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Category: Indonesian Politics

  • Indonesian ex-graft convicts active again in political parties ‘nothing new’

    By Agus Rahmat in Jakarta

    Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW) has condemned the phenomena of former corruption convicts becoming active again in political parties after serving their sentences.

    However, it says this is not a new phenomenon in the world of politics.

    ICW coordinator Agus Sunaryanto revealed several names of people who were caught up in corruption cases and who were now active again in political parties.

    He cited names such as Andi Mallarangeng from the Democrat Party, who was indicted in the Hambalang sports complex case and released from prison in 2017.

    Nazaruddin, also from the Democrat Party, was indicted in two cases — the 4.6 billion rupiah (NZ$4.65 million) bribery case involving the Wisma Atlet (Athletes Village), as well as graft and money laundering.

    The latest is former United Development Party (PPP) chairperson Muhammad Romahurmuziy (Romy) who was indicted over receiving bribes for selling posts in the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 2019.

    After being released from prison, Romahurmuziy was appointed as chairperson of the PPP’s Advisory Board.

    “So (the phenomena of ex-corruptors becoming active again in political parties) is not just happening in the PPP. The Democrats are also like that, Nazaruddin and Andi Mallarangeng for example,” Sunaryanto told journalists.

    ‘Internal problem’
    Sunaryanto said he suspected there was an “internal problem” in the political parties so that in the end they accepted former corruption convicts rejoining the party.

    He also gave a flashback over the actions by the political parties when their members were indicted in corruption cases.

    Sunaryanto said that the parties “fall over themselves publicly” in taking stern measures against corrupt members, such as dismissing them.

    But these dismissals were just a political gimmick because party members could easily rejoin after they had served their sentences.

    “I think there is a problem in the political parties. The political parties actually take good steps when [members] are declared suspects. Before, the Democrats immediately dismissed them [Nazaruddin and Mallarangeng], but then after they’re released, they come back in again. This is simply a political gimmick,” he added.

    Translated by James Balowski for IndoLeft News. The original title of the article was “ICW Sindir Eks Koruptor Masuk Partai Lagi: Seperti Gimmick Politik”.

    This post was originally published on Asia Pacific Report.

  • Indonesia’s new criminal code turns representatives into rulers

    After years of debate, protest, and delay, the Indonesian parliament passed a new criminal code (Undang Undang Kitab Hukum Pidana, or KUHP) that gives the state new tools to punish a wide range of ideological, moral and political offences. International attention has focused on those passages of the law that ban sex outside of marriage. But the KUHP’s real power lies in provisions that threaten political dissent with prison sentences and have the potential to muzzle public debate about the purview of the state in citizens’ private and political lives. Here we examine the divergent interests that coalesced to pass the most regressive provisions of the new criminal code, and consider their implications for Indonesian democracy.

    A compromise between two illiberal agendas

    Indonesia’s old criminal code was inherited from the Dutch colonial state and included a range of outdated provisions. The effort to revise the law began in the 1980s under the New Order regime but went nowhere after several fully formed drafts were discarded. After the democratic transition in 1998, attempts to revamp the code became entangled in ideological battles between nationalist parliamentary factions who sought to purge Dutch influence, and religious conservatives who saw the revisions as an opportunity to push for a greater role for the state in regulating public morality.

    The new KUHP, passed unanimously by all parties on 6 December, represents a compromise between these two factions. Nationalists, led by PDI–P, drove provisions that not only retain existing criminal charges for expressions of support for “Communist/Marxist-Leninist” thought, but also ban expression of “ideas that contradict Pancasila”, the state’s pluralist ideology. Legal activists in Indonesia believe these provisions smack of the Sukarno-era Anti-Subversion Law, a vaguely-worded statute that was used to great effect by the Suharto regime to repress and intimidate dissidents.

    At the same time, the new law, which bans all sexual relations outside of marriage, also represents a major victory for Islamist groups. The Islamist PKS party has long championed efforts to regulate public morality through its proposed Family Resilience bill. The draft of this law was brought up for discussion in the parliament several times but failed to garner broader support because of its extreme provisions — which among other things regulated sleeping arrangements of siblings within households and compelled family members to report homosexual relatives to state authorities. The new KUHP, which designates sex outside of marriage and cohabitation between unmarried couples as jailable offences, if reported by close relatives, incorporates watered-down versions of passages in the Family Resilience bill.

    Why did a compromise become possible when the governing coalition is ostensibly dominated by religiously “pluralist” parties that could have mustered the votes to pass the new code without accommodating Islamist demands?

    Since Indonesia’s deeply polarising presidential elections in 2019, Jokowi’s government has imposed a “repressive pluralist” agenda to counter political opposition by banning Islamist groups and purging state agencies of religiously conservative civil servants. But neither Jokowi nor his allies in parliament can afford to isolate conservative Muslim groups more broadly, especially as the 2024 elections approach. This consideration became even more important when the morality provisions in the KUHP bill gained endorsement from mainstream Islamic organisations, including Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah, who are also under pressure to guard their conservative flanks in the wake of the 212 movement’s bringing divergent views about the role of Islam in public life to a head. This is evident from NU and Muhammadiyah’s conservative stance on recent issues concerning morality, especially their opposition to using a consent-based definition of rape in the Sexual Violence Law passed earlier in 2022. Placating religious conservatives with policy concessions in the social domain has thus become an expedient way of containing the potential fallout from subduing their opposition in the political arena.

    Apart from striking these compromises, the new KUHP also serves the goals of political elites across ideological divides of curbing the role of civil society in the policy-making processes. Over the past few years the government has been subject to mounting public criticism for passing legislation that is seen as protecting interests of powerful oligarchs and reducing accountability. Changes to legislation governing the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) in 2019, which effectively dismantled the popular anti-graft body, prompted the largest pro-democracy protests since the student mobilisations of the late 1990s that toppled the New Order regime. In 2020, the rushed passage of the Omnibus Law on Jobs Creation—which reduced labour protections, dismantled environmental safeguards and expedited forcible land acquisition by the government, with the aim of attracting foreign investment—also galvanised widespread protests.

    The new KUHP makes these expressions of opposition high-risk. Citizens can now be jailed for up to three years for making comments about the president and vice president that the latter deem derogatory. It also contains provisions for punishing anyone who circulates derogatory material about government institutions more broadly, including government ministries, the courts or the parliament. When it was passed into law in a sparsely-attended plenary session of parliament, the PKS representative staged a walk-out to protest these “insult” provisions, and its fellow opposition party Partai Demokrat offered a perfunctory warning of the risks to free speech, perhaps to save face with their constituents. But both had already formally endorsed the final version of the law in the committee that drafted it.

    Government reassurances fall flat

    In the face of widespread criticism of the KUHP, government officials have been quick to defend the new criminal code by urging the public to celebrate the fact that Indonesia has finally managed to shake off its colonial legacy. These platitudes offer cold comfort to the journalists and activists who are most likely to be targeted by the law and have repeatedly pointed out that it actually retains and repurposes the most repressive aspects of the original version inherited from the Dutch.

    For example, provisions for punishing insult to the president that were part of the old KUHP were annulled by the Constitutional Court in 2006, which ruled that general defamation laws were sufficient to protect holders of public office from personal attacks. The new law reinserts these provisions and expands their scope to cover other state institutions, with two alterations. First, it makes them complaint-based offences, meaning they can only be applied if the “insulted party” reports them. Second, it stipulates that criticisms that are made in the public interest will be exempt from prosecution. Lawmakers claim that these limitations offer a safeguard against potential misuse of the law, which they argue is not meant to forbid dissent but reasonably regulate it.

    Such arguments presume that powerholders will exercise restraint. But in reality several litigious ministers within Jokowi’s cabinet already have a track record of suing critics. The new KUHP’s provisions on insulting the government give such actors a greater incentive to go after activists, who will now bear the additional burden of proving their innocence for the obvious reason that there is no clear or explicitly defined difference between an ‘insult’ and a critique of the state or heads of government.

    Another reason activists don’t trust the government line is that these revisions follow years of relentless state harassment of activists using existing regulations, especially the anti-“defamation” provisions of the Electronic Transactions Law (UU ITE) and the authorities’ increasingly unrestrained use of force against demonstrators, as seen during the student protests of 2019–2020. The chilling effects of this trend can be seen in the fact that while the protests against the previous attempt to pass a new KUHP in 2019 were massive, this time the streets are relatively empty. Additional provisions in the new code that increase criminal penalties for organising protests without prior notice to authorities are likely to reinforce these trends.

    Regardless of whether and how these rules are applied, legal experts in Indonesia have pointed out that they have no place in a democracy. Indonesia is not the only country that has laws to protect heads of state from wilful defamation, but these regulations are generally rooted in a history of monarchy, where sovereigns are considered sanctified entities. When applied in a representative democracy like Indonesia, these provisions have the potential to transform the role of government officials from public servants, who are subject to criticism from the citizens who elect them, to entitled rulers who ought not be defied.

    When it comes to the law’s morality provisions, proponents claim that they codify Indonesia’s shared moral values and increasing the role of state authorities in enforcing them will prevent vigilantes from taking the law into their own hands. The evidence suggests the opposite might be the outcome: we know that in Aceh province — which enforces the strictest public morality regulations in the country, punishing fornication, adultery and homosexuality with public canning — the incidence of mob violence to punish moral offences is three times higher than the Indonesian average.

    Related

    Jokowi forges a tool of repression

    Indonesia’s parliament has approved Jokowi’s decree on mass organisations. Here’s why the law threatens the freedoms of all Indonesians.

    Usman Hamid & Liam Gammon 13 July, 2017

    Lawmakers have sought to address concerns about vigilantism in the final draft of the KUHP by stipulating that criminal charges against sexual offences can only be brought against individuals who are reported to the authorities by close family members, specifically by parents, children and spouses. But far from solving the problem, these provisions are likely to encourage vigilantes to pressure state officials and victims’ families into doing their bidding.

    Finally, proponents argue that dissatisfied citizens are free to critique and even challenge the law. Indeed, the government has developed a template response to public opposition to its legislative agenda: “just take your complaint to the Constitutional Court”. This phrase is routinely dropped by ministers, party leaders, and the president himself.

    But even this avenue for recourse is closing fast. Over the past two years, the government has led a systematic effort to undermine judicial oversight of the legislative process. In September 2020, the parliament voted to extend the tenure of Constitutional Court judges from 5 to 15 years, which was criticised by legal experts as a bid to incentivise a favourable ruling on the judicial review of the Omnibus Law. Following the Court’s conditional annulment of that legislation, however, the government is now mounting a more direct attack on judicial independence. In November 2022, lawmakers removed Justice Aswanto from the Constitutional Court for voting to strike down the Omnibus Law, and replaced him with a new judge who they claim would defend the parliament’s interests.

    A nail in the coffin?

    The new KUHP’s implementation is on hold for three years. And once it is implemented we are unlikely see an immediate widespread crackdown against dissidents of the sort seen in places like Turkey or Thailand. The code’s vague, nebulous provisions will probably be applied selectively and inconsistently. But this is precisely the point: uncertainty invokes fears and stifles dissent. The code’s provisions can be thought of as warning shots, designed to compel critics to adjust their behaviour.

    There is no doubt this law resurrects elements of Indonesia’s authoritarian past. Democracy has been under extraordinary strain here for the past decade. The resilience of its civil society and parts of the media have helped to thwart some of the most brazen attempts to roll back democracy, like the 2014 proposal to end direct elections and Jokowi’s attempt to extend presidential term limits.

    But aside from preserving the institution of elections, all of Indonesia’s other democratic norms and institutions are now under attack. The new criminal code is not the final nail in democracy’s coffin—but it gives a hammer to anyone who wants to drive one in.

    The post Indonesia’s new criminal code turns representatives into rulers appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Can Indonesia clean up political pollution along the Citarum River?

    Citarum River in West Java province is dubbed one of the dirtiest river in the world, and cleaning it up is an almost unmanageable job. The government has to deal with more than 3000 businesses along the river bank, with a large portion of them being multinationals. That excludes the tens of millions of households depending on water from the river. My research fieldwork, conducted in West Java from March to May 2022, attempted to verify what the authorities have applied to revitalise the river, and their types of relations. Apparently, massive financial and technological resources have been poured into the Citarum Watershed, including from overseas. Citarum is one of the most strategic rivers in Indonesia, and historically attractive for investors and foreign aid donors.

    Cikapundung River in Bandung in March 2022. Image supplied by the author.

    The armed forces, police, lawyers, and private businesses have been tasked with preventing the river from excessive pollution, and the mobilisation of scrutinising powers have created a situation where the river clean-up is politically motivated. Practices of subcontracting government aid projects are evident, as well as alleged collusion between district commandants and factory owners.

    There are contending concepts of Citarum River between policy planners, the actors and their respective roles in the execution, and on the reframing of pollution management politics in the Citarum Watershed. My fieldwork followed Citarum sub-streams along Majalaya, Bojongsoang, Dayeuhkolot, City of Bandung, and City of Bekasi. The pollution level is more precarious mid-stream and downstream. As Citarum spans 297 kilometres, only very selective site visits and interviews were conducted.

    A protest banner in a local community opposing the Ministry of Public Works and Housing, which they claim has under compensated them for land transfer contracts for drinking water projects in Bekasi. March 2022. Image supplied by the author.

    After President Joko Widodo issued Presidential Regulation no. 15 in 2018 on Acceleration of Pollution and Damage Control on Citarum Watershed, Special Task Force (Satgas PPK Citarum) was founded. Currently, there are 23 sectors of Citarum watershed, with each sector having a commandant, often called Dansektor (acronym of Komandan Sektor or Sectoral Commandant) from Military Command III Siliwangi in West Java. In an interview with one of the chiefs of the Task force in South Bandung, I was told there are different opinions about territorial divisions of Citarum for more effective execution. The government’s action plan sanctions greater discretion and observation of ecological features of the watershed. Nevertheless, the plan has repeatedly failed to come into force. This was due to lack of facilitators, lack of state expenditure, and relatively low bargaining power with business owners. Moreover, my source said that the original Presidential Regulation was legislated in a rush without proper academic reviews.

    Military perspectives divided Citarum based on military territorial operations. From originally just a few, it has expanded into 23 areas, regardless of each of the sub-streams’ ecological function. River clean-up activities include regular garbage cleaning in the river with communities and NGOs, mainly based in “kelurahan” (villages). The military and police officers also inspect the waste management systems regularly, often with surprise visits. However, my observations show that one command post was located just outside the gate of a textile factory in Dayeuhkolot, raising a question about neutrality.

    Related

    The right to water: governing private and communal provision in rural Indonesia

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    Tadzkia Nurshafira 29 October, 2020

    About IDR 200 billion (approx. AUD 19,815,000) has been allocated for the armed forces from the budget of The Ministry of Public Works and Housing. A local environment activist commented that the military role was exaggerated. He implied that long before the military came, local environmental champions have been campaigning and working on the pollution issues. Moreover, he claimed that dispatching the army just meant more cost for the state instead of allocating the funds for civilian initiatives. However, according to a foreign project consultant, inviting the army into river rehabilitation program is one of the best decisions. It had not been done prior to 2018 and according to him, the army could expedite the clean-up to just a few years.

    At UNFCCC COP 26 Summit in Glasgow, UK, Governor of West Java, Ridwan Kamil presented the progress of the rehabilitation of the Citarum, claiming  that the  the river has progressed from a state of “heavily polluted” to “lightly polluted”. One of the objectives of this presentation was to attract additional investment in Indonesia by repairing its environmental image on the global stage.

    Polluted water flowing through a weir in the Bekasi River, March, 2022. Image supplied by the author.

    Industrial waste management in Indonesia can be political. It is toxic and overflowing. In the case of Citarum particularly, it is also become exorbitantly expensive. Not only state expenditure, but also programs from overseas, such as the Asian Development Bank’s Integrated Citarum Water Resources Management Investment Program (ICWRMIP),attend to the pollution. Savings and Loans Cooperatives (KSP) in West Java also provide loans for wastewater management. However, the costs are not only generated from neutralising heavy metal hazard from the river, but also in cleaning up the costly bureaucracy and execution of the policy.

    Andir Retention Pool prevents flooding in Andir, Bandung, by modifying water flow in Citarum River. May 2022. Image supplied by the author.

    Fixing the “pollution” of resource misallocation begins with the planning process. Currently there are two key Citarum plan documents, one from National Planning Agency (Bappenas) and one from the Ministry of Public Works and Housing. Despite the existence of the Presidential regulation, the Citarum task force is not directly under the supervision of the president, so funding disbursement and power delegation become entwined. Operational divisions of  the river should consider its natural segmentation and transboundary coordination among regions. Civil society initiatives and lawsuits, including from those who were a part of “anti-wastewater coalition,” are often ignored. Moreover, to keep the contamination level at bay by 2025 as planned, the government need to be extra vigilant in its execution. Another ambitious target is that by 2025, Citarum water can be filtered into drinking water supply. Yet, if current patterns continue and they are granted massive investment and technical assistance for such a short period of completion, the exercise will be prone to low accountability and resource capture.

    All action plans have their limits. River pollution is not only a result of overwhelming waste, but a problem of resource capture across all levels of governance. However, in decentralised Indonesia, the integration of a Citarum clean-up campaign faces even broader political and administration challenges.

    The post Can Indonesia clean up political pollution along the Citarum River? appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • The Kanjuruhan catastrophe: A mirror of Indonesia’s tumultuous football politics

    On Oct 1st, 2022, 33 years after the Hillsborough disaster in Sheffield a stadium tragedy reoccurred. This time, one of the world’s worst stadium disasters happened in Kanjuruhan Stadium, Indonesia, with at least 125 supporters killed at a match between Arema FC and Persebaya FC. After losing the game 2-3, upset Arema supporters reportedly invaded the pitch. The authorities in Malang, East Java fired tear gas to “control” the crowd, triggering a stampede among supporters. Ironically, although supporters followed the FIFA order of flare prohibition, the authorities in Kanjuruhan armed themselves with tear gas which they shot into the mostly peaceful crowds.

    This event is now the pinnacle of tragedies in Indonesia’s sporting history. On one side, “rivalry” is a distinct character of football supporters, which is marketed as a unique selling point. On the other side, do the labels “violence” and “hooliganism” portrayed by mainstream media truly reflect the rivalry of Indonesian supporters? Negative narratives, such as “violence is not uncommon” and “police hunt Aremania” (Arema supporters) who kill Bonek (Persebaya supporters), are produced by media at all levels, constructing bad representation of Indonesian football fans as offenders. Such stories place supporters as citizens’ enemy. Moreover, following the corporate media logic of “prime time”, kick-off was in the evening (at 8:00 PM). Due to the broadcasting rewards, New Indonesian League administrators rejected an afternoon kick off time suggested by the police. Supporters are indeed the targeted audience for football broadcasts, yet a sensationalising media predominantly frame them as hooligans.

    Prior to the match, at a trilateral meeting between both clubs and the Football Association of Indonesia (PSSI), it was agreed that Persebaya supporters would not attend. The assumption was that “no rivalry” equated to “no violence.” The depth of this logical fallacy was illuminated as Arema supporters became the victims of bloody violence unrelated to rivalry. The possibility that the number of tickets sold exceeded the stadium capacity is also generating unanswered questions.

    Manipulation of football supporters by political elites is not uncommon. Football supporters are also a voter base in regional and national level elections. Eddy Rumpoko, the 2007-2017 Mayor of Batu (a city in the greater area of Malang), for instance, established connections with Arema FC and supporters using his city budget resources. The former mayor was sentenced to prison in 2019 and punished again in 2022 because of corruption.

    Most of the leaders of PSSI are closely affiliated with political parties or retired army/police commissioners, who act in unison to serve the interests of the oligarchs of Indonesia. For example, Eddy Rumpoko was one out of nine nominees in PSSI Chairman election (2016-2020). Furthermore, PSSI pointed fingers to other stakeholders, including banning Arema FC from playing matches at their home stadium and issuing fines. While the government task force highlighted the unprofessionalism of PSSI and Indonesian football league stakeholders, PSSI rejected their recommendations. The credibility of PSSI and the police is said to be falling apart at the seams, reflected in declining trust among football supporters.

    The Kanjuruhan disaster shows that Arema fans, like other supporters, are victims of the commodification and politicisation of Indonesian football. The pot of supporter fanaticism is continually stirred by broadcasters and is marketed to consumers of football. The supporters are also vulnerable to a violent, corrupt, and precarious Indonesian football structure. Supporters were killed by the violence of the state, yet they are the ones who are portrayed as “rioters”. Not only victims of the structure, fans remain trapped within a conflict of interests between predatory and rapacious actors in the turbulent world of Indonesian football.

    In the era of football commodification and democracy in post-reformasi Indonesia, supporters should be placed as “original fans” rather than “superficial consumers”. With the idea of mediatisation, supporters seem to play a greater role in claiming their position. Supporters need recognition, including an environment in which to express their collective identity and to articulate their role as active citizens. Starting from the mourning, the public petitioned for the rights of the Kanjuruhan victims, particularly those who were killed. Responding to this catastrophe, there were at least six petitions on change.org, from “refusing tear gas” (signed by around 50,000 people), “urging PSSI chief and management to resign” (signed by around 18,000 people) to “reformasi PSSI” (signed by around 300 people). The presence of these digital platforms facilitates the coordination and collection of signatures and signifies solidarity among oppressed supporters.

    Football has increasingly become “family friendly” entertainment, consequently rights should be (re)distributed equitably. Here, safety must be the top priority. The game’s authorities should be responsive to football fans’ characteristics, including the tendency for mass gatherings and established rivalries as is exemplified in major footballing leagues around the world. Profit maximisation, including media ratings and ticket sales, must be revisited. Midday kick-off times and below capacity ticket sales are some alternatives. FIFA has advised against the use of tear gas inside stadiums. The Hillsborough disaster brought about regulatory changes for safety inside stadiums and those in control of large crowds. One of the fiercest footballing derbies in world football, Celtic and Rangers, has shifted the kick-off time from evening to midday to prevent potential violence between supporters in Glasgow.

    Lastly, representation of supporters is key to reforming footballing structures in Indonesia, liberating the code from the current oligarchical system. Supporters, as active citizens, are the counter to the “violence” narrative. Instead of frequently attaching the term “hooligan” to supporters in media coverage, other roles taken by supporters as active citizens, such as anti-racism activism (hoomanity-hooligan for humanity from IG @bdgsupporteralliance) and resistance to oppression (football fans enemy from IG @makassarsupporter.collective), should be voiced, especially in everyday discourse. The idea of hoomanity shifts the image from brutal to caring hooligan, successfully inviting supporters to participate in fundraising to face the initial pandemic (e.g., distributiing hand soap and hand sanitizer) and providing aid for flood victims in the area. Their engagement shows camaraderie among supporters across Indonesia dealing with Kanjuruhan tragedy. The message reminds supporters that their enemies are not supporters of rival team. Yet, their “true enemies” are dictatorial police forces, a broken PSSI, as well as management and capital holders, that degenerate the team(s) and the essential meaning of football.

    Removing and dismissing some officials, such as the police officers who fired tear gas, is not a silver bullet, as it only tackles the symptoms and not the root cause of the chaotic structure of Indonesian football. The configuration of Indonesian football is problematic, reflecting the Indonesian democracy moving from stagnation to regression. Commercialisation and politicisation of football establishes a pseudo-modern football with corrupt mismanagement. However, mediatisation provides opportunities of media manifold for football supporters as the victims to create and construct the meaning of their environment (e.g., supporter not customer from IG @bdgsupporteralliance and how poor management performance unfolded from IG @frontlineboys33). From the above stories, football fans communities construct their mediatised world, from in-person literacy, information sharing and networking on various digital platforms (e.g., WhatsApp, Twitter, Instagram, and change.org), mediated communication coverage, to performing offline activism. While supporters work to create the football culture from below, authorities ought to take major steps, including recognition, rights redistribution and representation, to create a football system from above in which it desists from slaying the golden goose through systematic violence.

    The post The Kanjuruhan catastrophe: A mirror of Indonesia’s tumultuous football politics appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • The Yogyakartan Surrealism of Jokowi

    Like paintings, leaders evoke certain colours and styles to the optical presentation of themselves in the public imagination. Sukarno was blazing red, as red as one of the dogs in Agus Djaya’s Dunia Anjing (World of Dogs)—chaotic, symbolic, and impressionistic in his tone. Suharto was subtle orange-yellow, like the tiger in Raden Saleh’s painting—naturalistic, romantic, but brutish in essence. His strength was in evoking awe out of the tiger’s ability to dominate. Abdurahman Wahid was Affandi’s strokes of green—rough, bold, disruptive and progressive; the leader who tried to abolish the Indonesian parliament was indeed one of a kind. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was as blue as Basoeki Abdullah’s Roro Kidul (Queen of the Southern Sea)—nostalgic and mellow, embellishing the reality of his leadership of being more beautiful. But Joko Widodo’s (Jokowi) colour and style needed to be unpacked differently.

