Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

Witness denied

Australian media responses to the Indonesian killings of 1965-66 Richard Tanter In the aftermath of the Untung coup and the Suharto countercoup of September 30th and October 1st, 1965 between 100,000 and 1,000,000 Indonesians were killed by the Indonesian army or by civilians supported and encouraged by the army. This genocide was the foundation of Suharto's three decades of power, and beyond that for the whole of post-Vietnam War Southeast Asia. The killings can be regarded as the constitutive terror of the New Order state. How was this genocide seen in Australia? What could Australians have learned from reading the press of the day? In mid-1966, while the killings that had started in October the year before were continuing unabated, the Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt visited the United States. Speaking to the Australian-American Association at the River Club in New York, Holt expressed his satisfaction with the pro-Western shift of Indonesian foreign policy and economic policy under Suharto after March 1966. This was hardly a surprising position for a conservative politician, but the language that Holt chose to employ was startling: 'With 500,000 to 1 million Communist sympathisers knocked off, I think it is safe to assume a reorientation has taken place.' As a representation of genocide, the casual brutality of the first part of the politician's sentence (a million people 'knocked off') is stunning. Surely this is what the American psychologist of state terror, Robert Lifton, calls 'psychological numbing' at work: an adjustment to the normality of mass murder. And yet the brutality of Holt's throwaway line was enhanced for his listeners by the smug joke in the second part of the sentence: 'I think it's safe to assume a reorientation has taken place'. It is not hard to imagine the knowing smiles and even guffaws of the powerful and wealthy American audience. Yet Holt's slip in New York was significant not just in the brutal clarity of his manner of speaking. Holt's remarks were reported the next day in the New York Times, but not, so far as I can discover, in any Australian newspaper. It is most implausible that no Australian US-based correspondents were present. The fact the remarks were not reported at home was not an accident. Even in the roughhouse atmosphere of Australian 1960s anti-communism, Holt had gone much further than would have been safe. Speaking to an invitation-only audience of powerful friends abroad, Holt relaxed his normal political guard and openly revealed the fundamental outlook of Australian anti-communism and racist perceptions of Indonesia. The Australian reporters touring with the Prime Minister or their editors protected their readers from the need to face the historical and moral reality of the genocide next door. (It was to be thirteen years before Holt's remarks were brought to wider attention in Noam Chomsky and Edward Herman's pathbreaking study of the systematic media differentiation of 'constructive' terror (Indonesia) and 'nefarious' terror (Cambodia) in their The Washington connection and Third World fascism.) In Australia today there is very little awareness of the 1965 killings. In my own experience, apart from those with a close interest in Indonesian affairs, very few people have any knowledge of this set of massive crimes against humanity. While recent public opinion polls show a widespread negative image of New Order Indonesia in Australia, this is largely derived from perceptions of the Indonesian invasion of East Timor. And of course, most people who know nothing of the Indonesian killings in 1965-66 know a great deal about the Khmer Rouge killings a decade later. This ignorance is not a matter of forgetting something once known. An Australian public opinion poll conducted in the early 1970s by the political scientist Rodney Tiffen showed that while more than half the respondents could identify President Suharto, not a single person mentioned the killings as part of their description of their image of Indonesia. How can this ignorance or amnesia of genocide in the country nearest Australia be explained? The first question is a simple question of fact: exactly what information about the killings in Indonesia was provided by the mainstream media of the time? The newspapers of the city of Melbourne Australia's second largest city and the heartland of the old-monied conservative dominance epitomised by Holt make a reasonable sample of the press coverage of the day. I examined all issues between October 1, 1965 and August 30th, 1966 of Melbourne's two daily morning newspapers. These together dominated the Melbourne market: the tabloid Sun News-Pictorial and the 'quality broadsheet' The Age. Both newspapers published many articles on Indonesian politics at the time at least one or more each day. This was almost as many as were published on Vietnam, and far more than at any other time in Australian media history. Most stories were given great prominence in the papers, appearing either on the front page or the principal foreign affairs page. The Sun Coverage of the killings in both papers was extremely limited, and grossly distorted. The Sun, the more popular paper, while publishing almost daily major reports on Indonesia, published only five articles in eleven months that even mentioned killings of communists. Two minor articles in November 1965 reported small numbers of PKI members killed in Java. The execution of D N Aidit, the PKI leader, was reported in December. President Sukarno's statement in January 1966 that 87,000 had been killed was reported on two occasions, but in a manner that suggested it was an unreliable report by an irrational politician. On March 9th 1966, the political columnist Douglas Wilkie discussed Jakarta students as 'rioting in a good cause' (ie. anti-Sukarno), but then went on to make an extremely intriguing statement: 'Many of the students are tools of the Moslem extremists who butchered some 300,000 of their Communist countrymen with kris and club after the September 30 revolt.' Two aspects of the way this single sentence is written are important. Firstly, in March 1966, the columnist is referring to the mass killings in a way that suggests they are common knowledge already: he sees no need to explain the reference to his readers. Yet those readers would not have been able to find that information in The Sun. Secondly, Wilkie's allusions to killings by 'kris and club' and to 'Moslem extremists' are characteristic of contemporary Australian (and US) references to both the killings and to Indonesian politics as a whole. 'Indonesia' is a different world from 'here' (Australia), one characterised by immaturity ('It's children's hour in Jakarta'), and by unknowable and irrational causation ('Moslem extremists'), with connotations of racially informed separateness (Indonesians kill with 'kris and club'). Apart from these tiny allusions and reports, nothing appeared in this newspaper until early August of 1966, by which time most of the killings had stopped. On August 5, The Sun's prolific Jakarta correspondent Frank Palmos published a powerful and detailed report beginning: 'More than one million people died in the massacres triggered by the attempted coup in Indonesia on October 1 last year.' The graphic detail in the full-page report came from army participants in the killings, and from a military research report carried out in part by university students. Palmos' report also emphasised the irrational 'blood lust' and 'constant semi-amok' behaviour of young Islamic men. In sum then, the largest newspaper in Melbourne barely mentioned the killings in the ten months while they were in full sway, and then allowed only a single detailed report to be published. There were no follow-up articles after Palmos' report. The limited information that did appear represented Indonesians as irrational and unknowable racial others. The Age Coverage of Indonesia in The Age was even greater than in its popular rival, and coverage of the killings was more extensive. Despite this, The Age's coverage was equally limited and distorting. Like The Sun, The Age published several minor reports of communists killed in fighting in late 1965. It also reported President Sukarno's January pleading for an end to the killings, though in a less hostile manner. In the remainder of 1966, The Age published three articles reporting the killings in some detail. Two of these were somewhat detailed reports by New York Times senior correspondents C L Sulzberger in April and Seymour Topping in August. The flavour of Sulzberger's report, which did emphasise the genocidal quality and scale of the killings, can be guessed from its original title in the New York Times: 'When a nation goes amok'. Topping's article in August was a much more sober and more detailed account, based on extensive travel in Java, Bali and Eastern Indonesia. There was no editorial comment on Topping's report, nor any follow-up by any of The Age's own writers. When I asked one journalist who wrote extensively on Indonesia that year for The Age why he and his colleagues did not cover the genocide story, he answered, 'Well it's easy to criticise now, Richard. But in those days it was near impossible to get out of Jakarta.' When I put this to Seymour Topping, who like other New York Times correspondents travelled widely and reported in depth on the genocide, he replied, 'That was simply untrue. You could do it if you wanted to.' Yet in January 1966, much earlier in the period of the killings, The Age published a detailed eyewitness account of the killings by one of its own reporters, Robert Macklin. In 500 words Macklin provided a graphic and convincing account of mass murder that could have left no reader in doubt of what was happening in Indonesia. In journalistic terms, it was a world scoop. Yet, given both its importance and its virtually unique status, Macklin�s article was published deep in the newspaper, well away from both the front page and the foreign affairs section, next to the daily cattle market price reports. Short of not publishing it at all, there could have been no better way of ensuring it went unnoticed. There was no follow-up either by Macklin or the paper's Southeast Asian correspondent. Macklin himself wondered at the time whether editors of the paper who he even then knew to have close relationships with Australian security organisations had effectively spiked the story. The choice of words with which The Age discussed Indonesian affairs in themselves carried powerful effects. As in The Sun, paternalistic and racialist assumptions of irrationality and immaturity were common. The day that Sulzberger's April article with its emphasis on amok and kris appeared, The Age editorial discussed Indonesia, without mentioning the killings, expressing the hope for a new direction in condescending but revealing terms: 'It is too much to hope that the new Indonesian regime will be logical; our best hope is that it will be practical.' Yet there was a far more effective rhetorical device used by the Australian media to deal with the delicate problem of both acknowledging and denying the fact of genocide at the same time. The Southeast Asian correspondent of The Age, a senior journalist and academic political scientist named Creighton Burns, published a great many articles on Indonesian politics in this period. However, only one sentence in many hundreds actually mentioned the killings: 'Djakarta virtually escaped the violence which swept Indonesia in the wake of the October coup, and which resulted in the death of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, mostly Communist supporters and sympathisers.' Burns here provides an early example of a formulation that was to become widely employed in the years to come in western writing on the killings. As George Orwell might have noted, the key to the political effect of the passage lies in the grammar: there is no agent of violent death here. Abstract and disembodied violence 'sweeps Indonesia', resulting in Communist death. In other versions, which were to be repeated during the East Timor crisis of 1999, the phrasing is even more telling: 'X number of Communists died in the wave of violence...' The agent-less and passive voice was appropriate for what was needed in 1966, and was repeatedly used. Because of the report by Macklin (and later by Sulzberger, Topping, and other sources such as Palmos), it was impossible to deny the holocaust directly. Equally, it was politically highly undesirable that the agency of the army and its instigation of Islamic groups be emphasised. Wherever possible The Age avoided direct reference to the killings, and effectively suppressed its own inconvenient world scoop by Macklin. When reference to genocide was unavoidable, the highly effective solution was to use the rhetoric of the passive voice. Writing about mass murder in the passive voice provided a remarkably effective complement to simple avoidance and suppression via a form of words that allowed both knowledge of genocide and denial of genocide at the same time. Denial - in the psychoanalytic sense - always involves a process of actively repressing knowledge. Witness 'Witness' has a double meaning in English. There is firstly the person who takes the role of 'witness' in relation to an event, the person who says 'this is what happened'. My first question then is, where were the Australian witnesses? In what way did Australian newspapers report the Indonesian killings of 1965-66? What did Australian political figures say at that time? What was said in the Australian community at that time? But there is a second meaning of the word 'witness' in English, a sense captured in the phrase 'to bear witness', meaning to speak of what has been seen, to speak actively of what has happened, and to not be silent. The Australian media and political response to the Indonesian genocide was a matter of 'witness denied' in this sense as well. This is significant not just in the real-politik world, but in the moral sense that many people assume flows from Auschwitz onwards: a responsibility to bear witness to holocaust and genocide. Unlike in Indonesia itself, in 1960s Australia, speaking truth to power required no great risk. Yet, witness was systematically denied. I began this work trying to answer what seemed to me to be an odd puzzle: why didn't people my age and older in Australia know about the killings? That simple puzzle has led to somewhat more complicated puzzles, bearing a great deal of moral and intellectual weight. It has been a saddening study, particularly tracing back through the intellectual history of the study of Indonesian politics and history in Australia. All of our work is an act of representation, but we have paid astonishingly little attention to our own intellectual history. The story of the representation of the Indonesian genocide is the point where anti-communism, the demands of the national security state, and in the Australian case at least, a deep measure of racism, fused to smother and then sever the connection to a shared humanity and moral responsibility. Richard Tanter (rtanter@hotmail.com) teaches at Kyoto Seika University in Japan. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

