People/paulstange/voices/6x.html

Ancestral Voices in Island Asia

by Paul Stange

chapter six

INDEPENDENCE

spiritual visions of independence

We began by considering the formation of the substratum, of village communities, and the classical era, which produced elite court cultures. Then we dealt with the growth of a middle sectors, in religious communities and trading classes, and now we have touched the generation of modern movements. In dealing with millenarian aspects of liberation movements we come full circle, to conjunction between the most deeply rooted perspectives of and the most recent influences on the region. In the first instance the village majority has interpreted recent events through old cosmologies. Though seeking social justice and economic wellbeing as we also imagine them, they have still tended to see those as reflections of cosmological mandates. Villagers have thus looked to leaderships, even when those have been drawn from modern classes, with expectation that they would be aligned to cosmic principles, even if in a new time, in the way earlier royalty was supposed to attune to their time.
Traditional spirituality is not an incidental leftover from a past era but a continuing source of dynamic response to new pressures. Some people cling conservatively to tradition, but on the whole traditions are being reintented, remoulded, readapted and redirected. By focusing on millenarian impulses of transition years we highlight spiritual purposes which appeared prominent to locals but seem incidental in our political narratives. Excellent new social histories treat local perspective through focusing on peasants, emerging new class groups and the diverse impulses revealed through local process. But beyond noting heterogeneity in local process or the presence of ordinary actors, we can also entertain local visions to grasp their volition.
Asian revolutions have usually been linked to millenarian impulses. Within upheavals such as the Chinese or Russian revolutions, peasants, who animated them, remained conservative. Historians view millenarianism as a throwback and usually distinguish peasant, religious, communist and nationalist movements. Some even hold that peasants are essentially duped if school teachers translate their aspirations into communism, as they did in Vietnam, and there is no doubt that for peasants ideology was secondary. Asian urban elites, the bourgeoisie or intellectuals formed by modern education and media, did formulate ideologies in western terms from early in this century. But even when peasants followed them, they read different meanings into those ideologies and from their perspective revolutions were neither nationalist nor communist at base.
Connecting peasants to states has been a primary challenge of nationalism and the fact that their movements take utopian form has influenced the linkage. Of modern ideologies communism converged most with the utopianism of earlier traditions. As Marxism offered a coherent critique of imperialism, early in this century it influenced even elite religious and secular nationalists who did not identify with it. More critically, it was easier for animists to relate to than scriptural or liberal modernism, as its utopianism facilitated their identification with it. Communism envisions classless society through revolution and projects a future without contradictions between capital and workers. It is totalistic and dialectical, holding that understanding depends on comprehending relations to the whole, and rooted in an absolute, in conviction that the doctrine itself is comprehensive; if a party is unsuccessful it is because it has not embodied the principles of historical materialism correctly. This circularity parallels traditional idioms of power, as within notions of divine kingship, or indeed most religious thinking, the human can err, but principles of the system are immutable.

Millenarianism is evident in all world cultures. The book of Revelations images final judgement and the beginning of a new epoch in which heaven and earth are merged. Periodically Christian utopian movements still crystallise around expectation that the day of judgement is near and will be heralded by a second coming of Christ. In this sense the Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses are millenarian. Whether through floods, divine intervention or atomic war there is expectation of cataclysmic change implying purification: those who are damned will find out they are; those who are saved will be elevated into a new world run according to God's will. Millenarianism refers not only to utopian movements tinged by Christianity but also to the range of movements which speak of radical end to the order we know, of a new order in which all things will be right.
The ghost dance religion, of the 1880s among the Sioux on the plains of the American west, shaped their violent outburst against domination. It was framed by prophecy that white people would be eliminated and the ancestral spirits and buffalo would return in the flesh. Hundreds of cargo cults in Melanesia have involved belief that westerners had magical access to material goods but colluded with local ancestors to keep a secret key hidden from local peoples. Expectations focused on the time when white people would disappear and 'cargo' would continue to arrive. There are senses of the millennium in both Buddhism and Islam. The famous General Gordon of Khartoum fought a Mahdi, an Islamic saviour in the Sudan. Buddhist notions of Maitreya, the coming Buddha, have been strong in China, Tibet, Japan, and within Theravada societies.
Christian time emphasises linear progression of events which do not repeat, leading to a final end. Indianised Southeast Asians have not held this sense of finality, their time repeats in cycles. Even the Brattayuddha, the final war in the Mahabharata, in not seen as a singular event, but as an acting out timeless struggle between spiritual and material dimensions. Within Khmer, Javanese or Burmese societies millenarianism is linked at once to ancestral spirits and Indianised cults. Concepts of the devaraja relate to the ebb and flow of power with the rise and fall of dynasties. In that frame when times are out of balance economically, politically or personally resolution is supposed to come through emergence of a new god king. The Javanese called their messianic figures the Just King or ratu adil, imagined as an ideal monarch who would again bridge the gap in planes between human life and cosmic law to re-establish balance.
Villagers usually expressed anger at oppression, frustration due to crop failures and resistance to demands in millenarian terms. For them material imbalances have been evidence, even proof, that rulers, whether kings, princes, presidents or prime ministers, are not in tune with the cosmos. Their movements typically focused on charismatic leaders presented, if in rudimentary terms, as kings to be. Leaders, thought to have extraordinary powers, collected regalia, claimed lineages connecting to royalty and structured village retreats as bamboo palaces. The most famous Burmese movement, the Saya San rebellion during the depression of the 1930s, took such form. Saya San was a western educated clerk in the tax office who was provoked by awareness of economic pressures on the peasantry. Despite western education and Buddhism, he had also been a monk, his movement took millenarian form and he was tagged as at once the founder of a new dynasty and the coming Buddha. The force behind uprisings in the Philippines, including the Sakdal movement during the 1930s in Luzon and the Huk movement after the war, cannot be explained by Marxist ideology.
In Indonesia the Sarekat Islam, begun in 1912 as a movement against Chinese traders, is seen as the first mass movement of modern nationalism, but its leader, Tjokroaminoto, was identified by Javanese with Herutjokro, the ratu adil. From its origins in 1921 the PKI, the Indonesian Communist Party, became mainly a vehicle for abangan, or peasant, Javanese interests. It became the largest party outside the communist block by its peak in the early 1960s, but from its inception membership was concentrated in animistically oriented Javanese communities. It extended to take in many who were not disciplined by Marxist ideology partly because it had no competitors in linking peasants to national politics. Although led by westernised elites peasant support for these movements has not been determined by modern ideologies as such.

For local intelligentsias everywhere independence meant opportunity to replace Europeans, to assume control over modern communications infrastructures, and political narratives focus on the contention which brought them into power. At the same time social history has highlighted the plurality of motives and crosscurrents in transition years. Only remote minority groups were untouched by the disruptions of the depression and war. But however sweeping the changes, most people no doubt remained embedded in ongoing life and wanted mainly to be left alone; the grand narrative of political drama intruded as a disruptive tangent in their lives. Insofar as subsistence oriented villagers considered independence, it likely meant aspiration for an idealised normalcy and balance in a context of minimised demands from the state. For religious people, whether embracing Christianity as an appropriation of modernity or celebrating established faiths, the shifts at the end of the war provided an opening to base wider social practice on their faith.
From a spiritual perspective colonialism was not just mechanical mastery of institutions, guns and economies, it was also a spell. In magical idiom the suppression of will, as in any hegemony, rests on tacit convictions about the way things are and can shift suddenly. In Southeast Asia at the end of the war, as in Europe recently, changes reflected not only who held what instruments of power, but also how human will was mobilised and perceptual gestalt configured. Sweeping changes in popular perception of the possible can occur almost instantaneously and such shifts are what millenarian projections refer to. For example the opening provided by glassnost led to dramatic shifts in perspective on Soviet dominance and a reconfiguration of social realities in Eastern Europe followed rapidly at the end of the 1980s.
Similarly the enforced quiet of colonial twilight in the depression years was broken dramatically when the Japanese punctured the myth of white supremacy. As the occupation drew to a close in 1945 most Indonesians, Burmese, Vietnamese and Filipinos felt the prewar order was already past. Urbanites and villagers shared this conviction and prepared for an independence which seemed immanent and cosmologically destined. European blindness to the spiritual depth and pervasiveness of popular sentiment contributed to the protracted painful transitions which ensued, as in the first instance cololialists assumed that only a small elite stood against them. The force of millenarianism was difficult for them to grasp. They did not recognised that its reference was to the same shifts in atmosphere which we registers through different idioms, and it appeared irrational to them.
From religious perspectives the transitional revolutions have been the outer layers of a reshaping which was also taking place spiritually. The state is responsible for regulating or providing a context for spiritual life according to traditional Theravada, Confucian, Muslim and Catholic religions. That conjunction had been suspended under colonial regimes, dominated by foreign worldviews. Though a reformation styled separation of political and religious spheres was evident in some elite ideologies, at the roots of social life traditional vision predominated. Thus among the plurality of interests and ideologies shaping transitions to independence we register powerful groups who pursued visions dominated by spiritual senses of purpose. These resonances are most apparent in the widespread movements toward an Islamic state, termed darul Islam in Indonesia, but similar convergence was evident in Buddhist senses of the Burmese revolution and even in the Confucian spirituality which remained implicit within Vietnamese communism. These perspectives both influenced transitions to independence and moulded trends of the postwar era.

