Power and Knowledge in

Southeast Asia

Examining two state-sponsored history-writing projects in Indonesia and

the Philippines in the 1970s, this book illuminates the contents and contexts
of the two projects and, more importantly, provides a nuanced characteri-
zation of the relationship between embodiments of power (state, dictators,
government officials) and knowledge (intellectuals, historians, history).
Known respectively as Sejarah Nasional Indonesia (SNI) and Tadhana
project, these projects were initiated by the Suharto and Marcos authoritar-
ian regimes against the backdrop of rising and competing nationalisms, as
well as the regimes’ efforts at political consolidation. The dialectics b
­ etween
actors and the politico-academic contexts determine whether scholarship
and politics would clash, mutually support, or co-exist parallel with one
another. Rather than one side manipulating or co-opting the other, this
study shows the mutual need or partnership between scholars and political
actors in these projects. It proposes the need to embrace rather than deny
or ­transcend the entwined power/knowledge if the idea is for scholarship to
realize its truly progressive visions.
Analyzing the dynamics of state–scholar relations in the two countries, the
book will be of interest to academics in the fields of Southeast Asian history
and politics, nationalism, historiography, intellectual history, ­postcolonial
studies, cultural studies and the sociology of knowledge.

Rommel A. Curaming is Senior Assistant Professor at the Universiti Brunei

Darussalam (UBD). His areas of research include comparative historiog-
raphy, history and memory of violence, historical theory, and knowledge
politics in Southeast Asia, mainly Indonesia and the Philippines.
Rethinking Southeast Asia
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Power and Knowledge in
Southeast Asia
State and Scholars in Indonesia and the
Philippines

Rommel A. Curaming
First published 2020
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
business
© 2020 Rommel A. Curaming
The right of Rommel A. Curaming to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections
77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical,
or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
All interviewees have agreed to be quoted directly for Rommel
A. Curaming’s PhD thesis, titled When Clio Meets the Titans:
Rethinking State-Historian Relations in Indonesia and the Philippines
submitted to Faculty of Asian Studies, Australian National
University, December 2006, on which this publication is based.
Please advise the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will
be corrected in subsequent editions.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Curaming, Rommel Argamosa 1970– author. 
Title: Power and knowledge in Southeast Asia : state and scholars
in Indonesia and the Philippines / Rommel A. Curaming. 
Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. |
Series: Rethinking Southeast Asia | Includes bibliographical
references and index. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2019032538 (print) | LCCN 2019032539 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781138344945 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429438196 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780429796319 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9780429796296 (mobi) |
ISBN 9780429796302 (epub) 
Subjects: LCSH: Historiography—Political aspects—Indonesia. | 
Historiography—Political aspects—Philippines. | History—
Political aspects—Indonesia. | History—Political aspects—
Philippines. | Indonesia—Historiography—Political aspects. | 
Philippines—Historiography—Political aspects. | Indonesia—
History. | Philippines—History. 
Classification: LCC DS633.5 .C87 2019 (print) |
LCC DS633.5 (ebook) | DDC 959.80072—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032538
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019032539

ISBN: 978-1-138-34494-5 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-429-43819-6 (ebk)
Typeset in Times New Roman
by codeMantra
For my partner in life, Leah; our children, Wynona Eurj and
Liam Roj; my parents; and Craig Reynolds.
Contents

List of tables ix
Preface xi
Acknowledgments xix
List of abbreviations xxv

Introduction: power and knowledge 1

1 Indonesia and the Philippines: a contextual comparison 23

2 Genesis of Tadhana project 43

3 Tadhana in political and historiographic contexts 67

4 The making of Sejarah Nasional Indonesia (SNI) 99

5 SNI: contents and contexts 125

6 The calculus of power–knowledge relations 165

Conclusion 184

Glossary 193
Index 197
Tables

1.1 Selected Filipino and Indonesian historians 34

3.1 Coverage of the Pre-Spanish Period in Some Philippine
History Textbooks 68
3.2 Outline of Tadhana 74
4.1 Outline of SNI 1975 and Members of the Team 105
5.1 Comparison of Outlines and Political Contents of Vol. 6,
SNI 1975 and SNI 1984 144
Preface

The multi-volume National History of Indonesia (Sejarah Nasional Indone-

sia; henceforth, SNI) has not been taken seriously by scholars. It is often
dismissed offhand as dubious, crude, boring, and utterly predictable. In-
formed that I was about to do research on SNI and Indonesian historiogra-
phy, an American Indonesianist wryly told me sometime in 2003, perhaps
in an unintended but unmistakably patronizing tone, “Well, one can write
on one or two pages what SNI and Indonesian nationalist historiography
are all about, can’t he?”
Hard as I tried then to convince myself otherwise, I was gripped by fear
that he might be right. At an early stage of my interest in Indonesian histo-
riography, I gathered from commentaries, by both Indonesian and foreign
scholars and journalists alike, a singular picture of the SNI project as a
showcase of how the New Order regime had used history for its purpose.
Just like everyone else, I held in my mind a view of SNI as exemplar of what
is often perceived as an unreliable, manipulated, and self-serving kind of
history, the official history.
I set out to read the original 1975 edition of SNI for the first time with this
preconception. It didn’t come to me as a surprise, therefore, that the military
in Indonesia was showered with panegyric commentaries, while the com-
munists and Sukarno were demonized. When I reached the narrative lead-
ing up to the pivotal event on 1 October 1965, the September 30 Movement
(Gerakan Tigapuluh September; henceforth, G30S) ‘coup’ or ‘counter-coup,’
things flowed as expected. The economy was badly managed, politics was
sharply contentious, and Indonesian society was being torn apart. Then, it
came. A few pages after the narrative involving the kidnapping and killing
of seven military officers by the G30S, the coverage suddenly stopped, and
with it, the six-volume project ended. What happened beyond 1 October
1965 was cast in the dark. No mention of the alleged mutilation of the body
parts of the generals or the supposed role of the Communist Party of Indo-
nesia (Partai Komunis Indonesia; PKI, henceforth) as the mastermind of
the gruesome killings. No mention either of the peaceful and purportedly
legitimate transfer of power from Sukarno to Suharto or, more importantly,
of the fairly remarkable economic achievements of the New Order. For a
xii Preface
history book that practically everyone, including Suharto, regarded as the
regime’s official history, it struck me as truly odd that it was silent about the
events or period that mattered most to its legitimacy.
Even worse for the interest of the regime, there was a key passage in Vol.
6 of SNI (1975) that ran directly against the official explanation of the G30S
event, as painstakingly laid out in the publication The Coup Attempt of the
‘September 30 Movement’ in Indonesia (Notosusanto and Saleh 1968). Writ-
ten by the New Order regime’s interlocutors, one of whom was widely re-
garded as its official historian, Nugroho Notosusanto, The Coup Attempt
of the ‘September 30 Movement’ in Indonesia flatly denied dissension or
conflict within the armed forces as the key contributory factor. Instead, it
laid the blame squarely on the supposed PKI’s plan for a power-grab. This
publication was produced precisely to counter the so-called Cornell Paper,
a scholarly work entitled A Preliminary Analysis of the October 1, 1965 Coup
in Indonesia (Anderson and McVey 1971). This piece constituted the earliest
and the most thorough analysis of the G30S and the killings of the gen-
erals. Given that Nugroho Notosusanto himself spearheaded the group of
military-­employed historians who wrote Vol. 6 of SNI, it baffled me how
there could be such a significant contradiction in the two official publica-
tions. What kind of official history was SNI?
Intrigued, I tried hard to look for clues. The proceedings of the planning
workshop held in Bogor in 1972 clearly indicated the intent of Nugroho and
his team to discuss what happened after October 1965 all the way up to the
early 1970s. They also planned to exult the achievements of the New Order
in contradistinction to the supposed lapses of Sukarno’s Old Order. So, why
did they not in fact do so in SNI? The possible reasons for this, and what
they did to compensate for it, make for a rather surprising story that reveals
a complex interplay between the power of scholars and the political inter-
ests of the state, as will be discussed in the subsequent chapters. In a state-­
sponsored project like this, one tends to expect history and historians to be
manipulated or co-opted as state operatives hold the upper hand. This ex-
pectation is particularly strong in the case of Indonesia’s New Order regime.
Before it unraveled and collapsed in 1998, in the wake of the financial crisis,
it appeared to be all dominant and powerful. It seemed to be not the case
here as scholars or historical scholarship managed, to an extent, to assert
their own power. It was then that I felt relieved, knowing that rather than a
mere page or two, as claimed by the American scholar I mentioned above,
the SNI and Indonesian historiography were worth a serious, full-length
study with potentially important theoretical and political implications.
Observers have opined that the underdevelopment of local historical schol-
arship in Indonesia was among the key reasons for history’s vulnerability to
manipulation, as was rampant during the New Order era (e.g. Purwanto
2000, 2001). This idea operates within the widely held liberal assumption
that ‘good’ scholarship and politics stand in oppositional relations. Juxta-
posed with the case of Tadhana project, a very ambitious history-writing
 Preface  xiii
project initiated personally by the president of the Philippines and a dictator,
Ferdinand Marcos, the need to re-examine SNI became, in my view, all the
more pressing. Among other notable things about Tadhana project, the par-
ticipation of Filipino scholars in it was underpinned by the relative strength
of historical scholarship in the Philippines at that time. Such strength was
manifest in the participants’ ambitious scholarly agenda as well as in the
confidence in their ability to withstand or deflect political manipulation.
For Marcos’s political purpose, the usefulness of the scholars precisely lay
in their high level of expertise. Contrary, therefore, to the common idea that
weak scholarship is prone to political manipulation, the case of Tadhana
suggests that things were more complicated as the strength of historical
scholarship made Tadhana attractive for Marcos’s political purpose. Given
the different socio-political and historical contexts, the contrasting position
of the scholars vis-à-vis the state, the varying level of development of schol-
arly traditions in the two countries, and the rather unexpected outcome
and dynamics of the state–scholar interaction, comparing the two history-­
writing projects promises to offer a more nuanced characterization of the
relationship between power and knowledge.
In contemporary academic culture, particularly in area studies and so-
cial sciences, any reference to the power-knowledge nexus may be met with
a polite but jaded response. Many have moved on, or at the outset stayed
away, perhaps thinking that the idea that knowledge is a function (in the
mathematical sense) of power is simply wrong or counter-productive, or, in a
theoretical and analytic sense, already exhausted. Others who earlier on had
opted to coast along this analytic flow have adopted different approaches,
theories, or vocabularies, perhaps to reflect conceptual refinement or to
cross new intellectual frontiers. Possibly, it was also to keep up with the
intellectual fashion. On the opposite extreme, others think that the idea has
long been a self-evident truth, so, there is no need for further investigation.
“What else do we not know?” they may sardonically ask.
In my view, at least two reasons drive the need to examine further the
analytics of power–knowledge relations. First is the persistence of analytic
constipation. This refers to the tendency among scholars (and other ana-
lysts who apply scholarly conventions) to stay safe within the well-accepted
boundary and to downplay, ignore, hide, or hold back certain key aspects of
analysis due to unconscious or conscious effort to uphold certain analytic,
political, moral, ethical, or whatever predispositions. In the case of the anal-
ysis of power-knowledge, it points to the acknowledgment of the very close,
even mutually constituting, relationship between the two, but this recogni-
tion only goes to a certain point, well off the logical conclusion (For more
details, see Curaming 2015). That is, that power, in a broad sense of ability
to make a difference, enables, influences, or shapes knowledge, and vice
versa. In short, power/knowledge. Analytic constipation is analytically con-
venient, but it is politically and ethically problematic because it prevents the
full accounting or mapping out of all forms of power that enable knowledge
xiv Preface
production and consumption. It diverts attention away from the question
of power and full accountability of agents (e.g. scholars) in knowledge pro-
duction and reverts towards debates on empirical accuracy and methodo-
logical or theoretical soundness. These debates are ultimately unresolvable
outside the ambit of another layer of power relations, but it is precisely this
denial of the fundamental question of power that renders knowledge the
power of ‘truth’ or appearance of facticity which makes it useful for what-
ever ideological shades of political use and misuse. Analytic constipation
dogs even the most politically progressive, knowledge-focused critical schol-
ars, who employ approaches like postcolonial theory, poststructuralism,
cultural studies, and decoloniality movement. While they acknowledge the
deeply political nature of knowledge, they hesitate to cross the line and con-
front and carry out the logical conclusion of power/knowledge. Following
Bourdieu (Bourdieu 1990; Bourdieu and Wacquant 1989), I will try to show
in this study that a possible reason for this hesitance lies in the self-interest
of the scholarly class, whose power largely depends on the continued con-
cealment or mystification of the nature and source of their power.
Second, I suspect that the partial admission of the deeply political nature
of scholarship is sustained by the lack of attention to exemplary cases which
typify the subtle and nuanced intermeshing between power and knowledge.
I shall demonstrate that the state-sponsored history-writing projects in In-
donesia and in the Philippines that are analyzed here are two such exemplary
cases. The analysis of these projects draws attention to the context, mechan-
ics, and dynamics of the relationship between embodiments of power and
knowledge. It highlights the need to undertake critical analysis that fore-
grounds rather than downplays the collective self-interest of the scholarly
class in accounting for power relations that enable knowledge production.
The main impetus for this book lies in a deep-seated anxiety about the
ambivalent ethical and political implications of the well-intentioned scholarly
practice, including those by the progressive or liberal strands of academia.
On the one hand, the ideal of impartial scholarship is seen as an altruistic
pursuit of truth for the common good, while self-identified committed or par-
tisan scholars explicitly fight for the protection and interests of various mar-
ginalized groups. On the other, and this is often underemphasized, the same
types of scholarship may also be appropriated by groups, institutions, or in-
dividuals for their selfish interests, sometimes to the detriment of the unsus-
pecting public. Rather than fulfill its avowed aim to help redress inequality
and injustice, the patently well-intentioned scholarship could end up reinforc-
ing or intensifying the problems (Chomsky 1997; Oreskes and Conway 2010;
Rabin-Havt 2016). One is left soberly wondering, if progressive and impartial
scholarship can, and often enough they do, serve the selfish interests of the
unscrupulous and powerful groups and individuals, what hope is left for the
marginalized? (See Curaming (2017) for a more detailed discussion.)
There are scholars, of the more conservative bent, who believe they
ought not to worry about the consequence of their work. Their obligation,
so this view goes, is to describe and analyze phenomenon as accurately and
 Preface  xv
impartially as possible. What happens afterwards is neither their concern nor
their responsibility. Such a view is, I argue, ethically untenable as it is pre-
cisely this claim to neutrality or impartiality that renders even well-meaning
scholarship prone to political misuse. By its very nature, scholarship serves
the interests of groups or individuals of whatever ideological shades: the
rightists, leftists, centrists, or politically oblivious, each of them believe in
the truthfulness and political rightfulness of their position. The salience and
potency of politics from any ideological standpoint is enabled by the very
idea of the existence and knowability of factual or objective truth, regard-
less of whether in fact such objectivity can be attained. No entity can better
signify this aspiration than modern scholarship. Unwilling or not, aware or
otherwise, accurate or distorted, any scholarship, just because it cannot exist
in a social vacuum, can hardly escape lending a hand to a range of ideologi-
cal positions. Constantly in need of self-reassurance, sophisticated political
agents who care to be liked or loved, not just feared, ‘shop’ in the scholarly
marketplace of ideas for whatever is compatible with the justificatory require-
ments of their political interests. They ignore or dismiss as untrue or, in con-
temporary parlance, as “fake news”, those that are incompatible with their
interests. As knowledge circulates in a social space, it assumes a life of its
own. Regardless of truthfulness or falsity of knowledge claims, and whatever
the intent upheld by their authors, they can give way to uses and meanings
contrary to the original intent. The question of greater importance, therefore,
is not whether or not knowledge is a function of power or politics, but which
or whose politics enables a knowledge claim, and whose politics is supported
by such knowledge claim.
The instances in which a strictly neutral position is attained mislead us into
thinking that good scholarship is truly an antidote to the political. The idea
is that it is just a matter of getting things empirically, methodologically and
theoretically right to transcend political ‘contamination.’ Easily missed is the
point that neutrality or impartiality (or at least the claim to, or the appear-
ance of it) constitutes scholarship’s own politics. It is what makes scholarship
credible, respectable, and influential. In other words, it is what makes schol-
arship powerful and, in the same breath, political. It is a sort of politics of
the third space. Neither leftist nor rightist, not liberal or conservative. It is
a political act—a purposive exercise of power, albeit not acknowledged as
such—in between, above, below, or beyond the fray. By missing this insight,
well-­intentioned progressive scholarship could inadvertently undermine
its progressive aspirations by ending up complicit in keeping the academic-­
political system stacked up against the marginalized groups whom it expressly
seeks to protect or fight for (Curaming 2017).
Scholars who self-identified as progressive or pro-marginalized groups
purposefully offer well-intentioned counter-analysis to neutralize pro-­
conservative or elite-serving scholarship. This aspiration underpins the
­development of various strands of critical approaches—postcolonial
­theory, poststructuralism, postmodernism, feminism, cultural studies, de-
coloniality movement, etc. The efforts and the good intentions that drive
xvi Preface
these approaches are praiseworthy. However, one challenge is that political
­ ositioning—liberal, conservative, centrist, etc.—is far from being fixed. It is
p
relational, perhaps like all other power relations. It shifts depending on the
contexts of actual knowledge use, and depending on the current positions
of the subject (the knower) and the object of knowledge claims (the known).
Over the course of undertaking this study, there have been three big puz-
zles that consumed my wonderment. First, why the urge to elide, obscure,
avoid, downplay, manage, or deny the inescapability of power/knowledge
despite power relations being evident, perhaps it is even a fundamental in-
gredient, in every stage of knowledge production and consumption? From
the moment we define words; create concepts; formulate theories; gather and
interpret data; write books; and let them circulate for public consumption,
all these require decision to interpret and select one option over another,
which means exercise of power and entering into a power relation. And, sec-
ond, when power/knowledge is acknowledged, why is it only acknowledged
half-way? Why the refusal to push it to its logical conclusion? Finally, if we
take the logic of power/knowledge to its conclusion, what are its far-reaching
implications, on both scholarly and political practice? These questions are
far bigger than what this study can address. What it hopes to achieve is mod-
est: to help keep the conversation going.
The rise of the so-called post-truth condition in the past several years
has given me much to think about the questions I have noted above. Post-
truth, according to Lee McIntyre, refers to “the idea that feelings sometimes
matter more than facts,” and “facts are subordinate to our political point of
view” (2018, 11, 13). An indicator on this condition is the diminishing or loss
of faith in experts and scholarly knowledge. Perhaps nothing exemplifies the
post-truth condition more clearly than US President Donald Trump’s disre-
gard for the science behind climate change, calling key elements of it “fake
news” and at the same time winning the support of a surprising number of
people in the United States and elsewhere. Critics are quick to assume the
intellectual and moral high-ground, dismissing Trump and his supporters
as deplorably ignorant and offering fact-checking and sophisticated analy-
sis as a mechanism to address the situation. They were probably thinking
that with ‘right’ or accurate knowledge and understanding, people would
come to their senses and no longer be ‘misled’ or ‘brainwashed.’ But af-
ter some time, it became clear that for people who have grown skeptical of
the long-established authorities—political, intellectual, religious, etc.—no
amount of fact-checking or rigorous scholarship would suffice to convince
them. Hence, the idea of post-truth came about to identify the period or sit-
uation in which it has become easy for many people to accept the so-called
‘manipulated,’ ‘distorted,’ or ‘alternative’ facts, or even ‘downright lies,’ as
truth in blatant disregard of the established protocols for knowledge verifi-
cation used by experts or scholars (Fuller 2018).
One important point that is often missed in critiques of the post-truth
condition is that the contempt for experts and scholarly knowledge espoused
 Preface  xvii
by the likes of Trump and his supporters applies not to all but only to cer-
tain kind of experts or scholarship: those with whose views or findings they
do not agree. Experts whose findings are compatible with their views are
sought, welcomed, and even eagerly promoted (Oreskes and Conway 2010).
In other words, the truth referred to in ‘post-truth’ is not the transcendental
truth (or the God-knows-it kind of reality), as often implied in critiques,
but a particular kind of truth. It is from a specific standpoint (modern, sci-
entific, and liberal) preferred and upheld by certain groups with, of course,
their own interests (Poovey 1998). This brand of truth has over time been
accepted and became so ‘normalized,’ we no longer notice the network of
power that allow such truth to be upheld and sustained. When alternative
sources of power arise—like the populism of Trump and the ‘true feeling’
(Berlant 1999) of the mass of people who believe in him—what critics obsess
about are the supposed lies and deceptions and the ostensive continuous
decline in people’s morality and rationality (Ball 2017). As Steve Fuller ar-
gues in his compelling and aptly titled book Post-truth: Knowledge as Power
Game, many critics had missed a very crucial point: that the extent of suc-
cess by Trump and his supporters in negating the normalized truth brings
to light the amount and types of alternative powers needed to create and
establish alternative truth (Fuller 2018, 2016).
Therein lies the crux of the matter. Nietzsche and Foucault, among oth-
ers, had long critiqued the notion of truth that was equated to factuality
or transcendental truth, which was conceived in opposition to the idea of
power. For them, truth is a function of power relations. Given the knee-jerk
reactions to blame the ‘liberal left’s’ postmodernism or poststructuralism
for the post-truth condition (Calcutt 2016), it seems rather ironic that a pos-
sible solution lies in poststructuralists’ admonition to pay serious attention
to the question of power. Each truth claim needs a corresponding network
and types of power to be considered by many as truth, and the power of the
scholarly class is but one of the possibilities. The centuries old dominance
of science as the legitimate way of knowing has conditioned scholars to nor-
malize this way of truth-determination. But things appear to be changing.
With science’s objectivity-based authority being usurped by the “fake news-
makers,” the solution lies not exclusively in doing more fact-checking simply
because the authority of scholars has already been undermined by alterna-
tive powers. In my view, there is a need to push the logic of power-knowledge
to its conclusion, to power/knowledge, to re-focus our analytic attention on
the network of power relations that made knowledge claims, including sci-
ence and fake news, possible and acceptable to many. Mapping out such a
network of power relations will render transparent the interests that prop
up, and are supported by, each body of knowledge. Arguably, this is the way
to help common people to decide more rationally which claim they would
believe in. Since the hesitance of the scholarly community to acknowledge
fully the power-driven or political nature of scholarship is a key hindrance to
power/knowledge, the task is to demonstrate in what specific ways scholarly
xviii Preface
practice may be political. It is as a part of this effort that the comparative
analysis of the two state-sponsored history projects—SNI and Tadhana—
has been pursued in this book.

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———. 2001. “Mencari Format Baru Historiografi Indonesiasentris: Sebuah ­Kajian
Awal.” Paper presented at the 7th National History Conference, Jakarta, October
28–31.
Rabin-Havt, Ari. 2016. Lies, Incorporated: The World of Post-Truth Politics.
New York: Anchor Books.
Acknowledgments

A work of this magnitude can only be a product of multiple efforts. The

greatest debt I owe is to God, who has bestowed upon me and my family
an unending stream of blessings all through these years. Given the heavy
psychological inertia that had to be overcome over the past dozen years to
complete this project, only through God’s grace and mercy its publication
became possible.
Remiss I would be if, next to God, I did not thank my wife and partner
in life, Leah, without whose unconditional love and support, not to men-
tion untold sacrifices, this project would not have seen the day. Thank you
very much, Sweetie! To our adorable children, Wynona Eurj and Liam Roj,
who have shared the burden of my prolonged absence, both physically and
mentally, while working on this project, I am also indebted. To my parents,
­Loreto (deceased) and Flora, who right from the beginning instilled in me
the value of learning, I will forever be very grateful. The support of my sib-
lings and other relatives is also deeply appreciated.
I cannot thank enough the Australian National University (ANU), par-
ticularly the now defunct Faculty of Asian Studies, for the full scholarship
grant in 2002–2006 that afforded me a chance to complete the PhD thesis
upon which this book is based. I will always be grateful to the ANU for the
four most intellectually exhilarating years of my life thus far. Indispensable
was my panel of supervisors, described by an Australian scholar with the
words “Wah! Hebat ya?! Pasukan berat!” (Wow! Great! A formidable force!)
when I informed him who my supervisors were. Despite the differences in
our scholarly orientations, or theoretical and methodological preferences,
they gave me full freedom to explore, for which I was (and still am) im-
mensely grateful. First is Prof. Ann Kumar, whose obviously irate reactions
to my mixed, melodramatic, and extravagant metaphors, as well as to the
grammatical, semantic, and stylistic murder that often I committed, shook
the complacent in me. Not only did she instill a Spartan discipline in writing,
but she also gave face to the cold-blooded brutality of the scholarly world
that a novice like me cannot but cope with if I opt to stay in academia. It was
discouraging and unnerving at first, but with God’s and friends’ help, I man-
aged to emerge from the experience a stronger and better, not bitter, person.
xx Acknowledgments
I certainly did not enjoy the experience, but it served as a major turning-­
point in my intellectual development, for which I am honestly grateful.
To Prof. Robert Cribb, whose penetrating comments, critical questions,
and painstaking attention to detail, I owe enormous debt. Along with Craig
Reynolds, he has elevated criticism to a fine art: he rebukes with gentleness,
castigates with concern, lambastes without palpable hostility and conde-
scension. He sets a standard of scholarship that inspires, challenges, and
ennobles at the same time.
To Craig Reynolds, God knows I cannot be thankful enough. His genuine
interest in the topic right from the beginning and his faith in my capability
inspired me to rise above the mediocrity that otherwise I would have easily
settled in. One of my pillars of strength all through the years of doing a
PhD and beyond, he made me believe that I could do things. Through the
right combination of exacting scholarship, openness to new ideas, theoret-
ical savviness, gentle encouragement, exemplary work ethic, huge reservoir
of patience, emotional sensitivity, and adept administrative skills, he nur-
tures in a way that only a truly great supervisor can. By allowing himself to
stay in the panel when the situation made him feel the urge to let go, and by
doing much more than what was called for by his duty as a co-, not a main
supervisor, I have earned a lifetime of debt to him that can be repaid only
by doing the same thing for my current and future students. It is a very tall
order, indeed. Together, my three supervisors have provided a composite of
an exemplary definition of what a scholarly community is. Whatever good
things in the field of scholarship and in life in general I might achieve, they
certainly are a huge part of it.
To good friends and former fellow PhD students at the ANU who made my
life in Canberra really worth remembering, I will always be grateful. Mary
Kilcline-Cody, in more ways and to a much greater extent than she could ever
imagine, had helped me through some of the most difficult months of my PhD
journey. The friendship, encouragement, and companionship of the gang at
the Annex of Baldessin Precint and beyond all made a lot of difference in my
effort to survive the most critical months. I should also express my appreci-
ation to John Monfries for taking on the task of proofreading and editing
the draft of the thesis before submission. In this vein, I should also mention
Jeanine Furino and her team at Codemantra, Angel de Asis-­Tomintz, Leah
Curaming, and Wynona Eurj Curaming, who kindly assisted me in the past
several months in editing and proof reading this book manuscript.
I should also not forget the research fellowship grant from the Endeav-
our Award Australia 2008 which I fruitfully spent at La Trobe University’s
Philippines Australia Studies Centre (PASC). It was under the leadership
of Dr. Hogan Trevor. Among other things, my brief stint there enabled
me to break the psychological barriers that held me back from embarking
on the challenging task of revising the thesis. It was quickly followed by a
postdoctoral fellowship (2008–2010) at the Department of Malay Studies
of the National University of Singapore (NUS), then under the helm of
 Acknowledgments  xxi
Prof. Syed Farid Alatas. The conducive atmosphere at the NUS enabled me
to jumpstart the long process of revising the thesis for publication. Had I
stayed a year longer, this book could have come out as early as 2011 or 2012.
I appreciate the warmth and friendship of colleagues at the Department
of Malay Studies. I am particularly indebted to the inspirations, and sup-
port of Dr.  Syed Muhd Khairudin Aljunied over the years. His phenom-
enal scholarly productivity can only inspire, and torment psychologically
(wink), struggling mortals like me. The library fellowship grant from the
Center for Southeast Asian Studies of the University of Michigan in 2015
also helped me gather relevant materials, and it gave me precious time to
think through a number of crucial points. Also, the Critical Theory Work-
shop organized by Gabriel Rockhill and which I attended in July 2019 in
Paris, at the École des Haute Études en Sciences Sociales (EHESS), gave
me much to think about the arguments I propose in this book vis-à-vis the
ongoing debates in critical theory.
I appreciate the University of Brunei Darussalam (UBD) for, among many
other things, the time off in the past two years from administrative duty that
allowed me almost undivided time and attention to complete this project. To
colleagues and students who served as a springboard for testing a number of the
not-so-conventional ideas that form part of the arguments of this book, I appre-
ciate their feedback, nurturance and tolerance of my self-­indulgent intellectual
explorations. Mention I must make of Dr. Khondker Iftekhar Iqbal and Prof.
Phan Le-ha who have been among my intellectual sparring partners at UBD.
For initiating me into the world of postcolonial theory, from which the
seed of ideas in this study germinated, I am thankful to Dr. Goh Beng Lan’s
MA-level module called Postcolonial Perspectives on Southeast Asia, which
I took at the NUS sometime in AY 2000–2001. It was her rhetorical ques-
tion, striking for moral confidence, “Why should I feel guilty for being a
scholar?” during our email exchanges in 2001 that probably led me deep into
the roots of scholarly politics. In hindsight, that question struck me: how
well-meaning scholars could be so blissfully oblivious to the possible dark
sides of an honest-to-goodness scholarship, including ones that are avow-
edly progressive. It has dawned on me that the arguments in this book have
developed from the extended engagement with that rhetorical question.
I am also grateful to the Ford Foundation-funded and Bangkok-based
Asian Scholarship Foundation (ASF), then under the inspired leadership of
Dr. Lourdes Salvador, for a research fellowship grant in 2001–2002 that ena-
bled me to continue studying Bahasa Indonesia and do research on Indone-
sian historiography at University of Gadjah Mada (UGM). The University’s
Center for Southeast Asian and Social Studies under the directorship of
Prof. Bambang Purwanto hosted my stay in Indonesia in 2001–2002. At that
early stage, it was Prof. Bambang Purwanto’s ideas on Indonesian histori-
ography that fascinated me and nurtured my nascent interest in Indonesia.
That was a formative experience for which I am grateful to him as it laid the
groundwork for this study.
xxii Acknowledgments
During my fieldwork that took place in Jakarta, Yogyakarta and
Manila in 2004–2005, and beyond, I have earned debts of gratitude to so
many people and institutions whose names cannot all be mentioned here.
I am particularly thankful to scholars who took part in the two projects
and who graciously shared their time and stories with me. Some of them
have since passed on. Without their cooperation, this project would not have
been possible. A call out to the University of Indonesia’s History Depart-
ment for hosting my stay there in 2005. They were all welcoming and helpful.
I would like to specifically mention Mas Kresno Brahmantyo and Ibu Titi
(Tri Wahyuning Irsyam), whose assistance was particularly valuable. I am
very appreciative as well of all friends and colleagues at UGM’s History De-
partment. The list is lengthy, and I can only mention some here. Other than
Prof. Bambang Purwanto, I must not fail to mention the late Profs. Sar-
tono Kartodirdjo, and Adrian Lapian, as well as Prof. Djoko Suryo, among
several others, who were so kind and generous with their time. They were
genuinely interested in this project. It is my regret that I did not manage to
provide Prof. Sartono a copy of my thesis (he requested for it), or a copy of
this book before he passed on.
In the Philippines, I also incurred a debt of gratitude to many individuals
and institutions, only some of whom I can mention here. First, the partic-
ipants in Tadhana project who agreed to be interviewed, particularly the
members of the core group, Profs. Zeus Salazar, Samuel Tan and Serafin
Quiason. I am so grateful for their time and support. Second, the Center for
International Studies of the University of the Philippines-Diliman (UPD),
under the leadership in 2004–2005 of Dr. Cynthia Zayas, and the History
Department of the De La Salle University, under the then Department
Chair Dr. Ronaldo Mactal, accommodated me as a visiting fellow during
my fieldwork in Manila. Finally, to the helpful staff at the libraries of the
Asian Center (UPD), the Main Library (UPD), the Ateneo de Manila Uni-
versity, the De La Salle University, the Lopez Museum, the Ayala Museum,
and the National Library, I am also very thankful.
To very good friends Dr. Michael Montesano and Prof. Patricio Abinales,
who have been unwavering, in their encouragement and support all through
these years, my appreciation is deeply heartfelt. I cherish the valuable com-
ments of Profs. Caroline Hau, Ben Anderson and Joel Kahn on parts of the
earlier version of the manuscript. I regret my inability to complete and get
this book out soon enough before Profs. Anderson and Kahn passed on. To
Prof. Henk Maier, erstwhile a colleague at UBD, I owe enormous debt for his
encouragement, genuine interest, and the valuable feedback he gave me after
reading each chapter of an early version of the manuscript. I cannot thank
him enough. I also owe Prof. Duncan McCargo a great deal for his interest in
this long-delayed book project, for his valuable editorial assistance, and for
being instrumental in having it published at long last. Without his patience,
support and gentle push, I would have not succeeded in overcoming my inner
demons that for so long have obstructed this book’s publication.
 Acknowledgments  xxiii
I must also acknowledge the comments and suggestions for improvement
of the two peer reviewers (they know who they are) who recommended the
publication of this manuscript under the Asian Studies Association of Aus-
tralia (ASAA) Southeast Asia Series in 2009–2010. The subsequent turn of
events prevented the publication of this book under that series, but the fact
remains that I owe them as well as its former editor, Dr. Howard Dick, an
enormous debt for their contributions in improving the early version of the
manuscript.
A mention should also be made of the support, assistance, and friendship
of Dr. Freddy Kalidjernih, whose struggle as a budding academic paralleled
mine.
For all other friends and institutions that I inadvertently missed, my sin-
cere apologies and appreciation for your contributions in making this pro-
ject possible.
All these go without saying that, for all remaining errors and shortcom-
ings, the responsibility is solely mine.
Abbreviations

ABRI Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of

the Republic of Indonesia)
ADHIKA Asosasyon ng mga Dalubhasa at may Hilig sa Kasaysayan
(Association of Scholars and History Enthusiasts);
BAKAS Bagong Kasaysayan/Bahay-Saliksikan ng Kasaysayan
(New History/History Research House)
BTI Barisan Tani Indonesia (Peasants’ Front of Indonesia)
DPR-GR Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat-Gotong Royong (House of
Representatives-Mutual Support)
EDSA Epifanio de los Santos Avenue, one of the major avenues in
Metro Manila
FH Filipino Heritage
Gerwani Gerakan Wanita Indonesia (Indonesian Women’s
Movement)
G30S Gerakan Tigapuluh September, The September 30 Movement
IAHA International Association of Historians of Asia
Lekra Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, Institute for the Peoples’
Culture
LIPI Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia (Indonesian Institute
of Sciences)
MPRS Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara (Provisional
People’s Consultative Assembly)
MSI Masyarakat Sejarawan Indonesia (Association of Historians
of Indonesia)
Nasakom Nasionalisme, agama dan komunisme (Nationalism,
religion and communism)
NHC National Historical Committee
NHI National Historical Institute
NMPC National Media Production Center
PHA Philippine Historical Association
PHC Philippine Historical Committee
PHRMC Philippine Historical Research and Markers Committee
PKI Partai Komunis Indonesia, Communist Party of Indonesia
xxvi Abbreviations
PNHS Philippine National Historical Society
PMP Pendidikan Moral Pancasila (Pancasila Moral Education)
PPPP (P4) Pedoman Penghayatan dan Pengamalan Pancasila
(Guidelines for the Realization and Implementation of
Pancasila)
PSPB Pendidikan Sejarah Perjuangan Bangsa (National Struggle
History Education)
PSSC Philippine Social Science Council
Pusjarah Pusat Sejarah ABRI, Armed Forces History Center
SNI Sejarah Nasional Indonesia (National History of Indonesia),
title of the six-volume history of Indonesia
SNI-SMP Sejarah Nasional Indonesia untuk Sekolah Menengah
Pertama (National History of Indonesia for Junior High
School)
SNI-SMA Sejarah Nasional Indonesia untuk Sekolah Menengah Atas
(National History of Indonesia for Senior High School)
SOAS School of Oriental and African Studies
SSK Sociology of Scientific Knowledge, one of the branches of
sociology of knowledge
SSN2 Seminar Sejarah Nasional II, the Second National History
Seminar held in Yogyakarta in August 1970
Supersemar Abbreviation for Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret, ‘Instruction
Letter of 11 March’;
Tritura Abbreviation for Tri Tuntutan Rakyat, ‘Three Demands of
the People’
TRD Today’s Revolution: Democracy
UC University of California
UI Universitas Indonesia, University of Indonesia
UGM Universitas Gadjah Mada, Gadjah Mada University
UPD University of the Philippines Diliman Campus
VOC Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie or Dutch East-India
Company
Introduction
Power and knowledge

The oppositional relationship between the scholarly and the political is a

widely held supposition. At its most assertive, this idea posits the ideal form
of scholarship (the ‘good’ scholarship) as that which is above, insulated, or
free from politics. The knowledge that it produces is assumed to be truthful,
impartial, or objective. That which is tainted by politics is presumed to be
manipulated, distorted and false or inaccurate. It ceases to be knowledge;
at best, it is mere ideology. This supposition also asserts that scholarship
transcends or neutralizes politics via rigorous application of data-gathering
and analytic techniques that ensure empirical accuracy, methodological ef-
ficacy, and theoretical sophistication. In the path-breaking but apparently
under-appreciated book Politics of Knowledge, the volume editors Fernando
Domínguez Rubio and Patrick Baert call this formulation the “liberal view”
of scholarship–politics relations (2012, 2). This idea has deep roots in the
optimism of the late seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Enlightenment,
when scientific reason and knowledge were invoked as the solution to the
many problems supposedly wrought by superstitions, ignorance, and back-
wardness in the past. The Enlightenment notion of rationality has been
doubted or critiqued since the era of Romanticism in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries. These critiques persisted, re-echoed, and refined in
contemporary social epistemology, sociology of knowledge, and critical the-
ories of feminist, postcolonial, or poststructuralist bent. Be that as it may,
the liberalist view of knowledge as a container of truth, rather than a re-
flection of power relations, remains widely shared by many, including both
progressive and conservative scholars.
The tendency among many scholars to normalize or naturalize the sup-
posed conflictual relationship between scholarship and politics made it
easy to forget its fairly recent origins. In much of the history of civiliza-
tions across the world, political leaders usually struck a mutually beneficial
if not also harmonious relationship with the class of ‘knowledge workers,’
such as scribes, chroniclers, priestly groups, technocrats, and scholars (Bau-
man 1987). The maturation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries of the
forces unleashed by the intellectual, scientific, religious, and industrial rev-
olutions in Europe had found expression in the Dreyfus Affair in France
2 Introduction
and the strident critiques by the Polish and Russian intelligentsia, which
helped pave the way for the strengthening of the notion of the autonomy of
the intellectuals (Jennings and Kemp-Welch 1997). In the turbulent post-war
decades characterized by the anti-imperialist and Cold War sentiments, the
expectation was heightened for scholar-intellectuals particularly in the West
and the rest of the non-communist world to “speak truth to power” (Said
1993). Those who are silent, consort with, or work for the powers-that-be or
the ‘Establishment’ were seen with suspicion, if not also derision.
Against this backdrop, several scholars from the bastion of the anti-state
and left-leaning activism, the University of the Philippines at Diliman cam-
pus (UPD) in Quezon City, agreed sometime in the early 1970s to partici-
pate in the ambitious history-writing project that Ferdinand Marcos, the
president of the Philippines and a dictator at that time, was mulling over.
This undertaking would be known as Tadhana project. Hearing about the
project through the grapevine, many fellow Filipino and foreign scholars
were scandalized and deeply suspicious, even livid. “How could have they
sold their souls to, of all people, Marcos?!” they rhetorically asked. At about
the same time, thousands of miles to the south in Indonesia, a comparable
project was being pursued. Through the initiative of its ‘official historian,’
Nugroho Notosusanto, Suharto’s New Order regime was eager to produce a
‘standard’ national history. It was to be called simply Sejarah Nasional Indo-
nesia (National History of Indonesia; SNI hereafter). The initial reactions to
this initiative differed from those to Tadhana project. The Indonesian pub-
lic welcomed the news with anticipation, while the Indonesian scholars were
rather skeptical of Indonesian scholars’ readiness to undertake the task.
The contrasting initial reactions to the two projects attested to the dif-
ferent and complex political and academic contexts in the two countries at
that time, which I shall clarify below and in the next chapter. Not long after,
however, observers viewed both projects plain and simple as political tools.
Undertaken at a crucial juncture of the two regimes’ political consolida-
tion, suspicions mounted that they were none other than vehicles for regime-­
justification or self-glorification. Echoing Julien Benda (1969), critics viewed
these projects in line with the idea of the ‘treason of intellectuals.’
Embedded in the idea of the ‘treason of intellectuals’ is the expectation
for scholars to remain autonomous and to avoid serving the interests of
political leaders. There is no denying that both projects may be criticized
for these sorts of reasons. Katharine McGregor’s (2007) History in Uniform
constitutes by far the most thorough documentation and analysis of the mil-
itary’s role in shaping the history of Indonesia. It demonstrates the ways and
the extent to which academic historians like Nugroho Notosusanto will-
fully served the interests of the regime. It also shows how the military and
New ­Order regime used official textbooks, museums, and the monuments
to justify and promote themselves. Michael Wood’s (2005) Official History
in Modern Indonesia also examines how the New Order regime sought to
legitimize its rule through the use of history, focusing mainly on books
 Introduction  3
and textbooks. In addition, it looks into non-official historiography, that
which emanates from the Islamic community, and dubs it “history in wait-
ing” (2005, 150). Both books depict almost a perfect congruence between
the interests of the regime and the contours of Indonesia’s official historiog-
raphy. Similarly, the two books were silent about the agency or active role
of the scholars who wrote these histories. Implicit in their analysis is the
widely held supposition that in official history projects like these, historians
and history are powerless, that they are co-opted or manipulated. As for
Tadhana, there has so far been no detailed and serious study done of it,
aside from the PhD thesis (Curaming 2006) upon which this book is based.
Whenever it is talked about in private conversations or mentioned in pass-
ing in published discussion of intellectual developments in the Philippines,
the tenor of analysis is in line with McGregor’s and Wood’s, as noted above.
This book takes a different tack. Comparing the state–scholar relations
in the Philippines and Indonesia, as evidenced in Tadhana project and SNI,
this book demonstrates the supposedly oppositional connection between
scholarship and politics as only one of the possible permutations of this re-
lationship. Scholarship and politics may also be complementary or mutually
reinforcing. They may run parallel or ignore one another. At their strong-
est link, they may be mutually constitutive. It is the context of knowledge
production and consumption that decides. By identifying and explicating
the particular contexts, as well as the mechanism that allowed the scholars
and scholarship to hold their own in the face of politically motivated pres-
sures, and by elucidating the actual manners by which the two sides clash,
reinforce, restrict, or constitute one another, this study seeks to foreground
the power and agency of scholars and scholarship as well as the shifting con-
texts that enable the exercise of such power. Doing so shifts attention away
from the long-drawn-out and ultimately sterile debates on whether knowl-
edge is driven by power or not. Arguably, the more productive task is to
address empirical questions. Whose and/or what kind of powers drive which
form/s of knowledge, how, under what contexts, and why? Whose and/or
what knowledge frames the exercise of whose power, in what context, and
how? By addressing these questions, this book yields insights that suggest
the rather illusory aspirations of the ‘liberal’ approach for a non- or an apo-
litical scholarship. By underscoring the deeply concealed political nature of
scholarly practice, this book hopes to help re-orient liberal or progressive
scholarship to make it more honest about its own politics and thus make it
less prone to misuse. Only then can it realize its avowed promise of emanci-
pation and empowerment of the marginalized though the use of knowledge.

Background
The two history-writing projects compared in this book, Tadhana and SNI,
were carried out in two archipelagic countries in Southeast Asia: Indonesia
and the Philippines. On the map, the over 20,000 combined islands and islets
4 Introduction
of these countries form a porous boundary between the Indian and Pacific
Oceans. Along with Malaysia, these countries constitute perhaps the most
comparable subset in the region. Together, they comprise much of what is
often called the Insular Southeast Asia or, to use a more poetic and ambigu-
ous term, the Malay World. Sharing the same geographical zone, their sim-
ilar tropical climates nurture broadly similar vegetation, topography, and
base culture. Linguistically, people mostly belong to the Malayo-­Polynesian
language family that branches into hundreds of distinct but related lan-
guages. Were it not for the colonization that saw the Philippines falling
­under the control of the Spaniards and later the Americans, Indonesia un-
der the Dutch, and Malaysia under the British, a number of nationalities or
polities with boundaries conforming more closely to the logic of geography
might have taken shape. Sumatra and Malay Peninsula, for instance, could
have formed together or each developed as independent entities; Mindanao
and Borneo or Mindanao, Borneo, and Sulawesi could have done the same
thing. The fact that different Western countries—with contrasting policies,
length of presence and depth of impact—colonized these countries sets one
of the grounds for a potentially fruitful comparison.
Both Indonesia and the Philippines underwent long periods of coloniza-
tion and fought bitter anti-colonial revolutions against Euro-American col-
onizers. The memories of these revolutions serve as a keystone for the master
narrative of their nationalist imaginations. World War II played important
roles in the two countries’ nation- and state-building efforts. The experience
under the Japanese occupation inflamed or radicalized the two countries’ na-
tionalisms and cast a shadow over the political developments in succeeding
decades (Agoncillo 1965; Friend 1988; Mark 2018). Of greater importance,
both countries nurtured communist movements that were among the most
developed and most active in the Third World (Hindley 1964; McVey 1965;
Saulo 1990; Weekley 2001). In addition, they underwent periods of ‘demo-
cratic experiments’ and long spells of authoritarian rule. They expelled their
dictators and had to negotiate challenging periods of d­ emocratic transitions.
There were differences of course in the timing, extent, modalities, impact,
and dynamics of how these features or events actually played out. As will be
discussed in the next chapter, such differences make a comparison between
the two cases all the more potentially insightful.
The regimes that gave rise to the two history-writing projects under con-
sideration here emerged at about the same time in the mid-1960s, and both
flourished in the 1970s. Against the backdrop of intensifying decolonization
and the Cold War, this period proved conducive for the growth of authori-
tarianism and nationalism, not just in the Southeast Asian region but also in
other parts of the Third World. This period also saw the bourgeoning interest
in writing nationalist histories among post-colonial societies in Asia, ­Africa,
and elsewhere. Given the prevailing zeitgeist, state-­sponsored projects like
Tadhana and SNI seemed not unusual nor unexpected (­ Bevernage and
Wouters 2018). What lent these projects some distinction was the dynamic,
 Introduction  5
proximate and rather intimate interaction between the state or state oper-
atives and the scholars, making the analysis of state–scholar and power–
knowledge relations potentially insightful and productive. By the mid-1980s,
the Marcos regime collapsed, while the Suharto government grew even more
in strength. It lingered until its unexpected demise in 1998. The contrast-
ing longevity of the two regimes, among other factors, set different frames
for public responses to the projects. It did not significantly affect, however,
the logic that underpins dynamic relationship between the embodiments of
power and knowledge that characterized the two projects. The next chapter
provides a more detailed analysis of the contextual factors that affected the
contents and structure as well as public responses to two projects.

Analytics of power-knowledge
The analytic tack adopted by McGregor (2007) and Wood (2005) follows a
long tradition in the sociology of knowledge that is anchored on the domi-
nant ideology thesis. This thesis posits the interests of the ruling classes (the
state, political leaders and the elites they represent) as the paramount factor
in shaping ideology (or knowledge) that is propagated through the schools,
media and other apparatuses. This ideology influences subordinated classes
to think and behave in ways that are compatible with the interests of the rul-
ing classes (Abercrombie, Hill, and Turner 1980, 1–2). Called here statism-­
elitism for lack of better term, this approach appears to be the most common
mode of analysis of the power-knowledge nexus.
In Asia, the long-standing controversies surrounding the Japanese text-
books, which have lingered since the 1960s, stand as examples of a statist-­
elitist approach (for example, Ienaga 1970, 1992; Nishino 2008; Saito 1995).
A notable feature of the case of Japan is the emphasis on the strength of, in
Althusser’s terms, the ideological state apparatus. The focus of analysis is
the state’s control of knowledge production and transmission channels as
well as the responses of the foreign governments and domestic civil soci-
ety groups to this censorship (Hein and Selden 2000; Reedy 1999). In the
Philippines, the writings of the very influential scholar Renato Constantino,
such as ‘Miseducation of the Filipinos’ (Constantino 1966) and the two-­
volume synthesis of the Philippine history, The Philippines: A Past Revisited
(Constantino 1975) and The Philippines: The Continuing Past (Constantino
1978), represent a Marxist line of analysis that locates the state and the elites
as the fountainhead of the dominant influence on education and the men-
tality of the people. The highly regarded Limits of Educational Change by
Luisa Doronila (1989) follows a similar line of analysis. With pedagogical
(teaching-­related) factors ruled out after finding that teachers hardly deviate
from the prescribed textbooks and other curricular requirements, it shows
that despite the government rhetoric pointing to national identity forma-
tion as a key aim of public education, the goal was not achieved due to the
less-than-nationalistic contents of the textbooks. Doronila attributed such
6 Introduction
a lack of nationalism to the economic and political interest of the dominant
class in collusion with international agencies such as the World Bank. The
textbooks she analyzed were products of the project funded by the World
Bank, which is an institution that “we can hardly expect to be interested in
helping Filipinos acquire education relevant to their own needs,” according
to Letizia Constantino (1982, 21). Doronila’s book demonstrates clearly how
the public school system reproduces the interests of the dominant class.
Studies of Indonesia likewise offer some notable examples. Lyn Parker’s
(1992) ‘The Creation of Indonesian Citizens in Balinese Primary School’
is noteworthy for providing empirical evidence of the success of the state
educational apparatus in creating citizens according to the definition set
by the state. Barbara Leigh’s two articles ‘Making the Indonesian State’
(Leigh 1991) and ‘Learning and Knowing Boundaries’ (Leigh 1999) rein-
force Parker’s arguments. By looking into the contents of the textbooks and
how questions in the national examinations are formulated, she shows not
only how the school system transmits knowledge that is favorable for justify-
ing the regime but also how educational practices create among the students
a mindset amenable to ideological conditioning and make them subservient
to the interests of the state.
The centrality of the state also informs the analysis of textbooks in David
Bourchier’s (1994) ‘The 1950s in New Order Ideology and Politics’ as well as
in Daniel Dhakidae’s (2003) analysis of the state–intellectual relations in the
New Order. In the same vein, the edited volume Social Science and Power
in Indonesia argues that “the development of Indonesian social ­science—its
very nature and character—is inextricably linked to the ­shifting require-
ments of power over time,” in which the state was the most important lo-
cus (Hadiz and Dhakidae 2005, 2). This point is most starkly shown in the
­analysis of the role of the state in shaping history (Adam 2005) and profes-
sional social sciences associations (Laksono 2005) in Indonesia.
The transparent source of authority that is explicit in the statist-elitist
approach gives off the impression that the interests of the politically pow-
erful are determinate of the shape of knowledge. By simplifying power–­
knowledge relations into power=knowledge, this approach renders static,
lopsided, unequivocal, and unidimensional the possibly dynamic, complex,
and multi-layered interactions. While the notion of official history or mil-
itary history is paradigmatic of this approach, we would be negligent if
we ignored the possibility that official histories may offer a more textured
approach to power–knowledge relations. Tim Cook’s (2006) Clio’s ­Warriors:
Canadian Historian and Writing of the World Wars shows that notwithstand-
ing the constraints under which military historians operated, their profes-
sional training enabled them to make use of historical sources in a more
nuanced and balanced manner than is widely supposed. The same thing
may be said of Sir Edward Edmonds, who led the writing of the monumental
28-volume official history of World War I. While this work was critiqued for
being a propaganda, raising eyebrows and eliciting witty but loaded question
 Introduction  7
as to whether it was “Official but not history?” (French 1986), Andrew Green
(2003) reassessed the magnum opus and has argued that E ­ dmonds was more
impartial and nuanced than many had believed.
Aware of the limitations of the statist-elitist approach, other scholars have
developed a more pluralistic approach. Called here pluralism, for lack of a
more elegant and precise term, this approach gives more emphasis to the
conflicting roles or interests of various stakeholders, the state and the elites
being just two of them. Rather than seeing the school system or historical
knowledge as a mere reproducer of, or a vehicle to advance the interests
of, the dominant class, this approach sees it as a battlefield where power
is contested and power relations constituted. Exemplifying this approach,
Thaveeporn Vasavakul’s (1994) Schools and Politics in South and North
Viet Nam: A Comparative Study of State Apparatus, State Policy and State
Power (1945–1965) demonstrates a textured relationship between politics
and schooling in the former North and South Vietnam, and looks into the
‘processes by which the two school apparatuses were formed and expanded
in order to ascertain how they reflected and effected ideological and eco-
nomic changes’ (1). The author highlights a major problem with the state-­
focused approach discussed above when she forcefully argues that it cannot
be assumed a priori that all “school apparatuses are state apparatuses—a
premise that precludes any systematic discussion of the process by which
statism took over the school system and of how the degree and form of stat-
ism changed over time” (9–10).
Lee Kam Hing’s (1995) book Education and Politics in Indonesia dove-
tails well with Thaveeporn’s approach. A historical study, it describes the
contested character of education in Indonesia during the formative period
from 1945 to 1965 when several competing forces—the state, communists,
nationalists, the teachers’ union, and several Islamic groups—struggled to
influence the shape of educational policies. The expanding literature on ‘his-
tory wars’ in countries like the United States (Linenthal and Engelhardt
1996; Nash, Crabtree, and Dunn 1997), East Asia (Lewis 2017; Nozaki 2001;
Wang 2008), and Australia (Clark 2008; Macintyre and Clark 2003; Sammut
2017) foreground the various centers or sources of power that compete for
their preferred interpretation of historical knowledge. Several studies on the
Japanese textbooks carry similar line of analysis (e.g., Nozaki 2008; Nozaki
and Selden 2009).
What differentiates the first (statism-elitism) from the second approach
(pluralism) is the extent to which recognition is accorded to the influence of
the state and the non-state groups in shaping educational policies or histori-
cal knowledge. Statism-elitism emphasizes more heavily the role of the state
or the dominant class, whereas the latter focuses on the multiple sources of
influences. In both approaches, the roles of individuals seem ignored. What
is emphasized is the process of knowledge production at the top or middle
level, and it is assumed that what gets transmitted to or consumed by the
general public is largely similar to what was produced at the upper-middle
8 Introduction
level. These approaches have their own usefulness. No doubt there are cases
when the roles of the state and groups in civil society are dominant. How-
ever, these could also be problematic for downplaying the power of individ-
uals to make a difference, particularly in less restricted political contexts.
The third approach, which I call personalism, draws particular attention
to how knowledge is actually consumed publicly or privately. It recognizes
the important roles of individuals in the analysis of knowledge production.
A notable illustrative example of this approach is Lyn Parker’s ‘The Sub-
jectification of Citizenship: Student Interpretations of School Teachings in
Bali’ (Parker 2002). By using various anthropological techniques, Parker
demonstrates that “the process of creating national citizens in schools was,
despite the homogeneous and authoritarian nature of the school system, an
open-ended and potentially transforming one” (3). Studies like this stand as
a corrective to the common tendency to deny individual students’ agency
in the face of the seemingly overpowering and monolithic school system in
an authoritarian state like Indonesia’s New Order. That it is possible, even
likely, to ‘subjectify’ citizenship in a fairly controlled environment indicates
that individuals should not be neglected in the analysis of knowledge pro-
duction and consumption.
A certain type of memory studies that locate memory as a counterweight
to history and have emphasized more the individual rather than the social
aspect of remembering also exemplifies the personalist approach. This ap-
proach acknowledges the importance of the actual consumption of knowl-
edge in the analysis of knowledge production. It also shifts the locus of power
from the visibly powerful—such as the state, the elite, or various interest
groups—to the individual knower. Recognizing the agency of the knower
renders the act of knowledge consumption simultaneously as knowledge
production. There has been an expansive literature on memory-history in-
terface (e.g., Cubitt 2014; Hutton 1993; Olick and Robbins 1998). Much of
this literature deals with social or collective memory, but that which focuses
on individual memory and personal narrative is also sizable. Notable exam-
ples from Southeast Asia include several chapters in the edited volumes Oral
History in Southeast Asia: Memories and Fragments (Loh, Dobbs, and Koh
2013), Southeast Asian Lives: Personal Narratives and Historical Experience
Personal Lives (Waterson 2007), Contested Memories in Southeast Asia
(Waterson and Kwok 2012) and Beginning to Remember: The Past in the
Indonesian Present (Zurbuchen 2005).
The first three approaches identified above address the question of who
or what has the power to determine or influence the shape of knowledge. In
these approaches, it is taken for granted that knowledge is a handmaiden of
power—something that the powerful creates, uses, or shapes in accord with
their own interests. I should note that ‘powerful’ here refers not just to the
conventionally and visibly powerful, such as the state, elites, various interest
groups, and institutions, but also to individuals who assert their right to re-
member or know. In these approaches, the possible autonomy of knowledge
 Introduction  9
as itself having power is ignored. This lack of recognition limits the range of
power-knowledge interaction that may be scrutinized. Another approach,
therefore, should also be noted here.
Maybe called mutualism, this approach draws primarily from Michel
Foucault, in whose formulation power and knowledge are reciprocal con-
structs whose relationship is that they presuppose and constitute each other.
In his words, “There is no power relation without the correlative constitution
of a field of knowledge, nor any knowledge that does not presuppose and
constitute at the same time, power relations” (Foucault 1979, 27). Two things
set the mutualist approach apart from the three others. First, the recognition
of knowledge as not just dependent on power but having its own power. Sec-
ond, the role of the agents or subjects in the knowing process. The first three
­approaches are clear about this. The state or elite, the various interest groups,
and the individuals are agents or subjects who use and produce knowledge.
Foucault’s concept of power/knowledge, on the other hand, is non-subject,
or non-actor based. As he told us, the subject is not the one who has power;
it is power that makes the subject (Foucault 1980, 98). This non-humanist
stance of Foucault’s power-knowledge analytics poses a challenge. Once
‘applied’ in analyzing empirical data, what we shall have is an untenable
situation where power is exercised without an exerciser or a knowing process
(or knowledge) without a knower. For instance, he described genealogy as
“a form of history which can account for the constitution of knowledge…
without having to make reference to a subject” (117). Since this study deals
with specific subjects, such as scholars and political power ­holders—subjects
who appear to ‘have’ power and to know willfully—­Foucault’s notion of
subject–power relations can only be of limited use.
Vis-à-vis the three other approaches, the relative strength of the mutu-
alist approach for the purpose of this study is the weakness of the others,
and vice versa. Whereas mutualism is inclusive in the sense that it focuses
on both knowledge and power as equally important loci of analysis, the
three others put a premium on power to the neglect of knowledge. Likewise,
whereas the sites of power that the mutualist approach aims to deal with are
expansive, the three other approaches focus on their respective domains,
which are restricted. On the other hand, in its inclusivity, the mutualist ap-
proach seems hard-pressed in dealing with differentiation— a differentia-
tion that can only be achieved and accounted for if the subjects or agents are
recognized, as is the case in the three approaches. An attempt to synthesize
the two—inclusivity and differentiation—gave rise to yet another approach.
The fifth approach may have been best exemplified by Edward Said’s
(1978) Orientalism. He drew inspiration from Foucault’s power analytics but
rejected its non-humanist tenets. Rather than rejecting agents and subjects,
Said emphasized their essential role in a political act, including knowledge
production. In the case of Indonesia and the Philippines, the respective works
of Simon Philpott (2000), Rethinking Indonesia: Postcolonial Theory, Author-
itarianism and Identity, and Reynaldo Ileto (1999/2001) “Orientalism and the
10 Introduction
Study of Philippine Politics” are notable. Inspired by Said and Foucault,
these studies recognize the broader political context in which knowledge
production was undertaken. At the same time, they focus on how knowledge
itself, as autonomously powerful, influences the behavior or perceptions—or
power—of the people. In other words, knowledge is shaped by, and at the
same time it shapes, power relations between subjects or agents.
This study builds on the foundation set by the five approaches discussed
above. Being a story and analysis of two state-sponsored history-writing
projects, it recognizes at the outset the paramount power of the state or
elites (first approach, statism-elitism). The two projects compared here may
also be considered as sites of power struggle, as the battlefield of ‘history
wars’ (second approach, pluralism), for they constitute a partnership with
scholars who had different interests. They also elicited in varying degrees
discordant responses from various civil society groups and individuals.
Moreover, having been done through a collective effort under varying de-
grees of restriction, the contradictions or slippages—in the forms of fluid,
inconsistent or even contradictory interpretations—in these projects indi-
cate the agency of individual members of the team (third approach, per-
sonalism). On the other hand, an aspect of the Foucauldian approach, the
fourth approach, constitutes a fundamental starting point of this study: the
mutuality of the relationship between power and knowledge as manifest in
partnership between scholars and political leaders and the mutual need for
each other. Finally, the fifth approach, the Saidian approach, will inform
the analysis of how power relations played out between or among actors,
groups, and institutions.
Wide as the reach of the five approaches may be, there are reasons to be-
lieve that taken together they remain inadequate as tools for mapping out
fully all the important sites of power play. Strikingly missing are the schol-
ars and scholarship itself. Considering their central role in knowledge pro-
duction and adjudication—being, in Bauman’s (1987) words, the ‘legislators’
and ‘interpreters’ of knowledge—any analysis would be incomplete without
them in the equation. Ileto, Philpott and others who traverse the postcolo-
nial, poststructuralist analytic stream came close with their emphasis on
the political act that seems inherent in scholarly institutions and scholarly
practice. They seem to be not close enough, however. One proof of this is
that while they expose and bewail the political character of scholarship, and
while they were far from oblivious to the political character of their own
critique, they did not account for their own power or political interests and
factor them into their analysis. The result is that like many others before
them, they stopped short of the logical conclusion of the power-knowledge
relations, power/knowledge.
By underscoring the power of scholars and scholarship in the face of po-
litical power, this study seeks to demonstrate the need to break this analytic
deadlock, with a view towards raising issues with possibly far-reaching the-
oretical, methodological and ethical implications.
 Introduction  11
Philpott’s and Ileto’s cases are not idiosyncratic. Their ambivalence
dogs even Michel Foucault himself and Pierre Bourdieu, both of whom
are undoubtedly among those who have pushed the farthest the frontiers
of power-knowledge analytics. For instance, notwithstanding the fame (or
notoriety) Foucault gained for explicating power/knowledge, he excluded
the hard or natural sciences among knowledge that are the focus of this
analysis. This smacks of setting the limits to certain forms of knowledge
which may be examined as a function of power. That is, power/knowledge
only to a point.
Bourdieu’s stance seems even more illustrative. More deeply than Fou-
cault, he has explored the disguised political character of knowledge and
scholarship, as discussed more explicitly in his books Pascalian Meditations
(Bourdieu 2000) and Homo Academicus (Bourdieu 1988). His field theory of
science provides an illuminating explanation for the behavior of the schol-
ars. As paraphrased by Frederic Vandenberghe (1999, 58), Bourdieu’s theory
posits that:

The struggle that scientists wage within the field is always a struggle for
the power to define the definition of science which is best suited to their
specific interests which, if accepted as the legitimate definition would
allow them to occupy with legitimacy the dominant position in the field.
And given that there is no external and impartial arbiter, the scientific-­
cum-political legitimacy claims are always a function of the relative
power of the competing groups.

