First class and Borobudur!

This blog post will be challenging, mainly because there is so much to convey!  I met my class for the first time Wednesday, and from the very first moment, they were welcoming to say the least.  Even after pulling "all-nighters" to finish papers from their last semester, they seemed bright, energetic, and really open to learning.  One student described what he has been learning at the Center for Religious and Cross-Cultural Studies, as being like "heaven" for him, because at least some have come from strict religious backgrounds where discussion, understanding, seeking are not in the forefront.  And the diversity of the class--from places like Aceh, Sumatra, Medan, Madura--was evident, from the islands that make up this vast and incomprehensible country.  These are only names to me because I have not been to any of these "outer islands."  But a very good book I have been reading before the trip, called Indonesia, Etc., by Elisabeth Pisano, does give a fascinating account of her tour through these islands, that make her describe this island of Java as "The Other Indonesia."  I downloaded the Kindle version after arriving, and still find it good reading.

Climbing the steps of Borobudur at the end of the procession

 Then, in the afternoon, we went to Borobudur, which you may know as one of the greatest "stupas," like Buddhist temples for holding relics, in the world, second only to Angkor Wat.  The structure itself is phenomenal, but having many villages represented in colorful performances, and a final half-dancing, half-walking procession to the  temple made the whole event even more awe-inspiring.  I was moved to be included in the groups making their way in order to say that the land and temple are too sacred, and should not be destroyed by more development of the site.  Already, many people were displaced by the restoration of this magnificent place.  If you get a chance, do look it up on the internet.  I am sensing more ecological consciousness here than five years ago; or perhaps there is more in this city than in the Dutch colonial city of Malang, where I lived before.  On the other hand, many things seem to be changing here, in small and sometimes consequential ways.

The trip to Borobudur in the CRCS van gave me a chance to get to know and actually bond with the students over the five or more hours of travel, meals, and time witnessing the performances.  I will leave my impressions for another blog, as this one is getting too long.  Their kindness is obvious from this photo of Sister Elizabeth treating me to fresh coconut.

 

Leaving the Bubble

Tomorrow I begin my teaching, the real reason I have come to Indonesia again.  This time I have been given the privilege and challenge of teaching my own course, one called "Religion, Women, and Literature."  I am excited, and a bit apprehensive.

  This also means I am leaving the bubble of the hotel, a rather gargantuan one, much too large for my taste and too removed from everyday life, for a place in a house with a family that was arranged beforehand by my friend and companion, Nelly van Doorn-Harder.  I met the family, "Oma," the mother of Farsijana, Margaret, or "Iit," the sister, and some assorted helpers, one a driver and two cooks and cleaners.  To say they were kind and hospitable is to put it too mildly.  Their kindness was overwhelming and disarmingly sincere.  They had been praying for us to arrive safely, and prayed with us before we left.  Living with the family will give me a chance to practice my "bahasa," the word for "language," which implicitly refers to the Indonesian language.

  It has been hard to keep up with this blog because so much is happening, and because the jet lag keeps me from being alert enough to think.  But a few days ago I met the woman who  will be the guest lecturer for my class.  Her name is Dewi, and she edits a journal for women.  Her brother drove and accompanied us to a fine organic restaurant.  He works at an NGO which helps battered women as well as those who have been trafficked.  I am so impressed with these people, and seem to be meeting more activists in this country than I had met five years ago.  Tomorrow, after the first class, I am invited to go to Borobudur, the enormous Buddhist stupa, where a ceremony held by villagers will demonstrate their desire to preserve the land from further development and expansion of this ancient site.  I sense so much more consciousness of these values of gender equality and ecological harmony.

 In the next blog I will report on my first class and the students, as well as the trip to Borobudur.  That ought to take up several blogs, but one will have to do, if I am to be faithful to this.