In Vietnam traditional images presented the end of the war as implying an irrevocable end to the French order, one which had still held a place for imperial rituals. According to local spiritual culture the name for "village" (xa) meant at root "the place where people come together to worship the spirits". In the Vietnamese variant of the Chinese model it had still been held, even within the French order, that imperial rituals such as the Nam Giao drew on the power and good will of ancestors, especially those of the royal clan, to guarantee crops and the social welfare of the population. Rulers had to be tuned to nature and changed according to rythms which, even when not apparent on the surface, were felt in the tight village communities.
When the Emperor Bao Dai abdicated on August 22, 1945 he sanctioned the Democratic Republic led by the Viet Minh and especially entrusted it with the maintenance of his ancestral temples. To villagers, still bound to the land through cults of tutelary spirits focused on ancestral founders, this act represented more than a change of dynasty, it foreshadowed the end of a profound constellation of relationships between heaven and earth. Nevertheless ancestral rituals, including festivals such as Tet, the lunar new year celebration of ancestors, continued to have symbollic force as a way of reforging bonds between the ancestors, nature and society.
Deeply imbued vision of social order implied for Vietnamese contestants that the tensions at the end of the war would lead to one victor from among the many who initially appeared as candidates, not to pluralistic accord. Circumstances made it appear that the communists had made the most successful effort to assimilate modern western notions to the universe of Vietnamese discourses. This implied their victory was not only tactical, but also cultural, based on a shift in the mandate of heaven which could not be reversed by ploy or strategy. According to Mus's argument the revolution was decided in popular eyes in the critical period from August 1945 to March 1946 and this marked a whole generation of leadership, as the same period also did in Indonesia. This culturally rooted sense of the revolution remained largely invisible to French or American analysts and strategists. By focusing on ideologies, institutional structures and urban centres they consistently failed to register that the mobilisation of popular will, conceived locally as spiritual even when communist, influenced events more than formalised ideologies.
Imperial powers did note that in the Mekong delta the Hoa Hao variant of Buddhism attracted a following, as did analogous Javanese movements, around the founder's visionary projection of French defeat in 1940. Within it practices of individual spiritual enlightenment clearly intermeshed with the impending revolution. As Woodside noted, "...classical culture had been more discredited at the upper levels of society than at the lower and...the eighth-century Chinese poet Li Po (whose spirit regularly entered Cao Dai mediums in the 1920s and 1930s) still touched the hearts of more Vietnamese peasants than did the Paris commune." Within that movement much was made of ethnic myths of origin which saw the primordial spiritual strength of the people as lying in a magical prowess which would defeat the technical advantages of modern powers.
The strength of the Hoa Hao movement, which had an independent military-administrative structure in the villages of the Mekong delta, provoked violent elimination of its leader in 1947. Insofar as Hoa Hao prophesy held true in the end it was as a statement about communist rather than syncretic Buddhist power. In urban centres a vigorous but limited (in 1935 some 2000 adherents) modern revival of Buddhism competed with Marxism in attracting intellectuals to a vision of independence in Vietnam. Though rooted in older Mahayana Buddhism these new movements emphasised the explication of original scriptures in the vernacular and especially competed with Catholic missionaries. The latter had succeeded in communicating to villagers through local language at a time when most local Buddhists still seemed esoteric and technical, making Mahayana appear as a preserve of monks.
At the same time on another front, examination of how communist intellectuals were drawn together led Marr to note significant resonances between communism and engrained millenarianism. Terms in prison politicised many Vietnamese who had not previously been radical and in the process they forged spiritual bonds which later underpinned revolutionary cells. While millenarian religious impulses converged with revolutionary commitment for many people, at the same time many intellectuals did opt for Marxism as a liberation from what they considered a stasis oriented Confucian traditionalism which they did want to jetison.

In Burmese theorising the interchange between Marxism and Buddhism was direct and profound. Sarkisyanz established that underpinning the ideology of U Ottama in the 1920s there were notions that political struggle for independence paralleled the stages of Buddhist progression toward enlightenment. Pursuit of "nirvana within this world" was a Buddhist equivalent of the contemporaneous Christian sense of the "social gospel". Burmese nationalists clearly evoked ideals, of how the state is supposed to house spiritual endeavour, which trace as far back as the Indian Emperor Asoka. Communal values of selflessness and an ethos of leveling were related at once to Buddhism and communism within the Thakin movement of the 1930s. Even popular readings of terms such as "revolution" and "liberation" were shaped at critical junctures by Buddhist imagination and constraints. While diverging radically in other respects most nationalists converged in this respect. Aung San's leadership of the revolution, at the close of the war, brought an emphasis on separation of religion and politics, on socialist militancy in modern secular terms. But the culturalist anti-western traditions of U Ottama and Saya San became especially relevant again under U Nu's leadership, after Aung San's death and up to 1962.
The relatively westernised ethos of transitional leaders like Aung San, or Sjahrir and Hatta in Indonesia, gave way quickly to a neotraditionalism U Nu shared with Sukarno. In Burma dedication to fostering a Buddhist basis of the state was foreshadowed in 1950 and in place by 1951. U Nu reasserted the traditional role of the state as the protector of religion, seeing it as embodying the cultural values which, following the era of colonial suppression, needed to be enhanced to facilitate spiritual liberation. Socialism continued to be invoked in Burma, as in Indonesia, but communism was disavowed by the political philosophies which became dominant in both. From 1949 onwards the presence of communist insurgents in the hills led governments, first under U Nu then Ne Win, to emphasise the incompatibility of Buddhism and Marxism, but they advocated Burmese Buddhist socialism in the same breath.
Revolutionary transitions to independence, as in Indonesia, Vietnam and Burma, sharpen collective focus on spiritual issues in the same way that the prospect of death does for individuals. In Indonesia intense energies were unleashed during the suspension and excitement which birthed the Republic. Whatever their variant views most participants look back on the early days of the revolution with nostalgia. They recall a spiritual unity of purpose which they imagine drew diverse classes and ethnic groups, if momentarily, into united effort and aspiration. Whatever the actual unity no doubt they were touched by the intensity of the time. Those of formative age remained indelibly marked and the way they were marked matters, because their generation moved on to assume leading roles in the Republic.
Stringent wartime circumstances and policies combined with chauvinism to alienate locals but many Javanese initially saw the Japanese as the liberators who had been predicted in the prophecies of Joyoboyo, a thirteenth century king of Kediri. The deprivations of the occupation functioned like an enforced asceticism, focusing senses and concentrating energies, but they were tempered by conviction that freedom (merdeka) would follow. Anderson suggests that local youth were spiritually especially prepared for revolution by the Japanese, who trained militias through ascetic practices not unlike those employed earlier in hermitages or Islamic schools (pesantren). In Javanese millenarian imagery the revolution was a momentary vacuum, an upheaval resulting from the departure of divine sanction (wahyu) from those in power, a time of craziness setting the stage for a new golden era. During the revolution defeudalisation was a theme alongside decolonisation, millenarian senses of the revolution underpinned populist idiom and mystical sects thought of their practices as integral to revolution. The collapse of the outer walls of the Yogya palace (kraton) was connected to deeper changes, reading symbolically as a physical parallel to a spiritual opening and leveling. Powers (kasekten), which had been concentrated in kings and courts, were seen as flowing outward so that the communion between human and cosmic planes, previously mediated through royalty, became widely accessible for the first time.

Even where the political order was relatively stable or transitions less violent religious aspirations have been interwoven with revolutionary movements. In the Philippines the hierarchical organisation of the Catholic Church tied its leadership closely to the state, paralleling social linkages between the Thai sangha and royalty. But liberation Theology, especially influenced by currents from Latin America from the 1960s onward, appealed to sectors of the priesthood who identified their mission with social and spiritual welfare. The people power revolution, which contributed to the end of the Marcos era in 1986, involved even the hierarchy of the Church and made candlelight prayer vigils a weapon of protest. At the grass roots of society Catholic idiom has been appropriated to converge with calls by the poor for social justice. Traditional imagery throughout Southeast Asia presented events within the human microcosm as interwoven with and parallel to the social and natural orders of the macrocosm. Accordingly, at the deepest level the idiom of local movements suggests that the spiritual struggle of revolutions related to a reorganisation within the individual psyche. This, simultaneous with the displacement of colonial power over national cultures, related to unseating the 'imperialism of the mind within the body'. Releasing spiritual consciousness, suppressed by the same colonialism which subjugated locals in political and economic terms, read as integral to external revolutionary process.

