Language Policy in Superdiverse Indonesia 2019031403, 9780367029548, 9780429019739

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“In the ninety years since the first Indonesian Youth Congress, conducted in Dutch, called for selection and development of a national language to overcome the superdiversity of languages, Bahasa Indonesia has come to fill that role. This pioneering study of language management is a book that must be read by all interested in language policy and in the effects on other language varieties of successful language planning.” – Bernard Spolsky, Professor, Bar Ilan University, Israel “Subhan Zein’s approach to language policy and language revitalisation is erudite and original. Add to that his comprehensive knowledge of and proactive recommendations for cultivating and sustaining the rich, complex, dynamic language diversity of Indonesia. The result: an intellectual tour de force that will be a reference and resource for Indonesia and for language policy and planning scholarship for years to come.” – Nancy H. Hornberger, Professor, University of Pennsylvania, USA

Language Policy in Superdiverse Indonesia

Indonesia has an extreme diversity of linguistic wealth, with 707 languages by one count, or 731 languages and more than 1,100 dialects in another estimate, spoken by more than 600 ethnicities spread across 17,504 islands in the archipelago. Smaller, locally used indigenous languages jostle for survival alongside Indonesian, which is the national language, regional lingua francas, major indigenous languages, heritage languages, sign languages and world languages such as English, Arabic and Mandarin, not to mention emerging linguistic varieties and practices of language mixing. How does the government manage these languages in different domains such as education, the media, the workplace and the public while balancing concerns over language endangerment and the need for participation in the global community? Subhan Zein asserts that superdiversity is the key to understanding and assessing these intricate issues and their complicated, contested and innovative responses in the complex, dynamic and polycentric sociolinguistic situation in Indonesia that he conceptualises as superglossia. This offers an opportunity for us to delve more deeply into such a context through the language and superdiversity perspective that is in ascendancy. Zein examines emerging themes that have been dominating language policy discourse including status, prestige, corpus, acquisition, cultivation, language shift and endangerment, revitalisation, linguistic genocide and imperialism, multilingual education, personnel policy, translanguaging, family language policy and global English. These topical areas are critically discussed in an integrated manner against Indonesia’s elaborate socio-­cultural, political and religious backdrop as well as the implementation of regional autonomy. In doing so, Zein identifies strategies for language policy to help inform scholarship and policymaking while providing a frame of reference for the adoption of the superdiversity perspective on polity-­ specific language policy in other parts of the world. Subhan Zein (PhD, Australian National University) teaches at The University of Queensland, Australia. He is the lead editor of Early Language Learning and Teacher Education: International Research and Practice and English Language Teacher Preparation in Asia: Policy, Research and Practice (Routledge) and also the editor of Teacher Education for English as a Lingua Franca: Perspectives from Indonesia (Routledge).

Routledge Studies in Sociolinguistics

Living Languages and New Approaches to Language Revitalisation Research Tonya N. Stebbins, Kris Eira and Vicki L. Couzens Language Contact and the Future of English Ian MacKenzie Discourse, Gender and Shifting Identities in Japan The Longitudinal Study of Kobe Women’s Ethnographic Interviews 1989– 2019, Phase One Edited by Claire Maree and Kaori Okano Language and Classification Meaning-­Making in the Classification and Categorization of Ceramics Allison Burkette Language, Media and Globalization in the Periphery The Linguascapes of Popular Music in Mongolia Sender Dovchin Emerging Hispanicized English in the Nuevo New South Language Variation in a Triethnic Community Erin Callahan Racialization and Language Interdisciplinary Perspectives from Peru Edited by Michele Back and Virginia Zavala Discourses of Identity in Liminal Places and Spaces Edited by Roberta Piazza Language Policy in Superdiverse Indonesia Subhan Zein For more information about this series, please visit www.routledge.com/ Routledge-­Studies-­in-­Sociolinguistics/book-­series/RSSL

Language Policy in Superdiverse Indonesia

Subhan Zein

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Subhan Zein The right of Subhan Zein to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-­in-­Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Zein, Subhan, author. Title: Language policy in superdiverse Indonesia / Subhan Zein. Description: New York : Routledge, 2020. | Series: Routledge studies in sociolinguistics | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019031403 | ISBN 9780367029548 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429019739 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Language policy—Indonesia. | Sociolinguistics— Indonesia. | Indonesia—Languages. Classification: LCC P119.32.I5 Z45 2019 | DDC 306.44/9598—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031403 ISBN: 978-­0-­367-­02954-­8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-­0-­429-­01973-­9 (ebk) Typeset in Galliard by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Sugih tanpo bondo Digdoyo tanpo aji Trimah mawih pasrah Suwung pamrih, tebih ajrih

Kaya tanpa harta Digdaya tanpa azimat Menerima dengan pasrah Tanpa pamrih, jauh dari takut

Wealthy without riches Invincible without magic Accept submissively Selfless, fearless

Raden Mas Panji Sosrokartono (1877–1952)

This book is for my mother, Mundiroh

Contents

ContentsContents

Figuresxiii Chartsxiv Mapsxv Tablesxvi Acknowledgementsxvii Notes about the bookxix 1 Introduction to language policy in superdiverse Indonesia 1.1. Introduction 1 1.2.  Indonesia: an overview  1 1.3.  Language policy in superdiverse Indonesia  10 1.4.  Overview of the book  22

1

2 Linguistic ecology and language policy 2.1. Introduction 27 2.2. Indonesian 27 2.3. Indigenous languages 31 2.4.  Regional lingua francas  34 2.5.  Heritage and sign languages  41 2.6.  Foreign and additional languages  44 2.7.  English: from EFL to ELF  45 2.8. Sociolinguistic situation 49 2.9. Conclusion 61

27

3 Status planning 3.1. Introduction 64 3.2.  Ideological obfuscation and status planning  64 3.3.  Contemporary status planning  73 3.4. Indonesian: from a national to an international language? 81 3.5. Conclusion 89

64

xii  Contents 4 Corpus planning 4.1. Introduction 97 4.2.  Corpus planning of Indonesian  97 4.3. The Badan Bahasa and LOTI  110 4.4.  External researchers and LOTI  115 4.5. Conclusion 119

97

5 Revitalisation planning 5.1. Introduction 128 5.2.  The complexity of language endangerment  129 5.3. Language documentation 143 5.4.  Activities in revitalisation planning  149 5.5. Conclusion 156

128

6

165

Language-­in-­education policy 6.1. Introduction 165 6.2.  Indonesia’s management of education: an overview  165 6.3.  Policy on teaching Indonesian  167 6.4.  Policy on teaching indigenous languages  173 6.5.  Policy on teaching “imported” languages  183 6.6. Conclusion 194

7 Conclusion 7.1. Introduction 206 7.2. Main arguments 206 7.3. Future research 212

206

References215 Index253

Figures

FiguresFigures

1.1 Indonesia’s State Ideology, the Pancasila, is shown in the national emblem of the Garuda4 1.2 Indonesian presidents from 1945 to 2001. In order: Soekarno (1945–1967), Soeharto (1967–1998), Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie (1998–1999), Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001) 6 1.3 Indonesian presidents from 2001 to present. In order: Megawati Sukarnoputri (2001–2004), Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (2004–2014) and Joko Widodo (2014–present) 7 1.4 The first known inscription of Ashoka 13 1.5 Indonesian children dressed in traditional costumes, depicting only a fraction of Indonesia’s massive diversity 20 2.1 Members of the 1928 Second Youth Congress who contributed to the establishment of Indonesian as a unifying language 28 2.2 Pinisi, the boat associated with the speakers of Bugis, is featured in an old 100-­rupiah banknote 37 2.3 Ethnic Chinese in Yogyakarta showing cultural fusion between Chinese and Javanese 42 3.1 Soekarno frequently inserted the Struggle Slogan into his speeches 65 4.1 A magazine using the van Ophuijsen spelling (circa 1939) 99 4.2 The Fifth Edition of KBBI 106 4.3 A manuscript written in Batak Toba 123 5.1 Javanese inscription in Sholihin Mosque Surakarta, Central Java 135 5.2 Bokori, a village of the Sama-­Bajau people in southwest Sulawesi 138 5.3 Islamised Bakumpai people in Central Kalimantan 139 5.4 A speaker of the Asmat language of Papua 142 5.5 Speakers of Lamaholot (a non-­Malayic RLF) in Eastern Nusa Tenggara145 5.6 Speakers of Betawi in their traditional costumes 150 6.1 Personnel policy in the context of quality education 203

Charts

ChartsCharts

1.1 1.2 2.1 3.1 3.2 5.1 6.1

Indonesia’s Corruption Index Indonesia’s population pyramid (2019) Distribution of languages in Indonesia Economic relevance of major world languages Shares of languages in science publications Trend line for reported dying or dead languages in Indonesia Percentage of Indonesian population (over five years old) with literacy in Indonesian (1971–2010) 6.2 Literacy in Indonesian (2013–2017)

8 9 32 86 87 131 171 171

Maps

MapsMaps

1.1 Map of Indonesia 1.2 Geographical spread of ethnicities in Indonesia

2 11

Tables

TablesTables

2.1 2.2 2.3 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 5.1 6.1 6.2

Indonesia’s 13 largest languages 33 Malayic RLFs 35 Non-­Malayic RLFs 38 Comparison of how words are spelt in the van Ophuijsen spelling, the Soewandi spelling and the EYD101 Numbers of Indonesian words borrowed from indigenous, heritage and foreign languages 103 Samples of Indonesian words borrowed from indigenous and heritage languages 104 Samples of borrowed Indonesian words from English 106 Provinces in which the Badan Bahasa has regional representatives 113 Summary of Indonesia’s linguistic vitality 131 Indonesian in the Revised 2013 Curriculum 170 Multilingual education models for Indonesia 199

Acknowledgements

AcknowledgementsAcknowledgements

I listed ideas for this book a few years ago and wrote early drafts in January 2018 but did not commence systematic writing until early June the same year. It was only then that I was immersed in the writing journey, which I found illuminating for the most part. Now I would like to thank people who have assisted me in many ways. I thank Zane Goebel for convincing me to take the first step to write this book. I am also thankful for his guidance, advice and encouragement. I Wayan Arka has always been supportive of my intellectual endeavour and he has provided me with useful suggestions for my work. I am very grateful to him. Bernard Spolsky is an authority in the field of language policy, whom I admire and respect. I thank him for his endorsement of this book. Language policymakers from Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa: Joni Endardi, Dora Amalia and Ganjar Hermansyah, were all approachable when I initiated contact. I thank them for the opportunities to discuss language policy matters on status planning, corpus planning, revitalisation planning and language-­in-­education policy. My special thanks go to the Routledge team: Katie Peace and Samantha Phua. I am very grateful for the publication advice they have given me. To Ni Luh Susilawangi, who explained the use of languages in the religious domain among Hindu Balinese, I offer my sincere thanks. I thank I Ketut Suar Adnyana, Arif Abdur Rahman, Antariksawan Jusuf and Marian Klamer, who helped clarify issues relating to the Fehan dialect of Tetun, Osing and Alor Malay. I also thank my Bapak Angkat [foster father] Yoni Utomo for translating part of the quote from Raden Mas Panji Sosrokartono. Next, I would like to express my gratitude to scholars who responded to my enquiries while researching for this book: Susan M. Gal, Joseph Errington, Ariel Heryanto and Tom Hoogervorst. In this book, I do not include ideas that I discussed with them. But I am thankful to them because their clarifications, feedback and suggestions are useful for my future research. In particular, I thank Joseph Errington for his generous scholarship. Of all scholars, Nancy H. Hornberger is the one to whom I am indebted the most. When I met her for the first time at a conference at University of Limerick,

xviii  Acknowledgements Ireland, in 2009, I never thought that I would one day seek her assistance in my endeavour of writing this book. An internationally celebrated scholar and a kind-­ hearted person, Nancy has been very supportive of my work and has given me valuable suggestions. I thank her immensely. I am thankful to Sivpheng Haing for her encouragement, humour and support. I would like to thank John Peak – friend, mentor and proofreader. No one can expect a better combination of the three roles being played with exceptional quality by one person such as himself. I am thankful for his insightful advice and continuous support. Finally, I would like to acknowledge contributions from Ulrich Ammon, Karl Anderbeck, Ridwan Arifin, Trading Economics, Arndt Graf, Martin De Wulf of Population Pyramid and Pubrights of the World Bank, who permitted use of material from their work.

Notes about the book

Notes on the bookNotes on the book

For the sake of authenticity, I use the original spelling of historical figures (e.g., Soekarno, Soeharto), which was common prior to the 1972 Ejaan Yang Disem­ purnakan [the Perfected Spelling of Indonesian] (EYD). The Indonesian language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, has undergone several structural transformations and has had different names since it was established in 1947 as Instituut voor Taal en Cultuur Onderzoek [The Language and Culture Research Institute]. Recently it has become Badan Pengembangan Bahasa dan Perbukuan [Agency for Language and Book Development]. For the sake of consistency, throughout the book I will use the term Badan Bahasa to refer to the language planning agency. Due to space constraints, I am unable to include national language policy documents analysed in this book as appendices. But these documents are available in public domain for those who are interested: (1) Undang-­Undang No. 24 Tahun 2009 tentang Bendera, Bahasa, dan Lambang Negara serta Lagu Kebangsaaan [The Law No. 24/2009 on the Flag, Language, Symbol of the State and the National Anthem]; (2) Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No. 57 Tahun 2014 tentang Pengembangan, Pembinaan, dan Pelindungan Bahasa dan Sastra, serta Peningkatan Fungsi Bahasa Indonesia [The Government Regulation No. 57/2014 on the Development, Cultivation and Maintenance of Language and Literature and the Increased Function of Indonesian]; and (3) Peraturan Menteri Dalam Negeri tentang Pedoman bagi Kepala Daerah dalam Pelestarian dan Pengembangan Bahasa Negara dan Bahasa Daerah [The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007 on the Guidelines for the Regional Heads in the Conservation and Cultivation of the State Language and Indigenous Languages]. The English texts accompanying Indonesian texts from these documents are my translations, as are those accompanying Indonesian texts from other sources. I have endeavoured to ensure the accuracy of all information contained in this book. Needless to say, any shortcomings that remain are mine alone.

1 Introduction to language policy in superdiverse Indonesia Introduction to language policyIntroduction to language policy

1.1. Introduction This chapter aims to introduce the reader to the book. In this chapter, I provide an overview of Indonesia, introducing the reader to the country being covered in the book. In the second section of the chapter, I discuss language policy in superdiverse Indonesia. I cover the rationale and significance of the book, introduce the field of language policy and argue why a discussion on language policy needs to employ a superdiversity perspective. Finally, I outline the structure of the book, summarising its chapters.

1.2.  Indonesia: an overview Indonesia is located in Southeast Asia, neighbouring seven countries, namely Australia, Brunei Darussalam, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, the Philippines, Singapore and Timor-­Leste. The country is a string of islands stretching along the equator for 5,120 kilometres from west to east, equivalent to the distance from Ireland to the Caspian Sea in Europe, and measuring 1,760 kilometres from north to south (Frederick & Worden, 2011, p. 98). It has a total land area of 1,913,578.68 square kilometres (BPS, 2017); and with the inclusion of its territorial waters, it is a country with an area of 4,986,325 square kilometres (US Department of State, 2014). Indonesia is “the largest archipelagic nation in [the] world” (Frederick & Worden, 2011, p. xxxii), comprising a total of 17,504 islands (BPS, 2017) – the five largest being Sumatra, Java, Kalimantan (shared with Malaysia and Brunei Darussalam), Sulawesi and New Guinea (shared with Papua New Guinea) (see Map 1.1). The country’s landscape is diverse, ranging from arid plains and snow-­capped mountains to lush rain forests and steaming mangrove swamps. With “the largest” coastal surface area of any tropical country along a coastline stretching over 99,093 kilometres, Indonesia has “probably the world’s highest degree of marine biodiversity” (Lambertini, 2000, p. 79). According to Lambertini, fauna diversity in Indonesia comprises 1,531 species of birds, 511 species of reptiles, 515 species of mammals and 121 species of swallowtail butterflies – statistics placing the country in the world’s top four nations in fauna diversity (pp. 78–79). For example, Raja

2  Introduction to language policy

Map 1.1  Map of Indonesia Source: Addicted04 (2018).

Ampat archipelago, near West Papua, is not only a highly popular diving destination but also home to 1,508 species of fish, 537 species of coral and 699 species of molluscs (Raja Ampat Biodiversity, 2018). For centuries before it was known as “Indonesia”, the archipelago was ruled by many kingdoms. The two most powerful kingdoms were Srivijaya and Majapahit. At its peak in the 9th and 10th centuries, Srivijaya ruled over much of Sumatra, all of the Malay peninsula and western Java; and it extended its influence to western Kalimantan, southern Sulawesi and present-­day southern Thailand (Frederick & Worden, 2011, pp. 8–9; Rausa-­Gomez, 1967, pp. 77–79). Continuing the language policy of its predecessor, the kingdom of Melayu, Srivijaya selected Malay as an official language. It used Malay with its trading partners, a process which then contributed to the emergence of its low variety, called Bazaar Malay, to become a lingua franca. Bazaar Malay was used for intergroup communication,

Introduction to language policy 3 connecting traders from Java and Sumatra with those from mainland Asia. It was spoken in harbours and bazaars in the archipelago as well as throughout Southeast Asia, often appearing in many regional varieties (cf. Adelaar & Prentice, 1996; Sneddon, 2003a; Tadmor, 2005). Meanwhile, the Javanese kingdom Majapahit emerged in 1293; and after a series of attacks, it eventually conquered Srivijaya in 1377. The 14th-­century Javanese text Nagarakretagama mentions that Majapahit reigned over a massive territory of Nusantara [in-­between archipelago] – the traditional name for what later became known as “Indonesia”. The kingdom is said to have consisted of present-­day Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Brunei Darussalam, southern Thailand, Maluku, Sulu archipelago and East Timor (Cœdès, 1975; Cribb, 2013; Miksic, 1991; Rausa-­Gomez, 1967; Wood, 2011). Although Majapahit’s trade influence was indeed extensive, little archaeological and anthropological evidence to support the claim makes “The Glory of Majapahit” appear to be more like a piece of fiction to boost the reputation of an otherwise modest Javanese monarch (Rausa-­Gomez, 1967, pp. 90–94; Wood, 2011, pp. 36–37). Moreover, the fact that it was Bazaar Malay, rather than Javanese, that continued to be widely used as a lingua franca despite Majapahit’s so-­called political hegemony makes it difficult to argue that Majapahit did rule extensively. Majapahit’s political authority might have been insufficient to impose a new language policy that would see Javanese flourish and replace Bazaar Malay. Majapahit went into a state of decline in the 16th century, but the trading routes that developed during its reign persisted (Cribb, 2013, pp. 87–88). The routes connecting the archipelagos of Banda and Maluku as well as the islands of Java, Sumatra and Kalimantan allowed for the trade of quality nutmeg, cloves and black pepper, involving the likes of the Portuguese, Spanish, British and Dutch. Initially arriving as traders who wanted to benefit from the remarkable commercial boom of these products in Europe, they eventually developed a strong political authority over the natives. Nusantara’s history was then marked by long political occupation, starting from the 16th century. The Dutch predominantly subjugated a great majority of the territory, which they called “the Dutch East Indies”, locally known as Hindia Belanda (Frederick & Worden, 2011, pp. 19–41). But the name preferred by the nation’s founding fathers was “Indonesia”. Jones (1973) explains that this term was originally written “Indu-­nesians” in an article by English ethnologist George Windsor Earl in 1850, drawn from Greek words “indus” and “nèsos” to mean “Indian islands”. A few scholars such as Scottish lawyer James Richardson Logan and German ethnographer Adolf Bastian helped popularise the term, writing it as “Indonesia”. The term finally found “an ardent champion in the nationalist leader Mohammad Hatta”, who adopted it as the name of the people’s motherland and helped spread its use among national activists working for the nation’s independence (Jones, 1973, p. 115). The Dutch colonisation of Indonesia lasted until Japan’s occupation of the archipelago in 1942. Years of a Nationalist Movement involving the political activism of youth organisations such as Boedi Oetomo (established in 1908), Jong Java (1915), Jong Sumatranen Bond (1917) and Sarekat Islam (1912) reached a culminating point on Friday, 17 August 1945, when Soekarno and Mohammad Hatta

4  Introduction to language policy unilaterally proclaimed independence. They named the new nation “Republic of Indonesia” and established Djakarta (later spelt Jakarta) as the capital. Following the proposition made in the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda [Youth Pledge], the newly formed Indonesian parliament also established Bahasa Indonesia [Indonesian], which has its linguistic base on the Riau dialect of Malay, as the national language. Furthermore, the Pancasila was chosen as the State ideology. The Pancasila is a nationalist creed based on five interrelated principles: (1) Belief in one supreme God; (2) Just and civilised humanitarianism; (3) Unity of Indonesia; (4) Democracy led by the wisdom of the representatives of the people; (5) Social justice for all Indonesians (Figure 1.1). The national motto of Indonesia is Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, Old Javanese for “Unity in Diversity”. It is a recognition of the fact that the nation comprises highly diverse ethnolinguistic and religious groups. Under the leadership of its charismatic president, Soekarno, Indonesia was politically active. It held the first Asia-­Africa Conference in Bandung, West Java, in 1955, and it became one of the founders of the Non-­Aligned Movement that aimed to steer clear of entanglement in the Cold War involving the United States and the Soviet Union. Despite this, years of economic crisis, social unrest and political instability marred Soekarno’s leadership. His politics of Demokrasi Terpimpin

Figure 1.1 Indonesia’s State Ideology, the Pancasila, is shown in the national emblem of the Garuda Source: Kartapranata (2018a).

Introduction to language policy 5 [Guided Democracy] failed and his administration went awry following the 1965 coup d’état for which the Partai Komunis Indonesia [Indonesian Communist Party] (PKI) was alleged to be responsible. Transition in political leadership on 12 March 1967 saw the rise of a new power: Orde Baru [New Order], led by President Soeharto. The former general led Indonesia to establish the Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN) that now also comprises Brunei Darussalam, Cambodia, Laos, Malaysia, Myanmar, Singapore, Thailand, the Philippines and Vietnam. Holding power for more than three decades, Soeharto masterminded Indonesia’s politics, economy and social life. He was an astute national administrator, who devoted time and effort to national development, earning him the title of Bapak Pembangunan [Father of Development]. But his centralistic governance and military style of political leadership were heavily criticised, as were the rampant corruption and cronyism that endemically enmeshed his administration. When Indonesia was severely struck by economic crisis in 1997–1998, demonstrations against Soeharto were widespread. Consequently, he resigned on 21 May 1998. The collapse of the New Order marked the beginning of a new Indonesia. Post–New Order Indonesia, often called the Reform Era, started in 1998 and continues to the present day. It began with political leadership being passed on to Soeharto’s successor, Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie, who governed until 1999. His successor was Abdurrahman Wahid, colloquially known as Gus Dur. Known for a flamboyant political leadership that was distinctively marked by efforts to enliven Indonesia’s national motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, President Wahid only reigned for less than two years. In 2001, Indonesia was governed by a female president, Megawati Sukarnoputri, daughter of Indonesia’s first president Soekarno. In 2004, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, commonly referred to by his initials SBY, became Indonesia’s first democratically elected president. Walking in the footpaths of Habibie and Sukarnoputri before him, Yudhoyono embraced the spirit of decentralisation that first triggered the Reform Movement of 1998. Accordingly, Indonesia has undergone major administrative restructuring, known as pemekaran. The country’s administration now consists of 34 provinsi [provinces], 416 kabupaten [regencies], 98 kota [cities] and 7,217 kecamatan [districts]. Indonesia also consists of 83,344 desa, kelurahan and Unit Pemukiman Transmigrasi (UPT) – these refer to suburb or village-­level units (BPS, 2018a). These administrative structures can now implement decentralisation of governance, as opposed to the centralised governance characterising the New Order. At the time of writing, Joko Widodo, also known as Jokowi, is the incumbent president. Democratically elected for the first time in 2014, President Widodo is now serving a second term (2019–2024) in a government that focuses on infrastructure, economic development and character building. His tax amnesty bill, which brings in approximately Rp. 4,865 trillion (approximately US$366 billion) of undeclared tax assets, is “the most successful” programme of its kind in history. However, not all have joined the programme, meaning tax evasion is still widespread in the country (Indonesia Investments, 2017). As a nation, Indonesia is a modern idea whose independence is associated with uprisings on the one hand and patterns of exploitation, lost lives and squandered

6  Introduction to language policy

Figure 1.2 Indonesian presidents from 1945 to 2001. In order: Soekarno (1945– 1967), Soeharto (1967–1998), Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie (1998–1999), Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001) Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018a).

opportunities on the other (Taylor, 2003; Vickers, 2013). The rebellions of Kartosuwiryo and Daud Beureu’eh; the alleged coup d’état of the PKI that resulted in Soekarno’s eventual dethroning; the ongoing factional disputes involving various political interests; the sense of betrayal felt by the Timorese resulting in their disintegration from Indonesia; the repressive treatment of the Papuans, which is spiced

 

Figure 1.3 Indonesian presidents from 2001 to present. In order: Megawati Sukarnoputri (2001–2004), Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (2004–2014) and Joko Widodo (2014–present) Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018a).

8  Introduction to language policy with economic jealousy towards migrants from Java and Madura; the unresolved case of Penembakan Misterius [Mysterious Shootings] (Petrus); suppression of the press that resulted in the disbandment of Tempo, Editor and DeTIK as well as human rights abuse against journalists; human rights violations relating to separatist movements and religious discriminations; and ugly scenes of religiously motivated terrorist attacks such as the Bali bombing of 2002 and the more recent Surabayan church bombing of May 2018 – these are among the few problems demonstrating the struggle of Indonesians in finding ways of order to coexist in harmony, justice and prosperity. Indonesia is also “a nation in fragments” where “the ubiquity of patronage distribution as a means of cementing political affiliations” often overlaps with “the broader neoliberal model of economic, social, and cultural life in which patronage distribution is increasingly embedded” (Aspinall, 2013, p. 27). Such fragmentation often results in poor management of the nation’s resources and misappropriation of government funds – both contributing to Indonesia’s consistent reputation as one of the most corrupt countries in the world. Indonesia’s notoriety for corruption reached its apex during the New Order regime (1967–1998), but the country’s performance in eradicating corruption has improved in recent years, reaching an all-­time high in 2018, scoring 38 out of 100 (Chart 1.1). Indonesia is the most populous among the ten ASEAN member states and the fourth most populous nation in the world. The latest National Census reveals that Indonesia’s population was 236,728,379 in 2010 (BPS, 2011), but statistics as of 1 July 2019 show the population has reached 269,538,028 (Worldometers, 2019). Indonesia is also home to the world’s largest Muslim population (approximately 87.18 per cent of Indonesians are Muslims) (BPS, 2011). But the country also has a reasonable portion of the population embracing Buddhism, Catholicism, Confucianism, Daoism, Hinduism, Protestantism and Sikhism. This is not to mention several local beliefs such as Kaharingan of the Dayaks, Subud of the Javanese, Sunda Wiwitan of the Baduys, Aluk To Dolo of the Torajans and Wetu Telu found among 40 38 37

37

36

36

34 32

34

32

32

30 28

30

28

2010

38

28 2012

Chart 1.1  Indonesia’s Corruption Index Source: Trading Economics (2019).

2014

2016

2018

26

Introduction to language policy 9 the Sasaks. A nation consisting of more than 600 ethnic groups spread across the archipelago (BPS, 2011), Indonesia undoubtedly has highly diverse cultures. Owing to a geographical area divided by mountains and seas, highlands and lowlands, cultural development within the country has not taken place in the same way or at the same rate; and there is a vast difference between the cultures found in Java and those in Kalimantan or the remote islands in Maluku. Despite the religious, cultural and ethnic differences, Indonesia’s overall social climate is relatively stable, if not harmonious. The nation has maintained peace in most periods of its history, with its people’s convivial relationships best summed up in the national motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika. It is not surprising that Indonesia has continuously maintained a strong political presence in the ASEAN region. Its political developments have provided what Rattanasevee (2014) calls “a vital ingredient in building up confidence and credibility as well as enhancing the pursuit of leadership in ASEAN” (p. 125). Such a leadership role is expected from a country that is currently buoyed by a large number of young population that substantially constitutes its growing workforce (Chart 1.2). The importance of Indonesia is not only evident within the ASEAN region but is also perceived by close neighbours such as Australia. Calling Indonesia “a rising

Chart 1.2  Indonesia’s population pyramid (2019) Source: Population Pyramid (2019).

10  Introduction to language policy regional neighbour in increasing importance”, former Australian ambassador to Indonesia Richard Woolcott (2018) states that Australia’s “relationship with Indonesia is more important to us than Indonesia’s relationship with Australia is to Indonesia” (p. 16). This is probably not an overstatement, as Indonesia’s steady economic development and encouraging youth workforce have provided elements for the nation’s promising economic trajectory. PricewaterhouseCoo­pers (2015) has predicted that Indonesia will become the world’s fifth largest economy by 2030 and the fourth by 2050. Overall, this overview sets the background for this book that aims to discuss the complexity of language policy in Indonesia.

1.3.  Language policy in superdiverse Indonesia In this section, I discuss the rationale and significance of the book. I also introduce the field of language policy. Then, I discuss why superdiversity is chosen to discuss language policy in Indonesia.

1.3.1.  Rationale and significance of the book Indonesia has an extreme diversity of linguistic wealth. By one count, the number of individual living languages in the country is 707 (Simons & Fennig, 2017a, p. 6), while another estimate reveals that there are 731 languages and more than 1,100 dialects (Frederick & Worden, 2011, p. 97). Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, states that if it is based on the estimate of the spread of languages in each province, there are 733 indigenous languages. At the current statistics, there are 652 indigenous languages and one national language, but not all languages in East Nusa Tenggara, Maluku, North Maluku, Papua and West Papua have been documented (Badan Bahasa, 2017, p. 2). The statistical difference notwithstanding, in terms of linguistic diversity, Indonesia is second in the world after Papua New Guinea, which boasts 841 languages (Simons & Fennig, 2017b). Steinhauer (1994) claims, “Nobody knows how many languages are spoken in the world today, but it is estimated that one-­tenth of them are spoken in Indonesia” (p. 755) – a statement that is later supported by Florey and Himmelmann (2010, p. 123), who note that Indonesia accounts for 10.7 per cent of the world’s languages. Across the 17,504 islands in the Indonesian archipelago, there are 701 indigenous languages and 6 non-­ indigenous languages (totalling 707 languages), categorised into 25 language families (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). More than 600 ethnicities who speak these languages are united by a national language: Bahasa Indonesia, which in this book I refer to as “Indonesian”. Of the 707 languages, 43 indigenous languages serve as languages of wider communication, connecting various ethnicities at the regional level. Languages such as Ambon Malay, Bakumpai, Banjar, Manado Malay, Musi and Ngaju are among this category. There are also descendants of the Arabs, Chinese, Eurasians, Indians, Japanese and Mardijkers – those whom I refer to as heritage language speakers. Sign languages should not be forgotten – there are approximately 2.5 million

Introduction to language policy 11

Map 1.2  Geographical spread of ethnicities in Indonesia Source: Kartapranata (2018b).

sign language users (ILO, 2017). Finally, there are languages that are endorsed by the Revised 2013 Curriculum: Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. Students learn these languages in schools and universities. Overall, all these languages portray the complex diversity of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology (see Chapter 2). Indonesia as a highly diverse context has received relatively limited scholarly attention in the field of language policy. There is no recent book-­length publication that tackles language policy in Indonesia with comprehensive attention to elements of its highly diverse linguistic ecology. In the field of language policy, most publications are articles and book chapters, covering mainly Indonesian (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1974, 1984a, 1984b, 1986; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007; Paauw, 2009) and English (e.g., Dardjowidjojo, 2000; Hamied, 2012, 2015; Zein, 2019). Other articles or book chapters discuss language maintenance and language shift (e.g., Conh & Ravindranath, 2014), language education policy (e.g., Kohler, 2019), the relationship between language and identity (e.g., Bertrand, 2003; Lowenberg, 1992, Simpson, 2007) and the role of ideologies in foreign language education (e.g., Abduh & Saud, 2017). Most monographs covering language policy issues are fairly dated, focusing on work on the modernisation of Indonesian (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1976; Moeliono, 1986), the role of Indonesian in the New Order’s political discourse of National Development (e.g., Heryanto, 1995) and the development and use of Indonesian as a national language (e.g., Abas, 1987; Anwar, 1976; Sneddon, 2003a). Relatively recent monographs on Indonesia’s superdiversity are within the broader field of sociolinguistics (e.g., Goebel, 2010, 2015) while those within the field of language policy tackle the development of Indonesian and nation building (e.g., Harper, 2013) and the interplay of language policy and language use involving Indonesian, Javanese and English (e.g., Zentz, 2017). At a time when Post– New Order Indonesia has become “a topsy-­turvy linguistic hub where notions

12  Introduction to language policy of ‘Indonesian literacy’ and ethnic, national and global languages and identities remain in flux” (Manns, Cole, & Goebel, 2016, p. 17), there is a need for a book that reflects the contemporariness of the nation’s language policy amidst its changing sociolinguistic landscape and within the context of its highly diverse linguistic ecology. This is the impetus for this book. Discussing language policy in Indonesia is of vital importance to unravel the complexity of the second most linguistically diverse polity in the world. This book helps address challenges that perplex policymakers in the justification of state interventions in various language problems in such a polity. For example, language endangerment in Indonesia has become a critical issue. Current statistics show that out of 707 languages in Indonesia, 272 are endangered and 76 are dying (Simons & Fennig, 2017a, p. 6). This book will identify the complexity of language endangerment in Indonesia and point to directions for language revitalisation (see Chapter 5). The book will also tackle language policy issues that require consideration of Indonesia’s changing sociolinguistic landscape such as the relevance of the conceptualisations of Indonesia’s language situation as diglossia (Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995), complex diglossia (Arka, 2013; Moeliono, 1986) and polyglossia (Musgrave, 2014; Steinhauer, 1994) (see Chapter 2). Understanding issues relevant to sociolinguistic changes is fundamental for language policy using a superdiverse perspective because the complexity of superdiverse environments requires a new lens (Blommaert, 2010, 2013a, 2013b, 2013c) – a lens which may work “on an entirely different footing from that which characterized the Fishmanian and Labovian sociolinguistic world” (Blommaert, 2013c, p. 13). Further, scholarship concerning the allocation of roles and functions of languages, as well as the development of corpora of languages in Indonesia, has primarily revolved around Indonesian itself (e.g., Abas, 1987; Alisjahbana, 1976, 1974; Harper, 2013; Moeliono, 1986; Sneddon, 2003a). This book will seek to give due attention to the function and role allocation, as well as the development of corpora, of languages other than Indonesian (LOTI) (see Chapters 3 and 4, respectively). Finally, the book will contribute to scholarly discussion on policy issues concerning the teaching of languages in Indonesia (see Chapter 6). Attending to this concern is of considerable significance. Language-­in-­education policy has become a site of ongoing contestation between the provision of education in Indonesian as a national language (Alisjahbana, 1974; Lowenberg, 1992; Nababan, 1991; Rubin, 1977), the need to develop mother tongue education that can contribute to language maintenance (Bowden, 2013; Gumilar, 2015; Maryanto, 2009; Sugiharto, 2014; Zein, 2019) and the aspiration to develop proficiency in languages of global importance (Alwasilah, 2013; Hamied, 2012; Zein, 2017). Further, tensions between localism and globalisation, tradition and modernity, unity and diversity (Kohler, 2019) continuously affect language-­in-­education policy and they warrant scrutiny.

1.3.2.  What is language policy? This book concentrates exclusively on language policy in Indonesia. Labelled as “probably the most dispersed practice of applied linguistics” (Lo Bianco, 2004,

Introduction to language policy 13 p. 739), language policy as an academic field began fairly recently (see Haugen, 1959, 1966). But its ancient precedents are aplenty. Two are mentioned here. One can be traced back to the Biblical record in Judges (12: 4–6) that relates how the Israelites of Gilead enforced the Ephraimites wanting to cross the Jordan River to pronounce the Hebrew word shibboleth. The Gileadites’ policy was to kill those who were unable to pronounce the word accurately, resulting in the death of 42,000 Ephraimites (around 1370–1070 BC). Another precedent is the employment of three languages (i.e., Aramaic, Greek and Prakrit) by the Indian Emperor Ashoka in his famous edicts that were aimed to disseminate social and moral precepts and to attain religious harmony (around 300 BC) (Figure 1.4). Since then records of language policy can be found in many communities around the world, especially with the works of post-­colonial nations (e.g., Cobarubbias &

Figure 1.4  The first known inscription of Ashoka Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018b).

14  Introduction to language policy Fishman, 1983; Fishman, Ferguson, & Das Gupta, 1968; Rubin & Jernudd, 1971); and recent decades in particular have seen a dramatic increase in language policy activities and theorisations (Lo Bianco, 2013; Ricento, 2013). The field itself was initially called language planning (e.g., Cobarubbias & Fishman, 1983; Eastman, 1983; Haugen, 1959, 1966; Rubin & Jernudd, 1971), with other terms such as language engineering (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1974), language development (e.g., Ferguson, 1968; Noss, 1967) and language regulation (Gorman, 1973) being proposed but not lasting to this date. Four other terms: language policy and planning (e.g., Hornberger, 2006), language policy and language planning (e.g., Wright, 2016), language planning and policy (e.g., Baldauf, 2005; Baldauf & Kaplan, 2008) and language management (e.g., Kuo & Jernudd, 1993; Nekvapil, 2006; Spolsky, 2009) are still in use. Most scholars would agree that language policy and language planning are two different activities. However, disagreement arises as to which subsumes which, with some arguing that language planning subsumes language policy (e.g., Fettes, 1997; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997) while others claiming the contrary (e.g., Ricento, 2000; Schiffman, 1996). Some scholars associate language policy with official regulations (e.g., Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997), while for Spolsky (2004), language policy consists of three interrelated components: language practices, language ideologies and language planning or management. This book takes the stance that the field of language policy studies is not merely about examining a set of official regulations about languages; it is also about investigating a linguistic variety and/or its linguistic codes as well as its associated ideologies and language practices, and in doing so developing some kind of deliberate and concrete, albeit not always explicit or overt, intervention in the form of planning or management to create purposeful changes to the allocation of function, role, use, structure, acquisition and revitalisation of the variety and/or its codes, and to the way people think about them and what they do with them. This definition has the elements of language policy shared in previous studies: official regulations, linguistic variety and codes, language practices, language ideologies and language planning or management (e.g., Cooper, 1989; Johnson, 2013; Haugen, 1959; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997; Spolsky, 2004, 2009, 2018). Official regulations in language policy are “often enacted in the form of written documents, intended to effect some change in the form, function, use, or acquisition of language” (Johnson, 2013, p. 9). Linguistic variety refers to a specific form of linguistic cluster, including language, dialect and register, whereas linguistic codes are the forms of a variety, including aspects such as orthography, vocabulary and grammar. Language practices are not only communication activities using the codes of a named linguistic variety that are chosen by individuals, speech communities, institutions or communities of practice to convey meaning(s), but they also include multiple, mixed language practices, often seen in a new perspective such as translanguaging that does not see “languages” as separate, enumerable and compartmentalised entities (García, 2009; García & Wei, 2014). Language practices as a subject within language policy also consider the notions of repertoire and register, which are part of “a broader semiotics that

Introduction to language policy 15 incorporates much more than has been commonly included under the rubric of language as a measure of diversity” (Pennycook, 2018, pp. 11–12). By taking this stance, the discussion of language policy in this book encompasses broad semiotic practices without necessarily being limited to languages as ideological and political inventions (Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007) or objectification of languages as enumerable entities (Reagan, 2004) (see Chapter 2). Language ideologies as an element of language policy are not only limited to “a rationalization or justification of perceived language structure and use” (Silverstein, 1979, p. 193) but are also circulated in discourses relating to social, political and moral presuppositions in ideas about what language is, how it functions and how it relates to the world it represents and constitutes (Irvine & Gal, 2000; Woolard & Schieffelin, 1994). Language ideologies further act as an infrastructure of beliefs, ideas and perceptions that develop collectively to underpin language policymaking in areas such as establishing a national language, constructing public discourse, officialising languages as well as revitalising and cultivating languages. Another element of language policy is planning or management. For Spolsky (2009), language management is “the explicit and observable effort by someone or some group that has or claims authority over the participants in the domain to modify their practices or beliefs” (p. 4); while for Nekvapil (2016), it is “an activity (or act of attention) directed either at language itself or at communication, or rather certain aspects of language or communication” (p. 14). A line of scholarship (e.g., Jernudd & Neustupný, 1987; Nekvapil, 2006; Spolsky, 2009) has suggested that language management is a more precise term than language planning in capturing the efforts that are meant to influence the language practices of individuals or speech communities. However, I stick to the term language planning out of respect for the scholarship tradition that has conceived the field, especially given its established position in reputable journals such as Current Issues in Language Planning and Language Problems and Language Planning. Moreover, I view language planning as also doing what is essential in language management: planning and regulating linguistic codes as well as influencing language ideologies and language practices, hence in this sense both terms are synonymous. Thus, I see language planning as a set of measures within language policy to create changes in terms of linguistic codes, language ideologies and practices. For the title of this book, and for the sake of terminological simplicity and encompassment, I adopt the term language policy (see also Spolsky, 2004, 2012a, 2018). It is perhaps the terminological simplicity of language policy and its encompassment of official regulations, linguistic varieties, language ideologies, language practices and language planning that explain its widespread use. The journal Language Policy remains a high-­quality publication outlet nearly two decades after its inception. Book-­length publications in recent years have discussed theory on language policy (see Johnson, 2013) as well as approaches to it (e.g., Barakos & Unger, 2016; McCarty, 2011; Oakes & Peled, 2017). Language policy itself is also attached to book publications that discuss the field with engagement and agency (Davis & Phyak, 2017), systemic functional linguistic approach

16  Introduction to language policy (Yang & Wang, 2017), political economy and English (Ricento, 2015), economics (Gazzola & Wickström, 2016), Brexit and linguistic diversity (Chríost & Bonotti, 2018), nationalism and globalisation (Wright, 2016) and political issues in education (McCarty & May, 2017), to name a few. Book publications bearing language planning are less in quantity (e.g., Andrews, 2018; Hornberger, 2016; Langston & Peti-­Stantić, 2017; Yuming, 2015), as are those bearing language policy and planning (e.g., Hult & Johnson, 2015; Karyolemou & Pavlou, 2013; Moriarty, 2015; Tollefson & Pérez-­Milans, 2018). However, publications using the two terms are still plentiful, considering there has only been one book bearing the title language management – that of Spolsky (2009).

1.3.3.  Language policy and superdiversity in Indonesia In examining language policy in Indonesia, I employ a superdiversity perspective to reflect the contemporariness of the nation’s highly diverse linguistic ecology and to tackle the diversification of language practices within the ecology. The term superdiversity, coined by anthropologist Steven Vertovec (2007), broadly refers to “a multi-­dimensional perspective on diversity” (p. 1026). It is premised on a global shift in migration patterns occurring since the 1990s that are “distinguished by a dynamic interplay of variables among an increased number of new, small and scattered, multiple-­origin, transnationally connected, socio-­ economically differentiated and legally stratified immigrants” (Vertovec, 2007, p. 1024). According to Vertovec, these migration flows are more diffuse but less predictable than those that occurred prior to the 1980s. Such migration flows cause an unprecedented “diversification of diversity” in societies hosting migrants, “not just in terms of bringing more ethnicities and countries of origin, but also with respect to a multiplication of significant variables that affect where, how and with whom people live” (p. 1042). Despite criticisms accusing it of being socially romantic (Makoni, 2012), Eurocentric (Czajka & de Haas, 2014) and simply a case of academic branding (Pavlenko, 2018), the concept of superdiversity has flourished considerably – both in breadth and scope. Superdiversity allows for interdisciplinary dialogue that aims to tackle complex societal challenges in various regions through a range of viewpoints (Blackledge et al., 2018). As a result, superdiversity has been used to understand the changing dynamics of Mexico (Acosta-­Garcìa & Martinez-­ Ortiz, 2015), the variables impacting the experiences of new migrant populations in Istanbul (Biehl, 2015), social encounters in Singapore (Kathiravelu, 2015), among others. Its proponents have taken a humble stance in stating that it is “not a theory” (Vertovec, 2017, p. 1575) and that it remains “a conceptual work in progress” (Meissner & Vertovec, 2015, p. 542). Modest as it sounds, such a stance underestimates the analytical potential of superdiversity, especially to “reveal the layering of multiple variables, and to develop more sophisticated understandings of difference which move away from essentialist presupposition” (Blackledge et al., 2018, p. xl). The ability of superdiversity to uncover the study of social complexity allows it to adequately critique issues relating to migration

Introduction to language policy 17 and beyond (Meissner, 2015), including historical research (e.g., De Bock, 2015) and urban dynamics (e.g., Acosta-­Garcìa & Martinez-­Ortiz, 2015). Language and superdiversity (Blommaert & Rampton, 2011; Creese & Blackledge, 2018; Goebel, 2015) has now become a catchphrase. It has a liberating potential in that it endeavours to find a “new way of talking about diversity” (Fanshawe & Sriskandarajah, 2010, p. 33) beyond the strictures of classic multiculturalism or multilingualism and encompasses discussion on community, identity and ideologies (Arnaut, Blommaert, Rampton, & Spotti, 2016; Blommaert & Rampton, 2011). Indonesia as a linguistic ecology consisting of 707 languages spoken by more than 600 ethnic groups who live in 34 provinces and 7,217 districts, a religious hub for 8 major religions and local beliefs is truly a superdiverse context. By one parameter, the nation’s linguistic superdiversity can be seen within the framework of Greenberg’s Linguistic Diversity Index (LDI) where the country scores 0.816. With index 1 indicating that no two people speak the same mother tongue, it means that there is 81.6 per cent chance that two Indonesians meeting fortuitously share different native languages. Another parameter relates to the pervasiveness of language community ideology (Jain & Wee, 2015) that has long governed Indonesia with the idea that a language is spoken by one specific community, living in one place, resulting in territory-­based ethnolinguistic grouping (see Goebel, 2016). For example, Dodo is a Javanese who lives in Surabaya, East Java, speaking Suroboyoan, the Surabaya dialect of Javanese. However, for centuries, communicative repertoires have been contingent upon the mixing of populations and their mobility (Silverstein, 2015). In the Indonesian context, this has been made possible by a systematic national migration programme called transmigrasi, massive urbanisation and increasing indepen­ dent forms of migration (e.g., marantau, mondok). These are channels of intranational migration that characterise superdiversity in Indonesia, distinguishing it from the discussion of superdiversity in the mainstream scholarship that traditionally focuses on international migration (e.g., Meissner, 2015; Meissner & Vertovec, 2015; Vertovec, 2007, 2017). International migration in Indonesia of course exists, albeit at a smaller scale. But what spurs Indonesia’s superdiversity is the movement of its diverse peoples within the nation. For instance, the transmigrasi programme that reached its peak during the New Order Era has been responsible for the displacement of approximately 20 million transmigrants who originally come from Java, Bali and Madura. Intranational migration has been a recurring phenomenon until the present day; for example, the culture of marantau [voluntarily going away from home] characterising the Minangkabau ethnic of Sumatra. Patterns of regional mobility and inter-­ethnic marriages have also been increasingly common among ethnicities from Kalimantan, Sulawesi and Maluku who wish to leave home for securing employment, relocating permanently or studying for a higher degree. Urbanisation from rural areas to big cities has also soared, with urbanisation ratio of 2.65 between 1960 and 2009 being cited as higher than anywhere else in the ASEAN region and even higher than China (Lewis, 2014). In Jakarta, for example, this has resulted in population density of 15,804 people/square kilometre (BPS

18  Introduction to language policy Jakarta, 2018), which is remarkably higher than that of major world cities such as Beijing, London, Moscow, New Delhi, New York or Sydney (Demographia, 2018). This sets the background for Indonesia’s superdiversity being characterised by the complex interplay between language, identity and social relationships in diverse transient settings (Goebel, 2010) and the anchoring of semiotic structurisation, valuation and reproduction of ethnicity upon everyday talk (Goebel, 2015). Given the diversity of languages and the intense contact between language speakers in Indonesia’s superdiversity, plurilingualism is the norm. Plurilingualism, or “the ability to use more than one linguistic variety to differing degrees and for different purposes” (Hélot, 2012, p. 221), dictates the presence of a sociolinguistic phenomenon in which proficiency in Indonesian usually comes in addition to mastery of an indigenous language that most Indonesians speak as a first language. To illustrate, it is not unusual to find Sundanese who are also fluent in Indonesian in addition to their first language (i.e., Sundanese). Some may even have a fair grasp of Javanese and know a word or two of Betawi. Thus, plurilingualism never comes as equal proficiency in all linguistic varieties across all domains. All this makes interactions in Indonesia’s superdiversity highly dynamic and complex, engendering diversification of language practices. In present-­day Indonesia, we have, for example, many Rizkis who come from rural areas in Bima, West Nusa Tenggara, speaking Bimanese in the home. Once many of these Rizkis move to urban areas such as Semarang or Bandung, or migrate to rural Kalimantan through the transmigrasi programme, or once they attend new educational settings, or use the media for interethnic communication, new forms of semiotic practice will develop. These forms of semiotic practice occur as accommodative selection of linguistic code(s) affected by primordialism (Herianah, 2013), ethnic domination (Malini, 2011; Malini, Sutatja, Artawa, & Pastika, 2014) or visitors’ linguistic needs (Nanang & Usman, 1988). This means ethnic Chinese in Makassar would use the language of the ethnic primordial where they settle in (i.e., Makassarese) (Herianah, 2013); Balinese migrants in Lampung would switch to Javanese, even though Javanese are migrants like them (Malini, 2011; Malini et al., 2014; cf. Goebel, 2010, 2015); and speakers of Iban Dayak would accommodate the linguistic behaviour of visitors to their land (Nanang & Usman, 1988). These cases exemplify what Spolsky (2018) suggests: language practices as in “speakers modifying and developing their linguistic repertoire and proficiency according to sociolinguistic environment” (p. 5) are part of language policy. In any case, language practices often do not occur with clear demarcation between first and second languages, and so forth. Intensive language contact between Rizkis and other Indonesians of diverse ethnicities promotes practices of language mixing, and so those appearing among Balinese transmigrants in Lampung (Malini et al., 2014), among Javanese community in Banjar Baru, South Kalimantan (Yusuf, 2017), among speakers of Sumbawa Taliwang in Mataram (Febtaria, 2013), between neighbours in urban Semarang (Goebel, 2005) and between buyers and sellers in the Segiri Market of Samarinda, East Kalimantan

Introduction to language policy 19 (Bastiar, Marmanto, & Sumarlam, 2017), are not uncommon. Practices of language mixing among members of the Miere and Mairasi groups who master three to seven languages are not extraordinary (Sawaki & Arwam, 2018, p. 164), neither are forms of language mixing associated with resistance to authority, fashion, prestige, pop culture and sociability called bahasa prokem (Chambert-­Loir & Collins, 1984; Hooker, 1993), bahasa gaul (Smith-­Hefner, 2007) and bahasa gado-­gado (Martin-­Anatias, 2018). These cases make up diversification of language practices characterising Indonesia’s superdiversity. Though a line of scholarship in Indonesia has traditionally categorised such practices through the structuralist linguistics perspective that sees “languages” as separate, enumerable and compartmentalised entities with terms such as “code-­ switching” and “code-­mixing” (e.g., Bastiar et al., 2017; Budiasa, 2013; Febtaria, 2013; Malini et al., 2014; Yusuf, 2017), others have examined them through a non-­compartmentalised lens (e.g., Errington, 1998a, 2014; Zentz, 2016a) such as in the emergence of translanguaging in educational contexts (e.g., Rasman, 2018; Zein, 2018a) and in literacy practices of Indonesian scholars (Sugiharto, 2015a). Zentz (2016a) provides an excellent example. She shows the practices of linguistic syncretism between what are traditionally defined as “Indonesian”, “Javanese” and “English”, arguing that “language as contained and singular entities rarely capture the realities of language use on the ground, which is generally informed by much more fluid and long-­term histories than language policies can, or are intended for” (p. 51). No less important is the fact that the highly dynamic and increasing complexity of interactions in Indonesia has engendered new linguistic varieties. In increasingly multilingual Papua, diversification of language practices has resulted in the emergence of Papuan Colloquial Indonesian that stands in the middle between Standard Indonesian and Papuan Malay (Fields, 2010), and the same process has led to Riau Indonesian finding its feet in contestation against Indonesian and Riau Malay (Gil, 2010). Similarly, diversification of language practices in Cirebon, Kuningan and Indramayu (regions in West Java) has contributed to the emergence of Cirebon – a language distinct from Javanese and Sundanese (Afifah, 2017; Sukmayani, Emzir, & Akhadiah, 2017; Supriatnoko, 2015; cf. Ewing, 2014). Complex diversification of language practices has also been behind the emergence of Osing (also spelt Using) as a “language” rather than a “dialect”. Although this is a stance in which language policymakers and researchers have been in disagreement for many years (cf. Badan Bahasa, 2017; Moeljono et al., 1986; Vidiyanti, 2016), increasing policy activism at the local level as well as the inclusion of Osing in the curriculum have pointed to it being a separate linguistic code from Javanese (Arps, 2010; Jusuf, 2019; Rahman, 2019; Vidiyanti, 2016). Diversification of language practices also applies to sign languages. The signing varieties used by deaf signers in Jakarta and Yogyakarta should now be considered as “languages” rather than “dialects” of Indonesian Sign Language, according to Sze et al. (2015). Given intense diversification of language practices, it is not unlikely that new linguistic varieties emerge from the Banyumas, Surabaya and Tegal dialects of Javanese and the Auyu varieties in the Mapi River, Papua

20  Introduction to language policy

Figure 1.5 Indonesian children dressed in traditional costumes, depicting only a fraction of Indonesia’s massive diversity Source: Tropenmuseum (2018a).

(cf. Hoogervorst, 2009; Quinn, 2012; Susanto, 2004). I will discuss how this issue affects Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape in Sub-­Section 2.8.2. All in all, Indonesians have become so used to massive diversity that diversification of language practices and the emergence of new linguistic varieties have been rendered unremarkable and ordinary. This leads to a definition of superdiversity. Goebel (2015) applies the term superdiversity in the context of everyday talk, taking a viewpoint based on Vertovec’s (2007) original concept and its development by others (e.g., Blommaert & Backus, 2011; Blommaert & Rampton, 2011); and thus, he defines it as “a setting constituted by strangers from multiple backgrounds who never share the same language but only some semiotic fragments. These fragments are used in interaction to build common ground as part of efforts to create convivial

Introduction to language policy 21 social relations” (p. 8). I would like to expand the definition, so as to capture the broadest range of language practices in Indonesia and fit the context of language policy. The superdiverse nature of Indonesia means that language practices not only occur in semiotic fragments but also in Bahasa Indonesia yang baik dan benar [good and proper Indonesian] (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1971, 1976; Alwi, 2000; Anwar, 1976), forms of language use such as bahasa prokem, bahasa gaul and bahasa gado-­gado (e.g., Chambert-­Loir & Collins, 1984; Hooker, 1993; Martin-­ Anatias, 2018; Smith-­ Hefner, 2007), forms of mixed language practices (e.g., Bastiar et al., 2017; Errington, 2014; Goebel, 2005; Martin-­Anatias, 2018; Zein, 2018a; Zentz, 2016a), accommodation of new semiotic forms (e.g., Herianah, 2013; Malini, 2011; Malini et al., 2014; Nanang & Usman, 1988), new linguistic varieties (e.g., Afifah, 2017; Fields, 2010; Gil, 2010; Sze et al., 2015; Vidiyanti, 2016), among others. Superdiversity involves not only strangers but also those having familiar relationships and those whose relationships are functionally defined through schooling, workplace, and so forth. Indonesia’s superdiversity also gives rise to language practices that are not limited to creating convivial social relations but extend to those that are meant to resist language policies that advantage monolingualism (Martin-­Anatias, 2018; Smith-­Hefner, 2007), those appearing as part of continuous nation building (Alisjahbana, 1974, 1986; Anwar, 1976), those appearing in the media to promulgate ethnic identity (Bogaerts, 2017; Suryadi, 2005), those appropriated as a register of belonging of specific groups such as the transgender and gay communities (Boellstorff, 2004; Damayanti, 2018), those developed to accommodate interlocutors (Malini, 2011; Malini et al., 2014; Nanang & Usman, 1988), those performed with changing, expanding and contracting identities (Maglana, 2016; Zentz, 2015c), those appearing as part of pursuits of socio-­economic mobility and global aspiration (Dewi, 2014a) and those enacted by youth to develop intersubjectivity or capacity for understanding self and others (Djenar, Ewing, & Manns, 2018). Thus, superdiversity may be defined as a setting where multiple semiotic resources that are traditionally defined as “languages” (e.g., national languages, indigenous languages, sign languages, heritage languages, lingua francas and additional languages), other forms of linguistic variety (e.g., dialects, registers) and practices of language mixing are used and/or performed by peoples of various social relationships and of diverse ethnicities, cultures, religions and social classes for numerous communication purposes. These include the creation of convivial relations, register of belonging, accommodation of interlocutors’ linguistic needs, development of intersubjectivity, display of shifting identities, expression of policy resistance, promulgation of culture and ethnic identities, pursuits of socio-­economic mobility and global aspiration, perpetuation of nation building, and so forth. This definition leads to an understanding of language policy with a superdiversity perspective that not only acknowledges the conception of “languages” as fixed, enumerable bounded entities that are ideologically and politically invented (see Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007; Reagan, 2004; Chapter 2) but also accounts for the employment of collective resources that are available at anyone’s disposal, called repertoires (Blommaert, 2010, 2013a). These

22  Introduction to language policy repertoires consist of variable skills in spoken and written languages, including partial proficiencies and limited grasp of dialects and registers. These repertoires are stored, deployed and processed “during the ebb and flow of form/meaning potentials and situation/genre-­bound expectations for their use” in a process called languaging (Sabino, 2018, p. 34). In language policy with a superdiversity perspective, “[p]eople do not use ‘Languages’, they use resources for communication, driven by concerns of effect, and deployed in practices of languaging (‘doing’ language’)” (Blommaert, 2013a, p. 4; emphasis original). This understanding is hoped to represent a paradigmatic stance of superdiversity that is pertinent to language policy. Such a stance questions the foundations of our knowledge and assumptions about language and societies as well as its systematic examination of all structures and types of human interactions (Blommaert, 2010; Blommaert & Rampton, 2011), allowing us to understand how language practices are part of language policy (Spolsky, 2004, p. 5). Finally, with state institutions appearing to be lagging behind the pace of multidimensional fluidity of superdiversity (Silverstein, 2015, p. 8), a superdiversity perspective embraced in this book underscores the need for policymakers’ recognition of new conditions created by diversification in interaction patterns (Blackledge et al., 2018, p. xxvi). This marks the inclusion of superdiversity in language policy. As King and Bigelow (2018) argue, “the policy development and implementation components of superdiversity have been the least addressed, and are arguably the area of greatest need” (p. 466).

1.4.  Overview of the book In this book, I focus on areas of greatest concern to Indonesia’s language policy, as I elaborated in Sub-­Section 1.3.1. Thus, I focus on the inseparable relationship between linguistic ecology and language policy (Chapter 2), the role and function allocation of languages (Chapter 3), the development of their corpora (Chapter 4), work on language revitalisation (Chapter 5) and policy on language education (Chapter 6). In each of these chapters, all elements of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology are accounted for in a scholarship tradition of superdiversity to “investigate, configure, theorise, and plan for greater equality in complex societies” (Blackledge et al., 2018, p. xxvii) and “to be adaptable to different global contexts and temporal scales, and to have practical application to improve people’s lives” (p. xxiii). In Chapter 2, I discuss linguistic ecology and language policy. This is important because it is comprehensive attention to all linguistic varieties in Indonesia’s national boundaries that frames the discussion of language policy in this book. Therefore, I discuss all elements within Indonesia’s linguistic ecology: (1) Indonesian, which has developed from its linguistic origin, the Riau dialect of Malay, to become a unifying language declared in the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda [Youth Pledge] and the national language as declared in the 1945 National Constitution; (2) indigenous languages, which spread across regions in the archipelago; (3) 43 Malayic and non-­Malayic regional lingua francas (RLFs) to refer to languages

Introduction to language policy 23 of wider communication at the regional level; (4) heritage languages to refer to languages spoken by heritage communities such as the Arabs, Chinese, Eurasians, Indians, Japanese and Mardijkers; (5) sign languages for the deaf community of approximately 2.5 million Indonesians; and (6) a group of languages that are endorsed in the education domain through the Revised 2013 Curriculum: Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. In this chapter, I argue that the term indigenous language is more appropriate than terms such as regional language, local language and vernacular that have been used in previous studies (e.g., Abas, 1987; Alisjahbana, 1949; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Lowenberg, 1992; Moeliono, 1986; Nababan, 1991; Zentz, 2017); and I also point to the importance of Malayic and non-­Malayic RLFs, heritage languages and sign languages, which have been largely unaccounted for in mainstream scholarship (e.g., Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986; Sneddon, 2003a). Next, my analysis of RLFs leads me to an argument against the widespread assumption that Indonesia is a nation with a single lingua franca (i.e., Indonesian), as it actually has multiple lingua francas (43). Further, I argue for revisiting the conception of Arabic, French, German, French, Mandarin, Japanese, Korean as foreign languages while highlighting a shift of perspective from English as a foreign language (EFL) to English as a lingua franca (ELF). All these elements of linguistic ecology constitute the sociolinguistic situation of Indonesia. But they are not fully accounted for in scholarship conceptualising Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation as diglossia (e.g., Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995), complex diglossia (e.g., Arka, 2013; Moeliono, 1986) and polyglossia (e.g., Musgrave, 2014; Steinhauer, 1994). To address this issue, I introduce a new concept: superglossia. Superglossia is a sociolinguistic concept that reflects a polity’s superdiversity, explaining its complexity, dynamism and polycentricity. This is a necessary standpoint, which I elaborate in Chapter 2, and from which I develop my argument for the adoption of a superdiversity perspective in Indonesia’s language policy. My focus shifts into status planning in Chapter 3, where I give due attention to the allocation of roles and functions of languages in Indonesia. My concern in this chapter is fourfold. One relates to the development of status planning of Indonesian. Its status as a unifying language has been obfuscated by the same reason that brought it to fruition: nationalist ideology. I show how this has occurred through ideological obfuscation of Indonesian which altered the wording of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda from “menjunjung bahasa persatuan, bahasa Indonesia” [uphold the nation’s language of unity: Indonesian] into “berbahasa satu, bahasa Indonesia” [to have one language, the Indonesian language] (cf. Foulcher, 2000; Zentz, 2016b). This not only established the hegemonic status of Indonesian but also brought ambivalent policies towards indigenous languages during the New Order regime (cf. Anwar, 1976; Moeliono, 1986; Zentz, 2017). Next, I discuss contemporary status planning of indigenous languages and RLFs, heritage languages, sign languages, languages in the religious domain and “foreign” languages. Here I am concerned about the apparent neglect in status planning of RLFs, heritage and sign languages as well as languages in the religious domain. This is so despite the overall increased status of indigenous

24  Introduction to language policy languages in national language policy documents: (1) The Law No. 24/2009; (2) The Government Regulation No. 57/2014; and (3) The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007. I am also concerned about status planning that does not reflect the changing sociolinguistic landscape of Indonesia, prompting me to argue for a reconceptualisation of status concerning what have been traditionally defined as “foreign” languages: Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. My last concern is about the groundbreaking policy to elevate the status of Indonesian from a national language to become an international language, a policy that was initiated by President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (2004–2014) and is continued by the incumbent President Joko Widodo. My focus is on the motivations for establishing the policy and the argument that the policy is premature for reasons such as the absence of global spread, lack of political strength and limited cultural and scientific influence. My central argument in Chapter 3 is that there is a need to increase the status of other elements of Indonesia’s superdiverse linguistic ecology, especially endangered indigenous languages, 300 of which are threatened with extinction within two decades (see Anderbeck, 2015), rather than pursuing an elevated status of Indonesian as an international language. I then discuss co-­officialisation strategies for languages in Indonesia in order to increase their prestige, use and function in the society. Moving on to Chapter 4, I discuss corpus planning, which deals with the forms of language, such as standardised spelling, vocabulary and grammar. My discussion in Chapter 4 commences with corpus planning of Indonesian. I focus on the role of Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, in the orthographical standardisation, terminological expansion and grammatical standardisation concerning the Indonesian language. I show how Indonesian has developed considerably into a language that has reached its “apogee” (Wright, 2016), being able to reflect cultural development as well as advances in modernity and technology (Alisjahbana, 1986; Harper, 2013; Moeliono, 1986; Robson, 2002; cf. Anderson, 1990; Errington, 1998b). I then move on to the role of the Badan Bahasa in planning the corpora of languages other than Indonesian (LOTI), contrasting the efforts made during the New Order Era and the Post–New Order Era. I show that the centralistic policy during the New Order means that attention was paid to certain major indigenous languages (e.g., Javanese, Sundanese), with limited attention being paid to RLFs and sign languages. Despite this, research outputs on LOTI during the New Order still far exceed those in the Post–New Order Era. This leads me to argue that the expansion of the Badan Bahasa from three regional branches during the New Order Era to 22 in the Post–New Order Era has not been matched with systematic, decentralised language policy. Then, I show how researchers external to the Badan Bahasa have considerably contributed to research into the corpora of LOTI. Some of these researchers are Indonesian scholars, including those based in either Indonesia or overseas, while others are international researchers affiliated with foreign universities and research institutes. My main argument in Chapter 4 is that greater attention in corpus planning must be paid to research into LOTI, which has been fairly neglected. My conclusion of Chapter 4 is

Introduction to language policy 25 threefold. First, I point to the need to build upon the currently existing research by Indonesian and international researchers and show research directions. Second, I call for the utilisation of research for work on corpus planning, which requires greater involvement of local governments. Third, I elaborate on issues deserving attention in the cultivation of Indonesian and indigenous languages. My focus in Chapter 5 is on revitalisation planning. I develop revitalisation planning as a category in language policy that tackles concerns about dead, dying, endangered, abandoned, undervalued, underutilised and exterminated languages, involving efforts to counterbalance the forces that have caused or are causing language shift leading to language endangerment or extinction – endeavours that Fishman (1991, 2001) calls reversing language shift (RLS). I expand upon the concept of revitalisation planning in Chapter 5; here I focus on providing an overview of the chapter. I start with a section on the complexity of language endangerment in Indonesia. I identify how Indonesia’s linguistic vitality rate at 50.78 per cent, relatively lower than the world average of 65 per cent (Simons & Lewis, 2013), has raised concerns (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Conh & Ravindranath, 2014; van Engelenhoven, 2003; Ibrahim, 2011; Klamer, 2018; Lauder & Ayatrohaédi, 2006; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Steinhauer, 1992, 1994). Indonesia has 707 living languages within its linguistic ecology, 272 of which are endangered and 76 are dying (Simons & Fennig, 2017a, p. 6). Language endangerment is the most critical issue in Indonesia’s superdiversity because at the current rate there is a possible extinction of 300 languages within 20 years (Anderbeck, 2015, p. 33). This problem has been attributed to a wide range of factors including language shift to Indonesian (Arka, 2008a, 2013; Gunarwan, 2006; Lowenberg, 1992; Nababan, 1985) and RLFs (Steinhauer, 1994; Utsumi, 2012), spatial mobility and nomadic lifestyle (Grimes, 2010; Yusra, Lestari, Ahmadi, Asyhar, & Soemerep, 2016; Shiohara, 2012), religious conversion and conflict (Arka, 2010; King, 1993), ethnic genocide and natural disaster (Collins, 2003; Steinhauer, 1994) and community suppression (Rumbrawer, 2001). I then move on to discuss activities in language documentation. I point to the need for research into language vitality to generate not only statistical aspects of languages and their distribution across regions but also a large set of language behaviour. Next, I discuss efforts that have been made on revitalisation planning in Indonesia, covering aspects such as prior ideological clarification, localised sustainable development, political reconciliation and the role of regional autonomy in language maintenance. To conclude the chapter, I argue for the need to develop a discourse of revitalisation planning to cater for Indonesia’s superdiversity, which includes not only the preservation of culture but also biodiversity and linguistic human rights (LHRs). Then, I argue that revitalisation planning is not only about languages but more about language speakers. This sets the background for revitalisation planning as a melting pot for principles from different fields in order to form a new, comprehensive theory – a process which philosopher William Whewell (1840) termed consilience. In Chapter 6, I focus on language-­in-­education policy. This is the place where I discuss the management of language education. I start the chapter with an

26  Introduction to language policy overview of Indonesia’s management of education to unravel the complexity of language education that is administered by three ministries: Ministry of Education and Culture, Ministry of Religious Affairs and Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education. Next, I continue with a discussion on policy on teaching Indonesian, which has resulted in a remarkable increase in literacy rate – a successful case acknowledged in scholarship (e.g., Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Fishman, 1976; Harper, 2013; Kaplan & Baldauf, 2003; Robson, 2002; Sneddon, 2003a). I then move on to a discussion on policy on teaching indigenous languages. I argue that teaching indigenous languages has been enmeshed by linguistic genocide (Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2000) and linguistic imperialism (Phillipson, 1992) associated with Indonesian and English, which have made education an imbalanced arena of linguistic survival within Indonesia’s superdiversity. I further point to case studies demonstrating how decentralisation of education has not always brought positive impact on the teaching of indigenous languages (e.g., Arka, 2013; Utsumi, 2012), while showing how micro language policies have emerged in response to language policies that show disregard of Indonesia’s superdiversity (e.g., Maryanto, 2009; Rumbrawer, 2001; Zein, 2018a). In the next section, I focus on the teaching of Arabic, East Asian languages (i.e., Japanese, Korean, Mandarin) and Western European languages (i.e., French, German). Drawing upon the development of policy on teaching these languages, I show how the teaching of these languages has been motivated by a wide range of factors. Afterwards, I move on to language-­in-­education policy on ELF, arguing that ELF is an appropriate perspective to support the Indonesian government’s discourse of Character Building. My conclusion of the chapter is threefold. First, there is a need to reorientate language-­in-­education policy in Indonesia through a cross-­ministerial language policy that identifies language problems in educational institutions and offers specific measures to manage problems through regional autonomy (cf. Corson, 1999; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997). I also call for greater participation from local governments to carefully evaluate language vitality in their regions and to develop approaches to multilingual education that best suit their communities’ needs and superdiversity. Finally, I argue for a paradigm shift on language-­in-­education policy to dedicate a place for personnel policy (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997, 2005), tackling the ongoing problem concerning the management of the teaching workforce and the professional preparation of language teachers. In Chapter 7, I conclude the book. I summarise arguments in the book and point to directions for future research.

