Twilight in Djakarta

"Because people don't trust each other they do not believe that human beings are equal and that they can and must be able to live together."

Whether in post-independence Djakarta or the US today, Mochtar Lubis has captured the crux of what ails society in that single sentence. Others thought so, too. I've borrowed a copy of Twilight in Djakarta from the university library, and at least three different readers have seized on this same statement, judging by the underlines, asterisks, and exclamation points that embellish it. (Who else has read this book since it entered circulation in 1964? For what classes or other purposes have they read? Why did they feel justified in marking the text? And why does any of this matter to me?) 

 

In any event, this is clearly not a happy novel, but one dominated by cynicism and fatalism, which is not surprising when one considers the paroxysms of violence, poor governance, and doubt Indonesia faced as Lubis wrote. Lubis, a journalist whose critical editorials led to arrest, and various bouts of imprisonment, was well-acquainted with these challenges. In Lubis's world, only the poorest and lowliest avoid the plague of corruption, and only then for lack of opportunity rather than a moral compass. For this class Lubis observes, "under the Dutch or under our own people, no different."

Twilight in Djakarta was the first Indonesian novel to be translated into English but like his sentiments or trust (or the lack thereof), so many of the universal truths Lubis articulated remain valid today. Lubis philosophizes a bit, expounding on such (arguably universal) notions as "you must seize whatever you desire and whatever makes you happy, quickly and without hesitation," (though one can certainly debate the moral imperative of such a statement), while also providing a masterclass on the perils and pitfalls of democracy. 

 

About this latter he writes "We're not going to force the people to swallow our ideas. We can only inform them of these ideas and hope that people will gradually understand, accept and make the ideas their own. Therein lies the strength of democracy, but its weakness as well." One need look no further than the response to the current pandemic to see this principle in action. Likewise, Lubis notes "one of the basic assumptions in a democracy is that every person living in it must have enough intelligence to make conscious choices." Enough intelligence? I think I actually snorted.

My favorite observation, though, is made by one of Lubis's ubiquitous officials while in flight over his troubled country. "Below him spread tall and steep mountain ranges, valleys in greens and yellows, and from time to time the brilliant light of the sun flashed on the surface of streams which gleamed in their winding course below. A yellowish-white road stretched through the countryside. From above, it looked like a fine, smooth road. But Murhalim knew how it was in reality: murderous for vehicles, full of pot-holes, deteriorating with every passing year..." If that's not an analogy for life, I don't know what is, for how many times does something look bright and shiny and unblemished from a distance but shows itself to be otherwise upon close examination?

Beyond such imperatives, beyond the essence of the burgeoning city itself, Lubis provides valuable insights into the myriad matters large and small Indonesia (and so many other countries) needed to grapple with in transitioning to independence. Again and again Lubis returns to the idea of the impacts of Western thought and technology on Indonesian culture and tradition, and his concern for both the people coming to terms with this new world, as well as Indonesia's image, as when one of the characters expresses concern that "We either have to accept and use it or we'll just have to go on being a backward nation." The outsize importance and influence of China, America, and the the USSR permeate the plot; substitute the EU for the USSR and one could undoubtedly make the same  observation today.

When Lyndon Johnson said, "You do not take a person who, for years, has been hobbled by chains and liberate him, bring him up to the starting line of a race and then say, "you are free to compete with all the others," and still justly believe that you have been completely fair," he was speaking of race in America and the acute need for affirmative action. Yet his words seem most fitting in contextualizing what the ("first") world asks of countries in the developing world on a regular basis. Like much else Lubis illuminates, neither has that fact changed in the nearly 60 years since publication.

Brother Enemy: The War After the War

Brother Enemy is a detailed look at a conflict most Americans have not heard of: that between Vietnam and Cambodia in the late 70s and early 80s. More broadly, this was was a Sino-Soviet proxy war, with the Chinese strongly backing Cambodia (or the Democratic Republic of Kampuchea, as its Khmer Rouge rulers christened it) and Vietnam drawing support from the Soviets. Not quite the narrative non-fiction I had hoped, Brother Enemy is a thorough (read: weedy) overview not only of the conflict itself, but of the many geopolitical factors that played into it. In no particular order, these include historic tensions between Vietnam and Cambodia; Vietnam and China; Vietnam and Thailand; the legacy of the first (French) and second (American) Vietnam Wars; the historic role of China in Southeast Asia; the jockeying for position of China, the U.S., and the Soviet Union; the emergence of the Khmer Rouge followed by the utter devastation they wrought on every aspect of life in Cambodia; and U.S. policy toward Vietnam, particularly as regards normalization of diplomatic relations following the Vietnam War, the issue of which was dominated by the MIA question. I've probably missed a couple, but you get the idea. As a journalist, Nayan Chanda had access to impeccable sources at the highest level of every government and regime; it's difficult to imagine a more complete or more even-handed approach.


