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The Warlocks of Old Banten

By Irfan Kortschak

In the hours that followed the forced resignation of former President Soeharto, a sudden pall was cast over the jubilant fresher-week atmosphere at the MPR by rumors of the arrival of a group of men in traditonal black, ninja-like clothing, who, it was said, had come to enforce the acceptance of Habibie as the new president. There were many nervous mutterings about mercenary fighters of unknown origin armed with black magic and supernatural powers, and university students who had stared down the barrels of guns mounted on tanks without a qualm began to look uneasy. The more timid individuals quietly made their way towards the exits.

In fact, the threat seemed to exist more in the collective imagination than in reality. Throughout Indonesia, stories of fighters with supernatural powers, usually hailing from specific regions where dark sciences are said to be assiduously cultivated, have an ancient lineage. These stories take on a power of their own, and the ability of those deriving from these areas to strike fear into the hearts of the credulous is carefully fostered.

Each region of Indonesia boasts its own unique tradition of martial arts, and many have an associated theatrical form that is intended to demonstrate the potency of the practioners to an audience that extends far beyond the boundaries of the area in which it is practiced. Thus, performances of the Reog in Ponorogo or Pencak Silat in Minangkabau are not merely entertainment – they are forceful public statements that the people of the area are fully capable of defending themselves, and are not to be messed with.

Of all theatrical forms intended to generate fear and respect, that of Old Banten is perhaps grudgingly acknowledged to be the most potent and dangerous of them all. Much of the awe in which the natives of this area are held has as its basis the stories of the Debus, a grim and macabre art whose practitioners display a prodigious resistance to physical suffering.

***

As we drove toward the Great Mosque of Old Banten, I looked out at a group of school children playing a desultory game of soccer in the town square. Several cows and a goat or two grazed in the square, moving aside reluctantly to make way as our car passed. I wondered if we had come to the right place. It looked like a sleepy Javanese coastal village, with little to distinguish it from thousands of others of its kind.

And yet appearances can be deceptive. Until the closing years of the 17^th century, Banten was one of the world’s major capitals, its wealth and power deriving from its strategic position on the Sunda Straits and its subsequent control of the extraordinarily lucrative sugar and pepper trade. With a major international port and completely surrounded by fortified ramparts, Banten was acclaimed around the world as a formidable military power, a thriving entrepot of trade and transshipment, and an eminent center of learning.

The square on which I stood was the very heart of the kingdom. Around it stood all the visible symbols of state power – the royal palace, the Great Mosque, the arsenal, the prison, and the princes’ apartments. Wandering over to the crumbled ruins of the palace, it required a major act of imagination to reconstruct the edifice in my mind’s eye.

While the Mosque has been destroyed, rebuilt, and restored on several occasions, it retains its original structure, with the five-tiered roof that is typical of many early Javanese mosques, and a tall octagonal minaret set slightly apart from the main structure.

The strength of Islam and the power of the Mosque in Banten are intricately related to the history of the nine walis, venerated apostles of Islam who are credited with introducing the new creed to Java through the merchant kingdoms on the north coast, where the courts were particularly susceptible to conversion to the egalitarian faith of an international network of traders, seafarers, and scholars.

In the early years of the 16^th century, Sunan Gunung Jati, one of the nine walis, visited Banten in an attempt to convert the pagan town to the new faith. Frustrated in his attempts to woo the ruling classes of Banten, in 1527, Sunan Gunung Jati sought the assistance of the Islamic Sultanate of Demak, which sent troops to assist him in seizing control of the then Hindu kingdom. Victorious, Sunan Gunung Jati had his son, Maulana Hasanudin, installed as king.

Hasanudin’s grave, and those of the Sultans who followed him, lies in a royal mausoleum to the north of the Mosque. His tomb attracts a steady stream of pilgrims who come to pay homage to the memory of the warrior-saint who established an empire and spread the Islamic faith throughout his realm.

A short walk from the Mosque is the modest home of Tubagus Ismetullah Al’Abbas, a senior member of Banten’s royal family and a direct lineal descendent of Hasanudin. I decided to pay him a visit to learn more about his family’s role in Banten’s history.

With the blood of the Prophet Mohammad and the Sultans of Banten flowing through his veins, Tubagus Ismet was a handsome, urbane and distinguished-looking individual. The walls were lined with photos of him meeting all three of Indonesia’s recent presidents, and a number of other dignitaries.