Categorically, Bourdieu (1976, 94) has noted that it is in scholars’ interest to

be seen as disinterested; it is in their politics to appear to be anti-­political.
However, rather than conceding the possibility that all scholarly acts, in-
cluding his own and science itself, may be political acts, and thus ought to
be analyzed as a function of power relations, he insists on the possibility
of ‘trans-historical truths,’ which implies that it is just a matter of employ-
ing the right scholarly approach to transcend the political. In the end, he
re-­inscribes the opposition between politics and ‘good’ scholarship. Essen-
tially, his call for a reflexive sociology (Bourdieu 1990) signifies and entails
the need for more science as an antidote to what Pels (1995) calls ‘knowledge-­
politics.’ In Bourdieu’s view, “science is one way of constructing alternative
categories of being that can serve as an exemplar of transgressive practices
both inside and outside academia” (Schubert 1995, 1010). It is not difficult
to see the merit of such a position. If science (or knowledge in general) has
been instrumental in setting restrictive and oppressive limits to the freedom
of individuals (what Bourdieu call symbolic violence), then it is also the way
to neutralize these restrictions and regain freedom.
Ultimately, however, I think his proposal is misleading and unsatisfac-
tory. By holding on to the assumption that the political can be transcended
through a more accurate science (or knowledge), he disregards his own
12 Introduction
analysis of science (or knowledge in general) as a field governed by power
relations. Rather than thinking that power relations evaporate at the mo-
ment accurate science is attained, it ought to be taken as precisely one of the
enabling factors for establishing the judgment of the accuracy of science.
Knowledge is a human creation; it is a representation of reality that we cre-
ate to understand the real. It is not reality itself. By removing humans (or
the agency of scholars or the power relations that enables such agency) in
knowledge production, we are bound to overlook the power of the scholars
and scholarship that serves as the glue that creates the potentially insidious
partnership between power and knowledge. What makes the partnership
between the two potentially dangerous and liable to misuse by individuals
and groups of any ideological orientation, is the aura of credibility and the
supposed neutrality or apoliticality that the undisclosed power of the schol-
ars and scholarship lends to knowledge claims. As Bauman (1987, 13–20;
1992) has noted, the scholars and scholarship, as embodiments of objectiv-
ity or impartiality of knowledge, are often unwitting accomplices in repro-
ducing and maintaining an unjust social order. It may be constituted and
justified through authoritative knowledge, regardless of whether it is true
or false. I believe that this insidious partnership between power and knowl-
edge may be neutralized by pushing power-knowledge analysis to its con-
clusion: power/knowledge. This entails recognition of the power of scholars
and scholarship as an autonomous field, as its own politics that ought to be
factored in mapping out the unequal power relations that enable knowledge
production. This is the direction to which this study points.

Conceptual issues
The whole exercise entails conceptual readjustments to the key concepts of
knowledge and power. Among philosophers, there are many complex episte-
mological issues involved in the quest for an acceptable definition of knowl-
edge. These are closely tied to how ‘true proposition’ may be identified or
established, which unfortunately cannot be addressed here in detail. Suffice
to note that in much of these efforts, knowledge is restricted to those ideas
and/or information that have undergone or ‘survived’ a test of truth justi-
fication. It is in this sense that Longino (2002, 10) is justified in regarding
knowledge as one of those ‘success terms.’ Depending on the type or hier-
archy of knowledge, the requirements of such a test vary, with the scholarly
and scientific knowledge being the most rigorous and thus occupying the
top of the hierarchy. For knowledge to be considered acceptable, it must
undergo strict processing: documentation, verification, analysis, synthesis,
peer review, and continual inter-subjective assessment. Those that cannot
satisfy designated requirements are relegated to the lower positions in the
hierarchy. They are called by various names, such as hypothesis, opinion,
belief, ideology, myth, memory, superstition, hearsay, gossip, rumor, old
wives’ tale, folklore, and legend. These are labels that can only imply the
 Introduction  13
extent of their distance from the ideal: knowledge in the scholarly or scien-
tific sense. In other words, as Longino (2002) argues, knowledge is a norma-
tive concept, not just a descriptive one.
To analyze the full range of the power-knowledge nexus, the conception of
knowledge noted above appears to be too restricted. By limiting knowledge
mainly to those that have undergone the processing machine called schol-
arship, we take for granted that the scholarship machine, and its scholar-­
operators, is a neutral instrument, with no interest (or power) to promote
or pursue. Since this is not the case, as already noted above, the claim to
neutrality of the scholars and scholarship and the privileged position of the
knowledge they sanction should not be a priori accepted. The reason is sim-
ple: they are included among the sites of power that need to be examined.
How scholarship has been able for so long to maintain the veneer of neu-
trality upon which its authority is based is in itself an interesting and crucial
question. Interpreting Bourdieu, Brubaker (1985, 755) claims that “the logic
of… self-interest underlying certain practices… [including scholarship] is
misperceived as a logic of disinterest… (T)his misperception is what legit-
imates these practices and thereby contributes to the reproduction of the
social order in which they are imbedded.”
One consequence of the restricted definition of knowledge is the tendency
to divert our focus to the methodologies or technicalities of knowledge
production, downplaying, if not eliding altogether, its social and political
character as well as the ethical responsibility that goes with knowledge
production and consumption. Not only does this situation enable scholars
to affirm and naturalize easily their claim to disinterestedness and impar-
tiality, thus effectively concealing the sources of their power, as mentioned
above—it also allows them to escape the question of accountability.
To forestall these problems, knowledge must be defined using a clean,
neutral slate which can accommodate all possible attempts to represent or
understand reality, regardless of whether they are in fact true or not. By
doing this, I follow a long tradition in sociology of knowledge that goes
back to Karl Mannheim, if not earlier, who posited that the truth-value of a
statement is secondary to understanding the social context in which knowl-
edge has come to be considered as knowledge (1936, 339). As defined, thus,
knowledge simply refers to ideas or information (or a set thereof) that are
believed to be true. Believed by whom? By individuals or groups who will-
fully exercise power to believe or to know, including scholars. This defini-
tion is very close to the idea of Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann, who
declared in their book Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise on Soci-
ology of Knowledge that “the sociology of knowledge must concern itself
with whatever passes for ‘knowledge’ in a society, regardless of the ultimate
validity or invalidity (by whatever criteria) of such ‘knowledge’” (Berger
and Luckmann 1966, 15). However, I diverge from their too much emphasis
on the sociality of knowledge. While I recognize the enormous influence of
social elements, I also recognize the capacity of individuals to think and
14 Introduction
decide for themselves. In this instance, I find useful Bruno Latour’s aver-
sion towards the over-socialized conceptualization of human in the social
sciences. His Action-Network Theory posits a basic premise that “society is
not what holds us together, it is what is held together. Social scientists,” he
further declares, “have mistaken the effect for the cause” (Latour 1986, 276).
Two things should be underscored in adopting this definition of knowl-
edge. First, I do not a priori assume that the social or the groups take prec-
edent over the individual, or vice versa. Skirting around the long-standing
debates on methodological holism versus methodological individualism,
this move is an analytic strategy that allows a space for each circumstance—
the so-called context—to determine which power, or which particular com-
bination thereof, carries more weight. Second, whether the belief will prove
to be true or not is secondary here. Just as in the case above, the imperative
for the leveling of the analytic field requires that the presumption of veracity
of competing beliefs, for whatever reason, and by whoever, should be made
the default mode. This will allow the ‘seeing’ of the configuration of power
relations obtained in a given situation as a determinant for deciding whether
a particular claim or proposition is knowledge or not.
Power also needs to be broadly and more neutrally conceptualized. In the
conventional sense, power is associated with the influential political institu-
tions and individuals or the interest groups that operate within or against
them. This is the state-centered conception of power, and this restricts the
domain of the political within and around the activities of the state in-
stitutions and actors or groups who oppose or support them. Betrand de
Joevenel’s (1949) On Power: Its Nature and the History of Its Growth is a para-
digmatic example of this conception. Power is considered as a sort of ‘thing’
possessed and exercised by actors and groups with the view to acquire and
maintain or enhance it further. It is likened to an instrument that enables
the few to coerce, control or limit the thoughts or behavior of the many. This
conception of power is often referred to as ‘power-over.’
Another approach focuses on the legitimate capacity to act, that is, ‘power
to.’ Barry Hindess (1996, 1) notes that while this concept of power is often
seen as idiosyncratic in power theorizing, it is, in fact, central to much of
Western social and political theory. This notion of power is more useful for
the purpose of this study, as will be clarified below.
Following Steven Lukes (1974), Barry Barnes (1988), Thomas Warten-
berg (1990) and Michel Foucault (1980), among others, this study operates
on the proposition that it is not sufficient to regard the ‘powerful’ as only
those highly visible political institutions, interest groups or individuals who
occupy vital positions in society. As far as power-knowledge interplay is
concerned, a narrow conception of power misleads us into assuming that
the state or the elite, or certain key individuals, as the only or the primary
key to understanding the shape of knowledge. Since, as already noted, it
is often the case that the interests of the visibly powerful do not coincide
neatly with the shapes of knowledge, observers have a prima facie reason for
 Introduction  15
dismissing offhand the power-knowledge nexus. The key is to expand the
notion of power to encompass generalized capacities not only of individuals
or groups but also of other agents, not all of them are easily identifiable. The
operational definition of power in this study simply refers to the capacity
or ability to make a difference. As an ability, power is at once a cause and
an effect of a confluence of social interactions. It is circular in structure, as
Dyrberg shows in his book The Circular Structure of Power: Politics, Iden-
tity, Community (1997), and it is knowledge, as Barnes (1988) argues, that
serves as one of the nodal points that make such circularity possible.
Such a definition of power carries far-reaching implications on the concept
of the political. Traditionally, the domain of the political has been confined
to activities of the state and the responses of the non-state actors to these ac-
tivities, which in short means it is state-centric. Carl Schmitt’s (1996, 26–36)
well-known booklet The Concept of the Political defines the political based
on the distinction between friends and enemies. Effectively, it broadens the
domains of the political, but it has also been criticized for not being broad
and inclusionary enough. Agnes Heller (1991, 340), for one, offers an alter-
native: “The practical realization of the universal value of freedom in the
public domain is the modern concept of the political.” In my view, Schmitt’s
stress on conflict and Heller’s emphasis on freedom (or any interest for that
matter) may be combined to produce a more adequate conceptualization,
such that the attainment of freedom (or any interest) may be achieved in the
context of a struggle between two or more opposing groups. Both Heller and
Schmitt, however, give premium to the public as the domain where the po-
litical is operative. If power is simply the ability to make a difference, it thus
permeates society, and everyone has the potential to have this attribute. It
follows that the private or personal sphere is equally liable to politicization.
As feminists happily proclaim, ‘the personal is political.’ In short, the field
of the political encompasses practically all facets of human interactions, but
it does not mean that everything is political. It only means that everything
may be politicized, and this is contingent on the configurations of various
forces in a given context.
Foucault’s (1980, 121) declaration that “We need to cut the King’s head:
in political theory that has still to be done” has no doubt contributed sig-
nificantly to the broadening of the sphere of the political. By rescuing the
concept of power from the confines of the question of sovereign power, he
not only destroyed the walls that for so long restricted the sphere of the po-
litical as separate from the social, economic, and other fields—he also set
power analytics that allow analysis of wide-ranging phenomena that were
previously thought to be inherently non-political, including knowledge it-
self. One of Foucault’s provocative points is that the political is in the social
(Dyrberg 1997, 112). He did not mean to say that the state is not important,
but “for all the omnipotence of its apparatuses, (it) is far from being able
to occupy the whole field of actual power relations, and further because (it)
can only operate on the basis of other, already existing power relations”
16 Introduction
(Foucault 1980, 122). This is far from saying that knowledge was never an
object of social and political analysis before Foucault. As early as Greek
philosophers, perhaps even earlier, social and political influences on knowl-
edge production have been mulled over. The importance of Foucault rests,
among other things, on making it possible to push the effort to understand
the power-knowledge nexus to its logical conclusion.

Structure of the book

The two state-sponsored history-writing projects that are objects of this
study took shape in two Southeast Asian countries that are comparable:
Indonesia and the Philippines. The projects germinated at about the same
time in the 1970s and under the auspices of two authoritarian regimes that
shared some fundamental similarities. Despite basic similarities, however,
there were also essential differences in the context within which the two
projects emerged. As Chapter 1 shows, the contrasting patterns of colonial
experience in the two countries prefigured forms of nationalism that were
more fluid in the Philippines and more hegemonic in Indonesia, a situation
that informs the parameters and shapes of nationalist historiography in the
two countries. It also underscores the less constrained relationship between
the state and civil society in the Philippines than that which exists in Indo-
nesia. This relationship influenced how different interest groups, including
the scholars, operated or interacted with the state and with other civil so-
ciety groups. Furthermore, the chapter narrates and compares the develop-
ment of the historical profession in the two countries and argues that the
contrasting timing or trajectory of such development has had an impact on
the ways in which the scholars who took part in the two projects dealt with
the state. These points are crucial in the analysis of the two projects that will
be done in the subsequent chapters.
The succeeding four chapters focus on the formation and contents of the
two projects and the public responses to them. Chapter 2 recounts the story
of how Tadhana came about. It looks into the circumstances leading to the
inception of the project. It also explicates motivational forces that led Mar-
cos and the scholars to forge a partnership to realize the project. The main
argument is that the partnership was made possible by mutual needs occa-
sioned by the rise of competing nationalisms in the Philippines in the 1960s
and 1970s. The chapter also provides snapshots of the dynamics of the re-
lationship among the scholar-participants, and between them and the state
actors who ran the project.
Contrary to the commonly held view of Tadhana as nothing more than a
tool for Marcos’s self-aggrandizement, Chapter 3 argues that the better way
to understand it is to take it simultaneously as a political and a scholarly
project, both by Marcos and by the scholars. This chapter demonstrates,
first, the sharply contentious historiographic terrain within which Tadhana
tried to insert itself. It shows that scholars (the core group in particular)
 Introduction  17
‘perform’ a political act as they pursue their own historiographic agenda.
This chapter also shows how Marcos tried to appropriate the scholarly con-
tents of Tadhana to advance his own political interests. While it is com-
monly assumed that the political impinges on the scholarly by distorting
truth, this chapter demonstrates that the truth (or scholarly aspiration) is
not necessarily antithetical to the political. Rather, truth (or appearance of
truth) is enabled by the political and also that it is an important ingredient
that makes the political all the more potent, which explains at least in part
why history is attractive to many political leaders like Marcos. The chapter,
in a nutshell, explains how the interests of the scholars and those of Marcos
complemented or reinforced each other, and how they fitted into the broadly
defined existing socio-political and academic order of the time.
The case of SNI is discussed in Chapters 4 and 5. Paralleling Chapter
2, Chapter 4 recounts the process that gave birth to SNI from the moment
of its inception up to the time of public reactions to its publication. The
context and the driving forces for the project are identified and discussed,
and certain incidents are described in detail to demonstrate the dynamics
among the key players. In contrast to popular accounts that depict SNI as
not much more than a manipulated military project, this chapter shows that
its scholarly designs managed to restrict the political interests of the regime.
Chapter 5 focuses, like Chapter 3, on the political and historiographic
contexts that make the structure and contents of the project intelligible.
It shows the ways and the extent to which SNI reflected the political in-
terests of the New Order regime. More importantly, contrary to what has
become by now a standard, uncomplicated, or unambiguous understand-
ing of SNI as the New Order’s official history, this chapter offers a close
re-reading of the various editions of SNI. The result is a much more com-
plex interpretation of the past as portrayed in SNI. Whereas the general
perception portrays the scholars as manipulated by the New Order regime,
this chapter demonstrates that scholarship-related factors, such as the use
of the multi-­dimensional-structural approach, the pressure emanating from
the community of scholars, and the stature of Sartono Kartodirdjo, have,
taken together, made a dent in the political designs of Nugroho Notosu-
santo. There are even passages in the 1975 and 1984 editions that directly
go against the official explanation of the event involving the September
30 Movement (G30S). In short, rather than treating SNI as exemplar of the
New Order regime’s effort at thought control, Chapter 3 and this chapter
suggest that it may better serve the function of highlighting its limits, in
effect demonstrating the often unrecognized power of the scholars
Chapter 6 puts the pieces together in a comparative platform. It high-
lights the similarities and the differences of the features of the two projects.
By showing the ways in which various actors and factors interacted, this
chapter helps to map out the range of contexts and modalities by which
embodiments of knowledge and power interacted in these projects. It
argues that a similar logic of power relations underpins the interaction;
18 Introduction
it  is  in the logistics of power—distribution and combination—that they
differ. More specifically, this chapter shows that there is no inherent oppo-
sition between politics and ‘good’ scholarship. It cannot also be assumed,
for instance, that weak scholarship is necessarily vulnerable to political
manipulation, as exemplified by SNI. Conversely, a more scholarly or ‘sci-
entific’ historical work is not necessarily less liable to political interests, as
the case of Tadhana shows. The dynamic configuration of the individual,
group, and institutional interests as they interact with the broader social
forces at a particular moment set a frame within which the relationship
may be defined. This chapter also offers an alternative interpretation of the
state–scholar relations, as exemplified by the cases of prime movers of the
­projects, ­Nugroho Notosusanto and Zeus Salazar. Rather than dismissing
them as ­morally flawed for allowing themselves to be manipulated or co-
opted by the regime, they may instead be seen as potent agents, with their
own interests to pursue and power to dispense with. Rather than condemn-
ing their partnership with the state as idiosyncratic, this chapter suggests
that the logic of power-knowledge relations that undergirds such a partner-
ship may in fact be the norm, and what makes it (and other similar cases)
appear as an aberration is the well-meaning but deeply concealed political
interests that promote and naturalize the ‘liberal’ aspirations for the pre-
sumed autonomy of the scholars. It is an act that invites morally framed
attacks, so the chapter suggests, because, among other possibilities, it en-
dangers the collective interest of the scholarly class whose power depends
on the claim to being apolitical, impartial or objective. The idea behind this
point is not to absolve them of moral responsibility for whatever negative
consequences brought about by their partnership with the state. Critics can
go on pontificating on their supposed sins or moral depravity, but the more
important task for analytic purpose is to demonstrate that both sides—the
critics and the critiqued—were politically interested. By rendering their po-
litical stance transparent, the public would be in better position to decide
which side they take, if any.
The final chapter concludes by teasing out the implications of the sug-
gested alternative analytic approach. It suggests in particular a more seri-
ous pursuit of the ethics of accountability in scholarly practice. That is, by
claiming to be outside or above the ambit of power relations, the scholarly
community as a whole (not on the level of individual scholars) in effect re-
moves itself from responsibility for whatever consequences the knowledge it
produces might have. By doing this, it unwittingly becomes an accomplice
in causing, maintaining or justifying social injustice, inequality, and vio-
lence, both physical and symbolic. As this is a situation that the community
of scholars often expresses that they wish to remedy, one step along this line
is to recognize the hidden politics that underlies scholarly practice. What
goes with power is responsibility, and to the extent that the scholars are
cognizant of their power and its potentialities, they are in better position to
avoid doing harm in their effort to do good.
 Introduction  19
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1 Indonesia and the Philippines
A contextual comparison1

As a Filipino, I had a shock of recognition when I stayed in Indonesia for

the first time in 2001. Indonesians did not just look the same as many of my
compatriots. They also seemed to behave and think in similar ways: laughed
at the same styles of jokes; slighted by comparable types of insults; and en-
joyed or hated, depending mainly on class, comparable tacky ghost stories
and mushy telenovelas. Filipinos also seem to share Indonesians’ propensity
for religiosity and fatalism, as well as a laid-back lifestyle. They appeared
to me as strikingly tolerant of, or resilient to, inefficiency, poverty, injustice
and inequality. Apart from within the religious sphere (I am a Catholic),
I hardly felt far from ‘home.’
Impressions of difference also stood out. Growing up in a country where
nationalism was at best confused or ambivalent, I felt Indonesians were gener-
ally more at ease with their nationalism. It seemed as natural and clear-cut to
them as it was contrived and ambivalent to me. Despite the much greater ge-
ographic and demographic challenges and ethnic diversity, nation-building in
Indonesia seemed to me had been more successfully accomplished than it had
been in the Philippines. The complex set of explanations for these similarities
and differences deserves some scrutiny. “Indonesia and the Philippines are
the same enough to be put together, but different enough to make comparison
interesting,” as Pringle perceptively observed (1980, 1).
The reference I have made here to my admittedly subjective and personal
experience in and of Indonesia is strategic. It flags my subject-position as an-
alyst: a Tagalog Filipino of middle-class background; a Catholic of liberal
spirituality; rurally born and raised, but now urban- and overseas-based.
I am a transnationally-oriented academic contract worker and a family
man of libertarian personal aspirations and liberal public–political orienta-
tion. As an academic, I acknowledge the deeply concealed political nature
of scholars’ aspiration for autonomy or impartiality. Such disclosures are
meant to serve the purpose of full transparency, not to excuse or justify
my own partialities. My intellectual, political, and personal background
are among the sources of my biases. They bear on my analytic proclivities
in general, and on my views of Indonesia and the Philippines in particu-
lar. Of  equal importance, I explicitly waive the right to absolve myself of
24  Indonesia and the Philippines
any responsibility for whatever possible adverse consequences my analysis
might have. I undertake this study with full awareness that, despite all my
good intentions as a scholar, my interpretations and the empirical support-
ing data presented here may be appropriated by anyone or any group for
their own interests, both self-serving and altruistic.
This chapter seeks to compare the contextual factors—historical, polit-
ical, institutional and academic—that are most relevant to the narrative
and analysis carried out in this book. No attempt at a comprehensive com-
parison between Indonesia and the Philippines is offered here. The focus is
limited to areas that have a direct bearing on the analyses and arguments
being developed in this book. First is the pattern of colonization and the
nationalist responses to it; second, the state-formation, state–society rela-
tions and the contrasting fate of the anti-state actors, the communist and
other left-leaning parties in the two countries; and finally, the patterns of
development of the two countries’ nationalist historiography and histori-
cal professions. The main task is to demonstrate that the contrasting co-
lonial experience, processes of state-formation and roles of the left in the
two countries reflected or paved the way for a less hegemonic nationalism
and less restrictive state–civil society relations in the Philippines than in
Indonesia in the 1970s and 1980s, the period when the two projects analyzed
here took shape. These factors have had important repercussions on the de-
velopment of historical scholarship and the relationship between state and
scholars in the two countries during the period under consideration, and
perhaps even beyond.

Patterns of colonization and nationalist responses

While the idea of 300 years of Dutch colonization of Indonesia has long
been debunked as a myth (Resink 1968), it is true that parts of what came to
be called the Philippines and Indonesia were under the control of Western-
ers for about three centuries. The first Spanish expedition reached the area
in the 1520s, and starting from the 1560s the Spanish presence gradually
began to expand and eventually took root in the lowland areas of the Philip-
pines. The Dutch, on the other hand, established themselves in Indonesia on
a piecemeal basis, depending initially on the Dutch East India Company’s
economic interests: Maluku and Batavia (Jakarta) regions from the early
seventeenth century, the whole of Java in the eighteenth century, a large part
of Sumatra in the nineteenth century and the rest of the country by the early
twentieth century.
The enormous size of Indonesia, spread out as it is across three time
zones, made it so much less manageable or penetrable than the Philippines.
With a land area less than one-sixth of Indonesia’s, the Philippine archipel-
ago was not only considerably smaller but also much more compact. Addi-
tionally, Dutch colonial activities, being primarily focused on commerce, at
least in the first two centuries, proved less intrusive to the core cultures of
 Indonesia and the Philippines  25
the indigenous population. The socio-cultural life of a significant portion
of the population in Indonesia began to be more deeply affected only in
the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, with the intensification
of economic activity, and the implementation of the Ethical Policy in the
early 1900s. The Ethical Policy was an ambitious socio-economic program
designed to promote the welfare of the indigenous population. On the other
hand, the missionary zeal of the Spaniards resulted early on in the conver-
sion of the natives in the Philippines, the indigenous lowland cultures being
penetrated to their core (Phelan 1959). It must be noted though that the pro-
cess of conversion cannot be assumed to be straightforward (Rafael 1988).
The brand of Christianity that developed in the Philippines had been sig-
nificantly infused with indigenous elements, as captured by the term “folk
Christianity,” but the foreign contributions, particularly in providing a code
of ethics, were truly significant (Macdonald 2004).
Another important difference lies in the number of principal coloniz-
ers. The Dutch were the only principal colonizer of Indonesia; whereas
the ­Philippines, along with a few other countries, has experienced being
under the rule of two very different colonizers. The length of the period
of colonization, as well as the depth and contrasting impacts of these
colonizers, made the case of the Philippines quite distinctive. African
countries, such as Tanzania, may have changed hands from one colonizer
(Germany) to another (Britain), but the impact was nowhere near as sharp
or unsettling as it was in the case of the Philippines when it passed from
three centuries of Spanish rule into a new era of American control, which
then spanned over four decades. An important consequence of this expe-
rience was the ambivalent attitude among Filipinos towards colonization
and the ­a mbiguous sense of nationalism it spawned. Whereas national-
ism in Indonesia were clearly anti-colonial, dominated as they were by
negative attitudes towards the Dutch, the anti-colonial nationalism that
came out of the ‘womb’ of the 1896 Philippine Revolution were ‘aborted’
(Quibuyen 1999) by the mixed blessings, both perceived and real, brought
by the new colonizers, the A ­ mericans. Called “bi-nationalism” by Alfred
McCoy (1981) and “colonial nationalism” by Patricio Abinales (2002), the
ambiguous character of ­Filipino nationalism was clearly displayed in the
intensification of the radical anti-colonial nationalism in the 1960s and
1970s, while the movement for the Philippines to become the 51st state
of the USA—the Philippine Statehood USA—was also gaining ground.
It was reported as recently as December 2016 that this movement con-
tinues to gather signatures for the petition for statehood (Bustos and
­Cabacungan 2014).
The timing of the two countries’ national revolutions may have also con-
tributed to such ambivalence. Whereas Indonesia gained full independence
after the National Revolution (or War of Independence) of 1945–1949, the
Philippines had to contend with the co-opting and disarming policies of
yet another colonizer, the United States, soon after declaring independence
26  Indonesia and the Philippines
from Spain in 1898. If, after 50 years, Indonesian scholars talked about the
“heartbeat of Indonesian revolution” (Abdullah 1997), their Filipino coun-
terparts grieved over an ‘aborted nation’ (Quibuyen 1999).
Mass education programs served as one of the Americans’ disarming pol-
icies (Francisco 2015; Suzuki 1991). Figures show that by the 1920s, nearly
one million children in the Philippines received their education in English.
By 1938, it was twice as many (Steinberg 1987, 264–265). While such pro-
grams created generations of Filipinos forever grateful to the Americans,
in stark contrast with the supposedly painful memories of colonial experi-
ence under Spain, it also served as a breeding ground for nationalisms of
varying shades, such as colonial vs. anti-colonial nationalism. The emer-
gence, for instance, of homegrown historians who were educated during the
American period and who had very different nationalist temperaments, as
exemplified by Gregorio Zaide and Nicholas Zafra, on the one hand, and
Teodoro Agoncillo and Renato Constantino, on the other. They illustrate
the ambivalent impact of US-sponsored education in the Philippines. The
distinction between the two sets of scholars shall be further discussed later
in this book.
Indonesian nationalism was by no means monolithic and no less conten-
tious. Just as in the Philippines, competing ‘nations-of-intent,’ borrowing
Sani’s (1976) and Shamsul’s (1998) terminology, existed in Indonesia, as ev-
idenced, for example, in the regional revolts in the 1950s; the persistence
of the Islamist groups who wished to establish the Islamic state; the rise of
communism; as well as the separatism of Papua, Aceh and Timor-Leste.
Robert Cribb has identified four competing nations-of-intent: the Islamist;
the communist; the developmental nationalist; and that of the indigenous
aristocracies and the mestizos, which he calls the “multi-ethnic nation-of-­
intent” (Cribb 2004). The primary difference between the cases of Indonesia
and the Philippines lies in the distribution of power among the promoters of
the competing visions of the nation. While the coalescing of forces in Indo-
nesia allowed the emergence of dominant elites, particularly upon the mass
killings of the communists in 1965–1966, in the Philippines no episodes of
comparable nature and scale happened. Various powerful groups of elites
struggled for dominance, precluding the formation of an unassailable ‘ex-
emplary center’ of nationalism as well as politics. Stalemated, competing
nations-of-intent are perpetually locked in a state of conflict, both actual
and potential.
In the case of Indonesia’s nationalist movement, the “idea of unity has
quickly acquired crucial symbolic value” (Cribb 1999, 16), and “cultural,
social and ideological differences” did not hinder “enthusiasm for national
unity” (Cribb and Brown 1995, 9). On the other hand, persistent discord has
rocked its Philippine counterpart from the 1880s up to the present. In both
cases, the need for unity was certainly recognized, but such recognition did
not, in the Philippines, translate into a largely unified front against com-
mon enemies (such as colonialism), as was the case in Indonesia. No sooner
 Indonesia and the Philippines  27
had the Americans taken control of parts of Philippines, for instance, than
a number of Filipino elites and erstwhile very high-ranking officials in the
turn of the century revolutionary government switched sides. In the suc-
ceeding decades, a number of contentious questions arose: who should be
the national hero, Rizal or Bonifacio? What should be the medium of in-
struction, Filipino or English? And should Rizal’s novels be made required
reading in Philippine schools and universities? These are just a few exam-
ples that illustrate the persistent divisiveness of nationalism in the country.
During their formative decades, Indonesian nationalisms were also deeply
divided, as seen in the struggle in the decades before the war among various
groups to define the future of the nation, with the Islamists pushing to en-
shrine Islamic law (Syariah) as obligatory for all Muslims, while the nation-
alists opposed it (Kahin 1952; Shiraishi 1990). In the 1950s and 1960s, the
political divide among Islamist, communist, nationalist, and other groups
was deepening and sharpening (Feith 1962). Amid these divisions, there
emerged a locus of power capable of balancing, neutralizing, or overpower-
ing divisiveness, at least for a period. Examples include Sukarno’s adept, if
ultimately failed, attempt to synthesize the competing ideologies of nation-
alism, religion and communism into Nasakom; the installation of Pancasila
as the national ideology; and the decisive wiping-out of the communists
in 1965–1968, which smothered opposition. These ideological moves were
not replicated in the Philippines, where the competing interests co-existed
in a stalemate, held in tenuous equilibrium by a shifting balance of power
among alliances of elite families. The title of an edited volume, An Anarchy
of Families (McCoy 1993) evocatively captures the situation. Despite the
earlier beginnings of Philippine nationalism, there was nothing compara-
ble to the material and symbolic significance of Sumpah Pemuda (‘Youth
Pledge’), or the national ideology, Pancasila, two important markers of in-
tent to achieve unity in Indonesia (Darmaputera 1988; Foulcher 2000). Fer-
dinand Marcos made an attempt to propose what amounted to an ideology
for the Filipino nation (see Marcos 1979, 1980), but due to his unpopular
actions and policies, it was dismissed by many Filipinos as nothing but a
self-serving ploy.
Megan Thomas, in her book Orientalists, Propagandists, and Ilustrados:
Filipino Scholarship and the End of Spanish Colonialism (Thomas 2012),
noted the ‘peculiar’ character of the earliest period in the development of
Philippine nationalism. She observes that right at its very inception, Phil-
ippine nationalism was infused with a high level of cosmopolitanism that
was difficult to find in many other colonial societies. Whereas in many other
colonial societies, the ‘middle class’ that led the nationalist movement were
in between two poles, the colony and the metropole, Filipino nationalist
leaders were in between multiple centers, which included Hong Kong, Ja-
pan, Germany, Belgium, and France. This was made possible, according to
Thomas, by the fairly extensive travelling of these early nationalists (Thomas
2012). This travel exposed them to stimuli beyond Spanish colonialism, and
28  Indonesia and the Philippines
afforded them multiple viewpoints that tamed the parochial tendencies of
various anti-colonial nationalisms, including that of Indonesia. The idea of
cosmopolitan nationalism highlights the more than superficial roots of the
fluid and multiple characters of Philippine nationalism.
Viewed from the perspective of the development of Philippine national-
ism, the degree of unity evoked among early Indonesian nationalists by the
notion of ‘Indonesia’ was quite remarkable (Elson 2008). As observers have
noted, ‘Indonesia,’ at least to the educated, was to the modern and the fu-
ture what regional ethnic groups were to the feudal and the past (McVey
1996, 14). Subsuming the local or regional by the national in the Indonesian
nationalist imagination did not, ultimately, prove as difficult to attain as it
did in the Philippines. This was the case despite the real threats posed by
regional rebellions in Indonesia in the 1950s, in addition to the secessionist
aspirations in Aceh as well as Papua; the latter persists up to now. Region-
alism remains robust, and is even intensifying in the Philippines, as exem-
plified by Cebuanos, who would rather use English than Filipino (which has
its roots in Tagalog) and would rather sing the national anthem in Cebuano
than in the national language (Avila 2009). Likewise, while the project of
modernity in the Philippines was initially identified with the nationalism
that accompanied the 1896 revolution, in a way functionally similar to that
in Indonesia, the US colonization of the Philippines promised and, to an
extent, delivered the more tangible and more readily attainable fruits of the
modern. This was realized in the form of schools, roads and bridges, and at
least the trappings of democracy. Thus, the strength of the promise of mo-
dernity that accompanied the Filipino nationalist project that culminated
in the 1896 revolution was diminished by the American colonial project.
This is one of the results of having had two different colonial experiences.
The cosmopolitan, the national, and the regional elements competed and/
or co-existed in shaping nationalisms in the Philippines, in contrast to the
case of Indonesia, where the unifying elements proved more dominant than
the competing ones.

State-formation and state–society relations

As postcolonial states, the state-formation in Indonesia and the Philip-
pines was significantly influenced by their colonial experiences. The extent
to which the Indonesian postcolonial state built upon its predecessor was
considerable (McVey 1996), but this is perhaps more true in the Philippines,
where governmental and other political ideals, practices, and structures
(such as constitutions, political party system, and a system of checks and
balances) were clearly legacies of the United States (Hedman and Sidel,
2000, 7–8). The supposed ‘training’ in the ‘art of democratic governance’
that the Filipino leaders underwent within the colonial framework ensured
close ties with the Americans (Owen 1971). The contrasting fashion by which
independence was declared in Indonesia and the Philippines after World
 Indonesia and the Philippines  29
War II speaks volume to this contrast. As described by Ruth McVey (1996,
14), “Indonesia’s declaration of independence, instead of the high ceremony
and ringing statement of goals that we might expect of a revolutionary state,
was a bare announcement read before a few people, under the reluctant gaze
of the Japanese.” On the other hand, a highly anticipated and festive in-
auguration among a massive crowd was staged in the Philippines in 1946:
Filipino leaders took the mantle of leadership after being ‘prepared’ for it
for decades.
Another fundamental difference between the two countries lay in the
decolonization process. Whereas Indonesia succeeded in divesting itself of
many tangible and intangible legacies of the colonial era—Dutch property
ownership, political use of the native aristocracies, and the Dutch language,
among others—the neo-colonial relationship between the United States and
the Philippines lingered (Benda 1965; Shalom 1981). As aptly described by
McCoy (1981), the case of the Philippines was “independence without de-
colonisation.” English continued to be used in schools, education remained
patterned after the Americans and American pop culture has permeated the
Philippine society up to now. The Americans maintained control of the vast
plantations, military bases, mines, and businesses, while the Filipino elites
enjoyed preferential access to the American market, among other perks.
This set the enabling conditions for the character of the Philippine govern-
ment’s relationship with its American counterpart in the succeeding dec-
ades (Shalom 1981). The persistent close ties between the two governments
served as one of the fulcrums of the anti-colonial nationalist backlash. To
the consternation of his critics, Marcos was able to surf on the wave of such
a backlash and had utilized nationalist rhetoric to justify his authoritar-
ian rule. As will be discussed in Chapter 4, a clear example of this effort is
Tadhana project, one of the two projects that are the subject of this study.
The roads to authoritarianism were different in the two countries. While
both underwent ‘democratic experimentation,’ the crucial difference lay in
the length of time they spent on it. Whereas parliamentary democracy was
crushed a few years after it was tried in Indonesia in 1950–1957, the Philip-
pines had more time to develop democratic practices and institutions. These
included the municipal and provincial elections (1901 and 1902), the estab-
lishment of the Philippine Assembly in 1907, the Filipinization or appoint-
ment of Filipinos in government positions, and the establishment of the
Filipino-led Commonwealth government in 1935. These marked a gradual
and progressive pattern of increased Filipino role in the democratic experi-
ment. Within 25 years after independence in 1946, the experiment seemed to
be working, notwithstanding the ‘fiesta’ and elitist character of the democ-
racy that had emerged. ‘Fiesta’ refers to the ephemeral, skin-deep, or just for
a show, atmosphere of fun and conviviality that accompanies democratic
practices in the Philippines. As one scholar puts it, referring to EDSA up-
rising, “Filipinos moved from dictatorship to democracy with characteristic
spectacle—color, music, emotion, and drama” (Boudreau 1999, 11).
30  Indonesia and the Philippines
In other words, by the time an authoritarian regime was installed upon
the declaration of Martial Law in 1972 (Brillantes 1987), the Philippines had
already undergone seven decades of (at least nominal) democratic practice.
This makes it easy for the dictatorial period between 1972 and 1986 to ap-
pear an anomaly in the otherwise continuous evolution of the experiment.
The authoritarianism of the New Order regime, on the other hand, hardly
appeared to be an anomaly. In many respects, it was a continuation of
Sukarno’s Guided Democracy and the feudal character of the traditional
political culture as well as the autocratic features of the Dutch colonial gov-
ernment (Anderson 1983). If anything, the brief parliamentary experiment
in the 1950s was the one that appeared anomalous within the broader his-
torical scheme (Benda 1982). Such a view is reinforced by the tendency of
many Indonesian politicians since the Guided Democracy period to use this
period as a metaphor for political chaos and ineptitude (Bourchier 1994).
Given the wider democratic latitude the Philippines had enjoyed for a
longer period of time, it is no surprise that state–civil society relations in the
Philippines were more dynamic and confrontational in the 1970s and 1980s
than they were in Indonesia. The structure of power relations within the so-
ciety was more fluid and polyvalent or polycentric in the Philippines than
it was in Indonesia (Hedman 2001). Different interest groups such as labor
unions, church organizations, political parties, and professional associations
had ample time to grow, acquire power, and exert influence on the process,
if not the outcome, of political struggles within the public sphere. Indonesia
had similar experiences from the 1950s up to the mid-1960s, but its trajec-
tory was dramatically altered by the cataclysmic events in 1965–1966 that
saw the mass killings of real and suspected communists and sympathizers.
This episode effectively installed what Ariel Heryanto calls “state terrorism”
(Heryanto 2005). By state terrorism, it refers to the reign of terror that put
in place a resilient anti-communist ‘master narrative’ that psychologically
coerced the public and legitimated the use of “repressive measures geared
to intimidate the citizenry” for an indefinite period of time (Heryanto and
Hadiz 2005, 267). This period coincided with years of systematic mass indoc-
trination most clearly evident in programs such as Pedoman Penghayatan dan
Pengamalan Pancasila, or in popular parlance P4 (a course on the Guidelines
for the Realization and Implementation of Pancasila), Pendidikan Moral
Pancasila (PMP, Pancasila Moral Education), and Pendidikan Sejarah Per-
juangan Bangsa (PSPB, History of National Struggle Education) (Bourchier
1996, 227–263; McGregor 2007, 156–160). Dissent did exist, but it could only
to a limited extent flourish in such an environment (Heryanto 2005).
Some observers opined that the New Order regime was more firmly
grounded in authoritarianism than the Marcos dictatorship (Boudreau
1999). That the Marcos regime tottered in the early 1980s and eventually
collapsed in 1986, whereas the New Order persisted until 1998 supports this
view. On the whole, this is clearly the case. However, in the first five to seven
years of the two regimes’ existence, the period particularly relevant to this
 Indonesia and the Philippines  31
study, this was not the case. The considerable strength or durability of the
New Order regime rested significantly on a sudden reversal of fortune as-
sociated with the 1965–1966 events. That the communists were decimated
hardly owed to the enormous power of the military or the emerging New
Order regime. Perhaps the reverse was truer: the military and the Suharto
regime became dominant because the communists were wiped out in such
a gruesome fashion. As Ariel Heryanto (2005) perceptively argues, the
strength of the New Order significantly derived from the hyper-reality effect
of its actual (and limited) power, grossly amplified by the overriding state of
fear among the people propagated by the events of 1965–1966.
Marcos, on the other hand, was able to establish (in 1972) and maintain
dictatorship (de jure until 1981 but de facto until 1986) on the basis of ac-
cumulated strength of will- and fire-power (Boudreau 1999, 4–7). Whereas
Sukarno and the communists in Indonesia were emasculated by the sharp
turn of public opinion in the weeks and months following 1 October 1965,
leaving the incipient New Order regime without strong opposition, Marcos
faced, from the 1960s to the 1980s, a formidable array of forces, including the
political oppositionists, the armed Muslim secessionists in Mindanao, and
the communists across the country.2 His dictatorship was installed and main-
tained through arduous, calculated and skillful manipulations of competing
and complementary forces and interests. Hardly was luck or serendipity a
factor. Whereas the New Order was empowered by the weakness of the oppo-
sition, the Marcos regime thrived despite strong and continued resistance. In
other words, by the early to mid-1970s when the two history-writing projects
were taking off, the Marcos regime appeared more vigorous than, or at least
of equal strength to, the New Order. As the 1970s and 1980s wore on, however,
Suharto’s formidable rise, peaking in the late 1980s, was paralleled by the
Marcos regime’s continuous decline and eventual ouster by the mid-1980s.
The fate of the communist movement in the Philippines contrasted sharply
with that in Indonesia. It grew from strength to strength in the 1970s and
1980s, having learned well from the tragic experience of its counterpart in
Indonesia and from the failures of its precursor, the Partido Komunista ng
Philippines (PKP) (Fuller 2007; Guillermo 2018). The repressive measures
under the Marcos dictatorship also helped facilitate an increase in member-
ship and widen significantly the sympathetic mass base. By the time of the
Marcos regime’s demise in 1986, the communists had reached a threshold
of military power and ideological influence that worried the Philippine gov-
ernment and the Americans (Fuller 2007; Weekley 2001). In other words, by
the time the two history-writing projects were underway, ideological strug-
gles were intensifying in the Philippines, while these had been flattened
in Indonesia. One of the significant repercussions of this situation on the
course of intellectual or scholarly development in the Philippines was the
popularity of the class or Marxist line of analysis, which competed well with
other long-established scholarly traditions. As will be discussed in Chap-
ter 4, Tadhana’s emphasis on the indigenous was in line with Marcos’s desire
32  Indonesia and the Philippines
to offer an alternative to Marxist and other foreign-originated analytic ap-
proaches. By contrast, class analysis was visibly absent in the Indonesian
social sciences (Farid 2005).

Historiography and history profession

The early development of nationalist historiography closely followed that
of the nationalist movement in general. It is not surprising, therefore, that
the nationalist historiography in the Philippines took shape earlier than in
­Indonesia for it was there that Southeast Asia saw the rise of the earliest anti-­
colonial nationalist movement. By nationalist historiography, I  mean the
body of ideas and practices employed by professional and non-­professional
historians in writing history with an outcome, intended or not, of recogniz-
ing or justifying a nation or a nation-state, as well as the identity that creates
or reinforces such an entity.
As early as the 1880s, intellectuals like Pedro Paterno (1857–1911), Trinidad
H. Pardo de Tavera (1857–1925), Isabelo de los Reyes (1864–1938), and more
notably, Jose Rizal (1861–1896) produced pioneering works which consti-
tuted the earliest formulation of the nationalist interpretation of ­Philippine
history (Mojares 2006; Quibuyen 1998; Schumacher 1979). Some of their
works were notable for the sophisticated methods, by the standard of the
time, employed in the synthesis and/or analysis of data. Rizal’s Annotations
of Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas and Isabelo de los Reyes’s El Folk-
Lore Filipino are good examples (Ocampo 1998; Anderson 2000). Palma’s
Historia de Filipinas (1935), which may be regarded as the best one-­volume
survey of the history of the Philippines in the first half of the twentieth cen-
tury, was another (Agoncillo 2003, 26). While none of these authors was a
professionally trained historian, they laid the foundations upon which future
efforts at ‘modern’ nationalist scholarship would be built. A comparative
advantage of the Philippines was that, in the words of Anderson, it “was
the only colony in the nineteenth-century Southeast Asia to have a real uni-
versity” (Anderson 2000, 61), referring to the Pontifical University of Santo
Tomas (UST). Run by the Dominican order, this institution was founded in
1611, conferred degrees starting in 1624 and became a university in 1645.
Indonesia would have to wait decades for at least nominally similar devel-
opments. Starting from the 1920s or 1930s, the fictional writings or speeches
of Mohammad Yamin (1903–1962), Sukarno (1901–1970), Sanusi Pane
­(1905–1968) and other nationalists planted the germ of nationalist historiog-
raphy (Klooster 1982, 54). The succeeding decades of the 1940s and 1950s saw
the publication of historical works such as Mohammad Yamin’s 6000 Years
Red and White (6000 Tahun Sang Merah-Putih) (Yamin 1951), whose ha­
giographic overly nationalistic character prompted some observers to regard
these as pre-scientific in methods and interpretations (Klooster 1982; Noto-
susanto 1965). Perhaps Achmad Djajadiningrat’s (1877–1943) thesis in 1913,
which critically reassessed the sources on the history of Banten, stands alone
 Indonesia and the Philippines  33
in the period prior to World War II for observing ‘modern’ historical meth-
ods (Kartodirdjo 2001). The theme of Djajadiningrat’s thesis, however, was at
best tangential to nationalist historiography. In other words, whereas Filipino
historians as early as the pre-Second War years already had a foundation to
build upon, their Indonesian counterparts had almost nothing (Kumar 2015).
They had to “start from scratch,” as Nugroho Notosusanto reported (1965, 2).
Historical studies following standard methods done by professionally
trained Indonesian historians did not appear until after the establishment
of history departments at the University of Indonesia (UI) and University of
Gadjah Mada (UGM) in 1950 and 1951, respectively. It happened only after a
number of Indonesian scholars, such as Sartono Kartodirdjo (Amsterdam),
Taufik Abdullah (Cornell), Ong Hok Ham (Yale), and Kuntowijoyo (Colum-
bia), went abroad for graduate studies. In contrast, formal institutionaliza-
tion of historical studies in the Philippines was accomplished much earlier,
with the establishment of the Department of History at the University of
the Philippines (UP) in 1910 (Apilado 1993, 90). Despite being the initial
seat of colonial historiography, it was also there that nationalist historiogra-
phy bloomed later on. For instance, two of the most important products of
the UP History Department during the American period, Gregorio Zaide
(1907–1988) and Teodoro Agoncillo (1912–1985), are known, respectively, for
their colonial nationalist and radical nationalist tendencies. This is emblem-
atic of the range of ideological orientations that Filipino historians of this
period assumed. The presence in the department of an American historian
who had sympathies with the nationalist cause, Austin Craig (1872–1949),
may have provided an impetus for the growth of nationalist historiography
within the strictures of the colonial framework.
Indonesia produced its first professional historian only in 1956, in the
person of Sartono Kartodirdjo. Widely believed among Indonesian schol-
ars to be the first PhD in history, Sartono obtained his PhD in 1966 from
the University of Amsterdam. An Indonesian Chinese named Lie Tek Tjeng
graduated from Harvard in 1962 with specialization in Japanese history.
Perhaps because his BA and MA were not on Indonesian history but in
Sinology, he was often forgotten in surveys of Indonesian historians. In the
list drawn up by Sartono in 1963, for instance, Lie Tek Tjeng was visibly
absent (Kartodirdjo 1963). By the time SNI history-writing project was un-
derway in the early 1970s, there were only four PhDs of history in Indonesia,
but only two were of consequence in so far as Indonesian history-writing
was concerned. Aside from Sartono, the other one was Taufik Abdullah
(1936–), who obtained a PhD from Cornell University in 1970. The two
others were Lie Tek Tjeng and Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro, who spe-
cialized in European history and obtained a PhD in 1968 from University
of Paris-Sorbonne (Abdullah 1975). The case of the Philippines was vastly
different in that even before World War II, several Filipinos had obtained
MAs and PhDs abroad, and there were even a few who obtained theirs from
a local university, the University of Santo Tomas (see Table 1.1).
Table 1.1  S
 elected Filipino and Indonesian historians

Filipino Education Indonesian Education

historians historians

Agoncillo, BA UP (1934) Abdullah, Taufik BA UGM (1961)

Teodoro MA UP (1939) (1936–) MA Cornell (1967)
(1912–1985) PhD – Cornell
(1970)
Alip, Eufronio BA UP (1927) Alfian, Ibrahim BA UGM (?)
(1904–1976) MA Uni. of Manila (1930–2006) PhD UGM (1980)
(1928)
PhD UST
Alzona, MA UP (1918) Kartodirdjo, BA/Doktorandus –
Encarnacion MA Harvard (1920) Sartono UI (1956)
(1895–2001) PhD Columbia (1921–2007) MA – Yale (1962)
(1922) PhD – Amsterdam
(1966)
Benitez, MA Chicago (1911) Kuntowijoyo BA UGM (1969)
Conrado PhD Chicago (1915 (1943–2005) MA Connecticut
(1889–1971) or 1916) (1974)
PhD (1980)
Columbia
de la Costa, BA Ateneo (1935) Lapian, Adrian BA/Doktorandus–
Horacio MA (Sacred Heart (1929–2011) UI (?)
(1916–1977) College) (?) PhD UGM (1987)
PhD Harvard (1951)
Fernandez, MA Chicago (1913) Leirissa, Richard BA UI (1965)
Leandro – (1938–) MA Hawaii (1974)
(1889–1948) PhD Columbia PhD UI (1990)
(1926)
Fonacier, MA Stanford (1931) Lie Tek Tjeng PhD Harvard (1961
Tomas PhD Stanford (1933) (1931– ?) or 1962)
(1898–1981)
Foronda, BA UST (1950) Notosusanto, BA & PhD UI
Marcelino MA UST (1951) Nugroho (1978)
PhD Salamanca (1931–1985)
(1954)
Ganzon, BSE UP (1929) Onghokham BA/Dokt UI (1968)
Guadalupe MA UP (1940) (1933–2006) PhD Yale (1975)
(1908–1985) PhD Stanford (1949)
Salazar, Zeus BA History, UP Poesponegoro, BA Stanford (?)
(1934– ) (1955) Merwati Djoened MA Connecticut (?)
PhD Ethnology, (1910–?) PhD Sorbonne
Sorbonne (1968) (1968)
Zafra, Nicolas BA UP (1916) BSE Suryo, Djoko BA UGM (1965)
(1892–1981) UP (1918) (1939–) MA UGM (1970)
MA UP (1920) PhD Monash (1983)
Zaide, BA UP (1929)
Gregorio MA UP (1931)
(1907–1986) PhD UST (1934)

Updated version of the table that appeared in Curaming (2008, 134).

Legend: UP—University of the Philippines; UST—University of Santo Tomas;
UI—­University of Indonesia; UGM—University of Gadjah Mada.
 Indonesia and the Philippines  35
When the Department of History at the University of the Philippines
opened in 1910, initially combined with Sociology and Economics, all
members of the teaching staff were Americans. Two years later, a Filipino
historian, Conrado Benitez, was appointed. By 1920, all teachers in the de-
partment were Filipinos, invariably with advanced degrees (or studying for
them) from the department or abroad (Apilado 1993).
One indicator of the seriousness of the professionalization effort was the
opening of the MA in History program in 1916, after this was approved by
university authorities in 1915. By 1918, it had produced graduates who would
become important historians, such as Encarnacion Alzona and Nicolas
Zafra (Apilado 1993). Teodoro Agoncillo and Gregorio Zaide, two of the
biggest names in the Philippine history profession, were also products of this
program (see Table 1.1). Alzona went to the United States to pursue a PhD
at Columbia University. She earned in 1922 the distinction for being the first
Filipino woman with a PhD in history. She was well known for writing the
acclaimed A History of Education in the Philippines (Alzona 1932), among
other works. She and Leandro Fernandez, who also completed a PhD in
Columbia and who wrote The Philippine Republic (Fernandez 1926), may be
considered as pioneers in ‘scientific’ history-writing methods in the Philip-
pines (Agoncillo 2003). The three others were homegrown scholars—that is,
they did not pursue further studies overseas—but they nevertheless emerged
among the most well-known historians for the period of 1940–1980s. They
even overshadowed some of the foreign-trained historians in the country.
This suggests the quality or strength of training they received from local
history programs.
Again, the same thing cannot be said in the case of Indonesia. The first
generation of Indonesian historians were all trained overseas, exclud-
ing Adrian Lapian, if he may be considered part of that generation (see
­Table 1.1). Nugroho Notosusanto was in a grey area as he studied for two
years at the SOAS, but without obtaining a degree. As will be clarified fur-
ther below, he obtained a PhD in a local university, University of Indonesia.
The local departments of history encountered difficulties at the early stages
of their professionalization effort. A severe shortage of teachers plagued
the two departments of history during the first decade of their existence.
Furthermore, the teachers were mostly philologists and lawyers, not his-
torians (Abdullah 1975, 123). As Nugroho Notosusanto (1965, 3) reported,
both these departments were “(o)n the brink of being closed (for) lack of
teachers.” Students complained about the lack of courses offered due to
acute staff shortages. Some students who were initially interested in History
moved to Archaeology and other courses because of this problem. One of
my interviewees recalled that the department was almost a non-entity then.
Only by accident did he learn of the ‘existence’ of the history program, when
he read in a newspaper that Sartono Kartodirdjo would graduate as the first
history major.3 While it was not as bad in the following decade, it was still
bad enough to prompt Nugroho Notosusanto to complain in 1965 that the
36  Indonesia and the Philippines
lack of professionally trained historians remained an acute and basic prob-
lem. He put the problem this way:

It has been a vicious circle: we want to train a great number of histo-

rians because we now have too few; and because we have too few… we
cannot train new historians as quickly as we should (sic) like to do.
(Notosusanto 1965, 2–3)

In Sartono’s article surveying the state of history profession in Indonesia in

the 1960s, he described it as “still in (its) infancy” (Kartodirdjo 1963, 26).
The purge of leftist scholars in the wake of the 1965–1966 events further
shrank the pool of already limited intellectual resources. Local universi-
ties did not produce their first PhD in history until 1977, in the person of
­Nugroho Notosusanto himself. Progress was slow from that point on. By
Nugroho’s count, as noted in a news item in Kompas on January 7, 1980,
there were only six PhDs in history in Indonesia.4
Professional organizations for historians were also established much ear-
lier in the Philippines than in Indonesia. The Philippine National Histori-
cal Society (PNHS) was founded in 1941. Smaller, less known organizations
preceded the PNHS, such as the one founded by Felipe G. Calderon in 1905,
the Asociación Histórica de Filipinas (History Association of the Philippines),
and the one established in 1916 or 1917 by Carlos Sobral and his group, the
Sociedad Histórico-Geográfica de Filipinas (Historico-­Geographic Society
of the Philippines) (Bauzon 1993). A breakaway group in 1955 formed another
organization called the Philippine Historical Association (PHA). There has
been both tacit and open competition between the two groups since then.
For instance, when the Philippine Social Science Council (PSSC) initiated
the Philippine Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences Project, it was quite odd
that history was allotted two volumes, whereas other disciplines had one
each. One volume was prepared by the members of the PHA (Volume 1), and
the other was prepared by the members of PNHS (Volume 2). Another group
was formed in 1989 from among the members of the Department of History,
University of the Philippines. It is called Asosasyon ng mga Dalubhasa, May
Hilig, at Interes sa Kasaysayan ng Pilipinas, Inc. (ADHIKA) (Association
of History Scholars and Enthusiasts). Another group that is noteworthy is
BAKAS or Bagong Kasaysayan/Bahay-­Saliksikan ng Kasaysayan (New
History/History Research House). Unlike the three others that have a broad-
based membership, BAKAS is a small group of professional historians,
originally from the University of the Philippines, who seek to pursue and
promote Pantayong Pananaw (From Us-For Us Perspective). This approach
will be further discussed in Chapter 3. There were other groups, but these are
the largest or the most active and impactful.
In Indonesia, their lone counterpart, Masyarakat Sejarawan Indonesia
(MSI) (Association of Historians of Indonesia), was founded in August
1970. Another group is ASPENSI (Asosiasi Sarjana Pendidikan Sejarah
 Indonesia and the Philippines  37
Indonesia or Association of Indonesian Scholars of History Education), but
it is mainly for history teachers and teacher educators.
A number of contrasts between these organizations should be noted.
Whereas its Philippine counterparts were either less dependent on or prac-
tically independent of the government, the MSI relied on the government
for its sustenance. The Philippine Historical Association may have had a
fairly close relationship with the government. Since its inception in 1955,
the President of the Republic was invited as an honorary president of the
organization (de Ocampo 1975; Fabella 1963). However, the extent of its ties
with the state was much less than that of the MSI.
Whereas the MSI held national conferences, funded by the state, only
occasionally (1957, 1970, 1981, 1985, 1991, 1996, 2001, 2008, etc.), in the
Philippines almost every year, the PNHS, PHA, and ADHIKA hold their
own national conferences in addition to a number of regional ones (de
­Ocampo 1975). Most of these conferences were held with minimum financial
support, if any, from the government. The bulk of the funding usually came
from the registration, sponsorship and membership fees.
In both countries, the government established institutional infrastructures
specifically for promoting historical consciousness. In the Philippines, the
National Historical Institute (NHI) was founded in 1972. It traces its histor-
ical roots to the Philippine Historical Research and Markers Committee es-
tablished in 1933, which in 1936 was superseded by the Philippine Historical
Committee. The basic function of these committees focused on the identify-
ing, marking and safe-keeping of historic sites and antiquities. In 1967, this
committee was replaced by the National Historical Commission. Another re-­
organization took place in 1972 to form the NHI, whose function was not just
the marking and preservation of historic sites but also the active promotion
of history through education, public campaigns and research (Gealogo 1993).
In Indonesia, the Direktorat Sejarah dan Nilai Tradisional (Directorate
for History and Traditional Values) serves a similar function to the NHI.
Unlike in the Philippines, however, there are other government agencies in
Indonesia, aside from the Ministry of Education and Culture, that promote
historical research and public awareness. These include the Armed Forces
History Center, which does not have a parallel in the Philippines, and certain
sections of the Indonesian Institute of Sciences or LIPI (Abdullah 1975, 139).
The Armed Forces History Center, founded in 1964, is by far the most active
and most productive history-related institution in Indonesia, having pub-
lished about 50 books by 1972 (Ibid.). Since then, it has been even more
prolific (McGregor 2007, 55–59).
To sum up, the cases of the Philippines and Indonesia share some broad
similarities, but there have also been significant differences. The contrasts
are pronounced in the impact of the colonial experience, state–civil society
relations, and the timing and tenor of the development of historical profes-
sion. In preparation for analysis in the succeeding chapters, the following
points need to be highlighted.
38  Indonesia and the Philippines
First, the contrasting patterns of colonial experience in the two countries
prefigured forms of nationalism that were more fluid in the Philippines and
hegemonic in Indonesia. Such forms of nationalism simultaneously influ-
enced and were reinforced or affected by the shapes of nationalist history-­
writing in the two countries.
Second, the relationship between the state and civil society was far less
constrained in the Philippines than in Indonesia. The polyvalent charac-
ter of power relations in the Philippines allowed a greater space for dif-
ferent interest groups to operate or compete. While the centralization of
power in few individuals or institutions was largely the norm in postcolonial
­Indonesia before 1998, the opposite, to a significant extent, was the case in
the Philippines. Marcos’s dictatorship appears anomalous within the Phil-
ippine political matrix. The longer tradition of political contestations in the
Philippines made opposition comparatively easier to mobilize, as was re-
flected in the persistent critiques of Marcos and his legacies.
Third, the historical profession in the Philippines developed much earlier
and under a freer environment than that in Indonesia. By the time a strong,
manipulative state emerged in the early 1970s with Marcos’s declaration of
martial law, the profession was already institutionalized. Their Indonesian
counterparts, on the other hand, had to develop under the aegis of a restric-
tive state from the Guided Democracy era up to the New Order. Even up
until the end of the New Order, Indonesian historians still struggled for pro-
fessional respectability, something that their Philippine counterparts had
achieved decades back and which by the 1970s several Filipino historians
took for granted.
Finally, while the New Order was, on the whole, more authoritarian than
the Marcos regime, and thus was in a stronger position to impose what it
wanted, this was not to be the case in the early to mid-1970s, when the two
history-writing projects were undertaken. The two regimes were more or
less on an equal footing.
The last two points are particularly salient for the analysis in subsequent
chapters. It is commonly assumed that there is an inverse relationship be-
tween the strength of the scholarship and the extent to which scholars may
be influenced by political power. To the extent that scholarship is ‘scientific,’
it is less vulnerable to political manipulations. Observers of Indonesian his-
toriography, for instance, usually attribute the weaknesses of the historical
profession to the strength of state manipulation. Historians were seen as
powerless in the face of societal and political pressures. As noted above, the
strength of the two states was more or less comparable; it was in the level
of advancement attained by the history profession that the two cases signif-
icantly differed. One might have expected, therefore, that Filipino histori-
ans, given the level of their scholarly achievement, would fare significantly
‘better’ in their encounter with an authoritarian regime. We shall see in the
succeeding chapters if, or to what extent and in what ways, this view might
be correct.
 Indonesia and the Philippines  39
Notes
1 A version of this chapter previously appeared in Philippine Studies, 56 (2):
­123–150 (2008) under the title “Contextual Factors in the Analysis of State-­
historian Relations in Indonesia and the Philippines.” Permission granted by
Philippine Studies.
2 The Marcos Diary contains passages, specifically entries for early January 1970,
that show how worried Marcos was about the coalition of these forces. By 1972,
the rebellion in Mindanao exploded, and the intensity of fighting in 1974–1975
drained the resources of the Marcos regime.
3 Interview with an anonymized informant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
4 It seems that Nugroho did not include Lie Tek Tjeng and Merwati Poespo­
negoro. I can identify eight: Sartono Kartodirdjo (Amsterdam, 1966), Taufik
Abdullah (Cornell, 1970), Onghokham (Yale, 1975), Kuntowijoyo (Columbia,
1980), Nugroho (UI, 1977), Poesponegoro (Paris, 1968), Abraham Alfian (UGM,
1980), and Lie Tek Tjeng (Harvard, 1962).

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2 Genesis of Tadhana project

In an extemporaneous speech delivered in 1967, Ferdinand Marcos publicly

declared, perhaps for the first time, his desire to write a history. Before
an audience of historians and history teachers, he fancied the day that he
would be able to do so once his stint in politics was over (Marcos 1967).
He did not have to wait that long. Inspired by Churchill’s multi-volume
A History of the English-Speaking Peoples (Churchill 1956), he forged a part-
nership with a group of young Filipino scholars and embarked beginning
in 1973–1974 on an ambitious project to write a multi-volume Philippine
history. In terms of scope, projected output, and the required financial and
intellectual resources, the project was staggering. Tadhana, as it became
known, stands out in the history of Philippine scholarship as not only the
most ambitious, but easily the most controversial history-writing project
ever undertaken.
This chapter will, first, reconstruct the story leading to the birth of
Tadhana project. Second, it will identify and discuss the possible motiva-
tions that drove Marcos to undertake the project, along with those that im-
pelled the scholars to participate in it. Finally, it will provide snapshots of
how the project actually operated with the aim of examining the dynamics
and power relations between key actors involved.
A caveat is in order before I proceed. Given the secrecy with which the
Marcos government had shrouded the project, as well as the stigma (for
scholar-participants) attached to being associated with the unpopular
Marcos regime, Tadhana project was not openly discussed for many years.
Nevertheless, since its inception in the 1970s, Tadhana formed a topic of
passionate conversations in private as part of the gossip mills that charac-
terize Philippine academic-political life. Except for brief recollections by
a few participants in 1989, nothing has yet been published about Tadhana
that can help reconstruct the story, or stories, of its making. This chapter,
thus, relies on oral history data gathered from the interviews of the partic-
ipants in the project—the only ones who could provide relevant informa-
tion. The nature of such oral sources admittedly makes them vulnerable
44  Genesis of Tadhana project
to suspicion of self-serving biases and unreliability. These personal stories
will be treated, with caution, as perceptions or recollections of what in-
formants believed to be true, rather than as the truth itself. Despite the
limitations of these sources, I believe it is possible to establish at least the
broad contours of the features and the overall developmental chronology
of the project. It is in areas that require interpretive assessment—of power
relations, motivations, and attitudes—that participant recollections pose
particular challenges. Power relations in general, and power-knowledge in
particular, operate partly in the realm of speculations, rumors, or assump-
tions. We can, at the very least, take these personal recollections as indica-
tive of how participants position themselves vis-à-vis fellow members of the
project and also in relation to those who were critical of the project. Rather
than being treated as insurmountable limitations, I take the subjective ele-
ments of their testimonies as among the key constituting elements of power
relations that shape Tadhana project.

