his cooling blessings on the society at large. The question was, what would become of Hoga? Hoga had been particularly successful in his job. As a tax collector he had often taken in more money than the amount fixed by the government. He had succeeded in filling the coffers of the state, and at his death government officials decided that he should have a funeral in which the local representatives of the Indonesian government took an active part. This public recognition of his work greatly increased his prestige and status. It also gave some emphasis to Hoga’s wish to be inhumed in a new grave in front of his own house (as we see below). The decision to stress the participation of the government at Hoga’s funeral must be seen as an effort on the part of the local administration, at the level of the kecamatan or district and with the permission of the Bupati, to boost the status of civil servants and government initiatives in the desa of Laboya. Laboya is now part of the kecamatan Walakaka, which includes other linguistic and territorial units.7 Laboya is considered to be one of the most ‘backward’ or ‘traditional’ regions of West Sumba by government authorities, as well as by most of its neighbours. Great efforts are being made to improve school attendance, to build roads and to promote national consciousness. And although one can hardly speak of tourism yet, plans for its development are strongly promoted for the near future. From a religious point of view, Laboya’s population is divided into roughly three categories. The first consists of a small influential group of descendants of highranking noblemen who were educated and converted to Christianity by the Dutch, mostly Protestants. The second is represented by a slowly growing number of newly converted Christians, both Protestants and Catholics. The third and by far the largest category includes the unchristianised marapu



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people, who highly repect the authority of the traditional religious practitioners as the mediators between the ancestors and the living. Tension between the groups is latent and sometimes leads to subdued conflicts, for instance when the dates for the yearly rituals have to be fixed. These yearly ceremonies tend to attract foreign visitors, and the local government representatives are eager to fix an exact date so as to be able to report beforehand to officials working in the West Sumbanese department of tourism. At the local level the Camat, Mr Octapianus Kole, is a Laboya man and holds a key position. His father, Mr Kole, belongs to the group of the first generation of Christian Sumbanese educated at school by the Dutch. Octapianus Kole acts as a coordinator between the three categories of people I have identified in Laboya as far as religious behaviour is concerned. Moreover, as an important classificatory wife-taker of Hoga and Lero (see Figure 3.2), he played an important part in Hoga’s funeral. Although he himself lives with his family in a government building, his parents now live in a small house built next to Hoga’s on the other side of Lero’s. It is difficult for me as yet to assess the extent of Octapianus Kole’s role in the decision to involve official government participation during Hoga’s funeral. He did, however, take an active part during the ceremonies (and I return to this point later). While we were in Laboya, several teachers told us that the government wished to build a special cemetary in Waingapu, where civil servants would be buried. In Sumba, one has to be particularly careful with hearsay, and there was too little time left for me to verify these rumours. But even if such news was a misinterpretation and a distortion of more general trends to come, they represent the climate in which the funeral took place. People seemed to be aware that their strong relationship with the ancestors was not always understood and accepted by the more development-minded members of society at large. HOGA’S FUNERAL Funerals in Laboya consist of two main ceremonies. The first, which involves the washing and the wrapping of the corpse in many layers of textiles, takes place in the house. Then the wrapped body is put into the tomb. Some time later the most important ritual takes place, and consists of the slaughtering of large animals, buffalo in particular. Both rituals require that many relatives be invited: members of the deceased’s own Uma, his main wife-takers and wife-givers. On each occasion the main part of the ritual is the sacrifice of the animals and the communal meal that follows. Eating together re-establishes and strengthens existing social relationships; in the process the dead are not forgotten, for they are given food as well. Within each kabihu, and consequently each Uma, the ancestors will divide the offerings among the recent dead—that is, all the forefathers that have not yet reached the status of marapu. In other parts of Sumba, several years


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THE POTENT DEAD

can go by between the two ceremonies. This is not the case in Laboya, where an average of only 10 days separates them. It is unthinkable that the second ceremony, which could be regarded as a secondary funeral, would not take place. As I have described the ceremonies for the dead earlier (Geirnaert 1992), here I present the main sequence of the first and second funerals as far as they are significant to the argumentation of the case of Hoga. Traditionally, during the time lapse separating the two funerals the body is left to rot away, so that the mawo may separate from the dewa. The smell of the rotting body testifies to the fact that mawo and dewa are separating in order to start their voyage to the realm of the ancestors. The malodorous bodily fluids contain the mawo. Mawo is supposed to flow back to the water spring that belongs to the kabihu of the deceased. There it will be met by the more recent dead who will take it to the ancestors. Thus the mawo starts its process of transformation in order to return ultimately as rain or fluvial water to feed plants, animal and human beings. The dewa is called back into the attic of the house many years later, during a special third funerary ritual that is omitted in Christian families. Yet before the dewa can be recalled it has to leave the village and the house to meet the ancestors. Without the sacrifices of animals, this journey of the dewa to the land of the ancestors cannot start. For as long as the secondary funerals are not held, the deceased cannot leave his house; he is seen at night, roaming between his home and the tomb. When speaking Indonesian, the Laboya call the putting of the body in the grave ‘penguburan resmi’, or ‘official burial’. In Mr Hoga’s case, a large gravestone of concrete cast in the traditional megalithic shape of tombs was built on the orders of Ibu Julie in the month of February, and the finishings on it lasted up to the day preceding the ‘official burial’. After Hoga’s death, Ibu Julie told me that at twilight she could see him wandering around the house, watching as the construction of the tomb was proceeding. She saw him bending over to look inside the tomb. As soon as the ‘official funeral’ took place, she stopped seeing him. The first funeral lasts two days. On the first day, Hoga’s body was wrapped in several lengths of textiles and put into a casket on which a cross was set as a sign that he was a Christian. The rest of the textiles were hung over ropes above the casket. In the evening, gongs were played and the tunes reminded people of the fact that he was still roaming about while male relatives were on their way to come and meet him for the last time. Animals were killed to feed the relatives who had come for the wake. All night people come to pay their respect to the widow, and the women cried loudly. Next day the casket was to be put into the grave. At around 3 pm, Ibu Julie and her children dressed up. They and the guests sat down to listen first to the Protestant priest, who recalled the life of Mr Hoga and his involvement in Church activities. Then a government official took over, to



45

trace the life of Mr Hoga as a civil servant and to list the official rewards he had obtained for his activities in service of the state. Next, the family of the deceased, and especially his eldest son who had flown in from Jakarta for the occasion, carried the casket out of the house and laid it down on chairs that were standing before the grave. The Camat, Mr Octapianus Kole, surveyed this process, and saluted as the family members retreated and civil servants lifted the casket to carry it into the grave. It was said that the casket with the body of Hoga had now been handed over by his widow and children to the government. The official (and not the family, as should have been the case according to custom) laid the casket in the megalithic grave. The official funeral lasted two days as well. On the evening of the first day, people usually remember the deceased and often cry. On the second day, as the sun sinks, a far more joyous atmosphere prevails. The deceased, following the sacrifice of the animals, is expected to leave the world of the living as he begins his journey to the land of the ancestors. One may wonder what the role played by the sacrificed animals is in this process. According to some informants who are Christians, a minimum of three large buffalo are to be slaughtered, each performing a special function. Any subsequent buffaloes killed do not have a particular function except for the purpose of ostentation. The first buffalo is dedicated to the marapu, the named ancestors of the deceased who will take his ‘soul’. Here, the distinction between mawo and dewa is not made and the Indonesian word ‘nyawa’ is used. The second buffalo is intended as a gift to the departed father and mother of the deceased. The third buffalo may be claimed by the mother’s brother of the deceased as a ‘replacement for his body’. These sacrifices retrace the original social relationships that a person obtains at birth, as I have shown above. In other words, without reference to these primary relationships the dead person cannot become an ancestor and is doomed to roam among the living, bringing them evil out of wrath. It is the task of the forefathers and mothers and ultimately of those who have attained the stage of marapu to transform the deceased into life-giving components. This process can be accomplished only by the gift of large, suitable animals by the living to their ancestors. The continuation of a kabihu or of an Uma depends ultimately on these gifts. Once the dead has been handed over to the ancestors, the living may rejoice. According to Kole senior, before the Raja of Laboya was appointed by the Dutch the sacrifice of three large animals was considered to be enough. It appears that the Raja considerably increased the number of animals to be slaughtered in honour of the dead, in an attempt to gain prestige and power over men of other kabihu who were in competition with him for recognition by the Dutch. The obligation to kill a large number of animals at the funerals of Lero and Hoga was certainly dictated by this recent history. It is noteworthy that, in the case of Hoga, it was often said a few weeks after his funeral that ‘had


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THE POTENT DEAD

he not been a Christian, Hoga would already become marapu'. This was said of Hoga and not of Lero, probably because Hoga’s funeral had been unexpectedly lavish and the government’s participation had lent extra lustre to his name. Hoga was not the only person to have gained prestige in the process. The Camat, Octapianus Kole, Hoga’s classificatory wife-taker, seems to have increased his reputation as well. As I have argued elsewhere (Geirnaert 1992), if wife-givers are life-givers in the Laboya system of exchange, then wife-takers provide their wife-givers with the means to acquire and increase their prestige. Indeed, wife-givers, in exchange for brides, receive weapons, horses and dogs with which to hunt and make war. It is reasonable to conclude that the Camat’s role in Hoga’s funeral fits in with this underlying pattern for wife-takers. After the funerals, Ibu Julie commented that her husband had been buried with all the honours she could have expected and that from now on, every evening, she would walk from the house to the tomb where her husband expected her to come in the end. The Camat’s help had been an asset to her. The path from the house to the tomb represented the link between the deceased who was powerful during his lifetime and his descendants. All the conditions for the creation of a new Uma were present. CONCLUSION Hoga’s words that ‘the tomb of the Raja was too crowded’ may be interpreted as a wish to create a new ‘House’, the social unit of which he himself and his wife would be the founding father and mother. The building of a new tomb is a common means of scission for a kabihu, and it seems that Hoga wanted to differentiate himself and his Uma from that of his brother Lero, perhaps positioning himself as a younger but fully recognised branch of the kabihu Marapate. The mingling of the government as well as the Protestant church increased Hoga’s prestige and served his purpose for creating a new Uma. No doubt in the minds of many people he and his wife are on their way to become founding ancestors of his future descendants. So far, it is too early to analyse how the relationships will develop over time between the two families. Funerals are an occasion for all the chief participants to increase their prestige, their ‘name’ and to contribute to the renown of their Uma. The funeral of Hoga demonstrates how in Laboya society the mingling of state and church are put to use to increase prestige. The Camat skillfully strengthened his local, genealogically determined authority as well as the power he derived from his position as a civil servant. For Hoga Bora the funeral was an occasion to mark his difference from his brother and create potentially a new Uma. It also gave him the possibility to integrate his foreign wife and their children fully into Laboya society.



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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to thank Ibu Julie, and posthumously Mr Hoga Bora, for their kindness and hospitality. With the agreement of Ibu Julie and her family, we were permitted to record the funerals of Hoga Bora on videotape. Also, I am greatly indebted to Bapak Kole whom I first met in 1982 and to his son, Bapak Octovius Kole, the Camat of the kecamatan Walakaka, who gave his time and help to our project wherever it was necessary. Throughout these years, the comments and explanations of Bapak Kole senior have allowed me to understand part of Laboya society. I met Ibu Wawo, Lero’s widow, the first time I went to Kabukarudi, the modern, main village of Laboya. Her help too has been invaluable, and I thank her for her contribution to our wellbeing.


4 Reciprocity, death and the regeneration of life and plants in Nusa Penida (Bali)* Rodolfo A. Giambelli

The events surrounding death and the role of the ancestors in Nusa Penida are deeply interwoven into the issue of reciprocity, for reciprocity encompasses a cycle of complementary obligations not only between humans, but also among humans, their natural environment, their ancestors and the gods. Reciprocity between these agents relies heavily on issues associated with death and regeneration of life, as in this society the death of human beings is related to the growth of plants and produce as well as to social reproduction and the establishment of divine ancestorship. Central to these themes is the local perception of wild plants and cultigens, as in this agricultural society these items are essential for material reproduction and for human and natural fertility. In the context of the large corpus of writings dealing with Balinese anthropology, none of which has seriously dealt with Nusa Penida, the emergence of this set of themes outlines the presence of a Balinese culture distant from Brahmanical issues and more attuned to the cultural issues central to Austronesian cultures. Nusa Penida lies in the Lombok Strait between Bali and Lombok (Map 2). The island was traditionally used as a place of confinement by all Balinese rajas before the Dutch conquest. Nusa Penida is inhabited by about 46 000 persons (1990), the majority of whom are subsistence farmers growing maize and cassava as their staple foods, and only marginally dry rice, which is mainly reserved for ritual purposes. Locals consider themselves to be common Balinese (sudra) outside the three traditional Balinese estates (triwangsa). In the island there is no significant presence of highcaste Balinese; nor of Balinese (Bali Aga) who ascribe to themselves an origin and an identity rooted in Bali and different from those descending from the Javanese conquerors of Bali. The language spoken is Balinese with some local variations; high Balinese is rarely spoken. In some central areas of the island Brahmana priests (pedandas) are forbidden to officiate, and 48


RECIPROCITY, DEATH AND REGENERATION OF LIFE AND PLANTS

49

e

Singaraja

BALI

JAVA

BANGLI

BULELENG

St ra it

KARANGASEM EM Bangli Am Amlapura

t

TABANAN Taban banan

Gianyar

tra i

Ba li

JEMBRANA Negara

Klung Klungkung

Denpas pasar BADUNG G

GIANYAR

Nusa Penida

Lo

KLUNGKUNG

LOMBOK

0

20

40 km

Map 2 Bali administrative divisions (Kabupaten); Nusa Penida is enclosed within Kapupaten Klungkung

major emphasis is placed on village ritual specialists (pamangku). In Balinese lore the island is considered to be a source of evil, dangers and illnesses, for on the north coast of Nusa Penida lies the temple of Ratu Gede Macaling, the great fanged god to whom eastern Balinese impute the coming to Bali of cholera. In the perception of the people of Nusa Penida the natural and social orders are linked, as both are part of a single continuous domain where a feature peculiar to the former becomes a metaphor for the latter, and vice versa. This assumption appears consistent with Ingold’s (1992) suggestion that humans and non-humans form a single social world, as well as Rival’s (1993) argument that human beings and natural objects form a single social field. This chapter explores these issues from the perspective of the human–plant relationship and the role plants have in Nusa Penida. According to the people of Nusa Penida, life-giving processes, such as those involving the growth of plants and cultigens, cannot be left to chance and must be constantly encouraged and regulated. These processes carry strong associations with particular aspects of death ceremonies which are transformed into life-promoting ones. The issue evokes Hertz’s analysis of the double-burial practice and the subsequent investigation of these themes by Huntington and Metcalf (1979) and Bloch and Parry (1982). My approach diverges from the more recent authors, as I argue that the sexual aspects involved in the reproductive cycle must be understood with reference to the local cultural context and not merely to biological reproduction. I examine the belief that cultigens sprang from the dead body of a young


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THE POTENT DEAD

woman, from the yearly agricultural cycle in the village of Sakti, and the role that corpse exhumation, flesh and bones, fertility and ancestors play in the regeneration of plants and cultigens. All are part of an exchange circuit based on a paradigm in which the idiom of flesh and bones is used to express different types of fertility concerns. Finally, I reflect on the transformation of ancestors and ancestor worship at village level. MYTHS AND IDEAS RELATED TO THE GROWTH OF TREES AND CULTIGENS As Stöhr and Zoetmulder (1968: 182) have pointed out in a myth they called ‘the appearance of useful plants and of death’ (after Jensen 1948, 1963; Jensen & Niggemeyer 1939), the growth of domestic plants throughout large parts of Indonesia is held to have originated from the violent death of a human being. More precisely, plants and cultigens used for everyday consumption are believed to have arisen from the sacrificed body and blood of a young woman, or of a child. The myth with its variation is well known in Indonesia, and could be considered a common theme in most eastern Indonesian cultures.1 In Bali and Nusa Penida a variation of this myth concerns the appearance of rice, as I was told in Sakti. The story runs as follows: A kingdom of old was affected by a sustained drought that dried up all its rivers, springs and wells, desiccated forests and cultivated land and led animals as well as humans to the verge of starvation. The raja of the realm was unable to deal with the problem. He therefore decided to ask the gods and his ancestors for advice. He was told that the drought ought to be attributed to his subjects as they had misbehaved towards the gods and their ancestors. As a condition for ending the drought the gods required the sacrifice of a human being, for only the blood of a human sacrifice shed on earth would end the drought. The raja brought the news to his people only to realize that no one was willing to be sacrificed for the sake of the kingdom. Sri, one of the raja’s daughters, heard about this and offered herself as the sacrificial victim. The father did not welcome the news. Nonetheless he was compelled to accept it because of the gravity of the situation. It is said that the young lady walked to her death with a smile on her lips. She was sacrificed in a public place. Her blood, which was then shed on the earth is said to have been sweet-smelling. Immediately after her death the sky became dark and heavy rain set in. It rained all the night and the water replenished the rivers and wells. The next day, after the rain had stopped, the raja visited the grave of his daughter and there he found that on the grave a green plant had grown, bearing small golden grains. This was the rice plant. People believe that the soul of the princess is reincarnated in the plant. She became the goddess Sri (Dewi Sri), the symbol of rice, prosperity and of floral as well as human fertility.2

This myth focuses on rice. However, one of the elements that it brings to the fore, and which it has in common with all other myths of this type, is the



51

emphasis on the fertilising nature of a dead body from which cultigens are obtained to feed other humans. In the myth a startling inversion of the meaning of death occurs. What appears to be a useless body becomes, in reality, the primaeval source of fertility and food for humanity. DRY AND WET SEASONS: DEATH AND THE AGRICULTURAL CYCLE Although rice is no longer cultivated in Sakti, because the decrease in rainfall has shifted the main subsistence crop to maize, this myth is still believed and recognised as relevant to the growth of maize and other crops. In the perception of people from Nusa Penida, in the first phase of death rituals death, corpses, fertility, earth (conceived as Ibu Pretiwi, the Hindu goddess representing mother earth) and plant growth are all interrelated. The relationship between plant reproduction and human death begins with the understanding of the different emphasis locals place on the division of the year into two halves, the hot season (masan panes) and the rainy season (masan ujan). The hot season is held to run from the March equinox to the September equinox. This period is marked by the end of the harvesting season and a post-harvest feast (in Sakti called Maprani), by the beginning of the new year and by the performance of death rituals. The wet season runs from the September to the March equinox,3 and is characterised by agricultural work, from land preparation and sowing to the harvesting season. For the whole of the desa Sakti the agricultural season is focused on maize cultivation, with a ripening time of between three and four months; in the centre of Nusa Penida dry rice is still grown, with a maturation period of between six and seven months. In both cases, however, only a single crop per year is grown and harvested; in the island maize or dry rice culture there are no cases of multiple annual crops as in Balinese wet rice culture. Dry rice and maize agricultural cycles, although they may differ in length, are completed within a rainy season. On the full moon of the tenth Balinese lunar month, the thanksgiving festival Maprani is held in Sakti. It announces the end of the corn agricultural season. During the feast, which is centred on a collective meal held by the men in the village communal pavillon (balé banjar), thanks and offerings are given to Ibu Pretiwi for the crop she has bestowed on the people, and then to the ancestors who have helped the community sustain the growth of the crops from sowing to harvest.4 It is said that all major life crisis rituals (e.g. tooth-filing or death rituals) should be concentrated during the dry season, while during the wet season attention is devoted principally to agricultural work. Thus the growth of plants and cultigens is preceded by, and stands in complementary opposition to, life crisis and funerary ceremonies. Just as one section of the year is distinguished by its association with green, moisture and growth, the other is marked by its association with dryness, rest and death.


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THE POTENT DEAD

NGEBÉT: FLESH, BONES, FERTILITY AND PLANT REPRODUCTION Just as the dry season precedes the wet, death rituals prepare the way for the agricultural season and, in the perception of the locals, are directly related to the growth of trees and cultigens. In Nusa Penida most people bury their dead while waiting for the time of cremation. We are thus, even though with long delays, dealing with a secondary treatment of the corpse. Burial and subsequent cremation are also common in Bali. According to Hertz (1960), death rituals among ProtoMalay and Austronesian peoples are conceived in a tripartite structure of a preliminary burial, a liminal period and a final ceremony, all marked by the care given to the corpse from the moment of death to its final disposal. In order to appreciate the development between the primary and secondary treatment it is important to analyse the events that take place in the liminal phase, as this represents the core of the whole process. Hertz perceives the fate of the corpse as a paradigm for the fate of the soul. Thus, in the liminal period, while the corpse rots until the flesh is definitively separated from the bones, the soul wanders restlessly in the world of the living. It is only after the corpse has completely decomposed and the clean dry bones appear that the soul can be called on and dispatched in a final ceremony. The treatment of the corpse and the separation between flesh and bones is the key to an understanding of the whole process and is based on the fundamental fact that, while flesh is perishable, bones are not. Fox (1988a: 189) maintains that Hertz’s argument is constructed on the widespread view held in the Austronesian world that life results from the union of blood and semen, which respectively create flesh and bones. This belief, with some variants, is shared in Nusa Penida, where a human being is assumed to be made up of the union of white male semen (kama petak) and a red female semen (kama bang). The female semen is associated with blood, as menstruation is understood to be the loss of the blood contained in the broken female semen. However, I have not found a simple, direct causal link between the origin of bones and kama petak, and the origin of flesh and kama bang. In Balinese thought these elements are part of large exegetic schemes that interpret creation as a cosmogenic effort brought about by the male and female union, which is held to be analogous to the union of the gods Ratih and Asmara. All the elements of the body of a growing fetus (thus, not only blood and bones), as they are thought to reproduce the creation of the whole world, are associated in complex schemes with Hindu gods, demons, spirits, cardinal directions, colours, natural features and moral qualities.5 In Nusa Penida very few people are immediately cremated, and the treatment of a dead person involves a tripartite structure similar to that outlined by Hertz: corpse preparation and burial; liminal period; exhumation and subsequent cremation rituals.



53

I argue here that in the perception of local people: • • •

•

Relations between humans and their environment at large are based on a model of reciprocity that includes all living creatures, plants as well as human beings. The growth of plants—as an expression of agricultural fertility— depends on the gods as well as human beings, and is understood to be analogous to human growth and fertility. Plant growth (as a food source and thus material reproduction) and ancestor worship (as a guarantee of the origins of the group and thus a source of social reproduction) are built on and depend on a number of symbolic relations that are also worked out in this context, and which are particularly evident during the exhumation of corpses which precedes all cremation rituals. The process of burial and exhumation is the common way to deal with human death and, with the exception of cremation, is seen as the precondition for the creation of properly purified ancestors.

In developing this argument I do not deal explicitly with cremation, as it relates only marginally to this context. Cremation (ngabén) has been held by a number of anthropologists as the quintessence of Balinese rituals and one of the keys for the assertion of political power (e.g. Geertz 1980: 117), mainly because of its spectacular, elaborate setting when performed for a king or a high-caste Balinese. While its use as a symbolic means to claim and maintain status is indisputable, I contend that focusing on cremation alone and its spectacular events has been done at the expense of understanding it and has made it a unique event detached from a whole ritual complex when it is clearly not so. Cremation merely ends the work that began with exhumation (ngebét), for it refines the bones by transforming them—as a corpse—into the first stage of a purified ancestor. Thus it logically follows on the work that began with the separation of flesh and bones. Cremation does not change the issue at stake—the creation of purified ancestors—but extends it to a different level. Ngabén is in fact only one step in the process of creation of a purified ancestor that begins with death and ends only after the newly purified ancestor is placed among the others inside the ancestor’s shrine (sanggah kemulan) with the completion of a deification ceremony (nganteg linggih), which is the last of the death rituals. The creation of a purified god-like ancestor is a long process in which every ritual has its place, as it concludes a phase and leads to a new one. BURIAL: MENDEM OR NANEM SAWA After someone dies the corpse (sawa) is washed and ritually prepared for the burial. In Sakti the burial is conducted by a special ritual specialist known as jero dukuh sakti, who is also in charge of all the rituals that may affect the working of the land, the clearing of the forest and the communication


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THE POTENT DEAD

with the spirits of the wild. In his role he is also able to converse with Ibu Pretiwi and all the spirits inhabiting the earth. In Sakti on this occasion, a pit is made in the graveyard (in other areas of Nusa Penida in the gardens); the corpse, wrapped in mats tied together by a bamboo frame and laid in the grave oriented towards the highest mountain of Bali, the most auspicious direction (kaja) of the Balinese compass, is then covered with earth. After the prescribed rituals have been performed the jero dukuh sakti strikes the earth three times with his hand and, handing over the corpse to the goddess, asks her to take care of it. This ritual is called makingsan sawa (literally ‘to entrust with a corpse’). With this action the corpse is temporarily handed over to Ibu Pretiwi, who from then on is considered to be responsible for its fate until exhumation. The grave is then marked with three stones, one placed in the position of the head, one in the centre of the body and one on the site corresponding to the feet of the dead person. Over the grave, as protection from dogs and witches (léak), thorny branches (dui) of the bekul tree (Zizyphus jujuba Lamk.) are laid. THE LIMINAL PERIOD: FIRST EXAMPLE OF RECIPROCITY The events and ideas associated with the liminal period between burial and exhumation indicate that, in the perception of the people of Nusa Penida, the relations between humans and the earth are built on reciprocity based on the dissolution of flesh and the growth of plants. Elsewhere I have discussed the significance of reciprocity in Nusa Penida, and its principles of inherent asymmetry (Giambelli 1995: ch. V). That discussion is extended here to matters of fertility and ancestral relations. After a corpse has been buried it is said that a period of at least one year should elapse before it is exhumed for cremation, which is to say the combination of a full agricultural cycle and the following dry season. It is also stated that time is needed to allow the flesh to rot and dissolve properly. In a corpse considered ready for cremation the bones must be clean of all flesh (Figure 4.1). The corpse is then defined as tasak (ripe). If at the time of exhumation the flesh is still clinging to the bones, the corpse is considered matah (raw). If cremation is then still carried out, the bones must be cleaned and the flesh cut off. The flesh taken away is laid back in the pit, which is then closed and covered with soil. It is in fact believed that just as bones belong to the descendants of the deceased, flesh and blood belong to Ibu Pretiwi and indeed feed her. Local people plainly state that ‘as Ibu Pretiwi feeds us, we feed her’. Human flesh and blood are the elements that enhance fertility and contribute to the growth of plants. The relation between humans, earth and plants is thus worked out in a reproductive cycle as follows: as Ibu Pretiwi provides food for humans through plants and cultigens that spring from her body, so human beings must reciprocate and feed her, as they do, through the flesh and blood of their dead bodies.6



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Figure 4.1 Collective washing of the ancestor’s bones after exhumation; Pendukaha Kelod, Nusa Penida, 1990

Ibu Pretiwi

that feed human beings gives birth to plants and crops providing the corpses that feed human beings reciprocate

Outline of the cycle of reciprocity between Ibu Pretiwi, plants and human beings as understood in Sakti


6

1/3/02, 1:01 PM


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THE POTENT DEAD

This cycle is based on an asymmetric cycle of reciprocity in which corpses are exchanged for plants and cultigens between Ibu Pretiwi and human beings. Plants and corpses are then ideally considered similar in value. However, the fundamental principle on which this cycle is based, and which was constantly brought home to me, is that humans cannot take away crops from the earth without giving something back to Ibu Pretiwi. A sort of reciprocal balance must be maintained in these relations if crops and plants are to grow and prosper equally on earth.7 In this model it is Ibu Pretiwi—as simultaneously Mother Earth and Mother Goddess—who is entrusted with the ability to provide cultigens to humans. The example should not be interpreted as a denial of the previous myth explaining, although differently, how rice sprang from the dead body of Dewi Sri. The two goddesses are complementary and represent two aspects of the feminine, and as expressions of fertility and regeneration they symbolise the growth of plants on earth. The pattern of reciprocity expressed by the relationship between Ibu Pretiwi and human beings precedes and foreshadows the myth of Dewi Sri. The relationship between Ibu Pretiwi and Dewi Sri is of crucial importance and dealt with later in the context of the place sexuality, women and fertility have in Nusa Penida and Bali. NGEBÉT: SECOND EXAMPLE OF RECIPROCITY Just as the corpse is entrusted to Ibu Pretiwi by striking the soil three times, the jero dukuh sakti awakens it in the same way before exhumation takes place. In the meantime the ritual specialist informs Ibu Pretiwi, the spirit who rules over the graveyard and the grave, and the Lord of the dead who dwells in the Pura Dalem (see below), that the remains of the buried person will be recovered from the earth. In this instance the jero dukuh sakti requests Ibu Pretiwi to return the remains of the deceased. The opening of the grave is a collective task in which all the relatives of the deceased take part. After the remains have been recovered the empty pit must not be immediately filled. The corpse taken away must be replaced with something that stands for it, and that has a similar value in the eyes of the locals and Ibu Pretiwi. Balinese believe that if the exhumed remains are not replaced with something else, Ibu Pretiwi will ask for another corpse to fill the empty grave. A grave cannot be left empty or someone else will have to die in order to occupy it. To avoid this, the corpse is exchanged for certain natural elements which are thought to symbolise a human body. The replacement, which occurs during exhumation (ngebét), is called silur bangbang (literally: ‘to exchange the grave’). After the remains have been exhumed, a sprouting coconut is laid in the place where the corpse’s head formerly was, a green banana sucker is put in the spot where the feet were, and a live black chick and other offerings are placed in the centre of the grave. What commonly happens, when the pit begins to be filled with earth, is that someone who is not a relative of the deceased jumps into the grave and



57

grasps the coconut, someone else takes the banana sucker, and the chick too is caught or flies away in the confusion. In the end, only the offerings (peras panyeneng), the shroud and whatever belonged to the former dead person remaining from the exhumation are covered with earth. The sprouting coconut and the banana sucker will later be planted in the gardens of those who have taken them, while the chicken is generally reared. The black chicken (siap panampeh) is supposed to incarnate the soul of the deceased. It is freed before the pit is filled again and its flight enacts the liberation of the soul from the close embrace of earth. The events surrounding ngebét further reinforce the analogy between human beings and plants, as one is substituted for the other. On the other hand, they stress the relevance of reciprocity in the relationship between human beings and Ibu Pretiwi, as whatever is taken from her must be replaced with something else of similar value.8 Relatives of the deceased may not take away the coconut, the banana or the chicken exchanged for the remains of their beloved, as this would not be interpreted as proper reciprocity, vis-à-vis Ibu Pretiwi, for her restitution of the corpse. In this respect, even though the majority of symbols exchanged for the body are seized and taken away by those present at the event, the public is allowed to do so only after the offerings have been blessed and ritually presented to the goddess. THE REGENERATION OF LIFE: HUMAN AND PLANT FERTILITY The death process, as it relates to the cycle of plant growth, comes to be associated with life-giving situations. As it generates new lives it denies the finality of death and reconverts it into life. The transformation of death into life is a theme common to a number of ethnographies, and this process has been associated in different ways with sexuality, women and fertility.9 In the case of Nusa Penida and Bali it is argued that practices of exhumation and fertility, in its widest meaning, bear: (a) direct references to human intercourse, as the ideal model of ‘natural’ productiveness (which of course includes plant growth); and (b) close relationships to the theme of female sexuality, as expressed by the ideal of reproduction within the context of marriage, and by the non-ideal of sexual lust outside marriage to be overcome if proper fertility is to be achieved. Burial and intercourse positions may indicate something about human fertility as well as soil fertility. A man in Nusa Penida is considered to have a socially higher position than a woman, and he is supposed to retain this position physically also during sexual intercourse. Man’s prone position during intercourse is indicated by the term malingeb. The reverse position is considered to be proper to a woman, and is defined by the term malumah (from lumah: fragile, weak), indicating a supine posture. In the context of natural events this relation is transposed in the relationship between Akasa, as simultaneously the sky and father, and Ibu Pretiwi,


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THE POTENT DEAD

as earth and mother. Plants and, more generally, flora are also understood to be the product of the intercourse between Akasa and Pretiwi. Water, in the form of rain, is paralleled with the male semen that fertilises earth, allowing for the growth of seeds hosted in the depths of Ibu Pretiwi. Man and woman, Akasa and Pretiwi, are respectively associated with a number of different elements which, whenever combined, produce life. Thus, ideally, the growth of plants is made ideologically similar to the growth of a human being. Just as a human being is the product of the intercourse between a superior (malingeb) husband and his wife, in the same way plants are conceived to be the product of the intercourse between the higher Akasa (malingeb) and Pretiwi. Natural fertility is conceived of as being homologous to human fertility. In a number of villages in Nusa Penida, such as Jungutbatu, Pundukaha and formerly Sakti, the burial positions of men and women conform to the position a married couple adopt during intercourse. Thus, a man is buried in a malingeb position, while a woman is buried in a malumah position. The relationship between the symbolism associated with Akasa and Pretiwi, and these human burial postures, transform death into a direct analogy of the reproductive process. In most parts of Nusa Penida people bury the dead in their gardens, with great emphasis being placed on the procurement of soil fertility, growth of edible cultigens and plant reproduction via ancestors’ bodies. Corpses enveloped in a deathly embrace by Ibu Pretiwi become sources of fertility. Ancestors, via the association of their souls with specific plants, are believed to be reincarnated as cultigens, as is the case with rice, while plants become living symbols of their forefathers. Within this perspective ancestors fully contribute to the feeding of new generations. These perceptions, and the set of relations expressed by them, are congruent with a number of Balinese themes related to the growth of rice and the relationship rice has to farmers and their ancestors.10 SEXUALITY, WOMEN AND FERTILITY In Nusa Penida and Bali the manifestation of the feminine is represented by three goddesses, which relate to different aspects of sexuality and fertility and which enshrine three prototypes of female behaviour and stages of life. The unmarried woman is represented by Dewi Sri, the married woman by Ibu Pretiwi, and the widow by Rangda. These conditions delineate three stages in the life of a woman, each characterised by different paradigms of fertility. The condition of the unmarried woman as portrayed by Dewi Sri represents the example of the daughter. As no reproductive sex is allowed in such a context, fertility is achieved through sacrifice and the destruction of Dewi Sri, whose buried body is transformed into crops. The unmarried woman enshrines a fertility potential, as she can generate future progeny. However,



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in the myth of Dewi Sri this potential is not developed, as she chooses to be sacrificed. This is a positive example of filial obedience but a negative one for fertility, as the goddess pays for it with her life. Sexuality is absent, corruption is present, and the progeny is here ideally transformed by the decay of the flesh into crops and food for the people. The condition of Ibu Pretiwi represents the ideal of the married woman who is made fertile by her husband. It is the ideal of a marriage that produces progeny and a goddess who produces crops jointly with her husband. In this prototype sexual activities are associated with marriage. These are socially approved and emphasise the public role of the couple. Intercourse must be accomplished and its aim is procreation. Sexuality in this context is inherently positive and is embodied by the married woman, from whom at the time of her marriage fertility and progeny are desired. The condition of the widow as personified by Rangda represents the model of untamed fertility that becomes dangerous. In this context sexual activities are associated with lust and represented by Rangda, whose unkempt hair (magambahan) indicates her wildness and her sexual drive. Rangda is the widow who, as a witch, dances over graves and feeds herself with corpses; she lives in the burial ground and is associated with the Hindu goddess Durga. Rangda is an expression of a form of sexuality that threatens married male and female stereotypes, for Rangda’s sexuality is lust— not aimed at reproduction, and associated with the degenerative process of the flesh of the corpses. Femininity is here above and beyond male control. Just as these aspects are different facets of the feminine and the condition of womanhood, the ascetic model expressed by Dewi Sri and the wild unrestrained lust expressed by Rangda come to be encompassed and embodied in the figure of Ibu Pretiwi as Earth, wife of Akasa, and Mother Goddess. In fact, in Nusa Penida it is said that the embodiment of Rangda in the garden is precisely that of Dewi Sri, the goddess of rice and fertility. Rangda becomes fertile when she abandons her name and all associations she has with sexuality and is sacrificed as Dewi Sri. As further evidence that these manifestations are mutually inclusive aspects of the same goddess, it should be pointed out that while Rangda is associated with graveyards and Dewi Sri with cultivated gardens, in most of Nusa Penida gardens and graveyards tend to coincide. Thus, both Dewi Sri and Rangda relate to death and burial. In Dewi Sri, however, fertility is the result of sacrifice—rather than sexuality—and the shedding of blood and the dissolution of flesh is the precondition for the origin of plants and cultigens. In this image the feminine role is reconfirmed as Dewi Sri—although detached from a marriage context—is subordinate to her father. Both these forms of sexuality and fertility are present and embodied in the figure of Ibu Pretiwi, as emerges from the picture I have drawn in the context of the plant reproductive cycle. Pretiwi combines in her image the ideal of wife and mother as well as that of the dangerous lover, for she relates to Akasa as a wife, she feeds humanity as a mother, she gives rise


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THE POTENT DEAD

to plants as Dewi Sri and, last but not least, as Rangda she is a devouring lover who feeds on corpses. FLESH AND BONES AS PLANTS AND ANCESTORS The idea of fertility in Nusa Penida, as it emerges from all the relationships expressed so far, comprises human and plant fertility to an equal degree, although these aspects are based on separate grounds and through different associations. Fertility in the first of these paradigms is associated with women, and expresses concern over the material means of reproduction; in the second through the creation of the ancestors it is linked to the whole community, and addresses its concern with origin, identity and the means of social reproduction. This pattern diverges from the model put forward by Bloch and Parry (1982: 18–21), with its exclusive emphasis on the tomb and male bones as the primary expression of true fertility. If it is true that the dissolution of flesh is the condition for the appearance of bones and the origin of imperishable ancestors—and thus Bloch and Parry speak about the victory over flesh—it is also true that in the case of Nusa Penida flesh is not lost but believed to feed Ibu Pretiwi and thus is instrumental in creating plants and cultigens. To return then to Hertz’s assumption concerning flesh and bones, in Nusa Penida the ideas associated with these elements, as expressed through the events of ngebét and silur bangbang, and the concepts related to them via malumah and malingeb indicate, first, that body elements are made analogous to natural elements such as plants and cultigens and, second, that biological processes associated with flesh and bones stand as models for natural processes as well as social ones. Thus flesh, as the perishable element of the body, is the medium through which is expressed the cycle of production and reproduction of plants and cultigens, and in this context it becomes the source of food and material reproduction. Likewise, bones, as the imperishable elements of the body, are the matter which ancestors are understood to be made of, as during exhumation bones are used physically to re-produce the already dead, and in the subsequent funerary rituals they are transformed into purified ancestors. Bones are a guarantee of continuity, standing for the origin of the lineage group, and are thus the source of social reproduction. The association of the themes of flesh and bones with issues of gender, sexuality and reproduction, as represented by the themes linked to Ibu Pretiwi and Akasa, provide the means for the formulation of the two paradigms in which concerns of fertility are expressed in Nusa Penida. However, while flesh in this context is directly associated with women, bones and ancestors are not exclusively identified with maleness but with the whole community as composed of men and women. For, if is true that males have a dominant role in Balinese social organisation, it is also true that the shrine that stands as the abode of the ancestors in the sanggah



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kemulan (see below) comprises both a male and a female figure representing the purified ancestors from whom the lineage sprang, sometimes identified in their higher form as Bhatara and Bhatari Guru. Male and female aspects are hierarchically related, but both are present at the same time. The two paradigms are condensed in the following diagram.

First paradigm: Flesh is transformed into plants. The perishable elements of the body, the flesh and blood, (a) by way of Dewi Sri produce: (b) in the hands of Ibu Pretiwi are transformed and via a sexual union with Akasa produce:

plants and these are: •means of material reproduction; cultigens •expression of femininity in Dewi Sri; •associated with Ibu Pretiwi as mother and female goddess; •linked to the unpurified ancestors buried in the gardens and graveyards.

Second paradigm: purified Bones are transformed into ancestors ancestors. The imperishable elements of the body, the bones, in the hands of the living community are transformed and via death rituals produce:

these are: •expression of the identit y and origin of the community; •means of spiritual reproduction and social order; •expression of maleness when associated with Akasa as father and male god.

Outline of two fertility paradigms

In this process flesh and bones come to symbolise two types of fertility, respectively associated with plants and ancestors. Thus natural elements become paradigmatic of social ones. Ideas related to fertility and its expression in a traditional society such as that of Nusa Penida link indissolubly the natural order to the social organisation. THE PURA DALEM, THE SANGGAH KEMULAN AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF ANCESTORS The transformation of ancestors is another theme of the transformation of death into life for, as flesh is made into crops, in a similar process dead bones are made into purified ancestors. Although in Nusa Penida and Bali ancestors can be called on in virtually any place of worship, the two main temples in which they are specifically invoked are the Pura Dalem and the sanggah kemulan. The Pura Dalem, a large temple which serves all village purposes, is generally located in the proximity of the main graveyard (sema pakingsan) and is associated with the unpurified dead. The sanggah kemulan is a small shrine erected inside


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P

Figure 4.2 The sanggah kemulan during a family festival, at Karangdawa, Nusa Penida

the house compound and serves exclusively the aim of the family who built it. The difference between these temples concerns both the sacred domain peculiar to each and the characteristics of the people who visit the temples to pray. Within banjar Sakti the Pura Dalem is held to be the most important pura. Not only is it associated with the cult of the dead, but it hosts a mask of Rangda (Durga), locally called Ratu Gedé, which stands as the banjar’s


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most important deity. The divinity is not associated exclusively with death but also with regeneration, and has an overall protective function for the whole village. The holy water (tirta) from this temple is required for all types of rituals held in the banjar. The sanggah kemulan is a small shrine present in each household temple (Figure 4.2). The shrine, divided into three open or closed sections, is understood to be the abode of an apical pair of ancestors plus a supreme deity which dwells in the central section. While the ancestors may be referred to as Ida Yang or Ida Kompiang, the central deity can be referred to as Akase, Bhatara Siwa, or may more simply be indicated as Bhatara Guru. Both terms composing this designation are Sanskrit and can be found also in Balinese.11 In particular, Guru is a Sanskrit term which contemporarily refers to a venerable person, a preceptor or a teacher.12 In popular exegesis in Nusa Penida, Bhatara Guru is conceived as expressing the unifying spirits of the ancestors as ideal progenitors and lineage mentors. As an extension to this concept, thus emphasising their leading role, the whole group of deities abiding in the shrine are commonly referred to as Bhatara Guru. Occasionally the whole group can also be called Bhatara kemulan. Contrary to what happens in the case of the Pura Dalem, the holy water (tirta) from the sanggah kemulan is required for all types of rituals held exclusively by the descendants of the apical pair of ancestors. In the Pura Dalem of Sakti, all village rituals which concern the gods associated with the dead (e.g. the main temple festival odalan, the ritual associated with Durga or Rangda) or collective propitiations in the event of pestilence, as well as rituals that immediately follow somebody’s death or cremation, are performed. More generally within Sakti the lustral water from this temple is required for all collective rituals as well as all major individual rituals.13 In particular it must be used in all ceremonies concerning the dead or the relationship between the dead and the living. In contrast to the Pura Dalem, the ancestor-gods abiding in the sanggah kemulan are the object of a more domestic worshipping: they are presented with food offerings (ngejot) every day, and more elaborate offerings on particular days or ritual occasions. The holy water from this shrine is a prerequisite for the implementation of all life crisis rituals and death rituals of the members of sanggah kemulan lineage, and will not be used by members of other lineages. Thus the sacred domain emphasised by the Pura Dalem, through its association with Durga, concerns primarily death and regeneration as an individual or collective undertaking, while the sanggah kemulan, through its association with Bhatara Guru, is given a role of guidance in the sphere of the lineage and its problems. As far as the differences of the people who visit the temples to pray are concerned, while all villagers may worship within the Pura Dalem, only those who recognise themselves as direct descendants of the apical pair of


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THE POTENT DEAD

ancestors honoured in the sanggah kemulan, as the abode of specific ancestor-gods, are willing to worship there. Furthermore, while the Pura Dalem, through its association with superior gods, eschews ranking, and thus members of Balinese higher castes as well as inferior ones may equally pray there, the sanggah kemulan is associated with ranking for it is tied to specific lineages and thus to the individual identities of the ancestors who were founders and members of that lineage. This condition means that members of other lineages, particularly those deemed to be superior, avoid worshipping there as that would mean the lowering of their status. The principle of the collective versus the individual equally applies to the groups (seka) that support and care for the two temples, for while members of the seka Pura Dalem are drawn from the whole village, members of any seka kemulan are drawn only from the lineage that founded it. However, the distinction Pura Dalem as collective versus sanggah kemulan as lineageoriented is principally a matter of domains, as the sanggah kemulan also represents, although in more limited terms, the collective identity of all its descendants. The sanggah kemulan is the final abode of a purified ancestor, and while the process of transformation into purified god-like ancestors should be the outcome of the death rituals, not all the dead come to be transformed into purified ancestors. To be more specific, according to Balinese religious tenets the process of transformation must be undertaken only for the people who have died after they have lost their milk teeth. Children who die before the age of teeth change cannot be considered ancestors: they are thought to be pure, and after death are believed immediately to re-enter the process of reincarnation, without the need for any lengthy cleansing process. Crucial evidence of this status is that during Galungan, a Balinese festival celebrating the return of the ancestors that is performed every six Balinese months, the graves of the young children are not presented offerings, while graves belonging to all other dead ancestors are. This distinction in age and status is reflected in the different allocations of graveyards within the banjar area. For instance, banjar Sakti, besides its cremation ground, owns two graveyards: the first, known as sema cenik, is the burial ground destined to host children who have died before losing their milk teeth; the second, known as sema pakingsan, is for the remaining banjar members. However, although the cleansing process enacted through the death rituals must be performed for all persons who have died after they have lost their milk teeth, for economic reasons only few are actually cremated. Sometimes this crucial passage is relinquished altogether and substituted with other types of rituals, which are less expensive and may equally lead to the final elevation ritual of nganteg linggih. According to Balinese thought, the main distinction that concerns the ancestor status relates to two basic issues: namely their purified or nonpurified condition, and the relative age status of an ancestor vis-à-vis other ancestors. As a Balinese death ritual is a long process of cleansing and



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refinement, in popular ranking ancestors are considered as having lower status if only the immediate after-burial ceremonies have been performed for them. In such cases they are still considered as maintaining an unpurified status and are referred to by the term pirata. An intermediate purification stage is represented by the process of cremation, which is understood to be the midpoint, the watershed between the status of impurity at death and the status of pure god in the sanggah kemulan. Once the bones, or the body, have been completely destroyed through cremation the ancestor is considered to be purged of his transient remains, though the soul is retained and not yet completely purified. At this stage the ancestor is called pitara or pitra. The whole sequence of the death ritual is called pitra yadnya. Complete purification and higher status is achieved only with the final elevation ritual (nganteg linggih). After this ceremony the forebear is considered fully pure and made into a god. The forefathers who have reached this superior status, according to ritual context and the social standing of their lineage, may be called Ida Yang, Ida Kompiang, as well as Dewata, Niewata or Bhatara. As indicated earlier, Balinese commoner ancestors abiding in the sanggah kemulan are generally referred to as Ida Yang, Ida Kompiang in or as a category that merges ancestors and higher gods as Bhatara Guru, while a king’s ancestors who are considered superior and raised to become gods of the Balinese pantheon are called Bhatara (e.g. Bhatara Maspahit). Furthermore, in a social model that values highly position and relative age status, the recently dead tend to have a lower status than distant ancestors, who are considered forefathers. The transformation from the status of deceased to that of god is a lengthy undertaking and involves costly rites of which those described above are only one step. Once an ancestor reaches a purified status, and is indicated as Ida Yang, Ida Kompiang, the proper name is rarely used. An individual ancestor tends to lose specific identity once honoured and worshipped as god, for the individual identity is dissolved into that of the previous ancestor already abiding in the sanggah kemulan. The rite of elevation to the sanggah kemulan, besides being regularly performed at the family level, in the establishment of an ancestor through the nganteg linggih ceremony, was also common in the deification process of former Balinese kings. Royal ancestors were regularly worshipped in temples called Pura Penataran by their family members, as well as by their subjects. Ancestors, particularly apical ones, are always thought of in terms of a paired married couple, for it is from a couple that the descent began. In this respect those who have not married in their lifetime, although all cleansing rituals are performed and in the same way they are brought to the status of purified ones, tend to be forgotten earlier because the responsibility for their care does not fall on identifiable and immediate progeny. The individual identity of ancestors is in Bali a relative issue, for although someone who died recently tends to be remembered more vividly and although each family or lineage tends to keep records of the lineage


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THE POTENT DEAD

tree from the apical pair of ancestors, in the majority of cases after three or four generations ancestors’ names and identities are forgotten, and all identities seem to merge with the deified ancestors whose abode is in the sanggah kemulan. This contrasts with what happens in the Javanese context of the cult of saints and the worship of distinguished ancestors. Balinese ideas of ancestorship seem to lack the category of a set of distinguished ancestors endowed with special powers to whom are ascribed peculiar influences on the living, like the Javanese graves of famous dukun, dalang, notorious criminals or prostitutes (see chapters on Java in this book, and Koentjaraningrat 1989: 331). Balinese ancestors have a generalised and wholesome bearing on the life of the living, embracing every aspect of the life of the individual and the lineage. I believe there are at least four reasons for this difference. First, in Bali a dead person, at least in principle, should be cremated; thus a grave, as the repository of an identified dead person, is divested of any transcendent and ultimate significance as a permanent abode for the dead. Furthermore, as I have shown above, it is regarded merely as an impermanent and functional repository for the body. Second, all recent dead, with the exception of children, are considered impure. Although the degree of impurity may vary according to whether or not someone belongs to one of the Balinese estates, the status of impurity of all ancestors and their need to pass through cleansing rituals is a concept shared throughout Bali. Thus all dead are ideally placed on the same level. Brahmana may frown at this distinction and would object to it, saying that because of their inherent purer status their corpses should be considered less polluted and polluting than those of commoners. Although this is debatable and may not be recognised by some Balinese, what matters is that a Brahmana, just as any other Balinese, needs the whole sequence of acknowledged ritual before he or she can be acknowledged as an ancestorgod and placed inside the family sanggah kemulan. The third reason relates to the highly factional structure of Balinese society, which is divided into estate groups (Triwangsa) and innumerable lineage groups, tying gods to their origin groups and determining their relative importance vis-à-vis other ancestor-gods or the whole Balinese pantheon. With the exception of a king’s forefathers, the ancestor-god-like status is important exclusively for the family of the deceased, as indeed it is a family commitment to undertake all cleansing rituals for their ancestors. Unpurified or purified ancestors have a bearing only on the individual who belongs to their own lineage, being considered forefathers of a specific lineage or family. In Bali no-one would venerate or make offerings to ancestors belonging to another lineage, irrespective of their pure or god-like status; the act of reverence to another lineage would amount to a statement of submission and be judged by the group as a betrayal of the original worshipper’s lineage.



