Poverty, refugees, militias, and too many soldiers
Elcid Li
In Kupang in the 1980s I sometimes heard a salvo fired at the Heroes Cemetry about a kilometre from my home. The next morning I would see a new grave. Another soldier or police officer had died in battle in East Timor. When I returned to Kupang at the end of 2001 I saw the body of a little girl. She had died of hunger in the Noelbaki refugee camp near the city. Her grave was dug among other little graves on the land belonging to a local resident.
In the past it was like a myth - I heard from an uncle about the road running with blood at the Santa Cruz cemetry in Dili. Now I feel that what happened in East Timor could also happen in West Timor, as if death had moved from one place to the other. West Timor today is like the dark side of the moon, where the sun never shines. Perhaps only some dramatic massacre will open the eyes of the world.
Antonius Seran Wilik, a retired teacher in Belu district near the border with East Timor, will not easily forget the date 4 September 1999. On that day he took 42 East Timorese refugees into his home. The Raihat refugee camp would be built there later. But it was not the first time the Raihat sub-district, which borders directly with Bobonaro district in East Timor, had seen refugees. The first time was 1946, just after the Second World War. The second was 1975, when East Timor was in upheaval and Indonesia came in and took over. There were even still stories of refugees from a war in Manufahi in the 1880s.
If in 1975 the refugees numbered about 4,000, in 1999 there were about 24,000 - for a population in Raihat of only 7,000. As a respected local leader, Antonius Seran Wilik ordered six square kilometres of traditional land to be set aside for the refugees. They were also allowed to live in the gardens and backyards of the locals. Antonius said the refugees came from an area that had traditionally supplied brides for his people. Belu district has the same language and culture as East Timor. The 1999 refugees were on the whole greeted as if they were relatives.
At first the world took a lot of notice of the refugees. But when three staff members of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees were murdered on 6 September 2000, nearly all international agencies helping the refugees pulled out of West Timor. Reduced assistance for refugees placed an increasing burden on the locals. Theft increased in the town of Atambua near the border. Forests in South Belu were chopped down and turned into agricultural land. No locals had ever dared to cut down those trees for fear of being fined. But the refugees just said 'we are defending the red-and-white (flag)', and after that the law was powerless. The locals knew this was illogical, and they worried about droughts and flooding for generations to come. But the refugees were hungry, and they were relatives. The province of East Nusa Tenggara of which West Timor is a part is the poorest in Indonesia.
Military
The slow rate at which refugees were returning proved that the militias retained a strong influence in the West Timor camps. They used guerrilla tactics to avoid handing over their weapons to the military. Anyway, many of them had been soldiers, or trained by them. It is common knowledge that the weapons are still there, even if they are not openly visible.
The area near the border has become heavily militarised. In January 2002 there were an estimated five battalions. Although some welcomed the increased military presence because it would control the militias dangerously frustrated with the new Jakarta policy, many feared that West Timor could be turned into a military operations area as in Aceh or Papua.
As in East Timor Bishop Belo became a symbol of the people's resistance, so in West Timor the Catholic Church speaks out through the priests. In Kefamenanu, priests rejected the establishment of a base by Infantry Battalion 744, formerly from East Timor. The commander of the Udayana military area, based in Bali, said to them in a meeting: 'Who will look after the priests' safety if not the soldiers?' There have been instances of intimidation against the church. A homemade bomb was found at the bishop's palace in Atambua.
Refugees
No one knows how many refugees there are - numbers are a political commodity for all those involved, both the government in East Timor and Untas, the refugee umbrella organisation. Untas, who said it was too early to ask them to make up their minds, sabotaged a survey of refugees in 2001 that wanted to ask their intentions. The survey resulted in numbers that were quite incredible.
Official assistance for the refugees ended on 1 January 2002. This is a risky way to force them to make up their minds whether to go home or stay. Some are already using the word 'new residents' rather than 'refugees' to describe them. They had enough food stored to last them until May, but after that things could get tense. Hunger can drive people to desperate acts. The Udayana commander has threatened to shoot rioters on sight. They have been living in these basic camps for nearly three years now.
They feel like hostages against the possibility of international sanctions against those military officers who committed crimes against humanity in East Timor. Once again, the little people have become the victims. Moreover, many West Timorese feel that political turmoil in Jakarta has resulted in scant attention being paid to peripheral areas such as their own. One local politician has called for UN intervention. However, this remains a sensitive issue.
While the new country of East Timor obtains a lot of international help, West Timor gets none. Not surprisingly, many farmers near the border have turned to small trade across the border. The trade profits the soldiers and police guarding the crossings too. They take Rp 5,000 (one Australian dollar) in 'safety money' for every box that passes by. A young Brimob policeman told me he earned Rp 300,000 a day that way.
The situation in West Timor is like a boil waiting to burst. First, unless the refugee problem is solved, it will lead to conflict with the locals, especially over land. Second, the continued presence of the militias, although now more or less clandestine, has introduced a volatile element. In a stressful situation these people create fear. They feel they are at war and the law does not apply to them. Third, the excessive number of soldiers to guard the borders is becoming a burden on the local population.
I now place my hope in Xanana Gusmao and his offer of reconciliation. His visit to Atambua on 4 April 2002 did much to counter the negative campaign in the camps that there would be a revenge attack into East Timor once the United Nations was gone. May President Xanana bring peace to us all.
Elcid Li (domingguselcid@lycos.com) is a freelance journalist. Thanks to Dony for his help in Atambua.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
What does the future hold for this neglected territory?
Arsenio Bano and Edward Rees
The Oecussi-Ambeno enclave is an isolated district of East Timor on the north shore of Indonesian West Timor. Seventy kilometres west of East Timor proper, it is 2700 square kilometres in size, with nearly 50,000 inhabitants. Its citizens find themselves inside Indonesia. Oecussi's unique geography points to a unique relationship with Indonesia.
Historically, the enclave has had a distinct relationship with both the western and eastern regions of Timor. The Portuguese, the first Europeans in Timor, arrived in the sixteenth century at Lifau, Oecussi. It served as the capital of Portuguese Timor until the arrival of the Dutch, a hostile local kingdom, and prospects of a better harbour caused the Portuguese to shift their capital to Dili in the eighteenth century. The Portuguese tradition, and the enclave's position as the birthplace of Catholicism in Timor, are the source of considerable pride there and throughout East Timor.
At the end of the nineteenth century the Dutch and Portuguese formalised their shared border in Timor. The enclave remained politically and sentimentally attached to Portuguese Timor, but not geographically. Towards the end of Portuguese rule, a ferry linked the enclave to East Timor proper, and there was a limited air link to Dili. The end of Indonesian rule took Oecussi back to this peculiar status. Politically it now looks to the east. Economically it looks to the west.
However, the people also share ties with Indonesian West Timor. Trade and family links extend from Atambua to Kupang. They are centred on Kefamenanu, West Timor's fourth city. The indigenous language of the enclave is Baiqueno, a dialect of Meto, one of West Timor's major ethno-linguistic groupings.
The Indonesian invasion and occupation did not visit as much violence on Oecussi as it did on the rest of East Timor. Early resistance was light, and no Falintil guerrillas operated in the enclave. However, underground resistance organisations played an important role in the national resistance to the occupation. In 1999, Interfet did not arrive in Oecussi until 22 October, a month after its arrival in Dili. As a result the enclave experienced the mass destruction of property, theft and the murder of many pro-independence activists. The Passabe Tumin massacre of September 1999 was the country's second largest mass killing. This story was part of a desperate plea carried to Interfet soldiers by a heroic boy named Lafu.
Isolation
East Timor's independence has imposed an acute isolation on Oecussi. It is an island within an island. An international border now seriously disrupts its connections with West Timor and East Timor proper alike. Transport links with East Timor have meanwhile been largely severed. Untaet established air and sea links to move goods and personnel between the enclave and East Timor. But these largely exclude ordinary East Timorese and will end with the peacekeepers' departure in 2004. A small ferry service was intended to commence in June 2002, but it relies on a heavy and unsustainable subsidy from an international donor. Efforts to develop land access have not borne fruit.
An expensive and limited Telstra service is the only public means of communication with the outside world. Oecussi residents do not enjoy the same access to services and information as the rest of the country. A lack of trade hampers economic recovery.
Given its geography, the enclave's long-term economic prospects are tied to West Timor. So what to do with this isolated enclave?
The Untaet period achieved little progress towards long-term sustainability for the enclave that might secure East Timors sovereignty there. However, some initiatives shaped thinking on a future Oecussi policy.
In June 2000, the international District Administration proposed that Oecussi should be developed into a Special Economic Zone (SEZ). This called for a soft border regime with Indonesia, reduced tax and tariff rates, and unique land and labour codes - in other words, a commercial framework designed to make the enclave attractive. A SEZ is well situated to exploit the market of 1.2 million people in West Timor.
In July 2000 the District CNRT Congress called for a 'governmental' arrangement in which Oecussi would become a province rather than a district. This would enhance its access to central government funds and political influence.
Urged by the District Administration, the Minister for Internal Administration at the end of 2000 called for an Oecussi Task Force to develop a comprehensive policy. It never materialised.
In July 2001 one of us (Arsenio Bano, then director of the East Timor NGO Forum) proposed the enclave be declared a demilitarised peace zone. The influential Australian Strategic Policy Institute has subsequently echoed this notion. Oecussi could be the centre-piece of the oft-stated foreign policy desire for harmonious relations with Indonesia. Military solutions will only antagonise Indonesia and further isolate the enclave. A peace zone would accommodate Indonesian economic and security interests and thereby help Oecussi to develop. The key is that the future of the enclave requires substantial bilateral negotiations with Indonesia, as its future depends on West Timor and Jakarta second only to Dili.
Also during 2001 two community groups formed to discuss the future of the enclave. Based in Oecussi and Dili, the Oecussi Enclave Research Forum and the Oecussi Advocacy Forum both called for various forms of regional autonomy.
Most importantly, the constitution of the Democratic Republic of East Timor, passed by the Constituent Assembly in March 2002, created the political space for future debate and legislation on the enclave. It recognises the uniqueness of the enclave in three sections, and states that Oecussi-Ambeno shall be governed by a special administrative policy and economic regime.
In the wake of this recognition, and of another proposal by the community and the Oecussi District Administration, the Chief Minister of East Timor's government established a high level Oecussi Task Force. It is charged with finding a holistic solution, linking local governance with border issues and economic development, which is in turn linked to security. It aims to provide flexible administrative solutions to transportation and communication problems. A comprehensive enclave policy would recognise the full range of Oecussi's unique circumstances, be they security, foreign and trade relations, economic development, or internal administration.
The population of Oecussi is well aware that they are on the frontline of East Timor-Indonesia relations. They are open and full of good will towards their neighbours in West Timor whether they are family or former political adversaries. They believe the enclave's geographic intimacy and peaceful relations with West Timor and Indonesia between 1999-2002 are good indicators for a unique relationship. It could be that this small region will take a leading role in managing newly independent East Timor's relations with its giant neighbour.
Arsenio Bano (arsenio_b@hotmail.com) comes from Oecussi. He is Secretary of State for Labour and Solidarity in the Government of the Democratic Republic of East Timor and sits on the Oecussi Task Force. Edward Rees (e_rees@yahoo.com) was Untaet's Political Officer in Oecussi April 2000-July 2001, then became Political Officer to Untaet's National Security Adviser. These opinions are our own and do not necessarily represent those of Untaet or the Government.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
A remarkable grass-roots reconciliation meeting in Ainaro
Hilmar Farid
Five hours drive south of East Timor's capital Dili, Ainaro township looked beautiful that morning. As the sun drew up the last of the dew, crowds could be seen pouring into town for the big day. A convoy of refugees from West Timor was about to return. Together with 200,000 others, these people had been driven out by the scorched-earth campaign of the Indonesian military TNI, the police and pro-integration militias.
Dozens of trucks and minibuses were spotted in the distance. 'Refugiados sira mai!' (The refugees are here!) some youths shouted. Everyone stood up, scrutinising the vehicles as they passed. Tired and tense faces on the trucks. The atmosphere relaxed when some bystanders called out to people they knew. They ran along with the trucks and, not waiting for the tailgate to open, leapt up. One young man kissed the head of an old woman, yelling almost hysterically.
Not everyone was welcoming. Some youths stood back just watching. 'Who knows, there could be militias among them', they said. Rumours of militias infiltrating among returning refugees had long been heard. Indeed some in this convoy were ex-militias who had chosen to return once they realised TNI and the Indonesian government wanted to close the book and send them back to Timor Lorosae.
It was a reasonable suspicion. No comprehensive investigation has yet explained all the many incidents of violence in 1999. Untaet's Serious Crimes Unit has gathered information on ten big cases and about 640 others all over Timor Lorosae. The Human Rights Unit is also doing research. Reports of lost family members or other violence-related losses continue to come in. Yet still the people have no full report on what actually happened.
Elites
In the midst of this uncertainty and lack of clarity, Timorese elites want to push ahead with a reconciliation process. 'It's time to look to the future, let us forget the past', is the leaders' refrain. President Xanana Gusmao has even offered a general amnesty for any who committed crimes in the past. Not everyone agrees. 'How can we forgive others if we don't even know what they did wrong?', says Martinho Gusmao, a priest in Baucau. But there is no further discussion. The elites have decided that physical development must be the priority, not truth and justice.
The leaders have been promoting this course since before the referendum. But every peace agreement was always broken within a few hours, increasingly robbing the word 'reconciliation' of meaning. The main problem was that the most important players in the conflict, TNI and the Indonesian police, were not sitting at the negotiating table. Yet it was they who were arming, funding and training the pro-integration militias.
Ainaro was among the worst affected by the destruction. For its people, elite peace agreements and reconciliation mean very little. 'A head cannot walk without its body,' said Agapito Bianco, from Cassa village, at a reconciliation meeting in Ainaro last November. 'We only see the militia rank-and-file returning, not their heads. It's as if those who gave the orders are eating a juicy steak; they throw us the bones, and we fight among each other over the bones.'
Initiatives such as this meeting have the support of local leaders and NGO's like the human rights organisation Yayasan HAK. The aim is to bring survivors together with suspected perpetrators, to hear one another's stories. This is difficult, because many ex-militias deny they were involved in violence even in the face of eyewitness evidence. Former militia leader Joao Pereira, also from Cassa, illustrates the difficulty when he says ambiguously: 'We have to reveal everything, so the families of those who died know. If we are not open, people will continue to bear a grudge, even if we are innocent. We have to tell in public who we are, so that when people meet us in the street everything will be OK and there will be no fear.'
