Category: indonesia

  • The Indonesian Navy (TNI-AL) is receiving a boost to its upper-end capabilities as it inducts two new classes of frigates. Beginning the charge, the first of four frigates, KRI Brawijaya, was commissioned in Mugiano, Italy on 2 July. KRI Brawijaya (pennant number ‘320’) is the first of two PPA warships manufactured by Fincantieri, originally destined […]

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    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • The Indonesian Navy (TNI-AL) is receiving a boost to its upper-end capabilities as it inducts two new classes of frigates. Beginning the charge, the first of four frigates, KRI Brawijaya, was commissioned in Mugiano, Italy on 2 July. KRI Brawijaya (pennant number ‘320’) is the first of two PPA warships manufactured by Fincantieri, originally destined […]

    The post Indonesian Navy cranks up its frigate inventory appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • French technology company Exail has been awarded a contract to deliver uncrewed surface vehicles (USVs) and mine identification and disposal systems to the Indonesian Navy. The company announced on 24 June that it will supply four Inspector 90 USVs, and the Seascan and K-Ster mine identification and disposal systems (MIDS). The systems will be deployed […]

    The post Exail to supply uncrewed mine countermeasures systems to Indonesian Navy appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • Asia Pacific Report

    The NGO Coalition on Human Rights in Fiji (NGOCHR) has called on Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka as the new chair of the Melanesian Spearhead Group (MSG) to “uphold justice, stability and security” for Kanaky New Caledonia and West Papua.

    In a statement today after last week’s MSG leaders’ summit in Suva, the coalition also warned over Indonesia’s “chequebook diplomacy” as an obstacle for the self-determination aspirations of Melanesian peoples not yet independent.

    Indonesia is a controversial associate member of the MSG in what is widely seen in the region as a “complication” for the regional Melanesian body.

    The statement said that with Rabuka’s “extensive experience as a seasoned statesman in the Pacific, we hope that this second chapter will chart a different course, one rooted in genuine commitment to uphold justice, stability and security for all our Melanesian brothers and sisters in Kanaky New Caledonia and West Papua”.

    The coalition said the summit’s theme, “A peaceful and prosperous Melanesia”, served as a reminder that even after several decades of regional bilaterals, “our Melanesian leaders have made little to no progress in fulfilling its purpose in the region — to support the independence and sovereignty of all Melanesians”.

    “Fiji, as incoming chair, inherits the unfinished work of the MSG. As rightly stated by the late great Father Walter Lini, ‘We will not be free until all of Melanesia is free”, the statement said.

    “The challenges for Fiji’s chair to meet the goals of the MSG are complex and made more complicated by the inclusion of Indonesia as an associate member in 2015.

    ‘Indonesia active repression’
    “Indonesia plays an active role in the ongoing repression of West Papuans in their desire for independence. Their associate member status provides a particular obstacle for Fiji as chair in furthering the self-determination goals of the MSG.”

    Complicating matters further was the asymmetry in the relationship between Indonesia and the rest of the MSG members, the statement said.

    “As a donor government and emerging economic power, Indonesia’s ‘chequebook and cultural diplomacy’ continues to wield significant influence across the region.

    “Its status as an associate member of the MSG raises serious concerns about whether it is appropriate, as this pathway risks further marginalising the voices of our West Papuan sisters and brothers.”

    This defeated the “whole purpose of the MSG: ‘Excelling together towards a progressive and prosperous Melanesia’.”

    The coalition acknowledged Rabuka’s longstanding commitment to the people of Kanaky New Caledonia. A relationship and shared journey that had been forged since 1989.

    ‘Stark reminder’
    The pro-independence riots of May 2024 served as a “stark reminder that much work remains to be done to realise the full aspirations of the Kanak people”.

    As the Pacific awaited a “hopeful and favourable outcome” from the Troika Plus mission to Kanaky New Caledonia, the coalition said that it trusted Rabuka to “carry forward the voices, struggles, dreams and enduring aspirations of the people of Kanaky New Caledonia”.

    The statement called on Rabuka as the new chair of MSG to:

    • Ensure the core founding values, and mission of the MSG are upheld;
    • Re-evaluate Indonesia’s appropriateness as an associate member of the MSG; and
    • Elevate discussions on West Papua and Kanaky New Caledonia at the MSG level and through discussions at the Pacific Islands Forum Leaders.

    The Fiji NGO Coalition on Human Rights (NGOCHR) represents the Fiji Women’s Crisis Centre (chair), Fiji Women’s Rights Movement, Citizens’ Constitutional Forum, femLINKpacific, Social Empowerment and Education Program, and Diverse Voices and Action (DIVA) for Equality Fiji. Pacific Network on Globalisation (PANG) is an observer.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • Asia Pacific Report

    A West Papuan independence movement leader has warned the Melanesian Spearhead Group after its 23rd leaders summit in Suva, Fiji, to not give in to a “neocolonial trade in betrayal and abandonment” over West Papua.

    While endorsing and acknowledging the “unconditional support” of Melanesian people to the West Papuan cause for decolonisation, OPM chair and commander Jeffrey P Bomanak
    spoke against “surrendering” to Indonesia which was carrying out a policy of “bank cheque diplomacy” in a bid to destroy solidarity.

    Fiji Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka took over the chairmanship of the MSG this week from his Vanuatu counterpart Jotham Napat and vowed to build on the hard work and success that had been laid before it.

    He said he would not take the responsibility of chairmanship lightly, especially as they were confronted with an increasingly fragmented global landscape that demanded more from them.

    PNG Prime Minister James Marape called on MSG member states to put West Papua and Kanaky New Caledonia back on the agenda for full MSG membership.

    Marape said that while high-level dialogue with Indonesia over West Papua and France about New Caledonia must continue, it was culturally “un-Melanesian” not to give them a seat at the table.

    West Papua currently holds observer status in the MSG, which includes Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and Fiji — and Indonesia as an associate member.

    PNG ‘subtle shift’
    PNG recognises the West Papuan region as five provinces of Indonesia, making Marape’s remarks in Suva a “subtle shift that may unsettle Jakarta”, reports Gorethy Kenneth in the PNG Post-Courier.

    West Papuans have waged a long-standing Melanesian struggle for independence from Indonesia since 1969.

    The MSG resolved to send separate letters of concern to the French and Indonesian presidents.

    The OPM letter warning the MSG
    The OPM letter warning the MSG. Image: Screenshot APR

    In a statement, Bomanak thanked the Melanesians of Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu and the Kanak and Socialist National Liberation Front (FLNKS) of Kanaky New Caledonia for “unconditionally support[ing] your West Papuan brothers and sisters, subjected to dispossession, enslavement, genocide, ethnocide, infanticide, and ethnic cleansing, [as] the noblest of acts.”

    “We will never forget these Melanesian brothers and sisters who remain faithfully loyal to our cultural identity no matter how many decades is our war of liberation and no matter how many bags of gold and silver Indonesia offers for the betrayal of ancestral kinship.

    “When the late [Vanuatu Prime Minister] Father Walter Lini declared, ‘Melanesia is not free unless West Papua is free,”’ he was setting the benchmark for leadership and loyalty across the entire group of Melanesian nations.

    “Father Lini was not talking about a timeframe of five months, or five years, or five decades.

    “Father Lini was talking about an illegal invasion and military occupation of West Papua by a barbaric nation wanting West Papua’s gold and forests and willing to exterminate all of us for this wealth.

    ‘Noble declaration’
    “That this noble declaration of kinship and loyalty now has a commercial value that can be bought and sold like a commodity by those without Father Lini’s courage and leadership, and betrayed for cheap materialism, is an act of historic infamy that will be recorded by Melanesian historians and taught in all our nations’ universities long after West Papua is liberated.”

    OPM leader Jeffrey Bomanak
    OPM leader Jeffrey Bomanak . . . his letter warns against surrendering to Indonesian control. Image: OPM

    Bomanak was condemning the decision of the MSG to regard the “West Papua problem” as an internal issue for Indonesia.

    “The illegal occupation of West Papua and the genocide of West Papuans is not an internal issue to be solved by the barbaric occupier.

    “Indonesia’s position as an associate member of MSG is a form of colonial corruption of the Melanesian people.

    “We will continue to fight without MSG because the struggle for independence and sovereignty is our fundamental right of the Papuan people’s granted by God.

    “Every member of MSG can recommend to the United Nations that West Papua deserves the same right of liberation and nation-state sovereignty that was achieved without compromise by Timor-Leste — the other nation illegally invaded by Indonesia and also subjected to genocide.”

    Bomanak said the MSG’s remarks stood in stark contrast to Father Lini’s solidarity with West Papua and were “tantamount to sharing in the destruction of West Papua”.

    ‘Blood money’
    It was also collaborating in the “extermination of West Papuans for economic benefit, for Batik Largesse. Blood money!”

    The Papua ‘problem’ was not a human rights problem but a problem of the Papuan people’s political right for independence and sovereignty based on international law and the right to self-determination.

    It was an international problem that had not been resolved.

    “In fact, to say it is simply a ‘problem’ ignores the fate of the genocide of 500,000 victims.”

    Bomanak said MSG leaders should make clear recommendations to the Indonesian government to resolve the “Papua problem” at the international level based on UN procedures and involving the demilitarisation of West Papua with all Indonesian defence and security forces “leaving the land they invaded and unlawfully occupied.”

    Indonesia’s position as an associate member in the MSG was a systematic new colonialisation by Indonesia in the home of the Melanesian people.

    Indonesia well understood the weaknesses of each Melanesian leader and “carries out bank cheque diplomacy accordingly to destroy the solidarity so profoundly declared by the late Father Walter Lini.”

    “No surrender!”

    MSG members in Suva
    MSG leaders in Suva . . . Jeremy Manele (Solomon Islands, from left), James Marape (PNG), Sitiveni Rabuka (Fiji), Jotham Napat (Vanuatu), and Roch Wamytan (FLNKS spokesperson). Image: PNG Post-Courier

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • Asia Pacific Report

    A Fiji-based advocacy group has condemned the participation of Indonesia in the Melanesian Spearhead Group which is meeting in Suva this week, saying it is a “profound disgrace” that the Indonesian Embassy continues to “operate freely” within the the MSG Secretariat.

    “This presence blatantly undermines the core principles of justice and solidarity we claim to uphold as Melanesians,” said We Bleed Black and Red in a social media post.

    The group said that as the new MSG chair, the Fiji government could not speak cannot credibly about equity, peace, regional unity, or the Melanesian family “while the very agent of prolonged Melanesian oppression sits at the decision-making table”.

    The statement said that for more than six decades, the people of West Papua had endured “systemic atrocities from mass killings to environmental devastation — acts that clearly constitute ecocide and gross human rights violations”.

    “Indonesia’s track record is not only morally indefensible but also a flagrant breach of numerous international agreements and conventions,” the group said.

    “It is time for all Melanesian nations to confront the reality behind the diplomatic facades and development aid.

    “No amount of financial incentives or diplomatic charm can erase the undeniable suffering of the West Papuan people.

    “We must rise above political appeasement and fulfill our moral and regional duty as one Melanesian family.

    “The Pacific cannot claim moral leadership while turning a blind eye and deaf ear to colonial violence on our own shores. Justice delayed is justice denied.”

    ‘Peaceful, prosperous Melanesia’
    Meanwhile, The Fiji Times reports that the 23rd MSG Leaders’ Summit got underway on Monday in Suva, drawing heads of state from Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and representatives from New Caledonia’s FLNKS.

    Hosted under the theme “A Peaceful and Prosperous Melanesia,” the summit ended yesterday.

    This year’s meeting also marked Fiji’s first time chairing the regional bloc since 1997.

    Fiji officially assumed the MSG chairmanship from Vanuatu following a traditional handover ceremony attended by senior officials, observers, and dignitaries at Draiba.

    Papua New Guinea’s Prime Minister James Marape arrived in Suva on Sunday and reaffirmed Papua New Guinea’s commitment to MSG cooperation during today’s plenary session.

    He will also take part in high-level talanoa discussions with the Pacific Islands Forum’s Eminent Persons Group, aimed at deepening institutional reform and regional solidarity.

    Observers from the United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) and Indonesia were also present, reflecting ongoing efforts to expand the bloc’s influence on issues like self-determination, regional trade, security, and climate resilience in the Pacific.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • Indonesia has long stood as a democratic paradox: a country with vibrant electoral participation and open civic engagement, yet persistent institutional fragility. Over the last decade, another paradox has emerged—one that reshapes the relationship between public opinion and policymaking. As more citizens engage through digital platforms, political decisions have become increasingly reactive, emotionally charged, and performative.

    What we are witnessing is a shift toward what might be called reactive democracy—a form of governance in which legitimacy, through still rooted in elections or institutional authority, is sustained in between elections by the performance of responsiveness to  the social media reactions that determining which issues gain visibility and urgency—and which have increasingly become seen as proxies for the popular will.

    This logic stands in sharp contrast to the model of deliberative democracy, where legitimacy arises not from the volume or velocity of expression, but from its quality. As envisioned by thinkers like Habermas, deliberative democracy depends on inclusive, rational-critical debate—spaces where citizens justify their claims, consider opposing views, and seek mutual understanding. It imagines the public sphere as a space for thoughtful negotiation and the slow formation of reasoned consensus.

    Social media once seemed to promise this very vision: a digitally enabled deliberative space where citizens could bypass traditional gatekeepers and engage directly in democratic discourse. Few techno-utopian thinkers envisioned a future where the interactive features of digital platforms would foster a deeper, more participatory democracy—a kind of virtual town square grounded in openness, reciprocity, and reflective dialogue

    But in practice, platforms are not designed for deliberation—they are designed to capture attention. Reactions—emoji clicks, retweets, algorithmically sorted comments—are designed for speed and simplicity, not for reasoned exchange.

    Though individually fleeting, these digital signals become powerful when taken together, shaping the collective mood as interpreted and amplified by platform algorithms. The result is a connected mass democracy that often feels more reactive than reflective. It is, in many of its manifestations, shallower, more performative, and more susceptible to the distortions of spectacle than the idealist advocates of digital democracy had originally envisioned.

    Governance by trend

    In this environment, policymaking increasingly follows what goes viral, not what is effective. It becomes more performative than deliberative—driven by what trends, rather than what works. The democratic potential of this shift is real, but so are its dangers.

