Articles - Inside Indonesia: The peoples and cultures of Indonesia

One Crater

Sulphur miners risk their lives on an active volcano. How do they do it? Ciaran Harman Agus Alam turned from watching me struggle up towards him, and looked down the mountainside beside the steep path to the squares of rice fields far below. Beyond him, the stubby grey-treed slope, folding and unfolding like a fan, was cut with a path like a fault-line. The first miners were beginning the first descent of the day down it from the smoky crater high above. Slung across their backs were woven baskets filled to the brim with brilliant yellow ore. Sulphur. In Kawah Ijen (One Crater), far eastern East Java, sulphur ore is mined by hand from an active volcanic crater. On a break from my studies in Yogyakarta in April, I took the night bus heading out that way with vague intentions of photojournalism and trying to understand what a life of hard physical labour would be like. I came back knowing only that I would probably never be able to understand the lives the people I saw, and that to write about them here as though I did would be a flat-out lie. Java's buckled spine of volcanoes, from Krakatau off the west coast to Gunung Merapi and Kawah Ijen in the far east, form part of the 'ring of fire' that surrounds the Pacific Ocean. Earlier, as my motorcycle taxi buzzed towards the volcano and up its slopes, I had seen the nearby peaks by the vast triangles of stars they blotted out in the pre-dawn sky. Now the sun was feeling its way across the slopes, slowly unfolding them to me, yet leaving so much hidden. I had caught up with Agus as I began up the path that led from the end of the road and the weigh station where the transport truck was parked. It was 3km up to the crater rim. Short and simple hair, a dirty tee shirt, shorts and thongs; he was in his twenties, about my age or younger, and walked slowly, unwillingly. It was his first day as a sulphur miner. Agus Alam quietly answered my questions as we ascended. He said he had come to work as a miner for the same reasons his father had many years before. They were poor and owned no land. Agus told me how every day his father left their home well before dawn to walk almost 20km from their village to the crater. Sometimes he stayed away for a couple of weeks and lived on the mountain in a shack shared with other miners. Agus would only ever see his father in daylight on the days he was too sick or tired to work. Ailments His father, I imagined, suffered from many of the ailments I was told are common to those who work in the sulphur clouds. Bad eyes, sore lungs, teeth corroded from the acid fumes. Agus must have known that he too would develop the calluses on his shoulders where up to 100kg of sulphur was balanced for three descents from the crater every day. He said he hoped not to work there long. You could earn a fair bit of money, especially if you were strong. The miners were paid for the weight they carried: about Rp200 (less than 5 cents) a kilo. He would save enough, perhaps, to buy a motorbike and cart around the throngs of tourists that come to see the crater and snap pictures of themselves and a miner in the dry season. But Agus carried his fear as a burden up the mountain, just as later he would carry those yellow rocks down, the load measured with every step. We came to a station on the path where the sulphur is weighed and the miners' shacks stand that Agus had told me about. In one shack, before my eyes became used to the gloom, it seemed as though stars surrounded me. I remembered for a moment the stars that had been blotted out from the night sky by the mountains. These pinpoints of light, however, turned out to be a thousand holes in the walls and roof. I wondered what the miners did when it rained. They would never be able to avoid a drip from the ceiling or a draught from the walls. The black soot coating everything and the pile of wood in the corner bore testament to the way they staved off the cold and clogged their lungs with smoke at the same time. Up the path the vegetation began to thin out. There was less lush green. The trees were getting greyer and the undergrowth withered to a scrubby, stunted tangle. And then, as I turned a corner in the path, just by where an old miner had stopped to adjust his load of brilliant yellow rocks, I was there. It was as though the peak of the mountain had been struck and shattered. The grey, gaping wound was filled with a grey, steaming lake. The crater rim, jagged like torn paper, encircled it. I could smell the sulphur; I could see it too. Yellow steam roared out of vents in the rock below me. It twisted upward and was carried east by the morning breeze. To the west, up an invisible path through the exploded landscape, the miners ascended, visible only by the way their burdens flared against the dead landscape. It was like Jacob's Ladder in reverse. But these were men, not angels or devils. Gas would drift over me and I would be reduced to a hacking, coughing mess between the grey rocks. My descent into this pit was graceless. The miners, balancing the baskets of ore on their shoulders, knew where to place their sandaled feet. They heaved their way up the occasionally vertical route to the rim. I clambered over boulders and slid across sections of gravelly stones, thankful I had my steel-capped work-boots on. The path seemed to go on forever. The rim thrust up above me like a wall. I crossed a stream of hot water where a miner washed the yellow from his hands and then I was at the mine face. The sulphur vents were far above me. Spilling down from them was a wall of congealed sulphur ore, that brilliant, noxious yellow. Pipes had been built to capture some of the gas and carry it down the slope and let it sweep back up, aiding the process of congealment. The miners would climb up by the pipes and break off the ore, their eyes and lungs stinging from the fumes. By the time I got there though, most of the miners had gone. Just a few old men were left, making artificial sulphur stalactites for tourists by getting the sulphur to congeal on twigs and leaves. I would have to go soon, they said. The wind was about to change and blow the gas westward, over the path to the rim. I watched the rushing steam and the dead lake for a while and then climbed back up the crater wall. Occasionally the gas would drift over me and I would be reduced to a hacking, coughing mess between the grey rocks. I can never place my feet in their sandals and walk that ruptured path to the rim. I can't tell you what it is like to wonder if one more rock will feed your family or break your back. All I can do is tell you of the shadows of desperate men I saw up there. Some old, trapped in a job that will destroy their health and perhaps ultimately kill them, but that provides for their families, as long as they keep carrying ore. Some young, with their eyes constantly turned down the slopes, working at the mine only so that, one day, they will not have to any more. Ciaran Harman (ciaran69@hotmail.com) is a student at the University of Western Australia in Perth. He was participating in the Acicis Study Indonesia Program in Yogyakarta. Inside Indonesia 64: Oct - Dec 2000

