A General of the Sukarno years criticises today's military
Muhammad Fauzi
Hario Kecik is an old soldier who refuses to fade away. At 81 years of age, he remains a fireball of creative energy. He has just published a novel and is just about to publish the third volume of his autobiography. For hobbies, he paints, sings (in six languages, including Chinese), and writes poetry. He is a natural public speaker who, with a vast repertoire of jokes and stories, can keep an audience entertained for hours. When telling stories, he frequently breaks into Javanese and raises the tone of his voice in such a way that one can not help but laugh at his expressiveness. He is like a one-man culture industry where rough East Javanese humour mixes with refined cosmopolitan learning. It is difficult to believe, given the cultural abilities of today's military officers (just listen to Gen. Wiranto's CD of his karaoke favorites!), that Hario Kecik was once a Brigadier General in the Army.
As we sit in his home on the outskirts of Jakarta, he describes the formative event of his youth: the Surabaya uprising of November 1945. It was a popular revolt against the British troops that had just arrived to secure the surrender of the Japanese. The British troops were seen, rightly as it turned out, to be the advance guard of a Dutch attempt to recolonise Indonesia. A guest in Hario's house is left in no doubt of the importance of the event for him: a massive canvas about it painted by Hario himself hangs in the front room.
One legacy of those early street fighting years is his name. His full Javanese name, Soehario Padmodiwirio, was hardly suitable as a nom de guerre. It betrayed his aristocratic ancestry. All these years, he has kept the diminutive name that his friends in the struggle gave him: Kecik, meaning small in the East Javanese dialect. Despite his short stature, even by Indonesian standards, he excelled in warfare because he was gutsy, clever, and agile.
Beginning and end of an era
For Hario, the formation of the Indonesian army emerged out of the spontaneous effort of the youth (pemuda) to seize the weapons of the Japanese in 1945 and resist the incoming European troops. He did not enter the army by signing up at a recruiting office: he and four friends created their own little unit. Many such units sprouted up at that time. Each group chose its own leader from among its own ranks. As these units merged and the leaders were accorded ranks, Hario was accorded the rank of Major. In Hario's experience, the national army, in its early years, was created by civilians. Its leaders emerged organically from below.
Following the departure of the Dutch troops, Hario stayed within the army and rose up through the ranks. He became the commander of the military region of East Kalimantan in 1959 and a Brigadier General in 1962. Despite the fact that he had attended two officer training courses in the United States at Fort Benning in 1958, he had a reputation for being left-wing. His experience with the 1945 revolution and with the United States attempts to sabotage Sukarno in the late 1950s had made him decidedly anti-imperialist.
At the time of Suharto's takeover of power in late 1965, Hario was in the Soviet Union. He had been sent to study at the War College there in early 1965 by the army commander Gen. Yani. Given both his left-wing reputation and his stay in the Soviet Union, he knew he would be arrested or worse if he returned to Indonesia. In exile in Moscow, he took advantage of the time by studying. He was appointed senior associate at the Academy of Sciences in Moscow.
Eventually, he decided to return to Indonesia in 1977 and face whatever awaited him there. Immediately after landing at the airport in Jakarta, he was hauled off to prison by army soldiers. He spent the next four years in a military detention jail in central Jakarta. No charges. No trial. No idea when he would be released. It was four years of waiting punctuated by the occasional interrogation in which he was respectfully referred to as 'Professor Hario'.
Punish the generals
After years of exile and imprisonment, Hario looks upon the army that developed under Suharto as a kind of freakish mutant. He hardly recognizes it as the army that emerged out of a social revolution. The army today still sticks to the rhetoric of that time "the people and the military are one" but has completely changed the meaning. Now the army employs the old populist rhetoric to justify its civilian militias that commit crimes for which the army wants plausible deniability.
Hario notes that the officer corps graduating from the military academy since the late 1960s have not been able to understand the army's history. What they learn is how to please their superiors, make a lot of money from corruption, and advance quickly up the ranks. 'It's too easy for them to gain promotions, especially when there isn't even a war going on.' Any military, Hario believes, faces problems in peace time. Without a war or the potential for war, 'an army loses its identity.' The Indonesian army has not faced any external threat since 1965 yet it has arrogated enormous powers to itself inside the country. It has focused on policing and waging war on other Indonesians.
The usual response of TNI officers to the crimes of soldiers is to say that the soldiers were acting on their own as individuals; they were oknum. According to Hario, 'If there is a brawl, the ones that are dismissed from the military are the lower ranking ones. Just recently, the Chief of Staff of the Army himself tore off their ensignia and discharged some privates because of a discipline problem. That kind of thing is really odd. If I was the Chief of Staff, I would first punish some generals. I would throw out the generals who are causing the problems.'
Corruption
Hario sees the problem of corruption as an institutional one for which the high officers are primarily responsible. He mentions a story that a private told him last year. 'After returning home at night, he goes out again and works as a security guard at a warehouse. He only gets 15,000 rupiah a night. He does the work but his commander, a colonel, demands money from the industrialist. The colonel doesn't do any work but he gets much more money than the private does.' This kind of situation is ruinous for the morale of an army.
As Hario remembers, the military's corruption was not so institutionalised and routine before 1965. When he was the commander of East Kalimantan, there were many opportunities to enrich himself had he so desired. He could have taken money from the timber barons and oil companies and used his troops to serve their interests - the pattern of the army commanders today.
Since East Kalimantan was largely undeveloped and the civil government was so meager, Hario thought his troops had to be involved in economic development. But his model of development was different than that of the big private companies. As a populist, Hario had his troops help build schools and run cooperative enterprises. While commander, he wrote a book about the army's economic role in the region titled People, Land, and the Military.
The general who replaced Hario as commander of East Kalimantan in February 1965, Sumitro, later became one of Suharto's closest allies. It is interesting that Sumitro's biography begins with a description of the ceremony for the transfer of the command. In the book, Sumitro presented Hario as a leftist who thought his transfer was a sign that the army high command did not understand 'the revolution' he was leading in East Kalimantan. Hario laughs while dismissing the description as entirely fanciful.
At the end of our discussion, Hario promises that the forthcoming installment of his memoir is focused on his reflections and analyses of the nation's military. He briefly outlines his analysis of the political differences in the 1945-65 period between officers deriving from the Dutch military, the Japanese military, and the people's militias (laskar). He laughs, 'but you'll have to read the book for the complete analysis.'
Muhammad Fauzi (mfauzi@hotmail.com) is a historian and librarian with Jaringan Kerja Budaya in Jakarta. Hario Kecik's memoirs have been published in two volumes: Autobiografi Seorang Mahasiswa Prajurit (Jakarta: Yayasan Obor Indonesia, 1995 and 2001). See www.obor.or.id.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Will a Truth and Reconciliation Commission ever be formed?
Agung Putri
Since the fall of President Suharto in May 1998, many Indonesians have been searching for ways to address the crimes of his 32-year dictatorship. One of Suharto's legacies to the country is a long trail of mysterious atrocities and unmarked mass graves. The questions that posed themselves after his fall from power were: How can we discover the truth behind the various atrocities? How can we determine who was responsible? If we are able to determine who was responsible, what should we do then?
The answers to these questions have not been obvious. Even though there has been a widespread desire to uncover the truth and hold the officials of the Suharto regime accountable, there has been no agreement on how that should be achieved. Even now, over four years after his fall, Suharto himself has not been touched, even for cases of corruption. All of the so-called 'reform' governments (under Presidents Habibie, Wahid, and Megawati) have failed to create any viable mechanism for dealing with past crimes.
Of course, one reason for this failure is the resistance from the Suharto family, its cronies, and the military. Additionally, the fact that many of the 'reform' politicians are holdovers from the Suharto era has meant that they often do not even perceive past atrocities as state crimes. Some politicians still uphold the line that the state can not commit crimes because it is the state. But those reasons by themselves are not sufficient to explain why so little has been accomplished since Suharto's demise. The factor that I would like to highlight here is the confusion concerning the appropriate mechanisms among the very people pushing for accountability.
Fact-finding committees
The first response of the post-Suharto governments to handle past crimes has been the fact-finding committee. So far there have been five such official committees that have investigated the following incidents: the violence in Aceh during the period when the province was called a Military Operation Area (1989-1998); the Jakarta riots of 13-15 May 1998; the massacre in Tanjung Priok in 1984, the violence in East Timor during the referendum process in 1999, and the killing of students during demonstrations in Jakarta at Trisakti University and the Semanggi cloverleaf in 1998-1999. The government established the first two commissions while the latter three were formed by the National Commission of Human Rights (Komnas HAM).
The committees performed well in bringing information about these cases to the public eye. Victims and witnesses were given the chance to provide recorded testimony. Military officers came before the committees and were asked to account for the military's actions. The reports of the committees have provided careful and sometimes exhaustive descriptions on what happened and how many people were killed or injured. But none of the committees have been able to conclude why the violence occurred. Every committee had to end its report with a recommendation for further investigation.
The preoccupation of the fact-finding committees was to identify particular military officers as the ones responsible for particular acts of violence. For instance, the report on the Jakarta riots suspected that Maj. Gen. Prabowo and Maj. Gen. Sjafrie Samsuddin had some sort of hand in provoking or organising the riots. It suggested that an investigation be held into a secret meeting they held on 14 May 1998 at an army headquarters. Similarly, the committee on the crimes in East Timor listed the names of 29 officers who were thought to be responsible for particular massacres.
This identification of individual officers, while helpful in framing court cases against them, does not lead to an understanding of the systemic nature of the crimes committed by the Suharto regime and the military. Indeed, it can reinforce the idea that there are a few bad apples within the military that need to be removed.
The problem with the military is not that there are a few bad officers within it. The main problem is that it is an unaccountable institution that has far too much power. It has routinely committed atrocities both during and after the Suharto regime. Arriving at the truth in the context of the military's power requires challenging the institutional power of the military.
The TRC
Members of Komnas HAM first proposed the establishment of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in 1998. They approached President Habibie and the military soon after Suharto resigned. Habibie welcomed the proposal but declined to follow up on it. The military rejected it outright. The upper chamber of parliament (MPR) was more supportive. The MPR passed a law called Unity and Reconciliation number V/2000 at its session in 1999 that called for the creation of a TRC. It was left up to the Ministry of Justice and Human Rights to draw up the guidelines and bring it into existence.
After the law was passed, there was a great deal of discussion about the TRC inside and outside of the government. There were seminars, conferences, and meetings. The non-governmental organisation that I work for, Elsam, was asked by the government to write a draft regulation that would determine the functioning of the TRC.
In my opinion, the advantage of a TRC is that it can address many cases of human rights that are already swamping Komnas HAM and have no hope of being handled by the country's ridiculously inadequate and corrupt legal system. Moreover, it can address cases that are far too complex and massive for legal remedies, such the killings of 1965-66. Perhaps the most important virtue of the TRC is that it can result in a comprehensive narrative about the systematic character of the Suharto's regime's crimes.
The TRC was a live issue for about a year. Despite the initial flurry of activity, there has been little progress in implementing the TRC. The law is on the books (and the MPR reaffirmed the law at its 2002 session) but the commission does not yet exist. By now it appears as if it will never be formed. Why has the TRC lacked a constituency that can forcefully push for its implementation? I think the reasons are manifold.
Some activists remain wary of the TRC because they think it lacks teeth, that it will not punish the military officers responsible for atrocities. Activists tend to prefer court trials. The Indonesian government's ad hoc court for the crimes against humanity in East Timor is closer to the method they would like to see used for all cases of state crimes. Moreover, they think 'reconciliation' is a pointless concept when dealing with crimes by state officials.
Many government officials and members of parliament support a vague notion of a TRC but do not fully understand it enough to push strongly for it. Some think it should just be a kind of quick 'feel good' exercise so that the past can be laid to rest. They are wary that it might actually not turn out to be that. Some think the TRC should include the Sukarno years under its purview. They do not view the Suharto regime as having a specifically criminal character of its own.
Victims organisations
Added to these problems is the lack of unity among the victims, especially in their support for a TRC. The victims have tended to organise according to the specific incident. Victims of the Tanjung Priok massacre, for instance, have an organisation of their own and have tried to find a resolution to their own particular case. Some of them have become quiet after reconciling personally with the officers suspected of ordering the massacre.
There have been numerous attempts to create a unified organisation for victims of the Suharto regime. A congress was held in Aceh in 2001 which led to the establishment of a a pan-Aceh Victims Solidarity Group. Another congress was held in Jakarta in early 2002 to consolidate all the groups of ex-political prisoners (Temu Raya Korban). A similar gathering was held in Papua in 2000. To some extent, these forums have raised the spirit of the victims and brought their plight to the attention of the public.
One problem such congresses have faced is their redirection for ulterior political ends. In Aceh and Papua, the victims' congresses were used to legitimate the demand for a referendum on independence. Meanwhile the victims' congress in Jakarta included in its resolutions the need to uphold Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution (the things the Suharto regime made sacred). The congresses have not actually been effective in insisting on a method by which the government should hold the former regime accountable for its crimes.
I think the idea of the TRC, so often misunderstood and under-appreciated, still holds great promise and should be pursued. The creation of the TRC will require building a consensus first about the need for a comprehensive approach to understanding the systemic nature of the Suharto regime's crimes.
Agung Putri (putri@elsam.or.id) is a staff member of Elsam, the Institute of Policy Research and Advocacy. She was a fellow at the Transitional Justice Program at the University of Capetown, South Africa, in 2002.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
The Military Fleeces and Polices Port Workers
Razif
In the northern-most reaches of Jakarta, on the edge of the Java Sea, lies the port of Tanjung Priok. As one approaches it from the road, one sees little more than high fences with guard posts interspersed at intervals. Behind the fences, one can catch glimpses of seemingly limitless stacks of containers - an immense accumulation of wealth in transit. Tanjung Priok is Indonesia's busiest port with some 1600 container trucks coming in and out every day. To handle the billions of dollars worth of commodities circulating through the port, there is a 15,000-strong army of stevedores, drivers, and clerks.
With so much wealth, one can be sure the Indonesian military is here taking a share. And with so many workers handling this wealth, one can also be sure the military is here to control them - and take a share of the workers' wages too.
Illegal fees
A truck driver at the port bringing in a container complains to me: 'after working at this port for nearly 30 years I've earned nothing. I've had to spend all my earnings paying off the military. Just about every day, to load or unload a container at the port, I have to pay Rp. 30,000 (US$3.30). Meanwhile, just for food and cigarettes, I spend about Rp. 20,000 [US$2.20] a day. So it's a real burden and it doesn't make any sense.'
There is no regulation that says the army soldiers stationed at the gates of the port can collect money from the truck drivers. The soldiers simply follow the slogan of a company whose shoes are exported from the port; they 'just do it'. They do not allow a truck to pass through unless the driver pays what they demand. Usually, the freight companies that employ the drivers do not provide extra money to pay for this unofficial tax.
The four metre-high fences and the ubiquitous soldiers are developments of the Suharto era. The first container docks were opened in 1974. Since then, more docks and cranes have been added to handle the growing amount of container traffic.
The port's pasts
Before 1965, the port used to be known as a open area. Just about anyone could enter. I met one elderly shadow puppet master in Jakarta who recalled how he would regularly perform a bi-weekly Saturday night show for the workers. He was a member of the left-wing cultural organisation Lekra (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat). He is still fond of those days: 'If it so happened that I didn't show up for a month, the dock workers would start asking about me. They'd wonder what could have possibly kept me away. Likewise, I would miss my friends there if I was off somewhere else. We were very close.' All that ended with the rise of Suharto in late 1965. 'On the night when the September 30th Movement occurred, I was actually performing at the Tanjung Priok port. I didn't know at the time that it would be the last time I ever performed for my friends there.' For being involved with the so-called 'communist' organisation Lekra, he was imprisoned for 14 years by the Suharto regime.
