Surat KeKawan

Surat KeKawan 1:

Wander-ing Dear Kawan,

When I got home on June 7th 2024 after my nine-month wandering sabbatical, it felt good. Various people have asked me what it was like, how it went, what I did, who I met, etc. I've heard myself respond differently. Sometimes emphasising the joys of travel and how it enriches the soul. Other times acknowledging the exhaustion of overstimulation and changing beds too frequently.

As much as I value being able to journey to multiple sites and meet new people, catch up with old friends and discover insights that are only possible when I leave the comforts of home, I appreciate being able to return to my nest, where the bend of the mattress and curve of the pillow fits my body just so. You know the feeling!

I am still trying to make sense of the experience. It has been delightful, demanding, invigorating, unpredictable, inexpressible. But more importantly, I am working on how the journey to different places on the globe has led to an inner journey through varied parts of my being.

One question that repeats is whether the journey has changed me, or I am basically the same. Hence, I am writing to you as part of an enquiry that allows me to dialogue about what has happened and how it has affected me. Making me find words that trace a thread in the journey. Such that I can also return to them at some other juncture. When I need to review again if this journey has really shifted my thinking about art and artistry.

After the COVID-19 lockdowns and restrictions of travel, I was determined to wander far and wide to ignite my own sensing capacities in known and unfamiliar spaces, with friends and with strangers. I traveled to Australia (Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, Ballarat), New Zealand (Auckland), Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur), Thailand (Bangkok), Indonesia (Yogyakarta), Japan (Kyoto) and England (London, Cranleigh, Bournemouth, Harleston, Woodstock), and in each space I tried to listen closely. To people and places, pushes and pulls, pulses and paces. What do these ideas mean in different contexts, where histories and mythologies have shaped the narratives that inform the present, and propel a future?

In each place I arranged to have conversations with people I believed would educate, inspire and provoke me. I wanted to hear their story and discern their wisdom as arts practitioners, educators and researchers. Or I was with friends and family and chatting led to all kinds of discovery amid rekindled memory. It prodded me to rethink my assumptions and question my practice as an arts educator and performance maker.

Apart from these encounters, I participated in a couple of conferences, ran workshops, gave talks, and was dramaturg for a production. I attended performances, visited art galleries and walked through multiple sites of history and beauty - at times abuzz with activity, sometimes sanctuaries of tranquility. I sure needed those pockets of serenity as the work took a lot out of me.

The focus of the sabbatical - what does it take to turn up for each other? - was a question I have been grappling with. Particularly in the work of theatre education, dramaturgy and artistic production. In addition, my curiosity has been focused on the need for 'precarious appearances' in live performance, where unpredictability and fragility are embedded in the process of becoming available to each other through art. The precarity that interests me points to the ongoing sense of threat that we navigate in everyday life, yet often neglect to express, or shun in favour of solidity and certainty. I believe art makes a difference when it grapples with this reality. How could my knowledge and practice of art benefit from a wandering inquiry?

I chose to travel to places that I had been to before and wanted to visit again, but this time with a different lens. One in which I would engage with people, old friends and new, to learn about what they were doing and thinking - having conversations that would meander through whatever came up in – basically 'turning up for each other' in whatever contexts we were in. These were unrecorded chats over a meal or drink, while walking or driving. I kept a journal to reflect on what was resonant, and made some voice memos to help me remember. These now serve as a record and reminder of my questions and thoughts – some of which turn up repeatedly.

Learning, as well as unlearning, requires stretching and extending in ways that can be discomforting. I was learning, on the go, all the time. That was probably what took me to different spaces within myself. Plus, I had more headspace than I had in a long time. I was listening more carefully to myself and attending to the voices within me that had been quiet or silenced over time. Perhaps that ambivalence and feeling of unknowing was what I needed more than anything. Being constantly on the move and alert to new things all the time, with something fresh and unusual to consider, something new to see and sense. It was at times difficult and troubling, at times exhilarating and exciting. That ongoing mix of feeling.

I write to you about this because you have been a sounding board for me. You have turned up for me. You have many names but I choose to write to you as Kawan, the Malay word for friend, which has come to also mean comrade and buddy. Someone there. Someone listening ... You know who you are.