Combat zone

Aceh is the military's stepping stone back to power David Bourchier In the years since Suharto, Acehnese resolve has done much to push forward the national agenda on human rights and regional autonomy. Decades of military repression gave Acehnese demands for reparation of past wrongs a special legitimacy and intensity. Yet the Indonesian military has consistently opposed concessions to the Acehnese and is now using the ongoing resistance there as a stepping stone back to power. There is no more tangible symbol of this process than the establishment in February 2002 of the Aceh regional military command, known as Kodam Iskandar Muda. On one level, the new regional military command (Kodam) changes little. After all, there is no territory in Indonesia that is not covered by one or another Kodam. Kodam Iskandar Muda had itself existed prior to 1985 when it was absorbed into the larger Kodam Bukit Barisan, a Medan-based command that covered most of northern and western Sumatra. But a closer look at the dynamics behind the formation of Kodam Iskandar Muda reveals a worrying picture. Kodams are the key units in the military's so-called territorial apparatus, an intricate hierarchy that shadows the government's civilian administration from the national to the village level. Following the fall of Suharto, when anti-military sentiment was at its height, several pro-democracy groups called for this entire apparatus to be disbanded. Their calls had some support among reformers within the military who saw the involvement of territorial officers in local politics, business and criminal activities as detrimental to the military's image. Expansion plans Hardliners in the mainstream military, however, scoffed at the idea of abolishing the territorial apparatus. They used the outbreak of communal violence in several parts of Indonesia in 1999 and 2000 to argue instead for its expansion. Away from the gaze of Indonesia's newly empowered parliamentarians, planners in armed forces headquarters hatched a scheme in 1999 to increase the number of Kodams from the existing ten to seventeen. The idea here was to resurrect the system of smaller Kodams that armed forces commander General Benny Murdani had rationalised in 1985. The first move came on 15 May 1999 with the creation of the Pattimura Kodam in strife-torn Ambon, splitting the large Trikora military command that had covered West Papua and the Moluccas. The Pattimura Kodam was named Kodam XVI while the shrunken West Papua command began to be referred to as Kodam XVII. The use of this pre-1985 numbering system left observers in little doubt that the military intended to push ahead with its controversial expansion plan. This was confirmed when armed forces commander Wiranto announced to a bemused parliamentary commission in June 1999 a ten-year schedule for increasing the number of Kodams to seventeen, starting with the Moluccas, Aceh, West Kalimantan and Central/ South Kalimantan. If Wiranto encountered little opposition to his plan from parliament, the same was not true of the Acehnese. From the moment they got wind of the plan in late 1998, there was strong opposition from student, human rights and community groups. Arguments put by Aceh's then governor, Syamsuddin Mahmud, that the resurrection of our own Banda Aceh-based Kodam would lead to a more culturally sensitive military were quickly howled down. The military was deeply unpopular in Aceh. Intense local opposition appears to have been a crucial factor in delaying the plan. Presidents Habibie and Abdurrahman Wahid both understood that the deep resentment against the military in Aceh could easily translate into support for independence. In August 1999 Habibie announced an end to Aceh's status as a so-called military operations zone (DOM) and ordered Wiranto to apologise for past abuses by the security forces there. Abdurrahman Wahid went further, engaging representatives of the Free Aceh Movement (GAM) in negotiations aimed at a peaceful resolution of the long-running conflict. On the ground, however, military actions went on regardless. Local commanders viewed Wahid's negotiated humanitarian pause with contempt. By April 2001 the central command had succeeded in pressuring Wahid into allowing a formal resumption of hostilities. This led immediately to the formation of a new combat command for Aceh called Kolakops, under the effective command of Brigadier-General Zamroni, former deputy chief of the feared Special Forces (Kopassus). Zamroni brought with him an elite force of about 2,000 troops trained by Kopassus. He was also put in command of all territorial troops in the province as well as all other outside forces including Kopassus and Strategic Reserve (Kostrad) troops, giving him control over at least 12,000 troops. Kolakops coordinated its actions at least in theory with the 20,000 police stationed in Aceh. Kolakops forces launched a major offensive against AGAM, the armed wing of the liberation movement. Given the extent of support for GAM in the towns and villages of Aceh, however, troops under Zamroni's command frequently targeted civilians and only succeeded in further alienating the population. According to the Legal Aid Foundation, an average of seven people was killed every day in 2001. Megawati's ascension further cemented the military's political power. Sukarno's daughter was far more simplistic in her approach to regional problems than Wahid had been, and far more friendly to the military. She made her attitude quite clear in December 2001 when she told her military audience: 'Suddenly we are aware of the need for a force to protect our beloved nation and motherland from breaking up. Guided by the soldier's oath and existing laws, carry out your duties and responsibilities in the best possible manner without worrying about being involved in human rights abuses. Do your job without hesitation.' Soon the plans for a new Kodam were on again. This time the opposition was even more widespread, triggered in part by the killing of guerrilla leader Abdullah Syafi'ie by Indonesian forces on 22 January. A range of academics, NGOs and public figures spoke against the plans, warning of an escalation of conflict and an increase in predatory activities by territorial soldiers. In mid-January a three-day strike against the new Kodam reportedly succeeded in crippling two-thirds of businesses in Aceh. There was also muted opposition from within Megawati's government. Speaking to reporters last January, Indonesian Foreign Affairs Minister Hassan Wirayuda expressed his scepticism about the plan, stressing the need for dialogue with GAM. This reflected the long-standing frustration in Indonesia's foreign affairs establishment with the military's repeated undermining of its attempts to negotiate a peaceful solution. Local parliamentarians, however, had an interest in promoting the idea, with the new governor, Abdullah Puteh, one of its strongest supporters. By this time the position of Kolakops commander had been taken over by Brigadier-General Muhammad Djali Yusuf. New faces On 5 February Kodam Iskandar Muda was officially reinstated, with Djali Yusuf becoming Kodam commander. Much was made of the fact that he was Acehnese. Like most Kodam commanders across Indonesia today, Yusuf graduated from the military academy in Magelang, Central Java, in 1972. Between 1996 and 1997 he was responsible for operations in the Udayana military command that included East Timor. After serving for two years in East Kalimantan he became Zamroni's deputy in Kolakops in Aceh. He has repeatedly indicated that he endorses a hard-line solution to the Aceh conflict. Yusuf's chief of staff is Colonel Syarifudin Tippe, the Buginese combat engineer who until April 2001 commanded Korem 012, the Banda Aceh-based military district that covers the northern and western half of Aceh. When Tippe was first appointed to his position as Korem commander he spoke of 'slaughtering enemies of the state.' After a time, however, he began to make conciliatory statements and even recommended negotiating with GAM. He wrote at least two books on Aceh that tackle the question of Acehnese nationalism and the reasons for the military's unpopularity. At the same time, he opposed the humanitarian pause and now appears committed to follow the same path as his new commander. For military purposes, Aceh is divided into two district commands (Korem) and eight smaller military districts (Kodim). The latter correspond to civilian regencies (kabupaten). The current commander of Korem 012 is Colonel Gerhan Lentara, who had a long history of combat in East Timor. In Dili in November 1991 as deputy commander of Battalion 700, he was the officer whose slashing was followed by the Santa Cruz massacre. Meanwhile Colonel Azmyn Yusri Nasution, a 48-year old Kostrad officer with experience in many areas including Aceh, now commands Korem 011 covering eastern and southern Aceh. His most recent appointment was Operations Assistant at Kostrad headquarters in Jakarta. Whether the new Kodam will replace the Kolakops structure is as yet unclear. If East Timor is any guide, the combat command will continue to exist alongside the territorial apparatus. This would leave ample scope for confused lines of command and friction between territorial and non-territorial forces. But as we saw in East Timor, such confusion is useful because it allows maximum deniability when things go wrong. The formation of the Aceh Kodam bodes ill for peace in Aceh and for reform in Indonesia. It suggests that Jakarta is now fully committed to a military solution. Aceh is already reliving the nightmare of being a bloody combat zone. It is also a sign of growing military assertiveness at the national level. Weak resistance from national parliamentarians is another nail in the coffin of reformasi. With this success under their belt, the military is likely to push ahead with its plan to increase its influence by establishing more military commands throughout the country. David Bourchier (davidb@arts.uwa.edu.au) teaches at the University of Western Australia Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

