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Key questions then become NOT who rules but how is rule accomplished.
—Philip Corrigan, State Formation
Relations of rule are cultural relations, formed and reformed in the context of
specific discourses, practices, rituals, and struggles. They offer a rich and im-
portant field for ethnographic analysis.1 In this article I examine the set of rela-
tions framed through the discourse and practice of "development," critically en-
gaging the work of Arturo Escobar (1992, 1995), James Ferguson (1994), and
others inspired in various ways by Foucault.2 My argument is that a Foucauldian
understanding of governmentality (the attempt to constitute governable sub-
jects) is an accurate guide to development as a project of rule, but that the actual
accomplishment of rule owes as much to the understandings and practices
worked out in the contingent and compromised space of cultural intimacy as it
does to the imposition of development schemes and related forms of disciplin-
ary power.3
My study is grounded ethnographically in an analysis of Indonesia's offi-
cial program for the resettlement of isolated people. Resettlement programs are
familiar enough as objects of anthropological study and critique, and there are
many important accounts of the damage done to indigenous folk by inept bu-
reaucrats and bullying regimes. My focus is rather different, for I seek less to ex-
pose the all-too-predictable havoc wreaked by state power in the periphery than
to highlight the significance of that periphery, and the activities that go on there,
in the constitution of the self-proclaimed center. Just as others have shown that
colonialism was critical to the self-fashioning of the West (Cooper and Stoler
1997), "development" is here explored as a modern state's attempt at self-fash-
ioning and rule, considered always as fragile and contingent accomplishments.4
295
296 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
As it turns out, there is a rather large gap between what program proponents
and critics had primed me to expect at Indonesia's resettlement sites and what I
encountered there. In brief, I found a program to civilize "primitives" perform-
ing its operations on rather ordinary folk, changing them very little, but main-
tained despite its failures and even construed, in some quite specific ways, to be
a success. The gap between findings and expectations and the attempt to puzzle
out the reasons for it offer the opportunity for reflections on "how rule is accom-
plished" and on the compromises integral to rule.
To clarify my theoretical concerns and to contextualize my ethnographic
material, the following section outlines some of the features of development re-
gimes in general and Indonesia's New Order in particular.
Development Regimes
The rationale for "development" as an activity of nation-states draws on the
more general logic of governmentality. Governmentality is Foucault's short-
hand for the emergence of a distinctive, modern form of power which seeks to
govern or regulate the conditions under which people live their lives; the ration-
ality that renders the activity of government thinkable to its practitioners and
those on whom it is practiced; and the concentration of government in the (ex-
panded) apparatus we have come to call "the state" (Foucault 1982, 1991; Gor-
don 1991). This form of power was operative in late colonial regimes that were
concerned with "disabling old forms of life by systematically breaking down
their conditions, and with constructing in their place new conditions so as to en-
able—indeed so as to oblige—new forms of life to come into being" (Scott
1995:193, emphasis in original). In the postcolonial era, concern with welfare
and improvement falls under the rubric of "development" and provides many
governing regimes with a significant part of their claim to legitimacy.
The identification of continuities in modes of rule across the colonial di-
vide (Anderson 1991; Ludden 1992; Scott 1995) highlights the national and
governmental dimensions of development sometimes neglected in critiques that
focus on the alien character of the goals, programs, and procedures generated in
Western nations and international agencies and imposed on others (e.g., Sachs
1992). In India, as Chatterjee observes, the processes of the modern (govern-
mental) state have taken hold, and "one does not, unfortunately, have the option
of sending this state back to its origins" (1993:227). South Africa under Man-
dela provides a further case in point: the African National Congress, which long
eschewed the language of development tainted as it was with segregation and
apartheid, soon found itself adopting the " 'pragmatic' language of 'reconstruc-
tion and development' "(Crush 1995:xii).
