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0038 4808
THE MALAY - ISLAMIC WORLD OF SUMATRA:<br />
studies in polities and culture<br />
John Maxwell (Editor)<br />
Barbara Leigh<br />
Greg Dall<br />
Jane Drakard<br />
Ken Young<br />
Reflections on growing up in coastal Sumatra:<br />
and interview and discussion<br />
Five lectures presented as the AIA—CSEAS Winter Lecture Series for<br />
1982, at Monash University. The Winter Lectures are presented annually<br />
by the Australian Indonesian Association of Victoria and the Centre of<br />
Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, to mark Indonesian<br />
Independence Day on 17th August.<br />
MONASH UNIVERSITY, 1982
Copyright ©; No part of this book may be<br />
reproduced in any form without permission<br />
National Library of Australia card number of ISBN<br />
ISBN 0 56746 257 4<br />
Annual Indonesian Lecture Series<br />
ISSN 0729 3623
CONTENTS<br />
INTRODUCTION 1<br />
DESIGN MOTIFS IN ACEH: INDIAN AND ISLAMIC INFLUENCES<br />
Barbara Leigh 3<br />
THE TRADITIONAL ACEHNESE HOUSE<br />
Greg Dall 34<br />
MINANGKABAU AUTHORITY PATTERNS AND THE EFFECTS OF DUTCH RULE<br />
Ken Young 63<br />
THE UPLAND AND DOWNLAND RAJAS OF BARUS: A NORTH SUMATRAN<br />
CASE STUDY<br />
Jane Drakard 74<br />
REFLECTIONS ON GROWING UP IN COASTAL SUMATRA: AN INTERVIEW AND<br />
DISCUSSION WITH<br />
Amy Davidson, Nuim Khaiyath, Sadaruddin Munir, Etty Rice and<br />
John Maxwell (Chairperson) 95
INTRODUCTION<br />
The four papers and panel discussion in this volume comprise the 1982 annual lecture series<br />
on Indonesia sponsored jointly by the Centre of Southeast Asian Studies and the Australian-<br />
Indonesian Association of Victoria.<br />
The Centre of Southeast Asian Studies proposed taking a region of Indonesia as the<br />
theme for the 1982 series and Sumatra was suggested as the possible area. But after I had<br />
agreed to act as convenor for this series it seemed to me necessary to narrow the focus.<br />
Rather than attempting the impossible task of trying to deal with the whole island in three<br />
sessions, I thought that a particular theme would be a more appropriate way of looking at<br />
the rich culture and history of this part of Indonesia.<br />
In making these decisions we were limited by the human resources available to us in<br />
Melbourne, but I believe nonetheless that a case could be made on intellectual grounds for<br />
looking at the Malay-Islamic world of Sumatra. It will be apparent that "Malay" is used<br />
here in its loosest-sense to encompass areas of Sumatra such as Aceh and Minangkabau.<br />
Viewed in this way the Malay-Islamic world covers a large part of the island. Although this<br />
scheme excludes certain parts of the interior it enabled us to concentrate on those parts of<br />
the island where ideas and cultural influences from outside have become an important element<br />
in shaping of these particular societies. Since the large coastal trading centres were a<br />
part of this world, the importance of these regions extended beyond Sumatra throughout the<br />
archipelago.<br />
The first two papers are about particular aspects of the cultural and artistic life of the<br />
Acehnese. Barbara Leigh is currently writing a book on Acehnese arts and crafts. In her lecture<br />
she examines the design motifs which appear in the various decorative arts of the<br />
Acehnese, such as weaving, wood-carving and metal-work. She traces some of the important<br />
external historical and cultural influences, particularly Islamic and Indian influences, which<br />
have affected these designs. Although attempting to account for these dements, she stresses<br />
the way indigenous artists have adapted and modified these external sources to suit the<br />
demands of the Acehnese cultural setting.<br />
Greg Dall generously accepted a very late invitation to participate in the lecture series<br />
when another participant found it necessary to withdraw. Dall had visited Aceh briefly early<br />
in 1982 to collect data on the Acehnese traditional house. This research formed part of his<br />
final year architecture studies at the University of Melbourne. His lecture examines the<br />
various architectural components of the Acehnese house and shows how different levels and<br />
spaces within the house are best understood by relating them to the social and religious life<br />
of the Acehnese. His detailed architectural drawings have been reproduced to accompany<br />
his analysis.<br />
The next two papers deal with different parts of the west coast of Sumatra. Both are<br />
concerned with the evolution of an indigenous political system. Jane Drakard is currently<br />
completing an M.A. thesis in the History Department at Monash University on the Barus<br />
area of Sumatra's north-west coast. Her lecture, using Dutch and indigenous sources, examines<br />
the dual raja system of Barus and brings into focus the relationship between its<br />
coastal and upland people. It is a reminder that pesisir, or coastal societies did not exist in a<br />
vacuüm and that the exchange of resources and ideas between the coast and the interior<br />
forms an important element in Sumatra's history.<br />
1
Ken Young teaches in the Politics Department at Monash University and is currently<br />
writing a Ph.D. thesis for the University of London on the Minangkabau of West Sumatra.<br />
His lecture discusses a problem detected in the course of his research on West Sumatra during<br />
the colonial period. It deals with the nature of traditional authority in the Minangkabau<br />
area and sets out a case for the claim that most Dutch colonial administrators and a number<br />
of early writers misunderstood the nature of traditional authority patterns among the<br />
Minangkabau. In his paper, Young expresses scepticism about the widely held view that<br />
political authority among Minangkabau derives wholly or even largely from customary law,<br />
or adat. He points out that political power in the region was based on territorial control, and<br />
the control of trade.<br />
The final session was a departure from normal practice. It has become customary for<br />
this annual lecture series to include at least one Indonesian participant. While there was<br />
nobody from Indonesia readily available and working on a suitable research topic there were<br />
a number of Sumatrans living and working among us in Melbourne. The interview-panel<br />
discussion was an attempt to learn something of their personal history, particularly during<br />
their childhood and youth. The discussion appears below (pp. — ). As readers will<br />
discover, there were several light-hearted comments when participants injected a particularly<br />
Indonesian brand of humour into the proceedings. We were able nonetheless to range over<br />
many issues related to the lives of our panel members and doing so adds a human perspective<br />
to the series of otherwise rather formal presentations.<br />
It is a difficult task in any collection of lectures given by different people from different<br />
backgrounds and disciplines to achieve a uniformity of purpose. There are a variety of approaches<br />
evident in these lectures but in general they all single out aspects of the Malay-<br />
Islamic world of Sumatra for particular attention. It is unfortunate that we were unable to<br />
solicit a lecture on the Palembang-South Sumatra area as well.<br />
As lectures they were delivered to a mixed audience of people who shared a wide general<br />
interest in Indonesia. I hope that in their published form they will be of interest to an even<br />
wider circle.<br />
I would like to thank the Research Director of the Centre of Southeast Asian Studies,<br />
David Chandler, and its secretary, Pam Sayers, for their support and advice during the<br />
<strong>org</strong>anization and implementation of the lectures and for their assistance in the publication of<br />
this volume. We are grateful also to Mrs Lois Osborn for setting the lectures in type in their<br />
present form, to Gary Swinton and Vicki Tipping for preparing the illustrations and maps,<br />
respectively.<br />
The Hague<br />
March 1983. John Maxwell<br />
2
DESIGN MOTIFS IN ACEH:<br />
Indian and Islamic Influences*<br />
Barbara Leigh<br />
Design motifs used in decoration by any group of people emerge from two major sources,<br />
individual creativity and external inspiration. In this the Acehnese are no exception. The<br />
talent of the individual craftsperson (utoh) and the impact of Acehnese history have combined<br />
to give an abundant range of design motifs which have emerged within Aceh's specific<br />
religious and cultural setting. These have been employed with beauty and precision on the<br />
crafts practised in Aceh.<br />
History<br />
Before the arrival of Europeans in Asia, the two major trading powers in the region were<br />
India and China. The ocean route between these two countries ran through insular<br />
SoutheastAsia. Factors such as favourable wind conditions, a receptive indigenous population<br />
and the bonus of taking on extra merchandise led to the establishment of many port<br />
cities in this region. The far north west of Sumatra possessed such havens along her coasts.<br />
The port at the very tip of the island 1<br />
later became known as Aceh, now the name of Indonesia's<br />
most western province. In addition to this port, at the extremity of the island, the<br />
other nearby major coastal ports were Pidie and Samudra-Pasai on the east coast and Barus 2<br />
on the west coast. From time to time, one or more of these ports rose to prominence. These<br />
coastal cities were part of a trade network strung throughout the archipelago. These cities<br />
were very cosmopolitan. In addition to the Acehnese, Indians, Arabs, Persians, Chinese and<br />
Malays all played a part in Aceh's early trading history.<br />
Traders, travellers, adventurers and pirates visited these ports; Sumatra was known as<br />
"Suvarnadvipa", the "Island of Gold". Camphor, pepper and pine resin (which was used<br />
as a substitute for frankincence) were also to be found on the north of the island. 3<br />
The coming of Islam<br />
Islam came to Aceh over a period of many hundred years. It is the region with the oldest<br />
history of Islamic impact in Indonesia. Although there is some debate (particularly within<br />
Aceh) about when and from where Islamic beliefs and practices arrived, it is certain that by<br />
the 13th century rulers of Aceh's northern and eastern coastal trading centres professed the<br />
Islamic religion (Figure 1). By the 15th century, the Islamic impact was such that the city of<br />
Aceh had become the Gateway to Mecca for Southeast Asia and pilgrims gathered there<br />
before leaving for the Holy Land. Aceh was renowned as a centre of religious study. Indian,<br />
Persian and Arab scholars stayed and worked there as well as Malay and Javanese scholars<br />
on their way home af ter completing their pilgrimage.<br />
What was the impact of this Islamic experience on Acehnese art? Although some<br />
destructive consequences may have resulted, these experiences certainly had positive results<br />
"ï This research on Aceh commenced during our residence there in 1978-79. The Acehnese provincial Department<br />
of Industry under Drs. Ibu Hayutun and the Department of the Museum under Drs. Zakaria Ahmad<br />
provided the initial impetus for my research which took me into every region of Aceh. For the warmtn and<br />
generosity of all those who gave their assistance, I ara very grateful. I am also indebted to many< gurus Lance<br />
Castles and Tony Reid have been particularly helpful in bringing their specialized knowledge of Aceh to bear<br />
on what I*ve written. I would also like to thank Herb Feith, Jim Fox, Hildred Geertz, John Legge Robyn and<br />
John Maxwell and Nena Rieb for reading and commenting on various drafts of this paper. Finally I would liKe<br />
to thank Michael Leigh for his patiënt support and encouragement.<br />
The photographs for this article were taken by Nena Rieb who accompamed me on two field trips to Aceh<br />
in 1980-81 under the sponsorship of Mobil Oil Indonesia.<br />
3
particularly in bringing aspects of art and architecture from abroad to Aceh. Mosques and<br />
prayer houses were needed for the converted and the Acehnese mosque (Figure 2) was first<br />
built in the tiered roof style used in Mughal India (De Graaf, 1963: v). The historian D.G.E<br />
Hall tells us that the Acehnese rulers not only copied Mughal architecture, but they also<br />
copied their gardens, their court dress and even adopted Mughal titles for some of their administratie<br />
officers (Hall, 1968: 219).<br />
The Golden Age of Aceh<br />
The Acehnese look back with pride to the period beginning in the 16th century and continuing<br />
into the first half of the 17th century. During that time the city of Aceh rivalled the cities<br />
of Europe. Its population has been estimated at between 50 and 100 thousand (Reid, 1980:<br />
237), about the same size as it is today.<br />
The Golden Age reached its height under Sultan Iskandar Muda (1607-36) and Sultan<br />
Iskandar Thani (1636-41). The court culture was lavish and the arts flourished under royal<br />
patronage. The court employed hundreds of artisans including spinners and weavers, gold<br />
and silver smiths and wood carvers. One interesting architectural feature of this period mentioned<br />
in an early 16th century Portugese account was the existence in Achem (Aceh) of a<br />
great "heathen temple" which was famous for its gold (Barros, translation by Dion, 1970:<br />
158).<br />
All that remains of that splendour today is a large structure known as the Gunongan<br />
(Figure 3). It has been described as having been built by Iskandar Thani as a pleasure garden<br />
(Bustan as-Salatin, 1900). Ho wever, Denys Lombard suggests that it may have been an example<br />
of a cosmic mountain (Lombard, 1967: 134) and Brakel has taken up this point arguing<br />
that the Gunongan in fact represents the Hindu Buddhist centre of the Universe, Mt<br />
Meru, the "world mountain" (Brakel, 1975). 4<br />
The lotus motif used in the structure's design<br />
is an indication of the ancient historical link between Aceh and various parts of the Indian<br />
sub continent.<br />
Islam<br />
The flowering of Islam occurred at the same time as the expansion of wealth and power enjoyed<br />
by Aceh during her Golden Age. Acehnese writers such as Hamzah Fansuri and Shamsu'l-Din<br />
figured prominently in the Malay Islamic world. The religion of Aceh during the<br />
16th and 17th centuries has been described as "pantheistic mystical Islam" (Encyclopedia of<br />
Islam: 742). Although the element of pantheism gradually decreased in importance, the<br />
practice of sufism or mysticism continued into the early 20th century when Snouck<br />
Hurgronje 5<br />
wrote his epic two volumes on the Acehnese.<br />
The major tenet of Sufism is belief in the unity of existence. When man unites with<br />
Allah this experience is described as 'wajid' or a state of pure ecstacy. Allah is likened to the<br />
ocean while man is but a wave. They are the same in essence, but the wave lasts a moment<br />
and the next is gone whereas the ocean is there (Al-attas, 1963: 25,6). Another analogy<br />
which is used in Sufi doctrine is that the relation between Allah and the Universe is like a<br />
mirror and its reflection.<br />
The symmetry of most Acehnese designs (Figure 4) may be related to Sufi thought or<br />
may be a legacy of Persian Islamic artistic contact; whatever its origins, it is also a design<br />
characteristic which is evident throughout the archipelago in both muslim and non-muslim<br />
regions.<br />
4
Aceh's contact with Turkey<br />
During the 16th century, during Aceh's Golden Age, the Turkish Ottoman Empire was in a<br />
period of ascendency.<br />
Acehnese relations with Turkey probably began during the reign of the Acehnese sultan<br />
Al-Kahar (15377-1571) and lasted formally until 1580 (Reid, 1969). The major motive of the<br />
Acehnese in cementing the relationship was to gain weapons, ships and men. These were to<br />
be used to attack the Portuguese and expand Acehnese control of the lucrative pepper trade<br />
on the west coast of Sumatra. Turkish influence remained evident in the continued Acehnese<br />
use of Turkish military tactics, military engineering and artillery (Reid, 1969: 410). Reid tells<br />
us that culturally Aceh retained a close contact with the Muslim countries of the West. He<br />
also mentions the importance of Arabic and the fact that a knowledge of the language and<br />
script was widespread among the upper classes: "Many of Atjeh's diplomatic letters in the<br />
early 17th century appear to have been written in Arabic, including the one sent to Queen<br />
Elizabeth with Lancaster". (Reid, 1969: 411). The relationship with Turkey was considered<br />
important for many centuries. As late as 1873 the Acehnese requested Turkish military<br />
assistance to repel the Dutch.<br />
Tracing the origins of artistic motifs is a difficult business. However, it is known that<br />
the Turks were held in high regard by the Acehnese. Many high-ranking Acehnese visited the<br />
Caliph and hundreds of men were sent from Turkey to Aceh. That the connection was<br />
regarded as important probably influenced many aspects of design, particularly in relation<br />
to weaponry and other crafts which were practised by men.<br />
The Dutch colonizers and other European traders were regarded in Aceh as infidels.<br />
Where their power touched Aceh it was commercial, not cultural, and their design motifs<br />
have not been copied by the Acehnese.<br />
During the last three hundred years regional power and regional characteristics<br />
developed at the expense of central power. Warfare assumed a prominent role in the lives of<br />
most Acehnese and many art treasures were sold in order to buy food, lost in the flight from<br />
one place to another, plundered or bought by foreigners or deliberately destroyed in acts of<br />
revenge during the civil war. Despite all this, traditional crafts do remain and are still practised<br />
in several centres throughout Aceh.<br />
Rite of passage<br />
The occasions when many of these crafts are most evident occur at those crisis points in<br />
one's life when celebrations call for a display of special, out-of-the-ordinary clothing, decor<br />
and ceremony.<br />
Births. Circumcisions. Marriages. Deaths.<br />
The ritual associated with each of these occasions calls for a display of wealth and a<br />
ceremony or feast or both to which the whole village is invited.<br />
Forty days after birth a baby's hair is shaved. A feast kenduri is held to celebrate the occasion<br />
during which the baby lies in an elaborately decorated cradle (Figure 5). Embroidered<br />
hangings adorn the walls and cover the ceiling.<br />
When a boy is between 8 and 12 years of age he is circumcised. There is usually a group<br />
of 6-8 boys who are circumcised at the same time. One or two days before the actual circumcision<br />
the boys are dressed in traditional Acehnese dress. The peusijeuk ceremony is performed<br />
in which their hands are painted with a fragrant rice water and they are sprinkled<br />
5
with yellow rice. This is essentially a "cooling" act which counterposes the "heat" of the act<br />
to come.<br />
The wedding ceremony marks the point at which a young girl becomes a woman. On<br />
this occasion design motifs may be seen firstly in the main reception room which is decorated<br />
with hangings, so becoming a representation of heaven on earth (Figure 6). Ceilings, walls<br />
and doorways are covered with hangings. The place where the bridal couple are to sit is<br />
elevated and often surrounded by an archway and on either side are the brass trays dalung<br />
which hold food, containers for the psusijeuk ceremony, sirih and cigarettes. Each of these<br />
may be covered with decorated cloths.<br />
Further inside the house is the bedroom for the bridal couple. Suspended from the four<br />
bed posts are further hangings while the bed itself is decorated around the perimeter with<br />
layer after layer of scalloped cloth, the ideal number being seven layers. On top of the bed<br />
stacks of long pillows are arranged, each having a decorated rectangular end-piece. A<br />
description of the bridal couple's room in the early 20th century teil us that:<br />
The sleeping room is the most elaborately decorated portion of the house. The ceiling is<br />
covered with ornamented red cotton, and the floor entirely with mats. Elaborate hangings are<br />
placed on the walls. While actual beds are not used, the married pair sleep on mattresses and<br />
rest their heads on costly pillows. (Loeb, 1935):221)<br />
Decorative motifs are seen not only on the wedding hangings, but also on the costumes<br />
of the bridal couple. The bride (Figure 7) wears gold embroidered black trousers, narrow at<br />
the ankle and very broad at the waist. Her blouse is also embroidered and is usually yellow<br />
or pale green. Her sarong is a kaïn songket a woven silk fabric with supplementary weft of<br />
gold or silver threads, which is held in place with a gold or silver belt. Adorning her head is<br />
an array of golden flowers. Necklaces drip from her neck to her waist, and her arms are<br />
thick with bracelets. Her fingers are laden with rings and in her hand she carries a yellow silk<br />
square which has a conical jewel dropiet attached to each corner (Figures 14, 16).<br />
The groom (Figure 8) also wears gold embroidered black trousers, broader at the ankle<br />
and of simpler design. His shirt is black with touches of gold embroidery and he wears a kain<br />
songket around his waist. Tucked into his belt is a rencong, the Acehnese dagger which is an<br />
integral part of the Acehnese man's ceremonial dress. On his head is a red, yellow and black<br />
hat, kopiah meukeutob, topped with a gold star-shaped ornament, tampol kopiah, and<br />
wrapped round with a gold and silk woven square of cloth. His buttons are often conical and<br />
he may have other pieces of jewellery on the side of his hat or on his left breast.<br />
On the day of their wedding, the bride and groom become queen and king (Figure 9).<br />
They each look perfect. Not a hair or a movement is out of place. In the past this magnificent<br />
array of finery was used only by the sultan and the orang kaya, namely the uleebalang<br />
regional chiefs and the ulama the religious leaders. Since then a certain degree of social<br />
upheaval has taken place within Aceh. Today each household does everything within its<br />
means to depict paradise on earth on the day its daughters come of age. The design motifs<br />
on this splendid array of finery are especially fitting for the occasion.<br />
The last rite os passage is death. When people die, they are wrapped and lain on a bed<br />
where others can come to visit. The room is decorated with the same hangings which would<br />
be used for a wedding. This is in order to show hormat (respect) to the dead person. It also<br />
facilitates the mourners in envisaging their loved one in paradise, for the Islamic religion<br />
reiterates very strongly the presence of life after death.<br />
6
Motifs<br />
When asking about designs in Aceh, the most frequent response received was zaman punyah<br />
— "the desing belongs to the past". Other responses said the same thing in different ways:<br />
Bentuknya dari dulu — "the motif comes from the past"; Nenekpunyah — "grandmothers<br />
(in reference to old women generally and including their progenitors) own the design".<br />
These designs of the past fall into five major categories. We see an intricate proliferation<br />
of plant life — both floral and leafy, a range of birds, but particularly the peacock,<br />
some other creatures including the lion, an abundance of geometrie motifs and finally<br />
specific Islamic motifs including the star and crescent moon, the bouraq and the artistic use<br />
of Arabic calligraphy. Depiction of the human form is absent on all decorative motifs used<br />
on Acehnese crafts.<br />
Motifs from within these categories may be found decorating such crafts as the woodcarving<br />
on the traditional Acehnese house, the gold and silver work on precious containers,<br />
jewellery and daggers, the gold thread embroidery used for the room hangings and the<br />
woven silk items which are worn on special occasions.<br />
Depiction of plant life is a very early form of decoration used by societies throughout<br />
the world. In Aceh, this form of decoration has often assumed religious symbolism where<br />
plants portrary the moslem garden of paradise in which stylized floral, leaf and vine motifs<br />
wander with beauty and ease (Figure 10).<br />
IN many cases these flowers and vines are non-indigenous. 6<br />
The women from Pidie<br />
name their embroidery designs after the jasmine bunga melati and the rose bunga maway<br />
and produce intricate floral forms, composed of hundreds of separate parts. Each unit of<br />
the design is individually padded and couched (Figure 11). Couching is a method of securing<br />
the gold threads into position on the surface of the base cloth by the use of anchoring stitches.<br />
The tulip and the lotus are also portrayed, either in conjunction with other flowers on<br />
singly (Figures 12, 13).<br />
In addition to plant forms which have their origins in Acehnese historical contacts<br />
abroad, local plants have also been used as a source of inspiration. The ornamental drop<br />
(Figures 14-16) gains its name from the casuarina seed pod. This long conical shape with<br />
folds resembling a lotus bud, is named in Aceh boh ru, literally a casuarina seed pod. The<br />
upper squat shape is referred to simply as a bead boh euntoee. The local keladi taro leaf is<br />
the inspiration for an embroidered cushion cover (Figure 17).<br />
Vines and floral motifs may also be seen on Acehnese weaponry. A bulbous-hilted<br />
siwah is covered with embossed silver on which leaves and vines and flowers are intricately<br />
depicted (Figure 18). A recently made silver rencong Acehnese dagger is ornamented at the<br />
base of the hilt with new bamboo shoots pucuk rebung which form a chevron design when<br />
viewed in reliëf (Figure 19).<br />
Plants from Aceh's past and elements of the surrounding flora are both used as design<br />
motifs and their depiction is often within an Islamic framework where gardens and plant life<br />
have associations not just with paradise, but with the continuity of human existence and the<br />
flowering of human potential. At other times, a particular leaf or flower may be incorporated<br />
just because of its artistic appeal to the craftsperson.<br />
Sitting within these beautiful floral forms, birds are often to be found (Figures<br />
20 — 26). The peacock is the most prominent (Figures 20, 21), but the phoenix (Figure 22),<br />
the parrot (Figure 23) and the dove (Figure 24) are also present. The garuda is a well-known<br />
7
Indonesian motif and sometimes a stylized bird is described by an Acehnese as a garuda.<br />
It is likely that the depiction of birds dates back to Hindu times, for in Hindu<br />
mythology the bird represented the upper celestial ethereal world, Father Heaven. (By contrast<br />
the serpent represented the lower world, Mother Earth) (Zimmer, 1972: 72-76). Within<br />
Islamic religious symbolism the bird represents the soul or spirit. The peacock is a particular<br />
symbol of immortality for the feathers on the peacock's tail renew themselves, an allusion to<br />
resurrection or rebirth.<br />
The Acehnese have used birds in their epic stories or hikayats. The parrot bayeuen is<br />
very popular (Hurgronje, 1906: 140, 148, 155). This bird can rescue heroes as well as become<br />
a princess in disguise. The original source of the use of the parrot may be Persian. For instance<br />
Tales of a Parrot along with many other Malay stories told in Aceh were direct<br />
translations from the Persian (Winstedt, 1961: 75).<br />
Parrots were not the only birds used in Malay literature. In one hikayat a golden dove<br />
came from paradise to teach a princess the creed of Islam, the power of prayer and ultimately<br />
the way of union with her lover (Hurgronje, 1906: 134 ff). These stories, although not<br />
usually represented in Acehnese design, may have inspired the incorporation of certain<br />
birds.<br />
The use of storks or swans near the marriage bed is said to symbolize fertility however<br />
in many cases the original reason for the depiction of the bird has been lost. Craftswomen<br />
say only that they were taught to draw them by their mothers. Often they copy the bird's<br />
form from an old hanging onto the new only with the knowledge that the motif is part of<br />
their heritage and that the omen is positive and propitious.<br />
Unlike birds, other creatures are not very common in Acehnese design. Motifs which<br />
usually relate to the earth and the underworld such as serpents and dragons are not depicted<br />
(or if they are, their forms have been completely disguised beyond recognition). The Islamic<br />
prohibition on the representation of humans may have extended at times to all living<br />
creatures, so that now very few animals are included in Acehnese design motifs. Given the<br />
role which elephants have played in Acehnese history, that is a creature which one might expect<br />
to see, but which is completely absent.<br />
Fish (Figure 27) and also the stylized lion may be seen occasionally. Stamp collectors<br />
will be familiar with the early Persian stamps in which the national emblem shows the<br />
heraldic lion brandishing a sword before the rising sun. In Aceh, the lion (Figure 28) is<br />
shown in the same posture but carrying a flag rather than a sword, and one can only surmise<br />
that its origins were Persian.<br />
Geometrie patterns are frequent in Acehnese design although often it is impossible to<br />
teil whether they are scrolls, spirals or stylized plant forms (Figure 30). Weaving lends itself<br />
to the creation of geometrie forms such as the rhomb and key motifs which may be found in<br />
gold supplementary weft on silk weaving, and spirals, crosses and chevrons which can be<br />
seen on weaving from reeds (Figures 31, 32). Intricate spirals which are hand embroidered<br />
using a fine chain stitch and silver thread may be seen on a pair of purple silk trousers<br />
(Figures 33 — 35) which were dyed and woven in Pidie at the beginning of the 20th century.<br />
The triangular tumpal motif, so commonly seen on Javanese batik is also employed on<br />
embroidered hangings (Figure 36) and older Acehnese silk textiles (Gittinger, 1979: Figure<br />
73, 110).<br />
These geometrie motifs are common throughout the archipelago and links may be seen<br />
8
with the impact of the Dong-son Culture. That culture probably reached Sumatra before or<br />
about 300 B.C. from northeastern Indo-China and South China (Heine-Geldern, 1935: 329).<br />
The S-shaped doublé spiral (Figure 37) is characteristic of that ancient bronze age culture.<br />
A relatively recent geometrie motif which has been used extensively on Acehnese<br />
jewellery is the pintu Aceh, literally the Acehnese gate (Figure 38). Ordered by a Dutch<br />
military officer in the early 1930's, the talented goldsmith, Utoh Mud of Banda Aceh first<br />
created the design; a design which he said was based on the ancient remains of the gateway<br />
to the royal palace, the Pintu Khob. This motif is now used on the gateway of the pendopo<br />
governor's official residence.<br />
The use of Islamic motifs or those with a particular Islamic connotation is increasingly<br />
characteristic of Acehnese design. The creative use of Arabic calligraphy with its flowing<br />
lines and the embodiment of meaning in both words and form is one example (Figures 39,<br />
40). The star and crescent moon is another (Figure 41). The bouraq, that mythical creature<br />
with the head of a woman, the body of a horse and the wings of a bird, and which carried the<br />
prophet Muhammed to heaven is another Islamic motif used in Acehnese design (Figure 42).<br />
In addition to the specific use of Islamic symbols, the designs themselves show evidence<br />
of being Islamicized. Creatures have had their shape abstracted so as not to appear 'pagan'<br />
(Figures 43, 44), and Islamic motifs and older patterns are sometimes combined in the one<br />
design (Figure 45). We see birds in a garden paradise topped with a royal or sacred crown<br />
above which sits the star and crescent moon flanked on either side by stylized Arabic script<br />
whilst the triangular form and square below may have had their origins in the lotus flower<br />
and bud.<br />
Conclusion<br />
This exploratory examination of Aceh's design motifs shows a rich and varied history of external<br />
influences but we must be careful not to see the designs as merely the sum of these influences.<br />
Rather they are unique creations expressing the inner thoughts, feelings and<br />
perceptions of the Acehnese people. They are desings which belong not only to the past. For<br />
the people of Aceh, they also belong to the present.
