#mataram

In collaboration with Indonesia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and other partner organizations, the first meal in the Gastronosia series was, fittingly, held at Borobudur, with a small group of guests. The largest event, which hosted 100 guests at the National Museum in Jakarta, aimed to recreate a type of ancient royal feast known as a Mahamangsa in Old Javanese, meaning “the food of kings.” The IGC’s Mahamangsa appeared alongside a multimedia museum exhibition, with video screens depicting the art of ancient Mataram that inspired the menu and displays of historical cooking tools, such as woven baskets for winnowing and steaming rice. Another event, held at Kembang Goela Restaurant, featured more than 50 international ambassadors and diplomats invited by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

But how does one translate 1,000-year-old stone carvings into a modern menu that’s not only historically accurate, but appetizing? “We have to have this very wide imagination,” says Musiawan. “You only see the relief [depicting] the food…but you cannot find out how it tastes.” The IGC designed and tested a Gastronosia menu with the help of Chef Sumartoyo of Bale Raos Restaurant in Yogyakarta, and Riris Purbasari, an archaeologist from the Central Java Province Cultural Heritage Preservation Center, who had been researching the food of Borobudur’s reliefs since 2017.

The range of human activities depicted in the reliefs of Borobudur is so wide that it has inspired research in areas of study stretching from music to weaponry. There have even been seaworthy reconstructions based on the “Borobudur Ships” displayed on the site’s lower levels, exquisitely rendered vessels like the ones that facilitated trade in ancient Southeast Asia. So it’s no surprise that Borobudur has no shortage of depictions of food-related scenes, from village agricultural labor, to the splendor of a royal Mahamangsa, to a bustling urban marketplace. Baskets of tropical fruit, nets full of fish, and even some modern Indonesian dishes are recognizable in the reliefs, such as tumpeng, a tall cone of rice surrounded by side dishes, which is still prepared for special occasions. Some images are allegories for Buddhist concepts, providing what Borobudur archaeologist John Mikic called “a visual aid for teaching a gentle philosophy of life." Uday Dokras suggests that these diverse scenes might have been chosen to help ancient visitors “identify with their own life,” making the monument’s unique religious messaging relatable. The reliefs illustrate ascending levels of enlightenment, so that visitors walk the path of life outlined by the Buddha’s teachings: from a turbulent world ruled by earthly desires at the lowest level, to tranquil nirvana at the summit.

Musiawan says that the IGC research team combined information from Borobudur with inscriptions from other Javanese sites of the same era that referenced royal banquets. While Borobudur’s reliefs show activities like farming, hunting, fishing, and dining, fine details of the food on plates or in baskets can be difficult to make out, especially since the painted plaster that originally covered the stone has long-since faded. Ninth-century court records etched into copper sheets or stone for posterity—some accidentally uncovered by modern construction projects—helped fill in the blanks when it came to what exactly people were eating. These inscriptions describe the royal banquets of ancient Mataram as huge events: One that served as a key inspiration for the IGC featured 57 sacks of rice, six water buffalo, and 100 chickens. There are no known written recipes from the era, but some writings provide enough detail for dishes to be approximated, such as freshwater eel “grilled with sweet spices” or ground buffalo meatballs seasoned with “a touch of sweetness,” in the words of the inscriptions, both of which were served at Gastronosia events.

Sugar appears to have been an important component in ancient Mataram’s royal feasts: A survey of food mentions across Old Javanese royal inscriptions revealed 34 kinds of sweets out of 107 named dishes. Gastronosia’s Mahamangsa ended with dwadal, a sticky palm-sugar toffee known as dodol in modern Indonesian, and an array of tropical fruits native to Java such as jackfruit and durian. Other dishes recreated by the IGC included catfish stewed in coconut milk, stir-fried banana-tree core, and kinca, an ancient alcohol made from fermented tamarind, which was offered alongside juice from the lychee-like toddy palm fruit as an alcohol-free option.

Musiawan describes the hunting of animals such as deer, boar, and water buffalo as an important source of meat in ninth-century Java. Domestic cattle were not eaten, she explains, because the people of ancient Mataram “believed that cows have religious value.” While Gastronosia’s events served wild game and foraged wild greens, rice also featured prominently, a key staple in Mataram that forms the subject of several of Borobudur’s reliefs. It was the mastery of rice cultivation that allowed Mataram to support a large population and become a regional power in ninth-century Southeast Asia. Rice’s importance as a staple crop also led to its inclusion in religious rituals; Dokras explains that in many regions of Asia, rice is still an essential component of the Buddhist temple offerings known as prasad.

