The National Commission on Violence Against Women with a network of Indonesian civil society organisations has directed its peacebuilding effort towards the proposition of an Elimination of Sexual Violence Bill through advocacy. It was initiated in 2012. In 2016, the commission and Service Provider Forum had the opportunity to submit a background paper for the bill to the parliament.
This bill embodies the critical value of peacebuilding, that is, meeting the needs and rights of security by managing sexual violence. The proposal addresses material, social, and cultural needs and rights built upon women’s experiences. A wide range of categorizations of sexual violence – sexual harassment, forced marriage, forced contraception, forced abortion, rape, sexual exploitation, forced prostitution, sexual slavery, and sexual torture– in the bill proposed by the commission and civil society demonstrates consideration of these needs and rights. Sexual violence has many faces, and these categories accommodate more forms of sexual violence to be processed legally. As a peacebuilding instrument, this bill’s content seeks an opportunity to prevent and reduce any form of sexual violence.
The damage survivors sustain from sexual violence is massive. Superficially it may seem that sexual violence is merely a matter of direct physical assault. In fact, the damage is also inflicted through cultural and structural violence, in which women are positioned as inferior, stigmatised and blamed for sexual violence. Meanwhile, perpetrators are often treated with impunity and there are few legal protections for survivors, who must endure traumatic legal process to resolve charges.
This bill aspires to be a foundation of transformation and recovery. The clauses on the assurance of survivor’s rights, recovery, and protection reflect this aspiration. Vigorous law enforcement with a survivor-centred perspective can transform the safety of women in society by pivoting on principles of justice and fairness. The law’s capacity to enable this transformation can be enhanced by legally binding mechanisms to enforce compliance. It can be the foundation of derived legal product or regulation, including fill the gap of anti-sexual violence regulation in education institution. On the other hand, survivor’s well-being should remain the focus. Survivors’ recoveries positively impact their personal development and social transformation by breaking the chain of violence.
In other words, the initial draft bill developed from background study for the legislation by the commission and Service Provider Forum is intended to abolish direct, cultural, and structural violence. The primary domain of this bill, if it is passed, is in mitigating structural violence where current regulations fail to accommodate women’s experiences. As a proposed law, it can help to construct an ‘infrastructure of peace’ in Indonesia by creating structural mechanisms to abolish sexual violence, even if there are shortcomings in Indonesian law enforcement.
The change of substance and nomenclature of the Elimination of Sexual Violence Bill to the term Sexual Violence Criminal Offence hampers the attainment of peace, particularly for women in Indonesia. The new bill cuts sexual violence to only four categories. It also abandons survivor’s rights, recovery, and protection clauses that matter in serving security. The parliament’s act in curtailing the bill’s substance has also curtailed its power to eliminate sexual violence.
Realising peace through peacebuilding requires cooperation from all parties. The National Commission on Violence Against Women and Indonesian civil society organisations, especially the Service Provider Forum, has built the path. The parliament and the government, who hold the authority to legislate regulation should support rather than diminish the survivor-centred version of the bill.
In my life and in my identity, my position as a woman has exposed me to many forms of violence, making me question what peace is. As a survivor of sexual violence, this bill gives me hope to find every-day peace. Any reduction to it keeps a peaceful life away from me, and other women in Indonesia exposed to sexual violence every day.
There’s just under 14000 foreign refugees in Indonesia in 2021, more than half are from Afghanistan, the rest are made up of various countries and stateless peoples, particularly the Rohingya. Refugees in Indonesia have zero rights. They are not allowed to work, attend schools, drive vehicles, have restricted mobility and have very little self-agency. They are regarded officially as “illegal aliens” that are administered as subjects of UNHCR. Most refugees were detained in some sort of jail-like detention centre until 2019.
Obtaining visas and passports for most Indonesians is hard enough. It’s almost impossible to imagine fleeing one’s country. Upon recognising these disadvantages, for most Indonesians, and for members of the privileged diaspora like myself, the idea of people seeking asylum and becoming refugees is very foreign. Most Indonesians understand the idea of seeking refuge within their personal circumstances of fleeing natural disasters in their villages and cities. The idea that one has no choice but to leave their home nation entirely in order to seek safety and peace is something only very few Indonesians can relate to.
Thankfully nowadays, most refugees live in hostels in the community with various mobility restrictions or curfews. If they breach these, they face the penalty of being sent back to a (jail) detention centre. The refugee hostels and detention centres are run by Indonesia’s branch of the International Organisations for Migration (IOM) which is largely Australian funded. Once living in these community hostels, they are given a monthly stipend equivalent to AUD $125 per adult and AUD $50 per child.
Ilham Barab, has a Master of Public Administration from Flinders University and works as an Immigration Officer in Pekanbaru City, Indonesia. He has been working with refugees since 2014 and says that many Indonesian Officials are still stuck in an old mindset, perceiving dealing with foreign refugees as an international issue not an Indonesian one. There is a relatively small refugee population in Indonesia, unlike Malaysia and Thailand which have 12 and 10 times Indonesia’s foreign refugee population respectively. He admits that it is simply not Indonesia’s government priorities at this point.
“They still treat refugee issues through the lens of border security. Just like the management of the Indochinese refugees in the 1970s, they want security forces to manage their isolation from the rest of the community on an island where it is out of sight, out of mind from the rest of the country.” – Ilham Barab
And then there is the fate of refugees who live outside of IOM management. Most of these people have to fend for themselves. They are reliant entirely on their remaining savings, family support, and the goodwill of Indonesians or foreign NGOs to survive there.
Jokowi’s Presidential Decree and Indonesia’s commitment to the Non Refoulement Principle in the management of foreign refugees are the only legal mandates and guidelines that the country observes. However, each region and governor has a different interpretation of what these entail. Until 2013, Indonesia was exclusively seen as a transit country for refugees seeking to come to Australia (and New Zealand by extension) by boat. Since then, Operation Sovereign Borders been implemented, with less than 1% of refugees from Indonesia after 2018 being resettled annually to Australia (a download of UNHCR’s data in table format is available here) . This has created a protracted transit situation for refugees. They can no longer go back home due to ongoing threats of persecution, meanwhile their prospects of being reunited with family and friends and living peacefully in Australia is diminished due to its hard-lined border protection policies and cuts in our humanitarian program intake since the COVID-19 pandemic began have certainly worsened the situation.
Photo of Ashfaq, a Pakistani refugee – Courtesy of Freedom Street Documentary
“The Indonesian government does not spend a cent in managing its foreign refugee population. With Australia reducing the IOM funding, and the shrinking resettlement rates, the central government sooner or later will have to come to terms with managing the situation permanently. The central government has delegated their administrative tasks to regional areas which are then further pushed through to refugee accommodation management. This literally leaves the fate of refugees’ lives, like vaccination programs, freedom of movement, and their community engagement (or the lack thereof) in the hands of inexperienced individuals.” – Ilham Barab
Since the 2002 establishment of the Bali Process, in which Australia and Indonesia co-chaired 49 member countries, the region has solidified its efforts to combat illegal human trafficking, people smuggling, and other related transnational crimes. Though the premise now includes mandates on regional refugee processing, it lacks incentive for any sort of long-term solution, nor any directions advocating for integrating refugees with the local populations.
For Australians, a foreign refugee population close to 14000 is large. However, in the Indonesian and Southeast Asian context, it is miniscule. On average, there’s over 100,000 refugees stuck in either Malaysia or Thailand. Indonesia’s refugee population is comparable to a large neighbourhood population in Jakarta and most are spread across the archipelago.
Asylum seekers’ silence, which the regime cannot recognise as an expression of vulnerability, is reason enough for Acehnese fishermen to deliver protection.
At first, the small numbers might give the impression that this will be a good opportunity for integration efforts. In reality, the IOM and regional leaders in Indonesia have isolationist refugee management policies and a lack of political will, contributing to the invisibility of the issue. Understandably, there are simply more pressing domestic issues that affect a much larger local population.
But not all Indonesians are blind to this issue. Dr. Nino Viartasiwi is a Senior Researcher at the Resilience Development Initiative (Urban Refugee Research Group). The group has established research on the urban integration of refugees in the country, and is one of the few groups in Indonesia that actively promotes refugee integrations. According to Dr Viartasiwi, there’s little incentive amongst regional leaders for refugee integration.
“Refugees in different cities engaged differently with the local government and local citizens. In some cities such as Makassar, Pekanbaru and a few others, they receive good attention from the local government and the people. But in some other cities refugees still face lack of understanding from local citizens. Furthermore, most people within the local government still perceive foreign refugee matters as central government matters. Ultimately, the local government’s unwillingness to support integration efforts has triggered false perceptions and suspicion amongst the locals.” – Nino Viartasiwi
Photo of Joniad, a Rohingyan refugee – Courtesy of Freedom Street Documentary
Through Dr Viartasiwi and RDI UREF Team’s effort to facilitate conversations and programs with refugees, local government administrators, university students and other interested citizens, they have created a meaningful cross-cultural and geopolitical knowledge exchange. The refugees learn about living in Indonesia and the Indonesians learning about the wider context of refugees’ situation. Although still a long way from changing Indonesia’s narrative as a transit country, at least this is a good start. However, things have deteriorated since 2020.
“The COVID pandemic has limited our face-to-face programs, which reduces our refugee’s opportunity to tangibly interact and share their plights with more Indonesians. For most refugees in Indonesia, technology access is a challenge as most can’t afford to pay for laptops or even credit for their mobile internet data. Closed borders have also regressed a lot of the conversation about refugee migrations due to global public health concerns. I doubt that the current plight of Afghanistan will affect the conversation about acknowledging the presence of foreign refugees”. – Nino Viartasiwi
Dr Viartasiwi also noted that there are many false perceptions amongst Indonesians when refugees are protesting in front of UNHCR or IOM offices. The presence of hundreds or thousands of people cause security concerns among the public and the police. Most people are of course simply not aware that what these protestors are asking for is simply resettlement, or their rights being heard by these authorities. Their desperation for a long term solution and their deep sorrow in longing for a home is palpable.
Photo of Azizah, a stateless refugee – Courtesy of Freedom Street Documentary
Diah Tricesaria, from Community Engagement Focal Point for HOST International in Indonesia had extensively studied the state of mental health and community engagement amongst the refugee population across the country. From her findings, refugees not only find ways of coping through their mutual support from one another; for those who are quick enough to pick up the local language, they are able to find support amongst local Indonesians. But not all refugees find local Indonesians supportive.
“In more cosmopolitan or urbanised places like Jakarta, West Java and other wealthier regions where refugees are living more independently and are forced to interact with the locals, refugees experienced less discrimination and misunderstanding, particularly if they’re of the same faith. But what’s often not communicated enough are the stressors and the trauma refugees face prior to arriving in the country, which most Indonesians won’t be familiar with. But somehow, most eventually find their ways to bond, given the opportunity to mingle and as long as they don’t betray the trust of the locals.” – Diah Tricesaria
Besides research, Diah and her fellow colleagues and volunteers have helped many, mostly independent, refugees, connecting them with social organisations, opportunities, administration tasks, and potential donors. As positive as these efforts are, basic human rights and resettlement processes for refugees are still a long way away from being discussed by legislative and other governmental bodies.
“There’s a heavy emphasis on grassroots advocacy campaigns and support; local Indonesians and other global citizens themselves are the only people that are taking initiative. With miniscule political support from any governmental bodies, the only option is for us to calibrate our advocacy around these limitations. Ultimately, the fate of refugees in Indonesia will be dependent on the whims of global geopolitics.” – Diah Tricesaria
The future of foreign refugees spread across the archipelago is bleak. The COVID-19 pandemic has regressed many integration efforts and vaccination efforts have been scattered, as securing supplies to non-citizens is entirely reliant on UNHCR, not the Indonesian government.
Realising our civic responsibility in addressing a global issue in our part of the world is more important than ever.
This is where the film Freedom Street Documentary comes in. This film explores the big picture and history behind Australia’s hard line border protection policies, whilst looking closely at the plight of my three refugee friends, who are victims both of Indonesia’s indifference and Australia’s hard line border protection policies. The boats may have stopped, but Australia has designed a system of oppression towards refugees that has arguably outsourced its responsibilities to my home country of Indonesia. For pragmatic & meaningful change to occur on this issue, we must have need civic tools like this, that will enable advocates and change-makers to advance this discourse further.
Stars of the Documentary from Left to Right: Ashfaq, Joniad, Azizah and Alfred – Courtesy of Freedom Street Documentary
Freedom Street is an ongoing project, funded primarily through donations. Should you wish to donate, you can do so through the Documentary Australia Foundation (tax-deductible).
In this in-depth analysis, published in two parts this week, Lila Sari looks at vaccine distribution in Indonesia, and the surprising entrance of political parties into the roll-out.
Media reports suggest that Golkar has received a large allocation of coronavirus vaccines from the government. Golkar was among the first to launch a party-led vaccination program, commencing on 21 March 2021. It has created a new a unit to run vaccinations and provide other pandemic-related services, which it calls “Yellow Clinics” (yellow is the colour of the party). Using these Yellow Clinics as its main facility, the party claims it had administered at least 200,000 doses of vaccines as of late August 2021. From the Yellow Clinic Instagram account, we can learn that the focus of distribution was Jakarta, with most of the mass vaccination events held at the central office of the party in Jakarta. Other regions in Java (West, Central, and East Java), Aceh, and South Kalimantan received the rest of the vaccines, but in much lower numbers. At the time of writing, the Yellow Clinic vaccination program continues, with the party now offering Pfizer vaccines for free in Jakarta.
Golkar’s ability to access the vaccines promptly and in large numbers was undoubtably a product of the party’s key role in the ruling coalition at the national level. Golkar general chairperson Airlangga Hartarto sits in the cabinet as the coordinating minister for economic affairs, a position which places him at the center of power and gives him the capacity to influence the Ministry of Health and other important agents in vaccine distribution, like PT Bio Farma.
Golkar is the quintessential elite party in Indonesia. It is dominated by wealthy and influential businesspeople, former bureaucrats, and former generals. These connections give it the organisational and financial capacity to convene and run many mass-vaccination programs. Between March and September, it seems Golkar thus primarily conducted its own vaccination campaign independently, though on a few occasions it collaborated with businesses and held mass vaccination events at factories, including at the PT Santos factory in Karawang, West Java, and a PT HM Sampoerna factory in East Java.
Golkar vaccination events, especially those in Jakarta, have also focused on promoting Airlangga Hartarto, the party chairperson, presumably reflecting his ambition to run in the presidential election in 2024.
A Golkar billboard in Jakarta. Photo by Yus Prinandy.
PDI-P
The core party in the ruling coalition, PDI-P has about a fifth of the seats in the national parliament, and President Joko Widodo is a party member. At the regional level, the party is also strong: in the 2018 local election, it won six of 17 provincial elections and 97 of 171 city/ district elections. PDI-P’s pattern of delivering mass vaccinations is different from Golkar. PDI-P is more diverse in terms of regional distribution, branding, and partnerships.
I have found media and social media reports of the party running mass vaccination events in many regions in Java, the southern part of Sumatra (Lampung, South Sumatra, Jambi), and Central Kalimantan. These are all areas where PDI-P is strong politically. The party still, however, focuses on Java more than other regions. Meanwhile, unlike Golkar events which often promote Airlangga, PDI-P mass vaccinations often do not place much emphasis on central party bosses, but rather highlight the role of local leaders who hold posts at the central and regional level. Some of them are national and regional parliament members, and also leaders of regional branches. For example, in Kendal Regency (Central Java), the mass vaccination promoted local figures such as head of the district branch, the provincial party leader, and the national parliament member from the region, Tuti Nusandari Rusdiono. The event also featured a local health official as a ‘’supervisor”.
Another example, a mass vaccination event in Bangka Belitung Province, put up a banner with five photos on it. They included the PDI-P’s crown princess and speaker of the DPR, Puan Maharani, a local member of the DPR, chairs of the provincial and district branches in the region, and the mayor. The mass vaccination itself was held at the so-called Rudi Center—an office that belongs to Rudianto Tjen, a DPR member and a prominent PDI-leader.
Mayor of Semarang City, Hendrar Prihadi and three Projo (pro-Jokowi) members in a mass vaccination on 16 September 2021 in Semarang (credit: Abdul Mughis).
Meanwhile, when it comes to collaboration, because PDI-P dominates the government at the central level and in many regions, the party can engage easily with local governments, and POLRI/TNI in holding these events. It can also readily use public facilities and resources, including community healthcare centers or Puskesmas, and local health offices (Dinkes) as well as local police or army resources, to provide both venues and personnel for their activities. In fact, according to one source in a government agency in Central Java, doctors from public healthcare facilities often complain about having to do extra work at these party-led vaccination events.
NasDem Party
NasDem is a new party that was founded by old oligarchs and political elites associated with Golkar and the Democrat Party. Similar to Golkar, it is an important part of the national governing coalition. Party leaders have tried hard to make themselves different from their predecessors, Golkar and the Democrat Party, and to create a new image to attract voters. Still far from being dominant in parliament and cabinet, the party has growing influence and power in some regions. In 2018, governor candidates supported by NasDem won elections in North Sumatra, West Java, Central Java, West Kalimantan, Southeast Sulawesi, and NTT. Furthermore, party chairperson, Surya Paloh is a media mogul who owns the MetroTV network.
Hence, it is not surprising that NasDem seems to have acquired quite a large quota of vaccines for its mass vaccination programs. Like PDI-P, the party relies upon, and foregrounds, politicians who sit in the DPR and in the provincial governments to lobby for access to vaccines. According to media reports I have compiled, NasDem has been dispensing more than 200,000 doses of vaccines, mostly in the greater Jakarta region but also elsewhere, including West Java, Central Java, Papua, NTT, and Bangka Belitung
Some of the politicians in charge of vaccine distribution happen to be related to local government heads, which presumably also makes it easier for them to acquire vaccines. Take the example of Nusa Tenggara Timur (NTT Province) in eastern Indonesia. One DPR member from here, Julie Laiskodat, is the wife of the NTT Governor, Viktor Laiskodat. Both are NasDem elites and run businesses. As a DPR member and the governor’s wife, Julie could easily negotiate with the Ministry of Health to get a vaccine share for NTT Province. As the wife of the Governor, she leads various organisations responsible for women’s affairs (PKK, Bunda PAUD, etc.) in the province, which gives her an added incentive to get a vaccine quota and allocate it to her constituency. Unlike other politicians who hold only one-off or at most a few mass vaccination events, she is holding vaccination events in NTT regularly: twice a week from August, and scheduled to last until December.
Are party campaigns helping achieve herd immunity?
It is difficult to access reliable data on the number of doses allocated to parties, because these allocations take place through informal and non-transparent processes. Therefore, I tried to gather data from online media and social media, and compiled claims by party leaders about the number of vaccines parties were distributing. I identified eight political parties as being involved in vaccine distribution between March and September 2021. If each political party—based on public claims in the media—has distributed around 200,000 doses (a rough estimate), this will generate a total of around 1.6 million doses. This number is miniscule compared to the targeted population of 208 million and will contribute very little—less than 0.5 percent—to achieving the national vaccination coverage goal.
Sometimes parties and the leaders of the government’s COVID-19 taskforce suggest that these party-led vaccination programs help outreach in low coverage regions and among marginalised groups (e.g., transgendered persons and rubbish pickers), as informed by one Partai Solidaritas Indonesia member While it is hard to know about the latter claim, we can test the argument about regional coverage using information from parties’ social media and online media.
Before checking that information, we should see how the coverage rate of vaccinations varies across provinces in Indonesia (Figures 1 and 2). These figures use data from the Ministry of Health’s vaccination dashboard (SMILE) that are publicly available.
Figure 1 shows us that very few regions have achieved high vaccination rates (i.e., above 60%) for dose 1. The most successful provinces in this regard are DKI Jakarta, Bali, Riau Islands, and Yogyakarta. The ministry of health has prioritised these regions as centers of the economy, government, and tourism. Other provinces, however, are at or below 40% coverage rate. For second dose administration, Jakarta is the highest; Riau Islands, Bali and Yogyakarta are all still below 40% while other provinces are even further behind.
Now, where have political parties been holding their vaccination events? What regions did they focus on? Figure 2 shows the spatial variations of regions covered by political parties during the period of March to September 2021.These data are based on my own counts of events covered in the mass media and party social media accounts.
Figrue 2. Spatial variation of party-led vaccination programs. Source: various online media and social media.
Comparing the two figures, it is obvious that the parties are not distributing their vaccinations in places where coverage and capacity are low. Instead, they dispense vaccines in Java, particularly Jakarta and West Java, where the national vaccination roll out is working relatively effectively. The argument that party campaigns help to attain herd immunity and reach out to the areas where vaccines are most needed is weak.
Conclusion
What are we to make of these party-led vaccination programs? The examples presented above imply that the parties are using these programs to promote the popularity of party leaders and cadres. The parties do so by crafting an image that they are being responsive and helpful to the government, whilst also sending out a message that they have fought hard to get an allocation from the government to their people.
These events are heavily political—but political in the distinctive clientelistic sense that is the dominant mode of politics in Indonesia. The newly democratized political system has generated intense competition among parties and politicians. It also makes winning elections expensive. The political parties and their leaders need to always be finding new ways—even during this global pandemic—to keep their supporters loyal and win over new voters. The fact that is often incumbent DPR members who organise these events in their own electoral districts shows that the parties are using these events to provide favors—potentially lifesaving favors—to their political supporters in their own base areas. Distributing vaccines is thus an excellent way to supplement the old-fashioned forms of patronage distribution, such as handouts of money, food, government jobs and contracts, which are typically more costly—politicians often have to provide these themselves – and have less impact.
While the benefits to the parties and their politicians are clear, whether these events really help the national vaccine roll out is less so. The party-led vaccination programs surely target and prioritise their own constituents and supporters, meaning that those with the right political connections have the privilege of getting vaccinated before those who lack such connections. This can disrupt the targeting of those who need vaccines the most.
