Two poets tour Australia
Marshall Clark and Giora Eliraz
It seems that the days of superstar poets - who bravely spoke up for the common people and criticised the Indonesian state, in front of large audiences in between being banned - have passed. When Rendra, who was Indonesia's leading poet throughout the New Order era, toured Yogyakarta several years ago, one writer in the letters page of Bernas suggested that Rendra had become like an old pillow - nostalgic and comfortable yes, useful and relevant no.
Since the fall of Suharto, Emha Ainun Nadjib, another of Indonesia's more oppositional cultural activists, has also kept out of the public spotlight. For several years, Emha hosted Gardu, a popular talk-show. However, TV audiences soon tired of the incredible over-abundance of talk shows following Suharto's resignation. When Emha himself grew tired of all the 'collusion' associated with organizing and rewarding guests, he pulled the plug.
Besides, Emha has never been able to shrug off his close association with Suharto. It is common knowledge that Emha, together with several other Muslim leaders, met with Suharto several times in the days before 20 May. It was at this point that Emha publicly transformed himself from an oppositional figure to something quite different. Some would say that his decline in popularity has mirrored Suharto's fall from grace. Long considered as one of Indonesia's foremost poets, these days Emha barely rates a mention.
It was as enjoyable as it was nostalgic, therefore, to see Emha reading poetry and dazzling audiences with his unique wit and political insight in Australia for several weeks in May and June. Invited by the Australia Indonesia Arts Alliance, and supported by the Australia Indonesia Institute and Garuda Indonesia, Emha gave lively poetry-readings in Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne. Like Rendra in the 1990s, Emha was able to draw enthusiastic audiences, consisting of as many Indonesians as Australians.
Accompanying Emha was another Indonesian poet, Fathyen Hamama Handry, also known as Fatin. Born in Padang in 1967, Fatin grew up in West Sumatra and has spent over a decade in Cairo, where she has studied theology at the Women's Faculty of al-Azhar University. Her poetry is not quite as sensational as Emha's, yet it contains its own fair share of social criticism. Fatin writes of riots and military violence in Semanggi and elsewhere in Jakarta, as well as the problems faced by Indonesian women, farmers fighting against poverty, women suffering in Aceh, and the struggles of the urban poor.
Like Emha, Fatin does not consider herself as one of Indonesia's more popular poets. In terms of literary figures, Fatin is no trendy Sitot Srengenge, nor a young and sensational Ayu Utami, or even a marketable 'woman poet' in the mould of Dorothea Rosa Herliany. Yet like Emha, in the midst of disappointment and frustration, Fatin continues to imagine a better Indonesia. It is for this reason that her poetry is worth examining, at the very least for the buffer it provides for the harsh coldness of Indonesia's post-New Order, and perhaps even post-reformasi, reality.
Fatin's latest collection, Papyrus (2002), exhibits the strong Islamic slant of her poetry. The opening poem, 'Al Fatihah', is the same name given to the opening sura or chapter of the Koran. Like the first chapter of the Koran, this poem is merely a few lines long: Segala puji bagi-Mu/ Tuhan/ lempangkan bagiku/ jalan/ amin [All praise to You/ God/ straighten out for me/ a path/ amen].
These poems - and their titles - are an indication of Fatin's position within a global Islamic historical consciousness. Her allusion to Islam is based on an effort to verbalise the thoughts and emotions arising from her deeply personal Islamic faith.
The distinctive Egyptian context of Fatin's poetry is also important. Many of the poems were written in Cairo, where Fatin leads the Cairo-based literary group, Komunitas Sastra Indonesia [Indonesian Literature Community]. Thus we see poems such as 'Samira dan Sariyem', a poignant tale of the sad life of an Eqyptian belly-dancer.
Fatin's poetry also includes many references to the pre-Islamic era of Egypt. The title of the collection Papyrus refers us back to another world, the world of ancient Egypt and the dawn of civilisation. Elsewhere, by arranging a set of poems under the title 'Cleopatra', Fatin alludes to a fascinating and defiant Egyptian woman and queen, who was, of course, from a non-Islamic context.
This engaging combination of the worlds of Indonesia, Egypt, Islam and pre-Islam makes Fatin's poetry fascinating and rich, speaking to us from both a global and local perspective. Besides placing Fatin's name on the map of Indonesian literary studies, Papyrus also suggests that Fatin's poetry can be seen as a representation of a deep pluralist view that has come to take hold amongst many contemporary Muslim intellectuals in Indonesia.
Marshall Clark (Marshall.Clark@anu.edu.au) is a lecturer at the Australian National University, on leave from University of Tasmania. Giora Eliraz (Giora.Eliraz@anu.edu.au) is a Visiting Fellow at the Southeast Asia Centre, Australian National University.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Unable to pay for formal lessons, many poor Indonesians have mastered English through radio, TV and film. Like Rizza of Surabaya.
Duncan Graham
Half way along Jalan Joko Dolog, opposite a high fence shielding a building site, is a small shop. Well, really just a glass counter facing the dusty street and more often behind shutters than exposed. For few people now livein the area, and the lane has become a short cut, a speed track between Basuki Rakhmad and Pemuda, the two great bitumen rivers trisecting the centre of East Java's capital Surabaya.
Apart from the spray-painted number on a battered iron gate, there's only a small chromed dome squatting unhappily on the pavement to catch the eyes of the Grand Prix wannabees. Should the sun ever penetrate the smog this artefact might glitter and mesmerise like a spinning night-club globe.
Once Nyonya Rizza's shop sold domes to the faithful for their personal mushollas. Then came the monetary crisis, and demand tumbled along with the rupiah. Now she markets half litres of lamp oil decanted from backyard drums into stained plastic bottles; tiny packets of washing powder, needles, thread, batteries pulled from under the splintering shelves, single cigarettes.
Also on the counter is a dictionary and a monster exercise book buffed brown, rusting staples losing grip against a stuffing of clippings, brochures and postcards. Most show distant lands and cities shimmering in the gloss of sunrise, the promise of heavenly locations free of crime and grime.
'Of course I'll never visit these places,' Rizza sings in rapid and sometimes scrambled English. 'No money. What does it matter? I can see what they are like, and people tell me. I can imagine. It's my vision.'
There are also photos of tiny Rizza standing alongside hulking Australians, broad as their accents. Her face is always open and laughing, theirs bemused. Only their mouths smile. No pictures show plump white male arms around her slender and inviting olive shoulders, her fine 44 kilo frame.
Although a mother, grandmother and widow, Rizza gets angry when addressed as Ibu, the standard Indonesian honorific for women of her status. She is 56, and claims a unique name, though Germany has a Rizza ice cream, which she thinks a hoot. She has John Howard's eyebrows, wears no make up but dyes her manic hair in copper tones. Her dress is mainly a torn skirt and marquee-size T-shirt.
She could pass for 40 despite a doctor misdiagnosing a heart attack in 2001 and prescribing treatment which put her in hospital with a serious illness. Her appearance, a voice which could stir possums, and up-front approach make her a stand-out among conservative customers and coy neighbours.
But it is her skill with English which provides the extra dazzle, for the nimble-minded and effervescent Rizza is one of the numerically large, but proportionately small number of poor Indonesians who have taught themselves our complex tongue.
Born in Malang of Madurese parents, Rizza was the fifth of nine children. Like his daughter, her businessman father was clearly smart and different, covertly listening to broadcasts from Australia and Malaysia during the dark days of Sukarno, when such behaviour was suspect. Rizza loved the foreign voices, did well at school and left at 17 to work in a bookshop in Surabaya.
Even now many Indonesian bookstores are sad affairs. Dominated by religious texts, comics and dictionaries, most volumes are bound in plastic to stop browsing and keep covers clean. In the dangerous days of Suharto's rise, when even the mildest comment could be interpreted as radical dissent, bookshops must have been even more sterile.
Unable to make such comparisons, the teenage Rizza found herself in Aladdin's Cave. She didn't just dust the wares, she hoovered them whole, particularly those in English. The occasional foreign buyer was quickly sucked into conversation. Their requests were taken seriously. 'I remember everyone wanted The Happy Hooker-r-r,' she said rolling the final syllables like a Scot. 'Very nice book. I think the publisher Macmillan.'
The shop used her sparkling personality and lovely voice to spruik the wares. Customers were not the only ones seduced. At 18 she married the manager, and sadly her love affair with language came to a shuddering halt. 'He did not like me always talking to the customers,' Rizza recalled. 'He very jealous. One day he threw a book at me. For ten years I did not practice English.'
One daughter was born. Twenty years ago her husband died from 'post-power syndrome', Rizza's label for inactivity after retirement. Photos show a small, neat Javanese with regulation moustache nonplussed besides his volatile wife with wild hair and giant spectacles: 'Jacqueline Onassis, ya?'
'Of course I was not sad. He was a good man, but why should I be sad? If I am, I will lose myself.' So despite the many lustful overtures from Indonesians and foreigners drawn by her magnetic personality, Rizza is determined to stay single and independent.
'If I married again I become sad, difficult with life,' she says. 'I must honour husband, smile-smile. It is a must in Indonesia as a wife, or it is a sin.'
'It is easy to fall in love, I have to strive to be strong. I say to men: 'Don't touch me. I am afraid of myself. This is very heavy for me, it is a danger for me. I don't want someone pity for me. I am a strong woman.'
Twice a week she goes to the mosque wearing a bonnet or scarf. Conscious of Western hang-ups about Islam, she stresses 'pure religion - no ideology'. At other times she meditates, listens to short-wave, translates English into Indonesian and vice versa. 'I love English,' she says and means it. 'Writing in English is a beautiful and profound experience. If I have troubles I write them down in English. Then they get better.'
Occasionally she spots a foreigner and cheekily calls: 'Welcome to my country', a greeting which takes many aback, particularly those who anticipate a con artist though her motives are altruistic. 'I want harmony everywhere,' she says earnestly, 'between friends, families, nations. Otherwise we are finished.'
At times her enthusiasm and humour overtakes itself. After hearing a German tourist recite the many marvels of his country she asked with feigned naivety: 'And how is Mr Hitler?' As a conversation stopper you don't get much better than that.
For Rizza the idle gossip which fuels Indonesian life is a waste of time. 'I don't like talk meaningless,' she says, famished for facts to be transcribed into the Big Book. 'What is the point? There are so many things to learn. I want to know about other countries, everything.' In exchange she offers fierce condemnations of her nation's leaders and their penchant for corruption. She says she was equally fearless during the days of Suharto when criticism was equated with communism.
If so, then the authorities must have overlooked the transgressions, for Rizza behind bars would have been more of a headache than behind the counter.
There is no chance Rizza's skills with English will be put to good use. Her vocabulary is vast and her ear sharp. Conversationally she can out-run many university English teachers and out-wit the rest, but her grammar is a dog's breakfast.
Indonesian schools teach tense to the point where enthusiasm is anaesthetised, so a poor self-educated woman who is a wiz with words will never get the opportunity to galvanise the next generation with her unquenchable lust for language.
Which is Indonesia's great loss and no-one's gain.
Perth journalist Duncan Graham (wordstars@hotmail.com) slumps in awe of all self-taught linguists.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Highlighting the state's role may help stop the Poso conflict
Syamsul Alam Agus
The conflict in Poso was initially triggered by local elite political skirmishes. Over the last four years, however, it has transformed into a conflict between grass-roots communities. Hatred and suspicion have spread among a society that previously co-existed peacefully. The bloody conflict between the 'red group' (Christians) and the 'white group' (Muslims) remains a daily topic of conversation. A string of horror stories have graced the front pages of the local media, making it difficult to differentiate between information and rumour.
The Malino Declaration was a government initiative to initiate reconciliation in Poso. The ten-point accord, subsequently known as Malino 1 after a similar agreement was drafted for Ambon, was signed on 20 December 2001. Poso's inhabitants hoped that the declaration could be implemented successfully, to end the conflict that has resulted in riots on 25-30 December 1998, 16-19 April 2000, 23 May-10 June 2000, 26 November - 2 December 2001 and most recently 12 - 16 August 2002.
Sadly, the Malino Declaration now faces utter failure. Between the declaration's signing and 12 August 2002, there were 30 violations. These violations involved both parties to the conflict as well as incidents triggered by the security forces.
These incidents became increasingly common towards the end of the period set down by the accord for the restoration of security. They have included mysterious shootings, bomb blasts and inflammatory graffiti. These various incidents have rekindled trauma, mutual suspicion and sensitivity amongst society in Poso. The security forces have also contributed to the situation by making statements to the community that have implied that the end of the security restoration period would signal the end of security itself. Predictably, following the escalation of these incidents, the police and military have requested more operational funds from the Central Sulawesi government to restore security. The tension that had subsided is again rising and could lead to further large-scale conflict.
The failure of the Malino Declaration can be traced to several factors. The declaration is elitist, relies on quantitative measures of success, and is laden with opportunities for profitable 'projects'. For example, in the period to June 2002, the Poso Regency Working Group spent 2.2 billion rupiah (roughly A$450,000) just on disseminating information about the Malino Declaration. The accord also separates social rehabilitation, reconstruction of facilities and security, as if these three concerns were not related. As a result, facilities have been constructed without regard for the prevailing security situation or whether inhabitants feel safe, and social rehabilitation has not been supported by affirmative policies towards various flare-ups and incidents. Efforts to restore security, which have focused on placing large numbers of security personnel in Poso, have been easily undermined by disquieting acts of terror. Security has become the monopoly of the security forces, who treat it like a tradeable commodity.
At a community level, there is still a genuine desire to live peacefully. Behind the conflict, the community still remembers a time when living with different religious groups didn't mean living with war. However, the trauma caused by various conflicts has unfortunately created a fear of attempting any reconciliation or rehabilitation that might succeed where the government has failed. Nevertheless, an awareness has started to emerge in Poso that the community has the right to feel safe and have their socio-economic needs fulfilled things they have lost during the conflict. For instance, after an Omega bus was bombed on 12 July 2002, the Poso Pesisir Subdistrict Inter-religious Congregation Communication Forum issued a statement demanding that the security forces work harder to prove that they are trying to resolve the conflict. This statement is also an example of efforts to shift the perception of the conflict away from conflict between grass-roots communities to the role of the state. However, such efforts are still a minority in the midst of media statements by religious figures and political parties that simply blame the other side.
The severance of lines of communication at a grass-roots level has made the community more easily influenced by divisive statements by members of the elite. The media, with its focus on circulation, is more likely to publish these statements. When signatories of the Malino Declaration expressed their disappointment with the security forces for failing to take serious steps to follow up violations of the declaration, the press packaged the statement in such a way that it provoked a negative reaction from one religious community.
Terror after terror, issue after issue, statement after statement - this has been the pattern following the Malino Declaration. If society again takes the bait and participates in violence, this pattern could result in further large-scale conflict. As such, the awareness that has been developed thus far must be guarded and continually consolidated. A broader alliance with a common perception must be established at the most legitimate level, namely between the communities that have directly suffered from the conflict.
Of course this will not be easy. Society has several vulnerable points that will need to be monitored, so that they do not influence the community's capacity to keep each problem in proportion. In Poso, there can be no separation between rehabilitating these vulnerabilities and placing the conflict in the framework of state accountability. These two matters must be worked on together, with the aim to muster a critical force in society aware of its rights and the practices that are weakening its former capacity to manage conflict and difference.
Syamsul Alam Agus (duael@telkom.net) is an activist at the Institute for the Development of Legal Studies and Human Rights Advocacy, Central Sulawesi (LPS-HAM)
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
The struggle to implement Islamic Law in South Sulawesi
Dias Pradadimara and Burhaman Junedding
In mid-March this year, Philippines authorities arrested Agus Dwikarna for possession of C4 explosives. Ironically, Dwikarna's arrest has elevated the name of his Makassar-based Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law (Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam or KPPSI) to national and even international attention, something he and his colleagues previously desperately tried to do but failed. Moreover, the arrest of Tamsil Linrung and Abdul Jamal Balfas - also from South Sulawesi - in the same incident has created an image of South Sulawesi as the hotbed of Islamic radicalism. Allegations in the western press that Agus Dwikarna is somehow connected with Al Qaeda strengthen this image. Is this image justified? Who is actually pushing for the implementation of Islamic Law in South Sulawesi? Islamic Law
KPPSI was formed after a series of meetings and conferences starting in 2000. Initially, in August 2000, the first Mujahidin (Arabic for 'Fighter of Jihad') congress was held in Yogyakarta. The congress aimed to 'integrate the aims and actions of all Mujahidin to implement Islamic Law'. Hundreds of activists from Islamic organisations and parties attended, along with scholars from all over Indonesia. The participants from South Sulawesi included Abdurahman A. Basalamah, former rector of the Indonesian Muslim University in Makassar, and Agus Dwikarna, who were each elected to positions on the Mujahidin Council.