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As indicated above, the classic exception to this third example refers to the Balinese kings. These were considered as living gods, and royal ancestors were believed to be of higher standing than common ones. Thus, without losing their proper lineage identity, subjects could pray to and honour their royal forefathers who equally represented the founders and the paramount ancestors of the whole kingdom. Moreover, as a political statement of supremacy, a subject was requested to help in rituals involving the worship of royal ancestors and pay homage to them. Until recently royal forefathers were considered to stand above all living subjects and their ancestors. Finally, Balinese gods do not abide in their temple permanently but visit it from time to time. This is a very different concept from that of the Muslim grave. Although there may be some exceptions, in Bali generally there is no individual recognition of supremacy similar to the sainthood accorded in a monotheistic belief system such as Islam or Christianity. The recognition of an individuality after death, as an identity detached from lineage membership, is rarely conceived. Instead of sainthood, ancestors are raised to god status, where they tend to lose their original identity. The only generalised recognition of superiority is given to former kings, who however are never worshipped as such but as gods (e.g. Bhatara Maspahit). The tendency is to shift from a recognisable identity to a god status, distinguished by its attributes (e.g. fertility) and not by its former individuality. The reason for this shift seems to be that gods are superpartes beings and available to all those willing to worship them, while distinguished ancestors, although purified and powerful, cannot be superpartes as they belong to a given lineage and tend to be evoked almost exclusively by the members of that lineage or, occasionally, by members of lineages that are considered inferior and have a relation of dependency on them. Members of equal or superior lineages would never accept to worship them. CONCLUSION This chapter has delineated issues central to the relationship between the people of Nusa Penida their environment, ancestors and gods. These reciprocal relations in Nusa Penida show parallels with a number of Indonesian societies, which are organised around similar concerns. My analysis outlines the logic of the relationship between humans and plants in the specific context of Nusa Penida, but focuses on three issues of general anthropological relevance, and one peculiar to Balinese anthropology: 1.

In traditional societies, such as Nusa Penida, there is no apparent separation between humans and their natural environment, as we are dealing with a holistic view that sees human beings, their gods and ancestors as an essential part of that environment. This is confirmed by the evidence that humans can be exchanged for plants, and that both


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2.

3.

THE POTENT DEAD

elements enter the same ‘natural’ cycle, as expressed by the assumed link between Ibu Pretiwi and the growth of plants. In Nusa Penida, as a society dependent on agriculture, humans and their natural environment are thought to lie on the same plane, as the former heavily depend on the latter for their survival, and each partakes of the same ideal order, because both rely on ancestors for their functioning. In agricultural societies similar to Nusa Penida, the relation between the living community and its natural environment is conceived of and structured on the basis of reciprocity, which seems to conform to a more general pattern of asymmetry expressed by rules of proper behaviour among human beings and between humans and gods.14 This chapter questions the validity—common to many Balinese scholars—of continuing to analyse Balinese culture from what is essentially a Hindu perspective, complacent about the uniqueness of the island’s cultural expressions standing alone between the Western Islamic threat and the vast array of the animistic religions of Indonesia. The material presented here on the birth of plants and cultigens and the nature of the reciprocity cycles that tie together the living and the dead, plants and earth links Nusa Penida to themes that are central to the cultures of Indonesia.

Nusa Penida, as an expression of Balinese culture, thus appears to retain strong affinities with eastern Indonesia, as both these societies are a manifestation of an Austronesian culture based on reciprocal obligations, still centred on the fertilising role of ancestors and dependent on the crucial importance of cultivated plants for the sustenance of human life. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This article is based on fieldwork conducted in Nusa Penida and Bali between September 1989 and January 1992 under the sponsorship of LIPI (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia) and the local supervision of the Udayana University. The research was supported by an Australian National University Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies PhD scholarship. My special thanks go to the people of Nusa Penida. In particular I owe a debt of gratitude to the members of banjar and desa Sakti who hosted me during my stay in Nusa Penida.


5 Remembering our dead: the care of the ancestors in Tana Toraja Elizabeth Coville

At the house of the princess, at midnight a few days after her entombment, the little company of her kin feasted on a black boar. For the last time meat was offered to her, and as the hour of dawn drew near it was time for her soul to make its journey to Puya, the homeland of souls. So the door was opened, and as the spirit left its earthly home the Puang and the others called their last farewells. ‘Carefully! Carefully!’ they cried. ‘Go carefully!’ ‘Don’t fall!’ ‘Oh, watch for thorns!’ ‘Lose not your way!’ And then the old primitive fear came over them. Like friends seeing off a traveler on a liner who fear it may sail before they can get ashore again, the nobles feared lest, having accompanied the soul so far along its road, they should get drawn all the way to Puya and die. So they changed their cries. ‘Close that gate behind you!’ ‘Ah, break down that bridge!’ ‘Bar the fence! Bar the way when you have passed!’ And so her soul traveled on to Puya, along the dark road, alone.

So writes Harry Wilcox, who left the British army at the end of World War II to escape from the grimness of the modern world in the Toraja highlands. Wilcox published an account of his adventure as White Stranger. The work of this amateur ethnographer would probably garner condescending smiles now for its sentimentality and romantic perspective on the Other.1 Fifty years later, ‘the modern world’ is very much in evidence in the kabupaten (administrative district) of Tana Toraja in the province of South Sulawesi through such influential institutions as the Christian church, the Indonesian nation–state, the global economy, and international and domestic tourism. Yet, not unlike Wilcox, researchers continue to puzzle over the powerful 69


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and ambiguous role played by the dead in contemporary Tana Toraja, for the spirits of the dead are avoided in most situations but embraced in others; they are sent away, only to be invited back. It is through this alternation, I argue, that the dead are transformed into ancestral spirits. It is widely reported that among the Toraja the spirits of high-ranking persons (for whom large-scale funerals of five or seven nights’ duration have been held) become divinised ancestors, thereby joining the heavenly bodies that are worshipped as deities and that provide the agricultural calendar with a spiritual foundation. Less interest has been shown in the treatment of the dead who were not of the highest status. And, although much has been written about Torajan funerals, not so much attention has been paid to the secondary mortuary ritual known as ma'nene' (or ma'tomate), in which the remains of the dead are removed from their rock graves and rewrapped before being returned to their resting places (but see Koubi 1982a; Nooy-Palm 1986: 170–1, 202–7; Volkman 1985: 142–7; Waterson 1984b: 53–9; Wellenkamp 1991: 118; 1992: 198, 211). What we know about ma'nene' is that it involves cleaning the rock graves, weeping over the dead, wrapping the corpses, offering betel and tobacco, sacrificing animals, and sometimes conducting voluntary rituals that upgrade or add to the previous funerals. Ma'nene' can certainly be considered a form of secondary burial (Huntington & Metcalf 1979). We also know that ma'nene' varies from locale to locale: in the south, it is performed by specific groups of kin for an individual dead person, while in the northern areas of Sesean, Baruppu' and Pangala', ma'nene' is ‘celebrated annually by the whole community to honor those who have died during the preceding year’ (Nooy-Palm 1986: 170).2 In other words, it varies according to whether it is collective or individual and whether it is held annually, every seven years, or whenever the organisers chose. In this chapter I describe and interpret ma'nene' as conducted annually and collectively in a northwestern village in Tana Toraja in the 1980s. My aim is to gain access to lived social experience as represented in ritual practice and everyday discourse. In the daily lives of Torajan families, Christian as well as aluk to dolo (‘ritual of those who came before’), the dead continue to have influence over the lives of their descendants, and ma'nene' is one time and place where the influence is strongly felt. My argument is that, through the symbolic actions of seeing and holding the remains of the dead, the Toraja engage in a process of dismantling the deceased as a person and transforming it, over time, into a generalised ancestral spirit. In order to understand this process in its entirety, we must integrate cosmological, ritual, social and ethnopsychological data into the analysis. THE SOCIAL AND HISTORICAL CONTEXT The people who now think of themselves as Toraja (or Sa’dan Toraja) live in the highland interior of the outer Indonesian island of Sulawesi (known


REMEMBERING OUR DEAD

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during the colonial period as the Celebes) around the valleys of the Sa’dan River and its tributaries (Map 3). This area of approximately 3000 km2 is home to about 350 000 Toraja. Cultivating rice in irrigated fields and raising livestock for the purpose of sacrifice, Torajans ‘feed the ancestral and divine spirits’ (umpakande nene', umpakande deata) by making offerings and sacrifices designed to foster a continuous give-andtake between living people and the unseen world. In this ritual exchange, humans adhere to a very explicit binary opposition between the domain of ancestral spirits or nene' (associated with death and, in the past, headhunting) and the domain of deities or deata (associated with life and agriculture). Thus there is a division between rituals of the West-side (funerals and secondary burial), on the one hand, and rituals of the Eastside (celebrations of life, fertility and prosperity). Similarly, the Toraja reckon kinship bilaterally and express ties of consanguinity through the construction and upkeep of ancestral houses (tongkonan). Their traditional social system (especially in the southern, Bugis-influenced part of the district) is based on three hereditary ranks: nobles (to makaka), commoners (to buda or to biasa) and slaves (to kaunan). Some men of high rank become ritual specialists (to minaa), renowned for their knowledge of offerings and their mastery of ritual speech, who officiate in the many, complex rituals constituting aluk to dolo. Of life cycle transitions, death is the only one ritually elaborated, with lengthy and often spectacular feasts centring on the presentation of livestock, the distribution of meat, and the provisioning of the spirits of the dead on their journey to Puya, the afterworld. With the religious, political and economic changes set in motion by the arrival of the Dutch in the first decade of the 20th century, achieved status (often based on education, Christianity and/or income earned during outmigration) has challenged inherited rank as a source of prestige and success. While wealth and status interact in a dynamic way and generate competitive displays of honour and shame (both conveyed by the concept siri'), Torajans also exhibit, in certain contexts, a concern for collectively promoting prosperity and sharing it equally (e.g. see Coville 1988; Waterson 1984a). Christianity is the world religion that has taken hold in the Toraja highlands since the arrival of the Calvinist Dutch Reformed Mission in the second decade of the 20th century. Today about 80–90% of the district’s population is Christian (mostly Protestant, some Catholic, and a few Pentecostal). Since the New Order from 1966, when affiliation with an official religion became a prerequisite for education and citizenship, the indigenous way of life has been reinterpreted and formalised as aluk to dolo (‘the ritual of those who came before’), and is generally capitalised as Aluk to Dolo or Alukta (‘our [inclusive] ritual’). Tourism, promoted by the national government, has expanded rapidly since the 1970s and made the Toraja more ethnically selfconscious at the very time they are looking more and more beyond their local communities for their livelihoods and identities.3


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CENTRAL SULAWESI

SOUTH SULAWESI TANA TORAJA

LUWU

Wotu

Patimang

Rantepao Makale

Sa'adan River

Suppa'

N

Gulf

SIDÉNRÉNG Laerung Massépé ParéParé

Bacukiki

WAJO

Waiennae River

Tallo'

of

Cen r Riv ana er

Pammana SOPPÉNG (Cina)

Ujung Pandang (Makassar)

SOUTH-EAST SULAWESI

BONÉ

Bone

Lamuru'

Sinjai Tiro Kajang

0

50 kilometres

Map 3 South Sulawesi: Toraja and Bugis

The past century has seen the emergence of a sense of collective ethnic identity among a population that formerly lived relatively isolated from each other in the rugged Sulawesi highlands and united politically only briefly and against outsiders (see Bigalke 1981). In the Toraja case, as elsewhere in Indonesia, a modern sense of ethnic identity goes hand in hand with the rationalisation of religion (for Indonesia in general, see Geertz 1973a; Atkinson 1983; Kipp & Rodgers 1987; for Toraja in particular, see



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e.g. Bigalke 1981; Coville 1982; Waterson 1984b; Volkman 1987; Hollan 1988; Adams 1995). Although even a cursory history of the mission in the Toraja highlands is beyond the scope of this chapter, several points are worth stressing. First, much of the change in the meanings of ritual practices from the traditional to the Christian can be considered a change in the illocutionary or performative force of ritual acts. Thus, for instance, according to the Church it was not acceptable to sacrifice water buffalo or pigs in order to feed the spirits of the ancestors, but the memory of the dead could be honoured by means of a communal meal featuring buffalo meat. The effigies were not acceptable if they were considered to house the spirit of the dead, but they were permitted if they were considered to be a memorial to the dead. The spirits of the rice could not be asked for fertility by means of offerings, but a harvest ritual (thanksgiving or ma'kurre sumanga') could be held to give thanks after the harvest was in. Second, in the years since the first conversions to Christianity, the Westside rituals have flourished while the East-side rituals have diminished. This seems to be due partly to deliberate mission policies to encourage the preservation of mortuary ritual recognised by missionaries as central to the social order and to discourage rice rituals (the foundation of the East-side complex). Thus, for Christian Torajans, attendance at and participation in rice ritual that involved offerings was prohibited and new rituals (e.g. thanksgiving) were put in their place, while the funerals were retained and simply reinterpreted. Furthermore, the East-side ritual complex, where the focus was on fertility-bestowing divine spirits, which moreover sometimes made ritual participants fall into trance, posed a greater threat. Perhaps, too, the funerals, as these were centred around the exchange networks of a deceased individual, were more resilient in that people would participate despite religious differences between Christians and traditionalists. Christian and aluk to dolo funerals differ in some key ritual details, yet these technical differences tend to be less salient to—and less contested by— participants themselves than are the social dynamics, which are features shared by Christian and aluk performances alike, and thus mortuary ritual seems to be able to continue to function socially in a way that rice ritual does not. Third, the reinterpretation of Torajan custom according to Christian principles was accompanied by a systematisation of Torajan customary practices and beliefs by aluk to dolo spokespersons across villages and subdistricts. What had been local practice (attributed locally to the fact that the specifics of aluk came to people from different ancestors) came to be seen as variation within a single system of aluk to dolo. In terms of this ongoing rationalisation of traditional religous practice, Toraja resembles Bali (see Geertz 1973a). The salience of this rationalisation has not been evenhanded throughout the district and, in everyday village life, what might be called a vernacular form of aluk works to ‘insure that the stream of


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everyday existence continues to flow steadily within a fixed and firmly outlined course’ (Geertz 1973a: 171). When considered together, these three aspects of religious and social change suggest that Christianity and Torajan customary belief and practice have, over the years, both clashed and blended. Whether the relationship between the two is one of conflict or of continuity, it is in day-to-day practice that we can best see the relationship unfold. Two areas in which this negotiation of meaning have been worked out are rice ritual (see Coville 1989) and mortuary ritual. The fieldwork on which this chapter is based was conducted in Kalimbuang (a pseudonym), a village in the northwestern part of Tana Toraja. Although the original subject of the research was the intersection between ritual (aluk) and medicine (pedampi), rice ritual emerged as a central focus; it was in the context of investigating this annual cycle that I became interested in the way that ma'nene' shaped memory and relationships between the living and the ancestors. MORTUARY RITUAL: THREE APPROACHES Unlike other groups of Southeast Asia with longer histories of representation in the West, the people of the Sa'dan highlands have been written about by Europeans and English-speakers for less than a century. The ‘prior texts’ (Becker 1995) and expectations that outsiders (from missionaries to adventurers to anthropologists) have carried to the field as well as the agendas and issues that our respondents have brought to the encounter have all emerged within a fairly short time frame. In order to account for the power of the ancestors and ancestor spirits in Tana Toraja, I have drawn on three types of studies—cosmology, ritual and society and ethnopsychology— which I review briefly before showing how these can be combined to better understand the role of the potent dead in the lives of the Toraja. Several rich accounts of cosmology and symbolism pertaining to the role of the dead are found in van der Veen (1966), Nooy Palm (1979, 1986) and Koubi (1982a). Rich in texts and exegesis and full of local variation, these works present relatively systematised views of traditional Toraja cosmology and descriptions of traditional rituals, both witnessed and second-hand, mainly from the perspective of ritual specialists and other knowledgeable commentators. These accounts combined demonstrate that for the Toraja cosmology and ritual practice are firmly intertwined, that the sense of cultural order is highly elaborated, that there is a rich tradition of symbolism and exegesis, and that praxis is more important than doxa (see Geertz 1973a; Bourdieu 1977).4 More generally still, sacrifice and exchange are key to their cosmology and ritual system (Waterson 1995). Complementing this focus on cosmology are a group of studies that seek to explain, from more sociological, interpretive and empirical



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perspectives, specific types of mortuary rituals and objects and the role of the ancestors in contemporary Tana Toraja (see Crystal 1974; Zerner 1981; Waterson 1984b, 1988; Volkman 1985, 1990; Adams 1988, 1993a, 1993b). These researchers reveal that despite increasing economic involvement in a cash economy and participation in programs of economic development, notably tourism, mortuary rituals continue to foreground matters of siri' (‘honor’ and ‘shame’). The traditional elites use ritual to fulfil their hereditary obligations towards society, while the nouveau-riche use ritual to display and thereby consolidate their earned social standing. Even when this emphasis on displaying social standing has taken relatively new forms, such as the building of museums by local elites (Adams 1995), the idiom is much the same. Torajans use ritual practice and ritual objects commemorating the dead to generate and sustain honour.5 If the potency of the dead is displayed outwardly in idioms of siri', it is also contained and circulated as wealth and prosperity. It has often been noted that the Toraja express an unabashed appreciation for riches, but it is more important to look at the specifics of the local construction of wealth. The metaphors found in ritual speech offer the best insight into the Torajan view of wealth, and investigation of the ritual expressions has led one commentator to the insightful claim: ‘the native’s concept of wealth [or] value [consist] of three main elements: rice (fields), animals (chickens, pig, and buffalo) and children. These three elements are arranged in a logical order from low to high, and thus a person having many rice fields and animals but no children is traditionally considered incomplete and valueless’ (Sandarupa 1989: 52–3, emphasis in the original).6 Symbolically and ideologically, the role of the dead as bearers of wealth is expressed in the cultural view that the living feed the ancestors and deities, who in turn bestow the blessing of fertility on the living. Socially, the same idea is expressed in the fact that the hosts or sponsors of rituals take on the role of feeding the guests—thus of redistributing wealth (see Volkman 1979b). Therefore, one way of accounting for the power of the dead in Tana Toraja is to investigate the economic relationships created by rituals commemorating the dead.7 In spite of deep social and cultural changes, the idea that wealth and prosperity are signs of morally correct ritual conduct persists (see Anderson 1972).8 The dead continue to be important because they are the idiom through which the links between status, wealth and power are articulated. Both of the preceding categories share an interest in social meanings, in what is shared, whether the focus is more on the socioeconomic or the cultural and symbolic side of the continuum. The goal has been to document and account for the shared cultural values or orientations (although these accounts are not without their share of attention to individuals and how individuals use the systems given them by culture).


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A third kind of evidence for the potency of the dead is in the personal experience of actors in which the dead cause illness or distress (e.g. see Waterson 1984b: 53–9; Adams 1993b: 64). Dreams are another common way in which the dead communicate directly with the living and foretell the future (see Hollan & Wellenkamp 1994: 101–7, 182–9 and passim; Hollan 1989, 1995). In these accounts as well as my own research, the way the dead are personally experienced typically involves gift exchange: either spirits give objects, such as food, livestock, clothing, wealth or medicine to the dreamer or the inverse, they demand or appropriate things belonging to the dreamer. (I return later to a discussion of dreams.) The personal experience of grief and loss has been addressed from an ethnopsychological perspective by Wellenkamp (1988, 1991, 1992; see also relevant sections of Hollan & Wellenkamp 1994, 1996). Whether we consider cosmology, the social and economic dimensions of ritual, or personal experience, it is clear that the dead retain a social and moral significance in the lives of many Torajans. Yet despite considerable research into Toraja mortuary ritual, researchers have not yet fully accounted for the persistence of the potent dead for a range of Torajans, both followers of Christianity and adherents to aluk to dolo, and for individuals who differ by rank, wealth, denomination and degree of emotional and social commitment to ritual. To remedy the situation I propose that we consider the common themes that link all three dimensions that have previously been treated as separate types of analysis.9 A BIFURCATED WORLD: KEEPING EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE Both social life and psychological experience are permeated by a sense that the realm of the divine spirits and the realm of ancestral spirits, like oil and water, do not mix. The cosmological and ritual bifurcation that shapes the cosmology and ritual permeates everyday practice as well, yielding a human condition in which people make a concerted effort to keep anything to do with death isolated from the rest of life. Rituals are carefully performed in sequence, so that ‘smoke-rising’ or East-side and ‘smoke-descending’ or West-side rituals never overlap in time. Many of the optional ‘smoke-rising’ rituals require a series of steps over more than a year, but whenever a death or a funeral intervenes the sequence is interrupted and the progression delayed. Thus the timing of ritual events is of great social importance. From a more mundane perspective, what people do and when they do it is governed in large part by the bifurcation between divine and ancestral spirits. If one has eaten ‘bad meat’, that is, meat from a mortuary ritual (du'ku kadake), one must avoid working with or eating rice. Even gestures associated with death rituals (such as placing one’s chin in one’s palm while one’s elbow is resting on a horizontal surface) are prohibited at times that are not associated with death. To make such a gesture when no funeral is being performed will elicit a



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sharp ‘Don’t! That’s prohibited or taboo! (pemali itu)’. As an anthropologist transcribing and discussing tapes of an East-side ritual, I was advised to put this project on hold for the duration of a West-side ritual. Dreams are interpreted differently according to whether they happen during periods of East-side or West-side ritual time, whether they are considered auspicious or inauspicious.10 It is true that at an abstract level, articulated by ritual specialists, the cycles of death and the cycles of life intersect and the bifurcation yields a unified totality. One way in which this mediation takes place is through the idea that high-ranking ancestors are transformed through proper ritual into divine spirits, which are then visible as stars. Such an overarching unity does not, however, belie the fact that, at least for those who adhere strongly to aluk to dolo, ordinary experience provides ample evidence that it is foolhardy not to make a serious effort to keep life and death each in its own place. And for ordinary people, I think, the ancestral spirits are seen more as guides for humans in relation to deities and as mediators between the contemporary world (lino totemo) and the spiritually powerful world of long ago (lino to dolo).11 In other words, not all spirits but only those of high-ranking people which are sufficiently cared for by their descendants can potentially become divinised. At least ideally then there is closure to the cycle linking the dead and the living. Thus we have, on the one hand, an abstract and idealised system that links the dead and the living and, on the other, a system of practical common sense that separates the dead from the living. Ritual specialists and cultural explicators will talk about the overall unity of the cycle (even while they explicate and justify the carefully choreographed ‘turnings’ from one sphere to the other), but in everyday life people are more concerned to maintain the proper opposition between the two dimensions of reality. Furthermore, this bifurcation implies that what people think about and talk about (i.e. social discourse) is shaped by this quite thoroughgoing spatial and temporal ordering of social experience. There is a time and place for everything, and even if this does not match private experience one would think that it would affect it.12 MA’NENE’: A TIME TO REMEMBER THE DEAD According to this opposition, West-side rituals can be subdivided into two types of ritual: mortuary ritual (aluk or pesta to mate) and the ritual of cleaning the rock tombs, rewrapping the corpses, and demonstrating love to one’s deceased relatives (ma'nene').13 In Kalimbuang the latter involves an annual period of a fortnight or more when words are addressed to the dead and kinsfolk pay them devoted attention by cleaning the tombs and rewrapping the corpses. As villagers were fond of telling the belanda researcher from a land where the dead are buried or cremated, ‘How could you? How do you love (kaboro') and remember


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(kilala) your forebears if you cannot hold (toe) them and see (tiro) them as we do?’. During this period, which falls between harvest and ma'maro (the annual ritual invoking the divine spirits), people may conduct various rituals involving the dead whose funerals have already been conducted. Potentially they can hold a ritual in which past funerals are upgraded by sacrificing additional buffalo, or a ritual to mark the death of one who died elsewhere or whose body could not be recovered. Commonly people perform the rewrapping of the remains of the deceased (maputu-putu), in which corpses are rewrapped after having been in the rock graves for more than one year, or else they simply visit the graves, clean them and make offerings of betel, tobacco or cookies at the entrance. Thus the range of possible rituals is quite broad, variable and conditional.14 The commonest activity engaged in by the villagers were the expeditions to the graves of their ancestors and deceased relatives. Certain prohibitions go into effect during ma'nene', just as is the case during a funeral. On days when people go to the graves, they cannot eat, cook, pound or bring from the granary any rice, nor can they work in the seedbeds or rice fields. Symbolically, cold foods made from cassava, yams and corn are eaten.15 Other foods that are prohibited during this period are chicken eggs (in fact, they are not often eaten anyway, preferably being hatched, but during ma'nene' they are prohibited). This prohibition is based on the association of eggs with life (eggs are eaten for strength during childbirth and times of illness).16 In addition to foods, other activities are restricted. The sound of ‘long wooden mortar and pestle’ (issong kalando) is forbidden. Typically groups of two or more gather at this canoe- or coffin-like structure to do the first step of pound rice-threshing in a steady, lively rhythm. Due to the prohibition, this characteristic beat is not heard in the house yards during ma'nene'. Sewing is also forbidden unless the cloth being sewn is for the dead. The reason given for this taboo is that the dead would think that the clothing was intended for them and would be upset to find it being given to someone else. This view reflects the human emotions attributed to the deceased—like the living, they feel envy, jealousy and desire (see below). The spatial choreographing of ma'nene' is significant. The dead are entombed in high rock cliff graves (liang) located at some distance from both the clusters of houses and the irrigated rice fields. For most of the year these graves—‘houses without a fireplace’—are avoided and feared. One of the trails entering the village passes beneath one of these high graves, and, although hidden by underbrush, the graves make residents uneasy as they pass by. To approach the grave from the trail or even to linger at that section of the path would be thought foolish. The rapid rate of vegetative growth contributes to the grave’s inaccessibility. When a group of kin prepare to rewrap a corpse they must first cut away the



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undergrowth. Not only does the undergrowth block the way to the graves but the doors are often heavy and stuck and the corpses difficult to remove. Once the path has been cleared and the tomb opened, the remains of the dead are typically approached with loud shouting on the part of men and weeping on the part of women. Together the hollering and the wailing mark the situation with noisiness, which is associated with liveliness, busyness and sociability (marua' in Torajan; ramai in Indonesian). Although informants did not use these words, it was as though, after 11 months of silence and neglect, the dead were awakened by a noisy display of emotion and sociability on the part of their visitors. To the observer, it seems they are domesticating a forested area—cutting away the growth, resurrecting the path, introducing new store-bought objects and domesticating the space. What emotions are attributed to the spirits of the dead? Like living people, they seem to feel envy and hurt, hence they often ask their descendants for things or feel offended when they are not given what they want or what they consider their fair share. In this respect the spirits of the dead closely resemble those of the living, who are forever asking for (palaku) things or feeling indignant that they did not receive their fair share. This ongoing negotiating over how to distribute wealth and how to share the common good is a pervasive cultural theme.17 Another emotion that the dead are commonly thought to express is a feeling of missing or longing for the living, thus taking the living with them (see Adams 1993b: 64 for an example surrounding a funeral). By providing gifts (e.g. of sacrificed animals, tobacco, food or cloth), the living try to make the dead satisfied with these safe substitutes for their still-living kin.18 If the dead are thought to miss the living, so too are the living thought to miss or long for the dead. One woman said to me in explanation for performing an optional ritual held during ma'nene' in which additional buffalo are given to the deceased, ‘our hearts are not yet satisfied (tosso) unless we give this’. During these weeks devoted to the dead, people’s attention turns to their dead relatives—seeing them, touching them, remembering them, heeding their messages in dreams, putting things right with them, giving them gifts—all, in a sense, paying them back for the gift of life. Informants say that we love (pakaboro') our parents because they gave us life, and we try to return or repay (membalas) them by means of the things we do for them at ma'nene'. These ritual practices show that the senses of vision and touch are culturally elaborated. Opening up the graves, looking at and holding the physical remains (bateng dikalena) of the dead constitutes care of the ancestors. Giving visual and concrete representation to the dead, as in the construction of monuments and statues, is one expression of cultural memory. Elsewhere in Tana Toraja, wooden effigies (tau-tau) are constructed and decorated as both portrayals of the deceased and receptacles for their souls (see Volkman


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1979a; Adams 1993a). In Kalimbuang, although no permanent effigies are built, we nonetheless find the same symbolic and social processes at work in the temporary construction of effigies and the yearly rewrapping of corpses. TOWARDS A TORAJAN SEMIOTICS: SIGHT AND TOUCH A pervasive and well-documented theme in Toraja is the importance of visibility in social and ritual conduct. For instance, wealth demands to be displayed publicly and visibly (in tongkonan houses, in ritual contributions, and in being physically present). Thus, as reported by Volkman, ‘self-worth is only there if other people see it. Through rituals it is made visible’ (1979b: 9). This concern with self-worth or honour (masiri') is significant in many ways: of course, it shapes the lively status-competition of mortuary ritual, but the importance of visibility also plays a role in the more collective aspects of social life. In the treatment of both the physical and non-physical remains of the dead, people desire to see their forebears. The aversion to burial in the ground and especially to cremation as a method of disposing of the dead derives from this desire for visual remains.19 Watching a public event is not conceived as a passive activity but rather as akin to witnessing. People attend a meat-divide at a funeral and watch the meat-divider perform the public distribution of buffalo or pork meat to the guests. People feel that because the type and quantity of the meat represent the social order (conceived, in this case, as a hierarchy), they are seeing a physical representation of society. Watching the meat being passed out, the audience attends to whether the distribution is performed correctly, whether each person receives a share appropriate to his or her place in society. At the maro ritual, the spectators—‘those who watch’ (to mengkita)—are enjoined to behave cautiously so as to make the ritual efficacious (see Coville 1988). The idea of errors or mistakes (sala) as hidden and in need of being ‘searched for’ (mandaka') also implies the importance of seeing. Visibility appears to operate in the homeland rather than in migration destinations (see Volkman 1985; Waterson 1984a, 1984b).20 Thus the importance of visibility is not just a matter for the high-ranking. Those who say they value the holding and seeing of their deceased family members after entombment are not saying that they thereby display honour and status but rather that they thereby try to ‘love’ (pakaboro') and ‘repay’ (membalas) their parents and grandparents. Thus the theme of visibility is not in this instance a matter of status but one of collective affiliation. Just as the effigy (the tau-tau is also known as bombo dikita or ‘the spirit of the dead that is seen’) is the spirit made visible, so too is the importance of taking care of the dead to make them—their bodies rather than their spirits—remain visible.



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A second pervasive theme in the discourse about ma'nene' is that of holding (toe). Not only are the bones, like the effigy, visible—they are also, unlike the effigy, tangible. In semiotic terms, the effigy is an icon of the dead: the symbolic connection based on resemblance, similarity, likeness. The bones are, in contrast, indices of the dead: the symbolic connection is based on an actual physical relationship between the symbol and what it stands for. The ability to hold the remains of their ancestors is meaningful to people in Kalimbuang. They would request family portraits after the corpse had been rewrapped as all the kin gathered around, touching the bundle of bones wrapped in cloth and looking into the camera. Furthermore, one person commented to me on this reversal of life processes when gathering up the far-decomposed bones of a dead forebear: ‘now we are holding [in our lap] our parent [like an infant]’. Holding like this in the lap or cradling (riwa) is an emotionally charged posture because it is how one holds both infants and persons who are on the verge of death. It is also a way of expressing the relationship of the living to the world of ancestral and divine spirits: nariwaki aluk is a phrase in the ritual style of speaking that is glossed as ‘we [humans] are held in the lap of aluk' or ‘we are cradled by aluk'. Holding the dead requires that the remains be contained by cloth. In an interesting inversion, at the end of the funeral the temporary tau-tau is ‘opened’ or ‘undressed’ (dibuka), while during ma'nene' the corpse is enclosed or dressed (see Volkman 1979a: 28). New, manufactured cotton cloth is purchased and used to rewrap the remains of the deceased. Sometimes, as with the construction during funerals of the temporary effigies of the dead (bayo-bayo or tau-tau), shirts and other articles of clothing are placed on top of the body before the whole thing is bundled up again and returned to the grave. At death the cloth wrapping the body is sewn together, creating the cylindrical tube of material (Ind. sarong) common throughout Indonesia. The prohibition against sewing for reasons other than the ancestral shrouds suggests the significance of sewing as joining together, connecting and containing. But, as Jane Schneider and Annette Weiner point out (Weiner & Schneider 1989: 2, 6): cloth as a metaphor for society, thread for social relations, express more than connectedness, however. The softness and ultimate fragility of these materials capture the vulnerability of humans, whose every relationship is transient, subject to the degenerative processes of illness, death, and decay . . . [P]recisely because it wears thin and disintegrates, cloth becomes an apt medium for communicating a central problem of power: social and political relationships are necessarily fragile in an impermanent, ever-changing world.

For the Toraja too the perishability of cloth is significant. They emphasise the periodic rewrapping of the remains of the dead and how the clean, new, intact cloth improves the condition of the remains. With decomposition


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culturally constituted by the Toraja as polluting, cloth counters that process of degeneration, containing the decay (bossi) and keeping it safely apart from life.21 But cloth is not permanent and does not have a long lifespan, so it must be replenished. Hence the emphasis on the periodic rewrapping. What is lost in terms of permanence is restored through the care and tending of the corpse. Thus perishable cloth is combined with enduring bones, but eventually only bones and bone fragments remain. It is then, when the remains of a person are no longer recognisable but are commingled with the other bones, that the wrapping ceases. The wrapping in cloth perpetuates the individuality of the deceased until it is no longer important.22 And during this time that the physical remains are periodically handled, the spirit of the dead is liable to engage the living through dreams or imagined encounters. The physical remains and collected bones function as a kind of indexical monument of the dead. There is some element of iconicity, as when people take note of the fact that the wrapped remains resemble (in size and perhaps also in shape) an infant. But the main connection between the sign and what it stands for is indexical. Like other relics, the bones were once part of the person for whom they now stand, and it is this, rather than their likeness to the deceased, that gives them meaning. This indexical relationship is maintained in the ongoing care the remains receive from the descendants. If the effigy gets its power from being a likeness, the bones get their power from having been connected to the deceased. A MATTER OF TIMING: PROCESSES OF DEATH AND CYCLES OF LIFE Ma'nene' then articulates the gradual process by which the essence of the deceased is stripped of the specific associations and memories carried by those who still remember him or her. When only the bones remain, the deceased has joined the ranks of impersonal, anonymous ancestral spirits. In wrapping the bones of a deceased relative in cloth and holding the newly clothed remains, people say they remember (kilalai) the person who has died. I think they remember them as they were in life—as human beings with desires expressed in their requests and as people who related to them in certain culturally constituted roles (e.g. as mother to child, or elder sibling to younger sibling). Eventually, however, only bone fragments remain, and finally even these fragments are scattered, intermingled with the remains of other individuals and unrecognisable as belonging to a specific person. At this point the remains are no longer wrapped in cloth, and the individual is no longer intensely mourned. It seems that the cloth—a quintessentially domestic material and symbol—marks the deceased as one who was related to others in certain relationships, for it is others who wrap him or her (just as it is others’ shirts which are lent to clothe the temporary effigy at a funeral). The mourners over years and



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decades use cloth to recall those relationships in their emotional intensity. With the passage of time, the remains decompose and cloth no longer plays a part in remembering the dead. Eventually, once the personal memories have worn away and the body is no longer recognisable as belonging to an individual, the dead person has become an ancestral spirit. To become an ancestral spirit—able to bestow collective blessings of prosperity and wellbeing—requires cleaning the bones of the feelings and memories associated with the particular person. The personal dimensions of the deceased are increasingly forgotten while simultaneously the impersonal dimensions are increasingly attended to. An interesting line of research would be to look closely at the changing nature of requests. There are differences, I suggest, between the ways in which the Toraja make requests of the living, the near-death, the recently dead, the long-dead, and the ancestral spirits, because these are understood as different categories of being. I would also suggest that the fear of spirits of the recently dead (bombo) is related to the fact that people do not know how to request things of them or communicate with them.23 In remembering, mourners at ma'nene' are separating out two sides of the remembered person—the enduring from the perishable, the permanent from the dynamic, and the impersonal from the personal. What endures is the essence of the dead-as-grandparent-ancestor (cultural guide and mentor to the living). But it is what perishes that people take care of by weeping, wrapping, holding and seeing—this experienced memory of the dead person. And it is this that eventually disappears. The process of death and decay is thus isolated from the cycle of life and death symbolised by ancestral and divine spiritual power. Once the physical process of living and dying has been socially tended, the enduring dimension can enter the cycles of reciprocity linking the spiritual realm with the human realm. LOCAL VARIATION, GENERAL CONCLUSIONS In Kalimbuang, three local variations in aluk to dolo intersect, distinguishing this village from most of what has been reported in the ethnographic literature on the Toraja: ma'nene' is performed annually and collectively; funerals are not postponed until after the harvest, as they are in most of the rest of Tana Toraja (during what is known as the funeral season), but rather must be conducted within three days of physical death; and there are no permanent wooden effigies of the dead (only temporary bamboo ones constructed and dismantled during the funeral and known as bayo-bayo, literally ‘shadow’). Clearly there is a connection between the first and second practices, for the hastened immediate funeral can be upgraded during the season devoted to the dead. Both rules are based on exactly the same rationale—to keep death from contaminating the growing rice, but one achieves this goal by waiting until the land is empty, while the other does so by speeding up the social process of performing ritual so that the


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natural process of decay does not have time to affect the rice growing in the land (see Coville 1988). In practice, the most common pattern—of waiting until after harvest—allows more room for economic and social negotiation of mortuary ritual. As residents of Kalimbuang liked to explain (in paraphrase), ‘unlike those people to the south, we don’t wait until we can call everyone home and hold a big fancy funeral, we are not so wealthy, and we prefer not to show off our wealth’. While effigies and other memorials to the dead display the status, reputation and fame of the deceased, they do not articulate the process of mourning and undoing of the social self that the institution of ma'nene' expresses. The combination of hastened funerals (the three-day rule), secondary mortuary ritual and exclusively temporary effigies seems to fit in with a cultural pattern in which permanent status differences are not deeply entrenched. In the northwestern sections of what is administratively Tana Toraja, status and prestige is of concern, but compared to the south it is fluid and dynamic; it is something to renew through ongoing social relations. Yet, ultimately, it is not local variation per se but rather underlying principles that are shown by the ritual practice of ma'nene' from which we can conclude the following. THE CONSTRUCTION OF MEMORY By considering the rewrapping of the remains of the dead in its sociocultural context, we have been able to make connections among seemingly opposed theoretical and methodological approaches. A local semiotics—an implicit sense of how things mean—has guided our efforts to link self and society, folk psychology and social structure. Thus we have shown the cultural significance of seeing: that honour and shame are conceived of as something that should be seen publicly in the homeland, the visible signs of right behaviour are wealth and fertility, witnessing ritual contributes to its efficacy, and seeing the physical remains of the dead brings them back into contact with the living. We have seen too that cradling and wrapping in cloth are forms of praxis that have both personal and cultural meaning. With this attention to the symbolic meaning of seeing and holding, I have argued that ma'nene' reveals how, within an oral tradition, memory and forgetting interact. This form of secondary mortuary practice functions as a ritual process of gradual amnesia, whereby the personal and individual dimensions of the deceased are physically contacted and brought to mind. That is, this ritual process involves a transitional period of gathering up the remains of the dead while simultaneously, I would argue, calling to mind memories of the dead person through thinking, talking and dreaming.24 Eventually those pieces of the person can no longer be gathered up and made whole, but by that time the people who remembered the dead person as a living person are no longer thinking, talking or dreaming about him or her. Over the years survivors and descendants move from re-membering the



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dead (in the sense of putting the pieces the body back together) to engaging the generalised ancestral spirits through words and offerings. THE REMEMBERING OF ‘OUR DEAD’ In ma'nene', it is the members of a common descent group (to marapu) who gather together and gather the remains of their kin. When, standing together and holding the freshly wrapped corpse, they pose for the camera, they stand as a group of related people, people who share the same substance, the same ‘blood and bones’ (rara buku). The dead that are cared for during ma'nene' are, therefore, our dead, meaning our relatives. Hence too the fear of being placed in the wrong grave and the fear of having one’s remains mixed up with those of others. THE CONSTRUCTION OF ‘ANCESTORS OF RENOWN’ Although the focus of this chapter has not been the dead as heroes, saints or divinised ancestors, it can suggest ways in which such specially remembered dead may come into being. Just as what Waterson (1984b: 54) calls ‘ancestors of renown’ are made and not born, they are made not only before death but also posthumously and even after the initial mortuary ritual. Additional sacrifices made during ma'nene' can not only recognise but also enhance their status. But one wants to know what considerations determine, in practice, whether and how such upgrading occurs, just as one wonders how people decide to visit graves and rewrap the dead. How do discourse and social action affect each other? What is the interaction among discourse about great men and women, dreams attributed to them, and ritual attention paid to them? THE ENACTMENT OF COMPASSION AND SOCIAL SENTIMENT One of the vexing questions in the study of the Toraja is the issue of hierarchy and competition versus equality and cooperation. Waterson points out that for most Toraja participation in funerals is ‘the truest expression of social sentiment [and] sympathy’ (1988: 57). Similarly Wellenkamp (1992: 201ff ) argues that, for the Toraja, expressions of sadness generate compassion and empathy. When talking with people about ma'nene' and about weeping, I learned that they emphasised (positively) that weeping for others’ losses reminded them of their own losses. They recognised, in other words, that mortuary ritual is a form of memory, and memory that ties them to others. So long as the season of re-membering the dead remains annual and collective, it is likely that it expresses ‘compassion’ and ‘sympathy’ as well. But one wonders about the effects of religious conflicts (such as that between Christian rules against feeding the ancestors and aluk to dolo rules against neglecting them) on the shared expression of ‘social sentiment’.


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MOURNING THE PASSING OF AN ERA Outsiders know Tana Toraja as a place where the ancestors are worshipped and celebrated. Many of the marketable symbols of Toraja culture—the effigies, the houses, the funerals—are interpreted (by researchers, tourists and local people alike) as representations of the power of the ancestors. I have tried in this chapter to focus less on the ways in which the powerful dead are represented and more on the ways in which they are enacted—in how people interact with the dead by means of symbols. But there is a further ambiguity in all this: the term nene' denotes both the living (literally, ‘grandparent’) and the dead (in the sense of ‘ancestor’). For a long time, presumably, and thanks to the complex and intricate ritual work performed by the Toraja, grandparents died and eventually became ancestors who were then fed by their descendants. Today, thanks to external demographic and historical forces far beyond exclusive Toraja control, grandparents become ancestors but ancestors are not ritually cared for by their descendants. In a way, this fact makes sense of the transformation to modernity. Because such experiences as attending school, migrating to other parts of Indonesia, and working as civil servants all more or less imply conversion to Christianity, most remaining adherents to aluk to dolo are in fact the elderly who have not left the homeland. They are often, in fact, described as ‘not yet having religion’ (Indonesian, belum beragama) or ‘still (down) with the ancestors’ (diongpa nene'). It seems to be expected by many in Tana Toraja that when this generation dies there will be no more people left to care for the ancestors; the death of this elderly generation thus marks a transition between ages, from ‘the old world’ or ‘the world of those who came before’ (lino to dolo) to the ‘present world’ (lino totemo) (see McKinley 1979). AFTERWORD Nevertheless 20 years later, ma'nene', with its precise scheduling and choreography, continues to draw younger Torajans home to the highlands. On a return visit in 2001, I was able to participate in the ritual of rewrapping for several recently deceased kin. As in the past, it was emphasised to me that to hear the ritualised weeping of ma'nene' is to remember not only those specific individuals who are being mourned but all our kin who have died. Since I had not contributed to several funerals in the intervening years, I was given the chance to sacrifice a pig or a water-buffalo for those who had died. The social construction of memory and shared social sentiment thus continue to play a central role in ma'nene'. The semiotics of the dead still contain many layers: the framed photographs, like the traditional effigies, act as icons of the deceased; the corpse, including the face and particularly the eyes, retains its influence as an index of the person;



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the objects in which the mortal remains are contained—the wrapping cloth, the coffins and the mausoleum—are expressively handled by ritual participants. Even though much has changed, remembering the ancestors continues to be performed as a persuasive collective ritual that eloquently expresses the tangible and compelling power of the dead.


6 Island of the Dead. Why do Bataks erect tugu? Anthony Reid

Batak history over the past century can be read as a case study of rapid modernisation—‘from cannibalism to computer science’. Having been relatively isolated from external impacts until the coming of the Rhenish Mission and Dutch colonial control in the last decades of the 19th century, the Toba Batak embraced Christianity, education, progress, the money economy and urbanisation more wholeheartedly than most Indonesian peoples who had been exposed to all of these over a much longer time. Until the 1960s it appeared to most observers that the old culture of sipelebegu— the veneration and manipulation of spirits—was headed for extinction (Bartlett 1928: 236). The only evidence of any new flowering, or even survival, of native art in the Toba region was shown a few years ago [Bartlett’s 1927 visit] in the construction of a considerable number of stone sarcophagi by the natives. They followed their own art forms exclusively, which seems remarkable in view of the complete collapse of their material culture, which has quickly followed contact with the white race. Toba, the former centre of Batak culture, is fast becoming utterly and depressingly nondescript, as the remaining Batak houses fall into ruin and are replaced by atrocious stylless imitations of European buildings.

Though gratified by this uncharacteristic survival of mortuary architecture, the American anthropologist Bartlett believed in the 1920s that ‘the forces bringing about cultural disentegration are too strong’, so that these tombs would soon be of only ‘antiquarian interest’ (Bartlett 1928: 237). Writing a few years later, the Dutch adat specialist Vergouwen (1933: 71) had the same impression. After describing the mangongkal holi-holi ritual in which the bones of a revered ancestor were exhumed and replaced in a 88


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MALAYSIA Medan Lake Toba

Toba Batak

SINGAPORE Pekanbaru

S U M

Padang

A T

N

R A Palembang

Gumai

Toba Batak Simarmata Pangururang

Muara Enim Lahat Pagaralam

Pematang Siantar Parapat Lake Toba

SAMOSIR

Tarutung

0

200 kilometres

0

50 kilometres

Map 4 Sumatra: Toba Batak and Gumai

tomb amid great feasting, he added in parenthesis: ‘Here one must speak in the past tense since Christianity has spread everywhere’. The Rhenish Mission was firmly set against rituals conducted by the old religious specialists (datu) at which the spirits of the dead were honoured and invoked, and these ceremonies were therefore retreating to the margins of Batak social life.


