DNC Day One: Joe Biden? Never Heard of Him

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The Big Story

CHICAGO — The sitting president of the United States, Joe Biden, headlined the first night of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago on Monday night. You wouldn’t have known it from being there. Biden didn’t take the stage until about 11:30 p.m. on the East Coast, half an hour after the end of prime time, leading at least one of his aides to complain to reporters that the way he was being treated was “awful.” When Biden did appear, to chants of “We love Joe!” choreographed by the party that had just accomplished the political equivalent of taking him out behind the woodshed, he offered a reminder of why he was no longer running: The president shouted, tripped over his words, and leaned into his reputation as an aging blowhard with a tenuous grasp on reality. But it didn’t matter. Joe was old news, and most Americans had long since tuned out. That was the point of the evening. 

Indeed, Monday night, while nominally a tribute to Biden—the man who, according to the party’s official mythology, had saved American democracy once by defeating Donald Trump and again by stepping aside to allow a new generation to rise—was principally an exercise in forgetting. The most raucous cheers inside the United Center were for the future and past of the party: Kamala Harris, who put in a brief onstage appearance; rising national star Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who railed against corporate greed and called for a cease-fire in Gaza; and Hillary Clinton, who declared to rapturous applause that “something is happening in America—something we’ve worked for and dreamed of for a long time.” What that “something” was appeared to be the establishment, at long last, of a legitimate line of succession to the king, or perhaps the Mahdi, who remains in semi-private occultation. Not that private, though, since this image was blasted over the Jumbotron at the United Center, again to rapturous applause:

Rhetorically, the speakers of the first night seemed eager to pretend as if nothing had happened over the past four years save Jan. 6, the Dobbs decision, and Trump’s felony conviction. Gone were the garment-rendings over racism and “white supremacy” from 2020; gay and trans people were scarcely mentioned, except when the president of the United Auto Workers stumbled over the “LGBTQIA+” acronym; COVID-19, Russia, and “disinformation” were all distant memories. Police violence? What police violence? Kamala is a prosecutor who will keep our communities safe from Trump, the “rapist” and “career criminal.” The crowd broke into spontaneous chants of “USA! USA!” during the speech by Olympic basketball coach Steve Kerr, while the Alabama-born musician Jason Isbell treated the arena to “Something More Than Free,” a working-class country hymn to God and hard work, in front of a 15-foot projection of an American flag painted on the side of a barn. Kamala and the Democrats’ “muscular patriotism” (in the words of The New York Times’ David Leonhardt), their soaring love of country and desire to defend it against traitors and “insurrectionists,” was a leitmotif of the evening. The Democrats are nothing if not canny, and clearly the memo had gone out: Don’t be weird. 

The anti-Israel protest movement, which some feared (or hoped) might rain on Kamala’s parade, appeared to Scroll Senior Writer Park MacDougald, who visited Chicago’s Union Park on Monday, to have been almost completely neutered. Those protesting outside the convention were an odd, and small, collection of misfits and true believers—the people too dumb, too weird, and too marginal to get folded back into the Democratic tent. AOC was on the inside, and so too were the uncommitted delegates, who held an official, Harris campaign-sponsored event at Chicago’s McCormick Place on Monday, where they strategized about how best to push the party toward a cease-fire and an arms embargo on Israel. Gaza, the great cause of the American left for the past 10 months, had been forgotten just as quickly as it had been conjured into existence. There was something more important on the agenda than stopping a genocide: There was an election to win. 

IN THE BACK PAGES: How the Indonesian art of shadow puppetry explains our politics

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Who is the Dalang?