At long last, I am taking up this blog again, having just arrived back in this mysterious but wonderful country of Indonesia after five years absence.  This time, I will be teaching at the Center for Religious and Cross-Cultural Studies of the University of Gadjah Mada.  I can only say, what a great opportunity!  The joy, the learning, the experience, will be mine, as I propose to offer something of what I know to these really very dear, interesting people.  But more of that to come.
  After what can only be described as a long and grueling trip, about 30 hours in the air, I was in Jakarta for one night in order to have a security briefing of just one hour offered by the American Indonesian Exchange Foundation, which governs the Fulbright program here.  If this sounds complicated already, it is certainly that for me, as I have had to wend my way through various bureaucratic agencies, not all in sync with one another, much less with me.
 But as I arrived on the last leg of the four-part flights, in Jogyakarta, a city in Central Java, I was greeted last night by one of my counterparts here, Pak Anchu, as he calls himself, though his real name is longer.  Indonesians seem to like being called by names that have nothing to do with their real names.  I had been writing him, assuming he was just an administrator, only to find out on the ride from the airport that he holds a doctorate from a good American university, and his specialization is indigenous religions.
 Right now, I am settled in a luxurious hotel, the Hotel Tentrem, so it is hard to believe that this is really a developing country, with so much poverty around.  As if the accommodations, and international foods of the breakfast were not enough, my companions for this part of the stay have decided on a spa trip this afternoon.  Good massages and facials are part of the culture, so I shouldn't feel so guilty about going along and treating myself.  I hope I won't get too used to it!
Well, if you have read this far, I will ask your indulgence for these ramblings on my first full day, after the sleepless nights and jet lag have taken their toll.  I hope to be more alert and have more to say as time goes on.  Your questions and feedback would be helpful too, dear reader. Enough for now.  Maria

Alam (Nature) Islamic School in Banguwangi

The Banguwangi “Alam” (Natural) Islamic School: “The Character School”

 On the way back from Bali and Banguwangi, at the far end of the island of Java, I visited this very special alternative Islamic school.  It calls itself (in English) the “Character School,” specializing in “leadership, religion, language, and science.”  To say I was greeted warmly would be an understatement.  As I got out of the car, I was surrounded by somewhere between 35 to 40 students, even on a Sunday, a holiday for most schools here.  The staff member driving the university car remarked, “you are famous here, like a movie star.”  But what was overwhelmingly touching was the way each student gave me a “selaman” greeting, taking hands to their heads first and then to the heart.  I was speechless.  My friend and colleague, Habib, had arranged all this, because he has taken an interest in this school from the start.  We then proceeded to open the boxes of books that I and others had donated.  I saw the headmaster brush away tears from his eyes as he held a Qur’an I had given.  (I did not get a chance to tell him that a friend in Bosnia had given it to me after she came back from the Hajj.)  After opening the boxes, the teachers and headmaster asked me to give a little speech (this is done regularly here in Indonesia, and public speaking is an emphasis at the school.)  I don’t know what I said, but I wanted to convey how happy I was to share these English-language books with them, and that I would like to come back and hear them tell me in English what they have learned.  

Habib told me on the long trip through East Java afterwards that, “The School makes the students more creative, more independent, more innovative, since they learn by themselves, not because of the teachers.”  It is an alternative to the madrassahs and “pesantrens” (special Indonesian boarding schools that have traditionally taught reciting the Qur’an and only recently added a fuller curriculum).  What distinguishes this school is that it is open to all students, regardless of their ability to pay.  In fact, it is famous in the media for being the school where parents can pay with vegetables.  Each Monday the students bring vegetables from their families to cook for the week.  The students even cook by themselves.  When students do not have money to pay, they are welcome to come, and the school tries to find sponsors for students who cannot pay.  The school does not need expensive facilities like big buildings, and does not even need classrooms. The teachers are motivators, not teachers.  That is why they spend less money.  The group with the student leader sets the lesson plan, and the group evaluates the plan.  On the exams, their grades are not so high, but above average, but the advantage is they are more self-confident, and have more facility in English and in Arabic.  When they continue their study to senior high school, they can work as tutors because they have acted as mentors to other students in their elementary school.  Their skill in mentoring is more important than the scores on their subjects.  They become trained as trainers; from the beginning they are sent to other schools to be mentors to students of the same age.  When they graduate from the school, they are really self-confident mentors.  Even in everyday life, they feel everybody should have an opportunity to be a leader in the group.  Not only in learning, but also in praying. They have to be ready to be imams.  Class is community-based.  Every week the leader changes.  

