How did Jakarta in May compare with people movements against dictatorships elsewhere in world history?
Aboeprijadi Santoso
Analysts watching Indonesia in May were reminded of two models of change: the 1989 Chinese Tienanmen model and the 1986 Philippine People Power model. Some also thought of the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The events in Jakarta turned out to be different to each of them. They were perhaps more bloody than in China. And unlike the total change in the Philippines, transition in Jakarta was quick, but less than total, and filled with tragedy.
In Tienanmen on June 4, 1989, the state's repressive apparatus used a heavy hand to resolve the crisis. The Chinese authorities managed to preserve the bases of the state, which had been challenged by the students. After making some changes within the elite, they restored stability while limiting further social and economic damage from the three month revolt. Despite five to seven years of diplomatic pain, at the end of the day, a monolithic regime was able to restore the status quo by bloodily crushing opposition forces.
Philippines
The People Power on the Edsa highway in Manila in February 1986, on the other hand, was the reverse of the Chinese solution. Popular anger against Marcos' dictatorship burst out at every social level. Mrs Corazon Aquino, widow of the popular assassinated senator Benigno Aquino, and Cardinal Jaime Sin provided political and spiritual leadership. The left wing National Democratic Front (NDF) and other movements provided popular opposition platforms. Marcos' decades of dictatorship had radicalised Philippine society. All that was needed to oust him were some generals to change sides. And this happened at a crucial moment when General Fidel Ramos did just that.
The People Power movement also opened up, and was soon threatened by, internal military rivalries and rebellions. The Rambo game of Colonel Gringo Honasan is the most well known example.
Both revolts were supported at least passively by most sections of society. But the mainly urban student revolt in China was too small and weak to face the state apparatus. In the Philippines, by contrast, the revolt was truly mass based, while the state apparatus was too weak and divided to act against it.
Mixed
Jakarta's 'May Revolution', as the student protests and the fall of Suharto are now called, contained mixed elements. As in China, the imbalance between the student movement and state apparatus in Indonesia was obvious. As in China too, the student rebellion was widely supported by society. However, the Indonesian state leadership - both before and after the fall of Suharto - suffered from a much more serious crisis than their counterparts in China.
The symbolism emanating from student power in Jakarta and Beijing provoked a quicker act of the state than it did in Manila. Like the Chinese, the Indonesian students chose the very locus of the power they challenged as their place of protest. Demonstrations at parliament house in Senayan, Jakarta, signified their opposition to what they saw as the illegitimacy of existing representative bodies. A similar protest at the National Monument had to be cancelled. The symbolism of the Indonesian student protests echoed among movements around the world - from Burma to Zimbabwe, Nigeria and elsewhere.
Much the same way, Chinese students seriously challenged the legitimacy of the 'Heavenly Peace Mandate' supposedly resting upon the government and parliament when they occupied Tienanmen, 'The Great Square of Heavenly Peace'. No state government could tolerate such a pointed humiliation before the eyes of the world one minute longer than was needed. In Beijing, as in Jakarta, the government was desperate to act quickly to end the international embarrassment: five days in the case of Jakarta, a few months in Beijing.
In China, however, moral anger was not so specific and deep as to awaken popular and middle class movements, as happened in Manila and Jakarta. Certainly, the Chinese students and urban masses' struggle for freedom was motivated by a general protest against a monopolistic communist regime. But Tienanmen lacked the great and specifically directed moral force manifested in the Philippines after the cold-blooded killing of the popular senator Benigno Aquino, and in Indonesia after the tragic death of students at Trisakti University in Jakarta.
Army
But if China's model lacks certain crucial ingredients, the role its armed forces played could have happened in Indonesia too. Indonesian opposition leader Amien Rais claimed that the reason he called off a mass gathering at the National Monument on the early morning of May 20th was that one Indonesian general had seriously warned him: 'We too can do a Tienanmen'. In the post-Suharto transition, uneasy and uncertain as it is, the 'Chinese way' remains a real threat.
Indonesia's Armed Forces (Abri) played a decisive, yet very cautious role. Lt-Gen Syarwan Hamid, as vice chairman of parliament, gave permission to the students to stage a big protest at the Senayan complex. He would not have done this without consent from the top.
However, top level Abri leaders only moved reactively during the crucial weeks in mid-May. Abri commander General Wiranto seemed to play a waiting game. He agreed to ask President Suharto to step down only after the people's protest had gathered momentum, and after some politicians - notably Coordinating Minister for Economy and Finance Ginanjar Kartasasmita, who had IMF leverage at his disposal - boycotted Suharto's last attempt to save his regime by reshuffling the cabinet.
With Suharto gone, Abri got its first chance in years to act independently. But General Wiranto, once Suharto's second longest serving aide, could only do so by trial and error. He did it with a lot of hesitation and, possibly, still under Suharto's shadowy influence. A worsening economic crisis did not help Abri to act decisively.
Rivalry
As a big ally and key powerholder during the three decades of Suharto rule, it was only natural that Abri should face an internal crisis in step with the national leadership crisis. As in the Philippines, People Power in Jakarta tended to intensify already existing military rivalries.
The racial riots and the burning of Jakarta on 13 and 14 May, following weeks of student protests, clearly suggested the intensity of those rivalries. Massive looting and burning left some 1200 dead. Hundreds of Indonesian-Chinese women were barbarically raped.
The tragedy was engineered, at least partly, by elements within the state, who hired hooligans known as preman from outside Jakarta. Some within the military elite clearly wanted to counter the reform movement by manipulating public frustration. They evidently hoped that, as in 1965 and early 1966, a strong man would arise out of the chaos to restore order, not necessarily to challenge the president immediately, but to open the way for a new leader with fresh legitimacy.
It became clear that Suharto's son-in-law Lt-Gen Prabowo Subianto, commander of the Army Strategic Reserve (Kostrad), had tried to gain power only a day after Suharto resigned. He had civilian allies among Muslim radicals associated with the group Kisdi.
However, General Wiranto called his bluff by hastily moving him from his command post to the staff college. Following this sudden demotion, Prabowo tried that same evening to move 'his' Kostrad men to the palace, apparently to pressure President Habibie into taking sides against Wiranto. But this attempt too failed.
It has also been confirmed that elements of Kopassus, a special corps then led by the same Prabowo, was responsible for the kidnapping of activists in March. The purpose was to ensure that Suharto was reappointed as president. The state terror in May -the Trisakti killings and the racial riots - should perhaps be interpreted as acts of the same military faction and its civilian allies to defend Suharto, or at least to manipulate his succession for their own purpose. So Prabowo was Jakarta's version of Gringo Honasan. Fortunately both failed. Although the Honasan-like game in Jakarta could not be played out openly, the essential ingredients, as in Manila, were there.
Both Honasan-like acts of state terrorism and the threat of massive Tienanmen-like reprisals will remain alive as long as the Habibie government or its successor fails to restore its domestic and international credibility and its ability to guarantee the people's basic needs.
Moreover, as soon as Suharto resigned, Abri made it clear it wanted to avoid a power vacuum, and that it continued to claim a stake in the national leadership. 'The most important prerequisite to reform is efficient and capable national leadership,' said Abri chief of Socio-political Affairs Lt-Gen Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono recently. The message was delivered before a thousand top military officers only a week after Prabowo's indisciplinary acts, the first such meeting since Wiranto took command.
More than anywhere else, pro-democratic civil society in Indonesia has to compete with the state apparatus to take the lead and decide on the agenda of reformasi.
East Germany
Lastly, Jakarta's May Revolution exposed weaknesses within Indonesia's own democratic movement. At the end of Annus Mirabilis, the European 'Year of Miracles' of 1989, a great number of students, joined by human rights- and church-affiliated organisations, marched in the East German cities of Leipzig and Dresden chanting Wir sind Das Volk (We Are The (sic!) People). This famous march led to the fall of Erich Honnecker's communist regime in East Germany. The call effectively targeted a regime that had claimed to be the only true representative of the people.
The call for 'Reformasi Total' from Senayan against a regime which refused to do real reform, could have had deeper effects - not only the fall of Suharto, but also real action to fulfil the needs of the people and to start a democratisation process as in East Germany. If only Jakarta's 'May Revolution' had not suffered so much from a Chinese-like imbalance between state and society, and from a Philippine Honasan-like internal military game.
Moreover as in Beijing, but unlike Manila and Leipzig, the pro-democracy movement in Jakarta lacked a solid political platform to lead the momentum of change. The student protest was too much insulated as 'a moral force'. The politicians were too divided, the masses too little organised, and the state leadership crisis in May resolved too quickly to allow People Power to present an alternative force.
No single power was able to carry the new legitimacy from Senayan to its full consequences. Jakarta's 'May Revolution' - including its weaknesses - was a direct consequence of Suharto's three decades of repressive policies.
Aboeprijadi Santoso is an Indonesian journalist based in Amsterdam. He watched closely the recent events in Jakarta, in Manila in 1986-87 and in Eastern Europe in 1989-90.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
In the weeks leading up to 21 May, Indonesia experienced a cultural explosion of new life.
Marshall Clark
On the humid evening before the riots of Jakarta's Black Thursday, May 13, Pramudya Ananta Toer, Indonesia's leading novelist who has spent much of the last twenty years under house arrest, was participating in what in hindsight can be regarded as the 'Last Supper' of the Suharto era.
The occasion drew a large crowd of students, activists, writers and literary critics. It marked the launch of Saman, a best-selling novel by Ayu Utami, an attractive 27-year old journalist. (See the review of it elsewhere in this issue of Inside Indonesia). The novel had already gone through its first edition in two weeks, and there were even rumours that its blatant political message was strong enough to bring down Suharto's New Order regime.
Although hard of hearing and now both unable and unwilling to read works of literature, Pramudya's presence at the launch, at considerable personal risk, said a lot. He was there as much out of respect for Ayu Utami as out of defiance to the New Order powers-that-be.
In the chaos of the last months of the regime, Indonesia's extensive intelligence network could evidently no longer cope with the rising tide of anger. Undercover spies had often been wheedled out of crowds and dealt with violently. In an act of self-preservation, even policemen had taken to wearing civilian clothes on their way home from work. Thus once again Pramudya could roam the streets of Jakarta, unwitnessed and unknown.
To open proceedings at the book launch, Sitok Srengenge, a well-known Jakarta-based poet, read out a proclamation signed by a number of leading writers, poets and playwrights. It denounced the military's shooting of six students at Trisakti University the day before.
After a communal prayer and a sombre rendition of Hymne darah juang, one of the student 'anthems' for what was later to be labelled the 'velvet revolution', the next few hours were spent in communion with Ayu and Saman. Almost as a weary backlash against the highly charged political atmosphere of the previous few months, politics were avoided. Instead, animated discussion of literature, language, feminism, style and form proceeded well into the night.
Yet in the previous month or so, the Indonesian literary scene was - as it has tended to be in a nation where the mass media suffer from strict self-censorship - highly political. What's more, in the midst of the country's greatest turmoil since the 1960s, the arts scene was literally on fire.
Exorcism Apart from the appearance of Ayu's award-winning novel that evening, hundreds of artists and performers united under the banner of Ruwatan Bumi '98 (Earth Exorcism '98), a cultural movement designed to heal the nation's woes. Not unlike the Chinese 'cultural fever' accompanying the democracy movement in Beijing in the late 1980s, the Earth Exorcism was designed to use art as the medium of liberation, to reinvigorate the badly bruised political consciousness of the Indonesian people.
Historically, cultural exorcisms are a relatively common phenomenon in Indonesia. In ancient Javanese kingdoms, whenever the royal court was faced with a calamity of one form or another, all the court's writers, poets and puppeteers were sent out into the neighbouring villages to rid the kingdom of its defilement.
Over the space of one month - between the start of April and the start of May - at least 170 performances occurred in almost every major city. The performances included drama, music, video, pantomime, prayer, wayang shadow puppet theatre, poetry, dance and installation art. The cultural explosion was organised by a number of regional committees linked through the internet.
With the steady increase in Indonesia's economic fortunes over the last few decades, a highly educated, urbanised and western- oriented middle class has emerged. Consequently their children, the driving force behind the student movement, have long been accustomed not only to computers but also to the internet and email.
Just as the mass media played such a crucial role in bringing down the Berlin Wall, the internet in Indonesia proved a godsend not only for communicating the latest political rumours and analyses, but also for mobilising cultural and political activism. Unable to even keep a check on the whereabouts of celebrated dissidents such as Pramudya Ananta Toer, the authorities couldn't possibly monitor the millions of messages criss-crossing the borderless horizons of cyberspace.
Earth Exorcism performances were advertised primarily via the internet, email and the mass media, radically 'postmodernising' what is essentially an ancient ritual. According to its internet web-page 'manifesto': 'The Earth Exorcism is a number of small steps on the way to the path of a beautiful dream, the very beginning of a brave move to break free from the dead-end which has pinned down [Indonesians]. The Earth Exorcism rejects all the calamity that we have been burdened with. It is an effort to reinvigorate social cohesion, which can release the creative energies of the individual and society.'
Another characteristic of the exorcism was its highly democratic nature. For once Indonesia's artists managed to forget their artistic and ideological differences and participate as a unified, yet diverse, cultural movement.
Whilst Indonesia's more established cultural icons such as Emha Ainun Najib and Y B Mangunwijaya lent their considerable intellectual influence to writing essays in the mass media and addressing student rallies, the exorcism was also a chance for Indonesia's younger artists to come to the fore.
Fringe artists such as Jalu G Pratidina, Afrizal Malna, Erick Yusuf and Slamet Abdul Syukur were suddenly prominent. Music- drama was a common performance medium used by each of these artists, with dialogue at a minimum. Jalu's performance used almost 60 types of percussion instruments. Slamet Abdul Syukur's 'Wanderer' used a simple bamboo reed and a recording of a woman making love.
