Five Pillars and One Language: Monolingual Hegemony and...

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Five Pillars and One Language: Monolingual Hegemony and National Ideology in Indonesia

Lauren Zentz University of Houston

In this paper I intend to tie together the consolidation of Indonesian as a national language with the consolidation of Indonesia’s national slogan, Pancasila. For this reason, I will spend much time talking about the top-down political history of the nation that is not directly linked to the development of the nation’s language. These other facts are, though, I argue, integral to the consolidation of Indonesian as the national language, and of ideologies about Indonesian that frame it as a language of (higher) education, of religion, and of the expression of one’s regional/local culture to broader intranational Indonesian audiences. Additionally, as I am interested in the more top-down aspect of language and nation planning and how these activities coincide or participate within the complexes of modernity and development discourses, the data I explore here will consist largely of historical documentation of language planning and nation-building activities. I will rely little on my ethnographic experience in Central Java, Indonesia, though it will receive mention. For more detailed treatment of this data, I encourage you to see my other publications. Pancasila The formula understood for unifying the new Indonesian nation during the movement leading up to independence in 1945 was to implement a single national language that would help citizens to bypass any potential miscommunications that would occur without it. As was stated in policy and planning documents, this would not threaten nor unduly privilege local languages, and it would still unite the nation without use of the colonial language, Dutch. This linguistic choice was facilitated by a history of Dutch policies in the archipelago that had limited Dutch to a very small elite among the indigenous populations. These indigenous elite had also already been learning English in Dutch schools, and they spoke Malay (Indonesian) at varying levels of proficiency, as well as a home language often different from all of these. By the time of decolonization, Dutch had also not spread far elsewhere, outside of Indonesia, and so it was really no loss, in multiple senses, to get rid of Dutch in the archipelago soon after nationalization1. As Indonesia gained independence and entered the international community, its “new” Indonesian language—named such since at least the 1920s, notably in the Sumpah Pemuda, or Youth Congress, of 1928—would create a national symbol and unifying instrument already seen globally as essential to recognition as a nation (see Anderson, 1983/2006, Keane, 2003). As the government established the new nation, Indonesian would exist alongside a set of national morals called Pancasila, a combination of Sanskrit panca, five, and sila, pillars. This framework was further accompanied by a motto taken from another Sanskrit phrase, Bhinneka

1 Stevens (1973) claims it held continuing prestige in 1973, but only supports this proposition with examples of sedimented practices of suffixation adopted from Dutch grammar, for instance -si instead of English -tion: kolonisasi, colonization.

Zentz, IPSA 2016 Poznán, Poland

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Tunggal Ika, which was—and is—interpreted as Unity in Diversity. The notion of Pancasila was important amid a majority who obeyed the five pillars of Islam, the elements of which were by that time heavily informed by Javanese culture as well as the Hinduism that had spread through the region centuries earlier2. Sukarno, the country’s first president (1945-1965) and author of these five pillars of Indonesian nationalism, claimed that they could be further reduced into three: “Socio-nationalism (embracing Nationalism and Internationalism), Socio-democracy (including the principles of Democracy and Social Welfare), and Lordship,” or belief in God. Further still, they could be reduced into one single pillar, the Javanese principle of gotong royong, meaning integrative and mutual intra-community support and cohesion—“mutual cooperation,” in short (Intan, 2006, p. 40). The five pillars of Sukarno’s Pancasila began as a principle under which Indonesians could unite as religious members of a non- or anti-Western type of democracy. In this, religion would not rule, but it would be an essential part of the nation’s makeup. While two iterations of Pancasila were drafted and heatedly negotiated before the Constitution was written, the version that became official in 1945 was:

1. Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa (belief in one God) 2. Kemanusiaan yang adil dan beradab (a just and civilized humanity) 3. Persatuan Indonesia (the unity of Indonesia) 4. Kerakyatan yang dipimpin oleh hikmat kebijaksanaan dalam permusyawaratan/perwakilan

(the principle of peoplehood guarded by the spirit of wisdom in deliberation and representation, or, as Gaylord (2008) states more simply: deliberation for consensus)

5. Keadilan social bagi seluruh rakyat Indonesia (social justice for all Indonesian citizens)

(Intan, 2006, pp. 40-1; Department of Information, 1987) Leading up to this version, the primary battleground in the formulation of these “pillars” was religion. Sukarno’s original version listed “Ketuhanan” as number 5 in the above list, and only stated “Ketuhanan”, translated as “Lordship” above (Intan, 2006). This allowed for much more flexibility in its interpretation than what Islamic nationalists wanted to see. The latter group, of course, largely wanted to see Islamic law, and to see it in the number one spot on the list; however, after much deliberation, the secular nationalists (which included some Muslims) were able to negotiate the above 1945 version into print. This avoided any lopsided favor for Islam and for Shariah law, which the secular nationalists and most Christian groups saw not only as favoring Islam but as extremely dangerous to their collective desire for unification of the nation. However, it did lay some groundwork for strong national emphasis on monotheistic religiosity,

2 Ricklefs describes the importance of the five pillars of Islam on Java:

…from the 1850s there began to appear a group of ordinary Javanese who were distancing themselves from Islamic practices and commitments. Whereas it seems…that around the start of the century Javanese of all classes generally observed the five ritual pillars of Islam—the confession of faith, daily ritual prayer, payment of the religious tax, fasting in the month of Ramadan and undertaking the pilgrimage for those with the means to do so—now a substantial number of Javanese began to abandon such practices. (2008, p. 158).

While Islamic rule would be ruled out as a mode of governance in Indonesian nationhood, many precepts of Islam bled into the formation of the national set of morals due to the predominance of Islam among early nationalists.


