Indigenous Religion, Christianity and the State: Mobility and Nomadic Metaphysics in Siberut, Western Indonesia

The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology

ISSN: 1444-2213 (Print) 1740-9314 (Online) Journal homepage: https://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rtap20

Christian S. Hammons

To cite this article: Christian S. Hammons (2016) Indigenous Religion, Christianity and the State: Mobility and Nomadic Metaphysics in Siberut, Western Indonesia, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology, 17:5, 399-418, DOI: 10.1080/14442213.2016.1208676 To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/14442213.2016.1208676

Published online: 20 Oct 2016.

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Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at https://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rtap20 The Asia Paciﬁc Journal of Anthropology, 2016 Vol. 17, No. 5, pp. 399–418, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14442213.2016.1208676

Indigenous Religion, Christianity and the State: Mobility and Nomadic Metaphysics in Siberut, Western Indonesia Christian S. Hammons

Recent studies in the anthropology of mobility tend to privilege the cultural imaginaries in which human movements are embedded rather than the actual, physical movements of people through space. This article offers an ethnographic case study in which ‘imagined mobility’ is limited to people who are not mobile, who are immobile or sedentary and thus reﬂects a ‘sedentarist metaphysics’. The case comes from the island of Siberut, the largest of the Mentawai Islands off the west coast of Sumatra, Indonesia, where government modernisation programs in the second half of the twentieth century focused on relocating clans from their ancestral lands to model, multi-clan villages and on converting people from the indigenous religion to Christianity. Recent changes in the national, regional and local political contexts have led many of the Christians in the villages to reclaim the indigenous religion by invoking the ﬁgure of the shaman, whose special skill is the mobility that village dwellers do not have—a mobility that produces and reproduces a spatial, social and cosmological continuity between home and forest. Many people who live on their ancestral land and practice only the indigenous religion argue that the Christians’ hybrid religious practice is not culturally ‘authentic’ because the indigenous religion requires a mobility that is not possible in the government villages. In this view, the shaman is a surrogate, and his ‘substitute mobility’ arises from a sedentarist metaphysics.

Keywords: Indigenous Religion; Christianity; The State; Mobility; Indonesia; Shamanism; Authenticity

Christian S. Hammons is Instructor of Anthropology and Critical Media Practices at the University of Colorado- Boulder. His research and media practice focus on indigeneity, the state and capitalism in the Mentawai Islands off the west coast of Sumatra, Indonesia. He is a Fulbright Scholar and Founding Editor of Mimesis: The Journal of Documentary and Ethnographic Media. Correspondence to: Christian S. Hammons, Instructor of Anthropology & Critical Media Practices, University of Colorado-Boulder Hale 342, 1350 Pleasant St. Boulder, CO 80309-0233. Email: [email protected]