    In early 2025, several high-profile policy U-turns under President Prabowo Subianto’s administration illustrated this dynamic in real time. However, the phenomenon of viral-driven policymaking did not begin with the Prabowo administration. During Joko Widodo’s presidency, there was already a growing pattern of state responsiveness to viral criticism and digital outrage. A long list of Jokowi-era policies—ranging from controversial labour and education regulations to public health mandates and infrastructure plans—were revised, delayed, or scrapped entirely after facing intense online backlash. What started as occasional policy reversals under Jokowi has now become a more consistent and embedded mode of governance under Prabowo.

    One of the first involved an attempt to restrict the sale of 3-kilogram LPG canisters—widely known as tabung gas melon—to licensed distributors. The move disrupted informal retail networks relied on by millions. Within days, social media platforms were flooded with videos of distressed citizens, particularly women and elderly residents, struggling to find affordable gas. As public frustration intensified online, the government quickly reversed course. The canisters returned to warung shelves, and public anger subsided.

    Earlier, backlash also erupted over a proposed increase in the Value Added Tax (VAT) to 12 percent. Fears of rising prices for basic goods spread rapidly across social media. In response, the government hastily clarified that the hike would apply only to luxury items—a move widely interpreted as a reaction to mounting digital outrage.

    A third episode involved a controversial customs regulation limiting the quantity of goods Indonesian citizens could bring home from abroad. The policy was seen as excessive and burdensome. Online, the term “Becuk”—a mocking abbreviation of Bea Cukai (customs office)—went viral, symbolising widespread dissatisfaction. In a rare move, the spokesperson for the ministry of finance, Prastowo Yustinus, took to Twitter/X to crowdsource feedback from netizens. Days later, following intense online criticism and input, the government scrapped the regulation altogether.

    More recently, the Ministry of Administrative and Bureaucratic Reform (Menpan RB) issued a circular announcing delays in the appointment of new civil servants (Calon Pegawati Negeri Sipil or CPNS) and contract-based government employees (Pegawai Pemerintah dengan Perjanjian Kerka or PPPK). The decision sparked public disappointment. Within days, an online petition demanding the fast-tracking of CPNS recruitment began circulating widely, while the hashtag #saveCASN2024 trended across platforms as citizens protested the delay. Following the viral backlash, the government once again revised its position, announcing that CPNS appointments would be accelerated in response to public demand.

    These cases may seem minor, but they reflect a deeper trend. In today’s Indonesia, policy decisions increasingly unfold under the pressure of algorithmically-enabled mobilisation. No longer confined to deliberative forums, data and evidence, or expert panels, policymaking must now survive the court of public virality.

    Then trade minister Zulkifli Hasan acommpanies former president Joko Widodo on a market visit, May 2024 (Photo: Zulkifli Hasan on Facebook)

    From deliberation to digitally amplified emotion

    Indonesia’s digital landscape has expanded rapidly. With over 78 percent internet penetration, the public sphere now includes voices historically excluded from formal politics—housewives, rural youth, street vendors, and informal workers. This democratisation of access has, in many ways, created new spaces for accountability and participatory engagement.

    But social media platforms operate on emotional and algorithmic logic. Viral outrage—not careful deliberation—drives visibility. Research has consistently shown that emotionally charged content is far more likely to be shared and amplified. In this environment, complex and long-term policy issues—such as tax reform, climate adaptation, or education equity—often struggle to gain traction.

    Reactions may appear trivial, but they play a crucial role in digital politics. They not only gauge the popularity of content but also directly affect its algorithmic visibility—and therefore, its influence. The more reactions a piece of content garners, the more prominently social media platforms display it. The “clickers,” “likers,” and “sharers” may be dismissed as mere clicktivists, but they’ve become micro-opinion leaders and amplifiers of political messages.

    In turn, political leaders now obsessively track and optimise for these metrics, treating them as proxies for public approval. This carries a plebiscitary logic, where mass participation comes at the cost of shallow interaction. Only a small subset of activists engage in sustained political discourse, while the majority contribute through simplified acts—clicking “like,” sharing a post, or reacting with an emoji. These actions are individually minor but collectively powerful, accumulating into visible indicators of public sentiment.  It is not always populist leaders driving this shift, but the performative pressures of a digitally mediated public—namely, the growing expectation, amplified by social media, that politicians respond swiftly and visibly to online sentiment, often through symbolic gestures rather than through deliberative policymaking.

    In Indonesia, this logic is becoming institutionalised. Ministries now allocate specific budgets for social media governance—not merely to disseminate policy updates, but to monitor, respond to, and occasionally manipulate public sentiment online. These operations consist of coordinated networks of influencers, content creators, account coordinators, and paid buzzers who work together to steer online opinion in favour of the government and corporate interests. Beyond simply promoting state or corporate agendas, buzzers often engage in targeted attacks against dissenting voices, discrediting and intimidating journalists, activists, and environmental defenders.

    In effect, what Indonesia is witnessing is not merely the digitisation of its democracy. Rather, the rise of buzzers under the umbrella of reactive democracy shows how digital platforms, far from democratising public life, have been adapted to entrench existing hierarchies of power and shield them from accountability.

    As a result, policy decisions are not only swayed by viral public moods but are actively shaped and defended by orchestrated buzzer campaigns, making policymaking increasingly reactive, short-term, and hostile to critical scrutiny.

    Democracy without deliberation?

    To be clear, reactive democracy is not inherently exclusionary. In fact, it often expands participation and strengthens what some scholars call “vertical accountability” from below. It allows citizens—particularly those outside Jakarta or beyond elite circles—to shape national conversations. The ability to film, upload, and amplify grievances in real-time has fostered a new form of political participation—less tied to formal institutions, more rooted in emotional resonance and performative outrage.

    This visibility raises the reputational cost for policymakers who ignore public sentiment. Civil society actors, too, can leverage online momentum to elevate grassroots concerns to national prominence. In many ways, this dynamic has democratised voice. But it has also introduced significant risks.

    The rise of performance politics in Indonesia?

    What does it mean for Indonesia’s political development when elites and voters view democracy in instrumental terms?

    First, reactive governance undermines the predictability and stability that democratic institutions are designed to provide. When policy is shaped by viral outrage, long-term planning becomes difficult. Technocratic expertise may shift from evaluating outcomes to managing narratives. Evidence-based policymaking risks being sidelined by the imperative to act quickly—and visibly.

    Second, not all voices carry equal weight online. Although digital participation is expanding, algorithmic hierarchies still favour particular demographics. Urban, tech-savvy, middle-class users dominate much of the digital space, while rural communities, the elderly, and others on the margins remain underrepresented. What trends online may not reflect a democratic majority—but rather, an emotionally charged, algorithmically curated subset of the public.

    Third, the emotional tone of online discourse can erode the foundation of democratic reasoning. Policies that tackle complex challenges—such as climate change, education reform, or fiscal restructuring—require sustained, inclusive deliberation. These issues rarely go viral. A democracy governed by trending sentiment risks becoming one allergic to difficult truths.

    Fourth, digital discourse is easily manipulated. Political influencers, buzzers, and bots are frequently deployed to manufacture outrage or simulate grassroots support. In such cases, what appears to be “public opinion” may in fact be engineered by vested interests. Reactive governance, then, may end up responding not to the people—but to those who are most skilled at gaming the system.

    Conclusion: toward a more reflective digital democracy

    The rise of reactive democracy in Indonesia reveals a troubling paradox at the heart of its political transformation. On the surface, the digital public sphere appears to have invigorated political participation and enhanced a form of vertical accountability—citizens speaking back to power in real time, holding policymakers to account through viral outrage. Yet beneath this performative responsiveness lies a deeper erosion of institutional strength.

    What appears to be democratic responsiveness is often merely symbolic. Indonesia’s political landscape has become dominated by performance—gestures of attentiveness rather than substantive reform. Policy is increasingly shaped not by careful deliberation or long-term vision, but by what trends online. Public approval is measured in likes and hashtags, not in deliberative consensus. This is accountability in appearance, not in structure.

    Meanwhile, the horizontal and diagonal dimensions of accountability—checks by the judiciary, legislatures, civil society, and investigative media—have weakened significantly in recent years. Formal institutions have been hollowed out or co-opted, and public watchdogs struggle to compete with the speed and spectacle of social media outrage. In this context, digital participation risks distracting from deeper institutional decay, replacing enduring accountability mechanisms with a more volatile and superficial kind.

    Indonesia is not alone in confronting the promises and perils of digital democracy. But the stakes are uniquely high here, where the democratic project has long been shaped by a tension between mass legitimacy and institutional fragility. The challenge is not simply to regulate platforms or improve digital literacy—though these are important steps. It is to fundamentally rethink how democratic accountability is practiced and sustained in the digital age.

    Left unchecked, reactive democracy may lead Indonesia further into a plebiscitary model of governance: one where public input is immediate but shallow, emotionally resonant but policy-thin—ultimately undermining the very institutions needed to support democratic resilience. But if redirected, these new digital dynamics could also be harnessed to strengthen democracy by opening new spaces for deliberation, responsiveness, and inclusion.

    Meeting that challenge requires more than reactive governance. It demands a renewed commitment to building a reflective digital democracy—one that links digital expression to institutional power, and emotional energy to collective reasoning. The task ahead is to ensure that democracy in Indonesia is not only reactive, but also resilient, inclusive, and ultimately, reflective.

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  • Anthony John Stanhope Reid—known to friends, students, and colleagues simply as Tony—passed away on Sunday, 8 June 2025, in Canberra. It was a quiet Sunday, typically devoted to church and reflection with his wife, Helen, his lifelong partner in both scholarship and life. A month earlier, I had an unexpected encounter with Tony in the coffee queue at Canberra Hospital after his oncology consultation. Sitting under the crisp late spring sun, we spoke not about illness but about Helen. “I just want to make sure Helen is taken care of,” he said quietly, deeply concerned she might outlive him.

    Tony Reid’s academic journey began at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand, where he was actively involved in the Student Christian Movement. From this early context emerged a progressive intellectual orientation grounded in ideals of social justice and egalitarianism. Unlike many of his contemporaries who focused on Europe or North America, Reid turned decisively toward Southeast Asia—then a marginal region in global scholarship. His aim was not merely to study Southeast Asia but to rewrite its history from within, challenging Eurocentric paradigms and colonial epistemologies. He consistently treated the region not as an object of Western theory but as a generator of knowledge in its own right.

    This epistemological reorientation found its fullest expression in his 1990 magnum opus, Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, 1450–1680. In this two-volume work, Reid reconceptualised Southeast Asia as a dynamic and interconnected maritime world, linked by monsoon winds, port cities, commercial exchanges, and religious movements. Rejecting nationalist and colonial historiographies that fragmented the region, he demonstrated that long before European imperialism, Southeast Asia was part of a cosmopolitan and global historical continuum. Through the use of travel accounts, commercial records, and ethnographic detail, Reid uncovered a richly textured world of cultural and economic interdependence.

    Methodologically, Reid was committed to writing history from below. He foregrounded everyday life, material culture, environment, and popular religious practices. His use of early European travel writings and colonial documents was both critical and ethnographic: rather than taking these as objective records, he treated them as refracted lenses through which indigenous societies could be glimpsed—biases and all. In addition, Reid employed economic data such as commodity prices and export statistics to delineate historical turning points, most notably the 17th-century crisis that marked the decline of Southeast Asia’s “Age of Commerce”. His scepticism toward grand, imported theories led him to build grounded historical periodisations based on regional dynamics.

    Although trained within European historiographical traditions, Reid’s ethical and intellectual allegiances were with the marginalized: women, laborers, peasants, diasporic Chinese communities, and adherents of local spiritual traditions. From his doctoral work on anti-colonial resistance in Aceh, completed at Cambridge, to his later studies on Indonesia’s revolution, Reid consistently approached history as a field shaped by the struggles and aspirations of ordinary people. A pivotal moment in this orientation came during his 1966 research trip to Sumatra, where he encountered firsthand the revolutionary fervor and suffering of the local populace. This encounter deeply influenced his 1979 book The Blood of the People, where Reid argued that the 1945–46 Indonesian revolution in Aceh and East Sumatra was a mass social uprising, not merely a political transition orchestrated by elites.

    For Reid, revolution was not just a national event but a profound social rupture with transformative potential. In 2009, he provocatively argued in his book Imperial Alchemy: Nationalism and Political Identity in Southeast Asia that “Indonesia’s unification as a centralized nation-state (not to mention China’s) would have been impossible without it.” Reid framed revolution as the crucible in which new national legitimacies were forged, particularly in the decolonising world of the mid-20th century. Yet he also acknowledged its paradoxes. As he observed in 2011 in To Nation by Revolution: Indonesia in the 20th Century, post-revolutionary states often invoked revolutionary rhetoric to suppress pluralism and dissent: “Revolution did not deliver all it promised, but it opened up possibilities that were once unthinkable.” For Reid, revolution was both emancipatory and wounding, and its unfinished legacies demanded ongoing critical reflection.

    Fragile paradise: Bali and volcanic threats to our region

    The destruction of centuries past should focus the region on preparing for Indonesia’s next mega-eruption.

    Equally significant was Reid’s institutional legacy. He was not only a prolific scholar but a builder of scholarly communities. At UCLA, he founded the Southeast Asia Center, and later became the founding director of the Asia Research Institute (ARI) at the National University of Singapore. ARI was envisioned as an inclusive intellectual space, deliberately interdisciplinary and intergenerational, designed to encourage critical dialogue across national and theoretical boundaries. For Reid, it was also a site of epistemic experimentation: “ARI is a place where you can see whether your theories make sense from an Asian perspective. But not ruling somebody out just because they don’t know enough about Asia,” he once said. In a field often marked by intellectual gatekeeping, ARI under Reid’s leadership became a rare space of openness and intellectual hospitality.

    Hundreds of young scholars benefitted from Reid’s mentorship. He was never a didactic supervisor but rather an empathetic and generous intellectual interlocutor. He would read long drafts by emerging researchers and offer incisive yet encouraging feedback. He always had time for a thoughtful conversation, whether between academic panels or after a spirited game of tennis. He listened carefully, not to interrogate, but to understand. Above all, Reid remained committed to nurturing a new generation of Southeast Asian scholars—those who would write with intellectual freedom, grounded empathy, and regional insight.