2 Linguistic ecology and language policy Linguistic ecology and language policyLinguistic ecology and language policy

2.1. Introduction In this chapter, I focus on linguistic ecology and language policy. The term linguistic ecology was introduced by Voegelin and Voegelin (1964). They state that “[i]n linguistic ecology, one begins not with a particular language but with a particular area, not with selective attention to a few languages but with comprehensive attention to all the languages in the area. The area chosen may be a national unit” (p. 2). For language policy to focus on linguistic ecology is vital, an approach that has been widely advocated in scholarship (e.g., Hornberger, 2002, 2003; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997, 2008; Mühlhäusler, 1996, 2000; to name a few). As Kaplan and Baldauf (1997) argue, “language planning activity must be perceived as implicating a wide range of languages and of modifications occurring simultaneously over the mix of languages in the environment – that is, implicating the total language eco-­system” (p. 296). This line of reasoning leads to my discussion on Indonesia’s linguistic ecology and language policy in the present chapter. I start the chapter by introducing the reader to Indonesian. Next, I discuss indigenous languages. I follow it up with a section on regional lingua francas (RLFs). I continue by discussing heritage and sign languages. Afterwards, I focus on foreign and additional languages (i.e., Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean, Mandarin) and I continue with a discussion on the changing of perspective from English as a foreign language (EFL) to English as a lingua franca (ELF). I then move on to a discussion on Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation, where I introduce a new concept: superglossia. I conclude the chapter in the final section.

2.2. Indonesian As I mentioned in Chapter 1, Indonesia, a nation of nearly 270 million people, has more than 600 ethnicities. The linguistic code that unites the highly diverse ethnic groups of Indonesia is the country’s national language: Indonesian. The Indonesian language in its present form did not exist a hundred years ago. Less than 5 per cent of the nation’s population spoke its linguistic origin, the Riau dialect of Malay, when it was selected as the unifying language in 1928

28  Linguistic ecology and language policy (Sneddon, 2003a, p. 105). During the period of Nationalist Movement in the early 20th century, the choice for a unifying language was a dilemma, as national activists had to choose one of three languages: Dutch, Javanese or Malay. In the 1926 First Congress of Indonesian Youth, Muhammad Yamin proposed the Riau dialect of Malay as a unifying language. Yamin stated, “A knowledge of the Malay language will give everyone the opportunity to come into contact with Javanese, Sundanese, Malays and Arabs, with whom they can confer” (Verslag van het Eerste Indonesia Jeugdcongress, cited in Robson, 2002, p. 1). Yamin’s proposition was supported by nationalist activists who thought that neither Dutch nor Javanese would make a suitable choice for a unifying language, much less a national language. Many considered that Dutch had less stature than international languages such as English and French, and they associated the language with oppressive and subjugating colonialism. The latter sufficed for leaving out Dutch once and for all. Javanese, on the other hand, was already a language of ethnic majority (47.8 per cent), and so selecting the language would accord an unfair linguistic advantage to a particular ethnic group while potentially marginalising other ethnic minorities. Javanese itself is imbued by what many thought to be linguistic feudalism marked in its complex social registers (i.e., ngoko [low], madya [middle], krama [high]) and by default prevented it from being a unifying language of egalitarian spirit (Harper, 2013; Paauw, 2009; Robson, 2002; Simpson, 2007). On 28 October 1928, participants of the Second Congress on Indonesian Youth chose the Riau dialect of Malay as the unifying language and renamed it bahasa Indonesia [Indonesian]. They officialised this decision in a declaration called

Figure 2.1 Members of the 1928 Second Youth Congress who contributed to the establishment of Indonesian as a unifying language Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018c).

Linguistic ecology and language policy 29 Sumpah Pemuda [Youth Pledge]. The third resolution of the Sumpah Pemuda resolved the unifying language issue: Kami putra dan putri Indonesia, menjunjung bahasa persatuan, bahasa Indonesia [We, the sons and daughters of Indonesia, uphold the nation’s language of unity: Indonesian]. After decades of Nationalist Movement, the place of Indonesian was cemented in the hearts of Indonesians through literature and nationalist publications written by Sanusi Pane, Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana, Chairil Anwar, H.B. Jassin, among others (see Teeuw, 1967) until it was formally declared the national and official language of Indonesia following independence in 1945. Article 36 of the 1945 National Constitution reads: Bahasa nasional adalah Bahasa Indonesia

The national language is Indonesian

In the early years of independence, the spread of Indonesian was massive, as it was readily accepted by an enthusiastic Indonesian population who longed for a national language of unifying function. Alisjahbana (1974) comments: The language spread rapidly in all directions. And the Indonesians themselves experienced a new sensation such as they had never known before that time. As the fighting continued, and the number of Indonesian-­speaking Indonesians rose, the feeling of mutual solidarity grew deeper and stronger. The Indonesian language became a symbol of Indonesian unity. (p. 400) Nowadays, Indonesian is the most important language in the growing population of Indonesia. Being strongly propagated by Soekarno’s administration (1945–1967) and the New Order regime (1967–1998), Indonesian has always been strongly associated with nationalism (Alisjahbana, 1949; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Harper, 2013). As a result, Indonesian now enjoys a strong linguistic prestige (Harper, 2013; Simpson, 2007; Robson, 2002). Citizens aspire to develop proficiency in the language for that reason, along with other motivations such as the pervasive notion that it is the vehicle for upward economic trajectory and social mobility. Proficiency in the language is imperative in the workplace, especially in formal settings in urban areas. Indonesian is omnipresent, being used as the official language in the country in the domains of politics and the media. It also functions as the medium of instruction in education. The development of proficiency in Indonesian has been a rapid phenomenon. Estimates of the number of “native speakers of Indonesian” range between “17 million” in the 1980s (Nababan, 1985) and “35 million” in the 1990s (Moeliono & Grimes, 1995) (cf. Errington, 2006, 2014). But Indonesia’s bureau of statistics, the BPS, cites that Indonesian is spoken in the home by 42,682,566 people (19.94 per cent of the national population) – a figure suggesting the number of people who speak Indonesian as a “native language” (BPS, 2011). The BPS also reports that literacy in the language reached 92.08 per cent in the 2010 National Census (see Sub-­Section 6.3.3 for details). This achievement is even more significant in light of the relatively harmonious ethnic relations in Indonesia. Bertrand’s (2003) claim that “the ethnic conflict

30  Linguistic ecology and language policy that has erupted has had little to do with linguistic issues” (p. 281) is inaccurate in the background of the conflict between Christians and Muslims in Maluku in 1999–2002 (see Florey & Ewing, 2010; van Engelenhoven, 2003). But his argument and that of others (e.g., Abas, 1987; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Lowenberg, 1992) that language policy in Indonesia does not provoke conflict among its diverse ethnicities is reasonably grounded. Indonesian has helped strengthen common bonds among the highly diverse citizens (see Abas, 1987; Anwar, 1976; Lowenberg, 1992; Simpson, 2007). The positive effect was already felt in the first decade after the 1945 Independence. Slametmuljana (1959) commented that the social contact between Indonesian and indigenous languages “has pulled the feelings of regionalism nearer to the feeling of national consciousness and encouraged people to use Indonesian . . . Gradually people begin to feel that Indonesian is their own language beside their regional language” (p. 12). For what the champion of Indonesia’s language policy Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana (1986) dubs “the most successful enterprise among the efforts to create a new national language in the 20th Century” (p. 46) and what the internationally acclaimed sociolinguist Joshua Fishman (1976) declares “miraculous”, some may disagree, calling the growth and development of Indonesian as “no miracle” (e.g., Zentz, 2015a, 2016b). But in evaluating language policy on Indonesian that has successfully become a means of intercultural communication of a highly diverse population, scholars are lavish in praise (e.g., Bertrand, 2003; Fishman, 1976; Harper, 2013; Kaplan & Baldauf, 2003; Kratz, 2006; Lowenberg, 1992; Paauw, 2009; Robson, 2002; Simpson, 2007; Sneddon, 2003a, 2003b; see also Chapter 6). Kratz (2006) calls Indonesian “an enviable story of the successful establishment of a single language as the national language in a linguistically pluralistic society” (p. 641). Lowenberg (1992) states, “Indonesia is renowned for having experienced considerably more success than most other multilingual nations that have gained independence since World War II” (p. 66), while Fishman comments, Within half a century the language has not only expanded functionally into all roles below that of extra-­regional language of wider communication, but it has taken on the aura of omnipresent verity, viewed and experienced a reaching back into antiquity and forward into eternity as a component of the Indonesian genius. (p. 338) The success of Indonesian, however, is a double-­edged sword. The massive spread of the language has been accused of being detrimental to the maintenance of indigenous languages (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014) to the extent that Mühlhäusler (1996, p. 20) calls it a “killer language”. This is not an overstatement given evidence showing how a shift to Indonesian is a dominant factor in language endangerment (see Sub-­Section 5.2.2) and how the language is complicit in linguistic genocide and linguistic imperialism – two issues that I tackle in Sub-­Sections 6.4.1 and 6.4.2, respectively. But at the same

Linguistic ecology and language policy 31 time, Indonesian’s linguistic hegemony is not completely secure. Indonesian currently receives so much pressure from other elements in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. It is being “devoured” by English (see Coleman, 2016; cf. Sugiharto, 2015c). It has also lost its place to indigenous languages in some settings (see Sub-­Section 2.8.2; cf. Goebel, 2016) while being contested by practices of language mixing such as bahasa prokem (Chambert-­Loir & Collins, 1984; Hooker, 1993), bahasa gaul (Smith-­Hefner, 2007) and bahasa gado-­gado (Martin-­Anatias, 2018).

2.3.  Indigenous languages Scholars use terms such as vernacular (e.g., Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Lowenberg, 1992; Zentz, 2017), regional language (e.g., Abas, 1987; Alisjahbana, 1949; Anwar, 1976; Heryanto, 1995; Moeliono, 1986), local language (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1976; Zentz, 2016b) and heritage language (e.g., Suwarno, 2014), but I use the term indigenous language in this book. I use the term heritage language for a specific purpose that I discuss in Section 2.4. The terms local language, vernacular and regional language are limited because they connote place of residence of the language speakers, perpetuating the ideology that equates language with territoriality and community (cf. Goebel, 2015), while neglecting the high mobility of many contemporary Indonesians who have left their regions of birth. The traditional definition of indigenous language indeed refers to a language that is native to a certain territory. But in taking a superdiversity perspective that is characterised by complexity and mobility (Blommaert & Rampton, 2011), I view indigenous language as a language spoken natively by members of a linguistically distinct community who share psychological, cultural, political, spiritual and social links to a primordial, ancestral and historical territory associated with the origin of the language, whether or not the community or members of the community still reside in the territory (cf. Lane & Mikihara, 2017). Many speakers of Batak Toba, for example, no longer live in North Sumatra, the territory associated with the origin of the language. But the fact that they speak a linguistically distinct code qualifies them as speakers of an indigenous language, Batak Toba, not to mention their share of links to their primordial, ancestral and historical territory. Bearing this in mind, I see the equivalence of the English term indigenous people to the Indonesian term orang pribumi. Indigenous languages constitute the largest element within Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. Of the living languages in Indonesia, the Badan Bahasa (2017) estimates that 652 are indigenous languages, while data from Ethnologue suggest 701 indigenous languages and six non-­indigenous languages (Simons & Fennig, 2017a, p. 6). Though territory-­based ethnolinguistic grouping may not fully explain the complexity of indigenous languages, for language policy reasons it is useful to identify the concentration of languages within a polity. In Chart 2.1, I show the uneven concentration of the indigenous languages across the Indonesian archipelago. As shown in Chart 2.1, the densely inhabited parts of western Indonesia, mainly the islands of Sumatra, Java and Bali, are home to 36 indigenous languages.

32  Linguistic ecology and language policy 450 400

384

350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0

57 26 Sumatra

68

58 11

10 Java and Bali

66

Kalimantan Sulawesi

West East Nusa Nusa Tenggara Tenggara

Maluku

Papua

Chart 2.1  Distribution of languages in Indonesia Source: Developed from the Badan Bahasa (2017).

These include Acehnese, Balinese, Batak, Javanese, Malay, Minang and Sundanese, all belonging to the Austronesian, or Malayo-­Polynesian language family. Quite a large number of indigenous languages (115) exist in the islands of Kalimantan and Sulawesi where millions of speakers of Banjar and Makassarese reside, along with hundreds of speakers of smaller, locally used indigenous languages including Kelabit (640 speakers) and Waru (350 speakers) (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). In the West and East Nusa Tenggaran regions, there are 79 languages. Hundreds of other indigenous languages belong to the non-­Austronesian group, also known as the Papuan languages. They are found in the more sporadically populated islands of eastern Indonesia, consisting mainly of the lush green of Papua and the exotic islands of Maluku. Eastern Indonesia is so diverse that there are approximately 384 indigenous languages spoken by ethnic groups in the provinces of Papua and Western Papua alone, while 66 languages are spoken in the hundreds of islands of Maluku (Badan Bahasa, 2017). It is interesting to note that “[a]lthough these languages are collectively called Papuan, they are not in fact all genetically related, i.e., they cannot be shown to be descended from a single ancestral language” (Kratz, 2006, p. 640). Some of the indigenous languages are spoken by millions of speakers, including Javanese, Sundanese, Malay, Madurese, Minangkabau, Banjar, Bugis, Balinese, Batak, Cirebon, Sasak, Acehnese and Betawi (Table 2.1). Many others, on the other hand, are spoken only by thousands or hundreds of speakers (e.g., Dabe, Haruku, Yetfa) (see Simons & Fennig, 2017a for details of indigenous languages in Indonesia). Table 2.1 shows the 13 largest languages spoken by Indonesians over five years old based on the 2010 National Census. At the top of the list is Javanese, spoken

Linguistic ecology and language policy 33 Table 2.1  Indonesia’s 13 largest languages Rank

Language

Population

Percentage

EGIDS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Javanese Sundanese Malay* Madurese Minangkabau Banjar Bugis Balinese Batak** Cirebon*** Sasak Acehnese Betawi

68,044,660 32,412,752 7,901,386 7,743,533 4,232,226 3,651,626 3,510,249 3,371,049 3,318,360 3,086,721 2,691,127 2,550,055 2,244,648

31.79 15.14 3.69 3.62 1.98 1.71 1.64 1.57 1.55 1.44 1.26 1.19 1.05

4 (Educational) 5 (Developing) 6a (Vigorous) 5 (Developing) 5 (Developing) 3 (Wider Communication) 3 (Wider Communication) 5 (Developing) 6a (Vigorous) 6a (Vigorous) 5 (Developing) 6b (Threatened) 6b (Threatened)

Note: *Malay includes all Malay varieties **Batak includes all Batak varieties ***CirebonIndramayu is listed as a language in the BPS Census, here it is called “Cirebon”. Cirebon is categorised as a dialect of Javanese in Simons and Fenning (2017a) and by the Badan Bahasa (2017). Sources: Synthesised from Afifah (2017), BPS (2011), Simons and Fennig (2017a).

by 68,044,660 out of 214,962,624 people (31.79 per cent). This indicates that Javanese is the largest ethnolinguistic group in Indonesia. This is accurate because if we take the total number of Indonesian population based on the 2010 Census into consideration (236,728,379), the Javanese ethnicity constitutes 40.22 per cent of the population with 95,217,022 people (BPS, 2011). Trailing Javanese is Sundanese, spoken by 15.14 per cent of the population over five years old. Speakers of Malay varieties and Madurese follow each other closely, with 3.69 per cent and 3.62 per cent, respectively. Meanwhile, speakers of other indigenous languages (Minangkabau, Banjar, Bugis, Balinese, Batak, Cirebon, Acehnese and Betawi) are below 2 per cent each. Table 2.1 also reveals that two of the 13 largest languages in Indonesia – Acehnese and Betawi – are threatened, with a 6b vitality status in Lewis and Simons’ (2010) Expanded Graded Intergenerational Disruption Scale (EGIDS). This status shows endangerment level of the language despite the fact that both are spoken by more than two million people. This gives credence to Ravindranath and Cohn’s (2014) assertion that major languages with more than a million speakers could be endangered (cf. Krauss, 1992). As I stated in Chapter 1, concerns about indigenous languages have appeared in the past three decades (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Lauder & Ayatrohaédi, 2006; Klamer, 2018; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Steinhauer, 1992), with Steinhauer (1992), for example, declaring a “gloomy prospect” for Indonesia, predicting that over the next century the number of languages will decrease to 50. The complexity of endangerment concerning indigenous languages and endeavours to reverse it are issues that I will discuss in Chapter 5. By the same token, Indonesia’s superdiversity means intensive and dynamic language contact between speakers of the supposedly different “indigenous

34  Linguistic ecology and language policy languages”. But as scholarship has shown, people do not really use “languages”; they use resources for communication by languaging, or performing things called “languages” (Blommaert, 2010, 2013a; Canagarajah, through the so-­ 2013; García & Wei, 2014; Sabino, 2018). The complex interactions from languaging have engendered new linguistic varieties (e.g., languages, dialects); for example, Cirebon, Osing, Papuan Colloquial Indonesian and Riau Indonesian. I will further discuss this phenomenon when analysing the complexity, dynamism and polycentricity of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation in Sub-­Section 2.8.2.

2.4.  Regional lingua francas Many languages such as Ambon Malay, Bakumpai, Musi, Ngaju and Onin have been traditionally defined as local or regional languages. But this designation is not entirely accurate because they also serve as languages of wider communication to ensure “mutual intelligibility within a group of cognate languages in a given region” (Nahir, 1984, p. 314). These languages connect people at the regional level (i.e., between villages, communities, regencies, provinces). Following Nahir, I refer to this group of languages as regional lingua francas (RLFs) (cf. Sneddon, 2003a). Data from Ethnologue suggest that there are 15 languages that may be categorised as RLFs (Simons & Fennig, 2017a), but my cross-­check of these data with other sources (Adelaar, 1996; Adelaar & Prentice, 1996; Adnyana, 2018; Baird, Klamer, & Kratochvíl, 2004; BPS, 2011; Donohue, 1996a, 1996b, 1999; Errington, 2014, In Preparation; Fields, 2010; Gil, 2010; Lim & Mead, 2011; Sawaki & Arwam, 2018; Shin, 2010) points to at least 43 RLFs. Fourteen of the 43 RLFs are indigenised varieties of Malay/Indonesian, which I refer to as Malayic RLFs. The rest of the RLFs (29) are languages that are not indigenised varieties of Malay/Indonesian and I refer to them as non-­Malayic RLFs. Generally speaking, Malayic RLFs have received more attention than non-­ Malayic RLFs – the latter are absent in scholarly discussion concerning Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation (e.g., Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986). This is despite the importance of non-­Malayic RLFs as contact and trade languages (see Adelaar, 1996; Donohue, 1996a). In my view, Malayic RLFs and non-­Malayic RLFs serve the foundation for an argument that Indonesia is a nation with multiple lingua francas, rather than a nation with a single lingua franca (i.e., Indonesian). This categorisation of Malayic RLFs and non-­Malayic RLFs is also one of the reasons that makes Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation complex, dynamic and polycentric (see Section 2.8). In the following two sub-­ sections, I will discuss these RLFs.

2.4.1.  Malayic RLFs There are 14 Malayic RLFs, namely Alor Malay, Ambon Malay, Bacan Malay, Banjar Malay, Kupang Malay, Kutai Malay (Tenggarong variant), Makassar Malay, Manado Malay, North Maluku Malay, Papuan Colloquial Indonesian, Papuan Malay, Pontianak Malay, Riau Indonesian and Sekadau Malay. The spread, domain and use of these Malayic RLFs are presented in Table 2.2.

Used mainly in marketplaces in the Alor Island, along the coasts of western Pantar, the Kabola peninsula and adjacent islands. Used as L1 in Kalabahi and as L2 in all other areas. Speakers: 25,000 (2004). Used in the market, business, media by speakers of Maanyan Dayak, Bakumpai, Samihim, etc. Dominant in South Kalimantan, growing in Central and Eastern Kalimantan. Writing: Arabic script. Speakers: 3,651,626 (2010). Used in all domains by all ages. Spread around East Nusa Tenggara, including in Kupang regency, Kupang city, Semau Island. Speakers: 350,000 (2015). No known native speakers. Used as L2 only in Makassar, South Sulawesi to connect Makassarese, Bugis and others. Speakers: 1,880,000 (2000). Used in trade, daily life and inter-ethnic contact. Spread in Maluku Utara province (e.g., Halmahera Selatan regency, Damar, northwest Jarongga). Speakers: 1,000,000 (2001). Widespread in the Papua province. Used as RLF in the coastal areas of West Papua. Speakers: 1,100,000 (2014). Used for inter-ethnic communication. Found in the islands of Bintan, Batam, Karimun, Pekanbaru and the village of Sungai Pakning. Speakers: unknown.

Alor Malay

Riau Indonesian

Papuan Malay

North Maluku Malay

Makassar Malay

Kupang Malay

Banjar Malay

Spread, Domain, Use

Malayic RLF

Sources: Synthesised from Adelaar and Prentice (1996), Baird et al. (2004), BPS (2011), Donohue (1996a, 1999), Errington (2014, In Preparation), Fields (2010), Gil (2010), Simons and Fennig (2017a), Shin (2010).

Sekadau Malay

Pontianak Malay

Papuan Colloquial Indonesian

Tenggarong variant of Kutai Malay Manado Malay

Spoken natively by Malays. Used as ethno-regional language with Chinese (e.g., Khek, Teochew), Dayak and diverse migrants (mostly tertiary students) in Pontianak. Speakers: 940,000 (2000). Used as lingua franca by Malay and Dayak tribes as well as Chinese communities (e.g., Khek & Hoklo) in Sekadau, West Kalimantan. Speakers: unknown.

Used in trade, intercultural communication, market and some media. Spread in Maluku province (e.g., Aru Island, Wamar Island, Seram regency, Ambon city, Nusa Laut Island). Writing: Latin. Immigrant language in the Netherlands. Speakers: 1,400,000 (2013). Spoken as contact language in the Bacan archipelago, North Maluku. Used to be the mother tongue of the inhabitants of five villages (Indomut, Awanngo, Amasing, Labuha and Mandawong). Status: Nearly extinct. Speakers: 6 (2012). Spoken along the Mahakam river basin, from Tanjung Pandan to Samarinda. Used as a lingua franca by the Malays and auto autochthonous Borneons. Speakers: 210,000 (1981). Used in Gorontalo province and North Sulawesi province (e.g., Manado city, Minahasa regency). Used as L2 by speakers of Bantik and others. Speakers: 2,350,000 (2001). Originated in Jayapura. Spoken as inter-ethnic means of communication by all population in Papua. Speakers: unknown.

Ambon Malay

Bacan Malay

Spread, Domain, Use

Malayic RLF

Table 2.2  Malayic RLFs

36  Linguistic ecology and language policy The spread of these Malayic RLFs has occurred through a long process. This was made possible in the first place by the language policy of the kingdom of Melayu, from which the term Malay originates, and which indicates the Malay ethnicity. Melayu's language policy would have been to adopt the earliest variety of Malay, called Old Malay, as its official language. The kingdom used Old Malay in its early maritime expeditions and growing trade network in the early 7th century, which had developed a bit earlier than Srivijaya (ruling from the mid-7th century to the 14th century). Srivijaya continued the same language policy, using Old Malay with its trading partners. This language policy was welcomed by traders who saw the low form of Malay and possibly several of its sub-­dialectal forms fitting the purpose perfectly as a lingua franca (cf. Adelaar & Prentice, 1996; Harper, 2013; Sneddon, 2003; Tadmor, 2005). Adelaar and Prentice (1996) state, “This variety and its present derivatives are usually dubbed Bazaar Malay or low Malay. They differ from literary Malay most notably in a reduced morphology and in possessive constructions” (p. 674). With the increasing political and economic influence of Srivijaya, Bazaar Malay found itself travelling long distances, spreading from the Malay Peninsula to the east of the archipelago. This was made possible through inter-­island businesses (e.g., trading, seminary work), which allowed sailors, soldiers, merchants and missionaries of Dutch and Portuguese colonials as well as merchants and sailors of Srivijaya, Majapahit, Siliwangi and others to travel by seas from one island to another. They made contact with local peoples in ports and coastal areas, and these local peoples’ welcoming attitudes created ideologically favourable conditions for language spread. The indigenous peoples’ linguistic creativity was also instrumental in the incorporation of words and structure from indigenous languages into the lingua franca Malay. Thus, the lingua franca Malay mixed with elements of indigenous languages, leading to the creation of highly variable, pidginised varieties of Malay. Ambon Malay, for example, emerged as a pidgin through intense indigenisation of lingua franca Malay following contact between locals in the port city of Ambon and visitors. Picking up words from Portuguese and Ternate, Ambon Malay grew to become very different from the original Malay spoken in Sumatra (see Grimes, 1991). Ambon Malay, and other pidginised varieties of Malay, not only served as the basic communicative means for relevant parties but also later became natively spoken linguistic varieties when children acquired them. Once spoken by these children, pidginised varieties of Malay became what linguists call creoles. Lingua franca Malay gradually became vernacularised and nativised into the varieties of Malay spoken in parts of eastern Indonesia, where there are no historically authentic ethnic Malay communities. Nowadays, places where those indigenised varieties of Malay have arisen are increasingly urban. Cities such as Ambon, Kupang and Manado have become melting pots of ethnicities where migrants from surrounding areas come to find employment or pursue education. Younger generations, thanks to advances in transportation, can now travel easily to those cities to work or study while acquiring indigenised varieties of Malay in the process. The increasing popularity and wide dissemination of these Malayic RLFs owe much to their integrative, assimilable capacities, allowing them to be acquired even by non-­literate populations of

Linguistic ecology and language policy 37 the country (see Utsumi, 2012, for Manado Malay; Errington, 2014, In Preparation, for Kupang Malay and Pontianak Malay).

2.4.2.  Non-­Malayic RLFs There are 29 non-­Malayic RLFs, namely, Bakumpai, Biak, Bugis, Damal, Ekari, Fayu, Geser, Iban, Iha, Isirawa, Kaili-­Ledo, Kendayan, Koiwai, Lamaholot, Mandarin, Manggarai, Moi, Momuna, Musi, Ngaju, Onin, Police Dani, the Fehan dialect of Tetun, Tukang Besi, Ternate, Wandamen, Wano, Wolio and Yetfa. The spread, domain and use of these non-­Malayic RLFs are presented in Table 2.3. Most non-­Malayic RLFs such as Bakumpai, Musi, Ngaju, Lamaholot and Yetfa are used in economically motivated activities. Lamaholot (also called Solor), for example, is a trade language among people in East Nusa Tenggara. Tukang Besi speakers are an interesting case, often being mistaken as Bugis or Bajau speakers. The high mobility of its speakers has seen settlements of Tukang Besi in various areas across archipelago, including Maluku, Nusa Tenggara, coastal areas of Papua, southern Sulawesi, Java, Kalimantan, Sumatra and even Singapore (Donohue, 1999). Bugis is rather different. The language is associated with Bugis boat builders and seafarers who once saw the magnificent Pinisi Boat fording archipelago seas, giving rise to the famous line Nenek moyangku seorang pelaut [My ancestor was a sailor]. For centuries, this seafaring culture has set the foundation for an extensive language contact, allowing Bugis to become “a source of lexical borrowing for many languages throughout the Indonesian archipelago, not just for languages on Sulawesi” (Abas & Grimes, 1995, p. 549).

Figure 2.2 Pinisi, the boat associated with the speakers of Bugis, is featured in an old 100-rupiah banknote Source: Bank Indonesia (2018).

Iban

Fayu

Damal

Biak

Used as trade language in Papua (e.g., Cenderawasih Bay, Bird’s Head, Biak, Numfor Islands, Yapen), West Papua (e.g., Mapia Islands, Raja Ampat, Bantanta) and eastern Maluku (e.g., Waigeo, Misool). Speakers: 70,000 (2007). Spoken in the western part of Papuan highlands, Painai regency, Beoga and Ilaga sub-districts. Used as trade language by speakers of Damal and Nduga. Potentially endangered. Speakers: 14,000 (2000). Spoken as trade language in Papua, including Klili river area, northwest towards Cenderawasih Bay, Rouffer river and western Lakes Plains. Used as L2 by Kirikiri and Tause speakers. Speakers: 1,400 (2012). Spread from Kapuas Hulu, Mount Betung, Sintang to Lower Kapuas. Used as language of Catholic missionary. Speakers: 15,000 (2003). Isirawa

Iha

Geser

Ekari

Bugis Used in the market. Dominant in Central Kalimantan, including Barito and Kapuas regencies, Marabahan region, Tumbang Samba and Longiran-East Kalimantan. Used as L2 by speakers of Dusun Deyah, Dusun Witu, Lawangan, Ma’anyan. Speakers: 100,000 (2003).

Bakumpai

Spoken mainly in West Papua (e.g., Fakfak regency, Fakfak, Kaimana, Kokas sub-districts on west Bomberai peninsula). Used as trade language by Baham and Karas speakers. Speakers: 5,500 (1987). Used as trade language by speakers of Kwerba and Sobei. Spoken in the Sarmi regency, Papua (e.g., Amsira, Arabais, Kamenawari, Martwewar, Nisero). Speakers: 1,800 (2000).

Used in the provinces of West Sulawesi (e.g., More, Pasangkayu); South Sulawesi (peninsular interior), Central Sulawesi (e.g., Donggala, Oti), Southeast Tenggara (e.g., Lake Towuti, Bone). Writing: Bugis script, no longer used. Also established in Malaysia. Speakers: 3,510,249 (2010). Trans-New Guinean language. Spoken as trade language in the Painai Lakes region as well as in the villages of Enarotali, Mapia and Moanemani. Speakers: 100,000 (1985). Used as trade language into the Seram area, especially trading areas of Geser and Gorom. Speakers: 36,500 (1989).

Non-Malayic Spread, Domain, Use RLF

Spread, Domain, Use

Non-Malayic RLF

Table 2.3  Non-Malayic RLFs

Spoken from West Asmat regency to Yahukimo regency, and in areas near Eilanden River. Used as L2 by speakers of various Dani languages. Status: Threatened. Speakers: 2,000 (2000). Used in trade and other domains (church, school, village level government, etc.). Spread in Central Kalimantan (e.g., Gunung Mas, Kapuas, Kota Palangkaraya regencies). Also spoken around Barito and Sampit rivers. Katingan, Speakers: 890,000 (2003).

Momuna

Ngaju

Manggarai

Used in East Nusa Tenggara, including Flores Timur regency, Solor Islands, north Pantar coast, northwest Alor, surrounding islands. No written form. Speakers: 180,000 (2010). Spoken as lingua franca in the Flores island, East Nusa Tenggara, connecting Muslim and Christians. Speakers: 900,000.

Lamaholot

The Fehan dialect of Tetun

Onin

Musi

Moi

Mandarin Used as RLF among non-Muslim Dayaks in West Kalimantan, including Bengkayang, Singkawang, Sambas, Landau regencies. Also used in northwest Kalimantan island and Natuna Sea coast. Speakers: 321,000 (2007).

Kendayan

Kowiai

Used in West Toraja, Central Sulawesi (e.g., south Donggala, Morowali, Kota Palu), Una-Una Island, coastal areas near Malai, Puna. Writing: Latin. Speakers: 350,000 (2000).

Kaili-Ledo

(Continued)

Also called Kaiwai, Kayumerah and Namatota. Spoken in West Papua (e.g., Bomberai Peninsula, Keroi, Kaimana, Adi Islands), also in coastal areas between Arguni Bay and Etna Bay. Used as L2 for speakers of Asienera, Irarutu, Mairasa, Semimi, Kamoro. Status: Threatened. Speakers: 600 (2000). Used by Chinese communities (Hakka, Hainan, Hokkien, Teochew) in various areas in the archipelago; for example, Riau islands, West Kalimantan, Jakarta, Surabaya, Semarang. Writing: Bopomofo script. Speakers: 2,832,510 (2010) Used as L2 by speakers of As, but unconfirmed as trade language by speakers of Moraid, Karon Pantai and Brat. Spoken in nine villages on west Bird’s Head of Papua, Salawati Island, Sorong city. Speakers: 4,600 (1993). Used as trade language and in the media. Spread in South Sumatra, from Musi River to Bukit Barisan. Also used in Lampung and borders of Jambi and Bengkulu. Speakers: 2,181,769 (2010). Spoken as trade language and L2 along the coast of the Onin peninsula in Fakfak, Papua. Communication tool for speakers of Sekar, Erokwanas, Bedoanas, Arguni, Urangnirin, Iha, Baham. Endangered. Speakers: 500 (2000). Spoken in Atambua, West Timor (part of Indonesia) for intercultural communication among speakers of Belu, Dawan, Bunaq and Kemak. Used in the church, media (radio & TV, newspapers) and education. Speakers: 400,000 (2011). Known as Tetum in Timor-Leste.

Used in the Papua province: Pegunungan Bintang regency, Okbibab sub-district, also in the Papua-New Guinea borders. Used as trade language and in the home, market and religious services. Used as L2 by speakers of Murkim and Towei. Speakers: 1,400 (2006).

Yetfa

Used as trading language in the Buton region. Spoken as L2 by Busoa, Cia-Cia, Liabuku and Pancana speakers. Speakers: 65,000 (2004).

Sources: Synthesised from Adelaar (1996), Adelaar and Prentice (1996), Adnyana (2018), Baird et al. (2004), BPS (2011), Donohue (1996a, 1996b, 1999), Lim and Mead (2011), Sawaki and Arwam (2018), Simons and Fennig (2017a).

Wolio

Wano

Spoken by traders coming to Ternate, Maluku. Mainly spoken in Kota Ternate, Hiri, Ternate Islands and Halmahera. Used as L2 by speakers of Sawi. Speakers: 62,000. Spoken in Papua as L1 in the highlands of Dem and as trade language by speakers of various Lakes Plain languages, Puncak Jaya and van Daalen River to upper Rouffer River. Status: Threatened. Speakers: 1,000 (2011).

Ternate

Police Dani

Used predominantly as L2 by the police force. Spoken in the central and eastern parts of the Papuan highlands. Simplified version of Dani, containing elements from Grand Valley Dani and Western Dani. Tukang Besi Including Tukang Besi North (Buton, Wakatobi) and Tukang Besi South (Buton, Tukang Besi, Wakatobi). Spoken by people of all ages and all occupations in Tukang Besi Islands. Used as trade language in Maluku (e.g., Bacan, Sulabesi, Taliabu), South Sulawesi (e.g., Selayar, Bonerate, Lalatoa), Southeast Sulawesi, Sumbawan cities. Immigrant language in Singapore. Speakers: 250,000 (1995). Wandamen Spoken in Manokwari, Wandamen, Bintuni Bay and Wondama Bay. Used as lingua franca by speakers of Roon, Roswar, Ambuni, Mairasi, etc. Speakers: 7,000 (2018).

Non-Malayic Spread, Domain, Use RLF

Non-Malayic Spread, Domain, Use RLF

Table 2.3 (Continued)

Linguistic ecology and language policy 41 The choice for an RLF may be “strongly influenced by the numbers of its speakers” (Utsumi, 2012, p. 128) as it happens with Bugis, Banjar Malay and others that have a large number of speakers. But this is a generalisation that does not apply to Yetfa, an RLF spoken in Papua. Although it only has a small number of speakers (around 1,400), Yetfa has an important role as a language of wider communication for speakers of Kimki, Murkim and Towei. Mandarin, on the other hand, is unique. Unlike other RLFs that are typically confined to a few areas neighbouring one another, Mandarin is spoken by the Chinese communities who are scattered across various areas in the archipelago (see Lim & Mead, 2011). Chinese communities speak Mandarin as RLF for intra-­ethnic communication, although there are also cases in which the language of the ethnic majority is used instead (see Herianah, 2013, for Chinese-­speaking Makassarese).

2.5.  Heritage and sign languages Another element of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology consists of heritage languages. Previous studies either make no mention of heritage languages (e.g., Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007; Nababan, 1991) or use the term to refer to what are actually indigenous languages (e.g., Suwarno, 2014). As opposed to an indigenous language which is often the majority language in the society, a heritage language is “a language spoken at home or otherwise readily available to young children, and crucially this language is not a dominant language of the larger (national) society” (Rothman, 2009, p. 156). In Indonesia, heritage language speakers include descendants of the Arabs, Indians, Japanese, Eurasians, Mardijkers and Chinese. They are usually referred to as keturunan [descendants]. A great majority of the members of the heritage ethnicities would have lost the ability to speak their languages of ancestry, but some are still able to speak them to varying degrees of proficiency. The Arabs and Indians are descendants of people who started migrating to Indonesia for trades, centuries prior to the arrival of the Dutch and the Portuguese in the 16th century (see Frederick & Worden, 2011, pp. 16–18; cf. Lim & Mead, 2011, p. 6). Evidence of Arab migration can be seen in places called Kampung Arab that spread in urban areas such as Jakarta, Semarang, Palembang and Yogyakarta. Those of Indian heritage, mostly speaking the Tamil language, concentrate in places such as Kampung Madras in Medan, North Sumatra. The Japanese are descendants of the soldiers who once invaded Indonesia and decided to stay in the country. The Eurasians emerged during the period of Dutch colonialism. Older generations of the Eurasians still speak Dutch. The ancestors of the Mardijkers were slaves of the Portuguese in India, Africa and the Malay Peninsula who had been brought into Indonesia by the Dutch and were later freed. Many of these people, mainly concentrated in the Tugu area in Jakarta, speak Tugu creole, which is considered to be similar to Betawi, whereas some relearn Portuguese (Tan, 2016, pp. 159–160). Little is known about the sociolinguistics of heritage languages in Indonesia, although scholarship has unravelled the sociolinguistics of Chinese language varieties (e.g., Lim & Mead, 2011; Oetomo, 1987). The number given by the

42  Linguistic ecology and language policy BPS regarding their population (2,832,510) means that the Chinese people constitute less than two per cent of the total Indonesian population. But compared with other heritage language speakers, the Chinese are the majority (BPS, 2011). Many would have perceived the Chinese to be homogenous, but they are in fact very diverse. The Chinese are of various ethnic backgrounds, speaking

Figure 2.3 Ethnic Chinese in Yogyakarta showing cultural fusion between Chinese and Javanese Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018d).

Linguistic ecology and language policy 43 different Chinese language varieties such as Cantonese, Hainan, Hakka, Hokchiu, Hokkien, Mandarin and Teochew. They spread across the archipelago, ranging from North Sumatra, Jambi, South Sumatra, Riau, Bengkulu, DKI Jakarta, Surabaya, Manado, Singkawang, Banjarmasin, Ambon to Jayapura (see Lim & Mead, 2011, pp. 12–28). Many culinary-­related words in Indonesian have been adopted from Hokkien Chinese; for example, bakso [meatball] and tahu [tofu] (see Harper, 2013, pp. 177–181; Sneddon, 2003a, pp. 77–78; also Sub-­Section  4.2.2). There are also sign languages for the deaf community of approximately 2.5 million Indonesians (ILO Jakarta, 2017), although interestingly the BPS only points to the existence of 40,373 sign language users (BPS, 2011). There are many sign languages used in Indonesia, but the most common ones are Sistem Isyarat Bahasa Indonesia [Indonesian Sign System] (SIBI) and Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia [Indonesian Sign Language] (BISINDO). SIBI, developed by the Department of Education and Culture in 1994, translates the spoken Indonesian language into sign language, allowing the use of prefixes and suffixes. BISINDO, on the other hand, adopts signs from different varieties across Indonesia to create a homogenous, definitive dictionary. For Palfreyman (2015), BISINDO is a single linguistic entity, followed by its isolects such as Solo BISINDO, Makassar BISINDO, and so forth. This, according to Palfreyman, suggests that Indonesian sign varieties have revealing parallels with variation across isolects of Indonesian as the spoken language used all over the archipelago. There are also other regionally used sign languages such as Kata Kolok, Jakarta and Yogyakarta, and Jambi sign languages. Kata Kolok, used in Buleleng, Bali, has been examined in terms of its sign spatiality (de Vos, 2012a), spatial deixis and proto-­toponyms (de Vos, 2014) and perfective acquisition (de Vos, 2012b). Meanwhile, a study conducted by Sze et al. (2015) shows that the signing varieties used in Jakarta and Yogyakarta should be called “Jakarta Sign Language” and “Yogyakarta Sign Language”, and a study by Saharudin (2007) provides a basic and partial phonological and morphological description of Jambi Sign Language. Because of the generally communal culture of Indonesia, sign language users are nearly always part of a local sign community. The fact that they communicate in similar ways and have common life experiences, based on visual perceptions rather than auditory ones, is another factor why they congregate on a regular basis. Palfreyman (2015, pp. 15–16) notes that deaf communities do various activities regularly including sports, worship and arisan, or a routine gathering in which a lottery is conducted and members take turns to win monies previously deposited by all members. There are organisations of the deaf communities that organise these activities. Gerakan untuk Kesejahteraan Tunarungu Indonesia [Indonesian Association for the Welfare of the Deaf], for example, has local, regional and national levels of structure in its 28 regional branches (Gerkatin, 2018). The allocation of roles and functions of heritage and sign languages is a major issue of status planning, which I discuss in Chapter 3.

44  Linguistic ecology and language policy

2.6.  Foreign and additional languages In addition to Indonesia’s already highly complex and diverse linguistic ecology is a group of languages: Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. These languages are included in the linguistic ecology because they are endorsed in the Revised 2013 Curriculum. In the present section, I focus on Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin, while in the next section I will focus on English. My discussion of Arabic and Mandarin in this section is limited to the languages being endorsed in the Revised 2013 Curriculum (see also Chapter 6), and not as heritage languages. Scholarship generally refers to Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin as foreign languages (Dardjowidjojo, 1998, 2000; Mistar, 2005; Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007; Nababan, 1991). The categorisation of these languages as foreign languages is attributed to the following reasons. As far as input is concerned, exposure to the target language (TL) is limited. In schools administered by the Ministry of Education and Culture, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin are not taught in Sekolah Menengah Pertama [Junior High School] (SMP). They are taught in the peminatan bahasa [language specialisation] of Sekolah Menengah Atas [Senior High School] (SMA). Meanwhile, Arabic is taught in madrasah, or Islamic-­based schools, which is administered by the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Students can learn Arabic in Madrasah Ibtidaiyah [Primary School], Madrasah Tsanawiyah [Junior Secondary School] and Madrasah ‘Aliyah [Senior Secondary School] (see Section 6.5 for details). The instrumental function of the languages becomes another reason why they are categorised as foreign languages. These foreign languages have international communication values, being used for purposes such as diplomacy, business contacts and cultural exchanges. Nababan (1991) also labels them “library languages”, given that a wealth of information contained in books and scientific materials is written in these languages. For Nababan, these languages are taught not only to give “a different cultural experience to the students, but also for the practical purpose of preparing them for possible use of these languages in universities and other tertiary education as well as at job-­oriented colleges or courses” (p. 119). However, the sociolinguistic landscape in Indonesia has considerably changed than it was since Nababan (1991) and other scholars (e.g., Dardjowidjojo, 2000; Mistar, 2005; Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007) formulated their ideas on the classification of foreign languages. One reason is that determining input solely through school hours does not reflect the present sociolinguistic reality. Exposure to French, German, Japanese and Mandarin is no longer dependent upon school instruction. Serious learners of these languages generally receive input to the TL through private courses, and a great majority of them would gain further exposure through the Internet and other readily available learning materials. Those who are highly motivated and are financially equipped would hire private tutors. Those learning Arabic in particular would benefit from daily exposure to the language through instruction

Linguistic ecology and language policy 45 in a pesantren, or Islamic boarding school attached to a mosque. In addition, increased exposure to the TL is feasible with the advancement of technologies and social media. Facebook, Twitter and Instagram have become useful platforms for young Indonesians to join groups where they could interact with people from France, South Korea, Japan, and so forth. Many have also joined PenPal World and InterPals in search of foreign friends and with the motivation to improve language proficiency. This suggests exposure to the TL is contingent upon individuals’ personal agency rather than official regulation or schooling. Exposure to the TL outside school hours may in fact far exceed school hours. Second, learning these languages is not necessarily a matter of educational requirement. Instrumental motivation for occupational purposes and travels is generally found among those learning French, German and Mandarin. Those learning Japanese may not be necessarily instrumentally motivated, as they may also be aesthetically and culturally motivated. This is evidenced by an increasing number of Indonesian learners of Japanese who develop an affinity towards the language after encountering manga comics (Suryadi & Rosiah, 2017). Those learning German also have various motivations, as shown by members of the Bandung-­Braunschweig Sister Cities who demonstrate cultural, sport and educational motivations. With Islam being the largest religion in the country and Islamisation on the rise (Machmudi, 2008), interest in learning Arabic has increased considerably. This explains the proliferation of pesantrens, rising from 4,195 units with 677,394 students in 1977 to 28,194 units with 4,290,626 students in 2017 (Republika, 2017). Those learning Mandarin may have instrumental motivation such as to secure employment, but there are a lot more who demonstrate personal motivations such as interest in the Chinese language and culture and self-­determination to succeed (Shenglin & Ying, 2012). Thus, depending on the personal agency and motivations of the learners, the role and use of these languages vary. For some learners, Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin may be foreign languages. For others, they may be best described as additional languages. In some contexts, labelling additional languages for Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin is more appropriate because of the increasing exposure to the languages as well as the ranging motivations to learn them. Moreover, the term provides scope for these languages to be incorporated into learners’ educational experience. Using the term additional languages for Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin means that learning these languages should be understood as adding to learners’ capacities as bilinguals or multilingual learners, rather than displacing the language/s that learners may have acquired earlier. This understanding contributes to an approach known as additive bilingualism (Baker, 2011), which encourages the use of diverse languages.

2.7.  English: from EFL to ELF Mainstream scholarship labels English in Indonesia as a foreign language (EFL) (e.g., Alwasilah, 2013; Dardjowidjojo, 2000; Mistar, 2005; Montolalu &

46  Linguistic ecology and language policy Suryadinata, 2007; Nababan, 1991). However, a changing sociolinguistic landscape poses a question as to whether the EFL perspective that Indonesia has held over the decades still holds true today. The involvement of Indonesia in a global linguistic movement characterised by the highly changing nature of English language interactions and the dynamic and complex relationships of users of English who do not speak it as their mother tongue begs a revisit to the EFL perspective (cf. Dewi, 2014a; Jayanti & Norahmi, 2014; Zein, 2018b). First, English is currently playing a much greater role in the lives of Indonesians. The shift to a free-­market economy and the increase of foreign investment have contributed to the societal perception of the importance of English for upward socio-­economic mobility (Hamied, 2012; Zein, 2019). This translates to the increase in instrumental motivation among Indonesian job seekers: English proficiency is highly necessary for employment. Though English is generally not spoken in the workplace, many companies require applicants to demonstrate English proficiency, usually in the form of TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language) or TOEIC (Test of English for International Communication) scores. Meanwhile, those graduating from overseas tertiary institutions are usually offered higher salaries than local graduates. This creates a situation of linguistic duopoly where competence in both English and Indonesian has become socially normative for securing prestigious employment. Similar to the sociolinguistic situation of additional languages, which does not necessarily require input through schooling, greater exposure to English outside school hours is now present on a day-­to-­day basis. This is attributable to wider access to information and communication technology (ICT) that has exposed Indonesians to diverse varieties of English (Hamied, 2012). For example, young Indonesians are now privileged with ease of access to English through social media such as Instagram and Facebook. Indonesia is ranked fourth in the world after the United States, Brazil and India in the number of Instagram users with 58 million (Statista, 2019a), and third with about 64.6 million Facebook users (Statista, 2019b). This changing sociolinguistic landscape indicates that Indonesia is in a moment of transition (Zein, 2018c), departing from the long-­held monocentric approach to language teaching that is encapsulated in the EFL perspective (see Alwasilah, 2013; Dardjowidjojo, 2000; Mistar, 2005). Lowenberg (1991) argues for the adoption of the perspective of English as an additional language (EAL), but his proposal does not seem to gain support. Meanwhile, Ariatna (2016) has recently argued for an English as a second language (ESL) perspective. Fadilah (2018) disagrees with Ariatna. In response to Ariatna’s proposal of embracing the ESL perspective to ensure proper implementation of Communicative Language Teaching (CLT), Fadilah comments: “he has not viewed CLT through the broader lens of the social, economic, cultural and ideological context of English language education in Indonesia” (p. 224). Fadilah encourages local adaptation of methods of teaching English – an important statement in light of the calls for localised reorientation of English language teaching in the Post-­Method Era (see Canagarajah, 2006; Kumaravadivelu, 2006). A similar

Linguistic ecology and language policy 47 localised orientation in Indonesia can be seen in recent scholarship that has demonstrated a shift from a monocentric approach, represented by the EFL and ESL perspectives, to a polycentric approach, represented by perspectives such as English as an international language (EIL) (e.g., Dewi, 2014a; Manara, 2013; Zacharias, 2014) and English as a lingua franca (ELF) (e.g., Jayanti & Norahmi, 2014; Zacharias, 2016; Zein, 2018b, 2018c). A transition to the polycentric approach appears to be currently taking shape in Indonesia. This might have started in the late 1990s when the increasing emphasis on fluency meant greater acceptance of non-­native pronunciation of English (see Dardjowidjojo, 2000). At present, awareness of the polycentric approach to language teaching that opposes the monolithic view of English as encapsulated in the English as a native language (ENL) ideology is infiltrating the mainstream English language education in Indonesia. Greater appreciation towards “non-­ native” English as well as willingness to develop learners’ and teachers’ awareness of English varieties other than the “native” varieties are recurring themes in various studies (e.g., Bradford, 2007; Dewi, 2012, 2014a, 2014b; Jayanti & Norahmi, 2014; Kramadibrata, 2016; Manara, 2013; Mukminatien, 2012). Overall, these studies question the fundamental principle of native speakerism that underpins the ENL ideology, which has also been widely criticised in other studies (see Cook, 1999; Davies, 2003; Jenkins, 2006, 2007; Kirkpatrick, 2010; Seidlhofer, 2004, 2011, to name a few). A study by Bradford (2007) shows participants’ almost neutral attitudes towards “native” English speakers and that their ultimate purpose of learning was to be able to communicate with fellow “non-­native” English speakers rather than the “native speakers”. Similarly, studies by Kramadibrata (2016) and Dewi (2012, 2017) demonstrate a changing attitude regarding the view on “native speakers” of English being associated with biological inheritance. The participants of these studies held a more fluid understanding of “nativeness”, highlighting English as a language belonging to the majority “non-­native speakers”, or everyone who uses it, rather than the minority “native speakers”. Bearing this in mind, Jayanti and Norahmi (2014) call for a revisit of the EFL perspective. Jayanti and Norahmi argue that the EFL perspective places unreasonable expectations on the part of the students and does not reflect the emergence of the pluricentric view of English. I have discussed elsewhere (Zein, 2018b, pp. 6–7) that despite some differences, the polycentric perspectives of EIL and ELF are essentially the same, both serving an epistemological framework in the critical evaluation of the conceptualisations of English. The EIL and ELF perspectives account for sociolinguistic realities of English within various contexts, highlighting the inevitability of variations in linguistic and cultural behaviour (Jenkins, 2007; Marlina, 2016; Seidlhofer, 2004; Sharifian, 2009). Both perspectives also embrace a similar view on language change and linguistic adaptability, characterised by the evolution of English seen in the epicentre of English ecology and in the periphery through the emergence of New Englishes (Jenkins, 2007; Sharifian, 2009). It is not my intention to discuss the similarities between the two perspectives in detail here,

48  Linguistic ecology and language policy as doing so would require research on its own. But what I would like to argue is that I am more inclined to adopt the ELF perspective as an umbrella term that better suits the Indonesian context. First and foremost, the assertions to maintain the EFL perspective or to adopt the ESL perspective do not stand in the background of Indonesia’s changing sociolinguistic landscape. Indonesians are currently confronted by the main socio-­pragmatic function of English in which it is mainly used among people who speak it as a lingua franca. For Indonesians, it is more urgent to be able to communicate successfully in English with other members of the Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN), that is, people from Brunei Darussalam, Cambodia, Laos, Malaysia, Myanmar, Singapore, the Philippines, Thailand and Vietnam. The adoption of English as the official language of ASEAN heightened the emphasis on the use of ELF to communicate with other ASEAN members. Opportunities to work and trade with people within the ASEAN Economic Community are widely open, allowing for a lingua franca use of English. Thus, cross-­cultural interactions between Indonesians and their ASEAN counterparts make the most realistic setting for most Indonesians, rather than the traditionally defined “native speakers” of English from England or the United States (see Kirkpatrick, 2010, 2011, 2012a, 2012b). This implies that adhering to the “native speaker” norm, which underlies both EFL and ESL perspectives, is no longer necessary. The key issue for Indonesian learners of English as part of the ASEAN community is no longer native-­like English, but how to get their message across, that is, how they can understand and be understood within the ELF context (Hamied, 2012; Kirkpatrick, 2010, 2012a, 2012b). It is more relevant for Indonesians to learn to accomplish communicative functions in lingua franca situations than to acquire native-­speaking proficiency or to sound like “native speakers”. This is a growing ELF awareness that has permeated the realm of English language education in Indonesia (see Zacharias, 2016) and has recently been embraced in the domain of teacher education (see Zein, 2018d). Second, ELF has transformative power in terms of language policy. The connection between ELF and language policy is made evident by the fact that global language policy is confronted by the ethical, political and scholarly questions concerning the established role of English as a predominant lingua franca. Lo Bianco (2016) envisages how ELF joins policy conversations because its proponents pose “a direct challenge to what is taken to be the proper way to think and talk about language” (p. 265). Consequently, the two fields of language policy and ELF share a mutual concern about the agenda to subvert the privilege bias associated with a particular variety of English (e.g., American English, British English). The identification of what counts as “acceptable” English is a common theme uniting ELF and language policy (Lo Bianco, 2014) – an issue of concern in status planning. This leads to the issue revolving around the recognition of ELF speakers. For van Els (2005), “The wide distribution of English as a lingua franca is important in planning considerations because the ownership situation – nobody’s exclusive ‘possession’ – makes it a very suitable candidate for acceptance

Linguistic ecology and language policy 49 as second-­language-­for-­all” (p. 973). Indeed, the power dynamics associated with the recognition of ELF communication as a legitimate linguistic repertoire and ELF users having a unique form of linguistic capital are issues worth exploring in language policy scholarship. There is a third reason which is relevant to the issue here, that is, the relationship between ELF and character building. ELF is supportive of the discourse of Character Building because it allows for a new understanding of English in new fields and cultural contexts to emerge, being detached from the cultural contexts traditionally belonging to the “native speakers” such as British or American culture (Kirkpatrick, 2010, 2011). Adopting an ELF perspective allows for the utilisation of English that suits the local Indonesian context and requires adherence to social, religious and cultural values. Space constrains me from exploring the issue further in this section, hence the reader is encouraged to read Sub-­ Section 6.5.5 where the issue is discussed in detail.

2.8.  Sociolinguistic situation It is clear from the preceding sections that complex elements of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology include a national language (i.e., Indonesian), indigenous languages of a wide-­ranging number of speakers, RLFs, heritage languages, sign languages, additional and foreign languages and an international lingua franca (i.e., English). All these elements interact with one another, complicated by practices of language mixing that are commonplace in the country. They form a certain sociolinguistic situation, referring to a social organisation of linguistic varieties and practices of language mixing with varying degrees of status, functional differentiation and attitude towards them in different settings. Such a sociolinguistic situation appears to be dynamic, complex and polycentric, contradicting previous conceptualisations of Indonesia being diglossic (Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995), complex diglossic (Arka, 2013; Moeliono, 1986) and polyglossic (Musgrave, 2014; Steinhauer, 1994). I discuss this in the following sub-sections.

2.8.1.  Diglossia, complex diglossia, polyglossia or . . .? Diglossia is a sociolinguistic concept introduced by prominent linguist Charles A. Ferguson (1959), referring to a relatively stable language situation in which . . . there is a very divergent, highly codified (often grammatically more complex) superposed variety . . . which is learned largely by formal education and is used for most written and formal spoken purposes but is not used by any sector of the community for ordinary conversation. (p. 336) Sneddon (2003b) strictly follows Ferguson’s explanation, hence categorising Standard Indonesian as the superposed variety or high variety (H) while colloquial, informal or varieties of Indonesian as the low variety (L). According to

50  Linguistic ecology and language policy Sneddon, the diglossic situation between Standard Indonesian and the local varieties of Indonesian exist on a continuum in which [a]t the “low” extreme only features of the [low] variety will occur. As the social situation shifts from very informal, elements of the high variant will begin to appear and will occur with increasing frequency as the situation becomes more formal. (p. 534) The H variety being reserved for Standard Indonesian has been instigated by the ideological obfuscation of its status as a unifying language (see Chapter 3) and then later perpetuated by the education system (see Chapter 6). Over time, the place of Indonesian in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology has become undisputable, paving the way for language commodification. Proficiency in the language has become linguistic capital in the Bourdieusian (1991) sense, which leads to the instrumental value of Indonesian as being important for social and economic mobility. Anyone wanting to pursue social and economic aspirations would push themselves to master Indonesian. The language has been associated with the ways of life of sophisticated urbanites and educated groups. Cultural recognition and often political representation are open, and sometimes restricted, only to members of these groups (cf. Harper, 2013; Lowenberg, 1992; Nababan, 1985, 1991). These conditions allow Indonesian to accrue high “Q-­value” – a term that Dutch sociologist Abram de Swaan (1993) coined in order to describe the communicative potential of a linguistic variety, in aspects including the number of people one can expect to communicate with. Thus, individuals and groups aspire to add Indonesian to their linguistic repertoire as they consider its potential to return the highest communication payoff, a process that increases Q-­value. For this reason, Indonesian is said to sit on top of the hierarchy of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology (see Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986; cf. Goebel, 2015, 2018). However, the use of Standard Indonesian has been limited to official functions where the language is spoken in formal domains, often in an impersonal manner. The H variety is used in news reports on televisions and editorials in the newspapers and magazines, legal documents and formal speeches, but the majority of the Indonesian population do not really speak it. They could strive to speak their best approximation of the H variety as required in formal situations, and yet in daily conversations they would speak geographically and ethnically based varieties of Indonesian such as Manado Malay and Ambon Malay, or colloquial ­Indonesian – all representing the L varieties (Errington, 1998b, 2000; Harper, 2013; Heryanto, 1995; Sneddon, 2003a, 2003b). Reserving the H variety for Standard Indonesian and the L variety for varieties of Malay/Indonesian or its informal or colloquial forms is indeed faithful to Ferguson’s original conception of diglossia as a single-­language phenomenon, as Sneddon (2003b) had intended it. But it does not capture the complexity of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology where hundreds of other indigenous languages

Linguistic ecology and language policy 51 cannot be ignored. Sneddon himself indicates that indigenous languages deserve consideration, and so small indigenous languages such as Ambel (1,000 speakers), Barakai (4,450 speakers) and Kimki (500 speakers) (Simons & Fennig, 2017a) cannot be left out of the picture. As opposed to Indonesian that is a central language, being used as a language of education and official language for governance, these small indigenous languages, using de Swaan’s (2001) term, are peripheral languages. Languages such as Ambel, Barakai and Kimki are peripheral languages because they have limited use, being spoken mainly for local communication, hence having limited social value. With the complexity of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, it would seem reasonable to examine diglossia in the context of multilingualism, hence expanding the concept beyond a single language phenomenon – a proposal offered by Joshua Fishman (1967). Although it was criticised by Timm (1981) for Fishman’s inaccurate characterisation of Ferguson’s definition of diglossia, the proposal correctly identifies that diglossia may be found in various contexts. For example, diglossia may be found in multilingual societies which officially recognise several languages, and in societies which are multilingual in the sense that they employ separate dialects, registers or varieties of any kind. Previous studies (e.g., Abas, 1987; Anwar, 1976; Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Lo Bianco, 2012; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995; Nababan, 1985; Sneddon, 2003a) suggest a diglossic situation in Indonesia within this perspective of multilingualism. Lo Bianco states, “it remains true that a generalized hierarchical diglossia has arisen, with H functions allocated to the state language and L functions reserved for local languages, since their spheres of operation are more and more restricted” (p. 515) (cf. Arka, 2013; Goebel, 2015, 2018). Moeliono and Grimes (1995) add varieties of Indonesian to the equation, placing them below the H. For Moeliono (1986), understanding Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation under what he calls “complex multilingual diglossia” (p. 51) means that there are interactions between Indonesian as the dominant language, its regional varieties and other indigenous languages. Similarly, Grimes (1996a) explains, Within Indonesia, Indonesian is used as the “High” of an acrolect-­basilect continuum in a pluralistic, multilingual society. Toward the lower end of the continuum are found both a diverse variety of vernacular languages (including Malay vernaculars) and distinct regional varieties of Trade Malay which have been in a stable diglossic relationship with the vernaculars for centuries. (p. 719) Bearing this in mind, Arka (2013) argues that Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape reflects “complex diglossic or polyglossic situations” where there are “constant contact and competition among languages” (p. 78). Seemingly taking a similar perspective of Indonesia’s multilingualism with Arka, Musgrave (2014) and Steinhauer (1994) use the term polyglossia. Steinhauer does not provide a specific explanation, but Musgrave explains the idea of polyglossia through the

52  Linguistic ecology and language policy case of a shift to Indonesian among Javanese speakers in Malang. According to Musgrave, the shift can actually mean a shift to a wide range of varieties of Indonesian, ranging from a colloquial variety shared by educated speakers to other geographically specific varieties across the nation. He argues, “It is this range of varieties which fall under the label Indonesian, as well as the presence of many other languages, which suggests that the true sociolinguistic situation in Indonesia should be characterized as polyglossic” (p. 101). Musgrave shrewdly observes that some varieties of Indonesian may have higher prestige (e.g., Jakarta variety), but it does not mean that they are perceived positively in other regions. To explain his idea, Musgrave cites Manns (2011) whose study shows radio programme directors avoiding the Jakarta variety of Indonesian so as “not to alienate the intended audience” (p. 101). Overall, the conceptualisations of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation as diglossia (Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995), complex diglossia (Arka, 2013; Moeliono, 1986) and polyglossia (Musgrave, 2014; Steinhauer, 1994) are important contributions to sociolinguistics. In one way or the other, they demonstrate the hierarchical relationships between Indonesian, Malayic RLFs and indigenous languages. Nonetheless, I view Indonesia’s superdiversity as a phenomenon far more complex than what has been described in previous studies. A comprehensive conceptualisation of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation requires consideration of not only Indonesian, Malayic RLFs and indigenous languages but also a wide range of other factors. These include the relationships between RLFs (both Malayic and non-­Malayic) and locally used indigenous languages. It is also vital to account for the relationships between Malayic and non-­Malayic RLFs themselves, the competition between RLFs and major indigenous languages, the increased value of indigenous languages in Post–New Order Indonesia, the role of languages in the religious domain, the hierarchy within linguistic varieties themselves, the emergence of new linguistic varieties, the inclusion of languages that are “non-­native” to Indonesia, the inclusion of heritage and sign languages and the prevalence of language mixing practices. These are discussed in the next sub-­section.

2.8.2.  Superglossia in superdiverse Indonesia Indonesia’s superdiverse sociolinguistic situation is far too complex to be explained by terms such as diglossia, complex diglossia or polyglossia. Walking in the footpaths of Platt (1977), who introduces complex polyglossia to describe the sociolinguistic situation involving English-­educated Chinese communities of Singapore and Malaysia, I consider it important to develop a new concept that suits the Indonesian context. The concept is superglossia. The concept aims to explain the complex, dynamic and polycentric nature of a superdiverse linguistic ecology. In Indonesia’s superglossia, the official H, of course, is Indonesian. But because superdiverse social environments are polycentric (Blommaert, 2010, 2013b, 2013c), there are other languages that could become centres other than the official H. These are known as centres of normativity, referring to “[p]articipant constellations that form and

Linguistic ecology and language policy 53 reproduce rules for social interaction including language use” (Goebel, 2015, p. 243). The polycentricity in superglossia is different from polycentricity in polyglossia in that the other centres of normativity are not just Malayic RLFs, but also non-­Malayic RLFs, other indigenous languages and even a language “non-­native” to Indonesia (i.e., English) (cf. Musgrave, 2014). Competition between Malayic RLFs, non-­Malayic RLFs and indigenous languages with the H is not unlikely, allowing them to become new Hs. In such circumstances, Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation is no longer monocentric with Indonesian at the top, but it has become polycentric with Malayic RLFs, non-­Malayic RLFs, other indigenous languages and English emerging as new centres of normativity. First, there are Malayic RLFs that generally stand in the middle of the hierarchy of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, with Indonesian sitting at the top and smaller indigenous languages at the bottom. They are usually accorded as the L, as opposed to Indonesian as the H (cf. Errington, 2014; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986). But this situation changes in some contexts. Within the Standard Indonesian – Papuan Colloquial Indonesian – Papuan Malay hierarchy, Papuan Malay is at the bottom (the L) (Fields, 2010). However, in the context of multilingualism in the Wondama Bay, Papuan Malay is the H, being used as a lingua franca by speakers of Ambumi, Kuri, Roswar, etc. Its importance is even higher than another lingua franca in the region: Wandamen (see Sawaki & Arwam, 2018). A similar case applies to Sekadau Malay. In trade and family domains where the use of Indonesian is absent, Sekadau Malay (a Malayic RLF) is the H for Malay and Dayak tribes as well as Chinese communities (e.g., Khek and Hoklo) in Sekadau, West Kalimantan (Shin, 2010). Manado Malay has also competed with Indonesian in much of North Sulawesi, even resulting in language shift among Bantik speakers (Utsumi, 2012). These cases show how Malayic RLFs could gain significant valuation and become new centres of normativity. Second, while Malayic RLFs are indispensable in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, it is also vital to account for non-­Malayic RLFs. Various cases show that there are more L2 speakers of RLFs than the L1 speakers. For example, data from Ethnologue suggest that Manado Malay is spoken as L2 by 1,500,000 speakers and as L1 by 850,000 (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). Similarly, Lamaholot is a very important non-­Malayic RLF in East Nusa Tenggara, used by many speakers of Adonara, Alor, Ile Ape, Lamalera, Lamatuka, Levuka, Lewo Eleng, Lewotoi, South Lembata and West Lembata. I consider the importance of identifying the functional differentiation of non-­Malayic RLFs (e.g., Musi, Ngaju) and locally used indigenous languages (e.g., Kohin, Ot Danum, Col, Komering) as well as the attitudes of their speakers towards one another. As shown earlier, non-­Malayic RLFs hold prominence in the communicative repertoire of Indonesians across the archipelago. When a non-­Malayic RLF is spoken in society, it is very rare that people would use Standard Indonesian. In most instances, people would use a non-­Malayic RLF with those of different ethnicities in domains such as trade, and they maintain their native indigenous language within their own ethnic community or family. This is the case with the diverse ethnic groups in Bacan, Selayar and Lalatoa who speak Tukang Besi for trade (Donohue, 1996a), those speakers

54  Linguistic ecology and language policy of Tandia and Dusner who speak Wandamen in Papua (Sawaki & Arwam, 2018) and those who speak Belu, Dawan, Bunaq and Kemak but use the Fehan dialect of Tetun for interethnic communication in East Nusa Tenggara (Adnyana, 2018, 2019). Tukang Besi, Wandamen and the Fehan dialect of Tetun are the Hs for speakers of those small, locally used languages, as much as Yetfa is the H for speakers of Murkim and Towei in Papua (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). In different settings, the increase in friendships and marriages between people of different ethnic groups has led to situations where they use a non-­Malayic RLF exclusively, even in the private domain. For example, marriages between Sundanese men and Bugis women who migrate to Palembang, South Sumatra, would likely result in the use of Musi, rather than Standard Indonesian, as the language in the home (see Utsumi, 2012 for comparison in Manado Malay). These cases suggest the significant valuation attached to non-­Malayic RLFs, demonstrating how they could become centres of normativity in certain contexts. Third, the complexity and dynamism of Indonesia’s polycentric superdiversity mean that there are inter-­glossic relationships among RLFs themselves. Language use is never static; RLFs shift and they could be in competition with one another. Sawaki and Arwam (2018, p. 165) discuss how Wandamen (non-­Malayic RLF) compete for space against Papuan Malay (Malayic RLF). The arrival of Malay in the late 19th century changed the multilingual context in Wondama Bay, as the language was then indigenised to become Papuan Malay. Now, Papuan Malay has replaced Wandamen as the most dominant lingua franca in the region. Inter-­ glossic relationships could also mean linguistic domination where smaller languages are under pressure from bigger languages. This is seen in the case of speakers of Onin (non-­Malayic RLF, 500 speakers) who give in to the linguistic domination of another non-­Malayic RLF: Iha (5,500 speakers) (see Table 2.3). But the opposite could also be true. Bugis is a non-­Malayic RLF spoken by millions of speakers, but in Makassar it succumbs to Makassar Malay that is spoken natively by fewer speakers (Adelaar & Prentice, 1996). The inter-­glossic relationships among RLFs themselves suggest the complex and dynamic character of superglossia. Superglossia is thus a sociolinguistic situation whereby ongoing interactions within and between systems occur, allowing elements to “move across centers and scale levels” (Blommaert, 2013c, p. 11). Fourth, RLFs could compete for space in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology against major indigenous languages (e.g., Javanese, Sundanese). There are inter-­glossic relationships between RLFs and major indigenous languages that deserve inclusion in the examination of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation, too. For example, Javanese is generally considered to be in higher status than languages of smaller communities such as Cirebon, Madurese and Osing. But this may only apply to Java and its surrounding islands (e.g., Madura, Bawean, Sapudi) where Javanese is held in higher esteem than other smaller indigenous languages. Similar esteem is less accorded when Javanese migrants relocate to Papua, a place where migrants often linguistically accommodate by switching to Papuan Colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010) or Papuan Malay (Morin, 2016), rather than Javanese or Standard Indonesian. This exemplifies the complexity and dynamism

Linguistic ecology and language policy 55 of superglossia in a superdiverse linguistic ecology where “language varieties that have a high value here, can lose that value easily by moving into another ‘field of force’, so to speak – another sociolinguistic system” (Blommaert, 2013c, p. 11). In some cases, the loss of valuation could even open space for linguistic competition, and eventually linguistic hybridity. For instance, the migration of Javanese people to Kalimantan is the precursor of tight linguistic competition between Javanese and Banjar. The linguistic competition has engendered a new form of semiotic practice embedding the linguistic features of Javanese and Banjar (Yusuf, 2017). Overall, the inter-­glossic relationships between RLFs and major indigenous languages not only reflect the mobility of linguistic varieties but also demonstrate the complex and dynamic character of superglossia. Fifth, the dynamism of superglossia allows for the emergence of new linguistic varieties. Indonesia’s superdiversity means intensive and dynamic language contact between speakers of different “languages” and “dialects”. Language contact usually gives rise to linguistic accommodation which in turn could lead to new varieties (whether languages or dialects), although the process is gradual and involves more than changes in linguistic rules (see Kerswill, 2010). In the Indonesian context, linguistic accommodation takes place in diversification of language practices, which eventually forms new linguistic varieties and provides room for once marginalised dialects to emerge. Diversification of language practices between the superposed variety (i.e., Indonesian), its indigenised variety and influence from other indigenous languages in Papua has given rise to Papuan Colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010). With approximately half of the population being classified as migrants, the two provinces of Papua and West Papua become the melting pots of various languages, dialects and registers. They set the background for Papuan Colloquial Indonesian to flourish while “being influenced in pronunciation by accents that come from Papua’s 280 vernacular languages” (p. 1). Now Papuan Colloquial Indonesian stands in the middle between Standard Indonesian and Papuan Malay. Diversification of language practices in Riau has also engendered Riau Indonesian. Gil (2010) states, “Riau Indonesian is the variety of colloquial Indonesian used in informal every-­day contexts as a lingua franca for interethnic and increasingly also intraethnic communication by residents of the eponymous region” (p. 114). Riau Indonesian is distinct in that its grammar operates in the absence of so many commonplace grammatical categories, as opposed to Standard Indonesian (Gil, 2007). Diversification of language practices has also engendered new languages that branch out from an indigenous language. People used to think that the speech form spoken in Banyuwangi, East Java, is a “dialect” of Javanese (see Arps, 2010; Moeljono et al., 1986) – a view that is still held by the Badan Bahasa (2017). However, the “dialect”, called Osing, has actually developed into a new “language”. Contrary to the predominant language policy view endorsed by the Badan Bahasa (e.g., Moeljono et al., 1986), Harusantosa (cited in Arps, 2010) argues that Osing is parallel with Modern Javanese in terms of linguistic genealogy, both branching out from Old Javanese. In addition to the creation of an Osing dictionary and its flourishing state of use in electronic media, regional

56  Linguistic ecology and language policy policy initiative has even seen the endorsement of the language being taught in primary and secondary schools (Arps, 2010; Vidiyanti, 2016). Similarly, diversification of language practices has allowed Cirebon to distinguish itself from Sundanese and Javanese, and now the language is spoken in Cirebon, Kuningan and Indramayu (Supriatnoko, 2015). Further, diversification of language practices among sign language users has contributed to the emergence of Jakarta and Yogyakarta Signs which are too complex to be “dialects”. Sze et al. (2015) argue that the Jakarta and Yogyakarta signs should now be categorised as separate languages rather than dialects of Indonesian Sign Language. Sze et al. confirm findings from previous studies that point to only 64 per cent of lexical similarities in terms of core vocabulary between the Jakarta and Yogyakarta signs, making them ineligible to be “dialects of the same language” (Woodward & Bharoto, 2011; Woodward, Wijaya & Satryawan, 2011). Within time and through intense language contact, new linguistic varieties could develop following the increased prominence of dialects that once were marginalised such as the Banyumas, Surabaya and Tegal dialects of Javanese (cf. Hoogervorst, 2009; Quinn, 2012). Likewise, the Auyu varieties in the Mapi River, Papua, could develop into new languages, adding complexity to multilingualism in the region (Susanto, 2004). The emergence of these new linguistic varieties certainly affects the overall construction of Indonesia’s superglossia, highlighting its dynamism and complexity. Indeed, seen this way, superglossia works in what Blommaert (2013) describes as a complex and dynamic sociolinguistic system “characterized by internal and external forces of perpetual change, operating simultaneously and in unpredictable mutual relationships” (p. 11). Sixth, there are indigenous languages other than RLFs that may be accorded a similar status with the official H when they are used in certain domains. In Indonesia’s superglossia there are what Blommaert (2007, 2010) calls “orders of indexicality”, broadly referring to hierarchical relationships between different semiotic registers. Goebel (2015, pp. 34–52) shows that orders of indexicality that have emerged throughout much of Indonesia’s independence place Indonesian at the top. But there is currently a reconfiguration of language hierarchy, which according to Goebel (2018), allows for indigenous languages to “have co-­equal status with Indonesian in some public settings” (p. 385) – a stance that I concur with. In some contexts, regional autonomy has contributed to the increased values of indigenous languages, occurring in the mass media, education and public signs, involving languages such as Javanese (Quinn, 2012), Sundanese (Moriyama, 2012) and Papuan Malay (Morin, 2016). In the political domain, scholars also show how indigenous languages have gained more significant valuation (see Harr, 2016; Kurniasih, 2016). For example, Harr (2016) states that “regional politicians’ rhetorical performances in ‘local languages’ raise possibilities for new, unpredictable forms of dialogic interaction between politicians and their polycentric publics” (p. 12). Overall, some indigenous languages have become new centres of normativity, emerging in a manner that, according to Goebel (2016), have “challenged and reconfigured existing orders of indexicality, while creating more diversity from within” (p. 268). Perpetuated by the

Linguistic ecology and language policy 57 media, the positive revaluing of indigenous languages not only has led to further diversification of Indonesia (Goebel, 2017; cf. Bogaerts, 2017; Hoogervorst, 2009; Suryadi, 2005) but also the creation of new centres of normativity where indigenous languages could compete against the official H. This highlights superglossia as a polycentric sociolinguistic situation. Seventh, languages in the religious domain should not be discounted. Some languages serve as the H in the religious domain because religious worship simply cannot be done except in these languages (see Grimes, 1996b). For example, worship among the Hindus in Bali must be held in Sanskrit, allowing for devotees to read mantras from the Vedas. Religious sermons, on the other hand, may be conducted in the alus [high register] of Balinese, rather than the lumrah [low register] (Susilawangi, 2019). For the Muslims, Arabic is the H in the religious domain because it cannot be replaced by any other language. Doing so may lead to prosecution or community marginalisation, as experienced by the followers of Yusman Roy and Wetu Telu, respectively (see Sub-­Section 3.3.4). Given the importance of what are considered to be “sacred” languages in the religious domain (Liddicoat, 2013), these languages are irreplaceable, even by Indonesian as the official H. This indicates that religious languages are other centres of normativity within Indonesia’s superglossia. Eighth, it is also important to consider intra-­linguistic hierarchy, that is, when a language prescribes the use of hierarchical speech levels. For example, registers could range from low to medium to high. Similarly, some dialects are perceived as higher than others. Intra-­linguistic hierarchy highlights the intra-­glossic nature of Indonesia’s superglossia; it makes it even more complex. Major indigenous languages such as Javanese and Sundanese are hierarchical. There are generally three levels of speech in Javanese, ranging from ngoko [low], madya [middle] to krama [high]. This is not to exclude hierarchical Javanese dialects where the Solo and Yogyakarta dialects tend to be more privileged than others such as Brebes and Tegal dialects (see Errington, 1998a on syncretic usage of Javanese). Similarly, Sundanese is generally divided into lemes [polite], sedeng [medium] and kasar [colloquial]. This division categorises Priangan Sundanese to a lemes form and Banten Sundanese to a kasar form (Wessing, 1974). Other languages such as Balinese (Arka, 2005) and Madurese (Stevens, 1965) also prescribe speech levels and socially determined choices of words. All this indicates that there are intra-­linguistic hierarchies within indigenous languages. When examined within the whole linguistic ecology, these intra-­linguistic hierarchies are best understood as complex, non-­ unified sociolinguistic systems that Blommaert (2013c, p. 11) compellingly describes. The intra-­linguistic hierarchies within superglossia make up what Blommaert calls a “system of systems” where different linguistic levels are found. Thus, we cannot think of superglossia as being singularly stratified. Instead, it is complex and multilayered – a system of systems. In the same way, an understanding of orders of indexicality cannot be simplistic and straightforward; it requires scrutiny of intra-­linguistic hierarchy characterising indigenous languages (cf. Goebel, 2015, 2016, 2018).

