Demanding Images: Democracy, Mediation, and the Image-Event in Indonesia 147800469X, 9781478004691

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DEMANDING IMAGES

KAREN STRASSLER



DEMAND Democracy, Mediation, and the



ING IMAGES Image-­E vent in Indonesia

Duke University Press  Durham and London  2020

© 2020 Duke University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-­free paper ∞ Designed by Courtney Leigh Baker Typeset in Minion Pro and Trade Gothic by Copperline Book Services Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Strassler, Karen, [date] author. Title: Demanding images : democracy, mediation, and the image-event in Indonesia / Karen Strassler. Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2019016284 (print) lccn 2019981100 (ebook) isbn 9781478004691 (paperback) isbn 9781478004080 (hardcover) isbn 9781478005544 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Photography—Political aspects—Indonesia. | Photography—Social aspects—Indonesia. Classification: lcc tr184. s66 2020 (print) | lcc tr184 (ebook) | ddc 770.9598—dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019016284 lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019981100 Cover art: Open Your Mouth, 2002. Photo etching. 57 × 219 cm. © F. X. Harsono. Courtesy the artist and the National Gallery of Indonesia.

CONTENTS

Preface · vii  Acknowledgments · xi Introduction. The Eventfulness of Images · 3 One. Face Value · 33 Two. The Gender of Transparency · 67 Three. The Scandal of Exposure · 95 Four. Naked Effects · 133 Chapter Five. Street Signs · 169 Conclusion. The Eye of the Crowd · 221 Notes · 247  Bibliography · 299  Index · 319

Color photo essay can be found on pages xv – xxxi.

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PREFACE

Leila Chudori’s novel, Pulang (2012), or Home, begins with a scene set in Jakarta in 1968.1 Hananto has been in hiding, trying to elude the army’s relentless pursuit of Communists and leftists after an alleged coup attempt in late 1965.2 A former journalist, Hananto has spent several months working in a photo studio whose owner kindly took him in. Concealed in the darkroom, he prints the identity photographs that people need for official documents proving they are “clean” of dangerous political affiliations. When four men enter the studio and ask for him by name, the journalist, alone in the darkness, knows he has nowhere left to run. Hananto is led away and ultimately executed. Indonesia’s authoritarian New Order regime (1966 – 98) began with a purge of Communists and those alleged to be associated with them that left an estimated five hundred thousand to one million people dead and hundreds of thousands more imprisoned. The opening of the novel stages the terror of the regime’s early years, which stifled Indonesia’s once vibrant and contentious arena of public debate and initiated a panoptic dystopia in which the state’s gaze penetrated into the most intimate arenas of daily life. As readers of this opening scene, we feel the claustrophobic enclosure of a regime of surveillance in which only the state’s image of its citizens, epitomized in the identity photograph, can come into view.3 But in the remainder of the novel, a different visual technology emerges as a counter to the New Order’s metaphorical darkroom. Lintang, the novel’s young protagonist, is the child of a friend and former colleague of Hananto who was forced into exile by the coup. Born and raised in Paris, and now a college student, Lintang decides to go “home” to Indonesia to make a documentary film about the anticommunist purges that so profoundly changed her father’s life and shaped her own. It is spring 1998, and Indonesia is on the cusp of another political tran­ sition. Students are already demonstrating in the streets when Lintang ar-

rives in Jakarta to record accounts of the purges that killed her father’s best friend. Her task is to document a history “erased from the pages of textbooks,” a history that “has never been written.”4 Via documentary film, she will uncover this “buried” history and open up a “place and a space for those whose voices have all this time been silenced.”5 Lintang sets to work interviewing former prisoners, but her growing romantic relationship with Hananto’s son, a passionate activist, draws her into the contemporary drama of the pro-­democracy “Reformasi” movement. Lintang is there when the military opens fire on protesting students in a climactic moment that will lead precipitously to the end of the New Order regime.6 Despite the risks, Lintang instinctively raises her video camera to record the scene. It is a moment — of opening, of possibility, and of danger — that demands images. Chudori’s novel tracks a shift mirrored in my own research trajectory. I had planned, in my dissertation, to study how family memories embedded in personal photography collections offered historical narratives, identities, and dispositions toward the past that were suppressed under, or simply oblique to, those officially promoted by the authoritarian New Order regime. But on the very day in May 1998 that I found out I had received funding to support my research, Jakarta erupted in violent protests that quickly led to President Suharto’s resignation. During my dissertation fieldwork (November 1998 to July 2000), in the immediate aftermath of the New Order regime, I was intensely aware of the explosion not only of amateur documentary film production but also of other media through which images were circulating along new, more decentralized circuits, helping to shape an emerging postauthoritarian public sphere. I was so struck by the confluence of a moment of political opening with a diversifying media landscape that when I returned from the field, the first piece I sat down to write was not part of my dissertation but the germ of what would become chapter 1 of this book.7 While Refracted Visions: Popular Photography and National Modernity in Java (2010), the book that grew out of my dissertation, examined a late colonial and postcolonial history of the making of Indonesian subjects via intimate, popular photographic practices, Demanding Images moves to a more public arena to think about images as events central to the formation of contested political imaginaries in an exciting but anxious time of transition. Chudori’s novel effectively captures the zeitgeist of the Reformasi moment, which would continue to color Indonesia’s experiment with democracy over the next decade and a half. That Chudori’s heroine is a budding filmmaker, and that the thematic of documentary in the novel links the recovery of historical memory to aspirations for democracy, is no coincidence.8 viii Preface

The medium of documentary film — with its promise of authentic truths grounded in indexical recording, its accessible mode of production, and its ability to circulate beyond state control — became emblematic of Reformasi ideals of transparency, authenticity, the free circulation of information, and popular participation.9 In Pulang, Chudori renders a shift in technologies of image making iconic of the transition from authoritarian rule to a new, more open public sphere. Her novel articulates the ways that images and the media technologies by which they are produced and circulated would become invested with pragmatic efficacy and symbolic weight in the contested envisioning of a new era of Indonesian democracy. It is this process that Demanding Images explores.

Preface  ix

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost I thank the many people in Indonesia whose creativity, commitment, intelligence, and humor inspired me to write these pages. It is established practice in ethnographic writing to use pseudonyms to protect the identities of those about whom we write. There are, of course, important reasons for this convention, but in this book I have more often used real names for several reasons. Because this is an ethnography of the public sphere, the events described in these pages were largely public events whose participants are a matter of public record. Many of the people about whom I write and whose ideas inform my analysis are intellectuals and professionals (artists, professors, journalists, activists, writers, and so on) who have spoken publicly about the matters they discussed with me and should be credited with the insights and images they so generously shared. Using real names also avoids one unfortunate effect of the conventional use of pseudonyms: the reinforcing of an asymmetrical relationship between ethnographer and interlocutor in which the contributions of those we study become subsumed into the authoritative voice of the anthropologist, erasing the dialogical production of ethnographic knowledge. Writing this book has been an effort to think with, and not merely about, Indonesians as they seek to imagine and realize a more democratic public sphere. In addition to those who names appear in the pages that follow, I wish to thank my research assistant and friend of many years, Nita Kariani Purwanti, without whom this book would not have been possible. Nita kept a steady stream of newspaper clippings, exhibition catalogues, obscure books, and other invaluable materials headed my way during the years I was unable to travel to Indonesia, helped my family settle in Yogyakarta during my sabbatical in 2013, and remains someone whose perspective I always seek. Fadjar Thufail kindly arranged sponsorship of my research by Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia in 2013. Many other friends and colleagues in Indonesia

contributed their time and insights to this project. To all of you who helped me in ways large and small, I can only say, “Terima kasih.” At home, my greatest debt is to Mary Margaret Steedly and Patricia Spyer. A Hrdy postdoctoral fellowship at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology and the Harvard University Anthropology Department from 2003 to 2005 as part of their collaborative project, “Signs of Crisis in Southern Asia,” provided the critical intellectual space for this project’s incubation. Our many conversations over the years about images, media, and Indonesian publics profoundly enriched this book, and I am grateful for Mary and Patsy’s critical engagement with and support for this project from start to finish. Mary read the final manuscript with characteristic generosity and intelligence; I so wish she had lived to hold the finished book in her hands. I thank my colleagues at Queens College and the cuny Graduate Center. I am lucky to work with people I both like and respect, and I am grateful to them for making teaching, advising, and administrative work a genuinely collective endeavor. I thank my students for reminding me why our work matters. I wish especially to recognize Hazal Corak, Shima Houshyar, Zehra Husain, and China Sajadian, who insightfully commented on the manuscript as it neared completion. Chinonye Alma Otuonye ably assisted with the bibliography. Thanks to Ken Wissoker and the skilled editors and designers at Duke University Press who ushered this book along its long journey to publication. I thank Jan Williams for expertly crafting the book’s index. I am honored to have the artist FX Harsono’s Open Your Mouth (2002) on the book’s cover. A striking example of a demanding image, the piece vividly questions the freedoms of the post-Suharto democratic public sphere and its consumerist media culture. Earlier versions of several of the chapters of Demanding Images have appeared in print. Chapter 1 began as “Currency and Fingerprints: Authentic Reproductions and Political Communication in Indonesia’s ‘Reform Era.’ ” Indonesia 70 (2000): 71 – 82, and then was further developed as, “The Face of Money: Crisis, Currency, and Remediation in Post-­Suharto Indonesia,” Cultural Anthropology 24, no. 1 (February 2009): 68 – 103. An earlier version of chapter 2 appeared as “Gendered Visibilities and the Dream of Transparency: The Chinese-­Indonesian Rape Debate in Post-­Suharto Indonesia,” Gender and History 16, no. 4 (2004): 689 – 725. Chapter 3 began as “The Multi-­Media Expert, Pakar Telematika,” in “Figures of Modernity in Post-­ Suharto Indonesia,” a multiauthored essay edited by Joshua Barker and Joxii Acknowledgments

han Lindquist in Indonesia 87 (Spring 2009): 35 – 72, and was also published as “Telecommunication and Multimedia Expert, Pakar Telematika dan Multi­ media,” in Figures of Southeast Asian Modernity, edited by Joshua Barker, Erik Harms, and Johan Lindquist (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2013), 179 – 84. I thank the anonymous reviewers and editors for all of these publications. I also thank the members of audiences at Harvard University, Yale University, Brandeis University, the University of Washington, the University of California, Berkeley, the University of California, Los Angeles, Northwestern University, the cuny Graduate Center, Leiden University, Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, and Gadjah Mada University, as well as the members of numerous conference panels who commented on papers that later became chapters. I could not have hoped for a more generous and brilliant group of women among whom to begin this book than the members of the “Cambridge Writing Circle”: Jennifer Cole, Smita Lahiri, Ajantha Subramanian, Anne Marie Leshkowich, Christine Walley, and Janet McIntosh. At the end of the writing process, the “North Square Writing Circle,” with Omri Elisha and Ayala Fader, provided another ideal setting within which to share and refine ideas. Bookending this project, these writing groups epitomize what I most appreciate about academic life: the collaborative spirit with which we help each other become better thinkers and writers. Many other colleagues have read drafts, responded to talks, or engaged in discussions that helped develop my thinking. I will not be able to name all, but think especially of Clarissa Adamson, Ilisa Barbash, Joshua Barker, Lucien Castaing-­Taylor, Elizabeth Ferry, Pamila Gupta, Jeffrey Hadley, Rachel Heiman, James Hoesterey, Carla Jones, Brian Larkin, Doreen Lee, Johan Lindquist, William Mazzarella, Rosalind Morris, Penelope Papailias, Christopher Pinney, Anupama Rao, Geoffrey Robinson, and Danilyn Rutherford. I am especially grateful to Webb Keane, who has contributed in innumerable generative ways to this book and who has, from the days of writing my dissertation until the completion of this book, continued to challenge me to be more rigorous in my thinking and more assertive in my claims. Mani Limbert and Laura Kunreuther have been with this project every step of the way, helping me to imagine its architecture and think through its granular details. As she has done since the days of writing our undergraduate theses together, Rachel Sherman helped me to clarify and hone my arguments. I thank my dear friends Bibi Calderaro and Julio Grinblatt for lending their artists’ eyes and helping me to think creatively about the book’s design. At a critical juncture when I had despaired of ever finishing the book, Zeynep Acknowledgments  xiii

Gürsel pushed, cajoled, and emboldened me to put my work out into the world. Our conversations about photography keep me excited about what I do. Over the long years of work on this book, friends and family members patiently listened to my evolving descriptions of the project and provided much needed respite from it. The period spent writing Demanding Images coincided with the most consuming phase of parenting (indeed, it strikes me that the book’s title may gesture to the way the book so often compelled my attention amid the competing demands of family life). I might never have completed it if not for the loving and capable women who helped us care for our two sons over these years, especially Lorna Motilal, Indra Motilal, Basha Smolen, Novy Linasari, and Tracy Sheffield. My parents, Robert and Toni, my brother Matthew, and everyone else I consider family, continue to make my world as secure and happy a place as one could hope for in these times. Leo and Caleb have filled the space around this book with vibrant life, and Dave’s kindness, humor, curiosity, and infectious optimism buoy me at every turn.

xiv Acknowledgments

P L AT E 1 . Typifying the layered and dialogic aesthetic of street art, this wall features street art by multiple artists, including Digie Sigit, Love Hate Love, and Mosters Logos (see chapter 5). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 2 . Becak (pedicab) driver reading a newspaper while waiting for clients, with faded money sticker featuring Megawati Sukarnoputri (see chapter 1). Another version of the sticker appears below, plate 8. Yogyakarta 1999. Photo by the author. P L AT E 3 . “My era was better, wasn’t it? Hah!” street art mural by Here Here. This riposte to the popular Suharto image (see plates 11 and 25) was part of a collaborative anticorruption mural (see introduction and chapter 5). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 4 . “Scribbles” on the surface of an urban residence (see chapter 5), Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

Widely circulated stills from a sex scandal involving a member of Parliament and a singer, 2006 (see chapter 3). From https://windede.com/2006/12/04/kesialan -sempurna-yahya-maria/.

P L AT E 5 .

P L AT E 6 . Still from a television news report, “Controversy: Nude Photos of AnjasIsabel,” showing inset detail from Pinkswing Park (see chapter 4). The report aired on the sctv crime and entertainment show Kritis: Kriminal & Selebritis (Critic: Criminal and Celebrity). From http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3v5VI4ti1g (posted February 10, 2006; accessed September 30, 2013). P L AT E 7 . Tweeted crowd-selfie, from the Two Fingers Salute Concert, Jakarta, July 4, 2014. The text reads in part: “Last night I truly got goose bumps and nearly cried, seeing the people who all showed up voluntarily” (see conclusion). P L AT E 8 . Widely circulated money sticker featuring Megawati Sukarnoputri, 1999. Her father, Sukarno, first president of Indonesia and nationalist icon, appears as the watermark authenticating the bill (see chapter 1). Collection of the author. P L AT E 9 . Mural by Alit Ambara, Samuel Indratma, Ong Harry Wahyu, and Butet Kertaradjasa with the multiplied face of slain human-rights leader Munir Said Thalib. Munir was assassinated in 2004. The mural’s imagery recalls the poem “Flowers and Wall” by poet-activist Wiji Thukul, who was disappeared by the New Order regime in 1998: “If we were flowers / you are the wall / but in the body of the wall we have spread seeds” (see introduction and chapter 5). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 1 0 . “Refuse to Forget” Munir posters by Antitank (see introduction and chapter 5), Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 1 1 . Books about politics and corruption for sale in a bookstore reflect the flourishing of publishing after 1998 and the centrality of corruption as a theme of public discourse (see introduction and chapter 3). Note the “How’s it going?” Suharto image on the cover of one of the books. Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 1 2 . “Return Them!” poster, demanding the return of missing Reformasi activists (see chapter 2), Yogyakarta, 1998. Photo by the author.

P L AT E 1 3 . Comparison of photographs indicating that the model Sophia Latjuba was not actually nude in a controversial photograph taken by Hani Moniaga and published on the cover of the magazine Popular (see chapters 3 and 4). From “Beda, Foto Sensual dan Porno, analisis RM Roy Suryo,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 18, 1999. P L AT E 1 4 . “Is There Any Love Left in Indonesia?” Street art by Abimanyu. Framed by a tangle of graffiti, a mural shows a fearful young girl crouching between the silhouettes of security forces on one side and criminal gangs on the other. Not long after this photo was taken, graffiti encroached on the image itself (see chapter 5). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 1 5 . Arrested for causing a traffic jam during a protest action, students turn their appearance in court into a visual protest against Suharto’s ongoing impunity. This image of students masked as a smiling Suharto appeared as an illustration for several news stories (see chapter 1). From “Luhut MP Pangaribuan Soal Topeng di Persidangan: Wibawa Peradilan Telah Runtuh,” Kompas, June 25, 1999. P L AT E 1 6 . A severed foot floats amid partially obscured graffiti tags, one example of the impossibility of parsing “scribbles” (corat-coretan) from “art” (see chapter 5). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 1 7 . An image allegedly of the actress Sukma Ayu, to which a censoring mark has been added. It was part of a series of intimate sexual images, said to originate from a cell phone, that circulated widely in 2004. The images’ authenticity and public circulation became a matter of public debate and scandal (see chapter 3). From www. sukma-bjah.cjb.net (accessed August 24, 2004). P L AT E 1 8 . A Muslim women’s group demonstrating against pornography at the Hotel Indonesia roundabout in Jakarta (see chapter 4). Such protests, images of which were widely reproduced on television and in newspapers, were frequent in the years leading up to the passage of the 2008 Pornography Law. From “Aksi Damai Menentang Pornografi,” Kompas, August 12, 2005. Photo by Kompas/Agus Susanto. P L AT E 1 9 . Tweet by photographer Arbain Rambey showing Jay Subyakto photographing presidential candidate Jokowi’s campaign concert and the resulting photograph, July 5, 2014. The caption reads: “This is Jay Subyakto’s position at the moment he took the photograph” (see conclusion). P L AT E 2 0 .

author.

Newspapers for sale, Yogyakarta, 2013 (see introduction). Photo by the

P L AT E 2 1 . Still from a television news report on the Pinkswing Park “pornography” case, showing images of Anjasmara and Isabel Yahya that have been pixelated to censor their apparent nudity (see chapter 4). From “Anjasmara dan Abel Diperiksa Polisi,” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OiwonjQBHAI (posted February 5, 2006; accessed September 30, 2013). P L AT E 2 2 . Jokowi and his crowd, Two Finger Salute Concert, Jakarta, July 4, 2014 (see conclusion). Photo by Jay Subyakto, reproduced with permission.

P L AT E 2 3 . A playful elephant emerges from a palimpsest of urban inscriptions, Yogyakarta, 2013 (see chapter 5). Photo by the author.

A street banner proclaims, “Eradicate Preman [Thugs/Criminal Gangs], including those who wear the mask of religion, down to their roots.  — Yogyakartans against Violence and against Premanism” (see chapter 5). Yogykarta 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 2 4 .

P L AT E 2 5 . T-shirts for sale on the street. One features an iconic image of Indonesia’s nationalist hero, Sukarno, who was president from 1945 until 1966. The other shows General Suharto, who removed Sukarno from office and ruled as president from 1966 to 1998. The image of the waving Suharto reads, “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it?” (see introduction). Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. P L AT E 2 6 . During his presidential campaign in 2014, Jokowi was often alleged to be a puppet of more established and powerful figures, particularly Megawati Sukarnoputri, leader of the Democratic Indonesia Party for Struggle and daughter of former president Sukarno. This ludic meme visually literalizes the idea of Jokowi as Megawati’s puppet (see conclusion); compare Sukarno as the power behind Megawati in the equally ludic, but less cynical, Megawati money sticker (plate 8 and chapter 1).

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This mural presents multiple images of the face of slain human rights activist Munir Said Thalib within a composition that suggests organic growth and proliferation (see also figure I.15 and plate 9). Mural by Alit Ambara, Samuel Indratma, Ong Harry Wahyu, and Butet Kertaradjasa. Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

INTRODUCTION

THE EVENTFULNESS OF IMAGES

In 2013, an image of Indonesia’s former president Suharto began to circulate on the streets of Java. Affixed as a sticker to car bumpers and windows, appearing on book covers and in online memes, printed on T-­shirts and sold as a poster by street vendors, the image showed the long-­ruling autocrat smiling cheerfully and waving, with a text that read in colloquial Javanese, “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it?” (see figures I.1 through I.5; plates 11 and 25).1 Fifteen years earlier, during the upsurge of popular protest in 1998 known as “Reformasi” (Reform), protestors had defiantly burned President Suharto’s near ubiquitous official portrait; after he stepped down, people gleefully cast it in the garbage. The aging strongman had found power slipping from his grip as a regionwide economic crisis destabilized his rule and angered not only the poor but also the middle class, leading to a wave of student demonstrations across the country that called for an end to “corruption, cronyism, and nepotism.” But it was not surprising that nostalgia for Suharto’s “New Order” (Orde Baru) regime (1966 – 98) should emerge a decade and

a half later. For many, “democracy” had failed to halt the corruption and impunity of those in power and had instead fueled widespread unrest and uncertainty. Some were coming to look back on the New Order as a time of stability and prosperity. That nostalgia for the New Order was not simply a spontaneously arising sentiment, however, was suggested by the opening, also in 2013, of a memorial museum celebrating Suharto’s achievements. Sponsored by Suharto’s family and located in the small town in Central Java where he was born, the memorial highlighted his prowess as a military hero — including his role in F I GU R E S I . 1 – I . 5 . I .1 . “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it?” Suharto posters for sale in a gift shop, Yogyakarta, February 2013. I .2 . “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it?” Suharto T-shirts for sale from a street vendor. A T-shirt bearing an iconic portrait of Sukarno, with text from the Proclamation of Independence, is also for sale. Yogyakarta, June 2013.

“How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it?” Suharto sticker on street cleaner’s cart, Yogyakarta, July 2013.

I .3 .

I .4 . Image of a waving Suharto on the cover of a book titled How’s It Goin’ Kid? My Era Was Better Wasn’t It? We Don’t Know Anything about Politics, We Just Want to Live Comfortably. The adjacent book’s title is Don’t Be Ashamed to Learn from Pak [Su] Harto. (See also plate 11.) Yogyakarta, May 2013. I .5 . A version of the “How’s it going?” Suharto sticker on a car, which reads, “My era was better . . . How’s my country doing, safe and comfortable, right?” Yogyakarta May 2013.

All photos by the author. 4 Introduction

the purges of Communists and other leftists in 1965 – 66 that led to the killings of an estimated five hundred thousand to one million people and the imprisonment and stigmatization of hundreds of thousands more.2 Unlike the “How’s it going?” image, which pictured Suharto as a benign, grand­ fatherly figure through the use of irreverent, humorous language and an informal snapshot-­style photo, the Suharto museum slickly replayed the official nationalist narratives and militarist iconographies of the New Order regime. (At the same time, one could buy T-­shirts with the “How’s it going?” image from vendors in front of the museum.) The cultivated rehabilitation of Suharto’s image coincided with the lead-­up to the 2014 presidential election, in which Suharto’s ex-­son-­in-­law, former general Subianto Prabowo, was running as a candidate. Given this context, the appearance of both the popular Suharto images and the memorial museum, which recalled the authoritarian past in respectively playful and glorifying modes, seemed an ominous threat to the unfinished project of the Reformasi movement of 1998. Yet images burnishing Suharto’s memory circulated in an unruly media ecology in which they enjoyed no monopoly. Suharto’s “How’s it going?” image was not uncontested: a graphic artist who regularly disseminates progressive political commentary online in the form of free, downloadable images quickly produced a counterimage (figures I.6 and I.7). Playing on common laments about the rising cost of living since the Suharto era, it featured a cigar-­smoking Suharto with his hands around the neck of a faceless everyman and the text, “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it? Everything was cheap, including your life!” The image circulated virally on social media and as a sticker given out at documentary film screenings and other events drawing young progressive audiences. Another online meme showed a waving Suharto with the text, “How’s it going, corruptors? My era was better wasn’t it? You were free to be corrupt in my era, no one went to jail.” A Introduction 5

street artist incorporated the “How’s it going?” slogan into an anticorruption mural, replacing the photograph of Suharto with his signature cartoon figure, an open-­mouthed, toothy icon of rapacity (figure I.8; plate 3). Surya Paloh, a presidential candidate from the National Democratic Party, riffed on the Suharto image with his own campaign billboard. It showed a picture of Paloh waving, with the Javanese text, “Everything’s great, Grandpa! Don’t worry, I promise my era will be even better, ha-­ha-­ha!” (figure I.9).3 Meanwhile, just a few months after the launch of Suharto’s memorial museum, another museum opened two hundred miles away in the town of Batu, birthplace of slain human rights activist Munir Said Thalib. The muF I GU R E S I . 6 – I . 9 I .6 . This “How’s it going?” counterimage, by the artist Alit Ambara, was given out as a free sticker at a screening of documentaries on state violence. It reads, “How’s it going? My era was better, wasn’t it . . . everything was cheap, including your life!” Yogyakarta, April 2013. Collection of the author. I .7 . A version of the “How’s it going?” counterimage by Alit Ambara, this image was available for free download at Nobodycorp.org, posted April 2013. I .8 . “How’s it going?” counterimage created by the street artist Here Here, included in an anticorruption street mural painted collaboratively by several street artists (see plate 3), Yogyakarta, May 2013. Photo by the author. I .9 . Presidential candidate Surya Paloh’s response to the “How’s it going?” image, which reads, “Everything’s great, Grandpa! Don’t worry, I promise my era will be even better, ha-ha-ha!” The campaign banner, featuring Surya Paloh and his running mate, is productively ambiguous, for it is not entirely clear if the candidate is presenting himself as an alternative to Suharto or as his friendly successor. Political campaign banner, Yogyakarta, May 2013. Photo by the author.

6 Introduction

seum, the result of tireless effort by Munir’s wife, Suciwati, and other activists, commemorates Munir’s brave leadership in demanding accountability from the state for human rights abuses during and after the Reformasi movement. It also recounts his poisoning in 2004 while on a plane to the Netherlands, and the failure of the Indonesian judicial system to bring his killers to justice. The enshrining of Munir’s memory was not confined within museum walls. On public surfaces all over Java, images of Munir appear, often accompanied by the slogans “Refuse to Forget” (“Menolak Lupa”) or “Resist Forgetting” (“Melawan Lupa”) (figures I.10 through I.19; plates 9 and 10). Since his death, street artists have spearheaded this effort to make Munir’s face — with its large, down-­turned eyes and droopy, full moustache — into an instantly recognizable icon. Munir’s face haunts the urban landscape, a silent reminder of the ideals of the Reformasi movement, of which he is the most visible hero. He appears on city walls as a kind of public conscience, a witness mutely reminding passersby that they move through a space of violence, injustice, and forgetting. Over time he has come to stand also for the failed promises of Reformasi, the deferred dreams of democracy. On the eighth anniversary of Munir’s death, in September 2012, thousands of Indonesians, including prominent celebrities, replaced their Facebook and Twitter profile pictures with his image, asking their friends and followers to “Resist Forgetting” the slain leader and the unresolved case of his murder.4 In December of that year, commemorating what would have been Munir’s forty-­eighth birthday, artists and journalists plastered the walls of his hometown with ten thousand posters and stenciled images of Munir’s face. They handed out sheets of paper bearing the outlines of Munir’s face for local citizens to color in: “We . . . invite children, housewives, the people, to color in Munir’s face. So that Munir will be everywhere, in Introduction 7

many scales and media. On T-­shirts, on roof tiles . . . on walls, and the like.”5 Colored-­in images were hung in the town’s central square. A prominent artist, himself a former political prisoner under the New Order regime, spray-­ painted a stenciled image of Munir’s face onto a white T-­shirt worn by the town’s mayor.6 Images of these events appeared in major Indonesian newspapers, magazines, on television, and online, reverberating far beyond his hometown. This book attends to images like the Suharto and Munir portraits, tracing their shifting meanings and forms of mediation, the attentions they garner and affects they trigger, and their effects in the making of political imaginaries during a turbulent period of democratization. Affectively charged, symbolic condensations of competing visions of Indonesia’s past, present, and future, the “How’s it going?” and “Refuse to Forget” images are artifacts of a politics of visibility that has emerged in Indonesia since 1998. Appealing to possible futures through reworked icons of the past, they suggest how making, circulating, and responding to images has become a pervasive mode by which people enact their political agency. Such images travel through an inF I GU R E S I . 1 0 – I . 1 4

This image by street artist Digie Sigit was displayed in a solo exhibition at the Sangkring Art Space in Yogyakarta, September 2013. A bright neon light placed above Munir’s portrait symbolizes the need for illumination in the still unresolved case of the activist’s murder. Digie Sigit, For Munir, 2013, stencil. From https://indoartnow .com/artists/digie-sigit.

I .1 0 .

Exemplifying the appropriation of commercialized public spaces practiced by street artists (see chapter 5), Antitank’s “Refuse to Forget” poster has been placed on a billboard reading, “This Advertising Space for Rent.” Yogyakarta, April 2013.

I .1 1 .

8 Introduction

tricate media ecology, mobilizing the potentials of different media forms and channels of public address: from streets to museums, newspapers to T-­shirts, online memes to stickers. As they move and ricochet off of each other — and off of other images and texts — they form a restless, open-­ended series. Each act of producing a sticker, downloading a poster, uploading an image as a Twitter avatar, circulating a meme, glancing at a street artist’s stencil, or scanning the pages of a newspaper, is a small but potentially critical event in the agonistic and ongoing process of public envisioning. Demanding Images is about the demand for images to prove, expose, and render visible, and the demands that images place on the publics they help call into being. The book charts how Reformasi ideals of openness, accountability, authenticity, the free circulation of information, and popular participation were put into practice — and into question — in the decade and a half following the 1998 student movement. Each chapter tracks an unfolding “image-­event.” By “image-­event,” I mean a political process set in motion when a specific image or set of images erupts onto and intervenes in a social field, becoming a focal point of discursive and affective engagement across Munir appears amid a palimpsest of ads and graffiti on a Yogyakarta street. Antitank, “Refuse to Forget,” poster. Yogyakarta, April 2013.

I.12.

Worn by time or defaced? Antitank, “Refuse to Forget,” poster (see also plate 10), Yogyakarta, April 2013.

I.13.

Partially obscured “Refuse to Forget” poster by Antitank amid street art by Love Hate Love and graffiti, Yogyakarta, May 2013.

I.14.

Unless otherwise noted, photos by the author.

Introduction 9

diverse publics. Image-­events are political happenings in which images become the material ground of generative struggles to bring a collectivity into view and give shape to its future. The image-­events examined in this book cast light on problems of credibility, authenticity, and truth that have accompanied the process of Indonesian democratization since 1998, given its unsettling of established truths and jockeying among competing forms of authority. Under the authoritarian New Order regime, politics had been conducted as a kind of staged ritual performance, with the state (and its mostly compliant media apparatus) dedicating itself to the cultivation of an ideal appearance of calm and order.7 Politics as image management has always entailed the risk of images spinning out of the control of their handlers, refusing to conform to an expected path and prescribed meanings.8 Nevertheless, the central argument of Demanding Images is that a democratized public sphere underpinned by a privatized,

F I GU R E S I . 1 5 – I . 1 9

This mural by Alit Ambara, Samuel Indratma, Ong Harry Wahyu, and Butet Kertaradjasa (also shown earlier in the chapter and in plate 9) is composed of multiple stenciled images of Munir’s face, interspersed with the texts “Lest we forget” and “Remember so that we don’t forget.” Yogyakarta, May 2013.

I .1 5 .

The caption to this image of Munir by Komunal Stensil reads: “Munir Isn’t Dead: We Will Multiply, Our Ideas Are Guerrillas.” Yogyakarta, October 2012. Image reproduced with permission of Agung Firmanto B., urbancult.net.

I .1 6 .

Wheat-paste poster by Urban Noise picturing Munir as a “Saint of Human Rights,” Yogyakarta, December 2012. Image reproduced with permission of Agung Firmanto B., urbancult.net.

I .1 7 .

10 Introduction

weakly regulated, and diversified media ecology profoundly enhances the inherent volatility of images, rendering them more significant and eventful participants in political process. Politics in Indonesia has become a politics of turbulent image-­events rather than staged and static appearances. Beyond the specifics of the Indonesian democratic “transition,” and even beyond comparable postauthoritarian situations, the Indonesian case can be seen as a harbinger of political forms and dynamics that have since become widespread globally.9 The dramatic confluence of new image technologies, the liberalization and diversification of the media, and the political opening that occurred after 1998 brought into early and particularly vivid relief characteristics of politics conducted in what I call “complexly mediated” public spheres. When traditional sources of authoritative knowledge — the state and the mass media — are undermined by a more open, commercialized, loosely regulated, and densely networked media ecology, what emerges

In the typical dialogic practice of street art, a stencil of Munir is embraced by a figure drawn by another artist, with text that reads, “I miss you. You are the key. We need you.” The stencil of the woman, below right, reads: “Long Live the Indonesian Woman.” Stencils by Digie Sigit; other artist unknown. Yogyakarta, April 2013. Photo by the author.

I.18.

This image memorializing Munir includes his birth and death dates and foregrounds his stance as an activist with the presence of a bullhorn. Image by Alit Ambara, available for free download at Nobody.corp (https://nobodycorp.org /2012/09/03/munir-said-thalib-1965-2004/), posted September 9, 2012.

I.19.

Unless otherwise noted, photos by the author.

Introduction 11

are public spheres that are at once more participatory and more fractured and convulsive than ever before. As the sources of images and their vectors multiply, as images reverberate and mutate in erratic and often disruptive ways, and as they are scrutinized and reworked by ordinary people, images become the terrain of political struggles increasingly taking place in the messy arena of the public sphere. Efforts to manipulate and influence “the public” rely on the affective and evidentiary force of images; yet such efforts at persuasion may be derailed by the unpredictable trajectories of image-­ events. As likely to distract and deflect as they are to reveal and transform, image-­events make the conduct of politics a far more uncertain, unruly, and fractious enterprise. Image-­Events

In 1998, as appeals for “reform” became hitched to the ideology of “transparency,” a compelling vision of a democratic public sphere took hold in Indonesia: the thick tissue of fear, falsity, allusion, and silence that had characterized the New Order regime’s tightly regulated and censored public sphere would be replaced by an open and expansive space of visibility, truth, and authenticity. Disavowal of the Suharto regime’s rampant corruption and repression of democratic aspirations drove transparency’s ascent as a political ideal.10 Images became freighted with the promise of democracy and were hailed as embodiments of Reformasi ideals of accountability, accessibility, and popular participation. Yet as the powers fetishistically invested in images intensified, so, too, did anxieties that they might fall short of their promise. Images circulating in public were subject to doubt, especially as they proliferated freely, unmoored from their authors. Skepticism about the authenticity of images drew attention to the mediating work of the technologies by which they traveled, with the result of disrupting the apparent immediacy on which the ideal of transparency depended. At the same time, the very qualities of materiality and malleability that troubled the demand for transparent truths also made possible forms of creative play at the surface of images. Making, circulating, and delighting in overtly artificed images became prevalent ways that ordinary people participated in, and contested the dominant terms of, Indonesian public life. Given that images embodied both the aspirations and the anxieties accompanying democratization, it is no wonder that Indonesia’s post-­Suharto public sphere has frequently been convulsed by image-­events that ultimately 12 Introduction

became referendums on democracy itself. As noted above, an “image-­event” is a political process in which an image (or a constellation of related images) crystallizes otherwise inchoate and dispersed imaginings within a discrete and mobile visible form that becomes available for scrutiny, debate, and play as it circulates in public.11 More readily than texts, images traverse social, linguistic, and other barriers, and thus are capable of drawing the shared attention of people who may occupy very different social positions and spheres of discourse. As images circulate among people from different interpretive communities, they accumulate “symbolic density” and iconic value, becoming the tangible terrain on which people contest the boundaries and character of their political communities.12 The image-­event proceeds from the ways the figural and material properties of an image are activated and transformed in relation to the genres and discourses in which it is framed and the publics it addresses and calls into being.13 In the cases examined in this book, I ask how the affordances and “hazards” of different media channels condition the extension and efficacy of image-­events.14 As images move across and through different media forms, they acquire claims to authority, modes of address, circulatory pathways, and temporal rhythms and durations distinctive to those media.15 These ideological and material specificities profoundly shape what an image makes visible, to whom, and to what effect. They also condition the grounds on which that image can be contested. Image-­events are not an entirely novel political phenomenon. But as new technologies facilitate the ease, speed, and scale at which images are produced and circulated, the import, prevalence, and unruliness of image-­events has greatly increased. Particularly within hegemonic formations of democratic politics that conflate political recognition with publicity and visibility, it is hard to imagine any political event that is not also an image-­event.16

Underlying my conceptualization of the “image-­event” as a political process is an argument for considering all images “events” of varying intensity, duration, and scale. This is the second sense in which I use the term “image-­event.” Highlighting mutability and “performative efficacy,”17 this approach to images seeks to overcome a tendency to treat them as static, fixed “things” that are embedded within but conceptually apart from a “context” or “frame” of political discourse and historical events.18 Rather, each iteration of an image transforms the time and space of its emergence. Conceptualizing all images as unfolding events enables us to see them as continIntroduction 13

gent and politically consequential processes in their own right. It leads us to ask not what images “mean” or what they “want,” but how they happen and with what effects.19 This approach is counterintuitive because we are accustomed to thinking of images — especially photographs — as static objects plucked from the dynamic flux of events-­in-­time. Photographs, as André Bazin famously put it, “embalm time.”20 For John Berger, the “static photograph” is “like a fixed post in a flowing river.”21 Opposing photograph and event, he noted, “A photograph arrests the flow of time in which the event photographed once existed.”22 Yet this common understanding, which emphasizes the fixity of images and their essential remove from events, neglects the ways that images themselves are eventful in that they are always taking place and open-­ended. Rather than epiphenomenal to the unfolding of history, the appearance of an image is among the minute, and sometimes even the monumental, happenings that transform the world.23 The advent of a specific, materially embodied image is a historically contingent event, an “irreplaceable and irreversible empirical particular.”24 At the same time, the image, like any sign, is a repeatable mark that even at its most indexical remains detachable and reproducible and thus can never be definitively “enclosed” within a context.25 For photographs, we can point to a distinct moment of social encounter when a shutter is closed; but, as Ariella Azoulay argues, this “event of photography” is only a setting in motion (and to the extent that any photograph recalls previous similar or related images, the photograph is always already part of an ongoing, dialogic conversation among images).26 For repurposed image-­texts like the “How’s it going?” stickers and T-­shirts or the “Refuse to Forget” posters, moreover, pointing back to a singular point of origin for the image becomes a futile exercise. It is the eventful trajectory of the image, the effects of its proliferations and reverberations, that must demand our attention. The apparent tension inherent in the image as simultaneously unique “event” and iterable “sign” dissipates once we take full account of the processual nature of both signs and events.27 Arguing against “a tendency to cauterize events,” Robin Wagner-­Pacifici emphasizes the “ongoingness of events, the ways they are restless and the ways they are subject to continuing oscillations between bounding and unbounding as they extend in time and space.”28 Signs, too, refuse to be fixed; they “grow” through use and experience, continually giving rise to new signs.29 The image as event unfolds as it moves through multiple social encounters and takes on different material embodiments. Reverberating across space and time, it is an open-­ended “vi14 Introduction

bration” that resonates with and gives rise to other, related images and texts, deepening certain tones and deafening others.30 The image-­event is thus much like Michel Foucault’s notion of the statement/event, which “emerges in its historical eruption”: What we try to examine is the incision that it makes, the irreducible —  and very often tiny — emergence. However banal it maybe, however unimportant its consequences may appear to be, however quickly it may be forgotten after its appearance, however little heard or badly deciphered we may suppose it to be, a statement is always an event that neither the language nor the meaning can quite exhaust . . . like every event, it is unique yet subject to repetition, transformation, and reactivation.31 Understood in this way, the boundaries of the image-­event — where it starts and where it ends — become impossible to determine in anything but a provisional, heuristic way.32 “Watching” images as moving targets that refuse to hold still restores to images “dimensions of time and movement,” of eventfulness, that have been denied in our dominant models of thinking about them.33 The echoing variations of the “How’s it going?” image of Suharto — itself a collage of an informal photograph dating to the New Order era and humorous, colloquial Javanese text — exemplify how an image provokes new images that respond to it, some by reiterating its claims, and others by dialogically countering and extending them. By approaching the Suharto image and its iterations appearing on billboards, stickers, T-­shirts, and memes as an unfolding image-­event, we turn our attention away from a singular author or viewer (or a singular context of production or reception) as the points of origin and destination that might fix meaning. We turn toward mediating processes by which images move and multiply and, as they do so, generate and remake environments for thought and action. Recognizing images as world-­making events, our task is to trace their prehistories, track their radiating reverberations, register the stirrings of affect they leave in their wake, and attend to the future horizons towards which they open. Public Visuality

When people inscribe urban walls with images of Munir and the message “Refuse to Forget,” they put the slain human rights leader before an imagined public eye. Such image-­texts make demands of the publics they address: demands to counter amnesia, to contest Indonesia’s ingrained culture of imIntroduction 15

punity, to pressure the state to bring Munir’s killers to justice. Each appearance of Munir’s face heightens the visibility of his unresolved murder and reinforces his iconic status as both hero and victim. And each act of posting a Munir image in public pragmatically enacts the ideal of a democratic public sphere as an arena where citizens freely make their concerns visible to each other and to their government. Both the importance of “visibility” within ideological conceptualizations of the public sphere and the actual work of images in contemporary public communications demand that we take public visuality seriously. By “public visuality,” I mean the ways that material images, historically constituted ways of seeing, discursive figures and frames, and “infrastructures of representation” shape the public sphere as a zone of contested visibility and invisibility.34 Public visuality sets the terms for political visibility (and invisibility), but it also can be subject to intervention and transformation through the work of images. It is crucial to recognize that “the public sphere” is both shorthand for an actual, diffuse arena of communicative activity and simultaneously a potent ideological figure of the democratic imagination.35 Ideally conceived as a forum of open debate accessible to all, in practice the public sphere is an arena “articulated by power,”36 in which the question of which images and texts, and whose interpretations of them, will appear, circulate, and prevail is always a matter of political struggle. The public sphere is not, moreover, a free-­floating — or free-­flowing — arena of discourse but one underpinned by an infrastructure of media technologies, institutions and commercial entities, laws, and conventional genres and practices, all of which exert their own limits and exclusions. That which appears in public is thus always the outcome of political contestation, material constraints, and historical contingencies. The gap that exists between the ideal of the democratic public sphere and the messy and circumscribed ways images and texts actually circulate in public is, then, best thought of as a constitutive tension. That notions of visibility are deeply embedded in the very concept of “the public” was implicit in Hannah Arendt’s evocative description of the public realm as a “space of appearance” where people are, ideally, enabled to see and be seen, recognizing each other’s perspectives on matters of common concern.37 The idea of democracy has historically entailed a “scopic paradigm” envisioning a state “fully visible” and “transparent” to a public made up of critical citizens.38 Awareness that the public sphere is, in actuality, an arena of concealment, where screen images and strategic blind spots render some actors and processes unseen, only serves to animate the ideal of democratic vis16 Introduction

ibility.39 “The public,” conceived as a collective agent embodying the sovereign people, pursues this elusive ideal, challenging the state’s power to determine the bounds of the visible not only by asserting its right to know, but also by exercising its own independent powers to confer and demand recognition.40 Achieving this recognition has long depended upon mechanisms of publicity, on becoming visible to the proverbial “public eye.” But that public eye is increasingly pluralized and distracted by the sheer volume, speed, and diversity of circulating messages diffused across multiple, intersecting channels.41 This busy profusion of images flitting in and out of public view threatens to reduce signal to noise, figure to blur. Under these conditions, the struggle for visibility as the precondition for entry into the realm of the public intensifies as recognition becomes more elusive and ephemeral. Bids for inclusion and redress within democratic public spheres are thus necessarily dependent on media forms that promise to generate visibility —  not always, but often, through the work of images. The pursuit of public visibility as a route to political recognition and inclusion contains its own pitfalls, of course, including the requirement of acceding to normative modalities of communicative practice and appearance. Nor is visibility necessarily benign, as is understood all too well by those who find themselves rendered hypervisible while denied the ability to participate equally in the production and circulation of their own images.42 It is precisely negotiating the terms of visibility and invisibility (including the right not to be seen, as well as the ability to determine how one is seen) that constitutes the crucial work of images in public. “Visibility” ceases to be a merely metaphorical concept when actual images such as the Munir and Suharto posters come into view as battlegrounds in struggles over authenticity, memory, political recognition, and national envisioning.43 Recent scholarship on public images has emphasized their role as an “imaginative resource,” providing people with “a repertoire of images that mark out the borders of political possibility.”44 Iconic images circulate as charged signs of belonging, providing mechanisms of identification and affective attachment that bind people to larger collectivities and histories.45 Supported by ideologies of the camera’s impartial and faithful recording, photojournalistic and documentary photography iteratively produce and reproduce formulaic representations of people and places. As Zeynep Gürsel argues, these “formative fictions” powerfully shape how people envision themselves, the collectivities to which they belong, and the broader worlds in which they live.46 My emphasis on the image-­event builds on these interventions, which situIntroduction 17

ate images centrally within analyses of the public sphere, but seeks to move from a static notion of image repertoires to a more processual account of how practices of image making, circulation, and repurposing generate political imaginaries and cultivate political subjects.47 As I hope to show, it is often through engagement with specific images that broader conditions of public visuality are objectified, negotiated, contested, and transformed.48 Analytic emphasis on the happening of images helps to reveal the public sphere as a zone of ongoing contestation and historical contingency in which people envision and remake the worlds in which they live. Media Ecologies after Authority

The liberalization of the media along with new freedoms of expression that followed in the wake of the Reformasi movement yielded the vibrant and tumultuous public sphere that is my focus in this book. Indeed, the transformation of the public sphere is the most iconically visible sign of the coming of democracy to Indonesia after 1998. Democratization brought other significant changes, too, of course, including decentralization (granting more autonomy to regional governments and economies), reforms to the party system and the electoral process, and the removal of the military from its formal role in the government. Alongside these changes in the conduct of formal politics, the establishment of national commissions and independent bodies monitoring human rights, violence against women, elections, the press, and corruption, despite their many weaknesses and setbacks, have been steps toward the more transparent government and just society envisioned by Reformasi activists and their supporters. The “political aperture” brought about by the reform movement also made room for the expression of forms of sexuality and gender and modes of cultural creativity that were repressed under the New Order state.49 Many of these changes have been matched by the resurgence of old authoritarian reflexes and by new challenges to a pluralistic and participatory democracy, which also feed on the more open media ecology of the post­ authoritarian period. One can point to the relatively unbridled power of political and economic elites, the ongoing corrosion of legal institutions, and continuing disrespect for human rights as evidence that the reform movement’s demands have largely remained unmet. Despite the prevalent spectacle of corruption’s exposure (discussed in chapter 3), Indonesia remains among the most corrupt nations in the world.50 Past human rights 18 Introduction

abuses — most notably the anticommunist purges of 1965 – 67 — have yet to be officially redressed, and anticommunist paranoia remains a rhetorical weapon wielded by both civilian groups and the state.51 Decentralization and the relaxation of state controls have been accompanied by virulent horizontal conflicts with a religious cast in various parts of the archipelago. Forms of hardline political Islam, seeking to occupy the shoes left empty by the authoritarian state, present themselves as the source of moral authority and arbiter of proper comportment for the national community (see chapter 4).52 My aim is not to evaluate the gains and failures of the first fifteen years of democratization.53 I am sensitive to calls for a “post-­post-­Suharto” scholarship that neither reads 1998 as a radical rupture nor views the persistence of authoritarian practices, corruption, and elitism as “legacies” of the New Order that impede the realization of an idealized democracy.54 Nor do I want to suggest that all aspects of the contemporary Indonesian media ecology and its forms of public communication should be attributed to the post­ authoritarian condition — as noted, many of its features (neoliberal economies and corporate media ownership, the coexistence and interpenetration of a multitude of media platforms, the ideological power of “transparency”) are globally widespread phenomena.55 Yet I don’t think we can understand the first decade and a half of democratic transition apart from the efforts of ordinary citizens to grapple with the authoritarian past, to live within a present marked by the precipitous absence of strong, centralized rule, and to envision desired futures. Abidin Kusno eloquently evokes the uneasy atmosphere that prevailed after the fall of Suharto on Java, Indonesia’s main island (where the nation’s capital and the majority of its population are located, and the place where my own research is focused): There is a sense among the population that the center is no longer there, fixing, watching, and ordering their conduct. The vanishing of the center has created a sense of disorientation and the creation of smaller centers that coexist uneasily with each other. The state is still there, but it has been perceived as merely one center among others, each looking for opportunities to gain more wealth and power.56 Particularly in Java, where authoritarian power was most firmly entrenched, Indonesians have found themselves in a state “after authority,” an anxious temporal and political condition characterized by the lingering afterlife of authoritarian ideologies and practices and by a search for new forms and Introduction 19

sources of authority and authenticity. Media freedoms and the explosion of new media forms have played a key role in both articulating and exacerbating this state of unease. My understanding of the public sphere that emerged after 1998 out of the confluence of new technologies, neoliberal economics, and democratization takes into account Jodi Dean’s critical assessment of the rise of “communicative capitalism.”57 Given the conflation of liberal democracy with ideals of transparency and communicative freedom, she argues, a techno-­festishistic logic makes the ever-­expanding and intensifying circulation of messages enabled by new, networked technologies appear to signal the arrival of genuine deliberative democracy. In fact, Dean suggests, this form of political “participation” merely enhances the power of corporations that capitalize on the sheer abundance of communicative messages, regardless of their content. While compelling in its broad strokes, Dean’s account risks affirming the very hegemony it critiques. Certainly, as I will argue in this book, the postauthoritarian Indonesian public sphere falls far short of realizing the democratic aspirations articulated in the Reformasi movement (which were themselves reformist rather than revolutionary). There remains a significant disconnect between the heated debates of the public sphere and the actual conduct of politics as business as usual. But the more granular, ethnographic approach taken in this book insists on recognizing that politically consequential “events” (however limited) can and do take place in the congested domain of public communication. Images like the Munir and the Suharto posters, and struggles for visibility and recognition in the public realm more broadly, cannot be reduced to mere “chatter” that obscures (and unwittingly strengthens) the real workings of power. The communications of the public sphere shape political subjectivities and imaginations, and thus their potential to contribute to the unraveling as well as the consolidation of power must be taken seriously. In any case, it would be hard to overstate the symbolic import of the return of press freedoms enacted shortly after Suharto’s resignation. People invested their hopes for transparency in the newly open public sphere.58 The idea of a free press as the essential institutional underpinning of a vital public sphere has long been central to visions of democracy in Indonesia, as it has been elsewhere.59 Since the late colonial period, the press as an institution has been closely aligned with Indonesian aspirations for a modern, national community.60 The 1994 banning of four Indonesian news magazines, moreover, was a pivotal point in the final years of the New Order, at once displaying the regime’s resort to brute power and revealing its fragility.61 20 Introduction

In 2002, Andreas Harsono, founding member of the Alliance of Independent Journalists and today a prominent human rights activist, optimistically hailed a “new era in Indonesia” that began in 1998 with the relaxation of press controls: It became a time when people could publish a newspaper without worrying about government licenses. Journalists could write what they judged fit to print. No longer did cameramen need to hide their videos when dealing with their nervous editors. And readers did not have to improve their ability to read between the lines — a skill very much valued in the preceding years.62 The lifting of state controls over the press and public discourse coincided with a proliferation of outlets for public communication in the form of print, electronic, and internet-­based media. This more diversified and dynamic media landscape itself resulted from two convergent currents: a historical trajectory of deregulation and privatization that began in the late 1980s and intensified under International Monetary Fund pressure after the economic crisis of 1997, on the one hand, and a range of technological innovations that have been global in scope, on the other.63 Alongside a florescence of privatized print and electronic media, an explosion of “small,” decentralized, and unregulated media technologies such as cell phones, the internet, scanners, digital cameras, and video compact discs made possible new forms of popular and amateur practices of documentation, representation, and protest. These media technologies facilitated the inclusion of once excluded voices — those of former political prisoners, Islamists, and Chinese Indonesians, to mention a few — within national debates. They have played a vital role in people’s efforts to rewrite history, grapple with the uncertainties of the present, and stake claims to new futures. Yet the proliferation of voices and vehicles for their dissemination in the aftermath of the Suharto regime also contributed to a climate of uncertainty about what constitutes reliable evidence, who legitimately speaks for the nation, and when and how information flows should be regulated or controlled. The increasingly commercialized corporate press has also been implicated in the dangers associated with the absence of centralized state control, whether in relation to the inflammation of horizontal religious and ethnic conflict, the circulation of pornography and emergence of a sensationalized celebrity media culture, or the divisiveness of political partisanship. Civil society leaders, politicians, and ordinary citizens often lament the viral spread of fake news or “hoax” sites as evidence of an excess of freedom, of “out of Introduction 21

control democracy” (demokrasi kebablasan). Media technologies have thus served not only as the material means for political communication, but also as important symbols of both the liberating possibilities of democracy and the dangerous threat of obscured power, porous national borders, immoral promiscuity, and terrorizing rumor. These alternately utopian and dystopian imaginings of a democratic public sphere circulate amid shifting institutional, economic, and technological conditions, which shape the Indonesian mediascape. Anticipating trends that became more pronounced after 1998, already in the late New Order era the pressures of liberalization and the expansion of media markets were undermining the state’s censorship regime, and media organizations were becoming market-­driven, profit-­oriented corporate entities.64 One of the most striking features of the media landscape in the years following Suharto’s resignation was the rapid proliferation of private media outlets, from tabloid magazines to private television channels.65 The media landscape became crowded and highly competitive, as “news” acquired commodity value in the quest for market share. This proliferation of mass media publications and broadcasts has fostered the growth of niche markets, of which those oriented to Islamic publics have been the most marked development.66 The result is a public sphere that is at once more expansive and more fissured, more inclusive and more driven by profit motive.67 Despite this profusion of media outlets, the economic liberalization of the Indonesian media sphere has ultimately led to an unprecedented corporate consolidation of the organs of mass media. By 2012 all of Indonesia’s radio, television, and print media were essentially owned by twelve corporate groups, most of which were closely tied to political parties or figures with links to the old regime.68 Thus centralized state control over the press has to some degree been replaced by a remarkably tight oligarchical media regime whose control over media content is masked by the apparent profusion of media vehicles and channels. The press freedoms promised by the relaxation of state censorship, moreover, have been threatened and significantly limited by new forms of decentralized and “civil” censorship. These limits are both external, coming from civil society in the form of legal and physical harassment and intimidation,69 and internal, in the form of tacit or overt involvement of media owners in editorial content and lingering habits of self-­censorship among journalists.70 As the Alliance of Independent Journalists, a group committed to promoting freedom of the press, has argued, lack of fair pay has undermined jour22 Introduction

nalists’ ability to resist the old “envelope culture” (budaya amplop) in which journalists routinely receive money from sources in exchange for coverage.71 Told from this vantage point, the story of the postauthoritarian mediascape is one of ongoing lack of independence. In this narrative, the centralization of state power under an authoritarian regime has given way to an oligarchy of political elites and private corporate interests who monopolize and profit off of the circulation of information, thereby treating the media as a means to further their economic and political interests.72 This sobering account is not the only story to be told about the Indonesian media ecology, however. Without underestimating the detrimental effects of corporate consolidation within the mainstream organs of the press, if one looks at “media” both more broadly and in a more fine-­grained way, one finds a far more variegated picture. Independent film (documentary and fictional) has flourished in the more open atmosphere of the post-­Suharto period, as has book publishing.73 Radio has offered a means for communities to produce locally relevant news and programming, as well as forums for “metajournalism” (reporting about the media that promotes media literacy).74 Most staggeringly, internet use in Indonesia jumped from two million users in 2000 to 55 million in 2012, and Indonesians are now among the most active participants in social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook —  mostly accessed through cell phones.75 By 2015 cell phone subscriptions had increased to 132.4 per 100 people, up from just 1.8 in 2000.76 A range of “demotic” or “horizontal” media, such as blogs and social media sites, amateur videos, documentary films, political stickers, and street art, circulates both outside of and through the mass media to address a wide array of messages to varied publics. Decentralized, unregulated media are particularly important in processes of democratization, Debra Spitulnik argues, because they enable people to “create meaningful communicative spaces,” providing “vital and pervasive undercurrents and reservoirs of political commentary, critique, and potential mobilization.”77 While horizontally produced and distributed media come with no democratizing or progressive guarantee, they often occupy a privileged place in democratic imaginaries precisely because they appear to operate outside of traditional and established media channels.78 In practice, media channels intersect and feed into each other, bringing into contact publics of different orientations and scales: transnational, national, and regional publics, as well as more micro-­publics and even personal networks. Images and texts that may originate in subterranean or small-­scale alternative media forums, for instance, Introduction 23

often find their way into more mainstream media as objects quoted, derided, or otherwise discussed. Movement goes in the other direction as well, as alternative media provide forums for parodic commentary, critique, and amplification of more mainstream media messages. Tracking the unfolding of image-­events reveals the variously competitive, symbiotic, and parasitical relationships between mass media channels and the unregulated, decentralized media technologies that facilitate the efforts of ordinary people to become producers, transmitters, and consumers of political messages. In several chapters, I draw attention to a tension between “evidentiary” and “ludic” modes of image making and reception. The “evidentiary” mode of documentary photographs as authoritative, indexical records remains important in Indonesia’s post-­Reformasi moment, as it does elsewhere, especially in arenas such as journalism, law, and human rights. Evidentiary images promise to ground public truth claims in a technological guarantee of transparency. Yet many of the images considered here — fine art, graffiti, cell phone selfies, campaign stickers, memes circulating on social media — adhere to nonevidentiary generic and aesthetic conventions and operate according to quite different semiotic logics and forms of authorship, circulation, and reception. What I call “ludic” images deploy remediation, repurposing, and reworking to generate new constellations of truth and modalities of revelation on the surface of the image.79 Like the Suharto and Munir images described at the opening of this introduction, ludic images often seem to have no singular point of origin, no definable moment of inscription; they emerge, as one op-­ed put it, “like mushrooms after a rain.”80 These are “poor images” whose efficacy results from their “velocity, intensity, and spread.”81 Their authority as signs of popular sentiment derives not only from their explicit content, in other words, but also from their anonymous production, viral proliferation, and circulation via informal or “alternative” media channels. As I argue throughout the book, the work of image-­events in generating political imaginaries cannot be understood independent of the media ecology that forms the public image’s “habitat.”82 Watching the image-­event brings into view the protean and unpredictable nature of political communication in an age of neoliberalism, democracy, and complexly mediated public spheres.

24 Introduction

Ethnography of and in the Public Sphere

More than four decades ago, Benedict Anderson called on scholars to “throw a rather different light on Indonesians’ conception of their politics” by attending less to formal political discourse and more to what he called “symbolic” political communications.83 Yet Anderson also recognized the difficulty of the task. Writing of visual forms like political cartoons, he noted, The grammar may be perplexing, the relationship of form and content at once more salient and ambiguous. More than printed speech, these visual condensations of significance find their meanings shift, deepen, invert or drain away with time. Since their audiences are necessarily fleeting and anonymous, context is all, yet singularly problematic to the would-­be interpreter.84 As Anderson’s comments suggest, the public sphere is an inherently elusive ethnographic site. Undergirded by media infrastructures, institutions, and ideologies, legal and regulatory frameworks, and communicative norms, its images and texts are nevertheless fundamentally open-­ended and under­ determined, resisting reduction to fixed social locations and stable meanings.85 Images, so open to multiple uses, diverse engagements, and ongoing mutations, are especially difficult to locate definitively. This book is an answer to Anderson’s call; tracking the image-­event is my response to the analytical and methodological challenges it poses. I have argued that image-­events demand our attention because they are particularly important political processes within complexly mediated public spheres, especially those in which democratic ideals of visibility, publicity, and transparency have significant ideological purchase. I want to argue further that image-­events offer a way to engage the public sphere ethnographically, allowing us to go beyond an exercise in reading or interpreting public texts to a more dynamic account of the shifting, emergent, and contested processes by which political imaginations and subjectivities take form. Tracking image-­events is something like conducting a diagnostic test that follows a molecule through the arteries and blood vessels in order to trace circulatory flows and areas of inflammation, blockage, and heightened activity. I use the eventfulness of images as a methodological tool to bring into view the lines of fracture, connective tissues, and zones of sensitivity that animate the Indonesian public sphere. Each movement and mutation of an image is the outcome of decisions by various people — some known and some who remain anonymous — to design, to look, to click, to buy, to reproIntroduction 25

duce, to deface. These actions may emerge from affective arousal, thoughtful reflection, animated debate, or some combination thereof. The ways images mutate, move, and multiply, and the affective and discursive responses they precipitate, moreover, are prefigured and made possible by the material and visual features of the image itself and by the media technologies that channel and constrain the interactions between people and images. We can follow the itineraries, densities, and scales of circulation of images as effects that have effects, as events that precipitate further events. An ethnography of and in the public sphere thus asks us to treat images and texts untethered from obvious authors or fixed communities of production or reception as primary interlocutors. It calls for a form of inquiry that remains immersive and positioned, without being grounded in a particular physical field site or relying primarily on individual, embodied human subjects. It requires learning to “hang out” in an arena of communication characterized by stranger sociality and the swirl of restlessly moving, ephemeral images and texts circulating through multiple media channels. Much of traditional ethnography remains essential to this endeavor. Attending to the mediating work of images builds on anthropology’s longstanding attentiveness to the mediated quality of all aspects of human social life. As with any kind of research site, doing ethnography in the public sphere depends on spending enough time in a social world to be able to discern pattern and distinguish the durable from the fleeting. It relies on the ethnographer’s attunement to the taken for granted and the unsaid, to the commonsensical and the unremarked. Bringing an ethnographic sensibility to bear on the public sphere means attending to the implicit rules and assumptions that structure and regulate the circulation of images and texts, to the material technologies and practices that make up its infrastructure, and to the histories and social formations that shape its uneven terrain.86 Following image-­events as they unfold, the ethnographer must move nimbly among the pages of newspapers, websites, television screens, Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, the offices of newspapers, activist hangouts, film discussions, gallery openings, streets, cafés, and homes. This is, in many respects, less a departure from the expansive mode of inquiry that has long characterized ethnographic research than an extension of it into new domains. As in other recent developments in anthropological methods and theory, it requires a decentering of the human as the primary object and source of authentic ethnographic knowledge. Yet such a decentering, in fact, brings us into closer relation to how people inhabit and remake their worlds today. 26 Introduction

The chapters that follow trace the resonances and reverberations of a particular image or constellation of related images that became focal points of attention and debate at different moments in the first fifteen years after authoritarian rule collapsed in Indonesia. I have chosen image-­events that I think are particularly revealing of the arc of this period of democratization, though they, of course, also reflect my own partial and situated vision, shaped by the history of my engagement with Indonesia and my focus on Java. I have drawn on both formal and informal interviews with key figures in the circulation of images — journalists, artists, activists, filmmakers, writers, historians, bloggers, and other cultural producers — as well as casual conversations with a wide range of people, mostly from the city of Yogyakarta, and my own observations of the visual and political environment based on extended stays in 1998 – 2000, 2004, and 2013.87 (Time spent in Indonesia in the late 1980s and mid-­1990s, during the New Order, also informs my understanding of the post-­Suharto period.) The press — newspapers, news and tabloid magazines, television, and online news sites — social media such as Facebook and Twitter, and various blogs and websites, provide much of the material for the chapters. Rather than simply mining these varied media channels for their content, however, I attend to their ideologies, materialities, and social conventions. I invite the reader to approach the text of Demanding Images as an extended series of commentaries on the images here presented. As anthropologists, we have been conditioned to treat images in ethnographic monographs as illustrations, usually buttressing the authority of the ethnographer or supporting a point made textually. My choice to pre­sent this largely visual material in the form of a book reflects the continued privileging of writing and reading (and book publishing) in the production and recognition of our disciplinary knowledge. Although practical considerations place limits on the number and presentation of the book’s images, I have tried, nevertheless, to encourage through the book’s design a different mode of reading than that to which we are accustomed. A short photo essay-­montage brings together images from all the chapters and is intended to juxtapose different visual objects and genres, reflecting the variety and vibrancy of the everyday image-­scape. Printed in color, the photo essay allows the viewer to appreciate the ways that color demands attention and affects tone, intensity, and mood. The images in the rest of the text constitute a second, more extensive visual essay. The images are placed at the top of the page so that the reader can view them by flipping through the book, revealing relationships among images that might be obscured by viewing them only in relation to Introduction 27

their textual surround. To this end also, captions appear at the bottom of the page, rather than immediately under or beside the images. The images are not, for the most part, presented as gemlike objects of aesthetic appreciation, reflecting the fact that many are “poor images” never intended to endure or be treated with reverence.88 For this reason I have not sought to elevate and isolate them as objects of contemplation (as one might find in a traditional art historical monograph) but rather have tried to capture in the book’s design a sense of repetition, movement, and the hetero­geneity of contemporary Indonesia’s image-­scape. Outline of the Book’s Chapters

The chapters that follow bring into view the doubts, tensions, and hopes attending a decade and a half of Indonesian democratization. Although the chapters do not form a linear narrative, they are organized in a loosely chrono­ logical manner. The first two chapters correspond to the early years of euphoria and crisis immediately following Suharto’s resignation (1998 – 2000), during which the authoritarian state continued to cast a threatening shadow over the aspirations of the moment. Political elections and the free press were sites of intense expectation during this period, and the dominant media channel for images remained photojournalism. Images produced and manipulated via photocopying, digital photography, and scanning also began to play a prominent role in public visuality, offering challenges to more mainstream and official images. In the first chapter, “Face Value,” I track reworked versions of the 50,000-­rupiah bill with Suharto’s face on it, as they appeared in campaign stickers, political cartoons, street protest, and art. These bills became vehicles for commentary on corruption and for popular visions of a more authentic politics; their very circulation as reworked state signs signaled the achievement of Reformasi. The second chapter, “The Gender of Transparency,” addresses public debates about claims that ethnic Chinese women had been raped in the unrest that immediately preceded Suharto’s resignation in May 1998. Focusing on the conflation of “proof” and photographic visibility, I argue that when photographic images become the currency of political recognition, sexual violence, unpictured, remains trapped in the uncertain status of “rumor.” In the context of the period’s widespread circulation of images of male-­on-­ male violence, I read the rape debate as an image-­event characterized by the demand for absent images. As an early test of the Reformasi “dream of transparency,” the debate revealed the ethnic and gendered limits of this political 28 Introduction

ideal in practice. The debate also showed that dream to be haunted by the threat of fakery and “manipulation.” Chapters 3 and 4 are temporally located several years later and address moments of tension around the free circulation of images and the (lack of) regulation of the media and public discourse by the state. Debates about laws regulating internet communications and criminalizing pornography, the first two pieces of legislation to place limits on the freedoms of expression won after Reformasi, form the backdrop for these chapters (both laws ultimately passed in 2008). These chapters also register a shift in the media ecology, as cell phones and blogs came to the fore in the increasingly busy economy of images. In chapter 3, “The Scandal of Exposure,” I examine a media genre in which the revelation of various improprieties hinges on a photograph, video, or audio recording. The “authenticity expert,” who parses the “authentic” image from the “manipulated,” emerges as a new figure of authority in a public sphere obsessed with the revelation of secrets and anxious about the reliability of appearances and the credibility of truth claims. Chapter 4, “Naked Effects,” focuses on a controversy prompted by an artwork condemned as pornographic by hardline Islamists. The remediation of the image as it circulated beyond the rarefied atmosphere of the art gallery and into the public domain fueled the controversy, as art morphed into “pornography.” In debates that pitted hardline Islamists against artists and progressive groups, each side deployed competing semiotic ideologies of the image to promote their respective visions of the postauthoritarian public sphere. In the final chapter and the conclusion, which address events in 2013 and 2014, social media (especially Facebook and Twitter) have become crucial channels for the circulation of political communications; yet I emphasize the ways that these media platforms operate in tandem with the more traditional public arenas of the street and the mass media. Chapter 5, “Street Signs,” examines debates about urban inscriptions — street art, advertising, graffiti, and political banners — as the concrete ground for materializing a democratic public sphere. The proliferation of urban inscriptions, I argue, became emblematic of both the possibilities and the dangers of democratization, with utopian visions of an open arena of public participation posed against a dystopian vision of “democracy out of control” and the threat that popular forms may be ventriloquized by those seeking a return of authoritarian power. The book’s conclusion analyzes the work of images in the 2014 presidential election. Through a discussion of images of supporters of presidenIntroduction 29

tial candidate Joko Widodo, and of crowdsourcing efforts to secure fair and transparent elections, I reflect on the neoliberal democratic ideology of “voluntarism” by which many Indonesians imagined themselves as political actors a decade and a half after the end of authoritarian rule. The images considered in these chapters pose a set of critical questions to their Indonesian publics: What is the afterlife of authoritarian rule? What does an authentic politics look like? What are the limits of recognition in an age of “transparency”? If “freedom” and “openness” are the aspirations of a democratic public sphere, what controls should be placed on the circulation of images? Are these aspirations in fact desirable? And who speaks in the name of the public? Demanding Images explores image-­events that register a widespread crisis of authority in the aftermath of authoritarian rule, which often played out in heated debates about the reliability, truthfulness, and dangers of images. These debates also reveal the aspirations and fears attached to particular media technologies — and to the necessary but troubling process of mediation itself — within a democratizing public sphere. Telling a story about the promises and the deferred dreams of Indonesian democracy, this book is also about new ways people practice political agency. Increasingly, they approach images not as passive consumers but as experts and critics for whom images are malleable artifacts to be manipulated, unruly objects to be tamed, common resources to be shared, and visible claims to be made and questioned.

30 Introduction

PREVIOUS PAGE

This mural presents multiple images of the face of slain human rights activist Munir Said Thalib within a composition that suggests organic growth and proliferation (see also figure I.15 and plate 9). Mural by Alit Ambara, Samuel Indratma, Ong Harry Wahyu, and Butet Kertaradjasa. Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

ONE

FACE VALUE

On May 21, 1998, General Suharto stepped down as president of Indonesia after thirty-­two years of authoritarian rule. In Yogyakarta, a center of the anti-­ Suharto student protests that had convulsed the nation for several months, a street photographer capitalizing on the euphoric popular mood enlarged to life-­size a postage stamp bearing Suharto’s portrait and charged people to have their photos taken in his place. The wooden placard underneath the blown-­up stamp read, in large letters, “I am the president of Indonesia in the era of Reformasi [Reform].” An artist named Yuswantoro Adi displayed an oversized 50,000-­rupiah bill painted in photo-­realist style with a hole where the portrait of the “smiling general” should have been. The title of the installation was Anybody Can Be President (figure 1.1).1 Despite its realism, Yuswantoro Adi’s painted version made several crucial alterations to the original bill (figure 1.2). On the official bill, which was issued in 1993 to commemorate his twenty-­fifth year as president, the words under Suharto’s portrait read, “Suharto, Father of Development.” On Adi’s bill they read, “not Father of Development.” The slogan “32 Years, Indonesia Is Just Awakening” (a play on the Indonesian word for “development,” which

uses the same root as the verb “to awaken”) replaced the original “25 Years, Indonesia Develops.” The iconography of the official bill — depicting various scenes of achieved “development” such as highways, industry, satellite communications, and education — remained the same, with a single exception: the image of an orderly group of citizens posing questions to a seated Suharto had been replaced by a group of protestors facing a soldier with a gun. The microphone in the original scene — a technological apparatus associated with the hierarchical order and bureaucratized “protocol” of Suharto’s New Order regime — had been replaced by banners and megaphones as the means by which citizens would transmit their aspirations.2 Yuswantoro Adi’s reimagined rupiah bill, and related images of money discussed in this chapter, forms one of the many image-­events triggered by the transition from the New Order regime to a new democratizing era of “Reformasi.” It exemplifies the way a profusion of images — circulating publicly as a result of both the new climate of political openness and new media technologies — offered critical means by which people marked, imagined, commented upon, and participated in this radical shift in the political landscape. Given that Suharto’s fall had been precipitated by the rupiah’s crash, it was no coincidence that the image of money took on charged significance in a crucial moment of political transition. Yuswantoro Adi’s reworking of the 50,000-rupiah bill, on the cover of his exhibition catalogue for “Uang dan Bocah Kita” (“Money and Our Kids”), December 1–8, 1998, Bentara Budaya Gallery, Yogyakarta. With permission of the artist.

FIGURE 1.1.

34  chapter one

Over the course of his three decades in power, Suharto had maintained his New Order regime through vigilant and often violent suppression of dissent twinned with the promise of economic development. When the currency crisis that swept Southeast Asia in 1997 devastated Indonesia’s corruption-­ ridden economy, the ensuing deprivations hit hard at the growing urban middle class that Suharto’s foreign-­investment-­friendly policies had helped to create.3 It was the members of and aspirants to this class — college students —  who led the demonstrations calling for Reformasi that eventually forced Suharto’s resignation. Although the 50,000Rp bill was still one of the largest denominations in regular circulation and roughly equivalent to a week’s wages for those in the working class, by early 1999 its value had dropped dramatically. It was worth only about US$5, having had a value of about US$20 before the economic crisis.4 And, as will be discussed below, the significant presence of counterfeit money in circulation during the period of political transition further contributed to the uncertainty of the value promised on the face of the bill. The immediate post-­Suharto period was a time marked in equal measure by impulses toward radical change and the refortification of existing structures of power weakened but not necessarily displaced by the Reformasi movement. The new freedoms of expression and relaxation of press controls initiated immediately after Suharto’s resignation allowed a cacophony of new and formerly excluded voices to enter public debates and a dizzying A 50,000-rupiah bill with Suharto’s face. The bill was first issued in 1993. Collection of the author.

FIGURE 1.2.

