Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

Waiting for peace in Poso

Why has this Muslim-Christian conflict continued for three years? Lorraine V Aragon Poso district residents have lived with religious violence since December 1998. After three years of episodic fighting, death toll estimates range from 1,000 to 2,500, with thousands more injured. Scores of churches and mosques have been torched. Nearly 100,000 have fled their burning homes, leaving the capital of Poso district described at one time as a 'dead city', though some are now returning. It began as a street fight between hot-headed young men, one Protestant and one Muslim, during a tense local political campaign. The brawl quickly deteriorated into a religiously polarised battle in this formerly quiet, multiethnic region. Police and military forces could not, or would not, stop the arson and attacks between the two communities. The infrastructure of Poso city and surrounding towns is devastated. Refugees in holding camps suffer harsh conditions and burden locals - mostly Muslims in Palu and South Sulawesi, mostly Christians in North Sulawesi, Tentena, and the Lore Valley. Fear and vengefulness have made it difficult to stop the cycle of bloodshed. A recent peace agreement formulated in Malino, South Sulawesi, shows promise but faces challenges in its implementation. Dutch missionaries from the early 1900s converted indigenous animist groups in the mountainous interior of what is now Central Sulawesi province. The colonial administration envisioned these Protestants as an allied population buffer against Muslim-influenced coastal kingdoms. Many of these slash-and-burn farmers were resettled in model villages and taught wet-rice farming by the Dutch. Most groups living around Poso Lake, between Poso and the mission center of Tentena, came to identify themselves ethnically as Pamona. The Japanese Occupation and independence in 1945 was followed by a chaotic period when Muslim rebels from South Sulawesi attacked interior animists and Christians. Yet, once the Suharto regime took control, the majority population of the region still was Protestant ('Kristen' in Indonesian), and Pamona leaders exercised partial control over the local bureaucracy. Much had changed by the end of Suharto's presidency. In 1973, Suharto designated Central Sulawesi as one of ten new transmigration provinces. The Trans-Sulawesi Highway was cut into the rugged mountain forests to ease the path for transmigrants. The new roads and settlements also attracted a flood of voluntary migrants, especially Muslim Bugis and Makassar people from South Sulawesi. The financial crisis beginning in late 1997 spurred further immigration into the ebony-producing Poso area. Entrepreneurial Muslims arrived from South Sulawesi to cash-crop cacao, an agricultural export that maintained an exceptionally high value during the crisis. Pamona Protestants lost their religious and ethnic majorities in the district. Many also had been displaced from their ancestral lands through processes of land commodification that had nothing to do with religion. Pamona Protestant Christians, like many interior groups in the outer islands, had also lost some of their indigenous political control. After the 1970s, much local authority was removed from customary councils of elders and transferred to a national bureaucracy. Modernist Muslims were installed in high-ranking military posts and Christians found it harder to get their leaders selected for local governance. By the end of his presidency, Suharto himself had become more pro-Muslim. Protestant mission funding became closely regulated. The government seized many schools and clinics originally funded by churches. District mayor When the Poso violence began in December 1998, the district mayor (bupati) of Poso was a Muslim named Arief Patanga. Patanga's term of office was due to expire in June 1999. His district secretary (sekretaris wilayah daerah, sekwilda) was a Protestant Pamona named Yahya Patiro. This type of religious power-sharing at the district level had been known in earlier New Order Poso. Many Christians hoped Patiro would succeed his Muslim predecessor. Muslim factions, representing Bugis-influenced ethnic groups along the coast and towards South Sulawesi, promoted Muslim candidates. The new economic stakes raised the election heat. The 1999 Regional Autonomy Laws promised a shift in control over resources from the national to the regional level. Both Muslim and Christian elites in Poso viewed this election as critical to their future access to government contracts. The street fight that began in the heart of Poso city on the eve of both Christmas and Ramadan, 1998, fed into religious tensions promoted by inflammatory graffiti during the campaign. Soon, supporters from allied towns arrived to reinforce the Protestant and Muslim mobs. After a week of chaotic street fighting and arson, about 200 people were injured and 400 homes burned. Reportedly, Christians suffered most of the damage in what became the conflict's 'first phase'. A Pamona Protestant leader of the political campaign, Herman Parimo, was jailed for heading a group of fighting Christians. No Muslims were prosecuted. This apparently partisan response by the authorities increased Protestant resentment. A second escalating street fight occurred in mid-April 2000. By that time, a Muslim (although not the prior incumbent's favourite) had been installed as the new district mayor. When a Muslim youth reported being knifed by a Protestant, a Muslim posse began a retaliation campaign that the police could not handle. Supporters with homemade weapons again arrived from allied Muslim and Protestant towns. Army personnel followed from Makassar, South Sulawesi, but the fighting continued for over two weeks. By early May, over 700 homes had been burned, mostly belonging to Christians, along with several church buildings and a police barracks. Thousands of refugees, mostly Christians, fled. The 'third phase' began only three weeks later when a group of Christians made a night-time raid on the Muslims they considered responsible for the earlier destruction of Christian neighbourhoods. The masked 'ninja' group of about a dozen men is alleged to have included both Protestant Pamona and Catholic immigrants from Flores who resided in the Poso district. Fighting then intensified throughout the region, abetted by teams of local Christian militias. This third phase culminated in a massacre of Javanese men who fled to a Muslim boarding school in a transmigration area south of Poso. Over a hundred were executed with homemade weapons, their bodies tossed in the Poso River and mass graves. The fighting continued until the end of July 2000, when three Catholic ringleaders were captured. These Flores immigrants were tried between December 2000 and April 2001, when they were sentenced to death. To date, their appeals have been rejected and they await execution by firing squad. Despite a few high-profile reconciliation efforts in late 2000, many criticised the lack of government aid and biased processes of law enforcement. Sporadic fighting continued and most refugees were too scared to return home. Instead, the population underwent an increasing de facto religious segregation - Muslims in Poso city, Protestants in the highland towns. During the first months of 2001, violence worsened again. In addition to surprise attacks on farmers, disgruntled factions planted bombs in religious buildings and police posts. After the three Catholics were sentenced to death, attacks on Muslims increased. This began to be called 'phase four.' Then in July, the Laskar Jihad group, based in Yogyakarta, sent emissaries to meet with senior religious and government leaders in Central Sulawesi. Violence surged again at the end of 2001 when thousands of well-armed Laskar Jihad troops were added to the volatile mix of local fighters. Over a hundred more persons were killed in what we can call 'phase five'. By mid-November, desperate pleas emerged from Protestant towns. Christians reported invasions by Muslim militias who threatened to rule the area by the end of Ramadan. At least half a dozen churches and 4,000 houses in thirty villages were burned, seemingly under the blind eye of security forces. Roughly 15,000 more people fled their homes. Muslim militias seized control of fuel stations and roadside checkpoints, where some displayed posters of Osama bin Laden. In the aftermath of September 11th, these reports caught the attention of government officials and human rights workers in the United States and elsewhere, and led to pressure on the Indonesian government to control radical Muslims. Peace agreement On December 4, 2001, Indonesia's chief security minister, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, traveled to Sulawesi to meet with Muslim and Christian leaders. Jusuf Kalla, the Coordinating Minister for the People's Welfare (Menko Kesra), was assigned as mediator. Roughly fifty delegates, half Muslim and half Christian, met separately with Kalla in Malino, South Sulawesi. On December 20, 2001, a ten-point bilateral peace agreement was announced. With the arrival of 4,000 military and police, as well as national and international attention on Central Sulawesi, Christmas proceeded peacefully. At New Year's, four Protestant churches were bombed in the provincial capital of Palu, but implementation of the accord continued. The Malino Agreement includes some unarguable points: both sides should stop fighting, obey laws, expect security forces to be firm and fair, reject unauthorised 'outside' interference or militias, stop slander, and promote apologies and respect for all traditions and religions. Problems likely will come in implementing points such as weapons collection and the return of property to 'pre-conflict' status. It will be difficult to divide rehabilitation funds fairly and resettle about 90,000 refugees, who may claim land now occupied by other mobile citizens. Finally, there is the lingering issue of power sharing at the political level, an issue raised by the Christian delegates, but not included in the final peace agreement. Lorraine Aragon (aragonl@mail.ecu.edu) teaches anthropology at East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina, USA. She has published several articles and a book on highland Sulawesi ('Fields of the Lord', University of Hawai'i Press, 2000). Her longer article about the Poso conflicts appears in Cornell University's journal 'Indonesia', vol. 72, October 2001. Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Aceh negotiation ups and downs

