Showing posts with label true story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true story. Show all posts

Friday, October 30, 2015

Laksmi Pamuntjak on Indonesia after the Frankfurt bookfair

In the British newspaper guardian (Oct 27/2015) the Indonesian novelist Laksmi Pamuntjak published a remarkable essay which seems to be important for understanding the strange performance of the country as guest of honor at the Frankfurt bookfair this year:

>>
"Even by the standards of post-totalitarian nations’ lingering paranoia the last month in
Indonesia has seen a disheartening return to Suharto-era tropes of repression and neurosis

A week ago I received a message from Janet DeNeefe, director of the Ubud Writers and
Readers Festival.

“I just wanted to let you know that the UWRF is being censored this year, and we have been
told to remove all programs to do with ‘1965’,” she wrote. “Or else next year they will
not give us a permit to hold the festival.”

I felt a chill when I read these lines, and a faint sense of absurdity that accompanied
the sting. For one, I was on my European book tour, having done almost nothing else in the
past one and a half month but speak to German and Dutch audiences about my novel, an epic
love story set against the backdrop of the Indonesian anti-communist purges of 1965.

In Düsseldorf or Erfurt, Amsterdam or the Hague, I encountered nothing but genuine empathy
and solidarity for Indonesians’ collective struggle to come to terms with our violent past
as well as to render tangible justice for an untold many. It was particularly so in
Germany, with its experience of national trauma.

This brings us to the irony of current domestic politics. For have Indonesians not, in the
past 17 years since the fall of the Suharto regime, enjoyed a measure of hard-earned
freedom from fear, censorship, and from restrictions to creativity?

Have we not witnessed the unprecedented burgeoning of new expression, in forms and
language so alien to the 32-year pit out of which it was born? Have we not experienced, in
the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, a literary forum which for 12 years has been able
to keep the “1965” discourse alive without any state intervention?

Have we not pledged ourselves to the quest for alternative histories, for new ways of
seeing and thinking about the world? Have we not seen the infrastructure of freedom so
long devalued – bookstores, publishing houses, the press – finally standing up for
themselves and giving people their voices back?

Have we not heard of private screenings – known by the abbreviation nobar (nonton bareng;
watching together) – of Joshua Oppenheimer’s film The Act of Killing? Screenings that keep
popping up despite crackdowns by the authorities, suggesting that Indonesians know what
they want and are resourceful enough to get it?

Up until a month ago, we still tended to look on the 17 years of political and cultural
renaissance as a triumph of the collective memory. Or, rather, the failure of Fascism’s
central conceit: that domination does not breed resistance to itself.

If the calamity of authoritarianism gave Indonesian democracy its cause, this past month
threatens to show that the rifts Suharto tore in our body politic may never be mended.
That censorship should coincide with the 50th anniversary of the genocide might be the key
to understanding why that is.

However, if in the past month I was tentative in my public discussion of the festival
censorship – stopping short, in other words, of saying that there is a rise of
neo-anti-communism in Indonesia – it has become harder to do so now. Similar incidents
that occurred within a few days of each other smack of a disheartening return to old
tropes of official neurosis: taken together, they suggest an eerie revival of the Suharto era.

Take the case of Tom Iljas, a 77-year-old former political exile in Sweden. He was
arbitrarily arrested and deported earlier this month for visiting a mass grave of 1965
victims in West Sumatra, in search of the final resting place of his father.

The irony of having been barred from coming home 50 years ago, only to be banished once
more in so-called peaceful times, tests the limits of humiliation. In a statement, Iljas
and his supporters said: “[J]ust to look at the mass graves of family members we still get
terror and intimidation ... We recognise that what is happening is the result of efforts
for reconciliation and the fulfilment of the rights of victims.”

Even by the standards of post-totalitarian nations, with their lingering paranoia and
tendency to be consecrated to the memory of official ideology and legitimacy of power,
this incident was quite stunning in its audacity. It was utterly lacking in substance –
legal, moral or otherwise.