Cassa was known as the main base for the Mahidi militia. The group was involved in horrible atrocities in 1999. Its leader Cancio Lopes de Carvalho proudly told SBS televion how his troops ripped open the belly of a pregnant woman, and shot old people whose families were suspected Falintil supporters. Pereira and his men confess to taking part in some operations but say they never killed anyone. That is why they were prepared to return to Timor Lorosae once the Indonesian government had withdrawn its support.
At the meeting, several survivors and victims' relatives tell of the appalling things that happened to them. The faces of the ex-militia men show deep sorrow after hearing the results of what they did. 'My husband was murdered then burned, then his body was given to the dogs. He died because he wanted freedom,' says Maria de Conceicao, from Maununo village. Now she has to bring up their five children alone. 'I can't go to my gardens because I am sick and thin. For two years I didn't know where to turn, my house had been burned down, nothing was left. The Red Cross came once and gave me 18 sheets of zinc, but it didn't help much because I still can't work.'
The meeting had no powers to demand a legal accounting. But the discussion and the listening showed that the problem was not as simple as finding the perpetrators and putting them in jail. 'What's the use of jailing them?' asks Aniceto Guterres Lopes, former director of Yayasan HAK who now heads the truth and reconciliation commission (see box). 'They should be put on trial, that's true. But will that bring the problem to an end?'
Aniceto faces an extraordinary challenge. He knows the violence not only left a large number dead, but destroyed Timor's social fabric and caused such immense material losses that it will take exceptional efforts to rebuild from zero. 'It isn't easy', he says. 'We can't just ask people to shake hands and then think it's over.' The idea of grassroots reconciliation meetings such as this was a way of breaking through the deadlock the elites are in. At least they can identify the widespread consequences of the violence, and also expose the truth as told by both survivors and those accused as perpetrators.
The November meeting was not the first. Customary elders and youth leaders had earlier taken a similar initiative to help resolve the increasingly complex refugee-militia problem. The UN refugee agency UNHCR conducted the repatriation by giving more attention to the refugees (including militias among them) than to those who had stayed in Timor Lorosae and coped with the aftermath alone. 'This gave rise to envy', said Aniceto. 'People couldn't understand why those who committed murder and arson were given help so readily, whereas the victims were left to fend for themselves.'
In view of these unhealthy signs, the people chose to take the initiative themselves. After long discussions it was finally decided that ex-militias involved in violence should give an accounting of themselves in a traditional way, by rebuilding what they had destroyed such as schools and houses. 'This didn't mean they were then freed from their legal obligations. That's a matter for the government and the law courts later. This is the people's way of imposing sanctions and after that accepting them back openly. But those who were involved have to be taken to court,' says Aniceto Neves, a Yayasan HAK staff member whose older brother was killed in Ainaro by a Mahidi militia group.
All the participants, whether victims and their relatives or perpetrators, realise the limitations of this forum. But at least it was a simple step forward on a new path out of the bureaucratic deadlock and the political circus of an elite that seems never to really care for the people's problems - not even those who not so long ago were waving the banner of the people's freedom.
Hilmar Farid (hilmarfarid@eudoramail.com) was a volunteer in East Timor in 1999, and has visited repeatedly since then. He edits the Jakarta cultural magazine Media Kerja Budaya (http://www.geocities.com/mkb_id/).
Truth and Reconciliation Commission
A Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in East Timor has been formally established in East Timor. The Commission is an independent authority which aims to achieve dual goals of reconciliation and justice. It will operate for two years, and has three primary functions:
First, it will seek the truth regarding human rights violations in East Timor within the context of the political conflicts between 25 April 1974 and 25 October 1999. The Commission will establish a truth-telling mechanism for victims and perpetrators to describe, acknowledge and record human rights abuses of the past.
Second, it will facilitate community reconciliation by dealing with past cases of lesser crimes such as looting, burning and minor assault. In each case, a panel comprised of a Regional Commissioner and local community leaders will mediate between victims and perpetrators to reach agreement on an act of reconciliation to be carried out by the perpetrator.
Third, it will report on its findings and make recommendations to the government for further action on reconciliation and the promotion of human rights.
The Commission does not have the power to grant amnesty to perpetrators of human rights violations. However, those who fulfill the terms of a community reconciliation agreement will be immune from any further civil or criminal liability for those acts.
The Commission will complement the formal judicial process. Any evidence of serious crimes such as murder, rape or the organisation of systematic, widespread violence will be referred to the Office of the General Prosecutor. Serious crimes will continue to be handled exclusively by the Special Panels established under Regulation 2000/15.
The Commission is supported by the Timorese leadership.
Untaet Press Office, January 2002. More details: www.easttimor-reconciliation.org.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
US courts bring down judgments against two Indonesian generals
John M Miller
Only two ranking Indonesian officers have been held accountable in any meaningful sense for human rights abuses in East Timor so far. In both cases, it was not a court in Indonesia or East Timor, but courts in the United States that issued the judgments in civil cases brought by victims or their relatives.
In 1994, a Boston court held General Sintong Panjaitan liable for US$14 million for his involvement in the November 12, 1991 massacre of over 270 East Timorese at the Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili. Helen Todd, the mother of the only non-East Timorese killed that day, sued Panjaitan. Judge Patti Saris ordered that Gen Panjaitan, who was commander of the Bali-based Udayana military command at the time of the massacre, to pay $4 million in compensatory damages to Todd and $10 million in punitive damages in the shooting death of her 20-year-old son Kamal Bamadhaj.
Last September, Judge Alan Kay of the US District Court in Washington, DC, ruled that General Johny Lumintang was liable for US$66 million in damages for his role in crimes against humanity following East Timor's vote for independence in 1999. That lawsuit was brought on behalf of six East Timorese plaintiffs. The judge granted $10 million in punitive damages to each plaintiff or their estates. Compensatory damages ranged from $750,000 to $1.75 million each.
'It has been established... that Lumintang has responsibility for the actions against plaintiffs and a larger pattern of gross human rights violations,' wrote Judge Kay. '[H]e - along with other high-ranking members of the Indonesian military - planned, ordered, and instigated acts carried out by subordinates to terrorise and displace the East Timorese population ... and to destroy East Timor's infrastructure following the vote for independence.'
In 1999, Lumintang, as Deputy Army Chief of Staff, was second in command of the Indonesian army. In his ruling, Judge Kay cited the principle of command responsibility, where 'a commander may be criminally or civilly responsible for crimes committed by subordinates.' He said that Lumintang is 'both directly and indirectly responsible for human rights violations committed against' the plaintiffs. Evidence of direct involvement includes his signature on certain key documents calling for the use of torture and removal of large numbers of people in East Timor if the people voted for independence in the 1999 referendum. Lumintang was also found liable because, as a member of the TNI high command, he knew or should have known that subordinates were involved in systematic rights violations in East Timor, but he failed to act to prevent them or punish the violators.
The alternatives
Although courts are currently sitting in Dili and Jakarta, the case against Lumintang is the only one heard to date against a senior Indonesian commander for the systematic destruction following East Timor's 1999 referendum.
Indonesia's ad hoc human rights court has been widely criticised for its limited jurisdiction and the poor quality of its judges. Human Rights Watch has said that the wording of the court's statute 'may make it more difficult to convict defendants who were not actually present at the scene,' making conviction of most commanders unlikely. The TNI remains powerful. The highest-ranking officer to be named as a suspect is regional commander MajGen Adam Damiri, though at this writing he has yet to be brought to trial.
Ranking Indonesian officers are unlikely to face prosecution before the Serious Crimes Court in East Timor, because Indonesia continues to refuse to extradite suspects. Barring intense international pressure or the establishment of an international tribunal for East Timor, holding ranking Indonesian officers responsible will have to rely on the serendipity of legal actions in remote jurisdictions.
The Panjaitan and Lumintang cases are part of a widening international effort to establish that certain crimes - especially war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide - are so heinous that their perpetrators can be pursued and prosecuted anywhere. The soon-to-be established International Criminal Court is the most prominent expression of this impulse to universal jurisdiction. But the ICC will not hear crimes retroactively, so it cannot deal with the abuses committed by Indonesia in East Timor.
Well publicised was the 1998 effort by a Spanish magistrate to question Augusto Pinochet. The magistrate, pursuing a criminal investigation into the murder of Spanish citizens during the 1973 coup in Chile, sought to question the former Chilean dictator when he visited Britain. Pinochet was detained while the British courts decided whether to allow questioning. Ultimately, the British government declared him too old to stand trial and allowed him to return home.
In the US, the effort has mainly involved private civil suits. Precedent was set by the case of Joel Filartiga, who had been tortured and murdered by a Paraguayan police official in 1976. His family tracked the official to the US and sued, but a lower court rejected the suit for lack of US jurisdiction. In 1981, a United States Court of Appeals ruled that the 'deliberate torture perpetrated under colour of official authority violates universally accepted norms of the international law of human rights, regardless of the nationality of the parties.' Michael Ratner of the Centre for Constitutional Rights (CCR) explains that the court found 'that it was appropriate for a court in the United States to hear the case, even though the occurrence and the parties had no substantial connection to the US. In part this was based on the concept of universal jurisdiction and that the right to be free from torture had been universally proclaimed by all nations. With stirring language, the court emphasised that a torturer could be brought to justice where found even for civil liability: "Indeed, for purposes of civil liability, the torturer has become - like the pirate and slave trader before him - hostis humani generis, an enemy of all mankind."'
The law
Filartiga was based on the Alien Tort Claims Act of 1789, which allows non-citizens to sue for acts committed outside the United States 'in violation of the law of nations or a treaty of the United States.' A later law, the 1991 Torture Victim Protection Act, reaffirmed the 1789 law and gives US courts jurisdiction over claims by citizens involving torture or extrajudicial killing occurring anywhere.
Filartiga has inspired numerous lawsuits against direct torturers, military commanders (like Lumintang and Panjaitan), and, recently, corporations involved with repressive regimes, including ExxonMobil in Aceh. These private actions are not at the mercy of the federal government�s foreign policy priorities and have resulted in billions of dollars of damages. However, cases can only go forward if the defendant is personally served legal papers while they are physically in the US
Neither General Panjaitan nor Lumintang chose to return to defend themselves. The courts issued rulings of default in both cases, and then held hearings to determine the amount of compensatory damages for the plaintiffs' suffering and the amount of punitive damages.
General Panjaitan was served papers in 1992 after he came to the US to enroll in Harvard Business School. A default judgment was entered against him in February 1993. Judge Patti Saris heard testimony in October 1994 from Allan Nairn, a journalist and eyewitness to the massacre, and from Constancio Pinto, an East Timorese resistance leader who helped organise the November 12 demonstration and who was then living in exile in the US. Todd testified that Bamadhaj, a New Zealand citizen, was shot in the arm during the initial attack, and later in the chest by an army patrol. Troops prevented a Red Cross jeep from taking him to a hospital and he bled to death. 'I'm the only plaintiff because I'm the only one of 271 families that can bring this case without endangering my other children,' she said.
Although Indonesian military spokespersons claimed that Lumintang was not properly notified of the suit, he was personally served on 30 March 2000, as he was preparing to leave Washington after speaking before the US-Indonesia Society. Judge Gladys Kessler found him in default the following December after he failed to answer the suit. By the time Judge Kay presided over three days of testimony from several of the plaintiffs and expert witnesses in a Washington, DC, federal court, East Timorese were able to travel and testify, but most wished to remain anonymous, still fearing military or militia retaliation.
Plaintiffs travelling to Washington included an East Timorese victim of Indonesian military and militia violence whose brother was killed and father injured in post-election attacks. The father testified via videotape. Two other East Timorese targeted by the Indonesian military in September 1999 during the scorched-earth campaign by Indonesia also testified: a mother whose son was killed, and a man shot by Indonesian soldiers who subsequently had to have his foot amputated.
The court judgments, however, are not likely to enrich the surviving plaintiffs. Collection of any damages depends on uncovering the defendant's assets.
So far, the US has been the only jurisdiction outside the archipelago to bring any Indonesian generals to court. One result has been that few, if any, prominent suspects of past rights violations are publicly travelling to the US anymore. Indonesian officials who especially value their ties to the US might view this as more than an inconvenience. People in other jurisdictions might want to examine their national laws and see what possibilities there are for similar legal actions.
For the text of Judge Kay's 'Findings of fact and conclusions of law' and more information about the Lumintang and Panjaitan cases, see http://www.etan.org/news/2000a/11suit.htm.
John M Miller (fbp@igc.org) is media and outreach coordinator of the East Timor Action Network (http://www.etan.org/).
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
Why did Nasir join the guerrillas?
M Nasir, interviewed by Nug Katjasungkana
Where are you from?
I was born in Bali in 1975. My parents named me Ketut Narto. I was the youngest of three. My parents died when I was still small, and my two siblings disappeared until the present day. I became a street kid. Then I met a policeman who adopted me. He changed my name to Muhammad Nasir. But in the forest among the guerrillas my name is Klik Mesak, which means 'odd-ball' since I was the only Indonesian. When my father was sent to Baucau, Timor Lorosae, he took me with him. In Baucau I finished my primary school in 1990. I then moved to Dili where I studied as far as year two in senior high school.
How did you become involved in the Timor Lorosae freedom struggle?
When I moved to Timor Lorosae there were very few outsiders. I mixed with the local kids. I became attracted by the struggle. The Indonesian government said East Timor was the youngest province, the 27th. So then why was there always trouble here? I wanted to know. I read a history book. West Timor (Kupang) was colonised by the Dutch, East Timor by the Portuguese. Indonesia was the former Dutch colony. It can't just take East Timor. Perhaps if it was a federation. I feel Indonesia robbed others of their rights. I wouldn't want anyone to take away my rights. What's mine is mine, no one else can have it.
Most of my friends supported independence. Some were active in the clandestine movement. In 1995 Maun Afonso, my adopted older brother and an independence supporter, took me to Fatubessi. All the villagers there up to the village head were independence supporters. The people were suspicious when they saw us. Who are these strangers coming here? This village often got visits from Rajawali [Kopassus] troops. When I asked the village head about it, he said, 'Just the way it is, this is an operations area'.
After some time I met a Falintil member called Mau Kulit, who followed Comandante Dudu of North Sector, Region 4. After that the villagers stopped being suspicious of me. I became an estafeta [runner] for Falintil, whose job was to carry letters, food, look for information and so on. I lived in Fatubessi and became a primary school teacher. Some of my ex-students are now in junior high school.
What made you decide to fight for Timor Lorosae's independence?