In its national dimensions, "development" can be considered one of the
more significant "everyday forms of state formation" (Joseph and Nugent
1994), which offers, like education, public administration, and land law, an
arena in which "the state" can continuously restate its raison d'etre and become
instantiated in routine processes and events. Development planning has become
a normal state activity and an important mode through which the state apparatus
DEVELOPMENT AND RULE IN INDONKSIA 297
have quietly become icons of the archaic disorder that represents the limit and test
of state order and development. From the perspective of the elite, "primitives," un-
like communists, are not regarded as seriously dangerous but rather as wildly un-
tutored—somewhat like ordinary village farmers, but much more so. Disorderly
yet vulnerable, primitives are relatively scarce, and their taming becomes an ex-
emplary lesson in marginality through which the more advanced rural poor can be
expected to position themselves nearer the center. [Tsing 1993:28]
300 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
in the task of "civilizing" truly "backward people." Rarely do they discuss spe-
cific people or places or the substantive effects of the program at a particular lo-
cation. When specifics do come out the context is usually negative: a news re-
port that a resettlement site has been abandoned. These occasions greatly
embarrass program officials, who feel they are exposed as incompetent or cor-
rupt. In their own defense, they argue that critics, including officials of other
government departments, have no understanding of the difficulties involved in
working with "primitives." Some officials explained to me that the journalists
who write or threaten to write such stories, or the nongovernmental organiza-
tions (NGOs) that claim to be advocates for the people, are simply being mis-
chievous, trying to show the government in a bad light or angling for bribes from
program officials. These were intimate exposures about their own national cul-
ture that were also intended, I assume, to impress on me how difficult it is for a
well-intended program to make headway. Exposures of program failure do not
normally threaten the program logic. As Ferguson has primed us to expect, pro-
ponents and critics alike generally interpret the failures as evidence that more re-
sources and honest effort are needed to overcome the problems of backward-
ness. Nevertheless, there are signs of stress and strain here, ample confirmation
that rule is hard work. Regional officials who fear the criticism of superiors,
counterparts in other ministries, the media, and the public find themselves de-
fending a flawed program. Fear of failure and critique are not just personal mat-
ters, however. They contribute to some rather significant compromises in how
the program is delivered and what it becomes on the ground, beginning with the
identification of appropriate "targets."
occurs over who will be selected as "candidates" for the resettlement program
(candidate is the term used, calon warga binaan). It might seem odd that people
would volunteer to be labeled primitives, but one must recall that the inputs be-
ing offered through the program are valued goods: free houses, a year of free
food, two hectares of land, and some other, less consequential items. These
goods can be used, sold, or abandoned when the deal is no longer attractive
(often after the rice ration ends). Selecting candidates involves, therefore, the al-
location of state largesse to groups and individuals who need to be rewarded for
past loyalty and service (former government officials sometimes appear among
the recruits), as well as those the regional authorities hope to transform into
grateful subjects and loyal voters for the ruling party. This is the second part of
my answer to why the candidates are not "primitives": truly isolated people are
of limited political significance and also lack the clout to insert themselves into
the channels of state patronage that are established and maintained through "de-
velopment" (Hart 1989). The implications of selection practices for rule there-
fore seem clear enough. To explore further the compromises, I turn to some ex-
amples.
Half of the recruits for the site in Sulawesi were mountain people, living
scattered in tiny bamboo houses, shifting cultivators, Christianized in the past
decade, few of whom spoke Indonesian, and none of whom had been to school.
They therefore fit the program criteria rather well. The other half were Muslim
coastal villagers, who made no claim to be masyarakat terasing. I was told by of-
ficials that the coastal people had been included in the project at the request of
the mountain people, who favored a joint settlement rather than one for them-
selves alone. If this was true, they later changed their opinion, for the social and
religious tensions between the two groups turned out to be overwhelming. The
mountain people did not adjust well to conditions in the hot, dry, coastal site and
found the economic provisions made for them unviable. Within a couple of
years almost all of them had returned to the hills. Their houses were then taken
over by more coastal villagers with the agreement of Depsos officials that they
too were needy people and the government's money should not be wasted. This
was a compromise, enabling but uncomfortable. The local Depsos officials rec-
ognized that their goal of reaching the mountain people had been a total failure,
although the official record in Jakarta still shows "success" in the form of one
hundred more households "handled" by the department. Coastal villagers felt
awkward about profiting from the mistakes and misfortunes of others, officials
and mountain folk alike, and were anxious that an attempt might be made by one
party or the other to take back the houses. Those who had returned to the hills
duly acknowledged their gratitude to the government for trying to help them and
made few critiques of the program, focusing, instead, on their own inability, as
mountain folk, to adapt to coastal conditions—a self-essentializing move in-
tended, perhaps, to dissuade Depsos from trying again.