In this in-depth analysis, published in two parts this week, Lila Sari looks at vaccine distribution in Indonesia, and the surprising entrance of political parties into the roll-out.
What role exactly do the political parties play in vaccine distribution? How do they access the vaccines, how do their approaches differ and what motivates them? I’ll be looking at these questions across two articles this week. In today’s article, Part 1, I’ll examine the broader practices of vaccine acquisition and distribution by political parties and their partners, and in Part 2 I’ll look at how this plays out in Golkar, PDI-P and NasDEM’s approaches.
To accelerate vaccine delivery, the government has instructed several institutions to help the Ministry of Health and local governments to deliver the vaccines. The first, and main, track of the vaccine rollout relies on diverse state bodies. The Indonesian Police and Army (TNI/POLRI), the Coordinating Agency for Family Planning (BKKBN), and even the State Intelligence Agency (BIN) have been involved in administering vaccinations in several regions. According to the Ministry of Health’s dashboard data, this main track has delivered 167.5 million doses.
In addition to these public sector institutions, the government has expanded the vaccination delivery track to the private sector, using private companies and state-owned enterprises. This second track, which the government has dubbed the Gotong Royong (mutual cooperation) vaccination program, uses a very different modality than the standard government approach. Companies and enterprises are expected to use their own funding and resources to acquire and deliver different vaccine brands or types. In particular, the Gotong Royong program uses the Sinopharm vaccine, unlike the Sinovac-Bio Farma, AstraZeneca, Pfizer, Novavax, Moderna, and BioNTech vaccines used in the standard program. The goal is for these companies to then deliver these vaccines to their own employees.
As part of the Gotong Royong program, the government also uses the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce (KADIN) to provide brokerage services to bring together the private sector and the Ministry of Health and PT Bio Farma, the state-owned enterprise responsible for importation and distribution of vaccines. This track has delivered 915,295 first doses (6.1% of the total targeted population for vaccinations) and 663,515 second doses. Whereas 28,413 companies have applied to participate in this program, only 258 (less than 1% of the applicants) have received an allocation from the Ministry of Health and PT Bio Farma.
This program makes sense for the private sector: it is more efficient and economical for companies to vaccinate their workers than to test them regularly and spend money on supporting infected workers. By vaccinating their workers, companies hope to be able to run their businesses at full capacity.
Despite the mobilisation of so many actors in the vaccination roll out, it seems this is not enough. Politicians in Indonesian’s national parliament have criticised the slow progress and uneven distribution in vaccination delivery. Perhaps it is this criticism which has pushed the government to open a third vaccination track, a track that involves these politicians and their parties. This third track, however, is not clearly stipulated in government regulations on the vaccination program (the latest being Ministry of Health Regulation No. 10/2021 and the Minister of Health Decree No. 4638/2021).
Nevertheless, reports in online media and social media show that several political parties have been actively involved in the vaccination program. These include parties from the government’s ruling coalition, like the Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P), Golkar Party, National Awakening Party (PKB), National Democrat Party (NasDEM), and National Mandate Party (PAN), as well as the opposition parties, like the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) and the Democrat Party (PD), and even small parties like the Indonesia Solidarity Party (PSI).
This is a highly unusual practice. To my knowledge, Indonesia is the only country where political parties are not only organising their own vaccination programs but also actually injecting vaccines into people’s arms.
In fact, it seems like the program is accelerating, with political parties competing to give out vaccines, and using the program as a way to demonstrate their ability to work with the government and achieve the important national goal of reaching herd immunity. Interestingly, each party has claimed to be the first to deliver a coronavirus vaccination program.
What role exactly do the political parties play in vaccine distribution? How do they access the vaccines, how do their approaches differ and what motivates them?
At first, when I noticed reports of party vaccination programs, I assumed that they were buying the vaccines they were delivering, as with companies using the Gotong Royong track, rather than drawing on government stocks.
After all, the parties present their campaigns as if they are solely their own initiatives. Most of the parties mentioned above have been running mass vaccination activities in ways that resemble election campaign events. For example, they use big banners with photographs of their prominent leaders, and hand out t-shirts, and goody bags containing party merchandise, food, and souvenirs to people who come to get vaccinated.
These events typically include speeches from elite politicians, who are usually members of the national parliament (DPR) or the local parliament (DPRD) in the area concerned, or they might be the local chairperson of the party regional branch. Sometimes, the national chairperson (Ketua Umum) of the party appears. Typically, in these speeches the politicians concerned praise how responsive and concerned their party is about the community and how they have worked hard, or fought, to ensure community members get the vaccines. Sometimes, they claim that the mass vaccination event involves collaboration with state institutions, private sector actors, and/or mass organisations. Sometimes, party leaders bring along leaders from the local government and/or local police and army officials, representatives of private companies, and of mass organisations.
They also claim to have provided funds to distribute these vaccines. Such claims are partly true, as politicians and parties apparently do finance some elements of these vaccination events. They provide cadres and resources to organise registration, provide the venue, as well as snacks, lunches, and fees for the medical staff providing the vaccinations. However, it turns out that, unlike the Gotong Royong program, parties do not need to buy the vaccines they deliver. Instead, they receive them from the Ministry of Health. This is where the lobbying capacity of party bosses comes in.
How do they access vaccines?
In general, my respondents from political parties and local media explain that their party received an allocation of vaccines from the Ministry of Health. In their capacity as the Ministry’s counterparts in the DPR, members of the Commission IX of the DPR, which is responsible for health and labor affairs, can submit a request to the Ministry to allocate buffer stocks—stocks left over from the quota used for the government-led vaccination program. Then, based on the Ministry’s assessment, the Ministry can grant them a quota. These politicians normally prioritise distribution to their own electoral districts (daerah pemilihan or dapil).
In short, much like other government benefits and programs, COVID-19 vaccines have now become a political commodity which politicians can use to solidify their constituency and supporters. This is an important opportunity for them to survive in what observers have called Indonesia’s “patronage democracy” as written by Aspinall and Berenschot in Democracy for Sale: Elections, Clientelism, and the State in Indonesia. When parties and politicians habitually provide their supporters with benefits of various kinds, it makes sense for them to view the coronavirus vaccination program as a new political commodity they can distribute.
Aside from this channel, some respondents from the national government, as well as local experts and members of watchdog institutions in some regions, explained that some parties have been able to access vaccines from other state institutions, such as local governments, POLRI and the TNI. As explained above, these institutions also received vaccine allocations and were responsible for delivering jabs through the government-led vaccination program. They have discretion on how to deliver their vaccines. They can use their own facilities, such as local public health clinics and hospitals, police or military health institutions, or partner with private healthcare services, or even partner with mass organisations, or, it turns out, with political parties.
This discretion has opened up opportunities for parties and politicians to use these allocations for their own promotional purposes, though typically presented as joint effort or kerjasama (cooperative) schemes. Party elites request the allocation from the national or local government, POLRI and the TNI to deliver the vaccinations under their party’s banner. In return, the parties will name these institutions as their partners, and they will pay for the vaccinators’ fees and other operational costs to deliver the vaccines.
Perceived religious prohibition, vaccine coercion, anti-Chinese sentiment and reliance on alternative health and hygiene practices are contributing to low vaccination acceptance.
In fact, it is not only parties who use this approach. In some regions, according to my anonymous sources, some big business groups have also used the kerjasama scheme. These are typically business groups owned by oligarchs—i.e., the super wealthy individuals who dominate both political and business life in Indonesia. Such companies can sometimes use the quotas allocated to central government agencies, local governments, and POLRI/TNI, bypassing the formal Gotong Royong vaccination track provided for the private sector. Of course, they label the vaccination events they then run as a form of collaboration with the real owner of the vaccine quota. But in fact, these companies acquired the vaccines for free and much more quickly than they would as part of the Gotong Royong track, with no need to wait for KADIN to process their proposals. By doing so, I estimate they save around 75% of the costs they would incur if using the Gotong Royong track.
To access vaccines, political parties and the companies thus need to lobby and negotiate with government institutions which are authorised vaccine distributors. But having access to political power and good connections with those institutions helps. In many cases, party leaders and other politicians have family connections with the governor or other local officials, and this, too, can allow access.
Take, for example, in one region of Indonesia, where a senior politician, who is also the owner of one of the biggest conglomerates in the region. He is known to have close connections with two generals who hold very high positions in the country, are from the same region as the elite politician and served as his adjutants when he was in the office. Having this close connection as a patron gives the elite politician easy access to use the police quota in the region for vaccination events run by his companies.
Another example can be seen in a woman politician, a prominent party elite, and member of the DPR. She is also the wife of a former two-time mayor in the region. Her husband is a senior politician with a colourful background. He retains much influence in the city including in the prison sector, given that he spent some years in jail for corruption. The woman has good access to the Ministry of Health as she is a member of the DPR’s Commission IX. Once she attained the quota, she distributed it where she and her husband have many fans: in the prisons and among networks of women’s Islamic devotional groups.
Tomorrow: How Golkar, PDI-P and NasDEM approach vaccine distribution.
The reports of anxiety and fear as the Taliban marched through to claim rule in Afghanistan and the crescendo of reports of the targeting of women has invoked memories of stories people told me about living under the rule of Kahar Muzakkar’s Darul Islam/Tentara Islam (henceforth DI/TI) in South Sulawesi. This fraction of Indonesia’s post-colonial Islamic state movement, first established by Kartosuwirjo in West Java in the 1950s, held power over much of rural South Sulawesi (including what is now Southeast Sulawesi Province) until the early 1960s. My doctoral research on Sorowako, in the northern mountains of South Sulawesi, concerned the social and economic impacts of a foreign-owned nickel mine that had just been opened by President Suharto. I arrived in 1978, and the local population were still smarting from the forced loss of their land and livelihoods. But when I sat down to yarn with people, they were compelled to tell me also about their suffering under what they termed the ‘gerombolan’ (‘gang’). This area had been close to one of the key centres of Kahar’s movement (Kolaka in Sulawesi Tenggara): the rebel troops had forcibly moved the people from the western shore of Lake Matano, the end point of the road to Malili on the coast, to a remote location on the wild side of the lake—which the people termed the penyingkiran (evacuation site). They explained to me that the guerrilla fighters wanted to ensure local populations could not be forced to provide sustenance to the guerrillas’ enemy, the Indonesian army (TNI) troops. Local people’s accounts of DI/TI, who lived among them exercising authority and control for over a decade, always feature stories about actions that are harsh, even cruel.
Islam in Sorowako
The ‘orang asliSorowako,‘ as they called themselves, had been Islamised by functionaries from the Kerajaan Luwu deployed as colonial officials by the Dutch after they extended direct control over the interior regions of Sulawesi’s southwestern peninsular around 1906. From the early 1950s DI/TI forcibly Islamised Christian villagers around Lake Matano who had been relocated there from further up the mountains. Villages and ripening fields on the lake shore were burned as people were forced to flee.
The text of proclamation of Islamic State of Indonesia on Wikicommons
Life in the jungle refuge was full of privation, and over the years I learned about the ways the DI/TI impacted on individual lives. The current stories of young Afghani women being forcibly married to Taliban fighters, or people hiding their daughters as the fighters rolled into their towns brought to mind the personal stories of forced marriages to DI/TI fighters recounted by many of my friends in Sorowako. One very independent woman raising her now adult (disabled) son on her own had been forcibly married in this manner. I asked a family member if the marriage lasted after the cease fire with government troops in 1962. I was told: ‘she pushed the stairs away from the (stilt) house’ i.e. a strong message to the husband ‘don’t come back’. People gossiped about a ‘wrong marriage’ of a friend: wrong according to the rules of the bilateral kinship system which stressess generational relations. Prior to their marriage he had called her ‘aunt’—that is she was the generation above him, not on ‘cousin’ level. Her father, a village leader, married her off quickly to avoid her forcible marriage to a DI/TI soldier. No doubt many of these marriages were polygynous, both within the DI/TI -controlled territory and in their home villages, and this alone would have given parents reason to fear them. Collecting genealogies, I came across quite a few men who had been DI/TI fighters. The charismatic rebel leader Kahar was himself polygynous (practiced poligami) having 9, or some accounts say 12, wives—and this excessive sexuality was an aspect of his hyper-masculinised charisma.
Photo of Kahar Muzakkar, the leader of the Sulawesi rebellion from 1950-1965. KamielahK on Wikicommons
There were many stories of kidnapping, especially people from the government-controlled towns who had expertise the rebels desired—such as accountants, teachers and agricultural experts—to set up their alternative administration. Government was in accord with a document establishing shariah law as the basis of the Makalua charter. It contained provisions, similar to that of the Taliban, based on misogynistic readings of Islamic texts, on the fikih (Islamic jurisprudence) that supported a God-ordained male privilege. Women were forced to wear head coverings and live basically domestic lives. The Makalua charter allowed forced polygyny (poligami), indeed people who rejected polygyny could be prosecuted, and no offer of marriage could be refused, save that the man was a juvenile, impotent, diseased or of bad character. It had harsh provisions for regulating relations between the sexes, and a broad interpretation of zina (sexual acts outside marriage): I heard personal accounts from people who witnessed women accused of adultery being buried to the waist and stoned to death (dirajam). Other people graphically gestured to describe the practice of cutting off hands as punishment for theft.
Kahar has been described as a Muslim socialist and his rule also expressed a kind of ‘radical egalitarianism’ in that he sought to stamp out the power of Bugis nobility and the cultural trappings of their authority, which were an exercise of power that the pre-Islamic religion deemed ordained by the Gods of the Upper world. The corpus of pre-Islamic beliefs and rituals that validated social hierarchy and noble privilege and power and were divinely ordained and ritual life harkened back to the sacred cycle, La Galigo. DI/TI troops burned the houses of the nobility that symbolically encoded their status, and which housed sacred regalia. They banned syncretic ritual practices, melded with Islamic rituals for birth, death, marriage and activities such as farming and house construction. People of noble birth were targeted. A very confident Bugis noble woman form Malili told me she had been kidnapped as a 10 year- old child and held captive in the jungle ‘sleeping under the trees’ for three years. She recounted that she continuously scolded her captors and refused to bend to their world view. Just a few years ago, a friend who was in a ‘nostalgic’ mode told a story of seeing a DI/TI rebel walk up the stairs of a house and shoot the owner in his doorway, According to her, this was because they were of noble birth.
What allowed for despotism and misogynistic tyranny?
What makes this possible? Kahar’s rule over the Islamic state that he proclaimed relied on the Makalua charter, which was ostensibly based on the fikih: their understanding of Islamic law and what they believed to be Syariah. The elevation of a version of Islamic law (understood as God’s law and so not subject to debate) justified cruel summary justice. The Makalua charter and the ideology that it was the direct interpretation of the words of God justified this arbitrary behaviour, including the cruel and arbitrary treatment of women, and notably, control of their sexuality and public movement. This style of textual interpretation that the DI/TI and Taliban share is known in Indonesian as ‘Islam gariskeras (hard-line Islam’). Former president and head of NU, Abdurahman Wahid (Gus Dur) reminded us that while the Qu’ran is the word of God it is always known through human interpretation—and scholars of Islam in the many educational institutions throughout Indonesia delight in textual debate
The people of Sorowako are today very observant Muslims, and acknowledge that the years under DI/TI rule led them to intensify their piety. A common view was that although they professed Islam by the 1950s, they had not been very pious. The threshold for conversion had been very low in South Sulawesi: recite the shahada, renounce eating pork and get circumcised. When I asked whether they supported the rebels, many people responded: yes, because it championed the elevation of Islam. Many are well-educated, working for the mining company or in other middle-class occupations, and their modernist and tolerant mode of Islamic practice is of the kind common to Indonesia’s urban middle classes. The village imam stressed an important point, from their contemporary understanding of piety. He said that the DI/TI compelled women to wear head covering: the women today, including young women, all wear head-covering (jilbab), but now it has more meaning as they do it from their own religious knowledge.
Memory activism—why not DI/TI?
The DI/TI came soon after the very traumatic events of the Japanese occupation, which is remembered as very brutal in this area. It also followed the 1947 Westerling massacres of the anti-colonial struggle. Memory activism is a notable political movement in in contemporary Indonesia, much of it focussing on the brutal mass killings of accused communists in 1965-6, associated with the power struggle that resulted in Suharto assuming the presidency. After his fall in 1998, memories of the suffering and lingering claims of injustice rapidly surfaced, especially among local populations (and especially in East Java) with remembrance of unmasked mass graves and slaughter sites serving as mnemonic devices to keep those memories alive. In Sorowako memories of the years of suffering under DI/TI go very deep and have not been supplanted by the more recent traumatic memories of the loss of their land and livelihoods under the Suharto regime’s foreign investment provisions. They do, however, acknowledge that the discourse of the threat of communism that was deployed by the New Order as a form of social and political control constrained their courage to oppose their dispossession to make way for the foreign-owned mine. A group of young people are now exploring the history of their community, including its’ history and culture before the development of the project and its associated suffering. They reported the same experience that I did when I asked about the past: the old people wish to recount their suffering under DI/TI.
The loyalty of some Islamist groups to AQ, and by extension, the Taliban, is evident from the content posted on their respective affiliated websites and publications.
The failure to address the events of the DI/TI years continue to have political consequences today. A descendant of Kahar Muzakkar has won political office, for example, on platforms that echo some of the tenets of Kahar’s movement and calling on the deceased Kahar’s enduring charisma. In the case of Sorowako the Christian Karongsi’e, who prior to the 1950s lived in a neighbouring village on the shores of Lake Matano, began to return to the mining town that had grown up on the shores of the lake. Their village had been burned at the same time as Sorowako and they had been forcibly Islamised and taken to the refuge site (so as not to provide assistance to government troops). In around 1960 they had been rescued from the penyingkiran (evacuation site) by the TNI (Indonesian army) and taken to Malili. From there they dispersed into Central Sulawesi—and were fearful to return until after Reformasi. They trickled back and established a settlement (considered illegal by the local government and the mining company) and pressed claims for compensation for their lands, forcibly abandoned during the DI/TI period and now incorporated into the mine concession area (used for residences and a golf course). The land ‘compensation’ has been controversial since the 1970s, but the company considers the process complete with the group who self-identify as the orang asli Sorowako, who are Muslim. They have had difficulty gaining formal recognition of their claims to indigeneity and for consequent privileges in the mining community.
The Karongsi’e who have come back since 1998 argue that they have been dispossessed by the mining development and their claims have been taken up by international and national NGOs who support their status as the indigenous people in East Luwu. These claims are accepted by the current local government. A 2016 report of KOMNASHAM (Indonesian Commission in Human Rights) on’ indigenous people in forest areas’ focused on the Karongsi’e to the exclusion of the orang asli Sorowako (even though the groups are linked through kinship and marriage, language and shared history in the pre-colonial and colonial eras). The erroneous description in that report draws on accounts of the historical experience of the orang asli Sorowako at the hands of the mining company, confusingly attributing this experience to Karongsi’e. Significantly, it fails to account for their fundamental dispossession by the DI/TI. They are represented as dispossessed by the mining development. The KOMNASHAM report follows the ‘script’ set out by the AMAN (Aliansi Masyarakat Adat Nusantara, the principle advocacy group for customary rights), which calls for ‘inventorising’ claims, including mapping graves. The identity of Karongsi’e as Christian is downplayed as adherence to a world religion does not fit the AMAN script. Meanwhile, the people of Sorowako regularly travel back to the cemetery at the penyingkiran, to clean graves before important Islamic holidays. There are a lot of graves, many of babies and children. Like people in areas of political killings in 1964-5, the act of clearing their loved ones’ graves triggers the memories of the years of suffering under DI/TII rule.
But the violence of the DI/TI which occurred in South and Southeast Sulawesi (and linked movements in West Java and Aceh), a quotidian occurrence over around 15 years, have not been the subject of contemporary memory activism. Perhaps current political sensitivities around political Islam preclude addressing the trauma of those years. But reports from Afghanistan and contemporary memory activism teach us that memories of trauma run deep, as I and others have found among the Sulawesi survivors of DI/TI.
The author has published extensively on this topic over many decades. Not all that scholarship has been digitised yet, so we encourage readers to seek out, in particular, her 1983 journal article “Living in the hutan: jungle village life under the Darul Islam” Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol 17. pp. 208-229. Professor Robinson has also recently published Mosques and Imams: Everyday Islam in Eastern Indonesia (2020) Singapore: NUS press.
As with rice, Indonesia experiences high sugar prices. Domestic sugar prices can be three times the average international price. Near the beginning of the COVID-19 outbreak last year, sugar prices rose a further 25 percent in some areas. Consumer sugar prices differ substantially between different regions, but even seemingly low prices are still high compared internationally. These inflated prices make for big profit margins, especially for importers. Indonesia imports over two thirds of its sugar. Although there are anti-sugar import protests, they do not produce the same sort of sensationalised outrage associated with rice imports.
Calls to reform Indonesia’s sugar trade often appear in media. Proponents for lowering prices on behalf of consumers and commercial users blame the government’s opaque import licensing and quota system for creating an uncompetitive sugar market. They claim allowing greater quantities of imported sugar does not lower prices as just a few groups have permission to import. Their efforts to reform the import license and quota system to lower sugar prices for consumers have little influence because those who profit from how things work now have few reasons to accept change.
Indonesia’s own sugar farmers and millers, represented by assertive and politically connected lobbying associations, want to preserve already high prices. So too do select bureaucrats, politicians, conglomerates, and their oligarchs, as well as state-owned enterprises that make windfalls from the structure of the existing sugar market. But perhaps less obviously, Indonesia’s security institutions benefit from sugar capital. They have profited from sugar since the birth of the Republic. Addressing high sugar prices requires addressing the sensitive issue of reforming security force financing practices that have been institutionalised since decolonisation. If modes of sugar patronage institutionalised in tumultuous periods of Indonesian history remain unaddressed, incremental changes to sugar-related regulations can only have a piecemeal effect on prices.