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which has become a cornerstone of Indonesian life, largely aided later on by the Communist purge and paranoia of Suharto’s regime. Cipriani further clarifies: “In other words, according to Pancasila principles, Indonesia remains a religious-based state but not a theocratic-based one.” (Cipriani, 2009, p. 242). The formulation of Pancasila and the religious basis of governance in the country remained a heated battleground, both in the halls of government as well as in armed separatist battles, throughout the 1940s and 50s and as the Indonesian economy also collapsed. Under Sukarno’s rule, these multiple and complex problems peaked in the late 1950s and he was led to implement, with the support of the Armed Forces (ABRI, Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia), a Presidential Decree of July 5, 1959, declaring a return to the 1945 Constitution including its foundational explication of Pancasila. This has remained the version of Pancasila relied upon ever since (Intan, 2006, p. 47). Sukarno’s power takeover was also the opening step in his declaration that he was the “Great Leader of the Indonesian Revolution and the Highest Commander of the Indonesian Armed Forces,” and that he would now be leading Demokrasi Terpimpin, Guided Democracy (ibid., p. 48). He dissolved the national Constituent Assembly and himself appointed an entire new one. Voices of dissent were banned, and Sukarno came to largely use the Pancasila framework as a justification for keeping Islam out of power. In the late 1960s as the government turned over, after the coup of 30 September 1965, to the New Order under Suharto (1967-1998), nationalization and the nation’s “development”—pembangunan—also came to consist of a rapidly expanding, Western-style and compulsory Indonesian public school system, in which Indonesian was the required education medium and all curriculum was legislated from the center. With Suharto’s Presidential Instruction of 1965, “government-supervised building and staffing of elementary schools” was implemented throughout the country. The number of students in primary schools continued to grow: data available show that the number of students expanded from 2,523,000 in 1945 to 26,567,688 in 1984, and primary education was almost universal by the 1980s (World Bank, 1989, cited in Bjork, 2003). In schools, Suharto’s New Order regime found their most “captive audience” for propagating their constructed set of Indonesian values, as well as universal allegiance to the nation first, over religion, ethnicity, and class (Bjork, 2003; see also Errington, 1998, Gellner, 1983). In curricula and teaching practices, there was strict discouragement of local manipulation, teacher autonomy, or discussion of anything considered political, and there was little consideration of any local cultural or historical difference among the vastly diverse archipelago (Bjork, 2004). Within this entirely top-down system, the Department of Education worked hard to demonstrate that pembangunan—development—into a modern, unitary national culture was of utmost importance, and that this national singularity could be expressed through the national ideology of Pancasila, a democratic and indigenous, essentially Asian foundation for the nation, entirely and proudly irreconcilable with Western ways of approaching democracy (Errington, 1998; Gaylord, 2008; Heryanto, 1995)3. Heryanto describes discourses like the latter as an exoticisation wherein

3 This is similar to many other decolonizing countries’ assumptions of “socialism” by name only in an ideological declaration of difference from the West, while entirely setting their countries up to participate within the global capitalist order (Anderson, 1990; Blommaert, 2014)


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“Asian dictators misappropriated history to launch the propaganda of nativist identity (e.g. Asian values)” (2007, p. 53). Under Suharto, Pancasila was (re-)explained to be a set of principles that incorporated elements that were essentially Javanese, but it was also interpreted rather randomly and inconsistently in the interest of enabling Suharto’s authoritarian, centralized, and standardized regime to take actions based on principles that were purportedly in the best interest of the nation (Foulcher, 2000; Heryanto, 2006). For instance, Gaylord describes that during this time period, the sila “social justice for all”, could be interpreted as “every person [has] a natural place in society”, particularly: subordinate to leaders; and “deliberation for consensus” became: efforts to reach consensus authorize the quelling of dissent (Gaylord, 2008, p. 39). That is, while Sukarno had already moved away from democracy in his authoritarian “Guided Democracy,” it was especially under Suharto that “deliberation for consensus” came to mean that all should trust and not question the political decisions of the leaders. If citizens obeyed this interpretation of the sila, Indonesia would remain unified, standardized, centralized, and under consensus, and if they did not obey it in this way, their dissent would be quelled by other means, including means enabled by a national Anti-Subversion Law with a maximum penalty of death for any violations of the principles laid out under Pancasila. “The vagueness of the law provided government officials with great latitude to apply it as they saw fit, which they did” (Bjork, 2003, p. 192; see also Foulcher, 2000; Heryanto and Hadiz, 2005; similarly in other postcolonial countries, see also Blommaert’s “ujamaa through the barrel of a gun” in Tanzania [2014, p. 36], and Wang, Juffermans, & Du’s [2015] discussion of Chinese state-led “harmony” becoming a euphemism for censorship). It is further interesting to note that though the five pillars of Pancasila were sold by the national government as the natural, indigenous, component of Indonesian culture, this same set of principles supposedly so inherent to Indonesian culture were apparently not being performed well under Suharto, to the extent that his administration implemented a Pancasila training program in 1978 called P4 (Penghayatan dan Pengamalan Pelaksanaan Pancasila, Appreciation and Application of Pancasila Implementation, Gaylord, 2008, citing Antlöv, 2000). Chao explains, “P4 was promised to be the glue that connected all the fragments of the nation through cultivating the proper nationalist mindset” (2012, p. 65). The program started as a training program for civil servants, and then it was eventually extended “in a cascade manner” all the way down to primary school curricula until decentralization in 1998 (Gaylord, 2008, p. 39). Chao further explains what was meant to be learned in these courses:

From civil servants to students, peasants to housewives, everyone was provided with the compulsory Pancasila course…the idea that pancasila was a distinctively Indonesian ideal of pluralism that suited this distinctive country was extended to the depoliticization of Islam and the protection of minority rights. In short, the ideological tenet has become the default formula of pluralism in the country: every monotheistic religion is good in itself and superior to atheism, and every citizen of the nation, who by default believes in a religion, should peacefully co-exist. (2012, p. 65)

The spread of the P4 curriculum was in part a response to fears of communism, and aggressions by Islamic fundamentalists/theocrats in the west of Indonesia, and it was also implemented amid


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continuing violence in the east between separatist movements and the central government (Intan, 2006, p. 55, citing Ismail, 1995), and so, “The continuous adoption of such policies [educational and militaristic] succeeded in stifling critical voices and encouraging citizens to self-censor their behavior” (Bjork, 2003, p. 192). Suharto eventually went so far as to attempt to implement a law claiming Pancasila as the one and only basis for life and social organization within state boundaries. This was now ill-received by both Christian and Muslim groups, whose religions both called for the same primacy of their own teachings (that is, loyalty to religion first over nation). However, Suharto continued to push back, and his final legislative word on the matter was Law no. 8/1985, demanding that all social organizations having any role in educating the public or influencing the state—any

organization formed by citizens of the Republic of Indonesia voluntarily and based on common activity, profession, function, religion, and the belief in the principle of One Lordship (kepercayaan terhadap Tuhan Yang Maha Esa), [must] participate in development in the framework of achieving a national aim in the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia which is based on Pancasila. (Law 8/1985 Concerning Social Organization, Intan, 2006, p. 58, citing Sairin, 1996).