    Raden Sarief Bustaman Saleh, Fight between a Javanese rhinoceros and two tigers, 1840. Oil on canvas, 48cm x 60cm. (Public domain)

    Jokowi’s optics conjured Yogyakarta’s surrealist painters, particularly Ivan Sagita. Surrealism embraces dream-like scenes and often displaces, distorts, or assembles ordinary objects in bizarre ways. Emerged in the early 1980s, Yogyakarta surrealism combines Western surrealist sensibilities with Eastern (mostly Javanese) social commentaries. Sagita’s work illustrates the struggle of Javans in navigating social hierarchy, not by preaching but by relying on the placement or displacement of carefully curated characters. Jokowi’s politics also relied on appointing and reshuffling political elites as an instrument to convey his intention.

    The impossible conversation between Sagita and Jokowi is probably unintentional. Sagita and Jokowi were both educated in Yogyakarta, attuned to Javanese sociocultural norms, and able to appreciate the power behind subtleties. Sagita’s Manusia and Wayang (Men and Shadow Puppets) combined realism with an almost oppressive colour hue, hiding the message behind the messengers, the puppet from the puppeteers, and disruption behind the stability—-this sum up Jokowi’s leadership colour and styles.

    Deconstructing Jokowi’s Colour

    Ivan Sagita’s potency is not in the seen but in the unseen. The spirituality of his painting is presented by displaying the characters in uncomfortable positions, restraining their brilliance with the heaviness of his colour mixes. He often distorted faces, such as in Meraba Diri (Touching One Self), which connotes a journey to identity exploration. In the Wayang series, Sagita hides the faces behind shadow puppets’ masks. When he shows the faces of his characters, they are part of narrative device to convey specific emotions, not the dominant characters. Observers are often first forced to evaluate the characters and their placement before taking a step back to make sense of Sagita’s colour. Like Anish Kapoor and his blood red or Matt Rothko’s chapel of dark shades of blue and purple, Sagita’s colour obsession was also spiritual and socio-psychological. As he put it “Melihat kehidupan di lingkungan saya, saya mendapat kesan bahwa semua orang dikendalikan oleh kekuatan tak terlihat” [Observing life around me, I got this impression that everyone is controlled by an invisible force]. He smuggled himself into the cloud behind the characters, intensely dark because he blends his white to tone down other brilliant colours. In a way, in his painting, Sagita is everywhere but nowhere—an invisible force.

    Like Sagita, Jokowi also is an invisible force. His colour cannot be seen, but felt. He is the white mixer that is hidden behind other colours, muting their hues and adding opacity. This is because in he relies on others to do his politics. When Jokowi reconveyed the empty idea of Global Maritime Fulcrum (a concept offered by his security team), Foreign Minister Retno Marsudi worked hard to translate what it meant. When Jokowi wanted more Islam, Retno ensured Islamic emphasis of Indonesian Foreign Policy was projected through a series of staged photo ops. When Jokowi wanted more culture in Indonesia’s foreign policy, Retno danced. Not only has this constant translation strengthened and cemented Retno’s position in Jokowi’s cabinet, but it also reinforces the importance of subordination to Jokowi’s hegemony: Jokowi has essentially restrained Retno’s colour.

    Jokowi’s strength was to restrain and harness the colour of others. He surrounded himself with dominant personalities without making himself look small. He promised them power without surrendering his own, and he made them work for him. When Jokowi desired a strong maritime focus, Susi Pudjiastuti translated it into sinking ship policy. When he desired close cooperation with China, Defence Minister Prabowo Subianto (former opposition leader) switched his critical rhetoric against Beijing. When Jokowi uttered the ambition of realising investment projects and moving the capital from Jakarta to Nusantara, Minister of Finance Sri Mulyani could resist in a small way but still needed to think of how to make this idea possible. When Jokowi hinted at the idea of maybe having the third term, Coordinating Minister for Maritime Affairs and Investment Luhut Panjaitan started testing the waters. While the idea of ministers doing leaders’ bidding is not unfamiliar, Jokowi’s performance is often limited when it comes to the ability to put forward conceptual thinking or to speak in a foreign language, which begs the question which of the aforementioned ideas originated from him.

    How to distinguish the message from the messengers?

    Author’s illustration of Jokowi’s authority, inspired by Sagita’s Manusia dan Wayang.

    Jokowi is a translational leader: he gathers ideas like a bird making a nest, according to which one is able to use to get him closer to his ideal of power. Every character is carefully curated to serve a purpose in Jokowi’s optical presentation of his leadership: Luhut is an image of strength, Sri Mulyani of intellect, Prabowo of taming an enemy, Susi of rebelliousness, and Retno of acquiescence; restraining these dominant characters is what makes Jokowi’s leadership.

    Harnessing dominant personalities is an art Jokowi has mastered. However, managing them presents a delicate challenge, especially when they cannot help but be radiant. The elimination of Anies Baswedan in 2016 (then Minister of Education and Culture) and Gatot Nurmantyo in 2017 (then TNI chief); the marginalisation and eventual elimination of Susi in 2019; the demotion and promotion of Ignatius Jonan (demoted as Ministry of Transport to Minister for Energy in April 2016 and promoted as the Mineral Resources of Indonesia in October 2016), Andi Widjajanto (demoted from Cabinet Secretary in August 2015 and later promoted as the Governor of the National Resilience Institute in 2022), and Luhut, (demoted as Presidential Chief of Staff in September 2015 and climbing his way back up with his appointment as the Coordinating Minister of Maritime and Investment Affairs in July 2016); these were all example of his way to eliminate those who do not toe the line,  or reflect a colour that he likes. This is not just a matter of harmony but also political order: although he is not the dominant colour, his position on top of the hierarchy must be preserved.

    As Jokowi’s colour cannot stand by itself, he constantly needs to negotiate with other elites and bargain with them. Bargaining with oligarchs and balancing them against each other no longer becomes a tactic but raison d’etre. Like Sagita’s painting, the interaction between the character and choices of colour is how the painting conveys specific messages. However, there is the peril of co-dependency between Jokowi and others. When leaders depend on translation, they lose the ability to speak for themselves, as every idea is filtered through their subordinates’ opinions. As a result, a policy produced by such a leader is often incoherent lacks principles. Take the example of the infamous public discourse in mid-2019 between Susi’s environment-friendly position that prescribed limitations on unsustainable fishing practices and Luhut and Jusuf Kalla’s (his former vice president) pro-fisher policy that demanded deregulation. Jokowi’s absence of vision meant that he had no position in the debate, and the conflict resolution was based on whom he needed the most to advance his position. Luhut emerged as the winner not because Jokowi is inherently anti-environment or pro-fisher, but for political reasons.

    Reconstructing Jokowi’s Leadership Style

    Leadership style cannot be divorced from leaders’ visions of where they want the nation to move to and the desire to delineate themselves from their predecessor. In the early 1950s, Sukarno desired the Indonesian identity to be post-colonial, so he discredited those who painted in Western style and ushered in a hegemony of artists, including Agus Djaya, with a specific style whose paintings depicted local themes. In the early 1970s, Suharto departed from Sukarno’s Indonesianism and re-established the significance of Raden Saleh (a Javanese who painted in the European romantic style) within Indonesia’s cultural imagination, signalling that cooperation with the West was imperative to Indonesia’s identity. Like Saleh’s problematic history of complicity with the colonial power, Suharto coerced the nation to accept the brutality of his brush strokes in exchange for beauty.

    Postage stamp issued in Indonesia, 1967, featuring a reproduction of Fight to Death by Raden Saleh. (Public domain)

    In October 1967, marking the country-wide anti-communist pogrom, Saleh’s Fight to the Death painting was issued as a postage stamp to evoke the “justified” bestiality needed to eliminate communists. This was issued in tandem with a postage stamp of the Lubang Buaya monument, where the bodies of the officers executed by the Indonesian communist parties were thrown.

    Jokowi’s style draws from Suharto’s desire for harmony but is inherently distinctive in his urges for disruption. The ability to understand their differences is like differentiating between Sagita’s and Saleh’s techniques: both painters were romantics from different genres. Similarly, while both presidents were willing to use authoritarian means to achieve their ends, Jokowi and Suharto are different political creatures.

    Jokowi’s technique relies not on conveying beauty but on demonstrating progress, akin to Sagita’s subtle but disruptive style. Jokowi’s most original contribution is probably his vision of a post-Java Indonesia, which also distinguishes him from Suharto. Out of the seven Indonesian presidents, he is the one who has spent the most time in his presidency travelling around Indonesia, embodying different Indonesian cultures, focusing on investment outside Java, and embracing inter-island connectivity as part of his presidency. This has disrupted the dynamics sustained since the late Sukarno and early Suharto periods which located Java as the core and the rest as the periphery.

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    Jokowi-Prabowo political reconciliation as Javanese strategy

    The underpinning politics between Jokowi and Prabowo reveals a deeper complexity within the Indonesian election.

    Aris Huang 04 September, 2019

    Furthermore, if Suharto’s primary source of authority was fear, Jokowi relies on a subtler form of marginalisation: hegemonising the national discourse. Jokowi enlisted an army of social media buzzers and loyalists to engineer political narrative. Differing ways of generating authority also create distinctive approaches to how Suharto and Jokowi enlisted religion to control dissent. Suharto used religion as a tool for social control. During Suharto’s regime, the Indonesian military trained Islamic radicals as militias to reorder the social hierarchy, reinforcing the position of pribumi (native son) and Islam as the dominant groups. But Jokowi, like Sagita’s paintings, was more performative in his approach. Jokowi dressed up religiously, undermined Islamic factions that supported the opposition, appointed NU leader Ma’ruf Amin as his deputy, and rewarded NU with various economic benefits, all to bolster his chance of winning the election, but without the intention of revising social hierarchy as Suharto had.

    Like the Yogyakartan surrealist, Jokowi’s leadership style offers a dreamscape: he relied much on the promise of the future. He often asked Indonesians to tolerate his unpopular policies: lowering oil subsidies, increasing taxes, disregarding bureaucracy, insisting on moving the capital, and insisting on white elephant projects such as the Jakarta-Bandung high-speed railway.

    All these promises that we are moving forward into modernity as a nation. Unlike Yudhoyono’s subsidies that give fish to people, Jokowi takes away the fish, leaves behind the fishy smell, but promises that there will be a hot meal at the end.

    The post The Yogyakartan Surrealism of Jokowi appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Time to shift our focus on Indonesian communist studies?

    The “communist” label, inherited from Suharto’s era, has become a traditional part of the Indonesian “political repertoire”. The great irony is that the more the authoritarian regime establishes a categorical interconnection with latent threats and the definition of an Indonesian communist, the more unclear they become. The 2014 and 2019 presidential elections confirmed this worrying trend. The myth of a dangerous communist resurgence was invoked during both elections, gained considerable traction, and was accepted by millions. In both presidential contests, Joko Widodo (Jokowi) was accused of being a PKI adherent, and the false narrative that he was a “communist candidate” persisted throughout the two campaigns. An entire disinformation industry sprang up promoting the idea that the long-banned and defunct PKI continues to pose a threat to national security, and that communist ideas are supported by many key figures among Jokowi’s allies and sympathisers. Prominent figures from, but not limited to, military backgrounds and vigilante groups, have often promoted this spectral idea and crafted emotive narratives.

    The naivete and vulnerability of Indonesian society to these narratives has been precisely yet sadly demonstrated by none other than the elected President Joko Widodo. In the wake of massive political disinformation against him, Mr President desperately countered the allegation that he is a communist adherent by transforming himself into a vehement anti-communist. While the Prabowo and Jokowi factions are very different in terms of their political orientation, they share one thing in common: politically, they agree that choosing to be anti-communist is best. This of course disallows any effort to reconcile the victims and perpetrators of the 1965–1967 wrongdoings: the very reconciliation that may represent notable progress in a democratic state is totally rejected, not only because of its complex process and the position of the military as the leading actor but also because anti-communist sentiment has proven many times to be an effective political resource in the electoral contest.

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    Part 1: The missing new Indonesian Left

    Just as it was particularly difficult for the progressives to withstand repression and killings, reviving the Left after 1965 was equally formidable.

    Olle Törnquist 15 April, 2021

    Most importantly, it proves that Indonesia has an extremely fragile position with regard to communism as scare tactic: there is no ideological formula against this except to be anti-communist itself. All anti-communist rhetoric thereby appears as an established status quo of the state ideology.

    The vague and ridiculous spectre of communism shows that being anti-communist offers certain benefits. In my research I have mapped numerous rare insights from the inner circle of the presidential campaign teams from 2014 and 2019, who mostly admit to using communist imaginary as an opportunistic political tool. The function of the communist imaginary is not to open and revisit past wrongdoings such as the 1965-67 mass killings. Instead, all attacks are founded on a trauma that has been effectively reproduced by anti-communist forces in the political arena.

    The very fact that people already live in a prolonged but fabricated understanding of communist presence, and that the meaning of elites’ role is still veiled in darkness proves that a radical shift should be proposed.

    What should be the role of academia to demystify the communist spectre as one persistent routine and effective political formula?

    The most important mission now is to radically shift the concern of research from an examination of history to an investigation of the contemporary networked elite that capitalises on the communist spectre. This mission has for many years fallen behind in the study of communism in Indonesia. Previous research has focused on the coup actors and their motives,  especially the military and internal conflict between its factions; justice and reconciliation through ordinary courts, tribunals, activism and so on;  analysis of 1965 violence in local contexts; the political-economic impact and New Order policy; other actors such as religious elites and Islamic organisations; persistent anti-communist sentiment in cultural realms; surveys and polls providing a limited measurement of public perceptions and finally, communist and/or leftist representation in popular media.

    Assessment of the PKI as the main feature of electoral disinformation is very rare. Rather than diving into elite networks and the mechanics of orchestrated disinformation and its direct benefits for the political purposes, many observers seem trapped in debates about the true perpetrators. Those questions remain important in clearing away the darkness of past wrongdoings, but it is now or never for academia to focus on elite reinvention of the communist imaginary in the front of our very eyes.

    The post-Suharto context should provide political reform, strengthen law enforcement, and resolve the past human rights abuses. The re-emergence of the communist imaginary distracts from the reform Indonesia requires, and from appropriate analysis to understand the complete picture.

    It is clear that political actors are a significant factor in manufacturing communist theme in Indonesia’s electoral campaigns. Contemporary disinformation studies should pay further attention to political actors as orchestrators of falsehoods. This will unveil the broader system operating behind the curtain and enable researchers to investigate the cultural scripts actors use, their political considerations and material benefits. It will also expose both collaboration and contestation between the actors and/or elites, revealing their networks and or hierarchies in the process.

    These actors have been gifted authoritative roles as mythmakers and manipulators, and without attention to their work the clarity needed to relieve people from prolonged propaganda trap will never be achieved.

    The post Time to shift our focus on Indonesian communist studies? appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • “Perempuan Merdeka” women’s art exhibition at the 39th Indonesia Update

    The works in this exhibition by Indonesian artists, Bulan Fi Sabilliah and Fitri DK, comment on the Indonesian New Order’s legacy of the primacy of prescribed beauty ideals and women’s domestic and reproductive roles over public and political roles. The artists’ playful images expose societal norms and offer alternatives to understanding women’s position in society that defy the restrictions of domesticity and beauty ideals and highlight the empowering and agentic potential of women’s solidarity and organising against patriarchal norms. The artists use print-making techniques as a reference to the medium’s role in the dissemination of information against the New Order regime and into Reformasi to advocate for social justice.

    Fitri DK

    Fitri DK, uses graphic art techniques such as woodcut and etching to critique and initiate dialogue on social and environmental issues. Fitri is committed to raising women’s issues through art and music. Fitri is lives and works in the South of Yogyakarta, Indonesia and is an active member of the SURVIVE!Garage community, Taring Padi art collective. Fitri is also lead vocalist of the band Dendang Kampungan. Over the past decade, Fitri has exhibited in Australia, Europe and the United States, as well as throughout the Indonesian archipelago. Instagram: fitridk

    Artist Statement

    My works record many memorable or important events in my life. This body of work is inspired by the Women’s March, a political action that I participated in 2019 in Yogyakarta. The Women’s March was organised to celebrate International Women’s Day.  This worldwide movement of solidarity, held in cities all across the world, draws on global challenges and encourages social, cultural, legal, and economic changes at the local levels so that women’s rights are recognized, fulfilled, and protected.

    The Women’s March in Yogyakarta in 2019 highlighted the ongoing local issues of violence against LGBTQI groups, protection of domestic workers and migrant workers, child marriage, dating violence, and protection of sex workers. I hope that through my artworks, I can spread the message to the world that gender rights are an essential part of human rights.

    Bulan Fi Sabilillah

    Bulan Fi Sabilillah is a visual artist living in the South of Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Bulan works with the medium of print and etching to discuss social issues. Her concerns are predominately about challenging beauty ideals imposed by a patriarchal society and imposed on young women by social media. Her messages are of body positivity and acceptance. Bulan is a recent graduate of ISI, the Indonesian Institute of the Arts, Yogyakarta. Instagram:  Bulalalan

    Artist’s Statement

    Commentary on people’s bodies – particularly women’s bodies – is part of everyday life in Indonesia. For example, when you meet a friend in the street, often the first thing they will comment is your physical appearance; your weight and the colour of your skin. Digital media often reinforces this everyday practice to comment and make comparisons on people’s appearances. Often people don’t understand the impact this seemingly meaningless ‘banter’ has on people’s self-esteem.

    My religion teaches women that they must cover their aurat – their bodies. However, men are not required to change at all. This leads to unjust outcomes. In cases of sexual violence, often society and the media consider the woman to be responsible because she wasn’t covering her body and becomes re-victimised, as a victim of stigma.

    All of these experiences, both personal and from society at large, form the basis of this series. As a young woman living in Indonesia, I want to share my interpretation of what positive body image means, and provide a perspective on why women should feel body confident without being forced to cover it or compare to others, or be discriminated against.

    The post “Perempuan Merdeka” women’s art exhibition at the 39th Indonesia Update appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Watch: Hari Tani Nasional, a forum on the future of rural Indonesia


    Indonesia remains a rural country. With 45% of the population living in the countryside (approx. 123 million), Indonesia has the fourth-largest rural population in the global south. Agriculture is the lead sector in 20 of 34 provinces. Rural Indonesia is changing fast, with land reform and village government reforms, rapid migration to the city and overseas, and COVID-19 impacting rural life. While many people have moved above the poverty line over recent decades, rural people face the imminent threats of vulnerability, food security, stunting and climate change, with a large proportion still living below $2/day. Despite the importance of rural life to Indonesia and its region, scholarship has tended to overlook rural Indonesia. In August 2022 the Indonesia Institute held a panel discussion to commemorate Hari Tani and Indonesian Independence day and consider the need to rejuvenate research on rural Indonesia. We asked critical Indonesian thinkers to reflect on a simple question: What are the most important policy problems facing rural Indonesia, and what can researchers do about them? The panellists presentations were followed by an open discussion.

    Panel speakers:

    Land Reform: Noer Fauzi Rachman

    Food security in rural Indonesia: Sirojuddin Arif, SMERU

    Village Governance: Lian Gogali

    Rural migration: Suraya Affi

    The post Watch: Hari Tani Nasional, a forum on the future of rural Indonesia appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • A new capital city for who? Central-local tensions in Indonesia

    While travelling with colleagues to East Kalimantan to do fieldwork in the Indonesian capital city (IKN) in mid-July 2022, we collected 180 responses from people affected by the new capital site. In Java, the relocation of the Indonesian capital from Jakarta to purpose-built Nusantara in Kalimantan raises new hopes for both ruling elites and the Jakarta people. It is expected to eradicate severe congestion, unsustainable land use, and overpopulation in Jakarta, and the knock-on effects of these problems. These problems have haunted not only Jakarta, but also Java, for many decades. When we discussed these issues with our local respondents during informal and formal conversations, the first impression we encountered was scepticism. This came not only from local academics, activists, and local people, but even local bureaucrats from regency and provincial levels in East Kalimantan.

    These sceptical responses demonstrate a gap in knowledge and poor communication between ruling elites of Jakarta and those in East Kalimantan. While the former problem relates to a lack of aspiration to create bridges between national and local actors, the latter problem is misinformation on both the capital relocation and development of supporting facilities such as housing for civil servant and servicemen and governmental offices.

    These two factors inevitably lead to unwelcoming responses from most East Kalimantan locals towards the new capital. Their sombre responses reflect attitudes informed by past and existing problems in East Kalimantan, such as natural disasters, like unrehabilitated mine sites and inequitable funding allocations from all levels of government. Both problems remain unresolved as the capital city issues loom. The capital relocation promises to be another thorn in the side of East Kalimantan if prior problems are left unresolved.

    Most respondents agreed that there is no mutual dialogue  between Jakarta and East Kalimantan or inclusive participation offered to residents of East Kalimantan. For example, local representatives who were originally invited to Jakarta were actually members of a small local elite who were unfamiliar with the local situation. More specifically they have no idea of the impact that the project will have on local populations.

    This meant that information about relocation of people in East Kalimantan and the development of the new capital has not spread widely among the people of East Kalimantan. It resulted in the sudden increase in land prices in several sub districts, like Sepaku, Samboja and Bumi Harapan which lie between Nusantara and East Kalimantan’s two supporting cities, Balikpapan and Samarinda to be used for housing and other industries supporting the new capital. A so-called “land mafia” has emerged, which unilaterally decides the price of land and keeps this information from locals. Unfortunately, these current and upcoming booms do not benefit the small group of indigenous people, such as the Paser and Balik peoples, who have been forced to give up their customary land as a result of  government decisions to acquire it.  By contrast, those who have freehold title / SHM (sertifikat hak milik) can sell their land.

    The Capital Authority / BO (Badan Otorita) itself does not have a branch office in East Kalimantan yet. Ideally, it should it should establish an office from which to engage with the people of East Kalimantan. According to local bureaucrats the BO made few visits to hold talks with local governments and/or communities. Certainly, these conditions create a gap between national and local governments in finding common ground regarding power sharing.

    The main gap is the lack of coordination between government levels especially the central government, provincial government, and regency/municipal government. The issue of territorial expansion and spatial planning is causing major problems between BO and its local government counterparts. Although the new capital city bill already defines the capital territory in regulation, there is still the possibility of acquiring other land from the Kutai Kartanegara and North Penajam Paser regencies, and Balikpapan city. This would surely disrupt the existing spatial planning of the three regencies’ governments. One bureaucrat from the Local Development Agency (Bappeda) told me that there is no joint agreement to merge spatial planning between the new capital and regencies. Bappeda will run its own spatial planning programs independently from the Capital Authority. More specifically, there is budget inequality between the BO and its neighbouring governments.


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    Lessons from Brasilia: on the empty modernity of Indonesia’s new capital

    Indonesian officials are raising Brasilia as a model for relocating the capital city to East Kalimantan. But Brazil’s experience with Brasilia is not a positive lesson from history, but a warning.

    David Henley and Giulia Frigo

    14 April, 2020


    The regencies are envious of large BO’s budget. In fact, East Kalimantan Province is the biggest fundraiser for the Indonesian national budget (APBN), contributing almost 500 trillion rupiah per year. But the special allocation fund (DAK) that transfers back to East Kalimantan from Jakarta is not always adequate for local infrastructure and public services. The BO, as the central government institution, will not be welcomed by surrounding local governments due to its institutional superiority and huge funding.

    On a social level the new capital city is colloquially known as the Second Betawi (Betawi Kedua) in East Kalimantan. This terminology refers to the Betawi people, the original inhabitants of Jakarta, who have been forced out by rapid development and modernisation. On the new capital site approximately 150-200 households in Paser, Balik, and Basap people will be removed from their ancestral land due to disputed legal standing. The government does not acknowledge ancestral land claims because it believes claimants have the right to manage, but not own the land, according to positive law principles. This means the government can claim land that is considered to be “unowned”, even if it belongs to traditional land owners. Furthermore, the name “Nusantara” itself is not accepted by locals who propose indigenous name “Benuaq Etam” (Our City) as the new capital’s name.