The roots of sugar capital
Enclaves of sugar production and processing fuelled the early colonial state’s capitalist development. Sugar production enabled the emergence of private Chinese and European entrepreneurs on Java, some of whom went onto become the entire region’s wealthiest oligarchs. Given sugar’s high value, the Dutch forced its production among other cash crops in the Culture System (Cultuurstelsel, 1830-1870). Before the Great Depression, Java was consistently the world’s second largest sugarcane producer and exporter after Cuba.
Sugar produced wealth for some but also cultivated insecurity. Declining sugar prices and sugar permit exceptionalism formed the foundations for ethnic violence that still lingers. Rigid state allocation of land for sugar production enabled conditions for famine. “Sugar lords” invested their profits into opium production. Crime such as theft and holdups increased around the trade of sugar. Thugs became more prominent in villages with elites using them to expand and protect land used for sugar cultivation as well as to discipline labour. Villagers that protested about falling sugar prices as well as forced land conversion could find their crops torched, or alternatively they burnt down plantations’ sugarcane crops in acts of resistance. In response, colonial police became deeply entangled with sugar. Dutch police (Marechaussee) battalions were posted to Java to curb sugarcane theft as well as arson attacks on sugar plantations. After the Japanese occupation began, military police (Kempetai) took over sugar plantations and coercively extracted from wealthy sugar-rich families.
Stamp from 1960 showing a railway track running through sugarcane fields (public domain)
Newly independent Indonesia was similarly dependent on sugar. After the Second World War and the National Revolution, Indonesia had less than half of its sugar processing capacity. Early governments needed to generate revenue to engage in trade for necessary machinery and textiles, which they did by reviving the decimated sugar industry. Private smallholder sugarcane farming occurred but its scale remained minor. Revival really meant securing and funding plantations. Revival also meant the sugar industry’s colonial-era sins, such as heinous working conditions and extortion, were largely unaddressed. Many state officials became entangled with private capital to take over Dutch sugar enterprises. Independence leaders and officials’ quick decisions made to support the national economy meant the structure of colonial sugar cultivation and processing was retained during decolonisation (Indonesianisasi).
While there was structural continuity, political tensions among workers at sugar plantations found new avenues for expression. During the “be prepared” (bersiap) period of the revolution (August 1945 to December 1946), long pent-up resentment felt at some sugar factories erupted in violence and murder. Sugar plantation workers became deeply involved in the new nation’s political change and many later returned to work at plantations as hardened revolutionaries. Sugar plantation unions, which colonisers had crushed, emerged again with connections to ideologically driven political parties and Islamic organisations. During this period, the independent state was often without the means to sustain control for extracting revenue in sugar enclaves. In the years immediately after the National Revolution, the amount of sugarcane plantation destroyed or stolen reached between 15 and 20 percent annually. Like its colonial predecessors, the newly independent government’s attempts to maintain control included assigning soldiersand police to protect sugar plantations.
Military involvement in sugar became even more entrenched after plantation nationalisation and Sukarno’s authoritarian turn in 1957. As newly formed state sugar plantation companies gained control over formerly Dutch enterprises, soldiers became more heavily involved to supervise financial administration, and deal with land and labour disputes. Military leaders needed to find money for their underfunded units or departments and sugar plantations were a useful source of revenue. The practice of soldiers extracting from the sugar trade occurred beyond plantations, too. A prominent example of military engagement in the sugar trade in this period involved a future president, Suharto.
From the late 1940s, Suharto—then a Lieutenant Colonel – lent army trucks to businessmen for sugar transport. He also purchased, or even sometimes seized, sugar from mills to sell onto middlemen. Later in 1957, while commanding a deep-water port in the city of Semarang, Suharto collaborated with future oligarchs such as Sudono Salim (Liem Sioe Liong) and Bob Hasan (The Kiang Seng) to smuggle and export sugar to Singapore. According to biographer David Jenkins “extortion and straight-out theft” describes Suharto’s operation at the port in those years. Suharto’s racketeering even meant he was nearly dismissed from his position by army chief of staff General Nasution.
Suharto with Let. Gen. Leo Lopulisa at a North Sumateran military food project in 1968
Once Suharto became president, his militarised government further entangled itself with sugar production and processing to generate revenue. The government created state-owned sugar plantation companies out of the nationalised Dutch estates. These companies milled most domestically sourced sugar even as private smallholders became more important to overall sugar production. But really, sugar producing smallholders participated in state directed sugar distribution chains despite a veneer of change. The New Order government initially maintained a long-term system of forcing sugarcane farmers to rent land to mills. A regulation that was introduced to increase production efficiency by ending forced land rental, also had the effect of enabling village elites to dispossess smallholders of land. Those elites then sold sugar into the same state-owned mills. Moreover, soldiers and the police, in conjunction with irrigation officials, determined allocation of smallholder lands for sugarcane production.
Further up the sugar chain, the National Logistics Agency (Badan Urusan Logistik, Bulog), partly led by former soldiers, absorbed output from mills and became the sole trader of sugar. Bulog licenced sugar import and distribution contracts to Suharto’s cronies, including conglomerates controlled by his children as well as Sudono Salim. These contracts were very lucrative as Indonesia became, in the 1980s, one of the largest sugar importers in the World. This dominance meant Bulog had an enormous influence on prices.
Post Suharto sugar marketcraft
After Suharto’s downfall, the longstanding dynamic of prosperity and crime continued to coalesce around sugar. The removal of Bulog’s monopolies in 1999 meant imported sugar readily flowed into Indonesia and caused a sharp price decline. This new competitiveness caused a shock to sugarcane farmers as well as mills, represented by their associations. The emergence of agricultural commodity farming and trading associations are feature of post Suharto democratisation. There are many such associations for sugar.
The interests of diverse sugar associations, such as the Association of Indonesian Sugarcane Farmers (APTRI), the Association of Sugar and Flour Entrepreneurs (APEGTI), and the Indonesian Sugar Association (AGI), the latter with its membership comprised mostly of state-owned plantations, aligned in response to the price decline. They aggressively lobbied the government for re-introduction of sugar import restrictions and were successful in 2002. Soon after, just several state-owned plantations were legally able to bring sugar into the country. The government reintroduced these sugar import restrictions just as it was introducing decentralisation reforms that meant local governments gained more power to act in the sugar trade. The subsequent confusing regulatory landscape and the sidelining of private sugar merchants that prospered briefly after Suharto’s downfall led to a re-emergence of sugar smuggling.
Near the estuary of the Asahan River in North Sumatra is a small port almost opposite Malaysia’s Port Klang, a special trade zone around 180 kilometres away. Many such “veins” for smuggling contraband exist along the coast, but from this small port many thousands of tons of sugar flowed into Indonesia illegally after the re-introduction of import restrictions. The small port lays next to a highway. After unloading, workers quickly transferred contraband sugar onto waiting trucks and whisked it towards metropoles to become mixed into value chains trading legitimate sugar.
For many smugglers, the possibility of finding fortune in smuggled sugar was worth the minimal risk of jailtime. Making illegally imported sugar legitimate was not particularly problematic. One regular method included smugglers paying officials to create permits to legalise sugar after it was already in Indonesia. A reporter aptly said the restrictive sugar regulations “crumbled like donut dough in the hands of an official wanting an envelope (angpau)”. Moreover, the threat from the state for enforcement was not asymmetrical. A high-ranking customs official near the port claimed there were only 20 officers to deal with a nearby city full of smugglers. One junior leader at the port believed thugs (preman) would react strongly if their livelihoods dependent on sugar trade became disturbed.
But there were some arrests. One notable sugar-related arrest in the early post-Suharto period was a Golkar politician from South Sulawesi, Nurdin Halid. He held prominent leadership positions. Aside from being one of the Golkar party’s main leaders, he was head of the All-Indonesian Football Association (PSSI) (2003-2011), as well as Indonesia’s Cooperative Council (Dewan Koperasi Indonesia, Dekopin)(1999-2004, 2009-2019)—a representative body for savings and small loan banks. While a member of the parliamentary commission on trade Halid, along with his brother and several cronies, took part in a swindle involving more than 73,000 tonnes of illegally imported sugar. The police, rather than the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) that was then operating at a more limited capacity, were involved in prosecuting Halid’s sugar smuggling case. Eventually the illegal sugar import charges against Halid were dropped, but he was nevertheless jailed for other commodity trading cons.
Further details about Halid’s links with sugar and the police reveals a more complicated picture. Just after Halid went to prison in September 2007, thieves stole 3,000 tonnes of his sugar from South Sulawesi Customs. In addition to the customs warehouse manager and supervisor, the police investigated one of their own, a midranking officer described as a witness to the theft. After prison Halid was elected head of Dekopin for two more five-year terms over the decade 2009 to 2019 and was only recently ousted trying for another. A prominent member of Dekopin is the police employee cooperative (Induk Koperasi Kepolisian, Inkoppol), which is itself involved in the sugar trade.
Police and military employee cooperatives invest in raw sugar importation. These investments are partly justified in terms of helping control consumer prices as well as supporting their budgets. Their participation in sugar importation is above board and, despite criticism from national auditing authorities and members of civil society, occurred with ministerial approval. A 2005 review for police finance reform even saw increasing revenue at police cooperatives as a solution to help curb other sources of informal financing while addressing the institution’s budget shortfalls. Police and military cooperatives help import raw sugar from overseas for processing with several members of the Indonesian Refined Sugar Association (AGRI) which formed in 2004 soon after restrictive import controls were introduced.
Polda Metro Jaya in the Sudirman Central Business District (SCBD). The SCBD is a development of the Artha Graha group. Cropped photo by Dino Adyansyah on Flickr. (CC BY 2.0)
Conglomerates owned by oligarchs, some of whom have long established links to security forces, fund these sugar-refining enterprises and have significant access to an exclusive domestic sugar market. Membership of sugar markets regulates companies means to trade. Politically connected sugar players themselves sometimes even own commodity trading markets. One such figure is Tomy Winata, a tycoon with links to security forces and political parties. His conglomerate Artha Graha owns the Jakarta Commodities Market (Pasar Komoditas Jakarta, PKJ) designated by the government for large-scale sugar trade auctions. In addition to owning a government-designated market for sugar trading, Artha Graha owns one of the companies that trades there, which is also a member of AGRI, and is a major sugar importer in conjunction with Inkoppol.
AGRI members’ appear likely to benefit further from regulation stemming from the controversial Omnibus Job Creation Law (Undang Undang Cipta Kerja No.11/2020). Sugar related regulation in the law and Ministry of Trade regulations could mean only state plantations and large industrial-scale sugar traders, nicknamed “samurai”, are able access sugar import licenses. Many of the eleven “samurai” businesses are members of AGRI. Powerful Coordinating Minister for Maritime Affairs, and former General, Luhut Panjaitan said, “Sugar will be imported only by the food industry that needs it. So it’s not from other people so it doesn’t become a game”. Some industrial users of refined sugar, along with Indonesian Entrepreneur’s Association, worry that this new regulation goes against previous attempts to enable more competition, and will lead to further entrenchment of AGRI members’ dominance in the sugar trade. But before accepting the two differing positions as opposite sides in a hypothetical debate, it is worth asking who is actually willing to compete with entrenched players in Indonesia’s sugar markets?
‘A fuss about sugar’, the cover of Tempo magazine, No 39, 22 Nov 1980
At the subnational level, newer sugar traders have links to coercive power, sometimes including security institutions beyond the police and military. For example, according to some research, former members of the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) connected to former two-time Governor (2007-2012 and 2017-2018) Irwandi Yusuf, were awarded many of the province’s sugar quota licenses between 2007 and 2012. Importers more removed from the former Governor’s immediate patronage network then purchased these licenses with agreements that allowed the original holders cuts, without having to involve themselves in sugar distribution. These relations of sugar patronage are part of a broader “combatants to contractors” transition also found in Aceh’s construction sector.
Other new sugar players use existing political connections that competitors lack. For example, former Minister of Agriculture Amran Sulaiman allegedly sped up the approval process for the construction of what is now now the largest sugar plantation and processing factory in Indonesia. From 2016, the government requested tender submissions for an enormous new sugar plantation and factory located in Bombana, Southeast Sulawesi. The government promoted this new plantation and factory as necessary in terms of reducing dependency on foreign sugar. Of the 300 submissions to acquire the rights for sugar the plantation, Sulaiman’s cousin and former deputy treasurer for the Jokowi-Maruf Amin presidential campaign, Andi Syamsuddin Arsyad (also known as ‘Crazy Rich’ Haji Isam), a coal magnate, gained the license.
In October 2020, President Jokowi opened the sugar factory in Bombana declaring, with Sulaiman and Haji Isam present: “This is courage. Courage to open an investment and business in this place. This is what we must appreciate and value.” His remarks sounded as though he had arrived at a Wild West frontier with land of little value. Wealth from small-scale gold mining on the land converted for sugar plantation actually flowed into the area’s off-budget economy. But the conversion of thousands of hectares for sugar production and the factory dispossessed farmers who valued the land.
“Can Indonesia have food security without security?” Colum Graham looks at who really benefits from the government’s recent measures to address Indonesia’s food crisis.
Available coverage of the sugar plantation development at Bombana suggests there was an absence of protest from the dispossessed. But elsewhere recently, land conflict at sugar plantations has been intense. One recent case of land conflict in Tulang Bawang regency in the province of Lampung illustrates the power of plantations backed by security forces with stakes in sugar capital. For a long time, the land now used by the Bangun Nusa Indah Lampung (BNIL) company has been a site of conflict. In the early 1990s, security forces allegedly used gunfire to herd elephants from a national park through nearby transmigrant villages to make residents flee and assist BNIL to claim the land. Reports from human rights organisations say villagers had to sign miserly compensation agreements, which they only later discovered were for land, or face torture.
Tensions between BNIL and surrounding communities, many comprised of transmigrant villagers, were fraught for two decades before boiling over in 2015. Given sugar’s high price and its national prioritisation, some companies use it to replace other cash crops. BNIL even wanted to replace palm oil in its plantation with sugarcane. But then-Regent of Tulang Bawang Hanan Rozak, now a member of national parliament, refused BNIL’s request to convert palm oil land for sugar production because their application did not include an environmental impact assessment.
The Regent’s refusal became entangled with broader longstanding communal grievance about the legitimacy of BNIL’s land claim and threats to employment. Emboldened, thousands of aggrieved members of the “Farmers Union of BNIL Eviction Victims” attempted to occupy the plantation. Protests about BNIL even reached the presidential palace in Jakarta. In October 2016, conflict between members of the farmer union occupying the plantation and ‘Self-Sufficient Community Security Forces’ (Pam Swakarsa) protecting it erupted. Dozens of motorbikes and security posts were torched. With the clashes serving as additional justification, the actual police moved in, disbursed the occupiers, and arrested the accused ringleaders of the occupation including a charismatic priest Sugianto, who reportedly attempted to ensure occupation was nonviolent.
While we might look at this case in isolation as reported, we should see it as part of a broader pattern of sugar politics. Much about this disbursal of Farmers Union of BNIL Victims by the police reproduces the long-term relations between security forces and plantations that we have seen earlier in this brief chronology of the political economy of sugar in Indonesia.
Nowadays, BNIL cultivates sugarcane.
What is new?
Aside from the emergence of representative sugar business associations in the post Suharto democratic landscape, then Regent Hanan Rozak’s rejection of BNIL’s land conversion request in 2015 might indicate potential separation between the power of sugar capital and political decisions in one regency of Lampung province. But further analysis of the province’s elections indicate sugar capital actually saturates its politics.
“Can Indonesia have food security without security?” Colum Graham looks at who really benefits from the government’s recent measures to address Indonesia’s food crisis.
Just one hundred kilometres southeast of the BNIL sugar plantation by road is another owned by the Sugar Group. Ridho Ficardo, the son of one of Sugar Group’s directors, became the youngest ever Governor of Lampung in 2014 at 33 years of age. The company, famous for its popular Gulaku shelf-product found in Indomaret and most grocery stores, funded Ridho’s costly campaign to have someone in power to regulate on its behalf. In the most recent 2018 Lampung gubernatorial election, despite their man Ridho running as incumbent, the company backed the eventual winner, Arinal Djunaidi, too.
But that news of sugar scandals even appears at least allows for recognition of what is problematic. Corruption within Indonesia’s state-owned sugar plantations in the last decade, such as sugar distributioncontracts and tender process bribery involving plantation bureaucrats, has frequently appeared in the news. Beyond the case of Nurdin Halid, other prominent politicians’ careers have recently ended because of underhanded dealings in the sugar trade. For instance, Irman Gusman, former speaker (2009-2016) of the Regional Representative Council (DPD), received a four-and-a-half-year sentence in prison (later reduced to three) in 2017 for accepting bribes for sugar purchasing licenses in West Sumatera.
More prominently, former Minister for Trade Enggartiasto Lukita (2016-2019) was linked to bribery for sugar auction permits in a recent corruption case. In the trial of former Golkar parliamentarian Bowo Sidik Pangarso—prominent for planned “dawn attack” vote buying in the 2019 elections and now himself in prison for fertilizer bribery—a witness accused the former Trade Minister of offering a bribe to Pangarso for securing PKJ as the designated government sugar auctioning market. When questioned about the accusation Lukita denied involvement, but just a few months later he lost his position in Jokowi’s second term cabinet without clear public explanation.
Rather than see such sugar scandals—be they land conflicts, instances of corruption, collusion, or high prices—in isolation, recognising the context that enabled them is useful for understanding possibilities for moving forward. The effects of decisions about sugar made during tumultuous periods in Indonesian history linger into the contemporary era. Progress may mean political leaders’ revise decisions made long ago in totally different economic contexts and disrupt entrenched sugar patronage networks. Unwinding relations of sugar patronage is all the more difficult without also reforming security force financing. Further, lowering high sugar prices may not be a useful goal in terms of public health. Diabetes and other sugar related illnesses are increasingly prevalent in Indonesia. Leaders and officials will want to make quick decisions about these difficult issues as they have done in the past. But sidestepping sugar’s actual political economy and its roots as too difficult may render any future reforms toothless.
In the Indonesian Islamist extremist landscape, support for the Taliban—as it seeks to restore the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan following the US’ withdrawal from the country—has mainly accrued from groups and individuals that have followed Al-Qaeda’s (AQ) stance in rejecting the legitimacy of the now defunct “caliphate” declared by the Islamic State (IS) in Syria and Iraq in 2014. Moreover, support for the Taliban in the Indonesian context has traditionally been closely associated with the support for AQ, given the former has provided sanctuaries for AQ for several decades. As such, how will the Taliban’s takeover of Afghanistan be interpreted by Al-Qaeda supporters in Indonesia? By extension, what are the security implications for the country?
Support for Taliban
The Indonesian pro-AQ camp consists of, among others, Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia (MMI), Jama’ah Ansharusy Syariah (JAS) and Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), all groups which have aspired to establish an Islamic state in Indonesia. Their loyalty to AQ, and by extension, the Taliban, is evident from the content posted on their respective affiliated websites and publications. In 2007, Arrahmah Media, linked to MMI, published a translated book titled The Giant Man: Biography of Mullah Umar. The book, an ode to the Taliban leader who founded the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, is currently still sold on several e-commerce platforms in Indonesia. Based on our observations, the groups’ affiliated websites have also regularly provided updates on the progress of the Taliban over the decades.
Following its recent takeover, JAS was the first pro-AQ local extremist group to officially congratulate the Taliban. In fact, JAS’ public lauding on its official website of the Taliban’s territorial successes stretches back to March 2020, when it congratulated the Taliban on its “victory” in the high-level peace talks held in Doha in February 2020, that led to the US’ commitment to a military withdrawal from Afghanistan. JAS also congratulated the people of Afghanistan, who it claimed would soon enjoy the liberty and freedom of living under Islamic law (Sharia). Following the Taliban’s takeover of the capital Kabul, JAS again lauded the group, encouraging Muslims around the world, including in Indonesia, to celebrate its victory.
Research by PAKAR, an Indonesian NGO that studies terrorism, has also revealed that some pro-AQ former terrorist inmates have been staunch supporters of the Taliban in recent years. They have kept themselves updated on the progress of the Taliban’s military operations and recently re-circulated congratulatory messages from AQ affiliated groups—Hay’at Tahrir al Sham (HTS) of Syria and Al-Qaeda in the Arabia Peninsula (AQAP), based in Yemen—heralding the Taliban’s success in retaking Afghanistan.
Euphoria over the Taliban’s “victory” is also apparent in the online discourse of pro-AQ groups in Indonesia, which has suggested the Taliban should unite Muslims around the world and establish a global caliphate, including conquering the capital cities London and Washington. In the Indonesian context, there were some online suggestions to unite the jihadists under Daulah Islam Sumatra (an Islamic State of Sumatra). There were also suggestions the Taliban should open a “branch” in Indonesia, and assist in the establishment of an Islamic state in the country. Meanwhile on the ground, some Islamist elements in Poso, Central Sulawesi, such as supporters of the banned Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front/FPI), and ex-combatants from the Poso communal conflict in the early 2000s, have called on Muslims to pledge their allegiance (bai’at) to the Taliban.
In contrast to the exuberance of the pro-AQ Indonesian elements, the International Centre of Political Violence Research (ICPVTR) data suggests the pro-IS camp in Indonesia has repudiated the Taliban takeover as a “victory”. It has labelled the Taliban as murtad (apostates) and being pro-Shia and pro-US, in addition to being antagonistic towards IS Khorasan, an IS affiliate based in Afghanistan. PAKAR’s research shows some supporters of pro-IS groups, the Jamaah Ansharud Daulah (JAD) and Jamaah Ansharul Khilafah (JAK), assert that the Taliban is a thaghut (tyrant Muslim state that does not enforce Sharia) as its emirate is premised on the concept of a nation-state (nationalism), and thus has deviated from the teachings of AQ founder Osama bin Laden. Such reactions are to be expected, as IS supporters still long for the restoration of the group’s now defunct “Caliphate”.