Mar 1998 - Acehnese students join anti-Suharto protests by highlighting military abuses in Aceh 7 Aug 1998 - Armed Forces Commander General Wiranto announces the lifting of Aceh's Special Operations Area (DOM) status, apologises for human rights abuse 4 Feb 1999 - Large Acehnese student congress (Kongres Mahasiswa dan Pemuda Aceh Serantau) demands referendum on Aceh's future. The call is taken up by religious leaders Jun 1999 - Aceh military commander Col Syarifuddin Tippe offers GAM ceasefire negotiations 4 Nov 1999 - New President Abdurrahman Wahid says the Acehnese have a right to a referendum, but immediately 'clarifies' this 27 Jan 2000 - Negotiations begin in Geneva between the Indonesian government and GAM, facilitated by Henry Dunant Centre (HDC) 12 May 2000 - Humanitarian Pause agreed in Geneva. Not quite a ceasefire, it emphasises humanitarian cooperation Sep 2000 - Humanitarian Pause extended till 15 January 2001 Jan 2001 - The Joint Forum in Geneva agrees to negotiate about 'substantive issues' to 'seek a formula for a lasting and comprehensive solution to the conflict in Aceh' 15 Jan 2001 - The Humanitarian Pause, renamed a Moratorium, is extended for only one month amid hardened rhetoric and growing violence from both sides Mar 2001 - Exxon closes its three gas fields in Aceh after GAM attacks. They reopen in July 12 Mar 2001 - Indonesian cabinet declares GAM 'separatist' 11 Apr 2001 - President Wahid issues a presidential instruction (Inpres 4/ 2001) that permits redeployment of more troops to Aceh 20 Jul 2001 - Arrest of six GAM negotiators at Kuala Tripa Hotel, Banda Aceh 23 Jul 2001 - President Megawati Sukarnoputri installed. Her Foreign Minister, Hassan Wirayuda, was the chief Indonesian negotiator in Geneva 5 Feb 2002 - Military Area (Kodam) re-established in Aceh, amid determined push by TNI to defeat GAM insurgency Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Between war and peace

An insider speaks about peace negotiations on Aceh Otto Syamsuddin Ishak Dialogue was first discussed late 1999, but the Free Aceh Movement (GAM) was reluctant. The great service of the Swiss-based organisation the Henry Dunant Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue (HDC) is that they were able to sit the two sides down at one table. The first HDC mission came to Aceh early in 2000. HDC had to decide which Acehnese resistance faction they would deal with - GAM or MP-GAM. Each was led by exiles in Sweden who had fought in Aceh in 1976. Indonesia preferred MP-GAM, but GAM had the biggest presence on the ground. The choice fell on GAM, and they formed a delegation with representatives from the Swedish leadership as well as commanders from Aceh. It was difficult. GAM feared being deceived by Indonesia, while the Indonesian government thought of GAM as intractable. I went to Geneva for the first meeting on 24 April 2000. The atmosphere was tense. As a resource person, I had to provide information about human rights after 1998 that might help lead to a peaceful resolution. HDC took a humanitarian approach. GAM accordingly stressed Indonesian human rights abuses. Indonesian representative Hassan Wirayuda, by contrast, said little about the situation on the ground and wanted to discuss a special autonomy solution like the one he helped broker in the southern Philippines. He was accompanied by the military attache from the Paris embassy, so the Indonesian delegation tended to ignore human rights. However, the agreement signed on 12 May 2000 was fairly good in that it did revolve around humanitarian issues, and it called on both sides to show restraint. A Joint Forum was established in Geneva, to meet once in three months. In Aceh there were two joint committees, for security and for humanitarian action, as well as an independent team to monitor implementation of security aspects - of which I was secretary. Four district monitoring teams were formed in December 2000 as well. In order to create a conducive sense of security, the agreement stipulated that all troop movements whether GAM or Indonesian should be reported to the joint security committee in Banda Aceh. However, President Wahid was unable to control his military, and the TNI just ignored that provision. After the agreement was signed, Indonesia unilaterally put in place a set of 'permanent procedures' (prosedur tetap, or protap). But GAM rejected them because they made no allowance for reporting troop movements. Chivalrous For me it was the first time I had met many of the top Acehnese in the resistance. They struck me as chivalrous. They were so committed. But I felt nervous that upon my return to Aceh I might be intimidated by both sides. So I asked HDC to guarantee my security. They produced a letter signed by GAM and by the Indonesian Foreign Affairs Department. Foreign Affairs picked me up at the airport. But the differences between them and TNI Headquarters became obvious when we went out to the field. Foreign Affairs had no authority there. I was often intimidated. Police Colonel Ridwan Karim, Indonesian delegation leader on the joint committee for security, and former commander of the force sent in to Aceh following the troop withdrawal in 1999, said in public that I was pro-GAM. In Jakarta, President Wahid was under attack. Parliamentary speaker Akbar Tanjung of Golkar blamed Wahid for initiating the Aceh dialogue without consulting parliament. The TNI, meanwhile, made it clear it was not about to acknowledge GAM as an equal negotiating partner because GAM was 'not a state'. Nevertheless, the 12 May agreement was unprecedented in Indonesian history. Unlike the final resolution of the Darul Islam revolt in 1962, which was a personal affair between Acehnese leader Daud Beureueh and Indonesian military commander LtGen M Jasin, this was an institutional agreement not dependent on personalities. Its big weakness was that HDC was unable to guarantee the security of its partners in the peace process. For example when Tengku Al Kamal, a member of the monitoring committee for security, was killed by Indonesia in South Aceh on 30 March 2001, HDC did not even do anything for his family. Yet he had been killed while on duty as a partner with HDC. The HDC negotiations of early 2000 did offer a new alternative for the conflict, but after it was signed HDC was no longer the engine of transformation. Instead, the initiative passed to GAM and the Republic of Indonesia. GAM took advantage of it to recruit new fighters and to establish a new village structure in areas it controlled. Indonesia meanwhile sent in even more troops, who set up new posts and, under the cover of providing humanitarian assistance, conducted counter-insurgency intelligence operations in the villages. Nor was HDC able to create a new common understanding of the conflict, as its mission statement indicates it wanted to do. HDC used none of the abundant human rights information (which had strong humanitarian relevance) to create a new consensus. Instead, Jakarta dominated the media, leaving HDC with no room to build on the agreement that had been reached. That reduced the credibility of HDC especially within Indonesia. Indeed, HDC's influence declined sharply as one moved from the international to the grassroots level. For example, the agreement made provision for regular meetings between GAM and TNI field commanders. And these did take place. But GAM was suspicious that TNI would use these meetings to capture senior commanders, so they only sent second or third level commanders. When Indonesia withdrew from the meetings, complaining that GAM was not sending its top commander Abdullah Syafi'ie, HDC again had nothing to say. This was followed by the arrest of the entire GAM negotiating team in Banda Aceh in July 2001. Of course HDC had no troops to enforce any agreement, but it might have been able to save its principles if it had brought in other mediators with more clout such as US-AID. Lessons I thought 12 May was a moment of great hope. I felt excited, but also anxious about attitudes on the two sides - GAM stubborn as Acehnese generally are, and Indonesia cunning and always ready to use violence. Considering the generally negative Indonesian response to the agreement, the enthusiasm with which countries like Norway and the US greeted it was perhaps naive. We can draw two lessons from the HDC process. The first is that this cannot be resolved as a domestic Indonesian problem. Within Southeast Asia it has a negative impact on Malaysia and Singapore because of the Acehnese refugees. And more globally the massive American investment by Exxon is under threat of insecurity. These concerns should lead to more international involvement. Second, the loss of HDC's credibility in Indonesian eyes led to a spiral of violence. That is why I am excited about the latest development, in which the United States is supporting the HDC process with an additional initiative known as the Four Wise Men. The American idea, conceived before Megawati became president, is that she can work together better with the military and may be able to control them. One of the four individuals will be an influential American, one a Japanese (they buy a lot of gas from Aceh, but are not keen to be involved), one from Yugoslavia who is a friend of Megawati, and Surin Pitsuwan, former Thai foreign minister who is Muslim. TNI think they can resolve the Aceh issue alone. Shooting dead top GAM commander Tgk Abdullah Syafi'ie on 22 January 2002 encouraged them. But GAM immediately appointed a replacement, Muzakkir Manaf. They are well organised. And the Acehnese now have two new martyrs - Abdullah Syafi'i and his wife (who died with him). To them he was a model of humanism, unpretentious, simple, and devout. That he will become a legend is obvious even from the Indonesian press reporting of his death, which was positive about him and did not describe the soldiers who shot him as heroes. Otto Syamsuddin Ishak has published two books on Aceh. The Henry Dunant Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue website is: www.hdcentre.org. Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