Figure 1. The gravestone of the Islamic Sultan Malik al-Saleh (d. 1297)<br />
Geudung, North Aceh.<br />
Figure 2. Mosque of Atcheh. Watercolour detail of the Mosque of Atchin<br />
about 1650; in the collection Vingboons (Rijks Archief, the Hague).<br />
from de Graaf, 1963, p.v.<br />
10
Figure 3. The Gunongan. An imposing structure of approximately<br />
30 metres in height, Banda Aceh.<br />
Figure 4. Wall hanging. 193 cm X 72 cm. Private collection,<br />
Prof. Dr. I'smail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
11
Figure 5. The baby's cradle,<br />
Home of Ibu Halimah Hamid<br />
Meulaboh, West Aceh<br />
Figure 6. Kamar lengkap. A room fully decorated for a wedding<br />
12
Figure 7. Syarifah Faridah on her wedding<br />
day. Meulaboh, West Aceh.<br />
Figure 9. Bride and groom seated in<br />
position. Meulaboh, West Aceh.<br />
13<br />
Figure 8. Ali Muddin on his wedding day.<br />
Meulaboh, West Aceh.
Figure 10. Intertwined scrolls combine with enclosed rosettes (possibly full blown<br />
lotus forms) on this sturdy roof beam. Awe Geutah, North Aceh.<br />
Figure 11. Cushion cover 43.5 cm square. Padded couching using gold threads on a red<br />
velvet background. Stylized rose and jasmine motifs. Garot, Pidie.<br />
14
Figure 12. Tulip motif. Embroidered fan. Made before WW II.<br />
Banda Aceh.<br />
Figure 13. Heavily sequinned, golden full-blown lotus, glitter on a rich, red<br />
background. Detail of a bed-hanging from South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
15
Figure 14. Keumalawaty Ismuha on the<br />
day of her wedding. Banda Aceh. Note the<br />
euntoee and boh ru which fall<br />
from her hands.<br />
rigure 10. ^arvea ornamentai arop<br />
from the corner of the house. Length 30 cm.<br />
Awe Geutah, North Aceh.<br />
Figure 16. The form is seen again in the silver or gold<br />
arnaments which hang from each corner of the yellow<br />
kerchief held by the bride on her wedding day.<br />
16
Figure 17. The motif of the keladi taro leaf (right) is padded and couched with gold<br />
thread onto a dark green velvet background. Cushion cover 54 cm X 34.5 cm.<br />
Made in Banda Aceh.<br />
17
Figure 18. Siwah. Wooden scabbard, ivory hilt and silver decoration.<br />
Length, 37 cm. Museum, Banda Aceh.<br />
Figure 19. Hilt of a silver rencong. The V-shaped ornamentation, pucuk rebung, at the<br />
base of the hilt refers to the new bamboo shoots coming up from the ground.<br />
Private collection, Harun Keuchik Leumie, Banda Aceh.<br />
18
Figure 20. On a lavish maroon background these peacocks, couched with a chevron<br />
pattern, sitproudly amidstthe foliage. Central detail of a wall hanging, 193 cm X 72 cm.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figure 21. Traditionally from South Aceh, this makota crowu of gold is worn<br />
by the bride on her wedding day. The central protruding peacock is flanked by both<br />
a lion and a bouraq on each side. Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
19
figure 22. Phoenix motif. Detail of a bed hanging from South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figure 23. Possibly a parrot motif Detail of a wall hanging.<br />
Private collection, Ibu Haja Cut Bungsu, North Aceh.<br />
20
Figure 24. Doves in flight. Detail of a wall hanging from South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figure 25. Bird with a crown. Detail of a wall hanging from South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
21
Figure 26. A bird looks up serenely from a facade of an Acehnese<br />
traditional house in Garot, Pidie.<br />
Figure 27. Embroidered cushion cover showing fish motif. Gold thread on blue<br />
background. Made in South Aceh. 43 cm X 21 cm.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
22
Figure 28. Detail of a wall hanging showing lion motif. Made in South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figure 29. Detail of a winged creature from a wall hanging made in South Aceh.<br />
Private collection, Banda Aceh.<br />
23
Figure 30. Detail of decoration on ivory sheath of a rencong Acehnese dagger.<br />
Museum collection, Banda Aceh.<br />
24
Figure 31. A sitting mat which has been woven in pandan with some of the reeds<br />
dyed a deep maroon. 50 cm square. North Aceh.<br />
Figure 32. Detail of a Gayo sirih bag made from a very fine reed grown<br />
in Central Aceh known as cike. Museum collection, Banda Aceh.<br />
25
Figures 33—35. Hand woven Acehnese trousers of rich purple silk with fine<br />
smbroidered chain stitch. Made in Pidie at the beginning of the 20th century.<br />
Length, 92 cm. Width at waist, 57 cm. Private collection.<br />
26
Figure 36. Hanging showing tumpal motif. Gold thread on black velvet,<br />
made in Garot, Pidie. 3m X lm. Home of Bpk Dahlan Lubis, Banda Aceh.<br />
Figure 37. Flowing spirals and simple crosses from the design on the porch<br />
gableboard of the mosque at Beuracan, Meureudu, Pidie.<br />
27
Figure 38. The motif of the pintu Aceh is used extensively on modern<br />
Acehnese jewellery. Gold pendant.<br />
28
Figure 39. Stylized painted Arabic calligraphy on the gable-board of a meunasah<br />
men's house at Kampung Bayu, Lhokseumawe, North Aceh.<br />
Figure 40. A gold pendant made from an old Acehnese coin.<br />
Private collection, Harun Keuchik Leumie, Banda Aceh.<br />
29
Figure 41. Embroidery work for the centre of a ceiling cloth. Gold thread on red<br />
backing. Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figure 42. This bouraq forms part of the upper panel of a wall hanging.<br />
Made in West Aceh. Private collection.<br />
30
Figure 45. Wall hanging which shows how Islamic motifs<br />
and older patterns are sometimes combined in the one<br />
design. Made in South Aceh. 70 cm X 170 cm.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
Figures 43, 44. These creatures with wings, legs and tail<br />
show the abstraction or stylization of the original motif.<br />
A wall hanging from South Aceh. 75 cm X 160 cm.<br />
Private collection, Prof. Dr. Ismail Suny, Jakarta.<br />
31
NOTES<br />
1 The country called P'o-lu in Chinese sources was probably in Aceh (Wolters, 1967) For many centimes a port<br />
' known variously as Ramni, Lameri, Lambri etc. is mentioned in Middle Eastern, Chinese, European and Indonesian<br />
sources; its site is unknown but evidently in the general region of Banda Aceh. The name Aceh tirst<br />
appears at the beginning of the 16th century. Under Dutch rule the capital was called Kutaradja.<br />
2 Barus is now in the province of North Sumatra, not Aceh, but its historial links have been to the Sultanate of<br />
Aceh. Wolters (1967:192) refers to the port at the tip of Sumatra as having been known as the port ot Barus<br />
Later, during the 16th and 17th centuries, Aceh's power extended well beyond Barus down the west coast ot<br />
Sumatra (Kathirithamby-Wells, 1969), so continuing Acehnese control over Barus.<br />
3. The Acehnese pine bears legacy to this early period in being the only Sumatran pine having a name derived<br />
from Sanskrit (Wolters, 1967:108).<br />
4. The historical origin of the Gunongan needs further research. The most comprehensive work on the topic has<br />
been undertaken by Lombard, 1967 and Brakel, 1975.<br />
5 As part of the Dutch effort to conclude the Acehnese war, the famous Islamicist, Christian Snouck Hurgronje<br />
' was sent to Aceh. The comprehensive document, The Achehnese (1906), is still an excellent source ot<br />
Acehnese ethnography.<br />
6 An examination of the gardens of Mughal India could throw some light on the origins of the use of these<br />
flowers but given the extensive use of floral motifs in Chinese decorative art as well, and the ditticulty ot<br />
determining such things as whether a motif is a full-blown lotus or a rose, when the craftsperson has seen<br />
neither and in many cases names the motif as merely bunga flower, it would seem fruitless to try and assert<br />
origins.<br />
REFERENCES<br />
Al-attas, Naguib, 196^ o f S u f i s m a s understood and practised among the Malays. Singapore, MSRI.<br />
Brakel, L.F. 1975 ^ S t a t e c r a f t i n i 7 th century Aceh." in Reid, A. and Castles, L. (ed) Precolonial<br />
State Systems in Southeast Asia. MBAS. Monograph No. 6. K.L .<br />
de Graaf, H.J. 1963^ ^ ^ j aVanese Mosque", JSEAH. Vol. 4, No. 1, Mar.<br />
Dion, Mark, 1 9 7 0 t h r o u g h P o r t u g u e s e e y e s : e x c e r p t s f r o m Joao de Barros' Decadas da Asia."<br />
Indonesia. No. 9.<br />
Encyclopedia of Islam 1960. Leiden, Brill.<br />
Gittinger, MattiebeUe, L979 ^ ^ W a s h i n g t o n ) D. C., The Textile<br />
Museum.<br />
Hall, D.G.E. 1968 . ...<br />
A History of South East Asia. London, Macmillan.<br />
Heine-Geldern, Robert, 1935<br />
The Archeology and Art of Sumatra. Vienna.<br />
Hurgronje, Snouck, 1906<br />
The Achehnese. Leiden, Brill, 2 Vols.<br />
Kathirithamby-Wells, JM969 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Q f p a i n a n Q f 1 6 6 3 „ J S E A H V q, x<br />
No.3. Dec.<br />
Loeb, E.M. 1935 ^ & p e Q p [ e V e r l a g D e s Insti tutes Fur Valkenkunde der Universitat Wien.<br />
Lombard, Denys, D > M j e h A u J e m p s D> I s k a n d a r M u d a. 1607-1636. Paris, Ecole Francaise D'Ex-<br />
treme Oriënt.<br />
32
Reid, Anthony, 1969<br />
"Sixteenth Century Turkish Influence in Western Indonesia." JSEAH. Vol. X. No.3. Dec.<br />
1980<br />
"The Structure of Cities in Southeast Asia, Fifteenth to Seventeenth Centuries." JSEAS Vol<br />
XI. No. 2. Sept.<br />
Wilkinson, R.J. 1899; 1900<br />
(ed). Bustan a's-Salatin. Books I and II. Singapore, M.P.H.<br />
Winstedt, Sir R. 1961<br />
A History of Classical Malay Literature. Monograph on Malay Subjects, No. 5 Singapore<br />
MBRAS. '<br />
Wolters, O.W. 1967<br />
Early Indonesian Commerce. Ithaca, C.U.P.<br />
Zimmer, Heinrich, 1972<br />
Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization. N.J., Princeton Univ. Press.<br />
33
Figure 1. Schematic Representation of ViUage Planning<br />
Figure 2. Plan of Traditional Acehnese House<br />
34
THE TRADITIONAL ACEHNESE HOUSE<br />
Greg Dall<br />
As part of his encyclopedie account of the Acehnese published in 1906, the Dutch scholar<br />
and Islamicist C. Snouck Hurgronje included several measured drawings of an Acehnese<br />
traditional house (Snouck Hurgronje, 1906). These drawings — a plan, two elevations and a<br />
section' — appear to be the only ones published to date, and together with several early<br />
photographs, 2<br />
they provide a useful historical record of the Acehnese house at the end of the<br />
nineteenth century. Nevertheless, they do not constitute a complete record of this important<br />
structure.<br />
The present study 3<br />
is an attempt to fill in the gaps in Snouck Hurgronje's work by providing<br />
a more detailed set of measured drawings and a description of the traditional house<br />
and of its principles of construction. It is also an attempt to describe the total architectural<br />
scheme, explain the relationship of the structure to Acehnese society and family life and account<br />
for some of the traditional beliefs and customs which have influenced its development.<br />
The Acehnese village consists of several smaller units or hamiets. Each hamlet usually<br />
consists of a cluster of houses owned by sisters and aunts (mother's sisters) sharing a well.<br />
The size of the cluster depends, of course, on the size of the families and the availability of<br />
land, but commonly consists of three to five houses.<br />
The approach to an Acehnese village reveals no obvious principles of building orientation.<br />
4<br />
There appears to be no order to the way houses are sited at the outskirts of the village.<br />
There is no main street, as in a Javanese village, or central communal space, as in a Toba<br />
Batak village. An apparently arbitrary system of winding footpaths leads from one house to<br />
another. The footpaths often vary in width, widening indiscriminately at certain points and<br />
narrowing at others. Ho wever, this gradually changes at the village centre where the houses<br />
are more regularly aligned along north-south and east-west axes, with access paths between<br />
them of uniform width and length (Figure 1). A fairly rigid grid plan in the heart of the<br />
village, with an east-west house orientation, reflects religious functions in a number of ways.<br />
In pre-Islamic Aceh it appears to have been the practice to avoid orienting the house<br />
entrances towards the setting sun. Sunset marks the coming of the darkness and black symbolises<br />
death. In the Hindi sphere, which had early influences in Aceh, east is the direction<br />
of new life and west is the direction of death.<br />
The entrance of an Acehnese house today is usually located on the long side of the<br />
building. Since it is considered dangerous to oriënt the doorway towards the sunset, the<br />
house is almost invariably aligned north-south. The ridge of the extended gabled roof is thus<br />
aligned east-west so that the planes of the roof confront the high noonday sun, providing<br />
maximum shade when it is either in the northern or southern skies between the June or<br />
December solstices.<br />
However this orientation is also meaningful for an Islamic household and has become<br />
an important consideration in the construction of the house. The gable end of the house<br />
faces Mecca. This knowledge and direction is very important when performing daily prayers<br />
with family members or in congregation with other people at religious functions.<br />
An examination of the village grid reveals not only an east-west house orientation. The<br />
individual east-west access ways also express social segregation. In general we find male access<br />
ways and female access ways clearly defined (Figure 1). The male verandah section of<br />
35
the house opens onto the front path which is generally wider and planted out with shady<br />
trees and fragrant flowering plants. On the other side, the female avenues have more productive<br />
functional plants such as vegetables and fruit-trees. Rubbish is deposited directly<br />
here from the female section of the house and the kitchen area. The male access ways are used<br />
on formal occasions while the female approaches are generally work areas. There is an<br />
evident breakdown of the village plan according to male-female divisions which is reflected<br />
in the planning of the traditional house, as explained below.<br />
One further important aspect of the layout of an Acehnese village is that the boundaries<br />
between house lots are not clearly demarcated. Even residents find it difficult to point out<br />
the exact shape of the plot of land on which a house is built. Neighbouring owners attach importance<br />
only to the rights to coconut palms and fruit trees, and precise boundaries do not<br />
seem to have great significance.<br />
Besides family dwellings, there are two other buildings in an Acehnese village which are<br />
of importance, a mosque (masjid) and a men's house (meunasah). 5<br />
Mosques are often<br />
shared by several villages and often lie mid-way between them. Since the traditional<br />
Acehnese mosque has no minaret, the usual Islamic method of the call to prayer cannot be<br />
used. The Acehnese use a drum (tabuh) which is kept outside each mosque. It is made of<br />
palmwood and the hollowed-out side is covered with hide.<br />
The men's house (meunasah) is a structure of pre-Islamic origin. Similar traditional<br />
buildings are evident throughout Indonesia such as the bale of Java and Bali. Formerly the<br />
meunasah was the place in which mature youths gathered after sun-down. However it is now<br />
not often used for this purpose and in many villages the meunasah are deserted. The<br />
building serves instead as a house of prayer, school, village guest house, meeting place or occasionally<br />
as a place to formalize important ceremonies such as the signing of marriage<br />
contracts.<br />
Although the original Acehnese men's house probably had an open roof and detached<br />
walls, after the arrival of Islam the men's house assumed the basic structure of an ordinary<br />
house. It ostensibly became a house of prayer, and was called by the Arabic name meunasah<br />
(Hurgronje 1906:61). Although it is usually situated within the village and is constructed like<br />
an ordinary house, it has no windows and does not have the customary interior tripartite<br />
division. The furniture of the meunasah is sparse, consisting simply of a large lamp only lit<br />
on the nights of the fasting month (Ramadan), sleeping-mats for visitors and the occasional<br />
mosquito curtain.<br />
The best way to appreciate the meaning of the Acehnese traditional house 6<br />
is to study<br />
the individual sections of the house in turn, from the space underneath the building to the<br />
most sacred space in the roof of the dweiling where the family heirlooms are kept (see<br />
photographs, Figures 3 and 4, and four elevations, plan and section, Figures 8 — 14).<br />
The Acehnese house is built on timber columns which support the main body of the<br />
structure. These columns rest on stone footings (see Figures 8 — 11 and Detail A). This is<br />
common practice throughout the Malay peninsula and the Indonesian archipelago and is advantageous<br />
for a number of reasons. The use of the piles raises the house above monsoon<br />
flood waters in low lying areas, while in jungle areas it affords more protection from wild<br />
animals such as tigers. During the rainy season the space under the dweiling becomes a<br />
valuable work and storage area.<br />
Thermally it is advantageous to raise the house in a hot climate. Cool moist air is drawn<br />
36
up through the slatted floor (see Detail A, B and G) by convection currents created within<br />
the heated roof space. This upward draught has a dramatic cooling effect on the inhabitants<br />
sitting on the slatted floor. The rising hot air passes up and out through the perforated eaves<br />
(see Detail I).<br />
The natural ventilation system allows the house to be fumigated against mosquitoes<br />
each evening by burning rubbish with wooden twigs and damp leaves. This smokes out the<br />
whole interior through the perforated floor and well ventilated eaves, preventing insects<br />
from breeding in the underside of the roof thatch. 7<br />
The space underneath the house (bawah rumah) is a versatile utility area. Firewood for<br />
cooking, a press for extracting oil from decayed coconuts and the see-saw rice pounder can<br />
be found here. Newly harvested rice is stored here in cylindrical plaited coconut-leaf containers<br />
while plaited bamboo barrels contain unhusked rice after threshing. Should the space<br />
beneath the house flood during the rainy season, the rice containers are, of course, removed<br />
indoors.<br />
Animals kept by the family (hens, ducks, goats, sheep, dogs and water buffalo) are also<br />
tethered underneath the house, protecting them from predatory wild animals and deterring<br />
thieves.<br />
The bawah rumah is also used as a temporary resting-place. Women set up their loom<br />
to weave cloth and perform other household duties here, while men mend fishing nets and<br />
perform other chores. During festivals this space becomes an extension of the house proper<br />
and guests are accommodated there. An important and culturally significant role of this<br />
nether section of the house is during funeral ceremonies when mourners receive the condolences<br />
of relatives and friends. Thus it can be seen that the bawah rumah is an intrinsic<br />
and important space with great versatility and a wide range of functions.<br />
On approaching the house compound, the formal entry into the house is via the main<br />
flight of stairs (tangga), and above the bawah rumah leading to the male section of the house<br />
(see Figures 2, 9 and 10). Even though the steps are quite steep, they normally do not have<br />
any handrails. There is no landing either; the stairway leads directly to the main enclosed<br />
verandah (serambi) of the house. Acehnese superstition demands that there be an odd<br />
number of steps in the stairway. According to the ubiquitous precedence of right over left,<br />
the correct customary way to leave the house is to lead with the right foot on descending the<br />
steps so that the right foot is the first to reach the ground. If this occurs, Acehnese believe<br />
that luck will accompany the person and make his journey safe. (For a detail of the stairs see<br />
Detail K).<br />
At the bottom of the stairs is a flat piece of timber or a slab of stone where visitors may<br />
leave their footwear. Nearby is a water vessel (tempayan) with a gourd dipper (gayong) with<br />
which visitors splash their feet before ascending the stairs.<br />
This practice of washing before entering the house has both hygenic and religious<br />
references. No footwear at all is worn inside the house and an individual who fails to wash<br />
his feet is considered kasar (rude and uncultered). The house interir must be kept very clean,<br />
also, because the Acehnese perform their daily prayers within the house.<br />
A comparison of the schematic plan of the Acehnese house (Figure 2) and the floor plan<br />
(Figure 12) shows the male-female segregation in the use of the spaces inside it. The main entrance<br />
at the front is used by male visitors while the rear entrance through the kitchen<br />
(dapur) is used by women and children. The dapur and female verandah (serambi) is the domain<br />
of women while the male verandah is the domain of men. Usually female visitors enter<br />
37
Figures 3 and 4. A Fine Traditional House<br />
38
Figure 5. An Ornately Carved Skirting Board<br />
Figure 6. A Carved Gable Screen, tebar layar<br />
$9
the house by the rear entrance while their husbands are received in the front serambi by the<br />
host. Such an Islamic segregation of males and females is not exclusive to Acehnese society,<br />
but in Aceh it is usually strictly observed.<br />
The main entrance provides direct access to the front verandah, the almost exclusive domain<br />
of the males. This space is separated from the rest of the house by a timber partition<br />
with a door placed centrally leading to the dalam, the inner sanctum of the dweiling. If<br />
visitors are not very close friends or not members of the family, they are not invited past this<br />
serambi area into the dalam.<br />
Most of the social and religious ceremonies of village life take place in the serambi area<br />
including religious feasts, meals and prayers, in which non-family members are invited to<br />
take part. Weddings, circumcisions, funerals and the five daily prayers are performed here.<br />
Sometimes this area is also used as a sleeping place for young unmarried men of the house or<br />
other male house guests.<br />
This area of the house incorporates the most elaborate architectural embellishment,<br />
usually in the form of exquisite timber carving or fret-work in geometrie and floral patterns.<br />
Part of the floor is covered with matting, usually in the west corner where daily prayers are<br />
held. On ceremonial occasions carpets are spread here and each guest finds an ornamentally<br />
worked square 'sitting mat', placed ready for him. Aside from these mats, no furniture is<br />
found in the serambi.<br />
The female verandah is a similar structure though there is a lack of decoration on the<br />
female side. The passage (lorong) through the centre of the dalam is entered only by men<br />
and women of the household as it gives access only to the female verandah, where women<br />
perform their daily household tasks. Some provisions may be stored in the lorong — for instance,<br />
an earthenware jar full of decayed coconut for making oil, and a jar of vinegar made<br />
from the juice of the nipah palm.<br />
The kitchen (dapur) is normally located in a separate annex with direct access to the<br />
female verandah. If the owners are poor, the female verandah sometimes incorporates the<br />
kitchen. The dapur is mainly the cooking area. However, often a section of it is set aside for<br />
eating. It is usual in an Acehnese household for family members to have their meals<br />
separately and at different times. The furniture in the dapur consists of a sitting mattress<br />
covered with a decorated mat, especially for the use of the male head of the house when he<br />
comes to eat his meals, while a low bench similarly covered with a mat serves as a restingplace<br />
for small children. Shelves or racks are fixed against the wall for plates, earthen cooking<br />
pots, circular earthen or brass saucepans in which rice is boiled, earthenware frying pans<br />
with handles for frying fish, a stone mortar and pestle for grinding spices and earthenware<br />
or brass lamps. Small woven nets, neatly plaited from rattan, hang from the rafters at intervals,<br />
suspending dishes of food out of reach of insects.<br />
The cooking area consists of a simple arrangement — an open wood fire surrounded by<br />
a partially enclosed circle of large rocks on which a wok (kuali) sits. Sometimes a crude<br />
wooden box forms a frame for the kuali to rest on. The smoke escapes through a hatch in<br />
the roof directly above the fire, which can be raised or lowered according to the weather and<br />
time of day. It is normal to have a small opening in the slatted kitchen floor through which<br />
left-overs or waste foods can be thrown to feed the hens and ducks below. Through this<br />
opening, also, young children and invalids are allowed to defecate.<br />
Since the depur opens onto the back of the house compound it normally is adjacent to<br />
40
the well. Women gain quick easy access to this washing and bathing area by means of a stair<br />
which joins the depur (see Figures 9 and 11).<br />
The most important room in the house is the one leading off the lorong on the Mecca or<br />
west side of the building. In this inner sanctum, the married couple sleeps and the first<br />
meeting of the bride and bridegroom often takes place here. This room is seldom entered by<br />
any save the parents and children of the couple.<br />
The floor is usually entirely covered with matting. The roofing is hidden by a white<br />
cloth and the walls are also covered with hangings. In the other parts of the house such<br />
decoration only is used on festive occasions. On a low bench or platform a mattress is placed<br />
with a mat over it. The couch usually has a canopy of mosquisto net and beside this there is<br />
spread on the floor a sitting mattress of considerable size which is intended only for the<br />
man's use. On both mattresses are piles of cushions shaped like bolsters and adorned at<br />
either end with elaborate and often costly embroidery and trimming. Clothing and personal<br />
items are kept in a chest which stands in the corner.<br />
The room on the east side of the lorong is the bedroom (bilik tidur) for the first married<br />
daughter. This space is furnished in a similar manner to the main sleeping room, although<br />
less ostentatiously. If the family does not have a married daughter, this area may be used for<br />
storage.<br />
The high pointed gables of the house are fitted with gable sereens (tebar layar, see<br />
Figure 6) which provide protection from driving rain and also allow thorough ventilation.<br />
The gable sereens slope upwards and inwards from a shallow platform (undan-undan, see<br />
Detail I) extending across the base of the gable. This is probably the most important space in<br />
the Acehnese traditional house and is used to store precious family heirlooms (pusaka) as<br />
well as cakes and other special foods used on festive occasions. Usually the most elaborate<br />
decoration of the house is applied here and the tebar layar are exquisitely carved or woven<br />
(Figure 6).<br />
Most old traditional Acehnese houses are made of chengal, a dark hardwood which can<br />
last for many years under harsh tropical conditions. The task of acquiring chengal from its<br />
remote jungle source is a difficult, expensive process. Formerly, the Sultans and Acehnese<br />
traditional aristocracy used elephants to feil and haul this timber from the jungles.<br />
Because of the great expense of obtaining chengal today, many houses are now constructed<br />
from cheap local or imported hardwoods. All the main beams, columns and wall<br />
planks are made from this timber and are often decoratively carved. The floor however, is<br />
often made of split bamboo slats spaced at regular intervals to allow for the passage of air<br />
(see Details A, B and G).<br />
In fact bamboo may have been the original building material for the whole house. In<br />
1811 William Marsden noted:<br />
For the floorings they lay whole bamboos (a well known species of large cane) of four or five<br />
inches diameter, close to each other, and fastened at the ends to the timbers. Across these are<br />
laid laths of split bamboo, about an inch wide and of the length of the room, which are tied<br />
down with filaments of the 'rattan'. This sort of flooring has an elasticity alarming to<br />
strangers when they first tread on it.<br />
This versatile material is still used for modest houses (Figure 7).<br />
The steeply pitched roof of the Acehnese house is commonly made from palm leaves.<br />
The thatch (atap) is usually made from the sago palm (Metroxylon) if the house is remote<br />
from tidal waters or from the nipah palm (Nipah fructicans) if the site lies near brackish<br />
41
Figure 7. An Old Traditional House Constructed From Bamboo<br />
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water. Details C and D clearly show the method of attaching the palm leaves.<br />
Throughout its construction no nails are used and the whole building is held together by<br />
dowel joints and wedges (see Details A, B, E and F). This eases the task of taking the house<br />
to pieces and setting it up again elsewhere. There is another great advantage in this type of<br />
construction, also, namely that because of the dowel and wedge jointing technique, the<br />
structure has considerable flexibility and can survive the destructive force of earthquakes. 8<br />
Many aspects of the planning, erection and decoration of the Acehnese house have been<br />
directly influenced by beliefs associated with a number of religious incursions from outside<br />
the region — Hindu, Buddhist and Islamic. Unfortunately, it is difficult to determine the<br />
origin of many of these influences. Few written records have been kept in the Acehnese<br />
world and to determine what is pre-Hindu, or Hindu-Buddhist, is made even more difficult<br />
because of this. The arrival of Islam has further complicated the issue and both Hindu-<br />
Buddhist and Islamic teachings have become fused with autochthonous animist beliefs in a<br />
syncretic system which has produced its own unique adat (customs, tradition).<br />
All available evidence suggests that the form of the traditional house has not changed<br />
radically over the last two hundred years and probably retains the form which existed when<br />
Islam arrived in Aceh in the thirteenth century. In the Acehnese world the house is not seen<br />
as a shelter from the sun and rain. It is regarded as a refuge from evil forces and influences.<br />
In most Southeast Asian societies, elaborate rituals and ceremonies accompany the construction<br />
