Fire and the Full Moon: Canada and Indonesia in a Decolonizing world

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Fire and the Full Moon

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David Webster

Fire and the Full Moon Canada and Indonesia in a Decolonizing World

© UBC Press 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), www.accesscopyright.ca. 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09

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Printed in Canada with vegetable-based inks on FSC-certified ancient-forest-free paper (100% post-consumer recycled) that is processed chlorine- and acid-free. Printed in Canada on acid-free paper Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Webster, David, 1966Fire and the full moon : Canada and Indonesia in a decolonizing world / David Webster. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7748-1683-0 1. Canada – Foreign relations – Indonesia. 2. Indonesia – Foreign relations – Canada. 3. Canada – Foreign relations – 1945-. 4. Decolonization – Indonesia – History. I. Title. FC251.I54W43 2009

327.710598

C2009-903412-3

UBC Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for our publishing program of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and of the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Programme, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and with the help of the K.D. Srivastava Fund. UBC Press The University of British Columbia 2029 West Mall Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z2 604-822-5959 / Fax: 604-822-6083 www.ubcpress.ca

To Sean


Contents

Acknowledgments / ix Introduction / 3 1 Canada, the United Nations, and the Decolonization of Indonesia, 1945-49 / 12 2 The Golden Bridge: Canada and Indonesian Economic Development, 1950-63 / 44 3 Non-state Networks and Modernizing Elites in the Sukarno Years / 77 4 Canada, Alliance Politics, and the West New Guinea Dispute, 1957-63 / 101 5 Canada, Confrontation, and the End of Empire in Southeast Asia, 1963-66 / 130 6 Pebbles in Many Shoes: Development in Indonesia, Decolonization in East Timor, 1968-99 / 156 Conclusion / 185 Notes / 197 Bibliography / 235 Index / 251


Acknowledgments

In writing this book, I have benefited enormously from the help of many people. Special thanks are due to the staff at smaller archives, an excellent but underused source of information that often escaped government notice. Their help allowed me to develop a broader picture of the full scope of relations between peoples as well as governments. I’m indebted to the very helpful staff at the archives of McGill University, the United Church of Canada, the United Nations, the Rockefeller Archive Center, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Harvard University, Cornell University, Trinity College, the University of British Columbia, York University, the Canadian Institute of International Affairs, the Saskatchewan Archives Board, and the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, as well as national archives and libraries in Ottawa, Washington, and Canberra. Elaine Brière and Maggie Helwig provided private papers on East Timor as well as personal guidance; Glenn Raynor and Kerry Pither also shared valuable unpublished material. For permission to use unpublished materials, I am grateful to Michael Edmonds, Audrey Kahin, and Nathan Keyfitz. The International Journal of Canadian Studies kindly granted permission to reprint revised sections from my article “Islam and Cold War Modernization in the Formative Years of the McGill Institute of Islamic Studies,” which originally appeared in their volume 32 (2005). This book began while I was a graduate student at the University of British Columbia. I’m especially grateful to Steven Hugh Lee for his unstinting generosity as supervisor and for his kind but critical eye. Work was completed during a Harris Steel fellowship at the University of Western Ontario, a Social Sciences and Humanities Council fellowship at the University of Toronto, and a Kiriyama visiting fellowship at the University of San Francisco. During this period, Robert Bothwell and Francine McKenzie were enormously helpful. Four peer reviewers pointed me in better directions and saved me from errors. Friends told me that Emily Andrew would be a joy to work with as

x Acknowledgments

editor; they were right. So too have been Megan Brand, Randy Schmidt, and the rest of the people at UBC Press. I am fortunate to have had the opportunity to learn about Indonesian and Timorese histories, formally or informally, from George Aditjondro, Abé Barreto Soares, Carmel Budiardjo, Bella Galhos, Tineke Hellwig, Liem Soei Liong, Diane Mauzy, Octovianus Mote, John Roosa, and Alexander Woodside. Thanks are also due for advice or information to Jacques Bertrand, Adam Chapnick, Candace Chui, Chris Dagg, Tom Delworth, Greg Donaghy, George Egerton, Howard Federspiel, Geoff Hainsworth, Robert McMahon, John Meehan, Allan Smith, and Roald Vogels. My parents Norman and Pat Webster, and my brother and fellow historian Andrew Webster, went well beyond the call of family duty in reading drafts. My largest debt is of course to my partner Sean, who never flagged in supporting me on this and all other journeys, and who picked me up whenever I fell down. There is no one else this book could be dedicated to.

Fire and the Full Moon

Introduction

“With God’s help, we will lift Shanghai up and up, ever up, until it is just like Kansas City.”1 With that notorious declaration of 1940, Senator Kenneth Wherry of Nebraska summed up both the missionary impulse and the drive to remake the developing world in the American image. Perceptions of the American past would continue to shape American policies in the years that followed. Foreign leaders would routinely be described as their country’s George Washington or Thomas Jefferson; neutrality would be tolerated from them, but only as a transitional stage as they consolidated themselves; the United States would show the way for new countries to develop into economic prosperity. “Our own desire to help in making Asian prospects brighter has its origin in some of the deepest roots of the American heritage,” a top State Department official told an Asian aid conference in 1954. “We see mirrored in the aspirations of many Asian peoples our own hopes and our own history. We see in their problems many of the same problems we ourselves faced and overcame in the days of our Founding Fathers and of a struggling new Republic.”2 Canadians have tended to notice the hubris in the sporadic American bouts of nation building. We may take part in multilateral efforts to rebuild war-torn societies, but (the argument goes) we do not try to reinvent the world in our image. This belief that Canada does not seek to impose nationbuilding solutions in the same way as the United States has become part of the Canadian diplomatic self-image, the way policy-makers and internationally minded citizens think of our country’s place in the world. Compared to the United States, this self-image asserts, Canadians are more sensitive to local conditions, better able to listen, less military minded. Americans deliver military aid and offer economic aid in order to build up their allies; Canadians are more sensitive to the aspirations of the “Third World.” Images of Canada as an aid giver and of America as a military player have entered the rhetoric and diplomatic self-perceptions of Canadians.

4

Introduction

In 1955, for example, one syndicated columnist could write in 1955 that “unlike the US – involved as she must be ideologically, in this vital area – Canada’s [Asian] interests have no undertones of political or military linkups.”3 After the Second World War, while Canada remained an ally of the United States, its perceived humanitarian vocation became an important strand in the diplomatic tales Canadians told themselves about themselves. At a time of increasing American influence over Canada, the perceived differences in foreign policy helped constitute a distinct Canadian identity. Yet Canada was involved in nation building. Canadians offered a model of political and economic development that they thought newly independent countries would do well to follow. They tended to be less brash than Senator Wherry: even those who crossed the Pacific as missionaries were not likely to proclaim grand crusades to transform Chengdu into a Chinese replica of Regina. But Canadians did see their country as a model for others. Prime Minister Louis St. Laurent’s biographer described the basis of his subject’s foreign policy as a quest to spread “the peace of Compton” throughout the world.4 The image recalled the harmony and industry of St. Laurent’s own bilingual, industrious, churchgoing hometown in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. It was, to many policy-makers of the time, not a bad picture of an ideal world. Addressing India’s Parliament in 1954, St. Laurent endorsed independence for the remaining colonies. “At the same time,” he added, “partly because our own evolution towards complete independence was no less successful for being gradual, we see a certain merit in proceeding in these matters at a pace which allows a firm foundation for self-government to be established.”5 Here was the model of Canada’s path to decolonization, offered to others. Canadian policy toward Indonesia, as with Canadian policy toward the decolonizing world in general, was an afterthought in postwar Canadian foreign policy. Here, alliances mattered most of all. The national interest seemed to require a focus on the North Atlantic arena. Canadian government policies on decolonization flowed from alliance-driven thinking.6 Underlying that, policy-makers saw Canada’s orderly and gradual path to independence within the Commonwealth as a model for others. They strove for continued links between the new states and their old colonial masters, while hoping for capitalist economic development along Western lines – ideally, Canadian lines. It was a natural impulse and in many ways a generous one. After all, Canada appeared to its people and its government – especially in the years after the Second World War – as a peaceful kingdom developing toward ever greater prosperity, with much to teach the world about political and economic development. The implicit existence of a Canadian model for decolonization and economic development can be seen clearly in the case of Canadian relations with Indonesia and the rest of maritime Southeast Asia. Here, the years

Introduction

following the Second World War were lived under the sign of decolonization. The United States granted a form of independence to the Philippines in 1946, setting a standard for political decolonization combined with continued economic and military dependence. Indonesia was born amidst a revolution that sought and won independence from the Netherlands between 1945 and 1949. Malaya followed a more peaceful path, walking in Canada’s footsteps to win self-government within the Commonwealth in 1957. Conflicts over the decolonization of Netherlands New Guinea and British Borneo led to Indonesian “confrontation” with the Dutch and then with the new state of Malaysia in the first half of the 1960s. A bloodier conflict followed as Indonesian forces aborted the decolonization of East Timor in 1975. In each case, Canadian policy-makers found themselves faced with conflicts in an area that was important to the world economy and thus to Canadian prosperity. They reacted with policies designed to ease the transition to self-government while keeping the new states integrated into global trading systems. At the same time, the new states faced enormous challenges of poverty and cohesion. The answer offered by Canadians and other Western policymakers, and embraced by local governments, was economic development. Historian Steven Lee has offered a useful categorization of the historiography of Canadian-Asian relations into four realms that combine government and non-governmental connections – diplomacy, trade, missionary work, and immigration.7 Like most of the work done on Canadian-Asian relations, this scheme is driven by a focus on East Asia, especially China and Japan. Shifting the direction of approach to Asia to South and Southeast Asia suggests that it is worth including “development” as a fifth area. Development economics, unknown in 1945, quickly became a major component of Western policy toward the areas rechristened in the language of development – “the underdeveloped world,” then “the developing world,” and eventually “the less developed countries.” Canadian aid was part of a larger Western enterprise. As in an earlier Western collective effort, the great missionary movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Canadians played a significant role. As with the missionary enterprise, this was not always as representatives of their own government. Asia was peripheral to Canadian policy. Overstating the case for effect, Lester Pearson wrote that Canadian governments had had no real Asian policy before the Second World War.8 In 1950, 46 percent of Canada’s diplomats were stationed in Europe and just 12 percent in Asia.9 The low profile of Asia in government policy left room for individual Canadians to become influential non-state diplomats in their own right.10 Non-governmental institutions and corporations were seldom confined to Canada alone; instead, they were enmeshed in North Americanwide networks and broader Western state strategies. They also began the training programs that created a modernizing elite for Indonesia – an elite that would take power after 1965.

5

6

Introduction

Very little work has been done on the history of Canadian relations with Southeast Asia. Most of it has addressed the Canadian role in Indochina, primarily as a member of the truce commission overseeing the 1954 peace settlement in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. There has been some research comparing Canadian policies with those of Britain and the United States, but on the whole the literature on Canadian-Asian relations concentrates on China, Japan, and Canada’s role in wars and peacemaking in Korea and Vietnam. This book is the first history of Canadian relations with Indonesia, the world’s fourth-largest state by population and the world’s most populous Muslim country, and thus adds to the understanding of Canadian relations with Asia and the Pacific. It takes an international-history approach, one that considers Canadian policy in relation to that of other major Western actors in the region. While remaining an examination of Canadian policy, it also pays attention to Indonesian views and Indonesian sources. A study of Canadian relations with Indonesia shows the important role of development aid as an aspect of Canadian policy toward Asia. It also contributes to our understanding of Canadian attitudes toward decolonization, which did as much as the Cold War to shape the second half of the twentieth century in international history.11 Decolonization began early in Southeast Asia, with declarations of independence in Indonesia and Vietnam in 1945. It also ran late: Indonesian rule in East Timor ended only in 1999. This book concentrates on the periods and issues in decolonization and thus spends more time on the first two decades of Indonesian independence. It is primarily a study in Canada-Indonesia relations during the governments of Louis St. Laurent, John Diefenbaker, and Lester Pearson. Policy under Prime Ministers Pierre Trudeau, Brian Mulroney, and Jean Chrétien toward the issue of East Timor’s decolonization is discussed more briefly.12 This study opens with a detailed examination of the 1945-49 Indonesian revolution. The revolution was the foundational chapter in the history of independent Indonesia, setting the stage for the next half-century of the country’s history. These years were also foundational for Canadian diplomacy, glossed in the literature as a shift from isolationism to internationalism. In the remembrance of Escott Reid, one of the diplomats who dominated the first generation of writing about Canadian foreign policy in this period, Canada was undergoing a “revolution” in its foreign policy.13 When Indonesian and Canadian authorities searched for an event to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of diplomatic relations in 2003, they chose Canada’s role in United Nations Security Council (UNSC) debates on Indonesian independence, hailing it as a brilliant example of mediation and peacemaking.14 Archival materials show Canadian policy-makers far more concerned with the effect that a war in Indonesia might have on North Atlantic strategy than with the merits of the dispute itself. In the decades following 1945, Canadian policy-makers approached Indonesia indirectly, through

Introduction

multilateral lenses: the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), the Commonwealth, and the UN. Canadian policy-makers plotted their approach to Asia geographically, on “mental maps,” ways of picturing and trying to make sense of a complex world spatially. These mental maps can be powerful, as images of the “new world” were in Canada between the wars. A classic example is George Kennan’s picture of an outwards-thrusting Soviet empire that had to be “contained,” an image that contributed to US military commitments in ways that Kennan himself never intended.15 Canadian mental maps privileged Eurocentric concerns, especially the “North Atlantic triangle” of Canada, the United States, and Britain. At the same time, the war thrust upon Canadian policy-makers a new sense of vulnerability. Senator Raoul Dandurand had famously told the League of Nations that Canada lived in “a fire-proof house, far from inflammable materials.”16 In 1948, Prime Minister Louis St. Laurent updated the metaphor by comparing NATO to a fire-insurance policy: “When I ask you to support a North Atlantic Treaty, I am simply asking you to pay an insurance premium which will be far, far less costly than the losses we would face if a new conflagration devastated the world.”17 Influenced by their mental maps, policy-makers often based decisions on matters affecting Indonesia on imagined geographies rather than on actual events in the country. Perceptions helped shape policy. Canadian policy-makers were embedded in the North Atlantic triangle, feeling they had little choice but to align themselves with the United States and Britain, while balancing between them to avoid too much dependence on one or the other.18 The Atlantic was “a natural frame of reference for Canada,” said Paul Martin Sr. during his time as foreign minister, “a bridge, not a line of division.”19 Within the triangle lay the comfortable and familiar. Outside was the virtually unknown, seen mostly in wartime service or tourism. T.C. Davis, Canadian Ambassador to China, wrote in 1948 that “Burma, Siam, Malaya, Dutch East Indies, Hong Kong, China etc. to the ordinary Canadian are intriguing places with intriguing names located out in a part of the world in which they have little interest.”20 Canadians generally pictured Southeast Asia in mental snapshots of wicker deck chairs, gin and tonic, teeming jungles, and vaguely menacing natives: images sketched through South Sea traveller’s tales, missionary accounts, the novels of Joseph Conrad and Somerset Maugham, the travel tales of Gordon Sinclair, and the songs of The King and I. The presence of a Canadian legation in Tokyo and of significant trade links did not impinge too much on this popular imagery. The outbreak of the Korean War in 1950, and a role in Vietnam after 1954, began to increase Canadian awareness of Asia. The Canadian government sought to do what it could to help in the effort to keep as much of Asia as possible non-communist, at a time when communism seemed to be on the march.

7

8

Introduction

A wide gap separates diplomatic memories from contemporary policy decisions. Rather than implementing any predestined calling to mediate, policy-makers carried out diplomacy from decision to decision, with Canada’s alliances and national interests in mind. Canada was not, in the title of a 1948 poem by diplomat Douglas LePan, “a country without a mythology.”21 Its diplomatic self-image, the way Canadians pictured and remembered their country’s role in the world, was beginning to emerge from the day-to-day practices of its diplomats. By helping fix individual disputes, those diplomats fostered the idea that mediation was what Canada did best. Forged in practice, mediation was inscribed in the diplomatic memory as a defining characteristic of Canadian policy, feeding what later became a “cargo cult of peacekeeping.”22 What was going on was a process of mythmaking: not a direct attempt to deceive, but the gradual creation of a guiding narrative of Canadian engagement with Southeast Asia during the early Cold War. The word myth is not used here to suggest falsehood, but rather, as Ronald Wright puts it, to describe “an arrangement of the past, whether real or imagined, in patterns that resonate with a culture’s deepest values and aspirations. Myths create and reinforce archetypes so taken for granted, so seemingly axiomatic, that they go unchallenged.”23 When the Indonesian dispute came to the UNSC, Canada was neither a partisan of self-determination nor a disinterested mediator. Instead, it aimed to find a middle path between the United States and the Netherlands, and ultimately to assist the Dutch in withdrawing from a colonial liability with honour and the prospect of continued influence over their former colony. This was mediation, but of a different sort than diplomatic memory would later suggest. Canadian policy on Indonesian decolonization flowed from a desire to avoid conflicts among Canada’s allies. In reacting to any foreignpolicy issue, Ottawa always had one eye cocked on the North Atlantic alliance. The best way to help the Dutch in their colonial war in Indonesia, or the British and French in Suez, or even the Americans in Korea, was not blind loyalty but a helpful course designed to extricate Canada’s allies from messes of their own making.24 Ottawa searched always for a middle ground, but not a middle ground between the two parties to a conflict; rather, the gaps it tried to bridge were between the divergent opinions of Canada’s allies, when they diverged. Canada was less a “pragmatic idealist” than an independent-minded ally.25 It was always loyal in the end. At the 1954 Geneva Conference on Korea, for instance, Pearson attempted to reconcile the American and Chinese positions while at the same time warning that the Western powers would not allow themselves to be “split” by any peace offer.26 The Canadian search for a middle path between allies in the Indonesian revolution was an early example of the interplay of alliance politics and mediation in Canadian foreign policy.

Introduction

Just as North Atlantic priorities dictated the broad outlines of Canadian attitudes toward the Indonesian revolution, so would the priorities of alliance politics shape the subsequent bilateral relationship. The two countries established diplomatic relations in 1953, leading to the opening of Canada’s first embassy in Southeast Asia. Nevertheless, the two countries’ main interactions were not diplomatic. They came instead through the Colombo Plan for Cooperative Economic and Social Development in Asia and the Pacific (hereafter the Colombo Plan), through international organizational networks such as the UN Technical Assistance Administration’s support to the Indonesian National Planning Bureau, and through such influential nongovernmental links as the Institute of Islamic Studies at McGill University. Canada’s self-perception that it was a linchpin or interpreter between the United States and Britain made it easy for later diplomats to portray Canada as a bridge between the West and Asia. Even relative “isolationists” could make this comparison. The Montreal newspaper Le Canada, for instance, recalled Canada’s role as an Anglo-American link when editorializing on relations with Asia: “C’est dans le cadre de cette tradition que le Canada s’interpose de plus en plus entre les grands états occidentaux et les pays du bloc afro-asiatique.”27 As diplomat-writer John Holmes explained, Canadian cultivation of bridges to Asia and Africa was “a thoroughly hard-boiled effort to prevent the Russians from turning our flanks and exposing NATO as a Maginot line.”28 Foreign aid, the major way in which Canada addressed Indonesia, passed over the Colombo Plan “bridge.” Commonwealth planners designed the Colombo Plan to combat communism and restore multilateral trade. Ottawa took the then radical step of sending aid to Asia out of a very specific calculation of its own self-interest. In public opinion, however, aid programming fed the diplomatic self-image of Canada as a humanitarian internationalist power. Four of five people surveyed in 1987 agreed that one of the best things about Canada was its global generosity. In 1995, 74 percent of those polled were against any cuts to foreign aid.29 Leaders who used humanitarian language were not cynics deceiving the public: even as they created the myth, they also believed it themselves. They believed that foreign aid would help everyone concerned, and they viewed northern and southern governments alike as, in the title of the 1969 Pearson report on aid, “partners in development.”30 There is little evidence that Indonesian policy-makers in the Sukarno years saw Canada as a special friend. Ottawa provided less aid than other donors, made no effort to team up with Indonesia in international forums, and usually rejected specific Indonesian overtures for help. Canada and Indonesia had very different ideas about the best ways to decolonize and about the nature of development, and this led to mutual disappointment. Indonesians

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Introduction

would later hail Canadian mediation in their decolonization process, yet they were unable to convince Ottawa to play a similar role in their dispute with the Netherlands over the decolonization of West New Guinea. From Jakarta, Canada appeared as a distant and subordinate piece of the AmericanCommonwealth alliance then dominating Southeast Asia. Indonesian foreign policy under the two decades of the Sukarno presidency strove for greater independence from that sphere, and Indonesia thus played a large part in forming the Asian non-aligned group – initially as a cause for other Asians to rally around, and then as a participant. Through non-alignment, Indonesian policy-makers were able to advance their cause by balancing the superpowers against each other. They did not perceive Canada as Canadian policy-makers did, but rather as one of a mass of Western powers. They could see the continuing influence of the Netherlands, for instance, on Canadian policy toward their country. As Indonesian foreign policy became more confident, policy-makers began to divide the world into those countries that had won independence on their own and those that had been granted it. A neo-colonialist country, in one 1962 pronouncement, was “one which had a flag and national anthem of its own but whose policy was an imitation of other countries and whose defence was apparently based upon the power of another nation.” As one Canadian official scrawled on the despatch reporting this: “There, but for a flag and anthem, goes Canada.”31 The two governments were as different as their climates. In the memorable image of Sukarno, Indonesia’s president from 1945 to 1966, they were like fire and the full moon. The Indonesian diplomatic self-image in the Sukarno years was one of a nation forged “in the fire’s heart of revolution,” morally superior to nations that had won their independence as a gift, “under the rays of the full moon ... protected by the perfume of roses and jasmine.”32 From this was born an idea of Indonesia as a nation struggling always for justice and greatness. Canada’s diplomatic culture shied away from such challenges, valuing instead incremental, non-violent, co-operative change based on its own slow and peaceful procession to independence within the Empire-Commonwealth. Thus Lester Pearson, writing around the same time as Sukarno’s speech, lamented Indonesia’s road as one of danger, one that might be “more secure, if it had been achieved in a more peaceful, orderly and co-operative fashion.”33 For Sukarno, true political and economic independence came only through revolution, nationalism, and anti-colonial confrontation. Postwar Canadian governments had diametrically opposed views. They advocated instead cooperative economic development, Western technical advice, export-driven development strategies, and aid designed to “prime the pump” for better investment climates. By the time of the Indonesian “confrontation” with the British-sponsored Federation of Malaysia, Canada and Indonesia had moved into an adversarial relationship. This was reversed only after the fall

Introduction

of Sukarno ushered in a new regime more attuned to Western development models. Canadian-Indonesian relations deepened as development visions converged. Sukarno’s government had rejected much of the advice given by Canadian and other Western advisers hired to write their first development plan in the early 1950s. Twenty years later, Indonesians who had assisted those Canadian advisers were the chief planners of the new Suharto government. Canadian policy-makers, increasingly open to economic nationalism, found themselves more sympathetic to Indonesia’s new development strategies. The fire was cooler, the full moon a bit brighter. Indonesia became a priority Canadian partner in Asia and a “country of concentration” for Canadian development aid. By the time Indonesian forces invaded East Timor in 1975, the two governments were closely linked enough that Canadian officials raised no protest. Only as the sign of human rights rose in international relations did their embrace falter. Canadian policy, driven by trading desires, supported the Suharto regime until its collapse in 1998. Canada and Indonesia’s new democracy now face a new relationship, but it too will be informed by the past.

11

1 Canada, the United Nations, and the Decolonization of Indonesia, 1945-49

Fire ushered Indonesia into the world of states. It was the first colony to win its independence through revolution, waging a four-year war against the Dutch authorities. The Indonesian conflict also marked the first UN intervention in a decolonization issue. The dispute, accordingly, drew in Canadian diplomats, who worried about its possible effects on global peace and postwar reconstruction. It did much to shape the way Canadian diplomats defined their global vocation and then inscribed that vocation onto Canada’s diplomatic self-image. Canadian and Indonesian diplomats gathered half a century later to sanctify this moment in their bilateral relationship. In the evocative surroundings of the Pancasila Building, where Indonesian nationalists had drawn up their 1945 constitution, Indonesian Foreign Minister Hasan Wirayuda posthumously honoured General Andrew McNaughton, Canada’s first representative on the UN Security Council (UNSC). Policy-makers recalled the incident as the first and still central event in each country’s diplomatic memory of the other, revealing in the process different shadings of memory and aspects of each country’s international self-perception. The Canadian news release trumpeted McNaughton’s work for “a peaceful resolution of conflict and cessation of hostilities between the Netherlands and Indonesia.” For his part, Wirayuda highlighted McNaughton’s “superb diplomatic skill” in ending Dutch military attacks on the young Indonesian Republic and finding a diplomatic solution. In this, he linked his government to that touchstone of legitimacy, the Indonesian revolution against colonial rule, which “set on fire our nation’s great revolutionary spirit.”1 With the details of McNaughton’s role at the UNSC remembered only dimly, each side could emphasize different aspects. While Indonesian officials chose to recall McNaughton as one who had helped them win their freedom amidst the fires of revolution, their Canadian counterparts stressed peacemaking and conciliation, seen as Canadian contributions to international affairs. For each government, in a small way, the event served the need for a usable past.