'Only the clothes have changed

Reformasi has not made life much easier for trade unionists Terry Symonds A strong labour movement is a powerful force for change. Suharto knew this better than most, having come to power on the slaughter of thousands of union activists and communists. Today, under a new and more liberal government, imprisoned labour activists are mostly free and independent unions are on the rise. But they continue to face repression at the factory level and their battle for union rights is by no means won. The economic and political crisis of the last two years has had a dramatic and contradictory effect upon workers' organisations in Indonesia. Students led the 1998 wave of protest, but it quickly extended to the urban poor. Workers felt encouraged to join the democracy protests and raised demands of their own. Sensing the potential strength of a worker-based opposition, the dying Suharto regime cracked down hard in response. Immediately before Suharto's re-election in March 1998, some 30 police officers visited the office of the Indonesian Prosperity Trade Union (SBSI) and forced its closure until after the election. In the week before the election, several lower SBSI officials were arrested for crimes ranging from distributing leaflets to organising plant level unions. Its leader Muchtar Pakpahan was already in jail. Only two months later Suharto resigned, and Muchtar Pakpahan was released. But other labour leaders remained in prison, including Dita Sari, who was not released until July 1999. During the turmoil of the Habibie administration, labour organisations continued to play a small but vocal role in the fight for democracy. Just weeks before Wahid was elected president in October 1999, several key unions joined street protests against the proposed new state security laws. Among them were the SBSI and the radical National Front for Indonesian Workers Struggle (FNPBI). Since then, the workers' struggle has provided conflicting signals. Union activists I spoke with earlier this year believed most workers shared some level of optimism about the reformed political process and might be willing to give the government and economy a kind of 'honeymoon'. On the other hand, more recent reports show industrial disputes flaring again, some spilling into the streets. One thing is certain: trade union activity will grow from a low base. Up to half the workers in footwear and non-garment textile industries were retrenched, while an estimated three quarters of construction workers lost their jobs. Most unemployed workers did not return to their villages but remained in the cities, seeking casual labouring work or driving transports. Recent research indicates that these workers were unable to return to agriculture because they have lost the skills and contacts they need to find work in the village. Many do not want to return anyway. Instead, they remain in large new communities of workers, such as those scattered on the outskirts of Greater Jakarta, sharing the work and earnings of their neighbours. This huge reserve army of unemployed exerts significant pressure upon workers' confidence to take industrial action, and helps explain the drop in strike rates the last two years. It also confirms that the transformation of Indonesia's workers into a permanent urban class over the last twenty years has not been reversed by the economic crisis. Vedi Hadiz says in an important 1995 study of the Indonesian working class that urbanisation has closed off any avenue of 'retreat' to the village. Workers will now 'stay and fight it out in the cities'. Urbanisation allows traditions of union organisation to grow and be passed on from one generation to the next. Bolder 'Workers are becoming more bold because of reformasi,' said one company director in June last year. There are growing signs that he may be right. Labour activists insist that the new freedoms haven't made things any easier at the factory level, where they face constant intimidation and harassment, but they aren't wasting the opportunity to build. The Suharto regime effectively smashed Dita Sari's Centre for Indonesian Workers Struggle (PPBI) after she was thrown in jail. But her comrades resurfaced with a new labour organisation, the National Front for Indonesian Workers Struggle (FNPBI). Even before she was released, they elected Dita to head it up. The FNPBI, barely a year old, held a national council meeting in West Java in February of this year. It brought together delegates from 11 affiliated labour organisations, four more than last year. The FNPBI remains small, but some of its sections are sizeable organisations with an impressive record of organisation. It is distinguished by a socialist outlook and a commitment to political protest not shared by other independent unions. The commitment of these new labour organisations is matched by growing bitterness among workers. In February 2000, sacked shoe factory workers from Reebok producer PT Kong Tai Indonesia blocked the toll road outside the Manpower Ministry office for several hours with an angry protest over severance pay. When this didn't work, over a thousand workers staged an occupation of parliament which lasted more than a week. These workers seem to have had little prior history of independent unionism. Their spontaneity is a reminder that workers' frustrations do not always express themselves through established organisations. Demonstrations have been taking place outside parliament almost every week this year. In April, 5000 teachers, whose profession has no reputation for militancy, swamped parliament house during a strike for a 300% wage rise. They had rejected the government's offer of 100%. Shoe factory workers at PT Isanti in Semarang won 23 of their 25 demands, including a holiday on May 1 to join the international commemoration of workers struggles. Their union believes this will help to revive a May Day tradition that was forced underground for its association with communism. Wahid The relationship between labour and the new government is shaky and not likely to improve. When I asked one group of striking workers what they thought of the election results, they told me that 'only the clothes have changed'. Muchtar Pakpahan's SBSI is Indonesia's largest and most well established independent union. It is generally close to Wahid, but even that relationship is showing signs of strain. In a test case for the new government, the SBSI is fighting for the release of two members convicted under subversion laws for leading a strike last year at a tyre factory in Tangerang. Muchtar also criticised the recent small rise in the regional minimum wage, saying it was 'just enough to eat and smoke a little, and breathe the air.' Almost all independent unions, including the SBSI and FNPBI, declared their opposition to the appointment of Bomer Pasaribu, a New Order figure, as Labour Minister. Muchtar Pakpahan calls on international unions to apply pressure for his removal (see box). Wahid did delay the recent IMF-inspired fuel price rise, but 2,000 protesters gathered at parliament to remind him of what lies ahead. When the price rises inevitably come, bigger protests are expected. Indonesia's new labour movement is small but growing and the mood of workers is hardening. Trade unions are unlikely to occupy centre stage in the political process unless the economy turns around and the bargaining position of their members improves, but they will be an increasingly important player in the looming confrontations over economic reform. Wahid will ignore them at his peril. Terry Symonds (tsymonds@powerup.com.au) is the convenor of Australia-Indonesia Union Support. He lives in Brisbane, Australia. The group has wide union links and brought Muchtar Pakpahan to Australia for a visit. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

63: Democracy - how far, so far?

Jul - Sep 2000 Politics and human rights Democracy - how far, so far?So how far has Indonesia come on the road to democracy? - Gerry van Klinken The slow birth of democracyA new generation is challenging the status quo - Munir Opening that dark pageObstacles in revealing the stories of 1965-66 - Stanley Box - Sulami explains why....An extract from Sulami's speech at YPKP's first anniversary -Sulami A century of decentralisationYet again 'power to the regions' is the call - Trevor Buising Box - What's new? What isn't?Trevor Buising Wahid, IMF and the peopleUnbowed, an activist continues his questions - Nick Everett with Budiman Sujatmiko Where is Wiji Thukul?An outspoken poet is silenced - Richard Curtis Business as usualThe military is slow to get out of business - Lesley McCulloch The forgotten war in North MalukuThere's more than religion behind the troubles - Smith Alhadar No longer so 'special'New and different ties for Australia-Indonesia - Scott Burchill Society and economy Medan gets a new mayor A tale of two cities: part 1 - Loren Ryter Inside JeparaA tale of two cities: part 2 - Jim Schiller 'Only the clothes have changed...'Unions still find the going tough - Terry Symonds Muchtar Pakpahan interview Terry Symonds interviews Muchtar Pakpahan Fireside chat about AIDSReaching at-risk groups requires new approaches - Ingrid Hering The kampung bookshelfBringing books to the poor - Bambang Rustanto and Lea Jellinek Environment Leave Indonesia's fisheries to Indonesians!Foreign fleets filch fish from local plates - Mark V Erdmann Culture Indonesia is definitely OKComic artists explore new freedoms - Laine Berman Regulars Your say Newsbriefs Scenes from an occupationReview: A lone Australian filmmaker records East Timor's history-making year of 1999 - Baranowska Bookshop Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