    In sum, both the lack of coordination between state actors and a lack of acknowledgment between state and society lead me to suggest the real voice of East Kalimantan should be heard. More specifically, central government should sit with local residents in East Kalimantan. There is an urgent need to ease unresolved issues between Jakarta and East Kalimantan to avoid further exacerbating an already tense situation.

    The post A new capital city for who? Central-local tensions in Indonesia appeared first on New Mandala.

  • Women’s rights & gender equality in Indonesia: watch now

    To mark International Human Rights Day in 2021, on 9 December 2021 the ANU Indonesia Institute hosted a discussion on women’s rights and gender equality in Indonesia. Speakers examined the extent to which Indonesian women have achieved equality in a broad array of political, economic and social fields, and what Indonesian women are doing today to overcome the obstacles that lie in the path of gender equality. You can watch this important, challenging and inspiring discussion on New Mandala now.

    Chair

    Dr Eva Nisa
    Senior Lecturer, School of Culture, History and Languages, and ANU Indonesia Institute
    The Australian National University.

    Topics and speakers

    Sri Budi Eko Wardani: Achieving women’s sexual and reproductive rights and health.
    Lecturer in the Department of Political Science and Director of the Center for Political Studies, Universitas Indonesia.

    Dr Marcia Soumokil: Countering gender-based violence and harassment.
    Country Director IPAS Indonesia (Yayasan Inisiatif Perubahan Akses menuju Sehat Indonesia)

    Anindya Restuviani: The gender pay gap and female labour force participation.
    Director of Jakarta Feminist and Co-Director of Hollaback! Jakarta.

    Dr Diana Contreras Suarez: Women in the media and building a feminist voice.
    Melbourne Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research, University of Melbourne.

    Devi Asmarani
    Editor-in-Chief and co-founder of women-focused webmagazine Magdalene (www.magdalene.co)

    Speaker Biographies

    Dr Eva Nisa is a cultural anthropologist and expert in Islamic studies. Her research and publications focus on the intersections between religious, cultural, political, economic, legal, social, and philosophical aspects of peoples’ lives. She is interested in global currents of Islam reshaping the lives of Muslims in Southeast Asia, especially Indonesia and Malaysia. Her research has involved international collaborative projects with scholars from the USA, Germany, Australia, the Netherlands, Indonesia, Austria, Malaysia, New Zealand, Thailand and Singapore. Currently, she serves on the editorial board of The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology. 

    Dr Marcia Soumokil is the director of Ipas Indonesia. Prior to joining Ipas, Dr. Soumokil worked for several international organizations within Indonesia in the areas of HIV, adolescent reproductive health, maternal and newborn health, and health governance. Dr. Soumokil is a trained medical doctor and began her career as a general practice physician in a community health clinic. She also holds a Masters of Public Health degree from University of Melbourne, Australia. She currently serves on the boards of the Indonesia AIDS Coalition. 


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    Rebecca Meckelburg

    05 July, 2021

    Sri Budi Eko Wardani is a lecturer in Department of Political Science Universitas Indonesia. She is also the Director of Center for Political Studies Universitas Indonesia. She is taking her doctoral degree in politics at Department of Political Science Universitas Indonesia. Some of her previous notable research were Indonesian Voting Behavior on 1999 Election (1999-2000, collaboration with Ohio State University, USA), Strengthen and Monitoring of 2004 General Election (2003-2004, collaboration with CETRO),  Women Political Participation and Advocacy for Adoption Affirmative Policy in Political Party Law and Election Law (2007-2009, collaboration with The Asia Foundation), and Representation of Women in National and Local Legislature after 2009 Election (July – December 2010, collaboration with The Asia Foundation & AusAID).  

    Dr Diana Contreras Suarez is a Senior Research Fellow at the Melbourne Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research. Her research is driven by questions on how to improve the lives of vulnerable and disadvantaged populations, and focuses on understanding human capital formation throughout the life cycle as well as how public policy or programs work on achieving improved lives. She uses econometrics techniques to look into those questions, with most of her expertise in developing countries, including Indonesia.  

    Devi Asmarani is the Editor-in-Chief and co-founder of women-focused webmagazine Magdalene (www.magdalene.co). Her 25 years’ experience in journalism began at The Jakarta Post, followed by The Straits Times of Singapore, where she wrote news reports, in-depth articles and analyses on various issues from politics, conflicts, terrorism to natural disasters. She has also written columns, articles, essays as well as works of fiction for various local and international publications. She is also a writing and journalism instructor, and gender and media facilitator, and has worked as a consultant with international organizations. Devi is the recipient of S.K. Trimurti Awards for her work in promoting gender equality in journalism.  

    Anindya Restuviani is Program Director of Jakarta Feminist and Co-Director of Hollaback! Jakarta. She is a feminist activist with expertise in gender equality and a history of working in the development sector on issues of gender, children, and vulnerable youth with strong experience in feminist advocacy and organizing within grassroots communities and at the local, national and global level.

    The post Women’s rights & gender equality in Indonesia: watch now appeared first on New Mandala.

  • The price for maintaining Indonesia’s palm oil industry hegemony

    Pressured to solve the ongoing cooking oil crisis in Indonesia, President Joko Widodo reshuffled his cabinet and appointed Zulkifli Hasan to replace the previous Minister of Trade, Muhammad Lutfi.

    Many view this appointment as merely strategic political consolidation by Widodo instead of as a means to seriously handle the crisis. Zulkifli is a prominent party leader of the National Mandate Party (PAN), one of the large political parties that recently joined Widodo’s big government coalition.

    Whatever the original intention, Zulkifli is undoubtedly far from the right person for the job. Just a couple of days after being appointed, he claimed that there was no “mafia” behind the cooking oil crisis. He deliberately ignored the fact that in April the Attorney General named four suspects in a corruption case regarding the approval for exporting crude palm oil. A high-ranking official from the Ministry of Trade allegedly received bribes from separate individuals from Wilmar Nabati Indonesia, Permata Hijau Group, and Musim Mas to grant export licenses without them having to adhere to domestic market obligations beforehand. According to Ministry of Trade Regulation No. 33/2022, to obtain an export permit, palm oil companies are required to deposit 30% of their total crude palm oil production for the needs of the Indonesian domestic market. Wilmar Nabati Indonesia, Permata Hijau Group, and Musim Mas are among Indonesia’s major palm oil producers and have repeatedly received special treatment from the government, notably in the form of massive incentives or subsidies.

    It is also important to note that as Minister of Forestry in 2009-2014, Zulkifli had a track record,  converting up to 1,64 million hectares of forests for oil palm plantations, benefitting the interests of palm oil giants in doing so. It is especially concerning to see that the current Ministry of Trade won’t publicly acknowledge that the roots of the cooking oil crisis stem from how the palm oil industry operates in Indonesia. The ministry also has a track record of appeasing the interests of said industry.

    The mismanagement of the palm oil industry in Indonesia has a long history, coloured by corruption and government collusion with palm oil oligarchs. Tania Li and Pujo Semedi observed that the prevalence of palm oil plantations was not due to agronomic superiority or productive efficiency but by political support: through the political economy, political technology, and a regime of impunity that is characteristic of Indonesia’s political environment.

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    A recent research paper casts doubt on the government’s ability to accurately determine available supplies.

    Aditya Alta 11 March, 2022

    In that regard, we can’t trust the government to adequately solve the cooking oil crisis since it was mainly their own creation. The nationwide scarcity of cooking oil that sparked the crisis was not a bug but a feature of Indonesia’s palm oil oligopoly. The oligopoly, in part, is maintained through Widodo’s “new developmentalism” ideology which puts deregulated capitalism at the forefront of governing every public sector, including palm oil management.

    In 2010, the Indonesian Business Competition Supervisory Commission (KPPU) determined that 20 cooking oil producers were involved in cartel practices and export more than 90% of their products due to weak supervision by the government. However, the Indonesian ”political technology” succeeded in defeating the KPPU at the Supreme Court, resulting in a failure to improve control and management of the cooking oil supply chain in Indonesia.

    Through a subsidy scheme by the government, the palm oil company that allocates their crude palm oil for biodiesel, will be compensated heavily. The same scheme is unavailable if crude palm oil is allocated for cooking oil purposes. This, in turn, decreases the allocation of crude palm oil for cooking oil and lowers available stock, hence triggering the crisis.

    Technically speaking, this subsidy scheme—which started in 2016, didn’t have a proper legal basis when it was implemented. The relevant Law (No. 39/2014) doesn’t specify whether the government can allocate the palm oil funds for biodiesel incentives. However, subsequent implementing regulations (Government Regulation No. 24/2015 & Presidential Decree No. 61/2015) allowed it to. This contradicts the legal systems hierarchy of laws in which implementing regulations cannot regulate things that are not explicitly mentioned by the higher laws. Recently, this legally dubious provision was entrenched in the controversial Law No. 11/2020 on Job Creation—which was created behind closed doors without any semblance of meaningful participation from the public. This law-making process was later deemed to violate the Indonesian constitution by the Constitutional Court.

    To face the cooking oil crisis seriously means untangling the complex web that maintains the hegemony of palm oil oligarchy. This web encompasses minimal supply chain oversight, rampant corruption by the government and the palm oil industry, and the haphazard adoption of a neoliberal ideology that sacrifices anything for the sake of profit—including public welfare and environmental sustainability. We need to remodel Indonesia’s political and economic system so it can accommodate justice and equity for all.

    The post The price for maintaining Indonesia’s palm oil industry hegemony appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Counter-polarisation and political expediency

    In March 2022, Muhammad Qodari, the high profile executive director of Indo Barometer survey institute grabbed headlines by proposing that President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) and his former presidential rival and now Minister of Defence Prabowo Subianto run on a joint ticket for the 2024 presidential election.  He argued that this would unify the nation and “polarisation would disappear”.

    Politicians and scholars have repeatedly warned of the dangers that polarisation, especially of a religious nature, poses to Indonesian democracy.  Deepening cleavages between religious communities that were once on civil terms are seen as contributing to a political culture of intolerance and democratic illiberalism.

    But in the past three years, a new trend has emerged which might best be labelled “counter-polarisation”.  In this development, politicians and their parties undertake initiatives or manoeuvres in the name of reducing polarisation and easing intra-communal tensions.  This usually involves parties that were once on opposing sides of the political divide agreeing to cooperate or coalesce.  Not uncommonly, this is hailed as a move to restore national cohesion and strengthen democracy.

    The first and most striking example of this was the decision of Prabowo Subianto, the losing candidate in the 2014 and 2019 presidential elections, to join Joko Widodo’s new cabinet in October 2019 as Defence Minister, despite having campaigned sometimes rancorously against his rival.  One of Prabowo’s justifications for this abrupt about-face was the need to heal divisions between his and Jokowi’s supporters.

    Since then, similar arguments have been used to broker deals that bring together seemingly disparate electoral candidates or parties.  One such case is Qodari’s proposed Jokowi-Prabowo joint ticket, which proved especially controversial because it would require a constitutional amendment to allow Jokowi to stand for a third term. Critics said changing the constitution for this purpose would be democratically regressive. Qodari argued that so great was the threat of polarisation that extending the presidential term limit was justified.  Another proposal called for Prabowo, who previously drew strong Islamist support, to run with Puan Maharani, from the nationalist Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P). In the same spirit, the chairman of the NasDem party suggested that Ganjar Pranowo, the Central Java governor who represents the nationalist camp, take as his running mate Jakarta governor Anies Baswedan, who attracts strong Islamist support.

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    Parties also used “bridge building” arguments to support a flurry of new alliances and proposed coalitions.  Two Islamic parties—the United Development Party (PPP) and the National Mandate Party (PAN)—coalesced with the nationalist Golkar in May 2022, and more recently the Islamist Prosperous Justice Party (PKS), launched alliance talks with the religiously neutral NasDem and the moderate Islamic National Awakening Party (PKB), both of which were previously staunch PKS rivals. Even debate over the length of the 2024 election campaign saw parties arguing about whether a shorter period was more likely to reduce polarisation than a longer one.

    Two questions arise from these developments. Is polarisation as serious a problem as many contend, particularly following the 2019 elections? And is the use of counter-polarisation justifications for political realignments credible or just a cover for other motivations?  We will argue that a recent survey shows a decline in the high levels of polarisation of the 2014-2019 period and that much of the counter-polarisation trend is driven by parties’ attempts to maximise their opportunities in the run-up to the 2024 elections.

    How Polarised is Indonesia?

    This article draws from two data sets, both from Lembaga Survei Indonesia (LSI). The first is the “National Survey on Polarization” conducted in April 2021, which involved 1620 respondents across all provinces of Indonesia.  The margin of error was +/-2.5 at a confidence level of 95%.  The second is “Polarization among Indonesian Muslim Elites”, an analysis of social media content between 2016 to 2021.  More than 2000 excerpts and quotes from a wide range of Muslim organisations and leaders were analysed to discern whether the postings represented conservative, progressive or neutral viewpoints on controversial current issues.

    The survey found that 11% of respondents felt Indonesia was highly polarised and 27% thought it was quite polarised, compared to 33% who believed there was only slight polarisation and 16% who saw no polarisation. This suggests that for a majority of the public, polarisation was not a significant national problem. Those who thought that polarisation was of concern belonged primarily to the elite in urban areas: professionals, and those with higher levels of education and income. Thus while over 56% of those with tertiary education thought that polarisation was of concern, less than 20% of those with only elementary education believed it was a problem. This indicates that existing polarisation is more an elite than a grassroots concern.

    In addition, 46% of respondents who use the Internet (64% of the total number of voters) also tended to see the country as highly or quite polarised, compared to only 24% of respondents who have no Internet access. Thus, although in general the respondents feel that Indonesia is not polarised, exposure to the Internet, such as social media or news sites, increases this perceived sense of division.

    A recurring theme of the “reducing polarisation” proposals is that there is a deep cleavage between those holding pluralist views and those with Islamist views. Pluralism in this case refers to those who favour a polity based on inclusivity, in keeping with the principle of religious neutrality set out in the state ideology of Pancasila. Pluralists resist special privileges being accorded to the nation’s large Muslim majority and also object to political mobilisation based on what they see as “transnational” Islam, or an expression of Islam perceived as inspired by movements or trends from the Middle East.  Islamists are those who seek a political and social system in which Islamic law and principles feature prominently. They believe that the majority status of Muslims combined with Islam’s important role in Indonesia’s history should be formally reflected in the structure and laws of the state.

    The LSI survey, however, showed that the cleavage between pluralist and Islamist groups is less deep than widely supposed. Indeed, the results suggest that high public antipathy is mainly directed to specific religious minority groups rather than major ideological blocs.  The survey used the “feeling thermometer” method for measuring polarisation.  Respondents were shown a list of organisations and parties and asked to rank these according to how warmly or coolly they regarded them, with 100 being hot and zero cold.  (see Chart One)

    Chart One: Feeling Thermometer for persons and groups

    Of the numerous Islamist organisations included in the list, perhaps the most significant for measuring polarisation is PKS.  This largest of Islamist parties that has garnered roughly 7-8% of the national vote in the four general elections since 2004 and is often singled out by pluralists as an example of “transnational Islam” due to its historical links to Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood. PKS was a key Prabowo supporter in the 2014 and 2019 elections, spear-heading damaging social media and mosque-based attacks on Jokowi’s religious credibility.

    Despite its reputation, PKS received an unexpectedly warm 56 “degrees” on the thermometer, placing it above the median. By way of comparison, the groups which were most warmly regarded were, not surprisingly, Indonesia’s two largest mainstream organisations, Nahdlatul Ulama (74) and Muhammadiyah (64).  PKS was more warmly regarded than various non-Muslim groups, such as Christians (50), Hindus (46), Buddhists (43), all of whom might also have been expected to have cooler responses judging by earlier thermometer surveys.

    So, if PKS drew mildly warm “feelings”, which groups evinced the coolest responses?  The five lowest-ranked groups were: local faith sects (38 degrees), usually a reference to heterodox Muslims groups (sometimes referred to Kepercayaan or Kebatinan); the banned Islamist movement Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (33); the Muslim minority sects Ahmadiyah and the Shia (both 32); and, at the very bottom, the progressive Liberal Islamic Network (JIL) (30), which has been inactive for many years.

    In addition to the thermometer questions, respondents were asked how they felt about having neighbours (Chart Two), sons- or daughters-in-law (Chart Three), or local leaders (Chart Four) from the same list of groups. This is a more specific measure of “affective polarisation’ that gauges the strength of positive or negative emotions. Once again, PKS drew less hostile responses than pluralist discourses might suggest. Sixty-nine percent of respondents didn’t mind having PKS members as neighbours and only 9% objected; 51% could accept them as local leaders and 14% were opposed. 47% of respondents would not object to PKS in-laws, though 26% were resistant. By contrast, more than 30% of respondents were opposed to Ahmadi, Shia or JIL members living near them, and HTI and the banned Islamist vigilante Islamic Defenders Front (FPI) attracted objections from 28% and 24% respectively. Forty-seven percent of respondents would not vote for candidates from local sects; 45% felt the same about Ahmadi candidates, 44% for Shia and 43% for JIL. Objections to having these same groups marrying into respondents’ families were especially high: 55% for Shia, 54% for Ahmadis, 53% for JIL, 49% for HTI and 40% for FPI.

    Chart Two: Feeling Objection for being neighbours with…

    Also notable was the fact that 81% had no objection to supporters of a rival presidential candidate or party for whom they voted living in their neighbourhood, which points to tolerance of political differences in contrast to strong dislike for religious outliers.

    Chart Three: Feeling objection to marrying your child to…

    Chart Four: Feeling objection to voting for a local leader who is…

    These results reveal that the strongest feelings of dislike are directed not towards rival mainstream groups but rather at those on or near the margins who are seen as religiously “deviant” or “excessively” Islamist or liberal. Intolerance of Muslim groups that deviate from Sunni orthodoxy, as defined by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the state-sanctioned National Ulama Council (MUI) or pre-eminent Islamic organisations, such as NU and Muhammadiyah, has been growing since the Yudhoyono presidency in the late 2000s.  Local sects are frowned upon for their heterodoxy, particularly in blending Islamic and non-Islamic practices.  Ahmadis and Shia, while regarding themselves as Muslim, albeit not part of the Sunni majority, are seen by many conservative Sunnis as theologically problematic and have faced repeated calls for their banning.  HTI is disliked because it espouses the creation of a transnational Islamic government under the leadership of a caliph, which is seen as subverting Indonesia’s foundational principles.  FPI has a public reputation of violence and contempt for law and order. Last of all, JIL, though long moribund, is still seen as emblematic of disruptively progressive ideas that undermine established Islamic norms and practices.  In effect, by objecting to groups such as these, respondents are marking the boundaries of what they regard as acceptable mainstream behaviour.  One might call this a centrist orthodoxy which seeks to exclude ideas and practices that do not conform to an increasingly rigid set of middle-ground norms.

    The extent to which PKS is widely accepted as a mainstream party and its Islamism as part of the tapestry of Indonesian Islam rather than an ideological or religious “other” is also reflected in respondents’ answers to a question asking them to place themselves along a continuum of proximity to PDIP at one end or PKS at the other. While, as expected, feelings of closeness to PDIP are much higher than those towards PKS (18% vs 5%), nonetheless, 38% of those who answered the question placed themselves in the middle of the continuum.

    Whereas the survey provides a snapshot of general community attitudes, social media content analysis offers insights into elite opinion because most of the material studied in this process comes from official websites of Islamic organisations or directly from individual Muslim leaders.  One conclusion from this material bears out the findings of the “National Survey on Polarization” survey finding noted earlier, that elites are more polarised than the rest of society. For example, we can almost directly compare the survey results and the content analysis on the issue of the banning of FPI. With the former, 63% of survey respondents who were aware of the ban supported it and only 29% were opposed, but in social media, 50% of postings opposed the ban and only 34% were in favour. So, opinions were roughly reversed, with almost two-thirds of the general populace favouring the ban but only one-third of elite opinion supporting it.

    Elite disapproval on deviancy issues also appears much stronger than the public’s disapproval. 62% of commentary in social media was hostile to local beliefs, 57% was critical of Ahmadiyah and 39% critical of Shia beliefs.

    One reason for elite susceptibility to polarisation is that they are directly involved in competition for political and economic resources, which requires them to mobilise their support bases.  Exploiting religious identity issues is often an effective means of generating emotion and commitment to their cause.  By contrast, ordinary voters are not usually direct beneficiaries of contestation for political power and rewards.

    The data presented above shows that polarisation, particularly on religious issues, remains significant, though not as serious as many politicians and observers have contended. If we place the 2021 survey results beside data from other credible surveys over the past decade, it is possible to conclude that the high point of polarisation occurred during and between the 2014 and 2019 elections, but has since declined.

    While it is welcome that politicians have expressed concern about religious cleavages and shown a willingness to ease divisions in the name of national cohesion and protecting democracy, there are grounds for doubting that counter-polarisation is the real reason for many recent political manoeuvres. Prabowo readily used divisive appeals as a major part of his presidential campaign strategy in 2014 and 2019, and his main reason for now joining his former opponents is that he wants to rebrand himself as a unifying and statesman-like public figure for the 2024 election. The efforts to extend Widodo’s presidential term are driven by the desire of parts of the ruling coalition to remain in power as long as possible. Any extension beyond 2024 would be a further blow to the quality of Indonesia’s democracy. Finally, those parties that now find virtue in collaboration or coalition with former foes are motivated by a desire to maximise their negotiating positions in the run up to the next parliamentary and presidential elections. Putting together alternative tickets for the presidency reduces their risk of becoming peripheral players who have to accept what the largest parties dictate, rather than being able to protect their own interests.

    The salience of polarisation may increase again in the led up to the 2024 elections. But we need also to be mindful of the fact that a certain degree of polarisation is normal in a democracy, a reflection of ideological difference and engagement with the political process. As Robert B Talisse reminded us recently, “The response to polarisation cannot involve calls for unanimity or abandoning partisan rivalries. A democracy without political divides is no democracy at all.”

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  • The Macbethian tragedy of Indonesian democracy

    Across Indonesia, Pemuda (youths) with their university jackets are mourning the death of democracy. Their vigil was a colourful assembly of yellow, green, and red that on April 11th turned into a violent disharmony. Their eulogy condemned the agenda of election-delay and President Joko Widodo’s flirtation with the concept of a third term to satisfy his political impulse.

    Indonesia might still have its 2024 general election on February 14, but as Lady Macbeth put it “Th’ attempt, and not the deed, confounds us.” The recurrence of nationwide demonstrations by Pemuda during Jokowi’s administration illustrates a tragedy of a Macbethian proportion:

    Indonesian democracy corrupted a decent person, turning him into a despot; the Pemuda check and balance this despotic tendency, yet the people keep electing a despot to lead the nation. But who is responsible for the death of Indonesian democracy? Was this an unintended consequence of Jokowi’s ambition to better Indonesia and cement his legacy? A product of power-seeking oligarchs surrounding Jokowi that led him astray? Or a product of Indonesia’s flawed democracy that possesses conflicting aspirations for freedom and a desire to be led?

    William Shakespeare’s Tragedie of Macbeth ask similar questions, interrogating the concept of individual agency. Reflecting on Macbeth allows us to unpack the dilemma of agency when evaluating the culpability of a despotic behaviour––exposing the tension between individual volition, groupthink, and systemic pressure. While Macbeth clearly put a dagger into King Duncan, Shakespeare’s whodunit play never answers who was responsible for killing Duncan: Was he coerced by Lady Macbeth and her ends-justify-the-means outlook, or was he entrapped by the three-witches’ foreshadowing of his destiny? The latter allows Macbeth to raise a defence of diminished responsibility: he was not guilty of a crime because he did not act on his own volition, manipulated by forces beyond his control.

    The story of Jokowi’s ascent resembles that of Macbeth: it was a parable of a person who refused to stay in his allotted place, overturning the natural order of a system. Jokowi’s predecessors were privileged to assume their position: Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was an accomplished military general and former minister; Abdurahman Wahid was a leader of the Nahdatul Ulama, the largest Islamic organisation in the world; Megawati was a revolutionary figure who carried the Sukarno’s name; Suharto came from the Indonesian military, and Sukarno was an intellectual revolutionary. Jokowi did not possess worldly intellect nor the privileges of his predecessors; his election disrupted the usual path to power. Before him, being a successful furniture salesman and Mayor of Solo would have been insufficient to be elected as the president of the third largest democracy in the world. His exception led some to invoke the metaphor of Petruk Dadi Ratu, a Javanese lore about a king who rose from an ordinary people with no support from political elites, which raised the question of agency: was he a king or a puppet?