The implementation of this law can be seen as a final legislative blow to political Islam, and a win for the “familial state” in which “state and society are inseparable as an organic unity with the primary emphasis on social obligations rather than individual rights and liberties” (Intan, 2006, p. 59). However, this was not the end of the road for political Islam: “cultural Islam” would now be supported, and to this end a State Institute of Islamic Studies (IAIN, Institut Agama Islam Negeri) was opened, leading in fact to an increase in Muslim proselytization, ironically endorsed by the government. Despite the secular “win” of Suharto’s government, as his extreme corruption came to be more challenged by the military, Suharto began to pander more and more to political Islamists, and so they continued to gain increasing footholds in legislation that favored their positions. Suharto was additionally encouraged to engage in such placation in order to stave off a developing international trend of Islamic resurgencies, such as those taking place in Algeria and Iran at the time (Intan, 2006). By 1988, the purpose of anniversary speeches for the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda were inextricably linked with the propagation of the Pancasila ideology and the P4 program created to inculcate it in to the minds of all Indonesians as a unifying formula for self-censorship. The speeches described a New Order platform directed toward

‘raising the discipline and quality’ of the current generation of Indonesian youth, in the interests of ‘making steady the framework’ for national development as an experience of the Pancasila. Revolutionary elan and the defeat of the external enemy were to be replaced by internal security, discipline and development. (Foulcher, 2000, p. 397)

Another of the ways in which this cultural unity was encouraged was a transplantation program during both Sukarno and Suharto’s regimes that aimed to homogenize the nation under Javanese cultural norms by transplanting residents of an overpopulated Javanese island to other islands.


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This was in part done to try to stabilize the fast growing Javanese population, but also it was a strategy to unify by “Javanizing”, or civilizing, the rest of Indonesia. Unfortunately, the policy did not go well for anyone involved (Foulcher, 2000; Goebel, 2008; Pisani, 2015; Poedjosoedarmo, 2006). Through all these unification and homogenization efforts, diversity was of course not erased, nore was it entirely denied—in its acceptable forms. Where the centralized government allowed for diversity, under the slogan Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, it made clear attempts at modernizing local or “traditional” identities by, for example: re-formulating animistic beliefs under monotheistic religions; eliminating from the public view rituals centered around trance states and beliefs in spirits and spells (even though Suharto himself was known to have spent much time making offerings to such spirits, Pemberton, 1994, see also Bjork, 2003); generalizing all named ethnicities under singular standardized dialects: Javanese, Sundanese, Acehnese, etc; and generally making all depicted subnational cultures answer, in Indonesian and as Indonesians, to the “father” culture, that of “Pak” Suharto’s rural Javanese upbringing. Pemberton (1994) explains a display of a gathering of national cultures at the Mini Indonesia theme park, modeled after Disneyland and located outside of Jakarta, the pet project of Suharto’s wife Ibu Tien. In this park, made of mock Indonesian islands, a gathering of all “nations” within Indonesia is hosted in a Javanese meeting house by Javanese culture, and it is the only location in the park where any language other than Indonesian is written. This language is, of course, the Javanese language (1994, p. 159). Now that I have described some of the legislative and educational actions made in the interest of unifying the nation culturally and politically, I return to language specifically, tracing the unification, modernization, and singularization of the Indonesian language over the same time period explored above. Consolidating a singular national language and culture Malay, prior to decolonization, was essentially a matter of fact, commonly used lingua franca in the lives of primarily coastal populations, and it had already begun to be a language of education throughout the archipelago by the mid-19th century. In the eastern two-thirds of Java, Javanese and other local languages were also used daily, with nobility and royalty more likely to be fluent in the highest registers of the language, and rural peasants speaking only a few words of the higher registers. In these overly simplistic statements, I simply wish to state that pre-nationalization, formal Malay was already established and had increasing prestige value, and Javanese already had its own rural/urban and royal/peasant hierarchies expressed within the language. The choice of Indonesian (Malay) was explained by early policy makers as the creation of a language belonging to no one yet to everyone internal to the nation, and not to be the sole language of the nation but to be dijunjung tinggi—held with high regard, “revered” (Foulcher, 2000, p. 380). This choice of a lingua franca that was already in place was meant to eliminate interethnic domestic rivalries that risked being heightened through the officialization of one or more other indigenous languages. Though conflict was not necessarily lessened, though, language planning per se has been successful in that such conflicts did not take place based on