58  Linguistic ecology and language policy Ninth, languages from foreign countries that have entered the realm of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology also deserve consideration. Increasing international mobility, continuous exposure through the media and prestige attached to languages such as English, Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin make up the rationale for their inclusion in the education sector (see Chapter 6). Given their origin, these are “imported” languages – those languages that are not natively spoken in a polity but are taken into account because they are endorsed in the educational curriculum. My decision to include “imported” languages in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology marks a departure from mainstream sociolinguistic scholarship (e.g., Ferguson, 1959; Fishman, 1967; Platt, 1977) and scholarship that touches upon the issue of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation (e.g., Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986) – both only account for language(s) that are considered to be “native” to a polity. In language policy that employs a superdiversity perspective, it is important to consider the issue of language contact carefully. Globalisation has brought an unprecedented level of language contact, allowing for the inclusion of “imported” languages in a polity’s education domain and engendering further diversification of language practices (see Zentz, 2015b, 2015c, 2017 for the case of English in Indonesia). Most studies rarely take into account languages that are considered to be “non-­native” in the conceptualisation of sociolinguistic situation. But inclusion of what are considered to be “non-­native” languages in the curriculum will always have “unknown effects” on other elements within the ecology – a point made by Kaplan and Baldauf (2008) in their evaluation of the expansion of English in Japanese curriculum. At a time when ideas of “native” and “non-­native” have been fiercely debated (Cook, 1999; Davies, 2003) and when the role of languages holding an international lingua franca function such as English has become more prominent (Jenkins, 2007; Seidlhofer, 2011), it is important to include “imported” languages if language policy is to be comprehensive. “Imported” languages occupy space within the linguistic ecology depending on the importance attached to them by members of the speech community. An increasing number of the Muslim population attaches importance to Arabic for religious affiliation, while others who are interested in Japanese and Korean tend to be culturally motivated. Some “imported” languages may be considered to be more important than others, and one (i.e., English) is widely associated with high prestige and modernity to the extent that it has created a discourse of linguistic imperialism (see Sub-­Section 6.4.2). So prestigious English is that it has been in contestation with the official H (i.e., Indonesian). This is seen in the case of the Rintisan Sekolah Berstandar Internasional [International Pilot Project State-­ r un Schools] (RSBI) policy. Implemented during the administration of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, the policy required RSBI schools to teach math’s and science in English, a move that placed the language above Indonesian in Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape. How English has been hegemonic is evident in the domain of education, where the continuing prestige of schools that deliver instruction in English rather than Indonesian, has led to linguistic imperialism (Sugiharto, 2015c). Meanwhile, the labour

Linguistic ecology and language policy 59 market values English proficiency highly – those demonstrating a strong command of English and those graduating from a university overseas are offered higher salaries than local graduates. Radio and television stations also selectively broadcast in English, delivering programmes such as Indonesia Now (Metro TV) and Up to Date News (Comtec Radio 77.7 FM) while promoting products such as Charm Body Fit Super Slim, Amarelo Hotel: Great Day Starts Here and Suzuki Best Promo – all in English. When naming their estates, real estate developers prefer River View Estate to Perumahan Pinggir Kali – a strategy that Dardjowidjojo (2010) suggests is motivated by language ideology where prestige is attached to English rather than Indonesian. Film producers also capitalise on the linguistic prestige associated with English – titles of popular movies such as Eiffel I’m in Love (starring Samuel Rizal) and Headshot (starring Chelsea Islan) are in English but the dialogue in these movies is in either bahasa gaul (see Smith-­Hefner, 2007) or Standard Indonesian. An increasing number of public signs are in English, while new products, from soaps to instant noodles, from clothes to novels targeted at young adults, are labelled and promoted in English. Having said that, English has now become, in Coleman’s (2016) view, a naga, a mythical serpent in Indonesian iconography, metaphorically depicting the language’s potentially destructive role. It has grown to become “an instrument of social exclusion, closing off opportunities to those whose linguistic repertoire is limited to the local languages and/or Indonesian” (p. 67). All this suggests that English has occupied a significant place within Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape. It has become a new H, competing against Indonesian, even “devouring” it as a naga does its prey (see Coleman, 2016; cf. Sugiharto, 2015c). Tenth, it is also necessary to include the long-­forgotten elements of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology: heritage languages and sign languages. Consideration of heritage languages such as the Chinese language varieties of Hakka, Hokkien, Mandarin and Teochew (Lim & Mead, 2011) as well as the emergence of new sign languages such as Jakarta Sign Language and Yogyakarta Sign Language (Sze et al., 2015) is absent in previous scholarship that touches upon Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation (e.g., Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986; Moeliono & Grimes, 1995; Musgrave, 2014; Sneddon, 2003b). A language policy with a superdiversity perspective accounts for heritage languages and sign languages in the formulation of its sociolinguistic situation, even though they may be seen with less prestige and in low status (see Sub-­Sections 3.3.2 and 3.3.3). Even so, some of these linguistic varieties have higher status. For example, Mandarin is considered to be more prestigious than others (e.g., Teochew, Hainan) and BISINDO is seen to be higher in status than its dialects (e.g., Solo BISINDO, Makassar BISINDO). Thus, there are hierarchical degrees of status and importance among these heritage and sign languages. Finally, practices of language mixing are part of Indonesia’s superglossia, too. Often communication is not done with clearly demarcated linguistic boundaries as in the use of particular linguistic varieties mentioned previously (e.g., RLFs, major indigenous languages, English). Rather, it is done through practices of language mixing where elements of what are traditionally defined as different

60  Linguistic ecology and language policy “languages” are intermixed to become part of everyday talk. Whether they are seen through the lens of the structuralist linguistics perspective that treats “languages” as separate, enumerable and compartmentalised entities (e.g., Bastiar et al., 2017; Budiasa, 2013; Febtaria, 2013; Malini et al., 2014) or through a non-­compartmentalised lens (e.g., Errington, 1998a, 2014; Rasman, 2018; Sugiharto, 2015a; Zein, 2018a; Zentz, 2016a), it is true that “representations of language mixing are now commonplace” (Goebel, 2015, p. 12). Indeed, practices of language mixing such as bahasa prokem (Chambert-­Loir & Collins, 1984; Hooker, 1993), bahasa gaul (Smith-­Hefner, 2009), bahasa gado-­gado (Martin-­ Anatias, 2018) and those that mix Javanese and Banjar to form a new variant (Yusuf, 2017) have emerged to add complexity to the way communication is conducted in Indonesia’s superglossia. Despite their prevalence, these practices of language mixing are usually placed at the bottom of the orders of indexicality in Indonesia, which as Goebel (2015, pp. 42–51) explains, solidified during the New Order regime. This low position meant a negative sentiment against language mixing – the bahasa baku [standard language] policy was the New Order’s ideologically motivated language policy that shunned practices of language mixing (see Chapter 6). Thus, as Goebel states, “the orders of indexicality that emerged typically had Indonesian at the top of the hierarchy followed by some ethnic languages (e.g., Javanese), then other ethnic languages, and finally mixed languages” (p. 231). But the polycentricity of superglossia characterised by the emergence of RLFs, major indigenous languages and “imported” languages such as English defies the policy that imposes Indonesian as the only H. As I have shown thus far, superglossia is polycentric, having multiple centres of normativity. It is important to note what Blommaert (2007) argues: It is obvious that even though places impose rules and restrictions on what can happen in communication there, every environment in which humans convene and communicate is almost by definition polycentric, in the sense that more than one possible centre can be distinguished. (p. 119) All this leads me to define superglossia as a polycentric sociolinguistic situation in which linguistic varieties and practices of language mixing interact and perform relationships that are complex and dynamic, often inter-glossic and sometimes intra-glossic, reflecting their varying degrees of status, influence and order of importance. This shows how superglossia reflects the characteristics of superdiversity. A typical scenario in superglossia is that a superposed H variety is found, usually officialised as the national language, and employed as the official language in education, mass media, businesses and other domains; and alongside the official H, there are other elements, including regional lingua francas, major indigenous ­ languages, locally used indigenous languages, heritage languages, sign languages, languages used in a particularly dominant domain (e.g., religion), “imported” languages, practices of language mixing and new linguistic varieties. The complex, dynamic and polycentric nature of superglossia means that the official H

Linguistic ecology and language policy 61 may be in competition with other languages. RLFs, major indigenous languages, languages in a dominant domain (e.g., religion) or “imported” languages could become new centres of normativity. They could compete against the official H or they could become new Hs in some settings. In the Indonesian context, this is possible because linguistic varieties and practices of language mixing have had varied statuses, being recognised, prohibited, promoted or mandated at various times, levels, and localities (cf. Anwar, 1976; Goebel, 2016, 2018; Kohler, 2019). Indeed, linguistic varieties and practices of language mixing in Indonesia are situated in a complex sociolinguistic landscape, which Blommaert (2013c) suggests has “different historicities and different speeds of change in interaction with each other, collapsing in synchronic moments of occurrence” (p. 11). Superglossia is drawn from the Indonesian context, but I do not suggest that it is sociolinguistically specific. The increasing complexity, dynamism and polycentricity of today’s superdiverse environments demand further investigation as to whether and how superglossia could apply to other contexts.

2.9. Conclusion In much of this chapter, I have discussed Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, performatively naming “languages” such as “Javanese”, “Sundanese”, “Bakumpai”, “Towei”, “Korean” and “English”, and categorising them as “indigenous languages”, “RLFs” and “imported languages”. This presentation of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology with its performative naming and categorising of languages is not to dismiss the scholarship that challenges the widely accepted idea that languages are fixed entities (see Reagan, 2004) and that languages, metalanguage and ideologies of languages are inventions with influences such as colonialism and Christian missionaries (see Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007). The presentation of the framework indeed falls into what Reagan (2004) calls objectification of language, a process in which we assume the existence of languages as “knowable entities that can be described and analyzed” (p. 43). In the Indonesian context, objectification of language has been supported by the perspective of structuralist linguistics embraced in much of local scholarship. Structuralist linguistics under the influence of its pioneer Ferdinand de Saussure emphasises an a priori existence of separable units (language, culture, identity), and concepts such as “code-­switching” and “code-­mixing” are emblematic of this perspective (see Blommaert, 2010; 2013a). Given the prevalence of terms such as “code-­mixing” and “code-­switching”, the influence of structuralist linguistics is evident among a line of Indonesian scholarship (e.g., Bastiar et al., 2017; Budiasa, 2013; Febtaria, 2013; Malini et al., 2014; Yusuf, 2017), although another line of scholarship is moving away from it (see Sugiharto, 2015a; Rasman, 2018; Zein, 2018a). The idea of viewing “languages” as separate, enumerable and compartmentalised entities drawn from structuralist linguistics blends with the language prestige attached to the Yogyakarta and Surakarta varieties of Javanese to form the ideological underpinning for dialect categorisation of Cirebon and Osing. In the case of the latter, this ideology rationalises the classification of Osing as a Javanese dialect – a language policy which was enacted

62  Linguistic ecology and language policy more than 30 years ago (Moeljono et al., 1986) and still applies today (Badan Bahasa, 2017). The Badan Bahasa only recognises Javanese, Madurese and Bajo as languages in East Java and the Government of East Java Province does not endorse Osing in the educational curriculum. But these policies clearly defy the diversification of language practices that have resulted in the emergence of Osing as a language distinct from Javanese, providing evidence of Silverstein’s (2015) contention that state authorities lag behind the pace of multidimensional fluidity of superdiversity. The same line of reasoning can be applied to other linguistic varieties that are still struggling for recognition such as Cirebon (Supriatnoko, 2015), Riau Indonesian (Gil, 2010), Papuan Colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010), Jakarta and Yogyakarta Sign Languages (Sze et al., 2015) as well as varieties and dialects that are gaining prominence such as Banyumas, Tegal, Surabaya and Auyu (cf. Hoogervorts, 2009; Quinn, 2012; Susanto, 2004). While objectification of language underlies my critique of Indonesia’s current language policy, it also sets the groundwork for my argument for language policy to reflect the full front of linguistic ecology. First, objectification of language is necessary because we cannot simply deny the diverse representational systems of the universal and biologically rooted design features that we call different languages (Chomsky, 1986) and how the presence of contact contributes to fascinating, complex patterns of linguistic diversity (McWhorter, 2002). While some activities concerning objectification of language may serve to “reinforce ideologies of linguistic legitimacy” (Reagan, 2004, p. 49), others are essential in language policymaking for various reasons, and for good ones. Objectification of language, or performative naming of languages, in language policy “very possibly orients the language practices and social evaluations of speakers towards each other, and conversely, towards those whom they might consider non-­members of the group” (Wee, 2011, p. 20). I find objectification of language necessary for language policy to keep up with superdiversity, especially in light of new linguistic varieties and emerging dialects. I have shown earlier how objectification of language has created inequalities in the case of these new linguistic varieties and emerging dialects. But in consideration of its impact on the social trajectory of users of new linguistic varieties and emerging dialects, the same objectification of language needs to be employed in order to plan for greater equality in complex Indonesian societies (cf. Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007; Reagan, 2004; Wee, 2011). I see this as a balanced compromise for the employment of objectification of language in language policy, which I further discuss in Sub-­Section 3.5.2. This move is necessary as an ideological underpinning in ecological approaches to language policy (Mühlhäusler, 1996, 2000; Hornberger, 2002, 2003), which set the foundation for a superdiversity perspective in this book for consideration of the role and functional allocation of languages (Chapter 3), the development of corpora of languages (Chapter 4), endeavours to reverse language shift and to maintain languages (Chapter 5) and development of educational models in multilingual settings (Chapter 6). Finally, my decision to employ objectification of language in discussing Indonesia’s superdiversity has enabled me to develop superglossia as a concept that

Linguistic ecology and language policy 63 represents the complexity, dynamism and polycentricity of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation. The portrait of superglossia may be messy, but it takes into account diversity of importance, role and function of multiple varieties within Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. Using superglossia provides an answer to the dilemma resulting from the absence of considering non-­ Malayic RLFs, heritage languages, “imported” languages and sign languages in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. It places certain status and roles to different elements of the ecology, assigning them with dynamic functions performed in different contexts. Superglossia also overcomes the confusion arising from the different roles being assigned to some dialects or registers of indigenous languages, and how these are perceived within the whole system of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. All this makes superglossia a multidimensional picture of sociolinguistic reality in the superdiverse context that Indonesia is. Superglossia is an inclusive framework of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation. This inclusive framework is important for Indonesia’s language policy, allowing me to argue that superdiversity is a useful perspective to develop a comprehensive language policy which caters for all languages within the ecology. For language policy to be comprehensive is highly necessary. As Kaplan and Baldauf (2008) argue, language policy efforts in various polities are insufficient or mistaken because they ignore the reality of the language ecology, failing to recognize that whatever occurs in the context of a national/official language situation will in all probability have effects on all the other languages within a polity and across polities, without reference to political boundaries. (p. 49) While superglossia is integral to my discussion of language policy in this book, consideration of the broader non-­linguistic aspects will also frame my discussion. Schiffman (1996) argues, “language policy is ultimately grounded in linguistic culture, that is, the set of behaviours, assumptions, cultural forms, prejudices, folk belief systems, attitudes, stereotypes, ways of thinking about language, and religio-­ historical circumstances associated with a particular language” (p. 5). Thus, my discussion in the remaining chapters in this book will account for superglossia and the whole construct of Indonesia’s linguistic culture, reflecting how “language policy functions in a complex ecological relationship among a wide range of linguistic and non-­linguistic elements, variables and factors” (Spolsky, 2004, p. 41). This ends my discussion on linguistic ecology and language policy. In the following chapter, I will discuss status planning.

3 Status planning

Status planningStatus planning

3.1. Introduction Status planning refers to deliberate efforts directed towards securing the allocation of roles and functions of languages and literacies over a community or national territory (Cooper, 1989; Hornberger, 2006). This can be done by the State endorsing a certain language as a national language, an official language and a medium of instruction, or by the State prescribing a language as the means of communication with its citizens, or by the State authorising the status of a language as an international language (Lo Bianco, 2004; Wright, 2013, 2016). For Fishman (2000), status planning is the precursor of all language policy activities, because it “provides the mass appeal, the functional goals and the political sponsorship that make all of language planning (including corpus planning) move ahead” (p. 44). Status planning is institutional and administrative in that its work results in the prescribed official standing of languages as well as regulations for their use in public administration, usually appearing in clauses in constitutions, government laws or regulations (Lo Bianco, 2005, pp. 258–259). To begin with, I discuss the development of Indonesian whose function as a unifying language has been obfuscated by the same reason that brought it to fruition: nationalist ideology. Afterwards, I discuss the contemporary status planning of languages in Indonesia, covering the status of indigenous languages, regional lingua francas (RLFs), heritage languages, sign languages, languages in the religious domain, foreign and additional languages and English as a lingua franca (ELF). I then move on to the next section to discuss the groundbreaking policy to elevate the status of Indonesian to become an international language. Finally, I conclude the chapter.

3.2.  Ideological obfuscation and status planning In this section, I discuss the process of ideological obfuscation that has affected Indonesian, and its impact on status planning.

3.2.1.  Ideological obfuscation of Indonesian In Chapter 2, I discussed the importance of the third resolution of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda [Youth Pledge]: “menjunjung bahasa persatuan, bahasa Indonesia”

Status planning 65 [uphold the unifying language, Indonesian]. The decision of the Sumpah Pemuda participants to uphold a unifying language was an ideological decision underpinned by the need for a language that could unite the diverse Indonesian population, rather than requiring all peoples to speak one language. Foulcher (2000) states, “the very deliberate variation in the wording of the third resolution is an interesting indication of the fluidity that surrounded language use within the Indonesian nationalist movement at this time” (p. 380). But the idea to uphold Indonesian as a unifying language appears to have been obfuscated by the fiery nationalism of the Indonesian national activists themselves. This occurred as early as 1930 when nationalist organisations such as Jong Sumatranen Bond, Jong Indonesia and Jong Java fused into one nationalist movement called Indonesia Muda [Young Indonesia]. It was perhaps a case of

Figure 3.1  Soekarno frequently inserted the Struggle Slogan into his speeches Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018e).

66  Status planning innocent patriotism when the youths declared the slogans of the newly established organisation: 1 2 3

Berbangsa satu = bangsa Indonesia [to have one nation = Indonesian nation] Berbahasa satu = bahasa Indonesia [to have one language = Indonesian] Bertanah air satu ialah tanah air Indonesia [to have one homeland, that is, the homeland of Indonesia] (Hardjito, 1952, p. 103)

Until 1938 when the First Congress of Indonesian Language was held in Solo, Muhammad Yamin as the pioneer of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda still believed in the status of Indonesian as a unifying language. He addressed the congress on the topic of Indonesian as a Language of Unity and a Language of Culture. Likewise, Betawi youth leader Mohamad Tabrani also seemed to be supportive of Indonesia’s linguistic diversity. In his address, Encouraging the Spread of Indonesian, Tabrani argued for the propagation of Indonesian, highlighting its non-­ oppositional stance against the indigenous languages. Nonetheless, Tabrani’s formulation of Sumpah Pemuda’s third resolution where he stated “Kita berbahasa satu, yaitu bahasa Indonesia” [We have one language, that is, the Indonesian language] was left unamended. This assertion then materialised in the Slogan Perjuangan [Struggle Slogan]: Satu Bahasa – Bahasa Indonesia [One Language – The Indonesian Language]. The Struggle Slogan soon became a symbol of nationhood. It was embraced in the status planning of Indonesian soon after the 1945 Proclamation of Independence. Alisjahbana (1949, 1976, 1984a) notes that status planning of Indonesian succeeded immediately. The decision to officialise Indonesian as the national language was readily accepted by the public. Indonesian became the official language of the State, endorsed as the language of government administration. It was also officialised as the medium of instruction in education and a tool for national planning of governmental bodies. Meanwhile, the obfuscation of Indonesian led to the misstatement of the Sumpah Pemuda in its annual commemoration. In the years following independence, the third resolution of the Sumpah Pemuda had been recited as “berbahasa satu, bahasa Indonesia” [to have one language, the Indonesian language]. This ideological obfuscation was perpetuated by nationalist songs. For example, Satu Nusa, Satu Bangsa [One Homeland, One Nation], composed in 1947, spread the ideological obfuscation to the public. Up to now, the song has been part of the primary schooling curriculum and regularly sung at ceremonial events. One stanza of the song, composed by L Manik, reads as follows.

Satu nusa Satu bangsa Satu bahasa kita

One homeland One nation Our language is one

Status planning 67 Thus, by 1950, the original intention to “revere” Indonesian as a “language of unity” had been obscured by the declaration that “we have one language, Indonesian”, or more directly still, “one language – Indonesian”. At this point, however, neither the words themselves, nor the date 28 October 1928, nor the term “Sumpah Pemuda” had become a part of the symbolic history of the Indonesian nation. (Foulcher, 2000, p. 387). The 1954 Second Congress on the Indonesian Language in Medan officially recognised the status planning of Indonesian during President Soekarno’s Guided Democracy era (1945–1967) as the national language. However, it did not object to the altered declaration of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda: “yang berisikan janji berbahasa satu, bertanah air satu dan berbangsa satu” [which contains the promise to have one language, one homeland and one nation] (Merdeka, 1955, cited in Foulcher, 2000, p. 388). By the time President Soeharto took over political leadership in 1967, Satu Nusa, Satu Bangsa, Satu Bahasa had become a nationalist slogan. It had become a piece of propaganda by which the New Order regime (1967–1998) ran its administration, highlighting its suitability for the implementation of Indonesia’s national ideology, the Pancasila. Hence, cementing the unity of the nation through Indonesian was seen as an important attribute of a Pancasilais [one having the character of the Pancasila]. Having established this propaganda, the New Order saw Indonesia’s multilingualism as weakening social cohesion, taking the orientation of language as a “problem” (see Ruiz, 1984). With everyone speaking their own language, political and social consensus is extremely difficult; and in countries of high diversity such as Indonesia, this was simply not conducive to national development (see Anwar, 1976). This is why Soeharto elevated the status of Indonesian from being a unifying language to become a symbol of the nation. Indonesian was sacralised as a symbol of the State, much like the Red and White national flag and the Pancasila State ideology. This process, which I call linguistic sacralisation, is exemplified in Soeharto’s 1978 Independence Day national address – an occasion in which he also misstated Sumpah Pemuda by saying “berbahasa satu, bahasa Indonesia” [to have one language, the Indonesian language]. In another presidential address more than a decade later, Soeharto reasserted his position: “One of the symbols of our nation State is the Indonesian language” (Jakarta Post, cited in Harper, 2013, p. 248). This symbolisation played a big role in the co-­development of the language and the State as well as the implementation of the New Order’s discourse of National Development (see Anderson, 1990; Errington, 1998b, 2000; Heryanto, 1995).

3.2.2.  Impact on status planning The slogan Satu Nusa, Satu Bangsa, Satu Bahasa is reminiscent of the one nation–one state–one language ideology, an idea that scholars thought to have

68  Status planning been promulgated by German philosopher Johann Gottfried Herder (e.g., Bauman & Briggs, 2000, 2003; Blommaert, 2006; Kroskrity, 2006; Zentz, 2017). Called the “Herderian Triad”, the ideology made an equation between language, community and place, with language representing the spirit of the people which emerges from the soil of the land. Attributing the ideology to Herder, Bauman and Briggs (2003) state that the slogan “one people, one fatherland, one language” represents the perspective that “[t]he desired goal of unification rests upon discursive unity, provided by the authority of tradition and a unified adherence to the national spirit. And here too, linguistic homogeneity is a necessary condition” (p. 193). The popularity of the “Herderian Triad” is evident, appearing in various publications (e.g., Blommaert, 2006; Canagarajah, 2017; Cooper, 2018; to name a few); and yet, this view has been critiqued (see Piller, 2016). Piller argues that this current understanding in sociolinguistics of Herder as a theorist of monolingual bounded nations is simply not borne out by the evidence. Herder was a keen language learner, who argued for the importance of cultivating the mother tongue as the basis of the equally important learning of other languages so as to be able to learn from other cultures. (p. 17) The conceptual misattribution notwithstanding, the ideological perspective of one nation–one state–one language itself does apply to the Indonesian context, as seen in the slogan Satu Nusa, Satu Bangsa, Satu Bahasa. The slogan embodies the officialisation of Indonesian as the national language within the one nation– one state–one language ideology. I take the same stance as Zentz (2017, pp. 6–8) in understanding that the ideology is connected with the localised grouping of people based on linguistic and cultural differences. This localised ethnolinguistic grouping is inherited from performative naming of languages conducted by the Dutch colonials, when they categorised languages in Indonesia: Sundanese is different from Javanese, Minangkabau is different from Acehnese, and so forth (see Errington, 2008 for discussion on colonial linguistics). The process of performatively naming languages indexes language and territory; it maps indigenous languages onto demarcated boundaries to create ethnicity, hence identifying someone from the island of Madura as a speaker of Madurese (a Madurese), and someone from the Gorontalo province as a speaker of Gorontalo (a Gorontaloan). This indexing of languages, territories and their speakers has made the indigenous languages represent “sub-nationalities” of the Indonesian nation (cf. the notion of fractal recursivity in Irvine & Gal, 2000). Having developed in parallel with the nation, these “sub-nationalities” have their “own emblematic language and cultural practices despite the many differences among the speakers that these labels aim to represent” (Zentz, 2017, p. 7). Meanwhile, one-to-many participation frameworks such as schooling and the media have contributed to the processes relating to the semiotic construction of ethnolinguistic grouping to highlight

Status planning 69 superdiversity from within Indonesia (Goebel, 2016), hence perpetuating the designation of indigenous languages as representing “sub-nationalities”. The centralistic political norm in Indonesia during Soekarno’s administration and the New Order required the grouping of “sub-­nationalities” to form a national identity. As a consequence, the indigenous languages that represent “sub-­ nationalities” are placed under the national language (i.e., Indonesian). Status planning during the New Order Era indeed explicitly placed Indonesian at the top of the hierarchy of the country’s superdiverse linguistic ecology: as a symbol of national pride; a symbol of national identity, an instrument for uniting diverse ethnolinguistic groups; a means of inter-­cultural communication among the ethnic groups; the official language of the State; the official medium of instruction in educational institutions; the official means of communication at the national level for planning, development, and government activities; and the official language in the development of culture, science, and technology – the one language of the nation (see Halim, 1976). The way the Indonesian government has prioritised Indonesian is evident in various instances; for example, in terms of corpus planning that I will discuss in Chapter 4 and language-­in-­education policy that I will cover in Chapter 6. Further, the one nation–one state–one language ideology perpetuates the perception of languages as entities: languages are the embodiment of certain language practices that are created or endorsed by the nation-­state (see Reagan, 2004; Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007). The language practices not associated with the state institutions, on the other hand, are relegated to terms such as pidgins, creoles, patois, and dialects. These are linguistic labels which, according to Blommaert (2010), have often been designated as “less than” languages. This linguistic labelling is taken up by Zentz (2017) when discussing the relationship between Indonesian and indigenous languages. She argues, With the adoption and implementation of the “Indonesian language”, Indonesia was immediately transformed into a modern, singular nation with a singular national language, positioning many other registers of language use as bahasa daerah (often translated as “vernaculars”) in this “less than” position. (p. 6) However, I see no evidence that the Indonesian government has ever placed indigenous languages in the “less than” languages position. The Indonesian government under President Soekarno acknowledged Alor, Maanyan Dayak, Sentani, etc. as bahasa daerah, which, as I discussed in Chapter 2, is equivalent to “indigenous languages”. President Soeharto and his New Order administration also maintained the same policy, referring to every one of Alor, Maanyan Dayak, Sentani, etc., as bahasa daerah. None of them was referred to as a pidgin, creole or patois. The New Order saw Alor, Maanyan Dayak, Sentani, etc. as languages rather than viewing them as somewhat deficient linguistic forms (see Abas, 1987; Alisjahbana, 1976; Anwar, 1976; Moeliono, 1986). The prioritisation of

70  Status planning Indonesian over indigenous languages through The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007 also does not mean the State places Alor, Maanyan Dayak, Sentani, etc. in “less than” languages position, because the Regulation clearly states bahasa daerah. Even the main language policy document in the current era, The Law No. 24/2009, explicitly states so, as seen in Article 1 (6) here: Bahasa Daerah adalah bahasa yang digunakan secara turun-­temurun oleh warga negara Indonesia di daerah-­ daerah di wilayah Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia.

Indigenous Languages are the languages that have been used for generations by the Indonesian citizens within the territory of the Unitary State of Republic of Indonesia.

Thus, it is not the ideological assertion of the “less than” position that contributes to the low position of indigenous languages. Instead, the low position of indigenous languages is attributed to ideological obfuscation relating to the status of Indonesian as a unifying language that was once upheld in the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda. Ideological obfuscation during Soekarno’s administration placed Indonesian as the ultimate champion of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape, crowned on top of its linguistic hierarchy, making it impossible for indigenous languages to catch up. The one nation–one state–one language ideology, being associated with patriotism, closely bound Indonesians. Those who spoke the national language were entitled to full membership of the Indonesian nation (Alisjahbana, 1966). One consequence is the emergence of an assertion that is antithetical to Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity: those who held on to their indigenous languages or dialects were seen as taking a stance against the full identification of the Indonesian State (Alisjahbana, 1984a, 1984b; Anwar, 1976). The argument was part of Soekarno’s political feud against foreign language supporters and regionalist sympathisers whom he lambasted as not being faithful to the vision of united Indonesia. In dealing with the regionalist sympathisers, Soekarno required all Indonesians to uphold the unity of the nation above their ethnicity. Political parties that only secured ethnic group support had no opportunity to operate; doing so would lead to suspicion of insurgence of ethnic group loyalty, locally termed kesukuan. The State under Soekarno’s administration was clearly under the obligation to support the maintenance of indigenous languages. However, given the need to ensure political stability, overzealousness in the promotion of the indigenous languages could not be treated with attitudes other than suspicion. In other words, although government officials kept repeating that the government had no intention of imposing the national language at the expense of the regional languages, any promoters of indigenous languages then were bound by Soekarno’s political assertion. Doing otherwise might lead them into promoting political regionalism. Anwar (1976, p. 268) notes how dissatisfaction with the status of the indigenous languages could not be expressed explicitly.

Status planning 71 During Soekarno’s administration, the revolution of the Indonesian nation required true loyalty to an important national instrument: the Indonesian language. Those who were able to speak Indonesian but opted to speak in their indigenous languages were accused of demonstrating regional sympathies and of standing against the, in the words of Soekarno, “cita-­cita keramat revolusi” [the sacred vision of the revolution]. Such a political assertion gained support in the Second Congress on the Indonesian Language held by the Badan Bahasa in Medan in 1954. A translation of an important statement of the Congress reads: A language policy that is strict and able to nourish feelings of love toward Indonesian and is willing to destroy feelings of lesser self-­respect in relation to foreign languages, must regulate the position of Indonesian and its relations with local languages, both in school, from primary to higher education or among society. (PPPB, 1996) One clear example of the policy to assert the power of Indonesian is the statement of the Minister of Education and Culture Muhammad Yamin in 1956. In clarifying the status of the national language the Minister stated: (1) Indonesian is the official State language and the only language to be employed in connection with the affairs of the State; (2) Indonesian is the language of national culture, so it is the only language to be used as the medium of communication in cultural and scientific fields; (3) Indonesian is the language of national unity and in this regard it must be used in everyday life; (4) All officials of the Ministry of Education and Culture are required to carry out the task of promoting the cause of the national language to the best of their ability; (5) The government appeals to every official in all government departments, to the press as well as to linguistic scholars to cooperate in the effort to promote the use of a perfect general Indonesian (Medan Bahasa, 1956, cited in Anwar, 1976, p. 265). The third point of the statement that requires the use of Indonesian in “everyday life” clearly indicates the ideological obfuscation of Indonesian. It is interesting to note that this statement came from Yamin who was a pioneer of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda, once declaring Indonesian as a unifying language, rather than the only language of the nation. It appears that the threat of regional separatism then was so great that there was no other option than to take a narrow interpretation of the Sumpah Pemuda, that is, to have one language for the entire nation. What was ideological obfuscation of Indonesian during Soekarno’s administration brought ambivalent policies in Soeharto’s New Order regime. On the one hand, language policy formulation during the New Order regime appears to have been in favour of the nation’s linguistic superdiversity. The national language policy acknowledged the diversity of the people and framed it under one unifying theme: Indonesian nationalism. The national language policy provided a framework for the development and cultivation of the national language and indigenous languages in Indonesia to ensure the inclusion of Indonesians of

72  Status planning diverse backgrounds, languages, cultures and ethnicities inside a single Indonesian national society (Alisjahbana, 1976; Halim, 1976). But on the other hand, what the New Order actually attempted to develop is the maintenance of its territorial integrity of the vast archipelago by instilling nationalism and discouraging political separatism. Indonesian was made central to the process. Official nationalism was embraced and perpetuated through the Indonesian language with only some respect to linguistic diversity. Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana (1984a) himself states, it is of course most important to know what the aim of the minority group is, in maintaining their language. Very often it has, as has been said, a political aim. The language issue is then only a part of a larger problem of political independence or autonomy. If it is of a purely cultural character, the central government can take many initiatives to promote the culture or in most cases the arts of that group in the context of the total cultural promotion of the country. (p. 52) It is of no surprise that the policy of the New Order regarding indigenous languages was mainly directed towards what can be taken from them in order to support the development of the Indonesian language and nation; in other words, cultivation planning (Alisjahbana, 1974, 1976, 1986; Anwar, 1976; Moeliono, 1986; see also Chapter 4). The indigenous languages representing “sub-nationalities” of the nation becomes evident. Here ideological obfuscation of Indonesian as a unifying language in a superdiverse linguistic ecology has pushed the indigenous languages into a tight corner. The real attitude of the New Order government towards indigenous languages is best summed up by Anwar (1976) who states that the regime “is naturally suspicious of any attempt to change the official status and function of a regional language because they fear that this might lead to the idea of promoting political regionalism which might endanger national unity” (p. 343). Such a political attitude was limiting to indigenous languages but was indeed encouraging for the increased supremacy of Indonesian. Overall, the ideological obfuscation of Indonesian has impacted the status planning of languages in Indonesia. It has affected not only the laymen but also those who once struggled for Indonesia’s Independence. Even those once involved in the Independence Movement get it wrong. Johanna Nanap Tumbuan, a survivor of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda, for example, once recited the oath in 1998 with “berbahasa satu, bahasa Indonesia”, instead of “menjunjung bahasa persatuan, bahasa Indonesia”. In assessing her forgetfulness, Foulcher (2000) states, “[s]eventy years is too long for words to survive unaided in memory; the accretions of tradition become more ‘real’ than forgotten origins” (p. 401). The corruption might be totally innocent, or this might be seen as an impact of syntactic alteration that began during Soekarno’s administration and was perpetuated by the New Order’s politics.

Status planning 73

3.3.  Contemporary status planning My focus in this section is on contemporary status planning of indigenous languages and regional lingua francas (RLFs), heritage languages, sign languages, language in the religious domain and “foreign” languages. Where relevant, I refer to current national language policy documents: (1) The Law No. 24/2009 on the Flag, Language, Symbol of the State and the National Anthem; (2) The Government Regulation No. 57/2014 on the Development, Cultivation and Maintenance of Language and Literature and the Increased Function of Indonesian; and (3) The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007 on the Guidelines for the Regional Heads in the Conservation and Cultivation of the State Language and Indigenous Languages.

3.3.1.  Indigenous languages and RLFs Indigenous languages and RLFs are important elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity (see Chapter 2), and they have been categorised as bahasa daerah by the Indonesian government. The current policy documents acknowledge the status of indigenous languages. For example, Article 6 of the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 stipulates the functions of indigenous languages as follows: Article 6 Pasal 6 (1) Bahasa Daerah berfungsi sebagai: (1) Indigenous Languages function as: a. moulder of ethnic personality; b. a. pembentuk kepribadian suku affirmation of regional identity; and bangsa; b. peneguh jati diri c. means of disclosure and develkedaerahan; dan c. sarana penopment of regional literature and gungkapan serta pengembangan culture in the Indonesiannes frame. sastra dan budaya daerah dalam (2)  I n addition to functioning as bingkai keindonesiaan. referred to in clause (1), Indige(2) Selain berfungsi sebagaimana nous Languages may function as: a. dimaksud pada ayat (1), Bahasa means of communication in family Daerah dapat berfungsi sebagai: and regional communities; b. local a. sarana komunikasi dalam Mass Media language; c. facilities keluarga dan masyarakat daeto support the Indonesian lanrah; b. bahasa Media Massa lokal; guage; and d. source of Indonesian c. sarana pendukung Bahasa Indolanguage development. nesia; dan d. sumber pengembangan Bahasa Indonesia. These policy statements are important in light of decentralisation of governance. They are parallel with the Law No. 32/2004 on Regional Governments which provides the legal standing for regional governments to govern and conduct their local affairs. They can be seen as promising signs of acknowledgement

74  Status planning of Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity, leading to an overall increased status of indigenous languages. First, the specific endorsement of indigenous languages to become “the moulder of ethnic personality” and “the upholder of regional identity” is a welcome move. It is indicative of a more encouraging attitude of the State. It is perceived that after seven decades of independence, political integration has remained strong. Regional identities and indigenous languages are no longer seen as a precursor of national disintegration; they are important elements in the country’s superdiverse linguistic ecology. This is a significant departure from the language policies of Soekarno’s administration and Soeharto’s New Order that did not provide much room for indigenous languages for fear of regional separatism, as I discussed in Section 3.2. Second, the endorsement of indigenous languages as a communication tool in the family and community domains is an important acknowledgement of the real functions of indigenous languages at the local level. Major indigenous languages that are spoken by millions of people, such as Javanese (68,044,660 speakers), Sundanese (32,412,752), and Madurese (7,743,533), those indigenous languages within the 100,000–400,000 range of speakers such as Gayo and Mandar, as well as those with thousands of speakers such as Yetfa (1,400) and Wano (1,000) (BPS, 2011; Simons & Fennig, 2017a), can all fulfill the function as a tool of communication in the family and community. The Yogyakarta government took an initiative by endorsing the Decree of the Governor of Yogyakarta Special Area No. 1/Instr/2009 to stipulate the use of Javanese language on Saturday within the province of Yogyakarta Special Area. The governor of the province, Sultan Hamengkubuwono X, endorsed the facilitation of the use of Javanese language on Saturday during work hours with respect to (1) official meetings, (2) telephonic conversations and (3) daily conversations. While the national language policy documents and the endorsement by the Governor of Yogyakarta clearly bring an increased status for indigenous languages, they do not specifically refer to RLFs. It remains to be seen whether a similar move could result in the localised officialisation of RLFs that serve as languages of wider communication at the regional level. It remains unclear whether local governments have taken up the challenge to locally officialise RLFs, even though RLFs such as Bugis and Banjar are taught to primary and secondary school students. Other RLFs such as Ambon Malay and Papuan Malay are not officially regulated, but the local governments in Maluku and Papua, respectively, have allowed the use of these languages as media of instruction in schools. There are other local government regulations concerning indigenous languages, but I limit my discussion in this sub-­section to those relating to status planning. I will discuss local regulations about the preservation and teaching of indigenous languages in Chapters 5 and 6, respectively.

3.3.2.  The status of heritage languages In Chapter 2, I mentioned that there are heritage language speakers, including the Arabs, Indians, Japanese, Eurasians, Mardijkers and Chinese who have lived

Status planning 75 in the country for generations. But the current national language policy documents do not account for the rights of heritage language speakers. The Arabs generally experience ease of integration due to the shared Islamic beliefs with the majority of Javanese, Sundanese and Bimanese – the groups of people often called pribumi [indigenous]. Other ethnic heritages (i.e., Chinese, Indians), on the other hand, are considered to be somewhat different from the pribumi, so that the term keturunan [descendants] is more generally applied to them than the Arabs. One notable example is how ethnicity and religion affected the 2017 DKI Jakarta gubernatorial election involving Anies Baswedan and Basuki ­Thahaja Purnama. Many people did not consider Baswedan, a Muslim, to be a keturunan, despite his apparent Arabic heritage. On the other hand, rivals of Purnama ­delegitimised him on the grounds of his ethnic Chinese background and Christian belief. The sociological difference notwithstanding, no heritage languages receive official recognition from the government. The allocation of functions of heritage languages within the local communities has never been central to language policy work in Indonesia. Heritage language speakers are not encouraged to retain their linguistic and cultural traditions, but they are expected to assimilate into the mainstream Indonesian population. Over the centuries, the vitality of heritage languages has deteriorated tremendously. Intergenerational transmission is nearly absent, resulting in the great majority of descendants losing the ability to speak their languages of ancestry. The absence of statistics leaves me with presumption. But with language maintenance no longer being associated with ethnic identity among the Chinese (Sari, Chasiotis, van de Vijver, & Bender, 2018) and Mardjikers communities (Tan, 2016), suffice it to say that only a tiny proportion of heritage language speakers may still be able to speak their languages of ancestry to varying degrees of proficiency. Of the heritage language speakers, the Chinese communities are the most prominent. They constitute 1.2 per cent of the Indonesian population, being the 15th largest ethnic group, spreading in more areas across the archipelago than the Madurese and the Minangkabau people (Arifin, Hasbullah, & Pramono, 2017). Yet, the Chinese are the most marginalised. They have been part of the Indonesian population since the 15th century and many have succeeded as traders. But the pribumi [indigenous Indonesians] have often held prejudice against the Chinese, attributing their success to bribery, corruption and deception. Cases of violence against the Chinese have spanned over centuries. For example, the Dutch Governor General Adrian Volckanier ordered the killing of Chinese in Batavia in 1740, resulting in the death of approximately 10,000 people. Racial hatred against the Chinese took its toll during the New Order. The regime’s early years of administration was marred by the killing of thousands of Chinese who were thought to be associated with communism and the failed 1965 coup d’état. The New Order regime also implemented discriminatory policies that made the Chinese communities, in the words of prominent writer Pramoedya Ananta Toer, “foreigners in their own country”. These include: (1) the Chinese were asked to change their Chinese names to indicate their national identity; (2) Chinese media were not allowed to circulate; (3) Chinese schools were closed; (4) the banning

76  Status planning of celebration of Chinese festivals such as the Lunar New Year; and (5) the prohibition of the use of Chinese characters in public such as shop names. The New Order officially labelled the Chinese communities as “Cina”, a derogatory term as opposed to the previous ethnic reference to describe them, “Tionghoa”. Budiman (2005) notes that anti-­Chinese riots have occurred in many places in Indonesia such as in Bandung in 1973 and in Semarang, Solo and Pekalongan in 1980, in addition to the catastrophic 1998 riot in Jakarta that caused the death of 1,190 Chinese. Stigma against the Chinese has been so common among the pribumi that one’s Chineseness and uncooperative behaviour such as absenteeism in ward meetings and lack of generosity are perceived to be “deviance” (see Goebel, 2014). These discriminations have put the Chinese communities in an ongoing dilemma because they stand in a position between inclusion and exclusion. For Sai (2006), Chinese Indonesians are “trapped in ambivalence” and this results from “the particular way national spaces – Chinese, Indonesian or otherwise – are always imagined as bounded, inviolable and concretely territorialized” (p. 373). Attempts at reconciliation were made by President Abdurrahman Wahid when he was in power (1999–2001), allowing the Chinese to celebrate their Lunar New Year. President Wahid also encouraged the public to call the Chinese “Tionghoa”, rather than “Cina”. The early years of Post–New Order Era were marked by the Chinese communities trying to find their place amidst an uncertain political transition and a dubious multiculturalism policy (see Budiman, 2005; Hoon, 2006). Nowadays, the Post–New Order Era has provided the Chinese with the freedom to associate (or dissociate) with their ethnic identities (Arifin et al., 2017; cf. Sari et al., 2018), although the impact of this freedom is still unclear as far as status planning of Chinese language varieties is concerned.

3.3.3.  Sign languages The deaf communities may not be subject to discriminatory policies like the Chinese. However, a lack of official recognition and limited effort to empower 2.5 million sign language users are evident in the nation’s language policy. The language ideology and attitudes concerning the nature of sign languages and their suitability for use by humans have been somewhat negative, giving them a low position within Indonesia’s superdiversity. Palfreyman (2015) reports that public awareness of sign languages in the country is low, despite the inclusion of a Sistem Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia [Indonesian Sign System] (SIBI) interpreter on news programmes. People often refer to a sign language as bahasa Tarzan [Tarzan language], encapsulating “common perceptions that it is a primitive language of basic gestures” (p. 17). In academia, there is also a common generalisation when applying the classification of sign languages as “dialect” and “language”. This generalisation contributes to the lower stratification of those having the status of “dialect”;

Status planning 77 for example, when the signs used in Jakarta and Yogyakarta are considered to be dialects of the same language. A study by Sze et al. (2015) challenges this notion, arguing that signing varieties on the same island may not be mutually intelligible. The researchers argue that the signing varieties used in Jakarta and Yogyakarta “should be named Jakarta Sign Language and Yogyakarta Sign Language from a linguistic perspective” (p. 210). Palfreyman (2015) argues that patterns of sign languages across Indonesia “appear to be highly complex” (p. 14), but these are understudied, resulting in our limited understanding of their complexity. Despite the absence of local recognition and prevalent misunderstanding, promising signs towards greater appreciation to sign language users have begun to appear. In October 2018 Indonesia was the host of the 18th Asian Para Games. In his capacity as Head of the State, President Joko Widodo addressed the Opening Ceremony of the Asian Para Games. Surprisingly, he simultaneously spoke Indonesian and employed a sign language (Official NET News, 2018). President Widodo stated: “Dengan mengucap, ‘Bismillahirrahmanirrahim’, saya menyatakan dengan resmi ASEAN Games dibuka. Selamat berjuang. Sukses.”

“By pronouncing ‘Bismillahirrahmanirrahim’, I hereby declare that the ASEAN Games are officially opened. Have a good fight. Success.”

This is an important gesture made by the Head of the State. Never before has an official address by an Indonesian President been simultaneously conveyed in a sign language. Nonetheless, whether this high-level endorsement will lead to official recognition of sign languages in Indonesia’s language policy remains to be seen.

3.3.4.  Language in the religious domain Indonesia is one of the few countries in the world that require that citizens declare their religion, obligating everyone to state on their identity card what religion they embrace. Although the State only officially recognises six religions (i.e., Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism), there are Indonesians who believe in other religions and local beliefs such as Dao, Sikhism, Kaharingan, Subud, Sunda Wiwitan, Alu To Do Lo and Wetu Telu. As Grimes (1996b) suggests, the importance of language in these religions cannot be underestimated in that “[m]any practitioners from all these religions share the idea that the language of religion should be high and different from everyday speech, and thus the domain of specialist” (p. 634). Bearing this in mind, it is interesting, however, that status planning as stipulated in the current policy documents does not touch upon language in the religious domain. None of the languages used by followers of those religions

78  Status planning has received official recognition. For example, Wetu Telu is a syncretic form of Islam. It incorporates Hinduism and local animist traditions in Lombok, West Nusa Tenggara. Contrary to the mainstream Islamic tenets that revolve around the Five Pillars: shahada [declaration of faith], five times daily prayer, zakat or compulsory giving to charity, fasting during Ramadhan and the hajj [pilgrimage], Wetu Telu does not require its followers to practise all of them. For Wetu Telu followers, practising three of the Pillars and praying three times a day suffice. Moreover, the followers of Wetu Telu also use the Sasak language, rather than Arabic, to perform religious duties such as sermon. The Sasak language is used in various formal events and rituals such as weddings, cemetery pilgrimages and thanksgivings – practices that are influenced by the Balinese culture and Hinduism. For the Wetu Telu adherents, an everyday language is merely an outer form, which should not conflict with one’s inner language where it is understood that Sang Hyang Widhi Wasa (in Hindu Balinese) and Allah (in Islam) refer to the same highest reality (Wirata, 2018). The case of Wetu Telu is an example of what appears to be a normative practice of using the language of the local population to assist in the spread and practice of a religion. Another example can be seen in the spread of Christianity among the Batak people during Dutch colonialism. The propagation of Christianity benefitted from a strategic language policy that utilised Batak Karo and Batak Mandailing. This was in keeping with the call of the Protestant Reformation in Europe to create a reform of liturgical language policy to respond to the needs of the local community. The use of a lingua franca is also noteworthy in this regard. In fact, the use of Malay as the language of Protestant and Catholic missionaries by the Dutch and Portuguese colonials was effective in the conversion of a reasonable portion of the Indonesian population (see Grimes, 1996b). The proselytisers of Islam also employed Malay for spreading the religion in much of the archipelago, while using Javanese when operating in Java. The spread of Islam in the archipelago has resulted in the massive conversion of the population, reaching up to 87.18 per cent in the present day. However, different from Christianity, which allows the flexible use of Malay and/or indigenous languages for worship, adherents of Islam do not allow worship in a language other than Arabic. The lack of official recognition of languages of religion is one of the factors that has contributed to conflict and suppression. Outsiders and the government believe that followers of Wetu Telu do not follow mainstream Islam. One of the reasons is because of their insistence upon using Sasak rather than Arabic in their rituals. This has led to social conflict and marginalisation of the Wetu Telu community in the socio-­ political, cultural and educational domains (Wirata, Parimartha, Suastika, & Subagiasta, 2012). The case of Yusman Roy, the leader of Pondok I’tikaf Ngaji Lelaku, an Islamic boarding school in Malang, East Java, shows a similar pattern. Colbran (2010) notes how Roy conducted Islamic prayers in Arabic and Indonesian, “translating but not replacing the Arabic text into Indonesian to facilitate comprehension

Status planning 79 by his congregation” (p. 685). This was considered to be blasphemous by the Malang Branch of Majelis Ulama Indonesia [Indonesian Ulema Council] (MUI), with Roy himself accused of defaming Islam and sentenced to two years of imprisonment. Similarly, imposing language policy can lead to marginalisation. A study by Kuipers (1998) shows that the impact of imposing the national language has been massive on the marginalisation of the Weyewa people who live on the island of Sumba. The Weyewa people, practising their Weyewa religion, a kind of ancestral and world-­spirit cult, have a vibrant tradition of ritual poetic speech. Though it was once a significant source of authority, tradition and identity, the ritual poetic speech has been displaced by a shift to Indonesian. This has occurred, nonetheless, amidst the emergence of new and hybrid forms of poetic expression. Kuipers concludes: Although, in Sumba, ritual-­speech performances are regarded as wasteful and backward, and not in line with the goals of national development, they have not died out, or disappeared. They are still being used, but in different, more marginal ways. (p. 150)

3.3.5.  The status of “foreign” languages The Presidential Decree No. 57/1972, signed by President Soeharto, officialised the use of Ejaan Yang Disempurnakan [the Perfected Spelling] (EYD) of Indonesian. The Decree also marked the beginning of the bahasa baku [stan­ dard language] policy which requires citizens to use Indonesian properly. The policy was so influential that it affected the language attitude of Indonesians to the extent that many found foreign languages and cultures inimical to indigenous languages and cultures (cf. Alwasilah, 1997; Gunarwan, 1998). The use of foreign terms and code-­switching to foreign languages, especially English, were seen with suspicion, often thought of as lack of patriotism (Gunarwan, 1998). Scholarship has consistently suggested how language purists during the New Order often deplored those whose language practices deviated from the bahasa baku policy, whether through mixing with indigenous languages or foreign languages (e.g., Alwasilah, 1997; Dardjowidjojo, 2010; Heryanto, 1995; Harper, 2013). This is a double standard given that a similar attitude is not shown towards Arabic, which is widely considered as a “foreign language”. Naming newborn babies with Arabic names and incorporating Arabic words or phrases into conversations are seen as a sign of piety rather than submission to linguistic domination. They are not perceived to be cultural subservience either (cf. Kuipers & Askuri, 2017). This certainly has to do with the fact that Arabic is a language associated with Islam, the religion embraced by the majority of the Indonesian population. Therefore, linguistic incorporation of Arabic words is not deplored

80  Status planning at all. Despite the authority’s disapproval of language mixing or use of English words in public places, Indonesians tend not to shy away from doing so (see Dardjowidjojo, 2010). Such resistance does not seem to have originated from a dislike of Arabic or Islam in any case. But it appears to be associated with a deep-­seated language attitude, that is, admiration towards the Western culture associated with the English language (cf. Alisjahbana, 1966, 1984b; Dardjo­ widjojo, 2010). The administration of President Yudhoyono wished to resolve the confusion concerning foreign languages once and for all. The current policy documents (i.e., The Law No. 24/2009, The Government Regulation No. 57/2014), both signed by Yudhoyono, establish the role and function of what is considered to be bahasa asing [foreign language]. The following articles of the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 stipulate the status of foreign languages: Pasal 7 Bahasa asing berfungsi sebagai: a. sarana pendukung komunikasi antarbangsa; b. sarana pendukung penguasaan ilmu pengetahuan, teknologi, dan seni; dan c. sumber pengembangan Bahasa Indonesia. Pasal 22 (1) Fasilitasi peningkatan kompetensi berbahasa asing bagi warga negara Indonesia dilakukan untuk: a. mempercepat dan memperluas penguasaan ilmu pengetahuan, teknologi, serta seni; dan b. meningkatkan kemampuan dan memperluas komunikasi antarbangsa. (2) Fasilitasi sebagaimana dimaksud pada ayat (1) dilakukan melalui pengajaran Bahasa Asing, baik pada pendidikan formal maupun pada pendidikan nonformal. (3) Pemerintah sesuai dengan kewenangannya dapat memfasilitasi peningkatan kompetensi berbahasa asing melalui: a. peningkatan mutu pengajaran Bahasa Asing; b. pengadaan bahan ajar; dan c. pengadaan pendidik Bahasa Asing. 

Article 7 Foreign Languages function as: a. supporting facilities for international communication; b. supporting facilities for mastering science, technology and art; and c. source of Indonesian language development. Article 22 (1) The facilitation to improve foreign language competence for Indonesian citizens is aimed to: a. accelerate and expand the mastery of science knowledge, technology, and art; and b. improve the ability and expand the outreach of international communication. (2) The facilitation as referred to in clause (1) is done through teaching Foreign Languages, both in formal education and in non-­formal education. (3) The government under its authority can facilitate the improvement of foreign language competence through: a. improving the teaching quality of Foreign Languages; b. procurement of teaching materials; and c. procurement of Foreign Language educators.

Status planning 81 These articles indicate the willingness of the Indonesian government to take what is necessary and useful from foreign languages for the enrichment of Indonesian and how they can facilitate the improvement of Indonesian citizens. Furthermore, they also demonstrate a departure from what was seen as a rigid stance against foreign languages. The articles are not explicit in identifying what is meant by “foreign” languages, but it is generally known that they refer to languages that are endorsed in the Revised 2013 Curriculum: Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. This status planning is still influenced by the traditional categorisation of languages other than Indonesian (LOTI), indigenous languages and foreign languages as propagated by mainstream scholarship (e.g Alwasilah, 2013; Dardjowidjojo, 2000; Mistar, 2005; Nababan, 1991). Article 4 of the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 accentuates this: Pasal 4 (3) Bahasa-­bahasa di Indonesia selain Bahasa Indonesia dan Bahasa Daerah berkedudukan sebagai Bahasa Asing. 

Article 4 (3) Languages in Indonesia other than Indonesian and Indigenous Languages have the status as Foreign Languages.

However, this status planning does not reflect the changing sociolinguistic landscape that I elaborated in Chapter 2. In Indonesia’s superglossia, languages such as Arabic, German and French may be categorised as foreign languages or additional languages, depending on the context in which they are learnt. Meanwhile, English is best categorised as a lingua franca (ELF) to replace the long-­held perspective of English as a foreign language (EFL). It is evident that the current status planning does not account for the wide range of motivations – the different rate of exposure, the greater importance of the languages in learners’ life and the role of a language as a lingua franca – that contribute to the changing sociolinguistic situations of these languages.

3.4. Indonesian: from a national to an international language? In this section, I discuss the elevation of status of Indonesian from a national language to an international language and the policy motivations that underpin it. Then, I discuss the reasons why the policy is premature.

3.4.1.  Status elevation and policy motivations The current policy documents contain explicit statements on the status of Indonesian. For example, Articles 4 and 5 of the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 explicitly stipulate the official status of the Indonesian language:

82  Status planning Article 4 Pasal 4 (1) Indonesian has the status as the (1) Bahasa Indonesia berkedudukan national language and official lansebagai bahasa nasional dan guage of the State. bahasa resmi negara Article 5 Pasal 5 (1) Indonesian as a national language (1) Bahasa Indonesia sebagai bahasa functions as: a. national identity; nasional berfungsi sebagai: a. jati b. national pride; c. unifying means diri bangsa; b. kebanggaan of various ethnic groups; and nasional; c. sarana pemersatu berd. means of communication between bagai suku bangsa; dan d. sarana regions and intercultural regions. komunikasi antardaerah dan (2) Indonesian as the official lanantarbudaya daerah. guage of the State functions as: (2) Bahasa Indonesia sebagai bahasa a. official language of State affairs; resmi negara berfungsi sebagai: b. medium of instruction in educaa. bahasa resmi kenegaraan; tion; c. tool for national level comb. bahasa pengantar pendidimunication; d. tool for developing kan; c. sarana komunikasi tingkat national culture; e. means of comnasional; d. sarana pengembangan mercial transactions and documenkebudayaan nasional; e. sarana tation; f. facilities for developing transaksi dan dokumentasi niaga; and utilizing science, technology f. sarana pengembangan dan pemanand art; and g. the language of the faatan ilmu pengetahuan, teknologi, Mass Media. serta seni; dan g. bahasa Media Massa.  There are also other roles of the Indonesian language that cement its supremacy within the nation’s linguistic ecology. Suwarno (2014) lists the roles of Indonesian drawn from Law No. 24/2009. The Law stipulates the obligatory inclusion of the language in: “law and regulations” (Article 26), “official public documents” (Article 27), “the service of public administration in governmental institutions” (Article 30), “national or international forum that is held in Indonesia” (Article 32), “the letters of understanding or agreements that involve State institutions, the government institutions of the Republic of Indonesia, and private or personal institutions”, “official communication in governmental and private workplace environments” (Article 33), and “the writing of scientific works and their publication in Indonesia” (Article 35(1)). Indonesian is also “obligatory for the names of buildings, streets, apartments or housing compounds, offices, business compounds, trademark, trade institutions, educational institutions, organisations that are founded or owned by Indonesian citizens or Indonesian legal entities” (Article 36). The Indonesian language “must be used in street signs, street directories, public facilities, posters and other information media that comprise public service” (Article 38) and it must be used for “developing and utilising science, technology, art” (Article 25(3)). While these allocations of roles and functions cover the domestic level of Indonesian status planning, a recent movement on Indonesia’s language policy

Status planning 83 shows endeavours to elevate the status of Indonesian to become an international language. The past two governments of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and President Joko Widodo have worked on building an image of Indonesian as a language that could have a political, economic, social and cultural impact beyond domestic level. This means an international stature for Indonesian, following the trajectory of languages of wide reputation such as English, French and Arabic. This is encapsulated in Article 44 (1) of the Law No. 24/2009: Pemerintah meningkatkan fungsi Bahasa Indonesia menjadi bahasa internasional secara bertahap, sistematis, dan berkelanjutan

The government elevates the function of Indonesian to become an international language gradually, systematically and on an ongoing basis.

Article 31(1) of the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 stipulates that the role of Indonesian as an international language is to “assert national identity and competitiveness”. The second clause of the same article specifies that this is accomplished through “the use of Indonesian in international forum” (a), “the teaching of Indonesian to foreigners” (b), “the improvement of relationship in language and literature with foreign counterparts” (c) and “the development and improvement of Indonesian language centres overseas” (d). This ambition is ideologically motivated. The aim to “assert national identity and competitiveness” is pertinent to the nationalist ideology associated with “The Glory of Majapahit”. The idea of “The Glory of Majapahit” was revived by pioneer of the 1928 Sumpah Pemuda and former Minister of Education and Culture, Muhammad Yamin (1955), who wrote Sumpah Indonesia Raja [The Vow of the Great Indonesia]. Yamin extended on Soekarno’s argument that Indonesia had been a great nation, a large archipelago once politically united by the kingdom of Majapahit that ruled from the 13th to the 16th centuries. Politically speaking, Yamin’s argument is important for two reasons. One is that the argument was meant to refute the Netherlands’ claims that the people in the Indonesian archipelago were only united the first time under the Dutch colonial rule. Second, Yamin endorsed an emblematic function of the Indonesian language as a means of unity. He asserted that Indonesian in the Sumpah Pemuda reflects the vision of Nusantara, the name of the archipelago in ancient time, as once ruled by Majapahit. For generations, the widespread notion of “The Glory of Majapahit” has obsessed a great majority of Indonesians with national glory. Believing that they are descendants of a powerful empire that once ruled the archipelago and parts of Southeast Asia, many Indonesians think that they are obliged to bring back the nation’s past triumph. Scholars such as Miksic (1991) and Ricklefs (1993) state that this sentiment of “The Glory of Majapahit” engenders a persistent belief among Indonesians that greatness has lived on in Indonesia; it is often seen as a precedent for the country’s present day political authority. In the past

84  Status planning decade, there has been an ongoing discourse among policymakers that one way of reviving “The Glory of Majapahit” is through elevating the status of Indonesian to become an international language. Endardi (2018) of the Badan Bahasa confirms that the rhetoric of making Indonesian an international language is dictated by the spirit to revive “The Glory of Majapahit”. In doing so, the policymakers have probably exerted their role beyond merely status planning, touching upon what Ager (2005) calls image planning. The aim to assert national identity and to construct the identity as the descendants of what used to be a powerful kingdom is embodied in the image that the policymakers aim to build. The second motivation is political. Constitutionally speaking, the policy for making Indonesian an international language is parallel with the preamble of the 1945 National Constitution that highlights Indonesia’s aspiration:  . . . dan ikut melaksanakan ketertiban dunia yang berdasarkan kemerdekaan, perdamaian abadi dan keadilan sosial.

 . . . and to participate in the implementation of a world order based on freedom, eternal peace and social justice.

There is a motivation for Indonesia to play an active role in the world order in the perpetuation of freedom, eternal peace and social justice, and Indonesian being an international language is perceived to be part of the endeavour. Set against the background of Indonesia’s relatively stable political climate and growing economy as well as the success of Indonesian for national unification, it appears that President Yudhoyono’s government wished for the country to fulfil the State’s obligation to play a more active role in the creation of such a world order. Not only does Indonesia need to be politically active, Indonesian as the official language also needs to be more internationally recognised. It needs to hold an international stature that would allow the country to play such a politically active role. President Widodo’s administration appears to be following President Yudhoyono’s lead, reiterating its aim to make Indonesian an international language. Citing the use of Indonesian among the ASEAN members as well as the appointment of Indonesian teachers as a foreign language in 47 language centres around the world, the incumbent Indonesian government wishes to make such a huge leap. Recently, the aim to make Indonesian an international language received further boost from the First Resolution of the Badan Bahasa’s Congress on the Indonesian Language (28–30 October 2018) that states: The internationalisation of Indonesian is a mandate of the Law. The government should improve synergy, both domestically and internationally, in order to develop strategies and language diplomacy and achieve the target of making Indonesian an international language by 2045. (Badan Bahasa, 2018, p. 2)

Status planning 85 For President Widodo and his administration, reaching an international stature for Indonesian by the year 2045 is important because it is the golden age of the nation. In 2045, Indonesia as a State will have reached 100 years. At a time when it is predicted that Indonesia will have become the fourth largest economy in the world, an apt celebration for the Centenary of the Indonesian State would be the recognition of Indonesian as an international language.