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Figure 6.1 Simarmata tugu in the shape of a lighthouse, northern Samosir

When Edward Bruner conducted his fieldwork in a Batak village near Lake Toba (Map 4) in 1957, reburials still played a role in holding Toba Batak society together but there was ‘a feeling of cultural malaise, even disorganisation. The Toba social system, I thought, could not last another generation’ (Bruner 1983: 17). He shared Bartlett’s earlier impression that the system was collapsing, although it was outmigration, indigenised Christianity and urban-based nationalism, rather than colonial officials and missionaries, which had become the agents of change. In 1973, however, Bruner found the region dotted with new tombs to clan ancestors, mostly constructed in the 1960s and entirely on the initiative and with the wealth of urban Bataks. Bruner conceded he had in his 1957 reporting underestimated ‘the complex interdependencies between the rural and the urban communities, especially those which took place on a ritualmoral rather than a purely social-economic plane’ (Bruner 1983: 17). By the early 21st century the transformation which began in the 1960s has produced a Toba countryside in which monuments to lineage founders and other revered ancestors are the dominant features. The Toba Batak


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P Figure 6.2 Manihuruk tugu, built in 1993 to house the bones of hundreds of descendants

homeland of Tapanuli Utara is poor, ranking 15th of North Sumatra’s 17 kabupaten in per-capita GDP, above only remote Nias and Dairi (SUDA 1993: 731–4). Its historic core, the island of Samosir, is dirt-poor even in this context, with a declining population, exhausted soils, and no industry except tourism. In this impoverished landscape the magnificence of the ancestral monuments (tugu) stands out dramatically, making Samosir seem an island of the dead. The majority of the children of Samosir who now live more comfortably in the cities of Indonesia seek to return only to feast— and to be reburied. As government officials are quick to complain, the graves and monuments to the dead are the only sign of investment by migrant Bataks in their ancestral homeland. In the prosperous decade 1985–95, some of the tugu reached remarkable proportions. They are now typically erected by the joint efforts of hundreds or thousands of urban Bataks, usually led by a particularly wealthy and ambitious individual. Of the dozens dotted along the 20 km of road from Simanindo to Pangururan on the western side of Samosir, two of the more striking examples are illustrated. The fine white tugu in the form of a lighthouse (Figure 6.1) was inaugurated on 27 June 1990, during a feast of the Simarmata marga (patrilineage) and their hula-hula (wife-givers) which the caretaker generously estimated had drawn 100 000 people! The two statues before the monument are the reputed founders of the lineage: Ompu Simarmata Raja Simarmata, and his wife Dohot Ompu Beru Limbong Sihole. Beneath the statues is a plaque


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expressing in Indonesian the purpose of the monument in sufficiently vague terms as not to upset anyone: ‘To the coming generations, that they may continue to guard, look after and preserve the cultural values radiating from this tugu’. The committee responsible for fund-raising and construction was headed by a Jakarta contractor, with one of the tourist hotel owners of Ambarita as his deputy and a Siantar schoolteacher as treasurer. The huge honeycomb tomb of Manihuruk marga (Figure 6.2) was somewhat different, combining the functions of monument to the ancestors and collective tomb for the bones of the whole marga. The interior wall is lined with about 300 niches, the topmost ones already filled with the bones of ancestors, while the more recently exhumed will have to await another ceremony several years hence to be placed in their allotted niches. This tugu was erected in 1993, on the initiative of a retired Police General in Jakarta, unusual in that he moved physically back to his native village on Samosir, built a palace by the lakeside there for himself, and had the tugu erected with his own funds. When I visited, a commemorative communal meal was being held inside, with offerings left for the dead on a mushroom-shaped central altar. The very absence of commemorative plaques suggested an openness to pre-Christian ritual. Today the ritual of mangongkal holi-holi, for the collective reburial of the bones of members of a particular descent group in a large concrete tomb (tambak) usually associated with a tugu, is the central activity linking urban Bataks to their Tapanuli homeland. One festival I attended in July 1995 reburied the bones of about 20 members of the Malau marga in a village near Aeklan, some of whom had died as long as 50 years before. The hosts (suhut) who bore most of the expense were all from Medan, though those members of the lineage who remained in the village gained valuable employment in building the tomb, restoring the village houses for guests and preparing the feast. After a communal meal in the evening, most of the following day was occupied with receiving gifts of cloth (ulos) from various groups of hula-hula or wife-givers. The Batak orchestra (gondang) was installed in its traditional place in the open eave of the best-preserved traditional-style house in the village, as is now normal practice despite the lengthy period when it was banned by the mission. Each incoming group danced their way forward and put one or more ulos around the neck of the host team. Most churches (except Pentecostalists) have now established an uneasy truce with the ritual, and the porganger (lay reader) and three members of the youth group of the village Catholic church had their moment in the late afternoon. They did their own dance (tortor) around the host group, sang a couple of hymns, and read Batak prayers over the boxes of bones, as prescribed for this mangongkal holi-holi in the most recent Catholic Batak prayerbook. After further prayers were said at the top of the hill, and most had joined in singing the Lord’s Prayer in Batak, the adat chief of the hamlet (raja huta) commenced a lengthy speech on the other side of the tomb. The theatre suggested conflict, but the participants saw the


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two elements as complementary. Finally the boxes were passed up to the top of the tomb, and the contents in plastic bags were placed one by one in the topmost chamber. This ritual procedure is a compromise between church, the power of the dead, and family pride which has not come easily. As all must participate in funerary rituals of this sort, compromise was necessary. The revival of rituals to the dead since the 1960s have all been opposed by the churches initially, and many are still condemned by all the churches. One example I attended in a nearby village was the hoda debata (horse of the gods) ritual, which appeared to have died out in the 1930s and 1940s, though described by Vergouwen (1933: 100–1) in a markedly different form. Those members of a branch of the Simbolon marga who sponsored it were all nominally Christian, living in cities such as Medan, Batam and Kuala Lumpur. As explained to me by one of the ritual specialists (panuturi) who had determined its form, it had been decided to hold this ritual after a series of consultations with ancestral spirits through mediums and in dreams. These revealed that the founder of the lineage had made an agreement that if he recovered from an illness he and his descendants would hold this ritual of sacrificing a horse. But for past three generations the ceremony had not been held, and members of the lineage who recovered from illnesses became sick again. A number of wealthy members of the clan had therefore decided to hold the ritual, despite Church opposition. The presence of a very new collective tomb in the same hamlet suggested that these perantau had already gathered on a previous occasion to rebury the bones of their forebears. As a nearby village had very recently also held this same ritual, there seemed clearly to be an element of competitive emulation in the revival. Unlike the participants in the mangongkal holi-holi, there was a marked differentiation at this ritual between degrees of involvement. About 150 members of the lineage attended, but the majority declined to take part in the ritual meal, and marked their token involvement by playing cards around the periphery. No Christian prayers were said, and those who claimed expertise in the old rituals appeared able to determine how things had to be done. Prayers were said and offerings made before the new tomb, and the bamboo pole (borotan) always erected at the centre of such feasts was explained not as decoration or tradition, but as the means whereby the spirit of the sacrificed horse would rise to appease the gods. Those conducting the ritual were eager to explain Batak religion as not so much compatible with Christianity as equivalent to it. Does this revival of rituals and expenditures in honour of ancestral figures represent a process of de-Christianisation and secularisation, a return to older Batak traditions, or a wholly modern way for an urban middle class to express Batak or lineage solidarity? Let me try to disentangle the elements of modernity and tradition in the process by tracing its development historically.


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CHRISTIANISATION The Christianisation of the Batak was a relatively rapid process, beginning with Nommensen’s conversion of the influential Raja Pontas Lumbantobing in 1865, but becoming rapid only after the viability of the old religious order was dramatically undermined by the defeat of Singamangaraja XII in 1883. By 1920 there were over 200 000 Toba Batak Christians, still a minority but with the education and leadership to establish Christianity as part of the route to Batak modernisation. In 1930, the year the Batak Protestant Christian Church (HKBP) was established as Indonesia’s first self-governing church, Hendrik Kraemer declared it among ‘the finest results of missionary activity in modern times’ (Kraemer 1930: 43). The German missionaries had insisted that Christians should abandon their funerary rites and rituals to the ancestors. At Christian feasts the gondang was strictly forbidden as an inherent invocation of the spirits, and replaced by brass bands and hymn-singing with Western tunes. Many of the datu who had mediated with the spirit world were given positions of responsibility as church elders (Pederson 1970: 63–4). To the missionaries and to many Toba Batak converts it appeared that escaping the magical world in which success and failure depended on the whims of the begu (spirits) was the first step towards that individual moral responsibility required by both Christianity and modernisation. Yet even the best of the missionaries still found the Bataks ‘a psychological riddle, mainly because of the great discrepancy between dogmatics and ethics in their mental makeup. Everywhere behind the Christian forms, terms and customs, he discovers the pagan’ (Kraemer 1930: 51, citing Marcks). The Batak Christian developed a vigorous church life and avoided ceremonies overtly in conflict with it, but remained convinced that, in the ceaseless quest to strengthen his tondi (inner spiritual potency), his ancestral spirits remained a potent source of strength and danger. In particular it was essential, even in the 1920s when the Church’s line against the spirits was at its hardest, not to lose contact with the lineage, living and dead, by absenting oneself wholly from its collective rituals (1930: 50–5; Castles 1974). FORMATION OF AN URBAN BATAK IDENTITY Such was the equation of ‘Batak’ with ‘savage’ that Bataks of any description who moved to the cities kept their identity secret until about 1920. Either they became Muslim and joined the urban high culture, or passed themselves off as some kind of already accepted Sumatran migrants. But around 1920 the first Batak churches became established in both Batavia and Medan, and self-help clubs, newspapers and football clubs soon followed. Parada Harahap tells a story about the first Batak football club in Batavia in 1921, which at first was received with derision when it put up its sign at matches. But eventually ‘they saw that people who had pretended to


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be orang Padang, whom they had regarded as clean and educated, turned out [to be Bataks], and spoke Dutch too’ (cited in Castles 1972: 181–2). Because of their early and enthusiastic response to education, Bataks in the 1920s were overrepresented in the plethora of new newspapers. As well as editing several nationalist newspapers for a broader public, they set up the successful Soara Batak (Tarutung, 1919–30) and Bintang Batak (Balige, later Sibolga, 1928–41) as explicit vehicles of Batakness (habatahon). The 1920s were also marked by numerous publications in Batak and Malay dealing with adat, traditions and genealogy. The Batak Institute, founded in Leiden as early as 1908, lent respectability to the idea of a Batak civilisation through its publications (Castles 1972: 183–4). A turning point came in 1922, when a dispute over rights of access to a Mandailing-dominated cemetery in Medan caused a bitter polemic between those who considered ‘Batak’ the appropriate inclusive term for all the highlanders of Tapanuli and those who considered the term offensive. As Lance Castles (1972: 189) puts it, Medan in the 1920s ‘was changing from a “melting-pot”, in which immigrants were expected to conform to Malayo– Muslim culture, to a region of lasting ethnic diversity and competition’. Toba Bataks have long understood their identity in terms of genealogical relationships, as the relations between the marga of their father and mother will determine their ritual and social obligations and opportunities. Vergouwen (1933: 17) noted of the 1920s: Anyone whose forefather was not snatched from the bond of his kinship group . . . during the turbulent Pidari [militant Islamic Padri movement] time that preceded the coming of the Dutch Government, and who knows something of the facts, can enumerate without fault six, eight or even ten or more generations of his ascending line of agnates. Within the narrower kinship group . . . everyone knows precisely the relationship of its members.

Because this was oral information, and the heirs to a particular genealogy might be spread all over Tapanuli, there was however great variety and frequent disputation about the origins and relations of different lines. Dutch officials noted that margas that had dispersed began to lose their sense of origin in the late 19th century, and substituted legend. In the 1920s this knowledge began to be written and uniform, initially as a result of the interaction of Dutch and Batak officials working in the field of Batak customary law. A huge chart was compiled linking all Toba and most Angkola and Mandailing margas with each other by tracing each back to branchings out from parent margas until reaching the ultimate source in Si Raja Batak. It was published in Batak in a 1926 book by a Batak government prosecutor (jaksa), Waldemar Hoeta Galoeng—Poestaha taringot toe tarombo ni halak Batak (Castles 1972: 184). The weighty tome of the Dutch official Ypes, who must have known Hoeta Galoeng well from their work together in adat courts, did not come out in Dutch until 1932, though


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he says that he compiled the information in 1926 by travelling around the Batak area recording information from elderly informants (Ypes 1932: 1–4). From the date of Hoeta Galoeng’s publication, in any event, educated Bataks had access to a universal schema of their relationships. This has been enormously influential in shifting from an oral and varied to a modern and fixed definition of identity through origins. For example, the Hasibuans of Padang Lawas, an area where Islam had made some gains, told Neumann in the 1880s that they were descended from ‘one of the distinguished families of the retinue of Alexander the Great’. But in 1929, after the publication of Waldemar Hoeta Galoeng’s genealogy, this branch was convinced (rightly, in Vergouwen’s understanding) that they were sprung from the extended marga of Huta Galung, and ‘participated with zest’ in the great festival where, ‘for the first time in history, the entire Huta Galung marga assembled in . . . the small territory of its origin in the middle of the Silindung valley; a gathering that made all the other Bataks envious’ (Vergouwen 1933: 18–19). The opening of roads and the circulation of newspapers made it possible for gatherings such as this to take place, and for them to be reported in uniform printed form throughout the Batak world. The Soara Batak, for example, carried a fascinating story in 1930 about a massive feast at which peace was restored to the bitterly divided marga Silitonga in east Humbang. Thousands of people participated, including of course the hula-hula or wife-givers, and when harmony had been established through the poetic device of exchanged umpama (couplets), everybody had to dance in their prescribed order. Permission had been sought from the Head (Ephorus) of the Batak church to use the gondang for this purpose. Although the newspaper reported that permission had been granted, it also noted that all the clergy and church school teachers stayed away (translated in 1933: 429–33). The postwar concept of marga as less a descent category than a social group (Bruner 1987: 135), which could symbolise its unity collectively through a statue of a founding ancestor, may have its origin in this period when modern-educated semi-urban Bataks began to see their identity through Hoeta Galoeng’s published chart. The first recorded tugu for a marga founder was erected by the Tampubolon marga of Balige in 1934 (1987: 136). While there was an older tradition of funerary statues, still witnessed on many stone sarcophogi and village protective megaliths today, the bulk of early observers of precolonial Tapanuli insisted that these did not represent a specific ancestor but rather the spiritual power (sahala) accumulated during the ritual, including that of the human sacrifice that sometimes took place there (Barbier 1987: 47–9). In the last decade of colonial rule and a mission-dominated church, the ancient role of ancestors as sources of spiritual power and blessing was beginning to shift to that of symbols of collective identity.


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WHY THE TUGU? The turbulence of the 1940s and 1950s brought great change to Batak society. The HKBP had learned to cope without expatriate missionaries during the war, and did not welcome them back except in a teaching capacity after Independence. While few holdouts of overt sipelebegu practice remained, the Christian Batak scene became more diverse and open. Two schismatic churches separated from the HKBP, the Huria Kristen Indonesia (HKI) in 1927 (reformed 1946) and Gereja Kristen Protestan Indonesia (GKPI) in 1963, while there were major advances by the Catholic church especially in Samosir, and by Adventists and a range of Pentecostal groups. The HKBP was no longer as convincing or powerful as the channel to a modern Batak identity. Bataks in general welcomed Indonesian independence in 1945 and the subsequent social revolution that swept away the Malay monarchies of East Sumatra. The revolution offered opportunities to occupy former plantation land in the eastern lowlands, and Bataks responded by beginning a mass outmigration from their empoverished homeland (Reid 1979; Cunningham 1958). There were many who grew sceptical about the claims of Christianity during this period, but they tended to be drawn into radical politics rather than revivals of older Batak ritual. But as leadership within the HKBP was broadened and contested, the Church lost the ability and perhaps the will to enforce the old strictures against rituals once associated with the spirits. The period 1963–65 was a particularly turbulent time in church affairs as in national politics, as the textile magnate T.D. Pardede managed to dismiss the prestigious rector of Nommensen University and later install himself as rector. The dismissed rector eventually accepted the leadership of the GKPI splinter church formed by those who lost what was essentially a power struggle within the HKBP (Pederson 1970: 173–8). During this troubled time the hard line could not be held against ceremonies that honoured the ancestors and used the gondang. Not until 1967 was there a major church conference to consider theologically the changes to the older missionary hard line that had already begun to be made on the ground. The ‘Church and Society’ conference at Parapat looked at areas of conflict, and set the Church on a path of uneasily accepting a role in consecrating the mangongkal holi-holi ritual. The same conference raised the new question of what attitude to take to the lavish expenditure beginning to be made on tugu. The American missionary worker Paul Pederson (1970: 86) well expressed the unease of many Christian leaders at that time and since: The practice of erecting large concrete representations of marga founders has become particularly popular the last few years. Many marga have erected such monuments in the name of carrying out the commandment ‘to honour thy father and mother’, while solidifying loyalties to the clan. Besides costing millions of rupiah these practices have led Bataks to revive ancient practices of


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traditional religion, causing many disturbances in the Batak community. It is not infrequent for a childless wife to bring an offering to the monument of her marga ancestor asking his help in securing children.

Most observers see this phenomenon as a new one in the 1960s, though building on older ideas about the honouring of powerful lineage ancestors. The new structures incorporating a modern painted statue were universally called tugu, which is a modern Indonesian word, not Batak, and that term has now even spread to what would once have been called tambak— elevated house-like structures where bones were placed in secondary burials (Figure 6.3). Two major factors help to explain why this change took place in the 1960s: 1.

Bataks began to be a numerous and wealthy urban community in the 1960s, but at the same time a somewhat insecure one. Judging by HKBP church membership, the Toba Bataks in Jakarta probably rose from about 15 000 in 1959 to 50 000 in 1969 and 200 000 in 1982 (Bruner 1972: 212; Reid 1995).1 In Medan there were fewer than 900 Toba Bataks at the 1930 census but 183 000 by 1981 (Pelly 1994: 81; Reid 1998: 72–7), the major influx having begun around 1950. Yet despite these growing numbers, the defeat of the PRRI Rebellion in 1958–59 shook much of the confidence born of the prominent Toba Batak role in North Sumatra’s military. The withdrawal of the rebel forces under the Toba Batak Colonel Simbolon from Medan to Tapanuli at the beginning of the rebellion symbolically underlined the importance of a ‘homeland’ as some kind of bastion of security for Toba Bataks in the Republic, however urban most of their lives had become.

Figure 6.3 1940s cement grave and 1980s tugu in northern Samosir


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During the Guided Democracy period (1959–65) the development of a cult of officially designated nationalist heroes, together with Soekarno’s enthusiasm for erecting heroic monuments in Jakarta and other cities, turned a private, declining cult of belief in the magical powers of Singamangaraja XII into a movement to have him recognised as an official national hero, which goal was achieved in November 1961. This campaign in turn prompted a number of tugu of Singamangaraja, beginning with a 1953 statue at Soposurung above Balige, and culminating in 1985 with a huge edifice in Medan (Bruner 1987: 136–7). The movement to raise Singamangaraja to heroic stature was flamboyantly led by G.M. Panggabean through his Medan newspaper, Sinar Indonesia Baru, and his Si Singamangaraja XII League (Rodgers 1987: 198–213; Cunningham 1989; Pardede 1987: 244–5). Panggabean was also a major supporter of the GKPI schism in 1963, and his movement had less a unifying effect than one of arousing critics and competitors. Other marga took the view that Singamangaraja was a hero only for the Sinambela marga or at most the Sumba group of marga, and proceeded to erect statues of their own founders.

MODERN BATAK EXPLANATIONS These factors may provide the context in which the building of ambitious tugu began in the 1960s. They do not explain why Toba Batak today continue to carry their dead to their ancestral villages, to spend enormous sums travelling there for lavish marga feasts, and erect giant monuments to lineage ancestors, when in other respects their lives are urban, Indonesian and modern. I often asked Batak informants and observers to explain this phenomenon, much as Edward Bruner (1987) did a decade earlier. I will end by setting out my reading of the alternative possibilities raised by both the literature and contemporary informants: 1.

2.

Status competition is clearly a factor in the splendour of the tugu and the opulence of the feasting that accompanies its erection. The tugu erected by one marga provokes jealousy in other margas until they themselves can outdo it. The many critics who oppose the tugu and attendant feasting on Christian, traditional or pragmatic developmental grounds usually stress this factor: ‘People who had made good in Medan or Jakarta wanted to show off their success back at home. The motive is pride or conceit [congkak]’ (Samosir informant; also Bruner 1987: 139). More positively put, ‘the [lineage] group do it to raise their prestige [martabat]. It is a question of asserting who we are, of knowing ourselves as a group and a lineage’ (Samosir/Jakarta informant). Tugu are erected, and mangongkal holi-holi feasts held, ‘so that the elders are respected [asa sangap natuatua i]’. It is merely the Batak way of carrying out the Christian injunction to ‘honour thy father and


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mother’, and the universal respect for the dead (Simanjuntak 1995). Though this is among the most frequently cited defences of the practice, most of those who use it and perhaps genuinely attend feasts in this spirit are aware that current Toba Batak practice is different from that of most other Christians and of their fellow urban Indonesians. There remains much to be explained. Tugu-building represents a kind of contract between richer and poorer, urban and rural, younger and older members of a lineage. The idea of erecting a tugu or holding a feast, though paid for by urban migrants, often originates with the poor older people remaining in the village (Simanjuntak 1995). The construction and feasting does of course transfer wealth from rich to poor and city to village, perhaps enabling some marginal villages to survive and certainly aiding the refurbishment of houses. More fundamentally, rich and poor are all able to honour their dead with unprecedented grandeur. Whereas the older reburials in sarcophagi were only for the lionised founder of a lineage (ompu parsadaan), the modern mangongkal holi-holi caters for the whole descent group. One Samosir educator explained that Bataks would regard somebody who built schools and hospitals as simply big-noting himself selfishly. But if he stages a tugu ceremony he is raising his whole lineage. All will be grateful to him. The tugu, and particularly the ritual feasting that accompanies it, consolidates and strengthens the lineage and the identity within it which would otherwise be eroded. Edward Bruner (1987: 145) has expressed in Turneresque language what the experience means for the urban Toba Batak: It helps to bridge the perceived discrepancy between the ideal image of Batak society and the way that society is actually experienced. It relieves the tension between Batak talk about their adat as sacred and timeless, and the inner experience of estrangement. The tugu, as all monuments, are a bridge between the past and the present … The tugu ceremony recaptures time as the Batak returns to a former aspect of his own or his family’s historical experience. The tugu ritual becomes a mirror of his former self … He goes from the secular urban world to the magical adat world of his kinsmen, and together with his clansmen and affines he performs his genealogy.

If this has profound psychological value for urban Bataks, it has concrete ones for village-dwellers. As virtually all aspire to have their children achieve higher education and employment in the cities, they need the contacts who can provide city accommodation and contacts. Most Batak informants, especially the rural ones who tend to set the agenda of feasting, would express the point of solidarity in terms they believe derive from the tradition itself. They refer to the strength


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obtained from the dalihan na tolu, or the tripartite relationship between the indwelling marga and its affines, wife-givers (hula-hula) and wife-takers (boru). The hula-hula are the natural element to transfer spiritual strength (sahala) to their boru: ‘If the hula-hula are strong in sahala, then they will help the boru also to be strong’ (Samosir informants). Festivals that bring a lineage together with its hula-hula, as all Batak feasts do, thereby strengthen the lineage by transferring the blessings of the hula-hula to it (Vergouwen 1933: 44–53, 78–87; Tobing 1956: 81–9). Committed Christians who support this view will say that it is the blessing of God which comes to a person and his lineage through the hula-hula. Finally, what is the role of the ancestral spirits themselves in this process? Many informants (especially rural ones) attest that the original purpose of reburying ancestors in beautiful tomb monuments is still a powerful one, even though those reviving the practice are now urban, affluent, Christian and educated. As expressed by Vergouwen (1933: 70), the pre-Christian idea was that in the spirit world the spirits of deceased ancestors occupy a particular place, especially the spirits of those who, in their lifetime, became rich, had power and material goods and whose descendants are many. These spirits, the sumangot ni ompu = the revered spirits of the ancestors, desire to be worshipped and honoured with offerings in order to continue to be active in promoting the welfare of the descendants of these ancestors.

For many rural people the spirits of the dead, the begu, are capable of doing much harm to the living, especially their close descendants, unless the correct rituals are carried out and the bones properly placed in a fine tambak. Continued prayers and offerings to the dead, especially to those who have had abundant children, land and other assets, will increase the sahala of these potent forebears, and enable them to shower their blessings on the living. The chief evidence for this as a continuing motive is the role played by ritual specialists who explain infertility, illness and other misfortunes in terms of dissatisfied spirits. There are numerous stories attributing the reason for a feast to this—like the one I was told at the hoda debata ritual (above). Frequently something unusual happens at such rituals to indicate the presence of the spirits, such as a dancer becoming possessed while the music of the gondang is at its most intense. Almost all participants accept these phenomena as deriving from the spirit world, though differing as to whether they should be seen as a sign of continued blessing or a sinister throwback to animism. As one Toba Catholic brother said to me, ‘the spirits are not a belief; they are facts’. Like other religious presences, they come and go, are seen to some but not to others, but serve as signs of connection with a world of power, a world beyond death.


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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The fieldwork behind this paper was done in Medan and Samosir in July–November 1995. Though my informants were too numerous to list, I should acknowledge some particularly helpful fellow analysts: Dr Amudi Pasaribu, Dr Andar Lumbantobing, Dr B.A. Simanjuntak, Fr Leo Joosten, Fr Philippus Manala and Dr Budi Santoso SJ.


7 Modernising sacred sites in South Sumatra: Islamisation of Gumai ancestral places Minako Sakai For Austronesians, a consciousness of social origins orients the way of life. The ethnographic literature demonstrates that origins are often conceptually linked to particular places or to people known as ancestors (Fox 1993, 1995, 1997a; Fox & Sather 1996; Lewis 1988). How has integration into the Indonesian nation state influenced the way ethnic groups deal with ancestors and associated places? This question is particularly interesting in view of the fact that the official interpretation of the Indonesian state ideology, Panca Sila, requires every Indonesian citizen to adopt one of the state-recognised world religions. Traditional belief systems and associated rituals thus have come to be regarded as backward, primitive and even antigovernment. People whose traditional religions do not easily fit one of the government categories of religions need to reinterpret them (Forth 1994; Graham 1994; Kipp 1993; Kipp & Rodgers 1987; Steedly 1989). It is this interplay between the local and global dimensions of Islam that I aim to explore. This chapter intends to show how modern developments in Indonesia are affecting ancestral cults with a focus on change in ‘sacred sites’. I use this term according to Carmichael et al. (1994: 3), who argue: ‘To say that a specific place is a sacred place is not simply to describe a piece of land, or locate it in a certain position in the landscape . . . [It] implies a set of beliefs to do with the more remote or powerful gods or spirits’. I aim to articulate what constitutes sacred places and what is affecting them in modern Indonesia, focusing particularly on the way pre-Islamic rituals have been reinterpreted in an Islamic mode, a question that has attracted academic attention to recent discussions about Islam as a discursive field (Bowen 1993; Kim 1996; Eickelman 1982; Hefner 1983; 1987; Nakamura 1979; Woodward 1993, 1996). The data presented here came from my fieldwork between 1994 and 1996 among the Gumai, a Malay-speaking group who live in the upland of 103


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Map 5 Research sites in South Sumatra

South Sumatra province. Major concentrations of Gumai villages are located in the subdistricts of Lahat town, Pulau Pinang of Lahat district and in the subdistrict of Rambang Dangku of Muara Enim district as indicated in Map 5. The major sources of livelihood in the research sites are from shifting rice agriculture, coffee and rubber.1 PERSONS AND PLACES The Gumai adhere to Islam and perform their life cycle rituals in accordance with Islamic teaching, yet it is crucial for the Gumai to remember their origins. As I have elsewhere detailed (Sakai 1997), for the Gumai remembering origins includes (a) having a genealogical successor; (b) maintaining linkage with the origin place; and (c) holding a gathering at the origin place to confirm this linkage. Forgetting one’s origin could bring about a fatal disaster. In this section I outline how Gumai concern with origins operates in everyday life and the ways in which relevant ritual offices are inherited. An individual Gumai shows great concern about whether he or she has offspring. A couple suffering infertility without any medical reason consider that it is due to the wrath of their ancestors that they are not


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blessed with children, and would seek any advice to appease the angered ancestors. Putus jurai, or having no children, is most feared and despised among the Gumai. Parents encourage one of their children to inherit the parental house and to reside within their village as the family successor (petunggu dusun). Other children are free to leave the village and settle somewhere else. They are, however, expected to return to their origin house occasionally to show that they remember their origin and hold a gathering. The house inherited by a successor is thus not individual property but a communal place for other children to return to. A Gumai village is traditionally a territorial unit, consisting of residents who can trace their origin affinally or lineally to the founding ancestor of the village.2 Those who cannot prove their connection to the village founding ancestors are not allowed to live or to be buried in a Gumai village.3 The custom of petunggu dusun serves to retain a homogeneous community. Each village has a graveyard where only the villagers are allowed to be buried.4 Therefore, a traditional Gumai village is a space that contains both the dead and the living who can trace their origin to their village founders. Generations above grandparents constitute ancestors, generally referred to as puyang. Despite their concern about their origin, individual Gumai memories of their genealogy do not reach beyond grandparents. To fill this gap, the Gumai recognise two points of origin, one based on their village locality and the other traced through the descendants of the founding ancestors. There exists a ritual specialist, who can trace his origin back to the founder as the legitimate successor and acts as a ritual specialist in a particular site. Each site is a place of popular visit (ziarah) and becomes a ritual site among the Gumai descendants. Failure to visit these sites is considered to be evidence of forgetting one’s origin—misconduct towards the ancestors. Let me illustrate how village origins are remembered. In each village there are several families with the title jungkuk who are responsible for keeping a record of their genealogy, leading back to the first ancestor of the village, who is called puyang ketunggalan dusun. The title of jungkuk was given to the children of the village founding ancestor, and has been passed down to one of the children irrespective of sex. It is this successor who becomes the petunggu dusun and is expected to remain in the village. A village ritual specialist, Jurai Tue, is one of these children of the founding ancestors. The person who acts as the Jurai Tue is considered to be the most legitimate heir to the village founder. He is expected to attend to rituals and customs related to the village founding ancestor. The office of Jurai Tue can be transmitted to a daughter, but the role itself needs to be activated by her husband. Due to this form of succession, the genealogy of a jungkuk and Jurai Tue is not patrilineal nor matrilineal but is a succession of male and female ancestral names associated with the locality, the village (dusun). Village founding ancestors have putative genealogical connections


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with the descendants of the founding ancestor of the Gumai but the exact genealogical linkage is rarely known. Contrary to the Jurai Tue, whose genealogy traces back to the village founding ancestor, the Jurai Kebali'an is regarded as the most authentic heir to the ultimate origin point. His genealogy goes back to the founding ancestor of the Gumai, called Diwe Gumai. He is responsible for producing a male heir to succeed him and for attending to Gumai adat or local customs. The following is an abbreviated origin story of the Gumai according to the Jurai Kebali'an.5 Origin story of the Gumai The founding ancestor Diwe Gumai descended to earth from the sky on one night before the full moon with the intention of populating the uninhabited land. He arrived on the hill called Bukit Siguntang, which was the only piece of land above water at that time. It is currently located in Palembang, South Sumatra. After his descent to Bukit Siguntang, he fought a war with Aceh to save the kingdom of Bangka Hulu (presently known as Bengkulu). After this victory he married a princess of Bangka Hulu (Bengkulu). This couple was then blessed with two sons. After some time, Diwe Gumai had to return to the sky and asked his elder son, Ratu Iskandar Alam (Segentar Alam), to replace him. He gave his son the title Jurai Kebali'an and made him responsible for holding a monthly ritual to pray for the well-being of the Gumai descendants by invoking the spirit of his father, Diwe Gumai. Since then, the title of Jurai Kebali'an has been inherited by one of the sons of the Jurai Kebali'an, who is responsible for holding this monthly ritual called Sedekah Malam Empatbelas at his house. This house is regarded as the one for all Gumai descendants to return to. During the course of time, as the water level decreased, the Jurai Kebali'an moved from Bukit Siguntang along rivers to look for a new land. This Jurai Kebali'an, Ratu Kebuyutan, married a local princess and became the local king of the new region. The next Jurai Kebali'an, Puyang Suka Milung, had nine sons and one daughter out of his two marriages and his sons went along nine big rivers in South Sumatra in order to set up a new village. Thereafter, grandchildren of Puyang Suka Milung also went to look for a new place and settled there. Through this process of proliferation, the Gumai spread over South Sumatra. The title of Jurai Kebali'an was inherited by one of the sons of the Jurai Kebali'an without fail and the current successor of the Jurai Kebali'an is the 26th successor from the founding ancestor, Diwe Gumai.

As this account shows, the genealogy of the Jurai Kebali'an is patrilineal and exclusive, and traces back to the ultimate origin point of the founding ancestor, Diwe Gumai. The role of the Jurai Kebali'an can be activated only when the present heir to this title stays within the house of the Jurai Kebali'an. When out of the compound, he is just an ordinary individual who can no longer deal with Gumai ancestors. The ancestral rituals he needs to perform cannot be



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practised elsewhere. Every day someone comes to his house in order to discuss issues related to Gumai adat. When the Jurai Kebali'an is out of this compound, the guest reports the issue to the wife of the Jurai Kebali'an, who usually stays home and receives guests. The role of the Jurai Kebali'an is thus always associated with his house. The house of the Jurai Kebali'an is not regarded as a private residence but as a communal house for all the Gumai descendants. To illustrate this belief, during my period of fieldwork several men and women who were in difficulties stayed there while helping with household work.6 The family of the Jurai Kebali'an is not allowed to refuse them, as they admit that their house is open to any Gumai descendants. The only restriction is made on the room of the Jurai Kebali'an, where heirlooms are kept in the attic and invocation of the ancestral spirits takes place. The wife of the Jurai Kebali'an owns her own bedroom, which is shared by her husband. SEDEKAH: GUMAI ANCESTRAL RITUALS Thus Gumai concern with origin is associated with a particular ritual specialist and a particular locality. It is not complete without the performance of a ritual feast, sedekah, at the associated origin place. While this is an occasion for Gumai descendants to contact the Gumai ancestral spirits, sedekah is commonly used to refer to any ritual feast among the Gumai, and may be performed in association with either ancestral spirits and/or Islam. Indeed, Islamic prayers are often uttered.7 Gumai ancestral spirits are believed to be benevolent and to help their descendants achieve their goals in life.8 When a person makes a serious wish, he or she promises to sacrifice animals. A water buffalo, which is at least five times as expensive as a goat, is sometimes chosen as a sacrificial animal as evidence of the seriousness of the intent. Once the wish has come true, the person is under an obligation to fulfil the promise. If the promise should be neglected, the anger of the ancestors will cause all sorts of misfortune among their family members. Promises to ancestors are therefore reciprocal in nature. The sacrificial ritual is termed mbayar sangi or mbayar nazar (paying off a vow). It can be performed by itself but, in practice, in order to economise on costs and save sacrificial animals for festivities, it is often performed jointly with a marriage or the celebration of the birth of a child. A popular sacrificial animal is a brown male goat,9 and when a goat is sacrificed at least one chicken needs to be slaughtered as well. Sacrificial animals are slaughtered in the name of Allah by men, and the internal organs and feathers are removed immediately. The men are also in charge of cooking rice and boiling drinking water. Then the women start cooking the meat as an offering for ancestral spirits, as well as dishes such as vegetables for the coming feast. The legs of a whole chicken, without the head, are crossed and tied with a thread. A goat is cut into pieces. Its


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internal organs are threaded together on a string because after cooking, the head, legs, offal and other principal parts are placed together as offerings.10 When all the cooking is done, it is time to organise the set of offerings. A plate of chicken is placed next to a plate of goat or water buffalo. There are also plates of rice porridge (bubur), soft rice cakes (apam) and water, all of which are covered with banana leaves and placed on a mat. When all are set in order, a senior male member or a village ritual specialist burns benzoin as incense by thinly slicing it with a knife and tossing it over a fire to invoke the ancestral spirits. A typical invocation includes: selam alaikum seram memanggil arwah maq bapaq nenek lanang, nenek betine puyang lanang puyang betine langsung terus ke pucoq kamu duduk belinap belunngohlah disini aku maseh besebut bepantau pule minta tolong sampaika nga kamu

special greeting to ancestral spirits11 I invoke spirits of mother and father grandpa and grandma male and female ancestors and those ancestors above kindly sit there quietly kindly gather here I still call you I still invoke you to come here I need your assistance, I need to report

Messages to ancestral spirits need to be delivered through the burning of the benzoin. Then all the ancestral spirits are kindly required to leave after enjoying the offerings dedicated to them: abes kamu merejiki merejikilah kamu sude kamu merejiki kamu narik mambu narik mambullaha kamu lah sude kamu menginag menuci kumur kamu balik ke pindan tinggi ke pindan tinggilah kamu kamu ke balik ke pidanan endap balik ke pindan endaplah kamu

after you have enjoyed eating kindly enjoy the meal after you have enjoyed kindly sniff the meal kindly sniff the meal after you eat betel nuts as the last part kindly return to your high place return to your high place kindly return to the low place to your low place

After this invocation, the human participants can take part in the feast. Offerings are divided and served together with other dishes and rice. Usually a senior male member of the family, who represents the host, makes a succinct speech regarding the purpose of this feast. The number of



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sacrificial animals and the objective are reported to the guests, who are mostly senior male members of the village. After communal Islamic prayers, guests who are senior in age or status are invited to eat first, followed by younger men and eventually by women. The outline of the sedekah here illustrates the core activity and the relationship between ancestors and Gumai descendants. Ancestors are benevolent, and they assist their descendants by fulfilling their wishes. However, if a promise to ancestral spirits is neglected, enraged ancestral spirits will cause a series of misfortunes. CONFLICT WITH OFFICIAL RELIGION Before its 19th-century demise, the Gumai engaged in trade with the Sultanate of Palembang, like the other upstream peoples described by Andaya (1993). Located at the periphery of the Palembang Sultanate, they were in contact with the Sultan and Islam for centuries without being much affected by either.12 Dutch documents and narratives by Gumai informants suggest that Reformist Islam movements at the beginning of the 20th century spread Islamic belief to the interior of the Southern Sumatran highlands. Since then, Gumai life cycle rituals such as circumcision, marriage, divorce and death have been performed in accordance with Islamic teachings. Today an Islamic prayer house, or mosque, is built in most Gumai villages in Gumai Talang, and the Friday communal prayers are led by an Imam, the leader of Muslim prayer. Idul Fitri, which marks the end of the fasting month of Ramadan, is celebrated as an important religious day. Since the enforcement of Panca Sila in the New Order, traditional belief in ancestral spirits and rituals have begun to be considered as animistic and ‘anti-progress’, yet difficult to discard in the social life of the Gumai. This ambiguity is orienting traditional rituals towards more Islamic interpretations. The following case illustrates the dilemma between official religion and local customs and how people came to use the term adat, local custom, to justify their practice of pre-Islamic rituals. Case: religion or custom Bapak Tasin (pseudonym) is a retired ABRI officer who was born in Gelinam, Rambang Dangku, and lived in Palembang. He was one of the lucky landholders who received a large sum of money (Rp 39 million, AS$25 000) as compensation for his land in Banu Ayu. It was rezeki (fortune) for him because that land was fallow and had been left unused for a long time. Thanks to this compensation money, he made the pilgrimage to Mecca with his wife in 1995.13 Prior to the commencement of his journey, Tasin went back to the graves of his deceased parents. He also thought about going to an ancestral graveyard which he had not visited for 16 years. However, the site had become a forest and was difficult for him to find. So he did not bother and went to Mecca. Ten days after their return home from the successful pilgrimage, Tasin and


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his wife held a gathering to thank God for their safe journey. While they were reciting the Surah Yasin, suddenly the face of one of his sons became paralysed and he could not speak. He was taken to the best private hospital in Palembang, but in vain. The doctor could not cure nor detect the cause of the paralysed face. Tasin went back to his origin village and asked for help from a ritual specialist in the area, who explained that the paralysis was kejang kesalahan (because of misbehaviour towards the ancestors). Having become a Haji, it was initially difficult for Tasin to accept this interpretation. Taking care of ancestral spirits was ‘animistic’, carried out by people ‘who do not have a religion yet’, and against his own religious practice. Yet, once he had promised to go to his ancestors’ graveyard to apologise for his misbehaviour, his son recovered and his face was no longer paralysed. Tasin remembered that his daughter had been in a car accident near Muara Enim just before he and his wife went to Mecca. Her car had been badly damaged, but she was unhurt. He came to regard this as a sign (tande) of his ancestors’ wrath, because he had neglected them for 16 years. Tasin looked for the graveyard of his ancestors near Lubuk Raman, but he was not able to find it. The area was overgrown with trees and bushes. By consulting the ritual specialist, he decided to make a new tomb near his parents’ graves and to perform a ritual to ask the ancestral spirits to move from the previous tomb to this newly constructed one. He now considers that it is important to uphold his local custom as well as pursuing his religion.

Thus, despite mounting pressure to promote belief in state-recognised world religions and to discard ‘animistic’ ancestral rituals, ancestral spirits are still believed to exert a strong influence on their Gumai descendants. Gumai ritual specialists I spoke to often used a traditional idiom to express their adherence to their adat, ‘peanuts cannot forget their skin’ (kacang dide

Figure 7.1 Renovation of an ancestral grave in Lubuk Raman village


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1/3/02, 1:01 PM


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of gathering while the core part of the ritual is performed privately by the Jurai Kebali'an. Most of the Gumai participants of this ritual explained to me that the Jurai Kebali'an is close to God and thus his prayer will easily be heard by Allah.14 The ritual is generally considered to be a part of their local custom, which would not transgress the territory of their religion. This separation of the communal and private parts of a traditional ritual thus enables the Gumai to retain traditional knowledge about ancestors while acquiring Islamic modes (Sakai 1997). REMEMBERING VILLAGE FOUNDERS Tombs of village founders Tombs of village founders or descendants of village founders constitute another favourite pilgrimage site. These ancestral graves are visited when the Gumai experience some great need. In distress, the Gumai fast and meditate at the ancestor’s tomb. Some useful advice from the ancestors in the form of a dream might be obtained while sleeping on the tomb. A person whose wish has been granted returns to the tomb with his or her family and holds a gathering near the ancestral grave in the old village site. For children this is an opportunity for recreation, as they enjoy walking through the forests, bathing in natural streams and the feasting afterwards. Due to a series of relocations of village sites, the majority of the village founders’ tombs are located in deserted village sites. The Gumai have been relocating their villages over time in order to have better access to roads, and most of the old village sites are now surrounded by forest.15 Because of their isolated location, there are usually no guardians to attend to these graves. The basic type of grave is a mound of earth, sometimes with a roof above it or a spot marked by a chain of big stones. Frequent visits are indicated by a blackened fire pot lying on the ground. Another common form of grave is a patch of land which is elevated and marked by a rectangle of cement. A good example is the grave of Puyang Muke Arahan in the subdistrict of Pulau Pinang, Lahat district. His grave is situated between the steep bank of the Lematang River and the main road between Lahat and Pagaralam. The grave seems to have been renovated by a Gumai descendant to show gratitude for the assistance given by this ancestor. There are about 10 pieces of stone lying in the centre of a rectangular elevated tomb. Next to this cemented square is a roofed space which is used to sacrifice animals and to prepare offerings. Most recently renovated ancestral graves tend to take the shape of an elevated rectangle made of cement. It is difficult to differentiate ancestral graves from those of recently deceased wealthy family members, which have the same appearance. If funds are available, the sides of the rectangular tomb



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pacak lupe kulit), meaning that Gumai adat, represented by a belief in ancestral spirits, existed well before the national official religion and legal system and should not be forgotten. On the contrary, remembering ancestors and attending to ancestral rituals is clearly considered to be a must for the Gumai. REMEMBERING THE FOUNDING ANCESTOR: THE HOUSE OF THE JURAI KEBALI’AN The house of the Jurai Kebali'an has been one of the most popular pilgrimage sites among the Gumai. His house was relocated during the course of time, and the current one is located in Endikat Ilir village of Lahat district along the Trans-Sumatra Highway, which runs between North Sumatra and Jakarta. It is a wooden house elevated on posts, with a spacious yard. This yard becomes parking space for the vehicles bringing participants to the monthly ritual, Sedekah Malam Empatbelas, which constitutes the most popular time for a visit to the house of the Jurai Kebali'an. As the name of this ritual shows, it is held every month, one night before the full moon, to commemorate the mythical time of the descent by Diwe Gumai on Bukit Seguntang. People who claim to be Gumai descendants gather to report their petitions to the Jurai Kebali'an. Those whose wishes have been fulfilled also participate in this ritual to ‘pay off’ their promise with sacrificial animals, and people who have been suffering from infertility gather to undergo a specific treatment. An average of 250 people gathered every month at the house of the Jurai Kebali'an during my fieldwork period and about 20 goats were sacrificed each month in fulfilment of promises made. The recent change of the Sedekah Malam Empatbelas lies in its seemingly Islamic forms. The core part of this ritual consists of two invocations, Sedekah Khusus (restricted and special ritual) and Sedekah Umum (open or public ritual). The first is staged by the Jurai Kebali'an in his room, out of the sight of the guests. The Jurai Kebali'an invokes ancestral spirits in his genealogy to ask that the wishes of the participants be granted and the world of the Gumai be free from misfortunes. This invocation is neither audible or visible. On the other hand, the communal part of these rituals, which is experienced by all participants, is carried out in Islamic ways led by the Imam of a local mosque: participants pray together in the hall at sunset, and donations to renovate the local mosque are collected among participants. Islamic prayers are uttered before the commencement of the feast. The Jurai Tue of Mandi Angin village normally acts as master of ceremonies during these rituals. He explains that all the wishes of the participants were transmitted through the prayer of the Jurai Kebali'an, but he makes no reference to ancestral spirits in public. Thereafter, the Imam of a local mosque takes over and leads the Islamic prayer prior to the feast. Due to this procedure, participants experience an Islamic mode



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are decorated with colourful tiles. The central part of this rectangle is filled with soil and sometimes a pole (nisan) stands at each end. The large number of such renovations illustrates how common it is among the Gumai to make a vow to improve an ancestral tomb when a wish comes true. Yet this promise has become not only a transaction between an individual and the ancestor but also an act with a public administrative nature. A village head often insists on being informed before anyone starts a project to renovate a village ancestral grave. The head of an administration, selected by villagers every eight years and recognised officially by the state, did not traditionally have any business with ancestral rituals. This was the responsibility of the Jurai Tue in a village, who was in charge of ancestorrelated affairs. In May 1995 I observed a dispute about the endorsement of the renovation of an ancestor’s grave in Lubuk Sepang. A man of this village made a vow that he would renovate the grave of Puyang Lemanjang Sakti, which was then only marked by a ring of stones. He did not consult with fellow members of the village and made his intention known only to the Jurai Tue, who usually resided in Palembang. Prior to the renovation of the ancestral tomb, a small-scale sedekah was held to announce his intention. A set of offerings consisting of apam and betel nuts was prepared. The village head was invited to this ritual, but he did not hide his resentment that the appropriate procedure had not been followed.16 He emphasised that a village meeting should have been convened and that the project needed to be endorsed by the village head. After this dispute, the village ritual specialist was eventually able to invoke the ancestral spirit of the grave, informing it of the plans for renovation by burning benzoin according to tradition. Yet the actual date of commencement of the renovation remained undecided. This case demonstrates that a purely traditional procedure is no longer sufficient to authorise the custodianship of a village sacred site or ancestral rituals. Today the village head is always invited to village purifying rituals and ancestral rituals as an official witness. Any ritual without this witness is considered to be invalid. The village head, and the state itself, seeks to exercise power in the supernatural field as well. Ancestral monuments in a village Because of the frequency of village relocations away from the original ancestral graves, it is common to find a memorial altar or ancestor-related site within a current village location. These monuments are referred to as tapak (site). A typical tapak is an ancestral tomb recreated in the current village location, the ancestral spirits having been kindly asked to move from the old sites to a new site by a village ritual specialist. Villagers occasionally visit a tapak, clearing grass and sprinkling water around the altar. Some bring a set of offerings consisting of rice cakes and betel nuts and recite Yasin, the 36th surah of the Qur'an.


