It’s easy for people to forget that nationalism is a two-way street.

One direction faces outward, which comes into play when a country carefully evaluates the importation of foreign foods and medicines, as well as the assimilation of concepts about human rights, governance, banking, etc.

The other direction faces inward, uniting citizens through common interests that relate directly to daily life rather than being defined in terms of mass opposition to pressure from the outside.

The inward direction can be understood as a kind of social glue that binds people who differ in wealth, language, or ethnic origin. Merdeka — independence from colonial rule — would have been impossible without it, and true national sovereignty will disappear if the glue ever loses its hold in the future.

Indonesia traditionally has very strong cohesiveness at the local level, called gotong royong in Java. People who live in the same village know each other through daily acquaintance and help each other, working together for special events like a neighborhood wedding or for regular community maintenance (kerja bhakti) such as clearing weeds.

In each neighborhood ward — which consist of 30-50 households — matters such as road repair, street lighting, garbage disposal, and night patrol (siskamling) are all decided democratically, often by voice vote. Finances are kept transparent with scrupulous records and open discussion.

The late Raul Manglapus, a senator and later cabinet member in the Philippines, documented in his book “Will of the People” the prevalence of such village politics in diverse cultures around the world, and he concluded that democracy is a universal value.

However, an obstacle inevitably arises when unity expands from a village to a larger entity. The likelihood of personally knowing a leader decreases and leaders rarely know all of their constituents by sight. One way to get to “know” a leader is to take him or her to dinner or to do another type of favor; unfortunately, such acquaintance-building easily gets corrupted.

The spirit of nationalism is essential for leading the way out of the morass of corruption, collusion and nepotism. However, history shows that such a transformation is generally best accomplished by evoking domestic “soft power” rather than imposing military discipline on the entire population.

Soft power nationalism has already been described on these pages by Johannes Nugroho, who discussed “civic culture” earlier this year. Civic culture basically means mutual respect, including traits such as tolerance (“live and let live”) and cooperation. Johannes rightly identified queue jumping as a failure to cooperate and respect one another.

However, poor people swarming like ants in their rush to get free handouts are not the only perpetrators of queue chaos. Jakarta’s streets are full of middle-class and wealthy drivers who seem oblivious to the concept of cooperating in order to improve traffic flow. Taking turns to merge at toll road entrance and exit ramps was virtually unknown before this decade.

In the Information Age, a more significant form of mutual respect involves transparency and cooperative information flow. Indonesians in both the private and public sectors still show an outmoded preference for the so-called “mushroom theory of management” (i.e., “keep them in the dark and feed them excrement”).

A recurrent example of the mushroom theory can be seen when one is in a boarding lounge and suddenly hears that one’s flight has been delayed. An attempt to clarify the duration of the delay often ends in frustration, with airline employees (who are themselves “kept in the dark”) unable to provide information beyond the platitude “wait a little while” (sebentar).

A more general example occurs when one thinks a transaction is simple but in fact a hidden hierarchy is “processing” it. This happened to me recently at a bank in Surakarta when my wife and I submitted a domestic wire transfer at 12:05 p.m. After hearing the nebulous “sebentar” several times over the course of 40 minutes, we were finally informed that the head office in Jakarta could not be reached yet to grant permission.

Surely, we could have been given that information sooner, even though the local staff were honestly doing their best to contact the head office in the vain hope that “any minute now” they might get permission during lunch hour. So, we went to lunch. At 1:50, just as we finished eating, my wife received a call saying that the transfer had indeed been processed.

In the public sector, the equivalent of customer service is dedication to the needs of one’s fellow citizens, not only by being responsive to them individually as “customers” but also by respecting them collectively in the sense of placing the good of society above personal gain.

In recent years, I have seen a new spirit of service in some government offices, even to the point of honoring a verbal agreement to “come back for your receipt tomorrow” (because the printer was broken). Indonesia has made progress in the era of Reformasi, but it still has a long way to go on the road to a civic culture based on mutual respect and informed consent.

Martin Schell has resided in his wife’s hometown in Central Java since 1995. He currently works as a business consultant and is an adjunct faculty member in the Management Communications Department of New York University’s Stern School of Business. Contact him at mschell@stern.nyu.edu. 

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It seems odd that people who call themselves nationalists are so eager to parrot the educational practices and policies of other countries.