Canada, the United Nations, and the Decolonization of Indonesia, 1945-49

Decolonization, Diplomacy, and Struggle, 1945-47 Crisis flared in the Dutch East Indies while Canadian policy-makers were focused elsewhere; nevertheless, the event demanded attention because it threatened multilateral associations that were crucial to Canada. The Indonesian revolution was no sudden eruption. Rather, Indonesia was born as a nation in the minds of its people in the first half of the twentieth century as nationalist movements came together, defined the shape of the nation, and then demanded that nation be granted its own independent state. The Dutch colonial rulers refused to grant independence, insisting that the Indies lacked unity and that independence lay centuries away, if ever. They imprisoned leading nationalists such as Sukarno, the firebrand who had made unity among anti-colonial forces his guiding mission, and they exiled hundreds – including Mohammad Hatta and Sutan Sjahrir – to a prison camp in the remote interior of West New Guinea. The Pacific war ended Dutch control of the Indies, as the Japanese army swept European rulers out of Southeast Asia. Sukarno and Hatta, freed by the new military authorities, co-operated with Japan’s occupation. On August 17, 1945, two days after the Japanese surrender, they proclaimed an independent Republic of Indonesia. When Dutch forces began to return to reclaim their colony, the Indonesians saw themselves as “already free” (in Sukarno’s words) and the Dutch as invaders attempting to reconquer Indonesia.2 As in neighbouring colonies such as Burma and Vietnam, nationalists were not asserting a new independence so much as defending the independence they had already begun to achieve. Dutch leaders, however, painted the new republic as a Japanese creation, even while they promised a new partnership embodying self-government under their tutelage. LieutenantGovernor H.J. van Mook called the republic “a dictatorship after the Japanese model,” a “puppet government” run by an “extremist organization.”3 The debate over Indonesian decolonization must be set in its regional context. The European powers, fresh from freeing their continent from Nazi control, saw themselves returning to free Southeast Asia, too. Decolonization and recolonization intermingled in complex ways. The four major colonial powers in Southeast Asia chose diverse approaches. The United States had long promised independence to the Philippines, which consequently became a self-governing state on July 4, 1946; however, the Americans retained military and economic privileges that limited Philippine freedom. This decolonization model would be extolled by American officials for years after. The British government, constrained by limited resources, opted to come to terms with nationalists in India and Burma, hoping to continue links through the Commonwealth and the economic bloc of countries whose currencies were tied to sterling. This was an attempt to remain a world power, not an abdication or withdrawal. France and the Netherlands were much less willing to grant independence, but both offered more freedoms within reinvented

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empires: a French Union encompassing “associated states” in Indochina, or a Netherlands-Indonesian Union based on declarations of equality. While these four powers were decolonizing, then, they were also attempting to retain their influence. Rhetorically, at least, the United States tried to push the Europeans into accepting international trusteeship over their colonies – a demand also advanced by Australia and New Zealand. The European powers resisted, accepting the notion of trusteeship but also insisting that they could be their own trustees and that they did not need international oversight.4 Dramatic changes in Southeast Asia had little impact in Ottawa, where policy focused on North Atlantic priorities. The primary Canadian interest in decolonization was to prevent American-British conflicts. Policy-makers’ attitudes on colonial issues drew on two strands. First, their attitudes had been formed in the context of the Empire-Commonwealth, and they by and large considered themselves British North Americans. (The small number of francophones in positions of influence did not substantially alter this background to policy-making.) Second, they tended to agree with Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King, who had worked to loosen imperial bonds through repeated assertions of Canadian autonomy. Outsiders within the British Empire, they were nevertheless its products and thought as such. For instance, the Canadian stance owed much to Malcolm MacDonald, British wartime High Commissioner in Ottawa, whom Mackenzie King consulted “almost as if he were a member of the Canadian cabinet.” MacDonald, during an earlier tenure as Colonial Secretary, had overseen a new approach that led to a 1940 British government declaration that “the primary aim of colonial policy is to advance the interests of the inhabitants of the Colonies.”5 MacDonald went on to be Governor General of Malaya and Singapore and then British Commissioner-General for Southeast Asia, where he worked for steady progress toward self-governing but friendly dominions. Wartime British governments were keen to avoid conflict with their American allies over the colonies. Dominions Secretary Clement Attlee wrote in 1942 about the need to address the “widespread and rooted feeling in the United States which regards the British Colonial Empire as equivalent to the private estate of a landlord preserved for his own benefit.” British policymakers seized on American musings about a possible joint colonial declaration, which might have the added benefit of encouraging American interest in colonial security.6 In Ottawa the fear was that “American suspicions regarding British colonial policy are so widespread that nothing short of a major step will allay them,” and that the early direction of British thinking was for “a sort of syndicated imperialism” that would only spur further attacks on Britain’s imperial presence.7 The formal Canadian response opened with hesitation to comment, since Canada lacked overseas colonies, but went on to highlight interest in the effect on Anglo-American relations.


Noting that American criticisms of empire “are also present to some degree in Canada,” the response nevertheless limited itself to assessing ways to appeal to American opinion. It called for an end to any suggestion that the United States should defend British colonies; it recommended that Britain state its commitment to the welfare of colonial people and acknowledge responsibility to “enlightened world opinion”; and it declared that Atlantic Charter promises of self-determination applied throughout the world. British officials incorporated most of these suggestions.8 Nothing came of this British approach, but the issue revived in 1945 as Britain sought a way to end the League of Nations mandates system through regional colonial commissions loosely linked to the new UN system, albeit without supervisory powers. London was prepared to accept the longstanding principle that colonial rule included an element of stewardship and the famous “dual mandate” to both colonial people and the world, but not to accept accountability to “a commission on which Haiti or El Salvador might be represented.”9 At the Department of External Affairs in Ottawa, Hume Wrong called the British proposals overly cautious and likely to annoy powerful voices in Washington. Thus Mackenzie King again sought an approach better calculated to appeal to American anti-colonial opinion, while repeating that Canada was unwilling to become directly involved.10 At the 1945 founding conference of the UN, Australia and New Zealand led the charge for greater oversight by the new world body. Ottawa’s delegation tried to minimize conflict but otherwise avoided colonial issues, save for occasional interventions to emphasize that Canada did not consider its control of the indigenous-peopled North to be colonial in nature.11 Mackenzie King felt able to urge the British government toward greater sympathy with India’s nationalist struggles, but he and his officials did not go beyond a “watching brief” on decolonization in India and Burma, one that was designed mainly to encourage the British government to move a little more quickly on the path it had already chosen. He approved of Dominion status for India but was unwilling to say so publicly.12 As British, French, Dutch, Belgian, and Portuguese officials met to compare notes on colonial strategies and planned co-operation among their colonies, Ottawa simply nodded its agreement. In the UN Trusteeship bodies formed in 1946, Canadian representatives backed British policy. “I have never been to Africa,” one delegate declared, “but I do know that I am a citizen of a country that was once a non self-governing territory under the administration of the United Kingdom and I can testify to this Assembly that in my humble opinion no nation on earth has a prouder record in the field of human relations than has the United Kingdom.”13 Nor would the Canadian government take a strong position on Vietnam. Officials urged the French government to continue with plans to work with “moderate Vietnamese nationalists” since they were best able to “prevent

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possible Communist domination of all of East Asia.”14 Canadian officials stood with their French ally, a bastion against communism in Europe, instead of pushing for decolonization in the French empire.15 Canada’s approach to Asian decolonization, in sum, was to stay aloof while working to avoid splits among Canadian allies or between the West and Asia. Canadian policymakers, lacking much of the evangelistic zeal for self-determination that was such a strong theme in American debates, were freer of the dilemma over whether to back European allies or Asian liberation movements, though that dilemma was not entirely absent. Alongside this strategic support for European colonial policies, the Canadian government had ties of sentiment to several colonial powers. These included Britain and France, of course, but they also included the Netherlands as a result of wartime links. While Queen Wilhelmina presided over a Dutch government-in-exile in London, her heir Princess Juliana (who succeeded to the throne in 1948) had spent the war years in Ottawa. The Dutch government had raised a battalion in Canada. It was largely Canadian troops who had liberated the Netherlands; more than 7,600 Canadians died there, and another 2,500 brought Dutch wives home. There was an influential Netherlands-Canada Society, which among other tasks facilitated substantial Dutch migration to Canada: in 1950, the Netherlands ranked fifth among sources of Canadian immigration, with just under 10 percent of the total. Canada even lent the Dutch military support. Canadian forces in 1945 were concentrated in the Netherlands, and they abandoned much surplus equipment as they left. Of the three Dutch divisions eventually sent to fight in Indonesia, Canada supplied one (and Britain the other two), with the equipment arriving by the end of December 1945.16 Wartime ties of sentiment mattered less, of course, than a Canadian-Dutch postwar community of interest. The two countries advanced similar claims to be “middle powers” and their postwar visions were compatible, centred as they were on the North Atlantic. Mackenzie King famously sought a Canadian voice by defining a “functional” principle: “Representation should be determined on a functional basis which will admit to full membership those countries, large or small, which have the greatest contribution to make to the particular object in question.” Canadian diplomats encountered very similar thinking within the Netherlands government-in-exile in London.17 Canadian and Dutch thinking about postwar political organization ran in close parallel. Then there was economic reconstruction. Canada’s prewar exports averaged between one-quarter and one-third of the national income. Needing overseas trade, Canada, like the United States, offered reconstruction credits to selected Western European countries. The credit for the Netherlands was $25 million, plus another $15 million for the Netherlands East Indies, approved with no apparent knowledge of Indonesia’s declaration of independence. The Indies needed a separate credit because most observers


believed that Dutch prosperity depended on Indies trade and products. Between 1921 and 1940, the Netherlands had a $900 million accumulated trade deficit with the United States but a $955 million trade surplus with its Indonesian colony. In this triangular pattern, colonial products financed dollar purchases.18 In Canadian economic visions, Southeast Asia appeared as a spur to European recovery and potentially, a new Canadian export market. One major problem with the Dutch-Indonesian conflict was that it held back “the economic rehabilitation of the whole of Indonesia, whose products are highly important to world recovery.”19 Dutch plans for a gradual decolonization seemed to be the best solution to Indonesian instability. In this thinking, Canadian policy-makers were in accord with their British counterparts, who had the lead role in Southeast Asia, initially through Lord Louis Mountbatten’s South-East Asia Command (SEAC, nicknamed Save England’s Asian Colonies). When Japan surrendered in August 1945, British forces had only reached Burma. It took them two months to arrive in Java and Sumatra, which gave the new Indonesian Republic valuable time to consolidate. This “British phase” of the Indonesian revolution was characterized by efforts to guide the Dutch into a liberal-minded policy in order to keep the region peaceful and prevent war from spilling over into British Malaya. India and Pakistan gained their independence within the Commonwealth in 1947, and Burma became a republic outside it in 1948. British planners hoped that the new governments would be prepared to retain economic and political links to London within the Commonwealth and the “sterling bloc,” thus perpetuating British influence. Meanwhile Malaya and Singapore, crucial both to British regional strategy and to British finances, were slated for recolonization. Other colonies tended to be a drain on the treasury, whereas Singapore was a base for the continued exercise of British regional power and, furthermore, managed a US$5 million grant to the United Kingdom. Malayan trade was worth more than New Zealand’s and more than half that of India. Its tin and rubber provided much-needed dollar earnings, bringing in $118 million compared to $37 million for all other British colonies combined.20 Conflict in Indonesia imperilled regional order and threatened to embroil Malaya. Also, Indonesian raw materials were vital for Britain’s own economic reconstruction. Clement Attlee, prime minister in the Labour government elected in 1945, told his Cabinet that an armed conflict between the Dutch and the Indonesians would disrupt “our own relations with native populations throughout South-East Asia [and] delay for years the development of food exports from the Dutch East Indies which we were anxious to encourage in order to reduce our dependence on hardcurrency countries.” Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin similarly promised union supporters that once Indonesian palm oil was available, “every woman in Northumberland will have her fat ration increased.”21 British observers quickly began to classify Indonesian nationalists into extremists

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and moderates and pressed the Dutch to ally themselves with the latter. They contrasted their own liberal-minded policy in Burma with the counterproductive stubbornness of the Dutch in Indonesia (while keeping silent on their very different policies in Malaya). British forces in Indonesia had to be repatriated as soon as possible, because they were needed elsewhere and because many – especially among the Indian soldiers – sympathized with the Indonesian cause. Indian nationalists protested vociferously against the use of Indian troops in Java.22 Thus even as talks progressed, Dutch soldiers began to arrive. Eventually, Dutch authorities grudgingly accepted the Republic as a de facto government in Java and Sumatra and agreed to co-operate with nationalist leaders to form an independent Indonesia within a Netherlands-Indonesian Union, an idea modelled on the French Union idea in Indochina. Dutch policy was partly grounded in a refusal to let go of the empire that alone made it a world power, and partly economic: almost all stripes of Dutch opinion considered Indonesia vital to the survival of their country’s economy. LieutenantGovernor van Mook, a progressive Indies-born Dutchman, was more conciliatory than many, but even he thought full independence possible only “by a process of evolution through a friendly co-operation between Indonesians and Netherlanders.”23 His entire tenure was spent chasing the chimera of co-operation with moderate nationalists. Yet these figures were already committed to the republic, leaving van Mook to work with a handful of nobles, most of them from the outer islands where Dutch military forces were in control. Attempts to establish a federal Indonesia under Dutch tutelage, led by these marginal co-operative nationalists in outlying regions, mostly failed to win popular support. The only partial success was the State of East Indonesia (Negara Indonesia Timur, NIT), derided by the Republic as Negara Ikut Tuan, the state that follows the master. NIT leaders obligingly backed the Dutch case at the UN in 1947 but would later ally themselves with the republic. The typology of the Indonesian nationalist movement as split into “moderates” and “extremists,” common among both Dutch and British perceptions, betrayed a fundamental misunderstanding. All Indonesian factions were defending independence; their differences related to how much to negotiate and how much to rely on force. The republic opted for a strategy of diplomasi to obtain international recognition, with a fallback position of reverting to perjuangan (struggle) in support of its diplomatic goals. This remained a constant throughout the revolution, regardless of the ideological stripe of four successive republican cabinets. Sukarno preached an ideological synthesis that married diplomasi with perjuangan. “The policy now adopted by the Indonesian Republic must be oriented to the international world,” he declared in a September 1945 speech. “For this the prime condition is diplomacy. Yet no nation can enter the international arena by


diplomacy alone. Behind that diplomacy, indeed the very basis of that diplomacy, must be a power force.”24 The imperatives of diplomasi dictated that outside powers be brought in as mediators and induced to recognize the republic’s status, even while military hostilities continued. With the Soviet Union remote and unpopular among most Indonesian Muslims, that meant appealing to Britain and the United States. Sukarno telegrammed US President Harry Truman and the UNSC in November 1945 asking that the Dutch be disarmed and pointing out that their use of American equipment was alienating Indonesia from the West. Vice-President Hatta followed this up with a political manifesto for the republic that promised respect for property, guarantees for foreign investment, early elections, UN membership, and the full range of human rights.25 At the same time, Sukarno agreed to become a ceremonial president and to hand day-to-day power to Prime Minister Sutan Sjahrir, who had impeccable credentials in Western eyes as an anti-Japanese leader. Sjahrir offered up a new mental map for the postwar era, one that explained his willingness to make concessions to the Dutch in the course of Britishmediated talks: “Indonesia is geographically situated within the sphere of influence of Anglo-Saxon capitalism and imperialism. Accordingly Indonesia’s fate ultimately depends on the fate of Anglo-Saxon capitalism and imperialism ... So long as the world we live in is dominated by capital, we are forced to make sure that we do not earn the enmity of capitalism. This involves opening up our country to foreign economic activity as much as possible.”26 The republic made limited headway in winning Western governments’ support. Its first foreign treaty was sparked by a clever offer of rice to faminehit India. While much of Asia suffered food shortages, the republic had a rice surplus. In April 1946, Sjahrir offered India 500,000 tons of rice as a humanitarian gesture. Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s government agreed to a barter arrangement, with India permitted to pay whatever it wished in the form of textiles and consumer goods. In Dutch eyes this usurped their sovereign right to conclude treaties, so Dutch forces shelled the warehouse that was storing the rice. Thus the republic ultimately shipped only 54,000 tons; even so, it had forged a durable bond with India and asserted its identity as a sovereign state with the capacity to sign international agreements. “The sole purpose was political – to tell the world that we were in charge,” recalled Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, a Finance Ministry official who went on to become an important Indonesian cabinet minister.27 This trade deal opened the door to more diplomatic alliances in Asia. Former republican cabinet minister Sudarsono (dubbed the “Minister of Rice”) was posted to New Delhi, where he received most of the privileges of a foreign ambassador. An Indonesian mission to the Middle East won de jure diplomatic recognition from several states and the official endorsement

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of the Arab League. Egypt was especially supportive: it offered to mediate the dispute, sent a representative to the republic’s capital in Yogyakarta to conclude a treaty of friendship, and granted easy access to Indonesia’s Ambassador Mohammad Rasjidi, previously the republic’s first Minister of Religion.28 Indonesian diplomatic communications travelled via India’s consulate in Batavia and then through the Indian diplomatic network and were thus entirely open to Nehru’s government. The scattered Indonesian diplomatic network lived from hand to mouth, funded mainly by trade between Sumatra and Singapore that evaded Dutch blockades. Makeshift missions existed across Asia (Singapore, Penang, Bangkok, Rangoon, New Delhi, Karachi), as well as beyond, in Cairo, Canberra, Washington, New York, London, and Prague. Foreign supporters – John Coast and Tom Atkinson from Britain, Molly Bondan from Australia, Charles Tambu from Malaya, and others – played vital roles in the makeshift diplomatic network. “Everything was up to us,” one of Indonesia’s amateur diplomats recalled. “The only instructions were to argue and win the case, to put Indonesia on the map.”29 In 1947, the republic established a mission at the UN, headed by L.N. Palar, an Indonesian living in the Netherlands who had been elected as a Socialist to the Dutch Parliament. Palar was exactly the sort of moderate that Dutch officials hoped to work with, and his defection to the revolutionary cause symbolized the failure of Dutch policy.30 Sjahrir and van Mook finally signed the Linggajati Agreement late in 1946, establishing the basic framework of all future talks. Linggajati envisioned a co-operative effort by the Netherlands and the republic to establish a federal state to be called the Republic of the United States of Indonesia, but neither side agreed on how to interpret that. The truce broke down over Indonesian complaints that the Dutch were creating federal states without their participation, and Dutch complaints over the republic’s foreign relations. The ultimate sticking point was a dispute over which side would have policing authority in Java. Unwilling to submit to Dutch orders, the Indonesian army vowed to fight on even if the republic’s political leaders agreed to such an arrangement.31 In July 1947, citing the breakdown of talks, Dutch forces launched an armed “police action” that brought the UN into the dispute. The offensive had economic as well as political motives. While the republic controlled the richest rice-growing areas of Java and the plantations of Sumatra, Dutch-held areas were going hungry and the Netherlands economy was suffering from its inability to control the export products of the Indies. Dutch officials admitted they needed Indonesian agricultural production desperately in order to meet foreign-exchange shortages. Originally military planners had intended to strike directly at the heart of the republic in Yogyakarta, but they revised their battle plans to focus on the more productive agricultural areas, in the hope that this would meet economic needs and be more acceptable to international public opinion.32 The offensive would in


Figure 1. Republic of Indonesia delegation at Security Council, 1949. Sutan Sjahrir is surrounded by delegation members Soedjatmoko, Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, Charles Tambu, Haji Agus Salim, and Ambassador P. Pillai of India. Photo courtesy of UN/DPI Photo

this way reverse the rice situation: Dutch-held areas would henceforth have enough to eat; the republic would suffer food shortages. At the UNSC, Sjahrir (now a roving ambassador) appealed for the withdrawal of troops to previous positions, a commission to supervise a ceasefire, and another committee to arbitrate the dispute.33 The UNSC, however, confined itself to ordering a ceasefire and accepting a Dutch offer to establish a Good Offices Committee (GOC) of three nations, one to be named by each side and a third by the two nominees. This mechanism avoided oversight by the full council, instead substituting a committee of Australia (selected by the republic), Belgium (selected by the Netherlands), and the United States (selected by Australia and Belgium). GOC membership favoured the Dutch: even Australia, the most pro-Indonesian member, was anchored solidly in the Western bloc. Australian reporting remained within the context of Commonwealth-style gradualist thinking on decolonization. Orderly evolution toward independence remained the dominant Canadian way of thinking about decolonization. “Canada is a country which has

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gained its national independence by evolution from colonial status, rather than revolution against it ... by conference, rather than by convulsion; by the signing of papers, rather than the flashing of sabres,” Secretary of State for External Affairs Lester Pearson said proudly in one 1953 speech.34 In Dutch plans to make Indonesia a self-governing dominion within a NetherlandsIndonesian Union, Canadian policy-makers could see their own past being replicated. Though the federal states had little support locally, they seemed to indicate movement toward a decentralized country not unlike Canada. East Indonesia, for instance, hoped to develop “in evolutionary fashion yet at a revolutionary pace.”35 Ottawa proved willing to back the Dutch cause. Where Australia banned arms sales to the Netherlands, the first approval for arms exports by a postwar Canadian cabinet was for a sale of ammunition to the Dutch.36 A dissenting stream in Canada backed the Indonesian cause and was especially critical of Canadian arms sales to the Netherlands. Trade unions, including the Canadian Seamen’s Union and the British Columbia Federation of Labour, backed a boycott on Dutch shipping launched by unions linked to the Australian Communist Party, which identified strikes in Australia and independence for Indonesia as its two main priorities. Large numbers of union locals and federations affiliated with the Canadian Congress of Labour protested against Canadians arms shipments to the Netherlands.37 These voices, however, were a minority. For Ottawa, European strategy trumped any desire to make friends in Asia. Canada and Indonesia on the UN Security Council, February 1948 In 1947, Ottawa decided to seek a seat on the UN Security Council to replace Australia in what was seen as the “Commonwealth seat.” Canadians and Australians had tangled at the founding conference of the UN, with Canada’s delegation acting as a self-proclaimed responsible middle power and Australian Foreign Minister H.V. Evatt leading what one of his assistants called a “curious Third World consisting of himself, the Latin Americans (twenty out of the UN membership of 51), the Indians and a few others” – enough to win election to the council.38 Canada was the natural successor when Australia’s term ended. Membership would force Canadian diplomats to broaden their horizons and to define in practice what they thought the role of the UNSC should be. In the words of Secretary of State for External Affairs Louis St. Laurent, Canada was accepting “new and onerous responsibilities” and would “become involved directly with questions such as the Balkan dispute and the Indonesian problem which do not now come immediately before our attention.”39 Ottawa interpreted the role of the UNSC as being, wherever possible, to avoid judging international disputes. Instead, the council should “throw back on the parties themselves, as much as possible, the responsibility for settling their differences.”40 This marked a sharp departure from Australian views. Under Evatt the Australians had attempted without much


success to make the council a quasi-judicial body able to rule on international disputes. Evatt had also pursued an aggressively independent line as the champion of smaller countries. To the Netherlands, the fact that Canada was replacing Australia at the UN was a hopeful sign: Foreign Minister Dirk Stikker saw Canada as very understanding, more so even than Britain.41 Canada’s entry onto the Security Council was symbolic of the country’s new global policy, as St. Laurent pointed out in an April 1948 parliamentary overview of external affairs. “For us there is no escape, even if we wish to seek one, in isolation or indifference,” he said. There was a global communist menace, one that could not be resisted by Canada alone. “Canada’s boundaries against such a threat extend far beyond her physical frontiers. We know also that a line is being drawn through the hearts of free men everywhere, and that on our side of the line are all those in every country who work and fight to preserve the freedom and dignity of the individual against reactionary dictatorship, whether communist or fascist. We know that there can be no neutrality in this conflict, which is as spiritual as it is political.” The UN was failing to live up to Canadian hopes for a collective security system, he continued, but it remained effective on issues not involving the superpowers, especially Kashmir and Indonesia.42 Here, then, was a value for the UN even in a time of Cold War. This first Canadian term on the UN Security Council was enormously influential in shaping Canada’s postwar diplomatic self-image. Earlier decisions set the role, but it was on the council that Canadian diplomats were called upon to act out their global vocation. Long afterwards, in the institutional diplomatic memory, Canadian actions during the Security Council term would loom large. George Ignatieff, the second-ranking diplomat on the Canadian mission to the UN, would argue that Canada’s role as peacemaker was set during this period in the context of three international disputes: Palestine, Kashmir, and Indonesia. In these years, he wrote, “Canada definitely turned her back on the tacit isolationism of the period between the wars, and chose the path of international co-operation and commitment.” Its Security Council delegation, meanwhile, “set the hallmark of patience, pragmatism and mediation on Canadian diplomacy.”43 Similarly, diplomat John Holmes called Canada’s term “one of the most productive periods in the whole life of the Security Council,” a period that at the same time conferred on Canada “a transformed philosophy of the United Nations and a new enthusiasm and commitment. It is particularly notable that during the very years when Canada was most active in the establishment of the North Atlantic Treaty organization it was creating for itself in the UN, and particularly in the Security Council ... the foundations for its reputation as a moderate mediatory power that was to last for several decades.”44 As Canadian diplomats prepared for Security Council membership, they drafted background papers on the major international disputes that might

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come to the council’s attention. Indonesia, clearly, was going to be an issue. Accordingly, Arthur Menzies’ Third Political Division in the Department of External Affairs produced a thirty-one-page memorandum, the first Canadian policy statement on Indonesia. It placed the question very clearly in terms of Canadian interests, which required stability and the resumption of commerce in the Pacific. “Unrest in any part of the world which may become a threat to international peace and world security is of direct concern to Canada, whose economy is so closely linked with international trade,” the memorandum noted. Canada’s main trading interests were in Europe, yet recovery there depended in part on the restoration of the triangular trade. Indonesia provided essential raw materials and dollar earnings not only to the Netherlands but also to other European countries. “Stability in the Netherlands East Indies cannot be secured by a refusal to recognize the strengths and legitimate aspirations of the rising nationalist movements of Asia,” the memorandum argued. “Neither can it come about if irresponsible elements are permitted to create conditions of political and economic chaos, prejudicial to the well-being of the local populations, and to the requirements of the world at large of food and other raw materials.”45 Here Canadian views echoed the extremist-moderate paradigm. In Indonesia the “irresponsible elements” included the army leadership, with the republic’s political leaders cast as moderates. As time passed, however, individual Indonesians slipped easily between one characterization and the other. The paradigm did not really fit Indonesian politics, in part because it was designed to fit metropolitan preoccupations and – in the colonial context – situations like India, where Nehru could be cast as moderate and acceptable, his opponents as radicals. Talks mediated by the GOC bore fruit in January 1948, with a deal signed aboard the US warship Renville, docked in Jakarta’s harbour. The republic accepted Dutch military conquests up to the maximum line of Dutch advance and agreed to withdraw its own troops from behind that line, on the understanding that there would be plebiscites in those areas within a year. The Renville Agreement was effectively a Dutch victory. Its harsh terms brought about the fall of the republic’s cabinet; it also brought in a new government, headed by Hatta as prime minister, which pledged to respect the agreement. The Dutch authorities decided fairly early that instead of working with the republic they would form as many states as possible and then seek an invitation to intervene from a new federal government. The Indonesians, meanwhile, believed they had an implicit American promise to uphold the terms of the Renville Agreement provided they accepted Dutch territorial gains.46 Much of the action following the Renville Agreement would be piloted by Canada’s Security Council representative Andrew McNaughton, a retired general and scientist who had served a brief stint as Minister of Defence and had been pressed into taking the Security Council role by St. Laurent. As a


Figure 2. General Andrew G.L. McNaughton presiding over the Security Council, United Nations, 1949. Photo courtesy of LAC, Andrew George Latta McNaughton collection, C-018128

soldier he had inspired those around him. “He breathed a similar sense of purpose, enthusiasm and imagination when he tackled diplomatic problems,” according to Ignatieff, his deputy in 1948-49. McNaughton used his “quality of being cool yet exhilarated in face of crisis” to good effect in the ensuing debates.47 Mackenzie King, who lacked the international enthusiasms of St. Laurent and his under-secretary, Lester Pearson, thought McNaughton would be better able to stand up to pressure from the great powers than the internationalists in External Affairs. Highly suspicious of the UN as a whole, King resisted the new ambitions of his diplomats. “Conciliation,” he thought, “was about as far as the United Nations can hope effectively to go at this time.”48 McNaughton used the Indonesian dispute to help advance this view of the Security Council’s role as lying more in voluntary conciliation than in passing judgment and imposing settlements. In this sense, Mackenzie King’s influence on Canadian foreign policy continued to be significant even as power began to pass to his successors. As president of the Security Council for February 1948, McNaughton had the task of wording the resolution on the council’s next, post-Renville step. His draft resolution, approved by Cabinet, commended the GOC and endorsed continued good offices. This was just the sort of resolution the Dutch government sought – one that maintained the bilateral nature of the dispute rather than expanding UN oversight. Equally, it reflected Canadian desires to ensure a UN role, and it did so without overburdening the UN.

