Asal Bapak Senang (Curry Favour with the Boss) (3)

In Language and Power: Exploring Political Cultures in Indonesia (1990), Benedict R. O’G. Anderson discusses a deeply embedded pattern of communication and authority in Indonesian political culture that connects directly to the idea behind “asal bapak senang.” Anderson analyses how power in Indonesia has often been personalised rather than institutionalised, where the figure of the leader—the bapak, or “father”—is not merely a political actor but the symbolic centre of harmony, stability, and respect. In such a context, truth and information are not treated as public goods but as instruments that must be managed to maintain the emotional comfort and symbolic authority of the ruler. Subordinates, therefore, tend to communicate in a way that flatters, pleases, or preserves face, rather than risks confrontation or embarrassment.

Anderson shows that this behaviour is rooted in feudal and paternalistic traditions that long predate the modern state. Under such a system, loyalty is measured not by honesty or competence but by the ability to maintain the appearance of unity and respect. The leader’s calm and prestige become the ultimate political values. Hence, subordinates avoid delivering bad news or dissenting opinions; instead, they construct narratives that maintain the illusion of control and harmony. This, Anderson notes, transforms language itself into a political tool—not to reveal truth, but to maintain hierarchy and emotional order. The result is a culture where “pleasing the father” becomes a political art form, and where the state functions less as an arena of accountability and more as a stage for ritual affirmation.

There is a classic anecdote, often used to illustrate the kind of political culture Benedict Anderson describes in The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, which fits perfectly with the spirit of “asal bapak senang.” It tells the story of a Javanese ruler who once asked his courtiers whether the royal gardens were thriving. Not wanting to upset their bapak, the courtiers enthusiastically replied that the gardens were flourishing, filled with flowers and fruits beyond imagination. Pleased, the ruler ordered a grand feast to celebrate this supposed success. However, when he later visited the gardens himself, he found them dry, untended, and nearly dead. Yet, instead of punishing his courtiers, he simply smiled and said, “Ah, so the trees have also learned to respect their father.”

This little story captures, with quiet irony, what Anderson meant when he described power in Javanese culture as a mystical and personal force centred on maintaining harmony rather than pursuing truth. The courtiers were not motivated by malice or deceit but by a cultural reflex to preserve the emotional serenity of their leader. To disturb that serenity with bad news would be seen as impolite, even spiritually inappropriate. The result, however, is that the leader becomes gradually disconnected from the real world—isolated in a cocoon of well-intentioned lies, surrounded by smiles and affirmations that conceal decay. Anderson’s point is not to mock this culture, but to show how power and politeness can entangle, until truth itself becomes a social threat rather than a moral duty.

Anderson delves into the traditional Javanese conception of power, which profoundly influences contemporary Indonesian political culture. He argues that in Javanese society, power is not merely a political or institutional force but a deeply personal and symbolic one, centred around the figure of the bapak (father or leader). This paternalistic model of authority dictates that subordinates often suppress dissent and avoid confronting their superiors with unpleasant truths, prioritising harmony and the leader's emotional comfort over transparency and accountability. Consequently, the prevalent attitude becomes one of seeking to please the leader—“asal bapak senang”—which translates to “just to please the boss” or “to curry favour with the boss”. This dynamic fosters a political culture where the appearance of unity and respect takes precedence over the delivery of honest or critical information.

Anderson notes that this tradition is deeply rooted in Javanese history and has been perpetuated through various forms of cultural expression, including literature, rituals, and statecraft. The emphasis on indirect communication and the avoidance of direct confrontation are seen as virtues that maintain social harmony and the authority of the leader. However, this cultural framework also means that the leader may be isolated from the realities and challenges faced by the populace, as those around them are conditioned to present only favourable narratives. This isolation can lead to a disconnect between the leader's perceptions and the actual conditions of society, reinforcing a cycle where the leader remains shielded from critical truths.

Anderson's analysis reveals how the Javanese conception of power, with its emphasis on personal authority and emotional harmony, cultivates a political environment where truth is often subordinated to the leader's comfort, and where the imperative to please the leader overrides the necessity for honest communication.

