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In Mrazek's essay, we see how the anxieties produced by technologies of visibility may lead those in power to anticipate the emergence of "criminals" as a way of giving shape to what they apprehend but cannot, as yet, comprehend. The emergence of such figures, then, had as much to do with the establishment of law as with the investment in machines of seeing that fed upon European ideas about power and its possible failures.

We might think of the jago in nineteenth-century Java as prototypical of the "criminal" figure conjured up by the Dutch. Indeed, as Henk Schulte Nordholt and Margreet van Till show in their essay, the precise place of the jago in colonial society is difficult to determine.

Described in colonial sources as notorious bandits, they were also influential within Javanese communities. Commanding prestige and deference, they were thought to be endowed with personal prowess and magical abilities that put them in touch with sources of power beyond the purview of Dutch authorities. Yet, the jagos were also known to serve as "spies" and local police agents of the Regent. Ambiguously situated, the jago could not readily be assimilated into the terms of colonial law.

One is struck, for example, at the excitement and anticipation stirred by the appearance of two infamous jagos, Sakam and Si Gantang, or at least those who were thought to be them, during their trials. As reported in newspapers, they evoked curiosity as much as dread, pleasure as much as fear. It was as if they had become figures of entertainment. Rendered into subjects of rumor and sensation, their publicized appearances had the effect of connecting different strands of the plural society.

Thus it seemed less important that the agents of the law could not even identify these jagos as they often captured the wrong man , for such misapprehensions seemed to enlarge the legends and the interest that surrounded them. Rafael It is tempting to see analogies between the Javanese jago of the nineteenth century and the Philippine criminal of the later twentieth.

Both tend to be mythologized as "social bandits" and, in the Philippine case, as proto-nationalists. And Filipino criminals, like Javanese jagos, have their share of amulets, magical powers, and reputations for violence. However, just as Schulte Nordholt and van Till have drawn attention to the uncertain location of the jago, so John Sidel in his essay points out the problems of equating Philippine criminals in the Tagalog regions of Cavite and Manila with social bandits.

Contrary to their image as Robin Hood-like characters in popular films, such criminal types as Nardong Putik and Don Pepe Oyson relied on the patronage of influential families, police, and national politicians to establish and expand their respective rackets. Local elites in turn relied on such criminals to aid them in intimidating rival families and harassing other opponents especially during electoral contests.

And where the police and the military were concerned, they routinely expected a share in the rents extorted by these criminals in exchange for protection. We can see then some important similarities between the figures of the Javanese jago and the Tagalog criminal despite their distinct historical formations. Sidel points out that the Tagalog criminals he examines always worked under the protection of patrons even if they themselves acted as patrons to those under their command.

Securing the protection of those with considerable resources and influence was one of the most pressing tasks of the Filipino criminals. Jagos have also availed themselves of the patronage of those above for whom they provided services in exchange for protection, but not, it would seem, to the same degree as that of the lowland, Tagalog criminal that Sidel describes.

Though their loyalties might change, the fact remained that the Tagalog criminal was always dependent on the sponsorship, tacit or otherwise, of those above him. In this way, the twentiethcentury Tagalog criminal as described by Sidel is distinct from the jago while sharing some similarities with him. The same could be said about another more contemporary Indonesian type, the preman. In his essay, Joshua Barker describes the preman's primary concern with cultivating the space of his extorsive activities.

While he may seek the patronage of the socially powerful, Barker suggests that he is equally concerned with securing the borders of his influence. Where the Tagalog criminal seeks access to patronage and relies on relations of mutual dependency, the preman is concerned with controlling his territory and projecting an aura of independence from others. In fact, even when the preman might at times rely on the help of the military, as Barker points out, this reliance is at best guarded and provisional.

Among Philippine criminals, no such equivocation exists: criminality is inconceivable outside of relations of patronage and reciprocity, or so it would seem. Yet criminals in the Philippines, like jagos in Java, have also been the locus of a certain popular fantasy. Sidel details the myths that surround the portrayal of criminals in films.

Unlike premans whose origins seem to be of little account, Filipino criminals are portrayed as victims of a prior injustice. Their turn to criminality is thus motivated by insupportable circumstances suffered at the hands of cruel authorities. Jose Rizal's late-nineteenth-century novels, Noli me tangere and El Filibusterismo, anticipated and arguably established the terms for such a mythology.

Such characters as Elias, Cabesang Tales, and various other "social bandits" forced into a Criminality and Its Others 15 life of crime by the injustices they suffered are echoed in the film portrayals of Nardong Putik and other criminals. Criminality here is understood as a kind of response: a form of revenge against those deemed responsible for the criminals' situation. As the agent of vengeance, the Filipino criminal is thus the carrier of a message and the embodiment of popular fantasies about justice.

He is thereby endowed with the nationalist desire to reverse a history of oppression and victimization. His violence, cast as a response to this history, becomes more than just an instrument of intimidation and extortion. In this way, the criminal's dependency on patronage is mystified and turned into a basis for mass identification.

In the realm of popular culture, the criminal comes across as a proto-nationalist. The recent election of Joseph "Erap" Estrada as the thirteenth president of the Philippines further bears out this link between nationalism and criminality. Building a political career on the basis of his reputation as a movie star typecast into playing the role of a lumpen turned vigilante crime fighter, Estrada as vice-president headed an anti-crime commission that was itself charged with committing various crimes.

