Obituary
Professor Herb Feith
Pak Wertheim, the founder of modern Indonesian studies in Holland, was nearly 91 when he died. Like others who die at an advanced age, much of his story had faded from public memory by that time.
W F Wertheim was Holland's counterpart to America's George McT Kahin. The first edition of his 'Indonesian society in transition' came out in 1950, two years before Kahin's 'Nationalism and revolution in Indonesia', and each was a foundational work on which many others built.
But Wertheim belonged to an earlier generation of Indonesia specialists. While Kahin's involvements began only at the end of World War 2, Wertheim arrived in Batavia in 1931 and soon afterwards began to teach at its Law School. In 1940 he was appointed to the small Visman Commission, a prestigious government body formed to examine the colony's constitutional future.
Whereas Kahin spent most of World War 2 in the American army, where he learned Dutch, Wertheim spent most of it in Japanese prison camps in Java.
Each was an active partisan of the Indonesian republic during its revolutionary struggle for independence. And each of them continued to be academics in an engaged style. In 1951 Wertheim declined an invitation to teach in Indonesia. His decision was a protest against the Sukiman government's inviting the Nazi-tainted Hjalmar Schacht to Indonesia as an economic adviser. Echoes of Dr Tjipto Mangoenkoesomo who ridiculed a decoration from the colonial government for his contributions to the eradication of contagious disease.
In the Suharto years Wertheim gave active support to Dutch and other European organisations publicising the plight of political prisoners in Indonesia. He also wrote frequently about the coup attempt of 1 October 1965, and specifically on Suharto's mysterious interactions on its eve with Colonel Latief, a key member of the group of plotters.
Pak Wertheim will be remembered for the encouragement he gave to people who went on to become scholars and teachers in their own right. One of those is the late Yale historian Harry Benda, who met Wertheim when they were both in Japanese prison camps in Java. A second is the Bogor rural sociologist Sayogyo, who as Kampto Utomo was Wertheim's assistant and PhD supervisee when the latter taught at Bogor in 1956-67. In recent decades Sayogyo has become famous for his research on innovative methods of measuring poverty.
When the transnational history of post-World War 2 Indonesian studies is written Wertheim will emerge as a foundational figure. And if there is ever a history of the radical stream within that tradition he will emerge as one of its most inspirational members.
Professor Herb Feith is himself one of the founders of Indonesian studies in Australia. He currently teaches in Yogyakarta.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Globalisation offers only disaster to Indonesia's poor. Student demonstrators should extend their protest to the powers governing their economy.
Wim F Wertheim
During the 1990s the word 'globalisation' has become a fashionable word. Literally it only means a worldwide spread, which could pertain to many different things including the spread of ideas. When the term 'globalisation' is used by politicians or the media it is mostly about the spread of market influence in economic and political life over the whole world.
However, when we speak of the Third World (which was the most important area of work for Gerrit Huizer and myself for the past 25 years) then globalisation has absolutely nothing to do with that kind of world.
The so-called 'Asian flu' which broke out in the financial world proves that whereas global players play at a sort of hazardous game, it has very serious consequences for the still poor peoples of East and Southeast Asia.
What has been happening in Indonesia during the last year, affecting its economy and social cohesiveness, may serve as a warning for the present near-religious belief in the benefits of the market being promoted on a global scale.
IMF restructuring
In reality there has not been much change under President Habibie. There are no massive protests against the real causes of the economic crisis. Yet if one follows the process which led irrefutably to the fall of Suharto, one should realise that it was a direct consequence of a damaging requirement by the IMF to restructure the economy.
One of these demands was the scrapping, or at least gradual elimination, of the long-standing government subsidies for energy, which existed to keep costs down for the population. The government was thus responsible for the massive increase of 50%- 70% in prices by withdrawing the subsidies.
Globalisation of the economy, introduced by western business, had absolutely no concern for the interests of the Asian population. The only purpose for Indonesian as well as foreign investors, bankers and creditors, was to make sure they could realise the return of their loans of millions that they had so carelessly advanced.
In this rage of western globalisation the IMF and the World Bank play a crucial role. A 'free market' has nothing to do with reaching a certain 'free economic trade' for the seriously impoverished population of Indonesia and other countries affected by the 'Asian flu', but has only the purpose of making investment in Asia advantageous for western bankers and investors.
The important journal Derde Wereld has devoted a special issue to the question: 'Are the World Bank and the IMF ready for the 21st century?'. One citation from it is as follows: 'As lender of last resort for countries with liquidity deficits, the IMF insures the investors against financial losses, and demands from the poor that they pay the price.'
The same issue of Derde Wereld says frankly: 'The IMF has been making a true religion of its neo-liberal economic policies. Consequently it is considered sacrilegious to ask questions about the basic principles of this new religion.' Anyway, neither the IMF nor the World Bank, established in the USA at the end of World War II, were bodies which represented the whole world; they were only products of the Cold War which had just started.
As far as Indonesia is concerned, the Wall Street Journal has all of a sudden discovered what people who studied the country already knew 20 years ago, namely that the usual praises of Indonesia as being one of the young Asian tigers were based on pure wishful thinking, and that the World Bank itself was not innocent of the creation of this image.
We can now easily see that all the misery which the population of Southeast Asia experience at the moment is for a great part the result of the whole process of globalisation that has been enforced by the western world - and that the IMF as well as the World Bank also have to share in the creation of this world disaster.
I would like to pose the crucial question: Is it possible for the Indonesian populace to expect something positive from a new multi-billion dollar loan from the IMF? For let us realise, it would only be a loan. And this will have to be paid back in the future, with interest. There is no way that the IMF or the World Bank will just cancel the debt of a Third World government from the 'goodness of their heart'. Jan Breman has said the same thing: 'The World Bank's aim is to protect its own outstanding capital and to have it returned with profit if possible. It does not differ in the least from an ordinary bank.'
It is clear that the present Habibie regime, supported by the military echelons, is again ready to adjust to the IMF decisions. This brings the important question: Will the spirit of this year's Indonesian opposition develop within the foreseeable future into an all-embracing resistance that might be able to withstand the foreign pressure and the demands of the IMF?
Students
We may certainly view the students' actions, which were so instrumental in Suharto's resignation, as a form of struggle for emancipation. What is still lacking is an ideological motive for a resistance that goes further than 'reformasi' of the state apparatus and which strives for a change on the political level.
It must be understood that in the first place it is not a question of substituting people at the top of the government, but of knowing what powers govern the economy. This must involve breaking a taboo that during the years 1965-66 became the basis of the 'Orde Baru' and that for 32 years has been considered inviolable.
In a very important doctoral thesis, the Dutch sociologist Saskia Wieringa demonstrated in detail that from the beginning of October 1965 the Indonesian military elite manipulated public opinion by systematically accusing the PKI of being responsible for the murder of the generals in which Suharto himself was closely involved. In this media campaign, Gerwani - the left-wing movement for the emancipation of women and closely linked with the communists - was portrayed as a group of godless prostitutes who attended the murders and had participated in all sorts of animal lusts. This was the signal for the terrible murder of communists when more than half a million innocent people were butchered.
This reign of terror has resulted in the fact that still very few people in Indonesia dare to state publicly that communist or socialist ideas might be a basis for a final solution of economic problems.
Under these circumstances it can not be expected that all of a sudden a new Indonesian government will come to power that can withstand the demands of the IMF on principle. At the most one could hope for a stronger nationalist-oriented government, which could emulate the Malaysian prime minister Mahathir Mohamad, who is trying to withstand the IMF's demands. But it is still too early for the development of a truly 'globalised' struggle for emancipation by the peoples of the Third World from the powers of Washington.
This article is extracted from the last paper Professor Wertheim wrote. He died, aged nearly 91, on 2 November 1998. Chris Williams was the translator.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Millions are on welfare. But can it make a difference to their future?
Vanessa Johanson
Hand outs. Everyone is doing it. Government departments ranging from the Department of Mines and Energy to the Department of Tourism, non-government organisations, the World Bank, fast-food joints and newspapers, middle and upper-class philanthropists from inside and outside Indonesia, foreign governments, foreign companies and village heads - all have their own reasons for wanting to give out food to Indonesia's 100 million or more very poor.
As unemployment and inflation continue to soar, the need for affordable food is indeed enormous. As of the middle of October '98, the cheapest rice available in neighbourhood markets in Java is between Rp 2,600 þ 3,000 a kilo. Compare this to the wage of a Jakarta building construction worker þ in most cases unchanged since the crisis began - who earns around Rp 6,000 a day. Meanwhile, the Bandung factory-worker who makes the bricks and tiles for the same building earns only about Rp 2,500 a day.
I went to the field on 18 October with Bandung Peduli, a small, nine-month-old food security non-government organisation (NGO) working in villages in Bandung and West Java. We traveled to the green back blocks of Padalarang, previously a busy industrial area. We carried several hundred packages of food, each containing 10 kilos of rice and 0.25 kilo of salted fish.
Two Bandung Peduli voluntary teams had preceded us there in the past weeks to survey the level of need in the area and identify the individuals most in need of help. Initially they had spoken to Bapak Machmud, a local social worker, who had introduced them to various families.
The Bandung Peduli volunteers þ students from local universities þ had asked the families about their weekly income expenditure, number of children, work, land, type of housing, sanitation and health-care used, and about other kinds of assistance available to them. In practice, those qualifying for help from Bandung Peduli are families with both parents unemployed and no fertile land.
In the kampung we visited, Cibadap, most families originate from other areas, and moved to Cibadap to work in small brick, tile and marble factories. The construction industry has collapsed in the economic crisis.
Ibu Elli and her husband work in a factory. 'The factories are still going', she said 'but we only work about two weeks in a month. Lots of people have been laid off.' Meanwhile, the green paddies and cassava gardens in the area are mostly owned by people 'from the city' who once employed locals to cultivate them. Now the 'city people' employ jobless relatives.
'Anyhow, the land is no good,' said another Cibadap woman. 'You can't grow much at all.' Part of the government's intensive labour program is to grow food on every centimetre of available land, employing the unemployed millions and utilising some of the long- controversial Reforestation Fund. This program has many critics. 'By the time the money gets to us half of it is gone and so has several weeks of our time. It's not worth it,' intimated a Palembang NGO worker.
What about the future?
Ridlo Eisy, the director of Bandung Peduli, says, 'We are proud of our careful multiple survey technique. Most government programs just turn up in the villages with a truck of food and unload it on the doorstep of the village head or at the village cooperative. Sometimes it then gets sold outside, or distributed to the wrong people. However, we know exactly who we are giving food to.'
One of the men in the village, his broken thongs repaired with a small stapler, approached Ridlo with important questions. 'We have already been given this and that: seeds and a small wage for labour from the government intensive labour fund in order to grow timber and vegetables, basic food stuffs from you. But what about the future? We all know that children here need to go to school. The factories only take high school graduates. And sooner or later there have to be work opportunities. Can't you help us finish building the school? We use it already, but the walls leak.'
Ridlo's answer reflects both his organisation's minimal funds, but also its philosophy of encouraging kampung people to help themselves. 'Well, why don't you set up "Cibadap Peduli"? If there's only 10% of people in the village working right now, they can help buy the construction material. The unemployed men can then finish the building.'
In several kampungs, Bandung Peduli has helped set up Warung Peduli, a self-sustaining rice shop. They get an initial batch of rice from Bandung Peduli, which they then sell cheaply and use the profits to buy more rice to sell cheaply, and also to fund other small local projects.
Other initiatives include giving help to local people to work on their own community development. One focus of such work is finding alternative employment for and educating the escalating numbers of young girls becoming prostitutes in almost every village.
As the packets of food were unloaded in a muddy vacant lot, I asked 12-year-old Nur where her school was. 'Oh, a few kilometres up the road,' she replied. 'I just came down here to watch the food distribution.' She was with a group of her friends, enjoying the entertainment. 'Does your dad work around here?' I asked.
'No. He doesn't work. He used to work in the factory. Now he doesn't.'
'Your mum?'
'She doesn't work either.'
'Does she have a garden?'
'Oh yes, she works in the garden.'
The other children listened carefully, inching closer, so I asked a collective question: 'Are you all going to school then?'
'Ye-e-es.'
'Do your dads work in the factory?'
'No-o-o .... Where are you from, miss?'
'This village is unusual in this respect,' confirmed Kania Roesli, a founding member of Bandung Peduli. 'People sell their furniture and even their cutlery so that they can keep sending their kids to school.'
Bandung Peduli estimates that over 4 million people in West Java are threatened with starvation, and that nearly 15 million live below the poverty line. They know their work is piece-meal and unsustainable. 'It's going to take the whole macro economy to turn around before we can really see a big change here,' says Kania. 'In the mean time we want to at least ease people's worries about basic food stuffs temporarily so that they can think about other opportunities.'
Food gardens
Other individuals and organisations are more active in chasing these other opportunities. In Central Java, for example, a group of local NGOs are focusing their efforts on teaching people with small plots how to produce fertilizer with compost. With the right procedure, a villager with a small amount of exhausted land can have flourishing food garden growing in a matter of months. With much of the densely populated land in Java severely degraded by chemical use and other problems, such programs are vital.
The total estimated aid for food security and the social safety net from various sources now stands at around Rp 17 trillion. In Jakarta, some of the 'hand-outs' from bi- and multi-lateral donors are filtered through the Community Recovery Program (CRP), which then grants the funds to small, short-term projects which otherwise 'fall through the cracks.' CRP insists that its grantees combine short-term food relief with medium-term goals, such as income generation and employment creation programs, which in practice translate into programs for micro-enterprise training, simple technology introduction to add value to products, developing new agricultural products and rice substitute crops and so on.
A glance at the most recent statistics on economic growth from the Central Bureau of Statistics should send a strong message to policy makers about priority areas to focus on. Small industry shows an 11% contraction þ a huge drop, but significantly better than medium to large industry which shows a 14% contraction for the same period from January to September 1998.
Meanwhile, the farming sector is the only sector which shows any growth at all so far this year, with 0.23% growth. The small enterprise and farming sectors absorbed the vast majority (an estimated 60%) of all Indonesian workers before the crisis, and have the potential to do so again.