We are all one

How custom overcame religious rivalry in Southeast Maluku P M Laksono Southeast Maluku has been neglected not only in the story of the fighting throughout Maluku from early 1999, but also in that of its end. The district capital Tual is located in the Kei Islands, just 800 km to the north of Darwin in Australia. Indonesian newspapers reported hardly any details about the outbreak of fighting on 31 March 1999, except to suggest that hundreds died and tens of thousands became refugees. Almost nothing has been written about why the fighting stopped and what brought the community together again. Like chocolate melting from the edges in, so the Indonesian state in Maluku experienced structural melt-down after Suharto resigned in 1998. Its ability to bind groups together vanished. The dominance of Golkar, of money, of the values of developmentalism, and of the military, which had held Indonesia together, evaporated and left people disoriented. They lost their trust in the system. When religious fighting broke out in Ambon in January 1999, it created enormous confusion in Southeast Maluku. People lost their grip on reality and a kind of anarchy broke out. Why should the state be so important in a remote place like Tual? We have to understand that the classic liberal concept of the state - one that doesn't interfere in the market or in people's lives except to provide security and perhaps welfare - has never applied in Maluku. There has never been a free, independent economy. Instead, there is close collaboration between the state, capital, and the values of modernisation and development. Everything has been a monopoly of the state - from rice to petrol. Southeast Maluku is actually not a remote area. In the early 1960s, the district head (bupati) was a big man. He had to be inventive to fulfil the area's budgetary needs. But by the mid-1980s, with the New Order at its height, all the money came from Jakarta, without any effort at all on the part of the district head. The district had gone from self-sufficiency to an extreme degree of dependency. Human development had actually regressed - the opposite of what the development program intended. Instead of eating food made from the local sago and poisonous cassava, the civil servants in town now ate rice and instant noodles - all imported by the state and by big capital. Civil servants are the backbone of urban society. By the end of the 1980s nearly all the rupiah flowing into the district came from civil service salaries. Almost no rupiah came in outside the government budget. Agriculture is just subsistence. There is practically no export - just a little copra and marine products. The big fishing trawlers that frequent Tual harbour are Taiwanese and pay their money to Jakarta. The whole of society depends on the state - even if only as a labourer at a school building site. Segregation Even now it is not clear who started the conflict in the Kei Islands in 1999. There was a rumour that Islam had been insulted, and a fight broke out on the border between Tual town (Islamic) and neighbouring Ta'ar (Protestant). Every village is relatively homogeneous in religious terms. Even those few villages that are mixed have exclusively Protestant, Catholic and Islamic neighbourhoods. There is thus very little social interaction between people of different religions - just a memory that they were once one. This kind of social segregation dates back to the introduction of the world religions in Southeast Maluku at the end of the nineteenth century. This was also the time when the highly extractive and bureaucratic colonial state of the Netherlands Indies was first established here. Religion is a state concept. Its introduction and maintenance has always been a policy of the state. Throughout the New Order, anyone who was not religious was an enemy of the state - a communist. Religion invokes political issues. For Kei Islanders it is not just an inspiration for peace but also a political inspiration. The political institutionalisation of religion takes on fearful forms - it is the institutionalisation of fear. The communist issue is taken very seriously. They do believe in religion, but in practice it becomes too serious and heavy. Religion is an initial barrier that must be overcome before Kei Islanders can interact more deeply. Religion is competitive. In colonial times power was distributed according to religion. Under the New Order the rhetoric was secular, but in reality religion remained important in determing who became district head or chairperson of the local assembly. The moment that central power experienced melt-down was therefore also the moment when competition spun totally out of control. Everyone knows everyone else in a small community. But rumours immediately began to circulate of impending attacks from another community in a neighbouring village or island. As long as the Big Brother state was in charge, such outside attacks were impossible to imagine, although they did happen. There are always long-standing problems between neighbouring villages - whether it is over land or an unpaid bride price. Indonesia provided a kind of imperial peace that dampened inter-village warfare. Ambon, the provincial capital 600 kilometres to the west, had always been the model of statecraft. No village head could be appointed without the approval of the governor in Ambon. The social segregation in Tual was very like that in Ambon too. So when Ambon descended into chaos, so did Tual. Suddenly people lost confidence in the 'guarantees of security' provided by the village head to protect those belonging to a minority faith. If someone heard a rumour that the village would be attacked, they just fled. Everyone was suddenly on the stage, acting out a script of Christian-Muslim warfare that had been written in Ambon. Of course they all knew what inter-religious tension was, but they never imagined it could come to war. There was a kind of stage fever driven by extreme fear, as well as by a sense of exhiliration, that turned into real violence. Kinship However, the conflict did not sever all social relationships. It did not make a complete break in history. There were still some relationships across the religious divide, and especially within local communities. In that sense the conflict was a superficial one, although it had a big local impact. It really wasn't 'themselves' up there on the stage. After a time they came to their senses, and got down to become spectators again. It became a kind of game once more - even if things were not the same because of the refugees and the dead. I don't believe there were hundreds of dead. In 'my' village of Ohoitel there were just eight dead. Talking numbers was part of the escalation of war. Even one is too many. There were also many stories of people helping one another across religious barriers. They said 'we are all one' - 'Ain Ni Ain'. When Kei Islanders remember their golden age of enlightenment they do not mean the coming of religion, but the creation of their customary law, the larvul ngabal. The historical watershed for them was not the coming of the Dutch, or of the Republic of Indonesia, or of religion, but much longer ago than that. They have long regarded Tanimbar Kei, a small island in the south, as the last stronghold of Kei custom and beliefs. During the conflict, this island became a sanctuary for refugees of all religions. The resurgent belief in the efficacy of custom led to a revived interest in the remaining customary leaders who had not been coopted by the New Order. The key role in turning back to a history of customary kinship was played by Bapak Raja J P Rahail, the customary king of Watlar. Raja Rahail began by preventing any rioting in his own kampung. In the hierarchy of local raja he was the most junior of the twelve in the Kei Islands, but he was able to approach the others and start a movement of customary reconciliation. Throughout the New Order, Raja Rahail had always been outside the system. He was something of a symbol of opposition to it. He revived the customary community known as the ratskap (from the Dutch 'raadschap'). Raja Rahail was close to the NGO community - being one of the chairpersons of the archipelago-wide customary association Aman (Asosiasi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara), as well as of an Asia-wide association since the early 1990s. The 1979 law on village government (no 5/1979) had totally destroyed village autonomy. But Raja Rahail had succeeded in retaining custom in his ratskap of Maur Ohoiwut, and this was an inspiration for the community that lived there. The ratskap consisted of several villages, with different religions. So there were two models of community in Southeast Maluku. One shaped by Indonesia, which bound together religions through the distribution of patronage in the form of official appointments. This experienced melt-down and violence in 1999. As a consequence, people once more began to look to another model, one based on custom and local autonomy. Even though Raja Rahail was only relatively junior - not in age, he was about seventy years old and in fact died in November 2001 - but his statecraft became a model for the others when they saw how he was able to manage conflict. Raja Rahail had only his authority and his prestige to offer. He was an expert in creating consultative mechanisms. Every year he held a great debate, a musyawarah, in his ratskap. This had been running since the early 1990s assisted by various non-government organisations (NGOs). He inspired Kei Islanders with the idea that they belonged to one community, and that peace depended on the people's initiative. This played a significant role in ending the conflict in Southeast Maluku. P M Laksono (laksono@ugm.ac.id) teaches anthropology at Gadjah Mada University. His book 'The common ground in the Kei Islands' (Yogyakarta: Galang Press) appeared in March 2002 (see Bookshop page). Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Celebrate for peace