of a house. The Acehnese regard their own house as a sanctuary not only because it<br />
restricts access to outsiders, but also because it has been cleansed of malign influences<br />
through the performance of religious rituals and accompanying ceremonies during its erection<br />
and upon its completion.<br />
The procedures for building a traditional Acehnese house are elaborate. The erection of<br />
the main frame is normally done communally under the supervision of village elders,<br />
religious leaders and a master builder. At this stage the religious aspect is a central consideration.<br />
It is considered crucial to spiritually prepare, cleanse and bless the new site and house<br />
structure in order to ensure the well-being of the occupants. The rituals are basically animist<br />
in origin, but are cloaked with the sanctifying mantle of Islamic ceremony.<br />
A favourable time for the commencement of building is carefully chosen. The work<br />
always begins with the erection of the two principal posts and the cross-beams that join<br />
them. While this is in progress appropriate prayers from the Koran are recited. These two<br />
posts, when the house is completed, stand in the most important sacred house space (the<br />
main bedroom) and are called the raja (prince) and the puteri (princess) posts. They are<br />
made from the soundest and most refined wood. The raja is erected first followed by the<br />
puteri. At a wedding ceremony the bridegroom takes his place in the room seated next to the<br />
'prince' post, while the bridge occupies a seat beside the 'princess' post.<br />
Should the cereomonies at erection of the principal columns prove propitious the rest of<br />
the building will proceed. As soon as the house is completed an auspicious day is again<br />
chosen for moving in.<br />
On this occasion a religious feast is given, to which the village head (tengkü) of the<br />
meunasah is invited. After this gathering a customary 'cooling' 9<br />
period commences. This<br />
consists of sprinkling all the posts with floor and water using a broom made of plants and<br />
twigs. These 'cooling' ceremonies are intended to dispel evil or malign influences. The same<br />
process is repeated whenever there have been any special feasts or ceremonies in the house<br />
50
since such occurrences are believed to set the 'hot' powers of evil in motion. Of all the<br />
pillars, the raja and puteri receive most attention on such occasions.<br />
The two royal pillars and sometimes other important columns are covered at the top<br />
with three pieces of coloured cloth (red, white and black) during building. The use of these<br />
sacred colours is not unique to Aceh as many ethnic groups throughout Indonesia use the<br />
same three colours. 10<br />
It has been suggested that according to Acehnese animist beliefs the<br />
colours white and black are symbolic representation of good and evil, the upper world and<br />
the lower world, day and night. To the Acehnese, the black night symbolises the arrival of<br />
the time when evil spirits are free to roam and is the most dangerous period of the day.<br />
Clearly nightfall sees a sudden change in the activities of people, and involves some tension<br />
and constraint. Later in the evening, after the last prayer of the day (Isja), life gradually<br />
returns to normal. The main door of the Acehnese house never faces the sunset as this would<br />
be tantamount to inviting evil night spirits into the building. The Acehnese believe that evil<br />
spirits will enter a house through any openings, especially near the roof. This belief may explain<br />
the positioning of the cloths at the top of the columns, immediately under the roof.<br />
The cloth's protective power is further reinforced by the placement of verses from the Koran<br />
between each layer. The main window and door entrances are further protected by the placement<br />
of Koranic verses above them.<br />
A schematic section through the Acehnese house (see Figure 14) reveals the breakdown<br />
of the building into three main sections. The upper section is the most sacred one within the<br />
house where the family valuables (pusaka) are stored in the undan-undan. The middle section<br />
is where human activities, isolated and protected from the external influences of everyday<br />
living, take place. Under the house is where shelter and protection is provided for<br />
domesticated animals, and where household rubbish (including human faeces) drop through<br />
the floor. The tripartite breakdown of the house into sacred, human, and nether worlds,<br />
occurs in many ethnic groups throughout Indonesia. It is very pronounced, for example, in<br />
the neighbouring but formally distinct houses of the Toba and Karo Batak.<br />
Another concept which may be discerned in the form of the Acehnese house is that of<br />
the Hindu symbol Mount Meru. Rassers (1959:63), in discussing a range of Indonesian<br />
house forms, refers to the vertical and structural hierarchy expressed in the religious context<br />
of the symbolic mountain. That is to say, the gods dweil on the highest points on earth — the<br />
mountains, human live in the middle world, and the nether spirits live in the oceans below.<br />
Architectural detail in the traditional house clearly differentiates between the sanctified<br />
upper spaces where humans live and the open and profane undercroft where malign forces<br />
may range freely. This boundary is represented by an ornately carved skirting board which<br />
surrounds the whole building at upper floor level (see Figure 5). It is a carved timber addition<br />
with no structural function. However it is never f<strong>org</strong>otten in the construction of the<br />
house.<br />
The aesthetic effect of the house raised on columns is not easily appreciated in the<br />
photographs but is worth emphasising. From a distance, the upper semi-enclosed part of the<br />
building, protected from the unruly forces of nature, appears to float suspended high above<br />
the ground. The effect of viewing several buildings in the one village is of seeing ships<br />
levitating above a shadowed world below,<br />
Inside the house, this vertical differentiation is taken even further, indicating a hierarchy<br />
and a subtle inter-relationship of individual living spaces.<br />
51
The most important space, as previously mentioned, can be found in the most elevated<br />
position of the house — the undan-undan (see Figure 6). The dalam, the inner sanctum<br />
where the connubial bed is found and where the bodies of the dead are prepared for burial,<br />
is elevated by two steps above the less important serambi areas (see Figure 8).<br />
The serambi areas themselves are important spaces for performing daily prayers and for<br />
holding formal social gatherings, and thus are elevated above the depur. The kitchen — the<br />
washing and cleaning room — is closest to the undercroft because it is the least important in<br />
the spacial hierarchy (see also Figure 8).<br />
The most important horizontal division in the Acehnese house is the wall separating the<br />
male verandah from the rest of the building. This wall is always heavily embellished with carvings,<br />
indicating the importance of stepping up from the male verandah into the dalam. This<br />
carving however, gives the male verandah the appearance of an especially important space<br />
— more so than its female counterpart beyond. It is possible to regard the male serambi as<br />
being somewhat detached from the main body of the house — the domain of the female<br />
owners. Perhaps this male/female segregation and the importance of the more elaborately<br />
decorated male verandah, mark a hierarchy super-imposed on to the original structure.<br />
Perhaps there were changes associated with the modification of a matrilineal society through<br />
the teachings of Islam.<br />
The carving on the main timber members, predominantly in the male verandah areas,<br />
are generally geometrie or floral in nature. This is due to the proscriptions of orthodox Islam<br />
which prohibit the depiction of humans or animals in religious art (Seobadio, 1974:108).<br />
However carvings of monkey figures, snakes, birds and Kala heads (monstrous animal heads<br />
of Hindu-Buddhist iconography) are still to be found in many traditional homes. Floral patterns<br />
are dominated by the lotus flower in its many different forms. Occasionally influences<br />
from animism, Hinduism and Islam can be found existing side by side with carved and fretted<br />
timber panels depicting verses from the Koran.<br />
As in several other Sumatran societies the house and rice land are generally owned by<br />
married women. Inheritance in Aceh is matrilineal. When a daughter marries, her father<br />
provides her with a separate dweiling. If there are insufficiënt funds to build a separate<br />
house in the neighbourhood, an extension of the parental house is made at the eastern end<br />
with a doorway leading to a new back gallery. Acehnese children are thus born in the house<br />
of their mother. The idiomatic expression for a wife is "the one who owns the house" —<br />
njang po rumah (Hurgronje, 1906).<br />
Women acquire a house, or at least a portion of one, at the time of their marriage. The<br />
house is a gift from the women's parents. From marriage until the birth of the first child, or<br />
sometimes for a period of three to four years depending on prior arrangements, a bride does<br />
not legally own the house. It still belongs to her parents and during this period she is fully<br />
supported by them. At the end of this period there is a small feast {chanduri) at which it is<br />
announced that the woman is now "separated" (geumeukleh) from her parents. She is given<br />
full possession of the house and, if the parents can afford it, a rice field as well. At the birth<br />
of every child thereafter, the parents give their daughter another rice plot if circumstances<br />
permit.<br />
Girls grow up in their mother's house and remain there or in the neighbourhood, for the<br />
rest of their lives. Parents build a new house for themselves and the rest of their family when<br />
their first daughter marries. If possible, the new house is built in the same yard as the old<br />
52
one; otherwise it is located close by. When the next daughter marries the parents move<br />
again, leaving the second house to her. They occasionally are found living in a shack surrounded<br />
by the houses of their daughters.<br />
The anthropologist James Siegal has commented:<br />
Acehnese women envisage paradise as the place where they are reunited with their children<br />
and their mothers; husbands and fathers are absent. (Siegal, 1969:54)<br />
This emphasises the Acehnese woman's view of the family which according to Siegal<br />
... consists of people who occupy the house compound — themselves, their sisters, mothers,<br />
and children. Their husbands have no place, and hence no right to make decisions.<br />
At the time of their marriage, men belong neither to their family's home, nor to their<br />
wife's home, to which they come empty handed. They are thought of as belonging to the<br />
meunasah. Even when a husband fulfils his material obligations, he has little place in his<br />
wife's home. It appears that this situation has not changed much since Snouck Hurgronje's<br />
time when he wrote<br />
... although men tried to create a role as husbands and, especially as fathers, women thought<br />
of them as essentially superfluous. They allowed men no part in raising children and tolerated<br />
them only so long as they paid their own way and contributed money for goods that a woman<br />
could not obtain through her own resources. (Hurgronje, 1906)<br />
It is anomalous that the planning of the village, the house compound and the house<br />
itself are designed in favour of men, though the house and land are ion the ownership of<br />
women who appear to make the major decisions regarding the family. Although there seems<br />
to be a conflict between Acehnese adat and islamic social mores, social conventions are not<br />
isolated in the Indonesian setting. Similar customs prevail amongst the Minangkabau of<br />
West Sumatra, for example.<br />
Admittedly, the male verandahs are the most heavily embellished with carvings.<br />
However, perhaps the house owners (the women) make the male areas more comfortable in<br />
order to keep their 'guests' happy. I say 'guests', because it appeared to me as it did to Siegal<br />
that "the men were like guests in the houses of their wives". (Siegal, 1969:55) Snouck<br />
Hurgronje in a footnote written fifty years before Siegal's comments, also remarked that "a<br />
man feels like a guest in his wife's house". (Hurgronje, 1906) Thus to fully understand the<br />
building, seeing it through the eyes of women is essential. I saw the house only through the<br />
eyes of males, and as human nature would have it, they stressed the importance of their own<br />
sections of the house. 11<br />
NOTES<br />
1. Snouck Hurgronje's drawings were based on sketches provided by a Mr M. Donk and were supplemented by a<br />
set of explanatory notes prepared by a Dutch engineer, M.L.J.C. Van Es.<br />
2. A number of early photographs of traditional houses appeared in works by Kielstra (1883-1185) and Meiier<br />
(1883).<br />
3. This article is based on fieidwork in Aceh during February and March 1982. The main purpose was to obtain<br />
detailed measured drawings and a photographic record of the traditional Acehnese coastal village house.<br />
4. Several brief descriptions of Acehnese villages dating from 1602 are given in Reid (1975).<br />
5. All words in italics in the text are in Bahasa Indonesia. The measured drawings have been labelled in Indonesian<br />
and English. Snouck Hurgronje's work includes a useful list of Acehnese language terms for the different<br />
parts of the house and its structural members.<br />
53
6 The traditional house which I measured is located in Kampung Mon Tasie approximately 20 küometers<br />
southeast óf Banda Aceh just off the Banda Aceh-Sigli Road. The only differencebetween this buüding and<br />
he archetypal Acehnese house is in the position of the main male entrance sta.r. Usually the; stair s centrally<br />
placedionthe male verandah. Apart from this detail, the dweiling is typical of traditional buildings<br />
throughout coastal Aceh from Meulaboh to Lho' Seumawe.<br />
7 Abdullah Munshi observed during his visit to the area in 1838 "... some people lit smudges every day under<br />
the house to smoke out mosquitoes, - if one went into these houses, one at once had a choking feel.ng and<br />
one's eyes watered ..." (Coupe A.E., 1894:62).<br />
8 Marsden noted this lack of regidity in the structure: "... but in Sumatra the frequency of earthquakes is<br />
alone sufficiënt to have prevented the natives from adopting a substantial mode of building' . (Marsden,<br />
1811)<br />
9. It is interesting to compare this with the English 'house warming'. To the Acehnese the warm climate's<br />
coolness, and not warmth, is what is desired.<br />
10. This use of colours was noted by one researcher in an article on the Bugis people of South Sulawesi (Errington,<br />
1975:8).<br />
11 One problem I encountered with my research was that my interviews with the village inhabitants were ex-<br />
'clusively with men. In a strict Islamic society segregation of women from a male stranger is a natural but<br />
frustrating problem.<br />
REFERENCES<br />
Coupe, A.E. The Voyage of Abdullah, London, 1894.<br />
Errington, Shelly, Asia magazine, Jan. — Feb. 1975, p.8.<br />
Hurgronje, C. Snouck, The Acehnese, Leiden, 1906.<br />
Kielstra, E.B., Acheh Province Sumatra, Leiden, 1883-1885.<br />
Marsden, William, The History of Sumatra, Longman and Hurst, London, 1811.<br />
Meijer, H., Acheh Sumatra, P.B. Nieuwenhuijs, Breda, 1883.<br />
Rassers, W.H., Panji, the Culture Hero, Mertinus Nijhoff, The Hague, 1959.<br />
Reid, A.J.S., "Structures of Cities in Southeast Asia", Canberra Conference Paper, 1975.<br />
Seobadio, H, Dynamic in Indonesian Literature, 1974.<br />
Siegal, J., The Rope of God, University of California Press, 1969.<br />
54
-JU<br />
60
MINANGKABAU AUTHORITY PATTERNS AND THE EFFECTS OF DUTCH RULE<br />
Kenneth R. Young<br />
Introduction<br />
Among the rich diversity of peoples and cultures in Sumatra, indeed in Indonesia, the<br />
Minangkabau of West Sumatra have attracted a lot of attention among scholars. There are a<br />
number of reasons for this, such as the prominent role played in the formation of the<br />
Indonesian nation by outstanding individuals from Minangkabau, or the social <strong>org</strong>anisation<br />
of Minangkabau village society, which still today incorporates social and property relationships<br />
regulated by the categories of matrilineal adat ('custom' or 'customary law' in which<br />
descent and inheritance is traced through the mother's line).<br />
It is the latter subject I want to take up here, in particular the question of political<br />
authority derived from Minangkabau adat. Under Dutch colonial rule, adat became the only<br />
officially sanctioned source of indigenous political authority. Absorption into the<br />
Netherlands East Indies had a number of effects on political structures in West Sumatra. I<br />
do not intend to say much about these changes in general, but to concentrate instead on one<br />
particular effect. The effect of Dutch rule that I want to discuss, and show to be problematic,<br />
is one that still lingers in the way we think about the Minangkabau past. The early<br />
colonial rulers had a particular perspective on Minangkabau society, and, partly for political<br />
reasons, insisted that this view, in which adat was the sole legitimate basis of indigenous<br />
political authority, prevailed for most of the nineteenth century. It is a view which deserves<br />
to be questioned.<br />
I do not intend to offer conclusive arguments about the nature of political authority in<br />
Minangkabau. In spite of the proscription of historical speculation 1<br />
by the British founders<br />
of my discipline, social anthropology, I intend to be speculative, offering reflections about<br />
what Minangkabau society might have been like in the past. I will raise problems well<br />
beyond the immediate concerns of my own research into Minangkabau society in the late<br />
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 2<br />
I have chosen to risk a little speculation to bring<br />
into question the scope of the political functions of adat institutions, since their place as the<br />
outstanding source of indigenous political authority in this society is rarely queried. I will<br />
argue that it is necessary to look beyond these institutions in order to understand the full<br />
range of political possibilities in Minangkabau society. This does not entirely correspond<br />
with the received view among scholars of Minangkabau, nor of the people's perception of<br />
their own past.<br />
Many introductory texts convey the impression that the form of political authority<br />
characteristic of Minangkabau is to be found in the institutions of adat. 3<br />
The domestic and<br />
communal authority patterns discussed in these texts are real enough, and are not at issue.<br />
However, they do not extend in their application beyond the boundaries of village communities<br />
(nagari). My argument will be that, if we are to understand the basis of those forms<br />
of political authority which had a wider territorial scope, we must look elsewhere. The institutions<br />
of matrilineal adat are unsuited to this type of political authority. Adat institutions<br />
may have to adapt to territorial political authority (and vice-versa), but in doing so, they<br />
serve not only as a barrier but also as a complement to power which derives from other<br />
sources.<br />
63
The problem in view will be elaborated further shortly. Firstly, I should say a little<br />
about the region for the benefit of those of you who are not already familiar with it. After<br />
doing this, and expanding on the problem itself, the lines of argument that could be<br />
developed to challenge the received account of political authority in Minangkabau will be<br />
discussed. Among the points raised are some taken from an important article published in<br />
1927 by the eminent Dutch sociologist B.J.O. Schrieke. 4<br />
The Region<br />
The language, culture and forms of social <strong>org</strong>anisation of the Minangkabau people<br />
predominate in the administrative area known, in colonial times as West Sumatra<br />
{Sumatra's Westkust), and today as the Indonesian province of Sumatera Barat. Along the<br />
lowland coastal littoral and other borderland (rantau) areas, within and adjacent to West<br />
Sumatra, these cultural forms have mixed with influences from other Sumatran peoples<br />
(such as Acehnese and Bataks).<br />
Within a short distance from the coast rises the broad mountain chain, extending the<br />
length of Sumatra, called the Bukit Barisan. The geographic and cultural core of<br />
Minangkabau (the darat or heartland), where the pure cultural forms are found and are said<br />
to have originated, lies in the mountainous highlands. In fertile highland rice-plains, no<br />
more than fifty kilometres inland, are the three core districts (Agam, Limapuluh Kota,<br />
Tanar Datar) of the Minangkabau heartland. 5<br />
When mention is made here of the<br />
Minangkabau region, the reference is to the location of a socio-cultural entity rather than to<br />
a unified political structure based in West Sumatra. The pure socio-cultural forms are those<br />
of the heartland, and it is these three districts that are indicated here when 'Minangkabau' is<br />
used is a territorial sense.<br />
The most distinctive territorial unit within the Minangkabau heartland is the nagari. A<br />
nagari is simply the most developed form of settlement in Minangkabau. It may be thought<br />
of as a village, provided one recognises that it is large and made up of a number of sections<br />
(jorong). Nagari populations of several thousand are common, so it is quite a large village by<br />
Sumatran standards.<br />
Each nagari has its own mosque and balai. The balai adat is the council hall of the settlement.<br />
In it meet the 'governing' adat council of the nagari. 6<br />
The majority of its assembly<br />
consists of the clan or lineage leaders of the village, men with the titlepanghulu. A panghulu<br />
is the senior male in a Minangkabau lineage or clan. Each nagari regulates affairs within the<br />
balai according to one of the two Lareh or adat traditions — neither according to Bodi-<br />
Caniago or Koto-Piliang adat. 7<br />
The term 'nagari' is sometimes translated, from its Minangkabau context, as<br />
'autonomous village republic'. If one treats matrilineal adat as the only source of political<br />
authority, then this translation makes sense. However, I will be arguing to the contrary that,<br />
even before the arrival of the Dutch, many Minangkabau nagari were either economically<br />
autarchie, nor free from wider political linkages. These wider connexions, moreover, were<br />
mostly <strong>org</strong>anised through institutions other than adat. To discern them we must free<br />
ourselves from preconceptions about the political role of adat, and be prepared to discover<br />
authority patterns that do not correspond to the received idealisations of village autonomy.<br />
When I refer to political authority, I am talking about something which unifies two<br />
significant elements — power and legitimacy. Authority must combine the capacity to bring<br />
64
about a state of affairs with the acceptance by those subject to that power that its exercise is<br />
morally justified. Therefore if adat, or anything else, is seen as a locus of authority, it is<br />
necessary to show that it functions both as a source of power and as a source of legitimacy.<br />
Adat encompasses many important political functions regulating life within<br />
Minangkabau communities. It has strong legitimacy for these functions, though its norms<br />
rest heavily on ideals of reciprocity and consensual decision-making. It has a capacity to impart<br />
sanctions by communal pressure, and especially through lineage control over subsistence<br />
(wet-rice) land. Authority derived from adat is significant, but, as I will argue,<br />
limited to domestic and communal matters. It is not functional beyond very definite limits as<br />
a coercive authority with disposition over land, labour or resources.<br />
The limited scope of clan-based political authority is not by itself the decisive point. It<br />
cannot be taken for granted that <strong>org</strong>anised power of wider extent prevailed as well, since the<br />
kinds of hierachies we are familiar with in modern societies by no means existed universally<br />
in pre-capitalist societies. One hypothesis that could be considered concerning the past<br />
<strong>org</strong>anisation of Minangkabau society is that it did not have any structures of political<br />
significance beyond the boundaries of each nagari. This possibility, however, returns this<br />
discussion to the question of the nature of political authority in Minangkabau. I will say a<br />
little more about that, and then set out some grounds for skepticism about the received<br />
account (which tends to find political authority exclusively in adat institutions).<br />
The Problem<br />
The stimulus for the problem is the lack of attention that has been given to the kind and<br />
variety of political forms which may have operated historically between nagari settlements<br />
and on a wider territorial level in the Minangkabau heartland. 1 am sure neglect of this question<br />
can be accounted for in good measure by the paucity of evidence available to resolve it.<br />
The problem itself, however, is not that the answer is difficult to arrivé at, but that the question<br />
itself is rarely asked, and that the reason for that may be the residual influence of the<br />
colonial perspective on Minangkabau authority patterns, a view which promoted and gave<br />
exclusive recognition to the adat of village matriclans. If this assumption is correct, it can be<br />
overcome by showing that this colonial view needs to be treated with skepticism.<br />
The hypothesis implicit in the colonial perspective is not entirely implausible.<br />
Minangkabau may have been like certain other pre-capitalist societies (especially kinship<strong>org</strong>anised<br />
segmentary societies) in which there was an absence of central authority, i.e.<br />
where there was no domination by an overarching <strong>org</strong>anisation of the territory occupied by a<br />
culturally homogeneous people. The only sources of authority in these systems tends to be<br />
located within descent groups. The political characterisation of such societies, however, is<br />
not accomplished by labelling them 'stateless', 'acephalous' or 'tribal'. It requires as well<br />
elucidation of how social stability is achieved without purposive institutionalised direction.<br />
Anthropologists faced with this task have frequently emphasised the role of lineages<br />
and clans in these segmentary systems. Some have discerned a balanced opposition which<br />
produces stability from processes of conflict and competition at all social levels from small<br />
descent groups to larger social aggregates. 8<br />
Others have emphasised systems of alliance and<br />
exchange, particularly in systems relying on inter-marriage between otherwise autonomous<br />
groups. 9<br />
Such societies may be bound together beyond the level of the immediate community<br />
in a variety of ways, so that normally some social mechanism can be found which pro-<br />
65
duces stability and unity in the wider (seemingly anarchie) society. In Minangkabau there are<br />
no obvious signs of a supra-nagari segmentary system.<br />
Minangkabau nagaris are endogamous (i.e. in-marrying), so inter-marriage does not<br />
appear to have provided the crucial inter-communal bonding. Perhaps 'mechanical solidarity'<br />
was achieved from conflict and competition between settlments, but that has yet to be<br />
demonstrated. The degree of intercommunal conflict was unlikely to have been too severe,<br />
because there was a significant flow of goods and services within and beyond the region. 10<br />
This economie interdependence points to but does not explain patterns of stable social interaction<br />
between nagari. It poses difficulties for, but do not make impossible, a pattern of<br />
mechanical solidarity. These considerations do not eliminate the case for a segmentary<br />
political system in Minangkabau, but as things stand that case remains unproven, and<br />
should be argued for rather than assumed.<br />
Other factors which might be seen to favour this case were the rugged terrain, open<br />
frontiers and poor Communications, all conditions which work against the political unification<br />
of a territory. However, the greatest difficulty for this view is in naming a time when<br />
this putative state of affairs existed. I can't point to a time when such a situation was true of<br />
the whole heartland. There was the Minangkabau kingdom based at Pagarruyung; there<br />
were the territories controlled by the Padris," or, more recently, the various phases of the<br />
colonial administration. Now there is the Government of the Republic of Indonesia. In any<br />
period it is possible to point to territorially based political institutions in the region. In each<br />
case it is necessary to investigate the links that existed between the territorial power(s) and<br />
the clan-based government of the nagaris. The point that emerges, it seems to me, is that<br />
adat political functions were not an alternative to these larger political formations, but<br />
rather functions that co-existed with a variety of territorial regimes. Further, as I will argue<br />
below, the nature of adat institutions was such that they could not without modification be<br />
readily expanded to take on functions of territorial sovereignty or to adapt to the early stages<br />
of endogenous State formation.<br />
The early Dutch Governors believed otherwise, and tried to shape adat authority to<br />
their own purposes. Their ambitions were guided by their familiarity with Javanese patterns<br />
of territorial power.' 2<br />
Javanese political structures possessed functioning hierarchies which<br />
linked territorial notables with the systems of village government. In Minangkabau the<br />
Dutch tried to force an alien political hierarchy into the adat framework, 13<br />
in order that adat<br />
would absorb and legitimise functions of tribute extraction, territorial control, and the coercive<br />
direction of the population. At the same time they moved against alternative bases of<br />
authority, notably the influence of independent Islamic teachers.<br />
The Dutch colonial state established its sovereignty in Minangkabau in the first half of<br />
the nineteenth century, after intervening in 1821 in a protracted civil conflict which had<br />
disrupted life in the Minangkabau territories since 1803. They did not defeat the last of their<br />
Padri opponents until 1837. 14<br />
The main objective of the Dutch at this time was to win control of the lucrative coffee<br />
