Sitor expresses thoughts with relish

By Dini S. Djalal

JAKARTA (JP): Sitor Situmorang, one of Indonesia's most famous poets, spoke about all the places he has lived in. Los Angeles, New York, The Hague, Islamabad, Paris. He listed them off in an interview with nonchalance, and referred to them as "settings" or "stimulants" rather than home addresses.

When asked about his current abode, he said that he was a resident of the Netherlands who commuted back and forth to Paris and, before that, of Pakistan. Sitor referred to the Netherlands as his "official domicile," not once did he say it was his home.

It's a little surprising that this great traveler should find the concept of home difficult to grasp. This is a man who, at the beginning of the New Order in 1966, spent eight years in prison without trial. Then two years under house arrest before he moved to Europe to lecture at Leiden University. This is a man who writes vivid vignettes of life on the road.

Yet even more vivid are his poems inspired by the place of his birth, Harianboho village near Lake Toba in North Sumatra. Indeed, Sitor says that he is struck by how potent the Batak landscape and experience remains in his mind and how he keeps referring to his Batak childhood even when removed by thousands of miles and nearly six decades.

"All I have to tell while jet-setting are certain emotional things from my childhood which I have internalized," said Sitor. Sitor's poems include his home which needs no physical address to be real.

Sitor is 73, but shows little sign of old age as he is occasionally argumentative and mentally and physically brisk. He expresses his thoughts with relish but also with deliberation and contemplation, indicating an intellect always in search of a better, more truthful answer.

While reading his poetry onstage last week at Rendra's studio in Cipayung, West Java, he shuffled his feet to and fro, his physical being seemingly as restless as his mind.

Sitor will perform again at Cemara 6 Gallery tomorrow before returning to Europe. But if you miss him this time, you can wait for the October launch of a new English-language anthology of Sitor's works, To Love, To Wander, translated by John McGlynn and published by the Lontar Foundation.

The following are excerpts from the interview.

Question: Do you feel there is a high appreciation for poetry today?

Answer: I personally have no reason to complain that there is no interest in poetry. My books issued by Indonesian publishers are always sold out... And poetry related to traditional oral culture is still strong. It doesn't have to take the form of what we modern poets and writers see as contemporary, there is much going on outside the so-called official modern world of Indonesian poetry and prose. I never see myself as the only expression that is meaningful to the cultural life of the nation. There are many, many forms, like songs, reading of oral literature at the village level, ritual expressions, whereby the language is used according to criteria of beauty. This is a whole scene we should not lose sight of... I am always conscious of my place.

Q: How would you describe your poetry?

A: I would like my poetry to be easily understood. I admire the directness and simpleness of folk poetry, but I can't repeat oral traditions since I live in the modern world. If I read my poetry to a village man, it would sound nonsense to him. I would like my poetry to be understood by everyone.

Q: You were once politically active. How do you feel about current politics here and the democracy movement?

A: Any state in 1997 faces the challenge of democratization. You can't build a modern economy that stays efficient because of the democratic system. I am not an economist, but you can start something without the formal trappings of democracy. Yet when economic growth allows this modernization to start, you have to start accepting democracy. You can have short-term growth based on the tightening of laborers' belts, but if this is a permanent feature of the economy, then there's something wrong. I'm an observer now, and I see there is a lot of labor unrest. This shows consciousness of democratization, and a result of modernization.

Q: You were very active with the Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI, which merged with other parties to become the Indonesian Democratic Party -- PDI). Do you consider yourself a PDI supporter?

A: I was a member of PNI since I was 23 years old. But PDI is not PNI. PNI vanished into PDI, and the establishment of PDI indirectly abolished PNI. Normally, however, I do vote for PDI.

Q: Are you still pro-Sukarno?

A: That's historically true. But Sukarno means so many things to so many people. I'm pro-Sukarno but according to what Sukarno means to me. When I call myself a nationalist, I always refer to Sukarno's legacy, the 1945 Constitution, his failures and his successes, as a reference point for my view on politics... There are many negative ideas on Sukarno today, but I need this historical approach. To say pro- or anti-Sukarno is too vague. It's more productive ask what did he do, to refer objectively to what he did at crucial moments in Indonesian history. We must try to refrain from character assassination only.

Q: And your opinion of Megawati?