Afrizal Malna collaborated with choreographer Boi G Sakti in 'A Panorama of dad's death', a minimalistic performance involving dance, violins and poetry. As in many of the Ruwatan Bumi performances, in this drama sounds and movements often jarred, defying cohesion. Yet one unifying element was an almost overpowering sadness, with each dancer and darkly robed foot soldier expressing an existential angst that words couldn't possibly express.
Another performance without any coherent dialogue, Erick Yusuf's 'Bread and circuses', also used image and music to reflect the fragile state of Indonesia's collective psyche.In this unsettling drama, a soldier, a public servant and a sarong-clad villager sat at a table greedily eating bread and Pepsi. Naturally, as soon as the bread ran out, chaos took over. The public servant crouched into a foetal position, the soldier waved his gun around threateningly, and the villager circled the table, gesticulating angrily for more. Eventually, accompanied by a terrifying cacophany of synthesisers, each character was dragged off the stage to an unknown fate.
According to Erick Yusuf: 'Indonesia's present problem is a problem of bread and circues. As the people's access to their "daily bread" is hampered by the government's inability to provide economic equality, and as the circus comes to an end, it's only a matter of time before the people's anger will explode.'
Prostitutes and princesses
In the largest student city of Indonesia, Yogyakarta in Central Java, the performances were strongly oriented towards 'the common people', both in terms of the artists and their audiences. Popular pantomime artist Jemek Supardi brought his silent protest to the streets, and beside the Code River the Girli street people performed drama. Elsewhere some prostitutes performed their own play, humorously bemoaning the lack of business since the onset of the monetary crisis.
On buses it was not unusual to hear buskers singing self- penned songs venting their frustration and anger. In Jakarta unemployed actors walked bus aisles with outstretched hats, reciting poetry not only to criticise the government but also to pay for their next plate of rice.
Throughout Java the traditional wayang shadow puppet theatre thrived, using Java's much-loved puppets to present sharp satire. Many performances depicted stories from the Indian epic the Ramayana, which tells of the kidnapping of beautiful Sinta, Prince Rama's wife-to-be, by the evil king Rahwana. The political allegory was clear. Somehow the Indonesian people had to try and rescue the kidnapped nation from the clutches of their very own evil king, commonly perceived as President Suharto.
As with much of Indonesia's day-to-day politics, the student struggle was often seen in wayang terms. Two of the first students killed by the military happened to be named after wayang characters who had similarly unfortunate fates despite fighting for the 'good side': Moses Gatotkaca and Elang Lesmana. This fact added a certain element to the despondency that gripped the nation in their deaths.
Yet just as significantly, one of the student leaders, Rama Pratama, was, like his mythical namesake, eventually successful in rescuing his kidnapped beauty from the evil ruler.
Ascension
It is well known that May 20th 1998 was a highly significant date for the 'velvet revolution'. It was a national holiday charged with political significance. National Awakening Day marks the day in 1908 when student nationalist movements were born, dedicated to independence from Dutch colonial rule. Eventually, at 11pm on the 20th, Suharto decided to resign from his position as president.
What is not as well known is that the following day was also a national holiday, to mark the ascension of Jesus Christ. Whether Suharto deliberately chose May 21st to resign formally as opposed to another, less auspicious date is yet to be seen. Yet if the world is a stage and the last few months of the New Order were following a script to be played out, one could not ask for a more symbolic - nor more ironic - denouement.
Marshall Clark is writing a PhD on Indonesian literature at the Australian National University.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
Amid the arson and looting last May, one Australian makes a strange discovery. Jakarta is still worth calling home.
Vanessa Johanson.
It was a day for the flaunting of all laws. There was considerable glee in it, the giddiness of leaping through shattered shop windows hugging electricals. Electricals you could never have afforded even the electricity for, and couldn't even resell these days.
Then the ripping reckless arson of the very same shops afterwards. The torchers and petrol-pourers - who only a few hours before had been mere bajaj drivers and unemployed builders with no claim to fame or power - said afterwards that they'd found hoarded goods in these shops, which belonged to Chinese traders notorious for heinous practices such as hoarding, especially in times of economic strain.
My household helper's husband said the same thing about the shop which he had helped torch, but when I asked him what the difference was between hoarding and keeping stock out the back of the shop, he didn't know.
Wasn't it the president who first used the word 'hoarding' when prices of everything started their upward spiral and people rushed the shops to buy like there was no tomorrow? Wasn't it he who linked it subtly with Chinese traders and suggested that it was a subversive act?
Iwan and I drove past the colourful bonfire of a Golden Truly supermarket on the way home from my office. It was Truly Golden as it threw flames and debris. Teenagers threw stones back at it, their waifish waists extending as they leapt like thin fleshless puppets into the air.
I shivered in fear inside the only motor car on the road. 'You catch bajajs from now on!' said Iwan, referring to the noisy little orange three-wheeler taxis of the poor. 'It's what the people use so it's the only safe way to travel.' Two long- haired boys jiggled madly at my car window. 'Hallo mister!', they yelled hysterically and ran away laughing. Just like any other day.
Glee
Around the front of the cigarette and lolly shop on the bend in our street on that Thursday 14 May, the day of no laws, there was the usual collection of neighbourhood folk coming, going, and those with nowhere really to go at all. Telling each other that they had been at home all day, anxious under an acrid brown sky, a sky plagued by pyromania along with the usual excess of flatulent vehicles. Anxiously waiting for their children on their way home from school.
The glint of glee in their eyes and a few white shiny-new bits of gadgets by their feet told it was only partly true.
For Iwan and me it was not the laws of property that shed us that day like clothing shed in a public place. It was the laws governing affection in a Muslim land. To be more precise we Came Out, publicly flaunting the laws which we had flaunted privately for ages by living together as best friends and friends only, a single man (Muslim) and a single woman (Western).
We walked out the door for the first time a duo, hand tightly gripped in hand. Morally immune as we walked up the bend past a couple of friends from the kampung, also hand-in-hand in a threesome with a heavy basket full of the spoils of the looting orgy, their faces starting to betray guilt and bemusement at the enormity of their actions.
Later we found out that in lots of neighbourhoods stolen goods had been carried back to their place of origin, after the protest was over, after the hate had been extinguished. And later again that some of the goods had been taken by police and soldiers with rank.
Friends on the phone told us that the law had gone out like electricity over the entire metropolis, resulting in thousands of shops and banks gutted and burnt in the sudden, momentary freedom to protest. Like a major shutdown the law stopped, blew out. We didn't think to ask the question till later: did someone flick the central switch to off? Who paid who to slice the wires of the superstructure, to cut the security grid that had buzzed through the city day and night for weeks before the Trisakti shootings?
Home
Iwan was taking me up the narrow street to find a bajaj, to find a People's Vehicle for the first leg of my trip which would end in a special government-chartered 747. The Embassy had finally used the words 'mandatory evacuation.' I decided that they must really mean 'get the hell out' because they knew something that we didn't know.
Which was odd because we felt safer at home than anywhere else. Iwan and I had both been home the night before. We'd cooked corn and tempeh and made pecel and talked passionately about where the reformasi should be headed. We could sense that the president's days were numbered - three months maximum, we gave him. Iwan supported the replacement of Suharto with Habibie because Habibie was brilliant, a civilian, and because he mixed with the Muslim intellectuals, some of whom were good community leaders and 'clean'.
I demanded that Iwan have more imagination than that. I argued that we shouldn't be so individualist in our discussions of the succession, expecting that Indonesian democracy and prosperity was all going to be embodied in the right leader, and that that noble saviour would make everything all right. The problem with that argument is that any real leadership talent has been repressed for three decades or more, I said. Not to mention the political structure which needed to be completely dismantled and a constitution which was long atrophied.
Iwan lay on the couch as we talked. Great machines thundered out on the main road - tanks, helicopters, trucks, planes - but we felt safe as fire-warmed cave men well-hidden from the predatory dinosaurs.
So when the embassy rang and said the words 'mandatory evacuation' we were sure that the West's superior intelligence agents had gotten wind of a coup attempt, an assassination, or something worse. I had an hour to pack two small bags of what turned out to be useless clothes and objects, and ring five or six friends.
Evacuees were told to gather at the American Club at midnight. I left Iwan outside the gate in the bajaj and it was like I'd climbed a gigantic wall into the West, never to return as far as he was concerned, never in the form of a true and loyal friend of him and his country, who stuck around through thick and thin.
Breaking another unwritten law, we hugged. He said: 'This isn't necessary'.
'It's for my family, they're dying of worry,' I replied, knowing that family unity was a good reason for doing all kinds of odd things in Indonesia, having been asked a million times why on earth I lived so far from my own - just for experience and work.
Wondering whether it was just for my family or whether an apocalypse really was nigh.
Then I crossed the Wall and saw what I never thought I'd see: American refugees.
Club
Big heavy expensive cases, heaped messily and black like the debris of a big blaze. The Club bar, bubbling with beer and the latest coup theories. Fashionable teenagers excited and speaking their International School gang's slang, flirting, and smoking at the dark end of the humming chlorine swimming pool. Someone on a megaphone in the Kijang-and-Mercedes-packed car park, telling the hundreds of us to move inside, outside, over here, over there.
Little plump blonde kids rubbing their eyes, running, and crashing out on aerobics mats in the aerobics hall.
I mooched. Chatted to a Kiwi who worked in the US Embassy. The only other non-American I could find. Would they let us on without a US passport, I asked? 'Yeah', he replied, breathing beer, 'Ye know, we do work for 'em'. 'So do a few thousand Indonesians,' I replied. 'Stick with me', he said. And I didn't.
At three a.m. the megaphone moved to the aerobics hall and announced, above the sprawled bodies, that tonight's flights were full and that we'd have to come back in 24 hours. There was a massive groan as a hundred anxious coup theories - the only thing now keeping the adults awake - sank a few metres. Maybe this was all just an outrageously tedious and expensive precautionary evacuation after all.
I stayed the night at a colleague's, knowing Iwan had gone off to a political meeting which would probably go all night, and not wanting to go home to an empty house and a tense neighbourhood.
Friday 15 May 1998
The city was silent the next day. My colleague and I had no cash or petrol and went out to search. The skies were blue, protected from pollution by a tank on every street corner which deterred most everyone from taking out their cars.
A few plumes of smoke danced like cobras against the sky.
Empty
Blok M had been, if anything, busier than ever since the collapse of the economy. Even the expensive department stores and supermarkets had been increasingly crowded every week. Did people go there to take in the magic show that was inflation, the unbelievable daily disappearance of prices and their replacement by new and preposterous ones? Or did they really come to buy things, to consume while they still had a little cash and a skerrick of security?
Blok M that Friday was eerily empty, the department stores chained up and guarded. Only a few orange People's Vehicles puttered through gaping empty intersections belching smoke at the tanks. As we sailed through the intersection in our bajaj we wondered about the latest chilling rumour - which already, at 9 am, had been corroborated by six phone calls with friends -that some of the tanks were controlled by Wiranto's men and some of them Prabowo's. That the two generals sought to battle it out in the dusk of Suharto's control. I looked past the tanks at the vast empty tracts of black bitumen and imagined the footpaths heaped with the terror of 1965.
Over the course of an hour we found out that ATMs all over South Jakarta were kicked in, torched, and empty. One burnt one had a polite sign on the door apologising that this ATM was out- of-service today and indicating where the nearest ones were located. Now that's service, we laughed.
We tried looking in Jalan Fatmawati. Why were Fatmawati's small side streets barricaded with bamboo and old chairs like the fences of village goat pens?
Then we saw Mitra supermarket. Or what had been Mitra and was now an enormous black fossil, burnt back to its cement bones. Dead black, no flames. No smoke. People wandering around, tiny below the black horror. They carried small white plastic-covered boards holding crumpled piles of carbon. Too small. Too small for the tiniest corpse other than one already cremated. Too small for the nightmare of the day before.
We gave up on the idea of cash.
In the light of that day, head aching from the late night at the Club, I decided on a different escape route. Plan #2 was on the Australian government. At least, logistically speaking.
'No more money for Tutut!' cried the triumphant taxi driver as we sailed through the three airport toll gates without paying. But I was glad the toll gates had been abandoned not just because the president's daughter would lose our Rp 7,000, but because I didn't have a spare Rp 7,000.
'Welcome Home!'
The Qantas chartered flight turned out to be the same as any other - except that it was 'fly now, pay later'. They made us sign a letter to promise we'd pay them a hefty sum of money, and that we wouldn't attempt to leave Australia again before doing so. Sounded like a dodgy deal but rumours were buzzing again in the neon-lit terminal and there was no bar to help make them seem funny.
The flight attendants grinned at us extra hard and treated us like we were all rather frail. Rather than saying 'thankyou' as we got off the plane in Sydney, they cried 'Welcome Home!'
Home was left behind me in Jakarta. And ahead in Melbourne. But I was too confused by the orderliness and space at Sydney airport to correct them.
Two hours later there were three people, three generations of my family, sooner than expected in the Melbourne airport. Looking a million times more relieved than I felt.
And a week later the president resigned. Three weeks later the Mandatory Evacuation order was lifted and I went home. To Jakarta.
Iwan came to get me. Jakarta seemed calm and the traffic was light. Leaving the airport we made way for school boys riding on the roofs of four speeding buses, brandishing banners. Iwan didn't even turn his head at the demonstration. These days you go past more demos than bakso vendors, he said.
At Radio Dalam he played porter, carrying on his small wiry shoulders my bag full of kilos of powdered milk for friends, and the bottle of port to celebrate my homecoming. Of which he'd only drink a little because it wasn't allowed (for a Muslim); while I'd smoke only one of his clove cigarettes because that too (for an Australian) was also in breach...
Vanessa Johanson is a writer living in Jakarta. Other names have been changed to protect their privacy.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
An eyewitness watches the Irian Jaya independence movement grow.