Although Tanjung Priok is an economic site, it has always had a political significance. During the nationalist movement in the 1920s, it was a refuge for those being hunted by the police of the colonial state. The dock workers could smuggle nationalist leaders into ships as stowaways. After independence, in the 1950s, the dock workers occasionally staged strikes for political reasons. For instance, they refused to load oil onto ships, mainly American ships, that were involved in the war in Korea.
Workers and soldiers
Looking at the port area now, it is hard to imagine those days. All around the port are Export Processing Zones (EPZs) that, with their barbed wire-topped fences and guard houses at the gates, resemble prison labour camps. Supplies are imported through the port, assembled in the EPZ factories by cheap labour, and then exported back out through the port.
What helps keep labour cheap in this area is the heavy military presence. Nearly every branch of the military is active in and around the port: the army, police, army reserves (Kostrad), marines, and navy. The company that owns the docks, PT Pelindo, uses the military for its security guards. The gates for docks are manned by active duty army soldiers who wear the uniforms of PT Pelindo. This is yet another case where the difference between state security personnel and private mercenaries for hire is often difficult to discern in Indonesia. The security personnel not only receive a salary from their units but also from PT Pelindo. Still, they do not consider it enough money and insist on extorting money from the truck drivers and workers.
Every worker at the port, including the drivers of the container trucks, is required to show an identity card when entering. To keep careful track of the workers, this card is re-issued every two weeks. It is not the company that issues the identity cards. It is the army command post situated right inside the port. The army is directly integrated into management-labour relations.
The port authorities have established their own labour law. During the Suharto years, the army, the manpower department, and the customs department issued a regulation forbidding port workers from striking. Port workers were exempted from the already weak protection afforded by national law since the port was considered a strategic asset for the national economy.
Gangsters
The truck drivers also have to face gangsters (preman) who are allied with the military. There is one area of the port known, ironically enough, as Free Land (Tanah Merdeka). It is the area where containers are temporarily stored. The so-called security for this area is provided by gangsters who are not officially employed as security guards. A truck driver who needs to keep a container there for a night has to pay rent money to these gangsters.
According to a truck driver, 'The gangsters are organised by the marines and have their headquarters near the Free Land. If we don't give them money, there is no guarantee that they won't steal the contents of the container. But that area is meant to be a facility of the port for us drivers. It is quite often that the ship comes into the port late in the day or is late a day. So we need a place to store the containers for a night.' This driver added sarcastically, 'Perhaps the place is called Free Land because it is free of any laws'.
On an average night, some 500 containers are stored in Free Land. The unofficial payment to the gangsters these days is Rp. 50,000 per night [US$5.50]. So one can imagine how much money the marines and their hoodlums are making every year for doing nothing.
A new union
Given the military presence and the tight regulation, it is remarkable that the workers have actually formed an independent union called Solidarity of Maritime Workers and Fishermen of Indonesia (SBMNI). Even more remarkable is that this union has organised a strike. About two-thirds of all the port workers went out on a two-day strike in November 2000. Apart from demanding an increase in wages, they demanded that the military stop collecting illegal exactions from the truck drivers at the gates.
The strike was partly successful. Management agreed to raise average wages from Rp. 600,000 to Rp. 700,000 per month [from US$67 to $78]. Despite such a relatively large increase in percentage terms, the wages are still very low, especially considering the long hours and heavy labour. Many dock workers put in twelve-hour days.
The military's illegal exactions at the gates were also stopped - but only for one week. As another truck driver I spoke with explained, 'The illegal fees started being collected again because the military threatened that they could not guarantee the security of the port, especially the security of the trucks coming in and out. For the owners of the port, it was better that the port's security was assured than the illegal fees abolished. Explicitly, the owners of the port sided with those bandits'. The military knows how to use euphemisms. When the military told the port owners that it could not guarantee security without the extra money, it was actually threatening to become a threat to security.
Once the strike was over, the port owners went on the offensive. They issued a new regulation which stated that the workers are allowed to form unions and strike. But they made the pre-conditions of unionisation and striking as burdensome as possible. Thus, the truck drivers, the workers who load and unload the containers, and the janitorial staff can not join the same union. They have to form separate unions. If one of these fragmented unions wants to strike, it has to notify the police one week ahead of time. No union is allowed to picket at the port itself and impede its functioning.
The SBMNI union is still organising and still struggling to make Tanjung Priok port a better place to work. But with the military so deeply involved, it faces a difficult and dangerous battle ahead.
Razif (ocip2363@cbn.net.id) is a historian with the Institute of Indonesian Social History in Jakarta and the editorial coordinator of the magazine Media Kerja Budaya (www.kerjabudaya.org).
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
The taskforces of the political parties
Phil King
Megawati's Democratic Party of Struggle (PDIP) claims to have over thirty thousand of them. By the time of his death, West Papuan 'separatist' leader Theys Eluay had over 5,000 of them. During the 1999 election campaign one of the smaller parties in Yogyakarta only had a couple of dozen, but would borrow a few from the PDIP on occasion.
They are satgas members, the ubiquitous muscle machinery of the political parties that has bloomed in the post-Suharto era. What are the satgas? Why have they emerged with such vigour? And what is the consequence of their presence in Indonesian politics?
Satgas (satuan tugas) translates as 'taskforce'. While now a synonym for party security forces, the term satgas is more widely used. A taskforce may be established to lead an initiative in public health or food distribution. Recently a satgas was formed to help in the repatriation of Indonesian workers ejected in Malaysia's most recent crackdown on guest workers. But it is the type of satgas associated with militarism, violence, and characters like Eurico Guterres that has come to assert itself in the public sphere over the last five years. Led and legitimised by the big political parties and fed by various criminal syndicates and 'youth groups', satgas have expanded across the archipelago. Here, I will only focus on the para-military wings of the larger political parties.
Private armies
Satgas parpol, or political party militias, have existed since the early 1980s. Although there is a significant overlap between them and earlier mass organisations, satgas emerged as a specific response to the violence of the 1982 general election and the New Order's ensuing war on gangterism. Previously curtailed in size by local military commanders and Golkar-sponsored 'youth groups', these militias mushroomed after the fall of Suharto and the re-establishment of competitive party politics. Absent in the first national election in 1955, the satgas became a ubiquitous, fatigue-clad fusion of recycled pemuda (youth) rhetoric and New Order thuggery in the 1999 election.
The massive expansion of party militias thrived on the recruitment of the more mercenary members of the disenfranchised urban milieu, ever deepening in the wake of the economic crisis. Essentially, reformasi was a liberalisation of both party politics and underworld criminal activities. The satgas have been the most astute beneficiaries of both processes.
For the major parties, the satgas are little more than private armies. The internal structure of satgas units replicates military orders of hierarchy from the regional commander down to the platoon. Other parallels are found in the existence of logistics and intelligence wings, fatigues and jackboots, and training drills. Both Golkar and PKB have a floating pool of 'strategic reserves' in addition to 'territorial' troops. When a satgas member is accused of any violation of civil liberties, the response from commanders is always that 'he was acting as an individual at the time'. The imitation of the military is so flawless that when one regional commander interviewed during the 1999 election described the style of his troops as 'semi-military', I could only assume that this meant that they didn't carry automatic weapons. Indeed, becoming a satgas member is a little like joining the army without having to go through all the calisthenics and barkings of sergeants.
The satgas themselves are diverse in character. When it comes to joining up, membership criterion is relatively open (unless you are female). Commanders are often former military men or veterans from New Order mass organisations. In Java, a fair proportion of satgas adhere to beliefs and practices which might be termed invulnerability cults. Generally affable, satgas members certainly reject the trivialisation of their character as a new breed of urban cowboys.
In many ways, heavy responsibilities are placed on the shoulders of satgas. Foremost amongst them is the organisation of party campaign parades. Routes must be planned to avoid opposition neighbourhoods and bottlenecks. Troops are stationed along the trail, radio communications are utilised, blow-fly sunglasses are obligatory. Crowds are constantly scanned for signs of disturbance from agent provocateurs. Elite squads act as bodyguards for the party hierarchy while more humble footsoldiers help in the supply of cotton wool for participants and spectators. (Parades are noisy.) With their feet up and sipping cold tea in the shade, the police and marines assigned to my street for the 1999 election thought the satgas were to be congratulated for taking all the work out of their work.
For all their utility as traffic wardens and deputised keepers of the peace, there are also the satgas that kidnap opposition pamphleteers, beat up journalists, and chase rivals down the main street waving machetes. During the 1999 election campaign, the satgas of PPP-Yogyakarta (United Development Party) demonstrated that thuggery is not without a sense of irony when they attacked and burnt an anti-violence protest site on Jalan Malioboro. Golkar's satgas stoned the party's Menteng headquarters in Jakarta and trashed the car of party chief Akbar Tanjung over a pay dispute.
Battles
Rivalries between the satgas of PDIP, PPP and PKB (National Awakening Party) were particularly violent throughout central Java. The PKB acronym was rephrased as the National Destruction Party due to the violent reputation of its militias. Satgas were lamented as the worst hangover of the Soeharto era to persist into the reformasi period. In a survey by the daily newspaper Jawa Pos in 2000, 87% of respondents said that the satgas of the reformasi era were far worse than those of the New Order. Unfortunately, things did not come to a halt with the election.
Satgas have proven to have a life far beyond the campaign period. President Abdurrahman Wahid's veiled threats that Ansor and Banser (effectively components of the his party's security apparatus) would brook no interference with his presidency regularly put Jakartans on edge. Parliamentary sittings since 1999 have been accompanied by the regular occupation of Jakarta by para-military groups from the provinces. Satgas are now part of a party arms race.
While the argument exists that satgas organisations offer direction and discipline to disenfranchised youths, plenty of hot-heads appear to thrive in them. Competition to control economic rents and run rackets in particular localities is the usual trigger for violence, something that can occur between rival satgas units within a single party.
A further problem emerges at the point of contact between these security organisations and the civilian party structure. In some parties such as PAN, the satgas structure is subordinated to the authority of the district executive. Co-ordination is achieved via the civilian executive and satgas protocol exists in the form of a nation-wide manifesto. The opposite situation is found in PDIP, where satgas units exist independently of party structure. They are self-financed and are often split in their support of rival factions within the party.
Megawati's footsoldiers
In the wake of the 1999 election, various instances have emerged where the selection of candidates for regional legislatures was marred by inter-satgas conflict. The devolution of political authority to the city and district levels under local autonomy laws has exacerbated the situation. As the value of district legislature seats has sky-rocketed, the stakes have risen between rival candidates who enter into informal coalitions with satgas commanders to boost their chances of success. One of the more infamous cases was the March 2001 beating and fatal stabbing of a district PDIP satgas commander in Gunung Kidul, Yogayakarta which took place in full view of a delegation of provincial PDIP parliamentarians. The incident was linked to factional rivalries within the party branch that threatened the satgas unit's access to a key funding source.
It is the para-military wing of the PDIP that raises the most concern for the future. In May 2002 they turned a Medan courtroom upside down when the judge postponed a verdict against a defendent accused of murdering a comrade. They have been implicated in various instances of violence and intimidation against journalists and NGOs. Most recently, they harassed and forcefully disbanded a People's Democracy Front (FDR) parade in Solo, Central Java, on the grounds that the placard 'Megawati Soehartoputri' was insulting. Legally they have no such power, though the partisanship of the state security forces is generally reflected by their inaction. The irony of the incident was that the parade was in remembrance of the brutal July 1996 attack on PDI headquarters by Suharto thugs.
Having inherited the mantle of their former tormentors, the satgas PDIP looks set to repeat history. The satgas of the political parties are the new forces of violent conservatism in Indonesian politics. Demobilisation appears impossible. The 2004 election is guaranteed to see a further spiralling of violence between rival para-military organisations.
Phil King (pk01@uow.edu.au) is a PhD candidate at University of Wollongong and is working on a project on the Thai-Malay border. He is currently lecturing in Southeast Asian Politics at University of Sydney.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Homegrown security forces wield great power in Lombok
John M. MacDougall
It was mid-October, 1998, in Malang, East Java. I was sitting in a friend's house watching television coverage of Indonesian students demonstrating in the streets of Jakarta. They were protesting against the entire government: President Habibie, the military, and the parliament. After forcing Suharto from power in May 1998, they were angry that the new government seemed to be nothing but a continuation of the old. Confronting the students were thousands of civilians organised into what was called a pamswakarsa, or self-reliant security corps. General Wiranto, then head of the Indonesian military, had suggested that such a corps be formed to counter a 'revolutionary' movement planning to topple President Habibie. As press coverage later revealed, the pamswakarsa in Jakarta in October 1998 was, contrary to its name, not self-reliant - they had been paid by the government. They were largely unemployed men bussed in from small towns and villages in West Java with the lure of a good day's wage.
Back to Malang. Just outside my friend's house, his neighbors had recently formed vigilante groups to protect their families from 'ninja' attacks. There had been a spate of mysterious killings of 'black magicians' (dukun santet) in East Java. These vigilante groups were not called pamswakarsa but they were, in a sense, vigilant self-reliant security groups. Like many young men throughout Indonesia in the uncertain days of 1998, when Suharto's old political system was breaking down, they organised patrols to guard their neighborhoods from the intrusion of 'dark elements' and 'criminals', who were all assumed to be from outside the community.
These two cases of civilian security forces, one in Jakarta, the other in Malang, represent two different phenomena. While the former was a rent-a-mob organised by a bureaucracy for political purposes, the latter was organised by volunteers within a neighborhood for purposes of local patrolling. Interpretations of the rise of vigilante groups in Indonesia often alternate between the poles illustrated by these two groups. They have been construed as either sinister products of a military conspiracy to fracture civil society or popular efforts to uphold the community in the absence of a state.
These two poles of interpretation, however, do not exhaust all the possibilities. As I will try to show through a case study of Lombok, a pamswakarsa can emerge from the society itself but do so in a way that recreates the state's militarism on a more communal level. If the society was policed during the Suharto era by a centralised military, it is being policed today in a no less brutal fashion by homegrown civilian security groups. The sad fact is that in this post-Suharto period the largest 'civilian' organisation on the island is a pamswakarsa.
Vigilantes in Lombok
On the island of Lombok, where I spent the better part of two years from 1998 to 2000, pamswakarsa groups first emerged to counter crime. Under the banner of the nationally validated moniker, pamswakarsa, Lombok's men, young and old, joined groups with such names as Amphibi, Ababil, Elang Merah, and Bujak. These groups vowed to protect their communities from thieves. Within a year after the fall of Suharto in 1998, Lombok was teeming with civilian security groups.
The first of these groups was Bujak (Pemburu Jejak, Tracker). With a base in the district of Central Lombok, it began in 1997 when the economic crisis had just hit. There was a panic about crime. Bujak developed a bounty hunter service where they would guarantee the return of stolen goods provided they were given a payment in return. Behind the veil of Bujak's community service, it became known that many of Bujak's members were ex-criminals themselves and were suspected to be working with thieves to extort money.
One of Lombok's religious clerics, disturbed at the overlap between Bujak and the criminals, organised his own group from the Islamic center of Jeroaru, in East Lombok. Named Amphibi (for unclear reasons), this pamswakarsa became extraordinarily popular. By August 1999, their numbers in East Lombok alone exceeded 100,000. The groundswell of support came from villagers who wished to resist the powerful network of thieves preying upon their property, especially their livestock.
