After four years covering the big stories in Jakarta, an Australian journalist revisits the Sumatran village where his journey began.
Jim Della-Giacoma
From Sungai Penuh all the way up the Kerinci valley floor the concrete power poles lead the way to the village of Pungut Hilir. When I first called Pungut Hilir home in December 1991 there were no such punctuations in the luminous green rice paddies. Once there was not even a sealed road or trustworthy bridge to cross. This time I found development, including roads and bridges, had come to this remote and beautiful spot.
In the training in Canberra in the weeks before our trip in 1991, which did not to prepare us at all for village life, we had earnestly debated the meaning of cultural exchange. It was a two-way street, we said. Giving and taking experiences. But I think the four weeks in Kerinci taught me most about the vast gulf between myself and the average Indonesian farmer.
Somehow I still got hooked and kept coming back to Indonesia, but never quite made it 'home' to Jambi. However, Pungut Hilir was never to leave my thoughts. It was always a precious yard stick, held by few foreign correspondents, as I traversed the many faces of Indonesia.
That last month in 1991 when 16 young Australians and 16 Indonesians crawled out of our chartered bus after a 14-hour bus trip from the sweltering plains of the provincial capital Jambi, we found a quaint tin roofed village amid the wet season mud. Our Country Road shirts and dress moccasins called Donalds were soon collecting dirt.
Coca Cola We found a new world in the cool mountains of the Sumatran range, home to about 300 people. Simple and, for the most part, honest village dwelling folk. We soon discovered life in Pungut Hilir would be no holiday. It had no electricity, taps, toilets, telephones, television or alcohol. We even had to order up Coca Cola from the district town. It did, however, have the Pungut river running through it. A bathroom, toilet, laundry and swimming pool all in one.
My homecoming took place after a four year stint in the seething metropolis we called the Big Durian, where I had a front row seat in the events of May 1998 as Indonesians exposed their violent alter ego. I had returned, in part, on a quest for the idyllic Indonesia of my past.
This time I took a half-hour motorbike ride. It looked like little had changed. Being the first from our group to return I was slightly nervous about what I might find. But I need not have worried. The events in Jakarta seemed to have passed Pungut Hilir by. I found everybody as laid back as ever watching television.
Electricity had arrived in 1994 and in its wake dozens of television satellite dishes had sprouted from the roof tops. Even the primary school had one.
My unannounced arrival caught the village head Ramli sitting on a mat in front of his own colour screen with family and friends. There are still no telephones and the timing of my trip had been uncertain until the last minute. I was momentarily embarrassed when I reported my presence as I didn't know Ramli, but he seemed to remember me. 'You've changed Jim. You didn't have a beard when you were here.'
I came on a sunny Friday afternoon. The village had stayed in from the now deserted fields after weekly prayers at the mosque. They were all doing well, Ramli said, still dressed in his 'Friday best' sarung. 'The price of rice has doubled, but that's okay. We're the ones selling it,' he said with a casual air oblivious to those in Java suffering from the nation's economic collapse. Crisis? What crisis?
Do-gooders
Back in 1991, with the sincerity of all do-gooders, we had set about building a system to pipe water from a nearby hillside to a concrete and brick tank near the primary school. Elsewhere we dug three wells and leveled a volleyball court with villagers pitching in to help in a classic case, or so we thought, of gotong royong.
In between we entertained them with songs from Australia, including the famous rendition of Waltzing Matilda in Indonesian - Ayo Berjalan. We tried to teach the children Australian Rules Football. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the balls we left behind, donated to the vain cause by the Victorian Football League. They played the real football in Kerinci and the kids would kick the oval shaped balls along the ground when they thought we weren't watching.
By the time I returned the three wells had been built over by a department of public works project the year before. They clearly had not been in use. Of the four government provided water tanks I saw only one still worked. I guess the government didn't have much success either.
'Why should people bother,' the village chief's son remarked as we stood beside the white washed toilet block with its two bathrooms complete with porcelain squat toilets. 'The river's right there.' He pointed to the women washing in it nearby to make his point. They were doing things as they'd always been done in the Pungut River. Washing, bathing and defecating in the river in full view of anybody who cared to watch. Any many did watch the strangers back in 1991.
A troupe of children stopped watching television to follow me like the Pied Piper across the bubbling river to the house of Pak Mat Idris, my host for four weeks back in 1991.
He too had his eyes glued to the box in silence with a group of old men and young boys. Time had made me forget many things, including the stiff formality with which Mat Idris ran his household and how uncomfortable I felt with it. Each meal ran like clockwork as the men and boys ate sitting on a mat on the floor in the main room of the wooden Malay-style house. The women and girls stayed bare foot and in the kitchen. When called, they crept carefully out along the floor to the edges of the room with fresh food or to clear plates.
This time I had to ask politely three times to my host to call the women, including his daughter and new grandson, to include them in a photograph. The camera caught us sitting stiffly on an old couch. A well off rice farmer with more than one hectare of paddy and hillside gardens, Mat Idris was never one for idle chatter. There were long pauses between our questions and answers during which we both were grateful that the television hadn't been turned off.
No reply
'When you left we never thought we'd see you again,' he said. 'I got all your letters,' he added. But he never replied, I recalled. I'd stopped writing after I received no reply. The link with the village was broken a year after we left. Illiteracy was perhaps as much a barrier as anything.