Face Value  35

array of new vehicles for their dissemination.5 Yet Suharto’s vice president and protégé, B. J. Habibie, had taken over the presidency, and even as he presided over the first free elections in Indonesia since 1955 and the East Timorese referendum for independence in 1999, the depth and sustainability of political transformation remained profoundly in question. The military, Suharto’s ruling party (Golkar), and the state bureaucracy with which it was closely allied remained the most powerful institutions in the country. Crippling economic hardship persisted. It was in this climate of possibility and retrenchment during the first two years following Suharto’s resignation, that money, and in particular, the 50,000Rp bill bearing his image, became a widely circulated visual shorthand distilling a constellation of discourses on New Order corruption and abuse of power. Not only artists but also small-­ scale entrepreneurs, activists, and ordinary citizens seized hold of money by means of its copies, reinscribing and recirculating this state sign. Why did currency acquire such currency in this moment? A symbolic resource rendered productively unstable in a time of political and economic crisis, money was mobilized within a broader struggle over national imaginaries enacted through the reinscription of “public forms.”6 Because “money” was already a reproduced and reproducible element of a wider repertoire of public signs, it was readily available for reinscription and recirculation. Indeed, in a brief comment in the catalogue for an exhibition in which he displayed his reworked 50,000Rp bill, Yuswantoro Adi described his strategic use of photo-­realist technique and familiar, easily graspable images like money as an effort to deploy a visual language of critique that would be accessible to the widest possible audience.7 To understand the currency of money in this moment we must consider both the iconographic transformations inscribed onto its symbolically rich surfaces and money’s pragmatic and material properties as a medium. Anthropologists and other scholars have argued that classic definitions of money as “abstract value” and a neutral medium of exchange fail to account for the ways that money is necessarily concretized as national currency and imbued with social meaning through association with particular agents and morally implicated wealth-­generating and spending activities.8 Money’s status as a physical object further constrains its functioning as dematerialized value. As Webb Keane notes, “Even money shares with other objects the property of taking objectual form. Thus it can cross contexts and, being semiotically underdetermined, is subject to reinterpretation.”9 Adi’s painting draws attention specifically to money’s pragmatic role in “materializing the nation” and generating the fiction of the state.10 In its wide 36  chapter one

and everyday usage, money serves as an “advertisement” for the nation-­state and offers an “unparalleled opportunity” for the dissemination of “officially-­ sanctioned propaganda.”11 As Marx pointed out, money wears a “national uniform.”12 The scope of its circulation marks the boundaries of the nation-­ state, while its use within that bounded territorial entity fosters economic interaction, trust, and a sense of commonality among citizens.13 Money also indexes “the sovereign state whose central bank is the author of the promise it carries.”14 All bills overtly bear the marks of this authorship in their official signatures, their watermarks and other signs of authenticity, and the threat of punishment for illegal reproduction printed on their surfaces. Money’s practical use as stored value, meanwhile, serves implicitly as a vote of confidence in state power. Hence the subversive charge that comes with playing with the face of money, because any defacement of money is a challenge to state authority. Under ordinary conditions, the functioning of money depends on a certain “forgetting” of the social construction of monetary value.15 A crucial part of that forgetting is the suppression of awareness of money’s tie to the nation-­state. Robert J. Foster argues that [Coinage and currency] “work” efficaciously . . . only when these traces [of the nation-­state] are erased from consciousness, that is, subsumed under an implicit fiction that coinage and currency as signifiers depend upon nothing (whether labor or the state) beyond themselves. . . . Under such conditions, the matter of money — including its iconography, really (i.e., practically) does not matter. Under such conditions, the connection between money and the state goes without saying and so goes unsaid.16 But when political and economic crisis disrupts conditions of exchange and puts in question the integrity of the nation and authority of the state, the transparency of money’s “face value” recedes. Links between money and state power, manifest on money’s surface but usually unremarked, come sharply into view. As Bill Maurer notes, “When the not-­seen is suddenly thrust into light, the agencies animating value can receive new social scrutiny.”17 It is precisely this kind of social scrutiny that reworked versions of money such as Yuswantoro Adi’s bill entail and invite. Such play with money “has the ability to question, disturb, and help undermine naturalized financial practices by raising the questions that need to be silenced in order for money and financial practices to operate on a daily basis.”18 Although anthropologists and others scholars have drawn attention to Face Value  37

money as a social and political medium, what remains less explored are the ways in which, as such, money does not operate in a vacuum but is entangled within a broader media ecology.19 In this chapter, I examine how, in the context of Indonesia’s postauthoritarian public sphere, money was “remediated,” that is, absorbed into other media forms, and in the process, “refashioned.”20 I argue that image-­events involving remediating money allowed people to appropriate money’s status as a medium of political communication for their own purposes of articulating critiques and alternative visions of political authority and economic relations. Remediated, money takes on alternative forms of authorship, authority, and authenticity in ways that counter, bring into view, and reenvision the workings of money itself. Yet these reworked forms of money are never fully severed from the logics, material properties, and historical vicissitudes of actual money. The remediated images of money described in this chapter refigured money to articulate both dystopian critiques of corruption and utopian visions of political authenticity, but they could only do so effectively because of the actual functioning of money in a time of economic as well as political crisis. In Yuswantoro Adi’s painting of the 50,000Rp bill, then, what matters is not only his reworking of its iconographic surface but his remediation of money as an artwork/performance piece. Not only do the enlarged size of the painting and its gallery setting encourage critical contemplation, but the painting’s gaping hole invites people to enter into an irreverently participatory relationship with money and political authority by “putting themselves into the picture.” Adi’s painting also transforms money from a mechanically reproduced object into a unique original, entering it into a different regime of value. In most of the cases discussed in this chapter, it is not virtuoso painting but accessible, unregulated, and decentralized media such as photocopiers, digital scanners, and cameras that enable people to rework money and other official signs and set them in motion along alternative circuits. And, I argue, their status as signs moving into public visibility via accessible, alternative media reinforces the sense that these images of a reenvisioned money respond to a new social and political condition: that of “democracy.” As image-­events, remediated versions of money ramify and reverberate further as they are incorporated into mainstream media circuits and consumed by mass audiences. At first glance, Adi’s revisioned bill, a singular object displayed in the elite space of Yogyakarta’s art scene, has only limited circulation. But its reach is far extended as reproductions of the bill 38  chapter one

(and photographs of people putting themselves in Suharto’s place at the exhibition) appear in newspaper accounts of the exhibition (figure 1.3). The newspaper, through its own remediation of Adi’s remediated money, both participates in its irreverent challenge to authority and, at the same time, lends that challenge the visibility, legitimacy, and currency that accrue from circulation in the mainstream print media. Such interplay between mainstream and alternative media is characteristic of the complex media ecology underpinning the postauthoritarian public sphere. In seizing hold of money “at very close range by way of its likeness,” Yuswantoro Adi — and other manipulators of money’s appearance and circulation — charged money with new resonances and communicative possibilities.21 In what follows, I examine first the political valence of Suharto’s portrait and second the significance of the rupiah as a sign of national sovereignty and object of national “love.” These are crucial prehistories of the 50,000Rp bill image-­events that took place in the aftermath of Suharto’s resignation. I then turn to the travels and travails of the 50,000Rp bill with Suharto’s face, as it appeared in magazine graphics, political cartoons, presidential campaign advertising, and protest art and performance. The 50,000Rp bill condensed into a recognizable but malleable form questions of state power, national integrity, political authenticity, and economic relations that were opened up by the crisis of Reformasi. In a moment of political transition characterized by new freedoms of expression, the public appearance A newspaper article about Yuswantoro Adi’s “Money and Our Children,” exhibition includes a photograph of a visitor to the gallery putting herself in Suharto’s place. From “Tak Ada Gambar Pak Harto dalam Uang 50 Ribuan” (“There Is No Image of Suharto on the 50,000 Bill”), Jawa Pos, December 3, 1998.

FIGURE 1.3.

Face Value  39

of altered official signs traveling along both alternative and mass-­mediated circuits became visible, tangible icons of Reformasi itself. Masks of the Autocrat

The transition from the Sukarno years (1945 – 65) to the Suharto regime (1966 – 98) coincided with a technological shift in the dominant mode of political communication from radioaurality to televisuality. Despite his own reliance on visual media to establish himself as nationalist icon and, later, dictator in the making, Indonesia’s first president Sukarno’s bond with the people had been forged primarily through a different sensory channel. Calling himself “an extension of the people’s tongue,” Sukarno spoke to and for his people via the radio in a deeply resonant and powerfully affecting voice. Suharto’s rise to power, by contrast, was concurrent with the ascendance of television in Indonesia. Television was a new medium — the state television network had begun broadcasting in 1962 — when the killing of six generals in the early morning of October 1, 1965, offered Suharto an opportunity to seize power by framing the events as an attempted coup by the Indonesian Communist Party and initiating a massive purge of alleged communists and leftists. The funeral of the six generals, which was one of the inaugurating events of Suharto’s New Order regime, was broadcast on television. Suharto “appeared on tv, standing in silence . . . with his dark sunglasses.” Saya Shiraishi continues, “Soeharto’s smile became familiar to Indonesians as the tv age progressed. In the mid-­1970s, the government required every village to have a tv set and to have villagers watch the national news and cultural programs.”22 These beginnings signaled that in the New Order, it would be Suharto’s facial expression, not the tenor of his voice, that mattered.23 Suharto became known as the “smiling general,” his face a benign mask for the latent violence of the state, just as the seated Suharto calmly listening to his citizens on the 50,000Rp bill was unmasked, in Yuswantoro Adi’s reworking, to reveal a soldier wielding a gun. To invoke the face as “mask” is immediately to call up a central trope in scholarship on Javanese personhood and politics. In an influential essay, Benedict Anderson noted that the human face is conceived in Java as a “built-­in mask.”24 Whereas Geertz’s classic discussion of Javanese epistemologies of self described an inner realm and an outer, surface appearance that ideally mirror each other, other scholars have emphasized the inherent ambiguity of surface appearances in Java.25 In her discussion of the allusive 40  chapter one

aesthetic of semu pervading Javanese aesthetic forms, for example, Nancy K. Florida points out that the very word for allusion, pasemon, also can mean “face,” or “facial expression.”26 Thus the face as mask is a screen on which signs play, pointing not so much to a truth or essence “behind” them, as to possible meanings beyond the visible surface, but brought to mind by means of it.27 As with aesthetics and personhood, so with politics: Javanese “political style,” Anderson argued, was rooted in an epistemology of “skepticism,” deriving from an awareness of the ambiguity and tension between appearances and realities. In politics, as in the mask dance, he wrote, “The relationship between the real and the really real is . . . obscure and intricate.” But, observing the dawn of the New Order regime, Anderson suggested that the “metaphysical richness” of Javanese political style was giving way to a cruder formulation.28 Metaphors of the unseen dalang (shadow puppeteer) at work “behind the screen” increasingly permeated Indonesian politics in the New Order, emphasizing hidden agencies and concealed intentions.29 Both popular and official understandings of politics came to be guided by a “paranoid logic of reception,” in which all political actions are assumed to be nontransparent masks whose true meaning and authors remain unseen.30 In the final years of his rule, Suharto’s face was read as a mask in which the assumption of concealment stimulated people’s desire to find what lay hidden behind it. As Saya Shiraishi observed, “The nation is thus addicted to the national pastime of guessing what is behind the silent smile of Bapak Presiden.”31 The impulse to unmask and expose, to eliminate the need for guessing and speculation, as later chapters will elaborate, was central to the post-­Suharto embrace of transparency as a political ideal; yet, despite the desire to finally eliminate the gap between surfaces and the “really real,” this ideal itself fueled ongoing skepticism about the reliability of appearances. If in the early years he regularly appeared wearing dark sunglasses, later, in a more benign embodiment of visual power, Suharto was often pictured on television holding a camera and taking snapshots as he traveled to different parts of the country. Even via this kinder, gentler surveillance in the idiom of domestic tourism, he made himself visible as the source of a gaze. Such images of visual power countered the vulnerabilities inherent in Suharto’s own visibility as he himself became, through the media, an iconic image available for public consumption. Describing the political culture of the African postcolony, Achille Mbembe argues that the omnipresence of images of “the autocrat” generates among the people an intimate familiarity with power: “The autocrat is virtually ofFace Value  41

fered at hand’s reach — his face on the national currency. . . . He doesn’t just appear in facts, events — in short, in news. He tends to be omnipresent. The autocrat is thus accessible; people meet him in their ordinary, everyday life . . . in the most unexpected and intimate areas of private life.”32 The autocrat as omnipresent icon of the state is absorbed by the public in its daily life; we might say that the figure of the autocrat becomes an object not of distanced contemplation but of tactile appropriation, received “in a state of distraction.”33 In moments of crisis, however, distraction can be jolted into attention. As Mbembe explains, the very intimacy of the state “fetish” of the autocrat renders it available for transformation into an “artifact,” in the sense of a manipulated, handled, crafted thing, put to use as a medium of popular political expression.34 Technologies of mechanical reproduction and electronic and digital dissemination facilitate both the autocrat’s omnipresence and popular play with his image. As Mbembe notes, “The time when the state alone had the right to represent itself and publicly exhibit the autocrat (or to censor any representation not emanating from itself) is gone. The mechanism for representation and exhibition is now outside its control.”35 After he seized power in 1965 – 66, Suharto’s bid to become an omnipresent public icon was predicated on effecting Sukarno’s disappearance from the public eye. Not only was Sukarno himself put under house arrest (where he died in 1970), but, in 1967, as part of an effort to undermine his charismatic hold as nationalist symbol, Suharto’s government ordered that Sukarno’s image be removed from public spaces, school classrooms, and government offices; Suharto’s image soon became de rigueur in such spaces.36 All rupiah bills with Sukarno’s face on them were discontinued.37 The prevalence of Sukarno’s image in school textbooks and museums also decreased in inverse proportion to Suharto’s image’s proliferation. Yet in some ways Suharto never quite achieved his aim of displacing Sukarno’s central place in nationalist imaginaries. Suharto replaced Sukarno in the official nationalism of the public sphere — on government-­sponsored billboards, in textbooks and museums, and in other public sites — and his image penetrated into people’s homes via television and other forms of national media. But, in part because the Suharto regime fashioned itself as a bland, technocratic alternative to the dangerously passionate politics of the Sukarno era, it eschewed the more populist and spectacular aesthetics associated with Sukarnoism. As opposition to Suharto grew in the 1990s, moreover, images of Sukarno proliferated in domestic spaces.38 Many people proudly told me that they had kept portraits of Sukarno on display in 42  chapter one

their homes throughout the New Order, even though signs of reverence for Indonesia’s first president could be construed as disloyalty to Suharto. The continued presence of Sukarno in domestic interiors countered his erasure from the exterior public sphere and indexed the authenticity of his popular following, reinforcing the sense that public displays of allegiance to Suharto were coerced rather than genuine. Although television, newspapers, and money brought Suharto into intimate proximity, these were images that people had little choice but to receive. By contrast, commercial images of Sukarno sold briskly on street corners and in small stalls. Alongside formal state portraits, many were posed photographs of the Sukarno family or informal snapshots of the first president during his travels through the country. Many, too, were overlaid with quotes reproduced in his handwriting, or in a handwritinglike font, to enhance their promise of intimate contact. Reduced to the scale of family photography and incorporated into personal collections of images, such Sukarno images had “cult value” as signs of a lost political authenticity. Thus Sukarno nostalgia found articulation in an intimate visual idiom akin to that of personal memory rather than official statist iconography.39 In the context of Sukarno’s erasure from the public sphere, they marked a distinction between authentic nationalist sentiment and the mandated allegiances required by the state and performed in public.40 In 1998, as Reformasi protests loosened his grip on power, Suharto’s control of his public image also began to slip. Soon after Suharto’s still pliant Parliament had rubber-­stamped him into another term as president in March 1998, student demonstrators in Yogyakarta burned him in effigy. The effigy’s face was constructed from Suharto’s official presidential portrait. Other students burned copies of the portrait. The regime’s response was to seek to control the circulation of images recording the protest. Although photographs of the protest circulated informally among students and activists, no newspapers dared to publish them. The managing editor of Yogyakarta’s main newspaper, Kedaulatan Rakyat, received a call from the Department of Information specifically warning him not to run a photo of the burning effigy.41 After his resignation, Suharto suffered a multiplied loss of face. Not only did newspapers gleefully show pictures of discarded official portraits in garbage heaps, but images of Suharto on billboards were defaced, an X traced through his features. In 1999, the same newspaper that had heeded official warning to keep images of Suharto’s burning effigy out of its pages sponsored an exhibition of Reformasi photos in which they appeared on display.42 Face Value  43

In promotions for the exhibition, the very fact that such photographs could now be shown became a much-­heralded sign of Reformasi’s achievement. At another photo exhibition, in which a lack of funds necessitated that the photographs be hung with no glass to protect them, a close-­up photo of Suharto praying on the Islamic holiday of Idul Fitri (Eid al-­Fitr) in 1998 became a surface on which viewers grafittied their signatures and epithets such as asu (dog) — their harsh defacements unmasking Suharto’s professions of piety. In June 1999, student protesters were arrested when they staged a “happening art” protest — they arrayed tens of life-­size cloth dolls bearing the face of Suharto on a major bridge in Jakarta — and inconveniently caused a traffic jam. The arrested students appeared in court wearing masks made from photocopies of Suharto’s portrait (figure 1.4; plate 15). They refused the judge’s demand that they remove them, saying, “We will take off our masks when Suharto, for whom the proof of wrongdoing is already very clear, appears in this court. Meanwhile, although it is not clear what we did wrong, we are the ones brought to court.”43 Wearing Suharto’s face, they simultaneously presented themselves to the court draped in a mantle of impunity and figuratively brought Suharto to trial. The caption that accompanied the image of the masked students in a major national newspaper noted that, in Students appear in court wearing Suharto masks. From “‘hm Soeharto’ Dihukum Denda” (“Suharto Sentenced with a Fine”), Kompas, June 22, 1999.

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submitting to being sentenced themselves, the students had finally effected a court judgment against Suharto, something that remained elusive despite calls to bring him to justice for corruption and human rights abuses. The mask protest as image-­event epitomized the students’ use of photocopiers and other widely available, inexpensive media to repackage official signs as potent visual spectacles ready-­made for recirculation through the mass media. So effective was this image of the students donning Suharto masks that another newspaper used it, in an unrelated story, as a backdrop to a photograph of Suharto overlaid with his insistence that he didn’t have “a single cent” in foreign bank accounts.44 The newspaper’s remediated image played on the fact that Suharto’s face became all the more visible as a mask of duplicity and hypocrisy when worn by students, figures accorded a privileged moral status as representatives of the nation during the reform period. Such remediations — which charged Suharto’s face with new significations and efficacies — transformed a state fetish into an artifact of popular commentary. I Love the Rupiah

That money should figure so centrally in Reformasi symbology is little surprise given that it was a currency crisis that precipitated Suharto’s fall from power. A graph that appeared in a special millennial issue of the nation’s premier news magazine superimposed the jagged line depicting the rupiah’s fluctuations in 1997 – 98 on top of an image that merged Suharto’s face with the portrait of George Washington on the one-­dollar bill (figure 1.5).45 As icon of the nation-­state, Suharto-­as-­Washington represented Indonesia’s inextricable entanglement in a world economy dominated by the United States. As a portrait of Suharto, meanwhile, the image suggested the president’s personal complicity in the rupiah’s decline as the agent of Indonesia’s neoliberal economic policies and as a “front” or mask for the dollar whose interests he served. The magazine graphic pictured the violation of an implicit, longstanding ideal in which the integrity of “territorial currency” stands for national sovereignty.46 During the Indonesian National Revolution of 1945 – 49, currency issued by the self-­proclaimed Republic played a significant role in the effort to create a viable economy. It also offered a “symbol of independence”; Indonesians responded to the issuing of Republican money (Oeang Repoeblik Indonesia, or ori) with street celebrations.47 But even as it symbolically heralded the new nation-­state’s authority, the introduction of ori in practice revealed the fledgling state’s weakness and fragmentation. The currency was Face Value  45

plagued by problems of decentralization and counterfeiting because of the lack of a central issuing authority and poor communications across different parts of the embattled nation. Various kinds of ori circulated in different regions and could only be used in those areas.48 The multiplicity of forms and poor standards of printing made the problem of falsification endemic during the revolutionary period. By 1948, the amount of false money in circulation equaled that of authentic currency.49 As significant was the problem of competing Dutch and Republican currencies. Colonial money was still in use in those areas under Dutch control. Mere possession of Dutch money could have deadly consequences, whether one was an ethnic Chinese market trader or a nationalist sympathizer who nevertheless received a Dutch salary: If one has Dutch money in one’s possession, one is a traitor. It is a matter of being connected at a distance; of being in touch with the Dutch by accepting their (monetary) communications. It does not matter how one got the money or how one spent it. . . . It is a question of ultimate connection.50 Money, James T. Siegel argues, defined the boundaries of insider and outsider: “One can become a foreigner simply by changing money.”51 Allegiance to the nation, he suggests, was not a matter of internal sentiments that may Suharto as George Washington graphic. From “Fluctuation of the Exchange Rate of Rupiah against the Dollar,” Tempo, January 16, 2000, 114.

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or may not be outwardly signaled. Rather, it was a matter of external signs that pointed, even without one’s intention, to a relationship with political authority. This set of associations among non-­Indonesian currency, traitors, and the foreign forged in the revolution became salient again in 1997 and 1998 as the rupiah’s value dropped precipitously. Attempting to staunch the flow of money out of the nation’s failing banks, Suharto’s notoriously corrupt daughter, Siti Hardiyanti Rukmana (Tutut), spearheaded a state-­sponsored “Love the Rupiah Movement” (Gerakan Cinta Rupiah) that conflated holding onto the falling rupiah with patriotism. In the press, those who exchanged their rupiah for dollars and placed their money in banks in Singapore and elsewhere were vilified for betraying the nation. Given the long history of figuring the ethnic Chinese minority in Indonesia as an exploitative class whose ties to the global economy trump their national affiliation, Chinese Indonesians were the implicit targets of such slurs.52 The theme of loving the rupiah did not remain limited to government policy and the news media, but entered into popular culture as well. It was taken up, for example, in a popular children’s song titled “I Love the Rupiah,” sung by a seven-­year-­old “little artist” named Cindy Cenora. (The lyrics go, in part, “I love the rupiah, although the dollar is everywhere, I love the rupiah, because I’m a child of Indonesia. . . . Look at my savings, they’re in rupiah. . . . Use rupiah to buy things.”) “Little artists” (artis cilik) were among Indonesia’s most popular celebrities in the late 1990s; they enjoyed a prominent presence on television (as well as in cds and audiocassettes) and were highly popular with adults as well as children. They often sang of nationalist themes, popularizing government campaigns and capitalizing on the iconic status of the child in Indonesian nationalist discourses.53 Cindy, as she was called, also came out with an album titled Krismon, the popular abbreviation for krisis moneter (monetary crisis). For several months, my landlady’s four-­year-­old grandson repeatedly sang the title track’s curious combination of cheerful, catchy melody and dire lyrics — “I ask for a new shirt, they say it’s still krismon. . . . It’s hard, hard, nothing is cheap” — to the delight of the adults in the room. It just so happened that Cindy, like a number of the most popular “little artists” at that time, was Chinese Indonesian. In a book for her fans published in 1999, she puns that her sentiment of “love” for the rupiah does not mean she is greedy — literally, that she has “eyes for money” (mata duitan) — but rather that she “loves her currency” (mata uangnya): “Indonesian currency. Yeah, the Rupiah. Not the dollar for example, which isn’t InFace Value  47

donesian money.”54 The anxiety in this passage about a possible misreading of patriotism for greed registers the awkwardness of an ethnic Chinese child laying claim to nationalist sentiments and the dangerous potential slippage between love of currency as a marker for those sentiments and love of money as a marker of Chineseness. As figures of venality, translocal economic ties, and pamrih (uncontrolled, selfish desire), “the Chinese” and Suharto were semantically linked.55 Suharto and his children were, of course, rumored to have billions of dollars in secret bank accounts abroad, even as Suharto’s daughter preached eternal affection for the rupiah. It is no coincidence, then, that Suharto was often rumored to be really “Chinese,” with the term conveying both ethnic and ethical meaning. This identity allegedly could be read in his “face” — or, more specifically, in his “eyes for money” (mata duitan). Political Currency

Thus far, we have traced Suharto’s face as political icon and mask and the rupiah as a symbol of the nation-­state; the 50,000Rp bill with Suharto’s portrait brought these potent signs together. First issued in 1993, it was eventually reissued in August 2000 with new imagery. On the new bill Suharto’s face was replaced by that of an innocuous figure: the author of the Indonesian national anthem. But between 1998 and 2000, as the old bill continued to circulate, its continued use seemed to give material form to the widespread belief that Suharto was still active in the political world — that he still had, in all senses of the word, currency. Despite his apparent absence from the seat of power after 1998, Suharto’s presence could be felt through the circulations of his money. In popular imaginings, it often seemed that every eruption of violence and revelation of political corruption, however diverse and disparate, however apparently localized, pointed to Suharto’s hidden agency. During the buildup to the elections of 1999, the 50,000Rp bill with Suharto’s portrait appeared frequently in cartoons and magazine-­cover illustrations as a visual code for the idea that Suharto’s money was behind various conflicts throughout Indonesia.56 It also appeared as an illustration for lead articles on political and corruption scandals. Common to these different remediated iterations was the suggestion that, far from a neutral medium of exchange, the rupiah’s true status was as appendage to a highly personalized form of political power. Rumors circulated that Suharto and Golkar, his ruling party, were playing the familiar game of “money politics,” buying votes and using money in 48  chapter one

other ways to manipulate the general elections of 1999, and thereby threatening to compromise Indonesia’s first democratic election process since 1955. One political cartoon depicted a party orator with a sheaf of 50,000Rp bills poking out of his shirt collar in place of his head. Hiding wads of bills behind their backs, party supporters shout, “Long live the Party!”57 Another cartoon showed a variety of party banners, one of which bore as its symbol the 50,000Rp bill (figure 1.6). It visualized the possibility, widely bruited, that some of the smaller parties that had cropped up to participate in the elections were being funded with Suharto’s money in an attempt to draw votes away from reformist parties. As commentary on the practice of “money politics,” the 50,000Rp bill also found its way to the streets. At a demonstration, students in Jakarta dressed up in costumes made entirely of photocopies of the 50,000Rp bill (figure 1.7). Clad in money, they stood in front of the Election Committee’s Headquarters (Komite Pemilihan Umum), handing out photocopied bills to people passing by on foot and in cars. The photocopied bills served both as generic signs of corruption and as a means of associating this ongoing pracPlaying on the acronym of a slogan publicizing Indonesia’s “Direct, General, Free, and Secret” (Langsung, Umum, Bebas, dan Rahasia) democratic elections, the cartoon bubble reads: “Direct, General, Give out Rupiah!!” (“luber yang ini, Langsung Umum Beri Rupiah!!”). Cartoon by Agoes Jumianto, Kedaulatan Rakyat, March 6, 1999.

FIGURE 1.6.

Face Value  49

tice with the previous regime. Echoing the students who donned masks of Suharto’s face in court, students remediated money by means of photocopiers and their own bodies. Absorption into mass media circuits via press reporting further amplified the communicative reach of their performance, which thereby came to circulate through both alternative and mainstream, face-­to-­face and mass-­mediated, channels. Suharto, meanwhile, was busy cultivating an image of retiring old age, picturing himself as an ineffectual, incapacitated old man in order to avoid being dragged to court on corruption charges. In July 1999, images that circulated on television and in newspapers of an apparently frail Suharto leaving the hospital in a wheelchair after suffering a stroke seemed calculated to create this political reality. The cartoons and protests about money politics countered such appearances by figuring Suharto’s continued mobility and agency by means of his proxies (figure 1.8). As “copies” of Suharto, money could extend his efficacy, circulating and generating effects even as he remained invalided at home. Money became Suharto’s mode of performative speech, the trace of his “hidden hand.” Activists protest “money politics” by covering their bodies in photocopied 50,000-rupiah bills. The caption reads: “People Made of Money” (“Manusia Uang”). From Kompas, May 11, 1999.

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Counterfeit Money

Adding another dimension to accusations of money politics were rumors that Suharto’s ruling party, Golkar, was handing out envelopes with coun­ terfeit rupiah bills to its would-­be supporters. These cynical imaginings served effectively as metaphor for Golkar’s duplicity and corruption, but they also had a basis in actuality. Just as it had in the early years of the Republic, counterfeit money became a significant problem in the immediate post-­Suharto period, further eroding confidence in the value of money.58 The news media frequently reported cases of false bills received from atm machines and of cheated merchants. Images of police raids on money forgers accompanied articles about the rampant circulation of counterfeit money (figure 1.9). Figures associated with Golkar, the armed forces, the police,

FIGURES 1.8–1.9

“Is it authentic or false?” Politicians hold 50,000-rupiah bills labeled asli (authentic) to their chests, police scrutinize bills, while, in the background, Suharto sits slumped in a wheelchair as a doctor searches for his heartbeat with a stethoscope. Cartoon by Mulyawan, Forum Keadilan, no. 2, April 16, 2000, 10.

1.8

“Counterfeit Money.” The caption describes the seizure of 2.5 billion rupiah in 50,000-rupiah notes from a counterfeiting ring by police intelligence agents in South Jakarta. From Bernas, March 11, 2000.

1.9.

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and Bank Indonesia itself were all, at different moments, implicated in the production of false money.59 As one article explained, after recounting the misfortune of a man named Sipon whose money was rejected as false when he went to deposit it at the bank, “What happened to Sipon could befall us, too. Because any time we receive money, getting our wages, for example, there’s no guarantee that the money is authentic. Even if the money’s from a bank, a government bank, no less.”60 Drawing readers’ attention to the materiality of money, the article went on to explain various features of bills —  watermark, paper quality, ink color, design, and safety threads — that people could inspect to detect counterfeits. Ultraviolet lights that helped to expose false bills became common at banks and stores, and some merchants carefully examined any bill over 10,000 rupiah before accepting it. Scrutinizing money — scanning its surface and thumbing its texture for visible and tangible signs of inauthenticity — became a national preoccupation. The unauthorized rupiah bills issued by Bank Indonesia exemplify the logic of the aspal, a neologism that combines the words asli (authentic) and palsu (false). Aspal documents are indistinguishable from the genuine article. The work of someone on the inside, the aspal signals corruption at the core.61 In Indonesia’s corruption-­ridden bureaucracy, the aspal is not a shocking rarity, but a feature of everyday life. Like piracy and other illegal economic activities in many places, the production and circulation of aspal documents is “part of the routine operations of the state rather than a pathology outside of it.”62 Despite the ordinariness of the aspal during the New Order, press reporting nevertheless directly tied the counterfeiting boom to political crisis and transition. As one article in a news magazine noted, “The falsification of money that has happened time and time again throughout the history of this Republic is very much triggered by uncertain political situations.”63 Many articles noted that the most dramatic rise in counterfeit bills occurred in May 1998, during the transition from Suharto to President Habibie and the ensuing rush on banks by panicked citizens.64 Some claimed that Bank Indonesia itself had opened up the possibility of falsification by allowing money to be printed abroad, or that it had simply overproduced bills to meet demand as the banks collapsed. Significantly, the press reported that the note most commonly counterfeited was the 50,000Rp bill, thus undermining public confidence in that bill in particular.65 Rumors circulated that, in the midst of the riots that led to Suharto’s resignation in May 1998, one of the printing plates for the 50,000Rp bill had been smuggled out of Jakarta by the ruling regime in order 52  chapter one

to later fund Suharto’s political projects. As one police official noted, “What is certain is that if before the falsified bills were varied, now the ones most often falsified are the 50,000Rp bills with the image of the smiling Suharto. Whether or not this is a political action, we don’t have any proof.”66 Another article concluded with the threat of social upheaval if people were to lose faith in the rupiah: “Certainly tempers [emosi] could flare if one were to get money with the face of Suharto smiling . . . falsely.”67 When, in October 1999, the government issued a new 100,000Rp bill with the face of first president Sukarno and first vice president Hatta on it, the deputy governor of Bank Indonesia insisted that there was nothing political about the decision to use Sukarno’s portrait. At the same time, he directly linked the issuing of the bill to the problem of counterfeit money.68 Not only did he elaborate in a statement to the press on the use of polymer substrate instead of paper and other material qualities of the new money that were intended to make it harder to falsify and easier to verify — to readily “recognize the signs of its authenticity” — but he noted in particular that the 100,000Rp bill was being issued because of the “high number of falsifications of the 50,000Rp bill with the face of former president Suharto.”69 The face of Indonesia’s revered nationalist leader Sukarno had appeared on the country’s money as early as 1946; his image was removed from the bills as Suharto consolidated his power and reissued the currency in 1967. Now, returning into circulation, the more valuable and reliably authentic Sukarno bill would counter the counterfeit Suharto. Authentic Money

This “return” had already been anticipated. Several months into the campaign for the general elections of 1999 (which took place in June), amid literally hundreds of campaign posters and items of paraphernalia sold at rallies and along commercial streets, a sticker appeared that placed Megawati Sukarnoputri’s face on the by-­now-­infamous 50,000Rp bill (figures 1.10 through 1.14; plate 8). A candidate for president and leader of an opposition party, Megawati was also Sukarno’s daughter. Priced at 1,000 – 1,500Rp (approximately US$0.15 – 0.20), the sticker was itself a commodity and its sale reinforced the power of the market as an idiom for participation in a neoliberal democratic politics conceived as “purchasing power.” But as a sticker, it was, of course, meant to be fixed in one place — and thus it violated an essential principle of money. Money, conventionally, should not be sticky; it is a restless and impersonal, mercenary form, available for any purpose and Face Value  53

at the disposal of any agent who wields it. The act of purchasing the money sticker and displaying it in intimate spaces attached the money to its owners and pointed it to a particular aim. Possessed and domesticated, money’s exchange value was exchanged for its use value as a statement of political sentiment. Money’s remediation from medium of exchange to campaign sticker thus entailed a shift in the regime of value underlying its authority and authenticity; as a false bill that nevertheless laid claim to an alternative source of authenticity, the remediated bill-­as-­sticker played on the inherent possibility of a slippage between distinct understandings of the “authentic” (asli) and called into question the very distinction between “false” and “real” or “true” money. The Megawati money sticker reimagined what authentic money might look like, transforming a symbol of corruption and falsity into a sign of political, financial, and moral authenticity. In place of the signatures of government officials appeared the Reformasi keywords, jujur (honest) and adil (just).70 Instead of the inscription on the real currency that prohibits reproduction of the bills, these bore slogans that forbade “corruption, collusion, and nepotism” and “violence.” Like Adi’s painted bill, these bills relied on their mimetic verisimilitude to both invoke the official bill and give the charge of possibility to the details of difference. F I GU R E S 1 . 1 0 – 1 4 1 .1 0 . Presidential campaign “money sticker” in the form of a 50,000-rupiah bill with the face of Megawati Sukarnoputri and Sukarno as watermark, 1999. 1 .1 1 .

Iteration of Megawati money sticker with Sukarno as watermark, 1999.

1 .1 2 .

Iteration of Megawati money sticker with Sukarno as watermark, 1999.

1 .1 3 .

Iteration of Megawati money sticker with Sukarno as watermark, 1999.

1 .1 4 . Iteration of Megawati money sticker with Sukarno as watermark, 1999 (see also plate 8).

All collection of the author. 54  chapter one

Not long after the Megawati stickers began to appear, the other major opposition parties in the elections, pan (Partai Amanat Nasional, or National Mandate Party) and pkb (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, or National Awakening Party), produced their own bills featuring their presidential candidates. At a campaign rally, the wife of pan candidate Amien Rais handed his bills out to potential voters — playfully parodying Golkar’s well-­k nown practice of money politics (figure 1.15). Once again, in reporting on this campaign stunt, the mass media served as an amplifying echo chamber for the image-­event: “It turns out that Ny. Kusnasriyati Sri Rahayu also practices the money politics that is so much the enemy of the Mandate Party. . . . [She] even gave [money] out from the air while in a helicopter. . . . Don’t misunderstand. The money politics employed by Amien Rais and his wife is not that of handing out or circulating real money. Rather it is in the form of a sticker.”71 Although other parties used their opposition status in these sticker games to define themselves against Golkar, with its infamously corrupt practices, by far the most widespread money stickers were those of Megawati. These seemed to gain in popularity following her party’s victory in the general elections of June 1999. (In the October 1999 parliamentary elections to determine the presidency, Megawati was edged out by a coalition of Islamic parties and became instead President Abdurrahman Wahid’s vice president. She would become president in July 2001 after another set of elite political maneuverings pushed Wahid out of office.) Megawati had an urban populist following and cult status that the other candidates lacked. She had earned a reputation for political authenticity for her refusal to accept being ousted by Suharto from the leadership of her party in 1996. Megawati also served as a sign of fiscal “cleanliness”; in the popular imagination, Megawati and the Sukarno family were often explicitly opposed to the Suharto family for not having profited off of the people. Above all, nostalgic longing fueled popular support for Megawati’s presidential bid. Most of the Megawati bills (which soon included other denominations as well) included the authenticating presence of her father: typically, the note’s “watermark” was an image of Sukarno. The shadow figure always Face Value  55

visible behind her, Sukarno was the ultimate source of political authenticity: the “original” Indonesian president and nationalist hero of whom Megawati herself was an authentic reproduction. Both Megawati detractors and supporters often claimed that her charisma was a result of her connection to Sukarno, a familial link made visually not only on the money stickers but on numerous political campaign images, from mass-­produced posters to hand-­ painted signs on “pro-­Mega” neighborhood “Command Posts” (figure 1.16). A few campaign stickers, anticipating the money that would be issued after the election, even bypassed Megawati altogether, placing Sukarno on the face of the bill. These visions of the future of money, should Megawati win, were thus simultaneously imaginings of a return, a recovery of lost origins. The money stickers might be called “auratic reproductions,” in that they bring the owner of the image into contact with a charismatic political figure (both Megawati herself and her own “original,” Sukarno) who becomes the source of the bill’s authenticity.72 Echoing the logic of money itself, the sticker retains its indexical tie to an authenticating origin, even as it circulates as a copy detached from its original. But because that authenticating origin is not yet/no longer identified with the state, the money sticker is a performative act: it is a copy that aims to generate its original. Any reproduction of money threatens to unravel both the fetish of money as a neutral medium of abstract value and the trust that authorizes and instantiates state power. But counterfeit money is merely false, whereas the sticker is a false copy that is more authentic than the real thing. The money Presidential-campaign money sticker with the face Amien Rais on a 50,000-rupiah bill, 1999. Collection of the author.

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sticker thus reverses the logic of the aspal, the authentic counterfeit. The money sticker is visibly false and makes no pretense to having been printed officially; it lays claim to political authenticity precisely because it comes from outside.73 Significantly, the Megawati money sticker had no clear author or origin. Party officials suggested it was the work of fanatik (fanatical) supporters of Megawati. One article attributed the stickers to the creativity of people trying to make ends meet in times of economic crisis; it quoted petty sellers of the stickers in a bus terminal who recounted that they purchased the stickers each morning from someone whom they did not know.74 The sticker thus had somewhat mysterious origins, appearing as if a spontaneous product of the people’s suffering, creativity, and desire.75 If the people rather than the state were the issuing agent behind the sticker, then Megawati’s face became a “mask” of the people. In this sense, the stickers enacted the popular sentiment that Megawati was a leader who, unlike Suharto, was “one with the people” (merakyat). As one Megawati supporter, a woman in her mid-­fifties, told me, “Megawati has the spirit of her father, the spirit of being one with the people” (Megawati punya jiwa bapaknya, jiwa merakyat). Even if it merely toyed with the idea of replacing the existing currency,

Neighborhood “Command Post” (Posko), with painting of Megawati and Sukarno, 1999. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 1.16.

Face Value  57

the Megawati money sticker provoked a tremor of unease among elites made nervous by Megawati’s fervent following among the poor (figure 1.17). In a newspaper article, a leader of Megawati’s party denied that they were being produced by the party and voiced concern that illiterate villagers might mistake the play money for the real thing. In a tone of paternalistic condescension, he warned, “If it falls into the hands of people, especially those in the villages who are illiterate, it could have saddening consequences. Illiterate villagers who don’t know that the fifty-­thousand-­rupiah bill with the picture of Mbak Mega is only a game will have problems.”76 The newspaper reminded its readers that the “authentic” (asli) 50,000Rp note with the face of Suharto has “not yet been recalled and is still a legitimate means of purchasing.” The spread of such elite narratives of villager simplicity in the mass media suggests that the money stickers provoked anxiety not only about the collapse of borders between “real” and “false” money but also about the possibility of illiterate masses rejecting state authority and acting outside the guidance of national elites. Effectively capturing the “aspirations of the people” (aspirasi rakyat), the fake money sticker proved more popular than any other political sticker —  showing up on cars, buses, becak (pedicabs), peddlers’ stands, in people’s homes on doors and mirrors, and even in their wallets (figure 1.18). When asked about their aspirations for the first democratic elections since 1955, most people said that they cared above all about ekonomi — about lowering prices and achieving financial security.77 As political communication, the money sticker figured the preeminence of economic concerns while allowing people symbolically to grasp realms of money and power structurally beyond their reach. Many of Megawati’s supporters in the urban lower class would rarely have held an actual 50,000Rp bill. Attached to the spaces of small-­scale commerce and domestic life, the stickers made an abundance of money physically part of the everyday landscape of the urban lower class. The money sticker moved simultaneously along planes of idealism and satire, earnestly articulating popular reformist ideals while critiquing the use of money for political gain and political authority for financial gain. It poked fun at money’s authenticating signs, and, at the same time, imagined what authentic currency might look like. Opposed to the merely false counterfeit, the authentic copy became a critical resource in popular imaginings of a new, more authentic politics. But in reinvigorating the “aura” of charismatic authority, the money stickers also embodied the potential for the fascistic aestheticization of politics in the age of mechanical reproduction of which Walter Benjamin warned. For elite Indonesians who feared Megawa58  chapter one

Megawati supporter with money stickers at a campaign rally in Jakarta. From “Massa pdi Perjuangan kembali memerahkan Jakarta, kemarin,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 4, 1999.

FIGURE 1.17.

ti’s fanatik following among the lower classes, the money sticker was further evidence of her dangerous status as a populist icon, an autocrat in the making. The giddy possibility of putting anybody in Suharto’s place imagined in the first few months after his resignation had been foreclosed, it seemed, and a replacement found. Indeed, an irony of ludic acts of reworking iconic images is that, as with all forms of parody and carnivalesque inversion, they risk reanimating the very hegemonies they aim to disrupt. Just as images of the 50,000Rp bill in cartoons and street protests imagined an Indonesia still haunted by Suharto’s “hidden hand,” the money stickers figured Megawati as a nostalgic return to a lost origin. As it happened, Megawati’s presidency did not usher in the transformative politics for which her supporters had so fervently hoped. Hardly radical, it was marked by mediocrity and a business-­as-­usual approach to governing, and in 2004 Megawati was voted out of office. In hindsight, it seems fitting that the Megawati sticker was a promissory note for the future that could not in fact be redeemed, a “frozen desire” literally stuck in Contents of a wallet, including a photo of Megawati, a “fake” Megawati bill, and a photo of the wallet owner with the sultan of Yogyakarta. Taken on election day, June 1999, Yogykarta. Photo by the author.

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the hands of the urban poor.78 Faded and peeling, Megawati money stickers no longer signaled an alternative future of recovered authenticity, but rather the eternal return of the same (figure 1.19; plate 2). Ludic Image-­Events

This chapter has traced some paths of an unfolding image-­event. The 50,000Rp bill with Suharto’s face on it took on new resonances and new forms in the immediate aftermath of Suharto’s resignation. Remediated forms of money materialized emergent political imaginaries in a time of crisis, when signs of authority and authenticity were at stake and up for grabs. That the face of money acquired such currency during Indonesia’s Reformasi transition was a result of its legibility, mobility, and reproducibility as a public icon and its status as already a medium of political communication. The 50,000Rp bill effectively crystallized a range of discourses that circulated around the figure of Suharto and his use of political power for economic gain and economic power for political gain. In street protests, performance art, cartoons, illustrations, popular songs, and campaign stickers, people intervened in Indonesia’s postauthoritarian Becak driver with faded Megawati money sticker, Yogyakarta, 1999. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 1.19.

Face Value  61

public visuality, opening up spaces for the expression of both discontent and aspiration. They took money’s messages out of the exclusive hands of the state and made it speak to a new set of political conditions and possibilities. Actualizing money’s status as a medium of political communication in newly overt ways, people transformed a state-­authored sign into raw material for parody, critique, and the imagining of political alternatives. Not only their reworked surfaces but the travel of these signs along alternative media pathways posed a potent challenge to official authority. Tracking the 50,000Rp-­bill image-­events reveals national political imaginaries to be the outcomes of contingent, social, and material processes of mediation rather than stable repertoires of images. The acts of remediation described in this chapter heralded a newly potent modality of political communication in the post-­Suharto era. Emerging at a moment of crisis, they augured the ways that the destabilization and decentering of authority initiated by the rupture of Reformasi would become a chronic condition. Just as the transition from Sukarno to Suharto coincided with a technological shift in political communication from radioaurality to televisuality, so the emergence of a more fractured and participatory democratic political order after 1998 converged with and was given its specific flavor by a new media ecology. This media ecology was characterized by diversification and lack of a dominant medium, digital reproductions, and interpenetrating interactions among media forms that blurred previously delineated borders between official and unofficial signs, formal and informal communication, mainstream and alternative messages. If politics is always a form of image management, a struggle to control public meanings and harness the performative efficacy of images, the age of decentralized consumer media has made it an ever more precarious enterprise. Suharto’s removal from power evacuated the center of political authority, leaving a more dispersed and unstable field for the distribution and circulation of political messages. At the same time, the mass media, although certainly never univocal even under conditions of New Order censorship, became more polyphonic and increasingly entered into competitive, parasitic, and symbiotic relations with a range of unregulated, widely accessible consumer media. Political communications thus began to travel from medium to medium in a complex traffic, taking on, at each remediation, distinctive forms of address, authority, and authorship. Unruly, ludic processes of reception and reinvention — such as those by which Indonesians transformed the state fetish of money into an artifact of their critical and utopian 62  chapter one

imaginings — thus became an integral feature of contemporary Indonesian political communication. Desire for a more authentic politics and skepticism about whether Suharto and his corrupt politics had really left the scene animated the iterations of money discussed in this chapter. The next chapter shifts attention to another key aspiration of the immediate postauthoritarian period, the demand for exposure of truths about state violence, and the hopes placed on photography for overcoming the obscure operations of terror. In this chapter, the technical ability to manipulate images became a resource for popular commentary and envisioning. In what follows, I turn to an image-­event in which “manipulated” images appear not as forms of critical and creative envisioning, but as potent threats to democracy’s promise of transparency.

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Yaya Sung, Jalan Kemenangan IV (Victory Street IV) (detail), 2012. Photography on canvas, stitched with gold-colored threads, 23 5/8 × 47 ¼ in. (60 × 120 cm). By permission of the artist.

TWO

THE GENDER OF TRANSPARENCY

On May 13 – 15, 1998, during three days of convulsive violence that would lead to President Suharto’s resignation a week later, a number of Chinese-­ Indonesian women were brutally gang-­raped and some killed in what appeared to be an orchestrated campaign of terror. The “rioting” had begun in response to the killing, on May 12, of four students during an anti-­Suharto demonstration in Jakarta, but had rapidly devolved into looting and destruction targeted at Chinese-­Indonesian businesses and homes in several areas of the city.1 Press reports quickly suggested that the so-­called riots were not simply spontaneous outbursts of anger by “the masses,” the result of simmering racial and economic tensions. Eye-­witnesses attested to the presence of “provocateurs,” men who appeared on the scene on motorcycles and in trucks, who instigated the rioters, supplied them with gasoline, and then moved on to incite violence elsewhere. The simultaneous occurrence of burning and looting in different places in the city, not to mention the conspicuous absence of security forces that might have quelled it, pointed to high-­level orchestration.

The rapes, which began to be reported in the press several weeks after the violence, also appeared to follow this pattern of instigation and simultaneous outbreak in different parts of the city. In mid-­July, a group called the Volunteer Team for Humanity (Tim Relawan Kemanusiaan), led by the activist Catholic priest Sandyawan Sumardi, issued its findings to the National Commission on Human Rights. Based on reports gathered from victims, their families, and other witnesses, it stated that 168 women had been raped during the rioting and twenty of them killed.2 In response to mounting international and domestic pressure, on July 23, 1998, the government formed a Joint Fact-­Finding Team (Tim Gabungan Pencari Fakta, or tgpf) composed of members of human rights, women’s rights, and other ngos, members of the National Commission on Human Rights, and military, police, and government officials. The tgpf was charged with the task of gathering “data” on the rapes. Its cautiously worded final report, issued in late October 1998, ultimately confirmed that rapes had occurred during the rioting.3 But while the report pointed blame for the riots in the direction of high-­level military leadership, it stated that available data could not determine whether the rapes had been orchestrated as well. Two decades later, at the time of this writing, the rapes of Chinese-­Indonesian women remain politically unresolved and consigned to uncertainty as to their cause and their number.4 In this chapter, rather than attempt to clarify “what really happened,” I pursue questions of public visuality, violence, and political recognition to analyze why the case of the rapes proved so durably murky. My focus is the public debate about the rapes that took place, primarily in the mainstream press but also on the internet, between June and December 1998. Both activists contending that the rapes did occur and government officials and others seeking to discredit their claims did so by means of public appeals to evidence (bukti). I situate this demand for “authentic evidence” within the wider ideology of transparency, the privileged place of the photograph within it, and the archive of images of heroic male-­on-­male violence that helped shape what could be seen as meaningful political action and recognizable state violence. Just as the aftermath of the New Order regime was haunted by the continued presence of Suharto’s “hidden hand,” so the Reformasi dream of transparency was quickly tested by the case of the alleged rapes of ethnic Chinese women, which stubbornly refused to emerge from obscurity.5 Spurred by global economic crisis, the Reformasi movement’s governing trope fittingly originated in the transnational language of economic reform and rationality. But “transparency” quickly expanded in semantic grasp to 68  chapter two

encompass the promise of a new era of political freedom. In the era of democracy, politics would be “open” (terbuka), policy and decision making would be “clear” (jelas), and history would be “straightened out” (meluruskan sejarah) and grounded in “authentic evidence” (bukti otentik). Each of these terms had its opposite in notions of the “closed” (tertutup), the “dark” or “obscure” (gelap), the “manipulated” (rekayasa), and the “false” (palsu).6 This cluster of terms maps key coordinates of the “ideological imaginary” I call the “dream of transparency.” As Allen Feldman argues, an ideological imaginary works through representational practices and their mediating technologies “to create the politically visible and the politically unseen.”7 The dream of transparency powerfully shaped the public visuality that emerged in the aftermath of the New Order regime. The dream of transparency opposed not only the rampant economic and political corruption of the Suharto era, but also the regime’s reliance on the dimly lit operations of terror. Indonesians were familiar with the play of visibility and invisibility, occlusion and revelation, by which the New Order state tended its garden of fear. Patricia Spyer argues that terror produces conditions of “hyperhermeneutics,” in which events are “thoroughly scrutinized because their nature and appearance are suspected of concealing something else.” What she describes as “the attempt to see through everything” depends on a pervasive sense that the truth is not seen at all.8 In popular aspirations, transparency was to dispel, once and for all, terror’s “epistemic murk.”9 In an early moment of euphoria about a new political era, the rape debates revealed the gendered and ethnic limits of the ideal of transparency to which the promise of postauthoritarian democracy had been hitched. Within this reigning ideology of transparency, with its accompanying demand for public access and visibility, the idea of bearing witness had a decidedly visual cast. My argument in this chapter is that the calls for “proof” in the rape debates, couched as calls for “hard evidence,” were implicitly calls for the public visibility of the victim. Achieving recognition for victims of state violence and securing a place for their accounts within national history required subjecting them to public scrutiny through photographic exposure and circulation. The rape debates thus constituted an image-­event in a negative sense. They were profoundly shaped by the absence of two kinds of demanded images: photographs that might supply indexical proof of the alleged crimes and — although this remained less explicit — photographically circulated testimonies of victims attesting to their ordeals. Fearing state retaliation, stigmatization, and the prurient gaze of the public, rape victims refused to come forward to tell their stories in public. Their tenuous position as members of The Gender of Transparency  69

an ethnic minority with weak claims to speak to and for the nation exacerbated the difficulty of making visible their suffering.10 By refusing photographic visibility, they forfeited the chance to secure public recognition and political accountability. Despite the rationalist terms in which the demand for “hard evidence” was cast in the debates I trace here, the demand for photographic visibility was also a call for affective immediacy. “Transparency,” in other words, in practice required not only indexical evidence that could be publicly scrutinized but also unfettered access to the suffering of victims. This chapter thus shows the key role of photography, as both authoritative evidence and affective relay, in securing political recognition within the public visuality of democratic transparency.11 The post-­Suharto media ecology was a constitutive medium of the rape debates and of the imaginary within which it took form. On the one hand, the newly free press embodied the aspirations of transparency by affording uncensored circulation of information and the multivocal participation of formerly excluded voices. The internet, which during the months before Suharto’s fall operated as a crucial vehicle for circulating information among activists in Indonesia and between Indonesians and the “outside” world, also embodied this ideal of openness. Like photography, the internet seemed to put the technological at the service of transparency. On the other hand, however, both the free press and the internet exacerbated the threat of unauthored and ungrounded rumors circulating out of control — the devolution of transparency into terror. The threat of manipulated images posing as evidence, moreover, offered a potent counter to the promise of photographic transparency. Filtering through and shaping the debate over the rapes was a profound anxiety about the free circulation of information and the reliability of visual evidence and public truth claims — an anxiety about the very nature of an open, democratic public sphere. The Rape Debates

The rape accusations fueled a public debate that “centered around the presence or absence of ‘bukti’ (evidence),” noted Julia Suryakusuma, a social critic writing in the influential English-­language daily, the Jakarta Post, in the midst of the controversy. Recalling other cases in which the government and/or military cast doubt on the findings of human rights groups, Suryakusuma observed that the attribution of “evidence” was an index of political power: “In the absence of a legal system fully independent from the executive 70  chapter two

(read: the military), ‘evidence’ is ultimately something held in the hands of the rulers. In fact, one might say that the presence of ‘evidence’ is inversely proportional to the accused party’s proximity to power.”12 The fixation on proof worked rhetorically to halt inquiry into the rapes at the point of its opening premise. But to understand why public debate so easily and for so long centered on the question of bukti requires attention to the broader ideological imaginary of transparency. When members of the Volunteer Team for Humanity investigating and documenting the rapes began to assert that the rapes had been organized rather than spontaneous,13 government officials such as Minister of Women’s Affairs Tutty Alawiyah countered that, “the data that exists is still just rumor.”14 Two weeks later, Alawiyah claimed that the authorities had as yet found no “traces” (jejak-­ jejak) of the alleged rapes. While acknowledging the “possibility that the rapes occurred,” she noted, “to be certain of it, there must be evidence that there truly are victims.” At the same time, presaging a turning of the discursive tables that would be typical of government responses to activists’ accusations, she said, “We truly regret if the people shut themselves off from us and are not willing to work with us to uncover the truth by supplying facts about the problem that has been circulated in the news.”15 With this statement, Alawiyah mobilized the language of transparency against activists, positioning the government as the party promoting openness and the activists and victims as those who would hide the truth while releasing unsubstantiated rumors to the press. Over the next five months, elements of the state, the security apparatus, and their apologists consistently appropriated the discourse of transparency. A dance of concession and denial also characterized their tactical response to activists’ pressure. In a concessionary mode, on the occasion of forming a government-­sponsored “Special Team on Violence Against Women” on July 8, 1998, Minister of Women’s Affairs Alawiyah stated that the government had found “facts” about sexual violence during the riots from an investigation of twenty hospitals in Jakarta.16 In mid-­July, President B. J. Habibie himself met with women’s and human rights activists outraged at the government’s failure to take the rapes seriously. In a widely reported statement, he said, After I heard the report of the women from the Community Against Violence Against Women, with evidence (bukti-­bukti) that was factual (nyata) and authentic (otentik), about the violence against women . . . and especially that which happened in mid-­May 1998, I state my deep The Gender of Transparency  71

regret that there occurred such violence that is not in accord with the values of the culture of the Indonesian people.17 Yet statements casting doubt on activists’ evidence and charging them with spreading rumors repeatedly followed these official acknowledgements. In one such reversal, Minister of Women’s Affairs Alawiyah in late August contradicted her earlier statement, claiming that the government’s survey of hospitals had turned up no evidence of rape victims: “the result is nil,” she proclaimed.18 The chief of the Indonesian Police, Lieutenant General Roesmanhadi, issued a threat to activists: “Up until now, they say that they are searching for evidence. Go ahead and keep looking. If later they don’t find the evidence, but they still blow hot air or incite, we will investigate them with the charge of disseminating lies.”19 In early September, Chief of the Armed Forces and Secretary of Defense General Wiranto claimed: “From the investigation in the field, it has been concluded that the rapes absolutely were not true. . . . [They] are only rumors that absolutely do not possess any firm evidence [bukti kuat].”20 In a later statement, he noted that accounts gathered by the police were consistently preceded by the qualifier “It is said that [katanya].”21 They remained hearsay, the stuff of rumor. Activists and advocates for the rape victims — including the National Commission on Human Rights — repeatedly insisted that there was indeed “evidence and clear data” that the rapes were “a reality, and not something made up.”22 At the same time, they protested the government’s reliance on an excessively narrow, legalistic definition of evidence, arguing in the press that calls for “hard” and “concrete” evidence were misguided, not only because rape is always difficult to prove (especially when reported weeks or months after the event), but also because it was extremely difficult to satisfy the conditions necessary to prosecute these cases given the Indonesian legal code.23 Antiquated colonial-­era laws required physical evidence and/or witnesses in addition to the direct testimony of the victim, and they defined rape narrowly as penile penetration of the vagina (many of the victims reported being penetrated by objects).24 Drawing on examples from international law, activists argued that rape victims should be allowed to make their statements to qualified experts who could stand in their stead in court.25 Minister of Justice Muladi acknowledged that given current law, establishing “juridical proof” of rape would be extremely difficult. He suggested that the tgpf might find what he called “sociological proof,” that is, “evidence [that] does not fulfill juridical requirements” but is publicly accepted as convincing. Nevertheless, he concluded, “If it’s [only] sociological proof, 72  chapter two

well, automatically we can’t do anything, except admit it took place and take preventative measures.”26 Only juridical proof could yield accountability.27 Yet evidence that would be “publicly accepted” was also elusive. Some first-­person accounts of the rapes circulated in print publications and on the internet, but they were always anonymous or used a pseudonym, and their lack of clear authorship contributed to doubts about their authenticity. Opposition leader and future president Megawati Sukarnoputri pointed out that facts could not “find the light”28 because “the culture of society . . . is not yet open and the certainty of law . . . is not yet guaranteed to victims of rape.”29 Explaining why rape victims were not coming forward directly to the public with their stories, activists repeatedly pointed to the stigma and shame experienced by such victims.30 In addition to lacking faith in the political will to resolve their cases, victims believed they would be “raped a second time” under the harsh scrutiny of police investigation and public trial.31 Activists also pointed to the conditions of terror — including death threats and threats of further rapes — intimidating both those who might bear witness and their advocates.32 These terror tactics were said to have included threats of forced visibility. A un investigation noted that “photographs of the rape are sent warning the victim that if she speaks the photographs will be circulated widely”; there were also reports of the identification cards of rape victims being taken by their rapists as warnings to remain silent.33 Whether these reports were true or not, they indicate the anxieties about public visibility and state violence that inhibited victims from coming forward. Commentaries by various “experts,” civic groups, and regular citizens echoed the back-­and-­forth over evidence between activists and government officials. Among the most vocal were Islamic groups angered that Muslims were being blamed for the violence against the mostly non-Muslim Chinese minority. Some international and domestic media reports included first-­hand but pseudonymous narratives purporting to be the testimonies of the rape victims (often drawn from the internet) in which rapists were said to have praised Allah or made statements like, “You must be raped because you are Chinese and Non-­Muslim.” The Coordinating Body of Indonesian Clerics complained that accusations were being made without “concrete evidence” (bukti konkret) in order to “corner” Islam.34 They urged President Habibie “to uncover [the rape cases] in a transparent way. Those who have been raped must admit it [mengaku].”35 The use of mengaku is telling, as this verb is typically used for the confession of a criminal, not the testimony of a victim. The Islamic Community Forum for Upholding Justice and the Consti­ tution (Furkon) similarly protested the absence of “evidence that is clear” The Gender of Transparency  73

(bukti-­bukti yang jelas). One member complained, “Anyone can say such things. But where is the proof, don’t play around with slander.” Claiming to possess “data that is quite strong that can prove that the rumor of the rapes is not true,” Furkon charged that prostitutes had been hired to assert that they had been raped as “a form of terror by a particular group that wants to shatter the unity of the [Islamic] community and overthrow the authority of the legitimate government.”36 Such a climate of counter-­accusation, relying on familiar tactics of discrediting rape accusers by labeling them sexually promiscuous, further inhibited victims from filing the official police reports necessary for their accounts to begin to enter the domain of “proof” rather than rumor. Distrust of a woman’s “unsupported word,” the subjection of rape accusations to extraordinary tests of credibility, and the tendency for rape cases to become subsumed within larger battles over group identity are by no means unique to Indonesia.37 My argument in what follows homes in on the visual politics inherent in the Reformasi dream of transparency. A conceptual fusion between calls for “evidence” and a demand that rape victims submit to photographic visibility made “proving” the rapes, in the sense of gaining public and political recognition, impossible. The Photograph as Fetish of Transparency

One of the problems with transparency as a political ideal is that it threatens to disappear into thin air. How does transparency itself become tangible, visible, something the imagination can grasp? Despite its ideology of immediacy, in other words, transparency itself requires mediation. The photograph’s promise of apparently unmediated access and unhindered transmission made it a concrete materialization of the elusive ideal of transparency. In post-­Suharto popular imaginings of a new era of democratic transparency, the photograph appeared as a fetish endowed with the power to compel recognition and authenticate historical truth. It is no coincidence that appeals to bukti during the rape debates were so often accompanied by adjectives stressing that the desired evidence was a material object that could be seen and confirmed: bukti nyata (real, factual evidence), bukti materiil (material evidence), bukti konkret (concrete evidence). As a tangible artifact, the photograph appears to ground the dream of transparency in a self-­evident, self-­authenticating form of proof.38 An indexical trace, seeming to bear the past intact into the present, the photograph promises to collapse the gaps opened by time, representation, and memory. It materializes transparency itself. But the fetishization of the photograph also renders the dream 74  chapter two

of transparency vulnerable to the “hazards” of materiality.39 Anchored to the photograph and the material media by which photographs circulate, transparency might be falsified, manipulated, or otherwise compromised. In Reformasi Indonesia, the idea of bearing witness to state violence had a decidedly visual cast. Photographs were hailed not only as “evidence,” but as morally charged “witnesses of history” (saksi sejarah) more convincing than words.40 Reformasi photo exhibitions that condensed memories of the student movement into a series of visible icons were extremely popular in the months after 1998. A review of one such exhibition epitomizes the celebratory discourse surrounding photographs as authentic and credible in contrast to mere words: If what one searches for is black-­on-­white proof for the validity [keabsahan] of something, the fifty-­seven black-­and-­white photographs that are shown form mute witnesses [saksi-­saksi] of a new historical era of this republic. . . . This is the black and white of history. Not like the empty word-­spewing tongues of public figures [tokoh] . . . which dart here and there [berkelit], turn facts inside out, and make meaning follow the dominant trend.41 Images of demonstrations displayed at exhibitions and in the pages of magazines and newspapers materialized and collectivized the moral act of bearing witness. These images drew on the authority of the documentary genre with its realist claims to unmediated transparency, evidentiary fac­ ticity, and universal legibility. They also had affective immediacy, leaving people moved by the students’ bravery, outraged by state violence, and, increasingly, nostalgic for a moment of collective purpose and nationalist idealism. Public witnessing via photographic images ratified the events of national history in the making, and served as an iconic enactment of a new era of political openness and popular participation. As the writer and human rights activist Ratna Sarumpaet commented upon attending a Reformasi photo exhibition, “This is evidence [bukti] of our nation’s history, an event that took place in this, our beloved land.”42 The overwhelming image of Reformasi conveyed at such photo exhibitions was, as one review put it, a “kaleidoscope of violence” whose perpetrators and victims were overwhelmingly male.43 Photographs typically depicted student demonstrations, including dramatic scenes of conflict between male students and the aparat (army or police). Such images were eminently legible in their consistency with the masculinist iconography of national history. Images of young men as agents of protest, and at times both The Gender of Transparency  75

victims and perpetrators of violent political action, were already secured in national memory through New Order textbook, filmic, and museum representations of the Indonesian National Revolution of 1945 – 49 and the student movement/anticommunist demonstrations of 1965 – 66. The only official recognition of gendered political violence in the nation’s past was one in which women were figured as the perpetrators not the victims. In the official New Order narrative about the alleged Communist coup attempt of 1965, members of a Communist-­affiliated women’s organization (Gerwani) were said to have sexually tortured the generals before throwing their mangled bodies into a well.44 Photographs of the bodies being exhumed from the well, newspaper photographs of women who allegedly confessed to the torture, and later, pseudodocumentary footage in a government-­ sponsored docudrama showing Gerwani women performing this orgy of violence helped secure this lurid account’s credibility (despite autopsy reports which offered evidence that no sexual torture had occurred). Conflating political treachery with sexual violence, this New Order origin story suggests the extent to which sexual violence, if made visible at all, appeared within a trope of the masculine nation under threat from a feminized, sexually deviant, political enemy. During and after the reform movement, circulating images of student protests exposed state violence and cultivated affective engagement in the struggle for a more democratic national future. But the visuality underpinning these documentary images of state violence — with its emphasis on bringing the formerly hidden into the light, and its realist insistence on the universal legibility of visual facts — shared much in common with the surveillance-­oriented visual ideologies of the very state power it sought to oppose. Literalizing this connection, intelligence agents often posed as photojournalists at student demonstrations during the New Order, and journalists were sometimes solicited to submit their photographs to the police to assist them in identifying leaders of protests.45 The visual ideology of transparent exposure and indexical record underpinning both documentary photography and state surveillance overlaps, moreover, with the logic of pornographic visuality. The rarity with which images of sexual violence circulate as part of human rights claims is not only a result of the fact that these violent events often take place “off camera.” In “Has Anyone Ever Seen a Photograph of a Rape?” Ariella Azoulay addresses the “astonishing” fact that sexual violence has remained largely unpictured, despite the proliferation of discourse around this subject and the reliance on visual evidence in other forms of atrocity.46 She argues that the failure of rape 76  chapter two

images to appear in public excludes women from full citizenship by denying political recognition of their injuries: “In a culture of images, where everything is susceptible to being made into an image and when the economy of catastrophes and intervention in them relies massively on images and is conducted by their means, the absence of images relating to rape prevents its prevalence from being recognized as a state of emergency.”47 For Azoulay, the taboo on images of rape proceeds from the impossibility of maintaining the distinction — so essential for antirape activism — between rape as an act of violence and the performance of a sexual act. Visual images, she argues, bring the difficulty of this distinction to the fore; what serves as evidence of violence can also all too easily become incitement to arousal. My argument here is that this blurring of distinctions has less to do with the act of rape itself than with shared visual logics governing the reception of images of exposed bodies. The atrocity image’s promise to reveal hidden truths through its documentary mode intersects uncomfortably with a porno­graphic gaze that renders women’s bodies accessible to prurient sexual consumption.48 The pornographic photograph’s claim to transparent immediacy and indexical “purchase on the real” is essential to its efficacy in exciting sexual desire.49 Despite being socially distinct practices, then, documentary/ human rights exposé, state surveillance, and pornography become hard to disentangle within public visuality: a photograph of a rape victim can serve to expose an atrocity, to further terrorize victims and their families, or to arouse sexual fantasy or stigma. Chinese-­Indonesian rape victims refused to come forward publicly precisely because they knew that to expose the violence they had suffered would mean rendering themselves vulnerable to the threatening scrutiny of a state hostile to their claims and to pornographic public consumption of their bodily suffering. Efforts by women’s rights activists to give the problem of sexual violence visibility reflect this quandary. In December 1998, Jakarta’s Antara Gallery of Photojournalism (site of several noted Reformasi-­era exhibitions) hosted a photography exhibition on violence against women organized by a coalition of women’s rights and photographers’ groups called Kaulan Perempuan (Woman’s Pledge). The images shown remained in a symbolic register, offering allusions to violence rather than apparently unmediated windows onto it. One photograph depicting men lighting candles at a prayer vigil for the rape victims made indirect reference to the violence against Chinese-­ Indonesian women. But such images lacked the evidentiary claim and affective immediacy so effective in photographic “witnesses” of Reformasi’s violent demonstrations that showcased students’ battered and bloodied bodThe Gender of Transparency  77

ies. Unlike the photographs of Reformasi demonstrations so prominently on view and against which these images were inevitably read, these “witnesses,” a reviewer noted, were notably lacking in “drama” because they did not show “physical violence directly on a woman’s body.”50 The Eyes of the World

As stories of the widespread looting and burning of property, the flight of thousands from their homes, and the rapes circulated on existing and newly formed email listservs and websites for diasporic Chinese throughout Asia, Australia, and the United States, the plight of Chinese-­Indonesians became an international cause célèbre. The circulation of rape narratives via the internet, writes Elaine Tay, served as a rallying point for the formation of a global public of diasporic ethnic Chinese.51 The local context of the rapes was subsumed within an agenda of promoting worldwide Chinese solidarity; the figure of the young, female rape victim became central to this forming diasporic community, she suggests, in part because it aroused the protective sentiments accompanying patriarchal assertions of ethnic identity. What were the effects of this international scrutiny on the debates within Indonesia? International pressure undoubtedly lent support to local efforts to document the rapes and helped force the government to conduct at least the appearance of a serious and independent investigation. But the framing of the rapes in international discourse in terms of “ethnic cleansing” also unwittingly reinforced the dominant narrative within Indonesia: that the so-­called riots were not state-­sponsored but were the result of ethnic and class tensions.52 This framing helped keep the rapes distinct from other acts of state violence — including the use of rape as a technique of terror in places like East Timor and Aceh — while also normalizing them as spontaneous expressions of long-­standing popular anti-­Chinese sentiment. By emphasizing horizontal ethnic conflict, it also facilitated an inversion of terms in which the rape accusations could appear as a conspiracy fashioned by a transnationally oriented ethnic Chinese minority intent on damaging the pribumi (native, read: non-­Chinese) nation. Within Indonesia, where many of the groups involved in the debate were women’s rights ngos, activists more often framed the rapes as gender rather than ethnic violence. As one demonstration banner read, “This is not the rape of Chinese girls [amoy], this is the rape of women [perempuan].”53 “Woman” was deployed strategically as a category that could transcend racial, ethnic, and religious differences. 78  chapter two

The shaming specter of the world’s gaze trained on Indonesian violence also had the unintended effect of spurring a defensive nationalist backlash against activists. In an influential essay on “mobilizing shame,” Thomas Keenan describes as a “pervasive axiom of the human rights movement” the idea that “those agents whose behavior it wishes to affect — governments, armies, businesses, and militias — are exposed in some significant way to the force of public opinion, and that they are (psychically or emotionally) structured like individuals . . . vulnerable to feelings of dishonor, embarrassment, disgrace or ignominy.”54 The notion of Indonesia receiving the gaze of the outside world had been a common trope of the Reformasi era, welcomed by democracy activists within the country.55 Not surprisingly, this imagining of an international gaze was often articulated in the language of photography. As a reviewer of a Reformasi photo exhibition observed, “Indonesia today has truly become a focal point of the world’s lens. All photographers have pointed their cameras at this land since the beginning of the year 1998, when Suharto began to be rocked by the economic crisis and student protests.”56 Metaphors of the gaze likewise pervaded Indonesian discussions of the international response to the rapes. Early on, activists invoked the specter of international scrutiny when they threatened to bring the rape cases directly to the United Nations if the government did not take swift action.57 Arguing that the global circulation of reports about the rapes “greatly destroys the credibility of the people of Indonesia in international eyes [di mata internasional],”58 they urged the government to respond to the rape accusations before international exposure “embarrassed” the nation.59 “The respectability of the Indonesian people in the eyes of the world has been shattered,” said one activist.60 Yet the strategy of shaming could backfire. Government officials, progovernment and promilitary groups, and hardline Islamic groups argued that activists were discrediting Indonesia “in the eyes of the international world, especially at a time when we need help to overcome our economic crisis and monetary crisis,” as one group calling itself the Dignity Committee for the Defense of Women put it.61 The minister of women’s affairs complained that the international community was “cornering” Indonesia and quoted President Habibie’s statement that, “If we read America’s own information, a rape takes place [there] almost every two minutes. So why are we the ones who are called a republic of rape or a violator of human rights, or barbarians?”62 Newspapers published images of protests against the Indonesian government that took place in Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines, Taiwan, Beijing, the United States, and elsewhere.63 Reports on these protests imagThe Gender of Transparency  79

ined the harsh external gaze of the international community: “through the lens [kacamata, literally, eyeglasses] of Taipei, the actions of rape took place when Jakarta became a ‘sea of fire’ as a result of the masses going amok,” noted one news report.64 In a display of its commitment to transparency, the government invited a group of eleven ngo members from Taiwan to “investigate” the rape cases. Upon their departure, Minister of Information M. Yunus Yosfiah smugly proclaimed that, not having found any rape victims, the group from Taiwan had concluded that the Indonesian government had been “duped” by activists.65 The rapes “were only baseless rumor [isapan jempol, literally, a sucking of the thumb]. Because up until now no hard evidence [bukti-­bukti nyata] has been found.” Although these statements were later angrily refuted by the Taiwan team,66 the same findings were also cited by General Wiranto in a statement calling the rape claims “rumors” that were “besmirching the good name of Indonesia in the international world.”67 The hardline Islamic group Committee for Islamic Solidarity (kisdi) likewise suggested that the rape accusations were “lies . . . intentionally spread in order to sully the government and people of Indonesia in the eyes of the world.”68 One commentator proclaimed them a “systematic effort” to exact “revenge” (dendam) for the destruction of (mostly Chinese-­Indonesian–­ owned) property that had occurred during the riots.69 Such conspiracy theories fit well with discriminatory stereotypes of Chinese ­Indonesians (also encountered in the previous chapter), as insufficiently loyal to the nation and concerned only for their own economic well-being. Anxieties about the transnational ties of the ethnic Chinese were readily mapped onto fears about the global circulation of information via the internet, satellite television, and other technologies; both appeared as threats to national integrity. Rather than victims, the Chinese-­Indonesian minority could be recast in the more familiar role of internationalist betrayers of the nation, spreading rumors about rape among their international allies to further weaken an already suffering nation. Atrocity Images and “False” Photographs

When the photograph becomes the currency of political recognition, its absence consigns events and victims to political invisibility. Because the photograph was fetishized in the post-­Reformasi period as an embodiment of the ideals of “transparency” and “truth,” the possibility of its falsification, perhaps even more than its mere absence, conjured specters of obscurity 80  chapter two

and manipulation — a betrayal of transparency itself. As early as July 1998, nongovernmental organizations outside of Indonesia were making reference to photographs of the rapes circulating on the internet. A statement issued by forty-­four ngos in Malaysia and covered in the Indonesian press read in part, “We were shocked by the involvement of military figures recorded by the camera, and we received these images from the internet.”70 Some of these photographs were published in newspapers in Hong Kong and, in early August, displayed in a photo exhibition in Singapore sponsored by aware, a women’s rights organization. Given the central place of the atrocity image in global human rights campaigns, it was perhaps inevitable that internet sites devoted to exposing the rapes would ultimately post photographs purporting to depict them.71 Images are demanded not only to “prove” that atrocities have occurred but to generate affective response, moving a public to outrage and sympathy for suffering fellow human beings. Some scholars have argued that “our” saturation with atrocity images yields desensitization and stupefied “inaction,” forgetting rather than memory.72 But such weary critiques from the position of the Western metropolis underestimate how essential it remains for activists to circulate atrocity images to gain an often crucial, if momentary, foothold within the global media spotlight. Such criticisms also overlook the uses of atrocity images within situations of conflict, sometimes in ways that spur further violence or terror.73 Despite the evidentiary power of the “incorruptible Kodak,” the atrocity photograph has never been unproblematically accorded the status of “proof.”74 But although uncertainty has always plagued photography’s truth claims, it is a key feature of discourses on digital images to recall a prior era in which photography’s truths were reliable and certain, and to imagine that the heightened potential for alteration renders the digital photograph qualitatively different from its analog predecessor. Not only were the images (purportedly) documenting the rapes seen as vulnerable to manipulation, but they were traceable neither to an author nor a domestic institution. Their unmoored status, exacerbated by the ease of digital reproduction and the deterritorialized circulations of the internet, aligned them with the workings of rumor. By contrast, the Reformasi demonstration images so valued as credible “witnesses of history” were anchored to particular authors (usually journalists or students) and disseminated by well-­k nown domestic news agencies and student groups. On August 19, a group called the Reformasi Presidium Council of Youth and Students of Surabaya issued a statement claiming that the purported The Gender of Transparency  81

rape photographs were “flat out lies” (bohong belaka) that were “part of a political manipulation [rekayasa] with the goal of inciting hatred against Indonesia.” One member of the group claimed, “We have found various proofs that the photos that were shown in Singapore and in various other countries are only the result of the manipulation of photographic technology, which today is no longer a difficult undertaking.”75 The following day an article appearing in the Asian Wall Street Journal broke the story internationally.76 A number of the internet photos, the article asserted, had been taken from a human rights website on military violence in East Timor; another image was from a site specializing in “gore” photographs and had been posted on the web well before May 1998. Still another had been traced to a pornographic website called “Sexy Asian Schoolgirls.” That images from a human rights website (which appeared to have been originally taken by the torturers themselves) could appear side-­by-­side with images culled from pornographic sites poignantly suggests the overlapping visualities of state surveillance photography, human rights atrocity image, and pornography within which any attempt to render the rapes photographically visible would be caught.77 A few days later a major article — much of it drawn directly from the Asian Wall Street Journal piece — appeared in a national newspaper, Republika, associated with a moderate Islamic readership.78 It described the emotional efficacy of the images: The photos are truly gripping. A woman raped by two men. Another photo shows someone wearing military costume torturing a naked woman with a club, a cigarette butt, and a rope. Even more terrifying is a woman sprawled naked, bathed in blood, who appears to be dead, her vagina impaled by a broom stick. Who would not be angry and furious looking at these photographs? A sane person would most definitely be nauseated and enraged to witness indescribable cruelty like this. And, all of these photos are believed to be proof of the victims of rapes directed at the Chinese ethnicity in Jakarta and Solo this past May. Through the network of the internet, these photos have spread throughout the world. In Singapore, these photos were even shown in a formal exhibition. The reaction was explosive. In Jakarta, Hong Kong, Taipei, Beijing . . . demonstrations attacking [menghujat] Indonesia arose. . . . The question is, are these photographs authentic? Is this a real event [kejadian nyata] in the May rioting? 82  chapter two

