In J. Lent (ed.) Illustrating Asia: Comics, Humor Magazines, and Picture Books. Pp. 13-36. London: Curzon Press. 2001.

Under the tightly controlled rule of former President Suharto, certain classes of Indonesians thrived and actually enjoyed what can best be termed a highly materialistic life style. A great part of this new consumerism extended itself to the comic book. Toward the latter part of the Suharto era, not only had the comic book grown in sales and respect, it was also claimed by artists and activists as a new medium of protest and self-expression. Since the great economic crisis has hit Indonesia with a wrath unfelt in other parts of Asia, economic hardship and rising prices rather than censorship and oppression have prevented the comic from developing as it seemed it would. This paper examines the comic book through its struggle for identity. I trace this struggle by locating the comic as a tool for protest and self-expression, which I then extend as a reflection of Indonesian youths’ parallel struggle for identity in a changing world.

The connection between comic books and social commentary, let alone protest, is not a very direct one in Indonesian contexts, nor is it simple to trace. This is because of Indonesia’s long history of imperialism, problems of identity, and authoritarianism. Imperialism, of course, refers to the Dutch period (from about 1600 to 1945) where the presses tended to reflect Dutch not indigenous concerns. In the post independence era (after 1945), what I call problems of identity refer to the broad rejection of indigenous comics for anything imported. The authoritarian control and censorship of the mass media during the Suharto period (1966-1998) prevent any true ‘protest’ comic from reaching any but a small minority of the population. Comics none-the-less have a special value and influential power in Indonesia that deserves to be studied in far more depth than has yet been done. Thus, by piecing together information from the recent comic convention in Jakarta (February 6, 1998), my own Indonesian comic collection, personal acquaintances with the artists, the few articles available, and the memories of Indonesians, I have attempted to present a brief commentary on the Indonesian comic book as a genre for social analysis within the boundaries of the island of Java.

To understand the role of comics in the mass media is to understand them as a part of the social relations they report, and not as an objective force separate from them. Ever since the invention of mass produced images through words or pictures, printing has served its huge clientele by providing our daily doses of political, ideological or social information. Print media is used and often controlled by the powerful for their self-glorification and as an instrument of political propaganda. Protest media on the other hand cry out against injustice, condemn the abuses of power, and teach the masses new social ideas. Even in the most authoritarian of nations, the comic is used as a weapon of the weak in denouncing injustice (Phillippe 1982). In their various forms, from the editorial cartoon, the strip, to the comic book, comic images have the potential to throw a different light on a people’s conceptions of themselves and their politics than do the more formal media (Anderson 1990).

With a background in linguistic anthropology, my main concerns are to recognize the styles and purposes of direct human interaction, particularly within contexts of inequality and oppression. Direct human interaction includes the everyday conversations, gossip, rumors, jokes, as so on that people tell each other, while inequality often determines who has the right to say what and under what circumstances. These are the very aspects of social information that are neglected in most social and political analyses. Yet, as we all know, they form a very significant aspect of understanding for perhaps a majority of a people. Comics in this respect have the potential to fill the void as symbolic dialogue since they tend to be regarded as a people’s medium often reflecting common concerns and complaints. Most attractive to me about comics is the fact that their interpretation, like social discourse, is based on context, meaning that they are visually significant and verbally dependent on specific moments in time. Within the visual and verbal, we find an intertextual quality that links these story worlds with real worlds. It is this link between supposed fantasy and real experience that makes the comic a significant source for understanding modern populist perspectives on local events. The comic in Indonesia then is a type of social and political communication that, as Anderson (1990) has pointed out, presents the low, intimate, informal perspective on Indonesian experience, which stands in sharp contrast to the formal, polite, or high official perspectives we see in the press and in many scholarly analyses.

What then does the mainstream Indonesian comic book tell us about modern populist perspectives?

In order to clarify my focus, I differentiate cartoons in the mass media from comics books. Cartoons in the media refer to comic editorials and strips as a part of the press (news or magazines), while the comic book is marketed and sold on its own right. The central difference within Indonesian contexts would be that comic books are almost entirely imported, whereas cartoons are partially and increasingly indigenous creations, reflecting indigenous concerns within and despite all the political pressures preventing freedom of speech. Whether or not each attracts a different audience remains to be investigated (1). Indonesia has a varied and diverse press with over 240 daily or weekly newspapers, commanding a total circulation of some 10.5 million copies. More than 100 magazines are published with a total circulation of over five million copies. But despite this huge popular newspaper market, only around fourteen use cartoons (Lent 1993). Of the newspaper dailies, only Suara Merdeka and the Jakarta tabloid Pos Kota have color cartoon sections each week. Over the years, these cartoon strips have changed from imported and translated adventure stories to almost entirely indigenously drawn, locally relevant issues. The only other main use of cartoon material is the fortnightly magazine called HumOr(2).

What do Indonesian cartoons describe? In contemporary Indonesia readers will find the pages of the press and other public media full of quotations from government officials and prominent leaders. These officials from the President, to the Minister of Information, to religious figures, and prominent professors proclaim the press as free and open. Yet, at the same time, a vast battery of laws prevents criticism, and a practice of telephone calls to media editors assures self-censorship is the rule. Similarly, the Indonesian president proudly describes his nation as a democracy and the elections in which he runs unchallenged a "Festival of Democracy." This type of authoritarian, hierarchically structured power in the shaping of popular meaning is a common source of humor within contemporary cartoons.

The most widely read of the weekly news magazines, Tempo (banned since June 1994 for publishing information on taboo topics (3)), presented one editorial cartoon in the beginning of the magazine along with letters from readers. While the letters, one can only assume, were uncensored and actually reflected a rare opportunity for some members of the population (4) to publicly express their views, figure 1.1 presents a good example of what that view of freedom of expression was meant to be. Taken as a premonition of what was to come, we are shown through cartoon form exactly what the Authority defines as the freedom to express differences of opinion. The picture shows a group of young boys all singing quite happily and with full intensity to the same tune. Meanwhile the boy on the right seems to have gotten things wrong where he takes the Authority’s words too literally. He is being reprimanded and told, "Now that’s what’s meant by difference of opinion!" Less than one year later when Tempo was banned for printing a difference of opinion from that of the Authority, see how this conflict between the Authority’s words and their contradictory deeds appeared in the Jakarta Post:

PRESS BANS SPUR NEW DEBATE ON OPENNESS

The government, facing accusations of turning back the clock on democracy yesterday said the ban against three news magazines would not have happened if they had used their newly gained freedom more wisely. Minister/State Secretary Moerdiono gave his assurances that the government remains committed to the present course of political openness. On a separate occasion last night, Moerdiono said that everyone should shoulder the responsibility of maintaining the current momentum of openness. "Don’t let anyone slip out," he said (Jakarta Post, June 23 1994).

 

The article maintains that freedom of expression still exists and that all infractions are the result of a breach of responsibility toward this paternal Authority. Thus, Tempo’s own history reveals what can happen to the boy on the right if he is foolish enough to make the same mistake again.

The Panji Koming strip (figure 1.2 1992) appears each Sunday in Kompas, the most popular of the daily national newspapers, along with three imported strips. The name Panji Koming can tell us a bit about its perspective. Panji is an old Javanese title for mid-ranking royalty. Koming means stunted or small-minded in the Javanese language. By adorning the hero with this obscure title preceding a comic given name, its creator is matching elite position with ignorance in this strip set in the past as seen through clothing and hair styles. The hero Panji is barefoot, meaning that despite the title he is a peasant. Yet he is also someone able to show the obsequiousness expected by his betters. Status is often reflected through basic, broadly recognized symbols. The powerful wear shoes; they are fat; and they are treated with deference despite their foibles. Here too, the powerful say things that reflect certain truths, although not necessarily the ones they intended.

