Robina Saha | CRCS | Article
Robina Saha is a Shansi Fellow to Indonesia. She taught english at the Center for Religious and Cross-cultural Studies, Gadjah Mada University Yogyakarta from August 2014 – to June 2016.
I first visited the city of Banda Aceh in the spring of 2009. As I stepped out of the airport and drove into town, I was greeted by a quiet Indonesian city framed by a gorgeous vista of mountains to the south, glittering coastline in the north, and tranquil rice paddies in between. Smooth, wide roads and fresh-faced buildings were the most telling signs of the city’s destruction at the hands of the 2004 tsunami and the investment that flowed into Aceh in its wake. The hotel where I stayed displayed photos of boats that had crashed into houses miles away from shore, some of which remain in situ today as memorials and tourist attractions. But it was hard to map these images of debris and desolation onto the clean, quiet little space I traversed between the hotel and the public school where I taught for a week.
At sixteen, I knew little about Aceh apart from its destructive encounter with the tsunami. Although I was born in Indonesia and lived in Jakarta for the first six years of my life, Aceh was geographically, culturally and politically as far removed as any other country. Until 2005, the region had been embroiled in a bloody conflict between the Indonesian military and the separatist Free Aceh Movement; at the time, travel to Aceh was rare and required special permits. Growing up in metropolitan cities where headscarves were rare and the vast majority of Indonesians I knew were from the island of Java, Aceh was something we only heard about on the news in relation to sharia law and ongoing violence. Looking back, I went to Aceh with an image not dissimilar to the one most Americans have of the Middle East, or Indians of Kashmir: Islamic fundamentalism and destruction.
Upon actually arriving in Banda Aceh, I felt a little foolish for being surprised, half-expecting to be accosted by the sharia police at every corner. While all the Indonesian women wore jilbabs (headscarves), I was never made to feel uncomfortable for leaving my frizzy nest of hair exposed. If anything, in a city more accustomed to Western NGO-workers, my face and arms were of interest mainly in order to determine whether I was possibly related to any Bollywood stars (specifically: Kajol; answer: I wish). Like many cities in Indonesia, there are mosques on every street, and I enjoyed seeing the variety of styles and sizes, from simple neighbourhood masjids to the toweringly beautiful Baiturrahman Grand Mosque. At prayer time, the entire city, warungs and all, would shut down, often leaving us to order room service nasi goreng or head to the lone Pizza Hut where we would sip on bottles of Coca Cola and wait it out.
In other words, my prevailing impression of Banda Aceh was of a quiet, conservative, and surprisingly lovely Muslim city populated by Indonesians just as friendly, curious and warmly hospitable as any other I’ve met. Later, upon reflection, I realised that as a visiting foreigner it was easy to glance over the strict policing of moral codes when I wasn’t the target. I never crossed the sharia police in their khaki uniforms, prowling the streets in pick-up trucks and lying in wait at roadblocks in search of unmarried Indonesian couples and uncovered Muslim women. After reading more about the region’s turbulent history, I came to appreciate that I had barely scratched at the surface layer of a city grappling with the process of constructing a contemporary social and political Islamic identity. The after-effects of a natural disaster popularly viewed as a punishment from Allah for decades of civil war had etched themselves far more deeply in the Acehnese psyche than I could have shallowly perceived.
Although I was born in, come from, and grew up in countries with significant Muslim populations, this was in many ways my first conscious confrontation with the blurred convergences between the Islam I saw in the media and what I observed on the ground. At times it can feel like staring at a double-exposure, trying to figure out where one image ends and the other begins. Looking back, although I wouldn’t have said it at the time, many of the decisions I made over the next six years—learning Arabic, studying Islamic culture and politics, writing my senior thesis on the post-9/11 display of Islamic art in Western museums, and ultimately coming back to Indonesia as a Shansi Fellow—could potentially be traced back to this first encounter with contemporary Islam and the questions it sparked in my mind about the representations and realities of Muslims around the world.
When I was first offered the Jogja fellowship in November 2013, I was deep in the process of writing my senior thesis, which was in part a critique of the Islamic art field for its exclusion of most non-Middle Eastern Islamic cultures. Having grown out of European colonial paradigms of Islam, the Middle East and Asia, what we call “Islamic art” is largely limited to the art and architecture of the Arabian Peninsula, Central Asia, Iran, Turkey and India. Islam first arrived in Southeast Asia through trade as early as the 12th century, and today the region makes up a quarter of the world’s Muslim population. It’s also one of many areas that are conspicuously absent from introductory textbooks, museum displays and courses of Islamic art. Specifically in the case of Indonesia, this too can be traced back to the impact of Dutch colonial scholarship, which focused on the archipelago’s Hindu and Buddhist heritage at the expense of its contemporary Islamic culture—partly as a way to delegitimize local Islamic resistance groups. Over time it became an accepted truth that Islamic cultures outside of the European-defined Orient were simply a corruption of the “real” Islam.
In a post-9/11 context where the international image of Islam is largely informed by the puritanical Wahhabism propagated by Saudi Arabia and the fundamentalist extremism carried out by ISIS, I argued in my thesis that the inclusion and visibility of Islamic culture from traditionally peripheral regions like Southeast Asia in displays and discussions of Islamic culture would help challenge the common misconception of a singular Islam located solely in the Middle East. At 200 million and counting, Indonesia has the single largest population of Muslims in the world, and yet most people would struggle to find it on a map. The Islamic culture that developed and spread here in the 15th and 16th centuries is certainly different and more syncretic in character due to its intermixing with pre-existing Hindu and Buddhist religions of the time. But to me this speaks more to the diversity of Islam across the world than the predominance of a single, “original” interpretation that has come to dictate the mainstream international discourse.
Jogja, as the heartland of Javanese culture and the seat of the last major Muslim kingdom in Java, with a majority-Muslim population and a thriving contemporary art scene, presented what seemed like a perfect opportunity to test the ideas I had put forward in my thesis. Despite having grown up in Southeast Asia, I still knew shamefully little about its history of Islamic culture, and I was about to spend two years in the heart of it all. This time, I wanted to come prepared with questions that would frame my thoughts and conversations here.