Andrew Kilvert
Raising the West Papua flag is one of the key forms of resistance to Indonesia's 30 year rule over the province of Irian Jaya. Usually done in remote areas out of sight of the authorities and with all the trappings of nineteenth century colonialism, flag raisings are considered to be spiritual as well as political events by many Irianese. Reminiscent of the Papua New Guinea cargo cults which treat the symbols of colonial wealth and power as the actual key to that power, many Irianese people vest the West Papua flag with the power to influence the Indonesian occupation of their country.
Flag raisings are also taken very seriously by the Indonesian authorities. In 1996 Thomas Wanggai died in a Jakarta prison after receiving a life sentence for raising the West Papua flag in Jayapura. His wife received eight years for making the flag.
Jayapura
This year with Suharto gone and the military in flux, flag raisings took place for the first time in many of the urban centres in the province: Jayapura, Nabire, Sorong, Wamena, and Biak.
On July the 1st about 3,000 people assemble in central Jayapura in front of the provincial government building, whilst riot police and the military (Abri) take up positions around the town. The demonstrators begin making speeches and singing the independence anthem Papua Merdeka, 'Free Papua'.
The atmosphere is extremely tense as the flag is paraded up and down the street in front of the government building. Everybody is expecting the shooting to start at any minute. There are false alarms as either a warning shot is fired into the air or a policeman hits his riot shield with his baton. When this occurs the crowd panics and begins to flee. These people are then called back and the demonstration resumes. This happens three times during the afternoon.
As I move among the circle of supporters and spectators surrounding the demonstration, many of those standing close to cover ready to duck the shooting ask me to take pictures of the riot police and Abri. They are asking me to tell the outside world about their desire for independence. Some come up to me and whisper about how good life was under the Dutch and how difficult life is under Indonesian rule.
This rally is comprised of a big mixture of Irianese people, old, young, men and women. Some are educated white collar workers from Jayapura, but many are villagers who have come in for the event. There are even a few people born in Irian Jaya but of Javanese descent, here supporting the demonstrators.
One of the key problems in Irian Jaya is associated with land use and ownership. The Indonesian authorities have refused to recognise indigenous land use. Just as Australia was colonised on the basis of terra nullius, so too the Indonesian authorities consider land not being actively cultivated to be unused, even though it may be being used as part of a cycle of shifting agriculture, or for hunting or medicinal purposes.
The Indonesian response to questions of indigenous land rights is always: 'We are all indigenous Indonesians'.
This was highlighted in last year's Jakarta Festival, where cultural groups from all over Indonesia appeared in their traditional dress and performed dances. The group representing Irian Jaya were not Melanesian at all but Javanese migrants to Irian Jaya, dressed in a crude parody of traditional Papuan costume.
Papua
This confusion over culture and identity leads to the ambiguity of the term 'Irianese'. Indigenous Melanesians use it to describe themselves, as opposed to the Javanese. Other terms such as 'Papuan' and 'West Papuan' are considered treasonous and certainly cannot be used in public, although they are used in private.
The term 'Irianese' is supposed to include all people who live in Irian Jaya, including recent Javanese migrants. But in common usage it now means Melanesian. West Papuans who live outside Irian Jaya are much more likely to call themselves West Papuan than people inside. This is not because of differing sympathies but purely for reasons of personal safety.
After the first demonstration in Jayapura, Abri and the officially controlled local media blame the trouble on 'wild terrorist gangs' (GPK) from Black Water, a refugee camp on the Papua New Guinea side of the border.
As the protests continue Abri turn this blame onto the churches of this predominantly Christian territory, whom they accuse of inciting dissent within their congregations.
On July the 2nd there is to be a similar rally in Jayapura exclusively for white collar workers. However the town had been sealed off with barricades and lines of riot police. Jayapura, usually a bustling city, is silent and deserted except for police and Abri.
The following day another rally takes place at the Cenderawasih (Bird of Paradise) University. During the rally an undercover military intelligence agent who has infiltrated the crowd is identified by the students and beaten. After this the military open fire on the crowd, killing third year law student Steven Suripatti and wounding high school student Ruth Omin.
In the days prior to the demonstration many people had been talking about East Timor and its campaign for independence. Some believe that East Timor has already achieved independence. The general sentiment is that if East Timor can secede then Irian Jaya deserves independence as well.
Military
Support for secession from Indonesia is extremely widespread amongst the Melanesian population. A number of factors drives this desire. The history of large scale military action against Irianese villagers in the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s has left long standing resentment. This is despite the fact that in the past decade these operations have decreased in scale, although they do still occur, most notably in the remote area where the foreign hostages were taken by independence rebels (Organisasi Papua Merdeka) in early 1996. Even the Red Cross has recently publicly criticised the Indonesian authorities because it has been excluded from providing drought aid to this area.
This military oppression is coupled with a growing resentment against the transmigration projects, which the Irianese see as land theft. So far over a million hectares of lowland sago swamp and rain forest have been cleared to make way for the transmigrants. There are plans to clear another million hectares in the next ten years.
At the current rate of expansion of the Javanese population in Irian Jaya it is believed that the Irianese will be a minority by the year 2010. Jayapura is already an Indonesian city in Melanesia.
A further factor which drives resentment in urban areas is that Melanesians are treated as second class citizens within the social hierarchy, with different rates of pay for the same work often set on the basis of race. At the heart of the resistance though is the simple and extremely widespread belief that Irian Jaya belongs to the Irianese.
Even many Irianese within the police and military support the independence movement. This was certainly evident on the island of Biak, where demonstrators kept the West Papua flag aloft for six days.
Biak
During that time the police unsuccessfully negotiated with the protesters to remove the flag. They brought in some of the elders of the community to try to persuade the protesters to remove the flag but they refused, despite the fact that Abri had brought in another battalion from Ambon Island.
At 5:30am on the 7th of July, Abri opened fire on the demonstrators with a combination of rubber bullets and live ammunition. Probably 24 people were killed in the initial shooting. An accurate figure as to the total number of casualties is impossible to get, because on the day following the shooting, Abri went from door to door arresting people and in some cases killing them in their homes.
Some of those arrested by Abri have since been found floating in the ocean, others were seen being put on Garuda flights to Jakarta.
The other contributing factor to the uncertain death toll is that Abri occupied the hospital, and the wounded were unable to seek proper medical treatment. There were also reports that the wounded detained in the hospitals were being denied treatment.
There is a popular belief throughout Irian Jaya that white people are going to come and rescue the Irianese from the Indonesians. This belief can be traced back to Biak mythology which holds that when a person dies they become white. Dutch colonialists unwittingly perpetuated this myth by coming along with remarkable technology (in the eyes of the locals) and an often superior attitude.
Because of their sea-faring history, the people from Biak Island have had the most outside contact of any of the peoples in Irian Jaya. They tend to be fairly sophisticated, often taking the white collar or teaching jobs in the towns. They also tend to travel more, which could account for the spread of the white myth throughout Irian Jaya.
Regardless of the unlikely event that white people will intervene in Irian Jaya, the Irianese themselves have seen a window of opportunity with the departure of Suharto and the resulting confusion within Abri. They are pressing it hard.
November contains another significant date for the West Papua independence campaign, and will likely produce more demonstrations. The issue will continue to ferment until either independence is achieved or until a compromise is reached which recognises indigenous land ownership and goes some way towards redressing the human rights abuses which continue to occur in the province.
Andrew Kilvert is a media student at Southern Cross University, Lismore, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
In May 1999 Indonesians take part in the first democratic elections in over forty years. How will they be run?
Kevin Evans
One of the first tasks President Habibie set for his administration was to revise Indonesia's political machinery. This includes revising three of the five political laws of 1985 (the pinnacle of Suharto's integralist vision for the state), as well as laws on the presidency, local authorities, government ethics and national security.
Government drafts of the laws governing political parties, elections and the legislature were being prepared for submission to parliament by early August. The public response to these draft laws will give an early indication of how far the Habibie administration is believed willing to push for substantive reform of the political system.
Among the proposed changes three are core.
District
First, a 'district' system of single member constituencies will replace the current 'proportional' system. Instead of being chosen by votes based on each province as a multimember regional block, as now, each member will be chosen only on the basis of votes in a single district, as in Australia's Lower House. The system will deliver 420 elected members to the national parliament (DPR), and others to the provincial and local DPRs.
There will be some exceptions. Abri wants to be given 10% of all seats at each level. Also, district members in the national DPR will be joined by some 75 other members elected on the basis of a single national 'district'. These extra parliamentarians will be chosen by consolidating losing party votes from each district into a national tally and dealing them out.
The purpose of incorporating a modified version of a proportional system is to overcome the 'winner take all' outcome of the district system. Parties which may have significant support nationally but insufficient in each district will be able to secure representation in the house.
There remains some opposition to adopting a district system, including the usual old lines about 'Indonesia is not ready for this sort of change' to 'this will encourage money politics in Indonesia'! The Indonesian Academy of Sciences (Lipi), one of the think tanks producing reform plans, and particularly the armed forces (Abri), remain somewhat unsure of moving to a district system.
A mixed system blending districts with proportionality is the most popular form of electoral reform around the world this past decade. Countries from New Zealand to Tunisia, and most in East Asia which have reformed their electoral system, have moved to a mixed pattern, with each adopting various modes of voting and percentages to be elected under each system.
Electoral commission
Second, the new General Elections Commission (Komisi Pemilihan Umum - KPU) will be independent. It will contain representatives from government, but also from the political parties eligible to join in the elections. Members of the community agreed to jointly by the first two groups will also be there. The commission chair need not be a government representative.
Provincial and local KPUs will also be established. Provincial KPUs will be permanent and independent of government.
The national KPU will propose the boundaries of district seats for the national DPR. In general, these will correspond with local authority boundaries. However, heavily populated local authority areas will have more than one district. Those with over 900,000 will gain two seats, 1,500,000 will gain three seats, 2,100,000 will gain four seats and so on. For example the regency of Bogor with about four million persons will be divided into seven separate districts.
Parties
Third, political parties may be freely established, providing they abide by the national ideology Pancasila. Should they wish to incorporate other ideological/ philosophical elements, these may not be opposed to Pancasila.
Political parties will be established by notarial act lodged at the courts, not at the Department of Home Affairs. This means that any legal issues will be settled by the law, and not by the government unilaterally.
Political parties seeking to participate in general elections need to demonstrate public support. They must have a presence in over half the 27 provinces, and have a certain minimum number of local branches.
Any party seeking to enter elections for the first time will also need to demonstrate popular support with a petition of one million signatures. This proposal is somewhat controversial.
Other issues
Members of the People's Assembly (MPR), which appoints the president, will not be elected directly but will be drawn from or appointed by lower parliaments.
Every province will send three representatives, each elected by the provincial DPR from among their own number. There will be no more provincial governors representing provinces in the MPR. A newly elected national DPR will determine how many members of what social and other groups (utusan golongan) should be appointed to the MPR. Groups considered to represent these groups will be asked to select an agreed number of representatives for the MPR. The executive will no longer be responsible for appointing regional representatives and utusan golongan.
Unlike today, the leaders of the DPR and MPR will be different people.
Moreover, the elections will be held on a holiday. Consequently people will be able to vote from home. This is generally considered to lead to less coercion to support particular parties than is the case when people have to vote at work.
Members of the armed forces may not vote, seek election or join a political party. Public servants may vote but may not join political parties or seek election. To do so will mean dismissal. The intent behind this provision is to encourage the emergence of a more professional, less politicised, bureaucracy.
There will also be strong measures to contain the commercialisation of political parties. Personal and corporate campaign donations will be subject to rigorous restrictions, and regular public audits of political parties will be reported to the KPU. This will encourage transparency and allow the public to know the financial support base of the political parties. Political parties must be not-for-profit organisations and may not own more than 10% equity in any commercial activity.
Most of these developments are clear steps in the direction of an open, competitive and responsive political format. However, there has already been debate from the community on certain government proposals:
The armed forces will still have representation (albeit reduced) in all the parliamentary assemblies as well as in the crucial MPR;
Some (although much fewer) restrictions will still apply on former followers of the communist party (PKI) and other outlawed organisations - specifically the right to be elected.
The result?
Over 40 new political parties have made themselves known in recent weeks. This has become a source of great fear to many people in Indonesia. They are beginning to fret that the 1950s pattern will reappear, when 130+ parties contested elections, and some 26 actually gained representation in either the DPR or the Constituent Assembly of the time.
Frankly, such concerns are silly, for three reasons. Firstly, a district-based system ensures that only dominant parties are capable of winning seats. In 1955, the last time a genuinely free election was held, only four parties secured over 80% of the vote. These were the nationalist PNI (23%), the Islamic Masyumi (22%), the Islamic Nahdatul Ulama (19%) and the communist PKI (17%). The PSSI, another Islamic party, was at 3% a long way back in fifth position.
Secondly, most of the new parties are really interest groups. They will be better placed if they were to act as lobbies rather than parties. An ideal example is the Indonesian Women's Party, which could secure vastly more influence as an Indonesian Women's Electoral Movement. It could pressure the political system through lobbying, encouraging, cajoling and threatening the major parties into taking account of their interests. No doubt some of these parties will discover this in time.
Thirdly, the number of parties will diminish through a process of absorption and merger. The political system will not come to resemble the banking system - there will never be 239 political parties!
Four parties
I expect the emerging party structure to consist of four large parties, broken into two pairs of coalitions, plus a plethora of small parties most of which will ultimately be absorbed into the larger parties. I do not expect to see the emergence of a single dominant party.
The first pair of coalition partners would consist of a Megawati party and a Nahdatul Ulama (NU) type party. This would mean the combination of a pluralist nationalist party with a rural Muslim oriented party.
The second coalition partners will consist of Golkar and urbanised and educated/ activist Islam. This would combine a corporatist nationalist party with an urban based Muslim oriented party.
The existing Islamically coloured party PPP is likely to split between supporters of either of the two Muslim oriented parties, although it may organisationally move closer to the Golkar coalition partner.
The existing secular party PDI, led by Megawati until Suharto ousted her in 1996, is likely to be retaken by Megawati this year. If not, it will die and some new political vehicle will be established from elements of the PDI which desert it to join with Megawati.