On the macro level, in order to provide real and sustainable food security, and eventual economic recovery, the government must implement policies which encourage (or simply 'get off the backs of') small enterprise and farmers.
On the way home from Padalarang I ate toasted banana with cheese and chocolate under the canvas of 'Sense of Crisis Cafe', one of the new, trendy and cheap roadside warungs. The thousands of new city mini-cafes are the colourful face of krismon (krisis moneter), often set up by students, laid-off bank and other office workers, and even by singers and soap stars. They have become fashionable weekend hang-outs for those who can't afford restaurants and night- clubs anymore. They represent the kind of creative entrepreneurship which is capable of flourishing in Indonesia when given the opportunity.
Vanessa Johanson is an Australian writer in Jakarta. Contact Bandung Peduli at Jl Supratman No. 57, Bandung, West Java, Indonesia, tel/fax 62-22-705 527, email mridlo@melsa.net.id. Contact CRP at Program PKM, Jl Tebet Barat Dalam No. 38, Tebet Barat, Jakarta, Indonesia, tel 62-21-828 0050.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Funding cuts and apathy make life difficult for 2000 street kids in Semarang.
Jane Eaton
It is a sweltering hot Friday morning and I'm on a mission, but first I must go and visit some friends at the local bus stop.
'Hey guys, what's up?'
Hmmmm cool response.
'What's wrong?' Silence.
Definitely a cool response.
'Are you mad at me?'
Kneeling down I look for some explanation of the cold shoulder. And then I see the teardrops, pause before they fall. My heart shatters.
Others notice the tears. A small crowd of onlookers quickly assembles. After the apologies and hugging I finally convince him to take a break and come for a ride with me.
There are now over 2000 street kids in Semarang. Yogie, the young boy with the tough exterior is typical of the kids who visited the shelter. Initially when the drop-in centre first started there were around 10 to 15 boys residing at the shelter. The lack of social services in this, Brisbane's sister city (but bigger!), has meant that numbers grew quickly.
The shelter was established in early 1997 as a joint project between the United Nations Development Program, the Indonesian Department of Welfare, and local charities. Shelters were set up in all major cities with enough funding for two years of operation.
Needless to say, funds here were quickly 'dispersed'. In early November, only seven months after it started, the Semarang shelter closed its doors.
Four of us pile into a becak (pedicab) and head off to find the elusive Ibu Indrah, the proprietor of a now empty shop space at the back of the market. One young boy, who sleeps in the market, suggested we rent the shop space as a safe place for a couple of the kids to live. The boy at the market was actually sleeping in a small cavity between the roof of the market building and the top of the shop - a space 50cm high.
After the usual false starts we finally locate Ibu Indrah in her new premises. Eventually I'm allowed to enter. The boys are too 'dirty' to be allowed in and are asked to wait outside. 'Well it's worth a shot', I think to myself. 'She'll probably say no, but I can't come this far and back out now, especially not in front of the boys.'
Edi and I put forward our offer to rent the place so that the children will have somewhere safe and out of the rain to live. After some hesitation she decides that we may use the shop for free, as the building will be demolished in the coming months.
With the precious keys in hand we pile back into the becak and head back. This time the ride is much more cheerful as we boast to the becak driver of our success. We agree to meet later in the day to start cleaning the place up.
Back to the streets
Whether the original shelter will open again and what form it will take is still unclear. A meeting was held recently with rumours flying thick and fast that the shelter would re-open. It has since been made clear to the kids that this isn't going to happen. The high publicity event was perhaps just a political manoeuvre. One claim is that an ambitious local Welfare Department head was trying to impress, another is that the local partners were trying to cover up the shelter's closure from visiting dignitaries.
For a project bedded in altruistic motives, politics and corruption has sullied the street kids' chance at shelter. The situation first began to disintegrate in July of 1997, when the shelter's guardian quit in disgust at the corrupt management practices of the local Welfare Department.
Without any programme officers to monitor the shelter, local thugs moved in, and the children moved back onto the streets.
Another shelter in Semarang, where many of the children used to live before they were forced to move to this government sponsored shelter, had also been forced to close its doors after being attacked in a midnight raid by local thugs. There was nowhere to go, except back to the streets.
Why is there so much apathy and resentment against street children? It is unclear. The national authorities as well as regional and local authorities have little patience for the plight of street children.
But the problem isn't going to disappear through lack of attention, or as sometimes happens, physical intimidation. Around 15,000 people are losing their jobs every day in Indonesia. As the economy contracts so too does the ability of the family to afford their children's welfare.
In August the Education Minister revealed that only 54% of school aged children had actually enrolled, leaving 46% of Indonesian children out there in the 'real world' with the grown ups. It is a lot easier to intimidate and exploit a child than an adult. They make excellent workers in this period of international competitiveness and free trade.
It is now lunchtime and the heat is oppressive. The five of us meet outside the shop which the kids will soon call home. We're armed with brooms and detergent and are attracting the stares of passers by. The shop is located above the market's rubbish dump. On a day as hot as this one the smell is nauseating. However, like the first rule of real estate says - location, location, location.
We jiggle the key in the lock and push open the door to find a dark cave tangled with spider webs, rats, cockroaches and other bugs, not to mention a number of rotting cat carcasses. At least 5cm of dust covers the floor. How long has this place been empty?
We rip down the curtains and throw out the old magazines and newspapers carpeting the floor. The garbage scavengers come and pick out redeemable pieces of clothing and furniture. For four hours that day we clean, sweep, scrub, wash and sweat. Needless to say with enthralled onlookers adding their two cents worth where they felt necessary. How to clean the cat's imprint off the tiles - suggestions anyone?
Earlier this year research by the Jakarta based Atma Jaya University revealed that within the first three months of living on the streets in Indonesia children are sexually abused at least once.
The short and long term effects of this environment on the children is frightening. The International Labour Organisation has warned that the prostitution/ sex industry accounts for up to 14% of Gross National Product in Southeast Asian countries. This was estimated before the crisis took hold. Indonesia's sex industry depends on a constant supply of vulnerable children. A third of prostitutes are under age. Where do they come from? From previously stable families who no longer have choices.
The future
It is important to look beyond the immediate fiscal implications of the economic crisis. Much more is at stake than balance sheets and foreign reserves. The negative effects of the economic crisis are rupturing the very fabric of society.
What are the long-term consequences of having half a generation grow up in poverty on the streets, being used and using others to survive? What life skills are they acquiring and which of these will they be passing on to their children in 10 to 15 years time? Is this the 'lost generation', without hope and without a future? Will this generation be able to regain a sense of social structure not based on the survival of the fittest mentality of the streets?
What will be the face of Indonesian society in ten years time, when this generation emerges into the spotlight? Endless questions with no immediate answer. The problem is only made worse by the closing of social services, like the Semarang shelter.
We buy some straw mats for the floor, and sit down to congratulate ourselves on a job well done. We order drinks, and dream of how we will use the place for a part time informal school or drop-in centre. How this will be a safe house for the little kids, where no big bullies are allowed to beat us up or bring their girlfriends.
As we dream and plan, the rain finally begins to fall. At last the rainy season has come and the temperature has dropped. Lucky we found this place just in time, no more nights under a wet leaky roof.
Postscript: The rain kept falling that night until the city was covered with water. Edi, being the true gentleman that he is, escorted me through the flooded markets out to the flooded streets in the pouring rain. After paying an exorbitant price for a taxi ride, I finally crashed into bed; and stayed there for the next three days crippled with dysentery. The old market building was burnt in a suspected arson attack in late September.
Jane Eaton was a volunteer in Semarang who now lives near Brisbane, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 57: Jan-Mar 1999
Laine Berman, Speaking through the silence: Narratives, social conventions and power in Java, New York, Oxford University Press, 1998, Hbk ISBN 019-510-8884, AU$140.
Reviewed by DAMIEN KINGSBURY
There has been much acknowledgement of the 'levels' of language in Javanese society. Many observers - usually half informed - have noted the 'polite' and 'refined' aspects of the language. However, with Speaking through the silence, Laine Berman not only offers one of the most detailed accounts of Javanese culture, she identifies the quite pronounced power relations inherent in the Javanese language.
Berman's understanding of Javanese language and culture is based on her years of living and working in Yogyakarta, with ordinary families as well as within the confines of the palace. The focus of her study identifies the hierarchical power relations between different social levels in Javanese society, as well as between men and women.
Several characters in Berman's book are well brought to life, but she saves the most attention for a young woman who works in a local garment factory. Conditions are slave-like, but she has difficulty in even talking about them, or having them listened to. The 'silence' here is that which speaks most, though the gaps in communication are noticeable throughout. 'Politeness' is maintained through a use of non-language. One cannot offend or challenge if utterances are devoid of meaning.
When the protagonist does finally break loose of her restrictive 'cultural' bonds she is sacked. The lesson is that while what is defined as Javanese culture and its so-called refinement remains intact, there is little hope for the social or political emancipation of ordinary Javanese (and hence Indonesian) people.
From a scholarly perspective, Berman's work is thorough and detailed and it rewards close reading. Indonesianist academics and more general anthropologists and linguists should all find this book essential reading. It is a strong work and will undoubtedly find its well deserved place within the canon of texts on Indonesia. Only those with a vested interest in the Javanese status quo, or who have a misplaced sense of appreciation for what passes for Javanese 'politeness' and 'refinement', will come away from this book disappointed.
Dr Damien Kingsbury Damien.Kingsbury@arts.monash.edu.au is Executive Officer at the Monash Asia Institute, Melbourne, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Review: Damien Kingsbury, The politics of Indonesia, Melbourne, Oxford University Press, 1998, 286pp, Pbk ISBN 0-19-550626-X, AU$29.95.
Reviewed by JONATHAN PING
This is an accessible text. It is one of the few books to achieve simplicity while still providing the reader with insights that can only come from years of analysis. The text explains the basic elements of Indonesian politics and political history without resorting to excessive detail. The result is a text which enables the reader to understand the motivations and precedents of Indonesian politics.
Kingsbury begins with traditional and colonial influences and carries the reader, with ever more detail, through to the present political and economic crisis. His thesis follows a common line that Indonesian politics, based in Javanese history, essentially remains unchanged by modern international or Western society. They follow their own internally determined rather than externally influenced path. The motives of Suharto, student protesters and Abri, among the many groups discussed, are understood through examples of their actions and an understanding of this thesis.
The book is structured into short chapters, which are enhanced by brief sub-sections on elements within each topic. This allows for a cover to cover reading, or admission to a specific topic such as ‘Tommy’ and the national car project, or corruption and Abri.
For the advanced reader Kingsbury has included two sections of interest: ‘Looking ahead: 1998 and beyond’ and ‘Epilogue: The fall of Suharto’. Here he dips into futurology. Political ‘openness’, for example, is ‘likely to be a short term phenomenon’ (p246). On Habibie’s presidency: his ‘elevation appears only to have been accepted by Abri as a precondition for installing its own candidate at a more opportune time’ (p244). General Wiranto is included in the list of potential future dictators (presidents)! Kingsbury’s outlook is bleak. Rather than seeing an embryonic democracy he argues that ‘any future Indonesian government will be more, rather than less, influenced by Abri’ (p249).
This is a valuable starting point for more study and provides all the references required. Kingsbury’s writing style is readable and at times entertaining. For example his account of the ecstasy and heroin-taking, BMW or Mercedes-driving children of the elite is amusing in comparison with his discussion of their mass murdering and corrupt parents.
Jonathan Ping <jping@arts.adelaide.edu.au> is a lecturer and postgraduate student in politics at the University of Adelaide, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Never again
Frankly, as we began preparing this edition ahead of Indonesia’s first democratic elections in 44 years, I expected there to be more joy and optimism than there is in the pieces that make it up. Suharto is gone, the military is under enormous pressure to justify its existence on the political stage, press freedom is wide open, political parties and labour unions are free to organise.
There is a deal of euphoria of course, also in the articles you are about to read. Women are on the move with surging energy. The environmental movement is as vigorous as ever. And East Timor could be free within a year.
And yet there is more anxiety than euphoria. Fear that a history of fraudulent New Order elections may have permanently ruined the chances of holding a fair one. Dismay that the military will still refuse to allow the police to civilianise once more. Dread also of the demons within society itself. Even in a remote place like Sumba that has been peaceful for decades there is now conflict between neighbours. Exasperation that even the most radical pro-democracy activists, the students, are not radical enough to really demand total transformation (this last one was pointed out by the remarkable Mangunwijaya, who died aged nearly 70 as we went to press).
But of course it was naive to think that all would be rosy once Suharto was gone. You build a system on state-orchestrated violence for three decades and then it collapses. When the dust cloud clears what do you see? Certainly not a fully functional democratic system. You will see ruins, and feel a sense of anxiety.
So why burden readers in societies whose economies are humming along and whose democratic institutions actually seem to work with such gloomy reporting? For lots of reasons to do with human solidarity and just plain neighborliness, first of all.
But also because we can draw immensely valuable lessons here about the end result of authoritarianism. For years the West had little trouble thinking of Suharto’s regime as just something that suited Indonesians, who after all hold Asian values dear. Anyway, it was delivering the goods of economic growth. Now the long-term consequences of that view are becoming clear. Authoritarianism, militarism, elitism, kills. It kills individual victims, it also kills civic institutions. The lesson surely is: whatever the future holds, never again a military dictator, never again the short-cut to prosperity that Suharto offered.
Gerry van Klinken
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Idealistic students want to take eco-travelers up remote mountains in Sulawesi.
Allyson Lankester
While working in Southeast Sulawesi I was lucky to be invited by some university students to join them on a hike to the peak of Mekongga Mountain. The students belonged to two ‘nature lover’ and adventure organisations on their campus. Yayasan Cinta Alam is for undergraduates, while Mahacala is for more senior students. Both were established in the early 1990s in Kendari, the capital of Southeast Sulawesi. They have decided they want to take eco-travelers on organised hikes of Mekongga and other adventures. This trip was to be an exploratory one. I was in it for the adventure and unpredictability of it all. The students are experienced climbers and cavers who can take you to some interesting places and educate you at the same time.