In 1995 my step-father was transferred to Oecussi to become the deputy police commander there. I stayed behind in Dili with the West Dili police chief, a Javanese man from Trenggalek whom I called 'Uncle'. But I often mixed with the 'naughty boys' at the markets and the bus terminal. I made more and more friends. Some were in the clandestine. So were most of my Baucau friends. One day in Dili in 1995, a pro-independence demonstration happened near my school. All the school kids joined in, from five different senior high schools. A fight broke out with the new-comer kids from outside Timor Lorosae. I had a rock and threw it. It happened to hit a policeman who knew me. He looked at me and threatened: 'Look out, you be careful!' I was afraid and ran away. When I got home at night, my room was locked from the outside. I went in by the window and took my graduation certificate. Then I stayed with a friend in Kampung Alor. I became scared and confused when I heard the news on the radio about a disappearance, mentioning my name. I wasn't game to go home, and I also didn't want to cause trouble for the people who had adopted me. If I went back, my step-father would certainly be punished because his adopted kid was in a pro-independence demo.
That's when I got to know Maun Afonso, who took me to live in his family's house in Fatubessi, the pro-independence village where the resistance made me an estafeta. From two Falintil members named Mario Kempes and Leo Timur I got military lessons like how to attack an enemy fortified position. I learned how to shoot guns like the Mauser, M-16, AR-16, G-3 and the SKS. I can use a machine gun.
In 1997 Falintil decided to launch attacks against TNI posts everywhere the day before the election. The TNI were saying Falintil no longer existed. If there was no gunfire it would prove that indeed Falintil was finished. In Fatubessi, the job went to the youths (juventude). I was a juventude leader. We just had three grenades. Our targets were the TNI post, the house of the village chief, and a shop owned by the Catholic catechist. The village chief and the catechist were our own people. We attacked them with a grenade without pulling the pin. So they were safe. TNI didn't suspect them because they were among our targets. TNI shot off an enormous amount of ammunition. But none of us were hit. After that the soldiers arrested a lot of youths and tortured them. I wasn't arrested because they didn't suspect me. I was a primary school teacher.
I became a member of Falintil in 1998. At that time leaders of the struggle like Region 4 Comandante Ular and Regional Secretary Riak Leman and others went from village to village. I was active in those meetings too. After that I spent most of my time at the Falintil command. When many of the villagers fled because of intimidation from the [pro-Indonesian] Besi Merah Putih militia, my friends and I sent food. When the militias began to act up in Liquia, I was often sent to Liquia town to meet with pro-independence youths. When the clash occurred between Besi Merah Putih and the youths in Liquia on 4 April 1999, I was in town. That night I joined a sub-regional meeting with the Region 4 Deputy Secretary Qouliati. The next day an attack occurred against the Liquia church. The youths were only armed with arrows and swords. But the militias had automatic weapons. Behind them were the TNI also with automatic weapons. I wasn't in the church so I was OK. I tried to contact the Falintil command to ask them to send troops to stop the militias and TNI at the church. But news came from the city that should Falintil become involved all those still in the church and those taken to the military base by the militias/ TNI would be killed. So Falintil didn't come down.
After that I went back to Maun Afonso's house in Fatubessi. They thought I had died in the church. Maun Afonso suggested I not leave the village. 'If you're safe, we're safe. If anyone comes looking for you, I'll say "Nasir has gone home to Bali."' After that I stayed at Falintil command. Things improved once Unamet arrived. I was able to go out and buy food and clothes for the guerrillas. On the day of the referendum I was at the command post, while my guerrilla friends voted.
Cruelty
Did any other Indonesians become guerrillas or join the underground resistance against the Indonesian occupation?
Jeffry, from Atambua in East Nusa Tenggara, now lives in Ermera. He used to be a Falintil member in Region 4 under Comandante Sabis. Ahmad, from Bima (Sumbawa), also lives in Ermera now. He was an estafeta since the 1980s. Lots of others quietly supported the movement by donating stuff to the clandestine. Ramlan, for example, from Sumatra. He is dead. Lots of them I don't know where they are.
What do you think of Indonesian soldiers?
I don't have vengeful feelings. What I don't like are the abuses they commit. Just imagine, we are the hosts here, and they come and step on us continually. I don't like that. The soldiers come to Timor Leste on instructions from their superiors to look for Falintil guerrillas. But the ones they arrest are just ordinary young people, uneducated and who don't speak Indonesian. Maybe they're carrying a small knife or a machete. Men in Timor Lorosae always carry a knife. They were sometimes tortured to death. Instead of going up into the forest, soldiers told to go and find Falintil would just go into the villages. They took peoples' cattle, chickens. Those who protested were called rebels.
Indonesia said they wanted to root out evil communists. But those doing the rooting out were even worse. They even attacked a place of worship like the church in Liquia. Before I joined the independence movement I often saw Indonesian cruelty. When I was still living at the West Dili police station I saw the police arrest innocent people. During interrogation they would torture them so bad that they confessed. That's not good.
It's true that Indonesia brought development even to remote areas. But many officials were corrupt. What was wrong they called right, what was right they called wrong. That's what made people dissatisfied. I didn't like it either.
I think that if after the referendum Indonesia had given up Timor Lorosae properly, without giving weapons to the militias, the Timorese would have been very grateful to Indonesia. That one Indonesian act not only caused great loss to the people of Timor Lorosae but also to the people of Indonesia. The money was wasted on militias when the Indonesian people needed it very much.
What are your hopes for the future of Timor Lorosae?
For me the important thing is that people should be safe and there should be justice. If I'm allowed I want to live in Timor Lorosae. I have a wife and she is pregnant with our first child.
Right now I feel my rights have not been fulfilled. Almost all my ex-Falintil friends who weren't accepted into the Timor Lorosae armed forces were given US$500 in assistance, but I didn't. I was sick for the test so didn't get in. I know we didn't fight to get this or that job, but for our independence and our rights. But it's strange all the same.
For little people like myself, the important thing for the future is that the people have enough to eat and enjoy freedom. I hope President Xanana Gusmao will remember that.
Recorded in Kampung Alor, Dili, 24 April 2002. Nug Katjasungkana (manu_mean@yahoo.com) is a human rights activist in Dili.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
An Indonesian human rights worker in East Timor
Kerry Brogan
Titi works at East Timor's best known human rights NGO, Yayasan HAK - one of few women and fewer Indonesians there.
Her activism began when as a university student in 1978 she helped organise anti-Suharto demonstrations. From 1986 to 1995 she was a journalist with the women's magazine Sarinah. This led her to the growing number of human rights and women's non-government organisations (NGOs) in Indonesia. When in 1994 the government banned three Indonesian news magazines, Titi joined a committee of female journalists to fight for press freedom. She campaigned on behalf of journalists who were imprisoned, and later took up the cause of persecuted members of the leftist party PRD. While visiting PRD members in Cipinang prison she also met several imprisoned East Timorese, among them Xanana Gusmao.
After talking with Xanana, she says, 'I became aware that democracy in Indonesia would not be realised if the occupation of East Timor continued'. Like many Indonesians, she had only learned about East Timor's human rights problems through the November 1991 Santa Cruz massacre - after a foreign journalist showed her photographs. In 1996 the senior journalist Goenawan Mohamed asked her to join Isai, the Institute for the Study of the Free Flow of Information. She helped train East Timorese journalists studying in Indonesia.
It was the highly publicised rape late in 1996 of a young woman in Ermera district by a TNI soldier that really drew Titi into the fight for human rights in Timor. She joined a campaign for an investigation.
In March 1999, she travelled to East Timor for the first time, to conduct a training advocacy workshop with Yayasan HAK and other groups. A week later, dozens were killed at the nearby Liquica church. Back home Titi worked with others at the Jakarta solidarity organisation Fortilos to put pressure on the government. In June Fortilos sent her back to East Timor to become a volunteer with Yayasan HAK. Her job was to help distribute information about human rights violations. With the UN ballot fast approaching, Yayasan HAK was under enormous pressure. She edited the organisation's new magazine Direito. Terror
As the post-ballot mayhem descended upon East Timor, most of East Timor's human rights workers were sheltering at the Yayasan HAK office in Farol, Dili. None of us can forget the tension. On 5-6 September 1999, the office was attacked by militias and the TNI. 'While we were being attacked,' Titi said, 'I realised more and more the terror the people of East Timor had experienced throughout the Indonesian occupation.'
The only attempt by the authorities to provide protection was when the police mobile brigade Brimob arrived to escort the two white-skinned volunteers to safety, but not the East Timorese. The two refused to go without their colleagues. Brimob finally agreed to take them all out to police headquarters. From there they all flew out of the country, effectively removing the last human rights workers and witnesses to the gross human rights violations being perpetrated everywhere.
'We all cried when we left', Titi said. 'We witnessed the forced deportation of the civilian population, but could do nothing. I almost could not believe what I was seeing: the TNI and the militia it created, carrying out extraordinary acts of cruelty, while the international community was watching.' As she flew over Dili and witnessed the destruction, she promised herself she would return.
She did return, in March 2000. She still works with Yayasan HAK, editing the monthly Direito, and the weekly political analysis Cidadaun. She continues her women's activism too, helping the women's organisation Fokupers edit their publication Babadok.
When asked how East Timorese see her, she replies: 'Since I came to East Timor, I have become convinced that the people do not hate Indonesians. They hate the cruelty of the Indonesian military during the 24 years of occupation.'
Titi's presence helps maintain links between East Timorese and Indonesian NGOs. She thinks strong links are vital to human rights campaigns in both countries. They can assist with the campaign for justice, not just for East Timor, but for Aceh, West Papua and other parts of Indonesia. East Timorese NGOs have complained about the restricted jurisdiction of the ad hoc tribunal on East Timor in Jakarta. They are monitoring the process along with their Indonesian counter-parts. Like many, Titi does not believe the tribunal is a serious attempt at accountability, but a way for the Indonesian authorities to avoid an international tribunal to deal with the 1999 violence.
But Timorese NGOs are not just struggling against Indonesian pragmatism. 'Some Timorese political leaders want to have "reconciliation without justice"', she says. 'They say the people "have to forget about the past". Timorese NGOs have to strengthen their solidarity with the victims, who still want to see justice, but who are rarely heard.'
Kerry Brogan (brogan@un.org) works with the Untaet human rights office in Dili. Contact Titi at titi_irawati@yayasanhak.minihub.org. Yayasan HAK's web site is www.yayasanhak.minihub.org.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
This time, says an experienced activist, it's over oil and gas
Robert Wesley-Smith
'Australian treachery against East Timor again' was the title of a public statement by Australians for a Free East Timor on 1 April 2002. I am writing this because during my lifetime Australia has been treacherous to or deserted East Timor six times.
The first was my year of birth 1942. Australia withdrew its troops from East Timor in the face of overwhelming Japanese force, leaving not only the whole population to its fate but also guaranteeing death for most of the young men who had adopted Aussie commandos and been their eyes and ears and much more. During the Japanese occupation about 60,000 Timorese (12% of the population) died from attack and privation.
Earlier this year Japan sent its forces back to East Timor, but they do not want to talk about their wartime occupation, much less say sorry or pay reparations. Several thousand surviving East Timorese are directly affected. Much work by Japanese and Australian activists has not made a huge impact on this issue yet.
The family I grew up in was always well aware of aspects of WW2 history and the need to relate to Southeast Asia. My father had been a senior intelligence officer. He then had a lifetime of involvement with Asian students through the Colombo Plan at the University of Adelaide. He also studied in Indonesia. Ironically, us boys had a differing perspective on the Vietnam war. This introduced my brothers and I to human rights and the politics of Southeast Asia.
We learned that the early years of the Indonesian Republic created a liberal democratic society, with Mohammed Hatta somewhat of a hero. We were thus always able to distinguish between the people and the military regime which ruled to its own advantage, from the repression in Aceh and Papua to the invasion of East Timor.
I combined my busy job as a rural scientist in the Northern Territory with involvement in the growing struggle for the human rights and a decent standard of living for the indigenous people there. I mixed with young people from all over the Territory through playing and coaching sport. Gradually I managed more work opportunities with them, and I became involved in the land rights struggle with the pioneering Gurindji at Wattie Creek, now called Daguragu.
In 1975 I was there when Prime Minister Whitlam poured sand into the black hands of my friend Vincent Lingiari in recognition of his people's land rights. Later I lived to regret the way the government 'recolonised' aboriginal affairs using its money and power, without the community having the strong counter-backing of their activist friends. I see history repeating itself in East Timor.
Freedom
After the Carnation Revolution in 1974, Portugal allowed political parties in its East Timor colony for the first time. Party activists such as Jose Ramos Horta visited Darwin to seek support, and I got drawn in. I believe in being involved in one's 'backyard' as a priority. However, Cyclone Tracy devastated our city at the end of that year, disrupting normal life. From Dili came an official offer to help in any way possible.
I missed the great rallies in Timor in May 1975, but saw film of it and heard the call of freedom. Unfortunately stupid people, egged on by malicious ones in neighbouring countries, created a brief civil war which began and ended in August. We helped out with some aid via Acfoa and CAA. I engaged in a verbal battle with the mayor of Darwin to hold an appeal for East Timor - it didn't happen. Forward-thinking activists set up a radio link to East Timor in case the worst happened and normal communications were cut.
But the die was cast, and Indonesia moved towards a full-scale invasion, with support from the Whitlam ALP government and then the Fraser Liberal government. I was amazed and appalled. Treachery number 2. Around Australia and in a few other places East Timor support groups were established.
Then began three years of helping run Radio Maubere. We received the broadcasts from the mountains of East Timor sent by the Fretilin/ Falintil resistance. We also occasionally went to our countryside and did two-way broadcasts, whilst keeping a wary eye out for government telecommunications police, as we had been denied a licence. The information went to Sydney and Maputo/ Lisbon, and was published in East Timor News. But it was mostly met with indifference by the world press and governments. The details of this experience are in my chapter in Free East Timor (Vintage, 1998).
We heard the horrifying accounts of a nation being systematically torn apart, raped and genocided. Why did the world let this happen? The broadcasts ceased in late 1978, and at that time the Fraser government gave de jure recognition to the brutal Indonesian military occupation of East Timor - Treachery 3.
The 1980s were an isolated and difficult time for the support activists, as well as for the heroic resistance inside East Timor. Xanana quietly reformed the resistance and began to take it into the towns. So the foreign ministers Gareth Evans and Ali Alatas probably thought they were on a winner with the Timor Gap Treaty in 1989 - Treachery 4. Their glee in fact galvanised some who saw the injustice. And as with most treaties and acts conceived and born in injustice, they will unravel.
The Dili massacre at Santa Cruz, 12 November 1991, electrified the world when they saw it on film bravely taken by Max Stahl. Many groups formed or reformed. In Darwin we became Australians for a Free East Timor (Affet). Charlie Scheiner and others formed Etan and the email list for East Timor, which became the main information and linking mechanism. Initially from Jean Inglis in Japan the Ifet link with the UN was formed. Street action, as well as the paper war of lobbying and submissions, grew in Darwin and all over the world.