In the Kalimantan site, the issues surrounding identification were quite
complex. The official project-planning document provides an account of the
project's target group." It names four distinct ethnolinguistic groups of
DEVELOPMENT AND RULE IN INDONESIA 307
masyarakat terasing present in the vicinity of the proposed project but then ig-
nores such distinctions in the descriptive text, mixing up the characteristics of
the groups to present an image of people who were scattered in groups of five to
ten households, living in a longhouse, without access to schools, adherents of a
rather exotic set of traditional cultural practices, and in urgent need of Depsos
guidance and development. In reality, only one group, the Punan, were really
scattered, and only a few members of another group lived in a longhouse; the
great majority of those who became "candidates" were living in a concentrated
and rather well equipped village settlement, complete with both primary and
secondary schools, located just across the river. The confusions and inaccura-
cies of the data served to produce the generic "primitives" with the requisite de-
ficiencies that rationalize and legitimate the program in general and this project
in particular. As Ferguson (1994) has, once again, primed us to expect, the num-
bers and images are fanciful, but the nature of the fantasy is no surprise.
In the final selection of 75 candidates for the project, the Punan, locally ac-
knowledged to be the true masyarakat terasing—forest dwelling, allegedly
timid, often hungry, ignorant enough to be easily tricked and exploited—were
mostly excluded. From the 68 Punan names that were appended to the project-
planning document, only four moved into the site, and they soon left. There is
some doubt that the others were ever informed that their names had appeared on
the official list. Ten additional households from the neighboring village were in-
cluded at the last moment, displacing other candidates, because they had con-
tested the construction of the project houses on land to which they had custom-
ary rights (this issue is further discussed below). These people continued to
reside in their much more substantial village homes, visiting their Depsos
houses on occasion to keep up the appearance of habitation under threat that
their membership in the project would be withdrawn. Some used the project
houses as convenient farm huts.
To appreciate why such compromises in candidate selection did not detract
from the officially recognized "success" of the project, it is necessary to under-
stand how success is envisaged and constructed. I visited the site in the company
of some senior Depsos officials, and their reactions upon our arrival will serve
to illustrate. As we turned off the main road, the officials remarked favorably on
the carved and brightly painted sign at the gate of the settlement which declared
that it was a guidance center for masyarakat terasing. The houses were arranged
neatly along the unpaved project road. Some had fences and gardens, again a
subject for positive comment, although the number of houses we passed (50 per-
cent by my count) that showed no evidence of habitation went unremarked (but
not, perhaps, unobserved). When we reached the house of the Depsos field staff,
the first question the senior official put to him was, "Are the people here?"
[Warga ada?]; he then ordered that they be gathered (suruh kumpul), to which
the response was, "Ready!" [Siap!]. In these moments, many important criteria
for success were established: the houses had been built as budgeted; the recipi-
ents had recognized their subject position, confirmed their exotic origins, and
shown evidence of a (presumed to be new) capacity to work on voluntary
308 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
collective projects (the painted sign); they were beginning to make their envi-
ronment orderly (the fences); they were in place (had not run away); and when
needed to greet official visitors and show evidence of deference and gratitude,
they were there on command.12
During our stay, I discussed with the officials my doubts over whether the
people recruited into the project from the nearby village could really be consid-
ered masyarakat terasing. I pointed out that I had discovered that many of them
had secondary school education and undoubtedly had long been familiar with
money, clothes, cooking pots, and the government. For reasons I have begun to
illuminate, the officials were unused to thinking about the characteristics of
their "target group" in this kind of detail, but they replied, on reflection, that the
villagers in question were, after all, natives of Kalimantan and therefore differ-
ent in terms of culture (terasing dari segi kebudayaan). Furthermore, they
lacked decent houses. That is, they met enough of the criteria to be considered
rightful recipients of the program, even if they were not especially poor or physi-
cally or socially isolated. Moreover, their most obvious deficiency, housing, is
one that the program is guaranteed to be able to remedy.
The regional official who had planned the program was similarly undis-
turbed by my observations, arguing that the more advanced villagers (though
still classifiable as masyarakat terasing) had been included in order to set an ex-
ample for the more backward people who were the true targets of the program.
But, as I have already noted, the Punan one might have expected to find as the
"true targets" were actually excluded. A local field staff member explained to
me that the Punan were "really too different, not the kind of people who can ad-
just to living in the heat outside the forest, not interested in eating rice, and not
accustomed to farming." For these reasons, he had been unsurprised and even
sympathetic when the four Punan families that resided briefly at the site had de-
cided to leave. He had tried to persuade them to return, tracking them down in
their forest homes, but faced criticism from other settlers who argued that, ac-
cording to the rules, the Punan should be expelled for prolonged absence and for
failing to participate in the weekly communal work groups. He also observed
that his superiors would judge him on the criteria of whether or not the houses
were inhabited (are the people here?) and would be much less concerned, or per-
haps not concerned at all, about who exactly filled the slots. Here, then, is a fur-
ther working out of the selection compromise. Not only were the quintessential
"primitives," those in whose name and on whose behalf the program is designed,
excluded from it or allowed to go their own way, but their absence was ex-
plained in terms of their "primitive" nature, different culture, and inability to
adapt—precisely the characteristics the program is supposed to work on and
transform.