In October 2000, a three-day Islamic Congress was held in Makassar, following on from an informal meeting at the Hotel Berlian in May that year. The congress was convened to discuss 'Special Autonomy for the Implementation of Islamic Law in South Sulawesi'. Jakarta politicians such as A. M. Fatwa attended the congress, which was opened by the Deputy Governor of South Sulawesi. Diverse groups attended, including student activists, quasi paramilitary groups from all over South Sulawesi, and romantics from the Kahar Muzakkar era, along with active participants from the Yogyakarta congress, like Habib Husain Al-Habsyi and Abubakar Baasyir. Hundreds more participated from all over South Sulawesi. Abdul Hadi Awang, a charismatic figure from the Malaysian opposition Islamic party PAS, also attended. The congress was tightly guarded, not by the police or the army, but by a paramilitary security team known as the Lasykar Jundullah (The Army of God), allegedly to prevent 'infiltration'. The Lasykar not only guarded the toilets, they even limited access to the musholla (small mosque/ praying space) during the supposedly open and public Friday noon prayers. No wonder some participants later professed that the tight security made them feel awkward and 'controlled'. After the first Makassar congress, several results were announced. A formal body, the KPPSI was formed and authorised to pursue the final goal of implementing Islamic Law (Syariat Islam) in South Sulawesi. The Lasykar Jundullah (not yet led by Agus Dwikarna) was to become an integrated part of the KPPSI. The KPPSI itself was comprised of two main bodies, the Majelis Syuro (a largely advisory council) and the Majelis Lajnah (the Executive Council). Members of Majelis Syuro were mostly university intellectuals and ulama (religious teachers) and included not only Achmad Ali and Abdurrahman Basalamah, but also Sanusi Baco, the chair of the local branch of the New Order-created Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Council of Islamic Scholars). The executive council was led by Abdul Aziz Kahar Muzakkar, one of the many sons of the legendary Kahar Muzakkar, who led a loosely organised rebellion in South Sulawesi in the 1950s. No wonder the movement found it hard to deflect accusations of 'nostalgia'.
More than a year later, a second Islamic Congress was held in Makassar in December 2001. The organisers of this congress claimed wider support both for their congress and hence for the struggle. The list of members of the various committees for the congress read like a (male) Who's Who of South Sulawesi.
The governor of South Sulawesi, chair of the local parliament, and mayor of Makassar were all members of the Advisory Committee for the second congress, as were M. Yusuf Kalla (a coordinating minister in the Megawati cabinet) and Tamsil Linrung, who was later arrested together with Agus Dwikarna in the Philippines. The Steering Committee included all the rectors of Makassar's major universities, as well as the chairpersons of the local Muhammadiyah and NU branches. It is not clear to what extent these notables shared KPPSI's ideology or political agendas. As at most public events in South Sulawesi, many of these identities appeared at the congress only long enough to present a speech during the time allotted to them. Some, like the governor, sent a representative; others did not bother to show up. Nonetheless, this list of notables presented a conservative image of the movement, as the congress was organised in accordance with the existing political scene in South Sulawesi.
The organiser claimed on several occasions that Indonesian Vice President Hamzah Haz, known to be sympathetic to Islamic militant groups, would personally open the congress. The dates for the congress itself were repeatedly changed to adjust to the tight schedule of the vice president.
The congress commenced on the same day that Hamzah Haz had a state visit to Makassar. Although the opening session was delayed for several hours, Haz failed to show up and instead sent M. Yusuf Kalla to open the congress. A disappointed crowd booed him. Hamzah Haz briefly visited the congress in a 'personal capacity' several hours later, but took a moderate stance towards the political agenda of KPPSI. As Fatwa had at the first congress, Haz remained non-committal about the inclusion of Islamic Law in the constitution. Meanwhile, Kalla emphasised the need to start from oneself and one's family in implementing Islamic Law, rather than asking the state to adopt it. This is popularly known as the 'cultural' as opposed to the 'legal' approach to Syariat Islam.
Haz' moderate position did not deter KPPSI from announcing a pre-prepared draft of a law which would grant special status to South Sulawesi and allow the local government to impose Islamic Law. The draft law was clearly inspired by similar legislation enacted in Aceh. However, this announcement was overshadowed by a bomb blast on the third day of the congress. The organisers accused a 'third party' of trying to disrupt the congress. Police, however, suspected the incident was a cheap self-publicity stunt. The second congress is now remembered primarily by this incident.
Who is in KPPSI
Since the 1970s, graduates from pesantren (Islamic schools) and regular schools from all over South Sulawesi have flocked to Makassar for higher education. They go to universities in the city, join Islamic student associations, and many become staunch supporters of the Suharto-era state party Golkar. Most students enroll at either the state-owned Hasanuddin University or the private Muslim University of Indonesia (UMI).
These educational processes have created a social class that is quite religious in character, yet without a group consciousness oriented around an ulama (in contrast to East Java). This social class, instead, enthusiastically embraces the New Order's image of modernity. It is from within this class that KPPSI draws most of its supporters.
KPPSI's support comes mostly from urban-based university-educated males. Most KPPSI activists and hardliners come from UMI, where Abdurrahman Basalamah was once rector. Agus Dwikarna attended UMI, but never graduated. KPPSI ideologues, who generally have more moderate stands, are mostly lecturers at the State Institute of Islam (IAIN) in Makassar. Chairs of KPPSI branches in the regions in the interior are mostly university graduates with engineering, medical, or social science degrees.
Although KPPSI uses an image of intellectualism, there has been very little open and intellectual debate on what Islamic Law means and implies. Most statements in local newspapers regarding Islamic Law have been dogmatic. The same phenomenon is evident at the national level. While there is wide support for the implementation of Islamic Law in general, there is sharp disagreement over what it means.
The implicit statement in this lack of debate is that every good Muslim should know what Syariat Islam means and implies, and thus, like KPPSI, should support its implementation whole-heartedly. Hence there is little need for them to explain what they mean by it, or for others, they assume, to ask them what it means.
KPPSI also has a close connection with various anti-maksiat or anti-kejahatan ('anti-immorality' or 'anti-crime') groups. These are basically all-male vigilante/ paramilitary bands, usually armed with sticks and machetes. These groups have mushroomed in various regions in the interior areas of South Sulawesi since 1999, and the KPPSI's Lasykar Jundullah seems to have become an umbrella organisation for these bands.
A reading of the KPPSI and its activism over the last year or so gives us a picture of a male urban-based elite playing the image of religious intellectualism to mobilise support from youthful males in both the cities and rural areas of South Sulawesi. The question of Syariat Islam is likely to linger without being satisfactorily resolved for either its supporters, like KPPSI, or its antagonists. While the arrest of Agus Dwikarna has elevated the name of KPPSI, it has also hampered the movement. Those notables who previously openly supported KPPSI, when interviewed, have become more subdued in their comments. KPPSI itself is now busy trying to free Agus from jail, pushing its main agenda into the background.
This article is a part of a longer report of preliminary research on Islamic movements outside Java conducted by the Centre for Eastern Indonesian Studies, Universitas Hasanuddin (PusKIT UNHAS) in Makassar. The two authors are research associates at the centre and can be contacted via puskit@lycos.com
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Civil cases are combatting corporate impunity
Richard Tanter
Three civil cases currently before United States courts represent a promising new challenge to the longstanding impunity that military regimes in Southeast Asia have felt when using terror to control politics in their countries. In each case, local citizens have linked up with US non-government organizations to bring cases for damages against either powerful US-based companies operating under the umbrella of military terror, or against individual military officers who carried out the terror. How successful each case will ultimately be is not yet clear. What is quite clear is that initial successes in each case have been sufficiently threatening to the corporations and governments involved in the terror to respond to a threat they had initially dismissed as beneath their contempt.
A California judge has allowed a civil case brought by Burmese citizens against Unocal, one of the largest oil and gas companies in the world, to proceed to trial. A US district court judge in 2001 ruled that Unocal knew that the Burmese military was using forced labour and carried out torture and extra-legal executions to facilitate the construction of Unocal's Yadana natural gas pipeline. The judge also ruled that Unocal did not control the Burmese army, and hence under US federal law had no direct legal responsibility for the terror from which it benefited. The California case, however, is proceeding on a different issue: under California law, a partner in a business enterprise shares vicarious responsibility for the actions of its partners. This marks the first occasion on which a major US corporation has been brought to trial for its part in gross human rights violations perpetrated by a joint venture partner. The case will go to trial in September.
Citizens of Aceh are suing ExxonMobil for financially supporting elements of the Indonesian armed forces that employed extreme and illegal violence to protect Sumatra's Arun gas field and LNG production facilities. Exxon is presently attempting to prevent the case coming to trial, most recently by claiming that the US 'war against terror' would be impeded if the case against them proceeds. (See box)
In September 2001, a US district court awarded East Timorese plaintiffs damages amounting to US$66 million against TNI Lt-Gen. Johny Lumintang for his role in East Timor in 1999. After more than a year of demonstrating contempt for the US court proceedings, the Indonesian government and Lumintang, realising the wider implications of the ruling, have appealed, principally on technical grounds of jurisdiction. The appeal is proceeding. (See John Miller's article in the Inside Indonesia no 71).
These cases share a number of common elements:
Each relies on two pieces of US legislation: the Alien Tort Claims Act 1789 and the Torture Victim Protection Act (1991). These laws allow foreigners to sue individuals and corporations in US courts for damages resulting from actions outside the US, so long as the defendant has some substantive connection to the US.
Each case has resulted from a transnational political coalition of local citizens in Southeast Asian countries and North American activists and civil rights NGOs.
Even though each case may ultimately be lost at any point of the complex US court system, each has already succeeded to a considerable degree.
The Indonesian government has realised that unless it can win an appeal on technical grounds on Doe v. Lumintang, not only is it liable for a large damages payout, but Lumintang and other senior officials cannot visit the US without settling accounts. Moreover, as implied in the whole concept of punitive damages, the Doe v. Lumintang process will be repeated for others involved the Timor crimes or elsewhere in Indonesia.
The Unocal and Exxon cases have received wide publicity in the international business press. Shareholders and business journalists are unlikely to respond to calls for a shared humanity with the victims of Indonesian and Burmese army brutality, but they will respond quickly to avoidable threats to profitability and share price stability. As the Bloomberg News put it, 'Exxon Mobil's less-than-arm's length detachment from the military must be judged a short-term gain and a long-term miscalculation.'
The Exxon and Unocal cases are especially important because they demonstrate both the negative and positive aspects of globalisation. The Indonesian state continues to depend utterly for its survival on the political, economic and financial backing of the US and Japan and the major corporations of those countries. The fig leaf of demokrasi apart, Indonesian patronage politics is still hugely dependent on revenues from oil and gas exports and foreign aid. Indonesia is the world's largest liquid natural gas (LNG) exporter, supplying a third of global LNG trade - almost all of which is sent to Japan and South Korea. Aceh's gas and oil is vital to the Indonesian state.
Serious environmental problems have been a continuous feature of Exxon's Arun natural gas field since production began in 1978. Peaceful protests were from the beginning dealt with violently, fuelling local sympathies for autonomy or independence. Producing gas in Aceh at an acceptable price for the people and companies of Osaka and Seoul - and vast profits for Exxon Mobil's mainly US shareholders - has for more than two decades depended upon military terror, as the corporation has long known.
Foreign oil and gas companies subcontracting terror to the military is an aspect of globalisation that is neither unusual nor new. What is new is the willingness of citizens and organizations in the countries that supposedly benefit from this coercive flow of resources arguing through law that the standards of justice that apply in their own countries should be applied to the countries from which these resources are taken. If globalisation is at root about the transnationalisation of capital, then the Exxon and Unocal cases mark a small step in the transnationalisation of universal legal standards of justice.
The legal framework within which global politics and commerce is conducted is in transition. Although nation-states remain the dominant political form of organisation, their domestic legal systems cannot cope with the realities of transnational business. International law is expanding very rapidly to fill this gap - particularly in trade and the environment - where borders are relatively insignificant.
Effective international law on human rights and crimes against humanity is still weak, and the unilateral resistance of the Bush administration to the newly constituted International Criminal Court weakens it further. Under the ICC, member countries that discover those suspected of crimes against humanity in their countries, irrespective of where the crime was committed, must either prosecute them under their domestic laws, or extradite them to the ICC.
It is not yet known how effective the ICC will be. In the meantime, lawyers, prosecutors and citizens in a number of countries are applying existing national law to crimes of universal significance committed outside their own territory. The two most important cases to date have been the attempts by government prosecutors in Spain and Belgium to bring the former Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet and the present Prime Minister of Israel Ariel Sharon, respectively, to trial. Although neither has succeeded to date, both cases have brought the issue of universal jurisdiction for certain heinous crimes to the forefront.
The current US cases are taking another approach. Instead of government prosecutors utilising a criminal code, private citizens brought these cases to civil trial for damages. Although imperfect and limited, they are an extremely important part of the slow but consistent pressure to establish universal standards of justice and universal jurisdiction.
Unfortunately, the Bush administration is the most unilateralist and brazenly pro-business (especially pro-mining) government for many decades in the US, and is highly likely to intervene politically to obviate any positive legal developments. US vice-president Dick Cheney, presently under suspicion for illegal activities as head of energy industry services company Halliburton, was involved in Halliburton's work on the Unocal Yadana pipeline. Exxon, the most rogue-like of the big oil companies, has been particularly active in sabotaging the Kyoto protocol.
Moreover, there are more fundamental problems in this otherwise commendable legal approach based on US law. If a future truly democratic Indonesian government passed laws that permitted the indictment of Henry Kissinger for his role in facilitating crimes against humanity in Cambodia, Angola, Indonesia and East Timor, is it imaginable that the US would allow his extradition for trial? The long-drawn-out resistance of the Libyan government to the trial of the Lockerbie aircraft bombing suspects would be nothing by comparison.
This makes the case for a multilateral global legal institution such as the ICC all the more compelling, and in time, another US administration will come in from the cold. In the meantime, we must rely on the opportunities provided by imperfect national legal systems to bring a measure of justice against the criminal officers and the companies who pay them.
Richard Tanter (rtanter@hotmail.com) teaches at Kyoto Seika University in Japan.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Indonesians are seeking a public voice through radio
Rebecca Henschke
Community radio in Yogyakarta and Java is in a period of exciting change. Radio has emerged from the New Order with a legal and economic framework that is resistant to monopoly control of large capital and to the centralized control of Jakarta. Radio, being a verbal medium and relatively cheap to run, is blossoming as a communication tool at a grass roots level.
In Yogyakarta, there are currently twenty-six community radio stations. These radio stations range from student university non-profit radio stations; community radio stations established by farmers, art communities, the Malioboro street community; and a station broadcasting local government talk shows during local elections.
The frequency band in Yogyakarta is almost full. There are currently fifty-nine radio stations broadcasting in Yogyakarta and the surrounding area. Community radio stations merely select a frequency that they find free and broadcast on it, using a home made low transmitter and basic broadcasting equipment.
Community stations
Radio Panagati is one radio station in Yogyakarta that acts as a tool of empowerment for the local community. This radio station is located in the Terban sub-district office, and broadcasts to the community living on the banks of the major river that runs through Yogyakarta. Radio Panagati broadcasts every night from 7 - 10 on 92.2 FM. Using a 10 watt transmitter, it can be heard by 2,847 families.
During the elections for members of the city parliament in November 2001, Radio Panagati broadcast a talk show over five nights on which all five local candidates could explain their plans and policies. The community joined in the debate by phoning in and speaking with each candidate or visiting the station.
'The station was needed because there was a major problem with information getting through to the community. There was not enough information, so the community was powerless and confused. People always said, 'Oh I didn't know about that' 'I didn't hear about that!' This radio station acts as one tool to give information so the community can take control of its own destiny. Through the talk shows this station is working to create greater transparency in the political system,' said Pak Jarwono from Radio Panagati.
Pak Jarwono explained that for the next election talk shows the station plans to broadcast through the loudspeakers of three mosques in the area, to reach those in the community who don't own a radio.
Radio Suara Malioboro is different once again. A group of artists, activists, and human right workers, street kids, students and music lovers from around Malioboro road, the central street in Yogyakarta, created the station. This community radio station was established from very basic beginnings in March this year and first broadcast in April. Radio Suara Malioboro now broadcasts from Monday to Sunday 11.00 am to 11.00 pm, using a 100 watt transmitter. It can be heard in the area around Bantul, south of the Kraton and the area surrounding Malioboro Road. The station has links with the NGO Yayasan Lembaga Pengkajian Sosial Humana, which is a NGO that aims to integrate street kids into the broader community. A group of 10 street kids produce and present a one hour, daily talk show, in which they discuss conflicts with police, daily struggles and express themselves through music and drama. The station provides local street kids with a public voice.