In the last 15 years, it seems that Indonesia has undergone a sharp Islamic revival, particularly among the younger middle-class generation. When my family left in 1999, it was still relatively rare to see women wearing jilbabs; indeed, for decades, the government had actively discouraged it as a threat to the pluralism that is enshrined in Indonesia’s political doctrine. These days, it’s uncommon for Muslim women not to wear one. Everyone I spoke to in the weeks leading up to my departure, from professors to old family friends, warned of increasing Muslim conservatism, even in a relatively liberal university town like Jogja. I was sharply reminded of my pre-Aceh expectations and the lessons I had learned since, but nonetheless packed a few scarves just in case.
The truth, as always, is a little more complicated. Islam here is certainly more visible than it has ever been. Schools are increasingly adopting policies that emphasise Islamic religious practices and uniforms, even in public universities. In any of my classes, out of roughly twenty-five students it’s rare to see more than two girls without a jilbab. According to a Muslim feminist activist I met a few months ago, this is a marked change from the Suharto era, when jilbabs were banned on school grounds and students and teachers alike could be expelled for wearing one. Wearing a jilbab in the Suharto days, it seems, became a form of symbolic resistance to the regime.
And yet, for many of the young Muslims I meet in Jogja, overt religious piety seems to function more as a public uniform that marks their identity and allows them to fit in. I still remember meeting my friend Imma at a café late one night, who turned out to be a student at the graduate school where I teach. Dressed in a chic powder-pink blouse, she wore her hair uncovered in a pretty shoulder-length bob. Upon discovering that I worked on the same campus as her, she grinned conspiratorially at me and said, “You probably won’t recognise me at school because I usually wear a jilbab.” When I responded with a confused blink, she laughed, explaining that she views the jilbab as a formal uniform for campus the way we wear blazers and heels to work in the West. As a Muslim woman she exercises her right to choose to cover up without compromising her beliefs. For her and her female Muslim friends, choosing not to wear the jilbab has become the new form of public resistance.
It was easy for me to think of Imma and her friends as an exception to the rule. Yet over the past two years I’ve met so many young Indonesians with their own approaches to the way they practice Islam, ranging from Muslims who cover their hair to those who sport chic haircuts; Muslims who identify as queer, gay and transgender; Muslims who have ringtones reminding them to pray during the day yet still drink alcohol at night. As I’ve come to know these people over extended karaoke sessions and late night café hangouts, it’s become clear that the way they practice their faith also constitutes a rejection of the idea of a single interpretation of Islamic law and culture.
A few months ago, Indonesia attracted international attention when it was featured in a New York Times article that described a film made by Nadhlatul Ulama (NU), Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, which denounces the actions of ISIS and promotes tolerance—or, as the author Joe Cochrane puts it, “a relentless, religious repudiation of the Islamic State and the opening salvo in a global campaign by the world’s largest Muslim group to challenge its ideology head-on.” The film is designed to introduce the world to NU and Islam Nusantara, or Indonesian Islam, as a tolerant and moderate alternative to fundamentalism and Wahhabist orthodoxy, rooted in traditionalist Javanese approaches.
Islam in Indonesia certainly can provide a model for tolerance and pluralism within a global Islamic framework. And like any other religious society, it also has its own tensions and fault lines. In Jogja it’s common for pro-LGBT and feminist events and film screenings to be shut down or cancelled by threats from radical groups like the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI) and the Front Jihad Islam (FJI). Many of these communities have been forced underground, and news is most often spread by word of mouth for fear of retaliation. My friends have been threatened and beaten at parties where the police have stood by and watched as FPI thugs lay waste to the venue. Just a few months ago, the city was plastered with anti-LGBT propaganda, and Pondok Pesantren Waria Al Fatah, an Islamic school for transgender Muslims, was forced to shut down amidst waves of extremist-led homophobic rallies.
In discussions about Islam and extremism, I often hear non-Muslim friends, family and colleagues calling upon Muslim communities to reject Islamic fundamentalism. That it is the responsibility of the moderate Muslims of the world to provide proof that they exist, to drown out the noise of radicalism that has dominated the airwaves. I’ve always felt uncomfortable with this idea because it ignores the fact that Muslims themselves are already the single largest victim of fundamentalist violence and oppression. For every beating, cancelled event and anti-progressive demonstration, there are Indonesian Muslims fighting back on the ground and on social media, rejecting the actions of these groups as un-Islamic—a word that continues to shift its meaning every time it is used.
Last December, I went back to Aceh to visit the Shansi fellows there. In many ways it was like being there for the first time; there was so much more to see and learn about beyond my limited initial experience. This time, armed with a motorbike, friends on the ground, and the ability to speak Indonesian again, I could finally start to fill in the outlines sketched in my mind six years ago with colour and complexity. One thing I didn’t notice the first time was the absence of cinemas, which were banned across Aceh under post-tsunami sharia law; men and women are not allowed to sit together in dark spaces, and foreign films are considered too promiscuous for Muslim audiences. The nearest movie theatre is in Medan, a fourteen-hour bus ride south.
Yet Acehnese film culture is far from dying. One night while we were staying in Banda Aceh, my co-fellow Leila was asked to judge a few short documentaries made by local filmmakers. We drove to a small studio tucked away on in a quiet street corner, where a group of young Muslim men greeted us with salak fruit and bottles of water. The corridor outside the screening room was lined with posters of short films and documentaries that, it turned out, had been organised and often produced by the same group. They provide resources for young filmmakers, run workshops, and organise screenings and programs like the Aceh Film Festival, which features short films and documentaries from Aceh, Indonesia and abroad. When I asked about the ban on cinemas, they expressed frustration at being unable to screen their films in a local theatre, but it hasn’t deterred them. If anything, the indie film scene has flourished in the wake of conservatism both in quantity and quality; Acehnese films are increasingly gaining recognition at national and international festivals.