A century of decentralisation

Decentralise. Easy to say. Difficult to do. Trevor Buising Few states have had as long an experience of decentralisation as has Indonesia. The Dutch, primarily to increase administrative effectiveness, enacted the first law for decentralisation in 1903. It was the first of several designs. Yet Indonesia today is more centralised than it was a century ago. Many states, in particular developing ones, have attempted to decentralise for a bewildering variety of administrative, political and economic reasons. It is a technically complex policy, especially for developing countries. Yet decentralisation is a political as well as an administrative necessity for Indonesia. However daunting the task, Indonesia is so diverse that it has to decentralise, and sooner rather than later. A recent World Bank study noted that the 'problems associated with decentralisation in developing countries reflect flaws in design and implementation more than any inherent outcome of decentralisation'. Policymakers may not sufficiently understand the specific problems they want to overcome through decentralisation, or they may adopt an ineffective strategy to solve them. Implementation is inherently even more difficult. Policymakers may give the field implementers unclear guidelines. Implementers may lack the required skills and commitment. The policy may lack sufficiently powerful political mentors and organised support to carry it through. Changing circumstances may make the policy redundant, or it may be insufficiently resourced. Much of this has been the case in Indonesia. Flaws in the original design forced the colonial Dutch to revise the 1903 law in 1921. None of the three 1940's decentralisation laws was satisfactory - they did not apply to all of Indonesia, and they were framed during the anti-colonial struggle for independence, when expediency rather than longer-term considerations was the priority. The Dutch were still working towards implementing the amended design when the Japanese invaded in 1942. The independent Republic of Indonesia enacted a replacement for these Dutch attempts in 1957. Law 1/ 1957 came out of lengthy negotiations, only to be rendered inoperative in many of its provisions by Presidential Decree No 6 of 1959. The PRRI-Permesta regional rebellions gave President Sukarno the opportunity to replace constitutional democracy under the 1950 provisional constitution with presidential rule under the 1945 constitution. New Order The New Order tried to decentralise as well. Law 5 of 1974 was potentially an effective general design, negated by a lack of detailed design and implementation. Like the Dutch, the New Order leadership accepted the need for decentralisation if only as a means of enhancing administrative effectiveness, particularly with respect to development and thus its claims to legitimacy through performance. However, Law 5/ 1974 left many details to be finalised in subordinate legislation. This applied in particular to the problem of sectoral decentralisation - that is, the allocation of specific functions in the various fields of government activity to particular levels of government. If the break-up of functions between the various levels of government had been included in Law 5 then many (but not all) of the subsequent problems would have been avoided. Sectoral decentralisation is technically complex. Moreover, many bureaucrats in the affected departments perceived decentralisation as detrimental to their institutional interests. This made determining the details a protracted process. Indeed, if the details had been included in the draft, Law 5 might never have been enacted at all. Thus there may have been good reasons for deferring sectoral decentralisation to supplementary regulations. Still, the longer it took to enact the regulations the more difficult it became to maintain the political will to decentralise in accordance with the original objectives. French decentralisation was on a lesser scale than is being attempted in Indonesia, yet it still took decades, and that by a state with a much greater capacity than that of the often ill-coordinated personal fiefdoms of the Indonesian state. Law 5/ 1974 had an additional problem. One of its aims was to shift the focus of regional autonomy from the provinces to the regencies (kabupaten) and municipalities. This level was closest to the people and thus the most appropriate for administering services. Before 1974, legislation dealt only with transfers of functions from the central government to the provinces. It regarded sectoral decentralisation to the regencies and municipalities as an internal provincial matter. Furthermore, between 1950 and 1974 the number of provinces had grown from 9 to 26, 17 sectors needed to be decentralised, and the legislation was confusing. On top of that, the oil boom allowed New Order sectoral departments to subvert the objectives of decentralisation by coopting the regions with development money. In the early 1990's the New Order, especially under dynamic Interior Minister Rudini, sought to revive the impetus for decentralisation. Regulation 45/ 1992 was designed to push through decentralisation to the regencies and municipalities. All functions except those specified as central or provincial functions could go to the regencies and municipalities. Regulation 8/ 1995 implemented these changes and launched the 'Autonomous Regions Pilot Project'. Activities in 19 sectors were to be transferred to the regencies and municipalities (so-called level 2 regions). Inaugurated with great fanfare, this initiative failed because it was under-resourced. The central government gave selected level 2 regions greater responsibilities but no greater funding to go with them. 'Justice' Last year, the Habibie government brought down Law 22/ 1999 to replace Law 5/ 1974. The new law, it said, would enhance 'democracy, community participation, equitable distribution and justice as well as to take into account the regions' potential and diversity'. Actually it was hardly needed. Law 5/ 1974 could just as well have been implemented to do all this. What was really needed was the supplementary legislation. The changes are not as great as often imagined. Although consideration was given to abolishing them, the provinces have been retained. (There are compelling reasons for retaining them - they bridge the centre and local communities). However, Law 22 is more specific about the role of the regencies and municipalities than was Law 5. They are no longer part of the hierarchy of 'administrative territories' which made them subordinate to the provinces and hence the centre. As with Regulation 45/ 1992, Law 22 states that the regencies and municipalities can assume responsibility for all aspects of government except those reserved for the central and provincial governments. These regions must in any case assume responsibility for a minimum of eleven fields or sectors, a provision similar to that of Regulation 8 of 1995. Law 22 also clearly stipulates that the decentralisation of functions to the regions must include the transfer of the relevant resources - facilities and infrastructure, personnel and funding. Obviously the framers of Law 22 have learned something from the failure of the 'Autonomous Regions Pilot Project'. Yet like Law 5/ 1974, Law 22/ 1999 requires considerable supplementary legislation. With one notable exception little of this legislation has yet been passed. Law 5 and Law 22 both required a replacement for Law 32/ 1956, the inoperable law determining fiscal relations between the centre and the regions. This was finally accomplished with the enactment of Law 25 of 1999. This law should increase revenue adequacy and certainty for the regions, improve regional equity, contribute to macroeconomic stability and enhance transparency, accountability and participation in the budgetary process. However, Law 25 itself also requires considerable supplementary legislation. Regional development planning also still needs reform. In principle, bottom-up planning has been an important feature of Indonesian development planning processes (known as P5D) since 1982. But in practice the emphasis has been on implementing central government policies, programs and projects, and hence on increasing the effectiveness of regional sectoral agencies to implement rather than design policy. Nobody would argue that effective service delivery is not an important responsibility of the state, but this is not what decentralisation is all about. At the heart of any decentralisation policy must be the realisation that effective policy requires a comprehensive understanding of local circumstances - so comprehensive that central planners simply cannot do it themselves. Diversity requires diverse policy inputs. If decentralisation is to be effective in Indonesia, regional development planning has to be reoriented towards the needs and potentials of the region itself. Trevor Buising (tbuising@hotmail.com) is a consultant from Brisbane, Australia. He is a former colonial administrator in Papua New Guinea who recently completed a PhD on Indonesian decentralisation at Griffith University. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