Radio Suara Malioboro also broadcasts local un-recorded music. It records street musicians and underground artists and gives them airplay. It also gives wider exposure to local theatrical and musical events. For instance, on 23 July, the station recorded a local performance of an adaptation of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Nights Dream', produced in collaboration by dance companies from Yogyakarta, Bali and Japan.
Aris, 24, a technical assistant and broadcaster at Radio Suara Malioboro, explained, 'Radio Malioboro is radio for everyone. The station increases the sense of community in Malioboro. It acts as a voice that I think in the future will help to define that community and give it a sense of identity. It's a way that street kids can express themselves, so the rest of society is not blind to what they are about. It will hopefully act as a way to break down stereotypes about street kids, people listening can see, oh street kids can be creative too!'
Radio Petani Klaten is another community station. It was created earlier this year by a group of five farmers in the Klaten area, who were concerned with issues ranging from the political status of farmers to environmental issues and the over use of pesticides and chemicals. Radio Petani Klaten provides information to the farming community in Klaten, which is currently under constant pressure from the expansion of corporate farming interests. Their community radio strengthens the farmers' bargaining position.
Radio Petani Klaten plans to devote 40 per cent of broadcasts to information and the remainder to entertainment. It broadcasts talk back programs about organic farming and current political issues of concern to farmers. Its motto is 'close to society, caring about farmers'.
Government Regulation
However, all community radio stations throughout Indonesia are illegal. To gain a license to broadcast, a station must apply to the Departmen
t of Communication in Jakarta and pay a 300 million rupiah license fee up front. This is a long and costly process that usually requires a legal firm.
Consequently, stations go ahead and broadcast until the authorities enforce the law through a 'sweeping' of the station. Police have shut down numerous community radio stations in Yogyakarta and Bandung over the last six months.
Radio Budaya Minomartani in Sleman Yogyakarta, and Radio Petani (Farmers Radio) in Yogyakarta were shut down in 2002, after broadcasting for three months. A producer at Radio Minomartani explained, 'The police came here and wanted to take all the equipment, and I said the equipment does not belong to me, before you take it you need to ask all the members, all the people living in this area, they own this equipment, it is community property! So the police just left a letter and left.'
Prof Widhiatnyana, from the Department of Communications, told a community radio meeting in Bandung in March 2002, that community radio could ignite conflict between religious and racial groups in Indonesia. He stated, 'After the mosque community asks, the church community asks and so on, and then we have a problem.' The government also cites issues relating to the allocation of frequencies for its clamp down on community radio.
Not surprisingly, those involved with community radio in Yogyakarta strongly dispute the government's claims. 'Community radio does not promote disintegration in society. It is about unity and giving a voice to society, thus creating an open and intelligent society. A society that deals with conflict and issues in a verbal intelligent way. This concept has to enter the minds of the government,' said Pak Sukion from Radio Suara Petani Klaten.
In May 2002, Yogyakarta's community radio stations formed the Jaringan Radio Kommunitas Yogyakarta (Yogyakarta Community Radio Network - JKRY) to fight for the right for community radio to exist in Indonesia. This followed the formation of similar unions in Bandung and Jakarta. 'Because of the constant sweeping we have to be stubborn, persistent and obstinate, fight for the organization of community broadcasting to enter into the proposed DPR broadcasting law,' stated Dadang from Radio Warga Pasirluryu in Bandung.
Community radio in Indonesia is blossoming as a communications tool at the grass roots level. Community radio's fight to gain legal status mirrors society's growing wish to gain a political voice and to take control of their destiny.
Rebecca Henschke (becstar@muchomail.com) was an ACICIS student in 2002.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
A new local press must struggle to survive when the novelty of autonomy wanes
Kirrilee Hughes
Malang, like other regional towns of Indonesia, is changing, and a market for new local newspapers is emerging. 'Local' no longer denotes the newspapers produced in the provincial capital, and sold in outlying towns, but rather an industry based in these towns. Interest in local government and local issues has skyrocketed, and is the driving force behind the papers, generating both subject matter and readership. Unlike the 'local rags' of Australia, which are published weekly and delivered free of charge, these local newspapers are produced daily and constitute a commercially viable and increasingly read media. Since 1998, the Malang Post and Memo Arema have both emerged in Malang, while the market leader, Jawa Pos, has increased sales through the inclusion of a locally managed supplement, Radar Malang. Circulation may not be sky high, with the Malang Post selling between four and five thousand copies a day (though sales reportedly increase during the soccer season) and Memo Arema, a local edition of the Surabaya based Memorandum, around 5500 copies a day. These local papers are still surpassed by the Surabaya Post and the Jawa Pos, which sell 17,000 and 36,000 copies respectively in Malang each day, but they are taking on the nation wide Kompas, which has an average daily circulation in Malang of around 8,000 copies.
These fledgling local papers have not emerged of their own accord. They are owned by large media conglomerates, which provide editorial, managerial and financial expertise. In Malang, the Jawa Pos Group is the only player. This group dominates the market with their flagship paper, Jawa Pos, and owns both the Malang Post and Memo Arema. More than half of East Java's local and regional publications come under the Jawa Pos umbrella. As one Malang Post editor puts it, 'Only one big shot has come to town.'
A perusal of these papers proves that they are not merely an edition of the Jawa Pos with a Malang masthead. Local news dominates the front pages of both Memo Arema and the Malang Post, and the Radar Malang supplement dedicates its entire eight pages to local events, issues and personalities. Memo Arema and the Malang Post do carry national and international news, but these articles are normally restricted to page two, unless they can be slanted towards Malang through consequence or effect. Like its parent publication, Memorandum, Memo Arema angles itself towards criminal news, and the vast majority of its reporters are posted in Malang's courts, police stations and jails. The Malang Post on the other hand, covers news of a more general nature, and posts reporters in all districts of Malang, including the nearby city of Batu. Local issues are aired through entire pages dedicated to local politics, education, sport and entertainment. News of a national and international flavour is lifted from the Jawa Pos New Network, a restricted network to which all subsidiary newspapers have access. This network is the only way through which the Jawa Pos directly contributes to the content of local newspapers.
The emerging local press is difficult to pin down and describe. Circulation figures are hard to trust. Indonesia has no autonomous body auditing newspaper circulation, and the papers themselves cite figures triple their actual sales to reel in all-important advertising revenue. The figures quoted above were obtained from the manager of Karah Agung printing press in Surabaya. As he handles all printing orders for Jawa Pos owned papers, he knows precisely how many copies of each paper go on sale each day. Indeed, it seems the only way to find out more about this emerging local press is to talk to the people who make it all happen - the editors, the reporters, printing press staff and the advertising and marketing reps. They're a mix of bright eyed and underpaid university graduates on their first post, and weather beaten senior employees who have worked in nearly every newspaper bureau in town. These people are the key to the future prosperity and quality of the local newspapers they work for - a fact that they are only too aware of. When asked of the greatest obstacle to the future of the local press, one astute cadet replied, 'The journos themselves'
With only a brief history of a free and uncensored press, these new local papers cannot escape the issues that have affected the industry in the past. The community still harbours deep-rooted suspicions as to the actual truth of what they read. Local media practitioners recognise that not only is it their job to inform their audience, but also to educate them about the function of an uncensored and non-partisan media, and what the term 'free press' actually means. This of course entails a disengagement of past practices, including the 'envelope culture' in which sources offer money to journalists.
Whilst reporters from national papers have comparatively large salaries to rely on, in some cases up to three or four times that of their local counterparts, local journalists must learn to strike a balance between long hours, low wages and the temptation to take envelopes. At one local paper in Malang, senior reporters are paid approximately 350,000 rupiah a month, plus bonuses of up to another 300,000 rupiah based on the quality and quantity of their articles. With one day off in every seven, no half day on a Friday, no afternoon siestas and deadlines that do not allow for 'rubber time', that's a big ask. One cadet reporter confided that she earned a training wage of 150,000 rupiah a month with no opportunity for bonuses, which was barely enough to cover her board, let alone food and petrol. When a source offers her an envelope, she often has no choice but to take it.
These envelopes, always plain white and small, are never opened until the two parties are far apart. They often contain no more than 15,000 to 25,000 rupiah. The reasons for giving this money are not always clear-cut. A reporter assigned to a business post may receive envelopes as a thank you for anticipated favourable promotion of a particular company or product. Yet one reporter told me, 'I just write the article, its my editor who chooses whether it actually gets carried. If they're paying me to get the story published, then they're paying the wrong person'. Often, sympathetic sources give envelopes to cover petrol money and other 'expenses', and these gifts seem to be a sincere helping hand from those who know how little journalists are paid for their long hours. On the two occasions that I accompanied reporters who were offered and accepted envelopes, the money was once used to buy petrol and the other time to pay for lunch.
It is tempting to place too much emphasis on these envelopes when examining the local press. 'They make me so confused,' a young reporter confessed. 'Whenever I'm offered one, its always a struggle to know what to do. To take it, or not to take it. I need the money, but I don't want to encourage it. People find out, and that affects what they think of the papers. But to tell you the truth, they are a minute part of my job. I'm more concerned about writing quality articles.' In any case, these envelopes are not thick and fast between often this depends on a reporter's post and who their sources actually are. A court or criminal reporter will almost never be offered an envelope, though lawyers, police officers and detectives will buy them lunch on a daily basis. It seems a fine line between bribery and corruption, and friendly gestures.
All local papers in Malang now carry disclaimers that their staff are not to receive 'any money or other gifts from sources', and strict in-house policies forbid employees from accepting envelopes. The issue has become a contentious one. And while salaries remain low, it's also an issue that won't disappear quickly.
Yet although wages may be low, job satisfaction levels are high. It's simple - if it was about the money, I wouldn't be working at the Malang Post, one senior reporter explained. 'With these new papers I can work in my hometown, and the increasing interest in local issues is visible. I can actually see people realising that it is not just what happens in Jakarta or Surabaya that is important. There are events and issues in their own kampung that are newsworthy. But if we are going to survive past the otonomi' (regional autonomy) era, we need to be a quality publication that the community is interested in, and that people can trust.
That is the challenge for this emerging local press in a town like Malang - to survive the euphoria of free press legislation and to persevere as interest in regional autonomy inevitably wanes. With editorial and managerial expertise on loan from the Jawa Pos, these Malang newspapers have the potential to become fertile ground for the development of new talent and experienced local media practitioners.
Kirrilee Hughes (kik_h@hotmail.com) is an ANU student who completed work experience with the Malang Post in 2001.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
A new wave of Indonesian films
Joanne Sharpe
For a brief period in July this year, shoppers and cinemagoers at Blok M Plaza in Jakarta might have noticed something quite unusual. Strung up on the outside of the building, large hand-painted banners usually advertise the latest American blockbusters to reach Indonesian theatres. However, for a day or so, the lineup included three Indonesian films: Eliana Eliana by Riri Riza, Bendera by Nan T Achnas, and Marsinah by Slamet Rahardjo.
In recent years it has often been said that Indonesian film is dead. Bearing in mind that just 16 feature films were produced between 1999 and 2001, to have three Indonesian films playing simultaneously was quite remarkable. Unfortunately, Bendera quickly disappeared from cinema screens, and when I went to see Marsinah at Blok M three days after its release, the session was almost cancelled because only four people turned up. There were about 12 people in the theatre for Eliana Eliana, however, and it ran in Jakarta for several weeks. For a low-budget Indonesian film, preceded by minimal hype, this was nothing short of a triumph.
Eliana Eliana, which picked up the Best Young Cinema and Critics prizes at the Singapore International Film Festival, tells of Eliana (Rachel Sayidina), a young woman brought up by her single mother in West Sumatra. Her mother, Bunda (Jajang C Noer), has severed all contact and vowed never to speak to her again after she fled to Jakarta to escape an arranged marriage. The film opens in Jakarta five years later. Eliana, who has just lost her job and is facing eviction, arrives home to find Bunda waiting for her. Bunda has come to take Eliana back to Sumatra, but Eliana is predictably resistant to the idea. The story unfolds on the streets of Jakarta in the space of one night, as the pair charter a taxi and go in search of Heni, Eliana's housemate, who has been missing for several days.
Heralding the expanding role for digital technology in low budget film, Eliana was shot using a single hand held digital camera and mostly incidental lighting, evoking the neon and grit of Jakarta at night. One of the strengths of the film is that it is rarely judgmental of the city's seedier side, or of the characters that inhabit it. Eliana may have fallen in with a morally ambiguous crowd, but she has retained her own sense of values - a credit, in fact, to her self-possessed mother. Much of the humor and pathos in this film comes from the obvious similarities between Eliana and Bunda, each as uncompromising and iron willed as the other. In one scene, their taxi driver stops briefly for an herbal tonic from a stall by the side of the road. The woman serving asks why he doesn't invite his passengers to join him. He replies in a tone heavy with resignation, 'Those two? They don't need tonic. They're tough enough already.
The publicity for Eliana quotes US film critic Chuck Stevens, who raves, 'On a variety of visceral and aesthetic levels, Riza's tightly-budgeted, fourteen-day, one-camera production elegantly out-maneuvers anything going on in American independent cinema today.' Certainly, in comparison with the polished American productions that are dominant in Indonesian theatres and even recent blockbusters like Ada apa dengan Cinta? (What's up with Love?), this film conforms to the way you might expect an independent production to look. Yet calling Eliana and its director Riri Reza independent causes a few raised eyebrows in Indonesian independent film circles.
Riri established his independent credentials in 1998 with the release of Kuldesak, a film he co-wrote, produced and directed with Mira Lesmana, Nan T Achnas and Rizal Mantovani, who are some of the biggest names in Indonesian film today. Kuldesak is widely hailed as the first in the recent wave of independent productions, which are self-funded and filmed on the sly guerilla style without the necessary state permits. Since then, however, Riri has been involved with two of the most successful Indonesian films of recent years. He directed Petualangan Sherina (The Adventures of Sherina) and co-produced Ada apa dengan Cinta?, both big budget productions supported by canny marketing and promotion strategies. The production company behind both these films, Miles Productions, was also involved with Eliana Eliana. As Riri and his generation of filmmakers are some of the most successful and active in Indonesia today, some might call them the closest thing the industry has to an Establishment.
Riri laughs this off. 'As far as I'm concerned, there just aren't any conditions under which we could become established. You can call me an established filmmaker, I don't mind, you can call me an independent filmmaker and that's okay too, whatever.' He speaks pragmatically about his alliance with giant television production company Prima Entertainment, which co-funded the production, while waxing enthusiastically about experimenting with new genres and alternative modes of production. The main thing, he says, is just to tell stories about Indonesia and Indonesians. 'About us and our dreams.'
In Eliana, the story is essentially about the vulnerability of relationships and people, and the difficulties they have communicating with one another. It may be a universal theme, but Eliana is most definitely an Indonesian film. Interestingly, it is also a film about women, although Riri has in the past stated that he does not set out to comment specifically on women's issues. Rather, he speaks of his great respect for women in Indonesia, who in his opinion face difficulties far greater than those faced by men. Eliana is a subtle portrait of some of these challenges, such as the problems of living on the mean streets of Jakarta, or bringing up a child as a single mother, as well as some that are even more fundamental.
In one scene, Bunda goes into a filthy public toilet, the floor muddy and wet. Encumbered by her large handbag, she struggles keep her long skirt and shawl out of the mess. As she goes to leave, she looks at her reflection in the grimy mirror and suddenly starts to sob. Clearly the stress of her reunion with her daughter and the events of the evening would be enough to make anyone cry, but her problems with her dress add an extra poignancy. Says Riri, tongue in cheek, 'You can see this scene as Bunda thinking, "All I want to do is help my daughter, take her home, and even peeing is difficult"'
The growing overlap between 'independent' and 'mainstream' film in Indonesian is manifest in 'i-sinema', a movement based on a manifesto signed by thirteen contemporary filmmakers. Both Eliana Eliana and Bendera are i-sinema films. The meaning of 'i' in 'i-sinema' is ambiguous - it stands for the word 'Indonesian' as much as it does for 'Independent', as well as other terms like 'eye' or even the English 'I'. I-sinema films are made in the spirit of independence and even individualism, but they are also national in character. Riri is adamant that his films should not alienate people. 'It seems that alternative film movements in other countries just don't care much about their audience. For us, the audience is still very important.' Of primary concern is that the Indonesian audience has been starved of Indonesian film, and this is the first thing these filmmakers seek to redress.