In the opening of The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, Benedict Anderson begins with a poetic and subtly ironic quotation from Heinrich Heine: “Das war kein wahres Paradies—Es gab dort verbotene Bäume.” In British English, this line translates as: “That was no true paradise—there were forbidden trees there.” The line carries a melancholic recognition that even in what seems to be an ideal or sacred place, power, hierarchy, and prohibition exist. Paradise, in this sense, is never pure; it is structured, bounded, and maintained by rules that reveal the presence of authority.

Anderson uses this quotation as a philosophical overture to introduce his exploration of how power is conceived, represented, and experienced in Javanese culture. He suggests that the Javanese understanding of power is profoundly different from the Western one. Whereas in the West power is often seen as instrumental, legal-rational, and exercised through institutions, in the Javanese world, it is mystical, intrinsic, and self-contained. Power in Javanese thought, he argues, is not something that is “used” but rather something that “is” —an essence that exists independently, like a natural force or spiritual energy.

In the introduction, Anderson emphasises that this conception of power cannot be separated from cosmic order and social harmony. Power is seen as part of the universe’s moral and spiritual equilibrium, something that must be accumulated, contained, and manifested through symbols—not contested or divided as in Western political thought. Hence, the Heine quote becomes an allegory: even in the seeming tranquillity of the Javanese “paradise,” there exist forbidden trees—the unseen boundaries that sustain balance and authority.

He also notes that Javanese political life historically centres around the idea of kesakten (spiritual potency), which flows from the divine and manifests in rulers, saints, and sacred objects. This explains why Javanese kingship is not merely political but cosmological—the ruler embodies the axis of the universe (ratu adil as both moral and cosmic symbol). Power, therefore, is not democratised but sacralised, and maintaining it requires ritual, restraint, and the aura of distance.

Through this introduction, Anderson invites readers to see that political legitimacy in Java is rooted not in law or consent, but in the visible display of invisible power—a presence felt rather than codified. The Heine epigraph reminds us that even in a paradise of harmony, order depends on the existence of limits, mysteries, and prohibitions—the “forbidden trees” that mark where human curiosity and ambition must bow to cosmic authority.

Anderson draws a striking contrast between the Javanese conception of power as essence and the Western conception of power as instrument. He explains that in Western political thought—particularly since the Enlightenment—power is something that exists between people, operating through relationships of command and obedience. It is fundamentally transactional and procedural, defined by laws, institutions, and the consent of those governed. In this framework, power can be measured, transferred, shared, or lost—like a form of social currency.

By contrast, Anderson argues, Javanese culture perceives power as a substance that exists in itself, not as an outcome of human interaction but as a cosmic reality. Power is not created by society; it pre-exists society. It flows through all beings and objects, much like energy in the physical universe or divine grace in religious cosmology. The role of human beings—and especially rulers—is not to manufacture power, but to accumulate and contain it, to demonstrate that they are its rightful vessels.

This explains why Javanese rulers have historically surrounded themselves with elaborate symbols of grandeur—palaces, rituals, hierarchies, and taboos—not as displays of vanity, but as necessary expressions of their inner potency. The more power one has, the more stillness and restraint one must show; movement and aggression, in the Javanese worldview, suggest instability or loss of control. Thus, true power radiates silently, like the calm centre of a storm.

Anderson then links this idea to the Javanese language and etiquette. He notes that the refinement of speech and the gradations of politeness (krama and ngoko) are not merely social niceties but linguistic mirrors of cosmic order. They maintain the balance between superior and inferior, sacred and profane, and help prevent the disruptive circulation of raw, uncontained power. In other words, speech itself becomes an instrument of maintaining equilibrium in a world where energy—spiritual and social—must always remain in harmony.

In contrast, the Western political imagination—from Hobbes to Weber—has always seen power as something to be exercised, contested, and legitimised through rational structure. It belongs to no one inherently but to systems that people create and can alter. For the Javanese, however, such a notion would appear chaotic, even sacrilegious, because to divide or challenge power is to disturb the cosmic balance.

Anderson concludes that understanding this distinction is crucial for interpreting Javanese political behaviour. What may appear to Western observers as passivity or submission is, in fact, a deeply moral and cosmological stance: the refusal to interfere with forces beyond one’s rightful capacity. To act rashly or to oppose authority is not rebellion, but disruption of the world’s sacred symmetry. Hence, Javanese politics, like the Heinean paradise, thrives within the awareness that there are—and must be—forbidden trees.

