They say power changes a man, but I’ve come to believe that’s
backwards. Power just reveals what was always there, lurking beneath the
surface like those creatures that hide under the rocks at low tide. You know
the ones—slimy things with too many legs that scuttle away when light hits
them.
In the Old Order days of Indonesia, they had special names
for their leaders—“Paduka Yang Mulia” and “Yang Mulia.” Your Highness. Your
Excellency. Words that elevated certain men above others, set them apart like
chosen ones. Even the Chief of Police, Said Soekanto, made his underlings call
him “Paduka Tuan” before they could speak his name. Just like those small-town
sheriffs I used to write about, the ones who make you say “sir” while they’re
writing up your ticket, savoring that little taste of dominion.
Sukarno, though—now there was a man who understood the power
of names. Indonesia’s first president didn’t settle for mere excellency. No, he
wanted to be known as the “Great Leader of the Revolution.” Had it written into
law, for Christ’s sake. Made himself president for life while he was at it.
Called himself “the extension of the people’s tongue,” which always struck me
as something you’d find in one of Lovecraft’s fever dreams—some cosmic horror
with a thousand writhing appendages.
I remember an old fellow I met once in Bangor—retired
history professor who’d traveled all through Southeast Asia in the ‘60s. We got
to talking over whiskeys at Patrick’s Pub one night.
“The thing about personality cults,” he told me, his rheumy
eyes reflecting the amber liquid in his glass, “is they ain’t just about
control. They’re about fear. The leader’s fear. Because deep down, they know.
They know they’re just men, same as anybody. Flesh and blood. Mortal. Afraid.”
The music came next, of course. Always does. The songs
praising the great man—“Bung Karno Djaya” became a hit, played constantly on
Radio Republik Indonesia. The only station in town, mind you. You want to hear
something else? Tough shit, friend. The state decides what fills your ears.
The melody was catchy, they say. Made you want to dance. The
best propaganda always does. It slips through your defenses when you’re nodding
your head to the beat, worms its way inside before you’ve even noticed.
The composer Soetedjo got paid handsomely for his
contribution—1.2 million rupiah for a single song glorifying the president.
Blood money, some might call it. But we all have bills to pay, don’t we? And
the currency changed anyway, lost three zeros overnight. Funny how money works
that way. Here today, gone tomorrow, worth whatever those in power say it’s
worth.
When Suharto took over, the music changed its tune, but kept
the same rhythm. The legendary Titiek Puspa—they called her the Diva of Three
Eras—wrote “Bapak Pembangunan” for him. The Father of Development. Christ,
these names they come up with. Like something out of a bad science fiction
novel.
The song thanked God for bestowing Suharto upon Indonesia,
like he was some divine gift rather than a man who seized power through means
that would make most folks lose sleep at night. But that’s how it goes—dress up
the ugly truth in pretty melodies.
After Reformasi—the reform era—the songs got softer, more
personal. Less “bow down before your god-king” and more “we’ll miss you when
you’re gone.” Odes to BJ Habibie, to Megawati Soekarnoputri (“Daughter of the
Dawn”), and finally to Jokowi, thanking him for his service.
It’s like those small coastal towns I write about sometimes,
the ones where the horror gradually recedes, leaving the townsfolk to pick up
the pieces. The nightmares fade, but the memories remain. And sometimes, late
at night, they still hear something scratching at the window.
As for Prabowo’s song—“Pernah di Sana” composed by Ifan
Seventeen—it continued the modern tradition. Romantic, melancholic, personal.
But listen closely enough, and you might hear the echoes of something older
underneath. Something that remembers when presidents were gods, when men
demanded to be called “Your Highness,” when the wrong song on your lips could
mark you as an enemy of the state.
Power doesn’t change people. It unmasks them. And sometimes,
what’s under the mask is the scariest thing of all.
Comments
Post a Comment