Mijn zomergasten

En voor de zomer goed en wel begonnen was, was ze al weer bijna voorbij. Ik slaagde er niet in alles te doen wat ik me had voorgenomen. Zoals u heeft gezien is mijn jongste schrijfproject, het schrijven van wandelverslagen van de GR5, vooralsnog onaf. Met mijn proefschrift wil het ook niet echt vlotten - ik worstel nog met mijn tweede theoriehoofdstuk - maar ik heb wel een belangrijke paper geschreven en gepresenteerd op een symposium in Kopenhagen, waar ik ook een aantal nuttige contacten heb opgedaan. Behalve in Kopenhagen zijn we in Boedapest, Wenen, Düsseldorf, Amsterdam en Leiden geweest, waar we genoten hebben van het weerzien met oude vrienden, en van de mooie architectuur. Verder hebben we ons een aantal weken teruggetrokken op het Groningse platteland voor een werkvakantie (een fraai oxymoron, vindt u niet?). Van de meegetorste boeken is slechts een beperkt aantal gelezen, helaas.

Het is niettemin fijn om weer eens wat langer in Nederland te zijn. Verandering van spijs doet eten, zegt men; verandering van omgeving kan nieuwe energie geven. De uitgestrekte groene velden vormen een aangename afwisseling op de bossen en heuvels van Oslo. Het is goed om een grote tuin te hebben (een luxe die ons in Oslo niet gegund is), en te kunnen werken in 's lands mooistgelegen stacaravan - dezelfde waar ik ooit mijn masterscriptie schreef. Het is goed om weer even van dichtbij mee te maken wat er zoal speelt in het moederland - van hartverwarmend olympisch patriottisme ('En hij staat! En ik sta ook! En het hele land staat!') tot tenenkrommende verkiezingsretoriek (een minister-president die grossiert in jijbakken en welles-nietes, en geen verantwoording aflegt voor twee jaar van polarisatie en economische stagnatie, terwijl zijn voornaamste uitdager evenmin concrete oplossingen weet aan te dragen; voorwaar weinig reden voor optimisme). Maar het leukste is toch het jaarlijks terugkerende televisiespektakel: Zomergasten.

Toegegeven, ik heb niet alles gezien. Lang niet. Een kort stukje van de aflevering met Henny Vrienten, op internet; te kort om er een oordeel over te kunnen vellen. Delen van de aflevering met Lidewij Edelkoort, een dame die helaas bleek te grossieren in pretentieuze prietpraat en nietszeggende clichés. En, al heen en weer zappend van en naar het teleurstellende lijsttrekkersdebat, delen van de boeiende aflevering met Adriaan van Dis - een fascinerende verteller, die interessante fragmenten had uitgekozen. Ik hoop volgende week nog het tweede deel van het gesprek met Jolande Withuis te zien.

Zoals elke keer na een geslaagde aflevering van Zomergasten kon ik het niet laten mij twee vragen te stellen. Ik vermoed dat ik niet de enige ben die het zich afvraagt. Ten eerste: als ik presentator van het programma zou zijn, en zes mensen zou mogen uitnodigen, wie zouden dat dan zijn? En ten tweede: als ik zelf gevraagd zou worden als gast, welke fragmenten zou ik dan uitkiezen?

Als ik presentator zou zijn, zou ik de volgende gasten uitnodigen (op alfabetische volgorde): Hans Achterhuis, Marlene Dumas, Femke Halsema, Wim Mertens, Jörgen Raymann en Herman van Veen. Hans Achterhuis is een van Nederlands bekendste filosofen; hij heeft boeiende boeken geschreven over geweld en utopisme, maar ook over de 'markt van welzijn en geluk'. Tegenwoordig werkt hij als 'denker des vaderlands'. Marlene Dumas is een Zuid-Afrikaanse kunstenares, woonachtig in Nederland; ze is wereldberoemd vanwege haar expressieve en expliciete schilderijen, zoals de portretten van Osama Bin Laden en Ulrike Meinhof. Femke Halsema is de voormalige partijleider van GroenLinks, en (naar mijn mening) een van de meest visionaire Nederlandse politici van de afgelopen tien jaar; in politiek Den Haag wordt ze tegenwoordig node gemist. Wim Mertens is een Vlaamse componist, pianist en musicoloog; hij is bekend vanwege zijn minimalistische muziek (stukken als Struggle for Pleasure en Often a Bird) en filmmuziek, waarin hij probeert elementen uit de natuur te verbeelden. Jörgen Raymann is een bekende cabaretier en programmamaker van Surinaamse afkomst; hij is een van de meest prominente vertegenwoordigers van de Nederlandse multiculturele samenleving. En Herman van Veen is een van 's lands bekendste zangers en theatermakers, die al decennia op eenzame hoogte staat. Me dunkt dat ik met deze zes gasten een mooi seizoen Zomergasten kan maken. Nu maar hopen dat ze allemaal willen komen...

