Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

Radical or reformist?

How Islamic will the new movements make Indonesia? Bernhard Platzdasch Unlike the Suharto era, Indonesia now has quite radical Islamic groups operating in the open. Among them, the Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI) is infamous for unleashing paramilitary gangs on 'iniquitous' nightspots. The Sunni Communication Forum (Forum Komunikasi Ahlusunnah Wal Jamaah, FKAWJ) fights for Muslims in Maluku. The Liberation Party (Hizbut Tahrir) is a branch of the Middle Eastern movement of the same name. It calls for the Indonesian nation-state to be abolished and replaced by the classic model of an Islamic state, the caliphate. Both FKAWJ and Hizbut Tahrir bluntly reject democratic models as a Western invention, incompatible with Islam. The campus-based Hizbut Tahrir shows restraint in its actions, but the other two frequently operate in a grey area of the law (see accompanying article). The Islamic Defenders Front and the FKAWJ draw their mass support from poorly educated lower income classes. Somewhat unconvincingly, unlike the blunt anti-pluralism of FKAWJ and Hizbut Tahrir, the Defenders proclaim a nebulous democratic agenda. Still, all these groups are similar in their fierce anti-Western and anti-Zionist propaganda. Recent news coverage outside Indonesia has frequently expressed concern that a strident and anti-democratic Islam is on the rise in Indonesia. This view is not to be dismissed completely, but it is over-drawn. As we shall see, there is a widened range of Islamic parties and movements in Indonesia, but it overwhelmingly supports the country's stumble toward democracy. Groups such as those described above stand outside the party spectrum. They make up a small radical fringe inclined to violence and intimidation to achieve its goals. Less removed from the mainstream are some important Muslim student organisations. The most notable among them is the Indonesian Muslim Student Action Union (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim Indonesia, Kammi). This group was a significant force during the 1998 protests that initiated the change of regime. Rooted in the Islamic neo-revivalist movement on campus, and ideologically tied to the teachings of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood, Kammi is a major source of party workers for the Justice Party (Partai Keadilan, PK). Both Kammi and PK are the expressions of a new generation of Muslims who promote an 'uncompromising' purification of Islamic belief and strict adherence to religious morals, while simultaneously pushing for political modernisation. Despite its Islamist tone, they advocate a reformist agenda that is largely devoid of exclusivist propaganda. Indeed, all the electoral parties adhering to what we may call 'formalist' Islam support democracy and the rule of law as the preferable political system. The most important are the United Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP) and the Crescent Moon and Star Party (Partai Bintang Bulan, PBB), besides the just mentioned PK. The new vice-president, Hamzah Haz, comes from this side of politics (PPP). While a relatively small number of groups operate at the margins or outside of what is legally tolerable, in most cases religious militancy has made common cause with politically moderate positions. The formalist parties are in many ways part of the more reform-willing forces in parliament. They support the need for democratising amendments to the constitution, and want to reduce the role of the military. Formalist Islamic groups (as opposed to more cultural ones) adhere to a literal understanding of Islamic doctrine and its adoption into private and public life. They seek a formal acknowledgement of their religion, ie. by the state in the constitution. A striking aspect of formalist Islam is its religious conservatism or militancy. At a glance, the rise of new Islamic organisations and the return of ideological stridency point to a substantial change within Indonesian politics. In fact, the appearance tends to belie the reality. The recent developments are above all logical symptoms of a newly liberalised political system. The New Order disfavoured Islamic parties, and made all parties adopt Pancasila as their sole ideology. But the breakdown of state control following reformasi allowed Muslims to adopt Islam formally as the ideology of political organisations. When the Pancasila requirement was dropped in 1998, new Islamic parties sprang up and thus created a perception of political Islam on the march. Today these parties have a more distinct 'voice' than at any time since Sukarno introduced his authoritarian 'Guided Democracy' in 1959. However, the emergence of these new parties should only come as a surprise to us if we were to assume that the New Order's ideological monopoly had succeeded in winning the hearts and minds of ideologically aware Muslims. In any event, formalist parties proved to lack mass support. Nearly ninety percent of the Indonesian population is at least nominally Muslim. But in the 1999 general elections formalist Islamic parties won a mere sixteen percent of the total votes. And this was a dramatic drop compared to the 43.9% in the last free elections, back in 1955. It is certainly a major obstacle for the realisation of any more militant goals in the near future. Symbolic So what are the formalist movements offering Indonesia? At bottom lies the idea that Islam should be an all-encompassing 'way of life'. Virtually unheard under Suharto, demands for the full implementation of Islamic law (shariah) are very much in vogue these days. The message is spread through numerous overtly Islamic journals that gained new momentum from the collapse of ideological censorship. Yet Islam's shift toward stridency is more symbolic than aimed at a policy impact. The clearest proof of this is the reemergence of the Jakarta Charter issue. This is the 'classic' formalist theme. During the constitutional debates in 1945, 'seven words' were briefly incorporated into the constitution, but soon thereafter deleted. These seven words later became known as the Jakarta Charter, and their 'illegal' deletion a cause celebre for formalist Muslims. They were a supplement to the first principle of the national ideology Pancasila, the one that declares belief in 'the One Supreme God'. The Jakarta Charter remains widely understood as obliging the state to implement Islamic law among Muslims. After being hotly but fruitlessly debated for many years under Sukarno, the Jakarta Charter question was outlawed under Suharto as destabilising. But the Charter experienced a sudden comeback in the wake of last year's annual session of Indonesia's highest decision-making body, the People's Consultative Assembly (MPR). It was raised there by the PBB and PPP parliamentary factions. PK, part of an alliance with Amien Rais' secular-based National Mandate Party (PAN) in the Reform Faction, chose to stay neutral. Interestingly, although PK did not support the issue in its role as the smaller member of its faction, internally it favoured a more sweeping concept. While PBB and PPP both followed the traditional wording of the Charter, PK was suggesting an alternative version which would give the state legal force to implement not only Islam, but also religious teachings among all five officially registered religions. This is an unworkable proposal, considering that Christian religions do not give the state authority to enforce religious doctrine. In any case, the MPR discussion went nowhere. Calls for the Jakarta Charter remain vague as to their scope and practical implementation. The issue has never been explained to most Indonesians. There is little substantial debate on ideological concepts and principles. There is also remarkably little open ideological dispute between Islamic political parties. This hardly makes the Charter a convincing ideological alternative. Outside parliament, the volume of the 'shariah' calls is not matched by an accordingly influential position of its promoters. The Charter issue is as much driven by immediate political needs as by religion. While in essence promoting it remains an expression of religious obligation, there were strategic reasons to promote it as well. For example, to consolidate support from militant Islamic groups. The struggle for the Charter in 2000 occurred at a moment of mounting tension between the Abdurrahman Wahid government and parliament. It served to counter the president's announcement earlier in 2000 that he wanted the ban on communism lifted - a step formalist Muslims perceived as an undisguised provocation. For almost four decades, ideology in Indonesia was manipulated by the state. The Jakarta Charter and other ideological formulations are an Islamic comeback from within society. They draw widespread public attention for that reason. But their substantial meaning is often overrated. First and foremost, they touch an emotional nerve. Many Muslims see a formal statement of party ideology as an essential testimonial to their religious identity. As such, it does not function in the same way as the platform of a Western political party. Nor does it have much immediate impact on that party's policy outlook. During various recent party congresses, the Islamic identity statement was often discussed quite separately. Ironically, it appeared to have no effect on the organisation's statutes or policy positions. Bernhard Platzdasch (bernhard@coombs.anu.edu.au) is researching Indonesian Islam for a PhD at the Australian National University in Canberra. Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