3.4.2.  Why the policy is premature As noble as it seems, the ambition of the Indonesian government to make Indonesian an international language does not reflect a comprehensive understanding of what is meant by international language. The language policy is premature. Indonesian does not meet the requirements of an international language on various grounds. Paradigmatically speaking, in order for a language to achieve international status, various requirements must be met. Scholars such as Fishman (1977), Mackey (1973) and Weber (1999) employ different parameters to indicate the international status of a language. But they agree that variables relating to the number of speakers, economic power, political strength as well as cultural and scientific power are prerequisites for a language to be called an “international” or “world” language. First, the latest National Census (2010) shows that Indonesian is understood by approximately 92.08 per cent of its population (equivalent to 197.93 million people). Estimates of people who speak Indonesian as a language in the home only point to 42,682,566 people (19.94 per cent of the national population) (BPS, 2011). This number is far from being adequate. Even if Indonesian is currently spoken as a first language by more than 200 million people (which is highly unlikely), “[t]he number of native speakers is, by itself, no valid criterion for the internationality or globality of a language” (Ammon, 2010, p. 104). The fact is that the internationality of languages is determined more by the extent of their study as a foreign language rather than as a first language (Ammon, 2010). On this basis alone, Indonesian does not qualify as an international language. Local newspapers and televisions often buoyantly report on how bule, a term designated to refer to the people of Caucasian ethnicity, are learning Indonesian enthusiastically. This is usually followed by a commentary that “many” foreigners are learning Indonesian overseas. But such reportage is often based on questionable evidence. The exaggerated reportage potentially gives false hope among the people of the language’s international stature. This is simply not true. Even in neighbouring countries such as Australia, Indonesian is only the third most studied foreign language after Mandarin and Japanese, but with a declining trend in student enrolment in the past few years. Hill (2016) contends that “there is less evidence of Indonesia’s support to expand the teaching of the language in Australia and little indication of any formal strategy to advocate language learning as a form of ‘soft power’ ” (p. 376). Furthermore, Indonesia’s economic strength as measured in terms of the Purchasing Power Parity (PPP) of its native speakers does not warrant international

86  Status planning

Korean 2% Dutch 2% Russian 3% Arabic 3% Portuguese 3% English 35% Italian 4%

French 6%

Spanish 7% Japanese 8% German 8% Chinese 8%

Chart 3.1  Economic relevance of major world languages Source: Cited from Graf (2011, p. 88).

language status. Although it has the potential to become the world’s fifth largest economy in 2030, Indonesia only ranks 95th in the list of the world’s 2017 PPP with US$12,284 (World Bank, 2018). Indonesian is not included as a language with major economic relevance. Since “[a]n economically strong language is attractive to learn because of its business potential; its knowledge opens up an attractive market” (Ammon, 2003, p. 235), this may explain the overall decline of Indonesian studies in Australia, and why it is not one of the major foreign languages studied in developed countries such as the United States, France and Germany. In terms of political strength, languages draw their power not only from a multiplicity of states that use them as an official language but also from their universal spread where they may be used in at least two continents. Indonesian does not meet this criterion either. It is only an official language in Indonesia, and it does not exert influence beyond the geographical location of at least four countries in Southeast Asia: Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei Darussalam and Singapore. Indonesian is not even an official language at the regional level of ASEAN, despite its strong political presence (see Rattanasevee, 2014). The use of Indonesian may be effective and functional in meetings involving government officials from Indonesia and their counterparts with Malay background from Malaysia, Brunei Darussalam and Singapore. Yet, this is not the case when the meetings involve officials from Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Myanmar and the Philippines

Status planning 87 100 90 80 70 German English French Japanese Russian

60 50 40 30 20 10

05 20

96 19

88

80

19

19

70 19

60 19

50 19

40 19

30 19

20 19

10

90

19

18

18

80

0

Chart 3.2  Shares of languages in science publications Source: Ammon, 2010, p. 115.

who do not speak Malay or Indonesian. In fact, English is used as the language of diplomacy by government officials of all ASEAN member states. Article 34 of ASEAN Charter explicitly states, “The working language of ASEAN shall be English” (ASEAN Secretariat, 2018, p. 28). That Indonesia has strong political influence in the ASEAN does not warrant the official status of Indonesian as the working language at the regional level, neither does the fact that the country uses a language understood by at least three other ASEAN member states. This situation shows that Indonesian is far behind other world languages such as English, which enjoys juridical and official recognition in 58 states, French in 29, Arabic in 25 and Spanish in 14. The fourth parameter is cultural and scientific power, referring to the “quality” of native (and/or non-­native) speakers that can be weighed by “the proportion of native speakers who are literate and capable of generating intellectual resources in the language” (Graddol, 1997, p. 59). Other measures include the Human Development Index (HDI), the number of Nobel Prizes won by native and non-­ native writers and the shares of a language’s scientific publication. Indonesia does not have a Nobel Prize winner, and it ranks 116th in the world in terms of HDI with 0.694 (UNDP, 2018). Moreover, Indonesian’s share of science publications is limited in comparison with other languages such as German, English, French, Japanese and Russian (Chart 3.2). Clearly, based on those parameters, Indonesian is not an international language and is probably far from exerting influence to become one. This argument

88  Status planning is corroborated by Chan’s (2016) study on Power Language Index (PLI). Chan (2016) defines PLI as an index that “measures the usefulness of a language to a representative human being and is not meant to apply to any particular person with their own set of conditions, preferences and geography. Neither is the index a measure of the beauty/merit of a language or its associated culture(s)” (p. 1). Chan’s study shows that the top 10 of the current most powerful world languages are: (1) English; (2) Mandarin; (3) French; (4) Spanish; (5) Arabic; (6) Russian; (7) German; (8) Japanese; (9) Portuguese; and (10) Hindi. Chan categorises Indonesian and the Malay language spoken in Malaysia and Brunei as one language (Malay) and ranks it at 14th. This rank, however, is an aggregate of factors such as native-­speaking population, geographical spread, economy, communication, knowledge and media and diplomacy. Countries where Indonesian and Malay are spoken (i.e., Brunei Darussalam, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore) all contribute to the figures that make up this rank. This indicates that if Indonesian were to be separated from Malay in the ranking system, it would have ranked below 14 – meaning its PLI is even lower. In terms of future influence, scholars such as Chan (2016), Graddol (1997) and Graf (2011) have examined the hierarchy of world languages and made predictions on their influence. While Graddol (1997) asserts that current monopoly languages such as English and French are predicted to be replaced by an oligopoly of languages led by Mandarin, Graf argues that neither Mandarin nor Hindi, or other languages in any case, could play a more significant role to replace English beyond 2020. Both, however, do not predict an increasing role of Indonesian to appear in the near future. Graddol, for example, only predicts Indonesian to become one of the regional languages in 2050, a role that it already serves in Southeast Asia. Similarly, Chan, using his PLI, predicts that the top 10 most influential languages will be occupied by English, Mandarin, Spanish, French, Arabic, Russian, German, Portuguese, Hindi and Japanese. Thus, unless there is a major socio-­political and economic chaos that sees the downgrade of English, French and other major languages in the upcoming years, it is highly unlikely that Indonesian would play a hegemonic role as an international language the way the country’s politicians are aspiring for. There is an argument among policymakers that the status planning of making Indonesian an international language is necessary because this is the case of English, as Endardi (2018) attested. The international status of English has been due to a systematic project set up by strong forces and identifiable agents with clear geopolitical and economic agendas. However, even such a systematic project is allegedly put into practice after a long, considerable process of political hegemony often associated with colonialism. The assertion of English philosopher John Locke in Two Treatises of Government (1690) that Europeans had a Christian God-­given right to colonise other territories came more than a century after Queen Elizabeth I had ordered discovery and overseas explorations, marking the beginning of British invasion of foreign territories. For centuries, linguistic imperialism associated with English has been put into play to support American and British hegemonies, aiming for the conversion of a multilingual reality into a

Status planning 89 monolingual state at a global level (see Phillipson, 1992), although another line of argument points to the development of English as a world language due to its expansive economic and cultural functions (Brutt-­Griffler, 2002). I see no evidence of Indonesian policymakers seeking the path of modern political colonialisation in any way other than making Indonesian an internationally recognised language. But after decades of success in status planning in using Indonesian as a means of political unification, it is important to reflect upon where to place the language in the broader context of Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity. It is necessary to develop a language policy that can truly empower language speakers on all fronts rather than attempting to realise what is otherwise an ultrachauvinistic aspiration.

3.5. Conclusion This chapter has discussed status planning of languages in Indonesia. My conclusion is twofold.

3.5.1.  Setting priorities in superdiverse Indonesia Status planning in Indonesia provides evidence of Wright’s (2016) contention on the suppression of diversity by national history. During Soekarno’s administration, the linguistic superdiversity in Indonesia was curbed by the ideological obfuscation of the status of Indonesian as a unifying language. The obfuscation of Indonesian has impacted the status planning of languages, placing the national language on top of the hierarchy in Indonesia’s sociolinguistic landscape while constraining other elements within its ecology. The status planning developed during the New Order Era reflects ambivalent attitudes towards Indonesian and indigenous languages, given the fact that it only resulted in the neglect of the latter. The ideological obfuscation being related to the one nation–one state–one language ideology has taken a toll in an ideologically motivated language policy to make Indonesian an international language – an ambition that the administrations of President Yudhoyono and President Widodo have set to achieve. Such an ambition, albeit noble, is premature. Attaining linguistic dominance as an international language requires established global socio-­political, cultural and scientific supremacies – aspects that both Indonesia (the country) and Indonesian (the language) are lacking. The political, economic, scientific and cultural infrastructures must be present at the global level first before Indonesians can even think of making Indonesian an international language. Unless Indonesia achieves a new role as an important player in the world’s politics, economy, science and culture, the discourse of making Indonesian an international language is irrelevant. Meanwhile, promotion for the teaching of Indonesian to foreign speakers can still be continued without necessarily wasting resources to pursue an international status for the language. But more strategic planning would require reprioritisation. It is stated that Indonesia may become one of the largest economies in the world, with PricewaterhouseCoopers (2015) predicting that it would

90  Status planning be fifth in the world in 2030 and fourth in 2045. But this is still way into the future. Only when such economic power has been achieved can the country think of other factors (i.e., political dominance, cultural influence, scientific supremacy) and then consider an agenda of language policy expansion. At present, what is worth pursuing is to focus planning effort on saving endangered languages (see Chapter 5). With scholars suggesting that Indonesia could be losing 300 languages or even more within 20 years (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Steinhauer, 1994), it is imprudent to pursue an international status for Indonesian. It is more important to increase the status of 348 languages that are endangered and dying, attaching to them higher economic, political and social importance that could promote their use in society. It is also necessary to elevate the status of other elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity. These include indigenous languages, RLFs, heritage languages and sign languages, and even forms of speech that have emerged as a result of Indonesia’s increasing diversity including new linguistic varieties such as Osing (Arps, 2010; Vidiyanti, 2016), Cirebon (Supriatnoko, 2015) and Papuan Colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010). Attention to the intersection of language and religion as well as the status of what have been commonly termed as “foreign languages” must also be paid. Status planning that comprehensively caters for all members of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology is necessary in this increasingly globalised world where the need to maintain local traditions and religious beliefs is often in contestation with aspirations to participate in the global world. This is a worldwide trend – multilingual language policies have become more common (Hornberger, 2002). There is no reason why Indonesia should not be following the same path. As Hornberger (2002) argues, “multilingual language policies are essentially about opening up ideological and implementational space in the environment for as many languages as possible, and in particular endangered languages, to evolve and flourish rather than dwindle and disappear” (p. 30). Law No. 24/2009, the Government Regulation No. 57/2014 and the Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007 appear to show support to multilingual policies. Clearly these language policy documents remain indicative of the hierarchical status of Indonesia’s superglossia where Indonesian tops the list. This is understandable and should remain so for the political unification of the country. However, the fact that indigenous languages have now been given stronger status in the language policy implies that the central government may have become more aware of their integral role within Indonesia’s superdiverse linguistic ecology. This policy is not a sign of the weakening role of the State, but it may be seen as a movement to accommodate indigenous languages as new centres of normativity in Indonesia’s superglossia as I discussed in Chapter 2 (cf. Goebel, 2018; Wright, 2016). The policy documents (i.e., The Law No. 24/2009, The Government Regulation No. 57/2014, The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007) are nationwide policies that pave the way for localised accommodation of communication needs. They highlight an apparent sociolinguistic phenomenon in the country that there is an increased need for more than the national language in the peoples’ linguistic repertoire. The question that remains is how this could serve as a starting point for official acknowledgement of Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity.

Status planning 91

3.5.2.  Co-­officialising languages Efforts to develop indigenous languages have been evident since the New Order government, but these have been particularly limited (see Chapters 4 and 5). Meanwhile, there are conflicting ideas regarding the use of indigenous languages in relation to Indonesian, with some scholars arguing that it has been in decline (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014) while others appear to be optimistic (e.g., Nababan, 1985; Mahmud, 2010; Quinn, 2012). The theoretical debate notwithstanding, it is important to find a solution. Anwar (1976) argues that one strategy to change this is through official recognition of the indigenous languages, highlighting that an increased status may result in an improved motivation in maintaining and developing the languages. In the current era of decentralisation, endorsing official legitimacy in the fields of governance, administration and education to indigenous languages is a relevant proposition. Indeed, the Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007 stipulates that heads of regional governments have greater responsibility to regulate indigenous languages. Suwarno (2014) introduces the idea of co-­official status for major indigenous languages such as Javanese, Sundanese, Madurese, Minangkabau, Acehnese, Balinese, Makassarese and Toraja. The official status for these major indigenous languages is expected to elevate their prestige in society while increasing their role in domains such as the media, education and business. Extending upon Suwarno’s argument, I consider the benefit of co-­official status for RLFs as languages of wider communication. Except for Banjar, Bugis and Musi, none of the other RLFs belong to major indigenous languages because they only have limited number of speakers (less than one million speakers), ranging from 1,400 speakers (Yetfa) to 890,000 speakers (Ngaju) (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). Regardless of the number of speakers, the importance of RLFs in connecting diverse peoples in various regions means that it may be necessary for local governments to enhance their status as co-­official languages. Cooper (1989) argues that officialisation of languages of wider communication enables them to serve “as a medium of communication across language boundaries within a state and is used as a medium of instruction” (p. 104). Thus, co-­official status allows for wider use of the indigenous languages in important domains such as government administration, the workplace, public services and schooling at the regional level. Further, an increased status may be able to help promote the languages among the young people and enhance their identity and self-­image, which may in turn affect their interest and participation. Such an attempt must be made carefully, however, so as to avoid the policy being construed as regional separatism. As Anwar (1976) argues, “The promotion of a regional language should not be arbitrarily regarded as an attempt to promote divisive regional orientation but as a genuine linguistic and cultural exercise” (p. 344). No indigenous languages would serve the status as a national language. By the same token, equal status among indigenous languages must be made explicit, and so the policy is not interpreted as an effort to place certain indigenous languages as superior to others. The regional language policy developed by Sultan Hamengkubowono X in Yogyakarta is a welcome initiative towards what has become a more decentralised era of governance. Recently the provincial parliament in Bali has also

92  Status planning enacted a regional decree for increasing the status of Balinese in the province while including it as a compulsory course at tertiary level. The devolution of authority to the local governments means that other provincial leaders are expected to develop regional language policies if they are to fulfil the requirement stipulated by the Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007. The Badan Bahasa needs to play an active role in guiding local governments, so that the devolvement of authority is not limited to local governments hosting major indigenous languages; for example, the Central Java government that hosts Javanese and the West Java government that hosts Sundanese (BPS, 2011). Embracing the true spirit of decentralisation means that all local governments need to decide which, or indeed whether any, indigenous language can serve as the language of local government administration, and whether the same language can be used in public services and in the workplace; and further, which language must be revitalised. It is important to elevate the prestige of endangered languages, increasing their inherent values for what Bourdieu (1991) calls linguistic capital. As Patten and Kymlicka (1998) argue, efforts on status planning such as “the inclusion of the language in key institutional domains including education, public administration, and the media have the potential to alter negative perceptions about the worth of a language” (p. 13). Astute status planning of indigenous languages, especially those RLFs serving as languages of wider communication would serve an important factor in horizontal integration, becoming “a link from periphery to periphery, a bridge over the linguistic gorges that separate worker from worker, peasant from peasant, citizen from citizen, or co-­religious adherent from co-­religious adherent” (Cooper, 1989, p. 105). As with RLFs, this increased status, however, will need to be treated with caution given that the exponential growth of RLFs has partly contributed to the endangerment of smaller languages in Central and South Kalimantan, as well as the regions of Sulawesi, Maluku and Papua (Anderbeck, 2015; Steinhauer, 1994) (see also Chapter 5). Furthermore, the Chinese language varieties such as Hakka, Hokkien and Mandarin as well as other heritage languages deserve official recognition by the local governments in which the speech communities of the languages reside. Status-­enhancing initiatives must be put in place, since perceptions about the relative status of a language are strongly influenced by its value. Status planning for heritage language speakers is very important, especially for the Chinese. Embracing a multicultural platform as implemented by President Yudhoyono’s administration may not be the answer to cope with dynamic patterns of language use of the Chinese communities (Hoon, 2006). Hoon suggests that hybridised Chinese, called peranakan, may find it difficult to trace their historical ties to authentic traditions. Adopting a multiculturalism policy will only put the highly diverse ethnicities of the Indonesian population into neatly fitted boxes of ethnic categorisation without proper acknowledgement of the emergence of new patterns such as hybrid identities (e.g., Hoon, 2006) and the employment of diverse semiotic patterns in interactions (e.g., Bastiar et al., 2017; Errington, 2014; Goebel, 2015; Zein, 2018a). For Hoon (2006) “it is imperative for policy-­makers to recognize cross-­cultural mixing, borrowing and hybridization that takes place

Status planning 93 in day-­to-­day reality so that ethnic differences can be accommodated more successfully in this diverse nation” (p. 163). What is needed is status planning that is drawn from a continuous process of national reconciliation. The State must undergo substantive legal, political and ideological changes in order to circumvent prejudice, stigma, discriminations and ethnic-­based disasters. The status planning of the Chinese languages should be part of this process. Acknowledging hybridity and cross-­cultural mixing is also part of the agenda that includes the status planning of other heritage language speakers (i.e., the Arabs, the Indians, the Japanese, the Eurasians and the Mardijkers). This is a radical shift in terms of understanding language, identity and culture in Indonesia, and for that reason, it may pose a huge challenge. May (2012) states, Perhaps the greatest challenge, and opportunity, that the extension of minority language rights affords, however, is the promotion of a far more pluralistic, open-­ended interpretation of language and identity, recognizing the potential for holding multiple, complementary cultural and linguistic identities at both individual and collective levels. (p. 140) Regarding sign languages, the lack of recognition and negative attitudes towards sign language users provide another evidence of the situation of language policy on sign languages around the world such as in Italy and the United States where sign languages are overlooked, viewed as “impediments” or “used as communication support systems instead of languages in their own right” (Hill, 2013, p. 695). In fact, Skutnabb-­Kangas (2007) states that New Zealand is the only country in the world that endorses an official status to a sign language in addition to the other official languages: i.e., English and Ma¯ori. The way forward in Indonesia must be done through status planning. Scholarship shows that recognition of sign languages is of high importance, given its centrality in affecting the ideology and attitudes towards sign languages, and vice versa (Hill, 2013; Reagan, 2010). Thus, official recognition of sign languages is imperative, highlighting their functional needs as full-­fledged, natural languages. The inclusion of representatives of the deaf communities in language policy on sign languages is essential to provide substantial input to the consultative role that sign language experts and policymakers play. Skutnabb-­Kangas (2007) argues that the deaf as part of linguistic minorities are supposed to have: (1) positive language rights where they can maintain and develop their identity through the freedom to practice their culture and religion and (2) negative language rights where they are subject to non-­discrimination in the enjoyment of human rights. Further, status planning of languages for religion could be problematic because of the misunderstanding of the functional role of language in religion. In the Indonesian context, this does not appear to be a concern for Christian Protestants or Christian Catholics, who give freedom to their adherents to use Indonesian and indigenous languages for worship. The same case, however, does not apply to other religions and beliefs such as Weyewa, Hinduism and Islam.

94  Status planning For the speakers of Weyewa, recognition of ritual speech is necessary in the face of its sharp decline as well as massive language shift towards Indonesian. Kuipers (1998) shows how language ideologies are powerful means, which, in combination with other factors (e.g., linguistic structure, socio-­economic relations), could lead to the marginalisation of a community speaking the language. This implies the central role of work on status planning to reverse it, although this may prove difficult given its association with the feasting culture which the Dutch and Indonesian governments have tried to curtail (Kuipers, 1998, p. 154). For this reason, Kuipers turns to language-­in-­education policy for rendering greater recognition of the Weyewa language, arguing for the production of materials in the language and more effective methods of teaching delivery for language preservation (p. 155). For the Hindus in Bali and elsewhere in the country, it is vital for worship to be conducted in Sanskrit, although sermons may be delivered in the alus [high register] of Balinese or another high register of other indigenous languages. The Hindus themselves appear to be able to perform this language policy well, given the absence of conflict over language use in the religious domain. They seem to be relatively homogenous in their conceptions of the religion and how language should be performed within the religion, as endorsed by their main organisation, Parisada Hindu Dharma Indonesia. Nonetheless, the growth of the community in the past few years means that the status of Sanskrit as a sacred language will need clarity in terms of status planning at some stage. Problems have been found among the Islamic communities whose religion requires explicit use of Arabic as a liturgical language. Liddicoat (2013) notes that a liturgical language is sacred, its main purpose primarily being “the performance of religious act in a way which is reverent and mystical” (p. 2). The problem is that Arabic as a liturgical language is not understood by a great majority of the Indonesian Muslim population. In the Indonesian context, Arabic does not fulfil a communicative function for the mass. This appears to be the reason for the employment of Sasak among the Wetu Telu community and the use of both Arabic and Indonesian in daily prayers by Yusman Roy and his followers. The need for a language that facilitates comprehension overcomes the need for liturgical language. But “the choice of a liturgical language is not simply the resolution of a linguistic problem, it is fundamentally connected to ideas of religious conduct and integrated into the symbolic systems of religion” (Liddicoat, 2013, p. 4). Based on this argument, in the case of Wetu Telu, the use of Sasak may be tolerated because Wetu Telu is a syncretism of local beliefs, Islam and Hinduism. The tenets of Wetu Telu’s beliefs tend to contradict Islam and its rituals appear to set no boundaries with local animistic traditions, making it more like a local cult rather than a sect of Islam (Wirata, 2018). Thus, the use of Sasak appears to be an exertion of local tradition rather than a religious practice. On the other hand, the code-­mixing of Arabic and Indonesian in Islamic prayers conducted by Yusman Roy and his followers is a religious practice. Yusman Roy and his followers implement this while still attaching themselves to mainstream Islam. But for many, it is unacceptable given the explicit teaching that requires Arabic in prayers. In the religious domain, Arabic is the H; it cannot

Status planning 95 be replaced by Indonesian or any other language. Clearly, what is missing is comprehension of the Arabic text. This issue cannot be simply solved by employing Arabic and Indonesian in prayers. It is more appropriate to improve the teaching of Arabic and Islamic tenets to the extent that its adherents are able to understand the language used in prayers. This would help Islamic adherents to consciously feel the sacredness of Arabic. The status of Arabic as a language of Islamic religious observance needs to be made clear in Indonesia’s language policy to prevent misinterpretations and conflicts. Next, clarifying the status of Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin is necessary because status planning has not fully reflected the changing sociolinguistic landscape of Indonesia (see Chapter 2). Status planning must reflect the changing sociolinguistic situations; therefore, the status of foreign or additional languages must be defined according to their individual circumstances, rather than simply a broad categorisation. The same case applies to the international lingua franca status that English holds; stating otherwise is a denial to the presently dynamic and complex sociolinguistic reality. This clarity of status would ensure the elevation of the prestige of these languages, hence increasing their appeal to the masses. This may in turn grow their importance in society, allowing for greater societal support. In the education domain, clarity of status could serve a foundation for the inclusion of these languages in the curriculum. Further, clarity of status of these languages enables facilitation of their teaching. As I have shown elsewhere (Zein, 2018c, pp. 29–31), in the case of English, a lingua franca status goes in a parallel fashion with the teaching of English that is supportive of the development of Indonesian social, cultural and religious values. This is pertinent to the aim of national education that revolves around character building (see Chapter 6). Finally, the dynamic and increasing complexity of interactions in superdiverse Indonesia has allowed for the emergence of new linguistic varieties (e.g., languages, dialects, registers). The emergence of Osing as a language that has a parallel linguistic genealogy with modern Javanese (Harusantosa, cited in Arps, 2010) means that its place in Indonesia’s superglossia is not mistaken. The ­language has been taught in primary and junior high schools as part of the Muatan Lokal [Local Content Subject] since 1997, and this was made official by the Government of Banyuwangi Regency in 2007 (Arps, 2010; cf. Vidiyanti, 2016). However, higher authority does not seem to be supportive. The Badan Bahasa maintains the same view it had 30 years ago that Osing is a “dialect” of Javanese (cf. Badan Bahasa, 2017; Moeljono et al., 1986), while the Government of East Java Province enacted Decree No. 19/2014 that endorses the teaching of Madurese and Javanese, and not Osing, in schools within the province (Vidiyanti, 2016). Similarly, the complexity of language contact and language practices among people in the borders of three regencies in West Java (i.e., Cirebon, Indramayu and Kuningan) means that the speech form spoken by the people has either been considered to be a language of its own, called Cirebon, or a dialect of Javanese. Though local scholars have labelled Cirebon as a “language” (Afifah, 2017; Sukmayani, et al., 2017; Supriatnoko, 2015), official recognition is yet to appear. Authorised linguistic documentation agency categorises Cirebon as

96  Status planning a Javanese dialect (Badan Bahasa, 2017), and so does scholarship (e.g., Ewing, 2014). Meanwhile, local government regulation (i.e., The Central Java Governor Circular Letter No. 895.5 /01/2005) excludes it from school curriculum. The case of Papuan Colloquial Indonesian also shows how it has emerged as a new speech form which has not been acknowledged, as opposed to Standard Indonesian (Fields, 2010). The same can be said about Riau Indonesian, which is different from Riau Malay and Standard Indonesian, and yet has often been declared as “a corrupt, broken, imperfect language variety” (Gil, 2010, p. 115). Status planning with a superdiversity perspective must not confine itself to aspects concerning a standardised national language (i.e., Indonesian) or major indigenous languages (e.g., Javanese, Sundanese, Balinese). It must also account for the emergence of new linguistic varieties, and it must provide space for recognition of dialects and registers which once were marginalised, for example, the Banyumas, Surabaya and Tegal dialects of Javanese (cf. Hoogervorst, 2009; Quinn, 2012) and Riau Indonesian (Gil, 2010). I have shown in Chapter 2 how the emergence of new linguistic varieties and the rise of marginalised dialects and registers into prominence represent the dynamic, mobile, and complex practices of language use that are in constant flux in Indonesia’s superglossia. Language policy must respond to these. As I argued in Chapter 2, in language policy, performative naming of languages is inevitable; in the end, languages are merely ideological and political inventions (cf. Makoni & Pennycook, 2005, 2007; Reagan, 2004). As such “both the invention of languages and their disinvention are steeped in relations of power and politics” (Makoni & Pennycook, 2012, p. 450). This leads to the argument that power and politics must be played out in language policy with superdiversity perspective to give due recognition to new linguistic varieties. Given that all dialects are languages and all are inherently equal, all forms of languaging have the right to be considered a language (cf. Labov, 1969; Milroy, 2001), including Osing, Cirebon, and so forth. To elevate their status to be emblematic of professional attributes and be able to increase speakers’ class or level of education demands radical societal changes, which may be undesirable to many and may not even be necessary. But efforts to alter negative attitudes, stigma and prejudice against new linguistic varieties and importantly their speakers, are an important part of status planning to add vigour to these forms of speech and celebrate diversity at its core. Within the decentralised era of governance that Indonesia is currently embracing, the State and local governments have their share of normative authority in language policy to ensure the recognition, protection and inclusion of new linguistic varieties. Institutional and administrative work on status planning should not result in conflicting official standing of languages or regulations made by the national, provincial and regency level governments (see Vidiyanti, 2016, for the case of Osing). This is one step towards equality – a proper response of language policy to new conditions created by diversification in interaction patterns that characterise Indonesia’s superglossia. This marks the end of my discussion on status planning. I will continue with corpus planning in the next chapter.

4 Corpus planning

Corpus planningCorpus planning

4.1. Introduction Language planners are often compelled to document the corpus of the language they are dealing with, or sometimes to create entirely new forms in the language in order to elevate the language to the level required of a modern means of communication. This is called corpus planning (Cooper, 1989; Eastman, 1983). It deals with aspects of language policy “which are primarily linguistic and hence internal to language” (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997, p. 38). Processes within corpus planning include codification and cultivation (Eastman, 1983; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997). Codification refers to the selection and standardisation of a linguistic norm; it typically involves the codification of the written script, the development of lexicons and the standardisation of grammatical forms. Cultivation, on the other hand, entails efforts to develop linguistic resources of the language when juxtaposed with domains of language use; for example, the development of literature. Corpus planning is the focus of the present chapter. I start the chapter by elaborating three aspects of corpus planning of Indonesian: orthographical standardisation, terminological expansion and grammatical standardisation. Then, I discuss the role of Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, in researching languages other than Indonesian (LOTI) as part of its corpus planning, by particularly paying attention to efforts made during the New Order Era (1967–1998) and those in the Post–New Order Era (1998–present). My focus then moves on to the role of external researchers who have contributed to the studies of LOTI, identifying the work of Indonesian and international scholars. Finally, I conclude the chapter.

4.2.  Corpus planning of Indonesian Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, has been instrumental in the corpus planning of Indonesian (see Chapter 2). Since its inception in 1947, the Badan Bahasa has grounded policymaking on Indonesian’s status as the national language to tackle challenges in planning the language’s corpus. In the early years following independence in 1945, the biggest challenge that confronted the language planning agency on undertaking corpus planning

98  Corpus planning on Indonesian was how to develop Indonesian to become “a stable, sophisticated national and official modern language which would become the vehicle of modern Indonesian thought and culture” (Alisjahbana, 1984b, p. 88). The following three sections show how the Badan Bahasa has tried to address the challenge.

4.2.1.  Orthographical standardisation For approximately four decades preceding Indonesia’s independence in 1945, Indonesian had been written according to the van Ophuijsen spelling system, an orthography developed by Dutch linguist Charles Adrian van Ophuijsen in 1901. Despite its popularity, the van Ophuijsen spelling was considered to be inadequate to accommodate the rapid development of the Indonesian language as well as to include the spelling of loan words from foreign languages. For example, the inclusion of foreign phonemes such as /dl/ and /ts/ caused confusion both in spelling and pronunciation. This means hadir [to be present] was spelt as hadlir and pronounced as /had-­lir/. Similarly, hasil [outcome] was written as hatsil and pronounced as /hat-­sil/. The heavy influence of the Dutch orthography as in the use of [oe] and [dj] was also considered to be confusing. These concerns were brought to the Second Congress on the Indonesian Language that was held in Solo, Central Java, in 1938. Language planners involved in the Congress recommended the replacement of the van Ophuijsen spelling system (see Harper, 2013, pp. 211–214). Abas (1987, p. 86) describes that after some delay due to the outbreak of World War II as well as the preparation for the nation’s independence, the newly established government of Indonesia took the recommendation of the Second Congress. Based on the Letter of Decision of the Minister of Education and Culture of the Republic of Indonesia No. 264/Bhg/1947, a new spelling system was made for public use by all government departments and offices. Known as the Soewandi spelling system, named after the Minister of Education and Culture, the new system resolved the confusions resulting from the use of the van Ophuijsen spelling system. It replaced the symbol [oe] with [u]. The Soewandi spelling system was also able to accommodate the pronunciation of foreign words such as (1) opzichter – opseter to become opsir [officer]; (2) fatsal to become pasal [article]; and (3) directeur to become direktur [director]. The Soewandi spelling system also abolished unnecessary vowel insertion due to consonant clusters in words such as peraktek to become praktek [practice] and administerasi to become administrasi [administration]. After the implementation of the Soewandi spelling system, there were three reforms in which the Badan Bahasa was involved: (1) the Reformation Orthography of 1957; (2) the Melindo Writing System of 1959, and (3) the New Orthography of 1966. Abas (1987, p. 88) notes that the Reformation Orthography, authored by Dr Prijono, was attempted to reformulate the Soewandi spelling system in a way that it could fulfil the linguistic principle which requires the representation of

Corpus planning 99

Figure 4.1  A magazine using the van Ophuijsen spelling (circa 1939) Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018f).

one sound by one symbol. The Second Congress on the Indonesian Language in 1954 accepted the resolution. Thus, what was common as the symbol ny became ñ, and the symbol dj became j. Next, the spelling system introduced the use of the hyphen for elements of compound words of equivalent status; for example, laki-­ bini [husband and wife], ibu-­bapak [mother and father]. The spelling system also proposed reduplication by using the 2 symbol, as in the words buku2 [books] and

100  Corpus planning anak2 [children]. This spelling system was never made public due to the financial difficulty encountered by the Indonesian government. President Soekarno’s administration (1945–1967) did not have the necessary funds to publicise the new spelling system. Second, the Melindo spelling was a joint venture between Indonesia and Malaysia, aiming to reach a unified writing system for the two countries, hence the abbreviation Melindo (Melayu-­Indonesian) (Abas, 1987, p. 93). Aimed to refine the Reformation Orthography, the Melindo Committee was co-­chaired by Dr Slametmuljana of Indonesia and Syed Nasir bin Ismail of Malaysia. In 1959, the Committee proposed the implementation of new spelling of diphthongs /ay/, /aw/ and /oy/ that are common in Malay. Thus, the spelling of the following words was proposed: (1) sampay [arrive] and pantay [beach] for the diphthong /ay/; (2) kerbaw [buffalo] and sawdara [brother] for the diphthong /aw/; and (3) amboy [exclamation word] and sepoy [breeze] for the diphthong /oy/. However, the political relationship between Indonesia and Malaysia deteriorated during the late 1950s. Soekarno’s opposition to the creation of Malaysia that aspired to include the Federation of Malaya (or West Malaysia), Singapore, North Borneo and Sarawak culminated in the policy of confrontation between the two countries. The hostility between the two countries resulted in the cancellation of plans to publicise the Melindo spelling system. President Soeharto’s rise to power on 12 March 1967 began a new era to end Indonesia’s policy of confrontation and bring back its good relationship with Malaysia. The Badan Bahasa followed this up by formalising the establishment of the Language Council of Indonesia–Malaysia. The establishment of the Council opened up new directions for work on corpus planning between the two countries; optimism for Indonesian was high. Alisjahbana (1974) comments that if the standardization and modernization of the Indonesian/Malay language be executed with diligence, and especially if care be taken to adjust systematically the special structure of the Malay language to the concepts and thoughts of modern culture, the Indonesian/Malay language will undoubtedly become one of the most simple and efficient languages of the modern world. (p. 414) A decision to unify the spelling system was reached in 1967 when the Spelling Committees from the two countries reached an agreement on the establishment of a common spelling system that was at once practical, economical and scientific. The new spelling system was called Ejaan Baru Bahasa Indonesia for Indonesian and Ejaan Baru Bahasa Malaysia for Malaysian. It basically retained the Melindo Spelling System, with a few differences such as the emphasis on modern punctuation and the writing of reduplicated words with a hyphen rather than the symbol 2. Despite the intention of the New Order government, the economic difficulty befalling Indonesia then meant it was never implemented. It was in 1972 that a new orthography was introduced, called Ejaan Yang Disempurnakan [the Perfected Spelling] (EYD). This was officialised through Presidential Decree No. 57/1972, signed by President Soeharto. The Decree

Corpus planning 101 Table 4.1 Comparison of how words are spelt in the van Ophuijsen spelling, the Soewandi spelling and the EYD The van Ophuijsen Spelling

The Soewandi Spelling

The EYD

Choesoes Ma’lum Fatsal Pajoeng Tjoetjoe Soenji

Khusus Maklum Pasal Pajung Tjutju Sunji

Khusus [special] Maklum [to be understood] Pasal [article] Payung [umbrella] Cucu [grandchild] Sunyi [silence]

was one of the few documents on language policy developed by the New Order regime. Seen as a deliberate language policy to make Indonesian closer to the Malaysian language, at least in spelling (Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007), the decree marked a historic reform for what now becomes modern Indonesian. The 1972 EYD Spelling allows for greater efficiency. For example, the symbol tj was considered to be ineffective, and so it was replaced with c, resulting in the appearance of words such as cermat [vigilant], cerdas [intelligent] and cakap [skilful]. The new spelling of diphthongs of /ay/, /aw/ and /oy/ that was introduced in the Melindo Spelling was also revoked. As a result, the spelling of the following words was implemented: (1) sampay [arrive] became sampai, pantay [beach] became pantai; (2) kerbaw [buffalo] became kerbau, sawdara [brother] became saudara and tinjaw [to observe] became tinjau; and (3) amboy [exclamation word] became amboi and sepoy [breeze] became sepoi. Next, the spelling of /nj/ was changed into /ny/, appearing in words such as nyata [clear] and hanya [only]. Further, if the base words are compound words, the prefixes or suffixes are spelt together with the compound words, hence the spelling of memberitahukan [to announce] (from beri and tahu) and mempertanggungjawabkan [to be responsible for] (from tanggung and jawab) (see Abas, 1987, pp. 99–103). There were also two spelling reforms conducted by the Ministry of Education and Culture in 1987 and the Ministry of National Education in 2009. However, it is unclear as to how the two spelling systems are different from the 1972 EYD Spelling. The latest spelling system is the 2015 Pedoman Umum Ejaan Bahasa Indonesia (PUEBI) ‘Common Guideline of the Indonesian Spelling’. Based on Regulation No. 50/2015 of the Ministry of Education and Culture, the PUEBI Spelling was introduced. This current spelling system basically retains the specifications of writing introduced in the 1972 EYD Spelling. However, it also introduces the use of diacritics é as in the words téras [veranda] and kécap [ketchup] as well as è as in the words pèrgi [to go] and kènyang [full]. The 2015 PUEBI Spelling also requires the capitalisation of referential words. This appears, for example, in the words Ganteng [handsome] and Bapak [father], as shown in the following. Halo Anak Ganteng, mau kemana? [Hello handsome boy, where are you going?] Saya sudah sampaikan pesan Anda kepada Bapak [I have passed on your message to father.]

102  Corpus planning

4.2.2.  Terminological expansion Language policy work on terminological expansion began during the Japanese occupation (1942–1945). In order to resolve the tension resulting from language problems as well as to utilise the Indonesian language for war purposes, the Japanese colonials established the Komisi Bahasa Indonesia [Commission on the Indonesian Language] (KBI) in 1942. The Indonesian scientists involved in the KBI agency were able, however, to redirect their work to suit their nationalist agenda. They researched and developed terminologies for the purpose of supporting Indonesia’s independence. After independence in 1945, the work of linguists in the KBI was then continued by those language planners involved in the Badan Bahasa. The challenge for the Badan Bahasa was immense, given Indonesian as the new unifying language in its original form, the Riau dialect of Malay, lacked vocabulary that could explain the richness of Indonesia’s diverse cultures as well as the advances of the modern world (Alisjahbana, 1974, 1984b). As one of the language planners who were involved in the process, Alisjahbana (1974) believed that Indonesian should be different from its linguistic origin, the Riau dialect of Malay, taking a departure from what had already been a defunct literary medium. The changing times following Independence meant Indonesian should reflect the modernity as well as the rich cultural heritage of the nation. Consequently, borrowing from indigenous languages such as Javanese and Betawi as well as foreign languages such as English and Dutch would serve a fitting purpose. The principle for lexical additions to Indonesian was that words must reflect and express the scientific and technological values of the modern world. They must also be in accordance with cultural values associated with indigenous languages. The process, according to Kridalaksana (1976), follows these steps: (1) by taking a common word or phrase and then giving it a special signification; (2) by creating a new word through the use and manipulation of affixes from a word stem or root; (3) by creating new compound words out of everyday vocabulary; (4) by creating a new form through analogy; (5) by creating special abbreviations or acronyms; (6) by resorting to loan-­translation; (7) by adopting foreign terms. These are the principles that have guided language planners in the Badan Bahasa when borrowing from indigenous, heritage and foreign languages. What Rubin (1977) calls “considerable” borrowing from indigenous languages has been done with languages such as Minangkabau, Javanese, Sundanese, Banjar and Betawi playing a prominent role (Table 4.2). As Table 4.2 shows, Javanese contributes more words to Indonesian than other indigenous languages. With positions of political power tending to be occupied by people of Javanese origin, what Table 4.1 indicates is further dominance of Javanese in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. This linguistic predominance was once feared to have eroded the neutrality of the national language (Abas, 1987; Anderson, 1990). Anderson argues that Indonesian has the skeleton of revolutionary Malay but “Javanese flesh”, highlighting how the language has been influenced by Javanese system of thought.

Corpus planning 103 Table 4.2 Numbers of Indonesian words borrowed from indigenous, heritage and foreign languages Indigenous language

Number of words

Heritage or foreign language

Number of words

Javanese Minangkabau Sundanese Madurese Balinese Acehnese Banjar

1,109  929  223  221  153  112  100

Dutch English Arabic Sanskrit Chinese (Hokkien) Portuguese Persian Hindi

3,280 1,610 1,495 677 290 131 63 7

This assertion, however, is a moot point. Modern Indonesian is not only influenced by Javanese but also by many other languages. For one, it is not that Javanese is leading the race by far. Minangkabau follows Javanese quite closely with 929 words, while Sundanese and Madurese trail with 223 and 221, respectively. Heritage languages such as Arabic and Hokkien Chinese, on the other hand, in combination contribute more words than Javanese: 1,785. Readers familiar with Indonesian would also be able to see from Table 4.3 that there are more common words coming from Arabic and Minangkabau, including manusia [human], tinggi [tall], ilmu [knowledge], jawab [to answer], napas [to breathe] and koran [newspapers]. Culinary-­related words of Hokkien Chinese origin are also common, including bakso [meatball], bihun [white noodle] and tahu [tofu]. These words have become part of everyday lexicon – second language learners of Indonesian (and even many Indonesians themselves) would think they are original Indonesian. Many words in Indonesian are of Arabic origin. This is primarily because Malay was once the medium of the spread of Islam. The fact that a great majority of the Indonesian population are Muslims helped facilitate the introduction of additional Arabic words. The Indonesian word for “science” is ilmu, drawn from an Arabic word; the word for “term” is istilah, another Arabic word. Many other Arabic words were likewise introduced into the modern Indonesian language, such as aljabar, almanak, nadir, which have since been accepted internationally [algebra, almanac, nadir]; while words of Greek origin have been Indonesianised through the adoption of Arabic words (e.g., filsafat [philosophy]). One would think that Arabic enters the Indonesian lexicon merely through words that are associated with Islam. But this is not necessarily true, since words such as jawab [to answer], masyarakat [society] and napas [to breathe] have no religious connotation. Even the word koran that is derived from Islam’s holy book: al-­Quran [The Koran] only means something as plain as “newspapers”. Meanwhile, Sanskrit entered the Indonesian lexicon through Javanese, and many of these words are vital political lexicons. For example, the Pancasila are the five fundamentals of Indonesia’s nationalist ideology, dwiwarna [two colours] is

Arabic Abad [Century] Ilmu [Knowledge] Jawab [To answer] Koran [Newspapers] Masjid [Mosque] Masyarakat [Society] Musyawarah [Discussion] Napas [Breathe]

Hokkien Chinese Angpao [Envelope filled with money] Bakso [Meatball] Bihun [Rice noodles] Engkong[Grandfather] Guci [Jar] Jamu [Traditional herbs] Kongko [Chatting, gathering] Tahu [Tofu]

Minangkabau Acuh [Indifferent] Cabul [Obscene] Cemooh [Scorn] Gigih [Persistent] Bertele-tele [Long-winded] Kumbang [Beetle] Manusia [Human] Tinggi [Tall]

Betawi

Ambek [Sulk] Bengep [Swollen] Bencong [Transgender] Cewek [Girl] Cakep [Cute] Gacoan [Lover] Genit [Flirtatious] Mantep [Firm, Steady]

Sundanese

Asoy [Fun] Anjangsana [To visit] Bagong [Big and heavy] Nyeri [Painful] Majikan [Employer] Mending [Better] Meriang [Cold] Teteh [Older sister]

Javanese

Ampuh [Effective] Aksara [Alphabet] Budeg [Deaf] Copot [Uninstall] Dengkul [Knee] Jajan [Snack] Langka [Rare] Lugu [Innocent]

Table 4.3  Samples of Indonesian words borrowed from indigenous and heritage languages

Corpus planning 105 the Indonesian flag of red and white, saptamarga are the seven pledges of the Indonesian army. Other common words include kesusastraan [literature], kebudayaan [culture] and pujangga [poet], all imbuing a certain emotional force that enhances people’s confidence and national pride. Despite the strong influence of Arabic and Sanskrit, the two languages are considered to be outdated when it comes to expressing scientific knowledge relevant to modernisation. Alisjahbana (1971, 1976, 1984b) has consistently suggested that Indonesian turn to modern languages such as Dutch, English and German in order to ease scientific, commercial and cultural communication in the modern world. Of the foreign languages that have contributed to the process, English is on the rise. Table 4.3 shows English words that have been borrowed and Indonesianised by experts from the Badan Bahasa. Many of these words retain the orthographical character of the original, with some modification to suit the Indonesian pronunciation; for example, replacing /c/ with /k/ in computer to become komputer. With the advances in information and communication technology (ICT), it is reasonable to predict that more words from English would further enter the Indonesian lexicon system in the upcoming years. What Tables 4.2, 4.3 and 4.4 demonstrate is that Indonesian is not exclusively influenced by a single language. There are many languages that have influenced Indonesian’s lexical development to varying degrees of frequency, in a wide range of domains, from religion to medicine, from culinary to technology. These languages include Portuguese, Arabic, English, Dutch and German. The diverse range of languages as well as the diverse domains of the borrowed words constitute a highly diverse linguistic corpus development of Indonesian. While in the beginning it stemmed from the Riau dialect of Malay, Indonesian has now branched out, being influenced by various factors in a number of domains. This is a diverse linguistic nature characterising the development of Indonesian. Corpus planning of Indonesian has been remarkably successful in terms of terminological expansion. There were only 10,130 Malay words listed as daily words in van Ophuijsen’s Kitab Logat Melajoe (1901). But language planners in the Badan Bahasa were able to coin a considerable number of terminologies in 1966, reaching a total of 327,927 technical terms intended to be used in all fields of scientific activities and specialised professions (Anwar, 1976). In modernday Indonesia, the 2008 Kamus Besar Bahasa Indonesia [The Large Dictionary of Indonesian] (KBBI) lists 90,049 entries of the lexicon. Of these, 3,592 come from 70 indigenous languages, while those coming from eight foreign and heritage languages comprise 7,553 entries (Balai Pustaka, 2008). The latest KBBI is the 2016 edition, listing 127,036 entries, consisting of nearly 2,040 pages. Its online version, called KBBI Daring, is dubbed “a revolution in Indonesian lexicography” (Kamajaya, Moeljadi, & Amalia, 217, p. 513). Nowadays, Indonesian has reached a stage where it functions well in all domains of life including tertiary education, culture, science and technology (Harper, 2013; Simpson, 2007). But it does not mean that all of the thousands of newly coined words have been accepted by the public. The Badan Bahasa has created words such as unduh and unggah to replace the English words “download” and

Table 4.4  Samples of borrowed Indonesian words from English English word

Indonesian word

Information Computer Television E-mail Café Service Radio International Organisation Conference

Informasi Komputer Televisi Email Kafe Servis Radio Internasional Organisasi Konferensi

Figure 4.2  The Fifth Edition of KBBI Source: Arifin (2018).

Corpus planning 107 “upload”, respectively. Yet, the linguistic creativity of Indonesians means that they would prefer their Indonesianised, albeit unofficial, versions: donlot and uplot.

4.2.3.  Grammatical standardisation Early development of Indonesian grammar was influenced by Arabic. The following sentence is an excerpt cited in Abas (1987, p. 108) from Raja Ali Haji’s Gurindam 12: Maka diilhamkan Tuhan Lillahi Taala kepada kita, Raja Ali Haji, mengarang satu gurindam cara Melayu, yaitu yang boleh juga diambil faedah sedikit-­sedikit daripada perkataannya kepada orang yang menaruh akal.

And so it was inspired by God Lillahi Taala to us, Raja Ali Haji, to compose a gurindam in the Malay way, that is, so that benefits may be gained by those who think.

Clearly, the syntax of the gurindam, written in the Riau dialect of Malay, follows the generic Arabic syntactical pattern of starting the sentence with a verb or verb phrase, rather than a subject. Such sentence construction was observable in books, reports and articles written by scholars and government officials. The early writings of many government officials, including President Soekarno himself, indicated an influence of Arabic syntax. This was not to Sutan Takdir Alisjahbana’s liking. The pioneer of Indonesia’s language policy argued against the purists from the School of Malay group who had promoted rigid adherence to Classical Malay (see Sneddon, 2003a). For Ali­ sjahbana (1984b), rigid adherence to Classical Malay means confining Indonesian to the traditional Arabic syntactic form; and as such, the language would not develop. He believed that Indonesian grammar should be given freedom from the traditional syntactic forms associated with Arabic in order for the language to better express more sophisticated concepts. He embodied this spirit of modernity through the publication of modern grammatical descriptions of Indonesian (Alisjahbana, 1948). His study of the use of Indonesian by 20 Indonesian scholars including Haji Agus Salim, Muhammad Yamin, Sanusi Pane, Armijn Pane and Mohammad Hata was meant to identify characteristics of ideal Indonesian grammar. One of his findings was the separation of ber-­ prefixed words and me-­ intransitive prefixed words as verbs. Alisjahbana (1976) also states that in modern Indonesian grammar the predicate comes after the subject, and the adjective after the substantive. This is exemplified in the following: Saya -­ mengendarai – mobil – merah [I drive a red car] Subject Predicate Mobil: Substantive Merah: Adjective

108  Corpus planning J.S. Badudu took up the spirit of language policy that Alisjahbana propagated. In a case cited in Anwar (1976), Badudu is shown as arguing that relative clauses that function as prepositions such as di mana [where] and yang mana [which is], which are also influenced by Arabic, are inaccurate. For example: 1 2

Kantor di mana dia bekerja tak jauh dari sini. [The office where he works is not far from here.] Orang dengan siapa ia harus berunding belum juga datang. [The person with whom he has to talk has not yet arrived.]

Badudu argues that the sentences above should be reorganised, as follows: 1 2

Kantor tempat dia bekerja jauh dari rumahnya. Orang yang akan berunding dengan dia belum juga datang.

Badudu’s proposition has been widely accepted, as his syntax is efficient. It could well explain the grammar of modern Indonesian that rules the positioning of subject and predicate as Alisjahbana (1949, 1976) had postulated. These examples demonstrate adherence to the structural approach of linguistics as found in modern European languages such as Dutch, German and English, a position that has been taken by the Badan Bahasa. Alisjahbana (1984b) argues that the employment of structural linguistics allows Indonesian to maintain contact with modern European languages, bridging the gap to facilitate learning between Indonesian and those languages. A classic example of the employment of structural linguistics on Indonesian grammar is Dardjowidjojo’s (1978) Sentence Patterns of Indonesian. He states that “[t]he approach adopted in this book is basically aural-­oral with emphasis on listening, speaking, reading and writing” (p. 5). This is evident in the presentation of various grammar topics throughout the book. However, Dardjowidjojo also gives samples when exceptions to the structural grammar are found. For example, in a lesson on kalau [if, when], Dardjowjidjojo explains that it can be used to express both conditional and temporal clauses. Kalau to express a conditional clause indicates that the statement is true, having met certain conditions. According to Dardjowidjojo (1978), “Whether the probability is equal or not is usually indicated not by the change of the verb form, as in English, but by some other means, indicating context” (p. 159). For this claim, Dardjowidjojo gives the following examples: a b c

I will go with you, if you go by plane. I would go with you, if you went by plane. I would have gone with you, if you had gone by plane.

He highlights how all these English sentences may be represented by one sentence in Indonesian: “Saya mau pergi dengan kamu, kalau kamu naik kapal-­terbang.”

Corpus planning 109 Kalau may also function to express a temporal clause to refer to something in the future. Dardjowjidjojo argues that kalau indicates that there is no doubt of the event taking place in the future, so the meaning changes into “when”. To give an example, he translates the English sentence “When you go, close the door” into Indonesian: “Kalau kamu pergi, tutuplah pintunya.” This temporality, however, changes when the event took place in the past. In that case, the conjunction to be used is ketika, and not kalau. He gives the following examples: 1 2

Ketika dia datang, saya sedang memandikan anak saya. [When he came, I was bathing my child.] Ketika saya ada di Indonesia, saya tinggal di Kebayoran. [When I was in Indonesia, I lived in Kebayoran.]

Dardjowidjojo’s explanation provides evidence that Indonesian lacks the grammatical categories common in modern European languages, including tenses, prepositions, etc. The absence of such grammatical categories has contributed to the wide perception among second language learners that Indonesian is easy to learn. But this is often a misperception. Students do not generally become fluent in Indonesian within as short period of time as they thought they would. In the words of Sneddon (2003a, p. 16): “Much of the ‘drop-­out’ after a brief period studying Indonesian in Australian universities is a result of frustration that expectations of an easy ride were not fulfilled”. According to Purwo (2014), the root of the problem surrounding the misperception of Indonesian can be traced to the insufficiency of structural linguistics. The fact that structuralist linguistics requires obligatory tense marking on verbs and agreement marking on nouns will see Indonesian as “deficient”. Such a deficiency, as Purwo (2014) argues, however does not rest with the language, but with the analytic methods. He states that “unlike English sentences, in which generally syntax requires verbal arguments to be explicitly stated in a sentence, Indonesian sentences allow verb argument(s) to remain implicit when understood from context” (p. 212). Purwo argues that we need an alternative framework for Indonesian grammar. He asserts that “external devices” embodied in the structural linguistics is not relevant to Indonesian. Instead, he argues for “internal devices”, that is, pragmatics-­based grammar of Indonesian. Given the fact that Indonesian registers duration of time and anticipation, emphasising the timeline from expectation to reality, Purwo asserts that Indonesian grammar requires consideration of the context of usage. The context and some pragmatics analysis must be taken into account when analysing Indonesian sentences. In this regard, pragmatics-­based grammar, and not structuralist grammar, is the answer to help learners better acquire the language. Purwo (2014, pp. 212–213) provides further examples using sudah [already] as a temporal expression that indicates that Indonesian grammar needs to be understood from context rather than structure, much in the way Dardjowidjojo (1978) uses kalau to make his point.

110  Corpus planning Purwo’s assertion gains more ground considering, for example, the considerable variations of affixes in indigenous languages or varieties. Alisjahbana (1976) shows how the prefixes me-­and ber-­are different in two regions speaking different varieties of Malay, but they refer to the same thing. To refer to “The chicken lays eggs”, people in Malay speaking area in Sumatra would say Ayam bertelur. The prefix ber-­ in Malay of Sumatran varieties would appear as me-­ in Malay of Betawi variety, hence bertelur become menelur. But those speaking Betawi would drop the prefix me-, saying Ayam nelor. Further, Gil’s (2007) study on Riau Indonesian gives credence to Purwo’s hypothesis, highlighting intonation as a crucial pragmatic aspect of the language. Gil asserts that there is a need to avoid what he calls “Eurocentric assumptions” associated with structuralist linguistics. For Gil, “Riau Indonesian shows how a language can manage just fine, fulfilling a wide range of communicative functions, without any obligatory grammatical means for distinguishing between thematic roles: word order, case marking, agreement, or intonation” (p. 63) (emphasis original). It remains to be seen as to whether further research would give more credence to Purwo’s proposition on pragmatics-­based grammar.

4.3. The Badan Bahasa and LOTI The previous section has demonstrated that Indonesian enjoys immense support from the Badan Bahasa on corpus planning. The same case, however, does not apply to indigenous languages, regional lingua francas (RLFs), heritage languages and sign languages, which I categorise as LOTI. Despite their integral position in Indonesia’s superglossia (see Chapter 2), LOTI have not received an equivalent level of attention. The following sub-­sections discuss this issue further.

4.3.1.  Research into LOTI during the New Order Era During the New Order Era, the Badan Bahasa developed a project on corpus planning, called Proyek Pengembangan Bahasa Daerah [The Project for the Development of Indigenous Languages] (PPBD). The PPBD provided funding for the research into indigenous languages during the 1970s–1990s. The research studies that were supported by the PPBD are shown in the following paragraphs, based on data listed in the Ministry of Education and Culture Repository (accurate as of September 2018) and may be different from those used in Dixon (1991) and Arka (2013). Given space constraints, it is not possible to include full bibliographical information of the research studies under the PPBD; interested readers are encouraged to consult with the Ministry of Education and Culture Repository directly: http://repositori.kemdikbud.go.id/view/ subjects/PED007 = 2E7.html Of all indigenous languages studied under the PPBD, Javanese as the language of the ethnic majority received the strongest scholarly attention. The linguistic complexity of Javanese as well as its massive geographical spread stimulated researchers to conduct research into it. Studies on the linguistic structure of the

Corpus planning 111 Javanese language covered areas as wide as sentence patterns (Arifin et al., 1987), clause patterns (Arifin et al., 1990), modality (Ekowardono et al., 1999), transformational grammar (Mulyono et al., 1991) and the contrast of morphemes in Javanese and Indonesian (Nardiati et al., 1995). Other studies dealt with the pragmatics of Javanese. These include the krama register (Ekowardono et al., 1993), the use of greetings in the East Java dialect (Supriyanto et al., 1986), the speech levels of the Banyuwangi dialect (Moeljono et al., 1986) and the interference of Javanese in Indonesian-­based newspapers (Mustakim, 1994). Given the widespread use of the language, other researchers examined its geographical dialects. Studies covering this issue investigated the Javanese dialects in Tuban Regency (Sunaryo et al., 1984), Pacitan Regency (Hariyadi et al., 1986), Pekalongan Regency (Raminah et al., 1987), Pati Regency (Sabariyanto et al., 1983), Jepara Regency (Sabariyanto et al., 1985), Rembang Regency (Soedjarwo et al., 1987), Surabaya Regency (now known as Gresik Regency) (Soetoko et al., 1984) and Banyuwangi Regency (Soetoko et al., 1981). Sundanese, spoken by the second largest ethnic community, was also a subject of scholarly interest by researchers who received funding from the Badan Bahasa project. Researchers examined Sundanese in terms of imperatives (Mulyono, 1981) and the grammar of Sundanese spoken in northern West Java (Sudjana et al., 1983). The spread of Sundanese was also examined, with studies covering its geographical dialects in Bogor Regency (Suramiharja et al., 1984), Serang Regency (Suramiharja et al., 1981) and Cirebon Regency (Abdurachman et al., 1985). Researchers also conducted studies into varieties of Malay. They examined the morphology of Riau Malay (Ruswan et al., 1990), the structure of Ketapang Malay (Sulissusiawan et al., 1998), phonology of Sambas Malay (Susilo et al., 1998), morphology and syntax of Palembang Malay (Aliana, 1987), morphology and syntax of Sanggau Malay (Arief, et al., 1989), the geographical dialects of Malay in the Riau Islands (Dahlan, 1989), morphology and syntax of Pontianak Malay (Kamal et al., 1986), nouns and adjectives of Deli Malay (Muchtar et al., 1993) and morphology and syntax of Belitung Malay (Napsin et al., 1986). Other languages surrounding the Java island also received scholarly attention. Researchers investigated the corpus of Balinese, covering the morphology of nouns (Denes et al., 1991), function words (Ginarsa et al., 1991), verbal phrases (Purwiati et al., 1996), interference of Balinese in Indonesian sentences (Rindjin, 1981) and geographical dialects of Balinese in Klungkung Regency (Bawa et al., 1991). Madurese received interest by researchers in the 1970s who studied its morphology and syntax (Moehnilabib et al., 1979), while the Sabu language (also known as Hawu), spoken in the lesser Sunda islands, was investigated in terms of phonology, morphology and syntax (Wakidi et al., 1991). The languages spoken in Sumatra were also investigated, with researchers focusing on different aspects of their corpora. Research into Minangkabau was concentrated on its morphology and syntax (Nio et al., 1979), phrases (Rasyad et al., 1985) and geographical dialects (Maksan et al., 1984). Meanwhile, studies on Kerinci uncovered its function words (Nikelas et al., 1985), active and

112  Corpus planning passive constructions (Yulisman et al., 1995) and the morphology of nouns and adjectives (Anwar et al., 1984). Studies on the Jamee language covered morphology and syntax (Abdullah et al., 1990) and grammar (Yusuf et al., 1981), while those on Mentawai focused on its function words (Manan et al., 1984) and phrase structure (Adam et al., 1990). Studies on other languages include the linguistic structure of Nias (Halawa et al., 1983), the morphology and syntax of Batak Simalungun (Damanik et al., 1984), the morphology of verbs of Komering (Saleh et al., 1983), the morphology and syntax of Rejang (Napsin et al., 1980) and the morphology and syntax of Enggano (Nikelas et al., 1985). Researchers funded by the New Order’s PPBD were also interested in the languages spoken in Kalimantan and Sulawesi. Those covering languages in Kalimantan studied morphology and syntax of Lawangan (Andriastuti et al., 1992), morphology and syntax of Bulungan (Adul et al., 1990), morphology of Tamuan (Kalamper et al., 1989) and phonology of Katingan (Iper et al., 1998). Researchers also studied languages in Sulawesi, covering geographical dialect of Gorontalo (Kasim et al., 1985), morphology and syntax of Gorontalo (Alitu et al., 1988), morphology of adjectives of Bugis (Sikki et al., 1991), function words of Bugis (Kaseng et al., 1987), morphology and syntax of Bolaang Mongondow (Usup et al., 1981), morphology and syntax of Bungku (Kadjia et al., 1998), function words of Tolaki (Muthalib et al., 1985) and phonology of Ponosokan (Danie et al., 1991). The Badan Bahasa researchers during the New Order Era also paid attention to languages spoken in the Nusa Tenggara and Flores regions. Areas covered by these researchers include linguistic structure of Sikka (Laksana et al., 1986), morphology and syntax of Sumbawa (Sumarsono et al., 1986), morphology of Rote (Fanggidae et al., 1998), morphology and syntax of Kemak (Mandaru et al., 1998) as well as phonology, morphology and syntax of Kedang (Suwardo et al., 1989). The list reveals that various research studies during the New Order were undertaken for 38 indigenous languages and varieties. The number pales in comparison with the total number of indigenous languages and language varieties that were identified then, even though scholarship provides different estimates such as around 300 (Moeliono, 1986), “about 400 languages” (Alisjahbana, 1986, p. 25), under 500 (Wurm & Hattori, 1983), about 550 (Dixon, 1991), between 418–569 (Kaplan & Baldauf, 2003) and 670 (Krauss, 1992). What this indicates is that research into LOTI only covered about one-­tenth of the total number of indigenous languages. There were far more indigenous languages that had not been examined, not to mention that none of the studies available in the Ministry of Education and Culture Repository specifically investigated sign languages and heritage languages. All this suggests that LOTI did not receive adequate support in terms of corpus planning. Furthermore, the top-­down, centralistic policy of the New Order means that research into LOTI primarily focuses on certain indigenous languages while neglecting others. The earlier description clearly shows that many studies were conducted on languages on the island of Java (i.e., Javanese, Sundanese), amounting to 22 studies. On the other hand, there was only one study on a Papuan language,

Corpus planning 113 that is, on the morphology and syntax of Galela (Wattimury, Tetelepta, & Kakerissa, 1992). Rumbrawer (2001) and Sedyawati (2001) acknowledge this, with the latter stating that “research into languages in Papua shows the highest disparity in comparison with research into the ethnic groups living in the region” (p. 31). The limited attention given to the Papuan languages, according to Rumbrawer (2001), is one of the factors leading to their endangerment. Moreover, doubts have been raised on the quality of studies on LOTI during the New Order. According to Dixon (1991), only materials on 33 languages out of the 550 languages (6 per cent) identified are considered to be of “good” quality, and for no fewer than 376 languages (68 per cent) the information available is “minimal”. The “best” information available for many languages, Dixon argues, was gathered by missionaries or Dutch colonial officials in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Dixon (1991) states that one major issue is the lack of qualified researchers. But he notes there exist other problems too, such as “lack of knowledge of relevant earlier research; centralised assignment of research topics, which are often too broad or simply not appropriate to the language in question; lack of time combined with sharp deadlines and budgetary repercussions; no proofreading” (p. 243). Finally, it is unclear as to how and how much of the research was accounted for in the development of corpora of LOTI during the New Order. Given the top-­ down, centralistic governance characterising the regime, it is difficult to say that the local governments followed up the research for corpus planning.

4.3.2.  LOTI in the Post–New Order Era After the downfall of the New Order in 1998, the Badan Bahasa moved on to a moment of transition. The Badan Bahasa has expanded in keeping with decentralisation of governance. Until 1998 the Badan Bahasa only had three regional branches, but the number rose to 17 a year later. In the present time, the Badan Bahasa has regional representatives reaching 22 out of 34 provinces (Table 4.5). Along with the institutional expansion, from the year of 2000, the Badan Bahasa has facilitated research on indigenous languages. This includes the Table 4.5  Provinces in which the Badan Bahasa has regional representatives Province Aceh North Sumatra West Sumatra Riau Jambi Bengkulu Lampung West Java

Central Java East Java Yogyakarta Bali Papua West Nusa Tenggara West Kalimantan

East Kalimantan South Kalimantan Central Kalimantan North Sulawesi Central Sulawesi South Sulawesi Southeast Sulawesi

114  Corpus planning intransitive verbs of Sundanese (Subarna, Djajasudarma, Fatimah, Wahya, & Casmita, 2002), sentence conjunctions of Javanese (Sabariyanto, Herawati, & Laginem, 2004), function words of the Tulang Bawang dialect of Lampung (Rusminto, Rejono, Natamenggala, & Sumarti, 2000), affricates and nasal-­ obstruent sequences of Tajio (Mayani, 2016), morphology and syntax of Bakatik (Azharie, Paternus, Simanjuntak, & Sena, 2001), semantics of nouns of Mandar (Muthalib, Ali, Nursiah, & Ermaida, 2001), complementary verbs of Sundanese (Gunardi, Sobarna, & Tiswaya, 2003), interference of Pontianak Malay in Indonesian (Martina, Novianti, & Damayanti, 2005) and phonology of Maanyan (Iper, Admojo, & Dahan, 2000). However, it is interesting to note that these research outputs are fairly limited compared with that of the New Order Era. This is so despite the endorsement of policy documents (i.e., Government Regulation No. 57/2014, Law No. 24/2009, Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007) that state the importance of indigenous languages. Article 6 of Government Regulation No. 57/2014, for example, states that: Article 6 Pasal 6 (1) Regional Languages function as: (1) Bahasa Daerah berfungsi sebagai: a. moulder of ethnic personality; a. pembentuk kepribadian suku b. affirmation of regional identity; bangsa; b. peneguh jati diri kedaeraand c. means of disclosure and develhan; dan c. sarana pengungkapan opment of regional literature and serta pengembangan sastra dan culture in the Indonesiannes frame. budaya daerah dalam bingkai (2) In addition to functioning as keindonesiaan. referred to in clause (1), Regional (2) Selain berfungsi sebagaimana Languages may function as: a. ­dimaksud pada ayat (1), Bahasa means of communication in family Daerah dapat berfungsi sebaand regional communities; b. local gai: a. sarana komunikasi dalam Mass Media language; c. Indonekeluarga dan masyarakat daesian language support facilities; and rah; b. bahasa Media Massa lokal; d. source of Indonesian Language c. sarana pendukung Bahasa IndoDevelopment. nesia; dan d. sumber Pengembangan Bahasa Indonesia. The decentralised expansion of the Badan Bahasa does not seem to show much impact on the research into the corpora of LOTI. Only a few of the 22 regional representatives of the Badan Bahasa seem to be active in embracing decentralisation for researching LOTI. The Badan Bahasa regional representatives in West Kalimantan, Riau and Yogyakarta, have contributed to research on morphology of Uud Danum (Martina, Purwiati, & Mufeptial, 2005), the language vitality of Talondo (Aritonang, 2016), structure of the Riau dialect of Malay in Rokan Hilir (Fatmawati, 2005) and the discourse of humour of Javanese (Herawati, 2007), respectively. Meanwhile, regional representatives of the Badan Bahasa in East Java and West

Corpus planning 115 Nusa Tenggara have produced studies that uncover the processes of transitivity of Madurese (Patrianto, 2009) and code-­mixing in Sumbawa Taliwang (Febtaria, 2013). On the other hand, it is difficult to say whether other regional representatives have also actively facilitated research into LOTI. Most activities developed by some regional representatives of the Badan Bahasa are ceremonial in nature; for example, poetry reading competition, commemoration of national events and selection of language ambassadors. Systematic research into LOTI for successful planning of corpora of indigenous languages is yet to be seen in most regional representatives. It is important to examine what I have discussed thus far along with research in language management such as that of Arka (2013). His study sheds light on the performance of the Badan Bahasa in the period of 1975–2007. During the period that constitutes much of the New Order Era (1975–1998) and nearly a decade of the Post–New Order Era (1998–2007), the Badan Bahasa, according to Arka, published 1554 studies. Of the 1554 studies, 556 studies were on Indonesian (35.8 per cent) and 527 studies were on Malay varieties (33.9 per cent). This means that more than two-­thirds of the publications (69.7 per cent) concern Indonesian and Malay varieties. On the other hand, there were only 471 studies on indigenous languages (30.3 per cent), meaning that less than one-­third of the publications concern indigenous languages. Of this number, grammar-­related publications on indigenous languages were dominated by major indigenous languages such as Javanese with 51 publications (14.3 per cent), Sundanese with 24 publications (6.7 per cent) and Balinese with 14 publications (3.9 per cent). Publications dealing with languages in eastern Indonesia, on the other hand, are nowhere near this level in number. Arka notes that from 1975 to 2007 there were only 36 publications on languages in Sulawesi to represent 26 languages on the island, giving a ratio of 1.4. Papua saw nine publications concerning eight languages (ratio: 1.1) and Maluku seven publications concerning seven languages (ratio: 1.0). Arka’s data support my argument earlier that LOTI have not received an equivalent level of attention with Indonesian. They also corroborate my argument that much of the research has concentrated on the island of Java, leaving behind studies on languages in eastern Indonesia. Further, this suggests that the expansion of the Badan Bahasa from 3 regional branches during the New Order Era to 22 in the Post–New Order Era has not been matched with systematic, decentralised language policy.

4.4.  External researchers and LOTI It is clear from the discussion in the previous section that research outputs on the corpora of LOTI produced by researchers affiliated with the Badan Bahasa have not covered everything. Fortunately, Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity has continued to attract interest. Many researchers who are not affiliated with the Badan Bahasa continue to undertake studies into LOTI. This section examines the ongoing engagement of these external researchers.