History is always written from a sedentary point of view and in the name of a unitary State apparatus, at least a possible one, even when the topic is nomads. What is lacking is a Nomadology, the opposite of a history. (Deleuze & Guattari, cited in Malkki 1992, 31) Recent studies in the anthropology of mobility tend to privilege the cultural imaginaries in which human movements are embedded rather than the actual, physical movements of people through space (Chio 2011;Chu2010; Greenblatt 2009; Salazar 2010, 2011; Salazar & Smart 2011; Smart & Smart 2011; Vivaldi 2011). In these studies, because movement can be partly or entirely imagined, people can be mobile without moving. In this article, I offer an ethnographic case study in which ‘imagined mobility’ is limited to people who are not mobile, who are immobile or sedentary, and thus reflects what Malkki (1992, 31) calls a ‘sedentarist metaphysics’. The case comes from the island of Siberut, the largest of the Mentawai Islands off the west coast of Sumatra, Indonesia, where government modernisation programs have focused on relocating clans from their ancestral lands to model, multi-clan villages. One clan in particular has consistently refused to participate in these programs for more than three decades. The clan’s reasons for refusing are diverse and complex, but they are often expressed in terms of authenticity, indigeneity and religious practice. The indigenous religion, clan members say, requires a mobility that is only possible on the clan’s ancestral land. In the government villages, this mobility is not possible, and the clans who live there have become Christian as a result. These clans are now attempting to reclaim the mobility they have lost, not by leaving the villages and returning to their ancestral lands, but by appealing to the figure of the shaman, who was once reviled by both the government and Christians precisely for his mobility. This ‘substitute mobility’ arises from the sedentarist metaphysics of village dwellers. Malkki’s(1992) concept of a sedentarist metaphysics has been influential in the anthropology of mobility. Writing about refugees and displacement, Malkki (1992, 31) originally used the term to mean a metaphysics that naturalises the relation between people, culture and place—the ‘territorializing conceptions of nation and culture’ that root people in the soil of their homeland, enable a world order that consists of mutually exclusive national geographies and render the refugee displaced, uprooted and pathological. In place of a sedentarist metaphysics, Malkki proposed ‘a new “sociology of displacement”, a new “nomadology”’ that recognises the proces- sual nature of identity, the constructedness of its relation to place and the value of deterritorialisation (38). ‘To plot only “places of birth” and degrees of nativeness’, she concluded, ‘is to blind oneself to the multiplicity of attachments that people form to places through living in, remembering, and imagining them’ (38). In the years since Malkki first introduced the concept, the sedentarist metaphysics that legiti- mated the world order of the twentieth century has been rejected in favour of a ‘nomadic metaphysics’ that better describes the globalised world of the twenty-first century (Cresswell 2006). The refugee and exile have become normal, and as Salazar and Smart (2011, i) contend, mobility has become a vital ‘concept-metaphor’ for thinking about the contemporary world.1 Everything is now on the move, ‘not only The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 401 people, but also cultures, objects, capital, businesses, services, media, images, information, and ideas’ (i). So many things are on the move, in fact, that people no longer need to move themselves. Mobility can be imagined. Salazar, Smart and other leading figures in the anthropology of mobility have been explicit in their effort to push the concept-metaphor of mobility as far as possible beyond the actual, physical movements of people. In the Introduction to a special issue of the journal Identities, Salazar and Smart (2011, v) write: we do not want to discuss human mobility as a brute fact but rather analyze how mobilities, as socio-cultural constructs, are experienced and imagined. How are various forms of movement made meaningful, and how do the resulting ideologies of mobility circulate across the globe and become implicated in the production of mobile practices? How do people envision their potential for mobility (or motility), under what conditions do they enact that perceived right, and under what conditions is that right denied to them in practice? In his contribution to the issue, Salazar (2011, 576) draws on ethnographic studies of transnational tourism in Indonesia and Tanzania to argue that ‘historically-laden imaginaries’ are at the root of travel and mobility. People have to be able to imagine other people and places before they can travel to them, and in some cases, the ensuing movement need not or cannot occur. Movement can begin and end in the imagination. For Salazar, the brute fact of mobility is less important than how it is experienced and imagined. The main contention of this article is that the privileging of imagined mobility reflects a sedentarist metaphysics—the very problem that the anthropology of mobility was designed to solve—and that a truly nomadic metaphysics privileges actual, physical movement. Despite the effort to push the concept-metaphor of mobility as far as possible, in the anthropology of mobility, there are far more cases studies of refugees, exiles, cosmo- politans and the like than there are of people who appear to be more ‘sedentary’ and ‘rooted’.2 One important exception to this pattern can be found in case studies from Southeast Asia, where mobility has been recognised as a political tactic in relations between states and the peoples who live on their margins. Scott (2009), for example, famously featured mobility in his portfolio of techniques in ‘the art of not being governed’ in upland Southeast Asia. If the first principle of state evasion is location, the second principle is mobility: the ability to change location. The inaccessibility of society is amplified if, in addition to being located at the periphery of power, it can easily shift to a more remote and advantageous site. Just as there is a gradient of remoteness from state centers, so also might we imagine a gradient of mobility from a relatively frictionless ability to shift location to a relative immobility. (184) For Scott, virtually every other technique in the portfolio of upland peoples is designed to ensure the principle of mobility. In a study of Manggarai place and mobility in West Flores, Indonesia, Allerton (2013, 176) notes that people travel so often in their daily lives, moving from home to garden and back, and from village to village, the issue is 402 C. S. Hammons not that place and culture do not exist, but ‘how to create moments of stillness in the midst of flow’ to enable the making of place and culture. She continues: A landscape of movement is not simply one where migrants travel to towns or to faraway cities. It is one where rivers carry the fertility of highland ancestors, where a father follows his daughter’s marriage path to mourn his deceased grand- child, and where ancestral journeys continue to have implications for relations between villages. Journeys and pathways are always connected with place. (177) On the island of Siberut in the Mentawai Islands in western Indonesia, ‘creating stillness in the midst of flow’ has been at the heart of both the state’s efforts to modernise the indigenous people and the indigenous people’s efforts to resist incorpor- ation into the state. Members of one clan in particular—the Sakaliou clan— articulate their reasons for resisting the state in terms of a mobility that is only possible outside the government villages, in the forest on their ancestral land. This mobility is a feature of everyday life, but it is especially important in the practice of the indigenous religion (which, in fact, is a feature of everyday life as well) because it produces and reproduces a spatial, social and cosmological continuity between the longhouse in which the clan lives, the forest surrounding it and the spirits that live there. By limiting mobility and disrupting the continuity between home and forest, the government villages fundamentally alter everyday life and make it difficult to practice the indigenous religion; most people who live in the villages eventually convert to Christianity. However, recent changes in the national, regional and local political contexts have led many of the Christians in the villages to reclaim part of the indigenous religion. Specifically, there is a new respect for the figure of the shaman because, I argue, he maintains the mobility that villagers have lost. In the remainder of this article, I describe the history that led to the revaluation of the shaman, the changing relations between the Saka- liou clan, other indigenous people and the state and the politics of place, mobility and religious practice in Siberut.