Als ik zelf gast zou zijn, zou ik ook een mooie televisieavond samenstellen. Ik zou denk ik beginnen met een fragment uit de film Spirited Away, die ik op vijftienjarige leeftijd in Japan zag, en die de nodige invloed zou uitoefenen op mijn latere interesses: een scène waarin een god naar een badhuis gaat, en waarin noties als rituele reinheid en milieuverontreiniging creatief bij elkaar worden gebracht. Het is de tweede helft van dit filmpje:

Dit zou een mooi opzetje zijn voor een gesprek over mijn interesse voor Japanse cultuur, wat me de gelegenheid zou geven het volgende fraaie fragment te laten zien. Het is afkomstig uit een documentaire van de Duitse filmmaker Wim Wenders, en laat zien hoe plastic modellen van gerechten (herkenbaar voor iedereen die ooit in Japan is geweest) vervaardigd worden:

Dit fragment zou aanleiding geven tot een gesprek over de categorieën 'cultuur' en 'natuur', en de verschillende manieren waarop deze op verschillende plaatsen geconceptualiseerd worden. We blijven nog even in Japan, en bekijken een stuk van de documentaire Satoyama, over 'traditionele' Japanse cultuur-natuurlandschappen (met de voice-over van niemand minder dan Sir David Attenborough):

Tijd voor wat theoretische reflectie op de wijze waarop dit soort historisch gevormde beelden genaturaliseerd worden, en waarop ideologische motieven depolitiseerd worden. We gaan praten over processen van mythevorming, aan de hand van een fraai historisch interview met de filosoof Roland Barthes:

De stap van mythevorming en ideologie naar religie is snel gezet. We komen te spreken over de rol van religie in identiteitsvorming, en in differentiatie. Ik vertel over mijn eerste studiereis, op negentienjarige leeftijd naar Libanon, en hoe dit mijn latere denken over religie beïnvloed heeft. Daarbij heb ik gekozen voor een fragment uit de documentairereeks van Jan Leyers, De weg naar Mekka; aflevering zeven, die zich in Syrië en Libanon afspeelt. Hieronder een ander fragment uit dezelfde documentairereeks, omdat ik de betreffende aflevering niet online kon vinden.

We blijven nog even bij het thema religie-identiteit-geweld, en bij verhoudingen tussen christenen en moslims. Het volgende fragment komt uit Adriaan van Dis' fascinerende documentairereeks over het moderne Indonesië; uit aflevering vier, om precies te zijn, die zich afspeelt op de Molukken.



Naar aanleiding van dit fragment zou ik iets kunnen vertellen over mijn eigen ervaringen in Indonesië, en mijn familiegeschiedenis.Vervolgens zou ik het veelgehoorde argument dat 'religie' verantwoordelijk is voor geweld kritisch tegen het licht houden, en laten zien dat radicale vormen van religie niet essentieel verschillen van andere vormen van utopisme; ze kunnen een zelfde legitimerende werking hebben als, bijvoorbeeld, nationalisme of communisme. Ik zou dit aantonen aan de hand van een scène uit The Wind that Shakes the Barley, een fascinerende film van Ken Loach over het ontstaan van de IRA, die de toeschouwer confronteert met moeilijke morele dilemma's en simplistisch goed-kwaad denken problematiseert. Hier alvast de trailer:

Maar religie kan ook inspirerend werken. Het kan mensen motiveren zich in te zetten voor een betere maatschappij, en het kan ze tot steun zijn in moeilijke tijden. Ik zou een fragment laten zien uit een interview met Yusuf Islam, beter bekend als Cat Stevens; een inspirerende man, wiens muziek mij nog altijd weet te raken.

Vroeger of later wordt het gesprek dan minder academisch, en persoonlijker. De presentator (wie zou het zijn?) stelt me de onvermijdelijke vraag: 'Wat geloof je zelf?' Ik weet nog niet hoe ik die vraag ga beantwoorden. Maar ik denk dat ik iets laat zien van een documentaire over een andere inspirerende man, een filosoof-mysticus uit het land waar ik tegenwoordig woon, die wijze dingen heeft gezegd over de verhouding tussen mens en natuur: Arne Næss. Ik vertel over wandelen, en over mijn affiniteit met zijn ideeën.

Als we verder spreken over Noorwegen, komen we ook te spreken over het land en zijn maatschappij - en, onvermijdelijk, over de verschrikkelijke aanslagen van juli 2011. Ik laat een fragment zien uit de toespraak van de minister-president, Jens Stoltenberg, die symbool staat voor de wijze en waardige manier waarop de Noorse bevolking gereageerd heeft op de aanslagen.

Waar mijn interesse voor identiteit en ideologie, mijn politieke betrokkenheid en mijn rechtvaardigheidsgevoel vandaan komen? Van Alfred Jodocus Kwak, natuurlijk. En misschien komt daar ook wel de wens vandaan om ooit met een mooi meisje uit een ver land te trouwen, wie zal het zeggen. Ik zal in elk geval de scène tonen waarin Alfred in de trein zit die teruggaat van Afrika naar Waterland. Hij ontmoet daar zwarte eenden, die hem vertellen over apartheid. En hij ontmoet Winnie, de vrouw van zijn leven. Het is een scène die een onuitwisbare indruk op me heeft gemaakt. Ik zag hem als kind, één keer, en ik ben hem nooit vergeten.