116  Corpus planning

4.4.1.  The contributions of Indonesian scholars Indonesian scholars who are not directly related to the Badan Bahasa have conducted research into LOTI for various reasons. Some scholars appear to have conducted research as an expansion of their early studies. Nurhayati’s (2015) research on reduplication in the Mandar language expands on her undergraduate thesis at Universitas Hassanuddin, Makassar. Sawaki’s (2009) study on the pronominal systems affecting verbs, nouns and some adjectives in Dani languages in Papua is based on a term paper he wrote when studying at Eastern Michigan University in the United States. Other researchers, however, appear to have conducted their research as part of their professional development. Researchers who are affiliated with Universitas Udayana, Denpasar, Bali, have actively contributed to the research into the corpora of LOTI. One is Sedeng (2004), who studied the verb serialisation in complex predicates and grammatical relations of the Sikka language of the Flores islands, while another is Artawa (2013), who examined argument alignment in Balinese. A study on patterns of argument marking in the Kodi language of Sumba, East Nusa Tenggara was conducted by Sukerti and Ate (2016), two writers affiliated with Politeknik Negeri Bali and STKIP Weetebula, respectively. Amir (2011), a researcher affiliated with Universitas Negeri Makassar, conducted research on forms of greeting in the Sidrap dialect of Bugis that is spoken in Dua Pitue, South Sulawesi. Adnyana (2018), who is affiliated with Universitas Dwijendra, conducted research on linguistic variation in Tetun of Fehan dialect, which is spoken in Belu, East Nusa Tenggara. Laksono (2004) of Universitas Negeri Surabaya investigated the krama vocabulary in Osing. Two researchers based in Universitas Gadjah Mada, Stephanus Mangga and Inyo Yos Fernandez, have also contributed to research into the corpora of indigenous languages. Mangga (2015) examined the construction of passive in Manggarai that occurs with verb affixation, while Fernandez (2002) investigated the phonological innovation occurring in Kisar, a language spoken in West Maluku. A study by Jermy Balukh (2015a) uncovered the use of personal pronouns of Dhao, a language spoken in Ndao, a tiny island in west Rote, East Nusa Tenggara. Balukh, affiliated with STIBA Cakrawala Nusantara, Kupang, shows the three sets of morphologically independent personal pronouns used in Dhao as well as its one set of bound forms (affixes). Some researchers have produced research outputs that demystify the linguistic superdiversity of the Papuan and West Papuan provinces, part of what Evans and Klamer (2012) dub “the most linguistically diverse zone of the planet and the part of the logosphere” (p. 1). Not only do the research outputs compensate for the limited attention given to the languages in the Papuan region during the New Order Era, but they also help address limited studies focusing on Papuan languages. Jackson’s (2014) study focuses on the grammar of Irarutu, a language spoken by approximately 6,000 people in Bomberai Peninsula in West Papua. Willem Burung has conducted studies on Wano, a member of the Dani family (see Burung, 2007, 2013, 2017). In his recent paper on Wano, Burung (2018)

Corpus planning 117 discusses inalienable nouns, which are nouns that are permanently possessed. Sawaki’s (2016) study on Wooi is elaborate, covering the language’s phonological system, as well as word classes, noun phrases, possessives, verbal morphology, grammatical relations, valence, complex clauses and deixis. Mofu (2012) of Universitas Negeri Papua has researched the nominal clause constructions of the Biak language spoken in the Papua and West Papuan provinces. A distinguished scholar who has contributed significantly to the research on indigenous languages in Indonesia is I Wayan Arka. The researcher, who is affiliated with the Australian National University and Universitas Udayana, Bali, has primarily researched indigenous languages, namely Rongga (indigenous to Flores, East Nusa Tenggara), Balinese (indigenous to the island of Bali) and Marori (indigenous to East Merauke, Papua). Space constrains me from listing all of Arka’s work, but I will mention several of them here. Arka’s work on the Rongga language encompasses numerous aspects such as classifiers (Arka, 2008b), description, typology and theory (Arka, 2016), dictionary of Rongga–Indonesian (Arka, 2012a) and Rongga–English dictionary (Arka, 2011). Meanwhile, some of Arka’s work on the Balinese language includes speech levels, social predicates and pragmatic structure (Arka, 2005), nominal, pronominal and verbal number (Arka & Dalrymple, 2017) and Balinese morphosyntax (Arka, 2003). Furthermore, Arka’s work on Marori has unravelled aspects such as number and plural semantics (Arka & Dalrymple, 2016) and morphology and agreement (Arka, 2012b).

4.4.2.  International scholars and research into LOTI Scholars of foreign nationalities have also contributed to the research into LOTI, with researchers affiliated with institutions in Japan, Germany, France, Italy, Norway, the United States, Australia and the UK being noteworthy in this regard. Of Japanese researchers, Kazuya Inagaki has been quite prolific. Inagaki’s work has mainly focused on Kadorih, a language spoken in Central Kalimantan. Kadorih has been researched in terms of formation of relative clauses (Inagaki, 2015), complexity of agreement, argument encoding and voice (Inagaki, 2013) and spatial reference in the case of distinct relativity of part/region indicators from the orientation indicators (Inagaki, 2014). Another productive Japanese researcher is Naonori Nagaya whose work has focused on Lamaholot. Her studies on Lamaholot have covered its voice systems typology (Nagaya, 2013), ləbo [although] of Lamaholot as a subordinating conjunction (Nagaya, 2015) and adverbial forms of Lamaholot (Nagaya, 2017). Another Japanese researcher is Asako Shiohara of Tokyo University of Foreign Studies whose research has focused on Sumbawa, spoken in West Nusa Tenggara. Sumbawa has been studied in terms of voice system to indicate the pragmatic status and topicality of the undergoer (Shiohara, 2013) and three common deixis (i.e., personal deixis, time deixis and spatial deixis) (Shiohara, 2014). Meanwhile, Atsuko Utsumi (2014), who indicates her affiliation with Meisei University, Tokyo, Japan, has examined deixis and relative height terms in the Bantik language of North Sulawesi.

118  Corpus planning Other studies have been undertaken by researchers based in European institutions. John Bowden (2014) of Max Planck Institute, Germany, has focused his research on Taba, a language spoken in North Maluku, covering the topic of mental deixis. Antoinette Schapper (2015) of the University of Cologne, Germany, has conducted research into neuter gender in the languages of Aru, spoken in eastern Indonesia. Philippe Grangé (2015) of Université de La Rochelle, France, investigates the possessive systems of the languages of the eastern lesser Sunda islands, including Lio and Lamaholot. Bernard Sellato of Centre Asie du Sud-­Est (France) and Antonia Soriente of University of Naples ‘L’Orientale’ (Italy) have conducted research into languages spoken by the nomadic groups of people living in the Müller and northern Schwaner mountain ranges in interior Kalimantan. Sellato and Soriente (2015) show how the languages under the Müller-­Schwaner Punan cluster and those under the Bukat-­Beketan-­Lisum cluster show close relationship, but they are in contrast with other languages of the nomads in Kalimantan. Jozina Vander Klok (2017), affiliated with University of Oslo, Norway, has investigated dialectical variation of the polar questions in Paciran Javanese. Marian Klamer of Leiden University, the Netherlands has produced considerable research outputs on indigenous languages. For example, she has studied the grammar of Teiwa (Klamer, 2010) and complement in Kambera (Klamer, 2006), and she has edited a book on the history and typology of Alor Pantar languages (Klamer, 2017). Researchers from Australia, the United States and the UK, have also demonstrated their interest in the linguistic superdiversity of Indonesia. Anthony Jukes, once affiliated with La Trobe University and recently with Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, has focused his research on Makassar, a language mainly spoken in South Sulawesi. He has covered Makassar in terms of voice system (Jukes, 2013) and nominalised clauses (Jukes, 2015). Michael Ewing (2014) of the University of Melbourne, Australia, has examined demonstratives in Cirebon, which he considers to be a dialect of Javanese (cf. Supriatnoko, 2015). Another researcher based at the University of Melbourne is Alexander Adelaar. Voice variation in Austronesian languages of Indonesia has been investigated in Adelaar (2013a), whereas tense, aspect and mood of west indigenous languages, namely Batak Toba and Batak Karo, Old and Modern Javanese, Kanayatn (a variety of Malay spoken mainly in Western Kalimantan) and Maanyan (spoken in Central and South Kalimantan) are subjected to discussion in Adelaar (2013b). Two researchers from the United States and the UK who have researched indigenous languages are Bradley McDonnel of University of Hawai’i at Manoa and Peter K. Austin of SOAS, University of London. Acoustic correlates of stress in Besemah, an isolect of Malay spoken in southwest Sumatra, are examined in McDonnell (2016), whereas dialect variation in the voice system of Sasak, a language spoken in Lombok, West Nusa Tenggara, is examined in Austin (2012). While research into the corpora of indigenous languages by international researchers has begun to emerge, the same cannot be said about sign languages, heritage languages and RLFs.

Corpus planning 119 The dearth of attention to sign languages is evident in that only a limited number of studies have investigated them. In the words of Palfreyman (2015), “Sign language varieties in Indonesia are severely under-­documented” (p. 17). Connie De Vos (2014) of Max Planck Institute, Germany, is one researcher who has studied Kata Kolok, a sign language in a Balinese village community in Buleleng. Another study has been conducted by Nick Palfreyman of the University of Central Lancashire, the UK. Palfreyman (2015) focuses on the sign language varieties used in Solo, Central Java, and Makassar, South Sulawesi. The studies by these international researchers are in addition to the ones conducted by local scholars. For example, Saharudin (2007) focuses on the Jambi Sign Language in Sumatra. In addition, a collaborative study between Indonesian scholars and a Taiwanese scholar investigates the differences between dialect and language in two sign languages: Yogyakarta Sign Language and Jakarta Sign Language (Sze et al., 2015). Studies into RLFs have also been particularly limited. The biggest challenge faced by researchers, according to Steinhauer (1994), is the fact that “it is difficult to ascertain whether they represent different languages, and if so, to establish their boundaries” (p. 756). This is clearly the case with varieties of Malay. Tadmor (2005) argues that the absence of a set of criteria for distinguishing between Malayic languages and dialects of Malay-­Indonesian is problematic. This has resulted in scholars preferring to use “the neutral term ‘isolect’ to refer to any Malayic speech form which has a name of its own and is regarded by speakers as distinct from other varieties” (Tadmor, 2005, p. 1).

4.5. Conclusion This chapter has shown the primary emphasis being given to the corpus planning of Indonesian. The successful corpus planning of Indonesian may have led the language to reach “its apogee” (Wright, 2016, p. 96), but much still needs to be done in terms of corpus planning of languages in Indonesia. My conclusion of this chapter shows the challenges that remain.

4.5.1.  Future research into LOTI First and foremost, I call for more research into LOTI given the obscurity of the current state of affairs of indigenous languages, RLFs, heritage languages and sign languages. These elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity have not been properly accounted for. What Steinhauer (1994) stated nearly three decades ago still applies today: With its extreme linguistic diversity and unique dynamics, Indonesia is a Mecca for linguists and linguistics. For the same reason (the field being too broad), it is in reality rather a backwater, where individual linguists can roam for years without meeting a kindred soul. For the majority of linguists Indonesia is terra incognita, and its linguistic treasures are unknown. (p. 778)

120  Corpus planning This is especially important given that indigenous languages of eastern Indonesia are underdocumented, a point also made in other studies (Arka, 2013; Wibowo, 2016). The provinces in eastern Indonesia (i.e., Maluku, Maluku Utara, Papua and West Papua) are home to 450 indigenous languages, which constitute 63.65 per cent of the total indigenous languages in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. But there are 16 languages that have gone extinct in these regions, 26 languages moribund, 27 nearly extinct and 5 dormant (Anderbeck, 2015). Placing greater emphasis on these regions is vital for the preservation of indigenous languages (see Chapter 5). Various reasons have contributed to the inchoate of language studies in Maluku and Papua, including the inaccessibility of research sites due to poor infrastructure, the lack of training organisations and professional linguists and the fragmentation of research involving academics and missionaries (Evans & Klamer, 2012; Rumbrawer, 2001). Problems such as poor infrastructure may be resolved before long given that President Joko Widodo’s focus of governance has helped the development of infrastructure in Maluku and Papua. It is reported that President Widodo’s government is set to complete the Trans Papua road by the end of 2019, accumulating 4,329.55 kilometres (Detik, 2018). In addition, Trans Maluku is underway, with a total of 914 kilometres of roads (Riswari, 2018). The completion of these projects should assist in the creation of better transport that enables researchers to reach indigenous communities in rural and remote areas. Further, the apparent disconnect between what external researchers do and what the Badan Bahasa does could be resolved through an initiative that brings relevant parties together. Steinhauer (1994) suggests, “What is needed is a ‘Visit Indonesia Decade’ campaign for linguists, with active support from academic institutions and organizations both in Indonesia and abroad, resulting in a special linguistic library or at least in an encyclopaedia of Indonesian languages” (p. 778). Such an initiative may open doors for connection, systematic planning, cooperation and joint research between researchers under the Badan Bahasa and external researchers. Ongoing workshops, seminars and training may be developed in order to help with the professional development of local linguists and researchers. Stronger cooperation between researchers of the Badan Bahasa and external researchers would help forge systematic planning for research into heritage languages, sign languages and RLFs. Studies concerning heritage languages have covered the issue of language and cultural maintenance among the Chinese communities from Java and North Sumatra (Sari et al., 2018), the sociolinguistics of Chinese language varieties in Indonesia (Lim & Mead, 2011) as well as patterns of language use of Chinese communities in Makassar (Herianah, 2013), but little is known about the corpora of the Chinese language varieties spoken in Indonesia (e.g., Cantonese, Hainan, Hakka, Hokkien, Mandarin, Teochew). Research needs to be done to investigate the corpora of Chinese language varieties particularly in terms of language variation. Meanwhile, research studies into sign languages have covered urban areas including Jambi (Saharudin, 2007), Yogyakarta and Jakarta (Sze et al., 2015) and Makassar and Solo (Palfreyman, 2015). And yet little is known about sign languages spoken in other urban areas such as Bandung,

Corpus planning 121 Medan, Surabaya, Banjarmasin, and so forth as well as in rural areas of Kalimantan, Sumatra, Java, Papua, Maluku and Sulawesi. Covering sign language varieties is of great importance, given that they “are beset by forms exhibiting complex multifunctionality, with typologically unusual features and grammatical variants that are unattested in other sign languages” (Palfreyman, 2015, p. 135). Future research needs to emphasise sign languages in rural areas because of the greater prevalence of sign language speakers in rural areas compared with urban areas (Buletin Jendela, 2014). No less important is research into RLFs, covering both Malayic RLFs (e.g., Alor Malay, Sekadau Malay, Manado Malay) and non-­Malayic RLFs (e.g., Bakumpai, Musi, Ngaju). Scholarship has covered research into the RLFs such as Lamaholot (e.g., Nagaya, 2015, 2017), Alor Malay (Baird et al., 2004), Pontianak Malay (Errington, In Preparation), Manado Malay (Utsumi, 2012), Tukang Besi (Donohue, 1999) and Bugis (Abas & Grimes, 1995). However, in-­depth research into other Malayic and non-­Malayic RLFs is indispensable for greater understanding of these important groups of languages. This would be challenging given that all these RLFs constitute chains of dialects and variants. Importantly, superdiversity in Indonesia is characterised by the constant flux of dynamic, mobile and complex language practices that have seen the emergence of new linguistic varieties and the rise of what used to be marginalised dialects and registers. In Chapter 2, I detailed how this occurs in Indonesia’s superglossia. While status planning deals with recognition, protection and inclusion of these new languages, language varieties, dialects and registers, corpus planning encompasses identification, examination and documentation of their grammatical, phonological, lexicon and semantic features. Research into these areas would prove fundamental for the codification of new linguistic varieties and emerging dialects. A study on the marginalised register of ngoko [low] Javanese was conducted by Kartikasari, Laksono, Savitri and Suryarini (2018) in a multisite research study encompassing Banyuwangi, Surabaya, Magetan and Solo. Using “dialectometry” as “quantitative research with descriptive method” (p. 131), Kartika et al.’s study successfully sheds light on the prominent lexical use of ngoko in Solo in contrast to its use in Surabaya. However, there need to be more innovative approaches to elucidating language practices in the dynamic and complex Indonesia’s superglossia. As Steinhauer (1994) argues, “The linguistic situation in Indonesia is highly dynamic and subject to pressures, shifts and changes, which cannot be captured by traditional dialectological methods alone” (pp. 755–756). Calls for undertaking more ethnographic approaches to language policy have resounded in scholarship (e.g., Hornberger & Johnson, 2007, 2011; Hornberger, Anzures Tapia, Hanks, Kvietok Dueñas, & Lee, 2018; McCarty, 2011), with Hornberger et al. (2018) arguing for the usefulness of ethnography to drive policymaking given its ability to represent diverse sociolinguistic contexts. This assertion warrants heeding, given that mainstream studies appear to still be using structural approaches such as that of Fields (2010) on Papuan Colloquial Indonesian and that of Gil (2007) on intonation and thematic role in Riau Indonesian. Ethnographic studies are still the exception rather than the norm; for example, honorific forms in Cirebon (Afifah, 2017) as a “language” that is spoken in the West Javan regencies

122  Corpus planning of Cirebon, Indramayu and Kuningan. Work such as Afifah (2017) is pioneering for a language that still struggles for recognition in mainstream linguistics (cf. Badan Bahasa, 2017; Simons & Fennig, 2017a) and could serve as a starting point for further research into its lexicon, phonology, syntax and semantics. The ethnographic approach taken in Afifah would also set an example for studies into the corpora of other new linguistic varieties as well as marginalised dialects and registers. For example, Quinn (2012) and Hoogervorst (2009) have noted the rise of once marginalised Javanese dialects such as Banyumasan, Suroboyoan and Tegalan; but corpus-­based research into these dialects is yet to appear in Post– New Order Indonesia.

4.5.2.  Utilising research for corpus planning In Sections 4.2 and 4.3, I confined myself to discussing research studies on LOTI, rather than research on the corpora of LOTI; for example, dictionary of Mentawai (Khatib, Gani, Husin, & Jufrizal, 1998), dictionary of Rongga–Indonesian (Arka, 2011). The reason is that I wish to discuss research on the corpora of LOTI as part of language documentation, which is presented in Chapter 5. Research on LOTI that I present in this chapter, on the other hand, would serve input for further research or for the development of corpora of LOTI. Taken either way, research on LOTI would be useful for corpus planning of LOTI. For example, research on LOTI is particularly important for indigenous languages that do not have an orthographical system. Not all indigenous languages in Indonesia have writing scripts; in fact, most indigenous languages are oral languages. There are only 11 indigenous languages that have orthographical systems, namely Balinese, Batak Toba, Bugis, Javanese, Karo, Kerinci, Lampung, Makassar, Mandailing, Rejang and Sundanese. The orthographies of these languages are preserved, but greater attention should be paid to those languages that have no orthography. Alwi (2000) argues that it may be more efficient if indigenous languages that are not equipped with orthography utilise the Roman script in order to fulfil various communication purposes. The permanence and wider coverage of language corpora are viable when indigenous languages have a written form. Sustainable corpus planning ultimately requires the written form of the indigenous languages to be used by a significant element of the population. Local governments must initiate work on sustainable corpus planning in cooperation with regional branches of the Badan Bahasa. Two problems are identified. One relates to the absence of a regional representative in Maluku, and the other is that there are 384 languages spread through the two provinces of Papua and West Papua that need to be tackled by only one regional representative. There are two implications. First, a new regional representative needs to be established in Maluku. Second, greater support to the regional representative in Papua must be given, possibly by establishing a new representative in the West Papua province. Establishing new branches of the Badan Bahasa in the regions of Maluku and Papua would

Corpus planning 123

Figure 4.3  A manuscript written in Batak Toba Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018g).

be vital to ensure greater ease of work on language documentation. Further, new programmes can be designed to expand the scope of tertiary education in linguistics to cater for the educational needs of indigenous communities and the documentation of their languages. In language policy using a superdiversity perspective, developing the corpora of indigenous languages is important not only in terms of the maintenance of linguistic ecosystem (Fishman, 2001) but also in the protection of human rights associated with speakers of the languages (May, 2012; Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2002). This may need to take place in the form of digital data, allowing for ease of access of indigenous languages particularly in remote areas. This is parallel with the Thirteenth Resolution of the 2018 Congress of Indonesian Language held by the Badan Bahasa. This form of language documentation is discussed in Sub-­Section  5.3.1. In the corpus planning of Indonesian, borrowing from foreign languages such as English has occurred extensively. The process has been considered useful, enriching the corpus of the language on many levels (Abas, 1987; Alisjahbana, 1976; Anwar, 1976; Moeliono, 1986). Similarly, borrowing from indigenous languages has also been inevitable. But language purists such as those participants of congresses organised by the Badan Bahasa often criticise journalists, broadcasters and officials for their poor pronunciation and inaccurate usage. They also deplore the tendency of journalists, broadcasters and officials to incorporate words and phrases from indigenous languages (see Harper, 2013). However, Indonesian is a national lingua franca, and so expecting the language not to be

124  Corpus planning infused with highly distinctive accents, vocabulary items and regional styles (e.g., Jakarta, Maluku, Papua) is oblivious of sociolinguistic reality. Given the superdiverse nature of Indonesia, the language use of Indonesian is not uniform. Speakers of Indonesian generally speak one indigenous language as the mother tongue, and they may also have competencies in one or more other languages. They bring this rich multilingual repertoire into the fore, affecting their way of using Indonesian. This is common among languages with a lingua franca status (see Jenkins, 2007; Seidlhofer, 2011 for the case of English). After success in the development of a corpus of Standard Indonesian, the challenge is for the Badan Bahasa to develop corpora of Indonesian that reflect the local varieties existing throughout the archipelago. Developing corpora of Indonesian in its colloquial forms in various regions throughout Indonesia is of high importance. Work on colloquial Indonesian has appeared, for example, in terms of conversational structure (Englebretson, 2003) and polar questions (Hamdani & Barnes, 2018). As with regional colloquial forms, scholarship has covered colloquial Jakarta Indonesian (Arka & Yannuar, 2016), colloquial Indonesian in youth radio in urban Java (Manns, 2014) and the emergence of Papuan colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010). Fields (2010) argues that Papuan colloquial Indonesian is different from Papuan Malay, being situated “between Standard Indonesian (the formal or ‘high’ language) and Papuan Malay” (p. 1). It remains to be seen whether the same case applies to others. Investigating localised colloquial Indonesians is important in order to fully examine the complexity of Indonesia’s superglossia; so much research remains to be done. During our discussion, Ganjar Harimansyah (2018) of the Badan Bahasa confirmed that this needs to be a priority for the language planning agency. We agree on the significance of research into this area, especially given the increasing language contact between diverse ethnicities in Indonesia. This research can then be used to inform the development of corpora of Indonesian that reflects the local varieties existing throughout the archipelago.

4.5.3.  Cultivation planning Corpus planning has given speakers of Indonesian choices for language use, but some argue the choices tend to be flat, rigid and lacking in cultural resonance. American anthropologist James Peacock (1973) states, “Bahasa Indonesia is a language, peculiarly turgid, humorless, awkward, mechanical, and bereft of emotion or sensuality” (p. 79). This view has been critiqued by Sneddon (2003a) for what he thought to be the “failure to appreciate the diglossic nature of Indonesian” (p. 18); and yet the idealisation of Standard Indonesian during the New Order Era that was meant to represent an aspiration to unity and equality indicates an impersonal and neuter character of the language that has brought about psychological distances between Indonesians themselves (see Anderson, 1990; Goebel, 2008; Heryanto, 1995). For Anderson (1990), this is “the result not of any social stratification built into the language, but of its democratic egalitarian character in a society still traditionally status oriented in its deepest thinking” (p. 140).

Corpus planning 125 Furthermore, Indonesian as a product of purely masterful language planning is not a language that comes from natural linguistic evolution in the communication needs of its speakers (Heryanto, 1995). During the New Order, the language alienated a great majority of the population. This group, “which forms the lower strata of the social hierarchy, is practically excluded, or at best marginalised, from the dynamic productive process of legitimate Indonesian” (Heryanto, 1995, p. 5). It is no wonder that Errington (2014) comments that contemporary Standard Indonesian is unable to reflect language dynamics in the country. This sets the background for language attitude towards Indonesian, where the language tends to be used to maintain distance in social interactions, as opposed to indigenous languages that are used to maintain closer social relationships (Goebel, 2005, 2010). Clearly a major challenge is the creation of terminologies and grammar that can provide Indonesians with a sense of literary, social and political liberation while being deeply rooted in the nation’s cultural heritage. The Badan Bahasa has created the Fifth Edition of the KBBI, but it remains to be seen whether the latest lexicons being incorporated into the dictionary can bring such emotive layers and cultural resonances to the Indonesian’s linguistic system. It also remains to be seen whether Purwo’s (2014) proposition for a pragmatics-­based grammar can be accepted and be incorporated into modern Indonesian grammar (cf. Gil, 2007). Both terminological and grammatical innovations would need to take into account how the language is cultivated. Corpus planning therefore cannot be separated from cultivation planning, aimed to tackle how language can be cultivated in terms of social life, culture and thought. Cultivation planning of Indonesian has probably been able to produce what Alisjahbana (1986) postulates as “linguistic, intellectual and psychological patterns of a peculiarly Indonesian character”; however, the challenge remains whether such “idiosyncracies of Indonesian attitudes and ways of thinking” have resulted in “uniquely Indonesian philosophical and intellectual style” (p. 206). This issue is more significant when we consider one of the goals of the development of Indonesian: to inculcate a way of thinking that is orderly, precise and capable of articulating ideas effectively and explicitly, which Alisjahbana (1976) once postulated. Anderson (1990) was once sceptical about Indonesian’s ability to accomplish the goal, and in light of Widiastuti’s (2006) findings of thousands of educated speakers reaching unsatisfactory levels of proficiency in Standard Indonesian, the goal may still be out of reach for many. This leads to another issue: the cultivation of indigenous languages. This is an issue of great importance, as scholarship shows that there is a prevalent assumption in the society that equates indigenous languages to backwardness (e.g., Alwasilah, 1997; Asshiddiqie, 2008; Siddik, 2001). Many consider indigenous languages to be the languages of the poor and uneducated; those who consider themselves educated do not feel comfortable using them. Furthermore, many people think that indigenous languages cannot explain modern phenomena, especially relating to science and technology. Such negative language attitudes in cultivation planning, however, “are not immutable, and local perceptions of

126  Corpus planning what the language is appropriate for can be influenced by positive example or the endorsement of locally esteemed persons or institutions” (Lewis & Trudell, 2008, p. 272). Embedded within the indigenous languages are the local values and wisdom of the diverse cultures of Indonesia. Asshiddiqie (2008) states, “the fact that indigenous languages represent tradition place them as an authentic linguistic system to understand the values and wisdom of the Indonesian societies” (p. 14). For this reason, indigenous languages must be cultivated in a way that can complement the development of national and global cultures (cf. Alisjahbana, 1986; Alwi, 2000). The limited vocabulary of indigenous languages must be compensated with the creation of new, appropriate vocabulary. Another strategy would be the adoption of vocabulary from Indonesian or foreign languages. This strategy, however, must be done carefully; otherwise, it might lead to semantic impoverishment. Jufrizal (2004) uses the case of the Minangkabau language as an example to caution against the uncontrolled use of Indonesian words when their equivalents are available in Minangkabau. He argues that such practice only impoverishes the values of the Minangkabau culture that are best expressed by the lexicon of the language. In the early years of regional autonomy, Siddik (2001) commented that the attention that local governments paid to indigenous languages and cultures was limited. In their attempts to implement regional autonomy as stipulated by Law No. 22/1999 and Government Regulations No. 25/2000, some local governments had programmes on indigenous languages and cultures, but all had been developed without systematic planning. Much of the lack of systematicity has been attributed to the Java-­centric cultural development during the New Order (see Anderson, 1990; Jones, 2013), which also affects the way indigenous languages have been cultivated. Following the downfall of the New Order, a tendency has been to move towards indigenous languages and literature. Budianta (2007) views the inception of literary genres such as Sastra Kepulauan [Island Literature], Sastra Pesantren [Pesantren Literature], Sastra Pedalaman [Inland Literature], Sastra Riau [Riau Literature] as an indication of the decentring of the national literature towards the indigenous one. Indeed, reversing the subordination policy towards indigenous languages and literature was one of the recommendations made in the Congress on Indonesian Language in 2003 (Harper, 2013). Grounding her argument on the emergence of literature by Indonesians of Chinese descent, Budianta (2007) argues for a more radical shift “to replace the concept of national literature with the equal acknowledgement of all literatures written in other languages by Indonesians” (p. 69). While nationalist literature is indispensable in building the spirit of struggle for Indonesia’s independence and development (Teeuw, 1967), indigenous literature has functions relating to the preservation of local cultural values, expression of local experiences and building of ethnic solidarity (Zaidan, 2001). This is evident in the case of the kapujanggan, a corpus consisting of classic literature written by ancient Javanese kings and poets (Sutarjo, 2008). The kapunjanggan is said to consist of philosophy that encompasses local values and cultures to educate family members, but studies on the kapunjanggan have been somewhat limited. Sutarjo

Corpus planning 127 argues that systematic programmes must be created in order to revive the kapunjanggan, so that it could bring benefits to society. Oral literature may also bring a similar effect. According to Effendy (2001), the tradition of oral literature among indigenous communities in West Kalimantan is useful to build the confidence and identity of the communities that have been eroded by modernity. For Budhiono (2016), proverbs are an important part of the process. He uses the case of proverbs in Maanyan Dayak to highlight how they are useful for guiding the society in what is good and bad, in what is appropriate and not. The proverbs, according to Budhiono, allow the society to grasp their meaning, internalise them and apply them in their daily lives. For example, the proverb Mira tanjung pikayeman ukur baya rantau pirupakan bayu [Ships crash in the same gulf] reflects the collectivist culture of the Maanyan Dayak people. The proverb expresses the felling of solidarity, highlighting that togetherness in sadness and joy must be upheld by every society member. This value would be instrumental in the building of one’s character. Overall, much work on cultivation planning of other indigenous languages needs to be done. Research must focus on the cultivation aspects as identified by Moeliono (1986), that is, in terms of increasing the level of functional literacy and promoting the products of codification. Indigenous communities would benefit if these are integrated with a systematic planning that promotes their literature. This chapter has discussed corpus planning of languages in Indonesia. In the following chapter, I will discuss revitalisation planning.

5 Revitalisation planning

Revitalisation planningRevitalisation planning

5.1. Introduction Early scholarship on language policy was concerned with language planning in postcolonialism, covering main topics such as the choice and standardisation of a national language and the relationship between language and national development (e.g., Cobarubbias & Fishman, 1983; Fishman et al., 1968; Rubin & Jernudd, 1971). This orientation of language policy, however, drew increasing criticism for treating linguistic diversity as a problem by promoting national languages as tools for nation-­building and unification while neglecting linguistic diversity and minority languages (Mühlhäusler, 2000; Tollefson, 1991). Since the 1990s, language policy has shifted to a new orientation that acknowledges linguistic diversity, aiming to support minority and endangered languages (e.g., Fishman, 1991; Edwards, 1997; Hornberger, 1996). This is pertinent to the fact that language endangerment has reached an alarming rate in recent decades (see Grenoble & Whaley, 1998; Hinton & Hale, 2001; Hinton, Huss, & Roche, 2018a; Nettle & Romaine, 2000; Tsunoda, 2005; Duchêne & Heller, 2007), with Krauss (1992) predicting the potential demise of 90 per cent of the world’s extant languages and Simons and Lewis (2013) showing that 19 per cent of the world’s 7,103 living languages are no longer being learnt by children and that 32 per cent of the world’s languages are endangered. As a consequence, calls to document, revitalise, maintain, revive and reverse the shift of endangered indigenous languages have proliferated in language policy scholarship (e.g., Hornberger, 2010; Lo Bianco, 2010a; McCarty, 2013; Romaine, 2006, 2016; Sallabank, 2011, 2013; Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2000, to name a few). I use revitalisation planning as a generic, inclusive term that describes such endeavours. Language revitalisation is indeed an inclusive term that is in wider circulation (see Hinton & Hale, 2001; Hinton et al, 2018a; Hornberger, 2010), compared with, for example, language regenesis (e.g., McCarty, 2013; Paulston, Chen, & Connerty, 1993). Revitalisation planning as a category in language policy is concerned with dead, dying, endangered, abandoned, undervalued, underutilised and exterminated languages. The scope of revitalisation planning is broad, involving attempts to: (1) maintain the continuing use of languages or their retention in one or more spheres of language use; (2) encourage the increased use of the

Revitalisation planning 129 languages in society and restore their vitality; (3) create, annotate, preserve and disseminate records of the languages; (4) recreate full languages from the existing corpora and create new speakers and domains accordingly; (5) modify public discourse and attitudes towards them; (6) formulate and elevate their status, esteem and prestige; and (7) promote their teaching and learning (Fishman, 1991, 2001; Hinton et al., 2018b; Hornberger, 1996, 2003, 2008, 2010; Hornberger & de Korne, 2018; Lo Bianco, 2010a; McCarty, 2013; Paulston et al., 1993; Woodbury, 2011). Thus, I view revitalisation planning as an all-­encompassing term that subsumes various terms such as language maintenance, language revival, language preservation, language restoration, language reversal, language reclamation and language resurrection. Revitalisation planning is an inclusive category because it incorporates various types of language policy: it deals with increasing the role and functions of endangered languages (status planning); it involves efforts to document the corpora of endangered languages (corpus planning); and more often than not, its success is dependent upon its integration with the education of language speakers (language-­in-­education policy) (cf. Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997). Indeed, linking these different types of language policy, setting up priorities and recognising their relationships with the full complexity of human identities at the local level, linguistic competence and our interdependence at the global level are fundamental in revitalisation planning if it is to succeed. In this chapter, I discuss revitalisation planning in Indonesia. First, I tackle issues relating to the complexity of language endangerment and factors causing endangerment. I then analyse language documentation as an integral component of revitalisation planning. Next, I examine endeavours to revitalise endangered languages. In the final section, I conclude the chapter, touching upon issues such as expanding the discourse of revitalisation planning and arguing for revitalisation planning as consilience: a melting pot for principles from different fields in order to form a new, comprehensive theory.

5.2.  The complexity of language endangerment My aim in this section is to show the complexity of language endangerment, covering concerns about language endangerment and its contributing factors.

5.2.1.  Concerns about language endangerment Endangered languages are broadly defined as languages that within a few generations will have no speakers left, or those in which the younger generations no longer learn them, as they have been decreasing in use or have ceased to be used entirely. Various terms such as language loss, language death and language obsolescence have been used “for the more dramatic outcomes of a language being abandoned by an entire speech community so that it is no longer used or spoken anywhere in the world” (Pauwels, 2016, p. 19). But the term language endangerment, according to Tsunoda (2005), is apt to “cover the stages from ‘weakening’

130  Revitalisation planning to ‘extinct’ ” (p. 14), encompassing terms such as language decay, language decline and language obsolescence at one end and language death, language extinction and language loss at the other (p. 9). One way to understand language endangerment is through its opposite, language vitality, which is defined as a framework that examines the health of a language and takes account of the number and ages of speakers, how often they speak the language, intergenerational transmission and the use of the language in domains such as in the home, education and government. Indonesia’s linguistic vitality rate can be calculated through Lewis and Simons’ (2010) Expanded Graded Intergenerational Disruption Scale (EGIDS). With 359 languages categorised under EGIDS 1–6a (Simons & Fennig, 2017a), Indonesia’s vitality rate at 50.78 per cent is still significantly higher than some regions of the world, namely Australia and New Zealand (only 7 per cent vital), North America (9 per cent) and South America (35 per cent) (Simons & Lewis, 2011). However, Indonesia’s language vitality rate is relatively lower than the world average of 65 per cent (Simons & Lewis, 2013). And as I mentioned in Chapters 1 and 3, concerns about language endangerment in Indonesia have increased rapidly, while conversely language vitality has declined (e.g., Anderbeck, 2015; Ibrahim, 2011; Klamer, 2018; Lauder & Ayatrohaédi, 2006; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Steinhauer, 1992, 1994; van Engelenhoven, 2003). Indonesia’s superglossia (see Chapter 2) is characterised by many languages being threatened with extinction. As early as in the 1990s, Steinhauer (1992) claimed that the prospect for indigenous languages in Indonesia was “gloomy” with only 50 of 500 identified languages predicted to survive into the next century. Other researchers such as Anderbeck (2015) and Lauder and Ayatrohaédi (2006) may not exaggerate their predictions, but they are apprehensive because of the somewhat alarming situation, nonetheless. About a decade ago, Lauder and Ayatrohaédi (2006) estimated that there were 100 threatened Indonesian languages. But the situation has deteriorated. A few years ago, Anderbeck (2015) noted that 134 languages were endangered and 169 languages were dying or dead. Though not exactly showing the same number, these statements are parallel with data from Ethnologue demonstrating that in 2008 there were 726 indigenous languages, but recent data show that there are only 707 living languages. Of the 707 languages, 272 are in trouble and 76 are dying (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). For Anderbeck (2015), the situation we are currently observing shows “a definite weakening” of indigenous languages (p. 21); and if the accelerated pace of language endangerment continues, Anderbeck (2015) states that “we could be looking at a trend line . . . with the number of doomed Indonesian languages exceeding 300 in under two decades” (p. 33) (Chart 5.1). The overall assessment of linguistic vitality of Indonesia can be seen in Table 5.1. The table shows that 18 languages are institutional and 81 are developing – hence 99 of them are fairly “safe” (cf. Anderbeck, 2015; Klamer, 2018; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014). However, Table 5.1 also shows that 348 indigenous languages have a low vitality rate, being placed in the EGIDS 6b–7 and EGIDS 8a–9 categories. They are either “in trouble” or “dying”. Generally speaking, these are

Revitalisation planning 131 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0 1994

2013

2032

Chart 5.1  Trend line for reported dying or dead languages in Indonesia Source: Anderbeck, 2015.

Table 5.1  Summary of Indonesia’s linguistic vitality • Institutional (EGIDS 0–4): The language shows institutional development and maintenance beyond the home and community. There are 18 languages under this category. • Developing (EGIDS 5): The language is used vigorously by its speakers. It has a standardised form of literature that is used by some, although this is not widespread or sustainable. There are 81 languages under this category. • Vigorous (EGIDS 6a): The language is used vigorously by all generations of its speakers, although it remains unstandardised. There are 260 languages under this category. • In trouble (EGIDS 6b–7): Intergenerational transmission is disrupted, although the child-bearing generation can still use the language. Revitalisation efforts possibly restore intergenerational transmission of the language in the home. There are 272 languages under this category. • Dying (EGIDS 8a–9): Fluent users are limited to those older than child-bearing age, so revitalisation efforts through the home to restore natural intergenerational transmission may be too late. This requires a revitalisation mechanism outside the home. There are 76 languages under this category. • Extinct (EGIDS 10): The language is not used any more and no one retains a sense of ethnic identity associated with the language. There are 12 languages under this category.

endangered languages. According to Anderbeck (2015), 37 of the endangered languages are moribund, with a geographical spread of two languages in Java, one in Kalimantan, six in Maluku, 20 in Papua and eight in Sulawesi. Anderbeck adds that there are 30 languages that are nearly extinct, spreading over three regions: Maluku (14), Papua (13) and Sulawesi (3). There are also seven dormant

132  Revitalisation planning languages, spreading over Java (1), Kalimantan (1), Maluku (2) and Papua (3). The final category in Anderbeck’s list, extinct languages, shows a total number of 16 languages, with nine of them in Maluku. In comparing the sociolinguistic situation more than three decades ago when Steinhauer (1994) wrote his seminal paper, Anderbeck (2015, p. 21) summarises the present-­day situation of language vitality in Indonesia. He states that (1) “One of every four Indonesian languages is vulnerable (EGIDS 6b Threatened), with shrinking speaker numbers.” Although intergenerational transmission may still exist, the pressures of globalisation contribute to a language shift away from the mother tongue; and (2) “The remaining one of every four Indonesian languages seems to be dying (EGIDS 7–8b) or may be extinct already (EGIDS 9 and 10).” Some languages such as Marori (spoken in Papua) may be lost within a generation, while others may be extinct within two or three generations.

5.2.2.  Language shift to Indonesian Given the importance of Indonesian in Indonesia’s superglossia (see Chapter 2), shift to the national language is predictable. In fact, shift from smaller languages to Indonesian has been a frequently cited factor for language endangerment (see Arka, 2008a, 2013; Gunarwan, 2006; Himmelmann, 2010). The linguistic hegemony of Indonesian has been underpinned by three major factors. One is the transmigrasi programme developed during the New Order Era (1967–1998) that has relocated people from the overpopulated areas of Java, Madura and Bali to less dense regions in Sumatra, Kalimantan, Sulawesi and Papua. In areas such as South Sumatra, this has led to the original population becoming a minority, allowing for interethnic communication in Indonesian to jeopardise indigenous languages (Dixon, 1991). The policy for making Indonesian the language of instruction at all levels of education has also undermined the use of indigenous languages. A pervasive notion among the public during the 1970s–1990s was that bilingualism was perceived to be a liability – an ideological stance that went parallel with the banning of indigenous languages in schooling in some provinces across the country (see Lowenberg, 1992; Nababan, 1991). The third factor is the prevalence of media where Indonesian as the language of national communication features heavily in print publication, television and radio programmes. Not only does the massification of Indonesian in the media help sharpen the identification of ethnicity among Indonesian population (Goebel, 2017), it also perpetuates a widespread language shift from indigenous languages (Alwi, 2000; Lowenberg, 1992). Indeed, these three factors intensify the pressure from Indonesian, combining with a number of other factors that contribute to language endangerment in Indonesia. This is found among various indigenous languages such as Rongga in East Nusa Tenggara (Arka, 2008a, 2010), Kayeli and Hukumina in Maluku (Grimes, 2010), Marori in Papua (Arka, 2013), Tomini-­Tolitoli languages in Sulawesi (Himmelmann, 2010) and Retta in Alor (Kurniawati, 2016), to name a

Revitalisation planning 133 few. Even when it does not lead to language endangerment, a shift to Indonesian could still lead to language decline. Aritonang (2016) observes this phenomenon in the Talondo language, spoken in Mamuju, West Sulawesi. His data show that the language is not endangered, but it is in sharp decline. Aritonang states a shift towards Indonesian is a predominant factor in the decline, citing an average score of 0.58 in the language vitality index. However, the problem of language endangerment may be even more serious than originally thought. Regardless of their importance in Indonesia’s superglossia, major indigenous languages may be affected too. This is important in light of Krauss’s (1992) prediction that languages with speakers of fewer than 100,000 are at risk of being endangered, seemingly leaving Indonesia in grave danger because 621 out of its 707 indigenous languages (87.83 per cent) have fewer than 100,000 speakers. But Ravindranath and Cohn (2014) state that “[r]apid changes to intergenerational transmission patterns suggest that even the largest local languages in Indonesia may be at risk, raising the question of whether a language with millions of speakers can be endangered” (p. 64). To examine their hypothesis, the researchers employed an analysis of speaker population (log) and Lewis, Simons and Fennig’s (2013) EGIDS vitality measure for languages with under a million speakers. This is aimed to analyse whether there exists a significant population difference between “endangered” languages (categories 6b–9, excluding 10: “extinct”) and “safe” languages (categories 1–6a, excluding 0: “international”). By comparing the average population of the languages in these two broad classes, Ravindranath and Conh found an insignificant difference (p = 0.32), which means that population size does not necessarily correlate with endangerment. One notable example is Gorontalo. A language with approximately one million speakers mainly living in the Gorontalo province, Gorontalo is widespread along the coasts of the North Sulawesi province and Bolaang Mongondow Utara regency (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). Although it is one of the largest and most prestigious languages in Sulawesi, the vitality status of Gorontalo is 6b (Threatened). The split of Gorontalo Province from North Sulawesi in 2000 has contributed to a sudden language shift to Indonesian. Many Gorontalos do not see the need to assert their distinct ethnic identity through their language, and some rituals which normally would have been done in Gorontalo are officially discouraged (Anderbeck, 2015). Javanese is another example. Ravindranath and Cohn’s (2014) investigation of Javanese demonstrates that low intergenerational transmission among Javanese speakers has made the language endangered. First, there is a shift away from the krama [high] register of Javanese to the ngoko [low] register; and second there is a shift away from the ngoko [low] register towards Indonesian. These have been attributed to a number of factors such as language attitudes, gender, class and urbanisation. Ravindranath and Cohn’s conclusion is parallel with previous studies documenting a language shift among Javanese speakers (e.g., Kurniasih, 2006; Setiawan, 2013; Smith-­Hefner, 2009). For Setiawan (2013), there is an

134  Revitalisation planning issue of urban–rural divide among children aged 9–11 who participated in his study in three locations in East Java representing the city, town and village. His study reveals that “most city children reported that they used Indonesian when communicating with all their interlocutors regardless of the domains”, whereas “most village children report using Javanese to all their interlocutors except when communicating with their teachers in the classroom” (pp. 293–294). In Smith-­ Hefner (2009), the choice for using Indonesian is a result of changing social attitudes in which urban, middle-­class women and their daughters are more inclined to using Indonesian to accomplish social goals. Female participants in Kurniasih (2006) also lead the language shift movement as they use Indonesian in their own practices and in interactions with their children, while the males maintain Javanese. However, not everyone agrees with these assertions. Quinn (2012) thinks the rhetoric of decline affecting Javanese is a moot point. He argues that following the decentralisation of governance, there has actually been a reinvigoration of Javanese. This is evidenced by greater dialectical recognition within Javanese language expression, more prominent positioning of Javanese in the media, the publication of Javanese language and literature, innovative use of technology and continuous strengthening of the place of Javanese in schools and universities. Other scholars appear to be in line with Quinn (e.g., Lowenberg, 1992; Mahmud, 2010; Nababan, 1985, 1991; Simanjuntak, 2014), with Lowenberg (1992), for example, seeing “little evidence” that the increased use of Indonesian “has significantly weakened the expression of local and ethnic identities through the use of the regional languages” (p. 70). An important research conducted by Nababan (1985) involved 2,925 respondents in 13 provinces. His study shows that while a shift to Indonesian was noticeable, this was not seen as detrimental to indigenous languages. Nababan sees the shift as an indication of additive bilingualism: The results of the survey have indicated that even though Indonesian is increasingly acquired as first language, and that Indonesian is making inroads on the traditional domains of the vernacular, there seems to be no immediate likelihood that the vernaculars will die out. In fact, the high percentage of children learning/using the local vernacular as second language is a reassuring sign that the vernaculars will continue to be used and that the fears of many adults that the vernaculars will shrink and die, do not have a factual basis. (p. 17) What Nababan argued more than three decades ago is corroborated by Mahmud (2010) in a relatively recent study. For Mahmud (2010), language shift to Indonesian is not endangering the Bugis language. She notes that speakers of the Bugis language are motivated to maintain their language in order to “preserve the Bugis identity” and the many domains in which Bugis is used in rural and urban areas only indicates that Bugis is “more acceptable than Indonesian” (p. 95). Thus, while language shift generally does exist, the development of Indonesian and the vitality of indigenous languages are not necessarily in exact oppositional

Revitalisation planning 135

Figure 5.1  Javanese inscription in Sholihin Mosque Surakarta, Central Java Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018h).

terms. Language shift appears to be a lot more dynamic and complex than previously thought. As Hornberger (2010) argues, “Factors contributing to language maintenance and shift are diverse and complex, making the science of prediction elusive if not impossible” (p. 413). What appears to be language shift potentially

136  Revitalisation planning leading to endangerment in some contexts could be a move towards additive bilingualism in other contexts.

5.2.3.  Language shift to regional lingua francas (RLFs) As I have shown in Chapter 2, there are 43 RLFs that serve as languages for wider communication at the regional level (see Sub-­Sections 2.4.1 and 2.4.2 for further information on these RLFs). It is not only a shift to Indonesian that exacerbates language endangerment, but also a shift to these RLFs. RLFs have been perceived as detrimental to the maintenance of smaller indigenous languages. Anderbeck (2015), Sneddon (2003a) and Steinhauer (1994) show that RLFs (e.g., Banjar Malay, Manado Malay, Ambon Malay) have grown rapidly at the expense of smaller languages in many regions including Central and South Kalimantan, Sulawesi, Maluku and Papua. For example, Manado Malay, which has been used as the language of the Protestant Church and schooling since the 19th century, grows very swiftly. It is now used in various domains not only in the city of Manado but also in towns all over North Sulawesi. As a consequence, smaller indigenous languages such as Bantik are threatened. Up to the 1970s, Bantik was spoken by dwellers in five villages near to Manado. But increased interethnic communication and the inclusion of the villages in the new development of Manado city have contributed to the endangerment of Bantik to the extent that by the early 1990s what remained in one of the villages were “two speakers and a graveyard” (Bowell cited in Steinhauer, 1994, p. 771). The present-­day situation among the Bantik communities in Buha and Bengkol shows that Bantik is “no longer the first language of people born after 1980, and people born between 1966 and 1979 can be best described as semi-­ speakers of the language” (Utsumi, 2012, p. 149). Utsumi argues that intergenerational transmission of Bantik may cease to continue once the young group become parents, with the fact that their grandparents are merely semi-­speakers of the language. Language shift towards Manado Malay has also caused the declining use of the Tondano language, spoken mainly in the Minahasa Regency in North Sulawesi. Hertz and Lee (2017) reports that Manado Malay “is thought to be replacing TDN [Tondano] in many or all domains of non-­formal speech” (p. 1). Tondano speakers’ attitudes have been quite positive towards their language, expressing their love for the language as well as desire for its maintenance. However, the need to maju [progress socially and economically], necessitates the use of Manado Malay and Indonesian. Speakers of Tondano are quoted to have said that the two languages offer more opportunities than their own. Another RLF that has been considered to be dangerous for smaller indigenous languages is Banjar. Durasid (1990) states that political, economic and cultural advantages have been attached to speakers of Banjar through various periods of history – during the sultanates of Pontianak, Kutai and Banjarmasin, under Dutch colonialism and during political integration into Republic of Indonesia.

Revitalisation planning 137 This linguistic prestige appears to be a defining factor in the partial shift to Banjar where the language is often used alongside Indonesian in official and non-­ traditional meetings as well as interethnic communication. The shift to Banjar has been reported among speakers of Lamandau language of Central Kalimantan (Usop et al., 1992) and nearly all speakers of Dayak languages (Kawi, 1991). Members of the Bayan Dayak community, for example, often speak Banjar, Bakumpai or Indonesian when dealing with visitors (Nanang & Usman, 1988). A full shift to Banjar has also been observed, nonetheless. This has occurred among Paku speakers who by 1987 had practically stopped using their own language (Soetoso et al., 1989).

5.2.4.  Spatial mobility and language endangerment Various forms of mobility may also cause language endangerment, as discussed in the following. Temporal migration may contribute to language endangerment when two dialects of the same language intersect. In the Bima Regency of West Nusa Tenggara, national development has allowed for the arrival of teachers who speak the Sera Suba dialect of Bimanese in the Sambori village. Yusra et al. (2016) report that ever since the arrival of the teachers in Sambori, village meetings and Friday sermons have been conducted in the Sera Suba dialect of Bimanese and Indonesian. The younger generation of Sambori have felt inferior, thinking of their dialect as a bahasa gunung [mountain language], and even associating it with stupidity and backwardness. The second form of mobility that may cause language endangerment is permanent migration. Grimes (2010) examines that although smaller language communities in Maluku often lack the economic and political resources to preserve their indigenous languages in keeping with modernity in Indonesian social life, they are not necessarily threatened. Only in smaller indigenous languages in which the entire population has been uprooted from their places of origin is endangerment more likely to occur. This is the case with Hukumina, Larike Christians and the Batu Merah communities. However, as Grimes shows, if there is a language group in which some members of the group “remain in the places of origin and some migrate out or are on the periphery in prolonged interethnic contact (e.g., Masarete, Alune), those on the outside or the periphery are more likely to be involved in language shift” (p. 88). Nomadic lifestyle may also be a cause of endangerment. Speakers of Kui language in East Nusa Tenggara migrate in search of a better life, speaking Alorese and Indonesian most of the time they are away. This contributes to the endangerment of not only their language but also their unique conception of identity. While ethnic identity is usually attached to a certain language community, this does not seem to be applicable to the Kui people (Shiohara, 2012). Influenced by their seafaring culture, a majority of the 1,900 speakers of Kui (Simons & Fennig, 2017a) are in constant movement, having “no primeval attachment to an ancestral land and its language” (Shiohara, 2012, p. 122). A similar case is seen

138  Revitalisation planning

Figure 5.2  Bokori, a village of the Sama-Bajau people in southwest Sulawesi Source: Hoogervorst (2012).

among the Sama-­Bajau people whose seafaring culture enables them to live in the borders of Indonesia, the Philippines and Malaysia. The Sama-­Bajau people’s continuing mobility means a fluid language attitude towards their language, with members of the ethnicity attaching no importance of language to their identity (Maglana, 2016).

5.2.5.  Religion and language endangerment Seemingly unrelated at first glance, religion is influential to linguistic vitality, often causing endangerment. Religious conversion may lead to language shift, even endangerment, as seen in the case of the Dayak languages in Kalimantan. Although their indigenous languages can be classified into the general classification of Malayo-­Polynesian, Bornean, Sabahan and Ibanic languages, the Dayaks have no common language, with “each tribe” having “its own language, which is practically unintelligible to natives of other tribes” (Krohn, 1991, p. 306). The arrival of traders from Melayu following the influence of the kingdom of Demak in the 16th century opened doors for contact between Dayak tribes in southern Kalimantan with

Revitalisation planning 139

Figure 5.3  Islamised Bakumpai people in Central Kalimantan Source: Tropenmuseum (2018b).

the Malay communities. This in turn contributed to either coerced or voluntary conversions among the Dayaks from their pagan beliefs to Islam (King, 1993). Converting to Islam, the indigenous Dayak groups adopt a Malay lifestyle. This includes avoiding the consumption of pork and alcohol, changes in housing from longhouse to single detached houses, and somewhat surprisingly, a shift to what are considered to be more “useful” languages such as Sambas Malay and Banjar. Although significant Islamisation has occurred in Kalimantan in the past three decades (Chalmers, 2007), the Dayak Muslims are not the majority. A greater number of the Dayak people, especially those living in Central Kalimantan, have converted to Christianity. In Palangkaraya and the lower Kapuas and Barito regions, for example, the churches maintain their significant spiritual, physical and political presence. Consequently, a great majority of Dayak Christians have abandoned certain cultural rites and ancestor practices, even changing their names into European ones. Language practices among these Dayak Christians, as a result, have been predominantly in Malay, leaving their indigenous languages in jeopardy. The spread of Catholicism has also adversely affected the maintenance of Rongga language and cultural practices among the Rongga communities who

140  Revitalisation planning practise traditional beliefs in East Nusa Tenggara. Arka (2010) shows how this occurs with dances and songs associated with Vera, a ritual dance accompanied by singing. Arka states that “[i]n Rongga, traditional (ritual) practices incompatible with Catholic teaching are generally discouraged or forbidden, but other practices, while not forbidden, are often not encouraged” (p. 105). Religion also played a role in the political and social divisions in Maluku between 1999 and 2002. The region of Maluku, consisting of the provinces of Maluku and North Maluku, is particularly rich in linguistic and cultural diversity, home to 128 indigenous languages (Simons & Fennig, 2017a). However, the region is one of the areas with the most severe concerns about language vitality with “six languages are known to have become extinct and twelve languages are moribund” in the early years of the new millennium (Florey & van Engelenhoven, 2001, p. 196), and recent conditions show that 65 per cent of the 128 languages are either endangered or dying (Anderbeck, 2015). The economic crisis that started in 1997 brought serious difficulties to the local people, leading to political disagreement and social division among the Muslim and Christian communities. This continued with communal killings in the name of religion that began in January 1999, shaping the divisions between the two communities even deeper, a situation locally known as kerusuhan. Half a million speakers of indigenous languages in Maluku were displaced during the kerusuhan. The situation is worst among the Teun, Nila, Serua (TNS) speakers. Linguist van Engelenhoven (2003) states that the ethno-­religious civil war “has changed an incipient process of language shift among TNS people into an acute thread of language death, simply because its speakers are either killed in the riots or dying because of starvation” (p. 79). Florey and Ewing (2010) report on stories of Christians in Ambon and Seram who asserted that the Muslims of Liang and Tulehu had used their indigenous language to organise an attack on Waai, a group of Christians. The Waai people felt that they were at a disadvantage, having only spoken Ambon Malay and Indonesian, “and thus not having a secret language that they could use to warn each other of conflict or to plan attack or retreat” (p. 161). It is suggested by members of the community that the unrest might not have happened or that peace would have been restored earlier had Christian and Muslim communities still shared their common ancestral language.

5.2.6.  Genocide and natural disaster Another cause of language endangerment is genocide. Tribal wars are associated with genocide of certain tribes, often causing immediate language death. Because of this reason, the Paulohi and Loun language communities in Maluku were placed at a disadvantage vis-­à-­vis their neighbours and they eventually linguistically succumbed (Steinhauer, 1994, p. 772). Approximately 40 years ago the Paulohi language was still spoken in the east coast of Elpaputi Gulf, but now there are no longer indigenous community speaking the language. Some five centuries earlier, a notorious case of genocide involving the Dutch resulted in the depopulation of the Banda archipelago in Central Maluku.

Revitalisation planning 141 Collins (2003) reports that ethnic cleansing conducted by the Dutch Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) contributed to the extinction of the Batumerah language, the moribund state of Kelang and the endangered state of Piruese. Moreover, Collins tentatively concludes that “the attitudes instilled by the VOC controlled church and the policies put into place during the VOC period have had a deleterious effect on the survival of the languages of Maluku spoken in Christian villages” (p. 273). Meanwhile, Adelaar and Prentice (1996) note that Banda Malay was one of the languages that disappeared after the depopulation. Further, a natural disaster can cause not only the demolition of vegetation, lands and infrastructure but also the annihilation of people. When it happens with a certain language community, it causes language death. This is the case of the Tambora language speakers in West Nusa Tenggara who were wiped out during the famous eruption of the Tambora volcano in 1815, a disaster so catastrophic that it led to changing temperatures in the following year (1816), known as the Year Without Summer. The Tambora language, which is the easternmost Austrosiatic language, rather than Austronesian, has no remnants except for a short word list included in Sir Thomas Standford Raffles’ History of Java (1817) (Dixon, 1991; Nettle & Romaine, 2000). Dixon (1991) notes that a similar effect of natural disaster could threaten several small indigenous language communities in the Goliath mountains in Papua. Earthquakes and landslides had threatened these communities at a time when contact with the outside world was still limited.

5.2.7.  Community suppression Community suppression also adversely affects language vitality. Cases from Papua and Kalimantan exemplify this. The indigenous communities of Papua speak 384 languages, with none of them belonging to a single genetic language family. Having this rich linguistic superdiversity, however, is actually challenging in terms of language preservation. Continuous violent conflict has occurred ever since the integration of West New Guinea into Indonesia in 1969, a process that was shrouded in mystery, with some arguing it was done voluntarily while others think it was deemed to be “not democratic and was widely criticized by Papuans and many foreigners” (Bertrand, 2004, p. 145) and that it was “hotly contested with claims of interference by US capital interests” (Morin, 2016, p. 103). For nearly 30 years, a number of Papuans resisted the Indonesian government by joining the Organisasi Papua Merdeka [Free Papua Movement] (OPM), which intensified the tension with the central government. As a result, the Papuans suffered from the New Order’s militaristic style of governance. The regime put Papua under close surveillance, marginalising its people in the process. This deteriorated under the New Order’s repressive treatment against ethnic separatists through Daerah Operasi Militer [Military Operation Region] (DOM). The implementation of DOM caused the death of separatists

142  Revitalisation planning

Figure 5.4  A speaker of the Asmat language of Papua Source: Wibowo (2018).

who were actually speakers of various indigenous languages, leading to language endangerment. In terms of education, there was a strong emphasis on an Indonesian curriculum, resulting in pupils learning Indonesian history from an Indonesian perspective, with little reference to the Papuan culture. Linguistically speaking, the imposition of the Indonesian language contributed to the marginalisation of a popular lingua franca (Papuan Malay) (Morin, 2016). Even worse, the teaching of indigenous languages was not allowed in Papua during the New Order Era. Thus, indigenous children did not have the opportunity to learn their

Revitalisation planning 143 own languages. Given this situation, the adjective that best describes the Papuans is not minority but minoritised. As Skutnabb-­Kangas (2018) defines it, minoritised people are those “who are not necessarily numerical minorities but who have less power and fewer material and immaterial resources than a numerical power elite in their country, and who therefore lack rights” (p. 13). Nonetheless, current situations have greatly improved. The teaching of indigenous languages has received support since the Post–New Order Era (Rumbrawer, 2001) while Papuan Malay has gained greater significance in recent years (Morin, 2016). In Kalimantan, the Dayaks were subjugated when the need for palm oil plantations started to rise during the New Order Era. Even decades later, massive destruction of Kalimantan rainforests is persisting at a large scale, deeply threatening the Dayaks’ traditions and livelihoods. The transmigrasi project developed by the centralised New Order government has also massively reduced the Dayak tribes’ traditional territories. Consequently, the Dayaks have been displaced from ancestral lands that they have traditionally relied on for their food, shelter, cultural practices and spiritual well-­ being. Braithwaite, Braithwaite, Cookson and Dunn (2010) note the aggressiveness of the modernisation and assimilationist policies of the central government. During the New Order Era, the Dayak communities were forced to move from their longhouses in the rainforests into the so-­called “Indonesian-­style” villages. This was partly due to the need to maintain cost efficiency for national development projects in items such as electricity, but this was also motivated by the need to maintain surveillance and control over them. With many Dayak village names being changed into Javanese names, cultural imperialism was apparent; and indeed, for the New Order government “[i]dentification with historically more important and longstanding identities associated with Dayak language groups or Dayak longhouses was not important” (Braithwaite et al., 2010, p. 318). During the New Order Era, the use of Dayak languages in schools was banned. The minoritised Dayak children were denied access to their various mother tongues in primary education because an overwhelming majority of their teachers were migrants from Java and Sumatra who did not speak any of their languages. Fortunately, the arrival of regional autonomy has changed the situation (see Gumilar, 2015; also Sub-Sections 5.4.4 and 6.4.3).

5.3.  Language documentation The term language documentation is defined as “the creation, annotation, preservation and dissemination of transparent records of a language” (Woodbury, 2011, p. 159). Language documentation is vital in all aspects of revitalisation planning. Scholars have maintained that documenting languages plays a critical role in language revival, language revitalisation, language reclamation and reversing language shift (e.g., Florey & Himmelmann, 2010; Grenoble & Whaley, 2006; Pauwels, 2016; Sentf, 2010; Wittenburg & Trislbeek, 2010; Woodbury, 2011). This section will focus on efforts to document languages and research into language vitality.

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5.3.1.  Efforts to document languages In Sub-­Section 4.3.1, I showed how the New Order government had tasked Indonesia’s language planning agency, the Badan Bahasa, to develop a policy to conduct research into languages other than Indonesian (LOTI) under the Proyek Pengembangan Bahasa Daerah [The Project for the Development of Indigenous Languages] (PPBD). Through the PPBD, the Badan Bahasa was also involved in language documentation as a means of revitalisation planning. This was accomplished through the creation of bilingual dictionaries from indigenous languages to Indonesian, and vice versa. Space constrains me from providing full bibliographical information of all the dictionaries created under the PPBD, so I encourage readers to directly access the Ministry of Education and Culture Repository: http://repositori.kemdikbud.go.id/view/subjects/PED007 = 2E7.html The dictionaries created by researchers of the Badan Bahasa under the PPBD include dictionaries of Alas (Akbar et al., 1985), Minangkabau (Adnan et al., 1994), Ogan (Aliana et al., 1985), Makassar (Arief et al., 1995), Lampung (Ariyani, 1999), Sentani (Fautngil, Tokayo, & Rumbrawer, 1999), Pasir (Ibrahim, 1977), Tonsea (Sumarauw et al., 1996), Wolio (Abas et al., 1985), Mentawai (Khatib et al., 1998), Tetun (Monteiro, 1985), Gorontalo (Pateda, 2001), Suwawa (Pateda & Pulubuhu, 1985), Sumbawa (Sumarsono et al., 1985), Karo (Surbakti et al., 1998), Gayo (Thantawy et al., 1996), Kerinci (Usman, 1985), Kaidipang (Usup, Hiariey, Posumah, Loho & Iroth, 2000), and Jambi (Yulisma et al., 1997). Despite this, the number of undocumented indigenous languages far exceeds the documented ones. In the words of Florey and Himmelmann (2010), “we estimate that fewer than 10 per cent (and possibly as few as 5 per cent) of the languages of Indonesia have been the subject of modern linguistic documentation” (p. 123). Documentation of indigenous languages in terms of lexicography is far from complete, not to mention the absence of the phonetic and audio resources of those languages. This is further evidenced by the documentation of varieties of Malay. Even though linguists and researchers during the New Order Era also contributed to the development of dictionaries of the varieties of Malay, including Balinese Malay (Bagus et al., 1985), Makassar Malay (Arief, 1985), Riau Malay (Lubis, Ramli, Dasri, Hakim & Mustafa, 1997), Langkat Malay (Masindan et al., 1985), Deli Malay (Chalil et al., 1985) and Ambon Malay (Takaria & Pieter, 1998), they did not create dictionaries for other varieties that have a prominent role in lingua franca communication such as Manado Malay and Papua Malay. These RLFs were left untouched. The same case applies to non-­Malayic RLFs. Dictionaries have been created for RLFs such as Bakumpai (Ibrahim, Tarmini & Sumaryati, 1995) and Bugis (Said, 1977), but these are dated and do not reflect contemporary Indonesia’s superglossia. Meanwhile, the absence of dictionaries for other non-­Malayic RLFs makes the prospect of documenting all RLFs remain elusive. Under the direction of the Badan Bahasa, linguists during the New Order Era contributed to updating language dictionaries. This applies to languages such

Revitalisation planning 145

Figure 5.5  Speakers of Lamaholot (a non-Malayic RLF) in Eastern Nusa Tenggara Source: Tropenmuseum (2018c).

as Balinese in which linguists developed dictionaries for Ancient Balinese (Granoka, 1985) and Modern Balinese (Denes et al., 1999). Umsari et al. (1993) updated the Sundanese dictionary once compiled by Sumantri (1985), while Ariyani, Udin, Wetty, Hilal, and Junaiyah (1999) did the same with the Lampung dictionary once developed by Junaiyah (1985). Linguists such as Adiwimarta

146  Revitalisation planning (1988) and Nardiati et al. (1993) contributed to the language documentation of Javanese, with the former developing a word list for Javanese colloquial phrases and the latter a full dictionary of Javanese. However, language change is inevitable, meaning further updates of these dictionaries are imperative. Moreover, there is a need for the creation of dictionaries of other indigenous languages that remain undocumented. Languages that have no dictionaries warrant some lexicography work. This issue is relevant given the fact that the production of dictionaries in the Post–New Order Era (1998–present) is quite limited, encompassing dictionaries in Ketapang Malay (Damayanti, Hijriah, Herawati & Winarti, 2010), Kutai (Darma et al., 2013), Sambas Malay (Harianto, 2010), Kulawi (Karsana, Tamrin & Wahidah, 2012) and Ngaju Dayak (Suryanyahu, Septiana, Darmawati, & Kartini, 2013). The creation of these dictionaries has been under the direct administration of the Badan Bahasa at the central level, rather than its regional representatives. With arguably limited contributions by regional representatives of the Badan Bahasa and local governments in the process (see also Chapter 4), it appears that decentralisation of governance has done little to language documentation. Indonesia is fortunate because various scholars who are not affiliated with the Badan Bahasa have contributed to language documentation. Again, like the case of research into LOTI as part of corpus planning (see Chapter 4), meso-­level policy in terms of language documentation has occurred without overt planning from the Badan Bahasa, although some “auspices” may be provided (see Whisler & Whisler, 1995, for the case of Sawai). For example, the Balinese-­born scholar I Wayan Arka has developed dictionaries of Rongga: one for Indonesian (Arka, 2011) and another for English (Arka, 2012a). He also has published another dictionary of Rongga typology (Arka, 2016). Meanwhile, Tyron (1995a) edited a volume called Comparative Austronesian Dictionary, in which many indigenous languages are included. These languages are Acehnese (Durie, 1995), Batak Toba (Adelaar, 1995a), Minangkabau (Adelaar, 1995b), Sundanese (Clynes, 1995a), Javanese (Clynes, 1995b), Madurese (Clynes, 1995c), Balinese (Clynes, 1995d), Sasak (Clynes, 1995e), Gorontalo (Little, Jr., 1995), Da’a (Barr, 1995), Uma (Martens, 1995), Bugis (Abas & Grimes, 1995), Konjo (Friberg, 1995), Wolio (Anceaux & Grimes, 1995), Ngada (Djawanai & Grimes, 1995), Sika (Lewis & Grimes, 1995), Roti (Fox & Grimes, 1995), Buru (Grimes, 1995), Dobel (Hughes, 1995) and Sawai (Whisler & Whisler, 1995). However, the Dictionary, according to Tyron (1995b), consists “primarily of an annotated dictionary of synonyms for some 1200 lexical items in 80 different Austronesian languages” (p. 1). It is not a complete dictionary and cannot serve as a full reference to the languages included. It is evident that the documentation of linguistic corpora of indigenous languages is far from complete to account for all elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity (see Chapter 2). The Badan Bahasa is aware of this. The language planning agency states that language documentation that has identified 652 indigenous languages is incomplete because there are more languages that have not been identified. As Harimansyah (2018) informed me, linguists of the Badan Bahasa

Revitalisation planning 147 are working to ensure full identification of all indigenous languages, although he did not specify work on language documentation.

5.3.2.  Research into language vitality As important as it is, documentation of linguistic corpora in itself is insufficient. As Ibrahim (2011) states, “the mapping studies of languages in Indonesia have only reached the level of their numbers, distribution, and dialects. Research on the vitality of language has so far not been carried out” (p. 47). For Anderbeck (2015), researching language vitality is a hugely challenging process. He points out that For approximately 110 or 15% of Indonesia’s languages, we have no vitality data. About the same number of languages have not had their initial vitality estimates from Ethnologue data verified. For still 121 more languages, our data are sketchy, dated, or even simply a guess based on sociolinguistic characteristics of the particular region. This means that our information is only somewhat solid in half of the languages of Indonesia. (p. 26) Therefore, there need to be more comprehensive studies on linguistic vitality to generate not only statistical aspects of languages and their distribution across the archipelago but also a large set of linguistic behaviour in the complex, dynamic and polycentric Indonesia’s superglossia (see Chapter 2). Shifts in the use of linguistic varieties need to be surveyed. As Pauwels (2016) argues, this is important to enable trend monitoring of linguistic diversity, to plan language services and to formulate policies dealing with language use and language rights. In terms of revitalisation planning, surveys on the linguistic vitality in Indonesia are important for three reasons. Ibrahim (2011, pp. 46–47) maintains that such surveys are useful to document how indigenous languages in Indonesia interact and influence each other and how the dominant languages in multilingual community areas affect small languages. Second, the surveys would present facts about the landscape of language diversity in Indonesia not only in terms of number and distribution, but also in the strength of cultural resilience of language communities. Third, they would also show patterns of relationships between speaker mobility in terms of economic activities, education, types of work in the public space and language retention profile for indigenous communities. To begin with, it is necessary to focus revitalisation planning on eastern Indonesia. The lack of attention to corpus planning in eastern Indonesia (see Chapter 4) has affected revitalisation planning in the region. Musgrave (2014) also notes this, stating that activities related to language maintenance are largely concentrated in western Indonesia, where speakers of several languages numbering in millions can gain access to resources and institutional support. By contrast, as Musgrave states, speakers of indigenous languages “in the eastern part of

148  Revitalisation planning Indonesia have limited access to resources available for language maintenance, although recent funding initiatives by organizations based in Europe have at least assisted in drawing attention to the problems faced in that region” (p. 87). In order to ensure proper surveying of linguistic vitality and all aspects of language documentation, qualified human resources are vital. In other regions in the world concerned by language endangerment, linguistic training for language documentation has been held productively. This has been the case with the Guatemalan Proyecto Linguistico Francisco Marroquín (PLFM) in Guatemala, the Advocates for Indigenous California Language Survival in the United States, the Certificate in Aboriginal Language Revitalization (the University of Victoria, Canada) and the Endangered Languages Academic Program (SOAS London, the UK). In the Indonesian context, scholars have maintained the need for training local researchers in areas of modern linguistics to facilitate language documentation (e.g., Florey & Himmelmann, 2010; Steinhauer, 1994). In addition, Florey and Himmelmann (2010) have suggested the need to create language resource centres in Indonesia. Language centres can be established and managed regionally in alignment with decentralisation of governance being embraced by the State. This suggestion is also relevant because the Badan Bahasa already has regional representatives in 22 provinces across the country. As suggested by Florey and Himmelmann, active participation of the regional representatives would allow language resource centres to undertake activities in “coordinating local research projects, training staff in formal courses and through apprenticeship, hiring external linguists as necessary on short and longer-­term contracts, acting as regional repositories and archives for data, and as literature production centres” (p. 137). Further, work on language documentation may be done accurately and efficiently if it makes use of technology. Scholars have argued for the development of digital documentation (e.g., Riza, 2009; Wittenburg & Trislbeek, 2010). Riza (2009) has been an advocate for this in the Indonesian context because the situation has been sketchy at worst and minimal at best. Riza notes that of all the indigenous languages in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, only six have an online presence. These languages are Javanese, Minangkabau, Sundanese, Balinese, Acehnese and Bugis. However, only two of these languages are written in Unicode, which is the world’s standard for consistent text encoding and representation. The two languages are Bugis and Balinese. This means a great majority of indigenous languages in Indonesia are inaccessible to the outside world. For this reason, Riza argues for ICT-­based language revitalisation in Indonesia. Online cataloguing of language resources in Indonesia, according to Riza, needs to be done in order to ensure the provision of computer applications for indigenous languages. Riza argues that digital technology can open up new strata for the documentation of languages and cultures, contributing decisively to the preservation of the data. Digital technology can also ensure the preservation of the original content securely. Furthermore, it is easier to analyse data using digital technology and to correct them if there are errors.

