by Penelitian Arek | May 23, 2026 | Arek-Arek
“Stopping by Semarang, stopping by Kudus,
Buying a broom with a wire string,
In a time of struggle don’t just flaunt appearances,
Let’s seize West Irian.”
Pribadi & Pakarti: Mochtar, Waspada No. 7, Year XI, 16 February 1962
In the previous article, it was discussed how the Institute of People’s Culture (Lekra) expanded people’s culture as a medium for raising public awareness. This article, therefore, will at least discuss the interrelation between Ludruk Lekra plays, the cultural offensive, and how they eventually culminated in the catastrophe of the 1965–1966 massacres, as covered by Tempo in its edition “Lekra and the 1965 Turmoil.” On the other hand, this paper also aims to include a discussion of the impact of the 1965–1966 mass killings on Ludruk plays after 1965, as the two are interrelated and have repercussions for one another.
Alongside the limitations of available sources, this article seeks to reconsider the existence of the controversial plays once performed by Ludruk Lekra in the 1960s. Drawing on the hypothesis elaborated by Saskia Wieringa and Nursyahbani Katjasungkana, it is suggested that Lekra’s cultural offensive in rural areas through Ludruk was an effort to criticize the landlords—who, in this context, happened to be closely connected with Islamic boarding school clerics.
As posed by the main question, this article seeks to present a more holistic discourse on Ludruk Lekra, considering that to this day, narratives about Ludruk Lekra still revolve around the cultural offensive and, inevitably, remain tied to negative connotations.
Agrarian Reform in Lekra’s Artistic Practices
Rocamora, in his book Nationalism Searching for an Ideology: The Rise and Fall of the Indonesian National Party 1946–1965, notes that the PKI along with other leftist movements, by the early 1960s—when agrarian reform became a heated issue—relocated most of its cadres to rural areas. This caused SOBSI (the All-Indonesia Central Organization of Workers), which was concentrated in urban areas, to fall into a disadvantaged position (Rocamora 2021).
This also occurred within Lekra as a left-oriented cultural organization at the time. Several Lekra members carried out the Turun ke Bawah (Descent to the Masses) method in order to immerse themselves in the lives of peasants when agrarian reform discourse spread throughout the country.
This was reflected in the large number of works of art and literature. In the field of graphic arts, for example, rural discourse was far more dominant than urban problems. In literature, there was an anthology of poems published by the Institute of People’s Culture Publishing under the title The Death of a Farmer. One work by Agam Wispi titled Latini represented the writers’ alignment with the agrarian reform struggle in Jengkol, Kediri, where the action killed a pregnant woman named Latini (Wispi 1961). On the same topic but in a different medium, Amrus Natalsja created a painting titled The Jengkol Incident.
This shows the concentration of Lekra’s artists and writers on rural issues, especially since the second half of the 1950s. Even so, a historiographical critique was raised by Elly Kent in her book Artists and Indonesian Society: Ideologies of Indonesian Visual Art (2024), which states that often Lekra artists did not actually have time to conduct turba and were instead preoccupied with producing propagandistic works (Kent 2024).
What Elly Kent highlights raises a major question that must be reconsidered: which works contain real lived reality, and which were merely propaganda? This is due to the bias of works that tend to be decontextualized, along with the limited archives or sources to verify the scattered data.
On the other hand, it was indeed necessary for Lekra artists to follow the political conditions year by year, since one of Lekra’s main principles stated: “Politics is the commander,” or in Njoto’s words, “Politics can proceed without culture, but culture will die without politics” (Document (I): First National Congress of the Institute of People’s Culture, 1959). The term ‘politics’ clearly referred to the revolutionary politics of the PKI and Lekra itself. For example, in 1964, Aidit published a book titled Crush the Seven Demons of the Village (1964), the result of his turba research in rural West Java. Soon afterward, artistic and literary groups followed the political campaign of “crushing the seven demons of the village” as the basic guideline for creation (Aidit 1964).
In the case of Ludruk, Elly Kent’s view can serve as a benchmark for reconsidering to what extent Lekra’s discourse and methods influenced Ludruk’s creative process. This is especially relevant given that the Ludruk plays reported in Harian Rakjat on 28 March 1965—perhaps the only news that published the contents of “leftist” Ludruk plays—were very diverse, and did not merely narrate rural conditions.
Ludruk Lekra, Two Heights, and the Material Conditions of Rural East Java in the 1960s
In addition to the principle of “good traditions and revolutionary contemporaneity,” there was also a work combination referred to as “high ideological quality and high artistic quality”—often shortened to two heights. In Lekra’s artistic practice, two heights became the most basic guideline, especially in countering the “art for art’s sake” group, which often judged that politically engaged art was artistically weak. Therefore, this section will attempt to explore the “leftist” Ludruk plays both ideologically and aesthetically. At the same time, it will also show practices that were considered forms of cultural offensives, as echoed by anti-communist groups after 1965.
In Harian Rakjat, 28 March 1965, it was recorded that when Ludruk Marhaen went to Jakarta, at least four plays were performed: Pak Sakerah, Waves of Trikora, Seven Demons, and Dr. Oei Tik Liong. These four plays can be classified into two categories: classical plays such as Pak Sakerah, and newly created “leftist” Ludruk plays such as Waves of Trikora, Seven Demons, and Dr. Oei Tik Liong (Harian Rakjat 1965).
This classification can be clearly seen in the titles. The play Pak Sakerah had already become a legend of popular resistance in the colonial era—similar to the play Sarip Tambak Oso, which likely took place during the rise of capitalism in the Dutch East Indies under the Agrarische Wet and Suiker Wet of 1870. In contrast, the other three plays were creations made by Ludruk itself, reflecting the political agendas of the left at the time: the Tri Komando Rakyat (Trikora) operation known as an anti-colonial action; the “crush the seven demons of the village” discourse initiated by Aidit; and anti-racist politics in the play Dr. Oei Tik Liong. Through these four plays, it can be shown that leftist Ludruk was experiencing rapid development in creating new works that continued its own revolutionary tradition.
These plays demonstrate that politics and the material conditions of society always accompanied the process of artistic creation, or in the language of the work combination: “high aesthetic quality and high ideological quality.” This effort was clearly a mandatory duty for Lekra members in the creative process. This was evident not only in the production of plays but also in the creation of kidung and parikan (traditional verses). According to Waspada: Kalawarta Basa Jawa No. 7, 16 February 1962, in the “Pribadi & Pakarti” column which discussed Mochtar as a Ludruk artist, one of the verses he performed was included:
“Stopping by Semarang, stopping by Kudus, buying a broom with a wire string. In a time of struggle don’t just flaunt appearances, let’s seize West Irian.” (Waspada: Kalawarta Umum Basa Djawa 1962).
In that column, it was told that Mochtar was a Ludruk artist who usually performed as a transvestite actor in the Ludruk Tresno Enggal group based in Surabaya. Through the verses sung by Cak Mochtar, it is evident that in their effort to enhance the revolutionary tradition within Ludruk, the Tresno Enggal group, which was affiliated with Lekra, even created verses infused with revolutionary contemporaneity.