In this strip, hierarchical expectations of deference and the abuse of power are set in the past, which permits an element of freedom in presenting a social commentary that is relevant now. In modern news media, the powerful often cite the ignorance of the common people as a justification for their paternal, authoritarian role, ‘for the good of the masses’. As Panji’s less deferential associate states, it is not the peasants who are looking stupid.

Social issues such as guarding one’s appearance or place in the social hierarchy and particularly gender problems are also common topics of humor. The Semarang-based (North Central Java, the regional capitol) daily Suara Merdeka prints a Sunday color cartoon section where the misadventures of Mr. Bei reflect the concerns of common, contemporary working people. Poor Mr. Bei, despite his innocence and perfectly good intentions, is sure to get something wrong. Reflecting very Javanese scenarios, the strip reveals honest, working-class values and how these vary between gender or social rank.

In Figure 1.3 Mr. Bei is innocently off to the market and picks up some vegetables for his wife. Mr. Bei runs into a neighbor just as he reaches home. As typical neighborly (male) chatter, he comments on the huge bundle of greens. Mr. Bei’s response is referentially unclear. It could mean "they’re [the greens] to eat with goat", as in we’re having goat meat for dinner, or it could mean "it’s goat food." Cassava greens quite often are given to the goats, and it is more manly in Javanese society to buy food for the goat than to run errands for one’s wife. The neighbor assumes the greens are for the goat and jokingly says, "Why give food to a goat when you can butcher it [the goat] and enjoy it yourself!" This comment infuriates Mother Bei and readers laugh at the differences in male and female perceptions and the hostility these cause. Why? Mother Bei knows that the greens are for her family, not a goat, and she is highly insulted at being compared to an animal.

Under the very heavy hand of what is locally called self-censorship, these strips and editorial cartoons are able to take a far more relevant and hence humorous stance than comic books, which are almost entirely imported and thus have little if any social meaning within localized contexts. Gender and social hierarchy issues are a safe bet, whereas politics is always dangerous ground (5). Yet, it is precisely this rather huge discrepancy between cartoons and comic books in terms of cost, storyline, and social relevance that needs further discussion. To say each is popular is an understatement. Each does, however, reflect a very different aspect of local society. Before we can dig a bit deeper and discuss some ways in which government regulations are avoided in independent comics, we will first look briefly at the historical development of mainstream comics.

Cartoons in the mass media are the strips appearing in the funny pages of the news or the one shot visual condensation of political communication, the editorial cartoon. The editorial cartoon has a very long history while the cartoon strip did not exist in indigenous form prior to World War 2. All types of comics depend upon sophisticated printing technology and an economy in which people are able and willing to buy daily, weekly, or monthly publications. During the Dutch Occupation, editorial cartoons were widely used in the Dutch-controlled Jakarta print media, but these reflected Dutch not indigenous interests, and would have only been available to a few Indonesians (6). During the Japanese occupation in 1943-45, the war for independence in 1945-48, and the early years of freedom, posters were used for propaganda, which had an influence on the later development of the genre (Anderson 1990; Zaimar 1998).

Once the cartoon strip became established, these imported and translated strips eventually spurred on the indigenous cartoon. Bind a string of strips together and you have the comic book, referred to locally as cergam, an acronym for cerita bergambar or story with pictures. The comic book made its debut in Indonesia in the 1950s but all I can find on them is that they were American look-alikes (Jakarta Post, 1 August 1996). In the 1960s and up till the 1970s, Indonesian cartoons finally found their place. These were almost entirely adventure, silat (kung fu) stories of which the artist Oto Suastika was one of the early heroes. His artwork and stories were considered among the best in Indonesia after they appeared as a cartoon strip in the Starweekly in 1954. Praised for the quality of the drawing and general attractiveness, Oto adapted his stories from Chinese legends, with Chinese settings and Chinese details. Despite his popularity, his pay (rupiah 7,50 per page and rupiah 30,00 per month, about US$10) was never adjusted for inflation over the almost ten years his cartoon strips were printed (Tempo, 30 April 1988:90).

Because of economic difficulty in the post revolution era, the indigenous comic did not develop until the 1950s. American strips had already begun flooding the local markets. But in 1954, inspired by these American comics, an Indonesian artist named Kosasih printed Sri Asih. What followed was a proliferation of locally produced copies of foreign comics, the adaptation of Chinese legends, silat adventure stories, and a surge in their sales during the 1960s to the 1970s. This era is referred to as ‘the golden age of Indonesian comics’. Everybody was reading them! During this time, a brilliant scheme for evading the problem of economic difficulty appeared through the comic rental kiosk which blossomed throughout Java (Wirosardjono 1998). Many Indonesians have described for me their memories of that time through images of people sitting under trees beside the huge piles of comics they had just borrowed from the rental kiosk! As popular culture, then, the comic book is highly valued by locals who seem more than prepared to become entirely involved in these often epic narratives.

During the 1970s, the theory of comics as a reincarnation of past oral traditions met its modern economic reality where Chinese silat stories eventually led to a revival of local legends in comic book form. The most notable of these were the Mahabarata and Ramayana comics by Kosasih. Other famed Indonesian comic artists were Ganes TH who created Si Buta dari Gua Hantu (the Ogre from Ghost Cave), and Hans Jaladara, who wrote Panji Tengkorak (Panji Skull) back in the 1970s. The Chinese influences were obviously still strong since this comic story was later turned into a Hong Kong adventure film (Suara Merdeka 9 November 1996). This taste for epic legend comics prevails today. Ride any bus in Java now and you are sure to be offered miniature comic books on Mohammad, the Buddha, or Jesus.

Since much of the comic material was extracted from adaptations of myths and legends, their huge significance for local readers makes one wonder what exactly it means to transform profound texts with their deep ethical and religious messages into comic book form. Does the comic format turn the Pandawa brothers from the epic Mahabarata into a lesser type of super hero than they are because of the Indonesian misconception that the sole purpose of the comic is to entertain children? Western intellectuals bemoan these comics as superficial and simplistic, "crude comic [..] replacement of the skillfully demanding, enduring, elegant and aesthetically whole style of the wayang kulit" (shadow puppet theater, Lindsay 1987). Meanwhile, in a country as sensitive and as prone to religious violence as Indonesia, the proliferation of the Prophet Mohammed and other religious super-heroes into comic book form would never be locally evaluated as crude, caricatured stereotypes that fail to be highly significant educational models. Yet, Lindsay’s (1987) serious concerns lead us to questions that are impossible to answer. Is the altering of context from sacred text to comic a means of liberating an elitist genre in order to reach as wide an audience as possible, truly supporting a notion of comics as the people’s art? Or are real values only conveyed through original books and performance genres such as wayang and lost through transference to the comic book?