Reclaiming public ritual can help resolve conflict Taufik Rahzen When Herb Feith and I first met in 1984 I was reading a book on Gandhian non-violence by Rajni Kothari entitled A step into the future. Herb was astonished to find an Indonesian reading this. I found it in a flea market. That was the beginning of a long friendship. His ideas made us change the focus of the student discussion group I was leading then, from 'technology and philosophy' to 'peace'. This was the first group of its kind after the repression of 1978. In 1985 we held a Peace Camp at Parangtritis Beach near Yogya. It was attended by students from all over Java. We wore black as a protest against the military. Very symbolic. Then we restarted the student press network, which the military had destroyed because of student protests against Suharto. Then in February 1989 the Lampung massacre occurred, in which hundreds of Muslim villagers were shot in a military raid in rural southern Sumatra. We held a demonstration at Gadjah Mada University in protest. This was unheard of in those days and very dangerous. Actually it came out of an intense internal debate. Some students wanted to retaliate with violence. They spoke of urban guerrilla warfare. Others used the word 'non-violence'. Then I thought of the word 'anti-violence'. That became the theme of the protest, not just there but in other cities as well. The Tien Anmien massacre happened in Beijing in the same year, and this led to 'anti-violence' protests around Indonesia. These did not just oppose violence by the military, but also violence used by big business, violence suffered by women, violence to impose the Pancasila ideology, or any kind of violence to resolve conflict. I was asked to write an Anti-Violence Manifesto, which was published in Inside Indonesia (July 1989). Probably my most amazing experience was joining the Peace Camp in Iraq during the Gulf War early in 1991. There were 75 of us from many different countries, including three Indonesians, in tents in the desert on the border with Kuwait. Iraqi and US troops were visible on opposite sides. It was scary. I chickened out and went back to Baghdad. That was a bad choice. The first cruise missiles landed on government buildings right next to where we were camped! Herb Feith gave me travel money, but it was only enough for a one-way ticket. So I traveled travel back overland. I was a year on the road, learning how the Muslim world felt about the Gulf War and writing for the Indonesian media. That war destroyed all ideology for me. Ritual The 1998 protests that brought down Suharto were another moment when anti-violence ideas were strong. However, I myself had moved on by that time. Already in our student discussion group of the mid-1980s we wondered why all ideological experiments in Indonesia seemed to end in violence. Religion was the same. Romo Mangunwijaya used to say that the Indonesian character was amuk, like a volcano, that is, to be calm on the surface but then suddenly to explode. I have now lost all interest in ideology. The only thing that matters to me is how we can have a world without violence. How can people resolve their conflicts without discrimination, with complete respect for plurality and human potential? Every society has a dominant pattern of change. Here in Indonesia it is not ideology or rational knowledge, but ritual. The ceremony is the crucial ingredient in everything, from weddings to corruption and the economy. Ritual takes place in a public space and in public time, which is an extraordinary time. It belongs to everyone. All leaders use ritual - Sukarno, Suharto, Gus Dur, and Megawati. Clifford Geertz once wrote a book about the 'theatre state' in Bali. Ritual binds people together, and is therefore a method of resolving conflict. The regular sekaten celebration in Yogyakarta is a good example. The Balinese with their completely routine rituals are another. In Kutai, East Kalimantan, they have long had the Erau festival every September, to mark the moment when the sun is directly overhead. It is not just for Kutai Malays but for Dayak and Banjar people too. The problem is that the Erau festival was recently taken over by the local government and turned into a huge tourist attraction. This has been the case with ritual everywhere in Indonesia. The state dominates almost all public space and public time. It is no longer public, but Republic space and time! For example President Suharto made 23 June National Family Day just because it was the Javanese birthday of his wife Bu Tien. Peace-making In order to recover the peace-making potential of ritual, we have to reclaim that public space and time. My friends and I do that by reviving old rituals and festivals and investing them with new meaning or, more often, by making new, multi-cultural festivals. One of the best new festivals I became involved in was held in the traditional Balinese villages of Sidemen and Tirtagangga on 9/9/99. Four completely different groups came together here for a joint cultural performance. Besides the Sidemen Balinese, there were Papuans from Komoro, near the Freeport mine; Bissu, the transvestite priests from South Sulawesi; and people from Larantuka in Flores. The Balinese were Hindu, the Papuans Protestant, the Bissu Muslim, and the Florinese Catholic - not all of them equally orthodox mind you! They all experienced culture shock getting there. The Papuans lost all their dancing paraphernalia during the flight except a priceless statue they carried in their laps. The Florinese came on a ferryboat that was full of traumatised East Timor refugees. The Bissu were marginalised in their own society, and had never been outside South Sulawesi. None of them were fluent in Indonesian. To get them talking, the Balinese took them around to the rice fields, to see what Balinese eat. It worked. That night they held the performance together. It was very moving. At the end, the Florinese gave a hand-woven cloth to the Balinese, while the Balinese gave a wonderful mask to the Papuans. The Papuans gave their statue to the Bissu (instead of to the organisers as they had planned), and the Bissu gave one of their cloths to the Florinese. After the meeting, each group felt they were given fresh confidence to go home and do something creative. The Komoro dancers did a festival. The Bissu elected a new leader after letting it slip for thirty years! Another dream I have is to make a Culture Ship that travels around the eastern archipelago. Buildings are too static and Java-centric. People come to ships to trade. That is a good moment for a meeting between people, and for a celebration. Herb phoned me from the airport in Jakarta two days before he died. We shared our concern about the war in Afghanistan, and its implications for the Muslim world. 'Taufik', he said, 'we have to step into the future.' Taufik Rahzen lives in Bandung and directs the Indonesian Festival Alliance (Aliansi Indonesia Festival, Alif). Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Do-it-yourself freedom

How to escape the mainstream, big money, newspaper thought police Alexandra Crosby While the mass media monster may appear to be growing stronger, fed on the fat of advertising and corporate sponsorship, new species of independent media are popping up in Yogyakarta. Angry about their lack of access to mainstream politics, and empowered by the 'do it yourself' philosophy, people are expressing their authentic thoughts and feelings by the cheapest print medium available, photocopied zines. Debu is a brand new zine launched in November, 2001. It is put together by an organisation of street musicians called Serikat Pengamen Indonesia (SPI), among whom is Ibob. SPI began creating their own media under the New Order regime. Before 1998, they made political pamphlets criticising the government and military and announcing actions. These were distributed as widely as possible at bus terminals and train stations. Ibob recalls this was a 'very repressive period... we could hardly move.' Underground media were being produced, but in a much more restricted form and not nearly in the quantities that they are today. SPI experienced constant intimidation from the military. As a protective mechanism, their material did not contain names or addresses which could be linked back to the group. The fall of Suharto in 1998 was a significant turning point. SPI now feels able to produce Debu, which openly identifies names, addresses, and contact details. However, intimidation still occurs. Members of SPI recently experienced violent repression from the military again, which leaves Ibob uneasy that this apparent 'opening up' of the political environment will not last. But while it does, Ibob sees alternative media as crucial for expressing radical ideas. 'We must take advantage of this opportunity while we can. Debu is is an expression and affirmation of our political strength and an assertion of our rights as urban poor.' Exi is part of a collective called anakseribupulau which makes a zine about environmental issues. He says that because there is no profit motive, alternative media can address important issues the mainstream media will not touch. Anakseribupulau (Children of a Thousand Isles) is produced with whatever money the collective can scrounge together at the time. No one is paid for their work or their time. There is no advertising, no business sponsors and no editorial selection. Although the result has more spelling mistakes than glossy photos, and has a circulation of just a few hundred, it is totally open to contributions. 'This,' Exi says proudly, 'is a free, independent medium.' Emma Emma makes a zine about gender equality called Kotak Komik. It is distributed through women's collectives as well as student and other activist networks. 'Mainstream media always support the status quo of capitalism and patriarchy. They never print writings or education directed toward ordinary people,' she complains. When asked whether mainstream media have the capacity to address issues of gender inequality, Emma was adamant that under a capitalist system this would be impossible. 'Under this system,' she goes on to say, 'ordinary people don't have access to the mainstream mass media because it is controlled by capital. So we must create our own media.' Emma sees zines as not only an alternative to the mass media, but to academic textbooks. She is unsatisfied with a lot of writing from the Left in Indonesia because it fails to encourage debate and criticism. Emma doesn't wish to put her energy into media which are out of the reach of most Indonesians. Ibob, Exi and Emma all agree, the problems with mainstream media are inseparable from those with gender inequality, the environment, and social injustice. Zines are a forum to educate ourselves about how we can live together on this earth without destroying it or each other. By creating media such as Anakseribupulau, Debu, and Kotak Komik, anybody who wants to, has the power to contribute to the debates which affect us all. When asked about the importance of alternative media in Indonesia today, Exi's response was emphatic. 'When faced with so much oppression, inequality, and injustice in the world, we have no choice but to speak out, in whatever way we can.' Michel Foucault once remarked, 'We are subjected to the production of truth through power, and we cannot exercise power except through the production of truth.' Dissatisfaction with the mainstream media in Indonesia essentially reflects a rejection of the centralised powers which produce it. The emerging zine scene in Yogyakarta is an exciting development in a growing culture of resistance and criticism. Emma, Ibob, and Exi can all be contacted at kismiana2001@yahoo.com, debu_spi@lovemail.com , and anak_seribupulau@yahoo.com.au. Alexandra ('Sasha') Crosby (alicrosby@hotmail.com) was a student in Yogya with Acicis. She and her friends produced a zine called 'Arus'. Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Revolution of hope