On the other hand, there were also aesthetic explorations conducted by Ludruk groups in various regions, especially in Surabaya. According to a report by Bambang S.W. in Harian Rakjat Minggu, 24 May 1965, a Lestra Surabaja discussion took place on experimental Ludruk drama by the Ludruk Tresno Enggal group to celebrate the PKI’s anniversary on 23 May 1964 (Bambang SW 1964). The meeting, held on 13 May 1964, was described by Bambang SW as a special session because it concerned aesthetic advancement within Ludruk itself.
The discussion raised several important points for Ludruk’s progress at the time. The most basic question asked was: “Will Ludruk always be labeled as ‘cheap art’ and thus never be accepted by intellectuals?!” From this, Bambang S.W. explained the structural weaknesses of Ludruk narratives, especially the use of satirical humor, which, according to the session, undermined the plays as a whole:
“This is one of the reasons why Ludruk fails to satisfy audiences who want answers to the problems lingering in their minds; and this is also why Ludruk seems only to fulfill the taste for laughter” (Bambang SW 1964).
Therefore, the meeting produced a noteworthy conclusion: Ludruk artists must remain aware of the material conditions of the society in which they perform, and they must carefully place their humor so that it does not destroy the dramatic structure. Indirectly, this session opened space to merge theories and structures of modern drama with the folk performance art of Ludruk.
Furthermore, in the months just before the 1965 catastrophe, Ludruk had already come under party patronage. According to Harian Rakjat (28 March 1965), Ludruk was to consistently implement the mandates of the Conference of Revolutionary Literature and Arts (KSSR). This shows that Ludruk became increasingly ideological and revolutionary, aligning with the aesthetic and ideological guidelines of the KSSR. It is therefore possible that offensive plays such as The Death of God (Matine Gusti Allah) were indeed performed—although it can be assured that these controversial plays did not in any way intend to mock God, as was later propagated after 1965.
Before moving to the next section, it is worth considering controversial plays like The Death of God and The Angel Marries as historical facts, which can then be contextualized within Ludruk’s aesthetic explorations and efforts to heighten ideological content.
Referring to the writings of Saskia Wieringa and Nursyahbani Katjasungkana as well as Tempo’s reporting on Ludruk, such plays can be seen as part of leftist Ludruk’s attempt to achieve two heights (Wieringa and Katjasungkana 2020). Ludruk’s efforts to criticize Islamic groups, particularly clerics, certainly carried intent.
In the rural context of the time, land reform efforts failed to reach fair agreements, especially in facing oppressive landlords who refused to surrender land as mandated by the 1960 Agrarian Law (Achdian 2008). Many of these landlords were clerics themselves, so it is not surprising that Ludruk voiced such critiques, echoing Marx’s famous statement: “Religion is the opium of the oppressed masses.” For leftist Ludruk, the clerics had clearly deviated from the liberating conception of religion, as they sided neither with poor peasants nor with other oppressed groups.
One case illustrates this: in early 1965, a brutal murder took the life of Matali, an activist of the Indonesian Peasants’ Front (BTI) in Jombang. He was killed by right-wing groups (in this context, pro-Masyumi elements and hired thugs) because of unilateral land actions carried out by Matali and other BTI activists (M. 1965).
On the other hand, the offensive measures taken by leftist Ludruk were indeed excessive, especially among the rural lower classes. It can thus be concluded that the consensus to “be Ludruk artists who know their place,” as reached in the second Lestra Surabaja discussion, was not well distributed to other regions.
Therefore, these controversial plays can be interpreted as one of the consequences of land disputes that persisted from 1960 to 1965, in which the two main rural elements—communists and religious groups—confronted each other. It is thus unsurprising that plays like The Death of God became symbols repeatedly invoked in post-1965 discourse as representations of PKI brutality, even though such claims cannot be properly substantiated.
A Post-1965 Overview: Lying Low and Shadowed by the Military in the Arts
After the total suppression of the leftist movement in 1965–1966, the most visible impact was how artistic and cultural activities immediately came to a standstill, at least between 1966 and 1968 (Tempo 2013). Many were afraid to return to artistic practice out of fear that their names would be listed by the authorities—considering that such “name-dropping” became one of the most terrifying threats during those violent years, when wrongful arrests were rampant (Bustam 2022).
When that period of violence subsided, coinciding with the rise of the military strongman Suharto, artistic activity fell under the shadow of militarism. Many regional performing arts groups were directly overseen by the military at the level of Regional Military Commands (Kodam) or District Military Commands (Kodim), such as Ketoprak and Ludruk itself (Tempo 2013).
This section will briefly discuss the transformations and discourses that spread at that time, given that the propaganda of the New Order was often voiced through everyday folk culture such as Ludruk and Ketoprak. This discussion will only present processed data and interpretations from a recent conversation. This short overview at least opens space to reinterpret the transformation of Ludruk discourse, which seemed filled with both politicization and depoliticization of folk culture.
During the transition from the Sukarno era to the Suharto era, there was a major shift in the realm of folk performance, as evident in the content embedded within it. In the Sukarno era, Ludruk performances were always tied to Indonesian political agendas and Lekra. Under Suharto, however, Ludruk became a propaganda tool for the Golkar party and the New Order regime.
According to the account of S.B., a former technician for the Ludruk Putra Bhirawa group under the supervision of the Jombang Kodim, Ludruk during the New Order could be described as a mouthpiece for Golkar’s electoral victories and New Order propaganda itself.
S.B., as part of military-controlled Ludruk, also realized that Ludruk had been weakened. Its function as a medium of criticism toward those in power was curtailed. In the New Order era, S.B. added, Ludruk typically dared to criticize only at the level of the village head (lurah) or sub-district head (camat), but never beyond, because that would mean dealing with security forces and imprisonment (Interview with S.B., 2025).
Another aspect worth further attention is the way the New Order inserted its political agendas into Ludruk plays. As a historical witness, S.B. explained that New Order propaganda in Ludruk was inserted through jokes delivered by Ludruk performers themselves:
“Once there was a Ludruk joke that went like this: ‘Golkar always wins because if you touch them just a little, they immediately bloom.’ There was also another: ‘There’s a long black thing.’ Another player asked curiously, ‘What do you mean?’ The answer came: ‘Well, it’s the New Order program itself. Asphalt is black, and it’s long, because the New Order will always succeed in building roads (from one end to the other)’.” (Interview with S.B., 2025)
In S.B.’s testimony above, it is clear that the humor leaned into sexual innuendo, under the pretext that such jokes were close to everyday popular humor. Clearly, the sexism of the New Order is visible here, which was also a continuation of the symbolic violence after 1965, especially through women’s domestication projects such as PKK (Family Welfare Movement), Dharma Wanita, and others (Wieringa 2010; Suryakusuma 2011).
S.B. also explained that colonial-era resistance plays were still staged during that time. However, this paper argues that such plays were maintained merely as formal conventions within Ludruk. Canonical plays like Pak Sakera and Sarip Tambak Oso were considered among the earliest in Ludruk’s historiography, so it was deemed incomplete not to include them in Ludruk performances during the New Order. On the other hand, the content of these plays was diluted or even lost, particularly their messages of grassroots resistance against power.