In the passion of anger, it is truly easy to take these photographs as if they were authentic proof. But, the daily newspaper, the Asian Wall Street Journal, in its edition of August 20, suspects that most of the photographs are false, or do not have a connection with the rioting in May. The power of atrocity images to incite visceral responses of rage and horror is highlighted in this description of the photographs. The ubiquitous use of atrocity images in human rights campaigns is based on the idea that photographs mobilize publics to action more effectively than words because of the way their indexical immediacy combines affective power with evidentiary claim. Yet, once revealed as “false,” the outrage stimulated by the content of the image can be displaced onto the photographs themselves, and the falsity of the photograph can imply the unreality of the events it purports to portray.79 Here, the Republika article slips from questioning the authenticity of the photographs to questioning whether the rapes were “real events.” Activists countered that the circulation of the “false” photographs was an intentional effort to undermine their efforts and further terrorize victims. Sandyawan Sumardi of the Volunteer Team for Humanity reported that some of the photographs had arrived at his office in an unmarked envelope. The circulation of the photographs was an “act of terror,” he claimed, intended to “confuse things and discredit our investigation.” Marzuki Darusman, head of the tgpf, likewise stated that the tgpf office had received the photographs and clarified that, aware of their dubious authenticity, they were not using them as evidence.80 One of the sites that had displayed the photographs, Huaren.org, posted an editorial statement: “Some global Chinese, including us at Huaren, have been unwittingly used towards this disingenuous disinformation campaign of terror. Apart from acts of gang-­ rape, the masterminds are using photos, doctored or otherwise, to terrorize, to intimidate, and sow panic, and force the flight of ethnic Chinese from Indonesia.”81 The revelation of the false photographs was a pivotal turn in the negative image-­event of the rape debates. If the absence of photographs up to that point had signaled the absence of “evidence” of the rapes, the appearance of “false” images lent support to the idea that activists were actively fabricating their claims. Earlier charges that the rape claims lacked firm evidence shifted into more strident accusations of intentional manipulation (rekayasa) and rumor (isu). An article in Republika on the “still mysterious” case of the rapes reported on a professor from Malang’s statement that, “those who are The Gender of Transparency  83

manufacturing a rumor of mass rapes for their own private interests and ambition must be found.”82 Noting that there must be “evidence and facts that are real” to support the charges of rape, “he asks the government to act quickly to find and charge the mastermind who is spreading these misleading rumors, especially since now it has been proven that the photographs of the rapes that were shown in Singapore are the result of manipulation.” Just days after the false photograph revelations, National Intelligence Agency Chief Moetojib stated that, “the rumor of the rapes has intentionally been spread to bring down the good name of the Indonesian people.” He asked, “How can we just believe any news that is spread by the internet, when the reality in the field is that it is difficult to prove its truth?” Meanwhile, he and others complained that Indonesians abroad were being “terrorized” by demonstrations provoked by the false photographs.83 Foreign Minister Ali Alatas weighed in as well: “There is an effort to discredit the government through the spread of images of rape victims . . . which were manipulated.”84 He complained of anti-­Indonesian demonstrations and other forms of “terror,” despite Indonesia’s “open attitude” about investigating the riots. With access to the internet still limited in 1998, most Indonesians never saw the false photographs. But the discussion of them in the mainstream press amplified their effects. The inverse effect of the photograph as fetish of transparency was that “false” internet photographs had corresponding phantasmal efficacy to discredit efforts to gain recognition for the rape victims. Discourses on the inauthentic citizenship and transnational affiliations of the ethnic Chinese community converged with the inauthenticity of the rape photographs and the “promiscuous proliferations” of images enabled by new media circuits to transform the rape claims into a potent threat to the nation’s integrity.85 Gendered Visibilities of Violence

The documentary images of student protest so powerful during Reformasi as fetishes of transparency conform to a realist visual ideology that creates “invisibility in the very process of describing and inscribing the visible.”86 The attribution of fact to the visually confirmed renders those acts of violence that remain unseen politically unrecognizable. As techniques of state terror, disappearance and rape both exploit this ideology of political visibility. The kidnapping and torture of at least sixteen male Reformasi activists, begun in early 1998, was, like the rapes, a form of terror shrouded in darkness and uncertainty.87 84  chapter two

But the effort to achieve visibility for the victims of disappearance did not confront the same gendered barriers facing those who sought recognition for rape victims. Countering their erasure, posters with photographs of the faces of missing male activists — overlaid by the urgent message “Return Them!” — insistently made the disappeared men visible again (plate 12).88 Then one of the kidnapped activists emerged from his ordeal and publicly broke the silence, despite receiving death threats to guarantee he would not speak out. On May 7, 1998, Pius Lustrilang recounted his experience of abduction and torture to Indonesian news cameras before fleeing to the Netherlands. His public testimony was followed by that of another released kidnapped activist, Desmond Mahesa, on May 12, to great public affirmation. Such spectacular, photographically mediated acts of public testimony were implicitly demanded of rape victims in the repeated calls for them to “come forward.” The dramatic, televised testimonies of the kidnapped activists contrasted with the accounts of the rapes that relied on pseudonyms, secondhand reports, and the faceless mediations of print, telephone, fax, website, and email. To satisfy the demands of transparency and secure public recognition, there could be no mediating figure — a priest, an ngo worker, a doctor, a neighbor — telling the victim’s tale while protecting her identity; the victim had to submit herself directly to the public eye via the camera lens. The sexualized nature of the violence against Chinese-­Indonesian women made such public acts of transforming oneself from victim to witness extraordinarily difficult. As one member of the tgpf, Dr. Saparinah Sadli, noted at the time, “The victims of kidnapping who want to disclose the incidents will become heroes. While the victims of rape, if they disclose their incident, will instead be derided.”89 Similarly, Ariel Heryanto observes that while “the bodily wounds of these [kidnapped] activists — all of them males — were publicly endowed with a degree of political heroism . . . potential threats of stigmatization and not heroism emanated from public exposition of sexually abused female bodies.”90 Repeatedly, articles spoke of the indelible “stain” left by rape (using both the Islamic inflected word aib and the more generic ternoda).91 Rarely questioning that stigma, these accounts treated it as a given that the “respectability” (kehormatan) of a rape victim and her family would be irretrievably lost. Referring to those who had died or been injured in the rioting in Jakarta, activist Ita Fatia Nadia argued that “the physical traces [of rape] clearly are not as transparent as those on the victims of burning and destruction. The victims [of rape] rather choose to be silent, if necessary to bury the traumatic incidents that they have experienced.”92 Given the hostile legal climate towards rape victims in general and The Gender of Transparency  85

an obvious lack of political will to pursue these cases, victims saw little to gain by coming forward: “The stain will already be known by people, but what will be the result?” asked a sympathetic editorial in Republika.93 The brutal murder of Ita Martadinata, an eighteen-­year-­old Chinese-­ Indonesian high school student, rendered the threat of visibility all too real. On October 9, 1998, Ita was found by her father in her room, with multiple stab wounds all over her body.94 Within twenty-­four hours the police were calling the case “purely criminal,” and had arrested Ita’s next-­door neighbor, who allegedly had killed her when she caught him trying to rob their house. The police version of events, in which a young, poor pribumi (native) man is spurred to violence by the economic disparity between himself and a wealthy, Chinese-­Indonesian neighbor, reiterated the official explanation of the “riots” themselves, which were said to be symptoms of the economic disparity between the masses and the Chinese-­Indonesian community. Such narratives used alleged economic and racial tensions as an alibi for political violence. Nevertheless, suspicions were immediately raised that this was no ordinary criminal murder. Ita’s mother was known to be associated with the Volunteer Team for Humanity, and Ita herself was said to be a volunteer. According to numerous reports, she had just returned from arranging her passport when she was killed; Ita and her mother were supposedly planning to accompany several victims of the May violence to give testimony before a human rights organization in the United States. Recalling other cases in which political murders had been labeled “criminal” by the police, activists charged the police to “transparently disclose” the evidence uncovered in their investigation.95 That Ita was herself a victim of the May 1998 riots quickly became a matter of insinuation and later, explicit speculation.96 Schoolmates quoted in newspaper accounts noted that she had frequently missed school since the previous May and had spoken repeatedly of suffering from “stress.” Others pointed to the improbability that a teenager would be a counselor to rape victims and surmised that Ita herself was to testify in the United States. Most tellingly, information was leaked to the press alleging that the autopsy showed healed scars on Ita’s anus — traces of repeated acts of sodomy perpetrated months or years before she was killed. The family immediately responded that this was “disinformation” meant to create a negative opinion of Ita.97 But the sodomy “information” was confirmed and elaborated by a psychiatrist, Professor Sarlito Wirawan Sarwono, who had been hired by the police to assess the state of mind of the alleged murderer. The autopsy revela86  chapter two

tions suggested that Ita was a victim of the May 1998 rapes, but he explained the scars by asserting in statements to the press that Ita had been a prostitute and a drug addict.98 In an escalation of the lurid sexualization of the case, amid unconfirmed leaks that sperm had been found on Ita’s clothing, the accused murderer himself was trotted out for a meeting with the press in a staged show of police transparency. He stated that he had not raped or sodomized Ita, but, aroused by the sight of her body, had masturbated after he killed her.99 The welcome public scrutiny of the Reformasi dream of transparency had shaded into what activist Sandyawan Sumardi had astutely called “political pornography.”100 Exposed as a rape victim — through insinuations cast as transparent revelations — Ita was subjected to further violation.101 As Sandyawan put it, “The death of Ita is the peak of intimidation and terror [against victims and activists].”102 Although closed by the police, the case remained “misterius.”103 Ita’s sister issued a statement that Ita had neither been a victim of the rapes nor a member of the Volunteer Team for Humanity; she had gone to the passport office merely to arrange a business trip for her father.104 Her parents abruptly announced that they were auctioning their home and committing themselves to humanitarian causes.105 Chief of Police Roesmanhadi, meanwhile, threatened to bring charges against “certain people or parties who give information about this case whose truth can’t be guaranteed. In the case of Ita, there is a certain group that is intentionally blowing up [the case].” Once again mobilizing the discourse of transparency, he urged the press to “report on the case of Ita in a way that is clear, accurate, transparent, and not half-­ hearted [setengah-­setengah], so that no one is harmed.”106 The police also berated the ngo community for obstructing governmental transparency: “All this time the ngos haven’t believed in the police. They even refused to give the rape data to us. Even the results of the investigation [of Ita’s case], the facts of which are clear [jelas], are not believed.”107 Whether Ita was murdered because she planned to testify about her own rape, killed because her mother was gathering stories of the rapes, or a robbery victim remained unclear.108 But the murder and the discursive violence that followed it, occurring just weeks before the tgpf was to issue its final report, served as a powerful warning. Not a single rape victim was willing to recount her story publicly. A gently smiling photograph of Ita, cropped to resemble the identity photograph typically used in Indonesian funeral processions and in Chinese-­Indonesian newspaper death announcements, accompanied many of the articles about her case. She was, to my knowledge, The Gender of Transparency  87

the only (alleged) victim of the May rapes whose image circulated widely in the Indonesian public archive.109 Failed Dreams

The public debate in the mainstream press about the rapes was a negative image-­event, propelled by the ideal of transparency, the thwarted demand for public visibility of the victims, and the fetishization of photographic images as proof. The refusal of rape victims to make themselves available to public scrutiny and the unphotographed — or “falsely” pictured — status of the violence against them disqualified them from public recognition and, ultimately, from inclusion in national history. The final report of the tgpf, issued in late October 1998, confirmed that there had been sixty-­six rape victims, ten victims of “sexual attacks,” and nine cases of sexual harassment.110 While this finding was a victory of sorts, providing official recognition that rapes had occurred, the numbers were lower than those claimed by activists and — a more important problem — the political dimension of the sexual violence against Chinese-­Indonesian women remained unconfirmed. The report suggested that high-­level military leaders had orchestrated the “riots” in an effort to create an emergency situation requiring extraconstitutional powers. But available evidence could not determine, the tgpf concluded, whether the rapes were also orchestrated or simply a spontaneous “excess” of the rioting. Only three victims had testified directly to the members of the tgpf; the remaining evidence came from doctors, parents of victims, religious counselors, and other witnesses. Two male members of the team, both from the military, wrote a qualifying statement insisting that there was “no legal evidence” to substantiate the findings of sexual violence. One stated publicly his opinion that only the three reports made directly to team members constituted bukti materiil (material evidence).111 In late December, the government issued its own analysis of the findings. Cabinet member Akbar Tanjung stated, “There is no indication . . . that the rapes were done in a systematic or mass way.” He added that the number of confirmed cases was far smaller “than the rumors that were heard outside [of the country].”112 The rapes were thus officially downplayed within a narrative about mob violence rather than treated as a deliberate and systematic form of state terror. Unfolding in the early months of the post-­Suharto period, the rape debates revealed the gendered and ethnic limits of Reformasi’s dream of transparency and the public sphere to which it gave rise. Structures of visibility 88  chapter two

also produce invisibility and, in addition, set the terms by which the invisible might make a bid to emerge from its occlusion. In 1998, circulating photographs of male-­on-­male violence and spectacular scenes of bearing witness allowed people to recognize state violence, garnering and sustaining collective support for the movement that ousted the Suharto regime. But the sexualized nature of the violence against Chinese-­Indonesian women made them unwilling to submit to a public eye whose demand for transparent revelation could not be disentangled from pornographic probings and the threatening scrutiny of the military-­state apparatus. Compounding the gendered problem of visibility was the status of the victims as members of an ethnic minority whose vulnerability had been so recently and violently reconfirmed. Precisely because they violated the photographic fetish of transparency by calling up transparency’s others — manipulation and rumor — the “false” internet photographs further deepened the terrorization of the rape victims and the Chinese-­Indonesian community as a whole. The gendered and ethnic limits of the dream of transparency thwarted not only hopes for justice, but also the partial redeeming of suffering that can take place through public recognition and inclusion within narratives of national history. For most Indonesians, the outcome of the rape debates was lingering uncertainty. Coda: Persistent Invisibilities

In 2008, the National Commission on Violence against Women (Komnas Perempuan), which was formed in response to the rape controversy, issued a report on the aftermath of the violence.113 The report found that in the previous ten years, no progress had been made on identifying the actors behind the violence and addressing the condition of rape victims. Asked to issue statements for the report, both the Interior Ministry and the military referred to the rapes as “a suspicion” or allegation (dugaan) rather than a fact.114 These doubts were not limited to state actors; when I conducted interviews in 2013, some journalists who had been involved in the effort to investigate the rape allegations also voiced skepticism about activists’ claims. Some implied that activists had intentionally circulated the false photographs. Some did not doubt that rapes had occurred but believed activists had greatly exaggerated their number.115 That prominent journalists deeply committed to promoting human rights in Indonesia expressed these doubts attests to how murky the rape case remained fifteen years later.116 The fact that not a single woman has yet publicly testified continues to cast doubt on the claim that rapes occurred as part of a systematic campaign The Gender of Transparency  89

of terror orchestrated by the military. Only two survivors of the sexual assaults were willing to speak directly with the members of the commission researching the 2008 report, and none were willing to make public statements; most accounts included in the report came from counselors and others involved in supporting the victims. The primary author of the report, Saparinah Sadli, carefully articulated why victims would continue to refuse to speak publicly about their ordeal, even ten years later. She cited the stigma of sexual violence, ongoing discrimination against ethnic Chinese, and, above all, the strong belief among victims and their families that the state lacked the will to resolve the case, so public exposure would be for naught. As one victim quoted in the report put it, “This is why I ask, what is this documentation for? Is it just to satisfy the desire to know?”117 Activists I spoke with continued to stand by their decision to put the needs of victims — not to be exposed, to feel safe, and to have the opportunity to heal in private — before the demand for documentation and public exposure, even at the cost of having their accounts disbelieved.118 They also described the desire of victims’ families and the Chinese community as a whole to move on, and the ongoing fear and rumors of “another May 1998” that continue to circulate within the Chinese community at moments of political tension.119 Having lost faith in the promise of formal government recognition and accountability, activists have increasingly turned to civil society to try to build a collective memory of the events of 1998. The National Commission on Violence Against Women has worked to foster public acknowledgment of the sexual violence against ethnic Chinese women through forms of memorialization. Since 2010, they have organized an annual walking tour through the areas devastated in the 1998 riots in Solo and Jakarta, using movement through space as a way to activate memory.120 Together with other human rights groups, they have staged protests on the anniversary of the violence, demanding that the rapes not be forgotten and that they be included in the history curriculum of public schools.121 When I met with her in 2013, Ita Fatia Nadia, who had served as media spokesperson for the Volunteer Team for Humanity in 1998, described a shift among activists away from the fixation on “evidence,” stating, “The way to fight forgetting is through art . . . art is what keeps [the issue of 1998] alive.”122 She discussed plans to make what she called an “art documentary” about the violence of 1998. Unlike a conventional documentary, this hybrid would combine oral testimony with graphically powerful drawings. Rather than relying on photographic visibility for its efficacy, it would generate af90  chapter two

fective response through the expressive qualities of line, color, and form in its drawn visuals.123 Still anchored to the indexical act of bearing (oral) witness, Nadia’s envisioned film bypasses the demand for transparency and its reigning public visuality. Another modality of images, she imagined, might yet capture the public’s attention and solicit its recognition. Nadia’s imagined film responds to the crisis to which documentary photography is brought in its encounter with sexual violence, and to the broader limits of transparency as a political ideal. I chose not to include any photographs in this chapter. To include the sensationally violent “false” rape photographs would be to engage in the pornography of violence this chapter has described. Other images I might have included — photographs of male-­on-­ male violence during Reformasi demonstrations, photographs of the disappeared male activists circulated by their loved ones and colleagues to demand their return, photographs of Pius Lustrilanang testifying about his torture and kidnapping, the photograph of Ita Martadinata carried in her funeral procession and reproduced in the newspapers — are artifacts of the very public visuality that rendered the rape victims invisible. In the image that opens this chapter, a detail of an artwork by the Chinese Indonesian artist Yaya Sung, the artist has stitched gold embroidery thread on the surface of her photographs of people who lived in an area of Jakarta where “rioters” destroyed many businesses and homes in May 1998. This work, with its obscured faces, comes closest to capturing the persistent condition of unvisibility that this chapter hopes to convey. Its poignant refusal of the demand for visual access and its suggestion that “the truth is not a matter of exposure which destroys the secret but a revelation which does justice to it,” will be echoed in a more satirical vein in ludic images discussed in the next chapter.124

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Detail from a widely circulated scandalous cell phone image of Bjah and Sukma Ayu. A censoring mark, added by the magazine that republished it, blocks visual access while signaling the “pornographic” nature of the image. From Robby Soegara, “Siapa Pengirim Foto Panas ke Internet,” Forum Keadilan 19, September 3, 2006, 11 – 15.

THREE

THE SCANDAL OF EXPOSURE

In March 1999, a tape recording of a phone conversation between a “voice like that of” President B. J. Habibie and a “voice like that of” Attorney General Andi Ghalib was leaked to the press.1 “Habibie” asked “Ghalib,” whose office was investigating Suharto for corruption, to go easy on the ex-­president. The leaked discussion exposed a public secret, revealing the judiciary’s lack of independence and the government’s insincerity in its response to popular calls to bring Suharto to justice. When Ghalib denied that the voice was his own, a relatively unknown lecturer at Gadjah Mada University, Roy Suryo Notodiprojo, offered his analysis of the recording.2 By means of a digital “spectrum analyzer,” the workings of which he explained in detail in interviews with the press, he determined that the recording was indeed authentic (asli) (figure 3.1). It was less the content of the revelation than the fact of definitive and open exposure that shocked and delighted a national public still adjusting to a new political and media climate. Roy Suryo, as he is commonly known, would go on to position himself as a similarly pivotal figure in a number of high-­profile corruption scandals. In

August 1999, he affirmed the authenticity of an audio recording at the center of a major corruption case known as the “Bank Bali scandal,” involving Golkar, the New Order’s ruling party.3 Newspaper reports glowingly reported on his use of technology to counter the denials of those allegedly involved in the scandal: “Using scientific techniques, Roy Suryo has used his expertise to conclude that the owners of the voices [heard on the recording] really are Baramuli and Setya Novanto. Do they still dare to defend themselves?” asked one paper.4 Another reported, “What is clear is that [Roy Suryo] believes one hundred percent these are the voices of Baramuli and Setyo [sic] Novanto. The quotation marks we’ve been using [around the names of] these extraordinary leaders of ours can now be thrown out. Thanks, Roy.” The same article went on, “Thanks to science, which plays an ever greater role in tearing open every lie.”5 Embodied in the figure of Roy Suryo, technology appeared as a new form of authority — reliable, modern, and politically neutral — able to satisfy the public’s right to know and its demand for transparency. Despite Roy Suryo’s lack of formal training in computer technology, his name was soon routinely accompanied by the labels pakar telematika or pakar multimedia (telematics expert or multimedia expert). Additional cases in the years immediately after 1998 involved election fraud, more corruption in the judiciary, and the flight from justice of former president Suharto’s son,

“rm Roy Suryo demonstrates a telephone recording device.” As in many images of Roy Suryo, he is pictured in this newspaper article with the technological devices that ground his authority. From “Palsu atau Tidak, Lihat Intonasi dan Spektrum” (“False or Not, Look at the Intonation and the Spectrum”), Kedaulatan Rakyat, March 5, 1999. Photo by KR-Subchan.

F I GU R E 3 . 1 .

96  chapter three

Tommy Suharto. News outlets, having acquired an incriminating recording or image, would invite Roy Suryo to help determine its authenticity. The police and court system also began turning to him for help (or, frequently, he would offer his services). Roy Suryo always disavowed any political motive, insisting that he acted purely in the interest of “science” and “technology.”6 Roy Suryo thus carved a niche in the post-­Suharto political and media landscape for a new kind of public authority figure, the “telematics expert,” or what I call here the “authenticity expert,” who uses sophisticated technology to gauge the authenticity of images and recordings at the heart of exposure scandals. Shrewdly parlaying his self-­proclaimed expertise into celebrity status, he became a regular pundit on the news circuit, writing columns in major newspapers, featuring in ads for technological gadgets (figure 3.2), F I G U R E 3 . 2 . Nokia ad featuring Roy Suryo, “Multimedia and Telematics Expert.” Confirming and reinforcing his status as an expert on technology, the text underneath the image reads, “Roy Suryo always uses Nokia n90 for video conferencing because the Nokia n90 is the only camera with 2 mega pixel camera for video calls, such that the quality of the video image is extremely sharp.” From Kompas, June 9, 2007, 43.

The Scandal of Exposure  97

and hosting his own television show (E-­Lifestyle on Metro tv).7 In 2005, he joined the ruling Democrat Party and participated in the formation of a new Ministry of Communication and Informatics. This ministry replaced the New Order’s infamous Department of Information, the principal agency for controlling freedoms of the press and of expression during Suharto’s regime.8 He also helped draft the 2008 Internet and Electronic Transactions (ite) bill, which targeted cybercrime. In criminalizing the online and electronic circulation of pornography and defamatory statements, it was the first major law to threaten the freedoms of expression so integral to the achievement of Reformasi in 1998. (The second, passed later the same year, was the pornography law, discussed in chapter 4). Roy Suryo was elected to the national assembly in 2009 and was appointed Minister of Youth and Sports (Menpora) in January 2013, a position he held until October 2014. Despite this meteoric career trajectory, his expertise was frequently challenged, most vocally by tech-­savvy middle-­class urbanites who regarded him as a false expert (pakar gadungan). Often, Roy Suryo’s detractors merely sought to perform scrutiny more effectively by providing more technically sophisticated analyses of the images and recordings in question. Others, though, offered ludic critiques in the form of spoofs and mockeries that called into question not only the authority of Roy Suryo’s forensic performances but also, more profoundly, the logic of transparency that underpinned his role as authenticity expert. Like the repurposed versions of money discussed in chapter 1, images in a ludic mode reveal truths through recombinations and manipulations that take place at the surface of the image. Rather than seeking authentication in the image’s indexical reference to an original source (an author or prephotographic scene), the ludic image offers play, irreverence, and circulation outside of authentic channels as the source of its authenticity. Why devote this chapter to a relatively minor political player whom many considered a sensation-­seeking opportunist, a charlatan, and even a national joke? My interest is not in Roy Suryo himself, but in the way his public persona indexes key preoccupations and dynamics of the post-­Suharto public sphere.9 Roy Suryo’s career as “authenticity expert” responds to a Reformasi demand to end political and economic corruption through transparency, and it shows the centrality of photographic images to that demand. Moreover, Roy Suryo’s career path from media pundit to politician reveals publicity to be an overarching logic of both celebrity culture and democratic politics within market-­driven, complexly mediated public spheres. The more diversified, unregulated, and privatized media ecology of the post-­Suharto period yielded a public visuality marked by ideologies of transparency and 98  chapter three

commercialized practices of publicity. As I argue throughout this book, this polyphonous public sphere was also plagued by persistent doubts about the credibility of public truth claims and concerns about how to control and validate information flows that escaped conventional forms of regulation. Chapter 1 showed how images of money objectified both fears of ongoing corruption and hopes for a different kind of politics and economy. Chapter 2 demonstrated that the threat of “manipulation” (rekayasa) — embodied in allegedly falsified images — haunted the search for transparency. In this chapter too, struggles over the authority and authenticity of images and other indexical records provided the material terrain on which more abstract imaginings of the promise and dangers of democratic freedoms were debated — and displaced. Scandalous Pleasures

The locus for the struggles over authority and authenticity discussed in this chapter is a particular kind of image-­event: the exposure scandal. The exposure scandal is a media genre in which sexual, political, and/or economic corruption is rendered visible through the work of indexical records — often photographs or video recordings — that allegedly supply proof of wrong­ doing. The exposure scandal, in which such records circulate and are subjected to scrutiny and authentication, quickly became a staple of the post-­ Suharto media menu. Revelations of incriminating images or recordings, denials and accusations of manipulation by the parties involved, and verification or debunking by “experts,” were essential ingredients in their formulaic scripting. The profit-­making imperatives of the corporate media helped drive the phenomenon of the exposure scandal as a particularly lucrative form of public entertainment. Yet the exposure scandal — and the role of the authenticity expert within it — must also be understood in relation to the postauthoritarian, democratic ideal of transparency. Distrust of surface appearances and the compulsion to bring the formerly hidden into public view animate the exposure scandal. The pervasive sense that all is not available to meet the eye was not itself new. Conspiracy theories and, more specifically, skepticism about the authenticity of documents, pervaded Indonesian political discourse and daily life leading up to and during the New Order period. As noted in chapter 1, the ubiquity of the aspal (the authentic but false bureaucratic document) under conditions of endemic corruption contributed to widespread distrust of “paper truths.”10 Scams involving fraudulent diplomas or false identity The Scandal of Exposure  99

documents were a common topic in newspaper articles and everyday talk. What Nils Bubandt has called “hard copy rumors” — circulating documents of uncertain origin and authenticity — had played a key role in Indonesian political crises in the past.11 Reformasi did not initiate skepticism toward documentary truths, therefore. Rather, it gave people, at least in the immediate post-­Suharto period, hope for a new era in which rumor would be replaced by firm facts, secrets by an open accounting. While particularly charged in a postauthoritarian context, this obsession with the revelation of hidden secrets is, according to Jodi Dean, a feature of democratic public spheres more generally. She argues that the secret is the necessary other of the ideals of publicity — openness, visibility, and accessibility —  central to hegemonic formations of democracy.12 The secret is constitutive of “the public” as an imagined collective agency, for it is the very presupposition that there exist secrets to be uncovered that generates “the public” as “a subject that desires, discovers, and knows, a subject from whom nothing should be withheld.”13 The secret, then, holds out democracy’s ideally transparent public sphere as a deferred promise, ever on the horizon: “The secret promises that a democratic public is within reach. . . . All that is necessary to realize the ideal of the public is to uncover these secrets, to bring them to light.”14 In Indonesia, the exposure scandal fuels and is fueled by the desire to uncover secrets and to ground truth claims in tangible, visible evidence that can be ratified by the public. “The secret is a form that can be filled in by all sorts of contents and fantasies,” claims Dean, an insight supported by the wide variety of scandals in Indonesia that conformed to the same conventionalized formula of the exposure scandal.15 These ranged from revelations of sexual improprieties among celebrities to the exposure of human rights violations, to acts of corruption among political elites and sex scandals involving political figures. What strikingly unites exposure scandals across disparate domains, crucially, is their common dependence on indexical records (especially photographic images) that, as the material locus of revelation, become focal points of attention as they are subjected to extended analysis and debate. It is here that the authenticity expert comes into play as that figure who performs public scrutiny and who promises to ground revealed truths in an incontrovertible and impartial technoscientific guarantee. The authenticity expert is thus a figure of authority symptomatic of Indonesia’s postauthoritarian democratic political imaginary, offering a secular, apparently nonpoliticized method for ferreting out the false from the true, the fraudulent from the credible. The authenticity expert promises to distinguish the truth100  chapter three

ful image from the manipulated and the falsified, and to track the origins of images that circulate free of authors and institutional guarantees. But his success also depends on, and cultivates, widespread skepticism toward the truth claims of images and other indexical documents.16 The reception of images in an “evidentiary” mode — one that soberly weighs their indexical truth or falsity vis-­à-­vis a prephotographic referent —  typically stands in contrast to more popular, corporeal, and affective modes of engaging images.17 Less often attended to, yet essential to the exposure scandal and the phenomenon of the authenticity expert, are the pleasures that evidentiary readings of images can deliver. To take these forensic pleasures seriously is to recognize that, as a dominant ideology of the post-­Reformasi period, “transparency” offers more than a bloodless, bureaucratic ideal of rational, technocratic “good governance.” It also entails aesthetic and affective investments.18 As Lauren Berlant argues, public spheres are always “affect worlds, worlds to which people are bound . . . by affective projections of a constantly negotiated common interestedness.”19 In the previous chapter, I argued that smuggled in alongside transparency’s demand for “evidence” was a demand for the visceral, affective charge that images of violence and its victims afford. In this chapter, I suggest that “evidentiary” readings of photographs and other indexical records provoke not only dispassionate debate but also visceral responses of anticipation, titillation, disgust, and humor that are central to the affectivity of Indonesia’s postauthoritarian democratic public sphere. The digital forensics performed by the authenticity expert offer a “disenchanted” form of “modern enchantment,” a performance of a kind of technical magic “that delights but does not delude.”20 Press reports in the early years of his career tellingly likened Roy Suryo to a “detective on the film stage,”21 alluding to the highly theatrical quality of his performances of technological mastery. News reports described the (then still quite exotic) benda pusaka (spiritually powerful objects) that he carried on his person at all times: “three cell phones, a handy talkie, and a laptop.”22 Accounts of his activities were peppered with terms that sounded to most Indonesian ears like a foreign code: “telematics,” “multimedia,” “sound processor,” “win-­amp,” “audio compositor,” “frekuensi,” “metadata,” “slice comparison.” As this jargoned vocabulary suggests, the audience for his performances of forensic scrutiny was presumed not to actually understand the technical processes of digital forensics but rather was asked to have faith in his “scientific” methods; technology was proffered as an agent and guarantee of transparency, even as it was wrapped in the mystique of esoteric knowledge. An elite practitioner, the authenticity expert wields authority deriving from the conjoinThe Scandal of Exposure  101

ing of the practices of scientific technorationality with the mystifying aura of occult knowledge.23 The position of authority claimed by the telematics expert assumes a technologically naïve public requiring guidance to navigate the multiplicity of truth claims (and potential lies) competing in an open, democratic public sphere. If the exposure of secrets was an enduring preoccupation of the post-­ Suharto public sphere, the arc of Roy Suryo’s career nevertheless reveals a significant shift in the political impact of corruption scandals over the course of the decade and a half following Reformasi. Early cases, such as the Habibie-­Ghalib scandal, seemed to materialize the achievement of a new era of transparency and accountability in which political elites would be subject to public scrutiny. Facing the implacable spectrum analyzer as technological truth machine, even the mighty would be unable to cloak their activities in veils of misinformation and denial. Such scandals were the spectacular counterpart to the formation of the Corruption Eradication Commission (kpk), an independent investigating organization with the power to conduct surveillance, gather evidence, indict, and bring suspects to trial in special independent courts. The kpk has been among the most important vehicles for addressing the endemic corruption corroding the country’s political and economic structures. Since its establishment in 2003, the kpk has managed — despite constant efforts to undermine it, including charges of corruption against its own investigators — not only to expose corruption but to take legal action ending in conviction and prison time for corruptors.24 Yet over time the public exposure of ever more corruption cases had a curious countereffect. As the exposures piled up with no appreciable lessening in the frequency of corruption itself, a shift occurred in the quality and intensity of the pleasures accompanying exposure scandals. As one case followed another on the front pages of the newspaper with remarkable frequency and dulling similarity, the excitement of the spectacular exposé gave way to the more routinized diversions of repetition and cynical humor. Watching the latest corruption scandal unfold came to be like tuning in to a formulaic soap opera, complete with familiar roles, plot twists, and denouements. The authenticity expert’s predictable performances helped to homogenize scandals of different kinds and degrees of import, causing political corruption cases to resemble celebrity sex scandals. As an increasingly banal form of entertainment, the exposure scandal ultimately shows the failure of transparency to guarantee a genuinely democratic, accountable politics. This banalization is the ultimate scandal of exposure. 102  chapter three

A President’s Affair

In the late summer of 2000, not quite a year into the turbulent presidency of Muslim scholar and pro-­democracy activist Gus Dur (Abdurrahman Wahid), a photograph began circulating in the Parliament and the editorial offices of the nation’s major press outlets.25 It showed Gus Dur, casually dressed in shorts, with a woman in a loose nightgown seated on his lap (figure 3.3). In a signed statement that accompanied the photograph, a woman named Aryanti Sitepu claimed to have had an affair with Gus Dur in 1995, when he was the head of Nadhatul Ulama (nu), the largest Muslim organization in the nation (with over 30 million followers). Aryanti disavowed partisan motive, claiming that Gus Dur’s recent call on politicians “not to lie to the people,” had sparked her sense of injustice because Gus Dur himself had lied in his promise to marry her. That the photograph and document were circulated by her former husband and appeared before the public at a time when Gus Dur’s rocky presidency was under attack by various political forces, suggested other motivations behind the revelations. The photograph was neither particularly sensational (both figures were clothed) nor did it immediately signal clandestine activity (both figures look directly at the camera, aware and welcoming of its gaze). Yet the informal dress and physical proximity of the two figures suggested an intimate relationship. The photo’s appearance as a typical personal snapshot, however, turned out to be deceiving. In her account of the affair, Aryanti described herself as the fourth wife of a successful businessman with whom she had one child. Lonely and neglected by her husband, she had met Gus Dur and allowed him to pursue a relationship with her, soon falling in love with him. Hoping to divorce her husband, Yanur, she had confessed her affair to him. He told her that before granting the divorce he required “proof” of her infidelity. It was he, therefore, who had initiated the taking of the photograph that would later be at the center of the scandal. Yanur provided her with camera and film and even accompanied her to the Jakarta hotel where she was later to meet with Gus Dur (the photo was snapped by an obliging hotel worker). In possession of “proof,” Yanur divorced her in October 1996. Shortly thereafter, Gus Dur suffered a debilitating stroke and the affair came to an end. The photograph, then, was never just an intimate souvenir between two lovers but was, from the beginning, orchestrated by a third party to serve as future evidence. Gus Dur became president in October 1999, and in the The Scandal of Exposure  103

summer of 2000, Yanur decided to disclose the affair to the public. At his request, Aryanti produced the signed statement, witnessed by three people, including a Muslim cleric. The statement and photograph were then given to prominent politicians and nu leaders opposed to Gus Dur. Nevertheless, like Aryanti, Yanur disavowed a political motive, stating, “I am not a party man, I am not a political man. What I have done was entirely motivated by my natural instinct to put forward the true facts for the cause of justice.”26 The first news media reports appeared at online news sites but the story quickly made its way into several major news magazines in late August 2000, where it served as the lead story.27 Supporters of Gus Dur immediately questioned the validity of the photograph, suggesting it was a montaged image. Early reporting also cast doubt on its authenticity, as in this passage from the tabloid newspaper Adil, which appeared in an article under the subheading, “Is the Photo Asli or Aspal?” Widely circulated snapshot image of Gus Dur and Aryanti Sitepu. From http://apisuci.blogspot.com/2012/03/gaya-hidup-zina-mengundang-bencana.html.

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At first glance the “intimate photo” of Gus Dur holding Aryanti on his lap in a room of the Hotel Harco, Jakarta, is truly real. .  .  . Aryanti’s plump body looks sexy. There’s no impression of its being fabricated, or just a superimposition resulting from the manipulation of technology. But if you examine it carefully, this photo actually is full of awkwardness. First, the hair on the heads of Gus Dur and Aryanti looks like the result of computer cropping . . . the hair looks very stiff with a shape that is not normal. . . . A photographer from Adil [magazine] regarded the photograph as the result of rather sloppy computer manipulation. “It’s almost definitely the result of cropping. And very crudely done,” he said when he examined the photo. His reason was that within one frame the lighting was not equal between Gus Dur and Aryanti. The image of Gus Dur is darker, while the image of Aryanti is more bright.28 In an interview published by the online news site Detik.com, however, Roy Suryo detailed at length, and in technical language that would have been obscure to most readers, his process of determining that the photograph was a genuine original and not the result of “manipulation” (rekayasa).29 He recounted initially having been shown a small image file by journalists requesting his help in verifying its authenticity. Unable to conduct analysis on such a small file, he described tracking down a larger jpg image, which he then changed to a bitmap file (bmp) and then to a Photoshop file (psd). Having conducted this “multikonversi,” he then examined the image “slice by slice,” performing a color separation and analyzing the integrity of each color. He also performed a “grayscaling” operation as a further means of determining if the image had been digitally retouched. Based on this analysis, he felt certain that the photograph had “not been touched by a computer.” Not yet satisfied with his analysis, Roy Suryo conducted a second study of the “authentic physical evidence.” After acquiring the original photograph from Aryanti and then the original negative from Yanur, he analyzed the paper the photograph was printed on and the markings on the original negative. He determined that it was indeed a photograph taken around 1995, because it used film that was discontinued by Fuji in 1996 and was printed on paper most likely used before 1997. In the press, Suryo further described scanning the roll of film to ensure that the negative had not been retroactively attached to an original roll of film, nor had there been any physical manipulation of the negative: “with this very high resolution [of the scanned negative], pixel per pixel, or in the style of photography, the grain, will be very clear. So if The Scandal of Exposure  105

there has been any retouching at all it will be visible. . . . I concluded that the photograph was not manipulated.” In analyzing the original negative, Roy could also see that the other photographs that appeared on the roll of film were images of Aryanti with Yanur and their daughter, thus supporting Aryanti’s claim that Yanur had been involved in the orchestration of the snapshot with Gus Dur. Indeed, Gus Dur’s brother made a public statement that, “I have seen the image that is causing an uproar, and it’s clear that it is an effort that was systematically planned; because of that I believe that Aryanti has been used in order to expose all of this.”30 I include the details of Detik’s account of Roy Suryo’s investigation to convey the lavish attention paid to his performance of the secular magic of image forensics. Presenting himself as a defender of apolitical expertise and technology itself, he professed outrage at the ease with which uninformed people assumed there had been digital manipulation of the photograph: I am moved by the desire to know and an infuriated feeling because many people are already blaming technology before understanding that technology with certainty. Before doing a scientific and technical study, they are already saying that the photo is the result of computer manipulation. There are even those opining that photos circulating on the internet can’t be believed.31 Ignorant “skepticism towards the development of technology,” he suggested, was as dangerous as gullible faith in photographic truth. In his hands, photographs became “expert images” requiring trained observers to render them legible and to authenticate their truth claims for the public.32 Concluding the interview, Roy Suryo reasserted his commitment to democratic ideals of impartial reason, openness, and debate: “I firmly state that the analysis I have done has not been paid for by anyone. I do it for knowledge only. For those who want to debate with me, go ahead, we are democratic.”33 The centrality of the analysis of the photograph of Aryanti and Gus Dur to the public discussion of the alleged affair set a template for subsequent exposure scandals. While sound recordings could be subject to the same scrutiny as photographic documents, images were in demand for their ability to prove and debunk claims, and for the titillating pleasures that most effectively sold newspapers. As one news analyst noted, “The circulation of the [Gus Dur – Aryanti] photograph created great demand in the market. From the perspective of business it obviously promised great success. Moreover, every media outlet put the news on its front page and its top report. Since then the coolies of ink always hunt for news with a photo.”34 In the expo106  chapter three

sure scandal, we see how the logic of transparency encompasses a range of indexical documents that promise to provide unmediated access to events. But because of the way images literalize publicity’s demand to make visible, and because of the celebrity media culture with which it was entangled, the exposure scandal’s most paradigmatic form was an image-­event. The “Pornomatics” Expert

As Roy Suryo’s career as telematics expert took off, he continued to lend his expertise in exposure scandals of significant political import, from corruption to human rights cases. In May 2004, for example, he served as an expert witness in a high-­profile case that involved corruption and civil attacks on press freedom. A powerful businessman, Tomy Winata, had sued the preeminent news magazine Tempo for libel for their reporting on his involvement in a fire that had destroyed a market, making way for new development of the site. Tomy denied having made statements to a reporter that linked him to the fire. Comparing the voice recorded in the Tempo reporter’s interview tape to Tomy’s voice during his trial and in testimony at the House of Representatives, Suryo found that “the voices are identical, in terms of their frequency, amplitude, resonance, beat, and depth.”35 In the case of a video uploaded to YouTube showing a brutal attack on members of the embattled Ahmadiyah sect in 2011, Roy Suryo concluded that the video was “authentic,” asserting, “I have already studied the continuity of the video and audio, and there is no inserting or dubbing atmosphere.”36 Roy Suryo’s name, however, would also become increasingly associated with political and celebrity sex scandals. The prevalence of sex scandals in the public sphere can be seen as symptomatic of a larger “obsession with sexuality” as a ground on which to contest and assert national morality in the aftermath of authoritarian rule.37 As the Gus Dur – Aryanti scandal had revealed, moreover, the titillation of illicit sex combined with the secular magic of digital forensics proved a lucrative mix for tabloid magazines, television shows, and online and print news outlets operating in a highly competitive, privatized media environment. As sex scandals began to proliferate in the media, Roy Suryo could be counted on to provide his assessment of the authenticity of the images and recordings at their center (he often contacted press outlets to offer his opinions and even called his own press conferences). Materializations of the generic form of “the secret,” corruption scandals, celebrity sex scandals, and various mixtures thereof, all capitalized on preoccupations with insincerity The Scandal of Exposure  107

and authenticity, falsehood and credibility, and the affective pleasures of revelation that accompanied the political imaginary of transparency. Not surprisingly, Roy Suryo defended his secular magic performances of image forensics in sex scandals with the same appeals to technological authority and transparency he drew on to legitimize his involvement in politically charged corruption and human rights cases. Early in his career as authenticity expert, Roy Suryo had criticized the state’s concern with pornography as a “distraction” from the more pressing need to root out corruption and hold the powerful responsible for their abuses. In July 1999, the police had called the actress Sophia Latjuba in for questioning regarding an image of her on the cover of Popular magazine in which she appeared to be posed in the nude. Roy Suryo wrote an op-­ed for the local Yogyakarta newspaper titled, “Photography, Technology and Pornography,” in which he assailed the “purportedly newly independent” police for “shifting attention” away from more important political corruption cases by focusing on allegations of pornography.38 He also decried their lack of understanding of how photographic technology had “matured,” and their failure to consult “experts or practitioners” who could determine whether or not there was actually “evidence” that Sophia had been photographed nude or whether the cover image was simply “trick photography.” Describing the many ways that a clothed model could be made to appear nude (see figure 3.4; plate 13), he argued, “Technological manipulation is now so advanced and cunning that if it’s not understood or properly mastered, the perception of people can be distorted (read: tricked) and [they can] hastily make a judgment that does not accord with the facts.” He asserted that “expert witnesses” were needed to offer “evaluations that are more objective and are not just emotional opinions of the moment.” While condemning pornography scandals as “distractions,” he also made the case for the authenticity expert who would replace the outmoded, heavy hand of the authoritarian state as the arbiter of truth, while protecting a newly free, democratic public sphere from the dangers of mass ignorance and irrational affect. In one exemplary sex scandal case in 2004, the Jakarta police summoned Roy Suryo to evaluate the authenticity of a series of graphic photographs of the television soap opera star Sukma Ayu and her ex-­boyfriend, the rock musician Bjah, then circulating on the internet (figures 3.5 and 3.6; plate 17). Enhancing the sensational nature of the explicit photographs was their intimacy, as the photographs appeared to be homemade documentation taken by the couple themselves with a cell phone camera. One paper reported, “Internet users have been bombarded recently with pornographic pictures of 108  chapter three

a local female tv soap star and rock band guitarist, which have become a hot topic on local gossip shows and made headlines in several newspapers and tabloids.”39 The viral spread of the images prompted the cybercrimes unit of the police to form an investigation into who had released the images, with the intent of charging them with defamation and distribution of pornographic material. Despite the insistence by both implicated parties that the figures appearing in the photographs were not them, Roy Suryo and other experts verified the images’ authenticity. Roy Suryo “even identified the camera as the Nokia 7650 cameraphone. He also pointed out the metadata showing when the pictures were taken.”40 Urging the couple to “just admit it,” Suryo again legitimized his involvement in the case through a defense of the authority of technology: “Roy was moved to analyze the photos after statements [by Sukma, Bjah, and their families] seemed to blame technology. ‘Finally, I was moved to analyze it to find the truth. Technology is used for the interests of humanity. To prove what is right and wrong.’ ”41 Professing sympathy for the couple, whom he suggested were the victims of someone who had either stolen or found Bjah’s cell phone, he urged people to be careful with their own photographs: “Technology needs to be mastered. If not, it will become a boomerang.” The caption for this image, which illustrated an article titled “There’s a Difference between Sensual and Pornographic Photos: Roy Suryo’s Analysis,” reads: “The creative process of photographer Hani Moniaga, with his object Sophia Latjuba, that then caused an uproar.” Note the arrow added to indicate where the model’s mostly concealed bathing suit is visible (see also plate 13). From “Beda, Foto Sensual dan Porno, analisis RM Roy Suryo,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 18, 1999. Original photographs by Hani Moniaga.

FIGURE 3.4.

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In an article in Gatra magazine, a photographer also verified the authenticity of the photographs.42 After noting that the angle and lens were consistent with a cell phone camera, the photographer gave a curiously nontechnical, yet still photographically expert, basis to his claim. One of the photographs depicted what he called (alluding to the famous phrase of photographer Henri Cartier-­Bresson) the “decisive moment.” Apparently showing Sukma experiencing orgasm, it captured “a moment too perfect to be the result of manipulation. A professional model would need to work hard to imitate something as natural as in that photo” (figure 3.7). Cited in the same article, Roy Suryo’s analysis was, by contrast, entirely technical, its claims to authenticity rooted not in the capture of an auratic moment of “natural” expression, but in a different kind of essential truth. Noting that, “with advances in technology, the manipulation of the image can deceive the eye,” he focused on the photographs’ hidden secrets, buried in their code or “metadata.” Rather than risk deception by surface appearances, he said, “I look to the forensic, meaning the physical data of the file,” to uncover the truth of the image. While the mainstream print and electronic media typically applauded Roy Suryo’s expertise, his analyses were subjected to harsh critique in the more tech-­savvy arena of the Indonesian blogosphere. Some blog posts meF I GU R E S 3 . 5 – 3 . 6

The scandal of intimate photographs allegedly of celebrities Sukma Ayu and Bjah was widely reported in the print and electronic press. Still from television news report, “Heboh Foto Seronok Sukma Ayu-B’jah,” Liputan6, February 20, 2004, http://news.liputan6.com/read/72573/heboh-foto-seronok-sukma-ayu-bjah.

3 .5 .

Widely circulated image of Bjah and Sukma Ayu, from a series of images purportedly taken with a cell phone camera and then posted online, where they circulated virally. As it circulated, it was often overlaid with censoring marks. From http://ciepo.com/2015/09/24/6-skandal-seks-di-indonesia/bjah_sukma_ayu-2/.

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ticulously demystified his performances of secular magic by detailing their technical deficiencies. Noting that his claims to be 100 percent certain of the authenticity of the images would be convincing only to an “amateur,” one described him as someone who “lies to the people of Indonesia.”43 Other attacks on Roy Suryo went beyond unmasking him as a fraud. These questioned the public value of exposure and mocked the demand for transparency as an alibi for prurient fascination. One blog post read, “Welcome to the Site for Examining the Case of the Naked Photos of Sukma Ayu and Bjah. You can see the proof and facts! What do you see, true or false?” It proceeded to advise the reader to “1. open with ACDSee32 and 2. Right click on properties” and “see the shape of Sukma’s breast and nipple” and “the shape of her mouth when she gives the blow job (again it’s natural, man . . . ).” Oscillating between technical jargon and graphic description, it skewered the pseudoscience of image-­authentication practiced by Roy Suryo (and disseminated by the press) as a cover for public arousal.44 Such ludic critiques use jarring juxtapositions to make visible the intertwining of the pornographic and the evidentiary within the public visuality of transparency (the violent consequences of which were discussed in the previous chapter). As a platform for gaining notoriety, involvement in celebrity sex scandals F I G U R E 3 . 7 . Widely circulated image of Sukma Ayu, purportedly taken with a cell phone camera and then posted online, from the Bjah and Sukma Ayu series. From www.sukma-bjah.cjb.net (accessed August 24, 2004).

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propelled Roy Suryo’s own political career, but his role also raised questions about whether he was truly an impartial expert external to those scandals or an integral part of the prurient capitalist media and celebrity culture that generated them. Critiques — both moral and technical — of Roy Suryo’s authority ultimately did not remain limited to caustic but relatively marginal blogs. They also began seeping into court and mainstream media representations. In September 2008, for example, Habib Rizieq, leader of the hardline Islamic Defender’s Front (fpi) and Munarman, commander of Laskar Islam (li), fpi’s paramilitary wing, were both on trial for inciting violence in an event that became known as the “Monas Incident.”45 Followers of these hardline groups had allegedly attacked peaceful demonstrators at a rally for diversity and religious freedom at the National Monument (Monas) in Jakarta in June 2008.46 The fpi, li, and other hardline Islamic groups regarded the gathering as a defense of the controversial Ahmadiyah sect, which they considered heretical. A central piece of evidence in the case against the two men was a video recording of the events. When Roy Suryo testified about the video’s authenticity, claiming that, “there is no editing, insertion, or dubbing,”47 Habib Rizieq and his legal team staged a walk-­out of the court in protest.48 Both Rizieq and Munarman emphatically questioned Roy Suryo’s credibility by pointing out his lack of academic credentials and by drawing attention to his involvement in celebrity sex scandals. Munarman called him an “expert on pornographic photos.”49 Some critics derisively began referring to him as a “pornomatics” expert rather than a “telematics” expert. Islamic Alibis and Uncertain Appearances

If Roy Suryo legitimated his involvement in all manner of scandals through appeals to the moral value of transparency and the politically neutral authority of technology, Munarman and Rizieq painted the authenticity expert as morally compromised by his association with a salacious, commercial media culture. In discrediting the telematics expert’s public authority, Munarman and Rizieq asserted their own status as self-­proclaimed representatives of Islamic moral authority. They pitted Islam, as a highly affective and socially persuasive source of public morality, against the telematics expert’s secular, technoscientific authority. A related move by those caught up in exposure scandals has been to use Islamic appearances and public performances of piety to counter accusations of corruption and sexual impropriety. As Carla Jones observes, women 112  chapter three

involved in corruption cases routinely show up in court dressed impeccably in Islamic fashion, often despite not having typically worn such clothes previously.50 In a different context, Johan Lindquist argues that the Islamic headscarf is sometimes mobilized by Indonesian women as a kind of protective cloak in public, shielding them from the possibility of being seen (and treated) as immoral.51 But such strategies always carry the risk of undermining the assumed indexical link between external signs and internal states of Islamic piety.52 In the context of exposure scandals, Islamic appearances could themselves raise questions about sincerity, becoming subject to skepticism and the pleasures of unmasking.53 Despite the risk of reinforcing a perceived gap between appearances and underlying truths, mobilizing Islamic appearances became part of the formulaic unfolding of many exposure scandals.54 In a typical example, a video clip showing a brief “sex scene” between the (married) politician Yahya Zaini (of the Golkar party) and a young dangdut singer, Maria Eva, began circulating from cell phone to cell phone in late 2006 (figures 3.8 through 3.10; plate 10).55 Eventually it migrated to television and appeared as stills printed in newspapers and magazines “with censors here and there” to cover sensitive body parts.56 The clip also ultimately made its way to YouTube (it was later taken down after being flagged as pornography). Roy Suryo’s analysis determined that the video was a recording from a cell phone and that it had not been subject to any editing (figure 3.11).57 The case confirmed a public secret — that liasons with young women entertainers had become routine perks of political office for members of Parliament. Supplying nubile young women greased the political wheels and was often part of sweetening a corruption deal, while young female singers saw their careers furthered by politicians willing to hire them to perform at party functions and campaign rallies and thereby raise their profile.58 Indeed, one rumor had it that the affair between Maria Eva and Zaini had ended badly when he refused to fund her new album.59 Some reports suggested that Maria Eva herself was responsible for circulating the clip, to blackmail Zaini and gain publicity for herself.60 Others suspected the video’s circulation was a “political porn maneuver” designed to bring down a powerful politician.61 In tabloid interviews, both Maria Eva and Zaini brandished Islamic piety as a way to recuperate their tarnished images. They asked for forgiveness from the public and spoke about their involvement in Islamic causes and their pilgrimages to Mecca.62 A profile of Yahya Zaini and his wife in the women’s tabloid Nova featured photos of both of them in Muslim clothing and described a Koranic recitation event hosted at their home (figure The Scandal of Exposure  113

3.12).63 In these contexts, Islamic appearances are usually met with knowing laughs and skeptical eye rolls rather than credulity. When figures caught up in exposure scandals also happened to belong to Islamic parties promoting themselves as “clean” and champions of morality, moreover, the pleasures of unmasking gain an added frisson.64 The Face of Internet Regulation

In July 2009, Roy Suryo was elected to a seat in the national legislature. He had begun his political career by joining the Democrat Party in 2005 and had served as an advisor on technological matters to President Susilo Bambang Yudoyono. During his campaign, he promised that as a lawmaker he would take on the problem of internet crime and pornography, which his technical expertise uniquely qualified him to tackle. Months before the election, a lawyer representing two celebrity sisters whose nude photographs F I GU R E S 3 . 8   –   3 . 9

Images allegedly of legislator Yahya Zaini and the dangdut singer Maria Eva with filmic framing indicating their status as stills from a video. Pixilation of the faces to obscure identity has been added. From a tabloid cover with the lead story “Maria Eva: I Had an Abortion for YZ and His Wife” (“Maria Eva: Aku Aborsi Demi YZ & Istri”), Gugat, no. 413, November 30 – December 6, 2006.

3 .8 .

Videoclip stills purported to show Yahya Zaini and Maria Eva, reproduced in a tabloid story with pixilation rendering his face (but not hers) unidentifiable. From “Video Mesum Anggota dpr-Penyanyi Dangdut: Pecat dari Dewan dan Ancaman bui,” Gugat, no. 413, November 30 – December 6, 2006.

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were circulating on the internet accused him of using the publicity from their scandal to further his political career.65 Roy Suryo had not only ascertained that the photographs were authentic but had asserted, based on his analysis of their circulation online, that the two sisters had intentionally disseminated the photographs to reignite flagging careers. Casting his involvement in the case under the moral mantle of the antipornography movement, Roy Suryo joined together with antipornography activists to meet with the Jakarta police to urge firm action.66 In response to the lawyer’s accusations, predictably, he invoked the democratic ideal of transparency: “Now is the era of openness, the era of free information. I am only telling it like it is. I am not accustomed to covering up things that don’t need to be covered up.”67 In the mid-­2000s, as the internet began to be a more significant arena for public communication but remained unfamiliar to most Indonesians, it was often portrayed in the mainstream print and electronic media as a lawless and dangerous realm. The introduction to a series of articles published in late 2006 in the news magazine Forum Keadilan, for example, describes the threat of “criminality . . . using advanced technology of the virtual world” and calls for both state regulation and expertise in dealing with the threat. Because internet-­based crime is “difficult to trace if one does not truly understand the technology,” to curtail it requires both “serious study in the field of technology” and “the umbrella of law.”68

F I G U R E 3 . 10 . Widely circulated stills of Yahya Zaini and Maria Eva, as they appeared on the internet without the censoring marks usually added by the print and electronic press (see also plate 5). From https://windede.com/2006/12/04/kesialan-sempurna-yahya-maria/.

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From early in his career as authenticity expert, Roy Suryo posed himself as guide and guardian protecting unsuspecting citizens against the dangers of a new, dangerous media ecology. He often positioned himself as aiding law enforcement in confronting “carders,” who stole credit card information, as well as those who would defame or extort others by circulating false pornographic photographs. As he built his political career, Roy Suryo began promoting broader state regulation of the unruly and deceptive world of internet communications. After joining the Democrat Party, he became a member of its Communication and Information Department (Depkominfo), and he later served on the government team charged with drafting a law to regulate internet communications, which eventually passed in 2008 as the F I GU R E S 3 . 1 1 – 3 . 1 2 .

Photo of Roy Suryo accompanying the article “It Was Recorded with a Handphone,” part of a series on the Yahya Zaini – Maria Eva scandal. Roy Suryo thus appears as an integral party to the scandal. From Gugat, no. 413, November 30 – December 6, 2006. 3 .11 .

Yahya Zaini and his wife wearing Islamic fashions. From “Yahya & Sharmila: Bela Anak-Istri Adalah Jihad Suami,” Nova, no. 981, December 11 – 17, 2006, 3. Photo by Ahmad Fadil/Nova. 3 .1 2 .

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Internet and Electronic Transactions Law (ite). His authorship of the ite law, as well as his status as a politician close to the president (whose website he helped design), identified him with the state and its efforts to tamp down on alternative circuits of information. The ite law contained provisions criminalizing defamation and the distribution of pornographic materials via the internet or electronic transmissions. Critics feared that its vague provisions would have a chilling effect on freedom of expression and access to information. Those fears were confirmed in one of the first cases, and by far the most infamous, that followed the law’s passage.69 In 2009, Prita Mulyasari, a housewife with two young children, was charged with defamation by a private hospital. After receiving what she considered subpar treatment, Prita had sent an email to twenty friends describing her mistreatment by hospital doctors and staff. The email went viral, and the hospital sued her for defamation under the provisions of the ite law (specifically, Article 27 on defamation through electronic devices; she was also charged under the regular criminal code and faced civil charges). Although Prita’s case did not involve the stifling of political expression, the use of the law by a powerful institution to shut down the voicing of grievances violated a post-­Suharto democratic ethos of accountability, free expression, and citizen empowerment. An outpouring of public sympathy and outrage at Prita’s criminalization (she was detained in jail for three weeks pending trial) culminated in a Facebook-­based campaign called “Coins for Prita,” which raised money for her legal costs and was widely recognized as one of the first (albeit narrow and short-­lived) social media–based activist movements in Indonesia.70 During the court case against Prita, Roy Suryo served as an expert witness for the prosecution.71 In his testimony clarifying the provisions of the ite law, he stated that those who had forwarded the email, making it go viral on public social ­media sites, were the ones directly guilty of defamation under the provisions of the law. On the other hand, he referred to Prita as the “trigger,” and argued that she had tacitly given permission to distribute the email by placing the twenty email addresses in the “To” field rather than in “Cc.”72 According to what he claimed were the conventional “ethics” of email, “only emails sent through ‘to’ are allowed to be forwarded.”73 He also noted that Prita had used actual names of doctors and hospital officials in her email, which, he claimed, was consistent with defamation.74 Other experts who testified in the trial challenged Suryo’s analysis and pointed to ambiguities in the law’s provisions, especially given social meThe Scandal of Exposure  117

dia’s “blurred border between personal and public communication.”75 When Prita’s defense lawyers questioned Roy Suryo’s credentials in court, visitors watching the proceedings hooted in support, and “the court room became raucously noisy” until the judge called for quiet.76 Suryo’s involvement in the case cemented his alignment with state power; indeed, he reportedly said that although he personally felt sympathy for her, “legally, if Prita fights against the state, well, I defend the state.”77 Once hailed as a champion of a new era of transparency, a citizen watchdog wielding technology against powerful corruptors, Suryo had become not only a fixture in a culture of banal scandals, but an agent of retrenchment promoting state power and regulation of the public sphere. The False-­but-­Authentic

I have noted that Roy Suryo’s status as an “expert” was repeatedly questioned, especially from within the tech community and by those active online and in social media, the very arenas and actors about which Roy Suryo claimed expertise.78 His role in building a state infrastructure of internet regulation was reviled by the mostly young, technologically savvy and cosmopolitan Indonesians who saw the law as a dangerous incursion on the freedoms won through Reformasi. Moreover, his position as pundit within the mainstream print and television news and infotainment media (including online news outlets of large media companies) aligned him with the establishment, corporate media from whose vantage point he commented on and sought to regulate “new” and alternative media channels. In December 2005, Yogyakarta police detained Herman Saksono, a twenty­four-­year-­old blogger and electronics student at Gadjah Mada University. On his blog he had posted photographs that placed the faces of prominent political figures — including President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Roy Suryo — onto the body of a female celebrity engaged in an embrace with Bambang Trihatmodjo, ex-­president Suharto’s son (figures 3.13 and 3.14). The picture onto which the faces were montaged came from yet another celebrity scandal: Trihatmodjo’s extramarital affair with Mayangsari, which became publicly known after intimate photographs of the couple began to circulate (figure 3.15).79 A news report on the Saksono case noted that such “play with Photoshop” constituted a double offense: the resulting photographs not only defamed the pictured people but also lied to the public.80 Clearly, placing Saksono’s overtly parodic images within an evidentiary frame, rather than reading them as ludic commentary, missed the form and content of his “joke.”81 118  chapter three

When asked by the police to remove the offending images from his blog, Saksono responded that his work was protected by freedom of expression. He was then interrogated for more than ten hours at the Yogyakarta Regional Police Department and threatened with being charged under a colonial-­era law for “insulting the head of the nation,” an offense carrying a six-­year prison sentence.82 (Saksono ultimately took down the images.) Roy Suryo, in his capacity as head of the Communications and Informatics Department of the Democrat Party, publicly supported the investigation of Saksono. Although the police denied that someone had alerted them to the blog’s images, claiming improbably that a detective had happened upon them, many believed Suryo had asked the police to investigate the case. When he stated that the police interrogation had given Saksono the “guidance” he needed, an editorial in Tempo critiqued him as “sounding just like the voices defending the government during the New Order.”83 For his critics, Roy Suryo embodied the misguided and clumsy efforts of the state and the mainstream print and electronic media to contain the burgeoning threat to their authority posed by internet-­based platforms such as blogs and social media.84 Noting the prevalence of blogs devoted to dissecting and debunking Roy Suryo’s public pronouncements (and the large

FIGURES 3.13–3.15 3 . 1 3 . Herman Saksono’s montage of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Bambang Trihatmodjo. From http://bandargosip.blogspot.com/2008/04/foto-jeruk -makan-jeruk-sby-bt-sby.html. 3 . 1 4 . Herman Saksono’s montage of Roy Suryo and Bambang Trihatmodjo. From http://bandargosip.blogspot.com/2008/04/foto-jeruk-makan-jeruk-sby-bt-sby.html. 3 . 1 5 . Cell phone image of Bambang Trihatmodjo and Mayangsari, which circulated widely in 2005. From http://berita.baca.co.id/23031726?origin=relative&pageId=921e4 d47-7678-454d-a795-0e1798c5e41e&PageIndex=2.

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number of supportive comments their posts garnered), one blogger read the conflict as an antagonism between old “established media like the newspaper and tv” and “new” sources of information “issuing from the blog world.”85 Responding to the crackdown on Herman Saksono, another blogger wrote, While the old media (newspapers, magazines, etc.) swallow all of Roy Suryo’s statements, the new media (Indonesian bloggers) subject them to critical analysis; often with a conclusion that is highly critical. This is clearly dangerous to his credibility, especially after he took on a position in the Democrat Party.86 It should be noted that participants in the Indonesian “blogosphere” were typically elite, urban, and male — proximate in social-­class terms to the producers of the news media they derided.87 The intensity of their critical engagement with the mass media suggests that their hostile fixation on Roy Suryo may have derived in part from their own investments in technological authority, in the public as ideal agent of scrutiny, and in the dream of transparency. In a series of inflammatory statements in early 2005, Roy Suryo had dismissed blogging as an ephemeral trend and stated that blogs and Friendster pages were often registered under false names and therefore could make people “victims” of “fraud” and “character assassination.”88 In these and other comments, he equated bloggers with hackers, charging both with illegal and “negative” activity.89 Roy Suryo’s public attacks on the internet as a zone of deception and illicit activity prompted organized response from Indonesian bloggers. In early February 2005, bloggers launched a wiki called Rangkuman .RoySuryoWatch.org devoted to compiling Roy Suryo’s various statements and subjecting them to scrutiny.90 The tracking impulse behind the wiki, with its effort to debunk the debunker, exemplifies the tech community’s own intense engagement with practices of scrutiny. But more ludic forms of critique also emerged. On February 14, 2005, for example, Rangkuman.RoySuryoWatch.org’s home page was transformed into a valentine to Roy Suryo, a “Message of Love from Indonesian Bloggers.” At the same time, in a coordinated effort, 134 bloggers posted a Valentine’s Day message to Roy Suryo on their own blogs.91 This more playful register of criticism also came to the fore in March 2008, after the passage of the ite bill. The government’s Department of Communication and Information website, and, a few days later, the website of the political party Golkar, which had supported the bill, were hacked. For a brief time, until they became “unavailable,” visitors to the sites were treated to photoshopped collages grafting Roy Suryo’s face onto other people’s bodies. On the Golkar site, where 120  chapter three

Roy Suryo’s face appeared on top of a naked woman’s body, part of the text accompanying the image read, “Sorry Mr. Admin, just wanting to leave a message . . . for Auntie Roy” (figure 3.16 shows the hacked Department of Communication and Information website, with Suryo’s head atop a male body).92 The attacks offered a critique of the ite law, expressing discontent with lawmakers’ use of the issue of pornography to stifle free speech more broadly. Meanwhile bloggers and hackers taunted those in power by revealing their inability to control activity on the internet.93 Roy Suryo responded by attacking “bloggers and hackers” as “con artists”94 and “liars, cheaters, and people who can’t be trusted.”95 The mocking parodies did not abate, however. In August 2010 a site entirely dedicated to Roy Suryo – based humor posted a list of “7 Ways to Become a Telematics Expert.”96 Number one was “growing a moustache.” Other criteria were: wearing a tie with an “electronic motif”; bandying about terms F I G U R E 3 . 1 6 . Hacked website of the Ministry of Communication and Information, Republic of Indonesia, March 27, 2008. From https://cepsibo.wordpress.com/2008 /03/30/situs-golkar-depkominfo-di-hack-atau-di-deface/.

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such as “metadata,” “rekayasa,” and “asli”; getting involved in other people’s affairs; and appearing frequently on tv or in the print press. Perhaps the most potent skewering of Roy Suryo, however, took the form of a spoof television talk show called Telemakita (Our Telematics), in which a character named “Boy Surya” — a “Multimedia and Telematics Expert” wearing an obviously fake moustache — and a sycophantic, if often bemused, talk show host discuss the authenticity of various images (figure 3.17).97 The episodes, which were posted on YouTube, begin with cheesy televisual graphics showing the two men dancing on oversized electronics and computer equipment (not unlike the graphics that had accompanied E-­Lifestyle, Roy Suryo’s real television show) (figure 3.18). The question “Authentic or manipulated?” recurred throughout the series, which had Boy Surya explaining absurdly basic things about the computer such as how to “click” on a file and how to tell if a file has been recently modified. Inevitably, he came to ridiculous but emphatically certain conclusions about the authenticity of the images in question. In one episode, for example, Boy Surya analyzes a photograph of a Parliament member in a compromising position with a woman. He laboriously explains to the audience how to click on the image in order to see its properties. Finding that the dates on which

F I GU R E S 3 . 1 7 – 3 . 1 8

Still from online video series Telemakita showing the character Boy Suryo and the show’s host. Season 1, episode 2, “Uang Palsu,” https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=QP08As-hZe0.

3 .1 7 .

Still from the opening sequence of Telemakita. From https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=1ptxb93vq2M.

3 .1 8 .

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it was created, modified, and accessed are all the same, he proclaims that the image is “1,000 percent authentic.”98 In another episode, “False Money,” the show begins with the host asking about the large number of gadgets that Boy Surya keeps pulling out of his pockets. Boy Surya responds that “My thirst for information is so great, I need all of these.”99 In this episode, Boy Surya is asked to authenticate a standard piece of 8 ½ × 11 inch paper onto which a scanned image of a rupiah bill has been printed. He proceeds to re-­scan it, look up its properties on the computer, and determine that the money — all appearances and common sense to the contrary — is indeed “authentic.” Telemakita pokes fun at the mainstream media’s outdated aesthetics and inadequate attempts to retain authority in the face of new media. It mocks Roy Suryo’s pretensions to it expertise and, in the figure of the host, those who promote his authority and who assume, perpetuate, and profit from the public’s ignorance and gullibility. It laughs at the genre of the exposure scandal and the obsession with the authentic and the manipulated (the asli and the rekayasa). Produced and circulated outside of professional, establishment media channels, Telemakita, like other ludic critiques of the exposure scandal and the authenticity expert, is both a product and productive of a counterpublic that challenges the dominant public sphere’s professional journalists, “experts,” and other secular authorities through playful displays of irreverence. Images like Herman Saksono’s “portraits” of Roy Suryo and the Telemakita videos invert the logic of the aspal, discussed in chapter 1. The aspal is a false document that, because it is made by someone on the inside, is indistinguishable from the “real thing”; it is “authentic-­but-­false.” These images are the opposite. They are patently, flagrantly fake.100 Their authenticity derives, first, from their production and circulation outside of official or establishment channels, and second, from the way they draw attention to their own artifice, for it is in their over-­the-­top fakery that they make visible the falsity of what passes as truth within official and mainstream accounts. Like the Megawati money stickers, they are false-­but-­authentic. Given his lack of any prior involvement in the world of sports, the news that Roy Suryo was to be appointed Minister of Youth and Sports (Menpora) in 2013 was met with general hilarity on-­and offline. The comic website Malesbanget.com posted a photograph of Roy Suryo’s face photoshopped onto the athletic body of a physical education teacher (figure 3.19). Suggesting ways Roy Suryo might apply his “expertise” in his new position, it suggested that he could help determine whether a soccer goal was real or not and whether various sports controversies were “authentic or manipulated.”101 The Scandal of Exposure  123

The Banality of Exposure

Despite his claims to mastery of the new world of digital media, then, Roy Suryo increasingly appeared as a retrograde defender of the old image and media regime, one in which the photograph was ideally a truthful record and reliable information exclusively issued from the establishment mass media. The age of digital media, with its heightened potential to manipulate and falsify appearances, now required such an expert, who could shore up the status of the photograph as indexical evidence so central to the logic of transparency. The telematics expert thus became a defender of transparency’s public visuality and the privileged (but endangered) place of the evidentiary photographic image within it. This visuality underpins the promise of the revealed secret animating the exposure scandal. Yet, as the images circulated by Herman Saksono and Telemakita exemplify, transparency’s visuality was also challenged by “ludic” modes of image making and reception in which images were not fetishized as (ideally) unmediated truths but regarded as surfaces to be manipulated, reworked, and repurposed. Mobilizing an alternative logic of authenticity, ludic images deploy revelatory juxtapositions and artful artifice to render alternative truths visible and tangible. Nevertheless, to set up too neat an opposition between the ludic gestures emanating from social media/the blogosphere and the mainstream media they parody is to miss the extent to which both the exposure scandal and F I GU R E 3 . 1 9 . Roy Suryo as physical education teacher. From “Hal-hal Yang Bisa Dilakukan Roy Suryo Kalau Jadi Menpora,” Malesbanget.com, January 11, 2013, https://malesbanget.com/2013/01/hal-hal-yang-bisa-dilakukan-roy-suryo-kalau -jadi-menpora/.

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spoofs like Telemakita revel in the pleasures of skepticism and unmasking. The humorous scorn and delight in making visible the false pretensions of the powerful directed at the figure of Roy Suryo by bloggers and other critics are versions of the same pleasures enjoyed by audiences of the mass-­ mediated scandal of exposure. The telematics expert delivers these pleasures, even as he himself becomes the object of them. I have suggested that the arc of Roy Suryo’s career traces a shift from an early moment in which the exposure of hidden secrets seemed to hold the possibility of genuine political transformation to one in which corruption scandals had become banal entertainment, indistinguishable from sordid celebrity sex scandals. As an image-­event, the exposure scandal unfolded via the secular magic of digital forensics, a form of entertainment that “enchanted” in its reliance on a highly esoteric and mystified form of knowledge, yet at the same time was grounded in a modern, secular (disenchanted) appeal to technology, science, and the ideology of transparency. The investment in publicity as a means to root out corruption and the demand for visible “proof” to anchor public truth claims initially animated the exposure scandal, charging it with the promise of political transformation. But as the early optimism of the Reformasi dream of transparency faded and corruption continued unabated, the exposure scandal became a form of entertainment supplying a steady diet of cynical pleasures. To illustrate the banal spectacle that the exposure scandal had become a decade and a half after the reform movement, I end with the case of Gayus Halomoan Tambunan, a high-­level graft suspect accused of being part of a 25 billionRp “tax mafia” theft. In early November 2010, a photojournalist from the newspaper Kompas covering an international tennis tournament in Bali took photographs of a man in the stands who looked very much like the former tax department official wearing a wig and thick-­rimmed glasses (figure 3.20). A photographer from the Jakarta Globe also caught him on film, and one photograph captured the suspect’s (undisguised) wife in the frame. At the time, Gayus was supposed to be in a prison north of Jakarta. The unfolding scandal revealed that officials at the prison had accepted a bribe of 50 – 60 millionRp to let him out. It turned out, moreover, that during his detention Gayus had also traveled to Macao and Kuala Lumpur using a passport issued under a false name. This passport was aspal (although its information was false, it was an authentic document issued by the state passport agency). Promising an investigation, the director of immigration from the Ministry of Law and Human Rights acknowledged that the passport was The Scandal of Exposure  125

the work of someone on the inside.102 The photograph on the aspal passport showed Gayus as he appeared in the tennis match photos, wearing a moplike wig and thick glasses. Roy Suryo professed “100 percent” certainty that it was Gayus in the photographs (see figure 3.25); a Kompas.com article reported on his use of “the slice comparison method” to arrive at this conclusion and noted that “He claims this method is scientific and allows you to see the graphic elements as the basis for comparing photographs.”103 Elsewhere Suryo was reported to have used “multidimension scalling [sic]” to compare the alleged photographs with confirmed photographs of Gayus.104 Kompas.com also cited another “digital forensics expert” who confirmed that the “degree of likeness” between the photographs was “more than 90%.” A third expert positively matched the photograph at the tennis match with an existing photograph of Gayus using “morphing technology, which compares certain parameters of facial features.”105 Images showing these technical comparisons circulated widely (figures 3.21 through 3.24). The crime of which Gayus had been accused was not trivial, but the series of revelations — that a bribe had released him from prison, that an aspal F I GU R E S 3 . 2 0 – 3 . 2 1 3 .2 0 . Gayus Tambunan in disguise, watching tennis in Bali, November 8, 2010. A red circle draws the reader’s attention to Gayus in the crowd. From “Orang Mirip Gayus Tambunan Nonton Tenis di Bali,” http://www.tribunnews.com/nasional/2010/11/08 /orang-mirip-gayus-nonton-tennis-di-bali. Original photo by Agus Susanto, edited version reproduced in this article credited to Kompas.com. 3 .2 1 . Widely circulated composite image showing Gayus at the tennis match and his false passport as Sony Laksono. Original source unknown. From Noenk Cahyana, January 7, 2011, http-//noenkcahyana.blogspot.com/2011_01_07_archive.html.