In the six years I’ve spent studying Islamic culture and politics, I’ve learned that every one of these seeming contradictions constitutes a small part of the fascinating picture of the global religious, political and cultural phenomenon of Islam. When we allow the rich variety of opinions, practices and traditions across Islam’s broad geographic spread to be reduced to a single interpretation, we lose the shades of variation between depths and shallows, beauty and ugliness, tolerance and extremism. These last few months in particular—revisiting Aceh, travelling to Kashmir for the first time, and witnessing Jogja struggle visibly with surges of intolerance—have served to reinforce the importance of experiencing the broad spectrum of Islam firsthand. And the Islam I encounter in Jogja is as different from Acehnese Islam as it is from Kashmiri Islam, or Saudi Arabian Islam, or Iranian Islam.
I came to Indonesia with so many questions about Islam, and I will almost certainly leave it with just as many. But living here, witnessing the different facets of Islam Nusantara everyday has forced me to continuously confront my conceptions of Islam in a way that simply studying it from afar never could. Learning to recognise, understand and embrace these distinctions, contradictions and complexities has been a defining theme not only of my fellowship, but my entire understanding of contemporary Islam. Wherever my life takes me after Shansi, I hope I can continue to encounter Islam in all its various, beautiful, troubling, complex forms.
This article also published in http://shansi.org/
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Nidaul Hasanah | CRCS | Artikel
“Borobudur penuh ‘polusi’, demikian menurut Pak Sucoro Sejak diresmikan sebagai Warisan Budaya Dunia oleh UNESCO pada 1991, terjadi peningkatan kunjungan turis yang luar biasa ke Borobudur. Sehingga kini Borobudur tak lagi hanya milik Indonesia atau umat Buddha, tetapi milik dunia. Namun menurut Pak Sucoro, justru inilah yang menjadi akar “polusi” terhadap Borobudur, sehingga ia berinisiatif mendirikan Warung Info Jagad Cleguk dan menginisiasi festival tahunan Ruwat Rawat Borobudur.
Anggapan bahwa Borobudur adalah objek wisata, membuat turis yang berkunjung bebas memperlakukan Borobudur semaunya. Inilah yang memicu kesedihan dan keprihatinan Pak Sucoro, warga asli Borobudur yang menjadi saksi berbagai perubahan pengelolaan Candi Buddha terbesar di dunia itu. ”Dulu rumah saya dekat sekali dengan Borobudur,” cerita Pak Sucoro. “Waktu itu Borobudur tidak seluas sekarang. Tapi pada tahun 80-an terjadi penggusuran untuk memperluas area wisata Borobudur. Rumah saya termasuk yang digusur,” kenangnya.
Pada satu sisi ia bangga karena Borobudur kini dikenal luas oleh masyarakat dunia. Namun sayangnya, selain turis mulai lupa bahwa Borobudur juga tempat suci, tidak semua orang bisa menikmati akses wisata ke Borobudur. Masyarakat sekitar Borobudur juga harus membayar Rp 35.000 untuk bisa masuk pada area wisata. Sehingga Borobudur yang dikelola oleh PT Taman Wisata Borobudur, kini hanya bisa dinikmati oleh turis yang memiliki uang saja. Kondisi inilah yang menguatkan tekad Pak Sucoro atau yang akrab disapa Pak Coro untuk mengembalikan keharmonisan Borobudur dengan lingkungan sekitarnya. Pada tahun 2003 ia pun mendirikan Warung Info Jagad Cleguk (WIJC) sebagai tempat berkumpul orang-orang yang memiliki ide dan keprihatinan yang sama terhadap Borobudur. Dari warung kecil depan rumah yang berada tepat didepan halaman parkir Borobudur inilah ia bersama rekan-rekannya menggagas perhelatan tahunan Ruwat Rawat Borobudur yang berlangsung sejak 2003 hingga saat ini.
Mahasiswa CRCS angkatan 2015 yang mengambil mata kuliah advanced study of Buddhism diundang untuk menghadiri puncak acara Ruwat Rawat Borobudur 2016, pada 1 Juni lalu. Festival yang dimulai dari 18 April hingga 1 Juni ini menurut Pak Coro, bertujuan selain untuk membersihkan “polusi” yang terjadi pada Borobudur juga memaksimalkan potensi budaya lokal yang berada di sekitarnya.
Wilis Rengganiasih, praktisi budaya dan salah satu kolaborator acara Ruwat Rawat Borobudur, yang juga menulis tentang Pak Coro dan komunitasnya menjelaskan, “Pak Coro meyakini bahwa keberadaan Candi Borobudur mengintegrasikan dan merefleksikan gagasan filosofis, ajaran agama, motif-motif artistik, arkeologi, dan elemen-elemen kultural serta teknologi yang berguna dan masih relevan bagi masyarakat hingga saat ini. Sehingga Borobudur tidak dipandang sebagai benda mati yang tak mampu berbuat apa-apa. Sebaliknya dia adalah magnet yang mampu menggerakkan setiap sendi kehidupan masyarakat. Sehingga pada Ruwatan Borobudur dipilihlah tari-tarian yang notabene salah satu tradisi masyarakat sekitar dijadikan sebagai penarik massa. Inilah cara yang dianggap Pak Coro paling sesuai untuk merespon ketidakpedulian terhadap kebudayaan lokal disekitar Borobudur”.
Selanjutnya Pak Coro sendiri menjelaskan bahwa pada puncak acara Ruwat Rawat Borobudur kali ini semua kelompok kesenian dari Jawa Tengah dan Yogyakarta berlomba menunjukkan tariannya. Kelompok-kelompok kesenian tersebut datang dengan mengendarai mobil pick up, bus hingga truk demi memeriahkan acara. Tak lupa Kidung Karmawibangga sebagai atraksi utama dipertunjukkan.