Of course the school, taking children aged six to twelve, is Islamic and at the same time stresses  “generous character” open to global insights.   It is inclusive, open, not exclusive, and welcome to the poor.  Not fundamentalist.  In their studies, the teachers and students try to strike a balance between religious education and life skills that will be useful in religion, society and the nation.  As Habib has often said, Indonesia is still a feudal society, so the emphasis on independence and creativity is hugely needed in a country and culture where innovative thinking is not prized, and people expect to follow orders.  I hope that in the future I and others of like mind will be able to contribute in some small way to this school.   “Selaman.”

The Thousandth Day

Last night I was invited, along with Fr. Joseph, the director of the St. Joseph Retreat House, to attend what is considered the three-year of thousand day anniversary of the death of a spouse.  Some say this is old Javanese custom, commemorating first the fortieth day, then the hundredth, the one year, and finally the thousandth day since the death of the loved one.  As we arrived in the large music studio where Mrs. Cecelia Tolus and her husband have conducted their teaching in all kinds of musical instruments, we were led into a room where an altar was decked in flowers, and where somehow it smelled funereal.  There was no body, however, only a picture of the husband, and three pictures beside his, one of his mother, one of his brother and one of his sister, all of whom had also passed away.  Our only ritual act at this point was to take flowers from trays arranged in front of the photo, and put them in a box to be taken to the graveside this morning.  After a time of chatting among the guests, some two hundred of them, a group of us remained for a memorial Mass.  All these people were there to support Cecilia, who told us that she was both happy and sad that night, and her face really showed it.  Cecilia, now one of my good friends here in Bali, had already shared with me at her house some thoughts she had written, in which she put into writing much of what she has been learning from the words of Neale Donald Walsch, that death is not the end, and that with every loss there is something of a gift to be discovered.  The priest who offered the Mass told an interesting story (translated for me by Fr. Joseph) that when he left the seminary in Malaysia he was told he would be working among the Bataks (I think that’s the right ethnic group but there are so many!) who are people of the “long house.”  They have always made their houses one long house, where people can come and go and be connected.  Now, they are making separations, putting up walls, changing the character of their life together.  All this relates to the point made so well in a book I have been reading about Java that I will quote it here.  The book is A Shadow Falls in the Heart of Java by Andrew Beatty, an English anthropologist who lived over several years in a small village in east Java with his family.  Here are his words about leaving the village life and returning to what was once “normal” :

"In the village, daily life was shared.  You grew up with people, attended their weddings and prayer-meals, shared their misfortunes, helped dig their graves.  And at every waking moment they were around: tending the next field, sweeping the yard, sitting on your doorstep in the evenings.  As you fell asleep you could hear their coughs and murmurs through the wall.  Their presence was the inescapable condition of your existence.  I was always we. In death or life, nobody was every really alone.  If you moved to a different part of the village, our old ties fell away but there would be others just as strong.  It wasn't depth or continuity that counted but the sustaining presence of others, like Frost's silken tent.  One could drift between families and neighbourhoods, marry and remarry, but the gentle embrace of the community was constant.

In the West,--or perhaps simply out of the village--you pursued your 'own life.'  Of course, you had friends and relatives and at regular moments your lives overlapped with theirs, but your path was separate.  An individual destiny, with goals and obstacles, life was 'what you made of it.'

We knew what it would be like to return to the isolation and boundedness of the nuclear family:  an adjustment of shape; a shock for the children; separate lives.  . . .  We had nothing to go back to, no jobs or settled life, nothing planned: it was too soon."

Those are Andrew Beatty's words, but as I end my Indonesian journey, I can relate to them in my own life, and, to my surprise, even as I look toward leaving here, I also contemplate returning, and making a place for myself that is not separate.