The other case, no less Suhartoesque, concerns the confiscation and burning of the Satya
Wacana University student magazine Lentera. The students produced a special 10 October
edition, which explored the 1965 purges in Salatiga. Reportedly, the mayor, police and
military complained after the magazine was distributed. The student editors were
interrogated on 18 October, and the whole 500-copy print run was torched. Editor Bima
Satria Putra told Tempo magazine that the university – incidentally no stranger to
reformist activism and progressive thought – was also reprimanded by the police.

“Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings,” Heinrich Heine
famously said, and yet, in present day Indonesia, there is something almost caricatural to
this offence.

For one, it brings us right back to the second half of the 80s and the first half of the
90s, when you couldn’t count the number of student arrests for producing and distributing
“subversive” material. The normalisation of campus life (Normalisasi Kehidupan Kampus)
decree of April 1978 and coordinating body for student affairs (Badan Koordinasi Kampus)
formed the NKK/BKK policy that forced Indonesia’s system of higher education to its knees.
That acronym became shorthand for the death of universities and the death of thinking in
Suharto’s Indonesia.

The other inglorious incident that occurred within the past month happens to concern
myself, although I would not lose sleep over it. The morning I arrived in Frankfurt, some
10 hours before the opening of the 67th Frankfurt Book Fair in which Indonesia was the
guest of honour, the press officer of our National Committee informed me that some Muslim
groups had been demonstrating against me and a fellow author in front of one of the
ministries in Jakarta.

When I asked whatever for, he replied: “For being at the forefront of the national
committee’s alleged active promotion of Communism at the fair.” My first instinct at the
time was perversely self-congratulatory in nature. Not for being demonstrated against,
but, rather, for encountering some kind of confirmation of a deeply-held personal theory:
that in the past 17 years, the great dichotomy that used to characterise the Suharto
dictatorship – the state, versus civil society – has been replaced by the increasing
aggression of hard-line Muslim groups seeking to force their values on the vast diversity
that is Indonesia. Yet I came to this conclusion before the news of the repatriation of
Tom Ilyas and the barbaric act committed against the student body of the Satya Wacana
University had reached my ears.

Indeed, there appeared a darker, older supervising power that has kept this process under
surveillance all along, and the realisation that this was the case hit me quite hard. For
the truth of the matter is that political Islam in Indonesia rarely ever acts alone in its
quest for hegemony. Its alliance with the military has seen its members, particularly from
the Nahdlatul Ulama, committing many of the killings between 1965 and 1968.

Stoked by frequent evocations of the Madiun Affair of 1948, in which Communist rebels
murdered some Muslim leaders before they were defeated, many Muslims were sold on the idea
that they were victims of Communist aggression. For many youths, executing Communists was
a religious duty.

This symbiotic relationship was demonstrated again less than a month ago at the 50th
anniversary commemoration of the murder of six army generals and one lieutenant – part of
an attempted coup that was attributed by Suharto to the Indonesian Communist party. At the
start of the event, both the Jakarta chief of police and the head of the menacing hardline
Muslim group Islamic Defenders Front grandly denounced Communism in one of the starkest
public shows of their partnership to date.

I should have realised it then, as I should have heeded an earlier portent: the moment the
chief of South Jakarta police turned up with a militant Islamic group at an art centre
three years ago, to crack down on a public lecture by the reformist Muslim intellectual
Irshad Manji.

However, to say Communism is an empty threat, given Suharto made sure that nothing was
left of Communism in Indonesia, is of course to miss the point. Anti-Communist propaganda
has worked before as a legitimising basis of power and control, and a variation on it will
work again given how deeply conditioned a large majority of Indonesians still are by the
old regime’s official history.

What we are witnessing is not the rise of neo-anti-communism per se, even if it seems that
way on the surface; instead, anti-communism is merely a pretext for state terrorism and
heightened control in the larger, and a more concerning scheme of a re-militarisation of
government.

To many seasoned analysts of Indonesian politics, this volte-face might come as no
surprise. Yet the hard-earnedness of reformasi – the period of democratic transition that
followed Suharto’s reign – may have imprinted a certain intractability upon those who had
fought for it, if not a downright refusal to accept the possibility of a regression of any
kind.