The headman of the neighboring village, part of whose population had
moved into the resettlement site (only a ten-minute walk from the village cen-
ter), had yet another perspective on the selection question. He reported that the
village had been the recipient of a (free) government housing project in 1983
and had applied in 1990 for an extension of the project to accommodate newly
DEVELOPMENT AND RULE IN INDONESIA 309
married couples and others who did not have good houses, including the few re-
maining in an old longhouse. They were all rather surprised when they were in-
formed that the housing would be supplied under the auspices of the program for
masyarakat terasing. "We thought it was rather strange [aneh]," he said, "and a
bit embarrassing, but, then, it is only a name, so it does not matter too much. We
understand that this is the name of their program, so we just have to put up with it."
Program Implementation
The Depsos resettlement program is designed to be implemented in stages.
By the end of year one, the settlers should begin to be familiar with the purpose
and proper use of their new houses and public facilities; begin to understand the
importance of remaining settled in one location so that children can go to school;
understand transportation systems; and understand the importance and useful-
ness of the guidance and instruction they are receiving. By years two to three,
they should have learned permanent agriculture, including tree crop production;
be able to subsist on the products of their land; and have acquired new and posi-
tive values in relation to religion, health, and education. By year four, household
production is to be increased and diversified; appropriate technology employed;
the quality and variety of consumption improved; cooperative ventures started;
communication with neighboring groups enhanced; capacity for rational think-
ing and collective decision making through discussion and consensus increased;
and consciousness of the need for national peace and order implanted, together
with increased understanding of, and love for, the nation and observance of na-
tional laws and regulations.
One difficulty that might be expected in the implementation of the program
is its superfluous nature: many of the recruits already have at the outset the at-
tributes expected as the end products of the transformation process. This is the
compromise that averts failure and virtually guarantees that the program will be
declared a success when the time comes for evaluation, a consideration already
present in the identification/selection process I have described. But only a dog-
matic outsider, lacking or refusing cultural intimacy, unattuned to the ways
things are said and done, would insist on pointing this out. The official monitor-
ing and evaluation process focuses on whether the inputs were delivered: houses
built, goodies handed out, guidance lectures presented. Evaluation documents
do not refer to a specific set of baseline data but simply repeat the standard nar-
rative about isolated folk who needed to be, and have successfully been, devel-
oped. In any case the planning documents, if they could be located, would not
disrupt the story line. The paper trail is thin on details, and many local govern-
ment offices, including Depsos, are remarkably paper free.13
The program recipients in both sites, when I asked them, were not willing
to pass judgment on the program as a whole. Indeed, they could not, for they had
not been made privy to its conceptual logic and were not informed about all the
deficiencies they were supposed to have had nor the radical ways in which the
program inputs were supposed to transform them. Recognition by program offi-
cials that this information would be offensive might account for the lack of
310 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
detail, as could the consideration that the so-called primitives are not themselves
the most important audience for statements about state capacities to bring about
transformation and development.14 The evaluations the recipients were able and
willing to make referred to specific components of the project of importance to
them, namely, whether they were in fact given the inputs promised to them and
how useful, or useless, these inputs turned out to be. In these cases and others
that I have seen or which have been reported (e.g., Suparlan 1995) there was a
gap, sometimes a chasm, between promise and delivery which potentially com-
promised the individuals who delivered the program and the program as a
whole, exposing its self-proclaimed competence and generosity to a grounded
critique of its empty words, silly advice, poor quality, and short measure. Com-
plaints I heard were that the hoes broke on first use, the full food ration was not
provided, the young and inexperienced field staff needed constant guidance
from those they were supposed to guide, and the tasks residents were required to
perform for the collective good and their own self-improvement (fence building,
sign painting, path clearing, attending lectures, and greeting guests) were time-
consuming distractions that kept them from making a living. In the Sumatran re-
settlement site studied by Parsudi Suparlan (1995) the settlers understood their
compliance with the program's labor and attendance requirements to be just re-
turn for the gifts they had received, but their sense of obligation diminished as
the ration period ended. Field staff informed me that withholding rice rations
was their standard recourse when persuasion failed, the right to exercise direct
discipline being the counterpart to paternalistic generosity.15 Such forms of dis-
cipline are thin, however, and after the ration period ended the field staff both in
Suparlan's study and in the two sites I describe here found themselves without a
reliable audience for instruction or command.