Mother of the nation

For now, reformasi is dead. But Mega didn't kill it Edward Aspinall How should we interpret the fall of Abdurrahman Wahid and his replacement by Megawati Sukarnoputri? Was this, as the MPR argued, a legitimate exercise by Indonesia's supreme constitutional body to remove an incompetent leader? Or was it, as argued by President Abdurrahman and his supporters, a victory for resurgent Suhartoist forces? This second view has, especially overseas, become the orthodox interpretation. It has some validity, but the former has more. Certainly, there were those in the military, in Golkar and the bureaucracy who were hostile to some of President Abdurrahman's policy initiatives, such as his proposal in 2000 to rehabilitate the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) or his early willingness to negotiate with independence supporters in Aceh and West Papua. It is also true that the momentum of Indonesia's reformasihas long been visibly failing. However, to view Abdurrahman's removal as a decisive return to the past is a misreading of events. By focusing too much on the battle over the presidency, such a view misses the larger picture. In retrospect, Indonesia was always going to have a narrow window for dramatic democratic change. In the months before and immediately after the fall of President Suharto, long pent-up desires for reform were unleashed. Beginning on campuses in February-March 1998, a large and variegated movement for democracy sprang up and rapidly spread throughout the archipelago. When Suharto resigned on 21 May, there was an explosion of civil society. Demonstrations forced corrupt local officials from office around the country. Peasants occupied land taken from them in the past. Scores of new political parties, labour unions, anti-corruption bodies and other organisations were formed. In response, the remaining New Order elite facilitated a rapid restructuring of the political system. President Habibie oversaw a remarkable liberalisation of the political parties, electoral laws, labour unions, the press and much else. His presidency now looks like the high water mark of reformasi. This does not mean he was at heart a liberal, although his supporters do argue this, but rather that politics is determined more by the broader alignment of political forces within society than by who is president. Under Habibie, when it was still possible to identify the government with the old regime, it proved relatively easy to maintain the reformasi movement outside parliament. However, as in every transition from authoritarian rule, the key challenge was to institutionalise the democratic impulses of the mass movements and make them a permanent feature of the political landscape. Numerous obstacles stood in the way. Chief among them was the fracturing of the political map. Divisions between 'opposition' and 'status quo' forces were cross-cut by other divisions, such as those between secular and Islamic groupings, within the Islamic community itself, and between parties led more by personalities than policies. Add to this the weakness of democratic institutions after 32 years of Suharto's rule, pervasive corruption, a deep economic crisis and a host of other problems. Wahid When Abdurrahman Wahid was elected president in October 1999, much of the foreign press represented it as a victory of 'reformist forces'. He was in fact placed there by a coalition which drew heavily on Suharto's New Order. Many Golkar and military leaders feared a Megawati-led clean sweep of senior officialdom. Many in the major Islamic-based parties were equally fearful that a secular-oriented Megawati presidency would reverse the advances they had made in the late Suharto and Habibie periods. These two blocs provided Abdurrahman with the votes he needed, and he now needed to appease them. A cumbersome 'national unity' government resulted. As Indonesia's first democratically elected president assembled his government, therefore, it proved impossible to draw a clear line between the New Order past and the democratic future. This basic fact dogged all subsequent attempts to carry out substantial reform. President Abdurrahman did have a deep philosophical commitment to pluralist democracy and a conspicuous commitment to social and religious diversity. He appointed some prominent reformers to cabinet and other posts. Early on he took some important steps to reduce the military's political role. He also encouraged legal reform, promoted dialogue with secessionist leaders in Aceh and West Papua and reconciliation with the East Timorese, and attempted to end discrimination against the ethnic Chinese minority. Even so, many of the major reform programs (such as decentralisation) merely implemented changes made under Habibie. However, strong currents were flowing against reform. The June 1999 election was the culmination of Indonesia's democratic transition. But it also largely succeeded in domesticating reformasienergies. The shift of focus from the streets to parliament, from mobilisation to legislation, called for a new kind of politics based on negotiation, compromise and incremental change. In the regions new coalitions sprang up between the new parties and old military, bureaucratic and business groupings. In many places Golkar reasserted its dominance. Even where 'reformist' parties like PDI-P and President Abdurrahman's own PKB were dominant, local politics were frequently marked by a resurgence of 'money politics' and political gangsterism. At the same time, with the line between 'reformists' and 'status quo' inside the government now very blurred, the reformasimovement on the outside lost momentum, symbolised by growing fractiousness and apathy in the student movement. Determined leadership from the president could still have resulted in serious reform. However, Abdurrahman frittered away any such chance by his increasingly destructive leadership style. Armed with infinite self-confidence and imperious indifference to criticism, he alienated his ministers, rode roughshod over the parliament, made and broke promises with a cavalier style and frequently made blatantly false public claims. Reports of graft within the palace became rife. Most importantly, he failed to construct a strong reformist bloc within the government, parliament or society. Personal loyalty became the key criteria for the rise and fall of cabinet ministers, conservatives and reformists alike. This alienation of the entire political elite, not a supposed alliance of the 'status quo', accounts for the end of his presidency. In order to shore up support, Abdurrahman countenanced a return to New Order-style policies, most obviously by tolerating renewed military operations in Aceh from March-April 2001. His government even began to wind back some reforms made during the Habibie era (such as generous severance payments for workers - it took an outburst of unrest for this reversal to be reviewed). He personally turned to authoritarian methods: threatening the media, repoliticising the military and eventually taking the dictatorial path of attempting to dissolve parliament. The strongest argument against the 'conservative conspiracy' interpretation of Abdurrahman's dismissal is that he had in fact simply ceased to be a block to conservative policies. Despite his claims to the contrary, there was no clear dividing line between 'status quo' forces lined up against him and 'democrats' standing behind him. Megawati The conspiracy view also misreads Megawati's own position. In much of the international press, she is portrayed as a 'captive', even an 'agent,' of military interests. However, nothing in her record suggests that Megawati is beholden to the military. On the contrary, she was steadfast in the face of strong military pressure in the final years of the Suharto regime. It should be remembered that Abdurrahman Wahid had at that time succumbed to similar pressures by entering into a de facto alliance with Suharto's daughter Siti Hardiyanti Rukmana (Tutut). It may indeed be true that Megawati supported intensified military operations in Aceh and Papua. But Abdurrahman was also willing to support these policies. Megawati Sukarnoputri is a difficult character to read, largely due to her well-known reticence, even aloofness. She lacks Abdurrahman Wahid's connections with Indonesia's liberal intelligentsia and foreign intellectuals, and his ready wit. Her public statements often convey a frustratingly general commitment to constitutionalism and democracy in a language easily understood by the mass of the population. At the same time, they evince a strong commitment to political order and, especially, defence of the unitary state. In many respects she is a classical populist politician, presenting herself as a mystical embodiment of the popular will. As 'mother of the nation', she projects an image of security and comfort at a time of disturbing political change and economic dislocation. It is true that populism can readily be combined with an authoritarian style and ruthless economic austerity. Many Indonesians fear reformasihas run out of steam. They may well be right. But its weakening has less to do with the new president than with wider forces at work in Indonesia. This is largely a by-product of the shift from street politics to parliamentarism. It reflects the messiness of Indonesia's political landscape, and the appearance of new, usually local, coalitions of bureaucratic, business and political power. It is highly unlikely that Megawati's ascension marks a dramatic return to full-blown Suharto-style authoritarianism. Her government is based essentially on the same combination of forces which brought Abdurrahman to power, with the addition of her own PDI-P. Probably it will present a similar policy mix, minus the chaos generated by his personal style. Under Abdurrahman, two vital years were lost on the road to political reform. It may now prove impossible to recreate a clear division between 'reformasi' and 'status quo' forces, or to recapture the promise of the first post-Suharto years. Edward Aspinall (E.Aspinall@anu.edu.au) is a post-doctoral fellow at the Australian National University. Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