The members themselves funded the organisation. The cleric, Tuan Guru Sibaway, and his brother, a mystic named Guru Ukit, offered membership, complete with a supernaturally charged invulnerability jacket, for the relatively large sum of Rp 103,000 [US$12]. Ex-criminals, youths, and occasionally prominent political officials signed up. Amphibi's coffers swelled with their ranks, allowing them to purchase walkie-talkies and trucks.
While Bujak's primary focus was upon the retrieval of stolen goods, Amphibi focused on capturing the criminal. The alleged thieves caught by Amphibi were given the opportunity to tobat (repent) and join the organization to hunt their former partners in crime. 'Those who returned to the ways of criminality were given a three strike rule. After the third violation they would be classified as escapees and an escapee is as good as dead', commented one Amphibi member of Eastern Lombok.
The tension between Bujak and Amphibi turned into a bloody, full-scale battle in August 1999. Amphibi managed to defeat its rival from Central Lombok at a battle in the village of Penne, a village straddling the border between the two districts.
The expansion of Amphibi
With Bujak out of the way, Amphibi's scope expanded into Central and West Lombok, drawing an additional 100,000 members to its ranks. Amphibi moved into the northern regions of West Lombok after the anti-Christian riots of 17 January 2000. Its security posts could be found throughout both northern Lombok and Mataram, two areas with historical tensions with East Lombok. Lombok's northern communities had not only sided with Balinese colonial forces in the nineteenth century, they continued to practice 'animistic' traditions of the Sasak ethnic group. Such traditions had been eliminated in Muslim communities throughout East and Central Lombok.
Amphibi is a distinctly Muslim organisation but does not have missionary ambitions outside of Lombok. It does not imagine itself to be part of a nationwide or global Muslim movement. Similar to the reformist Islamic effort to remove Sasak society of the residual Hindu practices of their Balinese colonial past, Amphibi endeavors to purge Sasak communities of criminal networks.
If Amphibi had been widely seen as a protective ally in its home base of East Lombok, it was viewed as a fearful intruder in northern Lombok. In an interview with an Islamic leader in northern Lombok, it was evident that Amphibi's expansion was not commonly supported there: 'These Amphibi are scaring us. Our [Islamic] teachers are from the East [Lombok], true, but these Amphibi take the heads of their victims. 'They take our heads.'
The rise of Amphibi also threatened the Hindu Balinese communities in Mataram. On 21 December 1999, Amphibi beheaded a Balinese noble suspected of being a middleman for crime networks. Since no Amphibi members were arrested for the decapitation, the Balinese felt it necessary to establish their own pamswakarsa, named Dharma Wicesa. Balinese aristocrats and priests were commissioned to lead Dharma Wicesa and provide local Balinese men with the same mystical invulnerability as their Amphibi rivals.
The religious polarisation between Muslim Amphibi and Hindu Dharma Wicesa can be trumped by local loyalties. When Amphibi attacked the West Lombok village of Perampauan in October 2000, the villagers, Muslims included, refused to allow Amphibi to apprehend Balinese suspects living in the village. According to a legal aid lawyer present at the scene, the Amphibi members threatened, 'We will attack your village because you dare to protect infidels instead of siding with your fellow Muslims.'
The Muslim villagers stood by their Balinese neighbours and defeated Amphibi's thousand-man attack. The Balinese pamswakarsa rushed to the village to defend their fellow Balinese only to be forced away as well. Amphibi lost that day in Perampauan but continued to attack smaller villages in West Lombok before local officials pressured the leadership to stop the anti-Balinese campaign.
Militarisation from above and below
How should we interpret the rise of Amphibi in Lombok? In some respects, it resembles the East Javanese men in Malang defending their communities. As such a large mass-based organisation, it has to be responding to a widespread felt need. In other respects, it resembles the government-backed militia in Jakarta. The members of Amphibi do not just defend their own neighborhoods; they head out into battle and expand into other districts. In Lombok, local police, military, and government officials have joined, legitimated, and encouraged the organisation for lack of any other means of controlling or guiding it.
Indonesia's young men have begun to play a crucial role in politics as Suharto's authoritarianism has been transformed into multi-party parliamentary politics. Yet these young men are, for the first time in their lives, politically useful without a clear definition of what 'political' is. In the words of an East Lombok lawyer, 'Most of Amphibi's members consist of men who didn't exist in the eyes of the state during the New Order. Now, with their new orange jackets, the police, their communities, and religious leaders treat them with respect and caution. During Suharto's era, if the military slapped them they would break into tears. Now, it is their turn to do the slapping.'
John M. MacDougall (jomon@indo.net.id) is a Ph.D. candidate in anthropology at Princeton University.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
A new security force in Bali is cloaked in tradition
Degung Santikarma
Two months ago, I received an e-mail from a Western friend living in Bali. He thought that I, as a Balinese and an anthropologist, might be able explain a disturbing incident in his neighborhood.
Dear Degung,
A few days ago I was a witness to an episode which I have enormous difficulties understanding and I wish you to help me in finding an anthropological frame to rationalise it. I was at home at 9 p.m. and watching TV with my kids when the kul-kul alarm bells started sounding all around my house and people started screaming: 'Maling!' Thieves had broken into a neighbour's house. The burglars ran away without taking anything from the house. In a very short time many youngsters from my village and the villages nearby began the hunt, screaming in the meantime: 'Matiang!' 'Bunuh!' etc. We were terrified. After a short time the thieves were found: three young boys, 12 to 13 years old, from Lombok. One of them managed to escape. The other two were killed on the spot. Since then I have had terrible feelings of guilt and find myself totally unable to accept what had happened. I would very much appreciate your reading of this barbaric episode as a Balinese and an anthropologist. How and why can things like this happen and how can the people involved survive with the feeling of guilt and how do the villages and banjars come to terms with it? I will value and appreciate very much your opinion.
Thanks, your very shocked friend.
On reading this letter, I was saddened, disgusted and angered - emotions that only grew stronger after my friend called to say that his own 12-year-old son, who had witnessed the killing of these boys his own age, had been so traumatised that he was nearly catatonic. I could not, any more than my friend, rationalise or explain this killing of children. It was hard to consider why I should want to, as my friend asked, 'rationalize' this event, to the extent that giving it an explanatory framework could make men who were, after all, killers of children seem 'rational'. I did not know how to respond. This was not the usual kind of question I receive from foreigners puzzled by, say, a Balinese tooth-filing ceremony or a trance dance in which people stab themselves.
As I thought about the incident, I realised was that I was not shocked by it in the same way my friend was. Anyone who has spent much time in Bali recently knows that such events are occurring with increasing frequency. I began to wonder what kind of social and cultural conditions are making violence in Bali not only possible but increasingly likely to the extent that few Balinese find it shocking or problematic.
Invisibility of Violence in Bali
This issue of violence in Bali is difficult to raise for several reasons. The first is that while Bali is no stranger to violence, discussions of it rarely take place in public. During the thirty-two years of Suharto dictatorship, the state was a clear force restraining such discourse. It was considered dangerous to discuss the violence in 1965-66, when up to 100,000 Balinese or 5-8% of the island's population were killed. There was an official narrative of the events but no public space available for alternative interpretations. Raising the perspective of the victims or questioning the narrative that portrayed the deaths as morally justified, was to risk becoming labeled 'communist' oneself. Even with the fall of Suharto, the trauma of the victims of the 1965-66 violence and their families continues to shade Balinese life and ways of speaking, making people reluctant to bring up incidents of continuing violence in their communities.
Tourism has also acted as a restraint on discussions of violence. The prerequisite for tourism is a sense of safety, order and stability. Tourists are reluctant to travel to places that they believe to be violent. For many Balinese, 'safety' has real economic consequences, as has become obvious in the wake of the October 2002 bombing. It is no wonder that the murders that occurred in front of my friend's house - like dozens of other such incidents that occur every year - did not make it into the pages of the Bali Post. And it was no wonder that I, living six villages away, did not hear about the event, and probably never would have heard about the event, had it not been for an e-mail from a Western friend.
The third reason why public discussions of violence are rare is that the Balinese cannot imagine themselves as 'violent'. The Indonesian words like kekerasan or kerusuhan seem alien to their self-image. Such words seem applicable only to areas like Ambon or Aceh. When incidents of violence are publicised, especially conflicts between members of different villages, the media does not usually use the term 'violence'. Instead, it uses the euphemism 'kasus adat',or customary law dispute, as if the incidents represented traditional tribal rivalries rather than modern conflicts. Violence in Balinese society is usually tucked away as an unexamined aspect of discourses of 'tradition' and 'culture'.
Inventing Tradition
To explain what I mean by this last statement, I need to turn to the issue of who actually carried out the killing of the children in front of my friend's house. That night, a man spotted three boys on his property and began calling out 'Thief! Thief!' Immediately, a neighbour ran and began pounding on the kul-kul, the wooden drum hanging in the neighborhood meeting hall. He beat out a rhythm signaling that the neighborhood, the banjar, was in a state of emergency. The banjar's drum was then answered by drums in the other banjars of the village.
By sounding the kul-kul, this case of transgression against one man's private property immediately became a communal matter requiring the attention of the entire village. It also positioned the incident as a matter of culture, tradition and adat, insofar as the kulkul is a primary symbol of these concepts. Nobody considered calling the police, not simply because the police are often seen as corrupt or incompetent, but because if this was a matter of culture, tradition and adat, it could not simultaneously be seen as a matter for the state. Since the New Order's fall in 1998, the state has been viewed as the force against which culture, tradition and adat need to be empowered.
Dozens of men answered the call of the kul-kul. Included among them were the village's pecalangan or security force. They came dressed in their trademark uniforms of sarongs, black and white checkered poleng cloth waistcloths, carrying keris daggers. Together these men hunted down the boys and murdered two of them. While the pecalangan were not the only ones to participate in the killings, their presence added a certain legitimacy to the actions. The pecalangan were also able to smooth things out with the authorities so that none of the villagers responsible for the murders were arrested.
Pecalangan groups such as this one have become common in Bali since the New Order ended in 1998. Today virtually every Balinese village has its own pecalangan. Indeed, one of the ironic results of Balinese resentment toward the repressive power exerted by Suharto's New Order state has been Balinese claiming the right to exert that same control over their own communities. In other words, reformasi has not brought a demilitarisation of Balinese life. What has occurred instead has been a remilitarisation. There has been, in the name of culture and tradition, an even deeper penetration of militarisation into the everyday fabric of community.
Few people that I spoke with in my own village to the east of Denpasar could explain where the term pecalangan came from or could relate with confidence the history of these groups. Some said that the pecalangan's predecessor was the 'taskforce' of security guards for the 1998 conference of Megawati's party (the PDIP) in Bali. Others said that the pecalangan got their start in the late 1970s when the Bali Arts Festival, the island's major annual cultural event, began using security guards dressed in traditional ceremonial outfits to direct traffic and guard the parking lots. Still others believed that the pecalangan were a modern incarnation of the old palace guards. And those who can still remember the violence of 1965 ventured that the pecalangan were a revival of the gangs responsible for carrying out executions of alleged communists.
Despite this lack of consensus about the origins of the pecalangan, most people agreed with the notion, regularly expressed in the mass media, that the pecalangan are 'traditional'. Even those who acknowledged that there had never been anything called a pecalangan in their village before seemed convinced that such groups were part of a Balinese heritage that was being recovered. By drawing upon a notion of 'Balinese tradition', the pecalangan seem to have succeeded in erasing their own modern origins.
Guarding Culture
The regional government of Bali passed a law in 2002 that formally legitimised the pecalangan: -1) Safety and order in the area of the desa pakraman (village) is carried out by pecalang. 2) Pecalang carry out duties of safeguarding the area of the desa pakraman relating to adat and religion. 3) Pecalang are selected and relieved of their duties by the desa pakraman based upon a village forum. Desa pakraman is a term that has recently become popular among bureaucrats as a replacement for the term desa adat (customary village). This is part of a project to 'Balinise' the language - the word adat comes from Arabic.
Pecalangan groups are, in keeping with this regulation, given ritual duties. These may include acting as traffic guards at ceremonies, making sure that sloppily-dressed or badly-behaved tourists are not allowed to enter temple ceremonies, and guarding the cockfights held as part of ceremonies. They also act as enforcers of silence on the day of Nyepi. They patrol the streets to make sure that everyone, Hindu or not, keeps their lights turned off and does not venture out into the streets. For many pecalang, Nyepi becomes an occasion to assert a sense of ethnic identity and even superiority. As one of them said to me, 'On Nyepi we don't just stop people from outside our village or outside Bali. Even the military has to stop if they're on the road and we see them.' Smiling broadly, he said, 'It's too bad Nyepi is just one day.'
Depending upon the particular village, however, pecalangan often carry out other duties that have little to do with ritual. In Denpasar, Kuta or Legian, where there are large numbers of non-Balinese inhabitants, the pecalangan have worked together with the police to carry out identity-card raids, traveling from house to house at night to ask the inhabitants to demonstrate that they have registered their current addresses with the government. Typically pecalangan members who assist with such raids are paid a fee for their night's services (according to those I questioned, approximately Rp25,000). In Kesiman, many pecalangan members act as guards for the places of prostitution to be found in the Padanggalak Beach area.
In South Bali, they may also provide 'protection' for bar and nightclub owners, receiving monetary subsidies in exchange for ensuring that local residents look kindly upon what goes on in those places. In Nusa Dua, pecalangan receive financing from hotels in exchange for similar protection against local protests concerning land or labour issues. In the Padanggalak Beach area, pecalangan act as guards for brothels. And wherever there is a cockfight, it is virtually certain that the pecalangan will participate, taking a cut of the profits as their fee.
Motivations for joining the pecalangan vary. In my village, each banjar is required to send at least two adult male members to join. Most of the men who sign up are those without steady employment. Anyone who works cannot stay up all night patrolling the streets. Becoming part of the pecalangan offers them a bit of money, a sense of pride, and an ability to exert power over those even more marginalised.
But what about other Balinese? Why do they feel that the pecalangan are necessary or, at the very least, unobjectionable and tolerable? Traditionally, Balinese ritual is thought to evoke the potential for danger from the unseen world. Those holding rituals would often call upon people with special supernatural abilities, those who could ward off attacks of black magic by those who might be jealous toward those sponsoring the ritual. But it is only recently that people have felt the need to have pecalangan participate in rituals as security guards.
Most people I asked about the pecalangan spoke not about their ritual duties but about how they kept things 'safer' in general. A typical comment was that of one man who said, 'We always used to have our motorbikes stolen, but now nobody dares.' Many people, especially in multicultural Denpasar and Kuta, said that because there were now many non-Balinese living in Bali, the pecalangan are necessary to deter theft and violence. Some people saw the police as being too corrupt to fulfill their proper role.
While the presence of pecalangan in Bali parallels in many ways the rise of militia groups in other areas of Indonesia, the Bali case presents some important differences. Rather than being demonised in the national and international press, as have so many other militant 'security' groups, especially those who draw upon religion to legitimise themselves, they have been lauded. They have become a kind of model militia. Most recently, pecalangan from villages across South Bali were assigned by the police department to assist with security for a United Nations conference. A police delegation from Japan visited Bali to learn about its 'traditional security system'.
Even when the pecalangan become involved in killing, 'culture' is drawn upon to explain their actions. Today 'Balinese culture' is often viewed as a kind of precious object that can be marked with a price tag and sold to tourists through 'cultural tourism'. With culture being reduced to an object, an anxiety has arisen among Balinese who fear that this valuable possession could be lost or stolen. Now that culture has become like an expensive antique preserved in a museum, the pecalangan have become the museum guards. Those who might try to damage or destroy or steal this culture are 'outsiders'.