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Whether these tapak function as sites of reverence varies according to location. In Sungai Medang village, located in Rambang Lubai subdistrict of the district of Muara Enim, villagers prepare a set of offerings on the tapak of the founding ancestor of the village, known as Tuan Mangku Bumi, located in the centre of their village. This tapak consists of a mound of land protected by a white net and a roof. This mound is believed to be continually rising, sure evidence of a sacred place. Every Thursday evening or malam Juma'at, which is regarded as an auspicious time by Muslims, people visit this site with offerings of rice and sometimes with chickens. People whose wish has been granted slaughter sacrificial animals. What is of interest is that recently, in many Gumai villages located in Lahat town subdistrict (Kecamatan Kota Lahat) of Lahat district, there has been an ongoing Islamisation of the times and places associated with Gumai ancestral rituals. Rituals to invoke village ancestral spirits are no longer performed at an ancestral altar or the house of the Jurai Tue, but in the village mosque (Sakai 1999: 145–85). Traditionally, a series of village rituals, Sedekah Petunggu Dusun and Sedekah Peliare Dusun, took place according to rice-planting cycles—prior to clearing a forest, three months after rice planting and at the time of a harvest. The first ritual is performed to seek protection from the ancestral spirits associated with their village, to ask for wellbeing and fortune. The second ritual is to ward off any coming misfortune from the village. The house of Jurai Tue was a traditional ritual venue. Male members of each household representing their respective household members came to participate in this ritual. During my fieldwork, no village rituals were held according to riceplanting cycles. The timing of these rituals has been Islamised: Idul Fitri and Idul Adha, two major Islamic holidays separated only by two months, have been the occasions for them since the 1950s. In the case of Mandi Angin village, the new timing was chosen in a village meeting in 1957, as the majority of the villagers were expected to return to their village at these important Islamic occasions. Since then, Sedekah Petunggu Dusun has been held on Idul Fitri and Sedekah Paliare on Idul Adha in the village mosque. Following Islamic prayers to commemorate Islamic occasions, ancestral rituals take place at the same village mosque. At the time of both rituals, all the ancestral spirits related to the village founding ancestors are invoked at their village mosque and offered a set of offerings. The burning of incense has been replaced by Islamic prayers. In addition to these two communal rituals, another time to hold a ritual for village ancestral spirits is Bulan Ruwah (the month of spirits), as the Islamic month of Syahban, prior to the fasting month of Ramadan, is widely known in Indonesia. This month is popularly believed to be the time when the destinies of human beings are decided, inducing many people to take to prayer (Federspiel 1995: 250). Gumai informants explained that the ancestral spirits are believed to return to their origin places in the month of



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Ruwah, and that it is appropriate to hold a ritual devoted to ancestral spirits returning to the village. An individual with resources holds a Sedekah Ruwah at home, inviting neighbours. This ritual feast is held beginning around 7.30 at night, at the time when the Isya prayer can be made. Men representing their household participate in this ritual. Sometimes more than one ritual feast takes place in a village and men visit each place hurriedly. As is common in every sedekah, the purpose of the gathering is announced to guests by the host. In many cases, hosts express their wishes for the wellbeing of household members, their wish to complete the coming fast as a Muslim obligation, together with their intention to remember the ancestors. Sometimes incense is burned while the host is making the announcements. Rice puddings and betel nuts are usually placed in the centre of dishes. Before the feast, Islamic prayers are uttered. In addition to individual sedekah, a communally organised sedekah ruwah by the whole village at a village mosque is becoming common practice.17 Men and women gather at the mosque at the time of Isya prayer. Some pray at the mosque while others appear a little later. They engage in both Islamic prayer and ancestral rites. After prayer, dishes cooked in each household are placed in the middle of the mosque. A village head and a village ritual specialist, Jurai Tue, make a short speech regarding the nature of this sedekah and Ruwah month. After Islamic prayers, the dishes are shared at the feast. This association of ancestral spirits and Islamic tradition is regarded as coherent because they represent local custom and religion respectively: the complementarity of adat and Islam has become internalised. One might wonder why the village mosque has been chosen as the appropriate place to perform these rituals. Does it mean that the association with a particular ancestral place has been discarded? Before the establishment of the Islamic prayer house, a lunjuk, an ancestral altar, had existed in each Gumai village and was taken care of by a village ritual specialist, Jurai Tue. Due to the pressure of reformist Islamic movements, however, the majority of lunjuk were abolished in the 1950s and replaced by mosques on their sites.18 Elder informants explain that the lunjuk was a place to welcome a Gumai female ancestor from Java, who was married to one of the Gumai ancestors and had brought a heirloom for making rain. She stopped her journey halfway to this upstream society and asked her husband to make a place for her to visit occasionally. A lunjuk was originally set up in each village for her stay. A village mosque is thus perceived to be still the appropriate place to invoke the spirits, due to its connection with the site of the lunjuk. CONCLUSION Social origins hold great importance for the Gumai. Places and rituals associated originally with ancestral spirits are now given Islamic interpretations


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and modified in line with Islam. More and more, the legitimacy of a ritual or a sacred site is determined by the state and its representatives. However, the fundamental concern with origins and origin places remains crucial among the Gumai. Gumai descendants continue to visit sacred sites and to perform rituals to remember their ancestors within a new mode of Islam. Despite the influence of Islamisation and institutionalisation in the modernising process of Indonesia, these sacred sites continue to exert their influence among most of the Gumai. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The research was conducted for my PhD research under the auspices of LIPI as a research associate of Sriwijaya University, Palembang. I am grateful to Prof. Amran Halim for his sponsorship. I am also grateful for financial assistance I received at various stages of this research from the Daiwa Foundation for Asia and Oceania, the Matsushita International and an Australian National University PhD scholarship.


8 Ancestors’ blood: genealogical memory, genealogical amnesia and hierarchy among the Bugis Christian Pelras The Bugis are a cognatic society whose hierarchical system is based on inherited status. We cannot thus deal with Bugis ancestors without delving into both descent and hierarchy. Indeed, the relationship with their ancestors is different for the nobles, who keep the memory of those from whom they inherited their ‘white blood’ (dara puté) or ‘euphorbia blood’ (dara takku'), which however can sometimes be blended with the blood of less elevated ancestors, and for the ‘red-blooded’ commoners, who look back to an undifferentiated ancestorship. There are not only ancestors stricto sensu, from whom somebody really descends, but also the forerunners who founded the domain or polity to which one belongs, and the potent persons who once lived there and have remained its protectors ever since. We must also consider the sacred place where the ancients or ‘people of long ago’ (to-riolo) are worshipped and how this worship is performed, often in the same way as for other invisible beings who are not ancestors. Although the Bugis have been regarded as staunch Muslims since the beginning of the 17th century, some of their pre-Islamic rituals survive in what can be called the ‘practical religion’ of quite a number of people of all milieus.1 These are specifically cultivated by the bissu (i.e. what remains of their former pagan clergy). We can gain some idea of pre-Islamic representations through the texts that constitute the oldest Bugis literary tradition, that known as the La Galigo cycle. There was also a body of esoteric traditions, a number of which are probably still kept secret but a few of which were brought to the knowledge of myself and Gilbert Hamonic (Hamonic 1983) by initiated informants.2 According to those ancient Bugis views, on which non-Islamic rituals are still based, the visible world where humankind lives is sandwiched between two invisible, spiritual worlds: a celestial one (langi'), and one in the abyss (buri' liung, also called pérétiwi); these are considered to be inhabited by déwata or pre-Islamic deities whom 117


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Bugis of a more orthodox Islamic bent consider as jinn. The visible, human world, lino, is also viewed as coexisting with an invisible, parallel world inhabited by diverse spirits, to-tenrita (‘those who are not seen’) or tohâlusu' (‘the tenuous ones’). This parallel world seems, according to the practical belief of many Bugis, to be also the world of the dead. WORSHIP OF THE DEAD As is well known, Islam allows no worship of the dead, and followers of Indonesian reformist movements such as Muhammadiyah consider visits to graves as heresy (bid'a), to be condemned. However, most Bugis, following Shafi'i practice, usually visit family graves (kûburu') in token of devotion on the occasion of Idul Adha (the festival of sacrifice during the month of the pilgrimage to Mecca), Idul Fitri (the festival ending the fasting month of Ramadan), the ‘Ashura’ (10th day of the month of Muharram), and when a marriage takes place in their family. But they also go, at any time, on pilgrimage to the graves of people considered as sacred or potent (makerre'), whether these are said to have been religious (saleh) during their lifetime, are known as important persons in local history, were anonymous pioneers to whom a particular settlement owes its origin, or even graves of completely unknown persons. The visits are for most Bugis pilgrims the occasion to ask favours from those buried there, to make vows and to perform rites and sacrifices. Older, pre-Islamic graves were not exactly burials, because for several centuries before Islamisation the Bugis cremated their dead. One can still find cremation places (pa’tunuang) near the older settlements. These were also used for the sacrifice of animals, which were roasted there (the word for roasting, tunu, being the same as for cremation). The ashes were buried in jars in places marked by large, upright stones. Islamic graves are marked by steles of wood or stone. Both pre-Islamic and Islamic graves visited by pilgrims are often surmounted by a small roof on four wooden pillars, under which a mosquito-net is usually hung. People who visit the graves of their family pour some water on it from a ewer after having prayed there. Those coming on pilgrimage to sacred graves anoint the stone or the stele with perfumed oil and ask the grave-keeper to pronounce, usually inaudibly, the appropriate formulas while burning incense. When they come to make a vow, they tie a thread, a cord or a rattan strap around the stone or the stele, according to the importance of the vow they have made and the animal they have promised to sacrifice, or of the gift they have promised to give when their prayer is answered. When they return for the thanksgiving ceremony (a'baca doang) they remove whatever they had tied on and sit near the grave to take their thanksgiving meal, which includes the meat of the sacrificed animal (fowl, goat, cow or even buffalo) with rice, vegetables, curry and diverse delicacies brought from home. Gifts often consist of miniature houses symbolising the whole household.


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Such practices are deemed by more orthodox Muslims to be acts of superstition or ‘polytheism’ (shirk). Most nevertheless accept pilgrimages to the graves of Islamic saints, which may include the recitation of prayers, burning of incense, scattering of petals and the making of gifts, usually of money or cloth, to an attached foundation for redistribution to the poor ( fakir miskin). One of the most-visited Islamic graves in South Sulawesi, drawing pilgrims from all over the province, is probably the grave in Lakiung near Ujung Pandang of Syeikh Yusuf, an ulama of the 17th century and staunch opponent of the Dutch, who introduced the Khalwatiyah school of mysticism. Other much-visited Islamic graves are those of the three Dato' who brought Islam, probably from Sumatra; these three saints are commonly named after the places of their respective burials: Patimang in Luwu', Bandang in Tallo' (now a part of Makessan city) and Tiro between Sinjai and Kajang. Except among the most orthodox Muslims, Bugis worship of the graves seems generally based on ideas that differ greatly from Islamic teachings but are never made explicit. When asked about his/her conception of the hereafter, the average Bugis usually answers rather vaguely. All are aware of the common Islamic view according to which, having been questioned by the angels of death Munkar and Nakir, the souls of the dead will remain in their tomb (the infidels and the sinners receiving punishment there daily) until the Day of Judgement, when they will be allocated either to Paradise or to Hell. However, in performing the same kind of rituals when they visit sacred graves as when they visit other sacred spots, many Bugis behave as though for them these dead whom they worship are living in the same invisible, parallel world as other spirits (to-tenrita). Graves are a gate of access to that world, in the same way as are sacred boulders or sacred trees. In fact, many sacred spots where spirits of the soil are worshipped are disguised as graves, this apparently making their worship more acceptable to traditionalist Muslims. It seems that some dead are (or were) thought of as having particular destinies in the afterworld, and that there was a belief that some of them were reincarnated as animals. One of my informants said that he had had the revelation in a dream that his late father had become a pa'deng'eng, that is, one of the spirit hunters mounted on spirit horses who cause epidemic deaths by catching people’s souls with their lasso (tado'). As well, there was a general belief that those who had perished by violent death became wandering ghosts (bombo), while women who died in childbirth became the dangerous female spirit called puntiana'. All these conceptions may be linked to but are quite different from those to be found in the La Galigo literature. In these texts, average people had after their death to undertake a difficult voyage to the abode of the dead, a place situated to the west of the Western Sea; on arrival they had to pass through several stages, probably linked to the successive stages of the funeral rituals, before they were admitted to the Waliala.3 Princes of the


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highest rank, being pure descendants of the gods, did not have to follow such a process but were to go back to the spiritual worlds of Heaven and the abyss, where they belonged. THE DIVINE ANCESTORS OF THE NOBILITY The 12 main gods of the pre-Islamic pantheon formed six couples (three celestial, three from the abyss). They were born of the same parents, a solar and a lunar deity, in turn emanating from a paramount, undifferentiated, divine entity. Among these six divine couples, the main one was formed by Datu (or Aji) Patoto' (‘the Prince who allocates destinies’) and his spouse Datu Palingé'; of their nine children, seven ruled over the seven sky levels and one ruled over the ‘world’s navel’, while the elder one, La Toge Langi, bearing the title of ‘Batara Guru’, had been sent down in order to organise the earthly world and to found an ordered human society able to worship the gods; for, so said Datu Patoto', ‘one is no god when one has no worshippers’. Batara Guru is also called La Mula Tau (‘the one who started humanity’), which does not make him humankind’s common ancestor— only that of the first Bugis princely dynasty. Descended in the northeastern part of South Sulawesi, Batara Guru founded there the first dynasty of Luwu' by marrying Wé Nyili' Timo', a daughter of the main divine couple of the abyss, who had arisen amid the spume of the waves in the Gulf of Boné. Other similar couples of to-manurung (‘descended beings’) and to-tompo' (‘arisen beings’) appeared somewhat later in other places, in Sulawesi and elsewhere, as founders of other dynasties. There were both male and female to-manurung and to-tompo'; couples not always formed by the union of a to-manurung with a to-tompo—to-tompo' sometimes also united with to-tompo' or to-manurung with to-manurung'.4 Then, according to the myth, after five generations all these semi-divine couples and their descendants returned to their invisible worlds and left this world’s inhabitants without anybody to rule over them, although a few high-ranking Bugis nobles claim to descend from the only couple of divine origin left to govern in Luwu'. The older Bugis polities (wanua) claimed, like the kingdoms of the mythic times, to have been founded by tomanurung and/or to-tompo' who had come to rule over the country, riven by anarchy during several generations after the departure of their first semidivine rulers (i.e. those mentioned in the La Galigo texts). Some of these wanua, like Boné, Soppéng ri Aja' or Soppéng ri Lau' became the nuclei of major kingdoms; other, such as Pammana, Suppa' or Bacukiki', have never in historical times before the Dutch takeover known any status other than either autonomy without vassals or vassalage to major kingdoms. So historically, from approximately the 14th century to the implementation in South Sulawesi of the colonial system, Bugis society was divided into a great number of small polities that were, in turn, federated or confederated into a number of larger units, which might be termed principalities or


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kingdoms. The smaller polities were definitely not egalitarian, democratic, village communities, but they were different from the purely autocratic kingdoms described by the La Galigo texts. From the smaller polities to the bigger kingdoms, power in historical times was exerted by rulers elected from among members of the nobility and, if need be, dismissed by specific hierarchical bodies. The foundation myths of most of these political units described how the first ruler of divine origin (a to-manurung or a to-tompo') had been welcomed and installed by the people already living there, on the basis of a contract stipulating each other’s rights and duties. The same contract was renewed, in the same words, every time a new ruler was installed, until the Bugis traditional system of government was ended in the 1950s. A typical oral to-manurung story is told about Pammana’s origin.5 This wanua, so say its inhabitants, was formerly known as Cina—the same Cina as appears in La Galigo texts—left without ruler after the disappearance of the La Galigo heroes and since then riven by anarchy during seven epochs (pariama).6 One day a terrible storm broke out, which lasted seven days and seven nights. When it abated people saw, standing on top of the hill called Bulu' Tellettu, a man clad in white whom they approached with awe, taking him for a to-manurung prince sent by the gods to rule over them. One matoa (commoner headman), speaking in the name of all, began to make obeisance to him; but the man in white rebuked them, saying that he was just a servant of the to-manurung. He then led them to a glade where they found the real to-manurung, clad in yellow, sitting on a flat stone under a state umbrella, surrounded by female servants who were fanning him. His name was Simpurusiang7 and he agreed to become Cina’s datu, or ruler. Later a female to-tompo' called Da Lakumaé arose from the Cénrana river in Tampangeng.8 Simpurusiang married her, and they begot a girl called I Jangke' Wanua, and bearing the title Batari Toja (‘divine princess of the waves’). She in turn married a prince of the oceanic underworld called La Tuppu' Solo' (who could change his appearance to that of a crocodile), and they begot a child called La Ma'lala'-é. A written version of the Cina genealogy published by Caldwell (1988: 81–97) ascribes to Simpurusiang a to-manurung wife from Luwu' but gives for their daughter, son-in-law and grandson the names Wé Jangke' Wanua, La Tuppu'solo' (son of Linrung Talaga), and La Ma'lala'-é. These are the ancestors of the dynasty. Later, one of their descendants called La Sangaji To Aji Pammana asked that after his death his name be given to the country, which was thus henceforth called Pammana (a teknonym). As a matter of comparison, the story regarding the origins of Soppéng (Caldwell 1988: 106–12) tells that its people had originally been living on the hills Gattareng and Séwo before they came down and settled in the valley. Those coming from Gattareng established 10 settlements, constituting east (in fact southeast) Soppéng (Soppéng ri Lau'); those coming from Séwo established also 10 settlements, constituting west (in fact northwest)


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Soppéng (Soppéng ri Aja').9 In Soppéng as a whole there were 60 ‘chiefdoms’ (pamatoangeng). For seven generations (lapi') the Soppéng people were without master (dé' puwanna to-Soppéng-é); only the 60 matoa were there to rule (paoto' paléwu'-i tana-é: ‘to raise and to lay out’) over the country. One day came the news that a to-manurung had appeared at Sekkanyili'. The matoa then decided to go there as a delegation to ask him to become their master, in order, so they told him, to ‘protect our fields from the birds so that we are not without food, cover us with your blanket so that we are not cold, bind our rice sheaves so that we are not empty and lead us near and far’. The 60 matoa promised in return to build him a house and to feed his future family. Then they brought him, in a procession accompanied by the rituals of the bissu, to the settlement of Tinco where the arung’s residence was to be built. A storm, which lasted seven days and seven nights, uprooted the great trees needed for the construction and a flood carried them downhill to the place where it was to be built. Later, the to-manurung informed the people that a cousin of his had descended from heaven in a jar at Goari-é, in Libureng.10 The matoa went there to ask her to become datu in Soppéng ri Lau' while the first to-manurung was to become datu in Soppéng ri Aja'. Thus, these and other to-manurung stories, by marking the historical period with a mythical start which re-enacts the model of the primaeval period as it is portrayed in the La Galigo texts, stress markedly the supernatural origin of the princely dynasties. The descent of these dynasties can be traced down to the present day through their genealogies, the to-manurung and to-tompo', founders of most of the Bugis wanua, are considered to be ancestors of the whole present-day Bugis nobility.11 They thereby also stress the latter’s precedence over commoner leaders. However, that second batch of to-manurung and to-tompo' are not said to descend, like the La Galigo dynasties, from the six main divine couples of the ancient pantheon. According to a number of esoteric texts (Pelras 1983: 66–7; Hamonic 1983: 41–2), it appears that they had for their common ancestor a deity called La Mapéca' or La Makkulau, god of the celestial (cooked) rice, whom Datu Patoto' had fathered from his semen alone, as against the six pairs of children born of intercourse with his consort. KINSHIP AND DESCENT One cannot understand the kind of relationship that exists between Bugis nobility and commoners without saying a few words about the Bugis kinship and descent system, because the main feature of this system is that, being cognatic, it does not give precedence to one side over the other and status is inherited from both the father’s and mother’s side. Moreover, marriage is possible between Bugis noblemen and commoner women. Bugis kinship terminology is of the ‘generational’ type: all your relatives (be they male or female) of the same generation as yourself (including


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brothers, sisters and cousins) fall into the category of sibling (séajing, ‘of one origin’). Descent being acknowledged from the mother’s as well as father’s side, the system’s most important feature is a tree structure, where ‘branching off’ is accounted from each pair of Ego’s ancestors; this produces successive circles of cousins (‘first’, ‘second’, ‘third’ and ‘fourth cousins’, or sapo siseng, sapo wékka dua, wékka tellu and wékka eppa'), who respectively descend from both Ego’s parents’ parents, from Ego’s four couples of parents’ grandparents, from Ego’s eight couples of grandparents’ grandparents, and from Ego’s 16 couples of grandparents’ grandparents’ parents. On that basis, somebody can be seen as surrounded, on both the father’s and mother’s side, by successive layers of collateral kin, from the closest (brothers, nephews, grandnephews), branching off from his parents, to the most remote, branching off from his ancestors at the fifth generation downwards. The nested kinship units so established are usually called a'séajingeng (‘those having the same origin’), and are given more or less importance according to which common ancestor is taken into consideration. Somebody’s kindred as opposed to ‘other people’ (tau laéng) is thus composed of a set of such ancestor-based units of both father’s and mother’s sides; and marriage ideally takes place inside that Ego-centred kindred, at the same generational level. Opinions differ, among the Bugis themselves, as to which degree of collaterality is the best for marriage: for some of them third cousins, for others second cousins, are to be preferred; first cousins are usually considered too ‘hot’, and marriage between them mostly occurs among the high nobility. NOBLE GENEALOGIES: CHAINS OF TRANSMISSION OF THE ANCESTORS’ WHITE BLOOD In Bugis noble genealogies as in any genealogy, personal names serve not only to identify specific individuals but also to show them, as well as those who preceded and followed them, as constituting links in the chain of transmission of a heritage, namely the ‘white blood’ obtained from their divine ancestors, by which they and their descendants distinguish themselves from the rest of society. It is commonly held that cognatic societies have little or no genealogical memory. Indeed, if one wanted to trace back somebody’s complete ancestry by taking into account every genealogical line, one would have to cope—if there were no marriages between related persons—with eight ancestors at the third generation, 16 at the fourth, 32 at the fifth, and more than 1000 at the tenth. It seems almost impossible for pre-computer societies to manage such genealogies, the more so if one wants to take into account all bilateral cousins to the fourth degree. Yet all Bugis who claim a noble ancestry possess complex genealogical tables written on large sheets of paper which, for the highest-titled families, often extend 24 generations backwards, showing the intricate alliance relationships interwoven, generation after generation,


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between the ruling dynasties, not only of the larger kingdoms but even of the tiniest polities. They usually take as starting points a limited number of founding ancestors (to-manurung or to-tompo') whose descendants have often been allied to each other, and they end up in chosen, bilaterally interrelated groups of their present-day descendants. Thus, not all possible descent lines are mentioned: a choice has been made in accordance with the will to establish links between a limited number of ancestors and a limited number of their descendants. However, knowledgeable genealogists would possess quite a number of such genealogies, which they would borrow and copy from each other to complete their genealogies. Most of the above-mentioned genealogical tables are probably not older than the first decades of the 20th century. Their establishment became generalised at the beginning of the institution of Dutch order, when the Bugis nobility had to prove their degrees of noble lineage in order to be exempted from the taxes and compulsory labour which the commoners had been made liable to by the colonists. Earlier, the genealogies had probably been given, in oral or written form, according to two different methods. One, which I might call ‘arborescent’ as it is reminiscent of our Western family trees, is focused on one individual whose status is to be ascertained; it consists in starting, in turn, from a number of original couples, and retaining among their descent lines only those which converge towards that particular individual.12 The other method, which I might call ‘linear’, takes as its main axis the succession line of a given kingdom or seignory, starting from its founding original couple and mentioning other lines only insofar as one of the successive rulers has taken one of their descendants as his or her marriage partner.13 Modern, complex genealogical tables result from the combination of both methods. The Bugis nobility has its own ‘space-time’, different from that of commoners. Its temporal dimension is the one along which the inheritance of blood and of political office takes place, while the specific kind of discontinuous space in which it is inscribed is one made of several networks of matrimonial alliances, which not only cover the whole Bugis country but have progressively extended themselves to include the Makassar, Mandar and even Toraja country. Except for the first, mythical or almost mythical generations, such genealogies are quite reliable because they can be checked against each other, as all of them are more or less interconnected through the mention of alliances with different lines of descent—and such cross-checking was in fact done by traditional Bugis genealogists. Some manipulation in order to enhance one’s high status remained possible, by not giving the full particulars of somebody’s spouse’s parents of a lower degree of nobility; or by falsely attributing to one of one’s ancestors a highstatus father through an unrecorded secondary wife; or by claiming, when overseas, to stem from some important Bugis ruler not fully specified by name. Such manipulations were rare, at least for the higher-ranking nobility, because each time a matrimonial alliance had to be concluded each party’s genealogy would be cross-checked.


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THE ANONYMOUS ANCESTORS OF THE COMMONERS Different from that of the nobility, the commoners’ ‘space-time’ has little temporal depth, and the names of dead ancestors are quickly forgotten, the more so as people of the older generations are usually called by their teknonyms. This may seem the more strange because, as the Bugis favour marriage between third cousins as well as, to a lesser extent, second cousins, one should know who one’s four couples of great-grand-parents and eight couples of great-great-grandparents were. In fact, commoners do not seem to trace back their filiation to that point in a precise manner, but usually content themselves with recording who their grandparents’ and parents’ first cousins were—people they themselves knew, either as neighbours or co-villagers, or those they have often seen participating in family gatherings. For the commoners, the main dimension is spatial; their social space is continuous and consists mainly in several concentric social circles: the neighbourhood, grouping together mostly kin or affines (tennia tau laéng, ‘not other people’); the settlement and its surrounding, both place of residence and daily working space; the domain (wanua), at the lower political and economic level, formerly a seignory, nowadays an administrative village (desa) or sometimes a subdistrict (kecamatan); and above these, the ‘land’, formerly a kingdom like Boné, Wajo' or Soppéng with its dialectal peculiarities, nowadays often a district (kabupatèn), where Bugis abroad claim to belong when they meet each other, usually gathering together according to their respective land of origin, while to other people they stress their ‘common Bugisness’ (sempugi'). To my knowledge, there is no explicit Bugis pre-Islamic written tradition claiming common ancestors for Bugis commoners, except, in syncretic texts, those common to all humankind according to both the Bible and the Koran—Nabi Adam and Sitti Hawah (Adam and Eve). The La Galigo cycle is not explicit on the origin of ordinary villagers who served the first rulers. We are just left to suppose that they originated from the servants who had followed their masters when they descended from the divine worlds, respectively from Heaven and from the abyss. There does seem to have been an oral tradition, quite widespread (although now ignored by most people), which has been retold to me in broad lines only. According to this tradition, in the beginning the Earth was covered by waters; then a number of places emerged which later became, in the South Sulawesi peninsula, high mountains (Mt Latimojong to the north, Mt Bawakaraéng to the south) but also much lower hills (Gojéng in Sinjai, Tombolo' in Kajang), from which people came out through holes beneath and progressively occupied the lower slopes and the plain as the sea receded. This might establish the commoners as ‘children of the soil’ as opposed to the noble newcomers.


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WORSHIP OF COMMONER ANCESTORS Although they lack mythical, named, original ancestors and genealogies linking them to the latter, and although their genealogical memory is rather short, there are various ways for commoners to worship their forebears as an undifferentiated whole. In many houses, offerings of cooked rice are put for them on plaited trays (ance') hanging in the front part of the loft, just behind the gable.14 This may be done on the same occasions as offerings are presented, at the main post and the post holding the staircase, to the spirit guardians of the house (at house inaugurations and anniversaries, at the welcoming ceremony of the rice harvest into the house, at marriage or postbirth rituals, etc.). I also witnessed a couple who were taking part in a ritual meal on entering their new house for the first time, putting aside four dishes of glutinous rice intended, they said, for their ancestors (represented by both father’s and mother’s sides of both spouses). I also once saw the ritual practitioner invited by a family during an ‘Ashura’ celebration praying silently in front of eight dishes of the traditional ‘Ashura’ porridge intended in a similar way for the inviting couple’s ancestors, here represented by the eight grandparents’ families. But such practices are not very conspicuous and may no longer be widespread. In more general use, on the occasion of the presentation of full-fledged offerings, is the practice of placing offerings for local ‘ancients’ (to-riolo) on the same tray as the offerings intended for the déwata or for the subordinate spirits in Heaven or the abyss, or for the local to-manurung and to-tompo'. Indeed, many commoners worship such so-called ‘ancients’ whose graves they regularly visit, although they do not claim to descend from them or, when they consider them as their ancestors, they do not really know through which chain of generations they are linked to them. For them the certainty is enough that they are among the favoured ones benefiting from the blessings of the protectors, whose name, often, they do not even know. Such a case among thousands of similar ones is that of a protector of the village of Laérung, whom his adepts know only under the nickname of Petta ri Duni (‘our lord in the coffin’). Local oral tradition identifies him as one of the first pioneers who cleared the land of that village and who has been worshipped ever since by the villagers as one of their main protectors. Sometimes, however, the local protector did nothing in his or her life to deserve to be considered as such. Take, for instance, the case of a group of graves that was found in the early 1970s on the southern outskirts of Paré-paré. According to its keeper, the first burial there was that of an unknown human leg which a fisherman had once found in his net, which he had thrown back to the sea and caught again and again. He saw in this a supernatural sign. He respectfully picked out the leg and arranged for it the same burial as for a complete body. Thereupon, people started to come on pilgrimage to its grave, and as their vows were answered more and more came; a neighbouring villager, who also happened to be a ritual healer


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(sanro), appointed himself the grave’s keeper. When the latter’s young daughter died, he decided to bury her on this sacred spot (onrong makerre') in order that she benefit from its benediction (baraka'). Other people in the vicinity followed suit so that it developed into a complete grave complex surrounding a sacred grave, which, after several generations, will perhaps come to be considered as an ancestor’s grave. Not all pilgrims to such graves are inhabitants of the village or its neighbours. Some come from much farther afield, whether in accordance with a family tradition, inherited perhaps from some forebear who used to live there; or because having heard once from someone that the ‘saint’ worshipped there was very potent, they tested it by making a vow and had their prayer answered; or else because, through a dream or another means, they received a personal revelation about particular links existing between them and the person buried there. This occurred for instance when a teenage daughter of one of my informants in Paré-paré became possessed by a crocodile spirit which at times put her into undesirable fits. The father was informed by a spirit medium that these attacks were caused by an ancestor, until then unknown to him, whose grave lay about 100 km to the south in the princely cemetery of Lamuru, and whom, through ignorance of his existence, he had failed to duly worship. Once informed of this, he went on pilgrimage there with his daughter; they sacrificed a goat on the grave, and the daughter was released from her illness. After that, he kept visiting the grave when possible. This also enhanced his status, as by so doing he stressed that, although a commoner, he could claim to possess in his veins an invaluable although infinitesimal portion of ‘white blood’. WORSHIP OF NOBLE ANCESTORS We can distinguish two kinds of sacred places of worship with regard to the nobility’s ancestors, namely those of ‘ordinary’ ancestors and those of ‘original’ ancestors. ‘Ordinary’ ancestors may have been very important and even ‘extraordinary’ persons in their time, but they are only a link in the genealogical chain of noble families. Their graves are not very different from other graves, except that most are more ornate, having, for instance, sculpted steles (mésang) and being grouped in burial complexes ( jéra' lompo') together with the graves of other members of the local dynasty. Some of them are surmounted by a pyramidal or possibly a cubic building (ku'bang). If some of these graves are considered as the burial places of potent persons, rituals performed there have an individual character, being the work of people who have come in order to accomplish a vow, as they might do at any other sacred grave. On the contrary, ‘original’ ancestors are those (to-manurung and to-tompo') who initiated genealogical chains; they are those who brought from their divine forebears the ‘white blood’ which has been passed on to all their descendants. According to myth they did not die—


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Figure 8.1 The fake grave of Pua Sanro, at Wotu in Luwu', set at a sacred spot said to be the place where Batara Guru, the mythic founder of Luwu' (son of Dati Patoto', the main god of the Bugis pantheon and Sawerigading's grandfather) ascended back to Heaven

they simply ‘disappeared’ (ma'lajang) (see Figure 8.1). The sites in which they are worshipped are thus not exactly graves but places arranged as graves, and simple ones at that, with just a small roof, sometimes a surrounding fence and often a white or yellow mosquito-net. They are considered to mark the spot where the ancestors returned to the divine worlds whence they came. The sites may also be part of a complex of sacred places, often including a flat stone—said to be the stone where the to-manurung descended from Heaven, or at least where they were discovered for the first time by the people—which ever since has been used as installation stone when a new ruler is chosen. As part of the complex there may also be a spot, marked by a hole, a stone or a tree called posi' tana, ‘the land’s navel’. These sacred places thus do not concern noble families as private families but with regard to their political functions. Rituals performed there (e.g. before the opening and the closing of the agricultural year, or in case of war or an epidemic), which require complete offerings of glutinous rice in four colours, do not concern the ancestors alone, but the whole polity, whether a small one (a wanua) or a kingdom. These rituals had perhaps as their model those performed in Luwu', around the sacred spots still marking Batara Guru’s descent from Heaven (in Cérékang, Ussu’) and his return to Heaven (in Wotu). Like their predecessors of primaeval times, the original ancestors of the dynasties and founders of the polities were thus important not only for their


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own direct descendants but also for the whole people. And as we know from Portuguese sources (Pelras 1981: 170–1) as well as from La Galigo texts, Bugis funerals in pre-Islamic times were in many respects similar to those observable among the Toraja today. It seems possible that the pre-Islamic Bugis likewise knew an opposite set of ‘ceremonies of the rising sun’ linking the fertility of the land and the deification of noble ancestors, which may survive in some way in the thanksgiving rituals still performed at the end of the agricultural year by the bissu of Ségéri. After Islamisation, Bugis ulama have of course been striving to efface these residual traces of paganism, but as the myth of the original ancestors of the nobility was so important for the preservation of Bugis traditional social order, it resisted until this century. Only now, in modern Indonesia, with the nobility’s loss of prominent political and economic position, is this myth finally becoming a thing of the past. REASONS FOR THE WORSHIPPING OF POTENT DEAD AND ANCESTORS Why do the Bugis worship the potent dead, be they noble or commoners, and specifically ancestors, whether they can precisely trace their genealogical links with them or not? There are three interrelated reasons: genealogical duty (and the fear of undesirable consequences in cases of neglect); the ensuring of collective protection, fertility and welfare; and the pursuit of specific individual favours. For those who still adhere to these traditions, it is a duty (e.g. when inaugurating a new house, or before a wedding takes place and even on the occasion of Muslim festivals like the ‘Ashura’) to worship one’s dead close forebears in one way or another. For the nobility, the founding ancestors of their dynasty require homage, and sometimes also—among the nobility and the commoners alike—one specific ancestor with whom, through personal relation or family tradition, one knows one has a specific relationship. This duty falls only on the individual descendants (including their households) of these ancestors. It does not necessarily involve the intervention of a ritual practitioner (sanro), although people may ask a knowledgeable and experienced person to perform the rites for them and in their presence. Inobservance, oversight or even sheer ignorance of this duty, as well as carelessness in fulfilling it, might result in illness, miscarriages among women, accidents, fires and so forth. In former times the highest (‘white-blooded’) nobility probably also worshipped, through the intermediary of their bissu priests, not only their to-manurung and to-tompo' ancestors but also the latter’s divine forebears—that is to say the gods whose names are cited in the La Galigo literature—and possibly also the primaeval sun/moon divine couple. Although this cannot yet be categorically asserted, it can be inferred from


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diverse allusions in Portuguese 16th-century and French 17th-century texts to the worship of the rising sun and moon by the Bugis (Sà 1954: 460–1; Gervaise 1688: 150), or in writings by Goedhardt (1933: 158, 174) and Gervaise from reference to sun and moon effigies kept in certain families or domains as sacred objects. In addition, some informants’ accounts mention members of the high nobility who were not real Muslims but still ‘prayed to the sun’ in the 1940s. There are also hints of a lunar cult in a number of bissu hymns. Another kind of duty is the worship of the to-manurung and to-tompo', not as genealogical ancestors but as founders of a domain or a polity, in exactly the same manner as certain first settlers (noble or not) of a secondary domain or village are worshipped by the present-day inhabitants of that domain or village. Such worship of founding ancestors is not so very different from the worship of the spirit guardians of all kinds of places; it is primarily intended for the common benefit and welfare of the land and its crops, as well as of the whole community living there. In this case, rites are performed by sanro wanua (‘sanro of the land’) who formerly, for the main polities, were always bissu priests. The worship of these founders was generally associated with the worship of sacred, named objects (arajang) such as flags, swords or ploughs, and of certain sacred parts of the landscape, such as boulders or wells, whose links to the founders are accounted for by their respective stories of origin. A still different case is the worship performed by pilgrims coming by individual choice to a particular sacred place or grave in order to ask a particular favour. The rites here are most often entrusted to the keeper of the place, and the favours requested are similar to those asked by pilgrims in other religious contexts—healing, child bearing, success, money. There seems, however, to be no specialisation in relation to whom (be they famous persons of the past, unknown dead or spirit guardians) this worship is addressed. This contrasts with, for example, Western popular Catholicism, where a particular saint is invoked against sterility, another to find lost property, another to resolve desperate cases. Generally speaking, to whomever worship is addressed, the same general schemes are observed. While the tombstones of ordinary graves are lustrated with simple water, those of sacred ones are anointed with fragrant oil, and this includes false ones erected on sacred sites pertaining to the to-manurung or guardian spirits, which are presumed to contain no human remains. With regard to offerings, fully fledged ones (those devoted to the tomanurung, to-tompo', and spiritual entities of the upper- and netherworld) include rice of four or eight colours, the flesh of a sacrificed animal, raw or boiled eggs, specific kinds of bananas and unboiled, natural or coconut water. On the same occasions, rice in arrangements of different shapes and colours is offered to diverse local figures of ancient times, and sometimes white glutinous rice is presented to the Prophet Muhammad. But the food brought by pilgrims to sacred graves includes no multicoloured rice. If the


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offerings are made at a life cycle ritual (after a birth, before a wedding) the person concerned is given a mouthful of each kind of offering by the sanro. A portion is also deposited for the family’s ancestors in the ance' of the loft, if there is one. Then, when the ancestors and spirits alike have consummated the essence of the offerings, the human participants in the ceremony consume their substance.15 All these practices were still in common use in the early 1980s. Considering the rapid pace at which South Sulawesi societies are changing, both towards modern ways of life and towards a more orthodox brand of Islam, they seem bound to recede progressively into the background; yet it is just possible that they will survive, unnoticed, in the secrecy of the most traditionally minded families.16


9 Saints and ancestors: the cult of Muslim saints in Java1 Henri Chambert-Loir

Except in a few places where it is sumptuously displayed (as in Gunung Jati and Gunung Kawi), the cult of Muslim saints in Indonesia remains behind the screen of everyday life. It is performed in small cemeteries, in village holy places, on remote hills or inside modest shrines, and it certainly does not have the ostentatious ubiquity of the ever-multiplying mosques. As soon as one looks for it, however, it seems to be present everywhere and to pervade the life of the majority of the population. The cult of saints is the cult of Muslim holy graves, but this in fact encompasses practices and beliefs of many kinds. I attempt here to define (or at least exemplify) those various types of veneration, some of which are only superficially Islamic. Then I draw attention to the permanent Islamisation process of the cult and its link with the cult of ancestors. DEFINITIONS: SAINTS, KRAMATS, PUNDHEN A saint is an individual who, by birth, by talent, through science or spiritual exercise, is endowed with supernatural powers. These powers were concentrated in his being and are now lying in his grave (his or her grave, but female saints are a small minority). This is why, with very few exceptions, the cult of a saint is performed in one place only: at his grave. One does not pray to the saint at home, or in another place where he would be represented by some kind of symbol. One has to make the trip to the grave, in order to be in the presence of the saint. There are of course no images; even relics are rare. This is a definition apparently broad enough to encompass all kinds of Muslim saints, be they men of religion, men of science, men of power, or even men of madness. However, when visiting graves of so-called Muslim saints in Java, one realises that in a great number of cases the ‘saint’ has no name, nothing is known about his life and deeds, the grave sometimes is notoriously empty, and it even happens that the site is not a real grave but 132


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something shaped into a grave. Still, as long as these places are locally regarded as ‘Muslim sacred graves’, they have to be taken into consideration. A saint’s grave is named a kramat. But the word also designates various kinds of sacred places and objects, which have nothing to do with saints, with human beings or even with Islam. The grave of a ‘saint’ is kramat, just like a place where the netherworld emerges in this one. A number of graves are obviously pundhen (i.e. sites where guardian spririts are worshipped) dressed up in an Islamic form. Others are dubious: perhaps pundhen transformed into graves, perhaps genuine graves invested with supernatural powers, or graves intentionally located on a sacred site. It has been remarked that guardian spirits (dhanyang) and founding ancestors of a village (cikal bakal) often merge. Furthermore, the rituals performed on sacred sites, as well as the motives for visiting such sites, may be the same on pundhen and kramat. One of the most important rebutan (part of a ceremony, where people struggle over ritual food) mentioned by John Pemberton (1994) in his discussion of bersih desa (cleansing of the village) and selametan, is the one performed on the grave of Ki Ageng Gribig, in Jatinom, that is to say on an indisputable Muslim saint’s grave. In other words, there is an obvious continuity between pundhen and kramat, and it is unclear where one stops and the other begins. Therefore, when studying the cult of saints, drawing a line between the two would mean limiting oneself to a number of sites according to a preimposed definition of what a saint is. It seems more rewarding to take into consideration the totality of the Muslim sacred graves, to observe it as a continuum, and then to draw conclusions on the origin, nature and typology of this cult. IMPORTANCE OF THE PHENOMENON The cult of saints is not immediately apparent in Java—at least, to the casual observer, it may seem strictly localised. It is not publicly exposed; there is no seminar about it, no book in Indonesian, and it is seldom mentioned in the national media. The phenomenon is easily and commonly underestimated. It seems to me that neither Clifford Geertz (1960) nor Koentjaraningrat (1984) pays due attention to it. Geertz deals with it in his section on abangan (syncretic or Javanist Muslims), which is debatable as many local saints and even a national one like Sunan Ampel are visited by santri (the stricter Muslims whom Geertz distinguishes from abangan). Geertz discusses visits to tombs very briefly, on two occasions: first in his paragraph on demit and dhanyang spirits living in pundhen or graves; second on the rituals performed during the ceremony of bersih desa, when representatives of the village visit the tomb of the dhanyang desa. He fails (as does Koentjaraningrat) to give even a faint idea of the number of tombs concerned, the number of visits paid to them and the complexity of the beliefs involved. More recently, John Pemberton (1994) has given an interesting and more detailed account of such rituals, although from a restricted point of view.


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Java

Banten

Sea

Jakarta

Muria Cirebon

Pati Demak

Garut

Tasikmalaya

Tuban Gresik

JAVA

Djatinom

Ciamis Wates

Yogyakarta Parangtritis

Madiun

Jombang Malang Blitar

N

0

200 kilometres

Map 6 Java

There do not seem to be any statistics about the cult of saints in Indonesia, or in Java (Map 6) for that matter. Even in the most popular places, when visitors are supposed to fill in a registration book (buku tamu), it is clear that only some do, and that awkward calculations make the results most unreliable. It is also impossible to evaluate the number of sites. There are tens of thousands of sacred graves in Java, but the frequency of visits to them is extremely diverse. Some, the most numerous, are visited by people from one village only, either sporadically by individuals or once a year by the community at large. The most popular sites, however, may be visited by pilgrims from the whole island of Java or even by people from all parts of Indonesia. The mausoleums of the Wali Songo (the Nine Saints to whom the first Islamisation of Java is ascribed) are visited all year long by individuals and groups alike, and by crowds during the month of Rabiulawal, at the time of the celebration of the Prophet’s birth (Maulud). In Demak, for instance, thousands of people flow in every day. In Gunung Jati (near Cirebon) as well as in Gunung Kawi (near Malang), there are probably up to 150 000 visitors during that month. The pilgrims who flock to Sunan Muria’s mausoleum (Gunung Colo, near Kudus) are so numerous that they are allowed only four minutes to pray on the grave itself. ZIARAH There are various ways to make a pilgrimage, or ziarah, to a grave. First the individual one: individuals, sometimes with their family, visit a grave in order to perform a specific rite. Most ask for something, say prayers, make



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offerings (flower petals, perfumed oil, incense), and take back something with them (water, earth, rice, ashes, pebbles); they will come back for a thanksgiving ceremony (selametan) when their request has been granted. Others meditate (semadi, tapa, tirakat, nyepi), and their petition is not for a specific reward (money, marriage, position) but for some progress in their spiritual life. Some even stay a few days beside the grave; they usually spend the nights praying. Moreover, some walk from one grave to another, in order to visit various places linked to one specific saint. These individual pilgrims tend to visit regularly one or a few places only because of a special spiritual affinity they have with the saint. A second kind of pilgrimage is in a group touring a few sites at the same time. This type of pilgrimage has become more and more important during the past decade, partly due to the economic development of the country (more money to spend and better roads), partly to a revival of pilgrimages. A number of bus companies all over Java have specialised in this kind of tour and offer various possibilities. The participants are usually villagers who are not used to travelling outside their home, and who follow their leader obediently (often the village kyai). They visit a few of the Wali Songo graves (see Fox 1991; Guillot & Chambert-Loir 1996) and often some other site, which can be a lesser-known saint’s grave (Habib Husain al-Aydrus in Luar Batang, North Jakarta), or the grave of President Soekarno in Blitar, or a non-Islamic sacred site (the stone Parangkusuma in Parangtritis) or even a merely tourist site, like Madiun airport. The schedule of these tours is so tight that the pilgrims spend only the minimum time on each site, praying together and hurrying to buy some souvenir before leaving for the next place. They usually sleep inside one kramat or under the verandah of a mosque, and live through those few days under great stress. Because of this type of tour pilgrimage, sites like Gunung Muria have recently acquired unprecedented popularity. A third kind of pilgrimage is attendance at festivals held on the most important sites: at the time of the Maulud in Gunung Jati (ceremony of Panjang Jimat); on the 10th of Dzulhijjah (Lebaran Haji) in Demak; on the 25th of Ramadhan (Lailat al-Qadar) at the mausoleum of Sunan Giri (Gresik); for the anniversary (khol) of the saint’s death. Finally, pilgrims attend the annual ceremony held on the grave of a village founder (cikal bakal). The ceremony takes place usually during the month of Dzulhijah (Sela), and aims at the ‘cleansing’ of the village (bersih desa) by way of an ‘offering to the earth’ (sedekah bumi), that is, seeking the blessing of the local spirits for the sake of the prosperity of the village at large. Various rites are performed, including a visit to the sacred grave of the first ancestor. (An interesting evocation of this ceremony is to be found in Ahmad Tohari’s novel Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk). In modern days the ceremony may take place in some public building (mosque, school, balai desa), but offerings still have to be made on the grave. In some cases, when the ancestor of a village is linked to


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that of a village nearby by some kind of superiority, the ‘superior’ village has the privilege of holding its ceremony first (e.g. the village of Bejagung Kidul, in Tuban, holds its bersih desa before any other village in the same kecamatan). SAINTS AND HEROES The most frequent type of grave is that which is found inside a village or on its immediate outskirts. In spite of the increasing orthodoxy (witnessed by the construction of many new mosques and public attendance at the Friday prayer), those graves represent one of the main centres of the religious life of the village. There the population goes for individual prayers or communal festivals. The place is usually marked by the presence of big trees (often banyan, Ficus benjamina), which are themselves sacred as they are the domain of the spirits. Another type of grave refers clearly to a cult of tutelary spirits. These are isolated graves found near some natural curiosity, like a spring, a cave, a big rock or the meeting of two rivers—wherever nature seems to show a manifestation of the supernatural world. Yet another grave type is that linked to some historical remains. These might be Hindu or Buddhist temples: in Leles, near Garut, the grave of one Syekh Dalem Arif Muhammad stands on the remains of a Hindu temple; in Banyubiru a Muslim grave on the top of the ruins of a Saivite temple is supposed to be that of Brawijaya V, the legendary last king of Majapahit; in Bagelen the ‘grave’ (or rather petilasan) of Putri Bagelen is nothing other than a Buddhist stupa. They may be the remains of a palace (Plered, Karta); a canon (Banten) and so forth. The power of the place is still revered but somehow legitimised by the veneration of a Muslim grave. This is also the case with the many graves of the so-called Syekh Abdul Rahman and Syekh Abdul Rahim, usually said to be of Arabic origin and to have Islamised one area. These two characters seem fictitious, their name being derived from the basmala (bi'smillah al-Rahman al-Rahim), and furthermore their ‘grave’ being set on an existing sacred place. Some kramat are called petilasan, or ‘traces’; these are not graves proper but places where some well-known character has passed through or has spent some time. We find, too, the so-called graves of mythical or legendary figures: Gatotkaca in Demak until recently; Joko Tarub, in desa Taruban near Wates, Yogyakarta; Roro Mendut in desa Gandu, Yogyakarta; Semar’s footprint near Gunung Jati. These places are certainly not graves either. In some cases the kramat may materialise a sacred place; in others it may be the means to revere a sacred mythical figure. The most important saints in Java (the ones whose sanctity no-one would deny) are the agents of the Islamisation of the island. In the first place are the ‘Nine Saints’ (Wali Songo). Most of them are considered as being of foreign origin, which is historically probable. According to popular tradition, some



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came from the Middle East and are descendants of the Prophet. Others came from Champa and China (see Rinkes 1996). These historical characters were often both men of religion who became famous through their teachings (Sunan Bonang, Sunan Kalijaga, Sunan Ampel) and men of action who contributed to the Islamisation by the sword (Sunan Gunung Jati, Sunan Kudus) and created the Muslim kingdoms of the north coast of Java (Demak, Cirebon, Banten). Ulamas of a later period belong to this category too: those who Islamised one particular region (Dato ri Bandang in Makasar, Syekh Jangkung in Kayen, Pati) and often had a political role as well (Ki Ageng Gribig in Jatinom), or those who were renowned for their science and piety (Abdul Rauf al-Singkili alias Syiah Kuala near Banda Aceh, and his two pupils Syekh Burhanuddin in Ulakan, West Sumatra, and Syekh Abdul Muhyi in Pamijahan, near Tasik Malaya, or his colleague Syekh Yusuf Taj alKhalwatiyah in Makasar). Or we find some contemporary ulamas who are revered by the pupils of the Koranic schools (pesantren) they have founded (Hashim Ashari and Wahid Hashim in Tebu Ireng, Jombang). Ulamas and men of religion are the most obvious candidates for sanctity. In this respect, Java does not differ from other countries of the Muslim world. However, Java offers two peculiarities in this same category of saints. First, there is to my knowledge no tomb in Java, and not even a cenotaph or a residing place (petilasan) of any Islamic prophet (Ibrahim, Nuh, Isa, Khidir) or prominent theologian (Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, Muhammad al-Samman, Ibrahim ibn Adham). They never visited Indonesia of course, but this may not be a satisfactory reason of itself. After all, one finds graves of Abdulkadir al-Jailani and Nabi Khidir in Pakistan (see Matringe in Chambert-Loir & Guillot 1995), and there is a grave of Iskandar Zul-Karnain in Sumatra; the Catholics managed to have a grave of Jesus in Larantuka (Flores), as well as a replica of Lourdes’ cave near Borobudur. The second and far more striking peculiarity regards the tarekat in Indonesia. Syekh Burhanuddin and Syekh Yusuf, mentioned above, were leaders (khalifah) of different brotherhoods or mystical paths (tarekat). There are a few other examples of such mystical leaders being revered. How few however is striking, in comparison with almost all the other Muslim countries in the world, particularly the Middle East, Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent.2 Some kings and sultans are also revered, although their sanctity is sometimes far from evident. The founder of Banten Muslim dynasty, Molana Hasanudin (son of Sunan Gunung Jati), and his son Molana Yusuf were both kings and religious leaders. But this is not the case with Senopati (Kota Gede) and Sultan Agung (Imogiri). Similarly, a very recent grave is revered in the same way as a kramat—that of President Soekarno in Blitar. Some people even say that a deceased king is more powerful (i.e. has more supernatural power) than a wali, because during their lifetime the wali was a subject of the king.