Thus, it can be understood that a massive transformation and depoliticization occurred in Ludruk after 1965, largely shaped by the politics of New Order authoritarianism—especially in terms of humor, gender positioning, and propaganda. While in the pre-1965 era Ludruk served as a revolutionary political tool of the left, the key difference post-1965 is that the leftist movement had sought to preserve good traditions within Ludruk through revolutionary contemporaneity. This allowed plays like Pak Sakera to remain alive as Ludruk’s canon, continuously breathing the spirit of small people’s resistance—rather than being reduced to mere formalities to demonstrate that Ludruk was simply a folk art of the egalitarian Arekan subculture.
From the Revolutionary Cultural Offensive to the Shift in the Role of Transvestites in Ludruk
The previous article sought to highlight one of the principles within the 1-5-1 formula, namely: “good traditions and revolutionary contemporaneity.” This meant that Lekra’s direction in cultural work was not to create an entirely new culture, but rather to combine traditions already rooted in society with tactics of social awareness (Dahlan and Yuliantri 2008). In this respect, Lekra did not fully alter the conventions, but modified the content—through scripts, additional storylines, or creating something new based on existing traditions.
This can be seen in several examples, one of which was briefly discussed in the first article. In terms of adding narrative content, Lekra made efforts to reinterpret Barongan art. In Harian Rakjat Minggu, 26 September 1965, it was reported that a local group from the village of Danyang near Purwodadi, together with the Purwodadi branch of Lekra, had modified the story content and technical aspects of performance (Harian Rakjat 1965b):
“The content of this folk drama narrates the struggle of the people against their enemies, represented as the seven demons of the village and the imperialists, who here are depicted in the form of the barongan (lion).”
In the art of Ludruk, the changes seemed limited to content and aesthetic techniques borrowed from modern drama. In Harian Rakjat, 24 May 1964, it was recorded that the Drama Arts Institute (Lesdra), which oversaw Ludruk, provided suggestions for advancing Ludruk so it could be better received by wider audiences (Bambang SW 1964). One main point in the third Lesdra discussion was the effort to develop plays that needed renewal so that Ludruk would not merely serve as a means of satisfying laughter—more importantly, so that Ludruk could also be accepted among intellectuals.
The notes from that session also discussed the possible elimination of women’s roles performed by men (transvestites), but the matter seemed left to the “spirit of the times”:
“Regarding men playing women, it may very well change according to the demands of the time and the masses. That depends on history.” (Bambang SW 1964)
That suggestion, however, seemed to evaporate, since Harian Rakjat (28 March 1965), reporting on Ludruk Marhaen at the State Palace, noted that actors still played women’s roles (transvestites). According to James L. Peacock, transvestites were an essential and inseparable part of Ludruk, as they served as the central figures in its rites of passage (Peacock 1987). Functionally, transvestites not only acted on stage but were also involved in technical work such as building the stage (tobong), and more (Setiawan 2014). Thus, their role was nearly indispensable.
The importance of transvestites in Ludruk is also evident in the Pribadi & Pakarti column, which discussed Tjak Mochtar, a transvestite actor from Ludruk Tresno Enggal in Surabaya. Tjak Mochtar was even regarded as someone who embodied the people’s spirit, because beyond his moving performances, his presence on stage always “ignited the spirit of struggle.”
“Besides that, Muchtar, whom we will introduce here, has also produced many works that inflame the spirit of struggle to return West Irian to the lap of Motherland.” (Waspada: Kalawarta Umum Basa Djawa 1962)
Here, it is evident that the role of transvestites did not stop at portraying women’s characters, but also in spreading political discourse, as James L. Peacock noted. Simply put, the role of the transvestite was not just to bring female figures into the domestic sphere, but also into the public sphere—even showing that women could participate in politics.
In Peacock’s research, although Ludruk excluded “real” women and replaced them with transvestites, he explained that the figure of the mother was consistently portrayed as the wisest character, surpassing male roles such as father or son (Peacock 1987). Often, transvestites represented maternal power, rendering paternal authority secondary and replaced by maternal dominance. For example, in the play Sarip Tambak Oso, the mother is depicted as possessing magical power or as “The Hero’s Mother,” indirectly conveying that no matter how formidable Sarip Tambak Oso was against colonial punishment and rifles, he remained alive or invincible due to his mother’s “calling” or “prayers.”
Similarly, in the play Pak Sakerah, performed by Ludruk Marhaen at the State Palace, one scene depicts Pak Sakerah killing his own nephew because the nephew had been recruited by the Dutch as a foreman, considered submissive—a Lumpenproletariat lacking self-awareness of his oppression (Harian Rakjat 1965). On the other hand, Pak Sakerah killed him also because the nephew persistently harassed his wife. Here it is shown that Pak Sakerah embodied loyalty, defending his wife’s honor with devotion.
This situation contrasts sharply with Ludruk during the New Order and afterward. The crucial role of transvestites as carriers of discourse and as figures of “female exaltation” shifted into being objects of ridicule or comic relief. Transvestites often experienced unpleasant treatment during performances. This reflects the New Order’s political agenda of dismantling women’s movements and women’s roles in the public sphere—an agenda that also marginalized LGBTQ+ communities, labeled as “deviant” in New Order discourse.
In conclusion, the emergence of discourse around plays like The Death of God (Matine Gusti Allah), used as justification that the left mocked God, was merely a reaction to the destruction of two heights within Ludruk itself, particularly after 1965. This comparative discussion shows that Ludruk declined especially in the New Order era, where it suffered extreme depoliticization and simplification. Once a revolutionary art, it was reduced to little more than Golkar and New Order propaganda, mere entertainment and humor without renewed evaluations to remain relevant to contemporary realities—or in Lekra’s words, “revolutionary contemporaneity.” In the end, the New Order, often idealized as a new era for the arts, proved to be nothing more than a dystopia for the artists themselves.
References
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Bambang SW. 1964. “SARASEHAN LESTRA SURABAJA KE-II: Tentang Eksperimen Drama Ludruk.” HR Minggu (Djakarta), 24 Mei 1964.
Bustam, Mia. 2022. Dari Kamp ke Kamp: Memoar Kedua. Bandung: Ultimus.
Dahlan, M. Muhidin, dan Rhoma Dwi Aria Yuliantri. 2008. Lekra Tak Membakar Buku: Suara Senyap Lembaran Kebudayaan Harian Rakjat 1950-1965. Yogyakarta: Merakesumba.
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Setiawan, Ari. 2014. “KONSTRUKSI GENDER TANDHAK LUDRUK SUROMENGGOLO: Studi Deskriptif mengenai Identifikasi Ekspresi Gender pada Tandhak Ludruk Suromenggolo Kabupaten Ponorogo.” Skripsi, Universitas Airlangga.
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Wieringa, Saskia E., dan Nursyahbani Katjasungkana. 2020. Propaganda & Genosida di Indonesia: Sejarah Rekayasa Hantu 1965. 1 ed. Disunting oleh Rahmat Edi Sutanto. Depok: Komunitas Bambu.