Police operatives were accused of the massacre of gang members while at the same time engaging in kidnapping and extortions. More recently, Estrada in his speeches has pledged to fight crime while appointing criminal cops to head his anti-crime efforts and Marcos cronies to positions of influence.

The figural quality of the criminal—his genesis, in part, in a collective fantasy that exceeds legal definitions and state sanctions—can also be seen, albeit with vastly different consequences, in the maling or thief in West Java. Barker's ethnography of the ronda or nightwatch describes how a "culture of security" emerges in response to the anticipated appearance of thieves.

Tracking what he calls the "territorializing practices" of the ronda in a Bandung neighborhood, Barker shows how the fear of thieves make possible the mobilization of the community and the reproduction of its borders. For, once caught, thieves are beaten by most of the men in the neighborhood. It is not clear that analogous practices have existed in other parts of Southeast Asia.

Unlike the jago or preman who lives on the edge of society, the thief comes to represent all that "stands outside the neighborhood. Beatings in this case become the language deemed most appropriate for addressing the thief. The system was extended to outlying towns and came to be known as bantayan, a Tagalog word from bantay, to watch.

As an early mode of colonial policing, the bantayan never seemed to be any more than a poorly funded, ragtag band who could not keep up with bandits and often joined the latter's ranks. There is, as yet, no study of how thievery has been handled on the local level in the Philippines, much less a history of the ways its been perceived by rural neighborhoods. Rafael it into a series of signs that can be traced back to the community.

In this way, his foreignness comes to be recognized and domesticated. In the Philippines, the nightwatch as institution for defining neighborhood identity never took on the importance that it has for Java. Thieves do not arouse the kind of collective anxiety among Filipinos and their apprehension does not usually trigger collective violence.

Indeed, thievery tends to be mythologized along different routes, as we saw earlier, or in the late nineteenth century in association with a kind of seditious activity or writing—what the Spanish colonial authorities referred to as "filibusterismo," which originally meant "piracy" or what the Americans called, probably on the suggestion of conservative Filipinos collaborators, "bandolerismo. If the thief appears to be foreign at all, it is therefore in the eyes of those who are retrospectively regarded as foreign rulers themselves rather than among Filipinos.

The link between "foreignness" and criminality also arises in relation to the "Chinese. Where anti-Chinese riots are frequent in Indonesia, most recently during the weeks leading up to the ouster of Suharto, the last anti-Chinese riot in the Philippines occurred in the late seventeenth century and was promoted by Spaniards, not natives. Only at one other time were the Chinese expelled from the Philippines: in the aftermath of the British Occupation of Manila from , and then only temporarily.

Conceding their economic importance, the Spanish eventually allowed them to return in the early nineteenth century. Indeed, from the inception of Spanish rule, the Chinese have been targeted for Christian conversion and assimilation by way of inter-marriage with native women. One result was the emergence beginning in the s of a small but economically affluent and, in time, politically influential group of Chinese mestizos from whose ranks many of the early nationalists came.

Yet, many of the latter also came to disavow their Chineseness, revising their mestizo-ness upwards, as it were, in Hispanic terms while seeking to speak on behalf of the natives. Hence, in the face of persistent anti-Chinese racism, much of the Filipino elite today bear some Chinese ancestry. But in the latter, the "foreign" is also that which has been converted and given a recognizable place in society rather than targeted, as in the former, for violent domestication.

In recent years, however, a new means for converting the foreignness of the "Chinese" in the Philippines has arisen by way of a criminal act: kidnapping. In her essay, Caroline Hau suggests how the kidnapping of the Chinese, for the most part restricted to the Metropolitan Manila area, resonates in nationalist thinking about the proper place of the foreign.

Criminality and Its Others 17 as "the foreign trace of colonial history" despite the fact that many of the most prominent nationalists are themselves part Chinese. Thus the essential indeterminacy of "Chineseness" in a Filipino context. Such thinking has as its corollary the popular belief that the Chinese are the very embodiments of capital. Associated with money, they are seen as an alien force which exploits Filipino labor. The link between the foreignness of the Chinese and money as capital raises the question: what kind of crime is kidnapping?

Is it a way of responding to an alienating presence, and therefore not a crime at all but a form of revenge? Or is it a "growth industry"—part of a culture of entrepreneurship geared towards making profits? Kidnapping for ransom, as Hau argues, commodifies the Chinese body, converting its strangeness into an object for exchange. Here, the foreign is that which circulates by virtue of being substitutable for money. On the one hand, kidnapping when viewed within a nationalist context converts the Chinese capitalist into an object with which to pay off his debts to Filipino labor.

In this way, the crime conveys a phantasm of revenge. On the other hand, within an entrepreneurial context, kidnapping turns the Chinese body into a sign that can be given an equivalent value and thus made productive of a surplus that continually returns, introjecting itself into the very realm in which it is deemed alien. Either way—as a payment for that which had been "stolen," or as a bearer of surplus value—the "Chinese" is invested with the sense of being more than what he or she originally is.

It is as if to say "we are Filipinos" to the extent that we are able to respond to the "Chinese" by setting their equivalent value and thereby putting them in circulation and insuring their return. Thus is the foreigner neither exterminated nor expelled but given a place in the imaginative and political economies of the nation-state. In colonial Indochina, we can discern as well a link between criminality and nationalism in the early twentieth century.

One of the sites for forging this link was the colonial prison. After a spirited engagement with the recent scholarship on prisons, Peter Zinoman in his essay demonstrates the discontinuity between the French metropole and the Indochinese colony where the disciplinary projects of modernity were concerned. This gap was particularly acute in the colonial prison.