The Meeting of the Three Factions The island of Siberut is the largest of the Mentawai Islands off the west coast of Sumatra, about 90 miles across the Mentawai Strait from the city of Padang in the pro- vince of West Sumatra. Although Padang is a bustling, multi-ethnic urban centre, West Sumatra is commonly acknowledged to be the homeland of the Minangkabau people, a matrilineal and predominantly Muslim ethnic group that has been active in Indonesian national politics despite its geographic distance from Java and Bali (Blackwood 2000; Kahn 2007; Simon 2014). In contrast, Siberut is considered to be the homeland of the Mentawai people, the ethnonym commonly used for the indigenous inhabitants of all of the Mentawai Islands. The Mentawai people are more diverse than the ethnonym suggests, but most are patrilineal and Christian. In the interior of Siberut, the largest and northernmost of the islands, many people lived in longhouses on their ancestral land until the 1970s when government modernisation programs The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 403 began to relocate them to model villages. Before the relocations, an entire patrilineal clan and the women who married into it lived in a single longhouse that was separated from other clans and their longhouses by, minimally, several hours’ walk or canoe ride.3 The relocations brought numerous clans together in one place for the first time, creating conflicts that were previously minimised by the geographic distance between them and a suite of social practices, at once economic and religious, through which inter-clan relations were negotiated (Hammons 2010). The first efforts by the Indonesian government to transform the social landscape in Siberut occurred several decades earlier. In 1954, in a crowded, smoke-filled, lantern- lit room in the town of Muarasiberut on the coast, representatives of three factions met to discuss the future of religion on the island. The three factions were the Indonesian government, Islam and Protestantism. Catholicism was not represented. Although it already had a presence on the island at the time, it would not become an active player in local religious politics until after the meeting.4 The indigenous religion, glossed as arat sabulungan, was not represented either. This may have been because it was not recognised as a religion at all; it was adat, custom, not agama.5 Either way, it was thought by the other participants to be an impediment to national development. It had no place in the future, so it was simply not invited. The Indonesian government, still less than a decade old, was a newcomer to the island. Up until the meeting—and continuing until the 1960s—national policy had mostly been left to provincial officials in the city of Padang across the Mentawai Strait. The officials were ethnic Minangkabau and although there had been centuries or more of small-scale trade between the people of the Mentawai Islands and members of many other ethnic groups in Sumatra, many Minangkabau officials considered the Mentawai Islands, especially Siberut, to be an unproductive backwater. Islam had a foothold in the islands mainly to serve the Minangkabau merchants and other Muslims who lived there.6 At the risk of oversimplification, given the enormous importance of pigs to most Mentawai people, there was (and still is) very little hope of wholesale conversion to Islam. Protestantism was a much more attractive alternative, and it had a presence in Siberut from the early 1900s.7 As a result of the efforts of a German missionary and Batak religious teachers from North Sumatra, many of the Mentawai people along the coast in South Siberut, especially near the mission in Muarasiberut, had nominally converted. It is not clear why the meeting of the three factions occurred when it did. Generally, in the 1950s, Sukarno and his administration were struggling to consolidate the auth- ority of the national government (Reid 2011; Stoler 1985; Vickers 2013). There were frequent regional rebellions, including in much of Sumatra, and by the end of the decade, Sukarno would propose his Guided Democracy as a solution to the unrest. For whatever reason, the Minangkabau officials overseeing the Mentawai Islands decided that it was time to modernise Siberut and that modernisation would begin with the eradication of the indigenous religion. The idea seems to have originated with the provincial officials. It was they who called for the meeting. The representatives of Islam and Protestantism were pleasantly surprised to be invited. It was immediately 404 C. S. Hammons clear to them, however, that they could benefit from a government policy targeting the indigenous religion, especially the shaman or kerei, whom they considered the most significant obstacle to their own success. They would almost certainly gain converts, and they would be allied with government officials at a time when their influence was growing. Thus, the representatives of the three factions easily arrived at a consensus: it was decided that the traditional religion, arat sabulungan, was to be abolished with the help of the police. It was also decided that within three months everybody would have to choose a ‘proper’ religion (agama), the choice being either Islam or Protestantism. Moreover, all the paraphernalia connected to the old religion were to be burned or destroyed. If people did not choose one of the accepted religions, they would be punished. (Persoon 2004, 147) Such proclamations are often easy to make but hard to enforce. But this one had the weight of the Indonesian government behind it. It was not ‘law’, but if the local police were willing to enforce it, then it may as well have been. In effect, the meeting of the three factions officially abolished the indigenous religion. It is remembered this way by many people in Siberut today (Figure 1). More than a half-century later, the indigenous religion is still around. It did not sud- denly disappear with the proclamation, just as it did not disappear when Christian missionaries destroyed ‘idols’ in the decades before the proclamation or Indonesian police destroyed ‘idols’ in the decades after it (Cannell 2006; Keane 2007). In most

Figure 1 A Shaman from the Sakaliou Clan Summons the Soul of a Client Believed to be Lost in the Forest. Photo by the Author. The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 405 cases, the indigenous religion persisted as custom (adat) and was easily combined with Protestantism. In other cases, it receded into the forest and, in the absence of an official religion (agama), indicated a rejection of national modernity. To the best of my knowledge, if religious violence is defined as violence that is motivated by religious difference, there has never been religious violence on a large scale in Siberut (Juergen- smeyer, Kitts, & Jerryson 2012). Never have Muslims attacked Protestants simply because they are Protestant, or Protestants attacked Muslims simply because they are Muslim.8 Even the government attack on indigenous religion, from the meeting of the three factions onward was less motivated by a Muslim hatred of idolatry and animism than by an official disdain for those who disdain the official. What the case of Siberut shows is that from the official point of view, as long as someone practices an official religion, they are on the right side of the border between modern and ‘pre-modern’, even if they are not yet fully modern. The clearest indication of this is that in the early twenty-first century, as a result of regional autonomy, local government officials are now Mentawai, not Minangkabau.9 Most of these officials are Pro- testant (or Catholic), yet they continue to practice certain aspects of the indigenous religion. They consider the people who practice only the indigenous religion to be a problem, not because they practice the indigenous religion, but because they refuse to be Christian or Muslim. To practice only the indigenous religion is to be anti-state. What does it mean to be Christian in Siberut? Why can’t the people who practice the indigenous religion simply say that they are Christian and get on with their lives? What does it mean to reject Christianity and practice the indigenous religion? The answers to these questions can be traced back to the meeting of the three factions.