Independent films are young, free and radical Katinka van Heeren The voice of an old man singing a song of the time of Indonesia's struggle for independence, a song of pride, hope, and great expectations for the future. His singing is accompanied by the image of the Indonesian flag, SangMerah-Putih, the symbol of the nation's pride and glory. Yet, the flag is not blowing bravely and fiercely in the wind, but is weakly flapping around the flagpole, a symbol of the confusion and disappointment of so many in Indonesia today. This fragment is the last scene of the short Indie (independent) film Kepada yang terhormat titik 2 ('To the esteemed: '). It was produced in Purwokerto, Central Java, and had its premiere there on 18 January 2002. The film is an unpretentious account of how common people in Purwokerto see their municipality. It captures city life with a deliberately gritty touch, showing the lives of street vendors, street kids, and farmers. At the end, an old peasant recounts that throughout his life nothing Jakarta has done ever improved the meagre livelihood of Purwokerto farmers. Kepada yang terhormat titik 2 is part of a new development in Indonesian cinema. The spirit of reformasi in 1998 permeated into the Indonesian film scene and gave birth to a movement characterised by great diversity. The independent film has become an exciting and popular model for young Indonesians who want to make their own films. They have formed a community of so-called Mafin (Mahluk Film Independen, Independent Film Creatures), which holds its own film festivals. They exchange ideas on the subject of film on the internet and at get-togethers. The independent film movement really began with the film Kuldesak ('Cul-de-sac'). This anthology of four short features dealt with the problems of middle class Jakarta youth - drugs, homosexuality, and the feeling of absolute desolation. Its four young filmmakers decided in 1996 to produce an 'underground' film that broke free of all the rules of film production under the censorious New Order. Despite the freer political climate, one of the most radical scenes of this film, two boys kissing in a bus, was censored. It appeared to be too revolutionary even for reformasi. Today these four have become leading filmmakers, producing national successes - Petualangan Sherina by Mira Lesmana and Riri Riza, Jelangkung by Rizal Mantovani - and even an international one - Pasir berbisik by Nan T Achnas. Rebellious The unexpected fall of Suharto enabled this film to reach movie theatres throughout Indonesia in November 1998. Reformasi was reaching its peak, and many restrictions on film production and exhibition were not being applied. Its rebellious production and fresh contents and techniques set Kuldesak apart from both the films produced by an earlier generation and from the everyday soap operas on television. The press labelled it the first-ever Indonesian 'independent' film, and often highlighted its 'non-Indonesian' features. The film was highly successful among young audiences. In several cities ticket counter queues stretched into the street. Kuldesak, made by four filmmakers who 'just went for it', triggered a euphoric energy among other aspiring young Indonesians. The freer political climate encouraged a sense of freedom and creativity. Also important was the wide availability of new audio-visual technologies such as digital video cameras and projectors. In 1999 the Community of Independent Film (Komunitas Film Independen, or Konfiden) began to hold a series of film screenings and discussions in the bigger cities of Java. The objective was to introduce the concept of independent film to a wider public. They were also a warm-up for the first Indonesian Independent Film and Video Festival (FFVII), held in Jakarta at the end of October 1999. This festival aimed to provide independent filmmakers with a forum to screen their films. More ambitiously, it hoped to revive Indonesian film as a whole, which had virtually died in the last decade of New Order rule. The film industry had collapsed under the combined weight of three factors. Restrictive rules were becoming ever more draconian. Secondly, a business group owned by Suharto's relative Sudwikatmono (Subentra's Studio 21 chain of quality cinemas) disadvantaged local films by showing almost exclusively Hollywood. And thirdly, soapies made for the new commercial TV stations since the early 1990s proved to be highly popular. Since that year, a similar festival has been held annually - this year will be the fourth. Konfiden now also organises filmmaking workshops, publishes a monthly bulletin, and is developing a permanent cinema laboratory in Jakarta where new filmmakers can come to learn. Meanwhile, others also formed matching communities in several cities in Java, Lampung (southern Sumatra), Makassar, Palu (also in Sulawesi), and in Bali. These organise their own festivals, complete with discussions, workshops, and bulletins. Generally speaking the films screened are rather unsophisticated and inexperienced in their technique. However, the topics are often stimulating and original. Many include maverick ideas. One example of a very popular indie film is Revolusi harapan ('Revolution of hope'), by Nanang Istiabudi. This is a surrealistic story about a gang of thugs who go out on command to kill and pull the teeth of artists, students, and others who are in any way critical. Dunia kami, duniaku, dunia mereka ('Our world, my world, their world'), by Adi Nugroho, narrates the life of a transvestite in Yogyakarta. And Kameng Gampoeng Nyang Keunong Geulawa ('The village goat takes the beating'), by Aryo Danusiri, is a chilling testament of survivors of torture inflicted by the Indonesian Special Forces Kopassus. It was filmed in Tiro, northern Aceh. As members of the various communities discovered each other on the internet and began to visit each other's festivals, they began to think about a coalition. About a hundred people from all over Indonesia came together in Yogyakarta for the National Indie Film Festival late May and early June 2001. At the end, after great deliberation, they decided to form a national affiliation of independent film communities. The next step was to establish an information centre (ICE). It operated an internet mailing list called Forum Film, coordinated out of Yogyakarta. They also planned to hold a national meeting every two months. On 26 August 2001, during the BatuIndieFilmmakerMitting held in Batu (a resort near Malang in East Java), the various communities tried to formulate a collective vision. They wanted a program to acquaint a broader public with the medium of film in general, and 'film independen' in particular. After an all-night debate, three new ICE divisions were set up. In addition to the earlier Forum Film mailing list, a web site was to be coordinated from Malang, and an archive and a publication division were begun in Jakarta. The four ICE divisions would each remain autonomous bodies, standing for the same ideal but free to formulate their own policies. For example, the publication division has taken the shape of a new organisation called Terapis (Terapi Sinema, cinema therapy). It will publish books, a magazine, and a bulletin, and intends to organise workshops and seminars as well as produce educational films. Local pride One reason why the independent film movement has adopted the form of a national alliance, in which the different communities remain 'independent' and have an equal say, is the fear of domination by Jakarta. This fear, a New Order legacy, has had a positive spin-off. Many new independent films try to reflect the characteristics of their home region. The filmmakers want to make something that differs in every sense from a film that would have been produced in Jakarta - something that carries local pride and joy. For example, Di antara masa lalu dan masa sekarang ('Between the past and the present', by Eddie Cahyono) is the reflections of an old man about the guerrilla struggle for independence, and Topeng kekasih ('Mask of love', by Hanung Bramantyo) is entirely in Javanese and concerns the Oedipus Complex. Both these films depict a typical Yogyakarta atmosphere. Ah sialan ('Oh shit', by Danis) is about the problems of student life in Malang. Kepada yang terhormat titik 2, made by Dimas Jayasrana and Bastian, students at the Jenderal Soedirman University in rural Purwokerto and premiered in the same city, is another creative manifestation of this feeling. Katinka van Heeren (cvanheeren@hotmail.com) is writing a PhD dissertation at Leiden University, the Netherlands. Websites: www.konfiden.or.id www.forum-film@yahoogroups.com, email: terapis terapis@cinephiles.net. Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