Zuid-Afrika en grensoverschrijdende liefde: dan kan ook Stef Bos niet ontbreken. Een beetje religieus gekleurde romantiek, en een bruggetje om over mijn eigen ervaringen met een 'internationale relatie' te vertellen - over onze bruiloft, bijvoorbeeld, en hoe we daar onze eigen interpretatie van traditionele rituelen hebben gemaakt. Hybride identititeit als bron van creativiteit.

En daarmee zou de stap naar Vietnam gemaakt zijn. Ik zou vertellen over mijn tijd in Vietnam, over de grote veranderingen die dit land heeft doorgemaakt, maar ook over de problemen. En ik zou aandacht vragen voor het leed dat de mensen in dit land is aangedaan, doordat de VS er op grote schaal chemische wapens hebben gebruikt, die tot op de dag van vandaag zorgen voor ziekte, verminking en milieuverontreiniging. Dit is een fragment uit een Australische documentaire.

Maar Vietnam is meer dan alleen de oorlog. Ik zou ook iets moois van het land willen laten zien. Bijvoorbeeld een scène uit The Scent of Green Papaya, een prachtige verstilde film over een straatarm maar optimistisch meisje in Saigon dat droomt van een mooie toekomst. Hierbij de trailer:

Als laatste zou ik een fragment willen laten zien uit een recent interview met Aung San Suu Kyi. Ik heb grote bewondering voor de wijze waarop zij jarenlang, vreedzaam maar doortastend, gestreden heeft voor een vrij en democratisch Birma. De prijs die ze daarvoor betaald heeft is hoog geweest, maar ze heeft de hoop nooit opgegeven. Birma staat nu aan de vooravond van grote veranderingen, zo lijkt het. Laten we hopen dat de belofte wordt waargemaakt, en dat dit land een voorbeeld gaat zijn voor andere totalitaire staten, in de regio en daarbuiten.

En zo zouden we de avond wel vol krijgen. Als keuzefilm zou ik moeten kiezen tussen Spirited Away, The Wind that Shakes the Barley en The Scent of Green Papaya. Daar moet ik nog even over nadenken.

Ik kan niet wachten tot ik word uitgenodigd. Maar ik zal nog wel even geduld moeten hebben.

The land of the Cham

Early January. We say goodbye to Hoi An, to our family, and to the chilly weather. The night train brings us south. We skip touristy Nha Trang, and visit one of the country’s most fascinating provinces, Ninh Thuan. Few foreigners spend time here, as the tourist infrastructure is not very well developed, but it is well worth a visit. This is one of the driest, hottest and windiest places in the country. Instead of wet rice paddies or lush forest, the landscape is made up of rocky hills, cacti and low, thorny shrubs that can survive in this climate. Vineyards, shepherds and goats complement them. If it were not for the litter scattered around everywhere, one might be tempted to call the landscape biblical.

Once upon a time, the Cham owned one of the great empires of Southeast Asia, stretching from present-day Cambodia to north-central Vietnam. They traded with India, Java and China, and had great military, maritime and agricultural knowledge. Today, however, they are one of Vietnam’s most impoverished and marginalised ethnic minorities, while in Cambodia, their number and influence greatly declined because of the genocide committed against them by the Khmer Rouge. In Vietnam, there are currently about one hundred thirty thousand Cham people (0.17% of the population). Despite their poverty, traces of their great history remain. Throughout the southern and central parts of Vietnam, a number of impressive Cham temple towers (dating from the ninth to the fourteenth century) are living testimony to the artistic and architectural genius of the ancient Champa kingdom.

A significant proportion of Cham people today follow an adapted version of Islam. Historically, however, they have worshipped Shiva as their main deity, as well as deified kings (who were probably considered incarnations of Shiva); those who do not follow Islam continue to do so. Naturally, Shiva’s son (Ganesha), wife (Parvati) and bull (Nandi) were also popular, as well as a range of other Hindu deities and divine creatures. As elsewhere, the worship of Shiva was intertwined with fertility cults. Great symbols of divine fertility, and of the unity of male and female, are the so-called linga and yoni, usually made of stone. They represent a male phallus and female vulva, the unity reached through sexual intercourse, and, ultimately, divine reproduction. Most Cham temples still have their linga and/or yoni, some of which are decorated with elaborate carvings.

On previous occasions, I have visited the temple complexes of My Son and Tam Ky in Quang Nam province, as well as the lovely tower in Nha Trang. I have also visited the excellent Museum for Cham Sculpture in Danang, and seen the Champa collection of the Musée Guimet in Paris. For some time, I have had the wish to visit the heartland of Cham culture. Today, that wish has come true. Some of the greatest Cham temples can be found here, in Ninh Thuan province, around the city of Phan Rang. Unlike the towers in Central Vietnam, these are still used for worship. Most Cham people live in this area, and they continue to use the temples for their religious activities. Even those who follow Islam still take part in traditional festivals and rituals.