The guiding principle in Indonesia is no longer the quest for a wise balance between nurturing traditional skills and developing modern ones, but rather embarrassment about “how we might look” in comparison to K-12 education in other parts of the world.

Thus, the Program for International Student Assessment (PISA) results are interpreted only as a serious failure. This gives rise to a compulsion to “take action” and the hastily chosen solution is to enforce discipline: stricter rules, longer hours, shorter vacations. Unfortunately, many school principals don’t consider cheating on exams to be as significant a breach of discipline as a minute of lateness or a spot of dirt on one’s uniform.

The only way to understand the  problem clearly is to reflect on the nature of education, the purpose of childhood, and the function of schools. For at least a century, commentators have remarked that schools are basically training grounds for entering the work force.

Indeed, many children feel that school is a kind of job: one must follow a routine, obey superiors, produce results. But should these measurable or “deliverable” aspects completely fill a child’s experience of school?

Most public schools around the world today still show the influence of the Prussian education system, which was innovative in the late 18th century. Some of its characteristics include a standardized curriculum, compulsory attendance, teacher training and free education financed via taxation.

Ironically, the Prussians themselves reformed their system after being defeated by Napoleon. While their military reoriented from line formation to mission tactics, the philosopher Johann Fichte convinced educators that citizens should be taught to think independently in order to serve a unified nation.

Schools replaced “drilling” in grammar and arithmetic with a more flexible approach that emphasized broad knowledge and problem solving.

Their great general, Moltke the Elder, believed that his junior officers should “understand the purpose of [a military] operation, and then work for its realization even if it means working against the actual orders.”

This led some observers to quip that his successes in the late 19th century could be attributed to Prussia’s primary school teachers.

For many children, particularly in Indonesia, one of the most striking aspects of entering school is being surrounded by fellow students who are close to one’s age — there is far less age variation in the classroom than among the child’s relatives or friends in the kampung.

The excitement of this discovery of one’s age cohort is apparent to anyone who has walked past a kindergarten and heard the children’s voices. Although terms like “Gen X” or “Millennial” have become cliches similar to horoscope typology, there really is an elan unique to each mini-generation that its members can sense.

For Indonesian kids, school is not only an opportunity to learn facts and formulas, but also an opportunity to develop community spirit and engage in group projects.

The latter type of opportunity is often categorized as emotional intelligence, and one can even see kindergartens in test-oriented Singapore boast about it in banners advertising their facilities.

It should be no surprise that Indonesia led the world in positive answers to “I make friends easily at school” and “I feel happy at school” (Ready to Learn section in 2012 PISA report). Further, Indonesia tied with Thailand and Poland for the top “percentage of students who are in schools where there is a consensus on the importance of the social and emotional development of students.”

Instead of obsessing about exam scores with a narrow-minded goal to “catch up” to places like South Korea (lowest in the world in student happiness) or Singapore, Indonesia should build on its strengths. Cooperative activity and hand-eye coordination (batik, wood carving, wayang wong, gamelan, etc.) should be cherished rather than tossed aside as irrelevant to general education. The Japanese don’t consider origami “quaint,” so why should Indonesians discount the developmental value of their own traditions?

As revealed in books like “The Big Test” by Nicholas Lemann, the rise of standardized testing in the 20th century fulfilled an important purpose: to sift students in remote parts of a large
country and find those who would thrive in a college environment.

In Indonesia, the Ujian Nasional began as a way to judge merit objectively, transcending the tendency of teachers to give high grades to students who dressed neatly, sat quietly, and came to school on time. Unfortunately, the national exam has become a white elephant: expensive to maintain and difficult to get rid of. In a word: useless.

In a rapidly changing world, the older generation cannot predict which skills the younger generation will need, and many youths intuitively know this. The best we can do is pass along the knowledge we have — both modern and traditional — to provide a broad base of intellectual and emotional skills that will produce informed citizens who can adapt successfully to whatever comes their way.

Martin Schell resides in his wife’s hometown of Klaten, Central Java, where their daughters are currently enduring 9th- and 6th-grade exams in public schools. He works as a business consultant and is an adjunct faculty member in the Management Communications Department of New York University’s Stern School of Business. E-mail him at: mschell@stern.nyu.edu.

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