These letters are meant to make space to encounter something about this journey, and room to ponder the arts and artistry. I hope it will offer a way to tune in poetically and deal with the curiosity about this wandering sabbatical and its effect on me. Whatever that might be.

Thank you for listening.

Warmly, Charlene

p.s. the letters will not be a chronicle of the journey, but they will be written in a sequence that reflects the travel itinerary. Maybe we can talk about the details when we next meet for coffee or a G&T.

Surat KeKawan 2:

Voice-ing Dear Kawan,

In our mixed-up, messy, and majmuk communities, we get used to experiencing and negotiating plurality. And we do this diversely. Across our societies, within our bodies, we deal with difference and encounter its chaotic potentiality. According to our norms and beliefs, preferences and biases. Whatever they be.

Yet we use words to describe these multiplicities that imply more similarity than difference -- 'multicultural' being one of them. Even though 'multicultural' Singapore or Kuala Lumpur exudes quite a different vibe to 'multicultural' Sydney, Melbourne, or Auckland. And 'multicultural' they all are! Majmuk in their own ways.

It's that combination of history, story, nation and society that contributes to this disparity. The narratives and frames we've imbibed, that affect how we sense our selves amid others, and how others sense us amid them. How one kind of multicultural has a clear dominant white settler cultural superiority, namely in Oz and NZ; and another kind has race, religion and ethnicity as markers of cultural priority, such as 'bumiputera' and 'non-bumiputera' in Malaysia. Each multicultural policy claims to be inclusive of 'others'. But really? What about indigeneity?

My first overseas leg of the sabbatical took me 'down under' to Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, Ballarat and Auckland in September and October 2023. This led me to think about multicultural identity and indigeneity with new curiosity. As with other awakenings during the sabbatical, the co-incidence with other events was crucial -- not something I had planned, but part of destiny. Call it serendipity.

The lead up to the 2023 Australian Indigenous Voice Referendum was heating up when I arrived in Oz. That prodded me to learn about the situation and to try to listen to the 'voices' becoming more audible yet still struggling to be heard. There was, and still is, much ignorance on my part about the story of First Nation peoples in that part of the world -- as well as in my part of the world, where Orang Asli voices remain barely heard.

What struck me was how the 'multicultural' frame, be it Down Under or in Southeast Asia, has little place for the indigenous. At best it has a tokenistic space, imbued with prejudice that denotes these cultures are inferior and deserve little power. Questions of 'racial identity' along colonialist lines remain dominant.

While there is growing global consciousness about the need to acknowledge indigeneity as a legitimate political identity, actual policies and practices to support this are few. The Voice Referendum did not go through. Instead, there was an overwhelming 'No', despite huge efforts to advocate for a 'Yes'. The legitimacy of First Nations people and their right to have a 'voice' still struggles to be heard. They continue to have their lands taken away, even as their languages, beliefs and practices erode rapidly. And most non-indigenous people, like me, remain largely distanced from this reality

Will this ever be reversed in our greed-oriented world of multi-hegemony? Will we learn what it means to respect indigeneity in our framing of the multicultural?

At the Brisbane Festival 2023, I watched a solo dance-theatre performance, Kuramanunya by Karul Projects, which moved me and got me thinking about my connection with indigeneity. Featuring Thomas E. Kelly as performer, co-director and co-writer, the work pays homage to First Nation lives lost during colonization. Commanding a strong physical presence, acutely sensitive to the hauntings of this story, Kelly executes a form of ritualized storytelling to mourn the past while invoking the future. He invites the audience to participate in a sacred ceremony at the end to offer closure for incomplete farewells truncated by the brutalities of history. This calls us to attend to ongoing deaths of community and story in various contexts, imaginatively extending the boundaries of historical and contemporary grief beyond one specific tribe -- indigenous or otherwise. With artistry and solemnity, the performance spoke to the prevalent castration of marginalised peoples across the planet, many of whom remain largely unaccounted for in contemporary expressions of nation, society and 'multiculture'.