    With his passing, Southeast Asian studies has lost one of its most compelling voices. But Reid’s legacy—his commitment to bottom-up history, to intellectual integrity, and to the dignity of marginalised voices—will continue to shape the field for decades to come. His work reminds us that history is not a tool of power but a space for questioning, understanding, and healing. For Anthony Reid, truth-telling about the past was not a threat to the nation but the foundation of its maturity. In this spirit, he remains a guiding light for scholars committed to writing Southeast Asia from within.

    Farewell, Tony.

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    The post Remembering Anthony Reid (1939–2025) appeared first on New Mandala.

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  • By Scott Waide, RNZ Pacific PNG correspondent

    Two international organisations are leading a call for the Melanesian Spearhead Group (MSG) to elevate the membership status of the United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) at their upcoming summit in Honiara in September.

    The collective, led by International Parliamentarians for West Papua (IPWP) and International Lawyers for West Papua (ILWP), has again highlighted the urgent need for greater international oversight and diplomatic engagement in the West Papua region.

    This influential group includes PNG’s National Capital District governor Powes Parkop, UK’s former Labour Party leader Jeremy Corbyn, and New Zealand’s former Green Party MP Catherine Delahunty.

    The ULMWP currently holds observer status within the MSG, a regional body comprising Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, and the Kanak and Socialist National Liberation Front (FLNKS) of New Caledonia.

    A statement by the organisations said upgrading the ULMWP’s membership is “within the remit of the MSG” and requires a consensus among member states.

    They appeal to the Agreement Establishing the MSG, which undertakes to “promote, coordinate and strengthen…exchange of Melanesian cultures, traditions and values, sovereign equality . . . to further MSG members’ shared goals of economic growth, sustainable development, good governance, peace, and security,” considering that all these ambitions would be advanced by upgrading ULMWP membership.

    However, Indonesia’s associate membership in the MSG, granted in 2015, has become a significant point of contention, particularly for West Papuan self-determination advocates.

    Strategic move by Jakarta
    This inclusion is widely seen as a strategic manoeuvre by Jakarta to counter growing regional support for West Papuan independence.

    The ULMWP and its supporters consistently question why Indonesia, as the administering power over West Papua, should hold any status within a forum intended to champion Melanesian interests, arguing that Indonesia’s presence effectively stifles critical discussions about West Papua’s self-determination, creating a diplomatic barrier to genuine dialogue and accountability within the very body meant to serve Melanesian peoples.

    Given Papua New Guinea’s historical record within the MSG, its likely response at the upcoming summit in Honiara will be characterised by a delicate balancing act.

    While Papua New Guinea has expressed concerns regarding human rights in West Papua and supported calls for a UN Human Rights mission, it has consistently maintained respect for Indonesia’s sovereignty over the region.

    Past statements from PNG leaders, including Prime Minister James Marape, have emphasised Indonesia’s responsibility for addressing internal issues in West Papua and have noted that the ULMWP has not met the MSG’s criteria for full membership.

    Further complicating the situation, the IPWP and ILWP report that West Papua remains largely cut off from international scrutiny.

    Strict journalist ban
    A strict ban on journalists entering the region means accounts of severe and ongoing human rights abuses often go unreported.

    The joint statement highlights a critical lack of transparency, noting that “very little international oversight” exists.

    A key point of contention is Indonesia’s failure to honour its commitments; despite the 2023 MSG leaders’ summit urging the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights to conduct a human rights mission to West Papua before the 2024 summit, Indonesia has yet to facilitate this visit.

    The IPWP/ILWP statement says the continued refusal is a violation of its obligations as a UN member state.

    This article is republished under a community partnership agreement with RNZ.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • “A lot of people think we’re building unmanned ground vehicles (UGV) to replace the infantry, but that’s just not true.” On the contrary, “Everything we’re doing is about enhancing the combat effectiveness of these people and their jobs.” That was a key message Milrem Robotics delivered when Patrick Shepherd, the company’s Chief Sales Officer, briefed […]

    The post Interview – Patrick Shepherd, Chief Sales Officer, Milrem Robotics appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • Indo Defence 2025, held in Indonesia from 11-14 June, was a busy time for ASELSAN. On 13 June, the Turkish company opened an office in Jakarta, its fourth such office in Asia after previously establishing ones in Malaysia, Pakistan and the Philippines. Meanwhile, ASELSAN signed various accords at Indo Defence 2025, including with PT Len […]

    The post Interview – Ahmet Akyol, President & CEO of Aselsan appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • During the Indo Defence exhibition in Jakarta, South Africa’s Milkor and Indonesia’s PT Dirgantara Indonesia (PTDI) took an important step in strengthening regional defence collaboration by signing a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU). This new partnership marks a key milestone in advancing Indonesia’s aerospace capabilities, with a strong focus on unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs). It reflects […]

    The post Milkor Announces New Partnership with PT Dirgantara appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • One product that US firm L3Harris was promoting at the Indo Defence 2025 exhibition, held in Jakarta from 11-14 June, was the ALQ-254 Viper Shield, an electronic warfare (EW) suite designed specifically for the F-16 fighter. Speaking to Asian Military Review, Travis Ruhl, Director, International Business Development, Viper Shield Lead & EW SME at L3 […]

    The post L3Harris promotes Viper Shield for Asian F-16 fighter fleets appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • Spectra Group, a specialist provider of secure voice, data and satellite communications systems, is unveiling its new Troposcatter on the Move (TOTM) capability at Indo Defence and will be showcasing this and their other strategic communication capabilities in Booth D167f at Jakarta International Expo, June 11-14th 2025. Asia Pacific nations face unique challenges in achieving […]

    The post Spectra Group unveils Troposcatter on the Move (TOTM) to Asia at Indo Defence appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • ASELSAN strengthened its presence in Southeast Asia through collaborations in the fields of joint development, joint production, global supply chain integration and the official opening of its Indonesia office at INDO DEFENCE in Jakarta, Indonesia. ASELSAN, Türkiye’s leading defense company, signed five agreements at INDO DEFENCE that will increase its influence in the Indonesian defense […]

    The post ASELSAN deepens ties with Indonesia at INDO DEFENCE appeared first on Asian Military Review.

    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • Editor’s note: this piece was originally posted at New Mandala on 3 October 2017 and is being republished in light of the news of Prof Anthony Reid’s passing on 8 June 2025. The ANU Indonesia Institute has posted a note reflecting on the enormous contributions of “Pak Tony” to the study of Southeast Asia, and you can read a tribute to him written by his former PhD student Dr Myra Mentari Abubakar at the Indonesia Council.

    ••••••••••••

    Mount Agung’s rumbling may or may not portend a massive eruption on the scale of a century. Fortunately the probability this time is for great disruption to air traffic, tourism, and the local economy, rather than massive death and homelessness.

    But among the constant eruptions of Indonesia’s many volcanoes (66 currently being monitored, with 50–60 more considered “active”), huge ones will come. They will be enormously destructive to Indonesia, will impact the world’s climate, and will challenge Australia’s capacity to manage without air traffic while assisting millions of displaced Indonesians to survive and recover. Even the moderate ones that are likely to occur every decade, causing dislocations to hundreds of thousands, need to be prepared for in a systematic way.

    The ring of fire

    The truth is that the chain of volcanoes in the Sunda Islands of Indonesia, from Sumatra through Java and Bali to Timor, constitutes the most dangerous of the world’s tectonic interfaces [see map below]. The northward-moving Australian plate thrusts under this chain at a rate of about 6cm a year, gradually curling downward the southern coasts of the Sunda chain until that pressure is released as the outer coast springs back upward. This causes a massive earthquake in each sector, or subduction zone, as the outer crust of the plate springs up by as much as 5 metres. The 9.2 magnitude quake of December 2004 at the northwestern end of this chain was the wakeup call. It triggered the “Indian Ocean” tsunami that killed nearly 200,000 people in Sumatra and thousands more around that ocean’s shores.

    The geologists went seriously to work on Sumatra after this crisis, and have now demonstrated a 7,000 year series of previous mega-events generating tsunamis, occurring irregularly but on an average once in 450 years. Nobody has done this kind of sophisticated geoscience elsewhere in Indonesia, and less still in the Nicobars—the other centre of the 2004 quake—where an over-sensitive Indian government has continued to exclude foreign aid workers and researchers. But the existing historical record makes clear that events at least as big have occurred repeatedly along this chain and as far as the Solomons. The great naturalist Rumphius survived a tsunami in Ambon in 1674 that may have been the world’s highest wave ever described, at around 100 metres.

    How does this pattern of subduction and release at the world’s most dangerous tectonic interface affect the eruption of the volcanoes that are its most spectacularly visible demonstration? So far, the science has to say, “it’s very complicated”. The periodicity of mega-eruptions is one of the great unknowns. But Indonesia has such a major share of the world’s dangerous volcanoes that recurrence somewhere is inevitable.

    Table 1. Direct and longer-term deaths from modern SE Asian eruptions
    Year Volcano VEI Deaths: direct Long term estimate
    1991 Pinatubo (Luzon) 5 700
    1963 Agung (Bali) 5 1,580 >50,000 (see below)
    1919 Kelud (East Java) 4? 5,110 120,000
    1883 Krakatau (Sunda Strait) 6 30,000 >100,000
    1822 Galunggang (West Java) 5 >4,000 ?
    1815 Tambora (Sumbawa) 7 11,000 >100,000

    The VEI of Table 1 refers to the logarithmic Volcanic Explosivity Index, whereby a mighty 7 (like Tambora) throws out over 100km3 of volcanic material, 10 times that of a VEI 6 (like Krakatau) which in turn ejects 10 times more than a 5 (like Gunung Agung in 1963).

    Perhaps it may be comforting for those awaiting catastrophe in Bali that the biggest explosive eruptions we know much about, Tambora in 1815 and Krakatau in 1883, appear to have occurred where there was not a prior record of regular eruptions every decade or two, or even the three in two centuries (1808, 1843, 1963) we know for Agung. Merapi, clearly visible from Yogyakarta and Surakarta and central to the mythology of these traditional Javanese capitals, is the best-known example of a “manageable” volcano with frequent eruptions. It has sent lava flows down the mountain towards the cities every decade or so, without killing more than a few hundred unlucky souls or displacing more than a few thousand. Kelut and Galunggang have been a little less frequent but more murderous, whereas Tambora had no known precedents.

    The 1963 Agung eruption

    The precedent everybody in Bali is very well aware of is Mount Agung’s eruption of 1963, which occurred at an exceptionally traumatic time for Bali. The economy was close to a century-long nadir as a result of the prolonged crisis of Indonesia’s transition to independence and Sukarno’s confronting, rather than encouraging, foreign investment and aid. Political polarisation was intense. The Left in Bali saw destruction of the privileges of the upper-caste triwangsa and the remaining influence of the island’s rajas as a necessary part of Indonesia’s unfinished revolution. Traditionalists believed that would mean the end of Bali’s unique civilisation. The priests decided they needed to cleanse Bali through a massive Eka Dasa Rudra ritual, last held in the nineteenth century. Though designed specifically to appease the powerful spiritual forces of the volcano, it failed spectacularly to do so. Many of those engaged in making offerings at the crater were among those killed as it erupted.

    The series of eruptions, most severe on 17 March and 16 May 1963, left Bali in misery. Some 1,580 people were reported killed by the rapid lava flows and accompanying poisonous gases. If a comparable eruption occurred tomorrow, the death toll would be greatly lessened by the warning systems now in place and the much better communication and support systems to get people out. The most impressive example of a major Southeast Asian eruption where the immediate deaths were relatively few was Pinatubo, close to population centres in Luzon, Philippines. Some 100,000 were successfully evacuated before the eruption, the worst in our region in the past half-century. Pinatubo cooperated with the geologists by gradually increasing the intensity of its rumbling, making the warnings believable to an always reluctant-to-move population.

    Balinese farmers contemplate ruin of their crops after the 1963 eruption. (Photo: AP/Horst Faas)

    Bali in 1963 was in no such state. Nor did it have the resources or organisation to cope with the terrible aftermath. Sukarno, embarking on his “Confrontation” of Malaysia, sought no international aid and discouraged publicity. The eruptions were estimated to have destroyed some 50,000 to 62,000 hectares of farmland, a fifth of which was irrigated riceland which had supported over 100,000 people. Livestock were decimated, with 3,467 cattle and 5,858 pigs lost, the basis of many livelihoods in worst-hit Karangasem. Governor Suteja said in April that, “We have to feed 85,000 refugees and we simply do not have the food to do it.” Reports of malnutrition and death from starvation became widespread in the local press, though downplayed in national media wanting to show Bali as harmonious.

    How great the longer-term effect of this destruction of livelihoods was on Bali’s population is difficult to assess. In earlier times, destruction of agriculture in this intensive rice-growing area meant death by starvation, unless escaping through bondage to some less devastated place. Bali in 1963 did in principle have a country behind it, but the circumstances of the time meant little aid was forthcoming.

    The best way to calculate the 1963 eruption’s effect on Bali’s population should be the two national censuses of 1961 and 1971, Indonesia’s first as an independent country. These have many shortcomings, but do provide the broad outlines. Indonesia’s population as a whole grew by 2.08% per annum between the two censuses, whereas Bali’s population grew by only 0.75%. There was therefore a “missing” population of 67,000 that would have been expected if Bali was more “normal” in this period.

    Table 2. Missing population (thousands) in three easternmost districts (kabupaten)
    Kabupaten 1961 census 1971 census “missing” between censuses
    Karangasem 261 267 53
    Bangli 124 138 14
    Klungkung 128 139 18
    ALL BALI 1,783 2,120 67
    I am grateful for the assistance of demographer Hasnani Rangkuty for her work on this census data.

    The situation was complicated by a second phenomenon between the two censuses that may have made Bali abnormal. The political killings of communists and other leftists in 1965–6 are also thought to have impacted Bali more than Indonesia as a whole. Though nobody knows the numbers, estimates as high as 100,000 have become current for the number of victims in Bali.

