by Agus Indiyanto, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Indonesia
Introduction
Mobility—in its most literal sense, the physical movement from one place to another—has always played a crucial role in the academic world. On an individual level, such movement opens up space for scholars to gain new experiences and perspectives in understanding phenomena. Being removed, even temporarily, from one’s institutional and intellectual home can create the distance necessary for reflective self-questioning. Secondment, as I understand it, is not merely about transferring one’s academic affiliation from one institution to another. It is a form of openness: to other experiences, other perspectives, and other scholarly practices. At the same time, it is a strategic move to strengthen institutional networks and global collaboration.
My experience as an anthropologist undergoing secondment at Leiden University bears a resemblance to the Minangkabau cultural tradition of merantau. This concept, which I regularly discuss in my ethnographic course on the Sumatran region, refers to a culturally embedded practice of temporary migration. Minangkabau men leave their hometowns in search of livelihood, education, or experience, with the intention of eventually returning home to contribute to their community’s development (Naim, 1979). Scholars have also interpreted merantau as a rite of passage—one that matures the individual for future responsibilities within the community (see Kato, 1982).
I propose that secondment can be understood as a process of academic maturation, involving a liminal stage as described by Victor Turner. It is not merely relocation. It is a transformation of identity—a transition into a liminal space, where roles and norms are blurred. In this ambiguous space, scholars are given the rare chance to critically reflect on the foundations of their field. During my time in Leiden, I was no longer a teacher, yet not a student either. I was in between—occupying an academic in-betweenness that forced me to renegotiate my scholarly identity, my pedagogical practices, and my own anthropological lens. Interactions with colleagues from diverse intellectual traditions created what I would call productive epistemological friction, challenging many assumptions I had long taken for granted. It is precisely this tension that lies at the heart of what I call academic merantau.
In-Between Spaces: Daily Life and Academic Liminality
I must admit—adjusting to life in the Netherlands, particularly during the winter months, was far from easy. I arrived in the fall, when temperatures had already begun to drop sharply, and before long, they plunged below freezing. As someone from the tropics, my body was not accustomed to such cold. I clung to the hope of witnessing snowfall—the kind seen in movies and postcards—as a motivation to endure. And yes, it did snow, but only lightly and briefly, not nearly enough for the picturesque social media posts I had imagined. In the midst of all that cold, simple things like eating Indonesian instant noodles (now conveniently available at local supermarkets) brought unexpected comfort, especially while reading or drafting academic papers.
I couldn’t secure housing in Leiden itself due to the shortage of available rooms. Despite reaching out to friends already studying there, I arrived in the Netherlands without a confirmed place to stay. Eventually, I found accommodation in another city, Nijmegen, and thanks to the Netherlands’ reliable public transport, I managed the commute, though it was physically tiring. I must take the first train in Leiden and return to Nijmegen late at night to get the train discount.
Leiden University Library quickly became my second home. I had long set my sights on this institution, drawn by its remarkable collections on colonial history and Indonesian studies. My research focuses on a community whose development was deeply shaped by colonial governance in the Padang highlands after the Padri Wars. This village has produced generations of colonial-era bureaucrats and later, civil servants in post-independence Indonesia (see Graves, Hadler). One of its most prominent figures was H. Agoes Salim, an influential diplomat in Indonesia’s early republican years. The integration of the KITLV library, with its vast holdings on Indonesian colonial-era ethnography, into the Leiden University Library further cemented its value for my research. The reading room itself was almost always full. Students are absorbed in their own worlds, silently reading, typing, occasionally whispering short greetings.
That quietude compelled me to pursue academia. I found myself imitating the rhythm around me—sifting through catalogues, reading intensively, highlighting important citations, and writing regularly. Ironically, this solitude became a crucial catalyst for thinking and producing. Back in Yogyakarta, even with a private workspace, interruptions were constant, students dropping by for thesis consultations or course discussions. There, the responsibilities tied to my institutional role as a lecturer left little room for the kind of reflective quiet, I found in Leiden. For the first time, I was untethered: no need to teach, to rush home, or to hold office hours. I could finally redefine myself and reflect freely.
This liminal state reminded me of Arjun Appadurai’s concept of disjuncture—the asynchronous flows of people, ideas, technologies, and finance in a globalized world. My secondment placed me squarely at the intersection of such disjunctures. I carried methods and concepts shaped by my ethnographic work in Indonesian contexts and brought them into conversations shaped by postcolonial theory, alternative epistemologies, and ontological debates rooted in vastly different worlds.
Of course, not all encounters were frictional. There were also profound moments of resonance—particularly in small Indonesian studies circles in the Netherlands. At the time, I was writing about belonging and explored it through the lens of merantau among Minangkabau migrants in Jakarta. One critical question emerged in discussion: is it still appropriate to use the term merantau for Minangkabau communities that have lived in Jakarta for generations? This question forced me to reexamine the assumptions I had unconsciously accepted—treating all those living outside their ancestral homeland as migrants, without accounting for generational shifts and new forms of connectivity that shape belonging today.
To understand why descendants from Kotogadang continue to hold elaborate traditional ceremonies for installing clan leaders (pengangkatan panghulu), I had to leap across various theoretical approaches. Functionalism didn’t quite capture it. I tried Marxist readings—thinking in terms of status contests—and eventually turned to structuralist perspectives. Ultimately, I found comfort in Janet Carsten’s concept of relatedness, which better captured the affective and social textures I was observing. This kind of conceptual flexibility was only possible because I had the space to be alone, freed from administrative duties, and surrounded by resources like those at the Leiden University Library.
Reflection
For me, Leiden University offered a paradox: quietude amidst intellectual turbulence. While the canals outside remained calm and picturesque, my mind was bustling with debates about how best to frame the concept of belonging. In its silent reading rooms, I rediscovered the joy of engaging with classical anthropological texts—without pressure, without deadlines. I revisited old fieldnotes and wrote with a clarity I had not felt in years.
If I may summarize, the true value of secondment lies not merely in “knowledge transfer” or “capacity building.” It lies in the creation of a liminal space where deep academic transformation can occur. Such experiences are especially valuable for anthropologists, who are continually asked to be contextual, open, and reflexive. To become a stranger, to be alone, to feel vulnerable and uncomfortable—these are not merely hardships. They are the very conditions for empathy, which is the foundation of ethnographic understanding. At the same time, stepping away from one’s home institution and immersing oneself in another allows for comparison—helping us see both the strengths and weaknesses on each side. This becomes a basis for institutional benchmarking and future development.
For me personally, secondment was more than just an academic journey—it was an existential one. A kind of intellectual pilgrimage that was both unsettling and liberating. As the Minangkabau proverb wisely says, “Karatau madang di hulu, babuah babungo balun; marantau bujang dahulu, di kampuang paguno balun.” One must journey outward before one can bring value back home. Academic merantau is, indeed, a path to cultivating knowledge that matters—not only for our disciplines, but for humanity more broadly.