Mekongga (or Mengkoka) is at 2799m the tallest mountain in Southeast Sulawesi. It lies to the northwest of Kendari. It is also the name of the traditional owners of the region. The Mekongga people still inhabit the forests and mountains here, making a living from collecting rattan to pay debts they owe to middle businesspersons. They now also sell the scraps left behind by the logging company Hasil Bumi Indonesia (HBI), which started operations in Southeast Sulawesi in 1979. The Mekongga people have been losing their land to the logging company, and before that to Buginese and Makassar migrants from South Sulawesi, who plant cocoa, clove, banana and coconut (for copra).
My two companions were Ancu and Ardin. Ancu is a senior student with Mahacala who has hiked Mekongga several times. Ardin had never been to this area before and this was one of his first adventures with Yayasan Cinta Alam. Ardin set up camp each night, made the fire, and collected the water - like a scout being tested by his senior. They were a really good combination to hike with: Ancu little bodied, a healthy ego and talker, and Ardin tall, lanky, humble and a good listener.
Listening to the stories of their lives helped explain their different characters. Ancu was the first boy in the family. He had been able to get away with almost anything, enjoyed a lot of freedom and privilege. Ardin was the youngest boy and is now the main carer for his aging parents. He grew up with a lot of responsibility.
Students from Yayasan Cinta Alam and Mahacala say they were the first student organisation to climb the peak of Mekongga: in 1995 as part of the 50th anniversary celebrations of Indonesian independence. It took 12 students 13 days to reach the peak using a compass, basic map and knives to make their path through the forest. This time it took three of us three days to reach the peak, helped by the logging roads that have made scars throughout a once pristine forest. Ancu hiked Mekongga in 1995 and was devastated to see the damage to the forest in such a short period. I saw photos the students took of places in 1995 that you cannot recognise now.
Karaoke
It took us a whole day to get from Kendari to the logging base camp via Kolaka, a little fishing port on the west coast. We traveled in public minibuses and 4WDs. The roads were bad from continual rains. As hesitant as the students were to deal with HBI staff, we arranged to get a lift in a logging truck to the middle camp that first night. The students are angry with the effect logging has had on these forests they have come to love. They are planning to work with Walhi, a major environmental justice non-government organisation, on an anti-logging campaign. Ironically, we were welcomed by the company managers with beer and karaoke. They were eager for some new interaction. They gave us a meal, a few rounds of really bad karaoke and then showed us to comfortable beds of our own.
We started early the next morning and were dropped at the bottom of an old logging road. We walked up and up along a monotonous dirt road, following fresh morning footprints of the anoa - this is a small buffalo-like animal endemic to Sulawesi - and wild pig. A beautiful rainforest valley lay on the east side, while forest sloped up steeply on the other. Now and again we would hear and see pairs of horn bills, as well as other birds. We also came across some major landslides that were a challenge to climb around.
The first night we camped in a cleared logging coupe and had a big fire from logging scraps to keep us warm in the cool higher altitude air. We had a great sunset view over the western mountain ranges.
The next day we kept climbing, past Coca-Cola lake (red tannin stained water) and past the extreme point of logging operations, into the untouched high altitude forests at about 2400m. It was so good to walk under a forest canopy and be encompassed by the cool, fern-dominated rainforest instead of a harsh open logging road. The path from previous student expeditions was quite easy to find with trees marked by small cuts. We hiked along fairy like valleys and cloudy ridges that took us up to a springy peat moss clearing, where we set up camp for two nights. It was raining when we arrived and it took much effort to start a fire. As night crept in we got colder and wetter. That night we all slept huddled close under the open tarp.
Early the next morning we walked to a point where we could view the peak of Mekongga, and look across mountains that stretched into Central Sulawesi. We then set out on a stunning day walk to the peak, through mossy rainforest declines, around boulder formations and amazing on-top-of-the-world views. The forest at this altitude has a spooky character. Brown moss draped off trees in an often clouded, rocky fern forest with lots of epiphytes. Now and again we came across trees, little herbs or orchids in flower; sometimes a little skink sunning itself or little birds being busy. I really appreciated the silence and space after months of living in urban Indonesia.
The peak came after climbing a loose rocky slope, where we saw yellow daisy and flannel everlasting flowers. We reached the top before too much cloud had set in and found a banner left by students from a South Sulawesi university. We took photos, breathed in the head-clearing mountain peak views, admired a predator bird enjoy its territory, put a record of the climb in a permanent jar the students keep there, and returned to camp.
We walked back to where the logging truck dropped us in one rainy day that led to a good blister collection and sore bodies. On our way back we were lucky to see a glimpse of an anoa as it retreated into the forest.
Our first sign of human activity was smoke from a camp of Mekongga people. They were sheltering from the rain under a blue tarp. As we got closer we could hear a guitar and singing. We stared at each other curiously for a while, said a few words and kept moving. They looked like indigenous forest dwellers, with long hair and mostly naked strong bodies. They had set up camp on this abandoned road as a base to collect the logging leftovers.
That night we stayed again at the luxurious logging karaoke camp, and the next morning caught a lift down to the coast and back to Kendari.
Afterwards, the students of Yayasan Cinta Alam and Mahacala talked with me about their futures. Some are lucky to have family with the right connections to land a job where they want. Others fear ending up tied for life to an Indonesian bureaucracy. Many are unsure - especially in the current climate. In a society that puts a lot of emphasis on marriage, these students face pressure to make money so they are acceptable to their bride’s family. One student turned down a job as an agriculture officer for a cocoa plantation company that planned to clear vast areas of rainforest: his ethics took the better of him. Student eco-tourism ventures will hopefully be one way for these students to make an ethical and enjoyable living. It is ecologically sustainable, generates income, and could help protect the forest from destructive logging practices.
To organise adventures with the students you can contact them directly: Mahacala & Yayasan Cinta Alam, Kompleks Unhalu D/1, Kendari 93121, Indonesia, tel +62-401-24991, email: Yascita@kendari.wasantara.net.id. Or contact Foko, a Dutchman with long connections in Southeast Sulawesi who recently opened an eco-travel business in Kendari called PT Pengembangan Ekowisata Indonesia (PT PEI). He works jointlywith the students on travel packages to Mekongga and elsewhere: Jalan Bunga Kamboja No. 60, Kendari 93121, Indonesia, tel/fax +62-401-327995, email: PEI@kendari.wasantara.net.id.
Ally Lankester recently completed an Overseas Service Bureau placement as marine conservation officer for Yayasan SAMA, a local community self help development organisation based in Kendari, Southeast Sulawesi.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Palm oil destroys forests and people.
Eric Wakker
Tropical timber campaigns have been highly effective in raising awareness over the loss of the world’s last primary forests. As a result, tropical timber consumption in Europe has fallen by 30-50% since the early 1990s, putting the heat on the trade and loggers.
This awareness came late. Southeast Asia has little ‘productive’ (primary) rainforest left after decades of severe overlogging. The logged-over forests should, in theory, be left to regenerate to produce secondary harvests in 20 to 50 years from now. That’s what the forestry policies say and that’s what Indonesian timber tycoon Bob Hasan said during his trips to the West to lobby for Indonesia’s forestry sector. But that is not what is happening!
Convert it
It does not take a college degree to understand the economics of opportunity costs in Indonesia’s forestry sector. Suppose you have the following options:
1. Manage a heavily logged-over forest concession in lowland Sumatra for, say, 30 years without being able to re-log it for exportable meranti-plywood as it needs to regenerate; protect it from the provincial authorities who are eager to develop the area into productive land, protect it from the Ministry of Transmigration and other players in the agricultural and pulp and paper sector; and invest heavily in forest recuperation, set aside ecologically valuable sites, negotiate do’s and don’ts with local communities, and survive on the promise of a market which will pay green premiums for any timber it can absorb from well-managed forests in 30 to 35 years time. Or:
2. Convert the logged-over site into an oil palm plantation and generate positive cash flows 7 years after planting!
What would you do?
Of course, it takes an investment to realise the oil palm plantation too: negotiate with provincial authorities, identify investors and markets, a strategy to win the support of local leaders and find people to help burn the site. But all that effort, compared to the first option, pays off. Have a close look at the first graph and you will realise how much pressure there is on the Indonesian authorities to re-allocate Permanent Forest as Conversion Forest!
The graph shows that companies have applied for approval to convert a huge amount of forest to other uses - far more land than the forest area that is legally available in Sumatra and Kalimantan. Even on a national level, there is a ‘Conversion Forest deficit’. Various cases of dubious re-allocations of ‘Permanent’ Forest into ‘Conversion’ Forest have already been recorded, especially in Kalimantan.
Indonesia already has about 2.4 million hectares of forest land converted into mature and immature oil palm plantations as of early 1998. The government plans to have yet another 3.1 million hectares converted in the coming years, particularly in Eastern Indonesia (Irian Jaya, Sulawesi) as these regions still have ‘plenty’ of undeveloped land available. It is questionable to what extent applicants for plantation development will be willing to invest in these regions, as they are far off the international Crude Palm Oil (CPO) shipping centres. However, whether by timber felling or palm oil conversion, Indonesia’s forests and its local inhabitants are now literally threatened with total destruction.
According to Oil World, the palm oil industry’s primary source of market intelligence, the rate of oil palm plantation establishment in Indonesia is likely to experience a major downfall as a result of the economic crisis. Early in the next millennium, however, conversion will return to its pre-crisis levels (see the second graph).
Opportunities
The crisis in Indonesia brings about hardship for many of its peoples and its forests. At the same time, it has also created unprecedented opportunities. For example, four oil palm plantation companies belonging to the Salim Group were in the process of obtaining concessions in biodiversity-rich swamp and tidal forests in East Kalimantan in early 1998. But since the Salim Group had close contacts with the Suharto regime, all applications for land from this group have been suspended by the reformation government pending investigation over corruption and nepotism.
The Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF) and its partners EPIQ and the American official development agency USAID lobbied Forests and Estates Minister Nasution to completely cancel the applications and include the swamp and tidal forests in the proposed Sebuku-Sembakung Reserve. And they succeeded! Late in August Minister Nasution decided to cancel nine oil palm concessions in East Kalimantan. He announced that the 100,000 ha. area would be classified National Park instead. It was believed that these companies’ main interest was the value of the standing timber, since the suitability of the soils for oil palm was highly questionable due to tidal flooding. Furthermore, local communities depend on the swamp and tidal forests for their livelihoods.
Early in 1998 I worked with WWF-Indonesia on their Forest Fire Project, which aimed to investigate the disastrous fires of the previous year. A spokesman from Rabo Duta Indonesia, a branch of Rabobank Netherlands, told me his bank was closely monitoring a study into allegations that PT Mahapala Gelora had deliberately burned forest in East Kalimantan. The mother company, PT PP London Sumatra, had received credits from a range of banks to expand its oil palm estates to well over 200,000 hectares (starting with its current 70,000 ha.). The Dutch bank was concerned that its debtor might be prosecuted for practising open burning during the ban on burning announced by then-President Suharto in September 1997. Although the case remains unresolved to date, PT London Sumatra will be very sensitive to external screening of its activities in the years to come.
I also received a phone call from a private investor, who wanted to know WWF’s position on the ‘oil palm issue’ and the fires. I suggested to him he should be reluctant with his investment and should consider the ecological and social components of the investment plan. What struck me at the time was that this was not an investor from ‘ecologically aware’ Europe or Australia, but a private corporate investor based in Hong Kong.
A few months later, WWF-Germany asked me to coordinate a study on the relations among Germany’s palm oil consumption, Indonesia’s oil palm plantation sub-sector, and the forest fires. When the study’s report was launched, WWF requested European palm oil processing industries to expose their CPO imports from Indonesia. Some of them did, and this activity alone was enough to alarm major players in the edible oils industry, who are already plagued by campaigns against genetic modification and overfishing.
Normally, the first step in turning forest land into an oil palm plantation is burning. This so-called controlled burning significantly contributed to the 1997-98 forest fires and haze, in addition to wildfires and arson associated with expanding oil palm plantations (see Inside Indonesia no. 53, January-March 1998). However, for various reasons, the forest fires in Indonesia are likely to attract less international attention in the years to come. While the momentum is still there, NGOs have a window of opportunity to redirect the attention, away from ‘just-more-fires’, and towards deforestation, marginalisation of local peoples’ livelihoods, and the international trade, consumption and financing of palm oil. It looks like this may be the way in which things may evolve.
Various initiatives are now developing towards a campaign:
In 1998, a range of Indonesian grassroots NGOs founded Sawit Watch, an NGO network which aims to monitor developments in the oil palm sub-sector;
On the initiative of the Dutch environmental funding lobby group Both ENDS and Greenpeace Netherlands, a number of NGOs in the Netherlands (WWF-Netherlands, Netherlands Centre for Indigenous Peoples, Skephi Europe) and several individuals now have regular meetings to monitor developments in the oil palm sector in Indonesia and Malaysia and to identify approaches and activities.
Greenpeace Netherlands funded a study to assess the needs of Indonesian NGOs and to confirm whether or not these NGOs felt that campaign work in Europe would support their cause.
NGOs in the UK, Germany, Belgium and the USA expressed explicit interest in being informed about the oil palm issue and may be able to contribute to research and campaign efforts;
A project proposal is being developed to look into the involvement of Dutch financial institutions in oil palm plantation development in Indonesia. The final objective of this project is to have at least one commercial bank to review its current investments and adopt the strictest possible guidelines for funding oil palm projects;
WWF is planning to develop strategies and approaches to address the issue.
There are many opportunities to help Indonesian NGOs and other interested parties to promote their goals towards ecologically, socially and economically responsible forest and land use management in Indonesia. Of course, any campaign work on the expansion of Indonesia’s oil palm sub-sector will have to reach beyond the issue of who started fires where, when, how, and what zero-burning techniques are all about. And of course, a focus limited to Indonesia would do injustice to the problems associated with oil palm development elsewhere (e.g. PNG, Solomon Islands, Africa and South America). In the meantime, any ideas and proposals will be greatly appreciated, not least from Australia.
Eric Wakker is a consultant for Foundation AIDEnvironment in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Contact: wakker@aidenvironment.antenna.nl. He will also be pleased to direct enquirers to the other NGOs mentioned here.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Bulog had to feed Indonesia, pacify farmers, and support Suharto’s industrialisation policy. What will happen to it now?