'It's much the same around here, not much has changed since you left. But we do have electricity now' he said, pausing, 'and television'. He pointed to the new 14-inch set that dominated the room with the gathered crowd arching around it.
As we sat I recalled pacing his balcony every night while the children watched from below as I manipulated the aerial on my tiny short wave. It was there I heard that Paul Keating had toppled Bob Hawke.
Mat Idris and I had never really connected during my time there. But my days in the village were the first time I found myself comfortable with Indonesia and Indonesians. I'd never got a good night's sleep on his floor with only one blanket between up to four people a night.
This time I kept my ojek driver with his motorbike on stand-by to return to Sungai Penuh and a real bed. He never asked me to stay, I never suggested it.
Our worlds were too far apart. Mat Idris had only once in his 40-odd years been to the provincial capital, let alone Jakarta or overseas. I was a child of migrants who had crossed the world to a new life in a multi-cultural land. Mat Idris was happy going nowhere but his fields or the 10km to Sungai Penuh to sell his rice. I returned on the verge of migrating again across the globe.
But things had progressed in seven years and television was the medium responsible. 'We sometimes watch Australian television,' Mat Idris volunteered at one point. 'But nobody in the village speaks English so we don't understand much. We just watch the news. I see you had a flood, too.' It was the first time I felt we had made a connection. Mat Idris and I finally had something in common.
Jim Della-Giacoma was a correspondent with AFP and Reuters in Jakarta. He now lives in the Washington DC area. His first visit to Pungut Hilir was as member of the Australia-Indonesia Youth Exchange Program.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Saman, a sensation!
Ayu Utami, Saman, Jakarta, KPG (Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia), 1998, ISBN 979-9023-17-3, 208pp.
Reviewed by MARSHALL CLARK
Saman is said to be merely the first part of Ayu Utami's forthcoming novel, tentatively titled Laila tak mampir di New York ('Laila didn't call in New York'). Nevertheless, it is thoroughly worth considering in its own right.
Saman stands out amongst recent Indonesian fiction. Ayu's confident storytelling technique adequately carries the weight of a broad thematic scope, highlighting the full complexity of previously shunned issues such as female sexuality and the struggle between personal faith and political action.
Although Saman attempts to present an intimate psychological portrait of a group of young Indonesian women, plot-wise it is dominated by the mental and physical challenges faced by a politically-engaged Catholic priest, Wisanggeni, or Wis, who is assigned to a parish in South Sumatra. After becoming involved in an armed struggle between villagers and government-backed developers, Wis is smuggled out of Indonesia and changes his name to Saman.
At times, Saman is simply impossible to put down, an unusual experience when reading an Indonesian novel. Perhaps this goes some way to explaining why between April and August this year Saman went through six editions. By Indonesian standards, this is a spectacular turnover.
Elsewhere, for this reviewer at least, Saman is somewhat confusing, with numerous flashbacks and changes in narrative voice occurring seemingly at random. Certainly Ayu seems hesitant at times, most noticably with the deeper psychological motivations of several of her main characters, particularly male characters such as Wis and Sihar.
Yet minor quibbles such as these may be easily resolved when Saman appears in its entire form. That is, if it appears in its entire form. Despite the huge praise for Saman, there has also been some public doubt about the novel's authorship. Many believe that Saman is simply too good a novel to be written by a female journalist not yet thirty years of age with virtually no previous literary output.
Part of the reason for such criticism, which appears to be largely unfounded conjecture, is that if Ayu really did write Saman then she must be greeted as one of the most promising young writers to emerge in Indonesia over the last decade. Furthermore, with the literary careers of New Order cultural icons such as Pramudya Ananta Toer, Rendra, Umar Kayam, YB Mangunwijaya and even Emha Ainun Nadjib appearing to be winding down, Ayu Utami's emergence is a strong reminder that reformasi should stretch much deeper than politics.
Marshall Clark is a PhD student at the Australian National University, Canberra.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Beyond the horizon
David T Hill (ed), Beyond the horizon: Short stories from contemporary Indonesia, Melbourne, Monash Asia Institute, 1998, ISBN 0-7326-1164-4, 201pp.
Reviewed by RON WITTON
Soon after the New Order was established in 1966, an innovative monthly cultural and literary journal named Horison ('Horizon' in English) appeared. The writers who established it were brought together by their opposition to the socialist-realist demands of the left-wing Institute for People's Culture (Lekra), so influential in Sukarno's Indonesia.
These 22 short stories were selected from the thousands published in Horison over the last thirty years. They provide a veritable rijstafel of personal experiences of what the New Order meant to ordinary people. In the introduction David Hill explains the origins of Horison, and the context of the stories selected. He ensured a selection of women writers, even though they are relatively poorly represented throughout Horison's history.
The translations are excellent. They meet the ultimate test of a good translation, that is, that one is rarely, if ever, aware one is reading a translation. For those teaching Indonesian language, providing students with copies of the stories in the original Indonesian would constitute a wonderful teaching tool to complement this book.
With the end of the New Order and the dawning of reformasi, many observers will begin to consider the human cost of the so-called Era of Development. Readers are here invited to savour the great diversity of ways the human condition was affected by this era.
They range from the feelings of a person from the jungles of Irian Jaya transported to Jakarta, to the manner in which an honest civil servant dealt with pressure to become corrupt.