That said, what Chanda endows upon Brother Enemy in journalist integrity, he lacks in storytelling. Although there are flashes of possible brilliance - the Yugoslav and Chinese diplomats making a mad rush for the Thai border following the Vietnamese assault on Phnom Penh or the momentarily-desired political asylum request of Prince Sihanouk to the United States - by and large, this reads as a white paper. The shame in that is the stories that could have been told, although in fairness 1) Chanda is a journalist, seeking to provide a complete (and seemingly balanced/unbiased) accounting and 2) the book was written in 1986, in the last great thrust of the Cold War. 
 
latter point is especially interesting to reflect upon, for every aspect of the conflict and the book is imbued with the flavors of the Cold War. In hindsight, today's reader knows this was perhaps the last great paroxysm of that war, but in 1986, the Cold War seemed destined to go the distance. (In second grade, we loathed the Soviets, actively cheering against them during the Calgary Olympics, during which my teacher kept a medal table on the blackboard that we updated daily, and once practiced hiding under our desks in the event of an attack. In third grade, we cheered the fall of the Berlin Wall and understood we needn't concern ourselves with Soviets anymore. Soviet attack drills have now given way to active shooter drills, the likelihood of which is far, far greater on any given day in America than a Soviet attack ever was. But I digress.)


Also unresolved (and unresolvable) in 1986: questions of national identity vis-a-vis the big powers. In my travels I've often noticed that the identity of countries with long experience of external pressure and power (even if not outright subjugation) becomes wrapped up with the identity of the larger power. In the Baltic states, it's rare to listen to more than three sentences without a reference to Russia or the Soviets; in Poland, it's the Prussians and Russians; and several years ago in Cuba I was surprised to hear how frequently the US was spoken of by those providing context of Cuban culture and identity. We Americans may give scant thought to the little island off the Keys, but literally and figuratively, our land casts a massive shadow that no one there can escape. (Even more surprising in Cuba: the box of Lucky Charms for sale in the grocery store under the auspices of (Swiss) Nestle, who purchased the rights to the Cuban market from (American) General Mills. Again, I digress.) 
 
Chanda does an admirable job of speaking to the influence of China on the Vietnamese identity, but - largely, one assumes, because Cambodia is still in the throes of warfare - says much less, if anything about the long-term influence of China (or any other country) on Cambodian nationalism, identity, or culture. Chanda does address an issue that could be ripped from the headlines today when he speaks about the tensions over rights to the islands in the South China Sea; to that end, I could only shake my head at the incomplete reporting even the best news sources today offer. There's simply too much history to include in the thousand words some poor journalist is allotted to explain the most recent developments and so that's all we get: current developments and no context. Alas.


Most impressively, though, is the ways in which Brother Enemy grapples with the influence of the big powers - for the purposes of his work, those would be China, the Soviet Union, and the US - on the smaller countries. Anger toward imperialism is an easy trap to fall into - for me, I think of the Panama Canal and David McCullough's Path Between the Seas or Hawaii, which Julia Flynn Siler argues in Lost Kingdom was the U.S.'s first imperial adventure or even the news out of Mali this past week that the leader of the recent coup there was trained by the U.S. military. More broadly, one need look no further than Suzy Hansen's Notes on a Foreign Country, in which she forcefully and effectively makes the case that decisions by the U.S. regularly and directly impact the lives of those around the world....and that because of the nature of U.S. imperialism, as compared to the old European empires, the U.S. version is equally if not more insidious and damaging than those older empires, which were openly acknowledged, and whose ties, for better or for worse, were formalized. 
 
So it's all very depressing, and again, easy to feel a burst of anger about foreign policy. But. But - and I think this may be irony - Chanda's work actually made me feel better instead of worse in the sense that this.is.what.countries.do. All countries. From time immemorial, it seems. Because competition. Because pride (personal and national). Because sometimes man just likes a fight. The best we can hope for, it seems, is writers and reporters like Chanda to capture the story and raise it to the level of consciousness it deserves. For how many stories like this one simply go untold?

Crossing the Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity

The first thing to say about Crossing the Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity is that it’s not actually about work. The second thing is, my God, what would it be, to be able to write as David Whyte does? Whyte’s lyricism infuses the pages with linguistic beauty that has to be experienced to be understood.

This book, you see, was supposed to be merely a distraction for me, an interlude between various histories of Southeast Asia, works of fiction by Vietnamese and Indonesian authors, tales – real and merely informed – of war and colonialism and regret. Work, in fact. Instead, and in no small part because of the prose, Crossing the Sea captivated me wholly and completely, slightly unnerving me in the process, for this book felt as though it could have been written for me, an admittedly absurd idea.