The Indonesian art of shadow puppetry sheds light on our new political reality

by Matthew Isaac Cohen

Wayang kulit, also referred to as wayang, is the ubiquitous shadow puppet theater of Java, Bali, and other islands of western Indonesia. Since its first appearance in literary texts and inscriptions around 1000 CE it has been simultaneously a popular entertainment for the masses, a literary art form associated with elites, a mode of worship (the word wayang is likely derived from hyang meaning “god” or “spirit”), and a means to create and foster communities. The dalang, or puppeteer, is a revered figure in traditional society, both storyteller and priest. He (or she, though today women puppeteers are rare) weaves new stories with extemporized dialogue based on old motifs and narrative threads over the course of performances ranging from two to eight hours, accompanied by a gamelan orchestra of gongs and chimes ranging in size from two musicians (in Bali) to up to 50 or more (in Java). Puppets are carved from buffalo hide, colored on both sides, and rodded with buffalo horn. A full set contains about 150 to 250 of such puppets, with perhaps 75 used in any given show. These puppets are pressed flat against a cotton screen and illuminated from behind so that audiences can watch the performance in shadows from the back side and as a puppet play from the front. Most plays are based on the Indian epics of the Mahabharata and Ramayana, introduced to Java during the first millennium of the common era along with Hinduism, literacy, and wet rice cultivation. Other stories are dramatized as well, such as tales of the knight-errant Panji of medieval Java or contemporary plays set in modern Indonesian society, for which new puppets are constructed.

Through the centuries, the art of shadow-puppetry has helped define the way that Indonesians practice and understand politics. Performances typically begin with the description of an ideal kingdom, “a powerful kingdom whose light shone brilliantly and radiated afar, so that she was famous in far distant places,” flanked by lush rice fields and a mighty river and fronting a great harbor, with cheap goods and regular tribute from vassal kingdoms, and completely without thieves or fear of crime. Its king is honest and wise, charitable and held everywhere in high regard.

The Dutch cultural historian J.J. Ras has argued that this description is based upon the Islamic port polities that sprang up on Java’s north coast around the 15th century, with their Indian Ocean mercantile links. But the blankness of the wayang screen, which generally lacks scenery, allows spectators to visualize idealized kingdoms of their own imagining. The story that follows this stock narration might show that actual conditions are far from ideal, for wayang’s kingdoms are often under threat of invasion, plague, crop failure, and insurrection. And kings are not equally capable in their handling of such crises and insuring the rule of law.

The Mahabharata play cycle is a study in contrasting leadership styles and capacities, and comparisons are often drawn between wayang’s kings and real-life political leaders, both national and local. Duryudana, the ostentatious king of the wealthy and populous kingdom of Amarta, is known to be easily flattered and deceived by his courtiers, and more concerned with the acquisition of personal wealth than the well-being of his kingdom. His nemesis Yudhistira is generous to a fault—he would give away everything in his kingdom if he were not reined in by his brothers and his close ally King Kresna. Baladewa, Duryudana’s close ally and Kresna’s older brother, is a hothead, prone to bursts of anger, temper tantrums, and leaps to conclusions without proper evidence. Kresna himself is a diplomat par excellence, crafty, and resourceful; his skills in brokering political alliances make him Yudhistira’s most valued ally.

The clown servants (known as punakawan in Java and panasar in Bali) who accompany the blue-blooded protagonists model behavior for the lower classes. Kings and their noble kin speak in elevated tones and formal registers, using archaic vocabulary and turns of phrase to underline their authority and seriousness of purpose. The clown servants, in contrast, speak in everyday language as a rule of thumb and anachronistically reference the contemporary world—complaining about price hikes, alluding to the bad habits of gamelan musicians, praising a performance’s patrons, bragging about the puppeteer’s skills and renown. For many puppeteers, they are walking soapboxes for political critique. They show deference to their masters but when the social contract is not fulfilled they will not be bound. One of the most performed play in Java, Petruk Dadi Ratu (Petruk Becomes King), depicts the abuses of power of an arriviste clown servant turned king. It is believed to have originated as a critique of colonialism in early 19th-century Java but has since been retuned as an instrument to critique opportunistic power holders of all stripes.

President Suharto, the soft-spoken general who ruled Indonesia for three decades following a military countercoup, styled himself as Semar, Javanese wayang’s most prominent clown servant. According to wayang mythology, Semar is a god, the older brother of wayang’s high god Bathara Guru, or “Heavenly Teacher,” known in South Asia as Shiva. Semar has descended to earth in order to protect the noble lineage of King Yudhistira. Their rotund form, ambiguous iconography—both old and eternally young, neither male nor female—flatulence, perseverance, jocular character, and staunch traditionalism endear them to many Javanese. Semar huffs and puffs as they follow their noble lords on their adventures up mountains and through dense forests, but they are never more than a few steps behind, and they are a font of traditional wisdom who can remedy any ill, whether caused by supernatural or earthly forces. Their anger is awesome, and they will not hesitate to castigate anyone, even Bathara Guru, when they are remiss.