Revitalisation planning 149 Wittenburg and Trislbeek (2010) argue that digital technology has revolutionised language documentation in many ways. They identify six factors that are significant in this process: (1) Miniaturisation: engineers can build miniaturised circuitry in small recording devices for the recording of language sounds as well as the situation and cultural activities in which the language is recorded; (2) Lossless copying: copying and processing of data are possible without any loss of information; (3) Storage technology: increased information density per square millimetre makes the storing of uncompressed audio data feasible; (4) Unified representation: the same kind of generic technology can represent all kinds of information appearing in texts, images, sounds, movies, represented by sequences of bits/bytes; (5) Fast network: exchanges of information such as transfer of video data can be done quickly and easily; (6) Data separation and aggregation: separation of data and their aggregation are possible, despite their complexity. Digital documentation should be an area of priority of the Badan Bahasa. At the national level, it can be clearly seen that the Badan Bahasa has no digital repository of indigenous languages. Harimansyah (2018) verifies that the Badan Bahasa is currently undertaking conservation and revitalisation programmes for indigenous languages. However, it remains unclear whether addressing the digital divide issue has become part of the Badan Bahasa’s revitalisation planning.

5.4.  Activities in revitalisation planning In addition to work on language documentation, there are other activities that are central to revitalisation planning within Indonesia’s superdiversity. These are discussed in the following sub-­sections.

5.4.1.  Prior ideological clarification Pertinent to revitalisation planning is what Fishman (1991) calls prior ideological clarification, a concept which refers to an open, honest assessment about the state of a language, the beliefs about it and whether there is a need to maintain it. The concept has been used to examine the need for reducing tensions within communities in which indigenous or heritage languages are threatened. The concept itself has been recently redefined by Kroskrity (2015) as: The process of identifying issues of language ideological contestation, including both beliefs and feelings that are indigenous to that community and those introduced by outsiders (such as linguists and government officials), that can impact – either positively or negatively – community efforts to successfully engage in language maintenance and renewal. (p. 143) Prior ideological clarification is important in revitalisation planning of endangered languages, which are usually at the lower end of Indonesia’s superglossia. This concept found its implementation in Truong and Garcez (2012). These

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Figure 5.6  Speakers of Betawi in their traditional costumes Source: Wikimedia Commons (2018i).

researchers developed a programme called “participatory methods for sociolinguistic investigation” to examine major languages that are experiencing a major shift: Acehnese, Javanese and Betawi. Thus, communities speaking Acehnese, Javanese and Betawi took part in the programme in order to learn how to research, plan, implement and evaluate language programmes using Participatory Dialect Mapping, Bilingualism Venn Diagram and Domains of Language Use Venn Diagram. The participants collaborated to build visual representations of collective knowledge about their languages and patterns of language use using these diagrams, text, symbols and pictures. Truong and Garcez claim that “these methods facilitate investigation of sociolinguistic phenomena to inform and spur planning for effective language

Revitalisation planning 151 initiatives” (p. 25). Understanding participants’ beliefs is important in order to clarify disparity between their expressed desire to revitalise endangered languages and inherent, or even unconscious, fears and biases about the languages, often stemming from primordial attitudes, all of which can hinder revitalisation planning.

5.4.2.  Localised sustainable development Work on revitalisation planning also relates to localised sustainable development. Hinton et al. (2018c) remind us that work to maintain and revitalise language should not be all about language; it should also encompass other aspects in which language is embedded (cf. Ricento, 2005). In the Indonesian context, this translates into developing a comprehensive understanding of the socio-­economic conditions of the indigenous communities that are lagging behind, their unreadiness (and in some part unwillingness) to face modernity, their continuing struggle against poverty and their effort to reach progress and catch up with more economically advanced linguistic communities (Ibrahim, 2011). For Arka (2015), this argument highlights the essential place of capacity building of indigenous communities. Based on his fieldwork in Papua and East Nusa Tenggara when dealing with the Marori and Rongga communities respectively, Arka argues for work on capacity building that encompasses glocality-­related literacies (cf. Brooks & Normore, 2010). One of the most important literacies is political literacy, defined as “the knowledge and understanding of the political process and political issues which enables people to perform their roles as citizens effectively” (Denver & Hands, 1990, p. 263). Arka (2015) argues that political literacy is vital for increased awareness and improved political engagement. Indigenous communities are often confronted with issues relating to power, influence, authority and the consequences of political decisions. For the indigenous communities in Papua, this is relevant given the political conflicts in their region, which have contributed to the discourse of regional separatism. Clashes between members of the separatist group OPM and Indonesia’s Tentara National Indonesia [Indonesian Army Force] (TNI) still occur occasionally. The most recent example happened on 4 December 2018 when the OPM killed one TNI member and 19 workers who had been tasked to build infrastructure in the Nduga Regency. Political literacy is thus necessary for inclusion of the local communities, developing greater awareness of their being part of the Indonesian nation and of the fact that the government is working to improve their welfare. Furthermore, political literacy is needed to stimulate greater empowerment of the political representation of the indigenous Papuans in this era of decentralised governance. This is important in the process of ensuring higher political representation of the Papuan communities both at local and national levels. Second, economic literacy is an important concept that enables indigenous communities to understand economic concepts of production, distribution and consumption while increasing their awareness of the continuous change and the

152  Revitalisation planning increasingly globalised economy we are currently facing. The skills gathered from economic literacy would enable indigenous communities to tackle economic challenges. Arka (2015) suggests that the indigenous communities in Papua are in great need of economic literacy, given that the economy has been dominated by migrants (i.e., Chinese, Javanese, Makassarese). It is reported that migrants own almost all small businesses such as shops, roadside stalls of various kinds (e.g., fruits, rice, vegetables) and those providing services (e.g., barbers, motor-­ car repairs). Equipping indigenous communities with economic literacy skills would help them to survive and compete economically. Third, I have shown in this chapter that spirituality and religion are important elements in indigenous communities’ lives. But “[r]eligion is commonly overlooked in discussions on language revitalization, an ironic fact in that religious ceremonies and cultural activities imbued with spiritual value are often the last domains for a local language which is disappearing” (Grenoble & Whaley, 2006, p. 41). Arka (2015) notes that the indigenous communities of Marori and Rongga value literacies in spirituality and religion but people possessing these literacies are now rare. Although the Maroris and Ronggas have now become Catholics, they still maintain various forms of traditional rituals. Arka argues that retaining spiritual and religious literacies is important for communities such as Rongga and Marori as well as others that place importance on the use of ritual language. Further, localised sustainable development must involve families. Family language policy (FLP), which examines language policy in terms of language use and language choice within the home among family members (King, Fogle & Logan-­Terry, 2008), is fundamental to revitalisation planning. Indeed, transmission of languages from parent to children is the most vital factor in language maintenance, both for oral and for sign languages (Fishman, 1991, 2001; Spolsky, 2012b). When seen from a revitalisation planning perspective, FLP is what Sallabank (2011) calls phatic route, which “involves promoting the use of the endangered language in the home and encouraging users to identify with it as their primary medium of socialization, and hence fostering a link between language and identity” (p. 289). FLP is an area of great interest, given the scarcity of local studies addressing the maintenance of indigenous and heritage languages in the home. A few studies have briefly noted the inevitable shift to the Indonesian language found among family members in the Bantik (Utsumi, 2012) and Javanese contexts (Kurniasih, 2006; Smith-­Hefner, 2009) or the struggle to retain the Sambori dialect among the families in Sambori, Bima, West Nusa Tenggara (Yusra et al., 2016). As early as the 1990s, Heryanto (1995) had observed the inclination of Javanese parents living in urban areas to establish an FLP that prefers speaking Indonesian to Javanese in the home. For Heryanto, “this is a way of assuring that the children will be well prepared to assume future careers in the increasingly competitive social order” (p. 51). This tendency also appears among the more educated and young Sasak families who prefer to use Indonesian at home, although the use of Sasak among the majority of the community members remains prevalent (Wilian, 2010). An important study by Sari et al. (2018) investigated the relationship

Revitalisation planning 153 between the use of Indonesian, indigenous languages, cultural maintenance, well-­being and ethnic identity. Their participants were 448 adolescents, aged 12–19 years from “four Indonesian ethnic groups (Chinese from Java, Chinese from North Sumatra, Batak, and Javanese)” (p. 853). A surprising finding of the study points to the lower impact of language use compared with parental culture maintenance, ethnic identity and national identity in the well-­being of the adolescents. The researchers found that “language usage was not associated with identity; there was no link between parental culture maintenance behaviour and usage of languages at home with well-­being, but both national and ethnic identity were positively associated with children’s well-­being across groups” (p. 853). Sari et al.’s study is important and needs to be followed up in order to better understand the role of families in revitalisation planning. Future research needs to point to integrated work between revitalisation planning at the family level and that at the community level in the complex, dynamic and polycentric Indonesia’s superglossia (see Chapter 2).

5.4.3.  Political reconciliation Political reconciliation can help work on revitalisation planning especially in areas marred by conflict. When a political crisis arose in Papua following the downfall of the New Order in 1998, it was deemed prudent to address issues that could lead to regional separatism. President Abdurrahman Wahid’s decision to change the provincial name of Irian Jaya [Victorious Hot Land] into Papua [black and curly] was a significant intervention that helped reduce political dissatisfaction (Morin, 2016). After regional autonomy resulted in the political division of what used to be a single Papuan province, now there are two provinces in the region: West Papua and Papua. But rather than deepening conflict, the division has led to greater engagement with the central government. I have also shown earlier that harmony in Maluku was blemished by political, economic and religious frictions causing unrest between the Muslim and Christian communities. Though its impact was indeed devastating, Florey and Ewing (2010) explain how the unrest, or kerusuhan, brings awakening consciousness, particularly by Christian Malukans, of the loss of the cultural and linguistic complex of the ancestral past” and for both “Christians and Muslims the kerusuhan highlighted the salience of bahasa tanah vis a vis ancestral and community ties. The kerusuhan experience has radically altered all aspects of life in Maluku, and these stories demonstrate the transformative effect it has had on attitudes towards indigenous languages and language endangerment. (p. 161) For Florey and Ewing, the unrest in Maluku teaches us how local engagement with language could be achieved through a systematic combination of measures: bottom-­up initiatives, top-­down policies and contributions from academics. The

154  Revitalisation planning reconciliation period that started in 2002 coincided with the period of decentralisation of governance in Indonesia. This resulted in the devolvement of authority from the central government in Jakarta to the district level governments throughout the country, allowing the local government in Maluku to incorporate aspects of language maintenance into reconciliation projects. These include development of references to indigenous languages, forms of local governance and adat, and local customary practices consisting of social organisation and cultural representation. The projects reflect an important policy that helped empower local communities. Other community-based projects on language maintenance included a proposal for the development of a language and culture centre in Lohiasapalewa and another proposal for a Cultural Association in Allang. Initiatives to develop materials for teaching languages were also supported by a top-­down policy accentuated in the 2002 Malino Accord that ties the Muslim and Christian communities. One of the statements in the accord reads: “We recommend that the teaching of traditional and cultural values of Maluku (for example, history, culture, language and art) be incorporated into the school curriculum from primary to tertiary level education.” Communities also worked in the compilation of an agricultural dictionary that documents a cross-­ linguistic vocabulary of agricultural terms. The dictionary also contains ethno-­ botanical information and descriptions of traditional farming practices of various communities. Communities also worked on a documentation project for ritual language, opening up a dialogue between members of communities and academics. Florey and Ewing state: The dramatic changes in awareness of and engagement with language endangerment that have occurred as part of the post-­kerusuhan reconciliation process in Maluku demonstrate that the rise of language activism may be triggered by the most challenging of transformative circumstances. This has included engagement from all sides – communities, government, academia – in a process of ongoing reassessment, dialogue and activity. It also emphasizes the need for flexibility and openness on the part of all stakeholders to be able to respond to the constantly shifting socio-­political environment in order to create synergies for language activism. (p. 170)

5.4.4.  Regional autonomy and language maintenance Regional autonomy relegates authority to local governments to exert their political power in ways that could support efforts to maintain and revitalise languages (Grenoble & Whaley, 2006). In the Indonesian context, regional autonomy for language maintenance has become an endorsed language policy, as stipulated in Article 2.b of The Interior Ministry Regulation No. 40/2007. The article requires a regional head to implement “the conservation and maintenance of indigenous languages as national cultural enrichment as well as the main component for Indonesian vocabulary development”.

Revitalisation planning 155 Some cases demonstrate how regional autonomy has been exercised by local governments to revive the affection for indigenous languages and cultures. In West Java, mass media have been used to promote local identity and cultural distinctiveness, which during Soeharto’s centralised governance were overshadowed by an emphasis on national unity. Moriyama (2012) reports that in West Java, Sundanese programmes appeared on local TVs such as Bandung TV and Bogor TV, while periodicals in Sundanese started to be published. Competitions for an award for the most accomplished writing in Sundanese script have also been held. Similar trends have been observed in predominantly Javanese-­speaking provinces: Central Java, Yogyakarta and East Java. Quinn (2012) reports that there have been some good signs of revitalisation planning such as the inclusion of the Javanese language into the school and university curricula, the increased coverage of Javanese in the media and the emergence of publications in Javanese language and literature. These have been supported by local policies, namely: • The Regional Regulation of East Java Province No. 9/2014 on the Implementation of Education • The East Java Governor Regulation No. 19/2014 on Regional Language Subjects as Mandatory Local Content in Schools and Madrasas • The Central Java Governor Circular Letter No. 895.5 /01/2005 concerning the Use of Javanese in schools • The Governor of Yogyakarta Instruction No. 1/INSTR/2009 on the use of Javanese on certain days in the Yogyakarta Province • The Solo Mayor Circular Letter Number 60/421/2010 on the use of Javanese in the school environment. In Bali, local initiatives such as Pop Bali Alternatif have been designed to promote Balinese, showing a profound social and political impact on Balinese society (Fushiiki, 2013). Although intergenerational transmission has been disrupted by a shift to Indonesian (Kagami, 2012), language maintenance through social media such as Facebook has been useful (Stern, 2017). Regional autonomy has also been used as a shield for the revival of indigenous communities, as in the case of the Bantik people. Motivated by a “deep affection” for their language, the Bantik people have established Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Bantik [The Cultural Alliance for Bantik Society] (Utsumi, 2012). Utsumi reports that in the Aliansi, Bantik people meet and gather to organise monthly activities for a church service and sing hymns in the Bantik language. The young people, especially teenagers, are willing to learn Bantik traditional songs and dances. Despite this, introducing Bantik in schools is simply difficult because there are also many non-­Bantik children enrolled. On the other hand, the implementation of regional autonomy for language maintenance has not always been successful. Arka (2008a) uses the case of the Rongga language and community to give an example of how decentralised governance does not make much of an impact on revitalisation planning in some

156  Revitalisation planning communities. The major obstacle has been strong ethnic loyalty that divides the majority and the minority. With the total number of the Rongga people reaching around 5,000, the community is relatively tiny in comparison with Manggarai, which is an ethnic majority of more than half a million people. The Rongga community therefore has no political representation that could voice their concerns and interest, and they receive minimal support to develop and maintain their language. Even their village, called Tanaraka, is headed by a non-­Rongga, although of course this should not be of concern if he is able to provide support for the local community. However, Arka’s observation shows that this is merely wishful thinking, as the head of the village does not live in the village, does not speak Rongga, has no knowledge of the local practices and customs and often struggles when mediating conflicts or solving problems. This is exacerbated by the abolishment of the kedaulan system that “appeared to have worked well in the past in maintaining the integrity of the Rongga culture and language” (Arka, 2008a, p. 79). The removal of the kedaulan was then followed by a further pemekaran [split]. This has discouraged resolutions of conflicts to be conducted in accordance with local customs and practices or in the Rongga language. As a consequence, “the traditional adat system and internal communication among the clans or groups of the Rongga people to address their own interests as a group has ceased to exist” (p. 79). A rather different situation is found in Alor and Sumbawa. Shiohara (2012) notes that the local governments in Alor and Sumbawa “implement the policy of regional autonomy in their support for traditional arts, music and dance, rather than language” (p. 116). The local government in Alor decided not to include any indigenous languages in education because there are too many indigenous languages in the region, preventing them from giving any particular language an official status – not Alorese, Kui or any other language. In Sumbawa, the local government realised the low esteem in which the Sumbawanese view their language. This low esteem was prompted by a shift of national education policy in 2006, which then resulted in the removal of the Sumbawa language from the school curriculum.

5.5. Conclusion In this chapter, I have introduced revitalisation planning as a category of language policy. I have specifically outlined the current state of language endangerment, which threatens Indonesia’s superdiversity. I have also underscored the complex process of language endangerment, which is associated with issues such as a shift to Indonesian, a shift to RLFs, population mobility, religious conversion, ethnic genocide, natural disaster and community suppression. My stance is that language endangerment is a complex process; it is not attributed to any one single factor. To quote prominent linguist Charles Grimes (2010), “No single factor is diagnostic of language death” and “[e]ach case must be studied on its own to unravel the complex of interrelated factors involved in the history of each society” (p. 89).

Revitalisation planning 157 For this reason, it is necessary to conduct in-­depth interdisciplinary research to acquire a better understanding of the complexity of variables involved in language endangerment, a suggestion that Arka (2015) also puts forward. The endangered situation of indigenous languages has become the main motivation for the language documentation that I discussed in Section 5.3. Language documentation in terms of linguistic corpora is vital, especially given the limited documentation of a great majority of indigenous languages. For the 272 endangered and 76 dying languages in Indonesia (Simons & Fennig, 2017a), language documentation is “the means of ensuring that a lasting multipurpose record of a language will be accessible to community members, researchers from a range of disciplines, policymakers, educators, and other stakeholders” (Florey & Himmelmann, 2010, p. 122). Work on language documentation may not save most languages; however, it is useful to “assist the self image of their communities and provide a welcome record of the past. For a few, the very work of documentation may help arrest or even reverse the process of language loss” (Dixon, 1991, p. 254). The need for digital documentation has been highlighted. This work is vital especially for the regions of Maluku and Papua, which are the most critical in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. The scope of documentation needs to be broadened, however, by including the vitality of indigenous languages. Assessing language vitality is of considerable significance because the portrait of Indonesia’s linguistic vitality remains obscure in large part (Anderbeck, 2015); for example, the contradictory ideas on Javanese language vitality (cf. Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Smith-­Hefner, 2009; Quinn, 2012). This is pertinent to the discussion of superdiversity because in the present era speakers of indigenous languages live in changing circumstances from those in which their languages arose (Toivanen & Saarikivi, 2016). For example, advances in technology, social media and transportation have dramatically changed the way people communicate. In Indonesia’s superglossia, these changes have been convoluted by its linguistic culture: the imposition of a nationalist language ideology (Alisjahbana, 1949), population mobility and diversification of language practices (Malini, 2011; Suyanto & Amin, 2017), the prevalence of mass and social media affecting language use (Bogaerts, 2017; Yulianti, 2015), the officialisation of languages and decentralisation of governance (Suwarno, 2014), the increasing dominance of English (Coleman, 2016; Sugiharto, 2015c; Zein, 2019), the growing concern about language endangerment (Anderbeck, 2015; Conh & Ravindranath, 2014; van Engelenhoven, 2003; Klamer, 2018; Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Steinhauer, 1994) and the neglect of many indigenous languages in terms of corpora development (Arka, 2015). Minority indigenous speakers live within such a linguistic culture, caught up in the continuing changes of everyday life. They are often insecure about language norms and many feel their languages are inferior to the majority language(s). As Toivanen and Saarikivi (2016) indicate, these feelings “lead to attempts to use minority tongues in a new way, by imitating styles and genres of the majority tongue, or by using intensive code-­switching with it” (p. 6). This statement applies to the Indonesian context where intensive borrowing (Anwar, 1976; Moeliono, 1986), mixing of different

158  Revitalisation planning languages or different variants of a single language (Errington, 1998, 2014; Martin-Anatias, 2018; Yusuf, 2017) and translanguaging (Rasman, 2018; Sugiharto, 2014; Zein, 2018a) are commonplace, adding complexity to the situation. As a result, new linguistic varieties (e.g., languages, dialects, registers) have emerged amidst the language endangerment situation presently facing Indonesia. I have shown in Chapter 2 how Cirebon (Afifah, 2017; Sukmayani et al., 2017), Osing (Arps, Vidiyanti, 2016), Papuan Colloquial Indonesian (Fields, 2010), Riau Indonesian (Gil, 2010), Jakarta Sign Language and Yogyakarta Sign Language (Sze et al., 2015) have developed, demonstrating the complexity, dynamism and polycentricity of Indonesia’s superglossia. This suggests that investigating language endangerment and language vitality must be done in light of the emergence of new languages and language varieties as well as cultural identities associated with them.

5.5.1.  Broadening the discourse of revitalisation planning It is interesting to note that although language endangerment in Indonesia has been voiced for nearly three decades (see Alwasilah, 1997; Steinhauer, 1994; Sugono & Zaidan, 2001) and that concerns regarding language endangerment have been voiced in widely circulated newspapers (e.g., LaForge, 2014; Sugiharto, 2008, 2013; Zein, 2011, to name a few), its urgency has not reached the wider public. Language endangerment has never really become an issue of national concern. This can be traced to the fact that connecting language endangerment and cultural preservation is the only discourse in Indonesia. Indonesian scholars generally develop a normative rationale for revitalisation planning by associating it with the preservation of Indonesia’s highly diverse cultures (see Alwasilah, 1997; Mulyana, 2008; Sugono & Zaidan, 2001). A widespread national discourse regarding the endangerment of indigenous languages is the awareness that language and culture are inextricably connected. Language is the primary means of information transfer within a speech community; therefore, it represents the most creative and pervasive aspect of culture. Languages develop in ways that accommodate the expression of culturally important information. Every language is a reflection of a unique world-­view and culture complex that mirrors the manner in which a language community has formulated its thinking, its philosophical system and understanding of the world. Language diversity is an undisputable and significant element of cultural diversity. Thus, the loss of Indonesia’s linguistic diversity implies the loss of opportunities to appreciate the richness of its cultures, cultural heritage and ethnicities. This argument is in line with the discourse of language endangerment made in mainstream scholarship (e.g., Hale, 1992; Grenoble & Whaley, 2006; Lo Bianco, 2010a; Woodbury, 1993; Wurm, 1991). It is not that linking language diversity and cultural diversity is not an important issue. But merely connecting language endangerment and cultural preservation has not been a successful strategy to awaken the public. Its outreach is simply too limited. Expanding the discourse on endangered languages is necessary for revitalisation planning (cf. Heller & Duchêne, 2007; Lo Bianco 2018).

Revitalisation planning 159 One point is that revitalisation planning is about maintaining biocultural diversity. Scholars have identified parallels between linguistic and biological diversity (e.g., Krauss, 1992; Nettle & Romaine, 2000; Romaine, 2013; Skutnabb-­Kangas & Phillipson, 2008; Sutherland, 2003). Skutnabb-­Kangas and Phillipson (2008) state, “Biocultural diversity (biodiversity, linguistic diversity, cultural diversity) is essential for long-­term planetary survival because it enhances creativity and adaptability and thus stability” (p. 11). For Romaine (2013), the spread of language norms through social networks means that the size of a language group grows in proportion to ecological risk. Thus, she argues that “the concept of ‘ecological niche’ has played a central role in understanding the evolution and survival of species by describing how organisms or populations respond to the distribution of resources and competitors” (p. 784). This explains why areas with high biodiversity generally provide more niches for human populations – these niches are conducive to linguistic and cultural diversity. It has been shown that a high density of distinct ethnolinguistic groups is concentrated in tropical forest ecosystems (e.g., the Amazon in Southern America, the rainforests of Africa, Indonesia and Papua New Guinea). These regions cover only 7 per cent of the earth’s surface but provide space for nearly 90 per cent of the world’s species. This argument is relevant to the fact that alongside Papua New Guinea, Indonesia’s large number of different biological species parallels its extremely high linguistic diversity (Sutherland, 2003). I have shown in Chapter 1 that fauna diversity in Indonesia places the country in the world’s top four, with 1,531 species of bird, 511 species of reptile, 515 species of mammal and 121 species of swallowtail butterflies; and the fact that these species live in a territory where more than 700 languages and 1,100 dialects are spoken is a testament to this assertion. Lowe (2013) suggests that conserving Indonesia’s biodiversity has been “indicative of a wider ‘social turn’ in transnational biodiversity conservation” (p. 63), and this needs to be brought up to the next level by setting up a discourse on linguistic diversity and biodiversity. Thus, it is necessary to develop a new discourse that underscores preserving Indonesia’s superdiversity as part of preserving biodiversity. The extinction of languages in Indonesia must be understood as part of the picture of Indonesia’s endangered ecosystem. To quote Lo Bianco (2018), this is an important step to build a “mechanism to challenge the normalization that dominant-­language regimes produce and model alternative possibilities” (p. 45). The second discourse relates to the relationship between revitalisation planning and linguistic human rights (LHRs). Skutnabb-­Kangas (2018) argues that LHRs are the only language rights “that are so fundamental that every individual has them because that individual is a human being, so inalienable that no state is allowed to violate them, and that are necessary for individuals and groups to live a dignified life” (p. 13). This includes not only aspects such as positive identification with identity but also the use of a minority language in education, either as a medium of instruction or as a subject (Skutnabb-­Kangas & Phillipson, 2008). LHRs, however, are largely absent among the minoritised indigenous

160  Revitalisation planning communities of Dayak and the indigenous communities in Papua who were once socially, economically and politically marginalised. The wrongs that have been done to linguistic minorities, whether in the name of national unity or simply due to exploitative capitalism, must be redressed through political intervention that empowers indigenous communities. Adopting a distributive and social justice framework is relevant to this concern. Kymlicka (1995) suggests that granting land-­ownership, special representation rights and language rights to minoritised peoples are necessary interventions of the State and should not be seen as a means of domination against other groups. On the other hand, Kymlicka argues that “such rights can be seen as putting the various groups on a more equal footing, by reducing the extent to which the smaller group is vulnerable to the larger” (pp. 36–37). The distributive and social justice framework could lay the groundwork for LHRs. Given that LHRs are a Western concept, it is necessary to assess its suitability to the local context (cf. Brutt-­Griffler, 2002; Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2002; Shiohara, 2012). Adopting LHRs may be necessary for some minoritised indigenous language speakers, but it may be less so in the case of indigenous language speakers with mobile life patterns. This applies to the Kui Speakers in East Nusa Tenggara, who have a seafaring culture (Shiohara, 2012); the Sama-­Bajau people, who live a nomadic lifestyle on the borders of Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines (Maglana, 2016) and the Orang Suku Laut in Riau islands, who also have a seafaring culture (Lenhart, 1997). For these peoples, necessary attachment to language and ethnic identity simply may not exist. Thus, the extent to which the notion of LHRs applies to indigenous communities in Indonesia warrants scholarly exploration.

5.5.2.  Revitalisation planning as consilience Work on language revitalisation primarily focuses on language. But this view tends to “reify language in its fixed and delineated dimension, and that it is not capable of integrating the complexity of the social, economic and political factors that are involved in any process of linguistic, cultural or other minorization [sic]” (Duchêne, 2008, p. 9). For Pennycook (2017), this reification of languages is symptomatic of a larger issue. He argues that “if the language ecology framework, and the language rights orientation with which it was often allied, tended to reify and naturalize languages as objects in nature, so other orientations, such as the language-­as-­resource position, tended to similarly objectify languages” (p. 128). Ricento (2005) rightly argues that by focusing on language one creates an impression that “it is the languages that matter most, not the people who speak them, let alone the communities in which they are used” (p. 359). Putting language preservation before social and economic concerns may actually do more harm than good to language communities (Mufwene, 2010). Scholarship has consistently suggested that maintaining and revitalising languages is an endeavour requiring the empowerment of the indigenous communities (e.g., Arka, 2008a; 2015; Hinton et al., 2018c; Grenoble & Whaley, 2006; McCarty, 2018; Pauwels, 2016).

Revitalisation planning 161 Thus, revitalisation planning should focus on the speakers and not merely the language. This is the framework for what McCarty (2018) calls community-­based language planning (CBLP), which is “motivated by local needs and desires, and shaped by local resources and opportunity structures” and “serves as a conduit for reinforcing intergenerational ties, cultural identity, community well-­being and linguistic rights” (pp. 24–25). Related to this, Arka’s (2015) remark is worthy of consideration: Minority groups and their cultures and languages are facing unprecedented changes in their physical ecologies, which then affect their cultural and linguistic wellbeing. They are generally at a crossroads and have been caught off-­guard, not having a full grasp of the complexity of the situation. (p. 9) To start with, it is necessary to work on prior ideological clarification (Fishman, 1991, 2001; Kroskrity, 2009, 2015) for endangered elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity. With indigenous languages being associated with poverty, backwardness and limited opportunity for progress, it is necessary to focus attention on shifting language ideology. Often the most important thing in revitalisation planning is changing the beliefs, perceptions and attitudes of the indigenous speakers themselves. Languages have intrinsic value to their speakers, regardless of internal or external economic valuations of the languages for progress. Grin (1999) asserts that while minority languages may lack market value, “it does not follow that they have no economic value. One should not forget that, ultimately, economics is not about financial or material performance, but about utility, or satisfaction” (p. 180). There are some indigenous communities such as the Retta language speakers in Alor, East Nusa Tenggara, who think of the usefulness of their language for increasing the welfare of the local community (Kurniawati, 2016). But language ideologies and attitudes tend to vary from one ethnicity to another. There are indigenous communities such as those in Entikong in Sanggau, West Kalimantan, whose attitudes towards their indigenous languages are influenced by the increasing need for national integration via Indonesian as well as the need to communicate with communities from Malaysia via Malaysian (Mukhamdanah, 2015). Further, there are communities that succumb to a linguistic inferiority complex. For example, those in Sambori, Bima, West Tenggara, look down upon their language for its inability to express modern concepts, unlike the Sera Suba dialect of Bimanese, Indonesian or English (Yusra, et al., 2016). Similarly, many Javanese mothers and daughters shift away from formal styles of Javanese to Indonesian due to socio-­economic aspirations (Smith-­Hefner, 2009). Whatever the case may be, efforts to alter the negative attitudes of indigenous speakers towards their languages are an important follow-­up to prior ideological clarification in the attempt to add vigour to endangered languages (Fishman, 1991; Kroskrity, 2015).

162  Revitalisation planning This leads to work on status planning, which is aimed at increasing the prestige of minority and minoritised indigenous languages. I have mentioned in Chapter 3 that co-­official status may be given to RLFs that hold a significant role in Indonesia’s superglossia. But efforts directed at increasing the legal status of the indigenous languages of minoritised communities are equally necessary. The status of indigenous languages such as those in Papua and Kalimantan can be raised by legislation prohibiting linguistic discrimination, establishing rights of speakers to use their languages in public and expecting delivery of public services in those languages. There is potential for this to work in the background of regional autonomy. In provinces speaking Javanese (Quinn, 2012) and Sundanese (Moriyama, 2012), regional autonomy has been arguably positive for the revival and maintenance of indigenous languages. But in other areas, such as East Nusa Tenggara, regional autonomy does not seem to have had much effect for minority speakers of Rongga (Arka, 2008a). In cases where regional autonomy has been less successful, empowerment of the indigenous communities may be viable through the involvement of groups such as Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara [The National Alliance of Customary Societies] (AMAN). Those involved in the AMAN have encouraged prominent adat leaders to take advantage of Indonesia’s decentralised governance by running for legislative and executive political positions. Although a downside to their political participation exists, in that it may be used for personal benefits, Arka (2008a) is still optimistic. He states that adat leaders’ “active participation within a modern democratic system would hopefully lead to a greater number of members of DPR(D) [local parliament] elected from educated ethnic elders”, which could then contribute to the maintenance of “bio-­cultural diversity of indigenous people of Indonesia with the associated adat/customary rights” (p. 87). The involvement of the local adat leaders may work in favour of the status planning of indigenous languages, but increasing the prestige of indigenous languages is only viable through a combination of various factors of influence. As Lo Bianco (2010a) argues, Overt, explicit and formal language policies that support multilingualism will not, on their own, achieve intergenerational language maintenance, nor will they on their own sustain the vitality of multilingual communities if social, economic and symbolic factors advantage dominant languages and promote language shift. (p. 58) Of the various factors affecting revitalisation planning, the economy is consistently highlighted as the most prominent one (see Harbert, McConnel-­ Ginet, Miller, & Whitman, 2008; Harbert 2011; Romaine, 2016). Romaine (2016) argues that the perceived insignificant market value of indigenous languages has marginalised their speakers, and so State intervention is best made on the basis of economic welfare theory, rather than political arguments or ideas of human rights. This perspective, according to Romaine, leads to the

Revitalisation planning 163 key question in policy evaluation, that is, “whether it changes the linguistic environment in a welfare-­increasing direction” (p. 405). Harbert (2011) identifies various efforts to support endangered languages by economic means. First, financial incentives paid to individual speakers who speak the language may be provided, as in the case of the direct subsidies to families in Ireland whose children prove language proficiency in Irish or the stipend paid to groups of learners and teachers in the master-­apprentice programme for Native Californian languages (Hinton, 2001). Second, supporting the community by fulfilling their material needs without specific reference to language may be more successful in terms of language revitalisation. In the non-­­wage-­ based economies usually adopted by indigenous communities, measures such as upgrading health care and sanitation, advancing water supplies and transportation systems and providing technical support for sustainable use of natural and agricultural resources may prove effective. Third, merging language and cultural tourism may also offer assistance. Despite being criticised for not doing enough to strengthen the language in the community (McLeod, 2002) and risking distortion and loss of cultural authenticity (Bankston & Henry, 2000), cultural tourism may be an avenue for employment opportunities. It may increase the profile and value of the language in the community. Fourth, services and information provided through local languages may be an effective means of language preservation. Burnaby (1996) reports that the highest levels of proficiency in Australian Aboriginal languages are found in communities that provide the most Aboriginal language services, including newspapers, radio, television, government publications and community meetings. Economic intervention thus needs to be at the forefront of revitalisation planning, but it does not mean that other factors are left out. Harbert (2011) states that “[e]conomic measures with language stabilization among their goals are most successful when coordinated with efforts on other fronts” (p. 421). Revitalisation planning targets the speech communities both at individual and collective levels, empowering them as human beings through various endeavours that strengthen their linguistic capital as well as economic, socio-­cultural, political, spiritual and religious resources. There is a complex interconnection between language and poverty (Harbert et al., 2008; Nettle & Romaine, 2000); and since both species endangerment and language endangerment are most likely to be found in poverty-­stricken areas, the connection between language and other facets of human life, especially the economy, is crystal clear. This is further evidenced by the multidimensional complexity of reasons underlying language endangerment that I have outlined, where issues such as a shift to Indonesian can be found alongside community suppression and religious conversion. All this provides the groundwork for revitalisation planning as a melting pot for principles from different fields in order to form a new, comprehensive theory – a process which philosopher William Whewell (1840) termed consilience. The term gained more popularity after biologist Edward O. Wilson (1998) published his book, stating that consilience links “facts and fact-­based theory across disciplines to create a common groundwork of explanation” (p. 8) and seeks integration of

164  Revitalisation planning knowledge from across specialised disciplines in the natural sciences, social sciences and humanities. Consilience in revitalisation planning is evident in that its origin is in the field of language maintenance and revitalisation (Grenoble & Whaley, 2006; Hinton et al., 2018a; Hornberger, 2010; Pauwels, 2016; Tsunoda, 2005), but it also accounts for insights coming from other fields to develop connections between language and economics (Grin, 2003; Harbert, 2011; Harbert et al., 2008), language and ideologies (e.g., Kroskrity, 2000, 2006; Silversten, 1979), language and political theory (e.g., Kymlicka 1995; May, 2012), language and biodiversity (e.g., Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2002; Romaine, 2016), spirituality and religion (e.g., Arka, 2008a, 2013) and language and human rights (e.g., Skutnabb-Kangas, 2007, 2008; 2018; Skutnabb-Kangas & Phillipson, 1994), among others. The general principle of revitalisation planning is the integration of the conservation of biodiversity, linguistic and cultural diversity, political stability, spiritual and religious sustenance, sustainable development and the welfare of the minority and minoritised indigenous communities. They are all inseparable. In revitalisation planning, language is embedded within the broad life schemes, making it integral to and indispensable for progress. Moreover, the holistic spectrum of revitalisation planning means that it takes account of globalisation, environment protection and poverty reduction among indigenous communities who are confronted by the need to maintain their local cultures and traditions in this increasingly globalised era. Hornberger (2010) argues that there are “conceptual and methodological issues” in the field of language revitalisation (p. 421). Proposing revitalisation planning as consilience may propel attempts to resolve the issues, although in order for this to happen it requires rigorous research beyond the scope of this chapter. This marks the end of this chapter. In the next chapter, I will focus on language-­ in-­education policy.

6 Language-­in-­education policy Language-­in-­education policyLanguage-­in-­education policy

6.1. Introduction Language-­in-­education policy was originally conceptualised as acquisition planning (see Cooper, 1989, pp. 157–163). It includes efforts made by a national or local government system or by a non-­governmental organisation to effect changes in the structure, function and acquisition of language through education. Language-­in-­education policy is often the sole language policy activity implemented by a polity, being most visible and most closely associated with goals for language and literacy learning in various education sectors (e.g., primary education, secondary education, higher education, vocational training). Language-­in-­ education policy allows for the management of language education within the curriculum to provide opportunities and incentives to learn a language, addressing issues such as how many hours are allocated to teach the language, when to start teaching the language, how to allocate curriculum resources, how to organise parents and community involvement and how language assessment impacts educational continuity (Cooper, 1989; Corson, 1999; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997, 2005; Spolsky, 2009; Tollefson, 2008). In this chapter, I discuss major issues concerning language-­ in-­ education policy in Indonesia. I commence the chapter with an overview of the Indonesian system of education management. Then, I specifically discuss the policy on teaching Indonesian. My focus then shifts to the policy on teaching indigenous languages. I move on to discussing the policy relevant to the teaching of Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin – languages endorsed in the 2013 Revised Curriculum. I provide concluding remarks at the end of the chapter.

6.2.  Indonesia’s management of education: an overview Like many other countries around the world, Indonesia’s education system is three-tiered, spanning basic education, secondary education and higher education. Pre-­schools do exist, but they are considered to represent informal education rather than formal education; hence it is not included as part of basic education. What is included in basic education are primary school, which lasts for

166  Language-­in-­education policy six years, and junior high school, which lasts for three years. Secondary education consists of three years of senior high school. Higher education includes diploma courses (one to three years), undergraduate courses (four years), master’s courses (one to two years) and doctorate programmes (three years). The educational institutions that provide higher education include academies, polytechnics, institutes and universities. This arrangement seems to be clear cut, but language-­in-­education policy in superdiverse Indonesia works in a highly complex manner. Languages in Indonesia interact in a complex, dynamic and polycentric superglossia (see Chapter 2), and teaching these languages is conducted by a management system that is perhaps more complex than those in other countries because it is managed by three ministries, rather than a single ministry. This management of education can be traced back to the educational culture of Indonesia prior to independence in 1945, when the founding fathers attempted to find ways to educate the indigenous populations of the East Indies and prepare them for the Nationalist Movement. Education during this period saw the emergence of a secular, nationalistic view of education through Boedi Oetomo (established in 1908) and Taman Siswa (1922). Meanwhile, Islamic-­based education through pesantrens [Islamic-­boarding schools attached to a mosque] proliferated. Pesantrens were managed by organisations such as Muhammadiyah (1912) and Nahdhatul Ulama (1926). This distinction appears to have reflected the social categorisation of the Javanese people that Clifford Geertz (1960) conceptualised: (1) the schools managed by Boedi Oetomo and Taman Siswa represent the abangan [a group of people practising a more syncretic version of Islam] and priyayi [the traditional, bureaucratic elite influenced by Hinduism] and (2) the pesantrens of Muhammadiyah and Nahdhatul Ulama represent the santri, a group of people practising a more orthodox version of Islam. After Indonesia’s independence, President Soekarno retained these orientations of education by allowing the management of a secular, nationalistic form of education under the Ministry of Education and Culture and the management of Islamic-­based education under the Ministry of Religious Affairs. The presidencies of Soeharto (1967–1998), Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie (1998–1999), Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001), Megawati Sukarnoputri (2001–2004) and Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (2004–2014) did not seek to reconcile the differences in education management. Thus, education during the administrations of these presidents was generally placed in two different ministries: the Ministry of Education and Culture and the Ministry of Religious Affairs, although there was (and still is) ad hoc management of higher education in institutes such as Sekolah Tinggi Akuntansi Negara [State College of Accounting] (STAN), which is under the Ministry of Finance, and Institut Pemerintahan Dalam Negeri [Institute of Domestic Governance] (IPDN), which is under the Ministry of Home Affairs. To be precise, the management of education during the administrations of previous presidents ran as follows. The Ministry of Education and Culture was responsible for informal education in Taman Kanak-­Kanak [Kindergarten]

Language-­in-­education policy 167 (TK). It managed primary education in Sekolah Dasar [Primary School] (SD) and Sekolah Menengah Pertama [Junior High School] (SMP). It also managed secondary education in Sekolah Menengah Atas [General Senior High School] (SMA) and Sekolah Menengah Kejuruan [Vocational Senior High School] (SMK). The Ministry was also responsible for general higher education, such as Institut Teknologi Bandung, Universitas Indonesia and Universitas Gadjah Mada. The Ministry of Religious Affairs, on the other hand, was entrusted with managing religion-­based educational institutions. Although it also managed Protestant and Catholic schools, the Ministry was mainly responsible for regulating Islamic-­ based education in Madrasah Ibtidaiyah [Primary School], Madrasah Tsanawiyah [Junior High School] and Madrasah ‘Aliyah [Senior High School] and pesantren. The Ministry also regulated Islamic-­based higher education institutions; for example, Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin Makassar and Universitas Islam Negeri Sultan Syarif Kasim Pekanbaru. If this management of education had been somewhat confusing already to the eye of the outsider, many Indonesians themselves were even more surprised when President Joko Widodo established his Kabinet Kerja [Working Cabinet] and divided education into three broad management systems on 27 October 2014. President Widodo retained the management of primary and secondary education as his predecessors had; hence, TK, SD, SMP, SMA and SMK continued under the Ministry of Education and Culture and religious schools under the Ministry of Religious Affairs. But he also relegated power to the Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education to manage higher education, with responsibility for managing universities and institutes such as Institut Teknologi Bandung, Universitas Hasanuddin and Universitas Cenderawasih. With this new managerial division of education, Universitas Islam Negeri Sunan Kalijaga remains under the Ministry of Religious Affairs, but Universitas Islam Indonesia is now regulated by the Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education. The same applies to Universitas Katolik Atmajaya, which previously was managed by the Ministry of National Education – the name given to the Ministry of Education and Culture under the administration of President Yudhoyono.

6.3.  Policy on teaching Indonesian In this section, I discuss language policy on teaching Indonesian, the most important element of Indonesia’s superdiversity (see Chapter 2). I focus on teaching Indonesian as a medium of instruction, teaching Indonesian as a subject and literacy in Indonesian.

6.3.1.  Indonesian as a medium of instruction Education in the early years of Indonesia’s independence was a mammoth task given that the Ministry of Education and Culture did not have sufficient qualified teachers who were fluent in Standard Indonesian. Teaching the new generation

168  Language-­in-­education policy required a large cohort of teachers, but many teachers were not proficient in the language. Large-­scale teacher training on teaching Indonesian as well as production of basic materials took many years to develop. The political crises of the 1960s as well as the limited number of people who were able to train teachers and produce good materials in Indonesian exacerbated the situation (Alisjahbana, 1976; Rubin, 1977). It was primarily the commitment of the New Order regime (1967–1998) that made work in language-­in-­education policy on Indonesian feasible. Perceiving Indonesian as indispensable to the development of Indonesia’s national culture, President Soeharto and his administration worked to ensure Indonesian held a prominent role in the country. Schooling was indispensable to this purpose. The New Order regime strengthened the role and function of Indonesian through its official status in education (see Chapter 3). The New Order stipulated that Indonesian should be the sovereign medium of instruction in all types of school at all levels (Halim, 1976). The decision to disseminate Indonesian massively was conducted mainly through the establishment of the vast network of SDs based on Soeharto’s instructions, known as SD InPres (Instruksi Presiden). SD InPress marked the massification of education at the national level, which saw the number of primary school enrolment rising from 8 million in 1960 to 24 million in 1990 (Bjork, 2005). For Goebel (2015, pp. 48–49), this massification of education was instrumental in the solidification of orders of indexicality among Indonesian, indigenous languages and practices of language mixing. By the same token, massification of education was an important step concomitant with the regime’s agenda to modernise Indonesia’s economy and infrastructure. According to Errington (2000), the development of Indonesian provides evidence to support philosopher Ernest Gellner’s (1983) thesis on the co-­development of nation states and languages. Errington argues that the schools emerged as the primary institutional means for disseminating standard Indonesian language and nationalist sentiment to a new citizenry and have now helped to consolidate what Gellner (1983: 57) calls a ‘school­mediated, academy-­ supervised idiom, codified for the requirements of reasonably precise bureaucratic and technological communication’. (p. 211) The New Order regime also allowed education in the mother tongue, usually in an indigenous language, until the third grade of primary schooling. But the regime also required Indonesian to be taught as a school subject in order to prepare learners for exclusive instruction in Indonesian from the fourth grade onwards. Indonesian was instituted as the medium of instruction for the national school curricula from the fourth grade of SD and Madrasah Ibtidaiyah onwards. The New Order adopted a transitional bilingual education model that allowed education in the mother tongue until the child acquired the national language.

Language-­in-­education policy 169 In 2003, the Indonesian government enacted the National Education System Act No. 20/2003. Articles 33 (1) and (2) of the Act stipulate the following: Article 33 Pasal 33 (1) Bahasa Indonesia sebagai Bahasa (1) Indonesian, as the State language, is the language of instruction in Negara menjadi bahasa pengantar national education. dalam pendidikan nasional. (2) Bahasa daerah dapat digunakan (2) Indigenous language may be used as a medium of instruction in the sebagai bahasa pengantar dalam early stage of education if needed tahap awal pendidikan apabila in the delivery of particular knowldiperlukan dalam penyampaian edge and skills. pengetahuan dan/atau keterampilan tertentu. This policy has been maintained by the past two administrations of Presidents Yudhoyono and Widodo. The policy perpetuates the widespread assumption that instruction can be easily delivered in Indonesian in the second three years of primary schooling (Grades 4–6) because by then students will have acquired literacy in their mother tongue. The system is indeed transitional, but the way indigenous languages are used in order to support instruction in Indonesian represents what García (2009) calls a convergent model. García defines the model as the use of the two languages concurrently in ways that subordinate one language to the other. . . . The teacher’s intent is always to develop a language of power or to make content in the majority language understood. Thus, when the minority language is used, its only purpose is to support instruction in the majority language. (pp. 623–624) The implementation of this convergent model has contributed to linguistic genocide (Sub-­Section 6.4.1) and linguistic imperialism (Sub-­Section 6.4.2).

6.3.2.  Indonesian as a school subject The New Order promoted Indonesian by making it a compulsory subject at three levels of education, further cementing its place in Indonesia’s superglossia. For example, Indonesian was taught six to eight hours weekly for all six years of SD. With the discourse of Character Building that upholds social, cultural and religious values in education, the emphasis on Indonesian has increased in recent years. The past two national curricula, the 2013 Curriculum and the Revised 2013 Curriculum, have required teachers to teach more hours of Indonesian. In the currently implemented Revised 2013 Curriculum, Indonesian is the subject that has most hours compared with other subjects (Table 6.1).

170  Language-­in-­education policy Table 6.1  Indonesian in the Revised 2013 Curriculum Schooling Level of Education

Grade

Hour

Primary School (SD and Madrasah Ibtidaiyah)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

8 8 10 10 10 10 6 6 6 4 4 4

Junior Secondary School (SMP and Madrasah Tsanawiyah) Senior Secondary School (SMA, SMK and Madrasah ‘Aliyah)

Source: Developed from Revised 2013 Curriculum.

Clearly, the curriculum structure is designed in reverse increments. In primary school, Indonesian is learnt up to 10 hours, but the hours of instruction decrease in junior high school (six) and further decrease in senior high school (four). The fact that significant hours of instruction in Indonesian are placed during primary schooling indicates an emphasis for exposure during the early years of education. This is to ensure that children would have basic literacy skills in Indonesian in order to absorb and process information. As children develop Indonesian literacy, they would then be able to use the language to carry out tasks in other subjects (e.g., maths, physics, biology).

6.3.3.  Literacy in Indonesian Literacy in Indonesian has increased considerably. Chart 6.1 demonstrates how literacy in Indonesian has progressed in the past four decades. Data from the 1971 National Census show a literacy level of 40.8 per cent, but the 1980 Census data show that those who were Indonesian-­literate accounted for 61 per cent of the population, an increase of more than 20 per cent. Literacy further increased to 75 per cent in 1990 and to 83 per cent in 2000. The latest National Census from Indonesia’s statistic agency, the BPS, shows that the literacy level among Indonesians over five years old has reached 92.08 per cent of the population. In other words, around 197.93 million of the population dapat berbahasa Indonesia [are able to use Indonesian] (BPS, 2011). The literacy rate has increased even more in the past few years, as shown in Chart 6.2. Data from the BPS show that literacy rates in the period of 2014–2017 have surpassed the 92.08 per cent literacy rate in the 2010 National Census.

Language-­in-­education policy 171 100.00% 90.00% 92.08%

80.00%

83%

70.00%

75%

60.00% 61%

50.00% 40.00% 30.00%

40.80%

20.00% 10.00% 0.00% 1965 1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 2000 2005 2010 2015

Chart 6.1 Percentage of Indonesian population (over five years old) with literacy in Indonesian (1971–2010) Source: Developed from the BPS (1971–2010). Numbers are rounded up. 96.50% 95.90%

96.00% 95.50%

95.20%

95.00%

95.40%

95.50%

94.50% 94.00% 93.50%

93.90%

93.00% 92.50%

2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

Chart 6.2  Literacy in Indonesian (2013–2017) Source: Developed from the BPS (2018). Numbers are rounded up.

It was 93.90 per cent in 2013, and it reached an all-­time high of 95.90 per cent in 2014. The rates have been steady ever since, revolving around 95 per cent. The statistics are encouraging; and scholars such as Dardjowidjojo (1998), Fishman (1976), Harper (2013), Kaplan and Baldauf (2003), Lowenberg (1992), Robson (2002), Simpson (2007) and Sneddon (2003a) consider the

172  Language-­in-­education policy case of the improvement in the literacy rate of Indonesian to be a success of language-­in-­education policy. Criticism has surfaced, nonetheless (e.g., Zentz, 2015a, 2016b, 2017). Zentz (2016b) appears to be sceptical about the success, claiming that “there are about 77 million, or 32% of the residents of Indonesia who do not speak the language at all” (p. 7). To support her claim, she cites Ethnologue data from the 2000 National Census with the number of native speakers of Indonesian reaching “23 million”. However, there are problems with this claim. Crucially, Zentz conflates data regarding Indonesia’s population and the number of native speakers from the 2000 National Census with data from “2013”. As well, the population who “dapat berbahasa Indonesia” [are able to use Indonesian] that is cited in the 2010 National Census actually refers to people over five years old (214,962,264) (BPS, 2011), rather than the whole population (“almost 240 million”) that Zentz uses as an estimate in her study. Data from the 2010 National Census show that there were 214,962,264 people over five years old and there were 197,931,243 people who were literate in Indonesian (BPS, 2011). This translates into 92.08 per cent of literacy rate, which confirms my data in Chart 6.1. On the other hand, there were 16,131,812 people who were illiterate in Indonesian and there were 899,569 people who were not asked the question (BPS, 2011). This indicates an illiteracy rate of 8.15 per cent, much lower than Zentz’s claim (32 per cent). Thus, the statistics confirm the widely held idea of the success of language policy on Indonesian (e.g., Alisjahbana, 1971, 1976; Bertrand, 2003; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Fishman, 1976; Harper, 2013; Kaplan & Baldauf, 2003; Kratz, 2006; Langston, 2001; Lo Bianco, 2012; Lowenberg, 1992; Montolalu & Suryadinata, 2007; Nababan, 1991; Paauw, 2009; Robson, 2002; Simpson, 2007; Sneddon, 2003a, 2003b). Despite this, success must be treated with caution. First, there is a problem with data sophistication. Although we can deduce what the BPS means when it defines literacy as “the ability to read and write at least a simple sentence in any letter of the alphabets” (2018b, p. 133), it is unclear what “dapat berbahasa Indonesia” [are able to use Indonesian] that is cited in the 2010 Census actually means. We do not know whether the 92.08 per cent literacy rate actually means that people hold proficiency in all language skills, whether they only have limited proficiency in the language or whether they only use Indonesian words in truncated repertoires. With other statistics showing that Indonesian is spoken in the home by 42,682,566 people (19.94 per cent of the national population) (BPS, 2011), it is unlikely that the 92.08 per cent figure refers to those who hold proficiency in all language skills. It is possible that the figure includes varying degrees of proficiency, with many having only receptive skills. Furthermore, the confusion arises because there are unclear boundaries between Standard Indonesian and Malay varieties (see Tadmor, 2005). As Musgrave (2014, p. 92) argues, census takers or respondents may not distinguish between knowledge of Standard Indonesian and knowledge of Malay varieties. For instance, speakers of Ambon Malay would probably say that they speak Indonesian. Besides, they may also feel some pressure to exaggerate their abilities, since using Indonesian is associated with patriotism.

Language-­in-­education policy 173 Second, we are anxious to see what the statistics mean in terms of language shift. This is especially relevant in light of the prediction that Indonesia will have a 100% Indonesian speaking population by 2041 (BPS, 1974, cited in Abas, 1987, p. 174). But given that this prediction did not account for advances in communication technology, “[t]he time when Indonesia will have a 100% INspeaking population should be much earlier than 2041 – perhaps by the turn of the twenty-first century.” (Abas, 1987, p. 172). Based on the current trend, it remains unclear whether the Indonesian-­speaking population then would consist of monolingual or bilingual speakers, a concern that Purwo (2009) also raises in his paper. If the former, then it is a major setback, because it indicates a massive language shift (see Conh & Ravindranah, 2014; Musgrave, 2014; Ravindranath & Conh, 2014; Smith-­Hefner, 2009). It may suggest that literacy in Indonesian has gone in a parallel fashion with the shift from indigenous languages, causing concerns about language endangerment (see Chapter 5). Indeed, language endangerment may prevail over language maintenance if a great majority of the population is no longer bilingual­or multilingual, that is, if people no longer speak one or more indigenous languages and speak Indonesian only. Third, the increase of literacy rates in Indonesian does not translate into mastery in the language. Taking an assessment perspective is useful in this regard. Over 25 years ago, scholars such as Lowenberg (1992), Nababan (1991) and Rubin (1977) were concerned about the limited proficiency of Indonesian students. But it seems that it is not only students who have trouble with using Indonesian proficiently. A researcher of the Badan Bahasa, Widiastuti (2006), compiled the results of Ujian Kemahiran Berbahasa Indonesia [Test of Indonesian Proficiency] (UKBI) from 1999 to 2004. The findings of the UKBI test compilation demonstrate that an overwhelming majority of 8,000 vocational and general high school students and teachers involved in the study sample were at an average level. Widiastuti states that “this indicates that speakers of Indonesian are only capable of using the language in survival and social communications” (p. 59). She finds this worrying, prompting her to question whether it is caused by the low quality of instruction and whether the popular and lucrative counselling sessions on using Indonesian have been effective.

6.4.  Policy on teaching indigenous languages In this section, I discuss the policy on teaching indigenous languages, which are indispensable to Indonesia’s superglossia. My concerns are: (1) linguistic genocide; (2) linguistic imperialism; (3) decentralisation of education and indigenous languages; and (4) micro language policies.

6.4.1.  Linguistic genocide In the 1980s, only Javanese, Sundanese, Madurese, Balinese, Makassar, Batak, Minangkabau, Acehnese and Sasak were taught as subjects in schools (Noss [1967] and Latief [1979], as cited in Moeliono, 1986, p. 100). This situation changed in the 1990s, when more languages were taught across the country,

174  Language-­in-­education policy with 15 out of 27 provinces endorsing the teaching of indigenous languages. These provinces were Aceh, North Sumatra, Bengkulu, Lampung, West Java, Central Java, Yogyakarta, East Java, West Kalimantan, South Kalimantan, East Kalimantan, North Sulawesi, South Sulawesi, Southeast Sulawesi and Bali. Indigenous languages in these provinces were taught as a subject and were used as the medium of instruction in the first three years of primary school education, with teachers being required to switch to Indonesian in the remaining three years of primary schooling. There were no official rules forbidding the use of indigenous languages, but teachers were instructed to switch to Indonesian from the fourth grade onwards (Lowenberg, 1992, pp. 67–68; Nababan, 1991, pp. 121–122). One of the main purposes of education is the acquisition of literacy skills that enable learners to access and use information, develop intellectual skills, express themselves through the medium of language and better understand themselves and their social and cultural environment. It is argued that these goals are best attained if education is conducted in the learners’ mother tongue (Skutnabb-­ Kangas, 2000, 2008). When the school system does not attempt to accomplish this, or does not teach the language as a subject, and instead provides education in a language alien to the children without considering their academic readiness, it has taken part in what Skutnabb-­Kangas (2000) calls linguistic genocide. Much of the policy on teaching indigenous languages during the New Order was complicit in linguistic genocide because, in the words of Skutnabb-­Kangas (2008), “Linguistic reproduction of minority mother tongues has been seen as a beginning of a conflict where states have feared that the existence of minorities can lead to a disintegration of the state” (p. 127). This is parallel with the status planning developed during the New Order, as the regime was suspicious of any regional-­ based expressions that could be perceived as a sign of political separatism (Alisjahbana, 1974, pp. 49–52; Anwar, 1976, pp. 342–345; also Sub-­Section 3.2.2). Three cases in point are provided here. One is the situation of language education in Papua. Rumbrawer (2001) notes that missionary work had begun in Papua by the 19th century. The missionaries taught Malay and spread Christianity using Malay. They also created local materials using indigenous languages to enable indigenous Papuans to have access to information. This had lasted for generations, allowing primary school children prior to the New Order to learn from textbooks such as Suras Wasya, Sarberkamkam, Kafkokem ma Kakaik and Aruken Ma Manggabras. However, the teaching of the indigenous languages was banned by the New Order following the integration of Papua in 1969, and the books created by the missionaries were burnt for fear of political content that could jeopardise political unification. Children in Papua were not allowed to learn their own languages, as they learnt subjects in a curriculum with an Indonesian emphasis that views Indonesian history from an Indonesian perspective, using the Indonesian language. The second case includes Dayak language speakers in Kalimantan. In Chapter 5, I showed how religious conversion and community suppression have contributed to a significant language shift and even language endangerment among the Dayak communities. While the teaching of other indigenous languages was allowed, the

Language-­in-­education policy 175 New Order banned the use of Dayak languages in schools in an attempt to maintain control over the Dayak communities and to facilitate national unity. Collins and Alloy (2004) note how the exclusive use of Indonesian as the medium of instruction in schools went hand in hand with church-­driven educational initiatives and services of the Catholic Relief Services that were conducted in Indonesian to proselytise the Tola’ Dayak community in Manjau, West Kalimantan. Over the decades, non-­Dayak teachers have strongly promoted Indonesian, while the locals have resorted to regional lingua francas (RLFs) such as Banjar and Pontianak Malay to fulfil communicative functions. As a result, the role of the Dayak languages in education has greatly diminished, especially after three years of primary schooling. The repercussions are huge, one of which is the emotional separation of the Dayak children from their cultural heritage. To many, this is the beginning of the feeling of alienation when they socialise with non-­Dayak children at school. At a wider social level, it also leads to the undervaluation of the Dayak languages. The Dayak communities think of RLFs, rather than their own languages, as more important for achieving progress. The third case is Rongga, the language of the ethnic minority of approximately 5,000 speakers in East Nusa Tenggara. Arka (2008a) reports that Rongga is excluded from the curriculum. In addition, teaching materials are not available in schools attended by minority Rongga-­speaking children. No funding is available for the teaching of Rongga. When Arka assisted teachers in developing teaching materials in Rongga, teachers showed reservations. They pointed out that such an initiative, desirable as it may be, might not benefit students because the school test requires students to demonstrate language proficiency in Manggarai, the language of the ethnic majority that is included in the curriculum. Clearly, this is not a violation of the Government Decree No. 57/2014, since Article 3.b of the Decree identifies that an indigenous language from a different area that is most widely spoken in the district or region may be taught in schools. Nonetheless, the fact that Rongga-­speaking children are denied access to learn their own language constitutes linguistic genocide in Skutnabb-­Kangas’s (2000) terms. These cases demonstrate a denial of Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity. Despite this, decentralisation of education has brought some fresh air in terms of mother tongue education (Sub-­Section 6.4.3) and micro language policies have emerged in response to political imposition (Sub-­Section 6.4.4).

6.4.2.  Linguistic imperialism Another imposition presents itself when the teaching of indigenous languages is undermined by Indonesian and English – two languages that have formed centres of normativity in Indonesia’s superglossia (see also Chapter 2). When Indonesian is so hegemonic in Indonesia’s superglossia to the extent that it devalues the teaching of indigenous languages, it contributes to linguistic imperialism. The notion of linguistic imperialism was originally introduced by Robert Phillipson (1992) to refer to “the dominance of English . . . asserted and maintained by the establishment and continuous reconstitution of structural and

176  Language-­in-­education policy cultural inequalities between English and other languages” (p. 47). In the context of Indonesian, linguistic imperialism occurs because of “the imposition of the dominant language (i.e., Indonesian) on the minority languages (i.e., Indonesian local languages)” (Sugiharto, 2015c, p. 231). Many do not find Indonesian imposing or detrimental to indigenous languages (e.g., Lowenberg, 1992; Mahmud, 2010; Nababan, 1985, 1991; Simanjuntak, 2014). Others, on the other hand, tend to view the development of Indonesian and the vitality of indigenous languages in exact oppositional terms (e.g., Ravindranath & Cohn, 2014; Zentz, 2015a, 2015b, 2016b). The increased use of Indonesian is usually equated with the decreased role of indigenous languages. Zentz (2016b) comments: With all these developments first in nationalization, then in a national school system, and amid continuing spread of communication technologies, it is obvious that a re-­scaling of language forms has happened since nationalization. Local languages are decreasingly public languages – they are almost never heard on television, and are only rarely read in some small circulation magazines. (p. 14) In some remote areas where parents speak Indonesian as their second language, many attach little benefit to using indigenous languages as a medium of instruction. According to Maryanto (2009), some parents and teachers even “tend to resist the use of the children’s home language as a language of instruction” (p. 74), resorting to Indonesian. In other provinces such as Bali, which has become a lot more multicultural due to increasing intranational migration, more pragmatic ideology is observed. Arnawa and Sulibrata (2002) report on Balinese children who speak Balinese in the home and are also fluent in Indonesian, citing an increasing rate of bilingualism in both urban and rural areas. For many of these students, studying Balinese is generally undertaken with little interest. Similarly, the importance of English in the worldwide constellation of languages has caused Indonesian parents to view the language with high prestige. According to Sugiharto (2015c) “the Indonesians’ positive perception of English cannot be separated from the image of English as a language of modernity, superiority, prestige, and sophistication” (p. 232). Many parents want their children to learn English, creating an increasing social pressure to learn the language. As a result, schools need to deal with the alleged advantages of and improbable ambitions for English proficiency. Its proponents argue that primary school English instruction is relevant to local aspiration to give children the edge to compete in a globalised world (e.g., Lestari, 2003; Zein, 2009), an argument that led to the proliferation of primary schools offering English instruction. Unfortunately, the teaching of English in primary schools has actually worsened multilingualism (Zein, 2019). Several years ago, many primary schools decided to drop indigenous languages from their timetable and replace them with English (Hadisantosa, 2010).

Language-­in-­education policy 177 What was seen as a wave of interest in primary English education was in line with what President Yudhoyono saw as a niche in Article 33(3) of Act No. 20/2003: Bahasa asing dapat digunakan sebagai bahasa pengantar pada satuan pendidikan tertentu untuk mendukung kemampuan berbahasa asing peserta didik.

Foreign languages may be used as languages of instruction at certain levels of education to strengthen students’ ability in foreign languages.

For Yudhoyono’s administration, Article 33(3) served as a legal basis for endorsing a new policy called Rintisan Sekolah Berstandar Internasional [International Pilot Project State-­run Schools] (RSBI). The RSBI policy was introduced in 2009 through the Regulation of the Ministry of National Education No. 78/2009. It prescribed the teaching of Maths and Science in English in schools with RSBI status. The RSBI policy received a nationwide promotion, but it was not well received. For Sugiharto (2015c), the policy exemplifies the discourse of linguistic imperialism. Sugiharto argues that “the ambition of internationalizing state-­owned schools nationwide has paved the way for generating the opposing ‘option for the rich’ policy”, which creates a paradox given the political allegiance of the government to “side with the less fortunate children by creating the ‘option for the poor’ policy to ensure the Indonesian children to have access to education as mandated by the Constitution” (p. 230). Sakhiyya (2011) argues that the RSBI policy restricted the role of Indonesia “as an importer in the global marketplace of international standards” (p. 362), while Zacharias (2013) suggests that the complex interplay between teachers’ English competence, students’ perceived lack of English proficiency and limited policy socialisation marred the policy’s implementation. Amidst the downpour of such criticisms and the ongoing debate concerning its poor implementation, the Indonesian government abolished the policy in 2013. With regard to the RSBI policy, Zentz (2016c) offers her view. She states that “it is not access to English but primordially to wealth, mobility, and education in general that gives and perpetuates opportunity in Indonesian society. English is merely part and parcel of such socioeconomic standing” (p. 461). What really makes the difference, according to Zentz, is access to socio-­economic resources that are found with English and not the language per se. Zentz’s analysis is interesting given the prevalence of social discourse associating English with social and economic mobility (see Dewi, 2014a; Hamied, 2012; Zein, 2019) and the potential of English in widening socio-­economic gaps (see Lamb and Coleman 2008; Sugiharto, 2015c). Lamb and Coleman (2008) argue that while English is intended to serve the nation, “paradoxically it may deepen existing social divisions and help divert the attention of the elite from the problems and preoccupations of the rural poor” (p. 201). Whatever the exact relationship between English and socio-­economic standing may be, this context has propelled English to new heights. English has become a

178  Language-­in-­education policy new H (High variety), a new centre of normativity in Indonesia’s superglossia (see also Chapter 2). The emergence of English as a new centre of normativity has perpetuated linguistic imperialism, making the preservation of indigenous languages even more difficult. For Sugiharto (2015c), this has led Indonesians to “view and treat English with awe and seek educational alternatives that can equip them with this language. As a consequence, the preservation of local languages through education remains in limbo, with their users gradually but surely abandoning them” (p. 232). Overall, linguistic imperialism associated with Indonesian and English has made the issue of language shift even more complex (see Sub-­Section 5.2.2). Though the relationship between the development of one language (i.e., Indonesian, English) cannot be seen as always in exact opposition to the development of others (i.e., smaller indigenous languages), the cases presented here demonstrate how Indonesian and English are complicit in linguistic imperialism.

6.4.3.  Decentralisation of education and indigenous languages The previous sub-­ sections have indicated that Indonesia’s education system allows for the hegemony of Indonesian and English, which has led to the decreasing vitality of indigenous languages. But scrutiny over the issue through the lens of decentralisation of governance points to greater complexity. The decentralisation of governance appeared following the collapse of the New Order in 1998. The decision of President Habibie in 1999 to grant decentralisation of governance was a monumental turning point for local governments, as they were given regional autonomy. The rise of regional autonomy brought a significant impact on the teaching of indigenous languages in Indonesia, which is usually confined to Muatan Lokal [local content subjects] (Mulok). This means that each school has the option to teach subjects that it deems suitable to the local context. Law No. 32/2004 on Regional Governments is the legal standing for many regional governments at provincial levels to teach Mulok, although it is only restricted to programmes which teach aspects of local culture as a subject within the curriculum. The promotion of indigenous languages through decentralisation of education received further boost from Article 21 of the Government Decree No. 57/2014 on the Development, Cultivation and Maintenance of Language and Literature and the Increased Function of Indonesian: Pasal 21 (2) Pembinaan Bahasa Daerah dilakukan melalui: a. pengajaran Bahasa Daerah di wilayah masing-­masing pada pendidikan dasar dan pendidikan menengah; b. pengajaran Bahasa Daerah di wilayah masing-­masing pada pendidikan program kesetaraan. 

Article 21 The cultivation of Indigenous Languages is conducted through: (a) the teaching of Indigenous Languages in each region occurring in primary and secondary education and (b) the teaching of Indigenous Languages in each region occurring in the equivalent programme of education.