Laskar Jihad

A spiritual home for the lost, this militant sect is used by dangerous elites for their own ends IRIP News Service Laskar Jihad ('Holy war fighters') is Indonesia's most notoriously militant sect. Its parent body, Forum Komunikasi Ahlus Sunnah Wal Jama'ah (FKAWJ), officially surfaced on 14 February 1998 in Solo. It was a moment of extreme political instability. Just months later, Suharto was ousted and his New Order regime dismantled. All kinds of political, religious, youth and student groups scuttled out from underground exile to agitate for their respective interests against a weakened government. As the full weight of the monetary crisis bore down and propelled millions below the poverty line, extremists from all ends of the spectrum found audience among the desperate. It was the perfect climate for a group such as FKAWJ to venture into the public eye. However, the community of Ahlus Sunnah Wal Jama'ah (from which FKAWJ arose) had been growing quietly for over ten years. Its leader Ustadz Jafar Umar Thalib purchased land for it near Yogyakarta in 1993 with donations from the wider Islamic community. Pondok Pesantren Ihyaus Sunnah, founded the following year in Degolan, became Jafar's private residence, and the hub of Ahlus Sunnah Wal Jama'ah operations. From here Jafar, along with some others who later made up the Central Board of FKAWJ, began to consolidate the community across Java and the archipelago. Ahlus Sunnah Wal Jama'ah members are deeply religious. Enchanted by the charisma of Ustadz Jafar Umar Thalib and the religious fervour of the group, they discover a willingness to give their lives for the Jihad mission in Maluku, and for their dream of implementing Islamic law (Syari'at Islam) in Indonesia. As in many sects, an unnatural amount of the community's cohesion is based on fear, lies and propaganda, on social isolation, rigorous peer pressure and outright force. The structured, prescribed way of life and philosophy makes the group experience all the more intense. Its members strive to follow a very literal understanding of the way of the Prophet Muhammad in their everyday lives, leading more liberal Muslims to accuse them of 'fundamentalism' and 'fanaticism'. Saved Regular members of Laskar Jihad and FKAWJ come across as ordinary young people, generally aged between 17-40. Ustadz Jafar Umar Thalib attracts a wide variety of people, bound together by their youth, their religious devotion and their nationalistic fervour. There are students, unemployed graduates and businesspeople. Many are educated with young families. Others are the lost and lonely, the homeless and poverty-stricken. Some members had led the life of a street thug ('preman'), heavily into drugs, violence and crime, before they were saved by the movement's disciples. These people crave for the totalising, all-encompassing identity that Laskar Jihad offers. They are the by-products of the economic and political crisis, the angry rejects of society, isolated and disadvantaged by reformasi. Many speak fluently of globalisation, marginalisation, of Western cultural hegemony and of the way the West demonises Islam and Islamic peoples. They see themselves as losers in the global political order. Their overwhelming violence and anger, the fabric of Laskar Jihad, begins there. Laskar Jihad wants Syari'at Islam implemented as Indonesia's supreme governing force. In order to achieve this goal, they are maneuvering themselves to become a potent force within the Islamic community and the national arena. Since it emerged in Yogyakarta on 30 January 2000 as FKAWJ's military wing, Laskar Jihad's activities have been high profile for this reason. The proclamation of the Jihad fi Sabilillah ('Strive for God') campaign in Jakarta on 6 April 2000 is Laskar Jihad's largest and most costly undertaking so far. At least 3,500 young men were dispatched to Ambon and surrounding islands to support Muslims in the religious conflict that has now besieged the area for over two and a half years. In Java and Sumatra, certain branches of Laskar Jihad have joined other militant groups to conduct 'sweeping' operations against entertainment venues. Ardent nationalists, they speak of themselves as the 'defenders', 'the pioneers' and 'the owners' of the nation. They speak of their right and responsibility as good Indonesian Muslims to assume a military role, a role which certain shadowy elite figures are all too happy to encourage for their own gain. For there can be no doubt that Laskar Jihad's leadership mixes in some elite circles. On 30 May 2000 a Laskar Jihad jeep exploded in the East Java town of Nganjuk. It was laden with TNI-registered weaponry and en route to Surabaya, the departure point for Ambon. The security apparatus in Surabaya at the same time refused to implement a presidential instruction to stop Laskar Jihad from embarking for Ambon. Laskar Jihad members themselves claim to be 'intimate' with the TNI in Ambon. On 30 October 2000, the military arrested twelve of its members in Ambon city bearing sophisticated TNI weaponry and uniforms. Their repeated ability to slip prosecution points to a high level of collusion with elements of Indonesia's military and political elite. Even Ustadz Jafar Umar Thalib's arrest in May 2001 (on grounds of inciting religious hatred and stoning a member to death), which momentarily augured well for the future, ended in his release and even a one million rupiah 'compensation' payout. Clearly some extremely powerful figures have taken this organisation under their wing. For now, Laskar Jihad is untouchable. Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