Is Indonesia a terrorist base?

The gulf between rhetoric and evidence is wide Greg Fealy Indonesia has frequently been cast as a country with a serious international terrorism problem. The US, Singapore and Malaysia claim to have evidence of terrorists being based in Indonesia or of Indonesians leading offshore terrorist groups. Singaporean senior minister Lee Kwan Yew declared that Indonesia was a hotbed of terrorism. The claims have been used by the Bush administration to pressure Indonesia to take strong action against them. A close look at the evidence suggests, however, that the terrorist threat has been overstated and that foreign officials and the media have been alarmist in their claims. The emphatic anti-terrorism policy pursued by the US and some of its allies towards Indonesia is misguided. Among many alleged instances, I shall restrict this present discussion to the two most prominent and instructive cases. These are that: (1) al-Qaeda fighters received terrorist training in the Poso region of Central Sulawesi; and (2) Indonesian Muslims played a leading role in the Kumpulan Mujahidin Malaysia (KMM) and Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) terrorist groups in Malaysia and Singapore respectively, both of which have been linked to Osama bin Laden's network. The claims of terrorist training bases in Sulawesi emerged originally in testimony given to a Spanish judge by eight al-Qaeda activists. They claimed 200-300 fighters had trained in Poso and mentioned an Indonesian, Parlindungan Siregar, as a pivotal figure. The claims were soon taken up by Hendropriyono, the head of Indonesia's State Intelligence Agency (BIN), who stated publicly in mid-December 2001 that his officers had found evidence of foreigners training near Poso. The US press also began carrying stories, presumably based on briefings from Bush administration officials, that high-resolution satellite imagery had confirmed the existence of the camps and their foreign personnel. Much of this evidence, however, was soon shown to be equivocal. Key allies of the United States regarded the satellite photographs as inconclusive, because they failed to show who might have been using the base. A number of Western missions in Jakarta sent their own teams to Poso but found nothing to support the foreign base claim. Hendropriyono's statements were also contradicted by senior Indonesian police and military officials, who admitted that, while there were certainly Indonesian paramilitary training bases in Poso, they had no evidence of outsiders training there. Finally, there was the general question of how the training of several hundred foreign Muslims could go unnoticed by the large Christian community around Poso or by local security officials. The KMM and JI allegations surfaced following a series of arrests in Malaysia and Singapore between mid-2001 and early 2002. Officials in both countries claimed there were links between the two organisations. They said that testimony given by the detainees pointed to three Indonesians as having a leading role in KMM and JI. The three were Abubakar Ba'asyir, a fiery Islamic preacher from Central Java and supposed spiritual leader of both organisations, Riduan Isamuddin (commonly known as Hambali) who was credited with the daily management of JI, and Mohammad Iqbal. Iqbal was captured by Malaysian authorities in late 2001 and has not been seen in public since; Ba'asyir has returned to Indonesia where he maintains a high public profile; and Hambali went to ground after Indonesian police issued a warrant for his arrest. Malaysia and Singapore have pressed the Indonesian government to arrest Ba'asyir but have been told there is no case against him. This has led to highly critical reporting in the international press of Indonesia's soft stance on terrorism. The JI-Indonesia connection received further coverage when Philippines officials arrested an Indonesian, Fathur Rohim al-Ghozi in January 2002, on charges of importing explosives. Al-Ghozi, a former student at Ba'asyir's boarding school, was soon identified as JI's bomb expert and accused of involvement in various bombings across the region. This was followed in mid-March by the detention of another three Indonesian Muslims Tamsil Linrung, Abdul Jamal Balfas and Agus Dwikarna in Manila on charges of smuggling C4 explosive in their luggage. Philippines authorities claimed the men were linked to JI and other terrorist organisations. Tamsil and Balfas were eventually released in mid-April for lack of evidence but Dwikarna remains in detention, reportedly at the request of BIN. Sweeping claims The KMM-JI connection has been frequently cited by foreign officials and the media in sweeping claims about Indonesia's terrorism problem, but the available evidence only warrants a narrower interpretation. In the case of JI, the Singaporean government has released substantial documentary and video evidence to back its claim that this was a genuine terrorist group, and there appears little reason to doubt this information. The case against al-Ghozi is also strong. Much of the original JI testimony that led to his arrest has proven accurate and al-Ghozi has admitted his involvement in terrorist training and bombings. He was found guilty in the Philippines in mid-April and sentenced to a minimum ten years jail. But the Singaporeans have failed to present evidence proving that Ba'asyir, Hambali and Iqbal had a role in JI's terrorism. The KMM case is far less credible. The Malaysian government has offered the public almost no evidence to back its assertion that KMM is a terrorist group. Indeed, so flimsy is the government's case that a number of analysts have queried whether KMM even exists. The Mahathir administration has clear political and diplomatic motives in playing up the terrorism issue. It has sought to discredit its main political foe, the Islamist PAS, by alleging links between PAS and the KMM. It has also curried US favour by appearing pro-actively anti-terrorist. As with the Singaporeans, the Malaysian government has not revealed evidence showing the complicity of Ba'asyir, Hambali and Iqbal in KMM's terrorism. Indonesian police who have examined the testimony of the KMM detainees claim that, while it clearly shows that Ba'asyir and Hambali were militant preachers, it does not indicate any terrorist intent. Also dubious is the case against Tamsil, Balfas and Dwikarna. Almost from the outset, their arrest showed signs of being a frame-up. Tamsil told the Indonesian press that he and his two associates had been the only passengers searched from their flight and that they had seen Filipino officials plant the explosives in one of their suitcases. Filipino police had later told them that their arrest had been ordered by Hendropriyono and that a senior BIN official had travelled to Manila to oversee the operation. Meanwhile the Filipino police refused to allow a visiting Indonesian police team access to the smuggled explosive. The role played by Hendropriyono and BIN has attracted strong criticism from Islamic groups, the press and parliamentarians. Misinformation A number of conclusions can now be drawn. The first is that there is little basis for asserting that Indonesia is a proven base for terrorist groups. While a small number of Indonesians can reasonably be assumed to have engaged in terrorism, the data regarding bases and cells is, at best, inconclusive. This is not to say that Indonesia has no terrorists, but rather, that those who assert it has a serious international terrorist problem lack sufficient evidence or are not placing what they know on the public record (I suspect the former). A second conclusion is that US and Malaysian officials as well as Hendropriyono appear to be engaging in deliberate misinformation over the terrorism issue, apparently for domestic political and diplomatic purposes. The Indonesian government and Islamic community have grounds for scepticism over foreign claims of terrorists within its borders. It is in part true, as outsiders often point out, that Megawati is wary of arousing Muslim sentiment. But the point remains that those doing the accusing have failed to provide compelling reasons for Indonesian law enforcement authorities to act. Rather than excoriate Jakarta, the international community should commend it for upholding the principle of presumption of innocence and not arresting citizens without evidence of guilt. The above conclusions call into question the wisdom of the current US policy towards Indonesia, which entails pressuring it to step up action against terrorists. Indonesia's intelligence services, for example, have a notorious reputation of fabricating evidence and abusing human rights. The greater the US pressure, the greater the risk that these services will act in an unprofessional if not illegal way. It seems that the Bush administration is planning to give a leading role to Hendropriyono and BIN as part of its anti-terrorism solution for Indonesia. In so doing, they appear willing to overlook the lamentable record of Hendropriyono and the organisation he leads. Apart from bungling the issue of al-Qaeda bases in Poso and arousing controversy over his role in the arrest of Tamsil, Balfas and Dwikarna, Hendropriyono has been accused of involvement in the massacre of more than a hundred Muslim villagers in Talangsari, Lampung, in 1989, when he was the local military commander. More recently he has attracted adverse press attention over his extensive business interests and for his suspected complicity in the assassination of Papuan leader Theys Eluay. BIN's record under his leadership is little better. It has been publicly ridiculed for its inaccurate and often politically loaded reporting. In early 2002, it was derided by ministers and senior politicians when it emerged that BIN had written separate and contradictory reports on the economy for cabinet ministers and a parliamentary committee. BIN also prepared an error-filled briefing for parliament's Foreign Affairs and Security Commission prior to John Howard's visit to Indonesia in February. Among other things, it alleged that Australia's Lt-Gen Peter Cosgrove had written an autobiography denigrating Indonesia's role in East Timor. It also asserted that the Howard government had formed a secret twelve-person committee to engineer Papua's secession from Indonesia. The cornerstone of any US anti-terrorism policy in Indonesia should be to win the confidence of the Islamic community. Cooperation from Muslims is critical if terrorists are to be exposed. This is only possible if the US and Indonesia's security officials and ASEAN partners provide reliable information to a community where anti-Western sentiment is already high. Dr Greg Fealy (greg.fealy@anu.edu.au) is a research fellow in Indonesian politics at the Australian National University in Canberra. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