Throughout the archipelago Japanese appeals to Islam enhanced conviction that the occupation foreshadowed the creation of the dar-al islam (the house of Islam). Movement toward an Islamic state had already been a leading current in prewar nationalism and played an especially consistent and powerful role in Aceh, which was never regained by the Dutch. Elsewhere in Indonesia, in Sumatra, Sulawesi, West Java, along Java's north coast and within its heartlands Islamic teachers (kyai) and the ideal of Islamic statehood sparked movements which competed with secularism at local and national levels right though the 1940s and 1950s. In the southern Philippines the Muslim struggle began later but paralleled the Darul Islam in representing revolutionary nationalism in an Islamic mould. Orthodox Muslims aspirations in Malaysia and Indonesia had been suppressed by colonialism, but were tuned within early nationalism. Contacts with Mecca and Cairo brought awareness that European colonialism was a dampening force throughout the Islamic world. Muslim movements were not simply expressions of purism, at root they also drew from millenarian and magical strands of Islam. The Darul Islam, or Islamic state, movements of Indonesia carried emphasis on the internal spiritual facet of the holy war, the jihad. Both highly educated leaders such as Kartosuwirjo, and many followers understood that the establishment and expansion of the house of Islam involved inner purification as well as external war.
The Indonesian leadership contained these aspects of their revolution, standing against changes they felt could jeopardised negotiations. The relatively secularised priyayi, heirs to Indic court traditions but Dutch educated, controlled the bureaucracy and constrained the social and religious impulses of both the Darul Islam and communism. Implicitly religious differences undercut communist claims on Indonesian nationalism. In 1948, virtually as the revolutionary army under Sudirman threatened to break with Sukarno, enforced demobilisation of communist regiments precipitated civil war within the Republic, centring in the Madiun area of East Java. The Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) was eliminated, as in had been previously by the Dutch in 1926, and many thousands died in local killing overseen by the firmly Muslim West Javanese Siliwangi division. By surmounting these populist guerrilla and communist "threats to nationalism", the leadership gained ground for negotiation, but at the expense of elevating the cleavage between Islam and Javanism to a new order of intensity which persisted through the 1960s. Post independence divergence between Muslim parties, the traditionalist Nahdatul Ulama and modernist Masyumi, and the syncretic or secular parties, the nationalists (PNI) and communists (PKI), converged with difference in cultural orientation and related to differing underlying spiritual senses of what the national revolution aimed to accomplish.
Though framed as banditry by the ostensibly secular victors, from an internal perspective Darul Islam movements, like the Moro nationalism of Mindanao and Sulu, expressed conviction that national revolutions remained unfinished so long as resulting states built on European rather than Islamic models. Like Marxists, for whom the revolution was incomplete without radical social transformation, many Muslims fought for a revolution they never won. In Aceh and along the north coast of Java changes were deep rooted and spontaneous, reflecting populist and religious impulses contrary to the thrust of what Europeans could register as "nationalist" political development.

National revolutions have not operated within self-evident boundaries. It is notable that the boundaries of new states do correspond, through most of Southeast Asia as in Africa, to those of colonialism. But within those diverse ethnicities maintain contending views up to the present and many impulses have been suppressed completely. We should consider revolutionary transitions as continuing well beyond the time frames usually defining them. In the broad sense, that is when considering national revolutions as more than a matter of legal recognition of national sovereignties, national revolutions continue now. Even those which might be considered 'complete' certainly involved extensive contention well beyond the apparent point of victory. In Indonesia regional struggles all through the 1950s continued the process of consolidating the state which had been proclaimed in 1945. In Burma wars have never stopped. In Cambodia the complexion of independence still remains indeterminate. In the southern Philippines, Aceh, East Timur, Irian Jaya, as among the Karens and other self-conscious groups, submerged nationalisms or proto-nationalisms remain present. At the same time populist and socialist energies within Thailand, Burma, Malaysia, Indonesia and the Philippines animated activists earlier but have been suppressed. In the process of national revolutions there have been innumerable ethnic, social and religious aspirations which have been marginalised as victors captured the capacity to define states.
On the margins of the state colonialism meant not only conquest, but also missionising, mining and plantations. Communities such as the Karen in Burma and the Batak of Sumatra came into contact with modern education through Christianity in the 19th century. But on the whole colonial rule did not integrate tribal minorities culturally into modern states. Similarly, anti-colonial movements, such as the Aceh or Java wars in the archipelago or the Saya San rebellion in Burma during the 1930s, centred on aspiration to harmony through tradition. Within them opposition to imperialism was filtered through and identified with ethnicity, language, or kinship. These early peasant, court and religious movements were thus the dying gasps of traditional entities. They may be connected to nationalism through elements of aspiration and the mythology of subsequent activists but contained no vision of a modern state. In the modern era boundaries between worlds of symbolic meaning are sharpening as much as those between spheres of power. Even probing how religious changes relate to nationalism reveals a mentality once foreign to the region. Traditional validations of power construed politics as one aspect of an also spiritual process; their apparent separability, increasingly institutionalised, is a key feature of recent changes.
Local appropriations of classical and traditional idioms meant synthetic reformulation of identity at every stage. Vietnamese used Chinese structures as a weapon against China and synthesis made Indic myths local. Now local peoples aim to adapt modernity to their purposes and at the same time the prominence of spiritual commitment within their cultures means that independence has not been read simply as a matter of political and economic autonomy. Usually political independence has been seen locally as interwoven with social and religious purposes. Thus revolutions focused not only on transfers of sovereignty or promise that stomachs would be filled but also on aspiration to achieve spiritual freedom from imported idioms imposed through history.

Sabdopalon prophesy under Suharto
Though anthropology is concerned with culture as such and arose in the context of intensified cross-cultural interactions tension between Western origins and aspiration toward universals remain. When we speak of 'millennial' or 'messianic' movements our terms evoke deeply rooted Judeo-Christian motifs even though reference is to movements which span the globe. Anthropology does not ensure escape from the hermetic grasp of our tradition. In this context I am referring to the Sabdopalon cycle in Java as an example of 'millenarian' imagery. However, the escatology of Java is cyclical rather than linear and in the Sabdopalon myths there is no sense of a cataclysmic end to the world, emphasis is on renewal, return to a balanced state presumed to have existed in the past. This emphasis approximates Indic mythologies more than the linear escatology of the Semitic religions. Nevertheless the Sabdopalon cycle is recognisably 'millenarian' and I will not linger on definition or typology as my aim is to use the cycle to uncover a meaning of 'Indonesian' identity for Javanists influenced by it. Modern identity has for them implied cultural and spiritual purposes which remain obscure when focus is on external social and political-economic realities. Understanding local ideology depends on recognition of the way images are grounded by dialectic with experience; cultural images must be related to the inner lives of those who employ them.
Java's population of around one hundred million, roughly two thirds of them Javanese speakers, is overwhelmingly Muslim, though significant groups are Christian, Buddhist or Hindu. Within each of community 'Javanists' are those committed to traditional rituals, influenced by courts and engaged with philosophy contained in the Indian derived mythology. The term originally denoted the geographical zone centring on the courts of Surakarta and Yogyakarta, but now refers more often to a cultural style placing primacy on 'Javaneseness', meaning religious commitment is conditioned by a 'culturalist' gestalt. Others within the same language family, and no less 'Javanese', hold their 'religious' beliefs as a more exclusive frame of reference. Semar resurfaced as a prominent focus of Javanist sentiment during the seventies and many prominent people, including some close to the President, have belonged to cults which focus on him. Semar occupies a key place within Javanese mythology, drama, and prophetic cycles and he is important in a number of mystical sects. The prophesy of Sabdopalon, Semar's incarnation, intersects with Javanist forms of Indonesian national aspiration, inspiring aspects of formally articulated government ideology and underlying the ethos of significant sectors of the national elite.
I begin by placing Semar within current myths and folk histories and then explore the roles he plays within recent Javanese religious and political movements. The practices which focus on Semar are built on ancestral spirit cults and tied in with power points in the Javanese landscape. Finally I present an interpretation, based on a composite of the faces Semar presents within Javanese tradition, which is self-conscious, articulate and sophisticated. In it visions of macrocosmic transformation are explicitly linked to internal and individual spiritual transformation. Indigenous explanations converge to present a coherent theory of the interplay between image and experience and my presentation is essentially ethnographic.
Literally, millennial movements focus on radical social changes leading to a socially realised utopia and on those grounds their prophecies seem illusory. On the basis of this representation of Javanese folk imagery we may confirm the relevance of Burridge's emphasis on the 'redemptive' functioning of millennial movements, especially of his conclusion that the "meaning" of millenarian activities is found in provision of "A new situation and status which, providing the basis for a new integrity, will enable life to be lived more abundantly". Here, as in his works, it is clear that millenniarian movements gain their force through the effect of participation in the present rather than according to whether predictions of the future prove accurate when interpreted literally. Once the dialectic of image and experience assumes a central place in analysis the sterility of purely structural analysis is also evident. 'Meaning' does not arise only intertextually nor reside exclusively in relations between symbols. Underlying oppositions are readily identifiable within Javanese myths and those who are engaged with them find significance through extended and rich play with related symbolic contexts, but finally meaning eludes us until we connect images to inner experience. This is a key to understanding the symbolic language of revivalistic movements and allows us to frame analysis without remaining captive to the ontology of our own culture.
A caveat is necessary. Explanation of internal logic is in one sense rationalisation, but it is not justification or defense of practices shaped by the ideology at issue: to elucidate the logic of a system does not imply evaluation of the uses to which it is put. My aim is restricted to indicating how the myths of Semar operate as a cultural system, it is essentially hermeneutic. I intend only to clarify how this ancient Javanese image continues to live and how, as old beliefs are translated into new national ideology, it contributes dynamically to the formation of a national culture.