Genesis
Marcos was elected president in late 1965 on the wave of the reformist im-
age he successfully propagated during his campaign. He and his wife, Im-
elda, cultivated close ties with Filipino artists and intellectuals, including
historians. The extemporaneous speech mentioned above was delivered as
a keynote address in a conference organized by the Philippine Histori-
cal Association (PHA), one of the leading professional associations of
historians in the country. Amid heightened awareness of the problems in
Philippine historiography in the 1960s, an idea was floated to establish a
commission to write Philippine history (Nakpil 1971). This idea attracted
Marcos’s attention. Initially, he sought the participation of the two biggest
names in Philippine history at the time, Teodoro Agoncillo and Horacio
de la Costa, to spearhead the project. The choice of these scholars with
contrasting characteristics was instructive about Marcos’ evolving interest
in history-writing. Agoncillo was a homegrown historian; he did not un-
dertake graduate studies overseas and apparently he did not care to pur-
sue them, unlike many of his contemporaries. He gained fame through
his books Revolts of the Masses (1956), Malolos: The Crisis of the Repub-
lic (1960), and the very popular textbook A Short History of the Filipino
People (Agoncillo and Alfonso 1960). The latter was reprinted and revised
several times (with the slightly different title History of the Filipino Peo-
ple) even after Agoncillo passed away in 1985. As will be discussed below,
these books occupied a seminal position in promoting an anti-colonial
form of nationalism that was brewing in the Philippines in the post-war
decades. According to Ileto, the publication in 1956 of Agoncillo’s Revolt
of the Masses “transgressed the proper meaning of the revolution at that
time” and by doing so proved instrumental in altering the consciousness
 Genesis of Tadhana project  45
required for the student movement to take off ­(Ileto 1998, 185, 188–189).
Agoncillo studied at public schools and dominated for decades, both by
dint of strong personality and by the strength of his scholarship, the coun-
try’s most important department of History: that of the University of the
Philippines (UP) at Diliman. De la Costa, on the other hand, was a Jesuit
who received a PhD from Harvard University. He reigned over the rival
History department at the neighboring elite private university, the Ateneo
de Manila University, for a long time. He was well known for his book
Jesuits in the Philippines, 1571–1768 (1961) as well as for the textbook pop-
ularly used in Catholic schools, Readings in Philippine History (1965). If
Agoncillo was thoroughly secular, de la Costa was obviously religious. If
Agoncillo promoted a ‘radical’ nationalist history, de la Costa was iden-
tified with a kind of history that some would derisively call a ‘clerical’ or
pro-Church history. However, as Ileto (2017) has argued, this view needs to
be refined or revised as by the 1970s, the two historians’ nationalist views
appear to be converging.
According to Agoncillo, then First Lady Imelda Marcos approached
him twice about joining the project. The first was in 1968 and the sec-
ond was in 1971 (Agoncillo and Jose 1976 in Ocampo 1995, 149–151). He
was reportedly offered generous financial support as well as the freedom
to decide the administration, structure, and content of the project. On
both occasions, he declined, mustering all the polite gestures and alibis he
could think of.1 While he maintained a civil, if not really friendly, stance
towards the Marcoses, he seemed too conscious of possible adverse con-
sequences once he became an ‘official historian,’ and this weighed heavy
on his decision to turn down the overtures. He declared that “the day I do
that (write history for Marcos), finished, I am finished!” He added that he
would “not just be a fiction writer but a prostitute” (Agoncillo and Jose
1976 in Ocampo 1995, 150).
In the case of Horacio de la Costa, the number of times he was invited to
the project could not be determined, but the earliest verifiable attempt was
made in 1968. As late as June 1973, the Marcos couple were still trying to win
his nod, as an entry in Marcos’s diaries indicates.2 Just as in the case of Agon-
cillo, however, they met no success. The two historians’ refusal to join the
project may be, among other possibilities, a testimony to their sense of duty
to uphold scholarly independence. It may also be indicative of the sharp polit-
ical division in the Philippines, which made it risky for some scholars to work
openly with and for Marcos. On the other hand, that Marcos went a long way
to convince them to lead the project, offering generous support and promis-
ing unhampered movement, revealed much about his evolving and complex
motivations in pursuing a history-writing project. It may not be assumed that
undiluted self-interest was all there was. For if that was the case, why should
he approach Agoncillo and de la Costa, whose reputations, of which Marcos
was fully aware, made them difficult to influence or manipulate?
46  Genesis of Tadhana project
Not the type to give up easily, Marcos continued to seek people who could
help him realize his dream. Meanwhile, a project called the Filipino Heritage
(FH) was underway. Under the stewardship of Alfredo Roces as Editor-­in-
Chief, FH was an initiative of the Hamlyn Group, an Australia-­based pub-
lishing company. Conceived before Martial Law was declared in September
1972, the Hamlyn Group entered into a partnership with the Manila Times,
a leading daily newspaper. The original plan was to produce 102 articles on
Philippine history and culture. Well-known experts were to be commissioned
to write these articles, and these would be serialized in the Manila Times for
two years. However, when almost all newspapers, including the Manila Times,
were shut down in the wake of the declaration of Martial Law, the project was
repackaged into a ten-volume opus, with public schools in the country the
main projected markets. Given the altered political landscape, the FH team
had to ask for official approval from the government in 1974. As part of their
effort, they sought an audience with then President Marcos to present the
initial outputs of the ongoing project.3 Marcos was reported to have exploded
in rage upon seeing someone surnamed Roces heading the list of editorial
board members and advisers. Apparently, Marcos mistook Alfredo Roces
for Joaquin ‘Chino’ Roces, who was Marcos’s staunch critic and the owner-
editor-­in-chief of the Manila Times. Not long after the incident, the head of
the Hamlyn operation in the Philippines, Kevin Weldon, received a letter from
the Malacañang Palace, the seat of presidential power in the Philippines. Juan
Tuvera, the Presidential Assistant, signed the letter which stated that Marcos
would take over the position of editor-in-chief from Alfredo Roces. In ad-
dition, FH manuscripts should be submitted to Malacañang for evaluation.
Despite Roces’s offer to give way so as to maintain the economic viability of
the project, Weldon did not budge under pressure from Malacañang. The FH
manuscripts were submitted as per Malacañang’s instruction, but after the
negative appraisal, to be discussed further below, came out a few weeks later,
Weldon instructed Roces to pack and transport the FH-related materials. In
due time, Roces found himself and his family in migratory flight to Sydney,
where (alongside Singapore) he worked for the completion of the project. FH
eventually saw publication in 1978.4
For a few weeks upon submission of the FH manuscripts to Malacañang,
on the instruction of Marcos, a group of scholars were busy poring over the
pages and preparing reviews. To this group belonged younger scholars from
the UP whose PhDs were from prestigious universities in Europe and the
United States. Leading the group was Serafin Quiason, who obtained a PhD
in History from the University of Pennsylvania and was the director of the
National Library from 1966 to 1986. Before taking a post at the National
Library, he was a lecturer at the Department of History of UP. His stint in
academe before working as a bureaucrat prepared him for the role of inter-
mediary between Marcos and the group of scholars who took part in the pro-
ject. He acted as the Assistant Project Director. Upon his shoulders fell the
task of recruiting participants—a task in which he was allowed a free rein.5
 Genesis of Tadhana project  47
Initially, he gathered around him four other scholars, all young assistant
or associate professors at UP. They were Samuel Tan, Zeus Salazar, Alex
Hufana, and Cesar Hidalgo.6 Together, they constituted the group whose in-
itial task was to review the FH manuscripts. As events would have it, they
would later form the core group of Tadhana project. Like Quiason, Samuel
Tan and Zeus Salazar were historians by training. Hufana, on the other hand,
was in literature and Hidalgo was a linguist. When Tan was initiated into the
group, sometime in 1973–1974, he had just returned from Syracuse Univer-
sity armed with the latest multi-disciplinary approach to historical analysis.
Salazar, on the other hand, had completed a few years earlier a PhD at the
University of Paris Sorbonne. He trained in ethnology and history and he
gained fluency in a number of European and Austronesian languages, a feat
rare for Filipino scholars, then as now. Hufana for his part was an accom-
plished, multi-awarded writer in English. He undertook his Master’s degree
at Columbia University, while Hidalgo obtained a PhD in linguistics from
Georgetown University. Hidalgo’s early departure in 1976 from the group
set the stage for the entry into the core group of another scholar, Rodolfo
Paras-Perez. He was an established painter and a premier art historian who
trained at Harvard University for a PhD in Art History. Like the rest, he was
a lecturer at UP. The choice of people whose academic expertise and back-
ground varied was no accident. The intention was to produce a history that
was multi-dimensional, one that transcends the traditional, big men-centered
and politics-focused narrative. Bonds of friendship and other personal ties
also informed the choice of people to be invited as it was thought to enhance
the quality of working relations (Tan 1993, 85). Tan, Salazar, and Hufana, for
instance, were all Quiason’s close friends. Hidalgo was a friend of Hufana
as Tan and Paras-Perez were of Salazar. In addition, Quiason was Salazar’s
compadre, a godfather or sponsor in the baptism of Salazar’s eldest child.
The task of reviewing the FH manuscripts came as an annoying task to
the members of the group. They were unclear why they were doing it. An
informant recalled that he was surprised they had to review all these man-
uscripts.7 Another participant vaguely remembered that Marcos had to
decide whether FH should be given an official endorsement for use in the
public schools, and he needed a group of scholars to help him reach a deci-
sion.8 Apparently, none in the group knew that Marcos had the intention to
wrest the editorship of the FH from Roces and that they were tasked with
evaluating the FH in preparation for a possible take-over. Based on their
understanding, they were recruited to write history, not just evaluate or re-
view one.
The verdict was not long in coming and it was decidedly unfavorable. One
complaint was that the perspective adopted was inappropriate—that it was
not Filipino enough. It seemed bent on “pleasing the foreigners” rather than
demonstrating the “internal dynamics” within the Philippines.9 Another
complaint was that the framework adopted to provide a unifying thread for
all the articles written by various contributors was not coherent10.
48  Genesis of Tadhana project
One may ask what would have happened had the outcome of the reviews
been more favorable. I surmised the following possible scenarios: there
would have been no Tadhana for there was no need for an entirely new pro-
ject. With Marcos wresting the editorship of FH, its framework already set,
and substantial progress already made in writing manuscripts, it was likely
that only fairly limited changes, or additions, would be made to accom-
modate his preferences. Another possibility was that Tadhana would have
pushed through just the same, as people behind FH were firm in their re-
solve not to allow Marcos to take over the FH.
In hindsight, however, it may have been naïve to expect that FH could
ever receive sympathetic reviews from the group of scholars tasked by Mar-
cos with undertaking the evaluation. There was a gap between the scholarly
orientations of the major members of this group and that of the scholars
who worked with the FH. The historians, for instance, who worked for
the FH, such as de la Costa, Agoncillo, and Corpus, represented various
streams in what some would call the ‘old schools’ in Philippine nationalist
historiography. On the other hand, Salazar and Tan seemed eager to as-
sume the role of Young Turks, brewing with new ideas and keen to offer
alternative historiographic views and approaches to address what they saw
as problems that had long bedeviled Philippine historiography.11 The outlet
for their pent-up intellectual energy precisely came when Marcos broached
the idea of a history-­writing project. Between acting as editors or evaluators
for an ongoing history-writing project, on the one hand, and acting as trail-
blazers of the still uncharted historiographic terrain, on the other hand, the
choice was obvious for these scholars.
It was also possible that at some point, the group got a hint that the review
of FH was somehow related to a possible take-over of the project, in which
case, there was even less of a chance for a favorable review of FH. Given
Tadhana’s core group’s avowed rationale for taking part in the national
history-writing project, it would better serve their interest and afford them
maximum freedom to start a clean-slate project rather than take over one
whose parameters had already been defined more or less. This is particu-
larly clear in the wonderment of one of the members of the core group as to
why they ‘wasted’ time reviewing FH when he, for one, already had a clear
idea of how to proceed with the writing project.12 Like Salazar, he had a
well-defined historiographic agenda, as evidenced in an article he published
in 1976 (see Salazar 1974; Tan 1976). It was just the opportunity to undertake
research and write that he was waiting for. Giving FH a favorable review
would mean a lesser opportunity for them to accomplish their objectives as
Marcos might be enticed all the more to take over FH.
As Marcos lost interest in FH owing perhaps both to Weldon’s obstinate
stance and the group’s patently negative appraisal of it, the way was paved
for the birth of an entirely new project. This time, he was not content to act
as a patron or a sponsor of a commission, as was the case a few years back.
Neither was he interested in merely becoming the editor-in-chief, as was the
 Genesis of Tadhana project  49
case for FH. He wanted no less than authorship, in fact, sole authorship of
the entire multi-volume project. What initially started as a supposedly mod-
est desire to help advance scholarship on Philippine history by sponsoring
a commission to write a history ended in a very ambitious appropriation
of the role and the power of scholars. The attempt to fuse knowledge and
power seemed unmistakable.

Motivations
The Tadhana project emerged from a confluence of several factors. In
popular imagination, however, what easily dominated was the perception
of the project as part of Marcos’s grand design to perpetuate himself in
power, made possible by his declaration of Martial Law in September 1972
(e.g. Veneracion 1993). The timing of the project—having taken off around
1974 when other books ghostwritten for Marcos (e.g. Marcos 1973a, 1974)
­appeared—tended to reinforce this view. Moreover, the trajectory of Philip-
pine historical development, as outlined in Tadhana, which is to be discussed
in detail in the next chapter, coincided almost perfectly with Marcos’s inter-
est in presenting Martial Law and the New Society it spawned as a natu-
ral or a necessary part of the evolutionary process in the development of
the Filipino nation. The choice of the title Tadhana, which means ‘destiny,’
says it all: that the Philippines was destined to see the rise of a New Society
characterized by peace, prosperity, and national pride. In addition, parts
of the reform package offered to justify the declaration and maintenance of
Martial Law were anchored on a “history concerned with the indigenous as
a principle of assimilation and growth”—exactly the idea that underpinned
Tadhana (Marcos 1982, 6).
Notwithstanding all these considerations, however, the situation was more
complex. For one, Marcos was already toying with the idea of a history-­
writing project years before Martial Law was declared or seriously thought
about, or before his regime was seriously challenged by the radicals. His
extemporaneous speech in 1967, noted above, showed him rather ambivalent
as to whether he would, in fact, write a history, but he was categorical about
his ‘wish’ to do so at some point in time (Marcos 1967). There are those
who claimed that as early as his first term in office (1966–1969) Marcos was
already planning to extend his rule (e.g. de Quiros 1997; Muego 1988), which
implies that his interests in history-writing as early as this period were al-
ready in line with his long-term plans to perpetuate himself in power for as
long as possible. However, modern historical analysis precludes eschatolog-
ical speculations. In his earlier offer to Agoncillo and de la Costa in 1968,
Marcos did not plan to be the ‘author’; he was willing to allow the two lead-
ing scholars freedom to carry out the project as they saw fit. For another, an
elaborate network of excuses backed by well-oiled propaganda machinery
had already been in place to address the need of justifying the Martial Law.
In addition, a 21-volume history seemed too difficult, too time-consuming,
50  Genesis of Tadhana project
too unwieldy, and perhaps not too effective a medium if the sole or pri-
mary purpose was a justification of his continued stay in power. A political
agenda was certainly there, as will be further discussed below, but there
must be other factors to consider as well.
One such factor was Marcos’s deep personal interest in history. Practi-
cally all informants who had a chance to engage with him at close range have
attested in glowing terms to the keenness of his knowledge of and interest in
history. He was described by one of the core group members, for instance,
as “somebody you cannot tinker with your expertise” and by another as “a
voracious reader whose prodigious memory was indisputable.”13 They all
remembered, some of them with fondness, their nocturnal discussions about
wide-ranging historical topics with Marcos—discussions that sometimes
lasted until early in the morning. They all said that Marcos had a developed
sense of history and that he exuded a deep respect for historians and the
historical profession. Cynics would be quick to wonder how they could have
easily allowed themselves to be captivated, or conned, by Marcos. However,
being professionally trained historians, with PhDs from prestigious univer-
sities at that, one could at least give them the benefit of the doubt; there may
be something more than a superficial impression in such observations.
A corollary of Marcos’s ‘interest’ in history was his awareness of the use-
fulness of history for administrative purpose and, of course, for personal
aggrandizement. Typical in his speeches, for instance, was a declaration like
“I am interested in history not only for the wisdom and the book learning it
conveys, but also for its value as a basis for actual decision, policy-making
and implementation” (Marcos 1973b, 3). While this might seem like no more
than the empty rhetoric common among Filipino politicians, informants
who worked with or for Marcos confirmed his voracious appetite for histor-
ical research as part of the routine decision- or policy-making process. An
informant recalled, for instance, that she was asked to undertake research
on the technological contributions of China to world history as well as Chi-
nese influences on the Philippines before Marcos undertook a state visit to
China in 1975.14 Another participant in the project claimed that she worked
on the historical basis of claims of Sabah and of the US bases agreement.15
Still another was the case of Jose Almonte who was instructed to study how
martial law was implemented in Pakistan (de Quiros 1997, 338).
Marcos has rationalized his penchant for this type of research by say-
ing that the best advisers inhabit the pages of history who, because they
were long dead, had no interest to protect or advance (Marcos 1982, 13–14).
While one expects that he would be less than forthright about history’s
self-aggrandizing function, he was candid enough to admit on one occasion
that “it is sometimes convenient to be able to write down your own side of
history” (Marcos 1982, 5). This was after paraphrasing Winston Church-
ill: “If they won’t write history the way it should be written after making
history, I will write history” (Marcos 1982, 5). At the very least, Marcos
was well aware of what history can do. As he said, referring to history,
 Genesis of Tadhana project  51
“no matter what others say, the written word is still a powerful instrument
and the pen is still mightier than the sword. Words will always be able to
achieve what the bullet cannot” (Marcos 1982, 26).
Still another contributory factor was the perceived prestige that goes with
the authorship of a scholarly work. Marcos was very much interested in
promoting himself as an intellectual or as a scholarly president (Reyes 2018).
A key participant recalled that, of the few thousand copies of the first pub-
lished volume of Tadhana, only about 500 circulated in the Philippines. The
rest had been earmarked for distribution abroad, to be given as personal
gifts from Marcos to ambassadors, heads of state and other high-ranking
officials, friends and acquaintances whom he met in his fairly extensive trav-
els abroad. Marcos also seemed desirous of immortalizing himself through
the project. A participant quoted Marcos as saying in one of their meetings,
“You know, after the end of my term, the people will forget everything that
I have done, my infrastructures, etc…but the only thing that will last is this
(showing a copy of the first printed volume of Tadhana).”16
Perhaps another side to Marcos’s apparent genuine interest in history was
his fear of, or anxiety about, it. His diaries contain passages that indicate
his nagging sense of unease as to how he and his regime would be judged in
history. An entry dated Oct. 8, 1970, for example, states:

I often wonder what I will be remembered in history for. Scholar? Mil-

itary hero? Builder? The new constitution? Reorganization of (the) gov-
ernment? Uniter (sic) of the variant and antagonistic elements of our
people? He brought light to a dark country? Strong rallying point or a
weak tyrant?

The diary also indicates that Marcos was fearful and distrustful of histo-
rians. After reading Bailey’s book Presidential Greatness, which, Marcos
notes in his diary entry for 19 December 1971, “explains the bias of histo-
rians and how they get it,” he concluded that “history should not be left to
the historians.” This was corroborated by what Marcos declared in the 1967
speech in which he rationalized his desire to write history by citing the need
to correct what he thought to be an erroneous and overly negative picture of
him in the media. Perhaps Marcos was thinking that through Tadhana, he
would be able to ‘straighten’ what he believed to be a distorted history per-
petrated by his detractors, including historians, some of whom he described
as ‘contentious’ (Marcos 1982, 1).
In my interview with one of Marcos’s closest aides, the one whom he asked
to write a memo that served as the germ of Tadhana project, he revealed
that the project was undertaken primarily as Marcos’s vehicle to explain
himself and the declaration of Martial Law to the Filipino people, not of
the contemporary period but in the future a century hence. Given the highly
fractious political sphere in the 1970s, Marcos knew full well, he averred,
that the public would not take the project seriously. In a hundred years, so
52  Genesis of Tadhana project
Marcos believed, people would already be far removed from the political
contentiousness of the 1970s and they would be in a better position to judge
without bias whether what he did was right or wrong.17
Still another possible factor was Marcos’s sense of nationalism. He rou-
tinely utilized nationalist tropes to serve his personal agenda, and so cynics
would be justified in doubting the sincerity of his nationalism. However,
many in his generation grew up “in a period which took special delight in
the culture and history of other countries” and consequently developed a
“sense of alienation from (their) country’s past,” and at least some of them
probably longed for redemption from such a “crisis of identity” (Marcos
1976, ii). Marcos could very well be one of them. The truth is, even if we
grant that he was not one of them, many others in his own and succeed-
ing generations were well aware of such a crisis of identity which called for
a kind of history that would address it. In other words, there was a fairly
broad constituency to whom the writing of the so-called ‘truly’ nationalist
history would appeal, and Marcos was quick to respond.
The motivations of the scholars who took part in the project varied de-
pending on their academic standing and personal circumstances at that
time. The main ‘designers’ of the project, Salazar and Tan, claimed that
what attracted them to it was the opportunity to do what they loved ­doing —
scholarship—in an atmosphere unhampered by day-to-day concerns. Both
of them had a rather well-defined historiographic agenda, and they saw an
opportunity for realizing these by taking part in the project. Tan (1976),
for instance, wanted to address the long-standing neglect of the Muslims
and other cultural communities in traditional historical narratives, which,
almost without exception, were badly skewed towards the numerically dom-
inant Christian populace. He had a particular interest in demonstrating the
interaction between the ‘great’ traditions of Christianity and Islam, on the
one hand, and the ‘small’ traditions of the tribal groups, on the other. Fur-
thermore, as a reaction to the predominance of descriptive political history,
he wanted to inject into the historical narrative a multi-disciplinary ana-
lytical approach whereby, as appropriate, the analytical tools of the social
sciences were woven into the historical narrative. He believed this would
enable him to emphasize the dynamism of history as a counterpoint to the
rather static images that gathered around traditional historical approaches.
Zeus Salazar, on the other hand, wanted to develop a more holistic and
complete picture of Philippine history. In the context of seriously inade-
quate historical scholarship that ‘silenced’ various periods, notably the cen-
turies spanning the pre-Hispanic era and the first 200–250 years of Spain in
the Philippines, this was understandable. Asked if it bothered him to work
for Marcos, who was despised by many, he put it strongly:

If I’d be offered by anyone—even by a criminal—a whole institute to

allow me to write my history [referring to complete Philippine history],
I’d accept. I wouldn’t mind even if he’s a criminal. The important thing
 Genesis of Tadhana project  53
is that I be able to do it. After all, this is more important than one sin-
gle individual. So for me, there are no moral issues here because one of
the attainments of historiography is that you no longer judge in moral
terms.18

The same informant also wished to employ and experiment with new per-
spectives aimed at correcting the long-standing approaches heavily tinged
with a colonial hangover. That Salazar and Tan had in fact succeeded in
pushing their agenda can be seen in the framework adopted for the whole
project. Through their combined effort, the original outline of the project
was drawn (Tan 1993, 86), discussed by the group, and presented to Mar-
cos for discussion. Marcos accepted it without asking for a revision. In the
words of Samuel Tan, “Marcos swallowed it hook, line and sinker,”19 Not
long afterwards, the detailed outline was circulated in public as a 62-page
pamphlet simply entitled The Tadhana Outline (Marcos 1976).
The nationalist packaging of the project also made it attractive. The
upsurge in Filipino nationalism in the 1960s and 1970s, the meanings and
defining parameters of which were contested, provided a pliable template
upon which Marcos’s partnership with the scholars materialized. Marcos
was bound to strike very sympathetic chords not only among many scholars
but among common people as well when, in justifying Tadhana project, he
declared: “The need to refresh one’s perspectives on the past is particularly
acute for a people whose written history is mainly the legacy of nation, or
nations that once subjugated them” (Marcos 1982, 3). Salazar recalled that
when Quiason approached him and invited him to the project, the latter
described it as a “very important, nationalist undertaking” (Salazar 1989,
194). Romeo Cruz, who joined the project much later in 1980, echoed the
same words as Quiason’s time-tested bait to entice prospective participants.
Cruz recalled in particular that one thing that lured him to the project was
the impressive manner by which topics which were seemingly difficult to
situate within a nationalistic framework (such as geological origins and the
pre-Hispanic period) have in fact been successfully interpreted along this
line. He cited as an example the chapter on Adam in the Philippines, which
posited the local process of humanization, rather than merely relying on the
postulate of the diffusion of the human race from, say, Africa (Cruz 1989).
For Rod Paras-Perez, a Harvard-trained art historian, while he was simi-
larly attracted to the nationalist intent of the project, he also felt disturbed
by the overly politico-economic conceptualization of nationalism that in-
formed much of the Philippine nationalist history. He bewailed the com-
mon practice of treating culture like an appendix to the politics-­c entered
narrative, if included at all. In joining the project, he felt he was being given
an opportunity to help correct the imbalance. Specifically, he was interested
in showing the centrality of culture and in weaving into the historical narra-
tive the cultural, values-centered aspects of the development of the Filipino
nation.20
54  Genesis of Tadhana project
Another factor was compensation. Whether this carried a heavy weight in
their decision to participate, however, depended much on scholars’ personal
circumstances during that time. For the Harvard-trained art historian men-
tioned above, who already had a name as an established artist (painter) and
thus had a reliable source of income, it was easy to be cavalier about mat-
ters of compensation. He recalled that when Salazar asked him how much
salary he wanted just for him to accept the invitation, he casually asked his
assistant how much. He said in jest that his assistant sold him cheaply.21
Others, however, were not as fortunate. Those who served auxiliary func-
tions, such as research assistants and part-timers, readily admitted that the
compensation package was an attraction. Luis Dery, one of the researchers,
for instance, claimed to have received from the project a salary which was
more than double his salary as an Instructor at the UP Baguio. He claimed
to have received 2,500 pesos per month from the project as a research as-
sistant, compared with 900–1000 pesos as an Instructor at UP. Without his
work on the project, he claimed, it would have been much more difficult to
accumulate savings that enabled him to pursue doctoral studies while at the
same time providing for the needs of his family. He admitted he owed much
to his participation in Tadhana.22
Another participant, Reynaldo Ileto, attested that he received an hono-
rarium (around 600 pesos) for editing a ‘badly written chapter.’ It was a sub-
stantial addition to his salary of about 1,500 pesos per month as Assistant
Professor at UP. He said he was very happy to have been paid well for that
piece of work, and he believed that “for most of those who took part in the
project, the pay was the big attraction.”23
In talking about salaries, core members, such as Tan, Quiason, and Sala-
zar, invariably took a different view from the group of minor players. If the
latter happily emphasized the substantial difference in salary between what
they receive from UP and what they received from this project, the former
tended to downplay the financial factor in the project, underscoring that the
difference between UP pay and that of Tadhana hovered ‘only’ at around
20–30 per cent. In the absence of exact figures, which they hesitated to give,
this is not easy to verify. It is very likely, however, that they were being mod-
est about it. If that claim by the UP Baguio Instructor noted above was true
that he was getting more than twice his UP salary, then those who occupied
more senior positions, such as Salazar and Tan, were probably getting pro-
portionately more. Given that a UP Assistant Professor was getting P1,500/
month, and an Associate Professor about P2,000/month, it seems unlikely
that the senior researchers were getting only P2,000 to P2,600 (following
the 20–30 per cent differential claimed by Tan et al.), while the UP Baguio
Instructor who was only a research assistant received P2,500. On the other
hand, even if what the core members claimed was accurate, the difference
could still be substantial considering they received fringe benefits such as
travels abroad to gather materials to which they were the only ones entitled
as members of the core group.
 Genesis of Tadhana project  55
The attitude of the members of the other core group can best be under-
stood in the context of widespread rumor that they received handsome
amounts of money just to join the project, a claim they all summarily re-
jected. In jest, laughing heartily, Samuel Tan said, “How I wished I got that
much!”… “If that was true, how come I was driving a car handed down to
me by my brother?”24 Zeus Salazar’s retort was more stinging. He said that
those who were spreading the rumor, as well as those who believed it, were
perhaps thinking of themselves: “they are too inferior… they would accept
it because of the money. (For) they would not be asked otherwise…”25
Still another attraction was the opportunity provided by the project for
professional or academic advancement, specifically access to valuable his-
torical documents. For a fresh graduate in history and for another who was
a PhD student, being able to gather data while having a gainful employment
was an opportunity one could hardly refuse.26
Finally, a variety of pragmatic reasons also played a part. Salazar, for
example, candidly admitted that Quiason convinced him to join the project
by saying, among other things, that participating might pave the way for re-
scinding the travel ban imposed upon him by the Martial Law regime (Sala-
zar 1989). This ban, alongside detention, Salazar claimed, was a penalty
for ‘mocking’ or criticizing Marcos’s book Today’s Revolution: Democracy
(TRD). In a separate interview, Salazar offered a different story, in which
he was arrested not for mocking Marcos’s book but as a consequence of the
widespread arrests by the military upon the implementation of Martial Law
in September 1972 (as noted in Gaerlan 1998, 255–256). In this version, he
recalled that he was incarcerated for three months and was released with the
help of a friend, Leticia Ramos Shahani, who was Gen. Fidel Ramos’s sister.
It was Ramos, one of the main implementers of Martial Law as the Philip-
pine Constabulary Chief, who worked for Salazar’s release.27 His release,
however, carried a condition that he was not to leave the country or even the
vicinity of Metro Manila. This prevented him from accepting invitations for
conferences or fellowships abroad, which irritated him considerably as he
had a standing offer of fellowship from the French government. His desire
to regain his freedom of movement proved strong enough that any opportu-
nity to restore it was enticing.
Yet another case is that of a woman historian-activist who had a child to
feed and a husband whose painful experience in jail during Martial Law
made him unable to work and who had to be taken care of. She too was
detained for involvement in activism, and her release carried the condition
that she should work for a government agency.28 For someone whose chance
of getting a better-paying teaching job anywhere was slim, a job with a
history-­writing project with a good salary proved irresistible.
In sum, the partnership between Marcos and the scholars was made pos-
sible and was sustained by mutual needs—financial, political, intellectual,
and even psychological. Both sides needed each other. The convergence of
their needs was nurtured by the rising wave of anti-colonial nationalism
56  Genesis of Tadhana project
that pervaded the atmosphere in the 1960s and 1970s. To understand this
partnership, its products, and its implications more deeply, we shall look
into various aspects of the project as it unfolded.

Dynamics
After the outline has been completed and approved, the members of the core
group divided the tasks. For practical reasons, the group initially focused
their effort on Vol. II, which consists of five books covering the periods from
1565 to 1896. They figured out that they had as yet insufficient resources to
tackle Vol. 1 (Geologic times up to the early 1500s), also with five books,
whereas they felt they had enough for Vol. II. So, Salazar was assigned to
Part I (Encounter), encompassing the period 1565–1663. Part II (Reaction),
covering the period 1663–1765, was given to Hidalgo, whose early departure
from the group in 1976 paved the way for the entry of Paras-Perez. Part III
(Transition), which spans the period 1766–1815, was assigned to Hufana.
Part IV (Transformation) was allotted to Quiason, while Part V (1872–1896)
was the responsibility of Tan.
Each of the core members was assisted by two or three research
­assistants—usually graduate students—whose tasks included scouring for
books and documents in the archives as well as, in certain instances, writing
manuscripts. There were also those who worked on a part-time, per project
basis. They were hired on the basis of their specific expertise. It was on this
account that the likes of Ben Austria, who did a PhD in Geology at Har-
vard, and Reynaldo Ileto, who obtained a PhD in History at Cornell, were
invited. The composition of the group was fluid at most times, wherein some
people were hired, stayed for only a few months, and then disappeared to be
replaced by new hirees.
From a formal administrative viewpoint, the project was under the ju-
risdiction of the National Library, then under the directorship of Serafin
Quiason. It was classified as a ‘Special Research Project.’ The group was
assigned the top floor, the 5th floor, for their workplace. There, almost every
working day for several years starting in 1974 they worked and gave shape
to the project. Every morning, there was a shuttle service that ferried the
participants from their abodes at UP-Diliman and elsewhere to the heart
of Manila, where the National Library was (and still is) located. At the end
of the day, and sometimes, even the early hours of the morning, when they
were having discussions with Marcos, the same shuttle service brought them
back to their residences.29
The importance Marcos attached to the project may be clearly seen in the
quality and quantity of resources he made available to the researchers. In-
formants described with nostalgia the working environment as ‘ideal.’ The
group was provided with efficient clerical and technical staff, allowing them
to concentrate on their scholarly pursuits. All the materials in the National
Library were made available to them, and staff were specifically tasked with
 Genesis of Tadhana project  57
bringing in whatever the group needed from the collection. They also did
not have to do typing, one thing very much appreciated by the participants.
Once a handwritten manuscript was completed, they just gave it to the typ-
ists, and by the following morning or even the afternoon of the same day,
it was on the desk, ready for editing. Even when required materials were
found only in other libraries or institutions, and thus access to them was not
normally easy, participants said it took only one call from the Malacañang
to facilitate the release and delivery of such materials to the workplace.30
One participant recalled that there had been nothing else like that in his
experience as a scholar in the Philippines. He added that he had had a taste
of such an ideal working environment only when he was invited as Visiting
Researcher at the Australian National University way back in the 1980s.31
Reinforcing the ‘ideal’ working environment was the almost unlimited
financial support for expeditions to gather primary sources in relevant ar-
chives overseas. Such conditions allowed the project to amass an impressive
collection of documents, pictures, and other historical materials hitherto
unavailable in the Philippines. Luis Dery, one of the researchers, describes
the collection in the following terms:

How impressive the Tadhana collections were!! Rare microfilms of

William Howard Taft Papers, Alexander Robertson Papers! … It was
really well-funded! 3–4 times they (members of the core group) went
abroad…to gather materials. We had complete photocopies of disser-
tations about the Philippines that were not available in local libraries…
everything was latest… The documentation was massive…however, be-
cause they did not install an air-conditioning system in the National
Library, those microfilms ‘melted’ and were rendered useless! What a
waste! It cost millions! Just imagine one set of William Howard Taft
Papers, how many hundreds of reels were that? There were probably
600 reels…32

Samuel Tan attested that Marcos did not seem to entertain second thoughts
in approving their proposal to visit archives and libraries in Europe and the
United States to collect relevant materials. The decision quickly came down
only after a few days.33 Marcos’s full and generous support was apparent
not only in quick approval of the proposal but also in that no limit was set
on the amount of money that the group could spend in buying these mate-
rials. As the same core member happily recounted, so long as the materials
were deemed useful, there was no question about the cost.34 Considering
Marcos’s well-known tendency to be stingy, the generous provisions he al-
lowed the scholars were a testament to the importance he attached to the
project. Perhaps, such amenities for historical research remain unequalled
in the history of Philippine historical scholarship up to the present. It is no
wonder that Tan described the resources as the “(t)he most rewarding part
of the project.”35
58  Genesis of Tadhana project
It is not easy to determine how much of the contents of Tadhana could
be attributed to Marcos. That Juan Tuvera, the Executive Secretary and
later Presidential Assistant, did the editing (some say ‘just’ style editing) for
Marcos further complicates the issue of attribution. Tuvera was the overall
Project Director. He was the only one trusted to edit, as he had a very in-
timate knowledge of Marcos’s writing style, among other things. Through
his consummate hand passed all the manuscripts, before they were given to
Marcos for final scrutiny before publication. If asked, the core members—
Tan, Salazar and Quiason—unanimously asserted that Marcos did not have
anything to do with the substantive content of the project. It was only on
two occasions, Salazar claimed, that Marcos intervened, and such interven-
tion involved alteration or inclusion of very minor details. He accommo-
dated Marcos’s request, Salazar recalled, just to humor Marcos and his own
self (1989, 199). Another core member concurred with Salazar’s view. In his
words: “Marcos did not influence Tadhana, ideologically or theoretically.
The only participation he had was when he read the manuscripts and  …
had marginal notes… and questions asked. But more on factual parts of
history.” Boldly, he claimed that “(i)n fact it was the other way around…
the Tadhana (was) the one that shaped Marcos views of history… and later
on his perception of future itself.”36 Such a confident declaration seems not
totally unwarranted. The influence of Tadhana framework is manifest, for
example, in later books attributed to Marcos, such as the Introduction to
the Politics of Transition (1978b). Compared with the framework of history
laid out by Marcos in his diary entry for 17 February 1973, before Tadhana
project took shape, the difference was stark. The Introduction to the Politics
of Transition (1978b) adopted Tadhana’s deep emphasis on the pre-colonial
periods and used them as the anchor and repository of the country’s authen-
tic roots and identities. On the other hand, the diary entry noted above still
follows the traditional periodization, where colonial periods define the key
features of the Philippine history.
Notwithstanding the strong protestations of the core members of the
group that Marcos did not substantively intervene in the project, there
are indications to the contrary. Fe Mangahas was assigned to write the
chapter called “Radical Alternatives,” which covers Marcos’s years from
1966–1972. She recalled that she was told to revise the manuscript, the con-
tents of which apparently did not sit well with Marcos’s interest. Somebody
from Macalanang came one day, and Quiason asked her to join them in a
closed-door meeting. During the meeting, she was told by the emissary from
Malacañang that the approach she had employed was problematic. Being
the author, Marcos’s voice should be the one heard, not reduced to just one
among several voices, as she had written the chapter. Quiason, she recalled,
asked her if she was willing to revise it. She responded, “Sir, if you can get
somebody to re-write it, please just have it re-written.” The impasse was
broken when Quiason said to the man from Malacañang not to worry, that
he would fix the problem.37
 Genesis of Tadhana project  59
There are a number of things worth noting in this episode. First, that
despite the maximum level of freedom Marcos allowed the scholars to do as
they pleased, when it came to certain historical questions or a period that
was utmost in his political design, he would really insist on having his way.
Second, a manipulator like Marcos did not need to manipulate the whole
stretch of history or significant parts of it. Giving carte blanches to those
working on earlier centuries allowed the scholars to preserve their sense of
independence. Third, that the research assistant mentioned above could say
no, at the risk of losing her job, which was very dear to her considering that
she was the breadwinner, bespoke an array of possibilities, but these cer-
tainly included her sense of responsibility to uphold measures of historical
methodology and professional decorum. One can argue that by doing so she
in a sense “spoke truth to power.” Fourth, that Quiason did not pressure
her, despite his avowed duty as the Deputy Director of the Project, to up-
hold or represent Marcos’s interest could also mean a lot of things, but one
possibility was that, being a scholar himself, he shared with her an under-
standing of the scholarly context that served as pretext for her defiance, and
he did not dare cross the line of such an understanding.
One of the team’s core members, who on several occasions strongly af-
firmed that Marcos did not have anything to do with the content of Tadhana,
did, in fact, admit at one point that he explicitly showed a desire to influence
its shape. Salazar claimed that they were given instruction to emphasize
the negative images of the Catholic Church: this instruction was reversed
when there was a thaw in the icy relationship between Marcos and the then
Cardinal Sin.38
The overall progress of Tadhana project turned out to be slow. By 1980,
only four volumes had been published. These were, Vol. 1, Part I (Archipe-
lagic Genesis, 1980) and Vol. 2, Part I (Encounter, 1976); Vol. 2, Part II (Re-
action, 1978); and Vol. 2, Part III (Transition, 1979). Cruz claimed that much
progress had already been accomplished on the remaining volumes (Vol. 3
and 4, consisting of nine books), and the manuscripts had been submitted
to Tuvera for editing (Cruz 1989, 201). But it was Tuvera and Marcos, as the
Deputy Director of the project confirmed, who were the bottlenecks.39
Tuvera’s core duties as Executive Secretary or Presidential Assistant were
simply too much: he hardly had time to devote to editing Tadhana manu-
scripts. Asked why Marcos did not employ somebody to help Tuvera, Quia-
son said that Tuvera was the only one trusted by Marcos. 40 Marcos’s illness
compounded the problem. That no more than five of the originally planned
volumes saw print, even though the other volumes had already been drafted,
suggests that Marcos would not allow publication of the remaining without
sufficient scrutiny by Tuvera and himself.
Realizing the improbability of completing the 19 volumes, Marcos asked
the group to focus on a two-volume abridgement.41 The first abridged vol-
ume covered the earliest period up to 1896. The other one spanned the period
from 1897 to the Marcos years in the early 1980s. The team set aside their
60  Genesis of Tadhana project
work on the still-unfinished volumes and concentrated on the abridgement.
Samuel Tan recalled that they merely summarized the contents of published
parts as well as the unpublished drafts to come up with the abridged ver-
sion.42 The first volume was published in 1982, and the other one was almost
ready for publication when the EDSA uprisings in 1986 swept the project
away, along with the Marcos regime. The second volume never saw print,
and the subsequent disappearance of the manuscript was a source of deep
bewilderment and amusement among those who were involved in Tadhana
project. Piecemeal and sometimes contradictory accounts of the wherea-
bouts of the manuscript in the last days of the Marcos regime circulated.
According to Samuel Tan, the page proofs were given to Tuvera for Mar-
cos’s final approval. In turn, Tuvera turned them over to the National Media
Production Center (NMPC), the printing arm of the government.43 For his
part, Serafin Quiason said that the manuscript was in the office of Tuvera
in Malacañang, which was ransacked by anti-Marcos elements in the dying
days of the Marcos regime.44 Fe Mangahas, on the other hand, claimed that
she went to the NMPC office after the EDSA events and asked the clerical
staff about the whereabouts of the page or galley proof of the manuscript,
but the staff said they had no idea.45 Recently, I heard from one of the for-
mer members of Tadhana team that a copy of the second abridged volume
has been kept by the Marcoses. It will be interesting to find out when it will
be made accessible to the public and what exactly its contents are.
Questions arise as to the original agreement regarding the disclosure of
the role of the scholars. According to a member of the core group, there
was, in fact, an intention to acknowledge and publicize the names of the
scholars, but this was to be done in the last volume completing the pro-
ject. Since the events at EDSA took over and swept the still-unfinished
project away, there was simply no opportunity to do so.46 It was curious,
however, why they had to wait until the project was completed. This ex-
planation leaves one wondering if there was indeed such an intention. The
same informant clarified that because the composition of the group was
fluid, crediting the scholars before the project was finished might cause
inaccuracy in acknowledging all the individual contributions. Why that
should be the case was unclear, considering that the volumes appeared
one after another, and the group knew very well who and to what extent
each participant had contributed to the work on each volume. If there was
indeed a plan to reveal the identity of the researchers, it would surely have
been better to do so as each volume appeared since the problem of inac-
curacy would loom much larger if they waited for the completion of the
entire project. Then they would face the difficulty of accurately keeping
track of the contributions of various participants within the span of ten
years or more.
Another intriguing question is why Marcos installed himself as the au-
thor while he could have opted to serve as the editor or just a patron. This
was a puzzle even to scholar-participants themselves. If Marcos’s primary
 Genesis of Tadhana project  61
intention was to provide a ‘scholarly’ justification for his hold on power, the
project would have been more credible and effective had he stayed on the
sidelines and let the scholars carry their by-lines. To recall, couched in
the offer extended to Agoncillo and de la Costa was Marcos’s apparent in-
tent to act as a mere patron or sponsor of the project. What caused the shift
in his thinking can only be surmised.
Perhaps, in the case of the offer to Agoncillo and de la Costa, Marcos
might have inferred that given their stature the chance that they would write
for him (Marcos) as the declared author was minimal, whereas asking them
to lead a commission as editor-in-chief stood some chance. It seemed that
he really wished the project to prosper, so to avoid the danger of nipping the
project in the bud, he opted to take the safer route.
It is also possible that what he considered as a ‘success’ in his early foray
into ‘writing’ thoroughly gratified him and consequently emboldened him
to do more daring things, such as ‘authoring’ a 21-volume Philippine his-
tory. Today’s Revolution: Democracy (TRD) was the first major book-length
work that was supposed to have been authored by Marcos, and it appeared
in September 1971.47 Entries in his diaries shortly thereafter showed him
overjoyed with the alleged ‘ripples’ ‘his book’ had made. He stated, in an
entry for 11 September 1971, that there were many people, even those not
given to reading books, who “insist(ed) on having my book and discussing
it,” and he relished that “(e)verybody (was) talking about the book.” Other
books followed the TRD, such as Notes on the New Society of the Philip-
pines (1973a), Introduction to Politics of Transition (1978), and Towards a Fil-
ipino Ideology (1979). These books were written for Marcos by a stable of
intellectuals or in-house ideologues or propagandists, as many are wont to
call them (Reyes 2018). Against the backdrop of the wondrous things that
Marcos had wanted the people to believe he was—the most bemedaled war
hero, a bar exam top-notcher, author of various books, savior of the nation,
the best president the country ever had—authoring a 21-volume Philippine
history was much in the same vein. More than anything else, perhaps it was
his enormous capacity for self-deception (de Quiros 1997, 331), or what Rem-
pel (1993) calls Marcos’s ‘delusional’ tendencies, that enticed him to install
himself as the author of Tadhana and believed that people would take him
seriously for it.
At any rate, Tadhana, for the most part, was a scholarly undertaking.
Whatever political intent Marcos had in mind could not negate its scholarly
characteristics, which was exactly what made him politically interested in the
project in the first place. His opting for a partnership with professional his-
torians, with impressive credentials at that, points to his desire to produce a
scholarly history, presumably a history that carries authority.48 One can sur-
mise that this authority emanates from at least the appearance or public per-
ception of objectivity or truth. Marcos could have easily resorted to military
historians, like Uldarico Baclagon, who Alfred McCoy (1999) considered as
Malacañang’s resident military historian. But Marcos did not. He may have
62  Genesis of Tadhana project
thought that their work would likely not appear credible or authoritative for
they did not have the quality and imprimatur of scholars with PhDs. Though
not without limitations, these academic credentials enjoy esteem in society.
They signify the affirmation of our society’s capacity to know.
Questions arise then, what need did Marcos have for a scholarly history?
From what source did such a need arise? Who or what created the source,
to begin with? As the most powerful person in the Philippines at that time,
it is easy to suppose that he could well afford to ignore any kind of history,
let alone academic or scholarly history, to justify or keep himself in power.
Why did he bother at all? Following the anonymized informant noted ear-
lier, Marcos wanted to use Tadhana as a medium to explain himself and to
convince the future generations of Filipinos and other people that what he
did, such as martial law, reforms, and New Society, were right or necessary.
It appears that in Marcos’s mind, a history that could serve the purpose was
a scholarly history, one that in his view could withstand time and critical
scrutiny. And this kind of history could be written only by an army of bril-
liant scholars. What Marcos’s ‘case’ was and how Tadhana fit into his grand
scheme will be discussed in the next chapter.
Also possible is Marcos’s deeply felt need to persuade, assuage, or comfort
himself, more than anyone else. I speculate that he needed reassurance that
what he was doing or planning to do was the ‘right’ thing, in the most mor-
ally comforting way. Used as we are to view dictators like him as downright
greedy, immoral, or evil, it is easy to forget that, like everyone else, they feel
governed by moral conscience, as the fascinating book The Nazi Conscience
by Claudia Koonz (2003) shows. The idea that even Nazis had consciences
could strike many as repulsive, but, as Koonz’s study show, it was the case.
This conscience requires constant appeasement. When we simply take dicta-
tors’ moral justifications as a ruse to convince or brainwash other people, we
readily ignore the possibility that more than others, it may be their own selves
that they are trying to convince. For a sense of well-being, dictators, like other
people, need to think and feel good about themselves. They need to feel that
they are right, not just in a social, cultural, or political sense but, more im-
portantly, in morally transcendental terms. Entries in his diary suggest that
Marcos was overly anxious about the ultimate judgment of ‘History.’ History
functioned for him like a secular god, dispensing reward or punishment for a
life lived well or ill. Fastidious as he had shown himself to be in so many areas,
it is not surprising that he would seek no one but the best available scholars to
help him develop the strongest arguments not just to win his case before the
judgment of History but also for his own sense of moral redemption.
If that was indeed the case, so be it. But what does it mean that Marcos
felt compelled to argue and win his case? Why was there a ‘case,’ in the first
place? And why did he invoke history, of all knowledge? The next chapter
will clarify the historiographic and political contexts that render intelligible
the framework and contents of Tadhana and its place in Marcos’s political
design. It will also help us address these questions.
 Genesis of Tadhana project  63
Notes
1 Agoncillo recalled the first attempt, which was in 1968: “She (Imelda) told me
that perhaps it was a good idea for me to write the history of the Philippines,
from the Republic, July 4th 1946 when we became independent, to Marcos.”
Then Agoncillo replied, “…mahirap ito, Mam… (it’s risky, Ma’m) if I were to
write, people will not believe me…because people will suspect that you paid
me, and it will boomerang on you…And the President realized it was correct”
(Agoncillo (1976) in Ocampo (1995, 150–151)). Regarding the second attempt,
in 1971, Agoncillo quoted Imelda as saying that the Marcos Foundation has
invested ten million, and “we don’t know how to spend the interests. And so,
perhaps a multi-volume history of the Philippines could be financed out of the
profits and we thought of you as the Editor-in-Chief. You can get the men you
want and maybe there is money in this.” In his attempt to get away, Agoncillo
said that he was teaching at UP and was handling courses that no other pro-
fessor could teach. Then, he said, Imelda realized that he didn’t like the job,
and so, she immediately changed the topic (Agoncillo 1976 in Ocampo (1995,
149–150)).
2 The Marcos diaries, at least the version I was allowed to see, covered the pe-
riod from 1968 to 1984. They were deposited in the Presidential Commission
on Good Government (PCGG) library in Quezon City. Typewritten (or using
an early version of word processing), it has no systematic pagination and no
date of publication. According to Rempel (1993), the extant copies of Marcos’s
diaries are heavily sanitized. That the entries in the last three years (1981–1984)
were very sparing gives the impression that many entries or several pages were
taken off.
3 Communication via email with Alfredo Roces, 19 November 2001.
4 Communication via email with Alfredo Roces 19 November 2001.
5 Interview with Serafin Quiason, 19 April 2004, Manila.
6 According to Romeo Cruz, he was asked by Quiason to join the project in
­1973–1974, but he had to beg off because he became the dean of a branch of the
UP at Clark airbase in Pampanga. He could have been a member of the core
group had he opted to join then. He eventually joined the project in 1980 (Cruz
1989).
7 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
8 Interview with Zeus Salazar, 19 January 2004, Quezon City.
9 Interview with Zeus Salazar, 19 January 2004, Quezon City.
10 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
11 It is noteworthy that some of those who worked for FH also worked for Tadhana
(e.g. Paras-Perez, Tan and Dery). There is therefore an overlap in the composition
of the teams that worked on the two projects (one of the examiners of the thesis
upon which this book is based should be acknowledged for pointing this out).
I should clarify that those who made considerable difference in the designs of the
two projects belonged to two significantly different groups, in generational and in
historiographic terms. Tan and Salazar defined the shape of Tadhana, and they
had a very different vision of Philippine history, as will be spelled out in Chapter 3.
Tan may have been a contributor to FH, thus, constituting one of the overlaps,
but his historiographic agenda—what matters to the analysis here—hardly fig-
ures in the overall scheme of FH. Paras-Perez was an Associate Editor in FH and
thus contributed significantly to the design of FH, but having joined Tadhana at
a later stage, he did not have as much impact on the original, overall design of
Tadhana. Dery served as contributor to FH and research assistant in Tadhana,
rather minor roles that afforded him a fairly limited role in the overall design
of the projects. In short, notwithstanding the overlap in the composition of the
64  Genesis of Tadhana project
members, such overlap hardly mattered in defining the distinguishing character-
istics of the two projects or in smoothing out the differences between them.
12 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
13 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004 and 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
14 Interview with Rowena Boquiren, 10 March 2004, Manila.
15 Interview with Fe Mangahas, 23 April 2004, Manila.
16 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
17 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 February 2005, Makati City.
18 Interview with Zues Salazar, 30 January 2004, Quezon City.
19 Interview with Samuel Tan, 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
20 Interview with Rod Paras-Perez, 4 November 2004, Mandaluyong City.
21 Interview with Rod Paras-Perez, 4 November 2004, Mandaluyong City.
22 Interview with Luis Dery, 21 January 2004, Manila.
23 Communication via email with Reynaldo Ileto, 9 March 2004.
24 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
25 Interview with Zeus Salazar, 30 January 2004, Quezon City.
26 Interviews with Rowena Boquiren and Luis Dery on 10 March 2004 and 21
­January 2004, respectively, both in Manila.
27 Tatad’s version, as cited in de Quiros’s Dead Aim (1997, 332), is quite different.
According to this version, friends of Salazar approached Tatad, and he briefly
discussed with Marcos the circumstances surrounding Salazar’s arrest and de-
tention. Upon being informed of the rather amusing grounds for Salazar’s ar-
rest, Marcos ‘magnanimously’ ordered his release.
28 Interview with Fe Mangahas, 23 April 2004, Manila.
29 Interviews with various participants of the project.
30 Interviews with various participants of the project.
31 Interview with Zeus Salazar, 30 January 2004, Quezon City.
32 Interview with Luis Dery, 21 January 2004, Manila.
33 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
34 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
35 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
36 Interview with Samuel Tan, 20 September 2004, Quezon City.
37 Interview with Fe Mangahas, 23 April 2004, Manila.
38 Interview with Zeus Salazar, 7 March 2004, Quezon City.
39 Interview with Serafin Quiason, 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
40 Interview with Serafin Quiason, 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
41 Interview with Serafin Quiason, 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
42 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
43 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
44 Interview with Serafin Quiason, 19 April 2004, Quezon City.
45 Interview with Fe Mangahas, 23 April 2004, Manila.
46 Interview with Samuel Tan, 12 March 2004, Quezon City.
47 This book was written for Marcos by Adrian Cristobal, one of the brilliant intel-
lectuals who worked intimately with/for Marcos. Interview with an anonymized
informant, 23 February 2005, Makati City.
48 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 February 2005, Makati City.

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———. 1960. Malolos: The Crisis of the Republic. Quezon City: University of the
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———. 1982. “A Sense of National History.” Historical Bulletin 26 (1–4): 1–15.
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3 Tadhana in political and
historiographic contexts

In Philippine historiography, a number of areas have traditionally served

as the focal points of contestation. They are the nodal points through
which some of the most important defining characteristics of historical
scholarship in the country flowed and took shape. As a project wanting to
be recognized as important and with authority, Tadhana could not but lo-
cate itself at the cutting edge of historiographic development. At the same
time, it had to accommodate and engage with enduring traditions in his-
torical scholarship.
I shall discuss in this chapter only aspects that are vital both to the histo-
riographic agenda of the scholars who were prime movers of the Tadhana
project and to Marcos’s political interests. First is the pre-historic and
pre-colonial origins of peoples and cultures of the Philippines. This issue
often relates to the supposed autonomy and strength of local culture vis-à-
vis foreign elements in the process of historical change as well as national
identity. The second deals with perspective and the concomitant issues re-
lated to periodization. And finally, I will discuss the disputed character of
Philippine nationalisms that manifests in different, though related questions
pertaining to the 1896 Revolution. The aims of the whole exercise are to
demonstrate the historiographic terrain within and beyond which Tadhana
as a scholarly project may best be understood, to lay bare how the scholars
have tried to secure a niche for the project and for themselves, and to ex-
plain in what ways the contents and overall framework of the project served
­Marcos’s political interests.

Pre-historic and pre-colonial origins

As planned, Tadhana was remarkable for the depth and breadth of its scope
and for the conceptual coherence through which it wanted to weave the en-
tire stretch of the Philippine history. The vision that underpinned this pro-
ject remains unparalleled for aiming to cover the widest span of time and
for trying to provide a more detailed treatment of each period. The project
was particularly noteworthy in its attempt to deal with the pre-Hispanic
periods (pre-1500s), which up to now remain underdeveloped in Philippine
68  Political and historiographic contexts
historiography. Hampered by the severe scarcity of extant pre-Hispanic
written sources,1 as well as by the mindset that nurtures the persistent be-
lief that Philippine history began only with the arrival of the Spaniards,
the little interest in pre-Hispanic periods can be gleaned from general sur-
veys of Philippine history published up to the 1980s. As shown in Table 3.1,
standard surveys of Philippine history allotted no more than a few pages, if
any, to this period. They covered only a short stretch of a hundred years, or
even less, before the coming of the Spaniards. It is noteworthy, thus, that
Tadhana devotes over a quarter, or five of the projected 19 books, to these
periods, covering hundreds of thousands of years before Spain came. The
ten-volume Filipino Heritage (1978), the Australian-funded project discussed
in Chapter 2, is equally noteworthy for having three of its volumes devoted
to pre-Hispanic periods and thus may be said to give a proportionately com-
parable emphasis to this period.
The first book of Tadhana, entitled Archipelagic Genesis, was the only
one of Vol. 1’s planned five books that saw actual publication. It covers the

Table 3.1  Coverage of the Pre-Spanish Period in Some Philippine History

Textbooks

Title and Author Year of Number of Total Number of

Publication Chapters/Pages/ Chapters/Pages/
Volume. for Pre- Volumes
Hispanic Period

Zafra, Readings 1947 & 1949 0 300 pages

in Philippine (Mimeograph)
History
Zafra, Philippine 1967 Less than a 336 pages
History Through chapter (6 pages)
Selected Sources
Zaide, Philippine 1949, 1953 5 chapters 46 chapters
Political and (64 pages) (812 pages)
Cultural History,
2 vols.
Alip, Political 1949, 1952 3 chapters 36 chapters
and Cultural (65 pages) (713 pages)
History of the
Philippines, 2
vols.
Benitez, History of 1954 Less than a 24 chapters
the Philippines: chapter (533 pages)
Economic, (less than 6
Social, Cultural, pages, mainly
Political geographical
and climatic)
Roces, ed., The 1978 3 volumes 10 volumes
Filipino Heritage

Sources: Data culled from various textbooks listed above.