Ethnic fascism in Borneo

Old elites in Central Kalimantan discover new and dangerous strategies Gerry van Klinken When police raided the Hotel Rama in Sampit, Central Kalimantan, on 26 February this year, they found human heads littering the grounds. This was the headquarters for Dayak 'special forces' (pasukan khusus) who killed hundreds of transmigrants from the island of Madura, and expelled the remaining nearly 100,000 from the province. Police arrested 84 warriors. The flurry of television images, with voice-overs about a revival of 'barbaric' headhunting, soon faded to the next war zone. Jakarta, too preoccupied to worry about provincial squabbles, soon pretended the problem had gone away. Perhaps most disturbing was the silence of Indonesian opinion makers. Many sympathised with Dayaks as an indigenous people dispossessed of their forests by rapacious New Order development. Others, shocked by the savagery, felt Madurese citizenship rights deserved a defence as well. The two rights - the non-ethnic rights of all citizens versus the First People rights of Dayaks - seemed so irreconcilable as to make any statement inadequate. There is a dilemma here, but it is not insoluble. Our sense of revulsion at what has happened must be our guide: hundreds (some say thousands) of men, women and children murdered for their ethnicity alone, and an entire community 'cleansed' from the province. This has more of fascism than of the gentle forest-dweller. Where does this ethnic fascism come from? The key lies in rejecting the simplistic view that an entire ethnic group can have just one set of interests. The indigenous forest dwellers of our television documentaries live, of course, in the forest. Hotel Rama (with the heads) is in Central Kalimantan's busiest town, the port city of Sampit. The interests of rural and urban Dayaks are so dissimilar that it is fair to say the urban elite have in 2001 dealt a grave blow to the forest dwellers they claim to represent. Organised The American scholar Paul Brass is an expert on Hindu-Muslim riots in India. He says these events 'are best seen as dramatic productions with large casts of extras. They are... partly organised... [E]xtensive ad-libbing occurs in order to convey the impression of spontaneity.' The organisers, of whom there are many kinds, are 'riot specialists', part of an informal network that influential actors can call on in times of political crisis. We will in a moment discern something similar in Central Kalimantan. If you had asked a forest-dweller in central Borneo 150 years ago what tribe they belonged to, they might have answered Ngaju, Ot Danum, or Ma'anyan. None would have said Dayak. That was a convenient category only in the minds of colonial anthropologists. But in the early twentieth century the category became a political reality. Dayak students in the city of Banjarmasin, anxious that their better-organised Banjar fellows were getting the pick of the civil service jobs, set up the first Dayak association in 1919. They worked hard - with pamphlets, books and speeches - to convince their brethren in the forest that they were all 'Dayaks' together. Ever since, Dayak-hood has been an invention of the urban middle class. Ignoring the concerns of the forest dwellers, the books they wrote had only one agenda: achieving a Dayak province of their own, run by educated Dayaks. The Dutch briefly gave them what they wanted in late 1946, part of an effort to wean outer islanders away from the largely Javanese Republic of Indonesia. The arrangement was undone when Indonesia became independent. But the former Dayak students, now professional soldiers and teachers, persisted. Taking advantage of the unrest around Indonesia in 1956-57, they added punch with a guerrilla movement bearing the awkward acronym GMTPs. It worked - Central Kalimantan was created a Dayak province in 1957. At first, its governors were Dayak. Tjilik Riwut (1957-67) was a popular TNI soldier who had supported the movement. Later the New Order gradually reduced Dayak autonomy. But as it began to wane, the urban Dayak elite, including some old fighters from the '50s, demanded an indigenous governor once more. True to tradition, the Dayak scholar KMA Usop wrote a thick book in 1996 explaining why Dayak ethnicity was all about Dayaks running the province. Usop, retired rector of the university in Palangkaraya, talks with passion about being Dayak. We used to believe that the more 'modern' people become the less myths of blood interest them. Usop shows us the reverse. His book also provides marvelous ammunition to those who argue that the origins of Dayak ethnicity lie not in the mists of time but with the birth of the modern state in Indonesia - about a century ago. Dayaks make up about two-thirds of Central Kalimantan's population. Madurese used to be around 6-7 percent. There is no evidence for the claim often heard that the Madurese lord it over the Dayaks. Economically, there is little difference between them. That gives the fight between Dayaks and Madurese an artificial, indeed a darkly conservative, racist character. Golkar The urban Dayak elite who invented this fight have little record of fraternity with their rural cousins. They belonged to a New Order that impoverished the great mass of Dayak society. Usop, for example, was the Golkar spokesperson in Central Kalimantan under the New Order. He was used to the backroom business and political deals that characterised New Order cronyism. Like many others, he only jumped ship to the PDI-P when reformasi made Golkar a liability. But PDI-P never became important. Instead, Usop and those who thought like him wanted a new ball game. The future lay in ethnic politics. Its vehicle was the ethnic association. LMMDD-KT - long acronyms are still the norm - was the most prominent among them. Usop was its leading figure. Another was an organisation with a name reminiscent of the 1956 guerrillas - APP-GMTPs. These associations are first of all businesses. LMMDD-KT was in on the environmentally damaging 'million hectare peat swamp' project (PLG). Illegal forestry and small-scale gold mining were also important. Life in these frontier areas is tough. The underemployed Dayak loggers and miners who joined them found protection there. In exchange, they became their 'special forces' in 2001. Police and military got their cut too. The chairman of APP-GMTPs, Yansen Binti, also leads the thuggish Pemuda Panca Marga, an organisation made up of the sons of soldiers. Together, they used their muscle to keep competitors at bay. The money was plentiful. Central Kalimantan is heaven for illegal loggers. The young tycoon Abdul Rasyid became notorious in 1999 after courageous environmentalists proved he was stripping Tanjung Puting National Park. He was a major donor during Central Kalimantan's corrupt gubernurial election last year, according to an independent report. Yet he remains a member of the supreme national legislative body the MPR. In 1999 the ethnic associations became de facto political parties and moved resolutely onto the political stage. They gave press conferences and organised demos during the gubernurial race. LMMDD-KT demonstrated again when Usop lost the race against another Dayak. The next milestone was the implementation of regional autonomy on 1 January 2001. The stakes were high. They chose this moment to whip up an anti-Madurese crisis. Civil society in Central Kalimantan was too weak to prevent this blatant manipulation of public opinion. On 15 December 2000 one of their thugs, the 36-year old Sendong, was killed in a brawl at the gold mining shantytown of Kereng Pangi. A riot broke out and hundreds of Madurese fled town. It was merely the beginning. The associations began a campaign to unify feeling around this Dayak 'hero'. They threatened more violence unless Jakarta took action against his killers. On 20 February 2001, led by LMMDD-KT, they issued a statement that the Madurese had taken over Sampit. It was largely a fabrication, but served to justify the massacre that began that day. Was it worth it? This elite seem to think so. The ethnic cleansing campaign effectively united the chronically fractured Dayak politicians behind a single banner. Even governor Asmawi Agani, not at first an Usop ally, found himself demanding that the 84 Dayak warriors arrested at the Hotel Rama be released. The police were forced to comply. As they were to similar pressure to release Usop himself - he was arrested as the main 'provokator' on 3 May. For fear of losing their own heads, meanwhile, other ethnic groups quickly fell in behind the Dayak hegemony. Most importantly, the resurgent Dayak elite sent a powerful message to Jakarta that they had rewritten the rules. So far Jakarta has not challenged them. In June 2001 Usop was the main organiser of a 'People's Congress' in Palangkaraya. It castigated the Madurese as the real troublemakers and told them to apologise if they wanted to return. The governor helped pay for the congress. Jack Snyder warns in his book (From voting to violence, 2000) that nations emerging from authoritarianism can fall prey to demagogues who take advantage of the chaotic new democratic space. That is a good explanation for the rise of ethnic fascism in Central Kalimantan. It is a fundamental challenge to Indonesian civil society and its friends overseas. Now is the time to put out an alternative message. Not ethnic pride, but social justice is the real issue. Some Dayak farmers displaced by the million-hectare peat swamp project had it right. When they came to Palangkaraya to plead their cause last March, in the midst of the furore, they had this to say: 'We're not interested in the Madurese issue. We just want our land back.' Gerry van Klinken (editor@insideindonesia.org) edits Inside Indonesia magazine. Thanks to Sentot, who generously shared his findings. Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

In this issue

The poor must come first Gerry van Klinken As the annual supreme legislative body (MPR) got underway in Jakarta early November, costing US$1.5 million, 8,000 informal workers, garbage collectors and transport drivers were evicted from their tiny shacks in a dozen locations across Jakarta. In the dark and the rain, their dwellings were burnt the ground. The following week the inter-governmental Consultative Group on Indonesia approved US$3.1 billion in new loans for Indonesia, bringing the public debt burden to a total US$74.2 billion. (Of this US$8.7 billion had to be repaid between September and December alone). If within Indonesia the poor seemed hardly to matter, outside it the terrorist attack of 11 September gave narrow minds the excuse to narrow them more (as reflected in some of our readers' letters...). In Australia, 11 September strengthened an anti-refugee mood that eventually came to dominate the federal election. In America, it boosted conservative agendas that prioritised military strength over justice for the poor. Yet the most basic fact about Indonesia is not whether it is harbouring terrorists, or Afghan refugees. It is - still! - that it is a very poor country. We dedicate this edition of Inside Indonesia to the poor, and to those enquiring minds (also found among our readers' letters) who want to learn about them. Four years after the economic crisis hit, its harmful impact is still felt in millions of homes around Indonesia. Though poverty levels are notoriously difficult to determine, several estimates predict Indonesia will not recover to pre-crisis levels till 2005. The government, meanwhile, is burdened with a debt to rich creditors so mountainous it can simply never be repaid. Until the world has solved these basic problems, that is where we should begin. Gerry van Klinken is the editor of Inside Indonesia. Inside Indonesia 69: Jan - Mar 2002