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Here again Java differs from other Muslim countries. Some political figures may be revered elsewhere, but it seems that nowhere else does this cult of deceased kings have such amplitude, and that royal cemeteries like those of Gunung Jati and Imogiri are peculiar to Java. The veneration of kings or political leaders may be the result of two traditions: on the one hand some great kings were supposedly endowed with special powers, which they retain after death; on the other, the Hindu–Buddhist tradition of divinised kings in Indonesia may have merged with the cult of saints. THE ISLAMISATION PROCESS Historical documents about the veneration of saints are scanty (see Jansen & De Jonge 1991), so it is almost impossible to trace the history of most sites, or the evolution of the phenomenon at large during the past five centuries. However, it seems probable that the cult of Muslim saints was introduced into Java together with Islam. Some of the mausoleums of the Wali Songo, which are architecturally similar to the so-called classical Javanese style, clearly date from the 15th or 16th century and must have been built at the time of the saints’ death (Sunan Giri, Sendang Duwur [see Tjandrasasmita 1975], Sunan Bayat, Sunan Bonang, Sunan Gunung Jati, Sunan Kudus, Sunan Drajat). The magnificence of these monuments attests to the veneration of the saints in the earliest days. Later in history, beginning in the early 17th century, we have some testimonies of such a veneration. This Islamisation process of sacred places is still at work now. Traditional kramat untouched by Islam are still numerous. Others have the appearance of a Muslim grave and their cult is integrated in Muslim practices, although it is not related to any saint. Still others are devoted to the veneration of a Muslim saint. These various places are part of a continuum; they illustrate the process of Islamisation that took place over several centuries, as can be observed in the following examples. In the village of Rengel, some 30 km to the south of Tuban, is a resting place near a spring called Sumber Ngerong. The water flows from a cave. White turtles (ikan bulus) and fish live in a pool in the cave. The water flows through a small canal where people come to wash and bathe. The place is sacred; offerings are made at the entrance to the cave, which is under the authority of a guardian. It is strictly forbidden to disturb the turtles and fish. A traveller visiting the place in 1822 reported that snakes and monkeys were equally sacred there at that time. This site has obviously nothing to do with Islam. In Karangkendal, a village near Cirebon, lies an important Muslim mausoleum, which is a very active pilgrimage site. A nearby small arrangement of bricks is said to be a grave by a mere play on words: it is a puser (a ‘navel’ or ‘centre’ of the space, as there are many in Java), which is now called a pusara, a ‘grave’. In this way a pre-Islamic sacred site is assimilated in a grave. Similarly at Gunung Payung, also in the Cirebon region, some



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allegedly ‘prehistorically’ erected stones near a pool are venerated. This site has been partly and artificially Islamised by renaming the pool as belonging to the Nine Saints (Balong Wali Songo) and by rearranging some of the stones to look like a grave. In other places, pre-Islamic historical remains are venerated in an Islamic way. For example, in Karangkamulyan (between Ciamis and Banjar), where one can visit the few remains of the Old Sundanese kingdom of Galuh, the stand of a Hindu statue, said to be the throne of Galuh kings, has been set at the head of what looks like a Muslim grave, under a cungkup, or roof similar to those of graves. Yet another example in Central Java shows a further step in the Islamisation of historical remains. In the village of Prawoto, east of Demak, what used probably to be a country house of the Sultan of Demak in the 16th century is now totally in ruins. In 1979 part of the base of a building was accidentally unearthed, and as it happened to be oriented north–south (like an Islamic grave) it was isolated, placed under a cungkup, and declared to be the grave of Sunan Prawoto, one of the Demak sultans. The village had discovered a ‘saint’, and it started being visited by pilgrims coming from a large area. Here not only is the stone revered as a grave, but a new cult is created which is devoted to a historical character. The site is fictitious but the character is real. Finally, on a complex site like that of Sunan Gunung Jati, where the grave of a historical saint is revered together with that of more dubious characters, as well as empty graves (the Wali Songo), the ‘trace’ (petilasan) of mythical heroes (Semar) and a ‘navel’ (puser), or the point of contact between the natural and the supernatural worlds, various layers of belief are interwoven, but the rites are Islamic. In some cases it is easy to discover the way a sacred place is artificially given a Muslim colour while staying basically unchanged. The reality is more complex though, because the Islamisation of a site, however superficial it may appear, goes in many cases together with new rites and the transfer of the supernatural power from a place to a man. Parallel to this are Pemberton’s remarks (1994) regarding the recent evolution of the bersih desa ceremonies: many of them have now a Muslim appellation (Rasulan), and are explained as a thanksgiving ceremony addressed to God (Allah). SAINTS AND ANCESTORS The cult of saints is universal in Islam. It is a subject of fierce debate between the partisans of a strict interpretation of the scriptures and the exponents of a local, ‘traditional’ way of being Muslim (these two tendencies being represented in Indonesia by the Muhammadiyah and the Nahdatul Ulama respectively), nevertheless it is known in every Islamic country and is everywhere extremely popular. In Java this cult is clearly an imported practice, and it is more or less identical in form to other parts of the Muslim world. Some differences are


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meaningful, however, as they are related to Javanese religion before the coming of Islam. Reminiscences of the Hindu-Buddhist past, for instance, can be seen in the veneration of divinised kings, in the practice of visiting one’s parents’ graves during the month preceding that of Ramadhan, in the spatial structure of some sites, as well as in the organisation of the ‘clergy’ who attend them. More importantly, this cult shows the heritage of the Javanese autochthonous substratum prior to the coming of the great religions. We have seen that the most numerous graves are those of the founding ancestors of villages. Those graves are most often the place where both the ancestor and the local guardian spirit are revered. Founding ancestors (cikal bakal), when opening a new settlement, did not only have to rule over their small community and to clear the forest; their most important task was to conquer the right to settle there from the local spirit of the land. This process is often depicted in the oral tradition as a physical fight between the ancestor and the spirit, represented as a composite animal. However, this physical wrestling might better be interpreted as the symbol of a spiritual contest. The aim of the ancestor was not to kill the spirit, but rather to make a pact with it and to obtain the right for his community to live in peace on the land they had elected. The veneration of traditional (pre-Islamic) sacred places under an Islamic form, that is, transformed into tombs, is known in other parts of the Muslim world, such as in the Arabic countries of North Africa (see Dermenghem 1954). However, the quasi-systematic veneration of both local spirits and founding ancestors, as well as the annual communal ceremony held in their honour, seem to be peculiar to Java. The cikal bakal is an exceptional human being who was able to contend with the forces of the invisible world and to make an alliance with them. He is revered on his grave, but he is undoubtedly alive among the spiritual beings, and he still protects and takes care of his ‘descendants’. The Islamic saint is an exceptional man who is sitting on God’s side after having experienced the frightening stage of death. He is the natural intercessor between man and God. In other words, the cult of saints was one of the most accessible bridges between the extremely different spiritual concepts of Islam and Javanese traditional religion. In Java to this day, the cult of Muslim saints is largely also a cult of ancestors.


10 The Tembayat hill: clergy and royal power in Central Java from the 15th to the 17th century Claude Guillot (Translated by Jean Couteau) In the historiography of the Islamisation of Java, Sunan Pandan Arang occupies a peculiar position. He was the first missionary to try to introduce Islam into rural Java and therefore the first to confront the Javanese tradition as it had been shaped by 1000 years of Hindu-Buddhist influences in its very heartland. His life history also illustrates the fundamental opposition existing between the ‘Western’ (Islamic) and Javanese cultures, while showing how doctrinal compromises—conscious or not—may also bridge the differences between these two mental frameworks. For this reason, a study of the ambiguous relations existing between the Javanese central royalty and the Tembayat hill, where the saint’s mausoleum stands (Figure 10.1), may well provide interesting information about Javanese society and mentality during the all-important phase of transition from Hinduism to Islam. The Wedi area, Tembayat hill included, is located in Central Java to the southeast of Mount Merapi, a few kilometres off the Yogyakarta–Surakarta highway. Located on the fringe of the great volcanic and fertile plain, it takes in the first hills of the arid limestone range running parallel to the southern coast of the island. The case of Tembayat has long caught scholars’ attention. In this chapter we mainly and abundantly refer to two important studies: D.A. Rinkes’ article on the saint Pandan Arang (1910–13: 435–510),1 and H.J. de Graaf’s article on the Kajoran clan (1940: 273–328). The personality of the saint can be viewed from different angles through Javanese legends and literary references. THE LEGENDARY CHARACTER In the various legends collected by Rinkes, Pandan Arang is most commonly depicted as being the last king of Majapahit, Brawijaya, after he 141


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Figure 10.1 Entrance to the mausoleum of Kajoran

was expelled from his kingdom by Muslim troops. After a short stay in the northern coastal area, he eventually headed south ‘in order to settle in his ancestors’ land’, (i.e. in the region of the ancient kingdoms of the 8th and 9th century). On his way he met the great saint Sunan Kali Jaga and entered with the latter into a debate on the respective merits of the Hindu-Javanese and Islamic religions. The two retainers of Brawijaya drew the conclusion—with which everyone seemed at the time to agree—that the two religions basically taught the same message and differed only in their terminology. Brawijaya then stayed in Semarang under the identity of Pandan Arang; he was appointed ‘governor’ (Adipati) of the city and accumulated great wealth. Sunan Kali Jaga had a clear idea of the spiritual destiny of Pandan Arang and visited him several times in various guises, always performing one marvel or another. Little by little he made him discern the true finality of human existence and convinced him as to the ultimate vanity of the temporal world. The Adipati then abandoned wealth, position and family and headed south. On reaching Wedi, near Klaten, he entered the service of villagers trading in rice. His stay was marked by a series of miracles, which drew the villagers’ attention to him. Accompanied by several disciples, he left for the nearby mountain of Jabalqat (Arabic: Jabal al-Qaf, the cosmic mountain which encircles the earth), where he took to converting ‘Hindu’ men of religion (ajar) who were living in the surrounding area under the leadership of one Prawira Sakti. Prawira Sakti steadily refused to embrace Islam, in spite of efforts by Pandan Arang’s disciples. Pandan Arang therefore decided to enter into a


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mystical tournament with the leader of the ajar. Each of the two heroes was to try to demonstrate the superiority of his mystical powers. Pandan Arang got the upper hand and demonstrated the superiority of Islam to Prawira Sakti, who then embraced Islam. Pandan Arang later received enlightenment and thus achieved the ultimate degree of knowledge. He then became a wali or saint. A strange episode brought him up against the Sultan of Demak, who was jealous of his title of wali and of his prestige. Evocatively told, the story goes that the Sultan of Demak was upset by the noise of the call to prayer coming from the mosque which the saint had built on top of the hill. The saint was compelled to transfer the mosque to the foot of the hill so as to restore the sovereign’s peace and quiet. On his death, Pandan Arang was buried on Mount Gunung Malang on the slopes of Mount Jabalkat. THE RELIGIOUS FIGURE Pandan Arang was governor (Adipati) of the city of Semarang, at that time a modest port city, and was engaged in trading activities as well. Owing to his extraordinary powers, Sunan Kali Jaga, Wali Panutupingrat (‘seal of the saints’), could see in this man a future authentic follower of the Faith, even though he was an infidel and a man drawn to money. He visited Pandan Arang several times incognito, assuming the appearance of a man of humble means, by his miracles making him understand the futility of the things of this world, and the fact that: ‘One must not rule over worldly matters, for idolaters shall not inherit heaven’. Convinced of the truth of the saint’s words, Pandan Arang gave up everything and left Semarang for Tembayat hill. Some time later, Sunan Kali Jaga visited him in his retreat and, on his disciple’s request, agreed to ‘initiate him into the secret of mystic knowledge’, if Pandan Arang promised not to divulge it to anyone. The essence of this secret is summed up in two sentences: ‘As one sees in a mirror the reflection of a man who looks at himself, so are shape (rupa) and feeling (rasa) related. The reflection in the glass is Thine own self having the position of a servant: he who looks into the mirror is the Supreme immaterial’. In other words, every man is inhabited by a godly presence which is the very essence of his self. Through meditation and by casting away the deceptions of the senses, he should endeavour to isolate this godly presence and thus discover God. Being thus endowed with pure inspiration, Pandan Arang began to teach the true religion in the surrounding area. He did not try to convert the infidels by debating with them, using rational arguments, but by performing miracles that persuaded them to embrace the new faith. They were then taught the principles of Islamic law (sharia), which, according to mystical teaching (tasawuf), represents the first stage of true knowledge. This means that religion can be taught only when there is evidence of pre-existing grace in the hearer, through a certain response to the miracles.


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This presumably late version of the saint’s legend focuses on the awakening to spirituality and the conscious conversion of a man who until then had been engaged in worldly matters. By emphasising the mystical aspect of Islam and the pre-existing grace assumed to be found in every human being, it also fills in the gap between Islam and Javanese tradition, which believes that God’s power is present in all manifestations of reality, be it human, animal or even mineral. THE HISTORICAL FIGURE The only available sources tracing the biography of the saint are Javanese, especially the Serat Kanda (see Rinkes 1996) and the Babad Tanah Jawi (see Olthof 1941). In his study on Sunan Tembayat, Rinkes attempted to reconstruct the life of the saint. He faced the usual difficulties inherent in any attempt to give coherence to different traditions. He reached the following conclusions: 1.

2.

The great-grandfather of Pandan Arang was the Adipati of Bintara (Demak). His religion is not known. He was succeeded by his two sons, Sabrang Lor and Sultan Trenggana. Their sister gave birth to a son, who later took the name of Pangeran Pandan Arang and, according to the Serat Kanda, led an attack against Majapahit with 300 of his men in Saka 1398 (1476 AD). As reward for this feat he was sent to Semarang as Adipati with a mission to Islamise the city, which certainly meant subjecting it to the domination of Demak. He died in Saka in 1418 (1496 AD). This Pangeran Pandan Arang cum Adipati of Semarang had two sons. On his death, the elder was chosen by Demak as his father’s successor to rule over the kadipaten of Semarang with the title of Adipati Mangkubumi, and his younger brother was appointed Patih of the same city. Under the influence of a religious man, Sunan Kali Jaga, this Adipati Mangkubumi decided in Saka 1434 (1512 AD) to give up his post as Governor of Semarang. He handed it over to his younger brother and left for Tembayat on the request of Sunan Kali Jaga, who had entrusted him with the task of Islamising this hinterland area. As he is known to have stayed around 25 years in Tembayat, we can guess that he died around 1537.

We must now attempt to compare this reconstructed biography of the saint with the reconstruction of the political history of Demak made by the great Javanologists de Graaf and Pigeaud (1974: ch. II). Rinkes could not possibly have known of this synthesis. It seems clear that the saint’s great-grandfather, the Adipati of Bintara, was none other than Raden Patah, a peranakan Chinese from Gresik. His son, Sabrang Lor, the Rodim Senior mentioned by Tomé Pires, could well be the first to have embraced Islam in the family. He subdued Palembang


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and was rewarded by being appointed as tandha (head of the customs office) of Bintara (Demak). It was certainly he who made Demak an independent state. He subdued Jepara and implemented a successful policy of matrimonial alliances with the leading families of the harbours of the northern coast (pesisir). When he died he was succeeded by his younger brother Sultan Trenggana, who was born around 1480 and died in 1546. As is well known, the latter’s reign corresponds to the greatest period of Islamic expansion and the peak of Demak’s power. This comparison shows that both reconstructions agree perfectly as regards dates and events. The 1476 attack on Majapahit by Pandan Arang’s father with his 300 men corresponds to an event related in the Sajarah Banten (Djajadiningrat 1913: 25), where it is written that Sabrang Lor led a surprise attack in which the king of Majapahit was assassinated. This comparison also underlines the social origin of Pandan Arang who could have been the grandnephew, through his mother, of Sabrang Lor and Trenggana. This may account for his appointment as Adipati of Semarang, an important administrative function which he inherited from his father, and which he temporarily occupied. However, the comparison is especially useful for a good understanding of the context of the uncommon life of this great-grandson of a Gresik Chinese, who first became an administrator and then dedicated his life to religion. It shows in particular that the political power of this family of homines novi from Demak had not yet been fully established during the life of the saint’s father. The territory they controlled was still very narrow. As a reward for his attack against the king of Majapahit, Sabrang Lor could bestow on Pandan Arang’s father only the administration of a harbour close to Demak which did not have any real importance. Furthermore, and perhaps on account of a desired ambiguity between Islamisation and political expansion, it is implicit in the sources that he first had to conquer that harbour. If we accept the validity of the dates given by the Serat Kanda, we can reach the conclusion that the saint of Tembayat spent his youth under the reign of Sabrang Lor in an atmosphere of Islamic triumphalism. He must have witnessed the Islamic takeover of Demak, as it is generally thought that it was under Sabrang Lor’s reign that the city was released from vassalage. He must also have spent the rest of his life under the reign of Trenggana, in a climate of Islamic conquest, as it was Trenggana, notoriously, who boosted the power of Demak by victoriously launching his troops against the Javanese Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms. The traditional narratives also show the wheeler-dealer atmosphere that permeated the pesisir. Characteristically, most of the miracles surrounding the life of the saint before his arrival at Tembayat relate to trade, money or gold. Pandan Arang’s life story is perfectly adapted to its historical context. It comes as no surprise that, born in a small Muslim minority eager to fulfill a great destiny, the future saint would try, in going to Tembayat, to participate


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in the process of Islamisation and political expansion that was then encroaching on Javanese hinterland. Trade and politics both used the new religion as their flag. The originality of Pandan Arang lies in the deep spiritual dimension of his commitment. It is all but certain that Sultan Trenggana, whom Tomé Pires describes as a frivolous youth living a life of pleasure, used Islam as a pretext to establish his power and domination through the military campaigns he launched during his mature years. Obviously the future saint was not satisfied with this social religion, and, as we saw above, the attention he displayed towards tasawuf shows clearly enough that he went through an authentic conversion. To him spiritual questioning took the upper hand over the worldly matters of such importance to the ruling elite of Demak. Undoubtedly this spirituality also helped him in the peculiar context of his teaching. THE POLITICAL SITUATION IN THE TEMBAYAT AREA AT THE TIME OF PANDAN ARANG’S ARRIVAL In the Serat Kandha (see Rinkes 1996), Pandan Arang is reported to have left Semarang for Tembayat in 1512. At the time of his arrival, the village was included within the small kingdom of Pengging, then ruled by one Andayaningrat who was a vassal of the Majapahit king. The capital of Pengging was close to Tembayat, as it was located on the southeast slopes of Mount Merapi. Dependency on the great Javanese kingdom was already long established, as, according to the Nagarakertagama, King Hayam Wuruk visited the Pajang area, including Pengging, during the 14th century. As in most of the non-Islamised part of the island, the local religion was a brand of Hindu-Buddhism greatly modified under the influence of Javanese beliefs. We know from writings such as the Tantu Panggelaran (Pigeaud 1924) that during the 15th century and by the beginning of the 16th century, most of the island’s religious figures had taken refuge in the numerous religious communities called mandala, which had mushroomed all over the island. It seems that these communities were centred not around temples as previously but around local deities more or less assimilated to deities of Indian origin. It should be noted though that Islam could well have penetrated Pengging in the guise of a monist mysticism, as some Javanese sources mention the influence of the heterodox saint Seh Siti Jenar in the area of our study. If the religious version of the life of the Tembayat saint is to be believed, he was not far from this ‘heretical doctrine’. The small kingdom of Pengging, which had probably existed since the second half of the 15th century, remained faithful to Majapahit and stubbornly opposed to Demak. According to the Sajarah Banten, Pengging provided support to the Majapahit army during the final attack of the Muslim troops led by Sunan Kudus in 1527. The king of Pengging, Andayaningrat, is even reported to have perished during this battle.


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His younger son, Kebo Kenanga, succeeded him on the throne of Pengging. When he refused to make his submission to Demak and embrace Islam, Trenggana sent an embassy to try to persuade him, but it met with failure. Two years later, probably at the beginning of the 1530s, the energetic Sunan Kudus was sent to Pengging at the head of an army. Pengging was attacked and its king, Kebo Kenanga, was killed (de Graaf & Pigeaud 1974: ch. XIX). These events marked the end of the independence of Pengging, the last non-Muslim state of Central Java, which became a dependency of the Muslim kingdom of Demak. As he is reported to have lived in Tembayat between 1512 and 1537, the saint must have witnessed the shift of power in the area from HinduBuddhist to Muslim rule under the suzerainty of Demak. It is worthwhile asking what might have been Pandan Arang’s role in this transformation, considering that Sunan Kali Jaga had sent him to the Pengging area to Islamise it. De Graaf and Pigeaud remark that, surprisingly enough, the Javanese chronicles do not establish any link between the Demak onslaught on Pengging and the saint’s missionary action in the same area. In any case the concomitance of the two events is striking. Unfortunately, the paucity of the sources does not enable us to ascertain whether Pandan Arang was a simple missionary (mubaligh) interested only in the propagation of the new faith, or a sort of agent working for the king of Demak, and thus entrusted with the mission of preparing the takeover of Pengging by the Muslim kingdom. In any case, the answer to this question may well be found in the reason underlying Pandan Arang’s decision to take up residence in Tembayat and not in any other place. Rinkes grasped the importance of the question and suggested two answers to it: the proximity of religious sites such as ‘Kajoran, Jimbun, Banyu Biru’, and the setting up, after the Muslim conquest, of agrarian monastic centres designed to diffuse the faith such as existed in mediaeval Europe during the period of expansion of Christianity (he may have meant the pesantrens). Aware that these reasons were insufficient, Rinkes added: ‘Later I may have the opportunity to return to this extraordinary matter and to publish more positive statements about it’. TEMBAYAT AFTER PANDAN ARANG To better understand the reasons underlying the choice of this site, we should analyse the events that took place in Tembayat after the death of the saint. According to Fernão Mendes Pinto, Trenggana was killed in 1546 while attacking Eastern Java at the head of the forces of Demak. His successor, Sunan Prawata, was killed three years later in 1549 by Arya Penangsang of Jipang, who was himself slain by Jaka Tingkir, grandson of Andayaningrat, the King of Pengging and son-in-law of Trenggana. Following this event, Jaka Tingkir was proclaimed king under the name of Sultan Adiwijaya, and took residence in Pajang. This marked the end of the kingdom of Demak and the beginning of that of Pajang. Two points should be underlined at this stage:


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the capital of the new kingdom was located some 30 km from Tembayat, and the sovereign of Pajang saw himself as heir to both Demak and Pengging. Adiwijaya had a close connection to the site of Tembayat. We know from epigraphic inscriptions that some 30 years after Pandan Arang’s death in 1488 A.J (1566 AD), that is, in the reign of Adiwijaya, the saint’s mausoleum was renovated. Considering the importance of the embellishments undertaken, the commission must have originated from the king himself. The greatest part of the king’s reign was dedicated to the expansion of Pajang’s influence over Java. During a sort of congress of Javanese potentates held in Giri under Sunan Prapen’s leadership, Adiwijaya was recognised as the suzerain of the states of Eastern Java and the Pesisir. Several years later though, perhaps because the king was ageing, the winds of revolt began to blow over the northern part of Central Java. In 1587 the heads of several southern districts, and in particular the young and ambitious Senopati, ruler of Mataram, refused to swear submission (sowan) to the court, a refusal amounting to an act of rebellion. Adiwijaya then launched a military expedition against them. As the attacking troops reached the Prambanan area, Mount Merapi erupted and the Pajang army disbanded. The old Adiwijaya (he had been ruling for 40 years) turned back home. The Javanese chronicles from Mataram like to emphasise this particular episode, as it legitimises spiritually the power bestowed on the new dynasty. Abandoned by his army and his followers, the Sultan of Pajang decided to go to Tembayat. He rode there on his elephant to find the mausoleum closed. The guardian (juru kunci) of this sacred site could not open the gate. A dialogue followed: ‘Guardian, why can’t the door of the tomb be opened?’ asked the king, to which the guardian replied: ‘Providence does not permit His Majesty to retain His rank. The sign of that is that the Watcher (Penunggu) has rejected His Majesty . . . The light of royalty has passed from His Majesty to the ruler of Mataram’ (quoted in Rinkes 1996: 106–7). Exhausted, the old sovereign spent the night outside the mausoleum fence, and the following morning left for Pajang where he died a few days later. It was Arya Pangiri, a nephew of this sovereign, who ascended the throne. To this end he had brushed aside the son of King Pangeran Benawa. The latter seized back power the following year (i.e. in 1588) by toppling his cousin with the help of Senapati from Mataram. Thanks to this stratagem, Pajang was submitted to Mataram and Senapati became the supreme ruler of the whole of Central Java. Senapati’s expansion into East Java led to a counterattack by the princes of the region between 1593 and 1595. The troops of Mataram were headed by Senapati Kediri, who managed to contain the advances of the enemy before being killed in Uter, perhaps near Wonogiri, to the South of Solo. He was buried in Wedi (Meinsma, quoted in de Graaf & Pigeaud 1974: ch. XI). Senapati, King of Mataram, died in 1601. After the short reign of Seda-ing-Krapyak (1601–13), Sultan Agung ascended to the throne (1613–46). We know that during the early years of


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his reign, between 1617 and 1618, a great revolt broke out ‘in the Pajang area’, which was supported by a dissident party from the court of Mataram. The Mataram armies crushed the revolt and laid waste the area. The inhabitants were taken to Karta to take part in the construction of the new capital of Sultan Agung. Unfortunately, we know neither the reasons for the insurrection nor the names of its leaders. In 1630 an insurrectional plot was discovered by the Mataram authorities in 27 villages. Under the pretext of begging, the plotters were entering the houses of the inhabitants and stirring them up against the king. The inhabitants of these villages were deported to the village of Taji on the fringe of the capital city. Invoking some very good reasons which cannot all be reported here, such as the fact that the origin of this religious-grounded rebellion was in the Wedi region, de Graaf considers himself entitled to identify the rebels as men of religion (he compares them to ‘beggar monks’) from Tembayat (de Graaf 1958: ch. XI). In 1633 Sunan Agung went on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Tembayat saint, while he had gathered a large army which he intended to use against Batavia and Blambangan. Even though this episode is narrated in the Babad Nitik (see Rinkes), nothing is known of his reason for taking this pilgrimage to a mausoleum—a thing few sovereigns do, as de Graaf is quick to point out. According to the Javanese chronicle, after completing his pilgrimage Sultan Agung decided to renovate the mausoleum, just as Adiwijaya, the last king of Pajang, had done before him. Wishing to show the highest homage to the saint he ordered that the stones, instead of simply being transported from Mataram to Tembayat, be passed from hand to hand by men sitting cross-legged (sila) in such a way as to make an immense line between the two sites. To this day it is possible to see in Tembayat a monumental, lintelless gate (candi bentar) with an inscription dated 1633, saying that the king received a revelation on the site. We learn from one witness, Rijklof van Goens, that in 1656 Sultan Agung’s successor, Amangkurat Tegalwangi, summoned ‘between 5000 and 6000 religious chiefs’, whom he then killed ‘in half hour’ cannonade, and although this massacre cannot be directly related to Tembayat, it helps us to understand what ensued (de Graaf 1956: 248–50). Between 1670 and 1682 a long civil war set Prince Trunojoyo in opposition to King Amangkurat. A leading family of Wedi, the Kajorans, played an important role on the side of the rebel, who was the son-in-law of Raden Kajoran, also called Ambalik. The cradle of this clan was the village of Kajoran, which was destroyed in 1677. TEMBAYAT AND KAJORAN De Graaf has the merit of having been the first to reveal the role played by this Kajoran family in Mataram. It takes its name from a village located in the immediate vicinity of Tembayat (see Figure 10.1). According to


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tradition, the family acknowledges Said Kalkum ing Wotgaleh, also called Panembahan Mas ing Kajoran, as its great ancestor. With the second generation, marriages take place in religious circles. The two known sons of Said Kalkum married the first two of Sunan Tembayat’s daughters, and the second a daughter of the priest-king of Giri. The third generation entered into a web of matrimonial alliances with the royal families of the area. A granddaughter of Said Kalkum married the son of Pajang’s prince Adiwijaya, another became the wife of Senapati, while a third married Ki Ageng Mataram. This policy of matrimonial alliances remained in force (see the genealogical tree of the Kajorans in de Graaf 1940). De Graaf also underlines the numerous pretexts that such alliances gave the Kajorans to play the prominent political role which they eventually enjoyed. Later on, in his famous studies on the history of Mataram during the 16th and 17th centuries, from the kingdom’s foundation to Amangkurat II’s death, as well as in his book about the first Muslim kingdoms of Java coauthored with Th. Pigeaud, de Graaf, without underestimating the role of these princely alliances, insists on the fact that the Kajorans were essentially a family of religious, or ‘priesterlijk familie’, which drew its legitimacy from the Tembayat saint. This opinion rests on a quote from the only letter of Raden Kajoran kept to this day. He wrote to his cousin in 1677, invoking ‘the help of their ancestors and that of the negeri of Zambayat, Cadjoran and Samarangh’ (de Graaf 1940: 328). The texts leave no doubt about the fact that the Kajoran family consisted of men of religion. However, one might expect such a clan, which appears ‘religious’ in nature and claims descent from a great saint-cum-Islamiser, to display, on the surface at least, some special attachment towards the great ancestor’s religion. Actually, no such sentiment appears. ‘In fact’, writes de Graaf himself, ‘Wedi was an ancient center of the pre-Islam tradition, and Dr. Pigeaud told me that the Wedi kiayi could in no way be considered orthodox followers of the faith, but that they should rather be viewed as followers of a Javanese mysticism impregnated by pre-Muslim popular beliefs. Wedi was also a center of the mask theater [Pigeaud 1938: ch. 23, 54, 63, 73]’ (de Graaf 1958: ch. XI). The close relationship between mask dance and pre-Muslim beliefs is well known.2 One should also mention the 1630 revolt during which the Kajorans, if they are really the same ones, appear to de Graaf himself as beggar monks (bedelmonniken), a tradition that smacks more of Indian religions than Islam; a strange ‘offspring’ for a great Muslim saint! Both genealogies of the Kajoran and Tembayat families published by de Graaf concur about the marriage of two daughters of Pandan Arang with Panembahan Agung ing Kajoran. However, only the Tembayat genealogy mentions that the saint and Said Kalkum were brothers, on this point—this should be emphasised—contradicting all other chronicles. It is strange, to say the least, that the Kajorans should have forgotten to


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mention this important bond with the saint they claim as ancestor. Besides, it is well known that mausoleum guardians are usually selected from among a saint’s descendants. This is indeed the case in Tembayat.3 The descendants of the two families I interviewed all insist that no Kajoran has ever been the juru kunci of Tembayat. This is more evidence that the two clans, although they were allied, were distinct from each other. This genealogical comparison also shows that it is the Tembayat clan that tried to ally itself to Kajoran, rather than the other way round. It was the saint’s family which gave its women to the Kajorans—an implicit token of the latter’s seniority and respectability. Rinkes concurs with this, and although he does not give any reference to substantiate his assertion, he does say that Pandan Arang decided to take residence in Tembayat because the sacred site of Kajoran was nearby (Rinkes 1996: 104). Let us put forward one final argument demonstrating that the Kajoran may not be considered as a religious family descended from the Tembayat saint. De Graaf insists on the fact that the Kajorans were allies of the Wanakusuma of Gunung Kidul during a civil war and that these two families were allied through marriage to the saint of Tembayat who became, as he sees it, the kernel of the rebellion: ‘We have seen already that between these rebels [the Kajorans and the Wanakusumas] existed a strong genealogical link, namely their common descendance from Kjai Ageng Pandhan Arang of Tembayat’ (emphasis in the original) (de Graaf 1940: 309). One knows the role given to ‘ancestors’ by the Javanese. Before taking any important decision, they always visit ancestral tombs to ask for blessing and instructions. A Dutch document tells us that, faced with a worsening military situation, some chiefs of the Wanakusuma family made a pilgrimage to the tomb of their forefathers (voorvaderen, de Graaf’s emphasis) which was not in Tembayat but in Kajoran (de Graaf 1940: 309). Based on all this information, the following conclusions can be drawn. The Kajoran and Tembayat families are distinct. The Kajorans are older and thus ‘superior’ to the Tembayats who tried to make an alliance with them, and not the other way round. The religious character of the Kajoran clan does not originate in Islam and thus predates the saint’s arrival in Tembayat. On the other hand, the two families were allied through marriage, and this may be what induced Raden Kajoran, in the letter quoted by de Graaf, to refer not only to the ancestors of the Kajoran clan but also to those of Tembayat and Semarang (i.e. to the saint’s lineage). It is probable that Raden Kajoran had a high regard for this great saint who was also one of his forebears, and we can surmise that as he was in a difficult phase of his struggle it was in his interest to broaden the range of his ancestors as much as he could to obtain the support he expected. Therefore the kernel of the rebellion, instead of being Tembayat, was Kajoran. The allimportant role of this family in the area is also demonstrated in the web of alliances it wove with the families of local potentates in the southern part


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of Central Java, Pajang and Mataram, which is not the case with the Tembayat family. In short, when Pandan Arang arrived in the Wedi region, which had not yet been Islamised and thus followed the Hindu-Buddhist tradition, there was in Kajoran a powerful family residing near a sacred site. Pandan Arang, who was unrelated to them as he came from Semarang, chose to settle in their vicinity. He managed to establish a good relationship with this family, as shown by the fact that he gave his two daughters to the clan’s chief, Pangeran Mas ing Kajoran. This seems to demonstrate that the latter converted to Islam (through the entreaties of the saint?), because no infidel may marry a Muslim woman. THE NATURE OF THE KAJORAN CLAN As the Kajorans have not left any trace of their early history, we are forced to refer to Sunan Tembayat’s history. According to the Javanese chronicles the latter wished to escape from the world. He left the city, and one would expect him to have chosen an uninhabited area in which to live as a hermit. Instead, he headed for Tembayat on the slopes of Mount Jabalkat, which were already occupied by non-Muslim religious, the ajar (Rinkes 1996: 87). The chronicles then dwell lengthily on several episodes in which the saint opposed these religious men and eventually succeeded in converting them by displaying supernatural powers superior to theirs. Although such episodes are commonly found in the narratives on great Muslim missionaries, this information should not be dismissed. One should at this point raise the question of the meaning of the word ajar. First it means ‘the one who has knowledge’, as in the Arabic ulama. All scholars agree that it applies to a man of religion, and it is generally translated as ‘hermit’. This translation correctly conveys the idea of a man of religion living in isolation as it appears in the texts. It may however be misleading, as the word ‘hermit’ implies not only the idea of isolation but also that of solitude. In the Javanese texts the word ajar might indeed apply to genuine hermits, but it is also used to designate men of religion who live communally in remote places. In such cases the texts often mention the head of the ajar. These communities of ajar call to mind the mandala, whose origin is related in the Tantu Panggelaran (Pigeaud 1924). Unfortunately, this text does not give any description of the life inside such an institution. In his commentaries on the Nagarakertagama, Pigeaud translates the word mandala as ‘sacred ring community’, and adds: ‘Most probable seems the supposition of the existence of sacred, tabooed rings being the central sanctuaries of the communities of this group. The Tantric sacred ring made by learned Court priests [. . .] and the ancient rural worship of the mandala people might have more in common than meets the eye . . .’ (Pigeaud 1962: 247–9). And on another occasion (Pigeaud 1962: 485–6):


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The shiwaitic character of the mandala communities is apparent from the Tantu Panggelaran tales. They suggest the existence of a popular cult of Shiwa and Uma. The probability of a substratum of ancient native Javanese worship of mountain deities and chthonic powers is great . . . Probably the mandala people, men, women and children, as a rule lived in remote districts in the wooded hills of the interior of the country, engaged in agriculture.

COMPARISON At this stage of our demonstration it is necessary to make some comparisons. The Banten chronicle Sajarah Banten relates a similar episode which took place during the Islamisation of Banten, a process attributed to Sunan Gunung Jati and still more to his son Hasanudin, who became the first Muslim sovereign of this kingdom. The story can be summed up as follows: before launching a military attack against the ‘pagan’ kingdom of Banten Girang, Sunan Gunung Jati and his son travelled from Demak to the harbour of Banten and then to the capital city of Banten Girang. However, the real purpose of their journey was to go to Mount Pulasari, located to the south of Banten, next to the Sunda Strait. In order to convert the ‘800’ ajar (ajar domas) who were living there, Hasanudin took residence among them for several years. The success of his endeavour is alluded to in the cockfighting story in which he was set against the ajar. Hasanudin eventually left Mount Pulasari after addressing this enigmatic sentence to the hermits: ‘You must stay here otherwise you will cause the ruin of Java’. It is obvious that this Mount Pulasari was an important sacred site in the kingdom of Banten. I have tried on another occasion (Guillot et al. 1994) to demonstrate that this apparent legend is based on some very real information. A shiwaite temple was built on Mount Pulasari, probably as early as the 10th century, which is something quite rare in the westernmost part of Java. In the Tantu Panggelaran Mount Pulasari is Mount Kailasha, Shiva’s residence. It is an established fact that important changes took place in the cult between the 10th and the 15th century. The fact that Mount Pulasari is mentioned in the Tantu Panggelaran suggests that there might have been a mandala on the slopes of this mountain. It happens that an interesting piece of information has come down to us through the testimony of Dutch travellers during their first journey to Asia at the end of the 16th century. They noticed at the market of Banten the presence of people wearing the standard dress of HinduJavanese men of religion, namely clothes made of a bark fabric, or dhluwang. They call them by the name ‘pythagoricians’, meaning ‘Hindus’. This demonstrates that some 70 years after Banten’s fall to Islam in 1526–27, these religious had still not converted to Islam. Moreover, they were granted the authorisation to settle in the kingdom by its Muslim ruler, no small token of tolerance from an Islamiser. The Dutch tell us that their village was called ‘Sura’ and located at the foot of the ‘Gonon besar’ to the south of Banten. This ‘Gonon besar’ may correspond only to the volcanic massif that


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comprises the three volcanoes Karang, Pulasari and Asepan. To the foot of Pulasari there still exist today two villages with the names Mandalasari (‘the pure Mandala’) and Mandalawangi (‘the perfumed Mandala’). It seems reasonable to assume, then that the ‘Sura’ (a corruption of Sari?) mentioned by the Dutch travellers is the whole area of these two villages. If this guess is correct, it could well be that the ‘religious’ people whom the Dutch caught sight of were none other than ajar living in a mandala. The path followed by Pandan Arang and that of Sunan Gunung Jati and his son present so many similarities that one is strongly tempted to conclude, based on Banten alone, that Pandan Arang chose to settle in the Tembayat area because there existed in this place an influential ‘religious village’ or mandala, where lived the ajar mentioned by the Javanese tradition. It is wiser at this stage, though, to add new information before confirming this hypothesis. MANDALA AND JERO The etymology of the name Kajoran is not evident at first sight. None of the studies referred to above have given it any attention. An etymological key is given in the Daghregister, that mentions the presence of a regiment called either ‘Kajoran’ or ‘Kajeroan’ in Banten, West Java. Thus the word Kajoran might well come from the word jero transformed through a metathesis. The word kajeroan is well known, as it is often used to refer to those among the Orang Kanekes—better known as Baduy—who live within the limits of the most sacred zone of their territory, and thus the area subjected to the greatest number of taboos. As is well known, it is these men from the ‘inside’ who perform the rites in their sanctuary, Arca doma, where nobody else is authorised to enter. It is also public knowledge that these ‘men of religion’ have to this day not converted to Islam. It is believed that these Orang Kanekes are a rare example of a mandala still extant. The fact that the Daghregister attributes military functions to such men of religion should come as no surprise. To remain with the Baduys, Ahmad Djajadiningrat asserted his Baduy origin in his memoirs (not an easy acknowledgement for such a high dignitary) and claimed to be descended from the son of a kajeroan chief (pu'un) who served in the army of the king of Banten in the 17th century and lost an arm during a battle in Lampung, hence his nickname ‘Astapati’, or ‘deadhand’ (Djajadiningrat 1936: 4). One can still see his tomb in the cemetery of the Djajadiningrat family at Odel to the south of Banten. The tradition of calling up ‘a regiment of men of religion’ continued well into the Muslim period: we know of the existence of such a regiment, called Suranata, in Demak as early as the 16th century, and in Yogyakarta and Surakarta up to the 19th century (van den Berg 1882: 1–190). We also know that in Banten, in the 17th century, the men of religion in that regiment were not Muslims. The contemporary Dutch documents insist on the fact that the


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members of these regiments were long-haired (langhaar), while the people who had converted to Islam were characterised by their cropped hair (geschorven). Nothing indicates that this regiment was composed exclusively of members from the Baduy kajeroan. It is even probable that it was not the case, as, following an ancient tradition, the Baduy kajeroan may not consist of more than 40 families. The name jero is still in use among the Baduy. This people has preserved almost unchanged its ancient traditions, and has therefore been the object of early attention from scholars. Such resilience, though, is far from unique. During several long periods of field research, my colleague H. ChambertLoir and I observed that there are remnants of jeros all over the island of Java, although small in number. Generally these jeros have kept only a few of their specific features, the meaning of which is usually forgotten. Most are located in the Sunda area of West Java, which has long remained cut off from the principal routes of communication and has therefore better conserved its ancient traditions than the Javanese part of the island. However, traces of jeros are also found, even today, in the outskirts of great cities such as Tuban or Cirebon. Without going into detail, it is possible to establish the main features of a typical jero such as it still exists today: 1.

2.

3. 4.

5.

It corresponds to a physical space precisely delineated. In one instance the inhabitants remember that this space used to be delineated by a circle (see the description of the mandala by Pigeaud 1962). This space is sacred and until today is exempted from taxation, as it has the status of ‘tanah GG’ (state land) granted to all the ancient ‘religious’ foundations, a status continuing that of the perdikan of the Muslim period and the sima of the Hindu-Buddhist period. As a reminder of this ancient time, the civil servants of the republic remain, even today, reluctant to enter a land benefiting from such a status. This reluctance may well hark back to the ancient prohibition which forbade the ‘royal tax-collectors’ (mangilala drwya haji) to enter these ‘free’ lands. The sanctuary is located within the jero itself, even if in one or two cases it has over time been clearly separated from it. It is inhabited by a fixed number of nuclear families, each corresponding to an individual house. The number of such families may vary considerably. It goes from 40 among the Baduys to six in Leles in the Sunda region. It should be remembered that this village has undergone deep transformation during the restoration of the temple. These inhabitants are all bound to respect a number of ancestral traditions. For example, the use of ‘modern’ implements (tiles, nails, lighting means other than the oil lamp, etc.) is prohibited. They also have to abide by various alimentary taboos; in some places they are not allowed to cook, and have to ‘beg’ for their food.


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These inhabitants consider themselves the descendants of the founding father (cikal bakal) of the village. As this ancestor is usually confused with the deity worshipped in the sanctuary, they are entrusted with the privilege of officiating in this sanctuary.

Obviously the jeros that have been preserved until today on account of their sacredness are the last remnants of the mandala of yore. We can confidently affirm that in all probability there were as many kajeroan as there were mandala, and therefore our Kajorans of Wedi were actually the leading family of such a mandala. It is because there was such a large number of these kajeroan that there are so many ‘religious’ people mentioned in the sources from the 16th and 17th centuries. TEMBAYAT, AN ISLAMISED ROYAL MANDALA? The history of Central Java between the time of the disappearance of the Hindu–Buddhist kingdoms in the 10th century and the coming of Islam remains largely obscure. We shall simply record that Tembayat is located a mere 10 km from Prambanan, which must for some time have been the capital of the old Central Javanese kingdom. It is difficult to know whether the memory of this kingdom had been preserved during these five centuries and whether the religious centre of Tembayat goes back to this period. Without wishing to brush aside such an hypothesis definitively, we are inclined to think that this was not the case. The Tantu Panggelaran seems to point to the fact that, beginning at the end of the 14th century, at the time of declining political power, there was a great movement to found mandala which branched out from older mandala, as is still the case today with the Muslim religious schools (pesantren). The Ponorogo area seems to occupy a peculiar position in the history of Tembayat. It is there that the ancestor of the Kajorans is reported to be buried (see the genealogy in de Graaf) and where Sunan Tembayat seems to have converted to Islam Batara Katong, whose big mausoleum is in Setono near Ponorogo (Rinkes 1996: 96–8). It is a pity that the Tantu Panggelaran does not provide any further information on this point. Whatever the origin and the foundation date of the mandala of Tembayat, it must have had modest beginnings, at least as long as no strong political power dominated the area. The main sanctuary seems to have consisted of the small Tembayat hill transformed into a pyramid with levels—a type of religious architectural structure abundantly found in Java—whose traces have been surveyed by archeologists (Lombard 1990: 115). In this region, formerly called Bobodo, the religious foundation and its leading family probably gained local prominence. Its destiny changed with the rise to political power of the Pengging family, from which the kingdom of Pajang later issued. Unfortunately we do not have any data on the type of relationship existing between the mandala of Tembayat and the


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House of Pengging. However, the proximity of the two centres—one a centre of political power, the other of religious activity—allows us to guess that the mandala of Tembayat at the time was already considered a site of special importance to the House of Pengging. The latter might well have made it its favourite sanctuary, thus considerably enhancing the position of the leading family of the mandala, the Kajorans. The importance of Tembayat for the rulers of Pajang, originating from Pengging, cannot be explained otherwise. We have seen above that the ruler of Pajang, Adiwijaya, had had several buildings constructed on Tembayat hill and that he had married his daughter off to a Kajoran. More importantly, it was at the sanctuary of Tembayat, where he had come to pray after having lost a battle, that he received a ‘divine’ revelation, telling him that he should put an end to his reign and to the dynasty of Pengging. It is clear that Pandan Arang did not settle in Tembayat by chance but because of the important role played by its religious centre and its leaders. In the light of this hypothesis it appears that the principal merit of Pandan Arang would have been to Islamise the religious centre of the Pengging kingdom by converting the Kajoran family, to which he allied himself by giving to its head his two daughters in marriage. It can be argued that it was the Muslim saint and not the mandala deity who was worshipped at Tembayat at the time of Pajang. But it is obvious that the sacredness of the site was more paramount than the dogma, as is also implicit in the fact that the daughter of the King of Pajang was given in marriage not to a descendant of the Muslim saint but to a Kajoran. The dynastic change that took place with Senopati of Mataram did not greatly modify the ‘royal’ character assumed by the sanctuary of Tembayat, in spite of Senapati’s efforts to transfer the sacred centre of his kingdom to the south by giving a privileged place to the Goddess of the Southern Sea (Nyai Roro Kidul). Senapati pragmatically took a woman from the Kajoran family as one of his wives, which enabled him to obtain the support of this influential family while covering up the coup he had masterminded. By displaying respect towards Tembayat he was highlighting his claimed membership of the House of Pengging. Clergy and political power Sultan Agung also had a privileged relationship with Tembayat. Although a rare event for a king, he made a pilgrimage to this sacred site. The local chronicles record that he had a revelation, and on return to his capital he ordered the construction of several buildings, apparently as a votive offering to the sanctuary. De Graaf, apparently with good reason, links this display of attention to Tembayat to the rebellion that had broken out three years earlier in 1630 in the Wedi region and had been crushed by the king (1958: ch. XI). De Graaf also thinks that the centre of the rebellion was in Kajoran because of the


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religious characteristics of its chiefs, whom he compares to ‘beggar monks’. If de Graaf’s assumption is borne out by facts, this episode has to be classified as a sign of an important social change—the suppression by Mataram of all the feudalities and other intermediary powers in a push to unify Java. It is a well-known historical fact that Sultan Agung made a determined effort to crush by military means all the states and powers of Java, which until then had enjoyed total, partial or nominal independence, and to put them under his direct administration. We have good reason to think that one of the autonomous forces he had to fight was distributed throughout society: it was the clergy which represented real power in Java at the turn of the 16th century. The Tantu Panggelaran describes the multiplication of mandala across the island. At the same time the monk Manik was on a long tour of the religious centres of the island (Noorduyn 1982: 413–42). Tomé Pires estimated the number of these religious people at 50 000 in Java (Pires 1944: 177). Many other examples could be mentioned. It is all but certain that this traditional clergy, very numerous and more or less Islamised, represented an important social force which had to be taken into account by the state. This must have been the principal reason why the kings were so eager to enrol them into special regiments or, to remain within the framework of Tembayat, to enter into matrimonial alliances with the family of Kajoran ‘men of religion’. The desire to subdue this class of clergymen is clearly visible in Sultan Agung’s crushing of the two ‘theocracies’ of Cirebon and Giri, and later in the horrendous massacre by Amangkurat of 5000–6000 men of religion, by means of deadly cannon fire. This traditional clergy had enjoyed a great degree of autonomy in the 15th and 16th centuries and had good reason to be opposed to the power of the state. In spite of the scarcity of data on the internal history of Mataram in the 17th century, we know that there were three rebellions against it during the span of 60 years, in 1617–18, in 1630, and at the end of the 1670s. It is possible that these three rebellions were led from Kajoran. The highly combative spirit of this clan might be related to the status it had acquired as warden of the royal sanctuary. As a sign of the times, during the last rebellion at the end of the 17th century, the Kajorans seem to have given up their clergy-related demands and become part of a general political opposition to the central power. In 1677 the village of Kajoran, the cradle of the great Tembayat family, was destroyed. All those who continued fighting found themselves on the side of the defeated. The end of Mataram brought about the end of Kajoran. During the great civil wars (gègèr pacinan) of the middle of the 18th century, rebels tried to create a centre of resistance in Tembayat (Rinkes 1996: 115–20). They failed in their attempt, as the Kajorans had long lost their power. From this time onwards, Tembayat did not mean much to the ancient royal houses of Central Java. In the 1804 list of tombs and other


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sanctuaries where the Sultanate of Yogyakarta presented official offerings, the Tembayat mausoleum is found among dozens of other sites, and the amount offered seems quite small (4 reales) compared to the offerings given to the tombs of Tegalwangi (40 reales) or Ermata, Giri and Demak (10 reales each) (Carey 1980: 171). On the site itself, few people are now aware of the existing relationship between the Kajoran clan and Tembayat hill. Since the remote events we have just related, this hill has lost its singularity. Even if it still enjoys a certain aura among the local people, today it is nothing more than a simple place of pilgrimage.