In a different Kalimantan site, settlers described for me in detail the defi-
ciencies in the package they received when compared to that given to Javanese
transmigrants in a neighboring settlement. They attributed the difference to the
association of Depsos with charity rather than "development" and to the logic of
the program title: "Everything about this program is poor quality because they
think we are worthless; that's what it means to be called masyarakat terasing.
The government loves the Javanese, but they despise us." These comments indi-
cate that the label the settlers accepted in order to obtain access to the goods they
wanted nevertheless hurt and compromised them. They also reveal the risks
posed by the compromise, which selects as project recipients people who are
more than capable of launching articulate and well-informed critiques.16 Under
these conditions, the usual response to criticism—"They need more guidance;
they do not yet fully understand"—is unpersuasive, even perhaps to a listener
fully implicated in the cultural intimacies of compromise and rule.
market production but with the moral goodness of routinized work in orderly
fields and villages. In practice the two hectares of land allocated to the settlers is
seldom capable of providing an adequate living, let alone an improvement over
the diverse array of activities, such as swidden farming, tree crop production,
forest product collection, and wage labor in the timber sector, that sustain the
target populations. Because the project resources do not provide a viable alter-
native, the settlers have no option but to continue with these practices, including
cycles of seasonal or longer-term mobility, dooming from the outset the project
of "settling them down." Field staff, who must live at the site, soon recognize its
ecological limits. They therefore accommodate existing patterns of resource use
to avoid impoverishing the settlers and hope that they will find ways to stay in
place, at least until the five-year project cycle is completed and the evaluation
signed off. As a result, a program that sets out to accomplish a total transforma-
tion in lives and livelihoods makes few changes to people's material conditions,
except for the provision of houses. The settlers continue to survive and prosper
as a result of their own sweat and initiative, unimpressed by empty claims about
agricultural improvement: "An extensionist visited once and gave us each a
handful of seeds and half a bag of fertilizer—what use is that?" However, wise
to the limits of their environment and inclined to be skeptical, they are not espe-
cially surprised by this aspect of program failure. They weigh program deficien-
cies against the gains, which include some genuinely useful gifts.
In terms of livelihoods, the hill people who moved into the resettlement site
on the Sulawesi coast found themselves in an impossible situation. The coastal
strip is very narrow, and the only cultivable land belongs to others, so they were
allocated a barren area in the dry foothills. This was an area used by coastal vil-
lagers to graze cattle and goats. The coastal people are not primarily farmers but
survive on wage labor in the coconut sector or further afield, petty trade, low-
tech fishing, and some seasonal farming of food and cash crops in the hills. The
main difference between them and the hill people is that the latter are more com-
mitted farmers—contrary to the program logic, which assumes that the "primi-
tive" hill folk need to be taught this skill. The hill people maintained their hill
farms while living in the coastal resettlement site, hiking up and down daily, and
it was to their reasonably successful hillside farming ventures that they returned
when their rice rations ended and the "demonstration plot," together with the
few heads of corn they had agreed to plant on their program-designated plots,
were eaten by goats or shriveled up in the heat. When quizzed about this situ-
ation, the regional Depsos official responsible for the program stated that he had
been aware that the designated land was not great, but he felt so sorry for the hill
people who were unable to send their children to school that he had decided to
go ahead with the project anyway. The layers of compromise in this statement
were not further revealed, although some of them can be surmised.
In the Kalimantan site, the contentious issue was not land suitability but
land allocation. The project-design document has appended to it five neat dia-
grams showing the boundaries of the 462.5 hectares of contiguous land desig-
nated for the project and details of its slope, elevation, potential for flooding,
312 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
and current land use. The current vegetation is shown as scrub. The document
notes that it is state land in use by local residents for shifting cultivation
(ladangs) and held under customary tenure. It does not mention how or whether
rights to this land would be reallocated or redefined in order to allocate the
standard two-hectare plot to each new project resident. When the project was
proposed, there was a meeting of the village committee (the LKMD) in the main
village site, and an agreement was signed to the effect that the land to the right
and left of the road would be given up for the purpose of building the settlement
without claims for compensation. The document mentions nothing about farm-
land. The context in which this document was produced may have included, be-
sides the usual compromises, some coercion or perhaps confusion. The implica-
tions of the project design for the distribution of farmland may not have been
fully understood by the village committee, for what they had in mind, as I noted
earlier, was simply a housing project. The villagers upon whose land the settle-
ment houses were built were, in the end, compensated through the decision to in-
clude them in the project and give them the standard package of goods (house,
rice ration, and so on)—a compromise much resented by others who felt they
better deserved, but did not receive, such charity. There was no movement, how-
ever, on the allocation of the farmland, and some residents of the settlement
claimed that they had even been forbidden by the customary landowners from
making use of the quarter-hectare garden plots surrounding their project-built
houses. In particular, they were prevented from planting fruit trees, a customary
sign of ownership.
