Haji Kedekut gets up at night
To count his money on the sly
He eats his rice with only salt
Sleeps on the floor without a mattress.63
It was some time before I realized that Haji Kadir, the well-to-do landlord in whose house I was staying, was the butt of similar jokes and fell into the same folk category. I was visiting a nearby village with Sedaka’s ragtag soccer team,64 and after the game some of our hosts asked where I was staying. When I replied that we stayed in the front of “Pak” Haji Kadir’s house, I was greeted by blank stares of nonrecognition. I tried to describe the location of the house, [Page 21] thinking that he must surely be well known in these parts. The confusion continued until someone said, “Oh, that must be Kadir Ceti” and the smiles around then reflected both recognition and some embarrassment. Ceti refers to the notorious southern Indian Chettiar moneylending caste which, in Malaya and elsewhere in Southeast Asia, provided much of the finance capital for agrarian production from 1900 until the Second World War. As a caste specialized entirely to a profession forbidden by the Koran, they became, and remain, a symbol of usurious exploitation and debt bondage.
Although Haji Kadir was the only man with the nickname Pak Ceti in Sedaka, other villages in the vicinity had their own—Haji Lah Ceti and Pak Ali Ceti to name just two.65 Once it became known that I had learned my landlord’s nickname, the ice was broken and the stories came thick and fast. Much of the nearly twenty relong of paddy fields that he owned locally were acquired by default on money he had lent out, that is by jual janji. Abu Hassan’s father had lost three relong to Pak Haji Kadir in this fashion, which explained why he occasionally, and to no avail, asked to rent back this plot of land. Villagers said that, like Haji Broom, Haji Kadir had re-lent money borrowed from one of the wealthy Chinese shopkeepers in Kepala Batas. Hamzah, his poor neighbor, complained that he would charge 20¢ for a coconut from his yard rather than simply make a gift of it as others would. Hamzah had another complaint. Last season he had worked as a laborer more often for Haji Kadir than for anyone else in the village and thus expected a gift of paddy (zakat) after the harvest. He got absolutely nothing, although far poorer farmers for whom he had worked had been quite generous.
The diet of Kadir Ceti, like that of the Haji Kedekut in the ditty, was the object of popular derision. Rather than buying fish from the market, he would, by choice, eat the same tiny, bony fish from the paddy fields that the poorest villagers ate of necessity. Even his brother-in-law, Pak Kasim, did not think he had changed since making the pilgrimage. “Even the Chinese in town call him Ceti. He always sits in the same chair. How could he change?”
Although Haji Broom and Kadir Ceti dominated the conversational landscape of miserly Hajis in Sedaka, there was no shortage of stories about other Hajis, living and dead, in the district. The torrent of abusive accounts was such that I eventually tired of them, although the villagers, never did. There were Hajis who stole water buffalo; Hajis who boldly took things from stores without paying; Hajis who harvested crops planted in good faith by their tenants; Hajis who rented all their land to Chinese rather than to their own people; Hajis who [Page 22] insisted that tenants pay them a zakat tithe (reversing the usual direction of charity); and at least one Haji who was said to have kicked a woman while she was praying. And, of course, there were many good, pious, modest Hajis (perhaps a majority) whose pilgrimage and conduct were a great credit to Islam. The fact remains, however, that a vast majority of the rich landlords who had earned the animosity of the community were also Hajis. It was impossible to tell whether the cascade of stories was due simply to the inherent richness of the source material or to its social value as a cautionary tale for the rich and wouldbe rich who had not yet gone astray. Both, I suspect.
Two things were clear, though. First, nearly everyone thought that the problem of the shameless, greedy rich in general, and of shameless, greedy, rich Hajis in particular, was worse now than in the past. Even rich Hajis concurred, while excepting themselves from the charge. Sukur spoke for most when he said: “The old Hajis were real Hajis. These days, they aren’t real Hajis. They only wear the robes. They just took a trip to Mecca (not a real pilgrimage). When they came back from Mecca they should be true, but they even practice padi kunca. They just want more money; the sky’s the limit.”66 Second, it is clear that, when such Hajis die, their transgressions will earn them the most exquisite punishment their God can prepare. What that punishment will be precisely is a matter for conjecture. But Abdul Rahman captured the flavor of this speculation by concluding: “When they enter hell, they will swim in blood.”
THE SYMBOLIC BALANCE OF POWER
The tales about Razak and Haji Broom—suitably embroidered, elaborated, and retold—have far more than mere entertainment value. They amount to an exchange of small arms fire, a small skirmish, in a cold war of symbols between the rich and poor of Sedaka. Hostilities, in this war as in most, are conducted over a shifting terrain in which there are many neutrals, bystanders, and reluctant combatants with divided loyalties. For the time being, at least, it remains a cold war both because many of the potential participants have important shared interests that would be jeopardized in an all-out confrontation and because one side, the poor, is under no illusions about the outcome of a direct assault. Thus, the “war news” consists almost entirely of words, feints, and counterfeints, threats, a skirmish or two, and, above all, propaganda.