But Australia signed a defence treaty with the Suharto regime, another one conceived and born in injustice. The Howard government continued to support the Suharto regime despite its military atrocities in East Timor - Treachery 5. Only after the devastation became so great that the world finally cried 'enough', was Interfet created in September 1999. The Keating defence treaty was torn up. Howard now pretends Australia has always been East Timor's best mate.
Oil and gas
Living on the southern shore of the Timor Sea, I have kept an interest in the massive oil and gas reserves, which were part of the reason for the travail heaped upon East Timor by greedy neighbours. We held a conference on these issues back in 1990. The Timor Gap Treaty was always illegal, but it was continued for a while after the 1999 independence ballot, as a starting point for a new agreement. Apart from a bit of coffee, the new nation has few ways of earning hard currency and thus lifting the health and living standards of its people other than from its oil and gas reserves. Unfortunately the inexperienced administration in East Timor, like the Gurindji before them, has been 'dudded' by the greedy and the powerful.
Australia has played hardball once again, with a sneaky formulation of words as a new Timor Sea treaty. There was an effective public expose of this in March/ April 2002, and it was clear Australia was in breach of the international law of the sea. Australia then precipitately withdrew from the UN Convention on Law of the Sea, which guides the settlement of maritime boundaries issues. We concerned activists are continuing a hectic campaign to explain the issues. However the new East Timor government signed this document on 20 May. We can't understand why, it feels like the juggernaut is unstoppable.
But Mari Alkatiri can stop it single-handedly, like Superman! This document undoubtedly will lead to the theft by Australia of most of their seabed resources, valued at over US$30 billion. So, Treachery 6 and continuing. We will keep working with civic society in East Timor and Australia to reverse this and to gain economic justice.
Rob Wesley-Smith (rwesley@ozemail.com.au) is a spokesperson for Australians for a Free East Timor (Affet), Box 2155, Darwin NT 0801, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
Now is the time to create a fairer system
Selma Hayati
East Timor's economy has been transformed since the August 1999 referendum. First came the horrendous destruction of infrastructure by the Indonesian military, then the arrival of a large number of foreigners and associated business interests through Untaet. New urban employment opportunities have opened up in the service and construction sectors.
Foreign investors, often from Singapore and Australia, import used cars and run construction businesses. Foreign supermarkets, restaurants, and hotels import their vegetables, beer, wine and mineral water from overseas. They compete with East Timorese and Indonesian small enterprises. A highly visible split has developed between the traditional market, filled by the local community, and the foreign-owned supermarkets patronised by the rich.
Ignoring the predominant agrarian sector and even the now-defunct textile factory in Dili, the transitional government has focussed its policy efforts on the huge profits to be made from oil in the Timor Gap. Both UN Special Representative in East Timor Sergio Viera de Mello and former resistance leader Xanana Gusmao have also worked hard to ease the way to Timor Lorosa'e for foreign investors, saying they will stimulate economic growth and improve welfare. The strength of foreign capital, combined with the weakness of local business and of local law, have created structural problems these last two years. The transitional government is providing flexible legal protection for investors, while providing little protection for the rights of workers.
The year 2000 saw a proliferation of sixteen political parties and 177 national non-government organisations (NGOs). Of these, only two parties said they were concerned with labour issues - Trabalhista and the Timor Socialists. Among the NGOs concerned with labour are Laifet, Yayasan HAK, and the Australian NGO Apheda. The Timor Socialist Party has its own workers union. Meanwhile the Timor Lorosa'e Workers Union Confederation (KSTL) brings together nine unions.
Workers have campaigned on hours and overtime, on the contract work system, male and female wage discrimination, discrimination between the same type of local and foreign workers, and safety. There are also the matters of informal work, day labourers, part-time workers, and terminating employment. Labour Days have been an important focus for activists since 1 May 2000.
Workers participation?
However, the question remains how effective labour organisations have been. Whether they are political parties, NGOs, or unions, the participation of workers themselves tends to be weak. As in Indonesia in the mid-1990s, students have been the most vocal on labour issues. The two political parties who campaigned on labour issues in last year's election, meanwhile, tended to use workers merely as a vehicle so that elites could get into the Constituent Assembly.
The August 2001 elections led to a transitional cabinet that would hold office for six months. One of its new features was the Secretary of State for Labour and Solidarity. This office continues the work of the Division of Social Services and Labor of the Untaet-led East Timor Transitional Administration. It is responsible for the settlement of labour disputes. Before the election, workers would bring their dispute before CNRT and NGOs. The Secretary will also provide much-needed data on national employment, wages, and disputes.
Untaet declared at its beginning in November 1999 that all Indonesian law, thus including labour law, remains valid in Timor Lorosa'e. This has been less than satisfactory. Untaet and the national political elite opened the door wide for the entry of foreign capitalists and made Timor Lorosae a commodity for foreign investors to pay cheap wages and to violate workers rights without clear sanctions. Indonesian labour law also encouraged Timor Lorosae to lay the foundations of a developmentalism that was used by Indonesia for the last 35 years to exploit workers on a large scale.
In October 2000 Untaet drafted a comprehensive set of employment standards, and in March 2001 four new draft labour regulations followed. There was little follow-up at the time. However, early in May Sergio Viera de Mello signed into law a new National Labour Code produced by the Secretary of State for Labour and Solidarity. It covers minimum labour conditions and administrative institutions, principles and procedures on unions and labour relations, and rules on terminating employment.
NGOs, business associations, trade unions and Untaet have been involved in drafting labour regulations. But even NGOs and unions are caught in the technical issues of the regulations and have not started a debate on labour in relation to the system of national development. Even in Indonesia such technical issues have been left behind by the demand for reformation. The fundamental debates on labour politics in Indonesia could become important input for NGO activists and unionists.
Indeed, NGOs and trade unions have supported the Untaet and political elite demand for a 44-hour working week, in contradiction to the ILO standard of 35-40 hours. The tendency has been for NGOs rather than trade unions to be involved with labour disputes. Untaet, meanwhile, tended to spread information about new labour regulations to NGOs and business associations, rather than to the unions.
Selma Hayati (selmah@oxfam.org.tp) is researching labour in Dili.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
How will East Timor manage its economy?
Helder da Costa
Can tiny impoverished East Timor emerge as a viable, independent and stable state? This question mattered greatly as the Fretilin-dominated government took over the running of the nation, its institutions and economic policies on 20 May 2002.
Like Bosnia and Herzegovenia, South Africa, Rwanda and Cambodia before it, East Timor is a nation emerging from trauma. It is only now experiencing its first years of peace and the beginnings of political, economic, and social recovery after the 24-year occupation and the mass destruction of September 1999. The initial period of reconstruction needs to place a priority on meeting basic needs (food, shelter, water, health, education), as well as on maintaining political stability and personal security, while encouraging reconciliation and economic recovery.
If it is to meet the aspirations of its citizens, moreover, the reconstruction program must happen quickly and extend throughout the country. Institutional and policy foundations must be laid firmly and swiftly to prepare East Timor for sustainable recovery and growth. They must increasingly enable the country to rely on its own resources to design and implement the policies and institutions required for long-term development. An essential ingredient to provide that firm foundation is effective macroeconomic stability, so as to encourage foreign trade and investment and foster the private sector.
As a small half-island economy, East Timor is characterised by a large traditional sector, producing primarily for subsistence. East Timor's development is constrained by bad roads and mountainous terrain, a shortage of skilled labour, and the proximity of the highly efficient economies of East Asia.
Social development indicators lag behind those of other small Micronesian states. When East Timor became independent, it took its place as one of the twenty poorest countries in the world. Its GDP per capita is just US$478, and its human development rating places it in the same category as countries such as Angola, Rwanda, Bangladesh, Guinea-Bissau and Mozambique. Life expectancy in East Timor is just 57 years. Nearly half the population live on less than US$0.55 per day. Very few people have received an adequate education - more than half the population is illiterate (55%). Over 50% of infants are underweight. And the country is still suffering from the destruction and trauma that followed the national vote for independence on 30 August 1999.
Bubble
The capital Dili appears to be bustling. But most restaurants, hotels, vehicles and apartment rentals are part of a bubble economy fed by the huge foreign presence. The official currency, the US dollar, has displaced its major rivals, the Indonesian rupiah and Australian dollar. There was considerable profiteering at the changeover over the past year when many traders simply rewrote prices from Australian dollars to US dollars, effectively doubling them at a stroke.
Aid and related spin-offs dominate much of the economy. This is an artificial economy that is not sustainable. It grew by 18 percent in 2001-02, but this was from a base of almost zero, and fuelled mainly by reconstruction, development and humanitarian aid. These factors were supplemented by the local coffee industry, where world prices are improving after several miserable years.
Independence will initially have a devastating effect on the bubble economy that developed under the two-year UN administration. Peace-keeping forces will be reduced from more than 8,000 to about 5,000, while the number of highly paid UN officials will fall from 850 to less than 300. The departure of these well-paid foreigners will burst the bubble of affluence in the capital. Estimates in Dili are that about 1,700 local people will either become under-employed or entirely jobless when the UN administration winds down.
It is indeed a tough year ahead. For 2002-03 it seems likely that growth will sink to zero. Thereafter a more balanced and sustainable form of development could set the country on a stable upward path.
The majority of Timorese derive their welfare from agriculture, and this will be the case for many years to come. Overall, East Timorese policy makers will face agricultural challenges. These range from the immediate issues of the substantial population movements after the September 1999 crisis, with their connected land ownership disputes, to infrastructure rehabilitation, reactivating rural markets and the agricultural extension service, and re-establishing commercial ties across the border to Indonesian West Timor. Development of off-farm, seasonal income generating activities is also important.
The new government's economic policies are pro-poor oriented but still untested. Its economic instincts are 'dirigiste' (meaning that the state must be involved in every aspect of social life). It will have to develop and maintain disciplined long-term fiscal policies in the face of the nation's grim poverty and its competing social and economic needs.
Besides the promised oil and gas, and the already noted coffee, tourism is also an important potential income-earner. However, it is seriously constrained by the weak infrastructure, limited international air links and lack of skilled personnel.
There will be a three-year gap in financing the government's budget between the end of current assistance programs and the beginning of significant revenue from the oil and gas in the Timor sea. So far, East Timor aid has been solely through grants. Although there is a willingness to offer more grants, these international donors may not be able to cover the full budget gap that is emerging. This will probably force the new country to accept loans, albeit at concessional rates.
Once the oil and gas starts to bring in large income flows, some of the earlier problems of the 'artificial' economy will reemerge. Combined with continuing aid, this will give rise to a broader challenge. When even a part of this money is spent in the so-called 'non-traded' sector (such as food) it will cause inflation, which in turn will harm the exchange rate and thereby reduce the country's competitive ability. There will also be the danger of an urban elite appropriating the benefits of commercial opportunities and budgetary allocations.
One of the major determinants of East Timor's long term economic future will be the way it uses revenues from the oil and gas in the Timor Sea. Under the 90-10 percent split wrestled out of Australia, this will provide a total income of US$7 billion over twenty years. However, even here there is a problem. The deal has hit a hitch with the decision by US-owned Phillips Petroleum and its partners to defer exploitation of the biggest field because of East Timor's decision to raise an extra US$1 billion in royalties.
Guard the oil
How should oil and gas revenue be managed? An endowment fund would save them in a trust fund that would store up some of the value for the next generation. This could act as a stabilising force. It would safeguard income from resource sales that rightly belong not only to East Timorese citizens of today but to those of the generation to come. There is clearly a balance to be struck here. Saving too high a proportion would mean foregoing some development opportunities and perhaps increasing the risk of the savings leaking away through corruption. Saving too little, on the other hand, might expose the country to financial problems in the future especially given the uncertainties in oil prices and the finite reserves under the seafloor. East Timor could consider a four-part fiscal strategy:
Control public expenditure: Give priority to spending on health and education so as to expand people's capacities and stimulate human development.
Avoid subsidising the wealthy: Fund at least some public services such as telecommunications partly from user fees.
Build donor confidence: Maintain a stable social, economic and political environment and a respect for human rights. This is vital for human development. It also encourages donors who want concentrate their resources on the poorest countries, but only those that have a supportive environment where aid can be used well.
Guard oil and gas revenues: Use them sparingly, and mostly for investment, since they are a one-off opportunity that will only last around twenty years.
All this means that East Timor's economic growth will be incremental rather than rapid. The challenge for East Timor is to maintain sufficient fiscal discipline to ensure essential investment in human development and to stimulate private enterprise, while resisting the temptation to spend oil and gas revenues on current consumption. East Timor now has the opportunity to set out on a new path, pursuing labour-intensive, pro-poor growth. This will mean opening up opportunities for the poor, using micro-finance schemes that increase employment opportunities for women and other groups who are outside the formal labour force.
East Timor should actively engage in trade with its neighbouring countries if it wishes to develop its economy rapidly. An independent East Timor will welcome sound investment by firms that wish to operate in an environment free of artificial barriers to trade. A secure investment climate will need appropriate laws protecting property rights and contracts, establishing a fair commercial code, codifying labour relations, and minimising the cost of doing business.
A major and early priority of the infant government has to be to demonstrate to the East Timorese, to international donors and to potential investors the importance of sound economic management, and sound law and order and judicial arrangements.
Dr Helder da Costa (helcosta@yahoo.com)is director of the National Research Centre, National University of East Timor (UNTL), Dili.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
After the brutal occupation, gender violence remains a reality
Dawn Delaney
Photo 1.
Caption: Women gather by the well in their Caritas supported communal garden, Oamna, Oecussi
The most pressing concerns for East Timorese women since the 1999 referendum are gender related violence and entrenched poverty. Gender-related crimes make up 40% of all reported incidents around the country and domestic abuse crimes make up half of all cases being heard in Dili District Court.
We have got the CivPol Vulnerable Persons Unit and organisations like Fokupers and ETWave providing support to victims of domestic violence. But as a long-term strategy we need other forms of support for women victims of domestic violence in terms of economic independence. We have already taken a big step forward in publicly discussing this issue. We need to strengthen the constitution even if it's only a reference to the position of the family and the responsibility to the wife. We tend to look at domestic violence in isolation. We write laws and make efforts to protect women, but it's part of a much wider social problem. (Dr Milena Pires, member of the Constituent Assembly and women's rights advocate)
Photo 2.
Caption: Manuela Perreira, Executive Director, Fokupers
Fokupers started because women suffered from the policy of forced sterilisation during Indonesian times. We helped victims from the conflict, women prisoners and wives of prisoners. It has changed to include victims of domestic violence. Now, the main idea is to empower women. Before, the people just concentrated on getting independence. People think domestic violence is an individual problem. It's not, its a public problem but awareness among women about their rights is very low, their right to not have violence in the house, so we give awareness through radio. We have one safe house in Dili for victims who need intensive counselling. We have children who have had abuse. There are so many problems for women in East Timor.(Manuela Perreira, Executive Director, Fokupers)
Photo 3.