How come we don't have such performances, with similar rituals, to attend in Malaysia and Singapore? Why do such voices remain silent in our theatres?

As a Malaysian, the conversations and frustrations about identity that affect me directly have been largely focused on racial constructs - Malay, Chinese and Indian, with a modicum of attention paid to Others. Yet I wonder how indigenous stories, ideas and identities might infiltrate the worlds of all Malaysians who live and grow up on lands first inhabited by our First Nations. We seem to lack the will and vocabulary to create a country with an interwoven indigeneity.

Identity is a difficult construct to work with amid rapid ongoing shifts of culture. Identity politics has reared its ugly head and continues to taunt us. Be it about ethnicity, religion, gender, sexuality, nationality, and so on. Perhaps our anxieties about cultural loss and a flattening of identities, particularly among migrant communities that are made to feel displaced and uprooted, produce fear of unfamiliar differences. Instead of how we might be imbricated, dominating voices perpetuate separatedness. Thus, policies that aim to rebalance the power discrepancies are resisted. So, it feels safer to remain distinctly Indian, Chinese, Malay, and keep a distance, especially from the Other-Others?

While I was in Auckland, it was the notion of being Asian Kiwi that intrigued me. Notably, in the 2023 General Elections, a significant number of Asian candidates were fielded in the National, Labour and Green parties, reflecting a stronger political and cultural presence than previously. (Curiously the NZ GE occurred the same day as the Voice vote in Oz)

Asian Kiwis have also become more prolific and present in the theatre scene. Within a fortnight of being in Tāmaki Makaurau (Māori name for Auckland), I attended two performances at the Basement Theatre, focused on questions of cultural belonging, family tension and social displacement among women Asian Kiwis. Both were new plays by writers of East and Southeast Asian descent, exploring content and form that veers away from purely Western-based frames. How to Throw a Chinese Funeral, written and directed by Jill Kwan of Malaysian-Chinese descent, is set in Ipoh (where my brother, now based in Auckland, was born) and incorporates aspects of wayang kulit to tell a story of grief and loss amid intergenerational conflict about values. Chick Habit, written by Nuanzhi Zheng (with roots in Shanghai) and directed by Nahyeon Lee (of Korean origin), also raised questions about what constitutes a viable Asian contemporary voice amid divergent beliefs, old and new, that emerge in Kiwi multiculture.

Identity seems bounded by lineage, even if there is a relatively strong presence of Māori culture and language in everyday Kiwi life. Yet being 'Asian Kiwi' is to be tied to categories such as Chinese, Korean, Indian, Filipino, etc. The indigenous does not feature and appropriation is a tricky spectre.

Reading Nathan Joe's Scenes from a Yellow Peril, which grapples with Chinese-Kiwi identity via a resistance to assimilation, I was struck by how the writing is rhythmic, rowdy and raucous, yet the story is tender and laced with pain. Written as a collection of scenes that articulate what it means to be 'yellow', the images and references point to a Chinese-ness which is at odds with itself yet convinced of its need and right to be present. Much like Kuramanunya, there is deep loss and grief that seeks to be heard, yet as relatively recent inhabitants of the country, there is a different fight at hand.

What does it mean to belong to a country? Would a performed ritual, steeped in experiences of land, fused with indigenous vocabularies of identity, make a difference in the passage of being heard (and healed?) through performance? It's all quite tender and sticky to raise these questions. Entitlement and appropriation are complex questions to move through. Maybe this will inform performances of futurity. If not already. Maybe.

Musingly, Charlene Surat KeKawan 3:

Story-ing Dear Kawan,

What do you ponder when watching performances about 'real' events or 'lived' experiences? Do you deal with 'what is true' in the story or 'what is truth' in reality? I often wonder if audiences are too easily fascinated by the fact that this story happened, instead of doing the work of digging into what the story reveals.

In performances that tell stories from 'real life', I question whether spectators need reminders that what happens on stage is always fiction that renders truth. Even when there are performers who tell 'real' stories about their lives, all of which is true to them, fiction is the frame. Performers create performances to make space for stories to be heard. They tell stories to communicate with those present. And the fiction of the frame enables them to do this repeatedly, to different groups of people each time, while keeping it true to the story.