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arguments about language (J. Bertrand, 2004). It is a general assumption now that most Indonesians now speak Indonesian and conceivably all, at this point, understand it. These assumptions are not necessarily borne out, though: Ethnologue (2015), in a count dating from 2000, cites the number of native speakers at almost 23 million, with L2 speakers estimated at 140 million, and a total population of almost 240 million as of 2013. So conceivably, according to these estimates, there are about 77 million, or 32%, of the residents of Indonesia who do not speak the language at all. This is quite a large proportion, though it does not claim what these levels of proficiency are, nor does it describe receptive proficiency where speakers understand but cannot speak the language. One can only imagine as well that these numbers must be changing rapidly as technologies continue to improve and expand at a very fast pace, and as completion of basic education becomes more the norm (see also Foulcher, 2012). Two more oft-cited reasons in the early 20th century for the choice of Indonesian as the national language, beyond its spread and its lingua franca status, were first, that it was an easy language to learn, and also, it, desirably, had an “egalitarian nature”: Indonesian lacked the status-bound variations in register that Javanese had (Alisjahbana, 1966; Heryanto, 1995). By nationalists, the registered variation of Javanese was seen as feudal—backwards and passé for the democratic modern era that they had been educated to be a part of and the international community that they needed to integrate with. In the Western tradition that the new country’s leaders had learned to see as superior, a lack of registers was seen as more democratic and more appropriate for unifying the hugely diverse population that was now Indonesia (Heryanto, 1995; Keane, 2003), if for no other reason than a post hoc logic that stated that all of Western Europe’s languages did not have registers to the extent that or in the same way as Javanese had them (Nababan, 1985). This “anti-feudalism” would bleed forward into Suharto’s era, where this idea was one among many “anti-backwards” ideas that caused a reconfiguration of local cultures (as briefly discussed at the end of the previous section) into essentialized versions of themselves in order to create a diversity “acceptable” to the modern nation-state (Bjork, 2003; Heryanto, 2007; Pemberton, 1994):

Variations of ‘localisation’ are tolerated and at times necessary, but they are tolerated as long as they operate under control and pose no threats to the overall system. Progress demands the demise of autonomous diversity, including vernacular activities, social institutions, and worldviews. (Heryanto, 2007, p. 53)

Where this philosophy has related to languages in Indonesia since nationalization, it has seemed that the tolerance for and even pemeliharaan and pelestarian—the maintenance and preservation—of local languages has been similar to approaches reported in other postcolonial countries. Of Tanzania, Fabian describes: “equal rights granted by law to African languages could not have meant more than their right to be ‘developed’” (1986, p. 48). In Foulcher’s (2000) account of the historical repetition of the oath of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda, its recitation has amounted to more or less the same principle regarding language use in the nation—that the plurality of Indonesian citizens are united by one single unifying language, Indonesian. Only, Foulcher points out that while the original statement claimed that the language should be dijunjung tinggi—highly regarded—and that people in the 1920s saw no conflict of interest in using both Javanese and Indonesian, or both Dutch and Indonesian, in public, these


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statements quickly changed to “berbahasa satu, bahasa Indonesia”—Indonesians speak one language, the Indonesian language. This change in the wording of the Sumpah Pemuda took place rather early after nationalization, and has been present in each Hari Sumpah Pemuda commemoration since nationalization. Foulcher provides one example in an address president Suharto gave at the 50th annual commemoration of the Sumpah Pemuda in 1978:

Tepat 50 Tahun yang lalu, di Jakarta ini, lahirlah Sumpah Pemuda yang sangat terkenal: - mengaku berbangsa satu, Bangsa Indonesia; - mengaku bertanah air satu, Tanah Air Indonesia; - mengaku berbahasa satu, Bahasa Indonesia.

(p. 377)

Exactly 50 years ago, here in Jakarta, the famous Sumpah Pemuda [Oath of Youth] was born: —(we) declare we are one nation, the Indonesian nation —(we) declare we have one homeland, the Indonesian homeland —(we) declare we have one language, the Indonesian language.

(p. 402) Such a small change in rhetoric, Foulcher claims, is epiphenomenal to the strict centralization that first Sukarno and then Suharto transitioned into. The statements at yearly commemorations surrounding this monolingual principal thus eliminated the importance of diversity and the maintenance of local languages that early nationalists had endorsed (see also Foulcher, 2012). However, below, we will see that attention to local languages, by language planners, did not die out completely. The most extreme period of marginalization of Languages Other Than Indonesian (LOTI) through active centralization and standardization of the national language and culture, was also the longest, that of Suharto’s thirty-plus year regime. While Foulcher (2000) mentions that under this regime, a more monolingualist notion of nationalism reigned, Pemberton (1994) points to something more inconsistent, claiming that Suharto very vocally touted the Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, “unity in diversity” slogan. An example returns us to the Taman Mini theme park mentioned in the previous section. In 1971, Suharto funded his wife’s ambition, after she had visited Disneyland in California, to create a Taman Mini Indonesia Indah (Beautiful Indonesia Miniature Park, now often called Taman Mini) theme park outside of Jakarta. She was given funding for this project much to the displeasure of other politicians who believed this was a fickle waste of money in a country that had much more pressing needs for funding fundamental infrastructure. The Taman Mini theme park can be taken to be representative of Suharto’s policy of respecting a diversity either of the past—the cultures in Mini Indonesia are often essentialized and put in traditional clothing and housing—or one respecting modernized versions of local cultures as mentioned above—standardized and stripped of their “backwards” or “feudal” elements. In the end, the park was such a massive success that Suharto and Ibu Tien often touted it as a