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by Penelitian Arek | Sep 4, 2025 | Kelana Masa
Doni Rahma | Anthropology FISIP Unair Student | Arek Institute Researcher Network
Almost 100 years ago, on March 11, 1917, in Surabaya, a movement called Djawa Dipa was born, opposing the feudalistic practices of the time. According to various records, the movement was first initiated in two locations: the Oost Java Bioscoop building (now a shopping complex in the Aloon-aloon Contong area) and the Oost JavaRestaurant. From its inception, Djawa Dipa aimed to equalize the use of the Javanese language by abolishing its hierarchical structure. In other words, unggah-ungguhing basa (the stratified levels of Javanese language such as ngokoand krama) had to be eliminated. The Krama class, referring to the lower layers of Javanese society, became the movement’s main focus because equality for them was of utmost importance. Until then, the hierarchy in the use of the Javanese language had only widened the gap of social stratification and reinforced unfair treatment against them (Thamrin, 2022).
One of the key figures behind the birth of Djawa Dipa was Tjokrosoedarmo, the leader of the SI (Sarekat Islam) Surabaya branch — a native arek Suroboyo from the Plampitan neighborhood, who came from a priyayi (noble) family background. However, in contrast to his aristocratic origins, he became a vocal critic of the rules governing the use of krama (high-level Javanese language). For him, a language structure built on rigid hierarchy was not a tool for communication, but rather a wall of oppression — something that burdened the Javanese people. This was evident in a fragment of his radical ideas, delivered during a speech at the formation of the Djawa Dipa committee, which was also published in the Sinar Djawa newspaper, March 15, 1917 edition.
”…telah njata kita ketahoei, sampai saat ini, dan sampai zaman perobahan ini, atoeran bahasa Djawa ”kromo” itoe hanjalah membikin soesah kita Djawa sadja. Berlantaran atoeran bahasa Djawa ”Kromo” itoe tidak sedikit bilangannya…Maka ketjelakaan dan kesengsaraan pendjara itoe bagi kita boekan bangsa ”sastrawan” hanjalah lantaran soesahnja atoeran bahasa Djawa ”kromo” ada di moeka persidangan hakim”
(…it is clear to us, even up to this moment, and into this era of change, that the rules of the Javanese ‘krama’ language only bring hardship to us Javanese. Because of these ‘krama’ language rules—of which there are no small number… Misfortune and the suffering of imprisonment for us, who are not a ‘literary’ people, are merely caused by the difficulty of these ‘krama’ rules when faced in front of the judge’s court.)
In its time, Djawa Dipa appeared to be supported by prominent figures, including Tjokroaminoto of Sarekat Islam itself. Although Tjokroaminoto was initially not very enthusiastic about the emergence of Djawa Dipa, as the movement gradually expanded in 1918 and his dominance within Sarekat Islam (CSI) began to wane, he quickly moved to consolidate new forces. Djawa Dipa was then promoted and pushed to become a militant movement aimed at transforming the “slave mentality” of the Javanese people (Siraishi, 1997).
As a movement, Djawa Dipa often directly issued appeals encouraging the reduction of krama (high-level Javanese) usage. One of its early recommendations included changing honorifics or forms of address: using “Wiro” for men, “Woro” for married women, and “Liro” for unmarried women (Thamrin, 2022). The movement also expanded to include calls for rejecting long-standing gestures of deference embedded within the Dutch East Indies bureaucracy. These gestures included a wide range of social behaviors, dress codes, hierarchical language use, and honorary titles.
Javanese people were required to treat Dutch officials with elaborate forms of submission: walking in a crouched or squatting position (jongkok), addressing colonial officers as kanjeng tuan, sitting cross-legged in their presence, and performing a respectful gesture of placing both hands against the upper lip (sembah) after the officials spoke (Der Meer, 2021).
Although Djawa Dipa was enthusiastically welcomed by the Javanese public and became a topic of discussion in various newspapers at the time, its presence also brought with it the consequence of skepticism about its effectiveness in leveling the Javanese language. This view emerged from the conservative elite, who felt that their power was being threatened by the rise of Djawa Dipa. This sentiment was evident, for instance, in a column published in De Indier on April 10, 1917. The author of the piece was not clearly identified, but the tone of the writing revealed a skeptical attitude toward the presence and aims of Djawa Dipa.
”De ngoko-questie houdt de gemoederen in de inlandsche wereld nog warm. Er is bereids een vereeniging gevormd onder den naam Djawa Dipa, die het ngoko zal trachten vereheffen tot algemeene tal op Java. Wij staan er zeer sceptisch tegenover!”
(The ngoko question continues to stir emotions in the inlander. An association has already been formed under the name Djawa Dipa, which will attempt to elevate ngoko to the status of a general language in Java. We view this with great skepticism!)
There was also a lengthy opinion piece titled “Djowo Dipo Contra Adat” (“Djawa Dipa Against Custom”) written by a district head (the specific region was not detailed), published in the De Locomotief newspaper on June 14, 1921. In it, he expressed his concerns about the growing presence of Djawa Dipa, which he viewed as increasingly troubling.
According to him, the Djawa Dipa movement was seen as undermining the authority of the priyayi (Javanese aristocracy). This colonial official considered the use of informal terms like “Kowe” (you, in low-register Javanese) when addressing officials to be an insult to the established customs and power structures.
Although he did not deny that real change was happening, he insisted that politeness must remain paramount. He cited an incident in which a wedana (district head) was approached by two members of Djawa Dipa as an example of this perceived breach of decorum.
”…De wedono liet zich niettemin door die woorden niet van streek brengen, bleef kalm en vroeg den heeren gemoedelijk in het hoog-Javaansch: ‘Sampean wonten perloe poenopo?’ (Wat is er van uw dienst?”
(…The wedana, however, was not shaken by those words, remained calm, and politely asked the gentlemen in high Javanese: ‘Sampean wonten perloe poenopo?’What can I do for you?’)
Despite all of that, Djawa Dipa chose to remain actively vocal. To facilitate the wider dissemination of their propaganda, in April 1921 they finally launched the first issue of their weekly newspaper titled Hindia Dipa (Thamrin, 2022).
The release of the newspaper appears to have been accelerated compared to the original plan. This differed from a report in the Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant dated March 22, 1921, which had stated that Hindia Dipa would be published at the end of 1921.
On the other hand, Hindia Dipa, as the media outlet of Djawa Dipa, chose to use a blend of Malay-Javanese as its primary language.
Language as a revolutionary medium
During the 19th century, the Dutch systematically indoctrinated themselves into Javanese society through a process of cultural appropriation that legitimized their authority. This legitimacy was heavily dependent on the preservation of the culture of the traditional elite. The Dutch deliberately created cultural hegemony by adopting and institutionalizing Javanese-style rituals. Symbols of power—such as hierarchical forms of dress, lifestyle, language, consumption, and architecture—were carefully maintained and reinforced by the colonial regime (Der Meer, 2019).
Clifford Geertz, in his book Negara: The Theatre State in Nineteenth-Century Bali, also explained that state power is not only embodied in institutions but also in the continuous production of symbols. In other words, symbols are not merely matters of aesthetics—they are manifestations of power itself.