Jeremy P Mulholland & Ken Thomas
Bulog, the national logistics board that controls the supply of rice and other basic commodities, has as many enemies as it does friends. Some praise it for maintaining rice supplies in difficult circumstances while keeping the price down. Others (including the IMF) criticise it for monopolistic practices. Some argue that Article 33 of the Constitution obliges the state to control the supply of basic commodities. But it has been undeniably corrupt in performing its functions.
Established on 11 May 1967, Bulog forms an important part of the New Order’s economic history. Industrialisation was the Procrustean bed of all policy in that period, particularly from the early ‘80s. To promote industry, the government aimed to increase rice production while keeping prices low for consumers so they would not demand higher wages. To stimulate production, the government improved infrastructure, especially irrigation.
Initially, the agency’s primary function was to purchase basic commodities for public servants and the military. From 1970 it was required to control the price and distribution of basic staples, especially rice and flour, important to social stability. Bulog was not alone in making rice policy. The other principal actors included the National Planning Board (Bappenas), the Co-ordinating Minister for Economics, Finance and Industry (Ekuin), the Minister of Finance, and the Minister of Agriculture. In the background stood the President, who had the final say.
Bulog had to stabilise the price of rice for both producers and consumers. It did this by setting a ceiling price for the benefit of consumers, and a floor price for producers. As far as consumers were concerned it was necessary to have adequate stocks available. This meant running stocks down when there was a surplus and the reverse when there was a shortage, usually by increasing imports. At the appropriate times, the agency purchased rice from the domestic or the international market.
On the production side, to encourage farmers to produce more it was essential to set a price which would act as an incentive. Bulog did this by entering the market when the price fell, withdrawing as it rose above the floor. Rice production increased beyond all expectations, threefold under the New Order. Increased production was essential to provide for the increasing numbers moving into the industrial sector as well as for an expected population increase. Bulog’s contribution through its management of the ceiling and floor prices was important. By the end of the period, the agency had warehouses scattered throughout the archipelago.
Not all farmers benefited equally from the operation of Bulog’s floor price, given the unequal distribution of land and therefore income. The use of new high-yielding seed varieties, introduced in 1967, enabled farmers to increase yields considerably and, with irrigation, to double crop. The main beneficiaries from the stimulus of Bulog's floor price and subsidies for fertilizers were the 20 percent of farmers with more than half a hectare of wet rice. The government seemed to be thinking along the lines of land reform and other measures to reduce inequalities among farmers in the late ‘70s, but eventually the discussion lapsed.
The agency's use of the government sponsored village cooperatives (Koperasi Unit Desa or KUD ) points to another element in the background to the progress of the ‘green revolution' under its auspices. These cooperatives were composed of the richer farmers, were presided over by the head of the subdistrict (the camat) and were designed to implement government policy, not to act as independent agents.
The presence of the non-commissioned officers known as babinsa in the village also served to minimise dissent with government policies. And it should not be forgotten that fear was an all-pervasive factor during the New Order, as an aftermath of the abortive coup in October 1965. Anyone who thought of opposing government polices would have thought twice about voicing discontent, and the babinsa would have been a constant reminder of the likely price of resistance.
It may well be that the open violence Indonesia is now experiencing is a late expression of anger at the way farmers were pressured to adopt the new seeds varieties, to the benefit of some but at a high social cost to most.
With the end of the New Order and the approaching elections, we may well ask what the fate of the government’s industrialisation policy will be, and along with it the policy on rice and Bulog’s role. Which interest group - rice consumers or rice producers - will now win out in rice policy?
Suharto’s friends
Since the late 1950s the ups and downs of particular business groups have generally been linked to powerful political actors. This pattern of patronage is also evident in the food sector. Bulog functioned as a ‘centre of the state’ during the New Order - comparable to the State Oil Company (Pertamina), the State Electricity Company (PLN), or Habibie’s Technology and Assessment Body (BPPT). Ever since Bulog’s operations commenced in May 1967, it has been an important ‘incubator of state tutelage’ (as Richard Robison once put it), aiming to promote private business that would help the state.
It helped accelerate the growth of the private Salim Group, owned by Suharto’s long-time friend Liem Sioe Liong, a Chinese Indonesian whose adopted name is Sudono Salim. The Salim Group’s astounding expansion and growth into many unrelated industries, from shipping to banking, all started with flour. Ever since 1969, the Salim subsidiary PT Bogasari Flour Mills has monopolised the import, milling and distribution of wheat. It became the largest domestic wheat flour producer, and one of the largest instant noodle producers and exporters in the world. It achieved this prominence because of support from Bulog. In return, the Salim group became one of the strongest private supporters of the New Order’s high economic growth.
An important part of New Order capitalism was the ‘tax free charitable foundation’, known as the yayasan. Controlled by top New Order officials, several of these bodies served as financial centres for the repayment of Salim’s ‘gratitude’ (hutang budi) to Suharto and his regime. The diversified Yayasan Harapan Kita (controlled by Suharto himself) and the Yayasan Dharma Putra Kostrad (run by the elite military unit Kostrad) received huge ‘financial contributions’ - purportedly 26% of their incomes - from Bogasari Flour Mills. The expectation of such a quid pro quo among friends was presumably the reason why Bulog helped accelerate the Salim Group’s growth in the first place and was an important element in the creation of a powerful network of conglomerates.
In turn, these yayasan (and others like them) were able to finance ‘palace circle’ ventures in a multitude of different sectors within the Indonesian economy, as well as to ‘bail out’ troubled (Suharto-linked) banks or private businesses. They helped create a tightly interrelated private sector network, with the aim of fostering well-connected private conglomerates. These conglomerates, it should be acknowledged, also contributed to real economic growth.
Realignment
The toppling of Suharto, and Indonesia’s recent economic devastation, have induced a re-configuration of patronage flows. The untimely (albeit honourable) dismissal in August 1998 of Beddu Amang, the head of Bulog, was an important indication of a realignment within Bulog’s ‘politico-bureaucratic web’. Beddu had refused to permit any erosion of the Salim Group’s monopoly of the wheat and sugar industries. He was ‘posted’ to another, less powerful, position in the Finance Department.
With Suharto no longer directly involved in these matters and facing enough difficulty of his own to help the Salim Group, Bulog’s role appears to be shifting towards a more nationalistic orientation of fostering non-Chinese capitalists. Possibly with the support of Indonesia’s top economic minister, Ginanjar Kartasasmita, Bulog now seems to be supporting a shift away from the (Chinese-owned) Salim Group, towards the Bakrie Group controlled by Aburizal Bakrie. There has been speculation that a new group of powerful post-Suharto political actors, among them Ginanjar, Coordinating Minister for the Economy, Finance and Industry, who also heads the Planning Bureau (Bappenas), Rahardi Ramelan, Minister of Industry and Trade, and Adi Sasono, Cooperatives Minister, now have enough control over the levers of patronage to support the growth and expansion of the Bakrie Group into the future, mirroring the Salim Group’s past commercial ascension.
But Bulog remains embroiled in corruption revelations, which demonstrate that any internal change is not going unchallenged. There is controversy over the tendering process for certain food monopolies awarded to Singapore-based PT Bakrie Nusantara International, a financial arm of the Bakrie Group. Also, a land-swap deal involving Bulog is being investigated by the Attorney General’s office. Among the prominent witnesses are Tommy Suharto and Beddu Amang.
Bulog now has Rahardi Ramelan as interim head, and its wings have been clipped: it is said that in 1999 it will be responsible only for rice stabilisation. The question for any new government will be the balance between growth and equity in its rice policy. Bulog would have a role to play in either case. Over time it has developed a certain level of skill, and it still has the warehouse capacity throughout the county to handle large-scale rice imports. The availability of rice for the consumer, and satisfactory returns to farmers whatever the size of their holdings, will remain important government concerns for decades to come.
Jeremy Mulholland, currently researching Indonesian conglomerates, is a PhD student in International Business at the University of Melbourne <j.mulholland@pgrad.unimelb.edu.au>. Ken Thomas, a long-time observer of the political economy of Indonesia, is an Honorary Visiting Fellow at La Trobe University, Melbourne, Australia <k.thomas@latrobe.edu.au>.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
For years, police were ‘little brother’ to soldiers. Will that now change? And will it bring back the friendly local cop?
Adrianus Meliala
Inside Indonesia said in a newsbrief (October-December 1998) that the Indonesian police want to be separated from the military. The National Commission on Human Rights supports separation as an important step towards improving human rights. But why did the police become part of the armed forces in the first place?
From the day they were set up in 1945, police joined the army fighting the Dutch. They willingly saw themselves as combatants and accepted the consequences of being treated as soldiers when captured. They had no other reason than the heroic intention to keep Indonesia independent, but it was contrary to the 1948 Geneva Convention, which views police as civilians. This view accords with the widely accepted concept of a police force that belongs to the community rather than to the state or any political party.
With the fighting over, the police were increasingly drawn into politics by politicians who took advantage of their relationship with the organisation. Aware of this tendency, the Temporary People’s Consultative Assembly (MPRS) decided in 1960 to place Polri within the armed forces. The intention was to remove both the police and the armed forces from influence by the political parties.
However, this new structure did not prevent the continuing politicisation of the armed forces. The communist party (PKI) had considerable influence within the police (as well as within the navy and the air force), whereas the army was strongly anti-communist.
This political factionalism within the armed forces exploded in the coup attempt of 30 September 1965, which the army leadership blamed on the PKI. Morale within the armed forces plummeted.
The new president, Suharto, then commanded a total integration of all wings, including the police, into a single and integrated military administration. Within half a decade Polri had lost its autonomy, its own ethos and also its special salary rank.
Youngest brother
Over the next 30 years as part of the military, the police developed a ‘youngest brother’ mentality. They often felt they were treated unfairly especially by the army, and lost their self-confidence.
The National Police Force, Polri, was in fact terribly exploited. Their role remained as political as ever - to maintain political security together with the army. The armed forces tended to back up almost anything Suharto’s government considered important for the maintenance of power. By using Polri and its police power, the military had legal approval to use extra-legal methods. For example, curbing the press, arresting critical persons and generally eradicating public protest.
The worst part of being the ‘youngest’ wing in the military was that the police were not free to uphold the law. Many well-connected people were untouchable and thus enjoyed legal immunity. Polri often became a ready scapegoat put forward by the military whenever people protested against the way the military mishandled cases, caused unnecessary violence or escalated confrontation.
Police budgets have always fallen behind those of other military wings. Lack of equipment and poor pay prevent them from doing a good job. In the eyes of the other military wings, Polri are losers. The public, meanwhile, constantly mock police incompetence.
When the possibility of the police regaining their independence from the military was first raised openly in June 1998, the police secretly welcomed it. But the suggestion did not come from the general public, who seemed largely ignorant of the implications. Instead, police independence has remained an elitist debate rather than a subject discussed in society as a whole. Generally speaking people don't care, as long as the police become less corrupt, less brutal, and more accountable to the public. Unfortunately, it is difficult for Polri to guarantee that they will fulfill all those hopes.
The problem rests in the imbalanced relationship between the State and the public. The State has been able do anything it chooses. Unless this relationship changes and a strong political commitment is brought to bear on the situation, any new structure won’t necessarily improve policing. Perhaps rather than promoting the rule of law, it would just turn old policing problems into new, more sophisticated ones.
The only factor driving separation has been the determination or otherwise at Armed Forces (Abri) headquarters to let Polri go. The wave of reform after the downfall of Suharto in May 1998 struck Abri in many ways. The public was flooded with revelations - the kidnapping of pro-democracy activists, the massacres in Aceh, Lampung, Tanjung Priok and East Timor, the continuing debate on the dual function of Abri, and lastly the issue of Polri as a part of the military.
Despite diminishing public sympathy for Abri, headquarters has hesitated to respond to Polri's idea of saying ‘goodbye’ to Abri.
Abri’s reason for retaining Polri as a part of the armed forces is rather peculiar. Despite Polri’s poor performance and image during its years in the military, the armed forces insist that ‘historically’ Polri belongs in Abri. Understandably enough, they over-emphasise certain episodes in that history, while failing to acknowledge others.
Abri’s recent plan to recruit thousands of civilians as ‘military-trained civilians’, rather than empowering the crippled police, must be seen as another signal for the public to give up thinking of a Polri separate from Abri.
However, even if it is excluded from Abri, it doesn't mean Polri's problems are over. The police themselves are not in any sense ready for this big change. More is involved than just a change in structure and the question of who will be in charge. Separation will mean turning the police back into a fully civilian force, in performance, behaviour and, above all, in their attitude.
Officers working the streets can no longer expect people to obey them, as they once did, simply because they have a military uniform, baton or firearm. They will have to depend on their personal capabilities when dealing with people. The separation could be a nightmare!
Internally, the new police force would need to solve a host of bureaucratic problems - for example, how to flatten the rank structure from 22 ranks to 6 or 7 ranks as in many other countries. Externally, there needs to be a decision whether they will fall under the Ministry of Home Affairs or have their own. Each choice has political consequences.
Finally, what about Polri’s ‘old brother’, the army? Soldiers may find it difficult to accept they are no longer able to ridicule the police. One situation we are most afraid of is when a soldier refuses to obey the police and fights back when about to be arrested for a crime.
Adrianus Meliala is a criminologist at the University of Indonesia, Jakarta. He is presently studying at the University of Queensland.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Why neighbours hacked each other to death in a remote part of Indonesia.
David Mitchell
The breakdown of government authority in Indonesia has led to so many outbreaks of violence that it seems to defy our attempts to understand it all. One of the more dramatic incidents was the outbreak of traditional warfare which engulfed the town of Waikabubak on the normally quiet and out of the way island of Sumba, on 5th November 1998.
The events in Waikabubak are notable for the absence of several of the usual suspects. There is no hint of racial or religious divisions here, and no sign of intelligence officers sponsoring one side or other. This was a case of violence between two neighbouring ethnic groups which usually get on well together. The people of Loli and Wewewa (also known as Waijewa) are connected by many links of marriage and amicably share involvement in the same churches and schools, and in trade. They do have a history of conflict over land in the border area, but the most recent outbreak of violence in 1992 was quickly settled after some house-burning without any deaths, and there had been peace between them since then.