This sense of being under siege translates into a resentment against ethnic others and a belief that all thieves must be non-Balinese. Killing a thief becomes sensible, even honorable, as a defence of culture. Thus nobody who participated in the killing that night in front of my friend's house thought to raise the question: were these boys really thieves even though they were empty-handed? It was enough, in the end, that they were outsiders, for there was far more than private property at stake. What was at stake that night was culture. The killers of those two boys in front of my friend's house that night have not been perceived in Bali as killers for they acted in defence of culture - the culture sounded by the kul-kul drum.
Degung Santikarma (cultural@dps.centrin.net.id) is the editor in chief of the monthly magazine Latitudes, published in Denpasar, Bali (http://www.latitudesmagazine.com).
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Street children face police and security guards
Rikah and Dede
Rikah Suryanto
They wear neat uniforms, sport sunglasses, never forget to carry clubs and whistles, always stand erect, and guide traffic in a busy intersection. Perhaps that is the usual image of policemen. Each person probably has a different image. It depends on the context in which they come to know policemen.
Street children know policemen very well even though they aren't on good terms with them. In the eyes of street children, the police appear to be people whose only job is to scare them. With their menacing looks, big boots, and long clubs, they are always ready to chase and beat up street children. The typical policeman is like a wild cat that tirelessly chases after a rat.
You've probably seen from behind your car windows when stopped at a red light, the sight of a policeman, perhaps just to fill up his time, running after a child begging or selling newspapers. And you've seen barefoot children being shooed out of a shopping mall by security guards. We don't see much of the army but we see a lot of the police and security guards.
Being punched or kicked by the police and security guards has become as routine as waking up in the morning for street children. With the chasing and the fighting, the story might appear as if it is like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. But there is another side to that story that is terrible and tragic - a side that isn't some drama on TV or something happening in a foreign country. Sometimes the violence is so extreme that the child is seriously wounded or killed.
Just last month in the next neighborhood down the road, two street children died after being chased out of an area by security guards. They tried to save themselves from the guards by jumping into a canal. They couldn't swim and wound up drowning. I can imagine why they wanted so desperately to avoid getting caught. Street children not only get beaten, sometimes they are taken to what is called 'rehabilitation,' which is a like a prison for children.
I read in a book compiled by a non-governmental organisation in Jakarta about one street kid who survived being shot by the police. He said, 'The thing I wanted to steal was owned by the police. I didn't know that. This policeman immediately came out of his car and pulled out a gun. He shot me in the chest and the bullet went right through me. I was bleeding all over but he still came over and kicked me until I was unconscious.'
Children are still children, whoever and wherever they are, whether they are living on the street or in a big fancy house. All children have a right to go to school, play with their friends, and obtain enough food to live. In Indonesia, the government doesn't respect those rights. Indeed, the security forces themselves, in the name of security, make life more difficult for street children. But we have rights too.
Dede Puji
What I see in my neighborhood is that the ones who are supposed to uphold law and order and make the community feel safe are precisely the ones that make us feel unsafe. Let me give you a small example.
There is a low level officer of the navy who lives in my neighborhood. He uses his position in the military to shield himself from the law. One day, a factory nearby was closing down and moving to a different location. It opened up its gates for local people to come in and take things that the company was going to leave behind. We were all quite happy to get some materials for free. The first day that people were allowed inside everything went smoothly. But on the second day this military officer and his colleagues began taking away some of the large valuable equipment that the company was going to move and keep using. Seeing that, some of the local people started grabbing some of that equipment too.
After a few days, the owners discovered that their property was being looted. The military officer accused the local people of having stolen the goods even though he was the one who had been primarily responsible. The company believed him and put him in charge of guarding the factory yard. He used his new position to then steal more things. He arranged for some of his friends and some neighborhood kids to come in, take things away, and then give him part of the profit from selling the things. He eventually got into a fight with some of the kids because he thought they were not giving him enough money. One kid ran away from home and still hasn't returned for fear of that guy. I don't see how this guy is protecting the community.
I'll give you another example that involves the same guy. He sells liquor illegally from a house in the neighborhood. Everyone, including the police, knows where the house is and what goes on there. But it still operates without any problem. I've heard that his salary from the navy is actually pretty high but he still wants to earn more by running an illegal business.
Every so often, to earn some money, I help a friend who drives a small truck. I help load and unload things. The main job of the traffic police in Jakarta seems to be to stop trucks, especially at night, to demand money. The police plant themselves at a corner or along the side of the road and then stop every truck that comes by. Even if all the papers are in order and you haven't committed any traffic violation, you still have to pay something. It is like an unofficial toll. I guess they figure that because the truck is involved in commercial activity, it has money. Drivers have to set aside money to pay off these police. Our truck is quite small but still we get stopped too.
Such is the state of the security system in Indonesia. The ones that are supposed to protect the people use their position to make money off the people. We wind up being scared of the people that call themselves our protectors.
Rikah Suryanto (18 years old) and Dede Puji (19) are former street children who now work with a home for street children, Sanggar Akar, in Jakarta.
The Security Forces as a Source of Insecurity
John Roosa
Imagine the following scenario: three truckloads of men armed with submachine guns and grenade launchers surround a police station late one night. They shoot their way inside and then torch it. In the chaos, sixty-one prisoners escape and over one ton of marijuana being held as evidence disappears. Some of the men then drive to the electricity relay station and force the workers at gunpoint to blackout the city. In total darkness, they head off to attack another police force in the same area. When they withdraw in the morning, after nine hours of unloading their firepower into two police facilities, they have killed seven policemen, three civilians, and suffered one casualty. This is what transpired in the town of Binjai, near Medan, on 29-30 September 2002.
Now imagine who the attackers were. Members of a powerful crime syndicate? Terrorists? Invading soldiers from a different country? Guess again. The attackers were Indonesian army soldiers stationed just down the road. They belonged to an airborne unit (Linud 100) of the army's Strategic Reserves (Kostrad).
Journalists quickly learned that the Kostrad soldiers had attacked the police station because the police were refusing to release a drug dealer who had been paying the soldiers protection money. In the parlance of today's Indonesia, the drug dealer had beking (backing). A group of soldiers had already descended upon the police station the day before the assault and aggressively demanded his release. Determined to show who controlled the drug trade in Binjai, the soldiers decided bring out their heavy weaponry and raze the police station.
The Binjai incident illustrates many of the systemic problems of today's Indonesian military. Under the 'dual-function' doctrine, the military has expansive, undefined, and unchecked powers within Indonesia. Add to this unaccountable power an insatiable drive to find off-budget sources of funding and one has a combustible combination. The late Maj. Gen. Agus Wirahadikusumah, one of the very few officers to whom the label 'reformist' could be accurately used, noted in late 1999 that soldiers had become 'backers of prostitution, gambling, and narcotics and this has become fairly widespread.'
The fact that many troops have experience in brutal counterinsurgency warfare in such areas as West Papua, East Timor, and Aceh certainly does not help them behave well once back in civil society. The Linud 100 unit that carried out the Binjai attack had served in neighboring Aceh. It was one of the units involved in the July 1999 Bantaqiah massacre in Aceh.
Police and soldiers
The hiving off of the police from the military in late 1998 has created a new difficulty for the military's lawlessness. The police have become more assertive - sometimes for the sake of their own illegal rackets, sometimes for the sake of law enforcement. After the Binjai incident, the army officers assigned to damage control wrote op-eds blaming the separation of the police from the military as the root cause of the problem. In a perverse way, they are correct. Before, the military could order the police to not interfere with its corrupt practices. Under the former chain of command, the police chief would have received an order to release the drug dealer. Now, the police, developing their own institutional autonomy, cannot be so easily ordered around. The solution to conflicts such as Binjai is obviously not to put the police back under the military s thumb.
In response to the Binjai incident, vice-president Hamzah Haz surprised many journalists with an uncharacteristically insightful comment: 'The main problem is not that the police and military have been separated. It is that there is beking of criminals and this has involved troop units. So the military leaders first have to attend to this.'
Over the past several years, there have been many similar, though less spectacular, incidents as Binjai. Let me pull out my clippings file.
On 26 December 1999, about 50 members of an army airborne battalion in East Kalimantan attacked and destroyed a police post in the village of Nipah-Nipah. They shot and killed a police corporal and seriously wounded two other policemen. The attack came hours after the policemen had stopped two soldiers riding a motorbike for a traffic violation.
On 28 April 2000, 30 soldiers of an army subdistrict command (Koramil) attacked a police station in Karawang, a town 45 km east of Jakarta. They beat five police officers and stole a gun. One of their men, a sergeant, had been arrested by the police the night before for being involved in an automobile theft.
On 19 June 2000, about 50 marines attacked a police station in the middle of Jakarta (the Mampang headquarters). They stabbed three policemen and wrecked the building. Several nights earlier policemen had brawled with a marine corporal who was a working as a security guard in a caf�.
On 15 September 2001, Kostrad troops attacked a police station in the center of the city of Madiun in East Java. This army riot was triggered by a brawl between soldiers and policemen at a gasoline station pump. A group of policemen objected when a carload of Kostrad soldiers jumped ahead in the queue. The soldiers returned to their barracks and mobilised a large crowd of their brothers-in-arms for the assault on the police station. Three civilian bystanders were killed in the shooting.
This list represents just a sample of the incidents reported in newspapers. In some cases, the soldiers attack policemen to avenge a perceived insult. In other cases, they attack when their economic activities are disturbed.
Bombing
The military has a serious problem not only with the discipline of its personnel but with the management of its equipment. Most worrisome, especially in the wake of the October 2002 bombing in Bali, is the military's lack of control over its explosives.
On 4 May 2000, a bomb made of TNT manufactured by Indonesian weapons company Pindad was found in the Attorney General's office in Jakarta. The serial number was traced back to the East Java army command but at that point the trail ended. The army never revealed how the explosives went missing or who was responsible. The bomb was thought to have been planted by men working for Tommy Suharto who was being questioned by the Attorney General around that time.
The worst bombing in Indonesia prior to the one in Bali was that of the Jakarta Stock Exchange on 13 September 2000. Ten people were killed and the building was badly damaged. Among those charged with the bombing were two military personnel. It is likely the five kilograms of TNT used in the blast came from the military. The official line from the military was that the bombers had deserted their units and acted on behalf of the Free Aceh Movement. However, there are other possibilities. Suspiciously, the two soldiers were able to escape from prison.
Hand grenades have been denotated or left in public places numerous times in Jakarta. In July 2001, one person was killed and 24 injured in two separate explosions of hand grenades. Another 12 people were injured in February 2000 when a hand grenade was thrown into a brothel in a southern part of the city.
Ammunition and guns have disappeared from storehouses. A recent case was in October 2002 when 65,000 bullets were reported missing from a Special Forces warehouse in West Java. In April 2000, the police in West Java discovered that two army sergeants and a lieutenant colonel were involved in a weapons selling syndicate. In Aceh, the independence forces have been able to purchase weapons from the military.
Fighting for Income
When it comes to defending its sources of revenue, the military can be ruthless. It is highly probable that the killing of three schoolteachers working for the mining company Freeport in West Papua on 31 August 2002 was the army's handiwork. The human rights organisation Elsham was the first to allege that the army was responsible. Elsham's claim was corroborated by the province's former police chief, I Made Pastika, who privately told journalists that the police believe the army carried out the murders. The claim has been confirmed by officials in the U.S. embassy in Jakarta who have had access to intercepts of the army's radio communications. According to Hamish McDonald's report in the Sydney Morning Herald (2 November 2002), the army wanted to pressure Freeport into paying US$10 million as protection money.
The military's involvement in the underground economy and its own protection rackets have created serious problems of discipline. Although the rhetoric of the military is all about discipline, the daily practice of the troops is a cut-throat entrepreneurialism. The recent incidents in Binjai and Timika indicate that the military is largely superfluous and counterproductive as a domestic security force. Even in conflict regions where it faces an armed insurrection (as in Aceh and Papua), it devotes much of its time to fighting civilians and policemen to secure its own revenue. The solution is simple enough: end the military's dual-function, territorial structure, and business activity and make it entirely dependent on funds allocated by the state. Implementing this solution, however, appears nearly impossible. The military is committed to the status quo and the civilian politicians are not committed to military reform.
John Roosa (jproosa@indo.net.id), a historian of South and Southeast Asia, is guest editor of this issue.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
A report by a human rights organisation in West Papua
Institute for Human Rights Study and Advocacy (Elsham)
The shooting by unidentified gunmen on 31 August 2002 on the road from Timika to the Freeport mining enclave of Tembagapura in which two American citizens and one Indonesian citizen were killed and twelve others were injured is a demonstration of the strength of militarism and impunity in Indonesia. It calls into question relations between Freeport McMoRan, PT Freeport Indonesia (Freeport's Indonesian subsidiary), and the military.
At noon on the afternoon of Saturday 31 August, a convoy of trucks carrying teachers and children from Timika's International School was seen by two Freeport employees stopping at mile 62-63 on its way back to Tembagapura. Minutes later a Freeport employee and his wife arrived at the scene and, seeing the convoy under attack, quickly returned to the mile 64 security checkpoint to call for help. Immediately after the shooting, the military blocked off the road between mile 50 and 64.
Decky Murib was an eyewitness to the attack and is currently under police protection. He was a former member of an indigenous Papuan civilian group recruited by the Indonesian Special Forces (Kopassus) to assist with covert operations. He has told Elsham investigators that Kopassus members were involved in the shooting.
Eyewitnesses have confirmed that a Freeport company vehicle from its Grasberg mining site arrived at the scene just prior to the attack. The vehicle was driven by a Freeport employee and was transporting members of the armed forces. According to standard Freeport policy, all company vehicles from the Grasberg site must be checked out in writing. Review of vehicle documents from the morning of 31 August should provide important information about the perpetrators of the attack.
The military's accusations
On the night of 31 August there was an agreement between the military and the police to patrol the area of the shooting. The next day, 1 September at 8:00am, the police were fired on while conducting a search of the area. They took cover. Later, personnel from the army unit Kostrad 515 approached claiming that they were guarding the ambush site and had just shot one of the alleged 31 August gunmen. The military brought the body of the victim, Elias Kwalik, to the side of the road, where police investigators took over the case.
The results of a medical examination on Kwalik revealed that he had been dead for approximately 12 hours prior to the 1 September shooting. A Freeport employee informed Elsham investigators that he had seen Kwalik at Mile 38 at 3:00pm on August 31, waiting for a ride, and had recommended to Kwalik that he return to Timika because of the military operations farther up the road.
Despite a lack of evidence, Indonesian military and governmental officials - as well as senior Freeport management - publicly attributed responsibility for the 31 August attack to the TPN/OPM (National Liberation Army/Free Papua Organisation). In response to such accusations, the head of the the TPN/OPM, Kelly Kwalik, issued a statement on 17 September stating that he and his group were not responsible for the shooting. He reiterated his earlier statements that he had cancelled any plans to attack Freeport and reaffirmed his commitment to establishing Papua as a Zone of Peace.
Since March 2002, indigenous Papuans' concerns about the escalating threat of an Indonesian military and police crackdown led civil society groups including Elsham to urgently pursue an initiative on conflict resolution. The groups set up a Peace Task Force in July 2002, inviting Indonesian civil and military authorities as well as TPN/OPM leaders to enter into a dialogue to establish Papua as a Zone of Peace.