A tale of two cities

Post-Suharto, central power is weak and 'the local' becomes more important. A look at two very different cities. Loren Ryter Medan gets a new mayor 'The Minister of Interior Affairs shouldn't force the people of Medan to play hardball?. If they wanna make this country into [a nation of] cowboys, we're ready.' Medan assembly member Martius Latuperisa issued this threat late in March in the midst of a heated controversy over the planned swearing-in of Medan's new mayor, Abdillah Ak, MBA. Abdillah is a local businessman who on March 20 had been elected by a vote of 35-10 in the local assembly. If necessary, Martius warned, the assembly would inaugurate Mr Abdillah themselves, without Interior Affairs Ministry authorisation. 'We know best who's most fit to be the mayor of Medan. Moreover, the people of Medan are not subordinates of the central government,' asserted Martius, who is the Medan chief of the Armed Forces Sons' and Daughters' Communication Forum (FKPPI). Martius once represented Golkar in the assembly. He is now the faction head of the Golkar splinter party Justice and Unity Party (PKP). After decades of regional subordination to Jakarta, it is tempting to laud the rise of the local. But this still looks like a New Order kind of conflict. The inter-bureaucratic, inter-personal, and inter-organisational competition for influence reaches from the local to the national. It is not strictly a matter of local autonomy.Yes, the advent of new political parties has heightened competition. A freer media and rising stakes make conflict more visible. But local power continues to be contested much as it has been ever since independence: through mass mobilisation, bribery, and 'lobbying Jakarta.' Medan was once the colonial seat of the Deli plantation region in Sumatra. Today it is Indonesia's third largest city with a population of over two million. Medan's ethnically diverse composition reflects the legacy of a colonial economy which relied on Chinese, South Asian, and later Javanese contract coolies to work the tobacco and rubber estates, as well as on ethnic Chinese traders to provide basic commercial services. By 1981, ethnic Javanese comprised 29% of the population, and ethnic Chinese made up 13%, four times more than in Indonesia overall. Military mobilisation during the 1945-49 revolution and during the late 1950s PRRI rebellion against Jakarta brought many Bataks and Mandailing to Medan, where they had previously been a minority. Once demobilised, these youths maintained contacts with military commanders even as they assumed territorial control in the informal economy. By the 1960s, these 'preman' (free men) as they were known, made a living as middle-men in markets, ticket scalpers at the movie theatres, and in private security in ethnic Chinese residential districts. In response to leftist labour radicalism in plantations and industry, military authorities encouraged the formation of anti-communist labour unions such as Soksi and youth groups such as Pemuda Pancasila (Pancasila Youth, PP). By the time of the October 1965 'coup', these groups were well placed to lead the purges against suspected members of the PKI, and were indeed positively encouraged to do so. Chief among the victims were predominantly ethnic Javanese railway and plantation workers, and urban ethnic Chinese accused of involvement with Communist China. The leaders of the groups which carried out these purges, as well as civilian and military officials who had violently demonstrated their anti-communist vigour, increasingly gained control of the early New Order economy and polity. Medan had long promised quick fortunes. During the colonial era it was the export hub for 'the land of the dollar' in its hinterland. Plentitudes of disposable cash made Medan particularly suited for gambling and prostitution. Tjong A Fie, the Dutch-appointed Captain-Chinese and the leading non-European power broker in late colonial society, operated government-licensed gambling, opium leases, and nearly thirty brothels. But with their political influence completely smashed by the late 1960s, ethnic Chinese fell to the mercy of power-holders for the continued operation of these ventures as well as legal commerce. The premanwere more than willing to provide the 'protection' they required, under threat of closure, seizure, or worse. Bad boy democracy Under these conditions, a kind of bad boy democracy flourished in Medan. Jakarta was never able to perfectly structure Medan's polity from the top down. Central and local authorities were forced to negotiate with the quasi-mafia forces at the grassroots whose growth they themselves had fostered. In fact, this year's controversy over the new mayor echoed a similar contest at the dawn of the New Order. Then, Pemuda Pancasila had openly and successfully championed Sjoerkani for mayor against a candidate backed by the regional military command. Installed in 1966, Sjoerkani served until 1974. During Sjoerkani's tenure, Pemuda Pancasila's influence grew further. Its members squeezed legal and illegal commerce in the town so tightly that the ethnic Chinese community still calls them 'five claws' (go-jiao) rather than 'five principles' (Pancasila). Not merely a gang of thugs, Pemuda Pancasila also became a springboard into the bureaucracy and even the military. Pemuda Pancasila leaders still boast that even former Abri chief Feisal Tanjung was once a member and a market preman. However, Pemuda Pancasila's chokehold became irksome to business owners and to military officers who themselves wanted a cut of the action. In the early 1980s a splinter group of PP began to fight for control of territory, and especially for gambling revenues. Ikatan Pemuda Karya (Work Service Youth Association, IPK) was funded in part by Chinese entrepreneurs, and was backed by some military officers including, so it is rumoured, then-Abri commander Benny Murdani. The idea was to create a balance of power. IPK's leader was a shrewd Christian Toba Batak fluent in Hokkien named Olo Panggabean. Unlike PP, IPK began to directly manage gambling operations rather than merely squeeze them for protection money. Olo got his start while still a PP member at the 1973 Medan Fair, where he was in charge of security. Shortly thereafter he opened kim, a variety of bingo played for cash prizes, which he still runs openly at the Medan Fair ground. Though they mortally fought each other on the streets, IPK strove to support Golkar even more fervently than did PP. Golkar election campaigns provided the ideal venue to stage a show of force. Each group mobilised thousands of its members clad in their respectively coloured camouflage uniforms. By the late 1980s and into the 1990s, other national Golkar-supporting youth groups became minor players in Medan's territorial scene, notably FKPPI, the army brats' youth group, which for most of its late New Order existence was led nationally by Suharto scion Bambang Trihatmojo. Clashes between the groups' rank and file were often actually lucrative for their municipal leaders, who themselves sat comfortably in their assembly seats. (Each group had at least one representative in the local assembly, always with Golkar.) For several years during the early 1990s, a protracted three-way battle known as the 'the poison arrow affair' ensued between PP, IPK, and FKPPI in the Polonia district of Medan, an area adjacent to the airport slated for luxury housing development. Developers colluded with the youth group chiefs to provoke a protracted conflict which would scare off residents and drive down land prices. For the Medan bosses, reformasi ushered in new opportunities as well as some new obstacles. They did not see multi-party elections as a formidable threat. IPK continued to support Golkar. FKPPI split between Golkar and its splinter party PKP. Senior leaders of PP hedged their bets, fanning out into Golkar, PKP, PAN, and also PDI-P. One local PP boss running on a Golkar ticket lost the election in his district of Padang Bulan but still gained a seat after negotiation within Golkar. Most bosses who held seats retained them, though sometimes under new party banners. But what did the rise of the new parties imply for territorial control? To IPK in particular, members of the security wing of Megawati's PDI-P were dangerous pretenders, all the more so since many rank and file PP members had joined their forces. Golkar assembly member and Medan IPK chief Moses Tambunan told an IPK rally shortly after the elections to prepare for a fight: 'Clearly PDI-P is out to undermine us. They gotta eat too. If they beg for rice, give them some. But if they want the rice bowl, forget about it!' Other institutional changes brought about by reformasi were more important. The separation of the police from the rest of the armed forces gave PP new leverage against IPK. PP began to demand that the police crack down on illegal gambling. As if obediently, in December the police mobile brigade avenged IPK's stabbing of one of its members by shooting up Olo's headquarters, known locally as 'the White House.' IPK in turn relied on the regional military command, whose logistics operations it has openly helped finance, to admonish the police. 'Cooperate' Medan's established forces found a common candidate for mayor in Abdillah Ak. As a local entrepreneur he could be expected to generate numerous projects to be contracted out. During the mass mobilisations surrounding the mayoral candidacy, both FKPPI and the Youth Front of the political party PAN were among Abdillah's militant supporters. One of PP's senior leaders sits on the North Sumatran board of PAN. Abdillah was fully willing to cooperate with all groups holding effective power in Medan. PDI-P's original candidate, Professor Firman Tambun, took a less pragmatic stance and suffered for it. After clashes between PP and IPK in November and December 1999, Tambun stated that the police must enforce the law and arrest criminals, not just summon the youth group leaders for reconciliation. He was subsequently shut out of the candidate list entirely. PDI-P held more seats in the local assembly than any other party - 16 out of 45 - yet they failed to secure their mayoral candidate. The circumstances that led to this failure were only brought to light through non-procedural means. After the assembly voted to elect Abdillah mayor, a group of PDI-P cadres calling itself the Struggle Bull Youth Movement abducted 12 of the PDI-P's 16 assembly members and took them to the party's provincial headquarters. There they were pelted and threatened with knives. Four of them then signed a prepared confession that each of them had accepted 25 million rupiah from Abdillah's 'Success Team' in exchange for their votes. On April 18, the governor of North Sumatra finally swore in the new mayor in a local assembly building guarded by army troops, members of the security wing of the PDI-P siding with their party's assembly members, and members of FKPPI. The inauguration caught Medan by surprise. It came the day after the Attorney General's Medan office indicted Mr Abdillah on charges of corruption and vote buying. Nevertheless, the inauguration was technically legal. The Minister of Interior Affairs authorised it in a decree issued mere hours after the Attorney General's office announced the indictment. Loren Ryter (loren@u.washington.edu) is completing a doctoral dissertation on youth and preman in Jakarta and Medan at the University of Washington in Seattle. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

