The fact that rich and poor peasants alike should make themselves out-to me and to each other-as somewhat poorer than they are is hardly of much interest. This is nothing more than the usual dissimulating pose of a class that is historically subject to onerous claims which it seeks to minimize. What is of note, however, is the clear pattern found both in each local class’s view of the village stratification and in disputes about income. The economic gap between rich and poor is dramatically different depending on which point of view one adopts. As seen by the rich, the gap is quite small; they themselves are barely making do, while those who claim to be poor are actually doing quite nicely. Consistent with this perspective is their insistence, evident in their view of the impact of double-cropping detailed in the last chapter, that their gains have been modest and the gains of the poor, substantial. The view of Sedaka’s stratification which they promote is one of a rather egalitarian setting where all plant rice, where neither real destitution nor real affluence exists, and where those who do have a bit more are generous to a fault. As seen by the poor, the economic gap is much greater; the rich are much better off than they let on and the poor are very poor indeed. The view of Sedaka’s stratification that they in turn promote is one of great inequities, where a few privileged monopolize the land and income, where the poor live from hand to mouth and are without prospects, and where generosity is rare and insignificant.28
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The class issues at stake in these divergent interpretations of economic reality are by now obvious. These interpretations are provoked by the fact that the “rules of the game,” which impose certain standards of liberality on the rich, are largely accepted by most participants. What is not given, what is not fixed, however, and what can therefore be manipulated within limits is the position of a particular family or household within this pattern of established obligations. The “haves” of Sedaka minimize the inequalities because, by doing so, they also minimize their obligations to provide work, rice, and land to their poorer neighbors. If their neighbors are not poor and they themselves are not rich, then the question of their obligations does not even arise. As an afterthought, in effect, they add that the small differences that may exist have come about for reasons (laziness, stupidity, improvidence) that disqualify the few poor in the village from any special consideration. The “have-nots” of Sedaka, in contrast, exaggerate the inequalities because, by doing so, they also maximize the obligations the rich ought to have toward them under the existing values. Once these huge inequities are accepted as social fact, then it follows that the stingy and selfcentered behavior of the village rich is in flagrant violation of a shared normative code. What we observe, in brief, is not some trivial difference of opinion over the facts, but rather the confrontation of two social constructions of the facts, each designed and employed to promote the interests of a different class.29
RATIONALIZING EXPLOITATION
It is manifestly clear that most of the changes in land tenure, rents, and employment in the past decade have either violated or sharply limited the applicability of earlier understandings. The question I would like to consider here is how these changes have been put across ideologically, how they have been represented. How have different classes inside and outside Sedaka asserted their claims and pressed them in the face of resistance? To examine this issue at close range is to watch ideology at work where it really counts-in the rationalization of exploitation and in the resistance to that rationalization.
Here we are concerned with appearances, with the mask that the exercise of economic or political power typically wears. Things in this domain are rarely what they seem; we should expect disguises, whether they are self-conscious or not. There is nothing either surprising or mysterious in this process. The executive who fires some of his work force is likely to say that he “had to let them go.” This description of his action not only implies that he had no choice in the matter but that those he “let go” were being done a favor, rather like dogs on [Page 205] a leash who had finally been released. Those who are the beneficiaries of this magnanimous act are likely to take a different view; their metaphors are usually more colorful: “I got the sack,” “I was axed.” The victim may be excused if he fails to share the executioner’s perspective. Whatever term the Vietnamese peasantry used to describe what was done to them by U.S. forces, one may be sure that it was not “pacification.”30
The disguises, however, are diagnostic. This is particularly the case where two parties are in a continuing relationship that is partly antagonistic and partly collaborative. Here the mutual claims and counterclaims are likely to be phrased in language that each party has reason to believe the other will consider relevant and legitimate. Thus, someone asking his employer for a raise is more likely to cite his diligent work, his loyalty, and his contribution to his employer’s enterprise in support of his claim than, say, his desire for a new automobile or an expensive vacation. And the employer wishing to deny the raise is more likely to cite stagnant profits, equity among employees, and the fact that the present salary is comparatively generous than, say, the employer’s desire to increase his own profit or to invest in a new business. What is of interest here is not the true value of such claims but the way in which they help us define what appears to each party to be a mutually acceptable terrain of discourse.