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document had enabled him to travel freely to enjoy such decadent pleasures as a tennis tournament on a resort island — yielded no hopeful sense that accountability and “clean” government were on the horizon. Instead it merely peeled back the veneer of efficacy promised by the indictment of corrupt government figures. Underneath the apparent success of corruption investigations lay business as usual; it was corruption all the way down. The story’s twists and turns of disguise and evasion, detection and revelation, rendered exposure a spectator sport whose pleasures promise to be repeated (figures 3.25 and 3.26). The Gayus case seemed to be a parody of itself. The crudeness of Gayus’s disguise (which was almost as patently false as Boy Surya’s moustache) was comical, as was the fact that he had traveled so brazenly to a highly public, widely photographed event accompanied by his wife. The muppetlike wig and the heavy-­rimmed glasses he wore utterly failed to obscure a distinctive FIGURES 3.22 – 24 3 . 2 2 . Widely circulated comparison of “Gayus” and Gayus, indicating specific identical features. Original source unknown. From Noenk Cahyana, January 7, 2011, http// noenkcahyana.blogspot.com/2011_01_07_archive.html. 3 . 2 3 . Another circulated comparison of Gayus and “Gayus,” illustrating the use of “morphing technology.” Original source unknown. From http://styledweller.blogspot .com/2010/11/thank-you-gayus.html. 3 . 2 4 . Eerily evoking Sir Francis Galton’s Victorian-era composite racial portraits, this composite image indicates the consistency of certain features across multiple images of Gayus, both in disguise and not. From http://wisbenbae.blogspot.com/2010/11 /mirip-gayus-atau-memang-gayus-tambunan.html#ixzz154RkNcFf.

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F I GU R E S 3 . 2 5   –   3 1 3 .2 5 . Still from a television news report about the Gayus case on Berita Satu tv, juxtaposing the scandalous photograph of Gayus watching tennis and Roy Suryo asserting its authenticity. “Roy Suryo Pastikan Keaslian Foto Gayus Tambunan,” broadcast date unknown, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HpybYZzQBg.

The exposure scandal as entertainment. The captions read: “The Case that Ensnared Gayus Tambunan: Falsification of Documents — falsified a false passport bearing the name Sony Laksono.” Still from a television news report on Berita Satu tv, “Jejak Kasus Gayus Tambunan,” broadcast date unknown, https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=3P-P1PJ40cI. 3 .2 6 .

Meme of Gayus and “Gayus” on money. From “Gambar: Gambar lucu Gayus, Foto lucu Gayus,” http://wahyuaga.blogspot.com/2010/11/gambar-gambar-lucu-gayus.html.

3 .2 7 .

3 .2 8 . Meme of Gayus as fruitseller. From https://try2bcoolnsmart.wordpress.com/2011 /01/23/penjual-durian-dan-foto-gayus/. 3 .2 9 . Meme of Gayus as school kid. From http://bidhuan.id/ngakak/27492/kumpulan -meme-aksi-samaran-gayus-tambunan-dijamin-ngakak/. 3 .3 0 . Meme showing Gayus with President Barack Obama. From http://fokreninlove .blogspot.com/2011/04/foto-foto-lucu-gayus-tambunan.html. 3 .3 1 . Meme of Gayus wearing various wigs. From http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PfA04d2o Uz0/TOJopfhovPI/AAAAAAAAAxs/Hyr6tTyNM1g/s1600/gayus_wig_twitter.jpg.

set of facial features: full, clearly defined lips shaped into a cupidlike pout and strongly arched brows. It was as if, lacking any real fear of being held accountable for his crimes, Gayus had simply gone through the motions of disguise. The absurdity of Gayus’s camouflage became fodder for a comical series of memes, which pictured “Gayus” cropping up in unlikely settings ranging from the face of currency to a group of school kids to a member of President Barack Obama’s entourage (figures 3.27 through 3.30). In one meme, he appears in a series of absurd wigs (figure 3.31). The technical jargon and scientific scrutiny of the experts, meanwhile, had become formulaic elements of a familiar script, trotted out as a necessary part of scandal’s revelatory mechanics. Rather than unlock hidden secrets, the exposure scandal’s image-­events had become tiresomely predictable. The expert merely played his role, absurdly confirming what was already plain to see. Roy Suryo himself seemed to acknowledge as much when he commented, “The people can tell who the photo looks like.”106 Scholars have argued that cynicism as an affective stance toward politics involves both recognition and apathetic acceptance of the falsity of official appearances, thus helping to secure the hegemony of corrupt political regimes.107 Cynical humor, argues Noelle Molé, “reinforces social order by rendering those who laugh both happily transgressive and compliant.”108 Such forms of compliant cynicism certainly characterized a prevailing political affect during the authoritarian New Order, when black humor and dissenting gestures were widespread but remained veiled or kept out of public view. The early years after Reformasi brought with them a brief, earnest sense of possibility that a new era of transparency and accountability was within reach. The stubborn persistence of corruption, ironically revealed by the incessant parade of exposure scandals, soon disabused people of that notion. Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to treat the forms of parody and ludic critique discussed in this chapter as simply a return to the cynicism of the authoritarian past. Nor should the pleasures of unmasking be dismissed as the politically disenabled fascinations of a public in thrall to politics as The Scandal of Exposure  129

media spectacle. In the face of wearying disillusionment, the act of circulating and engaging with public images — whether in ludic or in evidentiary modes — suggests a persistent “attachment to the political as such and to . . . [a] sense of membership in the idea of the polity.”109 If the scandal of the exposure scandal is that transparency fails to deliver on its promise, the political potential of ludic critique is that, circulating in public, it might throw a wrench in transparency’s machinery of exposure and unending search for the hidden secret, opening a space for alternative forms of public visuality and political imagination.

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Face Value  131

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This print by Agus Suwage places the figure of model Isabel Yahya over the handwritten text of Indonesia’s 2008 Pornography Law. The circular “cutouts” superimposed on her body reference censoring marks. Agus Suwage, 8 BAB 44 Pasal #6, (detail), 2009. Lithography, screenprint, crayon, acrylic, and two layers of pigment on stained and stencil-washed stpi handmade paper. Agus Suwage/ Singapore Tyler Print Institute 2009. By permission of the artist.

FOUR

NAKED EFFECTS

On September 22, 2005, a group of about 250 white-­clad protestors, members of the Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, or fpi), descended upon the historic Bank Indonesia Museum in Jakarta. The second cp Biennale, an exhibition featuring the work of seventy artists from Indonesia and nine other countries, sponsored by the private Center Point (cp) Foundation, had recently opened at the museum.1 The fpi threatened to shut down the Biennale if an offending artwork, Pinkswing Park, a collaboration between prominent artist Agus Suwage and photographer Davy Linggar, was not removed (figure 4.1).2 After its show of force, designed as much to garner media attention as to intimidate the Biennale’s organizers, the fpi would go on to report the piece’s photographer and models, as well as the curator and the organizing committee of the exhibition, to the Jakarta police. They were accused of displaying a work that was both pornographic and offensive to Islam. Under ordinary circumstances, only a highly select public would have attended an art exhibition like the Biennale. Although it might have received

mention in the nation’s most elite publications, it would hardly have drawn widespread media attention. Nor would it likely have been deemed significant enough to merit the ire of the fpi, a hardline Islamist group known for its vigilante methods in defending so-­called Islamic values. Yet because the male model pictured in the piece was a sinetron (soap opera) star, the artwork quickly became a news sensation in the genre of the celebrity exposure scandal, discussed in the previous chapter, in which compromising images of celebrities circulate in public. The fpi parasitically capitalized on and fueled the media frenzy, seeking to further their own campaign to rid the public sphere of “pornography” and to shore up their authority as arbiter of public morality. The Pinkswing Park image-­event emerged not only from the internal features of the artwork but also from the shifting of audiences and framings that occurred as it escaped the confines of “art” and traveled along different media channels. The ensuing controversy was both a product of and a referendum on the more open, complexly mediated public sphere that took shape after 1998. In the previous chapter, we saw that the proliferation of Agus Suwage and Davy Linggar, Pinkswing Park, 2005. Digital print on board, becak swing, and resin pebbles. Singapore Art Museum. Reproduced with permission of the artist.

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political and celebrity sex scandals registered the anxieties attending a new media and political environment: the limits of transparency, the credibility of digital images, and the dangers of unregulated circulation of images. In this chapter, pornography comes into closer focus as a site of struggle between competing authorities within — and visions for — Indonesia’s post­ authoritarian public sphere.3 The backdrop to the controversy over Pinkswing Park was a heated debate underway in Parliament and the press about a proposed pornography law that would not only crack down on the production, dissemination, and consumption of pornographic images but would also criminalize certain kinds of “arousing” behaviors (dubbed pornoaksi) in public. Echoing the broader debate over this law, the Pinkswing Park image-­event pitted secular, cosmopolitan elites committed to liberal ideals of freedom of expression against religious conservatives willing to limit those freedoms to protect and enforce pious norms of public visuality. After 1998, although the antipornography movement included non-­Muslim religious groups, it was the Islamic right that most vocally opposed pornography (figure 4.2). Pornography served the Islamic right as a vehicle to galvanize an Indonesian Islamic public and to cast itself as the moral guardian of the post-­Suharto nation (a position formerly claimed by the state). As James Hoesterey notes, the public debate over pornography was “a theatrics of national morality played out on the public stage.”4 The outsized reaction to Pinkswing Park was also a symptom of the celebrity culture sustained by tabloid newspapers and television shows that emerged in the post-­Suharto period, with its highly competitive, privatized media environment, as discussed in the previous chapter. The attack on Pinkswing Park featured another key characteristic of this postauthoritarian media environment: in the absence of state censorship, new forms of privatized or “civil” censorship arose to threaten the liberal ideal of a “free” democratic public sphere. Finally, the Pinkswing Park image-­event animated and was animated by tensions surrounding technologies that have eased the production, manipulation, and dissemination of images (figures 4.3 and 4.4). As in other image-­events explored in this book, a particular image (or set of related images) became the material ground for debate about the dangers of new practices and technologies of image making, circulation, and reception. These debates entailed competing visions of the ideal postauthoritarian public sphere, imagined, on the one hand, as an ecumenical space for the free expression and exchange of ideas and, on the other, as an arena in which Islamic morality is visibly practiced, modeled, and policed. Through struggles Naked Effects  135

over public images, both sides sought to promote and defend a vision of the public sphere they perceived to be at stake. Despite implicit (and sometimes explicit) appeals to a singular national public, the actual unfolding of the debate, as it followed in the wake of Pinkswing Park’s movement out of the gallery space and into the mass media, revealed a fragmented, heterogeneous public sphere made up of multiple publics that coalesce only infrequently, provisionally, and ephemerally around issues perceived to be of “national concern.”5 As noted in the introduction, an “image-­event” is a political process set in motion when a specific image (or set of images) becomes a focal point of attention across divergent publics, Antiporn demonstration by an Islamic women’s group in response to the images of Sofia Latjuba discussed in chapter 3 (see figure 3.4; plate 13; for a similar image of an Islamic womens’ antiporn protest see plate 18). The image caption reads, “Anti-Porno: Hundreds of members of the Women Saviors of the Generation Column (Bestari) yesterday held a demonstration against pornography in front of the office of the Ministry of Women’s Affairs, West Freedom Street. The antiporno demonstration, which resulted from the mushrooming of pornographic magazines, was accompanied by the burning of the magazine that published the nude photo of Sofia Latjuba.” From Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 7, 1999.

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In this cartoon, which accompanied an op-ed titled “The Globalization of Pornography,” various visual media platforms are depicted as sites for pornographic imagery; a reference to Pinkswing Park appears at the top, the ornate frame marking “art” as one medium by which pornography circulates. Cartoon by Didie SW, from Paulus Mujiran, “Globalisasi Pornografi,” Kompas, February 18, 2006.

FIGURE 4.3.

crystallizing discourses and channeling affects that have been otherwise diffuse and inchoate. As an image-­event, Pinkswing Park provided such a consequential moment of coalescent attention. Despite heterogeneity and division both across and within religious lines, it provided a concrete object on which to ground abstract imaginings of what Indonesian “democracy” — for ill or for good — might or should look like. To track the image-­event is also, necessarily, to engage the eventfulness of images. Rather than remaining a static object, Pinkswing Park unfolded as a political event. The artwork’s visual and material properties took on new resonances in relation to other images and the media through which it traveled, and it provoked responses of divergent kinds in the different audiences it thereby came to address. In closely “watching” the controversy over Pinkswing Park, I aim to show how the image itself took place in ways that far exceeded the expectations of its makers and shaped how Indonesians imagined and sought to materialize a post-­Suharto public sphere. Like the counterfeit money raids discussed in chapter 1 (see figure 1.9), police raids on pirated video sellers pictured in the news media spectacularly highlighted the unregulated circulation of pornography enabled by new technologies. The photograph accompanied an op-ed about the antipornography bill, with the caption: “Hundreds of pirated vcds and dvds are destroyed in the yard of the Greater Jakarta Metropolitan Region Police Headquarters in mid-March 2005.” From Ninuk Mardiana Pambudy, “Cermati, ruu Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi,” Kompas, July 2, 2005.

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Pinkswing Park

The Pinkswing Park installation, created by the well-­k nown artist Agus Suwage together with an accomplished digital photographer, Davy Linggar, was discreetly tucked away deep in the recesses of the Bank Indonesia Museum building, in its own separate room apart from the main halls showing the paintings and sculptures of the cp Biennale exhibit of 2005. Entering the small, rather dim chamber, one was immediately transported to an otherworldly place. New Age music played softly. The sole object in the space, a swing fashioned from a becak (pedicab), painted a bright bubble-­ gum pink — “ like plastic” — faced a mirrored wall.6 The other three walls were covered in wallpaper depicting a painted landscape with primordial-­ looking flora. Cavorting among the trees, a model-­perfect man and woman appeared in a variety of exaggeratedly coy and seductive poses. The vibrant, warmly colored flesh of these bodies stood out against the more somber and muted tones of the painted forest backdrop. Also contrasting with the hyperreal fleshiness of the bodies were the flat white circles superimposed over their genitals and the female model’s breasts. Pinkswing Park was conceived by Suwage in response to the theme of the 2005 cp Biennale: “Urban/Culture.” He intended the artwork as a commentary on the urban middle class’s self-­absorbed search for fulfillment within a highly mediatized, commodified, and artificed urban environment. The becak, an icon of Indonesian urban life, is a means of transportation associated with the urban lower class that has been officially outlawed in Jakarta to make way for more “modern” modes of transportation. Here, this vehicle of the working class had been refashioned as a mode of transport of a different kind. Its rocking motion recalling both the child gently lulled to sleep and the movements of sexual intercourse, the swing invited the viewer to reflect upon the infantilizing and sexualized forms of gratification that the affluent expect and enjoy. Just as in Jakarta’s urban sprawl there are almost no green spaces, and people spend their leisure time in malls or in front of the television screen, so the inhabitants of this space are enclosed in a utopian bubble, an artificial “second nature.” As Suwage described it, the work comments on the middle-­class urban dweller’s social isolation and decadent self-­involvement: “In cities like Jakarta, their life is more, actually isolated. More individual, more . . . especially those who are rich, they have an obsession to enjoy themselves. In their houses they have home theaters. Artificial things. . . . They are in search of their own world, their own heaven.”7 A far cry from primordial innocence, Pinkswing Park’s hermetic and artiNaked Effects  139

ficial urban Eden is decidedly after the fall. Through the mirror, the viewer’s own appearance is reflected back to her within the prism of highly idealized bodies, iterations of “Adams” and “Eves” whose perfection is generated not by God but by Photoshop. Ours, the piece seems to say, is a thoroughly technologized and commodified being-­in-­the-­world: we model our sexuality on the perfected images that saturate the global mediascape. Rendering the impossibility of a “pure” or authentic nakedness, the piece also comments on the integral place of censorship in the contemporary structuring of desire and sexuality. The “Adam” and “Eve” figures’ digital fig leaves suggest that prohibitions on seeing and enforced modesty incite desire through concealment. Nakedness now can only be an “as if” nakedness, a game of hide and seek. As a “metapicture,” defined by W. J. T. Mitchell as a “picture about pictures” that “conducts a self-­conscious inquiry into the life of images,”8 Pinkswing Park comments on the very issues that would come to the fore in the debate that ensued about it: a pervasive media culture populated by the powerful commodity fetishes of celebrity and sex, the uncertain nature of appearances and truths in the digital era, issues of nakedness and concealment, revelation and censorship, seeing and the prohibition on seeing. Indeed, these “internal” features of the art installation made it a powerful precipitant of public debate. Pinkswing Park offered an all too resonant “sounding” of contemporary urban life, provoking anxieties about photographic truth and unfettered reproduction, about free expression and censorship, and about the socially accepted boundaries of the visible.9 Its vibrations spilled out beyond its containment within the physical and intellectual spaces of art as a safe space of critical commentary, triggering the very dynamics it so effectively visualized. Chronology of an Image-­Event

How did a relatively obscure artwork in a rarefied exhibition become the center of a public controversy? Other artworks shown in the cp Biennale featured naked bodies, and the depiction of nudity is hardly unprecedented within modern Indonesian art. According to those involved in the controversy, it was the celebrity status of the male model, Anjasmara, that invited the media storm that was to follow. Anjasmara was a popular sinetron actor and a heartthrob for Indonesian teens. Within a few days of the Biennale’s opening on September 5, the television station Transtv reported on Anjasmara’s appearance in what it referred to as a “nude photograph.” Adding fuel 140  chapter four

to the fire was the fact that Anjasmara was currently starring in a Ramadan-­ themed soap opera, playing a religious teacher.10 Other print and electronic entertainment media quickly picked up the story, and groups of middle-­and high-­school students began coming to the exhibit to see the piece. By mid-­September, the fpi had gotten wind of the “scandal” of the “naked” photographs and began demanding, via the mass media, that Pinkswing Park be taken down. In response to fpi threats to physically destroy the exhibition, on September 20, the organizers and curator of the exhibition decided to place a screen across the entrance to the installation piece, blocking it from view. On September 22, fpi members nevertheless demonstrated in front of the building, while several members went inside to confirm that the piece had been placed out of view. Later the same day, the fpi reported the two models, the photographer, curator, and exhibition committee to the Jakarta police, asking that charges of pornography and insulting religion be brought against them.11 Upset by the fpi’s attack on freedom of artistic expression and by the exhibition committee’s capitulation to fpi demands, a number of artists in the exhibition wrapped their works in white cloth in a show of solidarity with Suwage and Linggar. Curator Jim Supangkat’s controversial decision to remove the Pinkswing Park piece from view for the duration of the Bien­ nale was based on immediate concern for the safety of the building and the artworks inside, but was also rooted in his desire to avoid an escalation of religious tension within Indonesia. It was an attempt, he argued, to prevent the controversy over Pinkswing Park from feeding into a global, destructively polarizing discourse of a “clash of cultures.”12 He hoped, in other words, to contain the scale of the image-­event that was unfolding. On September 27, he announced at a press conference that there would be no future cp Biennales.13 In mid-­October, Anjasmara met with the fpi and formally apologized for his role in the artwork; although the fpi subsequently asked the police to drop the charges, the police investigation continued. In October and November, the models, artists, and exhibition curators were called in for questioning by the Jakarta Police and in early February 2006 they were formally named as suspects and made to appear in court. Suwage (who had not been named in the initial fpi complaint) and the others were threatened with five-­year sentences should they be tried and convicted of the charges against them. The case, however, was finally dropped, almost a full year after the beginning of the controversy. Ultimately, it played a role in galvanizing artists to mobilize against the pornography bill. And, despite Supangkat’s effort Naked Effects  141

to avoid a polarizing of secular versus religious interests, the controversy at least momentarily brought into alignment the extreme and violent fpi with broader religious publics anxious about pornography, morality, and the uncontrolled circulation of images. The Pinkswing Park image-­event also set something of a template for subsequent public performances of religious-­ moral outrage, most notably over the publication of Playboy Indonesia several months later. Celebrity Scandal

Beyond the inherent openness of the image to multiple readings, it is its detachability, its ability to adhere to new material forms and inhabit new media habitats that renders it so volatilely eventful. As Patricia Spyer and Mary Margaret Steedly observe, images may “ ‘leap’ across media to travel beyond their originally imagined audience and, in conjunction with other factors, produce unanticipated publics and counterpublics elsewhere.”14 As news of Anjasmara’s appearance in the artwork spread through the print and electronic media, Pinkswing Park’s remediation from installation artwork to mass-­mediated electronic, print, and digital image enacted a transformation in its mode of address, its discursive framing, its publics, and its very appearance. Yet if the artists and models could not control the movements and permutations of the image, they remained tethered to it as its recognized authors and subjects, and thus “responsible” for it, legally and socially. Many commentators from the art community blamed the “infotainment” media for the controversy that engulfed Pinkswing Park; as Suwage himself put it, “the world of infotainment only searches for sensation.”15 The celebrity sex scandal had, indeed, become a highly lucrative commodity for the many private media outlets that emerged in post-­Suharto Indonesia as they vied for attention in a highly competitive environment (as detailed in the previous chapter). To render Pinkswing Park a saleable sensation in the genre of the exposure scandal, the art installation had to be torn from its context and reduced to a series of pornographic images. Suwage noted in a brief interview published in a tabloid magazine that the controversy stemmed from people commenting on the piece without having seen it directly, yielding an “impression” that was “partial, not complete.”16 Yet beyond the partial appropriation of the image, the remediation of Pinkswing Park caused what Patricia Spyer and Mary Margaret Steedly refer to as a “wrong address,” an occasion when an image speaks to an “utterly unanticipated public” whose investments, modes of attention, and forms of engagement differ radically 142  chapter four

from the public for which it was intended.17 Ironically, in disparaging both the infotainment media and an Indonesian public that uncritically consumed it, the Pinkswing Park artists and their defenders shared with opponents of pornography a concern about images “set loose” from their proper contexts and falling into the wrong hands. The mainstream print and electronic media consistently dislodged the piece from its context in an art exhibition, reframing the artwork as “nude photographs” of the models. One tabloid headline, for example, blared on its cover: “Nude Photos of Cecep Cause a Storm” (Cecep was the name of a character Anjasmara had played in a sinetron).18 A television report on the case carried the headline “Implicated in Pornography” and showed a cropped image of Anjasmara taken from the piece (see plate 6). Referring to Pinkswing Park as nude or “hot” photographs of “Anjasmara” and “Isabel,” the tabloid media stripped away the sense that Anjasmara and Isabel Yahya had performed as models in a critical art installation that took mass-mediated celebrity culture as its subject.19 Television and news­paper reports visually reinforced the impression of exposé by routinely placing their own censoring marks (black or white rectangles or pixilated, blurred squares) over the images, obscuring the white circles that in the artwork already blocked the viewer’s visual access. As curator Jim Supangkat noted, “People who never see the work in its entirety might think that the models are completely naked and displaying their sexual organs in public.”20 In television reports, instead of scanning the piece as a whole, the camera fragmented it, obsessively jumping from close-­up to close-­up of the figures, as animated, pixilated squares over their bodies obscured their genitals and her breasts from view. Rather than being presented as an artwork that took censorship, desire, and media images as its subject, Pinkswing Park was reduced to a series of pornographic images that required censoring to “protect” the viewing public. In the commentary that now surrounded it, Pinkswing Park became assimilated to the genre of scandalous “as if” nude portraits of actresses or models published in the mainstream media (as in the case of Sophia Latjuba noted in the previous chapter, see plate 13). In this kind of image, the subject of the portrait has knowingly allowed herself to be photographed in a way that simulates nudity. She invariably claims that her intention was to create art and that she was not actually naked when the photograph was taken.21 Nevertheless, in several high-­profile cases, both the model and the publication’s editors were subject to public sanction and criminal proceedings; in one case, National Police Chief General Roesmanhadi warned that, “ModNaked Effects  143

els and photographers are not above the law and cannot hide behind artistic expression or technology.”22 The media also framed Pinkswing Park as a celebrity sex scandal, in which images taken by celebrities when naked or engaged in sex acts, using a private digital camera or cell phone camera, surface and circulate on the internet (as in the case of Sukma Ayu and Bjah described in the previous chapter). Some even referred to “photos of Anjas-­Isabel,” suggesting that the two had been caught on camera as a couple (adding to the scandalous nature of the images because Anjasmara was married). The response of cele­ brities to these scandals, as we have seen, is to deny that they are actually the people pictured or to claim that the images are a result of technological manipulation, thus figuring themselves as hapless victims of technologically sophisticated deception. In the wake of the fpi assault, Anjasmara reinforced these framings by following familiar scripts for celebrities caught in such scandals. He first appeared in numerous tabloid news outlets apologizing for offending people. Defending his participation as motivated by the desire to produce art and insisting that he had not actually been naked when photographed, he also acknowledged that he had made an error of judgment. “Anjasmara: I’m Sorry If It Doesn’t Please You,” read a headline in Nyata (figure 4.5)23; “Wow, Anjas Photographed Nude: ‘I’m Sorry and I’ve Learned My Lesson,’ ” read the headline in Nova;24 and, in Cek & Ricek, a simple, “Anjasmara: I’m Sorry.”25 Both Anjasmara and Isabel Yahya insisted that they had been photographed at separate times even though they appeared together in the image. Placing large censoring squares over the images, these news reports reinforced the titillating nature of the images even as they presented the participants’ objection to their framing as pornography (figure 4.6). Six months later, when Anjasmara appeared in court as a suspect in the case, his stance had shifted from contrition for an error of judgment to an assertion of victimhood. On television, his lawyer expressed “regret” that, despite his good intentions, his image had been “misused” and he was made to appear naked when he had, in fact, worn clothes at the photo shoot.26 In another television report on the case in February 2006, a reporter stated that Anjasmara had communicated through his lawyer that he felt himself to be a “victim” of “technical manipulation.”27 Familiar as these apologies and complaints were, this was also a gender reversal, as it is usually young women who have found themselves in the position of defending their appearance in a scandalous photograph or video. In 144  chapter four

F I G U R E 4 . 5 . “Anjasmara: I’m Sorry If It Doesn’t Please You.” The text below the headline reads: “Anjasmara was photographed in risqué poses with a female model. What’s interesting is that the photos have been shown in public. After these photos caused a controversy, what does this husband of Dian Nitami have to say?” Alongside the image taken out of context from Pinkswing Park (with a censoring rectangle that obscures the original censoring circle), a photo of Anjasmara and his wife appears in the upper left corner. From “Anjasmara: Mohon Maaf Bila Tak Berkenan,” Nyata 4, September 2005, 4.

response to the controversy, Anjasmara’s wife, Dian Nitami, asserted her ownership of the “real” thing, stating, “What matters is, his most important part is still mine.” The assertion reinforces the idea that the authentic original — the actual physical body (or its fetishized part) — is qualitatively distinct from its reproduction. While the latter may circulate and become public property, the original “belongs” to the wife and cannot be shared no matter how many copies proliferate. Even the photographs, she suggested, rightfully belonged to her. Reframing them as personal images, Dian Nitami claimed to be so impressed by the photographs of her husband that she had asked Davy Linggar if she could “collect” them for herself: “The photos of him are so great, I was amazed. I even asked Davi [sic], can I have the photos for myself?” She acknowledged, “I would truly prefer if these photos were for a private collection, not to be published.”28 Even as she asserted ownership over Anjas’s “real” body and desired to privatize his public image, inverting traditional gender roles in which the husband is the possessor of the wife’s body, Dian Nitami’s comments on the case also sought to remasculinize Anjasmara by invoking his “real” masculine presence as opposed to his (passive, feminized) image. She emphasized that rather than defend him or worry about the controversy, her job was to remain focused on the well-­being of their family and particularly the unborn child she was carrying (index of his “most important part”).29 Rhetorically, she opposed the publicly circulating copy to the original virile body and its authentic reproduction in the form of a child. Larger censoring rectangles layered on top of the original censoring marks of Pinkswing Park. The caption reads: “Anjasmara’s Controversial Risqué Poses.” From Nyata 4, September 2005.

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Dangers of Imitation

In a photograph printed in the tabloid magazine Nyata, middle-­school-­aged girls in their school uniforms stare adoringly at Anjas’s life-­size picture while one of them takes a photo of it with her cell phone. The headline is a quote from one of the girls, “ ‘His Body’s Great — Cool!’ ” (figure 4.7).30 The image pictures a moment of what Brian Larkin, elaborating on Michael Warner and Arjun Appadurai, calls “uptake,” when an image moves not only because of technologically enabled possibilities for reproduction and dissemination but also because of desires invested in the image.31 Visualizing Pinkswing Park’s remediation via the cell phone, such photographs materialized the fears of pundits, government officials, and religious leaders who bemoaned the disintegration of values among the nation’s youth due to their easy access to pornography via new technologies like cell phones and computers (figure 4.8). The tabloid headline reads, “His Body’s Great — Cool!” and the inset reads, “A rare opportunity: three high school students take a photo of Anjas.” From “Badannya Bagus, Keren Deh!” Nyata 4, September 2005, 6. Photo by Syukri. FIGURE 4.7.

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Anjasmara’s young fans, flocking to the exhibit to witness the image of their idol, represent the group most often posited as at risk of moral corruption from the “astonishing influx” and availability of pornography in Indonesia, especially since the late 1990s.32 A less regulated media environment coupled with new technologies for producing and circulating images exacerbated long-­standing anxieties about youth and pornography. Already in the 1980s pornography (mostly imported and pirated) began to circulate widely via videocassette tapes, and in the 1990s pornography became more easily accessible in the form of video compact discs (vcds) that could be watched at home. By the late 1990s, as internet cafes began cropping up on almost every corner, new and even more unregulated opportunities for watching pornography became widely available.33 In the mid-­2000s, the cell phone joined the internet as a major vector of both commercial and amateur pornography. If access to pornography was deemed particularly dangerous to youth, it was all the more so when the subject of the pornography was a celebrity youth idol, thus enhancing the potential for uptake. In an instance of the kind of moral panic that ensues in such cases, when sex videos of the popular The scene of visitors taking cell phone photographs of Pinkswing Park appeared not only in tabloids but also in more highbrow publications like Tempo, the preeminent national magazine, as a visual trope of remediation and uptake. A visitor to the cp Biennale photographing Pinkswing Park with his cell phone. Museum Bank Indonesia, Jakarta, September 17, 2005. Photo by Tempo / Gunawan Wicaksono.

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rock star Ariel (Nazril Irham) circulated via internet, cell phone, and dvd, police conducted raids of internet cafes and schools, confiscating students’ cell phones in an effort to halt the videos’ dissemination.34 (Because Ariel had been the lead singer of a band called Peterpan, he became known as Ariel “Peterporn.”) A cartoon that accompanied an op-­ed about pornography commented on the problematic confluence of new technologies and youthful audiences, picturing a tree hung with vcds instead of apples; the naked figure at the base of the tree was a chubby child (figure 4.9). The Indonesian discourse on technology, pornography, and youth is an example of what W. J. T. Mitchell calls “clonophobia,” a historically specific form of iconophobia.35 The enhanced capacities for reproducing images and life itself in the era of “biocybernetic reproduction,” Mitchell argues, activate “ancient anxieties about copying, imitation, artificial life, and image-­ making.”36 That an artwork alluding to Adam and Eve would trigger a clono­ phobic reaction is particularly fitting because, as Mitchell reminds us, Adam and Eve represent the originary moment when the making of images and the creation of life itself were collapsed into a single power ideally belonging exclusively to God.37 Pinkswing Park revisits this original scene of life creation and image making to comment on how contemporary, commodified media culture generates mass-­reproduced idols to be worshipped. Wreathed in the “phony spell” of the commodity, multiple “Adams” and “Eves” frolic in Pinkswing Park’s technological Eden, seemingly cloning themselves in an iconic representation of uncontrolled processes of reproduction.38 The cavorting bodies, with their hyperreal flesh, sculpted forms, and smooth skin, are marked by “similitude, artificiality, and uncanny lifelikeness.”39 Of course, the Adam and Eve story is also the scene of the first censorship. This originary prohibition on seeing is invoked in the piece’s modern, mass-­mediated fig leaves: the white circles that strategically cover the figures’ genitals and breasts. The moral panic about pornography responds not only to the proliferation of images, but also to the automatic, “slavish imitation” the images are believed to stimulate.40 Reports in Indonesian newspapers and tabloids frequently described inappropriate and violent sexual acts (often perpetrated against and/or by children) occurring as a direct result of watching pornography.41 News reports that linked sexual activity to the consumption of pornography drew a direct causal link between seeing an image and copying it in real life; pornography became the ultimate agent of violent or inappropriate sex acts, generating an uncontrollable form of mimesis in its consumers. Meanwhile, youth increasingly appeared in newspaper reports as not only Naked Effects  149

Illustration accompanying an op-ed titled “The Origins of Porno,” picturing a Garden of Eden in which pornographic vcds are the apples and a chubby child is Eve. From Ariel Heryanto, “Asal-Usul Porno,” Kompas, July 17, 2005. Illustration by Setianto Riyadi TR.

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consumers but producers of pornography. As has occurred elsewhere, digital cameras and camera phones have facilitated the production of amateur porn in Indonesia.42 Newspapers reported on teenage girls using their camera phones to take photographs of themselves naked and performing sexual acts with their boyfriends, which they circulated among friends (but which often end up being circulated more widely, moving from intimate circuits into the public realm).43 Bart Barendregt argues that these practices effected a shift in the valence of the cell phone from a symbol of the student activism of 1998 to a symbol of the moral corruption of urban youth.44 These concerns about technology and youth morality are not unique to Indonesia, and neither are anxieties about pornography new within Indonesia. Debates about pornography have been part of Indonesian national conversations since the early years of the nation. Earlier opposition also centered on the threat to the morals of a young generation but, as Jennifer Lindsay reminds us, in the Sukarno years it was primarily the political left that led the charge against cabul (pornography) as part of its reaction to cultural imperialism embodied in “Western” media such as Hollywood films and popular music.45 During the Suharto era, the state took on the task of morally disciplining the public, but in the late New Order period, objections to pornography began to be voiced by the Islamic right. Nevertheless, even as expressed by Islamic groups, prior to 1998 concerns about pornography were mostly articulated in terms of threats to national character rather than religious morality. In the post-­Suharto period, however, “religion, in the name of Islam, has come to the fore to monopolize the moral high ground and has emerged as the political force driving the call for changes in legislation” regarding pornography.46 This political force has not always been unified; as Kenneth George argues, the “liberalization of the public sphere after the collapse of the Soeharto regime in 1998 only accelerated debate and difference within the ummat on matters of cultural and political expression.”47 But, despite the heterogeneity of Islam in Indonesia, objections to pornography have been a crucial site of common ground, capable of uniting different Islamic publics. Although other groups shared in the moral panic about pornography, the Islamic right has led demands for legislative and other government action against pornography.48 The criminal code already had articles about the dissemination of pornographic materials and obscene behavior, but after 1998 agitation for a specific law became a way to galvanize an Islamic public around questions of public morality and the limits of an open, democratic public sphere. As arNaked Effects  151

ticulated by the Islamic right, the problem was not so much pornographic materials themselves, but their public circulation and the dangers associated with vulnerable populations (particularly youth) coming into contact with them.49 The Council of Indonesian Muslim Scholars (mui) issued a fatwa condemning pornography and pornographic behavior in 2001 that explicitly addressed the circulation of images made possible in a more diverse and unregulated media market.50 The draft pornography law under discussion during the Pinkswing Park image-­event included a prohibition on pornoaksi, defined as certain kinds of erotic or revealing dress, erotic performance (dance, theater, art), public kissing, and display of “sensual parts” of the body (figure 4.10). That the draft law criminalized behavior as well as the production, circulation, and consumption of images, convinced numerous observers that it was part of the Islamic right’s strategy to move toward the imposition of Sharia law in Indonesia (figure 4.11).51 In October 2008, a version of the law passed amidst widespread protests both for and against it. The term pornoaksi was removed from the bill’s final version, but the law defined pornography itself in a broad way that included bodily movements and public performance: “pictures, sketches, ilYouth handing out stickers as a part of a campaign against pornography and “porno-action” (pornoaksi), organized by the Department of Communication and Information, Jakarta, October 28, 2005. Photo by Tempo/Tommy Satria.

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lustrations, photos, writing, voice, sound, moving pictures, animation, cartoons, conversations, movements of the body, or other forms through a variety of communication media and/or performances in public which contain obscenity or sexual exploitation which violates the moral norms in society” (Article 1).52 The Image in Question

In the process of its remediation, Pinkswing Park the installation piece became Pinkswing Park the scandalous “nude photos” of Anjas-­Isabel. As an artwork, Pinkswing Park foregrounded its own artifice, intentionally calling into question photographic immediacy. By placing characters within a painted landscape, by rendering multiples of the same idealized figures within a seamless visual scene, and by applying the flat white circles to “sensitive” body parts, the image exposed its reliance on the special effects of digital editing tools and undermined any sense of access to an unmediated reality. Yet, when Pinkswing Park mutated into a sex-­pornography exposure scanJustice and Prosperity Party supporters joined with the People’s Alliance against Porno-action and Pornography (Aliansi Masyarakat Menolak Pornoaksi dan Pornografi, or amprok) to demonstrate by burning “pornographic” images, Jakarta, January 30, 2006. Photo by Tempo/Gunawan Wicaksono.

FIGURE 4.11.

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dal, the relationship between a photographic image and the prephotographic scene it records became central to the media controversy that surrounded it. In press reports on Pinkswing Park that elaborated on the technical aspects of digital image making, we can see at work the pleasures of digital forensics discussed in the previous chapter. Many of these reports position the press and its informed readership as a tech-­savvy elite against those who remained mystified by technology and easily manipulated by its deceptions. In the context of larger struggles over pornography and democratic public visuality, the debate over Pinkswing Park staged opposing semiotic ideologies of the image. Those defending the makers of Pinkswing Park treated images as mere signs with no direct relation to the real, and tied meaning to authorial intention. Those mobilizing against the artwork emphasized the moral consequences of seeing and placed emphasis on the effects of images rather than the intentions of their makers. As Webb Keane argues, semiotic ideologies, or views of what pictures and words are and how they function in the world can “mediate moral claims in public.”53 My point here is not to argue that the two positions on Pinkswing Park represent essential, incompatible “secular-­liberal” versus “Islamist” ways of seeing signs and the world. Rather, in the debate over Pinkswing Park, those defending and those attacking the work strategically performed competing understandings of images as part of a larger contestation over the ideal nature of the Indonesian public sphere. Because of the pressing question of the pornography law, this staking of claims about the status of images had direct political import. Not incidentally, the globally controversial Danish cartoons that contained caricatured representations of the Prophet Mohammed were published in the same month that the Pinkswing Park scandal erupted. In fact, by the time the artists and models involved in Pinkswing Park had their court hearing in February 2006, the fpi had shifted its focus to this new image-­event: on that day they were demonstrating against the cartoons at the Danish embassy in Jakarta (figure 4.12). Writing of the Danish cartoon controversy, Barry Flood notes that it has been a common reaction to Islamic iconoclasm to accuse Muslims of “too literal a notion of representation,” in contrast to a secular semiotic ideology that insists upon the “autonomy of the image, the contingent nature of the relationship between signifier and signified.”54 Similarly, Keane argues that a semiotic ideology in which representation is considered a vehicle of individual expression and assumed to exist at a remove from the real becomes a way to morally differentiate the modern secular from the Muslim: “The moral evaluation of Muslims’ nonmodernity centers . . . on the notion that they simply do not understand reality, as reg154  chapter four

istered in their failure to grasp the true nature of signs.”55 In the Pinkswing Park case, it was not only the ability to grasp the nature of artistic signs and their contingent relationship to reality that secured the modern authority of secular artists and their publics, but also the ability to comprehend the workings of cutting-­edge technology. Like Anjasmara’s wife’s defense of her husband, the models’ insistence that they had worn underwear at their separate photo shoots underlined a distinction between the image and “the real thing.”56 Insisting they were only apparently naked and co-­present before the camera, Anjasmara and Isabel and their supporters emphasized the capacity of digital technology to manipulate appearances. Defending her client on television, Anjasmara’s lawyer stated that the piece was intended “to demonstrate the technological sophistication of the digital camera: how the camera can multiply images and also make something change and disappear. . . . Really, Anjas was not naked.”57 Relying on a semiotic ideology that separates image from prephotographic reality, the lawyer’s logic suggested that an image was only genuinely pornographic if it transparently transcribed an actual scene of nudity. A demonstration by the Islamic Defenders Front (fpi) against the Danish cartoons depicting Prophet Muhammad. Having demonstrated in front of the Danish Embassy in early February, the protestors later protested at the American Embassy, pictured here. Jakarta, February 19, 2006. Photo by Tempo/Fransiskus S.

FIGURE 4.12.

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Art historian Lynda Nead has noted a tendency to legitimize erotic images as art “through the assertion of form which holds off the collapse into the pornographic.”58 Even more than aesthetic form or “beauty,” here it was the technologically enabled artifice of the image that disrupted the indexical immediacy of the image that would have rendered it truly pornographic. The lawyer’s defense also emphasized the intention of the artists — especially the photographer’s professed desire to showcase technological sophistication — as the determinant of the image’s meaning. The liberal, secular defense that the artists were exercising freedom of expression also became a way to deny the possibility that an image could legitimately offend: “According to Davy [Linggar, the photographer], this work is not vulgar and is not appropriately called pornography. It is just one form of expression by himself and Agus Suwage in appreciating the theme of the exhibition.”59 Not surprisingly, Roy Suryo, the authenticity expert discussed in the previous chapter, also commented on the Pinkswing case.60 Both an exponent of secular modern technological authority and an amateur photographer, he defended Pinkswing Park in genre terms as “art photography,” in which the appearance of nudity is acceptable, while explaining that there are “many photographic tricks that can be used to result in photos that give the impression of nudity. . . . It’s very possible that Anjas was still wearing underwear. Digital technology makes it very possible to take photos as if one is truly nude.” Voicing a key discourse in which technological savvy becomes a mark of modernity, the article concluded, “Roy hopes that society will be more mature [dewasa] and see the images from the perspective of photography.” This “perspective of photography” encompasses “art,” in which the image is treated as creative expression rather than literal record, and “technology,” in which the image is viewed with skeptical appreciation as the possible outcome of masterful deceptions and technical “tricks.” Similarly, in an article headlined, “Davy Linggar: Those Who Understand Will Not Make a Fuss,” the photographer voiced disappointment that society was not yet “ready” for Pinkswing Park, and suggested that his work was only offensive to those who did not understand technology.61 In another statement to the press, he described his shock and disappointment: “Truly these events were beyond our expectations. It turns out our society is not yet ready to appreciate it.”62 Linggar described his desire to “introduce [people to] the sophistication of digital technology that is getting crazier and crazier.” But if the artists and their supporters based their defense on a self-­consciously modern appeal to “art,” freedom of expression, and technological authority, 156  chapter four

the fpi’s objections to the work articulated a competing claim to authority in the post-­Suharto public sphere rooted in an alternative semiotic ideology. Hazards of Images

Implicit in the liberal secular defense of Pinkswing Park was the notion that Islamic hardliner’s objections stemmed from misguided semiotic literalism and technological mystification. This assumption missed the point of the fpi’s stated objections, which were grounded instead in commitment to the ethical treatment of religious signs, ideals of public comportment and pious vision, and concerns about the moral effects of images. In its arguments against Pinkswing Park, the fpi mobilized a semiotic ideology that emphasized the image’s impact on viewers over the intentions of the artists, and that recognized the material and moral efficacy of images rather than treating them as representational signs divorced from the “real” world. This semiotic ideology underpinned an alternative vision of an ideal public sphere imagined not as a space of “freedom,” but as an arena where visibility is governed and restricted in conformity with religious morality. Although the charges of blasphemy were ultimately dropped, the artwork’s reference to Adam and Eve played an important role in the controversy surrounding the piece, helping to give it its religious cast. In their reaction to the depiction of “Adam” and “Eve,” the fpi called for what Kenneth George calls the “ethical treatment of Qur’anic signifiers.”63 Quoted in the press, fpi member Jafar Sidik stated: “The pictures display the classical story of Adam and Eve in Eden. How could they depict a prophet in the nude like that?”64 Because it portrayed Adam and Eve disrespectfully, the work, according to this logic, offended all who hold Adam and Eve to be sacred. To mobilize Adam and Eve as mere symbols within an artistic commentary on mass-­mediated sexuality and urban modernity, moreover, was unforgivably to place the sacred in service to the profane. At stake, moreover, was an Islamic “ethics of vision.”65 Writing of the reaction of the influential Islamic televangelist Aa Gym to the publication of Playboy Indonesia just several months after the Pinkswing Park controversy, James Hoesterey argues that Aa Gym regarded viewing pornography as a “moral hazard.”66 Following Sufi precepts of the heart as a moral organ, Aa Gym promoted “averting the gaze” from pornography as an ethical act that cultivates and preserves a virtuous heart. Hoesterey describes walking through the tv aisle of an electronics store with Aa Gym and being Naked Effects  157

confronted with images of scantily clad women on multiple screens. When Hoesterey teases, “You can look, but you can’t touch,” Aa Gym responds soberly that, “In Islam, it is precisely the act of looking that leads to sexual vice.”67 Underlying this exchange are different understandings of the nature and consequentiality of signs and of sight. Whereas Hoesterey’s joke makes a distinction between “real,” embodied action and merely looking at an image, Aa Gym regards vision itself as a form of action with moral consequences, because “the gaze becomes a door through which Satan enters and the heart is soiled.”68 Within this visual ideology, the image cannot be “merely” a sign that exists at an essential remove from the world of real, morally consequential action. Clonophobic anxieties about mimesis and the viral spread of images exacerbated the fpi’s concern about the consequences of looking. fpi leader Habib Rizieq was explicit that what mattered to them was not the relationship of the photographic image to a prephotographic referent but instead the image’s moral effects on its viewers. In an interview with a Sydney Morning Herald reporter, he stated: “We don’t care about the technicality of the picture. . . . What we care [about] is that the picture is publicly exhibited and it is pornography and it would damage morals.”69 Jafar Sidik likewise claimed that the work “could contribute to immorality among teenagers who see the exhibition,” specifically youth coming to the exhibit and photographing the images of Anjasmara with their cell phones.70 Rather than an enactment of an essential, ahistorical “Islamic” iconoclasm, the fpi’s attack on Pinkswing Park should be seen as a strategic performance of “Islamic iconoclasm” staged for the media by a group eager to channel the political potential of the image-­event. The fpi was founded in August 1998, with apparent support from the military, and its early appearances involved numerous attacks on student demonstrations against the Indonesian armed forces.71 Thus the fpi can be considered a new iteration of the civilian militia groups, such as the Pemuda Pancasila, that functioned during the New Order as unofficial arms of the state security apparatus. Yet if the fpi was continuous with earlier forms of state “subcontracted” violence, it nevertheless drew on religious faith as a newly effective source of legitimacy in the public sphere after 1998.72 Since 1998, assertions of public Islamic morality have gained strength in the context of the weakening authority of the state and of nationalist sentiment as the affective “glue” binding the country together.73 Religious sincerity had long appealed as a potent antidote to the regime’s corruption, but during most of the New Order, due to the strict control over politics and 158  chapter four

the public sphere, assertions of religious morality were primarily restricted to the realm of personal piety. After Suharto’s fall, Islam gained new visibility in public and a spectrum of Islamic-­based parties emerged, ranging from those whose base was the membership of mass Muslim organizations but which supported a pluralistic, democratic state to those that favored the implementation of Islamic law and theocracy in Indonesia. The fpi is not a political party, although its stated goal is the implementation of Sharia law in Indonesia. Rather than dedicating itself to the creation of an Islamic state, however, the group remained, at the time of the Pinkswing Park controversy, focused on local “enforcement” of Islamic law and morality.74 It proclaimed itself a custodian of public morality in its violent actions against anyone who, it believed, “offended” Islam. Young men dressed in white robes bearing rattan sticks, machetes, and stones usually carried out the attacks, while fpi “spokesmen” addressed the media. Although the fpi mostly staged attacks against brothels, discotheques, and bars as places where immoral activity takes place, it also set the media in its sights, seeing a commercially driven, immoral media as continuous with other forms of corruption contaminating the public sphere and endangering Indonesian youth.75 The fpi rarely targeted art exhibitions, but the attack on Pinkswing Park was neither the first nor the last time it took aim at a highbrow cultural event.76 They had also responded to other celebrity sex scandals, for example accusing rock star Ariel and the two women appearing with him in a sex video scandal of “moral terrorism,” and threatening to conduct raids on sellers of their pornographic videos.77 The fpi’s reaction to Pinkswing Park epitomizes its range of media-­savvy tactics, from performative acts of violent protest to legal intimidation and rhetorical appeals in the press to the need to safeguard the ummat from the threat of moral corruption. According to Philip Kitley, the fpi and other hardline Islamist groups in Indonesia aim to render the public sphere “an exemplary space” in which “proper relations between members of the Muslim community are performed.”78 Kitley describes the fpi’s raids or “sweeping” campaigns as performances that keep “the Islamic code in the public sphere, countering the glossy commercialism of the visual sphere and mainstream media.”79 Yet the fpi’s sweeping actions are not only counters to that media culture but part of it; they are calculated spectacles aimed to generate the amplification of attention and voice that media coverage can buy. Indeed, the fpi regularly issued invitations to media outlets to their raids and demonstrations. The fpi’s actions are not only efforts to shape the public realm into a Naked Effects  159

space of religious morality but perceived “rectification[s] in lieu of the lapsed state.”80 The fpi is just one of the various groups to implement “privatized” forms of censorship, by physical and legal intimidation, that have emerged in the absence of state regulation of the media and public discourse.81 In response to questions about the fpi’s attack on Playboy Indonesia’s editorial office, for example, fpi leader Habib Rizieq stated, “If the government and the law enforcement agencies don’t uphold the law then the fpi are forced to act. So if you saw the fpi smashing windows and so on — then that’s a reasonable reaction.”82 Although the fpi claims to speak on behalf of an “Islamic” public and its presence is associated with the rise of the Islamic right since Suharto’s fall, the vast majority of Indonesian Muslims, even those sympathetic to its stated aims, thoroughly reject its violent tactics. Yet the fpi occupies an outsized space in public discourse, despite lack of widespread popular support, and often operates with relative impunity. If shrewd use of the media and strident claims to speak for Muslim morality are part of the explanation for this exaggerated visibility, another is the group’s ties to elite political actors. It is common knowledge that the fpi often does the “dirty work” of others, from Islamic organizations to the Indonesian military, the police, and various political actors. The idea that fpi members are just preman (petty criminals and mercenary thugs) rather than genuinely motivated by religious ideals is often literalized in rumors that describe, for example, army-­issue boots glimpsed beneath the pious white gowns of fpi rank and file. People often register skepticism about the morality of the fpi by playing with their acronym, calling them Front Perusak Indonesia (Destroyers of Indonesia Front), Front Permalukan Islam (Making Islam Ashamed Front), Front Polisi Indonesia (Indonesian Police’s Front), or Front Pembela Iblis (Devil’s Defenders Front).83 More than religious zealots, the fpi’s rank and file members are seen as opportunists and desperados, young men without education and opportunity looking for an identity and an easy way to make a living. It is also common knowledge that the fpi raises funds by extorting money from those they protest or threaten with violence. Those involved in the Pinkswing Park case were, not surprisingly, cynical about the fpi’s motives: they believed the attack was prompted not only by a desire to capitalize on antipornography sentiment, but also by a calculated assessment of an extortion opportunity, given the celebrity status of the models as well as the prominence of the artists and exhibition organizers. Unlike the others accused in the case of Pinkswing Park, Anjasmara, presumably concerned about the impact of the controversy on his acting career, issued a public apol160  chapter four

ogy. Some believed he had paid off the fpi, who later asked the police to drop the case against him. Notwithstanding questions about the sincerity of the fpi’s moral objections to the artwork, the artists and their supporters understood the controversy over Pinkswing Park to be part of a genuine struggle in which their ideals of pluralism, tolerance, and freedom of expression were at stake. In its attack on Pinkswing Park, the fpi strengthened its self-­assigned role as the guardian of Islamic morality; by staging an attack on “pornography,” it seized upon an issue of concern to a much wider swath of Indonesians, helping to produce the very idea of a unified Islamic public. More narrowly, the fpi achieved the goal of taking the installation out of public view, and curator Jim Supangkat’s decision that there would be no future cp Biennales was a blow to the Indonesian art community. In turn, though, the controversy galvanized the art community to defend its vision of the public sphere. Art in Public

The artists who made Pinkswing Park were caught off-­guard by how radically the piece escaped their own intended frame and by the virulence of the public reaction to it once this occurred. As Davy Linggar stated in an article in the national newspaper Kompas, “It never crossed my, Agus, or Anjas’s mind that the work would become controversial.”84 Agus Suwage’s wife and manager, Titarubi, herself a prominent feminist artist with a sculptural installation piece (Bodyscape, 2005) in the cp Biennale, likewise recalled, “We never suspected [there’d be a reaction] because . . . all this time, the public did not care about art. Almost all art in galleries, performances, its public is very specific. Very elite.” What she called the “leakage” (bocor) of the work from the rarified atmosphere of high art into the messy arena of mass media and commodified celebrity culture was “profoundly shocking.”85 The artists’ assumption that the work would remain aloof from the very forces it visualized, sealed off from the maelstrom of debate over the pornography bill and competing claims to authority in the post-­Suharto public sphere, ironically echoed the hermeticism of the elite fantasy depicted within Pinkswing Park. As Kajri Jain has noted, the modern art gallery is a “controlled environment” within which “to experiment with . . . volatile forces” yet remain comfortably at a remove from the environments in which those forces are at play.86 Indeed, one defense of the curator, artists, and models was based on the presumption that the gallery — and by extension the “space” of art — constituted a restricted, not-­quite-­public arena. As a legal Naked Effects  161

expert from the University of Indonesia noted, “The exhibition was held in a special building designated for specific viewers who understand art. So, it was not for just any individuals.”87 The existing criminal code actually protected the showing of nudity within the context of an artwork displayed in a museum or gallery, hence also implicitly recognizing the specificity of the realm of “art.”88 Nevertheless, a defense rooted in assumptions about art’s essential remove from the public was ironic, given the mission statement of the cp Foundation, which described its vision of “a world art scene in which democratic principles can flourish and plurality is possible in a dynamic that is inclusive instead of exclusive.”89 Ironic, too, given Agus Suwage’s success in the international and domestic art market and the professed goal of the cp Biennale to create a forum for positioning Indonesian art globally, was the defense against the charge of pornography on the grounds of art’s noncommercial nature. By placing photoshopped models into an avant-­garde installation piece, Suwage’s artwork had figured the interpenetration of the rarefied art world and that of commerce. Yet even as Pinkswing Park itself collapsed the lines between high art and commercial media images, some defended it against the charge of pornography on the grounds of precisely such a distinction. Pointing out that the definition of pornography entails sexually explicit imagery made for commercial sale, curator Jim Supangkat argued that the Biennale was motivated by “values” not “money,” and that, “Of all of the works in the cp-­Biennale there’s almost none that could be sold.”90 Isabel Yahya, the model, also questioned the charge of pornography by pointing out that neither she nor Anjasmara had received payment for modeling.91 Such defenses of “art” notwithstanding, once Pinkswing Park was remediated in the mainstream press, it became a kind of public property and a material player in the larger debates about the proposed pornography law, a debate that pitted hardline and some mainstream Islamic (and other religious) groups against cosmopolitan, liberal-­secular intellectuals, feminists, artists, and cultural activists, including those promoting a pluralistic, liberal Islam. The cp Foundation that had sponsored the Biennale exhibition exemplified the liberal stance of cosmopolitan pluralism that characterized much of the opposition to the proposed pornography law. A draft bill was released to the public in February 2006, precisely at the time that Suwage and his codefendents were named suspects, prompting large-­scale demonstrations both for and against it. In response to the proposed law, feminists, liberal intellectuals, and cul162  chapter four

tural leaders representing “traditional” communities from various parts of Indonesia organized several large protest marches in Jakarta (figure 4.13). Pointing out that many traditional dance and art forms contain erotic moves and imagery, and that some traditional forms of dress accentuate or expose erotic parts of the body, they argued that the pornography bill was a threat to Indonesia’s cultural diversity and traditions. Calling upon Indonesian nationalist discourse, they depicted the bill as an affront to Indonesia’s national motto, “Unity in Diversity.” Reframing the debate in this way inverted the conventional framing of pornography as a foreign threat, positioning hardline Islamists, instead, as bearers of a foreign, “Arabic” culture that opposed the “traditional” and the authentic/indigenous (asli). Titarubi, Suwage’s wife and a prominent feminist artist, spearheaded an effort to organize artists in defense of those involved in Pinkswing Park. She went on to play a key role in broadening their efforts beyond that specific case to form an alliance between members of the art world and other groups mobilized against the pornography bill.92 On February 15, 2006, just days after the artists, models, and curator were formally named suspects by the Indonesian police, ten prominent artists, art writers, and curators signed an Artists’ Manifesto,93 which stated in part, Celebrities and women’s rights activists join to hold a protest against the passage of the Pornography and Porno-action Law, March 7, 2006, Jakarta. Tempo/ Bismo Agung.

FIGURE 4.13.

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We defend and support fully the freedom of interpretation and judgment on visual artworks, in the same way we defend and support fully the freedom to create visual artworks. Our position . . . is based on the spirit of appreciation [for] dignity, rights, and human freedom in a mature, civilized, and democratic society. We refuse any judgment on visual artworks, using wanton views and norms not related to visual arts discipline and expertise. Even more when such interpretation and judgment asserts itself as the only truth albeit with a label of “representing the voice and interest of [the] majority.” While claiming art as an arena of public expression open to all “people of Indonesia,” and arguing that all Indonesians have the right “to savor and to appreciate visual artworks in a free and open social space,” they also framed art as a restricted field of expertise. They demanded that the Indonesian government “defend the validity of Indonesian visual arts as a field of expertise with a scientific authority and [that] can be practiced in an open and free social space” and argued that the art community was able to “manage its own life” and “govern our own affairs.” Echoing the notion of the gallery as a not-­quite-­public space, in seeking to preserve a safe and independent realm for free artistic experimentation they treated art as an exclusive domain of expert knowledge. Like appeals to technological authority, these appeals to artistic expertise, which implied that most Indonesians were “not yet” able to understand and interpret art, made classist distinctions that coexisted uneasily with the discourses of “freedom,” “openness,” and democratic pluralism they also invoked to defend artistic expression. A month later, on March 16, the artist-­activists issued a statement signed by over 170 artists, writers, and other prominent intellectuals and cultural producers. Titled “Art Fights Fascism” (“Kesenian Melawan Fasisme”), the statement was released at a press conference protesting the pornography law, held by Agus Suwage, Isabel Yahya, their lawyer (a well-­known human rights advocate), and several other prominent figures in the art world.94 The signatories enjoined the state to recognize people’s “right” to “enjoy art works in a social space that is free and open.” Mentioning other recent cases of religious-­based objections to works of art (including protests by Hindus about a film based on the Ramayana epic) they argued that art should be judged from within the discipline of art itself, which has its own “expertise,” “history,” and “conventions.” Describing the tremendous “relief” felt by the art community after Suharto stepped down, they expressed concern 164  chapter four

“that the freedom to make art is becoming more narrow in the Indonesian Republic.” During a residency in Singapore several years later, Agus Suwage made a series of prints inspired by the controversy. The prints overlaid images of Isabel Yahya’s nude body with censorship circles, Suwage’s face, and the text of the 2008 pornography law. These works have not yet been shown in Indonesia. An “Eventful” Image

Pinkswing Park was an especially eventful image. Both the internal figurations of the installation — the way it visualized and commented on a hypersexualized and commodified media culture — and its connections to that culture, especially via the person of Anjasmara, combined in a volatile way with surrounding anxieties about pornography and new technologies for manipulating and circulating images. As an image moves across media and genres, it addresses different audiences, producing encounters and dialogues between publics who may only apparently be looking at the same object. For Michael Warner, the “mere attention” of an audience constitutes a public, but a single image can be subject to varying intensities of attention and affect: from the person flipping through a tabloid, glancing at the pictures and scanning the headlines, to the outraged viewer who examines the images with a mixture of anger and moral revulsion, to the giddy teen whose heart beats faster at the sight of her idol, to the art critic who seeks dispassionately to unpack the “meaning” of the image in its iconographic allusions.95 These publics may be looking differently at the same image, or, arguably, looking at images that are only apparently the same. Image-­events generate fleeting moments of public coalescence, as distinct publics converge in shared attention to particular images. This coalescence of attention should never be confused with consensus, with the shared imaginations of a unified national public. But the contestations and competing claims that constitute image-­events can be moments when the idea of a national public becomes salient. Such flare-­ups of shared attention among fluid or otherwise discrete or only partially overlapping publics may seem ephemeral, but a memory of the pathways and linkages that image-­events forge may remain. As Spyer and Steedly note, “once called up, publics . . . may be provoked or reanimated by new image incidents.”96 The publics conjured by the controversy over Pinkswing Park may have been short-­lived, but subsequent events would bring together similar (though not identical) formations. Naked Effects  165

One can detect reverberations of the Pinkswing Park controversy in the controversy that unfolded over the publication of Playboy Indonesia shortly afterward, subsequent pornography bill demonstrations, and the reactions to the Danish Mohammad cartoons. In their unfolding, image-­events generate something like a neural network — a groove of connections left in the wake of the images and responses to them. These connections are easily reanimated by subsequent image-­events, which may follow a familiar pathway. In this sense, the Pinkswing Park image-­event has continued to resonate, shaping the terrain of art making, visibility, and public morality in Indonesia.

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“Is There Any Love Left in Indonesia?” (detail), mural by Abimanyu Street Art. The graffiti and remains of a poster that partially obscure the crouching girl’s face attest to the urban inscription’s fragility and ephemeral temporality (see figures 5.23 and 5.40; plate 14), Yogyakarta, May 2013. Photo by the author.

FIVE

STREET SIGNS

On March 1, 1949, Indonesian guerrilla fighters came down from the mountains to reclaim Yogyakarta, the city that had been the capital of their republic but was now under the control of Dutch forces. Their goal in this brazen attack — which lasted just six tense hours — was to remind the world that the Indonesian revolution was still alive, despite Dutch claims to the contrary. Never intended as a lasting reoccupation of the city, the General Attack (Serangan Oemoem), as it came to be known, was not so much a military maneuver as a publicity stunt, a spectacle meant to catch the world’s eye.1 Sixty-­four years later, on March 1, 2013, guerrillas of a different kind staged a second “General Attack” at the site of a railway bridge that had played an important role in the revolution as a key access point to the city and its transportation infrastructure. Since 1998, when activists and artists began to claim the city’s surfaces, the Kewek Bridge had become one of the favored canvases of Yogyakarta’s booming street art scene, due to its large scale and heavily trafficked, central location. But recently the bridge had been painted a vivid purple shade, and the figures and words also painted

upon it promoted a commercial product: Axis cellular phone service. Slogans such as “Cheap Rates, Many Bonuses!” now appeared alongside a street artist’s stenciled image of the face of assassinated human rights activist Munir Said Thalib, accompanied by the words of Wiji Thukul, a poet and activist disappeared by the Suharto regime in 1998: “We are still here and will multiply” (figure 5.1). Having for years served as an informal “public gallery” for street artists, the bridge had unexpectedly been leased by the city to an advertising agency employed by the cell phone provider (figure 5.2).2 Because the bridge had been formally recognized as a heritage site (cagar budaya) it should have been off-­limits to advertisers.3 Violating both a tacit understanding with street artists and a commitment to heritage preservation, the city’s leasing of

“We are still here and will multiply,” stencil of Munir Said Thalib by street artist Digie Sigit. The slogan draws from a poem by disappeared poet and activist Wiji Thukul, “Kebenaran Akan Terus Hidup” (“The Truth Will Live On”). The original reads, “I will still be here and will multiply” (aku akan tetap ada dan berlipat ganda). Yogyakarta, 2012. Image used with permission of Agung Firmanto B. on behalf of urbancult.net.

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the bridge exemplified, for street artists and other urban activists, the negligence and corruption of municipal officials charged with regulating public space. Street artists had protested the commercial misuse of the bridge by painting it with slogans such as “Retake This Space, Friends!” and, simply, “Not an Advertising Place.” Late in the evening of March 1, 2013, a group calling itself Empowered Citizens (Warga Berdaya) — made up of members of several activist groups including bicyclists, heritage activists, street artists, and others concerned with the quality of urban space — converged at the bridge, large paint rollers in hand (figure 5.3).4 Amid a festive atmosphere, with video cameras rolling, they began to cover the enormous structure in white paint. With the exception of several stark slogans stenciled and applied as posters onto the bridge — “Empowered Citizens” and “Cultural Heritage and Historical Sites are not for Advertisements” — they restored the bridge to a pristine, whitewashed state (figure 5.4).5 Some passersby stopped to see what was happening; most merely glanced casually and continued on their way. The Kewek Bridge action, described by its participants as an “occupation” of public space, drew inspiration and affirmation from globally circulating, antineoliberal discourses of “the right to the city” and the “Occupy” movement.6 Street artists and their followers in Indonesia are cosmopolitans highly attuned to global practices of street art and street-­based political action. But in calling the action the General Attack of 2013, activists also self-­consciously invoked a specifically Indonesian history. Texts and images displayed in the street resonate powerfully with nationalist and postindependence political mobilizations, especially those of the 1998 reform movement. More immediately, the Kewek Bridge action enacted contemporary ideals in which a participatory, open public space served as a material instantiation and an icon of Indonesian democracy. Antitank, one of Yogyakarta’s most active street artists at the time and an organizer of the Kewek Bridge action, described the commercialization of the bridge as an intimately felt violation that awakened street artists’ sense of responsibility as guardians of the publicness of public space: “We have to do something. Because the Kewek Bridge has to . . . be a place that is open for all groups, for all, all people. Not for a handful that have the money to buy it and sell their wares there. Because we are aware [that] one of the goals of street art is to claim, to claim space.”7 With the action at Kewek Bridge, Antitank noted, “We give the message that we, as individual members of society and as ordinary people, also have the Street Signs  171

right to criticize and to form our city according to our own standards of humanity, not the standards of . . . the owners of capital or the government.”8 Like the staging of the original 1949 General Attack, the goal of the 2013 action was primarily symbolic; it was an image-­event intended to spur further images and actions. The organizers hoped that the painting of the Kewek Bridge would act as a “trigger” inspiring people to join their “social movement” (gerakan masyarakat) of care for the city.9 As they variously articulated it, they sought to make the bridge an “icon,” “barometer,” “mirror,” or “symbol” of the current state of the city, offering a condensed image of its increasing monopolization by commercial interests.10 The activists understood that sites like the Kewek Bridge function as icons through their accumulated histories. With each iteration, the icon accrues new resonances that are then carried within it as preserved potentials that animate and deepen its future invocations. For street artists and activists, the advertising slogans had violently transformed the bridge from an emblem of the democratic freedoms won in 1998 to a sign of the privatization of public space and the state’s alignment with the interests of capital over those of its

F I GU R E S 5 . 2 – 5 . 3

Painting over Axis Cellular advertisement on Kewek Bridge, March 1, 2013. Still from the video Serangan Umum Satu Maret, Rebut Ruang Kota Jogja! (General Attack of March 1, Seizing Yogya’s Urban Space!), X-code films, March 2013, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ioua61uSxtQ.

5 .2 .

“Warga Berdaya” (Empowered Citizens), stencil painted on the Kewek Bridge, whitewashed by activists. Still from the video Serangan Umum Satu Maret, Rebut Ruang Kota Jogja! X-code films, March 2013, https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=Ioua61uSxtQ.

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citizens. The violation of their felt right to inscribe urban surfaces and their subsequent reclamation of the bridge drew upon and enhanced its charge as an icon of nationalist ideals of “freedom” enacted by revolutionaries in 1949 and again, differently, by artists after 1998. An article in the national newspaper Kompas about the Kewek Bridge action drew on this historic resonance when it noted that activists had “seized Yogyakarta once again from a new form of colonialism, that is, the commercialization and privatization of public space.”11 Just as the original General Attack of 1949 was simultaneously addressed to local inhabitants, Dutch occupiers, and the international community, so the Kewek Bridge action was designed for and anticipated reproduction, circulation, and archiving via print, electronic, and digital media directed at various publics. Photographs and commentary about the Kewek Bridge action appeared in the local and national press, amplifying its messages and remediating them within a legitimated discourse of “news” and expert commentary. Images, documentary videos, and commentary also circulated on Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and other social media and internet sites (see figures 5.2 through 5.4). Such remediations extended the action’s reach by enabling it to be seen by distant and dispersed publics while expanding it temporally by creating an archive for otherwise ephemeral inscriptions.

“Cultural Heritage and Historical Sites are not for Advertisements,” poster on whitewashed Kewek Bridge, March 1, 2013. Still from the video Serangan Umum Satu Maret, Rebut Ruang Kota Jogja! X-code films, March 2013, https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ioua61uSxtQ.

FIGURE 5.4.

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Urban Inscriptions Your attention is everywhere solicited by artifacts that say, before they say anything else, “Hello, public!” — M ichael Warner, Publics and Counterpublics

Since 1998, the urban street has become a particularly intense and dense zone of communication and contestation in Indonesia (figure 5.5). Nowhere is this more the case than in Yogyakarta, the so-­called city of artists, where murals, political street art, and artful graffiti claim space amid the clamor of commercial advertising, state-­sponsored messages, political campaign posters, and the ubiquitous tags and haphazardly scrawled writing and images known as corat-­coretan (scrawls, scribbles) (figure 5.6).12 The unprecedented access to the street as a surface for inscription in the post-­Suharto period has been celebrated as a material embodiment of a democratic era of openness and popular participation. Yet the street’s chaotic mix of advertising, sloganeering, art, and graffiti has also served as a potent symbol of the breakdown of order that accompanied the end of state control over public space and discourse. A decade and a half after the end of authoritarian rule, the visual

F I GU R E S 5 . 5 – 5 . 6

Kewek Bridge in December 2014, after it had reverted back to purple and to being inscribed by both street artists and advertisers. Photo by Sugathi Adji Putranto, reproduced with permission.

5 .5 .

Street scene, including work by Nkomr.Ipeh, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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noise of the city had become a subject of public concern, spurring debate about who had the right to mark city surfaces, which kind of inscriptions were of value, and when and how public signs should be regulated. Like the debates about pornography discussed in the previous chapter, these conversations about urban inscriptions entailed larger imaginings of — and contests over — the nature of the democratic public sphere. In the context of mobile urban life, the street offers a crucial means of interpellating the potential publics that flow through the city’s arteries. As people move along the city’s congested roadways on motorbikes and bicycles, in cars, on buses, in pedicabs, and on foot, they are the captive, unwitting addressees of a multitude of signs (figures 5.7 and 5.8). Visual and textual messages ambush them from all sides, appealing for attention in varied tones of admonishment, enticement, irony, and threat. Some of these signs address a public that “sees in a state of distraction,” working through repetition and ubiquity to penetrate at the level of habitual, tactile appropriation.13 Others follow a different strategy: by means of humor or stark imagery they attempt to puncture the passerby’s reverie, to create fleeting but consequential moments of attentiveness. Urban inscriptions seek to foster affective response, to spur those who encounter them to speech and action. The denser the thicket of signs, however, the greater the risk of failure: most slide past in a blur, becoming the visual static of the urban landscape and leaving no mark except, perhaps, a lingering irritation or exhaustion. This chapter analyses how various kinds of “urban inscription” — texts and images located on the visible surfaces of the urban environment — assert claims to and on behalf of the urban public and, at the same time, provide visible icons of democracy itself. Attending to a set of public image-­events unfolding through and about urban inscriptions — street art, advertisements, and banners — in Yogyakarta in 2013, this chapter examines the street as both a medium and a metamedium of the public sphere. As scholars of the urban have long suggested, the city is itself a powerful media infrastructure, a system for organizing flows of people, capital, and ideas.14 The street forms an infrastructural habitat within which various media forms compete for the attention of “the public” (an entity which is itself imagined into being through these modes of address). Treating the street as a medium of the public sphere means asking how urban streets “are put to work by those engaged in efforts to circulate ideas and claims to others,” how their materiality and ideologies are deployed to intervene in public visuality, producing distinctive forms of political visibility.15 Juxtaposing street art with a series of street banners (spanduk) that apStreet Signs  175

peared in the wake of an extrajudicial killing by Indonesian Special Forces, I show how urban inscriptions draw on the material and ideological affordances of the street as the exemplary space of “the public.” Both street art and banners draw authority from the history of the street as a privileged site of mass political mobilization. But even as they recall direct, embodied political action in the streets, urban inscriptions rely on impersonal, disembodied, iterable messages directed to an abstract and open-­ended public. They also rely on the efficacy of remediation as they circulate beyond the street along other media channels of the public sphere. Both banners and street art ventriloquize “the public” they claim to speak for. Besides serving as a medium of public address and political visibility, the street is also a site for imagining, performatively realizing, and critically reflecting on the postauthoritarian, democratic public sphere. For street artists and their enthusiasts, street art is both icon and index of a participatory and dialogic democratic public. Yet, as with other media of the post-­ Suharto public sphere, urban inscriptions are also marked by the profound ambivalence that attended the new freedoms ushered in by the end of authoritarian rule. Hailed as visible signs of a vibrant and participatory public sphere, their chaotic unruliness and uncertain authorship also provoke anxiety about authority and authenticity. The very conditions that have allowed street art to flourish in postauthoritarian urban Indonesia also have unleashed a proliferation of other signs in urban space. Graffiti scrawls and street advertising threaten to visually overwhelm street art’s messages and

F I GU R E 5 . 7 .

Street signs, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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prompt the anxious and always uncertain parsing of valuable signals from visual noise or “garbage.” And the use of street banners to further authoritarian political ends acutely exposes a foundational problem common to all forms of public communication: the uncertain authenticity of any claim to speak for the public. As a medium of the public sphere, the street does not operate discretely but is always linked to other infrastructures and modalities of communication. In classic writings on “publics,” the rational, deliberative public, which finds its locus in coffeehouses, salons, and the disembodied dialogues of the press, is contrasted with the affectively charged, dangerously unruly, embodied masses, “the crowd,” whose domain is the street.16 But such an opposition between public sphere and public space obscures the fact that modern urban streets have always been a site of both embodied, copresent interactions among people and communication via anonymous, impersonal signs addressing an unspecified, open-­ended audience.17 Moreover, messages communicated in the streets engage with and are circulated via the press and social media in a multidirectional traffic that defies any conceptualization of public space and public sphere as discrete domains. Especially in today’s complexly mediated arenas of public communication, circulations beyond the street are not secondary but integral to the mode of address of urban inscriptions.18 Urban signs’ recirculation in other media contributes to their efficacy in materializing a political imaginary of the postauthoritarian public sphere. Even as they travel beyond the locus of the street, they carry street

FIGURE 5.8.