Caption: From left: Eva Quintao (22), Sofia Olivera Fernandes (19), Umbelina Soares, graduates from the Timor Leste Police Academy in Dili
'Sofia Olivera Fernandes: I'm originally from Maliana. I feel proud of myself. I would like to work on domestic violence in the CivPol Vulnerable Persons Unit. I am the first daughter to be a police officer. During Indonesian time the main problem is sexual violence against women but now we are correcting anyone suspected of this crime. We learn about negotiation and mediation. We do this with the family and advise them to take action with the help of the community. Our culture is very old and it teaches us in a nice way how to respect each other, how to behave and have a good attitude.'
Photo 4.
Caption: Martha Caub, Oecussi widow.
'My husband died for Timor. I have seven children to look after now. Food is our biggest problem. The widows have problems about money, clothes and food. We receive wood for a house but not built yet. I'm living in the kitchen hut until my house is built. I was pregnant when my husband was killed. The militia who killed my husband I say to him "please wake up my husband and rebuild my house." I want the militia to come back to rebuild my house and my life.' (Martha Caub, Oecussi widow)
Dawn Delaney (dydel@netconnect.com.au) is a freelance photojournalist based in country Victoria, Australia. This material is part of her photo documentary project 'Lives remembered: Stories of East Timorese women' (Dawn Delaney, 2002)
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
Amidst globalisation, can East Timor still be a people's alternative?
Mansour Fakih
My first visit to East Timor was early in 2000. The towns were still smoldering, and the atmosphere was tense. I was shocked, angry, and so disillusioned. I never suspected my own people could have done such a thing. Outside the church in Suai the candles were still burning. There were flowers, and people said: this is where the priests were massacred. At night, I watched videos people had recorded of the abuses as they took place. A large number of them, many by amateurs, and they showed that the military was involved.
Here we were, Indonesians training human rights observers and educators who would be placed in every district of East Timor - a great experiment in democracy. My country had been one of the biggest human rights abusers of the twentieth century. All the examples in our training were taken from Indonesia.
When I went back to Indonesia there was nothing in the news about what Indonesian soldiers had done in East Timor. People were regretful, not for the abuses committed by their army, but because the East Timorese had chosen to leave Indonesia. This completely missed the point. So far, no lessons have been learned about what happened in East Timor.
The next time I went there was in early 2001. There had been a big change. Not the frustration of a year before, but an enthusiasm among the non-government organisations (NGOs) to help write the new constitution. I have been an activist for many years in Indonesia but I had never seen this before, and was most impressed. I was asked to help some women who wanted to introduce women's rights into the constitution. The political parties didn't have this on their agenda, and none of us really knew what to do.
They were not professional lawyers or even human rights advocates. But they were so committed. We workshopped about domestic violence. Then they discovered the UN Women's Convention. They studied it and took eleven clauses to put into their constitution. They then went back to their home districts and lobbied everyone they could find. They asked us to make their posters and campaign T-shirts in Yogyakarta. In the end four or five clauses got into the constitution! They were delighted, because it had been by their own effort. Now they want to watch if this constitution will improve their lives.
That is East Timorese democracy. People in Indonesia often think democracy is just about avoiding riots during elections. But it's about human rights literacy, and about women's involvement in drafting the constitution, to name just what I have seen.
World Bank model
On my third visit last April I met with NGOs who were thinking about advocacy after independence. What's your advocacy agenda? I asked them. They didn't really know. We discussed whether East Timor should join the World Bank. There is a debate about that. Some think we should be realistic, and it's OK to have debt, while others disagree. The NGOs do not yet have an agreed position. Some feared East Timor could become like Indonesia - mired in debt. Others agreed that East Timor could be forced to adopt the 'World Bank model', but felt it couldn't afford not to enter into debt because 'we have no money'. But all were worried that a free-market economy could be in conflict with the ideals that lay behind the independence struggle.
Women want the state to protect women's rights, everyone wants the state to protect their economic rights, but in the 'World Bank model', the state is powerless to protect. It is not permitted to subsidise.
So we asked ourselves: What would happen to the people if the state were to become so indebted it lost its power to protect? In fact the NGOs were in a difficult position, because many of them were helping the World Bank carry out 'community empowerment programs' in the villages. People welcomed the World Bank money. The Bank was just like the Church, they said - it cares for people. But in fact this is just another form of Structural Adjustment Program. This is the World Bank's way of preparing people for the free market, for privatisation of state facilities and an end to subsidies. The World Bank is aggressively lobbying the government to take on debt. They see East Timor as a clean slate, a model of what can be achieved with free market methods.
It is true that East Timor has been destroyed and badly needs money. East Timor needs to be rescued. But there are sources other than debt. For the European Union, for example, a few tens of millions of dollars is peanuts.
Indonesia has a moral responsibility towards East Timor. Without talking the legal language of war reparations, Indonesia needs to acknowledge it must pay East Timor back for all the infrastructure it destroyed in September 1999 - from telephones to electricity supplies. Other neighbours also need to be generous.
East Timor needs cash, not debt. Once there was the Marshall Plan, and the Colombo Plan. These were government-to-government grants. The World Bank was actually born in this era of state-led development - it was the Keynesian reaction against the free market. But today all that is regarded as in conflict with the principles of good governance. There must be no subsidies - everything is to be financed by debt.
East Timor has already or will soon ratify four international conventions - on women, on children, on civil and political rights, and on economic and socio-cultural rights. East Timor is more advanced than Indonesia in all these areas. All these conventions place the state in the role of protector to the people. But if East Timor enters the World Bank, and after that the World Trade Organisation (WTO), its obligations will soon be in conflict with its responsibilities under these conventions.
East Timor was born at the wrong moment. It was conceived from ideals of social justice, human rights. It was to be a state that would protect the people's rights. Its constitution is very socialistic. It took over in its entirety clause 33 from the Indonesian constitution, which specifies that all natural resources are managed by the state on behalf of the people. But this is the era of free markets, of liberalism, of corporate globalisation - what a contrast with the spirit of the East Timorese struggle! We outsiders always supported East Timor in that spirit. We are mistaken if we think the struggle is now over.
We need a new global solidarity movement to rescue the baby! Otherwise the people will soon be disappointed as the real economic policy becomes clear to them. They will feel betrayed and lose their trust in Xanana and his government. At least during the Indonesian colonial period there were public health clinics - this was after all a period of state-led development. But now there has to be competition and user-pays. People could become nostalgic for the past!
The new state of East Timor is under attack. The NGO community needs to support it. Let us not wait until it is too late. The message to the World Bank should be - leave East Timor alone! But the global solidarity movement should not leave East Timor alone. East Timor can become an alternative, just like we hoped Nicaragua would become an alternative in the 1980s.
Mansour Fakih (mansourf@remdec.co.id) directs the NGO Insist, in Yogyakarta.
Inside Indonesia 71: Jul - Sep 2002
Review: Abidin Kusno examines trends in architectural design and urban planning in Jakarta
Julie Shackford-Bradley
In this book, Abidin Kusno examines trends in architectural design and urban planning in Jakarta over the 20th century that resulted in the 1998 riots. Kusno's objectives are to show how 'imagined community' takes concrete form and substance in the 'real' spaces of the city' in order to understand the ways in which postcolonial cities alter the space and form of the built environment for themselves, in the process, forming a dialog with their colonial past. As a representation of that dialog, Jakarta exposes its blind spots. Kusno argues that Jakarta's architects and urban planners have struggled with legacies of the colonial mind-set, particularly the 'tradition vs. modernity' construct used deceptively by both the Sukarno and New Order governments in their quest for power. The results have been disastrous for Jakarta's underclass.
Kusno contends that, while Sukarno promoted Jakarta's post-independence design in terms of 'modernist' nationalism, the downtown area was discreetly modelled on elements of aristocratic Javanese power and grandeur. Display models of the city's master plan simply ignored the kampung (lower class areas), as did Sukarno's urban policies.
Suharto's equation of nationalism and the 'traditional' was just as inconsistent. The New Order saw the emergence of an upper class with transnational dreams of 'First World' style housing developments and culture. Motivated by a fear of falling in status, this upper class elevated itself, literally, through the creation of fly-overs (elevated highways) that build up confidence leaving behind the 'lower' classes who are routed through the crowded street at ground level. Through transmigration, the becak (pedicab) removal program, and Petrus, (mysterious shootings), the urban street was further transformed into a site of disturbance and criminality. Now nationalism was linked with development and the mass media announced the birth of a new ideal middle class subject of the nation. Meanwhile, the underclass was degraded into a mass of 'undesirables'; excluded from the new nationalism, they had no overarching affiliation and nothing to lose in 1998.
These issues are familiar, but benefit from Kusno's analysis of their spatial aspects. The book also presents a discussion of tropical architecture, from both the colonial period (featuring the buildings of Thomas Karsten and Henri Post) and the present (Sumet Jumsei's 'water-based' cultures, and Ken Yeang's bioclimactic skyscrapers) that blend local/traditional and modernist elements. Through such examples, Kusno projects a hopeful vision for the future in which more Indonesian architects and urban designers can practice this type of fusion, once freed from the colonial mindset that still constrains them.
Abidin Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial: Architecture, Urban Space, and Political Cultures in Indonesia, London and New York: Routledge, 2000
Julie Shackford-Bradley (julie_shackford-bradley@csumb.edu)
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Two directors resided in an intercultural realm
Ian Brown
Teguh Karya and Suyatna Anirun were each inspired by traditional and popular forms of theatre throughout Indonesia, as well as the Western forms of theatre they adapted for the stage. Their style of theatre resided in the realm of intercultural practices that all theatre artists in Indonesia now revere.
Perhaps better known in the Western world for his international standing in the realm of film, Teguh's career in the theatre spanned a period of twenty-five years from 1968 to 1993. Teguh, of Chinese ancestry, was born in Pandeglang, West Java, on 22 September 1937. His former name was Steve Lim, but assumed his current name when Suharto's New Order regime repressed the social presence and activities of the Chinese communities in the early days of his presidency.
Undeterred by repression, Teguh's Teater Populer was inaugurated on 14 October 1968 in the Bali Room of Jakarta's first modern international star-rated hotel, the Hotel Indonesia. Two short plays were performed to mark the occasion; they were adaptations of Western works, Antara Dua Perempuan (Between Two Women) by Alice Gerstenberg and Kammerherre Alving, Teguh's version of Hendrik Ibsen's Ghosts.
Two key elements of Teguh's theatre and films were naturalism and realism. These western influences derived from his studies at the Akademi Teater Nasional Indonesia (National Theatre Academy of Indonesia) in Jakarta, where he entered in 1961.
Teater Populer's core repertoire was adaptations of Western plays. Notable among them were The Marriage and The Inspector General by Nicolai Gogol, Tartuffe by Moliere, The Father by August Strindberg, The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams, Bertolt Brecht's The Good Woman of Szechwan and Garcia Lorca's Blood Wedding. Teater Populer only performed two plays originally set in Indonesia, namely, Dag Dig Dug by Putu Wijaya and Jayaprana, a play based on the story of a legendary Balinese hero warrior, by the Dutch writer Jef Last.
Teguh continued to apply intercultural forms of stage presentation by adapting Sophocles' Antigone into the social and cultural environment of the Batak people of North Sumatra. The performance tradition of the Balinese dance dramas such as Barong, Gambuh and Arja influenced the style Teguh adopted for Jayaprana. This is the last recorded stage work performed by Teater Populer before it disbanded. Teguh Karya then dedicated himself fully to film and television sinetron. He had previously engaged with the medium of television for high quality play performances by Teater Populer since 1969.
Suyatna Anirun is rarely mentioned abroad, but in Indonesia itself his reputation as a great director and actor has impacted on the development of modern theatre throughout the archipelago. Born on 20 July 1936 in Bandung, West Java, in 1958 Suyatna, together with other artist colleagues, established Studiklub Teater Bandung (Study Club Theatre of Bandung), which became known simply as STB. Its first performance in March 1958 was Jayaprana. Suyatna had been educated not in a theatre arts institution, but through the Faculty of Fine Arts and Design at the renowned Institut Teknologi Bandung (Bandung Institute of Technology), ITB, where the former first president of Indonesia, Soekarno, had studied.
Suyatna directed plays in both the tradition of Western realism and through acculturation of performance traditions from the Sundanese region of West Java. Like Teater Populer, STB main repertoire was adaptations and translations of Western plays. Among the more notable Western playwrights were W. B. Yeats, Anton Chekhov, G. B. Shaw, Tennessee Williams, Pinero, Gogol, Ben Jonson, Shakespeare, Moliere, Brecht, Eugene Ionesco, Albert Camus, Jean Girradoux and Max Frisch.
STB also performed works by a number of Indonesian playwrights, such as Kirjomulyo, Utuy Tatang Sontani, Misbach Yusa Biran, Ajip Rosidi, Motinggo Busye and Saini K.M.. Their plays share a prime place of literary importance in the development of modern Indonesian theatre.
The performance genres of longser and masres from West Java were a fitting style for adaptations of plays such as Ben Jonson's political satire Volpone or The Fox for which Suyatna chose to use traditional masks in his version titled Karto Loewek. Costuming for this performance was the customary dress of the Sundanese, both formal attire and everyday street clothes were worn. A similar treatment was applied to the performance of The Matchmaker by Gogol adapted by Suyatna as Mak Comblang, but mixed with modern day dress.
Performance aesthetics were always paramount in Suyatna's theatre. He maintained that the theatre was primarily a source of entertainment despite the presence of its didactic. In many respects the essence of his theatre was Brechtian, a fact many Indonesian (and Western) critics and writers recognised when analysing the performance style of STB. Although well acquainted with the theatre of Bertolt Brecht, curiously Suyatna waited for twenty years before he directed Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle, which was performed in 1978 with the title Lingkaran Kapur Putih. Its success ensured performances in Jakarta at the arts centre, TIM, the nation's international showcase for the prime products of Indonesian art.
Perhaps the highest peak Suyatna reached was his production of Shakespeare's King Lear (Raja Lear) for STB. First performed in Bandung in April 1986, it was heralded by critics and the public alike for the virtuosity of Suyatna's performance in the role of King Lear. Prior to King Lear, Suyatna had directed Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet (Romeo dan Yulia) in November 1993 followed by A Midsummer-Night's Dream (Impian Di Tengah Musim) in August and September I991.
The theatre performed by STB and directed by Suyatna was distinguished by its diversity of repertoire, its constant exploration of new forms through acculturation of performance traditions and its constant high standards of performance. STB itself also has the reputation of being the longest active group in the history of modern Indonesian theatre.
The theatre world of Indonesia has paid its last respects to these two visionary artists. Teguh died in Jakarta on 12 December 2001, Suyatna died in Bandung on 4 January 2002.