Yet early in the morning of 5th November a raiding party of some 2000 or more men from the Wewewa district were dropped by trucks at the border of the adjacent district of Loli. These were all men who owned shoes and trousers and white shirts for going to church on Sundays. Now they had bare feet and wore traditional waist cloths and white headbands, with machetes tucked in their belts and spears in their hands. Many carried rocks for throwing, tucked into the fold of their waist cloths. Some carried bundles of dried grass, ready to be converted into firebrands with a click of the cigarette lighter. With these traditional weapons of war they crossed the border into Loli and marched along the road towards Waikabubak, the main town and centre of government of West Sumba.
The bustling town of Waikabubak lies at the foot of the hill where an ancient traditional centre is located. The traditional houses of Tarung, the Mother Village of the Loli district, cluster tightly together on the hill top for defensive purposes, and to watch over their ricefields below. Their tall thatched roofs tower above tree level, displaying an ancient dignity which contrasts with the shabby galvanised iron roofs of the modern town. The juxtaposition of the two worlds is fantastic for tourists, but creates many complexities for government and for local politics. These days the ancient and the modern are inextricably intertwined, and electric light cables can be seen disappearing into the thatch roofs. The skull tree in the central court of the village had the skulls removed back in the 1930s, but it remains a reminder of warfare. The inhabitants still remember the rituals for reading the omens before going out to put their lives on the line in battle.
The Wewewa raiding party had several reasons for confidence as they marched across the border. They are by far the largest ethnic group in West Sumba, with 125,000 people compared to the 20,000 people of Loli, and their man, Wewewa-born Rudolf Malo, was in office as head (regent or bupati) of the government of West Sumba.
They also had reason to feel justified in launching what they saw as a counter-attack against the people of Loli. Although the affair had started as a demonstration calling for reformasi, it had become transposed into the framework of inter-ethnic conflict. Now it was flaring out of control and moving towards a horrifying climax.
Demonstration
It had begun just ten days before, on 24th October, with a small demonstration by around thirty university graduates. They were protesting at the government offices about the systematic corruption of the civil service examinations that was cheating them out of the jobs they had trained for.
The demonstrations of disappointed candidates for the civil service grew in size on the 26th, 29th and 31st October, and took on an increasing level of animosity because the government was seen to be unresponsive. The action had clearly tapped a deeply felt resentment against the abuse of power by those already in office using their influence to get jobs for their relatives. Bupati Malo responded by declaring that it was not within his capacity to solve the corruption problem. Indeed, bribes paid to those in the provincial office were outside his immediate responsibility, but his declaration of powerlessness was disingenuous and not believed. When he added accusations that the demonstrators were politically suspect, this sounded like a threat to permanently exclude them from appointment. The demonstrators were not to be intimidated. Their numbers continued to grow and they now made personal attacks on the bupati and demanded his resignation.
Next came a counter-demonstration of 500 supporters and family of Bupati Malo. They were trucked into town to demand that the police and the army stand by Bupati Malo and clamp down on the demonstrators who had insulted him. The demonstrators had used the bupati’s taboo childhood name, Mete, which is indeed offensive in the local tradition. The bupati’s supporters said this had to be stopped.
The tactic of counter-demonstrations might have worked in years gone by, but in the post-Suharto era it produced a defiant reaction. The anti-corruption demonstration now erupted out of the control of the university graduates who had begun it. They had only been able to earn their degrees through the sacrifices of their relatives in the villages at home, selling their rice crops and their buffaloes to pay for their education far away in Bali or Java . Now the frustrated relatives were aroused and angry. They took over the demonstration and turned their wrath on supporters and family of Bupati Malo. They stoned the houses of anyone in town who they saw as part of the bupati’s clique. The occupants abandoned their houses in town and fled in fear back to Wewewa. Many of the empty houses were then broken into and the TV sets and other valuables carried away.
The original demonstration had not been a predominantly Loli group; they were a group united more by their shared experience of studying in Bali or Java, and by the discrimination against them. But the mob stoning and robbing the houses was drawn from the villages immediately surrounding the town. It was predominantly a Loli mob attacking the Wewewa people close to the bupati. This was the attack that had in turn enraged the Wewewa on the fateful 5th November.
The 2000-strong Wewewa raiding party did not head directly for the centre of town, though it was only 6 kilometres from the border. They first attacked the Lolinese border villages. The thatched roofs of Sumbanese houses make them highly vulnerable to fire, and fire spreads rapidly from one house to the next, so Sumbanese villages are quite indefensible once an enemy gets in close. Soon after about 5 am all 30 houses of the village of Patama We’e had been burned to the ground. Its inhabitants were fleeing for their lives across the fields. A quarter of an hour later, further along the road, the two thatched-roof villages of Tawiana and Kabu Ngaba were also ablaze and the raiding party was marching on in loose formation towards Waikabubak.
The town’s population of 15,000 spreads out along the roads to around the 3 km mark, so the raiders were soon passing between the houses of the town, mostly abandoned by their fleeing inhabitants. Small groups broke off to re-occupy the houses of Wewewa people which had been abandoned the day before, but the main group pressed on.
By 6 am they had reached the Christian senior high school, just 1 km from the centre of town. One eyewitness, watching awestruck from a hiding place across the rice fields, reported that as the leaders of the raiding party reached the school, the tail of the group was just passing the Mona Lisa Hotel 1200 metres behind. This must surely have been the biggest war party ever assembled in the history of Sumba, and they were now within reach of Kampung Tarung, whose tall, highly inflammable thatch roofs were easily visible protruding above the trees.
But 2000 men was not enough, and their progress had been too slow. The thick clouds of smoke rising from the burning border villages had sent a signal down the 20 km length of the Loli valley, an unmistakable one given the tension of the day before. There were no telephones, but the shouted message passed from village to village is still a powerful technology when the message is a simple one. The men from the upper Loli valley had time to respond. Some galloped their horses down the road, some strode on foot at a brisk pace, others commandeered trucks or hung onto the bumper bars of overloaded 4-wheel drives and Kijang vans. They stormed chaotically past the police and army posts in the centre of town and joined the men of the lower valley in defence of Tarung.
There is a small bridge on the main road which marks the western boundary of the centre of Waikabubak. A shallow creek running unobtrusively behind the Pertamina petrol station formed the last line of defence of Kampung Tarung. This creek marked the line that the Wewewa raiding party would never cross. Local villagers now speak of it in mystical terms, saying that the little creek suddenly seemed deep and wide to the attacking party.
The battle raged for most of the morning, and brought a complete and devastating defeat for the Wewewa raiders. The last of the fighting was ended by an early downpour of La Nina rain. When it cleared the people of Wewewa and Loli were confronted with a horrific scene that no-one had desired, no-one expected, and no-one would take responsibility for.
The official death toll is based on the 26 bodies that were escorted back to Wewewa. Other deaths may have been kept secret by their families. These were not the neat and quick deaths produced by bullet wounds. All had been chopped to death with machetes, or sometimes speared. Six had limbs or the head hacked off. Most were men, but one Wewewa woman died of machete wounds outside her home. One boy was killed as well, speared while trying to hide under a bed with adult men.
Why?
Even to try to analyse such an event can seem like an offence against decency. Yet try to understand it we must. In Waikabubak and in the provincial capital of Kupang several explanations have emerged.
The first treated it as a case of inter-ethnic conflict, ignoring the way it arose out of conflict within the political elite. This has been the official line, led by provincial governor Piet Tallo. The governor immediately flew in the police Mobile Brigade to prevent further outbreaks, and arrived himself the next day. He sidelined Bupati Malo, and presided over the peace-making process himself. But he rejected calls to sack the bupati. Although he did move to deal with the corruption in the civil service appointments, he treated this as if there were no connection with the bloodshed in Waikabubak. Fortunately Governor Tallo had some credibility here. Bribes and nepotistic appointments had been blatant throughout the province for many years. Tallo already had a record of intervening helpfully in some of the more outrageous cases that came to light while he was Deputy Governor from 1992-97.
The governor was not alone in his mediation effort. Several religious and academic figures, successful Sumbanese working in Kupang, stepped forward to support him, and the peace-making moved forward quickly. One of the measures of its success was an amnesty for a no-names-no-packdrill return of stolen good to the houses that had been robbed. Clearly, effective leadership is still possible in the reformasi era.
At first it seemed that blame for the bloodshed would not be sheeted home to the political manoeuvres of the bupati and his critics. But having been sidelined in the peacemaking process, Bupati Malo had no way of regaining his lost authority. On 21st November, 31 prominent Wewewa public figures, among them former Malo supporters, signed a letter calling for his resignation. More such calls followed. By 23rd December it was clear he would not be amongst the first-term bupatis to be given a second term.
To observers outside West Sumba it may make more sense to blame the failing political system rather than the individual. It could be said that Bupati Malo’s main fault is that he continued to act like a New Order bupati after the rules had changed. Perhaps his military background (he is an airforce colonel) gave him too inflexible a view of how he could manage political conflict in the reformasi era.
So far, details of the links between elite politics and the mobilisation of villagers have remained concealed. Even the provincial newspaper Pos Kupang, which has done a great job of documenting and explaining the events, seems to lack a tradition of investigative reporting. There remain major gaps in the story it has told. Pos Kupang put emphasis on the use of the bupati’s taboo name, and on a wild rumour that a Loli man had been murdered in Wewewa which had inflamed the situation. These details are indeed part of the story, but the emphasis on them presents the villagers as an emotion-driven irrational mob rather than as political actors who, however misguidedly, are attempting to defend their vital interests.
The villagers’ point of view has not been reported. But they do have interesting things to say. One of the most remarkable aspects of the story, the fact that all 26 deaths were on the Wewewa side, while no-one from Loli died, has not so far received any attention. Perhaps there will be sophisticated military or psychological explanations offered, but the village people have a simple explanation. The last outbreak of fighting on the border between Loli and Wewewa, in 1992, an affair much smaller than the events of 1998, had ended with a peace-making ceremony in which each side swore a classic poetic oath never again to invade the territory of the other: ‘If I break this vow, may I be struck by lightning as I cross the hills; If I betray my word, may I be struck by a snake as I cross the fields’. It was the Wewewa people who broke the vow, so the villagers say, and brought this curse down upon their heads.
This appeal to the mystical may not be a very convincing explanation these days, but to many in the villages it has a stark moral simplicity which helps to make sense of this sorry tale.
David Mitchell is a medical doctor in Melbourne. He lived in Sumba as a volunteer in 1968-75, and visits there often.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
For 32 years they were condemned to a life of misery. Now former communist political prisoners are emerging, slowly, into the daylight.
Helene van Klinken
It’s my first day in Indonesia after five years. There’s a women’s congress in Yogyakarta, so I decide to take a look. Once among the well-dressed delegates I realise I should have worn that shirt with sleeves, instead of this sleeveless dress I’m wearing to survive the heat! But when I produce copies of Inside Indonesia - by chance with women in Islamic head-dress on the cover - everyone wants a copy: ‘A women’s magazine?’
Sitting next to me is a smart, middle aged delegate of the government-backed Indonesian Women’s Coalition (Kowani). She’s taken me under her wing. The first speaker is slight, elderly, Javanese, softly spoken. There’s trouble with the loud speaker, and everyone around me is chatting. ‘Am I hearing correctly?’, I ask my neighbour. ‘Is the speaker really an ex-political prisoner, a former communist?’ ‘I am not sure’, she replies, ‘she has not actually said so’. The speaker is calling for full rights to be restored to communists, who were stripped of them under Suharto.
Then the Dutch sociologist Saskia Wieringa is speaking. She was banned from Indonesia for her 1995 thesis on the communist women’s movement Gerwani. She tells how, early in Suharto’s New Order, Gerwani members had sexual immorality added to their other ‘sins’. Accused of complicity in the murder of six army generals that set in motion the so-called communist coup on 30 September 1965, they were said to have conducted sexual orgies and mutilated the generals’ genitals before killing them. Yet in fact, Wieringa says, the autopsy on their bodies never mentions such mutilation, and it was signed and accepted by then General Suharto. An indignant forensic doctor grabs the microphone. ‘It’s an indictable offence to lie about an autopsy’, she says resolutely. Enthusiastic applause.
I’ve read about changes in Indonesia. But this is staggering. Communists were outcastes throughout the New Order, and could never have addressed a major gathering like this. I can’t wait to ask other delegates what they think. Yes, Ibu Sulami, the opening speaker, spent twenty years in gaol for being the deputy leader of Gerwani. Yes, it’s the first time a Gerwani member has spoken openly.
But all is not sunshine at the conference. Delegates grumble that the Jakarta organisers have an ‘agenda’. Next day, amidst a chaotic display of ‘democracy’, a group walks out. Some, including Aisyiyah (the women’s movement within the Islamic group Muhammadiyah), resent what they believe is an attempt to rehabilitate communists. The final declaration of the congress on 17 December does not mention the shadow under which ex-communists still live, despite the wish of some delegates to include it.Tears
For now I’m excited about the attention given to these former political prisoners, or ex-tapol. I want to know what N, an ex-tapol friend who spent 13 years in gaol thinks about all this. I get rather vague directions to her place. After calling at two previous addresses I finally track her down amidst a relentless tropical downpour. She is not as excited as I’d hoped. Through her tears she tells how every time she moves house a report about her has to be sent around to a half dozen different officials. ‘Oh, so you’re like that ibu,’ one told her cruelly. ‘We’re all good people who live in this area, you know’. The report lists her as being ‘involved’ in the coup of 1965, so therefore she cannot be trusted. She fears this process, as she has to move again soon. She feels humiliated and abused. She fears eviction if her landlord finds out who she ‘really is’.
I decide I want to meet other ex-tapols and find out if life is any different for them since the fall of Suharto. Despite rules barring him from school for fear of ‘contaminating’ students, L has a job as a teacher. Like all the tapol I meet (except Sulami), L fears losing his job if I print his name. Tapol remain hidden within Indonesia. L’s students bring him articles about Marxism - he just listens and smiles to himself. He thinks students are a bit freer to think now, and certainly more open about discussing Marxism.
