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What is This?
Article
Victoria A. Beard
University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA
Introduction
Current descriptions of radical planning fail to explain how social trans-
formation occurs in authoritarian contexts because they do not address how
citizens in these environments acquire the skills, experience, and political
consciousness necessary to bring about significant social and political
change.1 This results in an inadequate theorization of the process of
13
The operative terms in these definitions are societal guidance and social
transformation. Whereas the former is articulated through the state, and is
concerned chiefly with systematic change, the latter focuses on the political
practices of system transformation. Planners engaged in these two practices are
necessarily in conflict. It is conflict between the interests of a bureaucratic state
and the interest of the political community. . . . The pressure for system-wide
transformation is intensified when, in the course of a system-wide crisis, the
legitimate authority of the state declines, and the state itself is so weakened that
it can no longer successfully repress the radical practices of the political
community. (Friedmann, 1987: 38–9)6
Sandercock, like Friedmann, suggests that the focus of radical planning will
depend, in any given context, on the character of oppression being endured
and on the accompanying critique of the circumstances that maintain that
oppression (1998a: 98). Despite the diverse range of oppressions that radical
planning might address, much of Sandercock’s theorizing focuses on injus-
tices related to ‘difference’.
In theoretically positioning radical planning vis-a-vis alternative modes
of planning practice, Sandercock (1998a: 99) stipulates that it does not ‘lie
on a logical continuum with rational planning for societal guidance’. Her
view is that radical planning requires an epistemological break with what
planners thought and did in the past (Sandercock, 1998a: 99). Yet in another
statement she acknowledges a relationship between planning for societal
guidance and planning for social transformation ‘. . . there is an unresolved,
and unresolvable tension between the transformative and repressive powers
of state-directed planning practices, and their mirror image, the trans-
formative and also repressive potential of the local, the grassroots, the insur-
gent’ (Sandercock, 1998a: 102). That acknowledgement implies that
planning as societal guidance and planning as social transformation do lie
at opposite ends of a continuum. However, as Sandercock notes, both state
and local actors have the potential to engage in planning as societal
guidance and/or planning as social transformation.
Sandercock argues that radical planning does not necessarily begin with
grand, overt acts, but instead with smaller actions or what she calls ‘a
thousand tiny empowerments’. However, her work never addresses how a
group or community moves from being oppressed, lacking resources, and a
general state of powerlessness to becoming empowered. Even more
perplexing is how a community in an authoritarian context would move
river were developed outside (and sometimes in spite of) formal planning
and regulatory frameworks, and their high-density unregulated housing,
combined with their lack of official land tenure status and periodic flooding,
created limited social and political spaces available for residents to engage
in planning for social transformation. Data for this study were collected in
a series of three intervals, 1994, 1997, and 2001, thus spanning what is
considered the pre-crisis, crisis, and post-crisis periods in Indonesia.9 In
total, approximately 27 months were spent in the field. Research methods
included direct observation, in-depth interviews (n=200), oral histories
(n=50), and community meetings (between 5 and 10 meetings per month).
A household census (N=275) was conducted of a single community to
gather information on household structure, education, employment,
consumption, land tenure, access to services, and participation in
community-level organizations.
It is important to note that when the researcher began this study she set
out to answer questions related to the capacity of community-based
organizations to alleviate poverty and not to address the question of how
residents learn radical planning in an authoritarian context. Serendipitously
the research spanned both periods of economic prosperity and crisis, as well
as a period of tremendous social and political change in Indonesia. As a
result, much of the data analyzed in this article came from field observations
and informal conversations that emerged from relationships of trust
between the researcher and respondents. These relationships allowed
respondents to discuss the fear and repression they felt when the Suharto
regime was in power and how this climate was slowly changing in the post-
Suharto period.10 In many ways the longitudinal research strategy and use
of ethnographic methods facilitated the telling of a different story, and,
possibly, a more interesting and important story than the researcher initially
sought.
In RWs and RTs, men and women usually conduct separate monthly
meetings, in which they select their leaders, carry on routine dialogue, and
identify community-level problems as well as strategies for action. Despite
the transformative potential of these fora, their vertical organization and
the unidirectional, top-to-bottom flow of information effectively precludes
spaces in which public dialogue with neighboring communities (e.g.
geographically adjacent RWs) might take place (let alone radical planning).