    Pemuda protesting the agenda for a delayed election in West Sumatra on April 11, 2022. (Image by Rhmtdns on Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0)

    Thirty years of Suharto (1968–98) habituated thinking of a leader like a king, which instilled the notion of control as understood by the Javanese conception of kingship: A king is a candle within which the divine lights radiate and must be obeyed. Under a similar logic, establishing control became Jokowi’s preoccupation between 2014 and 2017. To consolidate power, he made a deal with established forces––the Indonesian military and other elites. By 2017, Jokowi demonstrated that he could preserve a significant degree of agency by giving concessions to elites, humiliating his dissenters via reshuffling cabinets, and balancing Megawati, the leader of the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P), in a limited way.

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    We could be upset with him, but the Indonesian political system makes a fully accountable figure an impossibility. Jokowi’s down-to-earth and social media savvy profile was insufficient for him to lead. The system prohibited him from campaigning as an independent, requiring him to be nominated by a political party, leading him to form an alliance with the PDI-P. PDI-P then worked to restrain his manoeuvre: he was required to cater to the interests of political patrons, which led to the polarisation of loyalty of his elites. The Indonesian democracy forced Jokowi to make a Faustian bargain.

    But to argue that Indonesia’s democracy was faulty by design obscures the complicity and culpability of the oligarchic forces and Jokowi in killing the democracy.

    Realising that challenging the oligarchic forces was futile, he instead harnessed them. A figure closely resembling Lady Macbeth is probably Megawati who, despite her emergence out of revolutionary events in 1998, geared PDI-P to propose laws that took power from the people: the abolishment of direct election and a defamation law for criticising the president. The three witches––nationalism (represented by the military elites), Islamism (represented by the savvy political ulama), and clientelism (represented by rent-seeking business oligarchs)–––also tempted Jokowi to tolerate undemocratic acts as a means to secure power. Throughout his presidency, he performed acts of loyalty to these forces. He put on a military uniform and vowed not to apologise to the victims of military abuse during the period of pro-nationalist, anti-communist pogrom to demonstrate his nationalism. He put on his cap and embraced the Islamists to win an election. He engrossed himself with Lady Macbeth and the three witches, which made him not just complicit but culpable.

    Jokowi is no puppet, but as a king does he possess agency?

    Joko Widodo was given a green turban by K.H. Maimun Zubair before attending the “Rapat Umum Rakyat” at Gelora Bung Karno, Jakarta. (Public domain. Government of RI on Wikimedia Commons)

    Between 2017 and 2019, Jokowi’s preoccupation shifted from consolidation to anointment as a performance of political power. This was not just performative, it was an assertion of kingship. One of the most interesting cases was the replacement of Gatot Nurmantyo, then Chief of TNI (Panglima). Like Banquo in Macbeth, Gatot was Jokowi’s first ally who helped consolidate his power but soon deserted him by showing ambition to contest him in the 2019 general election. Jokowi hastened his replacement, and anointed Hadi Tjahjanto, as Panglima. By rights, no one would have predicted Hadi would get the spot. What Hadi lacks in experience he made up in loyalty, which was seen within TNI as a flagrant case of civilian interference into military politics. This sent a clear message: anointing was a kingly move.

    The melancholy of the Suharto’s authoritarian era soon took over. In his second term, he purged critics and worked to eliminate balancing forces altogether by bringing Prabowo into his administration. Getting closer to the ideal of achieving harmonious political order as understood by the Javanese, in the process he put a dagger into a sickly Indonesian democracy.

    Although his goal for development was well-meaning, the means was not. Jokowi is an ambitious president, reminiscent of Sukarno’s worldly goals but with Suharto’s restrained rhetoric. Jokowi has embarked on concretising many ambitious infrastructure projects, far beyond the complacent Yudhoyono. Yudhoyono chose to be a sitting duck. After much cajoling, he allowed reform-minded ministers such as Chatib Basri and Sri Mulyani to embark on various economic projects that got Indonesia out of the 2008 Global Financial Crisis, but as soon as Indonesia’s economy stabilised he put a stop to the reform process. Jokowi is the opposite of Yudhoyono. He was ambitious in his first term, and got even more ambitious in his second. He is now moving the capital, an act that not even Suharto could realise. To fulfil his many ambitions of equal development, he justifies the means.

    But was he entirely to blame?

    While observers might be surprised that he harboured despotic tendencies, never had he hid his stripes. This was what made me voted for him in 2014. In his short tenure as a governor of Jakarta (2012­–14), he was famous for admonishing sluggish bureaucrats. As a president, Jokowi also has been transparent with his tolerance of undemocratic means to protect democracy, such as disbanding the Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia in 2017 to protect Indonesia from radical Islam. As he was re-elected in spite of his transparency, his undemocratic tactics were validated: he has a democratic mandate to achieve his goals via undemocratic means. This does not acquit him, but it does point to the flaw in the Indonesian society that desires decentralisation but continues to reward a popular leader who centralises. Perhaps this also indicates the weakness of the very concept of democracy, which is unable to prevent the repetition of history, a relapse of the majority to continuously put a despot in office.

    Are Indonesians to blame?

    Putting the burden on the people assumes that they have choices, and they deliberately choose badly. But the choices are an illusion: they are being asked to choose between people cut from the same cloth: Jokowi or Prabowo, both Islamists, both Nationalist, and both would have had to embrace the system that is flawed.

    The interrogation of agency in Indonesia’s politics demonstrates that answering who killed Indonesian democracy is less important than understanding the tragedy itself. This tragedy involves a deterministic trap created by a system that is inherently hostile to accountability; what makes it even sadder is that the elite and the people perpetuate that hostility by their own free will. The essence of the tragedy is thus the circularity of a flawed system and bad actors. The system fosters the worst in people, but everyone’s choice remains: they could plant seeds for reform; instead, they continue to choose expediency at the expense of democracy.

    Like McDuff, who eventually kills Macbeth in the final act, if Jokowi chooses not to step down, he will face stern resistance from the Pemuda. But escaping the trap is not a simple matter of balancing or overthrowing a despot. The harder task is to unlearn the mentality of the masses that have been desensitised to the employment of undemocratic means, making them susceptible to electing another despot. This, in the long run, undermines Indonesia’s democracy.

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  • Symptoms of anti-Intellectualism in Indonesian democracy

    Indonesia is beginning a new chapter in its democracy. In the midst of increasing number of expressive platforms, state power is actually tightening its supervision. It is not impossible: expressions considered detrimental to certain parties in power will be muzzled on behalf of the state.

    A recent case involves the criminalisation of two Indonesian NGO activists, Fatia Maulidiyanti (Coordinator of the Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence, or KontraS) and Haris Azhar (Director of Lokataru). The two activists were reported to the Jaya Metro Regional Police by Indonesia’s Coordinating Minister for Maritime Affairs and Investment, Luhut Binsar Panjaitan, accusing them of defamation.

    This began when Fatia and Haris recorded and uploaded to Youtube their discussion of the results of research conducted by a number of large Indonesian NGOs—such as WALHI, Jatam, YLBHI, Kontras, and Pustaka—titled “Economic-Political Military Placement in Papua: The Case of Intan Jaya.” The video appeared on Haris Azhar’s Youtube channel in August 2021 with the title “There is Lord Luhut Behind Economic Relations-OPS Military Intan Jaya.”

    In that video Fatia and Haris revealed that a number of retired Indonesian National Army (TNI) were involved in gold mining business and plans to exploit the Wabu Block area in Intan Jaya, Papua, which allegedly led to economic crimes. Luhut was directly mentioned: now retired he is still actively involved in Jokowi’s government. On that basis, Fatia and Haris were visited by police shortly after the video went public.

    Their position could be seen as a reimagining of, to borrow Ariel Heryanto’s term, the post-colonial public intellectual in Indonesia. With an academic basis in the research conducted by a number of large NGOs in Indonesia, Fatia and Haris spoke with a “style” that is in harmony with the character of the Indonesian public.

    The embedding of “public intellectuals” deserves to be given to Fatia and Haris, as well as all parties who have an important role in the research process. It seems to give our democracy a breath of fresh air in delivering comments and criticisms. However, Luhut’s oppressive response reveals the same irony that Heryanto illustrates in the characteristics of the post-colonial intellectual in Indonesia during the New Order.

    First, public intellectual groups in Indonesia often gain public influence or trust because they have experienced oppression by authorities who try to eliminate their voices. However, this act of oppression actually strengthens their message. As Heryanto summarises: “Detention in police custody often generates respect and boosts the credentials of young activists.” Efforts to criminalise Fatia and Haris actually consolidated resistance to Luhut’s power.

    After Fatia and Haris were reported, several NGOs belonging to the civil society coalition supported the two men to report Luhut to the police for alleged economic crimes of accepting gratifications, along with several Australian mining companies. Unfortunately, the report was immediately rejected by the police. Unlike Luhut’s report, which was quickly processed, theirs was immediately rejected.

    All the evidence submitted was based on scientific findings and official state documents. Not only that, they also received a wave of public support. Through various social media platforms, the public showed their support with the hashtag “We are with Fatia and Haris.”

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    Second, the actions of public intellectuals in challenging the status quo of gives them special status to perform such actions. Simply put, they will be the public’s reference in response to phenomena that intersect with power. Returning pressure onto public intellectuals, as Luhut did, will only increase the public’s support for the dissenters. Furthermore, it will etch the names of public intellectuals into people’s memories.

    These two things at least show that the flow of civil movement and Indonesian criticism is still alive on the one hand. Activism is never tolerated by the oppressor. However, on the other hand this is also a bad sign for the Indonesia’s democracy today. If public intellectual activism still inherits the context faced by post-colonial intellectuals of the New Order, then the power entrenched in Indonesia also retains those patterns, which is precisely the authoritarianism of the New Order.

    Luhut’s actions leave at least two black stains on democracy in Indonesia today. First, there is anti-intellectualism, which is used to silence opposition voices that harm the interests of power. Luhut tried to muzzle public intellectualism and undermine freedom of expression. It is clear that these intellectuals and the research they are publicising strongly threatens Luhut’s interests in the mining business in Papua.

    Second, the function of the police is again as an apparatus for the right hand of power. Instead of conducting objective law enforcement, the police force becomes a tool to silence public expression. This is done solely to protect the interests of the rulers. The case is still rolling. In the process, the reputation of Indonesian democracy is again at stake.

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  • What are the regional security implications of Indonesia’s capital relocation?

    This article is co-published with our partner 9DASHLINE.

    Following the enactment of the National Capital Bill on 18 January 2022, Indonesia will legally begin the process of moving the capital from Jakarta to Kalimantan. Located between the two East Kalimantan cities of Balikpapan and Samarinda, the new city will be called “Nusantara”—the ancient name of the Indonesian archipelago. The move will begin by gradually relocating all ministerial personnel and civil servants, with a target of full relocation by 2045.

    While the decision to relocate the capital is based on domestic considerations, it carries regional security implications, and will generate economic and environmental harm. Additionally, it requires considerable resources, constraining Indonesia’s capability to deal with regional tensions and possible security threats. With increasing tensions in the Indo-Pacific region, the government must address these implications to mitigate any future security risk associated with the relocation.

    Rationales behind the relocation

    There are at least two obvious reasons for the move: Jakarta’s overpopulation and its environmental vulnerability. Around 10.56 million people live in the current capital, which makes it overcrowded with traffic and complex urban development issues. The city has also been dealing with floods and vulnerability due to sea-level rise, especially in the last two decades. President Jokowi himself has preferred to stay in the presidential palace in Bogor, rather than Jakarta’s Presidential Palace.

    But relocating the capital is not just about Jakarta’s urban condition. In terms of defence and military strategy, Indonesia’s security elites see the new capital as more easily defendable than Jakarta due to its geographic features. Nusantara is surrounded by forests, rivers, and mountains, which will benefit Indonesia’s military in case of any future armed attacks. In contrast, Jakarta is more vulnerable to conventional attacks by an enemy’s military given its location on the northern coast of Java.

    The military has not specified who such a potential enemy might be, but in his reflections on moving the capital, Indonesia’s intelligence chief has mentioned several regional alliances and activities that might affect the country’s security including the Five Power Defence Arrangements (FPDA), AUKUS, and Chinese geopolitical influence in the region. Indonesia has been critical of AUKUS and objects to the arms race and power projection in the region. In addition, while it participates in China’s Belt and Road Initiative, the military has repeatedly detected Chinese coast guard vessels in its maritime domains, which constitutes a major threat to Indonesia’s territorial integrity.

    Regional security implications

    The capital relocation has some implications that might affect the regional security in the Indo-Pacific, concerning not only military and defence issues, but also economic and environmental security.

    The first regional security implication is Indonesia’s shifting strategic focus during the process of moving. Located on the island of Kalimantan, Nusantara is 1,300 km away from Jakarta. The relocation will require the government to move all civil servants and military personnel by air or sea. For this, analysts have noted that a high number of military troops and significant resources must be deployed. According to Indonesia’s Military Chief, the military will deploy at least 30,000-50,000 personnel in the new capital’s regional commands, which will require significant resources. The budget for establishing a new regional military command is estimated to be USD 8.2 billion; for context, the country’s Defence Ministry’s had a budget of USD 9.3 billion in 2022.

    This massive resource allocated for the relocation will considerably affect Indonesia’s ongoing defence and military modernisation plans. Indonesia will likely shift its focus from developing defence capabilities to meeting ongoing security demands caused by the capital relocation. In times of increasing geopolitical tensions in the Indo-Pacific region, redeploying forces and resources to secure the relocation process could impede the mitigation of potential crises that Indonesia may face at its borders. For example, it must secure its maritime domain from any intrusion of foreign military forces, such as in the South China Sea.

    The relocation also raises questions as to who will be financially involved in the development of Nusantara and its related infrastructure. The government has estimated around USD 33 billion as the budget for the move, which is around 17 per cent of the national budget for 2022. The funding is expected to be raised from the government’s national budget, a Public-Private Partnership scheme with the private sector, and international development cooperation.

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    What happens when civil society, the media, and policymakers are based in different cities?

    Iqra Anugrah 23 July, 2019

    While Indonesia has committed to seek funding from various sources—including from Middle Eastern and European partners—there are some concerns related to the number of China-funded investment projects around the new capital. Chinese corporations have expressed interest in funding or providing loans to finance several projects in Kalimantan, including tolled highways between Balikpapan and Samarinda. China has also financed a hydropower project in the Kayan River since 2018, which is located in the northern part of the new capital.
    These new investment partnerships could have long-term geopolitical implications as the new capital will be surrounded by China-funded investment projects. The Indonesian government must review the long-term geopolitical impacts of all investment projects around the new capital to avoid influence from any foreign party.

    Finally, there are environmental security implications, which primarily relate to the global need to thwart climate change and end deforestation as agreed at the Glasgow Climate Change Conference. Kalimantan has been considered the ‘world’s lung’ due to its massive rainforests and biodiversity. It is feared that the capital relocation will lead to further deforestation and biodiversity loss and affect ongoing global efforts to tackle climate change and deforestation.

    A recent study has shown that three provinces in Kalimantan are highly vulnerable to forest fires, while East Kalimantan has been affected by devastating forest fires in the past. The forest fires not only had a disastrous environmental impact on the country but also repeatedly caused transboundary haze pollution to neighbouring countries. Therefore, the risks of haze, forest fires, and potential impacts on climate change must be properly mitigated before the relocation process begins.

    Indonesian lawmakers have tried to anticipate these concerns by mentioning the principle of ‘sustainability’ in the National Capital Bill’s Academic Paper. However, environmentalists have criticised the White Paper as being vague on mitigating the environmental implications of the relocation. With the need to build new housing complexes and government offices, it is unclear to what extent the government will clear the land and how biodiversity could be preserved.

    Addressing security implications in the long-term development plan

    While Indonesia’s capital relocation is mostly related to the country’s domestic development priorities, it carries regional security implications that must be addressed as tensions in the Indo-Pacific region increase.

    To address potential security issues, the government needs to pursue several possible policy options. To address security concerns in the South China Sea, Indonesia should strengthen its Maritime Security Agency (Bakamla) as the front-line of its security response to South China Sea disputes, as one analyst has suggested. In addition, Indonesia needs to stay on track to modernise its military and defence equipment by 2024 (according to the original plans).

    Indonesia also needs to carefully assess the economic, social, and sustainability impact of the capital relocation. In particular, it is important to consider its long-term financial capacity in relocating the capital, as well as reviewing any foreign infrastructure or investment projects around the new capital.

    These security concerns must be incorporated into the new national long-term development plan, which will become the guideline for Indonesia’s planning between 2025-2045. Given the ambitions of the capital relocation, the Indonesian government needs a comprehensive security assessment—considering capabilities and geopolitical tensions in the region—in the long-term plan, which will provide a framework for future governments. Only in this way can Indonesia mitigate potential risks from the capital relocation.

    The post What are the regional security implications of Indonesia’s capital relocation? appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Food availability, Indonesia’s commodity balance and the trap of Malthusian Optimism

    The world has enough food to feed every person on the planet, now and in the foreseeable future. This should not be a surprising fact. The Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) estimated that 2,950 kcal worth of food supplies were available per person per day from 2018 to 2020. This is projected to increase up to 3,025 kcal per person per day by 2030. For reference, the Recommended Dietary Allowance (RDA) from the Indonesian Ministry of Health is only 2100 kcal per person per day.

    Despite this ostensible abundance, hunger is still a real problem for about ten percent of the world’s population, or more than 800 million people. In Indonesia alone, 20 million people, or almost twice the population of Jakarta, struggle to meet the RDA. It seems that, after all, we are missing the point by focusing on having enough food in aggregate.

    Yet the latest innovation in Indonesian trade governance, the commodity balance or neraca komoditas, is designed specifically to ensure sufficiency. As regulated under the new Presidential Regulation 32/2022, the commodity balance is heralded as providing more certainty in import and export licensing and quota allocation by basing the decision directly on a national database of domestic supply and demand for the listed commodities.

    The data are sourced from firms and government statistics and used to regulate imports of five pilot commodities: sugar, salt, fisheries products, rice, and beef. The list of commodity would eventually be expanded to include both food and non-food commodities in the agriculture, fisheries, mining, and industrial sectors.

    As my colleagues at the Center for Indonesian Policy Studies (CIPS) write, the commodity balance is intended to help the government set import and export quotas in order to offset shortfalls and surpluses in the domestic market and achieve market clearing. The basic tenet is, of course, self-sufficiency, where import quota may not be granted at all should the balance show enough domestic production to cover domestic demand.

    While the idea of a government database to determine food availability may be new in Indonesian food trade, and may actually help streamline the process by cutting out one step (applying for import recommendation), it is an old one in the history of food crisis, hunger, and the conceptual development of food security.

    In his seminal work, Poverty and Famines (1981), Amartya Sen chronicles several case studies of famines, from the Bengal famine in 1943 to the Ethiopian famine in 1973-1975. In all these cases, famines occurred without a significant reduction in the amount of aggregate food available per head. Some famines even took place during the years with peak staple food production.

    In the 1943 Bengal famine (which claimed 2-3 million lives), the British administration in India maintained a record of food availability and regular estimates of food shortages, calculated by comparing required amount of food per head and total food available. Based on the data, which Sen considers “fairly accurate,” the government found no reason for concern, and so the impending disaster went undetected.

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    Food estates are costly and fail to value the application of ecological principles, especially local agroecological practices rooted in local communities.

    Lucentezza Napitupulu, Mulia Nurhasan, John F McCarthy, Yusuf Bahtimi Samsudin, Amy Ickowitz 08 December, 2021

    This misguided emphasis on food availability and sufficiency rests on a complacent view that Sen calls “Malthusian optimism.” Thomas Malthus’ pessimistic worldview of the inability of food production to catch up with population growth has not been well supported by history, as technological advancements have proven able to multiply food production. Yet the Malthusian preoccupation with the ratio of total food supply to population remains entrenched, though now coupled with the confidence in domestic production and the ability of statistics, like the shortage records of the British India or, indeed, the commodity balance, to provide accurate estimates.

    The CIPS paper on commodity balance casts doubt on the government’s ability to accurately determine available supplies, which is not unfounded given frequent disputes over stock figures among the ministries. Yet even if accurate reporting is somehow possible, as was the case in Bengal according to Sen, relying on it is detrimental to food security.

    Despite the increase in rice price and inflation a year before the Bengal famine, Malthusian optimism led to ill-informed policies and outcomes such as import prohibition and late availability of imported foods when the famine became apparent.

    Price is a better indicator for anticipating food shortages, but it is also missing from a non-automatic trade system like the neraca komoditas and its quotas. At the same time, prices of staple foods such as rice are higher in Indonesia than on the international market. Poor Indonesians, including rural populations and farmers who are mostly net consumers of rice, bear the heaviest burden of high food prices.

    According to Sen, a better measure for access to food is entitlement, i.e. one’s ability to secure food, such as through own production or purchases. This establishes the connection between one’s livelihood mode, for example paid employment, and food security. A complete food security analysis then should look at livelihood situations of different groups of people, from urban dwellers to rural farmers.

    Price is an important factor in one’s entitlement, but so are wages, lands, and other resources one has. To achieve welfare for its population, Indonesian food security policy should appreciate this diversity of factors and leave the decades-old pedestal of food sufficiency that it has been resting on.

    The post Food availability, Indonesia’s commodity balance and the trap of Malthusian Optimism appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • A new Indonesian capital city: conflict pending

    The Indonesian House of Representatives’ new capital city bill passed in mid-January 2022. It is one of fastest bills ever made in Indonesian legislative history, taking less than a month from when the house formed a special committee in mid-December last year to public hearings in early 2022. Normally that process takes at least 6 months, depending on the issues and political will. The new capital city bill has many pros and cons. While the government and house hope it will run smoothly, it appears the new capital draft bill did not include the aspirations or perspectives of current residents of the proposed site in Kalimantan. My research reveals that local voices, especially those of adat (customary law) communities have been excluded from discussions of the capital draft bill. Furthermore, another important issue arises in overlapping rules in the new capital location.  There are 162 existing natural resources concessions within the core location of new capital and its surroundings. Certainly, these two major omissions from the process contradict with the vision of new capital that is a smart, green, beautiful, and sustainable city.

    One important issue to be resolved is the acknowledgment of indigenous land rights. Although the new capital will be established on state land, which is made up of 56.180 hectare for the core area and 199.962 hectares for surrounding developments, this huge area overlaps with existing indigenous land parcels. The Sultanate of Kutai Kartanegara was not invited by national policymakers to discuss the land status of land in the new capital site, although the Sultanate still has traditional land rights on the site.  Before joining the Republic of Indonesia in 1959, the Sultanate was an independent polity whose land covered current territory of East Kalimantan Province. The Sultanate has resumed its activities in 1999 after a forty-year hiatus.   The site also includes some indigenous communities that use the land for fishing and farming.

    However, these traditional owners have been excluded from the discussion too. One local representative from Sultanate told me that, they never get any chance to discuss the new capital city process in formal or informal discussions from the national and local governments. In fact, they have been living in that area for decades. Most importantly, the central government’s bill only mentions Paser, Dayak, and Bugis as traditional owners of the area, and fails to  acknowledge the Sultanate and Kutai people. This could create land disputes, as the Sultanate still authorises customary law in managing lands.

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    Lessons from Brasilia: on the empty modernity of Indonesia’s new capital

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    David Henley and Giulia Frigo 14 April, 2020

    The marginalisation of indigenous people will be harmful for the new Indonesian capital city. Conflict between indigenous locals and migrants, particularly those from Java, will likely arise. The national state civil apparatus, an estimated 1,5 million people, will be the dominant group of migrants to East Kalimantan when the new city is established. This huge number of migrants has the potential to disturb local economies and markets, especially in terms of housing and food. If the government does not accommodate the need of locals, this will spark new vertical conflicts. Previously, notable vertical conflicts between the central government and communities in Aceh and Papua have resulted in insurgencies that have lasted for many years. Some of these have been focused one mining issues like oil and gas in Aceh and copper and silver mining in Papua.  In the second half of the 20th century, transmigration policy generated horizontal conflict between Javanese migrants and local populations in several provinces outside Java. Therefore, the lesson to be learned from previous conflicts triggered by this New Order developmentalism is that acknowledging traditional land rights and meeting economic needs through fair compensation may satisfy locals in the new Indonesian capital city development projects.