Still. There is no denying the telltale signs. The return to anti-communist rhetoric as a
pretext for state intimidation. The return to the culture of fear when there is nothing to
fear of except for the healthy probings of historical inquiry that are essential to a
nation’s healing.

President Joko Widodo has not helped matters much through his refusal to apologise to
victims of the anti-Communist slaughter. His last message on the issue – that an apology
is impossible when both sides claim to be victims – may give us no relief. However,
despite civil society’s best efforts, it may be the clearest picture yet of where we are
in our struggle against forgetting. This does not mean we should lose hope. We may be on
the brink of sliding back into the dark ages, but we have always known how to fight back.
<<

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Beauty is given (to us) (for free!)




Ich bin
jede Sekunde, jede Phase, jedes Kapitel meines Lebens,
weil ich mich neu erfinden kann.
Ich bin
jede Episode, jede multiple Abspaltung meiner selbst,
auch wenn ich mich immer neu definiere.

Ich bin
die Maßlosigkeit, die alle Schönheit dieser Erde auf einmal verschlingen möchte,
die Sehnsucht jede Facette meines Ichs zum Explodieren zu bringen.
Ich bin
die rasende Suche nach etwas Unbekanntem, die in träger Einsamkeit mündet.

Ich bin
der Moment des Glücks, wenn du in den Himmel schaust und dich, das ganze Universum in dir spürend, 
in mir wiederfindest,
der
jetzt
schon wieder
vorbei
ist.

Ich bin
ein Mosaik.
Ich gehöre zusammen.
Gehöre zusammen als Mosaik. Bin die Verbindung zwischen Mosaiksteinen.
Ein Teil. Teil der Verbindung.
Teil der Verbindung aus all den Mosaiken die du kennst.
Die du die Welt nennst.
Ich bin

(R.J.)

Saturday, January 10, 2015

A quote for my muslim friends (after the "Charlie Hebdo" assassinations in Paris)

"Do not let yourselves provoke now! ... The devastating of this terrible attack was (also) that it perverted the sides: It has changed the Muslims from the position of the victim to the one of the perpetrators and brought the French journal from the attacker to the victim." The magazine Charlie Hebdo of course has deliberately offended Muslims with the publication of cartoons depicting the prophet and of course it was appropriate that the Muslims would defend their prophet, but: "This must however be done with wisdom and understanding!"

Mohammed Mokhtar Gomaa, the Egyptian Minister of Religious Endowments, preached at the friday prayer (9th January 2015) of the Sultan Hasan Mosque in Cairo.

Source: German weekly newspaper "Die Zeit

Unfortunately most German media did not report much about Merabet Ahmed, the French policeman who was murdered by the unscrupulous assassins on Wednesday in Paris. Merabet was injured in the street near the editorial office of "Charlie Hebdo", as one of the hooded perpetrators approached him and without hesitation shot in the head killing him. Merabet was a Muslim. The Muslim activist Dyab Abou Jajah wrote Thursday on Twitter: "I'm not Charlie, I'm Ahmed, the dead policeman. Charlie Hebdo was making fun of my faith and culture, and I died for his right to do that."

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

(get) the OVERLOOK (hotel) ...

 
If you drive for about one hour south east of Portland (Oregon), the road starts rising up to hills. The trees will become bigger and the hills turn into giant grey rocks hiding the blank sky. Then it is time to enter the steep slim side road to the left up to the top of a blinding white cone shimmering in the the strong sunlight of a clear autumn day.   

When you finally arrive over the clouds you will soon understand that you are standing on an old vulcano which is part of a chain called Cascadia. In the south you see Mt Jefferson, to the north there is Mt St Helens (last outbreak May 1980). And you are, somewhere inbetween, on Mt Hood. Welcomed by a raven who was waiting for you for a very long time.

And then you see something that seems very familiar to you although you could have never been here before. It does not look nice or friendly at all, so you start wondering why you feel so much at home on a place that you definitly have never been before. Its a giant wooden house, squatting on the stony side of the vulcano.