Business as usual

Until Gus Dur can bring military business activities under control, they won't go 'back to barracks' Lesley McCulloch In 1998 a study by the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) exposed, not for the first time, the fact that the military had their fingers in the country's economic pie. What was different this time was the coverage it received in the media, exposing the size and variety of the pies in which the generals had their 'sticky fingers'. Amid the protests that led to Suharto's fall, military business activities were yet another 'open secret' to join the fray. Business down the barrel of a gun, a practice as old as Indonesia itself, has been lucrative indeed. Military business assets were estimated to be greater than US$8 billion in 1998. These activities are pervasive, corrupt and exist in the formal, informal, and even criminal economic sectors. There can be no mistaking Gus Dur's desire to return the military to barracks and democratise both politics and the economy. But it is proving to be a delicate balancing act. The president has warned that the country still needs the armed forces as an institution, and should therefore not engage in 'anti TNI sentiment'. Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono remarked recently that Indonesia couldn't yet afford democracy. For most it is a daily battle for survival, he observed, and only 10% of Indonesians can afford the luxury of participating in democracy. Like most ordinary Indonesians, the military rank and file does not reap rich rewards from their institution's business activities. The military initially became involved in commercial activities because the government could not afford to provide for their welfare and running costs. So what has changed since Gus Dur became president? The government is still unable to provide for the needs of the military. Regular salaries do not adequately provide for the basic needs of personnel. Recent salary increases to public servants and the military averaging 30 percent are a start, but have made little difference with prices spiraling. While it is generally agreed that higher salaries do not necessarily guarantee less corruption and 'extra-military' activities, it would at least be a starting point. Late last year Juwono Sudarsono demanded a 62.9 percent increase in the 2000-2001 defence budget, arguing that if this was not forthcoming the professionalism of the military as a defence force would continue to be compromised by corruption and commercial activities. Theodore Friend of the Foreign Policy Research Institute in Washington says such commercial activities only produce 'clumsy entrepreneurs and flabby soldiers'. However, the 2000 defence budget did not include any raise. At Rp 10.1 trillion (about US$ 1.4 billion) it involved no change - it was merely a percentage of the 1999 budget to reflect its nine-month duration. Nevertheless the military's hierarchy of needs is no secret. Armed forces chief Admiral Widodo Adisucipto has announced a 'wish list' of naval vessels and aircraft upgrades. He specifically mentioned the planned purchase of two Parcham-class corvettes and upgrades of seven F-16A/B jet fighters, at a combined cost of over Rp60 billion. He also wants large fast patrol craft. Navy chief Admiral Sucipto recently revealed plans to increase personnel numbers by 20,000 over five years to facilitate the expanding role of the navy. The result? More sticky fingers will be dipping into the economic pie. The government has recently announced it intends to turn to China for weapons in its attempt to side step what it regards as politically motivated procurement barriers raised by the US and other Western defence manufacturers. Preference for these equipment upgrades was borne out by a confidential Indonesian military source who recently conceded to me that the priority is to channel additional government defence allocation to 'modernisation and maintenance of equipment', rather than to use it as a lever to extract the military from business by raising salaries even more. In addition to weapons a considerable portion of the budget is to be allocated to recruitment and training. Here we have an institution that openly declares its inability to adequately compensate existing personnel, but still intends to increase its numbers. Until the effects of the crisis were felt in 1998, military budgets increased throughout the 1990s. But the number of active personnel also rose, from 270,000 active regulars in 1990 to 298,000 by the late 1990s (excluding paramilitary forces of around 177,000). These personnel increases made it impossible for budget increases to deliver enhanced welfare benefits. Off-budget Indonesian defence spending is much higher than that declared in the official budget. Revrisond Baswir, a prominent Indonesian economist, has suggested that the declared defence budget accounts for only 25 percent of true defence spending. The rest comes from military cooperatives, foundations and stock purchases, and from corrupt practices at the institutional, group and individual level. Profits from these 'ventures' are divided three ways. Some is siphoned off to well-placed individuals, some is reinvested in the companies, and some becomes extra-budgetary income for the military. The true amounts can only be guessed at. The government has stated it must continue to accept these commercial activities as an inevitable necessity until it can afford to increase the defence budget. This means it is also implicitly saying it has no alternative but - to use an increasingly popular Indonesian euphemism - to expect a certain 'leakage' of any profits from these unsupervised businesses to individuals and groups within the military. Gus Dur has recognised the wisdom of not trying to put the cart before the horse. Only when the problem of the official defence budget has been addressed can the government claim the moral authority to insist that the military relinquish its hold on the economy. Indeed in a country where the military remains the most efficiently functioning institution, this may be a wise move. Meanwhile a network of military influence continues, together with an institutional mindset that accepts off-budget financing as normal - a potentially unsettling combination. Gus Dur wants to turn Indonesia into a fully functioning democracy, but removing the military from business is not top of the list on his hierarchy of priorities. In the months since taking office he has certainly declared his intention to stamp out endemic corruption, improve corporate governance (a pledge to the IMF), and oversee the retreat of the military from civil society. But his real priorities have become quite apparent. They have been, firstly, to adopt an individual rather than an institutional focus by filling key positions with reformists both in the military and in government. His second priority seems to have been to meet the requirements of the January 2000 IMF Letter of Intent (LoI) in order to secure the economic bailout on offer. Failure to deliver all reforms stipulated in the LoI has already led to a delay in the next US$ 400 million of the three-year US$5 billion support package. Following this action by the IMF, Gus Dur's somewhat confusing policy orations quickly sharpened to focus on these reforms, 90 percent of which the government says have now been met. Article 31 of the LoI addresses off-budget funds. The government intends to increase transparency and has instructed the State Audit Board (BPKP) that future audits of government agencies' financial operations should 'take full account of all extra-budgetary sources of support'. This 'best practice' begins in 2000 and 'will include the military'. Unfortunately this is the limited extent of the government's attempts to extract the military from business - military businesses will now be accountable to an independent audit. Gus Dur is no doubt treading carefully. Powerful interests are at stake, perhaps none more so than the very existence of his government. As Indonesia continues to languish in the aftermath of the economic crisis there will be no significant increase in the defence budget for the foreseeable future. The military will become more rather than less reliant on a diminishing number of extra-budgetary sources - which themselves have suffered in the economic crisis. In the past, the 'clumsy entrepreneurs' had access to such perks and privileges that many businesses were kept afloat which were not commercially viable. Those military businesses and business connections that have survived can no longer rely on the levels of patronage they previously received. If the government pushes this, the only truly functioning government institution, offside, in other words, if it pushes reform quicker than the military can accept it, the results may bring even more chaos. Perhaps Gus Dur is wise to concentrate on consolidating his power rather on reform. But so long as this is the case, it is 'business as usual' for the military. Ms Lesley McCulloch (lesley@bicc.de) is writing a study of Indonesian military spending for the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC) in Germany. BICC (www.bicc.de) is dedicated to promoting processes that shift resources away from the defence sector towards alternative civilian uses. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