All of this gradually began to shift. The early 20th century marked a transformative period of social and cultural change. The Dutch Ethical Policy, though intended as a colonial reform, inadvertently created the conditions for the emergence of indigenous movements that became increasingly critical of all forms of feudal relations with the colonial power (Der Meer, 2021).
It was within this context that history records the rise of a radical movement in Surabaya that opposed state domination—particularly as it related to language hierarchy. As noted by J. P. Zurcher, although traditional customs were still respected, the times had changed significantly. The Javanese people of the past were no longer the same as those of the present. They had evolved, and with that evolution came a naturally emerging spirit of resistance.
DAFTAR PUSTAKA
Der Meer, A. (2019). Igniting Change in Colonial Indonesia: Soemarsono’s Contestation of Colonial Hegemony in a Global Context. Journal of World History, 30(4), 501–532.
Der Meer, A. (2021). Sweet Was the Dream, Bitter the Awakening: The Contested Implementation of the Ethical Policy 1901-1913. In Performing Power: Cultural Hegemony, Identity, and Resistance in Colonial Indonesia (pp. 48–76). Cornell University Press.
Districtshoofd. (1921, June 14). Djawa Dipa Contra Adat. De Locomotief.
Djawa Dipa. (1917, April 10). De Indier.
Geertz, C. (2017). Negara Teater: Kerajaan-Kerajaan di Bali Abad Kesembilan Belas. BasaBasi.
Java en Madoera. (1921, March 22). Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant .
Siraishi, T. (1997). Zaman Bergerak: Radikalisme Rakyat di Jawa 1912-1926. Pustaka Utama Grafiti.
Thamrin, M. H. (2022). Djawa Dipa: Sama Rata, Sama Rasa, Sama Bahasa 1917-1922 (1st ed.). Komunitas Bambu.
Zurcher, P. J. (1920). De Indische Gids (Vol. 42). J. H. de Bussy.
by Penelitian Arek | Feb 13, 2025 | Arek-Arek
Diky K. Arief | A student of Islamic Theology and Philosophy at the State Islamic University of Surabaya[]
When East Javanese traditional art is discussed, the main spotlight often falls on Ludruk—a performing art that has long been a cultural pride of the arek-arek (young people) community. However, behind the vibrant discussions about Ludruk, there is one crucial element that is often overlooked by the media and cultural discourse: Jula Juli. Without Jula Juli, Ludruk would not feel complete.
Jula Juli is not merely a part of the East Javanese kidungan (traditional sung poetry); it is a literary form that records the long history of its people. Within each song performed, there are narratives about anxiety, hope, humor, social criticism, and the daily lives of Javanese society, particularly in Surabaya and the broader Arek subculture regions.
Varieties of Jula Juli
Jula Juli and Ludruk are always intertwined with traditional art in East Java. As part of a Ludruk performance, Jula Juli serves as an introduction or accompaniment that breathes life into the show. However, Jula Juli does not entirely depend on Ludruk as its medium. As an independent art form, Jula Juli can be performed outside of Ludruk shows.
To trace the connection between Jula Juli and Ludruk, let us briefly explore its historical emergence. There are several versions of how Ludruk and Jula Juli originated. One story states that Ludruk was initially created by a farmer named Santik from Ceweng Village, Diwek District, Jombang Regency. In 1907, Santik, along with his two friends, Pono and Amir, performed Jula Juli from one hamlet to another while wearing makeup resembling women, which they found amusing. They then sang Jula Juli in a humorous style to entertain the public (Ismail, 2023).
Another story claims that Ludruk had already developed as early as 1890, but it was not introduced by Santik. Instead, a street performer named Gangsar from Pandan Village, Jombang, was credited with its emergence. His story closely resembles Santik’s role in pioneering Ludruk, which at the time still took the form of Lerok. According to the tale, Gangsar and his friends were performing when they encountered a crying baby being held by a man. Upon closer observation, the man had adorned himself like a woman, hoping to deceive his child into thinking they were being cradled by their mother. Inspired by this, Gangsar and his friends began performing with makeup that made them look like women. This story is also considered one of the key reasons behind the emergence of the travesti (cross-dressing) tradition in Ludruk performances (Soenarno, 2023). The final version suggests that Ludruk began to develop in Surabaya.
Unfortunately, these stories focus solely on the origins of Ludruk, while the emergence of Jula Juli remains largely undocumented. However, the development of Jula Juli has always been closely linked to Ludruk. Over time, Jula Juli started to expand its reach, evolving into an independent art form separate from Ludruk. In Jula Juli, the sung poetry follows a pattern similar to pantun (traditional rhymed verses), delivered with vocal techniques and accompanied by gending (traditional Javanese music). The narration is presented in the rough, colloquial ngoko dialect of East Javanese speech.
Regional Variations of Jula Juli
As Jula Juli evolved, it developed unique regional characteristics across East Java, adapting to the socio-cultural contexts of different communities. These variations include Jula Juli styles from Surabaya, Pandalungan, Jombang, and Malang (Setiawan, 2017). While all these variations retain similar musical patterns and accompaniment styles, each version presents a distinct atmosphere and character, particularly in linguistic aspects.
The diversity of Jula Juli has given rise to its own historical narratives in different regions. It reflects the cultural, social, and political conditions of its time. For example, in Jombang, a Jula Juli style developed using the slendro Pathet Wolu scale. This scale was performed during Bapang Wayang Topeng Jatiduwur performances (Annur, 2022). However, there is neither historical evidence nor folklore detailing the origins of Jula Juli in the slendro Pathet Wolu scale. Nevertheless, Wayang Topeng Jatiduwur has existed since the Majapahit era during King Hayam Wuruk’s reign and was later revitalized by Ki Purwo in Jatiduwur Village, Kesamben, Jombang.
Beyond Jombang, around 2014 in Malang, a new musical style emerged under the name Jula Juli Lantaran Gaya Malang. This style was pioneered by Sumantri, who created it in response to the limitations of previous macapat song styles (Pamuji, 2017). The distinction lies in its musical characteristics: Jula Juli Lantaran Gaya Malang incorporates elements of macapat with rhythmic arrangements highlighting Kendang Kalih and Gambayak drumming techniques (Pamuji, 2017). This marks a unique feature not found in conventional Jula Julicompositions.
Unlike the Malangan or Jombangan styles, Jula Juli Madura has a history closely tied to the socio-political dynamics of the Dutch colonial era. This version of Jula Juli was born as a product of its time, shaped by the cultural assimilation between Madurese and Javanese communities under Dutch colonial racial policies. The Dutch anthropologist Huub de Jonge documented colonial-era stereotypes about the Madurese people, portraying them as “backward” and “harsh-tempered”—both of which reflect colonial biases. This narrative reinforced the discriminatory perspectives of colonial rule, further stigmatizing the Madurese in the eyes of both the colonizers and surrounding Javanese communities.
The presence of the Madurese people was often positioned as “the other.” Their voices remained faintly heard. This historical backdrop of stereotyping led Jula Juli Madura to become a unique form of resistance against systematic subjugation by colonial systems and knowledge structures (Setiawan, 2017).