Language-­in-­education policy 179 In line with these policies, local governments have embraced the spirit of decentralisation of education by teaching indigenous languages as a subject through Mulok. This could be seen as a revival of local traditions through education implemented by many local governments (see Davidson & Henley, 2007), a move that also provides room for indigenous languages to emerge within Indonesia’s superdiversity, assuming a greater role than previously. The Government of West Java, for example, took up the challenge. It initially included the teaching of Sundanese in schools through Government Regulation No. 5/2003 concerning the preservation of the Sundanese language, literature and script, but this was interrupted by the plan to abolish Mulok after the introduction of 2013 Curriculum. Following public protests, the West Java government then decided to retain Sundanese in the curriculum by making it a separate subject on its own. This has remained up to the present day, even after the dissolution of 2013 Curriculum. Moriyama (2012) notes that many Sundanese people are no longer able to read the Sundanese script, and so the policy to introduce it in schools is necessary to maintain the language. A second example is taken from Papua. Rumbrawer (2001) witnessed that in the early years of regional autonomy several districts in Papua were planning to teach indigenous languages, including: (1) Biak Numfor (teaching the Biak language); (2) Sorong (teaching the Meibrat language); (3) Puncak Jaya (Mee); (4) Mimika (Kamoro); (5) Paniai (Mee); (6) Jayapura (Sentani); (7) Merauke (Marind); (8) Jayawijaya (Dani); (9) Manokwari (Wandamen). Despite this, the state of affairs of many other indigenous languages of Papua is unknown, with Arka (2013) reporting that small indigenous languages such as Marori are not included in Mulok. Third, decentralised education could have a positive impact on maintaining the balance between Indonesian and indigenous languages. Of the Enggano language speakers in Meok and Kana’an, Bengkulu, who participated in his study, Simanjuntak (2014) states that “[f]or the people who had an opportunity to continue their studies, proficiency in Indonesian was somewhat higher, whereas proficiency in Indonesian was lower when respondents had little or no opportunity to continue their studies” (p. 38). Those whose proficiency in Indonesian was at Limited Working Performance (Level 2) had strong positive attitudes towards both Indonesian and the indigenous language, using the former in professional and education domains and the latter in the home. Fourth, the teaching of the most widely spoken indigenous language in Indonesia, Javanese, is an interesting and complex case. A few policies have been introduced to promote the teaching of Javanese, namely: • • • • •

The Regional Regulation of East Java Province No. 9/2014 The East Java Governor Regulation No. 19/2014 The Central Java Governor Circular Letter No. 895.5/01/2005 The Governor of Yogyakarta Instruction No. 1/INSTR/2009 The Solo Mayor Circular Letter No. 60/421/2010

180  Language-­in-­education policy At the tertiary level, Javanese language and literature are taught at prominent universities including Universitas Indonesia, Universitas Negeri Semarang and Universitas Udayana. What is meant by “Javanese” here is the krama, which is the high register of the language and is associated with the Solo and Yogyakarta dialects. For Quinn (2012), this political embracing of decentralisation has been fundamental to an increased interest in the Javanese programme at Universitas Negeri Surabaya that is “experiencing an impressive revival” (p. 77). Despite the somewhat invigorating atmosphere, concerns do exist. Widodo (2017) asserts that local governments, that is, Central Java, Yogyakarta and East Java, tend to create policies without doing real actions, perpetuating the reputation of Indonesia as “a nation on paper” (p. 47). He argues that the problem is not in lack of policymaking but in the low enthusiasm for using Javanese. Increasing the awareness amongst the young people of the importance of Javanese should be a priority, making Javanese a collective dream. According to Widodo, language policy activism needs to involve more young people. They have been accused of neglecting the Javanese culture but have received limited guidance on using the language. Widodo’s argument accentuates the concern regarding the shift from Javanese to Indonesian voiced in previous studies (e.g., Kurniasih, 2006; Smith-­Hefner, 2009). Furthermore, what appears to be hegemonic Javanese in the education domain also denies access to another legitimate form of communication. A case in point is Osing, a language spoken in Banyuwangi, which some consider to be a dialect of Javanese (e.g., Moeljono et al., 1986). Vidiyanti (2016) is concerned about the status of Osing after the East Java Governor Decree No. 19/2014 endorsed the teaching of Madurese and Javanese in all schools and madrasahs in East Java. The policy, however, excludes Osing, which used to be taught to school children as part of Mulok. Vidiyanti argues that this decision denies the high vitality of the language and poses a great risk to its prospect – a policy which she thinks constitutes a political sidelining of the Osing language and its speakers. Further, the impact of national language policies could be less promising when decentralisation of education curbs the potential of indigenous languages. First, decentralisation of education could mean less support to indigenous languages when local governments have different ideas about how to implement it. This is seen in Alor and Sumbawa where local governments in the regions implement two different policies. Shiohara (2012) reports that the Alorese government views the societal multilingualism in the region as problematic. There are too many indigenous languages in the district, and so it is considered best to include none in the primary schooling timetable. Thus, the Alorese government promotes material culture such as tenun ikat [woven craft] and traditional dance forms, rather than the teaching of indigenous languages. Shiohara also mentions that the government of Sumbawa dropped the Sumbawan language from the primary school timetable after the introduction of the 2006 KTSP Curriculum, which stipulated the optional status of Mulok. The Curriculum was thus seen as imposing no obligation on schools

Language-­in-­education policy 181 to teach indigenous languages. Rather than teaching the Sumbawan language, local values are represented in the teaching of Sumbawan history, local handicrafts and music. Shiohara suspects that the removal of the Sumbawan language from the curriculum has more to do with the inferiority complex felt among its speakers rather than the optional status of Mulok. Second, decentralisation of education exerts minimal impact when low educational attainment conspires with poor management. In the case of the Dayak communities, there are alarming concerns about linguistic genocide because the communities rarely have local teachers who can teach indigenous languages or use indigenous languages as media of instruction, a point also mentioned in Gumilar (2015). As Maryanto (2009) argues, “The main problem in Indonesian education is not how to use the local and regional languages, but how to provide schoolchildren with teachers who can employ these languages” (p. 75). The policy of decentralisation of education does not seem to have addressed the issue of teacher deployment, as local governments “have thus far failed to adequately account for the political economies and cultural realities that influence teacher recruitment, placement and promotion at district and sub-­district levels” (Heyward, Hadiwijaya, & Priyono, 2017, p. 246). Although “local content subjects of Dayak” had started in 2011 (Gumilar, 2015), increasing the education level of the Dayak communities does not appear to have reached a level where local indigenous peoples are qualified to teach. To sum up, what the cases in this sub-­section demonstrate is that decentralisation of education is a complex process. It has been implemented by local governments in different ways. Regional policies that tend to vary between one region and another create various levels of political engagement. These different levels of political engagement extend and contract different elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity (e.g., Indonesian, English, indigenous languages), perpetuating its dynamism and complexity (see Chapter 2).

6.4.4.  Micro language policies A line of scholarship suggests that the policy of using Indonesian as a medium of instruction applies to all schools (e.g., Kosonen, 2009, 2017; Zentz, 2016b). Kosonen (2017) declares that “Indonesian is used exclusively as the LOI [language of instruction] throughout the nation” (p. 481), while Zentz (2016b) points to “Indonesian as the only medium of education in public schools” as part of the New Order’s nation building efforts (p. 8). These assertions appear to have been influenced by an understanding of the language policy developed during the New Order Era that obligated teachers to use Standard Indonesian in the classroom, a policy called bahasa baku. The policy gave rise to what Gogolin (1997) calls monolingual habitus: “the deep-­seated habit of assuming monolingualism as the norm in a nation” (p. 41), hence creating a professional situation in which the separation of languages is the norm rather than acknowledging common bilingual practices.

182  Language-­in-­education policy However, local practices are always more complex than top-­down language policies, or academic assertions in any case, no matter how rigorous they seem. Local practices demonstrate micro language policies, or micro planning, referring to cases where businesses, institutions, groups of individuals hold agency and create what can be recognised as a language policy and plan to utilise and develop their language resources; one that is not directly the result of some larger macro policy, but is a response to their own needs, their own “language problems”, their own requirement for language management. (Baldauf, 2008, p. 26) One common micro language policy relates to the resistance of teachers to the language policy that obligates them to use Standard Indonesian only. In Papua, the difficulty that students had with the standard language as well as in understanding texts written by Jakarta-­based textbook writers who had little knowledge of Papuan diverse cultures triggered policy resistance. Morin (2016) states that the policy only “made most Papuan teachers more determined that PM [Papuan Malay] should be used in classroom activities regardless of the state-­sponsored slogan ‘Gunakanlah Bahasa Indonesia Yang Baik dan Benar’ [Please Use Good and Correct Indonesian]” (p. 103). This situation remained until regime change in 1998. The political interventions made by Presidents Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri gave greater freedom to Papuans in general, including in implementing educational strategies that suit the local needs such as using Papuan Malay alongside Standard Indonesian. This is not exclusive to Papuan teachers, however. Maryanto (2009) adds that the use of Javanese in schools is commonplace, stating that “the local language is rarely used in the written form, but it is widely used orally”, a strategy which “should be regarded as the approach of individual teachers rather than of the government policy” (p. 75). For many, using indigenous languages is “preferable as a means of producing conviviality between teachers and students. In classrooms, a joke is often expressed in a local language” (p. 73). This issue of micro language policies leads to the question of how teachers manage superdiversity in the classroom. This is important in light of Article 6 (2c) of the Government Decree No. 57/2014 that stipulates that “indigenous languages have the function to become a tool to support the Indonesian language”. For some teachers, using Indonesian and indigenous languages alternately is the answer. Bowden (2013) observes that in the schools he visited, teachers who speak the children’s first language will generally use it alongside Indonesian, with the teachers speaking in Indonesian first before translating it into the children’s first language. He gives an interesting example of a teacher in a rural school in central Sulawesi who employs the mother tongue of the students to teach a lesson in biology. This, according to Bowden, is unfortunately “rare for Indonesian children, in spite of the fact that the children from the most linguistically diverse parts of the country also tend to have the weakest achievement levels” (p. 3). For others, language mixing is the best option. The sociolinguistic landscape of Indonesia has engendered a proportion of students and teachers who either

Language-­in-­education policy 183 use a hybrid variety of Indonesian or mix the low and high forms of the language with their indigenous languages and English (Wright, 2016; cf. Bowden, 2013; Cahyani, de Courcy, & Barnett, 2018; Zentz, 2015c). But how this process of language mixing leads to the enrichment of their linguistic repertoire or increases their competence in the national language remains vague. Scholarship has consistently suggested the need to acknowledge the complex and mixed language practices of bilingual worlds, taking into account issues such as cultures and identities (e.g., Canagarajah, 2013; García & Wei, 2014). Based on their studies of the mixed-­language practices of heritage language classes, Blackledge and Creese (2010, p. 201) purport “teaching bilingual children by means of a bilingual pedagogy” and argue for “a release from monolingual instructional approaches” through translanguaging. Translanguaging here is understood as an approach to the use of language, bilingualism and the education of bilinguals that considers the language practices of bilinguals not as two autonomous language systems as has been traditionally the case, but as one linguistic repertoire with features that have been societally constructed as belonging to two separate languages. (García & Wei, 2014, p. 2) How translanguaging is adopted in Indonesian classrooms has appeared in Cahyani et al. (2018), Rasman (2018) and Zein (2018a). Cahyani et al.’s (2018) study suggests the efficacy of translanguaging to allow teachers to “invite a fully multilingual construction of meaning, drawing on students’ diverse cultural and linguistic resources for the sake of learning and engagement” (p. 475). Rasman (2018) shows how translanguaging helps develop learners’ multilingual repertoire in a way that confronts the perspective of language boundaries. Meanwhile, my study (Zein, 2018a) demonstrates that a teacher’s multimodal approach to metadiscursive translanguaging could allow for the integration of all discursive resources (e.g., pictures, drawings on the board, videos, labels) while promoting learners’ bilingual practices to make meaning through English, Indonesian and Javanese. Overall, these studies show how translanguaging allows teachers and learners to achieve things through language, enabling them to employ mixed resources (linguistic and non-­linguistic) at their disposal. Despite this, the studies cover only Indonesian, Javanese and English. The question remains as to how teachers can successfully manage instruction through the use of Indonesian, other indigenous languages, non-­standard varieties of Indonesian and dialects of indigenous languages that are all inherent in Indonesia’s superglossia.

6.5.  Policy on teaching “imported” languages This section discusses the policy on teaching “imported languages”, that is, ­languages that are not natively spoken in a polity but are taken into account in language policy because they are endorsed in the educational curriculum (see Chapter 2; cf. Corson, 1999; Spolsky, 2009). In the Indonesian context, these

184  Language-­in-­education policy include Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin. To start the section, I present a policy overview on teaching these languages, and then I continue with sections that cover the languages.

6.5.1.  Policy overview Long before the introduction of Indonesia’s complex management of education (Section 6.2), natives to the East Indies had already been familiar with the colonial tradition of teaching foreign languages. According to Nababan (1991), the Dutch required the instruction of European languages, Dutch, German, French and English, to the natives of the East Indies who studied in Dutch-­medium secondary schools. After independence in 1945, the Indonesian government decided to remove Dutch from being a compulsory subject, grounded by the pervasive aversion that the public held against the Dutch and the low potential of the language for reaching an international stature (Dardjowidjojo, 2000). What was made the compulsory foreign language was English. Many considered English to be the language of the future as represented by the dominant global political powers then, the UK and the United States, and which therefore would become a language of international importance. This made a special case for English in the national education curriculum, establishing its reputation as what Nababan (1991) calls “the first foreign language” (p. 120). Many years later, the New Order regime further cemented the official role of English as the first foreign language through the Presidential Decree No. 28/1990. With this policy, English was offered as a compulsory subject in secondary schools under the administration of the Ministry of Education and Culture: SMP, SMA and SMK. English was also made a compulsory subject in secondary schools under the administration of the Ministry of Religious Affairs: Madrasah Tsanawiyah and Madrasah ‘Aliyah. Two other European languages, German and French, were still offered in SMA, SMK and Madrasah ‘Aliyah. These languages were made compulsory elective subjects for second-­and third-­ grade students of SMA, meaning that students specialising in natural and social sciences were required to take one of them, while those in the peminatan bahasa [language specialisation] should opt for both. Students enrolled in SMK could learn German and French, while those studying in Madrasah ‘Aliyah were required to learn Arabic in addition to more hours allotted to Islamic religious teachings in their curriculum contents. Following the collapse of the New Order regime in 1998, the policy was retained by the succeeding governments under Presidents Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie, Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri. President Sukarnoputri was the signatory of the National Education System Act No. 20/2003. Since then, educational reforms have taken place in the past two presidencies of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and Joko Widodo, with the 2013 Curriculum and the Revised 2013 Curriculum seeing some changes to the allocation of hours for foreign languages. Nowadays, after President Widodo split the management of education, the current curriculum is called the Revised 2013 Curriculum. English

Language-­in-­education policy 185 used to be an optional subject under Mulok in SD in the 2006 KTSP Curriculum, but in the Revised 2013 Curriculum it is no longer part of Mulok. English has indeed remained the first foreign language in SMP, SMA and SMK, but its portion has decreased. Under the Revised Curriculum of 2013, the time allocated for English teaching is 4 × 40 minutes/week in SMP, which is similar to the 2006 KTSP Curriculum. However, time allocation for English in the general stream of SMA has reduced from 4 × 45 minutes/week to 2 × 45 minutes. In the peminatan bahasa of SMA, it has been reduced from 5 × 45 minutes/week to only 3 × 45 minutes/week for Grade 10 students and 4 × 45 minutes/week for Grades 11 and 12 students. These are curricular decisions, which, in the words of Sukyadi (2015), have sparked “controversies among teachers and practitioners” (p. 124). Although the management of education remains separated in Ministry of Religious Affairs and Ministry of Education and Culture, the scope of the Revised 2013 Curriculum includes schools in both ministries. Under the Revised 2013 Curriculum, students of Grades 7, 8 and 9 of Madrasah Tsanawiyah are obligated to learn English for 4 × 45 minutes/week and Arabic for 3 × 45 minutes/ week. English and Arabic are also made compulsory subjects in Madrasah ‘Aliyah. Grades 10, 11 and 12 students of Madrasah ‘Aliyah could learn English for 2 × 45 minutes/week and Arabic for 4 × 45 minutes/week. Grade 10 students of the peminatan bahasa in SMA could learn English for 3 × 45 minutes/week, while those in Grades 11 and 12 could learn it for 4 × 45 minutes/week. They could also choose to learn one of the foreign languages, including Mandarin, Japanese, German, French and Korean, with an arrangement as follows: 3 × 45 minutes/week for Grade 10 students and 4 × 45 minutes/week for Grades 11 and 12 students. Students of SMK (Grades 10–12), on the other hand, are free to choose between English and other foreign or additional languages, a policy made official by the Regulation of the Directorate General of Primary and Secondary Education No. 07/D.D5/KK/2018. Overall, the policy of the incumbent government appears to be in line with the changing sociolinguistic landscape that shows the increasing interest in Arabic, Mandarin, German, French, Japanese and Korean, by allowing schools to include them in the curriculum for Grades 11 and 12 of the peminatan bahasa in SMA. Despite this, the government does not necessarily increase the hours for the languages in the curriculum. Instead, it has allocated 3 × 45 minutes/week to Grade 10 students and 4 × 45 minutes/week to Grades 11 and 12 students of the peminatan bahasa in SMA. By doing so, the government does not prescribe which language(s) to teach. Rather, it allows each individual school to choose which language to offer to their students. Some SMAs that see the economic potential of Mandarin may decide to teach the language, while others that are more influenced by Islamic values may opt for Arabic. This is a laissez-­faire approach to language-­in-­education policy characterising President Widodo’s administration, which is in direct opposition to President Soeharto’s top-­down, unified and centralistic approach of policymaking. After nearly two decades of the Post–New Order Era, Widodo has made a significant departure from Soeharto’s approach of developing one-­size-­fits-­all policies. By relegating authority to schools to choose

186  Language-­in-­education policy which language to teach, Widodo’s administration has encouraged greater participation from schools in this era of decentralised education.

6.5.2.  Teaching Arabic Of all the “imported” languages that are taught in Indonesia, Arabic holds a special place. This is certainly because of the fact that a great majority of the Indonesian population are Muslims, and Arabic is considered to be sacred in Islam. This also goes back to the recognition of schools and pesantrens which shaped management of education in Indonesia decades prior to the nation’s independence, as I elaborated in Section 6.2. Thus, Arabic is made compulsory in 51 Islamic-­based universities and institutes administered by the Ministry of Religious Affairs. For example, Universitas Islam Negeri Ar-­Raniry in Aceh and Institut Agama Islam Negeri Fattahul Muluk in Papua require students of any major to undertake a minimum of two credit points of Arabic. This requirement excludes students majoring in Arabic Language Education and Arabic Language and Literature, who must undertake at least 120 credit points of Arabic throughout the four years of undergraduate studies. Students undertaking these majors specialise in Arabic, covering areas such as ‘Ilm al-­Ashwât [phonology], Nahwu [syntax], Balaghah [rhetoric] and Shorof [morphology]. A great majority of the students enrolled in Islamic universities are generally those who have strong Islamic backgrounds, that is, having undertaken Arabic language studies in a Madrasah ‘Aliyah and/or Madrasah Tsanawiyah. Those who have studied in a pesantren would have the strongest background in Arabic and Islamic teachings. According to Tan (2012), a pesantren is considered to be “the bastion of Islamic knowledge and the main provider of Islamic scholars and teachers” (p. 92). A pesantren prepares its students with a focus on the transmission of the classical Islamic sciences such as Arabic grammar, jurisprudence and Islamic mysticism, often written in a set of classical Islamic commentaries, known as kitab kuning [yellow book]. Nonetheless, formal education is not the only popular stream of learning Arabic. The rise of interest in Islam has seen a surge in the learning of Arabic too, particularly among those who have no Islamic education background in a process akin to re-­Islamisation in Indonesia (Machmudi, 2008). The proliferation of non-­ mainstream Islamic academies, the surge of online learning and the rise of Islamic-­ based social and political activities have contributed to a changing sociolinguistic landscape in the way Arabic is perceived and learnt by Indonesian Muslims. The language is now taught in non-­mainstream academies such as Ma’had Al Manar in Jakarta and Ma’had Al Imarat in Bandung, among others, with quite a steady enrolment from time to time. Moreover, online learning of Arabic has been argued as an effective and interesting way to attract the interest of those wanting to learn the language of their religion. Iswanto (2017) notes that online learning through sites such as www.arabic.com, www.arabia.com and www.alsaha.com as well as e-­learning tools utilising interactive CDs such as Bustan Al Raudhoh and Hadiqah

Language-­in-­education policy 187 al-­Arqam provide both teachers and students more interactive ways of learning and teaching. Lubis (2013) even calls for teachers of Arabic to utilise technological tools and online learning in their teaching because they can optimise teaching delivery, helping learners to better attain proficiency in the language.

6.5.3. Teaching East Asian languages: Mandarin, Japanese and Korean In contrast to Arabic, which has always enjoyed a privileged ruling by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, Mandarin used to be discriminated against. I mentioned in Chapter 3 how the political sentiment of the New Order against the Chinese communities motivated the formulation of a policy that prohibited the teaching of Mandarin. Schools that taught Mandarin and other Chinese language varieties such as Hokkien and Hakka were closed and materials printed in Mandarin were banned (see Budiman, 2005; Lim & Mead, 2011). It was only towards the end of the 1990s that the attitude of the New Order regime softened. This started when in 1994 the Indonesian government, motivated by the need to promote tourism from China and Taiwan, allowed the teaching of the Chinese language in Indonesian institutes of tourism (Tsuda, 2012). Tsuda notes that increased tolerance was observed in 1999 when President Habibie declared that laws that prohibit and limit the study of Mandarin and other Chinese language varieties should be revoked. Further, President Wahid endorsed Presidential Decree No. 6/2000, which allows ethnic Chinese to reclaim any forms of expression related to their cultural heritage that was once prohibited during the New Order. The policy expanded the allowance to learn Mandarin which was once limited to only those studying tourism, enabling youth to learn Mandarin in schools. As a result, the learning of Mandarin has increased considerably (Tsuda, 2012; Shenglin & Ying 2012). The learning of Mandarin can be divided into two streams: one as a heritage language and the other as an additional language. As a heritage language, Mandarin learning has flourished in many parts of the country, some even taking the form of hobby groups like those found among middle-­aged ethnic Chinese women in Rembang, Central Java. Tsuda states that “for the ethnic Chinese living in Rembang, ‘being Chinese’ is vaguely interconnected with the language and culture of modern day China by the idea of ‘origins’. But it is a connection that is theoretically imagined rather than actively experienced” (p. 203). As an additional language, Mandarin is taught in many private schools, from primary to secondary education. Sutami (2007) notes that there are even some kindergartens that offer Mandarin instruction to pre-­school children. Some public schools whose student population is mainly of Chinese heritage have also included Mandarin as part of Mulok. The soaring growth of China’s economy has been the main contributing factor to the proliferation of private courses and university programmes offering tuition in Mandarin, attracting Indonesians of Chinese heritage and those of other ethnicities alike.

188  Language-­in-­education policy Many are pleased with this increased interest that revives an important language of global importance which also happens to be a heritage language for many Indonesian learners. But academics such as Sutami (2007) and Shenglin & Ying (2012) view the teaching of Mandarin as generally still far from satisfactory. Sutami identified problems related to the proficiency of the teachers who were mostly unfamiliar with the Hanyu Pinyin spelling. She also found that a great majority of these teachers were unqualified to teach Mandarin, having had limited teaching methodology and little knowledge of Chinese culture. They were mainly employed only because of their “native speaker” status. Shenglin & Ying (2012) add that teaching Mandarin is confronted by the need to create multimedia applications that can foster learning as well as coursebooks that incorporate indigenous cultures to meet the local demands. Meanwhile, the arrival of approximately 1.9 million travellers from China in 2017, a significant increase of 36 per cent from the previous year (Pitana, 2018), poses a challenge in the professional training of local tourist guides. Ying, Rumeser, and Oktriono (2015) argue that to tackle this challenge, there is a need for integrated professional training that includes certification on language competence and certification on tourism business. Such a model of professional training could provide advanced professional development for tour guides to take part in the era of ASEAN Economic Community. In terms of Japanese language teaching, cultural interest appears to be the strongest predictor for Indonesian learners whose attitudes towards language learning are unique, if not unexplainable. Many demonstrate an aversion to learning Dutch, associating it with the language of the Dutch colonials. Interestingly, similar aversion is not found in the learning of Japanese, even though Japan also had its hands in the colonisation of Indonesia (1942–1945). Cultural motivation has been indeed the strongest predictor in the case of Indonesian students learning Japanese (e.g., Kobari, 2014; Suryadi & Rosiah, 1999). For example, the majority of Kobari’s (2014) participants stated that their love for the Japanese language emerged following their encounter with Japanese anime (cartoon animation), many of whom had seen it since they were teenagers. One participant, for example, stated「日本語が上手になりたいです。日本のアニメが好きです から。」(p. 123) [I want to learn Japanese because I like Japanese Anime]. It seems that it is the need to capture the distinct characteristics of the Japanese language and culture that motivates teachers and researchers to develop complex teaching approaches. For example, Haryani, Aneros, and Herniwati (2016) developed Meguro language centre (MLC) flash media to help learners acquire intransitive and transitive verbs of Japanese, called jidoushi and tadoushi, respectively. The findings of their study show a normalised gain of 0.67, which indicates the efficacy of MLC flash cards. Putrilani, Renariah, and Sutjiati (2016) investigated the use of the Japanese game Sudoku to learn the kana alphabets of Japanese. The researchers found that the use of the Sudoku game resulted in a t-­score of 6.53 > 2.09, indicating high efficacy in the acquisition of the kana alphabets. Cooperative learning model is the focus of Pebriyani, Sutedi and Haristiani (2016) and Diyanthi, Judiasri and Risda (2016), though each involves different groups of participants and aims for different language skills.

Language-­in-­education policy 189 Pebriyani et al. (2016) show that the cooperative model of Tea Party was useful to increase the vocabulary acquisition of Grade 10 students at SMA BPI Bandung, while Diyanthi et al. (2016) demonstrate that cooperative learning model of inside-­outside circle was effective in increasing the confidence and speaking fluency of Grade 12 students specialising in natural science at SMA Pasundan 2 Bandung. Meanwhile, private courses offering tuition in Korean have grown along with the popularity of Korean music pop (K-­Pop) with their boybands and girlbands and Korean TV soap operas such as Boys Before Flower, 49 Days and City Hunter – a process known as Hallyu [Korean Wave]. Love for the Korean language and culture has also developed due to admiration for South Korea, which was one of the poorest countries in the world in the 1950s but emerged as one of the world’s rising economies in the 1990s. Higher education institutions such as Universitas Nasional, Universitas Indonesia and Universitas Gadjah Mada responded well to the increasing interest in the Korean language and culture by opening programmes in Korean studies in the mid-­2000s. Enrolment at these universities has increased significantly, with Universitas Indonesia, for example, being able to admit only 60 from 1,753 applicants in 2013 – a significant fivefold interest within five years (Adinda, 2015). Adinda notes that the increasing number of students of Korean has not always been matched by the increase in the number of teachers, while reliance on Korean-­based materials such as Sogang Hangugo has been cited as another intricate challenge in the provision of contextual teaching materials. With South Korea’s reputation as a developed country in terms of technology, there is a parallel in the adoption of technology-­based teaching in many classrooms. For example, Suryaningsih et al. (2017) show how learners of the Korean language could now employ a new Android-­based application which utilises Java programming to learn reading materials in Korean, listen to conversations and complete games and quizzes, both for learning and assessment. Similarly, Pratama (2017) developed an application for daily conversations in Korean using Android programming and SQLite database. Pratama argues that the Unified Modeling Language used in the application could help increase the motivation of learners wanting to learn Korean and build their proficiency in the language. Somya and Tjahjono (2016) also employed Android programming through AndEngine to develop a learning application for learners at beginner’s level. The application, according to the researchers, is useful to help learners read Korean texts and play games. They cite a high satisfaction rate of 92.5 per cent of respondents who thought of the user friendliness of the application and 75 per cent who felt the application helped them review teaching materials.

6.5.4. Teaching Western-­European languages: German and French The place of German in the school curriculum is foregrounded by the reputation of Germany as one of the largest economies in the world and as a key player in

190  Language-­in-­education policy the development of technologies and innovations. The fact that Indonesia’s third president, Habibie, received his doctorate in engineering from Technische Hochschule Aachen, Germany, has also been a motivating factor to learn the language for some who are inspired by his professional career. Indeed, innovations and technology, which characterise German culture, appear to be two key words in German language teaching in Indonesia (Rahayu, 2017; Triyono, 2012). For Rahayu (2017), creative teaching can take place through the utilisation of recycled paper as teaching tools, the change of the learning setting from the classroom to school garden and the use of materials from the Internet. Triyono (2012), on the other hand, asserts that innovations in teaching German will need to run parallel with the needs of the learners and that teachers must be adept at using innovative technologies such as online learning. Innovative teaching approaches that utilise movie videos have also been suggested. In their study that involved 60 Grade 11 students of SMA Negeri 11 Makassar, Hardianti and Asri (2017) show how Media Video helped learners to improve their writing skills. Reciprocal Teaching, which allows learners to read texts and teach contents to one another, is an innovative teaching technique examined in Ketong, Burhanuddin and Asri (2017). The researchers showed that the teaching was effective in increasing the reading skill of the students, documenting a t-­score of 3.47 > 1.997. Gantrisia, Ekawati and Cansrina (2017) state that e-­learning is an innovative strategy of teaching which could compensate for the lack of teaching materials in German. The researchers employed e-­learning activity through a workshop involving beginner’s learners of German at SMA Swasta Mutiara Bunda in Bandung to study Zahlen und Buchstaben [alphabets and numbers] and Sich Vorstellen [introduction]. The researchers claim that their technique was successful in enabling teachers and students to communicate virtually and in allowing learners to speedily access information relevant to their studies. French is another European language that is quite popular among Indonesian students, both at senior high school and university levels, with students often citing cultural interest as the predominant factor in learning the language. Ardiyanti, Usman and Bandu (2018) note that the language is taught at ten universities in Indonesia, including Universitas Padjadjaran, Universitas Hasanuddin and Universitas Pendidikan Indonesia, while others could enrol in courses that are taught in four French cultural centres and eight Alliance Française centres throughout the archipelago. Similar to the teaching of German, teachers of French also adopt innovative strategies to help learners acquire the language, often involving the latest technologies. For example, the business communication francophone model is a pedagogical model that Mulyadi, Gumilar and Sopiawati (2013) argue is useful for those interested in pursuing degrees in business. Another pedagogical technique that could help learners is the enquiry model, a technique which requires learners to identify grammatical problems, analyse them, develop hypotheses and present ideas. According to Kusrini and Rosita (2017), the model is useful to improve learners’ grammatical competence. Technology-­ based pedagogies in teaching French have also become the focus of research studies (e.g., Hariadi,

Language-­in-­education policy 191 Duana, & Ulfa, 2010; Rakhman, Mutiarsih, & Darmawangsa, 2015). Hariadi et al. (2010) argue that computer-­assisted learning for teaching French could take place through the development of computer applications. Teachers could develop various teaching materials to address their students’ needs. For Rakhman et al. (2015) an interactive CD-­Rom which emphasises an articulatory model could help enhance learners’ pronunciation, especially in pronouncing phonemes that learners find difficult: [μ], [ø], [õ] [ã], [ε], [∫], [v] and [z]. Using flash cards is a technique that was investigated by Ardiyanti et al. (2018). The researchers argue that using flashcards is useful for vocabulary acquisition, with participants of their study reaching a quite-­significant gain from a score of 58.5 in the pre-­test to 65.18 in the post-­test.

6.5.5.  Teaching English as a lingua franca In Sub-­Section 6.4.2, I showed that English is complicit in linguistic imperialism, running the risk of perpetuating socio-­economic inequalities. But the Indonesian government appears to have a rationale of its own. The government is still motivated to develop English language education, although its rationale has considerably changed. This is seen in the perception that primary school education should focus on social, cultural and religious values to nurture children’s character building, rather than exposing them to a foreign culture associated with English (Alwasilah, 2012). This explains why the Ministry of Education and Culture does not allocate hours for English in the primary curriculum. Instead, the Ministry places English as a core subject in the secondary curriculum. Although it is a core subject in secondary education, the hours for English have reduced (see Sub-­Section 6.5.1). This reduction of hours is meant to provide curricular space for subjects that are considered to be important for developing Indonesian students’ character. In fact, central to the aspiration of the Ministry in the Revised 2013 Curriculum is the discourse of Character Building, which aims “to sharpen education’s role as a site of moral inculcation in the face of growing social diversity that threatens social cohesion and the prolonged social problem of massive corruption” (Qoyyimah, 2016, p. 109). This explains the presence and modification of subjects that are aimed to achieve this goal as well as the adding of hours to these subjects. In the past, there was a subject called Religious Education. Given the aim of making religious and spiritual values to be relevant to one’s character development, the subject has now been modified to Religious and Character Education. Similarly, given the importance of developing entrepreneurial character in this increasingly globalised world, there is now a new subject called Craft and Entrepreneurship. Other subjects such as History of Indonesia and Pancasila and Citizenship Education are also moulded into subjects that are expected to create a significant impact on students’ character. Having said that, it is of little surprise that the Ministry of Education and Culture also wishes English to contribute to the process. English teachers in secondary schools are required to enact character education reform in their classrooms

192  Language-­in-­education policy through the incorporation of social, cultural and religious values into the lessons. What has become a recurrent theme is the effort of English teachers to include spiritual and religious values as part of their pedagogy (see Mambu, 2016; Qoyyimah, 2016). Qoyyimah (2016), for example, shows a tendency of teachers to draw contents on character building from the available teaching materials. She states that “teachers’ implementation of moral education in their classes was dominated by their school communities’ and the teachers’ own preferred value of religiosity” (p. 109). Nonetheless, she observes how teachers often struggle to reconcile the social, cultural and religious values with secular elements and Western values that are often incorporated into English teaching materials. The struggle originates from the unsuitability of the monocentric approach to English that has long been embraced in Indonesia: the English as a native language (ENL) ideology. For years, Indonesia has implemented the ENL ideology through the EFL perspective (e.g., Alwasilah, 2013; Dardjowidjojo, 1998; Mistar, 2005), and recently there has been a proposal to shift into the English as a second language (ESL) perspective (e.g., Ariatna, 2016). But as I have argued elsewhere (Zein, 2018c, pp. 29–31), both the EFL and ESL perspectives stand diametrically against locally suited approaches to language teaching that conform to Indonesia’s cultural, social and religious values. The reason is that both perspectives adhere to the monolingual culture associated with native speakers of English, meaning that cultural values of the Western countries where English is spoken should be part of pedagogy. Drawn from the ENL ideology, which holds a secular view, the EFL and ESL perspectives cannot be implemented unless significant adjustments are made by teachers in order to produce culturally appropriate teaching materials and develop locally suited pedagogical approaches. Qoyyimah (2016) shows how teachers in mainstream EFL classes have been preoccupied with the task of reconciling Western secular values with local, cultural and religious ones. Meanwhile, an elevation of status to ESL may only perpetuate linguistic imperialism, threatening the unifying function of Indonesian and the local identities associated with indigenous languages. As Fadilah (2018) argues, “What we should attempt to do is to adopt English without devaluing Indonesia’s national language and local languages” (p. 233). I argue that what is needed is a perspective that is supportive of character building. This is the place of the English as a lingua franca (ELF) perspective. In Chapter 2, I discussed how Indonesia is transitioning towards ELF, and, in Chapter 3, I argued for an ELF status. The argument in the present chapter is that ELF supports character building. First, ELF is supportive of character building primarily because the perspective, as Kirkpatrick (2010, 2011, 2016) argues, allows for a new understanding of English in new fields and in cultural contexts that are detached from the cultural contexts associated with the ENL ideology (e.g., British English, American English). Taken to the Indonesian context, there is indeed a demand for adapting English to fit the local cultures of Indonesia (see Dewi, 2014b; Fadilah, 2018; Sugiharto, 2015b). The ELF perspective is suitable in this regard because it supports the use of English that conforms to the social, cultural and religious values

Language-­in-­education policy 193 at the local level, responding to Alwasilah’s (2012) concern which is underpinned by the EFL perspective. Kirpatrick (2012a) argues that the ELF curriculum must “be designed to allow students to be able to engage critically in discussions about their own cultures and cultural values and interests in English” (p. 40). Thus, the alignment between ELF and local values means that it would be a suitable approach to pedagogy in the Indonesian classroom, which has seen teaching materials flourish with cultural and religious values (Sugiharto, 2015b) and that has grown from the inherent belief of the positive values of English for religious practices and cultural enrichment (Dewi, 2014a, 2014b). English as a new centre of normativity in Indonesia’s superglossia therefore is unlikely to threaten social, cultural and religious values. Second, the ELF perspective allows for continuous negotiation between local cultural norms and regional values that could promote a coherent character building. As Kirkpatrick (2012b) argues, ELF allows learners to be able to communicate successfully with other learners in the region. It allows them to know their own cultures and those of others in the regional context such as ASEAN. Kirkpatrick (2011) states that countries in the ASEAN region could develop a curriculum that caters for “a course in regional cultures. So, in the ASEAN context, learners can study the cultures of ASEAN through English, including the study of pragmatic norms” (p. 10). Having said that, ELF reconciles the apparent contradictions in which people’s local cultures are continuously challenged by national or global cultures. The transition towards ELF could “promote the cultural values of their local context as well as cultural values of other ELF speakers across the different nations” (Jayanti & Norahmi, 2014, p. 11). Third, the ELF perspective accommodates localised linguistic practices. ELF allows for innovations when there is contact between English and local languages and cultures. Indonesia’s superdiversity requires continuous negotiation between Standard Indonesian and indigenous languages and cultures (see Sub-­ Section 6.4.3). This demands a paradigm shift to a perspective that places equal importance on the maintenance of heritage and indigenous languages and cultures and the promotion of Indonesian on the one hand, and the propagation of English as a language of global importance on the other hand (see Zein, 2019). Zentz (2015c) shows how this comes as a difficult process in a study involving an undergraduate student at a private Christian university in Central Java. Zentz describes that the student learnt a new language as well as new modes of thinking that are absent in his immediate environment. The student also learnt about “the locally situated social and political nature of multiple registers of English, Indonesian and Javanese, and he explores how and when to deploy a complex and growing set of communicative resources in measure to achieve communicative ends and a comfortable self-­image” (p. 68). Such accommodation is impossible in the ESL perspective, given its monolingual and monocultural orientations that require adherence to the native speaker norm. As Fadilah (2018) argues, “Giving English ESL status in Indonesia would threaten both the unifying role of the national language (Bahasa Indonesia) and the existence of local languages” (p. 233).

194  Language-­in-­education policy On the other hand, ELF can cater for what Sugiharto (2015b) calls “ultra-­ multilingual practices” in Indonesia where vibrant, rich linguistic interactions involving English have become part of people’s daily life, even when they speak indigenous languages (see Zentz, 2015b, 2015c). ELF perspective can accommodate the linguistic mediation shown in Zentz (2015c). Within the ELF perspective, the employment of multiple registers of English, Indonesian and indigenous languages is feasible because ELF attends to situated practices of constructing intersubjective norms that are always changing according to participants and contexts (Cogo, 2016; Jenkins, Cogo & Dewey, 2011; Seidlhofer, 2011). In a way, ELF is linked to translanguaging in that it includes “the full range of linguistic performances of multilingual language users for purposes that transcend the combination of structures, the alternation between systems, the transmission of information and the representation of values, identities and relationships” (Wei, 2011, p. 1223). This frees ELF speakers from constraints of language separation associated with structuralist linguistics that underpins the EFL and ESL perspectives. Thus, a shift towards ELF allows for the employment of users’ multilingual resources and cultures; it is supportive of the discourse of Character Building.

6.6. Conclusion This chapter has shown how language-­ in-­ education policy in Indonesia has become a site of contestation for competing interests, namely the provision of education in Indonesian as a national language, the need to develop mother tongue education that can contribute to language maintenance and the aspiration to develop proficiency in languages of global importance. Clearly, managing a superdiverse linguistic ecology such as Indonesia with such competing interests is highly complex. In the following sub-­sections, I will offer policy recommendations to address the competing interests.

6.6.1.  Reorientation of language-­in-­education policy The complex management system that sees education regulated by the Ministry of Education and Culture, Ministry of Religious Affairs and Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education has rendered it impossible to run language-­ in-­education policy under one roof. It is speculative at best to say that such divisional management of education will ever change. But it does not mean there are no solutions. A cross-­ministry approach to language-­in-­education policy could be an answer to the problem of differing views and approaches to administer language education set by schools run by different ministries. A cross-­ministry approach could reconcile differing goals to be attained and different sets of regulations to be followed. It would make language central to education. As Corson (1999) argues, what is needed is “a language policy that sees language as the central instrument in learning and as the most accessible pedagogy available to teachers across the curriculum” (p. 52).

Language-­in-­education policy 195 Such a cross-­ministerial language policy identifies language problems in educational institutions’ scope of operations and offers ways of managing the problems through specific measures of acquisition planning. It also addresses issues concerning language policies developed through regional autonomy, which in some contexts promote indigenous languages (e.g., Manggarai, Sundanese) but tend to subjugate others (e.g., Marori, Osing) (see Chapter 5). It counters the mechanism of power inequality associated with language policy (see Tollefson, 1991), which institutionalises language hierarchies that privilege certain groups/ languages and denies equal access to other groups/languages. A cross-­ministerial focus will reorientate language-­in-­education policy that has thus far placed unbalanced emphasis on Indonesia’s superglossia. The teaching of Indonesian as the national language and the use of its standard version are understandably central to education. They need strengthening, because, as I discussed in Sub-­Section 6.3.3, it remains unclear as to what literacy in Indonesian means. There needs to be rigorous research on language use to inform language-­in-­ education policy on Indonesian. But, on the other hand, the central importance of Indonesian needs reorientation because the argument revolving around its role to tackle regional separatism no longer reflects the current sociolinguistic landscape of Indonesia (see Chapter 2). After decades of centralistic policy that promulgated Indonesian at a massive scale and resulted in the relatively stronger national unity of the present-­day Indonesia, it is now time to shift to efforts that promote indigenous languages. Indonesia, once an imagined community (see Anderson, 2006), has now been accepted as politically, economically and socially binding to the Indonesian population; therefore, teaching indigenous languages is unlikely to be seen as a promotion of regional separatism (cf. Zentz, 2016b). The fear of using indigenous languages for regional separatism among the Papuans, for example, simply does not stand because it is Papuan Malay that has become the language of resistance of insurgents, not indigenous languages. In line with this argument, Bowden (2013) argues that “the authorities might be persuaded that greater local autonomy in language use at schools may actually help the Indonesian nationalist project rather than hinder it” (p. 12). In the two provinces of Papua (i.e., Papua, West Papua), where educational achievement is lowest but language diversity highest, the increased use of indigenous languages may actually do more good than harm. The pro-­Indonesia Papuans themselves appear to be an overwhelming ­majority – the genuine and relentless effort of President Joko Widodo (often called Jokowi) to build Papua has resulted in the Papuans developing a tourism site in his honour, called Bukit Jokowi [The Jokowi Hill]. A reorientation of language-­ in-­ education policy in Indonesia parallels the increasing emergence of multilingual policies around the world. Hornberger (2002) argues, “These policies, many of which envision implementation through bilingual intercultural education, open up new worlds of possibility for oppressed indigenous and immigrant languages and their speakers, transforming former homogenizing and assimilationist policy discourse into discourses about diversity and emancipation” (pp. 29–30). Thus, reorienting language-­in-­education policy

196  Language-­in-­education policy ensures the inclusion of discourse of linguistic genocide, with the Indonesian government first and foremost ensuring adherence to Article 4.3 of the 1992 UN Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious and Linguistic Minorities: “States should take appropriate measures so that, wherever possible, persons belonging to minorities have adequate opportunities to learn their mother tongue or to have instruction in their mother tongue.” In many parts of the world, including Indonesia, children arrive at school without any knowledge of the national language they are about to be schooled in. Arriving at school, they sit quietly in classrooms where the teacher teaches lessons in a language they do not understand, and, not surprisingly, they fail to learn much of the subject that the teacher delivers. A departure from the current policy which imposes the teaching of Indonesian in the second three years of primary schooling is necessary simply because forcing children to learn through Indonesian when they are not academically ready is not supportive of their cognitive development. It is more prudent to grant teachers greater flexibility to assess whether students would benefit from academic instruction in Indonesian prior to implementing the policy.

6.6.2.  Multilingual education Much of the discussion in this chapter has pointed to an overriding principle for language-­in-­education policy that tackles the apparent need to ensure mother tongue education, nation building and the aspiration for participation in the global economy. This is the place of multilingual education, which refers to the use of more than two language practices in education, with objectives to make students multilingual and to preserve their cultural traditions. As Hornberger (2009) argues, Multilingual education is, at its best, (1) multilingual in that it uses and values more than one language in teaching and learning, (2) intercultural in that it recognizes and values understanding and dialogue across different lived experiences and cultural worldviews, and (3) education that draws out, taking as its starting point the knowledge students bring to the classroom and moving toward their participation as full and indispensable actors in society – locally, nationally, and globally. (p. 198) I have shown elsewhere (Zein, 2019) that multilingual education at the primary level requires the teaching of the mother tongue (usually the indigenous language), the national language (i.e., Indonesian) and a language of international stature (i.e., English). This multilingual education proposal is a departure from the current convergent model which uses the indigenous language only to support instruction in Indonesian. The emphases on the education of the mother tongue, nation building through Indonesian and the introduction of an international language could be integrated, rather than dealt with separately. This proposal

Language-­in-­education policy 197 increases both the function of indigenous language within the curriculum and its prestige in society. It is an indirect measure to increase the Q-­value (De Swaan, 1993) of indigenous languages. This policy proposal is not meant to uproot the foundation of Indonesia’s nationalism: the Indonesian language. On the contrary, a multilingual education that emphasises the minority languages represents a complete platform of Indonesia’s nationalism. Further, it accommodates ways to reverse the alarming language shift which could see the emergence of a mostly monolingual Indonesian population by 2041 (Abas, 1987). Within the broader context of Indonesia’s superglossia, multilingual education also serves a counter argument for an education system that only perpetuates the hegemony of a singular centre of normativity (i.e., Indonesian). It allows indigenous languages to emerge and assume roles that suit the local context in which they are taught. To proceed with multilingual education, assessment of language vitality is of utmost importance. Language vitality assessment is needed to determine whether the teaching of the indigenous languages will lead to revitalisation, ensure maintenance or encourage the transition to the dominant language (i.e., Indonesian). In Chapter 5, I have shown the distribution of language vitality in Indonesia based on Lewis and Simons’ (2010) Expanded Graded Intergenerational Disruption Scale (EGIDS). This leads to three categories. The first category consists of communities whose languages are at high risk of language endangerment. These include: (1) 16 indigenous communities in Maluku, 16 indigenous communities in Papua, one in Kalimantan, one in Java and three in Sulawesi – all whose languages are either nearly extinct or dormant (EGIDS 9); (2) communities whose languages are moribund, with geographical spread of two languages in Java, one in Kalimantan, six in Maluku, 20 in Papua and eight in Sulawesi (EGIDS 8a–­8b); and (3) 272 communities whose languages are in trouble (EGIDS 6b–­7) due to disrupted intergenerational transmission. The second category consists of 260 communities whose languages are vigorous because they are spoken by all generations but remain unstandardised. These communities spread across the archipelago, with examples including North Asmat in Papua, Kalumpang in North Sulawesi and Sumbawa in West Nusa Tenggara. The third category consists of 81 communities whose languages are developing because they are used vigorously and have a standardised form of literature, including Balinese in Bali and Minangkabau in Sumatra. I propose that approaches to language-­in-­education policy be different for each of these communities. With the implementation of regional autonomy, local governments and schools must carefully evaluate the vitality of languages belonging to communities in their districts and develop approaches that best suit their communities’ needs. With some local governments tending to view language as separate from culture (e.g., the Alorese government), there needs to be a campaign to promote the inseparable relationship between language and culture. Efforts to increase awareness of the importance of maintaining and revitalising languages as part of maintaining culture and biodiversity must be made. As with the international language to be included in the primary curriculum, I consider English to be a suitable choice in SD. The premise of the proposal is that English partners with, rather than competes against, indigenous languages

198  Language-­in-­education policy and Indonesian (cf. Johnstone, 2018). First, the proposal responds to the societal aspiration that has been curbed by the enactment of the 2013 Curriculum and, later, the Revised 2013 Curriculum. Further, the proposal is relevant to the growing need for English in a multilingual ASEAN of which Indonesia is a part. There are countries in the ASEAN that endorse the policy of English as a medium of instruction in primary education (e.g., Malaysia, Brunei Darussalam), and Kirkpatrick (2011) suggests postponement of English until secondary schools in ASEAN countries. He states that “[t]he current early introduction of English into the primary school curriculum has meant that English has displaced other subjects from the curriculum, most commonly local languages” (p. 11) – a shrewd observation that applies to many schools in the Indonesian context (Hadisantosa, 2010). But I am more inclined to propose English to be included in the primary schooling curriculum. This is because my proposal does not intend to make English a medium of instruction in primary schooling but rather, a subject. The strategy is not to make English a local content subject, because this would only perpetuate linguistic imperialism against indigenous languages (see Sub-­Section 6.4.2). Rather, English should be made a compulsory subject. The aim is not to help learners achieve native-­like competence but to use English to help children in their overall social, affective, intercultural, religious, literacy and numerical deve­ lopment. In this sense, primary English is meant to support character building. The inclusion of English through a lingua franca perspective, as I have argued earlier, could help students’ character building, fulfilling the aspiration of President Widodo’s administration for a nationalistic-­culturalist type of education. This allows “English to adapt to suit national and local circumstances” (Johnstone, 2018, p. 22). English through the ELF perspective could provide a platform for pedagogy that has seen the flourishing of teaching materials replete with cultural and religious values (Sugiharto, 2014), the promotion of positive values of English for religious practices and cultural enrichment (Dewi, 2014a, 2014b) and the development of intercultural competence on aspects such as open-­mindedness and respect for differences (Abduh & Rosmaladewi, 2018). Moreover, the teaching of English as a subject in primary schooling here only refers to SD – the type of primary education run by the Ministry of Education and Culture. For the primary schooling run by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, called Madrasah Ibtidaiyah, what is needed is another language of international stature: Arabic. The teaching of Arabic in Madrasah Ibtidaiyah has a similar aim with the aim of teaching English in SD: to introduce a language of global importance and to help children in their overall social, affective, religious, intercultural, literacy and numerical development. The focus of character development in Arabic is through Islamic values. The current 2013 Revised Curriculum does not accommodate the need for a language of international stature in SD, but it does in Madrasah Ibtidaiyah (Arabic). Thus, my proposal reconciles the discrepancy in the two streams of primary education run by two different ministries. By having English and Arabic in the curriculum, children from both SD and Madrasah Ibtidaiyah have an equal chance to learn an international language.

Language-­in-­education policy 199 In Table 6.2, I show multilingual education models that can accommodate the teaching of Indonesian, an indigenous language and English/Arabic in primary education.

Table 6.2  Multilingual education models for Indonesia Language Revitalisation Programme

Two-Way Multilingual Programme

This programme aims to maintain or It is a programme that aims to maintain revitalise an indigenous language or revitalise an indigenous language among children speaking the among children speaking the language. language. It allows for instruction It exclusively uses the mother tongue to be given mainly through the of indigenous children as the medium indigenous language (the 90%–10% of instruction, where the teacher is model) or through both the bilingual; and where Indonesian is indigenous language and Indonesian taught as a second language, also by (the 50%–50% model). Both the a bilingual teacher. The indigenous indigenous language and Indonesian language is also taught as a subject. are also taught as subjects. English/ English/Arabic is taught as a subject Arabic is taught as a subject in in the indigenous language and/or the indigenous language and/or Indonesian. Indonesian. Transitional Multilingual Programme

Language Awareness Programme

This programme aims to maintain or revitalise an indigenous language among children speaking the language while helping them to transition to Indonesian. In this programme, the percentage of instruction in Indonesian increases as students move up in grades. For example, the instruction is 100% in the indigenous language in Grade 1. It is 90% in the indigenous language and 10% in Indonesian in Grade 2. It is 80% in the indigenous language and 20% in Indonesian in Grade 3. It is 70% in the indigenous language and 30% in Indonesian in Grade 4. It is 60% in the indigenous language and 40% in Indonesian in Grade 5. It is 50% in the indigenous language and 50% in Indonesian in Grade 6. Both the indigenous language and Indonesian are also taught as subjects. English/ Arabic is taught as a subject in the indigenous language and/or Indonesian.

This is a programme dedicated to children whose mother tongue is Indonesian. It aims to consolidate the children’s proficiency in Indonesian and introduce them to an indigenous language, building intercultural awareness in the process. It teaches the indigenous language as a subject and is taught by a bilingual teacher. Indonesian is also taught as a subject. English/Arabic is taught as a subject in the indigenous language and/or Indonesian.

(Continued)

200  Language-­in-­education policy Table 6.2 (Continued) Alternate Days Model

Alternate Subjects Model

In this model, both the indigenous language and Indonesian are used as the media of instruction on alternate days. With students learning for five days, one is more emphasised than the other. This means the indigenous language may be taught in three days and Indonesian in two days, or vice versa. Both the indigenous language and Indonesian are also taught as subjects. English/Arabic is taught as a subject in the indigenous language and/or Indonesian.

In this model, both an indigenous language and Indonesian are used as the media of instruction for different subjects. For example, Indonesian is used to teach the natural sciences and maths, whereas the indigenous language is used to teach Social Science and Pancasila Education and Citizenship. Both the indigenous language and Indonesian are also taught as subjects. English/Arabic is taught as a subject in the indigenous language and/or Indonesian.

Supplementary Models Other models may be used as alternatives, especially to help children of heritage language communities (i.e., Chinese, Arabs, Eurasians, Mardijkers, Japanese). In some circumstances, a heritage language is run as a supplementary (after-school and weekend) class, administered by the minority language community rather than formal school teachers. In other circumstances, one or a few learners who do not share the mother tongue with their classmates may receive private tuition in their native language until they are ready to be transferred to schooling that adopts a different model.

Deciding which model fits the needs of a language community in terms of revitalisation, maintenance or transition to Indonesian will be part of societal needs assessment analysis (Hinton, 2001). The language community, local government and schools must assess the most pressing need and select a model that suits the need. Then schools and communities need to make decisions on the multilingual allotment in their timetable, taking into account the variability of multilingual allocation factors such as the availability of bilingual or proficient teachers, teaching material and societal goals (García, 2009). For example, with the current Revised 2013 Curriculum making no explicit mention of hours allocated to indigenous languages (except for Mulok) and reserving no hours for English,

Language-­in-­education policy 201 what needs to be considered is reallocation of the hours to cater for indigenous languages, Indonesian and English in a manner that meets the needs of language communities. On the other hand, a major challenge that local governments and schools must tackle is the limitation of indigenous languages at the corpus level for the purpose of being a medium of instruction. Many indigenous languages are not yet codified, and others are not standardised. Even if there is a standard, some have no strong tradition of being used in all areas. To deal with this, emphasis should be on developing scripts, dictionaries, grammar and teaching materials aimed for literacy instruction (Liddicoat, 2005), while in the meantime the oral language can serve the purpose of the medium of instruction. Moving on to SMP and Madrasah Tsanawiyah as well as SMA, SMK and Madrasah ‘Aliyah, any of the models of multilingual education here may be retained. Indonesian and indigenous languages could serve as the media of instruction and subjects. Currently, indigenous languages have no place in the secondary curriculum and schools do not seem to be interested in teaching them. The local government and schools will then need to investigate the need for indigenous languages in a local community and the availability of the multilingual allocation factors (e.g., teachers, materials). With the diverse distribution of language vitality across ethnicities throughout Indonesia, some having languages that need more revitalisation or maintenance than others, it is necessary to investigate these issues as part of community needs assessment (Hinton, 2001) and prior ideological clarification (Fishman, 1991; Kroskrity, 2015). Meanwhile, English remains a compulsory subject in SMP and SMA, and Arabic is a subject to be taught in Madrasah Tsanawiyah and Madrasah ‘Aliyah. At the senior high school level (SMA, SMK or Madrasah ‘Aliyah), the learning of Arabic, German, Mandarin, French, Japanese or Korean as an elective subject provides students with more opportunities to learn an additional or foreign language. This is in addition to English, which remains a compulsory school subject. Variations are expected to occur in Islamic-­based schools and pesantrens which may endorse the teaching of Arabic as a medium of instruction. Some pesantrens such as the famous Pesantren Gontor in Ponorogo, East Java, even extend their policy to the extreme by endorsing the use of Arabic and English as the media of instruction while prohibiting the use of Indonesian. At the university level, some universities that open regular programmes such as biology, accounting and media have required the use of English, alongside Indonesian, as the medium of instruction. In others, German, Mandarin, French and Arabic are learnt as fields of study, allowing students to major in these languages. Nonetheless, the teaching of these languages appears to be ad hoc, often merely capitalising on the increasing societal interest. Better coordination for the teaching of these languages is needed for a systematic language-­in-­education policy, preferably through regulations that bind schools and universities that are managed by different ministries but teach the same language(s). This is the cross-­ministerial approach to language-­in-­education policy that I argued in Sub-­Section 6.6.1. Further, efforts must be made to develop suitable teaching approaches and methods for these languages, taking into account the differing motivations underpinning

202  Language-­in-­education policy their learning. The use of online learning and technologies has been a recurrent theme to promote the teaching of these languages, and so appropriate teaching materials and strategies need to be developed accordingly.

6.6.3.  Personnel policy A reorientation of language-­in-­education policy will also dedicate a place for personnel policy, which is concerned with “the source of teachers, the training of teachers, and the reward for teachers” (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997, p. 130). This is an issue of great significance in Indonesia because of the ongoing problem concerning the management of teaching workforce (Chang et al., 2014; Heyward et al., 2017) and the professional preparation of language teachers in particular and teachers of any subjects in general (Chang et al., 2014; Kusumawardhani, 2017; Widiati & Hayati, 2015; Zein, Sukyadi, Hamied, & Lengkanawati, In Press). In the case of teaching Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin, as shown earlier, most studies focus on pedagogy, often underscoring innovations in teaching such as teaching techniques and using technologies. This reflects the fact that practitioners and researchers of these languages still focus on pedagogy. However, fewer are concerned about the education of the language teachers; for example, in the platform of professional development for the ASEAN Economic Community (Ying et al., 2015). A further issue concerns teacher deployment, as Heyward et al. (2017) found “substantial disparities in teacher distribution in all districts, between schools, between sub-­districts and between specialist subjects” (p. 245). By the same token, decentralisation of education and the transition to the new curriculum have left teachers with new problems relating to accountabilities and challenges to cater for the needs of more learners coming from diverse backgrounds (Chang et al., 2014; OECD, 2016). Maryanto (2009) states that teacher education programmes at pre-­service and in-­service levels “have not yet been redesigned to train teachers in the use of local languages for classroom instruction nor in the development of teaching and learning materials that employ those languages” (p. 74). The Indonesian government has endorsed a certification programme called Pendidikan Profesi Guru [Teacher Professional Certification] (PPG), which is aimed “to ensure that new teachers also have the necessary content and/or pedagogical knowledge” (OECD, 2016, p. 265). But the impact of PPG only resulted in increasing the living standards of teachers while doing little to increase teachers’ quality (Evans, Tate, Navarro, & Nicolls, 2009), having no or little impact on student students’ achievement (Fahmi et al., 2011; Kusumawardhani, 2017) or showing limited outreach to respond to the challenges of the 2015 ASEAN Economic Community (Widiati & Hayati, 2015). Kusumawardhani (2017) argues that “there is no strong evidence of the effectiveness of certified teachers on student learning outcomes and teacher performance” (p. 590). Personnel policy needs to address the issues outlined previously, focusing on non-­ conventional strategies that could work in alignment with decentralisation of education such as “multi-­grade teaching, mobile teachers, multi-­subject

Language-­in-­education policy 203 level teaching, and group schools for isolated communities” teaching, multi-­ (Heyward et al., 2017, p. 259) and developing community-­based teacher professional development supported by private institutions (Harjanto, Lie, Wihardini, Pryor, & Wilson, 2018). Opening programmes on indigenous languages must be part of educational expansion at the university level, managed by the Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education and supported by local governments. Preparing prospective teachers to teach indigenous languages should be a priority, with deployment strategies developed to ensure appropriate placement, employment, salaries/rewards, and so forth. Relevant to this discussion is Chang et al.’s (2014) proposal of a framework for quality education in Indonesia, which places central importance on personnel policy. Work on teacher recruitment is followed by teacher preparation at the pre-­service level. The processes of induction, mentoring and probation will be needed prior to prospective teachers commencing their employment. Certification and continuous professional development will be required when teachers are on the job to ensure effective means of teacher education. Teacher appraisal and career development are necessary for rewarding systems that support improvement in teacher quality.

xt onte al c i c an Fin

Pre-service education

Hig hs tu

Induction, mentoring probation

Certification

ent vem chi a nt de

Continuous professional development

Recruitment

Teacher appraisal and career development

lc

on

tex

t

High quality professional teachers

li Po

Figure 6.1  Personnel policy in the context of quality education Source: Chang et al. (2014).

ti c

a

204  Language-­in-­education policy During the processes of pre-­service education, certification and continuous professional development, personnel policy will need to focus on teacher agency. After about two decades of implementation, decentralised education is yet to engender satisfactory outcomes. Studies show that the culture of teaching and learning continues to reward teachers’ loyalty and obedience rather than initiative and independence (Bjork, 2004) while educational bureaucracy tends to impede their work to become agents of change (Chang et al., 2014). A shift of focus from placing teachers as mere policy implementers to making them part of teaching workforce that plays an active role in improving the educational outcomes of learners, especially those from the language minority and minoritised backgrounds, is needed (Wiley, 2008). Ricento and Hornberger (1996) introduce the metaphor of an onion to evoke the multiple layers through which language policy moves and develops, arguing that teachers can actually exercise language policy power through pedagogical decisions that incorporate minority languages to create a space for using multilingualism as a resource. Activities that can promote teacher agency need to be part of teacher certification and appraisal, which could affect their salary packaging, career promotion, and so forth. Finally, the complex societal multilingualism of Indonesia means that personnel policy needs to open up spaces for Indonesian, indigenous languages, dialects and non-­standard varieties, ELF and foreign and additional languages. Relevant to this is the context of children whose mother tongue is a non-­standard variety or a dialect. There needs to be a recognition that non-­standard varieties of languages are as structurally complex and rule governed as standard varieties, and they are as capable of expressing logical arguments as standard languages (see also Chapter 3). The central argument here is to value, maintain and even strengthen students’ multilingual repertoires to help them develop their plurilingual competence. Hélot (2012) states, A plurilingual repertoire encompasses all the language experiences of a person irrespective of the level of competence attained in the different languages. This means that all the languages (or varieties of languages) known by a person should be recognized and then supported so that her various linguistic competences find their legitimate place within her lifelong learning experiences. This is very important for languages acquired or learnt outside of formal schooling, such as minority languages for example, which should also be recognized as part of the linguistic repertoire of learners. (p. 220) In the Indonesian context, what is emphasised here is not the traditional notion of mastering a language or several languages according to the native speaker norm but the development of plurilingual competence in relevant languages: a particular indigenous language, Indonesian, English, Arabic, German, French, Mandarin, Japanese and/or Korean. As Hélot (2012) suggests, “A plurilingual competence is not synonymous with mastering a great number of languages at high level but with acquiring the ability to use more than one linguistic variety to

Language-­in-­education policy 205 differing degrees and for different purposes” (p. 221). Plurilingual competence signifies a movement away from the understanding of language mastery which is benchmarked against the native speaker norm. A principle guiding this process is that plurilingual repertoires developed through education can be diverse, that the languages that are components of plurilingual competence do not all have to be learnt at the same level and that language education takes place throughout life and not exclusively during school years. (Beacco & Byram, 2007, p. 40) Directing language education towards the development of plurilingual competence is an appropriate response for language-­in-­education policy to account for Indonesia’s superdiversity. Learners need to be educated to view languages as semiotic resources that can be used creatively and strategically in order to achieve communicative goals. Within this perspective, learners are encouraged to utilise linguistic and non-­linguistic resources available to them in order to project social identities and/or create social relationships as they see fit. The challenge is therefore to prepare teachers with translanguaging skills in order to accommodate “multimodal resources to construct meanings, shape experiences and perform identities in their social encounters in specific, superdiverse contexts” (Conteh, 2018, p. 473). The way teachers manage their classroom language is a form of language policy because of teachers’ reflections of and conscious decisions on the norms, codes and registers as well as the “policing” of how things are said or written (Lo Bianco, 2010b). Translanguaging plays a perfect fit in this regard because it challenges the traditional policies and narratives of what language teaching is and how it should be conducted. According to García and Wei (2014), translanguaging “requires an epistemological change in which students’ everyday languaging and school languaging is expanded and integrated, and in so doing blends ways of knowing which are traditionally found in different spaces” (p. 69). Thus, introducing translanguaging as part of personnel policy would shift students’ and teachers’ dominant monolingual ideology towards a more pluralist understanding of language and languaging in which a wider linguistic repertoire could be cultivated for expanding literacy practices. This provides an appropriate response to the need for a move to micro language policies that I discussed in Sub-­Section 6.4.3. This ends my discussion on language-­in-­education policy. In the next chapter, I will conclude the book.

7 Conclusion

ConclusionConclusion

7.1. Introduction This book has examined language policy in Indonesia through a superdiversity perspective. Throughout the book, I have shown how superdiversity is useful to analyse various problems concerning language policy. Superdiversity is particularly useful in my discussion in Chapter 2 where I analysed the contemporariness of Indonesia’s highly diverse linguistic ecology, which leads to my conceptualisation of superglossia. I have also employed superdiversity as a perspective that enables me to analyse the role and functional allocation of languages (Chapter 3), the development of corpora of languages (Chapter 4), endeavours to reverse language shift and to maintain languages (Chapter 5) and issues concerning language-­in-­education policy (Chapter 6). In this chapter, I conclude the book. First, I recapitulate the main arguments I have made in this book. Then, I signpost directions for future research.