Security Implications
The support from Indonesian extremist networks for the Taliban has several security implications. First, the success of the Taliban may re-energise the Indonesian pro-AQ groups in pursuing their long-held strategy, which combines non-military (social and political) and military (armed jihad) elements. In the past decade, the aforementioned Indonesian groups have conformed to a long-term strategy that seeks the establishment of an Islamic state in Indonesia. The non-military element primarily entails winning the hearts and minds of local communities through social activities (dakwah/religious outreach, charities, education) and active involvement in the political realm. The latter aims to introduce sharia into the Indonesian political and legal system (by participating in elections, rallies, as well as lobbying the government and parliament on Islamic issues).
The military element is manifested in abstaining from plotting attacks within the country (for JI, this was especially the case when Para Wijayanto led the group from 2009 to 2019), while at the same time discreetly sending their members to gain military experience in Syria as part of their i’dad programme (military training). JI, the group with the most serious military preparation, believes that jihad should be waged when it is militarily ready and has the support of the community; all of which requires patience. In a critical difference, patience has been a source of contention between the Indonesian AQ and IS elements. Those who are not patient are typically associated with the latter whose networks have preferred random attacks in Indonesia with little preparations.
Second, some pro-AQ individuals have emerged to express their intention for hijrah (migration) to Afghanistan so as to receive training from the Taliban and to use such skills to establish an Islamic state back in Indonesia. If this materialises, it will pose a serious security threat to Indonesia in the long term as returning jihadists will be more emboldened by their Afghan training, in a similar way that the old JI Afghan alumni network in the 1980s and 1990s.
Third, the Indonesian jihadists may copy and implement Taliban’s strategy and tactics—as described in the latter’s tradecraft manuals (such as guerrilla tactics) circulated in the Indonesian online domain—although such prospects remain remote. Almost a decade ago, the Taliban’s 12-page manual titled “The Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan: The Prison Break: How to Turn Fantasy to Reality” was translated into Indonesian and posted in several Indonesian extremist websites in 2012. This manual might have inspired Fadli Sadama, the commander of Kumpulan Mujahidin Indonesia (KMI) – a branch of JI in North Sumatra led by Toni Togar – to mastermind a jail break in Medan in July 2013. A total of 218 inmates, including 15 terrorists, fled from prison then. Fifteen prison officers were also briefly taken hostage. The incident resulted in five casualties including two prison wardens.
Currently, it does not appear that the Taliban’s latest tradecraft manuals have been translated into Indonesian. The lack of such translated manuals may be a sign of current weak enthusiasm to implement the manual in the Indonesian context, but it may be a matter of time before such translations appear. How these translated manuals are eventually utilised may impact on the future strategy and tactics which the pro-AQ camp would adopt in Indonesia.
Concluding Remarks
The pro-AQ elements’ general celebration of the Taliban takeover is not unqualified. As the Taliban transforms itself into a governing authority and seeks international recognition, Indonesian pro-AQ groups could possibly reject some of the potential political compromises that the Taliban will have to make along the way. Our online observation shows that individuals in this camp have questioned the Taliban’s efforts in seeking alliances with China, Russia, and Iran, all of which the pro-AQ camp also deem as enemies of Islam, along with the US and its allies. Furthermore, they have also dismissed reports on various concessions the Taliban has apparently made with these countries.
Overall, however, the pro-AQ groups in Indonesia will likely continue to be inspired by the Taliban’s “success” and remain committed to their own long-term goal of setting up an Islamic state in Indonesia. This means they may not be inclined to conduct attacks in Indonesia for the time being, with the exception of some rogue elements within JI who lack patience and have plotted attacks in parts of the country recently.
“Rocket attacks happened, and I don’t know… I ran away and didn’t see anyone from my family”, said Faruq, an Indonesian boy in al-Hol camp, Syria in a BBC report, February 2020. He and two other boys, Yusuf and Nasa, aged around 10 to 12 years old, were separated from their parents and family when ISIS’s last stronghold, Baghouz, fell in March 2019. They have lived in al-Hol camp ever since, without guardians. Until this day, we do not know what the future holds for these children.
In February 2020, the Indonesian government announced it will not repatriate citizens who joined ISIS in Syria and Iraq. The government, however, opened the possibility for repatriation of unaccompanied children under ten years of age on a case-by-case basis. It has been more than a year since the announcement and no significant progress has been made, partly due to the worsening COVID-19 situation in Indonesia. Meanwhile, Indonesian children continue to live under squalid conditions amidst health and safety crises inside the camps.
Indonesian pro-ISIS groups also exist in other ISIS-claimed territories, including in the Philippines, Iraq, and Afghanistan. The latter case is timely to discuss. A small number of Indonesians have arrived in the ISIS ‘Khorasan’ since 2017, some bringing their family along with them. As of early August 2021, there are eleven Indonesian pro-ISIS detainees in Kabul, Afghanistan, at least three of them are children under ten years of age. There has been discussion about their transfer from Afghanistan’s National Directorate of Security (NDS) prison to the custody of the Indonesian embassy, but this was cancelled after the Taliban takeover on 15 August 2021. The Taliban reportedly freed some pro-ISIS and pro-al-Qaeda prisoners, including the eleven Indonesians. No one knows what happened to the children or what kind of life they must face in the midst of the ensuing chaos.
Dire conditions in Syrian camps
A recent IPAC report shows there were 555 Indonesians in al-Hol, al-Roj, and some Kurdish prisons, according to a census that took place in June 2019. Children were a large part of that population. There were 367 Indonesian children under eighteen, 75 per cent of whom were under ten. ISIS was active in recruiting and mobilising families, including women and children, after its establishment in mid-2014. Hundreds of Indonesian families were sold on the high hopes of living under the true, prosperous, and just Islamic state. The reality turned out to be far from it. The capital city, Raqqa, fell in 2017 and Baghouz was taken over in March 2019. Thousands of their supporters were displaced to camps and prisons managed by US-backed militia, the Syrian Democratic Front (SDF).
The living conditions were already poor, but became even more dire as COVID-19 hit. Access to nutritious meals, water, hygiene, and medical facilities is scarce. The restriction of mobility during the pandemic further delayed distribution of aid and basic necessities, and forced some health clinics to shut down due to limited medical personnel. Consequently, eight children died within a week in August 2020 due to malnutrition and limited health facilities. It was reportedly three times higher the death toll rate for children since the beginning of 2020.
Confinement in camps is also affecting the children’s psychological well-being, partly due to post-war trauma, but also because of the constant threats of violence inside the camps. Pro-ISIS women have been reported to burn tents or beat to death those accused of violating ISIS law, as seen in the case of Sudarmini, a pregnant Indonesian woman who was found beaten to death in July 2019. ISIS sleeper cells are smuggled inside, conducting killings and even a public beheading in early 2021, escalating the tension inside the camp. Sexual violence is also prevalent, despite limited documentation.
The future is gloomy for these children. They receive no education but only indoctrination from pro-ISIS women. The UN and other humanitarian organisations have repeatedly call on governments to repatriate their nationals, especially children, but efforts so far remain insufficient. In March 2021, the National Anti-Terror Agency, BNPT, said it will conduct on-site identification and verification processes once the travel ban is lifted, but the chance is slim today amidst the worsening COVID-19 situation worldwide. The data verification is one thing, but there is a lot of work that needs to be done before repatriation takes place, and it should start immediately.
Government’s challenges
Repatriation of the children is not an easy process. Challenges include the definition of children eligible for repatriation, citizenship and data verification, risk assessments, diplomatic issues, and competing bureaucratic interests.
The Indonesian government has hinted at the possibility of repatriation for unaccompanied children under ten years of age. But such a requirement can be problematic on the ground. For instance, in the case of Faruk, Yusuf and Nasa, who were already close to or older than the ten-year-old threshold when the interview took place: have their rights to get a better life and future already vanished? Faruq, Yusuf, and Nasa are not isolated cases. The IPAC report shows there are 34 unaccompanied children under eighteen; nineteen were under ten years of age as of June 2019.
There were also 22 child brides, some with babies and toddlers, who possibly will not be regarded as “children” anymore, according to the citizenship law. Their children, however, will be granted Indonesian citizenship. The child protection law mandates the state protect every citizen under eighteen, regardless of their marital status, and thus the child brides, along with their babies, should be accorded full rights as children. But again, with the narrow eligibility for child repatriation, will they have a chance to come home?
Data verification can be a real challenge as many camp residents lost their legal documents due to war or had them confiscated when they first arrived in IS territory. Those who decided to stay may use false identities or have deliberately destroyed their legal documents. The Indonesian government could use other methods of data verification, for instance by working with the Kurdish government who has done census and collected biometric data for some nationals in 2020 and 2021.
Another obstacle is diplomatic. Indonesia maintains ties with the Syrian government under Bashar al-Assad, which does not recognise the Kurdish-led territory where the camps are located. Building communication and cooperation with the Kurdish government is seen as potentially harmful to Jakarta’s relationship with Damascus. Nevertheless, in August 2017, Indonesia successfully worked with the Kurdish government in Rojava in repatriating its 18 nationals, without affecting the relationship with Assad’s government. Humanitarian organisations in al-Hol also pointed out that working through proxies is possible, even repatriation through Damascus, as done by Albania, Kosovo, Russia, Sudan, and Uzbekistan.
Repatriation increasing the security risk?
The most complex challenges in repatriation are institutional differences in their approach and interests. Security agencies such as the police, BIN, and BNPT, continue to weigh the risk of child repatriation. Other institutions, especially those with a greater focus on child protection, are more concerned with the methods of repatriation, not whether it should be done.
The perception of a risk to the state increases with age. Infants and toddlers may pose little risk to Indonesia’s security, but older children are assumed to have greater risk as they may receive indoctrination and military training from ISIS. ISIS indoctrination is ongoing and targets young children inside the camp. The government needs to move fast because the longer it delays, the fewer children will be under ten years of age. A thorough risk assessment therefore needed, as well as good work with the children’s family and community, and a well-planned and sustainable rehabilitation and reintegration programs.
Indonesia has experience in handling child deportees and returnees in 2017, as well as the domestic cases of children exposed to extremism, as seen in the case of seven children of the 2018 Surabaya bombing. Lessons learned from post-conflict intervention projects in Aceh, Ambon, and Poso can be an important reference for future work. Children from Syrian camps might face entirely different situations, with different degrees of trauma. But prior-hands-on experience is a good starting point.
The rehabilitation and reintegration programs also need to be supported with a good policy framework. The Ministry of Women Empowerment and Child Protection tried to fill the gap by issuing a 2019 ministerial regulation on guidelines for protecting children from radicalism and terrorism, which includes steps for prevention, reeducation, and provisions for social, psychosocial, and psychological rehabilitation for children within extremist networks. However, implementation remains uncertain. On the other hand, The National Action Plan on P/CVE, signed by President Joko Widodo in January 2021, claimed to have incorporated child protection principles, despite no provisions on child deportees, returnees, or those stranded abroad.
All and all, the Indonesian government needs to have a real plan on the repatriation of Indonesian children in Syrian camps, with a clear roadmap and timeline. It can start with a small number of children to ease the monitoring process and develop better rehabilitation and reintegration programs ahead. Unaccompanied children under ten will number less than ten in 2021, and it is a good number to start with. These children cannot wait any longer as they grow up with grievances and disappointment with society and their government under ISIS indoctrination. Bringing them home is the only option that addresses both the humanitarian and security aim of weakening Indonesian links to terrorist networks abroad.
This article derives from IPAC report No. 72 with the same title “Extricating Indonesian Children from ISIS Influence Abroad”, full report can be accessed here.
Four years ago Oxfam published research showing the four richest men in Indonesia own as much wealth as the country’s poorest 100 million citizens.
The statistic is so disturbing it had to be rechecked, particularly as President Joko Widodo continually claims he’s fighting inequality. But so far there’s been no credible challenge to the development charity’s calculations.
Also, no show of government resolve to tackle a divide so wide reduction seems impossible without determined leadership backed by a surge of altruism from the oligarchy. Right now this looks unlikely.
The situation has worsened since the pandemic hit last year. The Badan Pusat Statistik (BPS – Central Statistics Agency) latest release shows almost ten million unemployed. Uncounted are the millions of casuals and self-employed sole traders whose takings have been slashed by the plague.
“Indonesia could become the epicentre of the pandemic, but it’s already the epicentre of Asia,” said Dicky Budiman, an Indonesian epidemiologist at Griffith University. He’s been predicting numbers will double in the next few weeks.
“If you look at the population difference between India and Indonesia…then the pandemic is far more serious than in India.”
The top end of town also reports tumbling takings. Last year Southeast Asia’s biggest economy was thumped by its first recession since the 1998 Asian financial crisis; 2021 first-quarter data from the BPS confirms the downhill trend.
After flip-flopping on saving commerce or citizens, Widodo ordered a 17-day lockdown across Java and Bali ending on 20 July. This may be extended to 3 August. Implementation has been hit and miss—mostly the latter.
Sutiaji, the Mayor of Malang in East Java, told local media he won’t follow the president’s edict, though more than 300 cases were found in his city on one day last week. There are testing stations, but the fee of Rp 200,000, the equivalent of two days work for a casual labourer and three for a household maid, is a hefty deterrent, corrupting official figures.
Immunisation is patchy with clinics mainly using the Chinese Sinovac, plus some Astra Zeneca. Reuters reports about ten per cent of the population (273 million) has had two jabs.
In the absence of any peer-reviewed academic surveys on the effectiveness of the lockdown, personal observations will have to suffice. The snapshots come from Malang, population 900,000, the second biggest metropolis in the province. All are first hand.
A dozen black-uniformed satpol (unarmed local government security) arrived at a packed street produce market at 6 am after it had been running for an hour, ordering around 100 vendors to gather their wares and go.
They shouted back that if they couldn’t sell they’d starve. The outnumbered and sympathetic satpol gave up, not even bothering to warn scores of unmasked customers to cover up as mandated or enforce social distancing.
Eateries are take-away only, unless diners say they’re weary. Then a back room can be found for sit-down meals. One warung (permanent food stall) at the entrance to a central city gang (lane) doesn’t even bother with subterfuge. Customers use tables in clear view of pedestrians, though not patrol cars, so no worries
Virtue signalling is rampant. A story of a transport business helping people in isolation was dominated by photos of the company’s bus fleet and staff. Others are using the same tactic to get their logos on the news pages.
Hawkers bike around the suburbs flogging foods and household knick-knacks though other goods are on offer. Buyers are cautious, slowing the hand-to-mouth pedlars’ cash flows to a trickle.
Sutedjo, 55, offers gemstones set in clunky rings much admired by men with big egos and little else. He pushes his last century cycle around the nooks and crannies of the ancient hilltown, accompanied by his wife Kartini, 43, and two of their three children, surviving on handouts. “Before Covid 19 I could sell five rings a day,” he said. “Now I’d be lucky to sell one. Few have money.”
The family is untroubled by police who are rarely seen. Kartini said she and her husband are too frightened to be immunised and claim no one has tried to persuade them that the disease is serious and protection free. Government advertising has generals and politicians in uniforms sagging with medals above captions urging the populace to stay indoors. Some do—most don’t.
The posters also urge people to exercise—impossible in tiny rooms in cramped houses. The few public parks have been closed, but those determined to follow the recommendation and shake their limbs have pulled down fences. The gaps remain.
Sellers of jamu (traditional herbal potions) are among the few street criers doing good business having expanded their cure-alls from colds to COVID.
Orders to shut mosques and churches lasted but a day before pressure from clerics forced the government to reverse its decision.
Kartini said her family hadn’t received any aid from their mosque or the government and couldn’t explain why. Her response would puzzle individualist Australians used to a welfare system where the needy expect state support and are quick to assert their rights.
Traditional Javanese believe life is predestined, so what’s the point of trying to make a difference? Muhammadiyah University psychology lecturers Diah Karmiyati and Sofa Amalia have written of the principle of nrima (acceptance of the existing situation). These values make it easier for authorities to do what they like—and that includes politicians.
Jakarta trumpets that its Program Sembako (essential foods) project—which includes a cash payment of Rp 200,000 a month (AUD 18.50)—has reached about 20 million households. Not all parcels have arrived intact.
Late last year social affairs minister Juliari Batubara was charged by the Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi (Corruption Eradication Commission) with taking bribes totalling Rp 14.5 billion (AUD 1.4 million). The KPK reported Batubara and two others took a ‘commission’ of Rp 10,000 from suppliers for each Rp 300,000 sembako pack destined for the needy.
Along with the ineffectual lockdown the widely reported graft has fomented outrage and eroded trust in the government’s ability to handle the pandemic and keep its people safe.
Psychologist and civil rights activist Alissa Wahid, eldest daughter of Indonesia’s fourth president Abdurrahman Wahid, aka Gus Dur, has been running an online petition urging leaders to lift their game. Her slogan: “Without integrity, no one listens; without trust, no one follows.”
Local government and civil society responses to the Covid-19 pandemic in Indonesia have been widely lauded in academic and popular media since the first Covid-19 case was confirmed in March 2020. Indeed local mitigation and healthcare responses have proven critical in the face of central government failures in many aspects of pandemic responses. What early studies have not shown however, has been the role that women have played in leading these local responses. My new study uncovered a disjuncture between men’s high representation in formal Covid-19 leadership and decision-making bodies, and women’s overwhelming domination of the daily work of pandemic leadership in both infectious disease mitigation and healthcare responses. While I focused on just one city in Central Java, we can assume that this division is mirrored in other parts of Indonesia and, indeed, in many parts of the world.
The results of research published in my new report sheds light on why women are minimally represented in official Covid-19 taskforce structures while having overwhelming majority representation in the frontlines of emergency and long-term pandemic responses. In January and February 2021 I conducted fieldwork with a masters scholar in the city of Salatiga, Central Java, collecting data on women public servants’ leadership roles in pandemic responses. In this report I extend on previous research on pandemic responses at local level by applying a gender lens to examine why women healthcare workers and officials, who have limited roles and responsibilities on formal Covid-19 taskforces at the city-wide and subdistrict level, have played the critical roles in leading mitigation strategies at both levels.
Click on the cover image below to download the full policy brief.
Failure of Covid-19 pandemic taskforces at local level
While national government regulations state that gender mainstreaming policies must be integrated into emergency and disaster response plans at the national and sub-national levels, women comprise only 7% of the national Covid-19 taskforce and 12% of, for example, the Central Java provincial taskforce. In the municipality of Salatiga in Central Java, gender representation in government is higher than the national average, however women still occupy a minority of positions in the highest echelons of the local government public service. This disparity had direct implications for the composition of Salatiga’s COVID pandemic taskforce where positions in it were allocated on the basis of structural positions within government without specific reference to gender. In the Salatiga city taskforce appointed in October 2020, women’s participation was 17% in a body of 12 members. The heads of strategic government departments, such as the heads of the regional police (Polres), the local military command base (Korem), the municipal police (Satpol PP), the Regional Planning, Research and Development Agency (Bappeda) and the National Unity and Political Department amongst others (Kesbangpol), are all headed by men and were automatically appointed to the taskforce. Despite violating gender mainstreaming principles, this local picture is typical of the situation across Indonesia both in elected government and amongst career public servants, with men holding a majority of higher echelon positions.
Rapid Test facility at Pasar Senen Station. Image credit: Gaudi Renanda in Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 4.0)
The Salatiga municipal taskforce is responsible for strategic pandemic mitigation policy and planning, cross-agency coordination, monitoring and enforcement of mitigation measures, budgeting and other resource allocations. Despite the assumed leading role of this male-dominated body, in practice it has been women that have principally led mitigation and healthcare responses, stepping up to fill gaps in formal leadership of pandemic mitigation measures.
Women’s leadership in the pandemic
In contrast to the city-wide COVID-19 taskforce, the Salatiga health department has a far higher proportion of women both in leadership roles as well as comprising the majority of healthcare workers. Overall women comprise 80% of the city’s health department workforce. At the community level, Salatiga’s healthcare response to COVID-19 was even more female-dominated. The directors of the city’s six community health centres (PUSKESMAS) are all women, with women comprising up to 90% of the health centres’ workforce.
In practice, pandemic responses not only in healthcare, but also in the critical area of infectious disease mitigation, were largely led by women from the health department, women staff of community health centres, and some acute care staff in the district and other local hospitals. The main weakness in pandemic responses identified by all those interviewed was the failure of the city-wide taskforce to provide leadership and direction. A health department official said that while government agencies have specific taskforce responsibilities in practice they run to the health department to find solutions. Women leaders working in healthcare at citywide and sub-district level argued that the citywide taskforce should be strengthened, to effectively monitor and evaluate the implementation of policies in the field, to supervise effective public communications including mitigation policies to the public, so that health services could prioritise deepening their knowledge of COVID-19 related health science and pandemic handling which is very dynamic and fast-developing.
The report shows that there were four institutions that were critical in frontline health care—the health department, community health centres, the district hospital and a special isolation facility; while the first two of these institutions were also critical in mitigation responses. Indeed community health centres (puskesmas) have been the backbone of Salatiga’s pandemic healthcare and disease mitigation strategy as the frontline for testing, tracing and supporting people infected with COVID-19.
The strategic response of the health centre examined here was innovative, rapidly reorganising health centre workers into dedicated teams that manage COVID-19 patient work specifically and the remainder who continue to manage and provide general health services. At the community level, the community health centre head initiated cross-sectoral communication with sub-district stakeholders (with subdistrict government, police, military and local ward officials) and coordinated cooperation with community stakeholders, civil associations, religious groups and subdistrict government agencies.