    The regional dispersion of the “missing” population at the 1971 census data appears to show, however, that the eruption of Agung was a much bigger factor. All the loss of normal population growth was in the eastern kabupaten of Karangasem (the site of the volcano) and its neighbours Bangli and Klungkung. On the other hand, the massacre of Leftists was understood to be mainly in the west of the island. The three districts of Jembrana, Buleleng, and Gianyar were all headed by bupati (regents) from the PKI (the Indonesian Communist Party) or its ally Partindo, and leftist activism had been concentrated there. In these western districts population growth between 1961 and 1971 was above the Bali average.

    Population flight from east to west after the eruption may have masked the demographic effect of killings in the west to some extent. Nevertheless the eruption was a much bigger factor in Bali’s excess mortality in the 1960s than has been acknowledged.

    Bigger eruptions will come

    The twentieth century, when seismography and tectonic theory began to make possible a modern scientific understanding of earthquakes and eruptions, was a relatively “mild” one for Indonesia geologically. The twenty-first century has in its first decade already far exceeded the number of casualties from geological disasters in the whole twentieth century. In the nineteenth, the two eruptions of Tambora (1815) and Krakatau (1883) both far exceeded anything known in the twentieth.

    In that “mild” century Indonesia’s population grew five-fold from 40 to 205 million, despite one of the world’s more successful birth control policies after 1970. When population data began to be systematically collected around 1820, Indonesia’s population was strikingly low in comparison with India, China, Japan or Europe. This was despite having among the more benign climates and most fertile soils in the world, and a population history going back tens of thousands of years. Bali, with an estimated 600,000 people in 1600, appeared to have grown hardly at all by 1820. The reality, it now appears, is that Indonesia’s population growth must have been very uneven, with high growth in many periods interrupted not only by wars, but also by effects on agriculture of massive eruptions like that of Tambora.

    Gunung Tambora photographed from the International Space Station in 2009. (Photo: NASA Earth Observatory)

    Only recently have the dots been connected to show the major effects of Tambora’s 1815 eruption on world climate. A “year without summer” followed the eruption in the northern hemisphere in 1816, with crop failures and famines in Europe, North America, and China. Tambora’s effects on our own region are far less well known.

    The indigenous population of northern Australia, who must have heard the explosion and seen some of the ash effects, were not taking notes. We do know, however, that the ash—which fell not only on Sumbawa itself but the neighbouring islands to the west, Lombok and Bali—caused the destruction of agriculture in the year that followed, and a massive loss of population. A Dutch observer counted 34 corpses of people trying to escape starvation along a 25km stretch of track between Badung and Gianyar in 1818. Bali exported nothing in the decade that followed except slaves, desperate to escape starvation by selling themselves to the slave traders. Yet 25 years later it was restored and flourishing with the beneficial fertilising effects of the ash fall, exporting large amounts of rice to Singapore and elsewhere.

    Only in 2013 were the scientific and historical dots joined to show that the source of another huge disruption of global climate in 1258 was caused by a massive eruption on Bali’s neighbour to the east, Lombok, the previous year. This was another VEI 7, with greater emissions than Tambora, and therefore something the contemporary world of scientific measurement has not yet had to deal with directly. Although the effects on the northern hemisphere have again been traced with far greater care than those in our own neighbourhood, it seems clear that Bali experienced another devastation from this closer eruption. There is a significant thirteenth century gap in the Balinese dated inscriptions that are the most reliable means of historical dating. Balinese and Lombok chronicles of later date suggest that a nascent Lombok civilisation was destroyed about this time, and that Bali was at such a low ebb that the first of the series of colonisations from Java’s Majapahit (on various readings dated 1262 or 1284) encountered little resistance.

    How will the future differ from the past?

    Today the populations exposed to the effects of any repetition of a Tambora-sized eruption have increased many-fold, and become about 50% urban. This population is no longer directly dependent on its own crops for survival. Trade and aid should spare the immediately affected region from famine resulting from the destruction of local crops. Governments today believe it is their responsibility to ensure the survival of populations so threatened, and to a great extent have the resources to do so. As the 2004 tsunami disaster showed, the world is capable of great generosity in contributing to the process of disaster relief and reconstruction, especially in a place like Bali that is familiar to the world’s tourists.

    Jim Scott in memoriam, Southeast Asian studies in perpetuum

    “The field of Southeast Asian studies has come to resemble the region as he saw and celebrated it, warts and all”

    Tourism to Bali had begun in the 1920s, but only a tiny handful of mostly Jakarta-based visitors were coming at the time of the 1963 eruption. Bali’s international airport was not opened until 1968, after which the mass traffic built up to the four million a year who visit today. This vast expansion will be fundamentally positive in helping Bali to respond to a really major eruption. Bali’s infrastructure is now exceptionally good, and the thousands of hotels could be turned to emergency purposes when foreign tourists stopped coming. International sympathy and media attention could be expected to be good for Bali, and one hopes that would serve as a stimulus for aid organisations to assist the exceptionally under-developed and vulnerable islands to its east—Sumbawa, Flores, and Timor.

    On the other hand, the disruption to air traffic in a major eruption of the scale of Tambora or even Krakatau would be unprecedented. Only in the era of jet engines has this become a serious problem, when only eruptions of VEI 5 (Pinatubo)—or more often 2, 3 or 4—have had to be dealt with.

    Although the density of flights in Europe ensured that Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull (2010) caused the greatest cancellation of flights so far, it is our region that has caused the greatest damage to planes. Only when two 747s lost engine power flying into the ash thrown out by Mount Galunggung in West Java in 1982—one of them narrowly averting a crash after losing all four engines—was the aviation world spurred into serious action.

    In the 1990s a system of reporting activity and advising pilots was gradually put in place. The world has been divided into nine regions, each monitored by a Volcanic Ash Advisory Centre (VAAC). Our region, including the dangerous volcanic arc from Sumatra to the Solomons, is monitored by the VAAC Darwin. Insurance companies have ensured that airlines heeded their advice. In the last decade, as travellers to Bali have been painfully aware, warnings from VAAC Darwin have caused flights between Australia and Indonesia to be grounded with unprecedented frequency on account of the following moderate Indonesian eruptions:

    • Sangeang Api (Sumbawa), May 2014
    • Kelut (East Java), November 2014. Two engines were damaged beyond repair in one Jetstar flight which did not hear the warning, though the flight was completed.
    • Raung (East Java), July–August 2015 (twice)
    • Rinjani (Lombok), November 2015 to August 2016, (three times).

    Nobody knows what the effect of a repetition of a Tambora-scale eruption would be on today’s jet-dependent world. One hopes that some fraction of the large defence budgets of Australia and Singapore are being devoted to modelling and preparing for the appropriate response to a major disaster far more likely (indeed certain, in a longer time frame) than a repetition of the past military threats that have fed outdated military insecurities. Cooperation between military and emergency services in these two rich countries and under-resourced Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, and East Timor must begin before the disaster occurs, to establish trust, communication lines, and strategies. This kind of military and strategic engagement between neighbours has no down side in threatening others. It should be the minimum we ask of our governments.

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    The post Fragile paradise: Bali and volcanic threats to our region appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Editor’s note: this piece was originally posted to New Mandala on 3 October 2017 and is republished in light of the news of Prof Anthony Reid’s passing on 8 June 2025. The ANU Indonesia Institute has posted a note reflecting on the huge contribution ‘Pak Tony’ made to the study of Southeast Asia, and you can read a lovely tribute to him written by his former PhD student Dr Myra Mentari Abubakar at the Indonesia Council.

    ••••••••••••

    Mount Agung’s rumbling may or may not portend a massive eruption on the scale of a century. Fortunately the probability this time is for great disruption to air traffic, tourism, and the local economy, rather than massive death and homelessness.

    But among the constant eruptions of Indonesia’s many volcanoes (66 currently being monitored, with 50–60 more considered “active”), huge ones will come. They will be enormously destructive to Indonesia, will impact the world’s climate, and will challenge Australia’s capacity to manage without air traffic while assisting millions of displaced Indonesians to survive and recover. Even the moderate ones that are likely to occur every decade, causing dislocations to hundreds of thousands, need to be prepared for in a systematic way.

    The ring of fire

    The truth is that the chain of volcanoes in the Sunda Islands of Indonesia, from Sumatra through Java and Bali to Timor, constitutes the most dangerous of the world’s tectonic interfaces [see map below]. The northward-moving Australian plate thrusts under this chain at a rate of about 6cm a year, gradually curling downward the southern coasts of the Sunda chain until that pressure is released as the outer coast springs back upward. This causes a massive earthquake in each sector, or subduction zone, as the outer crust of the plate springs up by as much as 5 metres. The 9.2 magnitude quake of December 2004 at the northwestern end of this chain was the wakeup call. It triggered the “Indian Ocean” tsunami that killed nearly 200,000 people in Sumatra and thousands more around that ocean’s shores.

    The geologists went seriously to work on Sumatra after this crisis, and have now demonstrated a 7,000 year series of previous mega-events generating tsunamis, occurring irregularly but on an average once in 450 years. Nobody has done this kind of sophisticated geoscience elsewhere in Indonesia, and less still in the Nicobars—the other centre of the 2004 quake—where an over-sensitive Indian government has continued to exclude foreign aid workers and researchers. But the existing historical record makes clear that events at least as big have occurred repeatedly along this chain and as far as the Solomons. The great naturalist Rumphius survived a tsunami in Ambon in 1674 that may have been the world’s highest wave ever described, at around 100 metres.

    How does this pattern of subduction and release at the world’s most dangerous tectonic interface affect the eruption of the volcanoes that are its most spectacularly visible demonstration? So far, the science has to say, “it’s very complicated”. The periodicity of mega-eruptions is one of the great unknowns. But Indonesia has such a major share of the world’s dangerous volcanoes that recurrence somewhere is inevitable.

    Table 1. Direct and longer-term deaths from modern SE Asian eruptions
    Year Volcano VEI Deaths: direct Long term estimate
    1991 Pinatubo (Luzon) 5 700
    1963 Agung (Bali) 5 1,580 >50,000 (see below)
    1919 Kelud (East Java) 4? 5,110 120,000
    1883 Krakatau (Sunda Strait) 6 30,000 >100,000
    1822 Galunggang (West Java) 5 >4,000 ?
    1815 Tambora (Sumbawa) 7 11,000 >100,000

    The VEI of Table 1 refers to the logarithmic Volcanic Explosivity Index, whereby a mighty 7 (like Tambora) throws out over 100km3 of volcanic material, 10 times that of a VEI 6 (like Krakatau) which in turn ejects 10 times more than a 5 (like Gunung Agung in 1963).

    Perhaps it may be comforting for those awaiting catastrophe in Bali that the biggest explosive eruptions we know much about, Tambora in 1815 and Krakatau in 1883, appear to have occurred where there was not a prior record of regular eruptions every decade or two, or even the three in two centuries (1808, 1843, 1963) we know for Agung. Merapi, clearly visible from Yogyakarta and Surakarta and central to the mythology of these traditional Javanese capitals, is the best-known example of a “manageable” volcano with frequent eruptions. It has sent lava flows down the mountain towards the cities every decade or so, without killing more than a few hundred unlucky souls or displacing more than a few thousand. Kelut and Galunggang have been a little less frequent but more murderous, whereas Tambora had no known precedents.

    The 1963 Agung eruption

    The precedent everybody in Bali is very well aware of is Mount Agung’s eruption of 1963, which occurred at an exceptionally traumatic time for Bali. The economy was close to a century-long nadir as a result of the prolonged crisis of Indonesia’s transition to independence and Sukarno’s confronting, rather than encouraging, foreign investment and aid. Political polarisation was intense. The Left in Bali saw destruction of the privileges of the upper-caste triwangsa and the remaining influence of the island’s rajas as a necessary part of Indonesia’s unfinished revolution. Traditionalists believed that would mean the end of Bali’s unique civilisation. The priests decided they needed to cleanse Bali through a massive Eka Dasa Rudra ritual, last held in the nineteenth century. Though designed specifically to appease the powerful spiritual forces of the volcano, it failed spectacularly to do so. Many of those engaged in making offerings at the crater were among those killed as it erupted.

    The series of eruptions, most severe on 17 March and 16 May 1963, left Bali in misery. Some 1,580 people were reported killed by the rapid lava flows and accompanying poisonous gases. If a comparable eruption occurred tomorrow, the death toll would be greatly lessened by the warning systems now in place and the much better communication and support systems to get people out. The most impressive example of a major Southeast Asian eruption where the immediate deaths were relatively few was Pinatubo, close to population centres in Luzon, Philippines. Some 100,000 were successfully evacuated before the eruption, the worst in our region in the past half-century. Pinatubo cooperated with the geologists by gradually increasing the intensity of its rumbling, making the warnings believable to an always reluctant-to-move population.

    Balinese farmers contemplate ruin of their crops after the 1963 eruption. (Photo: AP/Horst Faas)

    Bali in 1963 was in no such state. Nor did it have the resources or organisation to cope with the terrible aftermath. Sukarno, embarking on his “Confrontation” of Malaysia, sought no international aid and discouraged publicity. The eruptions were estimated to have destroyed some 50,000 to 62,000 hectares of farmland, a fifth of which was irrigated riceland which had supported over 100,000 people. Livestock were decimated, with 3,467 cattle and 5,858 pigs lost, the basis of many livelihoods in worst-hit Karangasem. Governor Suteja said in April that, “We have to feed 85,000 refugees and we simply do not have the food to do it.” Reports of malnutrition and death from starvation became widespread in the local press, though downplayed in national media wanting to show Bali as harmonious.

    How great the longer-term effect of this destruction of livelihoods was on Bali’s population is difficult to assess. In earlier times, destruction of agriculture in this intensive rice-growing area meant death by starvation, unless escaping through bondage to some less devastated place. Bali in 1963 did in principle have a country behind it, but the circumstances of the time meant little aid was forthcoming.

    The best way to calculate the 1963 eruption’s effect on Bali’s population should be the two national censuses of 1961 and 1971, Indonesia’s first as an independent country. These have many shortcomings, but do provide the broad outlines. Indonesia’s population as a whole grew by 2.08% per annum between the two censuses, whereas Bali’s population grew by only 0.75%. There was therefore a “missing” population of 67,000 that would have been expected if Bali was more “normal” in this period.