Ian Brown [darian@indosat.net.id] completed his PhD at NTU and is now an independent writer and theatre researcher in Bandung.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Two poets tour Australia
Marshall Clark and Giora Eliraz
It seems that the days of superstar poets - who bravely spoke up for the common people and criticised the Indonesian state, in front of large audiences in between being banned - have passed. When Rendra, who was Indonesia's leading poet throughout the New Order era, toured Yogyakarta several years ago, one writer in the letters page of Bernas suggested that Rendra had become like an old pillow - nostalgic and comfortable yes, useful and relevant no.
Since the fall of Suharto, Emha Ainun Nadjib, another of Indonesia's more oppositional cultural activists, has also kept out of the public spotlight. For several years, Emha hosted Gardu, a popular talk-show. However, TV audiences soon tired of the incredible over-abundance of talk shows following Suharto's resignation. When Emha himself grew tired of all the 'collusion' associated with organizing and rewarding guests, he pulled the plug.
Besides, Emha has never been able to shrug off his close association with Suharto. It is common knowledge that Emha, together with several other Muslim leaders, met with Suharto several times in the days before 20 May. It was at this point that Emha publicly transformed himself from an oppositional figure to something quite different. Some would say that his decline in popularity has mirrored Suharto's fall from grace. Long considered as one of Indonesia's foremost poets, these days Emha barely rates a mention.
It was as enjoyable as it was nostalgic, therefore, to see Emha reading poetry and dazzling audiences with his unique wit and political insight in Australia for several weeks in May and June. Invited by the Australia Indonesia Arts Alliance, and supported by the Australia Indonesia Institute and Garuda Indonesia, Emha gave lively poetry-readings in Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne. Like Rendra in the 1990s, Emha was able to draw enthusiastic audiences, consisting of as many Indonesians as Australians.
Accompanying Emha was another Indonesian poet, Fathyen Hamama Handry, also known as Fatin. Born in Padang in 1967, Fatin grew up in West Sumatra and has spent over a decade in Cairo, where she has studied theology at the Women's Faculty of al-Azhar University. Her poetry is not quite as sensational as Emha's, yet it contains its own fair share of social criticism. Fatin writes of riots and military violence in Semanggi and elsewhere in Jakarta, as well as the problems faced by Indonesian women, farmers fighting against poverty, women suffering in Aceh, and the struggles of the urban poor.
Like Emha, Fatin does not consider herself as one of Indonesia's more popular poets. In terms of literary figures, Fatin is no trendy Sitot Srengenge, nor a young and sensational Ayu Utami, or even a marketable 'woman poet' in the mould of Dorothea Rosa Herliany. Yet like Emha, in the midst of disappointment and frustration, Fatin continues to imagine a better Indonesia. It is for this reason that her poetry is worth examining, at the very least for the buffer it provides for the harsh coldness of Indonesia's post-New Order, and perhaps even post-reformasi, reality.
Fatin's latest collection, Papyrus (2002), exhibits the strong Islamic slant of her poetry. The opening poem, 'Al Fatihah', is the same name given to the opening sura or chapter of the Koran. Like the first chapter of the Koran, this poem is merely a few lines long: Segala puji bagi-Mu/ Tuhan/ lempangkan bagiku/ jalan/ amin [All praise to You/ God/ straighten out for me/ a path/ amen].
These poems - and their titles - are an indication of Fatin's position within a global Islamic historical consciousness. Her allusion to Islam is based on an effort to verbalise the thoughts and emotions arising from her deeply personal Islamic faith.
The distinctive Egyptian context of Fatin's poetry is also important. Many of the poems were written in Cairo, where Fatin leads the Cairo-based literary group, Komunitas Sastra Indonesia [Indonesian Literature Community]. Thus we see poems such as 'Samira dan Sariyem', a poignant tale of the sad life of an Eqyptian belly-dancer.
Fatin's poetry also includes many references to the pre-Islamic era of Egypt. The title of the collection Papyrus refers us back to another world, the world of ancient Egypt and the dawn of civilisation. Elsewhere, by arranging a set of poems under the title 'Cleopatra', Fatin alludes to a fascinating and defiant Egyptian woman and queen, who was, of course, from a non-Islamic context.
This engaging combination of the worlds of Indonesia, Egypt, Islam and pre-Islam makes Fatin's poetry fascinating and rich, speaking to us from both a global and local perspective. Besides placing Fatin's name on the map of Indonesian literary studies, Papyrus also suggests that Fatin's poetry can be seen as a representation of a deep pluralist view that has come to take hold amongst many contemporary Muslim intellectuals in Indonesia.
Marshall Clark (Marshall.Clark@anu.edu.au) is a lecturer at the Australian National University, on leave from University of Tasmania. Giora Eliraz (Giora.Eliraz@anu.edu.au) is a Visiting Fellow at the Southeast Asia Centre, Australian National University.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Unable to pay for formal lessons, many poor Indonesians have mastered English through radio, TV and film. Like Rizza of Surabaya.
Duncan Graham
Half way along Jalan Joko Dolog, opposite a high fence shielding a building site, is a small shop. Well, really just a glass counter facing the dusty street and more often behind shutters than exposed. For few people now livein the area, and the lane has become a short cut, a speed track between Basuki Rakhmad and Pemuda, the two great bitumen rivers trisecting the centre of East Java's capital Surabaya.
Apart from the spray-painted number on a battered iron gate, there's only a small chromed dome squatting unhappily on the pavement to catch the eyes of the Grand Prix wannabees. Should the sun ever penetrate the smog this artefact might glitter and mesmerise like a spinning night-club globe.
Once Nyonya Rizza's shop sold domes to the faithful for their personal mushollas. Then came the monetary crisis, and demand tumbled along with the rupiah. Now she markets half litres of lamp oil decanted from backyard drums into stained plastic bottles; tiny packets of washing powder, needles, thread, batteries pulled from under the splintering shelves, single cigarettes.
Also on the counter is a dictionary and a monster exercise book buffed brown, rusting staples losing grip against a stuffing of clippings, brochures and postcards. Most show distant lands and cities shimmering in the gloss of sunrise, the promise of heavenly locations free of crime and grime.
'Of course I'll never visit these places,' Rizza sings in rapid and sometimes scrambled English. 'No money. What does it matter? I can see what they are like, and people tell me. I can imagine. It's my vision.'
There are also photos of tiny Rizza standing alongside hulking Australians, broad as their accents. Her face is always open and laughing, theirs bemused. Only their mouths smile. No pictures show plump white male arms around her slender and inviting olive shoulders, her fine 44 kilo frame.
Although a mother, grandmother and widow, Rizza gets angry when addressed as Ibu, the standard Indonesian honorific for women of her status. She is 56, and claims a unique name, though Germany has a Rizza ice cream, which she thinks a hoot. She has John Howard's eyebrows, wears no make up but dyes her manic hair in copper tones. Her dress is mainly a torn skirt and marquee-size T-shirt.
She could pass for 40 despite a doctor misdiagnosing a heart attack in 2001 and prescribing treatment which put her in hospital with a serious illness. Her appearance, a voice which could stir possums, and up-front approach make her a stand-out among conservative customers and coy neighbours.
But it is her skill with English which provides the extra dazzle, for the nimble-minded and effervescent Rizza is one of the numerically large, but proportionately small number of poor Indonesians who have taught themselves our complex tongue.
Born in Malang of Madurese parents, Rizza was the fifth of nine children. Like his daughter, her businessman father was clearly smart and different, covertly listening to broadcasts from Australia and Malaysia during the dark days of Sukarno, when such behaviour was suspect. Rizza loved the foreign voices, did well at school and left at 17 to work in a bookshop in Surabaya.
Even now many Indonesian bookstores are sad affairs. Dominated by religious texts, comics and dictionaries, most volumes are bound in plastic to stop browsing and keep covers clean. In the dangerous days of Suharto's rise, when even the mildest comment could be interpreted as radical dissent, bookshops must have been even more sterile.
Unable to make such comparisons, the teenage Rizza found herself in Aladdin's Cave. She didn't just dust the wares, she hoovered them whole, particularly those in English. The occasional foreign buyer was quickly sucked into conversation. Their requests were taken seriously. 'I remember everyone wanted The Happy Hooker-r-r,' she said rolling the final syllables like a Scot. 'Very nice book. I think the publisher Macmillan.'
The shop used her sparkling personality and lovely voice to spruik the wares. Customers were not the only ones seduced. At 18 she married the manager, and sadly her love affair with language came to a shuddering halt. 'He did not like me always talking to the customers,' Rizza recalled. 'He very jealous. One day he threw a book at me. For ten years I did not practice English.'
One daughter was born. Twenty years ago her husband died from 'post-power syndrome', Rizza's label for inactivity after retirement. Photos show a small, neat Javanese with regulation moustache nonplussed besides his volatile wife with wild hair and giant spectacles: 'Jacqueline Onassis, ya?'
'Of course I was not sad. He was a good man, but why should I be sad? If I am, I will lose myself.' So despite the many lustful overtures from Indonesians and foreigners drawn by her magnetic personality, Rizza is determined to stay single and independent.
'If I married again I become sad, difficult with life,' she says. 'I must honour husband, smile-smile. It is a must in Indonesia as a wife, or it is a sin.'
'It is easy to fall in love, I have to strive to be strong. I say to men: 'Don't touch me. I am afraid of myself. This is very heavy for me, it is a danger for me. I don't want someone pity for me. I am a strong woman.'
Twice a week she goes to the mosque wearing a bonnet or scarf. Conscious of Western hang-ups about Islam, she stresses 'pure religion - no ideology'. At other times she meditates, listens to short-wave, translates English into Indonesian and vice versa. 'I love English,' she says and means it. 'Writing in English is a beautiful and profound experience. If I have troubles I write them down in English. Then they get better.'
Occasionally she spots a foreigner and cheekily calls: 'Welcome to my country', a greeting which takes many aback, particularly those who anticipate a con artist though her motives are altruistic. 'I want harmony everywhere,' she says earnestly, 'between friends, families, nations. Otherwise we are finished.'
At times her enthusiasm and humour overtakes itself. After hearing a German tourist recite the many marvels of his country she asked with feigned naivety: 'And how is Mr Hitler?' As a conversation stopper you don't get much better than that.
For Rizza the idle gossip which fuels Indonesian life is a waste of time. 'I don't like talk meaningless,' she says, famished for facts to be transcribed into the Big Book. 'What is the point? There are so many things to learn. I want to know about other countries, everything.' In exchange she offers fierce condemnations of her nation's leaders and their penchant for corruption. She says she was equally fearless during the days of Suharto when criticism was equated with communism.
If so, then the authorities must have overlooked the transgressions, for Rizza behind bars would have been more of a headache than behind the counter.
There is no chance Rizza's skills with English will be put to good use. Her vocabulary is vast and her ear sharp. Conversationally she can out-run many university English teachers and out-wit the rest, but her grammar is a dog's breakfast.
Indonesian schools teach tense to the point where enthusiasm is anaesthetised, so a poor self-educated woman who is a wiz with words will never get the opportunity to galvanise the next generation with her unquenchable lust for language.
Which is Indonesia's great loss and no-one's gain.
Perth journalist Duncan Graham (wordstars@hotmail.com) slumps in awe of all self-taught linguists.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Highlighting the state's role may help stop the Poso conflict
Syamsul Alam Agus
The conflict in Poso was initially triggered by local elite political skirmishes. Over the last four years, however, it has transformed into a conflict between grass-roots communities. Hatred and suspicion have spread among a society that previously co-existed peacefully. The bloody conflict between the 'red group' (Christians) and the 'white group' (Muslims) remains a daily topic of conversation. A string of horror stories have graced the front pages of the local media, making it difficult to differentiate between information and rumour.
The Malino Declaration was a government initiative to initiate reconciliation in Poso. The ten-point accord, subsequently known as Malino 1 after a similar agreement was drafted for Ambon, was signed on 20 December 2001. Poso's inhabitants hoped that the declaration could be implemented successfully, to end the conflict that has resulted in riots on 25-30 December 1998, 16-19 April 2000, 23 May-10 June 2000, 26 November - 2 December 2001 and most recently 12 - 16 August 2002.
Sadly, the Malino Declaration now faces utter failure. Between the declaration's signing and 12 August 2002, there were 30 violations. These violations involved both parties to the conflict as well as incidents triggered by the security forces.
These incidents became increasingly common towards the end of the period set down by the accord for the restoration of security. They have included mysterious shootings, bomb blasts and inflammatory graffiti. These various incidents have rekindled trauma, mutual suspicion and sensitivity amongst society in Poso. The security forces have also contributed to the situation by making statements to the community that have implied that the end of the security restoration period would signal the end of security itself. Predictably, following the escalation of these incidents, the police and military have requested more operational funds from the Central Sulawesi government to restore security. The tension that had subsided is again rising and could lead to further large-scale conflict.
The failure of the Malino Declaration can be traced to several factors. The declaration is elitist, relies on quantitative measures of success, and is laden with opportunities for profitable 'projects'. For example, in the period to June 2002, the Poso Regency Working Group spent 2.2 billion rupiah (roughly A$450,000) just on disseminating information about the Malino Declaration. The accord also separates social rehabilitation, reconstruction of facilities and security, as if these three concerns were not related. As a result, facilities have been constructed without regard for the prevailing security situation or whether inhabitants feel safe, and social rehabilitation has not been supported by affirmative policies towards various flare-ups and incidents. Efforts to restore security, which have focused on placing large numbers of security personnel in Poso, have been easily undermined by disquieting acts of terror. Security has become the monopoly of the security forces, who treat it like a tradeable commodity.
At a community level, there is still a genuine desire to live peacefully. Behind the conflict, the community still remembers a time when living with different religious groups didn't mean living with war. However, the trauma caused by various conflicts has unfortunately created a fear of attempting any reconciliation or rehabilitation that might succeed where the government has failed. Nevertheless, an awareness has started to emerge in Poso that the community has the right to feel safe and have their socio-economic needs fulfilled things they have lost during the conflict. For instance, after an Omega bus was bombed on 12 July 2002, the Poso Pesisir Subdistrict Inter-religious Congregation Communication Forum issued a statement demanding that the security forces work harder to prove that they are trying to resolve the conflict. This statement is also an example of efforts to shift the perception of the conflict away from conflict between grass-roots communities to the role of the state. However, such efforts are still a minority in the midst of media statements by religious figures and political parties that simply blame the other side.
The severance of lines of communication at a grass-roots level has made the community more easily influenced by divisive statements by members of the elite. The media, with its focus on circulation, is more likely to publish these statements. When signatories of the Malino Declaration expressed their disappointment with the security forces for failing to take serious steps to follow up violations of the declaration, the press packaged the statement in such a way that it provoked a negative reaction from one religious community.