One of the most impressive Cham temples - perhaps even one of the most impressive religious places I have ever visited - is located near the train station of Thap Cham, six kilometres west from Phan Rang. It is called Po Klang Garai, and was built to honour and worship a legendary king from the past. The king is said to have reconquered land from the Khmer, unify different mini-states, and designed dams and irrigation projects for his people. The temple, which has been restored, is located beautifully on top of a high hill, offering great views of the surrounding countryside. Inside the temple are statues of Shiva and his bull, as well as an altar where offerings are placed. Every year in April, thousands of Cham come here to celebrate their traditional New Year ceremony.

The second Cham temple is located fifteen kilometres south of Phan Rang, and somewhat difficult to find – kudos to the Lonely Planet for giving an adequate route description. The best way to get here is by motorbike or xe om (motorbike taxi). On the way, we pass through poor Cham villages, surrounded by litter as the state does not take care of garbage collection in this area. Cows and pigs are eating the plastic, children play in the dirt, and diseases spread easily. In places like this, there is little or no money for education or healthcare. Meanwhile, the provincial capital is filled with large government buildings and Pyongyang-style monuments, built by megalomanic local officials maintaining strong personal ties with construction companies. One of the problems of Vietnam is that the central government is too weak, and provincial governments have too much freedom to decide what they spend their money on. Thus, shitty provincial capitals turn into hideous concrete parks, while no money is spent on waste disposal or basic education – especially if politically marginal ethnic minorities are concerned.

In order to reach the temple of Po Ro Me, you have to leave the concrete road, and drive the last 500 metres on an unpaved path full of stones, which is a bit of an adventure. But it is worth it. Po Ro Me is not as large as Po Klang Garai, but equally impressive, and even more mysterious. The landscape is wild, rough, deserted, beautiful. The temple is built on top of a pyramid-like construction, and offers great views of the landscape. It is currently in the process of being restored. Inside is a peculiar stone relief, consisting of a carving of Shiva with a long beard and hat, as well as a female statue (possibly a deified queen) and two small bulls. Next to the temple is a large stone linga.

On the way back to Phan Rang, we pass through a Cham village called Bau Truc. It is famous for its pottery, and sometimes visited by tour groups. We visit one of the shops. The owner is an old, friendly Cham lady, who has given demonstrations of her pottery skills in places as far away as Tokyo and Kuala Lumpur. She is a good salesperson, and we leave her shop with a small religious statue. She is also a good story-teller, who proudly shares her cultural heritage with visitors.

We take the national highway back to Phan Rang, pass through the city, and continue north for another twenty kilometres or so. The wind is very strong, and driving here is not exactly fun, as the road is used by many large trucks and buses. Finally, we arrive in the village of Ba Thap, which literally means 'Three Towers'. Two of the three are still standing, and they look impressive, even though they are not built on top of hills, but in a large field. According to my book on Champa buildings, these are the oldest remaining Cham towers, dating from the ninth century. They have been restored professionally, probably by Unesco, judging from the logo on the bricks. Unlike the other two places we visited today, however, they are not actively used. Whereas all tourist buses going from Saigon to Nha Trang pass by this place (you may have seen them from your window), none of them ever stop here.

The towers are surrounded by high walls, and a gate, which is locked. When we ask the neighbours, we are told that the person who has the key does not live here. We have little choice but to climb the gate, which turns out to be fairly easy. The towers are inhabited by bat colonies. Both have beautiful roof constructions. One of them also has fantastic carvings of Garuda, the mythical god-bird. Around the towers, cows are peacefully maintaining the grass, but aggressive dogs prevent us from entering the second tower.

We go back to our hotel, which is located on Ninh Chu - a lovely, little-visited beach, with several affordable resorts. Our second day in Phan Rang is devoted to swimming, sunbathing and relaxing. It is clear that this place has great tourism potential. It is also clear that the place has much more poverty than other areas in Vietnam - judging from housing conditions, the waste problem, and even child labour. The Cham deserve better. The problem of tourism, however, is that it is not usually the local people who benefit most. It is a so-called 'double bind'.

In any case, anybody who is interested in the great architectural and religious traditions of the Cham, had better visit this province. Its landscape and cultural heritage are very different from many other places in Vietnam, but it is a fascinating place nonetheless.

Holidays in Hoi An

The Thu Bon River delta has been an important cultural and commercial centre for centuries. Throughout history, the hot, rainy climate and regular floods have provided the population with natural abundance and fertile soil for agriculture, even though they have also caused inconvenience and suffering. The first capital of the Champa kingdom, Tra Kieu, was located in this area, while nearby My Son served as its religious centre. Their port, Dam Chien (present-day Hoi An), was one of the largest in ancient Asia. The Cham were a seafaring people, after all, who engaged in international trade and piracy. It was here that Indian religious and artistic elements were first introduced to the country, and Champa civilisation developed.

Due to a series of wars, in the late medieval period the Champa kingdom fell into decay, and gave way to northern invaders. The Chinese-influenced culture of the Red River delta gradually spread south, where it incorporated and transformed local traditions. Thus, by 1400, Hoi An had become ‘Vietnamese’. Despite the political and cultural changes, however, it continued to be a trade centre of great economical significance. In the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth century, the port town was an important international trade hub, where merchants from different parts of East and Southeast Asia met.