Both Presidents Soekarno and Soeharto have taken a position on these questions when the first president Soekarno accused comic artists of subversion and denounced their work as garbage and a Western induced poison in the 1960s. Schools and kiosks were raided and the comics confiscated and burned. Later, in the Soeharto era, comics were again attacked for fostering laziness and having no educational value (Jakarta Post, 1 August 1996). The "Golden Age" of comics with its new mass produced and consumed versions of old traditions is herein put to rest. Strangely, this rejection of the industry by the presidents rarely appears in writings on comics. What constantly does appear in the media now is a lament for the death of the national comic along with an admission that anything local quite simply is not as good as the foreign variety (7). Yet, one still wonders why this hugely popular medium was destroyed. As comic artists themselves admit, Indonesian comics suffer from "writing problems" and Ganes TH adds that "readers need something new. Offering the same old thing just won’t do" (Jakarta Post, 1 Aug. 1996). This leads us back to questions of censorship and the limitations on new topics that will be discussed later.

Meanwhile, with such strong forces denouncing the local comic industry, the desire for comics has been met by a flood of foreign comics. Beginning with the 1980s, translations of Donald Duck, Spiderman, Flash Gordon, and other American and European favorites have begun to fill the book shop shelves, while the Indonesian natives wallow in the dust of neglect, if, that is, they can even be found in the storage bins. Translations of American cowboy and especially Indian stories and other Western legends take over where local and Chinese legends once ruled. Comics such as Musuh dalam Selimut (Enemy in a Blanket 1982) reveal where the local industry has gone. While the comic was sold as a Western import in translation, often it concealed an indigenous (illegal) copy inside. In my issue of Musuh, behind the cowboy story I was surprised to find Tigra (a Marvel title), a local adaptation of the Western super hero genre. Tigra contains Indonesian bad guys, Caucasian good guys, and a super hero who is female, young, beautiful, wild, mute, a great kung fu fighter, very responsive to (Caucasian) handsome men, and wears very skimpy clothing.

The extreme popularity of these local legend and kung fu comics in the 1970s is obvious because of the extent to which they are easily located in any of the Javanese homes I have ever visited. Yet, despite the obviously huge numbers sold in the recent past, these comic book legends remain largely unavailable in the book shops today (8). Such a fact is hard to explain since the come-back of the 1970s comic hero, Panji Tengkorak, as a film star in the mid 1980s. Other comic artists (komikus) had also tried their hand at breathing new life into the dead industry by riding in Panji’s cinematic wake. In the latter half of the 1980s, many of the old favorite artists like Jan Mintaraga made a valiant effort by digging up Javanese legends such as Jaka Tingkir, Ramayana, and Imperium Majapahit. The mass popularity of these comics is evident from their full color serialization in strip form in every one of the Javanese language weekly magazines and newspapers. In 1994 some of the Indonesian language newspapers also began reprinting these old legend serials. But they never appeared in comic book form and their popularity pales in comparison to the foreign imports. Indonesian markets seem to be demanding something new, and these demands are not being met by local artists.

By the end of the 1980s, translations of Japanese comics such as Dragon Ball, Candy, and Kung Fu Boy entered the local scene with their eastern styles of story-telling. They are also praised for a quality of drawing that was deemed vastly superior to the local efforts. Indonesian-made comics are now reduced to pretty much only the cartoon editorial variety and those strips that appear in newspapers. In the 1980s and well into the 1990s, about two thirds of these newspaper weekly cartoons were translations of foreign strips. Since nothing new was to emerge, according to official sources, the national comic was dead (Hai 8/XIX 21 February 1995).

It is not just the success in sales of foreign comics that has squeezed the local varieties off the shelves. Since production expenses are much greater than buying the rights to established foreign comics, local comics actually cost more than the imports do. All considered, producers have little incentive to support local artists. Furthermore, Indonesian comic artists seem to have had too narrow a repertoire: either the familiar traditional story or copies of foreign comics. Local artists have told me that the Indonesian comic neglects indigenous perspectives on humor or traditions of story-telling because they are boring (9). Yet, quite realistically, Indonesian artists cannot offer comics about real, modern, social issues and contemporary concerns since many of these would be deemed subversive. No comic books have ever appeared on everyday common topics such as youth gangs, teen love, coming of age problems, and criminal elements within local contexts. In Indonesia, there are no comparisons to Malaysia’s Lat and his highly acclaimed Town Boy or Kampung Boy comics. In the 1990s, there is not one Indonesian comic book that looks at local reality the way the Mr. Bei strip does, for example.

What is obvious within the current Indonesian comic world is that any indigenous efforts are deemed inferior in comparison to the slick, trendy overseas super hero comic. The one recent challenger to the overseas onslaught is from the super-hero Caroq produced by Qomik Nusantara, the effort of a group of 14 art students from the Bandung Institute of Technology in West Java. In an interview with the teen magazine Hai (8/XIX 21 Feb 1995:58-60), the artists insist their heroes are all modeled on Indonesian details. The hero named Sarmun is an ethnic Baduy (West Java) who wears Madurese (an island located just off the north east coast of Java) style of clothing and fights with Madurese blades. In fact, the characters are direct copies of the ultra muscular American comic heroes such as Batman, Captain Marvel, and others easily recognizable by comic buffs (10).

Despite their new attitudes, dependence on teamwork instead of the lone comic artist, and their slick, futuristic stories and artwork, the kinds of criticism Caroq is receiving can help us understand how difficult it is for local efforts. Within the Indonesian internet comic network, Caroq is condemned for being just like the import comics. Meanwhile, other local comics such as Patriot or Captain Bandung are harshly criticized for not being as slick and attractive as the imports. With such finicky buyers, the Indonesian comic is in a no-win situation. Add on the fact that they are more expensive than the imports and it is easy to see why Indonesian fans buy the imports.

Thus, with little support from local buyers, little opportunity for publication, an apparent fear of tackling modern issues, and a local tradition murdered by foreign marauders, Indonesian comic books seem destined to fade from existence. Meanwhile, there still remains a small group of local heroes that retains its place in local hearts.

In the early 1970s characters from the shadow-puppet theater (wayang) start to appear in cartoon strips in various forms and roles. While so many lament the subversion of wayang into crude, simplistic comic form, the wayang clowns more than any other aspect of this sacred art have had the strongest influence on modern Javanese art forms, including comics. It is believed that the Javanese added clowns to the epic Hindu myths before 600 A.D., and in local syncretic style, the clowns have become wholly adapted into the Mahabarata and Ramayana legends. The wayang clowns, named Semar and Togog, were originally gods but because of their bad behavior were banished from heaven to live among mortals on earth. Semar and his sons, Petruk, Gareng, and Bagong, have their roles in these tales as servants to the Pandawa brothers, the princes of the Kingdom of Amarta. While we have already mentioned the legend comics and heard how foreign researchers and Indonesian presidents found these transformations from sacred text into profane comic lacking, it may well be worth explaining further what these wayang legends actually mean in Javanese contexts.

The Javanese arts, including wayang, dance, music, as well as the Javanese language and styles of interaction, are elegant, graceful and highly controlled (Peacock 1968). The wayang has been maintained in Java for over a thousand years as a venerable dramatic tradition, and regarded as the most important vehicle for teaching and preserving the complex treasure of local mystical beliefs (Peacock 1968) through highly ritualistic performances from the great Hindu epics, the Mahabarata and Ramayana. The wayang is also a means through which to teach proper ways of speaking and behaving through the Javanese speech levels, the most elaborate of any known language. The Javanese language too, as scholars describe, is a form of high art whose inherent decorum and graciousness create a world of intense beauty. Scholarly descriptions focus on elegance and decorum rather than content and social inequality and state that refined language is a way of avoiding all conflict where speakers compete to bestow a calm graciousness upon their interlocutors rather than express personality and feelings. From these very brief descriptions of Javanese art, language, and behavior, we should begin to piece together a picture of a people who value above all else an external display of self as calm and graceful. How this self-control translates into the day to day lives of real people, their successes, their failures, and their comics is a topic begging for deeper investigation. These social rules of harmonious order and calm acquiescence that border on the sublime, especially within a political order that depends on self-censorship and in many respects terrorism as a means for maintaining social inequality as the status quo (eg. Berman 1999, 1998a; Heryanto 1990), assure us of the existence of numerous issues that grind away in silence beneath serene surfaces. Thus, for centuries the clowns from these magnificent ancient tales have been a thoroughly Javanese creation and the much loved voice of the common people. Why? Because clowns can speak their hearts and minds in the presence of their masters.