Women’s pandemic workloads
National pandemic policy failures in Indonesia and many other countries have increased women healthcare workers’ paid and unpaid work burden. Much of the labour of women healthcare workers is not even visible let alone important in public policy– either in terms of the costs it imposes on a highly feminized workforce and society more generally, or the benefits it provides in terms of care work and social reproduction. The result is that the pandemic produced more complex work practices with higher workloads for women working at the frontline of the response, without additional human resources, while these women also had to deal more intensively with everything related to the pandemic in their domestic roles.
Lab workers in the Bandung BioFarma facility in Indonesia examine vials that have vaccine vial monitor technology incorporated into their labels. BioFarma, Bandung, Indonesia. Image credit: Ümit Kartoğlu for VOA on Wikimedia Commons
Most concerning is that these women hold significant knowledge through experience of managing this pandemic crisis. They know the shape of the COVID-19 pandemic and understand what practices work best—and what does not work—in mitigating the crisis. Yet their limited inclusion in formal structures with decision-making authority, continue to restrict women’s power to critique and shape political decision-making about priorities in COVID-19 pandemic responses.
Scholars and advocates have argued for women’s participation in the design, implementation and monitoring of COVID-19 related laws and policies at all levels of government decision-making. My study shows that this participation is indeed necessary, not only to address the specific needs of women and girls in the pandemic, but, further, in order to draw upon the growing knowledge and experience of these women in developing timely pandemic strategies.
Healthcare managers and frontline workers identified several areas that required serious and immediate action. First, there needs to be better coordination, leadership and implementation of official duties in the city-wide taskforce. Second, improved monitoring and enforcement of health protocols in workplaces, public spaces and approved events including weddings, public ceremonies and venues that facilitated public gatherings are required. Third, there must be monitoring and enforcement of movement restrictions and local regulations on work from home quotas, limits on numbers in restaurants, hotels and other venues and home isolation. Fourth, there needs to be more extensive trace and test capacity by expanding physical facilities to support expanded testing as the lynch pin of sound epidemiological monitoring of disease prevalence. This epidemiological monitoring would support the development of a road map to successful disease suppression.
Local health departments and community health centres in Indonesia, run largely by women, have been a critical piece of infrastructure for Indonesia’s pandemic response. Both health department officials and health centre workers’ intensive community engagements have generated greater understanding of what COVID-19 is in local communities, driven coordination of cross-sectoral stakeholders where possible, provided active support for positive patients, and reduced community stigmatisation. Sadly, this critical role, as well as the knowledge and experience gained by these women, has not been acknowledged formally nor drawn upon as a critical resource in longer term pandemic planning and leadership. Ultimately, this failure to include these leaders undermines the capacity to provide well-coordinated wholistic responses to the COVID-19 pandemic at the local level, resulting in ongoing high levels of virus transmission and effectively extending the timeframe of the multiple crises resulting from the pandemic.
After Indonesia transitioned to democracy in 1999, accountability reforms in parliament and bureaucracy were on the agenda. In 2002, Law 31/1999 on Criminal Acts of Corruption and Law 30/2002 established the Corruption Eradication Commission (Komisi Pemberantasan Korupsi, KPK) as an effort to solve the legacy of corruption from Suharto’s authoritarian era. Indonesia also reformed overlapping tasks of existing audit bodies, which were the state audit board (Badan Pemeriksa Keuangan, BPK), the financial and development audit agency (Badan Pengawas Keuangan dan Pembangunan, BPKP, and the internal audit body of local government and ministry (Inspektorat) through the Constitution Amendment 1999-2002. This accountability reform was intended to ensure that the three audit bodies could cooperate well in investigating the use of state budget by the parliament and the bureaucracy. But it has made uneven progress.
The BPK is the only state institution which has the authority to audit financial reports, performance, and conduct further investigations of suspected corruption in public and private organisations which receive funds from the state. The BPK’s investigation results are the only official indicator to assess whether a state institution performs well in its use of state funds. When conducting investigations, the BPK classifies its findings into four categories. First, if there is administrative error, the BPK will only recommend fixing the error. Second, if there are issues on budget planning, such as too many work trips, the BPK will recommend efficiency measures. Third, if there are irregular costs in infrastructure procurement, the BPK will order to funds be returned. Fourth, if there are fictitious programs or unreasonable mark-ups on state budgets, the BPK will classify it as corruption.
However, the accountability reform does not seem to be working. In 2014-2018 parliament consistently received higher scores than the bureaucracy in BPK’s financial audits. Meanwhile, Transparency International’s data shows that Indonesian corruption cases were higher in the parliament than in the bureaucracy. In 2014 the parliament contributed 89 percent of total corruption cases in Indonesia, while the bureaucracy contributed 79 percent. During 2014-2019, the KPK arrested 254 members of parliament due to corruption in use of state funds.
The accountability reform in 1999 only shifted the BPK’s vulnerability to the president, to vulnerability to parliament. Indonesia’s Constitution stipulates that members of BPK are chosen by parliament. The BPK is required to submit its investigation reports to the parliament in order to receive recommendation as to whether the report will be followed up by the judiciary. Meanwhile, the reform in 1999 shifted authority and power to conduct investigations toward the bureaucracy from the corrupt BPKP, which received many political interventions from Suharto’s administration, to BPK which was established as an independent body.
The arrangement creates a dysfunctional accountability mechanism. According to Bovens and Mulgan, accountability as a mechanism is an institutional arrangement or relation in which “actors are held to account by forums,” whereby the forum’s power and hierarchical status are higher than the actor. This assumes that a principal-agent relationship exists, in which “the forum is the principal and the actor is the agent who is held to account for his performance in office.” This type of accountability aims to ensure that state institutions stay on a virtuous path to accountable governance. In the Indonesian context, the arrangement places the BPK’s power and status (as the forum) lower than the parliament (as the actor). Meanwhile, the status and power of BPK (as the forum) is higher than the bureaucracy (as the actor).
The parliament controls BPK through the selection of the nine members. The term of office of each member is five years. The selection processes of BPK’s members in 2009, 2014 and 2019 have continuously been in the spotlight because the processes were not transparent in parliament and were subject to political interventions. Members of the BPK consist of former parliament members and non-politicians, but its composition is dominated by former politicians. Both former politicians and non-politicians need to have political accesses if they want to be the member of BPK. This political access leads to clientelism, which is a dominant practice in Indonesia. Scholars have shown that to occupy a public official position in Indonesia, people need to offer something, like funds and/or mass support, to a political party’s campaign in an election.
This dysfunctional accountability mechanism really undermines accountability quality between BPK and the parliament. In 2013 the Hambalang project, a mega corruption case in Indonesia, exemplified this problem. The Hambalang project was supposed to build sport infrastructure for Indonesian athletes. This project was implemented from 2003 to 2012 and costed Rp 2.5 trillion (US$ 1 = Rp 14,278) and never finished. BPK investigated this case and found that corruption in this project reached Rp 463.67 billion and involved 15 parliamentarians. But, later due to the parliament’s control over the BPK, the names of the 15 politicians were lost from the BPK’s investigation report. Both the BPK and the parliament claimed that there was no mention of the 15 politicians in the report, even though the report with the names of 15 politicians had been published in the media. Many NGOs protested and challenged the disappearance of the 15 names from the BPK’s report but were ignored. This illustrates that the BPK can change its investigation report categories from a corruption category to non-violation category simply by erasing the suspects’ names.
Similarly, in 2016 the BPK conducted an annual investigation of all state institutions and found that the parliament had conducted fictitious work trips which reached Rp 945 billion. This case attracted a great deal of attention and protest from the public. But, because of the parliament’s intervention on the BPK, it moved its investigation report from the fictitious category to an administrative issue. BPK claimed that the parliamentary members who conducted the work trips had only failed to correctly report work trips. This shows that the BPK is able to move investigation results from the corruption category into the ordinary error category.
Conversely, accountability mechanisms which function between the BPK and the bureaucracy lead to audit processes which work well. In 2017 BPK conducted annual investigations into performance and financial reporting in Jambi Province. This investigation found fictitious work trips by the bureaucracy of up to Rp 100 million. The BPK ordered the bureaucracy to return Rp 100 million to the treasury.
Similarly, in 2020, a BKP audit found a corruption category breach in the bureaucracy of Seram Bagian Barat Regency, Maluku Province. This abuse reached Rp 70 billion of financing for the regency programs. This case was referred by the BPK to the Attorney to be processed.
In 2020 the BPK found violations of state budget for COVID-19 handling in South Sulawesi Province. The bureaucracy conducted unreasonable mark-up in the tenders for social assistance provision. The BPK has handed its investigation report to the judiciary to adjudicate this case. These cases show that BPK is consistent with its category findings.
These empirical cases show that the accountability mechanism which functions between BPK and the bureaucracy prevent illegal behaviour, and it can produce an objective finding category. Meanwhile, the dysfunctional accountability mechanism triggers illegal behaviour in BPK in order to secure the interests of the parliament. It is not surprising, then, that the parliament’s financial audit score from BPK is as high as the bureaucracy’s.
The future of Indonesia’s accountability performance much depends on how well the accountability mechanism works. The next accountability reform should fix this problem. If not, the reform will not lead to any meaningful improvements.
For almost four years, the government of Joko Widodo (Jokowi) has been steadily ramping up its efforts to roll back Islamist influence within Indonesia’s political system and society. Although the anti-Islamist campaign has not been formally declared or been given a name, it has nonetheless been systematic and concerted. It has included the investigation and prosecution of leading Islamist leaders, restrictions upon Islamists within the public service, closure of websites and social media pages, and the proscription of Islamist organisations.
The boldest move in this campaign took place in the last days of 2020, when the Jokowi government announced the banning of the Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam or FPI). FPI was by far the largest and best-known Islamist organisation to be so targeted – it claimed a membership of seven million, had branches in every province and broad networks across the Muslim community. The ban was the culmination of two months of sharpening confrontation between the government and FPI and its fiery spiritual leader, Habib Rizieq Syihab, who had returned to Indonesia in November 2020 from three years’ virtual exile in Saudi Arabia. He drew large crowds wherever he spoke. Six FPI guards were shot by police in early November in a clash between Rizieq’s security detail and a police surveillance team, and a week later Rizieq was arrested and put on trial – he was found guilty in late May on one charge of breaching public health protocols and jailed for eight months. Six other senior FPI leaders were also jailed for the same offence. (All are likely to be released in the next month or so due to time already served in detention.)
This showdown between the government and Islamist groups is not without political and security risk. Jokowi has been vulnerable to Islamist criticism and mobilisation in the past and he and his governing coalition appear determined to drive organisations and movements such as FPI to the margins of national life. If the Muslim community comes to see the FPI ban as anti-Islam (rather than just anti-Islamist), the government could suffer a backlash. There is also the possibility of former FPI members and sympathisers becoming further radicalised and more violent as a result of the state’s action.
In this article, we examine the public’s reaction to the crackdown using data from a Lembaga Survei Indonesia (LSI) survey from mid-April commissioned by ANU as part of a research project into religious polarisation in Indonesia, but other data from the Saiful Mujani Research Consultancy (SMRC) will also be used.
A clear majority of the public approves of the government’s actions in banning FPI. Moreover, community dislike of FPI and of several other Islamist groups has strengthened over the past year, suggesting that the government is winning the politics of its battle with Islamism, at least in the short term. More broadly, we will argue that the limited opposition to FPI’s proscription is indicative of shrinking political support for Islamism over the past five years and an endorsement of government efforts to sideline Islamists. We will explore where FPI’s basis of support lies and the reasons for the apparent ebb in public sympathy.
FPI’s Vigilante Islamism
Since its formation in 1998, FPI’s central feature was its ability to mobilise on the streets and take direct action against those who it saw as acting contrary to Islamic principles. Vigilante attacks on nightclubs, brothels, gambling dens and so-called ‘deviant’ Islamic groups such as Ahmadiyah or the Shia were common, as also was the intimidation of and sometimes serious assaults upon liberal-minded Muslims, non-Muslims and even social-media critics of FPI. Scores of FPI members have been arrested and jailed for violence and Rizieq himself was twice jailed in the 2000s. Despite its thuggish behaviour, FPI has often been courted by prominent political and business figures, and even used on occasions by the police and security agencies to ‘maintain’ law and order.
FPI’s influence reached its highpoint in 2016-2017 when it played a pivotal role in mobilising 100,000s of Muslims in Jakarta against the Christian Chinese governor, Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (‘Ahok’), ultimately resulting in his defeat in the ensuing gubernatorial election. The massive protests shook the Jokowi government, giving rise to fears that Islamists, after many decades of fragmentation and peripheral activism, were now in a position to shape national politics. Soon after the Jakarta elections, the government began moving against its Islamist opponents. Many Islamists came under investigation: some were jailed while others quietly removed themselves from public view. Rizieq himself went off to Saudi Arabia in April 2017 to escape prosecution on multiple charges. The Islamist organisation, Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia, was banned by the government in July 2017.
The government gave four reasons for outlawing FPI on 31 December last year: it had forfeited its legal status after its registration as a community organisation had lapsed; some of its members had been involved in terrorism and other criminal activity; it had often committed acts of communal vigilantism; and it had violated the principles of the 1945 Constitution, the state ideology Pancasila and the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia. The government followed up with a range of other measures, including freezing all FPI’s bank accounts, closing its social media sites, and warning the media not to publish any information from FPI sources. The public’s reaction to the banning and the government’s explanations is worth exploring further
Public Responses
The April 2021 LSI survey involved 1620 respondents across all provinces of Indonesia. When asked if they were aware of FPI’s banning, a surprisingly high 48% said they did not know, even though news of this and related matters had dominated the media for months. Of the 52% who were aware of the ban, 63% approved and 28% were against [see figure one]. By comparison, a February 2021 national survey by SMRC found that 77% of respondents were aware of the ban. Of those, 59% agreed with the ban and 35% disagreed. This suggests that roughly twice as many people approve of the ban as disapprove of it, and that over the past few months, opinion in favour of the government’s actions has strengthened.
Figure One: Attitude to the banning of FPI (April 2021 LSI Survey)
A breakdown of the figures gives a clearer picture of where FPI’s support lies. Of Indonesia’s ethnic groups, the Buginese, based mainly in South Sulawesi, and the Sundanese concentrated in West Java were the most disapproving of the ban (66% and 43% respectively). The Betawi community in the Greater Jakarta region, which has been a major source of FPI recruitment, was unexpectedly evenly divided on the ban, with 45% agreeing with it and 41% disagreeing. Those with higher education levels were most likely to know about the ban (75%) as well as disapprove of it (32%). Also surprising was that some 75% of under-25-year-old respondents favoured the ban.
The Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) was the only Islamic party that had a majority of its supporters opposing the ban (55%), with 29% endorsing it. This reflects the close ties that developed between PKS and FPI during the anti-Ahok demonstrations and the 2019 election campaigns. Opinion among supporters of the three other Islamic parties was pro-banning: the National Mandate Party (PAN) supporters were 42% in favour, 37% against; the United Development Party (PPP) was 59% in favour, 18% against; and the National Awakening Party (PKB) was 77% in agreement and only 19% against [see figure two]. More broadly, 59% of Muslim respondents backed the ban (31% were opposed), whereas 97% of non-Muslims favoured it – a predictable outcome given FPI’s long sectarian agitation against religious minorities.
Figure Two: Attitude to the banning of FPI ban by party, with party affiliation on basis of voting in 2019 legislative election (April 2021 LSI Survey)
Perhaps even more revealing of the equivocation felt in the Muslim community towards FPI was the results of “thermometer” questions in which respondents were asked how warmly or coolly they feel towards an array of religious and political organisations. [see figure three] Whereas the major Islamic organisations rated highly—Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 77% and Muhammadiyah 64%—FPI was ranked in the “cool” lower half of the thermometer on 44%. Notably, respondents felt more warmly towards the Chinese (46%) than to FPI, which was ironic given FPI’s frequent disparagement of the Chinese community. A related question about which groups respondents objected to having as neighbours found FPI the sixth most unpopular at 24%, comparing unfavourably with supposedly ‘disliked’ minorities such as the Chinese and Christians (both 18%).
Figure Three: Feeling thermometer asking respondents how warmly they feel towards a range of religious groups (April 2021 LSI Survey)
A glance at historical survey data shows that FPI’s profile and public approval has fluctuated widely since its formation in 1998. An LSI survey for The Asia Foundation in 2010 found that approval of FPI was 15% in 2005, 20% in 2006, 13% in 2007 and 16% in 2010.
Respondents in the April 2021 LSI survey were asked retrospectively what they thought of FPI’s actions in 2016 when it was the vanguard of the 212 movement: 46% said they agreed with its attitude towards Ahok; 36% disagreed. Support was strongest among young people, with highest levels of support coming in the 22-25-year bracket (54.4%), and then the under-21s (53.1%). The April 2021 figures show under-21s continue to be the strongest supporters of FPI, with 37.1% disapproving of the ban, but 22-25-year-olds were now those most in favour of the ban, with a massive 75% approval rating for the measure, compared to the average of 28% across all age groups. So, by far the biggest drop in support for FPI has been among young adults.
Interestingly, those with a university education were most likely to say that they disapproved of the FPI’s actions in 2016 (48% of respondents compared to 34% overall). But this same group were also most likely to disagree with the ban on FPI (32.5%). Given that this is a reversal of the general trend of decline in support for FPI, it is likely that this opposition to the banning of FPI is driven not by greater support for FPI, but by disapproval of the government’s actions. There are certainly some high-profile Muslim and civil society leaders who have spoken out strongly against the ban, arguing either that it is legally questionable or is an excessively repressive way to deal with militant Islamists.
The dramatic shift in public opinion, and especially Muslim attitudes, towards FPI over the past five years appears due to a number of factors. In 2016, FPI successfully exploited community anger towards Ahok, particularly relating to his supposed blasphemy against Islam, and portrayed itself as protecting the dignity of the faith against denigration by a prominent non-Muslim. But with Ahok’s 2017 defeat and subsequent jailing, much of the emotion dissipated from this issue, and along with it, approbation for FPI. Rizieq’s relocation to Saudi Arabia in 2017 left a vacuum in FPI’s leadership and a drop in its activities.
The fall in support for FPI this year appears heavily influenced by the organisation’s flouting of public health protocols in connection with Rizieq’s return to Indonesia in November 2020. Despite strict provisions regarding social distancing, hand sanitation and mask wearing, massive crowds greeted Rizieq when he arrived in Jakarta, paralysing the airport and causing traffic chaos in the city for much of the day. A few days later, thousands thronged to witness his daughter’s wedding ceremony and hear his sermon marking the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. An SMRC survey in late November 2020 found that almost half their respondents knew of the airport and wedding crowds and, of those, 77% felt that law enforcement and the Jakarta government should halt such events and disperse attendees. The April 2021 LSI survey asked those who agreed with the ban why they did so: 25% said it was because FPI caused social disturbance; 24% mentioned its violent behaviour; 19% said it was an illegal organisation; and 15% said it had breached public health codes. (see figure four) Interestingly, only 10% regarded FPI as a radical organisation and a meagre 2% felt it was terrorist. These latter two points are significant because the government has used FPI’s alleged radicalisation as grounds for proscription, suggesting that the public is sceptical.
Figure Four: Reasons for agreeing with the banning of FPI among respondents aware of the ban (April 2021 LSI Survey)
All of this survey data points to a certain fragility in FPI’s support. FPI does have a solid constituency of at least around 15%, based on historical survey data. On occasions when FPI is able to capture and amplify anger or anxiety in the broader community on an issue, such as that of blasphemy during the 2016-2017 Jakarta election, its approval can spike. But at other times, its propensity for virulent rhetoric, intimidation and violence leads to public disapproval and censure. Over the past six months, its flouting of public health restrictions has further shrunk goodwill towards it.
The Jokowi government was undoubtedly aware of survey results on FPI prior to outlawing it—Coordinating Minister for Politics, Security and Law, Mahfud MD, cited polling as indicating public support when the ban was announced. The April LSI survey data presented here will no doubt further convince the government that its strike against FPI has been a resounding political success. It has effectively removed its most potent Islamist opponent and won public plaudits for doing so. Other Islamist groups are now wary of crossing the government, lest they also become targets. Rizieq, one of the government’s most vexatious critics, is in jail with a tarnished reputation. Many advocates of religious tolerance and pluralism will, perhaps paradoxically given their usual concern with democratic rights, also welcome the demise of such a provocative and militant group.
But the longer-term consequences of banning of FPI may be a greater cause for concern. Many millions of Islamists remain convinced of the correctness of FPI’s actions, as is evident from roughly 30% of survey respondents who think it was unjustly dealt with. Many in this group are likely to see the Jokowi government and indeed the Indonesian state as increasingly hostile towards them. The risk of growing resentment and extremism is high, as also is the possibility of political retribution should a more Islamically inclined president come to office in a future election with Islamist support.
In Indonesia Halal certification emerges as a contentious issue time and time again. For example, in March 2021, the Indonesian Council of Ulama (MUI) made a controversial fatwa that ruled the AstraZeneca COVID-19 vaccine as “haram” but permissible for urgency, despite the company’s insistence that it does not contain pork ingredients. On another occasion, Halal certification on unconventional products such as refrigerators and other home electronics has invited public scrutiny.
The issue revolves around the MUI’s effective monopoly on Halal certification in Indonesia. Since the inception of the Halal industry in the late-80s, the MUI has been the sole authority to issue certification for food and cosmetics manufacturers in the Indonesian market. The monopoly has been repeatedly criticised by media and civil society as the cause of corruption.
However, the MUI’s monopoly on Halal certification is collapsing. The second Joko Widodo administration, with the former MUI-chairman Ma’ruf Amin as vice-president, seems eager to tackle the issue with state power. The stance is in line with the administration’s approach to religious affairs, which is characterised by increasing central government oversight. However, it is important to take into account the political context of pluralist-Islamist rivalry. From this perspective, it remains to be seen whether the administration will address the primary concern, which is the accountability of the MUI.