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On republican urging, McNaughton agreed to add the word “directly” to the clause asking both parties to keep both the GOC and Security Council informed – a step that protected the Indonesian right of access to the council. However, he resisted an Australian amendment that would have allowed the GOC to make suggestions of its own.49 Rather than siding with one of the parties, Canadian diplomats concerned themselves with the orderly workings of the UN itself. Canada, Pearson wrote, hoped to take no stand on the rights and wrongs of the issue. The rocky experience with Palestine had shown that the UN was unable to handle arbitration or direct administration, so Pearson hoped to confine UN involvement in Indonesia to an effort to bring both sides together. That was what McNaughton attempted during Canada’s first month leading the Security Council. An eventful month of meetings on Kashmir, Indonesia, and Palestine, he wrote, showed the council emerging as “the principal organ of conciliation in the United Nations.”50 Two elements were emerging in Canadian policy. First, Ottawa would act pragmatically rather than legalistically. The Netherlands was the first state to invoke the domestic-jurisdiction article in the UN Charter, and Canadian analyses showed some sympathy with that claim, but Canada would be flexible on the point while seeking to avoid too much expansion of Security Council jurisdiction over colonial territories. With regard to Indonesia, Canadian diplomats tried to avoid the sovereignty issue by framing resolutions in such a way that the council could continue its conciliatory role without asserting an explicit claim to jurisdiction. Second, Canadian diplomats would try to advance Dutch interests, in spite of Dutch actions. They wanted to save the Dutch from themselves. Pearson recognized that Indonesian nationalism existed, had solid support, and was not going to vanish no matter what actions the Netherlands took. “You need only let your mind draw a parallel with the growth of national sentiment in Canada,” he commented.51 Thus he looked for ways that Dutch interests could be served, assuming the inevitability of eventual Indonesian independence. McNaughton’s resolution, Pearson felt, had “preserved for the Netherlands a considerable degree of flexibility in their forthcoming negotiations which they might not have otherwise been able to enjoy.” McNaughton agreed that this gave Canada a special right and duty to counsel Dutch moderation.52 Through the remainder of 1948, Canadian diplomats saw the Netherlands as an ally in the march toward a North Atlantic Treaty and in other arenas, but also saw Dutch resistance to change in Indonesia – especially their willingness to resort to military means – as a stumbling bloc. The Indonesian Question in International Politics, March-November 1948 Quite unexpectedly, the Indonesian question became a source of tension in the new postwar Commonwealth, placing added strain on that body at a


time when it was dealing with the independence of three new Asian dominions. The decolonization issue was one of the sorest in the Commonwealth even before India and Pakistan achieved independence in 1947, with South Africa’s wishes to annex its Southwest Africa mandate strenuously opposed by Australia and New Zealand, which led to South African threats to secede from the group.53 Canadian officials resisted a “combined Soviet-Indian offensive against the Colonial Powers” at the UN and worried that India’s representatives “played hand in glove with the Soviet delegation.”54 The British regional approach to Southeast Asia rested in part on hopes for Australian and Indian support, but divisions over Indonesia undermined this prospect. The Indian and Australian governments, backed by Pakistan and Sri Lanka, were increasingly supportive of the republic. The British and South African governments leaned toward the Dutch side while urging a more positive policy. Canadian authorities saw themselves falling somewhere in between, though some saw them as pro-Dutch partisans. When Canada replaced Australia on the UNSC at the beginning of 1948, Australian officials expected to provide guidance on the Indonesian question, with which they were so familiar. Instead, Ottawa paid more attention to its closest allies, Britain and the United States, and relied more on Dutch than on Australian advice. The Australian government is often portrayed as a strong partisan of Indonesian independence, but to suggest that Evatt was a radical on the Indonesian question would be an overstatement. His Indonesia policy was consistent with his UN push for trusteeship, his advocacy of international law and the rights of small powers, and his quest for Australian regional predominance. His main concern in Indonesia was that Australia, as a regional power, be heard. That voice, however, should be a moderate one. Evatt’s first thought on Indonesia was that it should be placed under trusteeship – something the Australian and New Zealand governments were advocating for all European colonies. Australian concerns centred on security, following a war in which Japanese forces entrenched on Indonesian islands had bombed the city of Darwin and seemed poised to invade.55 Australian policy-makers came to believe that an independent Indonesia might be a more reliable defence barrier than the Netherlands East Indies had proven to be in 1942. An alliance with moderate Asian nationalism promised both regional stability and trade prospects. Australia became the centre of Indonesian overseas support in September 1945, not through government action but through popular protest. When Indonesian seamen went on strike for higher wages and in support of the republic, Australian dockside workers joined them in boycotting Dutch ships. Ten thousand Indonesians, many of them former political prisoners, had spent the war years in Australia. With the declaration of Indonesian independence, these ex-prisoners became the nucleus of the Komite Indonesia

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Merdeka (Free Indonesia Committee), which gained widespread Australian support. The government wanted to enforce its White Australia policy by repatriating the Indonesians, but public opinion would not allow them to simply be handed over to the Dutch. Instead they were repatriated to republican territory. After the 1947 “police action,” Indonesian leaders appealed to both Australia and India to put the issue before the Security Council. The Australian government held its fire for nine days on British urging, then decided to proceed, partly to beat India to the punch. The appeal might trouble BritishDutch relations, Prime Minister J.B. Chifley conceded, “but this is a matter of relatively small importance as compared with [the] very great importance of accepting [the] challenge put forward by Asiatic peoples. Australia’s geographic position must always be kept in mind.”56 Through this intervention the Australians were seeking a stronger voice in regional affairs. A comprehensive review of foreign policy in early 1948 summarized the government objectives as “order and stability throughout Indonesia and that oil and other Indonesian products should as soon as possible become available to relieve current world shortages.” Since nationalism had passed the point of no return, the best hope was an early agreement between the Dutch and the republic, one that “offer[ed] the best prospects of a stable regime throughout Indonesia.”57 Canberra’s actions often appeared erratic to policy-makers in Ottawa, London, and Washington, but those actions proceeded from clearheaded evaluations of Australia’s security and economic interests. Australian policy-makers shared the anti-communist goals of the North Atlantic powers, but their perceptions of geography led to very different tactical moves. India joined with the Australian government in requesting UN action. In 1945-47, India was in the process of gaining its own independence, but nationalist leaders found time to back the Indonesian cause. India, too, had ambitions for regional leadership. After the “police action,” Nehru welcomed Sjahrir to New Delhi; during that visit, in what he called an Indian version of the Monroe Doctrine, Nehru declared that “no European country, whatever it might be, has any business to use its army in Asia.”58 British and Canadian policy-makers hoped to see India emerge as a reliable non-communist friend in Asia. The Indonesian conflict, by setting Indian opinion against the Netherlands, imperilled that prospect. Some Indian anger was directed at the major Western powers, too. “No one in India or anywhere in Asia will believe,” Nehru wrote, “that if the Governments of United Kingdom and of USA really desired to bring this conflict to an end, they could not do it immediately without military intervention.”59 Here were the possible foundations for a new pole within the Commonwealth challenging British regional policy and asserting a claim to leadership by Australia and India. There were some postwar hopes that the Commonwealth could be a third force in the world. This notion was deplored in


Canada, especially among Mackenzie King’s Liberal Party. But at the same time, it tapped into Australian aspirations: in the Southwest Pacific, Australia might determine Commonwealth policy. The Australian Labor Party proved to be just as amenable to that notion as its conservative counterparts, adding an ideological affinity with the British Labour government. Mackenzie King still felt loyal to Britain, but he preferred a Commonwealth that allowed each country to set its own policies. His successors shared these instincts, particularly as the Cold War took hold. Beginning with the 1945 discovery of Soviet spy operations in Ottawa, Canadian officials had played an active role in the Cold War, while deferring to US leadership. Though American leaders had “constituted themselves almost the patrons of decolonization,” anti-colonial rhetoric began to take a back seat to the need to support Western European democracies, which translated into reluctance to push them too hard to decolonize in Asia.60 The Truman administration exerted little pressure on the Dutch, preferring first to stay out of the dispute and then to offer its own mediation rather than allow the issue to go to the UN. When the “police action” made a UN referral inevitable, the Americans took the pivotal third position on the GOC, heading off a full Security Council intervention. Though American GOC representatives showed some sympathy for the republic, their efforts were undercut in Washington, where the Netherlands was “considered a good and faithful ally.”61 American press opinion tended to smile on the Netherlands. Time, for instance, called the Dutch leaders “cool-headed,” “determined,” or “urbane,” while Indonesian nationalists were variously “hot-headed” and “shed[ding] their shoes – the faster to run and the better to disguise themselves as peasants.”62 The Netherlands ranked among the top five areas in the world for US security. Dutch policy-makers played to Americans’ fears by painting the Indonesian Republic as Communistcontrolled. It was not, though Soviet rhetoric did place it in the vanguard of the Asian revolution. The demands of the Cold War prevailed in Washington. By 1947, Indonesian leaders had concluded that the Americans were backing their Dutch enemies.63 In the middle of 1948, the Cold War complexion of the Indonesian issue changed radically. Indonesian politics were polarizing between the Cabinet, now headed by Hatta, and opposition groups led by the fast-growing Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). When the republic’s representative in Prague signed a consular agreement with the Soviet government, Hatta’s government denied any knowledge of the deal, but avoided renouncing it because “we do not wish to hurt the feelings of the USSR.”64 The republic’s dilemma was clear: an expansion in its network of foreign relations would anger the Dutch government, but a rejection of Soviet overtures would surrender a powerful connection and offend the leftist opposition at home. Amidst this political battle, PKI leader Musso, exiled to Moscow since an abortive 1920s

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uprising, returned and began to unite leftist forces. Soldiers resisting demobilization in the town of Madiun raised the banner of the PKI. Musso had been boasting openly of his “Gottwald plan” to gain power from within by following the model of the Czech Communist Party. Coming during the Berlin airlift and Communist advances in China, the uprising was an ominous sign to Western observers. The US government was already concerned that Dutch intransigence was pushing Indonesian nationalism into the open arms of the Soviet Union. Many American diplomats saw Sukarno and Hatta as the best hopes for an anti-communist Indonesia – as Asian equivalents to the US-backed government of Italy. Charles Wolf, an American diplomat in Indonesia, had portrayed Sjahrir as “responsible for holding back extremists” and as “one of the most reasonable, unassuming and moderate revolutionaries who ever lived.”65 Wolf’s 1948 book on Indonesia and his translation of Sjahrir’s prison letters into English helped build support. The West’s impression of an anticommunist leadership of the republic solidified when Sukarno and Hatta moved to crush the PKI uprising. Sukarno insisted that “the disease of Musso’s Communist[s] should be uprooted immediately from the body of our nation ... They betrayed the unity of the country, they besmirched the good name of the Republic in the eyes of the International World ... Therefore the quicker we annihilate the disease the better, the quicker we heal the body of our nation from the painful abscess the better.”66 The anti-communist tone of Sukarno and Hatta’s words may have been calculated in part to appeal to Western ears, but it also displayed a genuine sense of betrayal. The republic’s army rapidly and violently suppressed the rebellion. This did not change Dutch attitudes, but the Truman administration was impressed. As Indonesian-Dutch talks stalled in December 1948, a sharp American aide-mémoire to the Netherlands demanded acceptance of a draft paper by GOC representative Merle Cochran. The note was so harshly worded that officials had to withdraw and rewrite it before the Dutch would agree to receive it, but even the revised text spoke of Hatta’s “skill and fortitude against a Communist revolt” and asked for concessions to support his “moderate and conciliatory policy.” The note appears to have backfired and stiffened the Dutch Cabinet’s resolve to use force, and the Dutch reply rejected it entirely.67 Despite the pleas of Indonesian diplomats, the United States was unwilling to take any stronger action.68 It was now republican diplomats who were able to play the anti-communist card most effectively. They made further bids for American sympathy by comparing the republic’s struggle to America’s own anti-colonial revolution. One American-based pro-republic newsletter said that Indonesians “stand today where the Americans stood one hundred and seventy-two years ago. The British called the Americans rebels then; they said that the Americans were unfit for independence. The Dutch call the Indonesians rebels now;


they say that the Indonesians too are unfit for independence.”69 The most effective pamphlet along these lines was titled It’s 1776 in Indonesia. Other countries were less susceptible to this sort of appeal, but the new anticommunist colours of the republic were enough to increase sympathy for its cause, especially when set alongside rapid Communist advances in China. By putting down the Madiun uprising the republic had not only preserved its own authority but also gained credibility with the dominant international powers. Anti-communism combined with economic motivations to prompt growing American sympathy for the Indonesian republic. American policy had long favoured an “open door” to trade in Asia, part of an effort to break up European colonial trade blocs.70 Dutch publications proclaimed an opendoor policy in the Indies, but war and a blockade of the republic were denying much-needed production to the world economy. One American shipping company accused the Netherlands of “piracy” for seizing a ship loading produce from republican areas, referring to this act as “a menace to the principle of freedom of the seas and access to every port, a basic American doctrine for which wars have been fought since 1812.” The seizure of the American ship cost the republic US$3 million in lost cargo, but “we couldn’t have paid for the publicity,” Sjahrir said. Economics Minister A.K. Gani asserted a “right to export” and said that Indonesia wished “to discharge her duty as a member of the international world who fully realizes her obligations by exporting her riches of raw materials.”71 Here again, republican leaders employed to powerful effect language designed to appeal to Western sympathies. Canada and Indonesia on the UN Security Council, December 1948–January 1949 Even with the United States taking a more active role, negotiations between Hatta and the new Dutch Foreign Minister, Dirk Stikker, were unsuccessful. A former head of Heineken Breweries and an outsider in foreign affairs, Stikker proved more flexible, but talks again broke down over Dutch insistence on control of all armed forces. Hatta was willing to accept this but asked for a “gentleman’s agreement” that it would not be exercised without the republic’s consent – a promise Dutch negotiators refused to give. On December 18 (December 19 in Indonesia), Stikker called in the ambassadors of the United States, Canada, Britain, France, and Belgium to inform them of a second “police action.” The date of the Dutch attack aimed to avoid international censure until military objectives could be met. “Holland, home of Kris Kringle and good cheer, timed its murder for Christmas,” thundered the pro-republic pamphlet, It’s 1776 in Indonesia. “World leaders were conveniently dispersed. The U.N. General Assembly had adjourned. So had the US Congress.”72 The colonial war was back on, just as Canadian policy-makers

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were preoccupied with planning the North Atlantic alliance and maintaining the Commonwealth. The need to preserve North Atlantic and Commonwealth unity determined Canadian reactions to the Indonesian crisis. The United States joined with Australia to lead the chorus of criticism on the Security Council; and, as earlier threatened, it suspended Marshall Plan aid earmarked for the Netherlands East Indies. This stance was almost inevitable, given the State Department’s opinion of Hatta’s administration as “the last bridge between the West and the Indonesian nationalists” and as “the only government in the whole Far East which had met and disposed of an all-out Communist offensive under a Moscow agent.”73 The architect of the new American mental map of “containment” offered up another mental map of Southeast Asia. “Curiously enough,” George Kennan wrote on the eve of the Dutch attack, “the most crucial issue at the moment in our struggle with the Kremlin is probably the problem of Indonesia,” which boiled down to “Republican sovereignty or chaos.” Disorder would tip Indonesia toward communism, but a friendly Indonesia could anchor an offshore island chain loyal to American interests.74 Dutch forces quickly overran republican-held territory, capturing Yogyakarta and with it Sukarno, Hatta, and other leaders. The republic stepped up both its guerrilla warfare inside Indonesia and its highly effective diplomatic campaign outside the country. Despite achieving its immediate goals, the Netherlands suffered a political and military failure as its forces were met by a wave of non–co-operation and the spread of guerrilla warfare to all of Java and Sumatra. The military situation was crucial, as the Netherlands could only afford to wage a full-scale war for six months.75 Dutch plans rested on the support of the federal states, but this swiftly crumbled. The Cabinet of East Indonesia, for instance, resigned in protest at the “police action.” World public opinion ran heavily against the Dutch offensive, especially in Asia and the United States, but also increasingly in Canada. Assistant Secretary of State for UN Affairs Dean Rusk told Canadian counterparts “the problem of Indonesia was ‘crucifying’ them,” with daily protest delegations from American churches and trade unions. The issue might drive liberals and isolationists into common opposition to Truman’s foreign policy. Public opinion underpinned the more pro-Indonesian attitude in Washington.76 Partisans of Indonesian independence pushed harder, noting that American aid was financing the bulk of the Dutch balance-of-payments deficit. The limited American suspension of aid to the Netherlands East Indies was not a serious financial blow: only 13 percent of the total Marshall Plan allocation to the Netherlands was earmarked for Indonesia, and US$60 million of the $84 million allotment had already been spent. But it did pose a potential threat to the money going to the Netherlands itself.77 US officials told their Dutch counterparts that they had no intention of slashing this support, but


also warned that American public opinion might force a change of heart on that score. At the same time, they thought that Britain and Canada would block any Security Council sanctions.78 Canadian reactions, conditioned more on relations with major allies than on the merits of the Indonesian situation, lent weight to that belief. In a letter accepting the post of Secretary of State for External Affairs under St. Laurent, who had succeeded Mackenzie King as prime minister late in 1948, Pearson reported that he was trying to avoid getting between the British and the Americans in UN General Assembly debates over Palestine.79 Ottawa was taking similar care to avoid an exposed position in the thorny Indonesian dispute, which also pitted ally against ally. St. Laurent refused to allow Canada’s UN delegation to join the condemnations of the Netherlands. The North Atlantic alliance lay at the heart of Canadian planning in late 1948 and early 1949. More than a defensive military pact, the alliance was to be a cornerstone of Canada’s place in the world, a “dynamic counter-attraction to communism [and] the outward and visible sign of a new inward and spiritual unity of purpose in the free world,” in St. Laurent’s words. Even Mackenzie King, suspicious of external commitments to the end, had no hesitation in endorsing a Western security pact, given Soviet pressures on Berlin, Greece, Western Europe, and China.80 Such figures as acting Under-Secretary of State Escott Reid hoped that the North Atlantic Treaty would forge an enduring community. Though many in the government thought this overly idealistic, Reid was able to convince Pearson to fight for a strong article in the treaty calling for closer economic and social ties among signatories. The result was Article 2, quickly dubbed the “Canadian article.” Canadian lobbying on idealistic grounds made little headway, succeeding only when Pearson and St. Laurent argued that a nonmilitary clause was crucial to gaining public support for the treaty and threatened to withhold Canada’s signature if there was no strong Article 2.81 In the early months of 1949, Pearson and Reid lobbied the European states heavily for support. The price of Dutch backing for a strong Article 2 was an implicit promise of help on Indonesia. Ambassador J.H. van Roijen reported: “Dutch support for this Canadian point of view would make it easier for Pearson to inconspicuously support our struggle in the Security Council in some respects.” Stikker responded that the Netherlands would be glad to co-operate on Article 2. That decision came a day before the Canadian ambassador formally approached his government for support: it was Pearson’s indication of “inconspicuous support” rather than Canada’s own diplomatic offensive for Article 2 that won over the Dutch government. In the end, Reid would recall, Canada was able to disrupt a British-led bloc against its conception of Article 2, with the Netherlands providing “enthusiastic” support.82 At the same time, Canadian officials were alive to Dutch threats that

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they might not sign the North Atlantic Treaty if pressed too hard over Indonesia. North Atlantic imperatives continued to dictate Canada’s stance on Indonesia. The Dutch were among the six original participants in North Atlantic Treaty talks. If they stayed aloof, so might other Western European colonial powers. “Without the Netherlands there could be no Atlantic Union,” Pearson told Australian High Commissioner F.M. Forde. Treaty talks reduced all other foreign-policy issues to insignificance in Ottawa, Forde reported: “I cannot too strongly emphasize that in the present stage of negotiations directed toward the North Atlantic Security Pact, it is probable that the Canadian Government will regard almost any other international question as secondary to it. It appears that the Dutch timing of the ‘police action’ was largely determined by that preoccupation of the United States, the United Kingdom and Canada herself.”83 Forde felt that Canada was winking at aggression, as it had in the League of Nations debates after Italy attacked Ethiopia. A perceptive Australian High Commission analysis located the reasons in the Canadian foreign-policy tradition, arguing that St. Laurent and Pearson shared Mackenzie King’s feeling that the UN should be used only for limited purposes. Canada’s singleminded preoccupation with the North Atlantic pact meant that it strove for British-American unity of purpose and (unlike Australia) followed their Great Power line. The justice of the Indonesian case was secondary to the need to avoid sanctions against the Netherlands, a prospective member with which Canada shared sentimental ties. National unity remained “the touchstone of Canadian external policy” and precluded making common cause with Communist powers even on single issues, for fear of the ramifications in Quebec.84 The US government tried to find a position somewhere between the Netherlands and Indonesian nationalists; Ottawa was much less concerned about seeking Indonesian goodwill. Instead it settled on a “middle course” between the Dutch and American positions, seeking to straddle the ground between Canadian allies. With UN members gathered in Paris, the Security Council held a special session to discuss the renewed fighting in Indonesia. An American emergency motion called for an immediate ceasefire and the withdrawal of Dutch troops to their previous positions, but the St. Laurent government refused to support it on the grounds that the Netherlands would never obey. Not even the news that Britain was backing the American resolution budged the Canadian Cabinet, which ordered an abstention on the clause calling for withdrawal. In a close vote, that meant the difference between success and failure: Canadian refusal to back the withdrawal clause left it short of the required majority, while the rest of the resolution passed. By calling for a ceasefire based on the existing Dutch advances, the resolution actually hurt the Indonesian struggle, which rested on guerrilla warfare.85


The Canadian stance managed to avoid offending the US or Dutch governments, but it broadened an emerging gulf with Australia and India. Australian officials were aggrieved that Canada was providing what they saw as blanket support to the Netherlands instead of listening to the regional Commonwealth power. Things came to a head when Forde handed a blistering aide-mémoire to Pearson immediately after December’s Security Council vote. Australian diplomats believed that their policy, based on intimate knowledge of the Indonesian situation, was “best calculated to serve British Commonwealth and democratic interests in the area concerned,” and they expressed regret that Canada “has so far felt unable to take up a position closer to that of the Commonwealth countries situated in the Asian and Pacific areas.”86 Pearson and Reid agreed that the effect of Dutch action on Asian opinion had been unfortunate, but felt it would be unfair for the UN to act against the Dutch, who “on the whole had been good and cooperative members of the United Nations.”87 The mental maps of Canadian policymakers tagged the Netherlands and Europe as crucial and the particulars of the Indonesian situation as relatively unimportant. Australian officials felt just the reverse. In looking at Asia more broadly, however, Australia and Canada, as well as the United States and Britain, shared the same goal: preventing a breach between Western and Asian non-communist powers. Their differences were shaped by the varying ways they pictured the world. The Dutch police action and the muted Security Council response also angered India’s government. Nehru called the Security Council’s resolution “in effect an acceptance of Dutch military aggression in Indonesia” and “an invitation to any aggressor who indulges in such action.” Like the Australians, he compared Dutch aggression to Japan’s attack on Manchuria, saying that the UN had to do better than the League of Nations had in that case. Privately he blamed the British and US governments for failing to restrain the Dutch.88 The Dutch offensive, and Indian disillusion with British and American stances, came at a time when India was debating whether it would remain in the Commonwealth under a new, republican form of government. Canadian and British officials were keen to find a formula that would allow India to remain. For Ottawa in particular, Indian membership would anchor a new, multiracial Commonwealth with renewed relevance to its foreignpolicy goals. The Indonesian question alone would not destroy the Commonwealth, of course, but differences over foreign policy were an irritant at a delicate time. With the capture of the Indonesian leadership in Yogyakarta, control of foreign relations passed to the republic’s mission in India. When by late December the UN had done nothing effective to stop the Dutch attack, Indonesian officials in New Delhi decided that only stepped-up international pressure would force the Security Council into action. Mission chief Sudarsono proposed that Australia, India, Pakistan, Ceylon, and Burma take the

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lead to set up a regional bloc that would sever diplomatic ties with the Netherlands, impose economic sanctions, and consider material help to the republic. The Government of Burma proposed an Asian conference in New Delhi “to assist the Republic in her valiant and righteous struggle against aggressive imperialism,” and Nehru formally proposed this to other Asian governments on December 31.89 The resulting January 1949 New Delhi Conference on Indonesia did not realize the greatest fears of Western governments that an Asian bloc was in the making, but it laid the foundations for the non-aligned group of nations that began to emerge in the 1950s. Other new Commonwealth states added to the pressure. Pakistan’s foreign minister expressed “deep disappointment bordering almost on despair that the United Nations would ever be able to handle any threat to international peace effectively particularly if it involved aggression by a Western nation against an Eastern nation.” Ceylon joined India and Pakistan in barring Dutch flights; its New Delhi Conference delegate Solomon Bandaranaike presided over a “Quit Indonesia” meeting in Colombo before departing.90 Australian public opinion opposed an Asian conference, and Evatt also had his doubts. But with the foreign minister at sea on his way home from Paris, Prime Minister Chifley and External Affairs Under-Secretary J.W. Burton decided that Australia had to attend. Officials in Ottawa did not relish the spectre of four Commonwealth members (India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Australia) joining other Asian and Middle Eastern states to condemn colonialism and perhaps even denounce Britain for its alliance with the Netherlands. At a raucous meeting of Commonwealth High Commissioners in London, the representatives of India, Australia, and Ceylon levelled harsh criticism at Britain. When Canadian High Commissioner Norman Robertson tried to pour oil on the waters, India’s V.K. Krishna Menon snapped back that his words “applied with even more force to Canada.”91 None of this bode well for Commonwealth cohesion. As the nineteen-nation New Delhi Conference approached, Nehru agreed to keep it focused on Indonesia, to avoid other issues such as Palestine, and to concentrate on the terms of the next Security Council resolution. He promised to resist any anti-Western bloc and to focus on the UN, in exchange for a statement of American “sympathetic interest” in the conference.92 His opening speech thus framed the conference as an effort to uphold UN policy. Dutch efforts in Indonesia would inevitably fail, he said, but “if open and unabashed aggression is not checked and is condoned by other Powers, then hope will vanish and people will resort to other ways and means even though these might involve the utmost catastrophe.” There were warning signs that Asian loyalty to the West could not be taken for granted. Ceylon’s Bandaranaike, speaking for one of the more pro-Western states present, declared: “Those of us who believe in the democratic way of life and who wish therefore to establish close and friendly relations with other democratic countries,


particularly of the West, – I should like to say and quite frankly, – have suffered a grievous disappointment.”93 The Indonesian conference delegation called for the release of republican leaders and a pullback to previous Dutch positions. The final resolution fell far short of this. Instead the drafting committee, composed of the four Commonwealth delegations, produced a resolution designed to affect the Security Council’s next step. It called for the immediate restoration of Yogyakarta to republican rule, followed by phased withdrawal from other territories occupied in December, and it laid out a timetable leading to independence by the end of 1949 – a resolution closer to American thinking than to Indonesian nationalists’ hopes. Further resolutions on regional organization were reduced to a simple suggestion that the New Delhi countries continue to consult at the UN.94 Western observers were impressed with the moderate tone of the entire event, especially given earlier threats from India and Burma to break all diplomatic relations with the Netherlands. The effect of the conference, Canada’s High Commissioner felt, “was indirectly at least to align an Asian group with the Western sphere and I do not think the USSR can take much comfort from its deliberations.”95 The Commonwealth had not split open; instead of attacking the Dutch directly, the conference had diverted itself into UN channels. McNaughton once again presided over the Security Council in the crucial month of January 1949. He used his position to advance Canada’s goal of a peaceful settlement that would avoid a breach between Asian nationalism and the West, maintain the credibility and prestige of the UN, and protect Canada’s Dutch ally so that it might remain a bulwark of the emerging Atlantic alliance. It seemed unlikely that the Dutch would go any further toward meeting Security Council resolutions, so there was nothing practical the council could do. US representatives spoke about further action to reverse the setback to Western interests in Asia, but would not act without a guaranteed majority on the council. With Britain now unwilling to support a call for Dutch troops to withdraw to their previous positions, the US government had lost its enthusiasm for this point.96 There was another American draft resolution in preparation, with other council members carefully consulted to ensure the necessary seven votes to pass it. Again, Canada was the swing vote as the US delegation lined up six votes (its own plus those of Britain, China, Cuba, Egypt, and Norway) for a draft resolution that would establish target dates for steps toward independence and that would transform the GOC into a more powerful UN Commission for Indonesia (UNCI). If that resolution passed, Dutch officials said, the Netherlands would be weakened while Indonesia would descend into chaos, becoming a “new link in [the] growing chain of Asiatic States who are easy prey for Communist domination.”97 Canadian diplomats rushed to try to bridge the divisions between the Dutch and the Americans. As council