Fireside chat about AIDS

How do you reach illiterate young people at risk from HIV/AIDS? These volunteers take them camping. Ingrid Hering Vickram Amiri knows the ways of the streets. At 19, this Manadonese youth is the youngest outreach worker in an HIV/AIDS prevention project for marginalised youth run by a local non-government organisation. His earlier years mirrored the lifestyle of the project's target group in the North Sulawesi capital - drinking, drug use, numerous partners who were also sex workers, hanging around with friends, and sleeping on the streets. He first came into contact with the non-government organisation Yayasan Mitra Masyarakat (YMM) two years ago when he participated in one of the monthly three-day camping sessions aimed at distributing information about sexually transmitted diseases (STD) and HIV/AIDS. The sessions convey the message through role plays, small group discussions, case studies, information sessions, and question and answer time with a HIV/AIDS specialist. Camping as a tool to reach marginalised youth is unique in Indonesia. Before camping, Vickram had never heard about HIV/AIDS. He was subsequently trained as a peer educator. Although not instantly, his lifestyle slowly changed and he believed many of his friends were at high risk of infection by STDs, which is one of the channels of HIV /AIDS infection. The girls often had four to five partners in one night, encouraged by their boyfriends who acted as pimps and who were themselves often drunk or used drugs. Early last year Vickram became an outreach worker. Despite finding it initially daunting he has come to view his youth as an advantage. 'They (the target group) receive me as a friend, which makes it easier to give them information and for them to receive it,' he explained. Some of his friends are reducing their intake or using drugs in a safer manner. Others who are sexually active but have never used condoms have become aware of the dangers. 'Camping is very effective to give information because it appeals to youth,' Vickram said. His work is sometimes made difficult by his age, or because discussing sex is still taboo. He has to overcome myths such as that lemon juice on the genitals will kill infection, that only foreigners get HIV/AIDS, or that only transvestites (bancis) use condoms. The project has led to behaviour change, but this can be difficult to sustain if the youth have no regular activities. 'Their environment does not support them to change. It can influence them to return to their former behaviours,' Vickram said. Indonesia's official figure of 1080 HIV/AIDS cases is greatly underestimated, mainly due to a poor surveillance system. According to Dr James Sinaya, one of about 20 HIV/AIDS specialists in the country, HIV/AIDS here is a time bomb in the face of globalisation and a growing illicit drug trade. Manado in particular is at high risk. Youth unemployment is high, a large maritime and unskilled labour force work overseas, and the town shares a reputation with West Java for its beautiful women. The government supports the distribution of information, but Dr Sinaya wants to see more funds for testing kits, which had been dropped as a policy priority, and more recreational activities for young people. Much of the question and answer sessions are spent dispelling popular myths such as the use of beads, needles and horsehair around or in the penis to increase sexual pleasure. Dr Sinaya believes the greatest obstacles for disseminating information are the diversity of ethnic languages, illiteracy and religious objections to discussing of sex. YMM's prevention project is funded by USAID and has been running since 1997. It has reached more than 3600 youths to date. According to project manager Umar Mato, written material is not enough to be effective for this target group, due to their limited attention span, minimal education and transient lifestyle. The use of peer educators to reach them, outreach workers to give follow-up information, and activities such as World AIDS Day expos and small group discussions help reinforce information given during camping. Pak Umar believes the biggest hurdles to be overcome are the resistance to condom use and the increasing prevalence of injecting drug use, particularly heroin. 'The Department of Religion here is not brave enough yet to talk about condom use or promote it,' he said. 'They still hope HIV/AIDS is not a big problem because in North Sulawesi there are only three (official) cases.' Government prevention strategies are in place, as they were in Thailand 10 years ago, but Pak Umar believes it has not translated into action, partly because 100% condom use is not being pushed. Attention also needs to be focused on injecting drug use. 'Otherwise we will be late, like Thailand and Malaysia,' he added. Ingrid Hering (ingrid_1010@hotmail.com) is an Australian Volunteers International volunteer, working with Yayasan Mitra Masyarakat in Manado, North Sulawesi. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

In this issue

Democracy: How's it going? Gerry van Klinken In May it was two years since pro-democracy protesters brought to an end 32 years of Suharto's military-dominated rule. Since then, the country's first democratic elections in 44 years placed two leaders of the democracy movement in the presidential and vice-presidential offices. The military face constant humiliation over past abuses. So how far has Indonesia come on the road to democracy? No one in this edition would dare say that what the protesters fought for has been achieved. With no Suharto on whom to focus dissent, the many dimensions of Indonesia's problems appear if anything more daunting. So much remains unchanged. The military who backed the anti-communist purges after 1 October 1965 have not yet confronted those evils. The economic elites who repressed labour and raped the environment are still piling up debt. Many problems are deep-seated. The government of this vast country has been trying to decentralise for nearly a century, and the military have for decades been earning more outside their official budget than inside it. Elites in Medan (and in North Maluku where they started a war) have worked hand-in-glove with mafias for just as long. And yet our authors would probably agree that change has been faster these last two years than in the previous thirty. Muchtar Pakpahan, Bu Sulami and Budiman Sujatmiko (who appear in this edition) were all Suharto's political prisoners. They now get a hearing even in the mainstream press. Indonesia has a Muslim president who apologised to the victims of the anti-communist purges of '65. But it just isn't enough yet. Inside Indonesia is a small magazine produced on a shoestring. All our authors know this, and yet they continue to write because Indonesia moves them. Next time we hope to do something on the arts. With the help of the Australia Indonesia Institute, we also hope to bring you an extra four pages! Especially to help students, we want to include an educational supplement with background on a different topic in each of the coming year's editions. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