Terror after terror, issue after issue, statement after statement - this has been the pattern following the Malino Declaration. If society again takes the bait and participates in violence, this pattern could result in further large-scale conflict. As such, the awareness that has been developed thus far must be guarded and continually consolidated. A broader alliance with a common perception must be established at the most legitimate level, namely between the communities that have directly suffered from the conflict.
Of course this will not be easy. Society has several vulnerable points that will need to be monitored, so that they do not influence the community's capacity to keep each problem in proportion. In Poso, there can be no separation between rehabilitating these vulnerabilities and placing the conflict in the framework of state accountability. These two matters must be worked on together, with the aim to muster a critical force in society aware of its rights and the practices that are weakening its former capacity to manage conflict and difference.
Syamsul Alam Agus (duael@telkom.net) is an activist at the Institute for the Development of Legal Studies and Human Rights Advocacy, Central Sulawesi (LPS-HAM)
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
The struggle to implement Islamic Law in South Sulawesi
Dias Pradadimara and Burhaman Junedding
In mid-March this year, Philippines authorities arrested Agus Dwikarna for possession of C4 explosives. Ironically, Dwikarna's arrest has elevated the name of his Makassar-based Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law (Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam or KPPSI) to national and even international attention, something he and his colleagues previously desperately tried to do but failed. Moreover, the arrest of Tamsil Linrung and Abdul Jamal Balfas - also from South Sulawesi - in the same incident has created an image of South Sulawesi as the hotbed of Islamic radicalism. Allegations in the western press that Agus Dwikarna is somehow connected with Al Qaeda strengthen this image. Is this image justified? Who is actually pushing for the implementation of Islamic Law in South Sulawesi? Islamic Law
KPPSI was formed after a series of meetings and conferences starting in 2000. Initially, in August 2000, the first Mujahidin (Arabic for 'Fighter of Jihad') congress was held in Yogyakarta. The congress aimed to 'integrate the aims and actions of all Mujahidin to implement Islamic Law'. Hundreds of activists from Islamic organisations and parties attended, along with scholars from all over Indonesia. The participants from South Sulawesi included Abdurahman A. Basalamah, former rector of the Indonesian Muslim University in Makassar, and Agus Dwikarna, who were each elected to positions on the Mujahidin Council.
In October 2000, a three-day Islamic Congress was held in Makassar, following on from an informal meeting at the Hotel Berlian in May that year. The congress was convened to discuss 'Special Autonomy for the Implementation of Islamic Law in South Sulawesi'. Jakarta politicians such as A. M. Fatwa attended the congress, which was opened by the Deputy Governor of South Sulawesi. Diverse groups attended, including student activists, quasi paramilitary groups from all over South Sulawesi, and romantics from the Kahar Muzakkar era, along with active participants from the Yogyakarta congress, like Habib Husain Al-Habsyi and Abubakar Baasyir. Hundreds more participated from all over South Sulawesi. Abdul Hadi Awang, a charismatic figure from the Malaysian opposition Islamic party PAS, also attended. The congress was tightly guarded, not by the police or the army, but by a paramilitary security team known as the Lasykar Jundullah (The Army of God), allegedly to prevent 'infiltration'. The Lasykar not only guarded the toilets, they even limited access to the musholla (small mosque/ praying space) during the supposedly open and public Friday noon prayers. No wonder some participants later professed that the tight security made them feel awkward and 'controlled'. After the first Makassar congress, several results were announced. A formal body, the KPPSI was formed and authorised to pursue the final goal of implementing Islamic Law (Syariat Islam) in South Sulawesi. The Lasykar Jundullah (not yet led by Agus Dwikarna) was to become an integrated part of the KPPSI. The KPPSI itself was comprised of two main bodies, the Majelis Syuro (a largely advisory council) and the Majelis Lajnah (the Executive Council). Members of Majelis Syuro were mostly university intellectuals and ulama (religious teachers) and included not only Achmad Ali and Abdurrahman Basalamah, but also Sanusi Baco, the chair of the local branch of the New Order-created Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Council of Islamic Scholars). The executive council was led by Abdul Aziz Kahar Muzakkar, one of the many sons of the legendary Kahar Muzakkar, who led a loosely organised rebellion in South Sulawesi in the 1950s. No wonder the movement found it hard to deflect accusations of 'nostalgia'.
More than a year later, a second Islamic Congress was held in Makassar in December 2001. The organisers of this congress claimed wider support both for their congress and hence for the struggle. The list of members of the various committees for the congress read like a (male) Who's Who of South Sulawesi.
The governor of South Sulawesi, chair of the local parliament, and mayor of Makassar were all members of the Advisory Committee for the second congress, as were M. Yusuf Kalla (a coordinating minister in the Megawati cabinet) and Tamsil Linrung, who was later arrested together with Agus Dwikarna in the Philippines. The Steering Committee included all the rectors of Makassar's major universities, as well as the chairpersons of the local Muhammadiyah and NU branches. It is not clear to what extent these notables shared KPPSI's ideology or political agendas. As at most public events in South Sulawesi, many of these identities appeared at the congress only long enough to present a speech during the time allotted to them. Some, like the governor, sent a representative; others did not bother to show up. Nonetheless, this list of notables presented a conservative image of the movement, as the congress was organised in accordance with the existing political scene in South Sulawesi.
The organiser claimed on several occasions that Indonesian Vice President Hamzah Haz, known to be sympathetic to Islamic militant groups, would personally open the congress. The dates for the congress itself were repeatedly changed to adjust to the tight schedule of the vice president.
The congress commenced on the same day that Hamzah Haz had a state visit to Makassar. Although the opening session was delayed for several hours, Haz failed to show up and instead sent M. Yusuf Kalla to open the congress. A disappointed crowd booed him. Hamzah Haz briefly visited the congress in a 'personal capacity' several hours later, but took a moderate stance towards the political agenda of KPPSI. As Fatwa had at the first congress, Haz remained non-committal about the inclusion of Islamic Law in the constitution. Meanwhile, Kalla emphasised the need to start from oneself and one's family in implementing Islamic Law, rather than asking the state to adopt it. This is popularly known as the 'cultural' as opposed to the 'legal' approach to Syariat Islam.
Haz' moderate position did not deter KPPSI from announcing a pre-prepared draft of a law which would grant special status to South Sulawesi and allow the local government to impose Islamic Law. The draft law was clearly inspired by similar legislation enacted in Aceh. However, this announcement was overshadowed by a bomb blast on the third day of the congress. The organisers accused a 'third party' of trying to disrupt the congress. Police, however, suspected the incident was a cheap self-publicity stunt. The second congress is now remembered primarily by this incident.
Who is in KPPSI
Since the 1970s, graduates from pesantren (Islamic schools) and regular schools from all over South Sulawesi have flocked to Makassar for higher education. They go to universities in the city, join Islamic student associations, and many become staunch supporters of the Suharto-era state party Golkar. Most students enroll at either the state-owned Hasanuddin University or the private Muslim University of Indonesia (UMI).
These educational processes have created a social class that is quite religious in character, yet without a group consciousness oriented around an ulama (in contrast to East Java). This social class, instead, enthusiastically embraces the New Order's image of modernity. It is from within this class that KPPSI draws most of its supporters.
KPPSI's support comes mostly from urban-based university-educated males. Most KPPSI activists and hardliners come from UMI, where Abdurrahman Basalamah was once rector. Agus Dwikarna attended UMI, but never graduated. KPPSI ideologues, who generally have more moderate stands, are mostly lecturers at the State Institute of Islam (IAIN) in Makassar. Chairs of KPPSI branches in the regions in the interior are mostly university graduates with engineering, medical, or social science degrees.
Although KPPSI uses an image of intellectualism, there has been very little open and intellectual debate on what Islamic Law means and implies. Most statements in local newspapers regarding Islamic Law have been dogmatic. The same phenomenon is evident at the national level. While there is wide support for the implementation of Islamic Law in general, there is sharp disagreement over what it means.
The implicit statement in this lack of debate is that every good Muslim should know what Syariat Islam means and implies, and thus, like KPPSI, should support its implementation whole-heartedly. Hence there is little need for them to explain what they mean by it, or for others, they assume, to ask them what it means.
KPPSI also has a close connection with various anti-maksiat or anti-kejahatan ('anti-immorality' or 'anti-crime') groups. These are basically all-male vigilante/ paramilitary bands, usually armed with sticks and machetes. These groups have mushroomed in various regions in the interior areas of South Sulawesi since 1999, and the KPPSI's Lasykar Jundullah seems to have become an umbrella organisation for these bands.
A reading of the KPPSI and its activism over the last year or so gives us a picture of a male urban-based elite playing the image of religious intellectualism to mobilise support from youthful males in both the cities and rural areas of South Sulawesi. The question of Syariat Islam is likely to linger without being satisfactorily resolved for either its supporters, like KPPSI, or its antagonists. While the arrest of Agus Dwikarna has elevated the name of KPPSI, it has also hampered the movement. Those notables who previously openly supported KPPSI, when interviewed, have become more subdued in their comments. KPPSI itself is now busy trying to free Agus from jail, pushing its main agenda into the background.
This article is a part of a longer report of preliminary research on Islamic movements outside Java conducted by the Centre for Eastern Indonesian Studies, Universitas Hasanuddin (PusKIT UNHAS) in Makassar. The two authors are research associates at the centre and can be contacted via puskit@lycos.com
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Civil cases are combatting corporate impunity
Richard Tanter
Three civil cases currently before United States courts represent a promising new challenge to the longstanding impunity that military regimes in Southeast Asia have felt when using terror to control politics in their countries. In each case, local citizens have linked up with US non-government organizations to bring cases for damages against either powerful US-based companies operating under the umbrella of military terror, or against individual military officers who carried out the terror. How successful each case will ultimately be is not yet clear. What is quite clear is that initial successes in each case have been sufficiently threatening to the corporations and governments involved in the terror to respond to a threat they had initially dismissed as beneath their contempt.
A California judge has allowed a civil case brought by Burmese citizens against Unocal, one of the largest oil and gas companies in the world, to proceed to trial. A US district court judge in 2001 ruled that Unocal knew that the Burmese military was using forced labour and carried out torture and extra-legal executions to facilitate the construction of Unocal's Yadana natural gas pipeline. The judge also ruled that Unocal did not control the Burmese army, and hence under US federal law had no direct legal responsibility for the terror from which it benefited. The California case, however, is proceeding on a different issue: under California law, a partner in a business enterprise shares vicarious responsibility for the actions of its partners. This marks the first occasion on which a major US corporation has been brought to trial for its part in gross human rights violations perpetrated by a joint venture partner. The case will go to trial in September.
Citizens of Aceh are suing ExxonMobil for financially supporting elements of the Indonesian armed forces that employed extreme and illegal violence to protect Sumatra's Arun gas field and LNG production facilities. Exxon is presently attempting to prevent the case coming to trial, most recently by claiming that the US 'war against terror' would be impeded if the case against them proceeds. (See box)
In September 2001, a US district court awarded East Timorese plaintiffs damages amounting to US$66 million against TNI Lt-Gen. Johny Lumintang for his role in East Timor in 1999. After more than a year of demonstrating contempt for the US court proceedings, the Indonesian government and Lumintang, realising the wider implications of the ruling, have appealed, principally on technical grounds of jurisdiction. The appeal is proceeding. (See John Miller's article in the Inside Indonesia no 71).
These cases share a number of common elements:
Each relies on two pieces of US legislation: the Alien Tort Claims Act 1789 and the Torture Victim Protection Act (1991). These laws allow foreigners to sue individuals and corporations in US courts for damages resulting from actions outside the US, so long as the defendant has some substantive connection to the US.
Each case has resulted from a transnational political coalition of local citizens in Southeast Asian countries and North American activists and civil rights NGOs.
Even though each case may ultimately be lost at any point of the complex US court system, each has already succeeded to a considerable degree.
The Indonesian government has realised that unless it can win an appeal on technical grounds on Doe v. Lumintang, not only is it liable for a large damages payout, but Lumintang and other senior officials cannot visit the US without settling accounts. Moreover, as implied in the whole concept of punitive damages, the Doe v. Lumintang process will be repeated for others involved the Timor crimes or elsewhere in Indonesia.
The Unocal and Exxon cases have received wide publicity in the international business press. Shareholders and business journalists are unlikely to respond to calls for a shared humanity with the victims of Indonesian and Burmese army brutality, but they will respond quickly to avoidable threats to profitability and share price stability. As the Bloomberg News put it, 'Exxon Mobil's less-than-arm's length detachment from the military must be judged a short-term gain and a long-term miscalculation.'
The Exxon and Unocal cases are especially important because they demonstrate both the negative and positive aspects of globalisation. The Indonesian state continues to depend utterly for its survival on the political, economic and financial backing of the US and Japan and the major corporations of those countries. The fig leaf of demokrasi apart, Indonesian patronage politics is still hugely dependent on revenues from oil and gas exports and foreign aid. Indonesia is the world's largest liquid natural gas (LNG) exporter, supplying a third of global LNG trade - almost all of which is sent to Japan and South Korea. Aceh's gas and oil is vital to the Indonesian state.
Serious environmental problems have been a continuous feature of Exxon's Arun natural gas field since production began in 1978. Peaceful protests were from the beginning dealt with violently, fuelling local sympathies for autonomy or independence. Producing gas in Aceh at an acceptable price for the people and companies of Osaka and Seoul - and vast profits for Exxon Mobil's mainly US shareholders - has for more than two decades depended upon military terror, as the corporation has long known.
Foreign oil and gas companies subcontracting terror to the military is an aspect of globalisation that is neither unusual nor new. What is new is the willingness of citizens and organizations in the countries that supposedly benefit from this coercive flow of resources arguing through law that the standards of justice that apply in their own countries should be applied to the countries from which these resources are taken. If globalisation is at root about the transnationalisation of capital, then the Exxon and Unocal cases mark a small step in the transnationalisation of universal legal standards of justice.
The legal framework within which global politics and commerce is conducted is in transition. Although nation-states remain the dominant political form of organisation, their domestic legal systems cannot cope with the realities of transnational business. International law is expanding very rapidly to fill this gap - particularly in trade and the environment - where borders are relatively insignificant.
Effective international law on human rights and crimes against humanity is still weak, and the unilateral resistance of the Bush administration to the newly constituted International Criminal Court weakens it further. Under the ICC, member countries that discover those suspected of crimes against humanity in their countries, irrespective of where the crime was committed, must either prosecute them under their domestic laws, or extradite them to the ICC.
It is not yet known how effective the ICC will be. In the meantime, lawyers, prosecutors and citizens in a number of countries are applying existing national law to crimes of universal significance committed outside their own territory. The two most important cases to date have been the attempts by government prosecutors in Spain and Belgium to bring the former Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet and the present Prime Minister of Israel Ariel Sharon, respectively, to trial. Although neither has succeeded to date, both cases have brought the issue of universal jurisdiction for certain heinous crimes to the forefront.