Hanya pada hari itu, seluruh masyarakat bisa masuk ke dalam area wisata Borobudur tanpa membayar sepersen pun. Pengunjung dan penjual tumpah ruah meramaikan puncak acara Ruwat Rawat Borobudur. Selesai tari-tarian seluruh masyarakat diajak berkeliling Borobudur. Pak Coro ditemani beberapa orang tua membawa sapu lidi sebagai lambang “pembersihan” Borobudur. Sesampainya di depan Borobudur, mereka berhenti sejenak. Pak Coro sebagai inisiator acara menyampaikan sambutannya. Ia berterima kasih kepada semua pihak yang telah mendukung dan melancarkan Ruwat Rawat Borobudur. Ia juga mengingatkan bahwa tidak hanya turis dari luar Borobudur dan PT Taman Wisata yang wajib merawat Borobudur melainkan penduduk lokal dan seluruh lapisan masyarakat yang hadir dalam Ruwat Rawat Borobudur juga turut menjaga warisan budaya ini. Menurutnya keikutsertaan masyarakat lokal mampu memaksimalkan potensi positif dan meminimalisir hal negatif yang terjadi pada Borobodur.
A.S. Sudjatna | CRCS | Interview
Sejak tahun 2015, Dr. Kimura Toshiaki, associate professor Program Studi Agama, Universitas Tohoku, Sendai, Jepang menjadi salah satu pengajar mata kuliah ‘Sains, Agama dan Bencana’ di Program Studi Agama dan Lintas Budaya (CRCS), UGM. Membincang bencana di Jepang sangat menarik karena Jepang adalah negara dengan kesiapan bencana yang sangat tinggi. Menjadi lebih menarik ketika memasukkan agama dalam perbincangan bencana di negeri Sakura itu. Bencana adalah sesuatu yang sangat akrab bagi masyarakat Jepang, tapi agama? Sesuatu yang dihindari pada awalnya tapi perlahan diterima karena bencana. Berikut wawancara tim CRCS dengan dosen yang akrab dipanggil Kimura Sensei ini mengenai bencana, agama, dan studi agama di Jepang.
Kimura Sensei, bagaimana masyarakat Jepang memahami relasi antara agama, bencana, dan sains?
Mayoritas orang Jepang menganggap persoalan bencana ini hanya seputar sains, material, medis atau teknologi belaka. Namun menurut saya, bencana juga memiliki nilai-nilai agama, dan agama dapat membantu orang-orang yang menjadi korban bencana. Para korban bencana itu tidak hanya memiliki masalah-masalah pada wilayah material ataupun psikologis, tetapi juga masalah pada wilayah spiritual. Dan, persoalan spiritual inilah yang seolah dilupakan di Jepang. Faktanya, di Jepang walaupun bantuan material sangat banyak diberikan oleh pemerintah, misalnya bantuan tempat tinggal dan biaya hidup yang cepat dan mudah dari pemerintah setelah bencana terjadi, namun tetap saja banyak korban bencana yang hidupnya merasa susah, apalagi pasca gempa dan tsunami lima tahun lalu (gempa dan tsunami tahun 2011). Hampir delapan ribu orang yang bunuh diri di wilayah-wilayah terdampak bencana tersebut. Artinya, menangani persoalan yang bersifat material dan medis saja tidaklah cukup. Saya berpikir ini mesti ada persoalan spiritual yang juga harus dibantu penyelesaiannya, dan ini pasti membutuhkan peranan agama. Nah, di dalam konteks inilah kelas religion, science and disaster diadakan. Mengenai persoalan hubungan bencana, sains dan agama, saya sedang melakukan penelitian untuk membandingkan persoalan ini di Jepang dengan wilayah lain, yakni di Indonesia, Turki dan Cina. Sehingga nanti dapat ditemukan formula yang tepat dalam menggunakan agama sebagai mitigasi bencana.
Apakah ada perbedaan antara respon Bencana di Jepang dan Indonesia?
Menurut saya sangat berbeda. Karena di Jepang, pemisahan antara agama dan pemerintahan sangat kuat. Sehingga kadang-kadang bantuan yang bersifat sekular lebih gampang sedangkan yang bersifat agama sangat sulit. Sedangkan di Indonesia peranan agama lebih kuat dalam membantu korban-korban bencana. Di Jepang kesan-kesan terhadap agama sangat negatif sedangkan di sini sangat positif.
Sebenarnya, kondisi agama di Jepang itu sendiri seperti apa, Kimura Sensei?
Kondisi agama di Jepang sangat berbeda dengan di Indonesia. Bisa juga disebut terbalik kondisinya. Di Jepang, kata-kata agama seperti sesuatu yang tabu. Masyarakat Jepang sangat takut dengan kata-kata agama. Saat saya mengatakan kepada orang tua saya bahwa saya akan belajar di religious studies (Studi Agama), mereka melarang. Mungkin mereka takut jika anaknya punya hubungan dengan agama. Bahkan kalau melihat hasil survei, lebih dari tujuh puluh persen masyarakat Jepang mengatakan bahwa dirinya tidak memiliki agama. Hanya dua puluh persen yang mengatakan bahwa dirinya beragama. Namun uniknya, jika melihat hasil survei lainnya, bisa dilihat bahwa kira-kira delapan puluh persen masyarakat Jepang pergi ke kuburan untuk bersembahyang. Kuburan-kuburan tersebut biasanya berada di kuil-kuil Budha dan orang-orang biasanya meminta para biksu untuk mendoakan orang-orang yang telah meninggal. Dan di dalam rumah mereka, hampir lima puluh persen masyarakat Jepang bersembahyang kepada dewa-dewa agama Sinto atau agama Budha. Delapan puluh persen dari mereka pergi berdoa ke kuburan dan lima puluh persen dari mereka setiap hari bersembahyang di rumah namun mereka tidak pernah menganggap hal itu sebagai agama. Orang Jepang berbeda dengan orang atheis. Orang Jepang melakukan beragam praktik keagamaan namun tidak mau mengakui hal itu sebagai praktik agama, alasannya macam-macam, salah satunya yaitu orang Jepang menganggap bahwa kata-kata agama itu adalah impor dari Eropa, dan mereka menganggap bahwa agama itu seperti agama Kristen, ada gereja dan ada organisasi yang kuat dan harus memilih satu agama saja. Hal itu tidak sesuai dengan praktek dan kepercayaan orang Jepang. Sehingga, walaupun mereka pergi ke kuburan dan melakukan sembahyang di rumah namun mereka berpikir hal itu bukanlah agama seperti agama Kristen. Konsep agama dalam pandangan orang Jepang sangatlah sempit.