The first line of the manifesto states that 'Stagnation in the Indonesian film industry means that we must find new ways of making feature films, and much of the short document relates to what these new ways might be. The use of digital technology is mentioned specifically as giving us the opportunity to work more freely and independently'. The members of 'i-sinema' emphasise the importance of film as a form of freedom of expression and pledge to create films of artistic and personal credibility, but they remain aware of the practicalities of production. Essentially, if Indonesian film is dead, filmmakers are being forced to be alternative in the way they produce and distribute their films. As a result, Independent film has become National film, and the independent voice has become a national voice on the big screen, not just due to natural progression but almost by default.
For Riri Reza and those of his generation, whether people regard these films as being independent or not are not a matter for concern, as long as the films are being made and filling the vacuum in Indonesian cinema. 'The next film I make might be commercial, it might be more art house, it might even be a documentary. I'm not a jukebox. I'll make whatever films I want.'
Joanne Sharpe (polymorph2@hotmail.com) is a student at the University of New South Wales. She was recently in Indonesia on the ACICIS program, researching Indonesian Independent Film for her Honours thesis.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
The struggle to get Indonesia online
Onno Purbo
There is now a movement to develop self-financed bottom-up internet infrastructure in Indonesia, using high-speed wireless internet technology. Money, technology and government help are not the keys. The dedication of many Indonesian volunteers to community education processes is the most important factor in developing this infrastructure.
Copyleft
Free education on various aspects of the internet is the key to help Indonesian society become receptive to this technology. Indonesians can then invest and build their own infrastructure at virtually no cost to the government or donor agencies.
For free education to succeed, information must circulate quickly. Internet based media disseminate information and knowledge far more quickly than conventional media. CD-ROM and web servers are typical methods to disseminate knowledge in electronic form in the public domain. The faster knowledge circulates, the greater its audience and as a consequence, the greater the value of the distributed knowledge. The ultimate goal is to transform communities into knowledge producers and writers through abundant freely available knowledge provided online.
Copyright inhibits the accelerated flow of knowledge and thus reduces the value of the information distributed. Not surprisingly, most Indonesian internet activists prefer to disseminate their knowledge free of copyright. This material, distributed free of copyright, is called 'copyleft' or 'copywrong'.
Indonesian internet activists such as I Made Wiryana, Michael Sunggiardi, Adi Nugroho, Irwin Day and Ismail Fahmi publish freely on the internet. Their work is available at the Indonesian Digital Knowledge Foundation (IDKF) http://www.bogor.net/idkf or from the Pandu Team Website http://www.pandu.org/. These websites contain more than five thousand articles and references on various aspects of the Internet.
Putting copylefted knowledge into the public domain can attract a surprising amount of funding and sponsorship. Depending on audience size, this sponsorship may surpass the salary of a professional executive with a permanent job in Jakarta.
The free distribution of this knowledge to the public creates demand for certain technologies and services. The private sector or other entrepreneurs can then profit by providing the required technologies and services to the public. The private sector views this process pragmatically; they support the person who created the market demand so as to continue to maintain and expand their market.
Sponsors also arrange seminars, roadshows and talkshows. The door price for a one-day seminar is only US$3 per person and includes snacks, Linux CDs and a magazine. It is normal for more than 300 people to attend each seminar, and this audience is multiplied through radio talkshows and various other programs in each city. This enables knowledge producers to continue to distribute their knowledge freely to the public.
The activists involved in these roadshows also provide free seminars in many schools. This program is arranged by the Indonesian School Information Network.
Internet mailing lists also assist the interaction and dissemination of knowledge. A few examples include genetika@yahoogroups.com (more on information technology (IT) politics), majalahneotek@yahoogroups.com (IT beginners), linux-admin@linux.or.id, linus-setup@linux.or.id.
Since the necessary knowledge is freely available, the public has started to invest their own money in infrastructure. Small to medium entrepreneurs are putting their money into IT businesses and re-investing their profits as their businesses go well. This cycle of business and investment may gradually accumulate the public's money in IT businesses and enable them to build their own internet infrastructure. This process has left the grassroots movement with much stronger roots in society than government initiatives.
Government Initiatives
Although the Indonesian government has invested a lot of money to shift the Indonesian people into cyberspace, it has been private sector investment and various sponsorships that have sustained the Indonesian internet.
Successive Indonesian governments have actually been a stumbling block for internet development. These governments have stifled creativity, as they require everything to be registered and licensed. Government policy lags behind developments and fails to provide the industry with a competitive safeguard. The government will not issue licenses for internet service providers (ISPs) using newer technologies for their connection. Small to medium enterprises, such as internet cafes, must also bear unofficial government taxes.
The Indonesian government has established several national teams to assist internet development. The National Development Coordination Body (BAPPENAS) used the concepts produced by these teams to obtain a World Bank loan in 1998.
The loan was approximately a couple of hundred billion rupiah, and is known as the Information Infrastructure Development Program (IIDP). Some IIDP projects are still on-going in 2002. However, as the loan has been used to pay international consultants to write concept papers, and has not been invested in infrastructure to help people access the internet, these hundreds of billions of rupiah have had negligible direct impact on the Indonesian people.
In 2001, the Ministry of Research and Technology launched Internet Cafe Technology and Science Technology CDs. Because the government's budget is limited, the onus for these activities has fallen on the private sector. The Internet Cafe Technology program aims to build 9000 Internet cafes through private sector investment. The investment will then be returned by the Internet cafe users though an access fee.
The Science Technology CD contains research done for the Ministry of Research and Technology. It is distributed freely to the public. The Sekolah 2000 foundation and Master Data, with a lot of private sector sponsorship, supports the production and distribution of the CDs.
The only government initiative that has significantly benefited the Indonesian internet community is the vocational schools Internet movement (dikmenjur@yahoogroups.com). Dr. Gatot H.P., the director of vocational schools at the Ministry of Education, is the driving force behind the movement. In 2001, he worked closely with other Indonesian Internet communities and managed to push over 1000 (out of 4000) Indonesian vocational schools onto the Internet, a commendable accomplishment.
There is still a long way before Indonesia's 1300 tertiary institutions, 10,000 high schools, 10,000 Islamic schools and 4000 vocational schools are all online. Currently only about 1200 schools and 200 universities are on the Internet.
Wireless Internet
The most convenient gauge of the development of Indonesian internet infrastructure is the expansion of Indonesian internet service providers (ISPs). IndoNet - Indonesia's first commercial ISP - was started by IndoInternet in 1994. Currently, over 160 ISP licenses have been granted, and about 60 ISPs are operational. Current large ISPs include IndosatNet, LinkNet, CBN, RadNet, Centrin and Indonet.
In early 2002, the Association of Indonesian Internet Service Providers (APJII) estimated that around four million Indonesians use the internet. Each year, the number of Internet users in Indonesia doubles. APJII claims that the majority of users are male, young (25-35 years old) and educated. About two-thirds of Indonesian users access the internet at various internet cafes (known as warnet in short for warung internet).
Aside from the commercial and legal ISPs, there are significant grassroots movements behind most of Indonesia's internet activities. These movements involve internet cafes using high-speed (11-54Mbps) wireless internet technology.
There are over 2000 internet cafes in Indonesia, most of which are self-financed. The Indonesian Internet Cafe Association (AWARI) was founded in May 2000. Its current heads are Judith M.S, Michael Suggiardi and Abdullah Koro. AWARI is fighting to expand our own network and implement a self-financed community based network to reduce dependence on Indonesian telecommunications provider services.
Most of the cash flow of these internet cafes actually goes into the coffers of the Indonesian telecommunications providers for line rental. The incumbent operators, Telkom and Indosat, have tried to use their power to distort the industry. They have also overcharged ISPs for incoming call lines and frequently rejected applications for lines. This has driven the community to seek alternatives to build our own independent network. The easiest way is the wireless LAN [Local Area Network] technology. At a cost of approximately US$150 / unit, anyone with a strong Linux background can easily integrate a LAN or a community to the Internet at a speed of 11Mbps, provided they have an external antenna with sufficient gain to reach the access point. Using such an antenna, I have integrated my LAN at home as well as my surrounding neighbourhood to the Internet for 24 hour access at 11Mbps for Rp 330.000 / month.
Building a low cost home-made antenna is not that difficult. A tincan with a 90 mm diameter and 215 mm length can serve as a 2.4GHz antenna with a range of three to four kilometres. It costs approximately US$5 to US$10 per antenna. Many internet cafes in Yogyakarta use this type of antenna to reduce their investment. They can also use old 486 [forerunner of the pentium chip] terminals running Linux to allow low cost investments and avoid copyright problems. The software drivers and information needed to set up wireless internet are easily found on the Internet.
The cost of satellite access for each cafe can be reduced to US$250-500 per month by sharing the connection between 10 to 20 internet cafes. These internet cafes use high-speed wireless technology to share the bandwidth. Considering some of these cafes take in US$50-100 per day from their customers, US$500 per month is affordable.
Based on the technology and business plan described freely at http://www.bogor.net/idkf, various internet cafe's have reduced the cost for public users to access the internet to Rp 5000 per hour. In Indonesian schools, the cost of accessing the Internet can be brutally reduced to Rp 5000 per month per student. This makes the internet accessible to a much wider range of people than simply those who can afford a personal computer. Many small to medium businesses and schools are now investing their money to build their own internet infrastructure. If a conducive policy is implemented, over 20 million Indonesians could access the internet with 4-5 years, without any loans from the World Bank, IMF and ADB.
Internet telephony (also called Voice over Internet Protocol (VoIP)) is another emerging controversial technology that can be used to build a community based telephone network at very low cost. Government officials and the police are currently conducting unlawful sweepings to seize 'illegal' VoIP and Wireless Internet equipments.
These solutions may not be appropriate for some countries, especially those with tight rules on frequency usage. Most, if not all, the time, we run the equipments without any license. The government would like to protect the interest of incumbent telecommunication operators, which are paranoid about this new technology. Fortunately, the Indonesian media helps keep us from being jailed. We only hope to provide the best,low cost solutions for Indonesians to be integrated into the Internet and to reduce the existence of a digital divide.
High-speed wireless Internet is the necessary technology to build community based internet infrastructure without telecommunications providers. At the moment, there are more than 1000 corporate users or wireless internet and some residential users, like me at home. Most of the wireless internet operators hang out at indowli@yahoogroups.com and are fighting for low cost, if not free, frequency licenses. We hope that people will not have to pay to use the air.
Educated, dedicated and militant people are the key to this community initiative to deploy infrastructure. It shows clearly the strength of community education in attempting to transform Indonesia into knowledge-based society.
Onno W. Purbo [onno@indo.net.id] is an independent IT writer, a former lecturer at the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) and a former Indonesian civil servant. Most of the copylefted reference and technical materials mentioned in this article can be freely downloaded from http://www.bogor.net/idkf, http://bebas.vlsm.org, http://free.vlsm.org and http://www.pandu.org/.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
The 68H network brings people closer together
Santoso
It's evening in Jayapura. We have just finished installing a parabolic antenna and digital receiver, and have connected them to studio Radio Suara Kasih Agung. We hurried out into the front yard of the radio station with a small radio. Together with eight radio workers from the city, we gathered together, hearts pounding waiting for a signal. Suddenly the broadcasters voice sprung forth from the small radio. 'This is the latest news from Radio 68H News Office.' We were all surprised, but also relieved. There was good reception for radio broadcasts from Jakarta, which can be re-broadcast by local radio.
Our Papuan friends were even happier that one of the news sources in the broadcast was Tom Beanal, the Vice President of the Papua Council Presidium. This Papuan identity explained the situation, and the Papuan people's desire for independence. Our friends who were huddled around had certainly rarely or never before heard their idol speak on the radio. And on that day, Tom Beanal's voice was not only heard in Jayapura, but throughout Indonesia. Through Radio 68H, the voice of a person in Jayapura is heard in Banda Aceh, Manado, Kupang and other cities.
The exchange of information between regions is one of the strong points of Radio 68 News Office. In previous times, radio was very local, but broadcasts now reach a national, even international audience. This news radio office has bridged the isolation between regions in Indonesia.
A friend who recently visited North Maluku spoke of the importance of this news office. In this new province, there are two radio stations that are members of the 68H network, namely Gema Hikmah in Ternate and Gema Pertiwi on Bacan Island. Of course, the signal from these stations doesn't reach all of North Maluku. However, because people who live a fair way away also want to hear 68H news broadcasts, a number of police rebroadcast the signal over their shortwave radios.
A survey of radio listener behaviour in East Java found that when listeners wanted news, they would first tune in to Buletin. This is a 30 minute Radio 68H program broadcast twice daily in the morning and evening. This is the most popular of Radio 68H's programs, not just in East Java, but also throughout Indonesia. With 230 member stations broadcasting it, it is estimated to reach an audience of 20 million people.
Radio 68H started operations in April 1999. Initially, it was a program of the Institute for the Study for the Free Flow of Information (ISAI), an NGO struggling for the free flow of information. This program aimed to provide independent news for radio. A limited number of news items were produced, digitised (MP3 files) and sent to member stations over the internet. At the outset only 14 stations, mainly in large cities, used the news items.
ISAI itself was founded in 1995, shortly after the Detik tabloid, Editor and Tempo magazines were banned. ISAI initially focussed on print media, as many of its activists were from the print media. However, when the Suharto regime toppled, its activists felt they needed to contribute something to radio journalism, because during the New Order, radio was subject to the tightest repression.
Aiming to facilitate information exchange between the regions and improve the quality of radio journalism, Radio 68H was always intended to incorporate two-way communication. Although the idea was conceived and its studio was established in Jakarta, the contribution of the regions has been very important to the advancement of the organisation. The network members are not just radio stations to relay 68H programs, but are also a source of information ad important contributors that sustain the programs. We encourage every network member to become a correspondent, and routinely report interesting news from their region.
As its regional correspondents are so important, 68H has actively organised radio journalism training in various regions. Usually, a local network member hosts the session. About 12 participants are invited to each five-day training session. The training material is elementary; namely the basics of radio journalism and necessary technical skills, such as using the Cool Edit Pro software to process voices. Training participants become potential 68H correspondents. In three years, we have organised around 25 training sessions with over 300 participants. Fifty of these participants have become routine contributors to 68H.
Over time, the 68H network has continually expanded. At the end of 1999, there were around 60 stations broadcasting 68H programs. Word of mouth recommendations from our network members assist the expansion of the network. Because 68H news is perceived to be independent, easy to understand and reliable, many radio stations want to join the network.
As its network has expanded, the 68H crew has learnt to produce more varied programs. In the beginning, we only produced one-minute dispatches; in August 1999, we plucked up the courage to produce a 24 minute Buletin Sore (Afternoon Bulletin). This program was split into four files, and sent by email to the network affiliates. It was hoped they would download the program before 4pm, and broadcast it simultaneously.
However, by the end of 1999 it was clear that it took too long to download broadcasts off the internet. Our friends at Radio Suara Padang in Padang, West Sumatra, explained that they needed 8 hours to download a 24 minute broadcast. Radio Nebula in Palu, Central Sulawesi needed 6 hours, as did Radio DMWS in Kupang, East Nusa Tenggara. As a result, the programs were not broadcast simultaneously, and the telephone bills of member stations blew out. The slow speed of internet access, particularly outside Java, forced us to find an alternative technology to distribute the program.
In 2000, Radio 68H News Agency started to use a satellite to distribute its programs. This is far more effective, easy and cheap for our network members. They just need a parabolic antenna and a digital receiver to access all 68H programs, then broadcast those that they are interested in.
Our target is for the 68H network to reach all regencies in Indonesia before the 2004 general election. Through this network, we plan to publicise and monitor the implementation of the forthcoming election. This is very important, as the next election will have different features. For the first time in Indonesia, the president will be directly elected.
Another advantage of the satellite is the opportunity for listener interaction. We have subsequently set up an Indonesia-wide toll-free number. The talkshow that we broadcast each day from 09.00-09.30 has become a favourite with listeners. The listeners always run out of time to participate in the daily thematic discussion. We choose topics like law reform, human rights, regional autonomy, the environment and the economy. Most recently, we have added a talkshow about religion and tolerance, as a cooperative program between 68H and the Liberal Islam Network. This has attracted attention from society in general, and the transcripts of the discussions are published in dozens of Indonesian newspapers.
The biggest problem for the network is now self-sustainability. We have been lucky enough to receive strong support for the initial stages of the program from institutions such as the Asia Foundation, Media Development Loan Fund, the Dutch Embassy and CAF. However, from the outset we have also realised that this assistance cannot continue indefinitely. We are determined to enter the market, and seek funding through the market. For that reason, 68H programs are designed with part of their duration allocated for advertisements. This news agency also accommodates the needs of various institutions that want to arrange sponsored programs.