 Political and historiographic contexts  69
period from the Big Bang to ca.  250,000 BC. It deals with cosmological
and geological processes that made possible the formation of the universe
and the archipelago which, in due time, would be called the Philippines.
The planned second book, provocatively entitled Adam in the Philippines,
seeks to cover the period of 250,000 BC to 9,000 BC, and it focuses on
homonization—­pertaining to the evolutionary process of becoming human
or homo ­sapiens—as it played out in Philippine territory. Not long before
the Tadhana project took off, artefacts were unearthed in Cagayan Valley,
in the northeastern part of the country, suggesting the existence of the yet-
to-be-found remains of a homo erectus. Archaeologists thought it may be
similar to the famous Java Man. For some reason, Marcos readily shared
their enthusiasm. In an entry in his diary dated 24 April 1971, he was effu-
sive, claiming that “(t)he discoveries proved the existence of man with a civ-
ilization long before the western world could boast of any culture” (Marcos
n.d.). Zeus Salazar, who was one of those responsible for conceptualizing
this portion of the project, admitted that these two earliest periods were
no doubt too remote to have a direct impact on the formation of a historic
community which later would serve as the foundation of the Filipino nation
(Salazar 1974, 189). The first volume was important nonetheless, in Sala-
zar’s view, to set the physical stage wherein the Philippine drama would
unfold later on. In Marcos’s formulation, the interpretation was extended
to suggest that the elemental geologic, geographic, and climatologic pro-
cesses had conspired to produce a unique environment that would nurture
the formation of a distinctly Filipino national identity (Marcos 1980, 5). In
other words, Filipino identity was thought of not just as an outcome of his-
torical imaginings; it was anchored on the rocks and land, and this lent it a
resilience that the appearance of primordiality can provide. Such a view of
the very deep roots of Filipino identity was a 180° turn away from previous
articulations attributed to Marcos. Reynaldo Ileto notes, for instance, that
Today’s Revolution: Democracy (TRD), one of the pre-Tadhana works that
appeared under Marcos’s name, indicates Marcos’s belief that “Filipino
identity would be found, not in the recovery of an illusory precolonial past,
but in the people’s struggle for liberation” (Ileto 1998a, 178). I shall return to
this point later to highlight how Tadhana’s re-framing and reinterpretation
of Philippine history appeared to have influenced Marcos.
The second book of Vol. 1 carries a subtle message that, as participants
in the universal evolutionary process, the ancestors of the present-day Fil-
ipinos share with the rest of humanity commonalities that should form the
basis for racial equality (Salazar 1989). Against the backdrop of the long-
drawn-out struggle against an inferiority complex that many Filipinos be-
lieved to have been created by colonialism, it is hard not to detect the subtle
nationalist intent immanent in these formulations. Given, likewise, that a
significant part of what had been paraded as glorious Philippine pre-history
(or pre-Hispanic history) proved to be no more than romanticized myths
and even hoaxes, one can appreciate the level of sophistication aspired for
70  Political and historiographic contexts
in this attempt to use available scholarly resources to ground the promotion
of national pride and unity on a firmer foundation. The succeeding three
books were supposed to pursue this effort to a fruitful end. But before we
proceed to Books 3 to 5, let me clarify the historiographic context within
which the first five books tried to locate themselves.
One major and long-standing problematic in Philippine pre-Hispanic
scholarship revolved around the favorable portrayal of Filipinos vis-à-vis
their ‘others.’ These include the neighboring Asian countries and their
Western colonizers (the Spaniards and the Americans). Colonized by two
­Western powers, with a culture considered perhaps ‘the most western’ in
Asia, and with no ancient cities to show off, not a few Filipinos felt a sense
of inferiority or insecurity (Ileto 1998a). Marcos himself bewails in Today’s
Revolution: Democracy (1971, 91) the absence of ancient cities which could
‘remind the intruder of his insolence.’ William Henry Scott shares the view
that there seemed to be a ‘deep yearning’ for ideas that could fill a void in
their psyche, which was battered by colonial experience (1968, 130). Efforts
thus focused on convincing Filipinos that they had a civilization, a glorious
past prior to the coming of the Spaniards, and that they were not inferior to
their ‘others,’ despite the notable absence of ancient urban centers like An-
gkor, Srivijaya and Pagan. Consequently, generations of Filipinos well into
the 1990s, consumed a set of textbook information about Philippine pre-­
Hispanic history that was meant to massage the sense of their national self-
worth. First is H. Otley Beyer’s Wave Migration Theory, which explains the
peopling of the Philippines, the diversity of ethnic groups therein, and the
early cultural development allegedly brought by various ‘migrant’ groups—
Negritos, Malays, Indonesians—long before the Spaniards came (Jocano
1965; Zamora 1967). Second is the purported ‘membership’ of the Philip-
pines in the Srivijaya and Majapahit empires to show that the ­Philippines
was not a political and cultural blank slate before Spain came (Hassel 1953).
Third, the existence of the supposedly pre-Hispanic documents, the Codes
of Kalantiao and Maragtas, ostensibly prove the existence of written laws
before the Spaniards came (cf. Scott 1968). As sardonically observed by
W.H. Scott, “The popular texts present a picture of law codes, membership
in Asian empires, and political confederations projected against a back-
ground of 250,000 years of migrating waves of Filipino progenitors, almost
complete with points of departure, sailing dates and baggage” (Scott 1968,
139). As more and more researches since the 1950s and 1960s seriously ques-
tioned the bases for these suppositions, there arose a need for a new anchor
to which pride in pre-Hispanic past could be tied. While several history
textbook-writers tend to ignore advances in research, in such a way that
textbooks as late as the 2000s still clung to the old, discredited ideas,2 oth-
ers rose to the occasion and suggested ways to at least alleviate the prob-
lem. W.H. Scott, for one, highlighted the existence of a wealth of evidences
that were ignored. These evidences remind readers that despite the scarcity
of sources produced by early Filipinos, there are ‘cracks in the parchment
 Political and historiographic contexts  71
curtains,’ in Scott’s (1978) terms, which allow a glimpse of the lives of the na-
tives. Left with not much other than the writings of early missionaries who
tended to be biased, Scott claimed that, by reading intuitively between the
lines of these Spanish documents, one can gather some bits of information
that can help reconstruct at least the broad outlines or trends about the early
history of the natives (Scott 1978, 174–175). Still another approach was to
shift the focus away from the very distant past, towards the more recent and
more ‘glorious revolution of 1896’ which served as a wellspring of nationalist
pride (Ileto 1998a, 1998b).
While these efforts were no doubt helpful in their own specific ways,
the centrality of the colonial period or Euro-centric framing of these ap-
proaches remained to pose problems. Tadhana was consciously designed to
be the most comprehensive and trenchant solution to these problems. It of-
fered a bold and creative application of advanced researches done abroad
on the Austronesians by interrogating and discarding the taken-for-granted
adoption of the urban-centered setting as the measuring rod in comparative
analysis of cultural development. Whereas previously, historians had relied
heavily on Beyer’s wave migration theory and its variants to explain the cul-
tural development and peopling of the early Philippines, the scheme adopted
by Tadhana in Book 3 (Austronesian in the Philippines) interestingly reversed
the positioning and put the Philippines in the enviable position of a possi-
ble intermediate staging point for the ‘epic peopling’ of the Austronesian
world, covering areas as far as Hawaii, New Zealand, Madagascar, and of
course the Indo-Malayan realm (Marcos 1976b, 6–7). I should note that this
was not a mindless, procrustean distortion of known facts to fit into a na-
tionalist mold, which has been quite common in nationalist writing almost
everywhere. Rather, it was an application of research done mainly in Europe
(where Salazar studied) which had not yet been applied during that time to
the case of the Philippines (Salazar 1974, 193–96). This resulted in a refreshing
effort to demonstrate the affinity and equality of the early Filipinos with the
rest of the Austronesians, and, more specifically, the Malayo-­Polynesians. At
the same time, it underscores the primacy of internal factors—the internal
dynamics—in the development of culture within the area.
The theme of ‘universalization,’ which assumes that peoples in different
parts of the world are subject to a more or less common set of global his-
torical forces, runs through the heart of the first two books. On the other
hand, Books 3 to 5 are more concerned with the ‘particularization’ process
as a logical outgrowth of man’s interaction with the varied natural envi-
ronment. Thus, Book 3 identifies the Austronesians as an entity distinctive
from the other groups, such as Indo-Europeans, Hamito-Semites, and Sino-­
Tibetans, while Book 4 (Southeast Asia: The World Between) intends to nar-
row further the particularization process by showing the gradual formation
of the ‘Indonesian world’ as supposedly distinct from that of Austronesian
kin, the ‘Oceanic world’ (Micronesians, Melanesians, and Polynesians),
and even more so from that of non-kin, such as Indians and the Chinese.
72  Political and historiographic contexts
Finally, in Book 5, the Philippine Forms gradually took shape roughly from
AD 200 to AD 1565 as various differentiating factors came into play, including
the intensification of inter-island (both intra-Philippines and intra-regional)
trade and the centrifugal pull of the Sinic and Indic civilizations on parts of
the Southeast Asian world that left the Philippines on a trajectory different
from that of the rest of the region (Marcos 1976b, 6–12). It was during this pe-
riod, so Tadhana suggests, that the ‘proto-Filipino cultural identity’ began to
crystallize, and by the end of this period, “the Philippines was on the verge of
transforming herself from an ‘ethnographic’ entity into a ‘historic’ polity…”
(Marcos 1976b, 12). Implied in this formulation is the assertion of the pri-
macy of internal factors and the rejection of the deeply entrenched views that
cultural development in the early Philippines was brought about by foreign
traders or waves of migrants. As a side note, this echoed or paralleled the
efforts of scholars such as Jacob Cornelis van Leur, John Smail, and Harry
Benda, who dealt primarily with the case of Indonesia.
Likewise, this period coincides with the emergence of ‘ethnic states,’
which, in Salazar’s view, constituted one stream in the parallel development
of comparable socio-cultural forces operative in different parts of South-
east Asia (Salazar 1974, 189–90). Such a masterstroke in effect puts the pre-­
Hispanic barangays—communities of roughly a hundred or more—in the
same league as the famed ancient states, or ethnic states, as Salazar pre-
fers to call them, such as Srivijaya and Angkor. The stark difference in the
levels of their development and what such difference may signify had been
de-emphasized as inconsequential. As the Tadhana framework asserts,
comparative evaluation showing the superiority of Angkor and others and
the backwardness of the barangays is based on a dubious yardstick that de-
rives from a flawed assumption. The difference, so the Tadhana framework
asserts, owes much to the variations in the outcome of the interplay among
commercial, environmental, and socio-cultural factors unique to each local-
ity as it interacted with the broader regional forces (Marcos 1976b, ­10–11).
As a process of state-formation, which seems to be of major importance to
the designers of Tadhana, the various ethnic states were a parallel response
to a more or less common set of factors. There is, by implication, no rea-
son why Filipinos should view the abilities of their ancestors, and implicitly
themselves, as inferior to those of other Southeast Asians. In other words,
while the absence of Angkor- or Borobudur-like monumental structures
in the early Philippines pained many Filipino nationalist intellectuals, the
framework adopted by Tadhana rejected the basis of these concerns.
Another contribution of Tadhana’s treatment of the pre-Hispanic period
lies in its intent to find an acceptable basis for the national unity that is
rooted deeply in a time long before the arrival of the Spanish. This attempt
eschews the historical orthodoxy that regards the nation-formation as an
offshoot of the Spanish colonial project. From the viewpoint of Tadhana,
this is tantamount to settling for a superficial basis of unity that, precisely be-
cause it is superficial, cannot adequately address the persistent problems of
disunity. Parenthetically, secessionism in Mindanao began to brew heatedly
 Political and historiographic contexts  73
at about the same time the Tadhana was being conceptualized. By insisting
on an affinity with the Austronesian, Malayo-Polynesian world, and by un-
derlining the particularization process that set the Philippines apart from
it, the Tadhana found in the supposedly common base culture a unifying
thread among Christian, Muslim, and tribal Filipinos. Their particulari-
ties, Tadhana insists, were no more than skin-deep, primarily because these
emerged only as consequences of more recent historical developments (Tan
1976). This coincides with the idea that by the time the Europeans came,
the base culture was sufficiently developed such that the foreign influences
that henceforth flooded in could not but be assimilated into the indigenous
cultural matrix. Alternatively, they formed layers of trapping on top of a
resilient indigenous culture. Specifically, the book states:

When the Spaniards arrived… the process of state construction was

already underway, and instinct of wisdom moved them to build the
colonial state upon the beginnings of the native edifice… (T)he colo-
nial state enlarged itself on the foundation of the barangay, promoting
acculturation and pursuing trade and political expansion on the same
principal route the native logic and tradition had established.
(Marcos 1982a, iii)

The key, so Tadhana implies, lies in re-discovering and recuperating the

indigenous foundation of Filipino identity and unity upon which the future
structures of the nation would be built.

Perspectives and periodization

The search for deep roots not only of Filipino identity but also of the Phil-
ippine nation-state had a concomitant result of de-centering the colonial
experience that has traditionally served in Philippine historiography as the
fulcrum of historical development, as is clear in the writings of Spanish
scholars and chroniclers since the sixteenth century. The colonial period
was also at the center of the historical narrative among the late nineteenth-­
century Filipino nationalists and their immediate heirs (1880s–1920s). This
trend was continued by professionally trained historians from the gener-
ations of Fernandez and Benitez (1920s–1940s), those of Zafra and Alip
(1940s–1960s), and finally in the heyday of Zaide, Agoncillo, and Constan-
tino (1960s–1980s). There were major differences, of course, in the ration-
ale, in focus, and in tenor of evaluative assessments and interpretations,
but they all agreed that the colonial period was the defining moment in the
nation-formation in Philippine history.
That was not the case with the framework of Tadhana, as spelled out
in Tadhana Outline (Marcos 1976b). Veneracion (1993) aptly observes
that Tadhana’s main difference from other Philippines histories previ-
ously written lay in its periodization, whereby the development of the
Philippine nation-state is traced long before the coming of the Spaniards.
74  Political and historiographic contexts
Although Tadhana concedes that it was during the colonial period that the
transformation to a ‘political entity’ was achieved, the colonial impetus was
by no means a necessary ingredient. Such transformation, Tadhana avers,
could have been attained anyway without colonization because the com-
plex of forces operative within the broader regional context was sufficient
to complete the transformative process. Besides, the colonial experience, as
far as Tadhana is concerned, was little more than a thin glaze on the in-
digenously defined core. The singularly most important defining thread or
pivotal hinge was the development of a Filipino nation-state. Actually, it
was more skewed towards development of the state than of the nation. The
roots of this nation-state, so Tadhana makers insist, lay in the distant pre-­
Hispanic past, and its future was heading towards full realization of what
they envisioned to be a new society. The use of nation-formation as a pivotal
point is not unique to Tadhana. Agoncillo, and a few others, also used it as
the anchoring device. The main difference was that Agoncillo and others
anchored the origin of the nation-state to the Spanish colonial period. As
periodization of Tadhana shows (Table 3.2), while the formation of national

Table 3.2  O
 utline of Tadhana

Title

Volume 1 The Roots of Filipino Heritage (Up to 1565 AD)

Part 1 Archipelagic Genesis (Pleistocene-Glacial Periods)
Part 2 Adam in the Philippines (ca. 250,000 BC– 9000 BC)
Part 3 The Austronesians in the Phil. (ca. 9000 BC–1500 BC)
Part 4 The World Between (ca. 1500 BC–200 AD)
Part 5 Philippine Forms (ca. 200 AD–1565 AD)

Volume 2 The Formation of a National Community (1565–1896)

Part 1 Encounter, 1565–1663
Part 2 Reactions, 1663–1765
Part 3 Transition, 1765–1815
Part 4 Transformation, 1816–1872
Part 5 Triumph, 1872–1896

Volume 3 The Promised State: A Nation in Travail

Part 1 Birth of a Nation, 1896–1907
Part 2 Participation and Partnership, 1907–1921
Part 3 Crisis and Consolidation, 1921–1930
Part 4 Ferment and Control
Part 5 Conflict and Direction

Volume 4 Search and Synthesis; Towards the New Society (1946–Present)

Part 1 Dilemmas of Nationhood, 1946–1951
Part 2 Nationalism and Reforms, 1951–1966
Part 3 Radical Alternatives, 1966–1972
Part 4 National Synthesis: The New Society, 1972–

Source: Adapted from Ferdinand Marcos, The Tadhana Outline (1976 b).
 Political and historiographic contexts  75
community (five books of Vol. 2) corresponded neatly to the ­Spanish colonial
period, the ‘Philippine Forms’ (Vol. 1, Part 5) had already taken shape by the
time Spain came. Tadhana scholars wished to show that colonial structures
could not but build upon the template defined by ­indigenous ­elements. They
maintained a quantitative balance in the coverage between Spanish and
pre-Hispanic periods, allotting five books for each. Seen from the vantage
point of other notable Filipino historians, such as Nicholas Zafra, Gregorio
Zaide, and Eufronio Alip, who devoted a disproportionately large space to
the Spanish period (see Table 3.1, p. 68), on one side, and Agoncillo, who
deliberately allotted only three short chapters to this period,3 on another,
Tadhana represents the middle ground. Nation-state formation is the para-
mount concern of Vol. 3 (five books) and 4 (four books) of Tadhana. On this
point, Tadhana seems unique. Its recognition of the tension between nation
and state, as well as its emphasis on the state-formation as distinct from, but
closely related to, nation-formation is not found in other approaches hith-
erto attempted in Philippine historiography.
Periodization is affected by the perspective or point of view adopted by
the authors.4 Early on, spirited discussion focused on the dichotomy between
‘colonial’ and ‘Filipino’ viewpoints. At various times, these viewpoints as-
sumed different meanings, but they remain framed, as might be expected
within the us-versus-them matrix. The Propagandists led by Jose Rizal, for
instance, countered the Spaniards’ pejorative bipartite view of history with
a tripartite view. The bipartite view posits the pre-Spanish period as the
‘age of darkness’ that was superseded by the ‘age of enlightenment’ with
the onset of the Spanish period. The tripartite view, on the other hand, re-
versed the prism and viewed the time before Spain came as the ‘golden’ age,
the Spanish colonial period as the ‘age of darkness’, and Spain’s departure
as the redemption or the beginning of a new era (Salazar 1983). Just as the
bipartite view informed the morally loaded evaluative framework adopted
by Spanish scholars all through the centuries of the colonial period, the tri-
partite view casts a very long shadow over many historical works by Filipino
scholars up to this day. The good and the bad were clear-cut and central to
the analysis.
Subsequent assessments of American, as well as Spanish, colonial pe-
riods proved to be ambiguous. For generations of scholars appreciative
of the legacy of Spanish and American colonizers—for example, Chris-
tianity, education, public health, science and technology, and democratic
­i nstitutions—the colonial experience cannot be an undiluted curse. While
such scholars as Leandro Fernandez (1919, 1925), Conrado Benitez (1926,
1954), and Gregorio Zaide (1949, 1959) may be branded as advocates of
colonial scholarship primarily for their favorable, even admiring, views of
the impact of American colonization, one can also find an avid proponent
of the Filipino viewpoint in no less than Agoncillo himself, who was cate-
gorized as ‘pure nationalist’ (Cruz 1982) but was sanguine about American
legacies. In the same vein, one can find this view in Gregorio Zaide (1959,
76  Political and historiographic contexts
1979) and Nick Joaquin (1988), to mention but two, who were sympathetic
to the Filipino viewpoint and at the same time appreciative of, even nos-
talgic about, the legacies of Spain. In other words, the terms colonial and
Filipino viewpoints ceased to serve exclusively as markers for the dichotomy
between those who had a favorable view and those who had an unfavorable
view of the colonial legacies. The issue on viewpoint became more about
the question of who was at the center-stage and who was at the margins
of the historical narrative. The earlier emphasis on moral judgment gave
way to methodological issues. Here, Teodoro Agoncillo’s provocative pro-
nouncement that there was no Philippine history before 1872 came to the
fore.
In a lecture published in 1958, Agoncillo recalled that he had been telling
students since the 1940s that Philippine history must be rewritten because
much of what was claimed to be the history of the country was in fact not
Philippine history but a history of Spain in the Philippines (Agoncillo 1958).
He boldly asserted that the history of the Philippines proper began only
in 1872 with the martyrdom of the three Filipino priests, Mariano Gomez,
Jose Burgos, and Jacinto Zamora. Popularly known as Gomburza, they
were garroted by the Spanish authorities on a trumped-up charge of com-
plicity in a mutiny in Cavite, a province south of Manila (Agoncillo 1958). In
Agoncillo’s view, it marked the beginning of Philippine nationalism. Before
then, it was foreigners who wrote about the Philippines, and because of the
writers’ skewed perspective, the Filipinos can hardly be seen in their nar-
ratives. Agoncillo was, of course, reacting to the common tendency among
his contemporaries to include much material of tangential relevance to the
Filipinos. In his words:

Filipino historians…discuss with alacrity such irrelevant subjects as

Spanish expeditions to the Mollucas, the Marianas, French Indo-China
and other places, in which the Filipinos’ only role was that of rowers…
(S)ubjects not related to the development of the Filipino nation, I dis-
miss in a few words.
(Agoncillo 1958, 6)

Standard accounts of Philippine historiography recognize Agoncillo as a pi-

oneer of the “Filipino viewpoint” in writing Philippine history. This brand
of Filipino viewpoint, while it can be subsumed under the tripartite view
noted earlier, is in important ways different from it. Rather than being pri-
marily concerned with the question of whether an event or a period was
good or bad for Filipinos, it is more interested in whether it is relevant to the
formation of the Filipino nation. If not, it falls under the rubric of colonial
historiography, and it deserves to be relegated to the background, if not left
out altogether. Efforts to demonstrate the internal dynamics among the Fil-
ipino people, and to foreground them as the prime movers in the historical
process, are all offshoots of this type of Filipino viewpoint.
 Political and historiographic contexts  77
Gregorio Zaide’s works complicate the picture, since he had a different
version of the Filipino viewpoint. Despite being dismissed, either politely
or bluntly, by many historians (particularly at UP) for his ‘colonial’ and
pro-Church tendencies, his idea of what a Filipino viewpoint may arguably
be resonant with the views of the silent public. His many textbooks were
best sellers from the 1950s well into the years after he died in 1986, which
suggests wide reception or endorsement of his approaches and ideas. In his
revealing article “The Rewriting of Philippine History,” he explicitly rejects
the anti-foreign element in the Filipino viewpoint. He writes, “One can re-
ally love his fatherland without hating other nations. One can glorify the
achievements of his nation without denigrating the achievements of other
nations. And one can praise his own people without slandering other peo-
ples.” He also explicitly warned historians not to be “embittered by anti-­
foreign bias” (Zaide 1973, 174). This was a reaction to what he perceived as
the xenophobic, anti-colonial proclivities that began to permeate historical
scholarship from the 1950s onward. Having enjoyed orthodox status since
the pre-war years, Zaide may have found the atmosphere in the post-war
decades, which proved fertile for promoting heterodox views, disconcert-
ing.5 Aside from their contrasting attitude towards foreigners, the demar-
cating line separating Zaide’s from Agoncillo’s brand of Filipino viewpoint
lies in Zaide’s emphasis on what he thought was good for Filipino people,
not on whether they were at the foreground of the historical narrative, as
was the case of Agoncillo.
Meanwhile, the upsurge in the influence of the radical, left-leaning groups
coincided with the rise of yet another slant on the Filipino viewpoint. Cog-
nizant of the widening gulf separating the small, highly westernized, rich,
and powerful elite from the vast majority of impoverished Filipinos, ob-
servers claimed that there was a need to redefine relevance and perspec-
tive on the basis of social equity and social justice (e.g. Constantino 1966,
1975). Citizenship alone ceased to be the primary basis of the ‘Filipino’ in
the Filipino viewpoint. The socio-economic class to which the majority be-
longed became the principal determinant. Believed to be the true makers
and bearers of history, the ‘masses,’ however defined,6 became the propri-
etary claimant to the Filipino viewpoint. The “revolt of the masses thesis”
of Agoncillo (1956) helped paved the way for this, but it was Constantino’s
(1975) articulate and forceful advocacy that pushed it towards the center
of historical discourses. For Constantino, the measure of relevance rests
on the extent that knowledge helps liberate the ‘masses’ from the shack-
les of poverty and oppression. As far as he is concerned, “Filipino resist-
ance to colonial oppression is the unifying thread of Philippine history”
(Constantino 1975, 9).
The sharp elite-mass dichotomy in Constantino’s formulation found his-
toriographic expression in the rejection of the great men’s style of history
or ‘history from above.’ In this formulation, the common people are hardly
seen in traditional historical narratives. It is usually focused on stories
78  Political and historiographic contexts
about presidents, military leaders, rich families, and diplomatic policies.
Since the great majority of Filipinos were (and still are) poor peasants and
workers, it seemed scandalous to many politically conscious Filipinos that
they hardly figured in historical accounts. To rectify the situation, what is
variously called ‘people’s history,’ ‘history from below,’ or ‘history of the in-
articulate’ became the aim of a growing number of historians.7 In this quest,
Renato Constantino played an important role. By imputing to the collective
mass of people the power to act as an engine of historical change, he in
effect put them at the center of the historical enterprise. The Marxist prov-
enance of his formulation, with its accompanying analytical and political
rigidity, laid him open to harsh criticisms of some groups and avid support
from others (May 1983; Schumacher 1975; A. Guillermo 1994). Among other
things, he was castigated for glaring bias and for leaving out or distorting
facts to sustain his Marxist framework (May 1983; Schumacher 1975). Rey-
naldo Ileto has observed that for all of Constantino’s zealous promotion of
a people’s history, the people in his history hardly think, feel, speak, and
decide for themselves. Someone, or certain groups, such as the elites, have
had to do these for them (1979, 5). In spite of all the criticisms, or because of
it, Constantino’s writings, notably his two-volume synthesis of the history of
the Philippines, have been immensely popular. Glenn May (1983, 70) hit the
mark when he described Constantino’s books as a ‘semi-sacred text’ among
many Filipino intellectuals.
Unhappy with a people’s history where the ‘real’ people are almost muted
or left out, a new generation of historians devoted their efforts to allowing
the masses to ‘really’ speak for themselves. Ileto’s Pasyon and Revolution
was a landmark product of this initiative. Among other achievements, it
has demonstrated that despite the tyranny of the archives, so to speak, it
was, in fact, possible to write history by using unusual texts—such as songs,
folk tales, prayers, poems, and pasyon—that were produced by the inartic-
ulate masses. By allowing the ‘masses’ to speak, the Pasyon recognizes the
existence and autonomy of their worldview—a worldview that if seen from
within its own logic is valid in its own right. Questions may, of course, be
raised to what extent Pasyon was able to accomplish this feat (for example,
Scalice 2018). Regardless, what is crucial is the idea that the perceptions
and behavior of the inarticulate may be understood on their own terms, not
as an irrational variant of, or an aberration from, the elite-defined code of
thoughts and conduct. Through Ileto’s rather essentialist formulation, the
conceptual gap that divides the ‘elites’ and the ‘masses’ was made virtually
unbridgeable, a formulation that would be elevated to a seemingly dogmatic
position by the Pantayong Pananaw (From-us-for-us Perspective) (hereafter
referred to as Pantayo School).
The Pantayo School,8 if it may really be called a school, emerged from
the sustained effort of a group of historians from UP to offer an alterna-
tive to existing approaches. It is a philosophically and methodologically
sophisticated project. Within the context of nationalist historiography in
 Political and historiographic contexts  79
the Philippines, its methodological ramifications are in many ways path-­
breaking. The formulation and use of concepts and analytic categories that
are believed to be indigenous—and supposedly faithful to the worldview
and aspirations of ‘authentic’ Filipino people—raised fundamental ques-
tions about many long-standing ideas and practices in historical writing
and research in the country. It takes common people, including cultural
minorities, as the true repository of indigeneity, which is a key element in
this version of Filipino perspective. Launched in the 1970s, the Pantayo
school grew in influence until, by the 1990s, it was poised to dominate the
country’s largest and most important history department in the country,
that of UP at Diliman. The upward trajectory was temporarily aborted by
a ‘purge’ that saw its proponents being eased out of the department. This
painful development had the unintended consequence of widening the reach
and nurturing the approach further beyond UP, into other universities and
the wider community.9 Like other elements of nationalist discourses in the
country, the Pantayo School developed in parallel with, in opposition to,
or in consonance with other approaches. Against the complex map of na-
tionalist discourses, where does Tadhana fit within the whole stretch of the
historiographic development?
The historiography of Tadhana constitutes a transition in the evolving
quest for the definition of the Filipino viewpoint. By pioneering the sys-
tematic and comprehensive search for the deep, pre-Hispanic roots of the
Philippine nation-state, it prefigured the emphasis on the indigenous that
would find eloquent expression in the ‘80s and ‘90s in the Pantayo school.
By de-centering the colonial experience as pivotal to the nation’s historical
development, it foreshadowed what in due time would be recognized (at least
in some quarters) as a landmark historiographic achievement: the cutting
of the analytics of nation-formation from the hitherto colonial ties. Inter-
estingly, this analytic approach paralleled, even anticipated, certain impor-
tant aspects of what has been trumpeted in India as Subaltern Studies or
in Western and Latin American academia as postcolonial theory and the
decolo­niality movement. At UP, however, this approach informed the indig-
enization movement epitomized best by the Pantayo school and Sikolohiyang
Pilipino10 (Filipino Psychology). By eschewing Constantino’s formulations
and refining Agoncillo’s, and by rejecting conventional approaches espoused
by Alip, Zafra, Zaide, and others, Tadhana was searching for an alternative
that its makers believed was more suitable to address the problems of the
time. What these problems were will be explored further in the next section.
The transitional role of Tadhana can be explained by the overlapping
involvement of Zeus Salazar in Tadhana and in the development of the
­Pantayo school. Salazar was the prime mover of the Pantayo school, which,
according to Portia Reyes (2002, 363–364), began in 1974. The early form-
ative period of the Pantayo School coincided with the first five years of the
Tadhana project, the same period during which Salazar figured prominently
in that project. Upon leaving it towards the end of 1979, he continued his
80  Political and historiographic contexts
historiographic crusade, gathering like-minded historians at UP until they
established themselves by the 1990s as one of the dominant factions within
the UP Department of History. Their dominance would not last, as already
noted above, as some very complex intra-departmental politics paved the
way for the easing out in the early 2000s of Salazar and almost all of those
closely associated with him.11 But that is another story altogether. What
is important at this point is that despite the physical purge of the Pantayo
group, their historiographic influence lingers and expands.
Vis-à-vis the Marxist-inspired notion of a Filipino-viewpoint demon-
strated most eloquently by Renato Constantino, Tadhana was explicitly re-
active, if not outright dismissive. The reason was not just political, as will be
discussed in the next section—it was historiographic as well. The long tradi-
tion of framing historical questions along a dichotomous Filipino/­foreigner
matrix provided an unfavorable context. It required more than subtle ideo-
logical conditioning for historians to transcend. Filipino nationalist intellec-
tuals tended to view the act of fragmenting the Filipinos into various groups
defined along social class, linguistic affiliation, and so forth as weakening
the purportedly united front vis-à-vis the foreigners. Despite being more
at home with Agoncillo’s version, as noted above, the Tadhana group were
not fully happy with this version either. Agoncillo’s concept of Filipino na-
tion remained, for the most part, focused on the Christian majority. It was,
in the view of Tadhana scholars, particularly Samuel Tan, not sufficiently
inclusive to address the concerns or aspirations of cultural minorities. As
a corrective to Agoncillo’s approach, Tadhana offered a conception of the
Filipino nation that embraces multi-cultural diversity as constitutive of,
rather than a problem in, the process of nation-formation. Tan’s (1976) idea
of tri-sectoral communities—Christians, Muslims, and lumads ­(indigenous
communities)—walking side by side with one another comprises one of the
salient contributions of Tadhana in historiographic development.
It is interesting to note the divergence between Tan’s and Salazar’s views
on this matter. In Tan’s article “A Historical Perspective for National Inte-
gration” (Tan 1976), he identifies two approaches: unitary, which is preferred
by Salazar, and pluralist, which Tan favored. The unitary approach assumes
that there existed in the pre-Hispanic periods a common cultural or histor-
ical unity. The bases for this unity are, in linguistic terms, Austronesian–
Polynesian linguistic affinity and, in cultural terms, the base-­culture, which
may be described broadly as Malay. This analytic tack entails searching for
a “common thread in the maze of ethnic diversities and complexities” (Tan
1976, 5). The pluralist approach, on the other hand, assumes that “there
are indefinite numbers of events or circumstances in the historical process
which do not necessarily form into an inter-related whole” (Tan 1976, 5).
Applying to the case of the Philippines, this means that before the coming
of the Spaniards, communities in the islands were independent and isolated
from one another, and that the only kind of unity or cohesiveness was im-
posed from the outside. Unity was mainly political (Tan 1976).
 Political and historiographic contexts  81
On the issues of histories from above and from below, Tadhana exhibits
a seemingly unresolved tension of combining two fundamentally conflict-
ing strands. On the one hand, Tadhana puts a premium on state-­formation
as the crux of historical development, the process that is essentially ‘from
above.’ On the other, it traces the origin of national identity, even the state
itself, to a past as distant as possible, calling the bedrock indigenous and
taking the masses ‘from below’ as its true bearers. Tension such as this
seems inherent in any effort to combine the nation and the state into the
hyphenated nation-state. This is especially true in cases where geographic
heterogeneity and cultural and socio-economic diversity are paramount, of
which the Philippines is an example. What Tadhana does is recognize and
confront the tension by attempting to synthesize the two strands. As one
might expect, the results are uneasy and riddled with tensions.
By insisting on the ethnic, pre-colonial origins of the Philippine state,
Tadhana posits that in the distant past, there existed an indigenous Phil-
ippine state. This state was a product of the intimate relationship between
indigenous Filipinos and their environment—a state that supposedly came
from the bosom of the Filipino ‘nation.’12 It is another way of saying that be-
fore, there was no hyphen, no tension, between the nation and the state. The
wide gap between the two that characterized the colonial and the post-war
periods emanated from the long and divisive colonial experience. Tadhana
recognized this as a problem that had long been ignored by scholars and pol-
iticians alike, until Marcos came supposedly and decided to do something
about it. This notion smells of politics, as will be discussed in the next sec-
tion, but from a historiographic standpoint, it has its own pragmatic value.
For one, the polarity between histories ‘from above’ and ‘from below’ drains
itself of the tensions as the issue ceases to revolve around the questions of
whether it was deliberately written from the viewpoint of either pole or an in-
consistency has been committed in its attempt to combine the two. The most
pertinent questions become: (1) which aspect of the Tadhana framework
adopts a top-down perspective, and which employs a bottom-up viewpoint?,
(2) why is this so?, and (3) at what point, if ever, might they merge as one?
The persistence of diverging perspectives within Tadhana may be taken
as a reflection of the socio-economic, political, and historical reality—­
fragmented, uneven, contentious. It is precisely this kind of situation that
breeds the calls for a new approach, historiographically and politically.
Viewing it from this angle allows us to highlight the point of convergence
between the interest of the state and the scholar. The New Society was
not just the culminating point of Marcos’s effort to re-combine the nation
(people) and the state (government) in a politically creative and harmo-
nious synthesis. It also represents historiography’s Holy Grail: the use of
state-formation as an overarching framework is not simply consistent with
the emphasis on the indigenous or on people’s history—it is precisely a
mechanism for realizing such a kind of history. As a product of a partner-
ship between the state and the scholars, Tadhana conjures up the future
82  Political and historiographic contexts
when a ‘true’ people’s history will finally have been written. At that point,
there would be no more need for scholars’ conscious effort and state spon-
sorship. Until then, however, one may say that the state and the scholars are
justified in taking the initiative.

1896 Revolution and contested nationalisms

Another important area revolves around the 1896 Revolution and the accom-
panying questions about Philippine nationalisms. Ileto considers the events
surrounding the 1896 Revolution as a cornerstone of modern ­Philippine his-
tory and the founding myth of the Philippine nation-state (Ileto 1998b). The
centrality of the 1896 Revolution in historical discourses may be seen in the
persistence since the 1950s of the discourses on the ‘unfinished revolution’
which various groups of opposing ideologies employ to make themselves
seem relevant. As Ileto succinctly put it:

Without great monuments or a court culture to serve as an alternate

focus or center of national aspirations the ensemble of events and ideas
called ‘the revolution of 1896’ has had to serve as some sort of charter
or as the legitimizing principle for subsequent calls for unified action.
(Ileto 1998a, 195)

Like many other events or ideas of monumental significance, its meanings

are contested. The 1896 Revolution is problematic and ambiguous for, as
Mojares observes, it “generates a surplus of meanings, which may be hostile,
ambivalent and inassimilable” (Mojares 1996, 263).
Tadhana’s treatment of the 1896 Revolution is clearly reactive to the
sharply polarized debates about it and the ‘true’ meaning of Filipino nation-
alism. As these debates are multi-layered and multifaceted,13 I shall focus
for the purpose of this study only on the overall attitude towards the Rev-
olution (especially vis-à-vis the Reform Movement) as well as on the extent
of the role of the elite and the ‘masses’ in this landmark set of events. The
primary reason for this move is that, among the Revolution-related issues,
these questions are of the greatest relevance to Marcos’s political blueprint,
as will be discussed below.
Agoncillo’s assertion that the 1896 Revolution was a ‘revolt of the masses’
was a watershed in this debate. Spelled out in his controversial book of the
same title (Agoncillo 1956), it transgressed the orthodox meanings ascribed
to the revolution. At various times until then, the Revolution was viewed as
a handiwork of the ilustrados or the elites, a reaction against the abuse of
the friars, a product of ‘international Masonic conspiracy,’ or against the
excesses of feudalism (Schumacher 1991; Veneracion 1971). Nationalism, it
should be noted, did not figure in these explanations. Alternatively, the unity
between the masses and the elites in their struggle against the S ­ paniards
was also commonly posited (for example Llanes 1998, Ambrosio 1998).
 Political and historiographic contexts  83
Nicholas Zafra, for instance, echoed a popular, monolithic view of the rev-
olution when he asserted, in response to Agoncillo, that “the revolution was
truly national in scope and in character. The persons who participated in
it were moved and inspired by a genuine love of country. They came from
all classes and elements of the population” (Zafra 1956, 502). For casting
doubts on these beliefs about the Revolution, Agoncillo earned the ire of
some conservative institutions and scholars.14 As evidence of the paramount
importance of this work, a number of succeeding works explicitly or im-
plicitly reacted to Agoncillo’s thesis, either by further developing it, by re-
fining it, or by rejecting it altogether. Constantino, for instance, took off
from Agoncillo and elevated the masses not just as prime movers of the rev-
olution but also as the engine of the broader historical change. In his view,
the hinge on which history turns is the struggle of the masses for greater
freedom from colonial bondage and from oppression by the elite. Milagros
Guerrero, for her part, has assaulted Agoncillo’s revolt of the masses thesis
by demonstrating that it was the provincial and municipal elites who led
the revolution in northern Luzon, while the masses, abused by the Filipino
elites and burdened by the policies of the Aguinaldo government, had every
incentive not to support the revolutionary struggle, and even rose against
the elites and the elite-led Philippine republic (Guerrero 1977, 2015). Glenn
May, who conducted research on the Southern Tagalog province of Ba­
tangas, concurred with Guerrero. He claimed that patron–client relation-
ships accounted for the involvement of the ‘masses.’ That is, it was the elite
who led the fight against the foreigners, and the retinue of their underlings
merely followed suit, either under duress or in deference to the wishes of
their patron (May 1991).
Rather than pitting one against another, Tadhana opted to combine the
mass and the elitist elements as necessary ingredients of the revolution. It
explicitly denied that it was a revolt of the masses. Rather than a manifes-
tation of class struggle, it was presented as an “expression of the national
community” and as a “product both of ilustrado and mass ideologies”
(Marcos 1976b, 38). Painstakingly, it tried to provide a smooth transition
from the elitist Propaganda Movement to the founding of La Liga Filipina
(hereafter Liga),15 a civic organization which sought to promote self-help
among members and get them involved in reform efforts, to the formation
of the Katipunan. Whereas Agoncillo and Constantino drew a sharp con-
trast between the intent and methods preferred by the Propaganda Move-
ment and the Katipunan, and saw the Katipunan as a necessary offshoot of
the failure of the Propaganda Movement, Tadhana endeavored to blur the
line separating the two. This was done by underscoring the mixed member-
ship, both elite and ‘mass,’ of the Liga as well as its transitory role in giv-
ing birth to the Katipunan. Short-lived as the Liga was, Tadhana seems to
overstate its importance by claiming that it was a “milestone in the effort of
the reformers to link the ilustrados with the masses” and that it constituted
the “marriage of strong social forces in a new dynamic ideology of national
84  Political and historiographic contexts
community” (Marcos 1982a, 432). In its effort to downplay the class ele-
ment in the transition from Propaganda to Katipunan, Tadhana declares,
“The (Katipunan) movement was not so much a class takeover as an effort
of the Filipino masses to take the leadership away from the ilustrados, who
they felt, moved too slowly and too uncertainly” (Marcos 1982a, 431). With
such a formulation, whatever differences existed in their methods and ob-
jectives, which to an extent reflected class differences, have been elided or
effaced. This seems to pave the way for the view that partnership and com-
plementarity, rather than contrast and oppositionality, should characterize
the relationship between the Propaganda Movement and the Katipunan.
Tadhana established a complementary relationship between the Propa-
ganda Movement (elite) and the Katipunan (mass) by several means. First,
it insisted that the ideology of the nascent national community drew both
from the liberal ideas propounded by the Propagandists and from the
“­populist-messianic sentiments of the masses,” an organized expression of
which is the Katipunan, according to Tadhana (Marcos 1976b, 58). Second,
it claimed that the united front that made the 1896 Revolution possible was
achieved when the ilustrado and mass elements were fused together, and this
was made possible through the combined efforts of the propagandists and
the Katipunan. Tadhana, thus, claims

Where Rizal and del Pilar represented the ilustrado reaching the masses
in a common struggle against the frailocracy, which in the Philippines
academic discourse means the rule of the Spanish friar, Bonifacio
stood for the masses struggling from below to reach the ear of the
principalia-ilustrado.
(emphasis original) (Marcos 1982a, 437)

In other words, the “(R)evolution represented the convergence of all the

classes in Philippine society” (ibid. 438).
This erasure of whatever class or regional differences or conflict existed
within the revolutionary movement seems deliberate. In the extended out-
line of Tadhana explaining the projected contents of Vol. 3, Part 1 (1896–
1906), which covers the Revolution up to the early American period, no
mention is made of the internal conflicts that dogged the revolutionary
effort. The Tadhana Outline focuses on the ‘pragmatic and restrained’ re-
action of the Filipino nation to the American incursion, stressing the coop-
erative stance of the Filipino leaders towards the Americans who promised
them a ­‘Filipino State’ (Marcos 1976b, 40–42). The silencing of the internal
factional strife or class or regional contradictions in the analysis appears to
have been completed when Tadhana blamed the “feudal orientation of the
Katipunan” for the downfall of Bonifacio and for jeopardizing revolution-
ary efforts (Marcos 1982a, 438). The anti-foreign, anti-colonial aspects of
the revolution are highlighted to the extent that internal or class-conflict
elements are eliminated. Ironically, Tadhana re-asserts some fundamental
 Political and historiographic contexts  85
views on the Revolution propounded in earlier colonial historiographies,
such as those of Kalaw (1925) and Fernandez (1926).
The contentious character of the 1896 Revolution is only a reflection of
the multifarious nature of Philippine nationalisms on the whole. In earlier
research I carried out, I examined the contents of 16 Philippine history text-
books used in Philippine schools from the early 1900s to 2000. The study
indicates that within the span of a century, it was only among textbooks
used during the American period (Barrows 1907); Fernandez 1919/1932; and
Benitez 1926) that fairly clear and consistent images of nationalism were
discernible. In the post-war period, in contrast, images of nationalism were
ambiguous, uncertain, or confusing (Curaming 2001, 2017).

Clio in the hands of power?

That Tadhana is a political project—in a conventional as opposed to a ‘post-
modern’ sense—cannot be denied. Notwithstanding the scholars’ strong
protestation to the contrary, Marcos did, in fact, intend to use the project
for his own political interest. While they were allowed a wide latitude in de-
signing the project, as shown in the previous chapter, Marcos seemed to have
clear ideas as to how he would utilize its output.16 The participant-scholars
I interviewed vehemently denied this, but the fact was that Marcos had ap-
propriated the ‘scholars’ history’ for his own political purpose, whether or
not the scholars liked it or were aware of it. How and why it was achieved is,
I argue, a testament not only to knowledge’s malleable character as a hand-
maiden of power but also to historical knowledge’s ability to enable and at
the same time set the parameters for the exercise of power.
In Marcos’s own assessment, the need for national identity, unity, and
self-determination is among the ‘principal national problems’ that must
be addressed in any governmental efforts, including the writing of history
(Marcos 1982b, 5). To most Filipinos in the 1970s, these were reasonable,
even desirable goals to pursue. It is no surprise then that Tadhana, as de-
signed independently by Salazar and Tan, precisely fitted into this mold.
Marcos and the scholars appeared to share the same mental universe re-
garding this question, which renders explicable Marcos’s full acceptance of
the Tadhana Outline when it was presented to him.
As already noted, Tadhana is widely perceived as a purely political project
that forms part of Marcos’s effort to justify Martial Law. Despite reasons
discussed in Chapter 2 for believing that the truth is more complex, this pop-
ular perception has a prima facie validity to it. In declaring Martial Law and
thereafter maintaining authoritarianism for over a decade,17 Marcos sum-
moned a host of justifications. This included the alleged effort to ‘save’ the
Republic from the onslaught of both the leftist and the rightist elements, and
the supposed need to reform the society and establish a new one where gross
inequality is mitigated, oligarchic control neutralized, and colonial legacies
eased. That Marcos’s version of history as depicted in Tadhana coincides
86  Political and historiographic contexts
considerably with these justifications lends credence to such a popular per-
ception. We should suspect, however, that we might be underestimating Mar-
cos in supposing that it was, in fact, his only, or primary, purpose in mind.
Considering his track record of propensity for the impressive, grand, and he-
roic, there may have been something more grandiose in his overall plans.
I have noted in the previous chapter that Marcos did not wish to appro-
priate the project as a medium to convince, respond to, or argue with the
people of his own time. He knew all too well that there was no way his
contemporaries would interpret Tadhana as other than as a self-serving po-
litical project. He carried out the project because he had set his sights on
the distant future. He wanted to address the people yet to be born, Filipinos
and otherwise, who, perhaps in a century hence, presumably unencumbered
by the bitter polarization of contemporary politics, would judge fairly and
acquit his actions and appreciate the wisdom of his decisions.18 In other
words, he was setting an eye to arguing his case before the altar of history,
and he was staking a confident claim to vindication.
Several factors are relevant in understanding the harmony between
­Marcos’s political interest and the design of the Tadhana. First is the radical
politics, brewing since the 1950s, that saw mounting efforts to bring down
the establishment. Second is the growing disenchantment with the liberal
representative democracy that Marcos and others saw as having degener-
ated into rule by the oligarchs. The third is the upsurge in Filipino national-
ism and the escalating contestation for its definition. Last is Marcos’s faith
in the power of scholarship as a legitimating tool.

Politics of indigenism
As shown earlier in this chapter, Tadhana is emphatic in its treatment of the
pre-historic and pre-Hispanic periods. It proudly promotes itself, not with-
out justification, as the “first work on Philippine history that conceives pre-
history as a necessary part of history” (italics mine) (Marcos 1980, blurb).
It also concedes, as already noted, that the indigenous principle permeates
much of the framework of the project. In Marcos’s own words, Tadhana is a

history concerned with the indigenous as a principle of assimilation and

growth… It became necessary for me to find out what were the native
and indigenous structures that we could adopt for renewal in our New
Society. How can we utilize the past in order to fortify the present and
to assure the future.
(Marcos 1982b, 6, 12)

From the point of view of scholars who participated, what they did was
purely an act of filling a huge historiographic void. They claimed that there
was nothing political about it for, as they would rhetorically ask, “How can
rock formation or human evolution or development of early settlements be
 Political and historiographic contexts  87
political?” Salazar, for instance, echoing the views of other participants, ad-
amantly declared that it was his personal policy to work only on topics as
distant from the Marcos years as possible. He believed that by focusing, say,
on the pre-historic or pre-Hispanic period, periods far removed from the
Marcos years, there was no way he was supporting Marcos’s politics. He
believed he bore no responsibility for whatever political intent was ascribed
to the Tadhana project (Salazar 1989, 2004). Self-satisfied as Salazar was,
he could not have been more naïve in his supposition. It was precisely in
the indigenous, buried in the very distant past, that the specter of Marcos’s
political project lurked.
The deeply political color of Tadhana’s emphasis on the indigenous can
best be understood and appreciated by looking into the conditions that gave
rise to the project. Ileto convincingly demonstrates in one of his articles
that the radical politics from the 1950s to the 1980s provides the ‘discursive
frame’ through which Marcos’s effort at history-writing can be understood.
He argues that the challenge mounted by radical students not just against
the Marcos regime but also against the entire ideological bedrock upon
which it rested had prompted him to wrest the revolutionary initiatives from
the young radicals (Ileto 1998a). The memory of the siege of Malacañang in
January 1970 by radical student activists seemed too frightening for Mar-
cos to ignore (Rempel 1993; Marcos n.d.). One prong in his multifaceted re-
sponse was to offer a supposedly revolutionary ideology designed to counter
Marxism, Maoism, and Leninism, whose foreign provenance, among other
things, purportedly made these ideologies inappropriate for the Philippines.
At the same time, he could not hide his contempt for liberal representa-
tive democracy, which like Marxism and its variants were of foreign origin
(Marcos 1971, 64).
On this point, Larkin’s observation may be instructive. According to
him, disenchantment with the failure of Western-inspired representative
democracy as a means to improve the lot of the people may be one possible
reason for the shift towards the search for the indigenous. The problems
began to appear not merely as systemic, which may be remedied by chang-
ing one Western-inspired system (capitalism and liberal democracy) for an-
other (socialism/communism); critics grew more convinced that the roots
of the problem went deeply back to Western mentality itself. Rather than
systemic, the problem was civilizational, and the solution lay in recovering
the indigenous elements to serve as the basis for creating a new system
(Larkin 1979, 9–10).
In TRD (Marcos 1971), we can see Marcos’s early effort to lay the ground-
work for rejecting foreign models and finding a Filipino alternative. He
offered the Filipino version of democracy, what he called the democratic
revolution from the center, as this alternative. As though implementing this
alternative immediately, soon after declaring Martial Law, he altered the
political landscape in local areas by making the barangay the basic politi-
cal unit. One of the purported aims of the New Society was “to strengthen
88  Political and historiographic contexts
the baranganic culture and retrieve its cultural elements” (Marcos 1976a,
vii). The New Society thus constituted a return to or a re-recreation of the
pre-Hispanic past, where the barangay was thought to be the primeval core
of nascent Filipino communities. Marcos, in his 9 January 1973 diary entry,
rationalized this move by highlighting barangay’s indigenous credentials:
the barangay emanated “from the traditions of our race (and) (t)herefore it
draws on spiritual strength.” Hard to please as Marcos was known to be,
it was likely that he felt less than satisfied; he might have felt the need for a
more compelling set of justifications. Enter Tadhana. What Tadhana does,
with its emphasis on the indigenous, is formally encode in a historical, schol-
arly, and presumably authoritative template what otherwise would seem to
be an obviously political move. By doing so, the act seems domesticated
and naturalized, and was made to appear truthful and more acceptable, or
so Marcos hoped. At the same time, as Ileto noted (1998a), it foregrounds
the position of history as a battlefield in his multi-cornered struggle against
leftist and rightist adversaries.
There seems to be something in history that makes it prone to contesta-
tion.  Distance or remoteness is a fertile breeding ground for uncertainty,
which is one factor that fuels disagreement. In the absence of a broad plat-
form upon which to base contrary or alternative views, the few who have
­access to ‘expert knowledge’ can only monopolize debates among them-
selves, to the effective exclusion of the general public. From this vantage
point, Tadhana’s emphasis on the distant past, and the employment of highly
­credentialed scholars to provide ‘expert knowledge’ about it, are strategic.
To the extent that the past is lost, it is malleable and manipulable.
The dexterity by which Tadhana knits the pre-Hispanic periods into a
coherent whole, from the onset of the Big Bang to the geologic formation of
the archipelago and the evolution of Adam in the Philippines, all the way
to the formation of Filipino identity with its deep roots in the Austrone-
sian past—all these lend a patina of credence only serious scholarship, so
Marcos may have thought, could provide to otherwise patently self-serving
political project. Besides, without such an analytic move, rejecting foreign
models and talking about a truly Filipino ideology seemed hollow for what
was commonly thought of as Filipino was nothing more than a concoction
of “three centuries in the convent and forty years under the spell of Holly-
wood.” By anchoring the Filipino in a very distant past, it made sense to
eschew foreign models and consider a ‘genuinely Filipino’ alternative.
One challenge, however, was how to present a consistent image of a ‘gen-
uinely Filipino’ alternative, considering that the Philippine state itself, as
almost everyone takes for granted, was a child of the Philippine Revolution,
which, in turn, was inalienably linked to Spanish colonization. Tenuously,
Tadhana confronts the challenge by tracing the origin of the New Society
government not to the Spanish colonial state but to the supposedly “au-
tochthonous ethnic states” that emerged long before the Spaniards came.
As earlier noted, Tadhana asserts that the colonial state established by the
 Political and historiographic contexts  89
Spaniards could not but build upon the existing framework defined by eth-
nic states (or the barangays), making it some kind of an indigenous state
(Marcos 1976b, 10–11). By such a stroke, the continuity of the ethnic states
with the contemporary government is forged, and the supposed genuine-
ness of its claim to Filipino-ness is affirmed. Purportedly, it becomes easier,
then, to present the New Society as an appropriate vehicle for searching the
“Filipino identity to solve the centuries of ambivalence in national attitudes,
values and action ” (Marcos 1976a, vii). In the end, Tadhana drives home
the message that Marcos wanted every Filipino to imbibe: that the New So-
ciety is the tadhana, the destiny of the Filipino people. With the use of such
a metaphysical idiom, Marcos seemed bent on strengthening his deposition
before the judging eyes of Clio. Whether that would help, we have yet to see.
So far, judging from the still largely negative memories of Marcos and his
regime, he has not succeeded.
The choice of the title Tadhana was ominous. Tadhana is a Tagalog word,
probably derived from Sanskrit, whose close equivalent in English is destiny
or fate. It carries a connotation that things are beyond one’s control as God
or the celestial forces predetermine their course. As a nationalist project,
Tadhana is expected to be teleological. It appears, however, to be more than
that. By tying history to destiny, not just to the nation’s destiny but also to
Marcos’s, the triumvirate—history, destiny, and Marcos—became inextri-
cably linked in the metaphysical transcendence of time and space. It was a
combination that was potentially formidable, and it certainly was not lost
on Marcos. In his own words, “History is destiny. For long before you and
I were born, history dictated the future of our country” (Marcos 1982a, 12).
By collapsing the past and the future, the present—Marcos, New Society,
constitutional authoritarianism, or whatever it was—became a fait accom-
pli, a fate every Filipino must embrace or endure as a necessary bridge to a
glorious future.
Known rightly or wrongly for fatalism, Filipinos masses were the obvious
and vulnerable targets of the rhetorical device that was tadhana. It was an
index to Marcos’s political acumen to frame his life, his political career, and
the life of the nation using a metaphor that was likely to appeal to many
Filipinos. Predating the Tadhana project was a host of commissioned bio-
graphical works in which the anticipation of the greatness and inevitability
of Marcos’s achievements was encoded. As noted perceptively by Vicente
Rafael, in reading or viewing Marcos’s biographies, one cannot fail to sense
that “biography merely confirms destiny” (2000, 128). The bio-film Iginuhit
ng Tadhana (Destined by Fate or Written in Stars), which Marcos utilized as
compelling campaign material in the 1965 presidential elections, could hardly
be more transparent. What the Tadhana project intended to do was not just
cap all previous efforts but also inscribe Marcos’s personal ambitions in the
supposedly foreordained historical trajectory. After all, what is history but
truth, or so many people are encouraged or misled to believe. But other than
the potency of history as propaganda, we should not forget the possible role
90  Political and historiographic contexts
of history as psycho auto-therapy or a form of self-­propaganda—a means
for Marcos to convince himself of the truthfulness, goodness and beauty of
what he was, what he was doing, and what he aspired to be.

Homogenizing politics
As shown earlier, Tadhana rejects the class-based perspective, best exemplified
by Agoncillo and Constantino, as well as its concomitant analytic approach
to the Revolution. Such a move fits very well within the ambit of Marcos’s po-
litical interests. He may have had an interminable hatred for the oligarchs, but
he refused to take the side of the ‘people’ by viewing things exclusively from
their viewpoint. That would have been tantamount to upholding the views
of his leftist adversaries. Instead, he saw the oligarchs as rent-seeking inter-
mediaries that set the masses apart from the state, thus hampering national
unity (Marcos 1971). Just as the friars who mediated between the colonial
state and the people had to be eliminated, so did the oligarchs. If and when
that was accomplished, much progress towards national unity would have
been achieved. This is another way of saying that Tadhana favors the homo-
geneity of the ­nation—homogeneity that, the book was careful to emphasize,
is deeply rooted in the pre-Hispanic past. Thus, any divisive elements—class-
based conflicts, regionalism, and secessionism—are seen to be anomalous,
and the state must deal with them by all means possible, including the use of
force. In this, Marcos’s multifaceted and at times violent struggles against the
leftist radicals, the oligarchs, the liberal politicians, the Church, the press, the
Muslim separatists and others found justification. He seemed to say that it
was not just called for by an instinct for self-preservation—it was necessary
for the survival, security, and flourishing of the nation.
The effacing of any conflict or internal difference is best showcased by
Tadhana’s treatment of the Katipunan and the Revolution. As already
noted, the Tadhana excises or silences any conflict or differences between
the ‘masses’ and the elite, Bonifacio and Aguinaldo, and Caviteño and the
rest, to mention but a few. Considering Marcos’s desire to draw parallels
between the 1896 Revolution and his Democratic Revolution, this is not just
understandable but also expected. Faced with the ever-sharpening division
on all fronts—social, political, ideological, and cultural—Tadhana, in its
articulation of Marcos’s definition of the usable past, had to emphasize his-
tory’s homogenizing or unifying function.
As a side note, in the context of the scholars’ strong protestation of
their independence, the treatment of the Katipunan and the Revolution in
Tadhana invites curiosity. Considering that the scholar-participants were
invariably from UP, and that a good number of them were even jailed for
their radical nationalism and anti-Marcos activism, one may find it rather
odd that the Tadhana was so clearly designed in stark contrast to Agoncillo–­
Constantino’s formulation. Tadhana also re-inscribes parts of ‘colonial his-
toriography’ on the Revolution in a way long rejected by the scholars who
 Political and historiographic contexts  91
wished to be identified as ‘nationalists.’ It was the Agoncillo–Constantino
line of nationalism, reinforced by the formulation or radical nationalism in
the Philippine Society and Revolution by Amado Guerrero, that informed
significantly the whole anti-colonial, anti-state, nationalist movement in the
1960s and 1970s, of which UP was the undisputed center. While it is true
that there are different shades of Philippine nationalisms, and that differ-
ent stakeholders were scrambling to assert their own definitions, Tadhana’s
treatment of the revolution intrigues and makes one wonder if it was purely
coincidental that scholars’ interpretations and Marcos’s political interests
harmonized.
On the other hand, it is also possible that the Tadhana-makers were in fact
consciously going against the tide of the Agoncillo–Constantino tradition.
Common aspirations among scholars are to offer something different or
new, and one way to do so is to go against dominant thoughts or approaches.
Likewise, from the vantage point of the post-Tadhana historiographic land-
scape, it was clear that the Agoncillo–Constantino tradition had spent much
of its force, and it had given way to a more indigenous version of national-
ism, which Tadhana pioneered. In a sense, therefore, Tadhana constituted
a transition in the development of indigenism in Philippine historiography.

On the ambiguity of power

From the historiographic standpoint, the Tadhana project was both a re-
action to and an accommodation of the contested nationalist traditions in
Philippine historical-writing. It was at the same time an attempt to push
back the frontiers of these traditions. As a reaction, it was mindful of the
problems that had long haunted Philippine historiography; it aimed to of-
fer alternative solutions to these problems. As an accommodating move,
Tadhana framed its narrative within the long-familiar nationalist, anti-­
colonial template, but only occasionally did it fall into old clichés that had
been quite common among nationalist writings in the Philippines, as in
other post-colonies. As indications of its conscious attempt to raise the his-
toriographic benchmark, it offered, among other things, a framework that
was refreshing for its scope and theoretical coherence, and for the novelty
and boldness of its approaches and interpretations. It was also remarkable
for the richness of the historical databank it was able to set up. It was a da-
tabank that enabled it to fill in some important gaps that had long existed in
the historical narrative.19 Though not without its shortcomings and it was
admittedly a political project, the Tadhana project was arguably a quest for
a higher degree of sophistication in Philippine historical scholarship.
Its progenitors intended it to be so. Salazar and Tan, among others, were
conscious of the intense competition in the marketplace of historical ap-
proaches and ideas within and beyond Philippine historiography. They may
not have been forthright about what was at stake for them in the whole en-
terprise, but considering the ‘logistics and logic’ (Rafael 2000, 123) of power
92  Political and historiographic contexts
relations within and beyond the scholarly community, they appeared to be
staking a claim to social acceptance, to academic accolade, perhaps to po-
litical patronage, but, most importantly, to the symbolic and tangible power
that goes with all of them. By striking a partnership with a powerful entity
such as Marcos, at least some of the Tadhana scholars had thought it was
strategic for gaining the broadest ‘market share’ for the version of history
they propounded.
However, that Tadhana was viewed by many as a manifestly political pro-
ject proved disastrous to such aspirations, both for individual scholars and for
the project as a whole. Precisely because of the Marcos signature, Tadhana
has been off-handedly dismissed by many scholars as undiluted propaganda.
Whatever rigor and scholarly value the scholar-participants may have in-
vested in it hardly mattered in the face of the adverse and persistent public
perception. Then, as now, only a handful of individuals out of the Tadhana
circle realized and appreciated its scholarly value, although as of late, there
has been increasing signs that the legacies of Marcos, including works attrib-
uted to him, are being resuscitated. Clio and her disciples’ quest for greater
power appears to have backfired. Or perhaps, that is a premature judgment as
things can change, while the process unfolds. Only time can tell.
That Marcos sought the service of Clio’s disciples suggests the ambigu-
ity of power relations. Anyone to whom history—both as a form of knowl-
edge and as a discipline—matters has no choice but to play by its ‘rules.’ It
is easy to see the effort of individuals, such as Marcos, to sway historical
knowledge to their side as a sign of their power and absolute manipulability
(or powerlessness) of knowledge. Easily overlooked is the more deep-seated
question of why the effort to influence history is being made in the first
place. Pointing to the display of power is only half the equation for one does
not seek more power if one has enough of it. Who or what causes, then, the
feeling of inadequacy that necessitates the quest for more?
Our access to the real world is mediated by the knowledge we humans
have about it. In the case of Marcos, whose sense of history, arguably, does
not find many peers among Filipino political leaders, the significant media-
tory role of history can be easily posited. Against the risk of reifying history,
however, it must be underscored that Marcos’s understanding of history,
like anyone else’s, was highly personal. But to the extent that one seeks to
utilize history, as Marcos did, for the purpose of political power, one cannot
but contend with the social or shared, as opposed to individual, character
of historical understanding. At the heart of such understanding lies the ‘au-
tonomy’ of knowledge vis-à-vis the power of certain groups or individuals.
In other words, the ‘sharedness’ of knowledge or historical understanding
lends it power independent of any particular group or individual, such as
Marcos. By comparing the case of Tadhana with Sejarah Nasional Indone-
sia (SNI), which is the focus of the next two chapters, I hope to explicate a
deeper understanding of the nature of the power-knowledge relations.
 Political and historiographic contexts  93
Notes
1 As of 1968, only “Philippine archaeology, two medieval Chinese accounts and
a comparison of Philippine languages are…valid pre-Hispanic source materials
available for the study of Philippine history” (Scott 1968, 139).
2 In the article entitled “Hegemonic Tool? Nationalism in Philippine history text-
books, 1900–2000,” I examine textbooks from 1900 to 2000 and find out that
long-discredited theories on the peopling of the Philippines were still mentioned
in textbooks until 2000. See Curaming (2017).
3 His celebrated textbook A Short History of the Filipino People (Agoncillo and
Alfonso 1960), subsequently revised/reprinted without the erstwhile co-author,
Oscar Alfonso, created a stir when it first appeared in 1960 for allotting only
three chapters to three centuries of Spanish period.
4 For a useful overview of explanations or rationalization behind the use of vari-
ous periodizations of Philippine history, see (Gealogo 1993a)
5 There is an extensive literature explaining the resurgence of Filipino nationalism
since the 1950s. However, I find the article by Teodoro Agoncillo, “Postwar Fili-
pino Nationalism and Its Anti-American Posture,” Philippine Historical Review
5 (1970): 269–292, a stand out for vividly capturing the sentiments, not just the
logic of the nationalist response. Perhaps his very effective prose may have much
to do with it.
6 Schumacher notes rightly that one of the problems that bedevil studies on the
Philippine revolution is the imprecision and “looseness of class terminology.”
Terms such as elites, ilustrados, caciques, principales, proletarian, middle class,
upper-middle class, the people and the masses are all problematic. For clear ex-
plication, see Schumacher (1991). Earlier, Milagros Guerrero expressed similar
observation in her PhD thesis (Guerrero 1977, 22–25) a part of which appeared
as a book chapter in 1982 (Guerrero 1982). The book was finally published in
2015 (Guerrero 2015).
7 For a brief overview of the concepts as applied in Philippine history, see Geal-
ogo (1993b).
8 Pantayong Pananaw:’ literally, ‘from-us-for-us perspective.’ In Tagalog, the pro-
noun ‘we’ has two equivalents: tayo and kami. The first, is used when the speaker
includes the addressee and all other members of a group, real or imagined, to
which both of them belong. The latter is used when the addressee is not included
in the group the speaker refers to in a certain discourse. This differentiation has
far-reaching implications when applied to historiography. It identifies with whom
the speaker (or the historical narrative) is engaged in a discourse. From the Pan-
tayo perspective, the discourse is between or among members of a group who
may constitute a ‘nation.’ From the pang-kami perspective, on the other hand, the
speaker (or the historical narrative) is addressing people other than the members
of his/her own group. Corollary to the question of with whom one is engaged in a
discourse is the question of whom and what is historical knowledge for. From the
Pantayo perspective, historical knowledge is for the consumption of the members
of one group or nation, and it is for their better understanding of themselves. In
the pang-kami perspective, on the other hand, knowledge is designed to enable
one group to present itself to another, probably as their equal or their superior.
Knowledge, therefore, is for the consumption primarily of the one spoken to, and
it is for the addressee to understand the group being presented to him/her. The
presenter (of knowledge) gains a sense of fulfillment from having successfully pre-
sented oneself as either equal to or better than the addressee. See Reyes (2002);
Salazar (2000); and Navarro, Rodriguez-Tatel, and Villan (1997, 2015) for an ex-
plication of ideas and approaches among proponents of the Pantayo School. For
94  Political and historiographic contexts
a thoughtful interpretation and critique, (See Guillermo 2003, 2009; Mendoza
2002)
9 Interview via messenger with an anonymized informant who is a prime mover of
the Pantayo approach, 16 June 2018.
10 Sikolohiyang Pilipino (Filipino Psychology) is a parallel effort to indigenize the
study of psychology. It rejects, among other things, Western conceptualization
of the self. See Pe-Pua (1982), Pe-Pua and Protacio-Marcelino (2000), Paredes-­
Canilao and Babaran-Diaz (2013).
11 Interview via Messenger with an anonymized informant who is a prime mover of
Pantayo approach, 16 June 2018.
12 The rather peculiar conceptualization of state in Tadhana appears not so idio-
syncratic if seen against the backdrop of works such as Fluid Iron: State Forma-
tion in Southeast Asia by Tony Day (2003).
13 The complexity of Philippine nationalism may be gleaned from the fact that just
within the left-leaning groups, Abinales has identified at least four streams of
interpretations of the ‘national question.’ See Abinales (1999). Churchill (2001)
also offers a useful mapping out of the various streams.
14 See Ileto (2011) for perceptive reflections on this episode. The publication of the
book was delayed by eight years, and it required a presidential intercession be-
fore it finally came out. It proved controversial, even before it was published.
This controversy broke out on two contentious points. First, the perceived
­anti-Catholic stance of the book. For this, Agoncillo found himself in a running
debate with the spokesperson of the Catholic Church and a scholar in his own
right, Fr. Jose Hernandez of the University of Santo Tomas (see Agoncillo 1958).
Second, concerning Agoncillo’s class bias and other methodological issues. This
point is exemplified by the interesting exchange he had with his colleagues at UP;
see Zafra (1956). For an overview and analysis of the debates and other contro-
versies, see Hila (2001).
15 Realizing the futility of reformist efforts in Spain, Rizal returned to the Phil-
ippines and founded the La Liga Filipina on 3 July 1892. Three days later, he
was deported to Dapitan, and the Liga died a natural death shortly thereaf-
ter. On 7 July 1892, Bonifacio founded the Katipunan, in effect supplanting
the Liga.
16 Interview with an anonymized informant who served as a close aide to Marcos
and who wrote the memo that set off the Tadhana project, 23 February 2005,
Makati City.
17 Officially, the Martial Law did not last beyond a decade, but Marcos’s grip on
power did not ease, even after it was formally lifted in 1981. So, until Marcos was
removed from power in 1986, the Martial Law atmosphere reigned de facto.
18 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 February 2005, Makati City.
19 Marcos has noted that the unsatisfactory state of historical studies in the coun-
try owed much to the fact that ‘reconstruction of the past is still incomplete…
We get by with certain romantic generalisation about the past and about its rel-
evance to the contemporary times, but in fact whole scores and even centuries
of our history have not merited enough study and analysis from our scholars in
order to prove or disprove these conclusions’ (Marcos 1982b, 4).