One world still

After the tragedy of 11 September, the world needs dialogue Ulil Abshar-Abdalla Among the many deplorable things that happened after the World Trade Center tragedy in New York on 11 September was the reawakening of a sub-conscious, 'instinctual' Western prejudice against Islam. The media have a strong tendency to generalise about Islam and about Muslims, without looking at the numerous little things that make up everyday life. Like a dormant virus that never dies, such prejudice arises again every time another tragedy happens that involves the Islamic world. Peter Rodman, of the National Security Council, wrote back in 1992: 'Yet now the West finds itself challenged from the outside by a militant, atavistic force driven by hatred of all Western political thought, harking back to age-old grievances against Christendom.' Almost the same sentence recurred in the New York Times on 16 September 2001: ' The airborne assault on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon is the culmination of a decade-long holy war against the United States that is escalating methodically in ambition, planning and execution.' The words 'Christendom' and 'holy war' suggest eternal sacred warfare between the West and the world outside - especially the Islamic world. (Of course we should recognise that the term 'crusade' is often used in the West without religious connotations as well, as in the crusade against abortion.) The same happens on the Islamic side. As soon as President Bush announced plans to launch attacks on Afghanistan, (some) Muslims proclaimed a 'jihad' against the US. Worse, certain groups wanted to conduct razzias against Americans in Indonesia. Some Islamic groups gave the impression of a total confrontation between the Islamic and the Western or Christian worlds. Suddenly everyone was quoting Samuel Huntington's 'Clash of Civilisations'. Dialogue But that impression is so clearly false. There are probably more people building bridges of dialogue between civilisations than there are those fighting between civilisations. Countless students from the Muslim world go every year to study in the West - Europe, America, Australia. Conversely, countless Western scholars make 'intellectual' journeys to Islamic countries, to understand the many faces of Islam. Karen Armstrong's book The History of God is an excellent example. As is TheOxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World, by John L Esposito and others at the Center for Muslim-Christian Understanding, Georgetown University, Washington DC. All of this does not mean American foreign policy is without its problems. One of the biggest paradoxes is the constant American campaign for democracy and human rights while at the same time supporting the Saudi Arabian Kingdom without reserve, a regime that violates the rights of its own citizens. The one-sided American policy on Palestine is the source of much frustration and hatred in the Arab world. But it would be foolish to equate the American government with all American citizens. Not all Americans agree with their government's foreign policy. Those who want to conduct razzias against Americans forget that. After the tragedy at the WTC and Pentagon buildings, dialogue between civilisations has become more difficult. The situation strongly favours those who believe the world is divided into only two hostile blocs, a Western and an Islamic bloc, a 'good' bloc and an 'evil' one. Yet who really knows what is Western and what is Islamic? If the West is Europe and America, then those are two very different cultures. If the West is America, we might recall that America is a federation precisely because Americans have such a strong 'anti-state' tradition. Most Americans have very little interest in the overseas 'imperialism' of their government. Similarly, it is far from clear what 'Islam' really means. In the end, Islam is a social concept - it is expressed in the lives of human beings with a complex history. Islamic reactions to the WTC and Pentagon tragedy have been highly varied. One frequent misunderstanding is to talk about the Afghan people, the Taliban government, the state of Afghanistan, and Islam, all in one breath. Just because most Afghans are Muslim does not mean that the American attack on Afghanistan is an attack on Islam. Of course we should oppose the American attacks. The Afghan people have suffered long enough from war ever since the Soviet invasion in 1979. But it is an unfortunate mistake to assume the Taliban regime is representative of the Islamic world just because they wear beards and robes. Anyone who doubts their evil practices towards women should look at this web site: www.rawa.org. Such behaviour is in strong contrast with the prophetic values of Islam itself. Dialogue is the only way. The path of confrontation only favours those who view the world in simplistic terms of good versus evil. That is the path of conservatives and extremists in whatever religion, whether Islamic or otherwise. It is also the path of religious elites everywhere who want to manipulate the ignorance of their congregation for their own narrow interests. Ulil Abshar-Abdalla (ulil@isai.or.id) chairs the research institute Lakpesdam, within Nahdlatul Ulama. This article is condensed with permission from a piece on the Islam Liberal web site: www.islamlib.com. Inside Indonesia 69: Jan - Mar 2002