In the later part of The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, Anderson moves from the abstract discussion of power to its embodiment in Javanese kingship and mythic symbolism, especially the concept of the Ratu Adil—the Just King. He argues that this figure represents the ideal crystallisation of Javanese cosmology, where spiritual potency (kesakten) and moral order converge in one person who restores balance to a world that has fallen into disorder. The Ratu Adil is not merely a political ruler; he is a cosmic restorer, a being whose legitimacy comes not from election, conquest, or law, but from his possession of invisible, divine energy.

Anderson points out that throughout Javanese history—from Majapahit to Mataram and beyond—the aura of kingship has always been constructed through rituals of distance and display. The Javanese king, or ratu, is not a man among men but a being apart, elevated by his stillness, his control, and his ability to contain the sacred force of power. The court, the palace, and the intricate hierarchy surrounding him are not bureaucratic devices but cosmic diagrams — spatial expressions of the ordered universe. Each gesture, from the king’s slow movement to the precise etiquette of court officials, reflects the conviction that harmony must radiate outward from the centre.

He draws attention to the symbolic architecture of the kraton (palace), which physically represents the cosmic axis. The ruler sits at the centre, embodying Mount Meru, the mythic mountain around which the universe revolves. The surrounding spaces—courtyards, gates, gardens—unfold hierarchically, signifying descending levels of sanctity and authority. Thus, the Javanese polity mirrors the cosmos itself: the king is the still point of the turning world, the point where divine energy flows into human existence.

Anderson then shows how this structure made Javanese kingship both immensely stable and inherently fragile. Stable, because its authority was self-legitimating—as long as the king radiated calm, fertility, and order, he embodied divine will. Fragile, because when drought, chaos, or rebellion struck, it was taken as a sign that the ruler’s kesakten had waned. His failure was not political but metaphysical — he had lost touch with the source of power itself. At that moment, the myth of the Ratu Adil would reawaken, promising renewal through another vessel of divine energy.

Anderson interprets the Ratu Adil myth as a moral safety valve in Javanese political thought—not a call for revolution, but a reaffirmation of cosmic justice. It is not the people who claim power, but the universe that withdraws it from one ruler and bestows it on another. Thus, change does not occur through political contestation, but through spiritual rebalancing.

Through this lens, Anderson suggests that Javanese history, with its cycles of rise and decline, should be read less as a series of dynastic struggles and more as a theatre of cosmic restoration. Each kingdom, from Majapahit to Mataram, represents a moment when the balance of the world is re-centred. And each collapse marks not failure in governance, but the exhaustion of spiritual force. Power, in this view, is not lost through rebellion but through dissipation of essence.

In closing, Anderson’s portrayal of Javanese political philosophy is almost tragic in its beauty. It reveals a civilisation where power, morality, and the cosmos are intertwined, but also where human agency is bound by reverence to the unseen. In the Heinean sense, it is a paradise—ordered, luminous, and serene — but always shadowed by forbidden trees: the limits that define both holiness and fallibility.

Anderson sets out to define the Javanese conception of power and contrast it sharply with Western understandings. He begins by emphasising that for the Javanese, power is not primarily something exercised over others, but a quality that exists within the cosmos and manifests in particular persons, objects, and rituals. It is a substance or energy—kesakten—that is recognised, accumulated, and contained, rather than conferred or granted. The chapter stresses that this conception of power is moral, spiritual, and hierarchical, rather than legal-rational or bureaucratic.

Anderson elaborates that Javanese power is inherently visible yet paradoxically elusive. Its presence is sensed through symbols, ceremonies, and the comportment of rulers and officials. The slow, deliberate movements of a Javanese king, the spatial arrangement of the palace, the division of courtly etiquette — all communicate the existence and magnitude of power. It is never “purely political” in the Western sense; it is always a cosmic and moral fact, inseparable from the universe’s order.

He further explores the idea that power in Java is self-legitimating. Unlike in Western traditions, where authority derives from law, contracts, or popular consent, the Javanese ruler embodies power that is pre-existing and self-justifying. The legitimacy of the ruler depends less on obedience or coercion and more on his ability to radiate kesakten harmoniously. To fail in this display, whether through personal misconduct or natural calamity, is to signal a metaphysical loss of authority—not merely a political one.