Street signs, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. Street Signs  177

authenticity — a claim to directly express the public’s voice — with them into other mediated spaces. The Authority of Street Art

Alongside spectacular events like the General Attack of 1949, a more quotidian medium for gaining recognition for the Indonesian National Revolution was the use of city walls as surfaces for expressing revolutionary demands and aspirations. During the Dutch occupation of Yogyakarta, young artists would sneak out at night to paint city walls with defiant revolutionary slogans and images. Expressions of fervent desire for independence were written in English, Dutch, and Indonesian, reflecting the multiple publics they sought to address. Street banners, posters, stencils, and murals served as key media in the ideological battle of the revolution and helped form the

F I GU R E S 5 . 9 – 5 . 1 0

“Only with Unity Will We Determine [Our Future].” Revolutionary stencil making, Java, 1947. Photo courtesy of Cas Oorthuys/Nederlands Fotomuseum.

5 .9 .

5 .1 0 . “Hands off Indonesia!” revolutionary graffiti, Java, 1947. Photo courtesy of Cas Oorthuys/Nederlands Fotomuseum.

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communicative strategies of postindependence political activism (figures 5.9 and 5.10). Virtually every discussion of street art, whether in the press or among street artists themselves, traces the lineage of contemporary street art back to this origin. As one newspaper article put it, Street art . . . is believed to have been present in Indonesia since the revolution, when the nation’s heroes demonstrated their resistance to colonialism on walls and buildings. Scribbles like “Merdeka atau Mati” (Freedom or Death) or “Lawan Penjajah” (Fight the Colonizers) were all over public spaces during the independence era, and are deemed the embryo of street art in the country.19 The most famous propaganda poster of the revolutionary era shows a young, pugnacious Indonesian revolutionary with clenched fists rising from sun“Bro, C’mon, Bro” (“Boeng, Ajo, Boeng”), revolutionary poster by the artist Affandi. From Agung Tobing, The Stories of Affandi, Yogyakarta: Museum Affandi, 2012, 82. By permission of Kartika Affandi and the Affandi Museum.

FIGURE 5.11.

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dered chains (figure 5.11). Commissioned by Sukarno, the poster was designed by Sudjojono and drawn by Affandi, two of Indonesia’s towering modern artists. The text for the poster, meanwhile, was supplied by the revered poet Chairil Anwar, who drew inspiration from the rough calls of prostitutes in Jakarta’s Pasar Senen to their potential customers: “Bro, C’mon, Bro!”20 No image could provide a more authoritative nationalist pedigree for contemporary street art, nor better exemplify the elite ventriloquizing moves behind its populist mode of address to and for the public. Validating street art’s participation in the postauthoritarian public sphere, this frequently invoked revolutionary origin story provides legitimacy for an act that might otherwise be framed as a form of vandalism or subversion. Obscured within this origin story is also an earlier moment: during the Japanese Occupation of 1942 – 45, Japanese artists and graphic designers trained young Indonesians to produce nationalistic, anti-­imperial propaganda in order to garner popular support for the war against the Allied Forces.21 Sukarno’s continuation of this propaganda tradition further reveals how “popular” forms of political expression have always been entangled with elite appropriations and official, state-­sponsored propaganda. Tied to revolutionary nationalist history and enjoying cosmopolitan, global cool, contemporary street art is perceived above all as an outgrowth of the 1998 student movement and has become emblematic of the aspirations and achievements of the postauthoritarian public sphere (figure 5.12).22 For young, mostly male and middle-­class street artists, many of whom have training in fine arts, rejecting the rarefied spaces of the gallery in favor of a publicly accessible art practice is a way of aligning their work with the ideals of openness and civic participation embraced by the Reformasi movement (plate 1).23 Street art is also a manifestation of a new, more assertive relationship to urban space since 1998 that has encouraged artists, vendors, and other urban occupants to claim space in more aggressive and confident ways.24 Some street art explicitly addresses political issues and often repurposes state discourses to ironic, humorous, and critical ends (see, for example, figures 5.13 and 5.14). Yet arguably street art’s political content lies more in its form and location than its overt messages, which may or may not be “political.” As one person involved in creating a website to archive street art noted, street art “opens up a place” (membuka tempat) by remaking abandoned and neglected surfaces of the city into sites for popular expression (figure 5.15).25 The newfound sense of freedom to mark urban public space initiated by the Reformasi movement contrasted sharply with conditions during the New Order, in which the state sought to control and monopolize the communi180  chapter five

cative potential of the street.26 In Indonesian cities, “monuments, slogans, banners, billboards, and placards” were instruments of “ideological indoctrination,” which served to “remind the people who [was] in control.”27 If the state was never fully successful in its attempts to impose a regime of order, cleanliness, and noneventful pleasantness on Indonesia’s urban spaces, it was not for lack of trying. These efforts were exemplified in the creation of city slogans such as “Yogyakarta has a Comfortable Heart” (“Yogyakarta Berhati Nyaman”; the slogan is derived from the words Bersih, Sehat, Indah, and Nyaman, or Clean, Healthy, Beautiful, and Comfortable).28 Exhortatory signs urged a budaya tertib (culture of orderliness), while large billboards placed at major intersections or in front of government buildings displayed the benefits of national development programs like transmigration, education, and family planning (figure 5.16). Cloth banners known as spanduk — associated with popular collective expression and discussed later in this chapter — were coopted as a quasi-­official medium used to proclaim and solicit public support for state initiatives. Street art was mostly confined to patriotic paintings on the gates to urban neighborhoods, particularly in celebration of Indonesian Independence Day, and the occasional mural figuring a revolutionary soldier. And graffiti, while present, was reviled as the worthless scrawls of criminal elements. Although always precarious and never fully realized, the orderliness of the street ideally served as a visible sign of the state’s authority to impose order and discipline in general. During the 1998 student movement and in the turbulent period immediately following Suharto’s resignation, artists with close ties to campus activists began plastering urban surfaces with images denouncing violence and promoting democracy, social justice, and tolerance. As the Reformasi movement gained momentum in 1998, the visible presence of slogans and images on the streets materially indexed a newly emboldened public who refused to couch their political critiques in allusion or whispers behind closed doors. In Yogyakarta, the artist collective Taring Padi (founded in 1998) worked in a medium (poster) and a style that explicitly linked it to the politics and aesthetics of the leftist socialist realism and agitprop of the 1960s that had been stamped out during the New Order. After 1998, street artists were able to work for the most part with the tacit and even explicit approval of government authorities. One effect was a partial domestication of the radical energies of street art. As Syamsul Barry and Doreen Lee have noted, street art was embraced by city governments committed to “beautifying” their cities and eager to display their vibrant civic culture in the new democratic climate.29 City governments enlisted street Street Signs  181

artists in their own projects or lent support to street artists’ initiatives to work with communities on large-­scale mural projects. The Apotik Komik collective, for example, launched a city mural project in 2002 in which artists worked with urban communities in Yogyakarta to produce murals addressing local issues such as education and the environment. Officials viewed such mural projects, led by middle-­class artists, as an edifying practice consistent with Yogyakarta’s self-­image as a cosmopolitan city of culture, art, tolerance, and education. Members of Apotik Komik specifically posed their commuF I GU R E S 5 . 1 2 – 1 3 5 .1 2 . A collaborative mural near Yogyakarta’s main market that was commissioned as part of a biannual art exhibition (Jogja Biennale), including works by the street artists Lups, Pofobag, and Sane. It was later tagged by street artist Art Prx. Yogyakarta, spring 2013. 5 .1 3 . In a juxtaposition that exemplifies the range of irreverent humor and earnest idealism characteristic of political street art, Antitank’s poster mocking Indonesian politicians, “Need a Clown? Contact Senayan [the location of the Indonesian Parliament]” shares space with a poster featuring an image of disappeared poetactivist Wiji Thukul accompanied by a quote from his famous poem “Warning.” The quote reads: “if suggestions are refused without consideration / voices silenced, criticism banned without reason / accused of subversion and disturbing the peace / then there is only one word: resist!” Yogyakarta, spring 2013.

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nity murals as antidotes to the “ ‘wild’ scribbles of graffiti [corat-­coret liar] that defaced alleyways and lower class neighborhoods.”30 Indeed, such beautifying community murals always took their place among other kinds of urban inscription, from “scrawls” (corat-­coretan) —  which in the US context would be labeled graffiti but in Indonesia are typically distinguished from “graffiti art” by lack of aesthetic value — to political street art that challenged rather than soothed the urban passerby and the government official, to the everyday “vernacular signage” of mechanics, street vendors, and others laboring in the informal sector.31 In the competitive ecology of urban space, moreover, the (always ephemeral) work of street artists was increasingly overwhelmed and ever more rapidly overwritten by other urban inscriptions. Billboards, banners, and other cheaply produced advertisements crowded the visual surfaces of the city, generating a chaotic visual palimpsest. Over time, as these other forms flourished, distinctions between them and street art became increasingly blurry.

Anticorruption street mural, by Digie Sigit, Antitank, and Guerillas, which plays on a well-known state anticorruption slogan “Berani Jujur Hebat” (“Daring to Be Honest Is Awesome”). The man, holding a piece of land with an Indonesian flag on it, says to the young girl, “Sorry, little one, I broke your toy.” She replies, “That’s OK. Daring to be honest is awesome.” Yogyakarta, spring 2013. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 5.14.

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Parsing Urban Signs

A decade and a half after the Reformasi movement, the nurturing environment street art had enjoyed after 1998 was becoming more tenuous amid complaints that the city looked “dirty” due to the excessive marking of public space with layers of art, graffiti, and advertising (figures 5.17 through 5.22; plates 1, 3, 16 and 23). Just as the reworking of the 50,000Rp bill had transformed a state sign into a vehicle for expressing popular aspirations and critiques (see chapter 1), so the marking of urban space made a visible statement that the street had been reclaimed and was now in popular hands. But as murals and various forms of street art flourished after 1998 in cities like Yogyakarta, other forms of urban writing mushroomed as well. Rather than a democratic civic culture, the cacophonous disorder of the street began to signify the failure of government to establish its authority and impose norms of conduct. Instead of a participatory public sphere, the visually cluttered street began to signal uncontrolled commercialization and demokrasi kebablasan (out-­of-­control democracy). In 2013, street artists in Yogyakarta still worked relatively openly; it was not unusual to pass a group of artists painting a mural on a busy street in 5 .1 5 . Claiming abandoned surfaces of the city for art. Street art by Lups and Love Hate Love, Yogyakarta, spring 2013. Photo by the author.

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the middle of the day (figure 5.23).32 But a new, less sympathetic mayor was in office, and street artists were anxiously following the news from Jakarta, where Governor Joko Widodo (known as Jokowi), who would be elected president the following year, had issued a regulation with stiff fines for those who “scrawled” (corat-­coret) or unlawfully posted advertisements on public facilities and vehicles, electricity poles, trees, and other urban surfaces.33 Jokowi and other government officials assured artists that they were not the targets of the regulations, making a distinction between “ugly,” “untidy,” and “dirty” unauthorized ads and graffiti scrawls and “beautifying” murals with a “positive message” or “public service messages that are important for the public to know.”34 Jokowi stated, “I support artists to paint the city’s idle walls. They can discuss it with me and the spatial planning agency. . . . There are rules about where they can do it and what theme they can pick and so on. . . . We should first discuss the theme and change it every two or three months.”35 Jokowi’s positioning of the state as urban curator and arbiter of value was hardly reassuring to the artist community. Editorials and quotes by various experts and commentators in the press likewise attempted to parse socially valuable signs from those deemed to lack value. They tended to support the crackdown on “ugly” and “meaningless” graffiti scrawls but sought to reserve a place for murals judged beautiful or “Make a Success of the National Discipline Movement,” New Order-era billboard, picturing state visions of order and development, Yogyakarta, January 1999. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 5.16.

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socially valuable. One editorial, which appeared in the prominent English-­ language newspaper, the Jakarta Post, noted that, “most of the ‘street art’ in our capital city looks ugly and untidy because it lacks artistry and is unsightly.” It went on to argue that street art should be tolerated “if the artists offer the public something worth looking at.” It also, however, acknowledged the difficulty of maintaining any clear distinction between (valued) “art” and (devalued) “scrawls.”36 Commentators suggested that “meaningless” graffiti could be transformed into “beautifying” art through mural competitions and the provision of specific spaces for youth to “channel” their creativity into more “positive” forms.37 These comments echoed what I have elsewhere called the New Order “culture of contests,” in which state-­sponsored competitions harness popular practices to officially sanctioned ends.38 One news article about “vandalism” in Yogyakarta described how a school sought to put a stop to the scrawls blemishing its walls by encouraging students to paint a “beautiful and neat” mural that is “purely the result of the creativity of the students.”39 But even government officials praising such efforts to “channel” youthful creativity admitted that mural competitions failed to prevent the reappearance of “scrawls.” F I GU R E S 5 . 1 7   –   1 8 5 .1 7 . A palimpsest of street art and graffiti on an abandoned building. The toothy face is by Here Here. Yogyakarta, 2013.

The word “Hoax” is scrawled above “Freedom” [Merdeka]. Street art by unknown artist. Yogyakarta, 2013.

5 .1 8 .

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Images of street art painted over with gray paint by Jakarta city workers began appearing on blogs and Facebook pages as proof that Jokowi’s policy was being used to muzzle street artists (figure 5.24). Street artists challenged the authority of government officials to determine which city inscriptions constituted valuable “art” and “positive messages.”40 They asserted that because the walls belonged to the public they, as members of that public, had a right to them.41 Andi Riyanto, director of the Indonesian Street Art Data­base, described the street as an essential medium of a free, independent, and critical democratic public sphere: “The spirit of street art is the social criticism of elements of culture, the government, and much more. The city administration shouldn’t determine our work because [our work] is a criticism of them too.”42 He buttressed his claim with an appeal to street art’s historical origins in the national revolution: “National Heroes also used wall paintings for propaganda years ago.” Likewise, Andi Rharharha of the artist’s collective Ruang­ Rupa, quoted in Kompas, asserted that “Scrawls, paintings, or whatever form of image in public space are the expressions of the citizens of the city.” The article paraphrases his reminder that “Revolutionary fighters used the medium of public space as a tool in their struggle. Public space is an effective medium to put forward protest or criticism of those who hold power.”43 In these commentaries, the street artist community asserted its “right to the city” by invoking both democratic ideals and historical nationalist credentials. In everyday conversation, however, many of the artists I spoke to in Yog­ F I G U R E 5 . 1 9 . A playful image of an elephant amid graffiti “scrawls” (see also plate 23). Artist unknown. Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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yakarta implicitly or explicitly maintained distinctions between street art, graffiti art (which was not necessarily oriented to communicating messages to the public but was nevertheless admired for its aesthetic value), and “scrawls” (corat-­coretan, which consisted of tagging and other marks that were not legible to a general public). Although frequently invoked, no clear and consistent set of criteria demarcated these categories. Street artists criticized “scrawling” not only for its absence of socially/politically/aesthetically valuable content but also as a practice, pointing to a lack of etiquette among “taggers.” Several street artists I spoke with expressed sympathy for business and homeowners whose private walls were tagged, and one argued that when street artists became “arrogant” and insensitive to the communities within which they worked, their works became a form of “visual garbage” (sampah visual), a term to which I will turn in the following section.44 Even as they made these distinctions, street artists knew that any crackdown on so-­called scrawls might catch them in its net as well. If it was difficult to distinguish street art from “scrawls,” it was easier to find a common enemy in unauthorized (or, as in the case of Kewek Bridge, F I GU R E S 5 . 2 0   –   2 2 5 .2 0 . A street food vendor reads the paper against a backdrop of urban “scribbles,” Yogyakarta, 2013. 5 .2 1 .

Urban “scribbles,” Yogyakarta, 2013.

5 .2 2 .

Urban “scribbles,” Yogyakarta, 2013.

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improperly authorized) advertisements. Shared opposition to unsightly ads provided common ground for street artists and those interested in beautifying and regulating public space. Jokowi’s Jakarta policy, notably, was directed at both “scrawls” and unauthorized advertisements, and artists and their supporters sought to reorient the goal of “cleaning” and “beautifying” the city to address rogue advertising and the commercialization of public space as opposed to the more slippery issue of graffiti vandalism. In a newspaper editorial, a sociologist observed that Jokowi’s policy marked a shift in leadership style away from “serving the citizens to authoritarianism,” but he applauded the targeting of illegal ads: “People should be punished if they glue commercial posters on walls as they are misusing public spaces for commercial purposes.”45 Similarly, artists argued that the city’s resources would be better spent on removing “commercial ads that have no permission” than on punitive measures against members of the public seeking to express themselves — in whatever form — on the city’s surfaces. In redirecting attention to the problem of rogue or “wild” (liar) advertising, street artists formed an uneasy alliance with groups demanding that the government play a more active role in regulating public space. In public debates about urban inscriptions, the unstable opposition between street art and both “scrawls” and advertising rested on the presumption that street art served the public by expressing popular sentiments, commenting on matters of common concern, or providing beautiful images, whereas both commercial ads and “scrawls” served only narrow, privatized (commercial or personal) interests.46 Nevertheless, the claim that street art genuinely constituted “public” expression was never a secure one. At one public discussion about street art, for example, an audience member pointed Street Signs  189

out that, like scrawls, “sometimes street art isn’t understood by the general public either.”47 In her analysis of street art in Indonesia, Doreen Lee argues that “Much public art in Indonesia is met with polite indifference, arising from . . . an attention as yet unformed, and a mode of perception that accommodates the visual without necessarily being dominated by it,” thereby suggesting that street art does not always rise as meaningful signal above the surrounding visual noise.48 Yet some city residents also seemed invested in these distinctions.49 On a street lined with quaint, colonial-­era houses near the city center, where walls were covered with scribbles, one owner had painted a message on a pristine wall: “If you are an educated person, don’t scribble on this wall!!” (figure 5.25). The wall remained untouched, its message curiously respected. At another location in the city, on a freshly whitewashed wall, someone had written, in polite Javanese, “Go ahead, draw something good on it” (figure 5.26). “Clean Up Visual Garbage”

As the Kewek Bridge conflict exemplified, street artists’ claim to the street as canvas increasingly faced competition from advertising that aggressively colonized public surfaces. The post-­Suharto era’s highly competitive ecoF I GU R E S 5 . 2 3 - 5 . 2 4 5 .2 3 . Mural painting by Abimanyu Street Art in progress, with accompanying photographic documentation. For the completed mural, see figure 5.40; plate 14. Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author. 5 .2 4 . Street art painted over in response to the Jokowi policy, Jakarta, May 24, 2013. Image used with permission of Agung Firmanto B. on behalf of urbancult.net.

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nomic climate coupled with new, inexpensive technologies for digital printing, which made advertising significantly cheaper to produce, rendered the Indonesian city an ever-­more-­dense tangle of signs. Political democratization and decentralization also played a role in the rising visual clamor of the street. As candidates competed in local, regional, and national general elections, they came to rely on campaign posters and billboards to promote themselves.50 City regulations about where and for how long signs could be posted were regularly disregarded and rarely enforced. This excess of street advertisements came to be known as “visual garbage.” Concerns about the visual disorder of the street formed part of a broader public dissatisfaction with the city government’s failure to regulate the urban environment for the benefit of citizens. The problem of “visual garbage” thus was linked to concerns about pollution, traffic, lack of public facilities, illegal use of urban space, and unregulated development. In Yogyakarta in April 2013, for example, a pantomime group presented “Trotoar” (“Sidewalk”), a performance protesting the misuse or lack of public sidewalks and asserting the rights of pedestrians in general and the disabled in particular. The show sought to “raise awareness” in the face of “the apathy of the public and city government,” and, as the director put it, to “give voice” to the city’s identity crisis. Once “known as a city of art,” Yogyakarta “now can’t be separated from traffic, visual garbage, and lack of public facilities.”51 FIGURES 5.25–5.26 5 . 2 5 . “If you are an educated person, don’t scribble on this wall!!” Yogyakarta, June 2013. Photo by author. 5 . 2 6 . “Go ahead, draw something good on it,” Yogyakarta, June 2013. Image used with permission of Agung Firmanto B. on behalf of urbancult.net.

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In 2012, Sumbo Tinarbuko, a graphic design lecturer at the Indonesian Institute of Art started a “movement” he called Clean Up Visual Garbage (Reresik Sampah Visual [Jav.]).52 The group’s title recalled New Order projects to “clean up” the city through top-­down urban planning and raids on illegal markets, street vendors, and other elements of the informal sector occupying public space. Indeed, the idea of “cleanliness” has, since the colonial era, been closely linked to state policies imposing social hygiene, order, security, and political orthodoxy. But the use of Javanese (reresik) rather than Indonesian recast this official discourse of cleanliness in a local, populist, and culturally intimate idiom. Tinarbuko emphasized that he was not against advertising per se, but he stridently opposed what he referred to as the “visual terror” caused by the excessive, unregulated signage cluttering urban vistas. Whereas both scrawlers and “wild” advertisers viewed any surface of the city as a potential site for inscription, the anti – visual garbage movement sought to reassert distinctions among different kinds of urban space and to establish norms of access and use. It also sought to raise awareness among city dwellers of their “right” not to be inundated by “wild” (liar) advertising. Tinarbuko and his followers (many of them his students) pursued their aims through a variety of means that ranged from weekly street actions, in which they would tear down violating advertisements, to press releases and opinion columns in local newspapers, to documentary videos posted on YouTube, the group’s Facebook page, and its website. Despite its do-­it-­yourself practice and rhetoric, the group’s goal was ultimately to goad the government into better regulation of urban space. Tinarbuko hoped his movement would pressure the city into enforcing existing laws and creating new ones governing the duration and location of advertising. The Kewek Bridge “attack” on March 1, 2013, was an outgrowth of an action that had taken place the previous month. Care for the City (Merthi Kutha [Jav.]) was organized by urban bicycle activists in collaboration with Clean Up Visual Garbage and other groups concerned with quality of and access to public space.53 On February 10, 2013, as part of that action, activists presented a surprise birthday gift to the mayor. “Mayor of Yogyakarta Has a Birthday, Given Gift of Visual Garbage,” read the headline of one local newspaper article, which featured a photograph of a street in which billboards and banners of all shapes and sizes and colors presented a garish mosaic of text and image to vehicles traveling in the thoroughfare.54 The article reported that activists had brought hundreds of exemplars of “visual garbage” to City Hall and presented them to the mayor: “The head of the 192  chapter five

[Clean Up] Visual Garbage Community, Sumbo Tinarbuko, says, the gift that has been given by various communities demonstrates their love toward the city of Yogyakarta so that it will not continually be terrorized by visual garbage.” The Clean Up Visual Garbage movement embraced citizen empowerment and civic engagement while rebuking the state for its abdication of responsibility.55 As is the case elsewhere, this form of care for the city was largely a middle-­class preoccupation. Those who “cluttered” the streets with ads, signage, and vending stalls were often members of a marginal urban underclass eking out a living. Writing of public debates about litter in Cyprus, Vassos Argyou observes that, “those whose lives are dominated by economic necessity, who experience the world as a compelling urgency and struggle with it at the most basic level of existence, are objectively disinclined to reduce it to the status of a landscape.”56 Nevertheless, public space activists organizing “caring for” actions presented themselves as spokespeople for the collective citizenry of Yogyakarta. A letter presented to the mayor by the organizers of the General Attack of March 1, 2013, for example, was signed “in the name of the community [masyarakat] of Yogyakarta.”57 Although they had the most resonance and urgency among the educated middle class, Clean Up Visual Garbage’s concerns about visual pollution did find echoes in the quotidian commentaries of a wide range of city residents. In 2013, I lived close to the major north-­south artery that led directly to Mount Merapi, the massive volcano located twenty kilometers to the north of Yogyakarta. Development along the street was proceeding rapidly, and formerly rural areas north of the city were quickly taking on the character of dense urban neighborhoods. As green space disappeared, the road became increasingly clogged with traffic and fringed with a battery of advertising banners, billboards, posters, and signs announcing cell phone sales, fried chicken, spicy sauce, cosmetics, driving schools, cigarettes, shampoo, skin-­ lightening creams, upcoming music events, Islamic preschools, and pyramid scheme seminars. Smiling, airbrushed models pictured on giant billboards, some of which spanned the width of the four-­lane road, loomed over the cars like happy giants. Alongside expressions of frustration about the congested traffic and nostalgic recollections of a more peaceful city, a common complaint was that one could no longer see the iconic cone of Mount Merapi. The volcano was now almost completely blocked, appearing only occasionally between the buildings and signs. Even in those glimpses, its singular, towering presence seemed diminished by the visual jumble asserting itself in the foreground of one’s vision (figure 5.27). Street Signs  193

Visual Terror

The term “visual garbage” evoked the assaultive impact of an excess of urban inscription on the senses of city dwellers. In April 2013, just a few weeks after street artists and urban activists reclaimed the Kewek Bridge, a series of banners appeared that could more literally be termed acts of “visual terror.” In the wake of an extrajudicial killing of four imprisoned men by members of Indonesia’s elite Special Forces (Kopassus), banners proclaiming popular support for the Indonesian military and issuing pointed threats began to crop up at busy intersections throughout the city (figure 5.28). These banners bring to the fore some of the dilemmas and uncertainties entailed in the use of the street as a channel for “public” inscription. On March 23, 2013, members of a Special Forces unit broke into a jail and executed four suspects being held there. A few days before, the four men had allegedly killed a plainclothes Kopassus intelligence agent, Sergeant Heru Santoso, during a fight at a nightclub.58 The four suspects were being held temporarily at Cebongan Prison in Sleman, a large district in F I G U R E 5 . 2 7 . The cone of Mount Merapi visible behind a forest of signs, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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the northern part of the city. In an efficient and highly professional operation, at least eleven masked men arrived at night by truck, overwhelmed the prison guards, disabled the security cameras, herded inmates into a single cell, and summarily executed the accused men, all while one of the masked men kept time with a stopwatch. As it became clear that the killers had been Kopassus members, military and political figures began speaking admiringly in the press of the “esprit de corps” that operated within the Special Forces, apparently mandating the revenge killings as a matter of “honor.”59 When the perpetrators turned themselves in, President Susilo Bambang Yudoyono, a former general, and other retired and active military figures praised their kesatriaan (warrior’s honor). Facebook pages, blogs, twitter feeds, and statements in the press supporting the Kopassus killers appeared within days and began to frame the killings as a defense of the city from forces of criminality that, allegedly, were spinning out of control.60 In public discourse about the killings, the four murdered men were labeled preman, a term that is not easily translated into English but roughly means petty criminals or thugs. Derived from the Dutch Pro-military banners amid other street signs, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 5.28.

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“free man” (vrij man), it refers to members of neighborhood-­based criminal gangs, some of which were coopted during the New Order as informal militia deployed by state agencies and security forces for tasks of intimidation and enforcement.61 Far from being autonomous agents, preman are often tied to both regional and national networks of official power. Nevertheless, preman are also identified as the source of highly local forms of criminal activity and violence. On April 7, a group calling itself Yogyakarta Youth against Premanism (Pemuda Yogyakarta Anti-­Premanisme) held a vigil in the center of the city in support of the Kopassus killers, attended by approximately two hundred people.62 It was after this event that the banners began appearing.63 Hung at major intersections, the printed banners blared slogans in affect-­laden tones that ranged from sentimentality to ominous threat. Many expressed gratitude and affection for the Special Forces, the Army, and less frequently, the police. In bubbly red letters, they gushed, “I heart tni [The Indonesian Army],” “I heart Kopassus,” “I heart Polisi,” and “I heart Yogyakarta” (figures 5.29 and 5.30). The puffy red hearts signifying “love” and the soft rounded letters gave them an unthreatening, feminized feel. Written partly F I GU R E 5 . 2 9 .

Pro-Special Forces banner (detail), Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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in English, they evoked the cosmopolitan, emoji-­style idioms of popular, global youth media. By contrast, other banners shouted angrily aggressive messages in unadorned black (or red) letters against a white background: “Eradicate preman, including those who wear the mask of religion, down to their roots”; “Preman repent! If not . . . we will help you meet your god”; “No matter when and where, preman are garbage”; and “If a million preman die, Yogakarta will not be worse off” (figures 5.31 through 5.33; plate 24). The likening of preman to “garbage” suggests how middle-­class desires to “clean up” the city resonate with more violent attempts to purge it of undesirable elements. Some banners voiced xenophobic chauvinism against alleged “outsiders” disturbing Yogyakarta’s naturally peaceful state. One read, “Premanism is not the character of Yogyakartans. Go or be kicked out!” The banners that cropped up throughout the city and remained in place for several months were part of a larger media campaign to divert public attention away from a human rights violation and toward an alleged crisis of F I G U R E 5 . 3 0 . “Yogyakarta, a safe and comfortable city to visit and live in.  —  Anti-Violence and Anti-Premanism People of Yogyakarta.” Banner, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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criminality. Many of those who supported the Kopassus killers were powerful figures with access to the mainstream print and electronic mass media.64 The street, in this case, was not a channel of communication deployed as a last resort by those whose voices were excluded from more formal and legitimated arenas of the public sphere. Rather, the street served as a platform alongside (and in collaboration with) other media of the public sphere. To address why and how street banners were mobilized we need to look at both their content and their form. Street banners, or spanduk, occupy urban space in close proximity to the street art, graffiti, and advertisements discussed so far, sharing some of their formal and ideological characteristics while having distinctive valences as well. The so-­called General Attack of March 1, 2013, had explicitly invoked a historical event in the revolutionary past. In contrast, the banners that framed the extrajudicial killings as a necessary, justified, and heroic response to criminality more implicitly drew on the past to frame the present. The banners recalled the killing of thousands of preman by the New Order state in the mid-­1980s, a far less openly discussed episode in the nation’s history than the revolution. In the mid-­1980s, urban criminal gangs became the target of a campaign of extrajudicial killings in major cities after Suharto decided that F I GU R E S 5 . 3 1 – 5 . 3 2

“Eradicate preman, including those who wear the mask of religion, down to their roots.  — Anti-Violence and Anti-Preman People of Yogyakarta.” The banner below (only partially visible) reads, “Preman Repent! if not . . . we will help you meet your god.” Banners, Yogyakarta, 2013 (see also plate 24). Photo by the author. 5 .3 1 .

5 .3 2 . “No matter when and where, preman are garbage!”  — Pasikaton diy. Banner with insignia of the Sultan’s Palace militia, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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they were becoming too powerful. Taken away in the night by men who arrived in black cars with tinted windows, the alleged criminals reappeared as bodies riddled with one or more bullet wounds, which were left on the streets to serve, in President Suharto’s words, as a kind of “shock therapy.” Known as Petrus (short for Penembak Misterius, or Mysterious Shooter), this campaign was a thinly veiled act of state violence that intimidated large swathes of the urban population by impressing upon them the state’s ability to identify its enemies and use deadly force against them.65 Although Suharto later openly claimed responsibility for the killings, this historical episode is neither taught in schools nor discussed in mainstream historical accounts. The 2013 anti-­preman banners recalled the Petrus killings, but there were several crucial differences between the present and that earlier moment. The attacks on preman in 1985 – 86 were an assertion of the power of a centralized state embodied in the figure of the authoritarian ruler (who later revealed himself to be the author of the killings). By contrast, the discourse of 2013 explicitly framed the need to “eradicate” preman around the failure of (civilian branches) of the state to protect citizens. The Cebongan Prison episode and its aftermath pointed to a fragmented state riven by competing factions, particularly the military and the police.66 The anti-­preman rhetoric that followed the killings also tapped into new ethnic and social tensions in Yogyakarta. Whereas the Petrus killings of the 1980s had undermined a highly localized power structure of gangs identified with particular urban neighborhoods, in 2013 those targeted as preman were marked as outsiders, people perceived as ethnically, culturally, and reli“If a million preman die, Yogyakarta won’t be worse off.” Banner, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

FIGURE 5.33.

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giously different from Yogyakarta’s asli (authentic/original) population.67 The four men who had been assassinated were from Eastern Indonesia, and were described in the press in ways that conformed to a stereotype about Eastern Indonesians as kasar (harsh, rough, rude), amoral (and non-­Muslim), and prone to criminality. These stereotypes were a subtext to the banners’ paranoid discourse figuring a city under threat from dangerous outsiders. Finally, and most relevant for our purposes, the presence of the banners on the streets marked a crucial difference between the 2013 murders and the Petrus killings. As Abidin Kusno notes, “In contrast to the New Order state, which used to be the center of authority, constantly controlling and watching the behavior of its subjects, the post-­Suharto state is under the gaze of the public.”68 In the 1980s, the “mysterious” killings appeared in the national press only in highly circumscribed and coded ways. The bodies left on the streets were visible but mute signs of terror about which there could be no open public dialogue. Banners were not necessary during the Petrus killings because at the height of authoritarian power there was no need for state violence to seek ratification by public opinion. By contrast, the Cebongan Prison killings were on the front page of national and local newspapers for weeks. The military provided press releases and public statements promising a transparent investigation and a fair judicial process. Civil society groups and the National Human Rights Commission also issued statements protesting the violation of human rights and calling for independent investigation of the case. The banners on the streets of Yogyakarta, like the Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, and op-­eds that appeared in other media, generated the appearance of popular support for the killings. In the era of transparency and democracy, state violence must appear as a response to public demand. Media ideologies are historical artifacts, sedimentations of a medium’s past uses. The term spanduk (a combination of the Dutch words span and doek, or “span-­cloth”) suggests the street banner’s colonial-­era lineage. Like street art, banners bear the imprimatur of popular political expression dating back to anti-­colonial nationalist activism; hand-­painted cloth banners were used during the Indonesian Revolution alongside the wall paintings and posters from which street art draws its nationalist authority. Spanduk also carry the memory of later periods of popular mobilization. Images of students holding painted anticommunist banners during the demonstrations of 1965 – 66, for example, are included in high-­school history textbooks; images of protestors bearing spanduk during the Reformasi movement in 1998 have become similarly iconic. 200  chapter five

During the New Order, local supporters of opposition parties often hung banners during licensed political campaign periods. When I asked anthro­ pologist, activist, and lifelong Yogyakarta resident Bambang Ertanto about the history of spanduk, he recalled the banners made by supporters of pdi (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia, one of two opposition parties allowed to “compete” in New Order elections) when he was a youth in the 1980s.69 They were, he recalled, a means for those who “didn’t have a voice” to express their aspirations (opposition parties inevitably lost to the ruling party, Golkar). Handmade and hung at the entrances to particular neighborhoods, spanduk utilized the humorous, informal, and highly localized idioms of the lower classes. Yet spanduk were also coopted by the New Order state as a vehicle of propaganda. In the mid-­1990s, as a result of new printing technologies, printed spanduk began to replace hand-­painted versions.70 While retaining via location and medium an aura of popular expression, printed banners bearing political messages simultaneously took on the impersonal, formal authority of official pronouncements. Enthusiastically proclaiming support for a government program, echoing an official slogan, or joining a chorus of congratulations to the Army on a holiday, state propaganda banners presented official discourse “as if” it issued from the public. This ambiguous amalgamation of popular and official authority has remained a key feature of the spanduk in the post-­Suharto period. “Civil society” groups echoing and reworking New Order – era state propaganda frequently deploy street banners, warning the public, for instance, to “Beware of the latent danger of Communism.”71 This recycling of official discourse by civil society groups further blurs the borders between state propaganda and popular expression. As with other forms of impersonal “public writing,” the banner’s claim to speak to and for all citizens comes with a troubling lack of guarantee.72 Ambiguity about authorship surrounded the pro-­Kopassus, anti-­preman banners that appeared on the streets in 2013 in the wake of the extrajudicial killings. This uncertainty was not put to rest by the names and logos of sponsoring groups which appeared, like a kind of signature, beneath or alongside many of the banners’ slogans. Ostensibly they identified local citizens’ groups that had sprung up “spontaneously” in response to the killings. Yet because the names and logos were new and unknown, the collectivities they represented remained obscure. Rather than revealing who was “behind” the banners, the attributions merely stimulated speculation that these groups were fronts, beyond which lay, ultimately, the military itself. Many believed that the national media campaign surrounding the CebonStreet Signs  201

gan Prison raid was part of an effort to burnish Kopassus’s reputation in the lead-­up to the election of 2014, in which a former Kopassus commander, Prabowo Subianto, was a candidate for president. Others saw the campaign as a skirmish in an ongoing conflict between the military and the police. Activists and others with progressive politics expressed doubt that the banners authentically voiced the sentiments of actual Yogyakartans. At a showing of documentary films about state violence organized by several film and activist communities as an effort to counter the pro-­Kopassus campaign, a design professor from a local college argued that the banners only made it appear “as if the people support this kind of behavior.”73 He contrasted the homogeneity in both appearance and rhetoric of the 2013 banners with the handwritten spanduk of the Indonesian revolution. As he and others argued, the quantity, relative uniformity, and printed nature of the contemporary banners “proved” that they were part of a well-­funded, orchestrated campaign rather than the spontaneous, authentic expressions of local citizens (epitomized in the hand­made revolutionary banners of the past). That those organizing the media campaign were sensitive to the appearance of authenticity became evident at the military trial of the eleven accused F I GU R E S 5 . 3 4   –   3 7 5 .3 4 . The banner reads, “Get Rid of Preman, Uphold the Supremacy of Law.” Antipreman demonstration in front of the court on the fourth day of the trial of Kopassus soldiers for the Cebongan Prison killings. Photojournalists in the foreground document the event. Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013. 5 .3 5 . “We do not accept Kopassus’s guilt, because Kopassus defends the truth. National Commission on Human Rights, are you blind?!” The second sentence in smaller letters is in Low Javanese. Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013.

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Kopassus members in June 2013. On the fourth day of the trial, a small demonstration took place in the parking lot in front of the courthouse, which was located on the outskirts of Yogyakarta. Led by a man with a megaphone, several men carried a large printed, vinyl banner bearing the slogan “Get Rid of Premanism, Uphold the Supremacy of the Law.” The Movement for a New Indonesia (a group affiliated with Prabowo Subianto’s Gerindra party) appeared as the banner’s sponsor (figure 5.34). One man distributed a printed broadsheet describing the suffering of Yoygakarta’s “little people” (wong cilik [Jav.] or rakyat kecil [Ind.]) under the scourge of premanism to the demonstration’s small audience (mostly local and national journalists covering the trial). The banner-­bearing men were joined by about ten becak (pedicab) drivers who stood silently next to their vehicles, which were draped with white paper signs with crudely lettered, handwritten slogans: “The People of Yogyakarta support Kopassus, Indonesia without Kopassus will be destroyed. The Police and the Army are very needed by the People”; “Free Kopassus, Yes”; and “We will not accept it if Kopassus is Found Guilty Because Kopassus Defends Truth” (figures 5.35 though 5.37). These paper signs mixed colloquial Javanese and Indonesian and contained many spelling errors, all 5 . 3 6 . “If premanism goes away we will be very happy. Free the twelve Special Forces soldiers so that Jogja [Yogyakarta] is safe and peaceful.” Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013. 5 . 3 7 . “The National Commission on Human Rights must understand it’s clear that the guilty one is the preman / If he is not killed he definitely will kill again . . . ???” Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013.

All photos by the author.

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indexes of their sincerity as authentic popular expression. But, appearing alongside the printed, large vinyl banner and the printed broadsheet, this display of the unvarnished, “genuine” sentiments of the rakyat (folk) looked like a crude act of ventriloquism. The appearance of popular support for the killings had been carefully manufactured, but the banners condemning premanism and celebrating Kopassus nevertheless effectively triggered a resurfacing of New Order discourses that legitimized state violence in the name of stability and order. Having never heard people speak openly in public about the Petrus killings, I was struck by how readily, in casual conversations at food stalls, markets, and other public places, people began to echo the discourse of the spanduk. Even those who did not endorse the killings at Cebongan Prison seemed suddenly convinced that premanism was a terrible problem with which the police and other authorities had failed to deal effectively. (Journalists and academics I spoke with, however, denied that criminality was a problem of particularly large proportions at this time.)74 Riding in a taxi one day in mid-­ April, I pointed out a spanduk referring to preman as “garbage” to the driver as we were stopped at a light. He cheerfully repeated back to me the words of another banner hanging in a different part of the city: “If a million preman die, Yogyakarta won’t be worse off.” “But how,” I asked, “do you know who is a preman? What if you pick the wrong person?” To which he blithely replied, “Oh, it’s easy to find preman. Just get one and all his people will come out. . . . It’s just like before, like Petrus, they will get shot. . . . Later, there’s going to be another Petrus.” He seemed almost gleeful at this prospect. The banners posed a problem for those championing the street as a space of dialogue ideally accessible to all. Defenders of the overtly violent and intimidating banners drew on democratic discourses of openness, access, and freedom of speech to legitimate their presence in the city. Among them was the sultan (and governor) of Yogyakarta, who argued that the banners should be tolerated as expressions of popular sentiment: “Hanging banners and posters is one way of putting forth the aspirations of the people of Yogyakarta. As long as it does not violate rules, the banners and posters can’t be forbidden.”75 When I asked for his take on the banners, the founder of Clean Up Visual Garbage argued for their removal, precisely because they violated rules (rather than because of their offensive content). Those hanging the banners, Tinarbuko told me, had not acquired official permission, had hung them in areas where spanduk were forbidden, and had left them in place for too long. Acknowledging these procedural errors, a government official nevertheless affirmed that “these are the aspirations of the people.”76 204  chapter five

Street artists I spoke with viewed the banners as a cynical appropriation of popular forms of expression, yet their commitment to the ideal of the city as an open space for the exchange of ideas made them hesitant to condemn them outright. They viewed themselves as defenders of the right of all people to communicate their ideas directly to the public in the street, even when those ideas were offensive to some. Would not any appeal to authorities to remove the banners lead to the curtailment of their own access to the street and ability to put forward controversial messages in public? Within the dialogic ethic embraced by street artists, the only possible response to the banners was to counter them. Ethics of Dialogue

For street artists, the street is a space in which a democratic public sphere can be enacted and rendered visible.77 By virtue of occupying public space, urban inscriptions necessarily engage in a visible conversation. They operate relationally, whether through the happenstance of juxtaposed proximity to other signs or through intentional, direct commentary and allusion. Through frequent acts of collaboration among street artists, as well as a verbal and visual aesthetic of intertextual density, a kind of visual call-­and-­ response takes place among works of street art and between these works and other images and texts circulating in public. Within days, a poster appeared in several sites in the city that answered back to the barrage of pro-­Kopassus, anti-­preman banners. The work of Antitank, the young street artist we met at the opening of the chapter, it showed a silhouetted profile of a ski-­masked figure carrying a military-­issue machine gun (figure 5.38).78 Its simple text read, “Beware! Preman Crying Preman” (“Awas, Preman Teriak Preman”). The text played on a common phrase in Indonesian, maling teriak maling, or “thief crying thief” (the idio­ matic equivalent of “the pot calling the kettle black”). The poster’s implication was that Kopassus was deflecting attention away from their own lawless criminality by pointing a finger at others. On his website, Antitank described his poster as an “opposing opinion,” intended to counter what he called the “massive indoctrination of the people of Yogyakarta” enacted through the banners.79 In a city known for its highly vocal activists and street artists, other signs of opposition were notably few. It is one thing to protest corruption, environmental degradation, and globalization, and quite another to take on the Indonesian Special Forces. Some feared escalating an already volatile situaStreet Signs  205

tion. Antitank, a lean man in his twenties with angular features, intense eyes under heavy brows, and a flashing smile, had first come to Yogyakarta from his home in Medan, Sumatra, to study graphic design. At a local coffee shop one afternoon, he reflected on the street artist’s self-­assigned role as fierce and fearless social critic: At the time I felt, this really can’t be ignored, you know . . . so I put [the “Preman Crying Preman” poster] out, and some of my friends [in the street art community] were caught off guard. . . . There were some friends, especially people from here, who said, “We should be calm first, don’t do anything in the streets, anything that could heat up the situation,” their language was like that. I got together with them, I was told, . . . “We should, you know, we should hold back, don’t do anything too fast, let the situation become calm first,” like that. But I thought, “What? If you want to eat something good . . . cook it with a hot stove, F I GU R E S 5 . 3 8 – 5 . 3 9 5 .3 8

“Beware! Preman Crying Preman,” poster, Antitank, Yogyakarta, 2013.

Antitank’s “Beware! Preman Crying Preman” poster almost obscured by graffiti, Yogyakarta, 2013.

5 .3 9 .

Photos by the author.

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you know . . . [cook it] with a hot fire!” So, yeah, in the end I was sure, there must be a counter, an opposing opinion in the street. To respond to the banners.80 Antitank went on to describe how he had pasted one of his posters to a wall at 3 a.m., only to learn a few hours later through a friend’s text message that it had already been overwritten with graffiti in such a way that its message was almost entirely obscured (figure 5.39). If juxtaposition through shared occupation of space is one crucial element of the conversation among street signs, overwriting and erasure is another. Awareness of ephemerality, as well as a desire to extend the art’s messages beyond the street, prompts the obsessive documentation and internet archiving of street art by both its makers and fans. Nevertheless, there are informal codes of etiquette among street artists and other inscribers of urban space; one does not obscure another’s work until a sufficient interval of time has passed for the piece to make its impact. For Antitank, this rapid overwriting of his poster was an overt gesture of hostility intended to silence him. Annoyed at the graffiti writer’s violation of the tacit democratic ethos of street inscription, Antitank (having recognized his tag) contacted him and asked to meet. Antitank’s account of his conversation with the defacer of his poster illustrates some of the tensions between street artists and graffiti scrawlers, between outsiders and locals, and between street artists’ stance of oppositional critique and their precarious right to public space. “I asked, ‘What is your problem?’ and he said, ‘Well, I don’t agree with the message of your poster. Because your poster is provocative.’ ” The graffitist defended his act of defacement by suggesting that Antitank’s poster would incite violence and trigger a crackdown that would criminalize all popular urban inscriptions. Antitank responded by noting that arrest had always been an occupational hazard for street artists. Momentarily interrupting his narrative, Antitank paused and wryly observed, “Now if I had turned the tables, I could have said to him, ‘Hey, because of your graffiti, because of your graffiti that you scrawl all over the city, all street art may be criminalized. It could happen, right?’ ” Instead, he chose to emphasize their solidarity as urban inscribers through appeal to a shared democratic ethic. “If you don’t agree with my message, then make your own work [to oppose it].” Antitank came away from the encounter sensing that the graffiti writer’s hostility toward him was inflected with the local chauvinism permeating the current debate about premanism: “He said, ‘Don’t mess with our city,’ ” using Street Signs  207

the exclusive word for “our” (kami). Echoing the anti-­preman discourse, the graffiti writer cast Antitank (a non-­Javanese and non-­Muslim) as an outsider/ provocateur disturbing the “authentic/native” (asli) peacefulness of the city.81 In the weeks that followed the prison raid, I observed only two other works of street art that seemed overtly to respond to the Cebongan Prison case. One mural relied on the trope of the innocent child to figure a nation threatened by violent conflict (figure 5.40, plate 14).82 It pictured a cowering child flanked, on either side, by ominously silhouetted figures. On the left, the shadow figures were soldiers or riot police in tight and orderly formation; on the right, they appeared to be a mob of preman wielding knives and clubs. The mural’s plaintive slogan asked: “Is there any love left in Indonesia?” Figuring military and preman as equally weighted forces, and relying on a rhetoric of prepolitical national “love” figured in the innocent child, it lacked the pointed quality of Antitank’s accusatory image, which punctured and reframed the military’s anti-preman discourse.

F I GU R E 5 . 4 0 . “Is There Any Love Left in Indonesia?” mural by Abimanyu Street Art, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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The other work that joined the conversation supported rather than opposed the anti-­preman, anti-­outsider discourse. This poster juxtaposed the silhouette of a college graduate in cap and gown with a silhouette of a hatted figure overlaid with symbols of drug use, violence, theft, and gambling. It said, “[Come] to Yogya, Study What Is Good and Become a Good Citizen. Yogya [Is] Comfortable without Preman” (figure 5.41).83 The stiffness of the design and its lack of visual humor or verbal cleverness marked it as a failed imitation of street art. Although no one I spoke with knew who had put it up, some regarded it as an attempt by the pro-­Kopassus camp to appropriate the medium of street art. They likened this cynical (and unsuccessful) appropriation to the practice of hiring young street artists to paint advertising murals (such as those on the Kewek Bridge, for example). Antitank’s “Preman Crying Preman” was not entirely alone, however, in its condemnation of state-­sponsored, extrajudicial violence. High on a wall just in from a busy intersection where many of the most virulent anti-­

“Study What Is Good” poster by #savejogja, Yogyakarta, 2013. Image used with permission of Agung Firmanto B. on behalf of urbancult.net.

FIGURE 5.41.

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preman banners hung, a poster of the assassinated human rights activist Munir, also a work by Antitank, loomed. Floating above the scene, faded and worn, it provided a ghostly reminder of the unfinished struggle for human rights in Indonesia and another counter to the strident clamor of the banners occupying street level below (figure 5.42). Although its presence on the street preceded the promilitary banners, it, too, became folded into the ramifying image-­event prompted by the banners’ appearance. For those who happened to look up as they waited at the light, it flashed a warning and an appeal: “Refuse to Forget” (“Menolak Lupa”).

F I GU R E 5 . 4 2 . Antitank’s “Refuse to Forget” poster of Munir above a busy intersection, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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Repetition, Reproduction, and Authority

As noted in the introduction, images of Munir’s face inscribed on public surfaces enacted a refusal to forget by keeping the assassinated human rights activist visible to the public eye. Formally, in their reduced conventionality, and in many cases materially, in their printed or stenciled mode of production, images of Munir were marked by their amenability to reproduction, qualities that reinforced their impersonal and open-­ended mode of address and their readiness to travel. Appearing in small scale and large, in prominent and in unlikely corners of the city, images of Munir were less utterances attached to particular authors than recurrent apparitions, hauntings of public space (figure 5.43). These repeating inscriptions express a key strategy of political street art: “keep fighting and multiply” (tetap melawan dan berlipat ganda).84 Like Munir’s image, street art, banners, and other urban inscriptions F I G U R E 5 . 4 3 . This mural, with its proliferating images of Munir, gives visual form to the idea that “We are still here and will multiply.” Mural by Alit Ambara, Samuel Indratma, Ong Harry Wahyu, and Butet Kertaradjasa, Yogyakarta, 2013. Photo by the author.

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“multiply” through repeated marking of space and through remediation within other media. Recurrent appearances are critical to the way that urban inscriptions penetrate the distracted vision of the mobile urban subject and accrue the density and affective weight of a shared, collective sentiment. Remediation in print and electronic news media as well as internet-­based social media, meanwhile, amplifies the urban inscription’s message, enabling it to acquire dispersed and distant publics, and rendering it a detachable, mobile icon of popular sentiment. Street artists design works that, like advertisements, ideally function as “anonymous messages addressed to an abstract public.”85 Not coincidentally, given this affinity with advertising, many street artists, like Antitank, have formal training in graphic design. To be sure, street artists work hard to develop their own distinctive “brand” and thrive on the recognition they receive from an active community of peers and fans.86 But, as we have seen, one of the ways street artists distinguish themselves from “scrawlers” is via the claim that their appropriation of public space is not primarily motivated by narrow, personal purposes. Antitank, whose Munir poster was among the most widely reproduced, described himself less as an artist creating original artworks than as a medium of public communication: “I always place . . . myself as an agent, a supplier maybe, to make available images that are needed by other people. Maybe they have certain limitations that prevent them from making them. For example, technical limitations in drawing, or using the computer, [so] I place myself in that position.”87 Rather than the ultimate source of his message, Antitank imagined himself as a conveyor of messages people already “needed” to send. Echoing Yuswantoro Adi’s description of his money painting (in chapter 1), Antitank explained that he strove to create posters that could be easily understood and accepted by the “ordinary people” to and for whom he aimed to speak.88 The language and imagery employed had to be accessible and familiar; otherwise it would elicit “a kind of refusal” rather than a feeling among viewers “that it’s part of themselves.” In designing “Preman Crying Preman,” Antitank coupled an immediately recognizable image with a cleverly altered popular saying to achieve a poster that packaged pointed critique in accessible form. So, too, in refining his Munir poster, he had replaced his original slogan, “A person who is right will be killed,” for the less strident “Refuse to Forget,” because the original language was “typical activist, not the language of a person who works in the market, for example; not the language of an ordinary person, a person . . . who maybe doesn’t know about politics.” 212  chapter five

Form as much as linguistic and visual content contributes to the sense of images that are genuinely public. For Antitank and other artists who work with stencils or posters, the impersonality of the mechanically or digitally reproduced image reinforces the “democratic impersonality” of its address, cultivating a sense that the image emanates from an abstract and anonymous source rather than a private individual. Antitank’s posters are designed to be fully reproducible, transportable, and accessible; they are available on his website as easily downloadable pdf files that can be printed in a variety of formats: posters, stickers, or T-­shirts (figure 5.44). In an interview, he suggested that enabling people to take part in disseminating his images allows them to “feel that it is a part of themselves. I think that’s important. .  .  . The idea of it all is to motivate.”89 For these reasons, Antitank measured the success of an image by the extent to which it traveled and proliferated beyond his own agency: “It would be a shame if my work stopped with me.” On his website he posted images documenting the appearance of his posters in the mainstream print or electronic news (figure 5.45).90 Websites devoted to archiving street art likewise cultivate a participatory public for the art — a public that not only feels itself addressed by, but sees itself as having agency in animating, street art — by encouraging people to document street art and to share their images and commentary with others.91 Despite their differences in political orientation, the anti-­preman and pro-­Kopassus street banners, like street art, relied on repeated marking of public space and remediation to establish their authority as communications of as well as to the public. Their placement at major urban intersections not only maximized visibility but added to the impression that they spoke for the city as a whole. Repetition was also crucial: hundreds of banners dispersed in different parts of the city suggested a groundswell of collective sentiment rather than the work of a specific individual or narrow group. In their very ubiquity they took on a certain facticity, becoming an aggressively uncontestable feature of the urban landscape. Speaking to, for, and about the city of “Yogyakarta,” the banners were nevertheless part of a national media campaign. Anticipating remediation in print and electronic national news media, as well as internet-­based social media, the banners aimed to convince a national public that Yogyakarta’s citizens supported the extrajudicial killing by disseminating what appeared to be a local, popular sentiment as a visible fact to the rest of the nation. Articles and television reports that featured the banners mostly presented them as if they had appeared spontaneously on the streets, making little attempt to identify or track their origins. In this way, the banners were further deStreet Signs  213

F I GU R E 5 . 4 4 . Antitank’s website page for his Munir image, “Refuse to Forget” (“Menolak Lupa”). The page includes a discussion of the importance of continuing to fight for human rights in Indonesia, as well as instructions on how to download the image, discussion of the ethics of posting images in public spaces, and a request that the images be used only to “raise awareness” rather than for profit. It reads in part: “Please go ahead and download this poster, make it a poster, sticker, T-shirt, or whatever to support the process of justice for Munir and as a media for reminding ‘them’ that we are not satisfied and we will never forget this evil! See u on the street! it’s free!!” (italicized portion in English). From https://antitankproject.wordpress.com /2009/12/03/menolak-lupa-poster-project/.

F I G U R E 5 . 4 5 . Antitank’s website page archiving newspaper articles that include photographs of his “Beware! Preman Crying Preman” poster as visual icons of public debate. The caption on the lower clipping, from local daily Harian Jogja, reads: “Drivers pass by a poster on Mangkebumi Street, Jogja, Sunday (4/14 [2013]). Various opinions in the form of posters and banners both supporting and condemning premanism actions have increasingly appeared since the Cebongan Prison case.” From https://antitankproject.wordpress.com/2013/04/17/tribun-jogja-harian-jogja-poster -awas-preman-teriak-preman/.

tached from particular, interested agents and became the generic speech of the imagined collective subject of “Yogyakarta.” They appeared via journalistic photographs as visible icons of the city public’s sentiment. Similarities between street art and banners thus suggest some crucial features shared by urban inscriptions deploying the affordances of the street as a medium. At the most basic level, they take advantage of urban flows to reach people who, simply by virtue of their movements through the city’s arteries, become unwitting audiences to their messages. As addressees, even distracted or reluctant ones, they are hailed and constituted as a public. The claim of urban inscriptions to speak for and to the public is grounded first and foremost in their location on the street, imagined as the site where people realize their potential as a political collective to demand recognition and voice aspirations. Both street art and banners drew authority from a nationalist origin story, and both also based their “right” to occupy the street in postauthoritarian democratic ideals of freedom of expression and civic participation — in a right to publicity itself. Both use the street as a privileged location from which to intervene in public visuality through image-­events that frame and contest the terms of political visibility. Urban inscriptions claim public space as a forum for the expression of the sentiments of an abstract, collective “public.” Detachment from embodied presence reinforces the inscription’s impersonal, open-­ended mode of address and the generalized abstraction of the public it claims to speak both to and for. Meanwhile, amenability to reproduction and remediation lends the urban inscription the character of genuinely public property to which anyone can lay claim. Visualizing the Public

In December 2013 a group of Yogyakarta-­based photojournalists organized a photography exhibition addressing a crisis of urban public space. The title of the exhibit, “Yogya’s Stopped Being Comfortable” (“Yogya Berhenti Nyaman”), which played on the official New Order – era motto “Yogya Has a Comfortable Heart” (“Yogya Berhati Nyaman”), injected a note of nostalgia into the exhibit’s critique. On display were photographs depicting a range of urban problems, including many encountered in this chapter: the “visual garbage” of unregulated advertising and “scrawls,” the loss of public space and heritage sites to private development and commercialization, the congestion and pollution of urban streets, the inadequacy of public facilities, as well as violence, “criminality,” and ethnic tensions. Images of both the anti-­ 216  chapter five

preman banners and Antitank’s “Preman Crying Preman” poster appeared within the exhibition. Relying on photography to foster a public conversation about urban problems, the exhibition could only address those urban ills that presented themselves in a visual form amenable to photographic capture. “Yogyakarta” as a troubled collective subject was thus represented by the city’s visible surfaces; urban inscriptions became the means by which the elusive “voice” of an urban public could be made visible. A review in the national news magazine Tempo noted that the exhibit’s dystopic vision of urban space suggested that Yogyakarta was failing to “protect” its famed status as the “city of culture.”92 As with the Kewek Bridge General Attack and the Clean Up Visual Garbage actions, the photography exhibition was a performance of “caring” for the city undertaken by concerned citizens. By presenting an image of the city as suffering abandonment and neglect, the exhibition implicitly called for the return of a state that would play a more active custodial role over public space. As we have seen throughout this chapter, laments about the neoliberal withdrawal of the state and the breakdown of order coexisted rather dissonantly with enthusiasm about a post-­Suharto era of popular civic empowerment. The exhibition thus embodied conflicting impulses within postauthoritarian political imaginaries that echoed the contradictory figuring of urban inscriptions as iconic indexes of healthy or, alternately, “out of control,” democracy. This chapter has explored the role of urban inscriptions in envisioning and enacting — imagining and materializing — a new democratic public sphere since 1998. As I have argued throughout this book, different media of the public sphere produce and enable specific forms of visibility, conditioning the duration, scale, and political efficacy of image-­events. The exhibition suggests the importance of attending to a broader media ecology as urban inscriptions travel from the street to a wider realm of public circulation. As they are detached and remediated photographically into print, electronic, and digital media, urban inscriptions circulate as visual signs of popular sentiment, independent of their content. In extending the space of visibility carved out by street artists and other urban inscribers, photographic remediation also facilitates the process by which particular urban inscriptions became iconic of the threats and possibilities of an open and pluralistic democratic society. In their dialogic ethos and practice, street artists both perform and promote an ideal of an open public sphere and an engaged, participatory public. Remediations of their work in social media, archiving websites, and the press disseminate that ideal along with the particular urban inscriptions they put Street Signs  217

into further circulation. Yet street art’s claim to materialize the democratic ideal of an “open” public sphere is, in practice, a tenuous one. Gender and class exclusions among street artists, the actual material conditions of urban space as contested and increasingly privatized terrain, and the uncertain success of the effort to interpellate the wider audiences they seek to address, all undermine the claims of street artists to speak to and for “the public.” While the withdrawal of the postauthoritarian, neoliberal state has created the material conditions within which street art thrives, the excesses of both “wild” advertising and “scrawling” threaten to overwhelm the communicative efficacy of street art. Finally, liberal democratic ideals are pushed to their limits by the use of urban inscriptions for illiberal ends. Urban inscriptions’ claim to speak to and for “the public” comes with no guarantee.

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Jokowi and his crowd at Konser Salam 2 Jari (Two Finger Salute Concert) (detail) (see figure c.7). Photo by Jay Subyakto, reproduced with permission.

CONCLUSION

THE EYE OF THE CROWD

On July 9, 2014, the day of the presidential election, Indonesia’s decade-­and-­ a-­half-­long experiment with democracy seemed to hang in the balance. The two candidates running neck and neck appeared to embody a stark choice between continuation of the country’s uneven progress toward a more genuine democracy and return to a past of militarism, authoritarianism, and the politics of fear. Joko Widodo, known as Jokowi, was a political outsider whose meteoric rise from self-­made entrepreneur to presidential candidate was fueled by his low-­key persona and his hands-on, businesslike approach to management. A vote for Jokowi, it seemed, was a vote for technocratic pragmatism over ideology, hard work and efficiency over corruption, independence over party machinery, and optimism over threat. Jokowi’s opponent, Prabowo Subianto, the former son-­in-­law of ex-­president Suharto, was widely recognized as a human rights violator for his role in the kidnapping and disappearance of democracy activists in 1998. Tied to the political establishment and the ancien régime, Prabowo’s campaign cynically exploited

familiar rhetorics of anticommunism, antiforeign nationalism, and Islamic chauvinism.1 This book has examined a crisis of authority and authenticity in Indonesian political discourse since 1998 that I understand as a convergent outcome of the evacuation of the authoritarian political center, the rise of a polyphonic and complexly mediated public sphere, and investment in the democratic “dream of transparency.” I have attempted to show that images circulating in public are not epiphenomena but political events whose unfolding generates often unpredictable and at times consequential effects. By way of concluding the book, it seems fitting to reflect on the work of images in the lead-­up to and immediate aftermath of an election that, in a way, became a referendum on Indonesian democracy. The choice the election offered between returning to a nostalgicly romanticized past of authoritarian “order” and recommitting to the painstaking project of building a more just, egalitarian, and open Indonesia seemed to be embodied in each candidate’s fashion and campaign style: Prabowo wore a white safari suit with a red garuda (eagle) logo, blending the dull bureaucratic uniform favored by Suharto with the dashing white suits preferred by Sukarno. Jokowi wore a signature plaid button-­down shirt rolled up at the wrists, the distinctly modern but informal look of someone ready for the hands-­on work of governing. As the cultivated appearance of each candidate illustrated, this was very much a campaign of images.2 Image management has become ever more central to the conduct of politics as image forms and practices have proliferated and grown in significance, and as political visibility becomes ever more dependent on publicity. Internet-­based news and social media platforms circulate messages with unprecedented speed and reach, heightening the demand for images by creating an imperative to encapsulate political messages efficiently and with maximum punch.3 Like political candidates everywhere today, Jokowi and Prabowo relied on images to promote their recognition and desirability among would-­be voters. Meanwhile, those would-­be voters used images to comment on and participate in the political process itself. As I will argue in what follows, images and image making played a crucial role in the way Jokowi supporters performatively modeled a collectivity made up of self-­aware, self-­governing citizens. In seeking to carve out a space for a participatory, “clean” (noncorrupt), and authentic politics in line with a dominant, neoliberal vision of democracy, Jokowi’s supporters, or “volunteers” —  many of them young, urban, and middle class — self-­consciously formed 222 Conclusion

themselves into a political collectivity carefully distinguished from dangerously unruly or compliant political crowds. The two modes of image production and reception I have called the “evidentiary” and the “ludic” operated simultaneously and frequently blurred into each other in the Indonesian presidential campaign of 2014. Journalistic images of the candidates at rallies and campaign events established their public profiles. Because the digital era has not done away with the truth value of the photographic image, as is often facilely assumed, images still play an essential role in producing publicly recognized facts. Indeed, as I argued in chapter 2, where the ideal of transparency holds sway, the photograph can take on fetishized status arising from its claim to offer direct access to events and the transparent transmission of truths. The evidentiary photograph remains necessary to the conduct of politics in democratic contexts where there exists a prevailing ideal of “the public” as monitor and ratifying agent of political action. Nevertheless, as Walter Benjamin long ago predicted, and as previous chapters have indicated, ordinary people increasingly approach images — and the realities they present — as experts and critics.4 Despite widespread skepticism, the kind of scrutiny to which the evidentiary image is now routinely subjected reinforces the idea that there could be, ideally, a “true” photograph to which “falsified” or “manipulated” images are opposed. Social media platforms and digital image-­making tools have enhanced the ability of ordinary supporters to enact their political loyalty through producing, circulating, reworking, questioning, and commenting on images of their own and opposing candidates. The pervasiveness of doubt about appearances only heightens the desire for an authenticating guarantee, while the act of scrutinizing and verifying — as we saw in chapter 3 — has become an at once anxious and pleasurable performance of citizenship.5 In the arena of the internet, social media, and an array of popular image practices, however, images often operate in a ludic, rather than evidentiary, mode. This ludic mode deploys humor and playful irreverence to generat­e affective response and viral contagion. Such images make political arguments without recourse to an evidentiary guarantee. They tell “truths” by making visible — through juxtaposition, exaggeration, recombination, and clever interplays of text and image — that which is already known, suspected, or anticipated but not overtly apparent. Their obvious artifice and, frequently, lack of authorizing gestures become a source of authenticity in contrast to images that only pretend to offer credible, unmediated truths. Ludic images Conclusion 223

call into question the visual logic of transparency that underwrites hegemonic ideologies of democratic visuality. Yet they, too, can be animated by suspicion towards surface appearances and desire for revelation. Operating simultaneously and at times circulating via the same channels, evidentiary and ludic images are not always easily distinguished, moreover, because often what separates them are modes and practices of reception rather than qualities internal to the image. As the intensely close campaign drew to a finish, Prabowo’s camp turned to smear tactics.6 Attempts to tarnish Jokowi’s image involved the circulation of photographs and composite images that claimed to reveal hidden “truths” about Jokowi: that he was not who he appeared to be, or that he was actually a puppet manipulated by other powers, including ethnic Chinese, CommuF I GU R E S C . 1 - C . 6 C .1 . One of many memes showing Jokowi as a puppet of Megawati Sukarnoputri, 2014. From https://m.kaskus.co.id/thread/562cba9bd44f9f7e7f8b4567/megawati-disebut -tokoh-paling-mempengaruhi-kebijakan-politik-jokowi/1/?order=desc.

One of many memes showing Jokowi as Megawati’s baby, 2014. From http://www .kaskus.co.id/post/53543867fbcal75f048b4851 (accessed March 16, 2015).

C .2 .

An article in Kompas Online shows a man displaying Obor Rakyat, an anti-Jokowi tabloid. The tabloid’s cover features the headline “Puppet Candidate” and shows an image of Jokowi greeting Megawati respectfully. From Fabian Januarius Kuwado, “Ada Oknum Jurnalis Media Besar di Balik Tabloid ‘Obor Rakyat’?” Kompas.com, December 6, 2014, http://nasional.kompas.com/read/2014/06/12/1618338/Ada.Oknum .Jurnalis.Media.Besar.di.Balik.Tabloid.Obor.Rakyat. Photo by Kompas.com /Taufiqurrahman.

C .3 .

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nists, Christians, or various political elites. Among the latter, most frequent were images that figured pdi leader Megawati Sukarnoputri as the power behind Jokowi (see figures C.1 through C.3; plate 26). Photographs that revealed Jokowi as Chinese or non-­Muslim (figure C.4) or showed Jokowi or his supporters “as if” they were supporters of the outlawed and demonized Communist Party (figures C.5 and C.6), circulated via Twitter, Facebook, and text message. Some of these images were obviously artificed compositions, while others purported to be truthful records, and still others fell somewhere, ambiguously, in between these ludic and evidentiary poles. Whether they provoked belief, skepticism, delight, or derision depended less on the qualities of the image in question than on the position of the viewer. Visual forms of rumor, these unauthored images circulated virally, untethered Meme of a false obituary notice, figuring Jokowi as an ethnic Chinese. From https://en.tempo.co/read/576313/obituary-of-jokowi-appears-on-facebook-twitter.

C.4.

Meme allegedly showing Jokowi at an Indonesian Communist Party rally from the mid-1950s. From https://turnbackhoax.id/2018/01/15/edukasi-dimana-tni-dan -polri-dalam-isu-komunisme-atau-pki/.

C.5.

Meme with a montage linking Jokowi to Communism.Under the heading “Mental Revolution,” an image of Jokowi appears next to portraits of Communist leaders including Karl Marx and Indonesian Communist Party Chair DN Aidit, images of Jokowi allegedly at a Communist Party rally, and the widely circulated image of Jokowi bowing to Megawati Sukarnoputri. From http://statusindo.blogspot.com /2015/02/akhirnya-jokowi-terbukti-pki (accessed November 13, 2015).

C.6.

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from a clear origin, and easily shifting in valence depending on the context of their presentation. The anti-­Jokowi images produced by Prabowo supporters ramified in impact as they received commentary in the mainstream press and on social media. Some of this commentary involved attempts by Jokowi’s supporters to debunk the images’ claims, at times by dissecting exactly how the images had been manipulated. The forensic operations performed by urban, middle-­class Jokowi supporters often were accompanied by derisory comments about the lack of technical skill of Prabowo supporters, who resorted to crude and obviously detectable manipulations. Smear images were thus treated as aspiring but failed evidentiary images, and the spectacle of Jokowi supporters unmasking falsification was simultaneously a performance of transparency, an expression of political loyalty, and a class-­based assertion of authority rooted in technological mastery.7 The faith that such images could be disarmed through digital forensics reflected an elite assumption that ordinary viewers approached these images as technically unsophisticated, gullible literalists looking for “proof” rather than as sophisticated image-­consumers appreciating ludic visual commentaries. Jokowi’s Crowds

Countering the smear campaign, journalistic photographs showing Jokowi’s enthusiastic supporters helped foster the candidate’s image as a political outsider brought to power by a groundswell of ordinary people invested in his promise to bring about a nationwide “mental revolution.” Crowd shots of Jokowi’s supporters drew on the evidentiary and affective efficacy of the crowd as an indexical icon of popular support. Yet to be effective, these images required a perception of authenticity. First, the images themselves needed an authenticating guarantee to protect against charges that they were manipulated and falsified. Second, the pictured crowd’s authenticity needed to be secured through “disambiguation” from other, negative imaginings of political crowds in the national image archive.8 As it is elsewhere, the crowd is a fraught subject in Indonesia. Within political discourse the various nouns for embodied collectivities are slippery and ideologically freighted. The closest approximation to “crowd” in Indonesian is the threatening and unruly massa (masses), which stands in opposition to terms denoting more docile, disciplined collectivities such as warga (citizens) or the more abstract masyarakat (society).9 Massa are also distinct from rakyat (the people), a morally and affectively charged, ideal226 Conclusion

ized, nationalist-­populist category that is rarely used (anymore) to denote an actual embodied collective.10 Nevertheless a group of massa may claim to represent the rakyat, and both are associated with the lower classes. The word “massa” also denotes the crowds of supporters gathered at party rallies and political protests. The threatening connotation of these masses is a vestige of the New Order’s demonization of the Communist Party and of party politics in general. After coming to power through the brutal massacres and vilification of Communists and leftists, the New Order regime distanced its form of governance from the passionate ideological battles of the Sukarno era. It cast campaign rallies and politically animated crowds with a profoundly sinister tinge as inherently dangerous and threatening to the nation. “Politics” (politik) became a dirty word. In New Order ideology and policy, meanwhile, the “floating masses” referred to rural villagers who were deemed politically immature and thus in need of protection from contentious party politics, in which they could become dangerously caught up; instead they were to be given guidance from national elites and the state.11 The carefully orchestrated way that politics was performed during the New Order reinforced this threatening image of party supporters. During the limited, licensed campaign periods before elections, groups of support­­ers of opposition parties would “campaign” by roaring through city streets in elaborate shows of force on motorcycles, all wearing party clothing and bearing party banners and flags (and hand signals). “Masses” from competing political parties would sometimes come into violent conflict as they encountered each other on city streets. These performances of violent party loyalty reinforced the state’s depiction of politics as inherently threatening and excessive, while enabling a frisson of potential agency among opposition supporters to distract from the inevitability of their defeat by the bureaucratic ruling party, Golkar. (Golkar was not even officially a party but a “working group” comprising members of the military, civil servants, and ordinary citizens fearful of not toeing the line.) As John Pemberton has observed, New Order elections were ritualized spectacles that built up the sense of an approaching “moment” in which something could happen, only to ritually reinstate an ideal state of order in which nothing did.12 The return to a more genuinely competitive electoral politics after 1998 revived anxiety about political crowds. Viewed with contempt and suspicion by middle-­class Indonesians, the crowds at political rallies were often derided as either fanatically loyal to their party or “bought” — lured to the scene by the promise of money, food, entertainment, and a free T-­shirt. Both blind loyalty and cynical corruptibility indicated the political “immaturity” Conclusion 227

of Indonesian masses perceived as “not yet ready” for democracy. Given this ideological and historical context of suspicion toward the political crowd, if the Jokowi campaign needed images of crowds of supporters to evidence his popular support, it also needed to visualize a new kind of crowd that could signal a “clean,” “transparent,” and “mature” politics.13 By circulating their own counterimages of the crowd, and by figuring themselves as agents of vision, Jokowi supporters distinguished themselves from the negatively coded political “masses.” The idea of the crowd’s blindness is central to canonical sociological texts that oppose the dangerous, affectively charged crowd to a self-­organized, rational, and deliberative public made up of autonomous individuals. Within the canonical crowd, one experiences a loss of perspective and self-­awareness: “swept up in the crowd,” Gabriel Tarde wrote, the individual is “lost.”14 To the extent that the crowd has an aim, it is through an agency outside of itself — the crowd “blindly” follows a leader.15 When Gustav Le Bon wrote that the crowd “thinks in images,” he meant a sensory, affective “thinking with the body,” that “paralyzes” the critical faculty.16 Picture-­thinking was thus opposed to a way of seeing associF I GU R E S C . 7 – C . 10

Jokowi and his crowd at Konser Salam 2 Jari (Two Finger Salute Concert). Photo by Jay Subyakto, reproduced with permission.

C .7 .

Tweet showing Jay Subyakto and his photograph. This particular tweet was circulated by a well-known photographer, enhancing the authority of the image.

C .8 .

Tweet showing Jay Subyakto and his photograph. This tweet — one of many versions of the composite image to circulate on Twitter — was accomapnied by the text “People power!!!” C .9 .

228 Conclusion

ated with the awareness, reason, and self-­governance of the autonomous liberal subject. Similar notions of blindness and irrational, embodied response can be found in Indonesian accounts of crowds as well. When the masses rage out of control, engaging in wantonly destructive acts of looting or rioting, they are described as membabi buta, literally “going blind pig.” Denying such blindness — indeed, foregrounding their status as agents of vision — the Jokowi crowds disambiguated themselves from a more threatening imagery and imaginary of the massa. We can begin to see how the Jokowi crowd distinguished itself by looking at a particular photograph that became an image-­event in its own right (see figure C.7 and plate 22). The photograph was taken at a massive rock concert in support of Jokowi on July 5, 2014, just four days before the election. Despite rain and Ramadan, a crowd of a hundred thousand supporters filled the historic Bung Karno Stadium for the “Two Finger Salute” Concert (because Jokowi and his running mate were to be number two on the election ballot, the two-­finger victory symbol had become a widespread sign of support for their campaign). On the surface, this photograph appears to be a generic Image from an online news article showing a tweeted composite image of Jay Subyakto and his photo. Illustrating the way that Subyakto’s photograph moved across multiple media platforms, the caption reads: “A photo of Jay Subiakto [sic] photographing the Salam 2 Jari Concert . . . that spread via Twitter and a view photographed by Jay (right). The Twitter image was reproduced in an online news article about Subyakto’s photograph.” From Irfan Maullana, “Jay Subiyakto [sic] Bertaruh Nyawa demi Foto Terbaik Jokowi,” Kompas.com, July 6, 2014, http:// entertainment.kompas.com/read/2014/07/06/025438110/Jay.Subiyakto.Bertaruh .Nyawa.demi.Foto.Terbaik.Jokowi.