Zinoman alerts us to the central contradiction often remarked on by Vietnamese nationalists themselves: that under French rule, prisons became "schools" for producing anti-colonial revolutionary leaders. In part such developments arose from French racist regard of the native as incorrigible and impervious to change.

Such attitudes led to the construction of prisons that were decidedly un-panoptic. The segregation of European from native prisoners, and the use of native guards for the latter, along with the continued use of pre-colonial architectural designs and punitive practices allowed for unregulated mixing among prisoners and collaboration between prisoners and guards.

In the s, then, a "custodial mode of incarceration" led to forms of punishment detached from reform and surveillance. Colonial prisons, as Zinoman argues, were less sites for the formation of disciplined subjects as they were places for inciting nationalist desires for the modernizing technologies withheld by the colonial state.

Here, incarceration is related to 18 Vicente L Rafael criminality in a highly politicized manner. Retrospectively regarding prisons as pedagogical sites for cultivating revolutionary consciousness, Vietnamese nationalists saw their "criminalization" by the French as the condition with which to overturn colonial rule. Zinoman's essay is a significant departure from the rest of the papers in this volume. Aside from being the only paper that deals with Vietnam under the French, it is also the only one which does not directly take up the question of criminality or criminals but rather the space of their punishment.

His contribution comes closest methodologically to a social history of prisons, the study of which, as he points out, is sorely wanting in the scholarly literature on Southeast Asia. Siegel, we return to the motifs raised in Furnivall's discussion of Leviathan, though with a difference. Furnivall argued that the processes of state formation were also those which set the conditions that contributed invariably to the spread of criminality.

Only with the emergence of a modern legal apparatus do we also witness the appearance of crimes, that is, offences whose definitions are decided by the law rather than by "custom" or "public opinion. Lev argues that post-colonial Indonesian history has long been characterized by a constitutive relationship between the administration of the law and the normalization of corruption, and therefore between the consolidation of state power and the preservation of class hierarchy.

In his conversation with a Javanese lawyer just a year before Suharto's resignation, Pemberton lends a striking intimacy and uncanny immediacy to the "open secret" of everyday corruption whose historical outlines had been laid out by Lev.

Siegel, discussing the "Petrus" killings of , claims that not only is the New Order State complicitous with criminals; its leaders, beginning with the former head Suharto, were part of a new criminal type themselves.

Lev chronicles the progressive corruption of a colonial legal system deeded to the postcolonial state, first under Guided Democracy and most stunningly under the New Order. Under Sukarno, the Indonesian state chose to stress the "most repressive side of the colonial legal structure" as criminal procedure became increasingly politicized. The entire legal apparatus was given over to the silencing of critics and to serving the interests of the state.

In exchange for their complicity, judges and prosecutors were given license to use their positions for personal gain. Under Suharto's New Order, the "impressively predatory" workings of Guided Democracy's legal system became even more pronounced. Prosecutors have acted like extortionists, and public lawyers, judges and police, along with other bureaucrats, have routinely engaged in elaborate protection rackets.

And despite their reluctance, defense lawyers often have been compelled to submit to such practices. Not surprisingly, the Chinese have been particularly victimized by being arbitrarily charged with offences, then forced to pay substantial bribes to avoid prosecution. Civil cases have been auctioned to judges, decisions sold to the highest bidder, and those who are well connected have been routinely let off from prosecution.

Hence, the institutionalization of corruption was an integral aspect of 13 For rare exceptions, see Bankoff, Crime, Society and the State in the Nineteenth Century Philippines, pp. Vicente L. Rafael Philadelphia: Temple University Press, , pp. Criminality and Its Others 19 the subordination of the legal process to the dictates of the state. At the same time, the commodification of criminal procedure protected the wealthy from prosecution and thereby consolidated ever growing class divisions.

Thus did Suharto perpetuate his rule while fending off demands for reforms. And even with Suharto's departure, the normalization of corruption has become so pervasive and deeply entrenched as to be taken for granted by most of Indonesia's population.

The corruption of the legal system is not, of course, particular to Indonesia. Such practices undoubtedly occur in other places in Southeast Asia to a greater or lesser extent. We can think, for example, of the Philippine judiciary under Marcos's New Society which was used to silence critics and safeguard the privileges of cronies.

More recently, President Estrada's vow to rid the country of "hoodlums in uniforms and robes" acknowledges the pervasiveness of bribery and corruption in the legal system. Recent developments might lead one to think that Philippine courts have sometimes shown a semblance of integrity.

For example, it has been possible to convict members of the military who were involved in the assassination of Benigno Aquino in though not the actual figure who gave the order , as well as those who were involved in the coup attempts during the Aquino years though a number of them have since been released and are now in Congress. Similarly, Imelda Marcos and two of her children have been convicted of tax fraud, though it is highly unlikely that they will do any jail time.

The wealthy and well connected may be tried and even on occasion found guilty, but they are almost never punished. For the overwhelming majority of the people, the courts remain forbidding and the bribery of officials remain the most expeditious way of avoiding the considerable expense and untold complications of litigation.

Hence, attempts at reforming the Philippine judiciary in the wake of Marcos and the depoliticization of the military have proved largely ineffective. Similarly in New Order Indonesia corruption seems to have been so thorough a part of the legal culture as to foreclose the possibility of change in the near future as John Pemberton's essay makes clear. Practices of corruption have become so routine that the only difference between the past and present is that "they're even bolder now," no longer embarrassed to trade everything from detention to decisions for cash.