The culmination of the first stage of the Zone of Peace process was a conference co-sponsored by the governor, police chief, and the provincial parliament together with Elsham and other civil society groups. It was held in Jayapura on 15-16 October 2002. Major General Mahidin Simbolon, regional commander of the Indonesian military in Papua, was the only official who refused to participate in the initiative. As part of the Zone of Peace initiative, the Task Force separately met with Papua's police chief, chairman of the provincial parliament, and governor as well as all TPN/OPM leaders, including Kelly Kwalik, with very successful responses.
Immediate background
Regardless of the peace initiative or its results, there had been an increase in military activity. The day before the shooting, on 30 August, there had been a joint armed forces operation including the army, special forces, marines, and mobile brigade police (Brimob) in the area of the shooting. Attacks on Freeport personnel and local indigenous Papuans had been escalating since December 2001.
In December 2001, two Freeport environmental unit employees were shot at the Grasberg mine site. No investigation into the attack was conducted. The shootings were reportedly carried out by unidentified gunmen wearing military uniforms.
In April 2002, Kopassus attacked indigenous Papuan civilians in the lowland hamlet of Kali Kopi in which one civilian was killed and seven others were arrested and tortured.
On 25 May 2002, five to seven Papuans holding axes and one revolver attacked Freeport security guards at the main office building in the company's Western-style suburb town of Kuala Kencana. They then fled the scene.
Despite the fact that all of these cases had been reported to Freeport security, company management took no action to investigate and apprehend the groups perpetrating these crimes. It was in this atmosphere of total impunity that the 31 August attack took place.
It should be noted that the Indonesian military has a long history of destabilising violence in the area of Freeport's mining operations. For example, in 1994, armed forces battalions 752 and 733, posing as a TPN/OPM unit, shot and killed a Freeport employee on the road near Mile 62. An Australian employee was shot and wounded in the same incident. In March 1996, the military orchestrated a 'riot' that caused the closure of the mining operation for three days. This led to an exponential increase in the number of troops based in the area.
Freeport's security policy
The 31 August attack is reminiscent of previous military assaults on Freeport employees and the military's other destructive acts directed at the company. Not only have elements of the military attacked Freeport employees and the local community, they have also stolen Freeport property. Soldiers of the army unit Kostrad 515 while on duty at Freeport in March-June 2002 stole six tons of wire from a factory at mile 74 and later sold it for Rp 8,000 [US$.90] per kilogram. They also stole Caterpillar trucks with an estimated value of US$150,000 from a warehouse at mile 39 in mid-June 2002.
From a business standpoint, these criminal activities by the company's security forces are extremely disadvantageous to Freeport shareholders' interests. Although Freeport management is aware of these cases, the corporation has taken no legal action against the perpetrators.
Freeport's lack of responsiveness is further demonstrated by its policy after the human rights violations in 1994-5. The Indonesian armed forces killed or disappeared 16 civilians, raped five local women, and tortured and arbitrarily detained dozens of other community members. While corporate management publicly stated its concern about the abuses on several occasions, Freeport continued to augment its relationship with the Indonesian military.
Since 1995, Freeport officials have claimed that Freeport's Contract of Work (COW) with the Indonesian government actually requires the company to provide logistical support to the Indonesian military and police. However, none of the company's COWs includes any such explicit stipulation.
Freeport's continual failure to act in response to human rights violations and other violent attacks in the lead up to the 31 August shootings, and even more interestingly, its failure to respond to criminal activities of the security forces against its own business interests, calls into question its security policy and its commitment to the protection of its employees and human rights more generally.
Elsham is concerned that this case will be dealt with in the same manner as the November 2001 assassination of Papuan leader Theys Eluay, which has resulted in the trial of Kopassus soldiers as individuals before a military tribunal, with no investigation into the decision-makers who ordered the killing or the state policies of which the killing was a result. Unless the policies of the Indonesian central government and Freeport security are investigated, human rights violations and attacks of this nature will continue with impunity.
Elsham (ElshamNewsService@jayapura.wasantara.net.id), founded in 1998, is based in Jayapura, West Papua. This article is extracted from a longer report issued on October 21, 2002. The full report can be obtained at Elsham's website www.geocities.com/elshamnewsservice. The army has threatened to sue Elsham for alleging army responsibility for the killings.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Sending Troops is not Going to Solve Regional Conflicts
Douglas Kammen
Indonesia is presently faced with large-scale conflicts in the regions of Aceh, West Papua, Ambon, and Central Sulawesi. The basic remedy of successive governments in the post-Suharto period has been to send more troops to these regions. There has been a steady and dramatic rise in the number of troops deployed since 1998. These additional troops have not ended the conflicts. In fact, they have set in motion a dangerous dynamic in which the military finds itself incapable of doing anything but sending more and more troops.
The Indonesian army is organised on the basis of a territorial structure. Paralleling the civilian bureaucracy, this structure extends from the twelve regional military commands down to the village-level babinsa. It serves as the army's instrument for policing society. Troops within the structure are intended to be strongly rooted to their area and are thus referred to as 'organic' troops. If a violent conflict within a region becomes too large for them to handle, the military high command in Jakarta dispatches what are called 'non-organic' troops from other territorial commands or combat troops from the army's Strategic Reserves (Kostrad) and Special Forces (Kopassus)
In responding to the armed movements for independence in Aceh and West Papua and the Christian-Muslim violence in Ambon, Central Kalimantan, and Central Sulawesi, the military has relied on the deployment of 'non-organic' and Kostrad troops. Indeed, the military seems to have no other strategy.
Deployments
Since the fall of President Suharto in 1998 the military has sharply increased the number of troops deployed from all service branches (the army, air force, navy, and police). I will consider only army deployments in this essay since they constitute the vast bulk of the troops.
In 1998, in addition to the territorial units already in conflict zones, the army deployed at least 28 additional battalions to East Timor, Aceh and Papua. Non-organic troops were predominant in East Timor and Aceh while Kostrad troops were predominant in Papua.
In 1999, deployment increased to at least 29 battalions. While the number of troops in East Timor remained roughly the same as the previous year, it dropped in both Aceh and Papua and increased in Ambon in response to the outbreak of communal violence there.
In 2000, troop deployment further increased to at least 40 battalions. That increase took place despite the commitment of President Wahid, who took office in October 1999, to find negotiated solutions to separatism and ethnic-religious conflict. Those 40 battalions represented nearly one third of total Army troop strength. Remarkably, the Moluccan islands received the greatest number (15 non-organic and 4 Kostrad battalions), followed by Aceh (7 non-organic battalions), Papua (7 Kostrad battalions), West Timor (2 non-organic and 4 Kostrad battalions), and Poso (3 non-organic battalions).
The following year, 2001, at least 57 battalions were deployed to handle regional violence. This included a sharp increase in Aceh (8 non-organic and 6 Kostrad battalions), a modest increase in West Timor (5 non-organic and 3 Kostrad battalions), a significant decrease in Papua (2 non-organic and 3 Kostrad battalions), a larger increase in Ambon (21 non-organic battalions but only 1 Kostrad battalion), as well as stable numbers in Poso (3 non-organic battalions) and new deployments to Central Kalimantan (3 non-organic and 2 Kostrad battalions).
With improvements in Poso, Central Kalimantan, and Papua, the total number of battalions deployed in 2002 has dropped to 44. This includes 14 non-organic and 3 Kostrad battalions in Ambon and 13 non-organic and 8 Kostrad battalions in Aceh, and lower levels in West Timor and Papua.
In viewing the army's deployments, it is clear that the military's strategy to handle regional conflicts has been to throw more and more troops at them. In the four years from 1998 to 2001, the number of non-territorial battalions sent to conflict areas jumped from 28 to 57. Counting territorial troops as well as non-organic and Kostrad battalions, more than half of the Army's battalions are now bogged down in Aceh, Papua, Ambon, and along the border with East Timor. Still other units are on alert for the return of the Islamic organisation Laskar Jihad from Ambon to East Java and the safeguarding of Bali in the wake of the 12 October bombing. Other battalions have been confined to barracks because of disciplinary infractions. Escalation is reaching its limits.
A vicious cycle
The experience of the past four years suggests that the military now finds itself caught in a vicious cycle of escalation and deescalation. The logic works something like this. When regional violence increases, the military responds by sending more external troops to the region. But given the competing chains of command, the poor training of troops, the military's own deeply entrenched business interests, and the ambiguous mission assigned to the troops ('restore order'), escalation invariably leads to atrocities. When atrocities occur, civilian and military elites frequently respond by reducing the number of external troops. But this reduction creates a situation conducive to new atrocities either by the military or the local combatants. Then the cycle begins again.
Let us look more closely at this cycle of escalation-atrocity-deescalation-atrocity-reescalation. In Aceh, there was a deescalation in August 1998 when President Habibie ordered the withdrawal of external troops. In the months that followed, the remaining troops committed a series of massacres, perhaps to impress upon the Acehnese that the withdrawal did not signal a weakening of the military's resolve. The Bantaqiah massacre of July 1999, in which soldiers shot and killed 71 civilians, was the most brazen atrocity during this wave of repression. The reescalation was not immediate. President Wahid attempted to prevent the military from reescalating but he was finally forced to back down.
The reescalation in Aceh began with the creation of a new Operations Implementation Command (Komando Pelaksanaan Operasi, abbreviated Kolakops) in early 2001. Deployments of external troops began soaring. The military elite viewed the creation of Kolakops as a necessary means of ensuring that there was a single chain of command to oversee both the territorial military apparatus and external troops. A year later Kolakops was replaced by the Iskandar Muda Regional Military Command.
The same cycle can be seen in Ambon. After the first outbreak of violence in early 1999, the government began sending large numbers of external troops there. To deal with the incoming troops, the military reestablished the Pattimura Regional Military Command in May 1999. Its task was to coordinate the activities of the territorial military units and the increasing number of external troops. After a number of atrocities, the army in 2001 reduced the number of battalions from Kostrad and East Java which were seen to be siding with the Muslim population. But this change in troop deployments did not reduce the conflict. The separatist organisation, the Republik Maluku Selatan (RMS), issued a militant declaration in early 2002 which led to a new massacre of civilians. And so, as was the case in Aceh, the military responded by sending more troops and establishing yet another command, the Restoration of Security Operation Command (Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan).
Strangely, the majority of battalions deployed to Ambon over the past two years have been artillery, engineering, and cavalry battalions, rather than regular infantry battalions. According to sources in Ambon, these battalions have been utilised because the army is short-handed. These units resent being posted as peace-keepers, something for which they were not trained. But that does not mean that they have neglected their own specialisations: sources report that both the Christian and Muslim communities have gained much of their expertise in assembling bombs and weapons from the artillery units on duty in Ambon.
As for Papua, the cycle has not yet run its full course there. While the first several stages have been evident in Papua, the military has thus far not sought to reescalate. Perhaps the generals in Jakarta fear that any attempt to assert centralised military control over Papua would result in increased tensions between the well-entrenched Special Forces and non-organic or Kostrad units.
This trajectory of escalation-atrocity-deescalation-atrocity-reescalation in Aceh, Ambon, and Papua is all too reminiscent of the last decade of Indonesian rule in East Timor. Lacking alternative means for resolving the root causes of conflict, military deescalation invariably leads to new atrocities by either the military or the local insurgents. The subsequent renewal of violence only seems to confirm the view - one held not only by the military but also by many civilian elites - that the military is the only institution capable of containing violence, and hence of preserving Indonesian unity. And thus escalation begins once again.
Civil-military relations
The steady rise in military deployments within Indonesia since May 1998 has led many observers to conclude that the military has new designs on political power. It is undoubtedly true that the military is in a stronger political position today than at any time over the past two decades (including the late Suharto era!), but this does not necessarily mean that the military is scheming to seize state power.
Rather, the dramatic increase in troop deployments reflects the failure of civilian elites to assert their supremacy over the military and to offer non-military solutions to the country's pressing regional problems. The civilian elites have been relying on the military to find solutions to the conflicts in Aceh, Papua, Ambon, and Poso. But passing the buck will not end the violence.
Inside Indonesia 73: Jan - Mar 2003
Peace building in the wake of terror
Emma Baulch
This issue of Inside Indonesia is devoted to the political and social aftermath of the Bali bombing. In the mainstream press, the event was largely reported as a series of images depicting flames against a night sky, rows of body bags, charred survivors, and whole buildings laid to waste. The contributions to this edition provide a welcome contrast to this mainstream coverage by highlighting Indonesian people's efforts to resist terror, by pro-actively securing peace.
This hopeful message emerges in the lead article by Mayra Walsh in which she describes how staff and students at Darur Ridwan embraced cross cultural and inter-religious solidarity in their efforts to console each other following the bombing. Ngurah Karyadi's, Christine Foster's and Sherry Kasman Entus' contributions, which focus on Balinese people's recovery efforts, are similarly optimistic. All three stories stress Balinese people's heightened commitment to sustainable tourism development in the context of post-bomb development planning.
Other articles in this edition do not directly relate to the theme of the Bali bombing, yet echo other stories of people's attempts to secure and maintain peace in the wake of the bomb. Kautsar details Acehnese civilians' efforts to play a decisive part in the implementation of the territory's new peace accord. Jake Lynch describes Indonesian journalists' and editors' involvement in a peace journalism training workshop in Manado where they exhibited their eagerness to learn how to constructively report on conflict.
On a more somber note, Greg Fealy's and Jessica Champagne's contributions point to widespread distrust of law enforcement agencies as the root cause of popular conspiracy theories regarding the perpetrators of the bombing. Tim Behrend argues that Abu Bakar Ba'asyir, the Muslim cleric accused of masterminding a series of bombings in Indonesia that preceded the attacks on Bali, does not advocate political violence nor contain terrorist elements. Behrend nonetheless describes Ba'asyir as troublesome, for his naive politics and strongly anti-Semitic views.
These inclusions provide important counterweights to this edition's more upbeat contributions. Yet they do not overshadow them, and most of this edition's stories add considerable grit and flavour to Ed Aspinall's assessment of national politics in the wake of the bombing. He argues that, contrary to expectations, the bombing has not strengthened the hand of the military. Rather, the post-bomb national political scene now accommodates a hybrid, albeit shaky, democratic order.
Emma Baulch is a guest editor of Inside Indonesia
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
A radio series gives voice to East Timorese stories of resistance to Indonesian occupation
Matt Abud
Lelo, a farmer in the eastern district of Los Palos, told of how he once carried an injured resistance leader Xanana Gusmao in a basket on his back, covered only by leaves.
On New Year's Day 2001, I watched the first sunrise together with some colleagues from the top of Mount Ramelau, the highest peak in East Timor. The mountain cast an arrow-like shadow to the west, and the whole country was laid out below us: northern and southern coasts, deep valleys rumpled together, dramatic mountain ridges criss-crossing each other all the way from the eastern coastal tip to the western border with Indonesia. It was a stunning view of a tiny country, where East Timor's Falintil guerrillas had fought a continuous war for independence ever since Indonesia's 1975 invasion. The view made me wonder how, with so little room to move, and pitted against an enormous military force, the guerrillas had kept their hopes alive for twenty-four years.
A year later, a bright young Timorese school student also confessed bewilderment. 'What did Falintil do, anyway?' she asked me 'They couldn't fight, they could only hide all the time.' It was January 2002, and six East Timorese colleagues and I were convening a discussion group at the student's school in Dili. We'd brought the discussion group together to clarify our own ideas, before starting on an ambitious story-telling project. In a few months, on 20 May 2002, East Timor was to gain full national independence. There was a great need for recognition and commemoration of the struggle and suffering that had led to the achievement of independence. Our seven-person team had been given the chance to produce a 12-part oral history radio documentary series, which would tell some of these stories. But what were the stories that people needed to hear?