We taste a little of what life was like in a political concentration camp. We learn of the difficulties of those many millions forced to relocate from rural areas to work in low-paid urban jobs, in the construction industry, in factories or in prostitution. We see how urban and foreign money impinged on rural areas.
We have here a series of snapshots of the rakyat, the ordinary people of Indonesia, as they tried to live with forces far too great for them. Yet threads of humour and satire are woven throughout many of the stories.
Ron Witton <rwitton@uow.edu.au> teaches Indonesian at the University of Western Sydney and the University of Wollongong.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Cockroach
'Kecoa', by Yudi, Yaddie, Eri, & Arief (Balai Pustaka, 1998).
Like Ayam Majapahit (featured in Inside Indonesia, July-September 1998), Kecoa was also a first place winner in the 1997 Comic Competition held by the Director General of the Ministry for Education and Culture. Like the other winners, these comics are very difficult to find.
Kecoa is a story of heroism in the face of extreme personal fear, which takes place toward the end of the Japanese occupation (1942-45). Kecoa is the nickname given to a young farmer because of his intense fear of cockroaches (kecoa) in a place overrun by them. Kecoa, however, rises to the occasion and bravely faces Japanese cruelty and internal treachery from within the ranks of the local militia. This frame shows the excitement among the militia when they hear on 17 August 1945 that independence has been proclaimed. The cry is 'Merdeka!', 'Freedom!'.
Laine Berman.
Dr Laine Berman teaches at Deakin University, Melbourne. A photocopy is available from her for AU$12 (including postage): Aust & Internat Studs, Deakin University, 221 Burwood Highway, Burwood Vic 3125, Australia, fax +61-3-9244 6755.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Flower in the grass
Amid the beauty, and the sensuality, that is Javanese music, this famous female singer wants to recreate her role.
Jody Diamond interviews Nyi Supadmi
Surakarta (Solo), Central Java
I began studying female voice, or pesindhen, when I was 12 years old. Since elementary school I have sung with feeling. If a song was sad, I would cry too, and if the meaning of the text was happy, I would be as happy as someone who is laughing. In 1971 I made new cengkok [musical phrases] that I included in recordings on many Indonesian labels: Lokananta, IRA, Irama, Fajar, Cakra. Then, alhamdulillah, many of my friends in the arts criticised me.
Why?
Because I was too bold. 'Why did you include those cengkok?' they said. Well I just kept on, even though many of my enemies did not back off. In 1972 I taught in America, and I developed more new cengkok. The next year I was not too active as a singer. My husband didn't want me to be, because many people think pesindhen are flirtatious. When I didn't sing, I studied how to write sindhenan notation with Sutarman and Martopangrawit. I was invited to teach singing at Aski (now STSI), the arts academy in Solo. But my husband didn't know about it. Then he died and I had to make a living.
Were you hesitant to ask your husband's permission to work at Aski?
I was brave enough, but I had to guard the family peace as well.
Did you ask your husband's permission at that time?
I did. Only...
What did he say?
Well, he answered: 'Up to you.' Usually if a Javanese person says 'up to you' it's more serious than yes or no.
Does 'up to you' mean 'it is better if not'? Did your husband prefer you to be at home?
Yes. Going to recordings was okay. It was performing that was the problem. When I was still young, like age 22, sometimes the dhalang [shadow puppet master] would flirt and make rude noises at the pesindhen. This is what my husband disagreed with. This is a problem in Indonesia. If there is one or two pesindhen but 15 male musicians, it is like a flower in the field of grass - many look at it and talk about it. This is not really that strange, I think, because there are many leaves and branches, but only a few flowers, so of course people look at what is beautiful.
When your husband died, that was unfortunate, but that is what gave you the opportunity to teach?
Yes, that's true. It's really sad, of course, but maybe it was God's wish that I work in the arts again. I started work at Aski in 1981, teaching singing. I made a dictionary of vocal phrases, Kamus Sindhenan. But, guess what, some people didn't like my book. At that time most pesindhen learned orally, so this was like a kind of eavesdropping! They studied from radio or tape, just listening to other singers, and they didn't want to study from notation. Most people who studied pesindhen did it by ear, and they were not used to reading notation.
What is the role of the pesindhen in Javanese society?
In former times they were considered not so polite because the origin of pesindhen was women who would dance with men, and who would embrace them and get money. Sometimes women were jealous of the pesindhen. But our role is really just to entertain those who might be sad or confused in their hearts. The pesindhen can even entertain without being aware of what is in the soul of the listener.
If you could imagine a more ideal situation in the future for pesindhen, what would it be?
I think we need to clear the way for a process by which people would see that pesindhen are part of society too. I think an organisation would help, one that would give guidelines and education, and show that the pesindhen doesn't have to only sing, but she can also play instruments and make notation. Also we should remember that we do not need to be enemies with each other, it is not a competition to be better than someone else, or to make more money, or have finer clothes and fancy jewelry.
You must focus on matters of art, not adornment?
Yes. What is important is the development of the art of sindhenan, not the development of our jewelry or blouses. We must be able to speak well, be able to sing well, be able to converse well whether it is with a Minister or a General. We must not be quiet and fearful - this is part of the mental education. I want very much to promote these ideas.
What is it like to teach foreigners?