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president, McNaughton controlled the timing of the vote. He sought and obtained three changes to make the draft more acceptable to Dutch interests, delaying council voting three times in the hope of getting Dutch consent. Instead of a definite date for transfer of sovereignty, which might encourage republican negotiators simply to stall for time, the UNCI should report back if there was no agreement by March 1, 1950. The UNCI could employ majority voting, but to soften the sometimes impetuous Australian and US delegations, a provision for minority reports should be added. Finally, the UNCI should recommend rather than determine the extent and timing when it came to returning areas to the republic’s administration.98 The Americans accepted two of Canada’s three amendments outright and were ready to accept the third, though they preferred a British wording of the same point. Ottawa was providing the inconspicuous help to the Dutch cause that Pearson had promised, in order to prevent a conflict between the United States and the Netherlands that could harm progress toward the North Atlantic alliance. Implicit in all the Canadian ideas was a preference for the sort of independence process spelled out in official Dutch plans: advanced in stages, in an orderly fashion, under colonial tutelage, and with continued association with the colonial power after independence. In exchange for the amendments and after repeated pleas for flexibility from McNaughton to Ottawa, Cabinet finally agreed to support the American resolution while reserving the right to support any amendments the Dutch might offer. McNaughton’s stature gave him an unusual ability to influence policy. Sentimental ties and similar thinking dictated sympathy for the Netherlands, but on fundamental issues Ottawa would almost invariably side with Washington. McNaughton was able to convince the Department of External Affairs that the issue was becoming a fundamental one. Having done all it could to help the Dutch, the Canadian government finally came down in support of the American line after softening it as much as possible. “I do not see that there is much more that we can do for the Netherlands at this point,” Pearson wrote to St. Laurent, “although we shall continue to consider their position most sympathetically, and shall do what we can to make the resolution more acceptable to them.” However, the Dutch rejected the modified resolution on the grounds that it would infringe on their sovereignty so much that it would “put the Netherlands under the guardianship of the United Nations.”99 Pierre Dupuy, Canada’s Ambassador in The Hague, tried to engineer a last-minute counterproposal. Instead of the UN solution, he proposed a conference of Indonesians, who would meet in a neutral country to establish an all-Indonesia government, prepare elections, and form the new United States of Indonesia without the presence of any foreigners – Dutch, UN representatives, or otherwise. In the interim, the status quo would be maintained and the UN resolutions dropped. Though the Dutch Prime Minister Willem Drees seized on the plan like a drowning


man grabbing for a rope, the effort fell short. Reid was unwilling to have Canada make the suggestion, but after consulting Pearson and McNaughton he urged the Dutch to make it themselves. Even after Washington rejected Dupuy’s plan, Reid continued to lobby for it. “If a resolution is passed which the Dutch will not carry out,” he argued, “the consequences to the United Nations, the Western Union and the North Atlantic Union might be most far-reaching and very dangerous.”100 But the plan bogged down in Dutch coalition politics. Dupuy’s gambit having failed, Canada followed through on its pledges to the United States on January 28, voting with the majority for a ceasefire, the release of the republic’s leaders from detention, and their restoration to power in the Yogyakarta area. The Canadian Resolution, March 1949 Unwilling to comply with the Security Council’s resolution, the Dutch government offered a round-table conference in The Hague between themselves and Indonesians from both the republic and the federal states. Federalists led by the State of East Indonesia, however, refused to go along unless the republic also gave its consent. Sukarno and Hatta would not do so unless released and restored to power in their capital. Given the diverging courses of the Security Council and the Netherlands, British Prime Minister Attlee worried that Dutch authorities might feel compelled to flout the council’s will, leading to sanctions and a Dutch withdrawal from the UN. What was needed, he wrote to Commonwealth prime ministers, was a settlement able to satisfy Indonesian nationalists, prevent the emergence of another new country as chaotic as Burma, and uphold the UN’s ability to resolve conflicts. St. Laurent agreed, adding his concern that there was a very great danger to the emerging North Atlantic pact. The prime ministers of Australia, India, and Ceylon, however, rejected Attlee’s plea that they press the republic to trust Dutch intentions.101 Faced with this impasse, Canadian diplomats sought a way to bridge the positions of the Security Council and the Netherlands. The Australian government urged Ottawa not to undercut the council’s January resolution, but Canadian officials felt that the round-table conference proposal was vague enough to be a basis for negotiations, as long as it did not directly flout UN authority.102 Pressure mounted when the United States suggested that NATO’s Military Assistance Program might exclude the Netherlands, or be cancelled entirely, unless there was a settlement in Indonesia.103 With Washington and The Hague at loggerheads, McNaughton advanced a compromise in the Security Council that tried to combine the American and Dutch positions. It affirmed the terms of the American-authored council resolution but also called for “preliminary talks” between Dutch and republican negotiators on the proposed round-table conference. The first time McNaughton’s compromise was discussed among Commonwealth high commissioners in

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London, Australia’s representative launched into a tirade against “this general,” who – he said – had no right to “produce half-baked ideas like this out of a hat” on a matter so vital to Australian interests. He labelled Canada “the mouthpiece of Holland.” Nehru kept his feelings within the Indian government, but told his officials that “the Canadian proposal is thoroughly bad and there is no reason why we should support it in any way whatever, even with qualifications.”104 Though McNaughton had suggested that talks be limited to the round-table conference offer, American diplomats offered a formula for preliminary talks on two issues: the terms of the conference, and the logistics of restoring Yogyakarta to republican rule. The Dutch government accepted the suggestion in exactly the terms used by McNaughton; it also criticized American diplomats for adding language that affirmed the standing of the previous UN resolution no less than three times in a single page. Stikker worried that the Americans’ language and their insistence on Security Council authority, as against the pragmatic tone of McNaughton’s suggestion, could topple the Dutch coalition government. The resulting political instability and anti-American public opinion might then prevent the Netherlands from signing the North Atlantic Treaty.105 Harm to the Atlantic treaty talks was Ottawa’s greatest fear. With the help of American pressure on wavering pro-republic delegates from Cuba and Egypt, McNaughton cobbled together a majority despite criticism that his resolution undermined the council’s previous policy. The intent in Ottawa certainly seems to have been to assist the Dutch without risking the UN’s prestige. Yet American diplomats had nonetheless altered McNaughton’s original suggestion to include a more ringing assertion of UN authority.106 The Canadian resolution passed on March 23, just in time to head off a Dutch suggestion that the whole issue of Indonesia be discussed at the signing of the North Atlantic Treaty. That suggestion had horrified Canadian diplomats, who wanted to avoid any appearance of a North Atlantic bloc shoring up colonialism.107 With the resolution passed and (just barely) acceptable to both sides, the dangerous month had passed; the treaty could be signed as planned on April 4. The same month saw Commonwealth leaders hammer out the compromise that kept India in the group. Ottawa’s UN gambit had averted McNaughton’s fear that the Indonesian crisis might create “a very serious rift between those states participating in the North Atlantic Pact and those nations of South-east Asia and the Pacific which are trying, in most difficult circumstances, to stem the tide of communism and to maintain democratic forms of government.”108 This was the resolution for which McNaughton would later be lauded, one that became formative in the Canadian diplomatic memory of the Indonesia question. Yet it was designed not primarily to guide Indonesia into UN-sanctioned independence, but rather to save the North Atlantic Treaty. At the time, partisans of Indonesian independence saw McNaughton’s


compromise as a defeat. In New Delhi, the Indonesian emergency government’s foreign minister called it “a weakening of [the Security Council’s] resolution of January 28th” that would only be acceptable if it led to an agreement on restoring the republic to government in its capital city.109 The Canadian resolution, intended to give the Netherlands a way out of its impasse, now depended on the two sides reaching a deal: “preliminary talks” were also the very last chance for a diplomatic settlement. To maintain pressure on The Hague, the Australian and Indian governments placed the Indonesian question on the General Assembly’s agenda. Ottawa, however, hoped to keep the pressure off. Pearson proposed that the item be deferred, but a motion to postpone failed by ten votes to four (with Canada, Britain, France, and Belgium in the minority).110 Talks in Jakarta finally agreed that Sukarno and Hatta, still in Dutch custody, would urge their followers to cease fire and agree to the round-table conference, in exchange for a restoration to Yogyakarta. By the fall of 1949, Dutch and Indonesian negotiators had reached a deal to form a United States of Indonesia in a loose Netherlands-Indonesian Union, with only the status of Dutch West New Guinea left unresolved. Indonesians on the federalist and republican delegations worked toward common goals, defeating any lingering Dutch hopes for a divide-and-rule strategy.111 The United States of Indonesia appeared in many ways to be the realization of Western hopes for a stable, anti-communist Indonesia. The USSR called it a puppet of American imperialism and assailed the “Hatta clique,” along with Nehru’s India and the colonial powers, as part of a Pacific bloc for the suppression of national liberation struggles. Indonesian leaders had used the Cold War to leverage support from the dominant powers in the global system, at the cost of Soviet enmity. The last act in the Indonesian drama saw a head-on clash of Cold War adversaries at the Security Council, on which McNaughton took the lead to score a propaganda victory. The round-table conference assigned various oversight tasks to the UNCI. The Security Council considered the round-table agreement in December 1949, the last month of Canada’s membership, with McNaughton once again in the chair. He prepared a draft congratulating the parties and authorizing the UNCI to continue its supervision. Since Soviet opposition to the agreement and to Hatta’s government meant that the USSR might veto any congratulations to the UNCI, the Netherlands, the United States, and the UN Secretariat all asked him to soften his resolution. He refused, hoping instead for a Soviet veto. “The result of the vote,” McNaughton wrote, “would merely be to show up the USSR in the most unfavourable possible colours.” The Soviets duly cast their veto, but for the first time in UN history McNaughton rendered the veto irrelevant, ruling as council president that the UNCI could still carry out its tasks under the authority of previous resolutions. In reporting the whole affair to Pearson,

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McNaughton said that Canada’s goals had been fully realized. The Dutch and Indonesians were both content; the dispute had been settled peacefully; and the West and Asia were united on one side, with the USSR isolated. “I have seldom enjoyed a Council debate more,” he gloated.112 As Canada’s term on the Security Council drew to an end, John Holmes wrote of lessons, opportunities, and perils in a December 1949 departmental memorandum. UN debates over decolonization, he said, had shown dangerous divisions among Canada’s friends, allowing the Soviet Union “to sit back relatively quietly and exploit this situation.” Canada could no longer ignore the “dangerous cleavage” by pleading that it had no colonial ties. “Our experience on the Security Council, has taught us that we can play a useful role in matters which do not directly concern us and of which we have no special knowledge,” he wrote. “If the Canadian representative on the Security Council can play the major role in securing agreement on Indonesia, it is difficult for us to argue that we can make no contribution to the controversy over Tanganyika.” Canadian diplomats had forged a reputation for being fair-minded “honest brokers.” With the Security Council term ended, Holmes argued, those talents should be turned to the intractable problem of colonial disputes – starting, perhaps, at the Commonwealth Foreign Ministers’ Meeting planned for early 1950 in Colombo.113 Memories of Indonesia would hang over subsequent talk of a Canadian vocation for peace in the decolonizing world. It was a marker of the “golden age” in Canadian foreign policy that blazed bright in the diplomatic memory for a time before being lost in the files, superseded by greater triumphs. In Ottawa it was to become an article of faith that the Canadian resolution of March 1949 had proved, in Ignatieff’s words, “one of the vital turning points in the settlement of the Indonesian problem.” Speaking on the United Nations, Pearson told Parliament that he was particularly proud of Canada’s Indonesian intervention.114 The Canadian government saw itself as the midwife of Indonesian independence. McNaughton’s resolution served as an example of how the Security Council could play a practical role in the peaceful settlement of disputes; it also conferred a special role for Canada in Indonesia and throughout Asia. The episode, asserted a briefing note prepared for the President Sukarno’s 1956 visit to Canada, “continues to be a source of considerable goodwill for Canada among Indonesian leaders.” But Canada’s role did not look so helpful from the Indonesian standpoint. When Trade Commissioner George Heasman made the first official Canadian visit to Indonesia in early 1950, he had to report that not a single Indonesian he met had heard about the Canadian resolution.115 In formulating an Indonesia policy, Canadian diplomats were far more concerned about Europe than Asia. The North Atlantic alliance, emerging in 1948 and 1949 as the core of Canadian foreign policy, shaped their approach to the Indonesian issue. Their efforts to resolve conflict in Indonesia


sought to uphold the role of the UN, to save the Dutch from what Canadian diplomats saw as their own folly in entering a colonial morass, and to create unity on an important issue between the West and the new states of Asia. These priorities were to set the pattern for future Canadian relations with Indonesia, relations in which Canada always considered first the effects on wider global politics. Conciliation in Indonesia aimed at resolving a dispute, certainly, but equally at smoothing the way for Ottawa’s international strategies. At the same time, it fostered the idea of Canada as a uniquely skilled conciliator – an idea that was central to the Canadian diplomatic self-image. Looking at the independence of India, Hector Mackenzie has written, “Canadian policymakers invented a role for themselves in the otherwise distant process of decolonization.”116 Similarly in the Indonesian context, they invented a role as conciliators and self-professed friends to decolonizing states. They had sought the middle path between allies, but imagined themselves seeking a middle path between parties to a dispute, a path that fed Canadian self-perceptions of a role as “bridge” to Asia. From the other side of the bridge, things looked very different. While Western policy-makers congratulated themselves and the UN for overseeing Indonesia’s transition from colony to independent state, Indonesia’s political elite had lost much of its initial trust in the Western powers’ commitment to self-determination. Internationally, the revolution had seen several Asian states start along the path toward assertive Third World nationalism that led from the New Delhi Conference on Indonesia to the 1955 Bandung Asian-African Conference. Indonesian diplomatic strategy had prompted Indonesian leaders to lean toward the United States as the power best able to pressure the Netherlands, but the experience also disillusioned Indonesians by underscoring the gap between the rhetoric of self-determination and the realities of Eurocentric strategies. Internally, Indonesia had been forced to fight for its independence. One result of this was an influential army imbued with the belief that it had won the freedom of the country through its own struggles. Military politics would become ever more important over the following decades. Meanwhile, lingering anti-Dutch resentments smashed hopes for a pro-Western Indonesia. When there were troubles in the years ahead, Indonesians looked back to the nation’s formative days, when they were united in a noble cause. Over the next years they worked to turn their successful revolutionary movement into a successful state. From its distant perch, Canada would look occasionally at Indonesia, sharing conflicting feelings of hope and disillusion.

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2 The Golden Bridge: Canada and Indonesian Economic Development, 1950-63

The Canadian government had viewed revolutionary Indonesia through the lenses of its North Atlantic, Commonwealth, and UN visions. It would look at independent Indonesia equally indirectly. All of these lenses remained important, but the one that came to the fore in the early 1950s was the Commonwealth and its Colombo Plan for economic aid to Asia. Aid was the basis of bilateral ties. Amidst “uniformly friendly” relations between Canada and Indonesia, an External Affairs Department briefing book for President Sukarno’s 1956 visit to Canada noted that “the most active aspect of Canadian-Indonesian relations is co-operation under the Colombo Plan.”1 The 1949 rhetoric of Canada as the midwife of Indonesian independence carried on to make Indonesia the site of the first Canadian Embassy in Southeast Asia. Still, Canadian priorities remained fixed elsewhere, and the gulf between Canadian and Indonesian understandings of the nature and purpose of economic development was widening. Indonesia played host to the annual Colombo Plan Conference for the first time in November 1959, at a specially constructed meeting complex in the old revolutionary capital at Yogyakarta. Wearing a crisp, military-style uniform of his own design, along with his omnipresent pici cap and swagger stick, President Sukarno opened the conference by denouncing any idea that his country must develop in the Western image. Indonesia could not be measured by “a yardstick made in Holland thirty years ago, or somewhere else last week,” he said. It would develop according to its own traditions and beliefs, not those of foreign experts. “Mold all your forms of aid to the realities of the country,” he told his guests. And he went further, challenging the entire idea of aid and referring to it as a series of development projects dropped into the midst of a traditional society with no effort at education or relating to local contexts: “The Colombo Plan is concerned with economic development: we in Indonesia are concerned with overall development, development in every single field of human endeavour and human potential. We do not divorce any effort at development from its context. All are

Canada and Indonesian Economic Development, 1950-63

connected, all are inter-dependent, all are essential ... Do not think that assistance will produce a nation in your own image. Do not think that what applies in other countries will necessarily apply here.” Léon Balcer, Solicitor General in Prime Minister John Diefenbaker’s government and head of the Canadian delegation, had the job of formally responding to Sukarno’s address on behalf of the donor countries. Balcer repeated several Colombo Plan assumptions. His answer to Sukarno’s challenge was to recite the dollar figures for Canadian aid to Indonesia, rounding up the numbers for good measure, and to point out that this aid came at a time when Canada itself was still relying on foreign capital to develop its own resources. Canada was “keenly aware of some of the problems which many of the nations represented here have encountered in their economic development, problems such as we ourselves encountered in the earlier years of our young nationhood.” The way for Asians to develop was by doing what Canada and others had done. Here was a basic clash of visions.2 Sukarno’s address met a hostile reception. The Japanese ambassador called it “a most inhospitable speech.” His British counterpart compared Sukarno to Hitler, adding that the Indonesian president’s colourful entrance into the conference hall, flanked by jackbooted soldiers, “his jaw projecting, one hand raised in hieratic salute, the other clasping a gold baton, did nothing to weaken the comparison.” Sukarno had a powerful vision of an Indonesia in control of its own economic destiny, but it was one beyond the pale for Britain’s ambassador – and for most of those who had traveled to Yogyakarta. One of the few positive reports came from a junior member of the Canadian delegation, who compared the speech to “Indonesian food, which contains nutritious ingredients served in unpalatable sauce.”3 Sukarno’s words did not shift the Colombo Plan’s trajectory. “The tasks ahead remain essentially the same as those which were apparent at, and have been dealt with since, the beginning of the Colombo Plan,” stated the conference’s final report.4 Indonesia, however, embarked on a new path: the parliamentary cabinets that had governed from 1950 to 1957 would pursue a non-aligned foreign policy, while the nation’s economic programs would be consistent with the Western model of development and keep Indonesia integrated with the world economy through multiple links. In 1957 and 1958, internal conflicts spawned partly by attitudes toward foreign aid erupted into civil war. In 1959, pressed by an increasingly powerful army, Sukarno decreed a system of “guided democracy.” The new regime preached self-reliance through doctrines such as berdikari (berdiri di atas kaki sendiri, “standing on our own feet”). Ruslan Abdulgani, one of Sukarno’s chief acolytes, condemned the investment-based development-planning experiences of the 1950s for leading to “an unbalanced growth of one sector of the economy, sometimes to the advantage of the already industrialized countries.” Planning, he argued, had been nothing but a collection of projects,

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“sometimes of such little significance for the nature of the society being built, that the erection of a mere lemonade factory becomes worthy of mention.” More and more, Sukarno’s Indonesia turned away from development aid. In 1963, Sukarno recalled the Yogyakarta Conference and declared that Indonesia would rather subsist on cassava than accept aid with strings attached, even if that aid meant a daily meal of beef.5 Both Canadian and Indonesian policy-makers used images of a bridge to explain what they hoped to achieve through development. Official Ottawa pictured the Colombo Plan as a bridge between the West and Asia, able to build strong societies in the image of the Western development model and thus ensure continued links in a post-colonial age. Sidney Smith, Diefenbaker’s first Secretary of State for External Affairs, called the Colombo Plan “one of the particularly productive bridges between Canada and our friends in south and southeast Asia.”6 Indonesian policy-makers, on the other hand, were ambivalent toward aid, both needing it and worrying how it would affect their hopes for a self-reliant economy grounded in indigenous ideas of social justice. “Indonesian national independence is not the end of our struggle,” Sukarno said. “It is the golden bridge leading towards a life of happiness and prosperity for the Indonesian people.”7 This suggested a need for development, which would require Western help. Accepting help, however, meant perpetuating the dependence that Indonesians were trying to shake off. This dilemma led to a clash of attitudes toward modernization that evolved into one of the central divisions in Indonesia. By the time of the Yogyakarta Conference, Sukarno was preaching an understanding of “development” different from that of the donor countries. Development aid has never aimed solely at economic growth. As understood in the two postwar decades, it was also a way to spread a particular type of economic and political organization, including participation in global markets and the acceptance of outside involvement in national economies. The idea of economic development enjoyed a flowering after 1945, but it also drew on earlier notions of “trusteeship” of poorer areas. These were expressed, for instance, in the old League of Nations system, which ranked mandated territories A, B, or C according to the “stage of development” of those territories. It drew, too, from a colonial inheritance. Colonizers, including Britain, France, and the Netherlands, sought to develop their territories to make resources available. Indeed, delivering development became a justifying factor for colonial rule. This thinking was implicit in Britain’s Colonial Development Acts, in the Dutch government’s “ethical policy” for the East Indies colony, and in other colonial thought. The UN in 1947 officially proclaimed the goal of development to be raising the national welfare of the entire population. Asian nationalists were also embracing the idea of development, from Japan’s “westernization” and China’s “self-strengthening” to


Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s declaration that increased production was “the first essential.” With political decolonization complete, there seemed great scope for co-operation in development. This thinking underlay the first great aid scheme to Asia – the Commonwealth’s Colombo Plan, inaugurated in 1950.8 Canada and the Colombo Plan Looking for a way to relate to postwar Asia, Canadian policy-makers naturally turned to familiar frameworks – in this case, the Commonwealth. That association was “the most intimate political tie there is between the East and the West,” the best means to battle “the communist infection,” Saturday Night enthused. In Escott Reid’s formulation, the transformation of the Commonwealth into an association including three Asian Dominions meant that it “ceased to be just another extension of Western Europe. It became a representative group of those nations of the world which have parliamentary institutions.” It represented, in fact, the democratic world as a whole.9 Though Canadian leaders had in the past worked to loosen Commonwealth ties, they found new importance in the association after the Second World War. It became useful as a “bridge” between the West and Asia – an image repeated time and time again in speeches and government documents. The Commonwealth bridge might broaden to include non-Commonwealth countries. Thus those countries were included from the beginning in the Colombo Plan vision. That vision took hold only slowly in Ottawa. By the end of the 1950s, the Canadian diplomatic self-image would include a firmly held view of Canada as humanitarian aid donor. In 1950, however, policy-makers were reluctant to take part in schemes to aid Asia as well as hesitant to place the Commonwealth at the centre of their aid planning. Secretary of State for External Affairs Lester Pearson headed the Canadian delegation to the January 1950 Commonwealth Foreign Ministers’ Meeting in Colombo, but he carried mainly a listening brief. The gathering in the capital of newly independent Ceylon (later Sri Lanka) was the first meeting of Commonwealth foreign ministers, the first Commonwealth meeting to be held in Asia, and the first to be hosted by one of the newly independent dominions. For the Canadian delegates it was, literally, a discovery of Asia – the first trip outside North America and Europe for all but one of the six-person team. To that point, the peregrinations of Canada’s diplomats had been within the North Atlantic triangle. With the month-long Colombo trip, which also touched down in Egypt, Pakistan, India, Burma, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Japan, Pearson and his travelling companions were marking out new, world-girdling paths for Canadian diplomacy. The journey, aboard a North Star cargo plane, was the first Canadian round-the-world flight. This was the aspect that initially

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attracted press attention. One widely distributed photograph depicted Pearson and Reid plotting their journey on a globe, as if they were explorers writing Canada’s name on unknown places and discovering new reaches of the world. Though Pearson declined to make any new commitments to Asian affairs while touring the region, he conceded a new awareness that “the centre of gravity of some of the world’s problems” lay in Asia.10 In Colombo, Australian Foreign Minister Percy Spender and Ceylon’s Finance Minister J.R. Jayewardene campaigned for an economic-aid program. Like the Australian Labor Party government that his Liberals had just swept out of office, Spender was especially concerned to get aid to Indonesia, which needed “encouragement and active help from outside” to maintain order and deal with urgent economic problems.11 Indonesia was important for India and Pakistan as well. Nehru said that it deserved “every possible assistance and encouragement,” while Ghulam Mohammed of Pakistan called for help to Indonesia “to restore her economy and establish a stable administration.”12 Despite Spender’s later claims, however, the Colombo Plan was largely British in origin and served British interests. In some ways it was an expansion of the thinking that underpinned earlier British colonial-development acts. “We need Asian equivalents of the Marshall Plan and Atlantic Pact,” argued Malcolm MacDonald, one of the architects of Britain’s latest development act. He conceded that they “would have to be very different from the arrangements for Europe, but in general they should offer the Asian Governments and peoples economic, political and if necessary military aid in their resistance to communism.” Press reports during the lead-up to the Colombo Conference speculated that Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin would propose “a dynamic Western-backed program for Asiatic development.” The British sent a high-powered economic delegation to Colombo, according to a Canadian report, so that they would be able to “turn to advantage any suggestions for economic cooperation in South and South-East Asia as a first step towards providing a framework for US financial assistance in this area.” British planners hoped for stability in Southeast Asia and saw the Colombo Plan as one means to achieve it.13 The conference agreed to recommend an aid scheme, dubbed the Colombo Plan to parallel the Marshall Plan for European economic reconstruction. (If not for the unfortunate connotations for finance officials and public opinion in donor countries, it might have been called the Spender Plan, after its Australian booster.) This was a bit of a misnomer: the Colombo Plan was actually a series of national development plans created by Asian countries. Echoing earlier British colonial-development schemes, these plans were “sensible, moderate and realistic,” in the estimation of in a Canadian interdepartmental committee.14 The plans also met the needs of countries like India, which were – in one Indian diplomat’s words – “desperately afraid of the United States bearing gifts.”15