    Table 2. Missing population (thousands) in three easternmost districts (kabupaten)
    Kabupaten 1961 census 1971 census “missing” between censuses
    Karangasem 261 267 53
    Bangli 124 138 14
    Klungkung 128 139 18
    ALL BALI 1,783 2,120 67
    I am grateful for the assistance of demographer Hasnani Rangkuty for her work on this census data.

    The situation was complicated by a second phenomenon between the two censuses that may have made Bali abnormal. The political killings of communists and other leftists in 1965–6 are also thought to have impacted Bali more than Indonesia as a whole. Though nobody knows the numbers, estimates as high as 100,000 have become current for the number of victims in Bali.

    The regional dispersion of the “missing” population at the 1971 census data appears to show, however, that the eruption of Agung was a much bigger factor. All the loss of normal population growth was in the eastern kabupaten of Karangasem (the site of the volcano) and its neighbours Bangli and Klungkung. On the other hand, the massacre of Leftists was understood to be mainly in the west of the island. The three districts of Jembrana, Buleleng, and Gianyar were all headed by bupati (regents) from the PKI (the Indonesian Communist Party) or its ally Partindo, and leftist activism had been concentrated there. In these western districts population growth between 1961 and 1971 was above the Bali average.

    Population flight from east to west after the eruption may have masked the demographic effect of killings in the west to some extent. Nevertheless the eruption was a much bigger factor in Bali’s excess mortality in the 1960s than has been acknowledged.

    Bigger eruptions will come

    The twentieth century, when seismography and tectonic theory began to make possible a modern scientific understanding of earthquakes and eruptions, was a relatively “mild” one for Indonesia geologically. The twenty-first century has in its first decade already far exceeded the number of casualties from geological disasters in the whole twentieth century. In the nineteenth, the two eruptions of Tambora (1815) and Krakatau (1883) both far exceeded anything known in the twentieth.

    In that “mild” century Indonesia’s population grew five-fold from 40 to 205 million, despite one of the world’s more successful birth control policies after 1970. When population data began to be systematically collected around 1820, Indonesia’s population was strikingly low in comparison with India, China, Japan or Europe. This was despite having among the more benign climates and most fertile soils in the world, and a population history going back tens of thousands of years. Bali, with an estimated 600,000 people in 1600, appeared to have grown hardly at all by 1820. The reality, it now appears, is that Indonesia’s population growth must have been very uneven, with high growth in many periods interrupted not only by wars, but also by effects on agriculture of massive eruptions like that of Tambora.

    Gunung Tambora photographed from the International Space Station in 2009. (Photo: NASA Earth Observatory)

    Only recently have the dots been connected to show the major effects of Tambora’s 1815 eruption on world climate. A “year without summer” followed the eruption in the northern hemisphere in 1816, with crop failures and famines in Europe, North America, and China. Tambora’s effects on our own region are far less well known.

    The indigenous population of northern Australia, who must have heard the explosion and seen some of the ash effects, were not taking notes. We do know, however, that the ash—which fell not only on Sumbawa itself but the neighbouring islands to the west, Lombok and Bali—caused the destruction of agriculture in the year that followed, and a massive loss of population. A Dutch observer counted 34 corpses of people trying to escape starvation along a 25km stretch of track between Badung and Gianyar in 1818. Bali exported nothing in the decade that followed except slaves, desperate to escape starvation by selling themselves to the slave traders. Yet 25 years later it was restored and flourishing with the beneficial fertilising effects of the ash fall, exporting large amounts of rice to Singapore and elsewhere.

    Only in 2013 were the scientific and historical dots joined to show that the source of another huge disruption of global climate in 1258 was caused by a massive eruption on Bali’s neighbour to the east, Lombok, the previous year. This was another VEI 7, with greater emissions than Tambora, and therefore something the contemporary world of scientific measurement has not yet had to deal with directly. Although the effects on the northern hemisphere have again been traced with far greater care than those in our own neighbourhood, it seems clear that Bali experienced another devastation from this closer eruption. There is a significant thirteenth century gap in the Balinese dated inscriptions that are the most reliable means of historical dating. Balinese and Lombok chronicles of later date suggest that a nascent Lombok civilisation was destroyed about this time, and that Bali was at such a low ebb that the first of the series of colonisations from Java’s Majapahit (on various readings dated 1262 or 1284) encountered little resistance.

    How will the future differ from the past?

    Today the populations exposed to the effects of any repetition of a Tambora-sized eruption have increased many-fold, and become about 50% urban. This population is no longer directly dependent on its own crops for survival. Trade and aid should spare the immediately affected region from famine resulting from the destruction of local crops. Governments today believe it is their responsibility to ensure the survival of populations so threatened, and to a great extent have the resources to do so. As the 2004 tsunami disaster showed, the world is capable of great generosity in contributing to the process of disaster relief and reconstruction, especially in a place like Bali that is familiar to the world’s tourists.

    Indonesia and North Korea: warm memories of the Cold War

    Friendly ties to Pyongyang have been an emblem of non-alignment for generations of Indonesian foreign policy makers.

    Tourism to Bali had begun in the 1920s, but only a tiny handful of mostly Jakarta-based visitors were coming at the time of the 1963 eruption. Bali’s international airport was not opened until 1968, after which the mass traffic built up to the four million a year who visit today. This vast expansion will be fundamentally positive in helping Bali to respond to a really major eruption. Bali’s infrastructure is now exceptionally good, and the thousands of hotels could be turned to emergency purposes when foreign tourists stopped coming. International sympathy and media attention could be expected to be good for Bali, and one hopes that would serve as a stimulus for aid organisations to assist the exceptionally under-developed and vulnerable islands to its east—Sumbawa, Flores, and Timor.

    On the other hand, the disruption to air traffic in a major eruption of the scale of Tambora or even Krakatau would be unprecedented. Only in the era of jet engines has this become a serious problem, when only eruptions of VEI 5 (Pinatubo)—or more often 2, 3 or 4—have had to be dealt with.

    Although the density of flights in Europe ensured that Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull (2010) caused the greatest cancellation of flights so far, it is our region that has caused the greatest damage to planes. Only when two 747s lost engine power flying into the ash thrown out by Mount Galunggung in West Java in 1982—one of them narrowly averting a crash after losing all four engines—was the aviation world spurred into serious action.

    In the 1990s a system of reporting activity and advising pilots was gradually put in place. The world has been divided into nine regions, each monitored by a Volcanic Ash Advisory Centre (VAAC). Our region, including the dangerous volcanic arc from Sumatra to the Solomons, is monitored by the VAAC Darwin. Insurance companies have ensured that airlines heeded their advice. In the last decade, as travellers to Bali have been painfully aware, warnings from VAAC Darwin have caused flights between Australia and Indonesia to be grounded with unprecedented frequency on account of the following moderate Indonesian eruptions:

    • Sangeang Api (Sumbawa), May 2014
    • Kelut (East Java), November 2014. Two engines were damaged beyond repair in one Jetstar flight which did not hear the warning, though the flight was completed.
    • Raung (East Java), July–August 2015 (twice)
    • Rinjani (Lombok), November 2015 to August 2016, (three times).

    Nobody knows what the effect of a repetition of a Tambora-scale eruption would be on today’s jet-dependent world. One hopes that some fraction of the large defence budgets of Australia and Singapore are being devoted to modelling and preparing for the appropriate response to a major disaster far more likely (indeed certain, in a longer time frame) than a repetition of the past military threats that have fed outdated military insecurities. Cooperation between military and emergency services in these two rich countries and under-resourced Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, and East Timor must begin before the disaster occurs, to establish trust, communication lines, and strategies. This kind of military and strategic engagement between neighbours has no down side in threatening others. It should be the minimum we ask of our governments.

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  • State-owned company PT Pindad unveiled two new armoured vehicle platforms at Indo Defence, held in the Indonesian capital of Jakarta from 11-14 June 2025. One was an armoured personnel carrier (APC) version of the Harimau medium tank, while the other was the new Anoa 3 6×6 APC. A spokesperson from PT Pindad said the 30-tonne […]

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    This post was originally published on Asian Military Review.

  • At the recent Indo Defence exhibition, Milkor was privileged to engage in an insightful interview with Asian Military Review at our booth. The discussion encompassed key aspects of the Milkor 380 UCAV and the Milkor Commander, highlighting our continued commitment to advancing innovative defence solutions.

    The post MILKOR at Indo Defence 2025 in Jakarta appeared first on Asian Military Review.

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  • The US company Leonardo DRS has enjoyed considerable success in the Indonesian market with its vehicle-mounted tactical router/server units and rugged tablets and displays. The company manufactures Data Distribution Unit – Expendables (DDUx) that integrate voice, data, video and various sensors, as well as MRT104 multifunction rugged tablets and MRD121 multifunction rugged displays. These are […]

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  • By Caleb Fotheringham, RNZ Pacific journalist

    Further reports of civilian casualties are coming out of West Papua, while clashes between Indonesia’s military and the armed wing of the Free Papua Movement continue.

    One of the most recent military operations took place in the early morning of May 14 in Sugapa District, Intan Jaya in Central Papua.

    Military spokesperson Lieutenant-Colonel Iwan Dwi Prihartono said in a video statement translated into English that 18 members of the West Papua National Liberation Army (TPNPB) had been killed.

    He claimed the military wanted to provide health services and education to residents in villages in Intan Jaya but they were confronted by the TPNPB.

    Colonel Prihartono said the military confiscated an AK47, homemade weapons, ammunition, bows and arrows and the Morning Star flag — used as a symbol for West Papuan independence.

    But, according to the TPNPB, only three of the group’s soldiers were killed with the rest being civilians.

    The United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) said civilians killed included a 75-year-old, two women and a child.

    Both women in shallow graves
    Both the women were allegedly found on May 23 in shallow graves.

    A spokesperson from the Indonesian Embassy in Wellington said all 18 people killed were part of the TPNPB, as declared by the military.

    “The local regent of Intan Jaya has checked for the victims at their home and hospitals; therefore, he can confirm that the 18 victims were in fact all members of the armed criminal group,” they said.

    “The difference in numbers of victim sometimes happens because the armed criminal group tried to downplay their casualties or to try to create confusion.”

    The spokesperson said the military operation was carried out because local authorities “followed up upon complaints and reports from local communities that were terrified and terrorised by the armed criminal group”.

    Jakarta-based Human Rights Watch researcher Andreas Harsono said it was part of the wider Operation Habema which started last year.

    “It is a military operation to ‘eliminate’ the Free Papua guerilla fighters, not only in Intan Jaya, but in several agencies along the central highlands,” Harsono said.

    ‘Military informers’
    He said it had been intensifying since the TPNPB killed 17 miners in April, which the armed group accused of being “military informers”.

    RNZ Pacific has been sent photos of people who have been allegedly killed or injured in the May 14 assault, while others have been shared by ULMWP.

    Harsono said despite the photos and videos it was hard to verify if civilians had been killed.

    He said Indonesia claimed civilian casualties — including of the women who were allegedly buried in shallow graves — were a result of the TPNPB.

    “The TPNPB says, ‘of course, it is a lie why should we kill an indigenous woman?’ Well, you know, it is difficult to verify which one is correct, because they’re fighting the battle [in a very remote area],” Harsono said.

    “It’s difficult to cross-check whatever information coming from there, including the fact that it is difficult to get big videos or big photos from the area with the metadata.”

    Harsono said Indonesia was now using drones to fight the TPNPB.

    “This is something new; I think it will change the security situation, the battle situation in West Papua.

    “So far the TPNPB has not used drones; they are still struggling. In fact, most of them are still using bows and arrows in the conflict with the Indonesian military.”

    This article is republished under a community partnership agreement with RNZ.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • JSC ROSOBORONEXPORT (part of Rostec State Corporation) will be showcasing the latest Russian military equipment at Indo Defense Expo 2025. The event will be held from June 11 to 14 at Jakarta International Expo, Kemayoran, Indonesia and the Russian special exporter will be presenting more than 250 Russian products for the armed forces. “The Russian […]

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  • Open your fridge, pantry, or bathroom cabinet, and you’re likely to find a product containing carrageenan, a gelling substance derived from red seaweed. It is an essential part of modern daily life, found in everything from processed foods to cosmetics and medicine.

    A thickener in your yoghurt and a stabiliser in your shampoo, carrageenan is used all over the world, but it comes primarily from one place: Indonesia, where seaweed is almost exclusively harvested by household operators. A boom in the industry, born of surging demand for carrageenan, has lately integrated these producers into the global market. The results are rapidly reshaping not only the economy of rural coastal Indonesia, but also its physical, social, and political landscape.

    My doctoral research concentrated on how this has played out in South Sulawesi province, which is home to 11% of Indonesian households involved in marine fisheries—the highest proportion of all Indonesia’s provinces. As they become more connected to global fisheries markets, control over increasingly valuable sea space becomes more contested, and conflicts intensify. When villagers reach out to grassroots state actors for mediation and formalisation of their claims, new institutions governing resource access emerge, disrupting longstanding norms of collective ownership and transforming communal property into a privatised commodity. By examining this process, my research underscores how the privatisation of common-pool resources—shaped by global market forces and state intervention—has redefined local institutions of access, shifting from traditional, collective governance to new, market-driven forms of resource control.

    Centuries-old maritime commerce

    South Sulawesi’s coastal communities have a long history of regional and international trade, being rooted in the maritime culture of the Bugis and Makassaresse, the two largest ethnic groups in the region, whose maritime commerce dates back to at least the 5th century, peaking between the 15th and 18th centuries.

    Makassar, the provincial capital, was a key trading hub for commodities such as spices and sea cucumber (trepang), connecting South Sulawesi to China, India, and the Malay Peninsula. Bugis–Makassar fishers even expanded their fishing grounds to northern Australia. After losing dominance over regional trade routes to European colonial powers in the 18th century, the Bugis and Makassaresse adapted by engaging in new marine commodities, such as shrimp, crab, and seaweed.

    My research focused on two coastal villages, Laikang Village in Takalar District and Pitu Sunggu Village in Pangkep District.