Indonesia is definitely OK

Independent comic artists explore newfound freedoms Laine Berman One of the first things I noticed in the bookshops after Suharto's resignation was the amazing proliferation of books on sex. Then came humour books on every subject you can think of including politics. Finally and predictably, formal political commentaries flooded the shelves. For these few months, the Japanese comics that have been the best sellers in all Indonesian bookshops were pushed aside. Celebrating the freedom of the moment, Indonesians chose sex, humour, and politics over imported comics. Now, some two years later, enter bookshops and the window displays and shelves are again filled with comics. Sex manuals seem to have been shoved aside by religious books. Sadly, as I reported here in 1998, all of these comics are licensed, translated imports, with not a local comic in sight. The only local comic book found in some shops is Komik politik, which in its two volumes resembles New Order style hero-worshipping. National Comic Week has since 1996 presented a yearly celebration of formally published Indonesian-made comics. Being restricted to those with 'permission' and slick presentations, it glorifies bad marketing, lack of distribution, translations, western copies, censorship, and ideological repetition. It also glorifies the 'Golden Age' - legend and silat (martial arts) comics from the 60s and 70s. For the first time in 1999, local independent or underground comics were permitted to appear. Independents are those comics created by admirers of the art or those who simply choose to express themselves through the medium. These mini comics are 'self-published', meaning they are photocopied, distributed amongst friends, and occasionally sold in local shops. Illegal prior to May 1998, by the 1999 Comic Week fifteen 'studios' or groups from Jakarta, Bandung, Yogyakarta, Surabaya and Denpasar were actively making and self-publishing comics. For the indie comic artists, it was a moment of idealism, mixed with the thrill of legitimacy and finally seeing their work in the same exhibition space as the great Indonesian 'komikus' Jan Mintaraga, RA Kosasih and others. Wahyoe Soegijanto, head of the Indonesian Comic Community (MKI), claimed great things for indie comics, even while maintaining New Order discourse: 'We're moving ahead step by step to advance Indonesian comics as our contribution to the development of Indonesia'. By the 2000 exhibition, however, these independents were already reduced in number and confined to one corner of the hall. Freedom What is so important about comics? For one, Indonesians love them and have a long, fond history of growing up with them. But if comics mirror the environment in which they appear, the 'Golden Age' was a time of heroes and legends, whereas now Indonesia is an occupied nation. Very few komikus have found their own voice under reformasi. The vast majority of comics on display at the 2000 Expo this past February were copies of western comics in terms of art, story, design, location, characterisation, and even language. The poet Rendra once described freedom of expression as a reflection of the artist's degree of contact with the people, with life and nature. It was an ability to express the truth, or soul of society. So why are most Indonesian comics utterly removed from any direct contact with the everyday world? With reformasi, comics have the potential to reflect social and political life way beyond other types of communication. Where are these models of contemporary culture we would expect to see in such a genre? Now let's go back to that little indie corner of the exhibition and see what comics look like when freed from the stranglehold of slick presentation or censorship. First, there were the classics. Self-published comics had been a trend on campuses since 1994. By 1996 groups of Yogyakarta-based art students compiled their efforts into Core comic, Komik selingkuh, Kiri komik, Petak umpet komik, and Komik haram. They worked out of love for the medium, out of the need for self-expression, and in a vain attempt to revive a much missed local tradition. For the most part, and precisely like indies anywhere else in the world, they remain economically utterly unsuccessful. Like indie artists elsewhere too, many are self-conscious about presenting their work in public, evidenced by opening statements that justify their efforts as socially useful. 'Jakarta the hot and filthy can be transformed into a comic!!', said Rudi H in Komec perjoeangan, (1999). Rampok (1999, by Emte) avoided criticism by referring to the comic as garbage and without meaning. The indie theme in the pre-reformasi era was predominantly despair. One of the earliest in the group comic output was Komik selingkuh (Deception, 1996). This comic-cum-manual is entirely devoted to deception with the ultimate goal of luring someone into sexual engagement. Success or failure both lead to the same ending: a fight with the wife, financial debt, unwanted children, divorce, misery, suicide, and the comfort and joy of imagining and/ or doing the whole sex scene again. Regardless of the consequences, sex as the reward for a good deception heavily outweighs the negatives, at least in terms of its presentational build-up within the comic. Core Comics (1996) self-published a series called Berteman dengan anjing (Befriending dogs). Each volume contains compilations that conform to various dog themes, nearly all violent: dogs as mad scientists, dog heaven where dogs curse at and abuse people, space dogs fall in love with earth women, and others too weird to identify. Tanggaku kirik (My neighbour is a puppy) compiles stories based in dog worlds, where humans are the beasts, and dog dreams, aspirations for love, to become human, or to just survive. As a whole, nearly every story has a sad ending where man beats dog or dog aspires to greatness and fails. Autobiography Most of the New Order era indies share this pessimism. At the same time, and totally unlike indie comics in Australia or the States, they avoid any sense of a self within the social environment. By 1999, however, indies are beginning to show more autobiographical work, based on 'the material at hand' turned into a story or just a simple expos? of life. Not all of it is depressing or pornographic either, as seen in the Komec perjoeangan by Rudi H. His inscription reads 'Indonesia pancen oke lho' (Indonesia is definitely OK, you know). The comic reveals tidbits of the young man's life and experiences that are thoroughly normal and 'definitely OK'. Nowhere to be seen at the 2000 Comic Expo was the work of the Yogya-based comic and organisational wizard, Bambang Toko. Bambang was the organiser for Core Comic and later moved to the far more interesting Apotik Komik. While extremely active makers of comics as autobiography, full of word plays and local trends, Apotik Komik also has taken comics to the streets through their humorous posters and by decorating walls and billboards. Their collective works have developed a good balance between telling a familiar story and using humour as a way to promote thought and different perspectives. Yet they and all the other Yogya komikus chose to boycott the 2000 Comic Expo. Hopefully, by the 2001 Expo, komikus, publishers, and the Indonesian public will make more effort to look forward instead of back and support a more lively, relevant local comic industry. Laine Berman (laine@indo.net.id) lives and works in Yogyakarta. Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