BP and the Tangguh test

A multi-billion dollar gas project in a remote Papuan bay needs scrutiny Down to Earth In recent years BP - the world's third largest oil group - has become recognised in industry circles as one of the greenest and most socially responsible energy multinationals. It is 'pro-engagement': the company courts NGO opinion, funds conservation organisations and has signed various agreements committing it to respect human rights and protect the environment. The company claims green credentials by investing in solar power and cutting greenhouse gas emissions within its own operations. NGOs and communities with direct experience of BP's operations see another side of BP which clashes with the public image. BP has been accused of collusion in human rights abuses in Colombia and has clashed with indigenous forest-dwellers in Venezuela's Orinoco delta. Further controversy has focused on projects and investments in Angola, Tibet, Sudan and Alaska. These all point to a yawning gap between words and deeds. The company insists its new Tangguh liquefied natural gas (LNG) project in West Papua's Bintuni Bay should not be judged by past projects - but what other concrete evidence is there to go on? It is also worth looking at BP's main partner in the Tangguh project. This is Pertamina, the notoriously corrupt state-owned oil company which has a dirty record on human rights too. Pertamina is in partnership with Exxon Mobil in Aceh where troops paid to guard the gas installations have committed a series of well-documented human rights abuses. For the people living in villages around Bintuni Bay BP's project will mean irreversible change. Over 500 people will be moved from their homes in Tanah Merah to a newly created village 3.5 km to the west in Saengga. Forests will be cut - with resulting loss of resources and biodiversity. Gas platforms, pipelines, processing plant, port facilities, airstrip and employee accommodation will be built on the 3,416 ha project site. In Bintuni Bay, shipping will increase and local fishing activities will be disrupted. There will be an influx of outsiders as workers are brought in to construct the facilities. Many of the changes to the physical environment can be predicted and plans can be drawn up to minimise some of the negative effects. This is what BP is attempting to do through the environmental impact analysis (Andal) process. But other changes are not so easily foreseen. These include the key question of security at the site - and arrangements for guarding the site will depend on external, factors outside the company's control. Human rights There is great concern that the Indonesian military (TNI) will initiate conflict in nearby areas in order to justify the need for a strong security presence at the site. Villagers have expressed fear about the military in various meetings with BP staff. People in Sidomakmur, for example, a village that lies within what BP describes as the 'indirectly affected area', were 'very concerned that the Tangguh Project might use the military in their operations. They have had experiences with the military guarding the sawmill and logging operations'. Last year's military repression in Wasior, in which ten people were killed, others 'disappeared' and many homes burned down, has already been linked to the Tangguh project. Papuan observers point out that the killing of five police mobile brigade (Brimob) officers which sparked intensive military operations in Wasior, was timed to coincide with the visit of the British Ambassador to the region in June last year. The implied intention was to send a strong message to BP that they cannot do without the 'help' of the security forces. For the TNI, big projects have always meant big opportunities for extra pay to guard project sites - a situation that has led to a sharp increase in the incidence of human rights abuses - at the Freeport/ Rio Tinto mine in West Papua and at Exxon Mobil's gas installations in Aceh. In the Bintuni Bay area itself, there is already a Brimob presence which has had negative consequences for local people. According to the Far Eastern Economic Review, the Djayanti Group, which has timber, plantations and fishing interests in Bintuni Bay, pays a 20-man police detachment 'to enforce land grabs from local residents.' When confronted with questions on security, BP staff insist they want to reduce dependence on the military - at one stage the idea of creating a 'military-free zone' at Tangguh was floated. The company's 'Community Development Strategy' document says that trust and acceptance by the local community will be crucial: 'We pledge to work with Pertamina to ensure critical national resources are protected primarily through our acceptance by the local populace as a responsible, and welcome member of the community; thus eliminating the need for extraordinary efforts by security forces to preserve and protect people and facilities.' How BP will deal with military opposition to this plan has not been publicly outlined yet. This is one of the issues that BP's human rights impacts study should be looking at. The study is being conducted by Bennett Freeman, a member of the Clinton administration's state department staff, contracted by BP. Freeman was one of the main architects of the US/ UK Voluntary Principles on Security and Human Rights which BP signed up for. Before leaving for West Papua, he contacted the UK-based NGO, Tapol and was keen to find out who, if not the TNI, would be suitable candidates for guarding the facilities. The possibility of 'buying off' the TNI was also raised. The price may be high. The security forces are in a strong position to make demands and there is very little political will on the part of President Megawati to exercise any meaningful control over the military. The so-called 'security approach' used by president Suharto for dealing with unrest in West Papua and other trouble spots is back in vogue under Megawati, after her predecessor's attempts at dialogue were thwarted. In November Megawati's senior minister for political and security affairs, Bambang Yudhoyono Susilo, announced that a further 32,500 police and soldiers would be sent to conflict areas including West Papua and Aceh. The following month, Megawati said the military should 'be firm in carrying out their job and not to be worried about accusations of human rights abuses'. Unlike other companies operating in West Papua, BP has made some effort to communicate its project plans to local communities and consult villagers on impacts, resettlement and compensation. It is far from clear, however, that communities have all the information and opportunities for dialogue that they want, as there are already signs of dissatisfaction. Over the resettlement of Tanah Merah, BP acknowledges that despite 'substantial upgrades to their current situation' being planned, the resettlement still has 'the potential for dissatisfaction.' The villagers have not been informed when they will be moved - a situation that is leading to some frustration, according to Indonesia's mining advocacy network, Jatam. The community is also very concerned about the prospects of pollution from the BP site threatening their shrimp, crab, fish and mangrove resources on which their livelihoods depend. The issue of compensation is causing resentment too: land rates set in 1997 by the local government, were as low as Rp15 - Rp30 per square metre. (Rp10,300 = US$1.) Despite BP's commitment to transparency, not all available information has been made public. A large document containing the Terms of Reference for the Environmental Impact Analysis which BP head office assured NGOs was available as a public document, turns out not to be public after all. (DTE has obtained a copy of this document.) It is important that all information - including the results of the human rights impact study - is made accessible to communities affected by the project and the NGOs working with them, if BP really wants to be perceived differently from other investors. Codes of conduct The British government's very public support for Tangguh reflects a high level of confidence in Indonesia's investment opportunities. According to British energy minister Brian Wilson, Britain was Indonesia's biggest investor in the oil/ gas sector in the year 2000 and second largest overall after Japan. Over the last thirty years Britain has invested more than any other country apart from the US in the oil/ gas sector. Wilson, who visited Indonesia in November last year, said that BP had committed to a total of US$11 billion in investments, with $1.9 billion in current capital to be spent on Indonesian projects, including Tangguh. In total BP planned to invest $3-4 billion developing Tangguh.'We continue to see great opportunities for cooperation in energy', he said. Business codes of conduct or business principles have been developed by multinational companies, NGOs, governments and international bodies such as the UN agencies, and the EU in response to public pressure for companies to be socially and environmentally responsible. While many of the objectives in these codes are positive, their main drawback is that they are voluntary. There are no sanctions if the principles are not followed and there is no independent outside body to monitor compliance. Indigenous communities attending a meeting on mining in London last year argued that voluntary initiatives are not acceptable. A statement drawn up by participants said: 'In recent years the mining industry has become more aggressive and sophisticated in manipulating national and international laws and policies to suit its interests. The mining laws of more than seventy countries have been changed in the past two decades. Laws protecting indigenous peoples and the environment are undermined.' 'For this reason NGOs supporting indigenous groups want "politically and legally enforceable measures that will hold the mining industry accountable, above all to mining and exploration-affected communities.' (London Declaration 20/Sep/01) Down to Earth (email dte@gn.apc.org, web www.gn.apc.org/dte) is the UK-based international campaign for ecological justice in Indonesia. Extracted with permission from its February 2002 newsletter (DtE 52). Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