During the New Order period this vertical administrative structure served
a number of important functions.13 Specifically, it was extremely effective
in marshalling volunteer labor to implement the State’s development pro-
grams, providing surveillance of community-level activities, and preventing
geographically adjoining communities from mobilizing in support of collec-
tive demands on the State. This study will show how residents learned to
manipulate this state-imposed structure, and how they ultimately used the
limited spaces permitted for public dialogue and collective action, to pursue
increasingly radical action for transformative ends.
The clinic provides the elderly with services, such as information about
their weight, blood pressure, preventive health care, which they had previ-
ously lacked because of prohibitive costs and (for some elderly) a lack of
mobility. The clinic is conducted once a month in a WFWO volunteer’s
home. Here a hot meal is served and volunteers record attendees’ weight
and blood pressure, fill prescriptions, distribute vitamin supplements, and
occasionally a doctor participates to answer questions and make referrals.
While the program is a community-based planning effort, since it is modeled
after the national Mother and Child Health Care Clinic, it is considered
complementary, not oppositional, to state policy. Its success is due to several
factors: Ibu Wati’s formal training as a nurse as well as her knowledge of
political–administrative protocol, the volunteers’ skills and experience from
working at the Mother and Child Health Care Clinic, and support from the
local government as well as the community. The Mother and Child Health
Care Clinic had given the participants in the WFWO a wide range of invalu-
able experiences and skills that later helped them mobilize and realize their
plan.
For the reader to fully understand the significance of the health care
clinic for the elderly, it needs to be considered in conjunction with the two
stories that follow. It is also important for the reader to understand that
most of the residents involved in these efforts were cognizant of each other’s
work. Not only must these three stories be understood together, but the
reader must never lose sight of the sense of fear and repression community
members felt when they began to mobilize and engage in collective action.
State’s repeated denial of requests for legal land tenure. The group also
discussed how the Jumat Kliwon group’s project had transformed the
appearance of the poorest segment of the community to that of a formal
settlement. It was ultimately decided that this community effort was too
important to be abandoned. The paving plan was scaled back, and a subtle
strategy toward gaining official land tenure was salvaged. Since these two
projects were completed: small numbers of residents continue to receive
legal land tenure on an ad hoc basis; there has been discussion that the State
might provide a retaining wall for flood protection; and no effort has been
made to relocate the community.
The example of the RW and Jumat Kliwon group illustrates how resi-
dents moved, over time, from community-based planning to covert
planning. The repaving project can be understood as an example of covert
planning because while it superficially complies with the State’s develop-
ment agenda, in actuality it represents a gentle yet deliberate challenge of
the State’s policy and authority. For the time being, the community
succeeded in creating the aura of legal residential settlement and thus
reduced the propensity of the State to force relocation. In addition, through
their joint effort, residents have become increasingly united in their resolve
to remain in the community that they built together, thus making relocation
an increasingly unsavory political option.
In an authoritarian context, covert planning is an important intermediary
step between mobilizing in response to community needs that are
compatible with the state’s agenda and radical planning for more trans-
formative purposes. Such planning exists intentionally beyond the purview
of the state, yet it provides residents experience in community organizing
and collective action, problem-solving skills, and a palpable sense of collec-
tive agency that might be used for more overtly radical action in the future.
The transition from covert to radical planning is illustrated in the next
example.
knew that the community’s strict social hierarchy would require that
support be withheld from an idea that had not been sanctioned by the
formal leadership.23 Because the Youth Group demonstrated respect for
this hierarchy, the plan for the library was never perceived as potentially
insurgent, either by the community leadership or the State. As a result, even
in a period when state control over local organizing was particularly
restrictive, the crucial first steps in planning the library were allowed to
proceed.
