FEER(11/1) Long-term Literary Revival Sought In Indonesia
By DINI DJALAL IN JAKARTA
DEWI LESTARI, author of the best-selling and critically acclaimed
novel Supernova, has a confession to make: She has read little Western
or Indonesian literature, not even the works of Indonesia's most
famous writer, Pramoedya Ananta Toer.
Considering that the 26-year-old first-time novelist has been hailed
for both her bold narrative style and her literary promise (renowned
author Taufiq Ismail described her novel as "a breath of fresh air"),
the revelation is startling. But Lestari says Indonesia's insular and
elitist literary world needs neophytes like her to introduce fresh
perspectives -- and more readers.
"I'm trying to popularize literature," says Lestari, whose
structurally innovative romantic novel intertwines science with
spirituality. "It should be entertaining, cool, and a trend-setter."
Lestari isn't leading a one-woman revolution. Other Indonesians, too,
are trying make literature more accessible. Once viewed as mere
extensions of office-supply stores, bookshops have sprung up in major
cities and are enjoying rising sales. New publishing companies have
also appeared -- Lestari established her own, Truedee Books, after
publishers kept sending her novel away -- and so have literary
journals and underground fanzines. Creative writing is slowly becoming
an attractive profession.
Still, the fact remains that Indonesians by and large don't read.
Supernova became a hit by selling just 14,000 copies -- not much for a
country of 220 million people. According to the Indonesian Publishers
Association, some 3,000 titles were published last year (including
reissues and school textbooks). That's less than half the number
produced each year in Malaysia and Thailand, which have far smaller
populations. A recent study by the writer Ismail, who also heads the
literary foundation Yayasan Indonesia, indicated that Indonesian
high-school students are never asked to read anything other than
textbooks; their counterparts in the United States will consume an
average of 30 nontextbooks over the course of their education.
Despite a rich and diverse literary heritage -- ranging from the
complex folk tales of Java to West Sumatra's allegorical poetry --
sales of novels are so slack in Indonesia that many writers get more
recognition abroad than at home. Their potential readers are far more
likely to turn on the TV than open a book.
IF YOU'RE LOOKING for signs of literary life in Indonesia, go along to
the Aksara bookstore in Jakarta. Opened just a year ago by 30-year-old
Winfred Hutabarat -- mainly to satisfy his own appetite for books --
it has seen sales rise by about 20% a month, and its owner is now
planning a second branch. Indonesian books account for 30% of sales,
even though they make up a much smaller share of the inventory.
"There is certainly a market which you can cultivate," says Hutabarat,
referring to the growing numbers of foreign and local customers
seeking out Indonesian literature. Still, he has few illusions about
the difficulty in popularizing reading. Hutabarat believes part of the
problem is that his customers never had a chance to develop an
interest in literature while at school. Literature is currently not
mandatory in the national curriculum; when it is offered, it's given
separately from courses in Bahasa Indonesia, the official language. By
contrast, other countries use literature as a way of understanding the
language, says John McGlynn, editor of the not-for-profit publishing
house Lontar, which translates Indonesian literature into English.
Says the U.S.-born McGlynn: "Unless national education policy changes,
the prospect for literature here remains limited."
The curriculum was a product of the New Order regime under former
President Suharto, a dictator who found any criticism distasteful --
hence its reliance on learning by rote in place of classroom
discussion and debate. Literature was one of many forms of public
expressions quashed by the New Order's anti-communist crusade. Scores
of writers like Pramoedya were banished to prison, and their writings
burned and banned.
Joesoef Isak was one of them. The writer and former journalist spent
10 years in jail for alleged leftist leanings. When he was released in
the late 1970s, he found life outside prison just as repressive. Hasta
Mitra Publishing, which Isak founded as a forum for the censored and
disenfranchised, faced persistent interference from the state, leading
it to focus on the works of Pramoedya, which were banned domestically
but popular overseas. The gamble paid off; Pramoedya went on to win
the Magsaysay award for literature, his novels are now best-sellers,
and many believe a Nobel prize cannot be far off. Yet it will take
much longer, says Isak, to rebuild the creativity crushed by decades
of prohibition. "For 30 years we were made dumb, and we are still
living in the remains of this dumbed-down culture," he says.
Some restrictions issued under Suharto remain. To publish a book, you
need the authorization of the attorney-general. But even today, that's
still not automatic. Says McGlynn: "If there's any hope for Indonesian
literature, the government has to step back, regardless of what the
literature expresses."
Nonpolitical factors have also curbed the growth of the publishing
industry. Four years of economic crisis have done little to spur
interest in what many Indonesians -- understandably -- consider a
luxury. "If Indonesians want escape and fantasy, they turn on the
television," quips Winarno, director of Grasindo Publishing, which is
part of country's biggest media firm, the Kompas Gramedia Group. The
cash-crunch fuels a domino effect: Writers stop writing if no one can
afford to buy their books.
But some industry players say writers themselves are often to blame.
Censorship is not as relevant as before, but "writers still use that
excuse," says McGlynn. Former political prisoner Isak adds that
old-timers like Pramoedya are still writing while their younger
counterparts "have not responded to the opportunities before them with
equal creativity."
Another hindrance to a sustained literary renaissance is evident at
book launches, where the crowd is nearly always the same. Novelist
Lestari says some members of this tight-knit group call her a "bastard
child." They don't like the fact that she doesn't have a background in
literature, sings with a pop group, and poses happily for glossy
magazines. Lestari pursues literature the same way she does music,
with pop sensibilities; book signings are held down at the shopping
mall, rather than at poetry readings. Lestari isn't alone in wanting
to melt the snobbery about pop culture. Daniel Ziv, editor of cultural
magazine Djakarta!, says books like Supernova are popular because
"they don't reek of highbrow exclusivity."
Better business savvy might also boost sales. Smaller publishers try
to draw in bookstores with sparse leaflets that list only titles and
prices. Sales calls are rare, making it "difficult for buyers to be
intrigued," says shopowner Hutabarat. Worse, titles are rarely
reprinted; in five years' time you may need to visit a secondhand
bookshop to get a copy of Supernova. Distribution is limited to major
towns and cities.
Many writers and poets also focus on writing for literary journals,
thus depriving them of the future royalties they'd get from book sales
with a more mainstream audience. Describing this body of work as "lost
literature," Lontar's McGlynn plans to work with the National
Documentation Centre to form a digital library. "There's so much out
there, we cannot reissue all of it," says McGlynn.
Other ideas, too, could help foster Indonesian literature. Since
cassettes cost half the price of a book, McGlynn wants to put novels
on tape. Audio books would also appeal better to the many societies
that remain largely oral but have a rich literary tradition. Referring
to the Javanese shadow puppetry based on the Mahabharata and Ramayana
epics, McGlynn says that "an old man who can recite the entire wayang
is not illiterate."
But for all the efforts at fostering and preserving Indonesian
literature, there is a less visible threat to its growth. "Many
writers become celebrities," says publisher Winarno. "They write too
many columns, and lose sight of producing literature." For now at
least, that's the path Dewi Lestari seems to be following. Despite
having expanded the audience for books, she isn't interested in other
authors or even in writing another novel; her next project is a solo
pop album. "It's better to diversify one creation than to put out 10
titles," says Lestari. The "creation," it seems, is not her writing,
but herself.