The life and death of Theys Eluay

The murdered Papuan leader was an ambiguous figure At Ipenburg There was always something ambiguous about Theys Hiyo Eluay. He became a focal point in the struggle for Papuan independence. But he was also seen as close to top army and police commanders, and the Kopassus special forces were his friends. Theys did not have much support in his home area of Sentani, outside Jayapura, where memories were still vivid of the large number of people killed through him by the Indonesian army. Theys Eluay was educated in the 'advanced primary school' (Jongensvervolgschool) in Yoka, Sentani, in the Dutch colonial period. He studied meteorology and later worked as an assistant meteorologist. He came from a family of traditional heads (ondoafi) in Sere village. Although not entitled to the responsibility, he became ondoafi himself because of his relatively advanced education. After the Dutch relinquished power in 1963, Indonesia tried to eliminate Papuan protest against its integration into Indonesia. Theys assisted the army by pointing out people who were pro-Dutch and anti-Indonesian. This action caused many victims in the small Sentani community of about 15,000. Some are still in hiding in PNG. Theys was one of about 1,000 Papuans selected to vote for integration with Indonesia in 1969. He campaigned in favour of a positive vote. In 1971 Theys became a member of the provincial parliament. However, by 1980 his influence had declined. This made him feel frustrated. He joined the officially sponsored Papuan Customary Council Assembly (Lembaga Musyawarah Adat Papua), first for the Sentani area and then for the province of Irian Jaya. In 1990 he became chairman of the provincial council. After 1996 this council became more politicised. Morning Star In October 1998 Theys Eluay, Don Flassy, and two students were arrested for holding meetings to discuss the raising of the Morning Star flag on 1 December 1998. When Theys was freed after a week, he appeared on the front page of the Cendrawasih Pos, stating that West Papua did not need to ask for independence as it had already been independent ever since 1 December 1961. The Papuans, he said, only wanted their sovereignty back. This interview highlighting Theys was a strong contrast with previous editorial policy, which had ignored independence demands. The focus on Theys continued, and certainly increased the circulation of Cendrawasih Pos, the only province-wide daily. Other leaders in the struggle, like Tom Beanal or Herman Awom, were rarely featured. There were weeks when Theys was pictured almost every day on the front page. 'Theys is weeping', 'Theys is angry', the headlines said. 'Theys is sick and has to go to Singapore', and 'Friends at once' (after fetching the new military commander from the Sentani airport). All this increased Theys' popularity enormously. He had the courage to say things other people were afraid to say in the open. Yet all the time Theys remained very close to the top of the army and police. He was the customary (adat) leader, and now also the Great Leader of the Papuans. As such he was accepted into the select group of the most powerful in the province. The rise of Theys Eluay started soon after the Team of One Hundred had gone to Jakarta to meet President Habibie, in January 1999. Afterwards the team announced, without a single dissenting voice, that the result of the dialogue initiated by Habibie was that Papuans wanted independence. The mobilisation in favour of independence had been done by Foreri, the Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (Forum for the Reconciliation of the Papuan People). This was an initiative of church leaders, joined by adat leaders, students and women's organisations. Theys Eluay, Tom Beanal and Gaspar Sibi were the adat leaders. Theys was a self-appointed leader. He began to call himself Great Leader of the Papuan People some time in 1998. He proposed the Morning Star flag be raised after his birthday celebration on 12 November 1998. In reaction, the army said they would create a bloodbath if the forbidden flag should be raised. Theys then cancelled the event, saying that December was the month when the Prince of Peace was born and no violence should take place. In 1999 Theys again announced a flag raising for 1 December, but then again wanted to cancel it. This time, however, his followers strongly resisted the cancellation. So Theys supported the flag raising. The army and police, after a visit to Irian Jaya by the national police chief, insisted it was illegal. Nevertheless, on 1 December 1999 people throughout the province raised the forbidden flag. This was a major achievement. Order was maintained by the pro-independence militia known as Satgas Papua. Papuans saw that independence was possible, and that they were still a majority in their own land. Most migrants preferred to stay at home, so on that one day Papuans dominated the streets, an unusual experience. In September 1999 Theys proposed to hold a Great Meeting (Rapat Akbar) to give voice to 'M' (merdeka, independence). The idea spread, and in February 2000 a Great Debate (Musyawarah Besar, Mubes) was held to discuss the future of West Papua and to determine a strategy for the independence struggle. The Free Papua Movement (OPM) was also present. However, Theys had by then a large force of young people at his own disposal - the Papua Task Force (Satgas Papua). They were responsible for security at the Mubes. Actually the majority wanted Tom Beanal to chair the Mubes, but with such a large number of satgas close by, Theys could not be ignored. A compromise was struck, and both became 'Great Leaders of the Papuan People'. The Mubes decided to organise a congress with a wider representation than the Mubes. The Second Papuan Congress took place in May-June 2000. Theys stood up at the beginning of the meeting and said: 'I am the chairman, while you are the vice chairman, right?' Tom tacitly agreed, as he did not want a quarrel at the beginning of such an important congress. Unity was crucial. The Presidium of the Council of Papuans (Presidium Dewan Papua, PDP) got a mandate to act on behalf of all Papuans. It was asked to report on progress towards independence by 1 December 2000. The provincial and national governments accepted the PDP as representing Papuan opinion. However, as PDP chairman Theys usually did not consult his fellow members. They often knew what Theys was doing only by reading the papers. For one of them, Benny Giay from Paniai, it became too much when Theys in October 2000 honoured the departing army commander by elevating him to the rank of 'Great Warrior of the Papuans'. Papuans from the highlands said they would not raise funds and pigs for somebody who had been ordering the killing of Papuans. Benny Giay then left the PDP. Achievements Theys had many achievements. He had the flair and courage to make statements the people understood. He raised an awareness of being Papuan. He supported the formation of 'command posts' (pos komando, posko) to guard villages and even cities. This came in response to the situation in the Moluccas, where outside provocateurs stirred up a religious conflict. These posko were very popular. They were built all over the province, and effectively took over control from the army and police. The police later dismantled them. The Satgas Papua was also immensely popular. Theys Eluay controlled a small army of about 5,000 young men and women, led by his son Boy Eluay. They got some training, and were easily recognised by their black T-shirts and trousers. The satgas gave a purpose to marginalised young Papuans who had fallen victim to alcoholism and petty crime. He also from the beginning spoke out for peaceful means. Appealing to the Papuan religious heritage, he said prayer was to be their weapon. All over the province continuous prayer sessions were held. Through Theys the Papuans became more united. At the same time, Papuans distrusted his good relationships with those they saw as their oppressors. Was Theys a spy, a provocateur? Or was he double spy, also cheating the army, Kopassus and the police? In either case, Theys was playing with fire. Radical highland Papuans twice threatened Theys with death if he should back down over the flag raising issue - in 1999 and 2000. Theys may have underestimated the danger of any double play. Or he may have allowed the army and the police to use him, just like he accepted the support of Yorris Raweyai, head of the pro-Suharto Pemuda Pancasila youth organisation. Yorris was in turn supported by Tomy Winata, a businessman with Kopassus connections. Tomy also had business interests in Irian Jaya. In return, Theys possibly thought of getting immunity for his political activity of mobilising Papuan awareness. His natural skill in public relations made him popular with the press. Soon every man and woman in the streets of Java knew about the Papuan struggle. His dramatic and unexpected death on 10 November 2001 fascinated a lot of people in Indonesia and abroad. Theys, it seems, died at the hands of the very people who just before had honoured him publicly as the Great Leader and Hero of the Papuan Struggle. He and his driver considered these people their personal friends. In the theology in which Theys believed, to die for a cause is nothing strange. It was what Jesus did. He had intimated to close friends that he was prepared to die for the cause. In the end Theys meant more for the struggle because of his death. In his death he united all the factions. He became a symbol for the absence of law that threatens every Papuan. He became a hero in the line of Arnold Ap, executed in 1984, and Thomas Wainggai, reputedly killed in 1996. At Ipenburg (ipen@jayapura.wasantara.net.id) is graduate program director at the I S Kijne theological college in Jayapura. Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