Canadians had not been in the vanguard of aid planning at Colombo; nor did they commit themselves to taking part. The British and Australian governments both pressed Ottawa to sign on, partly because of its perceived influence on the United States, from where the real money was expected. Behind the urgency lay an image of Asia as an area in immediate peril. The Korean War would break out a few months later, in June 1950, followed by a Chinese intervention that sent American and Allied forces reeling back. The West was failing to win the support of Asian opinion – a trend that could only be reversed, noted a Canadian interdepartmental committee, “if the peoples of Asia were given some real hope of an improved standard of living, which would involve financial assistance from outside the area.”16 Just as Canada’s attitude toward the Indonesian revolution had been affected by the formation of NATO in 1949, policies on aid to Southeast Asia were once again driven by Cold War happenings elsewhere. There were three lines of resistance in Cabinet to providing aid, however. The first lay in the traditional Canadian antipathy to formal Commonwealth structures, the notion being that the UN rather than a regional organization was really the best place for this sort of scheme. The second was a reluctance to go it alone without American participation, which was seen as crucial to the plan’s success. The third lay in the plan’s expense and supposed lack of realism at a time when India and Pakistan were frittering away large sums on a military buildup along their mutual borders.17 There was also an implicit belief that Canada had developed without foreign aid, and therefore so should others. Asia simply was not prominent enough to make the Colombo Plan an easy sale. For four months in 1950 and 1951, officials and ministers waged a bureaucratic battle over whether to take part. On February 7, 1951, with the fate of the plan hanging in the balance over whether North American funds would be available, Cabinet finally agreed to a one-year grant of $25 million, making it conditional on an American contribution – or as it was worded, “only if other contributing countries were providing enough to give reasonable hope that the broad objectives of the Plan would be achieved.”18 Canadian participation in the Colombo Plan is often described as stemming from humanitarian motives. Nathan Keyfitz, a leading Canadian analyst and participant, praised the Plan a decade later as “a stroke of genius, one of the few successful political inventions of this century.”19 Yet the record shows two key motives at the heart of Canada’s participation. First, the problem of reconstructing global trade was hampered by British sterling debts to India and other Commonwealth countries. That imperilled the economic future of Britain and of the sterling bloc countries – that is, the ones that used Britain as their foreign-exchange banker – countries that were a crucial prop to British economic influence and thus prosperity. The Colombo Plan offered the prospect of injecting US dollars into the sterling area

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to replace Marshall Plan aid to Britain. The second key motive was anticommunism – that is, the hope that Asian countries could be kept in the Western camp through demonstrations of concern as well as through aid that might raise their living standards. The terms of the Cold War shifted with the creation of the People’s Republic of China, adding urgency to the need to support moderate Asian governments. “Communism is a malignancy that thrives on diseased tissues,” Prime Minister St. Laurent said in a speech laying out Canada’s Pacific policy, “and the Colombo Plan by working to eliminate the diseased tissues of poverty and starvation is endeavouring to keep one-quarter of the world’s population in the free world.” He described the plan as a grand crusade through which “not only are we trying to provide wider commercial relations, but we are also fighting another Asiatic war against Communism in the interests of peace, this time with economic rather than military weapons.”20 Underlying Canada’s entry into the Colombo Plan was the country’s own recent experience in economic development. It perceived itself as having relied not on aid but rather on foreign investment, technical transfers, and Canadian ingenuity. Canadians did not trumpet their country as a model for others to follow; nevertheless, the pattern of the Canadian development experience shaped attitudes. Canada’s journey “from colony to nation” was a story not only of political progress but also of economic growth. “Not so very long ago, in the early years of this century, our country would have been classed as under-developed; indeed there are large parts of it that should still be described that way,” Public Works Minister Alphonse Fournier told the UN Economic and Social Council in 1950. In Canada, he insisted, there had been no government grants, but rather an attractive investment climate. “People in my country will naturally ask why, if their own development is not subsidized, they should be asked to subsidize development in countries where, perhaps, the ‘climate for investment’ has not been so favourable.”21 The first Canadian Colombo Plan administrator, R.G. Nik Cavell, was an enthusiastic advocate of development aid rather than an isolationist, but he too thought that Canada had much to teach Asia: “We are new; we have recently emerged from colonial status; we have vastly improved our living standards; and we have done all this within a framework of democracy, capitalism and complete freedom. Could we not, without being too obvious about it, put our example before the South East Asian nations as one they might find it advantageous to follow[?] As a very prosperous young nation might it not be considered almost our duty to outline what we have achieved and how we have accomplished it?”22 Aid in many ways came to reflect a self-confident Canada offering itself as a model to the developing world. The acrimony of the fight within Cabinet of 1950 and 1951 soon dissipated. International aid became part and parcel of Liberal Ottawa’s embrace of domestic economic planning by civil service “mandarins.” Welfare measures


at home were accompanied by welfare measures abroad. St. Laurent made the link explicit: “We cannot neglect the less fortunate within our own midst, nor can we ignore the plight of nations less fortunate than our own.”23 When it came time to consider extending the Colombo Plan past its initial six-year period, there were no objections. Canadian contributions continued; these focused on hydroelectric and irrigation schemes and on other areas of Canadian expertise that were in keeping with the 1950s fashion for development “megaprojects.” Almost imperceptibly, the Colombo Plan entered the rhetoric of Canadian foreign policy. In this reading, Canada had no axes to grind; rather, it was trying to help Asians help themselves. “Our Asian policy must comprise much more than mere opposition to Communism,” Pearson said. “We must have a positive policy and convince the peoples of Asia, by deed and word, that free democracy is a vital liberating force and can do more for the individual, and society, than Communism can ever hope to do.” The press reaction, even in non-Liberal circles, was similar. “No such coming together of East and West could happen anywhere but in the British Commonwealth,” declared a Globe and Mail editorial. The only hope for success was “American acceptance of the Commonwealth’s lead” through non-military tactics.24 A Canadian paper for the influential Institute of Pacific Relations made the dichotomy explicit: “The failure of American Far Eastern policy, as Canadians see it, lies in its over-emphasis on military security rather than on political solutions, its reliance on the advice of generals rather than of State Department officials.” Canadians, in contrast, believed that “security in the Pacific and Southeast Asia should not be defined solely in terms of military security but should be seen in all its aspects, political, economic, and psychological.”25 Some Canadians, when emphasizing the supposed dichotomy between economic and military aid, were implicitly comparing “altruistic” Canada with “militaristic” America. Canadian policy-makers who worked to bring the United States out of isolationism and into a position of world leadership were often troubled by how the Truman and Eisenhower administrations were handling America’s new, predominant position. The image of the altruistic Colombo Plan – a bridge to Asia and especially to the Asian neutrals despised by John Foster Dulles and his Department of State – was a significant part of the process whereby Canadians were distancing themselves from US policy, even while continental economic links grew. As Robert Bothwell puts it: “In a world where Canadians sometimes felt overwhelmed by American wealth and power, the Colombo Plan was a useful sign of separate identity.”26 Public enthusiasm for the Colombo Plan both led and was shaped by a shift in the rhetoric of Canadian aid toward purely humanitarian motives. Canadian public support far exceeded that in Australia, the Colombo Plan’s official sponsor, where Foreign Minister R.G. Casey was having a hard time convincing his skeptical colleagues in Cabinet to continue support for the plan.27

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The rhetoric was not reflected in aid figures. By 1955, Canadian aid stood at $100 million, while the United States had spent more than $4 billion on non-military aid. Canada was “to say the least, not doing its share in this field,” Pearson conceded.28 Canadian aid disbursements were tied to spending in Canada and aimed in part to boost trade prospects. Concrete economic benefits helped build public support for the Colombo Plan. The trade-aid link was summed up by Canada’s aid administrator. Nik Cavell was a public figure with access to the business world and a passionate believer in his work, whose information activities were vital to building support for the plan in Canada. A typical Cavell speech noted that the world was in chaos, that totalitarianism and conflict endured despite two world wars, and that foreign aid was the best antidote to communism. The Colombo Plan could “build that bridge between East and West which is so vitally necessary.” Business people could then “march across that bridge [and] bring these long neglected people into the orbit of our prosperity.”29 The imperial inheritance made many English Canadians willing to embrace a joint Commonwealth effort to carry on development tasks even after Asian independence. Then there was the missionary legacy, even stronger after China was lost as a mission field. Many missionaries moved seamlessly into development work – a direction in which their missions had already been moving. Sixteen newspapers had commented on the Colombo Plan when it was first published in December 1951, with all but one in favour. The Victoria Colonist called it “the West’s best answer to the Communists.”30 In the 1950s, the Soviet Union began to offer its own aid aimed at winning friends and influencing nations. The need to meet this Soviet aid challenge helped sustain Colombo Plan spending as Western governments strove to compete with Soviet enticements. Lest anyone take the humanitarian rhetoric too literally, there was a periodic reiteration of the plan’s strategic goals: “The primary objective of the Canadian government in contributing to the Colombo Plan is political,” stated an interdepartmental group conducting the first Colombo Plan assessment in 1957. “Basically it is to offer some hope, and to provide a sense of international co-operation, to the ruling and politically effective groups in Asia countries ... In doing this we hope to reduce the attractiveness of Communism to these groups as an alternative and desperate solution to their problems.”31 Indonesia became one of the main battlegrounds of this aid competition. Indonesia and the Colombo Plan Indonesia came out of its revolution neutral in form but leaning toward the West in practice. Its main foreign influence was still the Netherlands, with the United States viewed as a useful counterbalance. The new government’s model was non-aligned India, though this was tempered by an awareness that Indonesia’s geography placed it more within the American sphere of


influence. Indonesia carefully balanced its UN votes between the superpowers. Most of its votes favouring the Soviets were on colonial issues; on Cold War matters, Indonesia tended to side with the United States. Mohammad Roem, Indonesia’s foreign minister in 1950, defended his government’s neutral policy as a temporary expedient. “True, it is a negative policy,” he said, “but we cannot tell our people yet that they are ranged on one side or other for war purposes; first we must give them food and clothes and build up our economy so that we can make our contribution to the world’s needs and draw from the world our needs.”32 The understanding was the same in Washington. Secretary of State Dean Acheson accepted that the new and uncertain Indonesian government needed to remain neutral “for a reasonable length of time,” but then added that Indonesia had to understand “that in struggle between USSR and free world Indonesian choice is not only inevitable but has been made.”33 Acheson’s successor, John Foster Dulles, compared Indonesia’s situation with that of the United States in its early, neutral days. Indonesia avoided challenging US policy. Unlike fellow neutrals India and Burma, it signed the Treaty of Peace with Japan in 1951. Unlike Ceylon, it joined the UN embargo on rubber sales to China during the Korean War. Though Vietnam was waging an independence struggle similar to Indonesia’s own, Jakarta declined to recognize the government of Ho Chi Minh.34 Parliamentary Cabinets exercised real power in early-1950s Indonesia. Though the country changed prime ministers with dizzying frequency, the cabinets of Hatta (1949-50), Natsir (1950-51), Sukiman (1951-52), and Wilopo (1952-53) were all headed by pragmatic, pro-Western, European-educated politicians concerned above all with the task of economic development. The largest component of each coalition was the moderate Islamist Masyumi Party, the Indonesian equivalent of Europe’s Christian Democrats. In Herbert Feith’s schema, these cabinets were dominated by “administrators” who had the legal, technical, and practical skills to run a modern state, rather than by “solidarity makers” like Sukarno, whose talents lay in charismatic mass organization, symbol making, and other less tangible facets of nation building. In Sukarno’s view, the division within the Indonesian elite was between modernizing “Herodians” who wanted to copy the West and archconservative “zealots” who rejected all things Western. Sukarno wanted to bring about a synthesis of the two.35 The foreign-aid question was caught up in this division within the Indonesian leadership. Nation-states, Benedict Anderson has written, locate themselves somewhere in the space between the competing interests of the state as an institution and the nation as a participatory society. The colonial East Indies state was the focus of opposition for early nationalist leaders like Sukarno. Independent Indonesia emerged with a weak state apparatus and extensive “penetration of the state by society” – a position that began to

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reverse only when power shifted to the army after 1957.36 Poised between state and societal interests, Indonesians felt ambivalent toward foreign aid. Early cabinets wanted aid and were willing to do what it took to get it as they sought to build the state-nation. Sukarno and others, by contrast, were more concerned with building the society-nation. The constructive task of the solidarity makers was to build the nation in the minds of Indonesians. Still, both administrators and solidarity makers saw development as the next priority following independence. The predominant Indonesian understanding of “development” in this period was to modernize the life and spirit of the new nation – a mental process as much as a physical one.37 Even for Sukarno, independence was not a goal in itself, but the “golden bridge” to prosperity and social justice. “Upbuilding is the most important for the achievement of our ideal, e.g. a society within which everyone can eat and live happily. Upbuilding is necessary for the uplifting of our soul ... Indonesia must be a strong country packed with factories. This is our utopia.” Indonesians had to have “a daring soul, the soul of builders.” Sukarno’s synthesis, in its early form, sought development, but his nation building focused on conjuring national unity throughout a diverse archipelago, healing the wounds of revolution, and making the nation whole. Indonesia was “one body which felt the pain if any part of that body was hurt,” he said in a speech celebrating the inauguration of the unitary state on August 17, 1950.38 His mission was to breathe truth into that assertion. Development required foreign assistance, but Indonesians were unwilling to rely too much on Dutch aid. Resentments lingered from the revolution, and the terms of the independence settlement had dashed any hope of friendly relations. Indonesia entered statehood saddled with onerous debts, which sharply limited development spending as the new government prioritized paying its creditors. The Dutch retention of West New Guinea as a colony was another irritant. Sukarno was especially vocal in demanding the “return” of West New Guinea, parlaying the campaign into an active political role for himself and thereby transcending his ceremonial figurehead position. The same issue provided a return to respectability for the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), which had been in disgrace since its 1948 rebellion but now found itself able to use the West New Guinea struggle as a mobilizing platform. Most Western powers had put the West New Guinea issue in “cold storage.” The dispute seemed irresolvable; to take a side or even call for restraint would be to risk “a punch on the nose from one or other of the parties,” in the words of one British official. As Sukarno and others whipped up public fervour, Western analysts revived their picture of a dichotomy between “extremist” and “moderate” nationalists. Sukarno, classed previously as a moderate, was now listed among the extremists. Yet all Indonesian political leaders shared the same commitment to what they saw as completing the project of territorial decolonization. Sukarno continued to preach a


synthesis of diplomacy and struggle. He merely spoke more loudly than others.39 Canadian officials had hoped that the loose Netherlands-Indonesian Union could evolve into a miniature Commonwealth, with former adversaries working in partnership. Indonesian-Dutch tensions over economic relations and West New Guinea doomed that prospect. Indonesian governments aimed to replace Dutch technical advisers. Ambitious schemes calling for the technical training of thousands of Indonesians had to be abandoned when the limited extent of American aid became clear, but American and UN offers of technical aid were accepted enthusiastically.40 Indonesian policy-makers approached the Colombo Plan skeptically, fearing it as a possible avenue for Western domination, but they were also interested in obtaining aid from a new source. In many ways Indonesia was the key to extending the plan beyond the Asian Commonwealth. Commonwealth planners sought to bring in non-Commonwealth countries, but Indonesia and Burma proved reluctant to risk their neutralist principles, while Thailand and the Philippines were already well able to access American funds and saw little advantage to a Commonwealth scheme. The need to entice Indonesia into the fold blocked insistent Dutch overtures for membership. Pearson ordered Canadian support for the Dutch application, but the Indian government squelched the idea. The pattern of Indonesia’s economy meant there were no immediate concrete enticements for Jakarta to sign up to the Colombo Plan. India and Pakistan were able to keep drawing on their sterling balances, whereas Indonesia’s finances were more tied to the Netherlands. The Colombo Plan offered the prospect for Australian help, but even without joining, Indonesia was able to send forty-nine students to study in Australia, eleven to Britain, and two to India under Colombo Plan auspices.41 Burma and Nepal joined the plan in 1952; Indonesia continued to stay aloof from it. The Sukiman cabinet (1951-52) relied on promises of American aid – so much so that it was willing to sign an official commitment to the defence of the “free world.” That deal departed from official neutrality and turned out to be based on lies by the American ambassador about American aid requirements. The episode toppled Sukiman’s government and ended the US-Indonesian honeymoon as Congress slashed American economic and technical aid to Indonesia. At the same time, fluctuations in raw-material prices spelled trouble for the Indonesian economy and the government’s budget. The country’s export base was extremely narrow, resting on rubber, petroleum, and tin; between them, these three primary products accounted for almost two-thirds of the country’s exports. In 1950-51, Indonesia “sailed before the wind” of high raw-material prices, in the words of sometime cabinet minister Soemitro Djojohadikusumo.42 But the wind died as the Korean War boom faded. By 1952, Indonesia’s economy was becalmed, rubber prices having fallen by more than half from the previous year. Throughout

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the region, trade flows contracted sharply. The end of the boom struck Indonesia hard: a 1951 budget surplus of 1,200 million rupiah became a 1952 deficit of Rp. 4,328 million. For Indonesia, foreign exchange between 1952 and 1954 vanished more quickly than in any other country in the world. Jakarta was forced to make major spending cuts, especially to its development budget.43 These economic troubles and disillusionment with American aid promises convinced the Indonesian government to join the Colombo Plan at the 1953 New Delhi Conference. Canadian officials noted that the “turn towards the Colombo Plan in Indonesia reflects a desire not to be drawn into the United States military orbit.” The reaction in the Indonesian press was generally favourable. On newspaper praised the decision as “a balance against American aid to Indonesia” and a chance “to open greater possibilities for cooperating more intensively with other South-East Asian participants.” Australia moved swiftly to provide aid, which helped “keep relations sweet” despite differences of opinion over West New Guinea and other issues. Yet even as a member, Indonesia remained suspicious of donors’ motives.44 Ambivalence toward development planning and conflicts between elites over development priorities continued through the rest of the period of parliamentary democracy. Bilateral Relations and Regional Developments from Colombo to Bandung Though the region was peripheral to Canadian interests, Ottawa saw Indonesia as the largest and most important country in Southeast Asia. Pearson ranked it with India and Pakistan as having the greatest future in Asia.45 External Affairs laid out the political case for an embassy in Jakarta in a 1950 memorandum: In the first place, it is in our interest to encourage the existence of moderate native governments in all the new states of Southeast Asia, and to look to moderate nationalism in that region to help stem Communist expansion. The strength of the Indonesian Government, situated directly in the path of the Communist offensive, will depend to some extent on the closeness of its ties with the non-Communist world. Canada, because of her demonstrated interest in the United Nations in Indonesian affairs, is particularly well suited to furnishing the new Republic with this type of encouragement. Secondly, a mission in Indonesia would be a valuable listening post and political reporting post for the cold war now raging in Asia.46

Indonesia consequently hosted the first Canadian embassy in Southeast Asia. George Heasman, head of the Trade Commissioner Service and a former Assistant Trade Commissioner in the Dutch East Indies, took up his post as


the first Canadian ambassador in 1953. Southeast Asia as a whole was becoming “strategically vital in the West’s struggle against Communism,” according to the inaugural letter of instructions to Heasman. “Events there are moving swiftly and Canada can no longer dissociate itself from developments taking place.” Given limited resources, it was better “to maintain an attitude of watchful waiting in Southeast Asia, to limit military commitments there owing to priorities elsewhere, and to try to stem Sino-Soviet influence among the self-governing nations of Southeast Asia by raising their living standards through technical assistance and increased trade in order to make them prosperous and as friendly as possible to the cause of Canada and the West.”47 Here was a Cold War policy, one designed to deny the area to the USSR, but one that relied on economic rather than military weapons. The new embassy in Jakarta opened in makeshift conditions. Its officers were initially lodged at the Hôtel des Indes, “a sort of glorified motel with communal messing, where one lives a semi-outdoor life.” Officers worked on the verandas and made runs to Heasman’s room for office stationary; additional office space was borrowed from a Dutch banking concern. R.B. Edmonds arrived to take over as acting second secretary, his only political briefing on Indonesia having come en route, at a stop to visit the Foreign Office in London.48 The choice of a trade commissioner as ambassador signalled commercial expectations. Officials hoped that high wheat sales – 27 percent of total Canadian exports to Indonesia – might lead an expansion of exports to “this potentially wealthy country.” The earliest economic connection between the two countries had involved a Canadian loan extended to the Netherlands East Indies during the revolution. This had devolved to independent Indonesia, which made its final scheduled payment in 1955, thus becoming the first of eight countries to pay their wartime debt in full. The Canadian government proved unwilling to develop military connections. The independence settlement had allowed eight hundred Dutch military officers to stay on to help build the new Indonesian armed forces. By 1952, it was clear that the Netherlands military mission – always an ill fit with the revolutionary Indonesian army – would soon be leaving. Jakarta cast about for a replacement. Switzerland, Sweden, Norway, Belgium, and West Germany all spurned Indonesian inquiries. The Indonesians then approached Australia and Canada. The Australian government, receptive but short of officers at time of war in Korea, lobbied for a tripartite Commonwealth military mission with officers from Australia, Britain, and Canada; this would spread the risks and reap the benefits of Canada’s detached attitude toward Southeast Asian affairs.49 Ali Sastroamijoyo, the Ambassador to the United States and Canada, who would become prime minister in 1953, was especially enthusiastic about Canada, “with its steadily growing position of importance in the world.” In Ottawa, the Far Eastern Division at External Affairs came out against this sort of aid, arguing that a military

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mission would run “directly counter to current Canadian policy of trade and aid in Southeast Asia with no military assistance there, owing to commitments elsewhere.” The Department of National Defence agreed, saying that a mission to Indonesia could only come at the expense of NATO’s and Canada’s own troop training. Canada’s military mission in Luxembourg was more in keeping with these priorities.50 Europe – even one of its tiniest countries – mattered; Southeast Asia was an afterthought. In the end, Jakarta allowed the request to lapse, choosing instead to develop its own staff college and to send officers overseas for training, especially to the United States. American-trained officers, nicknamed the “children of Eisenhower,” became the nucleus of military anti-communism from the later half of the 1950s. Canada’s first embassy in Southeast Asia had opened with great hope for a promising new partnership. Disappointment did not take long to set in. By the time Louis St. Laurent made the first Asian tour by a Canadian prime minister in 1954, Indonesia seemed less important to Canadians than earlier hopes had suggested. The tour focused squarely on India; a short stop in Jakarta was all that Canadian planners were willing to concede. This was in keeping with Canada’s overall approach to decolonization. Canadian diplomats agreed with the colonial powers on their stated aims – progress toward self-government, with economic development and technical assistance during the tutelage period. General E.L.M. Burns, who headed early Canadian delegations to the UN’s Fourth (Trusteeship) Committee, urged impatient Asian delegates to “ponder Aesop’s fable of the north wind and the sun and the traveller with the cloak.” He recommended that Canadian policy-makers urge administering powers to state their case better and their self-government goals more explicitly. Canadian delegates meanwhile should try to persuade anti-colonial forces to be patient and understanding. In 1956, the head of the UN Division in Canada’s External Affairs Department, Marcel Cadieux, reflected widespread thinking when he hoped that decolonization would progress through “evolution and realism rather than more abstract principles.”51 At times, officials considered a more active role, noting that the Soviet Union was making gains through its vocal anti-colonial rhetoric. Mostly, though, the Canadians stayed behind the scenes to avoid offending one side or the other. Canadian interventions continued to speak of the need for self-government but also noted Canada’s own experience of gradual evolution as a model worth following. By the end of the Korean War, both Britain and the United States were looking for ways to enhance regional integration among the non-communist Southeast Asian states. So too were some of the non-aligned states. These thoughts crystallized in 1954 and 1955 at (respectively) the annual Colombo Plan Conference, this one held in Ottawa, and the Bandung conference, the foundational gathering of the “Third World.” With the success of the Colombo Plan, American diplomats began to wonder whether it might be


the basis for a regional association. US-Asian relations were limited to bilateral ties – “the spokes of a wheel” in one diplomat’s image. The time seemed ripe to add a rim to the wheel through Asian-to-Asian links among non-communist states. Asia’s share of global American aid rose from 12.6 percent in 1953 to 54.5 percent in 1954. Much of that took the form of military support to Indochina, Korea, and Taiwan, but for the first time it also included substantial capital aid to India. There was also an explicit policy, NSC 5518, designed to prevent the “loss” of Indonesia to communism.52 The Colombo Plan seemed to offer a valuable counterpart economic organization to the new Southeast Asian Treaty Organization (SEATO), which had formalized military ties among the Philippines, Thailand, Pakistan, and five non-Asian powers, including the United States. American officials believed that it had been through their pressure that Japan, Thailand, and the Philippines had been admitted as members at the Ottawa Conference, fulfilling the plan’s original hopes of covering the entire South and Southeast Asian region. In the Thai and Philippine cases, they had merely been knocking on a door that had been open to them for more than three years. Japan’s application met considerable resistance, however. Ottawa agreed with the United States in terms of desiring “the growth of an economically viable and politically sustainable Japan associated with the nations of the free world.”53 Resistance to Japanese membership centred on Indonesian Foreign Minister Sunario. It took personal interventions by Australian Foreign Minister R.G. Casey and Canadian Finance Minister Walter Harris to dissuade Sunario from vetoing Japanese membership.54 Indonesian officials also worried that the Colombo Plan might be tied to American military containment strategies. If that worry affected Asian attitudes, it could undermine the basis of the Colombo Plan as a bridge to Asia. Canadian officials thus reacted on two levels to thinking in Washington. On the one hand, they were pleased to see American economic aid to Asia given a higher profile, especially if that meant more support for the Colombo Plan. On the other, they did not wish the plan to be wrecked by any effort to turn it into an instrument of American security interests. Officials in Ottawa aimed to counteract “any tendency of the Asian members to withdraw from contacts with the West and to [rely] on their own exclusive arrangements.” This dual attitude of hope and fear over American intentions was shared in London and Canberra. Given little encouragement, Washington did not follow through on ideas about making the Colombo Plan an economic counterpart to SEATO.55 Asian neutrals offered their own version of regionalism when the Prime Ministers of India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Burma, and Indonesia endorsed an Indonesian plan for an Asian-African conference, which was to be held in 1955 in the Indonesian city of Bandung. Like the 1949 New Delhi Conference on Indonesia, this evoked a mixture of Western fears of an anti-colonial bloc and hopes that the regional gathering would take an anti-communist