The suave prince was happy to receive me into his home to talk about Old Banten’s past glories and the possibility of the resurgence of its royal family with the declaration of the new province of Banten, a province that constitutes the entire northern seaboard section of West Java. “The new province of Banten is still struggling to find its identity. Of course, these days, a Sultan would not yield real political power, but he could still play an important role as a symbol of Banten’s cultural and historical traditions. With the support of the new regional government, a revived Sultanate could help develop and strengthen these traditions,” he said.

Of all the cultural traditions of Banten, the one that outsiders find most fascinating and frightening is the Debus performance, in which the practitioners engage in such gruesome feats of self-immolation as skewering themselves with metal spikes, walking on coals, and allowing themselves to be beaten with a sledge hammer while lying on a bed of nails, all without appearing to suffer bodily damage. Tubagus Ismet claimed that this highly dramatic, if somewhat grisly and macabre, art form was developed at the instigation of his ancestor, Hasanudin, for performance by the palace guard. “Originally, Debus was used to attract new followers to Islam. It struck fear in the hearts of our foes and inspired respect for the power of the new religion. All members of the audience were required to be Muslims. Some young men became Muslims just for the privilege of watching a performance,” he told me. He insisted that genuine practitioners perform these feats as exercises of ‘inner power,’ without sleight-of-hand or trickery, although he admitted that many imitators – “Usually not even from Banten!” – borrow the Debus name and use chicanery and deception to create their effects. Somewhat skeptically, I asked him if he could tell me the name and whereabouts of a genuine practitioner. “Pak Haji Mohammad Idries in Walantaka village! Go and see Pak Haji Idries!”

*** 

The road to Pak Haji Mohammad Idries took us through the not particularly appealing town of Serang, the administrative center and capital of the new province of Banten. Apart from the unusually large number of mosques and pesantren, powerful communities of Muslim scholars that own huge tracts of land in the area and wield enormous political influence, there was little to distinguish this town from any other minor regional capital in Indonesia.

Down a pretty back street lined with bamboo groves and rice fields was Pak Haji Idries’ house, only a few kilometers out of town.  Our car pulled up under an ancient baobab tree to which a chattering monkey was chained. We knocked at the door, and a sprightly old man with sharp, vivacious eyes briskly asked us to state our business. After we made our intentions clear, he invited us into his simple wooden house. This was the man we were seeking, the modern day regenerator of the ancient art of Debus, Pak Haji Idries.

Pak Haji Idries claimed that due to his age, he no longer leads his Debus group himself, but that he has turned over its management to his son and grandson. Several of his great-grand children are also involved. Surprised, I asked him how old he was. Turning his bright eyes towards me, he said firmly: “Ninety-four. I was born in 1907.”

Pak Haji Idries confirmed Tubagus Ismet’s description of the origin and purpose of the art form, although he said that originally, Debus was much simpler than it has since become. In former times, it involved only two performers. One would place a strange instrument like a giant tack, a sharp spike with a large flat wooden head, against his stomach, while the other would beat the head with a sledgehammer with all his might. The pair would then exchange roles.

Pak Haji Idries claimed to have learnt the art of Debus from various Islamic scholars during the late 1940’s, during the struggle for Independence against the Dutch and the Japanese. Pointing to medals and certificates from the Indonesian armed forces, he claimed to have used the skills he learnt during this period to develop the fighting skills of a band of guerillas, of which he was the leader. Later, in peacetime, he used the skills he had acquired to add to the repertoire of the original theatrical form by adding attractions such as fire walking, glass swallowing, wrist slashing, and other attention grabbing acts. His group then regularly engaged in staged exhibitions at weddings, circumcisions, and other celebrations to mark rites of passage, but also at hotels, theaters, and commercial venues, traveling abroad as far as Malaysia, Japan and Australia. He thinks nothing of demonstrating his powers before a paying audience. “Debus performances have been conducted before the public since the time of Hasanudin,” he insisted.

With Debus, unlike pencak silat, the martial art with which Debus is often associated, there is no need to learn a complicated form of movements or to study breathing exercises or meditation techniques. “The teacher transfers the skills to the pupil,” he said. “The pupil has to pay for them by fasting and conducting ascetic exercises for forty days. He has to do one forty day fast for each segment of knowledge that he receives.”  He added that while the ability is not inherited or restricted to those of Bantenese descent, it is essential that the aspirant be a strict adherent to the Islamic faith.

Pak Haji Idries saw that I was still skeptical and suggested that next week I visit the house of Pak Enjat Sudrajat, a former pupil, to witness a group in action.