Mobility, Settlement and the Emergence of Hybridity Before turning to the five or so decades between the meeting of the three factions and the early twenty-first century, I should clarify that most of my understanding of religious politics in Siberut comes from two years of fieldwork (from January 2003 to December 2004) among a single clan, the Sakaliou clan, one of several dozen upriver, forest-dwelling clans in the Rereiket region of South Siberut. Most members of the Sakaliou clan live on their ancestral land rather than in the nearby village of Madobag, a ‘government village’ built as part of a modernisation program in the 1970s. Madobag and the other government villages in Siberut were created specifically to concentrate all of the clans within a region (usually defined by a major river system) in a single place.10 Prior to the program, each clan lived in a single longhouse on its own ancestral land. People were widely dispersed throughout the forest, but flexibly connected through various forms of gift exchange, as well as a common mythology that explained the dispersal across the landscape from a single point of origin.11 Again, at the risk of oversimplification, the indigenous religion was also similarly understood and practised throughout the island. However, because it includes ‘ancestor worship’, it was very much centred on individual clans and the networks, established and maintained through exchange, that emanated 406 C. S. Hammons from them. The most significant religious ceremony, called the puliaijat or lia, held about once a year, required the entire clan to observe taboos and remain in or near the longhouse for as long as several weeks, during which time the clan’s ancestor spirits (saukkui) were called in from the forest surrounding the longhouse, where they normally reside. Sacrifices of chickens and pigs, singing and dancing and the per- formance of shamans ‘entertained’ the ancestor spirits before they were offered gifts and asked to return to their home in the forest. The ceremony concluded with a hunt, the success of which indicated that the spirits were pleased with the ceremony. Because they ‘own’ the animals in the forest, the deer or monkeys killed in the conclud- ing hunt were considered to be the spirits’ return gift. The shaman (sikerei or kerei) could cross clan boundaries. Two or more shamans usually performed at a lia ceremony, and in the case of illness, which was believed to be caused by soul loss, shamans were called on to retrieve the soul. They were com- pensated with gifts of meat, which they then distributed among members of their own clan and other exchange partners. After the meeting of the three factions, when the ban on indigenous religion was implemented, shamans soon became the main target, not only because they could cross clan boundaries, but also because their mobility helped to enable clans to remain dispersed in the forest. This, I would argue, was the impetus for the meeting of the three factions, whether the participants knew it or not: a population dispersed throughout a forbidding forest is almost impossible for a state to administer. The indigenous religion was considered to be the ideological jus- tification for that way of life. Both missionaries and state officials frequently bemoaned the elaborate taboo system that seemed to prevent people from being productive. It was an excuse, they said, to be ‘lazy’. They considered the shaman to be the worst offender of them all, not because he was lazy, but because he used his powers of decep- tion to maintain a system that benefited him.12 The shaman would become the main target of efforts to eradicate the indigenous religion. Returning to 1954, Leiden anthropologist Gerard Persoon (2004, 147–148) reports that in the months after the meeting of the three factions: a police force went from settlement to settlement to make people opt for one of the two religions. In every village, the religious instruments (drums, beads, and gongs) were destroyed, and other trappings of the ethnic religion, such as the skulls of hunted animals, were taken from the houses and publicly burned. In most of the villages, people succumbed to the pressure and outwardly embraced either Protes- tantism or Islam. Although he does not indicate it, Persoon must be referring to the ‘villages’ along or near the coast. The government villages, even those upriver from Muarasiberut, were not established until the 1960s and later. Persoon does note that Total eradication of the religion … did not take place. There were a few groups who did not want to comply and abandon their traditional beliefs and practices, although there was never any open resistance. Those unwilling to comply left their old settlement and disappeared in the jungle. They went to another watershed in the interior, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 407

out of reach of the police, the government, and the missionaries, at least for some time. (148) In other words, the effect of the decree was to secure the conversion of the coastal com- munities and to drive the rest—the unconverted or the uninterested—back into the forest. It is unclear whether the representatives of the three factions ever met again to assess the outcome, but within a decade, the government would launch a more violent campaign to force the forest-dwelling clans into the newly built government villages. By the 1970s, Madobag and other government villages in South Siberut were being built and populated with the cooperation of many of the forest-dwelling clans. They had been promised a single family home on a paved street, a trade store, a health clinic, an elementary school, a church and mosque and government services, such as resources for growing rice or producing goods for more distant markets. Many clans, including the Sakaliou clan, remained highly mobile, moving back and forth between the government village and their ancestral land, much to the frustration of officials. When the Sakaliou clan and a few other families decided to forego the village completely, officials reacted swiftly with the same kind of violent campaign that followed the meeting of the three factions. The Sakaliou clan resisted and, because their ancestral land was close enough to Madobag, ended up negotiating a ‘compromise’ with local officials: they would live on their ancestral land, but participate in the modernisation programs offered in the government village. Most other clans did not have the option. They were forced to live in the government village. They would become ‘modern’ whether they wanted to or not. In the 1980s and 90s, most of the village-dwelling families became Christian. From the point of view of the Sakaliou clan on their ancestral land outside the village, it was clear what conversion meant. Here, there is no risk of oversimplification: being Chris- tian meant going to church, going to church meant living in the village and living in the village meant succumbing to state control. Although there were official efforts early on to eradicate the indigenous religion, it was very quickly realised that in the upriver villages (as opposed to the coastal villages), it would be more expedient to accept the indigenous religion as adat (custom) and add Christianity or Islam as agama (religion). Thus, village dwellers could continue to practice the indigenous religion to the extent it was possible in the village, but they also had to practice Christianity or Islam, which meant for the average practitioner, in a very literal way, going to the church or mosque. The challenges to practising the indigenous religion in the village, especially holding a lia ceremony, were substantial. With clans split into single-family houses, there was often no longhouse in which the clan could convene, and with people separated by long distances from their gardens, chickens, pigs and forest resources, simply amassing the supplies necessary for the ceremony was difficult. Then there was the problem of having other clans so close by to a ceremony in which ancestor spirits were invited, creating the potential for a kind of unintentional sorcery, as ancestor spirits can 408 C. S. Hammons inflict harm on people who are not their descendants. Finally, there was a subtle stigma, at least in the early years. The indigenous religion may have been acceptable as adat, but to continue to practice it meant being ‘less modern’. Thus, a kind of continuum emerged, with Sakaliou and other clans who practised only the indigenous religion at one end, the few families who converted wholesale to Christianity at the other and most people somewhere in between. To the continued frustration of non- local officials—and to the dismay of the Sakaliou clan—it was those individuals in the middle of the continuum who began to rise through the bureaucratic ranks. These ‘hybrid’ individuals embraced village life, went to church on Sundays, com- pleted elementary school and continued their education in Muarasiberut and beyond, financing it all by selling forest products destined for non-local markets, but fulfilling obligations to members of their clan and other exchange partners, even when they required participation in a lia ceremony or other indigenous religious practice.