The indigenous Southeast Asian ingredients used in Gastronosia’s Mahamangsa included some still widely-popular today, such as coconut, alongside others that have fallen into obscurity, like the water plant genjer or “yellow velvetleaf.” Musiawan acknowledges that modern diners might find some reconstructed ancient dishes “very, very simple” compared to what they’re used to “because of many ingredients we have [now] that weren’t there before.” But in other cases, ninth-century chefs were able to achieve similar flavors to modern Indonesian food by using their own native ingredients. Spiciness is a notable example. Today, chillies are near-ubiquitous in Indonesian cuisine, and Java is especially known for its sambal, a spicy relish-like condiment that combines pounded chillies with shallots, garlic, and other ingredients. But in ancient Mataram, sambal was made with native hot spices, such as several kinds of ginger; andaliman, a dried tree-berry with a mouth-numbing effect like the related Sichuan pepper; and cabya or Javanese long pepper. “It tastes different than the chili now,” Musiawan says of cabya, “but it gives the same hot sensation.” Chillies, introduced in the early modern era by European traders, are still called cabai in Indonesian, a name derived from the native cabya they supplanted.

"This was our living room, this was our bedroom, this was the kitchen," said Syahidin, 46, as we walked through what remained of his family's home. The white cement walls were stained with dark scorch marks. Grass and small trees had grown through the rubble-strewn floor. The roof was all but gone. The home was supposed to be a second chance after Syahidin and his family were chased from their home on the other side of the island—in Pancor, East Lombok—only one year before. But trouble has a way of following Indonesia's Ahmadiyah community.

For the past 11 years Syahidin and his family—along with 120 other Ahmadiyah Muslims—have been living in a shelter for internally displaced peoples in Mataram, the capital of West Nusa Tengarra and a short 20-minute drive from Ketapang. Wisma Transito Shelter is overcrowded and lacking the facilities needed for long-term inhabitation. Syahidin and his family share a single room that serves as their kitchen, bedroom, and living room. "I thought we were going to be here for one or two months," Syahidin told me. "I never thought we would still be here after eleven years."

The shelter was originally built to house transmigrants—poor workers from the overcrowded island of Java sent to other provinces as part of a government program—as they transitioned to normal life. It was never meant to house more than 100 people for years on end. The conditions are so poor that the National Commission on Human Rights (Komnas HAM) released a report in 2013 criticizing the central government for their continued inaction on the Ahmadiyah issue.

"They are living together, separated only by cabinets and curtains," Imadud Rahmat, then the deputy chief of Komnas HAM, told local media shortly after the report's release. "This, of course, has given them no privacy and has caused discomfort."

The community has become emblematic of Indonesia's inability to protect its religious minorities from persecution. The central government recognizes six faiths under national law. There is no mention of a specific strain of Islam, but 99 percent of the country's Muslims are Sunni. That leaves the remaining one percent, mostly Shia and Ahmadiyah Muslims, prone to discrimination and violence.

The persecution of the Ahmadiyah peaked under the administration of former-president Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who's popularly referred to as SBY. Between 2004 and 2014, more than 30 Ahmadiyah mosques were forcibly shuttered by mobs of hardline Islamists, according to data compiled by Human Rights Watch. In 2007 there were only 15 reported "attacks" against Ahmadiyah Muslims. Only one year later the number of reported attacks had risen to 193. By 2011 the persecution had reached its peak when hardliners murdered three Ahmadiyah Muslims in a brutal instance of mob violence that was all recorded and posted to YouTube.

Direct, violent attacks against religious minorities have decreased since President Joko Widodo took office, but hate is still on the rise. The Jakarta-based think tank Setara Institute recorded 270 instances of religious intolerance in 2016, up from 236 in 2015. The state, including local governments and the police, were found to be complicit in more than half the incidents.

A local government in Kuningan, West Java, was caught in July demanding that Ahmadiyah Muslims renounce their faith to receive a government ID card. Last year a different local government told Ahmadiyah Muslims to convert to Sunni Islam or be kicked out of their village.