Time to reflect
Our discussion group revealed that the students knew bits and pieces of their history - about the invasion, resistance, and massacres that took place in the 1970s - because their teacher had given them a project to talk to the older members of their families, and write up the stories. But they were largely unaware of events that had taken place throughout the 1980s, up until the Pope's 1989 visit and the Santa Cruz massacre in 1991. As we traveled around the country in the course of our work, people would tell us in great detail what had happened in their local area. But they didn't always know what was happening in other places, even though they commonly resisted the Indonesian occupation.
Certainly, information had been tightly controlled during the occupation. Within certain family and community networks, some stories were very well known. For example, primary-school students in the mountains were often aware of the Falintil guerrillas' activities in their area. But outside of those networks and areas, even with Timor's small, tight-knit population, oppression and suspicion kept many stories underground. After the Indonesian military's departure in 1999 these stories could now be shared with a wider, even national audience. Yet from 1999 onwards, the urgency of addressing material needs often meant there was no time for processes like storytelling, reflection, and other ways of dealing with a traumatic past.
When we talked to former resistance fighters, some were philosophical about East Timor's new reality, but many were disappointed or even bitter. Several of those who had fought as Falintil guerrillas, as well as those who had been part of civilian clandestine movement, had become marginalised in the economic difficulties and rapid changes that followed 1999's independence vote. Among a number of them, the absence of formal recognition has fuelled volatile frustrations and resentment.
For the East Timorese government, according such formal recognition presents something of a hot potato. Across the country a number of so-called 'security groups' have become established, and several observers say they could affect the country's stability. Many such groups claim strong resistance pedigree as the basis for their prestige; others dispute the veracity of those claims. For many reasons, social, political, and simply emotional, there has been a great need for Timor's memory and history to be gathered together and shared. When East Timor's independence began to draw close in 2002, non-government organisations, multinational funding agencies, resistance veterans and the UN administration, showed strong interest in making a start on this process. Beneath the aegis of a committee overseeing the demobilisation and reintegration of ex-Falintil guerrillas who hadn't been recruited into the defense force, they proposed an oral history radio documentary series that would begin broadcasting on Radio Untaet (which became Radio Timor Leste after 20 May 2002) in the lead up to independence.
We decided to call the program 'Tuba Rai Metin', which means Stand Your Ground. We put it together in Tetum, East Timor's national indigenous language (although with many other regional languages, it is not universally spoken). Radio, as an aural medium, also enhanced the material's reach. Tuba Rai Metin is therefore the first broadly accessible history of East Timor. As initially conceived, the series was to focus on the experience of the Falintil guerrillas, but this was quickly changed after many, including members of Falintil themselves, insisted on]the importance of telling how they worked together with the civilian clandestine movement.
Stories
People related stories of tragedy and strength, courage and comedy, and almost unvaryingly showed a great humility as they spoke about what they had seen and done. Lelo, a farmer in the eastern district of Los Palos, told of how he once carried an injured resistance leader Xanana Gusmao in a basket on his back, covered only by leaves. When Indonesian soldiers asked what the basket held he answered, 'Food for the pigs'. It was the same answer he gave his wife at home. She scolded him for putting the basket on the floor, only to be mortified with embarrassment when Xanana revealed himself.
Peregrinha, a young woman in the clandestine movement, recalled how she had intimidated East Timorese working for Indonesia's military by brandishing a pistol at them - a dangerous game of grass-roots brinkmanship which relied on nobody guessing the pistol was in reality a cigarette-lighter. Luis Katana recounted how he, together with colleagues, had jumped the US Embassy fence in Jakarta during the 1994 Apec meeting. He nearly didn't make it - Indonesian security forces grabbed his leg and were trying to pull him back to the Indonesian side of the fence. In the end, his friends on the other side, who had hold of his other leg, prevailed, and he dropped onto US soil.
People also told of how they communicated by hiding notes under a rock in the fields, to be collected after dark. Villagers explained how they left some leaves from their extra harvest turned over, as a signal to guerrillas for them to take it. Dogs were also an unsung weapon of the resistance - time and again sympathisers would call out to their dog, as a code to warn guerrillas in hiding that the military was approaching. In other warnings children threw rocks on the roofs of safe-houses, part of the games they were playing in the street, and an instant signal for those inside.
Knowledge empowers
Tuba Rai Metin was never an attempt to present a complete history. We did locate people's stories in rough chronological and thematic context, starting from 1975 through to the 1999 vote for independence. We aimed to put key points on the record, and to avoid emphasising any one historical phase over another. One powerful program included testimony from East Timorese who had lost family to internecine killings in the hills in the late-1970s, when Fretilin was the predominant authority. Another touched on splits between some Falintil commanders and Xanana Gusmao's leadership in the mid-1980s, which have ongoing ramifications today. In neither case did we attempt anything definitive, nor address in any great depth the many historical debates involved. But at least these parts of history could be put on the public record for a national audience.
This article is dedicated to Batista Canigio, Tuba Rai Metin team member who died of illness during the course of production.
Matthew Abud (mattabud@hotmail.com) has been working in radio in East Timor since 1999, and produced Tuba Rai Metin.
Representing history is a powerful issue of political legitimacy, in East Timor as much as anywhere else in the world. At its most obvious, current tensions between the Fretilin government and President Xanana Gusmao are contests for legitimacy at the national level. Fretilin places great store on its role leading the struggle in the seventies, and its enduring symbols, which command great loyalty, date from that era. Gusmao emphasises directions taken from the 1980s onwards when his own leadership began, which is held up as a more pluralist approach - and again, he and what he represents call up powerful loyalties. These differences were wrestled over during the resistance and many resulting splits are still alive and potent today. It is often difficult for East Timorese people (and international observers), who are not familiar with this history, and therefore have difficulty understanding contemporary East Timorese politics.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
Indonesian journalists attend a peace journalism training workshop in Manado
Jake Lynch
Indonesian journalists have the advantage over most of their Western counterparts in at least one respect - experience of frontline conflict coverage.
As recent training workshops with Indonesian journalists reveal, by contrast, that many have indeed been close to violence and now carry, seared into their minds, some terrible sights and experiences from the conflicts that have scarred so many parts of the country in recent years.
In late 2002, more than 200 Indonesian journalists, including reporters and editors from SCTV, RCTI, Kompas and the Antara news agency participated in peace journalism training workshops in Jakarta, Surabaya, Makassar and Manado. The workshops were part of a broader peace journalism project, which the author helped to run, and which were developed in conjunction with the British Council, as well as several Indonesian media reform groups, and funded by the British Embassy.
The Manado leg of the trip comprised a workshop for journalists from north Maluku, as well as a field trip where participants from national news organisations filed reports for their own newsdesks, with trainers acting as consultants, encouraging them to think about how their reporting would contribute to a wider understanding of peacebuilding concepts in Indonesia.
With a plentiful supply of conflict zones to choose from, why, then, did we end up in Manado for a field trip in Peace Journalism, where we worked alongside journalists from leading news organisations as they filed reports aimed at helping Indonesian society to seek peaceful solutions to conflicts?
Peaceful conflict
Manado, the capital of North Sulawesi, is, after all, known as one of the safest places in Indonesia. In fact, Manado offers important lessons about both conflict and peace, for North Sulawesi has managed to avoid the violence engulfing its neighbours. In North Maluku and Ambon to the east, and Poso to the south, Muslims and Christians ended up at each other's throats - but not here.
Across the Celebes sea lie the troubled southern provinces of the Philippines - Mindanao, Basilan and Jolo, fingered in the War on Terror as strongholds of Muslim separatism and Abu Sayyaf kidnappers. And what's this in Manado, revealed to the more careful observer? Look again, and the cupolas of the occasional Mosque - less conspicuous but still numerous - are visible on the skyline. This colourful, vibrant, thriving city has different strokes for different folks.
What's at stake for such a community is not the absence of conflict but the capacity to respond to conflict issues with non-violent means. The word, 'conflict' is often used, in news reports, as a synonym for fighting or violence. Understanding the difference is crucial to peace journalism. In an analytical sense, conflict simply means two or more parties pursuing incompatible goals.
If, in order to avoid a repetition of the harrowing scenes witnessed by many Indonesian journalists, we required an absence of conflict, we would be condemned to perennial disappointment. The peace journalists descended on Manado to try to find out how this beautiful city has managed to live with conflict, within and without - and yet avoided lapsing into the kind of violence that has afflicted surrounding areas across a radius of hundreds of miles. Peace, in Manado, is something that many people are actively working at, all the time.
These active people include religious leaders, coming together to give messages of tolerance and mutual understanding to their followers. Relief agencies have worked to prevent the trauma brought to North Sulawesi, in the minds of thousands of refugees from North Maluku, from festering, and potentially inflaming religious sensibilities in Manado itself. The peace journalists will never forget the sight and sound of Christian children, singing Christian songs in a refugee camp, led by a Muslim teacher wearing a headscarf (jilbab).
Good news and hard news
In the hands of the more creative reporters, interviews with these children, about their hopes and experiences, became the basis for wonderful stories, full of imaginative connections and arresting images, which contain much of the music of today's Indonesia. These were great pieces of peace journalism - real contributions to the understanding we will need if a more peaceful future is to lie ahead.
Most editors would still think of these as 'features', but there was no shortage of 'hard news' in Manado either. This was the time of the Bali bomb, and Manado had its own explosion on the same night. Its location - outside the Philippines consulate - seemed to portend infiltration by outsiders, intent on drawing Manado into political struggles which have taken on a religious overtone.
The incident did draw a show of strength from the city's famous militia groups; prominent among them, Brigade Manguni, the 'Night Owls' of North Sulawesi. Their rampage through the streets, hundreds clinging to open-topped vehicles, wearing black t-shirts and shouting at the top of their voices, looked both spectacular and slightly sinister - it certainly made dramatic TV pictures.
Listen carefully to these people, though, and they project a sort of muscular communitarianism, which may not be as threatening as their appearance suggests. What would they do, if, for instance, any of their members discovered 'outsiders' in Manado? Why, hand them over to the police, of course. If they keep their word - and the signs are that, so far, broadly speaking, they have - then that would at least represent a step forward from the situation in other, more troubled parts.
In Poso, for instance, the trigger incident for the first round of rioting came when a Muslim man, injured in a street brawl with Christian youths, ran instead into a local Mosque to rouse fellow believers to take revenge. One pervasive form of structural violence in Indonesia is a lack of impartial and transparent law enforcement - so people don't trust or feel they can rely on the police. The militias in Manado were formed amid suspicions that Laskar Jihad was plotting to cause trouble. In a sense, tseirs could be a positive response - 'OK, let's give the police a helping hand, as vigilant and active citizens'.
There are dangers to this situation of course, to do with 'in-group' and 'out-group' politics. Who decides who belongs here and who does not; and how? Police were just beginning to carry out sweeps for ID cards, something the militias have been calling for, but there were fears that this could prove divisive. Word on the street was that, if you really wanted an ID card, you had to pay considerably more than the official going rate of Rp 5,000, or face an interminable wait. Those without proper accreditation were likely to be the poor, like refugees who now cling to one of the lowest rungs of the economic ladder as street vendors.
In Ethnic Conflict & Civic Life, Ashutosh Varshney, an Indian political scientist based at the University of Michigan, offers a sociological profile of 'Peaceful Cities' in India, which identifies several common characteristics. One is that members of different sections of the communi$y mingle freely in civic society.
In Manado, we met a group of volleyball players - some Christian, some Muslim; their game taking place in the shadow of one of the city's most beautiful churches, with a local religious leader (ulama) among the spectators. Equally, we discovered journalists making their own contribution. In Ambon, notoriously, the giant Jawa Pos group runs both a Christian and a Muslim newspaper, each of which has often adopted a strident sectarian stance. Here, there is just one Jawa Pos group newspaper, the Manado Post, and every day it has a double-page spread called Teropong - 'Lens' in English - devoted to cross-cutting religious issues. Christian, Islamic and other religious figures are equally at home here; a Muslim and a Christian journalist form the dynamic two-person team responsible for it.
Jake Lynch (JakeMLynch@aol.com) helped run the Peace Journalism project, and was one of the trainers at the Manado workshop.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
Civilians demand a part in Aceh's peace process
Kautsar
On 9 December 2002, representatives of the Indonesian government and the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka or GAM) signed an agreement for a 'Cessation of Hostilities' (CoH) at a meeting in Geneva, Switzerland. The agreement was reached after a long series of negotiations between the two sides which began in early 2000 during the presidency of Abdurrahman Wahid. This has been a long and exhausting process which has produced both great hope and shattering disappointment in the past. In mid-2000 the two sides agreed to a 'humanitarian pause,' leading to a dramatic decrease in violence. Within weeks, however, the agreement began to break down and before long violence had reached an unparalleled intensity. Between January and November last year alone, according to the Aceh Commission for Disappearances and Victims of Violence (KontraS), over 1,300 people were killed.
In conflicts like that in Aceh, it is frequently only the views of the armed parties which are heard. This article presents one viewpoint from Acehnese civil society.
In addition to agreeing to a ceasefire, in very general terms, the recent peace negotiations on Aceh made three hopeful steps toward finding lasting peace in the territory. Firstly, the two sides recognised that it is crucial to build trust in order to stop conflict. Secondly, they recognised the need for freedom of political expression in civil society. Thirdly, they established a Joint Security Committee, consisting of Indonesian military (TNI), GAM, and foreign (Thai and Filipino) military representatives which will take responsibility for monitoring and decision-making in the technical matters related to the ceasefire. During the 'humanitarian pause' in 2000, there was no international involvement in the monitoring process. Moreover, the Henry Dunant Centre (HDC), the Swiss-based non-government organisation which has facilitated the talks has been upgraded to a 'mediator' role, and now has the authority to sanction violations of the agreement.
There were other positive signs, compared to previous negotiations. For the first time, prior to their commencement, the talks were widely publicised on the internet and in the mass media, both in Indonesia and overseas. In particular, the talks attracted more international interest than ever. A number of Western diplomats were present at the signing of the Agreement, and on 3 December 2002, even before the talks commenced, potential international donors gathered in Japan to start planning financial support for Aceh's reconstruction. Delegates to the conference recognised that if the peace process is to work, Aceh's civilian population must be at the centre of plans for Aceh's future.
Also for the first time, both GAM and the TNI consulted with civilian organisations prior negotiating with each other, and used issues raised at these consultations as reference material for the talks.
The agreement also provides means for victims of violence which takes place during the CoH to complain to the JSC (which is headed by a Thai military officer), which is then empowered to investigate. This means that the public has direct access to the structures responsible for maintaining peace, without being hampered by complex bureaucracies. Previously, complainants had to appeal to either GAM or the TNI, which were then responsible for reporting complaints to the JSC, although they rarely did so.
In spite of these positive steps, some sections of Acehnese civil society remain critical of the Agreement. A meeting facilitated by the Acehnese Civil Society Task Force in Banda Aceh on 16 December 2002, aimed to provide a forum for civilians to express their views on how peace should be implemented. Participants in the meeting wanted the international community to understand that the agreement only represents a first stage, not a final stage, in the resolution of conflict in Aceh. Civilian institutions are also eager for the UN to send a team to investigate human rights violations in Aceh. Most importantly, however, they are anxious to ensure their integral involvement in the implementation of any long-term peace plan.
