Indonesia

Archipelago of Fear

By Andre Vltchek

Pluto Press

Copyright © 2012 Andre Vltchek
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7453-3199-7

Contents

Acknowledgements, ix,
Foreword by Noam Chomsky, xiii,
1 Introduction, 1,
2 From colony to dictatorship, 16,
3 Extreme capitalism, Indonesian style, 40,
4 Democracy and human rights, 73,
5 Jakarta bleeding the islands, 110,
6 Corruption kills, 138,
7 The environment, plundering of natural resources and consequent natural disasters, 152,
8 Collapse of infrastructure, 171,
9 Islam, 182,
10 Culture, education and intellectual life, 202,
11 Indonesia’s position in Southeast Asia, 219,
12 Conclusion, 230,
Notes, 235,
Index, 247,

CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

A grey stream cuts through the fields just outside the city of Bandung. It is polluted with chemicals, its surface covered by plastic bags, bottles and other floating rubbish. Nearby, there is a small cemetery. Kids in rags besiege it – they come here to beg and to extract money from the mourners. When a few small notes are passed to them, the children usually move aside, only to return a few minutes later.

This toxic stream could be anywhere in Indonesia, and so could the battered surface of the road, the cemetery facing the rice field and the street children of unidentified age, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Misery, pollution and decay, cities without parks and sidewalks – at the lower and wider end everything seems to be standardized in this vast archipelago. Also standardized is the ‘upper end’ of the cities and suburbs – the shopping malls and chain restaurants, the luxury vehicles of the super-rich (almost all in two colours – black and silver), the monstrous pseudo-Roman villas and the pop music from the 1960s and 1970s.

Also standardized is fear.

Could conscious or subconscious fear paralyse an entire nation to its core? Could it force hundreds of millions of men, women and children into servility, breaking their will to rebel, to fight, and to dream of a better society and future?

Could the recollection of horrors from the distant and not-too-distant past (or the imagination of horrors, passed from generation to generation in a twisted way through state propaganda) silence the great majority of citizens? And if at least a few members of almost every family have participated in one slaughter or another, or in all of them, could their uncertainty about the future, and their inherent shame as well as the fear of justice and potential retribution, make most Indonesian families desperately cling to the existing system and to the sandcastle of lies; make them silently wish for every call for justice and truth to be destroyed as brutally and promptly as possible?

Between 1965 and 2011, in less than five decades, Indonesia carried out at least three major genocides. All of them are discussed in detail in this book. It may not be the worst record in the world – the Western nations indisputably hold that position – but it is unprecedented on the Asian continent.

General Suharto, and a faction of his military and religious cadres, conducted the 1965 military coup and consequent massacres, although they were orchestrated and strongly supported by Washington. Between 500,000 and 3 million communists, intellectuals, artists, teachers, trade union leaders and members of the Chinese minority were killed. In 1975, the occupation of East Timor (now Timor-Leste) and the liquidation of around 30 per cent of the people of that nation followed. Then came the still ongoing onslaught in Papua, in which at least 120,000 people have already died.

These were only the most brutal and radical events. Aceh, Ambon, several areas of Sulawesi and other parts of the country have all also suffered a terrible fate.

In 1965–66, millions of ordinary Indonesians participated in genocidal events. At that time, the country had only around 100 million inhabitants, and on the island of Java and other islands of the archipelago extended families could have as many as 200 members. Even if the number of victims was ‘only’ 500,000 (the lowest of the estimates), that would mean an average of one victim per family. Of course, the victims were not as evenly spread across the society as this implies, but even so, an enormous number of families included at least one victim and at least one perpetrator.

Perhaps this explains why ‘People talk about these killings with distaste rather than outraged condemnation’, as Andrew Beatty, the well-known anthropologist and Indonesian scholar, wrote.

In 1975, the occupation of East Timor and the resulting slaughter and destruction of its tiny population was carried out mainly by the military (with several current top Indonesian political figures, including President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and General Wiranto, serving as senior officers). Migrants from the islands of Java and Sumatra, predominantly Muslim, also supported and participated in the slaughter and the policies of targeting the native population. In Papua too, the responsibility for the terrible deeds (mass killing, torture, rape, disappearances and forced Islamization to name just a few of the crimes against humanity) should burden the conscience of the military, opportunistic migrants and ordinary Indonesians, as well as multinational mining and logging enterprises and other conglomerates.

The subtitle of this book is ‘Archipelago of fear’. Fear is a very powerful force in Indonesia. There are many different types of fear. Some are related to the past and to violence, and others to corruption. There is the fear of being exposed, of being punished, and of losing face. There is the fear of admitting to the world one’s victimhood. There is the fear of belonging to a minority – racial, ethnic or religious – as in Indonesia the majority rules no matter what, often reasserting its dominance by brutalizing and oppressing minorities.