The story is true. The performance is fiction. And the difference matters.

So even when there is a 'real' indigenous ritual that takes place on stage (eg. Kuramanunya), or a writer draws on 'real' life to create text for the stage (eg. Scenes from a Yellow Peril), the performance is more than the story. It is a temporary sphere in which audiences encounter performers who enact stories, experiencing worlds that exceed the information and transcend the data.

The story provides material for the encounter. The performance invites audiences to be present together. But the experience moves between past, present and future, to also imagine untold stories that sit in the silences and shadows of what is not yet expressed. Through these echoes, the 'real' becomes entangled with the 'fiction', and reality speaks through story. But only if we listen closely and take heed of what unfolds sensuously ... heed how things happen serendipitously.

In ItSelf TerJadi, a performance written and performed by Marion D'Cruz, Malaysian contemporary dancer, choreographer, producer and educator, she told stories about her life that were real. Notably, her 'real' life is rich with story, and she drew on this resource to experiment with writing. Creating the text at a time when she was unable to make work in a studio due to COVID-19 lockdowns, she experimented with 'choreographing the text' – a term she used to explain choices made in the punctuation, use of font and arrangement of words.

Apart from dealing with life during COVID-19, she had battled cancer and undergone a mastectomy in 2019, been primary caregiver for close family, and was grappling with aging – aspects of her life that feature strongly in the text. Real life was replete with intensity, conflict, grief, joy, blessing, and beauty. Experiences she confronted with courage, humour, rage, honesty, and ongoing questions – what does it take to live, and live well, through all this, and more? How does writing stories and sharing them make a difference to reality?

When she began writing in Dec 2020, she had no intention for the text to eventually be performed. Writing was 'something to do' – a phrase Zadie Smith uses to talk about writing. But by chance, she shared the text with a few friends on Zoom in Mar 2021, who then encouraged her to keep writing and continue having similar Zoom events so others could encounter it as well. I was one of those friends, who eventually became the dramaturg because Marion felt that made sense to her, and I believed in the potential of the work. It came together like pieces falling into place as part of destiny – hence the title ItSelf TerJadi. Not unlike life really!

The in-person performance at the Five Arts Centre Studio, Kuala Lumpur in Dec 2023 came after eight Zoom events that Marion presented between Jun 2021 and Nov 2022, after which she became curious about what else could terjadi. What would happen if she was face-to-face with audiences when she told the stories?

When she first shared her text there were 32 stories. Eventually there were approximately 50. Some were one word long. Some had songs. Some had images. One included a dance to a song by P. Ramlee. On those zoom sessions, she read the text from a printed script, and spectators were invited to dialogue with her afterwards. The text was also visible on power point slides, making it possible to read as she read, or just listen to her voice. Initially, it was only close friends who were invited to attend, because she felt some material was very personal. Gradually lesser-known acquaintances were also present. Eventually it became available to the public as live performance.

To make possible the transition and translation from screen to stage, Zoom to room, Marion invited theatre director Janet Pillai and multimedia designer Syamsul Azhar to collaborate with her. Syam created a range of video projections and played extensively with animated images and text, such that words often danced on screen even as Marion sat still on stage. Audience numbers were capped at fifty, making it an intimate encounter, with some seated on the floor, and others on chairs. Marion sat at a desk, holding her printed text, reading from it. Except in moments when she moved across the space - then reading from projections across two screens on either side of the desk.

Marion is a compelling storyteller and skilled performer, and audiences were readily drawn into the worlds she spins on stage. Often laughing with her, crying for her and remembering their own journeys through COVID, illness, loss and longing. Yet the reality of these stories goes deeper, striving to grasp a crucible of contradiction and complexity that reflects the precarity of being human. Some audiences sensed this, grasped its gravitas and engaged the event intricately. Able to sense its searing intimacy amid playful irony. One reviewer apprehended the work as a 'curious thing' albeit an 'intimate portrayal of an artist, coping with life'. No easy thing.