This defiance is also reflected in kèjhungan gending Yang-Layang, a distinctive kidungan (sung poetry) from Madura influenced by Javanese kidungan and the adaptive evolution of Jula Juli. However, its uniqueness lies in its high-pitched and melancholic cengkok(melodic ornaments), symbolizing the Madurese people’s strong sense of dignity, outspokenness, and migratory nature (Mistortoify, 2015). One example of kèjhungan Yang Layang is as follows:
“Sampang roma sakè translation: Sampang (has) hospital
Tuan dokter acapèngan potè The doctor wears white hat
Lo’ ghãmpang dhãddhi rèng lakè’ It is not easy to be a man
Mon lo’ pènter nyarè pèssè” If cannot earn money
(Mistortoify, 2015)
Through the Jula Juli they created, they not only expressed their cultural identity but also demonstrated resistance against the stereotypes that had long been imposed upon them.
The migration of the Madurese people to the Tapal Kuda (Horseshoe) region also gave rise to a unique Jula Juli style known as Pandalungan. Pandalungan refers to Madurese communities born in Java who have assimilated with Javanese culture while living in the Tapal Kuda region, which includes Jember, Situbondo, Probolinggo, and Lumajang (Satrio, 2020).
This migration can be traced back to the 18th century, specifically in 1870, when the Dutch colonial government enacted more agrarian policies that allowed private enterprises to expand their economic activities in East Java. As a result, rubber, sugarcane, and tobacco plantations began to emerge, and low-wage laborers were brought in from Madura to work on them (Akhiyat, 2023). However, this was nothing more than a colonial strategy to perpetuate slavery. The Dutch forcibly employed enslaved laborers on plantations—bringing slaves from Java to work on land in Sumatra and from Madura to work on land in Java. By sourcing enslaved workers from regions separated by the sea, they ensured easier control over them (Setiawan, 2017).
As a result, cultural assimilation occurred in the inclusive Tapal Kuda region, giving birth to distinctive traditions—one of which is Jula Juli Pandalungan/Pendalungan. This particular Jula Juli is often performed in Jaran Kencak (a traditional horse dance) performances and is incorporated into the Napel/Sumpingan segment. In this segment, a guest sings Jula Juli to the host while presenting monetary offerings (saweran) to the Remo dancer as a gesture of respect to the host (Juwariyah, 2023).
In her writings, Nura Murti compiled Jula Juli/kèjhungan from the Pandalungan tradition in Jember Regency, highlighting the values of cultural assimilation in the Tapal Kuda region (Murti, 2017), such as the following example:
“Tanem magik tombu sokon terjemahan: planting Tamarind grows breadfruit
tabing kerrep benyyak kalana A tightly woven bamboo was full of scorpions
mompong gik odik koddhu parokon As long as one is alive, harmony must be maintained
ma’ olle salamet tèngka salana” To stay safe in one’s behaviour
The various types of Jula Juli demonstrate that music and culture are not merely forms of entertainment but also serve as tools for expressing identity, worldview, and even dissatisfaction with prevailing social conditions. Like other traditional arts, Jula Juli stands as a silent witness to how culture becomes an arena of struggle—where narratives of oppression can be transformed into songs that inspire and unite people from diverse walks of life.
Jula Juli as a Medium of Social Resistance and Propaganda
During the colonial period, Jula Juli evolved into a medium for criticizing the Japanese colonial system, infused with elements of satire. For example, in one of the most renowned kidungan (traditional sung poetry) pieces by Cak Durasim, sharp criticism was directed at Japanese rule, which had further worsened the conditions of the indigenous people, as cited in Setiawan’s (2021) article:
“A dovecote is a home for doves,
Following the Japanese only brings suffering.
Bought klepon at the station,
Following the Japanese means no pension.”
The first two lines of the verse are also inscribed on Cak Durasim’s tombstone at Tembok Gede Cemetery in Surabaya, serving as a lasting reminder that local arts and culture—such as Ludruk and Jula Juli—have functioned as tools of resistance. Jula Juli was not merely an art form; it was a means of challenging the status quo of its time.
Beyond being a vehicle for social criticism, Jula Juli was also used as a medium for propaganda. During the Guided Democracy era of the late 1950s, political parties frequently utilized this art form to convey ideological messages from various political groups. This is evident from the fact that many political parties had autonomous cultural organizations within them. Some of these included the Indonesian National Party (PNI) with its National Cultural Institute (Lembaga Kebudayaan Nasional—LKN), the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) with its People’s Cultural Institute (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat—Lekra), Masyumi with its Islamic Arts and Culture Association (Himpunan Seni Budaya Islam—HSBI), and the Catholic Party with its Catholic Indonesian Cultural Institute (Lembaga Kebudayaan Indonesia Katolik—LKIK) (Susanto, 2017).
The presence of multiple political streams and ideologies made culture an arena for ideological battles and influence. Art and literature, as part of culture, were often used as mediums to convey ideological messages, either explicitly or implicitly. This even led to the notion that “whoever wins has the right to write history” (Susanto, 2017).
This was no exception for Jula Juli and Ludruk. The proliferation of Ludruk groups in East Java turned the art form into a political battleground, resulting in the emergence of two major factions: Ludruk supporting the PKI and Ludruk supporting the PNI. When these two factions performed on neighboring stages, it was not uncommon for them to engage in ideological duels through Jula Juli performances (Setiawan, 2021).
“Budal tandur, muleh njaluk mangan “Jumat legi nyang pasar genteng
Godonge sawi, dibungkus dadi siji Tuku apel nang Wonokromo
Ayo dulur, podho bebarengan Merah putih kepala banteng
Nyoblos partai, partai PKI” Genderane dr. Soetomo”
That Jula Juli verse is one example of how traditional art was utilized by political parties to subtly convey their ideological messages. With its colloquial language and a rhythm familiar to the people of East Java, political propaganda was woven into the lyrics of the kidungan(chant). In this way, Jula Juli transformed into an effective political communication tool, reaching various segments of society that might not be accustomed to formal political narratives. However, kidungan and Ludruk performances associated with the PKI began to fade following the events of September 30. That incident marked a period of silence and the disappearance of Ludruk from the national stage (Setiawan, 2021).
At that time, the New Order regime did not only suppress the PKI physically but also sought to dominate culture associated with it. The Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI (The Treachery of G30S/PKI) film, produced by the regime, was widely disseminated, books deemed to contain leftist ideology were banned and removed from circulation, and traditional arts were tamed by the regime to steer literature toward “safe” storytelling (Restu, 2020). One of the affected art forms was Ludruk. As a form of folk art closely tied to narratives of the people and resistance, Ludruk was considered dangerous. During that era, both Ludruk and Jula Juli, as part of Ludruk, temporarily lost their voices.
The Revitalization of Jula Juli in the Contemporary Era
Amid the influence of both Western and Eastern cultures today, this tradition faces the challenge of staying relevant in an era of modernization. The name Cak Kartolo, a legendary Ludruk Suroboyoan maestro, is often credited with playing a significant role in revitalizing Jula Juli, ensuring its survival and acceptance by modern audiences.
Cak Kartolo recorded his Ludruk performances on cassette tapes, which were then widely distributed across East Java. He became well-known for delivering Jula Juli with a comedic style rich in humor. In every recording, he was always accompanied by the karawitan(traditional Javanese musical ensemble) group Sawunggaling (Mukaromah, 2018).