The next step in getting the library established involved the community
leadership officially notifying the sub-district and district offices. The way
in which Mas Sigit, the youth group’s leader, amassed community and State
support exemplifies the concept of covert planning: he was assertive at the
community level about achieving the means for establishing the library, yet
he was prudent and savvy in interactions with the State. On the surface the
library was compatible with the State’s development agenda and the
eradication of illiteracy. Therefore the State never became cognizant of
the degree of social learning, political consciousness, and potential for
political praxis that resulted from planning, organizing, and maintaining the
library as well as access to the reading materials and opportunities for
discussions.24
In planning and setting up the library, the Youth Group met no opposi-
tion from State authorities because the library was never considered radical
or insurgent. On the contrary, it was considered compatible with the State’s
campaign to eradicate illiteracy. Herein lies a key to planning for social
transformation in an authoritarian context: the community-initiated plan
that ultimately empowered the Youth Group was conceived and executed
with a discursive strategy that intentionally emphasized its compatibility
with the State’s development agenda. When, however, the economic crisis
occurred in Indonesia in 1997 and the State’s control was weakened, the
Youth Group used the library to organize its members in public demon-
strations demanding significant social and political reform. At that moment,
the Youth Group moved from covert to an incipient stage of radical
planning.
Some might find this seeming subtle shift to demonstrations in opposi-
tion to the State not to be particularly significant; however, that interpre-
tation would miss the point. One needs to imagine hundreds of thousands
of community-based and covert planning efforts going on across Indonesia
for decades, to understand how a citizenry learns the skills and gains the
political consciousness to protest en masse against a punitive and authori-
tarian regime once a window of opportunity opens. To better understand
how planning for social transformation occurs in the context of an authori-
tarian state that wields extreme measures of control and maintains a sense
of fear among its populace, we must begin to recognize how, cumulatively,
modest efforts are capable of creating a sense of collective agency and the
social and political spaces for radical action.
1. How does a politically oppressed group learn the skills and gain the
experience and confidence to organize against a more powerful
repressive force? Earlier explanations of radical planning offer no
insight into how this type of practice begins. The present case
demonstrated how radical planning can begin with non-radical
participation in State-directed programs. Such experiences teach vital
skills that can be used to organize outside of, and even in opposition to,
the State. Participation in State programs taught residents about the
limitations of State structures and the power and possibilities of
mobilization. This conventional participation led in time to broader
community mobilization and to more deliberate forms of covert
planning, which in turn created a sense of community agency and
eventually contributed to a broader politicization.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank John Friedmann, Jack Huddleston, Ragui
Assaad, Jamie Peck and the three anonymous referees for their comments
on earlier versions of this article.
Notes
1. The foundational work on radical planning referred to here includes: Castells
(1983), Clavel (1983), Friedmann (1987, 1989), Grabow and Heskin (1973),
Heskin (1991), Leavitt (1994), and Leavitt and Saegert (1990). Importantly, all
of these authors discuss radical planning and/or radical action with the
assumption that democratic institutions are in place. As a result, they assume a
level of civil and human rights and procedural processes associated with the
presence of a liberal–democratic state, or, at the very least, that institutions are
held accountable to these societal expectations.
2. Key references for alternative methods of challenging dominant power
configurations in repressive political contexts, include: Adas (1986, 1992),
Moertono (1963), Ong (1987), and Scott (1985, 1986, 1990).
3. The ‘good society’ is used to represent the need for planning to pursue a
normative goal. If planning is to be effective, it requires a clear
conceptualization and some consensus regarding its normative ends (e.g. a
more equitable, just or environmentally sustainable society).
4. Important references include: Abers (1998, 2000), Beard (1999, 2002),
Friedmann (1992), Friedmann and Douglass (1998), Harvey (1999, 2000),
Holston (1998), Kennedy (1998), Rangan (1999), Reardon (1998), and
Sandercock (1998a, 1998b, 1999).
5. Since Friedmann’s book was published more than 15 years ago a number of
important critiques and omissions have been noted. One omission is
Friedmann’s almost exclusive reliance on western male thinkers in the
description of the traditions in planning thought. For example, since its
publication, Moser (1993) and other authors have argued in favor of a separate
feminist tradition in planning thought.
6. As the Indonesian case illustrates, Friedmann’s description of the concurrence
of ‘pressure for system-wide transformation’ and ‘state weakness’ is prophetic.
7. A number of authors have made the link between social learning and
emancipatory struggles (e.g. Alinsky, 1971; Piven and Cloward, 1979; Freire,
1970, 1972). However, far fewer authors, other than Friedmann (1973, 1987),
have applied these ideas to planning. This difference is a subtle but important
one, because the latter requires applying knowledge generated from praxis to a
deliberate and coordinated process to achieve change over an extended period.