    Location of research sites in South Sulawesi (Image: Indonesian Geospatial Information Agency)

    Laikang is a Makassarese village located along an 8-kilometre coastline facing the Flores Sea. Until the 1990s, most households there relied on farming, with coastal residents balancing farming and subsistence fishing, while landless families often depended on fishing, farm labour, and seasonal migration. The village transitioned from land-based farming to seaweed cultivation after a surge in global prices in the early 2000s.

    The second site, Pitu Sunggu, is a smaller Bugis village along the Makassar Strait. It saw a surge in shrimp production in the 1990s, driven by demand from the United States and Japan. This led to the conversion of rice fields into shrimp ponds (tambak), which became especially profitable when the value of the rupiah collapsed during the 1997–98 Asian Financial Crisis, bringing considerable wealth to landowners. Many of today’s village leaders emerged from those prosperous tambak families. When shrimp farming declined due to disease outbreaks, seaweed cultivation arrived in the village around 2007, with former fishers and tambak farmers turning to it as a new primary source of livelihood.

    In both Laikang and Pitu Sunggu, demand from US firms like Phillip Seafood has since the early 2000s also fuelled crabbing, particularly because the two crops’ respective high and low seasons coincide. Today, both villages have diversified economies. Wealthier families are involved in seaweed and crab trading and processing, while poorer households continue to depend on fishing, crabbing, seasonal migration, and casual work, particularly in seaweed farming and crab processing facilities.

    How carrageenan reshaped coastal livelihoods

    In South Sulawesi, red seaweeds are major crops for carrageenan production. To cultivate them, farmers require sea space (locally known as lokasi), along with seeds, plastic bottle floats, nylon ropes, and small boats. Labour is divided by gender: women usually handle the labour-intensive task of binding seeds—which often requires the hiring of paid workers—while men are responsible for planting, maintaining, and harvesting the seaweed at sea.

    Seaweed is harvested 40 to 45 days after planting, requiring significant upfront costs. Some farmers are self-funded, but many depend on loans from village traders, who provide not only financing for farming but also for personal needs like school fees, healthcare, and cultural ceremonies. After harvest, the seaweed is sun-dried and traders sell it to exporters or processors in Makassar—often financially supported by overseas buyers, mainly from China.

    L: Women workers tie seaweed seeds before planting them in Laikang, 30 May 2022. R: Red seaweed is sun-dried on a pier in Pitu Sunggu after harvest, 12 June 2022. (Photos: author)

    Before the rise of seaweed cultivation, the coastal waters of South Sulawesi villages were seen as communal property, freely accessible to local fishermen and families for harvesting marine resources, both for subsistence and income. Villagers employed various fishing methods, sometimes involving a more permanent use of sea space to construct bamboo fish traps like bagang or serobila. The first-come-first-served principle applied, with villagers investing labour and capital to claim exclusive access rights over certain areas and establish a sense of ownership over them. Until recently such claims were not common, as most villagers were engaged in land-based agriculture—growing crops like rice, corn, sweet potatoes, and mung beans.

    As demand for carrageenan seaweed surged, however, the situation began to change. Seaweed farming, introduced in the 1990s and booming after 2010, gained popularity due to rising global demand for carrageenan in the food processing sector, as well as innovations in low-cost processing technology, which made it a more appealing additives for various industries. For many fishing households in South Sulawesi, the promise of higher earnings prompted a shift away from traditional fishing, leading to increased competition for sea space to establish seaweed plots.

    The tall bamboo structure is a traditional “bagang” fish trap standing next to structures used for seaweed and lobster farming in Laikang (Photo: Risya Arsyi)

    Growing competition and disparity

    The customary rules governing bagang and serobila fishing traps in South Sulawesi served as precursors to claims over sea space for seaweed farming. Though access was generally open, it often depended on one’s social identity as a local resident. In the early years of seaweed farming, migrants could still secure plots. But as the value of sea space increased with rising global prices of seaweed, the local identity factor became more critical. In 2021, Indonesia’s Central Statistics Agency estimated that approximately 90% of Indonesia’s seaweed farmers cultivated the crop within their own villages. While these sea space claims are not formally recognised by state authorities, villagers often refer to them with terms such as “own” (milik) or “have” (punya) in everyday conversation, implying a widely understood sense of ownership. Some villagers even considered these access rights permanent, believing they could pass them down to their children, and many did so.

    However, the practice was not without challenges and disputes. Competition for sea space intensified in 2014, as more villagers sought to establish lokasi in the wake of several years of surging seaweed prices. Many villagers who worked in other places returned to Laikang and Pitu Sunggu to secure plots, with each rise in seaweed prices spurring new claims. While wealthier households were better positioned to capitalise on this situation, many poor fishers in the coastal hamlets did the same, often with financial support from traders who provided loans in exchange for future harvests.

    The profitability of seaweed farming became clear, and speculation soon followed. Some villagers staked claims by marking lokasi without bringing them into production, resulting in many sites being left underutilised and causing tensions between those with large holdings and those with smaller or no holdings. This issue became more pronounced recently, especially when seaweed prices continued to rise, reaching a historic high in 2022.

    A traditional serobila fishing trap is seen from above (https-:adycandra.com:sero:) and from the side in Laikang, 17 May 2022 (Photo: author)

    By the late 2010s, the most productive seaweed farming areas had already been claimed, turning sea space into valuable individual assets, with access largely controlled by early claimants. The commodification of sea space expanded through mechanisms like selling, leasing, and sharecropping. While being a local resident was not required for participation, social networks remained crucial. Latecomers and outsiders, like one man who bought a lokasi for Rp3 million in 2017 without a written agreement (a common practice for transferring lokasi rights), had to negotiate access through local social structures. Having previously been a rice farmer, he found earning money from the sea much easier than from the land. Others gained temporary access by “borrowing” lokasi, often from family or by maintaining good relations with early claimants. Lending was seen as an act of goodwill, strengthening social ties and fostering a sense of obligation from the recipient. As one wealthy seaweed farmer explained to me: lending plots helped build relationships for future assistance. Another one said he often received seaweed or seeds from a relative who used his plot.

    Despite the sense of community and mutual support, not everyone benefited equally. While wealthy pioneers often emphasised community values and referred to the farming collective as “family”, poorer farmers felt the increasing disparity. One farmer in his mid-50s, limited by a small plot and lacking capital for quality seed and equipment, expressed frustration, saying: “the rich get richer because they benefit the most from seaweed farming, but we are not getting anywhere”.

    As the value of seaweed farming areas grew, social and economic stratification deepened. What was once an open-access system evolved into a more complex sociopolitical landscape, where historical claims, social networks, and capital determined who could access sea space. Early pioneers reaped rewards as seaweed prices surged, expanded their holdings, hired workers, or diversified into trade. Others, however, were limited to smaller operations. While seaweed farming created economic opportunities for coastal communities, it also soon fuelled tensions within them.

    Conflict over sea space

    In the early days of seaweed farming, when South Sulawesi coastal waters were used primarily for fishing, tensions between seaweed cultivators and fishers were common, sometimes escalating to violence. Seaweed farms obstructed access to fishing grounds and risked of entangling nets, which led some fishers to deliberately damage seaweed lines. Both sides claimed the sea as common property, justifying their rights to use it. Despite attempts at mediation from village authorities, these tensions existed until the late 2000s, when a shift occurred: many fishers, faced with declining fish stocks due to overfishing, turned to farming seaweed. This transition not only transformed the local economy, but also social structures and institutions, driven by new norms and practices within the community.

    As seaweed farming became the dominant livelihood, its economic importance and larger investments created foundations for conflict resolution. While conflict between fishers and seaweed farmers decreased, tensions began to rise among the farmers themselves. A 50-year-old female seaweed binder told me there were so many conflicts over lokasi that “sometimes brothers fight with each other; fathers fight with their sons”.

    Cultivated seaweed plot (“lokasi”) in Pitu Sunggu, 15 June 2022 (Photo: author)

    The most common disputes stem from overlapping claims—often on uncultivated lokasi or when one party seeks to expand their area. A 2012 case from Pitu Sunggu illustrates the dynamics of such disputes. When Ridwan (not his real name) took a job in Kalimantan and allowed Hamid (name also changed) to use his lokasi under a verbal agreement that he would reclaim it upon his return. Verbal agreements, typically witnessed by neighbours, are a customary way to transfer lokasi rights. However, when Ridwan returned in 2018, he found Hamid’s son cultivating the site. Hamid then asked Ridwan to share part of it with his son, who had no plots at the time. Reluctantly, Ridwan acquiesced, saying, “I was being kind”—a sentiment laced with both resentment and social pressure.

    Disputes frequently arise along boundary markers. Ilham (also a pseudonym) explained the subtle nature of such conflicts: “Some people move their lines and anchors little by little until they cross into the boundaries of others’ uncultivated locations. When the owner of that lokasi complains, they claim it’s been there all along”. This highlights the inherent challenges in establishing and enforcing claims to sea space.

    Another source of conflict is the violation of common space. In both villages, there has long been an understanding that the spaces between plots should remain open. Yet with the surge in seaweed prices in 2021–22, some farmers began expanding into these paths. While they initially faced strong social rebuke from fellow cultivators, congestion worsened by 2022, eventually reaching the pier area. One farmer, frustrated by the encroachment, recalled warning an encroaching cultivator’s uncle: “I won’t be responsible if your nephew’s ropes get damaged in the boatways”. This led to a physical altercation, requiring mediation by a village leader to preserve the open boatway.

    But enforcing community norms has its limits, especially when disputes involve powerful local elites. For marginalised groups, asserting rights to common spaces often requires courage, and they typically avoid direct confrontations. Many fear damaging relations with influential figures—such as seaweed traders and employers—or facing social exclusion that could threaten their already vulnerable livelihoods.

    Creating “an air of legality” in resource distribution

    Across Indonesia and much of the Global South, smallholders like South Sulawesi’s seaweed farmers are increasingly integrated into industrialised value chains, navigating the boom-and-bust cycles of global commodity markets while contending with local dynamics. Despite these pressures, they exhibit adaptability in response to shifting livelihood opportunities. The seaweed expansion in South Sulawesi shows how global market integration not only transforms local economies but also reshapes resource governance and power structures, as it intersects with local social norms and unequal resource distribution. While these informal institutions reflect local agency and adaptability, competition for resources frequently leads to conflict—and the state often looms large as the ultimate authority in protecting resource access and property claims.

    Coffee, conflict, and inadvertent state-building in Vietnam

    How state-building can work from the bottom up

    Thus while claims to sea space in my field sites are often legitimised through informal practices, resolving disputes typically requires appealing to authority. In both villages, local leaders, despite lacking a clear legal mandate, have played an active role in mediating conflict, sometimes with success. This dynamic creates a fluid relationship between informal institutions and formal authority. As uncertainty over the permanence of claims became a major source of discord, in 2019, for example, the village government of Laikang sought to reinforce its authority over sea space by drafting a village regulation aimed at formalising and adjusting the informal rules governing access.

    The draft regulation proposed a rather progressive reform: any lokasi abandoned for three consecutive years would revert to the common resource pool, making it available for others to use. The process would involve consultations with both the village government and the previous owner to reach a mutually beneficial solution, including a compensation mechanism. This shift, which challenged the traditional permanence of rights held by lokasi owners, sparked intense debate within the community. Those with smaller lokasi generally supported the draft, seeing it as a way to achieve a fairer redistribution of resource access, while those with larger or multiple lokasi saw it as a violation of established practices.

    The draft village regulation sought to formalise claims over sea space, placing enforcement responsibility on state authorities. Though not grounded in statutory law, it would provide an “air of legality” by involving state structures. At the time, many villagers were inclined to follow the lead of their relatively well-educated leaders who were not reliant on seaweed farming for their livelihoods. But a subsequent change in village leadership—marked by economic and political interests favouring the status quo—led to a decline in the village government’s commitment to these reforms.

    Indonesia already has a legal framework governing coastal space, although it is not widely known or understood among local communities. The 2007 Law on the Management of Coastal Zones and Small Islands mandates that regional governments to establish marine zoning plans, and requires permits to be issued by provincial—not village—authorities, except for recognised so-called adat communities—often Indigenous groups that follow traditional laws. While villagers were unaware of these regulations, the provincial Bureau of Maritime Affairs and Fisheries was well-informed about the informal use of sea space but said it was currently focusing on large enterprises operating beyond four miles offshore. Regulations restrict large-scale seaweed farming to areas beyond four miles offshore to prevent competition with small-scale fishers, and obtaining permits requires community approval.

    But when the government announced in 2022 that several large companies had expressed interest in seaweed production in South Sulawesi, and two were eventually granted location permits, their operations were halted due to community resistance, which called for fairer distribution of profits. Many villagers expressed doubts about greater government involvement, uncertain if it would protect their property rights or lead to dispossession.

    This tension underscores broader concerns about increasing state control, which is often seen as reducing local access to resources and shifting power to external actors. In practice, control over sea space in these villages remains a hybrid system, where informal community norms coexist with state authority.

    Conclusion

    The integration of South Sulawesi’s coastal communities into the global seaweed market has transformed coastal sea space from communal property into a privatised commodity. As in many other parts of the Global South, this process has given rise to new ways for communities to determine access to resources is based on factors like capital, social identity and relationships, and labour, reflecting the mechanisms outlined in Ribot and Peluso’s access theory. Indeed, this shift parallels the commodification of land in other parts of Indonesia where, as Tania Li has detailed, communities similarly use the term lokasi to establish permanent ownership. As seaweed farming expanded, maritime lokasi became commercialised—bought, leased, and sharecropped—yet what Nancy Peluso has called an “ethic of access” persists, allowing for shared use to resolve conflicts and maintain social harmony.

    But while possession may well be nine-tenths of the law in Indonesia—the remaining one-tenth, the formal recognition by state authorities, still plays a crucial role, particularly when possession is contested. However, seeking state intervention carries risks, as legal systems can be manipulated by predatory governments, leading to dispossession of local communities. Although the Indonesian state has played a relatively minor role in mediating coastal space rights, my research shows signs of its increasing involvement, especially as powerful industrial actors begin to show interest in these areas. As pressures from both the market and the state’s expanding role are growing, how coastal communities in South Sulawesi will navigate these shifts in governance will become a pivotal challenge—one that will shape their future access to key resources and the security of their livelihoods.