Apart from Sawunggaling with Cak Kartolo, during the same period, Cak Sulabi and his Ludruk group Budhi Wijaya also gained recognition for their popular Jula Juli Suroboyoan, such as the following Jula Juli:
“Mulone jok gampang dulur peno dipecah belah
mundhakno sing seneng kaum penjajah
sopo sing salah dulur kudu podo ngalah
supoyo persatuan kito gak gampang blubrah”
Moreover, Jula Juli continues to reinvent itself by addressing more contemporary issues. For example, in the field of education, Jula Juli is used to teach moral values, history, and even social skills. One such example is the following kidungan:
“Sugeng enjang salam literasi
Anak-anakku sayang kabeh sing tresnani
Ayo belajar gawe mbangun negeri
Iki wawasan tekan sekolah yo dipelajari (Primaniarta, 2022).”
Through Jula Juli, this art form not only reintroduces East Javanese cultural identity to the younger generation but also serves as a medium for character building and fostering social awareness. Therefore, tracing the values and knowledge embedded within Jula Juli can be seen as a form of cultural archaeology within the subculture of East Java.
References
Ismail dan Asih Widiarti, “Pentas Ludruk yang Menolak Mati,” TEMPO Publishing, 2023.
Aris Setiawan, Suyanto Suyanto, dan Wisma Nugraha Ch. R., “Jula-Juli Pandalungan dan Surabayan Ekspresi Budaya Jawa-Madura dan Jawa Kota,” Resital: Jurnal Seni Pertunjukan 18, no. 1 (2017): 1–12
Aris Setiawan, “Kidungan Jula-juli in East Java: Media of Criticism and Propaganda (From The Japanese Occupation Era to The Reform Order in Indonesia),” Harmonia: Journal of Arts Research and Education 21, no. 1 (7 Juni 2021): 79–90.
Muhammad Akbar Darojat Restu Putra, “Membaca Lagi ‘Kekerasan Budaya,’” Islam Bergerak (blog), 2020
Gita Primaniarta dan Heru Subrata, “Development of Kidung Jula-Juli as a media for children’s literacy,” Premiere Educandum : Jurnal Pendidikan Dasar dan Pembelajaran 12, no. 2 (2022): 1–13
Bima Atyaasin Annur, Setyo Yanuartuti, dan I. Nengah Mariasa, “Characteristics of Gending Jula-Juli Laras Slendro Pathet Wolu in The Bapang Dance Jombang Jatiduwur Mask Puppet,” Virtuoso: Jurnal Pengkajian dan Penciptaan Musik 5, no. 2 (2022): 142–47.
Iska Aditya Pamuji, “GARAP GENDING JULA-JULI LANTARAN GAYA MALANG,” KETEG: Jurnal Pengetahuan, Pemikiran, dan Kajian Tentang “Bunyi” 17, no. 2 (2017): 69–79.
Sonarno, Sejarah Ludruk (Semarang: Mutiara Aksara, 2023.).
Anik Juwariyah, “The Study of Panji Culture in the Pandalungan Sub-ethnic, East Java Review: Jaran Kencak Performing Art,” Atlantis Press, 2023.
Dwi Susanto, Lekra VS Manikebu (Sejarah Sastra Indonesia periode 1950- 1965) (Yogyakarta: CAPS (Center for Academic Publishing Service), 2017).
Axzella Raudha Mukaromah, “Proses Kreatif Cak Kartolo dalam Jula-Juli” (skripsi, Yogyakarta, Institut Seni Indonesia Yogyakarta, 2018).
Prakrisno Satrio, Suryanto Suryanto, dan Bagong Suyanto, “MASYARAKAT PENDALUNGAN (Sekilas Akulturasi Budaya di Daerah ‘Tapal Kuda’ Jawa Timur),” Jurnal Neo Societal 5, no. 4 (2020): 440–49.
Akhiyat dan Amin Fadlillah, “SEEKING THE HISTORY OF PENDALUNGAN CULTURE: A DISTINCTIVE STUDY OF LOCAL CULTURAL HISTORY IN THE HISTORY AND ISLAMIC CIVILIZATION PROGRAM OF UIN KHAS JEMBER,” Jurnal As-Salam 7, no. 2 (22 Juli 2023): 276–99.
Zulkarnain Mistortoify, “ONG-KLAONGAN DAN LÈ-KALÈLLÈAN ESTETIKA KÈJHUNGAN ORANG MADURA BARAT” (Yogyakarta, Universitas Gadjah Mada, 2015).
Fitri Nura Murti, “Pandangan Hidup Etnis Madura dalam Kèjhung Paparèghân,” Istawa : Jurnal Pendidikan Islam 2, no. 2 (2017).
by Penelitian Arek | Sep 4, 2024 | Arek-Arek
At the end of the 19th century, Malay opera and stambul comedy were held almost non-stop in the northern corner of Surabaya. French and Italian opera actors, American magicians, British circus performers, and acrobat players from Japan and Australia were brought to Surabaya via Tanjung Perak Port. The traveling show- men stopped in almost every port of the world that was opened, and were hastily polished by colonial desires. They were brought in to entertain and delight people who were said to come from the “first world”, in a place that is nicknamed arbitrarily as the “third world”.
At the same time, an operator of a motion picture screening program was among the artists of the show. The operator did not take his eyes off a large wooden box that contained projector equipment, so as not to be confused with the equipment of the performing artists on the same boat. He was not involved in “acrobatic” conversations with performance artists, but he knew that the new medium that he brought would disrupt the established show business and classic entertainment. Once the operator stepped on the harbor, he already knew where he was going to do his first screening program. The difference was, he did not even comb the small towns and remote villages as did the traveling artists. The operator only stopped at big cities that were ready for the arrival of the new medium he carried.
He was Louis Talbott, a French photographer who obtained permission from the colonial government to do the first commercially motion picture screening in Surabaya in the mid to late April 1897. He conducted a screening program at the Surabaya Theater (Schouwburg) building located in a European residential area in Surabaya. The luxurious theater, that was built at a cost of 55 thousand gulden, was the only building that already had a motion picture player.
The Talbott screening program began by playing a documentary about European merchant ships that landed in the Dutch East Indies, where one of the scenes in the film was believed to be recorded by Georges Méliès–a stage magician and illusionist from France who was just beginning to try another fortune in his career as a filmmaker. The program continued with the screening of documentary films made by Talbott himself while traveling around Java and Sumatra in October 1896, or only ten months’ difference since the Lumierre Brothers released the world’s first commercial film screening on December 28, 1895 in France.
Talbott’s premiere was successful. The definition of performance art began to falter, the stiff face of Surabaya also began to change. Compared to the famous cosmo- politan and “government seat” Batavia, Surabaya was only known as a trading city and a Dutch military base. One of the things that made us pause when condemning the Dutch colonial occupation was, perhaps, because Tanjung Perak Port turned out not only to act as gateway that takes away the most lucrative commodities from the archipelago to be sold with almost unlimited accumulated value in other parts of the world. Tanjung Perak–as a port that is loyal to anyone who wants to take anchor to sail or to anyone who wants to lean on it–is also an entry point for human achievements from other parts of the world; the entry of moving image recording and player technology made Surabaya one of the cities that became the initial location for the screening of moving images in Asia.