One of the first incarnates of the wayang clown in cartoon strips appeared in the form of Djon Domino, a long-nosed, canvas-capped, T-shirted hero in the Jakarta tabloid, Pos Kota. Djon is utterly unlike most Western comic characters, since he has no clear-cut social role or status, no friends, no enemies, and no identifiable associates. What is consistent is his appearance and iconographic similarity to Petruk, the long-nosed clown of the wayang shadow puppet theater (Anderson 1990) (figure 1.4).

Why Petruk? As Anderson (1990:167) points out, the wayang clowns perform a dual function. They are characters embedded within the story’s space and time, but they are also the mouthpieces for satire and criticism directed toward the audience and thus outside the story’s space and time. The wayang world is a world of masters and servants in which clowns as dependents never challenge that social order. It is precisely this obvious difference in status, the clowns’ coarseness to their masters’ elegance, ugliness to graceful appearance, crude to exquisite speech, that allows the clowns to laugh at their betters but never undermine them. Clowns cannot be masters and this accepted fact between performance and audience makes the clowns so appealing to other subordinates in hierarchical Javanese society.

Servants becoming kings make for humorous themes as in the wayang story titled Petruk Dadi Ratu (Petruk Becomes King). The Djon Domino strip, however, creates a universe whereby Ratu Dadi Petruk, or the King Becomes Petruk. As Anderson describes, this is an inconceivable world in Javanese terms because moral status is indistinct, everyone is a clown, and subordinate and master are linked in complicity.

While I cannot locate a history for the Petruk series of comic books from the Gultom Agency in Jakarta, these more blatantly wayang clown figures are caught in scenes of violence, social frustration, and class alienation as they try to enjoy very simple pleasures such as fishing in Gara-Gara Sepatu (All because of shoes 1986). Petruk can’t even fish properly and hooks a pair of boots instead of a fish. Since he does not own any shoes, this seems like a good thing. In these storylines, humor is found where Petruk seizes enjoyment out of situations marked by unfairness and cruelty. Violence is inevitable since Petruk the barefoot peasant now sports a pair of shoes which he is carrying over his shoulder. He is beaten to a pulp by villagers who accuse him of stealing those boots because he looks like a thief: in other words, everyone knows peasants don’t have shoes so he must have stolen them. Help arrives but only in the form of a more refined character who in a few polite words is able to stop the violence and set the world right. Thus, the humor of the story is based on symbolically accepting the social order. Peasants must be shoeless, villagers must violently protect their meager possessions, and only the refined can return the world to its proper place. Raise the status of the clown through shoes or attention and he finds crude pleasures which inevitably offend his betters.

The social order in Javanese society is fixed within the cosmic order. Where we each fit within this order is predetermined and hence cannot be altered. The acceptance of fate through acquiescence and refinement leads to respect and praise from others. To strive for more than one deserves is greedy and results in chaos, which becomes a recipe for humor. Thus, the beatings Petruk receives are funny, as is his ludicrous behavior. As the fool, he inappropriately responds with glee to the attention he gets as a thief. In addition to their symbolic behavior, clowns dress as either peasant or servant in a sarong, or khaki pants, a servant’s coat, a cap, and they are often barefoot. His movements are coarse, he scratches his buttocks, nudges with his elbow, he grins and jerks, he’s raucous and lewd, and he says the things many Javanese wish they could say but do not (Peacock 1968). Crude actions are combined with the odd so clowns wear odd make-up, odd clothes and have odd movements (Siegel 1986). These stereotypes result in laughter when they come into conflict with the breakdown of social and deferential expectations. Thus, surreal humor is located where the boss loses control, the clown servant ridicules his betters, and the clown attempts to rise above his station.

In terms of their value as commentary then, comic books and cartoons reveal wide differences in what the genre as symbolic commentary is able to say. Throughout the regime of President Suharto, censorship has been the rule for all publications. Thus, comic books or strips and editorial cartoons in the press are constrained. The comic book even more so because it depends only upon itself for sales and survival. Thus, indigenous efforts are deemed too risky economically or politically. Yet by attempting to identify what makes a cartoon funny, we gain access to an intimate perspective on local meaning. The people’s art, just like the coarse humor of the wayang clowns, shines through the limitations of censorship in ways that can and do criticize the political order. But as we have also seen, many of the modern comics also reveal why such a powerful social order still exists. As long as individuals’ actions aimed at subverting the social order are considered surreal and funny, we can assume that order is still defended by those who are most oppressed by it.

It is not just the indigenous comic book that remains such a rarity in Indonesia, but the comic’s officially neglected, rejected, and maligned cousin, the independent publication, is even worse off. The independent comic is extremely limited in its distribution because by name and content it is easily branded illegal. With government fears that freedom of speech is a threat to national stability, and their insistence that alternative perspectives confuse the masses and must be avoided, there is reason to raise issue with the Indonesian comic book as a type of people’s art. What kind of people’s art avoids contemporary contexts in favor of the historical and the formulaic? Even the independent comics, which specifically do deal with modern issues, fall into this shady category because they are unregistered, hence illegal publications. Regardless of the potential popularity of their storylines, anyone caught in possession, distribution, or creation of these comics is at risk. Any unregistered comic showing signs of political commentary, in other words, anything critical, or not in line with official representations, is illegal as evidenced by police confiscation of Athonk’s Bad Times Story (discussed below) in 1994, the censorship and confiscation of his epic comic illustrations on land rights issues, police confiscation of the cartoons on military abuses of power by Marto Art, the arrest of the printers of the calendar containing comic lampoons of the president and his wife (11), and more.

Since all the information I have found in researching comic books in Indonesia comes from the mainstream press or a national seminar, we can expect it to reflect these dominant biases and never mention the independents. While everyone complains about the lack of anything new or relevant in Indonesian comics, the blame falls on the comic artists or publishers, never the political conditions of self-censorship. Thus, in line with government limitations on free speech, the comic books readily available in Indonesian book shops have no political commentary and reflect nothing of relevance to Indonesian contexts - which in itself is a reflection on local culture. These translations of Donald Duck, Superman, and Spiderman (US), Asterix, Tintin, and Bobo (Europe), Gen Si Kaki Ayam (Gen the Chicken Foot, Japan) and the whole range of adventurer stories fill the shelves. What’s more, Indonesians are lapping them up! The president of Gramedia, Indonesia’s largest book chain, has reported that imported comics are now their strongest sales with 90% of these from Japan. Shop windows are full of Japanese super hero figures and the vast comic displays have been moved from the rear up to the front of the stores (Suara Merdeka 1996). Two active Indonesian internet networks devote themselves entirely to discussion of comics. The majority of these discussions are limited to praising the imported comics and denouncing the indigenous as just not interesting, sharp or well designed. With prices of these imports up around the rupiah 10,000 (US$5.00) range per comic, these are clearly no longer working or lower middle class readers, historically the prime target for comics and comic strips. So if the people within this so-called people’s medium are not reading them, can the comic book in Indonesia be compared with comic books and their social positions as described elsewhere?