Anderson also introduces the principle that the display of power requires both visibility and restraint. The most effective ruler is not the one who actively dominates, but the one who controls, limits, and manages the manifestation of his authority. Ceremonial pageantry, linguistic hierarchy, and ritual observances are not mere decoration; they are essential mechanisms by which power is contained, recognised, and transmitted.

Anderson situates this understanding within the historical and social context of Java. He points out that the Javanese obsession with spiritual potency and ritual propriety shaped the structure of kingdoms, the conduct of rulers, and the expectations of subjects. The chapter makes clear that the Javanese conception of power is not passive, nor merely symbolic, but deeply active in structuring society, morality, and cosmology. Power, in this sense, is an invisible force that organises the visible world.

Anderson then moves from abstract theory to concrete historical illustration by examining the courts of Majapahit and Mataram. He portrays these kingdoms as living theatres of Javanese power, where the ruler’s authority was never simply administrative, but ritualised and cosmologically grounded. In Majapahit, for example, kingship was marked by a meticulous display of grandeur—palaces oriented to cardinal points, ceremonial processions, and complex court etiquette. These visible elements were not decorative; they signalled the ruler’s ability to contain and radiate kesakten, and thus his fitness to govern both earthly and spiritual realms.

Anderson emphasises that the king’s personal comportment was central to this system. Every movement, posture, and utterance was carefully measured to demonstrate self-control and inner potency. A king who acted hastily or without decorum risked appearing unstable, suggesting that the sacred force he embodied was waning. In Mataram, he notes, this principle extended to all strata of the court: ministers, nobles, and attendants learned to navigate hierarchical language, gestures, and proximity to the king, reflecting their understanding of power as both visible and invisible.

Moreover, Anderson explains how rituals of spatial organisation reinforced cosmic order. Palaces were microcosms of the universe: the king at the centre, courtyards, gates, and gardens radiating outward in descending levels of sanctity. Ceremonial occasions, from enthronements to seasonal rites, were carefully choreographed to mirror celestial patterns, ensuring that power remained balanced and harmonious. The king’s role was less to issue commands and more to maintain equilibrium, so that his authority flowed outward without disturbance, touching both social and natural worlds.

He also notes that these systems were not static. The historical record shows that both Majapahit and Mataram faced challenges — rebellions, natural disasters, and dynastic crises. In Anderson’s interpretation, these events were read not merely as political failures but as metaphysical signals that a ruler’s kesakten had faltered. Such moments would revive the myth of the Ratu Adil, the Just King, as a cultural mechanism for cosmic recalibration. Through ritual, myth, and careful observation of behaviour, the Javanese maintained a continuous awareness that power is an essence to be managed, not a tool to wield.

Anderson’s exploration of these historical courts underscores his central argument: in Java, power is inseparable from morality, ritual, and cosmic balance. Kingship was not simply a matter of politics, law, or coercion; it was a living embodiment of a metaphysical principle. The court, the palace, the hierarchy, and the etiquette were all vehicles for expressing and containing energy that was at once social, spiritual, and cosmic. In this way, Majapahit and Mataram exemplify the delicate, ritualised, and highly structured nature of Javanese authority.

Anderson expands upon his earlier discussion by focusing on the elusive quality of personal power, or charisma, in Javanese culture. He stresses that charisma (kesakten as embodied in a ruler) is not merely symbolic; it functions as a real, tangible force that organises social relations, stabilises the court, and maintains the moral order of the cosmos. Unlike Western concepts of charisma, which are often associated with extraordinary leadership or persuasive rhetoric, Javanese charisma is embedded in stillness, dignity, and the ability to radiate moral and cosmic authority.

Anderson illustrates that charisma in Java travels through ritual, gesture, and reputation, rather than formal titles or codified law. A ruler’s aura is felt through the obedience and deference of subordinates, the precision of court ceremonies, and the measured restraint displayed in public. The effectiveness of a king or noble is not evaluated by the quantity of orders issued or military victories won, but by the subtle ways in which he balances, contains, and transmits power without appearing to grasp it.

He also emphasises that charisma is highly mobile and morally fragile. It can shift from one person to another, often unpredictably, and is constantly tested by natural disasters, social unrest, or personal misconduct. The legend of the Ratu Adil serves as a cultural mechanism to manage these fluctuations: it anticipates the emergence of a new vessel of sacred power whenever the existing one falters. In other words, charisma is both personal and social, spiritual and political, simultaneously anchored in the individual and in the expectations of the community.