Resolving human rights violations
Over the past 25 years, the majority of the 10,000 victims of the conflict have been civilians. Countless other civilians have been victims of human rights violations, all of which are yet to be properly investigated. Investigation of human rights violations, and a just resolution for victims (for instance, trials of human rights perpetrators) will engender public trust and optimism about the present peace process, and will help avoid future impunity.
Release of political prisoners
The detention of political prisoners and prisoners of war in Aceh is also an ongoing problem. Many people are still detained for their political beliefs, and many prisoners of war are still held at military posts. The Indonesian government and GAM therefore need to free all such persons, both to ensure civil and political liberties and to engender trust between the two parties.
Public participation in efforts to maintain a ceasefire
Like previous peace plans, the current agreement is laid out in very general terms. This means that the Joint Security Committee needs to specify more clearly how the ceasefire is going to be maintained, and how the peace process will move forward. This will require the two parties entering into further discussions in order to flesh out and agree upon the technical aspects of the peace plan. Civil institutions need to be able to participate in such discussions in order to ensure the plan's success.
The Indonesian government's attempts to interpret the Peace Agreement in accordance with its own political interests could also prove to be a significant obstacle. For example, a day after the signing of the agreement, Coordinating Minister for Security and Political Affairs, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, announced that GAM had accepted 'special autonomy' (a formula set down in a law passed for the province by the national parliament in 2001), and that the war would soon end. By this he meant that GAM had effectively given up on its long-held aim of Acehnese independence, something the movement's leaders vehemently deny. The Indonesian government also publicised its own version of the Agreement (which vastly different from the actual agreement). Such misinformation only serves to exacerbate tension.
What is even worse, also a day after the signing of the agreement, the Indonesian military increased the number of its posts in civilian residential areas. This has caused great unease among civilians. In East and North Aceh, people have fled their homes for fear of military reprisals. Clearly, the military's actions are quite at odds with the spirit of the peace agreement, which requires both parties to start building an atmosphere of trust, conducive to longer term resolution of the conflict.
Kautsar (redsky767@yahoo.com) is a spokesperson for a group of representatives of Acehnese civil society organisations who attended the negotiations in Switzerland in December 2002. They intend to monitor the implementation of the peace deal on the ground.
Life in an Acehnese jail
Lesley McCulloch
On 10 September 2002, Lesley McCulloch wasarrested in Aceh with her friend Joy Lee Sadler and their Indonesian translator,Fitrah, and charged with visa violations, which she denied. She was heldin jail for over two months before her trial, which concluded when shewas sentenced to five months jail on 30 December, then released on 9 February.McCulloch's case is significant because it is unusual for foreigners accusedof visa violations to be detained for such a long period, rather than simplydeported. It is widely believed that the Indonesian military meant to makean example of McCulloch, an academic who has been critical of the TNI'srole in Aceh. In the foallowing account, which she wrote following the departureof her cell mates, she details prison life.
Arrested in a remote corner of South Aceh on 10September, Joy and I were suspected of violating our tourist visas. Thebus on which we were travelling was stopped at an Indonesian checkpoint.The aggressive and poorly-trained officers requested that we open our bags.Distrustful of their intentions, we insisted on placing a call to the USor UK embassy to inform them of what had become a very volatile situation.
In the same manner in which they would deal withthe local people - and having no idea how else to address the situation- the local commander became physically aggressive as he tried to separateme from my bag. Joy's response was immediate, she came to my defence; atwhich point a small fight ensued. The injury to Joy's mouth, inflictedby the commander, had not healed by the time she was released in mid-January.
For four days we were detained in South Aceh policeHQ. There were no further beatings in the police station, but the interrogationand intimidation was itself tortuous. Joy and I refused to sign the fabricatedstatements that were the result of this interrogation process. Our Acehnesecompanion, Fitrah did sign her statement. She was afraid and we understoodher fear. Joy and I were somewhat protected by our foreignness.
Me were then transported, in a convoy of 10 trucks,to Medan, North Sumatra.
On arrival in Medan, we were photographedand our fingerprints taken. Indonesian intelligence officers were alsowaiting to question us. We were tired, and Fitrah and Joy were both sick.But all requests to end the interrogation were refused.
It was 2am when I suddenly became acutely awarethat my clarity of mind was perhaps not all it should be. I became afraidI might say something which would prove problematic later. So, I lay onthe floor and closed my eyes as if asleep. The other two took the cue andadopted similar uncooperative positions. We did not respond to the ragethat followed. The interrogation was over.
Banda Aceh
Arriving in Banda Aceh the following day by plane,we were taken to provincial police HQ in Polda. Our accommodation for thenext three months was a windowless office. Further interrogation producedinsufficient evidence to convict us of the espionage-related charges calledfor by the military and police in Jakarta, but those months were a timeof extreme stress. Uncertainty and intimidation filled each day.
Our arrival at the jail was quite spectacular.An entourage of friends and activists, four lawyers and embassy staff camewith us. Joy had insisted on bringing four kittens and the mother cat thathad been sharing our room at Polda. All were accepted graciously by thestaff at the jail. And so we became just two more among 117 prisoners,only seven of whom were women.
Daily routine
The women's section of the prison is a tiny outsidearea with only two cells. Each one measures approximately three by fivemetres. Three of us shared that space; half of the cell was taken up bythe bed - a raised concrete platform with raffia mats. In the corner, thereis a squat toilet with a small concrete tank of water for flushing. Thewater comes from a communal tap outside. There is no shower or bathroom,and even as I write, seven weeks after our arrival, I have yet to cometo terms with brushing my teeth over a squat toilet.
A window and the open door allow daylight in.And one dim light bulb hangs from an almost deadly electrical cable. Turningthe bulb in the socket gives light, but almost invariably also gives abad electric shock. I have had several blistered fingers and throbbingarms from the evil socket. But much of the time there is no electricity,and at night we sit by candlelight.
The temperature in the cell is often unbearable,so too are the mosquitoes. There are also flying ants, cockroaches andmice sharing this tiny space. Sometimes it becomes rather crowded!
There is a small coffee stall, staffed by oneof the prisoners. Acehnese coffee is delicious; strong, black, and forme, unsweetened. It fortifies me for the day ahead. When the others werestill here, we would sit outside for our first discussion of the day, drinkingcoffee and occasionally eating a small block of tofu for breakfast. Talksrevolved around how well we had slept, and whether good health or sicknesswas predicted for the coming day.
If there was any water early we would drink ourcoffee more quickly and there would be a flurry of water-based activities.We took it in turns to collect a bucket of water and shower. The otherssat outside, allowing just a little privacy in the day.
Solidarity
When Joy was still here, much of the day was busywith discussing and dealing with issues surrounding her ill-health andhunger strike. We were afraid, as Joy's health visibly deteriorated inthe unsanitary and hot conditions. By day 37 of her hunger strike she wasin desperate need of intravenous nourishment. But the local hospitals wereunwilling to help because she was HIV-positive. On day 38 of her hungerstrike (3 January), Joy told me: 'I feel so weak, I want to go to sleepand never wake up.' This frightened both of us and Joy decided to try tostart her own intravenous drip. She is a nurse. In my diary that day Iwrote: 'I feel so desperate about Joy. It really was quite pathetic tosee her failed attempts to start an IV in her collapsed veins. This causeddistress to all of us. Only Dewi cried, whilst the rest of us stood insilence.'
The heat would make Joy's condition much worse.Dewi would sit and fan Joy for several hours. They would sit in silence.Joy spoke no Indonesian and Dewi no English. And Irawati massaged Joy'saches and pains in the same silent way, making soothing noises as she didso. It was really quite moving to see this silent show of solidarity andsympathy.
Slow
Unlike the men, the women are placed here to awaittrial, but once sentenced, sent to Lho'gna prison, about 17km from here.Only Joy and I were not moved to Lho'gna after sentencing. Our lawyershad requested that we be allowed to remain here in Banda Aceh. All wereafraid for my safety if transferred to Lho'gna. There are many militaryposted in that area, and by all accounts the anger that had fuelled theirearlier call that espionage charges be brought against me continues tosimmer. It is much better I remain at a distance.
The trial process is very slow and all the womenhad been in this prison for several months. With usually only one shorttrial a week, the length of this process is itself the cause of much stress.Even the most minor cases stretch out over two months. Of the seven women,three of us - Reihan, Joy and I - were political cases; Mar's was conflictrelated; and the other three were gambling and fraud. Reihan had decriedPresident Megawati at a demonstration she helped to organise. When shewas finally sentenced to six months in jail, she only had two more weeksto serve.
On days when one of us had a trial there was alwaysan air of solidarity and optimism. We would gather to hug and wish goodluck to whoever was going to court. Their return was eagerly awaited. Ifnews was good, it would lift all our spirits.
Sickness and depression
The sickness and depression suffered by many isa product of prison life. A doctor comes occasionally, but not each week,to dispense some basic medicines and write prescriptions for anything strong.Most, however, have no money to buy the medicines provided. The water usedby the men to bathe, comes from a very old (and smelly) well. Many haveopen and infected sores because of the parasites in the water. Lethargyand fever is common.
One young prisoner is in urgent need of an operation.He was shot in the foot four months ago and this foot is now badly infectedand he can hardly walk, the pain visible on his face. But the all-powerfulprosecutors won't give permission for him to be hospitalised until aftersentencing, perhaps one more month. The reason? He is too poor to pay therequested 'fee'. Bribery in the judicial system and the impact this hason the length of prison term, ill-health and stress is a favourite topicof conversation.
Alone
I am here alone now. Three of the other femaleprisoners, including Joy, have been released. The remainder have been sentto another prison. My days are very similar but much quieter, lonelierand, so it seems, longer. When Dewi, an Indonesian cellmate, and Joy werehere, I would be careful not to waken them. Sleep for all of us was alwaysat a premium. Now I have the luxury of this space all to myself. Some ofthe male prisoners tell me I have the jail's five-star accommodation. Theyare crowded four to seven people in one cell.
I have found solace in writing my diary. But thestories of human misery and tragedy I have heard in prison, made worseby the corrupt and inhumane judicial system, are at times too much to comprehend.In an attempt to relieve some of the stress, I focus on my diary.
Now, alone by day and night, I write much more.Of course, I have visitors and male prisoners still come to the fence tochat. But sometimes, the days and nights are long. I write more, not onlybecause I am alone but because I feel a sense of urgency in my writing.I don't want to forget anything about my time here.
I cannot quite believe I have successfully hiddenmy phone since being arrested. I made only one attempt to recharge it here.The loud bang wakened Joy and Dewi. And the surge of electricity that ranthrough my body almost killed me. So my phone is smuggled in and out bysome very brave friends. At night I can keep in touch with my family andfriends. Previously I fed information about our case to those campaigningfor us on the outside. Now I make arrangements for my free life, next week.
I have never been in another Indonesian prison,but I imagine the experience in many would be much worse. The poor livingconditions, bad diet, lack of exercise and now being alone have all takentheir toll. But throughout I have tried to focus on the positive. A favouredword here is simpan. It means store for later, and I have becomevery expert at that. I am mentally ticking off the days to my release,but each day is the same as those in the past seven weeks. I think aboutthe ninth too often. Time seems to have stopped and each minute, each hourstretches forever. So, I continue to chat, to write and drink the deliciousAcehnese coffee. My release is imminent, but I don't believe it. And asI walk through the front gates of the prison, I can imagine that a smallpart of my heart and mind will remain here with my friends.
Lesley McCulloch (lesleym@postoffice.utas.edu.au) is a Research Associate at the Department of Anthropology,Monash University.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
A deep local tradition of tolerance defends against militancy
The Hon Justice Marcus Einfeld AO QC PhD
It is clear that we have entered a new and dangerous phase of horror in human relations. This phase has necessarily drawn Indonesia, Australia and the whole of our region into the nucleus of the struggle.
Indonesia was aware that she needed to get tougher on terrorists - all of us knew that we should take more determined action to deal with the terrorist curse.
But this is not the time to lay blame in the crude sense of the word. It is time to work in unison to protect our world from the malevolence of terrorists and their brutal exploits. Our strategy must be twofold. We must pull out all stops to root out the criminals committed to and involved in the wholesale murder of civilians, put them on trial, and punish the guilty. And we must also look to the issues which allow fanatics to arouse and inflame the passions of those who would commit dastardly crimes.
Hopefully the Indonesian authorities will find the political and public support to clamp down heavily on extremists linked to terrorism. President Megawati's task is arduous and unenviable, but she really has only one choice.
The greatest defence against militancy in Indonesia is the deep local tradition of moderation and tolerance.
The vilification of Muslims since these attacks is a disgrace. What pedigree of humanity are we, to typecast a substantial portion of the world's population because a few of its number have committed atrocities? All religions have something to answer for in terms of violence and atrocities. Islamic nations have not decided to attack all Christians or commit general acts of pestilence akin to that which occurred in Bali. Has the lesson of Hitler's genocide of Jews not yet been learnt?
But as Bali grieves, and we all grieve for what it now stands for, not even the venerated intelligence agencies the world over can supply convincing proof that al Qaeda was involved in it, or even who and what that organisation is. In the face of such an elusive foe, logic is the first casualty. Better co-ordination between the Indonesian police and military is essential in reducing contradiction. If the army takes the lead role and undermines all the work that has been done in the last three years to build up the police as a civilian agency responsible for internal security, the stronger will develop the idea that the army was somehow involved in the bombings in the first place and the more the scepticism of an al Qaeda role.
We must also review the tenacity of our relationship with the US. Must the American dream manifest itself in the form of civilian bloodshed? The deaths we have witnessed in Indonesia were ugly, divisive and pointless. Are we about to be again forced to watch nightclubs, shopping centres or schools being bombed in Baghdad? Will the disarming of Saddam Hussein be achieved over the bodies of taxi drivers, shopkeepers and shoppers, mothers taking their children to school? Will it be achieved at all?
It is time for us all to look for a durable, feasible and sustainable international solution to Muslim extremism. Any solution will necessarily be found outside of war. Despite the extraordinary statement of US Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld that compared to Iraq, the Israel/Palestinian dispute is a 'sideshow', a settlement of that conflict is not the only solution but it is a necessary pre-requisite to a solution to Muslim extremism and militancy. The consequence of failure is more bloodshed and suffering. The dividend of success is too obvious to need stating.
We must commit ourselves to move forward towards a future free from terror, where tolerance for disparate cultures spans the globe and the safety of people free from hate becomes the religion of us all.
The Hon Justice Marcus Einfeld AO QC can be reached at einfeldm@ozemail.com.au
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
An innovative shadow puppet show combats post-traumatic stress disorder in Bali
Rucina Ballinger
Following the fatal bomb blast in Kuta in October 2002, relief, in the form of medical support and money, flooded onto the island. But after the first few weeks of emergency care, Bali residents active in relief efforts began to think about what else could be done to help the victims - not only economically and physically, but emotionally and spiritually, too.
In the aftermath of the blast, people began to show signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (Ptsd). Those living in and around Kuta were of particular concern, and the prevalence of Ptsd among them spawned an idea to use shadow puppet performances (wayang) in order to disseminate information about Ptsd to local people.
As the idea developed, I Made Sidia -- a puppeteer (dalang) whose work is well known for its cutting political commentaries, became involved. Sidia gathered together a team of very creative people, and his production improvised on traditional wayang in a number of ways. Firstly, the musical accompaniment to Sidia's production included flutes, percussive instruments and a keyboard. Secondly, instead of using the traditional oil lamp (blancong) that illuminates the screen and the puppets, he computerised the show by calling upon his colleague, Dewa Made Darmawan, to create Power Point images. Thirdly, the screen was extended to three metres in width. Traditionally, dalangs sit cross-legged behind the screens no wider than their arm span. This means that they can march puppets across the screen without moving from their seated position. Sidia's wide-screen forced the dalangs to slide across the floor as they marched their puppets from one side of his wide screen to the other. To ease their mobility, Sidia had them sit on skateboards.