There were various perspectives on this situation among the Depsos staff
associated with the project. One view was that the resettlement site was a gov-
ernment project, approved by the governor, under which the residents had the
right to the two-hectare plot of land promised in the project design. The land is
owned by the government, and any customary rights that pertain are overruled
when the government decides to reallocate the land in the national interest and
for the purpose of development.17 Therefore, the residents should go ahead and
use the land, ignoring what the customary owners say. This is a strong statement
about the nature and rights of "the state," but the detailed picture reveals com-
promises and contradictions: Why, if it was already government land, was the
village committee asked to sign a statement releasing the land to the government
for the purposes of the project? There is a gap here between official talk and the
actions of officials trying to get a project under way. These are not only local
compromises. A Depsos official in Jakarta confirmed that one of the reasons for
the slow progress of the resettlement program has been the difficulty in identify-
ing empty land—this in a nation in which 76 percent of the terrain is legally de-
fined as "forest" and stated to belong to the government (Peluso 1992). The
document signed by the villagers could be seen as a way of making them ac-
knowledge the legitimacy of the state's claim, but the fact that such confirma-
tion was deemed necessary hints at a recognition of the rights of the customary
users to "state land" or, at the very least, a desire on the part of Depsos to avoid
trouble.
DEVELOPMENT AND RULE IN INDONESIA 313
Another official suggested that the land allocation problem should be set-
tled through a compromise that does not cause too much loss of livelihood or in-
come (tidak terlalu merugikan) to either the customary landholders or the settle-
ment residents, perhaps by reducing the area of land designated for the project to
about one hundred hectares. He also observed, correctly, that the allocation of
land anticipated in the project blueprint was not especially important for many
of the residents of this particular site because they were from the area anyway
and had their own customary land both within and outside the (nominal)
boundaries so neatly outlined on the planning map. In proposing a compromise
to settle a problem between squabbling villagers, he confirmed the necessity of
the state's guiding hand. The scenario is more remarkable if one recalls the
source of the conflict: in this case a government program that was designed, ap-
parently, in ignorance of the local understandings about rights and claims that
would both cause the initial fuss and be invoked by both villagers and officials
in its resolution.
moral rights both to the land and to "survive and feed their families" as citizens
of Indonesia, which, they argued, are stronger than Inhutani' s "rights on paper."
The coercive enforcement of rules produced not order but chaos, to which the
exercise of brute power was an unsatisfactory but apparently inevitable re-
sponse. Officials were charged with responsibility for "settling down" the peo-
ple, a task they explained in the paternalistic language well honed on masyarakat
terasing but applied more generally to unruly villagers: the need to "impart un-
derstanding" (memberipengertian) to people whose mental capacities and grasp
of the concept of development were still sadly deficient (Dove 1999). This lan-
guage allows little room for compromise among those who are its targets, for it
is all too obvious that the development state was, in this instance, not giving but
taking away.
On an everyday basis, however, generous giving serves as an important
component of New Order "development" in general and the Depsos program in
particular.18 Needy people are being given assistance by a generous state that un-
derstands the aspirations of its citizens. All of the Depsos inputs are framed as
gifts, and they are ritualized accordingly: there are ceremonies to hand over the
keys to the houses, to open public buildings, and so on. The idiom is reinforced
every time senior officials visit a site. The format of the visits I observed in-
cluded a meeting with the assembled residents during which the officials asked,
"What else do you need here, to make your lives better?" The reply was a list of
goods or government services: "We are still lacking in electricity," "We could
use a new pressure lamp," "Our school building has no furniture yet." To ensure
that the impact of a generous state is immediately felt, Jakarta officials have a
special budget for bahan pendekatan (literally, "goods to make you closer" or
perhaps better rendered as "contact goods," evoking efforts to coax very timid
and primitive folk). In practice, these are gifts that senior officials purchase spe-
cially so that they have something to hand over when they visit resettlement
sites, to "make the people feel happy"—and grateful. When I discussed with an
official the annoyance that settlers were expressing about the insulting label
"masyarakat terasing," he replied, "It is true, we hear that all the time, they do
not want the label. But if we ask them whether they want all the things we give
them, they say yes!" The logic of gifts is especially important in relations of rule
if it precludes an alternative framing in terms of rights and entitlements. Such
containment is precarious, however, as the conflict with Inhutani clearly shows.
