One hundred years after the first president of Indonesia was born, his
daughter became its fifth president. One of the greatest political assets of
Megawati Sukarnoputri, elected in July 2001, is her father’s legacy. His record
is ragged but inescapable. Dispute will persist about his contributions
to Indonesia and the distractions he presented to his nation. For a large proportion
of the Indonesian population, however, there is no debate. Their
collective memory, rounded and softened, is of Sukarno as revolutionary
nationalist and man of the people, a lovable source of their national identity.
Megawati, as his eldest daughter, enjoys the momentum of those attributes,
along with projected expectations unique to herself: the patient
mother, succorer to a suffering people, and restorer of unity to a nation
again badly torn, as in her father’s era.
To evoke the great range of character and characteristics of this nation
that lives so markedly in the world of myth, I turn to a symbolic pairing
whose source is Indian mythology, transformed by centuries of Javanese
history. The pairing is of Durga, who stands for power, destruction, rage at
man, and Umayi, who represents all that is gentle, feminine, and beautiful.
Durga appears in old Javanese sculptures as a many-weaponed warrior, female,
adamant, Amazonian in her fearlessness (see Figure 33 in Chapter 6).
Umayi, not captured in stone, represents the soft, submissive, and creative
side of the same mighty character. Both are consort to the great god Siva.
Umayi is his sweet and domestically fulfilled spouse; but by an ancient curse
she is always transformable into her angry and vengeful opposite, Durga,
with her appetite for war.1
All his life Sukarno courted Indonesia as Umayi. He charmed and won
her. She was faithful to him; and he, in his fashion, despite his petty mortal
passions, was faithful to her. But in the end Sukarno had to face the reality
that he was playing games with the gods. Eventually, the curse emerged,
17
and Umayi was transformed into the dreadful Durga. Sukarno’s rule went
down, and with it the lives of half a million Indonesians. The romantic who
had aroused the masses was reduced to an isolated, weeping wreck.
Megawati Sukarnoputri’s womanhood makes her potentially a full expression
of the binary character Durga/Umayi. Which Indonesia she will
invoke is a function of her inner person, her circle of advisors, the vortex of
Indonesian politics, and the typhoons of international affairs. Whether she
will arouse an Indonesia more affirming than destroying, or one more devouring
than nurturing, is history yet to be made.
Of Mandalas and the Perfume of Ten Million Flowers
Significant kingdoms existed in Java a millennium before the Dutch began
to prevail. The great Buddhist monument of Borobudur near Yogyakarta,
erected in the eighth century CE, as well as the Shivaite temple at
Prambanan of the late ninth century, not far away, are remarkable displays
of royal spending for sacred and political purposes. But there were no “empires”
in a boundaried and bureaucratic sense.
The largest radial phenomena of Southeast Asian regional history are
best called mandalas—a Sanskrit word that still suggests sacred geometry
but, in the view of Oliver Wolters, conveys “a particular and often unstable
situation in a vaguely definable geographical area without fixed boundaries,
and where smaller centers tended to look in all directions for security.”
Mandalas could expand and contract like concertinas. Angkor at its grandest
radiated influence from Cambodia through modern Thailand to the
Malay peninsula and parts of southern Vietnam, enlarging and collapsing
accordion-like: a mandala marked by “cliques, factions, personalities, clientage
and patronage.” The great carvings on the forty square miles of its surviving
monuments convey a richly textured social life, military clashes with
neighbors, and above all the sacred nature of its kingship, which presumed
that it expressed the universe in microcosm. But despite court eulogies to
the ruler and claims of unlimited sovereignty, “the Sanskrit tongue was
chilled to silence at 500 metres” from the throne. There was little evidence
of protracted lineage descent in dynasty. Likewise little of extended spatial
control, as distinct from the amassing—in the more effective mandala centers—
of political and commercial intelligence about what went on within
its imagined circumference, which was overlapped by other influences radiating
from other centers.2
Southeast Asia was a polycentric landscape-seascape, dotted with royal
centers and connected trading ports but without a Genoa or Venice or any
city states commercially expansive in the European sense. Far less, after
1500, were there indigenous mercantile empires evolving in the Portuguese-
Dutch-French-British style and sequence.3
What is now called Indonesia had, in Anthony Reid’s description, a “robust
pluralism often coexisting with exalted Indic ideas of kingship.”4 Indeed,
the more autonomous the area—Bugis and Balinese to the east of
Java, Minangkabau to the west—the greater the king’s impulse to assert the
charisma of lineage and the magic of royal language. The Minangkabau
rulers, in their letters and seals, proclaimed world-mightiness on a par with
China and Constantinople, as legatees of Alexander the Great and as khalif,
or deputy of God on earth—strike you dead if you doubt or disagree. Such
cosmic claims puzzled Europeans, who were accustomed at home to bettermonied
monarchs with larger armies to back up their ambitions. But the
Minang sovereigns knew their limits. Aside from the occasional civil war,
they respected the local autonomies of their own subregional organizations
of clans. Their edicts of power were not assertions of real domination but a
language of inclusion for other Sumatrans, and later a language of resistance
against the Dutch.5
A mandala in its full religio-political sense was developed most pronouncedly
in Java, where the king, recognizing all the center-fleeing instincts
of his realm, would seasonally go out to reinforce the center-seeking,
or at least the center-recognizing, forces. His way was to show the flag
and display the splendors of the court, receive homage, collect tribute, examine
ferries, bridges, and roads, check land registers, cultivate elders, and
conduct surveillance. He visited family shrines and local holy places, confirmed
charters of holy foundations, mediated disputes among land users,
distributed favors. So “Javaneseness” grew.