While officially speaking, the national comic is dead, underground comics do exist. But, the kinds of intimate self, historical, social, political, or cultural criticism found in many free-world independent and mainstream comics are rare in Indonesia. Often lacking reflection and self-questioning at either a personal or political level, the epic traditional comic, as well as the underground efforts, both add to, as well as reflect, the current atmosphere of guarded reserve and increasing isolation. The message in these comics is often acquiescence (nrimo) and no longer acquiescence based on awareness and knowledge (eling lan nrimo). In some of the activists’ comics, the message is resist (lawan) but also without the awareness and knowledge of self and context required for a people to truly understand freedom from oppression (eling). What I have termed problems of identity, then, refers to a widespread avoidance of expressing a self within -- and even minimally in contact with -- the current socio-political environment. Instead, contextual realities are replaced by translations of not just western stories but also western perspectives and ideal solutions within indigenous contexts. The results are often quite surreal but without the sense of playful intention expected from chance encounters.

Yet, in all fairness, the harshness of my criticism reflects my own frustration more than local realities. Take into consideration the economic pressures faced by young artists and the social pressures to conform with received standards within the art academies and galleries and we are better able to understand why they are increasingly forced to sell-out. In the face of real-world pressures, then, very few have the funding, social flexibility, or courageous inclination to discover what free expression really means. This also can explain why such a seemingly large number of young artists in the art center of Yogyakarta end up taking mainstream jobs to support their families, while others resort to drugs, alcohol, social behaviors intended to shock, and all too frequently, insanity.

Regardless of their limited distribution, the independents are all we have as a representative of the uncensored indigenous comic book. They are most definitely worthy of discussion.

Independent comic books fall into two main categories, the art school and the NGO independent. We will take them in that order. The art school indies would be the most limited in terms of accessibility and distribution. These comic books are often weird (waton aneh), have little if any story, and tend toward the pornographic. In terms of students at the Yogyakarta campus of the Art Institute of Indonesia, the work of the art school drop-out, Athonk, is what triggered the new interest in comic book production.

Athonk’s first self-published comic, called The Bad Times Story, is a playful mix of the idealism of youth with biting social and political commentary, all of which are concealed behind local peculiarities. First inspection of the Bad Times Story reveals that all the main characters are devils. Yet, a demonic appearance does not necessarily signify evil just as Athonk’s own appearance, a fondness for punk gear, chains, and a Mohawk haircut, does not signify a rejection of his Javanese heritage. Nothing is necessarily what it would seem and all things must be taken for their own merit. But what have devils with halos, punks in conservative Java, and questions of good and evil have to do with Indonesian comics or politics? As the artist writes, the Bad Times Story is "a story of an endless warfare." But where is this war? It is a war of independence from oppression, the battle to be an individual, to speak freely and question the rules of order. In the narrow confines of local society, this translates as a battle for the right to chose one’s own means of expression in a world where such freedoms are illegal. Thus, as in Athonk’s everyday life, the idealism of youth, the social pressures to conform, and uncertainty over good and evil despite all appearances, ring throughout this story. True to the social hierarchy in which he grew up, Athonk takes the Authority’s perspective in framing his story: he and his friends caught up in the fight for freedom are the devils. The cruel and oppressive Authority is the angel.

Linguistically, the Bad Times Story is written in an English that reflects Jalan Sosrowijayan, the tourist center of Yogyakarta. Athonk learned English through tourists and the other local youths who make their living serving them in the Sosro area. This comic is, then, written in what is termed "Sosro" English. Regardless of how odd the language may seem, English is the language of free speech and expression, and as such, it is the language of choice even for those who may not be very proficient. Clearly, proficiency is not Athonk’s concern, while careful reading displays a much more biting social criticism than could ever be expressed in a more conventional language.

In terms of visual symbols, the story is located in a tropical island paradise guarded by huge stone heads with the facial features of Salvador Dali. The island is called "Daliland." Why Dali? Firstly, Athonk’s father’s name is Dalijo. Second, one of the major art influences in Indonesia is Surrealism. Daliland then is symbolic of the Indonesian art circles that have censored Athonk’s artwork as too political, preventing him from public exhibition. Thus, as in his own life, these icons are huge, ever-present military figures, scrutinizing everything that occurs on Daliland. Regardless of his own brushes with the Authority, the idealism of youth prevails in these attempts at understanding what freedom of expression may mean. Fortunately Athonk remains very close with his friends and colleagues at the Art Institute and in Javanese hierarchical fashion he is considered an elder brother to these younger generations of student artists. Many have followed Athonk in taking up the calls for both activism and comics.

One of the earliest (1996) in the recent comic output from the Art Institute is Selingkuh (dishonesty, deception, corruption). This comic-cum-manual is entirely devoted to weighing out the pluses and minuses of deception with the ultimate goal of luring someone into sexual engagement. Success or failure both lead to the same ending: a fight with the wife, financial debt, unwanted children, divorce, misery, suicide, and the comfort and joy of imagining and/or doing the whole sex scene again. Regardless of the consequences, sex as the reward for a good deception heavily outweighs the negatives, at least in terms of its presentational build-up within the comic.

Is there a message here? Is this a mockery in the form of crude values or an honest depiction of social norms? Ben Anderson has said that sexuality in Indonesian comics is a device for exposing vulnerability and complicity (Anderson 1990:171). Unlike the fine examples set by the heroic brothers of the wayang traditions (12), Selingkuh places sexuality as the ultimate goal. In Anderson’s terms then, the emphasis on sex affirms the absence of self-control and power in contemporary life. The comic contains absolutely no sense of Javanese culture or perspective as it is supposed to be, no sacred Javanese civilization, and nothing refined, graceful, elegant (alus). None of the discursive politeness expected in Javanese interactions is apparent either. Instead, formulaic phrases reflect what is significant for youths on a type of self-inflicted exile from the lofty expectations of their elders (and foreign scholars).

English functions here, not as the language of free speech, but as the medium for insipid "pick-up" conversation. English is also used in the listing of required selingkuh accessories: performance, transport, bar, doping, hotel. While all the actual steps leading up to sexual conquest are in English, the sex act as well as the hefty bill, the brief rush of guilt, and the final fight with the wife are all described through Indonesian words. Interestingly, the "Ending Perselingkuhan" (the End of Deception) is in English with the choice of ways to reach the "Suicide Alternatif" listed in Indonesian. Interpretation of this linguistic code-switching can take many directions. Is this evidence of Western vulgarity destroying traditional values, or praise for modern economic and social advances as a means of simplifying a tradition of predatory male sexuality? English here shows how selingkuh practitioners benefit from increased accessibility to selingkuh partners via tourism, bars, hotels, and so on, while the Indonesian language brings the whole experience back down to earth via the expense in real terms within the home. Is this an exposé of modern change, or of a tradition ignored through our preference for the more sacred readings of Javaneseness? Is this comic an insult to Javanese culture and values or is it playful and imaginative? Finally, is it simply waton aneh (weird for the sake of being weird)?