    The design for the new capital features concentric “rings” with parliament, ministries, government occupying the two central rings, business districts in the second ring and residential areas in the third. The location of new capital also overlaps with 162 current coal-mining concessions covering 203,720 hectares, three times the area of Jakarta. The owners of these concessions are large conglomerates who have close relationships with national elites. The mine owners are also attached to the inner political circle of Jokowi’s administration. Hashim Djojohadikusumo, younger brother of current Defence Minister Prabowo Subianto, has concessions that cover 173,395 hectares in the second ring, and business interests of the Coordinating Minister for Maritime & Investment Affairs Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan own land almost 17,000 hectares in the second and third rings. Significantly, most of these mining companies have huge mines on the site. This includes 94 coal mining holes that are supposed to be restored through environmental provisions.

    Photo: BPMI Setpres/Muchlis Jr (public domain). President Jokowi and his entourage at the new capital city site, including Minister of National Development Planning/Head National Development Planning Agency Suharso Monoarfa, Minister of State Owned Enterprises Erick Thohir, Minister of Public Works and Public Housing Basuki Hadimuljono, Minister for Environment and Forestry Siti Nurbaya, Minister for Agriculture and Spatial Planning Sofyan Djalil, Minister for Internal Affairs Tito Karnavian, dan Cabinate Secretary Pramono Anung.

    The Indonesian Mining Advocacy Network (JATAM) has underlined there is lack of transparency and poor public participation in the process of identifying land to be granted to concession holders in exchange for concessions that have been reclaimed. This risks disenfranchising or displacing locals whose land is caught up in these exchanges, which could potentially generate social conflict. These facts, however, lead the public to the belief that conglomerates will be relieved of responsibility for reparations of the disastrous environmental impacts of their mining if they agreed to financially support the new capital city.  This, again, contradicts with the vision of a capital that promotes a green and sustainable city development. The future Indonesian capital may be no better than Jakarta if it is built on vulnerable and fragile environments. The alignment of interests between business and politics should be refused in the making of a new capital city. These has leads one civil society organisation, the National Axis for State Sovereignty (PNKM) to file a lawsuit against the new capital city bill through the constitutional court. They argue that the new capital city is not part of the long-term national development project 2005 to 2025, and therefore  unconstitutional.

    In sum, the whole picture of new Indonesian capital city still leans to the elites rather than the people. Recently, more than 24.000 people have signed an online petition rejecting the capital moving from Jakarta to East Kalimantan because of concerns about the COVID-19 situation and state budget deficits.  Many groups are in opposition, especially those already living in the area.  Acknowledging their existence and accommodating their needs is the key to building an inclusive Indonesian capital city for all.

    The post A new Indonesian capital city: conflict pending appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Understanding the dynamics of political contestation within Nahdlatul Ulama’s 34th Muktamar

    In December 2021 Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) was central to social and political discourse in Indonesia due to the debate surrounding its muktamar (congress). The debate ranged from whether to accelerate or postpone the muktamar following government restrictions on activities as part of tackling COVID-19, through to the government’s backing of President Joko Widodo’s favoured candidate. Jokowi’s intimacy with candidate Yahya Cholil Staquf (Gus Yahya), and Yahya’s sibling’s position as minister of religious affairs were seen as partisan. The differences in addressing the issues created sharp divides among political factions and reflected the dynamics of political contestation.

    As the muktamar attracted public attention and has wider implications on Indonesian politics, three main questions capture the dynamics of NU’s political contestation: How does history shapes NU’s organizational character and dynamic of its internal political contestation? What were the major factions in the contestation and how were they formed? How did each faction draw, conserve, and exercise their strength over others?

    NU’s leadership is deeply rooted in the cultural network of pesantren and kyais, mostly across Java. These social bases formed long before the establishment of its formal organisation.  The structure of the NU’s organization was simply a formalisation of that cultural network and hierarchy. However, as NU’s ulama, or charismatic leaders, are rooted in the pesantren and spend almost all their time there, the NU’s founding fathers established a body to extend the ulama’s reach and manage the NU’s organisational routine in Jakarta. Therefore, there are two main chambers in NU’s organisational structures: syuriyah (supreme council) and tanfidziah (executive council). The former consists of hierarchical charismatic kyais or leaders who make strategic and principle decisions while the later those assigned to execute the decisions made by syuriyah.

    The original structure changed significantly after the NU became an independent party, following its disassociation from Masyumi Party in 1952. Since then, as a political party the organisation required much greater role for the tanfidziah as executive body. Although the respective roles of these two chambers were restored as a result of NU’s return to their original mission (Kembali ke Khittah 1926) and its disassociation from PPP in 1984, the greater role for tandfiziyah has lasted for more than three decades. Since the role of syuriyah has been partially restored, both tandfiziyah and, to a lesser extent, syuriyah have become equally important and top positions in both chambers are highly contested in every muktamar. Therefore, it is important to consider how the contestation for the top position in syuriyah, Rais Aam (President General), became part of the political game, and how it affects the broader political dynamics of the muktamar.

    The 34th Muktamar of NU in Lampung reflected that pattern. A hard-fought contestation took place in the Syuriyah chamber as well. Miftachul Akhyar (Kyai Miftach) as acting Rais ‘Aam seemed to seek a permanent position, was deeply involved in the dispute over the date of the muktamar. In his close alliance with Gus Yahya, who sought the position of chair of the tanfidziyah, he made a tactical manoeuvre to control the political game. When the dispute between the political factions over whether to accelerate or postpone the schedule of the muktamar became heated,  acting Rais ‘Aam Kyai Miftach tried to use his exclusive privilege to veto determining the schedule. With Gus Yahya, he had an interest in bringing forward the schedule, while Said Aqil Siraj (Kyai Said) sought postponement until the end of January 2022, due to his ill-prepared situation for the contestation.

    In chamber of tanfidziah, before narrowing down to Kyai Said and Gus Yahya, several names were predicted to compete for the position of chair, including Marzuqi Mustamar (Kyai Mustamar), and As’ad Ali (Kyai As’ad).

    Kyai Said was the incumbent who had served two terms and sought a third term. In a fierce battle against Gus Yahya, Kyai Said only secured 210 votes while the remaining 337 favoured Gus Yahya in the final round. There were several possible factors for his defeat. One was that his decade-long leadership was not considered to align with the spirit of Khittah 1926. Kyai Said was considered to have made blatant political manoeuvres and returned the NU closer to practical politics. Another factor was a lack of breakthroughs during his leadership.

    Gus Yahya was the strongest challenger to the incumbent. His last position in NU’s central board was as Khatib Aam (General Secretary of Syuriyah), and he was formerly a politician in the National Awakening Party (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB). He reached the peak of his political career as spokesperson for President Gus Dur. He decided to quit politics after his father died in 2004 and assumed a position as a deputy general secretary (Khatib of Syuriyah) of NU’s central board after the NU’s 32nd Muktamar in Makassar in 2010. He was then promoted to Khatib Aam. He follows Gus Dur’s path in promoting and strengthening the NU’s role in the international arena, particularly in Western World, including with a controversial visit to Israel in 2018.

    Gus Yahya’s victory was grounded in his symbiotic mutualism with Kyai Miftach. This alliance succeeded in securing their common interests. Gus Yahya’s position as Katib Aam and his alliance with Kyai Miftach provided an opportunity to seize the chamber of Syuriyah and use it for political bargaining on every decision made about the muktamar. Moreover, they come from Central Java and East Java respectively, two larges bases for Nahdlatul Ulama. This alliance succeeded in securing the support of these two bases for their respective candidacies.

    This alliance also had implications for the diminishment of Kyai Mustamar’s candidacy. Like Kyai Miftach, Kyai Mustamar comes from East Java. On East Java’s NU Provincial board, Kyai Miftach was mustasyar and Rais Aam while Kyai Mustamar is currently chair of the Administrative Council (Tandfiziyah). As a former local Rais Aam Kyai Miftach has greater support from East Java’s NU base, ruling out Kyai Mustamar’s strong candidacy. He is widely known as an outspoken advocate of NU’s traditional practices such as tahlilan and pilgrimage to graves, which is regarded as heresy by Salafists and Islamic modernists. His counters to these criticisms are strengthened by his education in a Wahhabist institution sponsored by Saudi Arabia and the Islamic and Arabic College (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Bahasa Arab, LIPIA) Jakarta

    Gus Yahya’s political strength also rested on his little brother, Yaqut Cholil Qoumas (Gus Yaqut), who has command of the Ansor Youth Movement (Gerakan Pemuda Ansor, GP Ansor) and the Ministry of Religious Affairs. GP Ansor is affiliated with the NU and in charge of the NU’s semi-military organization, the Multipurpose Ansor Front (Barisan Ansor Serbaguna, Banser). Most of GP Ansor’s functionaries are also functionaries on the NU’s multilevel board. Gus Yahya also received support from former GP Ansor’s chairs like Saifullah Yusuf and Nusron Wahid. The Ministry of Religious Affairs is widely thought to be dominated by the NU. Gus Yaqut controversially stated that the role of Minister of Religious Affairs should be given to the NU. The NU’s multilevel board is also dominated by high and low ranking officials of that ministry. As chairman of GP Ansor, Gus Yaqut appeared to exercise his power to mobilise these two institutional bases to support Gus Yahya’s candidacy. Gus Yaqut’s influence on the Ministry has concerned Gus Yahya’s rivals, who tried to mitigate this by publicly protesting Gus Yaqut’s favouring of Gus Yahya.

    After such a dramatic political battle, the face of NU, at least in next five years, will mostly rest on Gus Yahya’s leadership. He is committed to strengthening and expanding the role of the NU on a global scale to perpetuate a world order based on peace and freedom, as has he done before. Moreover, antithetical to his political rival Kyai Said, Gus Yahya’s leadership will reinstate the Khittah 1926, which will keep NU away from practical politics. The main challenge for Gus Yahya in meeting these commitments is NU’s lack of independent financial resources. NU’s dependence on political influence will make it difficult for the organisation to maintain its neutrality and critique social and political problems, particularly with respect to government policies and short-term political interests.

    The post Understanding the dynamics of political contestation within Nahdlatul Ulama’s 34th Muktamar appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Erasing the untouchables: the Indonesian way

    Corporate tsars and the political powerful rarely back independent probes into official misconduct—unless limited to their rivals. Canberra has yet to debate such an authority, while next door Indonesia’s oligarchs are destroying their Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi (Corruption Eradication Commission), not with a bang which might alarm, but many whimpers.

    In 1998 Indonesia’s second president Soeharto resigned during the Asian Financial Crisis when huge crowds demanded democracy and an end to avarice.  During the authoritarian kleptocrat’s 32 years in power, his family reportedly amassed US $30 billion by plundering the public purse and demanding bribes.  The former general was never prosecuted and died in 2008.  The money has not been recovered.

    The KPK was established in December 2003 during the presidency of Megawati Sukarnoputri, though the foundations had been laid earlier when the liberal cleric Abdurrahman Wahid (aka Gus Dur) ruled (1999 – 2001). The political atmosphere at the time was heady with the promise of starting afresh and washing away the filth from decades of palm-greasing staining the nation’s name and known as KKN – Korupsi, Kolusi, Nepotisme.

    The Commission set about its duties with energy and positive publicity.  Early hits were a who’s who of oligarchs, government ministers, corporate crooks and high-profile socialites. One of the most sickening cases involved former social affairs minister Juliari Peter Batubara, a Protestant member of the ruling Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan, (PDI-P Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle).  The spiv was jailed for 12 years for trousering $2.25 million from funds budgeted to buy COVID-19 relief packages for the poor.

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    Like many fellow malefactors, Batubara realised too late that the KPK was not like other authorities allegedly ready to drop investigations in return for cash-stuffed envelopes.  Its formidable powers included warrantless wiretaps, travel bans, freezing bank accounts and detaining suspects. During the golden years, the Untouchables were TV news regulars hustling famous names into cars after late-night raids on sky-level homes and offices.

    With a 100 per cent success rate, the KPK rapidly became the most trusted and supported agency in Indonesia, peaking in 2013 with the Ramon Magsaysay Award, named after the former Philippine President who had a reputation for integrity and idealism. The prize has been run since 1957 by the NY-based Rockefeller Brothers’ Trust Fund. It called the KPK “a fiercely independent government body that serves as a symbol of hope and reform.”  It wouldn’t say that now.

    When the current president Joko Widodo won his first five-year term in 2014 supporters were certain he’d support the overworked KPK facing a backlog of 16,200 cases. They expected an idealist but got a pragmatist who’d rather concentrate on his nation’s infrastructure than its integrity. Ironically he also wants overseas money, though ethical Western investors shun countries that tolerate dirty deals. (Some nations like the US, the UK and Australia, have laws where citizens can be prosecuted in their homeland for bribing bureaucrats abroad.)

    Presidential Chief of Staff Moeldoko seemed unaware his country had ratified the UN Convention against Corruption when he allegedly dubbed the KPK “a hindrance to investment”. Though he later added that he meant the KPK law, it seemed he’d revealed the administration’s real concerns.
    Because the Commission had widespread support the erosion has been subtle. The agency needed to focus more on graft prevention than law enforcement, according to new chair Firli Bahuri, appointed by Widodo in 2019 for a five-year term. This was despite the KPK Ethics Council having found him guilty of a “gross violation” by allegedly alerting a suspect.

    The former Commissioner General of Police had enjoyed a lacklustre career in uniform, though a shining contact list which includes Megawati.  The unchallenged queen of the ruling PDI-P is rumoured to be Widodo’s dalang (puppet master). Last October the daughter of first president Soekarno (1945-65) got the job of chairing the steering committee of the National Research and Innovation Agency, an amalgamation of five state institutions. The appointment startled the academic community hoping for leadership from an internationally acclaimed scientist.  There are a few like US-educated physicist Yohanes Surya, though  Indonesia has no Nobel laureates.

    Megawati, 75, failed to complete her studies at two unis (agriculture at one, psychology at another), but now holds nine honorary doctorates.  Despite her lack of qualifications she’s apparently “obsessed” with science, an interest she’s kept secret till now.

    But away from perceived nepotism and back to the KPK.  Bahuri’s changes included ordering long-term investigators who’d put many brigands behind bars, to take a civil service examination. They reportedly included personal queries:  “Why are you not married at this age? Do you still have a desire? Do you want to be my second wife? What do you do when you’re dating?” Fifty-one failed the test and were kicked out.  Widodo reportedly said he didn’t want the staff ousted and neither did the public.  Their concerns made no difference.

    Among the rejects was Indonesia’s Eliot Ness, Novel Baswedan who’d lost an eye when hydrochloric acid was thrown in his face after he left a mosque.  He’d been investigating allegations of police force wrongdoings and a case involving politicians collecting bribes through an ID electronic card project

    In a curious development, Baswedan and his sacked colleagues were then offered jobs with the police.

    The KPK rot continued within. In September 2020 the agency’s Supervisory Council found Bahuri guilty of indulging in a “hedonistic lifestyle” after he chartered a helicopter to fly home.  He was tickled with a written reprimand and kept his job. Last September KPK deputy Lili Pintauli Siregar tipped off a North Sumatra city mayor that he was a suspect. The law says KPK leaders could face up to five years in jail for alerting anyone under investigation. Her salary was docked Rp 1.85 million (AUD 181) a month.  No big deal. Her allowances are ten times that sum. If the KPK’s bosses don’t follow the rules, why should others bother?

    Zaenur Rohman of Gadjah Mada University’s Centre for Anticorruption Studies reportedly said: “The KPK had its worst record in handling corruption cases. In fact, the Attorney General’s Office performed better, handling corruption cases involving (state insurance companies) Jiwasraya and Asabri that involved trillions of rupiah in state losses.”

    An editorial in The Jakarta Post commented pithily: “Things are really dire if the AGO, an agency not known for its integrity or good performance, outdid the KPK.”

    Just before 2021 ended Widodo addressed KPK staff on International Anti-corruption Day.  He didn’t order hard-line persecution of crims as the public demands (some have called for the death penalty), but went soft:  “Corruption eradication should not only mean an arrest being made. Preventing corruption is more fundamental.” So the archipelago’s streetscapes are now befouled with big posters featuring men in uniform telling citizens to neither give nor receive bribes, though it is common knowledge this remains the best way to get bureaucrats to perform their duties and do so speedily. Government departments and uni campuses declare they are graft-free zones as though immoral behaviour is like a virus.

    The education-not-prosecution line has been followed by Bahuri who, unlike Yale psychologist Paul Bloom, doesn’t believe we have an innate sense of right and wrong.  Bahuri wants parents to instil moral behaviours in their kiddies “so that an anti-corruption mentality is built and formed in every individual in this Republic.”

    There has been change—downwards.  A decade ago Transparency International’s Corruption Perception Index ranked Indonesia 96 among 179 nations.  Its position now is 102.

    The post Erasing the untouchables: the Indonesian way appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Human rights in the age of Southeast Asian extractivism

    At their 48th session, the UN Human Rights Council in 2021 recognised a standalone human right to a safe, clean, healthy and sustainable environment, representing a major development in international human rights law. Yet, for many countries in Southeast Asia, including Thailand, the Philippines and Indonesia, environmental human rights have long been enshrined in their Constitutions and laws. But these nations’ extractive industries have had significant impacts on how the norm is upheld. The differing human rights regimes in these countries highlight the importance of protecting the procedural elements of the right to a healthy environment, such as access to courts, to ensure the substantive right is achieved in practice not just on paper.

    According to the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation, in all three countries over 50% of people generate income from the agricultural sector. Communities are strongly connected to their local environments, they live and earn by the integrity of the ecosystems around them, and are strongly incentivised to fight for environmental conservation. Indigenous peoples in all three nations maintain deep connections to their lands, and manage vast swathes of biodiversity rich forests.

    Related

    Environmental degradation in Indonesia: lessons from Jambi

    Native oligarchs and unscrupulous security apparatuses from the police to the military continue to exploit natural resources with ease and impunity.

    Muhammad Beni Saputra 05 January, 2021

    Religion, culture and history also elevate ecological concerns. In Thai Buddhism, trees are sacred – some belong to local ancestral spirits (puta) whilst others are believed to contain divine entities like Mae Tani. Similarly in Indonesian Islam, some local Islamic institutions reject Western capitalism because it corrodes man’s fundamental responsibility to protect nature, as entrusted by God. Democratisation has also had an influence, with the Philippines protecting a suite of human rights (including the right to a balanced and healthful ecology) in their 1986 Freedom Constitution. This Constitution was drafted as a result of the People Power revolution in 1986, and—like many transitional democracies at the time—was incredibly ambitious in restructuring systems of political power to address economic inequalities and environmental degradation.

    The right to a healthy environment in law

    History, culture and religion have informed the constitutional and legislative reforms in all three countries, with each nation explicitly protecting the right to a healthy environment. Express and comprehensive recognition is critical because the human right to a healthy environment is multi-faceted, with both procedural and substantive dimensions. The procedural dimensions of the right, such as ensuring public access to environmental information and the courts, allows people to enforce their human rights. The substantive dimension of the right is what communities are seeking to protect, including freedom from toxic environments and a safe climate. Both components are essential. The substantive element serves as a vision for the healthy environment that we all need to flourish, whilst the procedural elements create a pathway for us to move towards that vision.

    In the Indonesian Constitution, article 28h(1) states that every person shall “have the right to life…and to enjoy a good and healthy environment”. This high-level statement is affirmed by Indonesian laws like the Law on Environmental Protection and Management (2009), which grants procedural rights for the public to make submissions about the activities that have the potential to harm the environment.

    Thailand’s 2017 Constitution recognises the right to a healthy environment in two sections. First, section 43(2) enshrines people’s rights to “manage, maintain and utilise natural resources, [the] environment and biodiversity”. Second, section 57(2) imposes obligations on the Thai state to “conserve…and use or arrange for utilisation of natural resources, [the] environment and biodiversity”. Thailand has implemented an environmental impact assessment framework for the achievement of these aspirations under its Enhancement and Conservation of the National Environmental Quality Act (2018).

    Finally, the Philippines protects the right to a healthy environment in its Constitution (outlined above) and has enacted legislation to protect environmental rights in the context of developments, pollution and climate change. The Philippines was also noted in a report of the UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights and the Environment for its best practice provision of environmental information to its people.

    But the vision of a safe and healthy environment for people in Southeast Asia is being degraded by rapidly expanding extractivist industries. In all three countries, liberalisation of the mining sector has led to an explosion of (often foreign-owned) mining ventures, and an escalation in human rights abuses. Indonesia is one of the deadliest countries in the Southeast Asian region for environmental defenders. Across the South China Sea, Indigenous peoples and local communities in the Philippines are too often displaced by mining-related environmental devastation. Thailand is no exception, with poor government regulation contributing to unsustainable deforestation (for the benefit of large open-cut mines). All three countries are also rated as vulnerable to climate change impacts, but the growing coal industry threatens progress towards each nation’s Paris Agreement targets.

    Black gold, fool’s gold and the fight for the treasures of a healthy environment

    The extractivist industry is closely tied to political leaders and business oligarchs, and they have certainly asserted influence over reforms to development processes in all three countries. For example, Thailand passed laws in 2014 to enable mining companies to access land without adequate environmental mitigation and Indonesia has revoked the protected environmental status of biodiverse-rich areas for the benefit of major developers.

    So, for many Indigenous peoples and environmental activists, the procedural components of the right to a healthy environment have become essential for the protection of substantive environmental rights. Of most importance is adequate access to the courts.

    In both Thailand and the Philippines, courts have been willing to interpret the right to a healthy environment expansively. Thai courts have repeatedly held mining companies to account for environmental degradation, for example awarding compensation to 22 villagers who experienced environmental harm from lead contamination. Similarly, the Supreme Court of the Philippines has developed world-leading jurisprudence on the right to a healthy environment, outlining that the Philippines government is obligated to conserve a healthy environment for Filipinos in the state’s capacity as parens patriae (Latin for “parent of the nation”).

    Unfortunately, Indonesia is an outlier in this regard. Despite sharing many of the legal dimensions of the right to a healthy environment, Indonesian courts have not followed the Thai or Filipino approach and have largely underutilised the right in jurisprudence. Indeed, Indonesia’s court system is not designed to facilitate environmental human rights cases, as the country’s Human Rights Court does not have jurisdiction to hear alleged environmental human rights abuses. The reluctance of Indonesian courts to engage with the right to a healthy environment is a product of a lack of judicial specialist knowledge and the black-letter approach to Constitutional law employed by Indonesian courts. But such barriers are not absolute, and can be addressed. For example, Thailand has established a specialist environmental division in the court system to facilitate environmental public interest cases.

    The differing experiences of Indonesia, Thailand and the Philippines offer valuable lessons in the era of globalised extractivism, accelerating climate change and the struggle for human rights. While all three countries aspire to protect the right to a healthy environment, experience on the ground highlights that it falls to local communities and activists to assert the right in practice. In jurisdictions where court access is encouraged, the right to a healthy environment flourishes in practice not just on paper. We are all striving for a vision of environmental justice, but the procedural elements of our rights are what allow us to chart a pathway to progress.

    The post Human rights in the age of Southeast Asian extractivism appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • In Indonesia, Sumatra’s coal brings more harm than good

    At the United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP26) in Glasgow this November Indonesia pledged to completely phase out its coal use by 2056. Coal is a primary resource in Indonesia’s energy sector, generating for 65% of electricity in 2029. Amid recession driven by the coronavirus pandemic, by October this year Indonesia had reaped almost 50 trillion rupiah from the mining sector, 80% of which was contributed by coal. This amount was the biggest in a decade. The essential benefits, however, are not directly shared by Indonesia’s regional residents, particularly in Sumatra, due to their daily lives being adversely impacted by coal businesses.

    As Indonesia’s second coal-richest region after Kalimantan, Sumatra is both blessed and cursed by the black gold. On the one hand, coal generates a huge amount of money for some of its provinces. But on the other hand, residents suffer from the impact of rampant coal business operating throughout the island. In Jambi, where coal mines are scattered across the province, thousands of overloaded coal trucks using by the main road each day have infuriated locals. The trucks cause traffic congestions for kilometres, and those living along the main road have no option but to breathe dust and thick diesel fumes every single day. The plight caused by coal trucks does not end there. Coal trucks always swarm petrol stations, not only causing traffic jams, but also impeding residents’ access. This also leads to dark business, with some merchants hoarding diesel fuel just to be resold to coal truck drivers. Thus, it is common to see almost all of Jambi’s petrol stations run out of diesel fuel just a matter of hours after a refill.