trade. After the elimination of Padri opposition, they hoped that, by adopting a political<br />
strategy of indirect rule, they would be able both to consolidate a trade monopoly in this<br />
commodity, and to maintain their command over the Minangkabau region. The model of<br />
commercial advantage and territorial control was based on their experience in Java. 15<br />
The<br />
local political institutions which, the Dutch hoped, could be integrated into their structure of<br />
66
government were those of Minangkabau adat. However, they discovered that political<br />
authority derived from this source did not function well within a hierarchical State apparatus,<br />
and was not well suited to the long term management of the system of forced<br />
deliveries of coffee either. 16<br />
As Governor Michiels commented in 1832: 'Sumatra's people<br />
are not the people of Java and shall never be made subservient to our interests by the same<br />
means'. 17<br />
Nevertheless, Dutch efforts to build a system of government exclusively on adat institutions<br />
persisted into the twentieth century. Eventually, arguments were raised, most cogently<br />
by Dr Schrieke, that the bureaucratie civil service that was being developed by this time<br />
would have to break with the ascriptive authority of adat institutions in Minangkabau.' 8<br />
Although Schrieke was looking ahead to the future needs of the State, many of the<br />
arguments he raised about the nature of adat authority could be turned (this was certainly<br />
not his intention) to question its suitability for any form of territorial political power.<br />
Some Grounds for Skepticism<br />
Schrieke's points will be considered now along with other reasons for questioning the completeness<br />
of any account of Minangkabau authority which deals only with adat institutions.<br />
The grounds for exercising skepticism about such claims (which were promoted by the<br />
colonial State as part of their support for adat notables) can be grouped as follows:<br />
1. Arguments based on the content of adat prescriptions;<br />
2. Historical and linguistic evidence for the existence of political and economie ties<br />
beyond nagai boundaries, and<br />
3. The application to the past of the arguments put forward by Schrieke in 1927.<br />
There is not the scope here to develop these points fully. Rather, lines of argument capable<br />
of more extensive development are set out.<br />
Adat Prescriptions<br />
The term 'adat' refers most broadly to the Minangkabau people's own perception of their<br />
customs and practices, their way of doing things. It is a notion without the boundaries implicit<br />
in western ideas of law, religion, economy and politics. It remains something different<br />
from a formalised set of rules, or the prescriptions of a legal system such as the colonial<br />
Government tried to build out of it through their codification of adatrecht.' 9<br />
Nevertheless, like any body of discourse, it can be shown to have developed the greatest<br />
precision and elaboration in those areas where it was most heavily utilised. Conversely, in<br />
areas where it was little used, one can expect that its admonitions will be more vague and<br />
generalised.<br />
I suggest that a careful analysis of the content of Minangkabau adat will reveal a pattem<br />
of this kind — a pattern which is highly elaborated in matters of property, inheritance,<br />
and matters bearing on marriage, residence and local dispute settlement. On the other hand,<br />
the guidance adat provides for relations beyond the nagari are confined to some very general<br />
aphorisms. There is little that is specific. Most of the adat that 'does not rot in the rain or<br />
crack in the sun', the 'adat that is truly adat' 20<br />
concerns domestic matters. Additionally, the<br />
procedures for decision-making and settling disputes involve lengthy consultations of those<br />
involved (musyawarah dan mufakat).<br />
On these indications there is little to show that adat institutions were involved in the ex-<br />
67
ercise of territorial authority. I suspect this has encouraged the view that no such authority<br />
existed.<br />
However, what I am stressing, is that adat is not the basis of this kind of political<br />
authority. It is only one of a number of legitimising rationales that have existed in<br />
Minangkabau society (e.g. Islam, nationalism, secular modernism, communism etc.) each<br />
having their own socio-economic constituency. The socio-economic foundation of adat<br />
authority, as Schrieke repeatedly emphasises, is lineage control over wet-rice land. 2<br />
'<br />
Schrieke observes, in his 1927 article, the way in which adat authority is limited even within<br />
the nagari. Developments, recent at the time he was writing, had led to a situation in which<br />
... in the last ten years outsiders had been able to become the spokesmen of grievances within<br />
the nagari, and not only did leaders of the people with no adat connexions influence them, but<br />
they had also managed to gain a hold over the adat authorities themselves. This is not a wholly<br />
new phenomenon. Already van den Linden pointed out [formerly in 1833] that sometimes<br />
there could be found people who were not adat leaders who had more influence than the<br />
panghulu themselves. 22<br />
Historial and Linguistic Evidence for the Existence of Extra-N agari Ties<br />
The content of adat suggests its predominantly domestic and communal roles. 23<br />
1 want now<br />
to indicate briefly that there were significant political (and economie) ties beyond nagari<br />
boundaries. I am not referring here to territorial power een tres such as the Royal Court at<br />
Pagarruyung might have been. I refer rather to the numerous nagari federations which<br />
covered the Minangkabau landscape. 24<br />
The Dutch tried to graft onto village adat the acceptance of new political offices — a<br />
village head, and above him localised territorial authority over several villages vested in a<br />
notable entitled Tuanku Laras. These positions were rightly seen to have no real indigenous<br />
basis. 23<br />
Also, the districts the Tuanku Laras were put in charge of grouped nagari according<br />
to the Government's administrative convenience first of all, and according to long association<br />
only secondarily. These districts of colonial administration were called laras.<br />
The artificiality of these arrangements should not obscure the recognition that real<br />
nagari federations of greater or lesser scope had always existed in the Minangkabau<br />
heartland. A common pattern was for a group of related nagari settlements to lie along the<br />
banks of a river, having been established historically from new settlements set up under the<br />
protection of an original 'mother nagari' (induk nagari). 26<br />
Some degree of economie<br />
specialisation and exchange may have developed between these settlements. Wider trading<br />
unions existed too, products being exchanged on an orderly basis through markets. 27<br />
In fact,<br />
market communities could unite not just a number of nagaris, but a group of nagari federations.<br />
The luhak Limapuluh Kota, the one furthest to the East, once was a confederation of<br />
fourteen separate laras., 28<br />
Politically, these higher territorial unions appeared, at the beginning<br />
of the nineteenth century to have limited political cooperation to measures designed to<br />
guarantee their collective security, under the leadership of a man (titled Datuk berenam or<br />
bertujuh etc. depending on the number involved) appointed only for the duration of the<br />
conflict or other emergency. 29<br />
Hence, even without involvement with a centre of territorial<br />
power such as the Minangkabau kingdom, the boundaries of the nagari frequently did not<br />
terminate all significant political and economie processes, even though they may have set the<br />
limit of the authority of lineage leaders {panghulu).<br />
Another piece of evidence (and potential avenue for further investigation), which suggests<br />
the importance of units of greater territorial scope than single nagaris, is linguistic in<br />
68
character. Differences in dialect and in adat are found to cluster around nagari federations.<br />
Dr Khaidir Anwar has written about his own home district of Situjuh (south of Payakumbuh<br />
in Kabupaten Limapuluh Kota). He has identified a distinct dialect in the Situjuh area.<br />
Situjuh is made up of five nagari. 30<br />
It is a laras in the Dutch sense. 31<br />
However, of the five<br />
nagari, only four (those which presumably formed a long-standing federation before the colonial<br />
Government joined the fifth, nagari Tungkar, to their group) speak the distinctive<br />
Sitajuh dialect. 32<br />
These four are probably the original pre-colonial laras. Variations in<br />
speech of this kind are further evidence of close associations of long standing between<br />
nagari. These linguistic data further support the historical evidence that the political and<br />
economie structures of Minangkabau extended beyond the confines of the nagari.<br />
Schrieke's Arguments Against the Use of Adat Authority in the Twentieth Century<br />
Lastly, I want to draw on Schrieke's case, made in his 1927 article. 33<br />
He argued then that<br />
adat-derived authority was entirely unsuitable to the rational-bureaucratic functions of a<br />
modern State, and to the political functions appropriate to the capitalist mode of production<br />
that had become established in West Sumatra. 34<br />
His argument is developed cogently and at<br />
substantial length. His purpose at that time was to argue tor the formation of a professional<br />
bureaucratie civil service, and for the abandonment of attempts to found regional government<br />
on the authority of adat leaders. His case is persuasive, but (probably against his intention)<br />
it also demonstrates, not only that adat authority was unsuited to this purpose, but that<br />
it had always been unsuited to the exercise and legitimation of territorial authority. From<br />
this I conclude that historical enquiry into the sources of political authority should look<br />
beyond adat institutions.<br />
Schrieke observes how movements of opposition and reform, such as the Padris or<br />
various other nineteenth and twentieth century movements, had always drawn on some<br />
<strong>org</strong>anisational basis other than adat. The Padris grounds for legitimation too, based on<br />
religion, had a wider authorative basis than adat. 35<br />
He notes how energetic efforts by the<br />
Government to mobilise the prestige of adat authorities after 1924 had little effect in slowing<br />
the spread of communism in West Sumatra. 36<br />
Furthermore, established pre-colonial<br />
political authorities, in particular the Minangkabau kingdom, did not depend exclusively on<br />
adat for their authority. Those titled persons within Minangkabau villages who represented<br />
the King were not rulers or administrators in the modern sense. Further, he notes, the Kings<br />
and courts themselves stood very largely outside of the adat-system of the nagaris. 37<br />
His argument contains more points than can be reviewed here. The present case will rest<br />
with one of his most telling points — that of bringing out the nature of adat authority, to<br />
show its unsuitability as an element in a structure of territorial power. The fact that he had<br />
to turn to an ethnographic parallel to make this clear, probably indicates how wellentrenched<br />
misunderstandings about the nature of adat authority in Minangkabau had<br />
become. Citing contemporary ethnographic studies (by Kruyt and Adriani) of Toraja society<br />
in Sulawesi, Schrieke emphasises the consensual foundations of Minangkabau adat authority,<br />
and the fact that lineage or clan heads had neither the power nor the legitimizing rationale<br />
to enforce the demands of territorial government on their dependents. If that was to<br />
be done, the sources of both power and legitimacy would have to be found elsewhere. The<br />
similarity he is drawing attention to is exemplified by the following passage from Kruyt and<br />
Adriani:<br />
09
The decisions of the [Toraja] leader must be wholly in accord with the feelmgs of the<br />
viliaaers else the head would probably forfeit his authority. Therefore no leader will choose a<br />
path other than that desired by his fellow villagers ... Toraja leaders have never been ad<br />
ministrators [bestuurders]. 3<br />
'<br />
There is probably no need to spell this out for the authority of panghulu in<br />
Minangkabau, to mention again the importance of musyawarah and mufakat, or to point<br />
out that the legitimization of sanctions exercised by panghulu are restricted to particular domains<br />
agreed to be in the interests of the lineage, clan and community, and to the protection<br />
of their rights.<br />
In more abstract terms this is the contrast between, on the one hand, customary<br />
authority deriving from association, consensus, and reciprocity and, on the other, territorial<br />
authority deriving from political or economie concentration of power, social rank and<br />
tribute.<br />
The colonial Government was, in this respect, not that different from any other territorial<br />
power that had existed in the region. However, they acted with the hope that<br />
Minangkabau adat could be transformed into a traditionally legitimized system of domination<br />
such as they had adapted to the government of Java. The colonial Government persisted<br />
in trying to convert adat authority in Minangkabau into something that it wasn't. It is<br />
not surprising that the system of administration didn't function as they had hoped. They<br />
persevered for a long time. Their efforts were always directed at portraying the adat leaders<br />
as the sole possessors of political authority in Minangkabau (besides, naturally, themselves).<br />
We will follow them in that error unless we recognise that territorial power in Minangkabau<br />
had to base itself on resources, <strong>org</strong>anisation and ideologies other than adat.<br />
Conclusion<br />
The adat institutions of the Minangkabau nagari are largely limited to the internal selfregulation<br />
of these communities. They were not adapted to further political functions,<br />
because the nature of their authority was such that it could not be simply expanded to take<br />
on territorial rule or the early stages of State formation. That doesn't mean that territorial<br />
power could not exist in Minangkabau. It had, to some extent, existed for a long time.<br />
However, whenever any group established control over territory, population, resources or<br />
trade routes, their authority functioned alongside, or over and above, adat-based authority.<br />
This is not that remarkable, in that the common pattern in the Sumatran region was the<br />
rise and fall of small states under leaders who succeeded temporarily in concentrating power<br />
in their courts, most frequently drawing resources from control of water-borne trade. These<br />
states tended to be unstable, enduring while the political flair of their rulers lasted, ever<br />
vulnerable to internal intrigue and external attack. 3<br />
' The village communities that feil within<br />
their sphere of influence commonly adopted political offices to fit in with these evanescent<br />
kingdoms. They did so usually without losing control of their domestic affairs, even though<br />
they might have been obliged to pay a relatively small tribute to the central authority. When<br />
the kingdom declined, they sloughed off their external connexions and reverted to more<br />
local, kinship-based patterns of self-government, patterns that were never entirely lost when<br />
they were incorporated into the larger political unit. Minangkabau adat institutions were<br />
well suited to this kind of continuity within shifting and oscillating patterns of territorial<br />
power. But they existed as its complement, not as its manifestation at the local level.<br />
My concern is that the received account of authority in Minangkabau communities has<br />
70
absorbed some misunderstandings of the early Dutch rulers on this point. With their experience<br />
of the hierarchical Javanese patterns of territorial power which reached down into<br />
village political <strong>org</strong>anisation as their guide, Dutch officials undertook the procrustean<br />
labour of trying fit Minangkabau adat onto the bed of an alien political hierarchy, so that it<br />
would absorb and legitimise functions of tribute extraction, territorial control, and coercive<br />
direction of the population. One of the lasting effects of their efforts has been the tendency<br />
to see village adat as the most significant authority structure in indigenous society. It is<br />
hoped that the arguments presented here will encourage skepticism about that view of the<br />
Minangkabau past.<br />
NOTES<br />
1. Both Malinowski and Radcliffe-Brown broke with earlier (evolutionist, diffusionist) schools of thought, and<br />
argued against speculation and 'conjectural history'. cf. I.M. Lewis, (ed.) History and Social Anthropology,<br />
London, Tavistock p.xiif; A. Kuper, Anthropologists and Anthropology, Harmondsworth, Penguin 1975,<br />
pp. 16-17, 84-87. This aversion to historical investigation was later corrected by Evans-Pritchard (amongst<br />
others), who observed in 1961 that 'the functionalist critics of both evolutionists and diffusionists should<br />
have challenged them, not for writing history, but for writing bad history'; E.E. Evans-Pritchard, 'Anthropology<br />
and History' 1961 in Evans-Pritchard, Social Anthropology and Other Essays, New York, The<br />
Free Press, 1964, p.173.<br />
2. Even in contemporary and largely synchronie field studies, anthropologists can be faced with similar problems<br />
in evaluating the status of particular institutions, notably that of the nature of a society's own view of<br />
its past. See I.M. Lewis, op. cit., p.xvii.<br />
3. See, for example, H.W. Bachtiar, 'Negeri Taram' A Minangkabau Village Community' in R.M. Koentjaraningrat<br />
(ed.), Villages in Indonesia, Ithaca, New York, Cornell University Press, 1967. Note also C.<br />
Dobbin 'The Exercise of Authority in Minangkabau in the late Eighteenth Century' in A. Reid and L.<br />
Castles (eds.),Pre-colonial State Systems in South-East Asia, Kuala Lumpur, Monograph of the<br />
M.B.R.A.S., no.6, 1975. The existence of the Minangkabau Kingdom is recognised, but it is its ceremonial<br />
and symbolic functions that are stressed. cf. P.E. de Josselin de Jong, Minangkabau and Negri Sembilan,<br />
The Hague, Martinus Nijhoff, 1952, pp.13-14, 107-111. The Royal Family was weak in the immediate precolonial<br />
period (to the extent of largely being exterminated in a civil conflict early in the nineteenth century)<br />
since its economie strength (based on the nearly exhausted gold trade) had greatly declined. That does not<br />
mean that it was always weak.<br />
4. B. Schrieke, 'Het probleem der Bestuurs<strong>org</strong>anisatie ter Sumatra's Westkust' ['The Problem of the Organisation<br />
of Government on the West Coast of Sumatra'], Koloniale Studiën, 1 (1927): 57-106.<br />
5. The core cultural region is usually designated by the Minangkabau people themselves in partly spatial, partly<br />
social terms, as 'Luhak nan Tigo, Lareh nan Duo', i.e. the three districts, or luhak (Agam, Limapuluh Kota,<br />
and Tanah Datar), and the two politico-legal adat traditions, or lareh (Bodi-Caniago and Koto-Piliang,<br />
about which see below). cf. T. Abdullah 'Modernisation in the Minangkabau World', in C. Holt (ed.)<br />
Culture and Politics in Indonesia, London, Cornell University Press, 1972, pp.l83f.<br />
6. The adat council still exists to-day and functions alongside the local village authority structure created by the<br />
Indonesian State.<br />
7. Koto-Piliang means 'chosen words' and Bodi-Caniago 'valued character'. The main difference between<br />
these two traditions is that lineage leaders {panghulu) within a settlement are all of equal status in Bodi<br />
Caniago villages, whereas the Koto-Piliang tradition recognises certain panghulu as being first among<br />
equals. The hierarchical tendencies in the latter may indicate a past connexion with the political system of<br />
the Minangkabau Kingdom. cf. P.E. de Josselin de Jong, op. cit.<br />
8. For a classic example see:<br />
E.E. Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1940, chs.4 & 5.<br />
9. C. Levi-Strauss, The Elementary Structures of Kinship, Boston, Beacon Press, 1969.<br />
10. I will develop the argument for this elsewhere. There is strong evidence for the existence of a well-established<br />
trade-based division of labour within the region, a pattern of economie specialisation that almost certainly<br />
preceded Dutch political control. The evidence comes from numerous souces including:<br />
A.L. van Hasselt, Volksbeschrijving van Midden-Sumatra, Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1882.
P.J. Veth et.al, Reizen in Midden-Sumatra 1887-1879 door de leden der Sumatra-Expeditie, Leiden, E.J.<br />
A^W.P^Verkerk Pistorius, Studiën over de inlandsche huishouding in de Padangsche Bovenlanden, Zalt-<br />
Bommel, J. Noman en Zoon, 1871.<br />
H.G. Nahuijs, Brieven over Bencoolen, Padang, het Rijk van Menangkabau, Rhiouw, Sincapoera en Poelo-<br />
Pinang, Breda, Hollingerus Pijpers, 1826.<br />
11 The Padri movement was led by an elite of religious scholars who wanted to reform the practice of Islam in<br />
Minangkabau. It began peacefully in the eighteenth century, but shifted to a phase of armed mihtancy atter<br />
1803 See C Dobbin, 'Islamic Revivalism in Minangkabau at the turn of the Nineteenth Century , Modern<br />
Asian Studies, 8,3, (1974): 319-356, and C. Dobbin, 'Economie Change in Minangkabau as a Factor in the<br />
Rise of the Padri Movement 1784-1830', Indonesia, 23, (1977): 1-38.<br />
12. B. Schrieke, op. cit., p.94.<br />
13. Ibid., p.67f.<br />
14. M. Joustra, Minangkabau: overzicht van het land, geschiedenis en volk, 's-Gravenhage, Martinus<br />
Nijhoff,1923, p.50f. „ m<br />
C. Dobbin, 'Tuanku Iman Bonjol (1772-1864),' Indonesia, 13 (1972): 5-35.<br />
15. 'De vrije arbeid en het soekoebestuur op Sumatra's Westkust' Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsch Indie, 17,<br />
2C1855V 92<br />
(Governor van Swieten) 'De invoering en werking van het Koffiestelsel in het Gouvernement van Sumatra's<br />
Westkust', Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsch Indie, 25, 1 (1863): 216.<br />
C. Lulofs, 'Koffiecultuur en belasting ter Sumatra's Westkust', Indische Gids 26, 2 (1VU4): loJb.<br />
16. C. Lulofs, ibid., p.1639.<br />
17. B. Schrieke, op.cit., p.63.<br />
18. B. Schrieke, ibid., pp.104-106, and passim.<br />
19. G.D. Willinck, Het Rechtsleven bij de Minangkabausche Maleiers, Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1909, and C. van<br />
Vollenhoven, Het Adatrecht van Nederlandsch-Indie, 3 vols., Leiden, E.J. Brill 1918, 1931, 1933.<br />
20. T. Abdullah, op.cit., p.l91f.<br />
21 Schrieke, op.cit., pp.93, 105. See also: F. von Benda-Beckmann, Property in Social Continuity, The Hague,<br />
Martinus Nijhoff, 1979, and J.S. Kahn, Minangkabau SocialFormations, Cambndge, Cambndge University<br />
Press, 1980.<br />
22. Schrieke, op.cit., p.92.<br />
23. Ibid., pp.83-84.<br />
24. Ibid., pp.80f.<br />
25. Ibid., pp.67f.<br />
26. Ibid., p.69. - , . T v.<br />
E. Graves, The Minangkabau Response to Dutch Colonial Rule in the Nineteenth Century, Ithaca (N. Y.),<br />
Cornell University (Modern Indonesia Project Monograph series no. 60) 1980, p.14.<br />
27. A.L. van Hasselt, op.cit., p.360f; P.J. Veth, et.al., op.cit., pp.99, 104-106, 197-198; D.G. Stibbe, 'Beschrijving<br />
der onderafdeeling Alahan Panjang', Tijdschrift voor het Binnenlands Bestuur, 21(1901) pp.510,522.<br />
28. B. Schrieke, op.cit., pp.68, 81-84; A.W.P. Verkerk Pistorius, op.cit., p.83; L.C. Westenenk, De<br />
Minangkabausche Nagari, Encyclopaedisch Bureau Aflevering VII, derde uitgave, 1918 pp.118-119.<br />
29. B. Schrieke, ibid, pp.68-69.<br />
30. Khaidir Anwar, 'Language Use in Minangkabau Society'. Indonesia Circle, 22 (1980) p.57.<br />
31. Dr Khaidir Anwar, personal communication.<br />
32. Khaidir Anwar, ibid.<br />
33. B. Schrieke, op.cit.<br />
72
34. Ibid. pp. 105-106.<br />
35. Ibid., pp.93.<br />
36. Ibid., p.92.<br />
37. Ibid., p.93; E. Graves, op.cit., p.12; J.P. de Josselin de Jong, op.cit.<br />
38. B. Schrieke, op.cit., p.96.<br />
39. cf. D. J. Steinberg (ed.), In Search of Southeast Asia, New York, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971, ch.9.<br />
73
UPLAND — DOWNLAND RELATIONSHIPS IN BARUS:<br />
A NORTHWEST SUMATRAN CASE STUDY<br />
Jane Drakard<br />
The main focus of this lecture series is the study of coastal Sumatra. The present paper,<br />
however, départs in some degree from that emphasis in order to examine an example of<br />
interaction between the coastal Malay-Islamic world of Sumatra and the inland, non-Malay,<br />
non-Islamic, Batak world. My purpose is to illustrate the interrelationship between coast<br />
and interior in one part of northwestern Sumatra.<br />
It is not unusual for observers to distinguish between Sumatra's coastal flat and her<br />
hilly interior. Physically the landscapes look very different and there are many ethnic, social<br />
and economie differences too. The earliest outside reports of north Sumatra stressed the<br />
distinction between the Batak people of the interior and the mixed Malay population of the<br />
coast. And from the time when Dutch observers first wrote detailed descriptions of the northern<br />
part of west Sumatra this theme was emphasised. Van Bazel, whose description of west<br />
Sumatra in 1761 formed the basis for many later surveys, wrote of the original, inland,<br />
pagan inhabitants of the island who brought their goods to the shore to barter and who occasionally<br />
became more tractable and civilized as a result of their intercourse with the people<br />
of the coast and with the foreigners living there. The coastal population, he said, included<br />
Chinese, Siamese, Javanese and Malaccans as well as local, Sumatran Malays and Bataks<br />
who had accepted Islam.'<br />
In the scholarly literature which has developed, these "worlds" have tended to remain<br />
distinct. Batak studies have become a specialised field, particularly for anthropologists and<br />
linguists, while the coastal world, the pesisir, has for long been regarded as a cultural and<br />
religious entity, a Muslim trading world of mixed population and with a marked propensity<br />
to accept ideas from outside. As other papers in this series demonstrate, there is obviously<br />
much that can be gained from an appreciation of pesisir culture and society per se. When it<br />
comes to the historical consideration of pre-modern Sumatran states, however, an excessively<br />
coastal interpretation has recently been called into question. In the famous search for<br />
Srivijaya, for instance, scholars have been obliged to review their categories of enquiry and<br />
rethink their approaches to Sumatran institutions.<br />
Recent studies have stressed the geographical, economie and political relationship between<br />
coast and interior. An example is O.W. Wolters' essay reviewing the history of Srivijayan<br />
studies. 2<br />
Wolters suggested that, in view of the absence of archaeological evidence of a<br />
large coastal emporium on the Musi estuary at Palembang, a useful category for expanding<br />
our understanding of kingdoms such as Srivijaya might be to think in terms of riverine<br />
neighbourhood networks rather than large immobile capitals. He pictured a situation in<br />
which shared spiritual values could link a ruler with the riverine landscape surrounding him<br />
and enable him to secure loyalty and mobilise manpower. 3<br />
Riverine traffic, Wolters suggested,<br />
would unite the scattered inhabitants of a region and encourage neighbourly obedience.<br />
The task he suggests for scholars is the discovery of those networks; to enquire further<br />
into neighbourhood Communications within a region and to search for the routes along<br />
which men and ideas travelled. 4<br />
In an article published in 1981 J. Micsic took up Wolters'<br />
point and further suggested that a search for "clues to the social bonds that rulers were able<br />
75
to manipulate" in order to mobilise a region should begin in the hinterland and along traditional<br />
communication routes. 5<br />
Micsic's own research, based upon archaeological<br />
evidence.suggests that Sumatran ceremonial centres tend to be situated apart from coastal<br />
areas of habitation and commerce; rather they often occur inland in positions which may<br />
mark traditional transport routes and where they may have served to "regulate and<br />
safeguard" intercourse between highland and lowland peoples. Inscribed oath stones, such<br />
as those found at Palembang and elsewhere in south Sumatra, may be evidence of this. 6<br />
Another scholar who has used written scources to make a similar point is K.R. Hall. In two<br />
recent articles he has pointed to the role of the hinterland in helping to legitimate the claims<br />
of coastal rulers. Hall has illustrated the point with an episode from the north Sumatran<br />
chronicle, the Hikayat Raja-Raja Pasai, where a prince called Mera Silu was acknowledged<br />
as ruler in the interior and then used that authority to gain control over the coast and the<br />
kingdom of Semudra. Such group acclamation, Hall suggests, was an important feature of<br />
Sumatran political tradition. 8<br />
These searches for a better understanding of so called coastal Sumatran states and their<br />
relationship with the interior have concentrated so far on the large and well known centres<br />
of the north and east coasts. There remains a need for information from more isolated<br />
regions. Barus, in northwest Sumatra, may serve as one example. As a camphor-exporting<br />
port in earlier centuries Barus was kept closely in touch with its hinterland and the inhabitants<br />
of the hills surrounding it. The Bataklands were of vital economie significance and<br />
they mattered greatly in the political life of the state. Tonight I will use Dutch and local<br />
source materials from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries to demonstrate the importance<br />
of the interior, and of relations between inland and coastal dwellers as they were perceived in<br />
Barus.<br />
Barus is situated some sixty kilometres north of Sibolga in the region known as<br />
Tapanuli. The port lies against the palm fringed, sanded strip of beach which skirts the<br />
Sumatran coastal flat from north to south. At various points on the coast the central<br />
Sumatran spine of mountains (Bukit Barisan) reaches closer toward the sea, for instance at<br />
Sibolga where the steep descent from the hills around the Toba plateau provides, for the<br />
tourist, one of the most spectacular views in Indonesia. But at Barus some ten kilometres<br />
depth of flat land now lies between hills and beach. Barus consists of two principal kampungs,<br />
both lying on the Batu Gerigis river. 9<br />
There are the upstream (mudik) and the<br />