So, what does it take to turn up for such performances and attend to the truth of these stories, beyond the fact that they are real and really happened? What else could the performance have done to invoke engagement with the frames of fiction that cut through the telling of stories, even as the embodiment of these stories reveals critical truths about ordinary, everyday life? How might that have deepened a sense of precarity even as it shaped an artistry for ItSelf TerJadi?

Curiously, Charlene Surat KeKawan 4:

Open-ing Dear Kawan, What does it take to live with wings?

When I visited Ayutthaya in January 2024, with friends from the Learning Sciences and Education Department (LSED) of Thammasat University who were generously hosting my sabbatical in Bangkok, a little episode occurred. While we were walking among the ancient ruins, a parrot decided to have a spree. Making its presence felt among the tourists and devotees wandering through architectural treasures, broken stupas and beheaded buddhas. Swooping low and shrieking out, it declared its agency. Or was it a cry of confusion? A question? 'What is this place? Who are these people? Why am I here?' Fly and see.

Nearby, on an open field, human chatter and loud music signaled a little bazaar was taking place. Looking closer, we could see that amid the tents and stalls there was a company of parrots, the obedient ones who had stayed within their limits. Unlike this blue feathered aviator. Squawking its way into noble vistas, getting a premium view of what walking mortals could only perceive from below.

Soon enough there were several cameras clicking and phones held up to 'capture' the bird as it performed among the branches and remnants of a sacred space. Where people once worshipped, prayed, meditated, read scripture, chanted mantras. On that muggy Sunday afternoon, amid visitors from near and far, the bird became the focus of attention. A different kind of non-attachment.

Its keeper was making a range of sounds to try and get it back. Holding up his hand, he watched the feathered figure dive across the air, then briefly perch on a branch. A feisty choreography of 'look at me, I'm fancy free'. Some audiences chuckled. Others were more wary, nervous in case the bird decided to land too close for comfort. What would it take to rein in this creature? After all, it had not departed from the vicinity and seemed to be testing a boundary rather than breaking it fully.

A teenage boy then called to the bird. Something about his call was different. Resonant in ways only the bird understood. Within seconds, the bird landed on his arm. Feathers in a flurry, then resting calmly. The boy smiled bashfully. Maybe the lure of open skies was not as enticing as it appeared initially. Or this was a reprieve before the next spree.

Unlike Ayutthaya, Bangkok is dense. Skyscrapers, crowds, traffic, markets, malls, temples, waterways, shrines, altars. Choked and choking. Even if in multiple nooks a lamp is lit and a fresh garland placed. Charming, enticing, calming corners, amid the buzz and bustle. After all Thai people are viewed as gracious, radiant and open. Thai hospitality as lush, elegant and welcoming. The notorious 'Land of Smiles'. Yet, there is a deeply private undercurrent as well. In shadowy side streets, along murky waterways, within meditation halls, where people sit and ponder. Seriously and cautiously. The air can be thick with privacy, not inviting to the casual visitor. An intense combination of history, spirituality, memory and story. One needs to linger longer. Stretch those wings and wander.

While in Bangkok, I did some teaching, reading, writing, conversing, facilitating, shopping, perusing. A return to spaces I had been to, reconnecting with people I have known from more than forty, twenty, two years ago. And an exploration of sites that were new to me, meeting people I may never meet again. Curious about their ongoing experience as performance makers, educators, producers, students, and their responses to precarity.

Based at the LSED, which has inspired me since I first learned about their focus on interdisciplinary learning, humanist ideals and creative pedagogies, I wanted to engage with how they facilitate person-centric growth and socially engaged inquiry. Thanks to a dear kawan, Adisorn Juntrasook, current Dean of LSED, I had interacted with their faculty and participated in workshops they organised over the past decade. But this was the first time I visited their space at the Rangsit campus.

What a striking presence and welcoming sensibility. The building has been designed to reduce energy consumption and invite human interaction. All the classrooms have curves, trees grow within the building, and a high ceiling with a transparent roof draws in natural light and enables circulation. As part of LSED's commitment to educational reform, the building conveys a purposeful openness, which, in the words of its architects: 'With the open plan comes open for learning, open for all students, and open for opportunities'. In likeminded fashion, the Thammasat Secondary School, which is closely affiliated with LSED, is an award-winning building, with similar principles that imbricate sustainability with everyday learning. This refreshing alternative to the cramped and claustrophobic urban jungle feels apt. Learning needs space for air to flow and light to shine. Learning entails breathing with intent. Inhaling, exhaling.