Shortly after the premiere at the Surabaya Theater, other screenings building began to appear. A Chinese gemstone entrepreneur in the Kapasan Market made a screening building named Kenotograph. Surabaya Theater may be proud of luxury buildings, qualified lighting, and smooth air circulation, but Kenotograph confidently offers other things: new furniture and variations in ticket prices. If Surabaya Theater had a fix rates at 1 gulden, Kenotograph was only half; there was even a choice of 25 cents for third-class seats.
Watching motion pictures became a new activity. The elites of the colonial government, aristocrats, local priyayi and Asian immigrants in Surabaya began to love this new klangenan (hobby). Outside the theater, they were amazed by the movie projector made by the Lumiere Brothers (cinematographe) that were able to produce vivid images after being projected onto a screen. “We are not disappointed, and really enjoy what we see inside,” one of the viewers told the December 23, 1909 edition of the Soerabaijasch Handelblad newspaper. The audience did not fully understand, but the experience of watching moving (or live) pictures provided an opportunity to guess the times which continually make civilization shocks–such as the presence of a printing press that contributed to the spread of ideas about political entities. People who did not get or were not allowed to watch in the theater because they came from a low social class began to grumble. Screening venues outside the luxurious theater began to be initiated by Chinese and Indian businessmen who saw the economic opportunities of this lucrative entertainment business. The screening place was not only about the building; canvas and bamboo tents for screening began to be made. The radical change to the screening venue was a response to circumventing the space which in fact had an effect on urban planning, transportation, and taxes for public entertainment during the colonial period.
We further knew that the film Talbott brought had become a marker of the times. He entered from the port of a big city called Surabaya, breaking down the chain of events ranging from the production of motion picture player technology in the middle of World War I, to the growing interest of people in a new medium that made the screening program an entertainment choice in the colonial era. The rise in the screening business in Surabaya, ranging from canvas and bamboo tents to luxurious buildings that stimulated spectator mobility, gave us clues about the early evolution of the urban landscape of the city of Surabaya and its identity politics which had not always been successfully carried out by the Dutch colonial government.
Guest From Outside The Port
More than one century later since Talbott set foot in Surabaya, Tanjung Perak and film still act as a bridge connecting historical ties between Indonesia and the Netherlands. It is Yunjoo Kwak, an artist from South Korea who lives in Rotterdam, who tried to unravel the historical bond. She also tried to unravel the building of historical narratives across various disciplines– a process which certainly had the risk of becoming “eclectic” narratives, that revolve around the practice of mix-and-match only because of a lack of knowledge and an inability to articulate what needed to be further studied in her research.
Through “Only The Port are Loyal to Us”, Yunjoo provided an opportunity for us not to be easily tempted into retrospective patterns like those offered by historical films—or when many parties claim that historical films were limited to “films that presented something that had already been past”. That the evidence that could still be referred to today made us understand the extent of the boundary line between events, stories, archives, documents, and allegorical reflection in the film.
Instead of choosing a narrative form, Yunjoo presented an experimental documentary which she composed by collating footage about Tanjung Perak past and present. Yunjoo let the film joked through silence supported by animation and scoring for almost the entire duration. Yunjoo, it seems, wanted to share the visual experience in her understanding as an advanced stage–where the public watching not only enjoyed visual presentation, but also reviewed what was trying to be displayed visually. Such visual experiences were important today because it was like drawing us back to the debate about how “truth” works.
I refreshed our memory a little about the philosophical debate between the correspondence and coherence theories of truth. If the correspondence theory of truth was that the truth must be in accordance with the reality out there, then the coherence theory of truth saw that the truth was something that was intact in its own structure without having to match the reality out there. To enrich the debate I also included the concept of nonrepresentational understanding of truth or infinitive truth: that all forms of knowledge had the same degree of truth. My aim in presenting this philosophical debate is to make us understand the way of viewing the concept of truth which is still limited by a jumble of entities.
“Only The Ports are Loyal to Us” was a story bridge that connected collective memory of events from colonial times to the present day. About how the subject-object relationship that, despite the differences of time and distance, still had the opportunity to guess what had happened in the past and its influence in the present. As a bridge to the story, Yunjoo’s work was a link that leads us to look back to something that was never really clear: history. I used the word “bridge” as a metaphor such as how Yunjoo chose “port” and “film” in her role as a connector, or in this case, maybe, we could agree to use the word medium.
As a medium, Yunjoo should realize that it was impossible for her to cover all the details of events and “truths” such as how unilateral claims to history were impossible to be free from certain narratives. Conveying historical “truths”, as I know them and studying them, would never be able to match the details of historical events themselves–so that any attempt to unmask history that was claimed to be “truth”, that was exactly the same as historical events itself, was almost impossible. At this point, the medium only helped us to refer to events and guess the level of information conveyed as the pieces that complete to be read or reconstructed it, not to be believed as the only “truth” information of history.
When it came to this stage, the film medium, as chosen by Yunjoo, became relevant to be discussed as one of the speaking choices. It presented the possibilities to avoid being trapped as we read historical texts that were considered monumental and authoritative. That history could be conveyed in a flexible manner, involving everyday and trivial matters. Even at some point blurred between what was documentary and fiction–provided that this blurring of boundaries was interpreted as an effort not to rush to assume that what was conveyed through the medium was complete and absolute truth.
Yunjoo, and perhaps, those of us who witnessed Yunjoo’s work, were guests from outside the port who had the opportunity to observe clashes of historical and past texts. Through a metaphorical presupposition that could be called a port or a bridge that was dubbed into the medium of film, we were not in axiomatic experience, but rather a liminal one. The experience of being in the liminal space gave us the status of ambiguity: that was not located “here” or “there”. This state of being made us a guest, a stranger, who was entitled to get and process the story, but had no right to claim to be the one who knew the truth about the story.
This status also could later be used as a critique of the workings of history when determining objectivity and restoring it into various medium choices. As Julian Barnes once wrote in one of his novels that, “History is certainty that results when memory imperfections meet with a lack of documentation.” That sometimes history was considered certainty right when its own footing was incomplete. That Yunjoo herself must also be prepared to accept criticism and be able to articulate her ideas about history based on the linking of memories and colonial heritage monuments that bridge Indonesian-Dutch relations, right at a time when the medium could only display fragments of truth.
By choosing a film medium over other media choices, Yunjoo should also have moved away from what Talbott did when he first conducted a screening program in Surabaya. It was not enough to just document the hustle and bustle of the ships at the port and their journey from the Netherlands to Indonesia. It was not enough just to do a screening and exhibition program. She also had to be critical about the colonial practices and perspectives which to these days still plague European societies and transmit them to Asian communities, especially with regard to managing documents, archives and their convenience as an authoritative spokesperson of history.
*This text is the original version of “The Port Remains the Same” written by Yogi Ishabib, and is part of Yun Joo Kwak’s exhibition titled “Only The Ports are Loyal to Us” This work has also been published on the official website of the East Java Arts Council (DKJT).
