Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

Radioactive

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

Consuming Passions

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

You wan see jiggy-jig?

'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

Give Freedom of the Press a Chance

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

In this issue

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

The Bali Bombing

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

The Endless Wait

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

Not Fade Away

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

Evading the Truth

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

On the Waterfront

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

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