Javanese cultural history has been complicated through extended interaction with Indic, Sinic, Islamic and western influences. Those influences began in the first centuries of the Christian calendar and their impact has been profound. As a result we cannot approach Javanese mythology as though it were a pristine system and it is difficult to determine which elements derive from purely indigenous roots. For instance 'Semar' is often invoked, whether by Javanese or by western scholars, as a prime example of indigenous content within the wayang mythology, yet his origins are uncertain. The actual historical evidence need not concern us, what is relevant here is that among Javanists he is thought of as having occupied a prime place prior to the influence of Indian mythology. Contemporary Javanists, including some urbanised elites as well as rural villagers, think of Semar as the chief guardian spirit (danhyang) and original ancestor of the whole ethnic group. Twalen is an equivalent figure among the Balinese, who are linked to the Javanese in ethno-linguistic and historical terms, and he is also related to Semar according to the mythology .
Semar is tied to the origins of 'Javaneseness' because he is supposed to have reached the initial accommodation with nature which made wet rice cultivation on the island possible. Semar did this by planting a magical talisman (tumbal) at Mount Tidar. The function of Semar's talisman was to control the demonic power of Java's wild forest spirits. Until Semar's magic effectively restrained the forest spirits it was impossible to clear the forest, plant rice and in other ways to take up the style of life which has for so long been fundamental to being Javanese. Thus Semar is thought of as the Promethian figure who made human (meaning "Javanese" as distinct from earlier inhabitants) existence on the island possible.
The nature of Semar's original contribution reveals the Javanese sense that their origins as an ethnic group are inseparable from the beginnings of sedentary wet rice cultivation and that also ties him immediately to the village basis of Javanese society. Tidar is close to the geographical centre of the island, near Borobudur. The myths state that when the island was originally drawn from the sea it was unbalanced. To correct that the gods (dewata) moved Mount Semeru to the east, toward the island of Bali. At the same time they drove a spike through the centre of the island to stabilise it. That spike became the hillock now called Mount Tidar. Tidar is immediately south of the town of Magelang and other evidence suggests that these rice fields may indeed be among the oldest paddies on the island.
Village rituals, insofar as they are still maintained, continue to focus on harmonising of human, spirit and natural dimensions. According to the Javanese tradition the human and natural dimensions are balanced through the mediation of spirits. Within the spirit realms there is clear distinction between ancestral and natural realms. All natural forces are represented and among the natural spirits perhaps the most important is Dewi Sri, the goddess of rice. Among the ancestral spirits the most critical have been Semar and, as a more immediate focus of attention during past centuries, Nyai Loro Kidul, the Queen of the South Sea.
Generally within the ancestral category the most important spirits are those of powerful ancestors (Jakal bakal or danhyang) who are the guardians of either specific settlements or natural power points. Usually these figures are thought to have been associated with the specific village or power point when they were alive. They are thought to have mediated between realms as living human beings, because of their special powers (kasekten), so their subsequent role as guardian spirits is an extension of their role in life. Thus Semar's role in establishing the basis for wet rice cultivation underpins his subsequent function within the realm of guardian spirits.
Semar is still especially associated with Mount Tidar but the places which are thought to allow easiest access to him are the caves at Srandil, near Cilacap, and at Dieng, the high plateau which holds some of the earliest of Java's monumental ruins. One of Semar's sons, Petruk, is sometimes associated with Mount Merapi, the volcano just north of Yogyakarta. The sacred power points associated with Semar are predominantly natural phenomenon rather than human constructions. In the myths Semar is conceived of as half-god/half-human; half-male/half-female. His ambivalent status is reflected in the fact that 'he' has one breast. In all of these respects he is intimately connected with the transition from the natural to the human order. The critical position he occupies in mythology, as a linking point between planes, is amplified in the way he is encorporated within Indian derived myths. Within the spirit realms Semar's position has not been static--it has altered with every major phase of Javanese history.
With the influx of Indian religious ideas the vocabulary of the local culture was extended and became more universalised, but the 'grammar' remained indigenous. This conclusion seems justified because even in the court sphere, where Indian influences and Sanskrit language have had the most impact, the structure of the language remains Malayo-Polynesian. This observation could be extended to apply to later development of Indonesian language through extensive borrowing from other archipelago languages, Arabic, Portuguese, and later Dutch and English. Through analysis of structure we can identify a recognisable religious substratum of Javanese life which is indigenous, even though a substantial proportion of the "lexicon" of Javanese religious life is borrowed.
Within the mythology this argument may seem hard to maintain. Although the process spanned centuries, Indian epic traditions became thoroughly woven into Javanese culture at the village level. As a result the most visible framework of folk mythology is Indian; The Mahabharata became the key element within rural drama as well as courtly epics. Indian impact certainly touched the structures, as well as the content, of Javanese myth, but the process was characterised by synthesis. Local nature spirits became Indian deities and over time the Indian figures came to be seen as ancestral to the Javanese themselves. While contemporary Javanese acknowledge Indian influences, even the people who do so will see figures from Indian mythology as associated with local places. In all important respects the Javanese came to see the Pandawa as their own.
It is through Semar's role in the wayang that he is best known. In contrast with most of the other characters he is supposed to be of local origin. In addition he is the prime representative, together with his three sons, of the common folk, of the peasant Javanese. Most of the figures in Javanese shadow drama represent either knights (ksyatria) or priests (brahmana). Those two classes occasionally interact with the gods (dewata) but commoners are hardly represented. Semar and his sons appear as servants to the Pandawa, the five brothers who symbolise the right. As servants they and their few counterparts are rough in manner and coarse in language.
Although appearing in many scenes, they take centre stage regularly in the scene called gara-gara. This comic interlude takes place about midnight within performances which last the nine hours from nine at night until dawn. Within these scenes the punakawan, as Semar and his fellows are called, touch the pulse of ordinary folk. They speak the language of everyday life, in contrast to the extremely refined speech of the main actors. Their jokes serve as a bridge linking cosmologically framed events and abstract philosophy to everyday life and the political realities experienced by the audience, often in the form of implicitly critical commentary.
According to the epics Semar was originally a god (dewa) called 'Ismaya', and as such had his place in heaven (kahyangan). In fact he was the elder brother of Siva, thus one of the highest gods. He chose to become an ordinary human being because he like crude jokes and tended toward gluttony, so he left heaven and ended up working as a servant of the Pandawa, in the grotesque shape of Semar. Through this device Javanese myths make their own statement about the relationship between Javanese and Indian culture. Tacitly their myths acknowledge the displacement of the primal guardian, yet secretly they maintain that his status was with the highest of the "imported" gods.
This feature of Semar's role has further significance. There are rare occasions within the wayang when Semar intervenes in the affairs of knights. Usually he does so only in response to 'unfair' meddling by the gods, otherwise his role is as a retainer and spectator, though he often comments on events. When Semar does intervene it is dramatic. He is transformed into his divine form (tiwikrama) and obliterates opposition to restore balance. Even in his normal role as retainer, there is significance in who Semar follows--standard lore dictates that whoever he follows must be in the right and will ultimately also win. Thus it can be assumed when he appears following an unknown character that eventually we will discover that the 'unknown' is actually a son of Arjuna, the most prominent of the Pandawa brothers.
The significance of these aspects of Semar's role is not lost on Javanese audiences. They identify with Semar not only because he speaks and behaves as they do, not only because he is their guardian spirit, but also because he represents the peasant 'masses' in both political and spiritual terms. Semar's role within myths suggests that according to tradition and despite the glory of the courts, ultimate power lies with the people. His interventions remind audiences that the masses have the capacity to overturn dynasties. When rulers fail to maintain balance between heaven and earth they are vulnerable, their status as 'godkings' (devaraja) questionable. Thus within Java's Indic civilization Semar's position as ancestor and guardian became linked to notions of popular intervention in the affairs of the courts.
This symbolism is linked to patterns of Javanese rural unrest. Ever since the Indic era peasant movements have crystallised around the expectation that a new just king (ratu adil) would surface to restore order after times of trial by returning society to balance with nature. Van der Kroef sees a 'stasis-seeking mechanism', rooted in village animistic ritual, as a fundamental characteristic of Javanese messianic ideas. In the complex of ideas surrounding Semar that timeless impulse converges with the cyclical sense of history implied by the rise and fall of dynasties. Folk movements have been consistently interpreted cosmologically, as a response to imbalance between human and natural realms. Millennial aspirations have thus generally centred on the hope that social welfare and natural harmony could be restored if a new ruler, perfectly attuned to the cosmos, surfaced to replace corrupted practices.
The Indic millennium of Java's classical states progressed through a cycle which culminated, at least as Javanese memory would have it, with the empire called Majapahit. Within the early central Javanese kindoms of Mataram, under the Sailendra's, the "great tradition' of the courts stood in stark contrast to the 'little tradition' of the folk. Claire Holt has said that the temples of early Mataram could have been constructed from Indian manuals but later the styles were adapted to Javanese contexts and the "psychological distance" between village and courts was less. Within Majapahit, from the thirteenth to the mid-fifteenth centuries, the Javanese substratum had become synthesised thoroughly with Indic imports (as the integration of myths already suggests). Whatever the historical 'realities', many contemporary Javanese continue to look back to the Majapahit period as the last 'golden age', as the last period in which Javanese identity was fully autonomous.
Majapahit crumbled under the impact of socio-economic changes which were associated with the roots of Islamic expansion on the island--at least this is the later Javanese story. A coalition of north coast (pasisir) states brought the downfall of the empire toward the end of the fifteenth century. As most Javanists in the seventies reckoned it this was in l478. According to later Javanese histories (babad) Semar was incarnated in those days in the form of Sabdopalon, a minister in the last court of Majapahit. As the kingdom fell, Sabdopalon and a few others left the court and retreated into Central Java. There they paused at Tidar and Sabdopalon spoke to his friends. He explained that they need not be concerned at the momentus changes which were in process, that they were about to enter into a five hundred year period during which Java would be dominated by external forces, during which he would be in 'retirement'. But he went on to say that at the end of that cycle he would return, ushering in a new golden age, a jaman buda'.
As an incarnation of Semar Sabdopalon represents quintessential Javaneseness, the identity of the ethnic group. At least this is how I would have us 'read' the stories I refer to. Hence the popular notion that Semar was incarnated in the last days of the empire can be connected to the Javanist sense that in the last days of Majapahit their purely indigenous identity was fully 'alive'. In announcing his 'retirement' Sabdopalon indicated that he, and with him 'Javanese identity' (insofar as my suggestion holds), would lie dormant. At the same time he promised to return bringing a new age in which Javanese could feel fully themselves once again. In any case this is how subsequent Javanist tradition has seen the transition from Indic to Islamic Java and this set the stage for an interpretation of the period of Dutch colonial influence.
Semar appears in contemporary tales of spirit encounter just as in old myths. In recent years stories of him have mushroomed. While climbing Tidar with several Javanese friends in 1973 I encountered an army sergeant performing a ritual on an old grave. One of his regular functions at AKABRI, the military college located just beneath Tidar, was to perform rituals to ensure it did not rain during military ceremonies. If he succeeded, as he assured us he always did, he received a payment. He said the grave was the site of Sabdopalon's stopover at Tidar and then told his version of the significance of that event. On several occasions I was shown a widely circulated 'photograph of Semar', taken at the cave at Srandil. The group of Javanese tourists who were visiting the cave do not appear but "Semar" does.
The Sabdopalon cycle has been woven into many others and there is no doubt that during the seventies, within Suharto's New Order, it rose to special prominence. It clearly serves as a framework within which some Javanese interpret their present and it is that role of the Semar system that I am centrally concerned with.