Legal matters become subject to a kind of "fantastic" calculation all the more shocking, as Pemberton observes, for being so commonplace to the point that plaintiffs and their lawyers anxious to avoid losing a case now regard it as their "right" to pay off judges. Thus when asked to whom the term "criminal" properly refers to, the lawyer responds without irony: "They [and therefore 'we'] are all criminals.

Unlike the old or "classical" criminals like the maling or the jago who relied on physical strength and magical skills to impose their will on others, the new criminals announce their criminality in the uniforms they wear and the public offices they occupy. Putting aside any sense of embarrassment, they openly demand money, which is to say, they readily reveal the motive force that drives the entire aparat for which they serve as agents.

As such, the very nature of scandal changes. What is scandalous is no longer 20 Vicente L. Rafael that which was hidden and which then suddenly becomes visible and public. Rather, it is the fact that "everyone knows" and, therefore, that everyone is implicated, the accuser the same as the accused. The devastating events of has only confirmed this "open secret"; but the "revolution" that, as the Javanese lawyer remarks, would be required to undo its effects seems very far indeed from taking place.

Siegel's contribution further interrogates the criminal foundations of the New Order, though from another angle. He focuses on the events of known as "Petrus" in which soldiers in mufti killed reputed criminals, stabbing them repeatedly then leaving their corpses on display for people to discover.

Siegel situates this event in relation to a history of massacres carried out by Indonesians against fellow Indonesians on the one hand, and to the prominence of the notion of kriminalitas under the New Order on the other. Both have to do with ideas about death that the state has sought to control. New Order-sanctioned publications such as Pos Kota and Tempo crystallized the category kriminalitas, endowing it with a reference specific to the regime. Under Suharto, it became a way of figuring a pervasive fear: that a force related to the Indonesian Revolution—at times thought of as the rakyat or "people," as it is closely associated with another term, "communists"—might return to seek vengeance against a regime that has killed so many of its own citizens.

The criminals of kriminalitas were imagined to be among the envoys of a repressed past, signs of a return which conjured up a realm of power that had to be overcome. Such became the case when criminals were portrayed as killers or started turning up dead. In fact, most of them were not murderers but rather petty criminals who had worked for the ruling party to intimidate and threaten opponents whenever called upon to do so.

But on those occasions when they were depicted as murderers, they attracted national attention. What drew people to them, and what shaped their tabloid depiction, was the sense that they provided a link between their dead victims and the living who heard about or saw the corpses.

Being the last ones to see their victims alive and the first ones presumably to see them dead, the criminal is thought to retain a memory of the dead as if he were a photograph that kept an absence continually present. The attraction then to the criminal lies in his capacity to occupy a position midway between life and death, and thereby draw on death as the basis of his power.

It is precisely this middle position that the government sought to claim for itself. In killing these criminals, the agents of the state made it a point to stab them repeatedly and then display their corpses. In so doing, Siegel argues, the state simultaneously identified with the criminals and set themselves apart from them. The corpses were made to convey a message about the authority of the government. The murder of so-called murderers allowed the state to absorb the power that they thought inhered in kriminalitas, the very power of death that issued from the corpses.

Admitting to this crime, Suharto and others came to appropriate this power. Thus does kriminalitas bring with it the what Siegel calls the "nationalization of death. Inasmuch as death, the source of kriminalitas' power, is inexhaustible, it is beyond the reach of the living, including the government. For how else could death, even in its nationalized form, be powerful except as that which surpasses historical life? Thus arose the necessity of killing not once, but over and over again.

Kriminalitas, as we saw, is a way of figuring this fear. Another way of dealing with this fear is by means of censorship. Henk Maier in his essay recounts the history of state censorship involving the banning of the books of Pramoedya Ananta Toer. Deftly demystifying the rhetoric and practice of censorship in Indonesia, Maier asks: what is it exactly that the state fears in Pramoedya? The criminalization of Pramoedya has a long history.

Already under Sukarno he had been imprisoned for his writings sympathetic to the Chinese. Under Suharto, he spent long years in Buru, as is well known, where he began working on his historical novels. While not directly about the Revolution, the Buru tetralogy focused on the progressive origins of Indonesian nationalism and has thus kept alive a history of the movement long suppressed by the military regime many of whom had served in the Dutch colonial army ordered to smash the anti-colonial activity.

His recent memoirs of imprisonment continue his critique of official versions of the past and have been banned by state censors concerned with the circulation of what they regard as "code books" that encrypt "communist doctrines. By writing, Pramoedya poses a security risk. The New Order has feared in Pramoedya the possibility of something coming back: the specter of revenge arising out of a history of massacres. The author is punished not for what he has actually done, but for what his writings might give rise to.

As Maier puts it, paraphrasing Pramoedya himself, imprisonment and censorship involved a logic of "first the punishment, then the crime. We might think of the banning of Pramoedya's books within the context of kriminalitas.

In censoring him, the state acknowledges implicitly the existence of another source of power. It is one that arises, we might assume, from "literature," one that surpasses the official rhetoric of the government and the commercialized discourse of popular culture, reaching back to the revolutionary origins of the nation and the Indonesian language.

In this sense, it is a literature that connects with a long history of deaths and thus seem analogous to the power of criminals. Censors see Pramoedya's writings as inciting authority to act and respond to what it deems a threat. This happens because literature comes to be invested with the capacity to evoke specters of revenge. Censorship then seeks the containment of literature as a way of putting such ghosts to rest.