8. This research, which was conducted during 1994–2001, was funded by a
number of different sources including the Graduate School at the University of
Wisconsin-Madison, the Centre for Human Settlements at the University of
British Columbia, the Ford Foundation and Northwest Regional Consortium
for Southeast Asian Studies, the US–Indonesian Society, and the Fulbright
Program.
9. The economic crisis began in Indonesia in late 1997 and it continued to
escalate and evolved into social and political crisis in 1998 (Emmerson, 1999;
Manning and Van Diermen, 2000). Some events marking this crisis period
include: widespread urban unrest, the killing of student demonstrators, attacks
against Indonesian ethnic Chinese, and ultimately the resignation of President
Suharto. Since the Indonesian currency (the Rupiah) was markedly more
stable in 2001 (compared to the height of the economic crisis in 1998) some
refer to the period following 2001 as the ‘post-crisis’ period. However, it is
unclear to what extent the crisis period is over given the continual outbreaks of
religious and ethnic violence.
10. For an analysis of the pervasive sense of fear and measures used to create and
maintain this environment during the Suharto period see Violence and the State
in Suharto’s Indonesia (Anderson, 2001).
11. This structure was firmly adhered to during Suharto’s presidency. However, in
1999 two laws, Law 22 and Law 25, were passed that decentralized power away
from the central government (Alm et al., 2001). These two laws were
implemented for the first time in January 2001. The decentralization legislation
was such an extreme break with the earlier system that there exists uncertainty
about the extent to which municipalities will continue to adhere to the
political–administrative structure. Some municipalities may create new
organizational structures, or, possibly, return to indigenous institutions.
12. For a history of this political–administrative structure and more detailed
description of its function see Sullivan (1992).
13. The ‘New Order’ refers to the political period beginning in March 1966, when
President Sukarno was forced to resign and was replaced by Suharto and his
military coalition (Anderson, 1983; Cribb, 1999; Liddle, 1999). This period
continued until 1998 when Suharto was forced to resign. The post-Suharto
period is sometimes referred to as Reformasi, or the Reform Period.
14. In Indonesia the Women’s Family Welfare Organization is known as the
Wanita PKK.
15. The program began as an indigenous women’s movement in the rural villages
of Central Java in 1964. In 1972 the state recognized the potential importance
of this organization in achieving its national development goals, and
standardized its agenda and activities and implemented the program
nationally. During the New Order period the WFWO was administered
nationwide from the highest national levels of government to the lowest
political–administrative units. The program has been more widely accepted on
Java than in the outer islands and more active in poorer communities. The
WFWO has been criticized by feminist activists and scholars within and outside
Indonesia because it recognizes women almost exclusively in their role as wives
and mothers responsible for family welfare. Although that is factually accurate,
in the study area the WFWO was broadly perceived by women as a positive
forum for them to engage in community development and governance.
16. The Indonesian name for the Mother and Child Health Care Clinic is Pos
Pelayanan Terpadu (Posyandu).
17. All names in the article are aliases.
18. In the community, the health care clinic for the elderly was occasionally
referred to as Posyandu Lansia, thus making a direct reference to the Mother
and Child Health Care Clinic that the clinic for the elderly was modeled after.
19. For an analysis of the problems created by the lack of residential security in an
urban community in Indonesia see Jellinek (1991).
20. It was argued that everyone in the community benefited from having the main
arteries paved, whereas only the residents closest to the river benefited from
having those footpaths paved.
21. For a discussion of the historical development and changing role of youth
groups in Indonesia, ranging from agents of social and political change to
instruments of the New Order, see Ryter (2001).
22. The Youth Group (Kelompok Pemuda) is another state-sanctioned, community
organization. Members of the Youth Group popularly elect their leader.
23. For an ethnography of social hierarchy and life in a poor urban settlement on
Java see Guinness (1986).
24. Peattie’s work has also made a similar point, admittedly in a different cultural
and political context. She shows how barrio residents through participation in
community development activities began ‘to develop a new kind of politics’
(Peattie, 1968).
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