Anderson further notes that charisma in Java is intensely performative yet paradoxically restrained. The ruler’s dignity and composure are paramount; overt aggression or visible exertion of will can suggest that the sacred energy has been depleted. This principle extends to all levels of the court: ministers, nobles, and attendants must calibrate their behaviour to reflect their position relative to the source of power, creating a delicate, dynamic system in which social harmony mirrors cosmic harmony.

Anderson uses historical examples to show that the adventures of charisma are not merely theoretical. From Majapahit to Mataram, charismatic authority structured court life, regulated social hierarchy, and shaped political expectations. The ruler’s moral and spiritual presence was the key determinant of order, and the court’s elaborate rituals were the primary instruments for maintaining, transmitting, and displaying this essence of power. In this way, charisma in Java is an invisible yet pervasive force, binding together the cosmos, the court, and society.

In Chapter II of The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, Anderson shifts his focus from the palace and the ruler to the perception and experience of power among ordinary Javanese people. He emphasises that Javanese power is not only about kings, rituals, and courts, but also about how the populace interprets, internalises, and responds to the presence of authority. Power, in this sense, is a social as well as cosmic force, experienced through everyday observation, storytelling, and local customs.

Anderson explains that the Javanese people are acutely aware of who holds sacred energy and how it manifests. They watch the behaviour of the ruler and officials, interpret natural events such as droughts or storms, and read signs in ceremonial displays to gauge the health of cosmic order. In other words, ordinary people participate in the circulation of power by recognising, reinforcing, or questioning its presence. This does not mean they openly rebel or challenge authority, but they engage in a subtle moral and cosmic dialogue with it.

He further observes that this awareness creates a shared moral universe. The ruler’s authority is legitimate not simply because of coercion, but because the people acknowledge the alignment of cosmic, moral, and social order. Rituals, symbols, and myths—like the prophecy of the Ratu Adil—allow ordinary people to anticipate changes in leadership and cosmic balance, providing a sense of moral orientation in uncertain times.

Anderson also highlights that power trickles down hierarchically. The influence of the ruler is felt in villages, through the actions of local officials and through the circulation of stories, gossip, and interpretations of omens. The populace understands that power has layers and degrees, and that the king’s charisma (kesakten) is mirrored in those closer to the palace, cascading outward like ripples. This layered perception ensures that even distant subjects remain attuned to the rhythms of authority, without needing direct contact with the court.

Anderson argues that the Javanese understanding of power cultivates subtle forms of participation and moral responsibility. People are not mere passive subjects; their recognition, interpretation, and moral judgment contribute to the maintenance of order. In this way, Javanese power is both personal and collective, cosmic and social, ritual and lived, linking the palace, the ruler, and the everyday life of commoners into a coherent, dynamic whole.

Anderson emphasises that language is not merely a tool for communication but a vital instrument of power and social organisation. He argues that in Java, the way people speak, the choice of words, and the level of formality are deeply intertwined with hierarchy, authority, and moral order. Language conveys status, proximity to power, and recognition of cosmic and social order, and it functions as a mechanism through which individuals demonstrate respect and navigate the subtleties of Javanese society.

Anderson explains that the term “language” in his context is broader than grammar or vocabulary. It encompasses registers, ritualised speech, etiquette, and symbolic utterances that reflect and reinforce social hierarchies. For example, certain words or phrases are reserved for addressing the king or nobles, and misusing these forms could signal disrespect or incompetence. Language thus acts as a social barometer, allowing both rulers and subjects to read and regulate the flow of authority and legitimacy.

In the political context of Indonesia, Anderson notes that language remains central to the exercise and perception of power. Politicians, bureaucrats, and leaders carefully craft their speeches, public addresses, and even written decrees to project authority, morality, and charisma. The subtleties of tone, word choice, and rhetorical style communicate more than explicit policy; they signal competence, legitimacy, and alignment with cultural expectations of ethical leadership. In this way, language is both performative and symbolic, shaping political behaviour and influencing how citizens perceive power.