Millennial movements have been far more than a mere undercurrent within modern Indonesian nationalism. Although most frequently identified with expression through peasant movements, they have often been linked to urban based organizations led by western educated elites. Throughout the nineteenth century rural outbreaks almost always found expression through millennial forms--and there were literally hundreds of movements. While most nineteenth century movements were restricted in scope, the Java War crystallised resistance throughout the ethnic heartland of the Javanese. That movement may be seen as a "last stand" of the traditional courts in political-military terms--it was clearly cast in millennial terms, evoking and playing on expectations of the ratu adil as well as of the Islamic Mahdi.
With the emergence of modern nationalism in the first decades of this century, peasant movements were linked to urban centres. The first mass movement, the Sarekat Islam, was founded in l912 and became, virtually overnight, a movement of millions. Part of its attraction has been attributed to the charismatic appeal of Tjokroaminoto, its major public spokesman. Villagers saw it as no coincidence that his name recalled "Erucokro", another traditional name for the ratu adil. The peasant followers of Sarekat Islam expected violent natural changes, the elimination of Dutch power, and the rise of a new order.
During the Japanese Occupation of Java, in fact for some years prior to it, popular gossip recalled the prophecies of Joyoboyo, the twelfth century ruler of Kediri in East Java. They interpreted his forecast as an indication that Java would be released from foreign domination through the intervention of 'yellow people' from the north. Then, as the deprivations of the war years turned into the chaos of the revolution, peasants recalled Ronggowarsito's nineteenth century prophecy, his clarification that the new era of justice and prosperity would be preceded by a phase of mass insanity, the "jaman edan". Within the revolution many of the popular guerrilla units saw themselves as agents of a new order. Frequently their experience of the revolutionary struggle was framed by magical practices and martial arts (kanoragan) designed to achieve invulnerability (kekebalan).
With the establishment of the national government the position of millennial movements naturally changed. Like the early rulers and Dutch authorities, the new national leaders have been very sensitive to potential unrest phrased in millennial terms. While Islamic utopianism, in the form of the Darul Islam movements, was repressed, Sukarno's Guided Democracy often invoked the millennial tones of pre-Islamic tradition. To some degree the PKI, the Indonesian Communist Party, identified itself with millennial aspiration and in fact most of its followers came from among the most traditionally inclined of the Javanese--this was evident indirectly in the sensitivity attaching to debate about wayang within it.
During the fifties and sixties, many other movements began to distinguish more emphatically between magical, millennial and mystical inclinations. Within traditional Javanism (kejawen) those strands had been fused together and spiritual practices inevitably brought the potential of political power. Although many movements have begun to separate spiritual practice from aspiration to power, others have not and some of them have been forcibly repressed, especially in the early years of the New Order. Millennial impulses are expressed not only through the discrete movements which some individuals may belong to, but also through the way many Javanese interpret the meaning of their national struggle.
A central feature of national debate, under Sukarno as well as Suharto, has been the struggle to define a new 'national personality' (kepribadian nasional). Western observers have often failed to note the significance of these debates, perhaps because they centre on something which appears, to most of us, to be purely abstract and symbolic. From the standpoint of most Indonesians, however, these debates centre on a national spirit which has substance in precisely the same way that individual personality does. The undercurrents of ethnic, religious, political, and secular thought interact within a field in which a 'new being' is emerging, and the struggle to define it is framed by the perspective we might bring to decisions about our children's education in relation to their future career. The 'birthing' of a national spirit is vital and contentious--establishing a context which frames debate over definition of national political structures.
If Sukarno's charismatic style and symbolist efforts invoked the Indic patterns of early Javanese courts, then Suharto arguably represents a surfacing of village ethos. A number of observers have suggested that Sukarno claimed power in the same sort of cosmological terms which underlay traditional notions of the devaraja, even if in modern symbolic guise. Certainly some of his ideological preferences resonated suggestively with the ancient ideal of the kingdom as a self-contained microcosm of the world. Suharto is as thoroughly Javanist as Sukarno in his cultural origins--though it is important to note that both have been thoroughly "modern" and cosmopolitan in other respects. Even the way he assumed power, through a delicate and gradual process of undermining Sukarno's claims and manouevering himself on to centre stage, has been related to traditional Javanism. Both leaders have been Muslim in the traditional Javanese fashion--which is to say they combine the profession of faith with openness to Javanese mystical teaching and shamanic healing practices.
The New Order has never had the dramatic flair of Sukarno's Guided Democracy. Instead of elaborate effort at ideological synthesis there has been effort to deny the validity and relevance of ideology. Perhaps we can correlate this to contrasting social roots. Sukarno's family roots lay in the lower reaches of the priyayi; Suharto's claims to elite status are through his wife and his own social origins are much more firmly in the village. If Sukarno spoke the courtly language of elaborate syncretism, we might suggest that Suharto has brought the 'pragmatic' tones of village animism into national politics.
This fact remains obscure, partly because of the cultural defensiveness of primal Javanese tradition. Despite Javanese dominance of national politics, in the religious sphere modernist Islam has made the strongest claims on Indonesian identity. As a result the cultural and spiritual tradition of the Javanese has been struggling for recognition. Since independence these movements have generally been called 'aliran kebatinan'. During most of the past four decades these movements, and there are literally hundreds of them, have had an ambiguous legal status. Although not defining themselves as 'religions', they have been under the jurisdiction (until the late seventies) of the Islamic dominated Ministry of Religion and subject to controls exercised through the Justice Department.
During the seventies, with covert support from Suharto and overt backing by Golkar, the government sponsored 'functional grouping', the kebatinan movements gained firmer claim to independent legitimacy. They have been clearly 'legal' since l973, when the "General Outline of State Policy" (Garis Besar Haluan Negara) clarified that the constitutional guarantee, within the constitution of l945, of freedom of religion, also intended freedom of 'beliefs' so long as they remained focussed on the One God. Then in l978 the movements, by then more generally known as 'kepercayaan' fell under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Education and Culture and the control of their own independent Directorate.
The sympathies of the Suharto government have been revealed in other ways as well. When Suharto edged Sukarno out of power the final step was a letter of authority which Sukarno gave to Suharto on the llth of March l967. That letter has been known since as 'SuperSemar' (an acronym for the Indonesian: "Surat Keputusan Sebelas Maret"). Suharto's claim to a connection with Semar is far from incidental. From the perspective of traditional Javanists the claim was interpreted within the framework of the Sabdopalon prophecy, it is linked to their sense of the national struggle as an effort to reassert purely indigenous identity within the modern national context, and this in turn obviously connects directly with the increasing legitimacy given to kebatinan during the early years of the New Order.
Suharto's connections with Semar are evident in other respects. As a teenager Suharto had roomed for several years with Romo Dariyatmo, whose home was outside Wonogiri, south of Surakarta. He was a leading guru within a loosely organized collection of movements which belong to the traditionalist wing of the kebatinan sphere, that is to say to the cults most strongly connected to pedanhyangan, the cults of the guardian spirits. In the early years of his leadership he is known to have regularly visited the sacred sites most closely connected with Semar--for instance his famous visit with Gough Whitlam, then Prime Minister of Australia, to Dieng just prior to the Indonesian invasion of East Timur.
Among Suharto's closest advisers during the early seventies was General Sudjono Humardani, a Jakarta leader within the pedanhyangan group until his death in early l986. Another leader of the same cult group, Romo Sudiyat of Semarang, told me that he was commissioned by Suharto to find the Kembang Wijayakusuma, a rare flower associated in Javanese court lore with affirmation that rulers indeed hold the 'wahyu', or divine claim to power. Prior to each of the first three national elections Sudiyat sought this flower on Suharto's behalf at Nusa Kembangan, an island off the south coast of Java. It is said that on his last quest for the flower Sudiyat went to a different site, the island of Bawean in the Java sea, and was unsuccessful.
More recently Suharto has became estranged from this group of teachers and practices. Early in l987 a number of well placed informants commented on a break between Suharto and the Semar group. Some of them drew attention to this break to assert that the President had lost his mandate--arguing that he was no longer willing to listen to his best spiritual advisers. Others commented with an affirmation that he had never 'belonged' to the Javanese spirit cults, that he had always been centrally focussed on God. Certainly Suharto was never a 'devotee' in the way some reporters have imagined, people of his status are 'above membership', though there is no doubt that at earlier stages of his career his connections with the Semar cult were very important. It is also quite likely that as his career has progressed his beliefs have shifted increasingly toward the Islamic end of the spectrum of Javanese mysticism. Quite apart from these speculations connections between Suharto and traditional Javanism have been widely noted and are significant on that account alone.
The practices of the pedanhyangan styled kebatinan groups involve traditional styled selametan in traditional Javanese dress, wearing of kris and the collection of other power objects, meditation and fasting carried out at sacred sites (such as the spring, Sendang Semanggi, outside Yogyakarta), flower and incense offerings to propitiate spirits, meditation involving entry by specific spirits (usually for leaders of the group including Semar as was the case for Romo Budi in Yogya or others of the punakawan); and an emphasis on the throat cakra (reflected in automatic speech while possessed).
All of these are fundamental to, and typical within, the wider context of village styled spirit cults. However, many of the prominent members of these groups, both in central Java and in Jakarta, have been extremely well placed members of the national elite. Apart from the cultural defensiveness I have referred to, it is not in the nature of such practices to announce them publicly. These movements have not, for instance, been among those officially noted and registered with the surveillance bodies which keep tabs on kebatinan movements--though some individuals from these cults have been both active and important within the umbrella movements which have represented kebatinan efforts on the national stage.
I have noted that movements of this type claim legitimacy to the extent that they abjure politics. We might interpret this as an indication of growing secularisation, of distinction even within the mystical sphere between sacred and secular realms. Whatever force there may be in that argument, and there is some, religion remains an intensely political subject and the status of the kebatinan movements has been an active issue of debate between syncretic and orthodox Muslims. More to the point, the pressure for mystical movements to avoid 'politics' arises precisely because neither the government nor significant sectors of the public distinguish those spheres. Ironically the Javanist roots of the ruling elite are directly connected to its especially fervent rejection of millenarian currents.