This extensive network is of course a strong drawcard to attract sponsors. Apart from social institutions, such as the UNHCR, UNDP, Health Department and NGOs, the network has also attracted commercial sponsors, such as the food supplement industry, insurance companies, Pertamina and other mass products. We stipulate that the maximum time that can be allocated to advertisements is fifteen per cent of broadcasts. At present there are eighteen hours of broadcasts daily. As such, 68H still prioritises its listeners' interests over other interests. We believe that 68H News Agency is first and foremost a public service. So it has been from the outset, and so it will continue to be, even when it is market funded.
Foreign broadcast institutions are another source of funding. At present, 68H provides news for Radio SBS in Australia, and Radio Hilversum in the Netherlands. In the near future, Deutche Welle in Germany and the Voice of America will use news produced by 68H. Apart from generating income, cooperation with foreign radio is a new phenomenon. Usually, Indonesian radio just relays foreign radio; now we can provide news for them too.
Radio 68H News Agency also cooperates with Radiq.com in Malaysia to produce the Nada Nasional (National Tone) program. This program is produced in Kuala Lumpur, and broadcast by 68H in several areas that border on Malaysia. This program helps to foster mutual understanding between inhabitants along the Indonesia-Malaysia border. And listeners in Malaysia receive an alternative to official government news broadcasts.
This is one of the results of reformasi in 1998: the freedom the media now enjoys has opened up many possibilities that could not even be imagined previously.
Santoso (tosca@isai.or.id) is the director of radio 68H News Agency.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Radio has undergone a revolution since Suharto resigned
Edwin Jurriens
Following decades of government monopoly on news and information broadcasting, four major developments have taken place in the Indonesian radio scene since Suharto was deposed. These are: 1. the production of news by commercial stations, 2. the rise of community radio, 3. training and production activities of non-government radio news agencies, and 4. attempts to transform government radio into genuine public radio. These are new and revolutionary developments.
During Suharto's New Order (1967-1998), state radio and television (RRI and TVRI, respectively) implemented their own interpretation of development journalism. Developed during UNESCO meetings and other international discussions on communications since the 1960s, development journalism is intended to function as a 'watchdog of the government and champion of the public good.' In RRI and TVRI's interpretation it was close to government propaganda, however, and was used to support Pembangunan, the state development project. Only since the era of political and social reform, so-called reformasi, have broadcast media been allowed to engage in other, government-critical, aspects of development journalism, or develop completely different journalism concepts.
A 1998 Information Minister's decree permits Indonesian commercial radio stations to produce and broadcast their own news programs. These radio stations have since provided their audience with information that involves their listeners as critical, active and mature members of civil society. Interactive talk shows, which are currently extremely popular on the Indonesian airwaves, are an important aspect of this agenda. These talk shows discuss politics, the economy, culture, health, religion and other topical social issues. Listeners can take part in the discussion by phoning in or visiting the station in person. Some news bulletins give listeners the opportunity to report on topical events or situations they have encountered in their daily lives, and become journalists themselves. In this way, the Information Minister's decree has also enabled radio stations to explore the profitability of a new market segment.
Community radio expands interactivity beyond program content into program production and station management. Since Reformasi, international donor organisations and local NGOs have actively promoted community radio as an alternative to government radio and commercial radio. The community as a whole is responsible for ownership, organization, funding, editorial independence and credibility. Community radio is supposed to be open to various communal groups and interests, and pays special attention to minorities and marginal groups. In Central Java since the late 1990s, several community radio stations have represented the interests of farmers' groups. Campus radio stations, which operate in several Indonesian cities, are another form of community radio.
After the fall of Suharto, both commercial radio and community radio have made use of two non-government radio news agencies, Kantor Berita Radio 68H (Radio News Agency 68H, or KBR 68H) and Internews Indonesia. These agencies produce radio programs, but do not broadcast themselves. They distribute their programs to clients through the Internet and satellite technology. Besides news production, they also organise broadcast journalism courses for radio workers.
KBR 68H provides an important contribution to multi-culturalism and mutual understanding between different groups in society. The news agency incorporates these values both in its programs and its institutional structure. The journalists involved in KBR 68H constitute a community out of shared professional and ideological interests. This community is organized along multiple lines of ethnicity, religion, gender, status and political affiliation. Thus it provides a model for a new, democratic and multi-cultural organization of Indonesian society as a whole. The news agency's multi-cultural character is enhanced by its exchange of programs with radio stations from different regions and with different identity policies. A disadvantage of KBR 68H's nationwide network is that it may lead to the homogenisation of news and information, as well as journalistic ideas and practices.
The activities of Internews Indonesia -which is part of the United States non-profit organization Internews Network Inc.- include training courses, a television project, broadcast production and a media law program. The news agency also makes technical equipment available to local radio stations. While Internews offices in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union focus on television, and other offices in Southeast Asia on the print media, Internews Indonesia's main medium is radio. Internews Indonesia considers radio the most appropriate medium for disseminating ideas, because of its oral character and relative cheapness. Internews Indonesia currently has a nationwide network of more than 50 radio partners that use its services.
In discussing these new types of radio activity we should not lose sight of the dynamics of older media institutions, such as the state-operated RRI (radio) and TVRI (television). Both RRI and TVRI have already become semi-autonomous, and are supposed to be transformed into real public media, free from restrictive government control, in the near future. Their excellent broadcasting equipment and extensive regional networks mean these institutions could potential become important contributors to the democratization of the Indonesian public sphere. In short, for the Indonesian mediascape to be a real force for democratic reform, it must incorporate diverse media activities and outlets.
Edwin Jurriens (e.c.m.jurriens@let.leidenuniv.nl)is a postdoctoral fellow of the Indonesian Mediations Project (IMP), Leiden University.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Millions of Indonesians must watch soap operas
Amrih Widodo
Thursday evening was a special time for Herlina, a 30 year old white collar worker in Jakarta. For one hour, she had to perform her special ritual: watching her favourite sinetron (Indonesian television drama) Dewi Fortuna (Lady Fortune). She would do anything to see her favourite stars Bella Saphira and Jeremy Thomas on screen. Once, she had to tell her boss that she had serious diarrhoea, to excuse herself from an important company meeting. Another time, at a workshop in a small town in Central Java, she panicked when she realized that her anti-sinetron male colleagues had already monopolised the only television in her small hotel. She decided to drive for five hours to Surabaya to buy her own television set so that she could watch sinetron the following night, so reported Tempo (14/01/2002).
Mrs. Sum, 45, a housewife, runs an all night food stall near the market in Blora, Central Java. Even though her food stall should open at 7.00 p.m, she sometimes remains glued to her favourite sinetron until after 8.30 p.m. She has been addicted to both Indonesian sinetron and Latin American telenovela for over ten years, but prefers telenovela. What annoys her most about sinetron is that the protagonists never age. In contrast, telenovela could cover the life span of two or three generations in a series, ?naturally? following the development of human life. Despite being dispassionate about a couple of sinetron series, Mrs Sum?s daily schedule has revolved around the timetables of television dramas for the past decade.
From her home in Sydney, Mrs. Dewi runs a small business which is also her hobby, or perhaps more precisely her addiction. She is one of the Chinese Indonesian mothers who fled Jakarta after the riot in May 1998, but she has not left sinetron behind. Through a satellite dish in her house, she receives all of the Indonesian television stations. Over 20 thousand Indonesians now live in Sydney, and a good number of them simply have to watch sinetron. A few entrepreneurs have made copies of sinetron episodes and rent them out to their fellow sinetron fans. There are more than five sinetron video rentals in Sydney. The rent is usually US$1.50 per cassette per week - each cassette contains three episodes. Mrs. Dewi's sinetron video rental is not the biggest one; nonetheless, she has about 75 titles with an average of 25 episodes for each title.
Herlina, Mrs. Sum and Mrs. Dewi are representative of millions of Indonesians, especially women, who consume sinetron and structure their lives around their schedules. They have lived through generations of TV drama, from those produced or commissioned by state television when TV drama was popular as much because of the unavailability of alternatives as their quality; to the more commercially driven sinetron, in which popularity is measured by SRI-AC Nielsen rating and advertising revenue achieved by exploiting good-looking stars, intriguing family affairs, tear-jerking love stories, and displays of the glamorous life-styles of the rich. The term sinetron comes from the words sinema (cinema) and elektronik (electronic). After ten years of struggle asserting their existence against imported TV drama, sinetron have become pivotal members of millions of Indonesian families. Daily household chores, family business, official meetings and social events are all often scheduled around the timetables of popular sinetron. For a decade, the popularity of sinetron has served as a backbone for the rapid development of private television in Indonesia. The Mediascape of Sinetron
Prior to the introduction of private television in the late 1980s, state television was a prime site for the construction and circulation of an Indonesian national identity. The state monopolised the electronic mediascape, and the Palapa satellite vastly expanded its national audience. In his book, Television, Nation and Culture in Indonesia, Philip Kitley writes that the state television station, TVRI, through news-as-ritual and pre-sinetron ideological family dramas, was able to address its audience as a public and national family.
The introduction of commercial television in 1988 did not result in a paradigm shift towards more democratic or even market-driven media. The Suharto regime maintained its monopoly over Indonesian television through nepotism in issuing private television licenses. However, the state can no longer monopolise the political and cultural sphere, and television is now ratings driven. New licenses were issued after Suharto?s resignation and in 2001-2002 four new private television broadcasters entered the market. Except for Metro TV, which like CNN specializes in news, all nine private and the two state broadcasters rely on entertainment for about 75 percent of their programming. One of the main elements of this are sinetron.
Private television depends on advertisements. The expansion of the Indonesian economy since the late 1980s has made television financially possible. Television reaps 62 per cent of media advertising expenditure in Indonesia, followed by print media with 33 per cent (Gatra 10/11/2001). Total national advertising expenditure doubled from Rp. 639 million between 1990-1993, after private channels were made available nationally, and skyrocketed tenfold in a decade to Rp. 9.7 billion in 2001. Despite a dip for the economic crisis, advertising revenue is predicted to reach Rp. 12,2 billion in 2002. Private television channel RCTI, owned by Suharto?s son Bambang Trihatmojo, dominated the race for advertising revenue for a decade, however a 2000 AC Nielson Indonesia report showed that Indosiar, owned by Chinese tycoon Lim Sioe Liong, has surpassed RCTI. New television operators have learned that advertising does not go with channels, instead with high rating programs. The localized version of Family Feud, Famili 100, and the sinetron Si Doel Anak Sekolahan (Doel, the Uni Student) have proven this: both moved to Indosiar without losing ratings, and maintained their advertising revenue. The fight is now on to produce or pirate high-rating programs. Newcomers see a chance to win the race for advertising revenue, or at least secure a viable segmented market.
Imagining Sinetron Audiences
Sinetron, meanwhile, have been almost invulnerable to Indonesia?s recent economic crisis and political turmoil. Sinetron?s expensive production costs (Rp. 90 ? 125 million per episode) did cause a 40 per cent decline in their production by late 1998. However, ratings remained solid.
The Indonesian TV drama industry started to flourish early in 1990s in response to the emergence of private television stations and the death of film industry. As television imports grew, only 12 films were produced by mid 1992, compared to 118 the previous year. Most film companies converted to production houses to service the high demand for local content to fill broadcast hours. One of those film companies was PT Parkit Film, owned by Raam Punjabi, an Indonesian of Indian descent, whose production house PT Tripar Multivision now dominates sinetron production. Smaller production houses and sinetron critics have resented the domination by Punjabi?s company, particularly his strategy of booking prime time slots, making exclusive contracts with popular stars, and producing a massive number of sinetron based on proven, conventional formulas - love stories, tears, domestic affairs, and popular stars (Tempo 14/01/2001). Punjabi controls an estimated 40 per cent of sinetron production in Indonesia, and during prime time, all the five channels broadcast similar sinetron. Indonesian viewers are bombarded by images of modernity manifested in the life-styles and environs of the rich.
Massive production of sinetron has also hampered creativity and variation of theme, scenario, and story lines. Many almost literally copy imported TV drama from India and Latin America, which became popular when dubbing replaced subtitles. To make sure that the appeal of Indian TV drama was transferred to Indonesian sinetron, Raam Punjabi hired the Indian TV drama director Vasant R. Pathel to direct Tersanjung, Indonesia?s longest running sinetron (Rakyat Merdeka 28/07/2000). A script writer for one of the big companies informed me that he was often given a series of Indian TV drama to watch and simply copy the story.
Only a decade old, Indonesian TV drama is still at an early stage. Audience taste is still volatile. Many production houses and television channels do not want to risk broadcasting sinetron that differ from those with high ratings. Copying previously popular, locally made and imported series is common. Consequently, Indonesian TV drama is produced merely with commercial considerations, at the expense of quality. However, several imported programs with high production values, such as the X-Files and similar American series, have low ratings but brim with advertisements. Harsiwi Achmad, Planning and Development Manager at SCTV explained, ?Because the audience is from Class A [middle and upper class] ... the advertisements are for products targeted for this class A.?
Putu Wijaya, one of the most prolific Indonesian writers who has produced, directed and written more than 50 sinetron titles, explained how production thinks about the audience. Television channels and production houses classify Indonesian viewers into two categories. Class A consists of middle and upper-class families, while Class B comprises middle and lower-class families. Even though Putu Wijaya himself sometimes dismissed this classification as being arbitrary and inconsistent, he explained that it has been a useful tool for television and sinetron workers to imagine their target audience. When an order for a sinetron series specifies that it is for Class B, Putu Wijaya will have in mind an audience of maids, housewives, drivers, food vendors, low-level civil servants, and other blue-collar workers. Class A, meanwhile, would include professionals, university students, high ranking bureaucrats, upper-scaled entrepreneurs, and journalists. Class B viewers are considered uninterested in long dialogues or discussions of difficult concepts. Instead, they are stimulated by action, more susceptible to manipulation of emotions, and keen for black-and-white morality. According to Putu Wijaya, sinetron for a Class B audience often relies on straightforwardness at the expense of narrative and reflective aspects. In practice, this means linear plotting (very few flash-backs, no multiple framing); stereotypical characterizations visually demonstrated through body parts, mimics, gestures and outfits; exaggeration of events or characters to demonstrate extreme emotional expressions, and conflicts on very concrete domestic issues between family members or among individuals within a given social setting. A Class A audience, on the other hand, is imagined as more educated and receptive to longer discussions on conceptual matters, more critical of logical representation of reality, able to understand complex plotting, tolerant of less clear-cut problem solutions, and appreciative of artistic creations. When he receives an order for a Class A audience, Putu Wijaya feels freer to express his aesthetic creativity.
Sinetron workers often assume that Class B audiences will not critically scrutinise a story?s logic. They are felt to regard sinetron as ?tontonan?, spectacles for entertainment, which need not necessarily represent ?reality?. In defence of his ?unrealistic? sinetron, Punjabi claims, ?I am not a merchandiser of dreams, instead, of wishes. Everyone longs for a comfortable life.? Convinced that the poor must be tired of poverty, he chooses to display beautiful stars, nice houses, luxurious cars, and glamorous lifestyles (Suara Pembaruan 09/05/2002). He claims that his sinetron are popular because viewers are able to identify themselves with characters and situations in the sinetron. Viewers of Punjabi?s sinetron must identify with a ?reality? different from the social reality in which they live. Sinetron are perceived as a medium to display modernity and for viewers to engage themselves in substitutional activities to give their lives a middle-class ?touch?. But why are they content for their consumption to stop at the symbolic stage?
Sinetron Consumption and Life styling
Sinetron content is relatively immune to political and social changes in Indonesia. Indeed, sinetron have served as a medium for Indonesia?s ?new middle class? to symbolically establish and maintain self-identity and group membership. Solvey Gerke calls this symbolic consumption ?life styling?, where membership of the middle class is not necessarily determined by income, but through the display of certain commodities imagined as signifying modernity and urban middle-class lifestyle. Gossip about the most recent twist-and-turns of plots in sinetron as well as the affairs of the actresses and actors which can be followed through ET-like television programs and inexpensive tabloids like Nova, Cek & Ricek, X-pose and Sinetron enable the members of even cukupan families (those who have enough, but are not rich) to participate in such cultural practices.
Putu Wijaya explains that most sinetron workers, himself included, tend to avoid discussing politics in their cultural products. In the euphoria of freedom for political discourse in mass media, sinetron has isolated itself from incorporating social and political reality into their themes. Keywords prevalently used in contemporary Indonesian politics such as democracy, civil society, general election, individual rights and political reform are almost totally absent in current Indonesian TV drama. Censorship by the New Order cultural regime has been replaced by the media regime of advertisement and ratings.