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Quibuyen, Floro. 1998. “Towards a Radical Rizal.” Philippine Studies 46 (2): 151–183.
———. 1999. A Nation Aborted: Rizal, American Hegemony, and Philippine Nation-
alism. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.
Rafael, Vicente.  2000. “Patronage, Pornography, and Youth.” In White Love and
Other Essays, edited by Vicente Rafael, 122–161. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila
University Press.
Rempel, William. 1993. Delusions of a Dictator: The Mind of Marcos as Revealed in
His Secret Diaries. Boston, MA: Little, Brown.
Reyes, Portia.  2002. “Pantayong Pananaw and Bagong Kasaysayan in the New
Filipino Historiography: A History of Filipino Historiography as a History of
Ideas.” PhD Diss., University of Bremen.
Salazar, Zeus.  1974. “Ang Pagpapasakasaysayang Pilipino ng Nakaraang Pre-­
Ispaniko (The Filipino Historiography of the Pre-Hispanic Period).” In Kasay-
sayan: Diwa at Lawak (History: Ideas and Scope), edited by Zeus Salazar. Quezon
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———. 1983. “A Legacy of the Propaganda: The Tripartite View of Philippine His-
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edited by Zeus Salazar, 107–126. Cologne: Counselling Center for Filipinos, Cari-
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———. 1989. “Ang Historiograpiya ng Tadhana: Isang Malayang Paggunita-­
Panayam (The Historiography of Tadhana: A Free-flowing Recollection-­
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98  Political and historiographic contexts
———. 2000. “The Pantayo Perspective as a Discourse towards Kabihasnan.”
Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science (Now Asian Journal of Social Science),
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———. 1991. “Recent Perspectives on the Revolution.” In The Making of a Nation,
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Scott, William Henry. 1968. Prehispanic Source Materials for the Study of Philippine
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­Philippine Education Co.
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4 The making of Sejarah
Nasional Indonesia (SNI)

The idea of writing national history through a collective effort was con-
ceived rather early in Indonesia. Barely had the ashes of the war for in-
dependence against the Dutch (1945–1949) settled than a committee was
appointed in 1951 to undertake a history-writing project (Kartodirdjo 1975).
The committee consisted of some of the most respected scholars of the time:
Poerbatjaraka (1884–1964), Mohammad Yamin (1903–1962), Aria Hoesein
Djajadiningrat (1886–1960), and Gertrudes J. Resink (1911–1997). It is un-
clear why the plan did not materialize. The possible reasons for this, ac-
cording to Taufik Abdullah (1994), include that the scholars could not agree
on the concept of national history, they lacked the time to write a textbook
together, and they were riddled by academic or ideological incompatibili-
ties. Another proposal was put forward in 1957 during Prijono’s (1907–1969)
stint as Minister of Education, and a committee was formed in 1963 (Panitia
Seminar Sedjarah 1958; Zain 1976). Perhaps due to the strained political at-
mosphere during that time, however, nothing came out of this attempt either.
“The emergence of the Guided Democracy,” so Taufik Abdullah observes
“marked the waning of the pluralities of expressed ideas. The meaning and
understanding of history were no longer to be continuously searched for,
but rather something to be supplied by the ‘revolutionary’ nationalist re-
gime” (Abdullah 1975, 99). Only after the Second National History Semi-
nar (Seminar Sejarah Nasional II, hereafter SSN2) held on 26–29 August
1970 did concrete results eventuate. The product would be a six-volume opus
simply entitled National History of Indonesia (Sejarah Nasional Indonesia,
hereafter SNI).
This chapter narrates a story about the inception of the SNI. It clarifies
the context and the driving forces of the project. It also provides snapshots of
the implementation of the project with particular emphasis on the d ­ ynamics
of the relationship among the important figures. The final section focuses on
responses to the project. It will lay the groundwork for an in-depth investi-
gation of the context and the contents of SNI in the next chapter. The same
caveat that I specified in Chapter 2 applies here: what appears to be ‘merely’
gossip is an essential element in the discursive analysis of power relations
that underpinned the development and responses to SNI.
100  The making of SNI
Inception and driving forces
The resolutions adopted at the conclusion of the Second National History
Seminar (Seminar Sejarah Nasional, hereafter SSN2) in August 1970 spe-
cifically called for a history-writing project. This situation created the im-
pression that SNI was a product of a consensual decision among historians.
Evidence indicates, however, that several months before the SSN2, the Min-
ister of Education and Culture, Mashuri, had issued a memorandum (No.
0173/70) forming the Committee for the Writing of the Standard Book on
the National History of Indonesia. The letter stipulated that the book would
be based on Pancasila, that it could be used in the universities, and that it
could be utilized as the basis for writing textbooks for elementary and high
schools (Zain 1976).
Government operatives like Nugroho Notosusanto, who was regarded by
many as the New Order’s ‘official historian,’ had started laying the ground
for this project sometime in 1968 or 1969, over a year before SSN2. Nugroho
delivered a lecture sometime in late 1968 or early 1969 entitled “Indonesian
Historians and Indonesia’s History” at the Gadjah Mada University (Uni-
versitas Gadjah Mada, UGM). He convinced the audience that it was finally
time for Indonesian historians to write their own ‘standard’ national history
(Notosusanto 1969).
Historians in the audience were dubious about writing a national history
at that time. One of the key historians recalled that he shared with fellow
historians the feeling that they were not ready for it. In his assessment, the
experience and the abilities of the prospective members of the team were
by that time still ‘so uneven.’1 An observer who opted not to carry a by-line
published in a newspaper an article entitled “Welcoming the Second Na-
tional History Seminar” (Menjonsong Seminar Sedjarah Nasional Ke-II)
on 25 August 1970 in the newspaper Kompas concurred with this assess-
ment, claiming that the quality and quantity of output of Indonesian histo-
rians were still inadequate to produce a national history.
These assessments were not unwarranted. By 1970, the historical pro-
fession in Indonesia was still small and fledgling. There were, for instance,
only two Indonesians who had PhDs in History with Indonesia as their
expertise, and both were still fresh from overseas: Sartono Kartodirdjo
(1921–2007), who completed his PhD in 1966 in Amsterdam, and Taufik
Abdullah, who obtained his degree in 1970 from Cornell. A local university
would not produce the first homegrown PhD in History until 1977, when
Nugroho Notosusanto was conferred the degree by the University of Indo-
nesia (UI).
Despite skepticism by fellow historians, Nugroho was persistent and op-
timistic. In the text of the lecture he delivered in UGM, he forcefully argued
that without actually trying to write the national history, one could not say
that they were not yet ready. For too long, he lamented, Indonesian histo-
rians had been discussing philosophy and how should history be written.
 The making of SNI  101
It was the right time to do something concrete, he declared. Nugroho also
believed that the best way to learn and develop concepts and methods lays
in the process of actually writing history (Notosusanto 1969, 8–9). Over
the course of the exchanges between Nugroho and the skeptical schol-
ars, the key historian, Sartono Kartodirdjo, received a small note indicating
that the Ministry of Education had already agreed with the plan and that
the Ministry would fund the project. It was at that point that he acceded to
the proposal.2 Steadfast in his conviction, Nugroho won the day, as he often
did over the course of the project.
It is instructive to look at the contrasting backgrounds of the two impor-
tant figures in this story, Sartono Kartodirdjo and Nugroho Notosusanto.
Sartono is a towering figure in Indonesian history. He holds the distinction
of being known as Indonesia’s first professionally trained historian, having
obtained a BA degree and Doktorandus3 in History from UI in 1956. His
academic achievements were impressive, even by international standards.
He has a Master’s degree from Yale, which he completed under the men-
torship of Harry Benda in 1963, and a PhD from the University of Amster-
dam, which he gained in 1966 under the supervision of W.F. Wertheim. He
has a well-deserved international reputation for a number of his publica-
tions, including the well-acclaimed The Peasants’ Revolt of Banten in 1888
(Kartodirdjo 1966). He was the first recipient of the prestigious Harry J.
Benda Prize in Southeast Asian Studies, given in 1977. He dominated the
‘academic’ history landscape in Indonesia for decades. By the time he died
in 2007, almost blind but still sharp and lucid, his achievements, if not also
de facto influences, remained unsurpassed (Nursam 2008, 102–237; Vick-
ers 2007). To many among his peers in and outside of the country, he em-
bodies ‘scientific history’ as opposed to ‘politicized history’ (the origin and
local meaning of this dichotomy to be discussed in the next chapter), for
which much of Indonesian contemporary history-writing has been known
(Curaming 2003).
Nugroho stood in notable contrast. He used to be a literary figure in the
1950s, an author of short stories, before he decided to become a historian.
Academically, his credentials were less stellar than those of other Indone-
sian historians of his generation. Some observers, friends and critics alike,
would tend to harp back to his literary background, his not being a ‘pure
or true historian’ (sejarawan murni), for his putative ‘sins against history.’4
These ‘sins’ allude to his well-known reputation as supposedly an apologist
for or an official historian of the New Order regime. He went to the School
of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in 1960 on a Rockefeller fellowship,
purportedly to do a Master’s degree in Philosophy of History, but he left
and returned to Indonesia in 1962 without completing the degree.5 While
he went on to become the first Indonesian to obtain a PhD in History from
a local university, from the UI in 1977, the circumstances surrounding the
conferment of the degree raised some questions on its merit, as the following
stories would indicate.
102  The making of SNI
A cautionary note is in order before I proceed. The stories put together
here were gathered from my interviews with participants of SNI who
belonged to both camps. Admittedly, they include gossip and hearsay.
Notwithstanding the limitations of this kind of sources, they help in estab-
lishing the discursive frame and in illustrating the dynamics of power rela-
tions between Nugroho and his critics. The use of these oral data lies less
in their truth value or accuracy (without implying that they cannot be ac-
curate) than in how they constitute Nugroho’s and his critics’ reputations,
both positive and negative. After all, these ‘perceived truths’ influenced the
opinions and the behavior that Nugroho’s defenders and critics developed
towards him.
Sometime in 1977, after completing a draft of his PhD thesis, Nugroho
approached Sartono as the main supervisor and asked that he (Nugroho)
be promoted to PhD. After examining the draft, Sartono realized that it
was not even ready for submission. Further work was necessary. So, he de-
clined the request for defense. He insisted that revisions had to be made
before he could approve the thesis for submission and oral defense. Subse-
quent events, however, indicated that Nugroho did not want to revise. After
quite some time, the Department of History at UI notified Sartono that
there would be a change in the composition of Nugroho’s thesis committee.
Harsja Bachtiar, a sociology professor at UI who was also affiliated with
history, was appointed as the new main supervisor. This meant that Sartono
was being demoted as the co-promoter or co-supervisor. The promotion day
was set, but mysteriously, Sartono was not properly informed. He asked the
UI personnel for the venue, date, and time of the promotion, but he did not
receive a response. Meanwhile, Sartono had to go to Istanbul for a confer-
ence. While he was away, Nugroho’s promotion was carried out and he was
conferred the PhD degree not long after.6
That a plot may have been hatched may be inferred by putting together
this story and some relevant information from an informant who was
close to Nugroho. This informant said that some people at UI and the His-
tory Department had interpreted Sartono’s refusal to promote Nugroho
as an indication of brewing professional jealousy on the part of Sartono
and between the UGM and UI Departments of History. During that time,
Sartono was the only Professor of History in the whole of Indonesia, and
he was with UGM, a rival university of UI. Some scholars at UI thought
Sartono was being unreasonable in preventing Nugroho from getting a
PhD, to the continued disadvantage of the UI Department of History vis-
à-vis UGM’s.7
The same informant also attested that Harsja Bachtiar gave Nugroho’s
thesis the lowest passing grade, just enough for Nugroho to be conferred
the degree. Out of surprise, this informant asked Harsja Bachtiar, “Why
did you give Nugroho the lowest passing grade. You’re his promoter. A pro-
moter usually gives the highest grade?” “It was what the thesis deserved,”
 The making of SNI  103
he quoted Bachtiar’s response. This low mark suggests that there were in-
deed problems with the thesis and that Sartono was, after all, not being
unreasonable in declining Nugroho’s request for a promotion.
Not long after being conferred a PhD degree, Nugroho became, in 1980,
the first Indonesian professor of history at UI and the second in Indonesia
after Sartono (Kompas 1980).8 He was a dominant figure in the Department,
and his influences cast a long shadow over it, even after he died in 1985.9 His
influences extended beyond the academe and into society at large. Observ-
ers credited him for popularizing history and making it more accessible to
the public, with measures he undertook as Minister of Education and as a
leading historian at the Armed Forces History Center (Pusat Sejarah ABRI;
thereafter History Center) (Suryanegara 1985). He was appointed to lead
the History Centre in 1964 and began almost two decades of loyal service
to the military (McGregor 2007, 60).10 His military service formally ended
only when he was installed as Rector of UI in 1983. While in the military,
he maintained his ties with UI as a Professor of History, even at some point
acting as the Head of the Department. Many are convinced that his devoted
and loyal service to the military earned him military commendations and
apparently political appointments in the government as well.11 On the other
hand, these government appointments made some people doubtful of his
integrity as an intellectual. He is described, for example, as “one of the most
important propagandists of the New Order regime” (McGregor 2007, 39).
As far as orientation in writing history is concerned, he favored the conven-
tional chronological-narrative approach with heavy emphasis on military
and political aspects. This point will be discussed further in the next chap-
ter. A lengthy treatment of Nugruho and Sartono is necessary to lay the
ground for understanding the contents of, and dynamics within, the SNI
project.
A confluence of factors encouraged fellow scholars, despite their initial
skepticism, to undertake the project. At the broadest and most fundamental
level, the nationalist atmosphere provided a template that brought all the
participants together, as in the case of Tadhana. With the perceived colo-
nial orientation of existing history books, the scholar-participants shared a
desire to contribute towards decolonization of the ‘colonized history.’ Be-
cause it was a nationalistic undertaking, they all believed that they were
doing something good which they could be proud of. They believed that the
undertaking was a historic act; they were not just writing history, they were
making it at the same time, which was what in fact a news item in the news-
paper Sinar Harapan on 3 September 1970 affirmed.
Beyond the limited circle of scholars, support for the project came from
various segments of the society. Press coverage of the 1970 national history
seminar, for instance, focused heavily on the supposed main objective of
the conference. which was to take stock of research in history with the view
of producing a national history (Siswadhi 1970). This level of interest was
104  The making of SNI
not surprising considering that decolonization efforts in social, economic,
and political spheres were mounting in Indonesia as elsewhere in Asia and
Africa, and history was seen as among the most important areas that badly
needed it. Even Sartono, who doubted the timing and the chance of suc-
cess of the project, concurred, and he was persuaded to lead the project
because of its nationalist importance. In his opening remarks in the con-
ference, he had noted that there had not yet been a coordinated effort to
write a national (for example, non-colonial) history and that the existing
history textbooks were ‘chaotic’ and afflicted by too much commercialism
­(Sinar Harapan 1970). He also noted that Indonesia was being left behind
by neighboring countries in its efforts to write national history. Appar-
ently, this realization came from his participation in the International As-
sociation of Historians of Asia (IAHA) conference, held in Kuala Lumpur
in 1968.
From the political standpoint, the 1970s was auspicious for the Indone-
sian state to undertake a history-writing project. At this time, it was going
through a period of political consolidation after the tumultuous 1960s. One
way to consolidate power and legitimize itself was by sponsoring a history-­
writing project.
It was not clear whether it was Nugroho’s personal initiative to undertake
the project, or it was an order that came from the higher authorities. Ac-
cording to Katharine McGregor, the project was undertaken at the behest
of the military (2007, 153). The establishment of the History Center in 1964
and the history-writing project it undertook after this to counter the efforts
of the PKI (or affiliated groups) to write a history that elides the shameful
role of the PKI in the Madiun Uprising in 1948 lends some credence to this
view (Ibid., 55–59). Beyond this piece of information, however, there is no
available proof of the direct role of the military. In the 1970s, the SSN2 and
its supposed brainchild, SNI, was widely understood to be a product of
the collective decision among historians. As already noted, Nugroho was
already toying with the idea, and he began in late 1968 or early 1969 to
convince groups of scholars who would eventually form the backbone of
the project.
In an interview with journalists in 1976, Nugroho recalled that prior to the
idea of forming a team to write national history, an idea was floated to have
a nation-wide history-writing contest whereby worthy entries would form
various chapters in the projected book. After due consideration, however,
the members of the core group realized that entries to the contest would not
guarantee the quality of the prospective book. It was then that the option to
form a team of writers was taken up instead (Zain 1976). The shape of the
team readily followed the six panels in the conference: pre-history, ancient
period (Hindu-Buddhist period), Islamic kingdoms (1500–1800 AD), colo-
nial period, national awakening, and the Japanese period up to the New
Order. The heads of the various panels became the respective editors of the
six volumes.12 For details, see Table 4.1.
 The making of SNI  105
Table 4.1  Outline of SNI 1975 and Members of the Team

Volumes Coverage Members of the Team

I Prehistory (Prasejarah) Soejono (editor), T, Asmar. D.D. Bintarti,

Hadimulmuno, T. Yacob, I.M. Sutaba
II Hindu-Buddhist Period Buchori (Editor) Bambang Sumadio, Ayat
(I M-1500 M) (Zaman Rochaedi, Edi Sedyawati, Hadimulyo,
Hindu–Buda) Wuryantoro, Hasan Djafar, Oei Soan
Nio, M.M. Soekarto, K. Admodjo,
Soejatmi Satari
III Islamic Kingdoms Uka Tjandrasasmita (Editor), Hassan
(Kerajaan Islam) Ambarry, A.B. Lapian, M.P.B. Manus,
(1500–1700) Sagimun M.D., Tujimah
IV 18th–19th century (Abad Sutjipto (Editor), Djoko Suryo, Sartono
18th–19th) Kartodirdjo, Thee Kian Wie
V National Awakening Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo (Editor),
(Kebangkitan Nasional) Deliar Noer, Taufik Abdullah, Yusmar
(1900–1942) Basri
VI Japanese-New Order Nugroho Notosusanto (Editor), Ariwiadi,
Periods (Jaman Jepang- Emilia B. Wiesmar, M. Marbun,
Orde Baru) (1942–1970s) Rochmani Santoso, Saleh As’ad
Djamhari

Source: Information culled from Kartodirdjo, Poesponegoro and Notosusanto (eds) (1975)
6 Volumes.

The team was headed by three general editors: Sartono Kartodirdjo,

Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro, and Nugroho Notosusanto. According to
Taufik Abdullah, they merely followed the hierarchy of officers at that time
in the Masyarakat Sejarawan Indonesia (Association of Historians of Indo-
nesia; henceforth MSI) to determine the main editors.13 Since Sartono was
the Chair, he became the General Editor; Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro
was the First Vice Chair, and Nugroho was the Second Vice Chair—thus,
they were assigned general editors as well. Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro
did not have an active role in the project. In my conversation with another
informant, he recalled that Merwati was supposed to act as style editor, but
“she didn’t do anything.” She was already in her 60s during that time, and
her area was European history.14 If Sartono earned his place in the leader-
ship for his academic reputation and Merwati for seniority, one may specu-
late that Nugroho was assigned to the core group as an acknowledgment of
his important position both in the government and in academia.

Implementation and dynamics

The available details about the earliest stage of the project are at best frag-
mentary. Djoko Suryo (1939–), who was one of the young lecturers in the
Department of History of UGM and a close associate of Sartono, had the
opportunity to observe Sartono up close when he was conceptualizing
106  The making of SNI
the project. He was the first to see the designs of the project because he
typed the manuscript, being Sartono’s assistant.15 He witnessed Sartono
meticulously drawing up a grand plan, from identifying the general ques-
tions and specific themes to justifying the perspective, drawing up periodi-
zation, identifying the methods of processing materials, and projecting the
substance of the written output. “(A)rguments, theories and perspectives,
everything was there!” It was “very, very idealistic.”16
Toward the end of 1970, the whole plan worked out by Sartono was com-
pleted.17 A few meetings were then held among the members of the core
group (volume editors and general editors) as well as within each volume-­
team to formalize the division of labor and to discuss the suggested out-
line and overall framework (Sagimun 1972). The first task was to survey
and gather available published materials for the respective periods. Mean-
while, Soedjatmoko, then Indonesian ambassador to the United States and
an enthusiastic supporter of the project, recommended to Sartono that an
intensive six-month preparation overseas be undertaken.18 Through the
intercession of Soedjatmoko, funding was secured from the Ford Foun-
dation to allow Sartono, Nugroho, and the six volume editors to go to the
United States and the Netherlands. The objectives were to undertake a
‘crash course’ on various aspects of social science theories and historical
methodologies as well as to gather materials. The trip materialized in No-
vember 1971. Sartono planned for the group to revise or refine the frame-
work after the intensive training overseas (Kartodirdjo 1972). Prior to the
group’s departure, Sartono went to the United States alone to look for an
appropriate university with which they could affiliate. He visited Cornell,
Wisconsin, Yale, and Berkeley, among others. He finally chose University
of California, Berkeley because the weather in Berkeley was more suitable
to the members of the group, most of whom have not been overseas yet. In
addition, in Sartono’s assessment, Berkeley’s Department of History was
very strong in social history, the approach very much preferred by him
(Ford Foundation 2003).
Almost every working day, from November 1971 to March or April of
the following year, they devoted their mornings and afternoons to reading.
They usually spent evenings on discussions among themselves and with his-
torians from Berkeley. With generous support from the Ford Foundation,
each person was able to buy around 20 to 30 books. The topics they covered
included the social science approach to history-writing, social science the-
ories and methods, recent research abroad about Indonesia, and the expe-
rience of other nations in writing national history (Tjandrasasmita 1972).
They had 99 sessions in all.19 He was quoted by one the informants as saying
that he had “never read so many books in so short a time.”20 Others, how-
ever, were overwhelmed by the training. Trying to learn so much in such a
short time could result in an overload.21 In April 1972, the team moved to
the Netherlands primarily to gather materials. In early May of 1972, after
 The making of SNI  107
staying in the Netherlands for a month, the team went back to Indonesia
(Ford Foundation 2003, 123).
Perhaps as a portent of what was to come, the team encountered difficul-
ties in this early stage of the project. The preparations in Berkeley did not
go as smoothly as Sartono had hoped. Nugroho, for instance, stayed only
for two months because, as Head of the History Center, he had other heavy
responsibilities (Ford Foundation 2003, 123). Buchori, the editor of Vol. 2,
for unspecified reasons, stayed for two to three months in Cornell instead
of joining the group in Berkeley. Another member of the team joined only
in the Netherlands, according to Surjomihardjo (1987b). Abdurrachman
Surjomihardjo, who was the editor of Vol. 5, offered a version of the story
slightly different from Sartono’s. He said that of the six volume editors, only
three managed to join Sartono for the whole stretch in the United States.
One only stayed for a month (apparently Nugroho), another (possibly Bu-
chori) joined only at the fourth month in the United States, and the last one
joined only in the Netherlands. In Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo’s view,
writing over a dozen years later, these instances foreshadowed the formida-
ble challenges the team would face (1987b).
From 6 to 10 June 1972, about a month after returning from overseas,
members of various groups attended a seminar-workshop in Tugu, Bogor.
At this workshop, each group reported their progress as well as the problems
they had so far encountered.22 Sartono also discussed the multi-­dimensional
approach to history and how this might be applied in the writing of the
six-volume national history book (Kartodirdjo 1972). The succeeding ple-
nary meetings were held in Bogor, Puncak, and Jakarta, and were held at
least once every six months, coinciding with the semestral break from teach-
ing in the university.23 For each group, meetings were held more frequently
as needed (Sagimun 1972).
Taufik Abdullah recalled that the plenary sessions involved intense scru-
tiny of each team’s plans for their respective volumes. He recounted that
having just returned with a PhD from Cornell (in his words, “fresh from
the oven”), he was eager to display his knowledge. He earned the annoy-
ance or fear (or both) of several in the group because of his rather con-
frontational questions and stinging criticisms. He particularly remembered
his unforgiving critiques of Nugroho’s presentation, wherein the latter pro-
posed an eschatological or predetermined emplotment of Indonesian his-
tory. ­Nugroho, Taufik racalled, even proposed that the group should decide
on whether to regard Sukarno as a traitor or a hero! Admitting a lack of
wisdom owing to youthful impudence, Taufik remembered lambasting Nu-
groho and reminding him that empirical data should decide the conclusion,
not the other way around. Nugroho, he surmised, was deeply hurt by this,
being humiliated in front of the whole team, including several of his young
associates at the History Center. Taufik speculated that Nugroho might
have never forgiven him for what he did.24 One of Nugroho’s close aides at
108  The making of SNI
the History Center, who himself was present during the workshop, said that
although Nugroho was not the type of person who divulged what he felt, it
was very possible that he might have indeed been offended by what Taufik
did, as narrated above.25 Djoko Suryo’s account was consistent with Taufik
Abdullah’s. He described plenary discussions as exhilarating intellectual ex-
periences, especially for someone as young and as eager to learn as he was.
He also could not forget how his contemporaries who were assigned to Vol. 6
under Nugroho and who were working at the History Center, had to endure
‘panic attacks’ whenever Taufik was around to witness their presentations.
Djoko recalled Taufik as always giving biting criticisms or raising difficult
questions. While the rest of the team pitied them, the reactions of Nugroho’s
protégés were also a constant source of amusement for the group.26
The membership of each group was based mainly on the area of expertise.
Each volume editor, however, seemed to have enjoyed the freedom to decide
who to invite to become part of his team. Nugroho, for instance, chose to
employ his protégés from the History Center, who were all young and rather
inexperienced. Against the backdrop of high hopes and expectations for the
project, no one voiced suspicion, if there was any, that Nugroho’s choice
may be part of an undisclosed political motive behind the project. Members
of the team were too engrossed with their own tasks to be concerned about
whatever political motive there might be behind the composition of the Vol.
6 team. Suspicions would arise only later on.27
Most members of the team I interviewed claimed that they had freedom
while writing their respective assignments. Under no circumstances, they
emphasized, were any government officials to watch over the proceedings,
nor were there guidelines from the government as to what they were permit-
ted or discouraged to write about, or how specific events should be inter-
preted.28 This freedom, however, seemed to apply only to volumes in which
the New Order regime had a remote interest. As far as Vol. 6 was concerned,
it appeared not to be the case. One of the members of Vol. 6 team con-
firmed that they wrote the volume in compliance with a “military mission,”
which specifically was “to shear (the nation of) Sukarno.”29 Believing that
it was only by doing so that the nation could move on, the regime wanted to
cleanse the collective national memory of anything good that Sukarno had
done or stood for (more on this point in the next chapter).
The framework drawn up by Sartono was based on a ‘multi-dimensional’
approach to history-writing. Sartono pioneered this approach in Indone-
sia, and for decades, it has been considered as a methodological ‘holy grail’
among emerging academic historians. The framework, which I shall discuss
in detail in the next chapter, was explained thoroughly during the plenary
meetings. However, as actual output indicated, it was not, or could not be,
faithfully followed by many members of the team.
There may be three reasons why the framework was not satisfactorily car-
ried out. The first possible reason was that, in terms of academic prepara-
tions, Sartono was well ahead of other members of the team. Not only was
 The making of SNI  109
the multi-dimensional approach demanding—it was also very unfamiliar
to most other members who were either absolute neophytes or were reared
in the conventional narrative approach to history. It must be noted that by
1970, it was barely 15 years since history departments in Indonesia had be-
gun turning out graduates of history. In terms of actual experience, there-
fore, even in conventional narrative or antiquarian history-writing, the pool
of intellectual resources was very limited. The survey of historical works up
to the 1980s undertaken by Adrian Lapian and Sedijono corroborates this
assessment (Lapian and Sedijono 1992).
The second possible reason was Sartono’s personal leadership style. Be-
cause his demeanor was so gentle, soft-spoken, diffident, and unassertive, he
did not or could not bear to push hard enough for the implementation of the
framework.30 Perhaps, upon seeing his fears and his doubts of the overall
readiness and capabilities of the team being realized, he felt helpless about
it and just let things be.
The third possible reason is political, and this especially applies to Vol. 6.
As noted above, one of the members of the Vol. 6 team, Nugroho’s very
close aide, has admitted that since their primary purpose in writing Vol. 6
was to fulfill what he called a ‘military mission,’ the narrative approach
would serve the job better than Sartono’s multi-dimensional or structural
approach. With a narrative approach, the messages would have a better
chance of being understood by the target audience.31 The move to expunge
the succeeding edition, starting with the 1984 edition, of the use of the struc-
tural approach in favor of the narrative approach, supports this information
(details to be discussed in the next chapter).
Other problems plagued the project. One was leadership accountability.
While Sartono was supposed to be the main editor, Nugroho was, in fact,
running the project. In setting timetables, for instance, Nugroho earned the
ire of some members, even eliciting mutinous reactions from them when,
for example, he proceeded to print unfinished manuscripts. He justified his
decision by implying that since the deadlines have been moved back twice
or thrice already, those who remained unfinished had lost the moral author-
ity to complain. He claimed that there should be no problem as the books
would undergo revisions later on.32 (See also Zain 1976.) It seemed that for
Nugroho, the priority was to complete the project as soon as possible.
Some details of this incident should be spelled out to allow us a glimpse
of the dynamics between Nugroho and the other members of the team. In
the article based on an interview with Nugroho in Sinar Harapan on 1 Oc-
tober 1980, he claimed that the original deadline for manuscripts was set
for June 1973. Because a number of groups were still not finished, it was
decided in the last plenary meeting (possibly also in June 1973) to move the
deadline to September 1973. Nugroho also claimed that in this meeting, it
was decided, among other things, that he would be in-charge of prepara-
tion for publication. The main duty of the person-in-charge was to finalize
the drafts which were supposed to have already been examined by Sartono
110  The making of SNI
(for scholarly aspect) and Merwati (for writing style) (Sinar Harapan 1980b).
Such a plan was not carried out. Sartono was not given a chance to examine
the manuscripts, and Marwati Poesponegoro did not style-edit them.33 By
September certain groups were still not finished, and so the deadline was
pushed back once again to April 1974. By then, however, there remained an
unfinished group (the Vol. 5 group). Nugroho averred that on 8 July 1974,
Sartono, being the overall editor, decided that printing should proceed after
31 July 1974. Any new manuscript or any revision in old manuscripts sub-
mitted after that date would no longer be accepted.34
Did Sartono in fact give his approval to publish the still unpolished, even
unfinished manuscripts? He was embarrassed to admit that he could not
prevent Nugroho from doing what he wanted.35 What Sartono personally
wanted was to, after finishing all the manuscripts, assign three persons or
more to proofread, edit, and style-edit them before printing. He also thought
that in cases of historically controversial questions, they had to offer alter-
native conclusions. On both counts, Nugroho did not assent and did as he
pleased.36
This incident showed who was in control. Anyone who knows Sartono
can infer that his diffident personality may have much to do with this.
One might speculate that had his personality been at least as forceful or as
straightforward as Nugroho’s, he could have put up a stronger resistance.
On the other hand, Nugroho’s standing in the military-dominated scheme
of things during the New Order, not to mention that the project was possibly
his initiative under the behest of the military, exerted a strong influence on
how others dealt with him. Sartono’s subservience boded ill for the stance
of the scholarly community that he represented vis-à-vis the state power
that Nugroho signified, to follow the usual dichotomous positioning. The
reference above to Sartono’s type of personality gains credence if we look
at how the stronger-willed Taufik Abdullah and Abdurrachman Surjomi-
hardjo fared in their encounters with Nugroho.
Nugroho’s decision to print unfinished manuscripts, in particular, Vol. 5,
which was under the editorship of Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo, puzzled
many (for example, Taufik Abdullah, Sartono Kartodirdjo, Adrian Lapian,
and Djoko Suryo). On the other hand, such behavior was also well under-
stood by others who knew Nugroho up close. He was said to have justified
his decision by claiming that the time and money allotted by the sponsor of
the project, the Ministry of Education, had already been well exceeded. He
seemed to have felt embarrassed about the delays for which he held himself
personally responsible to the Minister.37 Nugroho was known to be faithful
to his promises, and hard worker as he was, he demanded that results be de-
livered on time. Since he believed that the deadline had been moved a number
of times already, he did not think it should not be transgressed anymore.38
The trouble was, Nugroho’s notion of a ‘deadline’ seemed not shared by
others in the group.39 When Taufik Abdullah’s group, for instance, failed to
meet the ‘absolute’ deadline, Nugroho sent the manuscripts to the printer,
 The making of SNI  111
and they were shocked upon hearing that the volume had already been
printed.40 Taufik Abdullah joined Abdurrachman Surjomiharjo in protest-
ing at not being consulted in the publication of their volume. What further
enraged them was that the chapter written for Vol. 5 by their colleague De-
liar Noer was unceremoniously removed from the printed version. It turned
out that this was due to his critical remarks about the New Order regime
that incensed Suharto.41 As a consequence, Deliar Noer was expelled from
the teacher’s college, where he was serving as a professor, in addition to
being banished from the project. Combining their sympathy for their friend
with their resentment for Nugroho’s rash judgment, Taufik and Abdurrach-
man both withdrew from the project and renounced any responsibility for
Vol. 5.42 Their contributions, however, were not taken out, and the succeed-
ing printing (the one that actually circulated widely in public) carried the
name of Yusmar Basri, giving the impression that he was the real editor and
writer of Vol. 5, whereas in fact he was not. Yusmar Basri was one of Nugro-
ho’s young protégés at the History Center.
That Taufik and Abdurrachman resigned in protest indicated that they
would not tolerate Nugroho’s transgression of their principles. They stood
by their desire to protect their integrity as scholars and individuals. That
Nugroho, however, was undeterred, had his way, made use of their con-
tributions under somebody else’s name, and got away with it indicated the
stronger constellation of power that emboldened him to act as he did. That
it would take another five years before, in 1980, Abdurrachman could retal-
iate against Nugroho in the open—via newspaper articles—and give voice
to the hitherto muted contempt he had for the latter suggested his relatively
weaker position vis-à-vis Nugroho.43
Nugroho’s impudence had yet to peak. When a later edition of the SNI
appeared sometime between 1980 and 1983,44 only the names Nugroho No-
tosusanto and Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro were printed as editors on
the cover of the books. Sartono’s name was taken out. Rumors circulated
that he, following Taufik and Abdurrachman, had also withdrawn from the
project.45 Both vocal and silent critics of Nugroho’s handling of the SNI
applauded Sartono’s supposed ‘withdrawal.’ They speculated that he could
no longer bear to feel responsible for the books that they felt in many ways
did not uphold scholarly standards (Atmakusumah 1992; Soeroto 1980). As
a fairly logical explanation, it was no wonder it persisted as a widely upheld
truth. Observers such as Syamdani (2001), who was writing in 2001, referred
back to that incident to emphasize the very problematic character of the
SNI. Even historians who were still alive (at the time of the interview in
2005) and were closest to Sartono, such as Djoko Suryo, Adrian Lapian, and
Taufik Abdullah, did not have any idea of what really happened.
It turned out that Sartono never withdrew, but he was removed.46 He kept
quiet about it for so long, he said, because nobody asked him before I did.
Actually, sometime in 1987, a journalist from the newspaper Kompas asked
him why he withdrew from the SNI project. He politely evaded the question
112  The making of SNI
(see Kompas 1987). Perhaps, he did not like to make an issue out of it, or he
did not want to be pitied. The reason for his removal appeared to be related
to his suggestion to Nugroho to not put the names of the three main editors
in the front cover, creating the impression that they were the authors of the
volume. In his view, it was more ethically appropriate to indicate the names
of the volume editors and writers in front, while the names of the main edi-
tors could be placed inside. Nugroho did not agree.47 When Sartono stood
by his position, Nugroho removed his name in the subsequent editions with-
out any explanation or warning whatsoever.48
These incidents, however, ought not to be interpreted as a brazen display
of power on the part of Nugroho. In the world where Nugroho, Sartono, and
other protagonists existed, there were subtle ways to smooth out the rough
edges of the power play. In fact, despite what Nugroho did, bitter critics
such as Taufik Abdullah and the mildly critical Sartono described him as a
‘likeable’ or ‘good person.’49 It would thus be inaccurate to depict Nugroho
as a rough, power-wielding individual who would flaunt his power at every
turn. Perhaps his conduct, sometimes at the expense of ethical principles,
suggests that he felt lacking in power and that he was in pursuit of more of it.
It is pertinent to address where he stood in the topologies of powers during
that time.
Taking the lead from a statement of his adjutant, Nugroho had a mil-
itary mission to accomplish.50 Instances cited above thus may be under-
stood as suggestive of his determination to overcome all possible obstacles
to accomplish the ‘mission’ and complete it as quickly as possible.51 One
may speculate that his efforts to railroad the publication of the manu-
scripts and his refusal to subject them to a thorough editing could mean
that he was concerned not only about the time (deadline) but also about
the content of the books. He seemed especially careful not to subject Vol.
6 to scrutiny by other members of the team. That could also be an impor-
tant reason why he rejected Sartono’s plan to assign three or more proof-
readers and editors, through whom all manuscripts should pass before
printing. One of Nugroho’s close friends recalled that he asked Nugroho
why he published Vol. 5 ahead of the rest while it was still unfinished. He
quoted Nugroho as replying, “It’s alright! It’s (already) good!” He seemed
convinced that the volume was already suitable and that he wanted to show
the people, the Ministry of Education, especially, that a quality output was
soon forthcoming from the project. Considering that rigor or “accuracy
was not one of (Nugroho’s) strong points,” such a judgment on his part
seemed unsurprising.52
Another possible reason rested in the dynamics between Nugroho and
the members of the Vol. 5 team. One close to him speculated that Nugroho
might have suspected Taufik and Abdurrachman of deliberately delaying
the project. Afraid of the impact of delays on the overall success of his
brainchild, Nugroho launched what amounted to a pre-emptive strike by
publishing the volume hastily.53 When the two were enraged and withdrew,
 The making of SNI  113
Nugroho averted a potential crisis (of accountability for Vol. 5) by naming
Yusmar Basri as the volume editor/author. A prevailing perception among
members of the team was that if any volume was ready for publication at
that time, it was Vol. 1, not Vol. 5.54
Possibly, a combination of these considerations prompted Nugroho’s ac-
tions. However, once we examine in the next chapter the contents of the
books, we will be in better position to decide. At this point, what is impor-
tant is to underline that Nugroho, aside from being a historian, regarded
himself as a soldier who sought recognition for being good and dutiful
(McGregor 2007, 55–58).

Reactions
Despite the tumultuous episodes involving some members, the project was
completed and officially launched on 15 December 1975. Apparently elated
at the completion of the project, Nugroho Notosusanto declared that it con-
stituted a ‘national pride’ and that it proved beyond doubt that Indonesians
could write their own history (Zain 1976). He also proclaimed that SNI was
the best Indonesian history yet written, as Kompas reported on 19 March
1976. As if to sharpen further the significance of the occasion, he juxtaposed
the publication of the SNI with what he called the ‘failure’ of the two previ-
ous attempts during the Sukarno period (Zain 1976).
The importance given by the government to the project was evident in
the ceremony held on 18 March 1976, wherein the books were formally
presented to President Suharto. The event bannered the headlines of major
dailies the following day. It was also televised nationwide via the govern-
ment television, the Televisi Republik Indonesia (Republic of Indonesia
Television) TVRI (Kompas 1976). In attendance during the formal pres-
entation were the Minister for Education and Culture, Sjarif Thayeb, and
the three main editors, along with each volume’s respective editors (Sis-
wadhi, Leirissa, and Atmakusumah 1976). On this occasion, Suharto re-
iterated his call for increased attention to the teaching of national history
in schools. SNI was declared by Nugroho, the Minister, and the President
alike as a standard reference text of Indonesian national history (Kompas
1976; Zain 1976).
Notably excluded in the immediate press coverage was Sartono’s categor-
ical pronouncement in his preface to the books that “none among the mem-
bers of the team regards this book as a standard, far from it” ­(Kartodirdjo
1975, viii). Actually, the question of whether to consider the SNI a stand-
ard work was raised in the early stages of the project. Uka Tjandrasasmita
noted in his paper for the Tugu workshop in 1972 the problematic char-
acter of the term ‘standard.’ He recalled that in their discussion with for-
eign experts in Berkeley and the Netherlands, it was repeatedly raised. He
urged a reconsideration of the intention to consider it a standard work
(Tjandrasasmita 1972).
114  The making of SNI
Sometime later, two journalists, Atmakusumah (1976) and B.M. Diah
(1976), took note of Sartono’s pronouncement. Like a call in the wilderness,
however, their voices were ignored amidst the obedience of the media and
the public school system to government directives regarding the SNI. The
injunction lasted all throughout the New Order, even beyond. The SNI was
officially (mainly symbolically) withdrawn only in 2002, when the govern-
ment could no longer resist the mounting public clamor.
That the government conferred on the SNI the status of the “standard
history book” and maintained it for decades notwithstanding its shortcom-
ings may be considered an act of political power trying to define historical
knowledge. The crudity of this move did not escape some observers in In-
donesia, but, as with Sartono’s pronouncement, their criticisms could only
find limited support among small segments of the population. It would take
a long time, and gradual little steps, before sufficient pressures built up to
undermine the status of the SNI as official history.
Hardly had the books entered public circulation when, barely three weeks
after their presentation to Suharto, the SNI began its travails in the hands
of critics. B.M. Diah, a well-known journalist and owner of Merdeka, one
of the national dailies in Indonesia during that time, launched the first ma-
jor salvo. He wrote a passionate and lengthy critique of the books in his
newspaper. Practically all my informants readily remembered Diah’s piece,
at least vaguely, which suggests the lasting impression it left on the read-
ing public. In the article, B.M. Diah lambasted the SNI for several reasons.
First, according to him, it was grossly biased against Sukarno. Second,
Diah bewailed that contrary to its purported aim of writing a truly Indone-
sian history, significant parts of it remained largely dominated by “Western
viewpoints” and filled with Western sources. Third, the historical method-
ology was inadequately employed. He even went as far as calling for the
withdrawal of the book from circulation (Diah 1976). The reasons for these
criticisms will be discussed further in the next chapter in conjunction with
the overall historiographic and political contexts. At this point, it is impor-
tant to note one thing. Diah keenly observed that the biased treatment of
Sukarno in Vol. 6 cannot seem to be accounted for by a simple problem of
innocent subjectivity on the part of the writers, Nugroho specifically. Diah
suspected that it emanated from a more deeply felt desire to assert one’s
personal beliefs at the expense of methodological imperatives. Diah seemed
to be hinting at the position of Nugroho in the scheme of things in Indonesia
and implied that there was nothing innocent or accidental in the treatment
of Sukarno.
In June 1976, Atmakusumah wrote a mildly critical review of the SNI for
Kompas. This review prefigured a more expansive review article which would
appear in Prisma, a periodic magazine, two months later. He identified var-
ious editorial weaknesses of the book. These included the notable absence
of illustrations or photos in some parts and inappropriate, misplaced, or
unlabelled photos in others; numerous typographical errors; inconsistent
 The making of SNI  115
terminologies; and inappropriate layout. More important, however, was his
observation that many of the SNI’s controversial assertions were haphaz-
ardly formulated, without sufficient effort to provide evidence, much less
critical evaluation of competing possibilities. Another was that the authors
of Vol. 6 wrote as if they were journalists, in a hurry to finish a deadline
and delivering information that they subconsciously ‘knew’ to be good only
for the day. Atmakusumah wondered what could be driving the authors to
be in such a hurry. That the entire project was finished in four years was
an extraordinary feat, he mused. He speculated that the authors (especially
referring to the Vol. 6 team) perhaps wanted to reconstruct recent history
while evidence, both written and oral, was still fresh; soon, such evidence
would be lost forever (Atmakusumah 1976).
Two months later, a review appeared in Prisma written by the trio of
Siswadhi, Leirissa, and Atmakusumah (1976). It was subdued and po-
litely appreciative although forthright about some of SNI’s notable weak-
nesses. Corroborating many of Atmakusumah’s observations cited above,
they pinpointed the weaknesses as follows: (1) editorial inconsistencies and
problems, such as absences or faults in documentation; (2) contradictory
interpretations; (3) one-sided interpretation or interpretations based on
highly selective treatment of evidence; (4) apparent absence of an overriding
theoretical and unifying framework; and (5) grossly inadequate research on
some periods. The reviewers were invariably quick to forgive the authors for
these lapses, saying that this was the first attempt and that revisions would
follow as promised by the authors. The title of the review is quite interest-
ing: “Buku Babon Sejarah Nasional Indonesia: Objektivitas yang Ideal?”
(“Standard Text of National History of Indonesia: Ideal Objectivity?”) The
question mark (after the word ‘objectivity’) makes one wonder what lay be-
neath the circumspect and appreciative tone of the reviewers. It does not
categorically uphold Diah’s biting critique, but it obviously made an impact
on the reviewers, especially Atmakusumah, who did the review of the con-
troversial Vol. 6.
In November 1976, Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo published the first in
a series of critiques of SNI in Kompas. Such critiques would not abate until
the late 1980s when he died. While this first salvo was much milder than
what he wrote later in the 1980s, it gave a foretaste of what was to come. He
noted, for instance, the irregular circumstances surrounding the ‘birth’ of
the SNI and alluded to broken goodwill and ethical norms that were trans-
gressed in the process. He also quoted an unnamed historian who was sup-
posed to have used a metaphor of a defective baby (bayi yang cacat) to refer
to the SNI.55 What was more, he did not hold back, saying that it was just
a draft and that the word ‘standard’ was a very smug way of describing it
(Surjomihardjo 1976).
In the succeeding two decades, from 1977 to 1997, the SNI occasionally
figured in the media, usually coinciding with the announcement of the plan
to revise it or a new edition came out.56 They also cropped up around the
116  The making of SNI
time a new national history conference was being planned or held, as well
as when a government-initiated, history-related project was being mulled
over.57 In 1980, an initial exchange between Sartono Kartodirdjo and Tau-
fik Abdullah, on the one hand, and Nugroho, on the other hand, ended up
rousing an indignant rejoinder from Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo. This
encounter was set off by mischievous responses from Sartono and Taufik
Abdullah to a journalist from Sinar Harapan, who asked what they could
say about the ongoing efforts (in 1980) to revise or improve the SNI-6. Sar-
tono was quoted by a news item to have responded, “I can only laugh. Haha-
haha.” Taufik Abdullah, on the other hand, responded that if Prof. Sartono
had said that, then he might as well say, “Hihihihi” (Sinar Harapan 1980b).
Nugroho appeared to have been offended, as evidenced in an interview that
appeared in the same newspaper on 1 October 1980. The title of the inter-
view was telling: “Agree with Sartono’s Ideas, Except the ‘Hahaha.” (Sinar
Harapan 1980c)
In this interview, Nugroho mentioned numerous things that impelled
Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo to respond. The response appeared in the
same newspaper 15 days later. It was a scathing critique of an unnamed per-
son, but it was obvious that Abdurrachman was referring to Nugroho. His
pent-up anger palpable, he lambasted his unnamed target for an ‘asal bapak
senang’ (so long as the boss is happy) mentality and for lying (Surjomihardjo
1980). He further described the history-writing in Indonesia as ‘chaotic’ or
in ‘crisis’ (kemelut), and he categorically stated that Vol. 6 did not satisfy the
requirements of scholarship. It was, he claimed bitterly, a humiliating chap-
ter in the history of history-writing in Indonesia (ibid). What appeared to be
an overheating altercation led to an editorial from the same newspaper, with
a view to dousing the fiery exchange.
Not long after the 1984 edition came out, the front-page article entitled
“Some Problems Found in the Standard Text National History of Indone-
sia” appeared in Sinar Harapan on 12 April 1985. It highlighted the lingering
as well as newfound problems, such as error-laden index and bibliography,
and photos without captions and sources in the latest edition of the SNI.
Due to the problems, observers expressed bemusement or doubt about the
status of the SNI as ‘buku babon’ or standard text.
Surjomihardjo proved to be a continuing and hard-hitting critic. Join-
ing the public discussion aroused by Suharto’s call in May 1987 to formu-
late an official, ‘objective’ history of the period 1950–1965, Surjomihardjo
rekindled the controversies when, on 20 May 1987, he published in Kom-
pas a translation of selected parts of Klooster’s book Indonesiers Schri-
jven Hun Geschiedenis (Indonesians Write Their History) (Klooster 1985).
The book was published two years earlier (1985), and it documented and
analyzed the process and the outputs of the efforts of Indonesians writing
their own history, covering the period 1900 to 1980. Taufik Abdullah, in a
separate article, described it as the “most comprehensive and exhaustive
study” of Indonesian historiography and, despite some notable problems, a
 The making of SNI  117
“real contribution to our knowledge” (Abdullah 1988, 334). What Surjomi-
hardjo opted to translate were portions detailing the process and the prob-
lems encountered in making the SNI. In his introduction, he noted that
being a foreigner, Klooster was an outsider in the SNI project and thus he
was a detached observer. His book deserved to be paid due attention (Sur-
jomihardjo 1987a). What Surjomihardjo seemed to have in mind was to re-
affirm, even intensify, his earlier critique of SNI by proxy. In a sequel to this
article (the article was published in two parts), he highlighted Klooster’s ob-
servations that SNI lacked research; that the writing was uneven; and that
it had failed to carry out the prescribed, multi-dimensional, social science
approach (Klooster 1985 as summarized in Surjomihardjo 1987b).
In 1992, in consonance with the reported plan to revise SNI, a number of
more openly critical articles appeared. In the two articles written by Mas-
duki Baidlawi in the news magazine Editor, the title was telling: ‘Looking at
History that Smacks of Politics’ (1992a) and ‘Negligence that goes on and
on’ (1992b). An article written by Atmakusumah, whose articles in 1976
have been discussed above, was even more direct: ‘SNI VI: A Political Book’
(Atmakusumah 1992).
In the first article, Baidlawi cited the significant declaration of the
then Minister of Education, a high-ranking government official named
Fuad Hasan, that the SNI-6 would be the primary focus of revision be-
cause it had numerous weaknesses, and it received considerable attention
from the critics owing to its controversial character. The second article,
on the other hand, reiterated the problems—factual mistakes and skewed
­i nterpretations—that persisted in the SNI and the history books based on
it, despite already having undergone several editions or revision. It called
for the books’ total overhaul (perombakan total). Significantly, it concluded
with a lesson: “it is important to separate political interest from histori-
cal interpretation” (Baidlawi 1992). Against the backdrop set by all previ-
ous articles that dealt with SNI, these two articles were notable for their
candor, specifically in linking political interests with the shape of history.
Even Diah and Surjomihardjo, who were both strident critics of the SNI,
were not as explicit in their earlier reference to the political character of
the SNI. That the times may have indeed changed seemed evident in the
third article, in which the previously cautious Atmakusumah shed many of
the inhibitions apparent in his 1976 critiques of the SNI. Without mincing
words, he declared that “the editor of Volume 6 no longer played the role
of an observer of history but rather a politician” and that the SNI-6 gave
the impression that it was not a historical but rather a political book (At-
makusumah 1992). Perhaps these candid critiques were motivated by the
atmosphere of openness (‘keterbukaan’) that was seen in the early 1990s,
which proved to be short-lived.
As stated earlier by Nugroho, SNI did undergo revisions to address its
problems or weaknesses. However, the way revisions were undertaken left
much to be desired and to be suspicious about. Out of the seven or eight
118  The making of SNI
editions, there were in fact only two major revisions, in 1984 and in 1993.
The 1977 and 1980 editions were only very slightly different from the 1975
original edition. These little differences consisted of improvement in lan-
guage use; the addition of a glossary, index, or bibliography; and correction
of typographical errors. Editions that appeared between 1985 and 1991 were
almost the same as the 1984 edition. The 1993 edition’s primary difference
lay in having an additional seventh volume that was specifically devoted to
the New Order regime.58 Likewise, the chapter about the Japanese period,
which was originally part of Vol. 6, was moved to Vol. 5. Thus, the coverage
of Vol. 6 had been shortened to the period from the onset of independence
in 1945 up to the end of Guided Democracy.
Out of the six volumes, only Vol. 6 underwent substantive changes. A few
chapters of Vol. 2, 3, and 4 were also re-written, and some materials were
added, but the changes did not go anywhere near those made to Vol. 6. Even
less consequential were the changes in Vol. 1 and 5, at least until the 1990
edition

Summing up
While this chapter serves as the counterpart of Chapter 3, where the making
of Tadhana was discussed, the structure of the two chapters is not strictly
parallel. Unlike Tadhana, which seldom figured in public discussion, SNI
had for several decades been the object of recurrent public scrutiny. Dis-
cussing public critique is integral to the analysis of SNI. A number of obser-
vations need to be highlighted here. First, the critical responses to SNI were
not suppressed, but the relatively small number, and the sporadic character
of their criticisms, meant limited impact. Once the appellation ‘standard’
had been officially imputed on SNI, it stuck in the mind of many people,
despite claims and verifications to the contrary made by scholars and jour-
nalists who knew better.
Second, the criticisms had been narrowly focused on the first edition
(1975) of SNI. The fact that the succeeding two editions, 1977 and 1980,
were little more than reprints may have misled critics into thinking that
other later editions were also not much different. This can be inferred from
B.M. Diah’s re-issue in 1985 of his 1976 review of SNI without any substan-
tive change. The same article was later reprinted as a chapter in the book
Straighten History (Meluruskan Sejarah) (Diah 1987). Had he looked closely
enough at the 1984 edition of SNI, he would have been startled and even
more infuriated with the changes.
Finally, perhaps partly as a consequence of the singular focus on SNI,
other sources of more blatant propaganda escape the critics’ notice until
much later. The most notable of these were the versions of SNI that Nu-
groho and his team prepared for high schools, which will be discussed in
next chapter. These were purportedly mere summaries of the original SNI
1975 edition. The titles of the textbooks were Sejarah Nasional Indonesia
 The making of SNI  119
untuk SMP (1976) (National History of Indonesia for Junior High School)
and Sejarah Nasional Indonesia untuk SMA (1979), which included three vol-
umes each (National History of Indonesia for Senior High School). That no
critical commentaries appeared in the media about the highly propagandis-
tic contents of these textbooks until the late 1980s may be partly attributable
to the critics’ skewed focus on SNI. Like the general public, critics seem to
have believed in Nugroho’s pronouncement that these textbooks were just
summaries or simplified versions of SNI, adapted to suit the pedagogical
needs of the high school students. As will be shown in the next chapter, this
was not so, and the possible implications are analytically and politically
significant.

Notes
1 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta,
Indonesia.
2 Interview with an anonymized informant, 15 December 2005, Yogyakarta,
Indonesia.
3 Patterned after the Dutch system, Doktorandus in Indonesia roughly corre-
sponded to a post-bachelor’s degree or honors, or a Master’s degree. After about
three years of Bachelor’s degree (Sarjana Muda), some students study for two
more years and write a thesis to obtain Doktorandus.
4 In my interview with Taufik Abdullah (10 June 2005, Jakarta), he narrated a
running joke between himself and Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo, another im-
portant historian. That is, Nugroho lacked rigor because he was not from the
Department of History but from General Studies (also in UI). Apparently, in the
1950s and 1960s, students who were still undecided were allowed in UI to stay in
the General Studies program and decide later on what specialization to pursue.
Nugroho used to be much more interested in literature, and only in later years,
he opted to move to history. Another respected Indonesian historian, concurred,
“(Nugroho) started in literature and then majored in History. So he didn’t have
a full course of History. Only one year.” (Interview with an anonymized inform-
ant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta).
5 The reason for prematurely returning to Indonesia remains unclear. In my in-
terview with Irma Notosusanto, Nugroho’s wife (8 August 2005, Jakarta), who
joined him in London, she recalled that at the height of the crisis on Irian or
Papua in 1962, Nugroho suddenly told her that he wanted to go home, saying
that war was breaking, and he didn’t like to be overseas when it broke out. So,
off they went home. Later, however, she thought that the real reason lay in the
problem of severe lack of lecturers in the Faculty of Arts at UI as well as in the
increasing polarization of campus politics that left no one interested in occupy-
ing the position of Dean of Student Affairs, which was given to him.
6 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
7 Interview with an anonymized informant 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
8 That Nugroho was considered the first Professor of History at UI needs clarifi-
cation. Only a professor can supervise and promote a PhD student. In the 1970s,
only Harsja Bachtiar held that rank in the History Department of UI, which
probably explains why he was the one who acted as promoter of Nugroho to
PhD, after Sartono, who was the original supervisor, appeared to have been un-
ceremoniously sidelined, as noted earlier. Harsja Bachtiar’s PhD, however, was
in Sociology, not in History. He was, thus, not strictly considered a Professor
120  The making of SNI
of History. When Nugroho himself declared publicly that there were only two
professors of history in Indonesia up to the early 1980s, he and Sartono, he must
have not considered Harsja Bachtiar as a historian, even if he was teaching Se-
jarah Masyarakat (Social History or History of Society). See Sinar Harapan
(1980a).
9 Interview with Tri Wahyuning Irsyam, one of the historians at UI, 8 August
2005, Depok.
10 The most comprehensive and thorough account of Nugroho’s life and career is
found in Chapter 2 of McGregor (2007).
11 Many of my informants, including his very close former adjutant, who asked to
remain anonymous, believe that Nugroho’s appointments, first as Rector of UI
and later as Minister of Education, were a sort of ‘reward’ for his loyal service to
the military.
12 Interview with an anonymized informant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
13 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
14 Interview with an anonymized informant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
15 Interview with Djoko Surjo, 22 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
16 Interview with Djoko Suryo, a historian at UGM and who worked closely with
Sartono Kartodirdjo in the SNI project, 22 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
17 I could not find an extant copy of the detailed framework supposedly entitled
“Kerangka Konseptuil Sejarah Nasional Indonesia” (A Conceptual Framework
of Indonesia’s National History) which Sartono told me was published in an In-
donesian journal. Perhaps, the title was different, and I may have already found
it among the two articles written by Sartono himself that discuss what seem to
be a framework of SNI (see Kartodirdjo 1970, 1972).
18 Interview with an anonymized informant, 15 December 2005, Yogyakarta.
19 Interview with an anonymized informant, 15 December 2005, Yogyakarta.
20 Interview with an anonymized informant, 15 December 2005, Yogyakarta.
21 Interview with Djoko Suryo, 22 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
22 For details of what was discussed during the workshop, see the three volumes of
proceedings: Lokakarya Buku Standar Sedjarah Indonesia, Jilid I-III (The His-
tory of Indonesia Standard Text Workshop), Volumes 1–3).
23 Interview with an anonymized informant, 15 December 2005, Yogyakarta.
24 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
25 Interview with Yusmar Basri, one of the historians at History Center, 18 Decem-
ber 2005, Jakarta.
26 Interview with Djoko Suryo, 22 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
27 Interview with Djoko Suryo, 22 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
28 Interview with several anonymized informants, June-December 2005, Yogya-­
karta and Jakarta.
29 Interview with an anonymized informant, who was close to Nugroho, 22 August
2005, Depok. The interview, done in Bahasa Indonesia, was sometimes inter-
spersed with phrases in English. This was one of those phrases this informant
uttered. In his words “to shear Sukarno ”
30 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
31 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 August 2005, Depok.
32 Interview with Magdalena Manus, 26 July 2005, Depok.
33 Interview with anonymized informants on 23 & 25 June 2005 and on 8 June
2005, Yogyakarta and Jakarta.
34 It puzzles why Nugroho would write a letter to the Minister of Education, dated
17 May 1975, stating that by April 1974, all the manuscripts were already pol-
ished and ready for printing, whereas he himself attested that the ultimate dead-
line had been reset for 31 July 1974 precisely because there was still a group that
was not finished by April 1974. Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo thinks that this
 The making of SNI  121
episode indicated Nugroho’s desire to please the boss and gain commendation
in the process (Surjomihardjo 1980).
35 Interview with anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
36 Interview with anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
37 Interview with four anonymized informants who knew Nugroho personally,
June to August 2005, Jakarta/Depok.
38 Interview with anonymized informant, who was close to Nugroho, 8 August
2005, Depok.
39 Interview with anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
40 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
41 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
42 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
43 The newspaper article “Sejarah Kontemporer dan Kemelut Penulisan Buku Se-
jarah Nasional Indonesia” (Contemporary History and the Chaos in Writing
SNI), which was published in Sinar Harapan on 15 October 1980, was not the
first Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo wrote about SNI. On 17 November 1976,
he wrote a short piece in Kompas, “Penulisan Sejarah Mutakhir (Recent His-
torical Writings),” whose tone was subdued and politely critical. The 1980 Sinar
Harapan piece mentioned above was decidedly fiery and was clearly directed at
Nugroho himself, without, of course, explicitly identifying him.
44 Designating the year each edition appeared is not straightforward. One reason
is that, as they appeared on the title page, edition and reprinting numbers are
mixed up or inconsistent. The first edition clearly appeared in 1975, the second
in 1977, the third in 1980 and the fourth in 1984. However, in between 1975 and
1984, and beyond 1984, reprints appeared that were indicated also as ‘edition.’
Say, 1976 edition (which was just like 1975) and 1990 edition (just a reprint of the
1984 edition). I didn’t see any 1981–1983 editions, but Klooster (1985) mentioned
that they were very similar to the 1980 edition.
45 This is widely believed both in Indonesia and abroad. Many times, when I gave a
presentation, both in Indonesia and overseas, and mentioned this incident, there
were participants who asked for clarification of the matter because the common
belief was that Sartono withdrew from the project.
46 Interviews with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005 and 15 December
2005, Yogyakarta.
47 In an interview with Nugroho (see Sinar Harapan 1980c), Nugroho has noted
that Sartono expressed a contrary view on where to put the names of the editors.
However, he was silent on the ‘ejection’ of Sartono. Instead, he made an impres-
sion that Sartono indeed withdrew (“keluar”) from the project by not negating
the journalist’s assumption that he did so.
48 Interviews with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005.
49 Interviews with an anonymized informants, 23 & 25 June 2005 and 10 June 2005,
Yogyakarta and Jakarta, respectively.
50 Interview with an anonymized informant who was close to Nugroho, 22 August
2005.
51 Another possible indication that Nugroho was really in a hurry may be glimpsed
from a perceptive observation of an author of an article that appeared in Kom-
pas. He observed the SSN2 (Seminar Sejarah Nasional 2) appeared to be hastily
organized. He inferred such a claim from the fact that the seminar had been
moved four months earlier; it had been originally planned for December 1970
and was moved to August 1970. He suspected that political reasons (‘alasan-­
alasan politis’) might have been behind this (Siswadhi 1970). I have found no
proof that such a move was at the behest of Nugroho. The relevant point is that
there were people who, as early as 1970, harbored a suspicion about the political
motivations behind the national conference.
122  The making of SNI
52 Interview with an anonymized informant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
53 Interview with an anonymized informant, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
54 Interview with Taufik Abdullah informant, 10 June 2005, Jakarta.
55 Sartono was the one Abdurrachman was referring to. Sartono felt guilty hav-
ing uttered those words to refer to SNI. As late as 2005, he was still wondering
whether Nugroho, who had a ‘special child,’ might have misconstrued what he
meant and felt insulted. As a reprisal he expelled Sartono from the project (In-
terview with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta).
56 For example, in 1992, the then outgoing Minister of Education announced that
there would be a revision of the SNI. See Taufik Abdullah (1994, 203–204) for an
overview of different views expressed in the media, seminars and private conver-
sation about the plan to revise the SNI in 1992.
57 For instance, in 1987, Suharto declared the need to take another look at the pe-
riod 1950–1965, and to come up with an ‘honest and objective’ reassessment of
the period (Abdullah 1987a, 1987b; see also news articles in Kompas, “History of
Indonesia’s New Era Needs to be Re-written” (Sejarah Zaman Baru Indonesia
Memang Perlu Ditulis Kembali),” (5 May 1987) and “Government Needs to Pre-
pare Reference Guide for History of 1950–1965” (Pemerintah Perlu Menyusun
Buku Acuan Sejarah Indonesia 1950–1965) (27 May 1987).
58 A foreword of Vol. 7 indicates that the decision to form a separate volume spe-
cifically for the New Order period emanated from the decision of the Minister of
Education in 1992, upon the recommendation of a working committee tasked to
take another look at history-writing. This appears to have a link to the clamor
raised sometime in 1987 for a new history book on the 1950–1965 and New Order
periods.

