In 2024 I was invited as part of lineup for a visual art exhibition celebrating the recognition of Babad Ngayogyakarta Sultan Hamengkubuwono IV-V as UNESCOs cultural heritage. The show, curated by Mikke Susanto and Sri Marghana mainly showcased the progressive narrative of the war of Diponegoro as accounted by his nephew, Hamengkubowo IV and later his relative Hamengkubowo V. The war of Diponegoro is largely taught as one of Indonesia’s great anti-colonial wars against the Dutch. As the last major resistance war from the remaining Javanese empire to the hands of the Dutch, it is a mandatory topic in Indonesian schools’ history classes, one which i myself experienced during my formative years. For this exhibition I was tasked with interpreting the part about the Great Battle of Dekso.

Upon conducting my own research on the topic, I discovered multiple layers of complexities underlying the popular anti-colonial narrative: the in-faction discourses stemming from differing priorities in fighting for the same purpose (the liberation of the Javanese people), the subsequent betrayal from the most loyal of supporters, and even the unexpected ‘good’ actions from several figures from the Dutch’s side. Villainy here, apparently, is not black and white.

Dekso served as Diponegoro’s stronghold for years. Located in the hills of what is now Kulon Progo, the forests and natural landscape provided advantages for guerrilla tactics that proved devastating to the combined forces of the Keraton and the Dutch. While the early years of the war fought near Dekso were characterized by a united front and were mostly victorious, cracks soon appeared within Diponegoro’s camp. It became undeniable that the two major military forces supporting Diponegoro—the aristocrats and the santris—had differing visions for the future of Java. The aristocrats desired institutional reforms that would benefit both themselves and the common people—a more just system refined from the pre-existing social structure. Conversely, the santris, led by Kyai Mojo, envisioned a "pure" Islamic state with imposed religious values that differed from the popularly practiced syncretic Islam. Diponegoro was seen as the embodiment of both, but as these two sides grew more divided, the strength of the resistance diminished. Kyai Mojo himself, after his capture by the Dutch following a massive disagreement with Diponegoro, was exiled and refused to accompany Diponegoro into his own eventual exile. The resistance fractured. What was once a camaraderie born of a shared desire for peace and prosperity became a distant memory.

In this painting, I attempted to capture both the glorious battle in Dekso—the vision of a victorious rebellion—alongside the nuances of the war and the irony of its conclusion. The title "Auld Lang Syne" is borrowed from the popular Scottish folk song that conveys a longing for times gone by. The composition shows two forces colliding in the center, led by their respective leaders: General van Geen for the combined army of the Keraton (in their Mataram uniforms) and the Dutch (in blue uniforms with matching high helmets), and Diponegoro for the opposing faction (the supporting rural locals, accompanied by the santris in turbans, with Kyai Mojo specifically in a green robe). Considering that the aristocrats were divided, I represented their presence on both sides through princes in blangkons and batik riding horses. Diponegoro’s faction is depicted fighting from behind a cluster of gigantic Kemuning trees. This is meant as a nod to the guerrilla tactics deployed in Dekso while highlighting the significance of the Kemuning flower in this saga. It is recorded that the prince used to meditate under a Kemuning tree during his stay at Tegalrejo; long after his defeat, his remaining supporters and their descendants continued to use the flower and the tree to identify one another.

The main composition—where the battle takes place—is framed by a foreground consisting of woods and plants, tainted red and covered in spiderwebs to imply the way this tale is being largely ignored by current generation. A batik with parang motif, traditional symbol of both royalty and strength, lays on one side of the frame like a sidelined curtain. A lantern with two gauged eyes—symbolizing historical blindness—shines upon a parchment with a quote I borrowed from Frank Herbert’s 1965 “Dune”, intended to summarize this process of creation:

“My father once told me that respect for the truth comes close to being the basis for all morality. “Something cannot emerge from nothing”, he said. This is profound thinking if you understand how unstable “the truth” can be.” — Frank Herbert, Dune.