"Discriminatory regulations towards religious minorities are increasing which is why the situation is going to get worse," said Andreas Harsono, the lead Indonesia researcher for Human Rights Watch.

To date, 16 provincial governments have issued bans on the Ahmadiyah community. Ahmadiyah Muslims have been present in Indonesia since before the country gained independence. But the faith was declared deviant by the Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI), the nation's main Islamic clerical body, which issued a fatwa against the group in 2005.

A few years later, SBY's administration issued a decree banning Ahmadiyah Muslims from proselytizing their faith. Those found violating the decree are subject to up to five years of imprisonment.

"The MUI has been spreading false information about the Ahmadiyah faith," Udin, the president of the Ahmadiyah Association in Mataram, told me. "For example, the MUI said that the Ahmadis' holy book is not the Holy Quran but the Tuskira, and that we don't go to Mecca for pilgrimage but to Pakistan. These are all lies."

But these kinds of rumors have a real impact on the lives of Ahmadiyah Muslims like Munawarah. The 53-year-old mother of seven had to send two of her children to live with their grandparents after their one-room space in the shelter became too cramped. Her two teenaged children constantly ask when they can finally move out. The question, which has no easy answer, pains Munawarah.

"I don't know how to explain to them why we are still here," she said. "If I had the money, I would move out tomorrow. Not a second passes by when I don't think about getting out of this place."

Munawarah was visiting relatives in Kalimantan in 2006 when her house was destroyed in the same mob attack that left Syahidin homeless. When she returned to Ketapang all that remained of her house was the walls and a few broken window frames.

It brought back painful memories from her childhood, she said, when she was discriminated against by the school principal for being an Ahmadiyah Muslim. She told me that her teacher would slap her for no reason other than her faith.

"The pain is still there inside me," Munawarah said.

No one was ever held accountable for the violence that left the 100 or so families confined to the shelter homeless. The families told me that they received no money from the central government to compensate them for their loss. They have no idea when, or if, they can return home. Udin, the head of the local Ahmadiyah association, accused the central government of turning a blind eye to their suffering.

"We went to the governor, the mayor of Mataram as well as other authorities and told them we would like this case to be solved as soon as possible," Udin told me. "But they keep sending us back and forth saying it does not fall under their jurisdiction. As a consequence, these families have been forced to live in a refugee camp for over ten years."

Fauzan Khalid, West Lombok's district chief and the public official in charge of the entire region where Ketapang is found, denied the allegations in a phone call with VICE. Khalid told me that his administration had offered to resettle the community on a family-by-family basis, but they had refused the offer.

"Several offers were made in the past to the families including one to resettle them at different locations," Khalid said. "But they rejected the offers saying they didn't want to be separated."

The Ahmadiyah prefer to live among themselves and have always separated themselves from other Muslims, a trait, that Khalid believes, led to the violence in Ketapang.

"It's their exclusivity that's a problem," he said. "They had their own place of worship, their own village. They only became neighbors with their own kind. This is what bothered the other residents."

The Ahmadiyah I met told me that they always enjoyed a friendly relationship with their Sunni Muslim neighbors. That was, they did, until a local cleric named Muhammad Izzi whipped the crowd up into a frenzy during a sermon where he urged his followers to drive the "deviant" Ahmadiyah from their village.

The sermon continues to hold significant sway in the village today. I approached a group of men sitting idly at a gazebo about five minutes from the old Ahmadiyah community to ask them about the violence. But the men grew angry when I mentioned the incident and refused to speak with me.

I reached the village chief, a man named Murad Amin, on the phone. He promised additional violence if the Ahmadiyah Muslims tried to return to their homes.

"They're not allowed back here," Murad told me. "If they come back, we will attack again."

Murad told me that the Ahmadiyah were "infidels," who had no place in his village. "They are not Muslims," he said. "They should stop calling themselves that."

I found an elderly Ahmadiyah man named Sehabudin working a small garden in his old neighborhood. He lives in a small makeshift tent whenever he can't make it back to the shelter before nightfall. Sehabudin told me that some of the Sunni Muslim villagers have come up to him and apologized for their actions, even inviting him to visit their homes. But the apologies have done little to change his situation.