11 Interpreting the historical significance of tombs and chronicles in contemporary Java James J. Fox Tombs on Java—whether the mausoleums of great personages, such as the saints or rulers of Java, or the simpler graves of village founders, local dignitaries or religious teachers—these resting places (pasarean) provide references to the past. Tombs embody an authority from the past, and through this embodiment offer a source of power. Approaching this authority to seek power is by no means a simple act. What is required is guidance, mediation and interpretation. At most tombs it is the custodian—the juru kunci, or ‘keeper of the key’—who provides this assistance to individuals visiting the sacred place. Individuals on Java visit tombs with their special intentions, often at times of personal crisis, in order to place themselves in relationship to a personage of the past. It is the custodian who assists in this relationship: he offers access, prepares the visitor, guides the visit and then interprets the outcome. Quite literally, he holds the key to what is considered to be, for that tomb, the proper form of visitation. Although there is a general pattern for such visits, each tomb has its own particularities to which the juru kunci alone may alert the visitor. Over each tomb, the juru kunci holds unique authority. Most juru kunci are related to the personage in the tomb at which they serve. They may be the descendants of that personage, in which case it is not unusual to have the genealogy of the juru kunci displayed in or near the tomb as evidence of his authority. Or they may be the descendants of the servants (or followers) of that personage and thus perpetuate a close relationship that once existed. For all royal tombs, court servants (abdi dalem) are specially appointed as custodians. These positions were once, and in some cases still are, hereditary. Where tombs are considered under the purvey of a particular village, only a local resident, born in the village, may be appointed as juru kunci.1 160


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At many tombs there is more than one juru kunci. For some tombs, such as Gunung Jati or Imogiri, a hierarchy of custodians cares for the grave complex. Duties are distributed by rank and seniority, and the seniormost juru kunci is considered to hold the greatest knowledge of the place. I argue in this chapter that juru kunci throughout Java play an extraordinarily important—though often overlooked—role in interpreting and disseminating views of Java’s past. More than this—they have a special interpretive role because they are continually involved in relating the past to the present for their visitors. Visitors seek them out, rely on their assistance to conduct them through their visit, and often accept their interpretation of what they personally experience during the course of their visit. The practice of ziarah (tomb visitation) involves millions of Javanese on a regular basis. All the evidence would suggest that this practice is still growing, especially with the improvement in transportation. It is common now for a group of villagers to rent one or more buses to carry out a tour of ziarah sites or a visit to one particular tomb. This gives juru kunci an ever more important role in providing popular interpretations of the past. The timing of a ziarah visit is critical, and each tomb has its own temporal conjunctions for optimal visitation—on a weekly, monthly (35-day), annual and often longer time cycle. These propitious conjunctions are referred to in Javanese by the term tumbuk, and their significance grows in importance depending on the length of the cycles involved and the number of days in different cycles that ‘meet’ one another. At times of such important conjunctions I have been to tombs so crowded that they were approachable only in slow single file, which proceeded through the night. At these gatherings the juru kunci have no time to expound their perspectives on the past, and can manage only to direct visitors in and out of the tomb as quickly as possible. But I have visited the same tomb on a lesser weekly cycle, when the juru kunci were readily available to instruct and guide visitors on a personal basis. At many tombs, and certainly at major ones, stalls are set up in and around the tomb to sell a great variety of pamphlets and other items that relate to the history of the place. These pamphlets, in Indonesian, Javanese or Sundanese, expound a diversity of excerpts and summaries of different chronicles (babad). At some tombs juru kunci provide, sometimes only on request, their own stencilled accounts. In addition to this plethora of popular written sources, every tomb has its oral traditions. In the long hours of the night, tales about the tomb are recounted with visitors to the place. Frequent visitors often enlighten newcomers or share tales with other frequent visitors. Unlike written sources, these tales often intermingle past events with current happenings and present new versions of longstanding oral traditions (see Jamhari 1995). Ultimately, it is the word of the juru kunci that establishes the most authoritative account of each tomb and all the figures associated with it. As Rinkes (1910–13) found in his investigation of various tombs at the


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beginning of the century, a juru kunci may draw on recognised babad accounts, but what he actually transmits to visitors forms part of an oral tradition that has greater authority than any written account. In my own experience of speaking to juru kunci, they have always insisted on their rightful authority to reveal the ‘true’ version of the tomb’s history. One juru kunci asked me whether I had read one of the more popular accounts of his tomb’s personage; when I said I had, he insisted that it was wrong and that I must disregard it if I was to understand the real history of the tomb. At tombs where practices deviate from orthodox norms, stencilled accounts given out at the tomb provide an acceptable ‘cover’ to disguise a deeper history of the place. In all my talks with juru kunci, discussions were in a kind of ‘revelatory’ mode consisting of hints, allusions and returned questions rather than any direct exposition. Knowledge can be given only in stages, and further knowledge can be revealed only when there exists a capacity to understand. Thus traditional knowledge, at tomb sites, has many layers and is largely personal. It depends as much on the visitor (and his or her experience) as on the juru kunci. I would like to recount some of my own experiences with juru kunci and what I have managed to derive from these encounters. All the tombs I wish to discuss can be related to one another. I start in East Java at the tombs of Majapahit and move by various ways to the tomb of Senapati, one of the early founders of Mataram. The personages in all these tombs can be placed on one large genealogy, although it is not a genealogy to be found in any babad or in any history of Java. In the course of the presentation I refer to an account of Java’s history, which is implied in this genealogy. THE TOMB OF BRAWIJAYA IN TROWULAN In the mid-1980s I was doing research in a rice-growing village in Jombang in East Java. One evening, at the propitious time of Jum'at Legi (the conjunction of Friday in the seven-day cycle with Legi in the five-day cycle), I and a group of my Javanese friends decided to visit the tombs at Trowulan, the site of ancient Majapahit, which was less than 20 km away. The head of the household in which I was living had decided, quite independently, that he and one of his friends would visit the tombs on the same night. At Trowulan is the grave of Putri Cempa, the Muslim wife of Brawijaya, the last ruler of Majapahit. When I arrived at the tomb site, I was surprised to discover that there is also a tomb for Brawijaya. According to the Babad Tanah Jawi tradition, Brawijaya disappeared (moksa) as his kraton was being invaded, rather than do battle with his son, Raden Patah. A tomb for Brawijaya was neither necessary nor possible, if one accepted this babad tradition. As Putri Cempa’s tomb already had a good number of visitors around it, my friends and I found a place next to Brawijaya’s grave. Some time after



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midnight, the juru kunci approached us and sat down beside me. Soon the questioning began, but with the juru kunci questioning me: Did I know whose grave I was sitting beside? Yes, it was Brawijaya’s grave. I paused and then asked the question that had bothered me from the time I arrived. I said that I thought Brawijaya had disappeared at the fall of Majapahit. Why, then, was there a tomb for Brawijaya? The juru kunci explained that the tomb was a form to be in harmony (rukun) with Islamic beliefs, but it was only a form, an empty tomb. Again it was my turn to ask a question and so I said that I had understood that, according to the prophecy of Jayabaya, Brawijaya was supposed to return to Java 500 years after the fall of Majapahit. If this was correct, didn’t it mean that Brawajiya had already come back? The juru kunci replied that the Jayabaya prophecy was indeed correct and that Brawijaya had returned. He had entered President Soekarno, who became in his lifetime the new Brawijaya. I then pressed the juru kunci further by asking him what had happened when Soekarno died. The juru kunci went on, at length, to give me an eye witness account of how, after his death, Soekarno had come in a cavalcade of Mercedes to deliver Brawijaya’s spirit back to his grave at Trowulan. Having been given such an animated account from the juru kunci, I felt I could ask one more question, for which I thought I knew the answer. After Brawijaya’s spirit had returned, whom did it enter next? Expecting to hear that Brawijaya’s spirit had passed to President Soeharto, I was stunned to hear the juru kunci’s reply: ‘Ibu Tien’. Having revealed this much, the juru kunci got up and went off to talk with other visitors. The juru kunci’s reply made sense of what I had seen around Trowulan. I had visited the site during the day and had repeatedly heard local villagers say that all of the reconstruction work that was going on, particularly the reconstruction of the women’s bathing place, was being carried out at the behest and through the benefaction of the President’s wife. The juru kunci’s statement would imply that with the death of the President’s wife, there would have to occur another ceremonial return of Brawijaya’s spirit to Trowulan to allow this spirit to prepare to enter a new contemporary vessel. The juru kunci of Trowulan’s revelation belongs to a long tradition of accounts of Brawijaya. In the Javanese babad tradition, Brawijaya serves as a ‘source figure’ from whom subsequent historical figures derive their royal genealogical link. His disappearance from his kraton has also provided a basis for numerous folk traditions about his wanderings and adventures in Java; and his unwillingness to accept Islam has produced a body of tales about his eventual conversion. I would like to offer two ways of interpreting the early history of Java: the one follows the babad tradition and looks especially at this history


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according to the Babad Tanah Jawi; the other looks at figures and events in this same history as revealed by juru kunci at different tombs. These two versions of historical events are not at variance with one another. Rather, it would seem that accounts of events by juru kunci assume a knowledge of the babad tradition and then go beyond it to explain what is left unexplained and to amplify what is merely mentioned in the babad tradition. One must therefore begin with an outline of a portion of the Babad Tanah Jawi as background. GENEALOGIES AND DYNASTIES IN THE BABAD TANAH JAWI In one paper (Fox 1997) I considered the Babad Tanah Jawi as a ‘genealogical narrative’. This reading concentrated in detail on the genealogies of the chief actors in the early part of the Babad and on their relations among each by marriage and adoption. What may, at first reading, appear to be a diverse compilation of events by different actors is, I would argue, ordered by a single comprehensive genealogy. The earliest sections of the Babad sketch a genealogy that leads to Brawijaya; after Brawijaya, the narrative recounts the struggles and disputes of his descendants to re-establish and maintain rule on Java. The principal genealogy of the Babad Tanah Jawi from Adam to Brawijaya Adam Sis Nurcahya Nurrasa Wening Tunggal Batara Guru Brama Bramani Tritrusta Parikenan Manumanasa Sakutrem Sakri Palasara Abiasa Pandu Dewanata Arjuna Abimanyu Parikesit Yudayana Gendrayana Jayabaya



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Jayamijaya Jayamisena Kusuma Wicitra Citrasoma Pancadriya Anglingdriya Sawelacala Mahapunggung Kandiawan Resi Gatayu Lembu Amiluhur Panji Kuda Laleyan Banjararan Sari Munding Sari Munding Wangi Pemekas Susuruh Prabu Anom Adiningkung Ayam Wuruk Lembu Amisani Bratanjung Brawijaya

The second part of the genealogy becomes far more complicated. According to the Babad Tanah Jawi, Brawijaya marries several times. These marriages give rise to distinct genealogical lines, each of which produces, in succession, a different ruling dynasty (Fox 1997b). Brawijaya’s first marriage is with a princess from Cempa. Brawijaya dreams that he is to marry this princess and sends his patih, Gajah Mada, to request her and bring her back to Majapahit. After his marriage with the princess from Cempa, Brawijaya marries a Chinese princess, but his wife from Cempa objects to this marriage; he then grants the Chinese princess to Arya Damar but forbids him to take her as his wife until she has given birth to Brawijaya’s child. When Brawijaya’s son is born, he is given the name Raden Patah. When Raden Patah grows up he returns to Java, studies Islam at Ampel Denta under the tutelage of Sunan Ngampel, and becomes a Muslim. He marries a granddaughter of Sunan Ngampel and, in time, leads the Muslim army that overthrows his father’s rule at Majapahit. From Raden Patah comes the dynastic line of Demak. A second dynastic line emanating from Brawijaya gives rise to the dynasty of Pajang. This line derives from Brawijaya’s daughter, who is given in marriage to Dipati Jayaningrat, whose son, Ki Kebo Kenanga, establishes himself in Pengging and becomes known as Ki Ageng


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Pengging. His son, Jaka Tingkir, marries the daughter of Sultan Trenggana of Demak, and becomes the first ruler of Pajang. Thus Pajang succeeds Demak. Another of Brawijaya’s unions leads to the founding of Mataram. Brawijaya asks his court diviners whether after his demise there will come a successor whose power will be as great as his own. His diviners tell him that there will indeed be such a successor from among his descendants, but that successor will move his court to Mataram and from there rule over all the inhabitants of Java. Soon thereafter Brawijaya is afflicted with venereal disease and no cure can be found. In his sleep a voice tells him that he can be cured only by sleeping with a Wandhan woman whose skin is yellow. His wife from Cempa has brought such a woman with her, and so Brawijaya sleeps with her and is cured. The Wandhan woman becomes pregnant and bears a beautiful child. Because of the diviners’ claim that this child will put an end to Brawijaya’s rule, Brawijaya orders that the child, Raden Bondhan Kajawan, be given to Kyai Buyut Masahar to be killed when he is one windu (or 8 years) old. The child, however, is not killed. Kyai Buyut simply reports his death to Brawijaya. Later, when Raden Bondhan Kejawan is older, he returns to the kraton and Brawijaya is so taken with him that he orders Kyai Buyut Masahar to entrust the boy to Kyai Ageng Tarub whose daughter the boy marries, and so begins the line that leads to the Mataram dynasty. The struggles of these dynastic lines occupy the next critical stage in the narrative of the Babad Tanah Jawi. As background to the founding of Mataram as revealed by the juru kunci, I begin by considering the particular events associated with Ki Ageng Pamanahan, the father of Senapati and great-grandfather of Sultan Agung. Ki Ageng Pamanahan is also referred to as Ki Ageng Mataram because he was the first of his line to move to the territory of Mataram. The three dynastic lines that emanate from Brawijaya according to the Babad Tanah Jawi

Brawijaya DEMAK Raden Patah Raden Sabrang Ler (e) Raden Trenggana (y) Raden Prawata

PAJANG -DaughterKebo Kananga Jaka Tinggir Pangeran Benawa

MATARAM Bondan Kejawan Getas Pandhawa Ageng Sela Ageng Nis Ageng Pamanahan Senapati-ing-Alaga



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KI AGENG PAMANAHAN AND KI AGENG GIRING In the Babad Tanah Jawi, the Sultan of Pajang grants the territory of Mataram to Ki Ageng Pamanahan who moves with his family, including his son Senapati, and his followers to take up residence in his domain. Shortly after he has established himself, the Babad introduces the figure of Ki Ageng Giring, who lives at Padèrèsan in Gunung Kidul. The Babad explains only that Pamanahan and Giring were close friends. Giring is a powerful ascetic who lives from palm-tapping. One morning while he is tapping he hears a voice that comes from within a young coconut: ‘Ki Ageng Giring, you should know that the descendants of whoever drinks all the water of this young coconut will become powerful lords and will rule over all of Java’. On hearing this voice, Giring climbs down from the tree he is tapping, climbs up the coconut tree, plucks the coconut and takes it home with him. Since the voice said that he must drink all of the water at one go, he sets the coconut inside his house and goes off to cut wood to make himself thirsty. At this point, Pamanahan arrives and, having come a long way, is terribly thirsty. He goes into Giring’s house, finds the coconut, and drinks it empty in one go. When Giring returns and discovers what has happened, he realises it is God’s will that Pamanahan’s descendants are destined to become rulers of Java; he tells Pamanahan about the voice and what it said; and he pleads with Pamanahan that, after Pamanahan’s descendants have ruled over Java, his descendants too may rule over Java. Pamanahan refuses. Giring continues to plead for a descendant of his, even in the seventh generation, to become ruler. Pamanahan’s reply is that God may know whether this may happen, but he, Pamanahan, does not. The Babad has seemingly nothing more to say of Ki Ageng Giring or of his descendants. The account in the Babad stands on its own and appears to be unrelated to any other events in Mataram’s history. The fact, however, that Giring was on the verge of being the founder of a dynasty of Javanese rulers implies, by Javanese reckoning, that he must have been of proper descent. His position must therefore be of some greater significance. Many of these questions are provided with answers if one visits the tomb of Ki Ageng Giring in Wanasari. The tomb is not an impressive structure. What is impressive is the prominence given to the framed genealogical charts concerning Ki Ageng Giring (Figure 11.1). There are two such charts: they provide the same genealogy. The one is an older handscript, the other a typed script. Each has been similarly annotated to identify individuals and their particular significance in the history of Mataram. As the genealogy drawn from these charts shows, Ki Ageng Giring is also a descendant of Brawijaya. Instead of deriving from Brawijaya V, Giring’s line derives from Brawijaya IV, from a sister of Brawijaya V. The Ki Ageng Giring, who, according to the chart, was designated to receive the ‘Wahyu Mataram’, was Ki Ageng Giring III. Moreover, Ki Ageng Giring III is


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Brawijaya IV

R. Mundi

A. Pandoyo (Pengging)

Andayaning

P. Brawijaya V

Bondah Kejawan (K. A. Tarub III)

I.R. Pembayun

K.A. Wuking II K.A. Getas Pandowo K.A. Giring I S. Tembayat

K.A. Sela

K.A. Giring II K.A. Anis (Lawiyan) K.A. Giring III K.A. Pemanahan Rara Subur R. Suroso A. Lawanu Rara Lembayung K.A. Giring IV

P. Senapati

K.A. Wonokusomo I Anyokrowati Radan Umbaram Wiromenggolo (Seda Krapyak) P. Puruboyo I Sultan Agung

Wonokusomo II P. Puruboyo II P. Kajoran

P. Mangkurat (Sumare Tegalarum) Ratu Kulon

Pakubuwono I

Prabu Mangkurat Jawi Kartosuro

Pakubuwono II Surakarta Hadiningrat

Figure 11.1 Genealogy of Ki Ageng Giring

Hamengku Buwono I Ngayogyokarto Hadiningrat



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represented as the grandson of Sunan Tembayat (who, according to folk tradition, is either Brawijaya or a descendant of Brawijaya). From Figure 11.1 it is clear that Ki Ageng Giring’s descendants continue to play an important role in Mataram’s history. In particular Pangeran Kajoran, who is described in the Babad as a powerful ascetic (with the same terms used to describe Giring), is a major figure and plotter in the wars that led to the overthrow of Mangkurat I and the succession of his grandson, Mangkurat II (Pakubuwono I). What is most remarkable is that in the Babad, Mangkurat I on his deathbed drinks from a fresh coconut and prophesies the future of his descendants. Dipati Anom who succeeds his father is, according to the juru kunci’s chart, the seventh generation from Ki Ageng Giring. Mangkurat I’s prophesy, after drinking from the coconut, can thus be read in reference to what occurred between Ki Ageng Pamanahan and Ki Ageng Giring. The tradition preserved at the tomb of Giring provides this interpretation. KI AGENG MATARAM AND ARYA JAYAPRANA When Ki Ageng Pamanahan established himself at Mataram, he became known as Ki Ageng Mataram. He was succeeded by his son Senapati, who also became the successor to the Sultan of Pajang and thus the first Lord of Mataram to be a ruler of Java. When Senapati died, he was buried in a tomb in Kota Gedhe which is generally referred to as Makam Senapati (the tomb of Senapati). In fact, however, this tomb is a large mortuary complex with hundreds of graves. I have visited Senapati’s tomb on a number of occasions. When for the first time I entered the main mausoleum, what I found remarkable was that Senapati’s grave was not given the most prominent position among the graves. The graves are set out in an ordered fashion, according to generations, almost like a kinship chart. Senapati’s grave is third in line with the graves of his brothers; in the next row above his grave are the graves of his father, Ki Ageng Mataram, and his mother, Nyai Ageng Mataram, and in the row above that of his father and mother are the three most honoured graves, which are set at a higher elevation than all of the rest. One of these graves is that of Senapati’s grandmother, Nyai Ageng Nis, and the other is assigned to the Sultan of Pajang. In the middle of these two graves, in the most honoured position in the entire mausoleum, is the grave of Arya Jayaprana. (See the plate of the royal graves at Kota Gedhe in Olthof’s Dutch translation of the Babad Tanah Jawi, 1941: 124; see also Figure 11.2 and Fox 1997b.) Relying on the Babad Tanah Jawi, it is possible to identify all of the prominent graves in the mausoleum at Kota Gedhe. The Babad, however, is silent about Arya Jayaprana. Senapati’s tomb has a large number of juru kunci. All of them are court servants (abdi dalem). When one does ziarah, one is escorted into the


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Figure 11.2 The tombs of Senopati and his Mataram ancestors at Pasareyan Kota Gede



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mausoleum by one or more juru kunci. Inside the mausoleum, there are at least a half-dozen other juru kunci seated strategically among the graves to provide explanations about particular personages and to assist visitors in making offerings. A visit to the darkened tomb, crammed with graves and smoky with incense, provides the opportunity for a long lesson on the history of Mataram, but in my experience the juru kunci make no effort to explain the grave of Arya Jayaprana to visitors. The single most importantly placed grave in the mausoleum is left without comment. Intrigued by the silence surrounding Arya Jayaprana, I resolved to visit Senapati’s tomb again and question the juru kunci directly about him. At the time of my visit, a group of villagers from Jepara were about to do ziarah and I therefore joined them. As expected, Arya Jayaprana’s grave was bypassed without explanation. On leaving the mausoleum I returned to the staging pendopo, where a half-dozen of what seemed to me to be the oldest of the juru kunci were seated. I explained my puzzlement, and in response one of the juru kunci got up and went across the courtyard, unlocked a storeroom and went in. He returned with a simple stencilled pamphlet, Sejarahipun Panembahan Jayaprana (compiled by K.P.H. Mandayakusuma from a document of K.P.H. Purwodiningrat), and instead of expounding on Arya Jayaprana gave it to me to read. The document describes an encounter between Ki Ageng Pamanahan and Arya Jayaprana. Pamanahan speaks to Jayaprana with high forms of address as ‘Sang Tapa’ (‘Honourable Ascetic’), whereas Jayaprana addresses Pamanahan as a child (anak). Jayaprana has long preceded Pamanahan in Mataram and has lived there before the Sultan of Pajang, who has granted Mataram to Pamanahan, began his rule. As such, Jayaprana is the lord of the land of Mataram. The two engage in a discussion of what is right and wrong and Jayaprana tells Pamanahan that if he will follow Jayaprana’s guidance, he will grant Mataram to him and his descendants. Pamanahan agrees to carry out Jayaprana’s advice on proper rule. But Jayaprana then makes one last request: Pamanahan must carry (gendong) Jayaprana a certain distance (10 honjotan) to another place; but after only two honjotan Pamanahan falls. He admits that he can not carry Jayaprana and that therefore he himself will search for another place to reside. Jayaprana, however, relents and grants Mataram to Pamanahan, taking for himself only the village of Jayapranan. Pamanahan and his descendants must henceforth look after those of Jayaprana. Jayaprana remains as kapundhi-pundhi and becomes known as Panembahan Jayaprana. When he dies he is buried under one roof (sacungkup) beside Nyai Ageng Ngenis, the grandmother of Pamanahan. In almost all such documents, genealogies are an important feature. As far as I can discern, Jayaprana appears to be the son of Raden Prawata of Demak, and his grant of Mataram to Pamanahan can be interpreted as an enhancement of the new dynasty. Why the main babad tradition should be silent on this subject remains a mystery to me.


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If, as I would argue, tombs in Java function as popular ‘broadcast centres’ for the historical traditions of Java, then it is the juru kunci who keep these traditions alive and relevant to contemporary Javanese. All that can be said then of Arya Jayaprana is that the traditions surrounding his personage are not forgotten—it is only that they are no longer broadcast. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The first version of this paper was given at Leiden University on 14 May 1997, as part of a ‘double lecture’ with Professor Ben Arps in the Center for Non-Western Studies (CNWS) Conference on the Intercultural Study of Literature and Society. I would like to express my particular thanks to Professor Arps for the honour he accorded me in inviting me to join him for the Leiden Double Lecture. I would also like to thank Drs Jamhari for his assistance in translating the Giring genealogy and Drs Bambang Hudayana for his assistance in helping me with the translation of Sejarahipun Panembahan Jayaprana.


12 The role of a Javanese burial ground in local government George Quinn

The story of the foundation of Banyumas, a kabupaten1 in the western part of the present-day province of Central Java, seems to be well known to the people of the area. In a variety of recensions it appears in written histories like the Babad Pasir and the Babad Banyumas. Ordinary people who have never heard of these written histories are familiar with at least fragments of the story. Modern recensions of the story, drawing on oral and written sources, have appeared in the mass media.2 The story has been adopted as the basis of a brief, contemporary ‘official’ history of the kabupaten in publications of the kabupaten government, and is read out on certain ceremonial occasions. The popular story of Banyumas begins (like many local histories in the Javanese culture area) in the court of Majapahit.3 The king of Majapahit, Sultan Hardiwijaya, had a dispute with his younger brother, Raden Baribin, and expelled him from the palace. Raden Baribin wandered westwards, eventually arriving at the court of Pajajaran in the Sundanese lands of West Java. There he married Dyah Retna Pamekas, a princess of Pajajaran. They had four children: Raden Katuhu (also Raden Kaduhu), Raden Banyaksasra, Raden Banyakkumara, and a girl (not named). On reaching adulthood Raden Katuhu left the Pajajaran palace, wandering east to the adjacent region of Wirasaba.4 There he was adopted first by a villager, Ki Gede Buwara, then later by the local regent or adipati5 of Wirasaba, Paguwan III. Raden Katuhu succeeded his adoptive father as adipati of Wirasaba and assumed the name Adipati Margautama. Margautama had two sons, Raden Warga and Ki Toyareka. Raden Warga succeeded his father as regent of Wirasaba with the name Adipati Wargautama. Meanwhile the second son of Raden Baribin, Raden Banyaksasra, had also left the Pajajaran palace, wandering east to Pasirluhur,6 an area like Wirasaba adjacent to the Sundanese lands but today usually thought to be 173


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located in the southern part of the island, perhaps along the Serayu river. There he married a princess of Pasirluhur and they had a son, Bagus Mangun. Bagus Mangun was adopted and brought up by a childless couple, Ki Mranggi and Ni Mranggi, who lived in the village of Kejawar on the banks of the Serayu river. On reaching adulthood Bagus Mangun left home, and went to the court of Wirasaba where he was accepted into the service of Adipati Wargautama. He changed his name from Bagus Mangun to Jaka Kaiman. Jaka Kaiman married the eldest daughter of Wargautama and was thereby incorporated into the ruling family of Wirasaba as the son-in-law of the adipati. At this time, Wirasaba was under the suzerainty of Sultan Adiwijaya (also known by the names of his youth, Mas Karebet and Jaka Tingkir). Wargautama made his customary annual visit to the palace of Pajang, taking with him one of his daughters as a tributary gift to the monarch. While there he became the victim of a slander. A disaffected member of his family told Sultan Adiwijaya that Wargautama’s daughter was not a virgin but had already been married once. Sultan Adiwijaya was incensed and ordered the execution of Wargautama. In a memorable incident, evidently still widely remembered today by the people of Banyumas, Adipati Wargautama was assassinated at the village of Bener in the vicinity of Kebumen, Central Java, on his way home from Pajang. Almost immediately after ordering the execution the Sultan realised he had made a mistake. He invited Wargautama’s family to send a successor to Pajang for inauguration. The members of the family were afraid they would meet the same fate as Wargautama and declined to present themselves. Only Wargautama’s son-in-law Jaka Kaiman dared to make the journey to Pajang. There he was received favourably by Sultan Adiwijaya, who inaugurated him as the new bupati of Wirasaba. On his return to Wirasaba, Jaka Kaiman (now known as Adipati Wargautama II) demonstrated his generosity of spirit by dividing the realm into four domains and allocating three of them to members of the Wargautama family. Jaka Kaiman took for himself the region of Banyumas, centred on Kejawar on the banks of the Serayu river, where he had been brought up. There he cleared the Mangli forest and established a thriving community. On his death he was buried in the nearby village of Dawuhan, and became known by his postmortem name of Adipati Mrapat.7 Dawuhan (as its name suggests8) was declared a desa perdikan, a special-status village, free of taxes and dedicated to the function of maintaining the burial ground of the bupatis of Banyumas. Around 400 years later, in August 1988, Infantry Colonel Djoko Sudantoko was installed as the 28th bupati of Banyumas.9 One of his first acts after inauguration was to set up a taskforce (pansus), charged with the brief of officially determining the date on which his predecessor had founded the kabupaten. The taskforce was chaired by Mr Karsidi, a local official, other members being Drs M. Soekarto Kartoatmodjo from Gadjah Mada University and the


JAVANESE BURIAL GROUND IN LOCAL GOVERNMENT

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Yogyakarta Centre for Archeological Research (Balai Arkeologi Yogyakarta), Drs Soesanto (an expert on archeology), Sujono Wiwoho SH (an expert on Javanese culture) and Dr Sudarmadji, chairman of the Dawuhan Burial Ground Foundation of Banyumas (Yayasan Pasarehan Dawuhan Banyumas) (Koderi & Ahmad Tohari 1991: 4; Soem Soeyadi 1990: 108). The findings of the taskforce were presented to Bupati Djoko in 1989. They were released to public scrutiny on 14 November 1989 in an open seminar attended by about 250 people in the kabupaten capital of Purwokerto.10 The taskforce found that Jaka Kaiman had been inaugurated as bupati of Wirasaba on 12th of Rabiulawal in the Hijriyyah year of 990, coinciding with 6 April 1582. In determining this date, the taskforce began with the death of Sultan Adiwijaya, which they took to have occurred in 1583. The normal practice in the courts of Java at the time was for bupatis from outlying regions to attend at the palace during the month of Rabiulawal and for inaugurations to be conducted during the garebeg celebrations of that month commemorating the birth of the prophet Muhammad. The taskforce apparently arrived at the precise date of the foundation day by assuming that, in accordance with normal practice, Jaka Kaiman must have been inaugurated at the height of a garebeg celebration. They then counted back from the presumed year of Sultan Adiwijaya’s death to the most immediately preceding garebeg. The taskforce admitted that the evidence for the date of the foundation day was not wholly convincing. They acknowledged, for example, that other opinions put the demise of Sultan Adiwijaya some years after 1583.11 They also noted that, in the opinion of some, Jaka Kaiman had himself died in 1583, and that if this was true he would not have had enough time between his inauguration and his death to have done the various remarkable things he is reputed to have done while he was bupati. The taskforce added a caveat to their report to the effect that, should new information come to light, the date of the foundation day could be ‘corrected’. Despite these doubts, the public meeting endorsed the taskforce’s findings, and the date of the foundation day was accepted by Bupati Djoko (Soemarno 1994: pt 10, 32; Soem Soeyadi 1990: 108). Today, the tomb of the founding bupati is in the official burial ground of the bupatis of Banyumas in the village of Dawuhan, about 6 km from the town of Banyumas and some 35 km from Purwokerto. The burial ground is located on sloping ground on the upper side of the village. At the lower (village) end of the burial ground lies a small mosque (langgar). On the shallow slope above the mosque are the graves of 12 of the 28 bupatis of Banyumas, plus the graves of several bupatis of Purwokerto and Purbalingga together with other kabupaten officials and citizens, and even a number of revered local figures who lived before the time of Jaka Kaiman (Thojib Djumadi 1976). A road runs up the length of the burial ground to one side of it, culminating in a parking area adjacent to Jaka Kaiman’s tomb at the upper end.


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Prior to the appointment of Bupati Djoko Sudantoko, Jaka Kaiman’s tomb had taken the form of a cracked and dilapidated tombstone (batu nisan) under a somewhat neglected low roof (cungkup), open at the sides (Thojib Djumadi 1976: 30). Early in his period of office Djoko Sudantoko ordered the rebuilding of the site, and the work was completed in 1990. Today the tomb takes the form of a small, unadorned building consisting of a single chamber about 7 × 3 metres in area with a grey tiled floor, whitewashed plaster walls, and a porch at the front running the width of the building. Inside the chamber (which is well lit, with several windows embellished with iron trelliswork) are two tombstones (batu nisan). The one on the right is that of Jaka Kaiman. It is not clear who lies under the tombstone on the left.12 When I visited the tomb in 1992 and 1994, I found flower offerings and ash from the burning of incense at the foot of both tombstones (see Figures 12.1 and 12.2). A large bronze plaque is fixed to the rear wall. The following Javanese inscription appears on it, cast in Javanese script on the upper half of the plaque and repeated in Roman script on the lower half. The Resting Place Of Kyai Adipati Warga Utama the second, the first Bupati of Banyumas. His name when young was Raden Jaka Kaiman. He was appointed seventh Adipati of Wirasaba by His Majesty Sultan Adiwijaya of Pajang on Friday Kliwon, 6 April 1582 in the Christian era, coinciding with 12th of Rabiulawal 990 in the Hijriyyah era. The late Bupati divided Wirasaba into four territories, and was thereafter known as Adipati Mrapat.13

Figure 12.1 The mausoleum of Jaka Kaiman (Adipati Mrapout) in Dawuhan, Banyumas, Central Java


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According to Thojib Djumadi (1976: 30) and Sutarjo, custodian of the site in 1992 when I visited it, descendants of the bupatis buried there come regularly to pay their respects to their forebears. In the month of Ruwah (also called Sya’ban) there are informal assemblies (silaturahmi) of pilgrims at the site, and there is a ‘bathing of heirlooms’ ceremony on 12th of Rabiulawal. Petitioners come to the site at other times too, especially on the night before Friday Kliwon. They come to ‘ask for safety’ (nyuwun slamet) or to ask for promotion. According to Sutarjo, from time to time the bupati of Banyumas himself undertakes night-long austerities (tirakatan) at the site, beginning by walking the 6 km from Banyumas. Following the public seminar of November 1989, Bupati Djoko issued a local ordinance (peraturan daerah or perda) officially designating 6 April 1582 as the Foundation Day (Hari Jadi) of Banyumas and declaring that it should be commemorated every 6 April. The first commemoration was held in 1990. In the years since, the commemoration has assumed a regularised format, the four main components being a ‘pilgrimage’ (ziarah), a procession (kirab) through the streets of Purwokerto, a mass commemorative ceremony (upacara peringatan) in the main common of Purwokerto, and a cultural night (malam kesenian).14 In each of these events Jaka Kaiman is the central figure, and in each of them his presence is linked to, or mediated by, the current bupati, Djoko Sudantoko. When I observed the commemoration in 1994, it began (as it has every year since 1990) with a ‘pilgrimage’ to Jaka Kaiman’s tomb. At 8 am on 5 April, Bupati Djoko, members of the local MUSPIDA,15 the heads of institutions of higher education, the heads of departments and offices, the bupati’s staff and the heads of village-level administrative regions (kecamatan) assembled at the tomb. Those in attendance were men (wives were not to accompany their husbands) and all were required to wear traditional Javanese dress in the Banyumas style. Sitting crossed-legged beside Jaka Kaiman’s tombstone (Figure 12.2), Bupati Djoko led the observances, offering a prayer of thanks to the kabupaten’s founder and asking that he grant the kabupaten wellbeing and slamet (security, a smooth run and freedom from the unexpected). The prayers were accompanied by the scattering of flower offerings on the tombstone (nyekar). There followed a brief, ritualised exchange of views (sarasehan) between the bupati and local officials about progress and issues in local development programs.16 The same day, beginning around mid-afternoon, there was a procession through the centre of Purwokerto from the mayor’s office at one end of town to the bupati’s office at the other. Required to participate in the procession were local officials, members of the local parliament, armed forces personnel, academics and teachers. Wives accompanied their husbands and all wore Banyumas-style Javanese dress. Cultural troupes from various parts of the kabupaten participated, performing as they walked. Thousands of people lined the streets to watch. Carried at the head of the procession were duplicates of the official


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Figure 12.2 Jaka Kaiman's tomb

heirlooms (pusaka) of the kabupaten, the spear Kyai Genjring, the kris Kyai Nala Praja, the kris Kyai Gajah Endra, and a manuscript heirloom called Stambul. Duplicates were also carried of a number of national awards won by the kabupaten.17 Following the heirlooms and awards, riding in an open, horse-drawn carriage and clearly occupying pride of place in the procession, came two actors in costume representing Jaka Kaiman and his wife (Figure 12.3). Next came a succession of big portraits of previous bupatis held aloft by costumed bearers (Figure 12.4). These started from bupati number 17 and ran through to Djoko Sudantoko’s immediate predecessor, the 27th Bupati, Colonel R.G. Roedjito. Behind the portrait of Colonel Roedjito walked Bupati Djoko and his wife. Ranks of officials, members of parliament, academics, village functionaries and others followed, and after them the musicians and performers. The following day, 6 April at 8 am, there was a commemorative ceremony on the common in front of the bupati’s office. It was attended by several


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Figure 12.3 Actors play the roles of Jaka Kuiman and his wife in the Foundation Day procession, Purwokerto, 6 April 1994

Figure 12.4 Portraits of previous bupatis precede Bupati Djoko though the streets of Purwokerto, 6 April 1974

thousand rank-and-file public servants, military personnel, students and school children, all in uniform. The ceremony started with a formal reading of a brief, official account of the foundation of Banyumas. The narrative


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gave special prominence to Jaka Kaiman’s heroic qualities. He was said to have had an altruistic outlook and did not put his personal interests first. He was a determined fighter for economic development (pembangunan) and embodied a spirit of unity. The account concluded by exhorting the people of Banyumas to take these noble qualities as a guide and inspiration ‘to be built upon and adapted to current circumstances’ (Buku Petunjuk 1974: 13–14). On the evening of the same day a ‘cultural night’ was held in the front portico (pendopo) of the bupati’s office. Before a jam-packed audience of invited dignitaries and excited local people a comedy performance was given in Javanese by the popular Didik Nini Thowok troupe from Yogyakarta. At the beginning of the performance actors representing Jaka Kaiman, his wife and one of his officials appeared on stage and were introduced to the audience. Reference was made to the current commemorative celebrations. During most of the two hours of antics that followed, the three remained on stage, assuming a somewhat stiff pose and standing to one side. From time to time they were drawn into the on-stage action, appearing as rather solemn but hilarious anachronisms in the midst of the comic mayhem around them. The official rationale for the annual commemoration appears in the printed guidelines for the celebration of the Foundation Day (e.g. see Buku Petunjuk) as well as in the innumerable speeches made over the two days of the commemoration. The Foundation Day commemoration is intended to help forge a stronger sense of pride in local identity and, by appealing to that pride, produce more enthusiastic participation in various government development projects and campaigns. The celebrations are always linked to certain slogans or campaigns. In 1994, for example, the official slogan accompanying the commemoration made reference to the kabupaten government’s current one-year campaign to focus on the raising of living standards. The somewhat lengthy slogan, which appeared on banners throughout Purwokerto and was referred to in speeches, was ‘[t]hrough commemoration of the 412th anniversary of the Foundation Day of the Kabupaten of Banyumas let us get motivated to make a success of the Year of Improving the Quality of Life’.18 One domain of economic development to which the commemoration was supposed to contribute directly was that of tourism. Bupati Djoko expressed the hope19 that the annual procession through town, with its colour and its focus on the remarkable first bupati, would become an income-generating exercise that would complement the nearby hill resort of Baturaden as an attraction for domestic and foreign visitors. There can be little doubt that the commemoration also has a more directly political function—that of legitimising the appointment of Djoko Sudantoko to the office of bupati and enhancing his status. Bupati Djoko appears to have been at pains to cultivate and emphasise various associations between himself and Jaka Kaiman. In his public references to Jaka Kaiman, Bupati Djoko seems to have avoided referring to him by any



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of his other names, thereby drawing attention to the similarity between his own name and that of his distant predecessor. As the visually memorable procession of portraits in the commemoration procession vividly demonstrated, he has carefully and publicly stressed his ‘lineage’ as the latest in a line of bupatis traceable in unbroken sequence over a period of more than 400 years back to Jaka Kaiman. Bupati Djoko has also represented Jaka Kaiman as a sort of hero of economic development. The first bupati was a practical-minded ‘builder’: when he established Banyumas. Following the Javanese mbabad alas20 convention he went into the forest, cut it down and established a new, prosperous community that attracted people from neighbouring areas. Jaka Kaiman then is reconstructed as a model administrator—obedient and loyal to his superiors, courageous, selfless, generous and full of initiative. By identifying himself with the mythologised image of his predecessor, the modern bupati evidently seeks to enhance his own image. Indeed it would appear that in a subtle way Bupati Djoko has suggested that Jaka Kaiman is a not only a patron of contemporary economic development in Banyumas but a real source of inspiration, and even of practical advice. According to the custodian of the Dawuhan burial ground, Djoko Sudantoko and other officials ‘commune’ with the founding bupati at his graveside in order to seek his advice and guidance.21 Just as Jaka Kaiman was an ‘outsider’ to the court of Wirasaba, deriving his authority at least in part from his Majapahit and Pajajaran ancestry, so too did Djoko Sudantoko come to Banyumas as an outsider whose authority, at least initially, originated in the distant centres of Semarang and Jakarta. By aligning himself with his predecessor in the way described it is conceivable (though not easy to demonstrate conclusively) that this has helped him to engineer acceptance by the notoriously parochial and identity-conscious community of Banyumas.22 It may also have helped him assume a conciliatory role vis-à-vis outside authority. The death of Adipati Wargautama I, unjustly executed by a capricious distant monarch, is an incident that still lives vividly in the memory of many people in Banyumas.23 It seems to embody something of the enduring ambivalence they feel towards outside authority, especially that of the old court centres of Yogyakarta and Solo.24 Jaka Kaiman, who, like Sultan Adiwijayawas of Majapahit descent, proved himself capable of courageously confronting his sovereign and winning favour. Again, I think it conceivable that Bupati Djoko may have been able to identify himself with this image of courage and initiative towards distant authority, thereby strengthening the symbolic edifice that supports him. The power of the Indonesian state, of nationalist ideology and national history, has tended to obscure the continuing vitality of local history. This history lives in oral anecdote, in place names and nicknames, in prohibitions, in popular song and drama, in popular literature, magazines and comics, in mosque sermons, and above all in the narratives of origin and narratives of validation25 that are preserved and handed on in Java’s


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innumerable grave sites, burial grounds and places of pilgrimage. In Banyumas, Bupati Djoko has succeeded in appropriating elements of local history to legitimise and sustain his position and give impetus to the programs of his administration. To do this he has had to give local history a revitalised public profile and a new aura of official respectability. Like many other local administrators across Java, he has achieved this by making use of a symbol and an institution hitherto unknown in local practice in Banyumas—the Foundation Day and its commemoration. Foundation Day commemorations, Indonesia’s Independence Day being the biggest, have become integral parts of the bureaucratic life of the Indonesian state. They ritually recapture a moment of unsullied creativity and energy, a moment of perfection before the degradation that inevitably follows. Where the beginning point of an enterprise is not recorded, it must be retrospectively created. The Indonesian bureaucracy is a community that endlessly celebrates its beginnings, seeks legitimacy in its beginnings, and even tries to renew itself through ritual connection with its beginnings. And it is this practice, at the local level, that has brought Jaka Kaiman into the streets and offices of Purwokerto, and has brought officials and the public in considerable numbers to his renovated grave site.


13 ‘National ancestors’: the ritual construction of nationhood Klaus H. Schreiner

The fallen of the many ‘great’, ‘patriotic’ and ‘world’ wars in Europe and in Northern America have been subject to scholarly investigation for a long time. Authors like George L. Mosse (1990) and William L. Warner (1959) thoroughly examined the significance of dead soldiers for the collective memory and the shaping of national consciousness in Europe and the USA. Other scholars pointed out spatial representations of the collective memory as visualised in war memorials, monuments and cemeteries, stressing their importance for national assertion and identity (see Koselleck & Jeismann 1994).1 Their common point of departure is the interest in the potency of the dead as shapers of solidarity and symbols of national unity and identity. Dead citizens, and dead soldiers in particular, present and re-presented in memorials and cemeteries, personify in a unique way national engagement and the fulfilment of duties. The ‘unknown soldier’ becomes the epitome of national commitment and sacrifice and therefore the crystallising point of national memory and the formation of a national identity (Koselleck 1994: 15). What has been demonstrated for France and Germany holds true for other countries and nations, be they the former Soviet Union, in its effort to utilise the experience of the ‘Great Patriotic War’ (Kämpfer 1994), or modern Japan trying to cope with two disparate memories of the dead: soldiers fallen in a war of aggression, and victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (Shimada 1997). Thus it cannot come as a surprise to find similar phenomena in those countries still in the process of nation-building after gaining independence from European colonial rule. One of the most exciting case studies is Indonesia, where we find an intricate system of national self-invention through the veneration of ‘national’ forebears. Three aspects of the Indonesians’ way of memorialising their history in general, and remembering their dead from the various anticolonial uprisings in particular, deserve special attention. First, there is a spatial 183


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dimension visible in the numerous graves and specially designated cemeteries. The second aspect deals with the ritual activities that are regularly carried out on these sites, culminating in the rites of ‘Heroes’ Day’ (Hari Pahlawan, 10 November) and of the ‘Remembrance Day of Pancasila’s Spiritual Power’ (Hari Peringatan Kesaktian Pancasila, 1 October), the two most important political holidays besides Proclamation Day (Hari Proklamasi, 17 August). The third dimension refers to the personified essence of hero worship. Clearly defined and carefully selected sets of historic personages represent the objects of veneration on these holy days. REVOLUTIONARY GRAVES AND HERO CEMETERIES The peoples of Indonesia endured one of the bloodiest independence struggles in Southeast Asia. In December 1949 the Netherlands agreed to accept the sovereignty of her former colony, only after four years of fierce fighting. One can find the traces of this revolution, as Indonesian historians usually label the period, everywhere. All provincial capitals, many cities, and even villages possess and maintain a monument to their independence fighters. Symbolically even more important are the well-kept graves and cemeteries, where these people are buried. Independence fighters of informal militias and regular army units who fell during the war years were often buried only very hastily on or near the spot where they met their death. These graves were rarely pretentious or exaggerated. One of the first of these funerals took place in Surabaya in October 1945. Indonesian victims of combat against withdrawing Japanese troops were collectively buried on a site that soon became known as Taman Bahagia (Garden of Happiness). It quickly became a focus for growing national sentiment (Frederick 1988: 16). The many skirmishes taking place all over the country resulted in a host of similar burial grounds. Following the Surabaya example, the Indonesians called them Taman Bahagia, or created new names like Taman Syuhada (Garden of the Martyrs) or Taman Kusuma Bangsa (Garden of the Nation’s Heroes, lit. ‘blossoms of the nation’) (e.g. see Mertoyoso 1981). In smaller towns and villages one usually finds only a few scattered graves or small burial grounds that nevertheless are a centre for self-esteem and pride. They represent the evidence of an active and self-sacrificing involvement in the common national cause. In larger cities and provincial capitals, the state authorities did not leave activities of veneration and reverence to private commitment but took the initiative. Soon after gaining control over the whole country the central government in Jakarta began to reorganise the many cemeteries and integrate scattered graves into neatly marshalled and, most importantly, centralised graveyards. They were then officially named Taman Makam Pahlawan (TMP, ‘heroes’ cemetery’) and put under the administration of the Ministry of


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Defence until 1974, when the Ministry of Social Affairs acquired the responsibility for the maintenance of the installations. In the beginning each provincial capital was provided with such an official cemetery. Varying in size and design, they were usually located on the fringes of the city centres, bearing sometimes very poetic names like the one in Purwokerto, which became known as Tanjung Nirwana (Cape Nirwana). The theatres of important combats or other historic incidents were favourite localities for such cemeteries. Thus, many of the modest graves that had been there since the war became part of an official heroes’ cemetery, such as the battlefield of Margarana, South Bali, where Balinese pemuda under I Gusti Ngurah Rai fought the Dutch. This battle is usually referred to as Puputan Margarana, linking it to the ritual collective suicide (puputan) of the Raja Badung and his court facing Dutch colonial occupation in 1906. The dominant feature of the hero commemoration’s spatial dimension is not the individual grave, but the collective monument, the ‘heroes’ cemetery’. There is one significant exception among the many newly laid out cemeteries: pemuda (youth fighters) and others killed in Jakarta and its vicinity were buried on the Eerveld, the former Dutch cemetery for prominent and well-to-do members of Batavian society situated at Ancol, on the shore of Jakarta Bay. Initially the Indonesian government, seeing no contradiction in burying anticolonial independence fighters side by side with outstanding members of the colonial society, continued the tradition of honorary burial in Ancol.2 Very soon, however, the old Dutch cemetery proved too small to take in all the graves of honourable persons. In 1953 a new Taman Makam Pahlawan was established at Kalibata, a kampung on the southern fringes of Jakarta. After a further enlargement in 1974 the Heroes’ Cemetery in Jakarta is now the largest in Indonesia, covering an area of 23 hectares and providing space for 15 000 graves. Moreover, Kalibata became one of the most important ritual sites for Indonesian hero worship when President Soeharto declared it to be the ‘National Hero Cemetery’ (Keputusan 1976: 310). The erection of the memorial for the ‘unknown hero’ (Pahlawan tak dikenal) further emphasised this position, (see later). According to the history of the independence struggle one can distinguish various groups of persons entitled to a burial in one of these large heroes’ cemeteries. First, there are all the independence fighters killed in action. They were either members of regular army units or belonged to one of the many militias (lasykar rakyat), which carried the main burden of combat. Besides military merit, excellence in civilian fields could serve as justification for an honourable burial. Many of these posthumously received the title of a ‘pioneer of independence’ (perintis kemerdekaan), which was combined with the award of the Guerrilla Medal (Bintang Gerilya). The details of the criteria were meticulously defined in the many decrees issued during the 1950s and early 60s.