Indonesia - US military ties

September 11th and after Kurt Biddle 'Every lame duck political idea that couldn't get any mileage in the past ten years, has now been repackaged in light of the events of September 11th and is now being sold under the guise of anti-terrorism.' - Congressional staffer September 11th has changed our world. That's true, but not everything has changed. Tensions that began in the early 1990s between Congress and the Pentagon over aid to the Indonesian military continue. Only the Pentagon's justifications have changed. And the Indonesian military is just as brutal as ever. US-Indonesian military ties were first restricted after the 1991 Santa Cruz massacre in Dili, East Timor, in which more than 270 people were killed by Indonesian troops with US-supplied weapons. The massacre prompted human rights groups and activists to demand that Congress sanction the Indonesian military (TNI). Consequently, the US Congress restricted most military aid to Indonesia by refusing to fund the International Military and Training (IMET) program for TNI personnel in October 1992. In July 1993, after years of unrestricted weapons transfers to Indonesia, the State Department, under congressional pressure, blocked a transfer of US F-5 fighter planes from the Jordan to Indonesia, citing human rights as one of the reasons. In 1994, the State Department banned the sale of small and light arms and riot control equipment to Indonesia. In 1995, Congress restored some military training funding under the Expanded IMET (E-IMET) program, which purports to be an 'educational program' briefing officers on issues of human rights, military justice and civilian control of the military. In June 1997, then-Indonesian president Suharto wrote to President Clinton rejecting E-IMET and a proposed sale of F-16 jet fighters. Suharto stated that he would not accept restrictions on military transfers based on human rights. Throughout the 1990s the Pentagon clearly violated Congressional intent and continued to train Indonesian special forces troops (Kopassus) in urban guerilla warfare, surveillance, sniper marksmanship and 'psychological operations' tactics. In March 1998, the existence of this JCET (Joint Combined Exchange Training) program was publicised by Congressional allies of the East Timor Action Network (ETAN), who fought for and won an end to such training to the TNI. East Timor When Indonesian military, police and their militia proxies razed East Timor after the referendum vote in August 1999, then-President Clinton was forced by public outrage to ban all joint military exercises and commercial arms sales. Later that year Congress put part of this ban into law. The 2001 Foreign Operations Appropriations Act renewed those conditions, which must be met before normal military ties can be restored. These include the return of refugees to East Timor, and accountability for military and militia members responsible for human rights atrocities in East Timor and Indonesia. They also require Indonesia to actively prevent militia incursions into East Timor and to cooperate fully with the UN administration in East Timor. The President is required to certify to Congress that the conditions have been met. The scorecard on the conditions isn't good. The incursions into East Timor have stopped, although January's UN Secretary General's report on Untaet said that 'hard-line militia may still pose a long-term threat.' According to the UN, there remain sixty to seventy thousand refugees in West Timor. One of the most important remaining issues is accountability. The Indonesian military and police along with their milita proxies killed thousands of East Timorese people, burned towns to the ground, destroyed eighty percent of the half-island's infrastructure and forced or led more than a quarter of a million villagers into Indonesian-ruled West Timor. The international community will be watching the long-awaited and much-delayed trial in Indonesia, but it seems few have much hope that it will bring justice. September 11th Just eight days after the attacks in New York and Washington on 11 September 2001, the Indonesian president Megawati Sukarnoputri kept a previously scheduled appointment with President Bush. In the short meeting, Bush promised to lift the embargo on commercial sales of non-lethal military items. Indonesian military officials and much of the Indonesian press thought that Megawati had scored a victory in restoring military ties. Many speculated that Bush was offering Megawati a recruitment bonus to join his coalition against terrorism. But in an off-the-record conversation, a White House official explained that the package Bush presented to Megawati was completed on September 10th, and not a word was changed after the events of the next day. Much of what Bush promised Megawati was from the administration's review of US-Indonesian military ties policy that had taken place over the northern summer. Bush is limited to what military support he can offer Indonesia, since most of the money for training and equipment is restricted by Congress. Mega's visit was highly symbolic: the president of the world's most populous predominantly Muslim nation comes to Washington. Megawati would be useful to Bush in building his new coalition, demonstrating that a war on terrorism wouldn't be a war on Islam. But Megawati's trip was plagued before she even left Jakarta by Vice President Hamzah Haz' comments on his hopes that the September 11th attacks 'can cleanse the sins by the US.' (Later, Megawati's own comments criticising the US war in Afghanistan further angered many in Washington.) Now that the Congressional appropriations cycle has finished, we see a mixed Washington policy towards the Indonesian military. In the 2002 Foreign Operations Appropriations Act, Congress renewed and bolstered the ban on training and funding of the TNI. What originally were six conditions were expanded to seven. Congress saw that the military was acting in much the same brutal way towards people still within Indonesia's borders, so the conditions were reassessed. For example, because the UN relinquishes sovereignty to East Timor's government this May, the Congress dropped the condition of complying with the UN Transitional Administration. The new conditions include releasing political detainees (activists serving prison time include Faisal Syamsuddin, chair of the Jakarta chapter of the Aceh Referendum Information Center SIRA); allowing the UN and other international humanitarian organisations and representatives of recognised human rights organisations access to conflict areas such as Aceh, West Papua, Maluku and West Timor; and demonstrating a commitment to civilian control of the armed forces by reporting to civilian authorities audits of expenditures of the armed forces. An audit of TNI finances is a key condition for accountability and civilian control. The International Crisis Group estimates that just 30% of the TNI's budget comes from Jakarta, the rest of the money is through the military's own fund-raising efforts, from both legal and illegal businesses. Human rights advocates argue that if civilians do not control the purse strings of the TNI, civilians will not have control of the military. Conditions regarding accountability and return of refugees to East Timor remained part of the law. However, in a last minute move while finalising the Defence Department Appropriations Act, Senator Daniel Inouye (a Democrat from Hawaii) inserted language appropriating US$17.9 million to establish a Regional Defence Counter-terrorism Fellowship Program at the behest of Admiral Dennis C Blair, Commander in Chief of the US Pacific Command (CINCPAC). The new program contains no restrictions on which countries can participate, thereby allowing training for Indonesia. Both men have long opposed existing congressional bans on training for the TNI. US battlefield? The Pentagon seems to be chomping at the bit for military involvement in Indonesia. One of the most vocal advocates for military ties with Indonesia is Deputy Secretary of Defence Paul Wolfowitz, a US ambassador to Indonesia for three years during the Reagan administration. He has repeatedly argued that Washington should help Indonesia fight terrorists. Wolfowitz told the Far Eastern Economic Review, 'Going after Al Qaeda in Indonesia is not something that should wait until after Al Qaeda has been uprooted from Afghanistan.' It remains to be seen if and how the US will be involved in Indonesia, but with 600 US military 'advisers' on the ground in the neighbouring Philippines, some see Indonesia as the next battlefield. Many at the Pentagon and in the administration call the TNI the only viable institution in Indonesia. Admiral Blair claims he wants the same goals as Congress does for the TNI, but disagrees with congressional methods. He argues that 'engagement' will teach the Indonesian military to respect democracy, human rights and civilian control. But the TNI hasn't met the basic conditions that Congress passed into law before training can resume. For years the Pentagon trained and equipped the Indonesian military, but this contact certainly did not instill the TNI with a respect for human rights. The military terrorises their own population every day. Over 1,800 were killed in Aceh last year, and the military committed more killing in West Papua, including what appears to be the Kopassus assassination of Papuan independence leader Theys Eluay in November 2001. TNI atrocities show no sign of abating. Unless the Indonesian military is placed fully under civilian control (including budget and command), stays out of politics (and not just when it is convenient for their goals), focuses on external defence, and stops committing human rights abuses - in other words, becomes a professional military - the US must not support them. The US should focus on helping civil society groups build Indonesia's democracy, and not hinder democracy by supporting a military that is both corrupt and brutal. Kurt Biddle (kurt@IndonesiaNetwork.org) is Washington coordinator for the Indonesia Human Rights Network (http:www.indonesianetwork.org). Inside Indonesia 70: Apr - Jun 2002

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