Golkar will obviously have an impossible task trying to sustain a result within cooee of what it has secured in the past six elections.
Where will the votes come from for these four major parties?
District
Megawati party: Urban areas of Java, Sumatra, Balikpapan, Menado, plus urban and rural areas of South Sumatra, Bali, West Kalimantan, West Nusa Tenggara (eastern half), East Nusa Tenggara, East Timor, Irian Jaya, plus one seat in Maluku.
NU related party: Rural areas in Java, also Madura and Southern Sumatra, Banjarmasin, Samarinda, rural South Sulawesi, West Nusa Tenggara (western half).
Golkar: Parts of rural Sumatra, Kalimantan and Sulawesi, and perhaps in parts of the two Nusa Tenggara provinces.
Icmi, Amien Rais, Muhammadiyah linked party: Urban and rural Aceh, West Sumatra, South Sulawesi, Gorontalo. It may pick up seats in urban and north coast Java (particularly western half), including South Jakarta through to Bogor.
In its most oversimplified form, the Megawati party and the modernist Muslim party will do battle for the urban and sub-urban regions while Golkar and the NU type party will battle for the rural areas. The Megawati party might also do battle with Golkar in the non-Muslim regions of eastern Indonesia and North Sumatra.
Among the possible additions to the party camps could be a Protestant and Catholic party, which could secure results in the largely Christian eastern regions especially in West Nusa Tenggara (eastern half), East Nusa Tenggara, Maluku, perhaps Irian Jaya and East Timor plus in the eastern parts of North Sulawesi. Such a group is more likely to feel comfortable with the Megawati/ NU camp, but going with the Golkar/ modernist coalition can not be totally dismissed.
1 August, 1998.
Kevin Evans is a Jakarta-based political economist.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
Unlike Suharto, Habibie is too weak to ignore the people.
Gerry van Klinken
B J 'Rudy' Habibie, thrust into the presidency when Indonesia's elite deserted Suharto after the May riots, cuts a slightly ludicrous figure. While newspapers endlessly repeated demands to end nepotism, Habibie, to mark Independence Day, proudly pinned the nation's highest medal on his wife. As far as most people knew, she had been distinguished only by service to her husband.
Yet the world of the post-Suharto elite is transformed. The mansion in which they live has had a bomb through the roof. The peasants are banging at what's left of the door. And the elite can no longer agree among themselves what to do next. Once they could dismiss the clamour from below as so much noise. Today they are learning to talk.
Overwhelming
The nation's crisis is overwhelming. In July the economic slide that triggered it all went into its second year. Inflation was set to soar to 80% or higher. Growth, a robust 6-7% for years, may plummet to -15%. The rupiah's value against the US dollar wallows at a fifth what it had been in better times. 'No country in recent history, let alone the size of Indonesia', said the World Bank in a report, 'has ever suffered such a dramatic reversal of fortune'.
The number of Indonesians unable to buy basic necessities will quadruple to 80 million by year's end. Everywhere they are taking justice into their own hands. They scooped prawns out of commercial ponds and joyously looted coffee plantations. They staked out vegetable plots on the 'unused' lands of the rich, including Suharto's famous Tapos farm. In August some of the nation's best economists lambasted Habibie for lacking a crisis plan.
Meanwhile pressures multiplied on other fronts. Suharto left mass graves scattered from end to end of this vast archipelago. Regions long plagued by military operations now took advantage of the lifting of press controls to speak out.
Horrific stories of human rights abuse surfaced for the first time in the mainstream press as National Human Rights Commissioners in August opened the first of the graves in Aceh, one of Indonesia's most ignored trouble spots.
Persistent demonstrations in East Timor in June, obviously backed by the entire community, and then in Irian Jaya in July, threatened to make those regions ungovernable. Jakarta responded by offering 'autonomy' to East Timor, by withdrawing combat troops from there and from Aceh, and by mumbling less coherently about improving things in Irian.
On yet another front, ethnic Chinese Indonesians who had fled abroad after becoming the target of riots in May were reluctant to bring their money back. Habibie made soothing sounds but could offer them no guarantees of security.
Kissing babies
For years Habibie told people how Mr Suharto had promised he would one day be president. But when he was made vice- president in March he could not have guessed his slight frame would have to fill the top job within two months.
Once sworn in, he was a president with no political base. He initiated generous gestures in all directions. Many high profile political prisoners were released, including Ratna Sarumpaet, Sri Bintang Pamungkas, and Muchtar Pakpahan. (East Timor's Xanana Gusmao and the PRD's Dita Sari were among those to remain in gaol).
He recognised several independent unions - SBSI for workers, AJI for journalists. He lifted restrictions on new print media licences. He invited new political parties to register with the Interior Ministry. Hoping to forestall further riots, he persuaded the IMF to allow him to restore subsidies on several key items of food.
He abandoned Suharto's remote image and began kissing babies. If at times he was accorded less than the respect he desired, he was in no position to wield Suharto's favourite onomatopoeic threat to gebuk, or 'thump' opponents.
Yes, Habibie remained unconvinced that Suharto was corrupt. He also wore New Order methods of controlling opposition like an old cardigan. But persistent 'guerrilla' tactics by Megawati supporters made him back down from plans to attend the congress of the Suharto puppet version of the PDI. The backdown proved he would never be another Suharto.
Best of all, he promised elections by May 1999 and set in motion legislation to reform the draconian New Order electoral laws.
Army
Contrary to many predictions, also in this magazine, Abri showed no interest in taking over power. Armed forces commander Wiranto needed all his energies to combat a popular backlash against New Order militarism.
Wiranto also faced deep divisions within the forces, created by an anxious Suharto in recent years. Main troublemaker in this regard was Lt-Gen Prabowo Subianto. Suharto had pushed his ambitious son-in-law up through the ranks till he was far ahead of his class-mates.
Prabowo is a Shakespearian Richard III figure, his cruel rage perhaps derived from his well-known impotence, the result (many say) of a war injury. But his fascination with covert methods, first demonstrated as a captain in East Timor in the late 1980s, proved his undoing. In late August an internal military investigation resulted in his dismissal for kidnapping anti- government activists earlier in the year. But was it enough?
Even if Wiranto's own house had been in order, he might have argued the way soldiers did in Brazil and Argentina during the 1980s - let civilians take the rap for failing to halt the economic nosedive.
Indeed, the world is now less friendly to military regimes than it was when General Suharto took over in 1965. The Cold War is over. The price of oil, which fuelled Suharto's regime, collapsed years ago. Globalised information makes it more difficult to impose oppressive ideologies.
Golkar
To win his elections, Suharto had relied on a big bureaucratic machine. Now Golkar is a shadow of its former self.
Habibie's man in Golkar, executive chairman Akbar Tanjung, only just fought off an internal challenge by retired soldiers allied with Suharto himself in early July. Incredibly, Suharto still controls the vast slush funds Golkar always used to win elections, and he seems keen to use them against his successor. A Golkar without Abri support appears likely.
Golkar, in other words, has become a nice little mud wrestling pit, like an Eastern European communist party after the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Nothing, but nothing, is off the agenda. None of the sacred symbols of the New Order are any longer taboo - not the Pancasila ideology, not the 1945 Constitution, not even a united Indonesia. Where once to speak of human rights was un-Indonesian, now everyone from Suharto's children up talks human rights as if the nation's future depends on them, which indeed it does.
Learning curve
Suharto's very strength invited oppositionists to focus on him as the source of the nation's troubles. But Habibie's weakness means those who want change have had to look away from the presidency towards Indonesian civil society itself. The learning curve, not just for the elite but also for a society kept dumb by sheer terror for half a lifetime, seems impossibly steep.
One reason for the only dim euphoria among many activists is that they don't always like what they see. Many of the new political parties appeal to religious sentiment rather than to more universal as well as more pragmatic considerations of social justice and welfare. Shadowy elite figures still get away with dirty tricks like fomenting riots. Too much public discourse focusses on individuals rather than on the why and how of revitalising institutions that will outlive them.
However, the reality is that Habibie's weakness is creating a negotiating culture not seen in the New Order before. Suharto had a murderous army in his personal grip. Habibie does not. He came to power amidst riots so severe they brought down his venerated master. He has a salutary fear of the chaos the masses can cause if he displeases them. What else can he do but placate?
It is possible that calls for law-and-order by those hankering after the fleshpots of the New Order may yet cut short this window of opportunity. More likely is that, even if Habibie does not last much longer, the next president will be little different to Habibie. For now, this may be the new Indonesia.
The onus is now on civil society to stop craving for a strong president and start negotiating the constitutional shape of a more democratic Indonesia, in which, despite their secret admiration for Suharto-style dictators, the elite will have learned to talk.
Gerry van Klinken edits 'Inside Indonesia'.
Inside Indonesia 56: Oct-Dec 1998
Globalisation roadkill
After months of blaming Indonesia's economic crisis on Indonesians, the world's big players are finally coming round to the view that it was their own push for free markets that caused it. Indonesia, as one journalist put it, is globalisation roadkill. This puts more onus on the world to give help that helps. But how do you do that? In this issue of Inside Indonesia we go to the grassroots of the economic crisis.
The statistic 'half the population below the poverty line' is shocking. Yet it hides as much as it reveals. Not until we step with Lea Jellinek into the homes of the once upwardly mobile on Jakarta's outskirts and hear hungry kids crying in empty lounge rooms - the furniture sold for food - do we feel that this is a human crisis.
Statistics without a human face is one form of Western ignorance. The idea that Indonesians merely need a handout is another. Not until Jane Eaton shares with us the dreams of street kids in Semarang, not until Vanessa Johanson introduces us to some village parents in Java, unemployed yet determined to keep their kids at school, do we see that Indonesians are not beggars. They are innovative battlers.
A big part of that battle is to regain control over their own country. For too long it has been run as the playground of a tiny elite. Infid, the coalition of Indonesian and foreign non- government organisations, has no illusions that a transition to democracy under crisis conditions will be easy. They are simply convinced the present troubles prove the need for more change, not less.
The political aspects of that struggle, somewhat muted this time because we want to highlight the social impact of the economic downturn, will get the spotlight in the next edition.
Gerry van Klinken, Editor.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
After four years covering the big stories in Jakarta, an Australian journalist revisits the Sumatran village where his journey began.
Jim Della-Giacoma
From Sungai Penuh all the way up the Kerinci valley floor the concrete power poles lead the way to the village of Pungut Hilir. When I first called Pungut Hilir home in December 1991 there were no such punctuations in the luminous green rice paddies. Once there was not even a sealed road or trustworthy bridge to cross. This time I found development, including roads and bridges, had come to this remote and beautiful spot.
In the training in Canberra in the weeks before our trip in 1991, which did not to prepare us at all for village life, we had earnestly debated the meaning of cultural exchange. It was a two-way street, we said. Giving and taking experiences. But I think the four weeks in Kerinci taught me most about the vast gulf between myself and the average Indonesian farmer.
Somehow I still got hooked and kept coming back to Indonesia, but never quite made it 'home' to Jambi. However, Pungut Hilir was never to leave my thoughts. It was always a precious yard stick, held by few foreign correspondents, as I traversed the many faces of Indonesia.
That last month in 1991 when 16 young Australians and 16 Indonesians crawled out of our chartered bus after a 14-hour bus trip from the sweltering plains of the provincial capital Jambi, we found a quaint tin roofed village amid the wet season mud. Our Country Road shirts and dress moccasins called Donalds were soon collecting dirt.
Coca Cola We found a new world in the cool mountains of the Sumatran range, home to about 300 people. Simple and, for the most part, honest village dwelling folk. We soon discovered life in Pungut Hilir would be no holiday. It had no electricity, taps, toilets, telephones, television or alcohol. We even had to order up Coca Cola from the district town. It did, however, have the Pungut river running through it. A bathroom, toilet, laundry and swimming pool all in one.
My homecoming took place after a four year stint in the seething metropolis we called the Big Durian, where I had a front row seat in the events of May 1998 as Indonesians exposed their violent alter ego. I had returned, in part, on a quest for the idyllic Indonesia of my past.
This time I took a half-hour motorbike ride. It looked like little had changed. Being the first from our group to return I was slightly nervous about what I might find. But I need not have worried. The events in Jakarta seemed to have passed Pungut Hilir by. I found everybody as laid back as ever watching television.
Electricity had arrived in 1994 and in its wake dozens of television satellite dishes had sprouted from the roof tops. Even the primary school had one.
My unannounced arrival caught the village head Ramli sitting on a mat in front of his own colour screen with family and friends. There are still no telephones and the timing of my trip had been uncertain until the last minute. I was momentarily embarrassed when I reported my presence as I didn't know Ramli, but he seemed to remember me. 'You've changed Jim. You didn't have a beard when you were here.'
I came on a sunny Friday afternoon. The village had stayed in from the now deserted fields after weekly prayers at the mosque. They were all doing well, Ramli said, still dressed in his 'Friday best' sarung. 'The price of rice has doubled, but that's okay. We're the ones selling it,' he said with a casual air oblivious to those in Java suffering from the nation's economic collapse. Crisis? What crisis?
Do-gooders
Back in 1991, with the sincerity of all do-gooders, we had set about building a system to pipe water from a nearby hillside to a concrete and brick tank near the primary school. Elsewhere we dug three wells and leveled a volleyball court with villagers pitching in to help in a classic case, or so we thought, of gotong royong.
In between we entertained them with songs from Australia, including the famous rendition of Waltzing Matilda in Indonesian - Ayo Berjalan. We tried to teach the children Australian Rules Football. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the balls we left behind, donated to the vain cause by the Victorian Football League. They played the real football in Kerinci and the kids would kick the oval shaped balls along the ground when they thought we weren't watching.
By the time I returned the three wells had been built over by a department of public works project the year before. They clearly had not been in use. Of the four government provided water tanks I saw only one still worked. I guess the government didn't have much success either.