7.2.  Main arguments Employing superdiversity as a perspective in language policy is useful to my work in Chapter 2 to develop superglossia as a concept that elucidates the complexity, dynamism and polycentricity of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. Superglossia is a comprehensive conceptualisation of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation that gives due consideration to not only Indonesian, Malayic regional lingua francas (RLFs) and indigenous languages but also a wide range of other factors, namely: (1) the relationship between Malayic RLFs and locally used indigenous l­ anguages; (2) the relationship between non-­Malayic RLFs and locally used ­indigenous languages; (3) the relationship between Malayic and non-­Malayic RLFs themselves; (4) the competition between RLFs and major indigenous languages; (5) the increased value of indigenous languages in the era of decentralised go­v­ ernance; (6) the role of languages in a particularly dominant domain (i.e., religion); (7) intra-­linguistic hierarchy; (8) the emergence of new linguistic varie­ties and the rise of once marginalised dialects; (9) the inclusion of languages that are “non-­native” to Indonesia; (10) the prevalence of language mixing practices and (11) the inclusion of heritage and sign languages. Attention to these factors

Conclusion 207 makes superglossia fully account for the diversity of importance, role and function of the multiple linguistic varieties within Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. It overcomes the dilemma arising from the fact that non-­Malayic RLFs, heritage languages, “imported” languages (e.g., English, French) and sign languages were unaccounted for in previous scholarship (e.g., Arka, 2013; Grimes, 1996a; Moeliono, 1986; Musgrave, 2014; Sneddon, 2003b). Superglossia as a sociolinguistic concept sketches a multi-­dimensional picture of Indonesia’s superdiversity. Superglossia reveals how Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation is no longer monocentric with Indonesian at the top, but it has become polycentric with different categories of languages such as Malayic RLFs (e.g., Papuan Malay, Manado Malay), non-­Malayic RLFs (e.g., Tukang Besi, Wandamen, Yetfa), languages in the religious domain (e.g., Arabic, Sanskrit), certain indigenous languages (e.g., Javanese, Sundanese) and “imported” languages (e.g., English), assuming roles as new centres of normativity (cf. Arka, 2013; Musgrave, 2014; Goebel, 2018; see Chapter 2). They have become the new Hs, competing for space with Indonesian in different contexts within the broad linguistic ecology of Indonesia. Along with smaller indigenous languages which generally are used at the local level, these new centres of normativity are situated in a polycentric linguistic ecology where they perform relationships that are complex and dynamic, often inter-­glossic and sometimes intra-­glossic. Adopting superglossia as an inclusive framework of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic situation allows me to argue that superdiversity is a useful approach to developing a comprehensive language policy which caters for all languages within the ecology. This is essential in my attempt to develop a far-­reaching consideration of status planning (Chapter 3), corpus planning (Chapter 4), revitalisation planning (Chapter 5) and language-­in-­education policy (Chapter 6). In Chapter 3, I showed how superglossia is central to my discussion of language policy in that it plays a role in terms of providing a response to the confusion about the allocation of roles and functions of linguistic varieties (e.g., languages, dialects, registers). The polycentricity of superglossia means that status planning must be vigilant of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology, which is not always or necessarily dominated by Indonesian as the sole H. Work on perpetuating the dominance of Indonesian, such as making it an international language, is dubious on grounds such as the absence of global spread, lack of political strength and limited cultural and scientific influence. Elevating the status of Indonesian to become an international language also denies Indonesia’s polycentric superglossia, where the place of Indonesian as the official H is contested by RLFs, other indigenous languages (e.g., Javanese) and English. Rather than focusing on elevating the status of Indonesian to become an international language, status planning that fully accounts for Indonesia’s superglossia requires greater attention to be paid to endangered languages. This is a critical issue because at the current rate, nearly half of the 707 living languages could be extinct in just 20 years (see Anderbeck, 2015). The polycentricity of superglossia implies the need for a recognition of RLFs as languages of wider communication at the regional level, allowing Malayic RLFs (e.g., Papuan Malay, Riau Indonesian, Manado Malay)

208  Conclusion and non-­Malayic RLFs (e.g., Bakumpai, Ngaju, Onin) to gain greater prominence in areas beyond their main domain (e.g., trade), including education, governance and the media. The complexity of superglossia means that status planning must account for the emergence of new linguistic varieties. Power and politics must be played out in language policy with a superdiversity perspective in order to give due recognition to new linguistic varieties and to provide space for what used to be marginalised dialects and registers (cf. Quinn, 2012; Sze et al., 2015). The complexity of superglossia also means attending to aspects that are vital to language speakers; for example, religion. In Chapter 3, I showed how languages in the domain of religion must be tackled in status planning to ensure that respect is paid to language communities such as the Hindus and the Muslims. Further, the dynamism of superglossia brings implications for the recognition of the status of heritage languages such as Mandarin and other Chinese language varieties and the languages spoken by the Arab, Indian, Eurasian, Japanese and Mardijker communities. Sign languages, especially the emerging ones such as Jakarta and Yogyakarta language signs, must be accounted for, too. Superglossia’s dynamism also implies a revisit of the labelling of Arabic, English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin as foreign languages. What superglossia brings about is status alteration in which terms such as foreign languages and additional languages may be best applied contextually to characterise the changing sociolinguistic landscape of Indonesia, while showing a perspective transition from English as a foreign language (EFL) to English as a lingua franca (ELF) (see Zein, 2018b, 2018c). An understanding of Indonesia’s superglossia is also the starting point for me to argue in Chapter 4 that greater attention in corpus planning must be paid to research into languages other than Indonesian (LOTI). This is pertinent to the current state of affairs of the regions of Maluku and Papua, home to 450 indigenous languages, which constitute 63.65 per cent of the total languages in Indonesia’s linguistic ecology (707). With 16 languages going extinct, 26 languages moribund, 27 nearly extinct and 5 dormant (Anderbeck, 2015), the regions of Maluku and Papua deserve much stronger support in terms of corpus planning. They are regions with languages in the most critical condition within the whole system of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. Access to researching languages in these regions may be greatly enhanced by the developed infrastructure that has been accomplished by the administration of President Joko Widodo within the past five years, but at the same time it requires more systematic planning and strategic partnerships. More systematic planning demands the establishment of new regional representatives of the Badan Bahasa in the provinces of Maluku and Papua (e.g., Maluku, North Maluku, Papua and West Papua) in order to manage the corpus planning of indigenous languages in the regions. Furthermore, strategic partnerships between the Badan Bahasa, regional governments and external researchers are imperative for research into heritage languages, sign languages and RLFs. I showed in Chapter 2 how heritage languages and sign languages are unaccounted for in consideration of Indonesia’s sociolinguistic ­situation; and while Malayic RLFs have been taken into account, the same cannot be said

Conclusion 209 about non-­Malayic RLFs. In Chapter 4, I argued for more research into heritage languages, sign languages and RLFs (both Malayic and non-­Malayic). Little is known about the sociolinguistics of heritage languages, especially with regard to the Arab, Indian, Japanese and Eurasian communities, although some studies have delved into the sociolinguistics of language varieties spoken by the Chinese (Lim & Mead, 2011; Oetomo, 1987) and Mardjiker (Tan, 2016) communities. Research into these elements of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology will require greater participation of the local governments, who, along with regional branches of the Badan Bahasa and Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education, could develop new tertiary education linguistics programmes for this purpose. Research findings developed from such partnerships will inform corpus planning of LOTI, especially in regions with low language vitality (i.e., Maluku, Papua). They may also be used for cultivation planning of indigenous languages, which reveal much of the local values and wisdom of the diverse cultures of Indonesia. My attention to the most critical part of Indonesia’s superglossia brought me to the much-­needed discussion on endeavours to reverse language shift and to maintain languages in Chapter 5. I have conceptualised this in a new category of language policy, which I call revitalisation planning. I develop revitalisation planning as a category in language policy to address problems relating to dead, dying, endangered, abandoned, undervalued, underutilised and exterminated languages, involving efforts to reverse language shift (Fishman, 1991, 2001). Revitalisation planning is an inclusive category in language policy in that it incorporates its typology: (1) it deals with increasing the role and functions of endangered languages (status planning); (2) it involves efforts in documenting the corpora of endangered languages (corpus planning); and (3) its success is dependent upon its integration with the education of language speakers (language-­in-­education policy). In attending to Indonesia’s linguistic vitality rate of 50.78 per cent, which translates to the endangerment of 272 languages and the dying of 76 languages (Simons & Lewis, 2013; Simons & Fennig, 2017a), revitalisation planning commences with work surrounding the complexity of language endangerment. It is continued with integrated planning on language documentation, especially those concerning language vitality. In Chapter 5, I also showed activities in revitalisation planning such as prior ideological clarification, localised sustainable development, political reconciliation and the role of regional autonomy in language maintenance. One main conclusion I made in Chapter 5 is the need to broaden the discourse of revitalisation planning, insofar as it includes not only the discourse of language preservation and cultural preservation but also a discourse of language preservation in light of biodiversity preservation (Krauss, 1992; Romaine, 2013; Skutnabb-­Kangas & Phillipson, 2008) and a discourse of linguistic human rights (LHRs) (Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2018; Skutnabb-­Kangas & Phillipson, 1994). While developing a discourse of revitalisation planning works at the national level, a bottom-­up approach to language policymaking requires decentralised revitalisation planning. Decentralised revitalisation planning is in line with the currently embraced political orientation of regional autonomy, which pushes for an integrated work that can accommodate prior ideological

210  Conclusion clarification, localised sustainable development and political reconciliation at the local level, especially in regions with low language vitality (i.e., Maluku, Papua). Projecting revitalisation planning as a decentralised work will require a shift from placing the emphasis on languages to language speakers. This guides revitalisation planning to “welfare-­increasing direction” (Romaine, 2016) in which economic intervention is at its forefront, followed by endeavours that can strengthen indigenous communities’ socio-­cultural, political and spiritual/religious capitals. When this is accomplished, revitalisation planning serves as a melting pot for principles from different fields in order to form a new, comprehensive theory – a process which philosopher William Whewell (1840) termed consilience. In discussing the complexity of language-­in-­education policy for the development of educational models that can maintain linguistic diversity, which is my focus in Chapter 6, I also took into account Indonesia’s superglossia. I showed how language-­in-­education policy has emerged as a site of contestation for competing interests, namely the provision of education in Indonesian as a national language, the need to develop mother tongue education that can contribute to language maintenance and the aspiration to develop proficiency in languages of global importance. I analysed how language-­in-­education policy has rendered Indonesian hegemonic in Indonesia’s superglossia, that is, in its role as a medium of instruction and as a school subject and in the considerable increase of literacy in the language. So hegemonic has Indonesian been that it is complicit in linguistic genocide (Skutnabb-­Kangas, 2000) and linguistic imperialism (Phillipson, 1992), restricting the role of indigenous languages (see Anwar, 1976, pp. 265–267; Sugiharto, 2015c, p. 231). But Indonesian is not the only H in Indonesia’s superglossia. English has also become another H, a new centre of normativity whose role has qualified for linguistic imperialism in exacerbating language endangerment (cf. Coleman, 2016; Sugiharto, 2015c; Zein, 2019). These have occurred within the complex implementation of decentralisation of education that has engendered various regional policies that reflect varying levels of political engagement. This suggests that decentralisation is not always useful for education-­based language maintenance (cf. Arka, 2013, 2015; Rumbrawer, 2001; Quinn, 2012; Utsumi, 2012). It also points to the extension and contraction of different elements of Indonesia’s superdiversity (i.e., Indonesian, English, indigenous languages), perpetuating the dynamism and complexity of superdiverse environments (Blommaert, 2013c). Meanwhile, micro language policies have emerged in response to policies that demonstrate disregard of Indonesia’s superdiversity. These micro language policies include the dominant use of indigenous languages (Maryanto, 2009; Rumbrawer, 2001), alternating use of Indonesian and indigenous languages (Bowden, 2013) and practices of language mixing that do not view “languages” as fixed, separate entities such as translanguaging (Cahyani et al., 2018; Rasman, 2018; Zein, 2018a). My discussion in Chapter 6 also shows how language-­in-­education policy appears as a result of the government’s observation of the changing sociolinguistic landscape that demonstrates an increased interest in Arabic, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Mandarin, although a similar practice is absent in

Conclusion 211 terms of status planning (see Chapter 3). This rationalised the inclusion of these languages in the Revised 2013 Curriculum. With the aspiration of the government for a type of education that emphasises on character building, I furthered the argument on the transition from EFL to ELF that I made in Chapter 2 to also argue that the ELF perspective is relevant and beneficial. A shift towards the ELF perspective allows for the employment of users’ multilingual resources and cultures; it is supportive of the discourse of Character Building. My central argument in Chapter 6 is that language-­in-­education policy needs to fully capture the changing sociolinguistic realities, providing space for Indonesia’s linguistic superdiversity while allowing for greater teacher agency through micro language policies. To conclude, I recognised that Indonesia’s complex management system, which sees education regulated by the Ministry of Education and Culture, Ministry of Religious Affairs and Ministry of Research, Technology and Higher Education, has rendered it impossible to run language-­in-­education policy under one roof. Therefore, I argued for a cross-­ministry approach that would make language central to education (cf. Corson, 1999; Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997). Second, I offered various models of multilingual education that can be developed by local governments to best suit superdiversity in their local context, highlighting the importance of critical evaluation of language vitality. Finally, I also argued for a paradigm shift in language-­in-­education policy to dedicate a place for personnel policy (Kaplan & Baldauf, 1997), placing an emphasis on the development of teachers’ ability to manage superdiversity in the classroom through translanguaging (Conteh, 2018) and develop learners’ plurilingual competence (Hélot, 2012). This is in addition to addressing the ongoing problem concerning the management of the teaching workforce in areas such as teacher deployment and distribution. Overall, I have aimed to be comprehensive, but I do not pretend to know all the answers. My work is only a drop in the ocean of Indonesia’s superdiversity. I can only hope that by writing this book I have properly responded to Spolsky’s (2012a) call, that is, for language policy theorists and practitioners “not just to account for current observations but also to provide guidelines for those who wish to solve conflicts and increase communicative efficiency while respecting language variety” (p. 15). New conditions of Indonesia’s superdiversity as shown in the diversification of language practices, the endangerment of many indigenous languages and my conceptualisation of superglossia are the current observations from which I build my research. Enveloped within a spirit to solve conflicts, improve communicative efficiency and ensure respect for linguistic varieties, those observations led me to develop policy recommendations and directions for future research in relation to the role and functional allocation of languages (Chapter 3), the development of corpora of languages (Chapter 4), endeavours to reverse language shift and to maintain languages (Chapter 5) and educational models to maintain linguistic diversity (Chapter 6). And along the journey, I maintain my aspiration to contribute to language policy and help it transform into an academic field that keeps up with the multidimensional fluidity of superdiversity (Silverstein, 2015) and the new conditions it has created (Blackledge et al., 2018).

212  Conclusion

7.3.  Future research Directions for future research are a recurring theme in all chapters throughout this book. Nonetheless, there are other emerging themes that warrant further exploration for language policy in the 21st century. First, I have shown throughout the book how language ideologies have played a significant role in shaping much of Indonesia’s language policy. I showed in Chapter 3 how the status of Indonesian as a unifying language has been so ideologically obfuscated that it leads to the supremacy of Indonesian within Indonesia’s linguistic ecology. Chapter 3 also shows that there is a strong ideological element in the policy motivation of making Indonesian an international language (i.e., “The Glory of Majapahit”). Given that the establishment of Indonesian as a national language has been purely ideological (see Alisjahbana, 1949; see also Chapter 2), that it was ideologically intertwined with the discourse of New Order’s National Development (see Heryanto, 1995) and that its role has made it complicit in the ideological perpetuation of linguistic genocide and linguistic imperialism (Chapter 6), it would be interesting to examine whether its development as a language has been ideological, too. This is particularly relevant to the early spread of Malay, when Melayu and Srivijaya used it as their official language and when its low form (Bazaar Malay) retained its place as a lingua franca despite the hegemony of the Javanese-­based imperium Majapahit, as I have shown in Chapter 1. With the strong interest in the examination of language ideologies in scholarship (e.g., Blommaert, 1996; Kroskrity, 2000; Schieffelin, Woolard, & Kroskrity, 1998) and the integral role of ideologies in language policy (Spolsky, 2004, 2018), it is essential to examine how ideologies exert influence on the regulation, mediation and facilitation of beliefs, ideas and perceptions of Indonesian in order to achieve language policy goals beyond linguistic structure per se. This is necessary given that much of the scholarship covering the development of Indonesian has been strictly linguistic or sociolinguistic in its approach (e.g., Abas, 1987; Adelaar & Prentice, 1996; Anwar, 1976; Grimes, 1996a) or does not make explicit reference to language ideologies in the face of the emergence of the great kingdoms of Srivijaya and Majapahit, the Dutch and Portuguese colonialism and the Nationalist Movement in the early 20th century (e.g., Harper, 2013; Robson, 2002; Sneddon, 2003a). The endurance of Bazaar Malay as a lingua franca in much of Indonesia’s history as well as the adoption of the Riau dialect of Malay as Indonesian need to be seen from an ideological angle. Examining the ideological nature of Indonesian’s development would allow for the unravelling of a missing link in the ideological underpinning that has made the language hegemonic in Indonesia’s language policy. Second, in Chapters 3 and 6, I touched upon the symbolisation of Indonesian and the increase of literacy in the language. These have paralleled the co-­ development of the language and the State and the implementation of the New Order’s discourse of National Development. However, I have not explored the issues further. Doing so is necessary given the centrality of discourse in language policy (Blommaert, 1996; Lo Bianco, 2004, 2005, 2010b; Luke, McHoul, & Mey, 1990; Pennycook, 2006). Lo Bianco (2004, 2005) propounds the adoption of a way to understand the role of language in effecting changes to the way people think and how they behave through “ideological structuring”, which he

Conclusion 213 calls discourse planning. In the Indonesian context of language policy, discourse planning plays a prominent role. In fact, discourse planning in Indonesia has been viewed through various lenses, including post-­modernism (e.g., Latif & Ibrahim, 1996), linguistic anthropology (e.g., Errington, 1998b), language and socio-­ politics (e.g., Heryanto, 1995, 2007), systemic functional grammar (Hooker, 1993, 1996) and political communication (e.g ., Rakhmat, 1996). While scholarship has covered New Order’s discourse planning on National Development in relation to the development of the Indonesian language (e.g., Anderson, 1990; Errington, 1998b, 2000; Heryanto, 1995), further exploration is still needed in terms of language policy. This will provide us with insights into how ideological structuring was developed in the development of the Indonesian language which was once used in order to effect changes in the thought and behaviour of the Indonesian citizens in the regime’s discourse planning of National Development. It could also shed light on how this played a crucial role in the development of Indonesia’s language policy. This is pertinent to the fact that the New Order as the longest serving regime in Indonesia’s modern history played the most important role in the development of Indonesia’s language policy, as evidenced in my discussion of status planning (Chapter 3), corpus planning (Chapter 4), revitalisation planning (Chapter 5) and language-­in-­education policy (Chapter 6). Examining discourse planning in the context of Indonesia’s language policy is also fundamental in order to understand the directions of language policy in the years, even decades, to come. This is relevant in the face of a new national discourse under the administration of the incumbent President Widodo: Character Building, which I touched momentarily in my discussion on ELF in Chapter 6. It would also be interesting to explore the issue in the background of the discourse of revitalisation planning (Chapter 5). Third, I have touched upon the issue of mobility in a few instances of the book, that is, in consideration of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology (Chapter 2) and in identifying its impact on language endangerment (Chapter 5). These, however, are far from adequate to elucidate the role of mobility in shaping language policy in Indonesia’s superdiversity. Examining patterns of intranational spatial mobility of language speakers that characterise superdiversity in Indonesia and how these patterns impact language policy is essential, given that discussions of superdiversity in the mainstream scholarship have traditionally focused on international migration (e.g., Meissner, 2015; Meissner & Vertovec, 2015; Vertovec, 2007, 2017). The role of intranational migration patterns such as the centralised relocation project called transmigrasi has been observed in scholarship, particularly in the spread of Indonesian (e.g., Anwar, 1976; Hoey, 2003) and in the perpetuation of language mixing (e.g., Malini et al., 2014; Suyanto & Amin, 2017; Yusuf, 2017). However, little is known about how the transmigrasi impacts language shift and language maintenance. We also do not know much about how the transmigrasi contributes to semiotic accommodation, despite the fact that semiotic practices such as adequation (Bucholtz & Hall, 2004) are common in diverse transient settings (see Goebel, 2005, 2008). The same can be said about other mobility trajectories. We know little about how employment-­based migration patterns such as transmigrasi, urbanisation, marantau [voluntarily go away from home] and nglaju [daily and

214  Conclusion weekly commute] impact language spread, language shift, language maintenance and accommodation of semiotic practices. This is despite the massive impact of these mobility patterns on social change and diversification of interaction patterns among multicultural Indonesian population (see Goebel, 2010, 2015; cf. Chadwick, 1991; McGee, 1967). Educational migration such as mondok [to study in a pesantren], ngekos [to relocate and study for higher education] and studying overseas have also varied the mobility patterns of the Indonesian population. Yet, scholarship has not investigated how these education-­based mobility patterns are related to issues concerning language shift, language spread and language maintenance, although a few studies have investigated accommodation of semiotic practices among students (e.g., Errington, 2014). To explore mobility through a language policy lens is vital in order to understand the mobile, hybrid and constructed nature of languages in replacement of the static, territorialised, bounded and primordial ways of talking about them – a shift pertinent to superdiversity (cf. Blommaert, 2010; Canagarajah, 2017). Fourth, I have touched upon the media in consideration of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology (Chapter 2) and the role of the media in revitalisation planning (Chapter 5). But again, these discussions are far from complete if we are to understand the superdiverse nature of Indonesia, that is, to allow us to explore the way individuals and groups navigate the mobile dimensions of complexity in the media. Scholarship has identified how the media have been used for promoting Indonesian (e.g., Alwi, 2000; Lowenberg, 1992) and for perpetuating the linking of language and ethnicity (e.g., Goebel, 2013, 2017). Nonetheless, we know little as to how these have developed concurrently with the dynamic and complex growth of Indonesian media that has shifted from top-­down, centralised media characterising the New Order governance to the present day’s more democratic and independent media operation. In the context of Indonesia’s superdiversity, it is necessary to employ micro-­linguistic analysis, especially given the general diversification of local inclusion in mainstream media such as television and radio (e.g., Bogaerts, 2017; Hoogervorts, 2009; Manns, 2014) and in social media such as Twitter (Yulianti, 2015). It is also necessary to understand how local inclusion has been exercised in social media for the maintenance of many endangered languages, given that research into the area has only just begun (see Stern, 2017 for the case of Balinese). Finally, the macro level of discourse structures in contemporary Indonesia’s politics and society that have emerged in social media including Instagram, Facebook and Twitter is underexplored. Examining the macro level of discourse structures from a language policy perspective is crucial to the background of the polarising political orientation in the media involving cebong [tadpoles] and kampret [bats], which represent supporters of two politicians: the incumbent President Joko Widodo and his rival Lieutenant General (Retired) Prabowo Subianto. Examining all these issues is significant to our way of understanding the employment of language as an ideological process where the accrual power associated with media institutions can reflect and create social changes characterising Indonesia’s superdiversity.

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Index

1928 Youth Pledge see Sumpah Pemuda, the 1945 Independence 3, 29 – 30, 66, 97 – 98, 102, 166, 184 1945 National Constitution 22, 29, 84 2006 KTSP Curriculum 180, 185 2013 Curriculum 179, 184, 198 Abas, H. 11 – 12, 23, 30 – 31, 51, 69, 98, 100 – 102, 107, 121, 123, 144, 146, 197, 212; quoted on: Bugis as contact language 37; prediction of Indonesia becoming bilingual 173 Aceh 113, 174, 186 Acehnese 32 – 33, 68, 91, 103, 146, 148, 150; and linguistic genocide; online presence of 148 acquisition planning see language-ineducation policy Alisjahbana, S. T. 11 – 12, 14, 21, 23 – 24, 31, 69, 72, 80, 123, 125 – 126, 157, 168, 172, 212; and corpus planning 102, 105, 107 – 108, 110; and literary activism 29; quoted on: cultivation planning on Indonesian 125; number of indigenous languages 112; relationship between the national language and indigenous languages 72; spread of Indonesian 29; standardisation and modernisation of Indonesian 98, 100; success of language policy on Indonesian 30; view on status planning 66, 70, 174 Aluk To Dolo 8 AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara) 162 Ambon Malay 10, 50, 144; and Indonesian 172; and Maluku conflict 140, 144; as regional lingua franca 34 – 36, 74, 136

Anderson, B. R. O’G. 24, 67, 126, 195, 213; quoted on: cultivation planning on Indonesian 124; view on Indonesian 102, 125 Arab(s) 41, 75, 93 Arabic 27, 88, 198; as additional language 45, 81; in the curriculum 11, 23, 44, 81, 184 – 185, 210; double standard through 79 – 80; as foreign language 24, 27, 44 – 45, 79 – 81, 208; heritage 75; as heritage language 103; as “imported” language 186 – 187; influence on Malay/Indonesian 105, 107 – 108; as international language 83, 86 – 88; in madrasah 44, 184, 198, 201; in pesantren 45, 201; in the religious domain 57, 78 – 80, 94, 207; and plurilingual competence 204; script 35; and status planning 95; teaching 26, 165, 186 – 187, 198 – 202; words borrowed from 103 – 104 Association of South East Asian Nations/ASEAN 5, 8; ASEAN Economic Community/AEC 188, 202; ASEAN Games 77; and English as a lingua franca 193, 198; Indonesia’s status in 9, 87; and native-speakerism 48; and urbanisation level 17; use of Indonesian in 84, 86 – 87 Badan Bahasa 19, 33, 96, 115 – 116, 122; branches of 113, 122, 148; and corpus planning 24, 97 – 98, 102, 105, 108, 120, 123 – 125; and Indonesian as an international language 84; and language assessment 173; and Language Council of Indonesia-Malaysia 100; and language documentation 123 – 124, 144,

254 Index 146, 149; and linguistic mapping 10, 31 – 32; and regional autonomy 92, 148, 208 – 209; role during New Order 110 – 112; role in PostSoeharto Era 113 – 115; and status planning 55, 62, 71, 95 Badan Bahasa dan Perbukuan see Badan Bahasa bahasa baku see standard language, policy bahasa daerah 69 – 70; cultivation of 178; definition of 70; function of 73, 114; as medium of instruction 169; Proyek Pengembangan Bahasa Daerah (PPBD) 110, 112, 144; status of 69, 81; see also indigenous language(s) bahasa gado-gado 19, 31; contesting Indonesian 31; as practice of language mixing 19, 21, 60 bahasa gaul 19, 59; contesting Indonesian 31; as practice of language mixing 19, 21, 60; prominence of 59 bahasa gunung 137 Bahasa Indonesia see Indonesian Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia (BISINDO) 43, 59 bahasa prokem 19, 60; contesting Indonesian 31; as practice of language mixing 19, 21, 60 bahasa Tarzan 76 Baldauf, R. B. Jr. 14, 26, 30, 58, 112, 129, 165, 171 – 172, 211; quoted on: corpus planning 97; language policy and linguistic ecology 27, 63; micro language policy 182; personnel policy 202 Bali 8, 17, 94; bombing 8; branch of Badan Bahasa in 113; and distribution of languages 31 – 32; and Kata Kolok 43; language in religious domain in 57, 94; language spread in 174; and Pop Bali Alternatif 155; and status planning 91 – 92; teaching indigenous language in 174; transmigrasi from 17, 132 Balinese 32 – 33, 96; as co-official language 91; community 119; documentation of 145 – 146, 148; and Facebook 214; intra-linguistic hierarchy in 57; as language in the religious domain 78, 94; and language maintenance 214; language mixing involving 18; language vitality

of 33, 197; and linguistic genocide 173; Malay variety of 144; online presence of 148; orthographical system of 122; promotion of 155; research into 111, 115 – 167; shift to Indonesian 176; status planning of 91 – 92, 96; switch to Javanese 18; words borrowed from 103 Banjar/Banjar Malay 10, 32, 41; competing with Javanese 55; language mixing involving 60; language vitality of 32 – 33; as regional lingua franca 10, 34 – 35, 41, 91; as school subject 74; shift to 136 – 137, 139, 175; words borrowed from 103 Batak 31, 33, 78; documentation of 146; ethnicity 78, 153; Karo 78, 118; and linguistic genocide 173; Mandailing 78; language vitality of 32 – 33; orthographical system of 122 – 123; research into 112, 118; Simalungun 122; and spread of Christianity 78; Toba 31, 118, 122 – 123, 146 Bazaar Malay: emergence of 36; as lingua franca 2 – 3, 36, 212 bilingual 45, 168, 181, 183; dictionaries 144; education 168, 183, 195; speakers 45, 173; teachers  199 – 200 bilingualism 132, 176; additive 45, 134, 136; attitudes towards 132; Bilingualism Venn Diagram 150; rate of 176; and translanguaging 183 Bimanese 18, 75; attitudes towards 161; as pribumi 75; Sera Suba dialect of 137, 161 Betawi 18; community 150; influence on Malay/Indonesian 110; language vitality of 32 – 33; leader Mohamad Tabrani 66; similarity to Tugu creole 41; syntactic rule sample 110; words borrowed from 102 – 103 Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, unity in diversity 4, 5, 9 Blommaert, J. 12, 17, 20 – 23, 52, 56, 61, 68 – 69, 210, 212, 214; quoted on: changes within sociolinguistic system 61; interaction between sociolinguistic elements 54; languaging 22, 34; movement of language varieties 55; polycentricity 60; sociolinguistic lens 12

Index  255 Boedi Oetomo 3, 66 Bordieau, P. 50, 92 Buddhism 8, 77 Bugis 32, 35, 54, 91; documentation of 144, 146, 148; language vitality of 32 – 33; as regional lingua franca 37 – 38, 41, 74, 91; research into 112, 116, 121 – 122; shift to Indonesian 134 Catholic/Catholicism 38, 78; belief in 8; and conversion of Marori and Rongga speakers 152; as missionary language 78, 139, 175; schools 167; and status planning 93; use in religious domain 77, 140 Centre for Language Cultivation and Development see Badan Bahasa centre of normativity 53, 60, 207; definition of 52; English as 53, 175, 178, 193, 207, 210; “imported” languages as 61, 207; indigenous languages as 56 – 57, 61, 90, 207; Indonesian as 60 – 61, 175, 197; Malayic RLFs as 53, 207; non-Malayic RLFs as 53 – 54, 207; and polycentricity 60; religious languages as 57 character building 5, 192; discourse of 26, 169, 191, 194, 213; goal of 5, 191; and language education 191, 198; and national education 191; see also English as a lingua franca (ELF), supportive of character building Chinese 35, 39, 76, 86, 92; Basuki Thajaja Purnama as 75; Cina 76; community 10, 18, 23, 35, 39, 41 – 42, 52 – 53, 75 – 76, 92, 120, 152 – 153; discrimination against 75 – 76, 187; as heritage language 41, 59, 74 – 75, 200, 208 – 209; interest in 45, 187 – 188; as international language 86; literature 126; peranakan 92; research into 120; spread of 41, 43; and status planning 92 – 93; see also Hokkien Chinese; keturunan; Mandarin Chinese Christian/Christianity 75, 78, 193; belief in 78; community 140, 153 – 154; and conversion of Dayak speakers 139; and language endangerment 141; and Maluku conflict 140; missionary and language use 61, 88, 174; and status planning

93; see also Catholic/Catholicism; Protestant/Protestantism Cirebon 19, 118; emergence of 19, 34, 56, 61, 158; language vitality of 32 – 33; spread of 95, 121 – 122; status of 54, 62, 90, 96 Classical Malay 107 code: linguistic 18 – 19, 27, 31; -mixing 19, 61, 94, 115; -switching 19, 61, 79, 157 codification 97; definition of 97; of indigenous languages 127; of new linguistic varieties 121; see also language documentation colloquial Indonesian 50, 55, 124; see also Papuan Colloquial Indonesian; Riau Indonesian Confucianism 8, 77 Congress on the Indonesian Language 66 – 67, 71, 84, 98 – 99 consilience 25, 129, 160, 163 – 164 Cooper, R. L. 14, 64, 68, 97, 165; quoted on language of wider communication 91 – 92 corpus planning 24 – 25, 64, 69, 97, 119; definition of 97; of indigenous languages 110 – 113; of Indonesian 97 – 110, 123; during Post NewOrder 113 – 115; research for 122 – 124; scope of 97, 121 coup d’état of 1965 see PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia) creole 36, 69; Tugu creole 41 cultivation planning 72, 124, 209; of indigenous languages 125 – 127, 209; of Indonesian 72, 124 – 125; and regional autonomy 126 culture 61, 69, 72, 88 – 89, 93, 98, 105, 158, 197; Alorese 180; Balinese 78; British or American 49; Chinese 45, 187 – 188; and cultivation planning 125; educational 166, 204; foreign 191; German 190; and identity 21, 93, 137, 153, 160; and Indonesian 100, 105; inseparation from language 61, 158, 197; intercultural awareness 199; intercultural/intercultural communication 30, 35, 40, 82, 196, 198; intercultural education 195; Japanese 189; Javanese 105, 180; Korean 189; Kui 137; and language contact 37; and language use 19; linguistic 63, 157; and linguistic

256 Index human rights 93, 160; Maanyan Dayak 127; and mobility patterns 17, 137 – 138, 160; modern 98, 100; monolingual 192; national 71, 82, 98, 168; and native-speakerism 49, 192; Orang Suku Laut 160; Papuan 142; pop 19; promulgation of 21; preservation of 25, 153; regional 73, 114, 154, 178; and regional autonomy 180, 197; and revitalisation planning 154, 158, 160, 197; Rongga 156; Sama-Bajau 138; seafaring 37, 137 – 138, 160; of sign language users 43; and thought 98, 125; Western 80; Weyewa 94; multicultural 92, 176, 214; multiculturalism 17, 76, 92 curriculum 19, 66, 96, 154, 165, 170, 174 – 175, 178 – 179, 181, 189, 191, 198, 202; and decentralisation of education 202; educational 58, 62, 183; and ELF 193; languages in 58, 95, 194, 197; national 184; primary 197; secondary 201; see also 2006 KTSP Curriculum; 2013 Curriculum; Revised 2013 Curriculum Daoism 8 Dayak 39, 143, 175, 181; Bayan Dayak 137; communities 53, 160; conversion to Christianity 139; conversion to Islam 139; Iban Dayak 18; and linguistic human rights 160; Ngaju Dayak 146; promotion of Indonesian amongst speakers of 175; shift from 137 – 138; speakers subjected to linguistic genocide 143, 181; speakers subjected to suppression during New Order 143, 174 – 175; see also Maanyan Dayak decentralisation 5, 26, 148, 157, 210; and Badan Bahasa 113 – 114; and co-officialisation of languages 157; of education 26, 178 – 181, 186, 202, 204; of governance 5, 73; and indigenous languages 173, 178 – 181; and language documentation 146, 148; and language education 175; and personnel policy 202; and revitalisation planning 134, 148, 210; and status planning 91 – 92 dialect/dialectal 4, 14, 19, 111 – 112, 204; Cirebon as 37, 95, 118; dialectological method 121;

difference in sign languages 119; number of dialects in Indonesia 10; Osing as 55, 95 – 96, 180; Participatory Dialect Mapping 150; and plurilingualism 204; rise of marginalised dialects 19, 56, 62, 96; sign language as 76; see also Bimanese, Sera Suba dialect of; Fehan dialect of Tetun; Javanese, Banyumas dialect of; Javanese, Surabaya dialect of; Javanese, Tegal dialect of; Riau dialect of Malay diglossia 12, 23, 49, 52; complex 12, 23, 52; definition of 49; Indonesia’s language situation as 50 – 52 discourse 11, 15, 84, 89, 114, 214; of Character Building 26, 49, 169, 191, 194, 211; and language policy 15, 195; of linguistic genocide 196; of linguistic imperialism 58, 177; of National Development 11, 67, 212 – 213; planning 213; of regional separatism 151; of revitalisation planning 25, 129, 158 – 159, 209 Dutch: aversion to 188; education in 184; influence on Malay/Indonesian 98, 105, 108; as international language 86; nominated as unifying language 28; words borrowed from 103 Dutch colonials/colonialism 3, 83, 136, 188, 212; and Christian missionary 78, 113; and ethnic cleansing 75, 140 – 141; and heritage speakers 41; language policy by 68; and language spread 36 education 12, 23, 26, 29, 36, 40, 49 – 50, 56, 58, 60, 91 – 92, 95, 130, 132, 140, 147, 168, 208; Arabic language 186 – 187; English language 46 – 47, 191 – 194; foreign language 11; formal 80; French language 190 – 191; German language 189 – 190; and “imported” languages 183 – 185; and indigenous language speakers 178 – 181; Indonesian in 168 – 170; Japanese language 188 – 189; Korean language 189; and language policy 11 – 12, 22, 25 – 26, 69, 94, 129, 165, 168, 172, 185, 194 – 195, 202, 207, 210 – 211; and linguistic genocide 142, 174 – 175; and linguistic human rights 159;

Index  257 and linguistic imperialism 175 – 178; management of 26, 165 – 167, 184 – 186, 194; Mandarin language 187 – 188; medium of instruction in 51, 66, 82, 181; mother tongue 12, 168, 210; multilingual 196 – 202, 211; non-formal 80; and plurilingualism 205; and political issues 16; primary 71, 143, 154, 167, 174; and revitalisation planning 156; secondary 166 – 167; and status planning 96; teacher 202 – 203; tertiary 44, 71, 105, 123, 154, 166 – 167, 209, 214; see also Ministry of Education and Culture; Sekolah Dasar (SD); Sekolah Menengah Atas (SMA); Sekolah Menengah Kejuruan (SMK); Sekolah Menengah Pertama (SMP) EFL (English as a foreign language) 23, 27, 81 Ejaan yang Disempurnakan (EYD) 79, 100; comparison with other spellings 101 English 11, 16, 31, 117; in ASEAN 87; as centre of normativity 53, 60, 177 – 178, 207, 210; compared with Indonesian syntax 108 – 109; in curriculum 11, 23 – 24, 81, 184 – 185, 200; as foreign language 44, 102, 184; hegemony 31, 46 – 47, 58 – 59, 157, 178; influence on Indonesian 105, 107; as “imported” language 58, 184; and internationalisation of education 58, 176 – 177; as international language 28, 49, 83, 86 – 88, 95, 196; language mixing involving 11, 19, 59 – 60, 80, 182 – 183; and linguistic imperialism 26, 175 – 178; as modern language 105; and plurilingualism 204; in primary schools 176 – 177, 191, 197 – 200; and RSBI policy 176 – 177; in secondary schools 201; and social discourse 177 – 178; and superglossia 207 – 208, 210; words borrowed from 103, 105 – 106, 123; see also globalisation, and English; language attitudes, towards English; Rintisian Sekolah Berstandard Internasional (RSBI) policy English as a lingua franca (ELF) 23, 27, 64; and ASEAN 48; and language policy 48 – 49; and local

cultures 191 – 192; and localised linguistic practices 194; against native speakerism 47; shift from EFL 23, 27, 45 – 49, 81; supportive of character building 49, 95, 192 – 194, 211 ESL (English as a second language) 36, 192 ethnicity 18, 70, 85; and identity 138; and language 214; and language ideology 161; and language policy 68; and language practice 18; religion and ethnicity 75 Eurasians 10, 23, 41; emergence of 41; and language education 200; status of 74, 93 family language policy: as phatic route 152; role in revitalisation planning 152 – 153 Fehan dialect of Tetun 40, 54; sociolinguistic description of 40, 54; study on 116 Ferguson, C. A. 14, 58; quoted on diglossia 49 Fishman, J. A. 14, 25 – 26, 30, 51, 58, 85, 123, 128 – 129, 149, 152, 161, 171 – 172, 201, 209; quoted on: spread of Indonesian 30; status planning 64 French 11, 23, 26, 165; as additional language 45; in curriculum 11, 23, 81, 184 – 185, 210; as foreign language 24, 27, 184; as “imported” language 58, 207; as international language 28, 44, 83, 86 – 88; interest in 44 – 45; and plurilingualism 204; in secondary schools 201; status planning of 95; teaching 190 – 191, 202 German 3, 81; as additional language 45, 208; in curriculum 11, 23, 81, 184; as foreign language 24, 27, 44, 184 – 185; as “imported” language 58; interest in 45; as international language 86 – 88; as modern language 105, 108; and plurilingualism 204; in secondary schools 201; status planning of 95; and superglossia 208, 210; teaching 165, 189 – 190, 202 globalisation 12, 56; and English 56; and language contact 56; and language endangerment 132; and nationalism 16; and revitalisation

258 Index planning 164; tension with locality 12, 132 Goebel, Z. 11 – 12, 17 – 18, 21, 31, 50 – 51, 56 – 57, 60 – 61, 69, 76, 90, 92, 112, 124 – 125, 132, 168, 207, 213 – 214; quoted on: changing sociolinguistic landscape 11 – 12; definition of centre of normativity 52 – 53; definition of superdiversity 20 – 21; orders of indexicality during New Order 60; reconfiguration of language hierarchy 56; ubiquity of language mixing 60 Gorontalo 35, 68, 112, 144, 146; endangerment of 133; shift from 133 grammatical standardisation 24, 97; as part of corpus planning 107 – 110 Grimes, C. E. 12, 23, 25, 29, 34, 37, 49, 50 – 53, 57 – 59, 78, 121, 132, 137, 146, 207, 212; quoted on: Bugis as contact language 37; diglossia in Indonesia 51; factors affecting language death 156; language and religion 77; mobility of indigenous language speakers in Maluku 137; number of Indonesian speakers 29 Gus Dur see Wahid, A. Habibie, B. J. 5, 166, 184; and decentralisation of governance 178; and interest in learning German 190; period of governance 5; role in abolishing discrimination against Chinese people 187 Halim, A. 69, 72, 168 Hatta, M. 3 Haugen, E. 13 – 14 heritage/heritage language 10, 23, 49, 52, 188; corpus planning on 110, 112; cultural 102, 125, 158 – 175, 187; definition of 41; and ELF 193; and endangerment 149; Eurasians 93; and family language policy 152 – 153; Indian 41, 93; and mixed language practices 183; in multilingual education 200; speakers 10, 21, 23, 27, 31, 41, 44, 59, 63; research into 119 – 120, 209; status planning of 73 – 75, 90; and superglossia 206 – 207; words borrowed from 103 – 105; see also Arab(s); Chinese; keturunan; Mardijkers

Hindia Belanda 3 Hindu/Hinduism 78, 94 Hokkien Chinese 39, 43, 59; discrimination against 187; official recognition of 92; sociolinguistic situation of 120; and superglossia 59; words borrowed from 103 – 104 Hornberger, N. H 14, 16, 27, 62, 64, 90, 121, 128 – 129, 164, 204; quoted on: factors of language shift 135; issues in the field of revitalisation 164; multilingual education 195 – 196; multilingual language policies 90 identity 11, 18, 93, 131; among Bantik speakers; among Bugis speakers 134; ethnic 131, 133, 137, 153; indigenous 91, 127; and Indonesian as international language 83 – 84; among Kui speakers 137, 160; language and 11, 18, 93, 152; and language maintenance 75; and linguistic human rights 93, 159 – 160; national 69, 75, 82 – 84, 153; promulgation of 21; regional 73 – 74, 114, 155; religious 77, 79; SamaBajau 138; and superdiversity 17 – 18 ideology/ideologies/ideological 4, 14, 17, 23; language 14 – 15, 59, 76, 94, 161, 212; language community 17, 31; monolingual 61, 68 – 70, 89, 205; nationalist 23, 64, 83, 103, 157; native-speakerism 47, 192; obfuscation 64 – 72; prior ideological clarification 25, 149 – 151, 161; and sign language 93; State 4 image planning 84 “imported” languages 58, 60 – 61; in curriculum 183 – 184; definition of 58; and globalisation 58; policy on 184 – 186; and superglossia 60 – 61, 63 indigenous language(s) 18, 22 – 23, 26 – 27, 41, 62; and community suppression 141 – 143; co-officialising 91 – 92; and corpus planning 110, 119, 122 – 124, 154, 208; cultivation of 25, 125 – 127; in curriculum 200 – 201; and decentralisation 92, 154 – 156, 178 – 181; definition of 31; distribution of 32; documentation of 143 – 147, 157; and ELF 193 – 194, 198; endangerment of 24, 33, 90,

Index  259 120, 129 – 143, 158; and ethnicity 68, 152 – 153; in ethnic conflict 140; and ideological obfuscation 70 – 72; and indigenised Malay varieties 36; and Indonesian 30 – 31; intra-linguistic hierarchy of 57; language mixing involving 59 – 60, 182 – 183, 210; language vitality of 147 – 149, 197; and linguistic genocide 173 – 175; and linguistic imperialism 175 – 178; as media of instruction 168; and mobile lifestyle 137 – 138; and new linguistic varieties 55, 96; number of 10; and orders of indexicality 168; and personnel policy 204 – 205; and plurilingualism 18, 124, 204; policy on 23, 26, 72, 81; and reconfiguration of language hierarchy 56 – 57; and regional separatism 195; in religious domain 78, 93 – 94; research into 110 – 119; and RLFs 53 – 55, 136 – 137; and revitalisation planning 128 – 164, 209; shift from 132 – 133, 173; status planning of 64, 70, 73 – 74, 90, 92, 162; and sub-nationalities 68 – 69, 72; and superdiversity 21; and superglossia 50 – 52, 60, 63, 157 – 158, 207; words borrowed from 102 – 103; see also language attitudes, towards indigenous languages; pribumi Indonesia 1, 3; additional languages in 45; bilateral language policy 100; Centenary of 85; colonial linguistics in 98; complexity of interactions in 19 – 20, 54 – 56, 95 – 96, 121 – 122; contemporary 7 – 10; distribution of languages in 32; economic potential 84 – 85; ethnic relations in 29 – 30; ethnolinguistic and bio-diversity in 159; foreign languages in 44 – 45, 79 – 81; heritage languages in 41 – 43, 75 – 76; history of 2 – 6; importance in ASEAN 9 – 10; language policy priorities 89 – 90; as linguistic Mecca 119; linguistic wealth 10, 17; local wisdom in 126; location 1; monolingual habitus in 182 – 183; multiple lingua francas in 34 – 41; as nation on paper 180; nature wealth of 1 – 2; Papua’s integration into 141; Republic of 136; sign languages in 43, 76 – 77; sociolinguistic landscape

of 49 – 61, 207 – 208; successful case of language policy 30; superdiversity in 18 – 21; united 70 – 71; see also Nationalist Movement Indonesian 4, 10 – 12, 87, 134, 212 – 213; bilingualism in 134, 173; co-development with the State 168; cultural and scientific power of 87; being diglossic 49 – 51, 124; economic strength of 85 – 86; in education 167 – 173; as foreign language 85; future influence of 88 – 89; grammar of 24, 107 – 110; hegemony of 23, 31, 88, 132, 175, 178, 197, 210, 212; ideological obfuscation of 64 – 72; as international language 81 – 90, 207; as linguistic capital 50; literacy in 170 – 173; and massification of education 132, 168; as medium of instruction 167 – 169; monolingualism in 173, 181; in National Development 11, 67, 212 – 213; as national language 4, 10 – 12, 15, 22, 24, 27 – 30, 49, 66 – 71, 79, 82, 89, 96 – 97, 132, 168, 183, 192 – 196, 210, 212; and nationhood 66; number of speakers 29, 172; political strength of 86 – 87; as school subject 169 – 170; spread of 29, 132 – 136, 213; Standard 19, 49 – 50, 53 – 55, 59, 96, 124 – 125, 167 – 168, 172, 181 – 182, 193; as symbol of the State 67; as unifying language 22, 50, 64 – 67, 70 – 72, 89, 102, 212; see also corpus planning, of Indonesian; cultivation planning, of Indonesian; language attitudes, towards Indonesian; Riau dialect of Malay; standard language, policy intergenerational transmission 75, 130 – 131, 197; of Bantik 136; and globalisation 132; among heritage language speakers 75; among Javanese speakers 133; and language endangerment 133; and shift to Indonesian 155 inter-glossic 54 – 55, 60; among RLFs 54; between RLFs and indigenous languages 54 – 55; characterising superglossia 60, 207 intra-glossic/intra-linguistic hierarchy 57, 60; characterising superglossia 57, 60, 206 – 207

260 Index Islam 45, 77, 79 – 80, 167; and Arabic loanwords 103; influence on educational culture 166 – 167; interest in 186; Islamisation in Kalimantan 138 – 139; as official religion 77; as religion of the majority 45, 79, 186; and syncretism 79, 94 – 95; see also Arabic Japanese 11, 24, 26, 58, 85; as additional language 45; colonials 102; in curriculum 26, 81, 165, 184 – 185, 201; as foreign language 23 – 24, 27, 44; as heritage language 23, 41, 74, 93; as “imported” language 58; interest in 45, 188; as international language 86 – 88; and plurilingualism 204; researchers 117; status planning of 95; teaching 188 – 189, 202 Java 1 – 3, 8, 54, 121; cultures in 9; endangered languages in 131; languages in 32, 54, 197; reinvigoration of indigenous language in 179 – 180; research into languages in 110 – 111; transmigrasi from 8, 17, 55, 132, 143; use of Malay in 78 Javanese 3 – 4, 11, 55 – 56, 102 – 104, 114; Banyumas dialect of 19, 56, 62, 96; competing RLFs 54; and cultural imperialism 143; documentation of 122, 146, 148; dominance of 102 – 103, 180; in education 19, 155, 179 – 180, 182; influence on Indonesian 102 – 102; intra-linguistic hierarchy in 57; kapujanggan literature in 126 – 127; krama 28, 57, 111, 133, 180; language mixing involving 11, 19, 55, 60, 183, 193; madya 28, 57; as major language 32 – 33, 74, 91, 96, 150; and new linguistic varieties 55 – 56, 61 – 62, 95; ngoko 28, 57, 121, 133; nominated as unifying language 28; online presence of 148; and plurilingualism 18; as pribumi 75; and regional autonomy 74, 92, 162, 180; research into 111 – 112, 115; revitalisation of 134, 155; shift from 52, 152, 161; and superglossia 54, 56, 207; Surabaya dialect of 17, 56, 62, 96; Tegal dialect of 19, 56 – 57, 62, 96; use among migrants 18; used for Islamic proselytising 78; words borrowed from 102 – 104

Jokowi see Widodo, J. Jong Java 3, 65 Jong Sumatranen Bond 3, 65 Kaharingan 8 Kalimantan 1, 9, 35, 39, 121, 161; cultures in 9; endangered languages in 92, 131 – 132, 136 – 139, 141, 143, 174 – 175, 191; inter-ethnic marriages between people from 17; language mixing in 18; languages in 32, 162; linguistic research in 112, 117 – 118; migration to 55; Tukang Besi speakers in 37 Kaplan, R. B. 14, 26 – 27, 30, 58, 112, 129, 165, 171 – 172, 211; quoted on: corpus planning 97; language policy and linguistic ecology 27, 63; personnel policy 202 keturunan 41, 75; see also heritage/ heritage language, speakers Korean 11, 23 – 24, 44, 61, 165; as additional language 45, 208; in curriculum 11, 23, 44, 81, 184 – 185; as foreign language 23 – 24, 27, 44; as “imported” language 58, 61; interest in 78, 189; as international language 86, 95; and plurililingualism 204; in secondary education 201; status planning of 95; and superglossia 208, 210; teaching 26, 189, 202; in tertiary education 189 Lamaholot 37, 39, 121; as regional lingua franca 37, 53; research into 117 – 118, 121; sociolinguistic description of 39 language attitudes: towards Chinese 187; towards English 47, 59, 66, 79 – 80; towards indigenous languages 70, 72, 74, 79, 125, 153, 161, 179; towards Indonesian 89, 125, 179; towards Japanese 188; of Javanese speakers 133 – 134; and revitalisation planning 129, 133, 151; of RLF speakers 53; of Sama-Bajau speakers 138; towards sign languages 76, 93, 96; of Tondano speakers 136 language borrowing 37, 92, 157; from foreign languages 123; from indigenous languages 102 Language Centre see Badan Bahasa language contact 18, 33, 55; and globalisation 58; and new linguistic

Index  261 varieties 55 – 56, 95, 124; and practices of language mixing 18; and spread of Bugis 37; and superdiversity 33 language death see language endangerment language decay see language endangerment language documentation 25, 95, 209; affected by infrastructure 208; community-based 154; digital 148 – 149, 157; during New Order 144 – 146; in eastern Indonesia 157; involving external researchers 146; in Post-Soeharto Era 146 – 147; qualified human resources in 148 language endangerment 12, 23, 33, 92, 128; and biodiversity 163; and community suppression 141 – 143; complexity of 33, 129 – 143, 156; current situation in Indonesia 12, 25, 33, 129 – 132, 209; and ethnic conflict 140, 153 – 154; and ethnic genocide 140 – 141; and language shift 30, 33, 92, 132 – 137, 173 – 174; and mobility 137 – 138; and natural disaster 141; and new linguistic varieties 158; and religious conversion 138 – 140; and revitalisation planning 158 – 160; and superdiversity 157; and superglossia 210; and vitality assessment 197; in the world 128; see also language documentation; language/linguistic vitality language extinction see language endangerment language-in-education policy 12, 25 – 26, 94, 165, 207; and cross-ministerial work 26, 194 – 195, 201, 211; and decentralisation 178 – 181; on ELF 191 – 194; on “imported” languages 183 – 191; on indigenous languages 173 – 178; on Indonesian 167 – 173; and management of education 165 – 167; micro-language policies in 181 – 183, 210; multilingual education as 196 – 202; personnel policy as 202 – 205; reorientation of 194 – 196, 211; as revitalisation planning 94, 129, 209; scope of 165; and superglossia 210 linguistic culture 63, 157 linguistic ecology 11 – 12, 16 – 17, 22 – 24, 27, 52, 110, 157; additional

languages as elements of 45; definition of 27; diverse 16 – 17, 25, 194, 206; ELF as element of 45 – 49; foreign languages as elements of 44 – 45; heritage languages as elements of 41 – 43; indigenous languages as elements of 31 – 34, 74, 120, 148; Indonesian as element of 27 – 31, 69, 72, 82, 212; and language policy 27 – 63; regional lingua francas as elements of 34 – 41; sign languages as elements of 43 – 44; and superglossia 52 – 63, 206 – 207 linguistic hegemony see English, hegemony; Indonesian, hegemony of linguistic inferiority, among Sambori speakers 161 language loss see language endangerment language maintenance 11, 25, 75, 125, 173; as consilience 164; and ethnic identity 75; family language policy as 152; and local engagement 153 – 154, 162; and mobility 213 – 214; mother tongue education for 12, 194, 210; and prior ideological clarification 149; in regional autonomy 25, 154 – 156, 209; as revitalisation planning 129, 147 – 148 language management 6, 14 – 15, 115; as part of language policy 15 language obsolescence see language endangerment language policy 1, 10 – 11, 73, 154, 172, 212; as academic field 1, 10 – 16, 25, 27, 48 – 49, 96, 121, 123, 128 – 129, 156, 206, 211 – 212, 214; as activity 15 – 16, 18, 21 – 23, 30 – 31, 58 – 59, 62 – 64, 94, 97, 102, 107 – 108, 152, 165, 172, 180, 204 – 207, 209, 212 – 213; journal 15; as regulation 2 – 3, 14, 24, 26, 36, 55, 61, 70 – 71, 75 – 76, 78 – 79, 82, 85, 89 – 91, 95, 101, 115, 154, 165, 181 – 182, 194 – 195, 208; see also regional language policies language planning 10, 14, 27, 64, 146; as academic field 14 – 16; as activity 10, 24, 27, 64, 97, 124, 128, 144, 146, 161; community-based language planning (CBLP) 161; as part of language policy 14 – 15 language shift 11, 30, 52 – 53, 79, 94, 132 – 133; reversing language shift

262 Index (RLS) 25, 62, 126, 143; see also indigenous language(s), shift from; shift to Indonesian; shift to RLFs language/linguistic vitality 25 – 26, 114, 132, 138, 147; definition of 130; of Gorontalo 133; of heritage languages 75; Indonesia’s current rate of 25, 130 – 132; of Indonesia’s thirteen largest languages 33; of Javanese 157; research into 25; and revitalisation planning 128, 147 – 148, 158; of Talondo 133; world’s current rate of 130 languaging 10, 34; definition of 10; and new linguistic varieties 34; and personnel policy 205; and status planning 96 LHRs (linguistic human rights) 25, 209; applicability in the Indonesian context 159 – 160 lingua franca see Bazaar Malay, as a lingua franca; English as a lingua franca (ELF); regional lingua francas (RLFs) linguistic capital 49 – 50; definition of 92; and ELF users 49; Indonesian as 50; and revitalisation planning 163 linguistic genocide 26, 30, 169, 212; affecting Dayak children 174 – 175, 181; affecting Papuan children 174; affecting Ronggan children 175; definition of 174; during New Order 173 – 175; and language-in-education policy 195 – 196, 210 linguistic imperialism 26, 30, 58, 175, 210, 212; associated with English 88, 176 – 178, 191 – 192, 198; associated with Indonesian 175 – 176, 178, 210; definition of 175 linguistic prestige 29, 59; associated with Banjar 136 – 137; associated with English 59; associated with Indonesian 29 Lo Bianco, J. 14, 48, 51, 64, 128 – 129, 158, 172, 205, 212; quoted on: ELF and language policy 48; diglossia in Indonesia 51; factors of language maintenance 162; language policy being part of applied linguistics 12; language revitalisation 159 LOTI (languages other than Indonesian) 12, 81; corpora of 12, 24; role of Badan Bahasa in

110 – 115; role of external researchers 117 – 119; role of Indonesian researchers 24, 115 – 117; research into 24, 97, 110 – 119, 209 Maanyan Dayak 35, 69 – 70; proverbs in 127 Madurese 32, 54, 57, 62, 68, 75, 173; co-officialisation of 91; in education 95, 180; intra-linguistic hierarchy in 57; as major language 32 – 33, 74; research into 111, 115, 146; words borrowed from 103 Madrasah ‘Aliyah 44, 167, 170, 184 – 186, 201 Madrasah Ibtidaiyah 44, 167 – 168, 170, 198 Madrasah Tsanawiyah 44, 167, 180, 184 – 186, 201 Malayic RLFs 22 – 23, 34, 53; definition of 34; description of 35; difficulty in categorisation 119; importance in superglossia 53, 207; relationship with non-Malayic RLFs 54, 206; research into 121; spread of 36; see also Bazaar Malay; Riau dialect of Malay Majapahit: Glory of Majapahit and internationalisation of Indonesian 83 – 84, 212; as major kingdom 2 – 3; and spread of Bazaar Malay 36 Maluku 3, 9 – 10, 35, 38, 40, 115, 120, 122, 124, 208; Badan Bahasa representatives in 122; cultures in 9; decentralisation and indigenous languages in 74; ethnic conflict in 30, 140, 153; ethnic genocide in 140 – 141; inter-ethnic marriages between people from 17; language endangerment in 92, 120, 131 – 132, 136 – 137, 208; languages in 32; language vitality of 157, 197, 209 – 210; political reconciliation in 153 – 154; research into languages in 116, 118; revitalisation planning in 154; sign languages in 121; Tukang Besi speakers in 37; unidentified languages in 10 Mandarin Chinese 11, 23, 26, 43, 85; as additional language 45, 208; as Chinese language variety 43, 59, 120; and China’s economic growth 187; in curriculum 11, 23, 44, 165, 185; as foreign language 24, 27, 44, 81;

Index  263 as heritage language 37, 41, 208; as “imported” language 58, 184; as international language 88; and plurilingualism 204; as regional lingua franca 37; sociolinguistic description of 39; status planning of 92, 95; in superglossia 59; suppression during New Order 187; teaching of 187 – 188; in tertiary education 201; see also language attitudes, towards Chinese Mardijkers 10, 23, 41, 200; speaking Tugu creole 41; status of 74, 93 media 18, 21, 35, 39 – 40, 60, 73, 75, 82, 88, 114, 188, 190; and ethnic identity 21, 68, 155; and increased exposure to foreign languages 44 – 46, 58; and increased prestige of indigenous languages 56 – 57, 91, 134, 208; and Indonesian 29, 132; and research on language policy 214; and status planning 92; and superdiversity 157, 214; used in Osing 55 medium of instruction see indigenous language(s), as media of instruction; Indonesian, as medium of instruction; Rintisian Sekolah Berstandard Internasional (RSBI) policy Mega/Megawati see Sukarnoputri, M. micro-language policies 26, 173; definition of 182; as policy resistance 175, 181 – 182; through translanguaging 183 Minangkabau 68, 75, 126, 148, 173; culture of marantau 17, 213; influence on Indonesian 102 – 103; language vitality of 197; as major language 32 – 33, 91; online presence of 148; research into 111, 144, 146; shift to Indonesian 126; words borrowed from 102 – 104 Ministry of Education and Culture 26, 44, 71, 101, 110, 112, 144, 166 – 167, 184 – 185, 191, 194, 198, 211; and curriculum change 191; and management of education 26, 44, 166 – 167, 184 – 185, 194, 198, 211; spelling reforms initiated by 101; and teaching Indonesian 167 – 168 mobility 17, 25, 31, 50, 58, 177; and inter-ethnic marriages 17; and language endangerment 137 – 138,

156 – 157; language vitality and 147; and mixing of populations 17; and nomadic lifestyle 25, 37; and research on language policy 213; social 21, 29, 46, 50; and superdiversity 31; and superglossia 55, 58 Moeliono, A. 11 – 12, 23 – 24, 31, 34, 49 – 53, 58 – 59, 69, 72, 112, 123, 127, 157, 173, 207; quoted on: number of Indonesian speakers 29 Muatan Lokal (Mulok) 178 – 179, 187; definition of 178; implementation of 178 – 181, 185, 187; and Revised 2013 Curriculum 200 multilingual education 26, 196, 200; and allocation factors 201; definition of 196; and language vitality 197; models of 199 – 200; scope of 197 Nagarakretagama 3 Nationalist Movement 28 – 29, 65 – 66 Nationalist Slogan 67 New Order 5, 29, 60, 67, 91, 97, 100 – 101, 110, 112 – 115, 126, 132, 141, 143, 146, 168; ambivalent language policies during 69 – 72; the beginning of 5; the collapse of 5, 184; commitment in language-in-education policy 168; and corruption 8; and decentralisation of governance 74, 91, 153; enacting standard language policy 60, 79, 124 – 125, 181; ideological obfuscation during 66 – 67; and National Development 11, 67, 212 – 213; see also Badan Bahasa, role during New Order; Dayak, speakers subjected to suppression during New Order; linguistic genocide, during New Order; Mandarin chinese, suppression during New Order; Papuans, oppression by New Order against; terminological expansion, during New Order non-Malayic RLFs 22 – 23, 34, 121, 145; absence of documentation 144; definition of 34; description of 38 – 40; importance in superglossia 52 – 53, 63, 207 – 208; relationship with Malayic RLFs 54, 206; research into 121, 209; see also Bazaar Malay; Riau dialect of Malay Nusantara 3, 83, 116, 162; territory 3; vision of 83

264 Index objectification of language 15, 61 – 62 orders of indexicality 56 – 57, 60, 168 orthographical standardisation 24, 97; before independence 98; see also Soeharto, orthographical standardisation during Soeharto’s Era; Soekarno, orthographical standardisation during Soekarno’s administration Osing 19, 54, 116; as dialect 61; in education 62, 180, 195; emergence as language 19, 34, 55, 90, 95 – 96, 158; status compared with Javanese 54 Papua/Papuan/Papuans 19, 35, 38 – 41, 56, 74, 144, 151; Badan Bahasa representatives in 122, 208; capacity building in 151 – 152; endangered languages in 131 – 132, 136, 141, 208; integration into Indonesia 174; language vitality in 132, 197; linguistic diversity in 19, 32, 54 – 55, 120, 195, 209 – 210; local governments and indigenous languages in 179; micro-language policies in 182; oppression by New Order against 141 – 142, 160; political reconciliation in 153; research into Papuan languages 113, 115 – 117; sign languages in 121; status planning in 162; Tukang Besi speakers in 37 Papuan Colloquial Indonesian 19, 34, 54, 62; corpus of 124; development of 53, 55; emergence of 19, 34, 36, 121, 158; sociolinguistic description of 35; status planning of 90 Papuan Malay 19, 34, 53; difference from Papuan Colloquial Indonesian 124; increased significance 143; being marginalised 142; used in micro language policies 182, 195; as new linguistic variety 55; as regional lingua franca 54, 74, 142, 207; sociolinguistic description of 35; and superglossia 55 – 56, 207 Pancasila 4, 67; Pancasila Education and Citizenship 191, 200 patois 69 perfected spelling see Ejaan yang Disempurnakan (EYD) personnel policy: in decentralised Indonesia 204; definition of 202; and plurilingual repertoire 204 – 205; professional development as

203 – 204; and teacher agency 204; and teacher recruitment 203 pesantren 45; Gontor as 201; as Islamicbased education 167, 186; and language education 201; literature of 126; and mobility pattern 214 pidgin 36, 69; Ambon Malay as 36 PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia) 5, 6, 75 plurilingualism 18, 124; definition of 204; involving Indonesian and indigenous languages 18, 124; plurilingual competence 204 – 205; and translanguaging 205 political unification 89, 90, 174; Indonesian as a means of 89 polycentric/polycentricity 34, 47; and centres of normativity 60; ELF as polycentric approach; in superglossia 49, 53 – 54, 56 – 57, 147, 153, 166, 207 polyglossia 12, 23, 49; difference from superglossia 53; Indonesia’s language situation as 51 – 52 Post-New Order 5, 11, 24, 52, 76, 97, 122, 185; the beginning of 5; and changing sociolinguistic situation 11; corpus planning of LOTI in 113 – 115, 122; and dictionary production 146; and indigenous languages 143; and laissez-faire approach to language-ineducation policy 185 – 186 Power Language Index (PLI) 88 pribumi 31, 75 – 76 Protestant/Protestantism 8, 77 – 78; and liturgical language 78, 136; schools 167; and status planning 93 Q-value 50, 197 Raffles, T. S. and the Tamboran language 141 Reformasi, Reform Era see Post-New Order regional autonomy 25, 143, 153; in early years of Post-New Order 126, 178 – 179; and increased prestige of indigenous languages 56; and language-in-education policy 26, 195; and language maintenance 154 – 156, 209; and language vitality assessment 197; and status planning 162; see also decentralisation, of governance regional language policies 91 – 92

Index  265 regional lingua francas (RLFs) 22, 27, 34, 64, 73, 110, 136, 175; competition with indigenous languages 54 – 55, 207; definition of 34; inter-glossic relationships 54; and superglossia 206 – 207; types of 34 regional separatism 71, 74; contributing to ideological obfuscation 71; as discourse 151; in Papua 151, 153; promotion of indigenous languages 91, 195; see also political unification register(s) 14, 51, 69, 193; of Balinese 57, 94; of belonging 21; and ELF 194, 205; and intra-linguistic hierarchy 57; of Javanese 28, 111, 121, 133, 180; as linguistic variety 21 – 22, 95 – 96, 121 – 122, 158, 207 – 208; and orders of indexicality 56; Papua as melting pot of 55; and superglossia 63, 207 – 208 religious domain for language 57, 77 – 79, 94 – 95; and endangerment 138 – 140; and revitalisation planning 152, 154; ritual speech 79, 94; and status planning 90; in superglossia 57, 60 – 61, 206 repertoire(s) 14 – 15, 18, 53, 59, 205; definition of 14 – 15; and ELF 49; and Indonesian 90, 172; and language mixing 183; and languaging 21 – 22; modification of 18; multilingual 124, 183, 204; and plurilingualism 204 – 205; and Q-value 50 Revised 2013 Curriculum 11, 81; enactment of 169, 184 – 185, 198; English in 184 – 185, 200; Indonesian in 170; languages included in 11, 23, 44, 81, 211 revitalisation planning 25, 128 – 129, 151, 207; and bio-cultural diversity 159; as category of language policy 25, 128; as consilience 25, 160 – 164, 210; through cultural tourism 163; definition of 128; discourse of 25, 158 – 160; through economic intervention 162 – 163; and language documentation 143 – 149; and language endangerment 129 – 143; and localised sustainable development 151; political reconciliation for 153 – 154; prior ideological clarification in 149 – 151; and regional autonomy 154; scope of 128 – 129; and superglossia 207, 209; see also

language planning, community-based language planning (CBLP); language revitalisation Riau dialect of Malay 4, 22, 27 – 28, 102, 105; adoption as Indonesian 212; influenced by Arabic syntax 107; lexical limitations of 102; as linguistic base 4, 22, 27, 105; structure of 114; as unifying language 22, 27 – 29 Riau Indonesian 19, 34 – 35, 96; emergence of 19, 55, 62, 96, 158; pragmatics of 121; as regional lingua franca 34, 207; sociolinguistic description of 35; status of 96; structure of 110 Rintisian Sekolah Berstandard Internasional (RSBI) policy 58; and linguistic imperialism 177 – 178; and social inequality 177 Roman script for indigenous languages 122 Rongga 117, 139 – 140, 175; and capacity building in 151 – 152; conversion to Christianity 139 – 140; and decentralisation of governance 155 – 156, 162; dictionaries of 122, 146; exclusion from curriculum 175; research into 117; shift to Indonesian 132; subjected to linguistic genocide 175 Sanskrit 57, 94, 103; influence on Indonesian 105; as religious language 57, 94, 207; and superglossia 207; words borrowed from 103 Sarekat Islam 3 Sasak/Sasaks 9, 32, 118; in education 173; as major language 32 – 33; used in the religious domain 78, 94; research into 118, 146; shift to Indonesian 152 SBY, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono see Yudhoyono, S. B. Sekolah Dasar (SD) 167 Sekolah Menengah Atas (SMA) 44, 167 Sekolah Menengah Kejuruan (SMK) 167 Sekolah Menengah Pertama (SMP) 44, 167 semiotic/semiotics 14 – 15, 18, 68, 92; fragments 20 – 21; practice 15, 18, 55, 213 – 214; registers 56; resources 21, 205, 214 sign language(s) 10 – 11, 24, 27, 43, 56, 64, 209; appreciation of President

266 Index Widodo to 77; attitudes towards 76; emerging from dialects 19, 55 – 56; and intergenerational transmission 152; number of users 10, 76, 93; regional sign languages 43, 62; research into 112, 119, 121; status planning of 76 – 77, 90, 93; and superdiversity 21, 23; in superglossia 59 – 60, 76, 206 – 208; see also Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia (BISINDO); Sistem Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia (SIBI) Sistem Bahasa Isyarat Indonesia (SIBI) 43, 76 Soeharto 5 – 6, 74, 155; beginning of leadership 67, 100; and centralised governance 155, 185; and ideological obfuscation 67 – 72; and languagein-education policy 168; and National Development 5; officialising EYD 79, 100; orthographical standardisation during Soeharto’s Era 100 – 101; period of governance 166; resignation 5 Spolsky, B. 14 – 16, 18, 22, 152, 165, 183, 212; quoted on: language management 15; language policy theorists and practitioners 211; language policy within linguistic ecology 63; language practices 18 Soekarno 3 – 6, 29, 65, 67, 69, 107; confrontation against Malaysia 100; as first president 4; and The Glory of Majapahit 83; and ideological obfuscation 69 – 72, 89; and management of education 166; orthographical standardisation during Soekarno’s administration 98 – 100; period of governance 29, 67; and political unification 69 – 71; and Struggle Slogan 65; treatment of indigenous languages 74; use of Indonesian 107 Srivijaya 2, 36; and emergence of Bazaar Malay 36; as powerful kingdom 2 – 3; and spread of Malay 212 Subud 8; as local belief 77 Sukarnoputri, M. 5, 7; and decentralisation of governance 182; and education reform 184; period of governance 166 Sumpah Pemuda, the 1928 Youth Pledge 4, 22 – 23, 29, 64 – 67, 70 – 72, 83 Sundanese 18 – 19, 28, 32, 61, 68, 92, 111; co-officialisation of 91;

dictionaries of 145 – 146; different from Cirebon 19, 56; in education 173, 179; and ethnic identity 68, 155; and inter-ethnic marriages 54; intralinguistic hierarchy in 57; as major language 24, 32 – 33, 54, 57, 74, 96, 111; and plurilingualism 18; online presence of 148; orthographical system of 122; as pribumi 75; and regional autonomy 56, 162, 195; research into 112, 114 – 115; in superglossia 54, 56, 207; words borrowed from 102 – 104 Sulawesi 1, 2, 17, 35, 37–40, 53, 113, 132, 174; inter-ethnic marriages in 17; language mixing in 182; languages in 32, 92, 115, 131 – 133; language vitality in 197; research into languages in 112, 116 – 119; sign languages in 121; Tukang Besi speakers in 37 Sumatra 1 – 3, 17, 31, 41, 113, 143; Bazaar Malay spoken in 3; Chinese speakers in/from 43, 120, 153; inter-ethnic marriages in 54; Jambi Sign Language in 119; languages in 31 – 32; language vitality in 197; Malay in 36, 110, 118; research into languages in 111; sign languages in 121; Tamil speakers in 41; Tukang Besi speakers in 37 standard language 182; policy 60, 78 – 79, 181 status planning 23 – 24; definition of 64; difference from corpus planning 121; and ELF 48; of foreign languages 79 – 81, 95; of heritage languages 74 – 76, 92 – 93; ideological obfuscation and 64 – 72; of indigenous languages 73 – 74, 90 – 92; of Indonesian 81 – 85; and language-in-education policy 174; of languages in religious domain 77 – 79, 93 – 95; of new linguistic varieties 95 – 96; priorities in 89 – 91; of RLFs 74; and revitalisation planning 129, 162; scope of 64; of sign languages 76 – 77,  93 Steinhauer, H. 10, 12, 23, 25, 49, 51 – 52, 90, 92, 130, 132, 136, 140, 148, 157 – 158; quoted on: boundaries between RLFs 119; dynamism of Indonesia’s linguistic ecology 121; Indonesia’s linguistic

Index  267 diversity 10, 119; prospect of Indonesia’s language vitality 33, 130; Visit Indonesian Decade 120 superdiversity 1, 10, 16, 24 – 26, 31, 62, 121, 193; as catchphrase 17; criticisms of 16; in the classroom 182; definitions of 16, 20 – 21; in Indonesia 18 – 19, 26, 33, 52, 54 – 55, 69 – 71, 74, 89 – 90, 115, 118, 121, 175, 193, 205, 207, 210 – 211; and language policy 16 – 22, 59, 123, 206, 208; and language practices 21, 33 – 34, 96, 157; and linguistic ecology 22; linguistic human rights in 25; and linguistic superdiversity 17; and mobility 17, 21, 25, 31; in Papua 116, 141; and plurilingualism 205; policy interventions in 62; status planning in 96; and superglossia 23, 52, 54, 60, 63, 207 superglossia 23, 27, 52 – 60, 80, 96, 144, 169, 173, 183, 193, 206; call for research into 61; complexity of 49, 52, 54 – 57, 60, 63, 121, 124, 153, 158, 166, 206; and corpus planning 208 – 209; definition of 60; dynamism of 49, 54 – 56, 61, 63, 121, 153, 158, 166, 206; elements of 23, 206 – 207; English in 178; foreign languages in 79 – 80; including heritage languages 59, 74 – 76; accounting for “imported” languages 58, 80; indigenous languages in 54 – 55, 73 – 74, 133; intra-linguistic hierarchy in 57; and language endangerment 130, 156; and language-ineducation policy 195, 210 – 211; and language practices 96, 121; including languages in the religious domain 57; and linguistic culture 63, 157; multilingual education for 197; national language in 60, 90, 132, 175; new linguistic varieties in 55 – 56, 95 – 96; and objectification of language 62 – 63; polycentricity of 53 – 54, 56 – 61, 63, 158, 166, 206 – 207; compared with polyglossia 53; practices of language mixing in 59 – 60; and prior ideological clarification 149; and revitalisation planning 209 – 210; RLFs in 53 – 55, 74, 162; including sign languages 59, 76 – 77; as sociolinguistic situation 52, 60; and status planning 207 – 208

terminological expansion 24, 97; and cultivation planning 125; during Japanese occupation 102; during New Order 102 – 107 Toer, P. A. quoted on the alienation of the Chinese Indonesians 75 translanguaging 14; definition of 183; difference from code-switching and code-mixing 19; in education 19, 183; and ELF 194; as language policy 205, 210 – 211; and superdiversity 157 – 158, 211; see also microlanguage policies transmigrasi 5, 17; and community suppression 143; and language maintenance 213 – 214; and language practices 17 – 18; and language shift 132, 213 – 214; and language spread 214 van Ophuijsen, C. 98; spelling of 98 – 99, 101 vernaculars see indigenous language(s) Vertovec, S. 16 – 17, 213; quoted on: definition of superdiversity 16 Wahid, A. 5 – 6, 166; and management of education 184; period of governance 166; role in abolishing discrimination against Chinese people 76, 187; role in Papuan reconciliation 153, 182 Wetu Telu 8, 57; status planning of 94; suppression against 77 – 78 Weyewa 79; language and religion in 93 – 94 Widodo, J. 5, 7, 24, 169, 214; changing management of education 167, 169, 184 – 185; development endeavours of 195, 208; and discourse of Character Building 213; and Indonesia’s contemporary political polarisation 214; and internationalisation of Indonesian 83, 85, 89; period of governance 5; using sign language 77 Yamin, M.: and Indonesian grammar 107; role in Sumpah Pemuda 66; and status of Indonesian 71, 83; quoted on knowledge of Malay 28 Yudhoyono, S. B. 5, 24, 166; and internationalisation of Indonesian 24, 83, 89; and management of education 167, 169; period of governance 5; and RSBI policy 58, 80, 177