I am happy and proud that there are foreigners who want to study sindhenan and traditional singing. But I must explain many difficult musical concepts or translate the texts. Some students have trouble with their vocal ornaments or their sound is too western.
What is your experience with Indonesian composers?
I think that in earlier times if one got new inspiration [it was from] what was experienced by people. This was the impetus for arts, yes, inspiration from sadness or happiness or anger. These feelings are what humanity has been given, and these can be expressed through the arts. I worked with Ki Nartosabdho, who arranged many works for chorus with words about the wayang [shadow puppet theatre]. He was very creative.
Did his inventiveness influence you?
It opened my heart, so that I felt that not only could the musicians and the dhalang have new ideas, but the pesindhen herself. I saw that all humans could be creative, and make something from that inspiration.
Nyi Supadmi
Supadmi was born in Klaten, near Solo in 1950. She is currently on the staff of STSI Surakarta, the national arts academy in Solo. In 1989 she founded the organisation Pawarti, or Paguyuban Swarawati, dedicated to the education of female gamelan singers and the improvement of their status as artists. She has several books of vocal notation published in Indonesia, and her books and scores for her compositions are published and distributed by the American Gamelan Institute (http://www.gamelan.org or email agi@gamelan.org).
Nyi Supadmi's life and compositions are discussed in great detail in a dissertation by Susan Pratt Walton, 'Heavenly nymphs and earthly delights: Javanese female singers, their music and their lives,' University of Michigan, 1996, UMI # 9712166.
Writings
Cengkok-cengkok Srambahan & Abon-abon. A 'dictionary' of vocal cengkok arranged by text, pathet (tonal hierarchies), seleh (goal tone) and syllable length.
Ladrang: Sindhenan Ladrang Slendro & Pelog. Balungan (melodic outline) and pesindhen part for 32 classic ladrang (a musical form).
Palaran: Gaya Surakarta & Gaya Yogyakarta. 59 Palaran (poems set with free rythm gamelan accompaniment) in Surakarta style, 21 in Yogyakarta style, and 49 in 'Surakarta style pelog nyamat.'
These three books have been published in Indonesia and
internationally by the American Gamelan Institute.
Kumpulan Jineman, 1988, Surakarta: Taman Budaya Surakarta.
Compositions
Ketawang Panalangsa
Langgam Ngudhup Turi
Langgam Panjang Mas Langgam Ora Ngira
Lelagon Geculan: Ngaco
Ketawang Pangkur Sawiji
Ketawang Sendhang Melathi
Langgam Anteping Sih
Jody Diamond is a composer, performer and publisher. She lives in the USA in Lebanon, New Hampshire, where she is director of the American Gamelan Institute. In 1996 she was a Fellow of the Asia Institute and Music Department at Monash University in Melbourne, where she founded a composers' gamelan group. In 1988- 89 she was in Indonesia as a Senior Fulbright Research Fellow, and worked on a survey of Indonesian composers. This interview was excerpted from one of nearly 60 completed during that year. She may be contacted at Jody.Diamond@dartmouth.edu.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
In the tiger's den
Marwan Yatim's story of torture
Marwan Yatim
I was a political prisoner sentenced to six years gaol in the Free Aceh case. Indonesian soldiers arrested me roughly at my office on 3 October 1990. At the Lampineung intelligence headquarters my entire body was beaten with fists, kicks, sticks and whips while they cursed me. They then stripped me to my underpants and put me in a 1x2m cell. Inside were two other prisoners. Their faces were full of puss, and their shoulders and legs full of wounds. We slept directly on the concrete, always fearing more torture while hearing other humans scream in pain.
Under an oppressive sun another man and I were joined at the shoulders and told to carry a large rock, already hot from the sun, for two hours. Every time the rock fell we were beaten.
From the tigers den of Lampineung we were moved to the Lhok Nga gaol not far away. But soldiers from Company B would come especially to torture us, without asking any questions. During the first week it happened every evening. My nose was broken by a soldier named Zulkarnein. In the morning Company B commander Joko Warsito, in front of his men, arrogantly stomped on my chest and face with his boots. In the evening his subordinate Syukri tortured me for three hours in a bath full of water.
About 300 people were arrested for Free Aceh in Banda Aceh. All were tortured. Even the courtroom was taken over by the military. All the proceedings were dictated by the military command, Korem 012/TU. No denial was accepted. Justice never came into it.
Even after we were handed over to civilian warders, nothing could be done without the recommendation of Korem 012/TU. There was no medicine for the sick. Several of my friends died in gaol.
Marwan Yatim now lives in Sydney, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Aceh exposed
Aceh is a neglected human rights horror story.
IRIP News Service
Marwan Yatim (see article 'In the Tigers Den' this issue) was lucky. He escaped with his life. A local government enquiry recently concluded 430 had died in 1989- 92, while 320 remain missing. Hundreds of houses were burned, cattle, cars and jewelry stolen. And that was only in the North Aceh regency of Aceh province. Data on the possibly hundreds of women raped remains sparse.
Just over a month after Suharto's resignation, local newspapers in Aceh, north Sumatra, began a determined campaign to expose abuses during a military anti-secessionist operation between 1989 and 1992. The metropolitan press soon picked it up.
Early in August the National Human Rights Commission said the situation in Aceh had been worse than that in East Timor and Irian Jaya. A few days later the Commission was digging up mass graves under the media spotlight. Many more graves remain unopened.