For instance, until the Tokugawa shogunate implemented its isolationist sakoku policy in the seventeenth century, many Japanese traders visited Hoi An. Their influence is visible in some of the old houses, and in the famous temple bridge allegedly built to tame a dragon that caused earthquakes and volcano eruptions in the home country. In addition, large parts of the population of the town were Chinese. The powerful Chinese merchant clans built their own houses, temples and community halls, which can still be visited today. In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese were the first Europeans to do business in this town, which they called Faifo. Later, the Dutch East-Indies Company repeatedly tried to arrange a trade agreement, but their attempts were not successful.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, Faifo / Hoi An was struck by several natural and man-made disasters. Most devastatingly, the river became more and more shallow; as a result, large ships could no longer get access to the port. By the time the French confiscated the land, Hoi An had been more or less forgotten, and commerce had spread to nearby Danang (which the French called Tourane). Later, during the war, Danang would become one of the most important American military posts. Meanwhile, freedom fighters took refuge in the ancient Cham towers of My Son, some of which were severely damaged by US bombs.

Hoi An was one of the few places in Vietnam that was not bombed during the war. It remained a small, unknown provincial town until well into the 1990s. At the time, very few foreigners had seen the beautiful old town or the lovely nearby beach . But the ‘hidden gem’ could not remain hidden forever. Some of the first foreign visitors wrote lyrically about the place in a popular guidebook called Lonely Planet (an overrated yet highly popular series of travel guidebooks that combine sarcasm, cultural essentialism and lyrical mythmaking about ‘hanging out with the locals’, and exercises great influence on the development of tourist infrastructures), and soon the number of visitors increased rapidly.

In 1999, Hoi An was given world heritage status (and money), and the houses and temples of the old town were restored – but also, perhaps inevitably, transformed into tailor shops, restaurants, bars and souvenir shops. Backpackers were followed by wealthy package deal tourists, new hotels and resorts were built, and within a couple of years the old town changed completely. It became a little gentrified Asian amusement park, where few locals can afford to spend time – so much for ‘hanging out’ with them. Today, prices in the most popular restaurants are several times what they used to be a couple of years ago. A cocktail in a trendy bar now costs about as much as seven meals in a local eatery.

As a result of the rapid changes, some successful entrepreneurs have become very rich, but many others have not. Hence, income gaps have widened dramatically. In fact, many of the wealthy owners of hotels and restaurants are Hanoians – people with capital, who can afford to invest in real estate in the old town or near the beach. By contrast, many local people moved to Danang as they could no longer afford living in Hoi An. Thus, mass tourism, increasing income gaps and domestic migration have contributed to inflation, the erosion of social cohesion and the loss of traditional rural and urban landscapes. This development is not limited to Hoi An’s old town: the once-gorgeous beaches between Hoi An and Danang are turning into yet another hideous jungle of concrete and neon letters. All of this is part of the mixed blessing called ‘progress’.

When our plane arrived at Danang International Airport, construction workers were just removing the letters from the old terminal building. We were taxied to a brand-new, large building we had not seen before. Danang is desperately trying to attract foreign tourists to stay (i.e., spend money) at one of its myriad new beach resorts, and the construction of an impressive new airport building is part of its strategy. So far, few (if any) airline companies are offering international flights to and from Danang, but the city government seems pretty convinced that this will change in the near future.

We took a shared taxi from the airport in Danang to Hoi An (for some reason, no shuttle buses operate on the route yet). It was cloudy, wet and a bit chilly, and unfortunately the weather would remain pretty much the same all week, with the exception of one sunny day. But we were happy to be back in Hoi An and spend time with our family, whom we had not seen for a year and a half.

It was Christmas, so we went to a church service. Vietnam is in name a communist country, but its population has always remained highly religious, including many people who are not affiliated with a particular religious institution. The dominant religious traditions are so-called ‘ancestor worship’, Mahayana Buddhism, the Chinese traditions (Taoism, Confucianism, yin-yang practices), as well as the cults of national heroes and local deities. In addition, however, a significant proportion of the population is Christian – official statistics suggest approximately six to eight percent, but the actual number may be higher. In fact, Vietnam is one of the countries in Asia with the highest percentage of Christians (only the Philippines, Lebanon and South Korea have more). Traditionally, most of these belonged to the Catholic Church. In recent years, however, as in other Asian countries, Evangelical churches have gained quite some popularity.

The church we visited was one of those American-style Evangelical churches with a neon cross on top of the roof. The lyrics of songs were projected on a large screen, the music was electronic and had a loud beat (clearly adjusted to Vietnamese preferences) and the members of the choir were bad singers, but they did wear beautiful red-white dresses and candles. The church was completely packed; there must have been several hundreds of people, many of whom probably do not usually come to church services. We had to sit on plastic stools in the back of the church, and we considered ourselves lucky, for many others had to stand. Most of the attendants were in their twenties and thirties, but there were many children as well, reflecting Vietnamese demographic developments and suggesting significant church growth.