Outliers and Authenticity TheSakaliouclanremainedanoutlier.Membersbegantomaketheclaimthatthe indigenous religious practices of the hybrid families in the village were no longer authentic (asli), that they had been tainted or corrupted by life in the village, Chris- tianity and modernisation and that only the Sakaliou clan continued to practice the indigenous religion in its original form.13 They complained that the hybrid families were as dedicated to the church as the fully committed Christian families and that thedemandsofthechurchwerereplacingthedemandsoftheindigenousreligion. Most of their complaints were focused on the lia ceremony, which was considered by people at every point on the continuum to be the most important ceremony in Mentawai religious life. As Reeves (2015) describes in detail, a lia consists of at least eight discrete events, from the opening of the ceremony (buka nia) to the conclud- ing hunt (uroro).14 Each event consists of smaller discrete events, which vary slightly from clan to clan. The exact composition of the events in a lia,especially the ritual phrases and offerings that are used to attract the ancestor spirits, is a closely guarded secret, and no clan knows exactly what other clans are doing during the ceremony. Nevertheless, the Sakaliou clan began to make the claim that the hybrid families in the village were omitting or altering important events. They were able to make this claim, they said, because one of the steps that other clans were altering was the opening (buka nia), during which the souls of the members of the clan that is holding the ceremony are called into the longhouse, andthesoulsofthemembersofotherclansaretoldtostayawayinordertomini- mise the danger from exposure to unrelated ancestor spirits. In the village, because of the layout of the houses along gridded streets,itwasnotalwayspossibletostay away from a house in which a lia was being held, and the requirement began to be eased. It was this change that Sakaliou condemned as a dangerous departure from tradition (Figure 2). The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 409 The most serious problem, according to members of the Sakaliou clan, was the omission of the last event in the lia, the hunt that brings the ceremony to a close (uroro). Normally, following the final presentation of offerings to the ancestor spirits and their return to the forest surrounding the longhouse, the adult men in the clan travel into the forest to hunt for deer or monkeys—the return gift of the ancestor spirits. In the several lia I observed among the Sakaliou clan, the hunt was not optional, and much time and effort were dedicated to its success. This was not true, members of the Sakaliou clan claimed, among other clans, and their suspicions seem to be confirmed by Reeves (2015), who writes: The hunters leave in the early hours of the morning, returning successfully or other- wise in the late morning. Any ‘meat’ (iba) taken in the hunt is prepared, cooked, then a little presented to the bakkat katsaila [the ancestral shrine in the longhouse] and the other beings. … If the hunt has not been successful then ‘substitute meat’ (punu iba) is presented to the bakkat katsaila and other beings. … The important thing is for the bakkat katsaila to have ‘eaten’ meat. This brings the puliaijat to an end. Although members of the Sakaliou clan did acknowledge that success in the hunt was not always possible, they complained that other clans did not make enough effort, leaving the ceremonial exchanges with their ancestor spirits unresolved, another dangerous departure from tradition. But unresolved exchanges with spirits were not the only issue, I would suggest. What the Sakaliou clan was pointing to was a tear