    What makes residents more furious is that coal truck drivers, some of whom are reckless, inexperienced and unlicensed, regularly cause traffic accidents which claim dozens of lives. In the three years prior to 2020 there were over 30 residents killed, and in 2021 alone the number reached 34. In addition, some truck drivers often secretly use community roads, pushing locals to take unilateral, punitive measures, from blockading roads to setting coal trucks on fire.

    The catastrophes partly result from an ambiguous regulation concerning coal truck road access. Based on the revised Minerba Law No. 3 of 2020, coal mining companies are required to use special roads for transporting their commodity, yet the law also states that the companies are not restricted from public roads. This loophole is advantageous for mining companies, granting them freedom from the obligation to construct their own roads. When the companies do show their willingness to build new roads, the potential consequences are severe. A road construction granted by the Ministry of Environment and Forestry to Marga Bara Jaya Corporation in an area bordering Jambi and South Sumatra, for instance, allows the company to build a 88-kilometer road, 60 meters wide, through the protected Harapan forest. Not only that, the concession gives the company control of 424 hectares of the pristine forest.

    This road scheme will likely worsen the already intense conflicts between humans and wild animals, especially tigers, in both provinces. In 2019, there were 7 tiger attacks reported in south Sumatra, killing 5 residents and injuring 2 others. In Jambi, this year alone, tigers have killed several villagers, eaten livestock, and terrorized villages.

    With easier access illegal settlers, who have flocked to the Harapan forest area for years, will also follow further worsening deforestation. As a consequence Jambi’s forest people (the Suku Anak Dalam) will be pushed further out of the forest  for settlement and livelihoods. With the forest gone, the Suku Anak Dalam are no longer able to hunt wild boars or gather forest products to sell. Consequently they ransack village crops, which creates tensions and deadly conflicts with locals.

    Road-related problems caused by coal trucks also persist in other parts of Sumatra. Yet the biggest hurdles faced by residents of Aceh, West Sumatra, Bengkulu, and South Sumatra, to name a few, originate from coal power plants which result in multidimensional pollution as well as economic hardship. Respiratory and other diseases are also affecting residents as a direct impact of breathing coal ashes for a long time. For all these reasons, many residents have to flee their homes for good. Yet for others staying is the only option because moving away is just too costly.

    Related

    Environmental degradation in Indonesia: lessons from Jambi

    Native oligarchs and unscrupulous security apparatuses from the police to the military continue to exploit natural resources with ease and impunity.

    Muhammad Beni Saputra 05 January, 2021

    The coal curse affecting Sumatra’s residents is a matter of unhealthy politics. The coal sector is strongly linked to national and regional oligarchs, and coal businesses often play a role as financiers for political candidates. This clientelism has helped boost concession permits in the coal business, from just 750 in 2001 to 10.900 at present. The Ministry for Energy and Mineral Resources declared over 1000 of these  President Joko Widodo revoked 2,078 mineral and coal mining business permits. The clientelist nature is also weakening local governments’ bargaining power vis-à-vis coal mine bosses. Far from punishing companies for their misconduct, invitations to discuss pay rises for their underpaid truck drivers and road construction workers are repeatedly ignored. The same story applies to environmental crime perpetrated by coal mining companies, which occur with ease under a clientelist relationship between local leaders and coal oligarchs.

    The revised Minerba Law No. 3 of 2020 combined with the controversial, conditionally unconstitutional Omnibus Law will make matters worse for Sumatra’s residents and business more profitable with less accountability for coal mining oligarchs. The revised Minerba Law guarantees a contract extension to mining companies, even if they are proven not to exercise their responsibility to safeguard the environment. The law also recentralises mining industries, paving the way for national oligarchs to flex their muscles in the mining business as they did in the Suharto years. Locals opposing or even “bothering” mining activities in their regions they can be convicted or fined under the law. As for the Omnibus Law, it guarantees a 0% of production levy to companies that can increase the added value of coal.

    Despite the phase out and phase down debate over the use of coal at the COP26, the conference has at least set a fixed year for Indonesia to end its coal dependency. Yet, until 2056 coal will likely remain a curse rather than a blessing for many in Sumatra.

    The post In Indonesia, Sumatra’s coal brings more harm than good appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Indonesia’s geopolitical future needs robust climate action

    Southeast Asia is especially exposed to the deluge of consequences that climate change brings. The region is already experiencing unnatural weather patterns, as devastating floods in Malaysia and the Philippines show. Yet, perhaps insufficiently recognised and analysed is how, beyond environmental and economic wreckage, climate change will create upheavals in the geopolitical order, producing new winners and losers. This emerging geopolitical constellation will throw up important questions for policymakers.

    Within Southeast Asia, the country that needs to consider the issue most deeply is fossil-fuel rich Indonesia. As scholars on the topic note, currently those that stand to lose are those who continue to bet on fossil-fuels and are slow to transition their economies, especially those who are fossil-fuel rich and dependent on resource mining. Despite some indications of progress, Indonesia’s most recent climate action flatters to deceive.

    The recently announced carbon tax of USD$2 per ton of CO2 over a set limit is around 40 times less than the amount recommended by established institutions like the IMF. Indonesia’s performance at COP26 was also underwhelming, with its support for the Global Coal to Clean Power Transition Statement conspicuously watered-down. Not only did it decline to support the clause to stop issuance of new permits for coal generation projects, it stopped short of committing to tackling coal, noting that it would merely “consider” going along with the coal phase out, with the additional condition of receiving international aid—a subject its leaders surely know is a major sticking point and is unlikely to be resolved anytime soon. Indonesia then walked back its pledge to end deforestation by 2030, much to the chagrin of both international and domestic actors.

    Indonesia’s long-term position in the global political economy will hinge on whether it decides to stubbornly hold on to fraying systems and merely make half-hearted attempts to address climate change, or if it boldly embarks on extensive reforms to its presently fossil fuel-dependent economy. In particular, much depends on whether it can rapidly phase out coal and take serious advantage of its potential in renewable energies, positioning itself as a provider of a resource with growing—instead of declining—strategic significance.

    Exporting renewable energy, securing geo-economic strength

    Thus far, the vast potential of renewables in Indonesia has been critically underutilised. If fully tapped, its renewable energy sources could generate more than six times its energy needs as measured in 2020 . This wastes a reservoir of potential geopolitical power; developing and exporting renewable energy will allow Indonesia maximum geopolitical gains. This entails eventually developing renewable energy beyond levels of domestic necessity, and channelling excess amounts for export to neighbouring countries that do not have the same capabilities for clean energy production. Developing excess energy is challenging but perhaps necessary to stave off discontent arising from economic nationalism—a long-standing sentiment in Indonesia rooted in its colonial experience. The geopolitical benefits of this would mostly come in the medium-term, but in the meantime, a lower target of credibly signalling intent would allow give neighbouring states a stake in Indonesia’s renewable energy development. This in turn should pave the way for friendlier relations, increased investments, and in some cases the transfer of expertise.

    Significantly, with ramped up renewable energy capabilities, Indonesia would hold the key to development of an ASEAN or Australian-Asian Power Grid. Energy sharing arrangements like these are significant not only for its increased gains in energy efficiency, but also build greater energy security for the region as a whole. Indonesia also plays a key role in the development of this grid because of its geographic position near Australia. Any link between Australia and Southeast Asia, for example recent arrangements by the private company Sun Cable to transport large amounts of solar energy from Australia’s Northern Territory to Singapore, will likely have to run through Indonesia. Indonesia therefore plays the de facto role as coordinator of energy relations with Australia, the latter of which has lofty aspirations to be a clean energy superpower, exporting green hydrogen and key materials necessary for green technologies.

    Further geopolitical significance is exhibited if we understand these dynamics in the context of a rising China. Instead of looking towards Australia, a possible other alternative for ASEAN is to lean on hydropower arrangements from its North, looking at the links between China and Indochinese states like Laos and Myanmar. China, moreover, presently holds the lead in the development of key technologies like solar panels.

    If groupings like the QUAD intend to check the rise of Chinese influence in ASEAN, one way of doing so is to establish clean energy supply chains to break Chinese monopoly. If the QUAD wants to include ASEAN in this supply chain, Indonesia will be the obvious contact point, not only because of its geographical location, but also because of the presence of critical minerals like nickel. Firmly establishing itself as a key node in global supply chains allows Indonesia to be in a stronger position to produce and install clean energy technologies domestically—an area in which it currently lags behind contemporaries like Vietnam. The geopolitical implication would be to ensure that the focal point of Southeast Asian renewable energy supplies is not only the Mekong Delta, but also the Indian Ocean.

    Coal not viable in long-term

    The flipside of cultivating renewable energy is reducing dependence on fossil fuels. Coal plays a dual role in Indonesia’s economy—it is domestically consumed, accounting for over 60 percent of its energy, and as of December 2021, Indonesia is currently the world’s biggest exporter of coal. Coal remains both a key source of revenue as well as a source of geopolitical relevance; major powers like China and India have much greater reason to develop friendly relations with Indonesia to ensure access to this strategic resource.

    Recent trends might give ammunition to sceptics who advocate for a more conservative approach, retaining the large subsidies that underpin coal’s place in Indonesian life. Global demand for coal has picked up in the global pandemic recovery phase, and has in fact soared after global price shocks to natural gas. Furthermore, Chinese demand for Indonesian coal has greatly increased after the souring of Sino-Australian relations disrupted its energy trade. This might seem to vindicate those who think that a coal phase-out is premature.

    The next decade or so will certainly see periodic episodes where fossil fuels will be sought, and producers will certainly benefit during these phases. As Bordoff and O’Sullivan noted in Foreign Affairs magazine, the green transition will not be a smooth process but instead one of heavy experimentation. Yet, observers should resist seduction and not mistake the short-termism of this trend for a strategy with long-term viability. Ultimately, further investment in coal will only increase the amount of stranded assets. An academic study in the journal Nature calculated that Indonesia stands to lose USD$293 billion if it continues on its current path. External demand for Indonesian coal will likely taper off, and the geopolitical relevance of the resource will accordingly recede.

    It is also important to clarify misunderstandings about China’s trajectory, especially given it remains the largest consumer of fossil fuels. As Hsu pointed out in the New York Times, the Chinese turn to coal after the recent natural gas price shock is, contrary to some analyses, not a signal of their long-term direction. In fact, the Chinese reaction has been to double down on their resolve take environmental leadership, and transition quickly to renewable energy in order to ensure energy security. The more important episode that accurately signals Chinese intentions is perhaps the announcement to end funding for new coal plants.

    Upsurge in demand for Indonesian coal, then, is a temporary and fleeting event, not a long-term strategy. This suggests that recent attempts to transition away from coal, like the energy ministry’s Regulation No.26/2021 (RUPTL) should be ramped up, not abandoned.

    Trends in climate politics scholarship

    Merely putting forward policy suggestions for Indonesia or the benefits that they will bring is potentially impotent exercise if one does not bring in a complementary analysis on how to work towards a political situation where these pursuits can be achieved. On this point, recent scholarship on the drivers of climate action could be instructive.

    Related

    Nationalist rhetoric is impeding climate action in Indonesia

    Indonesia’s environmental policies are at odds with the rhetoric around palm oil production and Indonesians are not equipped with enough information to understand the risks of a changing climate.

    Dianty Ningrum 10 February, 2020

    Past arguments have suggested that the reticence of countries like Indonesia to take strong climate action is due to a collective action problem, where countries will only pursue climate action when it is assured that others would do so robustly as well. Forging out on its own would mean being a “sucker”, sacrificing while others benefit. This ostensibly explains the status quo of slow climate action on a global level, and suggests that the solution lies in having greater global dialogue on the issue through international fora like COP. In these fora, states can attain mutual assurance of climate action and feel more secure that they are not pursuing action alone. This global dimension might also explain Indonesia’s reticence in accelerating its green transition as a response to the failure of developed nations to uphold their end of the bargain and providing the adequate climate finance for developing countries like Indonesia—a call that President Jokowi has repeatedly made.

    These arguments, while insightful in many ways, are in the process of being overturned. Scholars Aklin and Mildenberger, for example, have argued convincingly that collective action problem models are inadequate, and that the strength of a country’s climate action is ultimately determined by distributive conflict, or the balance of domestic coalitions. As the saying goes, foreign policy begins at home. This argument confounds the notion of an objective “national interest” implicitly built into prior arguments, where a right course of action or interest can be ascertained without reference to the power differentials within a given society. Their arguments have been echoed by other key scholars working in this field, and this line of inquiry is maybe presently the most dynamic within climate politics scholarship.

    Activists call for jobs and just transition to renewable energy in Indonesia. By 350.org on Flickr (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

    If their research is to be taken seriously, it dictates that to move the needle on climate action, greater support should be given to local groups actively calling for greater decarbonisation, including burgeoning grassroots and youth movements. Climate activism has often been dismissed as a nuisance or even counterproductive, but this is not borne out by rigorous research. A January 2021 study found that familiarity with key climate activists like Greta Thunberg increased the likelihood that others would be willing to take collective action on climate change. Empowering the numerous grassroots and youth movements that have popped up in Indonesia over the past few years would recalibrate calculations over the distribution of gains of stronger climate policy. Furthermore, equipping activism with a geopolitical angle might prove useful—grassroots activists could be seen to not just be fighting for the environment, but also to ensure the nation’s geopolitical future is on steady ground. This allows activists to find unlikely partners and build coalitions with those within the foreign policy or security establishment.

    Recent accounts suggesting that Indonesia is surging ahead with the development of renewable energy against and despite the interests of its powerful coal lobby are at best premature, and at worst misleading. Indonesia’s coal industry is politically highly influential and its interests deeply embedded in connected industries. It would be imprudent to discount its ability to wield its influence to disrupt any progress or read recent policies as admissions of its defeat. Much more has to be done on the climate front in Indonesia, not only to stem environmental damage, but also the relatively more Machiavellian reason of securing a strong position in the emerging geopolitical order.

    The post Indonesia’s geopolitical future needs robust climate action appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Pertanyakan niat: pemerintah Indonesia tak berkomitmen hapuskan kekerasan seksual

    This article is available in English at the Georgetown Journal of International Affairs.

    Dengan dihilangkannya kata “penghapusan” dari RUU kekerasan seksual di Indonesia, terlihat bahwa bangsa ini tidak lagi berusaha untuk menghentikan kekerasan seksual melainkan hanya sekadar menghukumnya saja.

    Meskipun dalam beberapa dekade sudah ada sedikit kemajuan keragaman gender dan seksualitas di Indonesia, namun aksi nyata masih terbatas. Bersamaan dengan RUU Tindak Pidana Kekerasan Seksual (RUU PKS) yang tidak lagi berfokus pada pencegahan kekerasan seksual, komitmen bangsa terhadap warganya patut dipertanyakan.

    ****
    RUU Indonesia untuk menghapuskan kekerasan seksual masih terus terbengkalai. RUU Penghapusan Kekerasan Seksual (PKS) pertama kali diusulkan pada tahun 2016, dan meskipun telah mengalami banyak perubahan yang diperdebatkan-paling baru di tahun 2021- masih belum ada kepastian mengenai kapan RUU tersebut akan disahkan.

    Dalam naskah terbarunya, RUU yang telah mengalami pengurangan dari sembilan menjadi empat bentuk kekerasan seksual. Ini menandakan dengan jelas kegagalan pemerintah dan jajaran pengadilan Indonesia dalam mengambil sikap etis yang efektif tentang kekerasan seksual terhadap warga negaranya sendiri, khususnya terhadap perempuan dan anggota komunitas LGBTQI+. Lima bentuk kekerasan seksual yang dihapuskan di antaranya kawin paksa, aborsi paksa, pelacuran paksa, perbudakan seksual dan penyiksaan seksual.

    Selain itu, RUU yang berganti nama menjadi RUU Tindak Pidana Kekerasan Seksual dengan tegas menandakan bahwa kata ‘penghapusan’ tak lagi penting. Memasuki masa jabatan keduanya, Presiden Joko Widodo harus segera mengambil tindakan karena tingkat kekerasan seksual dan domestik kian meningkat di masa pandemi.

    Ketika Indonesia mulai menganut paham demokrasi pada tahun 1998 setelah peristiwa dilengserkannya pemimpin otoriter, Presiden Suharto, ada banyak harapan untuk mewujudkan kesetaraan gender dan seksualitas.

    Ada sejumlah perubahan yang sekarang sudah mulai berlaku seperti pembentukan Komnas Perempuan. Tahun-tahun awal demokrasi Indonesia merupakan masa di mana bangsa membangun fondasi yang kokoh bagi seluruh warganya. Bahkan, Indonesia membangun landasan ini di atas sejarah yang kerap kali secara mengejutkan mendukung pluralitas gender dan seksualitas.

    Sejarah yang kaya akan keragaman gender dan seksualitas

    Sama seperti negara lainnya, Indonesia memiliki masa lalu yang kompleks terkait gender dan keragaman seksual, namun ada bukti bahwa masyarakat terkadang mendukung hal ini. Salah satu contoh yang menarik perhatian dunia (adalah lewat sandiwara Robert Wilson berjudul La Galigo) yang berasal dari Sulawesi Selatan.

    Terdapat bukti tertulis dari misionaris yang melakukan perjalan ke Sulawesi Selatan pada tahun 1500-an yang menceritakan tentang bissu, pemimpin spiritual androgini yang memperoleh kekuatan dengan cara menggabungkan unsur-unsur perempuan/laki-laki/maskulin/feminin.

    Bissu adalah komunitas tokoh spiritual yang telah lama berperan di Sulawesi Selatan, termasuk dalam memfasilitasi pernikahan kerajaan. Jauh dari apa yang disebut sebagai pengadopsian budaya barat, dukungan, inklusivitas gender dan keragaman seksualitas seperti itu sudah ada sebelum Westernisasi skala besar terjadi. Bahkan, para misionaris Eropa lah yang mencaci maki pemegang kekuasaan di Sulawesi Selatan karena menghormati pemimpin spiritual bissu yang berbeda secara gender dan seksualitas.

    Salahkan budaya barat

    Terlepas dari sejarah ini, perdebatan kontemporer yang dominan di Indonesia memposisikan keragaman gender dan seksualitas sebagai hasil impor asing yang tidak diinginkan. Penempatan ekspresi gender atau seksualitas di luar standar cis-heteronormatif inilah yang menghambat pengesahan RUU Penghapusan Kekerasan Seksual. Orang-orang seperti tokoh agama konservatif dan beberapa politisi yang menentang RUU ini mengatakan bahwa jika RUU ini disahkan, akan sulit menghentikan orang Indonesia dari berhubungan seks dengan siapa pun yang mereka suka.

    Pemikiran sesat ini juga tercermin dalam pelaksanaan pendidikan seksualitas komprehensif yang mencakup unsur konsensual dan SOGIESC (Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, Expression, Sex Characteristics).

    Misalnya, ada persepsi yang salah bahwa jika kita mengajarkan konsep konsensual seks kepada anak-anak kita, artinya kita mendorong kaum muda untuk berhubungan seks, sedangkan mengajarkan SOGIESC berarti mengubah orientasi seksual dan identitas gender seseorang. Pola pikir konservatif ini bertentangan dengan fakta bahwa pendidikan seksualitas komprehensif justru melindungi anak dari kekerasan seksual.

    Tingginya tingkat kekerasan berbasis gender

    Walaupun temuan utama dari survei Violence Against Women (Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan) di Jakarta mengungkapkan bahwa sekitar satu dari tiga wanita dengan rentang usia 15 hingga 64 tahun tercatat pernah mengalami berbagai bentuk kekerasan dalam hidup mereka, namun tindak lanjut dari rancangan undang-undang ini tetap dihentikan.

    Meskipun data resmi seputar kekerasan terhadap populasi LGBTQI+ tidak mencukupi, laporan dari Human Right Watch mencatat adanya tingkat kekerasan yang mengkhawatirkan dalam lingkup orientasi seksual dan identitas gender, dimulai dari penggerebekan polisi yang sistematis hingga ditelanjangi, diperkosa dan dibakar hidup-hidup.

    Sementara situasinya suram, muncul beberapa cerita yang membawa harapan. Misalnya, baru-baru ini BBC memuat sebuah berita yang menampilkan Amara Alfikar, seorang trans pria yang juga merupakan tokoh agama asal Indonesia.

    Kisah Amar Alfikar menginspirasi banyak hal, terutama karena ia menunjukkan bagaimana Islam, yang sering kali disamarkan sebagai lawan dari keragaman gender dan seksualitas, mengakomodasikan keberagaman tersebut.

    Bahkan, ketika para misionaris Portugis datang ke Sulawesi Selatan pada abad ke-16 berniat untuk mengubah kepercayaan penduduk setempat menjadi Kristen, bissu menyarankan para bangsawan untuk menerima tawaran konversi agama dari utusan Muslim yang ada di sana pada waktu yang sama. Bissu mengatakan bahwa dalam Islam, mereka bisa melihat tempat bagi diri mereka sendiri yang tidak bisa mereka lihat dalam bentuk kekristenan yang dihadirkan. Tentu saja alasan-alasan lain ikut berperan dalam masyarakat di Sulawesi Utara yang menerima Islam sebagai keyakinan mereka, dan menolak Kristen. Namun, patut dicatat bahwa orang Portugis menyebut bissu sebagai penghalang utama misi mereka.

    Penguatan konservatisme agama dan politik, yang didasarkan pada ideologi seksis, homofobia, dan transfobia yang kuat membuat RUU Kriminalisasi Kekerasan Seksual di Indonesia sulit untuk  disahkan. Dalam berbagai hal, sungguh menggembirakan melihat keberagaman mampu bertahan dari tekanan pandemi. COVID-19 telah memberikan dampak yang merugikan dan mematikan bagi perempuan dan komunitas LGBTQI+ di Indonesia.

    Akses rutin layanan kesehatan seksual dan reproduksi, seperti kontrasepsi hormonal, pengobatan antiretroviral (ARV) kondom dan program untuk menjangkau populasi rentan, mengalami pengurangan yang signifikan karena sumber daya yang ada dialihkan untuk menangani COVID-19.

    Ketika orang-orang berkunjung ke fasilitas kesehatan untuk mendapatkan perawatan dan vaksinasi COVID 19, banyak yang mengalami dilema dalam mengungkapkan kondisi kesehatan yang mendasarinya, seperti misalnya HIV, yang disebabkan oleh ketakutan akan ditolak karena memiliki status kesehatan yang khusus. Target kekerasan yang paling rentan, yaitu perempuan transgender, memiliki akses terbatas ke perawatan kesehatan karena diskriminasi yang mencolok, dan kurangnya akses ke dokumentasi hukum dikarenakan beberapa dari mereka dipaksa untuk meninggalkan rumah pada usia muda.

    Kekurangan RUU

    Awalnya diusulkan pada 26 Januari 2016, RUU Penghapusan Kekerasan Seksual (RUU PKS) diusulkan untuk membantu melindungi warga negara Indonesia dari kekerasan seksual. RUU PKS juga awalnya bertujuan untuk mencegah kekerasan seksual dan memberikan lebih banyak hak kepada penyintas, termasuk penyintas perkosaan dalam perkawinan. Komnas Perempuan dan Forum Penyedia Layanan merupakan pengusul awal RUU PKS. Namun sejak tahun 2016, RUU ini hanya mendekam di pengadilan. Pada tahun 2020, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) menghentikan pembahasannya dengan alasan “perkara sulit.”

    RUU versi Agustus 2021 memiliki beberapa perbedaan dari RUU aslinya. Misalnya, sekarang hanya terdapat lima bentuk kekerasan seksual yang diakui, bukan sembilan sebagaimana sebelumnya. Kelima bentuk tersebut adalah: Pelecehan Seksual (Pasal 2), Pemaksaan Kontrasepsi (Pasal 3), Pemaksaan Hubungan Seksual (Pasal 4), Eksploitasi Seksual (Pasal 5), dan tindak Pidana Kekerasan Seksual yang disertai dengan tindak pidana lainnya (Pasal 6). Sungguh tragis bahwa fokusnya kini murni pada penuntutan tindakan kriminal dan pada tingkat mana pun tidak difokuskan pada pemberantasan kekerasan seksual sejak awal.

    Related

    A survivor-centred Sexual Violence Bill in Indonesia?

    A survivor-centred perspective can transform the safety of women in society by pivoting on principles of justice and fairness.