Lantas, bagaimana respons generasi muda Jepang saat ini terhadap perkembangan agama?
Soal agama-agama baru sebenarnya pasca Perang Dunia Kedua sudah mulai ada, saat masyarakat Jepang berada dalam kondisi yang susah. Waktu itu agama-agama baru mulai tumbuh, dan sekitar tahun 80-an agama-agama baru ini tumbuh di dalam kampus dan menjaring banyak pengikut. Namun sejak tahun 1995, saat terjadi aksi terorisme oleh anggota agama Aum Sinrykyo yang menyebarkan gas sarin di subway, masyarakat Jepang menjadi takut dengan agama baru. Menurut survey, pengikut agama-agama baru itu kini tinggallah orang yang sudah tua-tua dan jumlahnya sudah menurun. Namun, jika melihat hasil survei terbaru, kita bisa lihat bahwa sejak tahun 70-an, jumlah anak-anak muda yang percaya agama terus menurun, namun pasca gempa 2011 agak berubah, mulai agak sedikit naik. Mungkin di generasi muda saat ini sudah mulai tumbuh pandangan positif terhadap agama dibandingkan dengan generasi terdahulu.
Apakah ada perbedaan pandangan orang Jepang terhadap agama sebelum dan setelah tsunami, terutama tsunami besar yang terjadi belakangan ini?
Pasca bencana gempa dan tsunami pada tahun 2011 silam memang ada perubahan cukup berarti dalam cara pandang masyarakat Jepang terhadap agama. Bencana tersebut menelan korban lebih dari lima belas ribu orang meninggal dunia. Di dalam sejarah Jepang, bencana dengan korban sebesar itu sepertinya tidak pernah terjadi sebelumnya. Nah, ini rupanya mengguncang sisi spiritual masyarakat Jepang. Saya mendengar langsung sebuah cerita dari kawan yang seorang dokter dan bertugas mengurus para korban tsunami besar tersebut. Ia ditanya oleh korban selamat dari tsunami tersebut, “Suami saya telah meninggal oleh tsunami, sekarang suami saya kira-kira berada di mana?” Sebagai petugas medis, teman saya waktu itu tidak mampu menjawab. Ia bercerita pada saya dan merasa bahwa untuk menjawab pertanyaan itu bukanlah peranan seorang di bidang medis melainkan agama. Dan selama ini di Jepang, wilayah itu kosong. Nah, saking banyaknya persoalan semacam itu, kini masyarakat Jepang sudah mulai berpikir untuk mencari solusi, salah satunya lewat agama.
Selain itu, media juga sudah mulai berubah. Jika dulu media tidak mau memberitakan perihal agama karena tidak mau campur tangan di dalam persoalan agama, kini setelah gempa dan tsunami besar tersebut, media Jepang mulai banyak memberitakan perihal agama, misalnya memberitakan LSM-LSM agama yang membantu para korban bencana. Mungkin sekarang pikiran masyarakat Jepang sudah mulai berubah. Dahulu masyarakat Jepang berpikir, jika ada bantuan datang dari lembaga-lembaga keagamaan maka itu adalah usaha untuk menyebarkan agama baru pada korban bencana. Namun sekarang mereka mulai memahami bahwa hal itu adalah memang murni untuk bantuan kemanusiaan.
Apakah perubahan pandangan terhadap agama pasca bencana ini juga berpengaruh terhadap minat mahasiswa Jepang terhadap studi agama?
Jika di masa saya, studi agama menargetkan menerima sepuluh orang mahasiswa pada setiap tahun ajaran, tapi paling hanya dua atau tiga orang yang mendaftar. Namun, kini hampir setiap tahun ajaran ada sekitar dua puluh orang yang mendaftar dan sepuluh orang saja yang diterima. Jadi sejak tahun 2000, sudah mulai banyak calon mahasiswa yang mau belajar di jurusan studi agama. Ini tidak hanya terjadi di Universitas Tohoku tetapi juga di universitas-universitas lainnya di Jepang. Jadi, mungkin generasi muda saat ini sudah mulai tertarik mempelajari masalah-masalah agama.
Apa yang diajarkan di jurusan religious studies di Jepang?
Religious studies di Jepang juga mengajarkan hal yang sama seperti di Indonesia, seperti di CRCS. Religious studies mengajarkan teori-teori dari Eropa, semisal sosiologi dan antropologi. Namun memang sejak sebelum terjadi bencana gempa dan tsunami besar pada tahun 2011, studi agama ini lebih banyak berkutat di wilayah teoritis, hanya berputar pada sisi teori-teori saja. Namun pasca 2011, kajian ini mulai menemukan wilayah praktisnya. Sekarang jurusan studi agama mulai banyak menjalin kerja sama dengan LSM-LSM agama atau lembaga agama, tidak seperti dulu yang terkesan menjauhkan diri dari agama. Sekarang studi agama mulai berpikir ke arah kerjasama dengan lembaga agama di dalam menangani persoalan korban bencana.
Apakah kerjasama antara program studi agama di Jepang dengan program studi agama di universitas lain juga termasuk bagian dari itu? Seperti kerja sama antara Tohoku University dan CRCS UGM?