    ••••••••••

    This post is part of a series of essays highlighting the work of emerging scholars of Southeast Asia published with the support of the Australian National University College of Asia and the Pacific.

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    Acknowledgements

    This article is based on a chapter from the author’s PhD thesis that was also published as a co-authored article at the Journal of Agrarian Change. The PhD thesis was funded by Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade through the Australia Awards Scholarship. The author wishes to acknowledge Zulung Walyandra, Radhiah Ruhon, Risya Arsyi, Imran Lapong, Aqilah Nurul Khaerani Latif, Mustakim Saleh, and the Partnership of Australia Indonesia Research (PAIR) project team for their invaluable contributions and assistance during fieldwork in South Sulawesi. The author is also profoundly thankful to the local communities in the two villages of South Sulawesi for their hospitality and cooperation during the 2022 fieldwork.

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  • The Philippines has signed a contract with Korea Aerospace Industries (KAI) to acquire an additional batch of 12 FA-50PH light combat aircraft worth approximately US$700 million, the government-run Defense Acquisition Program Administration (DAPA) announced on 5 June. KAI noted that the contract calls for deliveries of the aircraft to be completed by June 2030 and […]

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  • By Ben McKay

    America’s retreat from foreign aid is being felt deeply in Pacific media, where pivotal outlets are being shuttered and journalists work unpaid.

    The result is fewer investigations into dubiously motivated politicians, glimpses into conflicts otherwise unseen and a less diverse media in a region which desperately needs it.

    “It is a huge disappointment … a senseless waste,” Benar News’ Australian former head of Pacific news Stefan Armbruster said after seeing his outlet go under.

    Benar News, In-depth Solomons and Inside PNG are three digital outlets which enjoyed US support but have been hit by President Donald Trump’s about-face on aid.

    Benar closed its doors in April after an executive order disestablishing Voice of America, which the United States created during World War II to combat Nazi propaganda.

    An offshoot of Radio Free Asia (RFA) focused on Southeast Asia and the Pacific, Benar kept a close eye on abuses in West Papua, massacres and gender-based violence in Papua New Guinea and more.

    The Pacific arm quickly became indispensable to many, with a team of reporters and freelancers working in 15 countries on a budget under A$A million.

    Coverage of decolonisation
    “Our coverage of decolonisation in the Pacific received huge interest, as did our coverage of the lack of women’s representation in parliaments, human rights, media freedom, deep sea mining and more,” Armbruster said.

    In-depth Solomons, a Honiara-based digital outlet, is another facing an existential threat despite a proud record of investigative and award-winning reporting.

    Last week, it was honoured with a peer-nominated award from the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Japan for a year-long probe into former prime minister Manasseh Sogavare’s property holdings.

    “We’re just holding on,” editor and co-founder Ofani Eremae said.

    A US-centred think tank continues to pay the wage of one journalist, while others have not drawn a salary since January.

    “It has had an impact on our operations. We used to travel out to do stories across the provinces. That has not been done since early this year,” Eremae said.

    A private donor came forward after learning of the cuts with a one-off grant that was used for rent to secure the office, he said.

    USAID budget axed
    Its funding shortfall — like Port Moresby-based outlet Inside PNG — is linked to USAID, the world’s biggest single funder of development assistance, until Trump axed its multi-billion dollar budget.

    Much of USAID’s funding was spent on humanitarian causes — such as vaccines, clean water supplies and food security — but some was also earmarked for media in developing nations, with the aim of bolstering fragile democracies.

    Inside PNG used its support to build an audience of tens of thousands with incisive reports on PNG politics: not just Port Moresby, but in the regions including independence-seeking province Bougainville that has a long history of conflict.

    “The current lack of funding has unfortunately had a dual impact, affecting both our dedicated staff, whom we’re currently unable to pay, and our day-to-day operations,” Inside PNG managing director Kila Wani said.

    “We’ve had to let off 80 percent of staff from payroll which is a big hit because we’re not a very big team.

    “Logistically, it’s become challenging to carry out our work as we normally would.”

    Other media entities in the region have suffered hits, but declined to share their stories.

    Funding hits damaging
    The funding hits are all the more damaging given the challenges faced by the Pacific, as outlined in the Pacific Islands Media Freedom Index and RSF World Press Freedom Index.

    The latest PFF report listed a string of challenges, notably weak legal protections for free speech, political interference on editorial independence, and a lack of funding underpinning high-quality media, in the region.

    The burning question for these outlets — and their audiences — is do other sources of funding exist to fill the gap?

    Inside PNG is refocusing energy on attracting new donors, as is In-depth Solomons, which has also turned to crowdfunding.

    The Australian and New Zealand governments have also provided targeted support for the media sector across the region, including ABC International Development (ABCID), which has enjoyed a budget increase from Anthony Albanese’s government.

    Inside PNG and In-depth Solomons both receive training and content-focused grants from ABCID, which helps, but this does not fund the underpinning costs for a media business or keep on the lights.

    Both Eremae, who edited two major newspapers before founding the investigative outlet, and Armbruster, a long-time SBS correspondent, expressed their dismay at the US pivot away from the Pacific.

    ‘Huge mistake’ by US
    “It’s a huge mistake on the part of the US … the world’s leading democracy. The media is one of the pillars of democracy,” Eremae said.

    “It is, I believe, in the interests of the US and other democratic countries to give funding to media in countries like the Solomon Islands where we cannot survive due to lack of advertising (budgets).

    As a veteran of Pacific reporting, Armbruster said he had witnessed US disinterest in the region contribute to the wider geopolitical struggle for influence.

    “The US government was trying to re-establish its presence after vacating the space decades ago. It had promised to re-engage, dedicating funding largely driven by its efforts to counter China, only to now betray those expectations,” he said.

    “The US government has senselessly destroyed a highly valued news service in the Pacific. An own goal.”

    Ben McKay is an AAP journalist. Republished from National Indigenous Times in Australia.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • By Scholar Kassas in Port Moresby

    A Papua New Guinea minister has raised concerns about “serious issues” at the PNG-Indonesia border due to a lack of proper security checkpoints.

    Culture and Tourism Minister Belden Namah, who is also the member for the border electorate Vanimo-Green, voiced these concerns while supporting a new Biosecurity for Plants and Animals Bill presented in Parliament by Agriculture Minister John Boito.

    He said Papua New Guinea was the only country in the Pacific Islands region that shared a land border with another nation.

    According to Namah, the absence of proper quarantine and National Agriculture Quarantine and Inspection Authority (NAQIA) checks at the border allowed people bringing food and plants from Indonesia to introduce diseases affecting PNG’s commodities.

    Minister Namah, whose electorate shares a border with Indonesia, noted that while the PNG Defence Force and police were present, they were primarily focused on checking vehicles coming from Indonesia instead of actively patrolling the borders.

    He clarified the roles, saying, “It’s NAQIA’s job to search vehicles and passengers, and the PNGDF’s role is to guard and patrol our borders.”

    Namah expressed concern that while bills were passed, enforcement on the ground was lacking.

    Minister Namah supported the PNG Biosecurity Authority Bill and called for consistency, increased border security, and stricter control checks.

    Republished from the PNG Post-Courier with permission.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • Asia Pacific Report

    An escalation in fighting between Indonesian security forces and Papuan pro-independence fighters in West Papua has seriously threatened the security of the largely indigenous population, says Human Rights Watch in a new report.

    The human rights watchdog warned that all parties to the conflict are obligated to abide by international humanitarian law, also called the laws of war.

    The security forces’ military operations in the densely forested Central Highlands areas are accused of killing and wounding dozens of civilians with drone strikes and the indiscriminate use of explosive munitions, and displaced thousands of indigenous Papuans, said the report.

    The National Liberation Army of West Papua, the armed wing of the Free Papua Movement, has claimed responsibility in the killing of 17 alleged miners between April 6 and April 9.

    “The Indonesian military has a long history of abuses in West Papua that poses a particular risk to the Indigenous communities,” said Meenakshi Ganguly, deputy Asia director of Human Rights Watch.

    “Concerned governments need to press the Prabowo [Subianto] administration and Papuan separatist armed groups to abide by the laws of war.”

    The fighting escalated after the attack on the alleged miners, which the armed group accused of being targeted soldiers or military informers.

    Operation Habema
    The Indonesian military escalated its ongoing operations, called Operation Habema, in West Papua’s six provinces, especially in the Central Highlands, where Papuan militant groups have been active for more than four decades.

    On May 14, the military said that it had killed 18 resistance fighters in Intan Jaya regency, and that it had recovered weapons including rifles, bows and arrows, communications equipment, and Morning Star flags — the symbol of Papuan resistance.

    Further military operations have allegedly resulted in burning down villages and attacks on churches. Papuan activists and pastors told Human Rights Watch that government forces treated all Papuan forest dwellers who owned and routinely used bows and arrows for hunting as “combatants”.

    Information about abuses has been difficult to corroborate because the hostilities are occurring in remote areas in Intan Jaya, Yahukimo, Nduga, and Pegunungan Bintang regencies.

    Pastors, church workers, and local journalists interviewed by Human Rights Watch said that Indonesian forces had been using drones and helicopter gunships to drop bombs.

    “Civilians from the Korowai tribe community, known for their tall treehouse dwellings, have been harmed in these attacks, and have desperately fled the fighting,” said the Human Rights Watch report.

    “Displaced villagers, mostly from Intan Jaya, have sought shelter and refuge in churches in Sugapa, the capital of the regency.”

    Resistance allegations
    The armed resistance group has made allegations, which Human Rights Watch could not corroborate, that the Indonesian military attacks harmed civilians.

    It reported that a mortar or rocket attack outside a church in Ilaga, Puncak regency, hit two young men on May 6, killing one of them, Deris Kogoya, an 18-year-old student.

    The group said that the Indonesian military attack on May 14, in which the military claimed all 18 people killed were pro-independence combatants, mostly killed civilians.

    Ronald Rischardt Tapilatu, pastor of the Evangelical Christian Church of the Land of Papua, said that at least 3 civilians were among the 18 bodies. Human Rights Watch has a list of the 18 killed, which includes 1 known child.

    The daughter of Hetina Mirip said her mother was found dead on May 17 near her house in Sugapa, while Indonesian soldiers surrounded their village. She wrote that the soldiers tried to cremate and bury her mother’s body.

    A military spokesman denied the shooting.

    One evident impact of the renewed fighting is that thousands of indigenous Papuans have been forced to flee their ancestral lands.

    Seven villages attacked
    The Vanuatu-based United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) reported that the military had attacked seven villages in Ilaga with drones and airstrikes, forcing many women and children to flee their homes. Media reports said that it was in Gome, Puncak regency.

    International humanitarian law obligates all warring parties to distinguish at all times between combatants and civilians. Civilians may never be the target of attack.

    Warring parties are required to take all feasible precautions to minimise harm to civilians and civilian objects, such as homes, shops, and schools. Attacks may target only combatants and military objectives.

    Attacks that target civilians or fail to discriminate between combatants and civilians, or that would cause disproportionate harm to the civilian population compared to the anticipated military gain, are prohibited.

    Parties must treat everyone in their custody humanely, not take hostages, and facilitate the delivery of humanitarian aid.

    The Free Papua Movement has long sought self-determination and independence in West Papua, on the grounds that the Indonesian government-controlled “Act of Free Choice” in 1969 was illegitimate and did not involve indigenous Papuans.

    It advocates holding a new, fair, and transparent referendum, and backs armed resistance.

    Vast conflict area
    Human Rights Watch reports that the conflict areas, including Intan Jaya, are on the northern side of Mt Grasberg, spanning a vast area from Sugapa to Oksibil in the Pegunungan Bintang regency, approximately 425 km long.

    Sugapa is also known as the site of Wabu Block, which holds approximately 2.3 million kilos of gold, making it one of Indonesia’s five largest known gold reserves.

    Wabu Block is currently under the licensing process of the Indonesian Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources.

    “Papuans have endured decades of systemic racism, heightening concerns of further atrocities,” HRW’s Asia director Ganguly said.

    “Both the Indonesian military and Papuan armed groups need to comply with international standards that protect civilians.”

    Republished from Human Rights Watch.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • There’s a notorious stretch of road in Indonesia, by the border of North Sumatra and Aceh provinces, that passes through kilometres and kilometres of oil palm plantations. There are few people there, besides the occasional plantation worker. Trees stretch in grids as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful country, but the pastoral scene provides cover for the illegal activities that take place along its fringes.

    Truckers who pass along the road have told me that bandits roam the area. The bandits typically follow behind transport trucks, then mount them at high speeds to throw valuable goods off the back. Lost goods are subtracted from the truckers’ wages, so it’s in their best interests to avoid the hijacking at all costs.

    For this, the truckers have devised a strategy: they stop in the last town before the empty stretch of road and wait for a convoy to form before taking off into the danger zone. They’ve learned that it’s safer to travel in a group.

    While the truckers sit and wait for their convoy, they often smoke methamphetamine (sabu-sabu) together. Meth is popular among truckers due to its specific effects: as an upper, it gives users prolonged feelings of euphoria, energy, and invincibility, allowing them to work for hours on end without eating or sleeping. Drug use is so widespread in Indonesia’s trucking industry that it is specifically monitored by the National Narcotics Agency (Badan Narkotika Nasional/BNN), which reports that 10% of all employees in the transportation and warehousing sector used drugs in the past year. From my conversations with truckers, it would appear the real figure is much higher.

    High on meth, and ready to outrun the robbers, the truckers take off together towards Medan, North Sumatra’s capital. No one wants to be at the back of the convoy—the most vulnerable position—so they jockey with each other as they accelerate down the highway, speed coursing through their veins.

    A truck carrying palm oil fruit waits on the side of the road for others to join (author photo)

    Meth helps truckers outrun the hazards they find along this empty stretch of road, but it also reflects a stance towards modern working life that is affecting young workers throughout Indonesia. As the country’s economy grows, and workers come under increasing time pressure, young people are racing to meet the demands placed on them to deliver Indonesia’s promised prosperous future. For many, drug use is becoming a tool of survival in this new economy of speed.