There are other fears, seemingly of lesser rank but still very powerful. There is the fear of not amassing enough money and resources, and falling into destitution in this country where there is almost no security net and very little compassion. There is fear of crime, and fear of the notoriously corrupt law-enforcement machinery and the judiciary.

There is the fear of falling ill, as Indonesia has some of the most terrible and overpriced healthcare systems in Asia, forcing millions of those who can afford it to fly across the Straits of Malacca to Singapore or to Malaysia, where they can get better and cheaper treatment. Sick people who remain in Indonesia face incompetence, misdiagnoses, mounting bills and often a painful death.

There is also a fear of saying or writing that medical care and other social services are a shambles, as citizens can face defamation charges for a wide range of minor ‘offences’, so this kind of criticism can be severely punished. ‘A range of journalists and activists who have taken on the entrenched political or economic interests have been subjected to criminal defamation charges. Everyday acts – such as complaining about treatment received at a hospital or asking a local official about a land assessment – can result in a defamation prosecution and a prison sentence’, wrote the British Daily Telegraph on July 11, 2011.

There is the fear of not being religious enough – not showing enough zeal or not fasting or praying when others do. People worry that they might not appear nationalistic enough. There is terrible fear for those who are gay or lesbian – fear of being exposed, fear of not being like other people, and the fear of embarrassing, or even ruining, their family. And there is a broader fear of thinking differently from the majority, having different habits, or being exposed for knowing too much or too little.

In hierarchical Indonesia, people are entirely obedient to their parents. Elder members of the family have to be loved unconditionally, obeyed and admired; never questioned. Most children on Java regularly kiss their parents’ hands. A wife has to be obedient to her husband, and of course to her parents. People always obey the authorities – the military, police, government and the company management. When talking to them, Indonesians are expected to be humble and extremely polite. Parents and authorities are feared. Religious leaders are feared. Neighbours are feared. Thugs are feared.

The list of fears is endless. The nation seems to be united in its diversity of fears!

Then there is shame. In Indonesia, shame is a mutant of fear, and it comes in a wide variety of forms. There is personal shame: of having been a victim, slapped, raped or tortured. There is inherited shame: of having a father or mother who has been a victim. There is the shame of belonging to a minority that has been victimized. There is a shame of being too weak, and therefore defenceless.

Mount Lawu in Central Java rises from a plush green tropical countryside of rice fields, creeks and traditional sleepy villages with red roofs. In 1972, the influential scholar Benedict Anderson took to the road with his Vespa scooter, briefly stopping at the ancient city of Surakarta (also known as Solo) and visiting Suharto’s family tomb. Later he wrote:

In 1971, the Indonesian presidential machine informed the public that Suharto and his wife were planning a mausoleum for themselves on a spur of Mount Lawu, the dormant, 3,000m sacred volcano that lies to the east of the ci-devant royal Javanese city of Surakarta. The site had been carefully chosen, respectfully situated some metres below the early tombs of the Mangkunegaran dynasty – the second most insignificant of the four small Central Java principalities instituted by colonial authority in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Mrs Tien Suharto – by then already quietly mocked as Tientje (Ten Per Cent) – claimed some connection with the little dynasty which had barely survived the revolution of 1945–49. For Suharto, who always insisted that he was of simple peasant stock, but was rumoured to be the illegitimate son of a Chinese tycoon, the site represented a social step up; and a normal one, since hypergamy was common among the army officer corps in the 1940s and after, and families were traditionally uxorilocal. Still, the construction of this expensive, unprecedented mausoleum for the future dead had something creepy about it, since Suharto himself was a healthy 50-year-old at the time.

I visited Mount Lawu and Suharto’s tomb only few months after the most corrupt dictator of modern times had found his resting place there. The parking lot was almost full, and in a country with a collapsed infrastructure and almost no money to spend on roads and railroads, there was a surprisingly huge construction in progress just a few hundred metres from the mausoleum – a new parking area had been literally carved out of the mountain.

On the day of my visit, soldiers were guarding the compound and aggressive vendors were stalking the pilgrims. The electricity system in the area had broken down, throwing the interior of the mausoleum into almost complete darkness. Only a few candles illuminated the tombs and the large photographs of the general and his wife, as well as the photos of his neatly framed military medals. A gang of photographers with Polaroid cameras was working in that space, taking snapshots of Indonesian tourists posing near the tomb of their former leader. The atmosphere was eerie and at the same time Kafkaesque.