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direction. Sukarno’s opening speech tried to dispel the fears by invoking Paul Revere’s ride as part of the first great anti-colonial revolution. Economically, Bandung avoided challenges to the existing international order: it accepted the principles of technical assistance and foreign investment, endorsed economic development, and declined to establish new Asian-African structures. The conference was most important, though, for its assertion of the rights of the “Third World” in a bipolar Cold War world.56 The Eisenhower administration deplored neutralism in Asia; Canadian attitudes were more sympathetic, with St. Laurent the only Western head of government to send formal greetings to the Bandung Conference. Bandung did much to increase Indonesian self-confidence. Molly Bondan, an official involved in the organization, remembered jeers at the idea of Indonesia staging a major international gathering: “Everyone said that Indonesia couldn’t do it ... We said, ‘Humph, let’s just see! Anyway, why shouldn’t we be able to do it?’ Maybe those bad comments made us work all the harder.”57 Growing Indonesian confidence contributed to an increasingly assertive foreign policy. It was not passively neutral, but actively neutralist, and it placed the new mental map of a “Third World” at the centre of policy-making. This was clear during the 1956 Suez crisis. When Israeli forces attacked Egypt, and Britain and France followed up with a threat to intervene to protect their interests in the Suez Canal, Indonesia reacted with other Third World states in complete support of Egypt. The main Canadian fears around Suez recalled and redoubled Canadian fears during the Indonesian revolution: this crisis threatened to fracture NATO and split the Commonwealth along racial lines. Pearson’s Nobel Prize–winning solution, a UN peacekeeping force, was most important as a means to save the British and French governments from the consequences of their own actions and thereby to save the multilateral associations that were central to Canadian foreign policy.58 Canadian policy-makers applied Colombo Plan balm to a Commonwealth wounded by Suez. In a memorandum to Cabinet, Pearson noted that the plan had “taken on even greater significance as a means of preserving the ties of friendship and mutual interest among the Asian and Western members” and had served as “an example of successful co-operation in the field of economic development among countries whose political relationships have been subjected to recent strains.”59 The plan’s main importance continued to lie in its ability to bridge Western-Asian divides, more than in what it achieved in concrete development terms. Sukarno Visits Canada and the United States Bilateral relations between the Canadian government in the St. Laurent years and Indonesia in its period of parliamentary democracy were limited in scope, mediated through regional perceptions and the Colombo Plan. Indonesia started to come into clearer focus in 1956, when President Sukarno


visited Canada as part of an Indonesian diplomatic offensive aimed at overseas public opinion. Sukarno did not hold a single working meeting with any Canadian government official. Instead, each side dedicated the trip to affecting public opinion in the other. A visit by Sukarno to Canada had been discussed around the time of St. Laurent’s 1954 visit to Jakarta, when Heasman suggested it might help convince Sukarno of the merits of federalism. St. Laurent preferred to wait and see whether the US government would issue an invitation. Not until 1956 did Eisenhower feel that he had room on his schedule for official visitors. Canada quickly jumped aboard, with Under-Secretary of State for External Affairs Jules Léger looking to “the possibility of influencing his present anti-Western bias.”60 This was no minor visit. The Indonesian president travelled with an entourage of forty, including the foreign minister, the chief justice, the army and air force chiefs of staff, and representatives of all significant political parties. For Sukarno, one chief purpose was to counter bad press about Indonesia and himself. In this he succeeded brilliantly, garnering rave reviews throughout North America – though Australia’s then Ambassador to Indonesia compared the enthusiasm to the “thrill of unexpectedness which children get on seeing chimpanzees pour out tea at the zoo.”61 Indonesia mattered, Sukarno repeated over and over. It was a different place than India or Indochina; Java was more than an island that produced coffee. Indonesia, for instance, supplied 20 percent of America’s rubber: “In other words, every fifth tire in use on the automobiles in America is made from Indonesian rubber. So I am not talking about distant and unimportant things. I am talking about the spare wheel on your automobile.” Indonesia was determined to develop and would take foreign help, he said, but not at the cost of its freedom of action. “No torrent of dollars, no cascade of roubles will change that.”62 Sukarno played cleverly on the assumption that Indonesia was following in American footsteps. He paid pilgrimages to the shrines of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln and was duly described by the press and politicians as “the George Washington of his sprawling country” and “the Lincoln of Indonesia.” Even his neutralism was “not the offensive type of Russian-slanted ‘neutralism’ that invokes so many brickbats for India’s Nehru.” Sukarno’s American visit, however, was balanced with separate trips to the Soviet Union and China, whose governments spared no effort to make a good impression on him. The Soviets raised the stakes in the foreign-aid battle by offering a US$100 million loan, and Sukarno was impressed with the strides taken to develop China.63 With the prospect of these Communist models wooing the Indonesians, it was important that Canada play its part by displaying its own development path. Sukarno’s American itinerary was heavy on universities but included no large power developments, so Heasman suggested that the Canadian visit take in an electricity megaproject. Accordingly, the itinerary

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featured stops at Alcan’s complex at Arvida, Quebec, and the Chalk River nuclear plant. Sukarno’s Montreal visit included not only McGill and the Université de Montréal, but also an inspection of the St. Lawrence Seaway.64 These signs of Canadian industry reportedly made the biggest impression on the Indonesians, who were said to be impressed by our standards of living seen in visits to workers’ homes and schools in Chalk River and Arvida. They were impressed also by the way in which we were exploiting our natural resources, in part with the aid of United States capital, while remaining confident of our ability to preserve Canadian national independence. Perhaps the Indonesians were most impressed with our ability to develop our resources and industries on a spot basis and without evidence of the completely self-contained national industrial complex which they had found in the United States. This encouraged them to believe that they too might develop their resources and industries on a spot basis with the help of foreign technicians.65

Potentially, Canada offered a development trajectory that was relevant to an Indonesia, which was seeking models. Sukarno had long delighted in visiting Indonesian homes as he toured his own sprawling country, learning local dances, interacting with people. He tried to do the same during his Canadian charm offensive, spending time exchanging songs with children in Chalk River and asking careful questions at visits to a “typical” FrenchCanadian kitchen and the Institute of Islamic Studies at McGill. Sukarno had made two requests for his Canadian trip: a chance to speak to Parliament (as he was doing with the US Congress) and an honourary degree. After plans for a degree from the Université de Montréal fell through, McGill’s Honourary Degree Committee gave in to Ottawa’s request and offered a “lukewarm” invitation.66 The government initially refused to let Sukarno address Parliament on the grounds that it was not a Canadian tradition for state visitors, but after urging from Heasman to put out the “red carpet” to compete with the parades that Sukarno would see in the USSR and China, Pearson was able to obtain St. Laurent’s consent.67 With the controversial debate over government plans for a trans-Canada oil pipeline keeping parliamentarians sitting late into the night, the best that could be done was to convene a special morning sitting of both houses to hear Sukarno deliver a thirty-five-minute oration. Sukarno struck a very similar note to the one he hit in Washington, but he also Canadianized his address by delivering part of it in French and by referring to Canadian rather than American history. Canada and Indonesia had much in common, he said: “Ce sont les voeux d’un peuple ami dont les idéaux et les intérêts sont presques identiques aux vôtres.” He praised the Colombo Plan as an “example of the brotherhood of nations and the interdependence of mankind,” but


Figure 3. Dr. Sukarno, President of Indonesia, visits a French-Canadian family, Montreal, Quebec, June 1956. Photo courtesy of Gar Lunney, National Film Board of Canada, LAC, Photothèque collection, PA-169516

hastened to add that no amount of aid could buy “one scrap of our independence.” He compared Indonesia to Canada under Wilfrid Laurier, who had claimed for his country the right to act or not to act as it saw fit.68 The speech was a hit, with breathless press reports of unusual standing ovations. One syndicated columnist praised Sukarno’s “straight-from-theshoulder talk on the aspirations of Asian nationalism and the importance to the modern democratic world of co-operating with it.” The Montreal Star welcomed his “refreshing frankness.” Le Droit picked up on his assertion of similarity between Canada and Indonesia, concurring that “l’Indonésie poursuit les mêmes objectifs que nous.” The Regina Leader Post made the same implicit reference to Sukarno as an anti-communist leader, a “dynamic symbol of his ancient people now organizing themselves to champion the cause of freedom in the very area in which it is most threatened.”69 The tone

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Figure 4. President Sukarno and Prime Minister St. Laurent at the Parliament Buildings, Ottawa, Ontario, June 1956. Photo courtesy of Gar Lunney, LAC, PA-203024

of the press coverage reflected a Canadian diplomatic self-image that differed from that of the United States. “Canadians tend to look with sympathy across the sea,” the London Free Press editorialized. “Some of our allies take a harsher view.” In the Vancouver Sun, Elmore Philpott had kind words for Sukarno and for Canada’s professed sympathy for Asia. He welcomed signs that the United States was following Canada’s lead, abandoning its “foolish and even childish” attitude of “hatred and contempt” for neutralism.70 The Halifax Chronicle-Herald reflected most clearly on what Sukarno’s visit said about Canada’s role in the world:


[T]he odiousness which attaches in the eastern mind to the great powers of the West does not attach to Canada, which on all hands is regarded – and especially by the smaller Eastern nations – as a country with no territorial or imperial axe to grind, and therefore as a country which can be depended upon to take some sort of objective view of the aspirations of smaller and newer countries. Eastern countries tend to see in the history of Canada’s gradual and peaceful growth to independence and national maturity an earnest of what they can achieve, given the time and the opportunity.71

Canadian officials hoped that their showcasing of recent industrialization and rapid growth would help convince Sukarno of the virtues of Canada as a development model, as well as convince him of the merits of Western democracy and even dispel some of his fears about foreign investment. There was even some thought among Canadian officials that Indonesia might become as important an Asian priority for Canada as India. There, High Commissioner Escott Reid’s talk of a “special relationship” was fraying as the two countries’ diplomats failed to work well together well on the Indochina supervisory commissions. When Reid in 1956 argued that India was “the key to non-Communist Asia” and “more important to us than fifty South Africas or Portugals,” External Affairs officials were skeptical. The UN Division questioned India’s “moral firmness and capacity for international leadership” and pointed to Canadian efforts to influence Indonesia in particular “to develop a sense of confidence and responsibility.” The American Division recalled Canadian criticisms of US policy for relying too heavily on leaders like Syngman Rhee in South Korea and Ngo Dinh Diem in South Vietnam and warned against a similar Canadian fixation on Nehru. The Far Eastern Division called for a multipolar approach to all of noncommunist Asia and suggested that overconcentration on saving India from communism would be misplaced: “Obviously, if Indonesia becomes communist the position of the remaining states of Southeast Asia becomes extremely hazardous.”72 For all this, the prospect of making Indonesia Canada’s main Asian priority was never likely to bear fruit. For all Sukarno’s friendly words, his Canadian visit did nothing to convince him of the merits of parliamentary democracy, still less federalism. Indeed, St. Laurent’s biographer blamed the raucous pipeline debate for turning an already skeptical Sukarno away from parliamentary democracy altogether. 73 On his return from subsequent visits to the Soviet Union and China, he began to emphasize the flaws of majoritarian democracy. Once more, Canadian hopes turned to disillusionment. Aid Planning Amidst Regime Shifts Both Canada and Indonesia experienced changes of government beginning in 1957. Aid was the main venue for bilateral relations, but very little had

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been provided except technical training by the time John Diefenbaker’s Conservatives took power in 1957. Campaigning as an “evangelistic reformer thundering from the platform as from the pulpit,” Diefenbaker toppled St. Laurent in June 1957 to win a minority government.74 The following year he shattered the Liberals’ hopes for a comeback under their new leader, Lester Pearson, winning the largest majority in Canadian electoral history to date. His success revived the nationalist appeal of earlier Conservatives, who had won elections with calls to rally around the flag – an emblem both British and Canadian. Diefenbaker made no radical changes to Canadian foreign policy. His government appealed to fears about the erosion of Canada’s British identity, but it did not wallow in nostalgia. Instead, there were renewed Canadian efforts to breathe life into the new and larger Commonwealth. In Southeast Asia, that meant forging new links with Malaya, which became the tenth Commonwealth member in 1957. Trade moved more to the centre of aid policy. Canadians continued to offer their country as a model for economic development. Diefenbaker, for instance, recalled the days when Canada had “depended heavily on agriculture and other primary industries” and pointed out that others had helped Canada develop: “We can show our appreciation for the help we, ourselves, received in the early days of nationbuilding by now providing similar help to other countries.”75 The Commonwealth connection made the Colombo Plan gleam for Diefenbaker. Here was a chance to breathe new life into an organization whose fabric had been torn by Suez and strained by an expanding membership. Diefenbaker praised the plan as both “a unique and exciting experiment devoted to the welfare of humanity” and “an indication of the important and useful part which the Commonwealth can [play] in international affairs.”76 Within months of taking power, the new Cabinet increased Colombo Plan funding to $35 million annually, soon upping that to $50 million. This was not pure altruism, nor was it Commonwealth-driven sentiment: the government believed it would help boost trade as an economic downturn set in. In Diefenbaker’s words, aid helped the donor by “creating and expanding markets.”77 Howard Green, Diefenbaker’s second Secretary of State for External Affairs, noted that Canada depended on exports for 20 percent of its income – the highest percentage of any country. Consequently, he told the Canadian Exporters’ Association, “no nation has a greater interest in the maximum growth and freedom of international commerce than ours. Unless, in fact, we continue to develop our sales in world markets, our relatively high standard of living must inevitably fall.” The Colombo Plan paid dividends. Economically, it was creating stronger trading partners for Canada. Politically, it was helping create “the tremendous fund of good-will towards Canada which exists among the countries of Africa and Asia.” Green’s comments signalled that aid would be harnessed to the government’s overall trade policy goal, which was to boost Canadian exports – by, for example,


enhancing the role of the Trade Commissioner Service, establishing an Export Finance Corporation, expanding the scope of the existing Export Credits Insurance Corporation, and pegging the dollar at ninety-two-and-a-half cents US.78 One journalist called Green, a Vancouver MP who had been one of the bitterest critics of Pearson’s failure to back Britain during the Suez crisis, “a man who stalked the halls of Parliament Hill with a Bible in one hand and a stiletto in the other.”79 On taking office, Green knew little about foreign relations – he had not left North America in forty years. Still, he had clout in the party, was close to Diefenbaker, and gave firm political leadership to the Department of External Affairs. Though he was interested in foreign aid, Green narrowed the priorities of Canadian foreign policy so that it focused tightly on the Commonwealth and the North Atlantic world. In addition, foreign policy would be used to serve the government’s domestic political needs. Thus, while the Conservatives increased Colombo Plan aid, they adjusted their specific contributions in order to help prairie farmers sell their wheat. In doing so, they overrode the strong objections of the civil servants who had been setting the direction of aid policy under the St. Laurent government. These officials, scattered among several departments and including some of the top mandarins, resisted the new government’s plans to make food aid a permanent fixture of the Colombo Plan. They also pushed for aid to be extended to non-Commonwealth countries. But Diefenbaker suspected these “Pearsonalities” of plotting to bring the Liberals back to power, and Cabinet ignored their pleas.80 Non-Commonwealth countries in Asia, with a few early exceptions, received nothing but Canadian wheat from the Diefenbaker government. Canada had enjoyed a postwar boom in wheat exports, one that the St. Laurent government welcomed as a spur to growth. Canadian exports to Indonesia, for instance, peaked at $6.25 million in 1952. But gradually, unsold wheat surpluses began to pile up. The United States passed the billionbushel mark in unsold wheat in 1955, and Canada followed suit in 1957. Canada depended heavily on the world market: one-third of Canadian farm income depended on exports, compared to one-sixth for the United States. In 1954, amidst falling world food prices, the Americans moved toward disposing of their surpluses in the form of foreign aid.81 The Diefenbaker government responded by making surplus commodities, especially wheat, the centrepiece of new Colombo Plan aid. “We have so much wheat in Canada we don’t know what to do with it,” Diefenbaker said in a 1958 speech in Malaya. Visiting Colombo, he referred to Canada’s “tremendous surplus” in wheat and said that Canada’s government “will naturally be hoping if not expecting that Colombo Plan countries will take a larger share of our wheat and flour.” Wheat swiftly moved to the centre of Canada’s Colombo Plan grants.82 Diefenbaker’s urgency was rooted in heavy pressure from the

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farm lobby. When Cabinet approved the Colombo Plan grant increase from $35 million to $50 million a year, $12.5 million was taken up by government purchases of wheat for shipment as food aid. Diefenbaker even issued veiled threats on his 1958 Asian tour, telling his hosts that it would be hard to explain new Colombo Plan spending to Canadians if it did not lead to more wheat exports, especially at a time of budget and foreign-exchange deficits and high unemployment.83 Indonesia, too, was driven by its place in the global economy. Decolonization seemed incomplete both territorially, with the Dutch still in West New Guinea, and economically, given special Dutch economic privileges in Indonesia. In December 1957, an Indonesian resolution on West New Guinea failed to gain two-thirds support at the UN. Militant Indonesian trade unions reacted by seizing control of most Dutch businesses. The government moved swiftly to control the situation by transforming the seized companies into state corporations run by the army, which thereby gained a powerful source of funds as well as a stake in economic growth. With the seizures, Indonesia had completed its economic decolonization; at the same time, though, this move sounded the death knell for co-operation with the former colonizer. The 1957 economic actions were even more significant in their effects on the Indonesian economy. Output fell by at least 12 percent, the Canadian embassy reported, while a deficit forecast at Rp. 2.4 billion ballooned to at least Rp. 9.7 billion. The loss of Dutch managerial expertise in particular spelled “manifold catastrophe” because it would be that much harder to implement development plans. In the longer term, embassy staff worried about the effect on Canadian trade; prospects in that regard were soon judged so poor that Canada withdrew its resident trade commissioner.84 The Dutch government angrily demanded compensation. NATO heads of government noted events in Indonesia “with concern,” but only France agreed to join the Dutch protests.85 In Indonesia, the battle between those who stressed orderly economic development and advocates of a “national economy” reached new heights. Bank of Indonesia governor Sjafruddin Prawiranegara resigned in protest, and Prime Minister Ali Sastroamijoyo’s government fell. Sukarno declared it time for Indonesia to “return to the rails of revolution,” to a time when Indonesians had been united.86 But he also made a nod to economic development by naming planning chief Djuanda Kartawidjaja as prime minister in a new extra-parliamentary cabinet. Within two years the new system would be formalized as “guided democracy.” Relations under the St. Laurent government had been with an Indonesia governed by parliamentary democracy; the Diefenbaker government now faced a regime dominated by Sukarno. Plans for aid to Indonesia had not advanced far under St. Laurent, despite increasing Indonesian acceptance of the Colombo Plan. Even a “solidarity maker” like Ruslan Abdulgani, foreign minister in Ali’s second cabinet,


favoured aid and offered particular praise for Canada, calling it somewhat misleadingly “the major [terpenting] contributor to the Colombo Plan.”87 In fact, Canadian aid to Indonesia had initially been confined to technical training. In the early years of the program, Indonesians ranked second only to Indian students among those coming to Canada to study. A handful of Canadian experts went to Indonesia under the Colombo Plan. The largest group helped staff the Indonesian Civil Air Academy, opened in 1952 by the Montreal-based International Civil Aviation Organization (ICAO). Ottawa considered funding an aerial survey of Indonesia’s natural resources as well as a science school, but the only capital-aid project in place by 1957 was $400 budgeted to buy technical books for a cement plant.88 During the last months of the St. Laurent government and the early months of Diefenbaker’s tenure, planners identified two main potential aid projects. Both fit well with the preference for projects that followed Canadian development models and that drew on Canadian development expertise. One was airport communications equipment for Kemayoran airport in Jakarta. As a project backed by the ICAO mission (which employed three Canadian technicians on the ground and had more on the way), this request commanded respect.89 The other was road-building equipment for North Sulawesi, which could help get copra exports to markets. North Sulawesi was the home province of L.N. Palar, the prominent Indonesian diplomat now serving as Ambassador to Canada. External Affairs called him an “able and discerning man ... greatly disturbed by the emergence of the Communist party as the largest party on the island of Java.” Palar enlisted the support of Prime Minister Djuanda and Foreign Minister Subandrio for the road-building request. “He emphasizes continually that the critical time for Indonesia is now,” Colombo Plan administrator Nik Cavell wrote, “and that even if some of his people could be given some foreign aid it would get into their newspapers and give them the impression that the Western world had not forgotten them – such thoughts have obvious connotations.”90 Aid consideration for Indonesia was part of planning for aid to nonCommonwealth countries, which previously had been given short shrift in Canada’s Colombo Plan. By 1957, aid officials were ready to recommend $600,000 each for Indonesia and Burma, with another $50,000 for Cambodia. Of the grants to Indonesia, they proposed $250,000 for the Jakarta airport and $350,000 for Sulawesi road-building equipment.91 When Indonesia took over Dutch businesses in December, officials delayed making their recommendations “until the dust has settled,” seeing little chance of cabinet approval for aid for Sukarno’s regime while it was at odds with the country’s best-known anti-communist leaders. Ottawa settled on a policy of indefinite stalling as Indonesia moved towards civil war.92 In February 1958, the anti-Sukarno faction rose in rebellion by declaring the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (Pemerintah

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Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, PRRI) in Bukittinggi, the capital of West Sumatra. This was not a separatist movement, but an effort to change the direction of the Indonesian state. Though Sjafruddin was named president, it was dissident colonels who were calling the shots. Sjafruddin described himself “as a non-communist, or may I even say as an anti-communist,” and he sang the virtues of foreign investment. Unsurprisingly, then, the rebels, selling themselves as the best weapon against Indonesia’s drift to the left, gained the covert support of the top levels of government in the United States, Britain, and Australia.93 The rebels, however, had no plans to fight. Instead they hoped to control the main export areas and thus some threequarters of Indonesia’s normal foreign-exchange reserves, thereby pushing the central government to the point of economic collapse. When the national army struck back, it was able to quickly reduce the PRRI to guerilla warfare in the jungles of Sumatra. It took a little longer to reconquer Sulawesi, where rebels were backed by American and Taiwanese air power operating from bases in the Philippines.94 American, British, and Australian officials did not at first share their plans with their Canadian counterparts. In Ottawa, officials continued to operate from their own interpretation of the best interests of the West, hewing to the Colombo Plan paradigm of aid to non-communist governments. Where the Americans saw looming communism, the Canadian Embassy welcomed Colombo Plan veteran Djuanda and his “business cabinet” featuring “people with actual technical ability.” Indonesians were outraged at the United States and at neighbours who backed the rebellion; in contrast, the biggest complaint levelled against Canada was the hostile tone of coverage by one reporter.95 Divergent Canadian and Australian assumptions shone through when Ford Canada applied for a permit from the Canadian government to sell trucks to the Indonesian army. A routine request for views was sent to the Australian Cabinet, which responded by pleading for a delay so that no strength would be lent to Jakarta. External Affairs reported this with some surprise: To the extent that we had considered that these trucks might have some influence on developments within Indonesia we had for our part regarded it as important to ensure that the trucks would in fact remain under the control of the central government; otherwise our release of this might encourage dissident groups to undertake (or assist them in undertaking) armed revolt ... To act otherwise could be interpreted as giving tacit support to the opponents of the central government, and surely would tend sooner or later to drive the government further towards the Communists and hence render substantially less likely a stabilization of the situation on terms reconcilable with western interests.96


Canadian officials, out of the loop regarding their allies’ efforts to topple Sukarno, urged the restoration of full aid, arguing that it could “strengthen the position of the political moderates in Djakarta at this particular time if a Western nation, like Canada, were to announce its willingness to proceed with a capital assistance programme.” But Diefenbaker was not keen on any aid to non-Commonwealth countries, especially Indonesia, which might be “turning to communism.” Reportedly, Australia’s Foreign Minister Casey had “scared the PM on this front.”97 Seeing the United States, Britain, and Australia as caught in a counterproductive policy of covert warfare, Canadian officials began to consider quietly intervening to support moderates in Washington and elsewhere. “I realize that it is not for us to take the initiative on Indonesia,” John Holmes wrote, “but I wonder if we could not prod our NATO colleagues into revising an attitude towards Indonesia that is quite clearly accelerating the drift to catastrophe.”98 The thinking in External Affairs was that Canada might soon have to jump in and counsel moderation, to once again save an ally from its own overreaching folly. In May 1958, Ottawa instructed Canadian missions in London and Washington to stress the “danger that resentment against alleged ‘foreign interference’ may inflame anti-Western feeling in Indonesia and may force the moderates in the Djakarta Government to adopt a more extreme position.” The US government was already beginning its shift to a new position. Assistant Secretary of State Walter Robertson, previously a pro-rebel hard-liner, agreed with Canada’s ambassador that given rebel reverses, a change was needed: “If Indonesia is to be saved from the Communists, if Sukarno is to be stopped, it has to be done by forces within the Government.”99 The Eisenhower administration had decided that Asian nationalism was, after all, a source of strength in resisting communism, even if nationalist governments took a non-aligned posture. “We do not object to ‘neutrality,’” Walter Robertson told the Indonesian ambassador, “but we do object to ‘neutralism.’”100 The rebellion divided Indonesia and set back its economic progress. But at the same time, the elimination of dissident elements as a national force, and the demonstrated ability of the Sukarno regime to assert its power, strengthened the central government. The army emerged more powerful than before. So, however, did the PKI, which had remained loyal to the central government and had shown a cohesion that no other party could match. In July 1959, Sukarno acceded to army urging and announced “guided democracy.” Western diplomats saw a step toward a more authoritarian state, yet at the same time their reports showed a grudging respect for Sukarno. The Canadian ambassador, Theodore Newton, wrote of “a vision and shrewdness which should not be discounted, and a stubborn tenacity which could not be denied.”101 At the same time, the unilateral seizure of Dutch businesses

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was contributing to the growing image of Indonesia as an untrustworthy troublemaker. All of this shaped Canadian thinking on aid. Both in moving wheat to the centre of Colombo Plan aid and in concentrating on the Commonwealth, the Diefenbaker cabinet was overturning policies that had been developed by the powerful civil service during the years of Liberal government. One official wrote that it might be a mistake to confine non-food aid to Commonwealth countries, “neglecting in the process, for example, such a good friend of Canada as Premier Djuanda of Indonesia, who was I think greatly impressed with what he saw when as a mere official he was in Ottawa, Arvida and elsewhere during the Colombo Plan meeting in 1954.”102 Non-Commonwealth countries had received only 0.75 percent of Canada’s Colombo Plan aid; they had been led to expect more. At a time when all were under communist pressure, officials argued, it was vital to press on with capital aid. Holmes put the case most passionately: “It would have a most unfortunate effect on our position in Asia if our economic and technical aid were to be restricted to the Commonwealth. The uncommitted countries of Asia have come to look to us in the U.N. as an understanding friend and this is one of those strong elements in our international diplomacy. Our assistance in these countries is not large but the effect of withdrawing it would be large.”103 This case made no headway in Cabinet, which would agree only to reserve some food aid for the non-Commonwealth countries. The first shipment of wheat flour to Indonesia under the Colombo Plan, valued at $500,000, left on three ships from Vancouver in October and November 1959. Without these subsidized exports, Canada would have made no wheat sales of any sort to Indonesia. The Diefenbaker government approved only one other capital-aid project: $400,000 to finance the export of DeHavilland Otter aircraft, a move with its own commercial implications (see Chapter 4). The biggest winner in aid allocations was Malaya. Diefenbaker admired that country’s resistance to an internal communist rebellion and thought that “if Malaya goes, everything goes.” Thus Cabinet in 1959 awarded this relatively well-off country $1.8 million, while granting much larger and poorer Indonesia half that amount. The total for all non-Commonwealth countries combined was slashed from $2 million to $1.5 million. The following year, External Affairs recommended that Malaya’s share be cut to $1 million, but Cabinet ordered that Malaya aid be doubled.104 The Diefenbaker government was clear where its aid priorities lay: India and Pakistan first, Ceylon and Malaya next, and only scraps for the rest. Diefenbaker Visits Indonesia and Malaya Canadian policy-makers by the Diefenbaker years were dividing Asian countries into two groups. In the first group were those that had taken the


evolutionary path to independence, often within the Commonwealth. They remained loyal to parliamentary institutions, which were the association’s bonding glue now that common allegiance to the Crown was vanishing. In the second group were states that preferred leftist, self-reliance-driven strategies, issued strident denunciations of colonialism while downplaying Soviet misdeeds, experimented with extra-parliamentary systems, and resorted to unilateral nationalizations. In short, those states most like Canada deserved sympathy and support; the others merited tolerance at best. Neighbours Malaya and Indonesia exemplified the division. The departmental monthly External Affairs, for instance, praised “the rewarding result of an inspiring human experience, that of nation building” in Malaya, which “illustrates once more the vitality and constructiveness of democratic institutions and confirms the flexibility of the federal form of government.” The same issue lamented the troubles of Indonesia, which was suffering from sectionalism “aggravated by a unitary rather than a federal structure of government.”105 The Diefenbaker government gave higher priority to Malaya – a shift exemplified when it overturned Pearson’s decision not to name a resident High Commissioner in Kuala Lumpur. Ignoring External Affairs’ thinking that Saigon and Rangoon were higher priorities for new missions than Kuala Lumpur, the Diefenbaker cabinet decided that Canada would not go unrepresented in the capital of the newest Commonwealth member. The Malaya post went to Arthur Menzies, a consummate insider as head of the Far Eastern Division. He quickly praised the new government for having “a freshly minted, faintly green but modestly constructive appearance.” In Jakarta, Ambassador Newton was spared the prospect of dual accreditation to Indonesia and Malaya both, but made a point of taking morning coffee daily with the Malayan ambassador next door.106 The best illustration of the contrast between “constructive” Malaya and “troublesome” Indonesia came during Diefenbaker’s 1958 world tour. In 1954, St. Laurent had selected Britain, France, Germany, the Vatican, Pakistan, India, Ceylon, Indonesia, the Philippines, Korea, and Japan as the itinerary for his world tour, with a deliberate decision to make India the centrepiece of the journey. Diefenbaker used that trip as a template for his own foray but insisted that he would travel only to NATO and Commonwealth countries. He refused, for instance, to visit the truce commission in Saigon as St. Laurent had visited the troops in Korea.107 He inscribed his government’s priorities through the course of his journey. Stops in Britain, France, Germany, Italy, and the Vatican followed in St. Laurent’s footsteps. So did the South Asian leg: Pakistan, India, and Ceylon. But except for a grudging two-hour stopover in Jakarta, he eliminated non-Commonwealth countries in the Colombo Plan area in favour of Malaya, Australia, and New Zealand. During a four-day visit to Malaya, Diefenbaker attended a cabinet meeting, met the full range of national leaders, toured tin and rubber operations, and