Figure 2 Shamans Attend to a Client in the Government Village of Rogdog. Photo by the Author. 410 C. S. Hammons in the spatial, social and cosmological continuity between the longhouse and the forest. This continuity was not possible in the village, where the houses of different clans were crammed together, and most people were far from their ancestral land. The back and forth of daily life, the movement of people between the longhouse and the forest, a mobility that takes centre stage during the lia ceremony, was no longer obligatory. For the Sakaliou clan, living on their ancestral land and maintaining the continuity between the longhouse and the forest was key to refusing the state’s vision of modernity. Members only participated in the government programs that did not limit their mobility or disrupt the continuity. They sent their children to the elementary school in the village each morning and expected them to return home each afternoon, and for a time, they hosted a UNESCO-sponsored teacher in a schoolhouse that they had built on their ancestral land. They attended meetings in the village and voted in elections, but did so with a wink and returned home with the t-shirts and other tangible benefits of participation.15 At one point, they nominally converted to Islam, not because they finally succumbed to government pressure, but because it slyly indicated a rejection of the emerging, predominantly Christian, national modernity in Siberut. In their daily lives, they offered an alternative to that modernity, one in which the indigenous religion was practised and the continuity between longhouse and forest was maintained. They hosted foreign tourists, who came to see the ‘traditional’ way of life, not the government village and Christianity, as members of the Sakaliou clan frequently pointed out. They began to see themselves as the bearers of ‘Mentawai culture’, which they defined as rooted in a certain kind of place—a longhouse on ancestral land—and in mobility between the longhouse and the forest. To lack one or the other or both was to be inauthentic. The spatial, social and cosmological continuity between the longhouse and the forest had to be produced and reproduced in daily use and in the practice of the indigenous religion, especially the most important of ceremonies, the lia (Figure 3).16 Although the lia ceremony continued to be performed in the villages, it was not the lia ceremony, but the figure of the shaman that came to represent Mentawai culture for many villagers.17 The shaman has always been even more mobile than the ordinary person. He treats illnesses within his own clan, but he also treats illnesses in other clans, and he maintains a cross-clan network of other shamans who call on him when needed and on whom he can call. There are many indications that such a network and the mobility it affords are a hallmark of shamanism in Siberut. For example, at the end of a shaman’s apprenticeship, the neophyte shaman joins his master on several excursions to meet shamans in other clans, beginning to build the network that will expand exponentially as he becomes more experienced. In the lia ceremony and on other ritual occasions, there are particular moments when a shaman who is not a member of the host clan is required to perform and then leave, carrying away the manifestations of illness. Mobility is an essential feature of the shaman’s practice, and it is one of the reasons why the eradication of shamanism has so often been a component of the modernisation programs in Siberut. It is also one of the reasons that shamanism has not been eradicated: the reduced mobility of The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 411

Figure 3 In the Government Village of Rogdog, Shamans Confer About the Meaning of a Message in the Heart of a Sacriﬁced Pig, the Effectiveness of their Treatment, and the Fate of their Client. Photo by the Author. ordinary villagers has made the shaman’s mobility all the more necessary. Life in the village creates the conditions for more illness (as members of the Sakaliou clan often said), and more illness creates the need for more shamans, who almost exclusively come from the few forest-dwelling clans outside the village, like Sakaliou.18 In the villages, even fully committed Christians sought out shamans in times of illness, and among the hybrid families, if the lia ceremony had to be modiﬁed, shamanism was a direct connection to authentic Mentawai culture. Villagers came to depend on the shaman’s mobility for more than treating illness. They came to depend on it for cultural identity.

‘Welcome to the Land of the Shamans’ After the fall of Suharto in 1998 and the nationwide movement to decentralise government and the control of resources in the years that followed, the Mentawai Islands became its own regency (kabupaten), separate for the first time from the regency of Padang (Aspinall & Fealy 2003; Erb, Faucher, & Sulistiyanto 2005; Holzappel & Ram- stedt 2009; Kimura 2012; Pedersen 2007; Pedersen 2014). The first regent (bupati), Edison Saleleubaja, was elected in 2003. He was from Tuapejat, the administrative centre of the Mentawai Islands to the south of Siberut. He was ethnic Mentawai and Christian (Protestant), but he had also been a bureaucrat in previous, 412 C. S. Hammons Minangkabau-dominated administrations, and by the end of his first year in office, he had developed a reputation for being no different from previous regents. He may have been Mentawai, people whispered, but he was as ineffective and corrupt as the Min- angkabau officials before him. The charges soon became official, as prosecutors in Padang began to investigate allegations that Saleleubaja embezzled funds from logging concessions. In 2010, he was removed from office, and in 2013, after a lengthy and complicated trial, he was sentenced to four years in jail.19 The first regent of the Mentawai Islands was Mentawai in name only, people said. He ‘ate money’ (makan uang) like a Minangkabau person. The second regent of the Mentawai Islands was also ethnic Mentawai and Christian (Catholic), but he was from Siberut, not Tuapejat. In fact, Yudas Sabaggalet was from Madobag, the government village nearest the ancestral land of the Sakaliou clan. For officials and the community, he was a shining example of the possibilities that hybridity represented. He demonstrated that an indigenous person could be both Mentawai and Indonesian. He attended church and the village school, continued his education in the coastal town of Muarasiberut and left the island to attain a bachelor’s degree in economics from Bung Hatta University and a master’s degree in economics from Andalas University, both across the Mentawai Strait in Padang. He co-founded and directed a non-profit organisation (Yayasan Citra Mandiri Mentawai) and began to position himself for a career in politics. In 1999, he was elected representative in the Mentawai assembly (DPRD Mentawai), and in 2006, he became vice regent (wakil bupati) of the Mentawai Islands. He had an uncanny ability to avoid the charges of corruption that plagued his superior, and after Saleleubaja was removed from office, Sabaggalet easily won election, becoming regent of the Mentawai Islands in 2011. Many of his supporters attributed his incorruptibility and success to the hybridity that his predecessor seemed to lack. Sabaggalet was not Mentawai in name only. He was committed to Mentawai culture and proud of his indigenous identity. He redefined cultural authenticity to include religious hybridity. Before becoming regent, Sabaggalet kept a short-lived blog (Sabaggalet 2010). At the top, over a collage of images that includes a waterfall, a traditional house, three dancing shamans, a surfer on a huge, barrelling wave and Sabaggalet himself pointing authoritatively at the other images, bold red letters announce: ‘Welcome to Bumi Sikerei’—Welcome to the Land of the Shaman. As regent, Sabaggalet has fostered a sense of pride in Mentawai cultural identity, which the shaman has come to represent. Nearly every public political event in the regency features performances by shamans, and even when Sabaggalet is outside the regency, he cultivates the image of the Men- tawai Islands as the Land of the Shaman.20 He has also made the construction of roads, bridges, ports and other infrastructure a top priority (Rusli 2011). One of the first roads to be built by his administration connected Muarasiberut on the coast to Madobag in the interior, the same route that Sabaggalet himself travelled when he left the village to continue his education and launch a career in politics. What ties together Sabaggalet, the hybrid familiesinMadobagandelsewhereintheMentawai Islands, the figure of the shaman and the ongoing infrastructure projects is mobility— The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 413 the continuous movement across the landscape that had been disrupted by resettlement in the government-built villages. Members of the Sakaliou clan had criticised the hybrid families as inauthentic precisely because they lacked this essential mobility. The response oftheChristianfamiliesinthevillageswastoemphasisethefigure of the shaman, whose specialskillhadalwaysbeentoproduceandreproduce the spatial, social and cosmological continuity that is characteristic of the indigenous religion. Those families now live in a regency governed by one of their own. Welcome to the Land of the Shaman.