Dozens of movements have been either de-registered, banned, or crushed, by the New Order. The most famous incident occurred in March l967, coinciding, not incidentally, with SuperSemar and the consolidation of Suharto's authority. In that month government troops moved in on the small East Javanese village of Nginggil and killed about eighty followers of Mbah Suro. Mbah Suro's movement had risen to prominence in the wake of the mass killings associated with the elimination of the PKI. The movement apparently had drawn considerable support from ex members of the PKI, at least that dimension of it was highlighted by the government in its reporting of the event. That, along with para-military organization, populist tones, and the circulation of chain letters with a millenarian message of impending doom combined to bring government reaction.
The movement itself was local and seemed insignificant, according to most outside perspectives, but talk of it and 'attunement to it', if we may speak in such terms, spread far, certainly reaching urban populations from Surabaya to Yogyakarta and Surakarta. As is often the case with these movements they lock into wider popular sentiment and imagination and therefore become an active concern for the government even if their membership as such remains small. They are more prominent in government strategic thinking than most outside observers would credit them as being and serve some of the same function in the Indonesian context our political polls do.
Not much more than a year later the Manunggal movement was banned . It had been a much larger movement with a following throughout Java, including highly placed naval personnel. Like Mbah Suro, Romo Semana spoke of a coming new age in intensely Javanist terms. His followers made offerings and showed deference which, from the government perspective, conjured images of a competing court, of a new Ratu Adil. The movement has continued, quietly and on a smaller scale, though it was banned twenty years ago.
Another incident with a millenarian flavour has a different nature. In September l976 the Suharto government announced that there had been an attempted coup. On first glance the 'coup' appears to have been a non-event, the main question for many outside observers was why it generated such a strong reaction. The document at the heart of the affair seemed relatively innocuous from a western perspective--it seemed that Suharto's government had made trouble for itself by taking the affair so seriously. In the aftermath of the announcement there was worldwide press reporting, incessant domestic coverage and eventually a lengthy and complex public trial. Paradoxically, the trial became a dramatic forum for innuendo and criticism of the regime.
The "coup" in question centred on Sawito, until then an unknown minor civil servant. Its immediate substance was in a document which criticised the moral fiber of Suharto. The document was written by Sawito and he had managed to get a remarkable range of luminaries to sign it. These included ex-Vice President Hatta and the recognised leaders of every one of the major religious groupings in the country. As soon as the government caught wind of the document, all of the luminaries in question were pressured to retract publicly by signing documents to the effect that they had not been aware of its contents. In the end Sawito was sentenced to an eight year prison term and left the courtroom smiling.
In fact, Sawito's letter resonated with widespread discontent and thus in substance was a potentially serious challenge to the government. Bourchier has clarified that it became a challenge in more than symbolic terms, in part because so many Indonesians agreed with the sentiments expressed--even those who engineered the trial had axes to grind. Had the government allowed the document to stand it could have seemed to the public an admission of the truth of the critique--which did speak to the heart of the legitimacy claimed by the regime. Throughout the Suharto period the most consistent framing of criticism has been on moral grounds--"corruption" has been the key word. This is in part due to the constraints on political dissent within the New Order, but it is also connected with the political culture of Javanism. The significance of the Sawito affair lies in the weight given to moral forms of criticism.
We need to treat the notion of corruption with some caution when interpreting Indonesian political process. It is easy to assume that the same reasoning underpins talk of corruption by westerners and Indonesians. But we may arrive at the same conclusion from reasoning of a different sort. In Indonesia a variety of perspectives are applied and I would not argue that there is a uniform view. However, I would argue that the very prominence of corruption as a theme is tied to traditional ideas of legitimacy. From the western perspective corruption is evidenced when official state functionaries appropriate as personal goods and services which we, from our "rationalised bureaucratic" perspective, view as belonging to the state.
From the traditional Javanese perspective the "corruption" lies not so much in whether this coincidence occurs, but in whether the official in question actually uses the resources which flow to him (usually) for the benefit of the collective. The patronage system (often referred to as 'bapakisme") still effectively operates and it "works" when leaders function as channels through which goods are distributed. To the extent that wealth is recycled outwards and downwards there are not likely to be complaints of corruption. However, to the extent that upward flow predominates and leaders become personally wealthy without channelling benefit to followers, then the system is morally corrupt in Javanist terms. Several informants commented that corruption is mainly attributable to members of Suharto's family. They criticised Suharto more for not disciplining them than for personal failings. Some argued forcefully that all systems naturally involve family ties, that everyone 'wants to work with people they can trust'.
As Moertono and Anderson have described it, in Javanese terms the basis of authority was supposed to be the 'wahyu', an almost concretely conceived divine saction which indicated that the ruler is indeed attuned to the cosmos and capable of maintaining harmony between human and natural realms. The greatest threat to legitimacy is thus "pamrih"; that is narrow self interest, which in itself limits the capacity of the ruler to attune to cosmic and collective spheres in order to keep them balanced. In more colloquial terms, we might say simply that 'ego' limits awareness, and that where this is the case a ruler does not have the breadth of vision to deserve the position of collective responsibility he occupies.
Similarly whereas our assumption of how democracy works emphasises elections as demonstration that there is a popular mandate for the leadership, in the Indonesian context other reasoning may apply . Elections may serve mainly as rituals to demonstrate support for the ruling group, just as in the traditional context visible demonstration of elite support for the king would be demanded regularly. As the works of Ricklefs suggest, traditional rulers sought not just an abstract or symbolic mandate, but also a consensus of elite support to substantiate it. Though 'elections' originated in a western context, it may be incorrect to 'read' Indonesian versions of them by the 'democratic' rules we believe ought to apply. The holding of elections may involve substantial modification, not just poor imitation, of western theories. Suharto has indeed been consistently concerned with establishing his mandate, not only through elections, but also through ritualised quests such as that for the Kembang Wijayakusuma.
Sawito was of no public significance prior to the affair. He had been a minor official in the Department of Agriculture until the late sixties. Then he was removed from his position, for reasons which remain obscure, and entered into a period of mystical quest. During the early seventies he became associated with a number of well placed mystics, most notably Sukanto Tjokrodiatmodjo. Sukanto had been the national chief of police under Sukarno and the leader of Indonesian Freemasons. Sawito knew him in his capacity as the leader of Orhiba( short for: "Olah Raga Hidup Baru", or "New Life Exercises"), one of the recent kebatinan movements, and as (at that time) one of the principal leaders of the SKK (Sekretariat Kerjasama Kepercayaan), a national umbrella movement of mystical sects. Association with Sukanto brought Sawito into contact with Hatta and the religious leaders who later signed his document.
Prior to the circulation of the document, Sawito had begun to make claims to power in the classical style--though on the surface these events were unconnected to the protest document. With a few friends he went on a series of pilgrimages (lelana brata) to sacred sites scattered through Central and East Java. According to people who accompanied him, he acquired a series of power objects (pusaka), some associated with Majapahit royalty. In addition on Mount Tidar Sawito is supposed to have been given the responsibility of replacing Semar as the guardian of Javanese welfare. In other ways his experiences explicitly suggested that he was to be the ratu adil.
In Java many mystics have claimed wahyu and some of them have always thought it implied connection with the cosmic powers upon which political authority is supposed to rest. In most cases these individuals remain obscure. But Sawito took the concrete step of linking his claim to a document signed by people of publicly acknowledged status within the elite. By doing that he began to translate his claim to power into definitive statement that the New Order lacked both the moral integrity and elite consensus which together were supposed to support its claim to legitimacy. That step transformed his otherwise unlikely claims into a serious challenge and it was naturally treated as such.
The Sawito Affair has been the most prominent example of the continuing significance attached to millennially framed discontent. Others have also claimed connection to potent spirits, several have claimed to be incarnations of Semar, and these movements are treated seriously rather than simply being dismissed. One way or another Semar has definitely returned to public awareness and consciousness. Symbolically and emotively he returned to prominence in the seventies, though in the eighties his "presence" has again receeded. This resurfacing can be linked to the Sabdopalon prophecy--as its fulfilment within the context of cultural movements since independence. This comment is not tongue in cheek. To understand it it is necessary to reframe our interpretation of the imagery which operates in the Javanese context. The meaning of my suggestion becomes clear when the abstract "symbols" referred to in the movements are linked to "experience" within the individual.