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went fishing with the prime minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman (known almost universally by his title of nobility, the Tunku). As “the kind of courteous conservative with whom the British had always felt able to do business,” the Tunku had many friends in London.108 Diefenbaker found him equally congenial. During a one-hour Malayan cabinet meeting laid on for Diefenbaker’s benefit, the Tunku noted that “Malaya felt isolated as the only one genuinely practicing parliamentary democracy in Southeast Asia” and agreed to Diefenbaker’s request that he formally announce Malaya’s removal of restrictions on imports from dollar countries during his visit. Diefenbaker reciprocated by announcing $500,000 in Canadian aid while expressing his conviction that “here in Asia the Commonwealth has a vital appointment with destiny.” Malaya was for him “an experiment for other nations to see what can be achieved under our system of government and democracy.”109 Diefenbaker enthused about the country in a CBC broadcast: “In Malaya, we saw at first hand the struggle of the little nations of Asia against communism being waged on a still active fighting front. This is one of the vital battlegrounds of the drive of international communism for the hearts and minds of the Asians. Malaya seems a long way off to most of us, but I can assure you that the results of the struggle now going on in Malaya will affect the lives of Canadians for many years to come.”110 By contrast, Diefenbaker had resisted Indonesian government pressure to visit. His wish to ignore Indonesia clashed with lingering Canadian hopes for useful bilateral relations. But flying over Indonesian airspace en route from Malaya to Australia without stopping might cause offence, so he finally agreed to an Indonesian suggestion that he stop long enough to refuel in Jakarta. He refused to stay for lunch, even with Sukarno, but he was willing to grudgingly drive into town for “a brief but vigorous pow-wow” with Prime Minister Djuanda and Foreign Ministry officials. An unimpressed Sukarno opted for a rest cure in Bali. Russ McKinney, First Secretary at the Jakarta Embassy, was to have briefed Diefenbaker on the flight from Singapore, but this was cut to a few minutes when the prime minister decided to take a nap. Diefenbaker spent much of his hour-long talk with Djuanda on topic of communism, the remainder on a paean to Canada’s “open door” policy on foreign investment. “United States capital,” he said, “was not as avaricious as it was made out to be in other parts of the world; otherwise Canada could not have survived as an independent state and he had no worries whatsoever about Canadian survival even with an extremely liberal policy towards foreign investment.”111 Canadian policy-makers’ overall image of Indonesia remained negative. They remembered it for the seizure of Dutch businesses, which recalled Egypt’s nationalization of the Suez Canal; for sabre-rattling over West New Guinea; and for fiery denunciations of Canada’s “imperialist” allies. Malaya was the opposite: “moderate,” pro-Western, with a more “responsible”


form of anti-colonialism. It rejected not only communism but also nonalignment. “The Federation of Malaya does not belong to this neutral category,” the Tunku declared on a 1960 visit to Ottawa. “Malaya has a policy which is independent, and it is certainly not neutral. We know which side we are on; we belong to the Free World.” He also spoke in terms that validated the Colombo Plan’s premises: “It is our argument that if we uplift the standard of living in Malaya we are providing the best possible answer to the insidious threat of Communism.”112 Malaya became Canada’s chosen partner in Southeast Asia, a role for which policy-makers had originally cast Indonesia. During the decolonization of Indonesia, the Canadian government’s approach had implicitly preferred orderly and gradual decolonization, much like Canada’s own. When looking at issues of international aid and development, the St. Laurent and Diefenbaker governments once again drew on the country’s own experience, proposing Canadian-style economic development as a path that Asian countries might follow. They offered aid mainly in areas of Canadian specialization, of the sort that would further Canada’s own economic development. Aid travelled through a Commonwealth aid scheme designed to wage the Cold War with non-military weapons and to create a firm bridge between the West and Asia. By the end of Diefenbaker’s government in 1963, Canada had spent $423.3 million over a dozen years on the Colombo Plan. Of that amount, 48 percent went to capital-aid projects, an equal percentage for food and other commodities. Technical training accounted for the remaining 4 percent. When $175 million in special wheat grants, loans, and credits to India and Pakistan outside the regular plan contribution was added, commodity aid was far and away the largest chunk of Canadian spending. Nor was Canada a world leader in amounts spent. A decade after the Colombo Plan’s launch, 90 percent of global aid still came from just three countries: the United States, Britain, and France. Canada stood eighth among the fourteen Western donors at 1.57 percent of the total. As a percentage of GNP, Canada ranked tenth at 0.19 percent – well behind states such as France, West Germany, and the United States, which were above 0.7 percent, the goal set later by Lester Pearson’s Partners in Development report. Here was no bridge-building trailblazer, but a cautious donor following the strategic goals of its allies.113 Canadian aid held up a mirror to Canadians that showed them what they wished to see. This selfimage often had little to do with how aid recipients saw Canada. The aid program emerged from the Diefenbaker years less humanitarian then ever, even while the myth of Canada as leader in humanitarian-aid donations continued to grow. Howard Green declared Canadian relations with Indonesia “excellent,” citing development support as an important aspect of Canada’s good relations with all of non-communist Asia. Yet Canadian aid to Indonesia was

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insubstantial, and there was little evidence of Indonesian warmth toward Canada.114 Green and others exaggerated the closeness of relations, internalizing the idea of Canada as a peaceful donor with special ties to less developed countries. In fact, Canadian sympathy for Asia was becoming increasingly selective, turning to those countries most willing to follow the Western development model. There had been high expectations for Canadian relations with Indonesia, but the drift was in the opposite direction. Sukarno’s 1956 visit, ignoring as it did the usual diplomatic meetings in favour of a public-relations offensive, illustrated the fact that interactions between Canada and Indonesia were not only at the level of government-to-government contacts. If relations were dominated by Colombo Plan aid, this implied that the people involved in aid programs were participants in the making of a bilateral relationship. The Canadian government was simply one partner with non-governmental organizations in this endeavour.

3 Non-state Networks and Modernizing Elites in the Sukarno Years

With government-to-government relations limited, non-state diplomats forged the most lasting Canada-Indonesia links in the 1950s. The years of Sukarno’s “guided democracy” are generally portrayed as dark times for Western influence and investment. In many ways they were: Indonesians preaching Western-style development were out of power, tainted and marginalized by association with rebellion. Yet they did not vanish altogether. After the fall of Sukarno in 1965-66, they re-emerged as a modernizing elite that set the country back on the developmentalist path identified in the early 1950s. During the “guided democracy” years, modernizers committed to developmentalist policies and closer relations with the West built up their strength for the post-Sukarno years. Three modernizing groups proved crucial: Western-trained economists, Islamic modernizers, and the senior ranks of the army. Canadians working in North American non-governmental networks helped train and foster modernizing elites among economists and Islamic leaders; these people in turn would work with the post-Sukarno military regime. Canadian economic planning advisers and Islamic Studies teachers did not set out to change Indonesia. They tended to think of themselves as global citizens trying to build a new world through economic development or through understanding across religious divides. Their activities were in a very real sense diplomacy carried out by individuals – a means to develop relations between Canada and Indonesia through non-governmental networks. Even so, these activities did not exist autonomously from state strategies. Broadly speaking, the Canadian government hoped to support the growth and development of non-communist states in Asia. The Canadian experts who advised Indonesia’s National Planning Bureau and the religious scholars who trained Indonesian counterparts at McGill University’s Institute of Islamic Studies developed links that dovetailed with that Canadian government strategy. Although not working for the Canadian government directly, they served as modernizing agents in tune with Canada’s Cold War goals.

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Canadians, the United Nations, and the Indonesian National Planning Bureau Canadian governments shied away from large-scale aid to Indonesia. The most important economic connection between the two countries came in the form of Canadians assigned to advise Indonesia’s State Planning Bureau (Biro Perantjang Negara, more commonly translated as National Planning Bureau). Of the nine foreign experts who formed the bureau’s starting lineup, four had connections to Canada. McGill professor Benjamin Higgins made his career as a pioneer in the field of international-development economics. Nathan Keyfitz was an analyst at the Dominion Bureau of Statistics who went on to head the Colombo Plan Bureau before serving out his career as a demographer. Douglas Maxwell Deane, nominated by Higgins, spent the second world war working in Ottawa before moving to Switzerland; with Keyfitz he helped plan Indonesia’s “transmigration” program. André Brichant, another former colleague of Higgins, was a Belgian national with Canadian residence who advised on mining policy and onetime Indonesian government lobbyist to Canada. They had overlapping loyalties to their own country, to the country they advised, and to the UN as a global institution. The product of their advice was Indonesia’s first Five-Year Plan, which was based on a model of economic development in the Western image, modified by Keynesian ideas about the role of state planning. This document set the broad direction for all future Indonesian economic planning.1 The director of Canada’s External Aid Office would point out in 1963 that “the right Canadian in a developing country can acquire a position of tremendous influence; he can virtually become an ex officio member of the cabinet.”2 No Canadian government official ever attained this status in Indonesia, but in the formative years of Indonesia’s independence, two Canadians did reach it within economic-planning circles. Higgins and to a lesser extent Keyfitz played vital roles in designing the Indonesian economy and defining its position in the world economy. Long before the term became fashionable, they were nation builders, part of an overall UN-centred program grounded in the belief that foreign experts would be able to help newly independent countries achieve economic progress. Indonesian development planning began under the direction of Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, at the time the only Indonesian with a Ph.D. in economics. Soemitro was born into a prominent Javanese family, received his doctorate in 1943 in Rotterdam, and returned to Indonesia in 1945 to edit Berita Perekonomian (Economic News) in 1946. He quickly became an assistant in the republic’s Finance Ministry as well as in Prime Minister Sjahrir’s office, but his main revolutionary role lay in financing the independence campaign as head of the republic’s Foreign Trade Office in New York. As the first Indonesian chargé d’affaires in Washington, he negotiated a US$100 million loan in 1950. The following year he became Trade Minister; in two subsequent

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cabinets he would serve as Finance Minister.3 He held those posts partly for his economic expertise, partly as representative of Sjahrir’s small but influential Indonesian Socialist Party (PSI). Soemitro proved an able representative of the PSI and of Sjahrir’s pragmatic commitment to an Indonesia open to Western influence and investment. Despite its name, the PSI was the most pro-Western party in Indonesia, the prototypical administrator party, lacking in public support but influential because of the intellectual stature of its leaders. As Herbert Feith wrote, its “policy orientation contained less of Marxism than of Fabianism. Its emphasis was on modernization, economic development, and rational planning and organization.” It contained “some of the best administrative talent in the country,” according to the Canadian Embassy. Thus it exerted a strong influence over non-party members of Cabinet and over the much larger Masyumi Party.4 In April 1951, Soemitro approved a Rencana Urjensi (Economic Emergency Plan) that reflected Keynesian economic thinking in its continued adherence to capitalist models, modified by state involvement in the economy. The government was to control vital and strategic large-scale industries and prime the pump for the development of indigenous capital. Small and mediumsized enterprises were reserved for the private sector; however, foreign investors were welcome in those large industries defined as non-strategic, and foreign aid was welcome. Under the Indonesian tax structure, more than one-third of government revenues were derived from export and import duties. Thus the end of the Korean War boom delivered a double hit both to the export-driven economy and to government income. As a consequence, the plan fell short of its targets. By 1952, Soemitro was calling for tough austerity measures and careful planning to increase production. “It is high time that we stop wandering in clouds of illusions and in beautiful dreams of a far-away paradise,” he said in one national radio broadcast.”5 Under Soemitro’s influence the parliamentary governments of the early 1950s embraced the call for foreign experts. That coincided with Western perceptions about what was needed. As one reporter wrote, with remarkable yet typical condescension: “Talking with these eager nationalists, one wonders: are the Javanese too charming to succeed? For theirs is the charm of innocence: they are so youthful, so disarmingly apprentice, above all, so naive. Running a country seems too grown-up a job ... The world needs an Indonesian success as much as the Indonesians themselves – these charming, cheerful people whose faces seem uncomfortable when they are without a smile. Can the West offer technical, advisory aid as well as economic? And can the Indonesians be persuaded to accept it? The alternative could be a second Burma.”6 In other words, Indonesia left to its own devices might quickly become what is now called a “failed state,” torn apart by internal divisions and disorder, just as Burma had been following its own independence. The young

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innocents governing Indonesia were, from this perspective, essentially wards of the more developed countries. Lester Pearson was not alone when he called Indonesia the “first child of the United Nations.”7 As parent, the UN took on a special responsibility to tutor its Indonesian child. Two UN agencies, the Technical Assistance Administration (TAA) and the Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE), sent exploratory missions following Jakarta’s 1950 request for technical assistance.8 The UN Technical Assistance Mission in Indonesia (UNTAMI) took over the facilities and staff left by the UN Commission on Indonesia (UNCI), which had been created to oversee the transition to political independence. UNTAMI saw its role as finishing that job in the economic sphere. UN technical assistance was in the hands of a group of international civil servants in New York, who were influenced by Keynesianism and the socialdemocratic ideals of the British Fabian Society, as well as an ever-changing array of short-term “experts” deployed in the field. Most of these experts shared a belief in the efficacy of technical aid, the need for economic growth to provide development, and the near-universal applicability of lessons from one country’s experiences to others. The first TAA director was Hugh Keenleyside, a prominent Canadian civil servant with extensive experience in both foreign affairs and Canadian economic development. Keenleyside had headed a technical-assistance mission to Bolivia that ultimately provided the seeds for the TAA idea. Though he had served a Liberal government in wartime Ottawa, Keenleyside was a social democrat and a planner, one who thought that technical assistance could be “the finest and highest of public concepts.”9 The same could be said of his director of operations, the British economist George Cadbury, who joined the TAA after heading the powerful planning board created in 1945 by the new Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) government in Saskatchewan. That government relied heavily on a doctrine of social-democratic planning. Faced with the challenge of economic growth in an agrarian economy, the Saskatchewan CCF compromised on its socialist aims and accepted foreign private investment in resource development – especially in the northern regions of the province, where its development goals showed limited sensitivity to local conditions or peoples. The TAA was no carbon copy of the Saskatchewan planning board, but it would be pursuing a similar development philosophy on a global scale. There were also parallels between Saskatchewan and Indonesian development challenges. As Cadbury wrote, “we live in a world where the rights of individually owned property are the normal determinant of industrial discretion, and the so called laws of supply and demand are left to regulate our affairs.” Thus Saskatchewan’s efforts to build a socialist economy had to “be measured in part by the current criteria of the capitalist world in which it lives.” The same logic about living in the “sphere of influence of Anglo-Saxon capitalism and imperialism,” in Indonesian Socialist Party


leader Sjahrir’s words, also dictated Indonesian development strategies. PSI policies were “remarkably similar” to those being developed by the national CCF in the same period, according to former CCF national chairman Frank Scott, who examined them while himself serving as a UN technical adviser in Burma.10 A disproportionately large number of Canadians become technical advisers, heeding the TAA’s call to service. By 1955, the UN had 431 experts spread across Asia, almost three-quarters of them advising on economic development, and was providing “catalytic agents” to the planning boards of nine countries.11 There was a powerful faith that they could quickly deliver the answers needed for economic growth. Both Indonesian and American officials, for example, argued that technical aid could deliver a “hundredfold” return.12 Keynesian-influenced planning was a far cry from communist-style planning. It followed in the wake of the president’s Council of Economic Advisers in the United States, the French Commissariat Général du Plan, and Britain’s Central Economic Planning Staff, all created in 1946 and 1947. A national development plan was the basic prerequisite for Colombo Plan membership – indeed, in the report of the US delegation to one Colombo Plan conference, a “worship” of plans was pervasive.13 Plans were not always implemented, but they had a performative aspect, in that they symbolized a state committed to development as an ideal. Keynesian planning, in Michael Ward’s metaphor, was not a new philosophy challenging the old orthodoxy; rather, it “resembled a Protestant critique of traditional Rome,” a shift of emphasis that remained within the assumptions of previous capitalist economists.14 Western governments drove the UN’s turn toward technical-aid programming. Though it had already been authorized by the UN General Assembly, technical assistance took off only after President Harry Truman declared it the fourth point of his foreign policy in 1949. The UN moved to establish an Expanded Programme of Technical Assistance alongside American Point Four aid. The Soviet Union refused to take part in UN technical-aid programming until 1953. During those years, Canadian economic affairs were in the hands of what Donald Creighton called a “new, superbly confident generation of federal civil servants” who were “convinced that they knew exactly how the economy worked, that they could promote, direct, and control its growth.”15 Policymakers saw technical aid as helping create a “suitable investment climate” that would “discourage the rise of economic nationalism and lead toward a more extended multilateral system in international trade.” It might also encourage political stability by channelling nationalism in such a way that “the under-developed countries will gradually achieve their purpose by evolution instead of revolution. If the latter should occur, world Communism would be quick to take advantage of it.”16 UN technical aid and experts, Pearson’s parliamentary assistant Jean Lesage said, “constitute the ‘other forces of the

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United Nations.’ While the soldiers of the United Nations are fighting in Korea to repel aggression, it is the privilege of these other ‘forces’ to contribute directly to the well-being of the countries in which their operations are conducted and in so doing to help ease the present international tension.”17 UN studies had identified a lack of planning as the central problem holding back Indonesian economic development.18 So too had Soemitro, who in the 1940s had begun advocating a centralized agency to handle all of Indonesia’s economic planning. The project remained “close to his heart” after Indonesia signed a technical-assistance agreement with the UN in 1951, according to an Indonesian who had worked with him in the republic’s New York office before taking a job with the TAA. Once in Cabinet, Soemitro moved quickly to create the Planning Bureau. It needed foreign experts, and after an initial recruiting trip to Europe, he picked the TAA as the agency best able to handle the job of recruiting experts in the required fields – finance, national income, industrial economy, labour, agriculture and resources, population and migration, service facilities, and community organization. The TAA agreed to recruit and pay the bureau’s foreign experts; but it also agreed that the bureau would report solely to the Jakarta government.19 One TAA official argued that “this somewhat novel experiment” was “absolutely necessary, because it is important that the Indonesian Government itself be responsible for its economic development plans even though it gets adequate expertise from us for this purpose during the early stages.”20 The TAA looked to Canada for both monetary and demographics experts. Canadian candidates were also shortlisted for posts advising on agriculture, labour, and community development. The top priority was a monetary and fiscal adviser “to examine and analyze the problems confronting Indonesia in these fields in their relation particularly to development planning and to give pertinent policy advice.” On the recommendation of Canadian Finance Ministry official R.B. Bryce, TAA officials suggested Benjamin Higgins as “the best choice” for this job, and Soemitro quickly agreed.21 Higgins started work in July 1952 and began to influence the selection of other candidates in a fashion that might have been called patrimonial had he been a Third World leader. The Indonesian government suggested on his advice two men who had not been part of the recruiting process: Nathan Keyfitz for a post advising on either statistics or demography, and D.M. Deane to advise on migration. Higgins also picked an American, Edgar McVoy, as labour expert, and André Brichant, with whom he had worked on his first UN assignment in Libya, for the natural-resources post.22 With the addition of British industrial economist A.M. de Neumann, education adviser T.R. Smith from New Zealand, American agricultural economist Peter Diebold, and South African national-income expert Daniel Neumark, the team was complete by early 1953. The foreign experts joined young Indonesian trainees in the new


bureau. Most experts served for only a single year, and it took time for bureau chief Djuanda Kartawidjaja to assert his authority, so the initial team was especially influential. The Colombo Plan’s technical aid chief, Geoffrey Wilson, noted that the United Nations plays a much more important role here [in Jakarta] than in any other country in the area he had visited. Indonesia is desperately short of good Ministers and officials but many of the United Nations people are good and they have had a long time there to acquaint themselves with local conditions. The result is that it appears they pretty much decide what should be done in the fields in which they operate. Professor Higgins of McGill University who is in charge of the Planning Bureau under the control of the Ministry of Finance occupies a key position ... It could be taken for granted that any recommendation they [the Bureau’s foreign experts] made had the approval of the Government and that it was only a question of time until the formal applications were made.23

In this vein, Canadian ambassador George Heasman, reported that “any bilateral agreement which may be entered into by the Government of Indonesia and a foreign Government is likely to have been discussed with the TAA and to have the approval of the Planning Bureau.”24 The bureau took charge of planning and oversaw all inflows of foreign aid. It was politically influential, too. Djuanda moved up from bureau director to cabinet minister responsible for planning. When he took over as prime minister in 1957, his former deputy Ali Budiardjo continued his policies as head of the bureau. Djuanda received near-universal praise in Western capitals. At the 1954 Colombo Plan conference in Ottawa, he “impressed Canadian officials as being an able and co-operative official.” Even John Diefenbaker admitted to being “quite impressed” with him after a meeting. To the US State Department, he was “friendly and cooperative with the US and politically sound.”25 Though Djuanda did some overseas work, he left much of the search for foreign aid to the bureau’s foreign experts. Higgins visited Ottawa in February 1953 to further the quest for aid diversification, reporting the Indonesian government to be “suspicious of Point IV assistance since it is sponsored by the United States Government.” On the other hand, “Canada was in a unique position to offer such technical assistance since it was a developing country which had experts in the specialized fields desired by Indonesia, because her sound financial position commanded respect and also because there were no bad political connotations connected with Canada.”26 It was this sort of language that fed the Canadian diplomatic self-image of being an understanding friend of less developed Asia, but it took a Canadian spokesperson for a UN-funded agency to deliver it.

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This fit with Higgins’ position of influence. At one meeting of the Colombo Plan’s Council for Technical Cooperation, he played so active a role that the Australian High Commission reported him to be “the head of the Indonesian Planning Bureau” – a job that actually belonged to Djuanda. In one letter home, Higgins noted the Indonesian government’s “almost frightening willingness to accept my advice.”27 Originally from London, Ontario, Higgins worked as a US government economist before coming to McGill University, where he was named head of the Department of Economics and Political Science and Bronfman Chair in Economics. Wilfred Cantwell Smith, another recent young recruit to the university, who would later play an important role in shaping the teaching of religion in Indonesia, described him as “a quite brilliant person.”28 Higgins took leave in 1951 to work as senior economist with the UN mission in Libya – the first of forty countries he would advise. He jumped at the chance to reprise that role in Indonesia, writing that “the idea of dividing my efforts between development planning, current monetary and fiscal problems and a little lecturing appeals to me as close to ideal.”29 At the time, there was no organized study of development economics: Higgins was one of those pioneering a new field. Decades later he would recall “the extent of our ignorance of the development process at that time ... We had little at that time by way of received doctrine, let alone manuals on development planning, to guide us. We had little idea how to promote growth except to encourage savings and investment.” Only one development economist’s work was readily available, and Higgins rejected J.H. Boeke’s theories of a “dual economy,” contending that it allowed virtually no chance for Indonesians to advance. Instead he favoured a model of “bi-modal production” in which the modern and traditional sectors coexisted. Obstacles for development were located in the traditional sector. There was hope for development in the entrepreneurial modern sector, but that sector, being dominated by foreign investors, emphasized increased agricultural and resource production alongside industrialization. Thus Indonesia required foreign investment “not only for the capital it would provide, but still more for the managerial, entrepreneurial, scientific and technical expertise that would come with it.” This philosophy, which was to guide the first national development plan, collided with the predisposition of many Indonesian leaders to see foreign investment (in an economy where 75 percent of foreign investment was Dutch) as a tool of imperialism.30 Higgins became part of Soemitro’s “kitchen cabinet.” He also had regular access to Vice-President Hatta, the hero and patron of the pro-development group in Indonesia. Higgins was full of praise for Soemitro, “the boy genius of the cabinet ... a man of great charm, keen intellect, and prodigious energy” who was “much the most pragmatic of Indonesian leaders where economic policy was concerned.”31 In Higgins’ schema, Soemitro was the


most prominent of the “developmentalist” group, concerned as he was with the economic building of the nation, unlike the “nationalists,” who were more concerned with history and with inculcating a single Indonesian nationhood. The great barrier to the hopes of Higgins and the Indonesian planners was economic nationalism. Higgins assailed nationalism in a 1955 speech in Canada as “a divisive force and a barrier to economic development” and as too much concerned with an outside enemy whether that enemy was the colonial powers (in Indonesia) or English Canadians (in Quebec). It was especially dangerous in Indonesia, where the colonizer had at least delivered some economic development. That did not have to end with decolonization. Indeed, the “job done by the colonial powers in the past can now be done by the United Nations and other foreign aid programs.” The idea of co-operative colonial development persisted; Higgins was only a step removed from those Canadian diplomats who argued at the UN that colonial powers were carrying out a mission “on behalf of the rest of us.”32 Higgins stayed in Jakarta until early 1954, returning to take up a “made to order” post as Director of the Indonesia Project at the MIT Center for International Studies (CIS). In the words of its official history, the CIS brought together “as strong a team of economists as could realistically have been mobilized for such an ambitious program.” These economists, including Higgins, Walt Rostow, and Paul Rosenstein-Rodan, came together during these years to create the development doctrine of the “big push,” which argued for substantial capital injections to kick-start economic development and which later developed into modernization theory. CIS research, with its strong emphasis on policy, was intertwined from the beginning with the Cold War. “The political and economic development of the underdeveloped countries is a decisive factor in world politics,” stated the center’s first (and successful) funding proposal to the Ford Foundation. “This would have been true by now in almost any circumstances, but the matter takes on particular urgency – and perhaps a degree of distortion – since Asia and Africa have become primary areas in the Soviet-American conflict.”33 The CIS Indonesia Project studied economic-development and foreign-investment prospects for the United States, Canada, and other countries and made recommendations on their financing. Higgins sent a detailed analysis of Canadian policies on foreign investment to the Planning Bureau, implying that Indonesia might do well to emulate Canada’s embrace of foreign capital to spur development. The CIS had a contractual link with the Planning Bureau, providing research on foreign-investment sources, trade patterns and sources, and use of capital in exchange for special access to the bureau and for the chance to influence planning. The US State Department even offered its diplomatic bag for the exchange of letters. “Ben Higgins, himself, is very knowledgeable and seems to desire to cooperate fully; and to make available to us whatever information he acquires,” its Indonesia desk officer wrote.34