I ask L about his identity card, is the ‘ET’ mark still there - a forced declaration to the world, like the Star of David was under Hitler, that he is an ‘ex-tapol’? He shows it to me. ‘No ET’, he says. ‘But look, the card only lasts till 2000. I’m over 60 so it should say "lifelong". They still know!’ He quickly puts it away as if embarrassed to let me see it. Does L still report to the local government official regularly, as required throughout the New Order, I ask? No, not any more. But others do - he’d like to think they had the courage to refuse.
I take a bus ride through the congested Jakarta traffic to visit S in his small rented house. His neighbours trust and respect him. Some know about his background, many don’t. ‘For thirty years my parents and siblings have experienced trauma because of me’, he says. But since May 1998 his family seem less worried. He is even thinking of marrying, because there is a little less suspicion. Till now, he felt marriage would be unfair to his wife, and the stigma would pass to his children. S explains that research in one area of West Java showed a divorce rate for ex-tapol of over 50%. Often they were blamed for the trouble they brought on their families. Children, taught lies at school about 1965, came to hate their parents and grandparents. After years in gaol and almost no possibility of work, the families sometimes felt the released person was just a drain, an added burden.
My time’s running out - I just want to meet a friend of S who helps tapol and wants to record their stories. Some reveal all to this person just days before they die. For S, this is important history. The next generation must know the truth of 1965. Many tapol are now sick and old. Sometimes their families have forsaken them.
In Jakarta I ask activists what is being done for the tapol. Yes, like the organisers of the Yogya Congress, they agree that now is the time for justice, an amnesty for all communists. The events of 1965 must be investigated afresh, free from New Order ideology. I’m told that schools now no longer have to teach the New Order version blaming the 1965 debacle on communists. In fact there are seven versions - including one in which the perpetrators are Suharto and the CIA. Students and teachers can choose! But, say most activists, justice for communists is still a difficult issue. One reason I heard stated often is that the majority Muslim population cannot accept those ‘with no religion’.
At the end of my travels, I admire the organisers of the Yogyakarta Congress for highlighting the tapol issue. But I feel sad that the woman from the government-backed women’s organisation could not admit what her ears were telling her. I do hope that ‘reformasi’ will mean something for the 13 people still languishing in gaol, and the thousands of ex-tapol who continue to have their basic rights denied.
Helene van Klinken teaches Indonesian at Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane. She wants to start a support fund for aging female tapol. Contact her on tel 07-3371 3854, fax 07-3871 2525, email helenevk@ucaqld.com.au.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
After three decades of patriarchal conformity under the New Order, women are once more a force for change.
Krishna Sen
On December 15, 1998, 500 women from 26 provinces of Indonesia met to take stock of the legacy of the New Order and to chart future directions. As so often in the NGO movement during the last decade of the Suharto regime, the planning was done in Jakarta, the money was sought abroad, and the contradictions bred by 33 years of repressive rule surfaced to dampen the optimism with which the women had come to Yogyakarta. But that so many women came to talk and listen and assert themselves in all their differences was itself a triumph.
When the Suharto regime came to power in 1965, it not only destroyed the communist mass organisation for women Gerwani (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Indonesian Women’s Movement), but transformed the whole basis of women’s participation in politics. New Order propaganda damned Gerwani as an organisation of whores and legitimised the brutal massacre of 1965-66 in large part by constructing a litany of crimes by women. In prisons across the country, women were molested, raped and tortured. These stories, long suppressed, began to emerge in the last years of the New Order. Old women in their 60s and 70s, released after years of imprisonment, became martyrs in the eyes of the new women’s movement that emerged in the 1980s.
What happened to the dozens of other women’s organisations which once flourished in the political turmoil of the Sukarno years has yet to be documented. But in the early New Order autonomous women’s organisations disappeared. Women’s representative bodies became ‘wives’ organisations. Wives of civil servants were obliged to join Dharma Wanita (literally, Women’s Duty), and duty-bound to support their husbands’ work. The PKK, the village level institution through which many of the government’s family welfare measures were implemented, was committed to the five duties of a woman, which started with her role as wife and mother. Women, politicised in the nationalist struggle and mobilised in Sukarno’s populist politics, were domesticated in a state controlled by the military.
While women were politically reduced to the status of men’s appendages, economically they were pushed and pulled out of homes into the work place. As the Indonesian economy expanded, vast numbers of women joined the workforce, largely in the low-paid manufacturing sector, but also in white collar middle class professional jobs. The New Order’s dependence on global financial institutions ensured that development policies, particularly from the early 1980s onwards, had to take gender issues into account. This created women bureaucrats with an interest in promoting the discourse of women’s equality.
The new women’s non-government organisations (NGOs), which emerged from 1983 and grew rapidly in the 1990s, drew on all of these women who were not primarily wives and mothers. They were working class women, middle class professional women, and femocrats within government and semi-government institutions.
Leaders
Not just in Indonesia, but in Asia generally, women’s movements are often seen as an urban middle class luxury. The earliest women’s NGOs were established in Jakarta and other cities in Java. The first women’s NGO was Yayasan Annisa Swasti (Yasanti), established in 1982 in Yogyakarta, followed in 1985 by Kalyanamitra in Jakarta. But in the 1990s the movement is no longer restricted to either Jakarta or the middle class.
Many of the workers’ strikes in the early 1990s were led by women. Two of the most prominent organisers of the recent Indonesian labour movement are women: Marsinah, who was raped and killed in 1993, and Dita Sari, still in prison for organising massive strikes in Surabaya in July 1995. Marsinah’s politics were born out of her experience as a working woman. Dita’s activism was inspired by her reading of Leninism. Neither perhaps would see themselves as acting for women as such. But they represent the diverse paths of women’s politicisation in the late New Order.
Nor did the so-called urban middle class women’s organisations pursue a middle class agenda. Kalyanamitra’s earliest work was with domestic servants. Yasanti started its work among rural and working class women facing domestic violence. Solidaritas Perempuan (Women’s Solidarity for Human Rights), one of the earliest of the new breed of women’s associations, concentrated on the rights of migrant workers.
Post-graduate student Yanti Muchtar argues in her thesis that the women’s NGOs were by the 1990s not primarily led by urban middle class women. They were established and led by first-generation migrants to cities. These women had the intellectual capital of the middle classes, but not the access to consumer goods that defined Indonesia’s new middle class. Some of these women were influenced by peoples movements overseas. Others were radicalised by their work among labourers, peasants and prostitutes.
By the end of the New Order, the women’s movement in Indonesia was a broad-based social movement. Its various factions were articulated across the breadth of Indonesia’s socio-political spectrum.
The Indonesian National Women’s Coalition for Justice and Democracy was established the day before Suharto resigned. Forty one prominent women intellectuals, mainly from Jakarta, signed the declaration. It was sent out to women’s groups throughout the country. The Women’s Congress in Yogyakarta in December 1998 was the result of the commitment of this group of women to come together and to confirm the political power of women across the nation. Not surprisingly, the congress did not end in the creation of a singular women’s movement speaking in a national monotone. It was a triumph of the diversity of Indonesia and of its women over 33 years of state-controlled uniformity.
Krishna Sen teaches at Murdoch University, Perth, Australia.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Freedom in East Timor is no longer a dream. But the transition to freedom is full of danger.
Richard Tanter
With his extraordinary announcement that Indonesia is prepared to accept self-determination in East Timor, President Habibie opened the way to great hope, and at the same time to great danger in East Timor.
The Timor colonial folly had several years ago reached the limits of political possibility. No rational Indonesian interest of any significance was being served by continuing occupation. Abri careers have long since ceased to be made in Timor; the oil in the Timor Gap is divisible by three countries as easily as by two; and the drain on the shrunken state budget was unending. The decision by the hitherto ever-reliable Australian government to abandon Indonesia was profoundly shocking.
In December 1975, newly oil-rich Indonesia led by the Smiling General was the darling of an anti-communist United States reeling from the fall of Saigon. In 1999, beggarman-poorman Indonesia knocking on the door of the IMF is in no position to indulge the expansionist fantasies of its dead and disgraced generals.
The keys to diplomatic change were the United States and the United Nations. Under Secretary-General Kofi Annan, the UN has been persistent in its search for peace in East Timor. The Clinton Administration is no longer willing to protect an Indonesia embroiled in a hopeless war. International financial negotiators have made clear their irritation with Indonesia’s expensive colonial folly.
Indonesia has recognised reality, and made a public commitment at the highest level to self-determination in the country Timorese now love to call Timor Lorosae. That cannot now be retracted. The commitment has been made when world diplomatic and media attention is focussed on Indonesia to a greater degree than at any time since 1965. Xanana is out of prison, the resistance umbrella organisation CNRT he leads is well-organised and without serious internal conflict. The Indonesian political public is now informed about the realities of East Timor, and there is much to gain for both sides in an orderly transition to self-government and then self-determination.
Militias
Yet there is reason to be fearful for the future of East Timor, primarily because of the conflicting actions of different parts of the Indonesian government. The most significant immediate problem is the arming of Timorese civilians who are in favour of continued integration into Indonesia. No policy is more certain to simultaneously bring terror and distrust to the people of East Timor, to derail the peace process, and to destroy any vestige of international respect for Indonesia’s political leaders.
Most worryingly, the arming of the paramilitaries may be evidence of disintegration of the Indonesian armed forces command structure. It is possible that General Wiranto’s claim that the paramilitaries were to be unarmed was a knowing lie. Perhaps Abri headquarters made a covert decision to follow a Nicaraguan model. Abri would withdraw but leave behind in East Timor politically reliable and well-equipped pro-Indonesian contras with orders to derail the peace process in the short term, and to use terror to destroy an independent Timor. Certainly on past experience Indonesian intelligence organisations are capable of such thinking.
With Abri’s political standing inside the country at possibly its lowest ebb since the 1945 revolution, and an economically crippled Indonesia crucially dependent on massive international aid, and with the world’s media scrutinising Indonesia, it is hard to conceive of a more counter-productive plan for President Habibie and his successor.
More likely is that after the sudden shock of Habibie’s announcement, longstanding vague plans at the regional headquarter level to expand the existing Timorese paramilitaries were rapidly updated. Additional pressure came from prominent beneficiaries of Indonesian rule fearful of the future. What is unclear is whether local commanders or intelligence officers acted on their own initiative, or perhaps at the suggestion of Abri factions hostile to General Wiranto and President Habibie when they decided to arm the paramilitaries as a contra force. Either way, a breakdown of Abri command may have been involved – with frightening implications for Indonesia in 1999.
The role of the United Nations in facilitating negotiations is now central. Ambassador Marker’s proposal to first establish self-governing autonomy in East Timor and then move towards an appropriate form of self-determination offers the most likely basis for an orderly and peaceful transition after two decades of war. Yet possible Indonesian pique, the fears of pro-Indonesian Timorese, or an ill-considered rush for immediate independence by some East Timorese challenging CNRT’s authority could sabotage such negotiations.
Most importantly, and most difficult to achieve, the UN Security Council needs to establish and deploy a peace-keeping force throughout the territory. The Security Council is likely to be reluctant to undertake yet another thankless and hazardous peace-keeping task.Yet the mountainous terrain of East Timor and the highly dispersed population will demand a substantial presence to be effective. The reluctance of the Security Council will increase in proportion to the degree of intra-Timorese violence and the amount of political chaos in the transition period.
Consequently, enormous responsibility rests with both East Timorese and Indonesian political leaders and diplomats. Xanana Gusmao, Bishop Belo, and Mario Carrascalao have demonstrated a capacity to handle such responsibility. Xanana has stressed the need for reconciliation, abjuring revenge, and has frequently forsaken short-term and narrow advantage for the sake of long-term and widespread political benefit.
It is not so clear that present Indonesian leaders have such capacities. President Habibie’s courageous decision was not followed through decisively. Within Abri in particular, there was clearly a reluctance to make a constructive response. Megawati Sukarnoputri reminded the world more of Indira Gandhi the nationalist dictator, rather than of Cory Aquino the courageous democrat, when she rejected out of hand the possibility of East Timorese self-determination should she become president. Indonesian parliamentarians, safe from the challenge of political responsibility, spoke in tones of infantile regression about the ingratitude of the Timorese children who, having spurned Indonesia’s good intentions, should be simply abandoned forthwith. Foreign Minister Ali Alatas, repeatedly humiliated by his masters, and outplayed diplomatically for a decade by Ramos-Horta, has shown no sign of recognising Indonesia’s enormous moral responsibility.
Leadership
Facing self-government, East Timorese political figures will have to deal with an extraordinarily difficult set of policy choices. These include issues of language, law, administrative structures, economic issues ranging from basic food provision to the renegotiation of the Timor Gap treaty, and above all demilitarisation after the habit of war. However, the most immediate task is to ensure the acceptability of whatever is agreed upon in the UN-facilitated talks to the majority of East Timorese. Timorese of all persuasions feel sidelined from these talks while their futures appear to be negotiated over their heads.
In the parallel case of Palestine, Yasser Arafat’s Palestine Authority is widely discredited amongst Palestinians, in large part because of the secrecy of negotiations and lack of consultation between the PLO leadership and the mass of Palestinians both in occupied Palestine and in the diaspora.
The question of a referendum as the end-point for self-determination is therefore a fundamental goal for CNRT (National Council of Timorese Resistance). If there is a chance for any agreement to be discussed and approved on the ground in East Timor, the result is much more likely to be effective in providing a stable framework for transition to effective self-determination.
Fortunately CNRT has consolidated a complex two-way flow of both information and decision-making structures, spanning from Cipinang Prison in Jakarta to East Timor and beyond to CNRT external leadership and to the ever-increasing numbers of activists and intellectuals emerging from East Timorese diaspora communities around the world.
It is possible that Indonesian authority and its administrative organisations will fall apart very rapidly. The most important immediate key issues are demilitarisation, security, and the abjuring of revenge, each of which is capable of being exploited by opponents of self-determination.
After all the suffering flowing from war and occupation, it is inevitable that many East Timorese will feel extreme bitterness towards Indonesians in the territory. They will feel even more bitter and violent towards East Timorese they regard as collaborators. After the end of World War 2 in Europe, the French Resistance summarily executed some 40,000 French citizens held to be collaborators with the Nazi occupation. One can well imagine the fears of some East Timorese faced with the prospect of Indonesian withdrawal.