Moreover, Anderson points out that language mediates the tension between traditional Javanese hierarchy and modern Indonesian politics. The use of Javanese, regional dialects, or formal Indonesian in speeches and ceremonies reflects and negotiates social and political hierarchies. Even in contemporary Indonesia, where democracy and law are formally dominant, the careful use of language continues to be a marker of charisma, moral authority, and political efficacy.

Anderson portrays language as an essential conduit of authority, legitimacy, and social cohesion. It is not just a means of communication, but a structured system through which power is displayed, recognised, and transmitted. Mastery of language equates to mastery of social and cosmic order, both in traditional courts and in modern political arenas.

In practical terms, Anderson’s analysis suggests that the legacy of Javanese language and etiquette continues to influence modern Indonesian politics in subtle but profound ways. Politicians and leaders, whether at the national or regional level, carefully calibrate their words, gestures, and public demeanor to project moral authority, competence, and charisma. For instance, a politician who uses formal Indonesian or Javanese honorifics correctly demonstrates both cultural literacy and respect for hierarchy, signaling that they understand and can navigate social expectations. Conversely, missteps in language—overly casual speech, incorrect forms, or disrespectful gestures—can quickly undermine perceived authority, even if the individual holds legal or institutional power.

Anderson’s insights also illuminate the ritualised performance of political events in contemporary Indonesia. Campaign rallies, televised debates, and ceremonial speeches are staged in ways that echo the grandeur and choreography of Javanese court life. Leaders are aware that charisma is performative and symbolic, and they cultivate a public persona with care: timing, intonation, pauses, and even silences are orchestrated to communicate dignity and self-control, evoking the moral and spiritual presence once associated with kingship.

Furthermore, language mediates relationships of power between the centre and periphery. Local officials, governors, and district leaders must choose how to address constituents, subordinates, and superiors, navigating layers of formality, dialect, and symbolic expression. This careful linguistic management allows authority to be recognised and transmitted, even when the legal structure of governance is impersonal or bureaucratic. Ordinary citizens, meanwhile, interpret leaders’ words through the lens of morality, etiquette, and cultural expectation, much like their ancestors observed the rituals of the palace.

Anderson shows that political language in Indonesia is not neutral. It carries historical memory, cultural expectation, and moral weight. Mastery of speech, ritual forms, and etiquette continues to shape legitimacy, influence, and public perception. Even in a democratic, media-saturated context, the Javanese logic of language as a conduit of power remains alive, reminding us that politics is not just about law or policy, but also about the performative, symbolic, and moral art of leadership.

In his later reflections, Anderson draws a compelling line from the traditional Javanese conception of power and charisma to the political culture of modern Indonesia. He suggests that while the rituals of the court and the cosmic authority of the king have largely disappeared, the logic of charisma and moral legitimacy continues to shape political expectations. Modern leaders are still measured not only by their formal powers or legal authority, but by the perceived possession of moral and almost sacred energy — the ability to inspire awe, maintain order, and convey a sense of destiny.

Anderson observes that this dynamic manifests in two intertwined ways. First, politicians cultivate a public persona, carefully staging appearances, speeches, and symbolic acts that echo the ritualised theatre of the Javanese court. Charisma remains performative: a leader who moves, speaks, or gestures with poise signals stability, competence, and moral authority. Second, the populace continues to engage in a subtle assessment of legitimacy, reading leaders through the lens of moral and spiritual balance. Just as in premodern Java, disasters, social unrest, or economic failures are often interpreted as signs that a leader has lost touch with the invisible forces of authority.

Anderson also notes the persistence of the Ratu Adil myth in contemporary political imagination. The idea that a just, morally upright, and destined leader will emerge to restore balance resonates strongly in Indonesian society. Even when formal institutions and electoral systems exist, there is an underlying expectation that true authority is charismatic, morally sanctioned, and spiritually attuned, not merely legal or procedural.

In this sense, Anderson presents a continuity between precolonial, colonial, and postcolonial political culture. While the forms of government and the symbols of authority have evolved, the Javanese logic of charisma, moral judgment, and the invisible circulation of power still informs public perception and political behaviour. Modern politics may be mediated through media, elections, and bureaucracy, but the psychology of authority remains deeply indebted to traditional conceptions—the idea that power is an essence to be respected, contained, and morally judged.