Various feminists have criticised sinetron for its stereotypical portrayal of women as passive, inexpressive and dependent mothers. A closer textual investigation of sinetron, however, reveals a different aspect of the role and position of women. Most sinetron have a female protagonist from a small town thrown into a big city having to deal with the complexity and conundrum of modern life. The female protagonist is usually contrasted with a female antagonist, commonly manifested in the relationship between daughter-in-law versus mother-in-law, country girl versus modern city girl, orphaned girl versus dominating aunt, and other similar familial relations. The aim is to highlight extreme binary contrasts between country, poor, uncultured, simple, domestic, and traditional versus city, rich, cultured, sophisticated, career-oriented, and modern. The protagonist becomes a role model idealized as the bearer of moral values of simplicity, fidelity, honesty, dignity, loyalty and piety amidst the corrupt consequences of modernity. She has to endure a series of struggles and hardships and resist temptations to compromise her virtuous principles, often through humiliating and violent tear-jerking mistreatment, to emerge victorious.
It is this moral victory that appeals to sinetron viewers. For Mrs. Sum and her friends in Blora, the pleasure of watching sinetron comes from the relief and satisfaction in seeing their protagonist emerge from her sufferings and struggles, which remind them of their own struggles as women. They are also relieved that moral values win over material goods and luxurious lifestyles that they can never achieve.
The female characters who represent such moral virtues often have non-Eurasian physical features. The central female characters in both Tersanjung and Camelia have dark complexions, long straight black hair, exotic subdued faces, soft voices and enigmatic and inscrutable characters. They represent a statement of endurance against modernity manifested in bodily glamorous beauty, materialism and consumption.
In a time of crisis, sinetron maintain continuity. For middle-upper class families, similar to shopping, dining in prestigious restaurants, and wearing clothes and accessories with famous brands, watching sinetron maintain their membership of a now much smaller social group, without the expense. For lower class families, watching sinetron provides for symbolic consumption and strengthens the moral values they adhere to. For the diaspora in Sydney, sinetron provides a link to the homeland.
Amrih Widodo (amrih.widodo@anu.edu.au) is a lecturer in the Faculty of Asian Studies at the Australian National University
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
'In Indonesia, pornography is also blamed for everything from teenage promiscuity, to rape and AIDS (and is also linked in the public mind with drugs)'
Justine Fitzgerald
One of the most recent adult products on offer in Indonesia is a VCD called Kasting Sabun Mandi (Shower Soap Casting). The 9 young models, cameramen and production house involved became the focus of public and police attention this year because it was claimed that the film was 'pornographic'. Although the women interviewed by police claimed they thought they were doing casting shots for a soap product commercial, the controversy has naturally helped to sell thousands of copies of the film.
Pornography, whether you see it as exploitation or as sexual expression, is an issue that will never go away. Like abortion and drug use, there will always be some members of society who want it to exist. Many countries recognise this reality and introduce very specific legislation to control it, with a range of censorship classifications for different media, and then enforce these laws and classifications. They also have enforcement of copyright laws and tighter control on pirated goods being smuggled into the country. Indonesia has none of this: no specific legislation, inconsistent censorship, and negligible law enforcement. Pornography is dealt with under articles 281, 282, 532, and 533 of the Indonesian Criminal Law Code (KUHP), but because it is only defined as being anything that offends public morals, a perhaps deliberately open definition, anything that is vaguely sexual is in danger of being labeled as 'porno'. No wonder then that there is panic about this deluge of pornography that is desecrating Indonesian culture and family values.
The Kasting Sabun Mandi scandal is only the last of many incidents involving 'pornography' in Indonesia, but the response to it and the issues it raises generally follow the same pattern. After whatever it is that offends public morals causes public outcry, usually from Islamic groups like KAMMI, Marka, KNPI and the infamous FPI, who are all members of KMAP (Anti-Pornography Community Consortium), or from women's groups, the police will investigate, generally focusing on any celebrities or 'artists' involved rather than those distributing and making real money from the product. There will be calls for specific laws to be introduced, for those laws to be enforced, a number of scapegoats will receive minimal penalties, KKN (corruption, collusion and nepotism) ensuring that no-one important or rich is affected, and the issue will be swept aside by the next new scandal.
This is not to deny that there are groups in Indonesian society who are trying to act on their concerns about the impact of pornography, such as the exploitation of women and the easy access that minors have to hardcore pornography in Indonesia through unregulated pirate materials on the street and internet services provided without any filters. However, instead of, for instance, assisting with establishing definitions for the drafting of specific legislation, their reactions tend to be blanket and ultimately unconstructive, such as burning magazines, or MUI's (the Indonesian Council of Islamic Scholars) recent idea of initiating a class action against the mass media for having pornographic content.
In Indonesia, pornography is also blamed for everything from teenage promiscuity, to rape and AIDS (and is also linked in the public mind with drugs), when there has still been no real research on connections between pornography and criminal or 'undesirable' behaviour. This attitude also denies the increase in the level of discourse about the sexual in general, not just sensationalistic reporting of rape cases and celebrity sex scandals, but also in the form of advice and medical columns, radio call-in shows, and self-help books.
Under the Soeharto regime, it was harder to see pornography if you weren't looking for it, but with greater press freedom and a less controlled society, it's now everywhere. Soft porn photos can be found in calendars, magazines and tabloids, and hardcore photography is increasingly available on the street. And of course you can see whatever you want on the internet, which if you live in a reasonably large Indonesian town, is only as far away as the local warnet (internet cafe). As early as 1995, the Indonesian government was trying to block online porn, but as there is no specific legislation to regulate or filter internet access, or enforcement, naturally these attempts have been futile. Apart from overseas sites, there is also an astounding range of Indonesian material available. Most of these sites are photographic, but often also have email services, a chat room, articles, and links to yet more sites, including those with Indonesian language stories and translations from English or European stories.
One of these sites is Cerita-Cerita Seru (CCS - 'Way-Out Stories'), which has achieved the status of being the first and still most popular of its kind, to the point where the site is now copyrighted, more a sign of its prestige than a serious attempt at protection since many other Indonesian adult sites often plagiarise from CCS. In comparison to the print media, stories on sites like CCS are much freer in the range of scenarios, locales and experiences described. (Another Indonesian adult site, 17tahun.net, has same sex stories for both genders.) Many stories are told in the first person, and they are often presented as recollections of 'real' events. For instance, one story was apparently written by an Indonesian man living in Melbourne who sleeps with 'easy' Australian girls!
And whilst women are overwhelmingly still the objects rather than consumers of pornography, it seems that there are Indonesian women creating and consuming it on the net in the form of emails, eGroups, chat room sex, seeking photos and posting photos of themselves, and as writers. Sites such as 'Romance for Indonesian Ladies' include chat rooms, surveys, articles on sex such as descriptions (with photos) of sexual positions, and information about services like gigolos in the Jakarta area.
For those without access to the internet, there are also sex stories circulated in magazines, tabloids, and as stencil books, all of which are relatively cheap and accessible. The print media stories are noticeably tamer than those on the internet, or Western equivalents, in terms of experimentation and more 'deviant' sexual practices.
One infamous example is Enny Arrow, who is the supposed author (because no-one seems to know if 'he' really exists) of stenciled books of Indonesian language pornographic stories, most of which appear to have been produced in the 70s - 80s. These books are now considered classics. In the 80's they used to cost 3,000-5,000 rp., but now the price is around 15,000rp which in Indonesia is not a small amount for such a low-quality publication. This is crass and repetitive writing that perpetuates stereotypes concerning class, ethnicity and gender, including the idea that 'no' means 'yes'. Many of Enny's stories describe a young woman who is single, or a divorcee/ widow (janda), who comes to the city from the village to find work. She often becomes a housemaid, or a factory worker who, after she is coerced into having sex, which she invariably ends up enjoying (how could she not when all the men are 'as big as horses'?!), very frequently becomes a prostitute. Obtaining Enny's work used to be like buying illicit drugs: you had to have the right connections because dealers from the big cities sold it through underground networks. Now, however, you can get Enny or his equivalent from newsagent kiosks on the side of the road, and many of the consumers of this kind of material are high school students.
In terms of film, despite legislation, Indonesian and foreign sex movies have been shown in cheap cinemas for years. There have been cases of prosecution against cinema owners, sometimes merely because of the promotional posters they used, but yet again this is arbitrary and generally not aimed at the actual producers, so more films are made, or the old ones are simply re-released under new titles.
However, the increasing use of new technologies makes taking the risk of being caught at a disreputable movie cinema unnecessary, and VCD/DVD is definitely the most prevalent and easily accessible form of pornography in Indonesia today. It is apparently common now to find someone with a VCD machine and pornographic disks who charges a minimal price for others to watch, in even the smallest villages on the main islands of Indonesia. And anyone with a computer can go to the corner VCD/DVD rental shop to get a 'bf' (blue filem) to watch in the comfort of their own room. Huge amounts of pirated material are smuggled into Indonesia from Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines and Hong Kong (mostly Western or Hong Kong products). Apart from Kasting Sabun Mandi there are a few other infamous local products, notably Anak Ingusan and Bandung Lautan Asmara or Itenas.
Indonesia does have a problem with pornography because it has no control over it, and as long as KKN runs the country, Enny and Kasting will circulate freely. Although there has been a huge increase in the level of Islamic rhetoric and 'morality' in the public sphere since the end of the Suharto regime, there are also more people now who are brave enough to speak out for freedom of the press, the right to individual privacy, and a woman's right to display her sexuality and be paid for it. It is often these same voices that call for distinctions to be drawn so that there can be an acknowledgement of the erotic, and a limit on the pornographic. If they can engage in a real dialogue with Islamic and women's groups, and the government, then Indonesia might be able to take steps towards controlling this problem in a more pragmatic way.
Justine FitzGerald (justinef@hotmail.com) is currently the coordinator of the Indonesian section of the UNMISET (UN Mission in Support of East Timor) Interpreting, Translating & Training Unit.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Indonesia's free press needs time to mature
Lukas Luwarso
Indonesian press freedom dates back only three years, but the press remains a continual target of criticism and abuse, usually from government officials or politicians. The most recent case, for example, involved in a Consultative Meeting of the DPR Commission 1 with the press community in March 2002.
In this meeting, a number of members of parliament (MPs) from various fractions opined that the press is erratic, invades privacy, spreads pornography and fans conflict. A DPR member even said with some enthusiasm, 'Before Indonesian society was oppressed by the military, now they are oppressed by the press.' The State Minister for Information and Communication, Syamsul Muarif, has categorised these criticisms into five diseases of the press, namely: pornography, character assassination, false and provocative news, misleading advertisements, and unprofessional journalists (called bodrex).
In itself, this criticism is above board and healthy for the development of the press. However, recent developments indicate that the government and some politicians are responding to dissatisfaction with the press through systematic efforts to again muzzle the press.
These signals include the discussion of draft broadcast laws, the suggested revision to Law No.40/1999 concerning the Press and the strength of the anti-pornography campaign targeted at the press. Various suggested draft legislation could also eat away at press freedom. For instance, the proposed anti-pornography, state secret and anti-terrorist legislation. These various signals strengthen the hunch that a regime of closedness is putting itself in order to again reign over Indonesia. This negative campaign targeting the press's work ethic is an entry point for those who wish to silence freedom.
Politicians' Fear
The number of penal threats in the draft broadcast laws reflects politicians' fear of press freedom. Nineteen of the 63 clauses of the DPR's draft broadcast law are penal threats. These clauses are not relevant in a broadcast law, as they are contained in the Criminal Code and other related legislation. The government's version of the draft broadcast law, like that of the DPR, demonstrates a desire to control the public's right of expression, communication, and the right to obtain information.
The government and some MPs thought of revising Law no 40/1999 concerning the press, which they have always considered to be too liberal. Their intended revisions, amongst others, were to insert a number of clauses from the Criminal Code, to give the Press Law more teeth. Once again, politicians showed no faith in Indonesia's legal system, and felt the need to duplicate clauses from the Criminal Code in other legislation.
This trend is also evident in the suggestion to draft anti-pornography legislation. Pornography is already regulated by Clause 282 of the Criminal Code. The press is the real target of this anti-pornography campaign. This is clear because little fuss has been made about the most blatant and spectacular pornographic product: VCDs, which can be obtained easily by the side of the road.
Members of parliament have complained that every day no less than 2000 journalists (many of them bodrex) make their fortune by asking the members for money. This problem is so 'complicated' for the MPs, and in the end they blame freedom of the press, or chide the Press Council or journalists' organisations for not working to administer journalists. But the problem has an easy solution. Journalists who are authorised to cover news at parliament just need to be given a clear identity card. After all, why do bodrex flock to parliament? Because MPs charitably give journalists envelopes of money, and in so doing attract the interest of those claiming to be journalists. As such, haven't MPs actually played their part in the spread of bodrex?
Community Affairs
Politicians' support for freedom of the press is questionable. In October 1999, then president Abdurrahman Wahid stressed that information (the press) was a community affair, and no longer a government affair. However, Indonesia's politicians clearly have no faith in the positive potential of press freedom. They only see the negative aspects. A desire to control, govern, threaten and take action still dominates. Politicians appear to be insincere in their support for a free press, and they are not patient enough to allow self-regulation-through market forces and press community initiatives-to operate.
The 'chaos' produced by press freedom is now being put in order. The number of print media in Indonesia, which did explode to 1881, has now returned to 556, according to Press Council data. The number of journalists' organisations had swelled to more than 40, but these have started to fold and less than five are now truly operative. During the last three years, a media watch institution has been established to monitor the press. Legal action has also been taken against 18 print media judged to have published 'pornographic' material, after complaints from the community. Almost two years after its establishment, the independent Press Council has received 120 complaints and endeavoured to mediate between the community and the press. Journalists' organisations and non-government organisations have actively organised discussions, training, workshops and education to improve the ethics and professionalism of journalists. This has included specific training on investigative reporting, peace journalism, and the connection between the media and human rights, autonomy and transparency.
The various efforts of the press community and society to improve the quality of the Indonesian press have by no means immediately resulted in ideal conditions or the sort of press that we hope for. Moreover, what sort of press do Indonesians hope for? Like society, the press is extremely diverse. There will always be tabloids oriented to gossip, sensationalism, criminality and even indecency. However, there will also assuredly be many serious (mainstream) media that apply professional journalistic standards and become a reference for the public in forming opinions.
Criticism of the press in Indonesia frequently relies on a fleeting impression or a generalisation, and accusations are not accompanied by data: which Indonesian press, when was it erratic? Various accusations are also often off the mark; for example, someone might take an entertainment tabloid or gossip rag seriously. In any case, the solution to disappointment with the press is very simple. You just need to stop buying or subscribing, or turn off the radio or TV if you don't like the program. If you have been wronged by press coverage, use your right of reply, complain to the Press Council. If it is particularly serious, refer the matter to the courts.
Our hopes for the role of the press depend heavily on our taste and choices in consuming the press. So many choices, such variety - that is the beauty, and the risk, of democracy and freedom. Unfortunately, politicians tend to see only risk rather and not the opportunity of press freedom. They claim moral authority and speak on behalf of the public interest so that they can impose their own value systems. Through formal regulations, such as legislation, they institutionalise their attitudes.
If Indonesia's politicians could be patient with a power (the New Order) that was not under control and was erratic for 30 years, why can't they be patient with the press, which has been not under control for only three years? I asked a similar question three years at a seminar in Jakarta to respond to various abuse directed at the press, particularly by a number of government officials and DPR members who wanted the immediate reintroduction of the licensing (SIUPP) system, and to bring the press under control again, after only a few months of freedom. They have continued to try to bring the press under control to the present day.
Just how serious are the consequences of the poor capacity of the press, that politicians have been so inconvenienced and furious. Just how bad have the excesses produced by the press in Indonesia been, that there is such a large desire to shackle freedom of the press? Politicians need to remember: the press is a private enterprise, which doesn't use the people's taxes, does not drain on the budget, nor are press workers paid by the state (in contrast to members of parliament and government officials). The press is chosen by and responsible to its readership, at any moment its consumers can choose it or toss it away. And of course, the press has no legal immunity. From time to time it can be taken to court to account for its products.
The capacity of parts of the press in Indonesia is indeed still poor. Why not improve this capacity, rather than restricting the atmosphere of freedom. Give freedom of the press a chance to repair itself.
Lukas Luwarso (seapajak@cbn.net.id) is the Executive Director of the Indonesian Press Council and the head of the Jakarta Branch of the Southeast Asian Press Alliance.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Indonesia today is a dangerous place primarily for Indonesians, not foreigners
John Roosa
The October 12 bombing in Bali, like most incidents of violence, was very brief, a matter of only seconds, yet its effects will be with us for a long time. The effects extend beyond the tragic loss of loved ones and the painful scars of the survivors. The bombing has badly damaged the cross-cultural, cross-national communication that this magazine has been trying to promote for the last twenty years. Many Australians (and other foreigners) studying, working, or vacationing in Indonesia have returned home. Indonesians living in Australia have been harassed.