The current US cases are taking another approach. Instead of government prosecutors utilising a criminal code, private citizens brought these cases to civil trial for damages. Although imperfect and limited, they are an extremely important part of the slow but consistent pressure to establish universal standards of justice and universal jurisdiction.
Unfortunately, the Bush administration is the most unilateralist and brazenly pro-business (especially pro-mining) government for many decades in the US, and is highly likely to intervene politically to obviate any positive legal developments. US vice-president Dick Cheney, presently under suspicion for illegal activities as head of energy industry services company Halliburton, was involved in Halliburton's work on the Unocal Yadana pipeline. Exxon, the most rogue-like of the big oil companies, has been particularly active in sabotaging the Kyoto protocol.
Moreover, there are more fundamental problems in this otherwise commendable legal approach based on US law. If a future truly democratic Indonesian government passed laws that permitted the indictment of Henry Kissinger for his role in facilitating crimes against humanity in Cambodia, Angola, Indonesia and East Timor, is it imaginable that the US would allow his extradition for trial? The long-drawn-out resistance of the Libyan government to the trial of the Lockerbie aircraft bombing suspects would be nothing by comparison.
This makes the case for a multilateral global legal institution such as the ICC all the more compelling, and in time, another US administration will come in from the cold. In the meantime, we must rely on the opportunities provided by imperfect national legal systems to bring a measure of justice against the criminal officers and the companies who pay them.
Richard Tanter (rtanter@hotmail.com) teaches at Kyoto Seika University in Japan.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Indonesians are seeking a public voice through radio
Rebecca Henschke
Community radio in Yogyakarta and Java is in a period of exciting change. Radio has emerged from the New Order with a legal and economic framework that is resistant to monopoly control of large capital and to the centralized control of Jakarta. Radio, being a verbal medium and relatively cheap to run, is blossoming as a communication tool at a grass roots level.
In Yogyakarta, there are currently twenty-six community radio stations. These radio stations range from student university non-profit radio stations; community radio stations established by farmers, art communities, the Malioboro street community; and a station broadcasting local government talk shows during local elections.
The frequency band in Yogyakarta is almost full. There are currently fifty-nine radio stations broadcasting in Yogyakarta and the surrounding area. Community radio stations merely select a frequency that they find free and broadcast on it, using a home made low transmitter and basic broadcasting equipment.
Community stations
Radio Panagati is one radio station in Yogyakarta that acts as a tool of empowerment for the local community. This radio station is located in the Terban sub-district office, and broadcasts to the community living on the banks of the major river that runs through Yogyakarta. Radio Panagati broadcasts every night from 7 - 10 on 92.2 FM. Using a 10 watt transmitter, it can be heard by 2,847 families.
During the elections for members of the city parliament in November 2001, Radio Panagati broadcast a talk show over five nights on which all five local candidates could explain their plans and policies. The community joined in the debate by phoning in and speaking with each candidate or visiting the station.
'The station was needed because there was a major problem with information getting through to the community. There was not enough information, so the community was powerless and confused. People always said, 'Oh I didn't know about that' 'I didn't hear about that!' This radio station acts as one tool to give information so the community can take control of its own destiny. Through the talk shows this station is working to create greater transparency in the political system,' said Pak Jarwono from Radio Panagati.
Pak Jarwono explained that for the next election talk shows the station plans to broadcast through the loudspeakers of three mosques in the area, to reach those in the community who don't own a radio.
Radio Suara Malioboro is different once again. A group of artists, activists, and human right workers, street kids, students and music lovers from around Malioboro road, the central street in Yogyakarta, created the station. This community radio station was established from very basic beginnings in March this year and first broadcast in April. Radio Suara Malioboro now broadcasts from Monday to Sunday 11.00 am to 11.00 pm, using a 100 watt transmitter. It can be heard in the area around Bantul, south of the Kraton and the area surrounding Malioboro Road. The station has links with the NGO Yayasan Lembaga Pengkajian Sosial Humana, which is a NGO that aims to integrate street kids into the broader community. A group of 10 street kids produce and present a one hour, daily talk show, in which they discuss conflicts with police, daily struggles and express themselves through music and drama. The station provides local street kids with a public voice.
Radio Suara Malioboro also broadcasts local un-recorded music. It records street musicians and underground artists and gives them airplay. It also gives wider exposure to local theatrical and musical events. For instance, on 23 July, the station recorded a local performance of an adaptation of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Nights Dream', produced in collaboration by dance companies from Yogyakarta, Bali and Japan.
Aris, 24, a technical assistant and broadcaster at Radio Suara Malioboro, explained, 'Radio Malioboro is radio for everyone. The station increases the sense of community in Malioboro. It acts as a voice that I think in the future will help to define that community and give it a sense of identity. It's a way that street kids can express themselves, so the rest of society is not blind to what they are about. It will hopefully act as a way to break down stereotypes about street kids, people listening can see, oh street kids can be creative too!'
Radio Petani Klaten is another community station. It was created earlier this year by a group of five farmers in the Klaten area, who were concerned with issues ranging from the political status of farmers to environmental issues and the over use of pesticides and chemicals. Radio Petani Klaten provides information to the farming community in Klaten, which is currently under constant pressure from the expansion of corporate farming interests. Their community radio strengthens the farmers' bargaining position.
Radio Petani Klaten plans to devote 40 per cent of broadcasts to information and the remainder to entertainment. It broadcasts talk back programs about organic farming and current political issues of concern to farmers. Its motto is 'close to society, caring about farmers'.
Government Regulation
However, all community radio stations throughout Indonesia are illegal. To gain a license to broadcast, a station must apply to the Departmen
t of Communication in Jakarta and pay a 300 million rupiah license fee up front. This is a long and costly process that usually requires a legal firm.
Consequently, stations go ahead and broadcast until the authorities enforce the law through a 'sweeping' of the station. Police have shut down numerous community radio stations in Yogyakarta and Bandung over the last six months.
Radio Budaya Minomartani in Sleman Yogyakarta, and Radio Petani (Farmers Radio) in Yogyakarta were shut down in 2002, after broadcasting for three months. A producer at Radio Minomartani explained, 'The police came here and wanted to take all the equipment, and I said the equipment does not belong to me, before you take it you need to ask all the members, all the people living in this area, they own this equipment, it is community property! So the police just left a letter and left.'
Prof Widhiatnyana, from the Department of Communications, told a community radio meeting in Bandung in March 2002, that community radio could ignite conflict between religious and racial groups in Indonesia. He stated, 'After the mosque community asks, the church community asks and so on, and then we have a problem.' The government also cites issues relating to the allocation of frequencies for its clamp down on community radio.
Not surprisingly, those involved with community radio in Yogyakarta strongly dispute the government's claims. 'Community radio does not promote disintegration in society. It is about unity and giving a voice to society, thus creating an open and intelligent society. A society that deals with conflict and issues in a verbal intelligent way. This concept has to enter the minds of the government,' said Pak Sukion from Radio Suara Petani Klaten.
In May 2002, Yogyakarta's community radio stations formed the Jaringan Radio Kommunitas Yogyakarta (Yogyakarta Community Radio Network - JKRY) to fight for the right for community radio to exist in Indonesia. This followed the formation of similar unions in Bandung and Jakarta. 'Because of the constant sweeping we have to be stubborn, persistent and obstinate, fight for the organization of community broadcasting to enter into the proposed DPR broadcasting law,' stated Dadang from Radio Warga Pasirluryu in Bandung.
Community radio in Indonesia is blossoming as a communications tool at the grass roots level. Community radio's fight to gain legal status mirrors society's growing wish to gain a political voice and to take control of their destiny.
Rebecca Henschke (becstar@muchomail.com) was an ACICIS student in 2002.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
A new local press must struggle to survive when the novelty of autonomy wanes
Kirrilee Hughes
Malang, like other regional towns of Indonesia, is changing, and a market for new local newspapers is emerging. 'Local' no longer denotes the newspapers produced in the provincial capital, and sold in outlying towns, but rather an industry based in these towns. Interest in local government and local issues has skyrocketed, and is the driving force behind the papers, generating both subject matter and readership. Unlike the 'local rags' of Australia, which are published weekly and delivered free of charge, these local newspapers are produced daily and constitute a commercially viable and increasingly read media. Since 1998, the Malang Post and Memo Arema have both emerged in Malang, while the market leader, Jawa Pos, has increased sales through the inclusion of a locally managed supplement, Radar Malang. Circulation may not be sky high, with the Malang Post selling between four and five thousand copies a day (though sales reportedly increase during the soccer season) and Memo Arema, a local edition of the Surabaya based Memorandum, around 5500 copies a day. These local papers are still surpassed by the Surabaya Post and the Jawa Pos, which sell 17,000 and 36,000 copies respectively in Malang each day, but they are taking on the nation wide Kompas, which has an average daily circulation in Malang of around 8,000 copies.
These fledgling local papers have not emerged of their own accord. They are owned by large media conglomerates, which provide editorial, managerial and financial expertise. In Malang, the Jawa Pos Group is the only player. This group dominates the market with their flagship paper, Jawa Pos, and owns both the Malang Post and Memo Arema. More than half of East Java's local and regional publications come under the Jawa Pos umbrella. As one Malang Post editor puts it, 'Only one big shot has come to town.'
A perusal of these papers proves that they are not merely an edition of the Jawa Pos with a Malang masthead. Local news dominates the front pages of both Memo Arema and the Malang Post, and the Radar Malang supplement dedicates its entire eight pages to local events, issues and personalities. Memo Arema and the Malang Post do carry national and international news, but these articles are normally restricted to page two, unless they can be slanted towards Malang through consequence or effect. Like its parent publication, Memorandum, Memo Arema angles itself towards criminal news, and the vast majority of its reporters are posted in Malang's courts, police stations and jails. The Malang Post on the other hand, covers news of a more general nature, and posts reporters in all districts of Malang, including the nearby city of Batu. Local issues are aired through entire pages dedicated to local politics, education, sport and entertainment. News of a national and international flavour is lifted from the Jawa Pos New Network, a restricted network to which all subsidiary newspapers have access. This network is the only way through which the Jawa Pos directly contributes to the content of local newspapers.
The emerging local press is difficult to pin down and describe. Circulation figures are hard to trust. Indonesia has no autonomous body auditing newspaper circulation, and the papers themselves cite figures triple their actual sales to reel in all-important advertising revenue. The figures quoted above were obtained from the manager of Karah Agung printing press in Surabaya. As he handles all printing orders for Jawa Pos owned papers, he knows precisely how many copies of each paper go on sale each day. Indeed, it seems the only way to find out more about this emerging local press is to talk to the people who make it all happen - the editors, the reporters, printing press staff and the advertising and marketing reps. They're a mix of bright eyed and underpaid university graduates on their first post, and weather beaten senior employees who have worked in nearly every newspaper bureau in town. These people are the key to the future prosperity and quality of the local newspapers they work for - a fact that they are only too aware of. When asked of the greatest obstacle to the future of the local press, one astute cadet replied, 'The journos themselves'
With only a brief history of a free and uncensored press, these new local papers cannot escape the issues that have affected the industry in the past. The community still harbours deep-rooted suspicions as to the actual truth of what they read. Local media practitioners recognise that not only is it their job to inform their audience, but also to educate them about the function of an uncensored and non-partisan media, and what the term 'free press' actually means. This of course entails a disengagement of past practices, including the 'envelope culture' in which sources offer money to journalists.
Whilst reporters from national papers have comparatively large salaries to rely on, in some cases up to three or four times that of their local counterparts, local journalists must learn to strike a balance between long hours, low wages and the temptation to take envelopes. At one local paper in Malang, senior reporters are paid approximately 350,000 rupiah a month, plus bonuses of up to another 300,000 rupiah based on the quality and quantity of their articles. With one day off in every seven, no half day on a Friday, no afternoon siestas and deadlines that do not allow for 'rubber time', that's a big ask. One cadet reporter confided that she earned a training wage of 150,000 rupiah a month with no opportunity for bonuses, which was barely enough to cover her board, let alone food and petrol. When a source offers her an envelope, she often has no choice but to take it.
These envelopes, always plain white and small, are never opened until the two parties are far apart. They often contain no more than 15,000 to 25,000 rupiah. The reasons for giving this money are not always clear-cut. A reporter assigned to a business post may receive envelopes as a thank you for anticipated favourable promotion of a particular company or product. Yet one reporter told me, 'I just write the article, its my editor who chooses whether it actually gets carried. If they're paying me to get the story published, then they're paying the wrong person'. Often, sympathetic sources give envelopes to cover petrol money and other 'expenses', and these gifts seem to be a sincere helping hand from those who know how little journalists are paid for their long hours. On the two occasions that I accompanied reporters who were offered and accepted envelopes, the money was once used to buy petrol and the other time to pay for lunch.
It is tempting to place too much emphasis on these envelopes when examining the local press. 'They make me so confused,' a young reporter confessed. 'Whenever I'm offered one, its always a struggle to know what to do. To take it, or not to take it. I need the money, but I don't want to encourage it. People find out, and that affects what they think of the papers. But to tell you the truth, they are a minute part of my job. I'm more concerned about writing quality articles.' In any case, these envelopes are not thick and fast between often this depends on a reporter's post and who their sources actually are. A court or criminal reporter will almost never be offered an envelope, though lawyers, police officers and detectives will buy them lunch on a daily basis. It seems a fine line between bribery and corruption, and friendly gestures.
All local papers in Malang now carry disclaimers that their staff are not to receive 'any money or other gifts from sources', and strict in-house policies forbid employees from accepting envelopes. The issue has become a contentious one. And while salaries remain low, it's also an issue that won't disappear quickly.
Yet although wages may be low, job satisfaction levels are high. It's simple - if it was about the money, I wouldn't be working at the Malang Post, one senior reporter explained. 'With these new papers I can work in my hometown, and the increasing interest in local issues is visible. I can actually see people realising that it is not just what happens in Jakarta or Surabaya that is important. There are events and issues in their own kampung that are newsworthy. But if we are going to survive past the otonomi' (regional autonomy) era, we need to be a quality publication that the community is interested in, and that people can trust.
That is the challenge for this emerging local press in a town like Malang - to survive the euphoria of free press legislation and to persevere as interest in regional autonomy inevitably wanes. With editorial and managerial expertise on loan from the Jawa Pos, these Malang newspapers have the potential to become fertile ground for the development of new talent and experienced local media practitioners.
Kirrilee Hughes (kik_h@hotmail.com) is an ANU student who completed work experience with the Malang Post in 2001.
Inside Indonesia 72: Oct - Dec 2002
Page 56 of 67
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