In this context, it occurred to me to wonder what happened when a landlord decided to raise the rent, change the form of tenure, or actually dismiss a tenant. How was such a decision presented, justified, and rationalized to the tenant? In what terms did the tenant resist the claim? Such cases are diagnostic, because they typically involve what would seem in principle to be a serious breach of shared values. With few exceptions, someone who is relatively well-off is, in such encounters, attempting to extract more rent from a poorer person or to deny him or her access to the means of production. How could such a demand possibly be rationalized if it flew in the face of the injunction that wealthy peasants should, within their means, assist their less fortunate neighbors and relatives? To answer this question, I collected as many accounts as I could of what actually was said in such confrontations.
Raising the rent has always been a delicate matter, and yet it has of course happened with great regularity since the 1960s. Before that, when land prices and paddy prices varied little, both tenure and rent levels were comparatively stable, and this stability was in part due to social pressure. As the Rice Production Committee report noted in 1953, arbitrary rent increases were rare, “since public opinion would make itself felt against any landlord who insisted on higher rent, or who sought to eject a tenant who was cultivating with normal [Page 206] diligence and care.”31 Even today, there is unanimous agreement in Sedaka that if the rent is raised, the landlord is bound by custom to give the current tenant the option of accepting before he offers the land to anyone else. I know of only a single case in the village where this custom was perhaps violated.32
Just how ticklish a matter it is to raise a tenant’s rent depends, of course, on a variety of other factors. We are never dealing with an abstract landlord and his abstract tenant confronting one another in an abstract situation. Some of the crucial factors that color the social view of the transaction are the price of paddy,33 the closeness of the kinship tie between landlord and tenant, the number of years the tenant has been farming the land, and the relative wealth of the owner vis-à-vis the cultivator. Generally speaking, a rent increase is easiest to put across when the price of paddy has risen sharply (increasing the tenant’s return under fixed cash rents), when the landlord and tenant are unrelated, when the tenant is a short-term renter, and when the landlord, as occasionally happens, is manifestly poorer than the tenant. A higher rent is hardest to justify when, in contrast, the reverse of all these conditions applies.
The case of Rosni and her landlord, Abu Saman (an outsider), falls toward the “ticklish” end of the spectrum. When Abu Saman moved to raise the rent a year ago, the price of paddy had not c
hanged since the last rent increase in 1974 to M$600 (or $150 for each of 4 relong per season). Rosni’s own return, due to increasing production costs, had been declining. While there was only a rather distant kinship tie between her late husband and the landlord, she and her husband had rented the land from the landlord’s grandfather and had farmed it for more than twenty years. Rosni is not well-off; she has no land aside from these 4 relong and has managed only by dint of prodigious wage labor transplanting and reaping to raise her seven children since she was widowed nine years ago. Abu Saman, in contrast, is a rich man with more than 25 relong of paddy land and a profitable shop.
Under the circumstances it is not surprising that Abu Saman avoided broaching the subject directly. He chose instead to “let it be known” (cara sembunyi [Page 207] tau) through mutual friends that he wanted to raise the rent to M$700 a season for the 4 relong and that he now wanted to rent in advance for two seasons. Abdul Rahman, who was listening in when Rosni noted her landlord’s roundabout tactics, explained for my benefit why he did this: “He didn’t want to come himself; he was embarrassed (malu) and reluctant (segan), because he’s related to (adek-beradek dengan) Rosni.”34 His interpretation is plausible because this indirect approach is a common practice in ticklish situations when a confrontation or a humiliating rebuff is possible. It is used as a means of conveying criticism35 and of broaching the delicate matter of marriage negotiations. If the criticism misfires or the marriage proposal is turned down, it allows the initiator to beat a dignified retreat or even disown the initiative. Abu Saman’s use of an intermediary is a strong, though not definitive, sign that he knew his demand ran counter to what was considered legitimate. When Rosni sent no reply back through the same channels, Abu Saman had little choice but to come and push his demand directly.