Conclusion The Sakaliou clan, still living in on its ancestral land in the forest, has been a keen observer of the shifting politics in the regency and nearby government villages. Because they continue to practice the indigenous religion—and continue to produce shamans—they stand to gain from the regent’s and Christian villagers’ positive revaluation of the shaman. But members of the Sakaliou clan also point out that the new respect for the shaman is not a complete return to the indigenous religion. Most villagers remain Christian, and they remain in the villages. Now that it is politically possible, members of the Sakaliou clan say, they are appealing to the shaman to re-establish the spatial, social and cosmological continuity between home and forest that they lost. The shaman is a surrogate, a substitute for being mobile themselves. The positive revaluation of the shaman thus arises from an immobility in everyday life coupled with a new kind of mobility offered up by the government as modern and Indonesian. Vil- lagers can be mobile themselves, but their movements, like Sabaggalet’s, must lead toward the coast, formal education and full participation in the Indonesian political economy. If they do not follow the path from village to nation-state, they must remain in place and allow the shaman to travel for them. In his surrogate travels, his substitute mobility, the shaman follows the same path that once produced and reproduced the spatial, social and cosmological continuity between home and forest, but he does so in vain: his clients, the villagers, remain immobile. Although the Sakaliou clan and its shamans may benefit from the positive revaluation of ‘tradition’,itreflects a sedentarist metaphysics. As this case study from Siberut suggests, the recent studies in the anthropology of mobility that privilege the cultural imaginaries in which movements are embedded, fail to recognise that mobility may need to be imagined because actual, physical movement is restricted. Imagined mobility can arise from a sedentarist metaphysics. More- over, as the surrogate mobility of the shaman suggests, imagined mobility can reproduce a sedentarist metaphysics by rendering unnecessary the actual movement of people through space. The shaman travels so that villagers remain emplaced. The Sakaliou clan’s refusal to participate in government modernisation programs arose from a metaphysics in which the ‘brute fact’ of mobility is privileged over the cultural imaginaries in which movements are embedded. Their metaphysics are nomadic. The question is whether they will remain nomadic as the clan begins to benefit from the positive revaluation of the shaman. It is not a question of location—of where clan 414 C. S. Hammons members live. It a question of the extent to which everyday life includes the actual, physical movements in space that produce and reproduce the spatial, social and cosmological continuity between home and forest. If the places, paths and roads that the state offers are travelled more often, then it may be said that the balance has tipped and that the metaphysics have shifted from nomadic to sedentary.

Notes [1] The power of mobility as a concept-metaphor is dizzying. Salazar and Smart (2011,i–ii) write:

Among social scientists, it is fashionable these days to study migration, diaspora, and exile; cosmopolitanism and transnationalism; global markets and commodity chains; and global information and communication technologies, media, and popular culture. The literature is replete with metaphorical conceptualizations attempting to describe perceived altered spatial and temporal movements: deterritorialization, reterritorializa- tion, and scapes; time-space compression or distantiation; the network society and its space of flows; the death of distance and the acceleration of modern life; nomadology; and diverse mobilities. [2] Salazar and Smart (2011, vi) themselves write: ‘If mobility (or transnationalism) is the topic of research, there is a great risk that different interpretations of what is going on will be neg- lected, or that only patterns that fit the paradigm will be considered, or that only extremes of (hyper)mobility or (im)mobility will be given attention’. [3] A clan and its ancestral land are normally associated with a particular river, so the mobility that connects clans and longhouses usually entails movement through the forest between river valleys. With clan exogamy and patrilocal residence, a woman who marries leaves her father’s longhouse and ancestral land, and moves into her husband’s (or her husband’s father’s). All people who live in longhouses tend to be highly mobile, travelling frequently between the longhouse and the surrounding forest, compared to people who live in government villages. [4] Italian Catholic missionaries arrived in Siberut around the time of the meeting of the three factions and gained a significant number of converts within a year. Most of the converts were former Protestants. Persoon (2004, 148–149) suggests that there are now more Catholics than Protestants in Siberut, partly because Catholic missionaries are more tolerant toward indigenous religious and cultural practices. [5] Pedersen notes in her Introduction to this Special Issue that agama refers to the five officially acceptable world religions and is often contrasted with aliran kepercayaan or ‘streams of belief’, a category that includes the multitude of animist religions in Indonesia, which according to the state, are the beliefs of people who do not yet have religion. Adat refers to acceptable cultural practices that are not agama or aliran kepercayaan.Seealso Davidson and Henley (2007). As Spyer’s(1996) study of ‘serial conversion/conversion to seriality’ suggests, none of these categories are fixed; they remain fluid and contested. They are constructions, as Asad (1993,27–54) argues for the category of religion in general, that emerge from the discursive processes of modernity, which in Indonesia, need not be secular (Rudnyckyj 2009). [6] Muslim missionary activity did not escalate until the 1980s when Minangkabau residents and officials in Siberut, emboldened by more assertive government programs, joined forces with Islamic organisations in Padang. Their efforts were fi nanced by private sector companies, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 415