downstream (hilir) settlements. A distance of approximately two kilometres separates the<br />
two and although the modern commercial and administrative centre of Barus is now located<br />
in Kampung Hilir at the river mouth, in the past Kampung Mudik was of equal importance<br />
in Barus af fairs. Surrounding these two settlements lie numerous other small kampungs<br />
which are marked, as is usual in Indonesia, by the palms which surround and hide them, and<br />
which stand like islands in the sawah. Visitors to Barus are often surprised by the attractiveness<br />
of the spot. On a trip through north Sumatra in 1915 M. Joustra described the<br />
Barus coastal flat as one of the prettiest sawah areas he had seen on his journey. 10<br />
Little has<br />
changed since then and, to the distress of local residents who favour development, Barus is<br />
still much as Joustra found it almost seventy years ago. The hilir kampung which he described<br />
is still part trading and part fishing settlement. On the shore one finds the fishing community<br />
with boats, tackle and dried fish spread along the beach where, occasionally, one<br />
may also come across coins, Arab and Dutch, and small pieces of gold which serve as<br />
reminders of Barus' past. Standing on the shore and looking away from the southward<br />
76
coastal sweep of curved beach, the island of Morsala can be seen lying off the bay of<br />
Tapanuli, and to the right is a long, thin, palm-covered promontory called Kepala Ujong.<br />
Further still, and out of view, lies Nias.<br />
To understand the past of Barus it is vital to store in the mind's eye a picture of the lie<br />
of the land. Her geographical position is a key element in Barus history, for behind the flat<br />
and cultivated lowlands stretch forested hills which produce the camphor and benzoin resins<br />
for which Barus became known to traders over several centuries. Behind these again is the<br />
high plateau which forms the centre of the Toba Batak lands. The hinterland of Barus, as<br />
Joustra noted, offers a natural path to the southerly part of the Toba highlands. 11<br />
Modern<br />
roads now connect Sibolga more certainly with the uplands, but in the past, when the<br />
journey was done by foot down the gloomy forested g<strong>org</strong>es and steep inclines, the Barus<br />
route to and from the highlands was most important. Behind Barus, in the valleys of Rambe<br />
and Tukka, the various hinterland paths converge and lead the traveller gradually down to<br />
the foothills bordering the Barus flat. It is important to note that in this part of Sumatra<br />
pathways, not waterways, link the coast and interior. Numerous small watercourses and<br />
some larger rivers exist, but because of the steep gradiënt of the hills they are often too fast<br />
and too shallow to allow navigation.<br />
The Barus area is usually mentioned by historians in connection with early Indonesian<br />
history. Known either as Barus or as Fansur it is thought by some to have been a famous<br />
camphor port which was visited from the seventh century onwards by foreign traders from<br />
such distant parts as China, India, Persia and Egypt. Because of the difficult nature of early<br />
Chinese and Arab source materials, however, the seventh to fifteenth century history of<br />
Barus is still obscure and problematic. It has yet to be established with certainty that the port<br />
of Barus mentioned by early Chinese traders did in fact refer to the modern place of that<br />
name. 12<br />
By the sixteenth century, though, we do know that Fansur/Barus, as it was then<br />
called, was a busy and prosperous port. According to the Portuguese travelier Tomé Pires, it<br />
was the most important source of camphor in the whole of Sumatra. Pires linked Barus with<br />
the kingdom of Minangkabau, whose goods it exported. 13<br />
However the rise of Aceh in the<br />
same century, and its expansion over the old coastal territories of the weak Minangkabau<br />
empire, soon affected Barus. By the middle of the century Barus appears to have been incorporated<br />
into the sphere of Acehnese influence and, as with other of the larger west coast<br />
ports, an Acehnese Panglima (governor) was stationed there to monitor trade. 14<br />
This was<br />
still the situation when the Dutch East India Company (VOC) began to challenge Aceh's<br />
hegemony over the west coast in the 1660's. 15<br />
Although some support for continued<br />
Acehnese overlordship and trading ties seems to have existed within Barus, the Company implemented<br />
its anti-Acehnese policy there and soon sought out those locals who wished to<br />
1 6<br />
swap Acehnese monopoly trade for that of the VOC. In 1668 a contract was signed between<br />
the Company and the Rajas of Barus in which the VOC was granted preferential<br />
trading rights and all Acehnese loyalties were, in theory, abandoned. 17<br />
Despite opposition from pro-Acehnese elements on the north west coast, and sporadic<br />
forays by Acehnese traders and insurgents into "Company territory", the VOC maintained<br />
a trading establishment at Barus until 1778. The reports of VOC servants, traders and<br />
administrators, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries provide a first glimpse of<br />
circumstances inside the kingdom of Barus. These Dutch sources are not easy to work with;<br />
they offer a picture which is filtered through layers of ignorance about indigenous culture<br />
and prejudice towards local people. Most of the seventeenth century Dutch assessments of<br />
77
the west coast people they met were highly uncomplimentary and it is therefore surprising to<br />
find one Company servant who remarked in 1669 that the Malays of Barus were more civilized<br />
than others he had encountered on the west coast; they behaved he said, "more like Chief<br />
Rabbis than brutal people". 18<br />
But unless there was some particular issue or dispute which affected<br />
trade, the VOC had little interest in local culture or manners and wrote primarily<br />
about commerce. So it is in that area that most can be discovered about seventeenth century<br />
Barus. In particular, due to the commercial importance of the resins produced in the interior,<br />
the VOC records offer insights into the relationship between Barus and her<br />
hinterland.<br />
Tapanuli has been described as the camphor and benzoin growing area of Indonesia par<br />
excellence. 19<br />
From the seventeenth century onwards information is available concerning the<br />
areas in which these resins were produced and the means by which they reached the coast. A<br />
number of studies suggest that geographical and climatic conditions make the hills behind<br />
Singkel, Barus and Sibolga particularly suitable for the growth of productive camphor trees<br />
and benzoin bushes. 20<br />
In the past resin and oil extracted from these plants were used variously<br />
as fumigants, medicine and perfumes and it is only in recent times that they have been<br />
replaced by chemical substitutes. Camphor and benzoin collection in the Barus region has<br />
traditionally been the preserve of Batak hill dwellers who brought their produce to the coast.<br />
Benzoin gardens may have been kept in some areas, but camphor trees do not take well to<br />
cultivation and resin-bearing trees had to be sought out on the hillsides. 21<br />
By the seventeenth<br />
century the most fruitful camphor trees appear to have grown in the eastern part of upper<br />
Singkel, in the Dairi lands along the banks of the Sungei Cenendang in the region known as<br />
Kelasan. According to van Vuuren, a Dutch administrator who worked in the area during<br />
the early twentieth century, this stretch was particularly suitable because of its warm climate.<br />
The camphor tree, he wrote, was more likely to produce resin when growing on warm, lowlying<br />
hills. 22<br />
.<br />
From the growing area, the camphor was brought overland to Barus through Kelasan<br />
and Rambe. Some was also taken to Singkel, but even as late as the twentieth century the<br />
Batak collectors were keen to bring their produce to Barus, "lest it be thought anything less<br />
than the famous Camphor Barus". 23<br />
Seventeenth century Dutch sources suggest that a certain<br />
amount of benzoin was also collected in the Dairi region. The most important benzoin<br />
territory, however, appears to have lain to the north east of Barus in the general area covered<br />
by Si Manulang Taruan, Parbutihan, Si Bulan, Bonan Dolok, Si Tapongan, Sanggaran,<br />
Huta Tua and in the westerly areas of Rambe and Pusuk. 24<br />
Also, in the seventeenth century,<br />
the VOC sources reported large quantities of benzoin brought down to Barus and Sorkam<br />
from the upland valley of Silindung which is bordered by these eastern hills. 25<br />
Links between<br />
this region and Barus were strong. Benzoin on its way to Barus was usually brought through<br />
Rambe and down to Tukka which acted as a collecting centre. In the late nineteenth and early<br />
twentieth centuries, when Dutch administrators began to move into the interior, there was<br />
considerable local disquiet when it was proposed that areas such as Si Manulang Taruan<br />
should be linked administratively with the Toba lands instead of the coast. 26<br />
When VOC merchants first entered the kingdom of Barus in 1668 their aim was to<br />
counter Acehnese influence over the northern ports and also to trade. They found that the<br />
camphor and benzoin resins they sought were brought down from the producing areas by<br />
the Bataks of the interior. Nineteenth and early twentieth century evidence suggests that<br />
resins transported to the coast through certain intermediate Batak areas of the hinterland<br />
79
were subjected to taxation by the inhabitants of these places. The collectors were also frequently<br />
denied passage and were forced to sell their produce in the upland markets from<br />
whence it was brought downhill by the purchasers. 27<br />
The inaccessibility of the mountainous<br />
interior meant that those groups which were able to control the valleys and key access<br />
routes, such as Rambe and Tukka, might profit from the intercourse between hill and coast.<br />
Seventeenth century sources, however, rarely state which upland groups actually carried the<br />
resins to Barus, merely that they were Bataks.<br />
Company servants soon realised that contact and influence with the inland people was<br />
important for the success of their trade in Barus, but since the Bataks were unwilling to<br />
travel past the foothills and cross the coastal flat, direct contact was difficult. 28<br />
They were<br />
forced to rely on the local population and the rulers of the port who acted as intermediaries<br />
with the hill people. Early Dutch descriptions of Barus illustrate the manner in which such<br />
trade and intercourse between hill and coastal dwellers took place. According to one Company<br />
servant, these Barus grandees purchased the resins which had been brought down by<br />
the Bataks and, because the hill people feared to take their goods to the sea-shore<br />
themselves, the Rajas and their followers arranged the transport of resins to the beach where<br />
the goods were sold for a modest profit to foreign merchants. 29<br />
The rulers of Barus had the<br />
first opportunity to buy cloth and other merchandise from foreigners and to some extent<br />
they appear to have participated in selling cloth, salt and iron to the Bataks among whom<br />
these products were much in demand. 30<br />
Likely meeting points between hill and coastal<br />
peoples are places such as Aek Husor on the edge of the foothills where the narrow highland<br />
road from Rambe and Tukka opens onto a broad and fertile valley and where a fast and<br />
wide river must be crossed before the onward journey to Barus.<br />
Dutch reports on the Barus situation, and letters from the rulers which were sent to<br />
Padang, suggest that the pathways immediately surrounding Barus were often made unsafe<br />
for the Bataks by the threat of plunder, and at such times, for long periods, trade stood still.<br />
To some extent the coastal rulers seem to have been responsible for ensuring the safety of the<br />
Bataks, for securing the pathways and protecting them from rapacious merchants. The Rajas<br />
also sent messages inland to inform the Bataks when ships had put into port and resin<br />
supplies were required. The hill people had to be tempted to come to port and it seems that<br />
they did have some cause to fear mistreatment on the coast. Frequent small wars in the interior<br />
also hampered the flow of goods. Nevertheless the Dutch sources show that this was a<br />
reciprocal arrangement. The Bataks needed an outlet for their goods and it was their link<br />
with Barus and her rulers which ensured their safety on the roads and the sale of their<br />
goods. 3<br />
' In later years, when friction between the local rulers and with the VOC caused<br />
political unrest within Barus, it was often reported by the Company's servants that the<br />
disturbed state of the kingdom and the eclipse of a particular Raja had led to the pathways<br />
becoming unsafe and the Bataks refusing to descend from the hills. According to one official,<br />
writing in the early eighteenth century, the Rajas of Barus had much more authority<br />
and influence among the inland Bataks than among their own people on the coast. 32<br />
In order to emphasise the importance of this relationship between the rulers of Barus<br />
and the hill Bataks it is necessary to employ a degree of historical imagination and to picture<br />
how it might have feit to have been an inhabitant of hill or coast engaged in intercourse between<br />
the two. Observers of Malay culture have often mentioned a Malay dislike for the<br />
jungle, regarded with superstition as a dangerous place where spirits lurk and people are exposed<br />
to harm. Today the forested hinterland is still thought of as an unknown and slightly<br />
80
forbidding area by the coastal population of Barus. When travelling in the area during 1981<br />
I was warned of keramat places deep inland from which people did not return; it was regarded<br />
as adventurous and slightly inappropriate for me to travel inland to the hilly area which<br />
many on the coast had never visited. In much earlier times the cannibal reputation of the<br />
Bataks must have also served to ward off interlopers and preserve the isolation of the hill<br />
people.<br />
For the Bataks who came down from the hills, it would have been no less frightening to<br />
pass down through the dark, steep forested paths and g<strong>org</strong>es and emerge eventually at the<br />
open coastal flat. This exposed stretch was inhabited not only by Malays and foreigners, but<br />
also by what the Dutch described as beach or coast Bataks who engaged in plunder and warmaking<br />
in the coastal area. They frequently rendered the roads unsafe. Nineteenth century<br />
sources also suggest that the Malay population despised the Bataks, numbers of whom were<br />
made their slaves.<br />
In these circumstances, then, not only would the sheer geographical contrast between<br />
upland and downland have been alarming; but conditions on the shore must have appeared<br />
uninviting to the hill people, and it is understandable that some arrangement should have<br />
developed whereby the Bataks need come no further than the border villages and could<br />
depend upon the mediating role of the Rajas and their followers.<br />
A distinctive and unusual feature of the Barus situation in the late seventeenth century was<br />
the existence of two local rulers. These were the Raja di Hulu and the Raja di Hilir — literally<br />
the Raja in the uplands and the Raja in the downlands. 33<br />
Despite the geographical distinction<br />
implicit in these titles both of the Rajas lived on the coastal flat, though in separate<br />
kampungs, Kampung Hulu (or Mudik) and Kampung Hilir. The existence of two rulers is<br />
extremely unusual in Indonesian/Malay principalities, but despite being ruled by two kings,<br />
Barus was nevertheless considered to be one kingdom 34<br />
and the two princes became joint<br />
signatories to the first contract with the VOC concluded in 1668. VOC servants seem to have<br />
appreciated the oddity of the situation and their initial reports from Barus attempt some explanation<br />
for the existence of a dual Rajaship.<br />
The Raja di Hulu was said to derive from Batak/Malay antecedents, while the Raja di<br />
Hilir and his chief minister, the Orang Kaya Balai, were Malays who claimed to be descended<br />
from the first Raja di Hilir of Barus, a refugee prince from Tarusan, south of Padang. 35<br />
According to one VOC account the dual Rajaship was created by the Sultan of Aceh who<br />
had bestowed the title Raja di Hulu on that prince or on one of his ancestors in order to conciliate<br />
the Batak population and promote trade with the interior. 36<br />
Certainly when the Company<br />
arrived at Barus, it was the Raja di Hilir who encouraged their presence while his colleague<br />
wished to remain loyal to Aceh; 37<br />
however, Dutch sources are vague concerning<br />
details of the origin of power-sharing in Barus and no dates are offered for the inception of<br />
the dual Rajaship. The Rajas do not appear to have divided their duties and responsibilities<br />
in the government of the kingdom. Rather they had different areas of geographical influence.<br />
One of the earliest Dutch descriptions of the port, written by Johannes Meiman in<br />
1670, identifies the distinct spheres of authority implied in the Rajas' titles. Raja di Hulu, he<br />
said, ruled over the upland and most distant areas of the kingdom and in those which were<br />
81
separated from Barus by impassable hills. Seventeenth century Barus spread over a wide<br />
area and the Raja di Hilir is reported to have ruled both the closest lying settlements and also<br />
those stretching down the west coast as far south as Batahan. All of these small portages<br />
produced resins which were transported to the coast from the hills lying behind them. 38<br />
In<br />
theory then the Raja di Hulu was responsible for the inland groups and the Raja di Hilir ruled<br />
over the mixed Malay populations of the coastal area. This initial picture is, however,<br />
somewhat misleading. Reports from the years which follow Melman's make it clear that<br />
both rulers had contact and influence with different parts of the Batak interior and that, to<br />
some extent, they competed for control over the trade with these people.<br />
The Dutch noticed friction between the Rajas at an early stage. Even during the<br />
negotiations undertaken prior to the first contract, the rulers complained to Company servants<br />
concerning each others' lack of faith and trustworthiness. 39<br />
VOC sources emphasise<br />
competition and hostility between the Rajas; but it is hard to know if this pre-dated the<br />
Company's arrival since the Dutch presence appears to have driven a wedge between the<br />
rulers. The issue of whether to support the Company or Barus' old overlord, Aceh, had<br />
divided them in the 1660's, and during the latter part of the seventeenth century there was<br />
usually one or other royal family on the VOC's side in Barus affairs and one who was<br />
alienated from the Dutch and from his co-ruler. This friction manifested itself in competition<br />
for control over the upland paths and the produce of the interior. To a considerable extent<br />
the hostility was able to endure because of the support each Raja and his family received<br />
from different sections of the upland population.<br />
When the Company first established its trading post in Barus and began to demand<br />
resin supplies, the Raja di Hilir worked hard to satisfy their needs. Reports reveal that he<br />
had considerable influence with the inland Bataks of Silindung and the Pasaribu Bataks living<br />
in the intermediate areas to the northeast of Barus. Through his links with the Rajas of<br />
these areas he was able to secure large amounts of benzoin for the Company. 40<br />
The Raja di<br />
Hilir also claimed that he was sending daily messages to the ports of Sorkam and Korlang<br />
and had high hopes of receiving significant shipments of resin by sea from these places. 41<br />
This Raja di Hilir, however, died shortly after the Company's arrival in Barus and according<br />
to the VOC servants his successor was less influential and less well liked. 42<br />
The Hulu Raja<br />
continued for some time to oppose the presence of the VOC and to be hostile to the Hilir<br />
family. 43<br />
In 1671 the Raja di Hulu was reported to be stopping the movement of trade by<br />
controlling certain pathways and upland centres, in particular a settlement called Sintuamas<br />
through which the Dairi Bataks had to pass on their way to port. 44<br />
The Raja di Hulu and his<br />
family was said to have particular influence with the Dairi who collected and transported<br />
camphor from the Kelasan region. 45<br />
In 1673 a new contract was signed in which the Rajas<br />
were enjoined to live in peace with each other and promote Company trade with Barus.<br />
Hostilities, nevertheless, continued sporadically over the next twenty years. During this<br />
period both Rajas frequently assured the Company, by letter and in person, that it was they,<br />
both jointly and individually, who had influence with the Bataks, to whom the Bataks<br />
brought their goods and through whom Barus's trade would prosper. 46<br />
Clearly the Rajas of<br />
Barus had cause to fear that their positions might be undercut by an established Dutch<br />
presence in Barus, and it was not in their interests that the VOC trade directly with the<br />
Bataks as its officials desired. But although these statements by the Rajas concerning their<br />
influence with the Bataks must be read critically, in the light of their own self-interest, they<br />
82
are, nonetheless, supported by the available evidence. They reflect the special relationship<br />
between coastal rulers and inland producers described above. Moreover we shall see that the<br />
loyalties offered to the two ruling families of Barus by the Bataks of the interior were not<br />
mere transient alliances, but bonds which lasted well into the nineteenth century.<br />
The Company soon tired of the competition and delays in trade caused by friction between<br />
the two ruling parties in Barus. VOC policy in the Indonesian archipelago often<br />
favoured the isolation of one indigenous authority with whom the traders could deal and<br />
through whom they could influence affairs in their favour. The situation at Barus was irritating<br />
and impractical from the Company's perspective and by 1681 it had become an explicit<br />
part of Company policy in Barus to eliminate one of the ruling families, preferably<br />
with the help of the other. 47<br />
By 1694 this aim had been achieved. Following an attack by the<br />
Hulu family on the VOC post, in which a number of Company servants were killed and a<br />
military force had to be sent to Barus, the Company forced the Rajas into an agreement to<br />
abolish the dual Rajaship. Henceforth, the Company decreed, there should be but one Raja<br />
called Raja Barus who was, on this first occassion, drawn from the Hilir family. The leading<br />
member of the Hulu family, Raja Minuassa (Menawar Shah?), grandson of the old Raja di<br />
Hulu, went into temporary exile in the hills behind Singkel. 48<br />
Despite these disastrous consequences of Dutch interference, the royal claims of the<br />
families of Hulu and Hilir and their relevance for the Batak population of Barus, persisted.<br />
Indeed, the Company soon found that it could not manage without the services of the Hulu<br />
family and, shortly after the abolition of the dual Rajaship, Raja Minuassa was called back<br />
to Barus and appointed by the Company as their intermediary with the Dairi Bataks who<br />
had not been satisfying the Dutch demand for resins. Although the Company failed to<br />
restore the royal title of the Hulu family, and named Raja Minuassa bara-antara," 9<br />
or<br />
mediator, the importance of the links between the coastal rulers and the inland producers in<br />
Barus' trade is clearly demonstrated by this incident.<br />
Reports from the early eighteenth century serve to reveal the strength of these loyalties<br />
and the suitability of a system of dual Rajaship in Barus. By 1706 the Raja Minuassa was using<br />
his influence with the Dairi and in Singkel to regain his family's royal status. Trade was<br />
disrupted and the kingdom was thrown into confusion. 50<br />
In 1709 Minuassa's uncle, Megat<br />
Suka or Raja Bongsu as he was also called (he was the youngest son of the old Raja), took<br />
up the cudgels on behalf of his family's rights, and with an Acehnese ally he succeeded in<br />
worrying the Raja Barus. 51<br />
This Hilir prince wrote to the Governor General of the west coast<br />
at Padang claiming that the kingdom was in confusion and was no longer like a monarchical<br />
state; owing to Megat Suka's wickedness, he said, it was as if there were once again two<br />
rulers of Barus. 52<br />
Company officials assessing the situation advised Dutch help for the Raja<br />
Barus because as long as the Dairi supported the Hulu family it would be in a position to<br />
make trouble, and VOC servants foresaw no possibility of Dairi support dwindling because<br />
of the enourmous loyalty these Bataks traditionally owed to the Hulu Rajas. 53<br />
Officials also remarked on the relationship between the Hilir family and the Pasaribu<br />
Bataks (resident in Silindung, Sorkam and Korlang). If the Hulu family were allowed to<br />
overcome the Raja Barus, one wrote, the Pasaribu would consider themselves to be unprotected<br />
and would "fall away" from Barus. 54<br />
During 1709, as the Raja Barus sought to<br />
strengthen his position, it was to the Pasaribu hills that he travelled with a large retinue. He<br />
remained away for some months and sent several letters written on bark to the resident and<br />
83
local government in Barus. 53<br />
In 1689 an official commented that the Bataks of Sorkam and<br />
Korlang considered the Hilir Raja to be "nearly holy". 56<br />
In 1714 the Raja Barus died and,<br />
since there was no suitable successor in the Hilir family, Raja Minuassa was appointed Raja<br />
Barus. In order to appease the Hilir family's supporters, and maintain some balance between<br />
the two rival parties, a nephew of the old Raja Barus was made bendahara.' 1<br />
Despite<br />
the accession of the Hulu family, the resident of Barus in 1720 wrote that the "southern<br />
Bataks", though nominally subjects of the Raja Barus were, in fact, more inclined towards<br />
the Hilir family and its current representative, Raja Ibrahim. 58<br />
As the seventeenth century progressed Company trade on the northwest coast became<br />
increasingly hampered by Acehnese "smuggling" parties and the presence of English traders<br />
in the area. Detailed information concerning the situation in Barus becomes increasingly<br />
scarce. The VOC left Barus for a short period in the 1750's and by 1760 there was said to be<br />
a rotating Rajaship there, with authority alternating between the Hulu and Hilir families. 59<br />
When a Hilir prince acted as Raja Barus the bendahara was drawn from the Hulu family and<br />
vice versa. In 1778 the Company withdrew from Barus permanently and, since the English<br />
East India Company was established further south on the bay of Tapanuli, little information<br />
concerning Barus is available until the nineteenth century when the Dutch, this time the<br />
Netherlands Indies government, returned to the northern part of west Sumatra.<br />
Dutch forces reoccupied Barus in 1839-40 in the final stages of the Padri war. Reports<br />
from this period reveal an incident in the 1820's which serves to confirm the tenacity of dual<br />
royal claims within Barus. According to Ridder de Steurs, a succession dispute in that year<br />
resulted in a renewed division between the royal families. Supported by members of the<br />
foreign merchant community, a Hilir prince, named Sultan Main Alam, assumed the title<br />
Raja di Hilir and declared himself as an independent royal authority in the coastal kampung.<br />
There followed a war between him and the Hulu Raja Barus, Sultan Sailan. Foreign merchants<br />
and Acehnese resident in Barus participated on the side of the Hilir family and the<br />
conflict continued until Dutch forces drove all the foreigners from Barus in 1840. 60<br />
After<br />
that date both princes became salaried officials of the Netherlands Indies government and<br />
questions of royal authority within Barus cease to be an issue in the Dutch sources. The<br />
available Dutch reports make little mention of Batak support for either side during the nineteenth<br />
century Barus conflict. It took place before the Europeans were reestablished and is<br />
only mentioned briefly in reports as part of the background to the Dutch occupation. The<br />
old loyalties between the Rajas and the inhabitants of the interior are mentioned, however,<br />
in the local accounts of these events which will be considered in a moment.<br />
Here then is a brief sketch of an unusual Sumatran polity, a kingdom in which two<br />
royal families were able to derive simultaneous support from different sections of the<br />
population, and where, despite the destructive influence of the VOC, these families maintained<br />
the vigour of their royal pretensions for nearly two centuries. The external, Dutch<br />
sources are not comprehensive or impartial but they do offer glimpses of a situation where<br />
upland producers had an important role in coastal political life and where lines of loyalty<br />
between downland rulers and the people of the interior were crucial not only for the passage<br />
of goods but for the maintenance of royal authority on the coast. In order to pursue these<br />
lines of loyalty or "social bonds" a little further it is neccessary to turn to local source<br />
materials.<br />
* * * * * * * * * * * *<br />
84
Two Malay manuscripts are of particular interest here since they record the history of each<br />
of the two ruling families of Barus and appear to have been written from the nineteenth cen<br />
6 1<br />
tury perspective of those families. These are the Asal Turunan Raja-Raja Barus, Part l,<br />
and the Sejarah Tuanku Batu Badan. The former is a Jawi manuscript kept in the Museum<br />
Pusat in Jakarta. It was probably copied from an original manuscript which, according to<br />
early 20th century informants, belonged to the descendants of the Hulu family living in<br />
Kampung Mudik, Barus. Enquiries locally have revealed that it is only in recent years that<br />
the descendants of the Hulu Rajas of Barus, the Pohan family, have lost track of the original<br />
manuscript. Although the Jakarta MS is undated, the chronicle was almost certainly compiled<br />
in the second half of the nineteenth century." The second manuscript is a history of the<br />
Hilir family. It is still in the possession of the descendants of that house, who live in Barus,<br />
and I have worked from photographs of the MS and a romanized transcription which was<br />