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replacement for going home if one had, say, migrated to Jakarta for work. It was often marketed simply as a sufficient replacement for actually visiting the rest of Indonesia (Pemberton, 1994). If we look at Suharto’s celebration of diversity at Taman Mini in this light—a diversity either kept in the past or standardized in the present, and all looking up to its Javanese “father figure”, this portrayal and this treatment of Bhinneka Tunggal Ika seems to work in tandem (if contradictorily) with the other national consolidation efforts executed under the New Order: the violent silencing of dissent and a faking of elections (Heryanto, 2006); the transplantation program mentioned previously in which Javanese residents were sent to other islands with at least a partial intent to Javanize the culture of the nation (Pisani, 2015; Poedjosoedarmo, 2006); the implementation of the singular national curriculum described above, with Indonesian as the only medium of education in public schools; and the implemenation of national television and media with Indonesian as the only language of communication4. The New Order’s nationalization of a school system, national language planners’ development of a huge corpus of new vocabulary (see below), and the nationalization of radio and then television, made a highly standardized formal register of Indonesian ubiquitous, and also further increased the national reach of Javanese and Jakartan dialects and registers of Indonesian as they were performed—genuinely or in imitation (Manns, 2014)—in national broadcasts. On television this began in the 1970s with Indonesia’s sole channel, TVRI (Televisi Republik Indonesia). National channels (all still in Indonesian), as well as the presence of international shows, began to expand in the 1980s when Suharto gave his children rights to own their own new public stations (Pisani, 2015). In keeping with the anti-communist sentiment described in the previous section, Suharto’s nationalism also meant fully erasing the presence of Chinese language (conflated with Communism) from the linguistic landscape (Kitamura, 2012). And while it was explicitly stated that foreign and local languages in general should not be present in public signage in the interest of unification, efforts to enforce this (e.g., eliminating English or Javanese from public signage) were much less rigidly enforced than they were with regard to Chinese language and names. Actual efforts toward encouraging diversity in the form of support of local languages did slowly change in the later period of Suharto’s rule with, for instance, the establishment of a five-yearly Javanese Language Congress in 1991, and increasing (though not new) calls for the maintenance and preservation of local languages in the five-yearly national Indonesian Language Congresses. A more explicit acknowledgement of the nation’s cultural and linguistic diversity from the central government, though, truly began when Suharto stepped down in 1998. We see this in his short-lived successor President Habibie’s statement of interest in restoring the nation’s emphasis on the pluralism underlying its one unifying language:

4 There have been exceptions in local radio (see Manns, 2014; Reid, 2003); however, language planner Moeliono (1986) did target radio stations both public and private as important sites for dissemination of the standardized national register.


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Persatuan dan kesatuan yang dibangun itu tidak pernah dimaksudkan untuk meniadakan kemajemukan masyarakat. Kemajemukan masyarakat sama sekali bukan merupakan kendala atau hambatan bagi persatuan dan kesatuan.

(Republika Online, 1998a, cited in Foulcher, 2000, p. 400)

The unity and one-ness we are building is never intended to deny the plurality of our society. Social plurality in no way represents a restriction of or an obstacle to unity and one-ness.

(ibid., p. 405) However, such efforts may have been too little too late—or perhaps, at some level of awareness, any increase in attention to local languages after the state was already so consolidated was purposefully so: now that the state was treated as a natural fact by most Indonesians, attention to local languages and cultural practices would never again gain enough power to threaten national control/unity.

Planning Indonesian: The Language Institute There wasn’t necessarily consensus among Indonesia’s original language planners as to whether mono- or multilingualism should be the language model imposed on the state’s citizens, nor whether Indonesian should be standardized with its eyes toward the west or more inwardly toward languages longer established in the archipelago. However, the ideas of Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana, who convened the first Indonesian Language Congress in 1938 and first headed the national language planning committee and national Language Institute, and who promoted monolingual nationalism and a near complete abandonment of the pre-national past (Heryanto, 1995), were and remain one of the most influential among the institution of Indonesian language planning that continues to attempt to ‘develop’ language and nation. Heryanto describes what Alisjahbana believed with respect to national linguistic development:

Advancing the idea of modernisation and standardisation of Bahasa Indonesia, Alisjahbana (1976: 59) ‘consider[s] the plurality of languages in the modern world…a great handicap. It hampers…understanding between individuals as well as nations’. He asserts this with full awareness that standardised language entails standardised general behaviour, which he values highly (Alisjahbana, 1976: 101).

(Heryanto, 2007: 52-3) Language planner Anton Moeliono, Alisjahbana’s contemporary and later head of the Language Institute, also makes a direct connection between developing a national language and developing a nation morally and materially: ‘Considering Indonesia’s diglossia, low level of literacy, and limited use of the written language by the majority, we may conclude that the development of standardisation still depends on development of non-linguistic aspects of the society’ (1986: 66). Alisjahbana also believed this, as he wrote in an earlier piece:

It is essential that conscious efforts be made to develop those qualities in the Indonesian language which can be adapted to contemporary modes of thought, and to discourage those which conflict. But in trying to guide this process of development, we must always


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bear in mind that to force the pace of modernization too urgently will only destroy the individuality and native strength of the language, and create something contrived and artificial, unrelated to the lives of ordinary Indonesians. On the other hand, if the traditional structure of the language is left too much alone, the forms and substance of contemporary thinking will remain unassimilated ‘foreign bodies’. Only those groups which are consciously directing the growth of the Indonesian language, and those which use it with a full awareness of the consequences, can help us to find the proper balance.

(1966: 204) In examining the Proceedings of National Language Congress as I have in recent years (Zentz, forthcoming), I have found official nationalism embraced and perpetuated through the Indonesian language, with attention to local languages directed largely toward development of the Indonesian language and nation. Given that the Indonesian Language Institute, through all of its incarnations, has had little influence on public life and language, one must see its statements in these proceedings, and elsewhere as in the citations above, as largely reflective of the goals of nationalism in general, and here, of the goals of the Indonesian state in ‘cultivating’ not just its language, but its citizens, toward a model that thinks ‘rationally’ and is ‘civilized’, presumably like the citizens—or at least the perceived models for them—of the states with which the Indonesian government wishes to compare itself and frequently to model itself after. All of this while maintaining, of course, an Asian and Indonesian identity in Pancasila that is entirely irreconcilable with the ways of the West. In the formal and official development of the new Indonesian language, language planners disagreed on plenty of issues, among them terminology development. Moeliono discouraged adoption into Indonesian of lexical innovations that hailed from the West/English. Instead, in order to avoid such ‘foreignization’ of Indonesian, he encouraged the adoption of words largely from Malay, Sanskrit and Arabic as at the time—and although in other eras these had also been colonizers’ languages—words from these languages were seen as non-foreign and a part of ‘Indonesian history’ (Moeliono, 1986). Alisjahbana (1935, 1974), on the other hand, embraced Western terms and Western democracy. He preferred that terms be taken from the West so that Indonesia might enter into conversation with the global community more easily (for more on the disagreements between these two, see Sneddon, 2003: 130-32). Moeliono and others’ preference for more historically rooted terminology is exemplified in Sukarno’s choice of the word Pancasila to indicate Indonesia’s five pillars of democracy, where panca, five, and sila, pillar, both come from Sanskrit origins. Bhinneka Tunggal Ika is also rooted in Sanskrit as earlier stated, though it is adopted from a 14th century Javanese text and while it is employed to mean Unity in Diversity, some say that this is an inaccurate translation of how it would have actually been interpreted when it was written (Intan, 2006; Ricklefs, 2008). Moving from lexicon to grammar, despite Moeliono’s resistance to lexical borrowings from English and Dutch, the grammatical model that he relied on to ‘modernize’ Indonesian was entirely based on Western language ideologies, and in this sense in agreement with Alisjahbana’s point of view on the matter (1935, 1974). Moeliono states:


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Havranek (1964), a linguist of the Prague School, in discussing the characteristics of a standard language which underlie those of a language of science, concludes that the most important characteristic is its rationality. This means that it can formulate statements which are accurate, exact, and abstract. The form of such sentences reflects the objective precision of science in such a way that the parts of the sentence resemble logical propositions. Logical relations are expressed in compound sentences which show the ordered logical connections between ideas.

(1986: 42) Moeliono goes further to explain that a rational language as explained above must have a syntactic structure that allows for ‘sentence structure with a hierarchy of subordinate clauses’ in order to address ‘relations such as cause and effect, motive and goal, parallelisms, possibility, probability, and necessity’ (ibid.). He points to a set of nouns that have become conjunctions as evidence that communication is forcibly becoming more ‘rational’ as Indonesians are educated and enter global scientific discussions. Having addressed how the Indonesian language should be modernized and rationalized, Moeliono (1986) goes on to describe how the modernized Indonesian language will now be nationalized. Once again he and Alisjahbana (1935, 1971, 1976) model the language’s spread on that of Western nations, here their literary traditions, calling for the creation of an entire national body of literature in Indonesian, culled from the lore of the nation’s localities. As with disagreements over word borrowings and the way forward in planning the Indonesian language, planners’ desire to build a sense of unification through literatures and cultures was also not entirely agreed upon with respect to the form that it should take. Similar to Moeliono’s contention that words from the past should be brought up to the present in Indonesian in order to show a more unique local identity, while Alisjahbana looked directly to the West for contemporary vocabulary, Alisjahbana (1935) was much more in favor of a singular nationalist moral disposition, to be portrayed in literature, while some contemporaries and colleagues disagreed. His contemporary Sanusi Pane (1935) was among them, stating that it was very clear that in nationalism, cultures of the past are naturally carried forward into national and local cultures, and this should be portrayed in their national literature. Planners’ discussions over the assembly of all these nationalist tools of literature remarkably resemble Bauman & Briggs’ (2003) description of the Grimm brothers’ foundation of one of the first national bodies of literature, in what would become Germany, based on their agglutinations of folklore collected from the various local cultures and their translation ‘up’ of these stories into the national category and language of the German nation. This was not a tacit influence, either: Moeliono himself openly recognized Jakob Grimm’s contributions to standardizing the German language (Moeliono, 1986: 89). Also relevant to the formation of early language planners’ and nationalists’ efforts at consolidating the nation are Anderson’s (2006) descriptions of how France and other European nations formed rather ‘organically’ as technologies expanded, of primary importance the printing press. The printing press not only aided geographically related formations of nationhood as people were able to share ideas across wider spaces in a common language, but it also moved written language toward more stabilized forms across these spaces. It also allowed for literacy in general to become a much more plebeian concept. As education was nationalized and standardized in the 18th and 19th centuries, literacy expanded yet again in


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European spaces, and national languages became even more stable ‘entities’ (Alisjahbana, 1966, 1971). Such explicit and ‘fast-tracked’ planning is something that both Alisjahbana and Moeliono were well aware of in their writings. Both claimed that national planners were attempting to accomplish in a matter of decades what the Western nations had accomplished over centuries (Alisjahbana, 1966, 1974; Anderson, 2006; Moeliono, 1986). As Alisjahbana stated:

It is essential that Indonesia loses no time in catching up with the European languages, which have had time to grow through the centuries by a gradual evolutionary process. If this task is not performed as rapidly as possible, the transfer from Dutch to Indonesian will mean a deterioration in the Indonesian people’s intellectual development.

(1966: 66-67)

And Moeliono later added: it may be concluded that language planning, like planning in other areas of development economics, has as its goal achieving a level of development, in one or two generations, which took hundreds of years in other language communities. Language planning looks farther ahead than descriptive linguistics because within it are included plans leading to language development in directions chosen by the planners. That is, this endeavour does not only predict language changes which will take place, but attempts to influence those changes.

(1986: 7) Moeliono’s descriptions of both the tacit and explicit ideologies and intentions behind the Indonesian language planning process demonstrate what Keane (2003) has described as a declaration of an Indonesian identity separate from the rest of the world, simultaneous with a rendering transparent of the Indonesian national language such that this unique Indonesian identity would be immediately translatable among modern developed nations. And Alisjahbana, it seems, not only wanted to adopt this template but to perfect it, aiming for Indonesian to become one of the ‘most simple and efficient languages of the modern world’ (1974: 414). In the case of Indonesia and Indonesian, the spread and stabilization of an Indonesian language (and the stabilization of local languages, though they have not received the same infrastructural attention) have been executed with a much stronger top-down effort and expedited time frame than the slightly more grassroots, or at least less government-driven, process of European nationalization. As such, language planning and national consolidation in this postcolonial state have been argued and thought about in different ways than the older nations might have experienced. While early Indonesian nationalists clearly did not start from nothing—Malay had long been a lingua franca in the region—and while Indonesian nationalism has clearly not been established without contention, the Indonesian leaders and planners of language, education, and all national infrastructure, were most certainly charged with creating a nation much more actively, and much more quickly, than the way in which European nations had formed.