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5 SNI
Contents and contexts

As in the case of the Tadhana project, a complicated configuration of the

social, historiographic, and political forces influenced the shape of and the
responses to the National History of Indonesia (Sejarah Nasional Indonesia,
SNI). Unlike Tadhana, however, which never enjoyed the public appreci-
ation its creators had hoped for, SNI experienced vicissitudes of fortune
depending on the shifting political climate. From the status of being the
‘standard text’ for more than two decades since the mid-1970s, promoted
by the government through education and the media, among other chan-
nels, it became an object of thoroughgoing skepticism and fierce public crit-
icism in the post-Suharto period. It reached the point that demonstrators
burned the textbooks that were supposedly based on SNI to dramatize their
opposition.1
Following the approach used to understand Tadhana, this chapter ini-
tially describes and analyzes the historiographic development in/on Indo-
nesia within which SNI might best be understood. The mapping out of the
historiographic landscape is important not just to understand the structure
and contents of SNI but also to elucidate the political contexts of the pro-
ject. Among other things, it shows how a scholarly approach had managed
to restrict the political interests of the prime mover of the project.

Historiographic mapping
From the historiographic standpoint, there are two main areas from which
SNI drew its clearest defining characteristics: the attempt to employ an
Indonesia-centric perspective (Indonesiasentrisme) and the effort to im-
plement the multi-dimensional, social science approach. The Indonesia-­
centric perspective foregrounds the role of local or indigenous actors in
historical narrative. It changes the angle of viewpoint: instead of scholars
looking in from the outside, this approach seeks to view historical process
from within. It seeks to neutralize the long-standing approach that pre-
sents Indonesia and its people merely as an appendage, if seen at all, to
the history of the Dutch, or any other foreign groups, in the Netherlands
East Indies.
126  SNI: contents and contexts
The multi-dimensional or social science approach, on the other hand, is
a method that requires the use of concepts and other analytic tools from
various social science disciplines to illuminate historical phenomenon. This
approach assumes reality as multi-dimensional in its complexity. Each dis-
cipline is limited by its nature and can grasp only parts of reality. By draw-
ing from various disciplines, it hopes to employ a holistic approach and,
thus, to neutralize the tendency common in conventional historical writing
to focus largely on political aspects. The ultimate aim is to capture more
complete and multiple dimensions of historical experience.
Sartono Kartodirdjo was the main promoter of these approaches in
­Indonesia from the 1960s onwards. He envisioned the multi-dimensional
approach and an Indonesia-centric perspective going hand in hand. The
effort to present local people as dramatis personae and to foreground inter-
nal development within Indonesia lay at the heart of the Indonesia-centric
perspective. Meanwhile, the use of various tools from the social sciences
was meant to create a holistic picture of internal development in Indonesia.
It was also a means to account for the integration of various groups within
the archipelago—the elite and the common people, Javanese as well as other
ethnic groups, Muslims, and other religious groups. Such integration was
not seen to be merely in the political aspect, manifested in the formation
of the Indonesian state, but also in cultural, social, and economic terms
(Kartodirdjo 1972).

Indonesia-centrism
Long before SNI project, the Indonesia-centric approach was pursued by
scholars such as J.C. van Leur, C.C. Berg, and G. Resink (Van der Kroef 1958).
Oft-cited is J.C. van Leur’s observation about the tendency of colonial histo-
riography to look at Indonesia from the “deck of the ship, the ramparts of
the fortress, [and] the high gallery of the trading house” (van Leur 1955, 261).
Early Indonesian writers, such as Rangkuti (1953) and Soetjipto Wirjosuparto
(1958), tried to employ a variant of this approach by inverting the positions of
the colonizers and colonized so that the local actors described by the Dutch
as rebels or insurgents were called heroes. This approach was deemed inad-
equate or inappropriate (Abdullah 1975, 121–122). Showing the natives as ac-
tors and prime movers in their history became the paramount goal.
Sartono demonstrates in his key scholarly works that integration is a fun-
damental element in Indonesia-centrism. By integration, he meant how var-
ious cultural, political, social, and economic elements came together to form
a unity that served as the bedrock of national identity and the nation-state.
The overwhelming diversity of Indonesia—in ethnic, geographic, religious,
economic, cultural, and linguistic terms—poses a considerable challenge
to scholars who aimed to present such a huge and diverse area as a unified
entity. Integration as the unifying framework was a logical response to such
a challenge (Kartodirdjo 1972, 1975, 2001).
 SNI: contents and contexts  127
In Sartono’s framework, all the forces, processes, acts, objects, or tools
that stimulated or facilitated interaction of people, as well as the cultural
diffusion and economic exchange that facilitated the process of integra-
tion, deserve sufficient attention in historical analysis, from the pre-historic
period to the present (Kartodirdjo 1972, 1975). As noted in the previous
chapter, carrying out Sartono’s framework was a tall order, and we shall see
the limited extent to which SNI-1975 actually fulfilled the aspiration for the
Indonesia-centric perspective and the structural approach. The idea here is
to show that despite limitations or weaknesses in the implementation, the
combined approaches helped in restricting the political goals of the regime,
as represented by Nugroho Notosusanto.
In Vol.  1 of SNI-1975, the decision to do away with the technology-­
based traditional periodization of Indonesian pre-history (Palaeolithic,
­Mesolithic, Neolithic) was partly attributable to the imperative of setting
a framework more sensitive to the peculiarities of the local conditions. As
Soejono, the lead author of Vol. 1, clarified, one problem with the lithic-­
based periodization was its disproportionate concern about the advances
in technological development. It was also primarily based on European
cases, which emanated from conditions presumably different from those
in Indonesia (Soejono 1972). The writers of the volume endeavored to plot
Indonesia’s pre-history using what they called a social-economic model.
They broadened the basis of periodization in this model to include eco-
nomic and social problems alongside technological development. The peri-
odization was, thus, divided as follows: the hunting and gathering stage,
the stage for farming and domestication of animals, and the tool-using
or technology-based specialization stage. The importance of technologi-
cal development, as reflected in the lithic-based periodization, was by no
means set aside. It was incorporated into a model that reflects the socio-­
economic needs of the people at various stages of development (Soejono
1972; Moelyadi 1992).
The socio-economic model that the authors of Vol.  1 (SNI 1975-1) had
adopted enabled them to include elements of Indonesian pre-history that
did not fit well with the more conventional and Europe-based periodization.
Indonesia, rather than Europe, offered the yardstick. More importantly, the
socio-economic model gave space for demonstrating the peculiarities of the
Indonesian case as it underwent the successive stages of hunting and gath-
ering, farming and animal domestication, and technological specialization.
In the process of doing this, the Indonesia-centric perspective was affirmed,
if not explicitly, at least indirectly or incidentally.
In Vol. 2, the attempt to adopt Indonesia-centrism was more unequivocal,
which drew praise from reviewers, such as Siswadhi (see Siswadhi, Leirissa,
and Atmakusumah 1976, 82). Covering the period when Hindu-Buddhist
influences arrived and were assimilated in the archipelago, the volume
summarily rejected the supposed passivity of Indonesia as the recipient
of Indian influences. Emphasized instead was the purported active role of
128  SNI: contents and contexts
‘Indonesians’ in this assimilation process. Citing scholars such as J.C. van
Leur and Bosch, the authors argued that it was Indonesia that set the initia-
tive and the manner by which the process went along. They further asserted,
unfortunately without due substantiation or elaboration, that the push-­
factor did not come just from the Indian traders but also from indigenous
actors who visited India and saw the condition there (Kartodirdjo, Poespo-
negoro, and Notosusanto 1975, 23). It was notable that the word invited (di-
undang) was repeatedly emphasized. Likewise, the absence in the same form
of key cultural features of India, such as the caste system, in Indonesia is
highlighted as proof of the active role or dominance of Indonesian culture in
the interaction between the two cultures (Kartodirdjo, Poesponegoro, and
Notosusanto 1975, 26–27).
Unfortunately, the forceful manner in which the authors asserted the
Indonesia-­c entric perspective was not accompanied by efforts to demon-
strate such a perspective. The thinness of evidence was arresting. In a few
pages where they discussed Indian influences, the authors merely noted se-
lected views of different authors (Krom, van Leur, Bosch, Coedes) and con-
cluded from there that the Indonesian-side was in fact active, not a passive
recipient of Indian influences. Illustrative examples, save from mentioning
the caste system, were notably absent, and the process of differentiation
or divergence from Indian cultural patterns was not even hinted at. As the
whole treatment was strikingly mechanical, and at best contrived, one could
hardly see the native Indonesian as the dramatis personae (except as, suppos-
edly, the one who ‘invited’ the Brahmans) in their interaction with the Indian
cultures. Moreover, there was no explicit effort to illustrate how this period
related to the process of gradual integration of the Indonesian nation. It
must be noted that the authors ignored the fact that the Indonesian nation
had yet to be formed by then. They used the term Indonesia or Indonesians,
regardless of time periods. In the succeeding chapters, the authors were
content in describing the contents of Chinese dynastic records and many
inscriptions that pertain to various cities, such as Kutai, T ­ arumanagara,
Srivijaya, Majapahit and small kingdoms in Sunda and Bali. These read less
like a history than a historiographic account.
The Indonesia-centric perspective appeared to be easily lost amid the pre-
ponderance of information borrowed from the accounts of Chinese trav-
elers or chroniclers as well as in the attributions to the Indian influences.
Here and there are statements that assert Indonesia-centrism, but they were
isolated, unsubstantiated and contrived to demonstrate the perspective. For
instance, in the sub-section on Hindu ritual, the text states that a certain
Kundunga, described as possibly the first person to be ‘touched’ by Indian
influence, was able to maintain his ‘Indonesian’ (not just ‘Javanese’) char-
acter, but there are no reinforcing or supporting details. Moreover, the rest
of the subsection is devoted to the images of how powerful and influential
Indian cultural influences were, but, again, without explanation or substan-
tiation (Kartodirdjo, Poesponegoro, and Notosusanto 1975, 34–35).
 SNI: contents and contexts  129
Multi-dimensional or structural approach
As already noted, the main driving force in the multi-dimensional or struc-
tural approach is the need to formulate a multifaceted explanation for his-
torical phenomenon, such as national integration. Here, I draw from the
works of Sartono Kartodirdjo (1982, 2001) to clarify the nature of this ap-
proach. The multi-dimensional approach posits that history covers much
more than what is happening in the king’s palace, in the courtrooms, in rich
men’s houses, and in trading houses. It is much more than about inter- or
intra-elite rivalries, wars, laws, or diplomatic maneuverings. History is the
totality of human experience.
The fundamental assumption that underpins the multi-dimensional, of-
ten also called the structural, approach is that everything that happened
occurred as it did because of multiple factors and in multi-layered contexts.
Given a different context, or different combinations of factors, things would
have unfolded differently. Full understanding of the whole context is thus
the key to understanding an event or a set of events. In academic discourse
among Indonesian historians, the structural or multi-dimensional approach
is often sharply differentiated from what they usually called a processual
(prosesuil), narrative, or chronological approach, the latter being a straight-
forward exposition of what was supposed to have transpired. As far as this
approach was concerned, an event was important because it was a part of a
story that needed to be told. Explaining why an event or an action occurred
as it did was less important than formulating a clear story of what hap-
pened. If the structural approach aims to explain, the processual approach
seeks to narrate or describe. If the earlier requires use of various theoretical
or analytic tools in the social sciences, the latter does not need these tools.
In institutional terms, the difference between the two approaches found
expression in the oft-cited observations that the History Department at
the University of Gadjah Mada (UGM), which was under the leadership
of Sartono Kartodirdjo, had been well known for the structural approach,
whereas the University of Indonesia (UI), which for some time had been un-
der the leadership and influence of Nugroho Notosusanto, adhered to the
processual-­narrative approach. To an extent, this perception of difference
remains to this day, though it appears not as sharp in practice as it used to be.
Under ideal circumstances, the structural and processual-narrative
approaches complement each other to form a neat, lucid, and integrated
account. Sartono showed how this might be done in his two-volume Intro-
duction to New History of Indonesia (Pengantar Sejarah Indonesia Baru)
(Kartodirdjo 1987) and Peasants’ Revolt of Banten in 1888 (Kartodirdjo
1966). In the case of SNI, however, the lack of experience of the authors was
clearly manifest in the often underdeveloped, disjointed, and strained rela-
tionship between the two approaches.
The original, 1975 edition of SNI was organized in conformity to the
structural approach. To varying degrees, the framing of every volume allows
130  SNI: contents and contexts
different aspects—social, cultural, economic, and political—to be discussed
in parallel or entwined with one another. For instance, Vol. 4 discusses the
geographic features, bureaucratic and political framework, trade and other
economic activities, cultural development, and social organizations. This
has been done either by allotting a specific sub-section for each aspect or
by weaving several aspects together in discussing each kingdom (Mataram,
Banjar, Aceh, and others), period (that is, liberal period, 1870–1900), or set of
socio-economic practices (cultivation system, social movements, and revolts).
Another example is Vol.  1, which deals with pre-history. In each stage
(hunting and gathering, agriculture, and others), aspects such as geogra-
phy, technology, social organization, and culture are given ample space.
Even Vol.  5 and 6, which cover the more recent periods, apportion space
for discussing various aspects, notwithstanding the preponderance of ‘ex-
citing’ political developments. The treatment of politics in these volumes
does not by any means disproportionately dominate or crowd out the rest.
There is one exception here though. Vol.  6, which covers the period from
1942 to 1965, allots about a third (the first of the three chapters) explicitly to
a narrative-­chronological approach. The two other chapters conform to the
same structural approach as other volumes.
To what extent these approaches have been carried out in the project
is a question that, as I will show later, has a bearing on the analysis of
politics-­scholarship interplay in the next chapter. Short of identifying all
the deficiencies evident in the outputs, something that is tangential to the
­arguments this book seeks to develop, I shall note here a number of obser-
vations, culled from my own reading of SNI 1975 as well as that of other
commentators.
Observers agree that SNI-1975 fell well short of what was expected or
hoped for. The harshest publicly made comment came from Abdurrachman
Surjomihardjo (1980), a respected Indonesian scholar who was also one of
the key members of the team, being the editor of Vol. 5. He declared that
SNI constituted a ‘shameful chapter’ in the history of Indonesian histori-
ography, a claim that seemed to be largely borne out of his frustration with
Nugroho’s handling of the project. In his view, only Vol.  1 (Pre-History)
approached the benchmark of scholarly standard (Surjomihardjo 1976). In
my interview with Sartono in 2005, he frankly admitted that he was un-
happy about the output, far as it was from the Indonesia-centric and multi-­
dimensional approaches he envisioned. The reason, he said, for writing the
two-volume Introduction to New History of Indonesia (Pengantar Sejarah
Bahru Indonesia, 1987 and 1992) precisely lay in his disappointment with
SNI-1975. He wanted to produce an alternative to SNI and he aimed at
showing what SNI could have been, had other members of the team success-
fully followed his vision.
That the problem had persisted in subsequent editions of SNI was evi-
dent in a seminar held in UGM in 1984 to commemorate the 27th anniver-
sary of the First National History Seminar in 1957. Kompas reported  on
 SNI: contents and contexts  131
17  December 1984 the sobering findings of the seminar: that the commu-
nity of Indonesian historians was still a long way off from carrying out the
multi-­dimensional approach. Notwithstanding a fair share of critics, this
approach remained at least until the mid-2000s a ‘methodological Holy
Grail’ for certain groups of historians in Indonesia. In a talk he delivered in
2005, during the celebration of the UGM History Department’s 55th Year
Anniversary and Sartono’s 85th birthday, Bambang Purwanto, one of the
most important Indonesian historians, claimed that the state of Indone-
sian historiography, in general, and Sartono’s contributions, in particular,
stagnated after a certain point. In his assessment, the multi-dimensional
approach remains not sufficiently understood, even misused by those who
purported to apply it (Setyadi and Saptono 2006).
The first observation points to the paucity of basic research informing the
project. A cursory glance at the lists of materials reveals that the authors
relied on a huge number of secondary and foreign-authored sources, about
which the editors for Vol.  3 (Tjandrasasmita) and Vol.  4 (Sutjipto) were
forthright and apologetic, in the introductions to their respective volumes.
For his part, journalist B.M. Diah (1987, 9) observed that one can count
on one’s fingers local sources. This is understandable, considering that no
money was allotted for ‘real’ research and that social sciences in Indonesia
were still in their formative years. The thinness of evidence, for instance,
of the supposed dominance of indigenous elements (in Vol. 2) was largely
attributable to lack of research. The same applies to the examination of the
Agriculture Stage (Vol. 1) from the lens of what happened in neighboring
countries, deviating from the Indonesia-centric perspective. These examples
coincide with historian Richard Leirissa’s observation that, due to a serious
lack of research, the treatment of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
in Vol. 3 and 4 unduly placed a very lopsided focus on the activities of the
Dutch East Company or VOC at the expense of the more interesting and rel-
evant things happening within Indonesia during that time. Consequently,
the aspiration to showcase the primacy of internal dynamics, the essence of
Indonesia-centrism, gave way to the very same Neerlando-centrism that,
ironically, the whole project was supposed to counter (Siswadhi, Leirissa,
and Atmakusumah 1976, 86).
Another observation focuses on the unevenness of writing, both within
and across different volumes. The reason why Sartono insisted that a thor-
ough edit—both stylistic and grammatical—must be undertaken before the
manuscripts were printed was precisely to address this problem. Other than
a reflection of a lack of writing experience on the part of members of the
team, as pointed out by Sartono, this may also have been be due to a lack of
understanding of Indonesia-centrism and the multi-dimensional approach
and how these approaches might be properly applied. As exemplified by the
Introduction to New History of Indonesia, the approach entails a well-crafted
demonstration of how various aspects—social, economic, cultural, politi-
cal, institutional—interact and interweave and how such interaction helps
132  SNI: contents and contexts
clarify or explain a phenomenon: uprisings or social movements. In the case
of SNI, this approach is best exemplified in parts of Vol.  4. The chapters
on uprisings against colonialism and social movements stand out as good
examples of this approach (SNI-4 1975, 123–227). Richard Leirissa, an Indo-
nesian historian, shares this assessment. He has noted that, in comparison
with Vol. 3, which he also reviewed, Vol. 4 was much more integrated in the
sense that parts fit well into a discernible framework of analysis. He was not
explicit about how well the multi-dimensional approach has been employed,
but he was categorical in praising the analysis of social movements, which
he claimed was new, very refreshing, and interesting (Siswadhi, Leirissa,
and Atmakusumah 1976, 84–86).
The same thing cannot be said of Vol. 2, which features a catalogue of
inscriptions or Chinese records, or what scholars say or argue about them.
There was a glaring lack of effort to arrange or frame these accounts to
demonstrate how social, economic, political, religious, and cultural fac-
tors interacted to form a unified description of life in early Indianized
states in Java, Bali, Kalimantan and Sumatra (SNI-2 1975, 29–129). Even
the chapter on Singhasari and Majapahit, two kingdoms in Java in the
thirteenth to fifteenth centuries, which is evidently much better writ-
ten, does not faithfully conform to the structural approach (SNI-2 1975,
­252–282). It is mostly a narrative of political developments—the rise and
fall of Majapahit. Only in the chapters about the kingdom of Mataram
and the kingdoms in Bali and in Sunda is an effort to follow the prescribed
approach discernible. Even in these cases, however, the writing style of the
assigned authors, exacerbated by a lack of data, hamstrung their efforts
(SNI-2 1975, 75–252). Non-political aspects, such as culture, religion, and
socio-economic dynamics, are discussed, along with the political, but the
inter-connection among them never approached the clarity evident in sev-
eral parts of Vol. 4.
Here lie the weaknesses and limitations, in scholarly terms, of SNI. In
consonance with widely held perceptions, at least among liberal intellec-
tuals in Indonesia and elsewhere, concerning the oppositional relationship
between politics and ‘good’ scholarship, the weaknesses of SNI tend to be
viewed as a major reason for its vulnerability to political misuse or abuse
(Purwanto 2001a, 2001b; Curaming 2003). As will be shown in the later part
of this chapter, things were more complex. Despite the weaknesses, how
SNI was designed by Sartono Kartodirdjo, with the pursuit of the multi-­
dimensional or structural approach as the key feature, enables SNI-1975 to
limit its vulnerability to politically motivated interests and thus suggests the
autonomous power of scholarship. This is a point that has often been missed
by scholars familiar with SNI, including Sartono Kartodirdjo himself. In
these scholars’ minds, Nugroho Notosusanto had fully succeeded in using
the project to serve his own and the New Order regime’s interests. In what
ways these widely held perceptions were inaccurate will be clarified in the
rest of the chapter.
 SNI: contents and contexts  133
Political terrain
The SNI project took off with the scholars harboring good faith and high
hopes in it (Surjomihardjo 1980; Abdullah 1994). Most members of the team
who I have interviewed claimed that in the beginning there was not an iota of
suspicion about whatever political motive there might be behind the project.
As far as they were concerned, the project was purely a scholarly undertaking,
and despite the enormous challenges it entailed, they took it on simply as part
of scholarly and their patriotic duties. Only to the extent that nationalism was
considered political could they acknowledge the project’s political intent. In
the context of post-war Indonesia, to be nationalistic was hardly considered a
political act. It was a natural predisposition and a moral obligation.
Nugroho’s foreword in Vol. 6 (SNI-6 1975) strongly suggested that he ex-
pected readers to find a good deal of controversy in the volume. He empha-
sized what he had consistently declared in many of his previous writings
(e.g. Notosusanto 1964, 1978, n.d.) and public declarations (Sumantri 1982;
Sinar Harapan 1980a, 1980b; Zain 1976): that contemporary history was by
nature contentious supposedly because many people who were still alive
may have different experiences or interpretations that diverge from histo-
rians’ accounts. In writing that foreword, he seemed to be preparing the
minds of readers to regard ‘selectivity’ and ‘subjectivity’ in historical work
as natural. As if saying one has to take and live with them.
The efforts to justify the New Order regime constitute the main factor
that accounts for both the form of SNI and the public responses to it. This
approach rested on a number of pillars: demonizing the communists, eulo-
gizing the military, discrediting Sukarno, and discrediting the Old Order.
The following discussion will focus on Vol. 6 because these pillars were cov-
ered in this volume.
As already noted in Chapter 1, the New Order regime emerged from a
set of mysterious, irregular, and bloody events in 1965–1966. These were
preceded by a sharply contested and protracted struggle for political
­supremacy among forces that included the PKI or the Communist Party of
Indonesia, the pro-Sukarno groups, and the m ­ ilitary. Central to the story
of the birth of the New Order was the ‘coup’ or ‘counter-coup’ that involved
the killing, on 1 October 1965, of the six generals by a group of soldiers who
called themselves the September 30 Movement (Gerakan 30 September or
G30S). The importance of this event may be gleaned not only from what
happened immediately afterwards, such as the collapse of the communist
party, massacre, and incarceration of hundreds of thousands of people, the
fall of Sukarno, and the rise of Suharto—it may be observed in the lingering
state of terror that followed in its wake, haunting Indonesian society for
decades, even up to this day (Budiawan 2004; Goodfellow 1995; Heryanto
2006, 1999; Melvin 2017, 2018; Miller 2018; Robinson 2018; Wahid 2018). As
there is a big corpus of published works discussing the controversial charac-
ter of this event,2 there is no need to repeat details here. Suffice to note that
134  SNI: contents and contexts
the main points of contention in the debates about this episode include the
following questions: why were the generals killed, and who was the real mas-
termind, if there was any? What was the nature of this event? Was it a coup
against the government or a pre-emptive counter-­coup to save the Sukarno
regime from the rumored impending coup by the ‘Council of Generals,’
whose purported members were those abducted and killed? Were the tragic
killings of the generals an offshoot of intra-army or armed forces conflict,
as the Cornell Paper alleged, or were they a part of the grand plans of the
communists to wrest control of the government, as the New Order regime
claimed? The main task here is to clarify how SNI-6 (1975) treats the G30S
as a movement, how it explains the killings, and who it blames for them.
Certain relevant persons or events are highlighted in order to examine how
far the account provided in the book served the interests of the New Order
regime. These include the supposed centrality of the role of the communists
in the G30S episode and the corresponding minimal or non-involvement
of the military. Because of the significant variations in the treatment offered
in different editions, which were produced by practically the same group of
scholars, a comparison will follow.
The SNI-6 (1975) starts discussing the G30S with emphasis on the alliance
between Sukarno and the PKI. The two were blamed for the sharp polariza-
tion of the political field between friends and enemies; the friends were nur-
tured, and the others were set aside or ‘neutralized’ (119). The sins of the PKI
since 1964 are enumerated: aggressive and vitriolic propaganda, willful prov-
ocation, unlawful acts, infiltrating the military, threatening national unity,
fomenting social unrest, deception, and attempts at a power grab (119–121).
The book denounces the acts of seizing lands (aksi sepihak or unilateral ac-
tion) carried out by the PKI-affiliated farmers’ organization in the name of
land redistribution, claiming that there was no more land in Java that should
be subjected to a land reform program (108). Transmigration, it adds, is the
only way to give poor peasants land (119). The PKI is also blamed for alleg-
edly influencing Sukarno toward a wayward foreign policy (for example, over
Konfrontasi, the 1963–1966 confrontation with Malaysia), and it is castigated
for belligerently imposing politicized standards on arts and literature.3
The volume also describes the allegedly double-faced strategy of the PKI,
portraying its participation in parliamentary democracy as a deceptive front
to gain legitimacy and respectability while preparing for an opportune mo-
ment to seize power by forceful means, such as a coup d’état (120). Infiltra-
tion of the military ranks through the efforts of the Biro Khusus (Special
Bureau), a supposedly secret group of operatives, is part of the grand strat-
egy. The SNI-6 (1975) claims that the PKI had learned from the debacle in
Madiun in 1948 that it was not enough to have their own troops, but they
also needed to neutralize the military leadership and, if needed, liquidate it.
It also claims that a PKI document was found in 1964, allegedly stating that
the year 1966 would be the time when the condition was ‘ripe’ for a forceful
take-over (120). There was no explanation of why 1966, and the source of
 SNI: contents and contexts  135
this document was not disclosed. It also notes that by August 1965, Sukarno
had fallen ill and that this condition could have resulted in paralysis, if not
death. This was supposed to be a pretext for D.N. Aidit (1923–1965), the
chairperson of the PKI, to have decided on hastening the shift from a peace-
ful parliamentary approach to the use of violence (121). The discussion pre-
sents the abduction and killings by G30S of the generals as the long-planned
handiwork of the communists.
The names of the military personnel who were supposed to be agents of the
Biro Khusus are identified—Untung, Sunardi, Atmodjo, and Anwas—and
they are also pinpointed as responsible for setting the targets for liquidation.
They were among the members of the group, the G30S, that kidnapped,
supposedly tortured, and killed the generals, whose bodies were eventually
thrown into a well in Lubang Buaya. The narrative then notes briefly that
Suharto decisively acted to crush the coup. The whole coverage of the event,
of the history of Indonesia in fact, ends abruptly a few days after 1 October
1965, when Suharto sent troops to quell the rebels in Central Java (122–123).
There was no mention whatsoever of the reaction of the people and the sub-
sequent events leading to the demise of PKI. Nor was there any reference to
the rise and notable achievements of the New Order up to the early 1970s. As
the supposed official history of the New Order regime, it was a truly bizarre
way of ending the book.
The paper presented by Ariwiadi, one the members of the Vol. 6 team,
at the planning workshop in Tugu, Bogor in 1972 indicates that the team
planned to cover up to the 1970s, to highlight the achievements of the New
Order, and to present a clearly negative view of the Old Order and Sukarno.
Ariwiadi calls for the need to differentiate clearly between the Old and the
New Order. The team’s ideas were obviously in the incipient stages, but a
rhetorical pattern is discernible. The Old Order represents ‘dark’ times—
economic crisis, paralyzing politics, whimsical rules, chaos, poverty, and
underdevelopment—and the New Order was the opposite—economic de-
velopment, orderly politics, and systematic laws (Ariwiadi 1972).4 It is no-
table that Ariwiadi’s colleague, Moela Marbun, who was assigned to write
the concept paper for Guided Democracy, had a different mindset. The way
she wrote the paper suggests a reluctance to paint an overly negative picture
of the period. She describes the era in a level-headed manner, mentioning
problems but not exaggerating them (Marbun 1972). As members of the
same team under Nugroho, the contrast between Ariwiadi’s and Marbun’s
tone and approach was striking. When actual output came out with the pub-
lication of SNI (1975), however, it was the plan as spelled out by Ariwiadi
that prevailed.
One clear manifestation of the effort to paint a negative picture of
Sukarno and the Old Order is the highly skewed treatment of Sukarno
and his government. There is, for instance, only one sentence in the whole
chapter in SNI-6 (1975) on Guided Democracy that presents Sukarno in
a positive light and one other favorable sentence about the government.
136  SNI: contents and contexts
In this sentence, Sukarno was credited, alongside the military, for his deci-
sive efforts to break the supposedly paralyzing political impasse that em-
anated from endless party-bickering during the period of parliamentary
democracy (103). The SNI-6 (1975, 109) also made a positive reference to
government efforts to increase exports, but it was quick in pointing out that
these efforts did not succeed.
Efforts to demonize the PKI and to discredit Sukarno were often woven
together. His purportedly wayward behavior is often attributed to the in-
fluence of the PKI. For instance, the Konfrontasi with Malaysia that arose
from Sukarno’s opposition to the formation of Malaysia in 1963, Indonesia’s
subsequent withdrawal from the UN, the dissolution of the leftist Murba
Party which was PKI’s rival, and Sukarno’s distrustful attitude towards the
military were all blamed on the influence of the PKI on Sukarno (110–111,
115). At the same time, its supposed notoriety, its aggressive actions, and its
posturing were all attributed to the protection of Sukarno. On the one hand,
efforts to demonize PKI were reinforced by emphasizing his faults, whereas
efforts to tarnish him can easily be enhanced by associating whatever he did
with the influence of the PKI. To his fanatical supporters, passing the blame
to the PKI cannot but be a welcome move. On the other hand, the sublimi-
nal message that he was weak because he allowed himself to be influenced
by the PKI can hardly escape the non-‘Sukarnois.’ Either way, it is beneficial
to the interest of the regime.
A number of points about the treatment, as summarized above, are note-
worthy. First, there is a deliberate effort to emphasize the partnership of
Sukarno with the PKI and to blame the partnership for numerous prob-
lems. Second, the coverage was very scanty: just a little over four pages for
the crucial period leading up to the pivotal G30S event, and nothing af-
terward. Third, the involvement of the military in the G30S, as well as in
the kidnapping and killing of the generals, is explicitly stated, rather than
downplayed, as one might expect, given the official claim that the G30S was
a handmaiden of the PKI. Fourth, there was no mention of the role of the
Gerwani, Pemuda Rakyat, or other PKI-affiliated groups in the killing.
­Finally, the coverage ended abruptly a few days after 1 October 1965, when
the killing of the generals happened. The last four points would have not
been striking had the other versions of SNI, as will be discussed below, not
offered sharply different renditions.
A comparison with the version of SNI for high schools offers valuable
insights. While these textbooks were supposedly only a simplified offshoot
of the project, the differences were stark and the circumstances surround-
ing the birth of these textbooks reveals important information about the
dynamics within SNI project itself.
Soon after the publication of SNI in late 1975, the version for junior high
schools came out in early 1976. The foreword of this textbook states that as
early as 28 October 1975, the textbooks had already been completed (Noto-
susanto and Basri 1976, 2). The first set (three volumes) was entitled Sejarah
 SNI: contents and contexts  137
Nasional Indonesia untuk SMP (National History of Indonesia for Junior
High School, SMP means Sekolah Menengah Pertama or junior high school;
hereafter SNI-SMP) and the second set, published in 1979, was simply called
Sejarah Nasional Indonesia untuk SMA (National History of Indonesia
for Senior High School, SMA refers to Sekolah Menengah Atas or Senior
High School). It was prepared by a team led by Nugroho Notosusanto and
Yusmar Basri. The foreword further claims that it was based on the newly
published SNI, reworked supposedly to suit the pedagogical needs of high
school students (Notosusanto and Basri 1976, 5). That these textbooks were
just summaries of SNI has been widely believed: respected Indonesia ex-
pert John Roosa, for instance, claims that treatment of the September 30th
Movement in school textbooks was merely a “shortened and repackaged
version of SNI account of the Movement” (Roosa 2012, 31). This supposi-
tion gave him reason not to include these school textbooks in his study that
sought to demonstrate the varieties or contradictions in the official history
of this key event. If Roosa had included these textbooks in his examination,
he would have discovered greater variations, even contradictions.
That SNI-SMP textbooks were published just few months after SNI and
they began to be used in the public schools starting in 1976 or 1977 was a re-
markable case of urgency. It means that the textbooks being prepared while
the work on SNI was not yet fully completed. That these textbooks were writ-
ten exclusively by Nugroho’s team was irregular. The understanding among
other team members was that the textbooks for high school would be pre-
pared by a team of historians and history teachers appointed on the basis of
merit and chosen following a set of more or less transparent criteria and pro-
cedures. At the very least, the composition of the team would be determined
by a collegial body, not by a single individual.5
Contrary to Nugroho’s declaration, SNI-SMP was not a mere summary
of SNI, simplified or adjusted to suit the needs of high school students. It
was substantially different, both in framework and in content. For one,
SNI-SMP followed an entirely chronological, narrative approach, while
SNI (1975), as noted above, tried to employ a structural, multi-dimensional
approach. A chronological approach may be justified by pedagogical im-
peratives, as Nugroho suggested in the foreword of SNI-SMP. A structural
approach is no doubt much more difficult for high school students to under-
stand. An informant, however, indicated that Nugroho preferred a narra-
tive approach because of, among other things, the greater ease by which it
could convey the intended messages, and this, I suppose, includes political
messages.6
A more important difference was that SNI-6 (1975) paled in comparison
with SNI-SMP in the intensity and clarity of its propaganda messages. The
portrayal of the Madiun Affair is a good example. The Madiun uprising
refers to the revolt in 1948 in the regency called Madiun. The factors that led
to, as well as the details of violence that ensued from, the uprising were com-
plex. These include the factionalism among left-leaning groups, of which
138  SNI: contents and contexts
PKI was just one part. In short, it may not be a PKI-planned revolt. However,
such an important detail was easily lost amid the strong anti-communist
sentiments of the government, military, and Muslim groups (see McGregor
2009 for various interpretations of the Madiun Affair). In their view, it was
a treacherous move by the communists, who were allegedly more concerned
about their political interests than national unity and welfare. In SNI-SMP,
this episode is categorically described as a betrayal (pengkhianatan) by the
PKI. Such description is even emblazoned as the title of a sub-heading (105).
Given the details it provides (SNI-SMP, 106), the intent to link Madiun to
G30S is clear and thus cements the idea that PKI was perfidious:

The rebels… killed with impunity government officials, military (TNI)

officers and party leaders or groups whom they considered enemies and
the bodies of some them were put in wells…Such gruesome or barbaric
acts were remembered by the people especially those in East and Cen-
tral Java 17 years later with the outbreak of the G30S. The ways of kill-
ings, including the act of putting the dead bodies inside the well, were
the same.

In SNI-6 (1975), there is nothing like this. It is plainly called an uprising

in Madiun, and the only mention of it in relation to the G30S is made in
two plain sentences, stating that the PKI had already tried in 1948 to seize
control of the government, but this attempt failed, and from that point on,
it struggled underground (SNI-6 1975, 119–120). The only other mention is
made in two paragraphs describing the event in an unadorned way, sum-
marized as follows: the rebels seized the city of Madiun, and Djokosuyono,
who installed himself as the military governor, made a speech on the radio
whereby he called for the purge of colonial and reactionary elements from
the TNI. It is followed by the enumeration of charges raised by Musso, a
key leader of the Communist Party, against the nationalist leaders, such as
Sukarno and Hatta. After plainly stating that the government immediately
crushed the rebellion, it closes with an expression of regret that those in-
volved were not brought to trial because the Dutch were once again on the
offensive. What stands out in this exposition is not the alleged betrayal by
the PKI, as highlighted in SNI-SMP, but the justifications of the commu-
nists for launching the ill-prepared uprising (58–59).
The case of what happened well at the Lubang Buaya, and where the
bodies of the kidnapped and killed generals were hidden, which became an
iconic symbol of the treachery of PKI, is also worth exploring. SNI-SMP
sharply differs from SNI-6 (1975) in mentioning the doctors’ supposed post-
mortem, according to which the victims experienced heavy torture (siksaan
berat) before they were killed. SNI-6 (1975) carries no such a claim. SNI-
SMP (161) also states that the bodies were already decomposing by the time
they were taken out from the well, which is another claim not mentioned
in SNI-6 (1975). Regarding the reaction of the people to what happened in
 SNI: contents and contexts  139
Lubang Buaya, SNI-SMP is straightforward, noting the killings of many
people that happened in the wake of the ‘coup.’ In contrast, SNI-6 1975 is to-
tally silent about it, while the later editions, such as SNI-1984 and SNI-1993,
are hesitant to discuss it. SNI-SMP, furthermore, states that the killings of
the PKI leaders (no mention of members, sympathizers, and suspected affil-
iates) that ensued after the G30S in 1965 was the people’s initiative, allegedly
as a reprisal against what the PKI did in Madiun in 1948. SNI-SMP also
notes that President Sukarno’s indecisive attitude gave rise to the impatience
of the people (161–162).
Another aspect in which SNI-SMP clearly exceeds SNI-6 (1975) in ap-
parent propaganda intent concerns the image of the military. One easily
expects SNI-6 (1975) as an official history to emphasize the good image of
the military. It highlights, for instance, the role of the military as a partner
of the government in restoring order, or in saving the republic from all sorts
of threats, as well as in breaking the political impasse caused by the sup-
posedly ‘unwieldy’ party politics (103, 106). However, it does not go to the
extent of obliterating the role of the military in the G30S event, which SNI-
SMP does. After enumerating groups—such as political parties and trade
­unions—that PKI allegedly infiltrated and eventually neutralized or won
over, SNI-SMP authors highlighted that it was the military that remained
the only institution capable of withstanding the ‘PKI conquest’ (151). Per-
haps it was in the spirit of this claim that the authors tried to conceal that
the armed forces itself was infiltrated by the PKI and that segments of the
armed forces were actually sympathetic to the PKI. The height of this effort
can be seen in the depiction of G30S as a purely PKI affair. Even Col. Un-
tung bin Syamsuri (1926–1967), who was a military officer and the leader of
the G30S, was not mentioned. The very faint trace of military involvement
is hinted at in a sentence whose function is merely to clarify Biro Khusus’s
role. It states, “Biro Khusus was a secret agency that was directly under
the leader of the party (PKI) whose task is to infiltrate the military and to
influence and create a group sympathetic to the PKI” (SNI-SMP, 160). Any
student who had no prior knowledge and read nothing other than SNI-SMP
would have no notion of military involvement in the G30S episode.
SNI-SMP also demonizes the PKI in a more forceful manner. For in-
stance, notwithstanding Sukarno’s many non-communist supporters in the
parliament, SNI-SMP exclusively blames the PKI for the failure of the par-
liament to respond to the public clamor for the dissolution of the communist
party, for massive restructuring of the cabinet, and for improper handling
of economic crisis (SNI-SMP, 196). In contrast, SNI-6 (1975) is silent about
this point. SNI-SMP also chides the PKI for forcefully taking land from
legitimate owners (152).
Given that these two texts were written almost at the same time by a small
group of military historians under the supervision of Nugroho, it is easy to
be perplexed why the significant differences? Regarding the difference in
the intensity of pro-regime interpretations, one possibility is that the two
140  SNI: contents and contexts
versions might have been written by different persons who simply had di-
verging views about these historical events, and Nugroho did not exercise
due diligence to ensure consistency of views. Yusmar Basri wrote Vol. 3 of
SNI-SMP (the one under consideration here) under the close supervision
of Nugroho.7 Yusmar Basri belonged to the team that wrote SNI-5 (1975),
whereas those who were responsible for SNI-6 were Yusmar’s colleagues at
the Armed Forces History Center, such as Saleh As’ad Djamhari, ­Rochmani
Santoso, and Ariwiadi.
Individual writing style, or writing ability, may also have something to
do with the outcome. SNI-6 (1975) and SNI-SMP, for instance, both em-
phasize the sins of Sukarno and the Guided Democracy regime. SNI-SMP,
however, appears to be clearer or more straightforward in its message. In its
attempt to discuss the sources and the gravity of economic problems during
the Guided Democracy period, SNI-6 (1975) merely cites the problems—­
hyper-inflation, white elephant projects, corruption. No attempt has been
made to explain and exemplify what they meant or to establish their causes
and interconnections. There is also no explicit mention of the supposed cul-
pability of Sukarno in all these problems (SNI-6 1975, 195, 109–10). If the
idea is to demonize Sukarno, one would easily get the impression that this
version was haphazardly written. SNI-SMP, on the other hand, is able to de-
fine and explain more clearly, within fewer pages, the connections between
the monetary crisis, corruption, inflation and the suffering of the people
(Notosusanto and Basri 1976, 152–54). There are possibly more fundamen-
tal reasons for these differences, which I shall return to below. An impor-
tant thing to highlight at this point is the individuality and agency of the
members of the team. Despite being supervised by Nugroho, who seemed
bent on promoting the interests of the regime, each member of the team ex-
ercised their own power to produce narratives and interpretations in ways
they liked and/or knew how.
It cannot be denied that political interests, particularly regime justifica-
tion, are a key factor that influenced the overall shape and tenor of SNI-
SMP. That it was indeed intended to be a political tool right from the start
became clear in 1982, when, in an interview with a journalist, Nugroho de-
clared, “Yes, I know that (referring to SNI-SMP) was not perfect…but its
contents were already okay (sudah baik) and it satisfies the requirements set
forth by Pak Harto”8 (emphasis mine) (Sumantri 1982). Many scholars in
Indonesia, and virtually all foreign scholars, had long suspected this was
the case, but Nugroho had always been adamant in rejecting any suggestion
that he was a lackey of the regime. Indeed, what he said in that interview
was a very rare explicit admission that he wrote history in conformity to the
order or wish of the higher authorities.
If political interest is indeed the primary reason, why would SNI-6 (1975)
be any less effective as a vehicle, particularly in comparison with SNI-SMP?
A possible answer lies in the contrasting set of constraints within which the
 SNI: contents and contexts  141
two projects developed. Whereas SNI-SMP was written with Nugroho and
his team enjoying full freedom, free from restriction imposed by Sartono
and other members of the team, the same team of historians were ham-
strung by at least three strictures in writing SNI-6 (1975). The first emanates
from the pressure to conform to the structural, multi-dimensional approach
agreed to, or imposed, by the team. The second was the attitude held at least
by some influential members of SNI (1975) team towards contemporary his-
tory. Such an attitude springs from what I call, for lack of better term, the
“contemporary-history-as-not-yet-history” mentality. And finally, the pres-
ence and the towering stature of Sartono himself, who, despite Nugroho’s
audacity to overrule him several instances before, remained a ‘force’ to be
reckoned with.
Reading various papers presented in the workshop in Tugu, Bogor in June
1972, which were compiled in three volumes entitled Workshop on Indone-
sian History Standard Text (Lokakarya Buku Standar Sejarah Indonesia),
one is readily struck by the strong pressure for everyone to conform to the
structural, multi-dimensional approach. Nugroho, who was known not to
be a fan of this approach, could only concur. Interviews with several people
close to Nugroho confirmed his preference for the narrative-chronological
approach. His literary background may had to do with this preference. For
him, history was a story.9 For another, if the objective was to convey a mes-
sage (moral, exhortatory, propagandistic), it could be accomplished more
effectively using a story-telling approach than with a structural and ana-
lytical approach.10 In Nugroho’s paper for the workshop entitled “Period
Since 1942: An Introduction” (Periode Sedjak 1942: Pengantar), he expresses
agreement with the structural approach but insists on the need for a chap-
ter that adopts a chronological or narrative approach as an introductory
but integral part of the whole effort (Notosusanto 1972). That was precisely
what came out in SNI-6 (1975), as described above: a chapter that spells
out a chronological narrative of what happened from 1942 to 1965 precedes
the two chapters devoted to the structural, multi-dimensional history of the
period. It seemed a sort of a compromise. In Nugroho’s foreword in SNI-6
1975 edition, he justified such a move by implying that unlike other volumes
that dealt with the periods long time past—periods when lack of data made
it difficult to present a clear and detailed narrative—there were simply so
many sources for events that are so immediately important in the period
covered by the volume (1942–1960s) that it would be a pity not to plot them
in a clear narrative.
The compromise had important consequences. Confining the narrative
approach to the introductory chapter left with only a limited space that pre-
cluded a detailed and passion-inciting narrative that effective propaganda
entails. This is a possible reason for the less intense or less effective prop-
aganda messages in SNI-6 (1975). Also, the narrative arc that fits the time
coverage of the main chapters, from the Japanese to Guided Democracy
142  SNI: contents and contexts
periods (1942–1965) rendered incongruous the discussion in the first chap-
ter of the period 1966–1970s, when many things happened that were cru-
cial to the legitimacy of the New Order regime. Perhaps, if the New Order
period (1966 to 1970s) had been included in the coverage of the two main
chapters, discussing in the first chapter the achievements of the New Order
would be necessary. Even in such a case, however, the primacy of the struc-
tural approach would likely preclude the need for details that could crowd
out non-political aspects—elements that the structural approach aims to
equally highlight. So, here, we have a case whereby the structural frame-
work of the project seemed to have restricted the ability of Nugroho and his
team to convey more effectively their propaganda messages.
That the birth and early years of the New Order were not covered in the
original SNI (1975) is puzzling. Their absence cannot be deliberate as the
papers for the planning workshop in 1972 explicitly stated the intent to in-
clude the period up to the 1970s. The members of the Vol. 6 team whom I
interviewed claimed that they cannot remember what happened that led to
the exclusion of the 1966–1970s period. I can only speculate based on avail-
able pieces of evidence.
In Nugroho’s preface to SNI-6 (1975), he launched a broadside against
undisclosed targets, chiding them for not being brave enough to face the
responsibility of making people understand their most recent history. Such
declaration would easily appear odd to anyone unfamiliar with the context.
Those who knew the backstory would understand that Nugroho was re-
ferring to Sartono and other scholars who harbored skeptical attitudes to-
wards contemporary history. Sartono was wary of the “lack of distance that
is needed for an objective historical investigation.” In his view, “(f)oreign
scholars are in a better position to deal with contemporary history since
they need not take sides” (2001, 44). It appears there was a pressure for Nu-
groho and his team to back-track from their original plan to include the New
Order period. That this may have been the case might be glimpsed from the
team members’ recollections of the heated episodes during planning work-
shops, when Nugroho and his team had to endure Taufik Abdullah’s and
other members’ comments and difficult questions on various issues, includ-
ing the supposed need to decide on the supposedly ‘bad’ defining features of
the Old Order and ‘good’ ones for the ‘New’ Orders.11
The timing and the condition under which SNI-SMP was produced,
as well as its contents, suggest what SNI-6 (1975) might have looked like
had Nugroho and his team worked unfettered by the restrictions imposed
by Sartono and other members of the team. I speculate that one possible
reason for Nugroho’s hasty move to form his own team to write the high
school textbooks, without conferring with Sartono and other historians,
was his fear that the type of history he envisioned would not be realized
with Sartono under the helm. The significant difference thus between SNI-
SMP and SNI (1975) may be reflective of the extent of Nugroho’s frustra-
tion with SNI-6 (1975). This disappointment appeared to have driven him
 SNI: contents and contexts  143
to produce SNI-SMP the way they did and, in a sleight of hand, declare
that it was just a simplified version or a summary of SNI (1975). The public,
including the critics, seemed to have believed this claims. Their attention
was focused on SNI (1976) without realizing that the truly blatant prop-
aganda was found in SNI-SMP. The problematic character of SNI-SMP
was first brought up in the media in an editorial simply entitled “Writing
Indonesian History” (Penulisan Sejarah Indonesia) published in Kompas
on 17 September 1985. Unlike SNI, which was almost instantly debated
when it came out, SNI-SMP was peculiarly ignored by critics for a decade.
In 1987, it became an issue that attracted a more sustained public attention,
as reported by Kompas on 5 and 27 May 1987 (Kompas 1987a; 1987b). The
Ministry of Education declared the need to take another look at the teach-
ing of history in schools.
A number of possible reasons could explain this oversight. It is likely that
not many people had actually read SNI (any edition) and SNI-SMP together.
So, hardly anyone knew the difference. Also, teachers and textbook writ-
ers whom I have asked confirmed the tendency to find the easy way out.
Teachers would use what was readily available, which was SNI-SMP (and its
sister-textbooks SNI-SMA). Similarly, textbook writers would merely copy
from sources that were popular and easily accessible. Rather than doing their
own research or drawing from and simplifying the admittedly more difficult
to read SNI, it was much more convenient to just consult and paraphrase
SNI-SMP (and its sister-textbook SNI-SMA). The high level of similarity
among a wide range of available textbooks in the 1980s and 1990s confirms
this observation. Still another possible reason for the critics’ neglect of SNI-
SMP was that they might have believed what Nugroho and government offi-
cial had declared: that it was just a simplified version, or a summary, of SNI
(1975). Thus, it could not possibly be ‘worse’ than SNI (1975).

The 1984 edition

An examination of the 1984 edition of SNI (Poesponegoro and Notosusanto
1984) confirms the suspicion that Nugroho would have written SNI-6 (1975)
very differently under unrestricted conditions. By this time, Sartono had
already been removed by Nugroho, as discussed in the previous chapter.
The 1984 edition is strikingly closer to SNI-SMP than it is to SNI-6 (1975) in
structure, tone, and content.
The first obvious difference between 1975 and 1984 editions of Vol.  6
­(SNI-6) lay in the structure that reflected the framework adopted. Just like
SNI-SMP, SNI-6 (1984) had abandoned the multi-dimensional in favor of the
narrative-chronological approach. The 1984 edition constituted a massive
overhaul of Vol. 6. In stark contrast, other volumes barely changed through
the years. The little that remained of the multi-dimensional approach had
been confined to a sub-section in each chapter, often just as appendices to a
lengthy account of political development. See Table 5.1 below.
144  SNI: contents and contexts
Table 5.1  Comparison of Outlines and Political Contents of Vol. 6, SNI (1975) and
SNI (1984)

1975 Edition SNI-6* 1984 Edition SNI-6**

Chapter 1: Overview (124 pages) I. Japanese Period (89 pages)

Narrative of what happened from Among seven sections, two are
Japanese Period to October 1965 non-political: Section D (War
Economy) and E (Education, Social
Communication and Culture).
19 out of 89 pages are non-political
Chapter 2: Japanese Period (50 pages) II. War for Independence (115 pages)
Among four sections, only one for Among nine sections, there are
politics: two non-politics sections.
Section H (Economic Blockade)
A Social Change and Mobility
and I (Education, Culture and
B War Economy
Social Communication. 
C Government Structure and
33 out of 115 pages are for
Political Life (18 out 50 pages)
non-political matters
D Education and Social
Communication
Chapter 3: Republic of Indonesia III. Liberal Democracy (70 pages)
(158 pages) Among eight sections, only one
Among six sections, three for non- is non-political: Section H
politics and three for political themes (Education, Culture and Social
Communication. 26 out of 70 pages
A Social Mobility and Social deal with non-political matters
Stratification IV. Guided Democracy (80 pages)
B Economic Development One section among 6 is allotted for
C Government Structure and non-political matters, 11 pages out
Political Life (24 out of 158 pages) of 80.
D Education and Social V. New Order (133 pages)
Communication Three sections for non-political:
E Foreign Relations (18 out 158 D (Economic stabilization), E (5-Year
pages) Development Plans) and H (Socio-
F National Security and ABRI’s cultural Development). [Note that
Dual-Function (8 out of 158 discussion on economic stabilization
pages) and 5-Yr Plans (22 pages) is heavily
underlain by political tone and
motive; it was meant to draw sharp
dichotomy between the New and the
Old Order.] 41 pages out of 133 pages
for non-politics

Notes:
* 50 out of 158 (32%) for politics
68 pages out of 208 pages (multi-dimensional part) or 33% devoted for political matters
** 357 out of 487 (73%) consists of political matters

Having been freed from the strictures of the multi-dimensional approach

and Sartono’s ‘contemporary-history-as-not-yet-history’ stance, the 1984
edition devotes significant attention to political themes and pushes the logic
of contemporaneity to its utmost, covering the years up to 1983. Out of 487
 SNI: contents and contexts  145
pages, 357 (73%) are devoted to political matters compared with 68 out of
208 pages (33%) in the 1975 edition.
The free-flowing narrative-approach enables the 1984 edition to provide
more clear-cut images of events and personalities, including a more sharply
negative depiction of Sukarno, the PKI, and the Old Order as well as a more
clearly positive appraisal of Suharto, the military and the New Order. For
instance, whereas the 1975 edition mentions without elaboration the sources
or manifestations of economic problems during the Guided Democracy, the
1984 edition provides copious details about the economic crisis, devoting
about a dozen pages to compact and relatively well-organized details about
the economic problem; its alleged cause and impact (321–331), specifically
hyper-inflation; and its alleged relationship with Sukarno’s erratic and prof-
ligate economic policies. More importantly, the effort to connect all these
facts to the suffering of the people succeeds in conjuring up an extremely
negative image of Sukarno and the Old Order among readers.
As already noted, the 1975 edition’s failure to go beyond early October
1965 effectively excluded events that were important to the birth and le-
gitimation of the New Order regime. The 1984 edition addresses this ‘de-
ficiency’ by, initially, providing a decisively negative picture of the period
1950–1965—gloomy, chaotic, hopeless, unstable—and then changes tone
gradually, becoming more expectant and upbeat after Suharto took over
power from Sukarno from March 1966 onwards. The positive tempo contin-
ues until unbridled optimism is unleashed in the coverage of the post-1967
period when Suharto was formally installed as the president. Panegyric
descriptions of the gains in stabilizing the economy, putting order in the
society in general, and strengthening the foundations of political stability
were extensively detailed in over 100 pages of text (Poesponegoro and Noto-
susanto 1984, 404–519). The 1993 edition went even further, with a separate
volume of almost 500 pages highlighting the accomplishments of the New
Order (Leirissa and Ghazali 1993). For the purpose of this study, there is
no need for a detailed examination of the contents of the 1993 edition. The
additional details from this edition merely affirm, rather than complicate or
alter, the trajectory of analysis based on the 1984 edition.
To be more specific, the sub-section on the period of consolidation (since
1968) in the 1984 edition starts with how conscientious the government then
was in partnership with the parliament in their effort to address law-related
problems. Law, it states, is “an objective guarantee to normalize the situa-
tion necessary for development” (SNI-6 1984, 426), justifying such effort.
A few lines later, however, it becomes clear that this is aimed as a critique of
the supposed ‘lawlessness’ of the Old Order. It reports on the repeal of the
laws promulgated by the previous regime that were incompatible with the
constitution. It also claims that, unlike the situation under the Old Order,
government officials and the people in general became more law-abiding
(426–427). This illustrates one of the ways by which the ‘othering’ of the Old
Order is accomplished in the 1984 edition.
146  SNI: contents and contexts
The succeeding pages parade the specific efforts of the new regime to ‘re-
pair the damage’ or ‘save’ the country from the ravages wrought by the for-
mer government. Highlighted are campaigns to wipe out corruption and to
curb inflation, the rehabilitation of export-oriented industries and tax col-
lection infrastructure, the recovery of ‘ill-gotten’ wealth, debt-­restructuring,
the rationalized economic planning, and the overhaul of foreign policy.
Gains, big and small, in each of these areas contributed to creating a picture
of progress, order, and optimism that stood in stark contrast to the depress-
ing situations under the previous regime (426–430). Without his name being
mentioned, Suharto is often cast as the hope for the future. In contrast,
Sukarno represents the nightmare of the past.
It is also noteworthy that the 1984 edition is categorical about the role of
the women’s organization, Gerwani or Gerakan Wanita Indonesia (Indone-
sian Women’s Movement), and youth organization, Pemuda Rakyat (­People’s
Youth), in the purported act of torturing and killing the generals. Both were
affiliated closely with PKI. In contrast, SNI-6 (1975) and SNI-SMP are silent
about their involvement. Moreover, whereas the 1975 edition is quiet about
the reaction of the people to the G30S episode, the 1984 version is explicit
about it, describing the reactions as ‘angry.’ The burning of the PKI head-
quarters by the mob supposedly indicates such anger (395–396). Similar is
a fairly detailed description of the alleged effort of the PKI to ‘come back’
in early 1968 (402–403)—a move that seems to highlight the ‘latent danger’
(­bahaya laten) that communism supposedly posed to Indonesian society.12
This is something that both SNI 1975 edition and SNI-SMP are silent about.
While the 1984 edition is overall more systematic, detailed, and forceful in
rendering accounts favorable to the Suharto regime, it would be a mistake
to assume that that there is always a linear progression from SNI 1975 to
SNI-SMP to SNI 1984 edition in terms of clarity or efficacy of conveying
propaganda messages. In efforts to conceal or minimize the involvement of
the military in the tragic G30S event, for example, the 1975 edition serves the
purpose better simply by saying so much less about it than the 1984 edition.
Whereas the 1975 edition allots no more than a total of two pages (SNI-6
1975, 120–122), in the 1984 edition there is a detailed description of military
involvement spread out in a dozen pages (SNI-6 1984, 390–402). For another,
while later editions pinpoint Col. Untung as the leader of the movement, the
1975 edition names Syam Kamaruzaman, designated by the text as a PKI
high-ranking officer, as the leader (SNI-6 1975, 121). Untung is relegated to
the minor position of being just one among military men involved. The mili-
tary involvement in the ‘shameful’ G30S event is emphasized far more in the
1984 edition than it is in either of the two other versions.
To the extent that SNI-6 openly recognizes that some military personnel
were involved in the G30S, all editions are invariably careful to emphasize
that these military men were misled or brainwashed by the PKI through
the persistent infiltration efforts of its Special Bureau (Biro Khusus) (SNI-6
1975, 120; SNI-6 1984, 399). Not an iota of space is allowed for the possibility
 SNI: contents and contexts  147
that the military officers subscribed to leftist ideas on their own volition.
In comparative terms, the 1975 edition is more straightforward and emphatic
about the alleged vulnerability of the military to PKI brainwashing than SNI-
SMP and the 1984 edition (SNI-6 1975, 120–121). It provides, for instance,
some details as to how the Special Bureau broke into the military, even men-
tioning specific middle-ranking officers who were supposed to be channels for
the spread of communist ideas. The 1984 edition, on the other hand, merely
mentions the Special Bureau’s function and cites a number of brigades or bat-
talions in Central Java as targets of attempted intrusion (SNI-6 1984, 387, 397).
Even so, despite the vehemence of SNI-SMP, in general terms and particu-
larly against the leftists, there are instances when it proves softer than SNI-6,
both the 1975 and 1984 editions. The PKI, for example, is not blamed for In-
donesia’s withdrawal from the United Nation or UN and the confrontation
with Malaysia, as is the case in the 1975 edition. Nor is there any mention of
the pressures on the artists or literary figures to toe the “Politics is in Com-
mand” line favored by the Institute of People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan
Rakyat, or LEKRA) and other leftist organizations.
Despite efforts to provide accounts favorable to the regime, these versions
of official history vary and they lack a consistent progression from the ear-
lier to the later editions, which suggests a less than controlled effort to pro-
mote the interest of the New Order regime. In places, the volumes contain
contradictory messages that go against the core of the official narrative that
justifies the regime.
Before the 1975 edition closes, nestled in the middle of the last paragraph,
the authors declare:

With the coup attempt of the G30S/PKI that failed, the whole of ABRI
(military) opened their eyes about the consequence of inter- and intra-­
service (military) conflict due to the infiltration of ABRI by people who
are agents of an outside political power.
(SNI-6 1975, 345)

That such a statement can be found in SNI, supposedly the regime’s official
history, is very significant. This statement reiterates the blame on an ‘out-
side political power’ (presumably communists) for the cause of the G30S
tragedy, which is in line with the official narrative. However, it also implies
the involvement of the military and includes intra- and inter-service rivalries
among the causes of the G30S. Doing so undercuts not only the whole effort
to deny or minimize military involvement in the incident, as is made clear in
the earlier parts of the book—more significantly, it subverts the major ideas
behind the official explanation of the event, as painstakingly laid out in the
book published in 1968 The September 30 Movement Coup Attempt. Au-
thored by Nugroho Notosusanto and Ismael Saleh (1926–2008), a military
prosecutor, this book was prepared with the assistance of the Rand Cor-
poration, one of the key players in the US government’s anti-Communist
148  SNI: contents and contexts
efforts during the Cold War (McGregor 2007, 65–66. The main aim was to
counter the damaging implications of the analysis made by scholars from
Cornell University, Benedict Anderson and Ruth McVey, which denies the
major role of the PKI in the G30S and lays the blame squarely on internal
dissension within the army. For its part The September 30 Movement Coup
Attempt insists that

the ‘September 30 Movement’ was not an internal Army (a)ffair. The

cases did not have the characteristics of internal Army squabbles. They
were neither caused by difference between the Army and the Air Force,
nor between any of the other within the Armed Forces.
(Notosusanto and Saleh 1968: 145)

This book also forcefully argues that the episode was a coup attempt mas-
terminded by the communists to wrest control of the government.
There is something really strange here. SNI-6 (1975) was written by Nu-
groho Notosusanto and his team. At the same time, Nugroho was the co-­
author of The September 30 Movement Coup Attempt. Both are widely known
as the New Order regime’s official history (Roosa 2012). Yet one contains a
passage that fundamentally goes against the main argument of the other.
How could that happen? One may interpret it as nothing but an indication
of how negligent, sloppy, rash or incompetent Nugroho was. He seemed to
have not closely monitored the output of his close aides and rushed into
publishing the volume without careful edits and oversight.
This interpretation cannot be ruled out, but I would also flag the need to
pay attention to other possible important factors, such as the role and volition
of military historians who tended to be ignored as no more than Nugroho’s
alter egos. Contradictions like this may be easily brushed aside as accidental,
natural, or common, as a product of differences in perspective, hasty inter-
pretations, or carelessness. However, that it was not accidental is indicated
by the presence of similar passage in the 1984 edition. While no necessarily
causal connection between the intra-military rivalry and the G30S is estab-
lished, this passage sets the reader to interpret the internal rivalries within
the Army (or military as a whole) as leading to the G30S episode.

Since 1962…the ‘divide and rule’ politics towards the ABRI reached cli-
max such that the process of disintegration, rivalries and controversies
between or within different branches or services of the ABRI acceler-
ated until such point that the G-30-S/PKI broke out.
(SNI-6 1984, 456; italics original)

One may argue that the passages in SNI that are incoherent or even con-
tradict official narratives do not on the whole mean anything substantive
insofar as the political interests of the regime. They do not, for instance,
negate the fact that SNI, particularly Vol.  6, was an official history that
 SNI: contents and contexts  149
served the interests of the New Order regime. They also do not overturn the
power relations that characterized the project, putting the scholars rather
than the state operatives in the dominant position. Be that as it may, the
absence of the coverage of certain key events, the existence of contrarian
statements, and the less than coherent or forceful portrayal of politically
important events indicate slippages that call for a more nuanced analytic
approach and for teasing out their full implications.
The significant variations across the officially sanctioned texts highlight
a disconnect between, on the one hand, the coherence and singularity of
power that underpins the idea of official history. On the other hand is the
fluidity and multiplicity of powers that shape knowledge on the ground.
What needs underscoring is the agency of Nugroho’s young assistant histo-
rians who wrote the relevant parts. This agency is easily overlooked when,
juxtaposed with big powers like the New Order regime or its operatives, like
Nugroho, scholars are readily viewed as the ‘manipulated’ or ‘co-opted,’
as if they are powerless, or they do not have their own interests to pursue.
The fact that Nugroho and his team were on the payroll of the Armed
Forces heightens the impression of ‘officiality,’ thus overshadowing the com-
plex power relation that accompanies knowledge production. What gets cre-
ated is a simulacrum (or perception) that imputes the regime and its official
history greater power than what it actually had. With the public acting as
if indeed, SNI 1975 was the official history, the “fakery of the news” was in
effect obscured by the publicly perceived truthfulness of the fake. In due
time, the fake becomes the truth. What this points to is the complicity of
the public in truth-making, which reinforces the need for a more nuanced
analytic approach to knowledge production.

In the service of two masters?