But precisely because literature, as in Pramoedya's writings, is thought to surmount control for what need would there be to interdict something that is not, by its very nature, always transgressive? Thus the need on the part of the state to ban the books in the same way that it has had to kill "criminals": over and over again.

It is this ghastly equation of "literature" with criminality and death that helps to explain why the state and its allies, despite the fall of Suharto, continues to fear a man in his seventies who, as of this writing, remains under suspicion and city arrest, forbidden to travel without the permission of authorities. The jago, the thief, the Philippine criminal, the preman, the "Chinese," the "foreigner," the "criminals" of kriminalitas, the prisoners of Indochinese jails, the "criminal" Pramoedya: all these are incommensurable figures whose socio-historical depth sets them apart from one another.

Yet, their appearance in part owes something to the recuperative powers of the state—colonial, and then national—that renders them recognizable, however tenuously, within some notion of criminality. Related to one another by virtue of their reference to a modern conception of the law, they have also stirred nationalist imaginings and so play important roles in the formation of modernity in these countries of Southeast Asia.

At the same time, figures of criminality, as we saw, are subject to historical revisions and interpretive ambiguities, feeding on and off rumor and publicity, sensational pleasures, open secrets, phantasms of revenge, and anxieties about the foreign. Criminality thus renders fugitive the very criminals that states seek to subsume. They always escape, it would seem; but for this very reason, they are always poised to return in one form or another.

Official Guide to Colonial Exhibition in Amsterdam 1 1. In the same place, there was also a regent, and he had a son, whose name was Abdullah. Oudemans Ilmoe alam of wereldbeschrijving voor de Inlandsche scholen Batavia: Landsdrukerij, The usual topics were dealt with in the textbook. Yet, one item was granted extra space. He aimed it at a distant coconut tree and after some tinkering, the tree was pulled into focus, made distinctly visible.

The reality was captured. One might aim this looking glass at everything. But now, the regent's son looked into the glass, then at the white man, and said: But, sir, can I ask you something; the image of the coconut palm appears turned around, with its leaves downwards, but my father has a binocular, and also a taller glass, and through them one can see trees as not reversed. That's why. Oudemans's was a rosy textbook. In the same style, only purer, there were several maps of the Javanese heaven in the latter part of the textbook.

In these maps the tropical stars were labeled not with letters and digits but with Latin names. Oudemans was a lucky man. He spent the years between and as the principal of the Dutch elementary school in Batavia, and he died during a quiet retirement in Holland.

He was a father blessed with perfect sons: Jean Abram, a doctor of medicine, botany, and mycology, was a professor at the University of Amsterdam; Antoine Corneille, a chemist, served one time as a director of the Delft Institute of Technology; Jean Abraham Chretien became one of the most prominent Dutch astronomers of his time.

In in Holland he defended a doctoral dissertation on the determination of the latitude of Leiden,7 and in he was appointed "head engineer of the geographical service" in the Indies with the task of mapping the colony by astronomical means. In the following decades, J. Oudemans became one of the most respected, and best paid, men in the colony: 3 4 5 Ibid. For each expedition we depend on the solution to the big question: How shall I get to the places to be defined geographically?

At the same time, he was fond of using what he strongly believed were "native" symbols of authority—palanquin and cane. A high-soaring pleasure. In his mapping and triangulating Indies, Oudemans used the newly laid submarine transcontinental telegraphic cable and sent signals over various segments of the line between Perth and Berlin. The last thing we hear about J. Oudemans in connection with the Indies is as cheerful and uplifting as his life and as his father's textbooks: As early as , he observed that the meter used in Java which he himself had delivered in the s was not calibrated directly against the one in Paris; neither had it been corrected for temperature variations.

In , Oudemans acquired a new, true, and perfect platinum-iridium meter. This he kept in his new laboratory in Utrecht, Holland, of course. The colony was provided with a glass copy. Each new edition of a map called for a literary review. Cultural personages were involved, and the language of the reviews was of the kind one might expect from writers of belles-lettres : The map is networked according to Flamsteed's projection.

Thus our Indies possessions festoon the Equator as the poetical expression of Multatuli had 8 Oudemans in a letter quoted in Pyenson, Empire of Reason, pp. There is no overloading, there is great clarity and readability, true harmony of all the tones and colors!

I found it childish to paste a coffee plantation with the color of coffee, a tea plantation with a light-tea color. The color of this land is green. Light-green are the rice fields, dark-green is the rest. In another late nineteenth-century textbook, this time written exclusively for "native" children, the narrator explained to the little Javanese students that their island was a very elongated rectangle, thus in your textbook it had to be a little shortened Perelaer of the book Kaart van Java met aanduiding der spoor- tram- en andere wegen by H.

Stempoort en J. De Indische Gids 7,2 : Witkamp, "Een voorbeeld zonder voorbeeld," De Indische Gids 8,2 : Wolters Groningen, , p. Leonidov for the new Siberian city of Magnitogorsk. From Darkness To Light 27 Thinking about what a perfect late-colonial Indies map might be—logical, beautiful, and powerful—dactyloscopy comes to mind. The origins of dactyloscopy are traced to Josef Purkine, Czech scholar and nationalist, who in discovered under his microscope a breathtaking, orderly pattern of lines on the skin of human fingertips.