'Why should people bother,' the village chief's son remarked as we stood beside the white washed toilet block with its two bathrooms complete with porcelain squat toilets. 'The river's right there.' He pointed to the women washing in it nearby to make his point. They were doing things as they'd always been done in the Pungut River. Washing, bathing and defecating in the river in full view of anybody who cared to watch. Any many did watch the strangers back in 1991.
A troupe of children stopped watching television to follow me like the Pied Piper across the bubbling river to the house of Pak Mat Idris, my host for four weeks back in 1991.
He too had his eyes glued to the box in silence with a group of old men and young boys. Time had made me forget many things, including the stiff formality with which Mat Idris ran his household and how uncomfortable I felt with it. Each meal ran like clockwork as the men and boys ate sitting on a mat on the floor in the main room of the wooden Malay-style house. The women and girls stayed bare foot and in the kitchen. When called, they crept carefully out along the floor to the edges of the room with fresh food or to clear plates.
This time I had to ask politely three times to my host to call the women, including his daughter and new grandson, to include them in a photograph. The camera caught us sitting stiffly on an old couch. A well off rice farmer with more than one hectare of paddy and hillside gardens, Mat Idris was never one for idle chatter. There were long pauses between our questions and answers during which we both were grateful that the television hadn't been turned off.
No reply
'When you left we never thought we'd see you again,' he said. 'I got all your letters,' he added. But he never replied, I recalled. I'd stopped writing after I received no reply. The link with the village was broken a year after we left. Illiteracy was perhaps as much a barrier as anything.
'It's much the same around here, not much has changed since you left. But we do have electricity now' he said, pausing, 'and television'. He pointed to the new 14-inch set that dominated the room with the gathered crowd arching around it.
As we sat I recalled pacing his balcony every night while the children watched from below as I manipulated the aerial on my tiny short wave. It was there I heard that Paul Keating had toppled Bob Hawke.
Mat Idris and I had never really connected during my time there. But my days in the village were the first time I found myself comfortable with Indonesia and Indonesians. I'd never got a good night's sleep on his floor with only one blanket between up to four people a night.
This time I kept my ojek driver with his motorbike on stand-by to return to Sungai Penuh and a real bed. He never asked me to stay, I never suggested it.
Our worlds were too far apart. Mat Idris had only once in his 40-odd years been to the provincial capital, let alone Jakarta or overseas. I was a child of migrants who had crossed the world to a new life in a multi-cultural land. Mat Idris was happy going nowhere but his fields or the 10km to Sungai Penuh to sell his rice. I returned on the verge of migrating again across the globe.
But things had progressed in seven years and television was the medium responsible. 'We sometimes watch Australian television,' Mat Idris volunteered at one point. 'But nobody in the village speaks English so we don't understand much. We just watch the news. I see you had a flood, too.' It was the first time I felt we had made a connection. Mat Idris and I finally had something in common.
Jim Della-Giacoma was a correspondent with AFP and Reuters in Jakarta. He now lives in the Washington DC area. His first visit to Pungut Hilir was as member of the Australia-Indonesia Youth Exchange Program.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Ayu Utami, Saman, Jakarta, KPG (Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia), 1998, ISBN 979-9023-17-3, 208pp.
Reviewed by MARSHALL CLARK
Saman is said to be merely the first part of Ayu Utami's forthcoming novel, tentatively titled Laila tak mampir di New York ('Laila didn't call in New York'). Nevertheless, it is thoroughly worth considering in its own right.
Saman stands out amongst recent Indonesian fiction. Ayu's confident storytelling technique adequately carries the weight of a broad thematic scope, highlighting the full complexity of previously shunned issues such as female sexuality and the struggle between personal faith and political action.
Although Saman attempts to present an intimate psychological portrait of a group of young Indonesian women, plot-wise it is dominated by the mental and physical challenges faced by a politically-engaged Catholic priest, Wisanggeni, or Wis, who is assigned to a parish in South Sumatra. After becoming involved in an armed struggle between villagers and government-backed developers, Wis is smuggled out of Indonesia and changes his name to Saman.
At times, Saman is simply impossible to put down, an unusual experience when reading an Indonesian novel. Perhaps this goes some way to explaining why between April and August this year Saman went through six editions. By Indonesian standards, this is a spectacular turnover.
Elsewhere, for this reviewer at least, Saman is somewhat confusing, with numerous flashbacks and changes in narrative voice occurring seemingly at random. Certainly Ayu seems hesitant at times, most noticably with the deeper psychological motivations of several of her main characters, particularly male characters such as Wis and Sihar.
Yet minor quibbles such as these may be easily resolved when Saman appears in its entire form. That is, if it appears in its entire form. Despite the huge praise for Saman, there has also been some public doubt about the novel's authorship. Many believe that Saman is simply too good a novel to be written by a female journalist not yet thirty years of age with virtually no previous literary output.
Part of the reason for such criticism, which appears to be largely unfounded conjecture, is that if Ayu really did write Saman then she must be greeted as one of the most promising young writers to emerge in Indonesia over the last decade. Furthermore, with the literary careers of New Order cultural icons such as Pramudya Ananta Toer, Rendra, Umar Kayam, YB Mangunwijaya and even Emha Ainun Nadjib appearing to be winding down, Ayu Utami's emergence is a strong reminder that reformasi should stretch much deeper than politics.
Marshall Clark is a PhD student at the Australian National University, Canberra.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
David T Hill (ed), Beyond the horizon: Short stories from contemporary Indonesia, Melbourne, Monash Asia Institute, 1998, ISBN 0-7326-1164-4, 201pp.
Reviewed by RON WITTON
Soon after the New Order was established in 1966, an innovative monthly cultural and literary journal named Horison ('Horizon' in English) appeared. The writers who established it were brought together by their opposition to the socialist-realist demands of the left-wing Institute for People's Culture (Lekra), so influential in Sukarno's Indonesia.
These 22 short stories were selected from the thousands published in Horison over the last thirty years. They provide a veritable rijstafel of personal experiences of what the New Order meant to ordinary people. In the introduction David Hill explains the origins of Horison, and the context of the stories selected. He ensured a selection of women writers, even though they are relatively poorly represented throughout Horison's history.
The translations are excellent. They meet the ultimate test of a good translation, that is, that one is rarely, if ever, aware one is reading a translation. For those teaching Indonesian language, providing students with copies of the stories in the original Indonesian would constitute a wonderful teaching tool to complement this book.
With the end of the New Order and the dawning of reformasi, many observers will begin to consider the human cost of the so-called Era of Development. Readers are here invited to savour the great diversity of ways the human condition was affected by this era.
They range from the feelings of a person from the jungles of Irian Jaya transported to Jakarta, to the manner in which an honest civil servant dealt with pressure to become corrupt.
We taste a little of what life was like in a political concentration camp. We learn of the difficulties of those many millions forced to relocate from rural areas to work in low-paid urban jobs, in the construction industry, in factories or in prostitution. We see how urban and foreign money impinged on rural areas.
We have here a series of snapshots of the rakyat, the ordinary people of Indonesia, as they tried to live with forces far too great for them. Yet threads of humour and satire are woven throughout many of the stories.
Ron Witton <rwitton@uow.edu.au> teaches Indonesian at the University of Western Sydney and the University of Wollongong.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
'Kecoa', by Yudi, Yaddie, Eri, & Arief (Balai Pustaka, 1998).
Like Ayam Majapahit (featured in Inside Indonesia, July-September 1998), Kecoa was also a first place winner in the 1997 Comic Competition held by the Director General of the Ministry for Education and Culture. Like the other winners, these comics are very difficult to find.
Kecoa is a story of heroism in the face of extreme personal fear, which takes place toward the end of the Japanese occupation (1942-45). Kecoa is the nickname given to a young farmer because of his intense fear of cockroaches (kecoa) in a place overrun by them. Kecoa, however, rises to the occasion and bravely faces Japanese cruelty and internal treachery from within the ranks of the local militia. This frame shows the excitement among the militia when they hear on 17 August 1945 that independence has been proclaimed. The cry is 'Merdeka!', 'Freedom!'.
Laine Berman.
Dr Laine Berman teaches at Deakin University, Melbourne. A photocopy is available from her for AU$12 (including postage): Aust & Internat Studs, Deakin University, 221 Burwood Highway, Burwood Vic 3125, Australia, fax +61-3-9244 6755.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Amid the beauty, and the sensuality, that is Javanese music, this famous female singer wants to recreate her role.
Jody Diamond interviews Nyi Supadmi
Surakarta (Solo), Central Java
I began studying female voice, or pesindhen, when I was 12 years old. Since elementary school I have sung with feeling. If a song was sad, I would cry too, and if the meaning of the text was happy, I would be as happy as someone who is laughing. In 1971 I made new cengkok [musical phrases] that I included in recordings on many Indonesian labels: Lokananta, IRA, Irama, Fajar, Cakra. Then, alhamdulillah, many of my friends in the arts criticised me.
Why?
Because I was too bold. 'Why did you include those cengkok?' they said. Well I just kept on, even though many of my enemies did not back off. In 1972 I taught in America, and I developed more new cengkok. The next year I was not too active as a singer. My husband didn't want me to be, because many people think pesindhen are flirtatious. When I didn't sing, I studied how to write sindhenan notation with Sutarman and Martopangrawit. I was invited to teach singing at Aski (now STSI), the arts academy in Solo. But my husband didn't know about it. Then he died and I had to make a living.
Were you hesitant to ask your husband's permission to work at Aski?
I was brave enough, but I had to guard the family peace as well.
Did you ask your husband's permission at that time?
I did. Only...
What did he say?
Well, he answered: 'Up to you.' Usually if a Javanese person says 'up to you' it's more serious than yes or no.
Does 'up to you' mean 'it is better if not'? Did your husband prefer you to be at home?
Yes. Going to recordings was okay. It was performing that was the problem. When I was still young, like age 22, sometimes the dhalang [shadow puppet master] would flirt and make rude noises at the pesindhen. This is what my husband disagreed with. This is a problem in Indonesia. If there is one or two pesindhen but 15 male musicians, it is like a flower in the field of grass - many look at it and talk about it. This is not really that strange, I think, because there are many leaves and branches, but only a few flowers, so of course people look at what is beautiful.
When your husband died, that was unfortunate, but that is what gave you the opportunity to teach?
Yes, that's true. It's really sad, of course, but maybe it was God's wish that I work in the arts again. I started work at Aski in 1981, teaching singing. I made a dictionary of vocal phrases, Kamus Sindhenan. But, guess what, some people didn't like my book. At that time most pesindhen learned orally, so this was like a kind of eavesdropping! They studied from radio or tape, just listening to other singers, and they didn't want to study from notation. Most people who studied pesindhen did it by ear, and they were not used to reading notation.
What is the role of the pesindhen in Javanese society?
In former times they were considered not so polite because the origin of pesindhen was women who would dance with men, and who would embrace them and get money. Sometimes women were jealous of the pesindhen. But our role is really just to entertain those who might be sad or confused in their hearts. The pesindhen can even entertain without being aware of what is in the soul of the listener.
If you could imagine a more ideal situation in the future for pesindhen, what would it be?
I think we need to clear the way for a process by which people would see that pesindhen are part of society too. I think an organisation would help, one that would give guidelines and education, and show that the pesindhen doesn't have to only sing, but she can also play instruments and make notation. Also we should remember that we do not need to be enemies with each other, it is not a competition to be better than someone else, or to make more money, or have finer clothes and fancy jewelry.
You must focus on matters of art, not adornment?
Yes. What is important is the development of the art of sindhenan, not the development of our jewelry or blouses. We must be able to speak well, be able to sing well, be able to converse well whether it is with a Minister or a General. We must not be quiet and fearful - this is part of the mental education. I want very much to promote these ideas.
What is it like to teach foreigners?
I am happy and proud that there are foreigners who want to study sindhenan and traditional singing. But I must explain many difficult musical concepts or translate the texts. Some students have trouble with their vocal ornaments or their sound is too western.
What is your experience with Indonesian composers?
I think that in earlier times if one got new inspiration [it was from] what was experienced by people. This was the impetus for arts, yes, inspiration from sadness or happiness or anger. These feelings are what humanity has been given, and these can be expressed through the arts. I worked with Ki Nartosabdho, who arranged many works for chorus with words about the wayang [shadow puppet theatre]. He was very creative.
Did his inventiveness influence you?
It opened my heart, so that I felt that not only could the musicians and the dhalang have new ideas, but the pesindhen herself. I saw that all humans could be creative, and make something from that inspiration.
Nyi Supadmi
Supadmi was born in Klaten, near Solo in 1950. She is currently on the staff of STSI Surakarta, the national arts academy in Solo. In 1989 she founded the organisation Pawarti, or Paguyuban Swarawati, dedicated to the education of female gamelan singers and the improvement of their status as artists. She has several books of vocal notation published in Indonesia, and her books and scores for her compositions are published and distributed by the American Gamelan Institute (http://www.gamelan.org or email agi@gamelan.org).
Nyi Supadmi's life and compositions are discussed in great detail in a dissertation by Susan Pratt Walton, 'Heavenly nymphs and earthly delights: Javanese female singers, their music and their lives,' University of Michigan, 1996, UMI # 9712166.
Writings
Cengkok-cengkok Srambahan & Abon-abon. A 'dictionary' of vocal cengkok arranged by text, pathet (tonal hierarchies), seleh (goal tone) and syllable length.
Ladrang: Sindhenan Ladrang Slendro & Pelog. Balungan (melodic outline) and pesindhen part for 32 classic ladrang (a musical form).
Palaran: Gaya Surakarta & Gaya Yogyakarta. 59 Palaran (poems set with free rythm gamelan accompaniment) in Surakarta style, 21 in Yogyakarta style, and 49 in 'Surakarta style pelog nyamat.'
These three books have been published in Indonesia and
internationally by the American Gamelan Institute.
Kumpulan Jineman, 1988, Surakarta: Taman Budaya Surakarta.