By the book, please

East Timorese students in Yogyakarta suffer intimidation Faustino Gomes The wedding had been beautiful. Manuel Martins, a student in Yogyakarta from East Timor, had just exchanged vows with Agustina Maria Yosefa at the St Albert church. On that sunny 18 December last year, well-wishers were milling in the church grounds. Suddenly the atmosphere was shattered by the arrival of a gang of thugs, also East Timorese living in Yogyakarta. Shouting 'You pricks! We'll cut off your heads!', they bashed a number of those present. I had acted as a witness for the happy couple. Later that day the same thugs, led by Octavio Osorio Soares, bashed up another student, demanding to know where I lived so they could come and kill me. In the evening they gatecrashed the wedding party and again beat up several guests. This was one of ten such incidents reported to the Yogyakarta police by the East Timorese student association Aetil in a letter dated 14 January 2002. All involved attacks against East Timorese students completing their studies in Yogyakarta by a group of pro-integration East Timorese under the leadership of Octavio Soares. Octavio, a recently graduated doctor, is the nephew of the last Indonesian governor of East Timor, Abilio Osorio Soares, now on trial in Jakarta for crimes against humanity. Octavio accuses the students of being anti-Indonesian because most of them supported independence in the August 1999 ballot. There are about 200 East Timorese studying in Yogyakarta. Most began their studies before 1999, but took leave of absence to help the independence campaign in East Timor in 1999. Afterwards they returned to Yogya to complete their studies, most with financial help from the UNDP and the Ford Foundation. The Untaet office in Jakarta has an officer responsible to help these students. Besides Yogya, substantial numbers are also continuing their studies in Malang (East Java) and in Jakarta, with smaller numbers in other places. Others have also reported intimidation by pro-integration East Timorese associated with the former regime, particularly in Bali where many civil servants from East Timor now live. Indonesian universities still treat students from East Timor as if they are Indonesians, meaning they pay only the low Indonesian fees instead of the high fees denominated in US dollars foreign students pay. Some universities have indicated that after independence on 20 May they will move to the foreign fee system. This would be very hard for the East Timorese. Indonesia has a historical and moral obligation to the East Timorese. An entire generation was educated only in Indonesian. Many want to do their university education here. In our experience the universities have continued to welcome East Timorese students. I hope they will consider keeping the present fee structure. This has also been the hope of the UN transitional administration, Untaet. We have no problems with our Indonesian neighbours in Yogyakarta. They like anyone who rents rooms and eats at local food stalls, and they have offered to protect us from the crude intimidation of Octavio Osorio Soares and his mates. Apodeti The Osorio Soares family claims it founded the Apodeti party in 1974. This party favoured integration with Indonesia, and its members were prominent in the Indonesian administration. Jose Fernando Osorio Soares was the first secretary-general of the party. His younger brother Abilio Soares became the last governor in 1992. A sister named Elsa Olandina Pinto Soares now lives in Yogyakarta, and her three children are part of Octavio's gang as well. Octavio, who studied medicine at Gadjah Mada University, was Jose Fernando's son. This all shows how 'integrasi' with Indonesia became a personalised affair. Actually another family, that of Arnaldo dos Reis Araujo, also claims the key role in establishing Apodeti. But they do not agree with the aggressive anger of the Osorio Soares family. Their relatives in Yogyakarta generally show a friendly attitude, especially after the ballot, and they sometimes join the East Timorese students in social gatherings. The Osorio Soares family has lost its formal authority. But police inaction over the intimidation in Yogyakarta shows that they continue to have friends in high places. Octavio Soares dreams of one day 'returning' East Timor to the Indonesian fold, and feels angry and frustrated that so many people are deserting him. Even the East Timorese civil servants who have become Indonesian citizens and live in Yogyakarta are embarrassed by his tactics. In the meantime, however, he is proving himself an impediment to restoring normal relations between East Timor and Indonesia. Faustino Cardoso Gomes (aetil@eudoramail.com) is completing a PhD at Gadjah Mada University. He is an advisor to the students association Aetil. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

The forgotten of West Timor

Poverty, refugees, militias, and too many soldiers Elcid Li In Kupang in the 1980s I sometimes heard a salvo fired at the Heroes Cemetry about a kilometre from my home. The next morning I would see a new grave. Another soldier or police officer had died in battle in East Timor. When I returned to Kupang at the end of 2001 I saw the body of a little girl. She had died of hunger in the Noelbaki refugee camp near the city. Her grave was dug among other little graves on the land belonging to a local resident. In the past it was like a myth - I heard from an uncle about the road running with blood at the Santa Cruz cemetry in Dili. Now I feel that what happened in East Timor could also happen in West Timor, as if death had moved from one place to the other. West Timor today is like the dark side of the moon, where the sun never shines. Perhaps only some dramatic massacre will open the eyes of the world. Antonius Seran Wilik, a retired teacher in Belu district near the border with East Timor, will not easily forget the date 4 September 1999. On that day he took 42 East Timorese refugees into his home. The Raihat refugee camp would be built there later. But it was not the first time the Raihat sub-district, which borders directly with Bobonaro district in East Timor, had seen refugees. The first time was 1946, just after the Second World War. The second was 1975, when East Timor was in upheaval and Indonesia came in and took over. There were even still stories of refugees from a war in Manufahi in the 1880s. If in 1975 the refugees numbered about 4,000, in 1999 there were about 24,000 - for a population in Raihat of only 7,000. As a respected local leader, Antonius Seran Wilik ordered six square kilometres of traditional land to be set aside for the refugees. They were also allowed to live in the gardens and backyards of the locals. Antonius said the refugees came from an area that had traditionally supplied brides for his people. Belu district has the same language and culture as East Timor. The 1999 refugees were on the whole greeted as if they were relatives. At first the world took a lot of notice of the refugees. But when three staff members of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees were murdered on 6 September 2000, nearly all international agencies helping the refugees pulled out of West Timor. Reduced assistance for refugees placed an increasing burden on the locals. Theft increased in the town of Atambua near the border. Forests in South Belu were chopped down and turned into agricultural land. No locals had ever dared to cut down those trees for fear of being fined. But the refugees just said 'we are defending the red-and-white (flag)', and after that the law was powerless. The locals knew this was illogical, and they worried about droughts and flooding for generations to come. But the refugees were hungry, and they were relatives. The province of East Nusa Tenggara of which West Timor is a part is the poorest in Indonesia. Military The slow rate at which refugees were returning proved that the militias retained a strong influence in the West Timor camps. They used guerrilla tactics to avoid handing over their weapons to the military. Anyway, many of them had been soldiers, or trained by them. It is common knowledge that the weapons are still there, even if they are not openly visible. The area near the border has become heavily militarised. In January 2002 there were an estimated five battalions. Although some welcomed the increased military presence because it would control the militias dangerously frustrated with the new Jakarta policy, many feared that West Timor could be turned into a military operations area as in Aceh or Papua. As in East Timor Bishop Belo became a symbol of the people's resistance, so in West Timor the Catholic Church speaks out through the priests. In Kefamenanu, priests rejected the establishment of a base by Infantry Battalion 744, formerly from East Timor. The commander of the Udayana military area, based in Bali, said to them in a meeting: 'Who will look after the priests' safety if not the soldiers?' There have been instances of intimidation against the church. A homemade bomb was found at the bishop's palace in Atambua. Refugees No one knows how many refugees there are - numbers are a political commodity for all those involved, both the government in East Timor and Untas, the refugee umbrella organisation. Untas, who said it was too early to ask them to make up their minds, sabotaged a survey of refugees in 2001 that wanted to ask their intentions. The survey resulted in numbers that were quite incredible. Official assistance for the refugees ended on 1 January 2002. This is a risky way to force them to make up their minds whether to go home or stay. Some are already using the word 'new residents' rather than 'refugees' to describe them. They had enough food stored to last them until May, but after that things could get tense. Hunger can drive people to desperate acts. The Udayana commander has threatened to shoot rioters on sight. They have been living in these basic camps for nearly three years now. They feel like hostages against the possibility of international sanctions against those military officers who committed crimes against humanity in East Timor. Once again, the little people have become the victims. Moreover, many West Timorese feel that political turmoil in Jakarta has resulted in scant attention being paid to peripheral areas such as their own. One local politician has called for UN intervention. However, this remains a sensitive issue. While the new country of East Timor obtains a lot of international help, West Timor gets none. Not surprisingly, many farmers near the border have turned to small trade across the border. The trade profits the soldiers and police guarding the crossings too. They take Rp 5,000 (one Australian dollar) in 'safety money' for every box that passes by. A young Brimob policeman told me he earned Rp 300,000 a day that way. The situation in West Timor is like a boil waiting to burst. First, unless the refugee problem is solved, it will lead to conflict with the locals, especially over land. Second, the continued presence of the militias, although now more or less clandestine, has introduced a volatile element. In a stressful situation these people create fear. They feel they are at war and the law does not apply to them. Third, the excessive number of soldiers to guard the borders is becoming a burden on the local population. I now place my hope in Xanana Gusmao and his offer of reconciliation. His visit to Atambua on 4 April 2002 did much to counter the negative campaign in the camps that there would be a revenge attack into East Timor once the United Nations was gone. May President Xanana bring peace to us all. Elcid Li (domingguselcid@lycos.com) is a freelance journalist. Thanks to Dony for his help in Atambua. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