Not understanding how something absolutely new can feel so very well known you enter the entrance of this broad wooden building ...









It is a special spirit all around. 
A house haunted by people who never were here.

 



A photo of a new years night suddenly tells you why your memory believes you have been here before. You know this place from a movie. From a very special movie.

AND THEN YOU REMEMBER.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

 This is the place of the fictive fiction writer Jack Torrance. You never forgot him.

Welcome to the Overlook hotel.



You can check out any time you like. But you can never leave.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

The day that changed Germany: Leipzig, 9th October 1989 (Why could the FALL OF THE BERLIN WALL happen?)

How to win a revolution without bloodshed...
East Germany 1989.

Why could the FALL OF THE BERLIN WALL happen?
(And why was everybody suprised about that?)

Video (BBC-Interview, Oct 2014).

Audio (BBC-Interview, extended version, Oct 2014). 

Novel (Rabet, Munich 1999).

History book (The day that changed Germany, Leipzig 2007).

Sunday, September 21, 2014

On Indonesian Literature ...

With Indonesia, a country will present itself as guest of honor at the Frankfurt Book Fair in the fall of 2015 (the world's lagest book fare in general), wich's literature in the Western perception plays only a minor role and is a widely unknown in the global literature. This > big Unknown < Martin Jankowski approaches in his new book »Reading Indonesia" by various essays and interviews and takes a closer look at the stylistically and geographically extremely high contrasted heterogeneous literary landscape of the country. Discussions, articles and essays (2002-2014) explore the social background of the Indonesian literature's cultural complexity and provide an introductory overview of this overwhelmingly large scene.

Release date: 17 September 2014. (
195 pages, paperback, size 210 x 130 mm, ISBN 978-3-940132-66-6, In German language. MORE.)

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

bossa nova berlim - for my brazilian friends



a  festa dos segundos

as ruas dançam nuas e azuis
a hora tem o gosto quente do chá que revigora
as lâmpadas brilham ensolaradas como um bosque no outono
e as idéias têm o frescor da neve da manhã
tão-somente com as mãos limpamos os sentidos
embaçados como janelas pela chuva ácida
vagamos irrefreáveis pelo oceano do tempo
e pressentimos que a tempestade não vai passar
não vai passar

do rádio despenca o silêncio
na cabeça rouco e cósmico arde o jazz
tecemos um agasalho com a poeira  das ruas
e celebramos a festa dos segundos
a dama para quem recordar é dever
entristece e fica rija como sal
rimos e dançamos em torno da estátua
e por fim explode o coração

sobre a mesa uma conta que rasgamos
e  vivemos então nossos desejos
não ligamos para a ditadura da maioria
a esperança como princípio é prejuízo
por quanto tempo devemos esperar
por paraísos futuros prometidos
enquanto silenciosos e inexplorados
os melhores dias passaram
passaram

não não as ruas dançam nuas e azuis
a hora tem o gosto quente do chá que revigora
as lâmpadas brilham ensolaradas como bosque no outono
e as idéias têm o frescor da neve da manhã
(tradução de Carlos Abbenseth e Antonio Martins)



Thursday, April 3, 2014

RIMBAUD ON JAVA

rimbaud on java



what means a word compared to
what happens between heaven and earth (jürgen ploog)

forget paris
                        pupils shine
towards inside
skin burns
towards inside
hair stings    
to be ablaze

frees himself with maniac
thunderstorms of sound

farewell mother away from charleville
arrested in vienna deported to italy
in hamburg he falls into the claws of
dutch fishers of men

one must enslave the stars
and off to java as foreign legionnaire

the island in the scent of fever
as soon as landed he throws away
all abominations uniform and musket
sink into the swamp behind the barrack

he disappears into the jungle
of silent villages and rice terraces
smokes kretek tobacco in the shadow of the sky
circle children and buffalos
he with the women listens
to the hammering and croaking
a cheerful intermezzo
on the way to
charleville

later escape on a drunken ship
at the cape of good hope he jumps
into whirling water without a word

swimming he looks for the
unkown