printed by the family in 1973." The chronicle is dated; it was composed by Marah Laut bin<br />
Sultan Main Alam in the year 1871. The manuscripts relate the history of the two royal<br />
houses of Barus. They each acknowledge the existence of the other family and both deal extensively<br />
with the competition between the two houses. In fact this appears to be their principal<br />
concern. The chronicles tracé Barus history from the coming of the two original rulers.<br />
They recount the foundation of a dual Rajaship and the arrival of the Dutch through to the<br />
19th century war between the houses which was described briefly above. Indeed this event,<br />
and their two opposing interpretations of it, could be said to be the climax of each chronicle.<br />
Both manuscripts mention events, such as this war and the arrival of the VOC, which<br />
can be identified in Dutch documents. Much of their content, however, is concerned with<br />
events which took place before the advent of the VOC, or in which the Dutch had little interest.<br />
The chronicles are about an internal Barus world and not about relations with<br />
foreigners. The great value of these texts lies not in their chronological and factual account<br />
of Barus history but in the inside view they offer us of local perceptions of the region's past<br />
as it was viewed in the nineteenth century.<br />
Both chronicles can be divided roughly into three principal sections. Firstly, each contains<br />
an account of the origins of the family with which it is concerned; both of these are<br />
structured around a journey which brought the first rulers to Barus. After the origin stories,<br />
both manuscripts describe, in a similar fashion, the founding of Hulu and Hilir Barus. They<br />
then proceed to chronicle the history of one of the two families in the form of a narrative<br />
genealogy. To some extent the events described in these two genealogies coincide and,<br />
although there are obvious discrepancies in content and in the interpretation of events, the<br />
two texts are concerned with a common past. It is unfortunate that we do not know which of<br />
the chronicles was compiled first and what the actual interrelationship between them might<br />
be. Elsewhere I have argued that the two accounts reflect the friction between the two ruling<br />
houses identified in Dutch sources and they add up to a debate concerning the arrangement<br />
of government in Barus. Section three of the manuscripts concerns the war which took place<br />
between Hulu and Hilir in the 1820s. The then Raja Hulu was called Sutan Sailan, and the<br />
Hilir claimant was Sutan Main Alam. The account of this event offered in the two chronicles<br />
coincides in essentials with the information available from Dutch sources; however two differing<br />
interpretations are contained in the two local sources. The Hulu chronicle treats Sutan<br />
Main Alam as an upstart and trouble-maker, and argues that there can only be one Raja<br />
Barus. The Hilir text on the other hand offers a case for Main Alam's right to rule in the<br />
85
Hilir and for the existence of two Rajas of Barus, a case which is presented in terms of past<br />
history and the original foundation of Barus.<br />
In view of the political nature of sections two and three of the Barus chronicles, the<br />
early part of each manuscript, which deals with the origins of the rulers, might be expected<br />
to fulful a special function within the manuscripts — to offer legitimacy and authority to the<br />
royal claims with which the later sections are concerned. A description of the two accounts<br />
will show that the origin stories are indeed concerned with the royal status of the two<br />
families and with their rights to political authority. Like so many origin accounts in traditional<br />
Malay literature, the stories perform a legitimising function. These origin accounts<br />
are, moreover, of particular interest for the present topic since they are both intimately concerned<br />
with the ruler's relations with the hinterland of Barus. Each account links its royal<br />
family with a particular part of the Barus interior and, in their way, the local sources allow<br />
us to pursue the coastal-hinterland links already glimpsed in Dutch sources. They offer the<br />
opportunity to see how relations between the Rajas and the upland Bataks are described<br />
from a Barus perspective.<br />
It has already been remarked that the two origin stories have a similar structure. In<br />
both, the founder of the ruling dynasty, who is the son of a Raja, leaves his house and<br />
undertakes a lengthy journey which concludes with his arrival, or that of his descendants, in<br />
Barus. The founder of the Hulu family was Raja Alang Pardosi who came from Balige in<br />
Toba. The first Hilir king was Raja Ibrahim, who came from Tarusan in southwest<br />
Sumatra. Each of these princes was accompanied by many followers when he left his<br />
homeland. In both stories, the subject spends a considerable time travelling through the<br />
hinterland of Barus, where he is acknowledged as a Raja and where agreements are made<br />
with the local people. The princes, or in Alang Pardosi's case, his descendants, then moved<br />
to the sea shore, and each founds his own settlement in Barus. To the extent that these two<br />
origin accounts are similar in structure they are also typical of a genre of traditional Asian<br />
literature from many counties. A local example of the same theme is Mera Silu's journey in<br />
the north Sumatran chronicle, the Hikayat Raja-Raja Pasai, to which reference has already<br />
been made in connection with the work of K.R. Hall.<br />
Although the structure of the two Barus origin accounts is similar, there are differences<br />
in the style and content of the stories. In the Hulu chronicle, the Batak origins of the founding<br />
family are emphasized, and in places the manner in which the protagonists behave<br />
reflects familiar features of Batak society. The Hulu account makes an authoritative statement<br />
in which the Hulu family is shown spreading itself over the hinterland of Barus, and in<br />
which land ownership is stressed. The story, briefly, is as follows. Alang Pardosi left his<br />
father's kampung after a family quarrel. With his wife and followers he began to travel in a<br />
westerly direction, looking for a place in which to settle. Their successive moves in the<br />
migration from Toba are described in a formulaic way. The party made a number of stops,<br />
and as they moved from place to place, they opened the jungle, cleared the land and planted<br />
rice (ladang). In time people from elsewhere, often from the original point of departure,<br />
heard about the new settlements and moved there. When the kampung became populous the<br />
Raja's prestige increased and the settlement became a state (negen). Sometimes reasons are<br />
provided for the family's departure from these settlements, sometimes not, but, as the process<br />
develops, the impression offered by the manuscript is of expansion, and the development<br />
of a network of kampungs founded by one Raja and his family. At the beginning of<br />
86
the chronicle, Alang Pardosi is given a clan name which shows that he belonged to a Batak<br />
marga (clan), the name Pohan. Alang Pardosi settled the area of Rambe in the hinterland of<br />
Barus, and the impression of the consolidation of a territory is confirmed when it is said<br />
that, once Kampung Tundang in Rambe had become a negeri, Alang Pardosi fixed the<br />
borders of his lands, which included much of the Barus area. 64<br />
The clan came into conflict with other clans, notable Simamura, which challenged its<br />
rights in the area, but Alang Pardosi was ultimately victorious. His authority is clearly<br />
demonstrated in one incident when he erects a house over the roadway on the border between<br />
Rambe and Tukka Dolok. From this vantage point he was able to control the passage<br />
between these two regions. He also stationed officers (penghulus) in many of the surrounding<br />
areas. Although the chronicle does not say as much, a Barus listener would know that<br />
the movement which mattered was the passage of camphor and benzoin which had to be<br />
brought through Rambe and Tukka on its way down from the interior. Alang Pardosi and<br />
his family achieved great authority by the occupation of this territory. The text declares that<br />
after this, Alang Pardosi's name (his nama) became famous and he was the most important<br />
Raja in the Bataklands {negeri Batak). 65<br />
After the settlement of Rambe, Alang Pardosi's sons split away from their father's<br />
kampung and, "lest they quarrel", parted ways. The younger, Guru Marsakot, travelled<br />
downstream to the coast and settled at Lobu Tua, near Barus. From there one of his descendants<br />
became the first Hulu Raja of Barus. The elder brother, Pucara Duan, moved a step<br />
closer to controlling the all important pathways in the hinterland of Barus by settling Tukka.<br />
The manuscript mentions agreements (perjanjian) of mutual protection made between<br />
Tukka and the coast, and also agreements of loyalty made between Alang Pardosi and his<br />
sons and those whom they had fought and subdued. In this fashion the Pohan clan is shown<br />
spreading itself over the entire region between Toba and the coast. 66<br />
Although the Hulu family was to absorb much of Malay culture in Barus, and the<br />
chronicle itself is written in Malay, their settlement of the hinterland is described in terms<br />
which are Batak rather than Malay. The names of the dynasty's founders are Batak and their<br />
spread over Barus, Tukka and Rambe represents the development of a Batak marga (clan)<br />
network through the area. The basis for the Hulu family's right to establish themselves as<br />
rulers in Barus lay in their development of the hinterland area and the occupation by their<br />
clan and its descendants of the key hinterland routes, routes along which, as we have seen,<br />
the Dairi camphor gatherers had to travel to bring their goods to the coast. Sources such as<br />
W.H.K. Ypes and the reports of other Dutch administrators have described the situation in<br />
which the people of Kelasan in the northwest, where much camphor was produced, were forbidden<br />
by the inhabitants of Rambe and Tukka to pass freely through those areas on their<br />
way to Barus with camphor. Instead they were forced to sell their goods at the borders and<br />
the rezin was brought on to Barus by inhabitants of the intermediate areas. If the Kelasan<br />
folk attempted to cross, their produce was seized at Dolok Marapak on the borders of<br />
Rambe and Tukka Dolok where, according to Ypes, all the footpaths in the hinterland of<br />
Barus met. It is interesting to note that studies by ethnographers working in the early twentieth<br />
century have shown that the Pohan marga and its sub-branch, Pardosi, is one of the<br />
principal Batak groups occupying upper Barus. Ypes, who carried out the most thorough<br />
ethnographic work in this area, reported that the Pohan marga was represented in Tukka<br />
Dolok, Tukka Holbung and Barus Mudik. Members of Pardosi inhabited Tukka Dolok.<br />
87
Similarly Simamura, the Marga with which Alang Pardosi came into conflict in Rambe, was<br />
present in that area in the early twentieth century. Ypes also confirmed that competition<br />
existed between these two groups. 67<br />
The available information concerning Batak social <strong>org</strong>anization in upper Barus during<br />
the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries appears therefore to confirm the existence of the<br />
kind of links between coast and interior which are claimed in the Hulu chronicle.<br />
As for the Hilir origin story, the account of Raja Ibrahim's journey from Tarusan to<br />
Barus is different in flavour from that of the Hulu family. It has more in common with<br />
classical Malay writing about kingship and stresses the recognition of royal authority among<br />
the Batak people rather than the acquisition of land and power gained by force. Raja<br />
Ibrahim's father was ruler of Tarusan and Ibrahim left this country because he had quarrelled<br />
with his father following an attack on Tarusan by a school of swordfish (todak). A<br />
swordfish attack is a motif which occurs in several Malay manuscripts. Raja Ibrahim travelled<br />
up the west coast until he came to Batu Mundam. There he turned inland and, following<br />
the Batang Toru river upstream, he entered the Batak lands. The areas he then chose to visit<br />
were those which had obvious importance from the point of view of a Barus ruler. He first<br />
visited Silindung which, as we have seen, was an important area for the passage of resins<br />
from the hills further inland. Sultan Ibrahim declined the request of the Silindung chiefs that<br />
he become their Raja, but he made an agreement of mutual loyalty with them. And, because<br />
he declined to remain he appointed four deputies, the Penghulu Empat. 6<br />
» In fact the<br />
Penghulu Berempat is a Silindung Batak institution mentioned in many of the ethnographic<br />
works on this area. According to the chronicle, Ibrahim f<strong>org</strong>ed similar links in Bakkara, an<br />
area which had less obvious economie significance for Barus, but which is and was an important<br />
centre in the heart of the Toba Batak lands. A similar oath was sworn. The chiefs of<br />
Bakkara promised that when Ibrahim had finally chosen his settlement they would follow<br />
him. Horses were to be sent to him as a form of tribute, as had been agreed in Silindung. 69<br />
The prince moved next to Pasaribu where the people asked him to which suku (clan, or,<br />
in this case, marga) he belonged. On the grounds of his links with Bakkara, Sultan Ibrahim<br />
presented himself as a member of suku Pasaribu. He was accepted as a member of the clan<br />
and was welcomed by the Pasaribu people who made an agreement with him in which it was<br />
promised that, once Sultan Ibrahim was settled, the Pasaribu and their descendants would<br />
come to trade with his people. 70<br />
They also agreed to help each other in times of trouble.<br />
When Ibrahim left Pasaribu, four Pasaribu chiefs accompanied him and remained with him<br />
until he had established himself at Barus, after which they returned home to spread the news<br />
in Pasaribu.<br />
We have already seen that Silindung and Pasaribu were important areas for the Hilir<br />
family. Lying in the northeastern hills, they had considerable economie and political<br />
significance. Both were benzoin-producing territories and, according to the VOC descriptions,<br />
Silindung was officially part of the Raja di Hilir's domain. Strong links also bound<br />
the Hilir family and the Pasaribu Bataks of upper Sorkam and Korlang. Indeed the<br />
geographical scope of Sultan Ibrahim's journey in the chronicle covers the very areas which<br />
the VOC sources report as belonging to the Hilir sphere in the seventeenth century, that is<br />
the coastal regions south of Barus and the northeastern hills. Like the Hulu origin account,<br />
this part of the Hilir chronicle appears, therefore, to define those areas of the Barus<br />
hinterland which, according to external evidence, lay inside that family's particular sphere<br />
88
and which were of prime political and economie significance.<br />
In the Hulu chronicle the Pardosi family established supremacy in a practical fashion.<br />
They opened up new agricultural areas and established an exclusive network of settlements<br />
and their offshoots. Occasionally they met with opposition, but this was generally overcome<br />
because of their skill at political consolidation. In time, therefore, the clan and its subgroupings<br />
came to exercise control over a large stretch of the hinterland of Barus. In the<br />
Hilir chronicle, however, Sultan Ibrahim's authority in the hinterland appears to be portrayed<br />
more in moral than in practical terms. He is described in the Sejarah Tuanku Batu<br />
Badan in a manner which emphasises his qualities as a king. He is referred to as Baginda, a<br />
Malay term used to describe royalty, and by another similar expression, maha-mulia (most<br />
illustrious). When the Sultan meets the Batak chiefs of Silindung, they prostrate themselves<br />
before him and bow at his feet — "menyembah kebawa dulinya", 11<br />
a phrase which<br />
describes the position of a Malay subject in relation to his Raja. On hearing him speak these<br />
Batak Rajas implore him to remain and rule over them. In short, he is recognized as a Raja<br />
in Silindung and the existing Rajas submit to him.<br />
In Bakkara the same thing happens. He is invited to become Raja and the existing,<br />
Batak, Rajas declare their wish that he do so because, they say, there is no Maharaja in Bakkara,<br />
a Raja greater than they." The text refers to Sultan Ibrahim at this point as "Sri<br />
Maharaja.''<br />
The chronicle's description of Sultan Ibrahim's response to these requests emphasises<br />
that, while he declined to remain in the Batak lands, by linking himself with these people he<br />
emanated the qualities of Rajaship as it is understood in the Malay world. In Silindung he<br />
assigned deputies and the people promised to send him tribute. In Bakkara he attempted to<br />
spread Islam and had the Bataks build a mosque for him. Before he left Bakkara he<br />
presented them with an umbrella base (a symbol of royalty) as a sign of kerajaan in the<br />
negeri, that is to say as a sign that the negeri was part of a kingdom which possessed a Raja<br />
and was subject to the authority of a Raja."<br />
A distinction is made in the chronicle between Sultan Ibrahim's identity as a Malay, and<br />
the Batak population he encountered. When Sultan Ibrahim reached Bakkara the chronicle<br />
mentions that the people did not understand the language in which he spoke, and when he<br />
introduced Islam the Bataks of Bakkara declined to change their religious beliefs even<br />
though they promised to do anything else he might command. When he left Bakkara they<br />
offered prayers, the chronicle relates, to the spirits of their ancestors. The distinction between<br />
Batak and Malay is thus emphasised by differences in language and religion. But<br />
despite the Batak's inability to accept Islam, all the Batak Rajas submit to Sultan Ibrahim<br />
and welcome him, recognising his superior quality. They also respond to him in a manner<br />
usually used in Malay texts to describe a Malay subject's appreciation of a Raja. The people<br />
of Bakkara, for instance, experience satisfaction and joy when Ibrahim orders a prayer to be<br />
read. The typical Malay ruler is described in court literature in terms of his sovereignty, his<br />
gracefulness and his piety; descriptions of Sultan Ibrahim in the Sejarah Tuanku Batu<br />
Badan conform to this model. In brief, the qualities attributed to Sultan Ibrahim, and the<br />
Batak response to him are described in the chronicle just as the attributes of Rajas and the<br />
relationship between Raja and subject are dealt with in other Malay texts. The Bataks in this<br />
episode of the chronicle are shown as recognising Sultan Ibrahim's qualities and submitting<br />
to the sovereignty of a Malay Raja. 74<br />
89
Perhaps the most obvious way in which the chronicle links this coastal Malay ruler with<br />
the Batak lands, and emphasises his claims to authority there, is by connecting Ibrahim with<br />
the famous dynasty of Batak priest kings, the Si Singa Mangarajas. In the chronicle, Sultan<br />
Ibrahim marries the daughter of the former chief of Bakkara. He converts her to Islam and,<br />
through her, fathers the first of the dynasty of Si Singa Mangaraja kings.<br />
In Batak legend Bakkara was the original home of the Si Singa Mangarajas. The date of<br />
the dynasty's foundation is not known, nor is the actual number of priest kings who claimed<br />
the title; but the last of the line is known to have died in upper Singkel during the Padri War.<br />
Heine-Geldern has pointed out that the account found in the Sejarah Tuanku Batu Badan<br />
chronicle of Sultan Ibrahim's contact with the Batak lands, his special links with the<br />
Pasaribu marga and his fathering of the first Si Singa Mangaraja king, is only one version of<br />
a legend which is found in various forms among the Bataks. 75<br />
In Batak versions of the story,<br />
Sultan Ibrahim is not mentioned, but it is noted that tribute consisting of horses was sent in<br />
the past from Toba to Barus. Heine-Geldern explores, in his article on the subject, the<br />
history of the Si Singa Mangarajas, the traditions surrounding them, and their historical<br />
relations with Barus, Aceh and Minangkabau. Although his theories, built upon these<br />
various traditions, are complicated and ingenious, a proper consideration of them is out of<br />
place here. What is of relevance here is his suggestion that the story of Raja Ibrahim's<br />
journey through the Batak lands, with its various incidents, is a Malay version of existing<br />
Batak beliefs intended to legitmate the arrival of a Malay Muslim ruling dynasty at Barus. 76<br />
Such a conclusion is consistent with the interpretation of other parts of the Hilir story<br />
outlined above. Like Merah Silu in the Hikayat Raja-Raja Pasai, and like the Pohan clan in<br />
the Hulu chronicle, Sultan Ibrahim appears in the Sejarah Tuanku Batu Badan to have been<br />
recognized in the Hulu before staking his claim on the coast. In so doing he seems to have<br />
gained legitimacy and enhanced the authority of his claim.<br />
* * * * * * * * * * * *<br />
In these chronicles, and the Dutch source materials which were considered earlier, the<br />
worlds of the pesisir and the hinterland are intimately linked. They converge in lines of loyalty<br />
between coastal rulers and upland groups. In Barus it was not riverine traffic but mountain<br />
paths which carried a network of relationships with the interior, but the information<br />
available concerning these routes does offer clues to the social bonds between rulers and subjects<br />
mentioned by Wolters and Micsic.<br />
Trade between the hinterland and coast created the most obvious bond between the two<br />
groups. Camphor and benzoin export was the foundation of Barus's prosperity, her raison<br />
d'etre and a vital concern for her rulers. Trade explains the preoccupation of the rulers with<br />
the pathways, their competition for control over the upland routes and the messages they<br />
sent into the interior urging the Bataks to bring resins to port. VOC sources, however, tend<br />
to emphasize trade to the exclusion of all else. Other things counted in the relationship between<br />
Barus and the interior. Mutual protection and the mobilization of manpower mattered<br />
too, and these bonds are reflected in both local and European sources. In the Hulu chronicle,<br />
agreements of mutual protection were made between Barus, Rambe and Tukka, and<br />
these were invoked in the narrative. For instance when Guru Marsakot's son, Tuan Namura<br />
Raja was summoned to Tukka, he travelled inland to assist his brother against members of<br />
90
the Simamura clan. In the Hilir text, Raja Ibrahim also made agreements of mutual protection<br />
with the Pasaribu people. In VOC sources these Bataks were said to be fiercely loyal to<br />
the Hilir family. The oath of loyalty was invoked towards the end of the Hilir chronicle<br />
when a foreign prince murdered Sutan Larangan, a Hilir prince who ruled in Sorkam. According<br />
to the chronicle, Larangan's grandmother travelled from Barus to Sorkam where<br />
she summoned all the Bataks from the hills behind Sorkam who had pledged loyalty to the<br />
Hilir house. Many thousands came and avenged the death of her grandson. This incident appears<br />
to be more than a self-glorifying legend on the part of the Hilir family. According to<br />
William Marsden, writing in the 1770s, "Inland of a place called Sokum [Sorkam], great<br />
respect was paid to a female chief or uti (puteri) ... whose jurisdiction comprehended many<br />
tribes. Her grandson, who was the reigning prince, had lately been murdered by an invader,<br />
and she had assembled an army of two or three thousand men, to take revenge". 77<br />
Such oaths of loyalty and mutual protection appear to have been an important feature<br />
of those links which bound the Barus Rajas and the upland people. As noticed at the beginning<br />
of this paper, Micsic has pointed to inscribed oath stones such as those from Pasemah<br />
and Palembang as possible evidence of the links between highland and lowland peoples and<br />
as a ceremonial and sacred way of safeguarding their intercourse. It seems likely that the<br />
agreements mentioned so often in the Barus chronicles are more modern manifestations of<br />
the same impetus.<br />
Lastly, and in addition to questions of trade and mutual protection, the Barus evidence<br />
briefly considered here suggests that the coastal rulers of this area depended upon the inland<br />
Bataks for recognition of, and for the very substance of, their sovereignty. Foreign traders<br />
such as the Javanese and Malaccans, who visited the port in van Bazel's time, are unlikely to<br />
have been impressed by these petty princelings of Barus who could not even contrive to rule<br />
alone. As Resident Silvius notes in the 1670's the Rajas of Barus had more authority inland<br />
than among their own people on the coast. VOC sources report that certain Rajas were unpopular<br />
on the coast and, like Sutan Larangan, some of them did not last long. However<br />
between the two ruling dynasties of Barus, and key groups in the interior, lasting bonds were<br />
created which endured over time. These were bonds which are reminiscent of the fierce<br />
loyalty offered by the orang laut to the ruling family of Malacca. They are evident not only<br />
in the external reports of Dutch merchants and soldiers, but in local sources concerned with<br />
the issue of legitimate sovereignty in Barus. And it is in these local sources, which can surely<br />
convey most about the essence of royal authority in Barus, that such loyalties are most clearly<br />
revealed.<br />
NOTES<br />
1. In 1761 Van Bazel prepared a three part report on west Sumatra entitled "Radicaale Beschrijving". Two<br />
parts of this report, the second and third parts, containing a history of VOC trade with the west coast of<br />
Sumatra and a report on the profitability of the area, were published. The first part, a description of the<br />
land and its inhabitants, was not. It is available, however, in two places: E.B. Kielstra has summarized the<br />
report in his "Onze Kennis van Sumatra's Westkust, Omstreeks de Helft der Achttiende Eeuw", BKI, vol 36<br />
(1887), pp.499-559; and a copy of the original document is held in the Arsip Nasional (National Archives) in<br />
Jakarta. The above reference comes from that copy, SWK 10, pp.8-9. It can also be found in Kielstra,<br />
pp.508-9.<br />
2. O.W. Wolters, "Studying Srivijaya", JMBRAS, Vol. LII, pt. 2 (1979) pp.1-33.<br />
3. Ibid., p.30.<br />
91
4. Md., p.21.<br />
5. J. Micsic, "Classical Archaeology in Sumatra", Indonesia, No. 30 (1980), pp.43-4.<br />
6. Ibid., pp.50-4.<br />
7. K.R. Hall, "The Coming of Islam to the Archipelago: A re-assessment" in K.L. Hutter (ed.), Economie Exchange<br />
and Social Interaction, (Michigan, 1977), pp.213-31.<br />
8. Ibid., pp.223-6.<br />
9. Also known as the Aek Si Raha and in earlier times as the Aek Si Buluan.<br />
10. M. Joustra, Van Medan naar Padang dan Terug (Leiden, 1915), p.84.<br />
11. Ibid., p.82.<br />
12 For two different opinions on the extent of the early prominence of Barus as a trading centre see L.F.<br />
Brakel, "Hamza Pansuri", JMBRAS, vol. Lil, pt. 1 (1979). pp.89-92, andO.W. Wolters, Early Indonesian<br />
Commerce, (Ithaca, 1967), especially Ch.12.<br />
13. A. Cortesao (trans.), The Suma Oriental of Tomé Pires (London, 1944), vol. II, p.161.<br />
14 For a description of Acehnese expansion down the west coast of Sumatra in that century see J. Kathirithamby<br />
Wells, "Acehnese Control over West Sumatra up to the Treaty of Painan, 1663", JSEAH, vol. 10(1969).<br />
pp.453-70.<br />
15. H. Kroeskamp, De Westkust en Minangkabau, 1665 — 1668, (Leiden, Ph.D. thesis, 1919), pp.137-8.<br />
16. Ibid., Ch. 8 passim.<br />
17. Ibid., pp. 142-7.<br />
18. VOC, 1272 f. 1067 v.<br />
19. Wolters, op.cit., p. 114.<br />
20 For instance, L. van Vuuren, "De Handel van Baroes Als Oudste Haven op Sumatra's Westkust Verklaard<br />
en voor de Toekomst Beschouwd", TAG, vol. 25, no. 6 (1908), pp.1389-1402; P. van Zon, "Korte<br />
Mededeelingen omtrent den Kamferboom", Tectona, vol. III (1915), pp.220-4; and J. Kreemer, "De Winning<br />
van Kamferhout, Kamferolie en Kamfer in het Singkelsche", TAG, vol. 33 (1916), pp.880-7.<br />
21. Van Vuuren, loc. cit., pp.1397-9.<br />
22. Ibid., p.1395.<br />
23. W.H.K. Ypes, "Nota omtrent Singkel en de Pak-Pak Landen", TBG, vol. XLIX (1907), p.235.<br />
24. Van Vuuren, loc. cit., p.1395.<br />
25. VOC, 1272 f. 1067 r.<br />
26 Van Vuuren, loc. cit., p.1396 and "Verslag van een Reis van den Controleur van Baros naar de Beoosten<br />
Baros Gelegen Onafhankelijke Landschappen in het Jaar 1883", TBB vol. 52 (1917), pp. 195-205 and<br />
252-265.<br />
27. W.H.K. Ypes, Bijdrage tot de Kennis van de Stamverwantschap, de inheemsche rechtsgemeenschappen en<br />
het grondenrecht der Toba- en Dairibataks (Leiden, 1932), p.503.<br />
28. VOC, 1272 f. 1087r.<br />
29. Ibid.<br />
30. Ibid.<br />
31. VOC, 1272 f. 1084 v.<br />
32. VOC, 1322 f. 1328 v.<br />
33. VOC, 1322 f. 1327 r.<br />
92
34. VOC, 1272 f. 1082 v.<br />
35. VOC, 1322 f. 1328 r.<br />
36. Ibid.<br />
37. VOC, 1272 f. 1077 r.<br />
38. VOC, 1272 f. 1082 v and 1083 r.<br />
39. See for instance VOC, 1272 f. 1065 r.<br />
40. VOC, 1272 f. 1067 r.<br />
41. VOC, 1290 f. 599 v.<br />
42. VOC, 1272 f. 1180 v.<br />
43. VOC, 1290 f. 599 v.<br />
44. VOC, 1290 f. 595-605.<br />
45. Ibid.,<br />
46. See, for instance, VOC, 1290 f. 1060 r. and VOC, 1396 f. 1075 v.<br />
47. N. MacLeod, "De Oost-Indische Compagnie op Sumatra in de 17e eeuw", Indische Gids, (1905), p.136.<br />
48. Ibid., (1906), pp. 1434-8.<br />
49. Corpus Diplomaticum, 1602-1800, vol. IV, pp. 142-4.<br />
50. VOC, 1760 f. 125-9.<br />
51. VOC, 1777 f. 39.<br />
52. VOC, 1777 f. 43.<br />
53. VOC, 1777 f. 29.<br />
54. Ibid.<br />
55. VOC, 1777 f. 29.<br />
56. Macleod, op. cit., (1906), p.1423.<br />
57. W. Ph. Coolhaas. Generale Missiven van Gouverneurs-Generaal en Raden aan Heeren XVII der Verenigde<br />
Oostindische Compagnie, Deel VII ('s-Gravenhage, 1979), p.101.<br />
58. VOC, 1926 f. 88-92.<br />
59. Kielstra, loc. cit., p.514.<br />
60. In P.H. van der Kemp, "Eene Bijdrage tot E.B. Kielstra's Opstellen over Sumatra's westkust", BKI, vol. 44<br />
(1894), pp.551-8.<br />
61. Bat. Gen., 162.<br />
62. There is insufficiënt space, in an essay of this type, to explore the complicated question of the origins of the<br />
manuscripts. I have dealt with this in some detail in my M.A. thesis, currently in preparation, on the history<br />
of Barus.<br />
63. The language in this printed copy has been modernised in some degree and it is necessary to resort to the<br />