My learning, with people and in solitude, occurred in diverse spaces, with different pulses. An intricate tea house, a quiet home, an open paddy field, a workshop venue, a groovy café. Where conversations and reflections created pathways into varied terrains of my being. Some that I frequent and others I rarely attend to. Such encounters allowed me to explore new vistas and revisit abandoned ruins. Reviewing the broken stupas that persist through change and the passages of time. Noticing the newly built high ceilings that let in the light. Walking through shadowy side streets that are haunting. Dipping my toes in waterways that cool me down. Observing the beheaded buddhas that speak to a beauty of their own. These interactions returned me to the temples of my sanity.

Two questions kept emerging as we discussed notions of precarity and listening: 'what does it take to keep going?' and 'when do we need to stop doing?'. A paradox that speaks to an exhaustion and weariness, especially among people who go beyond the stipulated boundary and strive to make a difference. Advancing change, nurturing alternatives, proposing transformative options, making resonant art, can be draining. And the work of listening entails time to rethink the assumptions that advocate doing more, rather than less; moving forward, rather than staying still. To just pause, look again, and see differently. Whether it be about the arts, education, friends, family, politics or personal story, the commitment to making sense is also the journey of being free. To meander and then return, wander off and then resume a familiar territory.

Like that bird that sought open spaces to dance through the air with a shriek and a squawk, maybe all we need is the occasional spree. To spread those wings beyond a boundary. Explore an unknown to review the known tyranny.

Openly, Charlene Surat KeKawan 5:

Attune-ing Dear Kawan,

In Yogya, I was prodded to listen acutely.

There were many voices clamouring for attention across the country. On 14 Feb 2024, Indonesia was deciding between three contenders for the position of President: Prabowo Subianto, Ganjar Pranowo and Anies Baswedan. What a story it turned out to be for the world's third largest democracy. Prabowo, 72, with Gibran (Jokowi's eldest son), 36, as his running mate, won by a landslide. This controversial character, accused of human rights abuses in the 1990s, had made a bid for the presidency twice before to no success. But this time he had a makeover. From the military tough guy, he became a 'cuddly grandpa' or 'gemoy guy' - gemoy being a moniker for cuteness. His avatar as a chubby cartoon character could be seen on screens and street corners, billboards and banners, TikTok and Instagram - just about anywhere you turned. And the 'rebrand' worked.

His quirky gemoy grooves (you might call it dancewashing) struck a chord. It is impressive how his team used the tools deployed in art - movement, rhythm, fiction and fantasy - to obscure the unsavory truths of his past and construct a suitable unreality. Aided by social media, among the young and not-so-young, this was a language that seemed to transcend, if not evade, the political and ethical questions of right and wrong, just and unjust. A feel-good factor, albeit coupled with powerful political support and economic promise, was very appealing. From urban metropolis to rural backwater, people were moving and grooving to gemoy. Never mind about history and memory. So what does this mean for democracy?

One evening, while tuning in to political commentary by analysts and journalists on local tv, I looked across the rice fields facing the verandah. While listening to the punditry, I watched a farmer attend to his plot with quiet rhythmic sensibility. Planting seedlings in neat, even rows, and moving nimbly through the fertile mud. His world seemed so removed from the studio where they spoke eloquently about what this 'win' would mean for the country. In the farmer's sphere, the seedlings would grow if the rain and sun performed accordingly. No gemoy moves or clever opinions needed for his 'win'. Just a mundane predictability. Which currently, with climate change and global warming, denotes much precarity. That got to me. What is the underlying story we do not see? How do I listen to this unfolding of reality?