The Halal Product Assurance Law and the accountability of the MUI
The dismantling of the MUI’s monopoly on Halal certification is a result of the inauguration of the Halal Product Assurance Body (BPJPH). The BPJPH is a statutory board under the Ministry of Religious Affairs, tasked to oversee domestic transactions on Halal certification. In October 2019, the Halal Product Assurance Law (UU JPH) No.30/2014 took effect, and the BPJPH has officially commenced operation.
The establishment of the BPJPH is monumental from a financial perspective. While there is no accurate figure available, in Indonesia, a state official stated the government would be able to raise Rp. 22.5 trillion (US$1.6 billion) in revenue once the UU JPH is in full effect. The calculation is, accordingly, based on the number of small and medium-sized enterprises (SME)—almost 60 million, according to the Indonesian Body of Statistics (BPS)—and large companies operating in Indonesia. Halal certification covers not only food and beverages but also drugs, cosmetics, and ingredients for these products, meaning a large number of manufacturers and factories, domestic and foreign, are under the scope of this accreditation.
Behind the legislation has been a concern over the unchecked monopoly enjoyed by the MUI. The UU JPH was introduced during the Yudhoyono presidency, with the intention to bring order to the Halal certification industry. The system is highly unregulated, and the MUI has been prone to corruption with no regulatory measures to hold the council accountable.
The most controversial issue has been the MUI’s financial disclosure. Despite being obliged by government regulation No.14/2008 on information disclosure by the public bodies, the MUI does not report its financial status to the Indonesian public. Multipleobservers have speculated that the MUI has generated a significant portion of its income from Halal certification, aside from subsidies from national and regional governments. The MUI has repeatedly argued that they are audited by external bodies such as the National Accreditation Committee (KAN) and no issues have arisen.
The MUI escapes the purview of the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK), even though the government partially funds the council. This is because it nominally designates itself as a non-governmental organisation aimed to serve the Muslim community through various means, including the Halal certification. Halal certification has been a domain of Islamic clerics (ulama) in the majority of countries, and only a handful of countries such as Malaysia have established a comprehensive state-sanctioned Halal management system.
On top of this is a political sensitivity. Adnan Topan Husod, a coordinator of Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW), stated to Salaam Gateway that “[there] is no institution or law enforcement that can deal with the MUI. Sometimes when they start to investigate the MUI ulama, [officials] can easily say the government is criminalising them. They can say the government doesn’t support Islam and the ulama, so it becomes politically tricky.” The MUI’s visibility through Halal certification, with their logo attached to every package of food and beverage, certainly lends legitimacy toward the organisation as a champion of Muslim interests in the eyes of the public.
The Indonesian government has attempted to take over the Halal authority multiple times dating back to the Megawati presidency. Observers hope the new system under the UU JPH will finally be able to hold the MUI accountable. However, at the time of the legislation of the UU JPH, the role of the MUI within the new system was not clearly defined. The law introduced a division of labor within the scheme but also assigned the MUI as the final decision maker of all processes of certification.
Specifically, the law formed a new category of an entity, known as the Halal Inspection Agency (LPH). In short, LPH is an agency tasked to audit clients who request certification of their products. Previously, the Institute for the Study of Food, Medicines and Cosmetics (LPPOM MUI), the Halal-certifying subdivision of the MUI, handled all parts of the certification process. In the new system, the BPJPH can assign auditing to qualified third-party organisations. LPPOM MUI will then be confined to the function of final decision-making.
However, the LPPOM MUI was likely confident that the BPJPH will assign them as an LPH, considering their large resources of auditors and expertise on Halal certification. One observer was concerned the bill could elevate the legal status of the MUI’s fatwa to an unprecedented level. Others predicted the MUI would dramatically increase the income from Halal certification in the new system as the new law makes it compulsory for the companies to apply for Halal certification.
History of intimate state-MUI relations
The MUI’s optimism was not wholly unfounded, considering the history of intimate relations between the state and MUI. Founded in 1975, the MUI was formed by the Suharto regime to assist their policy on regulating the Muslim community. Later the Yudhoyono administration reinvigorated the council by providing political and financial patronage to the organisation, expecting to seize the social capital of the burgeoning middle-class conservative Muslim constituency. From there, the MUI managed to redefine itself as an organisation that serves umat (Muslim community) and endeavoured to Islamise the Indonesian society in accordance with the conservative interpretation of the Sunni orthodoxy.
The membership of the MUI executive committee is a testament to this development. The central board of the MUI is an amalgamation of religious intellectuals as well as leaders who represent various Islamic mass organisations (ormas) in Indonesia. As such, there is always an internal contestation between the competing Islamic religious strands within the board. During the Yudhoyono presidency, an increasing number of conservative ulamas joined the executive committee at the expense of pluralist ulamas, establishing the ascendance of conservatism within the council.
This has allowed the MUI to become the chief orchestrator of the “conservative turn” of Islam in Indonesia. Its status as a semi-official clerical body has yielded strong legitimacy to its fatwas, which have aimed at the “purification” of the Indonesian society. Notably, the MUI has had a history of issuing controversial fatwas targeting religious pluralism, liberalism and secularism, as well as the Ahmadiyya community. Many Islamist vigilante organisations took such fatwas into their own hands, resulting in religious violence in some cases.
The Joko Widodo administration attempted to reduce the amount of government support, however, backed by the proponents of pluralist Islam who raised concern over the MUI fatwas. Widodo initially slashed informal financial patronage toward members of the organisation from the Yudhoyono era. Coincidentally, puritanical clerics took over MUI’s national congress in 2015, which determined the management board of the 2015-2020 period. Islamist activists and Salafi Islamic leaders such as Bachtiar Nasir, Zaytun Rasmin, Yusuf Martak and late Tengku Zulkarnain were elected as executives, further propelling the conservative turn of the MUI. In the wake of the national congress, the MUI played a critical role during the infamous Aksi Bela Islam rally which targeted Basuki “Ahok” Tjahaja Purnama, which resulted in then-Jakarta governor being convicted and jailed for blasphemy.
Backlash against the MUI and increasing central government oversight
It seems the role of the MUI within the conservative turn of Indonesian Islam has invited backlash from the Widodo administration in the form of an increasing government oversight over the council. The development of the issue of Halal certification supports this theory.
The administration initiated a “preemptive strike” during the selection of the BPJPH head in August 2017. Lukmanul Hakim, the director of LPPOM MUI and one of the leading candidates of the chair, was removed from the shortlist by the Ministry of Religious Affairs three days before the official announcement. Instead the Ministry appointed Sukoso, a university professor with a modest background as the director of the BPJPH.
From there, a cold war between LPPOM MUI and the BPJPH intensified. In August 2019, headed by Ikhsan Abdullah, the director of the MUI’s Law Commission and an attorney representing Lukmanul Hakim, LPPOM MUI’s 31 regional branches filed a lawsuit with the Constitutional Court to assert their legal credentials and demanded the revocation of several articles of the UU JPH, to prevent the complete transfer of the mandate. Among the reasons for the lawsuit, LPPOM MUI emphasised Halal as the realm of Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) and reasserted the “normativity” of the ulama handling Halal certification instead of the government. The court immediately dismissed the lawsuit and LPPOM MUI was barred from reapplying for the revision of the contested articles.
The conflict reached its peak in 2020 with the introduction of the Job Creation Law (UU Cipta Kerja) or the Omnibus Law. The dispute revolved around the previously mentioned LPH. The BPJPH urged the parliamentary committee on the bill to put Halal certification into consideration and revise the UU JPH. The BPJPH complained there are not enough auditors to sustain its operation, as LPPOM MUI monopolised Halal auditors. The MUI has been the only body in Indonesia that can train and certify Halal auditors.
Reflecting on this issue, the parliamentary committee on the bill decided to open the gate for other entities, such as the universities and Islamic ormas (e.g. Nahdlatul Ulama), to establish their own LPH, and to revoke the requirement of Halal auditors to obtain certifications from the MUI. As a result, LPH will be able to form partnerships with the BPJPH to process audits without the involvement of the MUI. The decision infuriated the MUI.
In the end, the recent Omnibus Law included a significant revision of the UU JPH, mainly concerning fees, duration of certification and the regulations surrounding LPH. Based on the Omnibus Law, in February 2021 the parliament passed the Halal Product Assurance Law (UU JPH) No.39/2021, which stipulated that LPH can be formed not only by universities and Islamic ormas but also by the state-owned enterprises and government at all levels. Under this regulation, not only did the MUI lose authority over Halal auditors but the state also increased its prerogative to influence the outcome of the Halal certification process.
Concurrently, the MUI was reorganised. After the 2020 national congress held in November to decide the MUI executive committee of the 2020-2025 period, the MUI removed Islamist leaders from the central board and replaced them with pluralist ulamas mainly hailing from Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah. The MUI’s new executive committees will likely follow the direction of the government and smooth relations with the BPJPH.
With the reorganization of the MUI executives, the conflict between LPPOM MUI and the BPJPH effectively made a “soft landing.” In March 2021, the secretary-general of the MUI Amirsyah Tambunan and the new head of BPJPH Mastuki agreed the two organisations will foster cooperation to accelerate Halal certification for the benefit of the economy. The “soft landing” has likely urged LPPOM MUI to accept its position within the new Halal certification regime and respond to the long-standing accusation of corruption. In April, the institution announced it has been implementing an anti-bribery management system in a bid to improve governance standards.
However, the critical issue regarding the accountability of the MUI remains unaddressed. The politics of Halal certification can be interpreted as a win for Widodo, pluralist ulamas and business interests, and a defeat for Islamist agenda. But the ambiguous legal basis and unregulated system that created the MUI’s lack of transparency remains. LPPOM MUI still maintains its position on the question of financial disclosure and denies its responsibility to report to the public. This demonstrates that increasing central government oversight over religious affairs is an issue of power struggles, rather than democratic integrity.
Hydrometeorological hazards have outnumbered hazardous geophysical events such as earthquakes in the last two decades. While geophysical disasters have resulted in more deaths in Indonesia, hydrometeorological disasters have affected more people through injury, displacement, and property damage. Flooding is the most significant hydrometeorological hazard in Indonesia because it occurs more often, affects more people and cause massive and expensive damage. Patronage politics, like those predominant in South Kalimantan, are a crucial factor exacerbating climate disasters, and governments rely heavily on inadequate technological solutions to mitigate floods.
Managing flood hazards has become a focus of the disaster management agenda under Jokowi’s administration. While serving as the governor of Jakarta, Jokowi faced complex flood problems in Jakarta, specifically in 2013 and 2014. When contesting the 2014 presidential election, Jokowi placed floods, especially those in Jakarta, as an important political campaign issue, stating that it would be easier for him to cope with the Jakarta floods if he was entrusted as a president.
South Kalimantan has two main geographic features, the lowlands and the highlands. Lowland areas are covered mainly by peatlands, swamps, and large river basins. The highlands are a plateau and natural tropical forest. South Kalimantan has many rivers, the biggest is the Barito River. South Kalimantan is also well-known for its wealth of natural resources, as seen from the numerous mining operations in the regions. The province is the third-largest coal mining area in Indonesia. In the last decade, South Kalimantan has also become one of Indonesia’s largest palm oil plantation areas.
To mitigate flooding in South Kalimantan, the provincial government plans to build more reservoirs and dams. This solution is not surprising. Heavy reliance on infrastructure intervention to respond to South Kalimantan flooding is the dominant feature of Indonesian flood management. This strategy has been adopted in many cities and regions throughout the archipelago. Since the start of his tenure, President Jokowi has focused on managing flood hazards by stipulating flood management policies that rely on large-scale technical interventions such as giant sea dykes, dams, reservoirs, polders, canals, water tunnels, and river normalisation. Normalisation is achieved by installing infrastructure that cleans the river and removes obstructions.
However, technical intervention should not be the only game in town. The predominant approach not only potentially overlooks social factors but also actively obscures the political dimension of Indonesia flood management. Dependence on large scale technical intervention is insufficient to confront the inevitable danger inherent in the destructive impact of climate change. The intensity of flooding will increase in the future. Adaptation strategies must also emphasise long-term structural prevention. Without any intervention on the established political structure, it will be difficult to develop effective prevention. The characteristics of local politics seem disconnected from the dynamics of flood management policies, but are decisive for the outcomes. Flood management is likely to be less successful in a region with strong clientelist politics, a high prevalence of corruption, and weak civil society and political opposition. These situations mean Indonesian people in an urban setting or rural context remain vulnerable to flood hazards in the long term.
The case of South Kalimantan province reflects the linkage between politics and flooding. Predatory political-economy elites caused massive environmental damage and undermine spatial sustainability. The land-use change along the Barito River Watershed transformed the green zones and water catchment areas into extractive industries. When extreme rainfall occurs, the Barito River is incapable of accommodating the water overflow and exposes people to flood hazards.
Environment and civil society activists in South Kalimantan claim that massive expansion of mining and oil palm plantations have contributed to the flooding. Based on satellite imagery data, The National Institute of Aeronautics and Space of Indonesia indicated that around the Barito River Basin forest areas have decreased by over one hundred thousand acres, while plantation areas have increased to over two hundred thousand acres. Merah Johansyah, coordinator of Jaringan Advokasi Tambang (JATAM – Mining Advocacy Network), proposed that of the 3.7 million acres of the total forest area in South Kalimantan, 1.2 million ( 33%) belongs to mining companies, and 620,000 acres (17%) are owned by oil palm plantation companies. This means half of the forest area in South Kalimantan has recently been exploited by mining and plantation industries. Many mining licenses violate regional spatial planning purposes.
Local academic, Uhaib As’ad, has spent most of his scholarly career observing politico-business linkages in South Kalimantan. He found that the mining bosses funded candidates in numerous local elections. In an article with Edward Aspinall, they argued that the center of gravity of South Kalimantan is resource rent-seeking that involves bureaucrats, politicians, security officials, and others who seek access to mining permits, official revenues, and illicit payments. This patronage network means coal mining bosses can grasp privileged influence on the incumbent administration, especially in regard to coal mining licenses and concessions. These lucrative practices have flourished since the early decentralisation era in the 2000s. Some institutional initiatives have improved natural resource exploitation, but the damage has been done for environmental sustainability. For instance, the provincial government has issued post-mining land rehabilitation and mining transportation regulations to avoid more destructive effects on the environment. However, illicit payments to government officials made it difficult to enforce the regulations.
One of the worst-hit flood spots is in Tanah Laut District. At the same time, Tanah Laut is the third-largest coal producer district in South Kalimantan. Aspinall and As’ad argued that Adriansyah, a former head of district from 2003 to 2013, was a typical patronage politician who controlled oil palm plantation and mining licenses. He was arrested by the KPK (Corruption Eradication Commission) in 2015 for receiving bribes from a businessman in exchange for a mining license. Adriansyah was locally regarded as a populist leader with popular policies in agriculture development, rural infrastructure, and assistance for farmers’ groups. This kind of political environment makes it difficult for strong civil society opposition to consistently demand government accountability.
The Indonesian approach to flood management and climate adaptation should not neglect political factors. Large scale technical interventions are important to provide flood protection. However, we need transformative change to deal with the imminent threat of climate change. This agenda is a political choice. Public scrutiny of spatial planning is equally, or perhaps more important than interventionist infrastructure in the long term. The South Kalimantan case offers insights into how lucrative politico-business linkages make people vulnerable to climate hazards. Floods occur because of extreme weather events, but they turn into disasters if and when people and communities are left vulnerable. This makes disaster an inherently political concept as shifts in vulnerability and inequality are always (also) the consequence of political structures, decisions and policies. Floods are physical occurrences but their form, magnitude, location, and effect on people are the outcome of past and present political processes. It is time to bring politics to the centre of analysis in disaster management in Indonesia.
After its revival in 2017, the Quadrilateral Security Dialogue (Quad) reached a new milestone by assembling its first summit on March 12th 2021. The informal security alliance comprised of the United States, Japan, India, and Australia is still nascent compared to the existing regional fora initiated by ASEAN. Yet, the advent of new bloc implicitly questioned the relevance of old players; Indonesia and the institution it led were no exception.
The primary concern regarding the Quad is whether the initiative will complement or sideline the existing regional architecture built by ASEAN. Accordingly, ASEAN has long been the cornerstone of Indonesia’s diplomacy, manifesting its “free and active” principle in the regional domain. To navigate great power rivalry, ASEAN has been driven to build several forums where neutrality is assured.
With China becoming more assertive in the past decade, however, the US and Quad countries find it necessary to step beyond ASEAN. The late Trump administration demonstrated the efforts to make Indonesia and ASEAN member-state align with US’s grand strategy. Last year’s visit by US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo to Jakarta, and the decision to lift the travel ban on Defence Minister Prabowo Subianto, further prove Washington’s motivation.
However, Indonesia remained lukewarm towards Quad. The 2019 elite survey from the ISEAS-Yushof Ishak Institute revealed that Indonesia, alongside Malaysia, Laos, and Thailand, is among the top ASEAN sceptics regarding this new initiative. Realising its leadership profile is at stake, it’s natural for Indonesia to pursue an institutional response. Indonesia attempted to demonstrate the institution’s continuing relevance in grappling with the “Indo-Pacific” concept by initiating the draft of the ASEAN Outlook on the Indo-Pacific (AOIP), which was adopted in the 2019 ASEAN Summit.
Alas, the initiative is heavily underinvested and resulted in little to no strategic outcome for ASEAN. As mentioned by Evan Laksmana, a researcher from Centre for Strategic and International Studies, AOIP was “defective at birth” due to lack of actionable policy and the false assumption that the existing ASEAN mechanism is adequate to address current strategic challenges in the region. The same goes for the vision of Global Maritime Fulcrum that has long gone unmentioned since President Jokowi introduced the plan in 2014.
To begin with, Indonesia doesn’t have any coherent Indo-Pacific strategy, let alone to deal with the Quad. To paraphrase strategic analyst Yohanes Sulaiman’s policy paper, Indonesia’s Indo-Pacific foreign policy is driven by the lack of alternatives, rather than a coherent strategy. The latest Indonesia defence white paper dates as far back as 2015. Moreover, the document barely addressed the latest strategic challenges in the region.
Mixed responses from different ministries when China’s fishing vessel trespassed on Natuna Islands in 2016 and 2019 further show Indonesia’s bureaucratic mismatch when it comes to external threat. Aside from economic and socio-cultural cooperation, Indonesia barely has a strategic policy up its sleeve.
As well as Indonesia, the Quad is eyeing other ASEAN countries that can possibly be incorporated. Although the region did not fully embrace the Quad, some countries have shown their support to offset China’s dominance through this initiative. Among the top supporters of the Quad were Vietnam and the Philippines, which both face a looming threat from China next to their border. The latter, in particular, was lately on the verge of losing, yet again, another part of its South China Sea territory in the Whitsun Reef.
Indonesia could insist on playing its “free and active” card and reiterating ASEAN centrality as much as it can. Yet, the outcome will be naught if ASEAN members themselves find it realistic to invest more in another regional structure and through a non-ASEAN pathway. Even more so, if ASEAN’s dialogue partners who have less liability to commit in the organization take the same path.
Escalating tension with China eventually led a country like India, which traditionally adhered to the “non-aligned” principle, closer to the US. Some observers attributed India’s last-minute withdrawal from the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP) in 2019 partly to a fear that RCEP will pave the way for China’s dominance; this was a huge loss for Indonesia, who initiated the deal.
Neither joining an US-led alliance nor abandoning ASEAN are the options. However, Indonesia’s half-hearted engagement makes ASEAN less appealing to its partners. One can argue that the US’s low engagement with ASEAN was driven by Trump’s strategic fallacy in the region. But, what if the opposite is true? What if Indonesia and ASEAN were no longer seen as relevant anchors by their long-term partners?
Indonesia often takes its strategic potential for granted, be it primacy in ASEAN or its geographic position at the confluence of Indo-Pacific. Even worse, the current administration seem less interested in foreign policy; foreign issues such as the Quad gain less attention due to their unpopularity with domestic audiences.
Fortunately for Indonesia, Quad countries realised that they can’t countervail China with the absence of ASEAN. Four years of Trump administration has proved that the cooperation can’t eschew the pre-existing regional architecture to achieve its goal. ASEAN also remains steadfast in defending its centrality whenever it’s forced to choose between the two camps.
Moreover, the latest Quad Summit in March 2021 affirmed that the grouping will support ASEAN centrality, delivering a signal that the two can go on an equal footing. In fact, the revival of Quad after ten years of hiatus in 2017 took place on the sidelines of the ASEAN Regional Forum summit in Manila. The underlying message behind that is that the Quad needs ASEAN more than ASEAN needs the Quad.
Several steps can be considered to regain centrality in the region, for instance by increasing ASEAN and Indonesia’s foreign policy budget, further institutionalising the East Asia Summit, and allowing the possibility of ASEAN-minus-X to deal with short-term crises. The latest regional conflict has demonstrated that ASEAN needs a revamp in order to stay valid.
The potential is there, yet it can’t be utilised if Indonesia’s ASEAN and Indo-Pacific policy are under-resourced. Most recently, for instance, inaction on the crisis in Myanmar has further put Indonesia’s ASEAN leadership at stake. Indonesia should go the extra mile in order to stay relevant; not only in answer to the Quad’s concern, but also to regional challenges in the near future.
The following text is also forthcoming in Indonesian with Forum 100 Ilmuwan Sosial Politik LP3ES.
In part 1Prof. Törnquist outlined the methods of leftist repression that characterised Suharto’s early efforts to gain power. Part 2 describes the obstacles faced by those who have sought to revive the left in the decades since.