Two decades of war have had a profound effect on East Timorese society. Will it be possible for the habits of violence and secrecy, necessary for survival under alien occupation, to be forgotten? CNRT has begun to think through these problems. Its peace plans now stress the importance of demilitarisation, the disbanding of domestic military forces, and the role of the United Nations in maintaining peace in the transition period.
Yet the trauma of violence knows no party, no nationality. Xanana Gusmao and Bishop Belo have both stressed the need to eschew revenge and build a society based on compassion. The first step towards peace is to forget the simple-minded notion of ‘collaborator’. In 24 years of Indonesian occupation, the families of even the most ardent supporters of independence have had to make compromises with Indonesian authority. Lives are not always lived politically. CNRT will have to move rapidly once Indonesian authority begins to crumble.
CNRT has indicated some understanding of the position of innocent Indonesian citizens in East Timor. Indonesia is sure to demand guarantees of protection for its citizens. However their numbers are now so large that there will have to be complex plans made to actually manage the process of withdrawal of Indonesian troops from the mountains and countryside to the towns, and from there to Indonesia itself. Much can go wrong. Here again, the question of how large a UN presence can be expected is important.
8 February 1999.
Richard Tanter is Professor of International Relations at Kyoto Seika University, Japan. He has been writing on East Timor issues since mid-1975.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Just before an election, Habibie finds the temptation to buy himself a TV network too hard to resist.
Ishadi S K
On 23 November 1998, Tempo news weekly reported that a group around President Habibie tried to take over the private television network SCTV.
Television and radio have become crucial campaigning media, especially during the ‘reformasi’ that began in March and reached its peak with the end of the New Order on 21 May 1998. Television coverage, first by the private stations, then also by state television TVRI, made a strong contribution to the reformation process.
Its ownership structure suggested that television should have remained under the control of the New Order in those days. But it’s interesting that in practice this did not substantially influence broadcasting policy and the packaging of news. Probably the energy of the students, and the economic and political atmosphere generally, forced television to move beyond the control of its owners. The professionalism of the broadcasters, most of them idealistic young graduates from the newsprint industry, demonstrated a modern, competitive, open, intelligent style of television journalism. Viewers - bored with the slow, monotonous and biassed style of TVRI pre-reformation - lapped it up. Private television (followed by TVRI from early May) became a medium close to the spirit of reformation and democracy.
Media observers Golding and Murdock once said that television cannot be understood in isolation from its political and economic environment. This idea reinforced an earlier theory of ‘agenda setting’, in which the media play a huge role in selecting who and what is presented to society as news. The economic environment includes ownership and advertising. Since business everywhere is close to the political elite, the economic and political structure influences programming and news reporting.
Opportunity
The Tempo news item about Habibie then fits quite well with this concept of Golding and Murdock. A political elite who want to make use of the media will try to control it through its finances.
Now is a great opportunity for any political elite to take over the media. First, because all television stations desperately need fresh money to survive. Second, because the government, in particular the Information Minister, is busy bringing about ‘reformasi’ in the media. Cleaning up television stations whose ownership is tainted with corruption and collusion is certainly on his agenda.
Third, private television has become extremely popular and was before the financial crisis among the most profitable business sectors. Rather than establish a new network, which will take time to show a profit, much the best way is to acquire an existing one. Especially just before the 1999 elections.
The very real question now is, does this Habibie move not simply plunge Indonesian television back into the New Order? How can television ever become a neutral medium, free from political bias, a source of even-handed information for all? Perhaps it’s no more than a philosophical question, a utopian one. Even in the United States, where freedom is guaranteed under the First Amendment, the press is dominated by barons close to those in power.
Actually, if Tempo was correct in reporting that Habibie’s group had taken over SCTV (and Indosiar, another private network) merely for political reasons, it hardly makes sense. It would be so much easier to just use TVRI, which is after all government-owned. If the problem is that no one watches it, reform it into an effective source of news! If TVRI presented news in a more realistic way and didn’t go overboard in its partiality, it could become a compelling campaign tool.
Anyway, the experience of reformasi earlier in 1998 proved that a combination of enthusiastic students as a pressure group and the professionalism of television broadcasters can actually neutralise the power of the owners. Television must always belong to the public, a medium for everyone. Because it must use a portion of the electromagnetic spectrum, which is a limited resource within the public domain. But also because television is such an important medium to teach the people democracy and to keep an eye on government.
Haven’t we all vowed never to repeat the wrongs of the last 32 years? Once we realise that I think that anyone who still tries to acquire a private television network in these times is merely ‘taking over’ something that was born in the sins of the New Order.
Ishadi SK is a senior broadcasting executive with a reputation for promoting an independent mass media. He was appointed Director-General of Radio, Television and Film in the ‘reformasi’ Information Ministry in May 1998, but lost his job five months later for unclear reasons. ‘There is a bureaucratic environment that still will not face reality’, he said at the time.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Students have been far too timid.
Y B Mangunwijaya
Open letter to the University of Indonesia alumni association
With all due respect, I’m not surprised the reformation movement has run aground because (as I already said at our meeting on 16 May 1998 at the University of Indonesia) the reformation movement as a whole is wide of the mark. Just imagine, by analogy, if our leaders in 1945 had merely asked the Governor General of the Netherlands Indies (Suharto) to resign, and then demanded a special session of the Dutch parliament (the New Order parliament led by Harmoko, Abdul Gafur and company) in order to appoint a new Governor General and new deputies for him. Wouldn’t that have been absurd? But that’s precisely what’s happening today. People are not demanding total transformation but merely a reformation or a new adapation of an order that is already gone. Reformation (‘re’ means to repeat) is indeed what we have in the present Habibie government.
From the very beginning I have been urging Transformation or Revolution (a peaceful one). To me the biggest disaster in the history of our republic was the implementation of the 1945 Constitution, which Sukarno himself said at the time was ‘merely a temporary constitution, a lightning or revolutionary (extreme emergency) constitution… which will later have to be improved and expanded’ (18 August 1945 in front of the revolutionary parliament). Yet since then it has come to be regarded as a permanent and final constitution, one that logically and structurally permitted and even pushed every Indonesian president to become a dictator at any time.
Moreover, a highly centralised state of 200-250 million people cannot possibly be democratic. It will always be corrupt and fascistic – even more so than the New Order was. Clearly the process of improving and expanding the 1945 Constitution needs to be orderly and properly phased, but I’m saddened that University of Indonesia alumni still want to maintain the 1945 Constitution. We do need to maintain the Opening Declaration of the 1945 Constitution, but its body must be completely renewed and adjusted to today’s and tomorrow’s conditions.
That can only be done by a constitutional assembly properly set up through elections run not by the Habibie government but by a legitimate (not only legal) team of independent people trusted by the people.
So long as University of Indonesia graduates insist on maintaining the 1945 Constitution, so long as they want only reformation and not transformation, there is no hope that our republic can be healed of all the perversions of the last 40 years. Virulent cancer cannot be cured with skin cream or herbs but has to be operated on. That can be done in various ways, but obviously not by means of a special session of the ‘Dutch parliament’ to choose a ‘new Governor General’, nor can it be done under the ‘Constitution of the Dutch/ Japanese period’.
Not reformation but transformation is what we need. Revolution, but a peaceful revolution like (not identical to) the one wrought by the act of open democracy of 14 November 1945 under the inspiration of Sutan Syahrir and Mohammad Hatta. This act brought parliamentary democracy to life in Indonesia. It was not a ‘silent coup’ as is so often claimed, but a change that won the blessing of the Republican President and Vice-President of the day.
Of course this will require careful preparation. However, we live in 1998. Politics is not merely the art of the possible, but also means preparing to make possible that which is not yet possible.
Salam transformasi,
Yogyakarta, 17 October 1998
Y B Mangunwijaya was a novelist, Catholic priest, architect and social activist.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
The anger and the bullets are real. So why do student demonstrations reek of melodrama?
Chris Brown
Sometime after dark on Friday the 13th of November, I found myself staring at three men lying motionless in the gutter. From under the body of one of them a black pool crept silently. A dozen people converged, suddenly crowding close enough to touch, but none did. In the flashes of light from their cameras, the puddle flickered dark red.
All of the victims were too stunned to speak even as some of us lifted them up, trying to carry them out of the line of fire and into the tear gas and vomit haze of Atma Jaya University. I had already seen soldiers beating stretcher crews who could only huddle protectively over their charge. The eyes of the man I helped carry, the one bleeding heavily, were open but lifeless, body utterly limp. I don’t know if he survived. I went back to take more pictures.
The long day-into-night on the street to the north of central Jakarta’s Semanggi overpass was immediately dubbed Bloody Semanggi (Semanggi Berdarah) in the local press. It is certainly deserving of infamy. For no clear reason, soldiers repeatedly attacked peaceful demonstrators and killed an unverifiable number of people. I saw, and later saw pictures of, wounded people being taken away by soldiers; no one seems to know where.
However, without implying the slightest disrespect to all those who risked their lives at Semanggi to confront the military, nor to those who were gassed, beaten, wounded, or killed, one thing became clear to me that night: the degree of predetermined drama that surrounded the event even as it happened was out of proportion to the event itself. That sense of unreality troubled me in the ensuing days, and grew greater as a momentum of popular protest that had seemed revolutionary evaporated into thin air.
Bullets
The greatest number of the injured were beaten with clubs. But the most shocking aspect of the tragedy was that soldiers fired at unarmed civilians. Each time it happened the street seemed to become a war zone, an appallingly unequal massacre. Despite dogged denials from the armed forces (Abri) that live ammunition was used, doctors came forward with bullets extracted from victims.
Of the thousands of rounds fired that night, most were not real bullets. But even plastic pellets fired from assault rifles can cause nasty wounds, and from close range the composition of the projectile becomes a moot point. Judging from the shell casings I picked up at the scene, however, more than half the rounds were blanks, a fact not often mentioned in the Indonesian press and widely misunderstood by Indonesians at the scene, but one that goes a long way towards explaining why many more were not hurt.
Fear was amply justified. No one but the soldiers had any way of knowing the truth when they first opened fire, nor again with each ensuing volley. The crowd fled, but did not disperse. Impressively enough, after each wave of horror, students moved back into the street and, angry though they were at the deaths and inhumanity, insisted on maintaining peaceful confrontation. They clamped down immediately on anyone caught throwing stones, or hurling excessively pointed insults, at the soldiers. It was truly a heroic exercise of restraint. They even organised open soapbox forums (mimbar bebas), with handheld loudspeakers, only a few feet away from the ranks of armoured troops.
Some people recited exaggerated poetry in affected voices, as has long since become the custom at tamer demonstrations of the past, to the point where ‘to recite poetry’ (berpoesi) has practically become a synonym for political protest. Others came to the fore to cry and lament their fallen classmates, posing cooperatively for cameras. Some gave pointed analyses of what they felt was simply the continuing Suharto regime. And eventually, while students still sat on the pavement, the shooting began again.
In answer to the shots, far back up the street people beat on metal lampposts, on guardrails, on barrels, raising a unified din that drowned out even the unplaceable roar of the crowd itself, which for days had offered an audible beacon to anyone searching for the latest protest. Such eerie, syncopated percussion almost seemed too choreographed to be spontaneous. The masses, as they are called to distinguish them from the students, were heterogeneous at first, men and women of all ages.
As night fell young men stayed on. They were far less aggressive than even spokesmen on the side of reform have tended to admit. They damaged none of the glass-walled skyscrapers lining the street. Some were ‘armed’ with slingshots. When attacked, others threw stones. Perhaps to conserve ammunition, soldiers also stooped to throwing stones; an absurd sight, as they juggled plastic shield and assault rifle to wind up for a throw.
Melodrama
By now you probably know this story. It will have already entered history. Who knows but if by the time you read this some greater tragedy will have overtaken it. The curious part, however, is that it was destined to be history even before it happened. On the fourth and last day of the special session of the People’s Consultative Assembly MPR tension was at a peak. Representatives from the world press were on hand. The slogans of many groups in the street, Forum Kota and Front Jakarta in particular, had shifted from ‘reformasi’ to ‘revolusi,’ soon to become ‘revolusi sampai mati’ (revolution unto death). Cameras waited in the gap between opposing lines. The sound of gunfire was literally the cue to switch on the spotlights.
Yet as surely as the problem of heightened melodrama surrounding news events is associated with mass media around the globe, let us not be too quick to blame the media in Indonesia. The influence of news cameras in making all the world a stage and provoking us to ‘act,’ if rarely to action, presumes a habit of being represented, an accommodation to having each our 15 minutes of fame, foreign to New Order Indonesia.
Further, counter to a degree of positive liberalisation of formal press controls in past months, a more insidious latent liberal tendency has intensified. In a variation on the Enlightenment legacy, top editors and reporters, at least in the established media, are inclined to take the caveat of a ‘responsible press’ (as a prerequisite of its freedom) a little too much to heart. The tentative retreat of government pressure has heightened concerns about the provocative effect ‘real’ news may have. Loathe to see the blame for riots and death laid at their feet, self-censorship is more rampant than ever.
To give only a single example, the first very tense protest near Suharto’s house after the Semanggi incident, though attended by local camera crews, failed to rate a single word of mention on either RCTI or SCTV nightly TV news, to say nothing of the government station, leaving the impression that the day had passed uneventfully. Perhaps this was the point of people who during the special MPR session cavorted about with cardboard TV cameras and plastic-bottle-on-a-stick microphones, eliciting hilarity from everyone but the legitimate press. Or perhaps the satire, which seems to have become something of a tradition at least since the last elections, pointed more cynically to the empty formality of protest.
The week after the Bloody Semanggi incident was surprisingly quiet. At the site where the heroes of the reformation (pahlawan reformasi) fell, a steady stream of people covered hundreds of feet of cloth with messages of condolence for the victims, and with denunciations of the government, both well deserved. Yet the phrase pahlawan reformasi has an odd ring, a hint of halfway measure out of place to the calling of a hero. It is an effort to lay claim to the dramatic force of historic revolutions. It was as if the reformation was already past, and its defining moment needed to be savoured. A similar nostalgic licence rang through as well in the curious words of an Indonesian reporter I ran into several days after the Event (when I had shielded her from a line of soldiers sweeping past). She made a point of thanking me ‘for saving my life, and especially my camera.’