Core comics (1996) launched their first efforts through a series called Berteman dengan Anjing or Befriending Dogs. As with Selingkuh, this is a group venture among art students. Each volume contains compilations of many individual and group efforts that all conform to one of three specific themes. The similarities end there. The introductory collection of three volumes takes all of its themes from dogs in an Islamic-influenced society that vilifies dogs. Dogfight contains stories of violence, where dogs fight dogs, humans destroy dogs, dogs become human soldier heroes, and even the worms that survive in dogs’ feces are allowed to feed on humans. Stairway to the Dog is full of science fiction stories with dogs as mad scientists, dog heaven where the dog gets to curse at and abuse people, space dogs fall in love with earth women, and other stories too weird to identify. Tanggaku Kirik (My Neighbor is a Puppy) compiles stories based in human worlds where dogs coexist in various roles, in dog worlds where humans are the beasts, stories about dogs’ dreams and aspirations for love, to become human, or to just survive. Since the Core Comic series (13) contains such a variety of artists and styles, some obviously very talented while others are weird and vulgar, it is quite difficult to "analyze" in terms of humor, style, meaning. Some efforts are clearly well crafted while others seem spur of the moment and rather shoddy. Some are thoughtful, while others are intentionally tasteless. As a whole, there is no clear underlying social or political commentary, unless one wants to apply the symbolism of man beats dog or dog aspires to greatness and fails to the social hierarchical themes of rigid place we have seen repeated elsewhere. The fact that nearly every story has a sad ending may be as revealing as the series can get.

Activist comics are a very different category from the one described previously. Despite the fact that many activists are also art students, these comics are independently produced through funding from development organizations often to highlight particular social issues rather than as a showcase for art or imagination. Most of these comics are translations of activists’ comics produced internationally without redrawing the pictures to give relevance to Indonesian contexts. This is not always the case though. Combining art, narrative, and social activism within the people’s genre, these comic books theoretically would attract the broadest audience for the most relevant of society’s needs. In terms of the activist comic as a meaningful art form, the great Indonesian poet and performer, Rendra has stated that "freedom of expression is dependent on the artist’s degree of contact with the people, life, and nature [as] an indication of his or her ability to express the truth, or soul of society" (cited in Miklauho-Maklai 1991:81). Thus, if commitment to society is based on stories that have a direct involvement with the everyday world of common people (wong cilik), these activists’ comics then have the potential to reflect social and political freedoms way beyond those of the other comic book types. In short, are these activist comics the socially relevant models of contemporary culture we would expect to see in such a genre? The first challenge to answering such a question is in locating original Indonesian comics.

Ontran-Ontran ing Muria (Chaos in Muria 1993) was written by Brotoseno and drawn by Marto Art (graduates of the Art Institute in Yogyakarta (14)) and funded by an independent environmentalist organization in North Central Java as part of a broad anti-nuclear campaign. The comic, as well as anti-nuclear tee shirts (designed by Athonk), were for distribution to villagers in the Muria district, the proposed site of the first Indonesian nuclear power plant. The comic is written in Javanese, the regional language spoken by these villagers in their everyday contexts, and not Indonesian, the language of officialdom. The comic shows villagers how to recognize the quality of information being communicated to them by specifically reproducing the kinds of jargon used by the Authority as they praise nuclear power. The narrative stresses ethical values through which the morally righteous villagers are rewarded for not being stupid enough -- despite their rural ignorance -- to be duped by their crooked village head, a pawn of the Authority. While the peasant villagers know nothing about nuclear energy, they do recognize the one-sided nature of the information they are being given. But they have no means or ability to access alternative sources either intellectually or culturally. Since modern interpretations of Javanese cultural expression assure the prevention of any type of conflict as a threat to the social hierarchy, the public forums staged by the Authority do not permit Muria villagers to raise concerns about the nuclear power plant. Instead, they retreat to their own private worlds, the only context available within which to question Authority and its decisions.

When a local boy suddenly returns home as a university educated super hero, the required leader emerges. This young leader is assisted by the local priest and mullah, quotes from the Bible and Koran, and formal Javanese discourse as a way to smooth his entry into this world of less educated but older male superiors. Through these opposing dialogues of official deception and university-learned savvy, local villagers and comic readers are taught the alternative perspectives on nuclear energy. They are also taught exactly what the legal steps are to reject authoritarian abuses of power, how to protest correctly, and how to stand up to military threats. In the end of this comic narrative, the villagers win over adversity and they all go back to their fields and live happily ever after.

As a comic book, Ontran-Ontran ing Muria is beautiful. It contains good pictures and a great dialogue. But placing it within the context it was meant for, the comic is worrisome because it presents an idealistic and unrealistic view of the righteous as victorious. As history shows, this is rarely the case in contemporary Indonesia. Furthermore, rather than teach villagers to make their own decisions about their lives, this comic does no more than present a counter ideology to that of the Authority. Someone must always speak for the villagers, either the village head or the student leader, maintaining a wide discrepancy between who can speak and who can not, who knows and who does not. Replacing one set of correct answers for another does not help rural villagers to understand any of the freedoms the activists claim they are fighting for (see Freire 1993 for discussion of survival in oppressive regimes). As other cases have revealed, the fight for one’s legal rights in Indonesia often results in far greater losses.

In terms of communication then, activists’ comics are pedantic, and usually designed by students who have studied or adapted western approaches to the specific problem. Thus, they also follow aggressive western trends which are often inappropriate in Indonesian contexts. Additionally, the government has not only placed severe limitations on the distribution of these activists comics, it has also been building up its campaign to obliterate informal sectors of the economy and the poor and marginalized classes who depend on them for their livelihood. These independent organizations are then forced to compete with not only the laws that often brand their written efforts illegal, but also the dominant ideologies that train the population to dislike and distrust many of the poor their comics are attempting to defend. Comic books geared toward educating the masses on topics such as violence towards women, street children, rubbish scavengers, wandering street sellers, prostitutes and more, find themselves in direct conflict with national ideologies and indoctrination programs. In light of all these obstacles, it is a miracle that Indonesian comics exist at all and an affirmation of the true power of the comic as a means of expression.

As one final tribute to the comic in Indonesian contexts, this last example comes from the one group who does very clearly use comics to describe its unique day-to-day realities. It is not surprising that this particular group is more oppressed, marginalized, and persecuted than any other. Since January 1993 an NGO in Yogyakarta has been publishing a monthly newsletter written by and for the community of street children. As a street society, these kids identify themselves as a well-formed and special community. The proof of such exclusivity is obvious in their creative use of language. Its members have rejected their alienation by the dominant classes through creating their own exclusive vocabularies, strengthened and spread through the publication of their monthly newsletter called JeJAL (15). JeJAL was initially intended to encourage and support literacy and community empowerment by allowing the children a means through which to express themselves creatively. Within these pages, many of the children’s everyday activities are described through their own terminology which specifically avoids the psychological self-positioning and acceptance of marginalization the dominant order attempts to impose. Such creativity in linguistic expression is naturally a threat to the Authority who have proclaimed JeJAL illegal, confiscated it, harassed its publishers and even conducted frequent raids to rid the streets of these unwanted children.