The Oecussi-Ambeno enclave

What does the future hold for this neglected territory? Arsenio Bano and Edward Rees The Oecussi-Ambeno enclave is an isolated district of East Timor on the north shore of Indonesian West Timor. Seventy kilometres west of East Timor proper, it is 2700 square kilometres in size, with nearly 50,000 inhabitants. Its citizens find themselves inside Indonesia. Oecussi's unique geography points to a unique relationship with Indonesia. Historically, the enclave has had a distinct relationship with both the western and eastern regions of Timor. The Portuguese, the first Europeans in Timor, arrived in the sixteenth century at Lifau, Oecussi. It served as the capital of Portuguese Timor until the arrival of the Dutch, a hostile local kingdom, and prospects of a better harbour caused the Portuguese to shift their capital to Dili in the eighteenth century. The Portuguese tradition, and the enclave's position as the birthplace of Catholicism in Timor, are the source of considerable pride there and throughout East Timor. At the end of the nineteenth century the Dutch and Portuguese formalised their shared border in Timor. The enclave remained politically and sentimentally attached to Portuguese Timor, but not geographically. Towards the end of Portuguese rule, a ferry linked the enclave to East Timor proper, and there was a limited air link to Dili. The end of Indonesian rule took Oecussi back to this peculiar status. Politically it now looks to the east. Economically it looks to the west. However, the people also share ties with Indonesian West Timor. Trade and family links extend from Atambua to Kupang. They are centred on Kefamenanu, West Timor's fourth city. The indigenous language of the enclave is Baiqueno, a dialect of Meto, one of West Timor's major ethno-linguistic groupings. The Indonesian invasion and occupation did not visit as much violence on Oecussi as it did on the rest of East Timor. Early resistance was light, and no Falintil guerrillas operated in the enclave. However, underground resistance organisations played an important role in the national resistance to the occupation. In 1999, Interfet did not arrive in Oecussi until 22 October, a month after its arrival in Dili. As a result the enclave experienced the mass destruction of property, theft and the murder of many pro-independence activists. The Passabe Tumin massacre of September 1999 was the country's second largest mass killing. This story was part of a desperate plea carried to Interfet soldiers by a heroic boy named Lafu. Isolation East Timor's independence has imposed an acute isolation on Oecussi. It is an island within an island. An international border now seriously disrupts its connections with West Timor and East Timor proper alike. Transport links with East Timor have meanwhile been largely severed. Untaet established air and sea links to move goods and personnel between the enclave and East Timor. But these largely exclude ordinary East Timorese and will end with the peacekeepers' departure in 2004. A small ferry service was intended to commence in June 2002, but it relies on a heavy and unsustainable subsidy from an international donor. Efforts to develop land access have not borne fruit. An expensive and limited Telstra service is the only public means of communication with the outside world. Oecussi residents do not enjoy the same access to services and information as the rest of the country. A lack of trade hampers economic recovery. Given its geography, the enclave's long-term economic prospects are tied to West Timor. So what to do with this isolated enclave? The Untaet period achieved little progress towards long-term sustainability for the enclave that might secure East Timors sovereignty there. However, some initiatives shaped thinking on a future Oecussi policy. In June 2000, the international District Administration proposed that Oecussi should be developed into a Special Economic Zone (SEZ). This called for a soft border regime with Indonesia, reduced tax and tariff rates, and unique land and labour codes - in other words, a commercial framework designed to make the enclave attractive. A SEZ is well situated to exploit the market of 1.2 million people in West Timor. In July 2000 the District CNRT Congress called for a 'governmental' arrangement in which Oecussi would become a province rather than a district. This would enhance its access to central government funds and political influence. Urged by the District Administration, the Minister for Internal Administration at the end of 2000 called for an Oecussi Task Force to develop a comprehensive policy. It never materialised. In July 2001 one of us (Arsenio Bano, then director of the East Timor NGO Forum) proposed the enclave be declared a demilitarised peace zone. The influential Australian Strategic Policy Institute has subsequently echoed this notion. Oecussi could be the centre-piece of the oft-stated foreign policy desire for harmonious relations with Indonesia. Military solutions will only antagonise Indonesia and further isolate the enclave. A peace zone would accommodate Indonesian economic and security interests and thereby help Oecussi to develop. The key is that the future of the enclave requires substantial bilateral negotiations with Indonesia, as its future depends on West Timor and Jakarta second only to Dili. Also during 2001 two community groups formed to discuss the future of the enclave. Based in Oecussi and Dili, the Oecussi Enclave Research Forum and the Oecussi Advocacy Forum both called for various forms of regional autonomy. Most importantly, the constitution of the Democratic Republic of East Timor, passed by the Constituent Assembly in March 2002, created the political space for future debate and legislation on the enclave. It recognises the uniqueness of the enclave in three sections, and states that Oecussi-Ambeno shall be governed by a special administrative policy and economic regime. In the wake of this recognition, and of another proposal by the community and the Oecussi District Administration, the Chief Minister of East Timor's government established a high level Oecussi Task Force. It is charged with finding a holistic solution, linking local governance with border issues and economic development, which is in turn linked to security. It aims to provide flexible administrative solutions to transportation and communication problems. A comprehensive enclave policy would recognise the full range of Oecussi's unique circumstances, be they security, foreign and trade relations, economic development, or internal administration. The population of Oecussi is well aware that they are on the frontline of East Timor-Indonesia relations. They are open and full of good will towards their neighbours in West Timor whether they are family or former political adversaries. They believe the enclave's geographic intimacy and peaceful relations with West Timor and Indonesia between 1999-2002 are good indicators for a unique relationship. It could be that this small region will take a leading role in managing newly independent East Timor's relations with its giant neighbour. Arsenio Bano (arsenio_b@hotmail.com) comes from Oecussi. He is Secretary of State for Labour and Solidarity in the Government of the Democratic Republic of East Timor and sits on the Oecussi Task Force. Edward Rees (e_rees@yahoo.com) was Untaet's Political Officer in Oecussi April 2000-July 2001, then became Political Officer to Untaet's National Security Adviser. These opinions are our own and do not necessarily represent those of Untaet or the Government. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