The sound of dzikir – reciting verses from Koran – came through the walls. Dozens of men in skullcaps and women with covered hair were praying outside the closed doors. Then there was an enormous commotion as a group of women escorted by plain-clothed cops entered the premises. In the middle of the flock was Sylvia Amelia Wenas, wife of the then speaker of the House, Agung Laksono. With her head covered and a large entourage, she had come to pay tribute to ‘Pak Harto’ (Suharto).

The ambience inside and around the mausoleum felt religious, and most likely it was meant to be so. During his reign, Suharto had elevated himself to the level of divinity. Now that religion was playing an increasingly significant role in Indonesia, it was only natural that the military leader and tyrant, who according to his regime’s propaganda had saved Indonesia from ‘atheism and communism’, should be venerated as a pious follower of Islam, almost as a saint.

Two years later I revisited the site, accompanied by Rossie Indira and George Burchett, an Australian painter and the son of journalist Wilfred Burchett. After some complicated manoeuvres behind the scenes (I knew some famous dissidents who were related to Suharto’s family), I was allowed to bring professional movie and still cameras with me. After dzikir, a large group of mostly elderly men with skullcaps and women in headscarves entered the tomb. They crept in on their knees, reciting prayers, with their eyes locked on the portrait of their dear dead leader. Then they prostrated themselves, freezing their old bodies into subservient positions that were designed to show tremendous humility and respect. In past centuries, this kind of prostration was reserved exclusively for Javanese kings.

I was both horrified and unsure what exactly I was witnessing. These were clearly Muslim prayers, but they were directed towards not a religious leader, but someone who had been arguably the most corrupt man in the world. Indonesia was increasingly insisting on religious purity, and I was genuinely unsure whether this was some new norm, or an indication of a deviant sect or practice.

For seemingly endless minutes, I filmed the scene: the photographs of the puffy face of the mass murderer and his framed medals; the old men and women effectively worshipping his ghost. Many of these individuals could have been held responsible for the downfall of Indonesia, and all of them were evidently guilty at the least of supporting one of the most brutal fascist regimes in world history.

We descended from the heights where the mausoleum was built, and our route took us past a big elementary school (SD Negeri Matesih) in the town of Matesih. I stopped and spoke to some of the children. They had no doubts about the glorious nature of Suharto’s rule. When we asked three girls whether they had ever heard any criticism of his reign, they looked dumbfounded. ‘Pak Harto was a good leader of the people’, they replied in unison. ‘He knew how to make Indonesian people happy. We never heard anything bad about Pak Harto – good things only. Always. When he died and his body was brought through our town, school children were given umbrellas, new clothes and rice, and then they were ordered to line up along the road and bid him farewell.’

Observed from the heights of Mount Lawu, perhaps it genuinely seems that Indonesia has been doing well. Its people are content and grateful to the revered fatherly figure, General Suharto – the wise leader who brought prosperity, spirituality and happiness to his great, diverse and content nation. For decades, Western politicians and the media went out of their way to preserve such an image. Suharto, who was brought to power by the West, was always treated as a ‘typical’ Asian leader, authoritarian but within acceptable limits. He was scarcely criticized, and his genocidal actions in East Timor (now Timor-Leste), Papua and Aceh either went unmentioned or were benevolently endorsed. The fear – the unpronounced and often subconscious terror – that he sowed into the very soil of his island of Java, and later all over the vast archipelago, went generally undetected by the radars of Washington, Canberra, London and other friendly capitals.

Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world, covering vast expanses of land and sea. Compared with other large nations like China, India or Brazil, very little has been written about Indonesia except in its own language, Bahasa Indonesia. Statistics are often unavailable or appear to be inaccurate, or even contradictory. What is certain is that the Indonesian Republic (Republik Indonesia) is a colossus accommodating between 237 and 300 million people, living on around 9222 permanently inhabited islands. There is not even a consensus on how many islands form the archipelago. The Indonesian Government estimates that there are 17,508 to 18,306 islands in all, of which only 8,844 have been named so far.

Officially, Indonesia is a democracy. There are dozens of registered political parties, there is the parliament (with two houses, the People’s Consultative Assembly – MPR – and the People’s Representative Assembly – DPR) and, at least in theory, there is an independent judicial system.

In practice, the great majority of Indonesian citizens are legally unprotected and unrepresented. ‘The Indonesian legal framework is based on political interests,’ explained Hendardi, a lawyer and chairman of SETARA (the Institute for Democracy and Peace). ‘In 1998, when there was a political change (reformasi), we hoped that there would be changes in the legal framework too, including upholding of the law. But what happened was that there was no real transition to new values, just a “change of clothing”.’

(Continues…)Excerpted from Indonesia by Andre Vltchek. Copyright © 2012 Andre Vltchek. Excerpted by permission of Pluto Press.
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