In response, armed forces commander General Wiranto on 7 August went to Aceh to apologise for human rights abuses, and to announce that the province's dubious 'special operations' status had been revoked. Much aid has flowed into Aceh since then.
Acehnese proudly remember Sultan Iskandar Muda (ruled 1607-36), who made Aceh the most powerful state in the region. Europeans began seriously to press in during the imperialistic nineteenth century. In 1873 the Dutch launched a costly and bloody war against Aceh. Despite superior arms, it took them four decades to win effective control against Acehnese guerrilla tactics.
When Indonesia proclaimed its independence in 1945, Acehnese leaders lent crucial support. But they were disappointed that Jakarta gave Islam, and themselves, far less importance than they had hoped. Aceh joined a major regional rebellion in 1953. Fighting wound down after the Acehnese won an agreement with Jakarta in 1959 that extended autonomy to Aceh.
In 1971 Mobil Oil discovered massive natural gas reserves in North Aceh. The Lhokseumawe liquid natural gas plant became the biggest in the world, supplying 30% of Indonesia's oil and gas exports. Industries mushroomed around it, and with it pollution and social disruption.
However, the Acehnese were well aware there was little in it for them. This was perhaps the main reason for the resurgence in 1989 of an Acehnese secessionist movement that had been led for years by Hasan di Tiro from his exile in Stockholm. The military crackdown that followed left deep wounds in Acehnese society that are only now being exposed.
Wiranto's apology is not enough. The Acehnese want justice for the terrible abuses of 1989-92, and they want a better deal on the natural wealth of the region. They also want independence, or at least they want the 1959 autonomy agreement revived.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Who plotted the 1965 coup?
Suharto always said it was the communists. Yet from the start, says Colonel Latief, Suharto himself was involved.
Greg Poulgrain
Indonesian President BJ Habibie has refused to release Colonel Latief, whose arrest in 1965 for involvement in a military coup was followed by Major-General Suharto's rise to the presidency.
Habibie has granted amnesty to 73 other political prisoners, even to members of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) accused of involvement in the 1965 coup attempt. Refusing amnesty to Latief now shows how Suharto overshadows Habibie.
Interviewed in Cipinang Prison, Jakarta, three days after Suharto resigned, Latief told me that he expected never to be released. Despite various kidney operations and the stroke he suffered last year, Latief is still very alert. His explanation for his involvement in 1965 directly implicates Suharto.
By late 1965, President Sukarno was ailing and without a successor. Tension between the PKI and the armed forces was growing. Conspiracies rumours were rife. Who would make the first move?
On the night of 30 September 1965, six hours before the military coup, Latief confirmed with Suharto that the plan to kidnap seven army generals would soon start. Latief was an officer attached to the Jakarta military command. As head of the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad), Suharto held the optimum position to crush the operation, so his name should have been at the top of the list. When troops who conducted the kidnappings asked why Suharto was not on the list, they were told: 'Because he is one of us'.
There was a rumour the seven generals were intending to seize power from Sukarno. Latief and two other army officers in the operation, Lieutenant-Colonel Untung (in charge of some of the troops guarding Sukarno's palace) and General Supardjo (a commander from Kalimantan), planned to kidnap the generals and bring them before President Sukarno to explain themselves.
The 30th September Movement was thus a limited pre-emptive strike by pro-Sukarno officers against anti-Sukarno officers. They kidnapped the generals and occupied strategic centres in Jakarta's main square, without touching Suharto's headquarters. The plan involved no killing, but it went terribly wrong and six of the seven died.
Although Untung was assigned responsibility for collecting the generals, this crucial task was then taken over by a certain Kamaruzzaman alias Sjam, evidently a 'double agent' with contacts in the Jakarta military command as well as the PKI. At his trial, Sjam admitted responsibility for killing the generals but blamed the PKI under Aidit. In 1965 when Suharto accused the PKI of responsibility for killing the generals, the Sjam-Aidit link gave Suharto enough leverage to convince his contemporaries.
Between Sjam and Suharto there was a twenty-year friendship going back to the fight against the Dutch in Central Java in 1948-49. This strengthened in the late 1950s when both attended the Bandung Staff College.
Suharto was also on close terms with Untung, who served under him during the campaign to reclaim Netherlands New Guinea in 1962 and who became a family friend.
During his trial in 1978, not only did Latief explain that he met Suharto on the night of the coup, but also that several days before he met both Suharto and his wife in the privacy of Suharto's home to discuss the overall plan. The court declared that this information was 'not relevant'.
Suharto, more than anybody, described the events that night as 'communist inspired'. Suharto's claim that he saw the slain generals' bodies had been sexually mutilated was shown to be deliberately false by post-mortem documents, not revealed till decades later. This false claim provoked months of killings against communists, particularly in Bali and Central and East Java.
The PKI, numbering 20 million, were mostly rice farmers. Accused en masse they became victims in one of the worst massacres this century. In the opinion of the author, many writers underestimated the death toll, which may be around one million persons. Another 700,000 were imprisoned without trial. The most notorious general involved, Sarwo Edhie, claimed not one but two million were killed. 'And we did a good job', he added. Traumatised by violence, the nation became politically malleable.