Ultimately, Anderson’s work reminds us that the past is never entirely past: even in contemporary Indonesia, where democracy and law dominate, citizens and leaders alike operate within a conceptual space shaped by centuries of ritualised, moralised, and cosmically-infused understandings of authority. The invisible currents of power, charisma, and moral legitimacy continue to shape behaviour, expectation, and imagination, bridging the ancient and the modern in a subtle, enduring cultural logic.

Anderson acknowledges both the advantages and disadvantages of the Javanese system of leadership, approaching this topic through the lenses of politics, economics, society, and culture. Politically, he admires the system’s ability to maintain stability and social order through ritualised hierarchy and the subtle exercise of charisma. The ruler’s moral and cosmic authority provided a framework for legitimacy that reduced overt conflict and rebellion, allowing kingdoms like Majapahit and Mataram to endure for centuries. However, Anderson also recognises the downsides: the same system could stifle initiative, centralise power excessively, and create rigid hierarchies that limited political innovation.

Economically, Anderson notes that the ritualised and hierarchical nature of leadership shaped resource distribution and local governance. Ceremonial obligations, palace expenditures, and control over productive land reinforced the ruler’s authority and symbolised cosmic order. Yet, these same structures could produce inefficiency, extractive burdens on the peasantry, and economic stagnation when priorities were guided more by ritual propriety than practical governance.

From a social perspective, the Javanese system fostered a shared sense of moral universe and cultivated respect, deference, and social cohesion. Ordinary people understood their place in a cosmic and political hierarchy, and rituals provided clear social roles and moral expectations. On the negative side, Anderson points out that the system could also entrench social inequality, inhibit upward mobility, and perpetuate rigid norms that limit personal freedom.

Culturally, Anderson admires the way Javanese leadership intertwined cosmic, ethical, and aesthetic values, producing a rich ceremonial and artistic tradition that communicated authority and reinforced social harmony. The downside, however, was that the cultural emphasis on ritual and symbolism could obscure pragmatic decision-making and make the system resistant to adaptation or reform.

In short, Anderson presents the Javanese model as complex and ambivalent: it embodies wisdom, balance, and subtle power, but also constraints, inefficiencies, and hierarchies that can inhibit change. He treats the system not as a relic to be romanticised, but as a historically and culturally coherent approach to leadership, whose lessons and tensions remain relevant for understanding both premodern and modern political life.

In his analysis of political communication during Indonesia's New Order era, Benedict Anderson highlights a significant shift from traditional, subtle forms of political expression to more overt and controlled methods. Under President Suharto's regime, the state employed monumental architecture and mass media to project power and control, creating a visible and imposing presence that was difficult to challenge. This approach was a departure from the more nuanced and indirect forms of political communication that characterised earlier periods.

Anderson also discusses the role of cartoons during this time, noting that while they were often used as a form of satire and subversion, they also reflected the limitations of public discourse under an authoritarian regime. Cartoons served as a subtle means of expressing dissent, but their impact was constrained by censorship and the overarching control of the media landscape.

Anderson examines the significance of the concept "sembah-sumpah" in Javanese culture, where it represents a formal oath or pledge, often involving a symbolic gesture of respect. This practice underscores the importance of ritual and symbolism in the exercise of power, highlighting how authority is not only exercised through formal institutions but also through cultural and symbolic acts.

Anderson explains that this practice emerged from a combination of ritual, moral obligation, and hierarchical social structure that predates colonial intervention. The “sembah” aspect—literally a gesture of obeisance or respect—was a way for subordinates to physically and symbolically demonstrate deference to a ruler or higher authority. The “sumpah” component, the formal oath or pledge, served to legitimise promises, commitments, or loyalty within this hierarchical context. Anderson argues that both elements evolved together as a method to maintain cosmic and social order, where respect, ritualised conduct, and moral accountability were intertwined with political authority.

This framework helped consolidate authority because subordinates’ gestures and oaths were visible markers of loyalty and obedience, reinforcing the ruler’s charisma and legitimacy. In other words, the practice of “sembah-sumpah” was not arbitrary; it was deeply embedded in Javanese political and moral culture, forming a subtle yet powerful system of regulating relationships and behaviour.