Claiming justice amid the ruins

A remarkable grass-roots reconciliation meeting in Ainaro Hilmar Farid Five hours drive south of East Timor's capital Dili, Ainaro township looked beautiful that morning. As the sun drew up the last of the dew, crowds could be seen pouring into town for the big day. A convoy of refugees from West Timor was about to return. Together with 200,000 others, these people had been driven out by the scorched-earth campaign of the Indonesian military TNI, the police and pro-integration militias. Dozens of trucks and minibuses were spotted in the distance. 'Refugiados sira mai!' (The refugees are here!) some youths shouted. Everyone stood up, scrutinising the vehicles as they passed. Tired and tense faces on the trucks. The atmosphere relaxed when some bystanders called out to people they knew. They ran along with the trucks and, not waiting for the tailgate to open, leapt up. One young man kissed the head of an old woman, yelling almost hysterically. Not everyone was welcoming. Some youths stood back just watching. 'Who knows, there could be militias among them', they said. Rumours of militias infiltrating among returning refugees had long been heard. Indeed some in this convoy were ex-militias who had chosen to return once they realised TNI and the Indonesian government wanted to close the book and send them back to Timor Lorosae. It was a reasonable suspicion. No comprehensive investigation has yet explained all the many incidents of violence in 1999. Untaet's Serious Crimes Unit has gathered information on ten big cases and about 640 others all over Timor Lorosae. The Human Rights Unit is also doing research. Reports of lost family members or other violence-related losses continue to come in. Yet still the people have no full report on what actually happened. Elites In the midst of this uncertainty and lack of clarity, Timorese elites want to push ahead with a reconciliation process. 'It's time to look to the future, let us forget the past', is the leaders' refrain. President Xanana Gusmao has even offered a general amnesty for any who committed crimes in the past. Not everyone agrees. 'How can we forgive others if we don't even know what they did wrong?', says Martinho Gusmao, a priest in Baucau. But there is no further discussion. The elites have decided that physical development must be the priority, not truth and justice. The leaders have been promoting this course since before the referendum. But every peace agreement was always broken within a few hours, increasingly robbing the word 'reconciliation' of meaning. The main problem was that the most important players in the conflict, TNI and the Indonesian police, were not sitting at the negotiating table. Yet it was they who were arming, funding and training the pro-integration militias. Ainaro was among the worst affected by the destruction. For its people, elite peace agreements and reconciliation mean very little. 'A head cannot walk without its body,' said Agapito Bianco, from Cassa village, at a reconciliation meeting in Ainaro last November. 'We only see the militia rank-and-file returning, not their heads. It's as if those who gave the orders are eating a juicy steak; they throw us the bones, and we fight among each other over the bones.' Initiatives such as this meeting have the support of local leaders and NGO's like the human rights organisation Yayasan HAK. The aim is to bring survivors together with suspected perpetrators, to hear one another's stories. This is difficult, because many ex-militias deny they were involved in violence even in the face of eyewitness evidence. Former militia leader Joao Pereira, also from Cassa, illustrates the difficulty when he says ambiguously: 'We have to reveal everything, so the families of those who died know. If we are not open, people will continue to bear a grudge, even if we are innocent. We have to tell in public who we are, so that when people meet us in the street everything will be OK and there will be no fear.' Cassa was known as the main base for the Mahidi militia. The group was involved in horrible atrocities in 1999. Its leader Cancio Lopes de Carvalho proudly told SBS televion how his troops ripped open the belly of a pregnant woman, and shot old people whose families were suspected Falintil supporters. Pereira and his men confess to taking part in some operations but say they never killed anyone. That is why they were prepared to return to Timor Lorosae once the Indonesian government had withdrawn its support. At the meeting, several survivors and victims' relatives tell of the appalling things that happened to them. The faces of the ex-militia men show deep sorrow after hearing the results of what they did. 'My husband was murdered then burned, then his body was given to the dogs. He died because he wanted freedom,' says Maria de Conceicao, from Maununo village. Now she has to bring up their five children alone. 'I can't go to my gardens because I am sick and thin. For two years I didn't know where to turn, my house had been burned down, nothing was left. The Red Cross came once and gave me 18 sheets of zinc, but it didn't help much because I still can't work.' The meeting had no powers to demand a legal accounting. But the discussion and the listening showed that the problem was not as simple as finding the perpetrators and putting them in jail. 'What's the use of jailing them?' asks Aniceto Guterres Lopes, former director of Yayasan HAK who now heads the truth and reconciliation commission (see box). 'They should be put on trial, that's true. But will that bring the problem to an end?' Aniceto faces an extraordinary challenge. He knows the violence not only left a large number dead, but destroyed Timor's social fabric and caused such immense material losses that it will take exceptional efforts to rebuild from zero. 'It isn't easy', he says. 'We can't just ask people to shake hands and then think it's over.' The idea of grassroots reconciliation meetings such as this was a way of breaking through the deadlock the elites are in. At least they can identify the widespread consequences of the violence, and also expose the truth as told by both survivors and those accused as perpetrators. The November meeting was not the first. Customary elders and youth leaders had earlier taken a similar initiative to help resolve the increasingly complex refugee-militia problem. The UN refugee agency UNHCR conducted the repatriation by giving more attention to the refugees (including militias among them) than to those who had stayed in Timor Lorosae and coped with the aftermath alone. 'This gave rise to envy', said Aniceto. 'People couldn't understand why those who committed murder and arson were given help so readily, whereas the victims were left to fend for themselves.' In view of these unhealthy signs, the people chose to take the initiative themselves. After long discussions it was finally decided that ex-militias involved in violence should give an accounting of themselves in a traditional way, by rebuilding what they had destroyed such as schools and houses. 'This didn't mean they were then freed from their legal obligations. That's a matter for the government and the law courts later. This is the people's way of imposing sanctions and after that accepting them back openly. But those who were involved have to be taken to court,' says Aniceto Neves, a Yayasan HAK staff member whose older brother was killed in Ainaro by a Mahidi militia group. All the participants, whether victims and their relatives or perpetrators, realise the limitations of this forum. But at least it was a simple step forward on a new path out of the bureaucratic deadlock and the political circus of an elite that seems never to really care for the people's problems - not even those who not so long ago were waving the banner of the people's freedom. Hilmar Farid (hilmarfarid@eudoramail.com) was a volunteer in East Timor in 1999, and has visited repeatedly since then. He edits the Jakarta cultural magazine Media Kerja Budaya (http://www.geocities.com/mkb_id/). Truth and Reconciliation Commission A Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor has been formally established in East Timor. The Commission is an independent authority which aims to achieve dual goals of reconciliation and justice. It will operate for two years, and has three primary functions: First, it will seek the truth regarding human rights violations in East Timor within the context of the political conflicts between 25 April 1974 and 25 October 1999. The Commission will establish a truth-telling mechanism for victims and perpetrators to describe, acknowledge and record human rights abuses of the past. Second, it will facilitate community reconciliation by dealing with past cases of lesser crimes such as looting, burning and minor assault. In each case, a panel comprised of a Regional Commissioner and local community leaders will mediate between victims and perpetrators to reach agreement on an act of reconciliation to be carried out by the perpetrator. Third, it will report on its findings and make recommendations to the government for further action on reconciliation and the promotion of human rights. The Commission does not have the power to grant amnesty to perpetrators of human rights violations. However, those who fulfill the terms of a community reconciliation agreement will be immune from any further civil or criminal liability for those acts. The Commission will complement the formal judicial process. Any evidence of serious crimes such as murder, rape or the organisation of systematic, widespread violence will be referred to the Office of the General Prosecutor. Serious crimes will continue to be handled exclusively by the Special Panels established under Regulation 2000/15. The Commission is supported by the Timorese leadership. Untaet Press Office, January 2002. More details: www.easttimor-reconciliation.org. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