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A second group comprises those Indonesian citizens who were involved in military actions or excelled in the political or social field, but died some time after the war of independence. These people had usually been members of the national veterans’ organisation. As they had also usually received at least one Bintang Gerilya, they had an automatic claim to burial in a TMP. That is the main reason why there are still funerals taking place at these cemeteries and the number of graves is growing. Besides these pemuda fighters, another important set of historic persons exists. Indonesian governments have built up a national ‘pantheon’ of more than 100 carefully chosen ‘National Heroes’ (Pahlawan Nasional) over the past 40 years.3 Both Soekarno and Soeharto selected and honoured famous figures in the history of Indonesian societies from the 17th century to the most recent past, side by side with less prominent persons of the independence struggle.4 Soekarno’s various decrees (see Schreiner 1995: Appendix) elaborated the criteria for eligibility to the pantheon. Although the wording is not always clear, one can gather the main stipulations: the potential hero must have excelled in military or civilian activities. Unless he met his death in combat, he must be able to prove an untarnished record in his later life, including unquestionable loyalty to the ruling regime. Interestingly, death is not a prerequisite for becoming a hero. However, until today no Indonesian has received the title Pahlawan Nasional during his or her lifetime. It was not by chance that the beginnings of formalised hero veneration coincided with the establishment of Guided Democracy. Presenting outstanding persons from the past as models for individual commitment and as objects of collective identification were the means Soekarno chose to support his concepts of NASAKOM and gotong-royong. He selected his heroes from the immediate past of the young republic. Most of them had lived in the first half of the 20th century, although there are figures from the 19th century, such as Pakubuwono VI, who do not fit the historical frame of reference. They fought as early regional anticolonial resistance leaders, belonged to the nationalist movement of the first half of the 20th century, or somehow became famous during the war of independence. Thus the historical linkage between their individual biographies and the history of independent Indonesia is clearly perceptible. Their political struggle and their military engagement in one way or another contributed to the achievement of independence. Historically, they were the progenitors of the independent Indonesia. Soeharto continued the practice of hero declarations. However, the source of legitimisation for all Indonesian politicians, the independence struggle, had already been occupied by his predecessor. Therefore, founding a new order meant for him finding new heroes. Consequently he avoided the figures of the very recent past and turned to more distant history. He bypassed those prominent in the nascent national movement and went back to the leaders of regional anticolonial revolts such as Diponegoro, Imam


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Bonjol and Antasari. In comparison to the pantheon created by Soekarno, Soeharto’s selection resulted in a much greater heterogeneity concerning regional origin and historical context. We can find Sultan Agung next to Marta Tiahahu and Ibu Tien Soeharto among the heroes of the New Order period. It is nevertheless notable that Soeharto’s selection stressed the regional and ethnic balance within the pantheon, thus evening out the Javanese predominance of Soekarno’s pantheon. In retrospect one can recognise a certain intersection in the late 1970s. Since that time hero decrees have occurred only sporadically, although the governments of B.J. Habibie and Abdurrahman Wahid continued to issue such hero decrees. No distinctive pattern is detectable concerning the burials and the graves’ locations of the officially decreed heroes. The historic figures from earlier centuries were buried according to the prevailing circumstances. Diponegoro, Cut Nyak Dien and Imam Bonjol, for example, were interred at their respective places of exile; Sultan Agung was the first ruler to be buried at Imogiri, which later became the central mausoleum for the dynasty of Yogyakarta. Depending on the charisma of the dead, these graves have attracted visitors and worshippers ever since. Some burial sites of wellknown historic figures such as Kartini, Diponegoro or Imam Bonjol exerted such an attraction that they became places of regular pilgrimages. Many people visited them as magic or sacred places (tempat kramat) well before these figures received official recognition as national heroes. The graves of long-established heroes generally did not serve as locations for state rituals; they were visited only by individuals or small groups of worshippers. For example, people of Minangkabau (Sumatran) descent regularly gather for prayer at Imam Bonjol’s exile grave near Manado (North Sulawesi) during the fasting month of Ramadan. I know of no case where the Soeharto government has attempted to move such a well-established site to an official heroes’ cemetery. One obvious reason is the supposed magic character of these places, which even the government respects. Another is that the ritual significance these ‘old heroes’ can claim is only secondary compared to the primary role the martyrs of Lubang Buaya have as the progenitors of the New Order. Another conspicuous example is the mausoleum for Soekarno at Blitar (see later). Rather than attempting to examine the entire pantheon, I focus on three case studies of the New Order period to explain my point: a monument, a heroes’ cemetery and a particular person. Before elaborating these examples, I will deal with the ritual dimension of ‘national ancestor’ worship. RITUALS AND ANCESTORS Rituals5 The Indonesian public has visited the graves and cemeteries of their dead since the first years of the Republic. The anniversary of the Battle of


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Surabaya on 10 November 1945, when pemuda and militias fought against British troops of the Allied Forces (see Frederick 1988), initially served only as the commemoration of this single event. In 1957, however, when Soekarno began to establish the entire system of hero veneration, the anniversary of the Surabaya battle became a national holiday to commemorate the souls of all Indonesian heroes (peringatan arwah para pahlawan). Until today, 10 November is observed all over the archipelago as one of the most sacred political holidays in Indonesia. During the early years private activities dominated the ceremonies on Heroes’ Day. While Soekarno established the formal system of declaring heroes, he started to influence hero worship too by centralising its ritual dimension. He developed an intricate set of rituals and activities to honour these political forebears, so as to enhance the legitimacy of his regime. The sudden transfer of power in 1966, however, did not result in a significant change of the policy concerning heroes. Soeharto proved to be a faithful successor in that respect; he changed the ideological content but left the original ritual setup of Heroes’ Day untouched. Nevertheless, the new government introduced some more streamlined and modernised activities. Comparing Guided Democracy’s ceremonials6 with those of the New Order one can see a growth in variety, as the new regime adapted the ritual forms to the changes in Indonesian society. Medals, prizes and money became an increasingly common means to attract popular participation. The results were commercialised competitions and public merry-making. Material rewards of the New Order pembangunan strategy replaced enthusiasm (semangat), the characteristic feature of Guided Democracy rituals (see Schreiner 1997: 275–81). The ceremonies described below, with their highly formal and repetitive character, are an integral part of state worship. Participation was usually obligatory. A roll-call of honour (apel kehormatan) is usually conducted in connection with quiet reflection (renungan suci), the raising of the flag (apel/upacara bendera), the observance of a moment of silence (mengheningkan cipta), pilgrimage to the heroes’ cemetery (ziarah ke Taman Makam Pahlawan), reburial or transfer of the hero’s bones (pemakaman kembali or pemindahan kerangka pahlawan), including the rite of repurification of the bones (penyucian kembali) and a ritual communal meal (selametan). These last two deserve special attention, as they are directly linked to the potent dead in the national arena. The roll-call of honour (apel kehormatan) opens the ceremonial cycle of Heroes’ Day. It takes place at the heroes’ cemeteries at midnight. In Javanese popular belief the hours after midnight are the most appropriate and potent for visits to graves and tombs of important dead (Fox 1991: 20). Units of the armed forces, groups of workers, civil servants, employees, boy scouts and other civilians usually attend the ceremony. Torches illuminate the scene, creating a solemn and emotive atmosphere. Hoisting the national flag, Sang Merah Putih, belongs to the core of the ceremony,


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followed by a short address from the event’s ceremonial leader. A comparison with contemporary accounts shows that the arrangements have not changed significantly over the years. The observance of silence (mengheningkan cipta) is another central ceremony of Hari Pahlawan, intended to create a sense of unity. In 1958, for example, President Soekarno spent Heroes’ Day in Ambon in order to revitalise the fervour of the West Irian campaign. He presided over the festivities and gave the signal to start the observance of silence by way of a nationwide broadcast. A singing of the national anthem concluded the ceremony. The entire Indonesian population was united in listening to the national transmission of the presidential address. Jointly observing the silence and singing the anthem turned the nation into a worshipping congregation. In later years Indonesians have observed the ceremonial without significant alterations, except for some differences in duration. Sometimes the authorities have organised the observance of silence in a more elaborate and strict manner, with police stopping the traffic on the main roads, urging the public to observe the ritual. All employees in offices of the government and private enterprises—with a few exceptions in emergency services—as well as the public in general were obliged to comply with the ordinance. A government speaker pointed out that the nationwide observance of state rituals had to be considered as a training in national discipline and loyalty in which the entire population should participate (Pelita, 5–11–1985). The principal political goal is the creation of national unity. It is achieved through popular participation which in turn is a result of the implementation of state authority. While roll-call and the observance of silence are not attached to particular locations, the pilgrimage and the reburial are inseparably linked to the sacred site of a heroes’ cemetery. The essence of these ceremonies is the joint visitation (ziarah) of these sacred places by government and army representatives. During the years of Guided Democracy, Soekarno rarely missed these opportunities to deliver one of his well-known speeches. The places for such performances were chosen for political and propagandistic reasons and intentions. Soeharto, whose charisma and rhetoric were much less impressive than Soekarno’s, used Heroes’ Day ceremonials for demonstrative public appearances inaugurating, for example, memorials for deceased heroes. In doing so he succeeded in publicly placing himself into the legitimising tradition, by diligently observing the prescribed rituals. In 1969 he unveiled a memorial statue for the late Lt. Gen. Pandjaitan; in 1970 he inaugurated five monuments in Surabaya at places with particular significance during the ‘Battle of Surabaya’ (10 November); in 1974 he used Heroes’ Day to celebrate the inauguration of the highly symbolic memorial for the ‘unknown hero’ at Kalibata. During the period of the transfer of power through 1965/66, the rhetorical features of Soekarno’s speeches faded away and the formalised ritual character of the ceremonies became more important. The addresses


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given by the New Order regime on these occasions showed unvarying content, differing only in their wording. The speeches usually retold the history of Heroes’ Day and recounted the merits and the sacrifices of the fallen heroes. Moreover, the speakers appealed to all citizens to follow the examples given by the heroes who had devoted themselves to the common cause. Speeches were usually delivered by governors or bupati (district heads). Central events in Jakarta were often led by ministers or by the President himself. Other parts of the ceremony underline the liturgical character of such services. In addition to reciting prayers, there may be readings from liturgical texts such as the Pancasila, the preamble of the Constitution, the words of the Declaration of Independence on 17 August, and a certain text that is considered to be the legacy of Gen. A. Yani, who was killed on 1 October 1965 (see below). The whole ceremony is called ziarah, an Arabic word meaning ‘pilgrimage’ or ‘visit to a holy place’. The various influences and concepts produce a syncretic cult of the heroes, reflecting the broad cultural variety in Indonesia. The concept of sacrifice and martyrdom strongly resembles the Islamic concept of syuhada (martyrdom) and refers to most of the fallen independence fighters during the years 1945–49. The regular visits to graves and cemeteries are not only rooted in the Javanese tradition of nyekar (Koentjaraningrat 1989: 345, 365–6), but might according to Mertoyoso (1981) also hint at remnants of ceremonies to venerate the Emperor, which the Japanese military administration introduced during their occupation. He explains the origins of the observance of silence in similar terms. A Western, Christian influence may be detected in the custom of laying out hero cemeteries. Autochthonous concepts and traditional religious beliefs and practices are perceivable in the customs of reburial as a variety of secondary burials, in the erection of monuments (tugu), in activities such as visitations of graves and holy sites around midnight, the holding of selametan and performing rites to achieve ritual purity. The multiform ritual elements aim at attracting as many people and groups within Indonesian society as possible. Reburials Reburials are the solemn relocation of deceased persons’ bones. From the very beginning, reburials constituted an integral element of ritual activities carried out around heroes’ day. The inauguration of the new heroes’ cemetery at Kalibata was celebrated by transferring some independence fighters’ mortal remains from Ancol to the new location (Figure 13.1). After the installation of official cemeteries, state authorities constantly tried to unite the scattered graves of the many fallen fighters who had been only hastily interred during the fighting. The reinterment of independence fighters’ mortal remains is usually performed on the occasion of Heroes’ Day, though there are exceptions.


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Figure 13.1 Monumen Pancasila at Taman Makam Pahlawan Nasional (below the Garuda, the tomb of the ‘unknown hero’) ©Klaus H. Schreiner 1996

Prosaic necessities (road repairs, opening industrial areas etc.) frequently offer an opportunity to accomplish a grave’s removal. However, the authorities in charge, district heads or officers of the Ministry for Social Affairs, sometimes tended to turn the opening of a grave into a political manifestation by staging a solemn ceremony. In most instances a large number of remains were jointly reburied. The numbers of the dead concerned could vary between a few and some hundreds. There are only few cases of single reinterments, which then normally involved the remains of a more famous person.


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The bones are escorted to the new grave and interred to the recitation of suras of the Holy Koran and prayers. If the ceremony of reburial needs more time, the coffin is taken to the town hall of the respective city, where it remains overnight in the custody of a guard of honour, while believers recite texts from the Koran and pronounce the shahada (Islamic creed). The following morning the military guard of honour escorts the coffin to the heroes’ cemetery, sometimes accompanied by the local population. High-ranking politicians, military officers, representatives of various paramilitary units and, in some cases, relatives of the deceased attend the ceremony. If the names of the reburied fighters have been identified, a representative of the veterans’ association usually addresses the audience, stressing the merits and exemplary deeds and the obligation which the young generation should derive from the sacrifices of their forebears. The presence of other than Islamic religious elements is reported only for the big ceremonies on Heroes’ Day. But this fact does not rule out the participation of Christian ministers or other religious communities’ representatives. The execution of two auxiliary rituals still enhances the religious character of such reburials. Many accounts emphasise the fact that the organisers held a selametan, a communal meal intended to strengthen the social harmony and to avert evil spirits, before they started the exhumation. After rescuing the bones, their ritual purity needed to be re-established by carrying out the rite of penyucian kembali tulang-tulang. Only then could the bones be transferred to the new grave and reinterred. Although such reinterments were common during the 1950s and early 1960s, one finds an increasing frequency of such activities after 1965. This fact indicates not only the growing significance of reburial in the cult; it is also an expression of the general tendency in New Order politics to centralise all political arenas and to dominate the relevant symbols. Many Indonesians have noted the implications of this growing centralisation. Local communities perceive the removal of a venerated grave as the severe loss of a potent symbol. Though officially intended to strengthen the region’s ties with the centre, the transfer of a grave often results in the population’s increasing indifference towards the holiday. A complementary aspect of centralisation is the extension of control over all aspects of political life. Spontaneous participation and private initiative are increasingly less appreciated and replaced by demands for an orderly observance of prescribed ceremonies. Observing New Order rituals of Proclamation Day and comparing them to the practice under Soekarno, Sekimoto (1990) notes a change from ‘the rituals of a fighting community to state rituals’ (1990: 72) as the ‘rituals of the society’ have become the ‘rituals of the state’. This change is marked by a ‘transition from the mass ceremonies of the Soekarno period to the more strongly state-regulated ceremonies of the present system’ (1990: 62). Discussing the emergence and meaning of the term ‘upacara’ as a translation for ‘ritual’, Pemberton corroborates


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this observation: ‘The emergence of upacara thus signaled a certain shift in knowledge/power formation, a shift from local sites and practises disclosing empowered specifics to the authority of a singular logic that claims diversity while arranging its subjects as variously constituted instances of uniform types’ (1994: 193). This change in ritual presents just another aspect of the increasingly centralised and uniform tendencies of New Order politics. Reburials (pemakaman kembali) represent that type of hero worship that most strongly resembles the distinctive ritual activity of ancestor worship. It is best understood in the framework of secondary burials, which form a common practice in a number of Indonesian societies. Secondary burials are part of the ritual by which a community ritually upgrades its deceased. This specific form of secondary burial integrates the fallen independence fighters into the national worship performed on Heroes’ Day. Reburials aim at strengthening the ritual position of a deceased by transferring his or her remains to a site of higher and more appropriate dignity. This goal can be achieved only if the intended location is already ritually prominent and generally acknowledged as a ‘sacred’ site. Therefore, only a heroes’ cemetery or a specially designed memorial can secure the efficacy of such a reburial. The reburial of a meritorious person or even a decreed hero in the heroes’ cemetery appears to be seen as an act not only of piety but also of political decency. Newspaper reports note regretfully that national heroes are not yet reburied on central ‘sites of memory’, to use the term of Pierre Nora (1984). For example, it was noted in 1986 that the family of the prewar Sumatran poet, Amir Hamzah, still refused the reburial of his remains at one of the TMP. The same source complained that 3000 ‘heroes’ in North Sumatra were still buried outside a TMP (Merdeka, 8/11/1986). I know only of one official ‘Pahlawan Nasional’, Dr W.Z. Yohannes, a leading member of the Parkindo from Rote, who was transferred to a TMP after being officially canonised in 1978 (Purdy 1984: 339). Nevertheless, it is always a sensitive political issue that can stir up public debate. A prominent case was the last will of former vice-president Mohammad Hatta. He asked in his testament to be buried at Tanah Kusir, one of Jakarta’s many public cemeteries, rather than at Kalibata’s Hero Cemetery. The Soeharto government reluctantly bowed to the last will of one of its at that time most authoritative critics. In an attempt to compensate for this moral defeat, Soeharto commissioned a huge tomb to be erected on the occasion of Hatta’s 80th birthday. Arching over the originally modest grave, it was designed to resemble Soekarno’s grave at Blitar (Sinar Pagi, 14/8/1981). Obviously the regime posthumously sought to become Hatta’s legitimate descendant by organising a burial deemed proper and decent for the former vice-president and coproclaimer of independence.


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ANCESTORS Ancestor worship, as one way to communicate with deceased members of the community, is a characteristic feature of the religious practice of many traditional societies, not only in Indonesia. Such forms of communication and veneration do occur in modern societies too, as Kearl and Rinaldi (1983) have argued. Speaking about the veneration of a certain community’s forebears, one has to distinguish the treatment of the deceased from the worship of ancestors. The first term includes ‘all concepts, actions and forms of behaviour pertaining to death and the particular dead’ (Stöhr 1965: 187). Every deceased is entitled to these ‘mortuary rituals’, according to the manner of death he or she suffered. In contradistinction to this earthly dimension, ancestor worship refers to the transcendent aspects of the relation between the dead and the living. Although the survivors will treat and honour every deceased member of their community, they will not automatically worship the relative as an ancestor. The most important stipulations to achieve this status are a proper burial and the continuing presence of the descendants (see Newell 1976: 19). Ritual correctness often demands a second burial or an equivalent ceremony. The Batak in North Sumatra present a striking example for this first provision. Disinterment and reburial of a person’s bones indicate the elevation of a deceased’s soul (begu) to the state of an ancestor (sumangot). The descendants place their forebear’s bones into a specially erected and highly decorated tomb (tugu) to visualise his or her new status (Schreiner 1972: 236).7 The second prerequisite is the existence of descendants. The deceased’s moral character or decent behaviour during his or her lifetime is of only minor relevance. Fortes (1976: 16), similar to Newell (1976: 20) and Palmisano (1988), notes that ‘If he [the deceased] leaves the right descendants, he must be worshipped, even if he is lacking in moral virtue, though he will be more desultorily attended perhaps than an upright person would be’.8 It is the existence of descendants who are both capable and entitled to perform the prescribed rituals that define a deceased’s status as an ancestor. While Fortes (1976) names them ‘identified, responsible descendants’, Palmisano (1988: 420) even stipulates the existence of a ‘legitimate descendant’: ‘Thus it [ancestor worship] differs from mere veneration of the deceased, because the ancestors receive recognition from descendants that are legitimate and designated as such. The absence of legitimate descendants . . . is preventing a person from becoming an object of ancestor worship’ because there must be ‘someone who is living to identify and to worship him’ (Newell 1976: 20). Palmisano’s conclusion refers to two modes of interaction with the dead. One can speak of ancestor worship only if one can identify legitimate performers of the prescribed rituals. A relation of mutual dependence exists between descendant and ancestor. An ancestor without legitimate heirs is


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no ancestor. But what is more important, a descendant without ancestors does not possess legitimacy. In this respect, Stöhr’s observation about the origins of a genealogical connection is noteworthy. He states that it does not have a particular significance whether or not the lineage of common descent an ethnic group bases its identity on is factual or fictitious (Stöhr 1965: 193). Thus it is possible to become a legitimate heir and descendant of a venerable and powerful ancestor by construing or inventing this necessary genealogical linkage by means of, for example, genealogical literature, as did the the Balinese dynasty of Mengwi with the Babad Mengwi (History of Mengwi) (Schulte Nordholt 1994). Ancestor worship is the manifestation of a society’s correlation and solidarity based on the consciousness of common descent. An individual in a social group owes her/his existence to the common progenitor being considered to own the merit of the primordial cosmological event. The conviction about belonging to such a lineage can be effective even though the supposed genealogical correlation is not factual but is only an ‘imagined community’, to borrow Benedict Anderson’s term. Two features of ancestor worship seem to be most significant in the context of hero worship: the legitimising function of the performance of rituals, and the reburial of venerable people’s mortal remains. There is also an unconditional reciprocity between the legitimacy of the descendant and the ritual’s efficacy. If the heir is legitimate the rituals will be effective in the desired way. If somebody is capable of carrying out the rituals in the prescribed and efficient manner, he will prove his claim on the ancestors’ legitimacy. By elaborating an intricate agenda of commemorative activities, both the Guided Democracy and the New Order governments substantiated—in different ways and to a different degree—their respective claims to being the legitimate heir. By successfully establishing this link, they were able to utilise the independence fighters’ legitimacy for their own political aims. Soekarno pretended to continue the Indonesian Revolution, whereas Soeharto claimed to complete the independence struggle successfully by achieving the ‘Era of Development’ (era pembangunan). Cases: Lubang Buaya—Founding a New Order Two groups of deceased persons belong to the most potent dead in recent Indonesian history. Only one of them enjoys official worship, whereas the other is being politically utilised in a completely different way. The first group includes the seven military men who were murdered in the early morning hours of 1 October 1965.9 The other group consists of hundreds of thousands of Indonesians killed for their (alleged) involvement in or attachment to the Communist movement. The traumatic experience of these mass killings functions as a menacing ordeal until the present day. Before those six generals and one aide-de-camp could become the founding fathers or ‘saints’ of a new order in Indonesia, Soekarno and


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Figure 13.2 Monument Pancasila Sakti, Jakarta, Lubang Buaya: a giant Garuda overshadows the statues of seven slain generals © Klaus H. Schreiner, 1996

the ascending Soeharto had to struggle for the enormous symbolic potency of the generals’ death. At first Soekarno attempted to salvage his powers and to refute any suspicion of being involved or even having masterminded the plot. In an effort to strengthen his position, he claimed the dead soldiers to be martyrs of the Indonesian Revolution, of which he was the Great Leader. On the eve of their funerals Soekarno hastily issued the decree awarding the victims the title ‘Pahlawan Revolusi’ and thus circumventing,


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as he often did, the lengthy bureaucratic process of screening and selecting national heroes. However, his rhetoric of Guided Democracy claiming Yani and the others for his and the revolution’s cause did not succeed in convincing his enemies within the army. Soeharto continued to strengthen his power base within the armed forces and was soon able to wrest the crucial executive powers from the ailing president. At a time when Soekarno officially still held his position as President and commander of the armed forces, Soeharto had already begun to exploit the murdered generals for his purposes. In 1966 he commissioned a memorial to be erected on the exact spot where the victims had been found dumped in a well. Lubang Buaya (crocodile hole) became the sanctuary of the New Order. The memorial initially consisted of only three main elements. There is a spacious plaza to hold ceremonies (lapangan upacara). Not far from the square a memorial features giant statues of seven soldiers overshadowed by a huge Garuda (Figure 13.2). A bas-relief visualising the story of the events leading up to the actual murder covers the massive pentagonal pedestal, itself a symbol for Pancasila’s invincible strength (Leclerc 1997). A few metres away from this ‘Monument of the Seven Heroes’ (Monumen Tujuh Pahlawan) one finds a modest structure resembling a Javanese pendopo. At its centre there is a simple hole in the ground, the famous well. Some time after the official opening of the monument two educational elements were added. A life-sized diorama is now located close to the well, plainly depicting the generals being tortured and humiliated by Communist youths, despite the official autopsy report which asserts that no traces of torture or maltreatment could be found on the corpses of the soldiers (Anderson 1987). The false accounts of torture and sexual orgies were an important element in the mythologisation of Lubang Buaya (Leclerc 1997: 295–303). Finally, a museum about the ‘Treason of the Communist Party’ (Museum Pengkhianatan PKI [Kommunis]) displays and explains the official interpretation of Indonesian history since Madiun 1948 (Cohen 1991). From the second anniversary of the bloody events in 1967, Soeharto and representatives of the New Order annually performed the rituals of the ‘Remembrance Day of Pancasila’s Spiritual Power’ (Hari Peringatan Kesaktian Pancasila) to commemorate the birth of the New Order (see Purdy 1984: 230). The rituals performed were simple. They mainly consisted of the recitation of the ideologically most important texts of the New Order: the Pancasila itself, the preamble of the Constitution of 1945, and the ‘oath of resoluteness to defend the Pancasila and carry it out with devotion’ (Berita Yudha, 2/10/1969). In 1996 the only change was more in terms than in substance, in that the ‘oath of resoluteness’ was replaced by the ‘oath of allegiance’ (Media Indonesia, 2/10/1996). The rituals remain unchanged; the same words and sentences were repeated like a mantra. Though the ceremonial itself appeared to be rather unpretentious, it gained ritual importance, as Purdy notes in her analysis of


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this memorial day. Over the years of the New Order an increasing number of government functionaries and high-ranking generals took part in the event. The authorities commanded representatives of an expanding spectrum of societal groups (parties, scouts, women’s and veterans’ associations etc.) to participate in the ceremony at Kalibata (Purdy 1984: 239). The fall of Soeharto brought about a significant change. While his immediate successor B.J. Habibie still attended the ceremony in 1998, the newly elected President Abdurrahman Wahid refused to go to Lubang Buaya on 1 October 1999. However, Vice President Megawati Sukarnoputri payed her homage to the dead generals in an assessment of the prevailing power relations in post-Soeharto Indonesia. The ‘Monument for the Seven Heroes’ had a twofold purpose according to the double role the soldiers played in history. On the one hand Yani and his comrades were a sacrifice that had to be made to salvage the foundation of the state, the Pancasila. They heroically gave their life for the common cause. Thus the monument was a constant reminder of the threat originating from Communism and of the strength and invincibility of Pancasila. The annually shown film ‘Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI’ directed by Arifin C. Noer was probably a more efficient medium for popular reception. The incantation of the Communist danger (bahaya komunis), however, has deeply influenced the consciousness of a whole generation of Indonesian politicians that cannot easily be changed again. Abdurrahman Wahid’s move in early 2000 to have the ban on Communism lifted provoked a fierce public debate over whether Communism was still to be considered a menace to national security and unity. The meaningfulness of the generals’ sacrifice does not end, though, with the salvation of Pancasila from the chaos of the Old Order. They are actually considered to be the progenitors of a new order, as they are the acting ancestors in the New Order’s myth of origin, as Leclerc (1991) rightly notes. The ‘Monument of the Seven Heroes’ represents the foundation of the New Order. Moreover, it is erected on the very site of the mythologised events of 1 October. As such it necessarily becomes the theatre of a newly conceived ritual that is indispensable for maintaining and strengthening the new authority (see Kertzer 1983: 63). KALIBATA: SEIZING SYMBOLS On the inauguration of the ‘Monument of the Unknown Hero’ an extraordinary reburial was carried out at the Kalibata Heroes’ Cemetery on 10 November 1974. President Soeharto and many of his high-ranking officials attended the central activity of that year’s Heroes’ Day ceremonial. The core event of the inauguration was the re-entombment of the remains of an anonymous pemuda fighter. He had been killed on the first day of the Battle of Surabaya and consequently buried in a cemetery in the East Javanese capital. After 30 years, the relics were now exhumed and a military guard of


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honour escorted them to Jakarta. The committee had the coffin placed on a bier in the parliament building to provide an opportunity for the population to pay their homage. On the next day the guard convoyed the coffin in a procession to the memorial, where civil and military authorities entombed it in the prepared sepulchre underneath the memorial’s five rectangular concrete pillars of different height, symbolising Pancasila’s five principles. The reburial of a deceased person’s remains has, as I pointed out, a high symbolic value. The interment of the bones creates a direct relation between their place of origin and their place of destination. In Europe, Christian theology developed from the original idea that death rituals can be performed exclusively at the locale where death occurred into the concept of the ‘translation of relics’. The presence of a saint’s relics facilitates her/his ubiquity for ritual purposes. Now the believers could worship the saint wherever there were relics. Examining Soviet war memorials, Kämpfer (1994: 337) concludes that a similar conceptual change resulted in the erection of memorials to the ‘unknown soldier’: beyond the actual theatres of war, they enabled the public to worship and pay homage to the war victims. Although unlike European war memorials, which are empty, the monument at Kalibata combines in a unique manner elements of a secondary burial with those of a translation of relics. The memorial of the unknown hero serves simultaneously as an ancestral tugu and as a reliquary. A clear instance for such a translation of a relic took place in Solo: soil from the grave in Ambon of Slamet Riyadi, who fell there commanding the troops against the secessionist Republik Maluku Selatan in 1950, was brought to his native town Solo and buried at the local TMP, (Suara Karya, 23/10/1981). Thus the local population was able to venerate Riyadi at a grave that is actually a reliquary. Riyadi was decreed National Hero in 1960, on the 10th anniversary of the abortive secession of the South Moluccan Republic and on the eve of the militarisation of the West Irian campaign. The monument of Kalibata symbolises and celebrates both the state ideology Pancasila and the Battle of Surabaya. Thereby the Soeharto regime appropriates the legitimate power of the ‘Myth of Surabaya’ as the founding myth of independent Indonesia. Myth has two purposes: to narrate the coming into existence of a society and the story of its forebears, and to present how and why the order of any given society is established. Thus, a myth describes the fundamental beginnings and the normative foundations of a society. The translation of the unknown pemuda fighter’s mortal remains transforms the memorial at Kalibata into the ritual centre of the state cult. The presidential decree formally approved this factual status as the most important centre of New Order civil religion, by declaring Kalibata the national heroes’ cemetery (Keputusan 1976). Thus, the decree established a new ritual hierarchy among the sacred sites, depriving Surabaya and other historic locales of their symbolic power and their ritual significance.


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SOEKARNO: ‘ARWAH LELUHUR’ OR ‘LELEMBUT’? One of the most potent dead in Indonesian history, at least in the 20th century, was the first president of independent Indonesia, Soekarno. He played a crucial part as a leading politician both before and after gaining national sovereignty. He is indisputable as the proclaimer of independence and he formulated the Pancasila as ideological basis of the state. However, these circumstances alone do not explain his continuing role in Indonesian politics well after his death. The decline of the Indonesian state and the circumstances of his overthrow, the so-called Untung coup and his final dismissal in 1967, add to the ambivalence of the late president’s place in history. The Soeharto government considered even the dead Soekarno such a powerful and dangerous symbol that it took 16 years after his death before it permitted the use of his name and portrait in Indonesian public life. The timing is interesting, too, for it was not only carried out exactly 16 years (approximately two windu of Javanese chronology) after the death—it was promulgated after the final adoption of legislation on mass organisations in 1985, which made the government’s authoritative interpretation of the Pancasila the basic principle of all political and social organisations. The formal adoption of these laws was an essential element of the stabilisation of the New Order regime, which now felt secure enough to make some minor concessions to its opponents. Soeharto needed the Pancasila to solidify his claim to power. As it was, however, identified with his predecessor, there was an urgent need for a reinterpretation of the history. The new president therefore commissioned the army historiographer Nugroho Notosusanto to diminish Soekarno’s role in formulating the state ideology by rewriting history. The third notable circumstance refers to the moment when the rehabilitation took place. It occurred half a year before the 1987 general elections, at the same time as the new international airport at Cengkareng was officially named ‘Soekarno-Hatta Airport’. The main move towards Soekarno’s rehabilitation, however, was the formal hero declaration in the same year. Soeharto proceeded very carefully and sought to check his predecessor’s charisma by a simultaneous decree for Soekarno and Mohammad Hatta. Moreover, he did not choose one of the commonly used hero categories but had a new one created. The title Pahlawan Proklamasi could exclusively be awarded to these two persons and only in commemoration of one particular historic event: the dwitunggal Soekarno–Hatta proclaiming Indonesia’s independence. Although this seems at first sight to be a plausible measure, a closer look at Soeharto’s moves can reveal the underlying political objectives. Soekarno was honoured, as decreed, only for his merits on 17 August 1945. Neither his political activities within the nationalist movement of the 1920s and 1930s nor his political career in independent Indonesia, let alone his famous Pancasila speech, were acknowledged. This was clearly an effort to locate him, together with Hatta, at a fixed and narrowly defined point in


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the past and to limit his historical role. Integration into the pantheon also meant exerting control. Thus, once the symbol was firmly under state authority, public veneration of Soekarno—with Hatta as historical ‘watchdog’—was permissible. The mausoleum erected in Blitar for the late Soekarno opens yet another perspective on Soeharto’s strategy. In the first place, Soeharto rejected Soekarno’s last will to be buried in Bogor, close to the presidential palace and thus close to the centre of power in Jakarta. The tomb in Blitar, originally just a modest grave for Soekarno’s parents, was consequently expanded into a huge construction that nowadays attracts thousands of pilgrims every day (see Lindsey 1993). It is also striking that the government itself started to perform annual ziarah ceremonies to Soekarno’s mausoleum on the date of his proclamation as Pahlawan Proklamasi (Kedaulatan Rakyat, 13/11/1986). The then chairman of the parliament, Kharis Suhud, but not Soeharto himself, led the first delegation from Jakarta to pay his respects at Blitar. Thus the regime in Jakarta succeeded in incorporating the unofficial cult that had developed around the grave over the years into the accepted frame of state rituals. Soekarno’s followers were satisfied that their cult was finally accepted. On the other hand, Soeharto could present himself as the loyal and pious descendant of the Republic’s founder that he had always claimed to be. As he could not bypass Soekarno, either politically or ritually, Soeharto always stressed his recognition of his predecessor and defined his role towards him—in accordance with Javanese tradition—as a son towards his father. This may have been all the more necessary because the way he wrested power from Soekarno is an issue of open controversy. Soeharto always claimed that he seized power in accordance with the constitution. It is, however, well known, particularly after a public debate on the issue in early 1997, that the members of the MPRS refusing Soekarno’s justification and finally electing Soeharto as acting president were carefully chosen by Soeharto himself. The reproach of unconstitutional actions has always been a sensitive issue for Soeharto’s rule and was always perceived as an attack against ‘national stability’. As Soekarno’s historical role was reduced to the proclamation of independence and the following war, Soeharto could easily identify himself with his predecessor’s merits. In so doing he could enhance his prestige, especially in the eyes of the Javanese electorate and those of the Soekarno followers, and thus try to win their votes in the general elections of 1987. Even today Soekarno figures as an ambivalent and potent symbol in the political process in Indonesia. A rallying point for opposition groups and potential menace to the present regime, he figures as a lelembut, a malevolent ghost haunting the living as long as he is not properly treated by them. The rehabilitation and incorporation into the official pantheon was an effort to still and satisfy this ancestor so that he could become an benign ancestral spirit (arwah leluhur).


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CONCLUSION In the various modes by which Indonesians commemorate their dead, one can distinguish two phases of memorial activities. In the very first years of independent Indonesia it was a popular practice to remember and to venerate the fallen of the independence war. These activities did not depend on a particular place, for the graves of the deceased were in nearly every local community. Every grave and every monument, erected to recall a certain person or event, conveyed its specific message as representation of the common cause. Though not relics in the proper sense, as they did not represent a part of an entity, the graves fulfilled the function of reliquaries. Every tomb symbolically represented one element of the common tradition. Thus the graves had the innate capability to link the local community’s memory and memorial activities to the national sphere. By establishing Guided Democracy, Soekarno began to exert a stronger influence on the commemorative activities. His main objective was not, however, to dominate the private sphere of commemoration, but to push forward national unification by installing a new set of symbols. The inclusion of soldiers fallen in the struggle against the Darul Islam movement, for example in Southeast Sulawesi (Terbit, 10/7/1981), and the veneration for Slamet Riyadi (see above) show the importance placed on national unity, though it has to be admitted that since Riyadi no-one who became prominent in crushing one of the later secessionist movements has yet been included in the national pantheon. The heroes’ pantheon recalled the past and presented it anew in contemporary circumstances as the personification of Soekarno’s NASAKOM doctrine. Assmann explained this process very clearly: ‘A community ensures itself of its identity in a recollection of their dead. The commitment to certain names [of the deceased] always comprises a profession of a certain socio-political identity’ (1997: 63). Soekarno attempted to ascribe a binding character to his personal choice of historic persons to embody his political program for Indonesia. He tried to prevent the remembrance of important people from eventually fading away and to integrate them into daily political life. What is valid for the pantheon on a national level is also true for the local sphere. As Soekarno’s memorial policies stressed the participatory aspects, the many reburials taking place in the 1950s should be considered mainly in their ritual implications rather than their political consequences. Reburials were necessary steps to upgrade the ritual status of the hastily buried fighters. Consequently a second burial was inevitable to guarantee the ritually proper entombment at a specially designated place. A reburial was the appropriate measure for promoting the dead to their deserved status as worshipped ancestors. Although the memorial activities of the Soeharto era phenomenologically resembled those of the preceding era, the political objectives were quite


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different. As I illustrated in the case studies, Soeharto aimed to dominate the powerful symbols. He succeeded at Lubang Buaya and at Kalibata. In the former case the symbols were essential for founding the New Order, in the latter for reinforcing the claim to the tradition that preceded it. At Lubang Buaya he established a new sanctuary at the very site where the mythologised events took place. In Kalibata the New Order took possession of the symbols of the independence struggle’s decentralised and participatory aspects and incorporated their innate legitimacy. The inauguration of the Monument of the Unknown Hero in 1974 demonstrated on a symbolic level what had already been achieved in the political sphere: the completion of the New Order’s consolidation. The symbols that originally stood for the revolutionary period and his outstanding protagonist Soekarno were finally usurped by the new ruler. Soeharto made a last move to reaffirm his historical linkage to the revolutionary period by erecting the ‘Monumen Yogya Kembali’ at Yogyakarta on the 40th anniversary of the Republican attack on Dutchoccupied Yogyakarta on 1 March 1949. This is the only documented event during the independence war in which Soeharto played a remotely prominent role as one of the unit leaders. Jan Assmann has rightly noted that veneration of the dead—and, it may be added here, ancestor worship in particular—occupies a central place in a ‘culture of remembering’. In addition, he argues that the remembrance of the dead in a paradigmatic way represents a mode of memory that creates a sense of community (Assmann 1997: 63). Hero worship as a means of politics is rooted in the fields of historical consciousness, religious practices and political legitimisation. It belongs to the sphere of history because it deals with historical persons and their function as meaningful objects of identification. The political dimension of hero worship is derived from its function within the government’s endeavour to maintain national unity and to vindicate its rule. The practical forms utilise well-established traditional religious patterns to become politically efficient. Therefore they can be defined as a variant of political religion. Besides these legitimising aspects one has to take into account the constructive aspects of the national rituals. Hero worship is a means to create and to maintain national cohesion. The pantheon is an attempt to hold together the disparate and even centrifugal traditions of Indonesian history. The hero decrees for leading Papuan politicians demonstrate the intended representative character of the pantheon to serve as a ‘family album’ (Taufik Abdullah, pers. comm. 1991) in which the whole nation is portrayed. However far-fetched the links between Sultan Agung and Silas Papare or Frans Kaisiepo may be, the Indonesian nation is constituted not only through the centuries but also across the entire archipelago, by ideologically fitting its parts into the invented frame of common anticolonial experience. Hero worship, with its various features, was construed to provide the Indonesian nation with the necessary ritual forms to reassure itself of its identity and unity by invoking the symbolic potency of its


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political forebears. Under the conditions of authoritarian rule they have proven effective. Since the fall of Soeharto a new political culture has emerged in Indonesia that has to create new symbols and rituals. This new culture must take into account hitherto collectively suppressed events in the recent history to be viable and supportive to a democratic Indonesia.


Notes

Introduction 1

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The official figures of the 1980 census, the last to report the controversial matter of religious affiliation, made the proportions Muslim 88%, Catholic 3%, other Christians 5.8%, Hindu 2% and Buddhist 1%. Sakai (1997b) dwells more precisely on the importance of genealogy in Gumai society. Steedly (1993: 58) draws a totally different picture of Karo Batak society, where people who have died by violence or accident, as well as young dead children and women who died in childbirth, are included among the family dibatas (ancestors) and have special shrines together with persons of the highest status. Surprisingly, Metcalf and Huntington (1991: 74), who review meticulously Hertz’s and Van Gennep’s theories, minimise the repulsion caused by that smell among a Bornean ethnic group. Verheijen (1991: 218–20) insists on the role of ancestors as intercessors between the living and God in Manggarai religion, but this seems likely to reflect Christian influence. Pemberton (1994: 272, 279, 293) mentions sites in Java particularly favoured by thieves (and police alike). He also notes that ‘dedicated largely to nonaccidental coincidence, kramat practices have been converted into a sort of otherworldly lottery with winning lottery numbers themselves being one of the most frequently sought blessings’ (1994: 286). The Indonesian title eventually became Abangan, Santri, Priyayi dalam Masyarakat Jawa. The irony is that the original title was not deemed acceptable in the USA either, as Geertz relates in his recent ‘professional memoir’: ‘I wanted to call the book I wrote about all this Religions in Java. But the publisher, a believer, apparently, in ethnographical kinds, natural labels, and programmed audiences, wouldn’t have it, and it emerged, suitably normalized and against its argument, as The Religion of Java’. (Geertz 1996: 55).

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Chapter 1 – Castrated dead 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

See for instance Stöhr et al. (1981), Barbier (1984), Sumnik-Dekovich (1985), Barbier and Newton (1988), Taylor and Aragon (1991), Feldman (1994), van Brakel et al. (1996); see also Sellato (1995). E.g. Wagner (1960), Bodrogi (1972). P = parent; PP = grandparent; etc. On the Tiger character, its identification, attributes and functions, see Sellato (1983; 1986: 316–20). On death rituals in Borneo, see Stöhr (1959) and a critical review of Stöhr by Harrisson (1962). See Schärer (1966) and Schiller (1987) on the Ngaju, Mallinckrodt (1925) on the Lawangan. For a description of a similar phenomenon in Java, see Guillot and ChambertLoir (1995: 240). For a discussion of headhunting in Indonesia, see e.g. Downs (1955), Needham (1976), Hoskins (1996). For a recent study of Kendayan rituals, see Yohanes (1990).

Chapter 2 – How to hold a tiwah 1

2

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Although the council does have an official mandate, it has limited autonomy and must make some decisions in consultation with the leaders in the provincial office of the Council for Hindu Religion (Parisada Hindu Dharma). At the time it was recognised, MBAHK was known as ‘The Council of Scholars of Indonesian Kaharingan’ (Majelis Alim Ulama Kaharingan Indonesia, or MAUKI). On some maps, the Katingan River is referred to as the Mendawai River. The largest of the Dayak groups found in Central Kalimantan are the Ot Danum, the Ngaju, the Ma'anyan and the Luangan. Attempts to make conclusive claims about the name and number of Dayak groups are problematic, and no real consensus has been reached. Many scholars have found it useful to classify Dayak societies in linguistic terms, with reference to language families rather than broad ethnic classification. Of course, both these schemes are related. (See Hudson 1967 on this topic.) Various written versions of Kaharingan doctrine have been available for some time. The contents are often the subject of disputes. Lately, as part of MBAHK’s efforts at religious regularisation, several versions of the doctrine of Kaharingan have been published. The most recent, released in 1996, entitled Panataran, replaces earlier versions (Simpei, B. & M. Hanyi 1996). The official estimate of the cost of the Petak Putih tiwah was Rp. 74 700 000, then about US$32 500. A lengthy article on the tiwah at Petak Putih appeared in the Indonesian news magazine GATRA in July 1996 (see ‘Menuju Surga di Petak Putih’, GATRA


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2(37): 51–62). A film about the tiwah, entitled ‘Borneo Beyond the Grave’, was made by the National Geographic Society based in Washington, DC, USA. For a discussion of the media coverage of this celebration, see Schiller ‘Talking Heads: Capturing Dayak Deathways on Film’ (2001). Readers interested in extended discussions of these ritual forms are referred to Alfred Hudson’s account of the Padju Epat Ma'anyan (1972), Joseph Weinstock’s essay on the Luangan (1987), and my own monograph on Ngaju deathways (1997b). During tiwah, basir also transport to the upper world the animate essence of the posts (sapundu) to which some varieties of sacrificial animals are tethered. These posts are usually carved to resemble humans, and the ganan sapundu is said to become the deceased’s servant in the Prosperous Village. In the past, some Dayaks also sacrificed captives or slaves for this same purpose. While only humans are considered to possess hambaruan, individual body parts also possess the coarse animate essence called gana. Hence it is as correct to refer to the ganan daha, the animate essence of blood, as it is to speak of the ganan hadangan, the animate essence of a water buffalo. Adherents disagree among themselves on this point. With regard to the fate of panyalumpuk liau, it is usually said that it awaits subsequent treatment in an upperworld village called Lewu Bukit Nalian Lanting Rundung Kerang Naliwu Rahan/Batang Baras Bulau, home of the sangiang Balu Indu Rangkang. With regard to the other souls, some adherents claim that liau karahang tulang waits in the upperworld village Lewu Bukit Pasahan Raung Rundung Kereng Daharin Penda Lunuk Tarung, and liau balawang panjang in Lewu Tinggi Mama Hanyi (Andung 1991). Whether survivors claim that their ancestor’s souls are waiting in the grave or in the upperworld usually depends on their knowledge of eschatology. As one would expect, basir and other Ngaju with religious expertise espouse considerably more elaborate eschatological understandings than lay adherents of Kaharingan. The three souls are said to be escorted on their journey by two sangiang associated with treatment of the dead. Panyalumpuk liau is escorted by the sangiang Rawing Tempun Telun. Liau balawang panjang and liau karahang tulang are escorted by the sangiang Raja Duhung Mama Tandang. The duhung handepang telun is sometimes called the tukang hanteran. This is only one dimension of the meaning of pali. For another, see Schiller 1997b. Tanjung Puting is the location of an orangutan rehabilitation and research centre in the western part of the province. For related discussions of religious regularisation and its implications elsewhere in Indonesia, see also Volkman 1985 and Vickers 1996.

Chapter 3 – Witnessing the creation of ancestors in Laboya 1

For more details on Laboya society, see Geirnaert 1987, 1989, 1992 and 1996.


