Indonesian police on motorcycles, Jakarta (ca. 1976) | Department of Information, Indonesian Police | Public Domain Mark
Sukatani, a punk band from Central Java, are known for critiquing the interconnected violence of police, military, and religious institutions. I like to play their music in my Minneapolis house—and share it on my Instagram—to protest the return of fascism in Indonesia and globally. So early this year, I was surprised to find that I was suddenly unable to post one of their songs online, or even locate it on the internet. It turned out that on February 20, the duo had withdrawn their viral anti–police corruption song “Bayar, Bayar, Bayar” (“Pay, Pay, Pay”) from streaming platforms and issued a statement begging forgiveness from the police. The duo’s singer, a woman, subsequently lost her day job as a teacher at a religious school.
Sukatani’s apology represents much more than coerced self-censorship by Indonesian artists. When we understand the intimidation of artists in the light of that February’s presidential election—in which 96 million people voted to elect Prabowo Subianto, a disgraced special forces commander during the Suharto era—we start to see the links between surveillance, violence toward women, and authoritarian stagings of masculinity. We also start to see how the suppression of the sound women’s voice coincides with the noise of the state.
What Sukatani fans outside Indonesia can’t hear is another background sound since the election: the returning rev of a motorcycle. During Suharto’s New Order regime, state representatives would ride into villages on Yamaha RX King motorcycles. The sound of state business brought with it the likelihood of sexual violence—a form of silencing during the Suharto era, and one still met with silence today.
At the time, Indonesian music was infiltrated by a performance of masculinity closely linked to the state. I remember how, in the 1980s, the popular Indonesian singer Rhoma Irama was known for posing with motorcycles. For his young male fans, the singer’s motorbike was a sign of masculine bravado. However, many women in Java responded differently to the imagery—and even now, they cover their ears to the whirring, buzzing noise of motorcycles.
After the fall of the New Order and the establishment of democracy in Indonesia, the sound of police motorbikes—the RX King and the Kawasaki Trail Kawasaki and Honda Trail bikes that replaced it—seemed to have mostly gone away. Still, in Java, the RX King’s memory remained potent and strong for women in particular, including myself.
Now, more than two decades after the end of Suharto’s military dictatorship, the terrifying sound of RX King and Honda bikes has returned in Indonesia.
One summer morning last year in Yogyakarta, Java, I heard the distinct sound of motorcycles approaching my yard. My body registered immediate discomfort and fear at the sound. On my street, two Yamaha RX-King motorcycles came and went several times before finally parking in my yard without their riders, who wore military uniforms, greeting me or asking permission. A group of villagers arrived and gathered in my gazebo, with several farmers watching nearby. Their quiet presence signaled that they were immediately alert, just as I was, to the distinctive buzz of the state.
The previous afternoon, local dance students had finished a rehearsal. The young girls’ dance props were everywhere, and the elections in both the United States and Indonesia had seemed far away.
I asked the farmers if there had been any special announcements about an “official event.” They explained it the gathering of motorcyclists was connected to a visit from the Babinsa, the Indonesian military’s territorial organization, for the “pest control season.” Lower rank officers soon appeared, uninvited and unannounced, in many houses in the village.
That morning, the military pest control project started coloring the flow of water surrounding the village with toxic chemicals. The crackle of plastic, and the distant echoes of military boots—each intertwined with memories of different periods in Indonesia—disturbed me. I turned off my radio, no longer able to pay attention to a pop song about young romance.
The sound of the motorcycle is particularly linked to state suppression of music on another island, Aceh. There, the RX King was used by Kopassus—the same Special Forces unit President Prabowo once belonged to—and the noise of the military bikes was accompanied by a ban on Acehnese protest songs. One sound swallowed up another.
Today, Aceh music fans evade online surveillance (and new music bans) by listening to the radio and exchanging cassette tapes. One album that has proved very popular is Nyawöung, which features two songs, both performed by a female vocalist, signalling political strife. In one, a mother’s lullaby doubles as the hymn of warrior. The other recounts violence in Aceh:
Di Krueng Arakundo Manyet dum Apong
Lheuh Nyang Meusambong, Simpang KKA
Teungku Bantaqiah, di Ateuh Beutong
Di Rumoh geudong, Ureueng i Siksa …In the Arakundo river, many dead bodies were floating.
Then, there is also at the intersection of KKA.
There was an assassination of Tengku Bantaqiah in Beutung Ateuh
at the Rumoh Geudong , people are tortured …* Rumoh geudong is a traditional house. Thank you Azhari Aiyub, an Acehnese writer, for the translation.
At the time of the recording, in 2000, the Indonesian state was turning Aceh into a militarized zone, making way for Exxon. In place of local music, there’s now the relentless noise of oil fracking and mining exploration.
The sound of silencing has returned in Indonesia. And yet the music of the Sukatani remains in the street. Women turn up their radios. In Minneapolis, I play both the Acehnese song of survival and Sukatani. Listening is once again an act of urgent political attention.