Historians employed in a military institution are in a challenging situa-
tion. As professionals trained in historical methodologies that champion
impartiality or objectivity, they are in an ambiguous position between their
membership to the community of scholars and their obligations as military
personnel. They are often viewed with suspicion by fellow historians and
segments of the public. Trained to pursue ‘objectivity’ as much as possible,
members of the team seemed to feel conflicted when faced with the demand
of their work at the History Center. Nugroho Notosusanto and his close
aide were illustrative examples.
Apparently aware of the negative public perception of him, Nugroho
took pains to convince the public that he deserved to be treated as scholar-­
historian. In various instances, he tried to display a mastery of historical
methods and utilized them as weapons in his contentious debates with crit-
ics. While he was not always convincing, he carried himself quite well in a
number of those instances.13 Meanwhile, his close aide felt guilty for what he
claimed they did. Believing that Sukarno was a great leader, he felt bad that
150  SNI: contents and contexts
he had joined the endeavor to discredit Sukarno and besmirch the leader’s
memory. Perhaps as an attempt at self-­redemption, after retiring from the
History Center in 1995, this aide pursued a PhD in history and vowed to do
a ‘scientific history.’14
The ambiguities of military-historians’ positions tend to pose certain lim-
itations to what they can do or achieve. As historians, they have to contend
with rules or conventions, and they engage in the prevailing discourses of
the professional community, where they also like to be accepted, respected,
or recognized. Nugroho’s team had to engage with the community of histo-
rians and deal with the overall historiographic landscape as it was develop-
ing then in Indonesia. Despite being backed by the supremacy of the New
Order regime, they did not have pre-eminent power or influence within this
domain. They had to wrestle with, among other forces, scholarly conven-
tions, where politics lies in scholars’ being avowedly non-political or at least
discreet about their political proclivities. The clash of the two domains of
power was perhaps inevitable.
Aside from the limitations emanating from the military-historian’s am-
biguous position, the nature of history-used-as-a-propaganda also posed a
considerable challenge to scholars. Even if they consciously aimed at pro-
moting propaganda, they had to maintain at least a semblance of impartial-
ity or objectivity and a grasp of historical methodology. Since the power of
history-as-propaganda depends to an extent on the appearance of credibil-
ity, they had to strike a delicate balance between forcefulness and subtlety,
immediacy and restraint. While there were instances when what Nugroho
and his team published betrayed their crudity or lack of skills along this
line, there were also instances when restraints upon them, self-imposed or
otherwise, were apparent. Some notable examples from SNI-6 shall be dis-
cussed below to illustrate the point.
As noted earlier, the place called Lubang Buaya occupies a central posi-
tion in the official narrative of the New Order.15 It became a museum that
even today serves as a memorial to the alleged treachery, wickedness, and
hunger for power of the PKI.16 Considering the pivotal position it occupies
in the official narrative of the regime, one may be surprised that all versions
of SNI covered in this study, including the usually virulent SNI-SMP, treats
it rather mildly, particularly in comparison with what has been popularly
known. For instance, none among various editions of SNI-6 contain the
grotesque details meant to incite the anger of the public towards the PKI
circulated through news reports from military-controlled newspapers like
Berita Yudha and Angkatan Bersendjata. These reports claimed that the
members of Gerwani and Pemuda Rakyat gouged out the eyes of the gen-
erals and mutilated their genitals or had women dance naked around them
and even ‘raped’ them.17 SNI-6 1975 edition merely states that the generals
were tortured; it does not describe the torture as ‘berat’ (severe) or ‘kejam’
(cruel or gruesome), as is the case in the 1984 edition (SNI-6 1975, 122; SNI-6
 SNI: contents and contexts  151
1984, 390). More surprisingly, the alleged culpability, even the mere pres-
ence, of the Gerwani and other PKI-affiliated groups in Halim or Lubang
Buaya is not even hinted at in the first edition.18
Once more, the reason for this discrepancy may have been a simple over-
sight or carelessness on the part of Nugroho’s team. This supposition is
plausible in the case of SNI 1975 edition, which, as discussed in the previous
chapter, was printed rather hastily. That the level of culpability of Gerwani
and other PKI groups is amplified in the 1984 edition indicates the intent to
rectify the oversight. The silence, however, in both editions about the ghastly
acts allegedly committed by the women—castration, poking out of eyes,
dancing of naked around generals—is different. It cannot be an accidental
oversight. It indicated the unwillingness of the team members to mention
them. One of the members of Nugroho’s team claimed that they could find
no credible evidence for such alleged wrongdoings. In addition, for educa-
tional purposes, inclusion of such details was deemed inappropriate.19
Another case is the treatment of the episode called General Offensive
(Serangan Umum) of 1 March 1949. This refers to the coordinated attack
by Republican forces under the operational leadership of Suharto against
the Dutch-controlled Yogyakarta, holding it for about six hours. The con-
troversy surrounding this event lies in Suharto’s claim that it was his brain-
child, sidelining Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX as the initiator. All three
editions refrain from eulogizing the role of Suharto in this event. They uni-
formly state that Suharto led the attack but neither exaggerate his role as
the leader nor present him as the initiator. In his autobiography (Soeharto
1989), Suharto claimed credit for initiating and leading it. Instead, it is the
event’s significance that is highlighted in all versions of SNI. Consistently,
the attack is described as ‘extraordinarily intense’ and a crucial factor in
demoralizing the Dutch forces (SNI-SMP, 108), thus turning of the tide of
war to the advantage of the Indonesian military (SNI-6 1975, 63; SNI-6
1984, 162).
The period from securing Supersemar or the Letter of Instruction that
allowed the transfer of power from Sukarno to Suharto is yet another exam-
ple of restraint on the part of the scholars. The first edition is totally silent
about it. The narrative ends soon after the G30S incident for reasons earlier
discussed. The 1984 edition is notable for not embellishing the importance
of the event. Unlike the case of SNI-SMP, which states that “Supersemar
constitutes a turning point in the victory of the New Order and because it
was newly acquired must be defended and protected” (169), the 1984 edition
simply states that “11 March 1966 was the start of the New Order” (413).
There are several other instances when restraint on the part of the histori-
ans is apparent. However, I single out these three cases as examples because
they are central to the interests of the regime, or of Suharto specifically.
That the supposed official history would not go as far as other propagan-
distic tools could mean various things. One possibility is the conscious or
152  SNI: contents and contexts
unconscious ‘attempt’ of the historians who wrote it to uphold the rules of
evidence in historical methodology. Despite being dubbed as a mouthpiece
or an icon of New Order propaganda, and for that bitterly criticized, SNI
(especially the 1975 edition) was at best of limited forcefulness or efficacy.
Perhaps, Suharto’s call in early May 1987 to take another look at the history
of 1950–1965 and to formulate anew an official, specifically “objective and
honest” history of the New Order was in recognition of the limitations of
SNI.20
Notwithstanding the preponderance of the regime’s political motives in
SNI-6, there were spaces in this project in which these motives did not dom-
inate. This situation provides us a glimpse of the complex interplay between
politics, scholarship and chance. It allows us to see scholars as agents who
have their own power. Chance and the unintended exercise of power some-
times play an important role too. The wellspring of the powers of scholar-
ship in the context of Indonesia needs to be clarified.

Deep roots of scholarship-politics tensions

The tensions between the scholarly and the political run long in the field of
history in Indonesia. Early recorded episodes involved spirited exchanges
about the question of objectivity and subjectivity within the ‘club’ of colo-
nial historians, as Resink put it (1968a, 63). The Indonesian scholars did not
participate; they were, as Resink noted with hyperbole, “totally ignorant
of it” (1968b, 66). If the notion of ‘subjective history’ had to be fought for
in Europe, in the context of a long-standing tradition of positivism, ration-
alism, and empiricism, the same may not be true in the case of Indonesian
scholars. The subjective notion of history seemed to have easily found a
fertile niche in the emerging community of Indonesian historians. Among
the reasons for this, Resink spelled out, were the “pluralistic and polyinter-
pretable” character of Indonesian culture and the ‘syncretistic traditions’
that altogether nurtured the spirit of tolerance among the people. The other
reason, Resink said, lay in the backwardness of historical theory as it devel-
oped among colonial scholars in/of Indonesia. That is, the colonial histori-
ography of the earlier days did not pay particular attention to the question
of historical objectivity, so it was relatively easy to embrace the notion of
historical subjectivity (Resink 1968a, 66).
In the earlier stage, the question of subjectivity was not primarily linked
to the influence of the ‘obviously’ political, such as the interest of the state or
political leaders. It was rather tied to the impact of the Zeitgeist or the dom-
inant spirit of the time, including the supposedly ahistorical attitude ema-
nating from traditional culture, as bewailed, for example, by Soedjatmoko
(1965) and Bambang Oetomo (1961). The same culture had, supposedly, also
nurtured and sanctioned the close ties between the rulers and the court po-
ets/clerics (pujanggas). It is a practice that, some would say, would be carried
all throughout Indonesian history, perhaps in different forms, even up to
 SNI: contents and contexts  153
the New Order period. Coasting along the rise of nationalism, the notion
of subjectivity would in due time become decidedly political, both in tone
and in intent. The proliferation starting in the late colonial period of the
purportedly historical works that seemed mythical, extolling the glories of
the Indonesian past, illustrated the extent to which intellectuals, such as
Mohammad Yamin (1951), would choose to be carried away by a strongly
nationalist atmosphere.
Against such a backdrop, one may appreciate the importance of what
happened on the fateful day of 14 December 1957. In the opening day of the
historic first National History Seminar, Soedjatmoko21 and Yamin were the
two presenters tasked with articulating their proposed philosophy of na-
tional history.22 The two scholars offered what proved to be classic articula-
tions of the two contrasting views on the philosophy of the national history
of Indonesia. The primary bones of contention were the questions “History
for what?” and “What should history be?” If Resink, only five years earlier,
had bewailed the absence of Indonesians’ participation in the debate, things
would never have been the same after the Soedjatmoko-Yamin encounter in
December 1957. The friction between ‘scientific’ and nationalist history was
given eloquent expression perhaps for the first time in Indonesia’s public
sphere. It continued, although in a sporadic manner, in succeeding decades.
Mohammad Yamin argued passionately for the use of history to promote
national unity and national pride (1968). Soedjatmoko, for his part, argued
exactly the opposite. He warned against the use of history as a political tool,
and he called for a ‘scientific’ and ‘open approach’ to the study of history,
devoid of any preconceived political purposes. As far as he was concerned,
talking about philosophy of history at a time when there was a virtual ab-
sence of empirical research was premature and inappropriate. He urged
that research be done in an open space following scientific approach, and
the output would frame the shape philosophy would take afterwards (Soed-
jatmoko 1958). The whole idea of his paper revolved around the urgent need
to protect history from the impatient demands of nationalism.23
Soedjatmoko’s eloquent articulation aside, the mantra of nationalism
seemed overwhelming. Among the seven respondents invited to comment
on the Yamin–Soedjatmoko exchange, hardly anyone expressed agreement
with the points raised by Soedjatmoko. Two of the respondents (see Ave 1958
and Kartawirana 1958) flatly rejected Soedjatmoko’s proposal and one of
them, J.B. Ave, appeared to be deeply angered by it. Others either implicitly
denied Soedjatmoko’s views by agreeing with Yamin and being mum about
any of Soedjatmoko’s proposals. In his response, Soedjatmoko tried to mol-
lify Ave by anchoring the roots of their oppositional views on the unclear
nature of the theme of the panel. He said that it should not be about philos-
ophy of national history but about issues on the writing of history. These
reactions were a portent of how, in the succeeding decades, Soedjatmoko’s
ideas would be received by the history establishment in Indonesia, in par-
ticular, and the public, in general. While there has been a tendency in foreign
154  SNI: contents and contexts
(particularly American) scholarship on Indonesia to exaggerate the impact
or influence of Soedjatmoko’s 1957 piece, as exemplified, for instance, by
Kahin and Barnett, who gushed about its supposedly being widely read and
influential (1990), Indonesian historians whom I have interviewed and who
studied in the 1960–1980s attest that it was hardly a ‘hot’ topic of discussion
in their classes. That the Soedjatmoko-edited book Introduction to Indo-
nesian Historiography was translated into Bahasa Indonesia and published
in Indonesia only in 1995 underlined its limited readership and influence
before the mid-1990s.24
Apparently, like many of Soedjatmoko’s other compelling ideas, his mes-
sage cannot but be confined, during much of Guided Democracy and New
Order periods, to the undercurrents. It was considered by many, to put it in
the most polite terms, as well ahead of its time.25 It would have to wait for
the rise of Sartono and the multi-dimensional school (sometimes called the
UGM School) before a sustained effort materialized to bring at least parts
of Soedjatmoko’s message to the surface, allowing it a chance of joining the
mainstream of historiographic development.26
The scientific and the nationalist history were not necessarily antithetical,
as Soedjatmoko suggested. Klooster pointed out, rightly in my view, that a
nationalist historiography can also be scientific, although he conceded that
it may seldom happen. The difference between the two, he claimed, lay in
the purpose. That is, while nationalist historiography aims at “cultivation
of love and esteem for the fatherland,” scientific historiography seeks to un-
derstand “the past in its own right” (1982, 48–49).
Parenthetically, while many foreign observers27 were disapproving, dis-
missive, or bitterly critical of the nationalist historiography that developed
in the Old and New Order periods, there were also others who were sym-
pathetic or at least tolerant. In a characteristic historicist fashion, Nichter-
lein demonstrated the various ways by which different Indonesian authors
had given substance to the idea of history consistent with the demands of
the time or their understanding of those demands. ‘Scientific’ history, she
claimed, was but one of several possibilities by which history could be writ-
ten. It was not necessarily the most applicable or acceptable (Nichterlein
1974). Resink declared, “Our national attitude has to an important extent
been determined historically, and it will continue to develop as a response
to the challenge of the extra-national, a-national, and in some case, anti-­
national historical attitudes of many” (G.J. Resink 1968). Frederick and
Soeroto (1982) also espoused history as a product of its time, and it was not
necessarily antithetical or inferior to ‘scientific history.’ While many Indo-
nesians appeared comfortable with such a historicist view of the discipline,
it did (does) not sit well with the views of the eloquent and the vocal few. The
likes of Bambang Oetomo, Soedjatmoko, and, in the past decade, Bambang
Purwanto proved to be as harsh, if not harsher, than their foreign coun-
terparts in castigating nationalist historiography. Mohammad Ali,28 Sar-
tono Kartodirdjo,29 Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo,30 Taufik Abdullah,31
 SNI: contents and contexts  155
32
and Kuntowijoyo were also critical, but their stance seemed tempered
by their sympathies for or understanding of the inevitability of national
(if not nationalist)33 aspirations. Altogether, however, they gave a clear, al-
beit muffled, voice in an atmosphere pervaded by the logic of nationalism.
Their occasional articles, in the press and/or in more scholarly venues, kept
the tension between the ‘scientific’ and the nationalist scholarship alive all
throughout the extended period when the pressure was enormous for the
former (‘scientific’) to bow down to the latter (‘nationalist’).
Where does Nugroho fit in all this? It is tempting to regard him as a car-
rier of the long tradition of the-ruler-and-the-poet/chronicler relationship
that dates back to the pujanggas in the courts of Mataram, Majapahit, and
other old kingdoms. Responding to insinuations that he was New Order’s
pujangga baru (new pujangga), Nugroho had time and again insisted that
he was a scholar, not an ‘intellectual prostitute’ (Notosusanto 1978, 1981b).
Whether he succeeded in convincing his critics is doubtful, but since many
in Indonesia also respected and admired Nugroho, more careful and nu-
anced judgments may be needed. Consider, for instance, that if we liken Nu-
groho to Prapanca, an exemplar of a pujangga, this view is complicated by
scholars’ conflicting interpretations of Prapanca. While C.C. Berg dismissed
Prapanca as a manipulator of history who served the political interest of his
ruler, and he also questioned the historical value of Prapanca’s purported
work ­Nagarakrtagama (Bosch 1956), scholars like Sutjipto Wirjosuparto34
(Wirjosuparto 1982) defended Prapanca, even considered him as the father
of Indonesian history. While there have been more than a few Bergs in the
past several decades, there seem to be many more commentators who could
identify with Sutjipto Wirjosuparto’s assessment.35 So, any overly dismissive
evaluation of Nugroho as a modern-day Prapanca, or as an intellectual pros-
titute, reflects only one side in a highly contentious and continuing debate. It
may be a case of asserting one’s politics against those of others. Such a debate
is embedded in, though by no means confined to, the historiographic terrain.

Summing up
This chapter sets out to provide a nuanced examination of the relationship
between politics and scholarship, power and knowledge, as evidenced in
SNI project. It elucidates how the content and structure of SNI reflected
and, at the same time, were influenced by the historiographic development
and political contexts in Indonesia in the 1970s. Rather than the static and
­commonly believed frame of the-powerful-manipulating-knowledge, it
demonstrates the dynamic relationship between scholarly and political
forces, at times clashing, at other times reinforcing or simply running par-
allel with one another.
The primacy of the political and historiographic factors had a profound
impact on the writing of the various versions of SNI. While the epithet ‘offi-
cial history’ was on the whole not unwarranted, it is wrong to suppose that
156  SNI: contents and contexts
all SNI versions (1975; SNI-SMP and SNI 1984) were coherent and singu-
larly favorable to the interests of the New Order regime. It is rather ironic
that the version of SNI that was the most criticized and believed widely
to be the official history—the original edition, SNI (1975)—was the least
propagandistic, whereas the most ignored, SNI-SMP, was among the most
virulent. It seems that the perception of the nature of official history needs
to be re-calibrated to make it more textured and thus able to accommodate
cases like SNI. It also flags the presence of a simulacral aspect of reality,
in which public perceptions replace or take precedent over the real. As the
public responses to SNI and its other versions show, perceptions could have
serious material consequences.
Another important point is that the variations, incoherence, or even con-
tradiction within and across different versions of SNI suggests the multi-
plicity or power and fluidity of power relations that shape knowledge. It also
points to the agency of individual scholar-participants, as well as to the need
to acknowledge the power of scholarship, whose established conventions
(approaches, theories, practices) helped inadvertently or not in restricting
the political interests of the regime. This point goes against the still com-
mon, though by no means universal, understanding of the power–­knowledge
relations, where the role or power of scholars and scholarship tend to swing
between the poles of being exaggerated as an antidote to the political (the
liberal notion of “speaking truth to power”), on the one hand, and being
downplayed, ignored or assumed to be out of the equation, as if scholars
and scholarship are neutral and beyond the ambit of power relations, on the
other. Just like Tadhana, what the case of SNI shows is that in between these
poles lies the intimate, complex, and shifting relationship between the schol-
arly and the political. The differences between the two cases are mainly on
the mechanics of how embodiments of power and knowledge interact. The
logic that underpins such interaction appears to be fundamentally the same.
It is the task of the next chapter to elucidate further this point.

Notes
1 Kompas “Demonstran Bakar Buku Sejarah Nasional,” 3 March 2002.
2 For early works, see Anderson and McVey (1971); Nugroho Notosusanto and
Saleh (1968); Crouch 1978; Wertheim 1970); Robert Cribb (1990); and Sulistyo
(2000, 46–89). For more recent publications, see McGregor, Melvin, and Pohl-
man (2018); Kammen and McGregor (2012); Melvin (2017, 2018); Robinson
(2018); Roosa (2006, 2012). For a comprehensive and detailed review of Sukar-
no’s involvement, see Beisi (2004). For a review that is favorable to Suharto’s
position, see Elson (2001, 99–119).
3 This episode relates to the attempt by the left-leaning artists and cultural work-
ers to assert the primacy of the ‘political’ (captured in the slogan “Politics is
in Command!” or “Politik adalah Panglima!”) in all aspects of life, including
art-related matters. It elicited a response from a group of artists who signed
the Manifesto Kebudayaan (Cultural Manifesto) asserting freedom of artistic ex-
pression. For a perceptive, insider’s view of the issues, events and personalities
surrounding this incident, see Goenawan Mohamad (1988).
 SNI: contents and contexts  157
4 It is notable that Ariwiadi’s colleague, Moela Marbun, who was assigned to the
period of Guided Democracy wrote the paper apparently without much desire
to paint an overly negative picture of the period. See Marbun (1972).
5 Interview with an anonymized informant, 23 & 25 June 2005, Yogyakarta.
6 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 August 2005, Depok.
7 Interview with an anonymized informant, 18 December 2005, Jakarta.
8 Nugroho was quoted as saying, “Saya tahu itu (SNI-SMP) tidak sempurna ka-
rena saya bukan guru SMP, tapi bahan isinya sudah baik dan memenuhi syarat
yang dikehendaki Pak Harto (Sumantri 1982).
9 Interviews with anonymized informants who worked closely with Nugroho, 18
December 2005, Jakarta; 8 August 2005 Depok; 22 August 2005, Depok.
10 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 August 2005, Depok.
11 Interview with Taufik Abdullah, 8 June 2005, Jakarta.
12 Heryanto (2006) shows that while the regime had a hand in keeping alive com-
munism’s supposed ‘latent danger,’ the discourse has nonetheless assumed a life
of its own apart from state manipulation
13 This is clear in a number of newspaper articles written by Nugroho in defense of
his work on Pancasila (Nugroho Notosusanto 1981). For an overview of this de-
bate, see Sutrisno (2003, 1–12). For a compilation of articles about the debate, see
Yayasan Idayu (1981). A similar effort is evident in Nugroho’s foreword of SNI-6
(1975). He took pains to emphasize that because not all facts can be included in
the narrative, they did the best they could to examine them carefully “based on
the requirements of historical methods.” (See “Prakata” SNI, Jilid 6, n.p., 1975).
14 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 August 2005, Depok.
15 See Drakeley (2000) for a concise and perceptive interpretation of what pur-
portedly transpired in Lubang Buaya and for the importance of the event in the
subsequent response to the PKI and the birth of the New Order. This brief arti-
cle anticipates significant issues raised by Weiringa’s important book (Wieringa
2002). See also the unpublished PhD dissertation of Yosef Djakababa (2011).
16 A valuable and detailed treatment of this and other military-sponsored muse-
ums in Indonesia can be found in McGregor (2007, Chapters 3 and 6)
17 For a systematic and detailed account of the process by which the military de-
ceived the public, see Saskia Wieringa, Sexual Politics in Indonesia, 310–317.
18 The following passages are examples:
In Lubang Buaya, the officers who were still alive were tortured using sharp
weapons and rifle butts. They were then sprayed with bullets and finally were
thrown in an old well.
(SNI-6, 1975 p. 122)

In a gruesome or cruel manner, they were tortured and finally killed by the
members of the Pemuda Rakyat, Gerwani and other PKI-affiliated organ-
izations. Satisfied with their cruelty, the bodies of dead officers were after-
wards thrown in an old well and covered with garbage and soil.
(SNI-6, 1984 390)
“The doctors’ autopsy revealed that the officers suffered severe (berat) torture”
(SNI-6 1984 p. 394).
19 Interview with an anonymized informant, 22 August 2005, Depok.
20 The official reason given for Suharto’s call focused on the need of the younger
generation to know the ‘truth’ about the periods 1950–1965, as well as the New
Order. Considering the detailed treatment of the periods in the SNI 1984 edition,
as well the long-standing presence of the SNI-SMP (and its accompanying texts,
SNI-SMA), the official reason given by Alamsjah, a high-ranking minister, was
unusual. Suharto’s call elicited spirited public discussion in the media. See Kom-
pas (1987a, 1987b), Abdullah (1987a, 1987b), Moedjanto (1987).
158  SNI: contents and contexts
21 For a useful biography of Soedjatmoko, see Nursam (2002). See also Kahin and
Barnett (1990).
22 It may have been a stroke of fate that Soedjatmoko spoke at that conference.
Originally he was not the intended speaker. It was Hatta. For an undisclosed
reason, Hatta could not come, so Soedjatmoko was asked to replace him. See
Panitia Seminar Sedjarah (1958, 12).
23 Kahin recalled that Soedjatmoko wrote to him sometime in the late 1950s that
the latter felt it was his personal responsibility to protect history from the impet-
uous dictates of the nationalist atmosphere. See Kahin and Barnett (1990).
24 In their introduction to the first set of papers in their book Pemahaman Seja-
rah Indonesia (Understanding History of Indonesia), Frederick and Soeroto have
noted that while perhaps, Soedjatmoko’s views had some influence in the 1950s
(and 1960s), by the 1980s, “it does not surprise that these were considered not
apt” (Frederick and Soeroto 1982, 28).
25 Soedjatmoko was aware that he was going against very strong currents of the
time. In his acutely perceptive essay “The Indonesian Historian and His Time”
(1965), he identified the currents as, first, the pervasive ahistorical attitude of the
people that emanated from the feudal, agrarian setting of much of Indonesia.
The second was the impatient demands of nationalism that tended to subor-
dinate everything to the quest for national strength, pride and unity. So, the
lukewarm response must not have surprised Soedjatmoko. In an obituary for
Soedjatmoko, written by Hannah Papanek and Goenawan Mohamad (1990),
they called him a “voice of reason…in a world too seldom has listened to such
voices.” (p. 449). They also noted that “his influence at home remained muted”
(450). In the review of “Transforming the Humanity: The Visionary Writings of
Soedjatmoko,” Leslie Palmier (1996, 198) stated that “his country was too blink-
ered to appreciate him.”
26 However, it would be a mistake to regard the Sartono School, despite looming
large in most major accounts of historiographic development in Indonesia, as
central or dominant in terms of actual influence. The alleged dominance of the
School may be a projection of a deep-seated desire rather than a representation
of what was actually the case. If we take a look at the general map of historical
outputs in Indonesia—be it in academic, popular or instructional terms—the
quantity of those following the Sartono approach to historical writing occupy
very little space. See Curaming (2003) for a more developed detailed argument
along this line.
27 For instance, Kahin and Barnett (1990), Van Klinken (2001), Vickers and
McGregor (2005).
28 Mohammad Ali was emphatic about the need for a ‘scientific history,’ but he was
aware that such a kind of history can be realized only within the context of a
“new culture suitable to life in the modern world.” See Ali (1965, 22–23).
29 Sartono Kartodirdjo, despite being considered by many as a sort of an icon
for ‘scientific history’ in Indonesia, never failed to at least mention in his writ-
ings that history-writing can never be divorced from its Zeitgeist, and since he
deemed national unity and identity to be among the needs of the time, he had no
qualms in aligning history to serve those needs. See Kartodirdjo (1982, 2001).
30 Despite being one the most vocal critics of SNI and biggest influences on the
politics on history-writing, Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo recognized the ‘obli-
gations’ of the historians to contribute to nationalist undertakings. See Surjomi-
hardjo (1978), for example.
31 See, for instance, Sinar Harapan (1986).
32 See the introductory chapter of Kuntowijoyo (2003).
33 The debates surrounding the philosophy of national history in the 1957 national
seminar gave rise to a sharp differentiation between the terms “national” and
 SNI: contents and contexts  159
“nationalist,” the latter being associated with ‘chauvinistic’ forms of national-
ism. That Sartono’s articles written as late as the 1990s, contained references to
such a differentiation attests to the enduring tension between the two concepts.
See Kartodirdjo (1970, 33–34; 1982, 2001).
34 Sutjipto Wirjosuparto wrote in “Prapanca as a Historian (Prapanca Sebagai
Penulis Sedjarah),” (1960/1982) a defense against Berg, whose ideas cast doubt
on the historical value of Nāgarakṛtāgama, among other babads (Sutjipto
­Wirjosuparto 1982).
35 Frederick and Soeroto (1982, 176–177), for instance, described Sutjipto Wirjosu-
parto’s piece as his ‘best,’ offering a new perspective on the early history of Indo-
nesia and demonstrating that, contrary to what many foreign scholars believed,
pre-modern Javanese had a historical consciousness, and Prapanca was among
the clearest proofs of that.

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(Understanding Indonesian History: Before and After the Revolution), edited by
William Frederick and Soeri Soeroto. Jakarta: LP3ES.
Yamin, Mohammad. 1951. 6000 Tahun Sang Merah Putih (6000 Years of Red and
White). Djakarta: Siguntang.
———. 1968. “Tjatur Sila Chalduniah.” In Seminar Sedjarah: Laporan Lengkap
Atjara I Dan II Tentang Konsepsi Filsafat Sedjarah Nasional Dan Periodisasi Sed-
jarah Indonesia,Seri II (History Seminar: Complete Report of Sessions 1 & 2 on
the Philosophy of National History and Historical Periodization of Indonesia),
14–34. Yogyakarta: Universitas Gadjah Mada.
Yayasan Idayu. 1981. Sekitar Tanggal dan Penggalinya: Guntingan Pers dan Biblio-
grafi Tentang Pancasila (On Dates and Its Discoverer: Newspaper Clippings and
Bibliography on Pancasila). Ed. 2. Jakarta: Yayasan Idayu.
Zain, Umar.  1976. “Penulisan Kembali Karya Standar Sejarah Indonesia,” Sinar
Harapan, March 22.
6 The calculus of power–
knowledge relations

The term calculus is used in the title of this chapter as a metaphor for the
nature of power relations that enable knowledge production. As a branch
of mathematics, calculus refers to the study of continuously changing
quantities (or combinations thereof), and it is characterized by infinite
processes in the same way that the power–knowledge nexus seems to op-
erate. By that, I mean knowledge and power, and the relationship between
them seem to be formed at the confluence of crisscrossing factors whose
possible combinations may be theoretically infinite and their interaction is
continuous, but on the ground, the resulting permutations are patterned
and limited. Any effort to present power as power and a knowledge claim
as authoritative knowledge (regardless of whether it is in fact truthful or
not) cannot but be an act of ‘freezing’ artificially the otherwise dynamic
process. As such it is definitely propped up by power relations that need
to be uncovered.
This chapter compares, highlights, and integrates the key points in the
analysis of Tadhana and SNI projects. It underscores the importance of
contexts in shaping the contents and features of, as well as the power rela-
tions that underpinned, the two projects. While the idea of ‘context’ is by
now so trite that highlighting it here is like flogging a dead horse, the logic
of contextuality is seldom applied to the very core of knowledge produc-
tion and consumption—scholars, scholarship, knowledge and power. This
is what I shall attempt to do in this chapter with the hope of extracting some
insights which may carry important theoretical and political implications.

Primacy of contexts and the power of scholars

The primacy of context is an idea that has long been axiomatic in human
sciences, particularly the disciplines that are dominated by historicist, con-
structionist, and constructivist approaches, such as history and sociology of
knowledge. It is context that decides, so the strongest formulation of this an-
alytic tack goes. A tendency persists, however, to tame or downplay the roles
of human knowers and historical contingency in knowledge production.
166  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
This tendency is evident in the aspirations among many scholars for uni-
versality or objectivity, which amounts to a usurpation of the God’s eye or
the metaphysical omniscient viewpoint, as well as in the persistent anxiety
towards relativism (even among non-positivists) in the social sciences. As if,
knowing without a knower and context-free representations in the human
sciences are possible.
Conceding the predominance of contexts does not mean upholding struc-
tural determinism, which denies the agency or power of individual actors.
Rather, the active roles of individual agents form a dialectical relationship
with the structural forces to shape the overall contexts. This Hegelian formu-
lation is in line with Bourdieu’s idea of habitus and Gidden’s structuration.
As previous chapters show, scholars involved in the two projects were agents
with their own interests to pursue and power to exercise. They were not pas-
sive, or merely manipulated or co-opted. The Tadhana scholars had a free
rein in designing the project and in writing, except in a chapter that involved
the Marcos years. In the case of SNI, the discrepancies and contradictions
within and across its various versions point to the active role of scholars.
The ideas behind Tadhana and SNI projects began to germinate at around
the same time in the late 1960s. Both were carried out in the following dec-
ade. The confluence of political and historiographic factors at that time
seemed conducive to the pursuit of these projects, as discussed in Chapters
1, 3, and 5. Nevertheless, their respective prime movers, Ferdinand Mar-
cos and Nugroho Notosusanto, encountered obstacles of contrasting nature
in the beginning. Fellow scholars in Indonesia were skeptical of Nugroho’s
proposal because they knew of the still limited intellectual resources. For
their part, Filipino scholars courted by Marcos since 1967 refused to par-
ticipate on the strength of the shared expectation to uphold ethical and ac-
ademic or professional standards. When Marcos finally found in 1973–1974
willing participants, they were those imbued with a sense of confidence in
their ability and autonomy as scholars.
Given the confidence and relative strength in scholarly terms of the Fili-
pino scholars vis-à-vis their Indonesian counterparts, one might expect that
they would be more able to neutralize the political interests of the regime they
worked for. Rather ironically, this was not the case as the original edition of
SNI (1975) showed comparatively more resilient to political manipulations
than Tadhana. The more scholarly approach and contents of the latter not-
withstanding, Tadhana proved to be no better shielded from political ap-
propriation. As noted in Chapter 3, the highly scientific exposition of the
geological formation of the Philippine archipelago, for instance, assumed an
unexpected (by scholars) political meaning when seen against the total struc-
ture and aims of Tadhana, as well as Marcos’s overall political interests. For
the Harvard-trained geologist, Ben Austria, who wrote the relevant volume,
it was nothing more than an innocent, matter of fact description and analy-
sis of the origin of the Philippines. However, this scientific analysis fits into
Marcos’s eschatological claim that the New Society which he intended to
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  167
build by declaring Martial Law was a destiny waiting to happen as it was an-
chored in the indigenous Filipino identity, whose sources can be traced to the
deepest possible roots—the geological process. This point raises an impor-
tant question that needs reiterating here: if something as dry and seemingly
politically innocuous as a geological process can be politicized, what else
cannot? Tadhana scholars like ­Salazar, Austria and Tan did not seem to have
anticipated such appropriation. As far as they were concerned, their main
goal was scholarly writing in the most scientific way possible and pushing the
frontiers of the Philippine historiography. Regardless of their original intent,
however, their scholarly output was used differently, and no amount of disa-
vowal on their part can undo this. Similarly, if Tadhana were undertaken as
an independent project by scholars, upon its publication Marcos could have
also used its contents to support his political interests.
Noteworthy here is the importance of the context of the actual knowledge
use, the pragmatics of knowledge, in defining meaning. Most often, the focus
of attention is the content—what is being said and how. The presumption is
that some fixed meanings inhere in the content. Supposedly, it is defined by
the author’s intent, and it corresponds to a reality out there. This point is clear
in many debates in the scholarly community, particularly among historians.
These debates tend to concentrate on empirical accuracy and the suitability
of methodology and theory. This is also the foundation of the confidence of
scholars likes Tan and Salazar, who firmly believed that by confining them-
selves to the Spanish or pre-Spanish periods, periods very far removed from
the Marcos years, they were ‘safe’ from any political or Marcos-related is-
sues. What is often ignored is that the context of knowledge use could alter,
even overturn, the meaning and implications of a particular knowledge claim.
Within the holistic context of Tadhana’s framing, and given Marcos’s intended
use for it, even the volumes far from the Marcos period, such as those concern-
ing the geological and pre-Spanish eras, were implicated. This was the case as
they were necessary constitutive elements of Tadhana’s main argument.
Sartono’s use of Indonesia-centrism and the multi-dimensional ap-
proach also illustrates the paramount role of contexts. At first glance, his
scholarship was simply seen as an innocent, sophisticated attempt to re-
construct the process of nation-formation. If seen, however, against the
backdrop of a number of separatist efforts that punctuated Indonesia’s
postcolonial history, it concurrently served the political purpose of val-
idating and naturalizing the state-sponsored nationalism. Without him
intending to, focused as he was on his scholarly pursuit, his scholarship
helped delegitimize the nationalist aspirations of separatist groups. These
groups included those who fought to establish an Islamic State (such as
Darul Islam and its successors or splinter groups), the Acehnese (who
were fighting for freedom until 2005) and the Papuans (whose separatist
struggle persists up to now). The nationalist historiography that under-
pins the SNI, in other words, constituted a simultaneous encoding of the
official and scholarly justifications for the state-sanctioned nationalism.
168  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
Without consciously being political, Sartono’s scholarly approaches could
be appropriated or interpreted as such. In addition, the manner in which
they became enmeshed within the nationalist discourses in the country
and beyond made them so. Just like the case of Tadhana scholars men-
tioned above, this case suggests that the political gets constituted at the
moment of knowledge consumption—when people actually use it for their
own purpose—and not necessarily at the time the scholars produce it. The
contexts of actual knowledge use play a determinant role.
Foregrounding context is crucial, both analytically and politically. The
refusal of many ‘conservative’ scholars to acknowledge the role of power re-
lations in knowledge production coincides with their denial of the situated-
ness or contextuality of the act of knowing. Likewise, the hesitance of many
‘progressive’ scholars to push the logic of power–knowledge relations to
its conclusion, or power/knowledge, goes with selective application, rather
than full consummation, of the logic of contextuality. By highlighting the
primacy of contexts in shaping the two projects, this study flags the need to
include the power of scholars and scholarship or the scholarly among areas
to be subjected to full contextual analysis. In other words, the emphasis
on contexts and the power of scholars are two sides of the same analytico-­
political coin. Realizing it is needed to expose and, if one needs, neutralize
the uncanny partnership between hidden political interests and denial of the
full logic of contextuality.

Responses and dynamics of power relations

The contrasting characteristics of the SNI and Tadhana projects, and the
different contexts that gave rise to them set the frame for dissimilar re-
sponses. As noted in Chapter 2, Tadhana was never completed and was
never widely used. Out of the originally projected 19 volumes, only four
were published. Of the two planned abridged volumes, only one came out.
All in all, five out of the total twenty-one volumes were published. SNI, on
the other hand, was not only completed but even underwent reprints and
revisions. It was, at least in theory, also widely used either as a reference text
in the university or as the basis for writing textbooks for high school and el-
ementary school. Likewise, while Tadhana project operated under a shroud
of mystery, the SNI took shape under the watchful eyes of the media. As a
result, the controversial character of the SNI was publicly known, whereas
that of Tadhana was mostly confined to a fairly small group within the com-
munity of scholars and activists.
Three decades of SNI’s more widespread usage and sporadic but intense
media coverage set the parameters within which its controversial charac-
ter had been publicly discussed. The result was a multifaceted, shifting and
more ambiguous picture of power relations discernible in the SNI when
compared to the case of Tadhana. Whereas the scholars who participated in
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  169
Tadhana were depicted in a negative light by those who knew about the pro-
ject, a perception that has changed only slowly, if at all, only the members
of the Vol. 6 team of the SNI (1975 and 1984 editions) have been vilified, at
least publicly. Moreover, the SNI saw vicissitudes of fortune depending on a
number of factors, including the altered power structure wrought by the fall
of the New Order regime in 1998.
The official but largely symbolic withdrawal of the SNI in the early 2000s
illustrates this change of fortune (Kompas 2004). The government finally
responded to the public clamor, occasioned by the proliferation since 1998,
even much earlier, of stories of deliberate distortions of history that the me-
dia profusely covered. After enjoying the status of the official, standard his-
tory text for more than two decades, the SNI was denigrated as a testament
to the New Order government’s unscrupulous behavior. Right from the very
start, there were, of course, people who believed that the SNI (specifically
Vol. 6) was no more than government propaganda. But they appeared to be
a tiny minority. For many others, especially the younger generations who
grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, there was hardly any other history apart
from what was inscribed in SNI-SMP and SNI-SMA textbooks, and versions
derived from them. With the demise of the regime in 1998, the situation has
been reversed. Many were convinced of the ‘engineered’ (direkayasa) char-
acter of Indonesian history and thus thought that it needed to be rectified or
‘straightened’ (diluruskan) (Adam 2007; cf. Karsono 2005). However, there
were those who remained steadfast in their belief in the truthfulness of the
SNI accounts or at least parts of it. This is clearly shown in the vociferous
complaints against history textbooks written based on the 2004 curriculum,
some of which dropped PKI from the usual term ‘G30S/PKI.’ The dropping
of PKI reflected efforts of some historians to reinterpret the tragic G30S
event into something that was not masterminded by PKI. The decision of
the Attorney General office in 2007 to withdraw such textbooks due to pub-
lic clamor clearly shows the resilience of the long-standing interpretation
that blamed the PKI for the tragic G30S. At the same time, it underscores
the political forces that influenced or shaped historical knowledge in the
post-Suharto Indonesia.
Nugroho’s reputation is another good illustrative example. His image
varied over time, depending largely on the prevailing political atmosphere.
While he had his own share of bitter critics during the New Order, he also
had admirers who seemed to be much greater in number. As a published
historian and an important government official, he enjoyed a degree of
power and influence at the national level which lingered even after his
death in 1985. His standing within the community of historians, however,
paled in comparison with, say, Sartono, who was deeply respected and ad-
mired by both local and foreign scholars. Under the atmosphere of refor-
masi that prevailed soon after the collapse of the New Order, a far greater
number of people seem to have viewed Nugroho and his legacy in a very
170  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
negative light. The re-alignment of power relations in the post-Suharto
period considerably diminished whatever was left of Nugroho’s lingering
power or influence. However, the resilience of the New Order official in-
terpretation of events surrounding the G30S and the supposedly enduring
threat of communism suggest the persistence of the New Order’s and Nu-
groho’s influence.
In the case of Tadhana, the unpopularity of Marcos among intellectuals
and the large segment of the public since the 1970s overshadowed its schol-
arly value and whatever academic credentials held by those who created it.
One can assume that so long as anti-Marcos sentiments remain rife in the
Philippines, Tadhana is not likely to be viewed favorably. The past three dec-
ades witnessed a gradual revival of the rosy memories of the Marcos years,
often labeled as ‘authoritarian nostalgia’ (Chang, Chu, and Park 2007). With
the near victory in 2016 in the Vice-Presidential elections of the son of the
former dictator—Ferdinand ‘Bongbong’ Marcos Jr.—the tide appears to
be turning. I have heard about the more serious efforts, including schol-
arly ones, to take another look at the body of published works attributed to
­Marcos, including Tadhana. Time will tell what happens in the future.

Politics and/as scholarship

The cases of Tadhana and SNI show that relations between ‘good’ scholar-
ship and politics are not necessarily oppositional. There are instances when
they clash, as was the case of the role played by the multi-dimensional ap-
proach in limiting Nugroho’s intent. But they could, and often do, also work
together. In fact, what Marcos wanted was precisely the highest possible
quality of available scholarship as this was the kind of scholarship that he
might have believed would serve his political interest. It appears that regard-
less of the quality of scholarship, it may be utilized for contrarian or sup-
portive political purposes, so long as its content, approach, or assumption
affirms or opposes a particular political position.
As I have noted in the Prologue, the impetus for this study derived from
my initial wonderment why this relationship is often viewed as oppositional
and anomalous. From this viewpoint, scholarship is equated to the pursuit
of truth, neutral, empowering and liberating, whereas politics is deemed
self-serving, constricting, and inherently biased. A well-known Indonesian
intellectual, Soedjatmoko (1960, 18), expressed this view clearly:

(W)e should realize that history, as a scholarly discipline is not and can-
not be made the handmaiden of a particular ideology – cannot that is,
as long as it is true to its scholarly character.

The critics of both SNI and Tadhana operated to a varying extent within
this premise. The distinct contexts and the varied features of the two pro-
jects resulted in different ways in or degrees by which this dichotomy was
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  171
deployed. In the case of Tadhana, critics chided the participant-scholars
mainly for allowing themselves to be co-opted or manipulated by Marcos,
the ‘infamous’ dictator. As noted in Chapter 2, their criticisms carried a
moral subtext as if saying, had scholars-participants been resilient enough,
as any scholar worthy of the name should be, they could have resisted the
temptation of ‘selling’ their ‘soul’ to Marcos. That Agoncillo and de la
Costa successfully deflected Marcos’s efforts to enlist them in his project
foregrounds the incontrovertible availability of choice Filipino scholars had
had during that time. In the case of SNI, on the other hand, only Nugroho
and, to a lesser degree, the members of his team were faulted for promoting
the New Order regime’s political agenda. Other participants were called out,
if at all, for other reasons, such as the weaker foundation of academic train-
ing and lack of experience.
The moral high-ground assumed similarly by critics of Nugroho and
Tadhana scholars was often couched in terms of avowed duty to preserve
the integrity and nobility of the scholarly community. One should not
­commit the “treason of the intellectuals,” so Julian Benda (1969) admon-
ished. This line of thought has a long lineage. Well-intentioned, it is meant
to protect individuals and the society in general from the abusive tenden-
cies of the powerful entities, such as the oppressive state. It also seeks to
prevent danger which might ensue from the collusion between the powerful
and the knowledgeable, or the politicians and the scholars. By occupying
a position above or outside of politics, the scholars are supposed to act as
guardians of conscience, as critics of abusive power, and as protectors and
promoters of the common good. As I have earlier noted in the Introduction,
Rubio and Baert (2012, 2) call it the “liberal view” of politics-knowledge re-
lations. This view coincides with the separation and hierarchy between the
facts and values, reason and emotion, and pure knowledge and ideology,
which, even if acknowledged to be unattainable in day-to-day practice, is
nevertheless set as an aspirational goal to measure the success of a scholarly
endeavor.
In the scheme of things, the scholars’ championing of impartiality or ob-
jectivity, is hardly an innocent or an apolitical position. Borrowing the idea
from Bourdieu (1989a, 22), the “consecration of symbolic capital”, which
arguably scholarship does in functionally similar way as the legal system to
which Bourdieu refers, “confers upon a perspective an absolute, universal
value, thus snatching it from a relativity that is by definition inherent in
every point of view, as a view taken from a particular point in social space.”
The idea of impartiality is at once a weapon and a repository of the scholars’
intellectual capital and symbolic power. It is the anchor to which the whole
institution of scholarship is tied. Also, it is a ‘corporate’ responsibility of
each member of the intellectual class to contribute towards the protection
and growth of their investment (Bourdieu 1989b). It is to their advantage
as a class to maintain autonomy as the gatekeepers of knowledge produc-
tion, and the notion of objectivity or impartiality is key to preserving this
172  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
privilege. Any challenge to the status—a transgression—would be met by
symbolic violence, perhaps in the form of marginalization, if not expulsion
from the scholarly community (Schubert 1995, 1009).
In the case of Indonesia, it was not always clear cut who were the trans-
gressors and who were the defenders of the privileged historiographic posi-
tion. When Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo confidently castigated Nugroho
on various occasions from the mid-1970s for relativism and its moral im-
plications, he did so against a strong current of a long-standing tradition
of historicist or relativist history-making in Indonesia (Nichterlein 1974).
Abdurrachman’s critique presupposed the ascendancy of an established set
of standard or scientific historical methodology as the basis for assessing
knowledge claims. His self-assurance in rebuking Nugroho rested, among
other things, on belief that the supposedly scientific or impartial methodol-
ogy he invoked was the right one, and every historian worthy of this name
should abide by it. Abdurrachman was in effect echoing Soedjatmoko’s
arguments in the 1950s–1960s for openness and an impartial approach to
history-writing. One problem for him and others who subscribed to this
approach, however, was that it was a minority view in Indonesia at the time
(Frederick and Soeroto 1982, 28). There were certainly other historians
in Indonesia who agreed with such critiques, but he had few comrades in
his public crusade against Nugroho and his relativism. By openly positing
his preferred historical methods as a given, Abdurrachman had put under
erasure the long history of struggle to install this as the ‘standard’ histor-
ical methodology. I refer to such struggle not only in the context of the
development of Western historiography from Herodotus and Thucydides
all the way to Vico, Ranke Collingwood, White, Rorty, and beyond but
also in that of Indonesian historiography from the days of Prapanca (Wir-
josuparto 1982) and Mohammad Yamin (1951) up to the time of Resink
(1968), Soe­djatmoko (1958, 1960, 1965), Nichterlien (1974), Frederick and
Soeroto (1982), and Sartono (Kartodirdjo 2001). By doing so, Abdurrach-
man seemed to be trying to offset what he lacked in number by invoking the
power of a modern, established scholarly tradition in which the scientific
approach was a keystone.
Within this frame, one may argue that upholding historical or scientific
methodology is the basis of the scholars’ hidden politics. When scholars
like Nugroho and Salazar joined a state-sponsored project, their decision to
work for or with the powers-that-be rendered obvious which political side
they were on. From the standpoint of the public consumers of knowledge,
this transparency deserves to be applauded as it helps them decide whether
to believe in and use the knowledge they offer. After all, even if scholars
do not explicitly work for politicians, on a daily basis, the knowledge they
produce—accurate or not, scientific, humanistic, or whatever—circulates in
social spaces, and it is interpreted, repackaged and used by different groups
or individuals depending mainly on their ideological proclivities or per-
sonal interests. In short, the logic of partnership between embodiments of
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  173
power and knowledge is always operative on the ground. It is just a question
of which knowledge claims that are available in the marketplace of ideas
may be compatible with the whatever ideological or personal interests of
political power holders, or anyone for that matter. What SNI and Tadhana
scholars did was merely formalize what may be happening informally every
day. But this formalization is precisely what transgresses the ethos of im-
partiality, objectivity, or apoliticality upon which the collective interests
of the scholarly class hinge. From the scholarly community’s standpoint,
therefore, it is dangerous for their interests. As a self-protective measure,
the most vocal in the community are quick to expel, at least symbolically,
the likes of Nugrohos, Tans and Salazars by calling them names such as
‘intellectual prostitutes’ or ‘academic mercenaries.’ With such names, they
are rendered excluded from the category of ‘true scholar.’ This is a move ei-
ther supported or opposed by politicians, depending on the compatibility of
the scholar’s knowledge claims with their ideological or short-term political
interests. The vicissitudes of fortune SNI underwent in line with the change
in political dynamics in Indonesia from the New Order to Reformasi period
and beyond exemplified this point.
Things, however, are not so straightforward on the ground. For every
critic of Nugroho during the New Order period, there seemed to be more
who either defended him, silently concurred with him, just stayed neu-
tral, or regarded the whole question as a non-issue. For Salazar and his
fellow Tadhana authors, the ratio may not be as favorable. The point here,
though, is not the number, though in itself, that is important, but the of-
ten ignored deeply political terrain within which labels, criticisms, and
counter-­criticisms were exchanged. The moral framing of labeling and crit-
icisms appears to be a rhetorical and strategic device employed by critics
who were trying to take the issue outside of scholarship or politics, where
they may feel at a disadvantage. By invoking moral absolutes, critics moved
the debate into the moral sphere, whose deeply political nature was con-
cealed and where they might have believed they had the upper hand. Who
can argue against morality or ethics that supposedly uphold the common
or public good? Besides, allowing these critical exchanges to be seen as
‘merely’ an academic, social, or political conflict contravenes the image of
scholarship as above the fray. Of course, there may be other reasons, but
this is a possibility that is often ignored, and which is what this study seeks
to underscore.
I should quickly add that this tendency is often not a conscious or a cal-
culating move on the part of scholar-critics. Scholars and society at large
have long internalized the moral imperatives attributed to scholarship as a
supposedly neutral instrument. The moralist rhetoric, therefore, could have
already become a knee-jerk or natural response by scholars to those who
supposedly violate the established scholarly norms of conduct.
On a related note, it is not just how the public (including fellow schol-
ars) reacted to the projects that were instructive of the dynamics of power
174  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
relations. The interaction between scholars and the political sponsor (or
its representative), as well as between members of the team, can likewise
offer important insights. Chapter 2 noted that the members of Tadhana
team were treated very well by Marcos. Not only were they given ample
provisions—good pay, access to scholarly materials, clerical assistance—
but they were also shown the utmost respect. Whether or not such an ex-
pression of respect was genuine is beside the point. What seems to weigh
heavier was that Marcos could not afford to be less than respectful, at
least in appearance, to these scholars. Considering that earlier on, he en-
countered difficulties in persuading historians to enter into a partner-
ship with him, he seemed to have understood well the risks entailed if he
treated them otherwise. The slightest offence, or sign of willful manipu-
lation, could lead the scholars to resign, and thus jeopardize the success
of the project. The picture that emerges here is not that of the dictator
as all-powerful and the scholars as helpless, co-opted, or manipulated.
Instead, one side had the power that the other did not have. They needed
each other.
Nugroho’s attitude towards some members of the team stood in stark
contrast. His treatment of Abdurrachman and Taufik, his printing of their
volume without allowing it to be completed, was bad enough. It was, how-
ever, his removal of Sartono from the project on account of the latter’s
valid wish to have the main editors’ names printed on an inner page rather
than on the cover of the books that was downright cruel. Sartono, who
kept quiet about this for so long, endured in silence the ignominy of being
treated so badly. These incidents display how much more restricted a space
the Indonesian scholars had in the face of the regime’s representative, espe-
cially when compared to the treatment that their counterparts in Tadhana
enjoyed.
Nugroho’s power or influence, however, must not be exaggerated. That
there were passages in SNI (1975, 1984) and SNI-SMP that do not support,
or even contradict, Nugroho’s interpretation indicated that he had no full
control of the younger historians under his direct supervision. Also, as dis-
cussed in the previous chapter, the contents of SNI-6 (1975) reflected the
extent to which Nugroho and his team were restricted by Sartono’s multi-­
dimensional approach. Nugroho and his team could not but abide by it, al-
beit half-heartedly. The contents of the history textbook SNI-SMP reveal the
kind of history Nugroho would have written without the constraints set by
Sartono and other scholars. It seems possible that the former was removed
precisely because his presence in the project made it difficult for Nugroho
to have his way. Sartono may have been more respected and influential than
Nugroho within the scholarly community, and he seemed to recognize that,
but that he could eject Sartono from the project in such a blatant manner
indicated a different type of power play in which Nugroho proved more
dominant. What stands out here is the contextual and relational nature of
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  175
power play. That is, power as a capacity or ability to make a difference at
least partially rests on the configuration of contending or mutually reinforc-
ing social and individual forces, interests, and beliefs in a particular context,
both temporal and spatial. As contexts change, the configuration of power
may also change.

Contents and the power of scholarship

Tadhana and SNI (1975) similarly shunned the approach to history-­w riting
that focused primarily on politics. Both adopted a multi-dimensional
approach in the sense that all aspects—social, economic, cultural, and
political—­were given due considerations in narrative and analysis. Both
were also organized chronologically and thematically wherein different
aspects were discussed under each period. There was an important differ-
ence, though. Whereas the SNI allotted a particular section in each volume
to aspects like economy or culture, Tadhana tried to weave these various
aspects together to form a coherent narrative analysis within a section or
a chapter. Simply put, the approach used for Tadhana was not only multi-­
dimensional; it could also be considered interdisciplinary. SNI (1975) also
aspired to be interdisciplinary, but the output proved to be confined to be-
ing multi-disciplinary.
If the multi-dimensional approach was able to restrain the political
intent of SNI-6 (1975) despite the uneven and rather problematic appli-
cation of this approach, why was it not the case for the more cohesive
Tadhana? The reason seems to be that, as already discussed, Marcos’s po-
litical interest lay precisely in the coherence of Tadhana’s design. Taking
each volume separately, what Tadhana scholars had written were schol-
arly treatises unconcerned with whatever political interests Marcos had.
Put together, however, they present an integrated, indigenously rooted
narrative that coincided perfectly with the justificatory requirement of
Marcos’s vision for the New Society. Among other things, this point re-
inforces the idea that, regardless of the quality of scholarship, it may or
may not support a particular political interest. More importantly, it sug-
gests that the meaning of each part could be altered by the meaning of
the whole, which has significant implications on how various knowledge
claims may be put together to support a claim that runs contrary to their
original meaning or intent.
In the case of SNI, Nugroho’s political intent focused on a specific person-
ality (Sukarno), groups (PKI, military), periods (Old and New Order), and
events (G30S). The piecemeal nature of their agenda made Nugroho and
his team’s effort susceptible to the limits imposed by the multi-dimensional
approach. To enhance the efficacy of the propaganda message, the authors
of SNI-6 (1975) needed a less restricted space to characterize with ample
details, their target personalities, groups or events. Towards this purpose,
176  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
the narrative or story-telling approach to writing, rather than the analytic,
multi-­dimensional approach, was deemed more appropriate. In short, for
both SNI and Tadhana, the intent and the way things were framed or or-
ganized had a bearing on whether the approach would make a politically
efficacious impact or not.
Both projects elicited varying judgments from different sectors, de-
pending partly on power differential. For Nugroho and for Tadhana
scholars, such as Salazar and Tan, the output of their respective projects
was scholarly, not political. However, their assessment needed concur-
rence from others in society. Without such support, it was like a shout in
the wilderness. With the New Order regime’s endorsement of the SNI as
official or standard history, it stood against the contrarian assessment of
scholars such as Sartono, Taufik, and Abdurrachman, who categorically
declared that it failed to meet the standard of respectable scholarship.
Because the regime had enormous power and control over apparatuses
such as the school and the media, the SNI came to be regarded by many
Indonesians as a legitimate history, not a propaganda. More discerning
observers, such as scholars and informed activists, were no doubt able
to identify which parts qualified as state propaganda and which ones did
not. As they appeared to be a minority, however, their assessment tended
to carry much less weight, at least during the New Order period. For the
larger segment of the public, popular perceptions of SNI as a legitimate
standard and official history defined how the project would be classified
during the New Order.
It seems that one fundamental way in which power relations are consti-
tuted lies in the formation of a ‘coalition of forces’ that carry out the act
of definition. A person’s definition of things, accurate as it may be, might
not coincide with that of coalesced forces. The difference reflects the power
differential coming from various sources that produce the disjunction be-
tween the two. When Salazar, for instance, implied that the task of a ‘good’
Filipino historian was to contribute towards the efforts at writing a ‘truly’
nationalist history, and his participation in Tadhana project exemplified
such effort, his definition of a Filipino historian’s task and the meaning he
attached to his participation may have been an attempt to cushion the im-
pact of unfavorable social perception. This proposition might have held,
provided, of course, that there were enough people who agreed with such
a formulation. Apparently, however, not enough scholars concurred with
Salazar. Most Filipino historians would readily agree that it is their task
to help develop nationalist historiography, but only a handful may concede
that doing it in partnership with Marcos was a legitimate way of doing so. It
was the differing level of support for a contrasting definition of how things
are, or should be done—the unwritten code of ethics that forbids consort-
ing with politicians, for example—that put Salazar and other members of
the Tadhana team, in unfavorable power relations vis-à-vis their critics and
other observers.
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  177
Likewise, it was the government’s definition of a ‘standard’ history text
that put the SNI in a privileged position during the New Order. Being
officially proclaimed as the standard, it readily assumed that authority
manifested in the fact that the history textbooks used in public and even
private schools, not to mention the examination questions given at the
national level, were based on the SNI, at least in theory, if not exactly in
practice. So long as the New Order regime was in power, it managed to
form a ‘coalition of forces’ that made the SNI accepted by the majority.
With the sharp turn of events in 1998, what used to be a minority defini-
tion of what SNI was—not an acceptable history—gained more and more
adherents, raising a public clamor for its withdrawal. The battle for the
definition of what standard history is, or what history should be, was a
primary fixture in public discourse in the early years of post-Suharto In-
donesia (van Klinken 2001).
Considering the centrality of definition in scholarly practice— defining
words, terms and concepts, the relationship between variables, the mode
of analysis, the standard of scholarship itself—it appears that scholarship
is an essential mechanism for configuring power relations. Considering as
well that history is the record of what supposedly really happened in the
past, among the branches of human knowledge, history, along with science,
contributes perhaps the most in the act of definition and constituting power
relations. That there have been fiercely contested ‘science wars’ (Ashman
and Barringer 2014; Ross 1996) and ‘history wars’ (Linenthal and Engel-
hardt 1996; Macintyre and Clark 2003; Nash, Crabtree, and Dunn 1997) in
various countries but no ‘political science wars’ or ‘sociology wars’ seems
indicative of the fundamental importance that science and history enjoy in
the public sphere.
Marcos’s need for and intended use of a scholarly history points to this
possibility. Simply put, he wanted to establish the rightfulness of his own
definition of the Philippine history. As noted in Chapter 2, he hoped for
vindication and even adulation. Aware that many of his contemporaries
were bitterly critical of him, he was deeply worried that the hostile re-
sponses to his initiatives would jeopardize his desired position in history.
Through Tadhana, he cast his hope that the unfavorable power relations
he had with his contemporaries would be reversed in the future. Marcos’s
case demonstrates how historical knowledge’s power to define seems to
serve as a fundamental constituting element in power relation, which hints
at why he had a keen interest in history. Whether power relation would
indeed be reversed in the future in favor of Marcos would depend largely
on the shift in public perception of him as well as in the compatibility of
his and of the future generation’s definition of what history is and what
history should be.
The idea of the power of scholars emanating from power to define seems
incongruous with the common lament among scholars as to how often their
scholarship is ignored and that they are not being listened to or are even
178  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
being dismissed outright, as is starkly shown, for instance, in Trump’s and
Republicans’ attitude toward scientific evidences of climate change. The up-
swing in the trajectory of anti-intellectualism in the United States, Europe,
and Australia validates the idea of scholars’ powerlessness. That said, even
the most powerful nations or corporations or individuals in the world can-
not dispense with the services (both actual and symbolic) of scholars or in-
tellectuals and the institutions of learning and research that they represent.
This does not mean that their definitions of things, concepts, and phenom-
ena always take precedence over other definitions. No one has the monopoly
over the power to define, particularly in the post-truth era of fake news and
anti-­intellectualism. Nevertheless, given the scholars’ grasp of the scholarly
methods, their access to empirical data, and the level of esteem that built-up
through the centuries for them, it is difficult to view the scholarly commu-
nity as having no power. It seems that the narrow conception of what power
is effectively excludes scholarship from the domain of power relations. But
beyond conceptual blindness, scholars did, and still do, have a decided ad-
vantage over non-scholars, particularly in Asia and other parts of the world,
where the respect for learned persons remains firm.
In a nutshell, the existence of the academic community, the tradition of
scholarship, and the institution of universities and research centers serve
as potent signifiers of the ‘knowability’ or ‘definability’ of things. Despite
the continuing rise of anti-intellectualism in the West, the very presence
of these institutions validates and enables the act of definition to serve as
a potent device for constituting power relations. The side that falls within
a definition is upheld, and those who use or favor it may be empowered.
Whatever is on the other side is denied or delegitimized. The definition
of reality lends knowledge, especially history, enormous power, and this
makes the contest for definition among competing interests expected and
understandable.
The extent to which historical knowledge may have power over an indi-
vidual is partly contingent on how an individual deals with history. React-
ing to or negotiating with various forces in a specific environment, there are
those to whom history and historical judgment matter because they believe
in it of their own volition. A good example was Marcos, over whom history
had power because he believed in and aspired for its favorable judgment. His
dialectical relationship with history enabled it to have power over him, but it
also afforded him agency, by writing (or sponsoring) history, to influence its
judgment or, so he hoped. Whether, in fact, his efforts would yield positive
results is beside the point. There are others, on the other hand, who were
conditioned or forced to believe by pressures from the state or society, more
broadly. The Indonesian public under the New Order, as well as those asso-
ciated with the PKI and their families, who were marginalized, ostracized,
and repressed during this era, belong to this category. However, even among
the PKI-­associated groups or individuals, there were those who, by sheer
force of their personal convictions, refused to be cowed down (for example,
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  179
Proletariyati 2002). They believed in what they knew had happened, not-
withstanding the publicly accepted history during the New Order. In other
words, the power of knowledge (and the scholars who embody it) rests, on
the one hand, on the constellation of social forces that come together to
empower it and, on the other hand, the individual knower’s position in the
power-­differential scale. An individual who agrees, or is conditioned to
agree, with socially defined knowledge, in effect further empowers it. On
the other hand, those who assert their personal power and cling to their con-
trarian beliefs are likely to have their ‘truths’ dismissed by the rest of society
under various names: propaganda, apostasy, personal memory, gossip, idle
talk, lies, etc. The lack of power of individuals or small groups made their
‘truth’ not credible or acceptable. As noted earlier, the change in power re-
lations during the reformasi era endowed a certain level of respectability or
believability to what used to be easily dismissed by the New Order regime
as lies, propaganda, or gossip. The movement of pelurusan sejarah (straight-
ening history) during the post-New Order helped make this shift possible
(Adam 2007; Cf. Karsono 2005).
While the flight of trust has indeed occurred away from the New Order
brand of history, it appears that a sizable number of Indonesians remain
faithful to at least some crucial parts of it. The strong public backlash
against changing the long-held interpretation of PKI-related historical
events and the failure of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission on the
mass killings of 1965–66 may indicate, to an extent, this faithfulness (Sulis-
tiyanto and Setyasiswanto 2016). For Indonesians, who have, for one reason
or another, deeply internalized demonic images of the PKI and its suppos-
edly enduring ‘latent danger’ (bahaya laten), neither the heightened condi-
tioning by the media nor legislation by the Parliament, nor even rigorous
historical methodology, may be able to change their view of the New Order
version of history. From the viewpoint of those across the political divide,
such as the reformasi activists, the ‘truths’ the government upholds are plain
lies or propaganda. The pro-New Order groups, on the other hand, view
the ‘truths’ of the reformasi activists in the same way: as distortions of his-
tory. This is not to reiterate the old question of objectivity vs. relativism but
to highlight the complex and shifting power relations that define the shape
and status of knowledge. Also, this does not mean that good or rigorous
scholarship does not matter. This remains the scholars’ Holy Grail and a
source of their power. What needs to be underlined is that scholars and
scholarship—rigorous or not—are among the various sources of power that
compete or converge to define what may be regarded in society as acceptable
knowledge, history or otherwise.
The scholars’ ability to make a difference, or their power, comes from
two primary sources: their expertise and their standing in society. The first
emanates from the power that the entire scholarly community has accumu-
lated through the ages, and whoever becomes a scholar partakes in that. In
Bourdieu’s parlance, it is the symbolic power from intellectual expertise or
180  The calculus of power–knowledge relations
academic credentials (Brubaker 1985, 755–758). The second is derived from
the alignment of social powers, one indicator of which is the level of esteem
received from the people. In the case of Marcos, it was largely on account
of the first that he sought the service of the scholars. The New Order, on
the other hand, seemed interested in both. Herein probably lies the reason
for the difference in the reception of the two projects. Marcos and Tadhana
authors overlooked the fact that, to maximize the influence of scholarship,
the two sources of its power should be tapped. Expertise was not enough; fa-
vorable social perception of such expertise was also required. That Tadhana
was rejected offhand despite its scholarly contents indicate instances in
which perception precedes expertise. Favorable perception is an outcome
of social alignment that enjoins the scholars to fit into socially defined ex-
pectations, which include upholding objectivity or impartiality. Whenever
scholars are seen violating this injunction—by consorting, for instance,
with the politically powerful—­negative perceptions may be generated, and
the power of the scholars may be diminished. The extent of the diminu-
tion of power depends on the depth of expertise as well as on the percep-
tion of the gravity of the social offence committed. The contrasting fates of
Salazar, Sartono, and Nugroho illustrate this point.
Salazar’s involvement in Tadhana project adversely affected, to an ex-
tent, his reputation within the community of Filipino scholars. Despite
his creditable contribution, which made Tadhana a notable contribution
to Philippine historiography, for fellow scholars, his ideas appeared suspi-
cious and insignificant within the community so long as they were within
Tadhana’s confine. The Marcos signature ensured that Tadhana would be
dismissed by many as mere propaganda. However, upon leaving the pro-
ject and returning full time to the university, Salazar further developed
similar ideas and approaches, and they flourished in the succeeding dec-
ades to become the bedrock of the Pantayo school, one the most dominant
schools in Philippine historiography, perhaps since the 1990s (Reyes 2002,
2008). His impeccable academic credentials; his remarkable intelligence
that even his detractors acknowledged, if sometimes grudgingly; and his
very strong personality enabled him to rise above the political fallout from
his participation in Tadhana. He remained bitterly criticized by some, but
he exemplified nonetheless the case of a scholar who had a huge reservoir
of power accruing from expertise (intellectual capital, in Bourdieu’s term)
that was huge enough to offset the hitherto unfavorable socio-political
alignment.
Sartono shared with Salazar a deep wellspring of power that derives
from expertise. In terms of personality, however, they are very different.
Sartono was gentle, soft-spoken, well-liked, and respected by fellow Indo-
nesian historians. This perception contributes enormously to his favora-
ble social standing. Whatever criticisms the SNI project received hardly
affected his reputation. The widespread information about his supposed
 The calculus of power–knowledge relations  181
withdrawal from the project could also have been a factor as it heightened
public perception of his desire to protect his integrity as a scholar. Yet, even
if he had not withdrawn, his stature in the community seemed secure, not
just because of his academic credentials but also because of his personal-
ity and integrity that perhaps almost everyone recognized. His power as
a scholar, in short, was strengthened both by expertise and by favorable
social perceptions.
Nugroho was a different story. He attracted diverse opinions, and his ac-
tions were quite ambiguous. Critics often pointed to the mediocrity of his
scholarly outputs, but for many of his admirers, including former students
and colleagues, he was a scholar of respectable standing. For them, he was
decent, intelligent and patriotic. In the wider society during the New Order,
it was difficult to approximate his overall social standing, but I hazard a
guess that admirers seemed to outnumber critics by a perceptible margin.
In the post-Suharto period, with the changed political atmosphere, critics
significantly increased, but admirers by no means disappeared. The con-
trasting social alignment for and against Nugroho, as well as the temporari-
ness and temporality of such alignments, renders it difficult to pin down the
configuration of his power as a scholar.
Nugroho, thus, stands as a metaphor for the complexity, mutuality, or
inseparability, and inscrutability, of power-knowledge relations. Often
skating between two seemingly contradictory things, he cruises through the
boundaries between scholarship and politics, self and national interest, the
credible and the suspicious, the moral and the immoral, mere gossips and
valid knowledge claims. He defies straightforward characterization. Any ef-
fort to paint him in black or white, or to define exactly what constitutes the
power–knowledge nexus, is bound to yield uncertainties or tentative results.
If there is anyone among those involved in the two projects who could per-
sonify most clearly the calculus of power–knowledge relations, it appeared
to be Nugroho.