With Aceh's guerrillas

A rare visit with the Free Aceh Movement shows them confident and well organised Damien Kingsbury The dawn awoke on the side of the mountain with the calls of birds and monkeys in the upper canopy. The 'boys' rose slowly, slung their weapons and wandered down to the stream to wash. We later organised and trekked down along the overgrown track, across gullies, over fences and across a river, coming up to a dirt road along which walked a dozen or so school girls in neat uniforms. The girls seemed familiar with this gang of longhaired guerrillas carrying automatic weapons. This was in the hills beyond Lhokseumawe, a strongly pro-independence area. I was there as a guest of the independence movement, to get their side of the story. The night had passed safely; the paramilitary police Mobile Brigade patrol had not found us. In Aceh, on the northwestern tip of Indonesia, some 10,000 Indonesian soldiers and around 20,000 paramilitary police had instilled in the people fear, anger and an overwhelming desire for a referendum on self-determination. I was struck by the similarities to East Timor ahead of its own referendum in 1999. Here too, the TNI and Brimob looked like an invading army, killing civilians and feebly trying to blame the separatists, burning homes and schools and using rape as a weapon. Also similar to East Timor, desire for independence was very strong across a range of groups and organisations. According to pro-independence leaders there was an historical claim to separation(partially recognised in Aceh's 'special region' status) and a long history of rebellion against outsiders, starting in 1873 and only pausing in 1949 and then between 1963 and 1976. The movement started in 1976 is popularly known as the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka - GAM), but prefers to be called the Aceh Sumatra National Liberation Front (ASNLF). The TNI and Brimob were obvious in Banda Aceh and the major industrial city of Lhokseumawe, but it was the highway from Banda Aceh to near the North Sumatra border that showed their real presence. Brimob, the Siliwangi Division, Marines, and territorial troops ran numerous posts and roadblocks. South of Lhokseumawe these occurred every several hundred metres for dozens of kilometres. Burned homes were littered in between. Yet just a short distance from the highway one was immediately in ASNLF held territory. Observers close to the TNI estimate the ASNLF's military force at 3-5,000 full-time members plus a large and active support base. What I saw was consistent with those figures - the support base is itself armed and could number around 10,000. Like any guerrilla force, the ASNLF relies on popular support. Moving from point to point near the important industrial city of Lhokseumawe, I met no one who was not as one with ASNLF. A local ASNLF leader in the region said that the ASNLF was not separate from the people. It could not otherwise function, he said. In a violent environment few would challenge those with guns, and the becak driver who drove me out of town was visibly scared when he unexpectedly found himself among a number of ASNLF. The ASNLF has a deserved reputation for killing people it identifies as its enemies. But cooperation otherwise seemed happy and voluntary, unlike the obliged voluntarism I have seen accompanying the TNI. The Indonesian government has portrayed ASNLF as a fanatical Islamic organisation. Two senior TNI generals made this claim to me again just days before I met with ASNLF representatives. While ASNLF and its supporters could be identified by their devout Islam, another cultural marker that sets them apart from others in the archipelago is the Acehnese language. Language, religion, territory and a common history, especially in adversity, are the classical markers of 'nation'. There is no doubt that Aceh has these, separate from the rest of Indonesia. Similar markers could also be applied to other 'national' groups in Indonesia. One ASNLF official laughingly referred to not just Bangsa Aceh (Aceh Nation), but Bangsa Minang, Bangsa Sunda and Bangsa Bali. He acknowledged, however, that not all potential 'bangsa' might wish to have that status. Aceh has a devout and usually tolerant form of Islam. The ethnic Chinese and Christian Bataks have lived in peace with their Islamic neighbours since the 1980s. Having said that, there is little tolerance for Javanese transmigrants, who have been attacked by the ASNLF. The ASNLF claims that it has only attacked Javanese militias, although the question of who is a combatant has become blurred in Aceh. One ASNLF official I spoke to in Banda Aceh was keen to state that his organisation did not want to impose itself on the people of Aceh. What it wanted, he said, was a popular referendum to determine whether or not Aceh should remain as a part of Indonesia. 'Referendum' was graffitied around Banda Aceh and Lhokseumawe. The Acehnese organisations I contacted were unanimous in wanting a referendum. This popular move for a referendum reflects the squeezing of the middle ground during the escalation since 1999. Indeed, the ASNLF itself has only accepted the legitimacy of a referendum since 1999. The East Timor ballot was a critical lead. The ASNLF official stressed that Aceh had historical and religious links with other Islamic communities, but was not funded by them. He was at pains to point out that ASNLF was horrified by the terrorist attack in the US on 11 September 2001, allegedly conducted by Islamic extremists. The ASNLF, he said, looked to the rest of the international community for support, including the United Kingdom and the United States, with which Aceh once had diplomatic relations. The ASNLF official did acknowledge that their guerrillas had received training in Lybia until 1999, much later than usually thought. But the link was no longer necessary as the ASNLF had its own training bases, and Lybia's standing could adversely affect how the ASNLF was internationally perceived. The ASNLF receives some support from sympathisers and Acehnese refugees abroad, especially in Malaysia, but its financial component is negligible compared to its internal capacity to raise income. Well funded The ASNLF raises 'taxes'. The Indonesian government and some NGOs call this extortion, in some cases extracted with threats of violence. The ASNLF justifies it on the grounds that as a legitimate government it needs to levy taxes. The TNI and Brimob also demand payments for 'protection', although as institutions of a government that already levies taxes this extra-financial activity cannot claim the legitimacy of 'tax'. All local businesses pay a tax to ASNLF, as a percentage of profits, according to the ASNLF up to and including the giant Exxon-owned and operated Arun liquid natural gas plant at Lhokseumawe. The ASNLF is well funded and consequently well equipped. The ASNLF's high level of organisation also presented itself in other ways. In meeting a regional ASNLF commander, the network of drop-offs, pick-ups and exchanges was extraordinary, complicated and perfectly timed. Everyone along the route knew what was going on, and many had cellular two-way radios. I was finally deposited in a small and remote village and told to wait on a pavilion under a palm-thatched roof. I had only just begun to get my small pack off when, through a bamboo gate, came a young man wearing a baseball cap and a clean white T-shirt over which was black military webbing containing clips of ammunition. In his belt was a pistol and in his left hand an AK-47 assault rifle. He held out his right hand to me and said: 'Hello, I am Jamaica,' indicating his code-name. Out of the undergrowth came around twenty young men similarly dressed, carrying AK-47s and M-16s. Jamaica wanted Hasan di Tiro to return as Aceh's sultan, but in a political system that included elected parties. We discussed the UK's constitutional monarchy, and that of Thailand, which he thought were suitable models. Others I spoke to said they wanted an elected US-style executive president and separate legislature, although with Islamic ethics, and within a local federalist system. The idea of a referendum on self-determination logically led to a vote for representative government, and what policies should be followed. Jamaica, the local guerrilla leader, did not want to see one repressive system replaced by another. Again, there were similarities to East Timor. I was introduced to 'Grandfather', who was in his 70s. Grandfather had been fighting since the early 1950s as, he said, had his father before him. Grandfather was still enthusiastic. He later led Jamaica, myself and a group of the 'boys' into the jungle to hide overnight from a Brimob patrol. I later met other old men, drinking sweet tea in the half-light of the open shop front by the intersection of a small town. The town was mostly deserted. Some of the boys sat drinking black coffee and tea with ice, their radios crackling with intermittent traffic, exchanging banter with the old men. With guards posted at intervals and bombs set on three of the four roads in and out it was as safe as anywhere in Aceh. The army and Brimob had come here, but had each time been beaten back, which was why none of the buildings here were burnt. A ten-year-old boy stood around, self-consciously part of this group of hardened men. His father had been shot dead by Brimob a few days previously. This boy was already the next generation of the struggle, waiting his turn. One might hope the people of Aceh have the opportunity to vote on their future in an internationally supervised referendum before this boy also has to pick up a gun. Dr Damien Kingsbury (dlk@deakin.edu.au) is Senior Lecturer in International Development at Deakin University, Geelong, Australia. His most recent book is the second edition of 'The politics of Indonesia' (Oxford). Inside Indonesia 69: Jan - Mar 2002