Using Suharto's own categorisation of crimes related to 1965, his prior knowledge of the alleged coup places him in 'Category A' involvement - the same as those who faced execution or life imprisonment.
The release of Colonel Latief is a litmus test of Habibie's willingness to promote genuine reform. Fewer than ten long term prisoners remain. Latief has pleaded: 'Most of them are already 70 years old and fragile. For the sake of humanity, please take notice of us.'
Dr Greg Poulgrain <g.poulgrain@qut.edu.au> is a research fellow at the School of Humanities, QUT Carseldine.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Islamic conversations
Islam is more important today than ever before. Four leading individuals state their case.
Hisanori Kato
'Milik pribumi', owned by natives. I saw this sign on the shutters of shops from the window of a city minibus. Its owners first put up the sign to avoid the wrath of rioters targeting Chinese businesses last May. At the end of September 1998, everything in Jakarta seemed normal, except this sign and some ruined buildings.
I knew something significant was going on in this society. Democratisation? Reformation? Or political manoeuvre for survival? I really wanted to find out what it was. So I decided to visit the people who would be key players in this 'something'.
Gus Dur
His doctor advised Abdurrahman Wahid, affectionately known as Gus Dur and the chairperson of Nahdatul Ulama, to work less. But his life seemed as hectic as before his operation in January 1998. I was lucky enough to have a long conversation with him. His warm, friendly and humorous nature made me feel at home, and brought lots of laughs to our discussion.
Yet he became serious when I asked him about racial and religious tension in Indonesia. 'Muslims blame non-Muslims (mainly ethnic Chinese), and also non-Muslims complain about their condition. This needs to be reconciled.' He went on: 'I am very much willing to head a National Reconciliation Committee if it is formed.'
'What do you think Suharto should do now?' I asked him. 'He should return all the money he collected during his presidency to the treasury of Indonesia, and apologise to the people.' 'That is a good idea. Would you tell Suharto to do it?' 'It might be hard for Suharto to come to me directly. But if he sends his daughter Tutut to me, I would pass on the message. If Suharto does it, I will do everything to clear his name.' And he laughed.
Gus Dur talked about the wrongdoings of Suharto's government - human rights abuses and corruption. But he is realistic about the prospects of immediate change. 'Change is a process. It takes a long time to change something. I think it might take two more elections to have civilians for both president and vice- president. Also, Abri's dual function can not be abolished right away.'
Knowing that some Nahdatul Ulama (NU) intellectuals are frustrated with Gus Dur's 'realist' political stance and autocratic attitude, I asked him about conflict within NU. 'I listen to other people's opinions, but I have to make a decision in the end. I know some people, especially young intellectuals, are not happy with my "slow" approach to reformation. But we talk about it. We also laugh about it. It is OK to have different attitudes and ideas because I belong to "Today's Generation" while they belong to "Tomorrow's Generation".'
I just nodded because I knew that although some NU people are critical of Gus Dur, they love him as they do their own fathers. He mentioned several NU young people as Tomorrow's Generation, and he also added Amien Rais. This was rather surprising to me.
Amien Rais
TV crews from Korea and America, journalists from Italy and three Indonesian magazines were waiting for Amien Rais when I had an appointment with him. He was a major player in the movement that brought down Suharto, and is now a presidential candidate as chairperson of the National Mandate Party. The party is based in the religious organisation Muhammadiyah, which Amien Rais chaired until recently.
I had little confidence I would be able to interview him on that day. However, I managed to catch him when he stepped out of his office. 'Pak Amien, do you remember when you were writing your PhD dissertation in Chicago? I am now in the same position. Would you spare some time for me?' He looked at me, and smiled. 'OK, I can give you some time.'
My first question to him was very simple. 'Did you change?' I had in mind the reports in times past that he was anti-Christian. He immediately said: 'Yes, it is a natural process. A stone never changes, I am not a stone.' 'In what way did you change?', I asked. 'I now have more appreciation of the plurality of the nation, and feel the necessity of building a strong nation.'
He told me of the time about three months earlier when Jakob Oetama, chief editor of the largely Catholic daily Kompas, came to visit him. He said: 'Amien, you are moving from a leader of Muhammadiyah to a leader of the nation. You need to make a step to be a leader of this nation'. 'It was exactly what I was feeling', Amien Rais went on, 'so I agreed with him, and here I am now.'
His willingness to lead the country was expressed throughout our conversation. As his ideas sounded very much like Gus Dur's, I asked him what he thought about the difference between the two. 'Probably, Gus Dur would be happy if more positions go to NU. But I want more than that, I want the leadership of the nation.'
At the same time, he was aware of criticism of his political style. 'I know that I am too straight and "un-Indonesian",' he said. 'But it doesn't really matter to me. It is better to express my opinions explicitly rather than hiding them.'
My last question to him was also simple. 'Who are your political heroes?' After a short pause, he said: 'J F Kennedy, Churchill, Gorbachev, Neru... of course, Sukarno, too.' Fadli Zon
Fadli Zon probably has a reputation as a hard-line Muslim. This young intellectual is one of the chairpersons of the recently established Moon and Star Party (Partai Bulan Bintang), which brings together some of the ideals and personalities of the intensely Islamic Masyumi party of the 1950s. He is always willing to explain his political stance. The main goal of his party, he said diplomatically, is to establish a 'better system'.
