Remembering to Live: Illness at the Intersection of Anxiety and Knowledge in Rural Indonesia

Introduction

Introduction A certain degree of abstraction is of course required, otherwise we would get nowhere, but is it really necessary to just make a book out of human beings? —e. e. evans-pritchard Laughter rings throughout Sasak compounds even though illness and death knock constantly at their door. Sasaks live on Lombok, the island immediately east of Bali in the Indonesian archipelago. Of Indonesia’s thousands of islands, Lombok consistently has one of the country’s worst health records. How do people cope with the fragility of their lives so that they can return to laughter? This ethnography, about Sasak ethnomedicine in a pluralistic medical setting, argues that the organization of medical knowledge that enables people to cope has profound consequences for their health. In order not to “just make a book out of human beings,” I will tack between descriptions of cultural knowledge and personal knowledge, processes of maintenance and processes of change. While clarifying theoretical positions on the relationships between culture and people, our focus must be on what matters, namely, on people’s lives and the concerns that compel them. The following pages are ‹lled with the serious, sometimes tragic side of Sasak life, but we must begin by getting the ethos right. We begin with laughter. Living Life with Laughter Laughter rang throughout the compound. It was my last night in the hamlet of Pelocok, the place I had called home for nearly two years. As remembering to live a parting gift, I entertained a gathering of about 75 people with videotapes of themselves. As I played the tapes, people jammed together to see their images dancing across a makeshift screen. They laughed uproariously, pointing at themselves. Everything was hilarious. Children running off to school. Men playing dominoes. It all made them laugh with delight. I had chosen the ‹lms with care, putting aside ‹lms of private or semiprivate events: cosmological discussions, births, and the like.1 But tacked onto one ‹lm labeled “Everyday life—children playing” was the acute illness episode of Inaq Nori. Not exactly a private event, for at least 50 people had witnessed her convulsions and confused speech; nonetheless, I had not wanted to show anything that might remind friends of dif‹cult events. I tried to turn it off, but Inaq Nori herself stopped me. I need not have worried. The group just continued to laugh. Inaq Nori laughed loudest of all and pointed at the screen, bursting out with “Look at me!” “What am I doing?” “Look, my stomach hurt!” I changed the ‹lm to one of dancing, and the laughter continued . Inaq Nori’s laughter was, perhaps, as much with embarrassment and self-consciousness, as with delight. But it was not laughter to mask distress or unhappiness. When she had cares, anyone who knew her knew it instantly. Her normally jovial disposition became quiet, her eyes lost their sparkle, and she would answer questions of everyday politeness with words that gave voice to her cares. For example, one morning she answered my inquiry if she wanted to go visiting with me with “No, I’m not going anywhere. My son ran away yesterday and my heart it goes . . .” and she made a jerky up-and-down movement with her ‹st in front of her heart. Later that night, after her son had returned, I met her again. This time the smile was again evident in her eyes, as she said that her son had just gone visiting and hadn’t told anyone. The disappearance of her son obviously had troubled her, but with his return, she too returned to laughter.2 Inaq Nori was not unique in this respect. Every Sasak person with whom I had even a passing acquaintance readily communicated current worries, anxieties, griefs, and ills. Yet, with few exceptions, once these cares were past—for better or worse—people seemed to accept
2  1. Cosmological knowledge is considered potent, secret knowledge, and therefore the discussions I had been permitted to videotape were inappropriate for public viewing . 2. A phrase borrowed from Laura Bohannan’s classic work Return to Laughter (1964). the emotional and physical scars they made and turned their attention to the business of living another day. In the pages that follow, the fragility of Sasak lives is palpable. Their world is riddled with dangers seen and unseen, spoken and unspoken. Illness is an everyday event. Death, in people’s perceptions and in...