Nyoman Sira, Sidia's brother, made a number of new puppets out of plastic, thus adding yet another novel element to the show. Sira's puppets move beautifully and include some three-dimensional puppets which transform with the flick of a wrist into another being. One is an old woman who turns into a witch, and a favourite among audiences is a man on a giant bicycle, wheels spinning, being chased by a monkey.
For this production, Sidia chose a story called 'The Ten Names of Peace' (Dasa Nama Kerta). The story reminds viewers that demons live within each and every one of us, and we must confront and conquer them. We meet people who have lost loved ones in the bomb blast of 12 October 2002. A mother who has lost her only child (and thereby her only bread-winner), a pre-schooler whose mother was killed, a macho security guard who has lost his lust for his wife and his life, a man who is constantly sick with headaches and stomach upsets. Two clowns of the wayang, Merdah and Twalen, listen to these people's tales of woe and comfort them.
At the end of the wayang, Twalen and Merdah advise that the ten elements of peace -- earth, water, fire, wind, plants, animals, fish birds, humans and God - must be cherished, nurtured and controlled. If not, things may get out of hand, causing floods, forest fires, or even bomb blasts.
The first live show in Kuta on 12 December 2002, was very warmly received. There have also been performances in Ubud, Bona and Kepaon, Denpasar, which is home to a number of taxi drivers who were killed by the bomb. A psychiatrist introduces the show and disseminates information about Ptsd to audience members, who are also invited to stay on after the show, meet the dalang, see how the computer and the skateboards work and, if they want to, speak with the doctors.
Additional free psychiatric and psychological counselling with Dr Nyoman Sura Oka at the International Medical Corps (IMC) is available for Indonesians. Tel. (62 361) 229092.
Rucina Ballinger (rucina@indo.net.id) has been active in cultural and artistic exchange projects in Bali over the past two decades.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
Ritual purification ceremonies have dominated Balinese recovery efforts
Graeme MacRae
Most Balinese of my acquaintance, a few urban intellectuals aside, have until recently believed deeply in a view of their island as a haven of unique peace and tranquility in a world apparently racked by disorder, conflict and violence. Much of this, in their view, is caused by (non-Hindu) religion and/or lack of religion altogether. Their own uniquely privileged position they see as blessings bestowed on them by the gods of Bali, which are in turn a result of their own unique devotion to the correct forms of ritual. This belief in ritual causation is perhaps related to their distrust of human political endeavour, and this distrust has emerged in locals' recovery efforts in a post-bomb Bali. These efforts have focussed on restoring spiritual balance through ritual purification ceremonies, which reinforce an inherently apolitical Balinese self-image.
Collective amnesia
Bali has a long history of political conflict and violence. Understandably, older generations of Balinese, whose early lives were lived in frequent fear and real danger, prefer not to remember too much of this history. But the present generation - those born since about 1960 - know little of it, and subscribe to a sanitised, secondhand version of their own culture and history, in which 'politics' (politik) is a dirty word. What they know as 'Balinese culture' is built on images of the island as a place apart from the troubles of the world, a place of natural beauty, artistic creativity, spectacular dance and ritual performance. These images have roots in political expediencies of the Dutch colonial state in the aftermath of their bloody invasion of Bali a century ago, and have flourished and developed in close symbiotic relationship with the world tourism industry since. Contemporary Balinese culture has been built on a kind of collective amnesia about certain aspects of its own history.
Balinese responses to the many recent instances of political violence in Indonesia are revealing of this amnesia. Balinese I spoke to immediately after the turbulent events leading to the downfall of Suharto in 1998 and the electoral riots of 1999, were deeply shocked by such violence so close to home and insisted that it was an aberration nothing to do with them: it was the fruits of politik from elsewhere - Jakarta, or Java generally, or if it happened in Bali, the work of outside provocateurs from places more inclined to the 'political'. Their own (and by implication 'Balinese') priorities by contrast, were on two things only: their livelihoods, which were dependent to varying degrees on tourism, and their religious practice, on which both tourism and their livelihoods ultimately depended anyway. They believed that they were being unfairly punished for the inevitable consequences of the political activities of other people.
Familiar pattern
So far, local reactions to the Kuta bombing seems to have followed a very similar pattern. That is, Balinese people's responses to the bombing reveal that this apolitical self-image endures.
In media reports and personal communications with friends and acquaintances in the aftermath of the bomb, the following pattern emerges. Firstly, locals' horror at the sheer human tragedy was followed quickly by a chorus of outrage that such an atrocity could have been perpetrated in Bali, and an insistence that it must be the work of outsiders. People also insisted that the bombing must have been motivated by jealousy and a desire to damage the reputation and economy of Bali, and that it was the result of political machinations of non-Balinese origin.
As acceptance of the awful reality set in, reflections on deeper causes of the tragedy emerged. Many began to see it as a result of deficiencies in their own performance of ritual, and a kind of punishment for allowing the kind of immoral and 'un-Balinese' development that the nightclub strip of Kuta represented.
Certainly, there have been many practical responses, including efforts to assist in both the immediate relief effort and ongoing assistance to the many and under-reported local victims. But the main priorities for Balinese seem to have remained the need for massive investment in ritual purification at a range of sites. This is indeed normal Balinese practice in response to death and/or misfortune of any kind, but it was intensified in proportion to the magnitude of the disaster. There has also been a deep concern for the economic consequences and the future of tourism, ranging from the direst of predictions to assurances of imminent recovery and the need for immediate reconstruction.
Some Balinese people have suggested the bomb may present an unwelcome but perhaps valuable opportunity to rethink the kind of future the people of Bali want. It remains to be seen whether these questions will remain on the agenda for public debate or be submerged beneath the familiar tides of tourist industry rhetoric and associated religious fervour.
Graeme MacRae (G.S.Macrae@massey.ac.nz) teaches Anthropology at Massey University in New Zealand.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
After the bomb, community tourism needs a boost
Sherry Kasman-Entus
'Our biggest worry is that the post-bomb 'recovery' program will succeed. Those who speak of 'recovery' talk only numbers - a return to the pre-bomb number of tourists. Bali is getting a lot of free advertising from this bombing. If the tourism industry recovers successfully, even more visitors could come than before, and this has the potential to wreck Bali.'
-Nyoman Suma Artha, Eka Sari
In the aftermath of the Bali bombing, local government and industry leaders formulated a four-stage tourism recovery plan in the interests of rescuing and expanding the island's tourism industry. Official sources project that through these recovery efforts, the number of foreign arrivals will return to pre-bomb levels by the end of this year, and pre-bomb growth rates resume by mid-2004.
Questions of how long the tourism economy will take to recover mask a more troubling set of questions about the sustainability of pre-bomb tourism industry growth which, long before the bomb, had already begun threatening the well being of most of the people who call this island home.
In 2001, tourism provided direct employment to 38 per cent of Bali's workforce and contributed 51 per cent of Bali's income. However, most of Bali's population is spread through rural villages far from the tourism centres, and the majority is employed in other sectors, including over 40 per cent in agriculture. A huge amount of the tourism revenue leaks into the pockets of outside investors. Farmland conversion, forest clearing, coastal development and pressures on water resources associated with the toUrism infrastructure have had devastating environmental impacts. Bali's traditional (adat) communities, based on subsistence agriculture and the ritual maintenance of harmony between people, gods and nature, are the backbone of the culture that is Bali's key tourist attraction. Yet past tourism master plans have been largely determined by outsiders, relegating adat communities to the status of objects of the tourist gaze, and preventing them from taking charge of their own development.
Many Balinese people viewed the tragedy as an opportunity to rethink the island's development priorities. When the wheels of the industry came to a grinding halt, Balinese authorities acknowledged that beyond short term tourism recovery, they would need to make long term plans to diversify the economy. Local activists declared the crisis a blessing in disguise, calling for more radical shifts. Many local activists have stressed the need to build a better quality of life for local people, based on equity, ecology, spirituality and empowered communities. The question is, how can this be realised on the ground?
Some community-based tourism initiatives, of which there are a dozen or more in Bali today, are helping to achieve this. They were not born of the bomb, but they may point the way to recovery from the unhealthy realities and misleading images of Bali that the bomb exploded.
Three of these initiatives are overviewed below. Each is unique, but all share common ground. They conceive of the tourist destination as a space where host and guest interact. Moreover, tourism is only one part of a strategy for sustainable change aiming to enhance the well being of the community in its environment.
Beraban Selemadeg: Ten years ago, this coastal rice-farming village was zoned for tourism development in government spatial plans. This was followed by mass protests against the Bali Nirwana Resort (BNR) in nearby Tanah Lot, because of its location beside a sacred Hindu temple and its wholesale expropriation of land from local farmers. This sequence of events prompted a dozen Beraban villagers to start a community tourism group. By bringing tourism into the village and managing it on their own terms, they hoped to enhance local employment opportunities, while protecting their land and traditions from the commercialisation and dislocations occurring elsewhere in Bali.
Entirely self-funded, they have developed a 28-room homestay network and a cultural immersion program to introduce visitors to their architecture, cooking, rituals, music and farming practices. Future plans include community training in hospitality and conservation, a return to organic rice agriculture, and the establishment of an irrigation society (subak) museum as a focal point of village tourism.
Eka Sari: Living on the edge of West Bali National Park, the villagers of Eka Sari depend on this forest, one of Bali's last rainforests, for their livelihoods. Due to the economic crisis and rising demands for hardwoods for the export furniture market, Eka Sari became a key exit point for illegal logging. By 2000, tree depletion, water loss and soil erosion posed serious problems for local farmers.
Alarmed at this trend, Nyoman Suma Artha, an Eka Sari native, organised a village training with a local non-government organisation Indonesian Development of Education and Permaculture (Idep). As a result, a group of farmers started a poly-culture farm; the local wood-processing plant was shut down; women opened outlets selling organic farm support products; schools and homes initiated competitions for the best kitchen and medicinal gardens, and village youth organised tree-planting trips into the forest. This has since become a regular program involving 15 regional high schools.
Nyoman has launched a forest conservation club aiming to create a ring of protection around the forest by engaging all 26 border communities in a conservation and community development 'contest'. This year, five more communities are participating, starting with training designed to give them information and tools to innovate new livelihood strategies, including tourism enterprises featuring farm stays, forest trekking and tree planting activities.
Perancak: Bali has long been the hub of a vast sea turtle trade network, and Perancak, a fishing village on the southwest coast, was once renowned for its turtle-hunters. Escalating trade in turtle products, coupled with rapid beach development and destructive fishing, had driven the turtles almost extinct by 1996. Then the Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF) opened a Bali branch for a save-the-turtle campaign, and reached out to adat leaders for help. In 1997, the first nesting turtle in 37 years returned to Perancak. These two events inspired Wayan Tirta, an adatKurma Asih (Turtle Lovers), a group of 20 fishermen who joined forces with WWF to restore Perancak as a turtle habitat. leader of Perancak, to form
WWF phased out the prgram in 2002, and Kurma Asih is carrying on alone, determined to overcome steep challenges of insufficient funding and beach abrasion, along with the continuing black market in turtles in south Bali. They hope to raise community participation and external support to further develop local eco-tourism as a way to supplement local incomes, and support research and rehabilitation of the beach ecosystem.
Balinese community-based tourism is clearly an idea whose time has come.
Let us hope that it will not be lost in the momentum of a return to 'business as usual'.
Sherry Kasman-Entus (sherry@indosat. net.id) lives in Bali, where she designs and facilitates study tours in collaboration with local communities. She is currently completing a MA in Development Studies through Murdoch University.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
Civil society intervenes in multilateral aid meeting
Ngurah Karyadi
In January 2003, the Consultative Group on Indonesia (CGI) met in Bali and concluded with US$2.7 billion pledge in disbursements for 2003. CGI is a consortium of government representatives and donor agencies, convened by the World Bank, which meets annually to pledge aid disbursements to Indonesia. When it met on 21 and 22 January 2003, the Indonesian government lobbied CGI for additional aid to assist with recovery from the Bali bombing. Ngurah Karyadi attended the meeting as a civil society observer for the Indonesians People's Forum, and presented the following intervention. The 12 October bombing in Kuta resulted in a tragic loss of lives and triggered an unprecedented crisis in Bali. The sudden mass exodus of tourists altered its economy overnight. While the effects have been most visible on the economy, the potential for social tensions has also increased.
Culture of fear
After the Kuta bombing, many businesses were threatened with bankruptcy and many people were laid off. In Bali, the economic crisis has manifested an escalating xenophobia. Increasingly, people from outside the island are seen as a threat to Balinese people's economic and social stability. At the socio-political level, a number of groups are capitalising on a general atmosphere of fear by taking steps towards remilitarising society, reminiscent of the New Order period. For example, in Bali, local thugs (preman) now command their own price to maintain security. At the national level, some politicians have demanded that the government reinstate the Anti-Subversion Law. Parallel to this, the Australian government has promoted Kopassus as their partner in the War on Terror. Many of the recovery efforts have done little to address these issues and their regressive social effects.
A better political and economic order
Governments need to examine the political and economic contexts in which terrorist organisations evolve. Certainly, economic insecurity breeds terrorism. In Bali, recovery efforts need to take this into account. Ultimately, priority must be given to economic and social development, as well as justice and law enforcement.
Many world leaders espouse that free trade, open markets and public-private partnerships are key to overcoming the political, economic and even social instability. But these efforts mean little if the community is not involved. In Indonesia, free trade needs to include the democratisation of political and economic power, placing the military under civilian control, and the ongoing devolution of power from the centre.
The Indonesian government has asked CGI participants to help with the recovery effort by funding new development programs in Bali. But the government really needs to utilise this opportunity to renegotiate the current foreign debt. Unfortunately, Indonesian leaders have focused too much on adherence to IMF structural adjustment policies, at the expense of common Indonesians. Raising prices of basic commodities during the crisis created by the Kuta bombing reveals a lack of insight.
A number of crucial actions remain to be taken at the macro-economic level, in the interests of overseeing a complete recovery in the bomb's aftermath. Firstly, the government must provide for basic human needs, including food, health, education and a clean environment through a social security system. Priority should be given to those who have been directly affected by the Kuta bombing. It should also create employment through spending on much needed infrastructure in Bali as well as Indonesia.
Secondly, bureaucratic processes by which people register their businesses should be streamlined. This would enable such businesses better access to capital investment and over the long term, legitimate businesses will generate more tax revenue for the local government. This in turn would allow the government to assist farmers in rural areas, who are indirectly affected by the economic crisis.
Thirdly, a moratorium on Indonesia's debt needs to be instituted immediately. Donor institutions need to be made accountable for loans made in bad faith, where official corruption was ignored or factored into the terms of the agreement. This is vital, as it would help to restore the Indonesian people's faith in global financial institutions. It would also temporarily relieve fiscal pressure and ensure the availability of funds needed to get through the crisis.
The tragedy has become a learning process as well as a time for reflection for us all. It is essential to the future of Indonesia that together we build the faith necessary to create a better social and economic order, free of fear, in an atmosphere of democracy, justice and responsibility.
Ngurah Karyadi (gembrong@ eudoramail.com) has been active in Balinese student and non-government organisations since the late 1980s.
Inside Indonesia 74: Apr - Jul 2003
Page 58 of 67
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