Against the backdrop of the Galapagos in the opening chapters and the Spanish steps at the end, with Seattle and Snowdonia nestled snuggly in the middle, Whyte works his wordsmith magic. He does so in describing his mother, she who crossed the Irish Sea at 15, against the wishes of her widowed father. Here, Whyte hones in on the “effervescent, temporary power of leave-taking and the powerlessness of those left behind” such that the reader can picture a bent man, raging against the world, as he plunges a knife deep into a chair, the only course of action left for him. Is it any wonder that her son perceives the mark this experience has left, unspoken though it may be? “She has never said it out loud; she has always lived it out loud.” (p. 109) The courage of the leave-taking, the courage of living life out loud: the determined and tenacious teen smoothed and strengthened over time as seaglass tumbled by waves.

Whyte similarly conjures imagery from ink when he reflects on the fortune that befalls those who know beyond a superficial level how to make a life of meaning, writing that this notion of purpose “is silver, gold, the moon, and the stars to those who struggle for the merest glimmer of what they want or what they are suited to.” Before I’d fully digested his meaning, I was transported, fairy-like, to twirl in the moonlight beneath ribbons of metallic light.

In pondering the essence of a life well lived, Whyte writes “death’s tide washes over everything we have taken so long to write in the sand.” (p. 178) Life: ephemeral; time: ever slippery, and the chief mistress of Crossing the Sea. I’ll say no more of her than that to read “speed is a sin…glu[ing] us into whatever immobile, unattending identity we have constructed” (p. 121) was to be hit in the solar plexus, so uncanny was the resonance with my own personal reckonings.

Though they make their homes in different genres, the parallels between Whyte’s philosophies and those of Alan Watts or Pema Chödrön are many and remarkable. Only the choice of words separates their notions of self-determination powered by the twin undercurrents of joy and gratitude and necessity of remaining wholly in the moment. Whyte’s observation that there are “powers at play in the world about which [we] know very little” could just as easily have come from either Chödrön or Watts.

Like Chödrön, Whyte writes of edges galore, while it’s in the notion of unmaking a life where Watts’ and Whyte’s thoughts are twinned. Where Watts presents the idea of embroidery representing exterior and interior life – beautiful on the front and messy threads hidden beneath – Whyte merely observes that “in order to stay alive, we have to unmake a living in order to get back to living the life we wanted for ourselves” (p. 77). Where Watts stops, Whyte pushes on, asking: for what is desire? The origin of the word, the reader learns, is the old Latin root, de sider, or of the stars. “To have a desire in life literally means to keep your star in sight, to follow a glimmer, a beacon, a disappearing will-o’-the-wisp over the horizon into someplace you cannot yet fully imagine” (p. 78). Here again my mind takes flight, slipping the surly bonds of earth of follow Whyte’s glimmer, whatever it may illuminate.

Lest I appear to slander the title, I’ll slip in that it’s not wholly true to say work does not feature. After all, in speaking of dignity and personal honor, Whyte admonishes his reader of “certain things we should not do, certain people we should not work for, lines we should not cross…money we should not earn…” (p. 90). In the event the deed is done? “We must speak out, take the wheel, call the rest of the crew ourselves, or, if all of these avenues are blocked, abandon ship, resign, and go elsewhere” (p. 47). Of the workplace itself, Whyte notes presciently of “multi-ethnic, eccentric, and slightly chaotic organizations” that will be both infinitely more ungovernable and adaptable than the reader of 2001 could imagine. Check, check, and check.

Only once does Crossing the Sea begin to drag a bit; ironically, it’s as Whyte describes his transition to full-time poet that his writing reaches a low ebb. It is in returning, in thought though not in person, to the Galapagos that he recovers, for in reading “There is no mercy in this world if at least once in our lives we do not feel the privilege of being wanted where we also want to be wanted” (p. 195) is one not quickened?

Multiple times as I read, I wondered if I needn’t ruminate on Whyte’s words or his meaning so deeply, if I might perhaps be better served merely to luxuriate in the wash of his lush prose over me. Whyte’s own words put paid to such a notion. Writing of Margaret Thatcher, he observes that whatever else she may have been she was only and always “unutterably herself,” thus persuading me that my own nature could not, or at least should not, be so easily countermanded. When Whyte doubled down a few chapters later writing “one of the distinguishing features of any courageous human being is the ability to remain unutterably themselves…” (p. 165), I was glad for my insight though admittedly unsure that I qualify for such lofty esteem. The sentiment, though, well the sentiment is something for which we all might strive.