The aftermath of civil war

Fighting has stopped in North Maluku, but mistrust lingers Christopher R Duncan The newly formed province of North Maluku in eastern Indonesia is starting to recover from a period of communal violence that began in August 1999 and continued through July of 2000. Now reconciliation and reconstruction are the tasks ahead for the people of North Maluku. More than 100,000 refugees need to return home, dozens of villages must be completely rebuilt, and regional infrastructure has to be repaired. Formed in October of 1999, the province of North Maluku includes the island of Halmahera and surrounding islands, such as Ternate and Tidore, as well as the Sula Archipelago to the southwest. As the fighting raged in Ambon further south in early 1999, North Maluku remained peaceful. However, in mid-August 1999 violence erupted in Halmahera, in the sub-district of Kao, between Makian migrants and indigenous populations. These clashes focused on plans by the regional government to create a new sub-district (kecamatan) of Makian Daratan from the southern half of the Kao sub-district. This new sub-district would consist of all of the Makian villages that were established in 1975 when the Indonesian government moved the Makian from their homes on Makian Island and resettled them in Kao to protect them from a predicted volcanic eruption. The argument revolved around the inclusion of several villages in the new sub-district that were inhabited by indigenous Pagu and Jailolo people. Government regulations insist on a minimum number of villages per sub-district. The Pagu villagers had no desire to be separated from their indigenous brethren, nor to be ruled over by the Makian. The resulting tension led to violence on the day the new sub-district was to be formally inaugurated. Another factor that has been cited as a cause of the violence was the economic benefits associated with an Australian-owned gold mine in the region. This violence was short-lived, but the problem remained unresolved. Disturbances broke out again in October, this time resulting in the total defeat of the Makian by the indigenous population (both Muslim and Christian). Approximately 15,000 refugees fled to Ternate and Tidore. Although the fighting started as an ethnic conflict, it soon took on the character of a religious war when the violence spread to Ternate and Tidore in November, since the Makian are Muslim, and many of the people of Kao are Christian. The violence in Tidore began with the appearance of a false letter calling for Christians to cleanse the region of Muslims. This letter infuriated Muslims, particularly the Makian refugees who were still resentful for having been chased from their homes on Halmahera the previous month. Once all the Christians had fled from Tidore, the violence then spread to Ternate. As a result approximately 13,000 largely Christian refugees fled to North Sulawesi and Halmahera. This was followed by Muslim attacks on the western and southern regions of Halmahera, sending thousands of Christian refugees to North Sulawesi and northern Halmahera. At the end of 1999, after months of tension, fighting broke out in Tobelo in north Halmahera. It resulted in the deaths of several hundred Muslims and the complete destruction of their homes and mosques. Accounts of this violence, made worse by exaggeration, created a national uproar. This led to the creation of the Laskar Jihad, a group of self-proclaimed Muslim holy warriors who flooded into Maluku and North Maluku several months later to help their religious brethren. These Jihad troops, supported by some army units and some among the local Muslim population, destroyed virtually every Christian village in the sub-district of Galela, as well as on the islands of Morotai and Obi and elsewhere. By the time it slowly came to a halt in July of 2001, few areas were unaffected by the violence. The extent of the damage remains unclear, and the total number of deaths will likely never be known. Many perished in the forest as they fled, and Laskar Jihad troops from outside Halmahera who were killed in fighting were buried without record keeping. Reconciliation Although many on both sides would like to move on with the process of reconciliation, mistrust and animosity remain. Many say they will never again be able to trust the other side. Government efforts at facilitating reconciliation have been half-hearted at best. Officials seem to believe that once the refugees have gone home reconciliation has been completed. They have thus far failed to realise that the process will take a long time and extended effort. Numerous non-government organisations (NGOs) have sprung up in the region to deal with this challenge, but with mixed success. Efforts by international aid groups have largely been unsuccessful. They bring a few open-minded 'leaders' from North Maluku to Manado for meetings and then send them home with little if any follow-up. The lack of success of these meetings has led many refugees to stop attending them, as they see them as a waste of time. Their argument, and that of many on Halmahera, is that any attempts at reconciliation have to be made from the bottom up, and be made in Halmahera. Where refugees have returned it has been a case of repatriation rather than true reconciliation. Where reconciliation has begun, it is the exception rather than the rule. For example, Muslims have begun returning to Tobelo, but the Christian population has greeted their return with mixed feelings. Many are eager to put the past behind them, while others are still mistrustful and would rather the Muslims did not return. Dealing with the latter group will be the challenge for the local government. News reports say that 'Team 30', an organisation established to promote reconciliation in the sub-district of Jailolo, has had some success, and many refugees from Jailolo have returned home. In addition to reconciliation, the people of North Maluku must rebuild. During the fighting an estimated 20,000 homes were destroyed, along with innumerable churches, mosques, schools, and government buildings. Dozens of villages were destroyed completely. Many people had their gardens partially destroyed, and other means of livelihood, such as fishing boats were burnt or stolen, hampering economic recovery. The flight of civil servants and schoolteachers from the region has slowed recovery efforts as well. Several efforts are addressing the destruction, including donations of material from USAID and World Vision Indonesia. Unfortunately these programs are only for refugees who return to their place of origin. They do not help people who have no desire to, or cannot, return home. Furthermore, the aid programs have been hampered by corruption at the local level. Refugees The biggest remaining obstacle is the return of the more than 100,000 refugees displaced by the violence. Many have begun returning home on their own accord. In the Malifut area the first returnees from both sides are starting to rebuild. The same can be said for other parts of northern Halmahera. The first groups of Muslims returned to Tobelo in July 2001, accompanied by the army to guarantee their safety. A few Christians have returned to Galela. However they were not provided with military protection, and most are unwilling to return at this point. There are also significant numbers of Christian refugees in northern Halmahera from Morotai Island and from southern and central Halmahera who are still scared of going home. The largest remaining group of displaced people is in North Sulawesi, many living in large refugee camps in Bitung and Manado. These approximately 30,000 refugees, the majority of whom are Christians from Ternate, Tidore, and southern Halmahera, remain uncertain about their future. Many of the refugees from Ternate have decided they will never return. They have sold their homes and taken up opportunities for relocation in North Sulawesi, or are moving to Ambon or Halmahera. The picture looks the same for Tidore where, according to one Muslim journalist, the Sultan of Tidore has said that it is unsafe for Christians to return. Other groups from the islands of Obi and Bacan want to go home, but the lack of information about the current state of affairs hampers any decision. Others see no point in returning to their destroyed villages where their lives will be more difficult than in the refugee camps. One forgotten victim group has been the thousands of Javanese transmigrants. They were deported by the army against their will from the largely Christian regions of Halmahera. These largely Muslim transmigrants had refused to take part in the violence, and had received assurances from Christian communities, as well as from Muslim communities in Kao, that they would not be attacked, as this was a purely local matter. However, the military decided to forcibly remove the Javanese with only a few hours notice, forcing them to leave behind their belongings. After they left, their homes were taken over by refugees, and the irrigation works and rice fields built for them by the government have been destroyed. Some Javanese families have returned, but most are still waiting in Java. Christopher R Duncan (modole@hotmail.com) is a research fellow at Goldsmiths College, University of London. He wrote his doctoral dissertation on Halmahera, and visited the area in August 2001. For more on this conflict, see 'Inside Indonesia' no.63 (Jul-Sep 2000). One organisation doing good work with refugees on both sides of the conflict is Consortium for Assisting the Refugee and Displaced in Indonesia (Cardi, email cardi@cbn.net.id). Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

Osama bin Cool

What do Indonesian students think about Osama bin Laden? Katie Brayne If you walk south along Jalan Malioboro past McDonalds, turn left into the Mall, take a right at Marks and Spencer, and then just before the ATM's take a left down the escalators, then, just opposite the Ericsson mobile phone store you'll find a small store with glass cabinets filled with stickers and T-shirts. In this store, on the bottom floor of Yogyakarta's favourite monument to western consumerism, you will find, next to stickers and T-shirts of the various Yogyakarta University logos, European soccer team logos and Yogya paraphernalia, a hand-written sign advertising the latest addition to the sticker collection - a proud portrait of Osama bin Laden, available in a variety of colours. T-shirts are also available, the sign reads on. Further south, in an offshoot of the Beringharjo Market, you find the wooden boarded stalls of the book market. This labyrinth is affectionately known among Yogyakarta's large student population as 'shopping'. Amongst the old and new text books, newspaper clippings and pre-loved assignments and theses, a new book has flooded the market: Osama bin Laden versus America ('Osama bin Laden melawan Amerika') - a collection of essays from western and non-western academics and clerics translated into Indonesian. In the aftermath of the Black Tuesday attacks in the US, Indonesian students are clearly interested in this man, whom America accuses of masterminding the most devastating attack on American soil since the Civil War. So what do Yogya's students think about this infamous figure? This is what I wanted to find out amongst my friends and classmates at Gadjah Mada University and Muhammadiyah University Yogyakarta. 'I don't really know, and I don't really believe the recent news about Osama bin Laden because all the news comes from the West who want to put forward their particular point of view.' 'Scapegoat.' 'America is very scared of Osama. America says that because Osama is able to conduct such a terrorist attack, therefore he must have done it. This propaganda is proof of how scared America is of him.' 'Pretty cool in some ways.' 'He is the symbol of a revolutionary movement that is fed up with America's defence of Israel and its discrediting of Islam. Because of this sentiment, Osama bin Laden and his group hold violently strong beliefs against the West.' 'Osama is a true Islamic fighter, who is trying to free Islam itself from its status as a slave to American interests.' 'A militant who is prepared to sacrifice everything he owns for his religion and community.' 'An anti-American revolutionary who hates America for what he sees as their unjust role as world policeman.' 'He is great, but unfortunately he has no heart.' 'He is only presuming innocence.' 'It is not yet clear whether he did it, but it is clear that he agrees with it.' 'An anti-American, anti-imperialist militant.' 'He is one of the few men brave enough to oppose America. He is currently in hiding not because he is afraid, but because it is his strategy in facing America, who are currently playing judge without any strong proof. I think Osama didn't do it, but that doesn't mean he is not brave enough to do it' 'Osama bin Laden is a true Islamic militant whose goal is to free Islam from its fate as enemy number one to the West.' Katie Brayne (kbrayne@hotmail.com) was a student at Gadjah Mada University through the Acicis program (wwwsshe.murdoch.edu.au/acicis). Inside Indonesia 68: Oct - Dec 2001

Scunge City. And yet....