'I think Indonesian farmers should be protected. For example, wheat imports from America hinder the prosperity of Indonesian farmers. This has to be changed. To establish a fair system is important,' he said.
According to him, the pribumi (native Indonesians) are lagging behind in the economy. 'Affirmative action is necessary until the pribumi can stand on the same line as the non-pribumi,' he explained.
However, he said he did not approve of the anti-Chinese violence symbolised by the 'Milik pribumi' signs. 'Islamic principle is to protect minority peoples', he said clearly. 'This should be done by law.'
His party is regarded as more Islamic-oriented than the others, so I wanted to know about his idea of an Islamic state. 'We are not proposing an Islamic state, but are promoting a better system.'
'How about Pancasila?' I asked, referring to the ideology that has since 1945 been seen as a bulwark against both a communist and an Islamic state. 'We agree with it as a basic idea of the nation, but disagree that everyone has to accept it as a principle. Let political parties choose their own ideologies except communism.'
The last conversation I had with him was about his stay in America as an exchange student when he was in high school. 'I was in Texas for a year. My host family was Christian and they are nice people. I still keep in touch with them. They are my friends.'
Bismar Siregar
'I love Suharto.' It was not in the early 1990s, but September 1998. I was stunned when a seventy-year old former Supreme Court judge said this to me. For Bismar Siregar, Islamic moral principle is crucial in Indonesia today. 'In Islam, forgiveness is very important. Love others as you do yourself.' Looking at his gentle eyes, I remembered a Japanese Buddhist word: jihi, compassion.
As a legal expert, Bismar is of course well aware of Suharto's misdeeds. However, he dares to say that reconciliation can not be realised without forgiveness. He believes that forgiving Suharto would make him repent. It seems that almost everyone in Indonesia today hates Suharto. But Bismar thinks it is hypocrisy when people who enjoyed the New Order now criticise Suharto. 'Suharto's fault is one part of our fault, too', he added, as if he were telling himself.
When I left his office, he said 'Goodbye' in Japanese. He learned it during the Japanese occupation. I believe that he has already forgiven Japanese militarism. I thanked him for his compassion. And I wondered how Suharto would respond to Bismar.
Political development in Indonesia is rapid. Gus Dur, Amien Rais, and Fadli Zon are associated with major political parties such as the NU-based National Awakening Party PKB, the National Mandate Party PAN, and the Moon and Star Party PBB. We know that their path is not smooth. Just how PKB implements Gus Dur's modern and tolerant ideas will make a crucial difference. PAN is also struggling to maintain its inclusive orientation. The sensitive issue of the protection of minorities is always around PBB.
Only time will tell what will happen. Yet, one thing for sure is that the seeds of change and the will to create a better society exist in Indonesia. And the idea of democracy is ubiquitous. The conversations with four Muslims prove this.
Hisanori Kato is a PhD student in the School of Studies in Religion, University of Sydney. He comes from Japan.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
No shortcut to democracy
Post-Suharto, the opportunities are wide open. Time is short. But a democracy that lasts must be built on solid ideas rather than popular individuals or religion.
Olle Tornquist speaks with Gerry van Klinken
What first drew you to Indonesia?
In the early 70's I wasn't interested in Indonesia but in what was missing in Marxism and why many radical popular movements in the Third World were failing. So what actually drew me to Indonesia was the destruction of its huge communist party.
But even studies of general theories have to be contextualised. And since empirical exploration rather than old theories have been points of departure in my efforts since the late 80's to analyse popular politics of democratisation, Indonesia 'in itself' has gradually become more important to me. But as an Indonesianist, I remain a fake!
Few expected Suharto to resign as quickly as he did. What really brought him down?
Let's look back. Because actually expectations have varied over time and with the theories in vogue. Till the late 70's or so, most radicals kept on analysing the New Order regime in terms of an unstable neo-colonial and parasitic dictatorship.
But the regime didn't fall, and many realised that the 'parasites' did invest some of their rents. So both students of the rise of capital and of clientelism began to emphasise continuity instead þ this thing might last forever. They tended to look on studies of popular movements for political change as idealistic and a waste of time.
And then, of course, there was the West's lack of interest in supporting democratic forces 'that couldn't even offer a realistic alternative'. So yes, in many circles the crisis and Suharto's resignation was somewhat unexpected.
What really was to oust him became apparent to me only with the crackdown on the democracy movement in mid '96. That wasn't 'business as usual', as many would have it.
The regime, on the one hand, proved totally unable to regulate conflicts, reform itself, and prepare an 'orderly' succession. When the financial crisis spread to Indonesia a year later the regime could not restore the confidence of investors, regardless of what economic prescription it tried - since that would have required fundamental political reforms.
The dissidents, on the other hand, were too poorly organised to make a difference on their own, and they were still neglected by the West. Instead, the West entrusted the problem to neo-classical IMF economists and their colleagues in Jakarta.
On May 4 1998 the political illiteracy of the economists combined with Suharto's attempt to prove that he was in control, caused the regime to increase prices even further than the IMF had sought.
Unorganised public anger thereupon gave a new dimension to the student demonstrations that had hitherto been rather isolated. Factions of the army tried making things worse to get an excuse to regain control by afterwards restoring 'law and order'. The rats began abandoning the sinking ship, and the captain had to choose between going down with it or resigning.
