Narratives between the Lines

After Suharto’s presidency ended in 1998, the dominant historical narrative of 1 March 1949 was increasingly criticized as a vehicle for self-legitimation and glorification of the state.

The sensitivity of the Serangan Umum 1 Maret was a central concern of my research from the beginning, but it appeared to be a relatively difficult topic of conversation. In each of my individual interviews with participants, I asked about their personal views on this issue and what they knew about it. This led to a few uncomfortable situations, as a common answer seemed to be “I don’t know.” While some did not seem to be aware of there being dif­ferent historical narratives at all, others said they knew too little to be of any interest, suggesting I should “just ask Henry about this.” A number of inter­viewees did not seem to want to take a stance, and some politely refused to answer. Overall, there seemed to be a tendency to feel that such contro­versies were merely politics. Several of my participants claimed that they weren’t interested in joining such discussions. Kevin, who played Suharto during the reenactment, was one of them. He argued that it was not up to him to make claims on historical truth:

I just take all the information. [...] As far as I know, the making of the script was based on history. You cannot change that; if you change that, you lie to the people. It must be proved by people. It is already legalized. It’s from the books, you have the references. It must be [the] truth.

As Kevin describes here, I learned that the Komunitas used a script dur­ing the reenactment, written by the leader of the historical society, Henry.

The Komunitas was actually quite a hierarchical community in which all decisions, from whom I could interview to vital decisions concerning the script, were made by Henry. Why and how those decisions were made often remained unclear to me. As Brsdder et al. (2017) have described, reenac­tors with the most years of experience and extensive historical knowledge are often regarded as having the most authority. Additionally, the society’s hierarchy, to some extent a characteristic of “Javanese culture” (Anderson, 2001), might explain why participants did not want to answer or share their views on this “political debate.” For a number of reenactors, most of their historical knowledge seemed focused on facts about weaponry, uniforms, and ranks rather than broader political and historical processes. The inter­views left one of the central concerns of my research shrouded in mystery until I was dressed up in my own Indonesian guerrilla outfit.

Standing in the parking lot of the Benteng Vredeburg, I was yet unaware of how the historical narrative of the attack on 1 March 1949 would be reen­acted and listened carefully to the soundscape for clues. A male voice nar­rated the reenactment in various chapters, providing historical context for the audience and cues for the reenactors. It started with Operation Kraai and the attack on Yogyakarta, followed by the preparation of the coun­ter-attack, the general offensive itself, and, of course, victory. Listening carefully to the narration, I couldn’t help but feel a sort of anti-climax with regards to “one of the main controversies in Indonesian historiography” (Ahmad, 2016, p. 29): the question of who should be credited with initiat­ing the attack.

Initially, I interpreted this as a strategic choice. The organization of the reenactment in Yogyakarta was a complex negotiation between all kinds of actors, from local shops and museums to the Culture Office and even the national military. Participating in the preparations for the event, I quickly learned about the large scale of the operation on both logistic and financial levels, from the small costs of photocopies and meals during meetings to sugar, fertilizer, and the complete catering for all visiting reenactors and audience members. The biggest expense by far was the tank that had to be transported 399 kilometers by truck, accompanied by nine members of military personnel. The total budget was more than 49 million rupiah, approximately 15 times the average monthly income.⁷ While every member of the Komunitas was asked to make a donation, it was clear that the sum would not be enough, by far. Months prior to the event, Henry and some of the other reenactors had started what they called “lobbying” for contribu­tions by visiting organizations for veterans, museums, the Culture Office in Yogyakarta, and local businesses such as hotels and restaurants.

However, the dismissive responses to my interview questions, in combina­tion with the few vague seconds that were attributed to the issue in the show, might indicate another perspective. I increasingly realized that the political controversy of the Serangan Umum 1 Maret simply had less significance to the reenactors than I thought. By that time, I had already devoted a great amount of my fieldwork time to the question of which exact version of the Serangan Umum 1 Maret would be performed by participants, assuming it would demonstrate a direct relation with a specific political perspective. However, focusing on clear-cut answers blindsided me rather than allowing me to notice what can be found between the lines. Similar to many reenact­ment groups in Europe, the Komunitas Djokjakarta 1945 claimed to be a nonpolitical reenactment group. In an article written by one of its members on the international website seaglobe.com, the author describes reenactors as “history buffs and military enthusiasts [...] focused not on politics, but on learning about the past” (Widiotomo Notohadikoesoemo, 2016). Perhaps debates about the historical narrative of who initiated the Serangan Umum 1 Maret were just considered irrelevant to reenacting. But then, the question remains, what do they actually reenact?