as clients; the approach taken to deviations from the plan; whether "the rules"
are vigorously enforced or generously, paternalistically ignored to better en-
mesh, indeed to compromise, the objects of planning. These should be consid-
ered, moreover, not as exceptions or oversights but as part of how rule is accom-
plished. By this I do not mean to suggest that compromise is planned or
preconfigured in the plan, engineered by an omniscient and very subtle state for
the purpose of rule. Its consequences for rule are, instead, the unintended out-
come of culturally informed action, the result of people's intimate knowledge of
their own state system, which includes the knowledge of "how to go on" in a va-
riety of contexts, including when up against a problematic plan or rule. I would
emphasize also that it is shared cultural knowledge, reproduced and revised un-
der changing conditions, not simply the ad hoc invention of strategic actors
striving to make their own lives and tasks easier.
The implication of my analysis is that attempts to reconfigure the condi-
tions under which people live their lives, if too vigorously pursued, would be
rather vulnerable to failure. No plan could anticipate every contingency or fully
transform the social world because "disciplinary effects confront not docile
bodies but situated cultural practices and sedimented histories of people and
place" (Moore in press). Unilaterally imposed, a development plan might sim-
ply miss its mark or invite hostile reactions, in either case revealing its political
dimension and foregrounding power rather than embedding it seamlessly in the
everyday. Similarly, a development apparatus hermetically sealed within a dis-
cursive regime that fails to connect with its presumed subjects would soon break
down. Instead, longevity and a modicum of "success" in development programs
and other projects of rule are secured through their failures and the gaps and fis-
sures that yield not only room for maneuver but the possibility of the culturally
intimate—but often uncomfortable—forms of engagement I have explored
through the term compromise.
Attention to the "how" of rule has become prominent in historical studies
grounded in political economy (e.g., Abrams 1988; Cohn and Dirks 1988; Cor-
rigan and Sayer 1985; Joseph and Nugent 1994) that argue that the state system,
through its rituals and routine operations, produces (and disguises) the relations
of power on which the reified idea of "the state" is based. The Foucauldian con-
cept of governmentality takes one, via a somewhat different route, to a similar
place: to an understanding of the ways rule is embedded in mundane practices
and procedures so that "the state" appears increasingly abstract, apparently re-
moved from daily life just at the point when relations of rule are at their most in-
tense (Mitchell 1991). Reviewing these arguments from the perspective of my
ethnographic study, I find their general thrust persuasive, but they sometimes
overestimate the capacity of "the state" to fashion or present itself in its chosen
terms and to implement the projects that are designed to embed relations of rule.
While the abstract idea of "the state" is often present in everyday discourse and
practice, there is a gap between the state idea and the reality of more or less con-
tradictory programs, initiatives, and statements that people encounter directly
(Gupta 1995). The ethnographer, like her or his subjects, is left wondering
316 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
Notes
Acknowledgments. I thank Victor Li, Donald Moore, Tim Babcock, Pauline Bar-
ber, Lindsay DuBois, and Donna Young for critical readings of an early draft of this ar-
ticle. Thanks also go to Dan Segal and four reviewers for Cultural Anthropology for
incisive commentary that contributed significantly to the final version.
1. See Corrigan and Sayer 1985, Dove 1999, Herzfeld 1997a.
2. See, for example, the contributions in Crush 1995 and Sachs 1992.
3. Michael Herzfeld (1997b) uses the term cultural intimacy to explore the paradox
that loyalty to one's nation, like love for one's family, stems from an intimate knowledge
DEVELOPMENT AND RULE IN INDONESIA 317
of its flaws and imperfections. I take this insight in a slightly different direction by leav-
ing the question of love and loyalty open and considering the compromises implied by
such shared knowledge.
4. Much of the discussion in Cooper and Stoler's introduction to the Tensions of
Empire (1997) is relevant to my project here, especially their emphasis on the fragility
and contingency of rule and the continuous effort required to produce and maintain the
necessary social boundaries.
5. Hefner (1990:250) poignantly describes the continuing agony of both the fami-
lies of victims and the villagers active or complicit in this violence, clarifying the terrible
backdrop against which "order" might be a popular desire, as well as an imposition.