He distinguished nine principal categories. Thus, he laid the foundation for the present dactyloscopic methods of registration The word for fingerprints in Dutch was vingersporen, "finger-traces" or "fingertracks": By the government decision dated 23 July, , no. In , the anthropometry was supplemented with photography By the decision of the governor-general of 15 March, , the Central Office of Dactyloscopy began to work with the police in Batavia.

One copy of each set of prints was kept in the central office in Batavia, the other in local police dactyloscopic files. Medan in East Sumatra, the biggest plantation center, and Semerang, Surakarta, and Yogyakarta, the Javanese towns where most of the plantation labor force originated, were the prime candidates for being "dactyloscoped.

All the contract workers began to be registered by the means of fingerprints. Dactyloscopy, therefore, was a historical moment not merely for the Dutch colonial mapping, but for the Dutch Indies looking glass as well. And there would be no limit to the new vision: Of whom shall the tags be required? In the government instruction it was stated: "of persons suspected of criminal offense and of breaching the rules. This huge archipelago, through which Oudemans Jr.

Given to the possibilities, the tags can be divided in classes: System Henry, of these classes, made thirty-two series with thirty-two numbers for each possibility. The Indies dactyloscopy manual of explained what might be achieved after dactyloscopy was solidly installed in the Indies: 28 29 Ibid.

From Darkness To Light 29 In London, a thief climbed over the door that was outfitted at the top with nails. Thus, he entered a warehouse, where he committed a serious crime. On his way back, as he climbed over the door again, he got himself caught by one of the nails between his ring and his ring finger.

By the weight of his body, he fell to the ground and left the ring and a portion of his finger's skin on the nail behind. At the dactyloscopic central station of Scotland Yard, people made a print from the finger skin and checked it against the collection of the central station.

The man was arrested and his wounded finger provided a proof of his guilt beyond any doubt. If one wishes to find a word, one simply turns a page, and the word must be there. It is very difficult to identify even a white man on a photo; to identify a native is for a European often impossible. Therefore, the identification tags with their combinations should be put to use. Also, if the measure is to have a general success, dactyloscopying has to be declared compulsory by the government Hoedt, "Naschrift," Koloniale Studien 3,2 : Already at the first Amsterdam big colonial exhibition in , a special lighting artfully filtered through glass was highly praised: We step inside, into the Indies division.

What a soft and jolly light! We cry out and, looking up, we notice a white cloth arranged in pleats and spread all over the hall under the ceiling. As if the light were falling down through a web of white palm leaves: it is an ivory light.

The firm of De Heyder en Co. Even if a tropical rain might ever fall here, and should it leak through the glass panes of the roof and through the cloth, the rainwater would leave no smudges on the floor. The soft light by itself would be enough to justify the whole enterprise.

At the "last and greatest"42 colonial exhibition, in Paris in , the glassed, glass-cased, and artfully lighted maps virtually monopolized the show. Shortly before the opening, a fire destroyed the Dutch Indies pavilion. From Darkness To Light New entries of a larger size and greater weight could not be sent It opens with a photographic portrait of the Dutch Queen; next, there are plans of the exhibition, air photographs of the Paris fair grounds, other photographs, maps, and photographs of maps: Netherlands Indies as compared with Europe; Steamship connections in the Indies; Development of the air traffic in the Indies.

On the left side of the hall, there was a map of radio-connections of the Netherlands Indies with the world; the map was supplemented with a system of dioramas. Irreplaceable originals had vanished in the flames. But, again, the importance of photographs and maps in the Phoenix exhibit merely demonstrated a quickening of a long evolving trend. Already in , back in Amsterdam, two groups of "natives," one from the West Indies and the other from the East Indies, had been brought to the fair grounds and placed so that they could easily be watched by visitors.

A celebrated scholar of the time, Roland Bonaparte, arranged for portraits of several individuals in the groups be taken by an Amsterdam photographer: three photographs of each man, woman, or child were taken: en face, left profile, and right profile. The heads are made by the hand of a well-known Javanese painter Mas Pirngadie, presently on an assignment at the Batavia Museum.

He painted from photographs, and thus these are no character studies, as that would not fit these maps, but pure ethnological plates. Faces and peoples were flattened. Buildings were smoothed into facades: 45 Nederland te Parijs Gedenkboek, p. While in , it looked like iron was winning against stone of the earlier time, now plaster has the last word.

Just a light diversion. Tillema is sometimes considered the founding father of modern Indies photography. His works were also part of many of the great colonial exhibitions of the time. He owned a pharmacy in Semarang, early in the century, and was a public figure in the city.

Tillema's services were acknowledged when he was made a Knight of the Order of the Netherlands Lion in and a doctor honoris causa at the University of Groningen in The volumes open with a number of photographs of jungle, temples, native women with bared breasts, and volcanoes. One caption repeats under these photographs: "—blinded by the glare of majestic tropical nature.

The man behind the camera is no longer so blinded, and eventually—it becomes clear that this was the motivation and the aim of the journey—the camera gets it all as it should be. Like on a perfect map, there is a measured proportion of shade and light, and geometrical beauty, at the end, is dominant. Landscapes and peoples are caught by snapshots, which means they are given no time to move unmanageably or independently. Vanvugt, H. Tillema en defotografie van tempo doeloe Amsterdam: Mets, , pp.

Tillema, "Kromoblanda": over 'i vraagstuk van "het wonen" in Kromo's groote land, vol. I Cs Gravenhage: Uden Masman etc. All this is well lighted. As one Tillema's biographer put it, "The Tillema-archive is a monument of Indies scatography. The mats of "natives" could be used, but they might not always be available. There were other challenges, Tillema warned, that still faced a photographer in the wild. Heat and humidity threatened the camera, lenses, and film; there were "myriads of annoying insects" and "sunlight.