These questions about what we miss seeing and hearing were on my mind especially since I was preparing for a seminar titled '(Arts) Research as Listening Practice: A Dramaturgy of Precarious Appearances' for the Cultural Studies Graduate Program at Sanata Dharma University, founded by Jesuits in 1955. This learning space is attentive to the value of listening closely and engaging indigeneity in building knowledge with a conscious conviviality. An ethos nurtured by the founders of the department, Stanislaus Sunardi (Pak Nardi) and Romo Gregorius Budi Subanar (Romo Banar), who are highly regarded by several communities for their scholarship and integrity. Trained in the Jesuit tradition of integrated education, they are scholars of literature, theology and sociology who attend closely to ethical questions of access to education and the quest for poetic meaning across all social spheres. Theirs is an intellectual leadership that is motivated by the desire for meaningful community, and an awareness that learning comes through relational capacity. Unlike an ivory tower that is set apart, this space encourages people to wander in and imbibe the dialogues that occur. (A different kind of architecture but with an open ethos akin to the LSED.)

One clear focus is the desire to initiate interconnections between artists, the arts and society – 'Kajian Seni dan Masyarakat' - Cultural Studies that is focused on an artist's approach to knowing and learning, and the arts as a primary literacy for society. Thanks to Helly Minarti, a dramaturg friend who teaches in the graduate program, I was introduced to them, and to Min Seong Kim, who is now a key member of the faculty. Rare gems really. Because unlike the gemoy groovers in the political arena, they are forging meaningful movements through complex questions about what it takes for culture to deepen through the arts, and how community can thrive when steeped in its artistry.

Yogya, well known for its arts collectives and socially engaged organizations, manages to thicken the dialogue on culture and community, with humour, heart and head. The stories I listened to, and the perspectives we discussed reminded me of the importance of location when seeking insight and illumination. Perhaps the proximity to Merapi, which rumbles, erupts and spits out smoke regularly, keeps people in touch with an earth energy that we forget too easily in the big city.

I sense a significant capacity in people to attend to story and listen with curiosity. There is a willingness to slow down and step into liminal spaces where something spiritual, not religious, is allowed to emerge through being together. Their culture of collectives means being involved in 'deep hanging out' without having to label it as such, but simply trust in the value of mutual reciprocity through presence. One friend listens to the story of my sabbatical and suggests it might be a 'software update' for me – an idea that resonates. Another talks about 'finding the voice to say 'no' and the courage to have small egos'. Someone else questions 'structural complexity when running an arts organisation' and the desire to 'shift to simplicity and take it easy' in order to reach neglected community. Each one grapples with how to keep afloat, but admits there is an ethos of care that emboldens their choices, even when risky. It is as if there is a deep listening sensibility that is adept at living with uncertainty and precarity, without having to resolve it. And the listening occurs with the whole body.

At the Ullen Sentalu Museum I learnt about how Sultan Agung, the most powerful ruler of Mataram, choreographed dances such as the Bedhaya Ketawang, which until recently, were considered sacred and only performed in royal courts. These dances are based on principles of cosmology, to invoke unity, peace and goodwill, symbolic of mystical powers that protect the community, steeped in its own feudal patriarchy. However the current ruler, Sultan Hamengkuwubono X, decreed in 2015 that his royal title be gender-free, causing rifts about the legitimacy of this choice. This would make way for his eldest daughter, now titled Crown Princess Mangkubumi, to ascend the throne – a first in the region, where women in aristocracy have to remain secondary. This is no gemoy move to placate the powers that be. What voice has the Sultan heard that enables him to groove in this direction?

I wonder if the primacy of dance in everyday life and Indonesian history propels people to listen with the body. And as a result, feel the stories they hear with a deeper intensity and sensuality. My time in Yogya certainly offered me an experience of listening much more intuitively and creatively. Perhaps listening is a dance and it's the vibrations that move us.

Attentively, Charlene Surat KeKawan 6:

Attend-ing Dear Kawan,

Travel takes its toll. Moving between spaces, adjusting to different climates and contexts. Figuring out what to pack and where to stay. What to put on the schedule and who to connect with. How much to prepare and when to rely on serendipity. It's a demanding dramaturgy of journeying that takes complex energy. So, by the time I got to Kyoto in Mar 2024, I was somewhat journey weary.

…the piece continues at the source.