Connecting this to the phrase "asal bapak senang" ("as long as the boss is happy"), Anderson's work suggests that such expressions reflect a deeper cultural logic where maintaining harmony and pleasing authority figures are paramount. This dynamic illustrates how power and authority are maintained not just through formal structures but also through cultural norms and practices that reinforce hierarchical relationships.

In the reflective conclusion of The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, Anderson subtly transforms his analysis into a critique of modernity and Western colonial rationalism. He suggests that the Javanese conception of power, far from being primitive or mystical in a pejorative sense, represents an alternative epistemology—a fundamentally different way of understanding human order and authority. In a world where modernity prides itself on control, progress, and bureaucratic rationality, the Javanese worldview reminds us that power can also mean containment, harmony, and restraint.

Anderson’s admiration is quiet but unmistakable. He sees in Javanese cosmology a kind of moral intelligence that modern political systems have forgotten—the belief that power is dangerous not because of who holds it, but because of what it is. In Javanese thought, power is a sacred current that must be purified and handled with ritual care, whereas Western modernity treats power as a mechanical tool to be engineered and distributed. The result, Anderson implies, is that the West has mastered the technique of control but lost the sense of sanctity that once tempered its ambitions.

He also notes that colonialism, when it entered Java, violated this delicate balance. The Dutch did not merely rule; they introduced a worldview that desacralised power, turning it into a system of contracts, taxes, and administration. To the Javanese, this was not progress but desecration—the stripping away of meaning from something once cosmic. The colonial state, by rationalising and secularising authority, effectively emptied it of its moral and spiritual resonance.

In Anderson’s interpretation, the tragedy of modern politics—both in Indonesia and beyond—lies in this displacement of meaning. Postcolonial leaders inherited the forms of the state but not the cosmology that once gave those forms coherence. Palaces became offices, rituals became protocol, and symbols lost their aura. Power became a matter of bureaucracy, not balance—and so the world grew louder, faster, and emptier.

Yet Anderson does not romanticise the past. His tone is elegiac, not nostalgic. He acknowledges that Javanese cosmology, with all its beauty, was also rigid and exclusionary, built upon hierarchy and mystification. But he insists that its metaphysical depth offers a profound lesson for the modern condition: that legitimacy without sanctity leads to cynicism, and governance without harmony leads to alienation. The forbidden trees, he reminds us, once gave meaning to paradise. Remove them, and paradise becomes merely a garden of control.

Thus, Anderson’s essay ends not as an anthropological observation but as a quiet philosophical warning. The West’s obsession with progress, efficiency, and visibility—its refusal to accept mystery—has made its power formidable but spiritually hollow. The Javanese, by contrast, understood that the most potent power is that which remains unseen, contained, and self-aware. In a world increasingly driven by spectacle and dominance, Anderson leaves us with a haunting paradox: perhaps true civilisation depends not on the conquest of power, but on the reverence for its limits.

From the perspective of Benedict Anderson’s The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture, the Indonesian expression “asal bapak senang” can be interpreted as a reflection of the dynamics of hierarchical authority and the subtle circulation of power in Javanese society. Anderson emphasises that power in Java is not simply exercised through coercion or formal rules, but through charisma, moral authority, and social ritual. In this light, “asal bapak senang”—literally, “as long as the boss is happy”—captures the social reality of navigating authority: subordinates often act, speak, or decide in ways that preserve the ruler’s pleasure and legitimacy, rather than purely following rational or self-directed reasoning.

The book teaches that such behaviour is embedded in a cultural and moral logic. In Javanese culture, maintaining harmony and acknowledging hierarchy is central; doing what pleases the authority figure is not merely opportunism, but part of a broader system that preserves social cohesion and reflects respect for cosmic and moral order. Anderson shows that power operates through subtlety, ritual, and symbolic recognition, and that authority is continually negotiated rather than imposed absolutely.

Viewed through Anderson’s lens, “asal bapak senang” is more than passive compliance: it illustrates how individuals interpret, respond to, and sustain hierarchical power. It reflects the interactive, performative, and morally-infused nature of authority in Javanese society, where legitimacy depends on perception, deference, and the maintenance of social and moral balance. In other words, the phrase embodies a centuries-old logic in which pleasing those at the top is both a pragmatic strategy and a culturally sanctioned act, linking individual behaviour to the broader structures of social and cosmic order.

[Part 4]
[Part 2]

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