    Selma Theofany 26 October, 2021

    Ada beberapa kekurangan dari RUU tersebut. Misalnya, RUU yang direvisi menawarkan sangat sedikit perlindungan bagi penyintas kekerasan seksual. Aparat penegak hukum hanya akan berbuat seadanya untuk mendukung para korban, dan ini hanya akan memperburuk keadaan dari para korban. RUU yang direvisi juga hanya memberikan sedikit dukungan kepada kementerian atau lembaga untuk melindungi para penyintas. Pemerintah tidak dimandatkan untuk mendukung korban dan tidak ada peraturan yang memaksa mereka untuk mendukung korban. Selain itu, RUU yang direvisi tidak mewajibkan layanan seperti Pusat Layanan Terpadu untuk mendukung para korban.

    Peran layanan perlindungan seperti paralegal untuk membantu korban telah dihapus. RUU yang direvisi tidak mendukung kepentingan dan kebutuhan khusus dari para korban penyandang disabilitas. Dengan demikian, tidak ada dukungan untuk merekrut juru bahasa isyarat atau bantuan psikologis. Terakhir, RUU yang direvisi tidak mengatur kekerasan gender berbasis online.

    Namun demikian, sangat penting diingat bahwa pemerintah Indonesia harus mengabaikan suara-suara yang berbeda dan menyadari urgensi untuk mengesahkan RUU ini, meskipun dalam versi yang lebih lunak dari RUU ini hanya menawarkan sedikit perlindungan dari kekerasan seksual. Pengesahannya akan menjadi langkah pertama untuk memastikan keselamatan warga di negara mereka sendiri.

    Terjemahan oleh:

    • Putri Nurul A’la – Magister Interpreting dan Translation di Monash University, Australia.
    • Ashanti Dayani Ajengpitaloka -Sarjana Pendidikan Bahasa Inggris di Universitas Negeri Semarang, Jawa Tengah, Indonesia.
    • Silvia Cristine Hasianta Manurung – Mahasiswa Pascasarjana di Universitas Gajah Mada, Yogyakarta, Indonesia.

    The post Pertanyakan niat: pemerintah Indonesia tak berkomitmen hapuskan kekerasan seksual appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Video: Mental health in Indonesia: then, now and things to come

    Mental illness has historically dwelt in the shadows of the global health and development agenda and only recently has moved from the margins to become a central priority in research and policy. Mental disorders account for 30% of the worldwide non-fatal disease burden and 10% of the overall disease burden, including death and disability, and the cost to the global economy is estimated to reach as high as USD 6 trillion by 2030. Large middle- and low-income countries like Indonesia struggle with a plethora of challenges in delivering adequate mental health care to its 270.2 million citizens. Centralised funding for Indonesian mental health is only 1% of the national health budget; health expenditure is around 3% of GDP. National health programming such as Indonesia Sehat, the incorporation of mental health into primary care basic standards and voluntary contributions from provincial budgets does provide some additional resources. However, there is a severe shortage of mental health personnel, treatment and care facilities, especially outside the island of Java.

    Estimations based on the 2018 Basic Health Survey (RISKESDAS) indicate there are 450 000 families in Indonesia with at least one member diagnosed with schizophrenia; given the high level of stigma against mental illness and psychosocial disabilities, we suggest this number is much larger. Many of these people are subject to human rights abuses, being left to languish in cages, stocks or chains referred to as Pasung. Human Rights Watch estimated that 12,800 people were experiencing Pasung at the end of 2018. Over 26.23 million people, more than the entire population of Australia, suffer from clinically relevant symptoms of anxiety and depression and 16.33 million likely meet the diagnostic criteria for a depressive disorder.

    Although there is a shift to community-based outpatient models of care, Indonesia’s 48 mental  hospitals and 269 psychiatric wards in general hospitals are still the primary sources of care. There are just over 1000 registered psychiatrists, 2000 clinical psychologists, 7000 community mental health nurses, 1500 mental health trained GPs and 7000 lay mental health workers unevenly distributed across the archipelago, (Ministry of Health Regulation on Pasung Management, 2017; Pols, 2020). Need outstrips supply, with eight provinces without a mental hospital: three of these hospitals without a single psychiatrist. Less than half of all primary care centres and only 56% of government district hospitals are equipped to handle mental health cases. Fortunately, there are many passionate and committed mental health personnel, government officials, academics, consumer group founders and mental health advocates who are working tirelessly to implement the vision embodied by the 2014 Indonesian Mental Health Law. Our webinar for World Mental Health Day is a small sample of these extraordinary individuals, who will share their experiences in Indonesian mental health.

    Dr Nova Riyanti Yusuf, a psychiatrist, legislator (member of the DPR from 2009-14 and 2018-19), novelist, scholar, television personality and activist, was one of the driving forces behind the 2014 mental health law. She will talk about the ongoing journey of the mental health law, what its vision is for Indonesian mental health and the current state of implementation at the grass roots level. Professor Hans Pols, a renown psychiatric historian based at University of Sydney and expert on Indonesian mental health will then take us through a brief history of Indonesian Psychiatry and will talk about some of the emerging trends for the future of the profession across the archipelago. Anto Sg, Pasung survivor and current recipient of an Australia Award currently studying a Master of Health Promotion at Deakin University, will share his person experience of Pasung and introduce the survivor or consumer group movement in Indonesia. Dr Erminia Colucci currently based at Department of Psychology, Middlesex University, UK will is working with the Center for Public Mental Health (CPMH), Psychology at the University of Gadjah Mada and Ade Prastyani, GP and scholar on traditional healing approaches to mental health. We will show a short exert of their upcoming film produced by their collaborative Together4MentalHealth. After which, CPMH director, distinguished academic and clinical psychologist Dr Diana Setiyawati will provide us with a current update on community mental health initiatives in the age of Covid19. Aliza Hunt, Centre for Mental Health Research PhD Candidate and Endeavour Scholar at the ANU is chairing the session.

    The post Video: Mental health in Indonesia: then, now and things to come appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Webinar: Women’s rights & gender equality in Indonesia

    To mark International Human Rights Day, the ANU Indonesia Institute is hosting a discussion on women’s rights and gender equality in Indonesia. Speakers will examine the extent to which Indonesian women have achieved equality in a broad array of political, economic and social fields, and what Indonesian women are doing today to overcome the obstacles that lie in the path of gender equality. Join us for what is sure to be an important, challenging and inspiring discussion.

    When: 9 December 2021

    2-4pm AEDT (Canberra UTC+11)
    10am-12pm WIB (Jakarta UTC+7)

    Where: on ZOOM

    CLICK HERE TO REGISTER TO ATTEND

    Please note: Simultaneous translation from English into Bahasa Indonesia will be available on a separate channel in the zoom meeting.

    Chair

    Dr Eva Nisa
    Senior Lecturer, School of Culture, History and Languages, and ANU Indonesia Institute
    The Australian National University.

    Topics and speakers

    Pursuing equal political representation.

    Sri Budi Eko Wardani
    Lecturer in the Department of Political Science and Director of the Center for Political Studies, Universitas Indonesia.
    Achieving women’s sexual and reproductive rights and health.

    Dr Marcia Soumokil
    Country Director IPAS Indonesia (Yayasan Inisiatif Perubahan Akses menuju Sehat Indonesia)
    Countering gender-based violence and harassment.

    Anindya Restuviani
    Director of Jakarta Feminist and Co-Director of Hollaback! Jakarta.
    The gender pay gap and female labour force participation.

    Dr Diana Contreras Suarez
    Melbourne Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research, University of Melbourne.
    Women in the media and building a feminist voice.

    Devi Asmarani
    Editor-in-Chief and co-founder of women-focused webmagazine Magdalene (www.magdalene.co)

    Speaker Biographies

    Dr Eva Nisa is a cultural anthropologist and expert in Islamic studies. Her research and publications focus on the intersections between religious, cultural, political, economic, legal, social, and philosophical aspects of peoples’ lives. She is interested in global currents of Islam reshaping the lives of Muslims in Southeast Asia, especially Indonesia and Malaysia. Her research has involved international collaborative projects with scholars from the USA, Germany, Australia, the Netherlands, Indonesia, Austria, Malaysia, New Zealand, Thailand and Singapore. Currently, she serves on the editorial board of The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology. 

    Dr Marcia Soumokil is the director of Ipas Indonesia. Prior to joining Ipas, Dr. Soumokil worked for several international organizations within Indonesia in the areas of HIV, adolescent reproductive health, maternal and newborn health, and health governance. Dr. Soumokil is a trained medical doctor and began her career as a general practice physician in a community health clinic. She also holds a Masters of Public Health degree from University of Melbourne, Australia. She currently serves on the boards of the Indonesia AIDS Coalition. 

    Sri Budi Eko Wardani is a lecturer in Department of Political Science Universitas Indonesia. She is also the Director of Center for Political Studies Universitas Indonesia. She is taking her doctoral degree in politics at Department of Political Science Universitas Indonesia. Some of her previous notable research were Indonesian Voting Behavior on 1999 Election (1999-2000, collaboration with Ohio State University, USA), Strengthen and Monitoring of 2004 General Election (2003-2004, collaboration with CETRO),  Women Political Participation and Advocacy for Adoption Affirmative Policy in Political Party Law and Election Law (2007-2009, collaboration with The Asia Foundation), and Representation of Women in National and Local Legislature after 2009 Election (July – December 2010, collaboration with The Asia Foundation & AusAID).  

    Dr Diana Contreras Suarez is a Senior Research Fellow at the Melbourne Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research. Her research is driven by questions on how to improve the lives of vulnerable and disadvantaged populations, and focuses on understanding human capital formation throughout the life cycle as well as how public policy or programs work on achieving improved lives. She uses econometrics techniques to look into those questions, with most of her expertise in developing countries, including Indonesia.  

    Devi Asmarani is the Editor-in-Chief and co-founder of women-focused webmagazine Magdalene (www.magdalene.co). Her 25 years’ experience in journalism began at The Jakarta Post, followed by The Straits Times of Singapore, where she wrote news reports, in-depth articles and analyses on various issues from politics, conflicts, terrorism to natural disasters. She has also written columns, articles, essays as well as works of fiction for various local and international publications. She is also a writing and journalism instructor, and gender and media facilitator, and has worked as a consultant with international organizations. Devi is the recipient of S.K. Trimurti Awards for her work in promoting gender equality in journalism.  

    Anindya Restuviani is Program Director of Jakarta Feminist and Co-Director of Hollaback! Jakarta. She is a feminist activist with expertise in gender equality and a history of working in the development sector on issues of gender, children, and vulnerable youth with strong experience in feminist advocacy and organizing within grassroots communities and at the local, national and global level.

    The post Webinar: Women’s rights & gender equality in Indonesia appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Indonesia’s Jalan tengah in the new age of great power rivalries

    As the great power rivalry intensifies, many pundits have already indicated that preserving autonomy is wishful thinking for a middle power such as Indonesia. But while the room for hedging has undoubtedly shrunk, Indonesia will continue to find ways to preserve a significant measure of its strategic autonomy. On September 2, 1948, when Mohammad Hatta, Indonesia’s first vice president, uttered the phrase mendayung diantara dua karang (translated as navigating or rowing between two reefs), the fear of having to succumb to another period of subjugation was just a bitter fruit that they were not willing to swallow.

    The fear of a loss of agency is alive and well in Indonesia’s modern collective unconscious as a post-colonial state. But as Leonard Sebastian and I noted in our essay: “remembrance of things past is not necessarily a preference for historical precedence. This is not the basis of a “free and active” (bebas aktif) foreign policy strategy”. My referencing Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time) carries the subtext of the fluidity of memory: there are things that we remember, but there are things that we remember well.

    The word “mendayung” or “navigate” evokes a textural imagination of the struggle for independence, and Indonesians remember that “navigate” is the essence of our bebas aktif foreign policy doctrine. Mendayung precludes alignment. As Hatta posited: “Do we, Indonesians, in the struggle for the freedom of our people and our country, only have to choose between Russia and America?”

    President Joko Widodo in a bilateral meeting with the President of the United States, Joe Biden at COP26 in 2021. (Public domain)

    What we remember well is that to “navigate” is about playing two superpowers off against each other; this is what Indonesia culturally regards as jalan tengah, translated as the middle way.

    What is jalan tengah, and why should we care?

    Jalan tengah is not a middle position. It is about taking risks. When Indonesia withdrew from the UN in 1965, it rejected Kissinger’s attempts to persuade Jakarta to normalise its relationship with Beijing following the US-China rapprochement in 1972, and organised military exercises in the Natunas in 1996, 2016, 2020, and 2021 against one of its biggest investors––China. These are not risk averse attitudes.

    Jalan tengah refers to a constant searching for a new equilibrium, conjuring the cultural imagery of a Pinisi ship as it navigates the ocean. The goal is twofold: to preserve strategic autonomy and to exploit a great power rivalry to its advantage. Such underlying principles perhaps inspired former Foreign Minister Marty Natalegawa’s “dynamic equilibrium.” Natalegawa’s postulation was a modern reinterpretation of jalan tengah, magnifying the aspect of preserving Indonesia’s voice in regional matters. As Natalegawa’s jargon was abandoned during Joko Widodo’s administration, the underlying principle of jalan tengah continues to be prominent but reinterpreted.

    As the inherently unstable multipolarity comes of age, jalan tengah teaches two lessons about Indonesia–––one of policy and another of identity.

    Related

    Public opinion and civil society: shaping Indonesia’s South China Sea Policy?

    Public opinion should force the Indonesian government to consider and adjust its policies and responses to China in the South China Sea.

    Aristyo Rizka Darmawan 16 March, 2021

    Jalan tengah makes Indonesia’s concept of strategic autonomy pliable. Under the Jokowi presidency, Indonesia has been willing to sacrifice some degree of autonomy by accepting Chinese investments for the sake of economic development. There are two revealing examples. First, Jakarta started to design (in some instances) an unfair bidding process for investments that only China could access. Second, violating its own domestic law that forbids foreign investors from owning shares totalling greater than 49 per cent, Jakarta made an exception for a consortium of Chinese companies, Shanghai Decent Investment (Group) Co., Ltd., to own 66.25 per cent of the shares in Indonesia’s Morowali Industrial Park (IMIP). (IMIP is the biggest cluster of Chinese investments in Indonesia to date.)

    The two examples are not a sign of China’s success in buying Indonesia’s acquiescence. In fact, Beijing has accepted many conditions imposed by Jakarta, such as the elimination of sovereign guarantees in some high-profile investments (e.g., Jakarta-Bandung High Speed Rail). Moreover, Jakarta continues to contest the legality of China’s traditional fishing ground claim in the Natunas.

    Indonesia’s decision to gamble with a degree of its strategic autonomy should thus be regarded as the latest reinterpretation of what jalan tengah entails. The gambit of compromising autonomy is also a tactic to entice the U.S. to start paying attention to Indonesia. This has borne fruit. Washington has acknowledged Indonesia’s renaming of the far southern end of the South China Sea as the North Natuna Sea. The US’ acknowledgement serves to contest China’s influence in Indonesia. Gifts from the two superpowers are the desired middle way.

    Joko Widodo meeting Xi Jinping, March 2015. (Public domain)

    The Loftusian idea––“memory is a living thing that changes shape, expands, shrinks, and expands again”––illustrates the way in which the Indonesian elite interacts with the concept of jalan tengah. This time, Indonesia blurs its remembrance of non-alignment and bends its strategic autonomy like a coconut tree. This is the twenty first century reinterpretation on how Indonesia exercises the “free” element in its post-colonial foreign policy.

    The other significance of jalan tengah is ontological. It brings to mind Indonesia’s embrace of duality, like a wayang kulit (shadow puppet) that embodies both ascetic and cunning quality. In Hatta’s 1951 address, he noted that “As a nation which has struggled against imperialism and colonialism for many a decade, we have the highest ideals concerning the fundamental principles of life. We want to see our nation live in prosperity and well-being, free from want”. Hatta then ventured on to explain how Indonesia’s economy should contain elements of socialism and capitalism (a blend known as koperasi or a cooperative), a system that prevails to date. Embracing duality perhaps partly explains why it is difficult for Indonesia to let go of its authoritarian tendency for control despite being a democratic and decentralised state. Similarly, in navigating the great power rivalry, jalan tengah is a balancing act, not against the US or China, but over its own conviction: the extent to which Indonesia is willing to compromise its strategic autonomy.

    The post Indonesia’s Jalan tengah in the new age of great power rivalries appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Indonesia’s Jalan tengah in the new age of great power rivalries

    As the great power rivalry intensifies, many pundits have already indicated that preserving autonomy is wishful thinking for a middle power such as Indonesia. But while the room for hedging has undoubtedly shrunk, Indonesia will continue to find ways to preserve a significant measure of its strategic autonomy. On September 2, 1948, when Mohammad Hatta, Indonesia’s first vice president, uttered the phrase mendayung diantara dua karang (translated as navigating or rowing between two reefs), the fear of having to succumb to another period of subjugation was just a bitter fruit that they were not willing to swallow.

    The fear of a loss of agency is alive and well in Indonesia’s modern collective unconscious as a post-colonial state. But as Leonard Sebastian and I noted in our essay: “remembrance of things past is not necessarily a preference for historical precedence. This is not the basis of a “free and active” (bebas aktif) foreign policy strategy”. My referencing Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time) carries the subtext of the fluidity of memory: there are things that we remember, but there are things that we remember well.

    The word “mendayung” or “navigate” evokes a textural imagination of the struggle for independence, and Indonesians remember that “navigate” is the essence of our bebas aktif foreign policy doctrine. Mendayung precludes alignment. As Hatta posited: “Do we, Indonesians, in the struggle for the freedom of our people and our country, only have to choose between Russia and America?”

    President Joko Widodo in a bilateral meeting with the President of the United States, Joe Biden at COP26 in 2021. (Public domain)

    What we remember well is that to “navigate” is about playing two superpowers off against each other; this is what Indonesia culturally regards as jalan tengah, translated as the middle way.

    What is jalan tengah, and why should we care?

    Jalan tengah is not a middle position. It is about taking risks. When Indonesia withdrew from the UN in 1965, it rejected Kissinger’s attempts to persuade Jakarta to normalise its relationship with Beijing following the US-China rapprochement in 1972, and organised military exercises in the Natunas in 1996, 2016, 2020, and 2021 against one of its biggest investors––China. These are not risk averse attitudes.

    Jalan tengah refers to a constant searching for a new equilibrium, conjuring the cultural imagery of a Pinisi ship as it navigates the ocean. The goal is twofold: to preserve strategic autonomy and to exploit a great power rivalry to its advantage. Such underlying principles perhaps inspired former Foreign Minister Marty Natalegawa’s “dynamic equilibrium.” Natalegawa’s postulation was a modern reinterpretation of jalan tengah, magnifying the aspect of preserving Indonesia’s voice in regional matters. As Natalegawa’s jargon was abandoned during Joko Widodo’s administration, the underlying principle of jalan tengah continues to be prominent but reinterpreted.

    As the inherently unstable multipolarity comes of age, jalan tengah teaches two lessons about Indonesia–––one of policy and another of identity.

    Related

    Public opinion and civil society: shaping Indonesia’s South China Sea Policy?

    Public opinion should force the Indonesian government to consider and adjust its policies and responses to China in the South China Sea.

    Aristyo Rizka Darmawan 16 March, 2021

    Jalan tengah makes Indonesia’s concept of strategic autonomy pliable. Under the Jokowi presidency, Indonesia has been willing to sacrifice some degree of autonomy by accepting Chinese investments for the sake of economic development. There are two revealing examples. First, Jakarta started to design (in some instances) an unfair bidding process for investments that only China could access. Second, violating its own domestic law that forbids foreign investors from owning shares totalling greater than 49 per cent, Jakarta made an exception for a consortium of Chinese companies, Shanghai Decent Investment (Group) Co., Ltd., to own 66.25 per cent of the shares in Indonesia’s Morowali Industrial Park (IMIP). (IMIP is the biggest cluster of Chinese investments in Indonesia to date.)

    The two examples are not a sign of China’s success in buying Indonesia’s acquiescence. In fact, Beijing has accepted many conditions imposed by Jakarta, such as the elimination of sovereign guarantees in some high-profile investments (e.g., Jakarta-Bandung High Speed Rail). Moreover, Jakarta continues to contest the legality of China’s traditional fishing ground claim in the Natunas.

    Indonesia’s decision to gamble with a degree of its strategic autonomy should thus be regarded as the latest reinterpretation of what jalan tengah entails. The gambit of compromising autonomy is also a tactic to entice the U.S. to start paying attention to Indonesia. This has borne fruit. Washington has acknowledged Indonesia’s renaming of the far southern end of the South China Sea as the North Natuna Sea. The US’ acknowledgement serves to contest China’s influence in Indonesia. Gifts from the two superpowers are the desired middle way.

    Joko Widodo meeting Xi Jinping, March 2015. (Public domain)

    The Loftusian idea––“memory is a living thing that changes shape, expands, shrinks, and expands again”––illustrates the way in which the Indonesian elite interacts with the concept of jalan tengah. This time, Indonesia blurs its remembrance of non-alignment and bends its strategic autonomy like a coconut tree. This is the twenty first century reinterpretation on how Indonesia exercises the “free” element in its post-colonial foreign policy.

    The other significance of jalan tengah is ontological. It brings to mind Indonesia’s embrace of duality, like a wayang kulit (shadow puppet) that embodies both ascetic and cunning quality. In Hatta’s 1951 address, he noted that “As a nation which has struggled against imperialism and colonialism for many a decade, we have the highest ideals concerning the fundamental principles of life. We want to see our nation live in prosperity and well-being, free from want”. Hatta then ventured on to explain how Indonesia’s economy should contain elements of socialism and capitalism (a blend known as koperasi or a cooperative), a system that prevails to date. Embracing duality perhaps partly explains why it is difficult for Indonesia to let go of its authoritarian tendency for control despite being a democratic and decentralised state. Similarly, in navigating the great power rivalry, jalan tengah is a balancing act, not against the US or China, but over its own conviction: the extent to which Indonesia is willing to compromise its strategic autonomy.

    The post Indonesia’s Jalan tengah in the new age of great power rivalries appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Rethinking memories of Darul Islam

    Recent events in Afghanistan, where the Taliban have retaken political control, have also triggered political concern in Indonesia. This holds true not only in terms of current support and sympathies for the Taliban but also, as Kathryn Robinson explains well, when it comes to the memories of Indonesia’s own past and traumas of radical Islamic rule under the banner of the Darul Islam movement, which started in 1949 and occupied large areas especially in West Java and southern Sulawesi in the late 1950s until the mid-1960s. Kathryn Robinson stresses the cruelty of the Darul Islam forces, which not only introduced polygamy and the infamous hudut-punishments such as stoning for adulterers and amputation of arms for thieves, but which also evicted non-Muslim populations as they feared that they would support the Indonesian Army, Darul Islam’s enemy. This evoking of memories is important if one wants to understand how non-Muslim minorities at a local level perceive globally mediated events, as events in far-away Afghanistan may have concrete meanings in the local contexts elsewhere.

    In my research on indigeneity among the Duri in the highlands of South Sulawesi I frequently came across narratives and memories of the Darul Islam movement, which had one of its strongholds in the area between the Christian Toraja in the north and the Bugis-dominated lowlands in the south. The rugged landscape, ideal for their guerilla warfare, and the fact that the Duri were already Muslims were the most important preconditions allowing Darul Islam rule there for more than a decade. However, their rule would probably less stable there if they would not have enjoyed support of the local population.

    While indigenous organisations often stress traditions such as animist beliefs and traditional political organisation, I expected to find many stories critical of the Darul Islam movement among indigenous activists and in villages now applying for recognition as indigenous communities. After all, the Darul Islam movement not only banned the pre-Islamic features of the Duri’s worldview (known as Aluk Tojolo in Duri and similar to Torajan traditions of, for instance, ancestor worship) but also aimed to destroy all traditional political hierarchies and political institutions that they saw as being at odds with proper Islam. I was, however, surprised to find that local activists belonging to Indonesia’s largest indigenous organisation, AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusanatara, The Indigenous Alliance of the Archipelago), never criticised Darul Islam. Many even defended Darul Islam and its charismatic leader Kahar Muzakar. A critical stance toward Darul Islam would be in line with official state narratives that describe Darul Islam as gerombolan (gangs) and as anti-nationalist troublemakers, although that did change somewhat in post-authoritarian Indonesia.

    The traumas of the period in which Darul Islam ruled the area are still present. Not only is that time remembered as an era of shortages of essential items such as salt or clothes, but also as an era of violence. “The life of a human being,” a local AMAN activist told me “was worth no more than the life of a chicken.” But in contrast to the narratives collected by Kathryn Robinson in Sorowako, many Duri rather blame the Indonesian Army for destroying their houses every time the army found a village that supported Darul Islam troops. During these years of violence and uncertainty, the Duri adapted to a provisional way of life, only building simple houses that could more easily be rebuilt after a raid.