After the required pleasantries, coffee, and cakes, Abu Saman got to the point of his visit. He needed more rent because, he claimed, “I am also in bad shape” (saya pun teruk). His wife was ill and he had large doctor and hospital bills; he had borrowed money against other land he owned and had to pay this debt or lose the land. From Rosni’s point of view, his sad tale was a completely badfaith performance, of which not a word could be believed. But, of course, she did not challenge his story openly and replied in terms of her own situation: last season’s crop had been bad, her oldest daughter was pregnant and could not earn anything transplanting, the children needed school uniforms, and she had little cash to last her until the harvest was in. For our purposes, what is significant is that Abu Saman’s case for the rent increase is based entirely on need. Whether that case has any merit or not-most likely it does not-Abu Saman, in effect, makes himself out to be as poor or poorer than Rosni. By doing so, he affirms in effect the normative straitjacket within which he must operate. The only way to justify extracting a higher rent is to portray himself [Page 208] as the party in greatest need-the party most in need of help (tolong) and compassion. The same logic prevails here as in the question of stratification and income; a working strategy is followed that pays symbolic homage to the shared value of the rich helping the poor, but the facts are turned upside down to the advantage of the landlord. Abu Saman, however, plays his trump card toward the end of the exchange by mentioning that someone else has asked about the land. He needs to say no more. The meeting ends inconclusively, but within a week Rosni sends her son with the higher rent, but for only a single season, not two seasons. By accepting the cash and by his subsequent silence, it appears that Abu Saman has accepted this tacitly negotiated compromise.
The case of Tok Ahmad and Shamsul, who jointly rent 6 relong from another outside landlord, Haji Din, also lies toward the ticklish end of the spectrum. They too have rented this land for a long time, nearly thirty years, and Tok Ahmad is distantly related to the landlord. Tok Ahmad, who farms 4 of the 6 relong, is a middle peasant by Sedaka standards but has no land other than what he rents from Haji Din, while Shamsul is relatively well-off due to his salary as an examiner of paddy for moisture content at the nearby government rice mill. Both, however, are far poorer than Haji Din, who is a retired paddy dealer owning at least 20 relong and two tractors. Unlike Abu Saman, Haji Din did not attempt a roundabout method of raising the rent but came directly.36 His argument, when he came to insist on M$180 a season per relong rather than M$ 150, differed only in particulars, not in substance, from Abu Saman’s claim. He also pleaded that he was hard up (teruk) and elaborated by saying how expensive materials had become for the planned addition to his house, by emphasizing that he had fourteen children and grandchildren in his house who had to be clothed and fed, and by talking of the debts he owed on a small piece of orchard land. In a word, he claimed poverty. His plight left Tok Ahmad and Shamsul unmoved. Privately, they said he was lying (dia membobong)-this is, after all, the man who tried to extract zakat from them, and they know how wealthy he is. In his presence, however, they pleaded poverty as well: the paddy price had not improved; fertilizer and tractor costs were going up; after the harvest was in they had only eating rice left (tinggal makanan sahaja). The dialogue is already familiar. It is all but forced on the participants by a set of prevailing values that legitimate the claim to concessions by the poorer party. While the claim in the case of Tok Shaway and Shamsul is at least plausible, Haji Din’s posturing is almost pure theater, as there is no other way, within existing values, of justifying his claim.
Lest his story fail to win his tenants’ sympathy, Haji Din availed himself of the ultimate threat. He mentioned that his grandson was clamoring for land to [Page 209] farm. The threat was not an idle one, for Haji Din had taken back 4 of the 10 relong Tok Ahmad and Shamsul had earlier farmed. Faced with this warning, it did not take long fbr the tenants to settle reluctantly on the landlord’s terms.