The stories that circulate about Razak and Haji Broom are perhaps understood in this sense as propaganda. Like effective propaganda, they signify—they em-body—an entire argument about what is happening in this small place. The mere mention of Razak’s name by rich villagers conjures up a vision of the [Page 23] grasping, dishonest poor, who violate the accepted standards of village decorum. In their view Razak is the negative model toward which the poor in general are, alas, heading. The mere mention of Haji Broom’s name by poor villagers conjures up a vision of the greedy, penny-pinching rich, who likewise violate the accepted standards of village conduct. In their view, Haji Broom is the negative model toward which the rich in general are heading.
Haji Broom and Razak gain much of their power as symbols by virtue of their reality as concrete human examples of the behavior they have come to signify. Everyone in the village can observe Razak as he adds daily to his own legend. For Haji Broom, the experience is only slightly less direct. Nearly everyone has seen or met him and every adult has heard firsthand stories about his land grabbing and moneylending. Given the availability of palpable, local legends that villagers can check against their own experience, this kind of propaganda does not have to rely much on mere credulity to state its case. What one chooses to make of these living legends—precisely what they signify—is of course another matter. But they originate in social facts.
The value of Razak and Haji Broom as social banners, however, stems as much from the extravagance of their conduct as from their palpability. It is this extravagance that not only makes the tales engrossing67 but makes them effective vehicles of propaganda. Even the poor of Sedaka agree that Razak’s capers place him beyond the pale. Even Kadir Ceti will agree that Haji Broom’s fortune was gotten by breaking the commands of Allah and of village society. The rich and the poor have each availed themselves of precisely the extreme examples that will best serve their case, examples that will have to be conceded by the “other side.”
The stories that swirl around these two men must also be recognized as cornerstones of an ideological edifice under construction. They embody, as ideology, a critique of things as they are as well as a vision of things as they should be. They are attempts to create and maintain a certain view of what decent, acceptable human behavior ought to be. As negative examples of totally unacceptable behavior, they accomplish their purpose in the same way that any socially sanctioned account of deviance helps to define what is normal, correct, preferred behavior. Such stories can thus be read as a kind of social text on the subject of human
decency. They are necessary precisely because the maintenance of a given symbolic order is always as problematic as its change. The ideological work of repair and renovation is never-ending.
The implicit purpose of these competing ideologies is not just to convince but to control; better stated, they aim to control by convincing. To the extent that they succeeded in shaping behavior, they achieve a class purpose as well. [Page 24] Should the rich be chastened by the tales about Haji Broom, they would not lend money at high interest, they would not make designs on the land of others, they would be generous with religious charity and feasts, and they would take on more tenants and workers. The benefits for the poor of such an arrangement are obvious. Should the poor, on the other hand, take the infamous example of Razak to heart, they would not importune the rich for gifts, they would not come to feasts uninvited, they would be faithful workers, and they would be as good as their word. The advantages for the rich of such an arrangement are equally obvious. There is a kind of symbolic equilibrium here. The message to the rich is: If you behave like Haji Broom, you can count on being villified as he is. To the poor, the message is: If you behave like Razak, you will be despised as he is. And if wishes became deeds, if ideology became practice, Sedaka would be a small utopia peopled by generous, sympathetic landlords and honest, hardworking tenants and laborers.
Alas, the equilibrium is only symbolic. These cautionary tales, after all, adjure the rich and the poor to forgo their immediate material interest in order to protect their reputation. But how important is a good name? Or, to put it the other way around, what is the cost of a bad name? The answer unfortunately depends a great deal on who you are, for the cost of a bad name hinges directly on the social and economic sanctions that can be brought into play to punish its bearer. In class terms, one must ask how dependent the poor are on the good opinion of the rich and vice versa. The politics of reputation is, in this respect, something of a one-sided affair.68 It amounts to this: The rich have the social power generally to impose their vision of seemly behavior on the poor, while the poor are rarely in a position to impose their vision on the rich. A good name is something like a social insurance policy for the poor against the thousand contingencies of agrarian life. It is built by a record of deferential behavior, service at feasts and house movings, a willingnessto work without quibbling too much about wages, and tacit support for the village leadership. It brings tangible rewards in terms of employment, charity, help at times of death or illness, and access to whatever subsidies the ruling party in the village has to distribute. It brings intangible rewards in terms of inclusion both in the informal pleasantries and in the ritual of village life. Razak, having forfeited his good name, thereby acquires a certain freedom to breach the etiquette of village life.69 But he pays heavily for that freedom in work and public scorn. His only concession to form is his calculated membership in the ruling party. Hamzah, by contrast, has established and maintained a good name. It costs him the time [Page 25] and labor he devotes to village projects, cooking at feasts, and taking care of the village prayerhouse (surau) and assembly hall (balai). It also costs him a certain amount of swallowed up bile, as we shall see, to feign a respect for his social betters that he does not always feel. But his reputation pays dividends in employment, zakat gifts, help when he is ill, and a public show of respect and consideration. Such rewards are significant; they are sufficient to ensure that all but three or four of the poor in Sedaka choose to conform in most respects to the standard of seemly behavior that is defined and imposed by the village elite.
