A single conversation can sometimes reveal many of the tripwires in Indonesia’s social minefield.
Every day or so, for exercise and the pleasure of it, I swim leisurely laps in my apartment building’s swimming pool. Occasionally I have it all to myself, but more often I share it with a few other residents.
About a week ago, as I came to the end of a lap and paused for breath, a man swam toward me and stopped nearby to cling to the edge of the pool. He looked a little younger and shorter than me, but had a bushy mustache and a pot belly bigger than mine.
He turned toward me and after an almost imperceptible nod of the head announced: “I am not Chinese!”
I do not recall how I responded, but it was probably with a blank stare.
“Indonesian people think I am Chinese,” he continued. “I am Indonesian. I am from Kalimantan. Do you know Kalimantan? Borneo!”
I assured him I knew Kalimantan – Indonesia’s portion of the island of Borneo. I also tried to let him know I did not think he was Chinese, that in fact I had not been wondering about it one way or the other. However, my rudimentary bahasa Indonesia did not permit me to explain to him that I lacked the Indonesian inclination to spot small differences in ethnicity. In many people’s eyes, Chinese-Indonesians are markedly different from the so-called pribumi Indonesians. In addition, to most, those original Indonesians were easily subdivided into their separate identities as Betawi, Sundanese, Batak, or any of the other numerous Indonesian ethnicities.
“I’m not Chinese,” my new acquaintance (we never exchanged names) repeated several times. “The Chinese are from China. I am from Kalimantan.”
He nevertheless had great admiration for China.
“Number one!” he said. “China was very poor. Now number one!”
In contrast, he seemed to have an unfavourable opinion of many of his fellow Indonesians – at least those who supported the man who apparently lost the recent presidential election. He warned me to stay away from the protest rallies in the middle of the city where many people were showing their support for the loser, Prabowo Subianto. He criticized Prabowo for still insisting he won, even though all official and most unofficial counts reported that Joko Widodo was the victor.
“Prabowo has lost three times,” the man from Kalimantan said, referring to the separate occasions Prabowo ran for high office.
“Bodoh! Gila!” he said.
Most of our conversation was in Indonesian, which I am still learning. Some of it was in English, since he knew a few words.
He asked me where I was from and I told him. “Oh! Canada!” he responded.
He asked me how long I had been in Indonesia. He asked where my family was and if I had any children. He asked where I worked. He asked how much I was paid and if I wouldn’t be paid more in Canada. He asked how far it was to my office and how I got there. When I told him it took me about 30 minutes to commute to work and I usually used an online ojek (a ride-hailing motorcycle taxi service) he asked me, with a hint of disdain, why I didn’t have a car.
I tried to explain I did not need my own since public transit worked well enough for me and I did not want one because Jakarta’s near-perpetual gridlock made automobiles impractical. He clearly did not accept my excuses, possibly because he, like many others, consider a car a symbol of high status and see walking as a sign of poverty. So he came up with an alternate explanation and a solution.
“You can’t buy a car because you are a foreigner!” he guessed. “I can help you buy a car. You can use my KTP!”
He was offering to let me use his official identification card, but I politely declined and tried again to explain that cars were useless in the traffic jams.
“Macet tidak bagus,” I said.
Finally, after swimming back and forth a few times, he raised the topic of Israel, which is a sensitive one in Indonesia, where people have wholeheartedly supported the Palestinian cause since the 1940s. Unfortunately, I could not quite understand the point he was making. I normally expect people to denounce Israel, but he seemed to be supporting the country. I tried to react noncommittally, but for some reason the noises I made prompted him to ask if I was Jewish.
“No,” I answered.
“Christian?” he probed. “I am Christian. Are you Muslim?”
“I’m atheist,” I told him.
I usually avoid talking about atheism in Indonesia, since it is illegal for citizens to not have a religion. My statement startled him.
“Atheist? You don’t believe in God?” he asked, pointing to the sky. “How can you not believe in God? He's there!”
I tried to explain, without much luck, that it was simply my personal perception of the universe, one I have held my entire life.
“But you pray, don’t you?” he demanded.
I told him I did not. Then, in an attempt to illustrate that where I grew up the issue of one’s religion was of lesser importance than it is in Indonesia, I counted Canada’s various beliefs on my fingers: “Muslim. Christian. Hindu. Buddhist. Atheist.” I would have moved to my other hand to continue the list, but I saw I was losing him.
“Tidak apa apa,” I said to indicate that people could believe what they want, but I am not sure he understood. Maybe he took it as a dismissal of his faith instead. He swam away without another word, rejoining his relatives nearby.
“He is from Canada,” I heard him say.
Enjoyed this account of your interesting encounter. Entertaining!