Additional accounts of a comparable kind could be multiplied indefinitely. Sukur notes that landlords have to say (kena kata) that they do not have any money, that they are hard up, when they come to ask for more rent. He captures the belief that such performances are a mandatory routine by adding that this is also the “tune” (lagu) that Haji Kadir used when denying loans or advance wages. The outcome is rarely in doubt, of course, since the tenant is always afraid of losing the land. “You have to take it (terpaksa ambil) or else he’ll change [tenants].” “If you lose the land, it’s finished, and you’re back to hoeing for wages.” Wahid says that his landlord always claims he “doesn’t have enough money” (duit tidak cukup) when he wants more rent, although both the landlord and his wife are salaried schoolteachers who have bought much rubber and rice land with their savings. Ghani Lebai Mat’s cousin, from whom he rents, invariably claims that he is hard-pressed (sesak) financially when he wants more rent, despite the fact that he is very comfortable. Lazim rents land from his brother, who has a fat salary but uses the same ploy of being hard-pressed (sesak) to justify higher rents. The claim, in his case and others, is typically backed by details designed to justify a higher levy.
Aside from personal reverses—debts, illness, a son’s improvidence, poor crops—the landlord is likely to note anything that has reduced his own return, such as land taxes and inflation, and to mention any improvement in the tenant’s return from higher paddy prices or a new fertilizer subsidy. The logic here is one of appealing to changes in the relative return of owner and tenant. If the current rent is clearly below the average rent for the area, the landlord will point that out too. In such a case, the landlord can argue that he has been too generous in the past. A fair amount of time is then usually devoted to disagreements over what is the average rent, how good the land in question is, how large the harvests have been, and how much profit the tenant has received after rents and expenses. As with questions of income, the landlord exaggerates the quality of the land and the tenant’s profits, while the cultivator loses no opportunity to denigrate the field and understate his harvest and profits. These details, taken collectively, are footnotes to a discourse intended to establish the relative need of each party, w
hich in turn is the fulcrum on which shared notions of mutual obligation rest.
The standard scenario for these encounters is perhaps most remarkable for the homage it pays, in however distorted and even cynical a form, to precapitalist niceties. It is extremely rare for a landlord to forgo the ritual and present the tenant with an unvarnished take-it-or-leave-it proposition. Haji Nayan claims that such crude (kasar) approaches do occur in which the owner simply says, “This year I’m raising the rent to M$175; it you don’t want the land, I’ll give it to someone else.” Given the shortage of land and work, of course, it is precisely this coercive choice the tenant normally faces; knuckle under or lose the land. [Page 210] And yet the symbolic amenities are almost always observed, since the normative atmosphere requires it. As Mat Sarif says, “The landlord has to (terpaksa) say he is hard up (susah). How else could he raise the rent?” This is so, he continues, even though “he really (sebenarnya) wants to buy even more land.” It is, of course, not for me to say anything meaningful about the actual sincerity of the landlord’s performance. The fact that its sincerity is doubted by most of its intended audience, however, is an important social fact. What is, in addition, very clear is that the landlord has little in the way of raw material and propsvalues, customs, or ideology-that would allow him to strike a convincing pose.
When the landlord wishes to make other changes in tenure conditions that are disadvantageous to the tenant, the logic is identical. Thus when Haji Zahir (an outside landlord) announced that he wanted Nizam and his father to pay the rent in advance (pajak) for two seasons on 8 relong, he told a tale of financial woe worthy of a poor man at the end of his luck. Nizam and his father believe, with good reason, that Haji Zahir merely wants the lump sum to lend out to someone else in order to gain the use of the debtor’s land. When Samat’s landlord decided to collect rents before the season began rather than after the harvest, he used his penury as the excuse. The landlord, Samat commented, “read (bacha) [his lines] as usual,” implying that this was the routine performance that could be expected in the circumstances.
Weapons of the Weak- Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance Page 33