The Haji Brooms and Kadir Cetis of this small world are heavily insulated from the effects of a bad name. They need little or nothing from the poor. It is ironic that their insulation—land and the income and power it provides—was acquired only by violating precisely those rules of generosity and consideration70 that might have given them a good name. Now they are virtually beyond sanction.
There is one exception, however. The rich, while they may be relatively immune to material sanctions, cannot escape symbolic sanctions: slander, gossip, character assassination. But even on this small terrain, the contest is an unequal one. Nowhere is this more evident than in the fact that Razak is demeaned to his face, while Haji Broom and Kadir Ceti are invariably demeaned behind their backs. Thus Kadir Ceti is always addressed “Pak Haji” to his face, and I would be surprised if he was even aware of his popular nickname. The scorn in which he is held need never reach his ears nor trouble his sleep.
Of course, much of the public deference shown to Haji Kadir is “false” deference.71 Poor villagers, and not only they, choose to dissemble, knowing full well the penalties of any other course. Thus when an old villager, Ishak, ventures to talk disparagingly about Haji Broom, he ends by asking me not to breathe a word of it to anyone in Yan or Mengkuang for fear of retaliation. What we have here is a difference between “onstage” and “offstage” behavior; to the extent that the deference expressed in public, power-laden situations is negated in the comparative safety of offstage privacy, we can speak unambiguously of false deference.
But even false deference is an unmistakable exhibition of the social power of the well-to-do. It is no small matter that the village elite continues to control the public stage. The public symbolic order is maintained through outward deference, to which there is no open challenge. On this largely symbolic plane, as well as in the sphere of material exchange, then, the social imbalance of power [Page 26] allows public insults of Razak but prevents public insults of Haji Kadir or Haji Broom.
Those with power in the village are not, however, in total control of the stage. They may write the basic script for the play but, within its confines, truculent or disaffected actors find sufficient room for maneuver to suggest subtly their disdain for the proceedings. The necessary lines may be spoken, the gesture made, but it is clear that many of the actors are just going through the motions and do not have their hearts in the performance. A banal example, familiar to any motorist or pedestrian, will illustrate the kind of behavior involved. The traffic light changes when a pedestrian is halfway across the intersection. As long as the pedestrian is not in imminent danger from the oncoming traffic, a small dramatization is likely to ensue. He lifts his knees a bit higher for a step or two, simulating haste, thereby implicitly recognizing the motorist’s right-ofway. In fact, in nearly all cases, if my impression is correct, the actual progress of the pedestrian across the intersection is no faster than it would have been if he had simply proceeded at his original pace. What is conveyed is the impression of compliance without its substance. But the symbolic order, the right of the motorist to the road, is not directly challenged; indeed, it is confirmed by the appearance of haste.72 It is almost as if symbolic compliance is maximized precisely in order to minimize compliance at the level of actual behavior.
It is with analogous forms of minimal compliance that poor villagers are able to insinuate the insincerity of their performance. They may come to the feast of a rich villager but stay only long enough to eat quickly and leave. They have compiled with the custom of accepting the invitation, but their compliance skirts the edge of impropriety. They may also bring a gift in cash or kind that is less than what might be expected but not so little as to constitute a direct insult. They may, as “required,” greet a big landowner on the village path, but their greeting is abbreviated and not as warm as it might be. All these and other forms of reluctant compliance stop short of overt defiance and at least conform to the minimal standards of politeness and deference that the rich are normally in a position to require. And yet they also signal an intrusion, however slight, of “offstage” attitudes into the performance itself, an intrusion sufficient to convey its meaning to the directors but not so egregious as to risk a confrontation.73
[Page 27]
The kind of conflict with which we are dealing here is singularly undramatic. At one level it is a contest over the definition of justice, a struggle to control the concepts and symbols by which current
experience is evaluated. At another level it is a struggle over the appropriateness of a given definition of justice to a particular case, a particular set of facts, a particular behavior. Assuming the rich ought to be generous, for example, is a certain landowner’s refusal to make a gift a violation of that principle or is it a legitimate rebuff to a man who is only feigning poverty or who has, by his comportment, forfeited his right to charity? Finally, at a third level, of course, it is a struggle over land, work, income, and power in the midst of the massive changes brought about by an agricultural revolution.
The resources the different contestants bring to this contest hardly bear comparison. The local elite nearly always has its own way in the economic life of the village. Given its sway over resources, it can also largely control public ritual life-that is, the “onstage” conduct of most of the poor in the community. Only “backstage,” where gossip, tales, slander, and anonymous sabotage mocks and negates the public ritual order, does elite control fall away. To return to the military metaphor, it is only here that the terrain is relatively favorable to the meager arsenal of the disadvantaged.
One might well ask: Why are we here, in a village of no particular significance, examining the struggle of a handful of history’s losers? For there is little doubt on this last score. The poor of Sedaka are almost certainly, to use Barrington Moore’s phrase, members of “a class over whom the wave of progress is about to roll.”74 And the big battalions of the state, of capitalist relations in agriculture, and of demography itself are arrayed against them. There is little reason to believe that they can materially improve their prospects in the village and every reason to believe they will, in the short run at least, lose out, as have millions of peasants before them.
Weapons of the Weak- Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance Page 5