Iya, MoU kerjasama antara Tohoku dan CRCS UGM ini berfungsi seperti payung hukum saja, sedangkan jenis dan bentuk program-program penelitian ataupun pertukaran mahasiswa bisa didesain sedemikian rupa nanti. Pertukaran mahasiswa bisa dilakukan antara mahasiswa CRCS UGM dan Tohoku dan bisa transfer mata kuliah, sedangkan biaya kuliah cukup dengan membayar di home university saja. Secara umum, kerjasama antara Tohoku University dan CRCS UGM ada dua macam, yaitu tentang kerja sama penelitian dan pertukaran mahasiswa. Di bidang penelitian nanti bisa ada kerja sama dalam proyek penelitian, penelitian tentang agama dan bencana salah satunya, dan jika ada penelitian di Jepang nanti ada bantuan fasilitas dari Tohoku University.
Sebagai penutup, bisa sedikit bercerita mengenai pengalaman mengajar di CRCS?
Ini adalah tahun kedua saya mengajar di CRCS. Saya sangat senang mengajar di sini karena setiap tahun mahasiswanya terlihat selalu semangat. Responsnya banyak. Tidak seperti di Jepang. Kalau di Jepang, selesai kelas saya harus menunjuk satu-satu mahasiswa agar mau bertanya. Kalau di sini mahasiswanya aktif bertanya. Jadi diskusinya bisa lebih dalam. Awalnya, sebelum saya mulai mengajar kuliah disaster ini, saya sempat khawatir apakah materi yang akan disampaikan cocok atau tidak, namun ternyata banyak mahasiswa yang tertarik dengan materi yang disampaikan dan kelasnya menjadi hidup. Saya jadi senang sekali.
Arigato Gozaimasu, Kimura Sensei!
Daud Sihombing | CRCS | Article
On June 18 2015, the Constitutional Court rejected the judicial review on Article 2 (1) of the Government Regulation No. 1/1974 about Marriage that was proposed by three graduates and one student of University of Indonesia from Law Department. The judicial review was proposed in order to guarantee the legal law for interreligious marriage. The common interpretation of the ambiguous Article 2 (1) of the Regulation is that interreligious marriage is impossible in Indonesia. The previous article that is published by Magdalene generally tells about the same understanding.
As it so happened, I recently conducted my class assignment about interreligious marriage in Indonesia or to be specific in Yogyakarta. I would like to introduce to you, the two people who informed me on this matter, and who is also an interfaith couple, Sak Liung (a Buddhist) and Friska Widhiyati (a Catholic). They got married in 2013 in St. Antonius Church, Yogyakarta. They wedded in a Catholic ceremony, but it did not involve converting Sak Liung into Catholicism. He also did not need to change his religion on his identity card. They told me that the church gave a dispensation for Catholics who want to marry non-Catholics.
In order to get a legal recognition from the state, the church testified to give evidence that the marriage was already officiated in a Catholic ceremony to the Population and Civil Registration Agency in Yogyakarta, so the state can issue the marriage certificate.
Read more http://www.magdalene.co/
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Daud Sihombing is a 25 years old photographer who is continuing his studies at the Center for Religious and Cross-cultural Studies at Universitas Gadjah Mada, Yogyakarta.
Greg Vanderbilt | CRCS | Book Review
In 2014, CRCS’s Annual Report on Religious Life in Indonesia addressed the issue of “the politics of religious education” in the effects of religious education policies and implementation under the most recent curricular reform (2013) on the “public space of the school.” (Report available in Bahasa Indonesia and in English) Since 1966, every Indonesian attending school has been entitled to and required to attend classes on the religion listed on his/her family’s identity documents, which means one of the religions recognized by the Indonesian government. This instruction is assumed to be necessary for creating morally reliable citizens of Indonesia who revere the first principle of Pancasila, but the report found many difficulties, including related to the quality and content of the classes for minorities within as well as outside the six official religions as well as the increasingly active but often unmonitored role of outside “spirituality” organizations. Because that report was focused on the “public space of the [public] school,” it only implied that the answers to its questions and the factors that shape them might be different in Indonesia’s religiously-affiliated schools, but one of its authors, Mohamad Yusuf, CRCS 2003 batch and now a lecturer in the Faculty of Cultural Studies (FIB UGM), was in the process of finishing his dissertation on the subject. He successfully defended “Religious Education in Indonesia: an empirical study of religious education models in Islamic, Christian and Hindu affiliated schools” at Radboud University Nijmegen, the Netherlands, on February 16 of this year.
Yusuf has been careful to avoid setting up binaries in his research. His fieldwork was carried out in fifteen religiously-affiliated high schools (SMA) in three regions—one Muslim majority (West Java), one Christian majority (North Sulawesi) and one Hindu majority (Bali)—five schools per region, three from the majority and two from the minorities, but paying attention to diversity within each as well, so that, for example, he includes Adventist and Gandhi schools. His analysis is structured at three levels: the macro, or law and State policy, a textual study similar to CRCS’s; the meso-, or school-level policy and implementation, based on interviews with school officials; and the micro-, or student preference, based on extensive quantitative analysis of a survey of 799 high school seniors from the fifteen schools. At the heart of his argument are three models of religious education, distinguished based on pedagogy (in their goals, methods, and cognitive, affective, and attitudinal aspects), normative bases, and social contexts. The mono-religious model focusses students’ attention on deepening their understanding of and identities within their “own” religion, often to the detriment of their awareness of other faiths in a plural, but maybe not pluralist, society. The normative basis of the second model, the multi-religious model, is religious relativism and it aims primarily to provide information about other traditions. Yusuf’s sympathies clearly lie with the third model, the inter-religious model, the goal of which is “to construct religious identity in line with one’s own religion, in dialogue with other religious traditions” while learning both critical analysis of all religions and “effective communication” across traditions (p. 15).