Meanwhile, the Indonesian and Australian governments are eroding civil liberties in the name of fighting terrorism. Activists in both countries struggling non-violently for peace and justice are worried that they too will become targets of the anti-terrorism campaign. Added to these worries is the prospect of increased instability in Indonesia as the already faltering economy declines further.
As the repercussions of the bombing keep spreading, we should remember that it was the work of a small clique of conspirators. Although the perpetrators targeted foreigners, they were obviously indifferent to the lives of Indonesians and to the welfare of the nation. The bombing should not affect our appreciation of the need to maintain strong society-society relations between Indonesia and Australia.
Indonesia today is a dangerous place primarily for Indonesians, not foreigners. Hundreds of thousands of people have been displaced by war. Some 600 Acehnese civilians have been killed in 2002. The task of making Indonesia a safer place is much larger than bringing to justice the clandestine group responsible for the Bali bombing. Foreigners need to continue to help Indonesian civil society find ways to end the violence and to ensure their own governments do not follow policies that encourage it.
The deadline for submission of articles to this issue was only three days after the Bali bombing. We decided to proceed with this present issue about the military and militarism. Our next issue (no. 74) will be devoted to reflections on the bombing and its consequences.
The bombing has actually confirmed the importance of the theme of this issue. Given the military's notorious corruption, it has been widely assumed that the bombers obtained their explosives from the military. This is a reasonable assumption: the first suspect arrested by the police (Amrozi) was found to have some 4,000 military-issue bullets. Given that elements in the military have been supporting extremist militias (such as Laskar Jihad), it has also been assumed that the bombers have had some backing from within the military.
The articles in this issue reveal that the Indonesian military, assigning as many troops to internal policing as external defence, has become a security threat for the society. Since about 70% of the military's funding comes from off-budget sources, the loyalty of the troops is divided between the state and the private businesses (sometimes illegal businesses) that pay their salaries. The military is in desperate need of reform. But the task of reforming it has become immeasurably more difficult as civil society itself has become militarized. This issue carries several excellent articles on the civilian militias that have emerged in recent years.
We at Inside Indonesia are proud of the high quality of articles we have been able to publish. Our magazine was a finalist in the United Nations Association of Australia media awards for an article titled 'Timor's Women' by Dawn Delaney in the East Timor edition (no.71). Congratulations to Dawn.
Because of a recent budgetary crisis, we have had to temporarily suspend publication of the supplement 'Learning about Indonesia.' We regret the demise and hope to hear from friends with ideas on how to restart it.
John Roosa jproosa@indo.net.id
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Understanding the tragedy beyond al-Qaeda and Bush's 'war on terror'
Thomas Reuter
Shortly before midnight on Saturday, 12 October 2002 a devastating attack was launched at the beachside town of Kuta on the island of Bali. Two bombs exploded in quick succession in Paddy's Irish Pub and outside the Sari Club. The blast and subsequent fires left more than 190 people dead and several hundred injured, most of them young holiday-makers from Australia and other Western countries.
Mainstream media reports quickly pointed the finger of blame at the international terrorist network al-Qaeda and its local operatives. Little attention was given to the national let alone local socio-political context in which this attack took place. Attacks of a similar kind, if not scope, have occurred with increasing regularity since the collapse of Suharto's military dictatorship in 1998. As a consequence, the tragedy of October 12 was co-opted prematurely and uncritically into the global political agenda and rhetorical paradigm of the United States government's 'War on Terror'.
National context
The task of addressing the issue of terrorism, or of assessing whether or not the Indonesian and Western governments are addressing it appropriately on our behalf, is made difficult by the secret nature of terrorist and counter-terrorist operations. At the time of writing (late October), no verifiable evidence of al-Qaeda involvement in the Bali attack has been made available to the public.
Even when it comes to the general question of al-Qaeda's presence in Southeast Asia, the evidence is scanty and often impossible to verify. On 15 September 2002, for example, Time Magazine claimed to have seen 'secret CIA documents' stating that the Kuwaiti militant and alleged al-Qaeda operative, Omar al-Faruq, recently arrested in Indonesia and delivered to the US military, had confessed to the CIA, perhaps under torture, how he had been ordered to coordinate a series of attacks on US and other foreign interests in Southeast Asia. Many Indonesians do not accept the claims based on such intelligence leaks, not surprisingly given that the US government by its own admission considers it legitimate to spread misinformation for strategic purposes.
Al-Qaeda should not be considered as a singular organisation with an international agenda and a central authority. It is able to maintain a power base in numerous parts of the world because it is a network of rather loosely affiliated national or local extremist groups. What needs to be explored are the reasons for its successful expansion into countries like Indonesia and Malaysia, where the vast majority of Muslims have been consistently classified as moderates by generations of Western scholars.
While a unitary organisation's expansion conceivably can be halted by pursuing a smallish group of key culprits through intelligence or military operations, a bottom-up process can be expected to self-perpetuate unless underlying political and socio-economic causes are removed. The implications for foreign policy are serious and far-reaching.
This is not to deny that an internationalisation of terrorism has been taking place. Radical Islamic groups in Indonesia have had international links for at least two decades. The now-infamous leader of Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (MMI, Council of Indonesian Mujahideen), Ba'asyir and many of his closest associates had established such links on their own initiative after having participated in the armed struggle against the Soviet occupation in Afghanistan during the 1980s, a struggle for which the US was the major backer. The Iranian revolution of 1979 was also a watershed in that it provided the model case for establishing an Islamic state. Nevertheless, the main focus of political consciousness among such groups has been the Indonesian state itself.
It may be safe to assume that a network of radical Islamic groups with international links is present in Indonesia today, and that elements in some of these groups at least are willing to use terrorism as a political tool - with or without help from their affiliates and donors abroad. The political ambitions of these radicals most likely are still focused firmly on national objectives, even though their discourse may reflect an international rhetoric of fighting for the glory of Islam and against the great Satan America.
The problem in allocating blame for the Bali blast is that radical Islamic groups like Jemaah Islamiyah are not the only groups in Indonesia today who may be willing and capable of committing or supporting acts of terrorism. There are many causes and perpetrators of violence in contemporary Indonesia. Inter-religious conflicts, vigilante-style killings of petty criminals and other undesirables, institutionalised protection and extortion rackets, and the alarming spread of paramilitary groups are all part of this phenomenon. Different groups even within the government's own security forces have been fighting turf wars. This diffusion of violence makes it difficult to pinpoint a single person or group as the likely perpetrators in any particular case.
Balinese context
In Bali itself, there has been increasing tension between Hindu Balinese and Muslim labour migrants from neighbouring islands. Many fear this wave of spontaneous immigration could marginalise the Balinese as an ethnic and religious minority on their own island, as has been the fate of other peoples in the outer islands. More immediately, however, the problem is one of competition for jobs, and also social envy. Some of the migrants are not economic refugees at all, but wealthy Javanese investors who have established major businesses in Bali, ranging from hotels and restaurants to taxi companies.
As early as April 1999 there have been violent attacks on Javanese street sellers. Several Javanese informants residing in Bali told me only a few weeks before the attacks how they no longer dared to be seen outdoors after 10pm for fear of being abducted and murdered, following threats and a spate of mysterious disappearances in their circle of friends and acquaintances. In turn, my Balinese informants told me that the Java-based Laskar Jihad (LJ, 'Holy Warriors') had begun to build a presence especially in northern Bali, allegedly to 'protect our down-trodden Muslim brothers in Bali' (from an undated LJ propaganda pamphlet distributed in Central Java in late 2001). Days after the Bali blast, this militant group disbanded or went underground, depending on how one chooses to look at it. LJ, in any case, has rarely acted on its own. In Aceh, Ambon and West Papua, for example, the group appears to have enjoyed extremely cordial relations with the army, and there is wide speculation that LJ has been encouraged to cause trouble in order to maintain a sense of crisis throughout the country.
In recent years, the Balinese have also responded to a number of serious security issues in relation to organised crime. My informants claim that the illegal drug trade, prostitution as well as extortion rackets, particularly in Kuta and Sanur, are firmly in the hands of immigrants, who are in turn protected by elements within the official security forces. In Sanur, for example, traditional Balinese community organisations have been fighting a pitched battle against the prostitution industry and its patrons. Note in this context that the main reason why the destroyed Sari Club had a policy of barring entry to Indonesians was to keep out sex workers, who had already swamped and changed the character of most other major bars and nightclubs in the area.
A key indicator of the state of the tourism industry, Bali's hotel occupancy rate had dropped from over 70 % before the attack to just 5 % by 29 October. This shows that that the main losers in the attack on Bali, apart from the victims themselves and their families, are the island's residents, irrespective of whether or not they are ethnically Balinese. The Hindu Balinese majority seem to have realised this and, until now, have shown restraint by not lashing out at Muslim immigrants in their midst.
Already destabilised by the attack, President Megawati has been under enormous pressure from Washington to take stern measures against terrorists. How is she to do this without the military, or with it, given that it is widely suspected in Indonesia that the military could have been implicated in the attack? Are the Indonesian police and intelligence up to the task? Could wanton arrests trigger a Muslim backlash? We may have to be patient. Too much pressure now could help to derail Indonesia's emergent democracy. The US and Australia, considering their interests in Indonesia now, should be aware of this peril. We should move forward by supporting the reform of the Indonesian military and the engagement of the mass of Muslim Indonesians in the democratic process.
Thomas Reuter (thomasr@unimelb.edu.au) is a Queen Elizabeth II Research Fellow of the Australian Research Council, located at the School of Anthropology, Geography & Environmental Studies, The University of Melbourne.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Families of the Disappeared are Still Searching for Answers
R. Waluya Jati
In 1997 political activists began noticing that some of their colleagues were mysteriously disappearing. The general suspicion was that the military had kidnapped them to terrorize the burgeoning movement against the Suharto regime. That suspicion was confirmed when some of the disappeared activists resurfaced and told stories of their abduction, detention, and torture. It soon became clear that the army's Special Forces (Kopassus) were responsible for this covert operation. After Suharto fell in May 1998, nine Kopassus officers, including Maj. Gen. Prabowo, were tried by a military court and dismissed from the army for their role in the disappearances.
The story does not end there. Among those activists abducted, fourteen never returned. The military has refused to reveal what happened them. The military court only charged the Kopassus officers for the cases of the nine activists who had survived and been released. The military court did not accuse the officers of being responsible for the 14 still missing activists, despite the fact that the survivors reported seeing some of them still alive in the secret jail. The officers were only charged with misinterpreting an order and sentenced to between 12 to 22 months in jail.
The families of these victims have organised themselves to demand accountability of the government. They began their struggle with great hopes. They hoped to find out whether their loved ones were still alive or not. Their terrible fear of approaching high officials in the military and government was overcome by their boundless hopes.
It has now been four years since they began their quest for the truth. They have been knocking on door after door in the office buildings of the labyrinthine Indonesian bureaucracy. Still, they have not gotten one inch closer to the truth. The whereabouts of their loved ones are still unknown. The perpetrators, though already identified and publicly known, remain silent and untouchable. This case, like nearly all cases of past human rights violations by the military, is being ignored and forgotten by government officials.
All of the photographs here are of relatives of those 14 disappeared persons. At the moment I am writing this (in October 2002), families from all over Indonesia are gathering in Jakarta for a congress of the Union of Families of Disappeared Persons (Ikatan Keluarga Orang Hilang). This organization includes many more families than those of the 14 disappeared persons of 1997-98. Despite the state's indifference, they are persistent and have not lost hope.
Photos
Toeti Kotto, the mother of Yani Avri, a missing activist, was given clothes by another relative of a disappeared person. She is wearing the clothes on the day of the Muslim holiday Idul Fitri. From morning, she has been waiting at the front gate of her house for a miracle: for God to return her son to her.
Nabila, 11 years old, is the daughter of Noval Alkatiri. She has written the initial 'N' on the palms of both her hands - the initial standing for Nabila and Noval. Her father had not been an activist. He was an agent sending workers to the Mideast. He disappeared in 1997 while in the company of an activist, Dedy Hamdun, who is also still missing.
Wiji Thukul, a well-known poet and activist, has been missing since April 1998. In the years prior he had become a target of military intelligence. Dyah Sujirah and Nganthi Wani, his wife and daughter, are at the launching of a book of his poems in 2000.
On 12 February 1998, Suyatno was kidnapped by military officers who wanted him to reveal the whereabouts of his brother Suyat, an activist. He was released a few hours later after having been badly beaten and tortured. Suyat was then abducted by Kopassus and is still missing. Suyatno is haunted by regret and the desire to change places with his brother, though he, of course, can not be blamed for his brother's fate.
Although feeling unwell, Ibu Palan Siahaan forced herself to join a demonstration in front of the Presidential Palace during the International Week of Forced Disappearances in May 2002. Her son, Ucok Manandar Siahaan, disappeared in May 1998. The family had received anonymous telephone calls demanding that their son stop his campus activism.
R. Waluya Jati (jatijati@hotmail.com) is a photographer with Offstream Allied Media in Jakarta. He is one of the disappeared of 1997-98 who survived. His photographs of the families of the disappeared have been published in the book, Mereka Yang Dipisahkan (Jakarta, 2001).
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
A General of the Sukarno years criticises today's military
Muhammad Fauzi
Hario Kecik is an old soldier who refuses to fade away. At 81 years of age, he remains a fireball of creative energy. He has just published a novel and is just about to publish the third volume of his autobiography. For hobbies, he paints, sings (in six languages, including Chinese), and writes poetry. He is a natural public speaker who, with a vast repertoire of jokes and stories, can keep an audience entertained for hours. When telling stories, he frequently breaks into Javanese and raises the tone of his voice in such a way that one can not help but laugh at his expressiveness. He is like a one-man culture industry where rough East Javanese humour mixes with refined cosmopolitan learning. It is difficult to believe, given the cultural abilities of today's military officers (just listen to Gen. Wiranto's CD of his karaoke favorites!), that Hario Kecik was once a Brigadier General in the Army.
As we sit in his home on the outskirts of Jakarta, he describes the formative event of his youth: the Surabaya uprising of November 1945. It was a popular revolt against the British troops that had just arrived to secure the surrender of the Japanese. The British troops were seen, rightly as it turned out, to be the advance guard of a Dutch attempt to recolonise Indonesia. A guest in Hario's house is left in no doubt of the importance of the event for him: a massive canvas about it painted by Hario himself hangs in the front room.
One legacy of those early street fighting years is his name. His full Javanese name, Soehario Padmodiwirio, was hardly suitable as a nom de guerre. It betrayed his aristocratic ancestry. All these years, he has kept the diminutive name that his friends in the struggle gave him: Kecik, meaning small in the East Javanese dialect. Despite his short stature, even by Indonesian standards, he excelled in warfare because he was gutsy, clever, and agile.
Beginning and end of an era
For Hario, the formation of the Indonesian army emerged out of the spontaneous effort of the youth (pemuda) to seize the weapons of the Japanese in 1945 and resist the incoming European troops. He did not enter the army by signing up at a recruiting office: he and four friends created their own little unit. Many such units sprouted up at that time. Each group chose its own leader from among its own ranks. As these units merged and the leaders were accorded ranks, Hario was accorded the rank of Major. In Hario's experience, the national army, in its early years, was created by civilians. Its leaders emerged organically from below.
Following the departure of the Dutch troops, Hario stayed within the army and rose up through the ranks. He became the commander of the military region of East Kalimantan in 1959 and a Brigadier General in 1962. Despite the fact that he had attended two officer training courses in the United States at Fort Benning in 1958, he had a reputation for being left-wing. His experience with the 1945 revolution and with the United States attempts to sabotage Sukarno in the late 1950s had made him decidedly anti-imperialist.
At the time of Suharto's takeover of power in late 1965, Hario was in the Soviet Union. He had been sent to study at the War College there in early 1965 by the army commander Gen. Yani. Given both his left-wing reputation and his stay in the Soviet Union, he knew he would be arrested or worse if he returned to Indonesia. In exile in Moscow, he took advantage of the time by studying. He was appointed senior associate at the Academy of Sciences in Moscow.
Eventually, he decided to return to Indonesia in 1977 and face whatever awaited him there. Immediately after landing at the airport in Jakarta, he was hauled off to prison by army soldiers. He spent the next four years in a military detention jail in central Jakarta. No charges. No trial. No idea when he would be released. It was four years of waiting punctuated by the occasional interrogation in which he was respectfully referred to as 'Professor Hario'.
Punish the generals
After years of exile and imprisonment, Hario looks upon the army that developed under Suharto as a kind of freakish mutant. He hardly recognizes it as the army that emerged out of a social revolution. The army today still sticks to the rhetoric of that time "the people and the military are one" but has completely changed the meaning. Now the army employs the old populist rhetoric to justify its civilian militias that commit crimes for which the army wants plausible deniability.