C.10.

Conclusion 229

image of the kind frequently circulated in political campaigns: the leader, alone on a stage, gazes out triumphantly at a massive crowd of supporters. It is a professional-­quality photograph, taken from a birds-­eye position inaccessible to those within the crowd, and its evidentiary aim is to “prove” that the candidate is, indeed, wildly popular. Yet this photograph came with a story that set it apart. As it circulated online and in print, it was often accompanied by another photograph showing a photographer perched on top of a massive screen located at the back of the stage from which Jokowi addressed the crowd (figures C.8 to C.13; see plate 19). It was a photograph of the crowd photograph being taken. Jay Subyakto, a celebrity photographer, videographer, and stage-­set designer, told reporters he was motivated to climb up to this precarious perch by a desire to show the true “people power” behind Jokowi.

F I GU R E S C . 1 1 – C . 1 3

Pictures of Jay Subyakto photographing, superimposed over his image of the crowd, served as a kind of signature guaranteeing the crowd photograph’s authenticity. This version was published on a blog. From https://masshar2000.com/2014/07/06 /kemeriahan-konser-salam-2-jari-di-gbk-jokowi-bacakan-maklumat/.

C .1 1 .

Tweet of another of Jay Subyakto’s photographs. Illustrating the sense of awe at both the size of the crowd and Subyakto’s photographic stunt, the text reads: “Cool!! @ReneCC: Another awesome view from today’s #Konser2Jari/Photo: Jay Subiakto [sic].”

C .1 2 .

This tweet showing Jay Subyakto on his perch emphasizes Subyakto’s selfless act of daring. The text reads: “Like a cool angel, @Jay_Subyakto will do anything. : ) #Konser2Jari #NGABUBURIT2Jari #Jokowi0Juli.”

C .1 3 .

230 Conclusion

Subyakto explicitly linked his desire to take this photograph to a different image of Jokowi facing a crowd that had circulated the previous month (figure C.14). That photo, which showed Jokowi in front of a massive crowd at the National Monument in Jakarta, had been met with claims by the Prabowo campaign that it had been photoshopped to enhance the size of the crowd.17 Red circles and inset close-­ups purported to show where the manipulation had occurred. Jokowi supporters, in turn, countered that the image had in fact been edited by Prabowo supporters. Allegedly, they had falsified it in order to doubly discredit Jokowi by creating the impression that he did not actually have the support he claimed and was guilty of manipulation.18 Such accusations and counteraccusations of photographic manipulation were potent political weapons in a context where the term “manipulated” (rekayasa), as we have seen elsewhere in this book, was a keyword of the Reformasi era, opposed to the authentic and the transparent. An account of Jay Subyakto’s photograph at the Jokowi-­benefit rock concert in the leading national news magazine Tempo noted, Meme indicating that the photograph of Jokowi before a crowd at the National Monument had been photoshopped to enlarge the size of the crowd. From “Foto-foto Kampanye Jokowi Diedit Pakai Photoshop?” Info Indonesia, June 30, 2104, http://infoindonesiakita.com/2014/06/30/foto2-kampanye-jokowi-diedit-pakai -photoshop/.

FIGURE C.14.

Conclusion 231

Jay feels fed up with people who underestimate the strength of support for Jokowi. Jay learned from the photo of Jokowi’s campaign at Monas. There were many who spread the rumor that the photo of Jokowi and his supporters at Monas was the result of editing that was taken from a photo in 1998. “I was fed up and wanted to document a photo of Jokowi myself and show, here, this is authentic, the supporters of Jokowi really are vast,” he said.19 By making his own act of photographing the crowd into a highly visible spectacle and grounding the authenticity of the image not only in photographic indexicality but in his professional authority and celebrity status, Subyakto sought to produce an image that would irrefutably “prove” the existence of the crowds. This crowd image came with an enhanced external guarantee of authorship to counter the skepticism with which it would be read; the photograph of Subyakto taking the photo functioned like a signature. As if anticipating that even this might not be enough, Subyakto had also taken video from his perch: “ ‘If there are still those who don’t believe it, just take a look at my video, later I’ll post it on YouTube,’ he said.”20 The frequent invocations of awe in accounts of Subyakto’s photographic stunt suggest that the image offered more than evidentiary “proof” — it also worked to generate an affective response to the crowd as a sublime object. Despite his own acknowledgment that he had worn a safety line and that he had designed the stage set specifically in order to enable him to climb to the top of the giant screen, newspaper and online accounts emphasized the mortal danger the photographer had put himself in by climbing up the twenty-­ meter steel frame of the screen. A typical newspaper headline read, “Jay Subyiakto [sic] Takes His Life in His Hands for the Best Photo of Jokowi.”21 In interviews, Subyakto described his willingness to “put his life on the line” for Jokowi, stating that, “For a person who is good and right, my life is nothing.”22 His discourse on risking his life elevated Subyakto as the heroic photographer, but at the same time, depicted him as humbled and small, worthless, before the great cause for which he was willing to sacrifice himself. The crowd itself — described as an “ocean of humanity” — provoked a sense of awe. Subyakto described how his body trembled as he looked out at the vast crowd.23 Jokowi himself related that the awesome spectacle of the crowd gave him a kind of faith that mere numbers could not provide: “When I entered [the stadium] and saw, I could not have imagined that so many would come. At that moment I believed in the calculation that I would certainly win.”24 In

232 Conclusion

newspaper reports, the Subyakto photograph partakes of the sublime, too; it is repeatedly described as “awesome” (dahsyat).25 Subyakto’s photograph surpassed calculation in another way. Like other Jokowi supporters, he insisted upon his status as a “volunteer.” Although the photograph looked like a glossy image produced for a campaign by a paid professional, it was not. It was motivated by sincerity, by a genuine commitment to Jokowi. As a volunteer, Subyakto was no different from the crowd below him, which was also made up of people who were there voluntarily. He noted, “The people’s enthusiasm [for Jokowi] is sincere (tulus). These are not people who’ve been paid, [they’re here] for a good person to lead our country. I also don’t need to be paid for an Indonesia that is better.”26 Twitter users echoed this idea; one described Subyakto as an “awesome volunteer, not a paid-­for volunteer.”27 Just as the photograph was not an inauthentic commodity but a heartfelt gift, so, too, the crowd was the genuine article. The volunteer is a self-­propelled agent motivated by pure ideals; the opposite of those who have been compelled by others or corrupted by the promise of money. In discussions of crowds of Jokowi supporters, the fact that they did not wear or carry party attributes proved their difference from inauthentic, “bought” (bayaran) political crowds (who wear matching T-­shirts handed out by the campaign). It also distinguished them from crowds that acted out of blind loyalty to a party. As one account of the election noted, Jokowi’s campaign team emphasized that the lack of party attributes demonstrated that the crowd at the concert represented a “pure movement of the people that with awareness and a genuine heart supports Jokowi to become president.” A spokesman for the Jokowi campaign described the heterogeneous visual appearance of the crowd at the stadium as “proof” that Jokowi inspired “all elements of society to come together voluntarily.”28 Subyakto’s image thus appears as a kind of hybrid. In appearance and mode of production it conforms to conventional photojournalistic representations of the crowd. But as a “volunteer,” Subyakto’s act of photographing was a sincere expression of political agency and personal commitment. As a member of the crowd, he had in a sense produced a crowd-­selfie. Crowd-­Selfies

The crowd was busy seeing itself at ground level. Many members of the crowd posted selfies of themselves and their friends on Facebook and via Twitter, posing against the backdrop of the crowd. In some cases, accompanying Conclusion 233

statements explicitly framed the images as “proof” that the crowds were real against the likelihood that the Prabowo campaign would attempt to diminish the size of the crowds (figures C.15 and C.16). The images made by concertgoers replace the singular and sublime with the multiple, grounded, and decidedly ordinary. In these photos, the crowd pixelates into its constituent parts; Jokowi supporters are in the crowd and communicating beyond it at the same time. With phone in hand, they resist absorption into a fused mass, retaining their ability to see and be seen as individuals. The cell phone functions as a kind of talisman, a middle-­class guarantee that one is not lost in the crowd. Their experience is simultaneously collective and individualized, immersive and distanced.29 In their orientation to an audience, their emphasis on individual perspective, and their connection to a disembodied sphere of communication (social media), the selfie-­taking members of the Jokowi crowd are acting like members of a public, even as they experience the eu-

F I GU R E S C . 1 5 – C . 2 0

Image of the concert arena showing sparse crowds tweeted with the text, “The true condition of #Konser2Jari as shown by Kompas TV, hey, don’t play around with fooling the people at @jokowi_do2 @Prabowo08” Others debunked such images with claims that they were taken before the concert began and with counterimages that “proved” the density of the crowd.

C .1 5 .

Tweet from the Two Fingers Salute Concert “proving” that the arena was crowded in response to those claiming otherwise. The text reads: “yo . . . this is a livetweet, yo, . . . for those who claim it’s not crowded. . . . #konser2jari.”

C .1 6 .

A sense of intense togetherness is reported to the public: “There’s no longer any difference of class, religion, ethnicity, race . . . everyone wants to enter the stadium to #bikinrame [make it crowded/lively] #konser2jari.”

C .1 7 .

234 Conclusion

phoric sense of merging and heightened affect that come with being part of an embodied throng (figure C.17). They have it both ways. This is not a blind crowd, organized by an agency outside itself, fused in unreflective communion, or held passively in thrall to a leader. It is a crowd that not only sees itself, but that also knows the importance of being seen; a crowd sophisticated about the political potentials of its public visibility. But rather than the rational mode of vision associated with the classic liberal subject, what is performed here is a way of seeing that fuses personal affects to political commitments. Those who took crowd-­selfies accompanied their photos with highly personal and sentimental statements such as, “I truly got goose bumps and nearly cried, seeing the people who all showed up voluntarily” (figure C.18); “Still missing that feeling of singing and shouting together with the volunteers” (figure C.19); “Feeling moved-­thrilled-­happy to gather together in the midst of a sea of people today” (figure C.20). The intimate framing, spontaneous poses, and colloquial captioning of the selfie Enhancing the image’s sentimental charge, the text of this tweet reads, “Last night at #Konser2jari with @BiniBuleID I truly got goose bumps and nearly cried, seeing the people who all showed up voluntarily” (see plate 7).

C.18.

Here, too, the caption to a selfie amplifies the sentimental feeling of unity within the crowd of Jokowi “volunteers” at the concert: “Still missing that feeling of singing and shouting together with the volunteers @jokowi_do2 #KonserSalam2Jari #konser2jari.”

C.19.

Sharing sentiments. The caption reads: “Feeling moved-thrilled-happy to gather together in the midst of a sea of people today #Konser2Jari/ @yamunaa @RianaRee @AmallaVesta.”

C.20.

Conclusion 235

genre yield a kind of amateur authenticity, lending a feeling of uncalculated immediacy to these political statements (figures C.21, C.22, C.23). On the one hand, the tweets, which figure the subject broadcasting from within the crowd, emphasize a sense of merging together among strangers joined in political enthusiasm: one tweet reads, “We don’t know each other .  .  . but what matters is #2FingerSalute and #2FingerSalute Concert” (figure C.24), while another simply says, “all crowding together to pick no. 2” (figure C.25). On the other hand, the mode of transmission reinstates the tweeter’s individual agency as one who addresses an open-­ended public; “2 fingers selfie” had become a replicable subgenre with its own hashtag (“#selfie2jari,” see figure C.26). The sentimental and personalized genre of the crowd-­selfie produces a performance of political agency that affirms collectivity in a highly individualized and voluntaristic idiom. Such an idiom was consistent with Jokowi’s neoliberal call for a “mental revolution” to bring about genuine change in Indonesia. Another set of images that circulated on social media and in the online and print press also figured the exemplary agency of the “volunteer.”

F I GU R E S C . 2 1 – C . 2 6

Sensing the sublime from within, not above, the crowd, this caption reads “#selfie2jari in the midst of the awesomeness of #Konser2jari :).”

C .2 1 .

The playful and spontaneous group-selfie becomes a political statement: “#Konser2Jari #Jokowi9juli.”

C .2 2 .

Familial and political sentiments merge in this tweet: “Salute to this #ibu [mother] & mama. As a child I am proud. : ) #Konser2Jari.”

C .2 3 .

236 Conclusion

They pictured volunteers walking around the stadium with garbage bags after the concert (Figure C.27). Interviewed in the press, those pictured described their actions as voluntary efforts to model for others the kind of “mental revolution” called for by Jokowi (Figure C.28). In this catchphrase of Jokowi’s campaign, the term revolusi, with its nationalist and radical connotations, has been neoliberalized; what is called for is not a social revolution entailing economic redistribution or a radical reworking of the political structure, but a shift in the individual mind-sets of citizens. One article described a young woman who “without being asked, rolled up her sleeves” and began picking up garbage left behind by other volunteers. She stated, “Even though other people left this garbage, we nevertheless have to take care of our environment and help clean up the garbage. We need to begin the mental revolution.” The volunteer describes this mental revolution as an “attitude of caring for the environment around one,” in which not only professional garbage collectors but everyone takes responsibility for cleaning the trash. Her hopes for Jokowi are that he remains “honest, right, and doing evident work”; her own actions mirror and embody this political ideal.30 Despite the individual and personalized genre of the selfie, a sense of collectivity and stranger sociality pervades this and other crowd-selfies: “RT @Fabioiman: Cool! :* rt@pinkq: We don’t know each other :p . . . but what’s important is #Salam2Jari at #Konser2Jari.

C.24.

“All crowding together to pick no. 2 #Salam2Jari #ngabubuitsalam2jari #KonserSalam2Jari #Konser2Jari #9julyno2 #RamePilih2.”

C.25.

C.26.

The emergence of a selfie subgenre: the “#twofingersselfie.”

Conclusion 237

As we saw in chapter 5, “cleaning up garbage” — especially by those in the middle class who would not be expected to perform manual labor — served as a performance of civic engagement and “care” for a “clean” society. As if anticipating his own photographic circulation, another volunteer describes the act of picking up garbage as a way of “setting an example” for others.31 The dangerous “mimetic contagion” of crowds is here recast in voluntaristic terms as individuals who self-­consciously offer themselves as models for others to emulate (figure C.30).32 Preempting their possible association with a dangerous or politically immature crowd, Jokowi supporters presented themselves as distinct from the rowdy and uncivil masses whose lack of political maturity was figured in their failure to take responsibility for their own trash. They also deflected haunting images of rioters who, for three days in May 1998, burned shops and homes and looted malls, destroying rather than caring for property.33 Indeed in their class positioning, their display of “responsibility” and “awareness,” and their self-­regard as exemplary citizens, the Jokowi volunteers recall the middle-­class student demonstrators of 1998, who were similarly figured as F I GU R E S C . 2 7 – C . 3 0

Witnessing and authenticating the mental revolution in action, the caption reads, “RT @Anto_Cytrous @SindikatJogja took this myself, Bro. #Konser2Jari #PungutSampahGBK cc@jbkaskus @jokowikaskus.”

C .2 7 .

Cleaning up garbage after the concert exemplifies a “mental revolution” underway. The caption to this tweet reads: “Let’s goooo. . . . everyone cleans up together #revolusimental #konser2jari #jokowi9juli.”

C .2 8 .

238 Conclusion

models for the nation, “untainted” by the moral corruption of establishment politics.34 Theirs is an intensely self-­conscious, voluntaristic form of political agency that literalizes a logic by which individual acts of cleaning might yield a “clean” Indonesian politics. Agents of Vision

The importance of vision to this model of political agency came even further to the fore following the election, on July 9, when concerns about authenticity and transparency shifted from images of crowds to the election process itself. The figure of the Jokowi volunteer as an agent of vision, present within the embodied crowds at campaign events, reemerged in disembodied, networked form as a participant in “crowdsourcing” efforts to guarantee a clean election. When initial “quick count” results showed that Jokowi had won by a decisive margin, the Prabowo campaign refused to accept defeat, alleging “massive, systematic, and structural” fraud. Prabowo demanded that the constitutional court review the evidence his campaign would provide indicating “@revolupssi: #RevolusiMental begins with all together picking up the remaining trash at GBK.” Images such as this one also circulated in online news and other social media platforms like Facebook.

C.29.

Cleaning up garbage became a visualized enactment of volunteerism as political agency. This tweet reads: “After the event, the volunteers cleaned up the garbage together . . . #RevolusiMental #Jokowi9Juli.”

C.30.

Conclusion 239

manipulation and falsification of election results. He also threatened to bring his “masses” into the streets if his demands were not met. Jokowi’s campaign had their own concerns about manipulation of results during the final count that was to be released on July 22. Calling on volunteers to help “Guard the Vote,” Jokowi asked people to upload onto Facebook and Twitter photographs of the official tabulation forms used at polling stations to record results.35 Various state agencies and civil society organizations likewise urged ordinary citizens to take part in guaranteeing the transparency of the election.36 A member of the National Commission on Violence against Women, for example, suggested that women “guard the election by waiting at the polling station until the process of counting is finished, then photograph the results of the count with their cell phone cameras.”37 Images of people photographing voting tally sheets became iconic of the role of both ordinary citizens and media technologies as guardians of democracy (figures C.31 through C.33). A crowdsourcing application for monitoring the elections, MataMassa (Eye of the Masses), enabled citizens to use their smartphones to report on election irregularities.38 Several other crowdsourcing apps — most prominently Kawal Pemilu (Guard the Vote) — allowed ordinary people to participate in verifying the vote count.39 This was possible because the National Election Commission scanned all 486,000 tabulation forms and made them publicly available on its website. By checking the forms and entering their numbers via the Kawal Pemilu website, volunteers generated a parallel count to crosscheck the accuracy of the official final results. As one English-­ language newspaper reported, “Tech-­savvy Indonesians are acting as watchdogs following last week’s disputed election, using social media and apps to ensure an honest count as both sides accuse the other of trying to rig the outcome.”40 Volunteers expressed their faith in “open data” and cited “transparency” and “democracy” as their motivations.41 As a faculty member in computer science at the University of Indonesia and designer of the underlying structure used by several of the crowdsourcing apps put it, The best thing about these systems is their openness. All of these systems make it possible for you to see all the results of the data entry . . . and it can be crosschecked . . . there can’t be an accusation that these systems lie or the results have been slanted toward the victory of one of the candidates, because the data is truly simply there, whatever it is. The people [masyarakat] are invited to judge directly the validity of the data. This is truly a success story for the concept of Open Data.42 240 Conclusion

A designer of the MataMassa application noted that the goal was to ensure transparency and, equally important, “to encourage the participation of the people in the process of the election.”43 Among middle-­class Indonesians and international observers, the euphoria about Jokowi’s ultimate triumph centered not only on the fact of his victory, but also on how he won. The story of Jokowi’s volunteer crowds and crowdsourcing efforts seemed to herald the arrival, at long last, of a genuinely participatory democracy. The image of the crowd made up of networked agents of vision was crucial to the optimistic sense that the election was ushering in a new, technologically advanced, and squeaky clean democracy, no longer dominated by political elites and a corrupt party machine. Jokowi’s supporters had presented themselves as a self-­aware and politically mature collective. Far from blind, this networked, pixelated crowd’s members carefully watched the political process, authenticated it through their

FIGURES C.31–C.33

This image accompanied an article reflecting on the role of social media in the 2014 elections, which cites a report that there were 200 million Facebook postings, commentaries, and likes related to the election. The article also discusses the importance of the app Kawal Pemilu (Guard the Vote) in certifying the election results. From Rahadian P. Paramita, “2014 Masa Jaya Internet Dalam Politik Indonesia,” Beritagar, December 26, 2014, https://beritagar.id/artikel/berita/2014 -internet-berjaya-dalam-politik-indonesia-17646. Photo by Widodo S. Jusuf/Antara.

C.31.

Illustration for an article in an online newspaper showing a person taking a photo of an election tally form with a cell phone camera. From “Real Count Kawal Pemilu, Jokowi-jk Unggul 52,83 Persen,” TribunMedan.com, July 16, 2014, http://medan .tribunnews.com/2014/07/16/real-count-kawal-pemilu-jokowi-jk-unggul-5282-persen.

C.32.

Conclusion 241

own acts of photographic scrutiny, and remained aware of themselves as highly visible, exemplary citizens. Within months, the initial euphoria of the election had faded, and the fetishistic logic by which a transparent and participatory election promised to guarantee genuine democracy — a government of and for the people —  became apparent in retrospect.44 If, during the New Order, elections were a carefully choreographed spectacle directed by the state, in 2014, democracy was iconized by genuinely enthusiastic volunteers who believed in the performative efficacy of their own selfies. Meanwhile, the word “revolution,” with its invocation of social, economic, and political transformation, having been expunged from the vocabulary of Indonesian politics after 1965, returned in shrunken form as a neoliberal “mental revolution” that looked like people turning their cameras on themselves. In the decade and a half since the student-­led reform movement, freedoms of the press and of expression and diversified media channels widened the public “space of appearance,” but publicity in itself cannot engender a meaningful and inclusive democracy. In the absence of deeper structural changes, when the election was over ordinary Indonesians remained largely excluded from the processes determining the conditions within which they conducted their lives. Nevertheless, the manner in which Jokowi won the election demonstrated to Indonesians their own capacity for collective political agency. It reinvigorated, however fleetingly, aspirations for an open, F I GU R E C . 3 3 . Citizens photographing the vote tally form during a revote in Surabaya, July 19, 2014. (Election authorities called a revote in East Java due to an originally misprinted ballot.) Photo by Tempo/Fully Syafi.

242 Conclusion

pluralistic, just, and participatory Indonesia. It showed that dreams of an authentic politics are still vital, if as yet unrealized.

I have made three interrelated arguments in this book. Put simply, I have argued, first, that a transparent and open public sphere, under conditions of Indonesia’s capitalist media landscape and entrenched structures of inequality and corruption, could not deliver on the promise of democracy to which it was tightly yoked. This is not to deny that an arena of free and open dialogue is a necessary condition of a genuinely participatory democratic society, nor, crucially, to discount the efforts Indonesians have made to create and sustain such a vital field of open commentary, creativity, and critique. Second, and relatedly, I have argued that the political ideal of democratic transparency was linked to a technological ideal of photographic visibility in which the photograph promised to materialize values of openness, truth, and accountability. Yet the very moment of photography’s ascendance initiated an intensifying crisis around the credibility of photographic truth claims and the political efficacy of public exposure. Not only has the evidentiary photograph become an object of suspicion and doubt, but the “ludic” image increasingly competes with the “evidentiary” photograph as a means of commenting on and participating in public debate. Instead of a transparent “window,” the ludic photograph operates as an opaque and malleable surface, revealing political realities not through indexical reference to a prephotographic “real” but through recombination, artifice, and play at the surface of the image. Rather than the authorial or institutional guarantee that anchors the indexical claims of the documentary image, the ludic image attains its authority through its powers of viral circulation and iconic proliferation. Finally, I suggested that we might do well to think of images as events that happen rather than things that move, agents that act, or signs that represent. Of course, all of these ways of conceptualizing images have their advantages and their limitations, but I have hoped to highlight in this book how images unfold as emergent processes rather than fixed objects, as efficacious generators of political conditions rather than reflections of or responses to contexts that precede them. By tuning in to the eventfulness of images, we can investigate the ways that specific images police and disrupt the public “space of appearance.” Public visuality — the organization of the seen and the unseen, and the question of how and under what terms things come into view — is not only the outcome of political struggle, but in turn conditions the very field on which the political as such takes shape. Conclusion 243

As focal points of attention and relays of affect, images can be critical events in the agonistic formation of the political imaginaries by which people envision and contest the collectivities to which they belong. Over the decade and a half between the end of the New Order regime and the 2014 presidential election, image-­events profoundly mediated Indonesians’ engagement with each other about the possibilities and limits of Indonesian democracy. Publically circulating images rendered the inherently elusive and abstract ideal of “democracy” in tangibly visible, mobile forms; as unfolding events, they not only objectified but also participated in the messy, contested, and incomplete process of reimagining Indonesia in the aftermath of authoritarianism. In each case explored in this book, I have tried to show how the material properties of images — their visual forms, their vulnerabilities to manipulation, their accessibility and apparent immediacy, and their varied modes of circulation — provided concrete grounds for struggles over the present and future of Indonesian democracy. In image-­events such as the Megawati money stickers (see chapter 1), the “false” photographs of rape victims (see chapter 2), the snapshot of Gus Dur and Aryanti (see chapter 3), Pinkswing Park (see chapter 4), the Kewek Bridge action (see chapter 5), and the Subyakto crowd-­selfie (see above), Indonesians collectively grasped and debated the possibilities and dangers of an open and pluralistic public sphere. As fulcrums around which contests over political recognition and interventions in public visuality took place, the image-­events examined in this book reveal preoccupations with authenticity and authority in the wake of a long authoritarian regime and the emergence of a complex media ecology. The arc of the chapters traces a movement from a pervasive sense of euphoria, crisis, and possibility in the early post-­Suharto years to growing anxiety about unregulated media flows and the unruly circulation of images, cynicism about the realization of genuine political transformation, and concerns about “out-­of-­control democracy.” The election of 2014 marked a critical moment of renewed commitment to the Reformasi promise of democratization, but also showed the limits of a neoliberal model of democracy conflated with (and limited to) the conjoined promises of transparency and publicity. As particular to Indonesia as the image-­events detailed in this book are, they resonate more widely with the evolving role of images in contemporary, complexly mediated public spheres. The Indonesian case speaks particularly to contexts where ideologies of democracy and transparency predominate and where the end of authoritarian rule yields a dizzying loss of grounding in a stable social order.45 As public spheres become more saturated with images, public visuality increasingly sets the terms for political recognition and inclusion. 244 Conclusion

Deploying and containing the force of images is now vital to any bid to seize and maintain power, but it has also become more difficult to direct the course of image-­events. Eruptive happenings that reverberate in unpredictable ways as they move through the circuitry of an intricate media infrastructure, images provoke affective responses that may congeal (and be channeled) into outrage and hope, disgust and identification. As they move —  propelled by logics of commodity fetishism (acquiring market “value” within a privatized mediascape) and viral proliferation (taken up and shared as a means of social connectivity and popular political communication) — they become objects of scrutiny and fierce debate, and stimulate the production of ever more images. Shallow condemnations of image-­heavy public spheres as dominated by spectacle do little to illuminate our contemporary moment and less to make sense of the critical work of images within it. To understand the ways in which we imagine our political communities and seek to transform our horizons of possibility today, we must attend to the active demands we make of images, and to the demands they make on us. Coda

Books come to a close but, of course, the final period on the very last sentence does not actually indicate an ending. I chose to conclude this book with the 2014 election because it seemed a fitting marker, a critical moment in which voters narrowly but decisively chose not to embrace the nostalgia for Suharto with which I began the book, and so to sustain the embattled project of building a more just, accountable, and open political community. While I leave it to others to analyze post-­2014 politics, it seems necessary to mention that the period following Jokowi’s election saw the appearance of another form of the crowd that is distinct from both the “blind” masses with their free party T-­shirts and the selfie-­taking neoliberal “volunteers” that figured so centrally in the 2014 election. The appearance of the Muslim crowd can be seen as one answer to the ongoing crisis of authority and authenticity that has characterized the post-­Suharto period. After Jokowi assumed the presidency, his lieutenant governor, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama, known as Ahok, a Christian Chinese Indonesian, became governor of Jakarta. Although abrasively outspoken, Ahok was popular with many Jakartans for his no-­nonsense approach to governing, his strong stance against corruption, and his independence from party politics. Unsurprisingly, members of the political establishment had less affection for him, but his efforts at implementing antiflooding infrastructures and other Conclusion 245

urban planning measures also angered segments of the urban poor who faced eviction as a result of his policies. In the lead-­up to the February 2017 election for governor, political elites — including Prabowo, whose Gerindra party supported another candidate — made a concerted effort to undermine Ahok, who was also running for election. In response to circulating statements by opponents that the Qur’an forbids the ummat to be led by a non-­ Muslim, Ahok publicly questioned the deployment of Qur’anic teachings as a means of political manipulation. Ahok’s statement, taken out of context in a misleading video that went viral, then became the basis of accusations that he had insulted Islam. In turn, a significant number of religious leaders and political opponents called for his ouster — and his arrest — for blasphemy. In a dramatic series of demonstrations, massive crowds wearing all white filled the streets of Jakarta to protest against Ahok and join together in Islamic chants and prayer. The largest of three protests, on December 2, 2016, brought an estimated 500,000 people onto the streets, some bearing placards and banners calling for “the defense of Islam” and labeling Ahok an “enemy of Islam.” The previous fifteen years had seen a dramatic rise in popular embrace of Islamic identity, but hardline Islamist political parties had garnered relatively little success at the polls. Many in the crowd professed motivation by personal religious sentiment rather than commitment to political Islam.46 Among the participants were surely disaffected members of the urban poor who opposed Ahok’s policies and perceived high handedness rather than his religious (or ethnic) alterity.47 Nevertheless, the overall effect of the orchestrated image-­events leading up to the gubernatorial election of 2017, in which mainstream Islamic parties joined with hardline organizations like the Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front), was a successful harnessing of the moral authority and collective force of Islam to electoral politics. Seen via drone cameras, the image of Jakarta’s huge thoroughfares blanketed in uniform white was a remarkable show of Islamic unity and power. Unlike the Jokowi “volunteers” whose eyes were trained on transparency and their own individual “mental revolution,” this crowd appeared to be motivated by communitarian appeals and the identification of an alien threat. Within the crowd, it seemed, the emotional highlight was the experience of praying in unison with thousands of others whose actions and appearance perfectly mirrored one’s own. Ahok lost the election, and in May 2017 he was sentenced to two years in prison for blasphemy. Anies Baswedan, the candidate supported by Prabowo, became governor of Jakarta. These developments remind us that, like the images that render it visible, Indonesian democracy remains eventful and unfinished. 246 Conclusion

NOTES

Preface 1. Chudori, Pulang, 1 – 5; for an English translation of the novel, see Chudori, Home. 2. Following Independence, Indonesia experienced a tumultuous period of democracy between 1949 and 1959, when President Sukarno initiated “Guided Democracy” (Demokrasi Terpimpin), a political system that significantly centralized power and curbed dissent. The Sukarno era was followed by General, and later President, Suharto’s “New Order” (Orde Baru). Suharto seized power after an event that became known as the 30th September Movement/Indonesian Communist Party (G30S/ pki), in which six rightist generals were assassinated by members of the Presidential Guard in the early hours of October 1, 1965 (a first lieutenant and the five-­year-­old daughter of a general who was targeted but escaped were also killed). These events were subsequently framed as a coup attempt, which was blamed on the Communist party and became the pretext for a massive purge of suspected Communists and leftists led by the military. Between 1965 and 1966, an estimated 500,000 to 1 million people were killed and hundreds of thousands imprisoned. See Roosa, Pretext for Mass Murder. For recent accounts of the killings, see Melvin, The Army and the Indonesian Genocide; Robinson, The Killing Season. 3. See Strassler, Refracted Visions, chapter 3, for a discussion of the identity photograph as both sign and practice of state power in the New Order era. 4. Chudori, Pulang, 138, 145; translation by the author. 5. Chudori, Pulang, 252; translation by the author. 6. On May 12, 1998, military forces shot at protestors at Trisakti University, killing four student protestors. The mass demonstrations and “rioting” that followed resulted in the deaths of more than one thousand people as well as violence against the ethnic Chinese minority in Jakarta, and led to President Suharto’s resignation on May 21, 1998. I place “rioting” in quotes because there is strong evidence that the looting, violence, and burning of buildings was not a spontaneous expression of popular discontent but was actively orchestrated by factions of the New Order regime. See chapter 2. 7. Strassler, “Currency and Fingerprints.” 8. Chudori’s novel is itself a product of the vibrancy of the postauthoritarian public sphere and the circulation within it of formerly taboo historical narratives. The

novel’s publication prompted public discussions, as well as reviews and interviews in the mainstream print media, spurring conversations about the 1965 killings and the stigma faced by those associated with “Communists.” 9. On post-­Suharto documentary film production, see Heryanto, Identity and Pleasure, chapters 4 and 5. See also Thajib and Juliastuti, Videochronic. Introduction 1. All translations of Indonesian texts are by the author, unless otherwise noted. 2. On the rehabilitation of Suharto’s image, see “Mimpi Menciptakan Soeharto Baru,” Detik, March 18 – 24, 2013. 3. Other political campaign images referenced the “How’s it going?” meme in more self-­evidently approving tones. See “Baliho Hanura: Harry Tanoe, Wiranto dan Soeharto,” Tempo.co, June 2, 2013, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/485120/baliho -­hanura-­harry-­tanoe-­w iranto-­dan-­soeharto. By contrast, a meme also appeared on Facebook showing Suharto’s wife, Ibu Tien, with a “quote” in which she used informal Javanese to insist that her husband’s era was not better than the present. 4. The movement to flood Twitter with Munir avatars was said to be the idea of Dandhy Laksono, a documentary filmmaker, whose goal was to put two million Munirs into circulation. “Foto Aktivis ham Munir Merebak di Akun-­a kun Twitter,” Lazuardibirru.org, September 4, 2012, http://www.lazuardibirru.org/berita/news /foto-­a ktivis-­ham-­munir-­merebak-­di-­a kun-­a kun-­twitter/ (accessed March 14, 2013); “Julia Perez Pasang Foto Munir di Twitter,” Tempo.co, September 7, 2012, http://seleb .tempo.co/read/news/2012/09/07/219428049/julia-­perez-­pasang-­foto-­munir-­di-­twitter; “Slain Activist Gains Younger Fans on Twitter,” Jakarta Post, September 5, 2012, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2012/09/05/slain-­activist-­gains-­younger-­fans -­twitter.html-­0 (accessed March 14, 2013). 5. “Butet Ajak Warnai Munir,” Surabaya Tribun News, November 19, 2012, http:// surabaya.tribunnews.com/m/index.php/2012/11/19/butet-­ajak-­warnai-­munir; Yatimjul Ainun, “Tolak Lupa, Kota Batu Dipenuhi Gambar Munir,” Kompas.com, November 19, 2012, http://nasional.kompas.com/read/2012/11/19/18090819/Tolak.Lupa.Kota .Batu.Dipenuhi.Gambar.Munir. 6. The artist was Djoko Pekik, who was imprisoned from 1966 to 1972 for his affiliation with Lekra, a leftist group of artists and writers. Hayu Yudha Prabowo, “Semprot Gambar Munir di Kaos Walikota,” Surya Images, December 2, 2012, http://www .suryaonline.co/images/semprot-­gambar-­munir-­di-­kaos-­walikota/#.VovN6Mb59JM (accessed March 14, 2013). 7. John Pemberton argued that what marked the distinctive style of New Order Indonesian politics was a cultivated sense of ritual order in which nothing ever happened. See Pemberton, On the Subject of “Java.” 8. See Klima, The Funeral Casino. 9. I use the notion of a “transition” to “democracy” advisedly, aware of the teleological assumptions of a natural progression from socialism (or, here, authoritarianism) to liberal democracy in the discourse that Katherine Verdery calls “transitol248  Notes to Preface

ogy” (Verdery, What Was Socialism?, 16). Like Verdery, I treat central terms of this discourse, including “transparency,” “the public,” “public sphere,” and “democracy,” skeptically, asking what they come to mean in this context, rather than assuming that they are given and stable concepts. 10. On conceptual overlaps between neoliberal economics and a narrowly procedural form of democracy equated with the free circulation of information and the ability of citizens to make informed “choices” in elections, see Hetherington, Guerrilla Auditors, 3 – 4. I, too, treat the logic of transparency as a “social fact,” one that profoundly conditions the visual politics of Indonesia’s postauthoritarian public sphere. While the critical role of documents identified by Hetherington for Paraguay (8) is evident in Indonesia as well (see Strassler, “Documents as Material Resources”), here I emphasize the importance of visual images, and public visuality more broadly, to transparency’s politics. 11. The image-­event is closely related to the “media event,” an event that takes place within media and is indistinguishable from its mediation (Doane, “Information, Crisis, Catastrophe”; see also Papailias, “Witnessing in the Age of the Database” and “(Re)sounding Histories”). The term “image-­event” has been used more narrowly to refer to a form of staged protest particularly designed for visual apprehension and media dissemination (Delicath and DeLuca, “Image Events, the Public Sphere, and Argumentative Practice”). My use of the term, however, highlights not crafted performances for the camera but often unpredictable viral circulations that generate political effects. See also Deluca and Wilferth, Foreword to “Image Events.” 12. On the “accretive symbolic density” of iconic images achieved through iteration and circulation, see Ghosh, Global Icons, 45. 13. Meg McLagan and Yates McKee put it well, arguing that accounting for how images “mak[e] things public” requires attending to “the political fields constituted by images, the practices of circulation that propel them, and the platforms on which they are made manifest” (McLagan and McKee, introduction to Sensible Politics, 9). 14. On the “hazards” of materiality, see Keane, Signs of Recognition. 15. See Gershon, “Media Ideologies: An Introduction.” 16. As Lina Khatib writes of the Middle East, “The image has claimed a central place in the processes through which political dynamics are communicated and experienced. . . . The image is at the heart of political struggle, which has become an endless process of images battling, reversing, erasing and replacing other images” (Khatib, Image Politics in the Middle East, 1). 17. On the performative efficacy of images, see Jain, Gods in the Bazaar; Mazzarella, Censorium. 18. The goal here is not to overlook the materiality of images, as they are always embodied in some form (Belting, An Anthropology of Images), but rather to move from a focus on singular images to recognition that an image’s many iterations (and material embodiments) are moments in its trajectory as an open-­ended event. It is also to avoid assimilating images to a single, defining historical context that putatively explains or determines them (for a critique of this tendency, see Pinney, “Things Happen”). Notes to Introduction  249

19. In line with approaches that highlight the social “agency” of images, I am interested in the efficacy of images as objects in the world (rather than representations of it). But treating images as agents risks implying a kind of stability and coherency to the image across time, rather than attending to the dynamic and emergent qualities of images themselves as they enter into novel relations and ramify in new iterations. My invocation of their eventfulness is intended to foreground the contingent, multidirectional “taking place” of images propelled by their unpredictable pathways and reverberations. Approaches to images as agents are informed by Bruno Latour’s Actor-­Network Theory (Latour, Reassembling the Social), by Alfred Gell’s Peircian Art and Agency, and by the biographical approach to material objects (Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things”). On images as life-­forms, see Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want? For a relevant discussion of the recent anthropology of photography, see Edwards, “Objects of Affect.” 20. Bazin, “Ontology of the Photographic Image,” 8. 21. Berger, “Appearances,” 103. 22. Berger, “Appearances,” 86; see also 91. See also Jay, “Photography and the Event.” 23. As John Tagg wrote, “Photographs are never evidence of history, they are themselves the historical” (Tagg, The Burden of Representation, 65). 24. Derrida, Speech and Phenomena, 50. 25. Derrida, “Signature, Event, Context,” 9. 26. The “photographic act,” notes Azoulay, “is in fact a new beginning that lacks any predictable end” (Azoulay, Civil Contract of Photography, 137). But even the idea of a “beginning” or a linear trajectory forward in time is problematic, as an image is always conditioned by what has come before and changed by what comes after it; as Jacques Rancière puts it, an image “is always an alteration that occurs in a chain of images which alter it in turn” (Rancière, The Emancipated Spectator, 94). On the “event of photography,” see also Pinney, “Crisis and Visual Critique.” 27. My approach to signs draws on a Peircian semeiotic, in which signs are not fixed elements of a closed system but always open-­ended, continually giving rise to new signs. In Alfred North Whitehead’s processual philosophy there are no things, but only events. That which appears as an object is, in fact, a continually emerging event or multiplicity of events; to endure, an object must continually recreate itself (see Shaviro, Without Criteria, 18 – 19). An event is actually a nexus or a temporal series of occasions, a multiplicity of becomings linked through “historic routes” or “routes of inheritance” (25, n. 7). 28. Wagner-­Pacifici, What Is an Event?, 5. In line with my argument here, Wagner-­ Pacifici suggests that objects that apparently represent an event are “only provisionally congealed moments of the events themselves, with variable shaping impacts on them” (6). 29. As Kaja Silverman argues, a dynamic “impulsion toward a further self-­ development” inheres within any image (Silverman, Miracle of Analogy, 60). 30. In “What Is an Event?” Gilles Deleuze writes: “The event is a vibration with an infinity of harmonics or submultiples, such as an audible wave, a luminous wave, or 250  Notes to Introduction

even an increasingly smaller part of space over the course of an increasingly shorter duration” (Deleuze, The Fold, 1). 31. Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, 28 (my italics). 32. I think here, for example, of work on the Abu Ghraib torture photos as “after images” of lynching photographs: Smith, At the Edge of Sight, 195 – 212; Raiford, “Lynching, Visuality, and the Un/Making of Blackness.” 33. Azoulay, Civil Contract of Photography, 14. 34. Zeynep Devrim Gürsel uses the term “infrastructures of representation” to address the technological affordances and social processes that determine which images circulate and how they circulate (Gürsel, “The Politics of Wire Service Photography”). The term “visuality,” notes W. J. T. Mitchell, indicates both the social constructedness of vision and “the visual construction of the social” (Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want?, 356). For a concise review of recent approaches to the visuality of political communication, see Parry, “Visibilities and Visualities.” Alongside visibility, ideas of the “voice” also play a key role in ideological imaginaries of the democratic public sphere (see Kunreuther, Voicing Subjects). Sonic and discursive media forms can be used both with and against visual images to intervene in public visuality. 35. Charles Taylor defines the public sphere as a “common space in which the members of a society are deemed to meet through a variety of media . . . to discuss matters of common interest; and thus to be able to come to a common mind about these” (Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, 83). This definition carries within it the aspirational quality of the public sphere as an (impossible) ideal of liberal democracy. Nancy Fraser offers a pluralized understanding of the public sphere as an arena in which multiple, overlapping publics coexist in an agonistic and unequal field of discourse (Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere”; see also Warner, Publics and Counterpublics, and Rajagopal, The Indian Public Sphere). Scholars in an array of fields have critiqued the Habermasian theory of the public sphere for its assumptions about the primacy of verbal communication and print media, rational-­critical debate, secularism, disembodiment, and a clear divide between private and public. For important early critiques, see Calhoun, Habermas and the Public Sphere. For a review of recent anthropological work on publics (but one that notably omits consideration of their visual mediation), see Cody, “Publics and Politics.” 36. Asad, “Religion, Nation-­State, Secularism,” 184. Habermas’s theory entailed the idea, as Craig Calhoun puts it, that “a public sphere adequate to a democratic polity depends upon both quality of discourse and quantity of participation” (Calhoun, Habermas and the Public Sphere, 2). Yet, as many critics have noted, this conceptualization does not sufficiently address the structures that determine who is enabled to participate and what kinds of discourse count as public discourse. 37. Arendt’s model of the public realm privileged face-­to-­face interactions rather than the mediated communications of the modern public sphere. For Arendt, the public was a space in which a multiplicity of distinct perspectives came together to form a “world in common,” which she saw as fundamentally threatened by mass mediation (Arendt, The Human Condition). 38. Ezrahi, “Dewey’s Critique of Democratic Visual Culture,” 315. Michael Warner Notes to Introduction  251

calls this “the principle of supervision,” arguing that “the optic and spatializing metaphor of supervision became in eighteenth-­century America the dominant way of conceptualizing the public” (Warner, Letters of the Republic, 52). 39. Hochberg, Visual Occupations, especially part 1. 40. Dean, Publicity’s Secret, 17 – 18. For Azoulay, photography’s ultimate political import lies in its potential to yield forms of civil recognition beyond the sovereign state (Azoulay, Civil Contract of Photography). 41. Kevin DeLuca and Joe Wilferth argue for replacing the Habermasian public sphere with the image-­centered “public screen,” characterized by speed, distraction, and glances rather than rational debate (DeLuca and Wilferth, Foreword to “Image Events,” 5). 42. On hypervisibility, see Fleetwood, Troubling Vision, chapter 3. Krista Thompson draws on Ralph Ellison’s term “un-­v isibility” to describe how hypervisibility creates conditions of blindness (Thompson, Shine, 3). See also hooks, “In Our Glory.” 43. In a range of contexts, scholars have argued against a Habermasian privileging of texts. Habermas’s formulation of the public sphere treated the growing prevalence of public images as symptomatic of the erosion of an idealized public sphere of reasoned, disinterested, and disembodied debate. Echoing other Frankfurt School theorists, he argued that the corporate mass media and image-­based entertainment transformed the engaged citizen of the bourgeois public sphere into a manipulated spectator and a passive consumer (Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, chapter 6). Images, in this model as in earlier social theory, are a primitive and dangerous medium, triggering affective, embodied responses, and pre-­ rational, concrete “picture-­t hinking,” in contrast to reasoned debate about matters of common concern (see Le Bon, The Crowd). The tendency to demonize images within accounts of the public sphere arguably stems from an anti-­ocular bias with a deep history in Western philosophy (see Jay, Downcast Eyes; Stafford, Good Looking; W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology). 44. Pinney, “Civil Contract of Photography in India,” 25. On theorizing the public sphere through “the viewer of images rather than the reader of texts,” see Patricia Spyer and Mary Margaret Steedly, introduction to Images That Move, 29. Drawing out the power of images to shape the ways people inhabit and imagine their worlds, Roland Barthes wrote that “we live according to a generalized image-­repertoire” (Barthes, Camera Lucida, 118), while Sekula traced the nineteenth-­century emergence of a photographic “shadow archive” mapping the hierarchical arrangement of society (Sekula, “The Body and the Archive”). 45. See Hariman and Lucaites, No Caption Needed, especially 13 – 14; Ghosh, Global Icons; Sturken, Tangled Memories; Khatib, Image Politics in the Middle East; Wedeen, Ambiguities of Domination; Mazzarella, Shoveling Smoke; Strassler, Refracted Visions. Attention to public images as critical media of social identification, affective engagement, and cultural memory aligns with scholarship giving theoretical attention to affective and sensory dimensions of public communication. See, among others, Berlant, Cruel Optimism; Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape; Kunreuther, Voicing Subjects; Mazzarella, Censorium. 252  Notes to Introduction

46. Gürsel, Image Brokers. See also Poole, Vision, Race, and Modernity; Kratz, The Ones Who Are Wanted; Lutz and Collins, Reading National Geographic; Smith, American Archives; and Raiford, Imprisoned in a Luminous Glare. 47. On Cornelius Castoriadis’s notion of the social imaginary and its relationship to theories of the public sphere, see Gaonkar, “Toward New Imaginaries.” The social imaginary, he writes, is a “generative matrix” that is “expressed in images, stories, legends, and modes of address” (10); see also Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries. I use the term “political imaginaries” here and throughout this book to describe the ways that people imagine a horizon of political possibilities and envision Indonesia as a political community. I understand imaginaries to be always under construction and emergent, and thus not only generative but continually generated through the public circulation of images. 48. See, for example, Klima, The Funeral Casino. 49. Paramaditha, “Wild Child’s Desire,” 8. Recent attacks on lgbt Indonesians show just how fleeting that opening may have been. 50. The decentralization of politics may have led to an increase in corruption, as more regional elites compete for the spoils of political power. On corruption, sorcery, and the imagining of democracy in North Maluku, see Bubandt, “Sorcery, Corruption, and the Dangers of Democracy.” 51. In July 2012, Indonesia’s National Commission on Human Rights (Komnas Ham) delivered a report to the country’s attorney general finding that gross violations of human rights occurred in 1965 – 66 and naming some of the military officers responsible. In November 2012 the Office of the Attorney General officially rejected the report. 52. “Liberal” and moderate Islamic groups tend to see democratization as broadly consistent with an Islamic agenda, whereas extreme hardline groups reject liberal democracy as a Western, secular import (while taking advantage of new communicative freedoms to further their agenda). As Suzanne Brenner argues, “debates over what constitutes Islamic morality and efforts to have such moral values instituted as basic principles of the nation have played a significant role in the democratization process” (Brenner, “Private Moralities in the Public Sphere,” 479). 53. On ethnographic approaches to the subject of democracy and democratization, in contrast to more normative political science accounts, see Paley, “Toward an Anthropology of Democracy.” 54. See Bubandt, Democracy, Corruption and the Politics of Spirits. I also do not wish to overstate the power of the authoritarian state prior to 1998 (see Steedly, “The State of Culture Theory,” for a critique of this tendency). Even at the height of the New Order, activists, artists, ordinary citizens, and a press that often pushed the bounds of licensed discourse expressed dissent, often at great risk and cost to those involved. The time frame covered in this book (1998 – 2014) is also not necessarily best conceived as a single period. As this book charts, initial optimism about the potential for significant changes — particularly during the short-­lived presidency of Islamic leader and democracy activist Abdurrahman Wahid (Gus Dur) (1999 – 2000) — gave way to increasing cynicism about the possibility of effecting Notes to Introduction  253

such change. One could argue for a periodization that identifies the 2004 election of General Susilo Bambang Yudoyono as the beginning of a “post-­Reformasi” period, marked in part by increased efforts to regulate the media and public expression. 55. Baulch and Millie, “Introduction: Studying Indonesian Media Worlds.” See also Sen, “Re-­forming Media in Indonesia’s Transition to Democracy.” 56. Kusno, The Appearances of Memory, 36. On the sense of abandonment by authority in a non-­Javanese location, see also the forthcoming book by Patricia Spyer, Orphaned Landscapes. On the persistence of idealism alongside disillusionment among Reformasi’s key actors — youth activists — see Lee, Activist Archives. 57. Dean, “Communicative Capitalism.” 58. Passed during B. J. Habibie’s transitional presidency following Suharto’s resignation, Press Law No. 40/1999 (and later Broadcasting Law No. 32/2002) created a legal framework establishing freedom of the press. Human Rights Law No. 39/1999 also established citizens’ rights to information and media. On these laws, see Steele, “Making of the 1999 Indonesian Press Law.” In 2000, President Abdurrahman Wahid eliminated the Department of Information, which had been the central vehicle of state censorship and propaganda (a Department of Communication and Informatics, or Kominfo, was later established in its place but without the same powers). For an assessment of media policy, see Nugroho, Siregar, and Laksmi, Mapping Media Policy in Indonesia. On late and post-­Suharto media, see, among others, Sen and Hill, Politics and the Media in Twenty-­First Century Indonesia; Sen and Hill, Media, Culture and Politics in Indonesia. Ross Tapsell’s Media Power in Indonesia, which came out as this book was going into publication, offers an in-­depth analysis of the postauthoritarian media industry and digital media ecology in line with my characterization here. 59. In Ghana, according to Jennifer Hasty, “The press summons the hidden, obscure operations of power into the critical light of the public sphere, providing the primary means for popular representation and the participation of citizens in political discourse while holding the state accountable to the public good” (Hasty, “Sympathetic Magic/Contagious Corruption,” 339 – 40). 60. Keane, “Freedom and Blasphemy,” 47. See Anderson, Imagined Communities; Siegel, Fetish, Recognition, Revolution. 61. After it was shut down, Tempo went underground and began to operate through what was then a new medium unregulated by the state, the internet. See Goenawan Mohamad, “Surviving Suharto’s Repression,” World Press Review (1999), http://www.worldpress.org/editor99.htm (accessed March 8, 2004). Tempo reemerged in print (with an online presence as Tempo.co) in October 1998. The banned magazine Detik also resurfaced online as Detik.com. On Tempo’s importance during the Suharto years, see Steele, Wars Within. 62. Andreas Harsono, “Journalists Confront New Pressures in Indonesia,” NeimanReports, June 15, 2002, https://niemanreports.org/articles/journalists -­confront-­new-­pressures-­in-­indonesia/. 63. For a recent account of this trajectory, see Baulch, “Mobile Phones: Advertising, Consumerism and Class.” 254  Notes to Introduction

64. See Sen and Hill, Media, Culture, and Politics in Indonesia. 65. In 1997 an estimated 7,000 Indonesian journalists worked “for fewer than 300 print outlets, the state radio broadcaster, and a handful of tv networks owned by Suharto’s children or cronies.” By 2010, there were “30,000 journalists, more than 1,000 print publications, 150 tv stations, and 2,000 radio stations.” Pintak and Setiyono, “Mission of Indonesian Journalism,” 2. 66. Since 1998 various Islamic publics mediated by Islamic print publications and television programming have emerged and flourished; this important dimension of the post-­Suharto public sphere is more amply addressed in the fine work of other scholars. On the Islamic press, see Irawanto, “Riding Waves of Change.” On Islamic publics more broadly, see Hoesterey, Rebranding Islam; Hasan, The Making of Public Islam; Hefner, Civil Islam. On women, religion, and the public sphere, see Jones, “Materializing Piety”; Rinaldo, “Envisioning the Nation.” On Islamic social media see Slama and Jones, “Piety, Celebrity, Sociality.” 67. On how events are framed and interpreted differently at different scales of media (local, national, and international), see Aragon, “Mass Media Fragmentation.” See also Spyer, Orphaned Landscapes. On media in West Papua, see Hill, “On the Border.” 68. See Lim, @crossroads: Democratization and Corporatization of Media; see also Lim, “The Internet, Social Network and Reform in Indonesia”; Haryanto, “Media Ownership and Its Implications”; Nugroho, Siregar, and Laksmi, Mapping Media Policy; Tapsell, Media Power in Indonesia. 69. The Alliance of Independent Journalists (Aliansi Jurnalis Independen, henceforth aji) reported “40 violent acts against Indonesian journalists in the twelve-­month period ending in July 2010” (cited in Pintak and Setiyono, “Mission of Indonesian Journalism,” 2). In addition to physical attacks on journalists and media outlet offices, legal harassment, particularly defamation suits filed by business and political figures accused of corruption in the press, has become a key means of intimidation. As a number of journalists related to me, today’s civil censorship creates a more precarious and uncertain situation for journalists in comparison to the censorship of the New Order, when the line between what could and could not be said was more clearly drawn and the source of repression more obvious and therefore more predictable. On the case of Tomy Winata against Tempo magazine, see Kakialiatu, “Media in Indonesia.” On post-­Suharto censorship, see Haryanto, Ketika Sensor Tak Mati-­Mati. 70. Journalists I spoke with generally felt that these internal factors were greater threats to press freedom than more spectacular but sporadic forms of “civil” censorship. They described regularly practicing self-­censorship when reporting on sensitive issues such as ethnic and religious conflict, sexuality, and local corruption. Discussion at aji Yogyakarta branch office, May 3, 2013. On editorial interference by media owners, see Darudoyo, “Editorial Dependence.” Ucu Agustin’s film Di Balik Frek­ wensi (“Behind the Frequency,” 2013) addresses both the corporate consolidation of the media and the weak position of journalists. On journalism after 1998, see Steele, “Indonesian Journalism Post-­Suharto.” Notes to Introduction  255

71. Interview by the author, Bambang Muryanto (former head of the Yogyakarta branch of aji), February 11, 2013. On journalist pay, see Nurhasim, “Upah Layak Jurnalis Pemula di Jakarta Rp. 5.4 Juta,” Tempo.co, April 30, 2013, http://www.tempo .co/read/news/2013/04/30/173476996/Upah-­Layak-­Jurnalis-­Pemula-­di-­Jakarta-­Rp -­54-­Juta. 72. A 2012 Gallup Poll found that for both rural and urban Indonesians, television was by far the most important medium and source of news, although internet and social media access via mobile phone was increasingly significant, especially among the young (“Media Use in Indonesia: Mobile Use Soars but Television Still Dominates,” Gallup and Broadcasting Board of Governors Research Series, 2012, https:// www.bbg.gov/wp-­content/media/2012/10/gallup-­indonesia-­brief.pdf). On television, see Kitley, Television, Nation, and Culture in Indonesia. 73. On film, see Heryanto, Identity and Pleasure; and Paramaditha, “Wild Child’s Desire.” On video, see Jurriens, Visual Media in Indonesia. 74. On radio, see Jurriens, “ ‘Radio Active’ ” and From Monologue to Dialogue; Birowo, “Community Radio”; and Henschke, “Power to the People.” 75. Dibley, “New Social Media as a Tool for Activism.” 76. Baulch, “Mobile Phones,” 39. On digital media, see Jurriens and Tapsell, Digital Indonesia. 77. Spitulnik, “Alternative Small Media,” 177, 179. 78. Literature on “small media” of several decades ago assumed clear distinctions between formal and informal, official and unofficial, and mainstream and alternative media. Small media stood in opposition to the mass media as “participatory, public phenomena, controlled neither by big states nor big corporations” (Sreberny-­ Mohammadi and Mohammadi, Small Media, Big Revolution, 20). Such binarisms are untenable in contemporary media ecologies, in which both “mass” media and social media platform ownership is privatized and corporate media holdings are diversified in pursuit of niche markets, and in which images and texts move fluidly across interpenetrating media channels. 79. Often relying on new digital technologies and platforms, such images suggest pleasures in artifice that have long been noted as characteristic of Javanese aesthetics. See, for example, Siegel, Solo in the New Order. 80. See, for example, the op-­ed by Muhammad Fahmi, “Piye Kabare, Enak Jamanku Toh?,” Bernas.id, June 26, 2016, https://www.bernas.id/17092-­piye-­kabare -­enak-­jamanku-­toh.html. 81. Steyerl, “In Defense of the Poor Image.” 82. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want?, 198. 83. Anderson, “Cartoons and Monuments,” 153. 84. Anderson, “Cartoons and Monuments,” 155 – 56. 85. Public discourse is “public” by virtue of its imagined potential to address anyone; one can become a member of a public simply by overhearing or giving attention to a message (Warner, Publics and Counterpublics). This open-­ended mode of address means that public texts and images are never reducible to a specific civil society institution or bounded social group. As Rosalind Morris writes, anonymity 256  Notes to Introduction

of address “enables a public whose membership cannot be known in advance — even when exclusionary limits are constitutive of its domain” (Morris, “Mediation, the Political Task,” 124). 86. For a model of bringing an “ethnographic sensibility” to bear on nontraditional anthropological sites and materials, see Stoler, Along the Archival Grain. 87. Yogyakarta is a city in Central Java of approximately 3.5 million people. It is sometimes called the “city of students,” because of its many institutions of higher learning; it is also sometimes called the “city of art” and “city of culture,” because of its many artists, prominent art school, and heritage as a center of traditional Javanese culture. The city still has a sultanate, and the current sultan also serves as the governor of the Special Region of Yogyakarta. Yogyakarta’s Special Region status comes from the previous sultan’s active support of the Indonesian National Revolution of 1945 to 1949. The city served as the Indonesian capital from 1946 to 1948 and was a center of student activism during the Reformasi movement. 88. “The poor image is a copy in motion. Its quality is bad, its resolution substandard. As it accelerates, it deteriorates. It is a ghost of an image, a preview, a thumbnail, an errant idea, an itinerant image distributed for free, squeezed through slow digital connections, compressed, reproduced, ripped, remixed as well as copied and pasted into other channels of distribution” (Steyerl, “In Defense of the Poor Image”). 1. Face Value 1. See “Jadi Presiden Gampang, Cuma Bayar Rp 1.500,” Bernas, June 24, 1998; and “Kapok Jadi Presiden, Takut Digebuki Tukang Pos,” Bernas, June 25, 1998. See also the series of prints by fx Harsono titled “Republik Indochaos” (1998), which imitates the appearance of enlarged postage stamps. One shows the official portrait of Suharto with the word “Lengser” (Stepped Down) written across it: https://artsand culture.google.com/asset/republik-­indochaos/BQGVq9kJfes3tQ. 2. See Pemberton, On the Subject of “Java.” 3. Following the collapse of the Thai baht against the dollar in July 1997, the rupiah and other Southeast Asian currencies came under pressure. Despite the apparent strength of the Indonesian economy in the years preceding the crisis, the rupiah was particularly vulnerable because of “the huge foreign debt burden of the private Indonesian corporations . . . [and] the fundamental weakness of the financial and banking sector,” which was plagued by reckless and corrupt lending practices (Sharma, “Indonesian Financial Crisis,” 90). 4. Before the crisis, in June 1997, the value of the rupiah was 2,400Rp to the US dollar; at the crisis’s peak, it fell below 15,000Rp to the dollar. By the end of 1998 the exchange rate had stabilized to 8,000Rp to the dollar, and it hovered at 8,000 – 10,000Rp in the period covered in this chapter (1998 – 2000). Skilled laborers (carpenters, for example) often made as little as 7,000Rp a day; becak (pedicab) drivers in Yogyakarta made about 10,000Rp on a busy day. 5. In October 1999, the key instrument of government censorship and propaganda, the Department of Information, was shut down. Notes to Chapter One  257

6. Gaonkar and Povinelli, “Technologies of Public Forms.” 7. Adi, “Kau Tahu Asal Jadi Aku,” 2 – 3. 8. On money as abstract value see Marx, Capital; Simmel, Philosophy of Money. On money’s social meanings see Zelizer, Social Meaning of Money; Graeber, “Beads and Money”; Hutchinson, “Cattle of Money”; Znoj, “Hot Money and War Debts”; Guyer, Marginal Gains; Parry and Bloch, Money and the Morality of Exchange. All monetary orders require “in-­depth social relationships, trust, interpretative communities and authoritative underpinnings” to function (Goede, Virtue, Fortune, and Faith, xxiv). On national currency that signifies in relation to other currencies see Lemon, “ ‘Your Eyes Are Green Like Dollars’ ”; Akin and Robbins, Money and Modernity. 9. Keane, “Money Is No Object,” 69. See also Lemon, “ ‘Your Eyes Are Green Like Dollars’ ”; Foster, “Your Money, Our Money”; Rutherford, “Intimacy and Alienation.” 10. Foster, Materializing the Nation; see also Brantlinger, Fictions of State. 11. Hewitt, Beauty and the Banknote, 7, 11. 12. Cited in Keane, “Money Is No Object,” 222. 13. See Marx, Capital, 226; Helleiner, The Making of National Money. 14. Rotman, Signifying Nothing, 90. Keith Hart describes the dual nature of money as simultaneously a sign of state authority (heads) and pure exchange value (tails) (Hart, “Heads or Tails?”). 15. Carruthers and Babb, “The Color of Money,” 1559. 16. Foster, “Your Money, Our Money,” 80 – 81. 17. Maurer, “The Anthropology of Money,” 28. 18. Goede, Virtue, Fortune, and Faith, 171. See also Shell, Art and Money; Weschler, Boggs: A Comedy of Values. 19. Historian David Henkin treats paper money as one of several forms of “public writing” that emerged in the mid-­1800s. These anonymous, impersonal, public print forms enjoyed a new kind of authority, yet the absence of personal accountability “backing” them also opened up the possibility of fraud and counterfeiting (Henkin, City Reading, 156). 20. Bolter and Grusin argue that new media gain cultural legibility, authority, and efficacy by “repurposing” older media forms. As they appropriate older media’s “techniques, forms, and social significance,” new media “rival or refashion them in the name of the real” (Bolter and Grusin, Remediation, 68). This notion of “the real” suggests that “to be compelling a new media product must capture the psychic and social experiences of a particular time and place” (Silvio, “Remediation and Local Globalizations,” 286). While Bolter and Grusin use “remediation” to delineate relations between “old” and “new” media, I use it throughout this book more broadly to describe the dynamic interrelations among temporally synchronous media positioned differently within a given media ecology. 21. Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 225. 22. Shiraishi, Young Heroes, 91. On the shift from aurality to visuality see also Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial, 106. 23. Elaborating on the concept of “faciality” (Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus), Benson observes that representations of the face may serve as “detachable 258  Notes to Chapter One

images that . . . circulate as symbols of place, icons of a group of people, and tools of power and resistance. . . . Deleuze and Guattari note that many sociopolitical structures or movements ‘need face’ as a fundamental component of their constitution and reproduction” (Benson, “El Campo,” 597). 24. Anderson, “The Language of Indonesian Politics,” 129. 25. Geertz, Religion of Java. 26. Florida, Writing the Past, 276. 27. Siegel, Solo in the New Order. 28. Anderson, “The Language of Indonesian Politics,” 129, 130, 150. 29. Pemberton, “Notes on the 1982 General Election.” 30. Manning, “Rose Colored Glasses?” 31. Shiraishi, Young Heroes, 92. 32. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 154 – 55. 33. Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 240. 34. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 109. 35. Mbembe, On the Postcolony, 160. This availability for popular reappropriation and play is one of the inevitable effects of iconization. See Ghosh, Global Icons; Hariman and Lucaites, No Caption Needed; Jain, Gods in the Bazaar. 36. See Brooks, “The Rustle of Ghosts.” 37. The first rupiah bill with Sukarno’s face on it bore the date October 17, 1945, placing it exactly two months after the Proclamation of Indonesian Independence, although the bills were not actually issued until a year later (Cribb, “Political Dimensions of the Currency Question,” 115). 38. On Sukarno and the persistence of populist nationalism during the New Order, see Strassler, Refracted Visions, chapter 6. 39. Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 225. Those who purchased commercial Sukarno images also expressed oppositional political sentiment through a consumer ideology of “free choice.” Esra Özyürek links the proliferation in the 1990s of miniaturized, intimate forms of the imagery of first president Kemal Atatürk to a new modality of Turkish politics in the era of neoliberal, consumer economies (Özyürek, “Miniaturizing Atatürk”). Within consumerism’s ideology of individual choice, the very existence of a market demand for these images was taken as “a sign of people’s freewill affection and respect for the leader” (380). As a model for political affiliation, the voluntarism of market consumption opposed the top-­down model implied in the imposition of state-­produced iconography (379). 40. As Lisa Wedeen has forcefully argued, the ability to compel the appearance of compliance, even if such displays of allegiance indicate “as if” rather than genuine investments in the dictator’s cult of personality, is itself a powerful mechanism of rule (Wedeen, Ambiguities of Domination). 41. Panel discussion, Seminar on Photojournalism at the Islamic University of Indonesia, Yogyakarta, April 27, 1999. 42. See “Dipamerkan, Foto Yang Pernah Dilarang,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, April 10, 1999. 43. “ ‘hm Soeharto’ Dihukum Denda,” Kompas, June 22, 1999; see also “Luhut mp Notes to Chapter One  259

Pengaribuan Soal Topeng di Persidangan: Wibawa Peradilan Telah Runtuh,” Kompas, June 25, 1999 (reproduced in plate 15). On the “happening art” that caused the arrest, see “Demo Berboneka,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 19, 1999. 44. “Sesen-­pun tak Punya,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 22, 1999. 45. “Fluctuation of the Exchange Rate of Rupiah against the Dollar,” Tempo, January 16, 2000, 114. 46. Helleiner, The Making of National Money. 47. Cribb, “Political Dimensions of the Currency Question,” 128, 131. 48. On how situations of “monetary disunification” call “into question much of what we usually take for granted about money as an object,” engendering discourse on “the fake” and “the real,” see Dominguez, “Representing Value,” 19. 49. See “Gunung Es Bergambar Soeharto,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 20 – 22; Cribb, “Political Dimensions of the Currency Question,” 120, 133. 50. Siegel, Fetish, Recognition, Revolution, 204. “The bodies of those unfortunate enough to be discovered by the pemuda [Republican youth] carrying nica [Dutch colonial] notes began to appear in public places with the offending notes attached as a warning” (Cribb, “Political Dimensions of the Currency Question,” 124; see also 132). 51. Siegel, Fetish, Recognition, Revolution, 204. 52. Because of their central role as traders in the market, ethnic Chinese were often targets of nationalists seeking to enforce the rule that only Republican money be circulated, and were also suspected of currency speculation and counterfeiting (see Cribb, “Political Dimensions of the Currency Question,” 130, 133). On the association of non-­Russian minorities with foreign cash, depicted “as if made of like substances,” see Lemon, “ ‘Your Eyes Are Green Like Dollars,’ ” 25. 53. See Shiraishi, Young Heroes; Strassler, “Reformasi through Our Eyes.” 54. Nugroho, Kurniawati, and Yaniar, Album Artis Cilik, 8. 55. On the ethnic Chinese, money, and pamrih, see Siegel, Solo in the New Order, 241. 56. See for example, the covers of Tempo for the issues of December 13 – 18, 1999; March 13 – 19, 2000; and April 17 – 23, 2000. 57. “Hidup Partai” (cartoon), Bernas, May 27, 1999. 58. According to one report, in 1997, the year the economic crisis began, the amount of false money in circulation rose by about 25 percent over the previous year (“Awas Uang Palsu,” Detektif and Romantika [d&r] 18 [December 19, 1998]). See also a series of articles on counterfeit money in the magazines Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, and Tempo, July 15, 2001. 59. On Bank Indonesia and aspal, or counterfeit, money, see “Gunung Es Bergambar Soeharto,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 20. 60. “Teliti sebelum Menerima,” d&r 18, December 19, 1998, 56. 61. Siegel, A New Criminal Type. 62. Larkin, “Degraded Images, Distorted Sounds,” 298. 63. “Gunung Es Bergambar Soeharto,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 20. See also “Sri Adiningsih: Akuntabilitas Pejabat bi dalam uu Lemah Sekali,” Forum 260  Notes to Chapter One

Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 23, in which Malaysia is said to have printed false Indonesian money for political purposes in the early 1960s. 64. See “Awas ‘Soeharto’ Palsu di Mana-­Mana,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 12 – 14; “Gunung Es Bergambar Soeharto,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 20 – 22; “Peredaran Uang Palsu Tertinggi,” Kompas, January 29, 2000. 65. See, for example, “Awas ‘Soeharto’ Palsu di Mana-­Mana,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 14. 66. “Peredaran Uang Palsu Cuma 0,0076 Persen,” Kompas, April 15, 2000. 67. “Gunung Es Bergambar Soeharto,” Forum Keadilan, April 16, 2000, 20 – 22; here, 22. In Indonesian, the English loanword emosi has negative connotations of anger and distress. 68. “Pecahan Rp 100 Ribu Beredar,” Jateng Pos, October 28, 1999. 69. “bi Keluarkan Uang Rp. 100,000,” Bernas, October 28, 1999. 70. Some of the Megawati money stickers used the pre-­1967 Indonesian spelling for these words, nostalgically harkening back to the Sukarno era. “Jujur” (honest) would be rendered “djoedjoer,” for example. 71. “ ‘Money Politics’ Ala Istri Amien Rais,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, May 25, 1999. 72. A number of scholars have argued, contra Walter Benjamin, that rather than withering, the aura of the original can be enhanced and reanimated via the mechanically reproduced image. Among others, see Strassler, “Seeing the Unseen”; Roberts et al., A Saint in the City; Pinney, Photos of the Gods. Benjamin himself argued that the photographic portrait retains the last vestige of “cult value” associated with aura (“The Work of Art,” 225 – 26). 73. For a different discussion of the aspal in relation to alternative currency, see Maurer, Mutual Life, Limited, chapter 5, especially 132 – 34. Gold coins promoted as a means of accumulating savings for making the pilgrimage to Mecca were desirable in part because they represented a morally “cleaner” form of value as well as a more secure alternative to the rupiah-­in-­crisis. 74. “Stiker Uang Rp. 50,000 Gambar Mega Laris Manis Dijual di Pinggir Jalan,” Bernas, July 5, 1999. 75. The wide variety of forms of money sticker of varying appearance and quality suggests that there was no single author or agency behind it. As with the Suharto posters discussed in the introduction, the lack of a clear or singular author contributes to the sense that the images arise spontaneously in response to popular demand. 76. “Tarik, Stiker Model Uang Bergambar Mega,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, May 3, 1999. 77. See Strassler, “Documents as Material Resources.” 78. See Buchan, Frozen Desire. 2. The Gender of Transparency I am grateful to the Yogyakarta-­based women’s rights organization rumpun Tjoet Njak Dien for making many of the cited articles and reports available to me. 1. I use the term “riot” (kerusuhan) advisedly here, and subsequent uses should be read as if under quotation, as the word’s suggestion of spontaneous mass action Notes to Chapter two  261

obscures the extent to which the violence was systematic and orchestrated. See Ariel Heryanto, “Flaws of Riot Media coverage,” Jakarta Post, July 15, 1998. On the 1998 violence and the New Order’s strategic incitement of anti-­Chinese sentiment, see Sidel, “ ‘Macet Total.’ ” For early analyses of the rapes, see Heryanto, “Rape, Race and Reporting”; Siegel, “Early Thoughts on the Violence”; Blackburn, “Gender Violence.” 2. Tim Relawan Untuk Kemanusiaan, Dokumentasi Awal No 3 Perkosaan Massal dalam Rentetan Kerusuhan Puncak Kebiadaban dalam Kehidupan Bangsa (report), Jakarta: Tim Relawan Untuk Kemanusiaan, July 13, 1998. The Volunteer Team for Humanity was made up of seasoned human rights and women’s issues activists, religious and community leaders, counselors, and concerned citizens who sought to assist victims and gather documentation. 3. Joint Fact-­Finding Team, “Final Report.” Activists never accepted the final report’s figures. 4. See “Rights Body to Question Generals over 1998 Riots,” Jakarta Post, May 8, 2003; “May Riot Victims Yearn for Justice after Five Years,” Jakarta Post, May 13, 2003. 5. During the fall of 1998, as debates about the rapes raged, “ninja” killings of Muslim leaders were provoking mass terror and shocking violence in East Java (Siegel, Naming the Witch). These events were described in the language of darkness (gelap), mystery (misterius), and rumor (isu). Like the rapes, they were also frequently described as “savage” (biadab) (Siegel, “Early Thoughts on the Violence”). 6. On tropes of transparency and the occult, see West and Sanders, Transparency and Conspiracy. 7. Feldman, “Violence and Vision,” 54. 8. Spyer, “Fire without Smoke,” 35 – 36. 9. Taussig, “Culture of Terror, Space of Death,” 492. 10. Since the colonial period, when the Dutch created a racialized legal category of “Chinese” distinguished from the “native” population, this minority has been marked as foreigners alien to the “authentic” (asli) nation, and subject to both formal and informal forms of discrimination. As we saw in the previous chapter, ethnic Chinese are strongly associated with commerce and money, and have often been scapegoated during times of economic and political crisis. Ethnic Chinese make up as much as 16 percent of the population in Jakarta. 11. On the demand for affective immediacy in human rights discourse, see Allen, “Martyr Bodies in the Media.” 12. Julia I. Suryakusuma, “Power Dictates Whether Evidence of Rapes Exists,” Jakarta Post, September 17, 1998. See also Human Rights Watch, “The Damaging Debates on Rapes of Ethnic Chinese Women.” 13. Narrative accounts of rape victims’ experiences were beginning to appear in the press. See “Luka Kerusuhan, Luka Perempuan,” Suara Pembaruan, June 3, 1998. 14. “menneg upw: Belum Ada Data Akurat Tentang Pemerkosaan,” Kompas, June 14, 1998. Other government figures, including Sutiyoso, governor of Jakarta, also refuted the claims. “Gubenur dki ‘Kalau Benar Terjadi Perkosaan Saya Akan