    Despite these difficulties, many local peasants supported Darul Islam troops with their agricultural products, both food and cash crops. Coffee was given to Darul Islam fighters and brought to the port of Palopo in order to sell them. People told me they did this voluntarily as they believed in the Darul Islam movement. In order to understand their support and their still sympathetic views, it is important to consider local history and the rapid social changes experienced in the area in only 50 years, a change which transformed society from a feudal society with slaves and debt bondage to a kind of Islamic socialism.

    Duri History and Social Change

    In 1906, the Dutch gained direct control over what is now the province of South Sulawesi and introduced profound social change. While they cooperated closely with the high ranks of the traditional elite, they not only outlawed slavery but treated all people outside the upper elite equally. The petty nobility were suddenly equal with former slaves. In the years of the brutal Japanese occupation, even this clear-cut distinction between the ruling nobility and all others was erased; all became equally oppressed by the Japanese military regime and were forced into compulsory labour.

    These changes made it possible for local people to imagine equality in terms of social class. A “positive” equality in which local people were not merely equally oppressed, but in which they could actively build a new society was now, against their traditions, something imaginable. In some parts of the Torajan highlands and in the Bugis lowland, the Communist Party expressed such aspirations. Darul Islam and the communists became competitors for peasant support as they both agitated under the banner of social equality. Among the Duri, the idea of social equality was best articulated in terms of Islam. The Darul Islam movement introduced land reform and banned all traditional noble titles and privileges. This ensured the support of many local peasants and made Duri society much more equal—with the important exception of gender relations. This change had some long-lasting effects. Compared to Torajan societies, for instance, traditional elites are nowadays less important in local politics. Post-Darul Islam Duri societies fit much better into indigenous activists’ images of relatively equal social units. However, it is also striking that indigenous activism is much more often led by women in Toraja than in the Duri highlands.

    Another factor important for local support of Darul Islam was that for the Duri, outside forces had often been a threat. The Dutch and Japanese forces may have set some preconditions for making a more egalitarian society imaginable, but they were also forces of heteronomy. As the Indonesian nationalist movement was quite weak in rural Sulawesi in the 1940s, the Indonesian army in the 1950s and 1960s was often perceived as a Javanese army and therefore as another means of alien domination. By contrast, Darul Islam recruited their troops from the local population.

    The anti-traditional rule of the Darul Islam movement had a tremendous impact on indigeneity and the way that it is constructed today among the Duri. In order to get recognition as an indigenous community, AMAN activists have to collect ethnographic data to prove that the community in question is still indigenous.  In such a document prepared by local AMAN activists, for instance, the death penalty for adulteresses was mentioned as a customary law and it is very likely that this was an impact of the Darul Islam movement. This is, however, just portrayed as customary law with no further references by the AMAN activists. Also, there are no references to traditional worldviews of Aluk Tojolo in the ethnographic data collected and represented by AMAN. Rather, indigeneity is always portrayed as Islamic among the Duri. Where rituals are mentioned, it is always made clear that they are conducted in order to worship Allah. When local AMAN activists told me that Darul Islam troops cut down large trees in order to prevent worship of spirits, the activists did not feel that this affected their indigeneity which retrospectively emerges as a pious Islamic indigeneity.

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    In 2016, the regency of Enrekang, of which the Duri highlands is a part, adopted one of the first local regulations (peraturan daerah) for the recognition of indigenous communities—a necessary step for all communities who want to apply for customary forest custodianship. Initially, this peraturan dearah was rejected by some Islamic groups in Enrekang, including the Islamic PKS party. But local indigenous activists managed to convince these groups that indigeneity is not at odds with Islam. Eventually, all fractions within the local parliament approved the local regulation on the recognition of indigenous communities.

    Nowadays, some women engaged in the indigenous movement in the Duri area use indigeneity as a tool for achieving gender equality, for instance by organising indigenous women in order to ensure that they participate in economic and social activities. But the very idea that society can be organised in an egalitarian way is without doubt also a legacy of the Darul Islam movement. Thus indigeneity, when it emphasises social equality, is a very modern phenomenon: its progressive qualities are rooted in radical social change which emphasises social equality and therefore in a certain way even in the harsh rule of Islamic fundamentalists.

    On the surface, people often said during the research that they supported the Darul Islam movement because it helped them to become better Muslims. But maybe there is more to it than that: being a good Muslim does not only mean not eating pork or performing regular prayers. In the context of Duri societies it also meant that (male) commoners and nobles had equal rights when they abandoned tradition and embraced what Darul Islam perceived as proper Islam. Stoning is without doubt a cruel practice, but the very idea of applying it equally to former nobles and people in debt bondage was revolutionary.

    Sometimes, when I argue with Indonesian friends about the Taliban, it occurs to me that they have something else in mind than I do. The same holds true for Darul Islam and other radical Islamic movements. Where I see the cruel punishment, discrimination against women and violence, they see a political and legal system that provides at least some egalitarian justice in an otherwise corrupt environment. In my universalist view (to which I still subscribe) I believe that I have a crucial point in denouncing the Darul Islam movement. However, in some dark moments I cannot help but admire their political struggle against traditional hierarchies and for social equality. The ongoing mystique of an Islamic state in Indonesia is perhaps rooted, among others, in these powerful political programs of social equality. If that is true, fighting against radicalisation also means providing alternative ways of articulating social demands.

    The post Rethinking memories of Darul Islam appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • Rising religious radicalism in Indonesia: roots and shoots

    Although religious radicalism potentially could cause many problems in society, the issue has been contentious in Indonesia. Some people believe that radicalism is a myth created by “the West”. For them, the term radicalism has a negative implication to discredit Muslims and to conquer Islam. According to this view, Western governments often apply a double standard when they deal with Muslims (Sihbudi, 2002)

    However, suicide bombings that have occurred in Indonesia in recent decades, such as in Bali (2002 and 2004), the Australian Embassy (2004), the JW Marriot Hotel Jakarta (2009), Cirebon (2010), Surabaya (2018), Mako Brimob Depok (2018) and other places prove that radicalism is not a myth. Testimony from one of the Bali bombers, in which he described the group’s scenario for a suicide bombing, proved this fact.

    Ali Imron explained in detail how his group persuaded and recruited bombers to conduct the suicide bombing using a car, a motorbike and a explosives vest. He surveyed locations to find where foreigners most often gathered. He asserted that the Bali bomb was a counterattack in response to the USA and its allies invading Afghanistan. Imron added that his group is responsible for serial acts of terror in Indonesia. As Sidney Jones asserts, the threat of terrorism and radicalism in Indonesia is a real fact, even if there are  few who are radical and committed to using violence.

    Ideology has contributed to the rise of religious radicalism. Some view it as the responsibility of Indonesian Muslims to join the struggle to Islamise the secular government and system. Radical groups such as Front Pembela Islam (FPI-Islamic Defenders Front), Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (MMI-Indonesia Islamic Warrior’s Council), and Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI-The Party of Liberation) are active and influential in promoting their ideology to society, under the protection of the right to freedom of expression. Alvara Research Consulting’s survey in 2017 found that one in five students supports the formation of a caliphate to change the system of Indonesian government. This survey of 4,200 Muslims students showed that nearly one in four students was ready to join the struggle to establish such a caliphate.

    There are also social factors in the rise of religious radicalism in Indonesia. People can be radicalised when living as a minority group and frequently received discriminatory treatment from the majority. Muslims living in regions where they are a minority religion were radicalised into violence with their Christian neighbours, which then escalated to the point where some groups called for other Muslims to travel to the Moluccas and Poso to wage jihad on Christians.

    Political factors have also been a source of rising religious radicalism in Indonesia. Even though the founding fathers agreed that Indonesia is a neutrally religious state and must protect all citizens, some politicians deny this and play on their religious identity. Some parties and religious organisations in Indonesia actively campaign against candidates based solely on their religion, demanding voters not elect non-Muslim leaders. The has been a serious problem in Indonesia since the reformation era. In several regions, governors and mayors have agreed to formally implement sharia bylaws in regional law to boost their Islamic credentials ahead of elections. This political strategy can exacerbate religious radicalism because the laws position Muslims as a majority group with special rights. Utilising these laws as justification, fanatical religious groups often discriminate against minority groups. These groups will be increasingly radicalised because they have more room and legitimacy for their violent actions. The experience of Pakistan and Afghanistan, which rigidly implement shariah bylaws resulting in increasing prominence, should be taken into account. In both countries, women and minority groups became second class citizens and were discriminated against by state and radical groups.

    Social media is also often used to broadcast hoax information that contributes to the rise of religious radicalism. For example, during the 2017 Jakarta gubernatorial election, radical groups which supported Anies Baswedan-Sandiaga Uno published a statement that Muslims who supported Basuki Tjahaya Purnama (Ahok)-Djarot Saiful Hidayat could be categorised as the enemy of Islam.

    Although radicalism and terrorism cannot be equated, they are closely related. Maarif (2002) and Ghufron (2017) have argued (separately) that radicalism is related to how people understand and express their religion, and terrorism is committed to using violence for political purposes. However, radicalism can turn into terrorism, and people who are followers of radical groups are targeted by terrorist recruiters. As a consequence, if government and society do not pay serious attention to radical groups, they may find they cooperate with terrorist groups instead.

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    Furthermore, terrorist groups target recruitment at younger generations. Radical groups often disseminate their ideology in senior high schools and universities. Recently, authorities detained several students in the State Islamic University (UIN) Jakarta for allegedly being involved in bombing and other violent actions. Moreover, the phenomena of suicide bombers, in Serpong (2011), the exposure of NII’s network (Negara Islam Indonesia-the Islamic State of Indonesia), and bombers of JW Marriot hotel (2009) and the perpetrators of the Klaten bomb (2011) shows they are often young people from schools and universities.

    In several cases, radical groups have infiltrated universities and schools. Radical groups also recruited young generations from several places such as mosques. The young generation is becoming the main target of radical groups because they are in a transitional period, forming their identity and being easily influenced by others. They are susceptible to the ideologies of radical groups which use the internet as the tool of propaganda.

    Lembaga Kajian Islam dan Perdamaian’s (Research Institute on Islam and Peace, LAKIP) study in 2010 showed this in its survey of 10 areas in Jakarta at the end of 2010. This survey found that more than 50% of high school students agree that the use of violence is justified in Islamic teaching. They believe that Muslims are permitted to use violence to defend Islam. They agree that the use of violence against people who insult Islam is a legitimate action. The survey also showed that 21 % of teachers stated that the state ideology of Pancasila is no longer relevant. MAARIF Institute’s 2011 research mapping the problems of radicalism in the State Senior High Schools in 4 areas (Pandeglang, Cianjur, Yogyakarta, and Solo) also confirmed these findings. The research, conducted in 50 schools, revealed that schools have become the arena in which to disseminate ideology. Because the schools are so open, radical groups have exploited this opportunity to spread their ideas and widen their networks. As a result, many students’ understanding of Islam has become more monolithic, and they easily blame others for social, economic, and political problems that they perceive to jeopardise Muslims.

    The rise of religious radicalism can trigger conflict in society. For radical groups, society is divided into “us” and “them”. Groups that reject radical ideas will be classified as “them”. Because of their demarcation from other groups in society conflicts occurs. The application of the doctrine “us vs. them” also contributes to increasing intolerance of religious minority groups. Ahmadiya and Shi’ah groups often became the target of violent actions by radical groups. A series of attacks against Ahmadiya and Shi’ah followers have occurred in many areas in Indonesia. Christians have also been prevented from  building houses of worship in some areas. Maarif argues that the “us and them” paradigm is contradictory to Islamic values, and based on an archaic historical contexts.

    It is time for the Indonesian government to pay serious attention to the slippage between radicalism and terrorism, and the mechanism that terrorists use to recruit others to their ideologies. Otherwise it risks to the consequences of a rise in religious violence.

    The post Rising religious radicalism in Indonesia: roots and shoots appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.

  • The Costs of Repressing Islamists

    Shortly after his re-election in May 2019, President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) delivered his Vision of Indonesia speech, in which he pledged “zero tolerance against those who undermine Pancasila”, the pluralist state ideology. The President then instructed the Coordinating Minister for Politics, Law and Security, Mahfud MD, to initiate more “serious efforts” at curbing the spread of radical ideologies. A range of polices has been systematically implemented since, from weeding out radicalism in public service—including through online surveillance mechanism—to the proscription and prosecution of certain Islamist organisations.

    One Islamist group that has borne the brunt of the growing state repression is the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI), an infamous organisation that has graduated from morality racketeering to becoming the country’s most formidable opposition movement. The Jokowi government officially banned FPI on 31 December 2020, citing as reasons its past involvement in vigilantism and hate campaigns against minorities, but also its purported link to terrorism and the more procedural reason of lapsed registration. The banning was immediately followed by more arrests of FPI’s prominent leaders and the freezing of its assets. This is qualitatively different from the disbandment of Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI) in 2017: thus far no HTI leaders have been prosecuted and most of its assets and activities have remained intact, sans the flag and symbol.

    What are the consequences of the hard clampdown on Islamist groups? Has it achieved its stated goal of defending pluralism? I argue that the costs of repression far outweigh its benefits. While the crackdown seems effective in undercutting the capacity of Islamists to mobilise, it can lead to damaging outcomes. First, the policy is buttressed by excessive use of force against Islamist and other opposition activists. Second, the cost of repression directly impacts public health as disillusioned Islamist groups contribute to conspiracy theories rejecting COVID-19 vaccines. Third, dissolving one or two hardline groups does not necessarily address—and may in fact divert attention from—the complex causes of discrimination against minority groups.

    FPI: from the fringe to centre stage and back again?

    Born on the fringes of Islamic activism in 1998, FPI later gained prominence among Indonesian Muslims, especially after playing a leading role in the unprecedented 2016 mobilisation which toppled the Chinese-Cristian governor of Jakarta, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (Ahok), who was accused of blasphemy. After the anti-Ahok rallies (also known as “212” movement after the date of the mammoth protest), FPI and its partners used their newfound clout to assist Jokowi’s rival, Prabowo Subianto, in the highly polarised 2019 presidential campaign.

    The alarming rise of Islamist influence in national politics prompted the government to contain their power, for instance by investigating and arresting leaders of the 212 Movement. FPI supreme leader Habib Rizieq Shihab, who was under investigation for his alleged involvement in a porn scandal and also facing defamation charges, decided to flee the country in April 2017 and remained in for Saudi Arabia for three years.

    His homecoming celebration perfectly captured his new status as a beloved spiritual leader of the opposition. Upon his return on 10 November 2020, he received a hero’s welcome with tens of thousands of supporters coming to greet him at the airport. Prominent politicians like the Jakarta governor Anies Baswedan also went to visit him; other politicians seeking to curry favour with Islamist constituencies attended his daughter’s wedding shortly after his return. On 1 December, the police summoned Rizieq for breaching public health protocols, but he refused to comply. On 7 December, a police intelligence team tasked with tailing Rizieq shot dead six of his body guards in a dramatic car chase. Four of those have been classified as extrajudicial killing by a National Human Rights Commission investigation.

    The incident was swiftly followed by the prosecution of Rizieq and at least seven other FPI figures. In April 2021, FPI secretary general Munarman was arrested on dubious accusations that link FPI to the terrorist group Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS). Munarman retorted that the “terrorisation” of FPI is a ploy to legitimise the killing of FPI guards. His statement harks back to pent-up grievances related to police abuse of Muslim terror suspects. In June 2021, Rizieq was sentenced to 4 years and 8 months jail for violating public health restrictions and spreading false news by lying about his positive Covid test.

    The sweeping crackdown on FPI indicated the government’s concerns over Rizieq’s skyrocketing political stature. Many pluralist and liberal groups are similarly worried about Islamist encroachment into the mainstream political arena, which explains their muted response even as the crackdown turned violent.

    Public opinion polls indicate high approval for Jokowi’s anti-FPI policy. Fealy and White argue that the limited criticism of FPI’s banning means the government has “effectively removed its most potent Islamist opponent and won public plaudits for doing so”, suggesting that FPI might have slid back to the fringes of Muslim society. The authors also note that such an outcome has made other Islamist groups “wary of crossing the government”. While the clampdown seems effective in the short term, I question its broader implications not only in terms of democracy and pluralism promotion but also its adverse consequences for public health.

    Effective but at what cost?

    On the one hand, the repression is largely effective in weakening FPI’s mobilising capacity. With Rizieq locked up, FPI’s re-incarnation, called the Islamic Brotherhood Front (also FPI), is struggling to revive its organisational structures. FPI has also failed to draw large crowds to rallies, to the extent that it publicly rebuked its own supporters for failing to show up en masse during Rizieq’s trials. FPI-affiliated channels on Telegram circulated online memes reprimanding his supporters. One poster entitled Fake Love asked his supporters: “how could you just sit and watch all the abuse being inflicted by the regime upon the Prophet’s grandson” (i.e. Habib Rizieq). Another meme labels those who abandoned the struggle as “losers”.

    When FPI called on its supporters to swarm in front of Jakarta’s High Court for Rizieq’s verdict announcement on 24 June, some followers responded on FPI’s social media platform by frivolously apologising for their absence as they lived outside Jakarta—something that hadn’t prevented them from attending anti-Ahok rallies in 2016. Others said that they had to lay low after being chased by the police cyber-patrol squad for posting anti-government contents. Still others feared imprisonment—over 400 protesters at Rizieq’s first trial on 18 December 2020 were arrested for infringing health quarantine. Hence, the crackdown seems effective in deterring many Islamist sympathisers from going to the streets.

    At the same time, the anti-radicalism campaign’s reliance on excessive force is concerning . The police are increasingly willing  to use violent methods in response to demonstrations. We have seen this inclination since 2019, during the post-election riots in which hundreds of police officers were injured and a police dormitory building was burned (while several civilians were killed). Since then, the police have used force more frequently as a pre-emptive strategy to handle anti-government demonstrations.  And, particularly in recent mobilisations that accompanied Rizieq’s trials, the police have consistently deployed large forces and brazenly shot teargas at protestors who were unarmed and in relatively small numbers.

    The excessive use of force in turn makes Islamist opposition more combative, claiming self-defence. Online propaganda by FPI supporters increasingly displays violent imagery. For example, one  poster reads: “when the call for jihad comes and the mujahidin are being blocked, the solution is attack and war! Come from all directions, don’t be afraid of getting imprisoned or killed. Let’s storm the Jakarta High Court and free our Grand Imam! Write a will for your family [i.e. prepare to die]”. Such posters are certainly a far cry from the imagery of ‘super peaceful rallies’ that Islamists propagated—and indeed observed—in 2016 and 2017.

    Islamists and Anti-Vaccine Narratives

    The repression also has public health costs as some Islamist groups agitate against the government’s COVID vaccination program. It is important to note that Islamist groups are not unanimous on the vaccine issue. On the one hand, many conservative clerics, including Salafis and HTI recommended vaccination. Felix Siauw, a celebrity preacher affiliated with HTI, says that Islam does not prohibit vaccination and in fact, he claims, the Ottoman Caliphate invented and applied smallpox immunisation long before the Europeans. On the other hand, FPI-affiliated media and 212 alumni groups have spearheaded anti-vax campaigns.

    FPI’s attitude is particularly interesting. At the beginning of the pandemic, FPI was relatively supportive of the public health campaign especially the Jakarta governor’s initiative. In April 2020, Rizieq called on his supporters to stop speculating about the origins of COVID-19 because the virus is real and that everyone must set aside their political differences to fight it together. FPI also ridiculed as irrational the government’s initial denial of COVID and supported Anies Baswedan’s lockdown policy in Jakarta. But now that the central government has become more serious in implementing social restriction and vaccination, FPI has shifted positions.

    It is worth noting that Rizieq has not issued an official statement regarding the vaccine. However, FPI-affiliated media and various 212 alumni groups have recently contributed to spreading anti-vaccine propaganda.  They are quite inclusive in their conspiracy repertoires, borrowing and modifying western right-wing narratives. For instance they told online followers that Bill Gates is using vaccines to mass-implant microchips and take control of the human race, especially resource-rich Muslim countries, and that Jokowi is helping him to create a New World Order.

    What explains Islamist reversion to dissent? If we look at pro-FPI Telegram channels, most narratives on COVID vaccine are not about whether it is halal or haram. This is in part because the government has, from the outset, engaged the Indonesian Ulama Council (MUI) and major Islamic organisations to verify the halal status of the state’s preferred vaccines, Sinovac and Astrazeneca. MUI’s seal of approval makes it hard for Islamists to attack the vaccine on religious ground. So, in addition to the political conspiracy behind the vaccine, Islamist anti-vaxers focused on its supposedly dangerous side effects, such as disgusting skin diseases, heart inflammation and death. The vaccine rejection is not as closely connected to anti-China sentiment as assumed by some observers. Many of the pro-Rizieq Islamists and 212 Alumni groups do not just reject Sinovac and Sinofarm, but also all other brands including Pfizer and Moderna.

    If religion and anti-China sentiment are not the primary reasons, why did some Islamists suddenly go from being health conscious to vaccine sceptical? There is no particularly coherent reason other than pure spite and animosity towards Jokowi. Some Islamist supporters with whom I spoke confirmed that they were aware of MUI’s religious endorsement of the vaccine and of similar fatwa issued by Middle Eastern ulama. However, they chose not to be vaccinated because Jokowi is “forcing” people by making vaccine mandatory. Some also said that they do not trust the government’s reassurances about vaccine side effects. The fact that the government exploited public health regulations to punish Islamist activists does little to gain trust. That said, my interviewees were quick to add that they still contribute to pandemic eradication in “their own ways” such as praying, wearing masks and taking herbal supplements. This anecdotal evidence suggests that at least one segment of the Islamist community opposes public health regulations due to deepening disillusionment with the government.

    In defence of pluralism?

    Illiberal suppression has been framed in terms of defending pluralism and religious freedom. However, there are compelling reasons to believe that it has not been worthwhile for the protection of minorities. Wahid Foundation’s 2020 data comparing violations of religious freedom during President Yudhono and Jokowi presidencies shows that the overall trends have barely changed (from 1,110 incidents under Yudhoyono to 1,101 cases in Jokowi era). Surprisingly, state-perpetrated violations have increased under Jokowi (from 419 to 524 cases). The Setara Institute recorded 422 violations of religious freedom in 2020 alone, 56 percent of which were conducted by state actors. In addition, rights advocacy groups have reported growing persecution of LGBT citizens, including through police raids on so-called gay massage parlors and private parties.

    The attack on an Ahmadiyah mosque in Sintang, West Kalimantan on 3 September is but one indication that the existing anti-radicalism campaign has merely served as a political weapon to target government enemies, rather than defending minorities. The crackdown simply masks the complex problems underlying religious and sexual discriminations in Indonesia, in particular the frequent involvement of state actors and the impunity afforded to them. In November 2020, the East Java government reportedly facilitated the conversion of a long-persecuted Shi’a minority as a prerequisite for returning to their predominantly-Sunni hometown of Sampang. Even after the conversion, the internally displaced Shi’a families have not been able to go home due to objections from the Sampang ulama and community elders. Last June, the mayor of Bogor, West Java unilaterally relocated the GKI Yasmin Church following a 15 year-long sectarian agitation to deny it building permit. The mayor stated that his government gifted the land to the church as compensation, and that it was a win-win solution to create religious harmony without upsetting the majority.

    The above examples remind us that the perpetrators of anti-minority violence are not limited to organised groups like FPI. It often involves state apparatuses, community leaders and ordinary citizens. For instance in the latest case of anti-Ahmadi violence in West Kalimantan, the district head with the support of the local police chief and military commander closed off the mosque, citing the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree on Ahmadiyah which effectively restricts the rights of Ahmadis to practice their beliefs. Such official endorsement in turn emboldened a local mob—backed by community leaders—who had been agitating against the Ahmadis. Video footage online shows attending police officers standing in silence as the attackers burned the mosque to the ground.

    The banning of FPI or any other “anti-Pancasila” group is not a shortcut to ending deep-seated discrimination against minorities. For this, the government will need to address problematic regulations which formalise discrimination against certain minorities and end the impunity afforded to perpetrators under the guise of respecting the majority will or preserving religious harmony.

    The post The Costs of Repressing Islamists appeared first on New Mandala.

    This post was originally published on New Mandala.