*** 

The road took us along the coast, in the direction of the isolated yet luxurious Tanjung Lesung resort. We drove through small coconut plantations and Buginese fishing villages with houses set on stilts next to the beach. The fishing folk who live here were preparing their nets and boats for the trips out to the bagan, bamboo platforms from where they angle.

We arrived at Pak Enjat Sudrajat’s house shortly after dusk, where his group has assembled for a training session. The group meets every Thursday evening, a day of the week believed to be especially suitable for the impartation of ilmu, the art and science of magick. The group, known as Banteng Kulon, or Buffalo of the South, consists of perhaps thirty members, all male, ranging in age from twelve to fifty, and dressed in plain black ninja-style robes.

The evening started slowly. We sat back and drank the inevitable sweet tea as the group engaged in the repetitive communal chanting of a mantra, “Laa illa’ha illullah! Laa illa’ha illullah!” Several of the younger boys sat on a mat, while an older man dipped his hand in a pot of holy water on the surface of which float the petals of seven different types of flowers. He splashed this water on the forearms of the boys and massaged them forcefully and painfully. Self-conscious under the eyes of their older brothers and a foreign visitor, they tried hard not to wince. These young boys were in the process of receiving the powers that would render them invulnerable.

As the chanting came to an end, some members of the group made their way to a makeshift arena and assumed martial arts postures, feinting and weaving, ducking and blocking. This was a lesson, not a performance, and there was much good-natured chaffing. However, as the evening passed, the atmosphere grew increasingly charged.

Pak Enjat walked over to the arena, his genial smile fading. He barked an order, and his boys ran out and prepared several piles of bricks and a bed of sharp-pointed nails. He pointed to a couple of older youths, who stepped forward, their faces expressionless. They drank a small glass of holy water, and one boy lay down on the nails, face down. Bricks were placed on his bare back. As we craned our necks forward, his companion took hold of a heavy sledgehammer, lifted it above his head, and smashed the bricks with all his might. The bricks were reduced to smithereens, but the kid who received the blow stood up and faced us, no worse for his ordeal.

Next, a tray of burning wood and hot coals, about two meters in length, was brought onto the stage. Barefoot, several other students sauntered backwards and forwards along the length of the tray, treading on the coals and kicking them with their feet. They sat next to the tray, removing burning splinters of wood from the fire, and placing them into their open mouths. Amazed, I leaned over and pulled out a similar splinter. I tried to touch the smoldering end, but pulled back quickly – it was too hot to touch with my bare skin.

But the act was just warming up. Pak Enjat called on Pak Aceng Keling, his second-in-command, a wiry looking individual with wild, unkempt hair and fierce eyes, to step forward. Pak Aceng seized a skewer and, standing a meter in front of me, pierced his cheek. He opened his mouth wide and stood next to the light, sliding the skewer backwards and forwards. Slowly, he removed the skewer. There was no bleeding or other sign of injury.

He then drew a machete, inviting me to test its razor sharp edge. In front of my eyes, he slashed his forearm. His flesh parted and blood gushed out. He then ran his other hand over the wound, which appeared to close and heal instantly. I didn’t know what to make of this. Was it highly skilled conjuring? Some kind of trick? Hypnotism? I would have preferred to think so, to have my belief system left intact. But how was it done? It looked pretty real, right in front of my eyes and under a bright light. Did he press some kind of sponge to squeeze out fake blood? It didn’t look like it!

The show wasn’t over. Pak Aceng pulled out a long steel rod and placed one end against his bare Adam’s apple. He invited me to push the other end. I pushed hard, so hard that the rod buckled and bent in the middle. I released my grip. I looked at the rod. With my entire strength, I could barely straighten it.

Finally, the instrument that Pak Haji Idries had described as being similar to a giant tack was bought forward, and the sharp end was placed against Pak Aceng’s stomach. Pak Enjat beckoned me again and handed me a sledgehammer, smiling a small smile. Reluctantly, I accepted the hammer. At Pak Enjat’s gesture, I hit the wooden head, softly at first, and then again, harder and then harder still, as hard as I could.

Pak Aceng stood still for a moment, then knelt down, his face contorted. Worried, I peered closely at him. He leaned forward and opened his mouth to spit out something small and black.

It was a live bat.

He opened his mouth to show me that it was empty. Then, he leaned forward and spat out yet another live bat. Like the last one, it fluttered away into the night. Aghast, I turned to face Pak Enjat, who was still smiling gently. “He can do snakes, too, you know,” he said softly.