The service lasted way too long. The first hour and a half or so were mainly devoted to singing songs. Silent Night and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing were the only traditional Christmas carols passing by; the others were Vietnamese versions of American songs (with alternative, religious lyrics) such as White Christmas and Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, as well as Vietnamese-style folk songs, performed by solo singers. In fact, it sounded more like some sort of music festival than an actual church service, and the police officials and Party officials standing outside the church to report the contents of the service to the authorities must have felt very bored. Eventually, we did get to listen to a sermon – as far as I could tell, it was mainly about the notion of wealth, and about how to achieve true happiness. As expected, political or social critique was absent.

Except for the church service, our week in Hoi An was mainly devoted to social activities. We spent a lot of time with family and friends, and my language skills – while still limited – improved quite a bit. We also did a bit of shopping. Vietnam is still relatively cheap, so it is a good place to pick up new glasses, a coat or a pair of shoes, especially if you live in the world’s most expensive country. We did not do any sightseeing, but we did enjoy the occasional motorbike ride around the rice paddies, which brought back happy memories.

So what do you do, when you spend Christmas with family? Exactly: eating and drinking. Hoi An has fantastic food, and we enjoyed our stay to the fullest. For breakfast or lunch, we could choose from many different kinds of noodle soup – pho, bun, or one of the local specialities, mi quang or cao lau. Other simple but delicious streetfood includes chao (rice porridge), com ga (chicken rice), banh xeo (savory pancakes) and springrolls. For dinner, we could choose from different kinds of fresh seafood, such as crab or fish, eaten with rau som (mixed fresh herbs and lettuce), rice crackers and nuoc mam (fish sauce). Or, alternatively, eaten in soup, with noodles and vegetables – so-called hotpot (lau). I also love the clams steamed with lemongrass and chilli, the fish-filled tofu, and of course hoa chuoi – banana flower salad with shrimp, mint and peanuts. Three of my all-time favourite dishes, in fact. Washed away with the local beer Larue (with ice, of course), cold tea or fresh fruit juice.

Yes, did I mention the fruit? Fresh tropical fruit is one of the great delights of any visit to Southeast Asia, and Vietnam is no exception. Banana, coconut, custard apple, dragonfruit, guava, jackfruit, kumquat, lime, longan, mango, mangosteen, milk fruit, nashi pear, papaya, pineapple, pomelo, rambutan, sapodilla, soursop, starfruit, sugar cane, watermelon… The list is endless, the variety of flavours amazing.

We know that Hoi An will always be a home for us, no matter how fast she changes, and no matter how mixed our feelings about those changes. It will always be the town where my wife spend her childhood, the town where we first met, the town where we got married. There will always be fresh fruit, herbs, fish sauce and seafood waiting for us. And, last but not least, there is the sea, and the beach, with all its memories. The town is like that sea – ever-changing, yet timeless. 

Japanese autumn

If a novel is recommended by both Mr. DuPont and Mr. Engelen (independently, as they have not yet made each other’s acquaintance), it must be a good novel. Hence, I decided to purchase a copy of David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, and bring it with me on the airplane. No lack of airplane journeys, this week, so it did not take me very long to finish it. And I concur: this is an extraordinarily rich historical novel, full of memorable characters and events. Set against the background of the Dutch trading post Dejima (Nagasaki) at the turn of the nineteenth century, Mitchell’s latest novel is an intriguing story of hope, betrayal, prejudice, corruption, religion, imperialism, science and, inevitably, impossible love; at times sarcastic yet in the end naively romantic. The author beautifully describes sounds, smells, city life, random thoughts and other small details that may not be directly relevant to the plot, but contribute greatly to the overall reading experience. Thus, he succeeds in bringing to life his characters and the world in which they live. Frankly, I doubt the historical probability of some of the events; in particular, the morbid cult of Mount Shiranui does not seem very convincing. Nevertheless, I highly enjoyed reading this book, not in the least because it evoked nostalgia by reminding me of my own initial fascination with Japan, my first exotic Other.

The title of the novel contains the name of the main character, a devout VOC clerk from Zeeland, who resists the temptation of corruption but hopelessly falls for the temptation of female beauty. It also refers to one of Japan's nicknames: the land of the thousand autumns. Of course, the Japanese isles have four different seasons, each with their distinctive beauty – as any tourist pamphlet or kitschy ‘Zen’ book reminds us of. And of course, spring brings the annual extravagance of white and pink cherry blossoms, giving the nation an excuse for two weeks of jouissance. However, as any expert or resident will confirm, Japan is at its most beautiful in autumn, when the summer heat is gone but the winter cold has not yet arrived, when nature is at its most dynamic. In autumn, the maple trees in temples and parks turn red as fire, the ginkgo trees yellow as gold. Flocks of tourists come to the old capital to visit famous temples (and queue for hours to take pictures of themselves in front of famous sightseeing spots covered with red leaves), but the forested mountains around the city have plenty of quiet hiking trails. Throughout the country, towns and temples are covered in colourful dresses of red, yellow, green and orange. The air is fresh, but not too cold; the sky is usually clear, except for the occasional shower. Long periods of grey skies and never-ending rain, so common in the Netherlands or the UK during this season, are very rare. Autumn is also the time of many great festivals, religious ceremonies and cultural events. In sum, autumn is probably the best time to be in Japan.