A: Megawati in space and time is not Sukarno. Megawati may not be charismatic, but some groups project charisma onto her. But the charisma factor will lessen in importance. The challenge now is how to deal with this role, not in terms of ideology, but in terms of practical politics. To get involved in politics is to do what is possible, not impossible. Will Megawati create a leadership based on real ability or just charisma?

Q: You were imprisoned for a long time for allegedly subversive activities. Do you feel bitter now?

A: No. While in jail it was a bitter experience. But after my release, I came to see it as part of my personal growth. I learned to look at it philosophically. Although at that moment, physically, of course there was bitterness (laughs).

Q: Pramoedya spent his time in prison keeping his writing alive by reciting his stories to fellow inmates. Did you do the same?

A: Writing was totally forbidden, and reading was restricted to religious texts. We were not allowed anything, including pencils. I recited some poems to myself, to memorize them, but I could not memorize even my own poems. I'm not like Rendra, I have no ability to memorize like him. So I couldn't proceed with my ideas... but thankfully, after my release, some dead ideas came back and took form.

Q: You were once a journalist. Why did you stop?

A: I was a journalist at the time of the revolution, from 1945 to 1950. In fact, my last day as a journalist was spent reporting the transfer of sovereignty from the Dutch to Sukarno. It was Dec. 29, 1949. Why did I stop? I had literary ambitions.

Q: I read that you also studied cinematography in the United States...

A: In 1956, I received a grant to study cinematography at the University of Southern California. At the time, I was teaching criticism at The National Theater Academy of Indonesia. I was not planning to be a cineast, but thought I should know as much as possible about film-making techniques to expand my knowledge as a critic. I didn't want to just watch films.

Q: You also attracted a lot of controversy by writing a polemic with Gunawan Mohamad on the cultural manifesto. Can you explain?

A: I don't like to talk about this in these conditions. I feel that thirty-five years after the polemic, there is still no atmosphere for a real objective attitude to certain positions taken by one group vis-a-vis another group. It's still too much where I say something, Pramoedya says something, and it's taken in context where one is thought of as having historical truth. Now Gunawan is trying to create an atmosphere where we can talk more objectively about polemics. But I feel that after 35 years, there is still animosity and hate.

Q: You talked earlier about having literary ambitions. Do you feel you've now achieved those ambitions?

A: That's a big question! I received the first big response to my poetry in 1953, that made me feel confident. Forty-five years later, if somebody asks me what I do, I say that I have no job. If they insist, I will say that I write. Is this not a job? No. Firstly because it doesn't pay. I've never felt like I could provide for my family. It's a calling, not a job.

Q: And after living so many years abroad, do you still feel connected to Indonesia?

A: I miss knowing what's going on with literary developments, with new writers. My knowledge is now too fragmented. When I taught at Leiden, I had access to Indonesian magazines and newspapers, but even then it was not enough... Yet I always felt a psychological and cultural bond to Indonesia, although now I get this queer feeling when reading newspapers and not understanding some of the new Indonesian words and definitely the abbreviations (laughs).

Q: Would you consider moving back?

A: I am a wanderer in the technical sense. The historian Taufiq Abdullah once said, "wander around until it becomes like home". I wish it was true. It's true in the physical sense, that you have to adjust to your surroundings, and there's no way back to Lake Toba! It is my hope that he means this in terms of being an Indonesian citizen in the modern sense. But then comes the aspect of globalization. Am I a world citizen or just an Indonesian expat in the Netherlands? And am I still a Batak?... In my culture, at this age, you are supposed to undergo this rite of passage where you retreat, meditate and distance yourself from worldly things. My relatives are preparing me for this and to return here. I would like to come back, but there are practicalities. I don't have a pension here, I don't have a house. I would be a big nuisance for my family after a lifetime of not providing for them. In my family I am an upholder of tradition but always an absent one.

Q: So do you feel more Batak than Indonesian?

A: To me, there is no difference between being Batak and being Indonesian. If I had no insight on being Batak, I would have no insight on being Indonesian... However, I noticed that all my themes refer back to my early childhood, from the age of five to 18. I keep moving but the places are settings, stimulants. Not every poet will agree with me but I think a poet keeps groping back to absorb the spiritual and emotional reserve accumulated in his childhood. I lived at the edge of Lake Toba, and any corner of that country I can see, it pops up in my poetry like spiritual geography.