In the mid-fourteenth century an extended Javanese expansion effort succeeded,
with an affluence and impact that most nearly resemble ancient
Angkor for regional power. This new, most mighty of early Javanese mandalas
was called Majapahit. It came to an end in the early fifteenth century
after a five-year war between the ruler and his brother-in-law, ripped apart
for lack of an orderly succession.6
Majapahit reached well into the areas that the Dutch would later labor
for centuries to conquer. For modern Indonesian nationalists of several
kinds, it became a symbol of past greatness.7 Sukarno evoked it in nationbuilding,
and Suharto, his army, and his court ideologues employed it to expand
and consolidate his state. One moment, one monument, will suggest
Majapahit at its influential zenith as a “trading power with military clout”
and with the imperial pretensions that inspired Sukarno.8 It also symbolizes
the moral nadir of Suharto’s Indonesia, when its exercise of state power
suggested mafia and mob murder far more than mandala.
Indonesia: The Devouring Nurturer 19
The moment occurs a century and a half before Europeans penetrated
the Pacific. The monument, inscribed in 1370 and erected in West Sumatra,
speaks of the nature of Majapahit. Seven tons of sculpted stone, fifteen feet
high, manifest Adityavarman as god-king. The historical person Adityavarman,
as an adventurous young man, was either delegated by his Javanese
king, or went prospecting as a prince, to bring west and central Sumatra under
the sway of Majapahit, almost a thousand miles eastward. To the great
tribe called Minangkabau he brought troops enough to conquer them and
panache enough to erect a statue to his glory, to the eminence of his court
of origin, and to the god of that court. That god was—in the language of
Schnitger, the Dutch archaeologist who used three hundred coolies to
transport the statue out of the jungle for public display—worshipped by the
Bhairavas, or Terrible Ones, “a mystic sect of demonic Buddhism,” one
with Shivaite elements, which had originated in eastern Bengal perhaps
eight centuries before.
The statue itself was “a terrifying figure” representing Adityavarman
“with a knife and skull in his hands, serpents twined about his ankles,
wrists, upper arms, and in his ears, standing on a recumbent human body,
which in turn rests upon a pedestal of eight huge grinning skulls.” In his
hairdress sits the Buddha of the East. A flaming halo encircles his head. The
Bhairavas “sought their highest bliss in mystic union with their supreme
god” and attained it by drinking blood as heavenly wine, which inspired
the faithful to ecstatic dances. They invoked the appearance, in pillars of
smoke, of the flame-haired Mahakala, lord of cemeteries, destroying all
earthy ties.
According to the inscription, Adityavarman “was initiated as a god . . .
enthroned alone on a heap of corpses, laughing diabolically and drinking
blood, while his great human sacrifice was consumed in flames, spreading
an unbearable stench, which, however, affected the initiated as the perfume
of ten million flowers.”9
To the question, why did the modern Indonesian nation state tolerate
just two men at its apex across fifty years, historic examples of god-kings
may be a partial answer. But not one that absolves modern leaders of modern
responsibilities. Sukarno as poetic romanticist, a mixture of South
Pacific D’
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