262  Notes to Chapter two

Ikut Menangis’: Mitra Perempuan Beberapa Kali Diteror,” Suara Pembaruan, June 27, 1998. 15. “Menperta Tentang Berita Perkosaan: Kami Sangat Peduli,” Kompas, June 28, 1998. 16. “Pemerintah Bentuk Tim Atasi Pelecehan Wanita,” Jawa Pos, July 9, 1998. 17. “Pemerintah Kutuk Aksi Kekerasan,” Kompas, July 16, 1998; see also “168 Wanita Diperkosa Saat Terjadi Kerusuhan: Pemerintah Akhirnya Mengutuk,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 16, 1998. 18. “Data Korban Perkosaan Masih Misterius,” Republika, August 22, 1998. 19. “10 Korban Perkosaan Mei Siap Bersaksi,” Republika, August 18, 1998; see also “Ungkap Kasus Perkosaan Tanpa Data, lsm yang Melapor Bisa Dituntut,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, August 19, 1998; “Jika Tak Benar, Binky Bisa Dituntut,” Jawa Pos, July 2, 1998. 20. “Pangab: Nihil, Usaha Polisi Menemukan Korban Perkosaan,” Republika, September 2, 1998. 21. “Bukan Pemerkosaan, Cuma Pelecehan Seksual: abri Sudah Selidiki Sampai ke Singapura dan Australia,” Jawa Pos, September 15, 1998. In a later statement he reiterated the claim that “abri [Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, or Indonesian Armed Forces] has not obtained concrete and convincing replies, data or proof” (“Government’s Latest Denial of Mid-­May Rapes Lambasted,” Jakarta Post, October 6, 1998). 22. “Penanganan Kasus Perkosaan: Ketua pwk ugm: Pemerintah Lambat,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 11, 1998. See also “Pernyataan Komnas Ham: Pemerintah Alpa dan Perlu Minta Maaf,” Kompas, July 10, 1998; “Gema Sukma: Pemerkosaan 19, Pelecehan 6,” Jawa Pos, July 24, 1998; “Kami Punya Bukti, Mau Percaya Siapa Lagi?” Jawa Pos, August 29, 1998. 23. “Kekerasan Seksual Sulit Diselesaikan Dengan kuhp,” Kompas, September 26, 1998. 24. “Sulit Harapkan Korban Perkosaan Melapor,” Kompas, September 5, 1998; “Experts Say Rapes Can Be Engineered,” Jakarta Post, September 5, 1998. A United States government report on human rights in Indonesia, issued in 2004, noted that rape was a standard weapon of the Indonesian military and that “on several occasions in 2002 in Aceh, soldiers were not held accountable for violating women with bottles and other foreign objects” because of the narrow definition of rape as penile penetration (Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, “Country Reports on Human Rights Practices 2003: Indonesia,” US Department of State, February 25, 2004, https://www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/hrrpt/2003/27771.html. 25. See Dr. Saparinah Sadli (member, tgpf, National Commission on Human Rights, and Civil Society on Violence against Women), “Fixing Misperceptions about the Mass Rapes,” Jakarta Post, August 2, 1999. 26. “Rekomendasi Sementara tgpf: Terjadi Penyerangan Seksual,” Kompas, September 22, 1998. 27. Nevertheless, some activists insisted that they did indeed possess such “juridi-

Notes to Chapter two  263

cal” evidence, citing as an example a doctor who “has medical notations, including photographs of the damaged organs and photographs after the organs were fixed” (“Bukti Yuridis Tentang Adanya Penyerangan Seksual Cukup Tersedia,” Kompas, September 23, 1998). 28. “Kasus Perkosaan Tak Tuntas Juga,” Kompas, July 23, 1998. 29. “Perkosaan Massal Jangan Terulang,” Republika, July 23, 1998. 30. Teuku Jacob (professor of anthropology, Gadjah Mada University), “Terrorisme Seksual,” Republika, September 8, 1998. Following the riots, many victims fled, along with tens of thousands of other Chinese-­Indonesians, to Singapore, Australia, and other places outside of Indonesia. 31. “Pemerkosaan kok Massal,” Jawa Pos, July 15, 1998. In order to acquire an official “visum,” or doctor’s report, to be used as “strengthening evidence” (bukti penguat), the victim had to file a report with the police (“10 Korban Perkosaan Mei Siap Bersaksi,” Republika, August 18, 1998). Seno Gumira Ajidarma’s short story “Clara,” in which a policeman interrogates a victim of the May 1998 rapes, vividly imagines the collusion of state power and pornographic desire (Ajidarma, “Clara”). 32. Female activists were themselves threatened, via pager and telephone, with rape and with harm to their female children (Ita Fatia Nadia, interview by the author, June 24, 2013, Yogyakarta). A grenade was sent to activist Sandyawan Sumardi, among other acts of intimidation; see “Ita Fatia Nadia, Tim Relawan: ‘Ini Murni Dari Hati Nurani’ ” d&r, 29, no. 46, July 4, 1998. Doctors involved in treating victims also received intimidating phone calls, threatening them with death if they spoke to the media. See Mardiyah Chamim, “Sisi-­Sisi Gelap Prahara Mei,” Koran Tempo, May 16, 2008, https://koran.tempo.co/read/130579/sisi-­sisi-­gelap-­prahara-­mei (accessed May 12, 2013). 33. Radhika Coomaraswamy (un Special Rapporteur on Violence against Women), “Report on Indonesia,” Fifty-­Fifth Session of the un High Commission on Human Rights, Geneva, March 22 – April 30, 1999. On stolen identity cards, see “Terjadi Lagi, Perkosaan Atas Wanita Keturunan Cina,” Bernas, July 9, 1998. 34. “Soal Pemerkosaan Saat Kerusuhan 13 – 14 Mei: Meneg upw Juga Diteror Lewat Telepon,” Suara Merdeka, July 11, 1998. 35. “Kasus Perkosaan Dimanfaatkan Untuk Sudutkan Islam,” Republika, July 23, 1998. See also “Badan Koordinasi Mubaligh se-­Indonesia Mendesak Habibie Tuntaskan Kasus Perkosaan,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 23, 1998. Another group, the Indonesian Committee for Islamic Solidarity (kisdi) lodged a formal complaint against the magazine Jakarta-­Jakarta for publishing a first-­person narrative that allegedly discredited Islam (“Victims, Witnesses of Rapes Report to Investigation Team,” Jakarta Post, August 1, 1998). 36. “Furkon Desak Aparat Usut Penyebar Isu Perkosaan,” Republika, October 15, 1998. 37. See Rajan, Real and Imagined Women, 64 – 82. On ethnic and state-­sponsored violence against women and the gendered nature of the national community, see Das, “The Act of Witnessing.” 38. See Pietz, “The Problem of the Fetish, I.” On the photograph as fetish, see Metz, “Photography and Fetish.” 264  Notes to Chapter two

39. Keane, Signs of Recognition. 40. On the photograph as “witness of history,” see Strassler, Refracted Visions, chapter 5. 41. Sesilia Nuke Ernawati, “Hitam Putihnya Sejarah dalam Foto Jurnalistik,” Suara Pembaruan, July 5, 1998. 42. “Ratna Sarumpaet dan Marsinah,” Fotomedia, July 1998, 64. 43. Asep, “Bukan Ideologi Pewarta Foto,” Ummat, January 4, 1999. 44. On the vilification of Gerwani, see Wieringa, Sexual Politics in Indonesia. 45. See Strassler, Refracted Visions, chapter 5. 46. Azoulay, Civil Contract of Photography, 218. 47. Azoulay, Civil Contract of Photography, 270 – 71. 48. As Allen Feldman notes, “The militarized gaze and the realist gaze have been historically crossed with the male gaze if not identical to it” (“Violence and Vision,” 61). Feldman stresses his nonessentializing use of the term “male gaze,” considered as a “mobile cultural form” and “a practice of domination” (75 – 76n25), as opposed to the ahistorical, determinist, and homogenizing implications of Mulvey’s powerful, but much critiqued, theory of the “male gaze” (Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”). I have chosen to use the terminology of “visualities” to denote historically determined ways of seeing that condition responses to an image. 49. Solomon-­Godeau, “Reconsidering Erotic Photography,” 233. 50. Seno Joko Suyono, “Perempuan, Kekerasan, dan Fotografi,” d&r, December 19, 1998. 51. Tay, “Global Chinese Fraternity and the Indonesian Riots.” See also Lochore, “Virtual Rape: Vivian’s Story.” Some websites active in posting information about the rapes were: Association of Women for Action and Research (aware), www.aware .org.sg; China Dawn, www.chinadawn.org; Coalition against Trafficking in Women, www.catwinternational.org/fb/Indonesia.html; Colorq, www.colorq.org/Human Rights/Indonesia/; Indo Chaos, www.land.heim.at/podersdorf/220272/main.html; Indonesian, Chinese, and American Network (icanet), www.icanet.org; Indonesian Huaren Crisis Centre, http://welcome.to/ihcc; Shrine of Remembrance of the May 1998 Mass Rape, htttp://you.are.at/may1998shrine; World Huaren Federation, www .huaren.org. 52. See Thufail, “Figures in the May 1998 Riots.” 53. The banner appears in a photograph of a demonstration by the Coalition of Indonesian Women for Justice and Democracy published in Republika, July 18, 1998. For an example of appeals to the overarching category of “woman,” see also “Berpakaian Serba Putih, Tanyakan Pemerkosaan Masal,” Jawa Pos, July 8, 1998. 54. The concept of “mobilizing shame,” Keenan writes, “gathers together a set of powerful metaphors — t he eyes of the world, the light of public scrutiny, the exposure of hypocrisy — as vehicles for the dream of action, power, and enforcement” (Keenan, “Mobilizing Shame,” 438). 55. On nationalist imaginings of photography as a means of exposing Dutch colonial rule to the court of world opinion, see Siegel, Fetish, Recognition, Revolution, 84 – 85. Notes to Chapter two  265

56. Leila S. Chudori, “1998 dari Balik Lensa,” Tempo, January 11, 1999. 57. “Pemerkosaan Masal Diadukan ke pbb,” Jawa Pos, June 29, 1998. See also “Pemerintah Jangan Hanya Tuntut Bukti Nyata Perkosaan,” Suara Pembaruan, June 30, 1998. 58. “Terjadi Lagi, Perkosaan Atas Wanita Keturunan Cina,” Bernas, July 9, 1998. 59. “Pemerintah Jangan Hanya Tuntut Bukti Nyata Perkosaan,” Suara Pembaruan, June 30, 1998. 60. “Benang Merah Operasi Berdarah,” Bernas, July 15, 1998. 61. “Soal Pemerkosaan saat Kerusuhan 13 – 14 Mei: Meneg upw Juga Diteror Lewat Telepon,” Suara Merdeka, July 11, 1998. 62. “Pemerintah Undang Intelijen Asing Untuk Ungkap Pemerkosaan Massal,” Republika, August 13, 1998. 63. “Indonesia Didemo,” Republika, July 27, 1998; “Cina Filipina Protes,” Bernas, July 28, 1998; “Taiwan Serukan Hentikan Investasi ke Indonesia,” Jawa Pos, July 30, 1998; “Protes di Konsulat Indonesia di Hong Kong,” Gatra, August 1, 1998; “Asosiasi ham Taiwan Desak ri Tutntaskan Kasus Perkosaan,” Bernas, August 4, 1998; “Brutal, Protes Perkosaan di Taiwan,” Jawa Pos, August 4, 1998; “Hong Kong dan rrc Kecam Pemerkosaan Mei,” Jawa Pos, August 5, 1998. 64. “Taiwan Serukan Hentikan Investasi ke Indonesia,” Jawa Pos, July 30, 1998. Angela Romano notes that during the New Order, journalists who deviated from the official line were accused of wearing “foreign glasses” (Romano, Politics and the Press in Indonesia, 45). 65. “Soal Kasus Pemerkosaan, Pemerintah ‘Dikerjain,’ ” Jawa Pos, August 27, 1998. See also “Perkosaan Etnis Tionghoa, Isapan Jempol,” Kompas, August 27, 1998. 66. “lsm Taiwan Sanggah Pernyataan Menpen,” Kompas, September 4, 1998. 67. “Pangab: Nihil Usaha Polisi Menemukan Korban Perkosaan,” Republika, September 2, 1998. 68. “Benarkah Terjadi Perkosaan Massal?,” Republika, August 2, 1998. 69. “Tanya Perkosaan, Disodori Korban Perkosaan,” Jawa Pos, September 11, 1998. See also “Soal Perkosaan Massal: kisdi Bertemu Komisi I dan II dpr,” Kompas, October 2, 1998. 70. “44 lsm Malaysia Memprotes Pemerintah ri,” Republika, July 20, 1998. 71. On atrocity images, see Batchen, Picturing Atrocity; Sliwinski, Human Rights in Camera; Hesford, Spectacular Rhetorics; Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others. 72. Zelizer, Remembering to Forget, 204, 207. 73. On atrocity images and conflict in Indonesia, see Spyer, “Fire without Smoke”; for non-­Indonesian cases, see Mahmood, “Trials by Fire”; Morris, “Surviving Pleasure at the Periphery.” 74. The phrase “incorruptible Kodak” comes from Mark Twain’s King Leopold’s Soliloquy, cited in Sliwinski, Human Rights in Camera, 72. As many scholars have pointed out, the photograph’s evidentiary status must always be buttressed by discursive and institutional context. See Tagg, The Burden of Representation. 75. “Ungkap Kasus Perkosaan Tanpa Data, lsm yang Melapor Bisa Dituntut,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, August 19, 1998. 266  Notes to Chapter two

76. Jeremy Wagstaff and Jay Solomon, “Some Indonesian Rape Photos on the Internet are Frauds,” Asian Wall Street Journal, August 20, 1998. 77. Heryanto, “Race, Rape, and Reporting,” 316 – 18. On East Timor as a “laboratory” for Indonesian state terror tactics, see Aditjondro, “Ninjas, Nanggalas, Monuments and Mossad Manuals”; see also Ben Terrall and Charles Scheiner, “etan/US Statement on Attacks on Ethnic Chinese,” East Timor Action Network, 1998, www .etan.org/estafeta/98/summer/6stateme.htm. 78. “Kontroversi Foto Perkosaan Itu,” Republika, August 22, 1998. 79. On this kind of displacement, see Kuntsman and Stein, Digital Militarism, chapter 3. 80. Jeremy Wagstaff and Jay Solomon, “Some Indonesian Rape Photos on the Internet are Frauds,” Asian Wall Street Journal, August 20, 1998. 81. Edward Liu, “Keeping Our Eyes on the Ball and Not Be Side Tracked” (1998), www.huaren.org. 82. “Data Korban Perkosaan Masih Misterius,” Republika, August 22, 1998. 83. “Kabakin Tentang Berita Perkosaan 13 – 14 May: ‘Ada Motivasi Politik,’ ” Republika, August 25, 1998; see also “Bakin Questions Claims of Mass Rapes During Riots,” Jakarta Post, August 25, 1998; “Bakin Under Fire for Statement on Rapes,” Jakarta Post, August 26, 1998; “Menunggu Akhir Isapan Jempol,” Forum, September 27, 1998, 22. 84. “Rekayasa Gambar Perkosaan Diskreditkan Pemerintah,” Kompas, September 9, 1998. 85. Myers, “Ontologies of the Image,” 16. As “pornography,” the rape photographs triggered anxieties about the free circulation of information. As will be elaborated in chapters 3 and 4, discussions of the dangers of pornography were frequently linked to concerns about new media and democratic freedoms. 86. Feldman, “Violence and Vision,” 72. On the epistemological and historical links between documentary and surveillance photography, see Tagg, The Burden of Representation, 102. 87. See Human Rights Watch, “Disappearances in Indonesia.” 88. Pioneered by the Madres de Plaza de Mayo of Argentina, the use of identity photographs has become a globalized idiom of human rights protest. On identity photographs and protest in Indonesia, see Strassler, “Beyond the ‘Savage Slot,’ ” 154. 89. “Perkosaan Massal Perlu Ditangani dengan Kepedulian,” Republika, August 5, 1998. 90. Heryanto, “Rape, Race and Reporting,” 302. 91. Siegel, “Early Thoughts on the Violence.” 92. “Ita Fatia Nadia dan Pengaduan Perkosaan,” Kompas, July 2, 1998. A doctor who had treated victims later recounted that “because [sexual assault] was something disgraceful, they washed their private parts as best as they could. So how could we find proof of violation?” (Dr. Lie Dharmawan [cardiovascular and general surgeon at Husada General Hospital, Jakarta], “Remembering May 1998,” Jakarta Globe, May 16, 2009, http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/archive/remembering-­may-­1998/1629/ [accessed May 14, 2013]). Notes to Chapter two  267

93. “Ihwal Penyerangan Seksual,” Republika, September 23, 1998. 94. “Anggota Tim Relawan Ditemukan Tewas Terbunuh,” Kompas, October 10, 1998. 95. “Ita Dikremasi, Anggota Tim Relawan Lainnya Diteror,” Kompas, October 12, 1998. See also “Tentang Kematian Ita,” Bernas, October 13, 1998. 96. “Slain Ita a Rape Victim in May Riots,” Jakarta Post, October 12, 1998; “Investigation into the Death of Ita Cast into Confusion,” Jakarta Post, October 13, 1998. 97. “Polisi Tangkap Pembunuh Marthadinata,” Kompas, October 11, 1998. 98. “Kepergian Ita Meninggalkan Pertanyaan,” Kompas, October 12, 1998. The autopsy doctor and the psychiatrist were sharply criticized for releasing information and making highly speculative statements to the press. See “Dokter Forensik Kasus Ita Ditegur,” Bernas, October 15, 1998; “Dr. Mun’im dan Sarlito Akan Dituntut,” Kompas, October 16, 1998; “Doctor and Psychologist Face Questioning,” Jakarta Post, October 19, 1998; Dr. H. Budhi Sampurna (Head of Forensic Medicine, University of Indonesia), “Report on Death of Marthadinata” (letter to the editor), Jakarta Post, October 19, 1998. See also “Sandyawan Ngotot Terbunuhnya Ita adalah Bagian Dari Teror,” Republika, October 16, 1998. 99. “Saya Terangsang Tapi Tak Memerkosa,” Jawa Pos, October 13, 1998. See also “Otong Dipertemukan Lagi Dengan Wartawan,” Kompas, October 13, 1998; “Polisi Tantang Relawan Wawancarai Langsung Pembunuh Ita,” Republika, October 14, 1998. 100. “Romo Sandy: Pornografi Politik Paling Gila,” Bernas, June 6, 1998. 101. See Ariel Heryanto, “Ita,” Kompas, October 18, 1998. 102. “Sandyawan Ngotot Terbunuhnya Ita Adalah Bagian Dari Teror,” Republika, October 16, 1998. 103. “Rumah Dilelang, Sang Ibu Keliling Dunia,” Jawa Pos, October 16, 1998. 104. “Otong Dipertemukan Lagi Dengan Wartawan,” Kompas, October 13, 1998; “Evi Suryadinata Bantah Sebagai Anggota Tim Relawan,” Republika, October 13, 1998; “Investigation into the Death of Ita Cast into Confusion,” Jakarta Post, October 13, 1998; “Sandyawan Ngotot Terbunuhnya Ita adalah Bagian dari Teror,” Republika, October 16, 1998. 105. “Ruman Dilelang, Sang Ibu Keliling Dunia,” Jawa Pos, October 16, 1998. 106. “Otong Dipertemukan Lagi Dengan Wartawan,” Kompas, October 13, 1998. 107. “Polisi Tantang Relawan Wawancarai Langsung Pembunuh Ita,” Republika, October 14, 1998. 108. See “Ita Murder Trial Opens in Central Java,” Jakarta Post, April 3, 1999. 109. Photographs purporting to show her mutilated body also circulated for a time on at least one website (www.colorq.org/HumanRights/Indonesia/Ita.htm). 110. Some news accounts listed the confirmed number of rape victims as fifty-­ two, apparently not counting the fourteen who had been raped and beaten, who were listed in the tgpf’s final report as a separate category. Many of the rapes were gang rapes and many took place in front of others, including family members. See “Laporan Akhir tgpf: Selidiki Pertemuan di Kostrad 14 Mei,” Kompas, November 4, 1998; “tgpf Confirms 66 Rapes in Riots,” Jakarta Post, November 4, 1998; 268  Notes to Chapter two

“52 Wanita Diperkosa,” Bernas, November 4, 1998; “Tindaklanjuti Temuan tgpf,” Bernas, November 5, 1998. For a summary of the findings of the tgpf issued in 2012, see Lembar-­Fakta-­Tragedi-­Mei-­1998-­dan-­Kemajuannya-­Setelah-­14-­Tahun.pdf, a fact sheet prepared by the National Commission on Violence against Women (Komnas Perempuan) and available on its website. 111. “Pemerintahan Jangan Ragu Tindak Lanjuti Temuan tgpf,” Republika, November 4, 1998. 112. “Tidak Ada Perkosaan Massal dan Sistematis,” Republika, December 22, 1998. Activists continued to insist on higher numbers. Ita Fatia Nadia, for example, put the total of victims at 152, of whom 103 were victims of rape (“Keterangan Saksi Kasus Perkosaan Mei: 103 Diperkosa, 9 di Antarannya Dibakar,” Bernas, December 25, 1998). Years later, she and other activists described the fixation on contested numbers in the public debates on the rapes as a distraction from evidence of systematic orchestration (interviews by the author: Ita Fatia Nadia, Jakarta, July 13, 2013, and Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013; Prof. Dr. Saparinah Sadli, Jakarta, February 18, 2013; Andry Yentriyani, Yogyakarta, June 18, 2013). 113. Komnas Perempuan, Saatnya Meneguhkan Rasa Aman. 114. Interview by the author, Dr. Saparinah Sadli, Jakarta, February 18, 2013. Activists also report that the original documents gathered by the Joint Fact-­Finding Team, which were housed in the offices of the National Commission on Human Rights, have disappeared, although copies of these originals remain in other locations (Esther Jusuf, personal communication, May 10 and 12, 2013; interview, Andry Yentriyani, Yogyakarta, June 18, 2013). See also Tom Saptaatmaja, “Tragedi Mei,” Tempo, May 18, 2015, http://www.tempo.co/read/kolom/2015/05/18/2113/tragedi-­mei. 115. One journalist I interviewed contrasted the failure of victims of the 1998 rapes to come forward with the willingness of rape victims in Aceh, Papua, and East Timor to tell their stories, suggesting that this discrepancy cast doubt on the truth of activists’ claims. These comments overlook a crucial distinction between the structural position of women in Aceh, East Timor, and Papua, who came forward within a context of collective opposition to Indonesian military occupation, and without the added discrediting of their voices faced by ethnic Chinese as members of a transnational minority group. Nevertheless, human rights groups report that rape victims in Aceh who reported their sexual assaults experienced stigma and, in the words of one human rights activist, were “subjected to further humiliation from officials, asked to provide photos of their genitals to prove they have been raped” (Margareth S. Aritonang, “Activist Groups Call for Rights Tribunal in Aceh,” Jakarta Post, April 19, 2013, 2). 116. A series of articles that appeared five years after the events of May 1998 included accounts by a doctor, activists, and one survivor who had met with Tempo journalists (“May 1998: The Razing of Jakarta,” Tempo, May 20 – 26, 2003). 117. Komnas Perempuan, Saatnya Meneguhkan Rasa Aman, 1. 118. Ita Fatia Nadia, a member of the Volunteer Team for Humanity, resigned from the Joint Fact-­Finding Team after several months because she felt that, with members of the military and the police on the team, she could not guarantee victims’ anonymNotes to Chapter two  269

ity and safety. Reflecting on this decision years later, she felt she had made the right choice, citing the many victims she knew who been able to rebuild their lives and find a measure of peace (interview, Ita Fatia Nadia, Jakarta, July 13, 2013). 119. Interview, Ita Fatia Nadia, Jakarta, July 13, 2013. National Commission on Violence against Women member Andry Yentriyani described how families and counselors for the victims expressed fatigue when she interviewed them for the 2008 report. Plans to build a “house of memory,” a kind of community museum, were stalled because of fear in the Chinese community that it would revive racial tensions (interview, Andry Yentriyani, Yogyakarta, June 18, 2013). 120. Komnas Perempuan, “Peringatan Peristiwa Tragedi Mei 1998: Napak Reformasi dalam Peringatan Lima Belas Tahun Reformasi,” May 13, 2013, http://www .komnasperempuan.or.id/2013/05/peringatan-­peristiwa-­tragedi-­mei-­1998/ (accessed May 21, 2013). 121. Eddy Djaja, “Tragedi Mei ’98, Jangan Lupakan Perkosaan,” Indonesia Media, May 26, 2010, http://www.indonesiamedia.com/2010/5/26/tragedy-­mei-­98-­jangan -­lupa-­perkosaan/ (accessed May 1, 2013). In May 2014, Jakarta governor Basuki Tjahaja Purnama laid the first stone for a monument, Prasasti Tragedi Mei 98, near a mass grave of victims, most of them young men killed in burning malls. This monument, organized by the National Commission on Violence against Women and other human rights groups, is to be a larger version of an earlier, more modest, monument placed by the families of victims without state involvement. 122. Interview, Ita Fatia Nadia, July 13, 2013, Jakarta. Among numerous works of art related to May 1998 see: May, a feature film about a rape survivor directed by Viva Westi, 2008; Sapu Tangan Fang Yin, a play by Indra Tranggono and Denny JA, based on poetry by Denny JA, and a film directed by Hanung Bramantyo, which had showings with discussions in various cities in 2012 and 2013; Sepenggal Catatan Merah: Sebuah Komik Tragedi Mei 1998, a graphic novel by Hendra Bhakti, published in 2013; and Rani Pramesti’s Chinese Whispers: the Art of Reflection, which began as an installation-­based performance in 2014 and launched in 2018 as an online graphic novel based on the author’s personal recollections and her interviews with ChineseIndonesian women who left Indonesia for Australia after 1998. 123. Her inspiration was a recent film about the 1965 killings that combined video footage with drawn animations illustrating scenes recalled by witnesses and victims (Jembatan Bacem, dir. Yayan Wiludiharto, 2013). 124. The quote is from Walter Benjamin’s The Origin of German Tragic Drama, cited in Taussig, Defacement, 2. 3. The Scandal of Exposure 1. “Dosen Multimedia yang Dibesarkan Media,” Pantau 2, no. 15 (July 2001); “Palsu atau Tidak, Lihat Intonasi dan Spektrum,” Kedualatan Rakyat, March 5, 1999. 2. Prior to 1998, Roy Suryo was a lecturer in the Communications Department at the university and had a regular column about the internet and technology in the local Yogyakarta newspaper. He did not have formal training in computer technology. 270  Notes to Chapter two

3. The Bank Bali case revealed the bank’s payment of 50 billion rupiah to Golkar party officials as repayment for their role in its recapitalization. See “Frekuensi Suara Yang Menguak Fakta,” Kompas, August 23, 1999. 4. “Yang Khas dari Suara Baramuli-­Setya” Kompas, August 24, 1999. 5. “Frekuensi Suara Yang Menguak Fakta,” Kompas, August 23, 1999. 6. “Profil rm Roy Suryo: Belajar Secara Otodidak,” Indosiar.com, August 9, 2004, http://news.indosiar.com/news_read.htm?id=24469 (accessed August 24, 2004). 7. E-­Lifestyle provided “information about the world of information technology and the lifestyles of virtual communication that are flooding the world at this time, explained by multimedia expert Roy Suryo” (“Roy Suryo,” January 17, 2006, http:// www.tokohindonesia.com/ensiklopedi/r/roy-­suryo/index.shtml [accessed June 10, 2008]). It aired on Saturdays at 2:30 p.m. Jakarta time. 8. The Department of Information was founded in 1945, dissolved in 1998, re­ instated in 2001 as the Ministry of Communication and Information, and took on its current name in 2005. 9. During my dissertation fieldwork (1998 – 2000), I knew Roy Suryo slightly because he was a member of the amateur photography club in Yogyakarta. In addition to attending monthly meetings, sometimes held at his family’s palace, I participated in several outings and overnight trips that he also attended. I did not interview him for this chapter, despite the personal connection, because my interest here is not in Roy Suryo the person, but “Roy Suryo, telematics expert,” a media phenomenon and public figure. Roy Suryo was not the only such expert, but he set the template for and most visibly represented this new figure of authority. 10. On “ ‘paper truths’ whose status as truths was intrinsically linked to their symbolic value as official paper,” see Tarlo, Unsettling Memories, 74. 11. Bubandt, “Rumors, Pamphlets, and the Politics of Paranoia.” Supersemar, the founding document of the New Order regime whose original was missing from the archives, had long been the subject of conspiracy theorizing. After Reformasi, finding the lost original of Supersemar became a public obsession as part of a demand to “straighten out” the distorted histories of the New Order regime. See Strassler, “Documents as Material Resources,” and Refracted Visions, chapter 6. 12. The “democratic ideal of publicity” opposed “the sovereign privilege of secrecy” (Dean, Publicity’s Secret, 17). 13. Dean, Publicity’s Secret, 10 – 11. 14. Dean, Publicity’s Secret, 10. Dean argues that an ideology of publicity equates democracy with free access to and circulation of information. This ideal of publicity legitimizes a commodified, corporate technoculture she calls “communicative capitalism,” which is fundamentally at odds with the realization of actual democracy. 15. Dean, Publicity’s Secret, 10. 16. On skepticism, digital forensics, and citizenship, see Kuntsman and Stein, Digital Militarism. The relationship between image scrutiny and performances of political agency will be taken up in the conclusion. 17. On “juridical” versus popular approaches to the image, see Jain, Gods in the Bazaar, 11 – 12. Notes to Chapter three  271

18. Mary Margaret Steedly argues that in post-­Suharto Indonesia, the quest for transparency in the domain of politics and the fascination with supernatural apparitions in popular films and television form “two variations on a . . . regime of visuality” that share an “aesthetic of appearance” (Steedly, “Transparency and Apparition,” 261 – 62). 19. Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 226. 20. Saler, “Modernity and Enchantment,” 702, 711. Saler cites James Cook’s discussion of nineteenth-­century mass media’s role in creating debates about authenticity that yielded “a new form of curiosity — perpetually excited, yet never fully satisfied” (Cook, The Arts of Deception, cited by Saler, “Modernity and Enchantment,” 711). He also cites Simon During’s work on the “pleasures, competencies, and experiences” that flourish within a “modern culture of secular magic,” in which rational processes of speculation and questioning stimulate a “sense of wonder” (During, Modern Enchantments, cited by Saler, “Modernity and Enchantment,” 713). 21. See “Lokasinya Hotel Mulia, Kursinya Leter L: Mengungkap Skandal Rekaman Suara Mirip Baramuli-­Setya Novanto,” Jateng Pos, August 24, 1999. 22. Zidane, “Roy Suryo, Punya Hobi Baca Buku Dikamar Mandi,” Lampung Interaktif, 2006, http://www.lampunginteraktif.com/depan/cetak_berita.php?kode=477 (accessed October 7, 2008). 23. Saler, “Modernity and Enchantment,” 711. 24. The most well-­k nown of the cases against kpk officials was the 2009 accusation of extortion against Bibit Samad Rianto and Chandra Hamzah. The case was dropped in December 2009. According to a Reuters report, as of 2013, the kpk had won all 236 cases it had brought to trial; more than one-­t hird of its 385 arrests had been of politicians (Kanupriya Kappor and Randy Fabi, “Special Report: Indonesia’s Graftbusters Battle the Establishment,” Reuters, November 17, 2013, http://www .reuters.com/article/us-­indonesia-­graftbusters-­specialreport-­idUSBRE9AG00 V20131118). 25. Much of my discussion of this case is drawn from an excellent article in Pantau, a magazine devoted to monitoring the press that was established immediately af­ ter the end of the New Order. Largely based on interviews with editors of major news publications, the article focuses on their decisions and debates regarding coverage of the case (Budiman S. Hartoyo, “The Ballad of Aryanti Sitepu,” Pantau, April 2, 2001, http://www.pantau.or.id/?/=d/16%E2%80%8B). 26. As quoted in Hartoyo,“The Ballad of Aryanti Sitepu.” 27. While the news magazines Gatra and Panji were the first to report the story, Adil was the first to publish the photograph. 28. “Badai Belum Berlalu Gus!,” Adil, Edisi Kamis, August 31, 2000. 29. Sigit Widodo, “Teliti dari Klise Asli ‘Gus Dur-­Aryanti’: Roy, Foto Bukan Hasil Rekayasa,” Detik.com, September 2, 2000, https://www.library.ohiou.edu/indopubs /2000/09/02/0071.html (accessed May 25, 2016). 30. “Skandal Seks Gus Dur” Utusan Online, September 3, 2000, http://ww1.utusan .com.my/utusan/info.asp?y=2000&dt=0903&pub=utusan_malaysia&sec=Rencana &pg=ot_06.htm (accessed May 25, 2016). 31. Sigit Widodo, “Teliti dari Klise Asli ‘Gus Dur-­Aryanti’: Roy, Foto Bukan Hasil 272  Notes to Chapter three

Rekayasa,” Detik.com, September 2, 2000, https://www.library.ohiou.edu/indopubs /2000/09/02/0071.html (accessed May 25, 2016). 32. On expert images, see Daston and Galison, Objectivity. 33. “Badai Belum Berlalu Gus!,” Adil, Edisi Kamis, August 31, 2000. 34. “Misteri Gaib si Pemuat Foto-­Foto Panas,” Forum Keadilan 19 (September 3, 2006): 12 – 15; here 14. 35. “Tempo Lawyers Allege Perjury by Tomy,” Jakarta Post, May 18, 2004. See also Agung Rulianto and Edy Can, “Tiga Suara, Satu Nada,” Tempo, May 30, 2004, 96; Sukma N. Loppies, “Bukti dalam Sepotong Rekaman: Kasus Tempo vs. Tomy Winata,” Tempo, August 29, 2004, 103 – 5. 36. “Roy Suryo: Video ‘Tragedi Ahmadiyah’ Asli,” Antaranews.com, February 10, 2011, http://www.antaranews.com/print/245271/roy-­suryo-­v ideo-­tragedi-­a hmadiyah-­asl. 37. Paramaditha, “Wild Child’s Desire,” 17. 38. Roy Suryo, “Fotografi, Teknologi, dan Pornografi,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, July 15, 1999. 39. Tragically, after complications from surgery and over five months in a coma, Sukma Ayu died in September 2004. 40. Evi Mariani, “Police Hunt for Perpetrators behind Pornographic Pictures,” Jakarta Post, February 19, 2004. 41. “Temuan Baru Foto ‘Panas’ Sukma Ayu,’ ” Nova, February 2004, http://www .tabloidnova.com/articles.asp?id=3846 (accessed August 24, 2004). See also “Feature: Soal Foto Syuur dengan Sukma,” Bernas, February 18, 2004, http://www.bernas.info /modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=7967 (accessed August 24, 2004). 42. Dani Hamdani and Astari Yanuarti, “Seratus Kurang Satu Persen,” Gatra, no. 15 (February 20, 2004), http://www.gatra.com/2004-­03-­08/versi_cetak.php?id=34327. 43. Johanes, “Pembodohan Digital,” February 17, 2004, http://opensource.or.id /~yohanes/blog/archives/2004_02.html (accessed August 24, 2004). See also “Pembuktian Keaslian Foto Digital,” roysuryowatch.org, http://rangkuman.roysury owatch.org/index.php?title=Pembuktian_Keaslian_Foto_Digital (accessed October 4, 2006). 44. See www.sukma-­bjah.cjb.net (accessed August 24, 2004). See also http://www .bjah-­sukma.5u.com/ (accessed August 24, 2004). 45. The fpi will be discussed in more detail in the next chapter, as will the competition for authority in the public sphere between a secular, rational, technocratic ideology of transparency and Islamic morality. 46. The rally was sponsored by the National Alliance for Freedom of Religion and Belief (Aliansi Kebangsaan Kebebasan Beragama dan Berkeyakinan, akkbb). 47. “Munarman: Roy Suryo Itu Ahlinya Foto Porno,” Detik.com, September 25, 2008, http://news.detik.com/berita/1012692/munarman-­roy-­suryo-­itu-­a hlinya-­foto-­porno; “Roy Suryo: Rekaman Insiden Monas Asli,” Kompas, September 25, 2008, http:// nasional.kompas.com/read/2008/09/25/20504940/roy.suryo.rekaman.insiden.monas .asli. 48. “Pertanyakan Keahlian Roy Suryo, Habib Razieq [sic] Walk Out,” Detik.com, September 25, 2008, http://news.detik.com/berita/1012611/pertanyakan-­keahlian-­roy Notes to Chapter three  273

-­suryo-­habib-­razieq-­walk-­out; “Roy Suryo Datang, Habib Rizieq Kabur,” Kompas, September 25, 2008, http://travel.kompas.com/read/2008/09/25/19480213/Roy.Suryo .Datang.Habib.Rizieq.Kabur. 49. “Munarman: Roy Suryo Itu Ahlinya Foto Porno,” Detik.com, September 25, 2008, http://news.detik.com/berita/1012692/munarman-­roy-­suryo-­itu-­a hlinya ­-foto-­porno. 50. Jones, “The Female Illness of Our Time”; Jones, “Style on Trial.” 51. Lindquist, Anxieties of Mobility. 52. Jones, “Materializing Piety.” 53. The scandal of the second marriage of Muslim self-­help guru Aa Gym unfolded without a telltale revelatory photograph or document at its heart. Nevertheless, although it was not an exposure scandal of the type I am analyzing here, it was a case in which the authenticity of appearances played a central role, as the carefully orchestrated televisualized image of Aa Gym’s happy Muslim family was shattered by the revelation (Hoesterey, “Sincerity and Scandal”). 54. When the Gus Dur and Aryanti Sitepu exposure scandal broke, Aryanti appeared on the cover of the magazine Panji Masyarakat in a veil, with the headline “Gus Dur Lied to Me” (Panji Masyarakat, September 6, 2000). 55. Dangdut is a popular music form mostly associated with the lower classes that has itself been at the center of controversies about sexuality and public morality, particularly around the erotic dance moves of dangdut star Inul Daratista. 56. “Video Mesum Anggota dpr-­Penyanyi Dangdut: Pecat Dari Dewan dan Ancaman Bui,” Gugat, no. 412 (November 30 – December 6, 2006): 2 – 3. 57. “ ‘Direkam dengan Handphone’: Roy Suryo, Pakar Telematika,” Gugat, no. 413 (November 30  – December 6, 2006): 3. 58. Nurfajri Budi Nugroho, “Maraknya Skandal Seks di dpr,” Detik.com, December 5, 2006, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-­716365/maraknya-­skandal-­seks-­di-­dpr. 59. “Video Mesum Anggota dpr-­Penyanyi Dangdut: Pecat Dari Dewan dan Ancaman Bui,” Gugat, no. 412 (November 30 – December 6, 2006): 2 – 3. 60. See for example, Intan Y. Septiani, “Maria Eva Dituduh Menyebarkan Video; ‘Omongannya Jadi Bumerang,’ ” Nova, no. 981 (December 11 – 17, 2006): 4 – 5; Intan Y. Septiani, “Ine Wirayanti: ‘Keluarga Yahya Dizalimi Maria,’ ” Nova, no. 981 (December 11 – 17, 2006): 4. 61. Gugun El-­Guyanie, “Seks, Politik dan Industri” (op-­ed), Kompas, December 19, 2006, D1. 62. See “Saya Mohon Maaf Kepada Semua: Maria Eva,” Gugat, no. 413 (November 30 – December 6, 2006): 4; Kurniasih Tjitradjaja, “Yahya & Sharmila Bicara: ‘Bela Anak-­Istri adalah Jihad Suami,’ ” Nova, no. 981 (December 11 – 17, 2006): 3. This article was placed in the “celebrity” section of the tabloid. 63. Kurniasih Tjitradjaja, “Yahya & Sharmila Bicara: ‘Bela Anak-­Istri adalah Jihad Suami,’ ” Nova, no. 981 (December 11 – 17, 2006): 3. 64. See for example the 2013 case of Indoguna beef, which embroiled top members of the (Islamic) Justice and Prosperity Party in a scandal involving sex, bribery, and the manipulation of import quotas. 274  Notes to Chapter three

65. See Yetta, “Roy: Foto Asli, Diambil 4 Tahun Lalu,” Nova 21, no. 1088 (December 29, 2008 – January 4, 2009): 3;. Astudestra Ajengrastri, “Curhat Rahma & Sarah Azhari ‘Kami Selalu Jadi Korban,’ ” Nova 21, no. 1088 (December 29, 2008 – January 4, 2009): 3; “Dituding Penyebar Foto Bugil, Roy Suryo Siap Tuntut Balik,” KapanLagi .com, December 30, 2008; “Banyak Omong Roy Suryo Akan Dipidanakan,” Kapan Lagi.com, December 25, 2008. 66. “Bicara Pornografi Roy Suryo Temui Kabareskrim,” KapanLagi.com, January 12, 2009; “lsm Anti-­Pornografi Laporkan Rahma dan Sarah Azhari,” KapanLagi .com, January 12, 2009. 67. Yetta, “Roy: Foto Asli, Diambil 4 Tahun Lalu,” Nova 21, no. 1088 (December 29, 2008 – January 4, 2009): 3. 68. Robby Soegara, “Siapa Pengirim Foto Panas ke Internet,” Forum Keadilan 19 (September 3, 2006): 11. 69. The law was first proposed in 2003 by the Ministry of Communication and Information. By mid-­2010 at least eight people, including Prita Mulyasari, had been prosecuted under the ite law (Thajib, “Monitoring and Defending Freedom of Expression”). Between 2011 and 2015, at least eighty-­five people were charged, mostly under Article 27 of the law (Amnesty International, “Indonesia: Two Women Convicted”). 70. The Facebook campaign had almost 400,000 supporters and raised 800 million rupiah, or approximately US$98,600 (Dibley, “Facebooking for Reform?”). Another important Facebook campaign in the same year was “One Million [giving] Support for Bibit-­Chandra,” which responded to politically motivated charges of corruption against the two deputy chairs of the Corruption Eradication Commission (kpk). 71. See “Roy Suryo’s Credibility Questioned at Prita’s Trial,” Jakarta Post, October 15, 2009, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2009/10/15/roy-­sury0039s-­credibility -­questioned-­prita039s-­trial.html (accessed June 11, 2013). 72. Multa Fidrus and Masyim Widhiarto, “Court Queries Prita’s Role in Defamation Case,” Jakarta Post, October 22, 2009. 73. Kinanti Pinta Karana, “In Prita’s Defamation Trial, Questions about it ‘Expert’ Roy Suryo,” Jakarta Globe, October 14, 2009, http://www.thejakartaglobe.com /archive/in-­pritas-­defamation-­trial-­questions-­about-­it-­expert-­roy-­suryo/ (accessed June 11, 2013). 74. Stefanus Yugo Hindarto, “Roy Suryo: Prita Pantas Dijerat uu ite, Luna Tidak,” oketechno.com, December 23, 2009, http://techno.okezone.com/read/2009 /12/23/55/287673/55/roy-­suryo-­prita-­pantas-­dijerat-­uu-­ite-­luna-­tidak. 75. Multa Fidrus and Masyim Widhiarto, “Court Queries Prita’s Role in Defamation Case,” Jakarta Post, October 22, 2009. Another prominent it expert testified that the email discussed in court was not a valid piece of evidence according to international standards, because it was not the original email sent from Prita’s account and therefore could have been falsified (aa Gdhe Agung Wedhatama P., “Roy Suryo vs. Ruby Alamsyah: Cinta Lama Bersemi Kembali,” February 1, 2010, http://weda .web.id/roy-­suryo-­vs-­ruby-­a lamsyah-­cinta-­lama-­bersemi-­kembali/). This blog post Notes to Chapter three  275

compares Roy Suryo’s and Ruby Alamsyah’s pronouncements in the Prita case as well as their cvs. Alamsyah, a member of the International Association of Investigators of Technological Crime, is held up as the genuine expert. 76. “Penasihat Hukum Prita Ragukan Keahlian Roy Suryo,” Kompas, October 14, 2009, http://megapolitan.kompas.com/read/2009/10/14/17141771/twitter.com. Prita was acquitted in 2009 to great public delight, but she was later retried on appeal, convicted by the Indonesian Supreme Court, and sentenced to a six-­month suspended sentence (Dibley, “Facebooking for Reform?”). 77. “Prita, Roy Suryo, dan Kekerasan Negara” Air Kata-­Kata, October 18, 2009. http://www.katakataku.com/2009/10/18/prita-­roy-­suryo-­dan-­kekerasan-­negara (accessed April 24, 2013). 78. See Wicaksono, “Gara-­Gara Seorang Pakar,” April 4, 2008. http://kolomblog .wordpress.com/2008/04/04/gara-­gara-­seorang-­pakar/. 79. See Abdul Manan and Heru Nugroho, “Akibat Foto Montase Presiden,” December 5, 2005, http://jurnalis.wordpress.com/2005/12/. 80. Robby Soegara, “Siapa Pengirim Foto Panas ke Internet,” Forum Keadilan 19 (September 3, 2006): 11. 81. “Misteri Gaib si Pemuat Foto-­Foto Panas,” Forum Keadilan 19 (September 3, 2006): 12 – 15; here 14. 82. Abdul Manan and Heru Nugroho, “Akibat Foto Montase Presiden,” December 5, 2005, http://jurnalis.wordpress.com/2005/12/. 83. “Foto Rekayasa Presiden,” Tempo, December 16, 2005. 84. In 2008, at the time the ite bill passed, it was estimated that there were more than 500,000 blogs managed by Indonesians and thirty-­four blogger communities. Of these, only about 5 percent were concerned with politics (“Mabuk Dunia Maya, Sampai Lupa Etika,” Kompas, November 23, 2008, 17). More than one thousand bloggers attended the Pesta Blogger 2008 in Jakarta, an annual gathering of bloggers from across Indonesia (“ ‘Blogger Indonesia Diminta Santun,” Kompas, November 24, 2008, 13). Blogging began in Indonesia around 1999, with early blogs mostly written by Indonesians living abroad who worked in the information technology industry. The enormous growth of Facebook and Twitter has largely eclipsed blogging, but there were over 1.2 million Indonesian blogs registered as of the end of 2011 (Freedom House, “Freedom on the Net 2012: Indonesia,” https://freedomhouse .org/report/freedom-­net/2012/indonesia). 85. Radon Dhelika (ntu, Singapore), “Menyelami 68% Dunia Blog Indonesia,” August 19, 2006, http://selembarkertas.blogspot.com/2006/08/menyelami-­68-­dunia -­blog-­Indonesia.html (accessed June 10, 2008). The title of the blog post refers to Roy Suryo’s infamous assertion that “68%” of all Friendster accounts were registered under false names. 86. Harry Sufehmi, “Roy Suryo versus Bloggers?,” December 13, 2005, http://harry .sufehmi.com/2005/12/13/roy-­suryo-­versus-­bloggers/. For a defense of the credibility of traditional journalism against the blog see, “Mabuk Dunia Maya, Sampai Lupa Etika,” Kompas, November 23, 2008, 17. 87. In fact, a significant number of prominent bloggers either had background in 276  Notes to Chapter three

or continued to work in journalism, public relations, and other media industry roles (interview by the author, Ong Hock Chuan, Jakarta, April 24, 2013). 88. These disparaging comments were first publicized in the newspaper Media Indonesia on January 6, 2005. See Priyadi Iman Nurcahyo, “Pesan Cinta Blogger Indonesia: Behind the Scenes,” Priyadi’s Place, February 18, 2005, http://priyadi.net /archives/2005/02/18/pesan-­cinta-­blogger-­indonesia-­sebuah-­evaluasi/. They were repeated in a column in the premier national news magazine Tempo (“Friendster dan Blog Palsu,” Tempo, February 1, 2005). For a counterargument, see Yulian Firdaus, “Celoteh Roy Suryo di Majalah Tempo,” Jay Adalah Yulian, February 1, 2005, http:// yulian.firdaus.or.id/2005/02/01/celoth-­roy-­suryo-­di-­majalah-­tempo (accessed June 11, 2013). In response to Suryo, Firdaus wrote, “Who engaged in character assassination of Sukma Ayu? Who went fishing in the pain of a pretty public figure to make himself exist as a multimedia expert?” He also asked, “Who does more damage to the image of the internet, script-­kiddies who deface a site, or a public figure who broadcasts dumb arguments?” 89. Dewi Widya Ningrum, “Roy Suryo Mulai Ngeblog? ‘Blogger Tukang Tipu!,’ ” Detikinet, February 26, 2008, http://inet.detik.com/read/2008/02/26/16732/900330 /398/roy-­suryo-­mulai-­nge-­blog-­blogger-­tukang-­tipu. 90. See, for example, the point-­by-­point refutation of Roy Suryo’s claims regarding the authenticity of the photographs of Sukma Ayu and Bjah in “Pembuktian Keslian Foto Digital,” http://rangkuman.roysuryowatch.org/index.php?title=Pembuktian _Keaslian_Foto-­Digital (accessed October 4, 2006). For another site critical of Roy Suryo, see http://roy-­suryo-­asoy.blogspot.com. 91. “Ucapan Terima Kasih,” For Roy Suryo with Love, February 15, 2005, http:// for-­roy-­suryo-­with-­love.blogspot.com/ (accessed June 13, 2013). 92. See Eddy Prasetyo, “Roy Suryo Telanjang di Situs Golkar,” Eddy Blogger, March 28, 2008, http://eddyprasetyo-­pwr.blogspot.com/2008/03/roy-­suryo-­telanjang-­di -­situs-­golkar.html (accessed June 10, 2008); “Roy Suryo vs. Bloger Indonesia,” blogberita.net, March 29, 2008, http://blogberita.net/2008/03/29/roy-­suryo-­vs-­bloger -­indonesia/ (accessed June 10, 2008). 93. Roy Suryo responded by condemning “the group of bloggers and hackers who are always acting negatively. This proves that Indonesian bloggers and hackers are not yet able to show a positive image” (original statement published at Detikinet on March 3, 2008; quoted in “Roy Suryo: Membuat Blogger Positif Untuk Indonesia,” Budyawan Muda, April 11, 2008, http://dendemang.wordpress.com/2008/04/11 /roy-­suryo-­membuat-­blogger-­positif-­untuk-­indonesia/). 94. He described bloggers as, “people throwing garbage . . . con artists,” and claimed that blogs lacked “credibility” because many of their authors used assumed names (Dewi Widya Ningrum, “Roy Suryo Mulai Ngeblog? ‘Blogger Tukang Tipu!’ ” Detikinet, February 26, 2008, http://inet.detik.com/read/2008/02/26/16732/900330 /398/roy-­suryo-­mulai-­nge-­blog-­blogger-­tukang-­tipu). 95. “Roy Suryo vs. Bloger Indonesia,” blogberita.net, March 29, 2008, http:// blogberita.net/2008/03/29/roy-­suryo-­vs-­bloger-­indonesia/ (accessed June 10, 2008). At an in-­person dialogue between Roy Suryo and the blogging community, a promiNotes to Chapter three  277

nent blogger presented Roy Suryo with his own blog account (roy.suryo.info) so that he could provide a “model” of “positive” blogging (Harry Sufehmi, “Dialog Blogger dengan Roy Suryo: Laporan Acara,” harry.sufehmi.com, April 11, 2008. http://harry .sufehmi.com/2008/04/11/dialog-­blogger-­dengan-­roy-­suryo-­laporan-­acara/). On this meeting, see also Wibisono Sastrodiwiryo, “Roy Suryo: Membuat Blogger Positif Untuk Indonesia,” Budyawan Muda, April 11, 2008, http://dendemang.wordpress.com /2008/04/11/roy-­suryo-­membuat-­blogger-­positif-­untuk-­indonesia/. 96. “7 Cara Menjadi Ahli Telematika,” August 2010 (no exact date), http://males .banget.com/2010/08/cara-­menjadi-­a hli-­telematika/ (accessed June 11, 2013). 97. The Telemakita show had 363,208 YouTube subscribers and individual episode viewings of close to 20,000 views. The characters were played by Davey Wongso (Boy Surya) and Bima Ariasena (the host, Teten Menhetten), and the show was written and directed by Jerry Hadiprojo and produced by Malesbanget.com. 98. “Boy Surya, Pakar Multimedia dan Telematika,” Sidewalk Studio, 2008, http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0gsuEYx3A4. 99. Telemakita, season 1, episode 2, “Uang Palsu,” Sidewalk Studio, posted July 26, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QP08As-­hZe0. 100. On the authenticity of the unconcealed fake, see Molé, “Trusted Puppets, Tarnished Politicians.” Cynicism, she writes, “yields a preference for the visible, as opposed to hidden, disguise” (295). 101. “Hal-­Hal Yang Bisa Dilakukan Roy Suryo Kalau Jadi Menpora,” Malesbanget .com, January 11, 2013, http://malesbanget.com/2013/01/hal-­hal-­yang-­bisa-­dilakukan -­roy-­suryo-­kalau-­jadi-­menpora/. 102. “Foto Paspor Sony 100% Gayus,” Suara Merdeka, January 6, 2011, http:// suaramerdeka.com/v1/index.php/read/cetak/2011/01/06/134165/Foto-­Paspor-­Sony -­100-­Gayus (accessed June 13, 2013). 103. “Roy Suryo Yakin 100 Persen Itu Gayus,” Kompas.com, November 14, 2010, http://nasional.kompas.com/read/2010/11/14/19143445 (accessed June 13, 2013). See also “Man in Photo and Gayus One and the Same: Expert,” Jakarta Post, November 14, 2010, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2010/11/14/man-­photo-­and-­gayus -­one-­and-­same-­expert.­html (accessed June 13, 2013). 104. “Foto Paspor Sony 100% Gayus,” Suara Merdeka, January 6, 2011, http:// suaramerdeka.com/v1/index.php/read/cetak/2011/01/06/134165/Foto-­Paspor-­Sony -­100-­Gayus (accessed June 13, 2013). 105. “Second Expert Confirms Validity of Gayus Tennis Match Photo,” Jakarta Post, November 14, 2010, http://www/thejakartapost.com/news/2010/11/14/second -­expert-­confirms-­validity-­gayus-­tennis-­match-­photo.html (accessed June 13, 2013). 106. “Roy Suryo: Kecil Kemungkinan Foto Gayus Rekayasa,” KapanLagi.com, November 12, 2010, http://www.kapanlagi.com/showbiz/selebriti/roy-­suryo-­foto-­mirip -­gayus-­kecil-­kemungkinan-­rekayasa-­html (accessed June 13, 2013). 107. See Wedeen, Ambiguities of Domination; Molé, “Trusted Puppets, Tarnished Politicians.” 108. Molé, “Trusted Puppets, Tarnished Politicians,” 290. 109. Berlant, Cruel Optimism, 228. 278  Notes to Chapter three

4. Naked Effects 1. The cp Foundation was founded by leading art critic and curator Jim Supangkat and a Chinese-Indonesian entrepreneur in 2001. 2. For an article on the Pinkswing Park controversy that focuses on the role of law in censoring the arts in Indonesia, see Pausacker, “Pink or Blue Swing?” See also Sunardi, “Pinkswing Park”; and Dirgantoro, “Pasang Surut Sensor dan Dunia Seni Indonesia.” 3. On debates about censorship, sexual politics, and post-­Suharto film, see Paramaditha, “Wild Child’s Desire.” 4. Hoesterey, Rebranding Islam, 149. 5. Arguably, the fpi and other hardline groups sought to form an Islamic counterpublic that opposed a normative public sphere of mainstream Indonesian nationalism (see Hirschkind, “Civic Virtue and Religious Reason”). It is important to note that not all Islamic groups supported the Pornography Law, and that many who did nevertheless rejected the fpi’s violent tactics. 6. Agus Suwage, interview by the author, Yokyakarta, February 6, 2013. 7. Agus Suwage, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, February 6, 2013. 8. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want?, 301. 9. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want?, 26 – 27. 10. “Kasus Foto Bugil: fpi Laporkan Anjas ke Polda Metro Jaya,” Gatra, September 22, 2005, http://www.gatra.com/artikel.php?id=88624 (accessed July 22, 2017). The sinetron was called “Mukjizat Allah” (Miracle of God). 11. The police questioned all named in the complaint for violating both Article 282 of the criminal code, on disseminating pornography, and Article 156a, on insulting a religion; ultimately they were only charged under the pornography clause. Agus Suwage was not initially named in the fpi complaint but was later charged by the police. 12. Hendro Wiyanto, “Tolerating the Intolerant: Interview with Jim Supangkat about the cp Biennale 2005, and the Protest of the fpi,” Nafas Art Magazine, November 2005; available at https://universes.art/en/nafas/articles/2005/cp-­biennale-­2005/. Many artists and liberals were unhappy with Supangkat’s stance, which they saw as capitulating to terror rather than defending the artists and artistic freedom more generally. See “Ancaman bagi Kemerdekaan Kreatif,” Tempo 34, no. 31 (October 2, 2005): 42. An extended debate between Supangkat and another prominent Indonesian curator, Enin Supriyanto, took place in the press over the course of four months. See Jim Supangkat, “Seni, Erotisme, dan Undang-­undang,” Visual Arts 12 (April – May 2006): 100 – 103; Enin Supriyanto, “Salah Paham dan Takut pada Kebebasan?” Kompas, June 3, 2006, 42; Jim Supangkat, “Nabi-­isme, Ideologi Seni, Kebebasan Ekspresi,” Kompas, July 2, 2006, 26; Enin Supriyanto, “Lagi-­lagi, Salah Paham . . . ,” Kompas, July 16, 2006, 28; Jim Supangkat, “Ideologi (Kata) Seni,” Kompas, August 27, 2006, 29; and Enin Supriyanto, “Memang Tidak (Se)Paham,” Kompas, August 27, 2006, 29. See also Dirgantoro, “Double Pressure.” 13. Putu Fajar Arcana, “Jim Supangkat: Kita Belum Mati,” Kompas, October 2,

Notes to Chapter four  279

2005, 12; “Pameran cp Biennale 2005 Ditutup Selamanya,” Media Indonesia, September 28, 2005, accessed at the cp Biennale website, http://biennale.cp-­foundation.org /2005/media9.html. 14. Spyer and Steedly, introduction to Images That Move, 31. 15. Agus Suwage, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, February 6, 2013. For similar comments by Supangkat, see “Jim Supangkat: Saya dalam Posisi Terjepit,” Gatra 11, no. 47 (October 8, 2005): 16. 16. Proving his point, the editor of the magazine pulled the most controversial statement made by Suwage in the interview out of context to serve as its headline —  “Agus Suwage: It Is a Picture of Adam and Eve” — t hereby reinforcing the fpi’s position that the work was a blasphemous depiction and ignoring Suwage’s call to consider the whole installation piece rather than focusing narrowly on the “nude” figures (“Agus Suwage: ‘Itu Gambaran Adam dan Hawa,’ ” Nyata 4 [September 2005]: 7). 17. Spyer and Steedly, introduction to Images That Move, 30. 18. “Foto Bugil Cecep Menuai Badai,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 1. 19. “Pro Kontra Foto Panas Anjas,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 7. 20. Henro Wiyanto, “Tolerating the Intolerant: Interview with Jim Supangkat about the cp Biennale 2005, and the Protest of the fpi,” Nafas Art Magazine, November 2005; available at https://universes.art/en/nafas/articles/2005/cp-­biennale-­2005/. 21. In the case of Latjuba’s “as if” nude cover of Popular in May 1999, she denied actually being nude for the photo shoot and stated, “I think it depends on how people see it, as art or not” (T. Sima Gunawan, “Who Draws the Line Between Pornography and Art?,” Jakarta Post, July 4, 1999, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/1999/07/04 /who-­draws-­line-­between-­pornography-­and-­art.html [accessed October 23, 2013]). 22. In 1999, the editors of five magazines (Popular, Liberty, Matra, Pop, and Obyektif ) were charged with publishing “obscene” photographs. The models and photographers were also questioned. See “Editors Charged in Bid to Stop Porn,” Jakarta Post, July 7, 1999, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/1999/07/07/editors-­charged-­bid -­stop-­porn.html (accessed October 23, 2013). 23. “Anjasmara: Mohon Maaf Bila Tak Berkenan,” Nyata 4 (September 2005): 4. 24. Nova 18, no. 917 (September 25, 2005): 7. 25. “Anjasmara: Saya Minta Ma’af,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 4. 26. “Anjasmara dan Abel Diperikas Polisi,” February 5, 2006, http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=OiwonjQBHAI (accessed September 30, 2013). 27. “Kontroversi Foto Bugil Anjas-­Isabel,” February 13, 2006, http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=r3v5VI4ti1g (accessed September 26, 2013). 28. “Dian Nitami: Yang Penting ‘Bagian Itu’ Milik Saya,” Nyata 4 (September 2005): 5. 29. “Dian Nitami: Anjas Minta Persetujuan Dulu,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 6. 30. “Badannya Bagus, Keren Deh!” Nyata 4 (September 2005): 6. 31. Larkin, “Making Equivalence Happen.” 280  Notes to Chapter four

32. Bellows, “Aroused Public,” 220. 33. See Fitzgerald, “You Wan See Jiggy-­Jig?” 34. Many, including the National Commission for the Protection of Children, opposed these raids as counterproductive overreactions on the part of police. See “Polisi Membidik Pihak Penyebar,” Kompas, June 15, 2010, 25; “Razia Telepon Seluler Tindakan Tidak Bijak,” Kompas, June 14, 2010, 27; “Hentikan Razia Ponsel Anak,” Kompas, June 13, 2010, 2. See also Bellows, “Aroused Public,” 226. On police raids of schools in search of porn on cell phones, see also Barendregt, “Between M-­Governance and Mobile Anarchies,” 17 – 18. 35. Mitchell, Cloning Terror. 36. Mitchell, Cloning Terror, xiv, 32. 37. Mitchell, Cloning Terror, xix, 33. 38. Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 231. 39. Mitchell, Cloning Terror, 34. 40. Mitchell, Cloning Terror, 7. On the need to protect children from pornography, see, for example, “Pornografi Semakin Meresahkan,” Kompas, April 14, 2008, 12. 41. See, for example, “Gara-­gara Nonton vcd Porno 3 Gadis Cilik Digilir,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, August 27, 1999. 42. See Lim, “Internet and Everyday Life in Indonesia,” 133. 43. See “Cellphone Tease,” Straits Times, March 20, 2005; Mawar Kusuma, “Video Porno Wujud Krisis Budaya: Pelaku Mayoritas Pelajar dan Mahasiswa yang Ceroboh dengan Ponsel,” Kompas Edisi Yogya, November 24, 2007, A. 44. Barendregt, “Between M-­Governance and Mobile Anarchies.” Barendregt discusses the 2004 popular film Virgin, which features an opening scene in which girls photograph their breasts with their cell phones; the film was prohibited from showing in some towns because of fears that youth might imitate the actions portrayed in the film (2). 45. Lindsay, “Media and Morality,” 179. 46. Lindsay, “Media and Morality,” 180. 47. George, “Ethics, Iconoclasm, and Qur’anic Art,” 592 (my emphasis). 48. On conservative Hindu concern about obscene or “porno” dancing, for example, see Bellows, “Aroused Public,” 219. 49. Kitley, “Playboy Indonesia and the Media,” 99. Philip Kitley notes that at the trial of Playboy Indonesia’s editor, Edwin Arnada, discussion focused on the distribution of the magazine and its availability to minors rather than on the offensive nature of the content itself (101). 50. In an interview with Kitley in 2007, an mui spokesman described Indonesia as a “heaven for pornography” (“Playboy Indonesia and the Media,” 95). On pornography and the case of dangdut singer Inul, see Heryanto, “Pop Culture and Competing Identities.” 51. See Bellows, “Aroused Public,” 210. 52. “Undang-­Undang Republik Indonesia Nomor 44 Tahun 2008 Tentang Pornografi.” On differences between the 2006 draft law and the final 2008 version, see Pausacker, “Hot Debates.” Notes to Chapter four  281

53. Keane, “Freedom and Blasphemy,” 49. See also Keane, “Semiotics and the Social Analysis of Material Things,” 419. 54. Flood, “Inciting Modernity?” 42, 45. The Danish cartoon controversy was set off on September 30, 2005, by the publication of a series of cartoons depicting Mohammed in the Danish newspaper Jyllands-­Posten. 55. Keane, “Freedom and Blasphemy,” 56. On the discourse of Islamic iconoclasm as index of nonmodernity, see Flood, “Between Cult and Culture.” 56. See for example, Tulus Wijanarko, Agricoli, and Jojo Raharjo, “Bienale Tanpa Anjas,” Tempo 34, no. 31 (October 2, 2005): 38; “Izabel & Anjasmara: Foto Bugil Cecep Menuai Badai,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 3 – 5; “Izabel Jahja: Saya Tidak Telanjang,” Cek & Ricek 8, no. 369 (September 21 – 27, 2005): 5. 57. “Anjasmara dan Abel Diperikas Polisi,” sctv report, http://www.youtube.com /watch?v=OiwonjQBHAI (accessed September 30, 2013). At the time I accessed it, the clip had 18,043 views. Another, titled “Kontroversi Foto Bugil Anjas-­Isabel,” showing a clip from the sctv crime and entertainment show Kritis: Kriminal & Selebritis (Critical: Criminal and Celebrity), had 98,250 views as of September 2013 (February 10, 2006, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3v5VI4ti1g [accessed September 30, 2013]). 58. Nead, cited in Williams, Hard Core, 284 – 85. 59. “Foto Bugil Anjas Diganti Menjangan,” Kompas, September 21, 2005, http:// www.kompas.com/gayahidup/news/0509/21/162038.htm (accessed October 4, 2006). 60. “Roy Suryo: Lihatlah dari Sudut Pandang Fotografi,” Nyata 4 (September 2005): 6. 61. “Davy Linggar: Mereka Yang Mengerti Tak Akan Meributkan,” Nyata 4 (September 2005): 6. 62. “Foto Bugil Anjas Diganti Menjangan,” Kompas, September 21, 2005, http:// www.kompas.com/gayahidup/news/0509/21/162038.htm (accessed October 4, 2006). 63. George, “Ethics, Iconoclasm, and Qur’anic Art,” 600. Although George’s argument is specifically about the nature of Qur’anic script as both pictorial and verbal sign, his point can be extended to include the depiction of figures from the Qur’an. 64. Abdul Khalik, “fpi Steamed about Nude Adam, Eve,” Jakarta Post, September 23, 2005. 65. See chapter 5 of Hoesterey, Rebranding Islam, for an extensive discussion of an Islamic ethics of vision, notions of public piety, and debates about pornography. 66. Hoesterey, “Vicissitudes of Vision,” 136. 67. Quoted in Hoesterey, “Vicissitudes of Vision,” 134. 68. Quoted in Hoesterey, “Vicissitudes of Vision,” 136. 69. Mark Forbes, “Navel Gazing Ruled Out as Indonesians Button Up,” Sydney Morning Herald, February 26, 2006, http://www.smh.com.au/news/world/navel -­gazing-­ruled-­out-­as-­indonesians-­button-­up/2006/02/24/1140670261932.html. 70. Abdul Khalik, “fpi Steamed about Nude Adam, Eve,” Jakarta Post, September 23, 2005. 71. On the fpi’s formation and sponsorship by the military, see Hefner, “Muslim Democrats and Islamist Violence,” 285. 282  Notes to Chapter four

72. John Sidel refers to the fpi’s vigilante violence as a “subcontracted, supplementary form of state power” (Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 140). On the relationship between Islamic groups and the military in the violence of 1965 – 66, see Melvin, The Army and the Indonesian Genocide. 73. The fpi is based in Jakarta but has branches in twenty-­two provinces. 74. The fpi has become more involved in electoral politics since the time frame covered in this book. 75. Kitley, “Playboy Indonesia and Media,” 97. In an interview with an Australian journalist, Habib Razieq described “the attack of various types of foreign cultures” via the media, with the result that “now Indonesia is more pornographic than Western countries themselves” (Eric Campbell, “Indonesia Pornography,” abc [Australia], July 11, 2006, http://www.abc.net.au/foreign/content/2006/s1693094.htm [accessed October 6, 2006]). 76. On censorship of the arts, see Ingham, “Pressure Points.” See also Hutabarat, “Civil Art Censorship,” and Dirgantoro, “Double Pressure,” 29. On the fpi and film censorship, see Paramaditha, “Wild Child’s Desire,” chapter 2. 77. “Luna and Ariel Ignore Police to Appear on Television,” Jakarta Globe, June 15, 2010. 78. Kitley, “Playboy Indonesia and the Media,” 102. 79. Kitley, “Playboy Indonesia and the Media,” 105. 80. Kitley, “Playboy Indonesia and the Media,” 108; see also 96. 81. As noted in the introduction, privatized forms of censorship do not necessarily have a religious tenor. Moguls and politicians angry about investigative journalism into corruption have hired groups of thugs to rough up journalists and smash apart their offices. During the period of the attack on Pinkswing Park, a report by Indonesia’s Alliance of Independent Journalists noted a rise in attacks on journalists. From August 2005 to August 2006, one journalist was murdered, one abducted, one imprisoned, seven faced with lawsuits, twelve were intimidated, and thirty-­four attacked (Aloysius Wisnuhardana, “Violence Increasing against Indonesian Journalists,” Jakarta Post, October 4, 2006). There have also been numerous cases in which journalists, editors, and publications are slapped with “libel” suits by political figures and businessmen, sometimes resulting in crippling expenses for the various affected publications. 82. Eric Campbell, “Indonesia Pornography,” abc (Australia), July 11, 2006, http://www.abc.net.au/foreign/content/2006/s1693094.htm (accessed October 6, 2006). 83. See, for example, the comments on an article about the fpi’s attack on an interfaith dialogue, “fpi Bubarkan Dialog Islam-­Kristen di Surabaya,” Merdeka.com, June 12, 2013, http://www.merdeka.com/peristiwa/fpi-­bubarkan-­dialog-­islam-­k risten-­di -­surabaya.html. 84. “Foto Bugil Anjas Diganti Menjangan, ” http://www.kompas.com/gayahidup /news/0509/21/162038.htm (accessed October 4, 2006). 85. Titarubi, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, June 24, 2017. 86. Jain, Gods in the Bazaar, 372. Notes to Chapter four  283

87. “Art on Trial as Obscenity Furor Heats Up,” Jakarta Post, February 3, 2006. Helen Pausacker notes that Todung Mulya Lubis, the well-­k nown lawyer who was defending Suwage, Linggar, and Yahya, made a similar argument that the gallery was not really a public space because of its specialized audience (Pausacker, “Pink or Blue Swing?” 298). 88. Titarubi, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013. See also Dirgantoro, “Double Pressure,” 29n13. 89. From http://www.aaa.org.hk/links.html (accessed October 6, 2006). See also Ingham, “Pressure Points.” 90. “Posisi Terjepit Jim Supangkat,” Gatra, no. 4 (October 3, 2005), http://wap .gatra.com/2005-­10-­09/versi_cetak.php?id=89010 (accessed September 23, 2009). 91. “Isabel Yahya Kesal Menjadi Tersangka,” Liputan 6, February 2, 2006, http:// berita.liputan6.com/read/117194/isabel-­yahya-­kesal-­menjadi-­tersangka. 92. Titarubi, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, June 24, 2013. The controversy also yielded heated debate within the art community in response to Supangkat’s decision to yield to fpi demands. Review of that debate is outside of the scope of this chapter. 93. The “Manifesto of Indonesian Fine Arts” was initially signed at Cemara Galeri-­ Kafe in Jakarta. It was circulated online and through mailing lists to others in the art community who added more signatures. 94. “Seniman Melawan Fasisme,” http://jakarta.indymedia.org/newswire.php ?story_id=687&topic=sosialkemasyarakatan&results_offset=140 (accessed May 20, 2010). According to Titarubi, former president and Islamic leader Gus Dur was unable to attend the conference because of illness but sent a video expressing his support for freedom of artistic expression. Titarubi, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, June 24, 2017. 95. Warner, Publics and Counterpublics. 96. Spyer and Steedly, introduction to Images That Move, 31. 5. Street Signs 1. Under renewed international pressure, the Dutch eventually withdrew from Yogyakarta in June 1949; by the end of the year Indonesian independence was secured. Because the General Attack of 1949 was strongly associated with Suharto, it figured prominently in New Order historical narratives. 2. This idea of a “public gallery” came up frequently in public discussions and in conversations with street artists and urban activists. In fact, urban spaces are “a commercial territory” governed by “the political economy of informality” (Lee, “ ‘Anybody Can Do It,’ ” 321). Street artists often negotiated with local street gangs, owners of walls, and others with territorial claims to the spaces on which they painted, stenciled, and posted their artworks. Nevertheless, the idea of the publicness of these surfaces was central to street artists’ understanding of their art. 3. Built in 1872, Kewek Bridge (also called Kleringan Bridge) is part of the railway system linking Yogyakarta to other cities in Java. Officially owned by the Indonesian 284  Notes to Chapter four

Railroad (kai), it is managed by the city of Yogyakarta. The bridge was identified as a heritage site by Governor Decree No. 186/kep/2011 (August 15, 2011) on the Determination of Cultural Heritage Zones and qualifies as a cultural heritage site according to Region of Yogyakarta Regulation 6 of 2012 on Cultural Heritage Conservation. A letter presented by activists to the mayor, dated March 4, 2013, states, “The Kewek Bridge and its environs have been decreed a core part of the Cultural Heritage Zone of Kotabaru in the city of Yogyakarta. . . . Nevertheless, at this time the Kewek Bridge and its environs are being misused for the purpose of displaying advertisements in the form of murals that have been painted on the structure’s walls.” It also cited regional and city regulations governing the display of advertisements and national laws on the “ordering of space” (http://antitankproject.wordpress.com/2013/03/04/surat -­terbuka-­tindak-­lanjut-­s01maret-­untuk-­walikota-­yogyakarta/#more-­4479 [accessed April 7, 2013]). 4. At a discussion about the Kewek Bridge action organized by the Indonesian Visual Art Archive (ivaa), Yoan Vallone, a bicycle activist, emphasized that “warga berdaya” (empowered citizen) was a “spirit” (using the English word) rather than an organized community or formal identity. Distancing themselves from groups that used street actions to draw attention to their causes, activists joked that they were not the new “fpi” (in which fpi stood not for Islamic Defenders Front but for Forum for Eradicating Ads, “Forum Pemberantas Iklan”; ivaa discussion, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013). This idea of individual citizens motivated by a common spirit rather than formal group membership echoes the description of volunteers for presidential candidate Jokowi, described in the concluding chapter. 5. Street artists had been concerned about the commercialization of the bridge since the ads appeared in December 2012. Newly aware of the bridge’s status as a heritage site, they agreed to paint and keep it white (Antitank, Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013). 6. See, for example, Suryowibowo “Occupy Jogja,” March 2, 2013, http:// suryowibowo.weebly.com/1/post/2013/03/occupy-­jogja.html. 7. Antitank, Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013. I focus in this chapter on the street artist Antitank (Andrew Lumban Gaol) because his work was particularly prominent during the period in which most of the research for this chapter was conducted (January – July 2013). 8. Antitank, Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013. 9. Yoan Vallone, Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013. Within days of the action, the advertising reappeared. In an informal meeting of activists, the advertising company, and city officials following the action, it was agreed that because the advertiser had already paid for the space through June 10 it had a right to use the bridge until then, after which it would be painted white. However, June 10 came and went, and the advertising remained. See, Elanto Wijoyono, “Harapan Palsu untuk Jembatan Kewek,” Elanto Wijoyono, July 28, 2013, https://elantowow .wordpress.com/2013/07/28/harapan-­palsu-­untuk-­jembatan-­kewek/. 10. Elanto Wijoyono (Joyo), Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013. Elanto is a cultural heritage activist. Notes to Chapter five  285

11. Aloysius Budi Kurniawan, “Peringati Serangan ‘Oemoem’: Pesepeda Yogya Putihkan Jembatan Kewek,” Kompas, March 1, 2013, http://regional.kompas.com /read/2013/03/01/18451551/Pesepeda.Yogya.Putihkan.Jembatan.Kewek. 12. On Yogyakarta street art, see Lee, “A Troubled Vernacular” and “ ‘Anybody Can Do It.’ ” 13. Benjamin, “The Work of Art,” 239 – 41. 14. As Lewis Mumford observed, since ancient times the city has served as a “special receptacle for storing and transmitting messages” (cited by Henkin, City Reading, 4). The street has figured prominently in scholarship on the political imaginaries of postcolonial Indonesia. John Sidel reads “circulation” (of capital, military personnel, and traffic) as essential to the functioning of the New Order regime; the blockage of urban flows — t he traffic jam — was both symptom and symbol of political crisis (Sidel, “ ‘Macet Total’ ”). See also Mrázek, Engineers of Happy Land; Lee, Activist Archives (chapter 2); Lee, “Absolute Traffic”; and Lee, “Turun ke Jalan.” 15. Iveson, Publics and the City, 3. 16. Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. For a classic framing of this opposition, see Tarde, “The Public and the Crowd.” 17. In his account of antebellum New York, Henkin critiques Habermas for underestimating the significance of urban texts “cut loose from personal authority and circulating promiscuously in a world of strangers,” such as signs, banners, broadsheets, and money, in constituting modern urban subjectivities and publics (Henkin, City Reading, 7). 18. See, for example, Molnár, “Street Art and the Changing Urban Public Sphere.” 19. Ika Krismantari, “Street Art Makes a Statement,” Jakarta Post, July 23, 2011, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2011/07/23/street-­art-­makes-­a-­statement.html. 20. Hersri Setiawan, Surat Budaya I 04/06/2011, http://arusbawah20.wordpress .com/2011/06/04/surat-­budaya-­1/ (accessed January 7, 2014). 21. “Cartoon and poster art . . . developed . . . rapidly under official sponsorship during the Japanese Occupation” and continued “less officially in the subsequent national revolution” when “posters and graffiti were the most common and most popular forms of visual speech” (Anderson, “Cartoons and Monuments,” 51n14; Antariksa, personal communication with the author, January 17, 2014). 22. On the visual culture of the student movement of 1998 and beyond, see Lee, Activist Archives, chapter 3. The use of the English-­language term “street art” signals this cosmopolitan orientation. At the same time, “a vernacular idiom suffuses and authenticates” street art in Yogyakarta (Lee, “A Troubled Vernacular,” 314). This is not to suggest that street art in Indonesia lies outside of the market-­driven art establishment; as elsewhere, street artists often hold gallery shows that repackage their work as saleable art. 23. See for example, Digie Sigit, “Street Art Sebagai Media Kampanye,” an address given at Gadjah Mada University and posted on the urbancult.net website, May 27, 2013, http://www.urbancult.net/2013/05/27/street-­art-­sebagai-­media -­kampanye/#more (accessed May 28, 2013).