original manuscript for a full appreciation of the chronicle. The printed version has nevertheless been used<br />
for the references which follow since it is more readily available to readers.<br />
64. The information in the previous two paragraphs comes from the Asal Turunan Raja-Raja Barus, pp.58-7.<br />
65. Ibid., p.49<br />
93
66. Ibid., p.46.<br />
67. Ypes, loc. cit., p.549.<br />
68. Sejarah Tuanku Batu Badan, p.8.<br />
69. Ibid., p.11.<br />
70. Ibid., p.12.<br />
71. Ibid., p.8.<br />
72. ƒ&/£?., p.9.<br />
73. For a discussion of the significance of Kerajaan in Malay life see A.C. Milner, Kerajaan: Malay Political<br />
Culture on the Eve of Colonial Rule (Tucsan, 1982), passim.<br />
74. Milner, op. cit., discusses the ideal relationship between ruler and subject in a Kerajaan and the qualities<br />
expected of a Malay ruler.<br />
75. R. Heine-Geldern, "Le Pays de P'i-k'ien, le Roi au Grand Cou et le Singa Mangaradja", BEFEO, vol. xlix<br />
(1959), p.390.<br />
76. Ibid.<br />
77. W. Marsden, The History of Sumatra (London 1811, reprinted in facsimile, 1965), p.375.<br />
ABBREVIATIONS:<br />
BEFEO Bulletin de 1'Ecole Francaise d'Extreme Oriënt.<br />
BKI Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde van Nederlandsch -Indie.<br />
JMBRAS Journal of the Malayan Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society.<br />
JSEAH Journal of Southeast Asian History.<br />
TAG Tijdschrift van het Koninklijk Aardrijkskundig Genootschap.<br />
TBB Tijdschrift voot het Binnenlandsch Bestuur.<br />
TBG Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-, Land-, en Volkenkunde, published by the Bataviaasch<br />
Genootschong voor Kunsten en Wetenschoppen.<br />
94
REFLECTIONS ON GROWING UP IN COASTAL SUMATRA:<br />
AN INTERVIEW AND DISCUSSION<br />
Amy Davidson, Nuim Khaiyath, Sadaruddin Munir, Etty Rice and<br />
John Maxwell (Chairperson)<br />
John Maxwell: We are going to discuss a number of issues related to our panelists's early<br />
years in Sumatra. I should point out at the outset that none of our panel would claim to<br />
have had a direct, personal hand in the major events of modern Indonesian history. But as<br />
you shall hear, each of their lives was deeply affected by many of these events.<br />
I should also emphasize that I have not been able to assemble an ideal cross section of<br />
coastal Sumatrans. It would have been best to have had one representative each from<br />
Aceh, Medan, Padang and Palembang but that was not possible. Nevertheless all our participants<br />
are from urban coastal areas of Sumatra, though none of them comes from a<br />
peasant or farming background, and none of them would claim to come from the poorest<br />
sections of the societies in which they grew up. All of them have had the benefit of higher<br />
education to tertiary level and they all eventually left Sumatra to live abroad, three of<br />
them marrying foreigners in the process. Three of our panel now work as staff members<br />
of the Indonesian section of Radio Australia.<br />
Our panel members are Mr Sadaruddin Munir, a Deli-Malay who grew up in Riau on<br />
Sumatra's east coast; Ms Amy Davidson, formerly from Padang, part of the rantau area<br />
of Minangkabau and Sumatra's west coast capital; Ms Etty Rice, also a Minangkabau<br />
who grew up in Medan but whose family came from Maningau in the highlands of West<br />
Sumatra; and finally, Mr Nuim Khaiyath, born and raised in the Kesawan area of Medan.<br />
Rudi, your parents were both Deli-Malays from the Binjai-Langkat area of North<br />
Sumatra, yet you yourself were born in 1934 in Riau on Sumatra's east coast. Can you explain<br />
how that came about and can you teil us something of the two places in Riau where<br />
you spent your childhood years?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: My mother originally came from the Langkat area, Tanjung Pura. We<br />
come from a little village there called Sejagat. It's still there now and the entire populatior<br />
of about 1500 are still related to one another. My father was not entirely from that areE<br />
because some of his family came from Riau and in fact there is a little bit of Minangkabat<br />
on his side. But they were known as Melayu-Deli — Malays from the Deli area of North<br />
Sumatra.<br />
I was born on Bengkalis, one of the main islands in the Riau archipelago. Bengkalis ii<br />
very famous for its ikan terubuk and telor terubuk — it's just like the Russian sturgeor<br />
which produces caviar — and this was a sought after delicacy throughout Malaya, particularly<br />
by the Chinese of the region.<br />
Before I was born my father worked for a Dutch plantation in North Sumatra. Bui<br />
later on he got a job with the Harbour Authority, Haven Bedrijf as a clerk and worked hi;<br />
way up until eventually he became a harbour master. He was sent to a number of places ir<br />
Raiu. He started off in Karimun, before my time. Then he was moved to Selat Panjang or<br />
the island of Tebing Tinggi and later on to Bengkalis where I was born. I grew up there foi<br />
about six years until we moved to Bagansiapiapi. That is another port and a very famou:<br />
95
one too. A fishing port. In fact at one stage it produced more fish than any other port in<br />
Indonesia. Some people compare Bagansiapiapi with Grimsby in England.<br />
John Maxwell: What was the ethnic composition of a place like Bagansiapiapi? Were these<br />
Malay people?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: No, there was a large Chinese population. Bagansiapiapi was rather<br />
unique really because 75°7o of the inhabitants were Chinese. Many of them were wealthy<br />
Chinese, not small fishermen but the owners of large fleets of boats. The waters around<br />
Bagansiapiapi are rich in fish resources and they traded their fish to Malaya — Kelang,<br />
Port Swettenham, Penang, Singapore.<br />
John Maxwell: Was this area of Riau then foreign territory for a Malay family from Deli?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Oh, not at all because we are basically Malay and the population of the<br />
Riau islands is mostly Malay. But they were more oriented to the Malay peninsula in those<br />
days than was the Deli area of North Sumatra in the sense that they spoke like the people<br />
in Malaya. And there were quite a lot of people in Bengkalis who when they went home<br />
for a holiday they went back to Malacca. They had their aristocracy too. People with titles<br />
such as Datu, Wan, Tun and so on. They were well respected people in the community<br />
there.<br />
John Maxwell: Your memory goes back to colonial times. What sort of a Dutch presence<br />
was there in these places?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: There were about a hundred of them in Bagansiapiapi, mainly the top<br />
echelon of the civil service. There was a Controleur there — the Assistant-Resident was in<br />
Bengkalis. Then all the top jobs — the judge, the head of the police, the doctors in charge<br />
of the hospital.<br />
John Maxwell: Amy, you were born in Padang in the late 1930s into a Minangkabau family.<br />
Can you teil us something about your family's background and what they were doing in<br />
Padang during your childhood?<br />
Amy Davidson: My father came from what we called the ambtenaar (Dutch term for civil<br />
servant, Ed.). They were not trading people. Most of them worked for the Dutch government<br />
at that time. My mother came from what we called the saudagar, the trading<br />
families. My mother was the only girl. He had five brothers and none of them worked for<br />
the Dutch government. One uncle was a chemist and another an optometrist.<br />
From my father's side all the children went to a Catholic school so consequently they<br />
spoke Dutch at home. On my mother's side we went to a school established by the prominent<br />
trading families in Padang, although the school did receive a government subsidy.<br />
All of their children went to this school — not just from one family. As you know the<br />
Minangkabau are a matrilineal society, so my uncles' children and the children of our<br />
immediate family all went to this school.<br />
John Maxwell: I want to ask you about the implications of being born into a matrilineal<br />
society. Can you explain what this meant for you as a child? You have spoken about the<br />
two sides of your family, your father's side and your mother's side. Which side of the<br />
family did you have more to do with when you were a young child growing up?<br />
Amy Davidson: You always live with your mother's side of the family, so my maternal<br />
grandmother lived with us — and we were closer to our mother's side of the family than to<br />
our father's side. We even call our uncles by different names — on the mother's side mak<br />
and on the father's side pak.<br />
97
John Maxwell: What did your father do? Who in your family took care of the material<br />
necessities of life?<br />
Amy Davidson: Well normally the father would, but also to a large extent the uncles on the<br />
mother's side. But in my case for some reason my father didn't work very much. He was<br />
twenty-three when they got married and my mother was eighteen. My five uncles all contributed<br />
to our upbringing. However, even if my father had worked my uncles would still<br />
have done the same thing.<br />
John Maxwell: It is sometimes said that in Minangkabau the women hold the purse strings.<br />
Do you think it is true?<br />
Amy Davidson: That is the general impression that people have — but as a Minangkabau I<br />
don't think it is accurate. There is more of a division of roles because some things have to<br />
be done by men and some by women. But there are times when they all come together on<br />
an equal basis, such as in the event of a wedding for example. This is an important occasion<br />
in our society, especially for the girl's side of the family. Now in this case women<br />
have as much say as the men. There are certain tasks which the women control such as<br />
how the wedding is going to be conducted and how many people are going to be invited.<br />
The men look after the financial side of it. No, I wouldn't think that in our society women<br />
hold the purse strings. It's not quite as simple as that.<br />
John Maxwell: Etty, your family is also originally from the Minangkabau area of Sumatra<br />
but you were born in Medan in 1940. Can you teil us something of your family and how<br />
they came to live in Medan?<br />
Etty Rice: My grandparents on both sides of the family had settled in Aceh, merantau from<br />
Maninjau in West Sumatra. My mother was born and raised in Aceh near Kuala Simpang<br />
and my father was born in Bireuen. But my parents both returned to Padang Panjang in<br />
West Sumatra for their education, my mother to a teacher's college for girls and my<br />
father to an Islamic college for boys.<br />
It was customany in my parents' generation for intermarriage between people from<br />
the same village. People always knew where there were other families from their village<br />
even in Jakarta or Medan. And so after they finished their schooling my mother who was<br />
nineteen married my father who was then twenty-five. They went to Medan where I was<br />
born. My father was a businessman and part-time teacher there. He ran a printing and<br />
publishing company and he opened a bookshop in Tebing Tinggi, a large town near<br />
Medan.<br />
John Maxwell: You are one of a large family. We have heard from Amy about the influence<br />
of Minangkabau adat on family life. Was the influence of adat still strong in your experience,<br />
even though you were not living in Minangkabau? Was your upbringing a strict<br />
one?<br />
Etty Rice: I didn't feel it so much when I was young but when I began high school it seemed<br />
as though I was not as free as I had been before. I have five brothers and one sister and my<br />
mother had said when we were growing up that we were all the same. But when I became a<br />
teenager my mother began to say that according to our adat it should be like this ... I was<br />
not allowed to go here, I was not allowed to go there. I was not free any more and I always<br />
had to have one of my brothers accompany me.<br />
John Maxwell: Nuim, your family is a mixture of both Arab and Malay. I want to ask you<br />
about thjs particular kampung of your childhood in Medan, but first can you teil us a lit-<br />
98
tle about your parents?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: My father came from Mecca, then known as Hijaz and now of course part<br />
of Saudi Arabia. He had to leave that country. It was not a voluntary exit because he was<br />
very active in those days in the field of education but at the same time agitating for particular<br />
freedom. So he had to leave Mecca for his own safety.<br />
He went to join his father, my paternal grandfather who had already left Saudi<br />
Arabia and had started teaching in Kedah in Malaya. But when my father arrived there<br />
was no opening for him there so he crossed over to Medan where there was a school in<br />
need of a religious teacher. This was just before the turn of the century. He took up a<br />
position as a sort of headmaster.<br />
However he had already given a pledge to his father that he would never sell his<br />
knowledge — his religious knowledge. And that of course put him in a very difficult<br />
dilemma. On the one hand he had to live, on the other he could not earn a living by<br />
teaching because that would be breaking the promise that he had made to my grandfather.<br />
So he became a pedlar, selling cloth from plantation to plantation. In east and<br />
north coast Sumatra in those days the rubber and palm oil plantations were worked by<br />
contract labour from Java. Many of these people were religious-wise neither here nor<br />
there — and my father thought that at the same time as doing business he could also teach<br />
them about Islam.<br />
You see he used to teil us that what he very much wanted to do was not so much to<br />
sell them cloth but to liberate them from a habit which he claimed the Dutch had instilled<br />
in them — gambling. Chinese came from Medana to the plantations and started <strong>org</strong>anized<br />
gambling. The Javanese were then trapped by their debts and were unable to return home<br />
to Java. The Javanese — at least we in Medan think — the Javanese have a philosophy.<br />
Mangan ora mangan asal ngumpul — "it doesn't matter whether you eat or not as long as<br />
you're together". So as soon as they had saved some money by working very hard on the<br />
plantations they would start going back home to Java. The Dutch didn't like this so they<br />
introduced gambling — according to my father.<br />
John Maxwell: And what about your mother and your kampung in Medan?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: You see there is this place called Kesawan in Medan which really is the top,<br />
elite street in the heart of the city. Next to it, or parallel to it, is Jalan Mesjid — Mosque<br />
Street. Just off Jalan Mesjid is an alley called Gang Bengkok — Crooked Alley. Its very<br />
famous in Medan. Now here was this village bounded on one side by Jalan Mesjid (which<br />
is only a stone's throw from Kesawan) and with the river Deli flowing through it.<br />
All sorts of people living in this kampung. There were Chinese, mainly Hokkien.<br />
And Indians, the Sikkhs or Punjabis and the Bengalis. The Bengalis were tailors and the<br />
Punjabis were milkmen. And of course Indonesians from many areas. There were a lot of<br />
Mandailing but also some Javanese and some Minangkabau. We were the only Arab<br />
family at that time.<br />
But in fact my mother was a Deli woman. The Deli people were actually the original<br />
residents of that part of Sumatra.<br />
John Maxwell: I understand that your father Sheik Mahmud was a well known Islamic<br />
teacher in North Sumatra. His religious teaching must have been a powerful influence on<br />
your family life. Can you teil us something about his particular approach to Islam?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: I suppose it was what you would now call very fashionable fundamen-<br />
99
talism. He was a fundamentalist in the sense that there were no frills, no nonsense. It was<br />
Islam as a way of life. And as a religion it should be understood and the only way to make<br />
people understand it was to explain it to them in a language that was comprehensible to<br />
them.<br />
Apparently in those days in the mosque on Fridays the sermons were delivered in<br />
Arabic and it was considered sinful to utter any other words or language except Arabic.<br />
My father took the view that if you couldn't understand Arabic how were you going to<br />
understand the religion? And so he started preaching in Indonesian in the mosque. It<br />
caused some consternation. There were many people who did not hesitate to call him a<br />
kafir, murtad [heathen, unfaithful, Ed.). If he had been a Catholic he would have been<br />
excommunicated.<br />
John Maxwell: This issue was not the only religious controversy he was involved in. Wasn't<br />
there also a conflict about the mosque itself in your kampung?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: Yes. You see in Medan there was a very wealthy Chinese called Tiong Ah<br />
Fee. He was apparently the sort of person who preferred not to have all his eggs in the one<br />
basket. If you wanted to build a church he would contribute to it. If you wanted to build a<br />
mosque, he built a mosque. And now there is the mosque in Gang Bengkok built by Tiong<br />
Ah Fee, a very wealthy Chinese who was a confessed Confucian.<br />
But then again some people said that they were not going to pray there because it was<br />
built by a Chinese. So they had a debate. They called all the Islamic leaders in Medan<br />
together and my father was apparently a lone figure in advocating that you could pray in a<br />
mosque built by a Chinese even though he wasn't a Muslim. They all presented their<br />
arguments and then my father's turn to speak came. He asked those present who had performed<br />
the pilgrimage to Mecca to step to one side. There were quite a few of them<br />
because in those days people would sell their coconut plantations just to be able to go to<br />
Mecca. In the past it used to take about six months and they stayed up to two years before<br />
returning because there were no steamships until the Dutch time. The Dutch of course<br />
provided steamships. All those people who had performed the pilgrimage went to one side<br />
and my father said, 'Tm very sorry. By the logic of all these other Islamic leaders your<br />
pilgrimage was not a valid one because you went by ships belonging to the Christian<br />
Dutch". There was consternation. It was just like the camel which goes to Mecca every<br />
day but doesn't became a haji. So finally they decided by that logic it would be proper in<br />
the eyes of Allah to pray in a mosque built by a Confucian Chinese.<br />
John Maxwell: Of all the panel you Rudi have the clearest memory of the Japanese Occupation.<br />
When the Japanese arrived in Bagansiapiapi in early 1942 you were already at<br />
school. How did your people view the coming of the Japanese and what changes occurred<br />
in your life as a consequence?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: The people were petrified. You see, they landed in Singapore first and<br />
they didn't come to the Riau islands until after Singapore feil. I think it was March 1942.<br />
And long before they arrived we heard so much about their cruelty and how vicious they<br />
were. So people were very concerned. Of course months before they arrived their aircraft<br />
flew over the islands from Singapore.<br />
I went to the Dutch Catholic school in Bagansiapiapi. We had our air raid shelter<br />
there and nearly every day for weeks on end we would rush into the air raid shelter. But on<br />
one particular morning they came. They arrived by boat in the harbour, a platoon of them<br />
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with their sten guns and took over the town.<br />
They rounded up all the Dutch officials and put them in a temporary internment<br />
camp. Of course my teachers were mostly Dutch too — nuns, sisters and priests and they<br />
were also rounded up by the Japanese. The ordered us about in the classroom. They forced<br />
us to bow. There were guards everywhere at every door.<br />
John Maxwell: But did life return to normal?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Not quite, not for some time. For about a week people just stayed in<br />
doors. All the offices and shops were closed. It was only after the Japanese announced<br />
that things were back to normal again that everything opened again.<br />
John Maxwell: And you returned to school?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Yes. But there were a great number of changes. We had new teachers<br />
brought by the Japanese from Pekanbaru. They were Indonesians but they had been indoctrinated.<br />
They were tough. They ordered you about and all boys had to shave their<br />
heads. Every morning we had to do taiso and bow to Tenohaika in Tokyo before we<br />
started our lessons. That was a good hour spent in doing these physical education<br />
activities.<br />
John Maxwell: Presumably you learnt Japanese as well.<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: That was the main subject during the Japanese Occupation. You learnt<br />
nothing but Japanese language, Japanese history, Japanese literature.<br />
John Maxwell: In your area was there a local militia with military training <strong>org</strong>anized for<br />
young boys?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: By the Japanese, yes. But not straight away. After about six months<br />
they started to call for young able-bodied people to train to be gyogun and heiho. I was<br />
too small but my brother was involved.<br />
John Maxwell: Amy, I think your memories begin with the years of the Revolution. What<br />
memories do you have of Padang in those years and what happened to your family?<br />
Amy Davidson: I don't have much recollection of the Japanese Occupation. However, I do<br />
remember when we left Padang because of the danger. It must have been some time early<br />
in the 1940s. Our family decided to move to Payakumbuh which is about 125km. north.<br />
The whole family went and this is where the matrilineal system came to play an important<br />
role. All of us went with my uncle's family. He hired a luggage van with a sliding<br />
door on the train which winds up into the mountains from Padang. It was a beautiful view<br />
going up into the mountains though the steam train was not a very powerful one and stopped<br />
at every little station.<br />
All of us were packed into that van. While it was worrying for the adults it was fun<br />
for all the children because all the cousins were together and we had brought food to eat<br />
during the journey.<br />
Eventually the family split up. My mother and father stopped in Padang Panjang,<br />
60km away. My uncle rented a large house in Payakumbuh. Two other uncles and their<br />
families, my grandparents and myself lived together in this complex.<br />
John Maxwell: What memories do you have of those years in Payakumbuh?<br />
Amy Davidson: We were there for about five years until after the Allied Forces arrived in<br />
Indonesia. When they came we had nowhere else to go so we decided to stay put trying to<br />
gather food wherever we could. Financially and materially this was not an easy time but<br />
the children were well protected and sheltered by the family so I remember it in fact as one<br />
101
of the happiest times of my life. We were all together and I was with my grandmother with<br />
whom I was very close. My uncles always looked after us almost as though they were my<br />
own father.<br />
John Maxwell: When you eventually returned to Padang, what did you find?<br />
Amy Davidson: Our house was burnt down, apparently either by the Allies or the Dutch.<br />
Everything in Padang was tumbledown and many houses had been destroyed. Some people<br />
got compensation for the damage although our family never did. Luckily, as I explained<br />
earlier, my uncles on my mother's side of the family were traders. So my uncle who was<br />
a chemist reopened his shop and was able to provide for us again.<br />
John Maxwell: Etty, your family shared some unpleasant experiences during the struggle by<br />
the Dutch to reassert control over North Sumatra after the end of World War II, What do<br />
you recall of those years?<br />
Etty Rice: I think I was in second grade at elementary school in Tebing Tinggi at the time<br />
when my family decided to flee to Pematang Siantar. At that time my father ran a<br />
bookstore in Tebing Tinggi and the Dutch had come there looking for illegal books. Fortunately<br />
my father managed to hide those ones so he escaped any trouble.<br />
Then I remember there was a lot of fighting, and one day I remember coming home<br />
from school and an old lady walking in front of me was shot. There were several bodies at<br />
the side of the road in the ditch. So my family decided it would be safer for us to move<br />
back to the village my parent's family came from in West Sumatra.<br />
We moved first to Pematang Siantar. We walked there from Tebing Tinggi. We<br />
started at night and we were guided by the Indonesian army. We didn't follow the road<br />
but we kept to the walking paths through the fields. In the day time we hid in the bushes<br />
and I remember seeing Dutch trucks passing by.<br />
We stayed in Siantar for a few months and then we had to flee again. I remember it<br />
was a very long walk and I was the youngest in the family walking at that time. I don't<br />
remember how we got to my parent's village at Maninjau in West Sumatra but we stayed<br />
there for about two years. I soon f<strong>org</strong>ot that there was a war going on because it was so<br />
peaceful there. After the war was over we flew back to Medan again.<br />
John Maxwell: I suppose there was nowhere for your family to flee at such times. Were you<br />
as a small boy aware of foreign troops on Indonesian soil?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: My father's attitude was that everything was written so there was no use<br />
running away. My earliest recollection of foreign troops at that time was on one particular<br />
day when there was great excitement within the Gang Bengkok area. Everyone crossed<br />
Jalan Mesjid to Kesawan and there near the Bata shoe shop the place was full, the pavement<br />
lined with people, mothers carrying their children.<br />
We could see fatigue green open trucks, obviously army trucks. They were British<br />
army trucks carrying Indian soldiers — very strange looking people with long hair. We<br />
had Indians there in Medan and they started explaining that these people were Hindus,<br />
not Moslem Indians. The soldiers were looking right and left as if they were animals in a<br />
zoo looking out at the visitors. Some of them were chewing betel and began to play a<br />
game to see how far they could spit. That was my earliest recollections of foreign troops in<br />
Medan. They were Indian soldiers brought over by the British who we were later told were<br />
trying to help the Dutch.<br />
John Maxwell: But your family did have one narrow escape around this time because of one<br />
102
of your brothers.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: I am the youngest of eight children and one of my two brothers was something<br />
of an adventurer. He had attended both Dutch school and an English school and he<br />
spoke both languages quite well.<br />
He wanted to play a part in the Revolution. At that time he must have been about<br />
twenty and because he looked rather different he could pass himself off as an Indian. The<br />
revolutionaries said, 'Alright, why don't you do your bit? Why not go in a junk across the<br />
Straits of Malacca to Singapore taking rubber and palm oil? Try to sell them there and<br />
then buy some weapons.' And so he did. It was an adventure apparently. And apart from<br />
carrying weapons for the revolutionaries he was also doing some business of his own. He<br />
would buy a few pistols and try to sell them privately in Medan.<br />
On one occasion he returned from Singapore with a pistol for which there was a willing<br />
buyer. But when the pistol was tested it didn't fire. It was jammed. My brother was<br />
embarrassed and very annoyed. When he returned to Gang Bengkok he started pulling the<br />
trigger. Suddenly the gun went off and in no time at all you could see Indian soldiers coming<br />
led by one British officer. We were all terribly worried because of course in the house<br />
there were boxes and boxes of ammunition.<br />
Somebody pointed out where the sound had come from and they arrived at the<br />
house. They were just about to ransack the whole place when suddenly the British officer<br />
noticed the small room where my father kept his books and he could see my father standing<br />
there his lips quivering as he prayed. He just decided for some reason not to search<br />
any further and they went away. It was certainly a narrow escape.<br />
John Maxwell: Rudi, what happened after the defeat of the Japanese in you part of Sumatra.<br />
The other members of our panel came from large towns where Communications were<br />
more effective. But in Bagansiapiapi were people immediately aware of the formation of<br />
the Republic and merdeka!.<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: We were quite aware of what was going on outside because we had radio<br />
Communications. We knew that President Sukarno had proclaimed independance and we<br />
were exhuberant that we were also merdeka. But Bagansiapiapi was isolated and Communications<br />
were difficult. And as I mentioned earlier the population was 75°/o Chinese<br />
and they didn't give a hoot one way or the other. The Japanese had just left.<br />
So authority in that transition period feil into the hands of a group of people who<br />
proclaimed themselves the TKR — the Tentara Keamanan Rakyat (The Peoples' Army).<br />
They were the ex-gyogun and heiho trained by the Japanese, including my own brother.<br />
But there were only about forty of them and they were supposed to be in control of<br />
Bagansiapiapi.<br />
However, the Chinese there were very powerful. They had been there a long time and<br />
had never traded much with other parts of Sumatra or Java. Instead they had been closely<br />
involved with Malaya, Singapore and Hong Kong, places where they exported produce<br />
from the hinterland and their dried fish.<br />
The Japanese had left behind a lot of equipment including weapons. After merdeka<br />
these different groups began to flex their muscles. "Now you are under us. We are independent."<br />
But the Kuomintang were also strong in Bagansiapiapi. They had their own<br />
leader, the Chinese Kapitan and he had a palace there. The authorities took over the<br />
office of the former Controleur.<br />
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John Maxwell: This sounds like a formula for violence.<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: It was. First of all the forty or so young men in the TKR tried to order<br />