Each issue of JeJAL contains comic strips that are drawn entirely by the children. In a community that varies in literacy abilities, the comic serves to bridge the gap between the literate and the illiterate, introduce the issue’s main theme, and act as an incentive for the lesser literate to improve his skills. The comic figures that appear each month are Mbah Mboro (Father Boro) or Mas Malio (Elder Brother (16) Malio) where Boro and Malio are truncated forms of Malioboro, the main street of Yogyakarta. This is where many of the children ply their various trades, sleep, meet their friends, locate, recruit, and protect other children new to the streets. Mbah Mboro or Mas Malio then function as the spiritual father figures in the children’s lives. They advise, respond, joke, and always represent an insider, yet adult, perspective on the life of the street child.

As a reflection of the life, experiences, words and perspectives of street children, these comics actually fulfill the definition of freedom of expression noted by Rendra. In these pages, freedom of expression is seen through the (street) artist’s degree of contact with the (street and mainstream) people, (street) life, and nature as they ‘express the truth or soul of society’. The comics are drawn by people who are so outside of mainstream society that they are mainly invisible (see figure 1.5). The irony lies in the fact that those considering themselves recognized because of their adherence to the rules of society are permitted to be inhumane to others.

The street children, as exiles from recognition, are ironically able to be far more in touch with humanity. Thus, these unrecognized but humane street kids are able to speak very openly about topics most would be afraid to utter. Figures 1.5 and 1.6 show that to be recognized does not necessarily guarantee one’s humanity by showing how the recognized can indeed act with extreme cruelty toward her own children. In the real Indonesian world, poor people, street people, prostitutes and beggars are made to disappear through official police or military cleansing operations. Family members disappear without a trace or throw away their unwanted children as the disposable evidence of their problems. Economic development permits those with more recognition than others to confiscate land and evict residents. Forced to grow up in a world dependent on these notions of legitimacy, Mas Malio suggests the children select the policeman at a busy intersection as their father, because unlike their own families, he is always around. Like the huge stone figures on Daliland, Authority figures maintain the status quo with relative ease. A tradition of deference assures mass acceptance of these symbols of social place and self-censorship becomes a highly potent of means of stamping out creativity and dissent -- but not entirely.

As a symbolic reflection of social or political reality, this discussion has shown how the comic can present us with a rich store of social commentary, providing the medium is viewed through the lens of authoritarian control as the extremely narrow channel through which cultural identity is squeezed. Thus, unlike others that praise the comic as a tool of the weak, the mainstream comic book market or press has little place for this. The independent comics, which should come closer to Rendra’s definition of free speech than other means of communication, display a jumbled blend of constrained expression or frenzied imagination, wayward identity and feudal hierarchies, pedantic control and misplaced hope, depression and desperate sexuality. Is this modern society? Looking at the street kid comics, which focus on the major themes in their lives, such as their own humanity within an inhumane world, I dare to say yes.

In this world in which printed materials are carefully scrutinized by a Minister of Information, where permission to publish must include no less than 20 official letters on top of a stamp from the local police attesting to the lack of political content or motivation, indigenous comics (or for that matter creativity), are not able to flourish. Meanwhile, the cartoon strip or the editorial cartoon often does reflect contemporary concerns as wrung through historical settings or the faux pas of clowns. The Mr. Bei (Suara Merdeka), Panji Komeng (Kompas), or Doyok (Pos Kota) strips, which seem to come closer to social reality than other strips, have as their heroes well intentioned but naïve middle aged men. Despite their good intentions, the final panel often pictures the hero fallen silent, put back in place by the wife or a bureaucrat. Thus, he is a clown-like figure destined to lose.

Under these tightly constrained circumstances, this look at comics in Java reveals how political pressures on freedom of expression in combination with the extended economic crisis and the increased costs of producing comics are major factors in crushing what should be a thriving industry. There is little investment in local work, because it is not worth the economic or political risk. While the writings on the import comic boon all blame the victim, that is, they attack local artists for their inferior work, no one questions why local artists constantly revamp old themes. As Indonesian artists themselves have stated, nothing new comes out in local comics, and when it does, no one buys it. These areas need to be further investigated. When self-reflection is exchanged for indirectness and irrelevance because creativity is subversive, what happens to cultural identity?

Anderson, Benedict 1990 ‘Cartoons and monuments: The evolution of political communication under the New Order’, p.152-193 in Language and Power: exploring political cultures in Indonesia, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Athonk 1994 Bad Times Story, Yogyakarta: Pure Black.

Berman, Laine 1999 ‘Strategies of positioning in the discourses of the Indonesian state’, p. 138-159 in M. van Langenhove and R. Harré (eds.) Positioning Theory: moral contexts of intentional action, Oxford: Blackwell.

----- 1998a Speaking Through the Silence: narratives, social conventions, and power in Java, New York: Oxford University Press.

----- 1998b ‘Ayam Majapahit meets Kung Fu Boy: the death of the Indonesian comic’, p. 19 in Comic Edge. 21: June.

Brotoseno and Marto Art 1993 Ontran-Ontran ing Muria (Chaos in Muria), Jepara: TPI

Dogfight 1996 Yogyakarta: Core Comics.

Freire, Paulo [1970]1993 Pedagogy of the Oppressed, New York: Continuum.

Gara-Gara Sepatu (All because of shoes), 1986 Jakarta: Goltum Agency.

Hai 1995 ‘Si Sarmun ke New York (Sarmun goes to New York)’, p.58-60, 8/XIX, February 21.

Hai 1995 ‘Antihero dalam komik (Antiheroes in comics)’, p.66-68, 21/XIX, May 30.

Heryanto, Ariel 1990 ‘The making of language: developmentalism in Indonesia’, p.40-53, Prisma:the Indonesian indicator, 50.

Jakarta Post 1996 ‘Comic craze boosts the Indonesian comics industry’, August 1.

Jakarta Post 1994 ‘Press bans spur new debate on openness’, June 23.

JeJAL 1994 ‘Mas Malio’, January.

JeJAL 1994 ‘Mbah Boro’, June.

Kompas 1992 ‘Panji Koming ‘, January.

Kosasih, R.A. 1978 Bharatayudha, Seri 1-3, Bandung: Benalines.

Lent, John 1993 ‘Southeast Asian cartooning: Comics in Philippines, Singapore and Indonesia’, p.11-23 Asian Culture, Winter 1993.

Lindsay, Timothy 1987 ‘Captain Marvel meets Prince Rama: ‘Pop’ and the Ramayana in Javanese culture’, p. 38-52. Prisma: The Indonesian Indicator, 43.

Miklauho-Maklai, B. 1991 Exposing Society’s Wounds: some aspects of contemporary Indonesian art since 1966, Adelaide: Flinders University Asian Studies Monograph No. 5.

Musuh dalam Selimut (Enemy in a Blanket) 1982 Bandung: Sutawijaya Group.

Peacock, James 1968 Rites of Modernization: symbols and social aspects of Indonesian proletarian drama, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Phillipe, Robert 1982 Political Graphics: art as a weapon (translated by James Ramsay), Oxford: Phaidon Press.

Pos Kota 1994 ‘Doyok’, 7 September.

Selingkuh 1996 Yogyakarta: Komik Selingkuh.

Siegel, James 1986 Solo in the New Order: language and hierarchy in an Indonesian city, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Stairway to the Dog 1996 Yogyakarta: Core Comics.

Suara Merdeka 1996 ‘Comeback-nya Panji Tengkorak (The comeback of Panji Skull)’, 9 November.

Suara Merdeka 1996 ‘Jagoan, figur abadi dalam komik (Heroes, eternal figures in comics)’, 9 November.

Suara Merdeka 1996 ‘Nasionalisme masa lalu komik kita (Past era nationalism in our comics)’, 9 November.