So in essence the problem was political: the inability of the regime to handle conflicts, to reform itself and thus restore confidence in the market place; the inability of the democracy movement to organise the widespread discontent among people, relying instead on student activists as organic spearheads; and the inability of the West and the IMF to boost reform and democratic forces that may have prevented social and economic disaster.
How would you describe what has happened in politics since Suharto's resignation?
To keep it brief, most actors focus on how to alter the old regime. Everybody is busy repositioning themselves, consolidating their assets, and forming new parties and alliances. Incumbents (and their military and business allies) are delaying changes and forming favourable new political laws in order to be able to adapt, making whatever concessions are necessary to be able to steer their course. Established dissidents, meanwhile, trade in their reputations and, occasionally, their popular followings, for reform and 'positions'.
There is a shortage of time. Even old democrats go for shortcuts like charisma, populism, religion, and patronage in order to swiftly incorporate rather than gradually integrate people into politics. Radicals try to sustain popular protests to weaken shameless incumbents who might otherwise be able to stay on.
Of course the markets and the West are mainly interested in anything that looks stable enough to permit the pay-back of loans and safe returns on investments.
Habibie and most of his ministers are New Order people. Yet they do not enjoy New Order powers. Doesn't that make this post-Suharto period 'somewhat' democratic?
Yes the rulers are weaker. For some years, even sections of the Habibie's association for Islamic intellectuals Icmi have had limited democratic reforms on their agenda, like their friend Anwar in Malaysia. By now, any new regime will have to be legitimised in terms of rule of law and democracy. There are continuos negotiations over new rules of the game. And there are a lot of opportunities. Genuine democrats, however, are short of capacity to make use of them. They now cannot rally opposition against an authoritarian ruler. They need instead to mobilise people in society on the basis of different interests and ideas. But that is much more difficult.
Incumbents and others with economic, military and political resources prefer elitist and limited forms of democracy. Sections of the middle class may well support ideas about a rather authoritarian but enlightened law and order state. Especially if actual democracy will mean that local strongmen and religious, military and business leaders mobilise the voters with the use of God, gold, goons and guns, only to divide the spoils among themselves.
These are risky days. What is the biggest danger? What are the signs of hope?
The danger I'm most afraid of is the historical tendency for local political violence to increase as central power becomes weaker and more divided. Less efficient top-down suppression of all the latent conflicts on the local level, centring on food, land and other vital resources, leaves space for not just democratic forces but also for devastating conspiracies and manipulation. As we talk, the killings in East Java, for instance, are still going on.
The best signs of hope, on the other hand, we rarely notice. They are difficult to extrapolate from what we know of Indonesia until the fall of Suharto. The so-called political opportunity structure is changing.
Three brief examples. First, it is no longer possible to simply repress angry workers. Even the most stubborn hardliners realise that it's better to negotiate with representative unions. So it may be possible for labour activists to take the initiative and cautiously enter into this field with a rather good bargaining position, since their opponents really need genuine representatives with whom to strike solid deals.
Second, after the financial crisis even sections of the IMF and the World Bank realise it's time for improved regulations. Neo-liberalism is on the retreat. Hence, there are ample opportunities to continue the struggle for democratisation and so-called 'good governance'.
Third, there will be comparatively free elections on all levels. And though there are many constraints those are opportunities for hitherto rather isolated activists (including 'liberated' journalists) to reach out, link up with grass roots initiatives, and build genuine mass organisations, including democratic watch movements.
What kind of reform is the most crucial, and the most feasible, right now? What should outsiders be supporting?
In Indonesia (as some ten years ago in Eastern Europe) the state and organised politics are seen as bad, and 'civil society' as good. When authoritarian politics have to be undermined there is much to this idea, but now there is less. Now it's high time to mobilise strength in negotiations by organising people and building a democratic culture. I do not share the view that support for civil society is always the best way of doing this. In many cases, such as the backing of free journalists, there are no problems, but all civil society associations do not necessarily promote democracy. And what is political culture but routinely practised remnants of yesterday's rules, institutions, and organised politics? Hence, it's on the level of formal rules and institutions on the one hand, and of organised politics on the other, that change and improvements have to start.
It is essential for the democratic forces to give priority to organising constituencies based on shared societal interests and ideas. They should not go for tempting shortcuts. Without well-anchored politics and unionism there will be no meaningful democracy.
Equally important, all efforts - including ours from outside - must be made to oppose new political rules of the game that make such efforts increasingly difficult, and to mobilise support for better alternatives.
One example is the need to back up genuine labour groups and unions by involving them in the distribution of support for the unemployed. Another is the new electoral law. Not only does it retain corporate military representation. It is also tailor made to promote local boss- rule in one-man constituencies and to prevent proportional representation of small but potentially genuine parties.
Finally, of course, in the run-up to the elections there must be massive support for independent voters education and electoral watch movements. The objective should be to build constituencies for the future among genuine democrats at the grass roots level.
Olle Tornquist commutes between Sweden and Norway where he is professor of politics and development at the University of Oslo. He is the author of 'Dilemmas of Third World communism' and 'What's wrong with Marxism?' (based on Indonesia and India), and the new textbook 'Politics and development - A critical introduction'.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
More than six decades after being inspired as an undergraduate in Sydney, Ron Witton retraces his Indonesian language teacher's journey back to Suriname