For this, one needs shoes that one cannot buy in the fatherland. So called "Acheh" shoes [used by the Dutch in the Acheh war ]—available in the Indies in many shops—are excellent. Every Indies military man can give a good information about this matter. V, part 2, pictures nos. Kerchman red. Tillema, p.

Tillema, "Filmen en fotografeeren in de tropische rimboe. Met foto's van den schrijver," offprint from Lux-de camera Dallmeijer, which worked well Subjects are taken in: Soedah! Whenever light permits, one takes a short-time exposure. Hands are sticky with sweat. This is not just very annoying, but also very dangerous for the film. After some training, however, we will make it. This time he traveled to the deepest interior, to film the tribes of Apo Kaya in Central Borneo.

In fact, I was anxious to obtain a filmed record of the whole process. De Rooy [a local Dutch official and Tillema's partner in the project] gets on marvelously with those people and by tact and sympathy. Tillema and De Rooy quickly decided upon providing an active force which would neutralize the power proclaimed by tradition. Instead of one old woman, three of them turned up The weaving and filming were completed; the camera captured it.

Then it was an easy thing, as just by the way of an afterthought, that De Rooy purchased the last Dayak loom and the last woven piece of material and presented both to the "Colonial Institute77 at Amsterdam. Who can imagine, wrote Tillema, 65 Ibid. For photo of Tillema with camera, see E. The Indies maps and photographs, images through the camera, under the glass, and illuminated by a man-made light, were acquiring a cheerful, liberating, and ghostly life of their own.

Scheltema, a Dutchman and an Indies hand, visited the Paris exhibition of , and, in the Dutch pavilion, as he later wrote, was particularly excited about a railway map with illuminated images of most picturesque and, from the point of view of construction, most significant sections of the train connection between East and West Java. Scheltema had lived long enough to see the "last and biggest" Paris exhibition of , he might have enjoyed, in the midst of a severe world and colonial economic depression, something even more impressive.

Utermark and constructed by the Technical Service of the Colonial Institute that offered a map of the piece of world between Amsterdam and the archipelago displaying to large numbers of visitors the weekly air-way KLM connection between the Netherlands and the Netherlands Indies. Segment by segment, the route lighted up with twelve place names, a yellow lamp for an outbound plane, a blue lamp for a homebound plane, and a green lamp for the meeting point in Djask.

Another electric map demonstrates truthfully, by lamps automatically lighting up, a difference between a journey by ship and by plane to the Netherlands Indies. See also a comment in Volksraad about Tillema being helped in the adventure by the colonial government "militair transport. The aim of the map is, among other things, to point out the tourist qualities of Java; little electric trains move through the map, and, as they pass the crucial points, fourteen dioramas suddenly light up.

In them, more than in anything else, the late-colonial paradigm came to be intensely expressed—as if the whole dynamics of the colony centered in them. Attractive, self-contained, and frivolous, the patches of light manifested what the whole colony increasingly wanted to be.

There had been "multicolor fountains" and "Edison feasts" in vogue in the Indies since before World War I. Modern facades glowed as if they were only facades. Sometimes, and this seemed to be preferred, only a building's contours were illuminated. Nothing but clean, sharp lines stood out of the darkness. Nicholas Day, December 5, The first movie was reportedly shown in the Tanah Abang quarter of Batavia as a light diversion for better society.

The attractions of the first show were shots of the Queen Wilhelmina and Duke Hendrik in The Hague, scenes probably fake from the Boer War in Transvaal, and pictures of new consumer products from the fair in Paris. During the next decades, some of the most modern structures in the colony, including the first air conditioned homes, were movie houses. Treub, one of the foremost apologists of the empire, visited a new labor camp for the native workers in the Batavia harbor, in , and he was excited: The terrain is spacious.

Many officials complained about "natives" acting "nonchalant" in their kambing goat sections even "while the 'Wilhelmus' [Dutch anthem] was played,"83 or "whistling ditties while the image of the Queen was on the screen. V, No.

VI, See also ir. Timmerman, "De bevordering van lucht-conditioneering door de electriciteitmaatschappijen en het verbruik van electrische stroom in Nederlandsch-Indie," De Ingenieur in Nederlandsch-Indie November , p. Treub, Nederland in de Oost: reisindrukken Haarlem: Willink, , pp. The electriclight switch was in professional hands. These indeed are the most disturbing images of the late-colonial period: the people floodlighted and the rulers watching the light effect.

Maclaine Pont, an Indies architect, the builder of the Technical Institute in Bandung, among other things, recalled in how he had completed a new central office for a tramway company in Tegal, Central Java, and how he celebrated with his Javanese workers: Several wayang [shadow-puppet theater] troupes entertained the festive crowds; towards the evening, the terrain was electrically illuminated and an open-air cinematograph began.

After a while, a heavy rain started and poured down, and a great deal of the terrain was soon deep under the water. Vissering of the Batavia colonial exhibition of Batavia's biggest square is temporarily recreated into a fair, a platform is erected for the Resident of Batavia, other officials and their dames. An immense crowd sits on the ground in their best plumage of white baadjes [coats], colorful sarongs, and tidy head clothes. Amidst the crowd, there are little warong [stalls] stands, whose little lamps, whenever the beam of light from the movies fall in other direction, create red, yellow, and orange glimmers across the multitude.