Some pictures of the past few months. 

Millenarianism - monotheistic machinations or universal utopias?

Last month, I wrote a short essay on the topic of 'millenarianism' - radical beliefs in the end of this world order, followed by a perfect new world. It was loosely based on a conference paper I had presented in Leiden, a while before, and the Judgment Day predictions that had just appeared in several media. The essay was published on the weblog of my research network. Now that it has been there for a while, I also publish it on Rotsblog. As always, feel free to leave comments or ask questions.

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What does Harold Camping's failed prophecy have to do with the Japanese new religion Aum Shinrikyō? Is millenarianism an essentially monotheistic phenomenon, or does it hold universal appeal? How come notions of the End Time and radical world renewal are still in vogue today, despite the fact that history continues to prove them wrong? Following recent events, in this essay I will discuss some of the aspects of millenarianism, and argue that it may be a useful concept for cross-cultural comparison that deserves to be explored further.

It was a funny coincidence. A couple of weeks ago, I was in the Netherlands, where I participated in a conference on religion and violence entitled ‘The Root Causes of Terrorism: A Religious Studies Perspective’. Several internationally acclaimed scholars presented their ideas, as did a number of selected PhD candidates. I was one of them: I presented a paper on millenarianism in modern Japanese religious ideology. The conference took place at Leiden University, but I was staying at a friend’s place in the city of Rotterdam. When I arrived at Rotterdam Central Station, I could not help but notice the huge billboards hanging everywhere. The message was clear: the Day of Judgment would come soon. That following Saturday, May 21st, to be precise. There were only a few days left to repent before the event would take place, and the billboard urged me to have an immediate look at the website www.familyradio.com, where I would receive further instructions. But I was too busy preparing my paper to worry about this dramatic prophecy. Fortunately, the conference was planned before the predicted date, so I would have the opportunity to present my paper anyway - even if the Day of Judgment were to take place two days later.

Family Radio is an American Evangelical organisation, led by a wealthy 89-year-old man named Harold Camping. It was he who calculated and predicted the Day of Judgement, and spent significant amounts of money on advertisements in order to reach as many people as possible – not only in the US, but also internationally, as the billboards in Rotterdam made clear. His efforts to get the message across were quite impressive, and several journalists who came across the predictions mentioned them in newspaper articles. Apparently, the failed prophecy was considered newsworthy. However, as any student of religion can confirm, Camping’s predictions were hardly unique. In the course of history, hundreds if not thousands of charismatic leaders have predicted the imminent overthrowing of the present world order, and the subsequent establishment of a perfect new world. Many of them have mentioned concrete dates on which this apocalypse would supposedly take place. So far, all of them have been wrong. Nevertheless, promises of a radical rupture continue to hold popular appeal among certain groups of people.

Millenarianism and monotheism

In religious studies, these ideas are referred to by the terms ‘millenarianism’, ‘millennialism’ and ‘apocalypticism’. The Encyclopedia of Religion defines millenarianism as ‘the belief that the end of this world is at hand and that in its wake will appear a New World, inexhaustibly fertile, harmonious, and just.’ The transition from the present world (perceived as corrupted and degenerate) to the utopian new world is often imagined as radical, definitive and violent. The just will be separated from the wicked by force, and divinely ordained violence will play a central part in purifying and liberating the world from its corrupt and polluted elements. Hence, if the utopian promise is convincing, millenarian expectations can have great mobilising potential, and may be employed as justification for real acts of violence. Significantly, there are several structural similarities between so-called ‘religious’ millenarianism, and other types of radical ideologies, such as utopian nationalism or Maoism. These similarities include notions of moral and racial purity, divine election, and a lost glorious past that will be reestablished in the near future. It comes as no surprise, then, that in modern times millenarian belief systems often incorporate nationalist elements, and vice versa.

Millenarianism is often associated with a ‘lineair’ view of history, and, accordingly, with the so-called ‘monotheistic’ or ‘Abrahamic’ religions. For instance, as stated on the website of the aforementioned conference: ‘Monotheistic traditions have introduced a new notion of ‘time’ and henceforth, of ‘history’. They all contain ideas about apocalyptic violence inaugurating the end of history and the definitive realisation of a divine kingdom.’ The questions are, of course, a) whether such notions of time are limited to the so-called ‘monotheistic traditions’; b) whether it was really these traditions that introduced such notions, or whether similar ideas were developed in other traditions; and c) whether the very category ‘monotheistic traditions’ is adequate as an analytical category – or, rather, a normative theological notion.

To start with the latter: I strongly doubt the empirical validity of the commonly used dichotomy between ‘monotheistic’ and ‘polytheistic’ religions. While the concepts are relevant as normative, ‘emic’ categories employed by followers of religions themselves, their descriptive value is questionable, as concrete religious practices do not necessarily correspond to normative theological notions. That is, as an observer, I am not convinced that there is a structural difference between, say, certain types of Catholic or Islamic saint worship, and the worship of deities and bodhisattvas in East-Asian cultures. Besides, I am sceptical of the popular assumption that Judaism, Christianity and Islam have something unique in common, which sets them apart as a group and makes them fundamentally different from ‘polytheistic’ religions – a diffuse rest category, defined by nothing but its supposed otherness.