    Over the past year, I have been conducting field work in Aceh, Indonesia, as part of my doctoral project on youth drug cultures. As a volunteer at a drug recovery centre in a medium-sized city, I’ve had many chances to speak with recovering addicts about their trajectories into and out of the world of illicit drug use. While many existing theories of addiction focus on drug use as an “escape”, either from traumatic life experiences or from structural violence, my research participants instead talk about the ways that meth “helps” them to find money.

    I have had to start my research with a different question: In what ways does drug use work with the demands of contemporary labour?

    This has brought me to the question of temporality itself. Drugs, especially amphetamines, change users’ sense of the passage of time—much like work. Historian E.P. Thompson famously argued that during industrial revolution, “clock time” newly segmented the day into productive and unproductive units. Nowadays, however, it seems that every minute is potentially optimisable. In Indonesia, the acceleration of the economy has placed new demands on the bodies of workers, and drug users have told me that meth aligns with their perception of their country’s historical moment: ever faster, ever upwards.

    Studying drugs helps answer the question: what are the costs of Indonesia’s economic transition, especially for those working to make it happen?

    Young people in a changing economy

    Indonesia, the world’s fourth most populous country, is undergoing a major economic transition. Former president Joko Widodo pledged to make Indonesia a high-income country by 2045. This plan relies heavily on the “demographic bonus” that Indonesia is predicted to benefit from in the coming decades as a large cohort of young people ages into their productive years. Those of working age currently make up 70% of the population—the highest ever share of “productive” citizens since the national census began. On top of that, almost 25% of the population is under the age of 14 and will come of age in the coming decades. Unlike ageing populations in Japan, North America, and Europe, Indonesia’s population is young, growing, and poised for economic transition.

    Yet Indonesia is still a vastly unequal country. Much of the wealth is centred on the island of Java, while for underclass and undereducated workers in outlying provinces, future prospects look grim. Moreover, the most productive industries—mining, agriculture, and manufacturing—are still heavily reliant on manual labour. In other words, responsibility for this industrial transition weighs heavily on the shoulders, quite literally, of the younger generation. Add to this increased job insecurity and a shrinking middle class, and many seem to be turning to drugs just to keep up.

    A construction worker shows his stash of methamphetamine (author photo)

    Drug use both facilitates and responds to changes in the Indonesian economy—changes that are largely premised on the acceleration of everyday life. Truckers, delivery drivers, and gig economy workers, for example, are tasked with delivering just-in-time goods for online shopping conglomerates like Shopee and Tokopedia. One drug user writes, “I still use [meth], especially when I work at night so that I have the energy to work and don’t get sleepy.” Increasing rates of drug use seem to indicate that some young workers are unable to keep up with the demands of a shifting economy, turning to chemical support to stay afloat in a new economy of speed.

    Left behind in Aceh

    In Aceh province, where I have been conducting my research, young people I talk to complain of dwindling job prospects. After the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami that devastated the province and obliterated the provincial capital, Banda Aceh, billions of dollars of development aid flowed in. But most of this aid dried up by 2010, and many of the hastily planned development projects are now empty and crumbling. Aceh today has an unemployment rate higher than Indonesia’s national average.

    Through my conversations with recovering addicts, I’ve learned that many young people feel left behind and are turning to the drug trade to support themselves. Nyak (not his real name) was only a teenager when he started making money from drugs. Nyak comes from a small town on the north coast of Aceh, where he grew up with a single mother and two younger siblings. At age 14, he was recruited as a drug mule by some dealers in his village.

    Nyak’s job was to go out to sea at night to meet a boat coming from Malaysia. He would meet the boat on the open waters, make the exchange, then come back to shore and pass the meth to the dealers. The amount of money on offer was hard to resist: Nyak was promised Rp5 million (about US$320) each time he went out to sea—almost double the average monthly salary in Aceh. But often he would only be paid Rp1–2 million per operation, with a promise that he would be paid the rest the next time he went out. This trapped Nyak in a cycle of dependence on the dealers, who would force him to continue smuggling just to access money he was already owed.

    While meth production within Indonesia is minimal, the country’s close neighbour, Myanmar, is one of the largest producers in the world. The ongoing conflict there has fuelled drug production as armed groups produce and sell meth in exchange for weapons. Aceh, the closest Indonesian province to Myanmar, has now become a major point of entry. The drug is brought to Aceh via the Malacca Strait—usually in small fishing boats, which use the vast inlets and mangrove forests on the north coast for cover. Some of the smuggled meth flows through Indonesia on its way to Australia, while some is sold locally.

    A discarded bong (author photo)

    After a few years of smuggling, Nyak started using meth himself, and his addiction quickly spiralled out of control. He dropped out of high school and started smuggling in exchange for drugs rather than cash. Nyak’s family worried about his future and finally scraped together the money to send him to rehab (the average rehab stint in Aceh costs Rp2.5 million per month, about US$150). When I met Nyak at the rehab centre he seemed keen to turn his life around but unsure how to do it. He worries about going back home, since many people he grew up with now use drugs, making it easy to relapse. Besides, he admits that he still has cravings—not just for meth, but also for the quick money he can get from smuggling. “I don’t know what else I can do to make money,” he tells me “I haven’t graduated high school, and without an insider contact (orang dalam), it’s hard to find a job”.

    Pressures of the “golden generation”

    Politicians and development experts have dubbed Indonesia’s younger generation the “golden generation” (generasi emas). Their plan for a “qualified, competent, and highly competitive” generation by 2045 focuses on the development of young people’s personal character as a path towards national prosperity. Some of the qualities emphasised by the plan include “healthy social interactions,” “having a strong character,” and “comprehensive intelligence in service of productivity and innovation.” In other words, the golden generation framework repositions individual health and wellbeing as a matter of national concern.

    Drug use evidently works against this plan. Many anti-drug campaigners argue that drugs are “destroying the mentality of the nation” and threatening young people’s standing as “the nation’s asset”. BNN, in its 2023 National Survey on Drug Abuse, frets over how “drug abuse (has) a negative impact on a nation’s economic competitiveness” and will “produce a damaged generation”. For BNN, drug prevention is a matter of national concern—reflected in Indonesia’s extremely harsh drug laws—and virtually all prevention campaigns are targeted towards young people.

    A sign that reads- “Together we can all support a strong generation without drugs” (author photo)

    Ibrahim worked as a truck driver for five years before he finally made the decision to go to rehab. He drove the heavily trafficked route between Banda Aceh and Medan described above. “I started using sabu-sabu at work”, he told me. Ibrahim said he was first given meth by the person who taught him how to drive. His mentor not only taught him how to weave in and out of busy traffic, but also how to make a bong and smoke meth.

    Ibrahim kept up with the job—and the drug use—because the pay was good. Besides that, he enjoyed the nights in Medan. “We’d get to Medan and we’d still be high, so we would go and enjoy ourselves. The women in Medan, they like to have fun”, he said with a smile. “And they like Acehnese men. We usually come ready to spend.” It was only after Ibrahim contracted an STI that he considered going to rehab. “I’m married, and I realised I was putting my family at risk.” His family was supportive of his decision to seek help, but now Ibrahim is worried about returning to his old life: “If I go back to trucking, I know I will start using drugs again. I have to try to find another job, but trucking is all I know. How will I support my family? This is what worries me about the future.”

    Men make up 70% of drug users in Indonesia, and gendered expectations around providing for the family often place particular economic pressure on young men. In Aceh, traditional family values are strong, and men are expected to become the economic and spiritual heads of their households. Whereas older Acehnese theories of masculinity emphasised religious knowledge (adab) and rational thought (akal), contemporary economic change has reshaped what it means to be a man around the demands of the economy. For Ibrahim, drugs are so tied up with his sense of identity that he can’t imagine working without them.

    A delivery driver rides past a mural that reads “Protect yourself:your family from the danger of drugs” (author photo)

    Boredom

    On the flip side of the economy of speed are those who have been left out of it entirely. For some, it’s not the requirements of work that drives them to drug use, but the boredom and sense of worthlessness brought on by unemployment.

    “Nothing scares me more than being called a pemalas (lazy person)”, says Saed, another drug user in recovery. Saed comes from a well-off family and graduated from university with a degree in electrical engineering but found it hard to find a job after graduation. “I applied to a few companies, but they all said I wasn’t a good fit. One told me I was overqualified, while another told me that I needed more work experience. It was confusing.” For Saed, it feels like he can’t get anything right. “I think they wanted to hire someone they already knew, a family member or something. What can I do in that situation?”

    What began as casual drug use in university turned into a regular habit once Saed struggled to find a job. “At first I started doing it just for fun when hanging out (bergaul), but after a while I started to do it alone in my room”. He says he didn’t want to feel like a pemalas, and meth made it feel like he was working towards something. “After a while, I started smoking meth and gambling online”, he explains. “Meth would help me focus. I would win some money, and it would make me feel excited.”

    Coffee, conflict, and inadvertent state-building in Vietnam

    How state-building can work from the bottom up

    But soon Saed started losing, a lot, and spending more money on drugs. His financial troubles eventually alerted his family to his drug use, and they forced him into rehab. But Saed’s worries about being a lazy person haven’t gone away. He complains to me that he can’t shake this feeling of worthlessness, a feeling that just gets worse as he passes his days in rehab.

    As the government speeds towards a “developed economy” status, not everyone is pulled along in its wake. For those who watch friends and acquaintances move forward while they themselves can’t get a break, developmentalism makes them feel left behind, and left out. Some, like Saed, turn to drugs to pass the days and chase away their feelings of worthlessness.

    Drugs in Indonesia’s future

    BNN’s 2023 National Survey on Drug Abuse shows there are upwards of 3 million drug users in Indonesia. In the face of this large and persistent problem, small, underfunded drug recovery centres are one of the last hopes for drug users looking to get clean.

    Every week, the head of the recovery centre in Aceh where I work takes some of the patients to his farm about an hour away where they practice skills in farming and construction. All the patients love it there; they say it refreshes their minds. The head of the centre chooses each week who needs it most and takes the group there in his four-wheel drive. On one of the side doors he has painted three big English words: “Band of Brothers”.

    The jeep that takes the men in recovery to work on the owner’s farm (author photo)

    Back at the centre, Nyak, the drug smuggler from the small village along the coast, received some bad news. His family came by to say they no longer had money to pay for his treatment and that they had to take him home early. As he was leaving, I asked what he was planning to do when he got back to his hometown. “I’m not sure”, he said, “there aren’t many opportunities for me there. I might try to work as a fisherman until I can move to another city (merantau). Or I might have to go back to smuggling. We all need money to survive, after all.”

    ••••••••••

    This post is part of a series of essays highlighting the work of emerging scholars of Southeast Asia published with the support of the Australian National University College of Asia and the Pacific.

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  • By Caleb Fotheringham, RNZ Pacific journalist

    A West Papua independence leader says escalating violence is forcing indigenous Papuans to flee their ancestral lands.

    It comes as the Indonesian military claims 18 members of the West Papua National Liberation Army (TPNPB) were killed in an hour-long operation in Intan Jaya on May 14.

    In a statement, reported by Kompas, Indonesia’s military claimed its presence was “not to intimidate the people” but to protect them from violence.

    “We will not allow the people of Papua to live in fear in their own land,” it said.

    Indonesia’s military said it seized firearms, ammunition, bows and arrows. They also took Morning Star flags — used as a symbol for West Papuan independence — and communication equipment.

    The United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP) interim president Benny Wenda, who lives in exile in the United Kingdom, told RNZ Pacific that seven villages in Ilaga, Puncak Regency in Central Papua were now being attacked.

    “The current military escalation in West Papua has now been building for months. Initially targeting Intan Jaya, the Indonesian military have since broadened their attacks into other highlands regencies, including Puncak,” he said.

    Women, children forced to leave
    Wenda said women and children were being forced to leave their villages because of escalating conflict, often from drone attacks or airstrikes.

    Benny Wenda at the 22 Melanesian Spearhead Group Leaders' Summit in Port Vila. 22 August 2023
    ULMWP interim president Benny Wenda . . . “Indonesians look at us as primitive and they look at us as subhuman.” Image: RNZ Pacific/Kelvin Anthony

    Earlier this month, ULMWP claimed one civilian and another was seriously injured after being shot at from a helicopter.

    Last week, ULMWP shared a video of a group of indigenous Papuans walking through mountains holding an Indonesian flag, which Wenda said was a symbol of surrender.

    “They look at us as primitive and they look at us as subhuman,” Wenda said.

    He said the increased military presence was driven by resources.

    President Prabowo Subianto’s administration has a goal to be able to feed Indonesia’s population without imports as early as 2028.

    Video rejects Indnesian plan
    A video statement from tribes in Mappi regency in South Papua from about a month ago, translated to English, said they rejected Indonesia’s food project and asked companies to leave.

    In the video, about a dozen Papuans stood while one said the clans in the region had existed on customary land for generations and that companies had surveyed land without consent.

    “We firmly ask the local government, the regent, Mappi Regency to immediately review the permits and revoke the company’s permits,” the speaker said.

    Wenda said the West Papua National Liberation Army (TPNPB) had also grown.

    But he said many of the TPNPB were using bow and arrows against modern weapons.

    “I call them home guard because there’s nowhere to go.”

    This article is republished under a community partnership agreement with RNZ.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • By Anish Chand in Suva

    Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka and Fiji’s coalition government are “detached from the values that Fijians hold dear”, says the NGO Coalition on Human Rights in Fiji (NGOCHR).

    The rights coalition has expressed deep concern over Rabuka’s ongoing engagements with Indonesia.

    “History will judge how we respond as Fijians to this moment. We must not stay silent when Pacific people are being occupied and killed,” said NGOCHR chair Shamima Ali.

    She said Rabuka was extended a grant of $12 million by Indonesia recently and received proposals for joint military training.

    “Is Fiji’s continuing silence on West Papua yet another example of being muzzled by purse strings?”

    “As members of the Melanesian and Pacific family, bound by shared ancestry and identity, the acceptance of financial and any other benefit from Indonesia—while remaining silent on the plight of West Papua—is a betrayal of our family member and of regional solidarity.”

    “True leadership must be rooted in solidarity, justice, and accountability,” Ali said.

    “It is imperative that Pacific leaders not only advocate for peace and cooperation in the region but also continue to hold Indonesia to account on ongoing human rights violations in West Papua.”

    Republished from The Fiji Times with permission.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.