the Chinese about. But they wouldn't have it. They resisted. One day a group of these<br />
young Indonesians went to the Kapitan and ordered him to lower the Kuomintang flag.<br />
But the Chinese refused. "We will raise the Indonesian flag but there is no way you can<br />
make us pull that flag down." Then one of the Indonesians tried to stab one of the<br />
Kapitan's aides with a samurai sword — at that time all the TKR officers were wearing<br />
those Japanese swords.<br />
That started it. Violence erupted. Because of that the authorities in Pekanbaru and<br />
Medan sent two platoons of troops. As soon as they arrived they started ordering people<br />
about. At first the Chinese accepted it but the next day they also armed themselves. They<br />
came out of their hiding places and wiped out the troops from Medan and Pekanbaru.<br />
There were only about sixty of them and they didn't have a chance because they were<br />
completely outnumbered by the Chinese.<br />
At that time we all stayed in doors. Nobody went out. Some of my relatives who<br />
worked in the harbour and who ran shops were trapped there and were unable to go<br />
home. But the local Chinese who knew our people told us not to worry. As long as we<br />
stayed indoors we would be alright.<br />
But the situation became even more tense and violence increased. Chinese came from<br />
the outer islands, Pulau Kelang and another small town nearby, Sinebui. And also from<br />
Panipahan. When they arrived to help the local Chinese they were indiscriminate because<br />
they didn't know the local Malays. They started shooting everybody. I lost two uncles and<br />
a cousin.<br />
Finally we had to flee Bagansiapiapi. We left behind all our possessions, everything.<br />
We ran with.only what we were wearing at the time. My mother carried a bit of jewellery,<br />
that was about all.<br />
We had to walk through the jungle to Labaun Tangga because Bagansiapiapi is at the<br />
estuary of the Rokan River. We just followed the river the Labuan Tangga and went<br />
across to Batu Putih. Then we walked for about a week until we got to Labuan Bilek.<br />
From there we caught a bus to East Sumatra.<br />
John Maxwell: Did your family ever return to Bagansiapiapi?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Yes. My brother, my father and my grandfather went back about a<br />
month later when everything was calm and peaceful only to find that there was nothing<br />
left in the house, only the empty shell. Even the glass from the windows had been removed<br />
let alone the furniture. Everything gone completely.<br />
John Maxwell: It is interesting that despite these experiences, the social dislocation of war<br />
and revolution, you have all managed to complete a good education. Rudi, you have<br />
already mentioned that you went to a Dutch Catholic school. What choices were open to<br />
you in Bagansiapiapi and why did you choose that school?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Actually my parents wanted me to go to sekolah Muhammadiyah. But<br />
my brother went to the Dutch school and I always looked up to him and tried to follow<br />
him in everything I did. Deep inside me I decided that when my time came to go to school<br />
I wanted to go to his school, the Dutch school.<br />
But by then things were different and it was quite expensive to go to the Europese<br />
Lagare School — The European elementary school. The school fees were about 10<br />
104
guilders a month, the rent of a reasonable house at that time. So my father said, 'T think<br />
you had better go to Muhammadiyah school. It's just as good and everybody else goes<br />
there." I refused and there was a big argument. I got a spanking but I still insisted on going<br />
to the Dutch school and in the end I won.<br />
John Maxwell: And after you fled Bagansiapiapi?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: By then I was in the sixth class at primary school when we arrived in<br />
East Sumatra. After one year at Kisaran we moved to Pematang Siantar and not long<br />
afterwards the Dutch arrived. That must have been about the time Etty's family fled from<br />
Tebing Tinggi.<br />
It was just sheer luck that when I moved there things became quite again and the<br />
Dutch reopened the schools. At that time we were living under the RIS (Republik Indonesia<br />
Serikat) — the Federal Republic of Indonesia. They started a sort of semi-Dutch<br />
school again. It wasn't then called SMP (Sekolah Manengah Pertama Junior High<br />
School) but IMS, {Indische Middelbare School). I was at this school in Pematang Siantar<br />
for three years and then, still under the RIS, I went to Medan. There I went to the VHO<br />
which is equivalent to SMA {Sekolah Menengah Atas, Senior High School) nowadays.<br />
In fact when I was in the second year in 1949 they signed the Round Table Agreement<br />
in the Netherlands. With the transfer of sovereignty everything became part of the<br />
Republic and all these schools became Indonesian schools. So I finished my schooling in<br />
Medan at a government SMA. From there, I went to university in Jakarta.<br />
John Maxwell: What was the attitude of your parents towards education, Amy? Did they<br />
consider that it was just as important for girls as for boys?<br />
Amy Davidson: Yes. I never experienced any opposition to my going to school, except from<br />
my grandmother who thought that it was not so important for girls to continue their<br />
studies as it was for boys. But the rest of my family, including my uncles and my brothers<br />
were always in favour of higher education.<br />
In fact my schooling was not very disrupted during the Revolution even though for a<br />
couple of years we didn't go to school continuously. But still we went to school when we<br />
could. I suppose because of that I was not quite so aware of the political upheaval in the<br />
country. But I knew about merdeka. We always said "Merdeka bung". We learnt our national<br />
anthem and were proud as Indonesians we were not ruled by the Dutch anymore.<br />
John Maxwell: What sort of school did you go to?<br />
Amy Davidson: During the Revolution when we were living in Payakumbuh we went to the<br />
local school whenever we could. When we returned to Padang I went to the Adabiya<br />
school which my uncle had established with other trading families. Actually it was a more<br />
Islamic orientated school. We all went there — I went there for nine years, six years of<br />
primary school and three years of secondary or junior high school. That was as far as it<br />
went at that time.<br />
I went to a government school for a further three years and then I also went to Jakarta<br />
to study at the University. We were all encouraged to finish our studies and to reach as<br />
high a level as we could, girls or boys.<br />
John Maxwell: Was your family's attitude the same, Etty?<br />
Etty Rice: Yes. My parents never prevented me from continuing my studies as long as it was<br />
in Medan and close to home. That only became a problem after I finished high school and<br />
wanted to study economics. At that time the Economics Faculty of the University of<br />
105
North Sumatra (USU) was situated in Banda Aceh.<br />
My mother's side of the family wouldn't allow me to go and live there. And as I still<br />
wanted to study economics I had to enrol at Nommenson University. This is a private<br />
Protestant University which began with a theology faculty at Pematang Siantar.<br />
John Maxwell: Who were the staff teaching at this university?<br />
Etty Rice: When I started most of the teachers were Dutch with English as the language of<br />
instruction. However when the Nationalization policies were introduced in the late 1950s<br />
most of the Dutch staff left and were replaced by Indonesian staff. However the university<br />
also received assistance from the Ford Foundation, so we had Ford Foundation staff<br />
teaching there later on.<br />
John Maxwell: Nuim, I think of all the panel you received the most unusual education. In<br />
fact, you didn't go to school at all until you were about eleven.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: I didn't go to school until about 1950 or '51. It's very hazy. It was very confusing<br />
in those days because there were few schools. My sisters for obvious reasons didn't<br />
go to school.<br />
John Maxwell: But you went to religious school.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: Oh, I went to religious school next to the mosque to study religion. And<br />
then one of our neighbours in the kampung was an Indian from Pondichery who had<br />
married an Indonesian and had opened a small warung or stall selling rice and Indian<br />
curry. One of his sons went to the Kalsa English School.<br />
Now the Kalsa English School was run by Indians. Most of the teachers delivered<br />
milk in the morning on their bikes and then they would rush into class still perspiring.<br />
Going to a state school at that time was well nigh impossible because although<br />
everything should have been above board it wasn't. The family just couldn't afford to<br />
send me to a state school. So the next best thing was to go with my neighbour's son to this<br />
Indian school.<br />
And so I went off wearing my singlet and underpants to ask the headmaster, Mr Darbara<br />
Singh, if I could study there. I was lumped into this one room with all the other boys.<br />
John Maxwell: What sort of students were there?<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: All sorts of students — Chinese, Indonesians, Indians. The first day I was<br />
there our teacher didn't even bother to teach us the ABC. He was so keen and eager to<br />
teach us English — he couldn't speak Indonesian properly. He started with a chant:<br />
"C — A — T, cat meaning kucing'\ And then the whole class would repeat in unison<br />
"C — A — T, cat meaning kucing".<br />
John Maxwell: But despite all this after a relatively short time at this school you took the<br />
English Senior Cambridge Examination.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: Well, that was the thing, at the end of each year some students attempted<br />
the Senior Cambridge. There were about 140 students at Kalsa and we had to pay quite a<br />
handsome fee for the privilege of sitting for an examination supervised by staff from the<br />
British Consulate in Medan.<br />
John Maxwell: But you passed.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: Yes I did, but it was very tricky, it was a chancy business. I remember that<br />
during the Senior Cambridge Examination you couldn't study at home because there was<br />
no electricity. In those days you would have to wait for your turn and it would come only<br />
once a week. Electricity was a luxury so all those boys from the kampung in Gang<br />
106
Bengkok who went to Kalsa school would gather around the lamp-post at night studying.<br />
Somehow I passed and then the obvious place to continue my studies was the Islamic<br />
University of North Sumatra. I enrolled in the Literature Faculty. Our teachers were<br />
mainly Columbo Plan lecturers from Britain. They were actually seconded to the State<br />
University of North Sumatra but they enjoyed teaching at the Islamic university because<br />
many of the students were graduates of Kalsa English School. They gave their services for<br />
free because at least they could understand us.<br />
John Maxwell: Two of our panel continued their education at tertiary level in Sumatra while<br />
the other two decided it was time to seek experience elsewhere. Rudi, why did you decide<br />
to go to Jakarta for your tertiary studies?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Well, in my time the Standard of USU, the University of North Sumatra,<br />
was not very high. Many of the lectureres at that time were just local doctors or lawyers.<br />
In fact I knew some of them. My brother implored me to stay in Sumatra because he<br />
couldn't afford to send me to Jakarta. But I wanted to go and take a chance. I had an<br />
uncle there who was prepared to give me a place to stay. But if I wanted to go to university<br />
I had to earn some money to cover fees, books and living expenses.<br />
So after finishing SMA in Medan I arrived in Jakarta in September 1953 and enrolled<br />
in the Faculty of Economics at the University of Indonesia.<br />
I was very fortunate. Three months later I was listening to the radio in Jakarta one<br />
evening and heard an advertisement for a new announcer with Radio Jakarta. They were<br />
looking for a person with a senior high school certificate, a good knowledge of English, a<br />
bit of French and German and of course a reasonabie voice. A couple of hundred people<br />
applied and I was lucky enough to be selected. That was how I was able to earn sufficiënt<br />
money to live in Jakarta.<br />
John Maxwell: Amy, you also decided to further your studies in Jakarta. Why did you make<br />
that decision and what was your family's response?<br />
Amy Davidson: I suppose that most Minangkabau like to leave home for a while at least. I<br />
thought I would like to study French. I went to my uncle and told him that I wanted to go<br />
to Jakarta. My uncle gave his consent and agreed to help support me.<br />
I arrived in Jakarta intending to study French. At the last moment before I enrolled I<br />
feit nationalistic I suppose and I thought that before I studied a foreign language I should<br />
study my own first. So I decided to study Indonesian and that was what I did for the next<br />
five years at the University of Indonesia.<br />
QUESTIONS FROM THE AUDIENCE<br />
Ailsa Zainuddin: Nuim, in the light of what other members of the panel have said it's not<br />
entirely clear to me why your sisters didn't go to school. You said "for obvious reasons"<br />
they didn't go to school.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: The idea was that they would one day get married and would not need to go<br />
out and fend for themselves. That was the reasoning behind it. But in that they were not<br />
unique because through arranged marriages it was certain that these girls would be married<br />
off. So there was no need for them to go to school. Perhaps that would have given<br />
priority to wordly matters. There were other things more important than that. That was<br />
the thinking behind it and that's why I said for obvious reasons.<br />
Ailsa Zaiuuddin: It just wasn't obvious to me.<br />
107
Nuim Khaiyath: It just goes to show that there are different perspectives and cultural back-<br />
grounds.<br />
Jane Drakard: I'd like to ask you all about the literature you read when you were young,<br />
both modern and traditional. I am particularly interested in the traditional literature of<br />
Sumatra and the Malay peninsula which you read or were told about by your families.<br />
Amy Davidson: In Minangkabau I don't think we had what you would call written traditional<br />
literature but we had what we called tambo, stories which were handed down from<br />
one generation to the next. Funnily enough it was mostly the women who knew these<br />
stories.<br />
I remember a relative of my father's side of the family. She came from Pagar<br />
Ruyukong near Solok where the old Minangkabau kingdom was. One night she decided<br />
to entertain us with one of these stories. It took until about four o'clock in the morning. It<br />
was a beautiful story but it was never written down.<br />
Jane Drakard: Did you or your contemporaries memorize these stories too?<br />
Amy Davidson: Unfortunately only a certain section of the community in Minangkabau,<br />
from Pagar Ruyukong, knew these stories in detail although we generally all knew how<br />
the story ended.<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: My recollection of early literature is the story of Puteri Hijau. The<br />
famous princess of the Sultan of Deli. This was told from generation to generation. But I<br />
also read the official literature at school.<br />
Jane Drakard: You didn't read things like Sejarah Melayu!<br />
Sararuddin Munir: Of yes, we learnt about Sejarah Melayu and Hang Tuah through the<br />
family. Not at school of course because I went to a Dutch school.<br />
Etty Rice: I read a lot because my father had a book-store, in elementary school I even read<br />
Hans Christian Andersen because Balai Pustaka translated a lot of books into Indonesian<br />
at that time.<br />
At high school we studied a lot of Indonesian literature and as I had chosen the<br />
humanities stream at school I read a lot when I was young.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: As far as traditional literature, as Rudi mentioned just now Puteri Hijau<br />
was a very famous story. But it was not reading. There were these old women. They<br />
couldn't read Latin script but they were able to read Arabic and they had these thick<br />
books written with Arabic script. These stories were read like syair (a poem) with a<br />
beautiful melody. We would gather listening to these old women and we would be<br />
mesmerized. Perhaps not by the content of the story.<br />
Apart from that we read Hang Tuah and Maling Kundang. Later Siti Nurbaya and<br />
Layar Terkembang. Even that novel which would be considered very tame these days, you<br />
had to find a secluded place to read it because it was about boy-meets-girl and holding<br />
hands! But apart from that there were many English books too.<br />
Jane Drakard: I wondered also about European literature.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: Well in my case because of the requirements of the syllabus we had to read<br />
books like Sheridan's The Rivals, The Kontiki Expedition, The Merchant of Venice or<br />
Julius Caesar, and Arms and the Man by Ge<strong>org</strong>e Bernard Shaw.<br />
But the problem was we didn't have the books. The teacher might have a copy and so<br />
it would be cyclostyled as we called it in those days. Somebody would do the typing and<br />
then you couldn't read it properly because the typewriter had been bought from Harrison<br />
108
and Crossfield in the 1920s. From time to time those British companies in North Sumatra<br />
would auction off their old equipment and these typewriters had to make do for years and<br />
years. That was the extent of our literature.<br />
Mohd. Slamet: When our Medan friends first met non-Medan Javanese, what was their first<br />
impression — culture shock?<br />
Sadaruddin Munir: Not quite. Some people may give the wrong impression that because<br />
there were a lot of Javanese contract labourers in North Sumatra all the Javanese were<br />
uneducated. But there were also many well-educated Javanese in Sumatra.<br />
For instance, my brother's father-in-law was a qualified chemist in Tebing Tinggi, in<br />
Tanjung Balai and in Pematang Siantar. And then I remember a man who was the principal<br />
of one of the Taman Sistra schools in Medan — Abdul Malik Munir. Actually he<br />
was from Yogyakarta. We had met some of the priyayi before we went to Java so it was<br />
no shock.<br />
Etty Rice: There are so many ethnic groups in Medan from all over Indonesia. But certainly<br />
my impression of Javanese was that they were much quieter than people in Medan.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: My father met as I said many people from Java. He always referred to them<br />
as people from the other side of the sea — orang seberang. They were first known to us to<br />
have a particular fondness for colours. The men wore green shirts and pink trousers when<br />
they came to Medan.<br />
John Maxwell: You should point out that you were selling cloth.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: But you should have seen those pedlars from Minang, particularly the ones<br />
selling watches when the Javanese came to Medan you could teil that they had just received<br />
their pay. The pedlars tried to sell them everything they could. The Minang watch<br />
sellers would try to sell them what they called Sulu — outside it looked like a Rolex but inside<br />
it was just hopeless.<br />
Its unfortunate that in those days we referred to them — perhaps out of fear — as<br />
Jakon (Jawa Kontrak). That was of course terrible with President Sukarno calling for<br />
unity. So we changed it to Jadel (Jawa Deli). They had a Javanese name but they spoke<br />
like a person from Medan.<br />
And now of course they have a better name. They are called Pujakesum (Putera<br />
Jawa Kelahiran Sumatera, Javanese children born in Sumatra).<br />
Roswita Khaiyath: Etty mentioned before that apparently most people in her village intermarried<br />
with other people from the same village. Etty grew up in Medan but with a<br />
Minangkabau background. I was wondering if there were actually any arranged marriages<br />
in her family as there were among other groups in Medan.<br />
Etty Rice: Yes, there were. At least once every year or so people went home to their village.<br />
They would be asked where they were living now and whether they had a son and<br />
daughter and how old they were. Marriages were often arranged then and in my parents'<br />
generation most marriages were arranged between people from the same village.<br />
Roswita Khaiyath: Was that common in Padang, Amy?<br />
Amy Davidson: During my mother's time it was and even though it still occurs nowadays it<br />
is done in a more liberal sort of way even though the implications are clear.<br />
Tuti Gunawan: Etty, you once remarked that your mother never told your father or sought<br />
his permission if she went out visiting or to a meeting. Was that common? It seems very<br />
liberated to me. On the other hand you say that your family was very strict.<br />
109
Etty Rice: No, I don't recall my mother ever asking my father's permission but she would<br />
teil him where she was going. They were quite strict on the matter of who your husband<br />
was going to be.<br />
When I was still young I was so free. But when I reached marriageable age my<br />
parents put it to me that this was our adat. This was something new to me. I had been<br />
brought up in Medan and I didn't know anything about adat. But I couldn't do anything<br />
because I was the oldest grand-daughter in the family. I had to set an example for my<br />
sisters and brother who were younger than I was.<br />
John Maxwell: Yet from a similar background Amy, you didn't have that sort of problem.<br />
Amy Davidson: No, because in our family there were more boys than girls and whenever we<br />
wanted to go out we would always have older or younger brothers or cousins to accompany<br />
us. So there was no problem. Even if I wanted to go out with a boy there was no problem<br />
although I would make sure that he had met my mother first. In a small town like<br />
Padang everyone knows everybody else and people would know that he was so-and-so's<br />
son.<br />
Zainuddin: Pm not asking a question. I just want to say that people probably get the wrong<br />
impression about adat. As in any law there are loopholes. So if a boy would like to meet a<br />
girl he can always do so along lines parallel with the rule of adat. The impression given to<br />
outsiders is that it is very strict. That is not so, there are always loopholes.<br />
Nuim Khaiyath: One of my sisters had an arranged marriage and this loophole was really<br />
important. When we had guests the men would sit in one room and the women in the<br />
other. My mother would entertain the women and my father would entertain the men.<br />
On one occasion a man came over with his son. We knew why he was coming and it<br />
was through one of the loopholes in the door that my sister had a look at him. She found<br />
him agreeable and they have been married for nearly thirty years now. After looking<br />
through that loophole.<br />
110
MONASH PAPERS ON SOUTHEAST ASIA<br />
No.<br />
1. "The Indonesian Communist Party and Land Reform, 1959-1965 by Rex Mortimer. 1972. $2.50 * (Photocopy format, as<br />
out of print).<br />
2. The 1971 Election in Indonesia: An East Java Case Study by Ken Ward. 1974. $5.00 (overseas postage please add 50<br />
cents).<br />
3. India Seen from the East: Indian and Indigenous Cults in Champa by Paul Mus. Translated and edited, with introductory<br />
essay, by David Chandler and Ian Mabbett. 1975. $5.00.<br />
4. Perhimpunan Indonesia and the Indonesian Nationalist Movement, 1923-1928 by John Ingleson. 1975. $5.00.<br />
5. One Hand Clapping: Indonesian Nationalists and the Dutch 1939-1942 by Susan Abeyasekere. 1976. $5.00.<br />
6. The Constitutionalist Party in Cochinchina: The Years of Decline, 1930-1942 by Megan Cook. 1977. $5.00 (overseas<br />
postage please add 50 cents).<br />
7. Studies in Indonesian Music. Edited by Margaret J. Kartomi. 1978. $5.00 (overseas postage please add 50 cents).<br />
8. Bureaucrats, Petty Bourgeois and Townsmen: an Observation on Status Identification in Kota Bharu by Halim Hj.<br />
Salleh. 1981. $5.00.<br />
9. Fishermen in Flats. A study of involuntary urbanization affecting the Malay minority in Singapore by Chew Soo Beng.<br />
1982. $5.00.<br />
*** SPECIAL OFFER Complete set of Monash Papers on Southeast Asia, 1-9 including postage $35.00.<br />
*Prices quoted in A$ and include postage.<br />
MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS<br />
1. Secondary Schools Guide to Resources on Indonesia by Susan Abeyasekere et al. 1973. $2.80.<br />
2. The Image of Asia in Children's Literature: 1814-1964; by Cecile Parrish. 1977. $1.80.<br />
ANNUAL INDONESIA LECTURE SERIES<br />
A series of Indonesian lectures <strong>org</strong>anised annually by the CSEAS and the Australian-Indonesian Association of Victoria.<br />
1 Religion and Social Ethos. 1977. $3.00. "Professor Haji Kahar Muzakkir and the Development of the Muslim Reformist<br />
Movement in Indonesia", by Mitsuo Nakamura; "Religion and Politics in Indonesia Since Independence", by Benedict<br />
R. O'G. Anderson; "Priyayi Value Conflict", by Muhammad Slamet, and "Millenarianism and the Saminist Movement",<br />
by Benedict R. O'G. Anderson.<br />
2 People and Society in Indonesia: A Biographical Approach. 1977. $3.00. "Arung Palakka and Kahar Muzakkar: A<br />
Study of the Hero Figure in Bugis-Makassar Society", by Leonard Andaya; "The Chinese Minority: Politics or<br />
Culture", by Charles A. Coppel, and "Tan Malaka: Perantauan and the Power of Ideas"; by Yuji Suzuki.<br />
3. The Life of the Poor in Indonesian Cities. 1978. $3.00. "The Pondok System and Circular Migration", by Lea Jellinek;<br />
"Pockets of Privilege Amidst a Mass of Poverty. Wages and Working Conditions in Indonesian Industry", by Chris<br />
Manning, and "The Poor are Always With Us: A Demographic Perspective on the Urban Poor", by Gavin Jones.<br />
4 Contemporary Indonesia: Political Dimensions. 1979. $3.00. "Indonesia since 1945 - Problems of Interpretation", by<br />
Jamie Mackie; "From Sukarno to Suharto: A Reply to Jamie Mackie", by Herb Feith; "Regionahsm and National Integration<br />
in Indonesia: The Acehnese Experience", by Nazaruddin Sjamsuddin, and"The Last Phase of the 1945<br />
Generation: Critical Problems of the Years Ahead" by Hamish McDonald.<br />
5. Kartini Centenary: Indonesian Women Then and Now. 1980. $4.50. "Kartini - Her Life, Work and Influence", by<br />
Ailsa Thomson Zainu'ddin (ed.); "Women in a Yogyakarta Kampung", by Kadar Lucas; "Women in the Workforce ,<br />
by Yulfita Raharjo; "The Search for Women in Indonesian History", by Christine Dobbin, and "Rights and Responsibility,<br />
Power and Privilege: Women's Roles in Contemporary Indonesia" by Lenore Manderson.<br />
6 Five Essays on the Indonesian Arts — Music, Theatre, Textiles, Painting and Literature. 1981. $4.50. '"Lovely When<br />
Heard from Afar': Mandailing Ideas of Musical Beauty", by Margaret Kartomi (ed.); "The Pleasure of the Stage: Images<br />
of Love in Javanese Theatre", by Barbara Hatley; "Textiles and Tusks: Some Observations on the Social Dimensions<br />
of Weaving in East Flores", by Robyn Maxwell; "Indonesian Painting: In Search of Recogmtion", by Koswara<br />
Sumaamidjaja; and "Conflicting Perceptions of the World: Some Thoughts on a Modern Indonesian Novel", by Paul<br />
Tickell.<br />
7. Indonesian Medical Traditions: Bringing Together the Old and the New. $4.50. "Encounters with Traditional Healers",<br />
by A A Gde Muninjaya; "Folk Medicine in Sumba: A Critical Evaluation", by David Mitchell (ed.); Ships ot Fools<br />
and Vessels of the Divine: Mental Hospitals and Traditional Healers in Bali", by Linda Connor; and "Curing the Community:<br />
The Response to Epidemie Illness", by Tuti Gunawan.<br />
111
WORKING PAPERS<br />
1. Life in a Javanese Village by Supomo Surjohudojo. 1974.<br />
2. Some Queslions Regarding Timber Exploitation in East Kalimantan by Gale Dixon. 1974.<br />
3. Population Control in Village Java: The Case of Maguwohardjo by Terence Huil. 1974.<br />
4.& The Samlaut Rebellion and its Aftermath, 1967-1970: The Origins of Cambodia's Liberation Movement by Ben Kiernan.<br />
5. Part 1. 1975. Part II. 1975.<br />
6. Rice Harvesting in the Krawang Region (West Java) in Relation to High Yielding Varieties by Boedhisantoso. 1975.<br />
7. Traditional Yogya in the Changing World by Supomo Surjohudojo. 1976.<br />
8. The Friends Who Tried to Empty the Sea: Eleven Cambodian Folk Tales by David Chandler. 1976.<br />
9. The Life of a Jakarta Street Trader by Lea Jellinek. 1976.<br />
10. The Early Phases of Liberation in Northwestern Cambodia: Conversations with Peang Sophi by David Chandler, Ben<br />
Kiernan and Muy Hong Lim. 1976.<br />
11. * Early Thai History: A Select Bibliography Edited by Ian Mabbett. 1977.<br />
12. Analysing Theories of Development by David Goldsworthy. 1977.<br />
13. The Life of a Jakarta Street Trader — Two Years Later by Lea Jellinek. 1977. A fascinating sequel to No. 9.<br />
14. The Cultivation System and "Agricultural Involution" by R.E. Elson. 1978.<br />
15. Brahmin and Mandarin: A Comparison of the Cambodian and Vietnamese Revolutions by Robert S. Newman. 1978.<br />
16. * Notes on the Structure of the Classical Malay Hikayat by A. Bausani; a translation from the Italian by Lode Brakel.<br />
1979.<br />
17. The Pedlars of Ujung Pandang by Dean Forbes. 1979.<br />
18. * Back Alley Neighbourhood: Kampung as Urban Community in Yogyakarta by John Sullivan. 1980.<br />
19. Ketoprak Theatre and the Wayang Tradition by Barbara Hatley. 1979.<br />
20. Growing up in a Javanese Village: Personal Reminiscences by Supomo Surjohudojo. 1980.<br />
21. Famine in Cirebon Residency in Java 1844-1850: A New Perspective on the Cultivation System by Radin Fernando.<br />
1980.<br />
22. Aid, Basic Needs and the Politics of Reform in Indonesia by Philip J. Eldridge. 1980.<br />
23. Three Early Indonesian Short Stories by Mas Marco Kartodikromo (c. 1890-1932). Translated and introduced by Paul<br />
Tickell. 1981.<br />
24. The "Exploitation" of Marine Fishermen in Malaysia: are Co-operatives a Solution? by G.R. Elliston. 1981.<br />
25. Market Traders and the Sale of Clothing in Rural Java by Glen Chandler. 1981.<br />
26. The Poorest of the Poor: Three Case Studies from Indonesia by Abd. Chamid, edited and translated by Keith Foulcher.<br />
1982.<br />
27. The Hsaya San Rebellion (1930-1932) Reappraised by Patricia Herbert. 1982.<br />
28. The Underdeveloped State: The Study of Modern Burma's Politics by Robert H. Taylor. 1983.<br />
* Price: $1.50, with the exception of Paper Nos. 11, 16, and 18, which are $2.00.<br />
112