One less place to hide

US courts bring down judgments against two Indonesian generals John M Miller Only two ranking Indonesian officers have been held accountable in any meaningful sense for human rights abuses in East Timor so far. In both cases, it was not a court in Indonesia or East Timor, but courts in the United States that issued the judgments in civil cases brought by victims or their relatives. In 1994, a Boston court held General Sintong Panjaitan liable for US$14 million for his involvement in the November 12, 1991 massacre of over 270 East Timorese at the Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili. Helen Todd, the mother of the only non-East Timorese killed that day, sued Panjaitan. Judge Patti Saris ordered that Gen Panjaitan, who was commander of the Bali-based Udayana military command at the time of the massacre, to pay $4 million in compensatory damages to Todd and $10 million in punitive damages in the shooting death of her 20-year-old son Kamal Bamadhaj. Last September, Judge Alan Kay of the US District Court in Washington, DC, ruled that General Johny Lumintang was liable for US$66 million in damages for his role in crimes against humanity following East Timor's vote for independence in 1999. That lawsuit was brought on behalf of six East Timorese plaintiffs. The judge granted $10 million in punitive damages to each plaintiff or their estates. Compensatory damages ranged from $750,000 to $1.75 million each. 'It has been established... that Lumintang has responsibility for the actions against plaintiffs and a larger pattern of gross human rights violations,' wrote Judge Kay. '[H]e - along with other high-ranking members of the Indonesian military - planned, ordered, and instigated acts carried out by subordinates to terrorise and displace the East Timorese population ... and to destroy East Timor's infrastructure following the vote for independence.' In 1999, Lumintang, as Deputy Army Chief of Staff, was second in command of the Indonesian army. In his ruling, Judge Kay cited the principle of command responsibility, where 'a commander may be criminally or civilly responsible for crimes committed by subordinates.' He said that Lumintang is 'both directly and indirectly responsible for human rights violations committed against' the plaintiffs. Evidence of direct involvement includes his signature on certain key documents calling for the use of torture and removal of large numbers of people in East Timor if the people voted for independence in the 1999 referendum. Lumintang was also found liable because, as a member of the TNI high command, he knew or should have known that subordinates were involved in systematic rights violations in East Timor, but he failed to act to prevent them or punish the violators. The alternatives Although courts are currently sitting in Dili and Jakarta, the case against Lumintang is the only one heard to date against a senior Indonesian commander for the systematic destruction following East Timor's 1999 referendum. Indonesia's ad hoc human rights court has been widely criticised for its limited jurisdiction and the poor quality of its judges. Human Rights Watch has said that the wording of the court's statute 'may make it more difficult to convict defendants who were not actually present at the scene,' making conviction of most commanders unlikely. The TNI remains powerful. The highest-ranking officer to be named as a suspect is regional commander MajGen Adam Damiri, though at this writing he has yet to be brought to trial. Ranking Indonesian officers are unlikely to face prosecution before the Serious Crimes Court in East Timor, because Indonesia continues to refuse to extradite suspects. Barring intense international pressure or the establishment of an international tribunal for East Timor, holding ranking Indonesian officers responsible will have to rely on the serendipity of legal actions in remote jurisdictions. The Panjaitan and Lumintang cases are part of a widening international effort to establish that certain crimes - especially war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide - are so heinous that their perpetrators can be pursued and prosecuted anywhere. The soon-to-be established International Criminal Court is the most prominent expression of this impulse to universal jurisdiction. But the ICC will not hear crimes retroactively, so it cannot deal with the abuses committed by Indonesia in East Timor. Well publicised was the 1998 effort by a Spanish magistrate to question Augusto Pinochet. The magistrate, pursuing a criminal investigation into the murder of Spanish citizens during the 1973 coup in Chile, sought to question the former Chilean dictator when he visited Britain. Pinochet was detained while the British courts decided whether to allow questioning. Ultimately, the British government declared him too old to stand trial and allowed him to return home. In the US, the effort has mainly involved private civil suits. Precedent was set by the case of Joel Filartiga, who had been tortured and murdered by a Paraguayan police official in 1976. His family tracked the official to the US and sued, but a lower court rejected the suit for lack of US jurisdiction. In 1981, a United States Court of Appeals ruled that the 'deliberate torture perpetrated under colour of official authority violates universally accepted norms of the international law of human rights, regardless of the nationality of the parties.' Michael Ratner of the Centre for Constitutional Rights (CCR) explains that the court found 'that it was appropriate for a court in the United States to hear the case, even though the occurrence and the parties had no substantial connection to the US. In part this was based on the concept of universal jurisdiction and that the right to be free from torture had been universally proclaimed by all nations. With stirring language, the court emphasised that a torturer could be brought to justice where found even for civil liability: "Indeed, for purposes of civil liability, the torturer has become - like the pirate and slave trader before him - hostis humani generis, an enemy of all mankind."' The law Filartiga was based on the Alien Tort Claims Act of 1789, which allows non-citizens to sue for acts committed outside the United States 'in violation of the law of nations or a treaty of the United States.' A later law, the 1991 Torture Victim Protection Act, reaffirmed the 1789 law and gives US courts jurisdiction over claims by citizens involving torture or extrajudicial killing occurring anywhere. Filartiga has inspired numerous lawsuits against direct torturers, military commanders (like Lumintang and Panjaitan), and, recently, corporations involved with repressive regimes, including ExxonMobil in Aceh. These private actions are not at the mercy of the federal government�s foreign policy priorities and have resulted in billions of dollars of damages. However, cases can only go forward if the defendant is personally served legal papers while they are physically in the US Neither General Panjaitan nor Lumintang chose to return to defend themselves. The courts issued rulings of default in both cases, and then held hearings to determine the amount of compensatory damages for the plaintiffs' suffering and the amount of punitive damages. General Panjaitan was served papers in 1992 after he came to the US to enroll in Harvard Business School. A default judgment was entered against him in February 1993. Judge Patti Saris heard testimony in October 1994 from Allan Nairn, a journalist and eyewitness to the massacre, and from Constancio Pinto, an East Timorese resistance leader who helped organise the November 12 demonstration and who was then living in exile in the US. Todd testified that Bamadhaj, a New Zealand citizen, was shot in the arm during the initial attack, and later in the chest by an army patrol. Troops prevented a Red Cross jeep from taking him to a hospital and he bled to death. 'I'm the only plaintiff because I'm the only one of 271 families that can bring this case without endangering my other children,' she said. Although Indonesian military spokespersons claimed that Lumintang was not properly notified of the suit, he was personally served on 30 March 2000, as he was preparing to leave Washington after speaking before the US-Indonesia Society. Judge Gladys Kessler found him in default the following December after he failed to answer the suit. By the time Judge Kay presided over three days of testimony from several of the plaintiffs and expert witnesses in a Washington, DC, federal court, East Timorese were able to travel and testify, but most wished to remain anonymous, still fearing military or militia retaliation. Plaintiffs travelling to Washington included an East Timorese victim of Indonesian military and militia violence whose brother was killed and father injured in post-election attacks. The father testified via videotape. Two other East Timorese targeted by the Indonesian military in September 1999 during the scorched-earth campaign by Indonesia also testified: a mother whose son was killed, and a man shot by Indonesian soldiers who subsequently had to have his foot amputated. The court judgments, however, are not likely to enrich the surviving plaintiffs. Collection of any damages depends on uncovering the defendant's assets. So far, the US has been the only jurisdiction outside the archipelago to bring any Indonesian generals to court. One result has been that few, if any, prominent suspects of past rights violations are publicly travelling to the US anymore. Indonesian officials who especially value their ties to the US might view this as more than an inconvenience. People in other jurisdictions might want to examine their national laws and see what possibilities there are for similar legal actions. For the text of Judge Kay's 'Findings of fact and conclusions of law' and more information about the Lumintang and Panjaitan cases, see http://www.etan.org/news/2000a/11suit.htm. John M Miller (fbp@igc.org) is media and outreach coordinator of the East Timor Action Network (http://www.etan.org/). Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