Compositions
Ketawang Panalangsa
Langgam Ngudhup Turi
Langgam Panjang Mas Langgam Ora Ngira
Lelagon Geculan: Ngaco
Ketawang Pangkur Sawiji
Ketawang Sendhang Melathi
Langgam Anteping Sih
Jody Diamond is a composer, performer and publisher. She lives in the USA in Lebanon, New Hampshire, where she is director of the American Gamelan Institute. In 1996 she was a Fellow of the Asia Institute and Music Department at Monash University in Melbourne, where she founded a composers' gamelan group. In 1988- 89 she was in Indonesia as a Senior Fulbright Research Fellow, and worked on a survey of Indonesian composers. This interview was excerpted from one of nearly 60 completed during that year. She may be contacted at Jody.Diamond@dartmouth.edu.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Marwan Yatim's story of torture
Marwan Yatim
I was a political prisoner sentenced to six years gaol in the Free Aceh case. Indonesian soldiers arrested me roughly at my office on 3 October 1990. At the Lampineung intelligence headquarters my entire body was beaten with fists, kicks, sticks and whips while they cursed me. They then stripped me to my underpants and put me in a 1x2m cell. Inside were two other prisoners. Their faces were full of puss, and their shoulders and legs full of wounds. We slept directly on the concrete, always fearing more torture while hearing other humans scream in pain.
Under an oppressive sun another man and I were joined at the shoulders and told to carry a large rock, already hot from the sun, for two hours. Every time the rock fell we were beaten.
From the tigers den of Lampineung we were moved to the Lhok Nga gaol not far away. But soldiers from Company B would come especially to torture us, without asking any questions. During the first week it happened every evening. My nose was broken by a soldier named Zulkarnein. In the morning Company B commander Joko Warsito, in front of his men, arrogantly stomped on my chest and face with his boots. In the evening his subordinate Syukri tortured me for three hours in a bath full of water.
About 300 people were arrested for Free Aceh in Banda Aceh. All were tortured. Even the courtroom was taken over by the military. All the proceedings were dictated by the military command, Korem 012/TU. No denial was accepted. Justice never came into it.
Even after we were handed over to civilian warders, nothing could be done without the recommendation of Korem 012/TU. There was no medicine for the sick. Several of my friends died in gaol.
Marwan Yatim now lives in Sydney, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Aceh is a neglected human rights horror story.
IRIP News Service
Marwan Yatim (see article 'In the Tigers Den' this issue) was lucky. He escaped with his life. A local government enquiry recently concluded 430 had died in 1989- 92, while 320 remain missing. Hundreds of houses were burned, cattle, cars and jewelry stolen. And that was only in the North Aceh regency of Aceh province. Data on the possibly hundreds of women raped remains sparse.
Just over a month after Suharto's resignation, local newspapers in Aceh, north Sumatra, began a determined campaign to expose abuses during a military anti-secessionist operation between 1989 and 1992. The metropolitan press soon picked it up.
Early in August the National Human Rights Commission said the situation in Aceh had been worse than that in East Timor and Irian Jaya. A few days later the Commission was digging up mass graves under the media spotlight. Many more graves remain unopened.
In response, armed forces commander General Wiranto on 7 August went to Aceh to apologise for human rights abuses, and to announce that the province's dubious 'special operations' status had been revoked. Much aid has flowed into Aceh since then.
Acehnese proudly remember Sultan Iskandar Muda (ruled 1607-36), who made Aceh the most powerful state in the region. Europeans began seriously to press in during the imperialistic nineteenth century. In 1873 the Dutch launched a costly and bloody war against Aceh. Despite superior arms, it took them four decades to win effective control against Acehnese guerrilla tactics.
When Indonesia proclaimed its independence in 1945, Acehnese leaders lent crucial support. But they were disappointed that Jakarta gave Islam, and themselves, far less importance than they had hoped. Aceh joined a major regional rebellion in 1953. Fighting wound down after the Acehnese won an agreement with Jakarta in 1959 that extended autonomy to Aceh.
In 1971 Mobil Oil discovered massive natural gas reserves in North Aceh. The Lhokseumawe liquid natural gas plant became the biggest in the world, supplying 30% of Indonesia's oil and gas exports. Industries mushroomed around it, and with it pollution and social disruption.
However, the Acehnese were well aware there was little in it for them. This was perhaps the main reason for the resurgence in 1989 of an Acehnese secessionist movement that had been led for years by Hasan di Tiro from his exile in Stockholm. The military crackdown that followed left deep wounds in Acehnese society that are only now being exposed.
Wiranto's apology is not enough. The Acehnese want justice for the terrible abuses of 1989-92, and they want a better deal on the natural wealth of the region. They also want independence, or at least they want the 1959 autonomy agreement revived.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Suharto always said it was the communists. Yet from the start, says Colonel Latief, Suharto himself was involved.
Greg Poulgrain
Indonesian President BJ Habibie has refused to release Colonel Latief, whose arrest in 1965 for involvement in a military coup was followed by Major-General Suharto's rise to the presidency.
Habibie has granted amnesty to 73 other political prisoners, even to members of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) accused of involvement in the 1965 coup attempt. Refusing amnesty to Latief now shows how Suharto overshadows Habibie.
Interviewed in Cipinang Prison, Jakarta, three days after Suharto resigned, Latief told me that he expected never to be released. Despite various kidney operations and the stroke he suffered last year, Latief is still very alert. His explanation for his involvement in 1965 directly implicates Suharto.
By late 1965, President Sukarno was ailing and without a successor. Tension between the PKI and the armed forces was growing. Conspiracies rumours were rife. Who would make the first move?
On the night of 30 September 1965, six hours before the military coup, Latief confirmed with Suharto that the plan to kidnap seven army generals would soon start. Latief was an officer attached to the Jakarta military command. As head of the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad), Suharto held the optimum position to crush the operation, so his name should have been at the top of the list. When troops who conducted the kidnappings asked why Suharto was not on the list, they were told: 'Because he is one of us'.
There was a rumour the seven generals were intending to seize power from Sukarno. Latief and two other army officers in the operation, Lieutenant-Colonel Untung (in charge of some of the troops guarding Sukarno's palace) and General Supardjo (a commander from Kalimantan), planned to kidnap the generals and bring them before President Sukarno to explain themselves.
The 30th September Movement was thus a limited pre-emptive strike by pro-Sukarno officers against anti-Sukarno officers. They kidnapped the generals and occupied strategic centres in Jakarta's main square, without touching Suharto's headquarters. The plan involved no killing, but it went terribly wrong and six of the seven died.
Although Untung was assigned responsibility for collecting the generals, this crucial task was then taken over by a certain Kamaruzzaman alias Sjam, evidently a 'double agent' with contacts in the Jakarta military command as well as the PKI. At his trial, Sjam admitted responsibility for killing the generals but blamed the PKI under Aidit. In 1965 when Suharto accused the PKI of responsibility for killing the generals, the Sjam-Aidit link gave Suharto enough leverage to convince his contemporaries.
Between Sjam and Suharto there was a twenty-year friendship going back to the fight against the Dutch in Central Java in 1948-49. This strengthened in the late 1950s when both attended the Bandung Staff College.
Suharto was also on close terms with Untung, who served under him during the campaign to reclaim Netherlands New Guinea in 1962 and who became a family friend.
During his trial in 1978, not only did Latief explain that he met Suharto on the night of the coup, but also that several days before he met both Suharto and his wife in the privacy of Suharto's home to discuss the overall plan. The court declared that this information was 'not relevant'.
Suharto, more than anybody, described the events that night as 'communist inspired'. Suharto's claim that he saw the slain generals' bodies had been sexually mutilated was shown to be deliberately false by post-mortem documents, not revealed till decades later. This false claim provoked months of killings against communists, particularly in Bali and Central and East Java.
The PKI, numbering 20 million, were mostly rice farmers. Accused en masse they became victims in one of the worst massacres this century. In the opinion of the author, many writers underestimated the death toll, which may be around one million persons. Another 700,000 were imprisoned without trial. The most notorious general involved, Sarwo Edhie, claimed not one but two million were killed. 'And we did a good job', he added. Traumatised by violence, the nation became politically malleable.
Using Suharto's own categorisation of crimes related to 1965, his prior knowledge of the alleged coup places him in 'Category A' involvement - the same as those who faced execution or life imprisonment.
The release of Colonel Latief is a litmus test of Habibie's willingness to promote genuine reform. Fewer than ten long term prisoners remain. Latief has pleaded: 'Most of them are already 70 years old and fragile. For the sake of humanity, please take notice of us.'
Dr Greg Poulgrain <g.poulgrain@qut.edu.au> is a research fellow at the School of Humanities, QUT Carseldine.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Islam is more important today than ever before. Four leading individuals state their case.
Hisanori Kato
'Milik pribumi', owned by natives. I saw this sign on the shutters of shops from the window of a city minibus. Its owners first put up the sign to avoid the wrath of rioters targeting Chinese businesses last May. At the end of September 1998, everything in Jakarta seemed normal, except this sign and some ruined buildings.
I knew something significant was going on in this society. Democratisation? Reformation? Or political manoeuvre for survival? I really wanted to find out what it was. So I decided to visit the people who would be key players in this 'something'.
Gus Dur
His doctor advised Abdurrahman Wahid, affectionately known as Gus Dur and the chairperson of Nahdatul Ulama, to work less. But his life seemed as hectic as before his operation in January 1998. I was lucky enough to have a long conversation with him. His warm, friendly and humorous nature made me feel at home, and brought lots of laughs to our discussion.
Yet he became serious when I asked him about racial and religious tension in Indonesia. 'Muslims blame non-Muslims (mainly ethnic Chinese), and also non-Muslims complain about their condition. This needs to be reconciled.' He went on: 'I am very much willing to head a National Reconciliation Committee if it is formed.'
'What do you think Suharto should do now?' I asked him. 'He should return all the money he collected during his presidency to the treasury of Indonesia, and apologise to the people.' 'That is a good idea. Would you tell Suharto to do it?' 'It might be hard for Suharto to come to me directly. But if he sends his daughter Tutut to me, I would pass on the message. If Suharto does it, I will do everything to clear his name.' And he laughed.
Gus Dur talked about the wrongdoings of Suharto's government - human rights abuses and corruption. But he is realistic about the prospects of immediate change. 'Change is a process. It takes a long time to change something. I think it might take two more elections to have civilians for both president and vice- president. Also, Abri's dual function can not be abolished right away.'
Knowing that some Nahdatul Ulama (NU) intellectuals are frustrated with Gus Dur's 'realist' political stance and autocratic attitude, I asked him about conflict within NU. 'I listen to other people's opinions, but I have to make a decision in the end. I know some people, especially young intellectuals, are not happy with my "slow" approach to reformation. But we talk about it. We also laugh about it. It is OK to have different attitudes and ideas because I belong to "Today's Generation" while they belong to "Tomorrow's Generation".'
I just nodded because I knew that although some NU people are critical of Gus Dur, they love him as they do their own fathers. He mentioned several NU young people as Tomorrow's Generation, and he also added Amien Rais. This was rather surprising to me.
Amien Rais
TV crews from Korea and America, journalists from Italy and three Indonesian magazines were waiting for Amien Rais when I had an appointment with him. He was a major player in the movement that brought down Suharto, and is now a presidential candidate as chairperson of the National Mandate Party. The party is based in the religious organisation Muhammadiyah, which Amien Rais chaired until recently.
I had little confidence I would be able to interview him on that day. However, I managed to catch him when he stepped out of his office. 'Pak Amien, do you remember when you were writing your PhD dissertation in Chicago? I am now in the same position. Would you spare some time for me?' He looked at me, and smiled. 'OK, I can give you some time.'
My first question to him was very simple. 'Did you change?' I had in mind the reports in times past that he was anti-Christian. He immediately said: 'Yes, it is a natural process. A stone never changes, I am not a stone.' 'In what way did you change?', I asked. 'I now have more appreciation of the plurality of the nation, and feel the necessity of building a strong nation.'
He told me of the time about three months earlier when Jakob Oetama, chief editor of the largely Catholic daily Kompas, came to visit him. He said: 'Amien, you are moving from a leader of Muhammadiyah to a leader of the nation. You need to make a step to be a leader of this nation'. 'It was exactly what I was feeling', Amien Rais went on, 'so I agreed with him, and here I am now.'
His willingness to lead the country was expressed throughout our conversation. As his ideas sounded very much like Gus Dur's, I asked him what he thought about the difference between the two. 'Probably, Gus Dur would be happy if more positions go to NU. But I want more than that, I want the leadership of the nation.'
At the same time, he was aware of criticism of his political style. 'I know that I am too straight and "un-Indonesian",' he said. 'But it doesn't really matter to me. It is better to express my opinions explicitly rather than hiding them.'
My last question to him was also simple. 'Who are your political heroes?' After a short pause, he said: 'J F Kennedy, Churchill, Gorbachev, Neru... of course, Sukarno, too.' Fadli Zon
Fadli Zon probably has a reputation as a hard-line Muslim. This young intellectual is one of the chairpersons of the recently established Moon and Star Party (Partai Bulan Bintang), which brings together some of the ideals and personalities of the intensely Islamic Masyumi party of the 1950s. He is always willing to explain his political stance. The main goal of his party, he said diplomatically, is to establish a 'better system'.
'I think Indonesian farmers should be protected. For example, wheat imports from America hinder the prosperity of Indonesian farmers. This has to be changed. To establish a fair system is important,' he said.
According to him, the pribumi (native Indonesians) are lagging behind in the economy. 'Affirmative action is necessary until the pribumi can stand on the same line as the non-pribumi,' he explained.
However, he said he did not approve of the anti-Chinese violence symbolised by the 'Milik pribumi' signs. 'Islamic principle is to protect minority peoples', he said clearly. 'This should be done by law.'
His party is regarded as more Islamic-oriented than the others, so I wanted to know about his idea of an Islamic state. 'We are not proposing an Islamic state, but are promoting a better system.'