6. For reasons of confidentiality and diplomacy, I am deliberately vague about the
location of the two sites and the ethnolinguistic groups involved. I am also unable to give
details about the conditions under which I visited them. I can confirm that my analysis
draws on more than ten years of research and writing on topics related to Indonesia's
more isolated people and their relations to the Indonesian state system, although my vis-
its to the two sites discussed here were of a "rapid appraisal" variety. I have visited five
resettlement sites in addition to these two and found broadly similar conditions.
7. Compare this with Trouillot's (1991) argument about the "savage slot" and its
role in the constitution of anthropology as a discipline.
8. For a fascinating discussion of "room for maneuver" in relations between devel-
opers and tribes in Indonesia, see Tsing 1999.
9. In addition to "primitives," Depsos is responsible for orphans, prostitutes, un-
ruly children, and other wayward folk.
10. People not interested in becoming "candidates" for the program have their own
strategies of avoidance. According to Tsing (1993:93, 96), some residents of the Mera-
tus mountains line up their own houses so that it "looks good when the government
comes to visit" and serve good food to important visitors so that they will be satisfied and
go away. As in the cases I describe here, people who stayed on in resettlement sites were
those who already lived in the area, while those who were from far away eventually
"went home" (Tsing 1993:176).
11. To preserve confidentiality I do not give references for these documents.
12. Peluso (1992) describes the compromises made to meet the criteria of success
in a social forestry project in Java—in that case, the requirement that seedlings be in the
ground on the eve of a forest manager's visit.
13. Much of the exemplary work on state formation and rule has been historical in
focus and relies on the archival record, for example, Corrigan and Sayer 1985, Joseph
and Nugent 1994, and Nugent 1994, as well as the work on "colonialism's culture"
(Thomas 1994), the "tensions of empire" (Cooper and Stoler 1997), and colonial rule
(Chatterjee 1993; Cohn 1996; Dirks 1992). As these scholars recognize, reliance on ar-
chival sources carries the risk of exaggerating the coherence of state plans, projects, and
procedures and falling prey to the specter of a unified "state" with a singular rationality
and purpose. The everyday practice of compromise leaves few traces. In the case I have
presented here, the archival record offers considerable insight on the project to civilize
"primitives" but a fantastical version of the histories, livelihoods, and aspirations of the
people touched by it. These are precisely the kinds of details the project documents and
the project itself, with its concern to perform standardized operations on generic "primi-
tives," are designed to obscure. Indeed, officials were surprised by my dogged attempts
to unearth these documents in project offices, for they themselves set little store by them
as a source of information: the documents' functions are to record a project process
318 CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGY
unfolding as it should, keep superiors happy, and maintain the flow of funds. As one of-
ficial told me, "There is no point in reading those things, one is just like another; when
we write them we just copy a previous one and change a few bits of information here and
there." Information on local details is conveyed, when needed, in verbal form. This ap-
proach to knowledge is, as I have argued, quite compatible with rule, but it would be
quite incompatible with a research process in which the archive was the sole or major
source of information.
14. In conversations among themselves or with me, some officials made disparag-
ing comments about "primitives," which indicates that they had absorbed the program
rhetoric or else elected to mouth it in bad faith. In direct encounters with the (not very
"primitive") people in my study sites, officials were generally diplomatic and polite.
15. This form of punishment of course compromises the project goal of settling
mobile folk in one place, for without their rice ration they are obliged to seek work else-
where.
16. Tsing (1993) has shown that people in an out-of-the-way place may have quite
subversive critiques of the government, but some of the styles in which their critiques are
articulated seem to require an interpretive effort beyond the reach of a casual visitor,
making their audience select.
17. There are legal provisions for compensating customary landowners whose land
is appropriated for "development," but these are not invoked by Depsos because the pro-
gram is assumed to bring benefits to the community outweighing any individual loss.
18. The centrality of gifts to the rhetoric and practice of development has also been
observed in Sri Lankan contexts. See Brow 1990 and Woost 1994. For a discussion of
the limits of gifts as an instrument of rule in Thailand, see Vandergeest 1991.
19. On the problem of pure spaces of resistance, see Mitchell 1990 and Moore
1998. For a study of the constitution of community in the context of resource struggles
and development interventions, see Li 1996.
20. For a discussion of hegemony as a state project and as a terrain of struggle, see
Roseberry 1994; for dissident remarks on this subject, see Sayer 1994; and on hegemony
as the way domination is lived, see Williams 1977.
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