provincial banks and the Embassy of Saudi Arabia. Mosques, schools and boarding houses were built, but the number of converts never met expectations (see Persoon 2004, 150–152). [7] The Rheinische Mission was established decades earlier in the Mentawai Islands to the south of Siberut. A missionary was killed in 1909, but conversions began a few years later. Siberut was the last of the Mentawai Islands to be colonised, and even today, the centre of government is in Tuapejat on the island of North Sipora to the south. [8] The relative lack of large-scale religious violence in Siberut is similar to the other cases described in this Special Issue, such as Muslims and Hindus in Lombok (Telle 2016) and Bali (Pedersen 2016a, 2016b), and Muslims and Christians in Indonesian Timor (Hutagalung 2016) and Maluku (Duncan 2016). Interestingly, the greater inter-religious conﬂict in Siberut is between Protestants and Catholics. [9] Once part of the regency (kabupaten) of Padang, the Mentawai Islands became a separate regency in 1999. [10] The main river in South Siberut is the Rereiket, which enters the Mentawai Strait at the town of Muarasiberut. Moving upriver from Muarasiberut into the interior of the island, the government-built villages include Rogdog, Madobag, Ugai and Matotonan. It was hoped by government ofﬁcials that the entire population of the Rereiket river valley could be concentrated into these four villages and others closer to the coast. For more detailed descriptions of modernisation programs and their consequences, see Hammons (2010, 2013, 2014). [11] The commonly accepted point of origin is the village of Simatalu on the northwest coast of Siberut. From there, according to the myths, the Mentawai Islands were generally settled in a southerly direction. The islands to the south of Siberut were the last to be settled; they are geographically and culturally the most distant from the point of origin in Simatalu. [12] In 1799, the explorer John Crisp (1799, 86) wrote:

The religion of this people, if it can be said that they have any, may truly be called the religion of nature. A belief in the existence of some powers more than human cannot fail to be excited among the most uncultivated of mankind, from the observations of various striking natural phenomena, such as the diurnal revolution of the sun and moon; thunder and lightning; earthquakes, &c. &c. [sic] nor will there ever be wanting among them, some of superior talents and cunning who will acquire an inﬂu- ence over weak minds, by assuming themselves an interest with, or a power of con- trouling [sic] these superhuman agents; and such notions constitute the religion of the inhabitants of the Poggys.

This sentiment persisted through the colonial period and into the postcolonial period, and only began to change after the Mentawai Islands became a separate regency. [13] The term that members of the Sakaliou clan used most often to describe the authenticity of their religious practices was asli, an Indonesian word that means original. The concept of authenticity was almost certainly a product of the Sakaliou clan’s long experience with foreign tourists. See Hammons (2014). [14] According to Reeves (2015), the events in a lia ceremony are buka nia, sogi katsaila, aggaret toitet, lia goukgouk, irik, pusikebbukat, kokoman sikebbukat and uroro. See Reeves (2015) and Hammons (2010) for a detailed description of each event, including multiple versions of the ritual phrases and offerings that are part of them. [15] As Scott (1985) observed long before The Art of Not Being Governed, the ‘weapons of the weak’ in Southeast Asian states can be subtle, but formidable. See also Scott (2008). The Sakaliou clan’s ways of dealing with the Indonesian state have always been sophisticated and complex, calling into question the ‘state of culture’ theory (Steedly 1999) that Southeast 416 C. S. Hammons

Asian states are particularly hegemonic. For additional ethnographic examples, see Aragon (2000); Hammons (2014); Jonsson (2005). [16] A longhouse on ancestral land, mobility between the longhouse and forest, the indigenous religion and the lia ceremony are not the only characteristics of ‘Mentawai culture’ that were identified by members of the Sakaliou clan. Reciprocal exchange in a variety of contexts was also deemed essential. Many of the foreign tourists that the Sakaliou clan hosted came precisely because of the equation of culture and indigenous religion, but were confused by the demand for reciprocal exchange. [17] The figure of the shaman in Southeast Asia has been studied extensively and in a variety of contexts; see, for example, Arhem & Sprenger 2016; Atkinson 1987, 1992; Federspiel 2007). [18] This is also the argument made by Taussig (1991)inShamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man. The other forest-dwelling clans are in the areas known as Attabai and Buttui, but these areas are different from the Sakaliou clan’s ancestral land, as members of different clans found refuge from the villages on the ancestral land of a single clan. [19] For a history of the legal proceedings and ongoing developments, see “Edison Saleleubaja Ajukan Peninjauan Kembali” (2015); “Mantan Bupati Mentawai Edison Saleleubaja Ditahan” (2011); Puailigoubbat.com). [20] See, for example, the Hidupkatolik.com (Catholic Life) article ‘Yudas Sabaggalet: Pemimpin Bumi Sikerei’ [Yudas Sabaggalet: Leader of the Land of the Shaman] (“Yudas Sabaggalet: Pemimpin Bumi Sikerei” (2013)). The Land of the Shaman image is also useful for attracting foreign cultural tourists, many of whom make the trek to Siberut specifically to see shamans. Ironically, the Sakaliou clan hosts more tourists and thus provides more shamans for the tourists to see than any other clan; see Hammons (2010).

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