'How about Pancasila?' I asked, referring to the ideology that has since 1945 been seen as a bulwark against both a communist and an Islamic state. 'We agree with it as a basic idea of the nation, but disagree that everyone has to accept it as a principle. Let political parties choose their own ideologies except communism.'
The last conversation I had with him was about his stay in America as an exchange student when he was in high school. 'I was in Texas for a year. My host family was Christian and they are nice people. I still keep in touch with them. They are my friends.'
Bismar Siregar
'I love Suharto.' It was not in the early 1990s, but September 1998. I was stunned when a seventy-year old former Supreme Court judge said this to me. For Bismar Siregar, Islamic moral principle is crucial in Indonesia today. 'In Islam, forgiveness is very important. Love others as you do yourself.' Looking at his gentle eyes, I remembered a Japanese Buddhist word: jihi, compassion.
As a legal expert, Bismar is of course well aware of Suharto's misdeeds. However, he dares to say that reconciliation can not be realised without forgiveness. He believes that forgiving Suharto would make him repent. It seems that almost everyone in Indonesia today hates Suharto. But Bismar thinks it is hypocrisy when people who enjoyed the New Order now criticise Suharto. 'Suharto's fault is one part of our fault, too', he added, as if he were telling himself.
When I left his office, he said 'Goodbye' in Japanese. He learned it during the Japanese occupation. I believe that he has already forgiven Japanese militarism. I thanked him for his compassion. And I wondered how Suharto would respond to Bismar.
Political development in Indonesia is rapid. Gus Dur, Amien Rais, and Fadli Zon are associated with major political parties such as the NU-based National Awakening Party PKB, the National Mandate Party PAN, and the Moon and Star Party PBB. We know that their path is not smooth. Just how PKB implements Gus Dur's modern and tolerant ideas will make a crucial difference. PAN is also struggling to maintain its inclusive orientation. The sensitive issue of the protection of minorities is always around PBB.
Only time will tell what will happen. Yet, one thing for sure is that the seeds of change and the will to create a better society exist in Indonesia. And the idea of democracy is ubiquitous. The conversations with four Muslims prove this.
Hisanori Kato is a PhD student in the School of Studies in Religion, University of Sydney. He comes from Japan.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Post-Suharto, the opportunities are wide open. Time is short. But a democracy that lasts must be built on solid ideas rather than popular individuals or religion.
Olle Tornquist speaks with Gerry van Klinken
What first drew you to Indonesia?
In the early 70's I wasn't interested in Indonesia but in what was missing in Marxism and why many radical popular movements in the Third World were failing. So what actually drew me to Indonesia was the destruction of its huge communist party.
But even studies of general theories have to be contextualised. And since empirical exploration rather than old theories have been points of departure in my efforts since the late 80's to analyse popular politics of democratisation, Indonesia 'in itself' has gradually become more important to me. But as an Indonesianist, I remain a fake!
Few expected Suharto to resign as quickly as he did. What really brought him down?
Let's look back. Because actually expectations have varied over time and with the theories in vogue. Till the late 70's or so, most radicals kept on analysing the New Order regime in terms of an unstable neo-colonial and parasitic dictatorship.
But the regime didn't fall, and many realised that the 'parasites' did invest some of their rents. So both students of the rise of capital and of clientelism began to emphasise continuity instead þ this thing might last forever. They tended to look on studies of popular movements for political change as idealistic and a waste of time.
And then, of course, there was the West's lack of interest in supporting democratic forces 'that couldn't even offer a realistic alternative'. So yes, in many circles the crisis and Suharto's resignation was somewhat unexpected.
What really was to oust him became apparent to me only with the crackdown on the democracy movement in mid '96. That wasn't 'business as usual', as many would have it.
The regime, on the one hand, proved totally unable to regulate conflicts, reform itself, and prepare an 'orderly' succession. When the financial crisis spread to Indonesia a year later the regime could not restore the confidence of investors, regardless of what economic prescription it tried - since that would have required fundamental political reforms.
The dissidents, on the other hand, were too poorly organised to make a difference on their own, and they were still neglected by the West. Instead, the West entrusted the problem to neo-classical IMF economists and their colleagues in Jakarta.
On May 4 1998 the political illiteracy of the economists combined with Suharto's attempt to prove that he was in control, caused the regime to increase prices even further than the IMF had sought.
Unorganised public anger thereupon gave a new dimension to the student demonstrations that had hitherto been rather isolated. Factions of the army tried making things worse to get an excuse to regain control by afterwards restoring 'law and order'. The rats began abandoning the sinking ship, and the captain had to choose between going down with it or resigning.
So in essence the problem was political: the inability of the regime to handle conflicts, to reform itself and thus restore confidence in the market place; the inability of the democracy movement to organise the widespread discontent among people, relying instead on student activists as organic spearheads; and the inability of the West and the IMF to boost reform and democratic forces that may have prevented social and economic disaster.
How would you describe what has happened in politics since Suharto's resignation?
To keep it brief, most actors focus on how to alter the old regime. Everybody is busy repositioning themselves, consolidating their assets, and forming new parties and alliances. Incumbents (and their military and business allies) are delaying changes and forming favourable new political laws in order to be able to adapt, making whatever concessions are necessary to be able to steer their course. Established dissidents, meanwhile, trade in their reputations and, occasionally, their popular followings, for reform and 'positions'.
There is a shortage of time. Even old democrats go for shortcuts like charisma, populism, religion, and patronage in order to swiftly incorporate rather than gradually integrate people into politics. Radicals try to sustain popular protests to weaken shameless incumbents who might otherwise be able to stay on.
Of course the markets and the West are mainly interested in anything that looks stable enough to permit the pay-back of loans and safe returns on investments.
Habibie and most of his ministers are New Order people. Yet they do not enjoy New Order powers. Doesn't that make this post-Suharto period 'somewhat' democratic?
Yes the rulers are weaker. For some years, even sections of the Habibie's association for Islamic intellectuals Icmi have had limited democratic reforms on their agenda, like their friend Anwar in Malaysia. By now, any new regime will have to be legitimised in terms of rule of law and democracy. There are continuos negotiations over new rules of the game. And there are a lot of opportunities. Genuine democrats, however, are short of capacity to make use of them. They now cannot rally opposition against an authoritarian ruler. They need instead to mobilise people in society on the basis of different interests and ideas. But that is much more difficult.
Incumbents and others with economic, military and political resources prefer elitist and limited forms of democracy. Sections of the middle class may well support ideas about a rather authoritarian but enlightened law and order state. Especially if actual democracy will mean that local strongmen and religious, military and business leaders mobilise the voters with the use of God, gold, goons and guns, only to divide the spoils among themselves.
These are risky days. What is the biggest danger? What are the signs of hope?
The danger I'm most afraid of is the historical tendency for local political violence to increase as central power becomes weaker and more divided. Less efficient top-down suppression of all the latent conflicts on the local level, centring on food, land and other vital resources, leaves space for not just democratic forces but also for devastating conspiracies and manipulation. As we talk, the killings in East Java, for instance, are still going on.
The best signs of hope, on the other hand, we rarely notice. They are difficult to extrapolate from what we know of Indonesia until the fall of Suharto. The so-called political opportunity structure is changing.
Three brief examples. First, it is no longer possible to simply repress angry workers. Even the most stubborn hardliners realise that it's better to negotiate with representative unions. So it may be possible for labour activists to take the initiative and cautiously enter into this field with a rather good bargaining position, since their opponents really need genuine representatives with whom to strike solid deals.
Second, after the financial crisis even sections of the IMF and the World Bank realise it's time for improved regulations. Neo-liberalism is on the retreat. Hence, there are ample opportunities to continue the struggle for democratisation and so-called 'good governance'.
Third, there will be comparatively free elections on all levels. And though there are many constraints those are opportunities for hitherto rather isolated activists (including 'liberated' journalists) to reach out, link up with grass roots initiatives, and build genuine mass organisations, including democratic watch movements.
What kind of reform is the most crucial, and the most feasible, right now? What should outsiders be supporting?
In Indonesia (as some ten years ago in Eastern Europe) the state and organised politics are seen as bad, and 'civil society' as good. When authoritarian politics have to be undermined there is much to this idea, but now there is less. Now it's high time to mobilise strength in negotiations by organising people and building a democratic culture. I do not share the view that support for civil society is always the best way of doing this. In many cases, such as the backing of free journalists, there are no problems, but all civil society associations do not necessarily promote democracy. And what is political culture but routinely practised remnants of yesterday's rules, institutions, and organised politics? Hence, it's on the level of formal rules and institutions on the one hand, and of organised politics on the other, that change and improvements have to start.
It is essential for the democratic forces to give priority to organising constituencies based on shared societal interests and ideas. They should not go for tempting shortcuts. Without well-anchored politics and unionism there will be no meaningful democracy.
Equally important, all efforts - including ours from outside - must be made to oppose new political rules of the game that make such efforts increasingly difficult, and to mobilise support for better alternatives.
One example is the need to back up genuine labour groups and unions by involving them in the distribution of support for the unemployed. Another is the new electoral law. Not only does it retain corporate military representation. It is also tailor made to promote local boss- rule in one-man constituencies and to prevent proportional representation of small but potentially genuine parties.
Finally, of course, in the run-up to the elections there must be massive support for independent voters education and electoral watch movements. The objective should be to build constituencies for the future among genuine democrats at the grass roots level.
Olle Tornquist commutes between Sweden and Norway where he is professor of politics and development at the University of Oslo. He is the author of 'Dilemmas of Third World communism' and 'What's wrong with Marxism?' (based on Indonesia and India), and the new textbook 'Politics and development - A critical introduction'.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
She is much more than an opposition politician. Megawati is an idol. And possibly Indonesia's fourth president.
Stefan Eklof
On 8 October 1998 the leader of the Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI) and daughter of Indonesia's first president Sukarno, Megawati Sukarnoputri, opened the party's fifth congress in Sanur in southern Bali. The opening session was held on a large field in the outskirts of the Balinese capital Denpasar. Hundreds of thousands of Megawati's supporters dressed in the party's colours red and black flocked to the field to hear her speech.
Many had travelled for days to Bali from all over the archipelago to take part in the celebrations around the congress and to show their support for Megawati. Most of the audience, however, were Balinese youths from around the island.
As Megawati ascended the speaker's podium, the masses could hardly contain their excitement, ecstatically shouting 'Mega! Mega!'. For almost an hour, Megawati laid out her vision for Indonesia in the post-Suharto era, frequently interrupted by loud applause and choruses of approval.
Afterwards congress delegates moved to the Grand Bali Beach Hotel in Sanur to hold the rest of the sessions, all of which were closed to the public. The congress went smoothly. There were few visible lines of division between the delegates, and no disturbances occurred during any of the three congress days.
Megawati was unanimously re-elected party leader. Moreover the congress decided to nominate her as the party's candidate for the coming presidential election in November 1999.
Justice
Commonplace as it may seem, the decision by a political party to nominate its leader as a presidential candidate is unique in Indonesia's political history. No party ever dared to challenge Sukarno for the presidency before he was forced by the military to hand over power in 1966. Under the New Order, the political system was carefully designed to preserve Suharto's single candidacy for the presidency.
The government employed a range of manipulative and repressive measures to achieve this and to silence dissenting voices. In June 1996, after Megawati had hinted she might stand as a candidate in the March 1998 presidential election, the government engineered a PDI congress which ousted her as party leader and reinstated the party's former leader, Suryadi.
However, Megawati refused to acknowledge the legality of that congress, not even after Suryadi's PDI faction, backed by the military and by hired thugs, attacked and ousted her supporters from the party's central headquarters in Jakarta on 27 July 1996. At least five people were killed in the attack, which triggered the worst riot in Jakarta in more than a decade, with thousands of people burning and looting shops and government buildings in the area around the party headquarters.
Megawati continued to assert that she was the legitimate leader of the PDI, and she refused to compromise with the government and the Suryadi faction. However, the government barred her from participating in the May 1997 election. The PDI consequently performed disastrously, collecting only 3.1% of the votes, down from 14.9% in 1992. The result was widely interpreted as a sign of public disgust with the government's treatment of Megawati.
The government consistently denied her any formal role in politics. Even after Suharto resigned in May 1998 and the political climate opened up, the Habibie government continued only to acknowledge the PDI faction led by Suryadi. In August 1998 the faction held a government sponsored congress in Palu, Central Sulawesi. Here Suryadi was replaced with Budi Harjono, who had been the government's preferred candidate for the PDI chair in 1993, when Megawati first was elected.
Megawati's ousting in 1996 and the government's subsequent rough treatment of her, helped to heighten the public sense of injustice and lack of democracy under the New Order. Meanwhile, Megawati managed to stay in the political limelight through her uncompromising stance toward the government. While the affair exposed the government's heavy-handedness and manipulative methods, it also served to boost Megawati's public reputation for justice and incorruptibility.
'Megamania'
It was no coincidence that Megawati chose Bali as the venue for her congress in October. Bali is one of her strongest provinces of support. Many Balinese still hold Sukarno in high esteem - his mother was Balinese. As the congress approached, Megawati's popularity was clearly visible all around the island. The Balinese put Megawati and Sukarno posters outside their houses and stickers on their cars. Along the roads there were red flags with the PDI symbol of a buffalo head, and the text 'Pro- Megawati'.
Motorbikes had similar flags hanging from behind. People wore red T-shirts, capes, headbands and accessories with party attributes, such as badges, necklaces and key rings. Large home-painted billboards of Sukarno and Megawati decorated the roadsides in many villages.
Young Megawati supporters built bamboo sheds on poles in their neighbourhoods and hamlets, all painted red and decorated with posters of Megawati and political slogans. In the evenings, the youngsters assembled in the sheds to talk politics and to listen to protest songs and recordings of Megawati's opening speech of the congress. Every day, from the early afternoon until late at night, the main roads around Denpasar were crammed with thousands of people, mostly young men and teenagers, who rode around town in large and lively caravans of motorbikes, cars and trucks. Sitting on top of their vehicles or hanging out the windows, the celebrators tirelessly waved their red flags and shouted 'Mega! Mega!' or 'Hidup Mega!' (Long Live Mega) in chorus.