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Planning nation and language: the rescaling of Indonesian languages in modernity Along with the planning and implementation of the “new” Indonesian language and its new Indonesian state came new language hierarchies and new ideologies of language in the nation. Upon nationalization, Malay-now-Indonesian became the language of the present, of Pancasila, of the future, and of socioeconomic mobility, and Javanese, building on the tradition parfaite, or perfect tradition, image that the priyayi (non-bloodline nobility) classes had already constructed for it (R. Bertrand, 2005; Pemberton, 1994), came to be constructed as representative of practices iconic of a pre-national past (cf. Bauman & Briggs, 2003), in a subnational present (Pemberton, 1994, p. 144). Alisjahbana (1966) would go so far as to say that while Malay’s literature was moving forward and developing in new and innovative ways, largely under influence of the West, the Javanese language’s literature had entirely stagnated, looking almost only to the past. “Javanese” was becoming a language and culture to be performed, but not necessarily to be lived, and this view was aided by the “traditionalization” of Javanese culture established by the priyayi class, who now made up a very large portion of the state’s bureaucrats (R. Bertrand, 2005; Pemberton, 1994). With all these developments first in nationalization, then in a national school system, and amid continuing spread of communication technologies, it is obvious that a re-scaling of language forms has happened since nationalization. Local languages are decreasingly public languages—they are almost never heard on television, and are only rarely read in some small circulation magazines. A standard Indonesian is ubiquitously heard and read, but unequally accessed, and so one’s production and understanding of it indicates levels of access to the standard Indonesian speaking “center”, which is mostly accessed through schooling. Heryanto describes: “Even words and meanings have become ‘scarce’ industrial commodities in a way that would have been unthinkable in the communities of the East Indies archipelago during the 19th century” (2007, p. 54). And so, while top-down rhetoric has made continual claims to (unity in) diversity, top-down efforts have frequently contradicted it, erring more toward the side of unity, as in sameness. As the nation has moved forward technologically, Indonesian has been given free reign to spread far and wide, often at the expense of the use of other languages. Thus despite the discourses of “unity across a maintained linguistic diversity” that began with the foundation of the nation and have been reiterated in the Bhinneka Tunggal Ika slogan as well as at the Indonesian Language Congresses, there is of course the necessity of the tools of language spread for any language that is to thrive, and these tools have largely been devoted to Indonesian and to a primordial national identity constructed through it and through national institutions, even in the post-New Order decentralization era (see also Errington, 1998; Foulcher, 2012; Gellner, 1983). This approach and these ideologies are still reflected in the latest iteration of national language policy, UU24/2009. Additionally, in a section of UU24/2009 titled Pengembangan, Pembinaan, dan Pelindungan Bahasa Indonesia (Development, Expansion and Protection of the Indonesian Language), one article speaks to the status of local languages in service of national displays of a rich and unique Indonesian culture:


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Article 42 (1) Local governments shall develop, enhance, and protect local languages and literatures so that they may continue to fulfill their social positions and functions in community life according to the development of the era and in order to maintain its place within Indonesia’s cultural richness. (2) The development, enhancement, and protection as referred to in paragraph (1) shall be performed gradually, systematically, and sustainably by local governments under the coordination of language institutions. (3) More precise provisions for the development, enhancement, and protection referred to in paragraph (1) shall be stipulated by Government Regulations.

In the interest of nation building, local languages and literatures are to be developed, cultivated, and preserved in service to displays of the unique richness of Indonesia’s cultures. As has been put forward in the ten Indonesian Language Congresses since 1935, though, these local literatures will of course need to be translated into Indonesian so that all of the nation can see their own unified but diverse national identity. This identity is constructed around a portrayal of what Indonesian people are—or were—as a diverse and unique set of ‘proto-modern’ cultures like thosed created in Ibu Tien’s theme park, sharing one unified nationality and language, one body of literature, and one nationalist moral disposition (Anderson, 2006; Bauman & Briggs, 2003; Errington, 1998). Local languages must be ‘translated up’, and even ‘translated forward’, from the past that they live in/are relegated to, to the present and future, which are inhabited only by Indonesian and foreign languages—though the latter also pose a substantial threat to unity: For every op-ed in a national newspaper that warns of English’s spread and its threat to nationalism, there is another that deplores the state of English usage in Indonesia and the threat this poses even domestically for Indonesians’ employment options. Indonesian values are taught through Indonesian, Indonesian’s purity is controlled by language planners, Indonesia’s moral purity and Pancasila principles are only teachable through Indonesian and they are necessarily oppositional to the values of the West—they are inherently and purely Indonesian (Gaylord, 2008)—never “only Javanese”, and certainly never Western. Conclusion The presence and growth of Indonesian/Malay in Indonesia is no miracle, despite the claim that Fishman (1978) once made. Safran (2015) states that no language policy is made ex nihilo, and Ferguson made this case some time ago:

The proponents...seem to show the conviction—although this may not be explicitly stated—that a standard language can simply be legislated into place in a community. Often the trends which will be decisive in the development of a standard language are already at work and have little to do with the argumentation of the spokesmen for the various viewpoints.

(Ferguson, 1959: 339; see also Sonntag & Cardinal, 2015) Indonesian in fact was never not an indigenous or widely spoken language on many of the islands, and it has for centuries been a widespread local language and lingua franca in the archipelago. Since nationalization, though, ‘the Indonesian language’ has been massively re-scaled and (re-)standardized, as have the other (now-called-)languages with which it interacts. This history of re-scaling under nationalism has been of course not just a re-scaling of language