What the guide books don't tell you about Surabaya Duncan Graham The East Java Provincial Government, like most administrations world wide, is not above a little dissembling. You get it on the road into Surabaya where the official welcome signs note that Indonesia's second biggest city is 'Bersih dan Hijau' - Clean and Green. The signs are best seen at first light. By 9 am smog blurs the image and attention is distracted by beggars and newspaper sellers who swarm around any slow-moving car. Which is just about any vehicle, for the traffic density is close to gridlock. Try not to breathe. That's in the dry season: In the wet roads are flooded from door to door, so pavement, verge, drain and bitumen merge into a seamless black scum where floating objects best remain unscrutinised. Then Surabaya stalls as saturated engines short circuit. And the green? Most obvious on bright coloured giant billboards offering sexual, sporting and social success for the tiny price of a pack of smokes. Real trees are as rare as a shark (sura) fighting a crocodile (buaya), the city's mythological origin. The authorities claim Surabaya has a Centre. If there is a focal point it has to be Tunjungan Plaza, a garish multi-storey department store full of over-priced goods and costly American fast-food shops. Here the poor peer, the middle class preen, and salesgirls professionally ignore customers with cash. For Surabaya has not been planned, or if that claim is denied, the planners were corrupt, inept, or asleep. Probably all three. Like some sci-fi squid from outer space which feeds on city sewers, Surabaya is devouring Gresik up the coast, climbing into the hill town of Tretes, swallowing nearby Sidoarjo, to be stopped only by the Straits of Madura. But even then its plastic excreta can be found far offshore. Who can tell where it all begins and ends, because it doesn't. Surabaya defies definitions and census-takers, but four to five million for the area around the port could be a reasonable guess, with 30 million more in the hinterland. Or maybe that's the other way around. At least 20,000 are prostitutes, for among its many credentials this sweaty, grimy industrial megapolis seven degrees south of the equator is reputedly Southeast Asia's biggest brothel, with the accessories of disease and despair to match. And yet... Without doubt Surabaya is Scunge City. And yet and yet. Unlike Bali, Surabaya doesn't care whether you come, and unlike Jakarta it's indifferent to whether you go. The few tourists who find themselves in Surabaya wander bemused, clutching handbags and hands, restless eyes playing spot-the-mugger. Relax: Even the thieves are indifferent. Expat businessmen and government officials are not to be spotted in public, except at product launches. They're more at ease gliding between hotel and office behind the black windows of their chauffeur-driven Super Kijangs. Ignore them: They only mix with their own kind, then sell themselves as experts on the culture and economy. In a narrow trench alongside Tunjungan Plaza, crushed by a motorbike park, are the warungs where shopgirls on $60 a month and their boyfriends retreat from their air-conditioned glitzy workplace to eat well for less than one Australian dollar. And so can you. Rip-offs are rare and gawking at Western intruders is subtle. For although Surabaya is chaotic, grotesque, dirty, impossible to negotiate, crass in its Soviet-realism monuments, noteworthy for its lack of notable buildings, events and attractions, try finding any place more Javanese. The language of the kampungs and the street is Javanese, not Bahasa Indonesia. Advertisements for cigarettes, mobile phones and dandruff-cures may be English in a pretence of refinement, but the world language is rare outside the campuses. What you see is what you get. The indifference towards Westerners extends to the locals. This is not special treatment, it is the treatment. Surabaya is raw and honest. No 'morning price', no concessions and, best of all, no contempt. The obsequiousness, sneers and arrogance, so much the part of the local response in other Asian cities towards white skinned creatures outside their environment, is seldom encountered in Surabaya. You are obviously a walking cash box, but the temptation to make a quick withdrawal is usually found only among a few taxi drivers late on a wet night. Yet what you see is not what you get. The splendid Majapahit Hotel, reputedly the most expensive in Indonesia and a marvel of indulgence and beauty with a fine historic past, is hidden behind a drab fawhich blends anonymously into a coarse streetscape of commercial sameness. Likewise with Kampung Sasak. Even the locals have difficulty finding the entrance of this Arab quarter, which leads through a cramped street of traders to the ancient Ampel Mosque, founded by Sunan Ampel, one of the nine holy men who brought Islam to Java. The mosque, in this densely packed centre of Middle Eastern commerce, always seems to be busy with the business of worship, unlike the landmark Agung Mosque near the toll road to Malang. This grand blue-domed and government-built celebration of Islam, with a Catholic church in its shadow as forced propaganda for tolerance, is as sterile and obvious as Ampel is potent and hidden. There are hundreds of other nooks in Surabaya which reveal some of the complex and subtle nuances of this fourteenth century remnant of the Majapahit Kingdom. That they're absent from the guide books is no indicator of a desire for privacy; it's just that the government has a stereotyped view of foreigners and thinks visitors only want poolside drinks and American breakfasts. When Surabaya was created, the deity which governs tourism blinked, and praise be for a marvellous escape from Mammon. The best food is often found in the gloomiest, oil-lit warungs, original handicrafts in the drabbest shops, the finest dancers and singers in schools where the concrete is cancerous and the architecture indistinguishable from a public toilet. East Java proclaims it is a Muslim State, but even the most pious will visit a paranormal in times of strife. Ghosts lurk in banyan trees, wayward spirits send lax students into trances, mystics are consulted by brokers who trade on the Net. At midnight, street people drift to a Chinese temple seeking a peep into the future. Islam is just the outer skin of an onion covering animism, Hinduism and other ancient mysteries. Slim girls in gladwrap-tight jeans revealing navels, shoulders and their readership of Cosmopolitan, hold hands with friends covered from head to toe in the tradition of their grandmothers. Men smoke, drink and gamble, then pray. To find the secret places and learn of the magics you need a special guide. Not a professional from a hotel - they'll only take you to KFC. The person you require will find you and will be insulted if you offer money, though a feed and help with English conversation will be appreciated. How to meet such a marvel? It's not that difficult. Wander the streets and markets alone, with an open mind, friendly face and polite gestures. Take your time. You'll be seen and watched. If you're sending the right signals someone is bound to find the courage to practise their English. Don't rush. Build an acquaintance - or walk away if the mood or person isn't right. In a few days you'll have met a few of his or her friends, had a meal or two, maybe visited the family home, exchanged views and discovered differences. With luck you'll find more in common despite the Timor Sea of misunderstanding, language, religion, income, experience and lifestyle which separates us as neighbours. Then the smog starts to lift. Since the British bombed the city in November 1945, Surabaya has been deceived and betrayed by successive governments in Jakarta, but its residents remain resilient, independent, stoic, Javanese. For although Surabaya is rough and ugly, its people are genuine, keen to share, humble but proud. They apologise for the manifold faults of government, but retain hope for change. They hunger for knowledge. They thirst for understanding. Yet they are not ignorant or unsophisticated. You may find wrinkled men sucking clove cigarettes who can debate philosophy having read the greats in Greek; young women studying John Donne and other metaphysical poets in the original yet destined to become secretaries; students who know more of Australian politics than the average Okker undergraduate. They hate KKN (corruption, collusion and nepotism) but know that without it they will surely miss the best jobs. It's a humbling experience to continuously meet fluent self-taught English speakers when you're struggling with a language which is supposed to be easy, to discover the astonishing achievements of young people handicapped by lack of money, few books and a 1950-style education system. Despite the universe-sized problems which beset this cumbersome and fumbling democracy, the next generation is largely incandescent with energy and determination to right the wrongs, all tempered with reality and an undercurrent of fear. Expect to be dazzled and confused. But never dismayed. All this and more, as the tourist brochures like to say. Seek and ye will find. In Surabaya. Duncan Graham (wordstars@hotmail.com) is a Perth based journalist who can't get enough of East Java. Inside Indonesia 69: Jan - Mar 2002

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