It can be argued that the ‘monotheism’-‘polytheism’ (or ‘Abrahamic’-‘Asian’) dichotomy is a variety of the classical West-East dichotomy, based on a similar set of binary oppositions: exclusivistic versus syncretistic, individualistic versus collectivistic, rational versus emotional, particularistic versus holistic,  masculine versus feminine, lineair versus circular and so on. These are myths, discursively constructed and cultivated, that have come to be taken for granted and continue to influence popular imagination. They are based on notions that were developed by European early modern and pre-modern Orientalist writers, but reappropriated by Asian intellectuals in the late 19th and 20th century, who employed them as ideological tools for nationbuilding and symbolic empowerment.

Polytheism and Othering

Japan is one example of a country that continues to be framed as a ‘polytheistic other’, defined by its stress on social harmony, the primacy of the collective over the individual, its aesthetics of simplicity and its holistic view of nature. All of these are stereotypes, and despite the fact that they are easily falsifiable (Japanese society and culture are much more diverse than commonly assumed, and offer plenty of examples of cases that do not fit the paradigm), they continue to be powerful. It comes as no surprise, then, that most popular introductions to ‘Japanese religion(s)’ focus on aspects that correspond to these stereotypes: their supposed ‘non-exclusive’ nature (as illustrated by the often repeated phrase ‘born Shinto, marry Christian, die Buddhist’); their anti-rational focus on intuition and spiritual experience (as popularised by the sizeable discourse on Zen, most of which builds on the nationalist mythmaking of D.T. Suzuki); their love of nature and the natural environment (recently appropriated and advocated by a number of Shinto representatives); and their fundamental focus on social harmony and, hence, peace (following mistaken assumptions about Buddhism as essentially a non-violent religion).

Clearly, a religious organisation committing a terrorist attack with the apparent purpose of killing as many innocent people and creating as much chaos as possible does not fit the paradigm. Yet, this is precisely what happened sixteen years ago. On March 20, 1995 several members of a small religious movement named Aum Shinrikyō committed an attack on the Tokyo subway by releasing sarin, a poisonous nerve gas. They killed twelve people and injured several thousands, some of them permanently. The attack was preceded by murders of community members and opponents of the movement, and it was supposed to inaugurate the apocalypse predicted by its leader, Asahara Shōkō. The population was shocked, and the authorities reacted in accordance with public opinion: leaders of the group were imprisoned, several of them (including Asahara) were sentenced to death, and the organisation was disbanded.

In the following years, a large number of books and articles appeared discussing the why and how of the event. Some of them were journalistic accounts, others were scholarly interpretations. They analysed the interactions between Aum and wider society, the processes of radicalisation and othering that culminated into the dramatic events of March 1995, stories of survivors, social consequences and responses by the authorities. In all discussions, the story of Aum was told as a more or less isolated case. Either implicitly or explicitly, it was suggested that ‘the Aum affair’ was a tragic anomaly; a symptom of the social anomie of the 1990s, perhaps, but essentially un-Japanese. The statement by scholar of ‘religious violence’ Mark Juergensmeyer that ‘the location for which a violent act of religious terrorism is least anticipated is modern urban Japan’ is illustrative for this commonly held assumption.

As I argued in the paper I presented at the conference, I do not think Aum Shinrikyō was as unique as often suggested. Nor do I believe ‘monotheistic’ religions are more prone to millenarianism than other traditions (let alone invented it). The notion of radical (possibly violent) world renewal has been a recurring theme in the history of Japanese thought, resurfacing in times of social and political turmoil. It ranges from mappō (‘end of the Buddhist Law’) thought in medieval Buddhism to the large-scale popular yonaoshi (‘world renewal’) uprisings in the premodern period; from the nationalist millenarianism in the 1920s and 30s (in groups as diverse as Ōmoto, the Holiness Church and Nichiren Buddhism) to the radical, utopian leftist groups that engaged in acts of violence in the 1970s; and from postwar new religions such as Sūkyō Mahikari, Agonshū and Kōfuku no Kagaku to recent popular culture and film, in which apocalyptic themes figure prominently. In sum, millenarian thought has been a significant, at times powerful undercurrent of modern Japanese ideology.

Universal Utopias

Fantasies of divine destruction, followed by the establishment of a brave new world, are not uniquely Christian or ‘Western’. On the contrary, they seem to hold universal appeal. They are not old-fashioned either, but continue to be reemployed periodically. Aum Shinrikyō was a modern, urban phenomenon; a product of globalisation, combining elements from a variety of diverse sources such as esoteric Buddhism, the prophecies of Nostradamus and anti-Semitic conspiracy theories.

Likewise, Family Radio is a modern, international movement, that uses advertisements and communication technology to get its message across. As urbanisation and globalisation continue worldwide, and traditional social structures give way to more fluid identities and uncertainty, millenarian promises will continue to attract people with their alternative epistemologies. Millenarianism is more universal and modern than often suggested. Thus, it constitutes a potentially useful category for cross-cultural comparison – more useful than ‘religion’, perhaps.