There is, in this immense human mass, nothing but light, color, and peace; first of all, peace, picked up by the colors and the light, each time the scene brightens by a sudden radiation from the big movie theater, as the cinematographic mechanism throws a broad stream of light over the whole square; now, everybody is garish, then everybody is carmine red, then deep blue, then fiercely orange. I, no. From Darkness To Light 39 For us, it is a joy of a show! That look of a placid happiness of the hundreds; that picture that repeatedly emerges out of the darkness in the vehement lighting by the cinematograph.

Entitled Old People, the whole story is about aging and how one might possibly evade it. This is how the novel ends: "His fair and delicate face bent low over his papers; and so close to the lamp, it could be seen that he was growing very gray at the temples. To avoid being seen, in full light at least, was as important as to see.

The Indies Dutch were determined not to let the "natives" see their masters watching. There were very few Indonesians among the surveyors in the colony. Everything, or so it was hoped, might become a theodolite, or a telescope.

One might get inside to hide and watch. Trains became such an optical tool. The landscape 92 Ibid. For Hchteffecten see also report on a student festivity evening in Bandung in Ganega 10,1 February : 3. Vissering, "Een Pasar Gambir," p. See C. Fasseur, De Indologen. Ambtenaren voor de Oost, Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, , p.

Another source says it first happened in See L. Perelaer, "De geheimzinnigheid uwer staatslieden in bestuurszaken," De Indische Gids 7,2 : ; see also "De geheimzinnigheid in het Indische bestuur," De Indische Gids 16,1 : It was a most easily and comfortingly watchable modernity. As the fuel was still coal, travelers were well advised to pull up the window—unless they wanted to "leave the train black with soot"98—and watch the land along the tracks from behind the window glass.

Berlage, the most celebrated Dutch architect of the early twentieth century, visited the Indies in Berlage enjoyed the trip across the seas. After disembarking, he noted that Batavia was much of what he had expected and believed in: a modern colony on the march. He was just a little nervous before he set out further on a trip into the colony's interior: I went to the station very early, anxious about surprises of a train trip in the Indies. Javanese crowds waited for the train.

My high respect and admiration goes to the Javanese servants. Retiring Dutch officials and planters, especially, liked to take "the beautiful Indies" back home. They would carry home pictorial souvenirs, the colony captured in a little hangable painting, and photographs, a panorama of rice-fields, coconut trees, buffalo boys, mountains, with a red shining sun. There were strict rules for the "beautiful Indies"; to be beautiful, a picture must contain no suggestion of waving time, no trembling of the air, no hidden energies, nothing hinted at in the shadows.

The trees, houses, fields, mountains, and the people had to be distinctly outlined. The perspective should swell forward, and everything should offer itself to be seen. As in Roland Bonaparte's or Tillema's snapshots, or in the maps, there was a distinct police quality in the beauty of this craft. Brusse's, , p. Others complained about it as well: the Indies has three dimensions as against the flat and low Netherlands with only two This state of completeness might be what Berlage, at the rail head in Bandung, appeared close to attaining: "Ueber alien Gipflen, in a purple-gray depth, the splendid land of Java.

For a trip like that, clearly, there was no better venue than the Praenger railway and Bandung at its end. As an anonymous Dutch writer put it more than a decade later in Bandung. Indeed, no Indies town gives Westerner so sure a feeling that he is among his own.

Just a few years after Berlage's visit, the airplane arrived as a technological—and optical— tool in the Indies, welcome as the train and capable of transporting passengers along a path even more pleasantly distant from the real ground. The arrival of the airplane marked one more cheerful moment for the colonials. It must have felt as if Holland of the Golden Age was about to rise again, this time reaching out not only to the "beautiful Indies," but ultimately extending around the "beautiful world.

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Eleven of the chapters in this book were developed from conference papers, and another three—those of George Quinn, James Hoesterey and Minako Sakai —were commissioned to provide a fuller picture of the myriad ways in which Islam impacts on daily life in Indonesia.

Betting patinggi ali sarawak energy They are not here. Demand for traditional Islamic health services has also grown preman kebal hukum forex in the past few years. He has established a school on the outskirts of Jakarta specialising in Qur'anic recitation. This recognises the fact that, despite accelerated Islamisation in Indonesia, the 'emotional Islam' market is limited, due in large part to the fact that consumers with a strongly Islamist outlook tend to have relatively low incomes and thus less to invest. Cattle rustling declined and forty-two people were arrested. But, again, the importance of photographs and maps in the Phoenix exhibit merely demonstrated a quickening of a long evolving trend.
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Dalam akaun ini, para pedagang Forex tidak dikenakan faedah semalaman. Dalam masa yang sama juga broker Forex untuk akaun ini juga perlu membayar pampasan untuk perkhidmatan mereka dengan mengenakan komisen terhadap dagangan Forex.

Kebenaran pertukaran tangan ke tangan juga berlaku di antara broker dan pedagang Forex. Kedua-dua pihak bertukar mata wang berlainan, maka jelas sekali ianya tidak melanggar konsep jual beli yang halal dalam islam. Pertukaran yang dijalankan berlaku dalam masa beberapa saat sebaik sahaja terdapat perintah menjual atau perintah untuk membeli.

Islam melarang umatnya berjudi yang meletakkan masa depan kepada nasib. Dalam Forex, masa depan pedagang tidak ditentukan oleh nasib.

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