Yusuf’s analysis of the macro- and meso- levels of religious education looks at how policies get made and implemented. He offers the important insight that the State’s preference for the mono-religious model is based on an understanding of rights—including this supposed right to religious education in one’s own religion—as not the rights of individuals but rather the rights of communities to transmit normative values and identities. Even so, there are, for example, many Muslim students attending Protestant and Catholic schools who receive only Christian religious education. As this situation and Yusuf’s meso-level suggest, religiously affiliated schools do not answer only to the State: they find themselves between the State and the religious communities which often are their owners and are subjected to the exercise of three forms of power from each: normative (as in the development of curriculum and the certification of teachers), coercive (as in the sending of inspectors and administrators), and utilitarian (as sources of funds and other material support). Within these factors, Yusuf found almost no major differences between Muslim, Christian, and Hindu schools, whether in the majority or not: all offer a mono-religious model of religious education, though some also indicate the importance of respecting those who are different. One Catholic high school in West Java did demonstrate the inter-religious model.
The difference in experience of contact, conflict, and “constrict” (withdrawal/avoidance) in relation to those of other religions leads Yusuf to ask a different kind of question at the micro-level: what do students want? Such a question presupposes what frameworks of imagination students have to make such choices and Yusuf makes a strong effort to pull out important factors, including socio-economic status and relative group size as well as attitudes to one’s own religion, such as whether one considers its sacred texts divinely inspired, and others, such as attitudes towards pluralism as a concept or interreligious marriages. Through multiple regression analysis, Yusuf is able to falsify many simplistic hypotheses and to argue instead that what indicates preferences for mono-, multi-, or inter- religious models, remembering, of course, that almost all students have only experienced mono-religious education environments, is the affective dimension, more than the other dimensions including the cognitive, through which student identities are formed, whether mono-, multi-, or inter-faceted. This reminds us that schools are where identities and commitments are formed and educators at all levels have a significant responsibility to imagine the society they are helping to shape. As instructive as these findings are, one line of future research could inquire into the hopes of the students’ parents, who have lived in the society over some decades as adult citizens and who have made the financial and identity commitment to send their children to religiously-affiliated schools, in relation to these models of religious (and moral) education. Moreover, it would be interesting to research how students’ attitudes are formed over time, either by tracing some groups from diverse samples through school into adulthood or to repeat Yusuf’s study in a few years.*
In our “Teaching Diversity” program, CRCS students have made small experiments at re-imagining religious education in public schools along the lines of what Yusuf calls the “inter-religious” model, joining together to discuss differences, human rights, and individual expression. line with Yusuf’s conclusion that, in general, youth are craving the inter-religious model, we found the students who chose to panI rticipate eager for the chance to express themselves and share with others, and in so doing learn about empathy for and understanding of others and themselves.
*This chapter has been published separately, with Yusuf’s mentor Carl Sterkens as co-author, as “Preferences for Religious Education and Inter-Group Attitudes among Indonesian Students,” Journal of Empirical Theology 28 (2015): 49-89. Available at link.
Greg Vanderbilt, The writer is Guest Lecture at CRCS since 2014. He teachs Religion and Globalization, Advanced Study of Christianity, and Advanced Study of Buddhism.
Subandri Simbolon | CRCS | Artikel
“Hubungan yang sangat interaktif dan cair antar berbagai etnis dan agama di Lasem sudah terbangun sejak zaman nenek moyang kami”, demikian ungkap H.M. Zaim Ahmad Ma’shoem Pembina Pondok Pesantren Kauman, dalam menerima kunjungan Field Study CRCS UGM Sabtu, 7 Mei 2016. Pandangan Gus Zaim ini menggaris bawahi bahwa kultur koeksistensi tidak bisa dibangun secara instan, tetapi membutuhkan basis kultural yang dialami sebuah masyarakat dalam kurun waktu yang lama.
Gus Zaim menyampaikan ‘petuah’ yang berharga ini kepada rombongan mahasiswa CRCS saat melakukan studi lapangan di Lasem. CRCS memilih Lasem untuk belajar bagaimana satu masyarakat dari berbagai ragam agama dan etnis dapat hidup harmonis. Lasem adalah kota pesisir pantai utara Jawa dengan kultur Islam tradisional yang sangat kuat. Kultur ini seakan menyatu dengan keberadaan warga Tionghoa non-Muslim yang sangat menonjol dalam tata ruang dan kebudayaan Lasem. Menurut Munawar Azis, alumni CRCS yang meneliti Lasem dalam tesisnya, hubungan antar etnis dan antar agama sudah dimulai sejak zaman Majapahit. Kota yang dijuluki “Kota Tiongkok Kecil” ini menjadikan masyarakat Tionghoa, Arab dan Jawa dapat hidup berdampingan. Kehadiran Ponpes Kauman di tengah bangunan-bangunan lama masyarakat Tionghoa menjadi tanda keharmonisan masyarakat di kota kecil ini.
Masyaraat Lasem relatif beruntung karena mewarisi kultur toleransi dari nenek moyang mereka. Akar historis kultur damai ini, menurut Gus Zaim, “kalau kita runut ke atas, punjernya Lasem itu ada pada abad ke-8 hingga tingkat ke- 9.” Sejak dulu, Lasem telah menjadi daerah pertemuan antara berbagai etnis antara Portugis, Belanda, China, Arab dan Jawa. Umumnya mereka adalah pedagang dan kebanyakan yang datang adalah laki-laki. Sejak itulah terjadi proses asimilasi dengan masyarakat lokal. Perkawinan itulah yang kemudian menghasilkan keturunan yang membaur secara rasial. Proses ini menjadi sumber penting terjadinya akulturasi budaya di Lasem.
Tidak mudah untuk memutuskan sebuah identitas etnik di daerah ini. Orang mengatakan dirinya China, belum tentu adalah China. Demikian juga dengan mereka yang Arab, Belanda atau pun Jawa. Pembentukan karakter multi-identitas etnik ini menghasilkan suatu hubungan yang sangat cair. “Jika ada orang baru datang ke Lasem, mereka akan heran ketika melihat orang saling gojlok-gojlokan setengah mati” kisah Gus Zaim. Kedekatan yang sangat cair itu tidak lagi dipisahkan oleh tembok-tembok perbedaan. Semua identitas dileburkan menjadi satu di Lasem.