Indigenous interpretations of Semar are legion and no orthodoxy asserts a definitive explanation. Indeed different individuals and groups present us with ostensibly divergent readings of the same image. While there are substantive differences, an underlying framework of interpretation does link most senses of Semar to a single, if complex, pattern The pattern of meaning becomes clear when adopt two procedures. First we must juxtapose the varied images by treating them as parts of a single field of interpretation. When we do that, which is consistent with the syncretic style of Javanese thought, then we are presented us with a convergent image. Secondly we can begin to make sense out of this image once we realise that the different faces of the image are understood as manifestations of the same force within different dimensions of experience. Appreciation of this depends on extension of our understanding of the significance of the traditional notion of correspondence between "microcosm and macrocosm"--it reflects an ontological posture rather than being simply a component within an 'alternative ideology'.
In elaborating on the images presented so far I will draw on the specialised interpretations of Javanese mystics. Obviously their perspective differs from that of many other members of the society. Anthropologists have sometimes been criticised for generalising on the basis of specialised knowledge presented to them through informants who are among the 'initiated' elders of their societies, thus being the equivalents of 'professors' or 'theologians'. Certainly we should not confuse specialised knowledge with general belief. It is also vital to distinguish differences of perspective within the culture, especially those separating urban elites and rural villagers. At the same time many such specialists are also acknowledged spokespeople, they often articulate clearly what others sense intuitively. There are also continuous dialectical interchanges connecting rural and urban, specialist and public, literate and oral. In drawing on explanations given by mystics I am not suggesting either that all Javanese see Semar as they do nor that they reveal what is definitively 'true' about him. Nevertheless the fundamental structures applied within the interpretive process are shared.
In the court city of Surakarta there are a number of cults focussing on Semar. In l976 I visited Pak Darmodjo, a teacher within one such cult. He held a ceremony designed to summon Semar. The ritual involved incense and centred on the floating of a button sized ruby in a glass of water. Afterwards Pak Darmodjo explained that magical phenomenon were at a low stage of spiritual life, that unusual events should not be seen as an aim. He said we could meet Semar in a variety of ways. It was possible to smell him, in which case we would smell a very sweet (wangi) odor not unlike that of the offerings he had made. Semar could also appear as either a starlike light or very much as he does within the wayang. Finally, and he gave this the most emphasis, in his divine form as Ismaya, Semar is the 'harmoniser': the one who balances all aspects or dimensions of the cosmos. In this sense he is clearly seen as being more than the localised guardian spirit of the Javanese.
Within the Manunggal sect, one of the banned movements already mentioned, there is another sense of Semar. According to Romo Suwarso Kartadinata, who in the early seventies was the leader of that network in the Salatiga area, Semar is associated with the lowest of the three major occult centres in the body (triloka). Within Manunggal, which has a Tantric orientation, the experience of union and enlightenment is seen as being similar to the instant of conception, when the sperm and egg meet. He also compared that moment to the meeting of positive and negative currents, producing light in a light bulb for instance. The three main bodily centres are linked to the head, heart and genitals--thus Semar is in this image tied to the forces of procreation, to the source of life.
Ibu Sri Pawenang, the leader of the Yogyanese centre of Sapto Darmo, suggested a very similar sense of Semar. Within the Sapto Darmo system there is an elaborate theory of the 'tali rasa', of a network of inner organs of psychic perception. In its framework these organs, very much as within the Indian kundalini framework, are linked both to different fuctions and to individual wayang characters. Each wayang character is seen as representing a specific psychic force. Semar has a special place within the Sapto Darmo scheme. In fact he appears at the centre of the group symbol. But Sri Pawenang explained with some emphasis that he was not seen, in their terms, as a guardian spirit. Instead he symbolically represents the life essence, an essence which exists equally within all people.
In drawing attention to these mystical senses of Semar I am clarifying that even within the terms of Javanese tradition the symbolic significance of mythic frameworks is unravelled--the tradition contains its own sophisticated phenomenology and hermeneutics. It would be incorrect, however, to hold that one interpretation is 'more real' than another. Within the Javanese framework, which is both holistic and syncretic, each version serves to amplify meaning within a different dimension. Thus Semar can be seen simultaneously as original ancestor, guardian spirit, transmuted god, symbol of the common folk, personification of ethnic 'essence', life force, and cosmic principle.
As Javanese understand them, spirits exist not only within a shadowy dimension of the outer world, but also internally in the blood and elements which make up the physical body. So when rituals work to 'propitiate ancestral spirits' their function is not only to provide food to sustain 'spirit beings', but also to bring peace to living people by helping them come to terms with the inner forces which have moulded them. In this respect there is a substantive link between shamanic practices framed by spirit beliefs and the functions of psycho-therapy in our context. Even if many Javanese do not see Semar in the terms I am suggesting, very few see him in the literal terms commonly underpinning the discounting of spirit beliefs in our culture.
There are underlying structures, beneath the variation of indigenous interpretation. Each of Semar's faces presents us with a fusion of fundamental dualities--an underlying structural opposition is clearly at work. Semar sits at the interface between natural and social dimensions; he is human and also divine; he is male as well as female. In the wayang context he is described as having neither beginning nor ending--his shape is round. His name is linked to the word "samar", meaning "hazy" or "indistinct". He appears in the first instance as quintessentially Javanese, as purely ethnic. Then we find him presented as a representation of universal life force, of a cosmic principle of balance.
Once we link these variant interpretations we can begin to seen the way in which beliefs, contained within traditional culture, function as redemptive systems and hence, in the Javanese context, the continuing relevance of Burridge's interpretation of millenarian images. When the Javanese speak of Semar's 'reincarnation' they are speaking simultaneously of a rediscovery of self and a discovery of universal principles. When they speak of their history as a movement toward 'true inner identity', or when they refer in political rhetoric to the issue of 'national personality', they are not just speaking of a renaissance of parochial traditions. They relate renewed personal integrity to an autonomy of indigenous patterns based on release from definition in other people's terms.
Javanese traditions are on the defensive in the face of Islamic and modernist trends. Even the national elite does not feel it can publicly acknowledge what has at times been its preferred spiritual style. This is a reflection of the fact that national autonomy has not yet been achieved in the cultural and spiritual spheres. Preoccupation with 'Semar' is a direct reference to struggle toward autonomy in those spheres. In the Javanese context this internal dynamic becomes clear because there is a self-conscious linking of events and patterns within the microcosm and macrocosm. Images are interpreted not only as forecasts of macrocosmic transformation, but also as statements about inner experience. With this gestalt we can see that the 'new golden age' is not just a reference to a projected physical achievement of balance and harmony in the visible social world. It refers also to a rediscovery of self, a realisation which may happen internally even when it is not manifested on the outer physical plane.
In interpreting Javanese cultural dynamics from outside the ambit of its images we need to link seemingly abstract images to the personal experiences of those who hold, or who are held by, them. This lesson applies to any exploration of religious patterns. If we treat images as just segments within an alternative framework of thought, then we imply that symbols function for other people in the way they do for many of us--as pure abstraction. But religious images find their meaning in experience rather than just as systems of abstraction. Symbols which seem local and obscure may function in redemptive terms we normally associate only with "world religions"--even apparently parochial systems of thought are directed toward resolution of fundamentally human and universal issues.