Political scientist Benedict Anderson, best known for his theorizing of nationalism as imagined community, posited in 1965 that wayang’s greatest political utility was the way it modelled moral pluralism. Each social rank in wayang—the ruling kesatriya kings and warriors, the priestly caste, the servants and farmers—are responsible for carrying out its specific duties. Though stratified by hierarchy, there is mutual respect. Some characters might be wide-eyed, brawny, big-bellied, gruff, and easily angered; others are calm, collected, trim in frame, and at a remove from earthly concerns. But all types are valued for their contributions to society. Wayang encourages its viewers to tolerate difference in society and value social harmony.

Anderson’s short book on wayang was published only months before the countercoup that brought Suharto to power and the targeted killings and mass incarcerations that resulted in the death of about 500,000 to a million Indonesians. Anderson’s critics point out that his wayang-informed model of Javanese society as essentially tolerant of difference failed to predict the brutal killings of 1965-66. But in the run-up to this genocide, both left- and right-wing cultural nationalists often evoked the trope of Bharatayudha, the all-out war between the forces of King Duryudana and King Yudhistira and their allies that concludes the Mahabharata cycle of plays, to explain the imminent conflict. Cataclysmic war is a necessary means to right cosmic injustices and restore karma or order to the wayang universe. The Bharatayudha’s scale and the many deaths on both sides are commensurate with the gravity of the karmic wrongs. The two warring clans are closely related through marriage and blood, and the deaths of respected elders such as Bisma, Durna, and Salya are mourned on both sides. War might be inevitable but that does not mean it should be celebrated.

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Wayang’s Others

As well as offering models of Indonesian society, wayang also provides conceptual frameworks for dealing with people and groups from overseas and the nonhuman world. Europeans bear affinities to buta or raksasa, the ogres and giants who live in wayang’s forests and invade from overseas. They have big noses, thick waists, big feet, bristling body hair, loud voices, and bad manners. It is probably no accident that many buta puppets originated in the court of Sultan Agung (r. 1613-45), which hosted numerous European delegations. Wayang’s priests often show Arabic or Turkish characteristics, with hooked noses, flowing robes, and prayer beads. Indians are depicted as cannoneers and mahouts on puppets of marching armies. Chinese merchants are sometimes glimpsed among the comical characters. Wayang’s Chinese are prone to malapropisms and played for broad comedy, a way to redress, perhaps, Chinese domination of the economy. In wayang gedhog, an elite form of wayang that flourished in the courts and princely houses of Java in the 18th and 19th centuries, there are numerous puppets depicting Bugisan, the mercenaries, pirates, and invaders from the Indonesian island of Sulawesi. They sport numerous sabers, daggers, and other weapons; a riot of oddly patterned textiles; big black boots; and snoutlike mouths with protruding teeth. These puppets show that Java, like Europe, had its boogeymen, barely human personifications of terror.

Contemporary wayang performances continue to trade on ethnic stereotypes in novelty puppets. I have seen puppets of Japanese sumo wrestlers, African American boxers, American presidents, Saddam Hussein and his scud missiles, a South Korean soccer coach, and international pop stars with gyrating waists. These puppets usually make their appearance in comical interludes and interact with the low-class clown servants, who mock their linguistic shortcomings and pretensions to fame. They cement popular conceptions of Others and domesticate the global mediascape.

Wayang’s human characters exist in continual dialogue and exchange with nonhuman figures who possess agency and sometimes distinct personalities. In plays based on the Ramayana epic, Rama’s staunchest allies are sentient monkeys and apes, some of whom were once human. Gods incarnate in various forms—sometimes as humans, but sometimes also as animals or even a mountain. Magical weapons can speak and act as proxies to their owners. People transform into vegetation at the end of their lives or disguise themselves as a flower to avoid being discovered in flagrante delicto. Chimerical beasts with both human and animal attributes feature in many plays. Wayang thus encourages recognition of what political scientist Jane Bennett calls “thing power” and a hearty respect for the forces of materiality that are not under the control of humans.