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From now on, I shall write Uma or ‘House’ when I refer to the social unit and uma when I designate the ‘house’ as a building. I shall not handle violent, accidental ‘hot’ death. For that particular case, see Geirnaert 1989. The video project that lasted from the end of January to mid-April 1996 was sponsored by the Institut Kesenian in Jakarta, by Leiden University and WOTRO in the Netherlands, and by the University of Paris X in France. Their advice had been invaluable at the beginning of my research and before his illness he had kept writing, keeping me informed on the proper date of the yearly rituals that start traditionally the rice planting season in February. In this article, in respect to Mr Hoga Bora and his family, I use real names, in keeping with the visual recording. Lately, the government has fixed the number of animals to be sacrificed to a maximum of five. However, particularly in the case of powerful nobleman, this injunction is not yet followed by the Laboya. The kecamatan of Walakaka consists of Wanokaka, Laboya, Gaura and Rua.

Chapter 4 – Reciprocity, death and the regeneration of life and plants in Nusa Penida *

Spelling in this chapter conforms to the following conventions: • All the Balinese words in the text have been written in italics, (e.g. banten). • Terms peculiar to the Balinese spoken in Nusa Penida have been characterised by the code [NP] (e.g. lenger [NP]). • Local floral terminology is glossed parenthetically in the text with botanical terms in, e.g. ambengan (Imperata cylindrica). • Occasional Indonesian terms such as Pancasila or Camat are in italics.

1

Similar myths are reported in Evans (1953: 15–16), Fox (1993: 78), Jensen and Niggemeyer (1939), Jensen (1948, 1963: 166ff), Boulan (1988: 31ff), Schulte Nordholt (1971: 271). For its importance in the western and central Austronesian context and its relation to other common myths in the same linguistic area, see Ottino (1986: 62ff). For a variation of this myth in which the sacrificial victim is a male burned ancestor, see Friedberg (1989: 552). For other versions of the myth of Dewi Sri, see Sukawati (1924, 1926), Schaareman (1986: 58), Wirtz (1927). Wessing (1990) stresses the Western— Indian—link of Sri through its association with Rama and its epic in Java. However, as the evidence of eastern Indonesia suggests (see note 1), I suspect that the mythological theme of the sacrifice of a young woman and the appearance of plants is older than the Hindu influence in western Indonesia. Due to global warming and the induced climatic changes, the arrival of rain in Nusa Penida is no longer so predictable and the two seasons are not so sharply distinguished by the two equinoxes. However, for the Balinese ritual and festival calendar, the March equinox remains crucial as it is related to the beginning of the new year and its rituals.

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For further details on Maprani, see Giambelli (1995: ch. XIII). On this subject, see Weck (1986) and Hooykaas (1974). For a comparison on the fertilising nature of the ‘rotting fluids of the dead’ who bring life to all animals and plants, in an eastern Indonesian context, see Geirnaert (1989: 447ff). Additionally, at different levels the whole exchange circuit could be equally interpreted as steps in the passage of pramana—the life force—between plants, humans and earth. This, however, was never made explicit to me. The need to replace the bones with some offerings, which included a young banana plant and a live chicken, had already been noted by Mershon (1971: 215) who, however, does not report the name of the ritual or appear to have understood the full extent and significance of the reciprocal exchanges involved in silur bangbang. On these issues, see Bloch and Parry (1982) and Huntington and Metcalf (1979). See for instance the meaning and symbolism associated with rice planting as ‘pitra ketemu’ in Filloux (1991: 351ff). She indicates that in Piling the growth of rice can also be seen as the ‘symbolic impregnation’ of the field by the man acting as farmer. Although at a different level, this relation appears analogous to those found in Nusa Penida concerning the role of Akasa and Pretiwi in the growth of plants and cultigens. Bhatara is a Sanskrit borrowing which, according to Zoetmulder and Robson (1982: 224), refers to great lord, venerable person, gods and great god. The term is usually used before the name of a god, although used alone it may refer to the highest gods, such as Siwa or Buddha. On this issue, see Zoetmulder and Robson (1982: 561). This may be peculiar to Sakti, for in Bali the lustral water of the Pura Dalem has not such an extensive use. In a different context, Guermonprez (1990: 57) had already noticed that Balinese communities should be considered as a partnership between the gods, ancestors and dead villagers.

Chapter 5 – Remembering our dead 1

2

Although, to his credit, Wilcox admitted ‘I could not attempt the full ethnographical account we ought to have. This is just a portrait-sketch, the result of my idle, amateur exploration of their lives and character. The portrait is not very good, but the subject matter is so attractive that I believe it may please even those who have never imagined that happiness might be found off the map or sweetness and light among people whom we—with our atom bombs—still call savages’ (1989 [1949]: 10). Nooy-Palm (1986: 170) indicates that she is reporting (and agreeing with) remarks of Van Wouden from a lecture he delivered in 1948 to the Ethnologenkring.


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For a short, comprehensive background article, see Nooy-Palm (1975); for a historically informed ethnography, see Volkman (1985); and for a good recent overview of the literature, see Adams (1995). The rich historical work of Bigalke (1981) has been indispensable to my understanding of change in the Toraja highlands. For a suggestive account of some ethnolinguistic implications of this orthopraxy, see Koubi (1982b). In relation to siri', it would be interesting to look at what Waterson (1984b) has termed the value of ‘boldness’ (probably berani) in ritual performance. Similarly, in describing a grand 1985 funeral attended by several dignitaries as well as groups of tourists, Volkman suggests that this ‘spectacular performance . . . demonstrated . . . [the sponsoring] family’s willingness to defy the former (aluk) prohibition on lavish funerals for non-nobility, and to ignore a contemporary movement to reduce ritual extravaganzas’—another example of ‘boldness’ (1990: 106–7). And Adams (1995) shows how tourism and anthropology have been appropriated in local competitions over power and prestige. Sandarupa here argues that reproductive fertility is the highest in a hierarchy of desirables. Although claiming a person without children is considered ‘valueless’ seems excessive, I would agree that he, or especially she, is considered ‘incomplete’. Confirming the connection between conceptions of wealth and conceptions of fertility, childlessness elicits disapprobation as well as pity. I have heard people link female infertility to stinginess. Here it may be the fact that a certain kind of wealth can be distributed (and redistributed) that lends it its cultural value. Thus while processions of cars and motorbikes in Ujung Pandang (Waterson 1984b: 64) can express prestige, they do not lend themselves to distributions like pieces of meat or even cups of coffee and cakes. Thus, a further aspect of the role of the dead in the highlands has to do with the possible connection between rates of conversion and shifting levels of material wellbeing. Bigalke (1981: 254) has suggested that there is some evidence to show that when harvests were poor conversion to Christianity declined, due to accusations that the infertility of the land was caused by violations by new Christians of aluk to dolo prohibitions. At first glance this is counterintuitive, because one would expect Christianity to be attractive during times of misfortune. If the correlation mentioned by Bigalke is in fact significant, it shows the strength of the links between conceptions of wealth and spiritual power. One way of rectifying the situation is to contextualise mortuary ritual in the wider cultural context. As Waterson has suggested, ‘most visitors to Toraja (whether tourists or researchers) have been captivated by the funeral rites which punctuate Torajan life in such a spectacular fashion. But I suggest that the significance of these occasions can only be properly understood when viewed within the framework of the pattern of rituals, both of East and West, taken as a whole. It then becomes possible to see that mortuary rites are just one part of a symbolic system which, while it endorses status-seeking in the


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one context, in the other celebrates different principles [of cooperation and community], transcending the limits of social competition’ (1984a: 23). The two forms of dream interpretation are called sapan, literally ‘to dam up’, and bori, literally ‘to block’ (see Hollan & Wellenkamp 1994: 106; Tammu & van der Veen 1972). The separation of death and decay from life and growth is a governing principle, pollution an ever-present risk. In thinking about the meaning of this ritual process that moves spiritual power from one spatiotemporal domain to another, a helpful source is H.M. Nooy-Palm, whose exhaustive account of Torajan rituals of the east and the west includes a full chapter on what she calls ‘conversion rituals’ (or aluk pembalikan, from ma'balik', ‘to turn’). According to Nooy-Palm, the conversion of spiritual power from the ‘sphere of death’ to the ‘sphere of life’ happens as follows: ‘Through the care of his descendants, the deceased, above all if he is of noble birth, is able to achieve a higher status, that of deata . . . The dead becomes a divinity able to pour out his blessings on his offspring, a to mebali puang, someone who has become a lord in the upperworld’ (1986: 152). I take issue here with Hollan (e.g. 1995), and Wellenkamp (e.g. 1991), who say that private, personal meaning is often at odds with public, cultural meaning, without considering the social context in which meaning is expressed. There is reported to be some ambiguity among Toraja people as to whether ma'nene' should be properly considered an East-side or a West-side ritual (see Volkman 1985: 144), but in Kalimbuang it was definitely treated as a ritual of the West or as one in which the ancestors rather than the divine spirits were ‘fed’. As is often the case in situations of religious change, people declared that ma'nene' used to be more lively and elaborated in bygone days. People said that in the past more optional rituals were performed and that they were bigger and better. Refraining from the consumption of rice or fasting is quintessentially associated with death and the dead. In fact, one of the considerations in conversion to Christianity is the giving up of this prohibition; elderly adherents to aluk to dolo often express a strong aversion to eating cooked rice or working in the rice fields in conjunction with mortuary ritual, and some Christians even defer to their aluk to dolo neighbours and avoid rice themselves at times of death. Eggs are associated with chickens, which are linked to the funerals of infants, because at the funeral for such a ‘wilted child’ (pia' malayu) a white chick is let loose at the grave. Sometimes such chicks survive and continue to live near the graves, which are isolated and not very accessible. It is noteworthy that although public sacrifice is spoken about in terms of status and honour (siri'), meeting these requests of the dead is more often discussed in terms of love (pakaboro and kamase) and reciprocity (membalas). This lends support to Waterson (1984a: 31), who claims that ancestral spirits in general are ‘beyond social divisions’, and Volkman (1985: 144), who reports that the cost of a small buffalo sacrificed at ma'nene' is shared evenly by all members of the meat-sharing, labour group.


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This is the same principle behind giving a gift to make amends for an absence (bringing home a gift to a child after leaving the child). I received many requests for possessions that were considered sonda kale (‘substitutes for the self’). Wellenkamp confirms the importance of the viewing of the body, and says ‘it is not clear to me precisely why, from a Toraja perspective, viewing the deceased’s body is important’, suggesting that it has to do with providing ‘a tangible link with the deceased’ (1991: 124–5). This ties in with the importance of holding and the indexicality of the bones (see below). But it is not always the case that seeing the remains is desired, as revealed by one aluk to dolo woman who was afraid to look at the bodily remains (Hollan & Wellenkamp 1996: 177). There is probably ambivalence about seeing the dead: the decay (bossi) is disconcerting, but as long as it can be contained and concealed, the desire to see and hold the remains outweighs the aversion (see also note 26). Hollan and Wellenkamp (1994: 107) also emphasise touch and sight in a short section on ‘sense perception’. Hollan and Wellenkamp quote a woman who describes the aversion to decay as follows: ‘[After death] I don’t want to be placed with other people. Because in a vault, the dead people are always stacked on top of one another . . . She didn’t want to get soiled. Because, she said, if a dead person is placed on top (of her), later the decay (from the body) will be emitted, and it will come in contact with her (body)’ (1996: 179). This passage seems to support the idea that it is important to contain the body’s decay. It also suggests that it is considered significant to stay with one’s own kin (sola instead of others, to senga'), which is supported by Waterson when she reports a cultural fear of being placed in the ‘wrong’ grave and suggests that ‘while during life, a web of ties is thrown out between houses . . . there seems to be some tendency to pull them back in after death’ (1984b: 55). It would be interesting to explore this transformation in terms of the distinction between predecessors and consociates (see Geertz 1973b). Also see Wellenkamp (1991: 130–1) for a discussion of the downplaying of specific memories of the deceased in favour of generalised ones. In support of this point about the differences in ways of requesting, Wellenkamp comments in a footnote that ‘skillful wailing at a funeral was described as being able to “explain” one’s painful, sad feelings. Skillful wailing at the ma'nene', however, has more to do with ability in requesting goods and blessings . . . wailing at the ma'nene' . . . is called mepare lapu' (literally, “to harvest rice that is full of contents”)’ (1992: 211). To fully support this assertion would require further research, but it is worth noting that dream interpretation is culturally and temporally shaped. Interpretation can depend on whether the dream takes places during a time of East-side ritual performance or West-side ritual performance. Hollan mentions that sometimes ‘a “bad” dream is reinterpreted [i.e. dibori] . . . by a dream specialist so that its original, ominous meaning is neutralized or reversed’ and adds that ‘[i]ll omens of all sorts may be interpreted in this way, especially during rituals that promote the prosperity and well-being of the community [East-side rituals]’


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(1989: 172, 184, fn 9; see also Hollan & Wellenkamp 1994: 102–6). That is to say, the interpretation of a dream—and whether it is considered to have auspicious or inauspicious consequences—depends on when in the ritual calendar the dream happens. The ‘personal’ meaning of dreams, then, depends on the social context, and specifically on the situation with respect to the ritual calendar.

Chapter 6 – Island of the Dead 1

Bruner extrapolated from the 23 000 members of the HKBP listed for the Jakarta classis in 1969, to an estimated total Jakarta Batak population of just over double that. My subsequent research showed 91 645 HKBP members in the same Jakarta classis in 1982, and 166 829 in 1993. Given the steadily more fragmented religious loyalties of urban Toba Bataks, we should probably estimate a total Toba Batak population in Jakarta of at least 200 000 in 1982 and 400 000 in 1993.

Chapter 7 – Modernising sacred sites in South Sumatra 1

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Rice agriculture is of long standing. Cultivating coffee, rubber and fruit gardens started during the Dutch colonisation at the beginning of the 20th century (Purwanto 1996). Coconut oil plantations are a recent phenomenon. A change of Indonesian administrative regulations in 1979 made the administrative village (desa) the lowest unit of administration in the country. This had the effect of replacing the marga system in South Sumatra. Previously, the Gumai practised a form of marriage designed to determine residential patterns and the affiliation of the children of the couple (see Moyer 1984). It is not uncommon to transport a dead body from the place where he or she died to his/her native village despite any costly expenses. The version collected by Collins (1979) tells that three founding ancestors called diwe descended to Bukit Siguntang one after another. They were in difficulties due to their own personal problems, and they were exploring ways to solve them while staying at ‘their’ house of origin. A secular feast such as a wedding is referred to as pesta and differentiated from sedekah. Sedekah has much in common with other Islamic ritual feasts, known as kenduri, hajatan and selamatan, practised among Muslim Indonesians in other localities. Therefore, when they are in difficulties, the Gumai often make a mental vow (masang niat). ‘Ancestors, I really need your assistance. If my wish comes true, I will slaughter a goat for you’ is a common phrase. Colours of the sacrificial animals such as goats and chicken are believed to have meanings. For instance, a black goat is sacrificed only when sexual relations have occurred outside marriage. In Rambang areas, salt is not used for the cooking of offerings.


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This phrase is used only for ancestral spirits, and is differentiated from assalam alaykum, an Islamic greeting meaning ‘Peace be upon you’. The main Gumai communities in the District of Lahat were located in an area called Sindang. At Sindang, the only duties to the Sultan were border-watching and regular tribute in exchange for cloth and other items unavailable in the highlands (for details of Sindang, see Suzuki 1996). Muslim pilgrimages are organised by the Indonesian government through the Department of Religion, which makes a package tour. It cost around Rp 7 000 000 for a single person for the ordinary class in 1995. For luxury class, which includes more comfortable accommodation and amenities, it cost Rp 10 000 000 per person (see Abdurrahman 1996). Some claim that he is a wali, a steward of God. Contrary to explanations given by participants of Sedekah Malam Empatbelas, the Jurai Kebali'an himself does not claim any association with Islam. He does not pray to Allah in these rituals. He emphasises that it is a local custom to perform this ritual and he has to continue the practice. Otherwise, he believes, he will be penalised by ancestors. Some of the old village sites where ancestral graves are located are deserted and have become overgown with forest which there is a taboo on clearing. Descendants are free to collect forest products here, but must refrain from deforesting. Before endorsing this renovation, the village head is urged to have a village meeting among senior members of the village to consider the plan. When it is approved, the renovation is allowed to proceed. There is no definite way to determine the date of this ritual: one day in Ruwah month which is convenient to the village head and others is chosen. Kalan Dalam village in the subdistrict of Pulau Pinang still preserves a lunjuk. It is no longer used as an altar for ancestral rituals but instead has been assigned as a cultural heritage by the local government. It resembles a small house supported by four tall pillars (3 metres high).

Chapter 8 – Ancestors’ blood 1

2 3

In South Sulawesi one cannot use such clearcut and mutually exclusive categories as abangan and santri, current in Java, to characterise respectively the syncretic and orthodox attitudes to Islam. There exists in fact a whole range of religious shades among the Bugis, from that of the utterly ‘pagan’ To-Lotang to that of the most staunchly orthodox Moslems, implying various blends—not always appropriately qualified as syncretisms—of different elements from the complex pre-Islamic and Islamic heritages. This is a quite different concept from an imposition of a thin layer of Islam on a substratum of original religion. I have summarised a number of these esoteric traditions in a still unpublished paper (Pelras 1987). For a description and analysis of this voyage and of the ‘geography’ of the abode of the dead, see Pelras 1992: 240–56.


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The La Galigo texts record three cases where a male to-manurung is united with a female to-tompo' (in Cina, Tompo' Tikka' and Sunra) against four exactly opposite cases (in Wéwang Riwu', Tompo' Tikka' and Gima), whereas two couples are formed by two to-manurung (in Posi' Tana and Tompo' Tikka Timpa' Laja'). The only couple which consists in to-tompo' only (La Bulisa'/Wé Patunerreng) is based on a forbidden alliance and as such stricken by divine punishment (see Pelras 1983: 93). I collected an oral version of it in 1967 in Maroanging from the then kali (kadhi) of Pammana, Haji Muhammad bin Ali. Ian Caldwell has recently published and annotated a written version of it (Caldwell 1988). There is disagreement among Bugis specialists about the length of a pariama, which some say corresponds to seven, eight or 12 years, and others to one generation. As this name is the same as for the Luwu' to-manurung, Caldwell thinks that the Pammana story is merely inspired by the Luwu' story. He is of the opinion (different from mine) that the wanua Pammana has actually nothing to do with La Galigo’s Cina. A landing place next to Amessangeng, southwards and not far from Singkang. When this text was written, rilau' and riaja had already lost their original meanings of ‘towards the sea’ and ‘towards the mountain’ respectively, as Soppéng rilau' was upriver, Soppéng riaja downriver with regard to the Walennaé River. In his translation, Caldwell assumes this to-manurung to be male; however, all palontara' who told me this story said that it was a female to-manurung and that she married the Sekkanyili' to-manurung. Except for a few cases, including Goa, the tu-manurung of the Makassar country are usually not considered as the direct ancestors of the ruling families, but as supernatural persons who came on earth to teach the people the social rules they had to follow, chose the first rulers from among the people, organised the political territories and established their political institutions. An example of genealogical recitation of the ‘arborescent’ kind is to be found, in the La Galigo cycle, when the hero, Sawérigading, being stopped in his navigation to the Abode of the Dead, implores the main heavenly deity Datu Patoto' by stressing his own divine ancestry, starting from his eight greatgrandparents. Many examples of ‘linear’ genealogical expositions are to be found in Bugis historical manuscripts. For instance, the chronicle of Cina (an ancient polity to the south of Wajo') starts from a to-manurung, Simpurusiang, and his totompo' wife from Luwu'. Of their two daughters, one becomes datu in Luwu', the other one perpetuates the line in Cina by marrying her mother’s sister’s son. In general, for subsequent generations, named (male and female) individuals are either those who have remained in Cina or those who, having married elsewhere, have fostered children or grandchildren who have later become marriage partners of first or second cousins in Cina (see Caldwell 1988: 88–9 for the Bugis transcription and 92–3 for the translation).


216 14 15 16

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This is also the place where, in some families, the afterbirths and umbilical cords of the children born in the house are hung in a pot. For a detailed presentation of Bugis offerings and of the ritual performances that accompany them, see Pelras 1985. Both attachment to tradition (‘the ancestors’ way’) and forms of behaviour that would nowadays be attributed to ‘modernity’ have coexisted in Bugis culture since well before any Western influence without real dichotomy (see Pelras 1996). Here, ‘traditionally minded’ refers to people who, although considering themselves Moslems, stick to whatever religious creeds or rites they regard as an ancestral heritage, even though more orthodox or reformist/modernist Moslems may oppose them as either ‘unorthodox’ or even ‘pagan’.

Chapter 9 – Saints and ancestors 1 2

Where no other reference is given, data derive from my lengthy periods of residence and research in Java in the 1980s and 90s. See the relevant chapters in Chambert-Loir and Guillot (1995).

Chapter 10 – The Tembayat hill 1 2

3

Hereafter I refer to the English translation: Rinkes (1996). In the 1970s some amateurs of Javanese traditional arts in Jakarta attempted to give new life to this dying form of art by producing and commercialising masks in the capital. I do not know the outcome of that initiative. See Tembayat’s geneology in Rinkes (1996: 82).

Chapter 11 – Interpreting the historical significance of tombs and chronicles in contemporary Java 1

During the colonial period, deciding who were the rightful juru kunci for important tombs was a task that fell to the Dutch authorities. There was probably no tomb more troublesome in colonial times than that of Sunan Kalijaga, on which the Dutch were called on to adjudicate among competing branches of the juru kunci of Adilangu.

Chapter 12 – The role of a Javanese burial ground in local government 1

2

In modern Indonesia a kabupaten is an administrative district one tier below the level of a province. It is headed by a chief administrator called a bupati, who is appointed by the Minister of Internal Affairs (Menteri Dalam Negeri) on the recommendation of the provincial governor concerned. In premodern times, a Javanese bupati was a local official with considerable autonomy, second in authority only to the paramount ruler. See for example Any Asmara (1984), Sapto Priyoko (1990) and Soemarno


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(1994). The summary of the popular history of Banyumas that follows is based mostly on these three sources. 3 A powerful Javanese state from the late 13th century until the early 16th century, centred on Majapahit near the modern town of Mojokerto in East Java. 4 Wirasaba (not to be confused with another region bearing the same name further to the east in the vicinity of modern Mojokerto, East Java) seems to have encompassed a large portion of the ethnic Javanese hinterland adjacent to the Sundanese-speaking regions of West Java. Another name for the area (or at least part of the area) was Pasir or Pasirluhur. 5 An office and title similar to that of bupati. 6 Also called Pasir. The meaning of Pasir seems to be ‘edge’ or ‘periphery’, indicating its position at the western extremity of the ethnic Javanese area. 7 The name Mrapat commemorates the bupati’s action in dividing Wirasaba into four realms. Mrapat means literally ‘to divide into four’ and derives from the Javanese word prapat, ‘one-fourth’. 8 The name Dawuhan is derived from the Javanese word dhawuh, ‘an instruction, a statement (from someone of high status)’. 9 Colonel Djoko was born in Madiun, East Java, in 1945. Until his appointment as Bupati of Banyumas he had pursued a career in the army. His early military training was undertaken at the Military Academy (Akmil) in Magelang, after which he spent time in various locations including Kalimantan. Subsequently he wrote an internally circulated manual on security strategies in border areas. In 1985 he graduated from the Land Forces Officer Training School (Seskoad) in Bandung and in 1986 was appointed Commander (Dandim) of Military District 0733 in Semarang. In 1987 he moved to the headquarters of the Diponegoro Division in Semarang, where he took up the post of Deputy Territorial Assistant to the Head of Staff of the Diponegoro Division (Waaster Kasdam). My main sources of biographical details on Djoko Sudantoko are Sy (1994: 248) and Soemarno (1993: 5). 10 Purwokerto was made capital of the kabupaten of Banyumas in 1936 during an administrative reorganisation. The kabupaten of Purwokerto was incorporated into the kabupaten of Banyumas, but the capital of the new district was shifted from the town of Banyumas to Purwokerto on the grounds that Banyumas was too subject to flooding. 11 See for example Ricklefs (1981: 37), who suggests that Adiwijaya may have died in 1587. 12 When I visited the tomb in 1992 the custodian (juru kunci) told me that the tombstone on the left was ‘empty’ and was there only ‘for the sake of symmetry’ (untuk melengkapi), but it is probably that of Joko Kaiman’s wife. 13 My translation. The Javanese runs: ‘Pasareyan Kyai Adipati Warga Utama kaping II Bupati Banyumas kaping sepisan, asma timur Raden Jaka Kaiman winisuda dening Kanjeng Sultan Adiwijaya ing Pajang angasta Adipati Wirasaba kaping 7 ing Ari Jemuah Kliwon surya kaping 6 April 1582 Masehi, kaleres dhawah 12 Rabiulawal 990 Hijriah. Swargi kapareng ambagi Wirasaba dados sekawan wilayah lajeng kasebat Adipati Mrapat’.


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14 Other activities include ceremonies commissioning development projects (peresmian), a special commemorative plenary sitting of the kabupaten parliament (sidang paripurna DPRD) plus a cleanup of Purwokerto. In the days leading up to the commemoration the streets and buildings of the city are festooned with banners that hail the Foundation Day celebration and proclaim various development slogans. 15 MUSPIDA is an abbreviation of Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah. The MUSPIDA is a council of high-ranking officials from local, provincial and central government, the military, and city administration charged with coordinating and advising local governments and the military on development and security issues. 16 According to the custodian of the Dawuhan burial ground (in conversation with me on 28 December 1992), in the early years of the annual commemoration, the bupati and his followers spent the whole night of 5 April at the tomb, and the discussions with middle-level and village-level officials went on all night. 17 The originals of these heirlooms and awards are regarded as too rare, powerful or valuable to be carried in a public procession. 18 The Indonesian reads: ‘Dgn Hari Jadi Kabupaten Banyumas ke 412 kita jadikan motivasi utk mensukseskan Tahun Peningkatan Kwalitas Hidup’. 19 In conversation with me, 6 April 1994. 20 Literally ‘to chop down the forest’. In Javanese history writing the establishment of a new polity is conventionally represented, both literally and metaphorically, as an act of clearing an ordered space in the midst of wildness. So strong is this convention that the very word for the genre of writing called ‘history’ is babad. 21 Whether it is literally true or not that Bupati Djoko seeks advice and guidance from his predecessor is not, of course, the point. What is significant is that he is perceived by the people of Banyumas to be doing this. 22 In 1993 Djoko Sudantoko was reappointed for a second (and final) five-year term as bupati, gaining overwhelming support in the local nomination process. See ‘Daerah Sekilas’ (1997). 23 It appears that even today some people in Banyumas preserve prohibitions (wewaler), the rationale for which can be traced back to the death of Adipati Wargautama I. For example, because Wargautama was murdered on a Saturday Paing while consuming a meal of goose flesh, there are remnants of a prohibition on eating goose flesh and travelling on Saturday Paing. See Koderi & Ahmad Tohari (1991: 106). 24 The folk hero of Banyumas is Ca Blaka, an earthy figure who always bluntly speaks his mind (the word blaka in Javanese means ‘frank, candid’). On many occasions people in Banyumas have proudly pointed out to me that it is their capacity to be blunt and forthright that distinguishes them from the ‘devious’ people of Yogyakarta and Solo. 25 By narratives of validation I mean the narratives of pilgrims or petitioners that provide proof of the efficacious power of a pilgrimage site.


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Chapter 13 – ‘National ancestors’ 1 2

3

4

5

6

7 8

9

Inglis (1993) examines the topic, and the ‘Tomb of the Unknown Soldier’ in particular, in a broader, non-European frame. The Acehnese felt quite differently. Although ‘Kerkhof’, the burial ground for those members of the colonial army fallen in the Aceh wars, is well maintained, the authorities in Banda Aceh laid out a new TMP for their own dead on the other side of the city, and probably not only for religious reasons. Among the six hero categories, the most often used are Pahlawan Kemerdekaan Nasional (‘Hero of National Independence’, by the Soekarno administration) and Pahlawan Nasional (‘National Hero’, by the Soeharto administration). For a detailed analysis, see Schreiner (1995: 189–231). See the chronological list of National Heroes up until 1996 in Schreiner (1997); in the meantime a few others have been named heroes, among them Ibu Tien Soeharto, the late wife of former president Soeharto. This study’s concept of ‘ritual’ is based on Kertzer (1983, 1988) and Moore and Myerhoff (1977: 3–24); for a detailed discussion, see Schreiner (1995: 40–5). Pemberton has pointed out that the Javanese/Indonesian term upacara as a translation for ‘ritual’ has emerged only relatively recently. Originally denoting only regalia and other objects in the king’s possessions at the beginning of the 20th century, the term came into use for prescribed patterns of behaviour. Pemberton (1994: 20) concludes that the term was ‘an epistemological construct that enframed certain events as a form of symbolic behavior’. In Kertzer’s (1983: 56) discussion of the term ‘political ritual’ the aspects of ‘providing legitimacy’ and ‘fostering a particular cognitive world-view’ are of particular relevance to this study. See also Chapter 6, this volume. Stöhr (1965: 191) and Schreiner (1972: 230), however, emphasise the relevance of the deceased’s merits, wealth and political status to become eligible for the new qualifications. Lt Gen. M. Tirtodarmo Harjono, Maj. Gen. Donald Ignatius Pandjaitan, Lt Gen. Siswondo Parman, Maj. Gen. Sutojo Siswomihardjo, Lt Gen. Suprapto, Capt. Pierre Tendean and Gen. Ahmad Yani. Police Captain Karel Sadsuit Tubun was also killed that night, but is not included. Brig. Gen. Katamso Dharmokusumo and Col. Sugijono Mangunwidjoto, belonging to the Yogyakarta command, were killed the same night. Their corpses were found only on 22 October and interred in Central Java.


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I Index

adat (custom), xxv complementarity of Islam with, 109–11, 114–15 ancestor worship, xvii, xviii, 194 Bugis, 118–20, 126–31 Christianisation, 71, 73–4 and ‘culture of remembering’, 203 of founding ancestors, 127–30 Gumai, 107–12, 114–15 Islamisation of, 109–12, 114 Java, 133, 135, 140 legitimising aspects, 203–4 national hero worship as, 193, 195 reasons, 129–31 social solidarity through, 195 state’s involvement, 113 see also Heroes; National Heroes ancestors Aohengs’ neglect of, xxi, 15 Balinese concept of, 65–6 of Bugis commoners, 125 of Bugis nobility, 120–2, 123–4 cults of, 13–14, 140 definitions and meanings, xix, 1–2, 12–13, 14–15, 33, 194 distinguished from forebears, 13 founding ancestors, 127–9 individual identity, 65–7, 83

Laboya concept of, xix, 33, 36–8, 43–6 ‘memory specialists’, xix, 105–6, 160, 169–72 purification process, 53, 60–1, 61–6 reincarnation as plants, 58 relations between the living and, xxi, 33–5 rituals to create, 13–15, 33, 53, 60–1, 64–5, 70, 194 symbols of collective identity, 95–6 village founders (cikal bakal) as, xxii, 133, 135, 140, 156 see also ancestor worship; National Heroes ancestral rituals, Bugis, 126–7 ancestral spirits Batak, 94, 101 Gumai, 107, 110–12 Toraja, 71, 83 animal sacrifices, 35, 45–6, 107–9, 111 animism, 4 Aoheng ‘bad’ deaths, 10–11 funerary practices, 6–11, 15 non-recognition of ancestors, xxi, 15 social organisation, 3–4 spirits, gods, souls, 5–6, 9–11


238

THE POTENT DEAD

Arya Jayaprana, 169–71 Babad Tanah Jawi, 164–9 Bali ancestor status, 64–7 death and agricultural cycle, 51 distinctive culture, 48, 68 fertility and sexuality, 52–3, 57–61 funerary rituals, 52–7, 64–5 kings, 65, 67 plant/human reciprocity, 50–1, 54, 56 sacred places, 61–4 social structure, 66–7 transformation of ancestors, 61–5 Banyumas (Java) Foundation Day commemorations, 177–82 founders’ tomb, 175–7 story of the founding, 173–5 Bataks ancestral spirits, 94, 101 Christianisation, 88–9, 94 explanations for tugu-building, 97–101 lineage identity and solidarity, 93, 95–6, 99–101 reburial rites, 92–3, 97, 99–100 urban/rural connections, 90, 92, 94–5, 100 bersih desa, 133, 139 Bloch, M., 49, 60 bones separation of flesh from, 37, 52 transformation into ancestors, 60–1 washing of, 55 wrapping and cradling, 81–2 see also reburial rituals Brawijaya as genealogical source figure, 163 tomb of, 162–3 Bruner, Edward, 90 Bugis people ancestor worship, 119, 126–31 divine ancestors of the nobility, 120–2, 123–4

kinship and descent system, 122–3 traditional polities, 120–1 worship of the dead, 118–20 burial rituals, see funerary rituals; reburial rituals Christianity and Batak reburial rites, 92–4, 97, 99–101 impact on ancestor worship, 33, 71, 73–4, 89 impact on funerary practices, 15, 44 cikal bakal, xxii, 133, 135, 140, 156 cloth, ritual uses of, 81–3 cognatic kinship, 4, 122–3 communism, 195, 197 conversion, xvi–xvii, xxiii–xxvi see also Christianity; Islamisation cosmology Aoheng, 6 Balinese, 52 Bugis, 117–18, 119, 125 Toraja, 74, 76 cremation (ngabén), 53 cults of the dead, 13–14, 140 of Heroes, 99, 186, 188, 193, 195, 202, 203 of Islamic saints, xxii, 132–40 of places, 11–12 custom (adat), xxv Dayaks, 19–20 see also Aoheng; Ngaju Dayaks de Graaf, H.J., 141, 147, 149 the dead cults versus rituals of, 13–14 importance of seeing and touching, 79–81 impurity of, 66 potency of, xvii, 74–6 relations with the living, xxi, 33–8, 77 respect for, 99–100 ritual remembering (ma’nene’), 77–85


INDEX

spirits and souls of, xix–xx, 6, 9–11, 14, 22–4, 36, 45, 67, 76–7, 79, 119 see also ancestor worship; ancestors; funerary rituals death, xx, 2 and agricultural cycle, 51, 58 bad deaths, 10 cool versus hot, 33 ritual separation from life, 77 see also funerary rituals Demak, 144–7, 166 descendants factual versus fictitious, 194–5 as prerequisite for ancestor status, 194 dewa (reputation, name), 36–8, 44 Dewi Sri, 50, 58–60 Djoko Sudantoko, 174–82 exhumation (ngebét), 53 see also reburial rituals femaleness, 58–60 fertility ideas of, 58, 60–1 rituals, 73 flesh and plant growth, 54–6, 60–1 separation from bones, 52–4 forebears, see ancestors Foundation Day commemorations Banyumas (Java), 177–82 Independence Day, 182 funerary rituals, xx among Ngaju Dayaks, 22–5 Aoheng, 6–11, 15 Barito versus Kayanic in Kalimantan, 7–9, 10 Batak, 92–3, 97, 99–100 Bugis, 129 Christian churches and, 15, 44, 73, 93–4, 97, 101 importance of seeing and touching, 79–81

239 Laboya (West Sumba), 32, 36–8, 39–40, 42–6 Nusa Penida (Bali), 52–7, 64–5 prestige-seeking aspects, 33, 46, 75 prohibitions and taboos, 76–7, 78, 81 ritual uses of cloth, 81–3 scholarly approaches, 73–6 seasons and agricultural cycle, 51 and sexuality, 57–8 Toraja, 70, 73–6, 129

Geertz, Clifford, xxv, 133 gender, 57–61 genealogy Bataks, 95–6 of Brawijaya, 164–5 Bugis nobility and commoners, 123–5 Gumai people, 104–5 of Ki Ageng Giring, 167–8 Giring, Ki Ageng, 167–8 gods ancestors’ transformation into, 65–7 versus ancestral spirits, 71 Aoheng, 5 Bugis, 120, 122 graves Aohengs’ cementing of, 15 of Brawijaya, 162–3 Bugis, 127, 129–31 as embodiment of Javanese historical traditions, 160–72 guardians (juru kunci), 160, 169, 171–2 Gumai, 112–13 of independence fighters, 184–5 of Jaka Kaiman, 175–6 of Ki Ageng Giring, 167–9 Laboya, 34–5, 38, 41, 65–7 pilgrimages to, 112, 118–19, 126–7, 130–1 as reliquaries, 202 as sacred sites, 119, 126–8 of Senapati, 169–71 visits to, 78–9, 118, 130, 133–4, 160


240

THE POTENT DEAD

see also tapak; tugu guardians of sacred sites, see juru kunci Guided Democracy hero veneration under, 99, 186, 188, 202 Gumai people, 103–5 ancestral graves as pilgrimage sites, 112–14 ancestral rituals, 107–9, 113–15 Hatta, Mohammad, 193, 200 headhunting, 12, 71 Heroes (pahlawan) cemeteries, 184–6 cult of, 99, 186, 188, 193, 195, 202, 203 Heroes’ Day, 184, 187–90 political purposes, 188–9, 203–4 rituals and ceremonies, 187–90 see also National Heroes Hertz, Robert, xx, 49, 52 Hindu Kaharingan Religion, see Kaharingan religion Hoga Bora funeral, 43–6 status, 38–43 Ibu Pretewi entrusting corpses to, 56–7 and plant/human being reciprocity, 54–5, 59–60 indigenous religions, xvii–xviii ancestor rituals, xxiii Christianisation, 33 Islamisation, 109–12 Javanese ajar, 152–3 Kaharingan, 18–21, 28–9 of the Laboya, 33 of the Ngaju Dayaks, 20–1 rationalisation of, 72–4 of Toraja people, 71 transformation of, xxv–xxvi Indonesia founding myth, 199–200

ways of memorialising history, 183–4 Islam conversion to, xxiii–xxiv and worship of the dead, 118–19 Islamic saints cult of, in Java, xxii, 132–40 definition and types, xxii, 132–3, 136–7 links with village founders, xxii Nine Saints (Wali Songo), 134–5, 136–7 pilgrimages to graves of, 119, 134–6 see also Sunan Pandan Arang Islamisation of ancestral rituals, 109–12, 114–16, 129 of Java, 141, 144–6 of sacred places, 138–9 Jaka Kaiman, 175–6 Java cult of Muslim saints, 132–40 royalty and the power of the clergy, 157–9 tombs as centres for historical dissemination, 160–72 passim veneration of kings and political leaders, 138–9 Jurai Kebali’an, 106–7, 111–12 juru kunci (guardians), xix, 160, 169, 171–2 Kaharingan religion, 18–21, 28–9 Kajoran clan etymology of name, 154–5 links with Tembayat family, 149–52 as religious ajar, 152–6 Kalibata National Heroes’ Cemetery, 185, 198–9, 202 Kalimantan funerary rites, 7–11, 22–31 map, 3 overlapping religious observances, 15 see also Aoheng; Ngaju Dayaks Katingan River, 19–20


INDEX

kings Balinese deification of, 65 Javanese veneration of, 137–8 kinship Aoheng, 4 Bugis, 122–3 cognatic, 4, 122–3 kramat (sacred grave), 11–12, 133, 136, 138 Laboya (West Sumba) ancestors and ancestor creation, xix, 33, 36–8, 43–6 funerary rites, 32, 36–8, 39–40, 42–6 links between living and dead, 33–8 religions, 43–4 social organisation, 33–5, 37–8, 40–1 Lera Bora, 38–42, 46 liminal period, xx, 54–6 local government and Banyuman Foundation Day, 173–82 passim involvement in funerary rites, 42–3, 45, 46 Lubang Buaya Monument Pancasila Sakti, 196 symbolism of soldiers’ martyrdom, 195–8, 202 mandala, 146, 152–3, 156 of Tembayat, 156–7 ma’nene’ (remembering the dead), 77–85 Mataram dynasty, 166–7, 169, 171 mausoleums collective, 9 Nine Saints (Wali Songo), 134 Pandan Arang, 148–9 Soekarno, xxvi, 137, 187, 201 mawo (‘shadow, reflection and breath’), 36–8, 44 MBAHK (Majelis Besar Agama Hindu Kaharingan), see Kaharingan religion mediums (basir), 21, 23

241

memory ancestral origins, 104 construction of, 84–5 remembering the dead (ma’nene’), 77–85 Metcalf, P., 49 migrants (perantau), xxvi, 94–5, 98, 99 ‘modernity’, xxv, 86 monuments ancestral, 113–15 to independence fighters, 184–5 Seven Heroes, 196, 197–8 Unknown Hero, 198–9 war memorials, 183 see also tugu mortuary rituals, see funerary rituals Muslim saints, see Islamic saints Nage (Flores), xix, xx names and name-giving, 36–8 National Heroes, xxii–xxiii, 99, 186–7 cemeteries, 184–6, 185, 198–9, 202 Monument of the Unknown Hero, 198–9 reburial, 188, 190–3, 198–9, 202 role of commemoration ceremonies, 189, 202–4 the seven slain soldiers, 195–8 see also Heroes New Order hero veneration under, 186–8, 203 myth of origin, 197–8, 200 symbolism of the seven slain soldiers for, 195–8, 203 Ngaju Dayaks identity and ethnicity, 19–20 indigenous religion, 20–1 secondary mortuary rituals (tiwak), 17–18, 21–8 nobility Bugis, 120–2, 123–4, 127–9 see also kings Nusa Penida (Bali), 48–68 passim nyawa (soul), 36, 45 Pamanahan, Ki Ageng, 167, 169, 171


242

THE POTENT DEAD

Pancasila invincibility, 198 New Order and, 200 recognition of religion, xvii, xxv, 18–19 Remembrance Day, 184, 197 Pandan Arang, see Sunan Pandan Arang Parry, J., 49, 60 Pengging kingdom, 146–7 pilgrimages to graves, 112, 118–19, 126–7, 130, 134–6 to house of the Jurai Kebali’an, 111–12 plants and cultigens fertility, 58, 60–1 human death and growth of, 50–1, 53, 54, 56–7, 61 prestige seeking, 16, 33, 35, 36, 46, 75, 99 Pura Dalem, 61–4 Rangda, 59–60 reburial rituals, xx, 22–5, 43–4, 193 Aoheng, 7 attitude of Christian church, 92–4 Bali, 56–7 Batak, 92–3, 97, 99–100 for National Heroes, 188, 190–3, 198–9, 202 remembering the dead (ma’nene’), 77–85 rewrapping corpses, 77–8, 81–3 symbolism, 199 for Unknown Hero, 198–9 see also cremation; tiwah reciprocity between humans and plants, 48, 54, 56–7, 61 between the living and the dead, xxi, 71 reincarnation, 119 relics and reliquaries, 199 religion agama, xxv

versus belief systems, xviii Islamisation of, 109–12 official recognition, xvi–xvii, xxv see also Christianity; indigenous religions; Islam; Islamisation religious tolerance, 18–19 remembering, see memory Remembrance Day of the Pancasila’s Spiritual Power, 184, 197 reproduction plant/human cycle, 54–6 rice ancestors reincarnated as, 58 origins, 50 rituals, 73 Rinkes, D.A., 141, 144, 147, 161 Rites of Passage (Van Gennep), xx ritual specialists, 21, 23, 53–4, 93, 105–6, 110, 113 rituals impact of modernity on, xxv legitimising function, 195 in national hero veneration, 187–93 see also funerary rituals; reburial rituals sacred graves Bugis, 126–8 Java, 133–4, 136, 138–9 pilgrimages to (ziarah), 134–6 worship of, xvii, 11–12 sacred objects, 11–12 sacred sites and places, 11–12, 103, 113–15, 133 Bali, 61–4 Bugis, 119, 127 custodians (juru kunci), xix, 160, 169, 171–2 Islamisation of, 138–9 Muslim sacred graves, 133, 136 sacrifices (animal), 35, 45–6 secondary burials, see reburial rituals sedekah (ritual feasts), 107–9, 111, 115 Senapati, tomb of, 169–70 separation rites, 9–11


INDEX

sexual intercourse, 57–8 sexuality, 57, 58–60 Singamangaraja XII, 99 Slamet Riyadi, 199 social status, xxii, xxi, xxvi, 33–6, 38–43 see also prestige seeking Soeharto, xxvi regime, xxii–xxiii, xxvi relationship to Soekarno, 200–1 see also Guided Democracy; New Order Soekarno as embodiment of Brawijaya, 163 mausoleum, xxvi, 137, 187, 201 status as national hero, 200–1 stipulations for National Heroes, 186, 202 system of hero veneration, 188 soul (nyawa), 36, 45 spirits (of the dead), xxi, 6, 9–11, 14, 22–4, 67, 76–7, 79, 119 Sulawesi, see Toraja people Sumatra, see Bataks; Gumai people Sumba, see Laboya Sunan Pandan Arang, 169 legend of, 141–6, 152 life of, 144–7 mausoleum, 141, 148–9 Surabaya Battle of, 198 Taman Bahagia, 184 Tana Toraja (South Sulawesi), see Toraja people tapak, 113–15 tarekat, 137 Tembayat Kajoran clan and, 152–6 mandala of, 156–7 mausoleum, 141, 148–9, 159 at Pandan Arang’s arrival, 146–7 royal character, 156–7 see also Sunan Pandan Arang Tembayat family

243

links with Kajoran clan, 149–52 tiwah goals, 22–5 Katingan versus Kahayan rituals, 17, 21–2, 25–6, 29 and Ngaju identity, 19 official rules and permits, 27–8 photographs, 24, 25, 30 potency of ancestors and ritual, 19 as tourist promotion, 19, 22, 29–30 villagers’ anxiety and confusion, 25–7 Toraja people ancestral spirits, 71 aversion to burial and cremation, 80 cosmology, 74, 76–7 secondary funerary rituals (ma’nene’), 70, 77–85 social system, 71 tourist promotion, 19, 22, 29–30 traditional rituals Bugis, 117 influence of Christianity on, 71, 73–4 tugu (monuments), 88, 90–2 explanations for, 97–101 photographs, 90, 91, 98 ulamas, 137 uma (‘House’), 35, 37–8, 46 van Gennep, Arnold, xx Vergouwen, J.C., 88–9 village cleansing rituals (bersih desa), 133, 139 village founders (cikal bakal), xxii, 105–6, 112–13, 133, 135, 140, 156 Wahid, Abdurrahman, xv–xvi, 198 war memorials, 183, 199 worship, see ancestor worship; Heroes: cult of ziarah (tomb visiting), 134–6, 160, 190, 201

The Potent Dead: Ancestors, saints and heroes in contemporary Indonesia (Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA))

Fragments of the Present (Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA))

Technology and the Culture of Progress in Meiji Japan (Routledge Asian Studies Association of Australia (Asaa) East Asian)

Korea's Development Under Park Chung-Hee: Rapid Industrialization, 1961-79 (Routledge Asian Studies Association of Australia (Asaa)East Asia Series)

Indonesian Islam (Asian Studies Association of a)

Association of the Dead

Association of the Dead

Political Islam and Violence in Indonesia (Asian Security Studies)

Saints and Heroes Since the Middle Ages

Japan and National Anthropology: A Critique (Routledgecurzon Asian Studies Association of Australia East Asia Series, 6)

Saints and Heroes to the End of the Middle Ages

Is Australia an Asian Country?

Double Vision: Asian Accounts Of Australia

Contemporary Indonesian Poetry: Poems in Bahasa Indonesia and English (Asian and Pacific Writing)

The Floracrats: State-Sponsored Science and the Failure of the Enlightenment in Indonesia (New Perspectives in Se Asian Studies)

Where the Ancestors Walked: Australia as an Aboriginal Landscape

Potent Pleasure

Potent Pleasures

Potent Pleasures

Where the Ancestors Walked: Australia as an Aboriginal Landscape

Analysis of Genetic Association Studies

Sufi Saints and State Power: The Pirs of Sind, 1843-1947 (Cambridge South Asian Studies)

Potent Pleasures

Potent Spirits

Potent Pleasure

Potent Pleasures

Potent Spirit

Studies in South Asian Film and Media

The Potent Dead: Ancestors, saints and heroes in contemporary Indonesia (Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA))

Fragments of the Present (Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA))

Technology and the Culture of Progress in Meiji Japan (Routledge Asian Studies Association of Australia (Asaa) East Asian)

Korea's Development Under Park Chung-Hee: Rapid Industrialization, 1961-79 (Routledge Asian Studies Association of Australia (Asaa)East Asia Series)

Indonesian Islam (Asian Studies Association of a)

Association of the Dead

Association of the Dead

Political Islam and Violence in Indonesia (Asian Security Studies)

Saints and Heroes Since the Middle Ages

Japan and National Anthropology: A Critique (Routledgecurzon Asian Studies Association of Australia East Asia Series, 6)

Saints and Heroes to the End of the Middle Ages

Is Australia an Asian Country?

Double Vision: Asian Accounts Of Australia

Contemporary Indonesian Poetry: Poems in Bahasa Indonesia and English (Asian and Pacific Writing)

The Floracrats: State-Sponsored Science and the Failure of the Enlightenment in Indonesia (New Perspectives in Se Asian Studies)

Where the Ancestors Walked: Australia as an Aboriginal Landscape

Potent Pleasure

Potent Pleasures

Potent Pleasures

Where the Ancestors Walked: Australia as an Aboriginal Landscape

Analysis of Genetic Association Studies

Sufi Saints and State Power: The Pirs of Sind, 1843-1947 (Cambridge South Asian Studies)

Potent Pleasures

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Potent Pleasure

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