Acting
Not only the pervasive sense of exaggeration seems markedly dramatic. There is also the related concern that people may not be what they seem, that they might only be acting. The ‘security volunteers’ (Pam Swakarsa), who claimed to have gathered of their own accord to protect the special session and the nation, turned out to be largely destitute men bussed in from outside Jakarta. They were paid 10,000 rupiah or more a day to attack student demonstrators. Known by the koranic headbands they wore and the bamboo spears they brandished, they were nevertheless suspected at every opportunity to be moving incognito among the crowds. Intel operatives were also known to be working among the students and demands to produce ID cards were not uncommon. After the deadly conflict at Semanggi, faced with proof that real bullets were fired, military officials even raised the possibility of infiltrators in the army impersonating soldiers.
So what is the point of noting a touch of melodrama in a legitimate tragedy? Calling attention to aspects of stagecraft in Indonesian politics risks coming off as yet another analysis of how Java is like a shadow play. No matter if true that as yet unnamed influential people are certainly pulling strings to effect counter-demonstrations, incite riots, and otherwise further their own nefarious purposes (e.g. the Pam Swakarsa); the point is larger than a cultural metaphor. In the past (notably the early 60’s), formal drama such as ludruk theatre was used to articulate protest and broaden support for change. Now activists seek, whenever possible, to supplant direct confrontation with an impressive but formally limited dramatic substitute. Drama has become a field of contest in its own right, for students at least the preferred field of contest.
Towards the end of the night, after the third attack by soldiers, some people ran out of patience. They began sporadic attacks with molotov cocktails. They were a factor in forcing soldiers to retreat. The bombs were clearly not prepared in advance, and not always made properly. Most of the attacks fell short, but in front of the university several scored direct hits on army lines. Not long afterwards, student leaders and military commanders agreed to a truce for the night, averting an improvisational escalation that might have changed the character of reformasi irrevocably.
Chris Brown is a postgraduate student in anthropology at the University of Washington, Seattle, USA.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
The struggle for democracy has slowed because ‘opposition’ leaders, all of them schooled under Suharto, are afraid of the people.
Arief Budiman
Suharto is corrupt. He killed a lot of people, just like Pinochet. He built an unstable political system. But he did more. He ran a school that produced politicians, including opposition politicians, who cannot change the system.
If the opposition could just unite, total transformation would be easy. If the students in May ’98 had been given wholehearted support by Gus Dur, Megawati and Amien Rais (the so-called Ciganjur group), Habibie would never have survived as president, and Abri would not have dared shoot more students in November.
In the real world, Gus Dur on 17 December accused the students on Radio Netherlands of accepting $300,000 from the CIA. While students were demanding Suharto be put on trial, Gus Dur went to meet him to suggest national reconciliation. How could this happen?
First, because the Ciganjur group all obtained their leadership role ‘from above’. They are not activists who rose up through the ranks. Gus Dur and Mega got it through their families. Amien Rais is an academic used to working with the government, who became an oppositionist only after the government threw him out.
The students are totally different. They grew up with playground battles, and now proudly fight the military, ‘to reform the nation and the state’. (This is not unusual – the historical boundary between the criminal and the revolutionary hero is often vague, also in the history of our own revolution).
Second, the Ciganjur group learned their politics in a strong repressive system, where someone could become a major ‘oppositionist’ just by criticising the government. By contrast, when Sri Bintang Pamungkas set up his Pudi party and announced its purpose was to replace the government, he ended up in gaol together with the PRD.
The Ciganjur leaders, who now have the historic task of leading the nation, would never have done that. Suharto taught them that opposition (the word was banned in those days) just means polite criticism. Never say ‘change the government’, because that is revolt and subversion. These were the lessons of the New Order school.
The students never went to the New Order school. They see things quite simply. If the government is wrong, change it. Full stop. The proof is there. This government with its parliament is the result of an election fraudulent in every way. Most of its personnel, including the president, are tainted with corruption. What are we waiting for?
The New Order school has done its work well. Its graduates, including the Ciganjur leaders, still hold fast to their text book lessons. Yet ironically the room to manoeuvre they now enjoy was largely created for them by the students, who even now carry on the struggle, unsupported by the Ciganjur leaders. If the students are successful in creating a more democratic system, it is the Ciganjur group, and not the students, who will benefit most.
When Megawati’s PDI headquarters were attacked in 1996, it was the PRD who most energetically defended her. The PRD leaders are still in gaol today. Megawati and her other PDI leaders have never visited them in gaol or even said thank you. This too is a New Order lesson, never to deal with radical groups, let alone with ‘commies’.
Now the students know they have to reposition themselves. They are pioneers and they have played that role well. But now they realise that having cleared the ground, the ‘garrison troops’ who need to carry their struggle to completion are not there. Now they have a dilemma. If they carry on pioneering, they will get tired. Their role as moral force is based on the assumption that other players will (to change the metaphor) pick up the ball and run it to the goal. Yet they cannot turn themselves into garrison troops, because that would mean becoming a professional political party with money.
That is why we are here now. Our graduates from the New Order school feel more at home working with the government than with the masses below. That is the success of Suharto. ii
Arief Budiman is professor of Indonesian studies at the University of Melbourne, Australia. Abridged from an article in Tempo, 4 January 1999.
Inside Indonesia 58: Apr-Jun 1999
Indonesians will vote in June. Can they escape from the dead hand of past elections?
Jim Schiller
Indonesian newspapers say 1999 is the year that will decide Indonesia’s future, but that the coming elections have the potential for national disaster. As I write, the remnant national assembly (DPR) has just completed negotiating rules for the June elections (see box). A legislature stacked with people from the Suharto regime, now called the Corruption, Collusion and Nepotism Order, had the task of reforming the system which put them in office. Initial comments on the reforms have been mixed. Will the laws be widely accepted? If they are, will the elections implemented under them be seen as fair enough to give the elected government a chance to govern?
To consider those questions we need to consider what elections are supposed to do, and then what they have been expected to do in Indonesia.
Democratic theory sees elections as opportunities for the people to have their say. It imagines equal, independent and enlightened citizens. Votes are conceived as calculated decisions about who should govern, based on candidates’ policies and records. Government is made accountable to citizens who are empowered at the ballot box.
Even in the most homogenous and prosperous democracies, these assumptions are not fully realised. Election campaigns are not necessarily informative. Many voters do not make calculated decisions about their votes. Voters may be equal in the voting station, but they are far from equal in their wealth or capacity to influence the results. Many citizens of liberal democracies do not feel empowered by election process.
More recently, the authors of The politics of elections in Southeast Asia have focused on more mundane uses of elections. Elections, they say, may help Third World governments to appear democratic and therefore qualify for aid, investment and preferential trade from fellow ‘democracies’. Elections may also help to pacify the population. If people believe the election system is ‘fair’ they may be willing to wait for their turn to win. If citizens believe that they have had a voice and that the winning parties have received a mandate from the people they may be more willing to obey authority and to refrain from street politics.
Engineered
The Suharto government never intended to empower people. It wanted elections that pacified the population and justified foreign aid. Its elections, called ‘festivals of democracy’ aimed to generate enthusiastic participation without risking power. The two political parties were meant to be supporting cast in the victory of the government party. To create the appearance of choice at a ritual without choice, the Suharto government put in place one of the most comprehensively engineered electoral processes in the world.
It began by reducing the stakes. The presidency was not filled through popular elections. Instead, the president was ‘elected’ by a mainly appointed super-parliament (MPR). The MPR consisted of 500 representatives from the national assembly (DPR), of whom 75 were military appointed by the president, plus an additional 500 presidential appointees. The voters’ choice was limited to 42.5% of the body that elects the president, and 85% of the seats in a rubber-stamp national assembly.
Since 1977 only three parties have been permitted to contest elections. They are the state party, Golkar, which had unparalleled access to private donations, and to the resources of the state, and two government-manipulated, cash-strapped, badly divided political parties, PDI (the Indonesian Democratic Party) and PPP (the United Development Party).
The government allowed only a brief campaign period. Parties found it difficult to organise outside the campaign period. Government officials, also Golkar cadre, were able to influence voters before the campaign, or during the ‘quiet week’ before the poll. The government restricted popular campaign symbols, screened prospective candidates, and banned critical campaigners. It intervened frequently to remove outspoken politicians. It also detained or threatened those who proposed an election boycott.
The most important reason for the government’s success at achieving a high turnout and Golkar victory was its control of an administrative structure which stretched from Jakarta down to the village. Local officials controlled development funds that could be used to reward the loyal. They also issue documents that are crucial in the everyday life of most Indonesians. Anyone who wants to send their children to school, sell land, or open a business must obtain the signatures of their local and village officials. This control over sanctions and rewards makes state officials powerful patrons everywhere in Indonesia, but especially in poor, isolated areas outside Java. Patronage was reinforced through intimidation by local officials, military and sometimes gangs.
Local state and village officials were required to join the government party and were given quotas for Golkar membership and votes. Retired army officers and government officials managed the Golkar campaign. Officials and family members were candidates for local assemblies. These officials also headed the committees that policed the campaign, voting and vote-counting.
The vote counting and tallying process provided little opportunity for independent scrutiny. The election ritual closed with a coerced declaration of acceptance of the results, signed by regional and national party leaders.
1997
State Secretary Moerdiono said that ‘the [1997] election should take place quietly, full of anticipation and full of enthusiasm. ‘ The government’s aim was to carry out elections that generated enough public participation and enthusiasm to give it some domestic legitimacy and international credibility without demonstrating the regime’s need to resort to repression or fraud.
It did not succeed. The election ended up looking more like a sham than a festival of democracy. In 1997 there was more resistance to the government’s effort, more violence by and against government supporters, more negative images of the election, and more visible opposition to the election.
More than one hundred were killed in one incident in Banjarmasin. A larger number were killed in daily campaign violence scattered across the archipelago. In Madura, crowds, disgusted with alleged vote fraud, burned down voting stations and government buildings. Elsewhere in East Java unrest continued for weeks after the election.
The resistance and violence had several sources. One source was the anger and alienation that resulted from the removal of Megawati Sukarnoputri as leader of the PDI, and the government-supported, violent attack on her supporters at PDI headquarters in 1996. Thousands of her supporters saw the election as fraudulent and were ready to challenge Golkar and ‘official’ PDI campaign efforts. Thousands more joined with the Islamic party PPP and helped radicalise its campaign.
Another source was the intensity of the government election effort. In 1992 the government vote had declined 5%. In 1997 the government wanted to more than recoup its 5% vote decline in 1992. Bureaucrats were mobilised to go all out for a victory. Weekly estimates of the Golkar vote using vote count declarations, rewards for delivering 95% or 100% Golkar victories, incentive programs to win the support of Muslim leaders, and huge mass rallies in PPP strongholds were all part of that effort.
Money politics was extensive. It included incentive payments to officials, provision of cattle to villages voting 100% Golkar, and cash payments to voters. Alleged government intimidation of party supporters was widely reported. This included sending a dog’s head to a Solo PPP leader, the beating of the PPP chairman in Wonosobo, and attacks on PPP supporters returning from a rally in Jepara. The government’s overbearing effort, which included efforts to restrict mass rallies, provoked thousands of angered citizens to ignore restrictions and, sometimes, to engage in violence.
Interestingly, negative news of the intimidation, violence, vote fraud, and vote buying was widely reported. The widespread availability of internet election stories may have made journalists more daring. The monitoring of the election and related human rights abuses by the national human rights commission (Komnasham) and the new independent election monitoring committee (Kipp) allowed the Indonesian press to report anger and frustration.
Legacy
The New Order set out to use an election to engineer consent. Instead it got violence and anger. So what is the legacy of 1997 and the Suharto election system? Four features stand out: a widespread suspicion of elections, a high level of campaign intimidation and violence, a suspect civil service in charge of the election, and the use of money politics.
In 1997, vote declarations appeared weeks before election day, vote counts at the village level changed at the next level, and in North Sumatra Golkar transferred votes to the pro-government PDI. The fraud helped to generate a deep mistrust of authority. This increases the likelihood of future election violence, and the risk that losers will claim foul play. In the present economic and social climate, the risks of rejection and violence are high.
The use of intimidation and violence by government supporters and opponents was a major feature of the 1997 campaign. The cost of intimidation, in lives and in the poor image of the election was high. Many party supporters became more militant. Government mobilisation of crowds was matched by the PPP and by Megawati supporters. Instructions restricting public rallies were largely ignored and crowds were frequently provoked to violence. In 1999 it is hard to imagine that crowds of a million or more could remain non-violent.
As the 1997 Jepara Golkar chairman, also the head of local government, stated in a post-election booklet: ‘as we all know the election is designed for a Golkar victory’. To do this the civil service was firmly enlisted in support of the government party through payments, opportunities for promotion and job threats if they did not deliver a Golkar victory. Local officials are now used to being part of a political machine. They will go into 1999 dispirited, with less patronage, and with a more critical society than ever before. Still, if the government party can deliver some local patronage that could sway the election outcome, especially in isolated places like Southeast Sulawesi where Golkar obtained 98% of the vote in 1997. Depending on how the election laws and civil service regulations are interpreted, bureaucrats might ally themselves with Golkar or other political parties. Officials taking sides could have a devastating impact.
Money politics was important in 1997, and is likely to be more important in the current depression. Money to buy the support of local patrons or to pay people for their vote has been a major feature of ‘democratic’ elections in Thailand and the Philippines. In 1999 it is unclear which Indonesian parties will have money to spend, or how much patron and vote buying there will be. It is certain that ‘money politics’ will be an issue in determining the election’s credibility.
Against these legacies of Suharto, all of which make it more difficult to hold a successful election, is the inventiveness and courage of Indonesia’s reformers and citizens. Reforms like the decision by Central Java university heads to turn the obligatory university student fieldwork into an extensive election monitoring program will make it harder for anyone trying to continue the practices of the Suharto period. The election laws and the ‘reform’ mood within society mean that this election will be closely scrutinised. Trying to engineer the results would be disastrous.
Jim Schiller lectures in the Department of Asian Studies and Languages at Flinders University in Adelaide. He has written on the 1997 elections for the University of Victoria, Canada, Centre for Asia Pacific Initiatives series.
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