Inside Jepara

Tensions between state, society and business Jim Schille Jepara is a small town of about 100,000 and a district of slightly under a million on the north coast of Java, two hours by car from the provincial capital Semarang. Unlike Medan it has only recently become urban and is not an ethnic or religious mixing pot. Nearly 98% of Jeparans are from one ethnic group, the Javanese, and more than 95% are Muslim. Jepara was an important port kingdom in the mid-sixteenth century, once ruled by Queen Kalinyamat. The colonial Dutch burned it to the ground twice in one year for breaking their trade monopoly. It was also the home of Kartini the Javanese aristocrat whose life and letters advanced educational opportunities for Indonesian women in the early twentieth century. Jepara exports more than 500 million Australian dollars of its famous handcrafted furniture each year. It makes antique reproduction, garden and other furniture in any design the customer wants. There is also a substantial domestic furniture industry. Together they employ more than 80,000 Jeparans. Many more are employed in allied industries. Most work in more than 2000 overwhelmingly Javanese-owned small and medium enterprises in Jepara's villages. Even most of the largest firms are indigenous or European. Elsewhere in Indonesia, Chinese Indonesian firms dominate manufacturing. Jepara's economy has boomed. For several kilometres the road into town is full of furniture factories, showrooms and warehouses. There has been a related growth in public transport, in packing and shipping services, in upholstering, banks, and public buildings. Internet and telephone kiosks, good hotels and 'modern' restaurants cater mainly to foreigners and the new commercial elite. In 1971 Jepara was one of the poorest districts in Central Java. Now it is near the top in regional per capita income. It has more registered motor vehicles than any other locality in Central Java except the provincial capital. Another sign of local prosperity is the pilgrimage to Mecca, which costs more than AU$5000. This year nearly 2500 Jeparans went, up from about 900 the year before. In both years Jepara sent more pilgrims than any other locality in Indonesia. Local government revenue is so strong that in the midst of Indonesia's 1998 economic crisis Jepara's local government could build a large two-storey office building without borrowing. Jepara's recent wealth is also visible in new retail shops, department stores, motor vehicle dealers and even a super-market. While inequality seems to have grown, there is anecdotal evidence that the growth in employment in the furniture industry has helped to push up other rural wages. Responsive For decades local politics has been competitive and local society has been able to challenge the local state to be more effective and responsive. My argument about how Jepara got by New Order standards a relatively demanding society and a responsive developmental state can be found in my book Developing Jepara (1996). Jepara has long had a strong Islamic institution, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), with deep roots and high status in Jepara's villages, small business community and Islamic schools. NU won nearly 60% of the vote in the democratic elections of 1955, and it expected to dominate local government after the destruction of the Indonesian Communist Party in 1965. It soon became clear that less-overtly Islamic bureaucrats from southern Central Java would fill local government positions. However, these 'outsider' bureaucrats soon found that they needed the support of local NU leaders to succeed with their development programs. Even in the 'controlled' New Order elections, Jepara's Muslim community resisted efforts to deliver the government party Golkar victories. They regularly elected PPP candidates to 40% of the elected seats, narrowly won one election, and found ways to make the assembly question government practices. Encouraged by delegations to the assembly criticising poor government services, the Jepara assembly actively investigated corruption. They used the NU informal network to reveal the secrets of bureaucrats who showed signs of conspicuous consumption. On more than one occasion an assembly representative asked the district head (bupati) how it was that an official built a new house or deposited ten million rupiah into his bank account. The questions were well informed and embarrassing. Jepara began to get a reputation as a difficult place for state officials to govern, because the people dared to complain loudly unless government was attentive and careful. As the furniture industry grew, entrepreneurs acquired cars, televisions, and stereos that gave them a new prestige in the materialist New Order. Entrepreneurs gained further status when, after the oil boom, the state admitted it needed the private sector to play a leading role in making development succeed. In the 1980s and 1990s there was also a marked cultural turn to Islam in Indonesia. Jepara's officials began to see Jepara's Islamic and business communities as deserving their respect. Jepara's business leaders came to expect public services. Jepara's local government financed trade promotions, fought for better roads, for the right to use container trucks, for improved telecommunications. All this does not mean that there was no conflict between state and society. It did mean that the risks of corruptors or tyrants being found out and humiliated were greater. The arrogance of power was constrained, not eliminated. That arrogance was most obvious when national or provincial interests wanted local land. Examples include the now-abandoned nuclear reactors, the huge, still-unfinished, Suharto family-owned Tanjung Jati power plant in Bangsri, and tourist development in the Karimunjawa islands. In these national projects the local state and local society had little voice. One ongoing tension between state and society and between large furniture enterprises and small ones is over the role of (overwhelmingly European) foreigners. There have been pro- and anti-foreigner demonstrations, occasional mysterious fires in furniture factories, media attacks on the local state for condoning the presence of 'illegal' foreigners, and public threats to the safety of foreigners. Many indigenous firm-owners think that foreigners are trying to make a quick profit or establish a monopoly. However, many small business owners support the foreigners because they provide an alternative market which drives up prices. Reform era Jepara went through the New Order relatively well, with a strengthened economy and a society able to place limits on the state and a local state made more responsive. So how is Jepara managing in the Reform Era? The local economy has remained strong with the rupiah value of furniture exports soaring. Many Jeparans now believe that they can do well at business even in adverse conditions. The worrying cloud on the horizon is the question of sustainability. Can the forests of Indonesia (and now Brazil) provide quality timber in ever increasing amounts? Politics has been more problematic. The problem is not state-society relations but clashes within society. NU had established its own party, PKB, and thus came into competition with the other Islamic-based party, PPP, to which most Jeparan NU members had hitherto given their loyalty. One of the most widely reported clashes of the 1999 election campaign was in Dongos, near Jepara, in which four PKB supporters were killed when they tried to establish a local branch in a PPP-dominated village. Tensions remained high during the election. PPP captured more than 40% of the votes, more than double the second party. Some election monitors saw PPP's victory as a sign that intimidation continued to play a big role. PPP, they said, did what Golkar had always done. Another view might be that voters remained loyal to the party that had battled the New Order in difficult times. On the other hand, the PKB and NU leadership has been gracious in defeat. They did not challenge for the chair of the local assembly even though an everybody-but-PPP coalition might have succeeded. The PKB candidate withdrew and announced that it was better that the party with the most seats won the chairmanship. Such flexibility, inclusiveness and tolerance among the NU and PKB leadership provides the greatest hope that Jepara will do well in the reform era. Through the authoritarian years of the New Order it sustained resistance, but gave ground when it needed to. Eventually, it tamed the local state. NU headquarters is now a place where Muslim and even non-Muslim activists feel they can meet and talk. The difficult task ahead for NU will be to accommodate and somehow soften their proud, exclusivist, PPP wing. Jepara has a flourishing civil society and a responsive local state. The question is how that society can learn to govern itself and constrain society-based power-holders. Jim Schiller (asjs@sigma.sss.flinders.edu.au) teaches at Flinders University in Adelaide, South Australia. He is the author of 'Developing Jepara: State and society in New Order Indonesia' (Monash Asia Institute, 1996). Inside Indonesia 63: Jul - Sep 2000

One Crater

'Only the clothes have changed

63: Democracy - how far, so far?

A century of decentralisation

A tale of two cities

Business as usual

Fireside chat about AIDS

In this issue

Indonesia is definitely OK

Inside Jepara

Latest Articles

Tetangga: These are the stories of our neighbours

Obit: Adrian Horridge, 1927-2024

Book review: The Sun in His Eyes

Elusive promises of the Yogyakarta International Airport’s aerotropolis

Book review: Beauty within tragedy

Subscribe to Inside Indonesia

Lontar Modern Indonesia