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Who Is the Dalang?

Wayang’s distinct theatrical apparatus—the way a solo dalang or puppeteer mobilizes puppets, musicians, and diverse other elements to create whole worlds of story that can be apprehended as pure shadows on the obverse side of the screen—has long provided metaphors and similes for how politics are construed. By convention, in any encounter, protagonists cluster on the puppeteer’s right while the antagonists are on the left. But when this same encounter is glimpsed from the shadow side of the screen, it is the antagonists who are on the right, while the protagonists are on the left. This inversion of positions, exegetes relate, serves to signify moral relativism.

Politicians have long sought to mobilize wayang to spread propaganda messages. During Suharto’s rule, puppeteers were required to insert messages about family planning, preferred rice strains and fertilizers, education, and five-year plans. But most puppeteers inserted these messages in scenes featuring the clown servants, who were as likely to make fun of their alien terms and question their applicability.

One witness to the transformation of wayang under Suharto was the anthropologist Ann Dunham, mother of Barack Obama. As part of her doctoral fieldwork, she conducted research in wayang craft villages in the vicinity of Yogyakarta, and observed the standardization and commodification of tradition for the tourist market. Obama himself lived in Indonesia’s capital city of Jakarta in his formative years, and gained an enduring appreciation of wayang tales and characters through comic books and other media. As president, Obama hailed Indonesia as a model of religious tolerance and ethnic diversity.

The dalang is sometimes likened to a king or even the divine in his authority over the diverse actors of the shadow world. The Dharma Pawayangan, a Balinese manual for shadow puppeteers, relates that “the enlightened puppeteer incorporates the earth, ogres and the gods. His other name is Leader for he is Shiva […], empowered to command speech.” However the Niti Praja (1630), a didactic Javanese text on statecraft, relates that “a prince is like a dalang …, his subjects like wayangs [shadow puppets], and the law is as the wick of the lamp used in these entertainments: for a prince can do with his subjects what he pleases, in the same manner as the dalang acts with his wayangs according to his own fancy; the prince having the law, and the dalang the lamp, to prevent them from going out of the right way” (translated by T.S. Raffles in The History of Java, 1817). Wayang thus shows that no monarch is truly absolute. For all his apparent power in fashioning stories and creating worlds, puppeteers are still beholden to the materiality of their instruments and the constraints of tradition. The lamp as much as the puppeteer determines where a puppet is to be placed on a screen in order for its features to be visible to an audience, just as a political leader needs to work within the law in order to govern effectively.

“Who is the dalang,” or puppeteer, is a frequent refrain in Indonesian political discourse. The question assumes that there is always a power behind the throne—a wife or sibling who whispers in the leader’s ear, a crony who promises wealth in exchange for influence, a shifty adviser pushing slogans and five-year plans. The question presumes that the general audience—the hoi polloi of Indonesian citizens—are watching the shadow side, where the puppeteer is unseen, but that pundits are following the moves of the dalang while also discerning the shadows that his puppets cast on the screen. The question presumes wayang’s utter conventionality. Voices, movement vocabulary, expressions, relations between characters, songs, and story structures are defined by tradition to the extent that it is sometimes not possible to determine the identity of a performer from the shadow side of a screen. Yet all these performance elements ultimately serve a dalang whose interests and aims are singular and require identifying. So too for the political class, who pick and choose a smorgasbord of banal and oft-invoked talking points for their mission and vision statements, concealing their specific objectives in the rhetorical constructions of cooperation, development, advancement, creative industry, human resources, reformation, anticorruption, and toleration. Or perhaps it is not the dalang-politician who is mobilizing (or puppeteering) these tropes. Might it (also) be the case that the politician is being puppeteered by the slogan?

Wayang is currently undergoing massive shifts in its aesthetics, ritual significance, modes of presentation, and audiences with the rise of global media and Islamic fundamentalism alongside new technology, demographic shifts, and environmental challenges. Some inevitably question the relevance of wayang to modernizing Indonesia. But the way that wayang frames the world, the categories it provides, and the questions it asks, will no doubt continue to inform Indonesian discourse and practice into the future.