"Quiet Saturday" and Easter

My blog would not be complete without finishing the journey through Flores, including what is called "Quiet Saturday," the day between Good Friday and Easter.  On that morning, we left the cathedral grounds in Larentuka, but paid a visit to a shrine dedicated to a Monsignor Mannick, a bishop from Indonesia who ended up serving the Native Americans in Colorado and whose body has been miraculously preserved.  This preservation thing is such a Catholic phenomenon, and in many ways my contact with the Catholic community here has taken me back to the American Catholic Church of about fifty years ago.  Outside the shrine, the sisters who tend it told me that he left Indonesia because of a conflict within his order, and that is the kind of sanctity, a difficult and  messy one, that I can relate to.  We paused for photos with the sisters and their pumpkin produce, and then packed into the bus for the journey westward, pausing at an incredibly beautiful beach, Wayterang Beach, along the way.

As on the other days of riding the bus, we laughed and prayed our way along the steep and narrow highway taking us westward to a Carmelite retreat house at Mauloo.  We arrived in time for a quick "shower," (meaning hand dips with cold water), and went to the church for the Easter Vigil Mass.  What made it poignantly beautiful for me were the young girls dressed in long skirts and sashes, swaying to gentle rhythms of a music not unlike Hawaiian.
  On Sunday after Mass (which I missed having "slept in" till 6:40 AM), we piled into the bus for one last ride to Ende, our starting point for the flight home.  That night we had what seemed luxurious accommodations in a hotel after such primitive, insect-ridden rooms.  The next morning four of us rented a car and drove along another beautiful beach outside Ende, and then up into a "kampung," village, where people of Flores live their lives as they have for hundreds of years, and where everything revolves around the church life.  At the very end of our journey, after the flight home, we arrived back at our retreat house in Bali.  To our surprise, there was a feast waiting for us, complete with whole roast pig.  Then came the Balinese dancers, beautifully attired in off-shoulder (no head-scarves in Bali) flowing dresses with wide capes at the sides.  The Bali dancers finished their dance, and then before I knew what happened, I was invited to go up and dance with them.  I see that invitation and dance as a good metaphor for the end of my time here in Bali and in Indonesia generally.  The hand of the Bali dancer beckons: "Come join the dance."  And I will.  I am ending my time here in a much better place than when I started.  I am ready for the dance.  

The Parish Councils At Carmel Retreat House, Bali

I am once again enjoying the beauty and peace of the mountains of Bali; I could almost feel guilty at being offered such a paradise this close to my return to the States.  But I am soaking it in, including the feeling of being family here, of belonging.  This morning, I had been asked by Fr. Joseph to give a talk to the leaders of parish councils, all men (!) who had come for the weekend.  I had been hearing their laughter wafting periodically from the conference room next to my room.  I knew my talk on “Christianity and Human Rights” and the situation in Indonesia, far short of upholding the rights of the minorities, would not be laughable.  But they were great good listeners, despite our language barrier (I still have not mastered the language enough to speak and even understand questions in Indonesian).  I had a very good translator, two in fact!  The most interesting part came in the questions period when one man described having been a leader of his Muhammadiyah Muslim youth group while in school, then going into a church and seeing a statue of Jesus holding a lamb (the Good Shepherd) and wanting to study Catholic teachings.  When he signed up for the Catholic classes, he said everybody, including the headmaster, hated him.  He went on to study to be a catechist, and even considered the priesthood.  Another man told of being part of an interreligious dialogue begun in Bali after the Bali bombings, and how the top-down approach, beginning with religious leaders, was having an effect.  Finally, a man who described himself as a policeman spoke, telling a gripping tale of violence when a Catholic policeman was defamed by someone in East Timor (no longer part of Indonesia, but a country that won independence through a bloody rebellion against the government of Indonesia).  He described a Catholic mob that was out of control, attacking and burning Muslim homes and markets.  He told them at one point they would have to kill him first if they wanted to keep on burning down homes.  Then he put the Muslim people in the police barracks to keep them safe.  The men asked me at one point for a solution to all this, and my only response could be to have the religious leaders, now so powerful in the political sphere, speak out forcefully of the forgiveness and mercy and justice at the heart of each religious tradition.  I told them my personal story of having my research proposal turned down by the Ministry of Research last summer, and that my director at the American-Indonesian Exchange Foundation, Nellie Paliama, had confided in me finally a couple weeks ago it was because they feared “Christianization.”  These are some of the realities of the complexity and intractability that is Indonesia.  I can only hope that pointing to the problems rather than covering them up will help make a difference.