Hario notes that the officer corps graduating from the military academy since the late 1960s have not been able to understand the army's history. What they learn is how to please their superiors, make a lot of money from corruption, and advance quickly up the ranks. 'It's too easy for them to gain promotions, especially when there isn't even a war going on.' Any military, Hario believes, faces problems in peace time. Without a war or the potential for war, 'an army loses its identity.' The Indonesian army has not faced any external threat since 1965 yet it has arrogated enormous powers to itself inside the country. It has focused on policing and waging war on other Indonesians.
The usual response of TNI officers to the crimes of soldiers is to say that the soldiers were acting on their own as individuals; they were oknum. According to Hario, 'If there is a brawl, the ones that are dismissed from the military are the lower ranking ones. Just recently, the Chief of Staff of the Army himself tore off their ensignia and discharged some privates because of a discipline problem. That kind of thing is really odd. If I was the Chief of Staff, I would first punish some generals. I would throw out the generals who are causing the problems.'
Corruption
Hario sees the problem of corruption as an institutional one for which the high officers are primarily responsible. He mentions a story that a private told him last year. 'After returning home at night, he goes out again and works as a security guard at a warehouse. He only gets 15,000 rupiah a night. He does the work but his commander, a colonel, demands money from the industrialist. The colonel doesn't do any work but he gets much more money than the private does.' This kind of situation is ruinous for the morale of an army.
As Hario remembers, the military's corruption was not so institutionalised and routine before 1965. When he was the commander of East Kalimantan, there were many opportunities to enrich himself had he so desired. He could have taken money from the timber barons and oil companies and used his troops to serve their interests - the pattern of the army commanders today.
Since East Kalimantan was largely undeveloped and the civil government was so meager, Hario thought his troops had to be involved in economic development. But his model of development was different than that of the big private companies. As a populist, Hario had his troops help build schools and run cooperative enterprises. While commander, he wrote a book about the army's economic role in the region titled People, Land, and the Military.
The general who replaced Hario as commander of East Kalimantan in February 1965, Sumitro, later became one of Suharto's closest allies. It is interesting that Sumitro's biography begins with a description of the ceremony for the transfer of the command. In the book, Sumitro presented Hario as a leftist who thought his transfer was a sign that the army high command did not understand 'the revolution' he was leading in East Kalimantan. Hario laughs while dismissing the description as entirely fanciful.
At the end of our discussion, Hario promises that the forthcoming installment of his memoir is focused on his reflections and analyses of the nation's military. He briefly outlines his analysis of the political differences in the 1945-65 period between officers deriving from the Dutch military, the Japanese military, and the people's militias (laskar). He laughs, 'but you'll have to read the book for the complete analysis.'
Muhammad Fauzi (mfauzi@hotmail.com) is a historian and librarian with Jaringan Kerja Budaya in Jakarta. Hario Kecik's memoirs have been published in two volumes: Autobiografi Seorang Mahasiswa Prajurit (Jakarta: Yayasan Obor Indonesia, 1995 and 2001). See www.obor.or.id.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Will a Truth and Reconciliation Commission ever be formed?
Agung Putri
Since the fall of President Suharto in May 1998, many Indonesians have been searching for ways to address the crimes of his 32-year dictatorship. One of Suharto's legacies to the country is a long trail of mysterious atrocities and unmarked mass graves. The questions that posed themselves after his fall from power were: How can we discover the truth behind the various atrocities? How can we determine who was responsible? If we are able to determine who was responsible, what should we do then?
The answers to these questions have not been obvious. Even though there has been a widespread desire to uncover the truth and hold the officials of the Suharto regime accountable, there has been no agreement on how that should be achieved. Even now, over four years after his fall, Suharto himself has not been touched, even for cases of corruption. All of the so-called 'reform' governments (under Presidents Habibie, Wahid, and Megawati) have failed to create any viable mechanism for dealing with past crimes.
Of course, one reason for this failure is the resistance from the Suharto family, its cronies, and the military. Additionally, the fact that many of the 'reform' politicians are holdovers from the Suharto era has meant that they often do not even perceive past atrocities as state crimes. Some politicians still uphold the line that the state can not commit crimes because it is the state. But those reasons by themselves are not sufficient to explain why so little has been accomplished since Suharto's demise. The factor that I would like to highlight here is the confusion concerning the appropriate mechanisms among the very people pushing for accountability.
Fact-finding committees
The first response of the post-Suharto governments to handle past crimes has been the fact-finding committee. So far there have been five such official committees that have investigated the following incidents: the violence in Aceh during the period when the province was called a Military Operation Area (1989-1998); the Jakarta riots of 13-15 May 1998; the massacre in Tanjung Priok in 1984, the violence in East Timor during the referendum process in 1999, and the killing of students during demonstrations in Jakarta at Trisakti University and the Semanggi cloverleaf in 1998-1999. The government established the first two commissions while the latter three were formed by the National Commission of Human Rights (Komnas HAM).
The committees performed well in bringing information about these cases to the public eye. Victims and witnesses were given the chance to provide recorded testimony. Military officers came before the committees and were asked to account for the military's actions. The reports of the committees have provided careful and sometimes exhaustive descriptions on what happened and how many people were killed or injured. But none of the committees have been able to conclude why the violence occurred. Every committee had to end its report with a recommendation for further investigation.
The preoccupation of the fact-finding committees was to identify particular military officers as the ones responsible for particular acts of violence. For instance, the report on the Jakarta riots suspected that Maj. Gen. Prabowo and Maj. Gen. Sjafrie Samsuddin had some sort of hand in provoking or organising the riots. It suggested that an investigation be held into a secret meeting they held on 14 May 1998 at an army headquarters. Similarly, the committee on the crimes in East Timor listed the names of 29 officers who were thought to be responsible for particular massacres.
This identification of individual officers, while helpful in framing court cases against them, does not lead to an understanding of the systemic nature of the crimes committed by the Suharto regime and the military. Indeed, it can reinforce the idea that there are a few bad apples within the military that need to be removed.
The problem with the military is not that there are a few bad officers within it. The main problem is that it is an unaccountable institution that has far too much power. It has routinely committed atrocities both during and after the Suharto regime. Arriving at the truth in the context of the military's power requires challenging the institutional power of the military.
The TRC
Members of Komnas HAM first proposed the establishment of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in 1998. They approached President Habibie and the military soon after Suharto resigned. Habibie welcomed the proposal but declined to follow up on it. The military rejected it outright. The upper chamber of parliament (MPR) was more supportive. The MPR passed a law called Unity and Reconciliation number V/2000 at its session in 1999 that called for the creation of a TRC. It was left up to the Ministry of Justice and Human Rights to draw up the guidelines and bring it into existence.
After the law was passed, there was a great deal of discussion about the TRC inside and outside of the government. There were seminars, conferences, and meetings. The non-governmental organisation that I work for, Elsam, was asked by the government to write a draft regulation that would determine the functioning of the TRC.
In my opinion, the advantage of a TRC is that it can address many cases of human rights that are already swamping Komnas HAM and have no hope of being handled by the country's ridiculously inadequate and corrupt legal system. Moreover, it can address cases that are far too complex and massive for legal remedies, such the killings of 1965-66. Perhaps the most important virtue of the TRC is that it can result in a comprehensive narrative about the systematic character of the Suharto's regime's crimes.
The TRC was a live issue for about a year. Despite the initial flurry of activity, there has been little progress in implementing the TRC. The law is on the books (and the MPR reaffirmed the law at its 2002 session) but the commission does not yet exist. By now it appears as if it will never be formed. Why has the TRC lacked a constituency that can forcefully push for its implementation? I think the reasons are manifold.
Some activists remain wary of the TRC because they think it lacks teeth, that it will not punish the military officers responsible for atrocities. Activists tend to prefer court trials. The Indonesian government's ad hoc court for the crimes against humanity in East Timor is closer to the method they would like to see used for all cases of state crimes. Moreover, they think 'reconciliation' is a pointless concept when dealing with crimes by state officials.
Many government officials and members of parliament support a vague notion of a TRC but do not fully understand it enough to push strongly for it. Some think it should just be a kind of quick 'feel good' exercise so that the past can be laid to rest. They are wary that it might actually not turn out to be that. Some think the TRC should include the Sukarno years under its purview. They do not view the Suharto regime as having a specifically criminal character of its own.
Victims organisations
Added to these problems is the lack of unity among the victims, especially in their support for a TRC. The victims have tended to organise according to the specific incident. Victims of the Tanjung Priok massacre, for instance, have an organisation of their own and have tried to find a resolution to their own particular case. Some of them have become quiet after reconciling personally with the officers suspected of ordering the massacre.
There have been numerous attempts to create a unified organisation for victims of the Suharto regime. A congress was held in Aceh in 2001 which led to the establishment of a a pan-Aceh Victims Solidarity Group. Another congress was held in Jakarta in early 2002 to consolidate all the groups of ex-political prisoners (Temu Raya Korban). A similar gathering was held in Papua in 2000. To some extent, these forums have raised the spirit of the victims and brought their plight to the attention of the public.
One problem such congresses have faced is their redirection for ulterior political ends. In Aceh and Papua, the victims' congresses were used to legitimate the demand for a referendum on independence. Meanwhile the victims' congress in Jakarta included in its resolutions the need to uphold Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution (the things the Suharto regime made sacred). The congresses have not actually been effective in insisting on a method by which the government should hold the former regime accountable for its crimes.
I think the idea of the TRC, so often misunderstood and under-appreciated, still holds great promise and should be pursued. The creation of the TRC will require building a consensus first about the need for a comprehensive approach to understanding the systemic nature of the Suharto regime's crimes.
Agung Putri (putri@elsam.or.id) is a staff member of Elsam, the Institute of Policy Research and Advocacy. She was a fellow at the Transitional Justice Program at the University of Capetown, South Africa, in 2002.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
The Military Fleeces and Polices Port Workers
Razif
In the northern-most reaches of Jakarta, on the edge of the Java Sea, lies the port of Tanjung Priok. As one approaches it from the road, one sees little more than high fences with guard posts interspersed at intervals. Behind the fences, one can catch glimpses of seemingly limitless stacks of containers - an immense accumulation of wealth in transit. Tanjung Priok is Indonesia's busiest port with some 1600 container trucks coming in and out every day. To handle the billions of dollars worth of commodities circulating through the port, there is a 15,000-strong army of stevedores, drivers, and clerks.
With so much wealth, one can be sure the Indonesian military is here taking a share. And with so many workers handling this wealth, one can also be sure the military is here to control them - and take a share of the workers' wages too.
Illegal fees
A truck driver at the port bringing in a container complains to me: 'after working at this port for nearly 30 years I've earned nothing. I've had to spend all my earnings paying off the military. Just about every day, to load or unload a container at the port, I have to pay Rp. 30,000 (US$3.30). Meanwhile, just for food and cigarettes, I spend about Rp. 20,000 [US$2.20] a day. So it's a real burden and it doesn't make any sense.'
There is no regulation that says the army soldiers stationed at the gates of the port can collect money from the truck drivers. The soldiers simply follow the slogan of a company whose shoes are exported from the port; they 'just do it'. They do not allow a truck to pass through unless the driver pays what they demand. Usually, the freight companies that employ the drivers do not provide extra money to pay for this unofficial tax.
The four metre-high fences and the ubiquitous soldiers are developments of the Suharto era. The first container docks were opened in 1974. Since then, more docks and cranes have been added to handle the growing amount of container traffic.
The port's pasts
Before 1965, the port used to be known as a open area. Just about anyone could enter. I met one elderly shadow puppet master in Jakarta who recalled how he would regularly perform a bi-weekly Saturday night show for the workers. He was a member of the left-wing cultural organisation Lekra (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat). He is still fond of those days: 'If it so happened that I didn't show up for a month, the dock workers would start asking about me. They'd wonder what could have possibly kept me away. Likewise, I would miss my friends there if I was off somewhere else. We were very close.' All that ended with the rise of Suharto in late 1965. 'On the night when the September 30th Movement occurred, I was actually performing at the Tanjung Priok port. I didn't know at the time that it would be the last time I ever performed for my friends there.' For being involved with the so-called 'communist' organisation Lekra, he was imprisoned for 14 years by the Suharto regime.
Although Tanjung Priok is an economic site, it has always had a political significance. During the nationalist movement in the 1920s, it was a refuge for those being hunted by the police of the colonial state. The dock workers could smuggle nationalist leaders into ships as stowaways. After independence, in the 1950s, the dock workers occasionally staged strikes for political reasons. For instance, they refused to load oil onto ships, mainly American ships, that were involved in the war in Korea.
Workers and soldiers
Looking at the port area now, it is hard to imagine those days. All around the port are Export Processing Zones (EPZs) that, with their barbed wire-topped fences and guard houses at the gates, resemble prison labour camps. Supplies are imported through the port, assembled in the EPZ factories by cheap labour, and then exported back out through the port.
What helps keep labour cheap in this area is the heavy military presence. Nearly every branch of the military is active in and around the port: the army, police, army reserves (Kostrad), marines, and navy. The company that owns the docks, PT Pelindo, uses the military for its security guards. The gates for docks are manned by active duty army soldiers who wear the uniforms of PT Pelindo. This is yet another case where the difference between state security personnel and private mercenaries for hire is often difficult to discern in Indonesia. The security personnel not only receive a salary from their units but also from PT Pelindo. Still, they do not consider it enough money and insist on extorting money from the truck drivers and workers.
Every worker at the port, including the drivers of the container trucks, is required to show an identity card when entering. To keep careful track of the workers, this card is re-issued every two weeks. It is not the company that issues the identity cards. It is the army command post situated right inside the port. The army is directly integrated into management-labour relations.
The port authorities have established their own labour law. During the Suharto years, the army, the manpower department, and the customs department issued a regulation forbidding port workers from striking. Port workers were exempted from the already weak protection afforded by national law since the port was considered a strategic asset for the national economy.
Gangsters
The truck drivers also have to face gangsters (preman) who are allied with the military. There is one area of the port known, ironically enough, as Free Land (Tanah Merdeka). It is the area where containers are temporarily stored. The so-called security for this area is provided by gangsters who are not officially employed as security guards. A truck driver who needs to keep a container there for a night has to pay rent money to these gangsters.
According to a truck driver, 'The gangsters are organised by the marines and have their headquarters near the Free Land. If we don't give them money, there is no guarantee that they won't steal the contents of the container. But that area is meant to be a facility of the port for us drivers. It is quite often that the ship comes into the port late in the day or is late a day. So we need a place to store the containers for a night.' This driver added sarcastically, 'Perhaps the place is called Free Land because it is free of any laws'.
On an average night, some 500 containers are stored in Free Land. The unofficial payment to the gangsters these days is Rp. 50,000 per night [US$5.50]. So one can imagine how much money the marines and their hoodlums are making every year for doing nothing.
A new union
Given the military presence and the tight regulation, it is remarkable that the workers have actually formed an independent union called Solidarity of Maritime Workers and Fishermen of Indonesia (SBMNI). Even more remarkable is that this union has organised a strike. About two-thirds of all the port workers went out on a two-day strike in November 2000. Apart from demanding an increase in wages, they demanded that the military stop collecting illegal exactions from the truck drivers at the gates.
The strike was partly successful. Management agreed to raise average wages from Rp. 600,000 to Rp. 700,000 per month [from US$67 to $78]. Despite such a relatively large increase in percentage terms, the wages are still very low, especially considering the long hours and heavy labour. Many dock workers put in twelve-hour days.
The military's illegal exactions at the gates were also stopped - but only for one week. As another truck driver I spoke with explained, 'The illegal fees started being collected again because the military threatened that they could not guarantee the security of the port, especially the security of the trucks coming in and out. For the owners of the port, it was better that the port's security was assured than the illegal fees abolished. Explicitly, the owners of the port sided with those bandits'. The military knows how to use euphemisms. When the military told the port owners that it could not guarantee security without the extra money, it was actually threatening to become a threat to security.
Once the strike was over, the port owners went on the offensive. They issued a new regulation which stated that the workers are allowed to form unions and strike. But they made the pre-conditions of unionisation and striking as burdensome as possible. Thus, the truck drivers, the workers who load and unload the containers, and the janitorial staff can not join the same union. They have to form separate unions. If one of these fragmented unions wants to strike, it has to notify the police one week ahead of time. No union is allowed to picket at the port itself and impede its functioning.
The SBMNI union is still organising and still struggling to make Tanjung Priok port a better place to work. But with the military so deeply involved, it faces a difficult and dangerous battle ahead.
Razif (ocip2363@cbn.net.id) is a historian with the Institute of Indonesian Social History in Jakarta and the editorial coordinator of the magazine Media Kerja Budaya (www.kerjabudaya.org).
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Page 57 of 67
Subscribe
Receive Inside Indonesia's latest articles and quarterly editions in your inbox.