The Indonesian who joined Falintil

Why did Nasir join the guerrillas? M Nasir, interviewed by Nug Katjasungkana Where are you from? I was born in Bali in 1975. My parents named me Ketut Narto. I was the youngest of three. My parents died when I was still small, and my two siblings disappeared until the present day. I became a street kid. Then I met a policeman who adopted me. He changed my name to Muhammad Nasir. But in the forest among the guerrillas my name is Klik Mesak, which means 'odd-ball' since I was the only Indonesian. When my father was sent to Baucau, Timor Lorosae, he took me with him. In Baucau I finished my primary school in 1990. I then moved to Dili where I studied as far as year two in senior high school. How did you become involved in the Timor Lorosae freedom struggle? When I moved to Timor Lorosae there were very few outsiders. I mixed with the local kids. I became attracted by the struggle. The Indonesian government said East Timor was the youngest province, the 27th. So then why was there always trouble here? I wanted to know. I read a history book. West Timor (Kupang) was colonised by the Dutch, East Timor by the Portuguese. Indonesia was the former Dutch colony. It can't just take East Timor. Perhaps if it was a federation. I feel Indonesia robbed others of their rights. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my rights. What's mine is mine, no one else can have it. Most of my friends supported independence. Some were active in the clandestine movement. In 1995 Maun Afonso, my adopted older brother and an independence supporter, took me to Fatubessi. All the villagers there up to the village head were independence supporters. The people were suspicious when they saw us. Who are these strangers coming here? This village often got visits from Rajawali [Kopassus] troops. When I asked the village head about it, he said, 'Just the way it is, this is an operations area'. After some time I met a Falintil member called Mau Kulit, who followed Comandante Dudu of North Sector, Region 4. After that the villagers stopped being suspicious of me. I became an estafeta [runner] for Falintil, whose job was to carry letters, food, look for information and so on. I lived in Fatubessi and became a primary school teacher. Some of my ex-students are now in junior high school. What made you decide to fight for Timor Lorosae's independence? In 1995 my step-father was transferred to Oecussi to become the deputy police commander there. I stayed behind in Dili with the West Dili police chief, a Javanese man from Trenggalek whom I called 'Uncle'. But I often mixed with the 'naughty boys' at the markets and the bus terminal. I made more and more friends. Some were in the clandestine. So were most of my Baucau friends. One day in Dili in 1995, a pro-independence demonstration happened near my school. All the school kids joined in, from five different senior high schools. A fight broke out with the new-comer kids from outside Timor Lorosae. I had a rock and threw it. It happened to hit a policeman who knew me. He looked at me and threatened: 'Look out, you be careful!' I was afraid and ran away. When I got home at night, my room was locked from the outside. I went in by the window and took my graduation certificate. Then I stayed with a friend in Kampung Alor. I became scared and confused when I heard the news on the radio about a disappearance, mentioning my name. I wasn't game to go home, and I also didn't want to cause trouble for the people who had adopted me. If I went back, my step-father would certainly be punished because his adopted kid was in a pro-independence demo. That's when I got to know Maun Afonso, who took me to live in his family's house in Fatubessi, the pro-independence village where the resistance made me an estafeta. From two Falintil members named Mario Kempes and Leo Timur I got military lessons like how to attack an enemy fortified position. I learned how to shoot guns like the Mauser, M-16, AR-16, G-3 and the SKS. I can use a machine gun. In 1997 Falintil decided to launch attacks against TNI posts everywhere the day before the election. The TNI were saying Falintil no longer existed. If there was no gunfire it would prove that indeed Falintil was finished. In Fatubessi, the job went to the youths (juventude). I was a juventude leader. We just had three grenades. Our targets were the TNI post, the house of the village chief, and a shop owned by the Catholic catechist. The village chief and the catechist were our own people. We attacked them with a grenade without pulling the pin. So they were safe. TNI didn't suspect them because they were among our targets. TNI shot off an enormous amount of ammunition. But none of us were hit. After that the soldiers arrested a lot of youths and tortured them. I wasn't arrested because they didn't suspect me. I was a primary school teacher. I became a member of Falintil in 1998. At that time leaders of the struggle like Region 4 Comandante Ular and Regional Secretary Riak Leman and others went from village to village. I was active in those meetings too. After that I spent most of my time at the Falintil command. When many of the villagers fled because of intimidation from the [pro-Indonesian] Besi Merah Putih militia, my friends and I sent food. When the militias began to act up in Liquia, I was often sent to Liquia town to meet with pro-independence youths. When the clash occurred between Besi Merah Putih and the youths in Liquia on 4 April 1999, I was in town. That night I joined a sub-regional meeting with the Region 4 Deputy Secretary Qouliati. The next day an attack occurred against the Liquia church. The youths were only armed with arrows and swords. But the militias had automatic weapons. Behind them were the TNI also with automatic weapons. I wasn't in the church so I was OK. I tried to contact the Falintil command to ask them to send troops to stop the militias and TNI at the church. But news came from the city that should Falintil become involved all those still in the church and those taken to the military base by the militias/ TNI would be killed. So Falintil didn't come down. After that I went back to Maun Afonso's house in Fatubessi. They thought I had died in the church. Maun Afonso suggested I not leave the village. 'If you're safe, we're safe. If anyone comes looking for you, I'll say "Nasir has gone home to Bali."' After that I stayed at Falintil command. Things improved once Unamet arrived. I was able to go out and buy food and clothes for the guerrillas. On the day of the referendum I was at the command post, while my guerrilla friends voted. Cruelty Did any other Indonesians become guerrillas or join the underground resistance against the Indonesian occupation? Jeffry, from Atambua in East Nusa Tenggara, now lives in Ermera. He used to be a Falintil member in Region 4 under Comandante Sabis. Ahmad, from Bima (Sumbawa), also lives in Ermera now. He was an estafeta since the 1980s. Lots of others quietly supported the movement by donating stuff to the clandestine. Ramlan, for example, from Sumatra. He is dead. Lots of them I don't know where they are. What do you think of Indonesian soldiers? I don't have vengeful feelings. What I don't like are the abuses they commit. Just imagine, we are the hosts here, and they come and step on us continually. I don't like that. The soldiers come to Timor Leste on instructions from their superiors to look for Falintil guerrillas. But the ones they arrest are just ordinary young people, uneducated and who don't speak Indonesian. Maybe they're carrying a small knife or a machete. Men in Timor Lorosae always carry a knife. They were sometimes tortured to death. Instead of going up into the forest, soldiers told to go and find Falintil would just go into the villages. They took peoples' cattle, chickens. Those who protested were called rebels. Indonesia said they wanted to root out evil communists. But those doing the rooting out were even worse. They even attacked a place of worship like the church in Liquia. Before I joined the independence movement I often saw Indonesian cruelty. When I was still living at the West Dili police station I saw the police arrest innocent people. During interrogation they would torture them so bad that they confessed. That's not good. It's true that Indonesia brought development even to remote areas. But many officials were corrupt. What was wrong they called right, what was right they called wrong. That's what made people dissatisfied. I didn't like it either. I think that if after the referendum Indonesia had given up Timor Lorosae properly, without giving weapons to the militias, the Timorese would have been very grateful to Indonesia. That one Indonesian act not only caused great loss to the people of Timor Lorosae but also to the people of Indonesia. The money was wasted on militias when the Indonesian people needed it very much. What are your hopes for the future of Timor Lorosae? For me the important thing is that people should be safe and there should be justice. If I'm allowed I want to live in Timor Lorosae. I have a wife and she is pregnant with our first child. Right now I feel my rights have not been fulfilled. Almost all my ex-Falintil friends who weren't accepted into the Timor Lorosae armed forces were given US$500 in assistance, but I didn't. I was sick for the test so didn't get in. I know we didn't fight to get this or that job, but for our independence and our rights. But it's strange all the same. For little people like myself, the important thing for the future is that the people have enough to eat and enjoy freedom. I hope President Xanana Gusmao will remember that. Recorded in Kampung Alor, Dili, 24 April 2002. Nug Katjasungkana (manu_mean@yahoo.com) is a human rights activist in Dili. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

Meet Titi Irawati

An Indonesian human rights worker in East Timor Kerry Brogan Titi works at East Timor's best known human rights NGO, Yayasan HAK - one of few women and fewer Indonesians there. Her activism began when as a university student in 1978 she helped organise anti-Suharto demonstrations. From 1986 to 1995 she was a journalist with the women's magazine Sarinah. This led her to the growing number of human rights and women's non-government organisations (NGOs) in Indonesia. When in 1994 the government banned three Indonesian news magazines, Titi joined a committee of female journalists to fight for press freedom. She campaigned on behalf of journalists who were imprisoned, and later took up the cause of persecuted members of the leftist party PRD. While visiting PRD members in Cipinang prison she also met several imprisoned East Timorese, among them Xanana Gusmao. After talking with Xanana, she says, 'I became aware that democracy in Indonesia would not be realised if the occupation of East Timor continued'. Like many Indonesians, she had only learned about East Timor's human rights problems through the November 1991 Santa Cruz massacre - after a foreign journalist showed her photographs. In 1996 the senior journalist Goenawan Mohamed asked her to join Isai, the Institute for the Study of the Free Flow of Information. She helped train East Timorese journalists studying in Indonesia. It was the highly publicised rape late in 1996 of a young woman in Ermera district by a TNI soldier that really drew Titi into the fight for human rights in Timor. She joined a campaign for an investigation. In March 1999, she travelled to East Timor for the first time, to conduct a training advocacy workshop with Yayasan HAK and other groups. A week later, dozens were killed at the nearby Liquica church. Back home Titi worked with others at the Jakarta solidarity organisation Fortilos to put pressure on the government. In June Fortilos sent her back to East Timor to become a volunteer with Yayasan HAK. Her job was to help distribute information about human rights violations. With the UN ballot fast approaching, Yayasan HAK was under enormous pressure. She edited the organisation's new magazine Direito. Terror As the post-ballot mayhem descended upon East Timor, most of East Timor's human rights workers were sheltering at the Yayasan HAK office in Farol, Dili. None of us can forget the tension. On 5-6 September 1999, the office was attacked by militias and the TNI. 'While we were being attacked,' Titi said, 'I realised more and more the terror the people of East Timor had experienced throughout the Indonesian occupation.' The only attempt by the authorities to provide protection was when the police mobile brigade Brimob arrived to escort the two white-skinned volunteers to safety, but not the East Timorese. The two refused to go without their colleagues. Brimob finally agreed to take them all out to police headquarters. From there they all flew out of the country, effectively removing the last human rights workers and witnesses to the gross human rights violations being perpetrated everywhere. 'We all cried when we left', Titi said. 'We witnessed the forced deportation of the civilian population, but could do nothing. I almost could not believe what I was seeing: the TNI and the militia it created, carrying out extraordinary acts of cruelty, while the international community was watching.' As she flew over Dili and witnessed the destruction, she promised herself she would return. She did return, in March 2000. She still works with Yayasan HAK, editing the monthly Direito, and the weekly political analysis Cidadaun. She continues her women's activism too, helping the women's organisation Fokupers edit their publication Babadok. When asked how East Timorese see her, she replies: 'Since I came to East Timor, I have become convinced that the people do not hate Indonesians. They hate the cruelty of the Indonesian military during the 24 years of occupation.' Titi's presence helps maintain links between East Timorese and Indonesian NGOs. She thinks strong links are vital to human rights campaigns in both countries. They can assist with the campaign for justice, not just for East Timor, but for Aceh, West Papua and other parts of Indonesia. East Timorese NGOs have complained about the restricted jurisdiction of the ad hoc tribunal on East Timor in Jakarta. They are monitoring the process along with their Indonesian counter-parts. Like many, Titi does not believe the tribunal is a serious attempt at accountability, but a way for the Indonesian authorities to avoid an international tribunal to deal with the 1999 violence. But Timorese NGOs are not just struggling against Indonesian pragmatism. 'Some Timorese political leaders want to have "reconciliation without justice"', she says. 'They say the people "have to forget about the past". Timorese NGOs have to strengthen their solidarity with the victims, who still want to see justice, but who are rarely heard.' Kerry Brogan (brogan@un.org) works with the Untaet human rights office in Dili. Contact Titi at titi_irawati@yayasanhak.minihub.org. Yayasan HAK's web site is www.yayasanhak.minihub.org. Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002

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