Reflection #5
Clifford Geertz, a scholar in the field of cultural
anthropology, studied and wrote about the religion of Java in the 1950s. One of his primary sites of field research
was Modjokuto (or “Middletown,” the real name is Pare) a relatively small,
multi-ethnic (24,000 Javanese and 2,000 Chinese), agricultural town at the edge
of a great rice plain in east central Java. Through the lenses of history and ethnography,
Geertz observed a Javanese society intent on development and nation building,
as it recovered from war, internal conflicts, Japanese occupation and Dutch
colonialism. Using the constructs of typologies
to organize his data, Geertz identified three “main social-structural nuclei”
in Java—village, market and government bureaucracy—which he broadly (and
non-exclusively) associated with variants of Javanese Muslim religion and
social class (5).
The religious beliefs of the Javanese village consist of a
syncretic blend of animistic (belief that we share the world with spirits), Hindu-Buddhist
and Islamic elements. This so called abangan religious tradition is predominant
among village peasants and proletariat. Santri is a more orthodox variant of
Islam especially widespread among merchants and wealthier peasants. The association of the Javanese trading
element with a purer Islam is unsurprising given the introduction of Islam to
Java as part of a great trade expansion (5-6). The prijaji
tradition is identified with elite heritage.
It is strongly influenced by the Hindu-Buddhist traditions of earlier
Javanese courts (high art and refined etiquette), and mysticism. In the modern era, prijaji is associated with the elite, and with a white collar, well
educated, administrative bureaucracy (6).
Geertz explores the antagonisms between these various
religious/class orientations, while noting the ways that nationalism and
Javanese customs of harmony, cooperation and polite suppression of feeling
mediate conflict (366). He seeks to
interpret cultural symbols in order to elicit deep meanings and reasons, to
make sense of experiences and interdependencies, and to better understand the
circumstances in which modernization and development occur. He claims his study as merely descriptive (7).
I greatly appreciate
Geertz’s contributions to anthropology, though again, I am drawn to reflect on
the silenced voices of women. Geertz
writes that in an exception to a general policy of non-interference between the
abangan and the prijaji, prijaji women are
concerned with unhygienic birth practices, and with rituals and practices
(washing the groom’s feet, polygamy, degrading art forms) which concretize the
inferiority of abangan women. Without offering any woman’s voice as
supporting descriptive evidence, Geertz characterizes the prijaji women’s gestures as “half-hearted,” and then dismisses them
as ultimately selfish.
In another example of women’s silenced voices, Geertz cites
as an example of an integrating nationalism, The Day of Women’s Awakening. Before 22 December 1928, women’s groups were
focused on women’s advancement. On the
day of awakening, women, “fully conscious of their responsibilities, merged
their movement with the national struggle (369).” On 22 December 1953, the women’s movement was
still focused on the “glory” of Indonesia and “its people” (370). Lelia Ahmed and Chung Hyan Kung write about
the co-option of women’s independent interests in cultural and national
movements in Egypt and Korea, respectively.
Both attribute this assimilation of women’s separate interests to
patriarchal culture. In what ways does
the Day of Women’s Awakening memorialize national unity, and in what ways does
the day memorialize the continued submission of women under patriarchy?
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