Situasi hubungan yang sangat akrab di Lasem menghasilkan suatu masyarakat dimana sumbu-sumbu kekerasan hampir tidak ada. Mengutip pernyataan dari seorang tokoh inteligen nasional, Guz Zaim bercerita bahwa aparat keamanan “pernah mencoba membakar Lasem, tetapi tidak pernah berhasil karena hubungan yang sangat cair seperti ini. Jadi Lasem bukan sumbunya panjang, tapi tanpa sumbu.” Situasi tanpa sumbu inilah yang membedakan Lasem dengan masyarakat multi etnis lainnya sehingga tidak pernah muncul huru-hara antar golongan.
Pengaruh Orde Baru: Diskontinuitas Kampung China
Pada masa Orde Baru, terjadi tekanan terhadap kelompok etnis China. Isu pribumisasi membuat banyak warga etnik Tionghoa menghilangkan identitasnya. “Nama Lim Sie Yoing harus menggantinya dengan nama Sudono atau Salim, nama King Ho dengan nama Kristianto” jelas Gus Zaim. Tetapi hal yang serupa tidak terjadi pada kelompok etnik lainnya. “Seperti nama Muhammad Zaim contohnya tidak harus mengganti nama menjadi Jaya Haditirto, nama Taufiq tidak harus diganti menjadi Mangkubumi” lanjutnya. Tekanan terhadap orang China ini menjadi sangat jelas ketika melakukan pembandingan itu.
Tekanan ini membuat warga etnik Tionghoa di Lasem akhirnya tidak terlalu ekspresif. Ketakutan-ketakutan itu memaksa mereka untuk sebisa mungkin menghilangkan identitas diri. “Tulisan-tulisan China yang ada di pintu-pintu mereka tutup dengan menggunakan seng, dikempul bahkan ditutup dengan semen dan bahkan dihilangkan dengan menggunakan kapak,” kisah Gus Zaim. Akhirnya, sebagian tulisan-tulisan itu hilang. Padahal, menurut Gus Zaim, tulisan itu sangat istimewa karena memiliki makna tentang kebijaksanaan sangat bagus.
Tekanan atas warga China pada masa Orde Baru menyisakan luka lama. Mereka bahkan harus menjadi penganut agama-agama resmi walau mereka punya cara tersendiri dalam beragama. Bahkan, pada tahun 1967 pernah dikeluarkan Inpres (Instruksi Preside) No.14 tahun 1967 yang isinya melarang mengadakan perayaan-perayaan, pesta agama dan adat istiadat China. Tekanan dari pemerintah ini membuat kota Lasem mengalami masa diskontiniutas dalam kebudayaan China di Lasem.
Pasca Orde Baru: Trauma Healing ala Gus Zaim
Berujungnya Orde Baru pada 1998, memberikan harapan baru bagi kelompok etnis China di Nusantara. Pada masa pemerintahan Presiden Abdurrahman Wahid, keluar Kepres (Keputusan Presiden) no 6 tahun 2000 tentang pencabutan Inpres No. 14 Tahun 1967. Dengan tegas, Gus Dur menyatakan bahwa masyarakat China adalah bagian dari Bangsa Indonesia. Selain itu, Gus Dur juga memberikan kebebasan beragama dengan mengangkat Kong Hu Chu sebagai agama resmi di Negara Indonesia.
Akan tetapi, kebebasan itu tidak serta merta membebaskan orang China di Lasem dari ketakutan-ketakutan lamanya. Simbol-simbol China masih ditutupi seperti tulisan di depan pintu. Gus Zaim menjadi salah satu pelopor agar tulisan ini dibuka. Gus Zaim langsung menunjukkan salah satu pintu di depan pesantrennya. Bagi dia, tulisan itu dipenuhi dengan makna yang mendalam. “Semoga panjang umur setinggi gunung dan semoga luas rezekinya sedalam samudera”. Bagi Gus Zaim, tidak ada salahnya kalau itu dipertahankan dan itu sama sekali tidak melawan Aqidah seperti yang dipahami oleh beberapa orang. “Yang berdoa mereka, saya yang mengamini. Mereka berdoa pada Kong Hu Chu dan Tuhan mereka sendiri, saya amin juga pada Tuhan saya sendiri. Kan boleh seperti doa bersama ala Gus Dur. Boleh-boleh saja,” tegas Gus Zaim.
Melihat situasi traumatik ini, Gus Zaim sering melakukan kunjungan ke rumah-rumah etnis China di sekitar pesantren. Awalnya, masyarakat China merasa gamang dengan kedatangan Beliau. “Saat itu ada terdengar ‘wah, ternyata orang-orang pesantren itu baik-baik ya’”, kisah Gus Zaim. Bagi mereka, pesantren itu identik dengan kekerasan. Kehadiran Gus Zaim merombak paradigma lama itu dalam diri orang China yang mereka kunjungi. Selain kunjungan, para santri juga selalu membantu masyarakat China yang sedang punya hajatan. Demikian juga sebaliknya. Hal ini membuat hubungan yang dulu cair menjadi cair kembali. Menurut Gus Zaim, dia dan bersama teman-teman lainnya hanya mencoba mengembalikan dan melestarikan situasi damai yang dulu telah dilahirkan oleh para leluhur. “Saya bukan yang mempelopori, tidak. Saya hanya melanjutkan atau membuka kembali lembaran-lembaran yang dulu pernah ada dan ditutup. Itu hubungan interaksi di Lasem. Sangat cair” kisahnya.
Penuturan Gus Zaim ditutup dengan sebuah harapan agar toleransi di Lasem dapat dipancarkan ke seluruh Indonesia dan dunia. Gus Zaim menegaskan, “Saya sendiri ingin agar hubungan interaktif dan cair seperti ini bisa menjadi contoh bagi toleransi, hubungan antar etnis, antar suku bangsa, antar agama, tidak hanya di indonesia tetapi di international”