ref to Meisner on Maoism

ref to Hobsbawm and Wolf and Cohen

Landon, Southeast Asia pp 194-7.

D. McAlister & P. Mus, The Vietnamese and Their Revolution, New York, 1970, pp 118 & 126.

A.B. Woodside, Community and Revolution in Modern Vietnam, Boston, 1976, p 188.

D. Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, Berkeley, 1981, pp 305-6 & 316.

E. Sarkisyanz, Buddhist Backgrounds of the Burmese Revolution, The Hague, 1965.

B. Dahm, Sukarno and the Struggle for Indonesian Independence, Ithaca, 1969, chapter 1.

C. Geertz, based on fieldwork in an East Javanese town in the early 1950's, in The Religion of Java, Chicago, 1976, notes both the emergence of sects (pp 112-8, 339-52) and that activists connected changes in spiritual practices to the revolution.

The fieldwork which forms the basis for this essay was carried out principally in the period from January 1971 to February 1974.

I am using "Javanist" (kejawen) in preference to the term "abangan", which became enshrined in works on Indonesia on the basis of Geertz's work (1976). In doing so I am agreeing with Koentjaraningrat's framing (1985). It has been common to identify Javanists as "nominal" in their commitment to religion but this is not strictly correct, at least not if it is taken as meaning that they hold their religion superficially. They are typically far more profoundly commited, even to their professed religious ideology and quite apart from their "cultural" preferences, than those who are "nominal" Christians in an Australian environment.

Burridge 1969, p171

J. Kats, "Wie is Semar?" Djawa III (1923 p 55) conjectured that Semar was an old indigenous deity (in Holt1967 p145). Ulbricht (1970 p 22) cites Semar as Javanese because he is "unknown in Hindu mythology". Mulyono (1982 p 26) stresses Semar's local origins (quoting Dutch scholars for backing) and provides an extended review of his role. On the other hand Poedjosoebroto's Wayang: Lambang Ajaran Islam (1978 pp 44-47) includes an argument that Semar was introduced to the wayang by Islam as a representation of worship directed to Allah. The symbolism of Semar may have been reconstructed with the advent of Islam but archaeological evidence supports earlier origins. Among the 8th-9th century Dieng temples are three named after his sons Holt (1967 p 53) equivocates but allows that these names could have been maintained by the surrounding population since the construction of the temples.

(Forge 1978 pp 74-7)

(Geertz 1976 p 23)

The proximity of Magelang to the early temples at Dieng and Borobudur is the clearest suggestive evidence. Geertz (1963 p 41) nominates the Magelang area as one of the most likely early centres. Van der Meer(1979 pp 1-9) summarises evidence relating to the earliest irrigation systems, making clear we cannot be certain precisely where the earliest sawah were located.

Javanese spirit belief are remarkably pervasive, consistent and coherent. Geertz's discussion of them (1976 pp 16-30) fails to clarify their coherence. Koentjaraningrat does slightly better(1985 pp 338-45) but he relies too much to textual sources. Hefner (1985 pp 46-64 & 99-125) gives far more grounded insight into a pattern which has force well beyond the Tengger region he speaks of.

Wolfgang Linser has reported (in conversation) that in areas of new hybrid rice production villagers in recent years have spoken as though the spirit planes are "receeding". Changes have been especially rapid in the past several decades but the force of these beliefs nevertheless remains stronger than most observers imagine.

The suggestion that Nyai Loro Kidul "stands in" for Semar is from Drs. Warsito of Magelang.

The most forceful form of this argument is that of the Solonese Hindu mystic Hardjanta Pradjapangarsa, who has gone so far as to argue that the Ramayana and Mahabharata originated in Java rather than India. He connects them through reference to the Theosophical notion of Lemuria (1972 pp 1-8). Localisation of the wayang is also evident in linkage of the Javanese landscape with figures and events from the mythology--Gatotkaca's kingdom of Pringgodani being at Tawangmangu, the Pendawa's forest kingdom at Dieng, the site of Rahwana's fall at Gedongsongo etc (Stange 1978 pp 115-6; Keeler 1986 p 246).

The political function of wayang has declined--clown scenes are more purely humorous and the wayang is less ritual and more purely entertainment (Sears1986 p162). In my experience choice of lakon can still read as political commentary. A Solonese wayang orang performance, during the 1971 election campaign, of the story (lakon) "Petruk becomes king" led to the arrest of the actor playing Petruk. More recently, during a performance at the Yogya kraton, a Javanese friend related the Sultan's choice of lakon to his decision not to stand again for Vice-President and to a trip he was making, at the time of the performance, to Sukarno's grave at Blitar. Significance generally attaches to and resonates with any events which coincide with a performance.

(Holt1967 p144-5)

Self consciousness in Javanese use of this imagery is demonstrated in a populist novel published in1965, just before the coup and elimination of the PKI (the Indonesian Communist Party). Sardjono titled it "Ismoyo Tiwikrama" (1965), and used the image of Semar's transformation as a way of referring to the rising of the masses politically.

(van der Kroef1958-9 pp 299-301)

Claire Holt (1967 p 63 & 71

Slametmuljana (1976 pp 253-4) accepts this date as consistent with the "Serat Kanda" and with the "Chinese Chronicles of Semarang". Once again, however, I would stress that historical accuracy is not the issue, what matters in this context is what contemporary Javanist have believed.

Literally this means 'Buddhist Era', but this is generally taken by Javanese as indicating a return to "the religion of Majapahit", which was a syncretic mixture of Shaivite Hindu and Tantric Mahayana doctrines.

Kartodirdjo's works have been the most important treatments, especially his Protest Movements in Rural Java (l972).

(Dahm1971 pp 1-20)

(Mataram l948)

(Stange 1978)

(McVey 1986)

(Geertz 1971 p86; Anderson 1972)

(Mulder 1978 pp 1-13)

(Stange 1986)

(Roeder1969 pp 89-90)

(MacDonald1980 pp1-2)

(interview 1972)

Description of practices is based on presence during ceremonies at Sendang Semanggi, Romo Budi's residence in Yogyakarta and local meetings in Surakarta (during 1973-4) and at Sudjono Humardani's home in Jakarta (in 1985).

(Hanna 1967)

(Kartodirdjo 1972 pp121-2)

Bourchier (1984)

Moertono (1968) and Anderson (1972 pp 38-43)I have outlined the spiritual logic underpining this complex of ideas, which tie personal consciousness to social power and responsibility, in my essay (1984) on "The Logic of Rasa in Java".

(Schulte-Nordholt 1980)

Ricklefs (1974 pp19, 55, 362)

(Bourchier 1984 pp 39, 50-53)

(Narto1978 pp 28-9)

This interpretive point is linked to an earlier essay (Stange 1977) and I am stressing again that this is only my presentation of a Javanese theory. It is distressing, after ethnoscience prioritising of indigenous categories and post-modernist recognition of the power relations of interpreter and interpreted, to see the violation committed by Keeler (1987). In his beautifully crafted book, he dismisses the indigenous tradition of esoteric interpretation as though it is only a fabrication of the Theosophical Society (p244), ignoring the rich Indian mystical roots common to both and claiming that "In Java...interpretation does not begin with an opening onto experience" (p260). Finally he presents (p267), as though it is his elaboration of Geertz and Ricoeur, a reduced version of precisely the kebatinan reading (Stange 1977 p122) which he has dismissed. Keeler was obviously so concerned with the canons defining anthropological interpretation (involving its own "sacred lineages of transmission") that he became blind to the sophisticated and self conscious theorising of the Javanese--appropriating their message to his voice and thus disempowering those he represents.

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