The Belum

Drawing up a mental image of what Ponorogo, a small city in East Java, looked like twenty or thirty years ago feels almost impossible. There are definite roadblocks in such an endeavor. The first is that, when Ponorogoans trace back to the time of their childhood, vastly different narratives emerge. For some, the past was when harvests were bountiful, when the lifestyle of farmer was more respected. For others, the past was a time when ‘we ate only just enough,’ as opposed to now, when ‘we eat enough to be fat.’ For still others, the past might be a time when families were better maintained, when husbands respected their wives and women stayed at home to take care of their children. The second, and perhaps more important roadblock, is that people in Ponorogo don’t seem to think very much about the past. Most thoughts that fill the imaginations of its residents involve the belum (a ubiquitous Indonesian word meaning “not yet”). Most people seem to hold an aspiration that places contentment at some point in the future.

Perhaps the most pervasive dream in Ponorogo is that of the migrant. Her (90% of the time, it is a her) aspirations are wrapped up in the bright lights of modernity. She knows that three years of working in Singapore or Taiwan will be enough to pay the school fees of her children through university. She also knows that the money could transform her humble abode into a tall, grandiose home, the type of house that is quickly becoming a standard in Ponorogo. These migrants often find themselves caught in a cycle. They return to Indonesia with startling amounts of cash, and proceed to spend it, evincing their new middle-class wealth in a community that has come to rely on quick money. With cars, motorcycles, a sophisticated wardrobe. Soon enough, the money dries up and they return abroad.

But it might be more difficult to be a young man in Ponorogo, since the jobs abroad are almost exclusively for women. (Factories, in addition to the informal sector, request female labor, in large part because women are considered more obedient and less likely to demonstrate for pay raises.) For many men in Ponorogo, whose wives or sisters are working abroad, a salary is belum. So is respect in a community that has come to think of young men as indolent and unproductive.

The belum is also important for the network of “professionals” who profit from the migrant’s dream. This string of agents is complex: the recruiters in Ponorogo; the ‘mafia’, often composed of teachers, that persuades young girls to migrate (and in turn takes a cut); the middlemen in receiving countries who “secure” work placements; and the government officials who slice a bit off the top at every step. Without the migrant’s belum, without the perpetual next dream, next act of conspicuous consumption, the waters that nourish this circuited tree of profiteering would dry up. Despite the number of players, the business of migration is profitable for every link in the chain. For instance, the recruitment agencies (called PJTKI, Penyalur Jasa Tenaga Kerja Indonesia) are known to practice potong gaji, or salary cutting; they take up to 50-75% of the worker’s salary for the first 6-12 months of employment. While government officials in Ponorogo claim that protection laws for workers are very strong, the legislation says nothing about practices such as salary cutting. Legal reform plods, since the network of migration opportunists is folded into itself: Many government officials also own PJTKI agencies.

Is the belum a symptom or a cause? Is a life dominated by belum the unintended result of economic forces at work in Ponorogo, or is it a economic system in and of itself, a system of unfulfilled desire? These are the questions that linger as I depart from Ponorogo.