Abandoned anti-colonial strategy
The focus on equal citizens’ rights and democracy as a unifying framework for class struggle and democratisation of the state apparatus—which until 1958 had been almost as successful in Indonesia as in the Indian state of Kerala—had been jettisoned in favour of Guided Democracy. So the Communists’ and the broad progressive movement’s political and cultural hegemony was only on the level of general ideology and rhetoric, and lacked sufficient power in the “trenches” and “permanent fortifications” to rein in the military and their allies through democratic means.
Dynamics of oblivion
In what way did this continue to be important? How does it matter today? The miscalculations were certainly swept under the carpet during the salad days of Guided Democracy. More interestingly, after the genocide, the dominant Maoist critics suggested armed struggle rather than a return to democratic priorities. In spite of their own quick failure, they were also unwilling to interrogate the signs that anti-imperialism was insufficient to undermine the military and others who captured public assets and resources. Neither, of course, were the Maoists interested in problematising their thesis that radical struggle for land reforms, such as in Indonesia, would unify the rural poor. These deadlocks affected other leftist leaders too. Generally, the Left was in disarray and unable to provide any innovative guidance.
In addition, in the 1970s, new dissenters certainly focused on corruption, but were more in favour of Singaporean than democratic alternatives. And when they subsequently joined a new generation of students in critique of the transnational corporations that had flooded the country, the insights from the 1950s of how to come to terms with the remnants of colonialism and indirect governance were deemed obsolete. This was because in the view of the new Latin American theories of dependency, capitalism was deemed hegemonic and it was necessary to focus on socialism—along with NGO support for “the victims” and human rights. From the late 1980s, innovative younger socialists certainly concentrated more on resisting the political, state and military bases of capitalist expansion—as well as on mobilising people outside NGOs and university campuses. But the perceptive and brave activists were more interested in opposing Suharto’s regime than reclaiming the demoted primacy of broad democratic movements with social rights in the forefront—even though old adversaries like liberal Marxist intellectual and renowned publisher, Goenawan Mohamad, joined forces with nationalist Marxists, Joesoef Isak and Pramoedya Ananta Toer, to stress its urgency. The lacuna remained in spite of efforts at investigative journalism and participatory studies of substantive democratisation (which I had the privilege of taking part in).
Hence, the fragmented progressive groups which tipped the balance with massive demonstrations towards the end of Suharto’s rule were neither able to develop a popularly anchored economic policy as an alternative to the authoritarian neoliberal management of the Asian economic crisis that hit Indonesia particularly hard, nor propound a realistic alternative to elitist democratisation. While some progressives therefore joined the elitist mainstream, others returned to activism in civil society and unions. They typically engaged in lobbying and horse trading with politicians, or linking up with auxiliary public commissions such as for human rights and against corruption. Mass-based democratic politics for citizens’ rights remained a blurry distant dream. Until, that is, there was an opening to firstly negotiate labour and welfare reforms with popular local politicians in need of support to win elections, such as Jokowi, and secondly to build broad alliances with parliamentarians such as for the national health scheme. Yet there was no real effort at a transformative series of reforms, or at democratic institutionalisation of the new participation and negotiations. So, when it was necessary from the mid-2010s to weather the resurgence of conservative strongman-populism along with Muslim identity politics, no viable progressive alternative to elitist transactions, accommodation of military leaders and indirect governance through pragmatic Muslim leaders existed.
One step back to move ahead
The analysis suggests, thus, that as the third wave of democracy has now petered out, and authoritarianism along with indirect rule and identity politics is on the offensive, it is more important than ever to recall the historical insights on how to counter it. The focus must be broad alliances for equal civic, political and social rights, by democratic means—to generate real political clout rather than relying on mouthing empty slogans in defence of democracy and human rights. Just as the mainstream amnesia about the genocide has to be revealed, the other precondition is that the Left’s oblivion of its own history is also addressed. It takes time, but it is not too late. The suppressed Left in Europe did not return to the fore after the Second World War until it revisited its history—recalling past insights and lessons, and certainly adding studies of new conditions. In Germany, for one, it took until the 1960s until new progressive movements blossomed and paved the way for 1989. Similarly, the more recent critiques of Blairite neo-liberalisation of social democracy, and the new democratic socialists in the U.S., have gained steam by revisiting the 1930s’ breakthrough of Keynesianism and social citizenship with New Deals and welfare states. There are no fixed models from before to bring alive. Old nationally confined social democratic models, for example, must be internationalised to counter neo-conservative nationalism. But just as the Renaissance from the 14th to the 17th centuries overcame the dark Middle Ages by reappraising classical insights, critical history is now imperative.
The following text is also forthcoming in Indonesian with Forum 100 Ilmuwan Sosial Politik LP3ES.
Fifty years ago, when I began to do research about Indonesia, the main question among concerned activists and scholars was how the world’s largest peaceful popular movement, with the Communist party (PKI) and President Sukarno in the forefront, had collapsed and been eliminated. Now, finally, most of what happened is beyond doubt. In brief, the West, led by the U.S., had in the late 1950s lost faith in the weak middle classes, and added support of the military as a bulwark against radical popular demands. The new strategy was legitimised by Professor Samuel Huntington’s argument that there was a need for a “politics of order” to foster not just economic but also “political development”. The result, however, was “middle class coups” throughout the Global South. In the pioneering Indonesian case, this came with a twist. PKI Chairman D.N. Aidit had found no other way to counter the military threat but to encourage in secret a “30th of September Movement” among critical officers to arrest the leading generals, expose their manoeuvres and back up Sukarno with a revolutionary council. This failed and played into the hands of General Suharto and his henchmen, who took command, ignored the President and instructed the military, other organs of the state and loyal civilians to annihilate not just the officers’ movement but also whoever was deemed supportive. A secret conspiracy by a party leader and some dissident officers was thus made the pretext for an extremely violent campaign (involving the killing of between 500,000 and 1 million people) against the party, related mass organisations, and the activists’ families and relatives—and probably none of them were aware of Aidit’s plot.
But while this is now clear, another mystery remains unresolved. Why has not the uneven but thorough expansion of capitalism in Indonesia since 1965—and partial democratisation since 1998—produced the revival of a notable leftist dimension in social and political life? There is not even a small social democratic party in parliament—in contrast to other places, such as Spain, Germany, and parts of Latin America, who have experienced similarly brutal and extensive repression.
It was inevitable that this puzzle be addressed when applying a long historical perspective, from the second anti-colonial period through to the third liberal wave of democracy, in a concluding book, In Search of New Social Democracy. And when posing the question in retrospect, it was clear that although many of the challenges for progressives since 1965 were similar to those in other southern countries—including politically driven uneven development with a fragmented class structure, elitist democratisation, disjointed civil groups and social movements, as well as populist dead-ends—two background factors were unique. One was the character of the subjugation and killings; another was leftist loss of memory about the background. I shall argue that a major cause for the absence of a new Left in Indonesia is the rejection in the late 1950s, and later on its oblivion, of the previous focus on equal civil and democratic political rights, and the struggle for social rights based on these bedrocks too.
Colonial genocide
Traditional targeting
A major controversy about the killings is whether they constituted a genocide or not. The first of two main counterarguments is that the mass murders were not centrally coordinated but mainly due to local conflicts and carried out by angry mobs. This is now refuted. As documented by Jess Melvin in particular, there were central command structures and immediate orders of annihilation. From case studies with long historical perspective, by John Roosa and others, it is also clear that while there were various kinds of frequently intensive conflicts over the years, there were no serious incidents of mass terror and mass murdering—until propelled by the military.
The second rebuttal is trickier. The UN definition of genocide from 1948 only mentions killings of groups based on nationality, ethnicity, race or religion, not of political enemies such as by Stalin, and not necessarily of people resisting western colonialism. However, for genocide to remain a useful concept, it needs to be acknowledged that the definition was politically negotiated, remains analytically dubious and needs to be improved by the common knowledge that national, ethnic and religious groups are often politically delineated, and that this heterogeneity applies to non-religious people too. In fact, the organisationally modern and “industrial” genocides in the North were rooted in Europe’s own previously mainstream colonial classification of various kinds of “natives” who were thus subjects rather than citizens and deemed less worthy humans who may be removed if necessary. This is almost exactly how the Indonesian military, immediately after the failure of the 30th of September Movement, undermined the radicals’ ideological hegemony with fabricated lies and by demonising them as uncivil and anti-religious national traitors who had to be annihilated.
Despotism with indirect methods
While the Indonesian identification of the victims was thus in line with Europe’s own colonial practices, Jakarta’s methods of governance differed from the organisationally modern and “industrial” slaughters, such as the Holocaust, through extensive state apparatuses and the leaders’ own parties and militias. The Indonesian military leaders were certainly in command of the killings but could not rely on similarly extensive and coherent machinery and on civilian organisations of their own. This generated regional differences with regard to timing, the numbers killed and the contribution of “external” vigilantes and militias. For example, the central dictates come with early military direction of the slayings in Aceh; late killings of different numbers of people in South Sumatra and Riau; firm military detentions but few killings in West Java; brutal central military intervention along with local anti-communist groups in the progressives’ own bastion of Central Java; extensive military and civilian participation in vast killings in East Java; and delayed central military direction of slaughter in the nationalist stronghold of Bali.
Yet these differences do not suggest that the military were backseat drivers overwhelmed by local conflicts and angry civilians “running amok”. The new historical studies combining documents and interviews with observers, perpetrators and surviving victims point instead to a clear pattern with two components. The first component was central dictates supplemented by interventions when local commanders and governors were not trusted, as in Central Java, or when following Sukarno’s instructions to avoid killings, as initially in Bali, South Sumatra and Riau. The second component was the combination of this central command (plus special forces) with colonial-like indirect rule through local communal leaders and their anti-communist vigilantes and militias, often Muslim, as in East Java, but also right-wing nationalist in character, as in Bali. Only in West Java did officers manage to sustain direct professional rule, akin to modern crackdowns, carrying out mass detentions but abstaining from extra judicial slaughter.
With regard to indirect rule, there was also a clear sequence. The initial pogroms and killings were in the open and, while facilitated by the military, often involved anti-communist vigilantes and militias. They were thus given prime attention by many observers. The progressives were unprepared and without any instructions other than to stay calm and rely on President Sukarno’s ability to resolve the crisis. Meanwhile the military focused on large-scale detentions, again assisted by the vigilantes and militias. At times, the local progressives preferred detention to mob violence, hoping for decent treatment by the authorities. However, the most extensive massacres thereafter were by non-public executions of “disappeared” detainees, carried out by the centrally directed military, assisted by militias. This was avoided in West Java but otherwise applied generally, such as in East Java, where Muslim task forces were particularly active, in Central Java, and later on in Bali where it took until December 1965 for the central military to intervene and organise perhaps the most horrendous killings in the country, in co-operation with right-wing nationalist militias.
Political implications
In conclusion so far, the Indonesian selection of the victims was thus similar to the one applied in Europe and was inspired by colonial ideas. But in terms of method, Suharto and his henchmen lacked modern statist organisational and “industrial” means of repression and killings or parties and militias of their own. Rather, they combined colonial state despotism with local indirect rule. As Gerry van Klinken has drawn my attention to, this was akin to when the Dutch contemplated more modern forms of governance in the 1920s, but needed help to suppress the liberation movement and therefore returned to governance by central despotism allied with the affirmation of strongmen and local leaders of communities mediating unequal citizenship and control of their “subjects”.
Back in Indonesia from the 1960s, there were two major implications for the progressives. Firstly, that since the primacy of colonial-like governance is dividing and ruling through competing ethnic and religious identities, loyalties, leaders and their vigilantes and militias, achieving popular unity for common causes and interests is very difficult. Secondly, that while modern dictatorial regimes tend to crumble along with their state apparatuses and organisations, as in Germany, Chile or the Soviet Union, much of the indirect governance redolent of colonialism has survived its demise. The same applied after the Indonesian genocide. When in firm control from the late 1960s, Suharto certainly tried to combine his own despotism with modern central governance. But in face of critique from the late 1980s, he revived elements of indirect governance with Muslim leaders. And similar practices have proliferated during the elitist democratisation from 1998.
In short, just as it was particularly difficult for the progressives to withstand repression and killings, reviving the Left after 1965 was equally formidable.
Return to New Mandala tomorrow to read the second part of this article, in which Prof. Törnquist examines why reviving the Left in Indonesia has been such a difficult task.
Parliament roles and ‘business as usual’ during pandemic
Under the Indonesian Constitution Article 20A Paragraph 1, the legislative branch of the government (Parliament) has 3 functions: legislation, budgetary and monitoring. How do these functions come into play when governing amidst a pandemic? How have their representative roles been at play with regards to their political constituents?
What we read in the news is that MPs perform their routine activities in a ‘business as usual’ mode. For example, legalising the state budget during the plenary meeting held on Indonesian Independence Day (17 August 2020); legalising the controversial Omnibus Law; and supporting legislative processes like upgrading government regulations into Law and/or compiling national legislation programs (Prolegnas) for the next year. Parliament also carries out the budgetary process, another routine role. Aside from their routine activities and several distasteful news items about how the family members of Parliament are given priority for vaccine inoculations, the Legislative branch has little to show for pandemic-related activities.
The only non-routine activity Parliament has conducted is establishing an ad-hoc COVID-19 group in Parliament. It distributed imported herbal medicine to hospitals despite the medicines having no permits from the Food and Medicine authority, causing a protest from herbal medicine entrepreneurs. It has not capitalised on its legislative powers effectively, if at all.
The monitoring function of Parliament is also sorely lacking during this pandemic. Parliament’s official web site lists several meetings and field visits for COVID-19, but public information on how Parliament is monitoring pandemic management in Indonesia is scarce. Where information is provided, it describes global diplomacy—how Indonesia has been assisting other countries during the pandemic, practically detaching itself from the struggle of its own citizens.
During this pandemic, “losing” these key Parliamentary functions has exacerbated the lack of “checks and balances”. Indonesia has three branches of government that are supposed to be independent from one another, in order to “check and balance” each other.
The Judicial branch is currently struggling with the pandemic but has managed to stay afloat by organizing electronic and/or hybrid judicial system services. The Executive branch has enacted at least 681 national regulations and more than 1,000 regional/local regulations on Covid-19, so far. The State fund budget re-allocation in 2020 increased to IDR 62.3 trillion (US$ 3.9 billion), from the initially-planned value of IDR 23 trillion (US$ 1.2 billion).
In addition, Indonesia faces problems of political representation. Indonesian electoral politics is widely known to operate on a personality level, rather than an institutional one. “Representative democracy” is a concept foreign to many Indonesians. During the legislative election, people often vote for a candidate either because of a personal relationship or because of vote buying practices. As a result, politicians deem voters useful once every five years at election time. Upon election, it is rare for politicians to maintain strong relationship with their constituencies, apart from formal constituency meetings allocated and funded by house’s budget. Therefore, during the post-election policy-making processes, the aspirations and needs of constituents are rarely, if ever, important aspects for legislating MPs to consider in conducting their three main roles. From the constituents’ perspective, there is a general lack of awareness that having and exercising political representation in Parliament can push policy agendas, not just those concerning COVID-19.
Media outlets and the general population ignore the fact that Parliament has a role in pandemic governance. We tracked Google trends of online public conversations, using conversation keywords such as ‘corona virus’, ‘government’ and ‘Parliament’. Our findings indicate that “Parliament” was neither a keyword nor a heavily-searched issue of interest. Few people talked about this important democratic institution online. Indonesians are typically think that the “government” only comprises Jokowi (the President) and his ministers—governors, mayors, civil servant officials, etc. We often forget that Parliament is also responsible for pandemic governance in Indonesia, even though they have spent a significant amount of our state’s budget on this. This is surprising, given that it costs IDR25 .6 trillion (US$ 1.8 billion), or almost 3 times West Papua’s local revenue in 2020, to elect Parliament.
Aid-supported ‘participatory recess’ programs are promoting healthier communication between MPs and constituents. But it won’t transform politics unless parties sign on wholesale.
There is an urgent need to hold Parliament responsible for organizing their basic duties during this pandemic. As the legislative branch of the government, and as representatives of the Indonesian people, Parliament must perform “checks and balances” on other branches of the government and report those results to the public. They must represent the needs of Indonesian people, especially now, to the Executive and Judicial branches of the government. They should conduct dialogue, hold meetings, and support and review new regulations concerning policies related to the pandemic. The more dialogue and discussions are organised, the more engaged the stakeholders and the people to the information and issue of the government during the pandemic. This ensures the security, sustainability, and transparency of government, improving the public’s access to numerous essential services, such as health care, education welfare, and justice.
To achieve this, at least three actors must be simultaneously involved—the State, political parties and citizens. Firstly, the state should have clear indicators for the allocation of subsidies to parties, based on parties’ representative performance. The more actively MPs engage their constituents, the better. Of course, this will not be popular among politicians. Secondly, parties, including their cadres, should recognise the incentive that attending to voters’ needs offers to those who want to win elections, although pragmatics voters are also hurdles in Indonesian elections. Parties, as institutions, should consistently champion standpoints favourable to their respective constituencies, not just during elections but even post-elections. This will make parties more responsive to their constituents, and forge a unifying function among their constituents. Thirdly, citizens must actively hold their representatives to account, particularly during this pandemic, by demanding their elected leaders to take more active roles during the pandemic instead of serving their own interests.
In early 2020 last year, dozens of people, mostly from fisher’s associations, gathered in front of the Chinese Embassy in Jakarta. With a huge white loud-speaker truck, they screamed and protested China’s moves in the North Natuna Sea. They demanded China back off the Indonesian exclusive economic zone, stop breaching Indonesia’s sovereign rights, and stop threatening Indonesia’s fishermen.
Aside from protestors in front of the Chinese Embassy, columns in Indonesia’s major newspapers written by Indonesian scholars and analysts, as well as seminars and focus group discussions organised by universities and think tanks, have also voiced their concerns on China’s move in the South China Sea. They demand a strong response from the Jakarta government. Posts to social media and group messaging platforms have echoed the same concern.
These kinds of protests are not the first and surely will not be the last in which masses of protestors and Indonesian intellectuals express concern about China’s increasing threats in the region. The North Natuna Sea is just one among many issues to gain attention, including repression of Chinese Uyghur populations and the migration of Chinese workers to Indonesia.
Indeed, in 2020 the Lingkaran Survey Indonesia showed that 34 percent of Indonesians hold negative perceptions of China. This is a quite significant increase from the 2016 survey, in which the level of negative attitudes toward China was only 19 percent.
In light of this, the Indonesian government has to consider and adjust its policies and responses to any escalation with China in the South China Sea.
Despite protests demanding Indonesia take a strong stance against China’s incursions in the South China Sea, Jakarta seems to have a positive relationship with Beijing. With an influx of infrastructure projects and money from Beijing, surely the government does not want provocative and unproductive protests to obstruct China’s investment?
After the January 2020 incident, when China’s coast guard entered Indonesia’s exclusive economic zone in the North Natuna Sea, Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan, Coordinating Minister for Marine Affairs and Fisheries, urged the public not to exaggerate the incident. Presumably he didn’t want that the incident to be a barrier to China’s investment.
Despite Luhut’s warning, the public is still demanding a strong response from Jakarta. Indeed as a new democracy, the Indonesian public tends to openly express what it thinks on any issue, including foreign policy.
Although Jakarta wants to have good economic cooperation with Beijing, President Joko Widodo has responded to public demand with several symbolic and rhetorical acts, to show that his administration is actually taking sovereign rights violations in the North Natuna Sea seriously. That included conducting a limited cabinet ministerial meeting on a warship in Natuna in 2016 and visiting Natuna Sea himself after the 2020 incident.
This rhetoric is necessary to show that even though Jakarta desires strong economic cooperation and investment from Beijing, it takes any maritime violations seriously.
Indonesia’s position on the South China Sea dispute has already clarified that we are not a claimant to any features in the disputed area. However, the overlap with the Chinese Nine-dash line was ruled illegal by a 2016 tribunal.
For the past several years there have been some second-track diplomatic efforts from scholars and analysts in Southeast Asian countries, such as Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, and the Philippines, to consider how civil society and researchers can help to navigate and find a common interests in the dispute. It is often easier for a non-government institutions to find common understandings and common interests, which may enable them to advise their respective governments’ on the next move, including in the current ongoing negotiation of the Code of Conduct.
That being said, Indonesia’s South China Sea policy, and government responses to any violations in the South China Sea, are also driven by public concern and demand, considering the strategic role of civil society, public intellectuals, and NGOs. It is important to make sure they retain their role in advocating Indonesia’s national interest in the dispute.
Recent reports of potential normalisation between Indonesia and Israel have received varied reactions in the respective countries. In his three-month marathon toward normalization, U.S. President Donald Trump has persuaded four Arab countries to open diplomatic relations with Israel. With his term set to end in a matter of days, Trump carries on in a full sprint to rack up even more. Oman and Indonesia, said an Israeli source, are predicted to be the next targets.
In his latest book, The Hundred Years War on Palestine, historian Rashid Khalidi writes that Israel’s “most vital asset” is its reputation abroad. Since its founding, Israel has struggled to protect its image and stature in the face of delegitimization by Arab and Muslim countries. For the regionally isolated Jewish state, for whom the question of legitimacy is of existential importance, normalisation is understandably a top foreign policy priority.
While news surrounding normalisation has acquired a banality due to frequent media coverage, the significance of an official Indonesian thawing of ties to Israel should not be underestimated. Previous deals for the normalisation of ties to Israel by other sovereign states were made by monarchs and dictators. These decisions were grossly unrepresentative of the opinions of their people, an overwhelming majority of whom disapprove of such a normalization. When viewed through an Israeli lens, normalisation with Indonesia—a thriving Muslim democracy—could be seen as its first success in winning the hearts and minds of both the public and leadership of a previously antagonistic nation.
Surprising but not unforeseeable
The Indonesian government was quick to refute the alleged opening. The Foreign Ministry denied any talks had taken place with Israel, while affirming Indonesia’s unwavering support for Palestinian independence — a position which was later reiterated by Speaker of Parliament Puan Maharani.