286  Notes to Chapter five

24. See Kusno, The Appearances of Memory, 26; Gibbings, “Street Vending as Ethical Citizenship”; Lee, Activist Archives, chapter 2. 25. Andreas Siagian, interview by the author, Yogayakarta, March 20, 2013. 26. On New Order urban ideologies, see Kusno, The Appearances of Memory, chapter 1. 27. Berman, “The Art of Street Politics in Indonesia,” 75. 28. See also Mrázek, “Bypasses and Flyovers,” 425. 29. See Lee, “A Troubled Vernacular”; Barry, Jalan Seni Jalanan Yogyakarta. 30. Lee, citing Syamsul Barry, “A Troubled Vernacular,” 313. 31. Lee, “ ‘Anybody Can Do It,’ ” 318. 32. I accompanied a group of street artists late one night at the end of May 2013. As they set out to paint a large-­scale anticorruption mural at the intersection of two major city arteries, police questioned them at length. One plainclothes intelligence agent gave his phone number to a local journalist, pressing him to “keep in touch” about future actions. The mural painting proceeded, but one participant noted that the unexpected police presence made it “not as comfortable” as usual. By 2 a.m., however, the police and most of the journalists (as well as this anthropologist!) had gone home to sleep, leaving the artists to finish the mural in peace sometime after 3 a.m. 33. April 18 Gubernatorial Decree No. 1/2013: Prohibition of Wall Graffiti and Advertisement Placement on Public Facilities. This decree is the Implementation Regulation of Article 21 of Bylaw No 8/2007 on Public Order. Sanctions included up to two months imprisonment and up to a 20-­million-­rupiah fine (US$2,100). “City Gets Tough against Wall-­Scrawling,” Jakarta Post, May 1, 2013, 10. 34. “Seniman Kritik Pembersihan Mural,” Kompas, May 23, 2013, 26. 35. Quoted in Sita W. Dewi and Fikri Zaki Muhammadi, “Jokowi to Issue Mural Permits, Artists Have Reservations,” Jakarta Post, June 17, 2013, 5. 36. “With or Without Graffiti?,” Jakarta Post, May 4, 2010, 6. 37. Corry Elyda, “Public Space: Ban on Graffiti Art Questioned,” Jakarta Post, May 4, 2013, 9; “With or Without Graffiti?” Jakarta Post, May 4, 2010, 6; “Berikan Ruang Kreativitas Bagi Remaja: Perlu Gerakan Cegah Vandalisme,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 9, 2013, 11. 38. Strassler, Refracted Visions, 52. 39. “Berikan Ruang Kreativitas Bagi Remaja: Perlu Gerakan Cegah Vadalisme,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 9, 2013, 11. 40. “Sudah Diblok,” urbancult.net, May 24, 2013, http://www.urbancult.net/2013 /05/24/sudah-­diblok/#more (accessed May 28, 2013). 41. Corry Elyda, “Public Space: Ban on Graffiti Art Questioned,” Jakarta Post, May 4, 2013, 9. 42. Quoted in Sita W. Dewi and Fikri Zaki Muhammadi, “Jokowi to Issue Mural Permits, Artists Have Reservations,” Jakarta Post, June 17, 2013, 5. 43. “Seniman Kritik Pembersihan Mural,” Kompas, May 23, 2013, 26. 44. Street artists typically placed their work on abandoned buildings or negotiated with local communities and private owners to allow them to use publicly accessible

Notes to Chapter five  287

walls. Yogyakarta-­based street artist Digie Sigit embraced the term “vandal,” but strongly distinguished his targeted acts of defacement (often of corporate advertising and signage) from the indiscriminate destruction of private property performed by “scrawlers.” Digie Sigit, “Public Space” discussion, Aliansi Jurnalis Independen, Yog­yakarta, June 21, 2013, and Digie Sigit, interview by the author, Yogyakarta, May 17, 2013. See also “Street Art Bukan Sampah Visual,” Tribun Jogja, December 16, 2012, 12. 45. Corry Elyda, “Public Space: Ban on Graffiti Art Questioned,” Jakarta Post, May 4, 2013, 9. 46. On similar distinctions in Euro-­American contexts, see Molnár, “Street Art and the Changing Public Sphere.” 47. Kewek Bridge discussion, ivaa, Yogyakarta, May 10, 2013. 48. Lee, “A Troubled Vernacular,” 311. 49. See, for example, the shop owners interviewed in “Berikan Ruang Kreativitas Bagi Remaja: Perlu Gerakan Cegah Vandalisme,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, June 9, 2013, 11. 50. Political candidates viewed billboards as “the most effective and least expensive” form of advertising (Sufyanto, “The Dramaturgy of Political Advertisement,” 219). 51. A documentary film and a video clip posted on Vimeo and YouTube accompanied the “Trotoar” performance. See A. W. Subarkah, “Pantomim Gugat Fungsi Trotoar di Yogyakarta,” Kompas, April 29, 2013, http://oase.kompas.com/read/2013 /04/29/15233037/Pantomim.Gugat.Fungsi.Trotoar.di.Yogyakarta (accessed April 29, 2013). 52. Sumbo Tinarbuko, interviews by the author, Yogyakarta, April 19, 2013, and June 14, 2013. See also Imam Budi, “ ‘Sampah Visual’ Dinilai Kurangi Keistimewaan Yogya,” Republika, October 30, 2012. 53. The name Merthi Kutha is derived from the practice of Merthi Desa, a physical and spiritual cleansing of the village performed collectively by villagers. Since 2010, bicyclists had laid claim to the city in a monthly “Last Friday Night” ride through its main arteries. Bicycling activists co-­staged a number of actions with street artists, such as repainting bike lanes that the municipal government had allowed to fade. 54. Abdul Hamid Razak, “Walikota Jogja Ulang Tahun, Dikado Sampah Visual,” Harian Jogja, February 2, 2010, http://www.harianjogja.com/baca/2013/02/10 /walikota-­jogja-­ulang-­tahun-­dikado-­sampah-­v isual-­377559 (accessed February 25, 2014). 55. See Winegar, “Taking Out the Trash.” 56. Argyrou, “ ‘Keep Cyprus Clean.’ ” 57. The letter was posted on http://antitankproject.wordpress.com/2013/03/04 /surat-­terbuka-­tindak-­lanjut-­s01maret-­untuk-­walikota-­yogyakarta/#more-­4479, March 4, 2013 (accessed April 7, 2013). Masyarakat is generally translated as “society,” but here the meaning is closer to “community of citizens.” 58. The fight was rumored to be the result of a drug deal gone awry. The four men were Gameliel Yermiyanto Rohi Riwu, Adrianus Candra Galaja, Hendrik Angel Sahetapi (known as Deki), and Yohanes Juan Manbait. For an excellent account of

288  Notes to Chapter five

the raid and the local politics behind the pro-­Kopassus campaign, see Supriatma, “Defending Murder.” 59. After initial denials, an army spokesman acknowledged on April 4 that Kopassus soldiers had conducted the raid. Eleven members of a unit confessed to taking part in the attack. Earlier, a mysterious Facebook account under the pseudonym Idjon Djanbi had claimed that the police perpetrated the killings. See Amirullah, “Tudingan Via Facebook Soal Penyerbuan lp Sleman,” Tempo, March 30, 2013, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2013/03/30/063470177/Tudingan-­Via-­Facebook-­Soal -­Penyerbuan-­LP-­Sleman. For a series of articles about the investigation and competing accounts of the raid, see Majalah Detik 71, April 8 – 14, 2013. 60. The Facebook page “1 Juta Dukungan Moril Anggota Kopassus Menyerang Lapas Cebongan” (One Million in Moral Support of the Kopassus Attack on the Cebongan Jail) was established on April 4, 2013, and had 11,325 likes as of June 25, 2013; https://www.facebook.com/pages/1-­Juta-­Dukungan-­Moril-­Anggota-­Kopassus-­Yang -­Menyerang-­Lapas-­Cebongan/356879614433207?fref=ts. For examples of pro-­ Kopassus, anti-­preman rhetoric, see “Kecaman Berubah Menjadi Dukungan Terhadap Kopassus,” April 9, 2013, http://www.kaskus.co.id/thread/51635d97601243 493500000a/kecaman-­berubah-­menjadi-­dukungan-­terhadap-­kopassus/; Wahyu Triasmara, “Kopassus Naik Daun di Kota Yogya,” April 11, 2013, http://regional .kompasiana.com/2013/04/11/kopassus-­naik-­daun-­di-­kota-­yogyakarta-­550189 .html (accessed April 26, 2013); Suryopratomo, “Saatnya Premanisme Dibereskan,” Metro View, Metro­T Vnews, April 8, 2013, http://www.metrotvnews.com/front/view /2013/04/08/1473/Saatnya-­Premanisme-­Dibereskan/tajuk (accessed April 26, 2013). Suryopratomo claims that the killings caused many preman to leave Yogyakarta, and that the banners express the people’s gratitude toward Kopassus, whom they see as their city’s saviors (penyelamat). 61. The colonial-­era term originally referred to noncontract laborers hired as day workers. Its meaning later expanded to include loosely organized, local criminal gangs. Some of these gangs were institutionalized under the New Order as national organizations like the Pemuda Pancasila, which served as informal militias for the government. 62. See “Action Coordinator: ‘The Army Has Freed Yogyakarta from Premanism,’ ” Tribun News, April 8, 2013, http://www.tribunnews.com/topics/kelompok-­bersenjata -­serang-­lapas (accessed April 27, 2013). Yogyakarta Youth against Premanism appears to have been made up of members of a number of other groups with close ties to the Sekber Keistimewaan (Joint Secretariat for Special Status), a coalition aligned with the Sultan of Yogyakarta. The Sultan’s palace security force, the Paksi Katon, joined in an action supporting Kopassus in Semarang, on May 22, and were among other groups providing “security” at the trial of the accused Kopassus men in June. In a statement, one member of the group claimed that “Anyone who doesn’t support Kopassus will be kicked out of the courtroom.” He also stated his group’s readiness to participate in a “cleansing” campaign against preman. See Edi Faisol, “Pendukung Pelaku Cebongon Setuju Preman Disikat,” Tempo, May 22, 2013, http://www.tempo

Notes to Chapter five  289

.co/read/news/2013/05/22/058482483/Pendukung-­Pelaku-­Cebongan-­Setuju-­Preman-­ Disikat. It is not within the scope of this chapter to detail the complex local politics at work here, but the four murdered prisoners were associated with preman who were rivals of Sekber Keistimewaan (see Supriatma, “Defending Murder”). See also Agus Utantoro, “Yogyakarta Youth Collect Coins for Soldier, Victim of Preman,” Metro­ TVnews, April 7, 2013, www.metrotvnews.com/metronews/read/2013/04/07/6/144728 /Pemuda-­Yogyakarta-­Kumpul-­Koin-­untuk-­Tentara-­Korban-­Preman (accessed April 27, 2013); Danar Widiyanto, “Pemuda Yogya Ucapkan Terima Kasih Pada Kopassus,” April 7, 2013, http://krjogja.com/read/167792/pemuda-­yogya-­ucapkan-­terima-­kasih -­pada-­kopassus.kr (accessed April 26, 2013). 63. Refuting rumors that the army funded the banners, the “field coordinator” of Yogyakarta Youth against Premanism claimed that Yogyakarta-­based automotive and motorcycle clubs had paid the 10 million rupiah (US$1,000) for the two hundred banners his group hung. See Shinta Maharani, “Pemasangan Spanduk Anti Preman Didanai tni?” Tempo, April 20, 2103. http://edsus.tempo.co/konten-­berita/politik /2013/04/20/474702/181/Pemasangan-­Spanduk-­Anti-­Preman-­Didanai-­TNI (accessed April 26, 2013). 64. See, for example, Lukas S. Ispandriarno, “Komunikasi Politik tni,” http://fisip .uajy.ac.id/2013/04/26/komunikasi-­politik-­tni/. This essay by the dean of the School of Communication of Atma Jaya Yogyakarta University was published in redacted form as an opinion column in the Yogyakarta newspaper Kedaulatan Rakyat on April 26, 2013. 65. On Petrus, see Siegel, A New Criminal Type; Barker, “State of Fear.” 66. Some traced the conflict to a struggle to control the local drug trade. It was rumored that the murdered preman were “close to” the police. 67. Shinta Maharani and Juli Hantoro, “Spanduk AntiPremanisme di Yogya Disesalkan,” Tempo, April 21, 2013, http://edsus.tempo.co/konten-­berita/nusa/2013 /04/20/474697/181/Spanduk-­Anti-­Premanisme-­di-­Yogya-­Disesalkan (accessed May 4, 2013). As private colleges proliferated in Yogyakarta in the 2000s (and public universities became semiprivatized), they attracted students from distant regions who often relied on ethnic networks for economic survival. The line between college student (mahasiswa, a highly respected, middle-­class identity) and preman thus became blurred. Many university students from Eastern Indonesia felt targeted by the anti-­ preman discourse, and some experienced incidents of threats and intimidation. 68. Kusno, The Appearances of Memory, 38. 69. Bambang “Kirik” Ertanto, interview by the author, May 7, 2013. 70. The shift to machined printing took place the early 1990s, while digital printing became available in the early 2000s. 71. Banners warning of the resurgence of the Indonesian Communist Party have appeared on city streets with some regularity since 1998, often in response to efforts to publicly address the killings of 1965 – 66. Here too the banners’ uniformity is often taken as evidence that they are part of an orchestrated campaign rather than authentic expressions of local sentiments. In one instance in 1999, newspapers printed rumors that the military was behind the banners, despite ostensible sponsorship by 290  Notes to Chapter five

local Islamic and neighborhood groups. See “Danrem: Ngapain Nulis Seperti Itu? Tolak Tudingan Dalang Spanduk Anti-­p rd,” Jateng Pos, October 5, 1999; “Spanduk dan Poster Anti-­Komunis Merebak,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, October 5, 1999; “Ada Gejala Gerakan Berpola g30s,” Kedaulatan Rakyat, October 8, 1999; “Pasukan Siluman Siap Hancurkan prd,” Jateng Pos, October 8, 1999; “Forum lsm diy Minta Polda Copot Spanduk Provokatif,” Bernas, October 13, 1999. 72. See Henkin, City Reading, 156. 73. Militarisme untuk Pemula (Militarism for Beginners) discussion, Universitas Pembangunan Nasional, Yogyakarta, April 30, 2013. 74. Some journalists, citing pressure from editors to report on the “problem of premanism,” felt that the press was serving as a vehicle for the dissemination of the military’s propaganda campaign. (Discussion with members of the Alliance of Independent Journalists [aji], Yogyakarta, May 3, 2013.) Human rights activists likewise argued that the problem of “premanism” was exaggerated. See, for example, Sandro Gatra, “Todung: Pembelokan Kasus Cebongan Menyesatkan,” Kompas, April 23, 2013, http://nasional.kompas.com/read/2013/04/23/12484717/Todung:.Pembelokan .Kasus.Cebongan.Menyesatkan - nasional. 75. “Sultan: ‘Anti-­Premanism Banners Cannot Be Banned,” Republika, April 15, 2013, http://www.republika.co.id/berita/nasional/jawa-­tengah-­diy-­nasional/13/04/15 /mlaw5p-­sultan-­spanduk-­antipremanisme-­tidak-­bisa-­dilarang. The head of the Indonesian police force also expressed support for the banners, stating that they demonstrated that “society is playing a role in bringing about tranquility [ketentraman]” (Syarifah Nur Aida, “Poster Tolak Premanisme Marak di Yogya, Mabes Polri: Itu Bagus!” Detik.com, April 11, 2013, http://news.detik.com/read/2013/04/11 /164307/2217891/10/poster-­tolak-­premanisme-­marak-­di-­yogya-­mabes-­polri-­itu -­bagus?nd772204btr). In 1999, the sultan had also expressed support for anticommunist banners as authentic expressions of the people’s sentiments (“Gubernur diy Sri Sultan Hamengku Buwono X: Waspadai Kemungkinan Bangkitnya Komunisme,” kr, October 2, 1999). 76. The official argued that because the banners were “social” rather than “commercial,” some regulations did not apply. “Yulianingsih, ‘Spanduk Anti-­Preman Masuk Peraga Sosial,’ ” Republika, April 11, 2013, http://www.republika.co.id/berita /nasional/jawa-­tengah-­diy-­nasional/13/04/11/m138b9-­spanduk-­antipreman-­masuk -­peraga-­sosialNASIONAL (accessed April 26, 2013). Banners were removed from two key intersections in the city that were designated to remain “sterile,” but they persisted in other parts of the city for months. Most were still hanging when the trial began in June 2013. 77. This ideal of open access is not realized in practice. Every prominent street artist in Yogyakarta at the time of my research, for example, was male. 78. One day in 2004, the artist was listening to a television report about the Iraq war and he heard about an “antitank rocket” blowing up an American tank. Immediately struck by the idea of “a weapon machine used to destroy another machine,” he suggested “Antitank” as a name for his high-­school punk band. The other band members rejected the name, preferring something Indonesian, but he began using it Notes to Chapter five  291

for his own zine and poster projects (Andrew Lumban Gaol [Antitank], interview by the author, Yogyakarta, April 25, 2013). 79. “Awas Preman Teriak Preman Poster,” April 17, 2013, http://antitankproject .wordpress.com/2013/04/17/awas-­preman-­teriak-­preman-­poster/#more-­4590. 80. Andrew Lumban Gaol (Antitank), interview by the author, Yogyakarta, April 25, 2013. 81. Tensions over “outsiders” in Yogyakarta were also noted by Doreen Lee in 2011, when some street artists appealed to outsiders to adhere to Yogyakarta codes of civility or “Go home!” (“A Troubled Vernacular,” 310 – 11, figures 4 and 1. 82. On violence, national “love,” and the figure of the innocent child see Strassler, “Reformasi through Our Eyes”; Spyer, “Orphaned Landscapes.” 83. The poster, which was attributed to “#savejogja” was featured on the urbancult .net website on April 25, 2013, http://www.urbancult.net/2013/04/25/quint-­savejogja -­wheatpaste-­poster/#more (accessed May 6, 2013); I also saw it in several places in the city in spring 2013. 84. This paraphrase of a line from a poem by disappeared poet and activist Wiji Thukul was articulated by the founder of urbancult.net, a website documenting street art (Agung Firmanto B., interview by the author, Yogyakarta, March 20, 2013). 85. Stewart, Crimes of Writing, 206. Susan Stewart describes graffiti as a hybrid form that melds “the remoteness, abstraction, and simultaneity characteristic of mechanical modes of production with the ethic of presence, signature, and individuality characteristic of handicrafts” (208). 86. On street art as a “new technology of the self” and its “personalized public,” see Doreen Lee, “ ‘Anybody Can Do It.’ ” 87. “Public Space” discussion, aji (Yogyakarta Branch), Yogyakarta, June 21, 2013. 88. Quotes in the following discussion of Antitank’s work and practice are from taped interviews (Antitank, interviews by the author, April 25, 2013, and May 17, 2013, Yogyakarta) supplemented by informal conversations and Antitank’s presentation at the discussion on “Public Space” hosted by aji, Yogyakarta Branch, June 21, 2013. 89. There are downsides to free, online distribution. People have profited by making and selling T-­shirts, stickers, and even book covers bearing Antitank’s images, and his images have been used in ways counter to his intentions. Antitank was also concerned about people violating street art etiquette when using his works; see his guidelines and appeal to “be sensitive” about poster placement, December 3, 2009, https://antitankproject.wordpress.com/2009/12/03/menolak-­lupa-­poster-­project/. 90. An image of Antitank’s “Preman Crying Preman” poster appeared in Harian Jogja, April 15, 2013, 12; in Tribun Jogja, April 15, 2013, 1; and on Detik.com on April 15, 2013. See Bagus Kurniawan, “Muncul Poster Seram di Yogya, Isinya ‘Awas Preman Teriak Preman,’ ” Detik News, April 15, 2013, http://news.detik.com/read/2013/04 /15/141147/2220541/10/muncul-­poster-­seram-­di-­yogya-­isinya-­awas-­preman-­teriak -­preman?nd771104bcj. These appearances were then duly noted on Antitank’s website (see figure 5.45). 91. Agung Firmanto B. began taking photographs of Yogyakarta street art and posting them on Facebook as a hobby and soon realized that no one was systemati292  Notes to Chapter five

cally archiving the ephemeral art of the street. A tech-­savvy friend approached him with the idea of starting a genuinely public website. Crucial to the site they developed together in 2011, urbancult.net, was a feature allowing anyone to upload their own photographs of street art, as well as to post comments (Andreas Siagian and Agung Firmanto B., interview by the author, March 20, 2013, Yogyakarta). 92. Muh Syaifullah, “Yogya Tak Lagi Nyaman dalam Foto,” Tempo, December 26, 2013, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2013/12/26/162540150/Yogya-­Tak-­Lagi-­Nyaman -­dalam-­Foto. Conclusion 1. See Aspinall, “Oligarchic Populism.” 2. For an account of the election campaign’s “intense war of images,” see Lee, Activist Archives, 212 – 15. 3. Facebook recorded nearly 200 million interactions related to the Indonesian elections between March and July 2014, while Twitter recorded nearly 95 million tweets about the elections from the beginning of 2014. Kathleen Azali notes, however, that both sides reportedly used bots and hacking to manipulate social media, so these statistics need to be viewed with caution: “After all, one can buy 1,000 Twitter followers in Indonesia for IDR 15 – 50,000 (US $1 – 5)” (Azali, “The Role of the Internet and Social Media”). 4. Benjamin, “The Work of Art.” 5. On digital suspicion as a practical and affective disposition toward images and a performance of citizenship, see Kuntsman and Stein, Digital Militarism, chapter 4. 6. The Prabowo campaign hired consultant Rob Allyn, who, as an advisor to George W. Bush, helped orchestrate a smear campaign against John Kerry in the 2004 US presidential election. 7. On “middle-­class technofetishism,” see Mazzarella, “Beautiful Balloon.” 8. Setrag Manoukian describes how a crowd’s heterogeneous multiplicity and inchoate potentiality is contained through “a process of disambiguation” and acts of naming that seek to fix its identity (Manoukian, “Where Is This Place?,” 243, 245). 9. Notably, the Commander of Safety and Order in charge of security during the 1982 presidential election used the English word “crowd” (Pemberton, “Notes on the 1982 General Election,” 20 – 28). The term orang banyak (literally, many people) is the most direct translation of “crowd,” but it has no connotation of a political collectivity. 10. According to James Siegel, rakyat originally denoted the crowds at early nationalist rallies. Under Sukarno it took on a more idealized status as “the people” to whom Sukarno gave voice; the New Order further evacuated the term of its more grounded, sociologically referential meaning (Siegel, A New Criminal Type, 3 – 4). 11. The “floating mass” was also a state policy intended to depoliticize the Indonesian population, first initiated by the military in 1971 as the New Order consolidated its control. It decreed that opposition parties could not be active in rural areas, in order to “protect” villagers from political agitation except during limited periods of Notes to Conclusion  293

licensed campaigning immediately preceding elections (Suryadinata, Political Parties and the 1982 General Election, 25 – 26). 12. Pemberton, “Notes on the 1982 General Election.” 13. Observers approvingly noted the “maturation” of Indonesia’s democracy marked by the decline in mass rallies during the 2014 campaign. See, for example, Fionna, “The Twists and Turns to the Presidency,” 38. 14. Tarde, “The Public and the Crowd,” 283. 15. Le Bon, The Crowd, 60. 16. Cited in Mazzarella, “The Myth of the Multitude,” 703. 17. On similar accusations of manipulating photographs to create the appearance of a larger crowd in Lebanon during the Cedar Revolution of 2005, see Khatib, Image Politics in the Middle East, 8 – 9. 18. See, for example, “Foto Pendukung Jokowi Penuhi Monas Hasil Editan?,” Pandawa News, June 25, 2014, http://kabarpengamat.blogspot.com/2014/06/foto -­pendukung-­jokowi-­penuhi-­monas.html#.VZ_k4VVVikq. 19. Rina Atmasari, “Mengapa Jay Subyakto Tantang Maut demi Jokowi,” Tempo.co, July 7, 2014, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2014/07/07/219590992/Mengapa -­Jay-­Subyakto-­Tantang-­Maut-­demi-­Jokowi. Tellingly, the photo of the Jokowi Monas rally is alleged to be a manipulation of an original photograph showing Reformasi demonstrators in 1998. 20. Rina Atmasari, “Mengapa Jay Subyakto Tantang Maut demi Jokowi,” Tempo.co, July 7, 2014, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2014/07/07/219590992/Mengapa -­Jay-­Subyakto-­Tantang-­Maut-­demi-­Jokowi. Prabowo supporters did try to challenge claims about the size of the crowds at the concert. A photograph showing a sparsely filled stadium (presumably taken before the stadium had filled), for example, circulated on social media as “proof” that the concert had failed to attract crowds. On the website of a rival party the image was hailed as evidence that “the electivity of Jokowi-­JK has plunged” (http://pkspalembang.or.id/read/490/pengamat-­konser -­salam-­2-­jari-­bukti-­elektabilitas-­jokowijk-­yang-­merosot/ [accessed July 21, 2015]). In one article, the Subyakto photograph appeared with a story noting the frequency with which images of Jokowi’s crowds were accused of being inauthentic (“Is the Photo of Masses Swarming at the “Salam 2 Jari” Concert for Jokowi-­JK Authentic? This Is the Answer,” https://www.globalindo.co/2014/07/06/apakah-­foto-­massa-­menyemut-­di-­kos ner-­salam-­2-­jari-­jokowi-­jk-­asli-­ini-­jawabannya [accessed July 21, 2015]). 21. Irfan Maullana, “Jay Subiyakto Bertaruh Nyawa demi Foto Terbaik Jokowi,” Kompas, July 6, 2014, https://entertainment.kompas.com/read/2014/07/06/025438110 /Jay.Subiyakto.Bertaruh.Nyawa.demi.Foto.Terbaik.Jokowi. 22. Irfan Maullana, “Jay Subiyakto Bertaruh Nyawa demi Foto Terbaik Jokowi,” Kompas, July 6, 2014, https://entertainment.kompas.com/read/2014/07/06/025438110 /Jay.Subiyakto.Bertaruh.Nyawa.demi.Foto.Terbaik.Jokowi. 23. Rina Atmasari, “Mengapa Jay Subyakto Tantang Maut demi Jokowi,” Tempo.co, July 7, 2014, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2014/07/07/219590992/Mengapa-­Jay -­Subyakto-­Tantang -­Maut-­demi-­Jokowi. 24. Quoted in Raditya, Aziz, and Rahmat, (Bukan) Obor Rakyat, 206 (original 294  Notes to Conclusion

source not cited). Jokowi ties the crowd’s efficacy to its mass-­mediated dissemination: “The effect was extraordinary because all the media broadcasted and reported on it.” 25. “Jay Subiakto, Sosok di Balik Foto Dahsyat Konser Salam 2 Jari,” Metrotvnews .com, July 5, 2015, http://palingaktual.com/736477//amp-­8203-­jay-­subiakto-­sosok -­di-­balik-­foto-­foto-­dahsyat-­konser-­salam-­2-­jari/read/ (accessed February 25, 2015). Similar images, taken by a drone, did not provoke such commentary. 26. Esti Utami, “Jay Subiakto pertaruhkan nyawa demi Jokowi,” Suara.com, July 5, 2014, https://www.suara.com/entertainment/2014/07/05/215117/jay-­subiakto -­pertaruhkan-­nyawa-­demi-­jokowi. 27. “Jay Subiakto, Sosok di Balik Foto-­Foto Dahsyat Konser Salam 2 Jari,” Metro tvnews.com, July 5, 2014, http://palingaktual.com/736477//amp-­8203-­jay-­subiakto -­sosok-­di-­balik-­foto-­foto-­dahsyat-­konser-­salam-­2-­jari/read/ (accessed February 25, 2015). 28. Raditya, Aziz, and Rahmat, (Bukan) Obor Rakyat, 204. 29. For similar observations about cell phones and crowds at political protests, see Rafael, “The Cell Phone and the Crowd,” and Manoukian, “Where Is This Place?” Manoukian notes that the cell phone ensures that “Each and every one . . . is part of crowds but is also on his or her own. The coincidence of acts and mediation singularizes his or her experience but also generalizes it as one among many” (248). 30. “Ketika Revolusi Mental Dimulai dari Konser Salam Dua Jari,” Detik.com, July 5, 2014, http://news.detik.com/berita/2629001/ketika-­revolusi-­mental-­dimulai -­dari-­konser-­salam-­2-­jari-­di-­gbk. 31. “Relawan Jokowi-­jk Bersihkan Sampah di Konser Salam 2 Jari,” Kompas, July 5, 2014, http://megapolitan.kompas.com/read/2014/07/05/20192391/Relawan.Jokowi-­JK .Bersihkan.Sampah.di.Konser.Salam.2.Jari. 32. Mazzarella, “The Myth of the Multitude,” 716. 33. As discussed in chapter 2, the “rioting” is widely believed to have been orchestrated (possibly by Prabowo himself) to create crisis conditions that would enable a crackdown on the democracy movement and restore military rule. 34. On the student as morally untainted agent of change in Indonesian political discourses, see Aspinall, “Students and the Military”; and during Reformasi, see Strassler, Refracted Visions, chapter 5. 35. Election results are counted manually at each polling station before a group of citizen monitors. The results are entered onto “C1” forms and posted publicly. A Tumblr blog called “C1 yang Aneh” (“Odd C1 Forms”) began to gather together images of irregular tabulation forms sent in via ordinary citizens’ cell phones. See Angela Dewan, “Tech-­savvy Indonesians Monitor Vote Count in Disputed Poll,” Jakarta Post, July 18, 2014, https://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2014/07/18/tech -­savvy-­indonesians-­monitor-­vote-­count-­disputed-­poll.html. 36. Taufan Noor Ismailian, “Bawaslu Minta Masyarakat Foto Proses Penghitungan Suara di tps,” Detik.com, April 8, 2014, http://news.detik.com/read/2014/04/08 /112042/2548727/1562/bawaslu-­minta-­masyarakat-­foto-­proses-­penghitungan-­suara -­di-­tps?n991102605. 37. Dirgantara Reksa, “Komnas Perempuan Himbau Para Perempuan Kawal PilNotes to Conclusion  295

pres 9 Juli,” kbr, July 8, 2014, https://kbr.id/nasional/07-­2014/komnas_perempuan _himbau_para_perempuan_kawal_pilpres_9_juli/28170.html. 38. These reports, in the form of texts and images, were then vetted by MataMassa’s volunteers and made public on the website, as well as forwarded on to the General Elections Monitoring Body. Yandi, “MataMassa, Aplikasi Pemantau Pemilu,” Tempo.co, November 25, 2013, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2013/11/25/072532132 /MataMassa-­Aplikasi-­Pemantau-­Pemilu. See infografik MataMassa, produced by the Center for the Study of Communication, University of Indonesia, http://puskakomui .or.id/publikasi/infografik-­inisiatif-­pemantauan-­matamassa.html (accessed October 31, 2015). A project of the Independent Journalists Alliance and the nonprofit iLab, and supported by Southeast Asia Technology and Transparency Initiative (seatti), MataMassa had actually been established the previous year in time for the legislative elections of November 2013. 39. Kawal Pemilu was founded by Ainun Najib, an it consultant in Singapore, two software engineers at Google — expat Indonesians Felix Halim and Andrian Kurniady, based in California and Australia, respectively — and two other expats in Germany and Holland. The app was put together in just two days and involved seven hundred volunteers. See Rahadian P. Paramita, “2014 Masa Jaya Internet Dalam Politik Indonesia,” December 26, 2104, http://beritagar.com/p/2014-­internet-­berjaya -­dalam-­politik-­indonesia-­17646. A similar app called Kawal Suara was founded by Reza Lasmana. Pahlevi Fikri Auliya started realcount.heroku.com. Ruli Manurung, a lecturer at the Computer Science Department at the University of Indonesia in Jakarta is credited with designing the basic crowdsourcing system for these apps, which used Google App Engine and Google Docs. To make it less likely for cheating to occur, volunteers had to be registered and sign in via Facebook, and they were not allowed to choose the polling sites from which they would input data. See Hindra Liauw, “Kisah Para Pemantau Pemilu . . . ,” Kompas.com, July 17, 2014, http:// nasional.kompas.com/read/2014/07/17/17273051/Kisah.Para.Pemantau.Pemilu. See also Ruli Manurung, “Open Election Data + Mass Interaction = Indonesian Public as Watchdog,” The Conversation, July 21, 2014, http://theconversation.com/open -­election-­data-­mass-­interaction-­indonesian-­public-­as-­watchdog-­29450. 40. See Angela Dewan, “Tech-­Savvy Indonesians Monitor Vote Count in Disputed Poll,” Jakarta Post, July 18, 2014, https://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2014/07/18 /tech-­savvy-­indonesians-­monitor-­vote-­count-­disputed-­poll.html. 41. They also referred to their efforts as gotong royong — a term meaning “traditional mutual obligations of village life.” See, for example, Jan Peter Alexander Rajagukguk, “Gotong Royong dan Data Terbuka Contoh Kasus Pemilu 2014,” Wannabe Exceptional, July 17, 2014, https://staff.blog.ui.ac.id/jp/2014/07/17/gotong-­royong-­dan -­data-­terbuka-­contoh-­kasus-­pemilu-­2014/. A crowdfunding effort by the Jokowi campaign was called Dana Gotong Royong (Mutual Help Fund). While the English word “crowdsourcing” signaled Jokowi volunteers’ modern, tech-­savvy cosmopolitanism, the language of gotong royong evoked a valorized, nostalgic ideal of village community and social solidarity, rooted in Javanese rural life but taken up as national ideology by the New Order state (Bowen, “On the Political Construction of Tradition”). 296  Notes to Conclusion

42. Hindra Liauw, “Kisah Para Pemantau Pemilu . . . ,” Kompas.com, July 17, 2014, http://nasional.kompas.com/read/2014/07/17/17273051/Kisah.Para.Pemantau.Pemilu. 43. Yandi, “MataMassa, Aplikasi Pemantau Pemilu,” Tempo.co, November 25, 2013, http://www.tempo.co/read/news/2013/11/25/072532132/MataMassa-­Aplikasi -­Pemantau-­Pemilu. 44. On e-­government, transparency, and the disavowal of mediation, see Mazzarella, “Internet X-­Ray.” 45. On the disorienting effects of the end of authoritarian regimes, see for example, Oushakine, Patriotism of Despair; Yurchak, Everything Was Forever. 46. See Fealy, “Bigger Than Ahok.” 47. See Schäfer, “Understanding Piety and Anger.”

Notes to Conclusion  297

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Indonesian Media Sources Adil (magazine) Bernas (newspaper) Cek & Ricek (magazine) Detektif and Romantika (d&r) (magazine) Detik (magazine) Detik.com (website, online news) Forum (magazine) Forum Keadilan (magazine) Fotomedia (magazine) Gatra (magazine) Gugat (magazine) Jakarta Globe (newspaper) Jakarta Post (newspaper) Jateng Pos (newspaper) Jawa Pos (newspaper) Kedaulatan Rakyat (newspaper) Kompas (newspaper) Kompas.com (website, online news)

Koran Tempo (newspaper) Liputan 6 (sctv news program) (television program) Liputan6.com (website, online television new program) Media Indonesia (newspaper) Metrotv (television station) Nova (magazine) Nyata (magazine) Pantau (magazine) Republika (tabloid) sctv (television station) Suara Merdeka (newspaper) Suara Pembaruan (newspaper) Surabaya Tribun News (newspaper) Tempo (magazine) Tempo.co (website, magazine) Ummat (magazine)

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INDEX

Page numbers followed by f indicate a figure. Aa Gym (Abdullah Gymnastiar), 157 – 58, 274n53 Abimanyu Street Art, 167 – 68f, 190f, 208f Aceh, 78, 263n24, 269n115 Actor-­Network Theory, 250n19 Adi, Yuswantoro, 33 – 40, 212 Adjidarma, Seno Gumira, 264n31 Affandi, 179f, 180 Agung Firmanto B., 282n91 Agustin, Ucu, 255n70 Ahmadiyah sect, 107 Ahok (Basuki Tjahaja Purnama), 245 – 46, 270n121 Alamsyah, Rubi, 274 – 75n75 Alatas, Ali, 83 Alawiyah, Tutty, 71 – 72 Alliance of Independent Journalists, 22 – 23, 255n69, 283n81 Ambara, Alit, 1 – 2f, 1 – 2f, 6f, 10f, 11f, 31 – 32f, 211f Anderson, Benedict, 25, 40 – 41 Anjasmara, 140 – 48, 155, 160 – 61, 165 Antara Gallery of Photojournalism, 77 – 78 Antitank (Andrew Lumban Gaol), 183f, 205 – 17, 285n7, 291n78; availability of images of, 212 – 16, 282n89; “Beware! Preman Crying Preman” poster of, 205 – 10, 212, 215f, 216, 282n90; on the Kewak Bridge action, 171; “Need a Clown? Contact Senayan” poster of, 182f; “Refuse to Forget” poster of, 8 – 9f, 209 – 10, 214f; website of, 213

Anwar, Chairil, 180 Apotik Komik collective, 182 – 83 Appadurai, Arjun, 147 Arendt, Hannah, 16, 251n37 Argyou, Vassos, 193 Ariel (Nazril Irham), 149, 159 Arnada, Edwin, 281n49 “Art Fights Fascism” statement (“Kesenian Melawan Fasisme”), 164 – 65, 284n94 Art Prx, 182f aspal documents, 52, 57, 99 – 100, 123, 261n73; missing Supersemar and, 271n11; Tambunan’s passport as, 125 – 26 Atatürk, Kemal, 259n39 atrocity images, 80 – 84. See also photographs authenticity debates, 223, 243; aspal documents and, 52, 57, 99 – 100, 123, 125 – 26, 261n73; forensic expertise in, 95 – 130, 272n20, 274 – 75n75; on Jukowi’s crowd photographs, 226 – 33, 234f, 294n13, 294nn19 – 20; ludic images in, 118 – 30, 223 – 24, 276n85; in political scandals, 95, 118 – 20; in rape debates, 82 – 84, 89, 266n74, 267n85; in sex scandals, 93 – 94f, 107 – 18, 274n54. See also exposure scandals; Roy Suryo authoritarian regime. See New Order regime aware, 81 Azali, Kathleen, 293n3 Azoulay, Ariella, 14, 76 – 77, 250n26, 252n40

Bank Bali scandal, 96, 271n3 Baramuli, A. A., 96 Barendregt, Bart, 151, 281n44 Barry, Syamsul, 181 Barthes, Roland, 252n44 Baswedan, Anies, 246 Bazin, André, 14 Benjamin, Walter, 58, 223, 261n72 Benson, Peter, 258n23 “Berani Jujur Hebat,” 183f Berger, John, 14 Berlant, Lauren, 101 “Beware! Preman Crying Preman” (Antitank), 205 – 10, 212, 215f, 216, 282n90 Bhakti, Hendra, 270n122 bicycling activists, 192 Bjah (Muhammad Hamzah), 93 – 94f, 108 – 11 Bolter, Jay, 258n20 Bramantyo, Hanung, 270n122 Brenner, Suzanne, 253n52 “Bro, C’mon, Bro” (Affandi), 179f, 180 Broadcasting Law No. 32/2002, 254n58 Bubandt, Nils, 100 Calhoun, Craig, 251n36 Care for the City, 192 Castoriadis, Cornelias, 243n47 Cebongan Prison killings, 194 – 210, 213, 288 – 89nn58 – 60, 289 – 90nn62 – 63 celebrity scandals, 140 – 46. See also exposure scandals cell phones, 23, 147 – 51, 256n72, 281n44; crowd-­selfies and, 233 – 39, 295n29; election monitoring and, 239 – 42, 295n35, 296n41, 296nn38 – 39 Cenora, Cindy, 47 – 48 Center Point Foundation, 133, 279n1. See also cp Biennale Chinese-­Indonesian community: gang rapes of women of, 67 – 68; as nationalist targets, 47 – 48, 80, 86, 260n52, 261n1, 262n10; rape debates and, 28 – 29, 67 – 91; transnational ties of, 78 Chinese Whispers: The Art of Reflection (Pramesti), 270n122

320 index

Chudori, Leila, vii – i x, 247n8 civil censorship, 22 – 23, 135 – 36, 256n72, 283n81 “Clara” (Adjidarma), 264n31 Clean Up Visual Garbage, 190 – 94, 204 Coalition of Indonesian Women for Justice and Democracy, 265n53 Committee for Islamic Solidarity (kisdi), 80 communicative capitalism, 20, 271n14 Communism/Communists, 225; New Order regime purges of, vii – v iii, 5, 19, 227, 247n2, 247n8, 290n71; 30th September Movement (G30S/pki) of, vii, 5, 76, 247n2 complexly mediated public spheres, 11 – 12. See also public spheres Cook, James, 272n20 Coordinating Body of Indonesian Clerics, 73 corat-­coretan, 174, 183 – 90, 287n33 corporate media, 21 – 23, 256n72 corruption. See exposure scandals Corruption Eradication Commission (kpk), 102, 272n24, 275n70 Council of Indonesian Muslim Scholars (mui), 152 cp Biennale, 133 – 34, 139 – 42, 161 – 62. See also Pinkswing Park crowds, 226 – 29 currency. See money dangdut, 274n55, 281n50 Danish cartoon controversy, 154 – 55, 282n54 Darusman, Marzuki, 83 Dean, Jodi, 20, 100, 271n14 DeLeuze, Gilles, 250n30 DeLuca, Kevin, 252n41 democratization. See Reformasi and democratization Democrat Party, 98, 116 – 17, 119 – 20 demotic media. See social media networks Denny JA, 270n122 Department (Ministry) of Communica-

tion and Information (Depkominfo), 98, 116 – 17, 119 – 20, 152f, 271n8, 275n69 Department of Information, 43, 98, 257n5, 271n8 Di Balik Frekwensi, 255n70 Didie SW, 137f digital suspicion, 243, 271n16, 293n5 Dignity Committee for the Defense of Women, 79 dream of transparency. See transparency During, Simon, 272n20

face-­as-­mask tropes, 40 – 42, 258n23 Facebook. See social media networks Feldman, Allen, 69, 265n48 50,000 rupiah note. See money Firdaus, Yulian, 277n88 Flood, Barry, 154 Florida, Nancy K., 41 Foster, Robert J., 37 Foucault, Michel, 15 fpi. See Islamic Defender’s Front Fraser, Nancy, 251n35

East Java, 262n5 East Timor, 36, 78, 269n115 8 BAB 44 Pasal #6 (Suwage), 132f elections of 1999: economic priorities in, 58; money stickers of, 53 – 61, 261n70, 261n75; Suharto’s image in, 48 – 50 elections of 2014. See presidential election of 2014 elections of 2017, 245 – 46 Ellison, Ralph, 252n42 Empowered Citizens, 171, 172f Ertanto, Bambang, 201 ethnic Chinese. See Chinese-­Indonesian community ethnic cleansing, 78 ethnography and tracking of image-­ events, 25 – 28; interviews and conversations in, 27, 257n87; photo-­montages in, 27 – 28 evidentiary images, 24, 223, 243 exposure scandals, 95 – 130, 243; as banal infotainment, 124 – 30, 142; Islamic community and, 112 – 14, 115 – 16f, 273n45, 274n53, 274n64; ite law and, 98, 114 – 20, 275 – 76nn75 – 76, 275nn69 – 70; ludic images and, 118 – 23, 124f, 128f, 276n85; official investigation of, 102, 272n24; of politicians, 95, 103 – 7, 272n27; pornography debates and, 29, 93 – 94f, 133 – 66; role of authenticity experts in, 95 – 99, 101 – 2, 107 – 12; as salable sensations, 142 – 46; sexuality in, 93 – 94f, 107 – 18, 142 – 46; of Tambunan’s bribery, 125 – 29. See also authenticity debates; Roy Suryo

Galaja, Adrianus Candra (Dedi), 288n58 Galton, Francis, 127f Gaol, Andrew Lumban. See Antitank Geertz, Clifford, 40 Gell, Alfred, 250n19 gender. See rape debates; sexual violence General Attack of 1949, 169, 173, 178, 284n1 General Attack of 2013, 169 – 73, 192 – 93, 198, 284 – 85nn3 – 5, 285n9, 288n57 George, Kenneth, 157, 282n63 Gerinda party, 203, 246 Gerwani, 76 Ghalib, Andi, 95, 102 “The Globalization of Pornography” cartoon, 137f Golkar Party, 36, 201, 227; Bank Bali scandal of, 96; hacked website of, 120 – 21; money politics of, 48 – 56. See also New Order regime; Suharto graffiti, 183 – 89. See also street art Grusin, Richard, 258n20 Guerillas, 183f Guided Democracy, 247n2 Gürsel, Zeynep, 17, 251n34 Gus Dur. See Wahid, Abdurrahman Habermas, Jürgen, 251nn35 – 36, 252n43, 286n17 Habibie, B. J., 36, 52, 71 – 73, 79, 254n58 Habibie-­Ghalib scandal, 95, 102 Halim, Felix, 296n39 Hamzah, Chandra, 272n24, 275n70 “Hands off Indonesia,” 178f

index 321

Harsono, Andreas, 21 Hart, Keith, 258n14 “Has Anyone Ever Seen a Photograph of a Rape?” (Azoulay), 76 – 77 Hasty, Jennifer, 254n59 Hatta, Mohammad, 53 Henkin, David, 258n19, 286n17 Here Here, 186f Heryanto, Ariel, 85, 150f Hetherington, Kregg, 249n10 Hoesterey, James, 135, 157 – 58 Human Rights Law No. 39/1999, 254n58 Ibu Tien (Siti Hartinah), 248n1 identity photographs, vii, 88, 247n3 image-­events, 9 – 15, 28 – 30, 243 – 45, 249n11, 249n13, 249n16; complexly mediated public spheres of, 11 – 12; decentralized media technologies in, 23 – 24; ethnography and tracking of, 25 – 28; exposure scandals as, 95 – 130; pornography debates and, 29, 93 – 94f, 133 – 66; in the presidential election of 2014, 221 – 46; processual transformations of, 13 – 15, 24, 25, 136 – 38, 142 – 43, 243 – 44, 249 – 50nn18 – 19, 250nn27 – 30, 257n88; public coalescence around, 165 – 66; rape debates and, 28 – 29, 65 – 66f, 67 – 91, 262nn13 – 14; of the Reformasi movement, 12 – 13; remediated currency as, 28; role in the public sphere of, 15 – 18; street art as, 169 – 218; symbolic density of, 13, 17. See also public spheres independent film, 23 Indonesian Committee for Islamic Solidarity (kisdi), 264n35 Indonesian Communist Party (pki). See Communism/Communists Indonesian democracy. See Reformasi and democratization Indonesian National Revolution, 76; currency as symbol of independence in, 45 – 47; General Attack of 1949 of, 169, 173, 178, 284n1; street art of, 178 – 81, 201 Indratma, Samuel, 1 – 2f, 10f, 31 – 32f, 211f International Monetary Fund, 21

322 index

internet, 21, 70; freedom of expression on, 118 – 23, 276 – 77nn87 – 88, 2766nn84 – 85; presidential election of 2014 and, 222; state regulation of, 29, 98, 114 – 20, 275 – 76nn75 – 76, 275nn69 – 70; usage rates of, 23. See also social media networks Internet and Electronics Transactions Law (ite), 98, 117 – 20, 275nn69 – 70 invisibility, 17 Islam: Ahmadiyah sect of, 107; civilian militias and, 112, 283n72; Danish cartoon controversy and, 154 – 55, 282n54; democratization and, 253n52; elections of 2017 and, 245 – 46; ethics of vision in, 157 – 61, 282n63; hardline political forms of, 19, 158 – 59, 246; Monas incident and, 112, 273n46; ninja killings and, 262n5; pornography controversy and, 29, 133 – 36, 140 – 42, 151 – 61, 279n5, 279n16; press and, 255n66; public morality and piety in, 112 – 14, 158 – 61, 273n45, 274n53, 274n64; rape debates and, 73 – 74, 79 – 80, 82 – 83, 264n35; Sharia law of, 152, 159. See also Islamic Defender’s Front Islamic Community Forum for Upholding Justice and the Constitution (Furkon), 73 – 74 Islamic Defender’s Front (fpi), 246, 279n5, 283nn73 – 74; activism against Pinkswing Park by, 133 – 34, 140 – 42, 144, 154 – 61, 279n11, 279n16; antipornography campaign of, 134, 157 – 61, 283n75; Monas incident of, 112, 273n46; paramilitary wing of, 112, 283n72; Sharia law as goal of, 159; skeptical acronyms of, 160, 285n4 “Is There Any Love Left in Indonesia?” (Abimanyu Street Art), 167 – 68f, 208 Ita Martadinata (Ita Martadinata Haryono), 86 – 88, 91, 268n98 Jain, Kajri, 161 Jalan Kemenangan IV (Sung), 65 – 66f, 91 Japanese Occupation, 180 Jogja Biennale, 182f

Joint-­Fact-­Finding Team (tgpf), 68, 72 – 73, 83, 85, 87 – 88, 269n114 Jokowi (Joko Widodo), 30, 185 – 89, 221 – 46, 287n33; crowd-­selfies and, 233 – 39, 295n29; crowdsourced election monitoring and, 239 – 42, 295n35, 296n41, 296nn38 – 39; ludic images of, 224 – 25f; mental revolution of volunteers for, 233, 236 – 39, 241 – 42; Monas rally of, 232; Subyakto’s crowd photos of, 219 – 20f, 226 – 33, 293n8, 294n19. See also presidential election of 2014 Jones, Carla, 112 – 13 Justice and Prosperity Party, 153f, 274n64 Kaulan Perempuan, 77 – 78 Kawal Pemilu, 240, 296n39 Keane, Webb, 36, 154 “Kebenaran Akan Terus Hidup” (Thukul), 170f Keenan, Thomas, 79, 265n54 Kertaradjasa, Butet, 1 – 2f, 10f, 31 – 32f, 211f Kewek Bridge (Yogyakarta), 169 – 73, 174 f, 192 – 93, 198, 284 – 85nn3 – 5, 285n9, 288n57 Khatib, Lina, 249n16 Kitley, Philip, 159, 281mn49 – 50 Komunal Stensil, 10f Konser Salam 2 Jari, 219 – 20f, 228 – 33, 234 f; crowd-­selfies of, 233 – 39; Subyakto’s photos of, 219 – 20f, 226 – 33 Kopassus killings, 194 – 210, 213, 288 – 89nn58 – 60, 289 – 90nn62 – 63 Krismon (Cindy), 47 – 48 Kuntsman, Adi, 271n16, 293n5 Kurniady, Andrian, 296n39 Kusno, Abidin, 19, 200 Laksono, Dandhy, 249n4 Larkin, Brian, 147 Laskar Islam (li), 112 Latjuba, Sophia, 108, 109f, 136f, 279n21 Latour, Bruno, 250n19 LeBon, Gustov, 228 Lee, Doreen, 181, 190, 286n22, 292n81 Lindquist, Johan, 113

Lindsay, Jennifer, 151 Linggar, Davy, 133, 138 – 39, 146; fpi case against, 141, 279n11; intent in Pinkswing Park of, 156 – 57, 161 – 62 Love Hate Love, 184f “Love the Rupiah” movement, 47 – 48 ludic images, 24, 118 – 30, 243, 256n79; of currency, 60 – 63; in the presidential election of 2014, 223 – 26; of Roy Suryo, 98 – 99, 120 – 23, 124 f, 128f, 276n85 Lups, Yunanto, 182f, 184 f Lustrilanang, Pius, 85, 91 Mahesa, Desmond, 85 “Make a Success of the National Discipline Movement,” 185f Manbait, Yohanes Juan, 288n58 Manifesto of Indonesian Fine Arts, 163 – 64, 284n93 Manoukian, Setrag, 293n8, 295n29 Maria Eva, 113 – 14, 115 – 16f Marx, Karl, 37 MataMassa, 240 – 41, 296n38 Maurer, Bill, 37 May (Westi), 270n122 Mayangsari, Augustina, 118 Mbembe, Achille, 41 – 42 McKee, Yates, 249n13 McLagan, Meg, 249n13 media ecology. See public spheres media events. See image-­events Megawati. See Sukarnoputri, Megawati metajournalism, 23 metapictures, 140 Mitchell, W. J. T., 140, 251n34 mobile phones. See cell phones Moetojib (Lieutenant General), 83 Molé, Noelle, 129, 278n100 Monas incident, 112, 273n46 money, 33 – 63; Adi’s painting of, 33 – 39; aspal logic and, 52, 57; counterfeit forms of, 35, 51 – 53, 260n58; economic crisis of 1997 – 98 and, 21, 45, 47, 257mm3 – 4; ludic repurposing of, 60 – 63; money sticker imitations of, 53 – 61, 261n70, 261n75; official iconography of, 34;

index 323

money (continued) remediated versions of, 38 – 40; as sign of national sovereignty and love, 36 – 37, 45 – 48, 258n14, 260n50; social and political role of, 36 – 38, 48 – 61, 258nn19 – 20; Suharto’s image on, 28, 36, 39 – 45, 48 – 50, 57, 61, 257n1; Sukarno’s image on, 53, 259n37; traditional definitions of, 36 “Money and Our Children” exhibition, 34f, 39f Moniaga, Hani, 109f Morris, Rosalind, 256 – 57n85 Mount Merapi, 193 – 94 Movement for a New Indonesia, 203 Muladi (Minister of Justice), 72 – 73 Mulyasari, Prita, 117 – 18, 275 – 76nn75 – 76, 275nn69 – 70 Mumford, Lewis, 286n14 Munarman, 112 Munir. See Thalib, Munir Said Muslims. See Islam Nadhatul Ulama (nu), 103 – 4 Nadia, Ita Fatia, 85, 90 – 91, 269n112, 269n118, 270n123 Najib, Ainun, 296n39 National Commission on Human Rights, 68, 72, 200 National Commission on Violence Against Women, 89 – 90, 270n121 Nead, Lynda, 156 “Need a Clown? Contact Senayan” (Antitank), 182f neoliberal democratic ideology, 30. See also voluntarism New Order regime, vii – v iii, 15; afterlife in Indonesia’s democratization of, 18 – 20, 28, 30, 253n52, 253n54; aspal documents of, 52, 99 – 100; banners, billboards, and slogans of, 176 – 77, 181, 185f, 201, 216, 290nn70 – 71; censorship and image management by, 10 – 11, 20 – 22, 40, 158 – 59, 180 – 81, 248n7, 253n54, 254n61, 255n65, 255n69, 266n64; cleanup projects of, 192; Communist purges by, vii – v iii, 5, 19, 227, 247n2, 247n8, 290n71;

324 index

controlled political campaigns of, 227, 293nn10 – 11; Department of Information of, 43, 98, 257n5, 271n8; economic crisis of 1997 – 98 and, 21, 45, 47, 257mm3 – 4; end of, viii, 247n6; face-­as-­mask tropes of, 40 – 42, 258n23; nationalist narratives of, 5; origins of, 40 – 42, 76; Petrus killings of, 198 – 200; pornography policies of, 151; rape debate discourses of, 70 – 80; riots of 1998 against, 67 – 68, 75 – 76, 86 – 87, 90 – 91, 181, 261n1, 295n33; Supersemar founding document of, 271n11; terror and violence used by, 69, 73, 75 – 76, 78 – 79, 89, 170, 176, 182f, 200, 221, 261n1, 263n24. See also Suharto Nitami, Dian, 145f Nkomr.Ipeh (Enka Nkomr and Ipeh Nur), 174 f Novanto, Setya, 96 Obama, Barack, 128 – 29f one dollar bill, 45 “The Origins of Porno” (Setianto Riyadi TR), 150f out-­of-­control democracy, 184 – 85 Özyürek, Esra, 259n39 Paloh, Surya, 6 – 7f Pantau magazine, 272n25 Papua, 269n115 Partai Amanat Nasional (pan), 55 Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (pdi), 201 Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (pkb), 55 Peircian semiotics, 250n27 Pekik, Djoko, 249n6 Pemberton, John, 227, 248n7 Pemuda Pancasila, 158 People’s Alliance against Porno-­action and Pornography, 153f personal photography collections, viii Petrus killings, 198 – 200 photographs, viii – i x; authenticity debates on, 82 – 84, 89, 124, 223, 243, 266n74, 267n85; emotional power of, 81 – 83; evidentiary forms of, 24, 223, 243; as fetish

of transparency, 74 – 78, 80 – 81, 84, 223, 243, 265n48, 267n85; ideologies of impartiality of, 17; indexicality of, ix, 14, 24, 69, 74, 77, 101; ludic manipulation of, 24, 118 – 30, 223 – 26, 243; as materialized image, 14, 74 – 75, 250n26; official identity photos, vii, 88, 247n3; personal memories embedded in, viii; political import of, 252n40; role in rape debates of, 68 – 70, 74 – 78, 80 – 84, 91, 263n27, 267n74, 267n85; social agency of, 250n19. See also authenticity debates Pinkswing Park (Suwage and Lingar), 133 – 49; Anjasmara’s apology for, 141; artists’ intention in, 134f, 139 – 40, 153 – 57, 279n16; celebrity models in, 140 – 41, 143, 155, 164 – 65, 282n57; competing understandings of images in, 153 – 57; fpi case against, 140 – 42, 144, 154 – 61, 279n11, 279n16, 284n92; media’s doubled censorship of, 143; public uptake and imitation of, 147 – 53, 281n34, 281n44, 281nn49 – 50; as salable sex scandal, 142 – 46; unfolding as image-­event of, 133 – 38, 161 – 65. See also pornography debates Playboy Indonesia, 142, 157 – 58, 166, 281n49 Pofobag, 182f political agency, 30 political imaginaries, 18, 243n47 poor images, 28, 257n88 pornographic visuality, 76 – 78. See also rape debates pornography debates, 29, 93 – 94f, 133 – 66; antipornography movement in, 114 – 18, 135, 152f; artists’ perspectives on, 161 – 65, 284nn92 – 93; celebrity culture and, 135 – 36, 140 – 46, 279nn21 – 22; civil censorship in, 135, 283n81; competing understandings of images in, 153 – 57; cybercrime and, 98; expanded technologies of dissemination and, 135 – 36, 137f, 138f, 148 – 49, 281n34; Islamic perspectives in, 133 – 36, 140 – 42, 151 – 61, 279n5; official state policies in, 108, 151 – 53, 161 – 65; on public uptake and imitation, 147 – 53, 281n34, 281n44, 281nn49 – 50. See

also Pinkswing Park; rape debates; sex scandals Pornography Law of 2008, 132f, 135, 141, 151 – 53; artists’ activism against, 161 – 65, 284nn92 – 93; definition of pornography in, 152 – 53; impact of Pinkswing Park controversy on, 161 – 65 postauthoritarian Indonesia. See Reformasi and democratization Prabowo Subianto, 5, 203, 221 – 26, 295n33; anti-­Jokowi images produced by, 223 – 26, 231, 293n6, 294n20; election fraud charges by, 239 – 40; elections of 2017 and, 246. See also presidential election of 2014 Pramesti, Rani, 270n122 Prasasti Tragedi Mei 98, 270n121 “Preman Crying Preman” (Antitank), 205 – 10, 212, 215f, 216, 282n90 premanism, 160, 194 – 210, 213, 216, 289 –  90nn61 – 63, 290nn66 – 67, 291nn74 – 76 presidential election of 2014, 29 – 30, 221 – 46; collective documentation/ crowd-­selfies and, 233 – 39, 295n29; crowd size debates in, 226 – 33, 293nn8 – 11, 294n13, 294n20; crowdsourced election monitoring in, 239 – 42, 295n35, 296n41, 296nn38 – 39; evidentiary images in, 223; image management in, 222 – 23; ludic images in, 223 – 26; mental revolution of volunteers in, 233, 236 – 39, 241 – 42 Press Law No. 40/1999, 254n58 processual philosophy, 250n27 public spheres, 11 – 12, 249n10; affective projections of common interests in, 101; circulation of rumors and fake news in, 21 – 22, 70; civil censorship in, 22 – 23, 135 – 36, 255nn69 – 70, 256n72, 283n81; definitions and formulations of, 16, 25, 251nn35 – 37, 252n43, 265n85; democratized transparency in, 11 – 12, 18, 20, 29 – 30, 41, 70, 100, 241 – 43, 257n5, 271n14, 272n18; demotic media networks in, 23 – 24, 29 – 30, 70, 222; diversified media ecology of, viii – i x, 18 – 24, 29, 35 – 36, 62, 249n10, 254nn58 – 59, 255nn65 – 66;

index 325

public spheres (continued) ethnography of, 25 – 28, 243 – 45; political agency in, 30; press freedoms of, 20 – 23; street art and communication in, 174 – 78, 180 – 84, 205 – 10, 216 – 18; technologies of dissemination in, 135 – 36, 137f, 138f, 281n34; varied forms of publics in, 177. See also image-­events public visuality, 15 – 18, 100, 243 – 44, 251nn34 – 37, 271n14, 271nn11 – 12, 272n18; demanding nature of, 15 – 16; forms and mechanisms of, 17 – 18, 252nn43 – 45; political imaginaries generated in, 18, 243n47. See also street art Pulang (Chudori), vii – i x, 247n8 Purnama, Basuki Tjahaja. See Ahok radio, 23, 40 Rais, Amien, 55 Rancière, Jacques, 250n26 Rangkuman.RoySuryoWatch.org, 120 – 21 rape debates, 28 – 29, 65 – 66f, 67 – 91, 262nn13 – 14; absence of victims’ testimonies in, 69 – 70, 73, 77, 87 – 90, 268n110, 269nn115 – 16; contested numbers of victims in, 88 – 89; international shaming in, 78 – 80, 263n24, 265nn53 – 54; memorialization of victims of, 90 – 91, 270n119, 270nn121 – 23; official investigations in, 68, 72 – 73, 80, 83, 87 – 90, 268n110, 269n114; on reliability of evidence, 70 – 74; role of photographs in, 68 – 70, 74 – 78, 80 – 84, 91, 263n27, 267n74, 267n85; stigma of victims in, 73, 84 – 88, 90, 264nn30 – 32, 267n92, 269n115, 269n118; threats to female activists in, 73 Reformasi and democratization, vii – i x, 3, 253n52; afterlife of authoritarianism in, 18 – 20, 28, 30, 36, 217, 253n52, 253n54; civil censorship in, 22 – 23, 135 – 36, 256n72, 283n81; Communication and Informatics Department of, 98, 116 – 20, 275nn69 – 70; corruption in, 18 – 19, 243n47; currency of, 35 – 63; democratized public sphere of, 11 – 12, 20,

326 index

29 – 30, 70, 174, 180 – 84, 216 – 18, 249n10, 257n5; diversified media ecology of, viii – i x, 18 – 24, 29, 35 – 36, 62, 249n10, 254nn58 – 59, 255nn65 – 66; elections of 1999 of, 48 – 50; encouragement of street art in, 180 – 84, 287n32; ethnic and gendered limits of, 28 – 29, 67 – 91; neoliberal practices of voluntarism in, 30, 233, 236 – 39, 241 – 42; official press freedoms of, 20 – 23, 35 – 36; origins of, vii – v iii, 43, 247n6; out-­of-­control democracy concerns of, 21 – 22, 184 – 85; photographic exhibitions of, 43 – 44, 75 – 79; presidential election of 2014 and, 221 – 46; regulation of media and the internet of, 29, 114 – 20, 275 – 76nn75 – 76, 275nn69 – 70; transparency ideals of, ix, 9, 11 – 12, 18, 20, 28 – 29, 41, 69, 222, 248 – 49nn9 – 10; visual memorials in, 7 – 8, 8 – 11f. See also image-­events; transparency Refracted Visions: Popular Photography and National Modernity in Java (Strassler), viii “Refuse to Forget” (Antitank), 8 – 9f, 209 – 10, 214f remediation, 62 – 63, 142, 172 – 73, 211 – 17, 258n20, 292nn84 – 85 Rharharha, Andi, 187 Rianto, Bibit Samad, 272n24, 275n70 Riwu, Gameliel Yermiyanto Rohi (Adi), 288n58 Riyanto, Andi, 187 Rizieq, Habib, 112, 158, 283n75 Roesmanhadi (General), 72, 87, 143 – 44 Romano, Angela, 266n64 Roy Suryo (Roy Suryo Notodiprojo), 95 – 129, 271n9; critiques of expertise of, 110 – 12, 117 – 18, 274 – 75n75; E-­Lifestyle show of, 98, 122; on the Gus Dur-­ Aryanti scandal, 105 – 7; ludic images and parodies of, 98 – 99, 118 – 23, 124f, 128f, 276n85, 277nn93 – 95; as Minister of Sports, 123; performance of technological expertise by, 101 – 2, 270n2, 272n20; on Pinkswing Park, 156; political career

of, 114 – 21, 276n85; on sex scandals, 107 – 14; on Tambunan’s false documents, 126 – 29 Rukmana, Siti Hardiyanti (Mbak Tutut), 47 rupiah. See money Sadli, Saparinah, 85, 90 Sahetapi, Hendrik Angel (Diki Ambon), 288n58 Saksono, Herman, 118 – 20, 123 – 24 Saler, Michael, 272n20 Sane, 182f Santoso, Heru, 194 Sapu Tangan Fang Yin (Tranggono and JA), 270n122 Sarwono, Sarlito Wirawan, 86 – 87 Sekula, Allan, 252n44 self-­censorship, 22 – 23 Sepenggal Catatan Merah: Sebuah Komik Tragedie Mei 1998 (Bhakti), 270n122 Serangan Umum Satu Maret, Rebut Ruang Kota Jogja!, 172 – 73f sex scandals, 93 – 94f, 107 – 18, 140 – 46; criminal charges in, 141, 143 – 44; of Gus Dur and Aryanti Sitepu, 103 – 7, 272n27, 274n54; Islamic activism and, 112 – 14, 115 – 16f, 273n45, 274n53; prevalence of women’s images in, 144 – 46; salability of images in, 142 – 46; of Sukma Ayu and Bjah, 93 – 94f, 108 – 11. See also pornography debates sexual violence, 28 – 29; photographic exhibitions of, 77 – 78, 79; photographs as fetish of transparency and, 74 – 78, 80 – 81, 84, 265n48, 267n85; women’s rights ngos on, 78 – 81. See also rape debates Shiraishi, Saya, 41 Sidel, John, 283n72, 286n14 Sidik, Jafar, 157 – 58 Siegel, James T., 46 – 47, 293n10 Sigit, Digie, 8f, 11f, 170f, 183f, 287n44 Silverman, Kaja, 250n29 Sitepu, Aryanti, 103 – 7, 274n54 Sliwinski, Sharon, 266n74

small media, 256n78 social agency, 250n19 social media networks, 23 – 24, 222, 256n72; of Chinese diasporic communities, 78; circulation of political communication on, 29 – 30; circulation of unfounded rumors on, 70; diversification of, 256n78; freedom of expression on, 118 – 23; presidential election of 2014 and, 233 – 42, 293n3; Prita Ulyasari’s defamation case and, 117 – 18; rape reports and debates on, 78, 84, 265n51; transparency ideals of, 70 spanduk, 175 – 76, 181, 198 – 204, 290nn70 Special Forces (Kopassus) killings, 194 – 210, 213, 288 – 89nn58 – 60, 289 – 90nn62 – 63 Special Team on Violence Against Women, 71 – 72 Spitulnik, Debra, 23 Spyer, Patricia, 69 – 70, 142 – 43, 165 Steedly, Mary Margaret, 142 – 43, 165, 272n18 Stein, Rebecca, 271n16, 293n5 Stewart, Susan, 292n85 Steyerl, Hito, 257n88 street art, 29 – 30, 167 – 68f, 169 – 218, 284n2, 286n14; anti-­preman campaign of, 194 – 206; Clean Up Visual Garbage movement and, 190 – 94, 204; democratic public sphere of, 174 – 78, 180 – 84, 205, 216 – 18; documentation and archiving of, 207, 213, 214 – 15f, 214 – 15f, 217, 282n91; as gendered practice, 291n77; General Attack at Kewek Bridge for, 169 – 73, 174f, 192 – 93, 198, 284 – 85nn3 – 5, 285n9, 288n57; informal public gallery of, 170; of the Japanese Occupation, 180, 286n21; of the New Order regime, 176 – 77, 181, 185f, 201, 290nn70 – 71; overwriting and placement etiquettes of, 186 – 90, 207, 282n89, 287n44; political campaign posters and billboards as, 191; pro-­ Kopassus/anti-­preman campaign of, 213, 216, 289 – 90nn61 – 63, 290nn66 – 67, 291nn74 – 76, 292n83; Reformasi’s embrace of, 180 – 84, 286n22, 287n32;

index 327

street art (continued) repetition and remediation of, 172 – 73, 211 – 16, 217, 292nn84 – 85; revolutionary origins of, 178 – 81, 187, 201, 216; scrawls and scribbles as, 174, 183 – 90, 287n33, 287n44; value debates on, 185 – 90; visual conversations of, 205 – 10, 216, 292n81, 292n83; as visual garbage (sampah visual), 188, 190 – 94, 204, 287n44; wild (rogue) advertising and, 188 – 92; “Yogya’s Stopped Being Comfortable” exhibition of, 216 – 17 student anticommunist movement of 1965 – 66, 76 “Study What Is Good,” 209, 292n83 Subyakto, Jay, 219 – 20f, 228f, 229 – 33 Sudjojono, Sindudarsono, 180 Suharto: corruption investigation of, 95 – 96; image on currency of, 28, 33, 36, 39 – 45, 48 – 50, 57, 61, 257n1; memorial museum of, 4 – 5; nostalgic images of, 3 – 5, 4 – 5f, 15, 248n1; Petrus campaign of, 198 – 200; political counterimages of, 5 – 6, 6 – 7f, 44 – 45; regulated public sphere of, 12; resignation of, viii, 28, 33 – 63, 247n6; seizure of power by, 40, 43; smiling-­face images of, 40 – 42, 258n23. See also New Order regime Suharto, Tommy, 96 – 97 Sukarnoputri, Megawati: Jokowi and, 224f, 225; money stickers of, 53 – 61, 261n70; political popularity of, 55 – 57; presidency of, 55; on rape victims’ testimonies, 73 Sukarno/Sukarno era, 227, 247n2; idealized role of the people in, 226 – 27; image on currency of, 53, 259n37; nostalgic images of, 42 – 43, 55 – 56, 259n39; overthrow and disappearance of, 40; revolutionary activism of, 180; as symbol of authenticity, 56 Sukma Ayu, 93 – 94f, 108 – 11, 273n39 Sumardi, Sandyawan, 68, 83, 87, 264n32 Sung, Yaya, 65 – 66f, 91 Supangkat, Jim, 141 – 43, 161, 162, 274n92, 279n12 Supriyanto, Enin, 279n12

328 index

Suryakusuma, Julia, 70 – 71 Suryopratomo, 289n60 Sutiyoso, 262n14 Suwage, Agus, 131 – 32f, 133, 138 – 39, 164 – 65; fpi case against, 141, 279n11; on infotainment, 142; intent in Pinkswing Park of, 156 – 57, 161 – 62, 279n16 Tambunan, Gayus Halomoan, 125 – 29 Tanggono, Indra, 270n122 Tapsell, Ross, 254n58 Tarang Padi, 181 Tarde, Gabriel, 228 Tay, Elaine, 78 Taylor, Charles, 251n35 Telemakita, 122 – 25, 278n97 telematics experts, 29 television, 40, 256n72 Tempo, 148f Thalib, Munir Said, 6 – 9; images in commemoration of, 1 – 2f, 7 – 8, 8 – 11f, 15 – 16, 31 – 32f, 170, 210 – 12, 214f, 249n4, 249n6; memorial museum of, 6 – 7 30th September Movement/Indonesian Communist Party (G30S/pki), 247n2 Thompson, Krista, 252n42 Thukul, Wiji, 170, 182f, 292n84 Tinarbuko, Sumbo, 192 – 93, 204 Titarubi, 161 transparency, ix, 9, 248 – 49nn9 – 10; authenticity expertise and, 95 – 130, 223, 272n18; in the democratized public sphere, 11 – 12, 18, 20, 29 – 30, 41, 70, 100, 241 – 43, 257n5, 271n14, 272n18; dreams of transparency, 68 – 69, 74, 87, 89, 120, 125, 222; exposure scandals and, 99 – 102; gendered and ethnic limits of, 28 – 29, 68 – 74, 80, 87 – 91; as ideological imaginary, 69, 91, 222, 243; internet’s role in, 70; ludic manipulation of, 118 – 30; New Order regime discourses on, 71 – 72; photographs as fetishes of, 74 – 78, 80 – 81, 84, 223, 243, 265n48, 267n85 Trihatmodjo, Bambang, 118 “Trotoar” performance, 191

Twain, Mark, 266n74 Twitter. See social media networks unanticipated publics, 142 – 43 un-­v isibility, 252n42 Urban Noise, 10f Vallone, Yoan, 285n4 Verdery, Katherine, 248n9 Virgin, 281n44 visibility. See public visuality visual garbage (sampah visual), 188, 190 – 94, 204, 287n44 voluntarism, 30, 233, 236 – 39, 241 – 42 Volunteer Team for Humanity, 68, 71, 83, 86, 90 – 91, 262n2, 269n118 Wagner-­Pacifici, Robin, 14, 250n28 Wahid, Abdurrahman (Gus Dur), 103 – 4, 284n94; exposure scandal of, 103 – 7, 272n27, 274n54; presidency of, 55, 253n54, 254n58 Wahyu, Ong Harry, 1 – 2f, 10f, 31 – 32f, 211f Warner, Michael, 147, 165, 174, 251n – 52n38

“Warning” (Thukul), 182f Washington, George, 45 Wedeen, Lisa, 259n40 Westi, Viva, 270n122 Whitehead, Alfred North, 250n27 Widodo, Joko. See Jokowi Wilferth, Joe, 252n41 Winata, Tomy, 107, 255n69 Wiranto (General), 72, 80 women. See pornography debates; rape debates; sex scandals; sexual violence Yahya, Isabel, 131 – 32f, 144, 155, 162, 164 – 65 Yentriyani, Andry, 270n119 Yogyakarta, 169, 257n87. See also street art Yogyakarta Youth Against Premanism, 196 – 98, 289 – 90nn62 – 63 “Yogya’s Stopped Being Comfortable” exhibition, 216 – 17 Yosfiah, M. Yunus, 80 Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang, 114, 118, 119f, 195 Zaini, Yahya, 113 – 16

index 329