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Conclusion

The PhD thesis upon which this book is based was originally titled “When
Clio Meets the Titans: State-Scholar Relations in Indonesia and the Philip-
pines.” In Greek mythology, Clio is the muse of history. The muses signify
the lofty aspirations of the arts and intellect. They represent dignity, refine-
ment, gentleness, knowledge, wisdom, eloquence, and service. They stand
for what is good, truthful and beautiful. The Titans, on the other hand, are
a race of gods who ruled the cosmos for a long time. They personify many
forms of power: natural, political, and personal, among others. Their reign
ended when the group led by Zeus defeated them. The Titans were very pow-
erful, yet not omnipotent.
What happens when truth and goodness interact with supreme power and
self-interest? It is one of those ancient philosophical questions whose funda-
mental import lies beyond the abstract, forged as it is in the empirical com-
plexity of everyday life. As common reactions to SNI and Tadhana projects
indicate, the encounters between actors who embody these abstractions tend
to be simplified into an idea of one side manipulating or co-opting the other.
The notion of ‘official history’ encapsulates this tendency. What tags along
with the label ‘official’ is the comfort of knowing whose interests this type
of history reflects or represents. It misleads for the same reason. This com-
forting presumption effaces whatever ambiguity or complexity there might
be in official histories. It also denies or downplays the agency of scholars
in knowledge production. The stale and imbalanced picture of otherwise
dynamic relationships leads to a missed opportunity for examining what
makes it dynamic and what such dynamism implies. After all, to pursue
the metaphor further, Clio’s mother was a Titan. Titans’ blood ran through
her veins. So, the separation or opposition between the two—politics and
scholarship, power and knowledge—appears contrived. Be that as it may,
the popularity in the academic community, and society at large, of the “lib-
eral view” which posits this oppositional relationship is persistent. What
has been elided or concealed by it, and what price have we been paying for
holding onto this dichotomy? Who benefit and who are disempowered by
such conceptualization? More importantly, how might power–knowledge
relations be reconceptualized to be politically and ethically more efficacious
 Conclusion  185
for the interest of the truly marginalized? These are big and potentially in-
convenient questions. Given its limited scope, this study cannot fully ad-
dress them. What it hopes to do is offer some important insights generated
through comparative analysis of the cases examined here. At the same time,
it seeks to keep those key questions in view as areas for further exploration.
The emphasis on the primacy of contexts, as well as the agency or
power of scholars and scholarship in this study, go hand in hand with its
call to push the logic of power/knowledge to its conclusion. The premise
behind this call rests on the need for full transparency of all the sources
of power that make knowledge production possible. As I explain in the
Preface, this is a way to help minimize the possibility of well-intentioned
scholarship being used for unscrupulous purposes. Foucault (1980)
and many other scholars have long emphasized power/knowledge, and
the idea proved to be very influential in critical humanities and social
sciences. But, as discussed in Introduction, even some of those who did
the most to advance power/knowledge analytics proved hesitant to push
the logic of this relationship to its conclusion. Why this hesitation and
what can be done to overcome it?
The lack of adequate understanding of the nature of power and its rela-
tionship to knowledge production is, in my view, a major factor. Scholars in
general and those involved in Tadhana and SNI in particular are not oblivi-
ous to their power. In themselves, they know power intuitively as something
they ‘possess,’ and they act it out in their daily life. They enjoy the privileges
and perks that go with it. Despite the mounting anti-intellectualism in the
‘West’ that became pronounced even before the Trump era, the intellectual
bedrock that holds the very foundation of civilizations across the world ren-
ders it likely that scholars and other knowledge workers will remain impor-
tant and, in a particular sense, powerful. However, scholars and the public
in general have not been conditioned to view scholars or scholarship as pow-
erful. Including those who took part in Tadhana and SNI, scholars tend to
hesitate to label what they do or what they have as a form of power. Some of
them may admit to being influential or prominent but coy to admit they are
powerful. More than semantics, it seems the connotative difference is symp-
tomatic of how people have grown accustomed to the restricted definition
of power and the political, which effectively excludes knowledge production
within the scope where the idea of power operates. It may also be a testament
to how deep-seated scholars’ anxiety toward the notion of power in general
and state power in particular has become, perhaps due to the morally ad-
verse connotations that gather around the notion of power. Bourdieu’s use
of the term ‘capital’ to refer to various enabling mechanisms, which in some
sense may also be rightly called power, is, in my view, an exemplary illustra-
tion of this anxiety. I invoked in the Introduction Foucault’s broad-based
and capillary-like conception of power as dispersed and both coercive and
creative or enabling. The reason for this lies precisely in my desire to address
this concern.
186 Conclusion
So, what we have is a situation in which scholars may in fact be powerful,
yet they refuse to acknowledge it openly. If we follow the dictum that those
who have power must also bear responsibility, scholars who are mindless
of their power can hardly care to be accountable. The public, who do not
regard scholars as powerful, would not demand accountability. This lack
of a sense of responsibility leaves scholars and scholarship liable to causing
harm in their desire to do good, by lending inadvertent support to unscru-
pulous political interests, even if, or because, they mean well. It also means
that they may end up being more easily appropriated for purposes they ex-
pressly oppose. The naiveté of some of the Tadhana scholars in thinking
that the farther away from the Marcos years they worked, the more politi-
cally ‘safe’ they were illustrates this point. Had they been forthright about
the power of the scholarly class to which they belong, they would have un-
derstood better that it was such power that Marcos was desirous of, and
that their mere participation in the project, highly credentialed scholars as
they were, lent it at least a patina of scholarly validation. This was the case,
regardless of which period in history they wrote about. Also, in aspiring to
be rigorous and accurate, many scholars, like those who took part in SNI
and Tadhana, believe that they were being non-, anti-, or apolitical, that
they were merely doing their jobs as scholars. They seem unaware, possibly
not blissfully but ‘knowingly,’ that what makes knowledge useful and liable
to politically motivated appropriations, such as what Marcos had in mind
for the use of Tadhana, was the semblance or aura of truth enabled by per-
ception of rigor and impartiality.
The scholars’ disavowal of power and their anxiety towards relativism and
its concomitant push for objectivity or impartiality are well-meaning. Such
disavowal has deep roots in the centuries of struggle to overcome obscu-
rantism, superstition, oppression, inequality, and injustice. It is meant to up-
hold and help realize the full potentials of the supposedly free-willed human
beings. Part of the Enlightenment traditions nurtured the liberal scholarly
ethos that assumes the ability of humans to know reality in its truest essence.
Also presupposed is the fundamental goodness of knowing and that knowl-
edge is key to a continuous progress both in material and moral senses. By
drawing dichotomies between scholarship, ethical responsibility, objectivity,
reason, and knowledge, on the one side, and politics, subjectivity, emotion,
and power, on the other, the liberal tradition sought to enhance, promote,
and protect human welfare and freedom against any form of tyranny by
absolutizing one side (supposedly the ‘good’ side) against the other (Fuller
2018, 25–37; Rubio and Baert 2012). As the absolutist entities, like God upon
whom everything used to be anchored, were exiled to the periphery, if not
to oblivion, they were replaced by a secular absolutism of liberal assump-
tions of the ability, rights, and freedom of individuals. Herein lies the crux
of contradictions in liberal scholarly tradition. The optimistic visions of hu-
man nature and the future of humanity cannot but contend with the finite
and unequally distributed resources, including power, on the ground. This
 Conclusion  187
optimistic vision stands in tension as well with the inherently ambiguous
and possibly zero-sum aspects of the exercise of individual freedom.
These contradictions bedevil power-knowledge analytics on various lev-
els. At the most basic, many scholars refuse to see knowledge as power-­
driven because they define knowledge as simply what is true, and what is
true supposedly does not depend on who has a greater power, who because
of presumed negative attributes of power is believed to manipulate things in
their favor, and thus produce false claims. Also, having taken knowing as a
fundamental good, they treat knowledge offhand as among the key solutions
to inequality and many other problems in society. Again with the supposed
negative or manipulative nature of power, they find it difficult to imagine
knowledge being defined by power. The reason why I opt in Introduction for
a broadly-encompassing and (hopefully) more morally-neutral definitions
of power and knowledge is precisely to address the problems emanating
from the use of biased and restricted formulation of the key concepts.
Another reason lies in fear that it could destabilize the very fabric of the
moral and social order. Power/knowledge supposedly risks plunging soci-
ety into anarchy or nihilism by depriving any scholarly or political effort
a solid platform to stand on. The supposed ‘fascination with fascism’ of
intellectuals identified with poststructuralism, such as Heidegger, Paul de
Man, and Nietzsche, is often used to exemplify the danger as well as the
moral and political bankruptcy of the anti-foundational philosophies which
inform the power-knowledge analytics (Wolin 2006). In the same vein, crit-
ics claim that it tends to disarm well-meaning individuals in their struggle
against social inequality and injustice (Moore and Muller 1999). How can
‘relativism-minded’ sociologists, Brown rhetorically asks, fight social ills by
saying, “Yes, all theories are equally good; they merely serve different social
interests”? In Brown’s view, “relativism…tend(s) to produce quietism and
inaction rooted in a sense of hopelessness and pointlessness” (Brown 1989,
vii). Given these apprehensions, one may argue that less, not more power–
knowledge relations, and retreat from, rather than a push to its logical con-
clusion, is the solution.
In my view, the fear of anarchy that is supposed to emanate from pushing
the power-knowledge analytics to its conclusion is unfounded. The reason is
simple: existential reality demands that various sources of powers will always
align in accordance to an equilibrium compatible with the convergence of
unequal, ever-changing, and competing interests. The process of alignment
and re-alignment will be driven by differentiated access (depending on the
structure of society) to the social, economic, political, and cultural capitals.
This situation precludes a perfectly fluid or anarchic environment and rules
out, for instance, Brown’s concern that all theories would appear ‘equally
good.’ A particular arrangement or network of power relations (including
those within the scholarly field) will emerge more dominant than others,
lending particular theories at least the appearance of greater acceptability
than other theories, for the given context.
188 Conclusion
More important from the ethical standpoint, the fear of plunging into
anarchy appears to have long served as a bogeyman that conveniently con-
ceals the self-interests of the scholarly class. It is by drumbeating the fear
of anarchy, among other means, that the scholars have rationalized and,
at the same time, covered up their power and privileged position in the
scheme of things. The raison d’être for this study precisely lies on shed-
ding light on this analytic black spot. Rather than weakening the moral
and political standpoint from which to address inequality, injustice, and
poverty, as commonly believed, pushing the logic of knowledge/power, so
I contend, can instead help strengthen efforts along this line. This may
be achieved by rendering transparent the insidious partnership between
scholars (and all other knowledge workers) and political power holders
that enable, sustain, or intensify inequality, injustice, and poverty. With
the matrix of the power-knowledge nexus laid bare before the public, an
informed public sphere will be in a better position to decide which and
whose knowledge claims deserve to be upheld. In the end, not only would
the scholars be spared from doing inadvertent harm in their desire to do
good; much more importantly, the public would also be rescued from the
adverse consequences.
There is a need to rethink seriously the liberal imperatives that informed
much of the progressive or critical scholarship in social sciences and the
humanities. The situation in the previous centuries, when it was clear who
or what liberal aspirations were up against, no longer holds today, when
power relations is so much more multi-layered, crisscrossing, and shifting,
determined as it is by specificities of contexts, as this study highlights. Se-
rious rethinking of the liberal ethos in scholarship has long been mooted,
but the rise of US President Donald Trump and Philippine President Rod-
rigo Duterte offers an excellent opportunity to revisit this issue. Trump and
Duterte are known for flaunting fake news as alternative facts. They tend to
brand claims they do not agree with as fake news. Situations like these are
often viewed as constituting a new height in the supposedly posties-induced
(such as poststructuralism, postmodernism, and postcolonialism) relativ-
ization and bastardization of knowledge. What is often missed is that the
potency of the Trump-Duterte ‘lies’ resides, among other sources, in the
widely shared liberal assumption about the nature of knowledge, which pos-
its that it is a container of truth, not dependent on power relations, as the
posties have long insisted. For Trump and Duterte supporters, their idols’
claims are not lies but facts denied or subjugated by the ‘errant’ media or the
liberal establishments, including scholars. Trump and Duterte are lionized
for their supposed courage to say the ‘suppressed truths.’ Responses have
focused on criticizing and fact-checking Trump and Duterte, continually
painting them as inveterate liars and morally flawed. Given the strong sup-
port they still enjoy, one wonders what it is with their supporters, or what
it is with critics, that makes things challenging to comprehend. It seems the
claim to intellectual and moral ascendancy of liberal scholarly tradition,
 Conclusion  189
upon which fact-checking is premised, has already been exposed as yet an-
other political standpoint, as one of those ‘power games,’ to use Steve Full-
er’s (2018) apt terminology.
It must be noted, however, that not all scholarship is regarded by Trump
and Duterte and their supporters as untrustworthy. Trump, for instance,
has conveniently used or misused scholarly work—such as that produced
by Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) on climate change—that
includes details or ideas supportive of his position on, say, the United States’
withdrawal from the Paris climate agreement (Temple 2017). For many,
Trump’s declaration that there are ‘fine scholars’ on ‘both sides’ of the cli-
mate change debates ominously flagged his intent to justify his selective use
of evidence in support of his preferred position. I do not wish to invalidate
the critics’ concerns over this matter, as I personally share them, but what
needs highlighting here are the often-missed implications of Trump’s and
Duterte’s behavior.
Just like Nugroho and Tadhana scholars who were labeled as ‘intellec-
tual prostitutes’ or ‘academic mercenaries’ and expelled by fellow schol-
ars and other critics from their moral universe, it is easy to dismiss Trump
and Duterte and their supporters as morally depraved and stupid. For the
purpose of this study, I intend not to do so for the simple reason that it is
analytically unproductive. For the record, as a liberal myself, I personally
do not agree with much of Trump’s and Duterte’s demeanor and many of
their declarations. However, I believe I understand the roots in liberal tradi-
tions of the frustrations that made so many people supportive of leaders like
them. It is not my intent to morally or politically defend Trump and Duterte,
nor do I wish to undermine their critics, whose right to castigate them I
uphold and respect. I am aware though that despite my intentions, I end up
sounding as though I defend and side with them against their critics. This is
collateral consequence of my analytic choice. I believe that the stakes in this
whole analytic exercise are far more significant than scoring points against
Trump, Duterte, and their supporters. Convinced of the need to re-orient
and revitalize progressive scholarship to make it truly empowering for the
people it seeks to help, I believe that my analytic decision is a carefully cal-
culated risk. Whatever unintended adverse consequences it brings about
drives home the point that any analytic decision may have a corresponding
political consequence. Analysis is double-edged, and its impact could be in-
herently ambiguous. By stating thus, I wish not to naturalize it and absolve
myself of accountability. The idea is to highlight the need for scholars to
pay more attention to, and embrace, this nature of knowledge and analysis.
In opting for this analytic tack, I am fully aware of my analytico-political
interests in the whole exercise, and I bear full personal responsibility for
whatever collateral consequences my decision brings.
My analytic position is that judging Trump and Duterte in the usual man-
ner of underscoring how bereft of rationality, integrity, and morality they
are will merely affirm one side of morals and politics over another, leftist
190 Conclusion
over rightist or centrist, or liberals over conservatives, to put things in overly
simplified terms. One politics is merely replaced by another politics, lead-
ing to a political stalemate. Stuck in the liberal view of the opposition of
­scholarship–politics relations, the analysis is paralyzed. The Trump/Duterte
phenomenon seems to me an exemplary opportunity to break this impasse
by taking a close look at how knowledge is in fact being produced and used
on a daily basis and what role power has in the process. Trump’s brazen use
of his power to define what is to be considered valid knowledge, particularly
on climate change, can only shock many people, particularly scientists and
scholars. But rather than taking it as idiosyncratic or exceptional to leaders
like Trump, I take it as illustration of the logic of what happens on a day-to-
day basis as we—liberals, leftists, rightists, centrists, or whatever—‘shop’
in the marketplace of circulating ideas for knowledge which is supportive
of our interests or positions. Others that we do not like or do not agree
with, we ignore or dismiss as untrue. What the likes of Trump and Duterte
do is make this day-to-day, subtle process of producing/consuming knowl-
edge formal and explicit. Doing so lays bare, in all honesty, the process and
actors that install a particular network of power, following Latour (1986),
to define what gets to be considered as valid knowledge. Trump is not a
scholar, but what he does parallels in functional terms, if in a short-circuited
manner, what the scholarly community studiously undergoes in producing
knowledge. Despite the long, intricate process, it may not necessarily be the
(real) ‘truth’ that is upheld as knowledge but what scholars regard as true or
accurate based on acceptable procedures. In short, at the end of the day, it
is the power of the scholars or collectively the scholarly community that de-
cides. The logistics of power relations are different in the two cases, Trump’s
power vs. scholars’ power, but the logic is essentially the same. This funda-
mental similarity in the logic of knowledge production is one that is often
missed. Among other things, figures like Trump, Duterte, Nugroho, and
Tadhana scholars embody the logic which the liberal view of s­ cholarship–
politics relations has blindsided us from.
What are the possible implications? First, there is a need to re-calibrate
scholars’ preoccupations, which conventionally focus on getting things em-
pirically accurate, conceptually clear, theoretically relevant, methodologi-
cally adequate, and analytically logical. These things will remain important
as mainstays of what scholars do. But for scholars who deliberately seek to
pursue progressive aspirations of empowering the marginalized, more atten-
tion needs to be given to the pragmatics of knowledge: how is knowledge
actually produced and used in various contexts, by whom, for what pur-
pose, and with what effects, both actual and potential? A cartography of the
types and sources of power that enable a particular body of knowledge to
be produced and consumed by different groups in various context and for
whatever purposes, needs to be carried out. Various streams of progressive
scholarships, such as postcolonialism, cultural studies, and critical discourse
analysis, have already been doing this in one way or another. As creditable
 Conclusion  191
as their efforts are, they can be made more efficacious via a more compre-
hensive and systematic approach. Certainly, it is a huge undertaking, which
unfortunately I cannot explicate here. I would just like to note that in this
undertaking, Bruno Latour’s (2005) ideas and approaches, including the Ac-
tor-Network Theory (ANT), may prove to be very useful. Whatever forms
this effort takes, pushing the logic of power/knowledge to its conclusion is
essential. This would allow us to deal with the contradictions that inhere in
many progressivist approaches such as postcolonial theory, rendering them
vulnerable to charges of hypocrisy or critiquing others for the sins they are
also guilty of. They would also cease to reinforce the myth that it takes only
the ‘right’ kind of scholarship to neutralize power/knowledge. As Foucault
and others remind us, power/knowledge may be a natural property of knowl-
edge production and power relations. We can only deal with it, not transcend
it, and one good way to do so is to lay it bare for everyone to see. Continual
mapping is crucial as knowledge may be reconstituted, not merely transmit-
ted, at every moment of actual use. It is in these moments, rather than at the
time of original conception by scholars (or any knowledge producer), that
interpretations with a material impact on the lives of common people get
formed. What is entailed in this cartography of power/knowledge is a project
worth pursuing in the future.
Second, what goes with the emphasis on the agency and power of schol-
ars and scholarship is the accompanying demand for full accountability.
Currently, accountability is confined within the community of scholars.
The main concern is the extent to which one observes the acceptable pro-
tocols for data gathering, analysis, and reporting, and whether the corre-
sponding ethical procedures were carried out properly. This is what gets
satisfied by the common demand for self-reflexivity among critical scholars
in the humanities and social sciences. But being self-reflexive in this man-
ner may not be enough. Full accountability demands awareness of the po-
sition of the scholarly community in the scheme of things and of what roles
and impact it has had on individual scholars and the community at large.
It requires mindfulness of the types or forms of power that the scholars
as a class enjoy. This power needs to be factored into analysis and eschew
the tendency to treat scholarly practices as neutral or beyond power rela-
tions. This carries profound implications, not just on analytic practices
but also on the ethics of doing scholarship. This subject matter requires
a lengthy explanation, and thus I reserve it for another paper. Suffice to
note that once we acknowledge the power or the fundamentally political
character of scholarship, we may have to rethink practically everything we
do as scholars.
Finally, a full accounting of the power/knowledge nexus entails acknowl-
edging the scholarly viewpoint as one among many possible political stand-
points. It must be included among those that need to be mapped out. If
progressive scholarship wishes to be true to its vision to serve the inter-
ests of the truly marginalized, it must be honest about its own politics and
192 Conclusion
assume a meta-analytic position. Doing so will allow it to serve as a moni-
toring device that renders transparent the various ways in which knowledge
and powers from all ideological standpoints—rightist, centrist (including
scholarship), leftist—interact with and affect people on the ground. This
way, there is a greater chance to create a transparent and informed pub-
lic sphere that is conducive to a more peaceful, equal, compassionate, and
prosperous life.

References
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Foucault, Michel. 1980. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings,
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Fuller, Steve. 2018. Post-Truth: Knowledge as a Power Game. New York: Anthem
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Latour, Bruno. 1986. “The Powers of Association.” In Power, Action and Belief:
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A New Sociology of Knowledge?, edited by John Law. London: Routledge & Kegan
Paul.
———. 2005. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory.
Clarendon Lectures in Management Studies. Oxford and New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press.
Moore, R, and J. Muller. 1999. “The Discourse of ‘Voice’ and the Problem of Knowl-
edge and Identity in the Sociology of Education.” British Journal of Sociology of
Education 20 (2): 189–206.
Rubio, Fernando Domínguez, and Patrick Baert. 2012. “Politics of Knowledge:
An Introduction.” In The Politics of Knowledge, 1–10. London and New York:
Routledge.
Temple, James. 2017. “Trump Misused MIT Research in Reasons for Ditching
­Climate Deal.” MIT Technology Review, June 1.
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Glossary

Abangan  Nominal Muslims who follow a form of Islam that is mixed with
Hindu-Buddhist and animistic influences.
Asal bapak senang  Indonesian for ‘so long as the boss is happy’; attitude or
mentality that predisposes one to value form over substance to please
the boss.
Bagong Kasaysaysan  Tagalog term for ‘New History’; a movement that
sought to employ new approaches and perspectives in historical
writing.
Barangay  Tagalog word which means a village or a settlement consisting
of dozens or a hundred families; social, economic and political unit dur-
ing the pre-Hispanic and Spanish Periods.
Biro Khusus  Indonesian for ‘special bureau’; a clandestine group tasked
with infiltrating the military and propagating communist teachings.
Buku babon  Indonesian for ‘master or original text’; a book that serves as
the basis of another book or whose importance makes it a fundamental
reference.
Caciquism  Spanish-derived term for the rule of the local chiefs or bosses.
Compadre  A word of Spanish origin. In the Philippines, it refers to the
person (male) who served as the sponsor, or godfather, in the baptism
of one’s child.
Doktorandus  Dutch-influenced post-Bachelor’s degree in the old educa-
tional system in Indonesia.
EDSA Revolution  The uprising that toppled Marcos in 1986.
Ethical Policy  An ambitious program promulgated by the Dutch colonial
government in Indonesia starting in the early 1900s.
Filipinization  The program to replace with Filipinos the American offi-
cials in colonial government.
Filipino Heritage  A ten-volume encyclopedia of the Philippines, a project
that was almost contemporary with Tadhana.
Frailocracy  A term often used to refer to the rule of the friars in the Philip-
pines during the Spanish Period; another term is friarocracy.
Hamlyn Group  An Australian publishing company that financed the Fili-
pino Heritage Project.
194 Glossary
Ilustrados  Educated Filipinos during the Spanish Period in Philippine
history.
Indonesiasentrisme  Indonesian for an Indonesia-centric perspective in
historiography.
Istruktural  In Indonesian historiography, it refers to the structural or
multi-­dimensional approach.
Katipunan  Secret revolutionary society founded in 1892 in Manila, which
led the revolution in 1896.
La Liga Filipina  Spanish term which meant ‘The Philippine League,’ a
short-lived organization founded by Rizal in 1892.
Lubang Buaya  Indonesian for ‘crocodile hole.’ It is a village south of Halim
Airbase in Jakarta; it became famous as the place (a well) where the
bodies of abducted generals were dumped.
Malacañang  The President’s official residence in the Philippines.
Manila Times  One of the national daily newspapers in the Philippines.
Martial Law  Marcos proclaimed martial law in September 1972 to pro-
long his stay in power.
Nasakom  A doctrine developed by Sukarno who attempted to synthesize
nationalism, religion, and communism.
Pancasila  State ideology in Indonesia; literally Five Principles.
Pantayong Pananaw  Tagalog term for ‘From-us-for-us Perspective,’ one of
the dominant schools of Philippine historiography.
Pemuda Rakyat  People’s Youth, one of the organizations affiliated with
the Communist Party of Indonesia.
Pre-Hispanic Period  In Philippine history, it refers to the time before the
Spaniards arrived in 1521 or 1565.
Propagandists  Group of young educated Filipinos in Spain and
the Philippines who campaigned in the 1880s for reforms in the
Philippines.
Prosesuil  In Indonesian historiography, it refers to the narrative, proces-
sual or chronological approach to writing history.
Reform Movement  Another term for the movement created by the Propa-
gandists (see above).
Santri  Devout Muslims, following forms of Islam that are fairly strictly
based on the Koran.
Sejarah  Indonesian word for ‘history.’
Sejarah Nasional Indonesia (SNI)  Title of book; National History of
Indonesia
Sejarawan murni  Indonesian for ‘pure historian’; a rhetorical term that
sets a marker of qualitative difference between historians who were well
trained in methods and those who were not.
Serangan Umum  Indonesian for ‘General Offensive,’ a landmark event in
the struggle against the Dutch (1 March 1949) whereby the Republican
forces carried out a concerted attack on Dutch-controlled Yogyakarta
and held it for six hours
 Glossary  195
Sikolohiyang Pilipino  Tagalog for ‘Filipino Psychology,’ a school of
thoughts in Psychology that upholds indigenous perspectives.
Syariah  Islamic law.
Sumpah Pemuda  Youth Oath or pledge for unity and national identity
made by the participants in the youth congress in Indonesia in 1928.
Tadhana  Tagalog word which means ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’.
Tripartite view  In Philippine historiography, it refers to the condition
during and division between the period before, during, and after
colonization.
1896 Revolution  A landmark event in Philippine history; the revolution
against Spain.
Index

Abercrombie, Nicholas 5 apolitical 3, 12, 18, 171, 173, 186

Academia/academic 11, 79, apologist 101
105; community 178, 184; archaeology 35, 69, 93
credentials 62, 170, 180, 181; archives 56, 57, 78
history/historian 2, 101, 108; Aria Hoesein Djajadiningrat 99
mercenaries 173, 189 Ariel Heryanto 30, 31
accountability 13, 18, 109, 113, 186, Ariwiadi 105, 135, 140, 157
189, 191 art 28, 40, 44, 47, 53, 54, 54, 134, 147,
Aceh, Acehnese 26, 28, 130, 167 156, 184
Achmad Djajadiningrat 32, 33 asal bapak senang 116, 193
Actor-Network Theory 191 Asia and Southeast Asia 4, 5, 7, 8, 16,
ADHIKA 36, 37 32, 70–72, 94, 101, 104, 122, 161,
Adrian Lapian 34, 35, 109–111, 164 178, 181
Africa 4, 25, 53, 101, 104 Asmar 105
Agoncillo, Teodoro 4, 26, 32–35, 44, 45, ASPENSI 36
48, 49, 61, 63, 73–77, 79, 80, 82, 83, Asvi Warman Adam 19, 181
90, 91, 93, 94, 96, 97, 171 Ateneo de Manila University 34, 45
Aguinaldo, Emilio 83, 90 Atmakusumah 111, 113–115, 117, 127,
ahistorical 152, 158 131, 132
aksi sepihak or unilateral action 134 Atmodjo 105, 135
Alamsjah 157 Australia 7, 46, 57, 68, 178
Alexander Robertson 57 Austria, Ben 56
Alfonso, Oscar 44, 93 Austronesian 47, 71, 73, 74, 80, 88
Alip, Eufronio 34, 75 Authoritarian and authoritarianism 4, 8,
Almonte, Jose 50 9, 16, 29, 30, 38, 85, 89, 170
Althusser, Louis 5
Alzona, Encarnacion 34, 35 Burhanuddin M. Diah 114, 115, 117,
America 4, 9, 25–29, 31, 33, 35, 70, 75, 118, 131
79, 84, 85, 154, 193 babad 159
Amsterdam 33, 34, 39, 100, 101 Bagong Kasaysayan 36, 98, 193
analytical constipation xiii, xiv Bagong Kasaysaysan 193
Angkor 70, 72 Bailey, Thomas 51
anti-colonial 4, 25, 26, 28, 29, 44, 55, 77, Bali and Balinese 6, 8, 128, 132
84, 91 Bambang Oetomo 152, 154
anti-foundational 187 Bambang Purwanto 131
anti-intellectualism 178, 185 Bambang Sumadio 105
antiquarian 109 Banjar 130
Anwas 135 Banten 32, 101
Apilado, Digna 33, 35 barangay 72, 73, 87, 89, 193
198 Index
Barnes, Barry 14, 15 Clio 6, 85, 89, 92, 184
Barnett, Milton 154, 157, 158 Code of Kalantiao 70
Barringer, Phillip 177 Coedes, George 128
Barrows, David 85 colonial 4, 16, 24–30, 32, 33, 37, 38, 53,
base-culture 80 58, 69–77, 79, 81, 83, 85, 88–91, 103,
Batavia 24 104, 126, 132, 138, 152, 153, 193, 195
Bauman, Zygmunt 1, 10, 12, 19 Columbia University 33–35, 39, 47
Bauzon, Leslie 36 communism 4, 7, 24, 26, 27, 31, 87,
bayi yang cacat 115 133–135, 138, 139, 146–148, 157, 170,
Benda, Harry 29, 30, 72, 101, 171 193, 194
Benda, Julien 2, 171 conservative 1, 83, 168, 190
Benitez, Conrado 34, 35, 68, 73, 75, 85 Constantino, Letizia 6
Berg, Cornelis Christiaan 126, 155, 159 Constantino, Renato 5, 26, 73, 77–80,
Berger, Peter 13 83, 90, 98
Berita Buana 162 constructionist 165
Berita Yudha 150 constructivist 165
Berkeley, University of California 106, contemporary history 141, 144
107, 113 context and contextuality 2, 3, 5, 8, 10,
Bevernage, Berber 4 13–17, 23, 24, 39, 52, 55, 59, 62, 67,
Beyer, Otley 70, 71 70, 74, 78, 80, 90, 99, 114, 125, 129,
Biro Khusus, Special Bureau 134, 135, 133, 142, 152, 155, 158, 165–168, 170,
139, 146, 193 172, 174, 175, 185, 187, 188, 190
Bogor 107, 135, 141 contingency 15, 165, 178
Boquiren, Rowena 64 contradictions 10, 60, 84, 115, 137,
Bosch, Frederick 128, 155 147–149, 166, 170, 176, 179, 181, 186,
Boudreau, Vincent 29–31 187, 191
Bourchier, David 6, 30 Cook, Tim 6
Bourdieu, Pierre 11, 13, 166, 171, 179, Cornell University 33, 34, 39, 56, 100,
180, 185 106, 107, 134, 148
Britain and British 4, 25, 192 Crabtree, Charlotte 7, 177
Brown, Colin 26, 192 Craig, Austin xx, 33
Brown, James 187, 192 Cribb, Robert 26, 156
Brubaker, Roger 13, 180 Cristobal, Adrian 64
Buchori 105, 107 Cubitt, Geoffrey 8
buku babon 115, 116, 193 Curaming, Rommel 3, 34, 85, 93, 101,
132, 158
caciques 93, 193
Cagayan Valley 69 Daniel Dhakidae 6
calculus 165, 181 decolonization 4, 29, 103, 104
Calderon, Felipe 36 de Joevenel, Bertrand 14
capital and capitalism 87, 171, 180, 185 de la Costa, Horacio 34, 44, 45, 48, 49,
Cardinal Sin 59 61, 171
cartography 190, 191 de los Reyes, Isabelo 32, 41
caste system 128 de Man, Paul 20–22, 187, 192
Catholic 23, 45, 59, 94 de Morga, Antonio 32
Cavite 76, 90 de Ocampo, Esteban 37
Cebuano 28 Dery, Luis 54, 57, 63, 64
centrists 190, 192 dictatorship 4, 29–31, 38, 62
Christianity 25, 52, 73, 75, 80 Diliman 2, 45, 79
Churchill, Bernardita 94 discourse 65, 77, 79, 82, 84, 87, 93, 99,
Churchill, Winston 43, 50 102, 129, 150, 157, 168, 177, 190
civilization 1, 69, 70, 72, 87, 185 Djoko Suryo 34, 105, 108, 110, 111, 120
class 1, 5–7, 18, 23, 27, 31, 32, 77, 80, Djokosuyono 138
83, 84, 90, 93, 94, 154, 171, 173, 186, Doktorandus 34, 101, 119, 193
188, 191 Doronila, Luisa 5, 6
 Index  199
Dutch 4, 24, 25, 29, 30, 99, 119, 125, Foronda, Marcelino 34
126, 138, 151, 193, 194 Foucault 9–11, 14–16, 185, 191
Duterte, Rodrigo 188–190 Foulcher, Keith 27, 40
Friars, frailocracy, friarocracy 82, 84,
Edi Sedyawati 105 90 193
Edmonds, Sir Edward 6, 7 France 1, 27
EDSA 29, 60, 193 Francisco, Adrianne 26
Eka Darmaputera 27 Frederick, William 154, 158, 172
elite and elitism 5, 7–10, 14, 26, 27, 29, French 7, 20, 55, 76
45, 77, 78, 82–84, 90, 93, 126 French, David 55, 76
Elson, Robert 28, 156, 160 Fuad Hasan 117
Emilia Wiesmar 105
empirical 1, 3, 6, 9, 24, 107, 152, 153, G30S, Gerakan 30 September 133
167, 178, 184, 190 Gealogo, Francis 37, 93
emplotment 107 geography 4, 23, 68, 69, 81, 126, 130
epistemology 1, 12 geology and geological period 53, 56, 69,
ethics and ethical responsibility 10, 13, 88, 166, 167
18, 112, 115, 166, 173, 176, 184, 186, Gerwani or Gerakan Wanita Indonesia
188, 191 136, 146, 150, 151, 157
Ethical Policy 25, 193 Germany 25, 27
ethos 173, 186, 188 Goenawan Mohamad 156, 158
Euro-American 4 Gomburza 76
Europe, European, Euro-centric 1, 33, Gomez, Mariano 76
46, 47, 57, 71, 73, 105, 127, 152, 178 Goodfellow, Rob 133
expert and expertise 46, 47, 50, 56, 88, gossip 12, 43, 99, 102, 179, 181
100, 108, 113, 137, 179–181 Green, Andrew 7, 182
Guerrero, Amado (aka Jose Maria
fact-checking 188, 189 Sison) 91
fake news 149, 178, 188 Guerrero. Milagros 83, 93
Fascism 187 Guillermo, Alice 78
fatalism 23, 89 Guillermo, Ramon 31, 94
Feith, Herbert 27
feminists 1, 15 habitus 166
Fernandez, Leandro 34, 35, 73, 75, 85 Hadimulmuno 105
feudalism 28, 30, 82, 84, 158 Hadimulyo 105
field 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 134, 152, 163, 187 Hamid Abdullah 122, 159
Filipinization 29, 193 Hamlyn Group 46, 193
Filipino 2, 5, 6, 23, 25–29, 32–35, 38, Harsja W. Bachtiar 102, 103, 119, 120
43, 44, 46, 47, 49–51, 53, 61, 62, Harvard University 33, 34, 39, 45, 47,
68–89, 93, 94, 166, 167, 171, 176, 180, 53, 54, 56, 166
193–195 Hasan Djafar 105
Filipino Heritage 46, 68, 74, 193 Hassan Ambarry 105, 117
Filipino historian 33–35, 38, 75, 76, 176 Hawaii 34, 71
Filipino identity 69, 73, 88, 89, 167 Hedman, Eva-Lotta 28, 30
Filipino ideology 61, 88 Hegelian 166
Filipino nationalism 25, 27, 28, 53, 72, Hegemony 16, 24, 38
80, 82, 86, 93 Heidegger 187
Filipino psychology 79, 94 Heller, Agnes 15
Filipino viewpoint 75–77, 79 Hidalgo, Cesar 47
foreign and foreigners 2, 5, 25, 47, 67, 72, Hindess, Barry 14
73, 76, 77, 80. 83, 87, 88, 113, 117, historians 2, 3, 6, 26, 32–36, 38, 43–45, 47,
125, 134, 140, 144, 146, 153, 154, 48, 50, 51, 61, 71, 73, 75–78, 80, 100,
159, 169 101, 104–106, 108, 111, 120, 129, 131,
foreign scholars 2, 32, 35, 131, 140, 133, 137, 139, 141, 142, 148–152, 154,
159, 169 158, 167, 169, 172, 174, 176, 180, 194
200 Index
historicist 154, 165, 172 Japan 4, 5, 7, 27, 29, 33, 104, 118,
historiography 3, 16, 17, 24, 32, 33, 38, 141, 144
44, 48, 52, 53, 62, 63, 67, 68, 70, 73, Java and Javanese 24, 69, 126, 128, 132,
75–81, 85, 86, 90, 91, 93, 96, 114, 116, 134, 135, 138, 147
125, 126, 128, 130, 131, 150, 152, 154, Jesuits in the Philippines 45
155, 158, 166, 167, 172, 176, 180, 194, Joaquin, Nick 76
195; Philippine historiography 48,
67, 73–76, 91, 167, 180; Indonesian Kahin, George 27, 154, 157, 158
historiography 38, 116, 130–132, Kalaw, Teodoro 85
154, 172 Kammen, Douglas 156, 160
history-writing project 2–4, 10, 16, 31, Kartawirana, A. 153
33, 35, 38, 43–45, 48, 49, 55, 61, 87, Kasaysayan 36, 193
99–101, 104, 106, 108, 109, 116, 122, Katipunan 64, 83, 84, 90, 94
158, 172, 175 Kemp-Welch, Tony 2, 20
Homo Academicus 11 keterbukaan 117
homogenizing politics 90 Klooster, H. A. J. 32, 116, 117, 121, 154
homonization 69 knowledge 1, 3, 5–18, 49, 50, 58, 62, 77,
Hufana, Alex 47, 56 88, 92, 93, 107, 114, 117, 139, 149,
humanization 53 155, 156, 165, 167–169, 171–173,
hyper-inflation 140, 145 175, 177–179, 181, 184–186, 188–192;
hyper-reality 31 definition 12–14; expert knowledge 88;
politics of knowledge 1, 171
Ibrahim Alfian 34, 39 Kompas 36, 100, 103, 111–116, 121, 122,
ideology 1, 5, 6, 12, 27, 58, 61, 82–84, 87, 130, 143, 156, 157, 169
88, 170, 171, 194 Konfrontasi 134, 136
Ileto, Reynaldo 9–11, 44, 45, 54, 56, 64, Koonz, Claudia 62
65, 69–71, 78, 82, 87, 88, 94 Kumar, Ann 33, 41
ilustrados 27, 82–84, 93, 194 Kuntowijoyo 33, 34, 155, 158
impartiality 1, 7, 11–13, 18, 23, 149, 150, Kutai 128
166, 171–173, 180, 186
India and Indians 4, 71, 72, 79, 127, Larkin, John 87
128, 132 Latour, Bruno 14, 190, 191
indigenous 25, 26, 31, 49, 73–75, 79–81, leftist 2, 24, 36, 77, 85, 88, 90, 136, 137,
86–89, 91, 125, 128, 131, 167, 175, 146, 147, 156, 189–192
195; politics of indigenism 86, 91 legitimacy 2, 11, 13, 30, 82, 86, 104, 134,
Indonesia 2–4, 6–9, 16, 23–39, 70–72, 92, 142, 145
99–109, 113–116, 118–122, 125–133, Leigh, Barbara 6
135–137, 140, 141, 143, 144, 146, 147, LEKRA 147
150–155, 157–159, 166, 167, 169, 170, Leninism 87
172–174, 176–180, 184, 193–195 liberal 1, 3, 18, 23, 84, 86, 87, 90, 130,
Indonesia-centrism 125–128, 130, 131, 132, 144, 156, 171, 184, 186, 188–190;
167, 194 assumption 186, 188; democracy 87,
intellectual prostitutes 45, 155, 173, 189 144; ethos 188; intellectuals 132; view
intellectuals 1–3, 18, 23, 31, 32, 36, 43, 1, 171, 190
44, 48, 51, 55, 61, 64, 72, 78, 80, 103, Lie Tek Tjeng 33, 34, 39
106, 108, 109, 132, 153, 155, 166, Linenthal, Edward 7, 177
170, 171, 173, 178–180, 185, 187–189; local 28, 33, 35, 36, 53, 57, 67, 72, 87,
capital 171, 180; prostitute 155, 100, 101, 125–127, 131, 169, 193
173, 189 logic 4, 13, 17, 18, 73, 78, 91, 93, 144,
Irma Notosusanto 119 155, 156, 165, 168, 172, 185, 188,
Islam 3, 7, 26, 27, 52, 104, 105, 167, 190, 191; of contemporaneity 144; of
193–195 contextuality 165, 168; of geography
Ismael Saleh 147 4; of nationalism 155; of power/
Istruktural 194 knowledge 17, 168, 185, 188, 191
 Index  201
Longino, Helen 12, 13, 21 methodology and methodological issues
Lubang Buaya 135, 138, 139, 150, 151, 1, 10, 13, 14, 59, 76–79, 106, 108,
157, 194 114, 149, 150, 152, 167, 172, 179, 190;
Luckmann, Thomas 13 holism 14; individualism 14
Lukes, Steven 14, 21 metropole 27
lumads 80 Micronesians 71
Luzon 83 middle-class 23
military 2, 6, 17, 21, 29, 31, 51, 55,
M. D. Sagimun 105–107, 123 61, 78, 103, 104, 108–110, 112, 120,
Macalanang 58 133–136, 138, 139, 145–151, 157, 175,
Macdonald, Charles 25, 41 193; historians 6, 61, 139, 148, 150
Macintyre, Stuart 7, 177 Mindanao 4, 31, 39, 72
Madiun Affair 104, 134, 137–139, 161 Miseducation of Filipinos 5, 95
Magdalena Manus 120 Moedjanto 157
Majapahit 70, 128, 132, 155 Moela Marbun 105, 135, 157
Malacañang 46, 57, 58, 60, 61, 87, 194 Mohammad Nursam 123
Malay and Malaysia 4, 80, 134, Mohammad Ali 154, 158
136, 147 Mohammad Hatta 138, 158
Malayo-Polynesian 4, 71, 73 Mohammad Yamin 32, 153, 172
Malolos 44, 64 Mojares, Resil 32, 82
Maluku 24 Mollucas 76
Mangahas, Fe 58, 60, 64 moral, morality, moral issues 18, 30, 53,
Mannheim, Karl 13 62, 75, 76, 109, 133, 141, 171–173,
Maoism 87 181, 185–189
Maragtas 70 MSI, Masyarakat Sejarawan Indonesia
Marcos, Ferdinand ‘Bongbong’ Jr. 170 36, 37, 105, 194
Marcos, Ferdinand 2, 5, 16, 17, 27, Muller, J. 187
29–31, 38, 39, 43–53, 55–64, 69–74, multi-dimensional 17, 47, 107–109, 117,
81, 83–90, 92, 94, 166, 167, 170, 171, 125, 126, 129, 131, 132, 137, 141, 143,
174–178, 180, 186, 193, 194 144, 154, 167, 170, 175, 176, 194
Marcos, Imelda 44, 45, 63 Murba 136
Marcos diaries 39, 45, 51, 58, 61–63, museums 2, 150, 157
69, 88 Muslims 27, 31, 52, 73, 80, 90, 126, 138,
Mark, Ethan 4 193, 194
martial law 30, 38, 40, 46, 49–51, 55, 62, mutualism 9
65, 85, 87, 94, 167, 194
Marwati Djoened Poesponegoro 33, 34, Nāgarakṛtāgama 155, 159
105, 111 Nakpil, Carmen 65
Marxism 5, 31, 32, 78, 80, 87, 95 narrative 4, 8, 24, 30, 47, 52, 53, 73, 76,
Masduki Baidlawi 103, 117, 122 77, 91, 93, 109, 125, 129, 132, 135,
Mashuri 100 137, 140, 141, 144, 147, 148, 150, 151,
massacre 133, 160 157, 160, 163, 175, 176, 194
Mataram 130, 132, 155 narrative-chronological approach 130,
McCoy, Alfred 25, 27, 29, 61, 96 141, 143, 145
McGregor, Katharine 2, 3, 5, 30, 37, nation and national 2, 4–6, 8, 16, 25–28,
103, 104, 113, 120, 123, 138, 148, 30, 36, 37, 40–42, 46, 48, 49, 56, 57,
156–158, 164 60, 67, 69, 70, 72–77, 80–85, 89–91,
Melanesians 71 96– 99, 100, 103–108, 113–116,
Meluruskan Sejarah 118 118–126, 128–130, 134, 138, 144,
memory 8, 12, 50, 108, 150, 179 153–155, 158–164, 169, 177, 181, 194,
mestizos 26 195; community 27, 74, 75, 83, 84;
meta-analytic 192 historians 122, 159; historiography 42,
metaphor 30, 89, 115, 165, 181, 184 182; history 2, 41, 48, 65, 97, 99, 100,
metaphysical 89, 166 103, 104, 106, 107, 113, 115, 116, 119,
202 Index
120, 122–125, 130, 153, 158–164, 182, parliamentary democracy 29, 134, 136
194; identity 5, 20, 69, 81, 85, 126, 195; Paschalis Maria Laksono 6, 20
ideology 27, 162; integration 66, 80, 98, PCGG, Presidential Commission on
129; nationalism 4, 6, 16, 19, 21, 23–28, Good Governance 63, 96
38, 39, 41, 42, 44, 52, 53, 55, 74, 76, pelurusan sejarah 179
82, 85, 86, 90, 91, 93–95, 97, 133, 153, Pe-Pua, Rogelia 94, 97
155, 158, 159, 167, 194; nationalist 4, periodization 58, 67, 73–75, 93, 106,
7, 16, 19, 24, 26–29, 32, 33, 38, 41, 45, 127, 160
48, 52, 53, 69, 71–73, 75, 78–80, 89, 91, personalism 8, 10
93, 95, 99, 103, 104, 122, 133, 153–155, philosophy and philosophers 12, 16, 78,
158–161, 167, 168, 176; nation-building 100, 101, 153, 158, 160, 163, 164, 182,
23, 72–75, 79, 80, 164, 167; nations-of- 184, 187, 192
intent 26, 40, 42; revolution 25, 95, 96; Philpott, Simon 9
unity 72, 90, 138, 153, 158 PKI, Partai Komunis Indonesia 104,
National Historical Commission 37 133–136, 138, 139, 145–148, 150, 151,
Navarro, Atoy 93 157, 169, 175, 178, 179
Negritos 70 PKP, Partido Komunista ng Pilipinas 31
neo-colonial 29 pluralism 7, 10
Nietzsche 187 Poerbatjaraka 99
nihilism 187 political 1–18, 23, 24, 26–31, 38, 43,
Nugroho Notosusanto 2, 17, 18, 32–36, 45, 46, 50–52, 55, 58, 59, 61, 62, 67,
100, 101, 105, 113, 127–129, 132–137, 68, 70, 73, 74, 78, 80–82, 85–93, 99,
139–143, 145, 147–151, 155–157, 103, 104, 108, 109, 114, 117, 119, 121,
161–163, 166, 169–176, 180, 181, 125–127, 130–140, 143–145, 147–150,
189, 190 152, 153, 155–158, 165–177, 179–181,
184–191, 193; politicians 30, 50, 81,
objectivity 1, 12, 18, 61, 103, 115, 116, 90, 117, 171–173, 176; politicization
122, 141, 142, 145, 149, 150, 152, 163, 15; politicized 15, 101, 134, 167;
166, 171, 173, 179, 180, 186 politics-scholarship 130; politics of
Ocampo, Ambeth 32, 45, 63 knowledge 1, 171
official historian 2, 45, 100, 101, 103, postcolonialism, postcolonial theory 1,
113, 115, 119, 120, 124, 131, 132, 158, 4, 9, 10, 22, 28, 38, 79, 91, 167, 182,
163, 164, 169, 172, 176, 182, 183, 194 188, 190
official history 2, 3, 6, 17, 20, 22, 114, postmodernism 85, 188, 192
135, 137, 139, 147–149, 151, 155, 156, poststructuralism 1, 10, 187, 188
176, 184 power, definition 14–16
oligarchic 85, 86, 90 power/knowledge 5, 6, 9–14, 20, 44, 92,
Onghokham 34, 39 156, 165, 168, 181, 184, 185, 187, 188,
Ong Hok Ham 33 191, 192
opposition 1, 3, 11, 18, 27, 31, 38, 79, 84, powerful and powerless 3, 6, 8, 10, 14,
125, 132, 136, 153, 170, 184, 190 26, 38, 51, 62, 77, 92, 128, 149, 171,
Orientalism 9, 27 178, 180, 184–186
power-knowledge analytics 1, 5–12,
Pagan 70 14–16, 92, 155, 156, 165, 168, 173,
Pakistan 50 181, 184, 187, 188
Palaeolithic 127 power of scholars and scholarship 3,
Pancasila 27, 30, 100, 157 10–13, 18, 38, 49, 86, 132, 152, 156,
pang-kami 93 165–170, 171–173, 175–181, 184–186,
Pantayong Pananaw, From-Us-For-Us 188, 189, 191, 192
Perspective 36, 78–80, 93, 94, 96–98, power relations 1, 7, 9–12, 14, 15, 17, 18,
180, 182, 194 30, 38, 43, 44, 92, 99, 102, 149, 156,
Papanek, Hannah 158 165, 168, 170, 173, 176–179, 181, 187,
Paras-Perez, Rodolfo 47, 53, 56, 63, 64 188, 190, 191
parliamentary 29, 30, 134–136 Priyambudi Sulistiyanto 182
 Index  203
processual-narrative 129, 194 Sartono Kartodirdjo 17, 33–36, 39,
professional 6, 24, 30, 32, 33, 35, 36, 38, 99–101, 105–107, 110, 113, 116, 120,
44, 50, 55, 59, 61, 73, 101, 102, 149, 126–129, 132, 154, 158, 159, 172
150, 166 Schmitt, Carl 15
progressive 1, 3, 29, 168, 188–191 scholarly community 92, 110, 167,
propaganda 6, 49, 61, 75, 83, 84, 89, 92, 171–174, 178, 179, 190, 191
103, 118, 119, 134, 137, 139, 141–143, scholarly practice 3, 10, 18, 177, 191
146, 150–152, 156, 169, 175, 176, 179, scholarship and politics 1, 3, 152, 170,
180; self-propaganda 90; history-as- 181, 190
propaganda 150 Schumacher 32, 78, 82, 93
proto-Filipino 72 scientific history 1, 11–13, 18, 35, 38,
PSPB 30 101, 150, 153–155, 158, 166, 167,
PSSC 36 172, 178
pujangga 152, 155 secessionism 28, 31, 72, 90
Sedijono 109
Quiason, Serafin 46, 47, 53–56, 58–60, sejarawan murni 101, 194
63, 64 Sentot Setyasiswanto 179, 182
Quibuyen, Floro 25, 26, 32, 42, Setyadi 131, 163
96, 97 Shalom, Stephen 29
Quiros, Conrado 49, 50, 61, 64, 65 Sikolohiyang Pilipino, Filipino
Psychology 79, 94, 195
Rafael, Vicente 42, 89, 97 simulacrum 149, 156
rebellion 28, 39, 138 Singhasari 132
relativism 166, 171, 172, 179, 186–188 Siswadhi 103, 115, 121, 127, 131, 132
Rempel, William 61, 63, 87 Smail, John 72
Resink, Gertrudes 99 SNI, Sejarah Nasional Indonesia 2–4,
revolt and revolution 25–29, 39, 41, 17, 18, 33, 92, 99, 100, 102–105, 111,
44, 55, 61, 64, 65, 67, 69–71, 77, 78, 113–122, 125–127, 129, 130, 132,
82–85, 87, 88, 90, 91, 95–99, 101, 133, 135–137, 141–144, 146–152,
123, 129, 130, 137, 138, 160, 164, 183, 155–158, 165–171, 173–177, 180,
193–195 184–186, 194; comparison with other
rhetoric and rhetorical 5, 29, 50, 89, 135, versions 143–148; historiographic
173, 194 contexts 125–132; implementation
Richard Leirissa 131 and dynamics 105–113; inception
rightist 85, 88, 190, 192 and driving forces 100–105; political
Roces, Alfredo 46, 47, 63, 68 contexts 133–143, 149–155; reactions
Rochmani Santoso 105 113–118
Rockefeller Fellowship 101 SNI-SMA 137, 143, 157, 169
Rodriguez-Tatel, Mary Jane 93, 97 SNI-SMP 119, 136–143, 146, 147, 150,
Romanticism 1 151, 156, 157, 162, 169, 174
Sobral, Carlos 36
Saburo Ienaga 20 sociology of knowledge 1, 5, 13, 20, 21,
Said, Edward 2, 9, 10 35, 102, 119, 165, 177, 192
Salazar, Zeus 18, 34, 47, 48, 52–56, Soedjatmoko 106, 152–154, 158, 170, 172
58, 59, 63, 64, 69, 71, 72, 75, 79, Soedjatmoko-Yamin debate 153
80, 85, 87, 91, 93, 167, 172, 173, Soeharto 151, 163
176, 180 Soejatmi Satari 105
Saleh As’ad Djamhari 105, 140 Soekarto 105
Sammut, Jeremy 7, 22 Soeroto 111, 124, 154, 158–160, 164,
Sanusi Pane 32 172, 182, 183
Sartono 17, 33–36, 100–114, 116, Sony Karsono 169, 179
119–124, 126, 127, 129–132, 141–144, Sorbonne 33 34, 47
154, 158, 159, 167–169, 172, 174, Spaniards 4, 24, 25, 27, 68, 70–76, 80,
176, 180 82, 84, 88, 89, 93, 167, 193, 194
204 Index
Srivijaya 70, 72, 128 theory and theorizing 1, 9–11, 14, 15,
state-formation 24, 28, 72, 75, 81 58, 70, 71, 79, 91, 93, 106, 115, 129,
state–intellectual relations 3, 5, 6, 18 152, 156, 165, 167, 168, 177, 187,
state-sponsored project 4, 10, 16, 19, 190, 191
167, 172 Thomas, Megan 27
statism 5–7, 10 Thucydides 172
Steinberg, David Joel 26 Timor-Leste 26
Suara Merdeka 122, 159, 162 Titans 184
Suara Pembaruan 122, 159, 162 TNI, Tentara Nasional Indonesia 138
subjectivity 114, 133, 152, 153, 186 transparency 6, 18, 23, 89, 137, 172, 185,
subject-position 23 188, 192
Suharto 2, 5, 31, 111, 113, 114, 116, 122, TRD, Today’s Revolution: Democracy
133, 135, 145, 146, 151, 152, 156–158 61, 69, 87
Sukarno 27, 30–32, 107, 108, 113, 114, tripartite view of history 75, 76, 97, 195
120, 133–136, 138–140, 145, 146, tri-sectoral comunities 80
149–151, 175, 194 Tri Wahyuning Irsyam 120
Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX 151 Trump, Donald 178, 185, 188–190, 192
Sumadio 105 truth, truth-making 1, 2, 11–13, 17, 20,
Sumantri 133, 140, 157 22, 44, 52, 59, 61, 85, 88–90, 102, 111,
Sumatra 4, 24, 132 149, 156, 157, 165, 169, 170, 179, 182,
Sumpah Permuda 27, 40, 195 184, 186, 188, 190
Sunardi 135 Truth and Reconcilliation Commission
Surjomihardjo, Abdurrachman 105, 107, 48, 179
110–116, 119–122, 124, 130, 154, 158, Tugu, Bogor 107, 113, 123, 124, 135,
164, 172, 174, 176 141, 160–163
Suryanegara 103, 124
Sutjipto Wirjosuparto 105, 131, 155, UGM, Universitas Gadjah Mada 33, 34,
159, 164, 183 39, 100, 102, 105, 120, 123, 129–131,
Sutrisno 157, 164 154, 161, 162
Suzuki, Mary 26 UI, Universitas Indonesia 33, 34, 39,
Syamdani 111, 124 100–103, 119, 120, 123, 129, 162
Syam Kamaruzaman 146 Umar Zain 99, 100, 104, 109, 113, 124,
Syariah 27, 195 133, 164
Syarif Thayeb 113 Uka Tjandrasasmita 103, 105, 106, 113,
124, 131
Tadhana 2–4, 16–18, 29, 31, 43, 44, UP, University of the Philippines 2,
47–49, 51, 53, 54, 57–63, 65–69, 71–75, 33–36, 45
79–92, 94, 96–98, 103, 118, 125, 156, UST, University of Santo Tomas 32,
165–168, 170, 171, 173–177, 180, 33, 94
184–186, 189, 190, 193, 195; dynamics Untung Syamsuri 135, 139, 146, 164
56–62; historiographic contexts 67–84;
Iginuhit ng Tadhana 89; motivations Vandenberghe, Frederic 11, 12
43–45, 49–56, 121; political contexts van Leur, Jacob Cornelis 72
85–92 Veneracion, Jaime 49, 66, 73, 82, 98
Tagalog 23, 28, 83, 89, 93, 193–195 Vickers, Adrian 101, 158
Tan, Samuel 47, 53, 55, 57, 60, 63, 64, Vico, Giambattista 172
80, 98 Villan, Vic 93
Taufik Abdullah 26, 33–35, 37, 39, 99,
100, 103, 105, 107, 110–112, 116, 117, Wartenberg, Thomas 14
119–122, 126, 133, 154, 157–159, 163 Weekley, Kathleen 4, 31
textbooks 2, 3, 5–7, 44, 45, 70, 77, 85, 93, Weldon, Kevin 46, 48
99, 100, 104, 118, 119, 125, 136, 137, Wertheim, W. F. 101, 156, 164
141–143, 168, 169, 174, 177 west, western 2, 4, 14, 20, 24, 69, 70, 77,
Thaveeporn Vasavakul 7 79, 87, 94, 114, 172, 178, 185
 Index  205
William Howard Taft Paper Yusmar Basri 105, 111, 113, 120, 136,
57, 182 137, 140
Wolin, Richard 187
women 146, 150, 151 Zafra, Nicolas 26, 34, 35, 68, 73, 75, 79,
Wood, Michael 2, 3, 5 83, 93, 94, 98
Wouters, Nico 4 Zaide, Gregorio 26, 33–35, 68, 73–79
Wuryantoro 105 Zamora, Jacinto 76
Zamora, Mario 70
Yale University 33, 34, 100, 106 zeitgeist 4, 152, 158
Yosef Djakababa 157 Zurbuchen, Mary 22