This exuberant eruption of political activity among the Balinese took place after several decades of repression of political activity. The Suharto regime aimed at depoliticising Indonesia's masses. It destroyed or emasculated existing political parties. The only approved political activity was to express support for the government's electoral vehicle, Golkar. Activists for other parties were often harassed.
Suharto's resignation in May brought about a more open political climate. It led to a virtual explosion of long-suppressed political activity around the country. Megawati's congress provided a welcome opportunity for the Balinese to celebrate their new-won political freedom.
Idol
Political commentators have often criticised Megawati for being a weak politician, lacking fundamental understanding of politics and economics and having little in terms of a concrete political program. Relevant as this critique may seem, it is primarily a view held by the political elites in Indonesia.
For Megawati's young followers, she is much more than an opposition politician, she is an idol. One Balinese high school student said: 'Megawati has been my idol ever since junior high school. [...] Because of her self-confidence, Megawati dares to be oppositional [and] to fight continuously to defend the truth.' Another student said: 'Mega is a super woman. She dares to face any obstacle whatsoever. I hope I can become like her.'
While there is no doubt that Megawati's popularity largely derives from her father's name, that does not go all the way to explain it. Megawati is able to benefit from her father's popularity because she has built a reputation for certain moral qualities of her own. Megawati's struggle against the New Order government boosted her reputation for justice, righteousness, integrity and political courage. These are also qualities that Sukarno's name represents to those Indonesians who still hold the former president's name dear. Many people also tend to see Megawati's struggle for justice against the New Order as an analogy to Sukarno's struggle for justice and independence against the Dutch in the 1930s.
Since Suharto's resignation in May, discussion about the wide- spread corruption and injustice under the New Order has created much public resentment. In contrast, Megawati symbolises justice and is untainted by corruption. She enjoys broad support among poor Indonesians who feel strongly that they were disadvantaged under the New Order, and who have yet to see things change for the better.
President?
Young Balinese showed extra-ordinary enthusiasm for Megawati, but she has large followings all around the country and from all generations. Many of her supporters belong to the poor urban masses who are among the hardest hit by the current economic crisis. If the May 1999 election even roughly reflects the popular political will, the PDI under Megawati may very well become Indonesia's largest political party, collecting perhaps 25-30% of the votes. Apart from Golkar, the PDI stands out as the only major non-Islamic political alternative.
Islamic credentials are no doubt an advantage in a country where close to 90% of the population are Muslim. But many non-Muslims and moderate Muslims are suspicious of political Islamic aspirations, and this works to Megawati's benefit. If after next year's election the PDI can strike a deal with one or more of the moderate Muslim parties, then Megawati stands a good chance of becoming Indonesia's fourth president in November 1999.
Stefan Eklof is a PhD student writing about the PDI at Lund University, Sweden. He is the author of 'Indonesian politics in crisis' (NIAS, expected out early 1999).
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Beyond humanitarian assistance, should our aid program stress 'governance' or 'human rights'? Actually, both.
Philip Eldridge
There are many different ways of perceiving Indonesia's 'crisis', with many corresponding Australian responses. But the extent of human suffering, social and economic disruption experienced by the Indonesian people is undeniable. And there is widespread agreement that the humanitarian crisis and political reform must be confronted interdependently.
Such a convergence between the need for humanitarian aid and political reform offers real opportunities for change in Indonesia. But given the great uncertainty of the whole situation, and the need for action and balance across many fronts, it is important that no-one pushes their diagnoses and prescriptions to extremes, insisting on false choices between government and non-government, macro and micro level action, short-term emergency relief and longer term development, incremental programs and deeper structural change.
While everyone must specialise, we can now see how, for example, seemingly obscure issues of financial management can impact at the base of society. On the other hand, while holistic solutions are essential, these can too easily paralyse specific action on any front.
Nevertheless, there are important differences in the way various groups perceive the connection between politics and economics. A useful guide to these differences is to compare 'governance' and human rights approaches.
Governance agendas focus on issues of legal due process, accountability and transparency, open and honest elections, efficient public administration and economic management, systems and structures supportive of the conduct of commerce according to clear market rules.
By comparison, human rights principles are more normative and universal, emphasising the dignity and the physical, social and cultural well-being of the human person.
The 1993 UN Vienna Declaration asserted the indivisibility of political and legal rights from economic, social and cultural rights, often artificially divided by both earlier Cold War and ongoing 'East versus West' and 'North versus South' rhetoric.
Here my aim is to clarify means and ends, rather than setting up yet another false dichotomy of the kind I warned against earlier. It would also be wrong to see the Australian government as exclusively pursuing governance, and NGOs as entirely committed to human rights. The Australian government combines the two in sometimes confusing ways. NGOs, while basically supportive of human rights values, often find legalistic and prescriptive aspects of human rights agendas in conflict with their core participatory and voluntarist concepts of partnership.
There are many obvious points of compatibility between governance and human rights concepts. Sound structures of law, government and commerce are essential to achieving human rights. But notions of justice and mutual obligation, closely linked to rights, appear to be lacking from governance models, whose language has in part been captured to serve goals of neo-liberal economics and to justify International Monetary Fund (IMF) packages of doubtful value to Indonesia.
Conversely, a thoroughgoing human rights approach would accord basic health, nutrition, education and employment opportunities a central place, alongside civil and political rights. Requirements on signatory states to the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) to 'respect, protect and fulfil' such rights place clear obligations on both Australia and Indonesia.
Shallow
Indonesia's experience shows the shallowness of earlier development efforts, in face of deep-rooted poverty structures. Despite acknowledged, though often exaggerated improvements in basic indicators for the majority under Suharto, concentration of wealth at the top end of Indonesian society produced a too narrow base to survive full exposure to international market regimes.
The crisis faced by Indonesia's poor - again the large majority - has deepened on all major fronts. The UN Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) estimates that about 100 million Indonesians are in danger of falling below the poverty line in 1999, and more than twenty million are unemployed as a result of falling demand and production.
Growing malnutrition among children carries real dangers of their suffering long-term brain damage. The FAO has further projected an increase of 47% in rice import requirements for 1999 compared with its forecast in April, though recent news may suggest a partial recovery.
The effectiveness of Australia's contribution will in large measure depend on both the efforts of the international community and sustained 'political will' by Indonesia. The spirit in which it is given will also affect future relations. While the wisdom of Australian efforts to soften IMF conditionalities has been questioned by many Indonesians seeking political change, assertions of solidarity in hard times ('in for the long haul... not a fair weather friend' etc) by Australian leaders seem to have been mostly well received, as they have been backed up by solid financial and other support.
However, the rather didactic tone accompanying recent suggestions of a new Australian leadership role in overcoming the regional crisis requires modifying towards a language of dialogue if effective cooperation is to be maintained.
AusAid
Australian government responses have largely followed the 'governance' approach, though tempered by a considerable humanitarian spirit. Many new programs relate to statistical data gathering, financial and economic management in both public and private sectors, while new fields of technical assistance and professional exchange are opened up.
Given the overall tight budgetary climate, increases in financial allocations to Indonesia have been significant. Australia's annual pledge to the World Bank sponsored Consortium Group for Indonesia (CGI) rose from AU$74 million in July 1997 to AU$120 million in July 1998. Additionally, Indonesia may win up to half of a new AU$6m Asia Crisis Fund open to competitive bidding within the official aid agency AusAid. Flexibility has also been extended to local counterpart costs, which have risen by up to 100%.
AusAid has joined with the World Bank in supporting a scholarship scheme for secondary school students, aimed at keeping them at school during hard times. But the mass of poor children never proceed beyond primary level, while basic nutrition programs are essential to maintaining school attendance. Many local groups and small NGOs are either unaware of or are unable to access such schemes. Monitoring of World Bank programs has now become a major concern, not least to the Bank itself, particularly with regard to lower level distribution channels.
Drought relief and food aid have been stepped up, both directly and through NGOs, together with ongoing programs in the field of water supply and agriculture. Technical assistance is being supplied to programs coordinated by Indonesia's National Planning Institute (Bappenas) and the World Bank to design and monitor labour intensive works programs in four eastern Indonesian provinces, including drought relief programs.
At the same time, Australian exports of wheat and cotton will benefit from higher export insurance cover up to $900 million. Finally, in responding across a wider front, it appears that AusAid will maintain its long-term commitment to Eastern Indonesia, one of Indonesia's poorest regions, where experience, infrastructure and relationships have been steadily built up.
Beyond government
There has been an encouraging range of responses from semi- government and non-government groups, partly supported from AusAid funds. In the area of legal and human rights, AusAid has supported the Asian Forum of National Human Rights Institutions through the (Australian) Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission (HREOC), which provides the Secretariat. The Forum is an important vehicle for cooperation between HREOC and Indonesia's National Human Rights Commission.
The newly established Centre for Democratic Institutions will emphasise exchanges between practitioners in fields such as public administration, electoral practice and constitutional law.
The Australian Legal Resources Group, acting as funding arm for the International Commission of Jurists, cooperates with Indonesian NGOs and members of the judiciary in evaluations, exchanges and training. Administrative law and judicial ethics have been selected as key areas. Transparency International Australia is working with Indonesian NGOs towards a 'national integrity' workshop ahead of elections due in May 1999.
Space does not allow coverage of efforts across many fields, while some groups, on the advice of Indonesian partners, prefer to avoid publicity. Media is an emerging field of cooperation. Despite long standing links on the labour front, effective cooperation between Indonesian NGOs and the international union movement has yet to be established. Here, a large influx of US aid funds may distort goals of labour and democratic organisation more generally.
Smaller scale, but significant programs featured in the recent Australian Council For Overseas Aid (ACFOA) workshop included self-help groups working directly with the urban poor, assisted by Australian and New Zealand expatriates in Indonesia and individuals based in Australia. Some young Australians have been inspired by the generosity of Indonesians amidst their own poverty to conduct a round Australia cycle fund-raising tour.
My conclusion is both practical and theoretical. In action terms, Indonesia's crisis is multi-faceted, with opportunities for cooperation across the full spectrum of Australian and Indonesian life and society. Such efforts can and do make a difference provided they are contextualised and undertaken in a spirit of partnership.
Aims underlying my more political advocacy of a human rights approach - yet to be fully developed in Australia's regional relations - include: (1) balancing more technocratic aspects of the 'governance' agenda with an ethos of rights, justice and mutual obligation; (2) reinforcing integration and 'indivisibility' between politico-legal and socio-cultural- economic spheres of action; and (3) strengthening holistic perspectives of the Australia-Indonesia partnership in overcoming poverty.
Dr Eldridge is Honorary Research Associate, Department of Government, University of Tasmania. He is currently researching Australian human rights policies in Southeast Asia.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Indonesia's fragile post-Suharto transition is threatened by social conflict as much as by squabbles among the elite. But this international meeting of non-government organisations declares that the uncertainty is all the more reason to push on towards democracy.
Infid (and friends)
Indonesia's political situation is uncertain. The hand-over of power from Suharto to Habibie merely created an even more serious political crisis. The armed forces Abri, one of the pillars of the New Order, is experiencing delegitimation over revelations that they were involved in serious human rights violations such as kidnapping political activists and killing demonstrators. Yet Abri is still on the political stage, and the possibility that 'reformasi' may be reversed and turned back to authoritarianism remains very great. Recently, for example, there have been signs of increasing violence and the suspicion that murders are being committed for political ends.
The economic crisis, meanwhile, has grown more serious. Although in October the rupiah strengthened somewhat, this has coincided with signs of the impending collapse of global capitalism. In other words, the Indonesian economy faces not merely a national crisis but a global economic recession. The goal of strengthening the economy of the majority of ordinary people therefore requires a clear strategy not only at the national but at the global level.
Horizontal friction within society over religion and ethnicity (known in Indonesia as primordialism) is spreading. The political euphoria that has given birth to more than 100 political parties is an indirect expression of weak solidarity and of limited perspectives within civil society as it faces the challenge of an expanded political space. Conflicts within the body politic are now no longer confined to those between factions of the power elite, as happened in the run-up to the fall of Suharto, but are now tending to expand into conflicts between various groups within society, with serious implications.
This fragile political transition needs to be watched carefully so that these conflicts do not end up obliterating the opportunity to create democracy in Indonesia. Non-government organisations (NGOs) are being called on to play a more concrete and organised role, to sustain the transition towards democracy at every level - regional, national and international.
We who are attending this meeting have agreed to build a coalition of international NGOs on the basis of our common commitment to democracy and human rights.
The purpose of this coalition is to develop a democratic political process based on respect for human rights. Its strategy will be to mobilise the broadest possible non-partisan support for democracy in various constituencies within civil society by organising and by providing political education.
The coalition will seek to:
Maintain and expand the available political space;
Contribute to the transformation of non-democratic institutions and practices, such as a) Abri dual function, b) the centralisation of power and the looting of the regions by the centre, c) the five political laws of the New Order era, and d) corruption;
Build the broadest possible alliances to support these goals by recognising the specific needs of (for example) indigenous groups, local cultures, religious groups, etc;
Involve itself in creative dialogue with political parties and other social groups in order to promote healthy democratic debate;
Organise and mobilise international support for democratising initiatives;
Conduct public political education in order to develop democratic outlooks;
Urge the international community to support the empowerment of civil society and of social movements by giving its direct support (funding, information, networking, etc) to NGOs and other social groups.
Jakarta, 24 October 1998.
Infid is a coalition of about a hundred NGOs. Half are Indonesian, the other half are based in the major donor countries interested in Indonesia, including Europe, Japan, North America and Australia. The meeting in Jakarta 23-24 October 1998 was hosted by Infid. It aimed to consider the role of NGOs in the transition towards democracy in Indonesia. Invited participants from South Africa, South Korea, and Chile shared their experience of transition. This statement was produced at the meeting.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Page 45 of 68
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