While the suddenness of the news may come as a shock, it is by no means unforeseeable.
In late November, Indonesia decided to reinstate calling visas for citizens of Israel and seven other countries. This action was criticized by some Indonesian MPs, as potential soft diplomacy to ease and cushion an eventual normalisation of ties. Curiously, the decision came several weeks after U.S. State Secretary Mike Pompeo’s first official visit to Indonesia. Pompeo has been a key figure in the normalisation marathon, well known for his shuttle diplomacy between the U.S. and the Middle East for that purpose.
Compared to Malaysia and Brunei, Indonesia seems to have a more welcoming climate to open relations with Israel. While normalisation only enjoys minute support today, Israel and its lobby groups have successfully reached out to these marginal voices.
Social media has proven very effective as a point of contact. “Israel Berbahasa Indonesia”, a Facebook page managed by the Israeli government, has achieved more than 280,000 followers. The page, self-declared as “educational” in its mission, shares select pieces of news that counter the mainstream anti-Israeli narrative in Indonesia. The human-to-human track is exemplified by the social media strategy of influencer Hananya Naftali, a member of Israeli PM’s outreach team. Naftali regularly sends heart-felt messages to Indonesians on their day of independence. In a recent tweet he shared a picture six hijabi students whose entangled bodies form the Star of David. “We were not meant to be enemies”, he wrote.
Israel has also sponsored programs and gatherings specifically designed to amplify the impact of its cultural diplomacy.
Early next year the Israel Asia Centre will inaugurate the “Israel-Indonesia Futures” program where entrepreneurs and professionals are trained to strengthen ties between the two countries. The organizing team boasted securing at least 200 million USD in investment to the Israeli economy by the alumni of its previous programs. While the annual visit by Indonesian pilgrims to Israel is well documented, lesser known are the organized educational tours funded by pro-Israel groups for Indonesians who demonstrate sound capacity as cultural bridges between the two nations. My correspondence with one participant shows the meticulousness with which the itinerary of these tours is crafted. Locations visited include the West Bank settlements and the disputed Golan Heights—places ordinary tourists cannot easily access.
For some Indonesians, whose state-imposed restrictions from interacting with Israelis has ironically bred curiosity to see the other side, “visit us and you’ll understand us” has become an almost irresistible mantra. Although largely unnoticed, pro-Israel sympathy is becoming less a taboo for certain circles in Indonesia. To those who closely follow this trajectory, news on normalization, while sudden, is not surprising.
Material benefit, symbolic loss
Arab countries who have normalized ties with Israel have been promised specific benefits from the US. Most notoriously in the Moroccan case, the normalisation of ties was conditioned upon American recognition of the kingdom’s sovereignty over the disputed Western Sahara. In a future Indonesian scenario, similar quid pro quo arrangements are possibly in order. One senior U.S. official recently disclosed the possibility of Indonesia receiving billions of dollars in American aid as a reward of normalisation of ties.
Few disciples of realpolitik would dispute the merits of relations with Israel. Normalisation advocacy often highlight the benefit Indonesia may reap from Israel’s cutting-edge technology, particularly in the agriculture and health sector. Moreover, with open relations Indonesia would no longer depend on third parties to purchase military equipment from Israel—like its past procurement of Israeli Skyhawks in the 1980s. In the current pandemic, the interest in Israel’s world-class vaccine research is becoming ever apparent.
This rationalization is certainly true insofar as material benefit is concerned. An ideological reading of the situation, however, projects a more sinister scenario.
Indonesia’s national prestige historically stems from its spearheading role in the Third World anti-colonial struggle. As the only nation in attendance at the 1955 Bandung Conference yet to gain independence, it is almost expected that Palestine captures the current focus of Indonesia’s anti-colonial mission. Just several years ago, in the sixtieth commemoration of the conference, President Joko Widodo urged the world “not to turn their back on Palestinian suffering”. In the mainstream Palestinian parlance, normalisation is spoken of as exactly that: a stab in the back. The reputational toll to Indonesia for being perceived as a hypocrite who abandons the Palestinian cause is tremendous.
Even during the Suharto era, the heyday of covert cooperation with Israel, Indonesia did not go to the extent of normalisation. If in the oppressive New Order—when controversial policy could be pursued with fewer political cost—Israeli material incentives did not allure Indonesia to forego its special commitment for Palestine, assuming that the same reasoning could work today is a naiveté.
“Saviour complex”: normalizing to help Palestinians
The Indonesian non-recognition of Israel primarily stems from the symbolic importance (nationalist and religious) of solidarity with the Palestinians. Lip-service to this symbolic aspect, at the least, is a must for pro-normalisation arguments to gain traction. Relying on material grounds alone will not succeed.
The late-president Abdurrahman Wahid once made an intriguing argument: if Indonesia, whose state-ideology abhors atheism, has relations with Communist China why not with God-believing Israel? Indonesia, Wahid argued further, could never play a meaningful role in brokering peace by only talking to one side and avoiding the other.
The echo of this Gusdurian legacy still resonates with many Indonesian Muslims today, particularly among the Nahdliyin. The controversial 2017 visit to Israel by Yahya Cholil Staquf, the General Secretary of NU, was hailed by his supporters as the continuation of Wahid’s inter-civilizational mission. Staquf sought to convey the message of Islam as rahmah (universal compassion) to Israelis, hoping it would persuade them to the path of peace.
For Indonesians who have witnessed decades of hostility that have brought the Palestinians nowhere, reaching to the other side—even with the slightest chance to achieve peace—seems like a reasonable step to take. Normalisation, in this line of thinking, constitutes a strategic move to increase Indonesia’s leverage such that its concern on the Palestinian question is solemnly heard by Israel. Or does it?
In my estimation, this gesture of benevolence might unfortunately be misplaced. Beyond simply a matter of future statehood, supporting the Palestinian right of self-determination should mean an acknowledgement that they are best placed to shape their future. Indonesia is an ally to the Palestinians; it is neither their saviour nor it should pretend to be one. What good is the helper, if its help is not sought by the helped?
If anything unites the different Palestinian factions, it is their resistance against the normalisation trend. Both the Fatah-led Palestinian Authority and Hamas have appealed directly to the Indonesian president, alerting him of the trend’s detriments. Palestine even left its chairmanship in the Arab League precisely due to the organization’s failure to condemn normalisation. There are no grounds to claim that Palestinians would feel helped by Indonesia opening up to Israel. If anything, it would seriously demoralise them.
One must remember that the Israel of Gusdur’s time is different from today. Israel’s Overton window has shifted so much to the right, that the leftist peace camp has become a virtually irrelevant player. Today, political centrism in Israel still means retention of illegal settlements and ambivalence to Palestinian statehood. Many in the Israeli leadership have now spoken of containing the conflict, rather than resolving it.
A garrison state in the region, Israel prizes recognition as an insurance policy in the context of its existential insecurity. For such a treasured bargaining chip, normalisation should not be given away for facile promises and mere material incentives. Indonesia must remain steadfast to its two-state commitment and quell the normalisation trend. Peace and justice should come before recognition, not the reverse.
The Indonesian government has officially banned the hardline Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI) through a joint ministerial decree (SKB) on 30 December 2020. It lists six reasons for the ban. Among them is that FPI has no legal grounds to operate as a civil organization, and many of its members were involved in terrorism, illegal raids, and other violent activities.
On December 12, 2020, the police detained Habib Rizieq Syihab, the leader of the FPI. He was charged with violating COVID-19 health protocols at his daughter’s wedding party and a celebration of the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. The events drew large crowds, following Rizieq’s homecoming after three years in exile in Saudi Arabia. Five other FPI members were also named suspects in this case, including the FPI general chairman, Sabri Lubis.
Habib Rizieq surrendered to the police a few days after six FPI members were shot dead by the police who were allegedly investigating the COVID-19 violations. The incident leaves many unanswered questions. The police and the FPI have their own versions. The police claim that the shooting was carried out in self-defence because the six FPI members attacked first with firearms and sharp weapons. The FPI claim that they were massacred by the police and deny that they had weapons. This incident is still under investigation due to concerns that these may have been extrajudicial executions.
The events of the past month signify how the government has become increasingly repressive in coping with Islamist groups considered a threat to the Indonesian state. Many Indonesians are happy with and appreciate the government’s move, even those who claim to be pluralist and progressive. The actions, however, will intensify grievances against the government. Quite apart from the question of whether the government’s repressive measures undermine democracy, it is not yet clear whether the crackdown demonstrates the powerlessness of Islamists, particularly the 212 movement, or whether it serves as a new, unifying issue in a way that could have ramifications for the next round of elections in 2024.
Habib Rizieq and the 212 Movement
The 212 movement, also known as “Action to Defend Islam (Aksi Bela Islam)”, was born out of the 2 December 2016 mobilisation of hundreds of thousands of Muslims in the streets of Jakarta to protest against Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (Ahok), former Jakarta governor whom the organisers accused of blasphemy. They included the conservative-traditionalist FPI, the Salafi-modernist network of the Indonesian Council of Young Intellectuals and Ulama (MIUMI, Majelis Intelektual dan Ulama Muda Indonesia), Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (HTI), and the Forum of Islamic Society (Forum Umat Islam, FUI), and some Islamic study groups (majelis taklim).
To commemorate the anti-Ahok mobilisation, an annual reunion has been held on 2 December, at the National Monument (Monas) in Jakarta. The reunion in 2018 still attracted a huge crowd, but the numbers began to decline in 2019. The 212 movement by then was in disarray. Not only were there internal frictions, but the movement had lost both its original reason for unity (the blasphemy case), and its main political patron, Prabowo Subianto, rival of President Jokowi in the 2019 election, who later joined Jokowi’s second-term cabinet as Defence Minister.
Habib Rizieq was a key figure in the 212 movement from the beginning. The 212 rallies arguably made him and his organization, FPI, even more significant and popular. Rizieq’s return to Indonesia, therefore, initially raised hopes that the 2020 reunion could attract far more attendees and reconsolidate the movement amid the changing political landscape.
However, due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the government prohibited the 2020 212 reunion rally. Consequently, the 212 Alumni Brotherhood (the institutional representative of the 212 movement) held an online event entitled “National Dialogue of 100 Ulamas and Figures”, broadcast live on FPI’s YouTube channel: Front TV. The participants were prominent figures, supporters, and sympathisers of the 212-movement alliance, such as the MIUMI chairman Bachtiar Nasir, the Salafi Wahdah Islamiyah chairman Zaitun Rasmin, HTI preacher Felix Siauw, and some politicians. That suggested a reconsolidation was in the works, using Rizieq’s call for “moral revolution (revolusi akhlaq)” as a catch-all phrase to criticise the Jokowi government. If the Islamists could agree on little else, they could agree that Jokowi’s government was unfair and despotic.
The substance of the revolusi akhlaq was, in fact, similar to the narratives that Habib Rizieq and FPI voiced during the 212 rallies, such as “NKRI Bersyariah (the sharia-based Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia)”, “ayat suci di atas ayat konstitusi” (the holy verses above constitutional articles), and other terms that reflect the agenda of Islamic supremacy. While the slogan of “revolusi akhlaq” has little potential in consolidating the Islamist alliance of the 212 movement, I contend it is the government’s recent treatment of Habib Rizieq and the FPI that could empower this movement.
Government Response and Islamist Militancy
Studies on democracy and Islamist movements in Indonesia demonstrate that the Jokowi government is increasingly using repressive measures to suppress Islamist opposition—a policy direction that Greg Fealy calls “repressive pluralism”. This is done by implementing a confusing anti-radicalism policy, increasingly reliant on the military and police, and which involves marginalisation and sometimes criminalisation of anyone suspected of (broadly defined) radical views and favouritism towards moderate groups like Nahdlatul Ulama (NU). The government’s response to what has happened since Rizieq’s return should be viewed in this context.
In addition, it is difficult not assume that Habib Rizieq’s recent arrest is political. In fact, there have been many other cases of violations of the COVID-19 health protocol, such as during the 2020 regional election campaigns, that have gone unpunished. This suggests that the protocols are being used by the government as a tool to limit the activities of Islamist groups.
Habib Rizieq seems to have kept control of his supporters and so far prevented a backlash, yet the anger against the government from a wide spectrum of Islamist groups is growing. A wave of mass protests emerged in many regions across Java and Madura, demanding justice for the deaths of the six FPI members and the release of Habib Rizieq. This was then followed by an attempt to organise a protest rally on 18 December, to be called the “1812 action” organized by FPI, the 212 Alumni Brotherhood, and their allies in central Jakarta. But the police prevented it on the grounds that it could lead to a new cluster of COVID-19 transmission.
The 212 Alumni Brotherhood has pinned the title of “hero and martyr (syuhada) of revolusi akhlaq” to the six FPI men killed. Many Islamist groups within the alliance of the 212 movement, such as MIUMI, HTI, and some Salafi groups, believe that they are martyrs who defended Islam. This belief reflects what Marx Jurgensmayer calls “cosmic war”, meaning the Islamists are struggling in “a religious scenario” against the government they believe marginalises Muslims. This further provides a moral-religious justification for them to increasingly oppose the ruling government.
The government’s aggressive response may restrict political space in the short-term for Islamists, but in the long-term it could be counter-productive for the state, strengthening Islamist militancy, and perpetuating the Indonesian proverb about “a fire in the rice husks” that can explode at any time. It gives the Islamists a new issue to rally around, powerful new grievances against the government and an atmosphere to restore their movement’s solidarity ahead of the 2024 presidential election.
In December, Indonesia completed simultaneous elections (Pilkada) in 9 provinces, 224 regencies and 37 cities. Prior to the elections, however, environmental NGOs and activists warned that the fiesta of democracy could accelerate the rate of environmental degradation in the country. As Indonesia’s anti-corruption commission (KPK) and Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs Mahfud MD has revealed, many Pilkada candidates were sponsored by political financiers. The clientelist nature of post-Suharto regional Indonesian politics has played a crucial role in Indonesia’s alarming environmental deterioration.
Between 2015–18, 3.4 million hectares of land were burned in Indonesia. From 2013 to 2017, 1.47 million hectares of forest were cleared. 82% of 550 rivers in Indonesia are polluted. Despite these disastrous figures, elected leaders are set to implement the controversial omnibus law whose articles and provisions will offer a fast track to deforestation. This is bad news because the regions which took part in the December Pilkada have 60 million hectares of forest (almost 68% of Indonesia’s total forests) and 13.89 million hectares of peatlands (64% of Indonesia’s overall reserves).
Yet environmental degradation and exploitation are not only matters of unwritten concession deals between candidates and big bosses before a Pilkada. Between the elections, as cases in the province of Jambi will show, native oligarchs and unscrupulous security apparatuses from the police to the military (oknum TNI/Polri) continue to exploit natural resources with ease and impunity. To make matters worse, some of these native oligarchs are regarded as local heroes due to their contribution to the villages in which their business activities are located. But the case of Jambi also highlights feasible solutions.
Native oligarchs and Oknum TNI/Polri are major players
In early November of 2020, residents of Air Liki gathered by the bank of River Tabir to pray for the success of a promised road-making project. The dwellers of the mountainous, isolated village of Jambi’s Merangin regency also expressed their most sincere gratitude to Sandri Can Indra (SCI), the project initiator, for his generosity in constructing the road with his own money. SCI is a nearby village head, former would-be regent candidate, and an illegal mining (PETI) oligarch who has businesses operating across Merangin Regency and beyond.
As elsewhere in Indonesia, PETI is an unsolved problem in Jambi that severely destroys the environment while profiting only a few. In many areas of the province, rivers, paddy fields, plantations and forests are destroyed in the process of extracting the gold beneath the soil. This activity is mostly financed by native oligarchs with backing allegedly provided by oknum TNI/Polri. Many lives have also been lost in this business due to minimal protection for mining workers.
Unlike the previously empty pledges of politicians and government officials, the road to Air Liki is really being built. When completed, it will end the decades of isolation lived by Air Liki residents. Currently, the only way for residents to reach the outside world is through the treacherous, rocky Tabir River, which is costly both in terms of time and money. This lack of access is believed to be a major driver of Air Liki residents’ economic underperformance, low education levels and difficulty in accessing proper medical treatment. Residents expect that the completion of the road will be followed by an economic boom, as SCI has hinted at a large-scale expansion of his currently limited mining activities in Air Liki.
Air Liki is located just next to the Kerinci Seblat National Park, partially explaining why Indonesia’s Ministry of Environment and Forestry seemed reluctant to give a green light for a road project once initiated by the Merangin government. But SCI went ahead, framing his million-rupiah project as fulfilling the Air Liki residents’ unheard wish. Yet the truth is the road is not funded by SCI’s personal wealth, but by his company, Genting Barat Jaya Corporation. The primary reason of the road-making, as my interview with an excavator driver employed by SCI revealed, is to smoothen the flow of logistics for SCI’s PETI business in Air Liki. It has been difficult for SCI to transport oil in drums as well as other necessary equipment for large-scale mining operations to Air Liki, due to the small size of available boats and the unpredictable current of Tabir River.
It remains to be seen what the future holds for the Air Liki residents, as well as their vast areas of pristine forest and crystal-clear river. But examples from other remote, resource-rich villages in Jambi, including those in my district, Sumay, are not so pleasant. The construction of roads in these regions was followed by uncontrolled deforestation which enriched a handful of native oligarchs, but led to wide-ranging socioeconomic conflicts, displacements of indigenous people and the influx of outsiders.
It is highly likely that the road to Air Liki will serve as strategic capital for SCI to dominate the natural resources of Air Liki against his competitors. Such an infrastructure privatisation strategy is already in place in Mangun Jayo in Bungo regency, where a native oligarch and former vice regent owns a road and a bridge. The bridge is locked and village residents must get permission if they want to drive over it. The infrastructure has proven effective in safeguarding the oligarch’s monopoly over the natural riches of Mangun Jayo and nearby areas. In Mangun Jayo, like SCI, the oligarch is seen as a hero.
While native oligarchs play a significant role in environmental degradation by privatising public infrastructure, oknum TNI/Polri also facilitate the illegal oil drilling industry in Jambi’s Batanghari regency. Miners can exploit oil reserves with ease inside and outside protected forests because they are regularly alerted by rent-seeking police and military officers before raids are held. An oil truck driver once told me that the transportation of oil passes without serious trouble as most police officers in Jambi know the ‘big brothers’ possessing the oil. When stopped, he just tells the police to talk to his high-ranking security apparatus boss on the phone—and the problem is solved instantly.
Feasible solutions are available
One morning in 2004, the mosque’s drum (bedug) in Teluk Langkap, my village, rang with an unusual sound. The sound was called tabuh larangan, played on emergency occasions only. Within minutes, hundreds of my fellow villagers rushed to the river Batanghari with any weapons they could get. They launched simultaneous attacks at some 40 mining vehicles owned by village oligarchs and a locally born military officer which had been in operation for two days. The miners ran away, some of them were beaten badly by the mad, unorganised villagers.
The villagers’ fury originated from concerns that illegal mining would and had polluted their beloved river, whose water they regularly use for multiple purposes. They also feared that the river brink would collapse, ruining their houses and sole mosque. In addition, older members of the community deemed the untouched, large gravel island in the village as sacred. Opposition was supported by an emerging educated class in Teluk Langkap who acted as pro-environment intellectual actors.
Since the fierce conflict, there has never been illegal mining activities anywhere in my village, even though the price of rubber (a major income source) has fallen dramatically, the economy has been destroyed by the COVID-19 pandemic and two elections have been held.
Jambi also provides a second example of villagers collectively working to preserve environmental resources. In May this year, 5 villages in Jambi’s Bujang Raba mountainous region received 1 billion rupiah from the REDD+, a scheme developed by parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) aiming to reduce emissions from forests while creating financial value for the carbon stored in them. The money was given to compensate the villagers’ success in preserving the 5.3 hectares of their locally managed forests (hutan desa). Since 2015, Bujang Raba villages have taken part in a voluntary carbon market with the help of an environmental NGO.
The success stories of Teluk Langkap and Bujang Raba villages offer precious lessons for Indonesia that environmental degradation and exploitation can be halted through people power. However, this power is subject to various factors such as the unity of local communities, including whether village elites are themselves involved in mining or forest businesses. Another crucial prerequisite for effective local resistance is that the object of exploitation needs to be regarded as common property whose very existence is vital to the daily activities and survival of local villagers. In Teluk Langkap, the River Batanghari is the main source of water for locals, not least for those residing on the river bank. The high dependence of Teluk Langkap residents on the Batanghari made them adamant to protect it, with PETI elites and village head candidates understanding that any future mining activities will rehearse the bloody tragedy of 2004.
As for the Bujang Raba case, it is noteworthy that granting villagers autonomy to take care of their forests proved effective in preserving the environment, while also generating income for village inhabitants. Such a preservation mechanism is indeed in line with the historical record of the village’s residents who have co-existed with nature harmoniously for centuries. They do not regard rivers or forests as commodities, but as inseparable parts of their lives. Only a tiny minority of greedy village elites see natural resources through a commercial lens. Locally autonomous forest management as applied in Bujang Raba should widely be implemented in more of Indonesia’s regions.
This does not mean that the autonomous forest management schemes are without challenges. Hutan desa are prone to elite domination and cooptation, especially in conditions where local residents do not have stable income. In such cases, they will likely seek ways to make use of the forest or consider offers coming from wealthy individuals in exchange for concessions. Empowering the local economy must always be on the agenda and the active presence of environmental NGOs is unquestionably vital.
Environmental degradation and exploitation are not unique to Pilkada, but are recurrent challenges that persist in the interim between the intense bargaining and concessions leading up to elections. Nonetheless, the province of Jambi has a history of practical solutions that provide a potential blueprint for Indonesia to deal with its chronic environmental issues.
#/media/File:Proclamation_of_Islamic_State_of_Indonesia.jpg)
,_p283.jpg)