Suara Merdeka 1996 ‘Tawaran baru komik kontemporer (New offers in contemporary comics)’, 9 November.

Suara Merdeka 1993 ‘Pak Bei’, June 27.

Tabrani, Primadi 1998 ‘Pencarian identitas: aspek komunikatif bahasa rupa komik Indonesia (Searching for identity: communicative aspects of language in Indonesian comics)’, paper presented at National Comic Seminar, 7 February 1998, National Library, Jakarta.

Tanggaku Kirik 1996 Yogyakarta: Core Comics.

Tempo 1993 ‘OPINI (Opinion)’, 28 Agustus.

Tempo 1988 ‘Si Jin Kui dalam imajinasi Oto (Si Jin Kui in Oto’s imagination)’, p.90, 30 April.

Warren, Carol 1998 ‘Mediating modernity in Bali’ International Journal of Cultural Studies, vol. 1(1).

Weda Kusuma, I Nyoman 1998 ‘Komik sebagai warisan budaya (Comics as a cultural inheritance)’ paper presented at National Comic Seminar, 7 February 1998, National Library, Jakarta.

Wirosardjono, Soetjipto 1998 ‘Renungan tentang fungsi komik dalam masyarakat Indonesia (Thoughts about the function of the comic in Indonesian society)’, paper presented at National Comic Seminar, 7 February 1998, National Library, Jakarta.

Zaimar, Okke 1998 ‘Aspek komunikatif dalam komik Indonesia (Communicative aspects of Indonesian comics)’, paper presented at National Comic Seminar, 7 February 1998, National Library, Jakarta.

Dr. Laine Berman is a Research Fellow in the Center for Cross Cultural Research at the Australian National University. Her research is on popular culture, language and power, oppression, violence, and marginal communities in Indonesia. She has recently published Speaking Through the Silence: Narratives, Social Conventions, and Power in Java with Oxford University Press, and is currently writing a book on popular culture in Indonesia.

(figure translations: to be up-loaded later)

FIGURE 1.2: (1) I want to build a temple here. But, sir, our land is not for sale. (2) Narrow minded! ignorant! You’re selfish! Stubborn! hard headed! (3) Stuck in the past! Can’t see around you! (4) That’s right!

 

 

FIGURE 1.3: (1) I’m off to the market mum. In that case, buy me some cassava greens. I’m making rendang [a spicy meat dish]. (2) Wow for just 500 [US$.20] get as much as this, cheap! Mother Bei is certain to be thrilled! (3) Wah, such a big bunch, what’dya buy it for Mr. Bei? It’s to eat with the goat. (4) Why give food to a goat when you can butcher it and enjoy it yourself! How dare he! (5) Here mum, your cassava greens… Just a minute! (6) Here, I’ll add banana leaves and other greens so that your goat grows big and fat! Oh no! Angry again.. !

 

 

FIGURE 1.4 - A view of Petruk as wayang figure, in the Djon Domino incarnate, and in the Petruk/Gareng series (Cergam Petruk/Gareng 1986).

 

 

FIGURE 1.5 - Mbah Boro, July 1994 - (1) hey… what’s your name? You’re a new street kid? Hang out here then, lots of friends. (2) (university) (5) Mbah, they say we have lots of friends here but it sure seems untrue (6) It says in the wayang… wait for official recognition. But always show your humanity

FIGURE 1.6 - Mas Malio, Feb 1994 - (1) Mas Malio, where is Mbah Boro? We want to say goodbye. We’re going back home. (2) Hmm yesterday there was a police roundup. Maybe he got caught. (3) Several days later.. Hey mas, I went home but my dad had gone without leaving word. (4) My village mas, has been transformed into a huge shopping center. Crazy! Nobody knows where the villagers have gone. (5) Maybe they transmigrated (to an outer island)? As for me, I did meet my father but he ordered me to leave again. (6) That’s right mas. I’m sure he’s patient, never disappears without a word. So then, let’s just consider him our father!

^* An early version of this paper was presented for the Seminars in Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Australia on 27 March 1997. The author wishes to thank Barbara Hatley, Athonk, John Weeks, the Yogyakarta and Melbourne comic artists community for their comments and support. **This paper was written before Suharto fell and thus focuses on the effects of censorship and oppression and not the post 'reformasi' movements. These are discussed briefly in my later Inside Indonesia articles. 

1.  I have no statistics on who buys what but it is obvious that both the press and comics attract huge numbers of readers. I also suspect, and this has been confirmed by Indonesians, that adults are the main readers of comic books.

2.  I will not discuss HumOr again here, opting instead for more "working class" humor and the work of artists/activists from Yogyakarta in Central Java. See Lent (1993) for discussion on this slick magazine.

3.  Taboo topics are generally disclosures about the Soeharto family wealth and business dealings or disclosures about shoddy business dealings at public expense undertaken by high placed officials.

4.  The magazine was expensive (around US$2.00 per issue) pricing it above the means of the majority of the population for whom $2.00 can feed a family for a few days.

5.  Yet see Carol Warren (1998) for discussion of political cartoons in the Balinese press.

6.  Some Indonesians claim their comics originated in the relief sculptures that decorate their ancient temples, and in other traditions of communicating ancient texts such as wayang beber (scrolled picture stories) and lontar (manuscripts on palm leaves, see Kusuma 1998; Tabrani 1998; Zaimar 1998). Whether these texts reflect indigenous concerns or Hindu imports is beyond the scope of this paper. More significantly, none of these texts were available to wide audiences. Thus, they will not be discussed here.

7.  Meanwhile, the papers presented at the National Comic Seminar in Jakarta (7 February 1998) deny this and instead praise the national flavor of local comics as they stress its’ thousand year history by linking it to earlier means of creating stories with pictures. I was surprised to see at the conference that Balai Pustaka (Indonesia’s oldest publishing house) prints some wonderfully professional, local comics. These comics, however, do not appear in the Balai’s catalogue and apparently cannot be found in local book shops (see Berman 1998b for discussion).

8.  The Gunung Agung book shop in Blok M, Jakarta actually sold some in 1993, when I bought the Baratayudha series (from the Mahabarata). These were old, but not second hand. In later trips (1996, 1997, and 1998) I searched again but none was available. There are 2 sources in Yogyakarta where people sell the comics they hid during the comic blitzes of the 1960s and 1970s.

9.  No less than 10 young artists from the Yogyakarta Art Institute have said this.

10.  During a recent trip to Indonesia, I searched all over for a copy of this comic and found none. None of my komikus friends had one either. If it is still being published, it is certainly suffering distribution problems too.

11.  The artist is still living in exile in Holland and the distributor was arrested and jailed.

12.  In other respects this is thoroughly untrue. In the original version of the Mahabarata, all the Pandawa are married to Drupadi and none are survived by children, favoring aestheticism over sexuality. In the Javanese version, however, Arjuna is a great lover with many wives and lovers and spending much of his time in heaven among the goddesses (Zaimar 1998:6).

13.  As of 1997, Core Comics has ceased to exist. Some of the artists who have graduated from the Art Institute, most notably Bambang Toko, are now creating comics independently and selling them through limited distribution. With the rise in paper and photocopy costs during the crisis of 1998, it is extremely likely such activities will cease.

14.  The artist and writer are senior to Athonk, who in turn is senior to the Selingkuh and Core artists. This hierarchy is very obvious to these artists who still look up to their elders with deference and for leadership. Even among activists, the social order is upheld.