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forms and semiotic registers (Agha, 2005; 2006), but of the fabric of Indonesian life and institutions. Though the idea, in Central Java where I have conducted my fieldwork, that everyone should speak ‘proper’ Javanese kromo is largely a legacy of priyayi gentry staking out their place in Javanese society, and though ridicule of people who do not speak kromo properly has been around for quite some time, this ridicule has now been re-organized. The ‘old-fashioned’ rural people, who used to garner the most ridicule for their language, are now often attributed best knowledge of the Javanese language (and ridicule for their medhok or ndeso—country bumpkin—Indonesian). Their perceived lives on the periphery—a sort of conflation of their location in the desa (countryside) with their location in the past—now makes them the carriers of the flame of formal Javanese, which seems to reside in the past—in ‘old-fashioned’ or ‘simpler’ customs—with them. Now the individuals who speak Javanese lamentably are less frequently rural people, but instead younger generations in urban locations, perhaps especially the well educated ones. The Javanese language is no longer imagined as something boys should know better than girls (Poedjosoedarmo, 2006), or that only certain classes of people should be able to speak. Anyone who goes to school, and is thus removed from a context of Javanese language use for most of their waking hours, now risks being chastised for their lack of proficiency in Javanese. This has led to some difficult identity negotiations for some of the students I worked with: the institutionalization of Indonesian life has re-scaled youths’ daily practices, placing them on a path of upward mobility that frequently leads them far, far away from local language proficiency, and instead toward Indonesian and the nationalist Pancasila principles taught through it. Indonesian as a language, of course, has undergone substantial change, with heavy corpus, status, and acquisition planning (Cooper, 1989; Haugen, 1983; Johnson, 2013), and ‘policy planning (on form) and cultivation planning (on function)’ (Ricento & Hornberger, 1996). All of these activities implicate institutional and behavioral planning along with them; the language planners find themselves nearly powerless without this other planning and institutionalization, especially without a nationalized school system and nationalized media. As institutions have made their way into daily Indonesian life, the Indonesian language has continued to expand into the home and further and deeper into the crevices of people’s and communities’ daily lives. In so doing, the use of Indonesian, a former explicitly thought out act that indexed clearly that one was interacting on a national or nationalist plane of existence (Anderson, 1966), is now increasingly the default, unmarked mode of interaction. As it has transitioned into this position, though, more so in urban spaces, it has also been and continues to be inflected with regional accent, vocabulary, and morpho-syntax, and many of these combinations have become nationally recognizable as salient regional dialects of Indonesian. Regarding the systemic effects of this spread of Indonesian, with the numbers we have seen of speakers of Javanese specifically, it does not seem that a local language as widely spoken as this will go away any time soon, but local languages are losing their place in people’s lives further and faster—and this is, in fact, what some early language planners set out to achieve in spreading Indonesian and nationalism (Fishman, 1978) (and arguably those who did not set out to do so were equally complicit in setting up the nationalist model that would lead to their demise).

In the modern, modular approach to statehood, ‘new states’ (Geertz, 1977) mould themselves based on contemporary views of historical formations in European and North American state structures in the interest of conforming to the economic and political behaviors typical of these same nations, and this is a perpetual game of catch-up. As the West, or the OECD countries, or


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the industrial or post-industrial nations (Heryanto, 1995 addresses this terminology issue) continue to change their policies and practices, the ‘developing’ state is constantly left to adopt them after they have already been written and implemented (well or not) in these ‘advanced’ countries. The nation-state strives to individuate itself among others while entirely ‘fitting in’ by following these practices. All the while, it works internally to create and cultivate an imagined community that agrees wholeheartedly with its premises and is willing to take on the self-discipline and behaviors taught in schools and necessary for proper and obedient citizenship. The foundations for making claims to statehood in Indonesia (as in other nations) were largely informed by the genuine will of a large number of people to be freed from another group that had oppressed them in many ways for far too long. As well, the state’s geographical and political consolidation, and Malay’s archipelago-wide lingua franca status, were basically already in place prior to 1945 after many centuries of trade as well as power shift, transfer, and consolidation. By the second decade of the 20th century at the latest, Indonesia was almost already a ‘natural’ concept. However, this does not dismiss the importance or effectiveness of the often Machiavellian behaviors of the state (Anderson, 1983/2006). The violence and collusion put upon the Indonesian people post-colonially in the interest of consolidating statehood and consent has been quite harmful, and the nation has been united largely at the state’s will, with a combination of both helpful institutionalization and viciously harmful silencing of dissent and various forms of diversity (J. Bertrand, 2004; Heryanto, 2006; Oppenheimer, 2012, 2014, 2015). As Errington (1998) points out, though, none of this ‘forced integration’ in any way dismisses Indonesian nationalism, nor regional identities, as inauthentic. It is not the case that an entire Indonesian nation has been ‘duped’ into buying into their own Indonesianness, nor is it the case that Javanese or other local cultures live only in the past. However, the current symbology of particularly local cultures rarely represents their current-day realities, and I argue that such symbology is instead inherent to postcolonial modernity. My university students in Central Java, while they wore jeans and listened to pop music, told me without hesitation that Javanese culture meant wearing kebayas [Javanese formal skirts and tops], listening to gamelan, and eating rice snacks usually purchasable at off-street vendors that are getting harder and harder to find. That is, local identities are constructed like national ones, with certain sets of symbols of what it means to do being, for example, Javanese; however, these practices are only enacted either at formal ceremonies, in the desa, or increasingly, in the past. And while we have seen that attempts at creating a symbology for what it means to be Indonesian have been successful, author Elizabeth Pisani (2015) cites a conversation she had with anthropologist Edward Aspinall, who claimed that maybe the actual most real and unifying aspect of Indonesian culture is simply its bureaucracy. Ariel Heryanto describes, as well, that the actions based on these ideologies have backfired as the nation has developed and integrated into the international community:

…having claimed to liberate millions of people from ‘backwardness’ and to bring equity, democracy and enlightenment, Development and more recently neo-liberalism have evidently led them to another series of alienation, disempowerment and dependence, this time of an even greater scale [than the inequity in Javanese culture prior to nationalization]. Once ‘liberated’ from their vernacularity, Javanese or Malay words can


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now be translated into any industrial languages across the globe; the speakers become ostensibly ‘free’ individual wanderers whose labour is theoretically but never wholly freely exchangeable in the ruthless market.

(2007: 53) And so the state marches on, continuing its attempts to nationalize, unify, develop and modernize, continually planning its language and culture over and over, and forever playing catch-up with its Western antithetical counterparts.


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