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Second only to Higgins among influential Canadians on the Planning Bureau was Nathan Keyfitz, a Montrealer seconded from the Dominion Bureau of Statistics (now Statistics Canada) to advise on statistics and demography. Keyfitz had orthodox political views. He confided, for instance, that he felt “much more at home in the free-enterprise air of Bangkok and, especially, Saigon, than ... in the socialist atmosphere of New Delhi.” But he and his wife Beatrice loved Indonesia. He learned Indonesian, took field trips to a village in East Java, and was “delighted with the young students of economics and sociology” who assisted him at the Planning Bureau. He invited one assistant, Widjojo Nitisastro, into his home and introduced him to the joys of baked beans. Beatrice shared his love for Indonesia and the “seemingly inexhaustible kindness and good humour” of its graceful people – at least until the couple was robbed shortly before it was time to go home.35 Keyfitz was a typical example of the idealistic TAA expert, offering the lessons of more advanced countries to those still needing to develop. He was not an economist, but his approach was in keeping with the postwar Keynesian reinvention of statistics as the centralization of data in order to support rational planning. “One single figure each month,” he wrote, “can do more than volumes of arguments to bring agreement between trade unions and employers – this is certainly the Canadian experience.” Change was necessary and possible: “the pioneer spirit can be fostered by leadership and organization.”36 Keyfitz was in many ways the father of Indonesian statistics. When former protege Sarbini Sumawinata was assigned to head Indonesia’s Central Statistics Office in 1955, he insisted on a three-month training course with Keyfitz at the Dominion Bureau of Statistics before taking the job, and he continued to send trainees to Ottawa thereafter. Indonesia, as a result, based its early statistics operations on Canada’s.37 Keyfitz was equally influential in demographics, where he teamed up with D.M. Deane to flesh out Indonesia’s program of “transmigration.” The idea of relieving population pressures in Java by moving people to the sparsely populated outer islands was a colonial legacy that became an article of faith within the Indonesian government, which established a government transmigration department in 1947. In 1950, it managed to move only 77 people; by 1953, though, the annual figure was up to 39,300. The first target was Sumatra. After that, planners intended to settle Kalimantan (Borneo) – in Ambassador Heasman’s words, “a large sparsely populated country which might be developed by people drawn from the teeming millions of Java [in] what amounts to the opening of a new country.” Indonesia was hoping to emulate the settlement of the North American prairies. Before independence, Sukarno had spoken grandiosely of moving 15 million people; others hoped that the numbers would reach 20 million. Sukarno pictured Indonesia industrializing on the North American pattern. Like North America, he said,


Indonesia was “vast and partly empty, it is rich but not yet fully exploited.”38 The Planning Bureau embraced transmigration with enthusiasm, since rising population was one of the biggest threats to orderly development planning. Keyfitz pointed out that 400,000 new people were added every year to the Indonesian population but not accounted for in planning. The only solution was to move them to the outer islands. Because it would clear new lands in the rainforests of the outer islands, transmigration offered “an appeal to the imagination similar to that which was offered by the American frontier.”39 Both the Planning Bureau and UNTAMI hoped for Canadian help for the program. In a co-authored book that launched the study of Indonesian demography, Keyfitz and Widjojo argued strongly that it was the answer to the population problem. But by 1969, when the book was updated, they were conceding that the program had failed.40 It had had virtually no effect on overpopulation in Java. Its main impact had been in the outer islands, where it became a program of internal colonization and assimilation of ethnic groups into a broader Indonesian national identity. Keyfitz did not continue as an informal adviser to the Planning Bureau, as Higgins had. Instead, he moved on to head the Colombo Plan’s Council for Technical Cooperation, based in Ceylon. In 1956, officials considered appointing him to head Canada’s Colombo Plan programs, but he opted for an academic career instead, returning to Indonesia only in the 1980s to advise on education.41 Still, his influence had been significant. Higgins and Keyfitz summarized their recommendations in a 1953 memorandum. First, they called for changes to import licensing and for the removal of temptations to corruption. People had to be motivated, not exhorted. “Indonesians are no different in this respect from Canadians,” they wrote. Second, Indonesia needed more schools, with classes “oriented to actual life” that would teach the skills needed for actual development work rather than a civil service career. Also, reliance on foreign universities needed to be reduced. Third, it was important to enhance communications – for example, by creating simple national radio and film programs – so as to create “attitudes suited to an independent economy.” A fourth need was for efficiency – the maximum utilization of machinery, the full use of local labour, austerity among public officials, and a slimmer, better-paid civil service. Fifth, they called for tough barriers against businesses that contributed nothing of value, though they also supported easy terms for useful industries. Finally, they argued strongly against nationalization. It was fine to nationalize strategic sectors such as banking in order to ensure state control over monetary policy, but there was no need for state control of power-generation companies, for instance. Government funds were best used not for nationalization, but to set up state industries able to compete with private firms.42 Higgins and Keyfitz were offering Keynesian prescriptions modified for Indonesian conditions: an

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economy driven by private capital, with the government setting the broad directions and smoothing the rough edges while resisting the temptation to move toward full state control. With Higgins moving on in late 1953, the TAA began the search for another team leader, one who would be able to serve under Djuanda as effective head of the foreign experts. Keenleyside nominated his operations director, George Cadbury, to fill the post for a year. Given Cadbury’s central role as head of Saskatchewan’s planning board, this suggested that the role of foreign expert would continue to be a strong one. “We need a member who can say tactfully, Yes and No!” to Indonesian officials, Deane wrote in welcoming Cadbury’s name. The Indonesian UN delegation added its voice in support, but Djuanda decided against the idea of a “chief planner.” In the end, Djuanda proved quite able to lead the foreign experts himself, doing so, in one expert’s words, “with considerable skill and forbearance” and providing the political connections necessary to ensure co-operation between foreign experts and government ministries.43 The issue of who controlled the Planning Bureau came up again when Djuanda visited UN headquarters in 1954. Higgins and Keyfitz offered suggestions on reorganization to Djuanda and to the TAA, which generally concurred but decided not to press them upon the visiting planning chief. Djuanda pronounced himself “greatly distressed” at Higgins’ continued interference in the Planning Bureau and extracted a promise that he would stop treating it “as a kind of club where [MIT researchers] could make themselves perfectly at home pawing over any files that interested them and distracting employees from their central tasks.”44 Djuanda’s zealous protection of Indonesian control indicated that the Planning Bureau was not blindly following the advice of Western experts. There was a community of interest, rather than a command relationship: the research and perspectives of the experts reinforced Indonesian planners’ own ideas on economic growth and influenced them further in the direction of Western development thinking. International economic conditions and Indonesian politics, however, made implementation a difficult task. Sukarno and other Indonesian leaders were turning away from Western-influenced development models. Some questioned whether foreign economists were even needed. Beatrice Keyfitz had wondered in 1953 whether they were offering anything of value to Indonesia: “The foreign experts are the real blight around here. Why a country in which 80 percent of the boys who get to university are studying economics or law should find it necessary to import still more economists I don’t know. They are a very unhappy bunch of men, but not one of them has had the courage to say ‘I can’t do any good here, so I’m going home.’ They sit out their terms, growling bitterly, and hoping for a renewal.”45 The idea that Indonesia could develop without foreign taskmasters grew as officials gained confidence and as advocates of self-reliant development


strategies became more influential. The Five-Year Plan was the planners’ last effort to win the political battle. Completed in 1955, around the time Indonesia successfully held its first free elections, it provided an economic agenda of hope to complement the hope that arose from the elections. The plan identified a role for the state, declaring a goal of transforming Indonesia’s colonial economy into one controlled by Indonesians. That rested in turn, however, on the hope that domestic private entrepreneurs would be able to generate capital. The state’s job was to give the economy a “big push” and then stand aside in favour of the new indigenous private capital that planners hoped would grow. The plan in effect presented Indonesians with a dilemma: to develop along the recommended lines, they would have to accept foreign domination of the economy in the short term and take steps that would increase tensions between foreign investors and popular opinion, between regions, and between competing elites. The thrust of the plan was familiar to Canadian planners, mirroring as it did Canada’s own early economic policies. It also fit well with the turn toward postwar planning by a managerial elite in Canada. It is not surprising that Canadian experts advised Indonesia to welcome American investment – after all, they could see the effect it was having in Canada’s own growth. Of the plan’s Rp. 30 billion cost, private investment was to provide Rp. 10 billion, village community development Rp. 7.5 billion, and government spending Rp. 12.5 billion. The plan laid out the division only for the government spending component: one-quarter of resources to irrigation and power, one-quarter to mining and industry, and one-quarter to communications and transport, with remaining funds divided among agriculture, education, and social development. Its aims were modest: a 3 percent increase in national income over five years, which with projected population growth of 1.7 percent left a 1.3 percent increase in per capita income (0.52 percent for new capital formation, and the rest for raising living standards). Even with full success, then, ordinary Indonesians would see little real benefit for some time. The long-term targets forecast growth for each successive five-year period until Indonesia reached self-sustaining growth around 1975. There was hope here, but it was hope for the next generation, not for the present one. Finally, the plan was highly realistic in its aid demands: it looked for Rp. 1 billion, or about US$100 million in foreign aid – slightly less per year than what Indonesia was already receiving.46 From his new post at MIT, Higgins praised the Five-Year Plan but added that it did not go far enough. Drawing on the “big push” theory, he wanted to see far more capital injected up front – at least double what the bureau planned. “A stagnant economy is like a stalled car,” he wrote. “Leaning on it with gradually increasing weight is unlikely to get it started. It needs a ‘big push.’”47 To raise the extra capital, Indonesia would have to look overseas. Aid might provide some capital, but foreign private investment was crucial.

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At the exchange rates of the day, Higgins pegged investment needs at US$350 million, more than the government was estimating. Investment and foreign aid together would have to cover one-third of the plan’s costs. Therefore, he urged the Indonesian government to relax restrictions on the repatriation of profits by foreign investors.48 To argue that this did not mean foreign control, Higgins turned to the experience of the countries he knew best: Financing one-third of the development program from foreign funds is in no way incompatible with “converting the colonial economy into a national economy.” The share of foreign capital in the Indonesian economy can be a steadily diminishing one as the economy expands. This process is precisely the fashion in which the United States, Canada and Australia – all former British colonies – converted their “colonial economies” into “national economies.” But the difference between getting and not getting the Rp. 2 billion to 4 billion (about $200 million to $400 million at current official rates of exchange) from abroad may be the difference between economic progress and further retrogression.49

The only way to create the “national economy” that Indonesian governments dreamed of, he repeated, was “the one that has been followed by the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand” – embracing foreign investment. “The recent influx of American and British capital into Canada, which has made the Canadian dollar the strongest currency in the world, does not make the Canadians fear that their ‘national economy’ may be reconverted into a ‘colonial’ one.”50 Nor, he implied, should Indonesians fear that. Higgins had identified the central challenge facing Indonesia: “decolonizing” the colonial economy. The Five-Year Plan was an effort to meet this challenge while playing the hand Indonesia had been dealt: an economy dominated by large businesses owned by the former colonial power. This approach, however, was becoming more and more unpopular with the nationalists who were displacing the economic planners from power. Djuanda was able to weather the political change, serving as prime minister from 1957 to 1963 under Sukarno. Meanwhile, the younger planners who worked as assistants to the foreign experts at the National Planning Bureau were imbibing more fully the doctrine of openness to foreign investment and the world economy. Another main aspect of the Planning Bureau, apart from this bolstering of the “development minded” group over the economic nationalists, was to promote the attitudes of modernization. To quote one of their Indonesian staff members: “The National Planning Bureau experts were supplied with a method of thinking and acting which was rational and reliable, while always having a national spirit and the determination to serve the


state and the nation loyally.”51 After 1965, this technocratic elite would guide Indonesian economic policy. As in many Asian countries, the early experience of planning laid the groundwork for the later blossoming of a developmentalist state. Soon after the Five-Year Plan was launched, it was derailed by civil war. Nevertheless, the seeds for a return to the bureau’s philosophy continued to grow even in the inhospitable soil of “guided democracy.” Soemitro had built the new modernizing elite during the early 1950s as dean of the Faculty of Economics of the University of Indonesia, aided by his Canadian advisers at the Planning Bureau and especially by Higgins, the “doyen of the Indonesian economists.”52 Shifting back and forth between Cabinet and the Faculty of Economics, Soemitro became “the grand-daddy of Indonesian intellectuals,” in the words of W.T. Delworth, Canadian Ambassador to Indonesia in the 1970s.53 As economics dean, he initially sent students overseas for advanced economics training “to places like McGill and M.I.T.”; he then started to search for a formal academic affiliation with a foreign university. His first choice, the London School of Economics, was unable to raise sufficient funds. Nor was Cornell, which had applied for funds to the Rockefeller Foundation. Instead, with the aid of the Ford Foundation, the University of California at Berkeley signed the affiliation deal, thus adding another piece to the North American non-governmental networks on Indonesia. In 1957, Soemitro fled Jakarta to join the Sumatra-based regional rebellion, but his faculty remained under the protection of senior professors, who allowed the foreign-trained proteges to continue their work. Berkeley professors filled the top teaching jobs. The faculty, tainted by its association with rebels, lived under siege in some ways but was protected by Djuanda until his death in 1963, and by military patrons thereafter.54 Its members used the lost years to hone their skills. They joined an exodus of Indonesian students to North America, who formed what a Kennedy administration report called the “core of a new elite.”55 Ali Budiardjo left the Planning Bureau in 1959 to pursue a doctorate in industrial management at MIT. Widjojo, Keyfitz’s brilliant young assistant of 1953, earned his doctorate at Berkeley in 1961 and in 1964 took Soemitro’s old position as Dean of the Faculty of Economics. Most of Indonesia’s promising young economists followed him to Berkeley for later periods of study. One exception was Subroto, the first Indonesian student at McGill, which he attended on a scholarship from the World University Service of Canada before going on to study with Higgins at MIT.56 Meanwhile, the planners continued to serve the Sukarno government in a range of capacities. One recalled that they “could no longer use Keynesian terms. We had to use revolutionary jargon, but we tried to shift its meaning.” The planners still argued that development could be delivered by a determined elite, but they had to wait for the day until those in power agreed.57

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These modernizing economists had learned an important lesson from the Planning Bureau’s failure to win a political constituency for its economic prescriptions. On their own, they had no popular support and little political patronage. To remedy this, they turned to the armed forces, which were growing more powerful by the day. “The task of the military goes beyond a defence of the country against an external force,” Mohammad Sadli argued in 1964. “The military should be regarded as an active agent in nation building; defence of an underdeveloped country must rest on a viable society and economy.”58 Army leaders, casting about for a way to counter to the growing rural popularity of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), found it in this developmentalist mission. Sadli’s thinking matched that of those American academics who by the 1950s were beginning to argue that the military in less developed countries were modernizing effectively where civilian politicians had failed. This doctrine gained government sanction with the US government’s adoption of a “civic action” doctrine in which armies did development work when they were not battling insurgents. Throughout the Sukarno years, large numbers of Indonesian army officers travelled to the United States for advanced training. Some 4,000 Indonesian officers trained in the United States between 1958 and 1965.59 The University of Indonesia’s affiliation with Berkeley had created another fortress within the Indonesian elite. Though the era of “guided democracy” seemed dominated by Sukarno’s challenge to Western models, it was also a time that saw Western policymakers build assets for the post-Sukarno future. McGill and the Shaping of Indonesian Islam President Sukarno obtained one of his favourite outfits on a visit to McGill University, which awarded him an honorary degree during his 1956 trip to Canada. The red-and-white academic gown of the university matched the colours of the Indonesian flag, so Sukarno wore it on other occasions that called for a mix of gravitas and nationalism.60 McGill’s influence was more than skin deep, however. The university’s Institute of Islamic Studies (IIS) was influential in shaping the way Islam was taught and understood in Indonesia. Where Canadian religious influences elsewhere in Asia came mainly from Christian missionaries, the major Canadian religious impact on Indonesia came through the IIS, the primary channel through which Canada approached the Islamic world in the postwar years. Wilfred Cantwell Smith, the former missionary who headed the IIS from 1951 to 1963, insisted that Islam was a religion able to modernize itself. He offered the IIS as a guide to help reconcile Islam with modernity. The IIS would try to change Orientalism – the study of Asia by Westerners – from an essentializing project of knowing into a project in intercultural communications. The IIS also viewed itself as “midwife” to a more modern type of Islam. Though it proudly flew Canadian colours, its role within the North American area-studies


complex paralleled that of the Canadian government within the Western alliance. As a Canadian initiative, it helped enmesh countries like Indonesia in a Western-centred world while offering Canada as a less self-interested partner. In the words of its assistant director, Charles Adams, the IIS was “a unique Canadian institution [that] deserves the intelligent understanding and co-operation of all thoughtful Canadians.”61 Founding director Wilfred Cantwell Smith came from Toronto’s more respectable circles. He attended Upper Canada College (where he was head boy in 1933), the University of Toronto, and then Cambridge University on a Massey Fellowship. In 1941, he took a post as “representative among the Muslims” for the Canadian Overseas Missions Council, reporting to a joint board of the Anglican, Baptist, Presbyterian, and United Churches. As a base, Smith and his wife Muriel (born to missionary parents in China) selected Forman Christian College in Lahore (then in British India, now in Pakistan). After completing a doctorate at Princeton, Smith accepted McGill’s invitation to take up its first chair in comparative religion in 1949.62 With Smith ensconced at McGill, the university set about building an institute around him, one that could be a bridge to India and Pakistan. The Rockefeller Foundation had earlier funded Wilder Penfield’s neurological work at McGill. F. Cyril James, the British-born economist who served as principal of McGill from 1939 to 1962, hoped that that foundation could also be persuaded to back a new Commonwealth Institute focused on understanding India and Pakistan, “the keys to the future of the Commonwealth – and perhaps to the future of democracy!”63 The foundation agreed to a more modest proposal for an Islamic Studies centre. Rockefeller officials worried that the institute might overemphasize Pakistan at the expense of the “heart of the Arab world,” and about “the tendency that Smith has to think of this Institute as ‘educating’ the Mohammedans”; even so, it approved a bequest of $214,800 for the first five years of IIS operations, allowing an annual drawing of up to $46,000.64 Pheasants roamed the grounds of Cottingham House, an “altogether delightful” four-storey stone mansion built into the side of the mountain on Montreal’s Redpath Crescent. In those days, few places would have looked less inviting to a student from the Middle East or Indonesia, who would have to brave the winter winds of Montreal for a long hike up from the bus stop or the main McGill campus, a quarter of a mile away. Though this meant isolation from the rest of the university (until the institute moved to the main campus in the mid-1960s), it also fostered a sense of community – one that was reinforced by the afternoon tea that Smith made a requirement for all people in the IIS building. The IIS vision of bringing Westerners and Muslims together was symbolized by this tea, which each day was prepared by one Western and one Muslim student. Smith was trying to reinvent the Orientalist legacy. A Canadian diplomat who spent two years there earning

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his masters degree praised “the ‘Montreal viewpoint,’ as it has come to be called,” for its pure scholarship, its study of the ideal, and its emphasis on intercultural communication. By 1955, the Rockefeller Foundation had agreed to the long-term endowment sought by McGill, granting US$510,000 outright to the university to fund IIS operations past the initial five-year period. Funds from the Ford Foundation and others followed.65 The IIS hoped to “cross the bridge” between the West and the Islamic world, as Smith said.66 His words echoed the rhetoric of policy-makers in Ottawa when speaking about foreign aid, which was cast as a humanitarian “bridge” between the West and Asia. In the non-government realm, the IIS was trying fill a similar desire for bonds between the West and its former dependencies in Asia and Africa. Inevitably in the 1950s, that meant it had a Cold War aspect. The institute was born within the emerging area-studies complex in North American universities, which blossomed after 1945 with backing from the US government and large private foundations. “Oriental Studies were to be thought of not so much as scholarly activities,” Edward Said wrote, “but as instruments of national policy towards the newly independent, and possibly intractable, nations of the post-colonial world” – instruments that were meant in part to build “modernizing elites.”67 The Rockefeller and Ford Foundations financed the formation of a host of programs for the intensive study of various parts of the world. As president of the Rockefeller Foundation in 1952, Dean Rusk told Congress that “it was of the greatest importance for us to encourage concentrated attention on what was then called the weird languages, such languages as Indonesian, Burmese, some of the Indian dialects, some of the languages of Indochina ... So we [the Foundation] have attached considerable importance to these area studies.”68 As president from 1952 to 1960 (when he returned to government work as Secretary of State), Rusk led a programming turn toward developing countries. Thus Cyril James drew on Cold War language. He argued that there were “three great religions in the world today, Christianity, Islam, and Communism – and Islam stands halfway between Christianity and Communism ... In a strategic sense, in the struggle between Russia and the West for the minds of men, the Islamic lands are critical areas.”69 Many saw Islamic countries as allies against communism. The world situation, Saturday Night editorialized, had given the West “a strong reason to seek a better knowledge of and sympathy with the group of nations whose concept of the universe is at least monotheistic and spiritual and entirely opposed to the gross materialism with which we are confronted in the Communist bloc.”70 Similarly, one Pakistani newspaper called for world religions to unite against “one of the darkest forces known to history, a force out to reduce man to a producing machine and consuming animal, with no higher destiny than a few creature


comforts.” At centres such as the IIS, Islam and Christianity could “accomplish a great deal to turn the tide of atheistic materialism and build a new and happier world on the Fatherhood of God and brotherhood of man – concepts which form the corner-stones both of Islam and Christianity.”71 Like his brother Arnold, a diplomat sometimes portrayed as Canada’s equivalent to George Kennan, Smith was willing to denounce communism. “I am not now, I have never been, and it was always true on principle and by conviction I never could be, a member of the Communist Party, either in India or anywhere else,” he wrote. Communism was “evil, terribly evil,” with “ultimately evil purposes,” in search “not of truth nor goodness nor even the classless society, but of power for the Kremlin.”72 There was some government support, though not enough for Smith’s liking. Canadian missions in six Muslim countries spread information about the IIS and asked British embassies to do so in countries where Canada was not represented. But Ottawa did not at this point heed Smith’s pleas for Colombo Plan support for the IIS project. “We in the West have only a limited number of friends in Asia,” Smith wrote in a memorandum to James. “It is distressing to watch us alienating such as we have. Surely our Governments must do something to stop this.”73 The IIS, then, was implicated in the Cold War, but in a very Canadian way. The Canadian diplomatic self-image had come to include a belief that Asians saw Canada as less threatening than its larger allies and especially the United States. “Canada has none of the political flavour which now attaches to the United States,” Smith noted. He denounced the “current alienation of the free Orient from the free West” as “appalling”: “Canadians do not generally recognize how significant a role they can and do play in intercultural affairs. We have a unique opportunity that other countries may well envy, to approach people throughout the world truly as equals.”74 Canada had a competitive advantage in housing an organization like the IIS: it would not attract the same suspicions from Muslims in South Asia and elsewhere that would certainly be drawn by a similar project based in Britain or the United States. The Rockefeller Foundation agreed, seeing Canada as less a target of suspicion than either Britain or the United States, but close enough to American centres to allow productive collaboration with the area-studies complex. Many Canadian diplomats shared this view. One noted disapprovingly in a report on an annual gathering of American Middle East scholars that a “strong sense of idealism and the spirit of missionary endeavour ... still characterize the thinking of many Americans about the Middle East.”75 The implication was that Canada was more understanding of the non-European world, and nonEuropeans similarly more open to Canadian initiatives. Canada was a loyal ally, fighting the same Cold War, but had its own unique character. The IIS became one more piece of evidence bolstering this self-image.

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Though backed by area-studies money from the large foundations, the IIS insisted on seeing the Islamic world as a larger “cultural area.” Smith called throughout his career for “intercommunication,” for a dialogue among religions that aimed at mutual understanding during a period when different cultures were coming into increasing contact with one another and with modernity. He understood religions as possessing cumulative traditions subject to constant reinvention, rather than as unchanging essences. After leaving McGill to devote himself fully to the study of comparative religion, he became one of the most influential Christian thinkers and interpreters of religion and religions of his generation. Some have even credited Smith for later altering the conception of mission of the United Church of Canada into one that accepted that salvation could come through many religions, each in its own way a different road to God.76 His most influential book during his McGill years was Islam in Modern History, the product in part of his doctoral work at Princeton. It was published in 1957 and translated widely (including into Indonesian). The book is poised oddly between his schooling and his later world theology, mixing such classic Orientalist statements as “Arabs are a proud and sensitive people” with the assertion that Islam is not static but dynamic.77 Smith later rejected some of his own categorization of Islam as a sealed religious category, choosing instead to study religions in general as part of the way humans relate to one another. At McGill, however, he dreamed of helping Islam come to terms with the modern world. “The Muslims must modernize their life; but they cannot do so without thinking through their own religion,” Smith argued in one early formulation of the IIS mission. Amongst their (and indeed all orientals’) immense and manifold problems, none is more fundamental than their need of re-expressing their faith in twentieth-century terms ... Accordingly, members of the Muslim intelligentsia would, I have concrete reason to believe, be willing to come to a centre such as McGill to consider, in the dispassionate atmosphere of honest and informed religious inquiry, and away from the pressures and localisms of their own milieu, the problems of religion and modernity ... At its highest – if you will not smile at the exaggerated ambition – I would foresee our programme conceivably acting as a kind of midwife for the Islamic Reformation which is struggling to be born.78

Islam, Smith was convinced, “is living through in our day a transformation comparable in scope and profundity, though not in form, to the Protestant Reformation in the history of Christianity.” He hoped to see the IIS “make a notable contribution to that Islamic renascence and reformation.” For this to succeed, Muslims must come to terms both with their religion


and with modernity, “so that there is some point in what might otherwise seem paradoxical, a Muslim’s coming to the West to study the twentiethcentury crisis of his own culture.”79 Though his dreams were more those of the economist and the cold warrior, James shared Smith’s vision of the IIS aiding in a transformation of Islam: he compared its mission to that of the influence of classical Greece on the West during its own passage into modernity. Throughout the fiveyear start-up period, tensions lingered between Smith’s vision and that of skeptical officers of the Rockefeller Foundation. The foundation was interested in accumulating information, in “creating a better understanding of Islam as it is today.” Smith agreed this was important, but he also stressed the goal of shaping Islam into the modern faith it could be. Foundation officers dismissed this thrust as missionary-inspired and unrealistic. Smith’s approach, however, ultimately won over the Rockefellers, who expressed their conversion in the decision to award a long-term endowment. The foundation praised Smith for offering something that no other Orientalist could: a co-operative endeavour between Muslim and Western scholars. “It now seems clear,” stated the 1955 decision paper approving a new $500,000 grant, “that this latter commitment is to have consequences, earlier unpredictable, in Islam itself through the return to Islam of scholars and students who have participated in the Institute.”80 Though foundation staff called this “unpredictable,” it was exactly what Smith had predicted. In the same vein, he sought to bring more Muslim students to McGill in order to help them become “as constructively engagés as possible. I do not feel that Hindus and Buddhists need this kind of thing quite so sorely, but Muslims seriously do.” Ford Foundation personnel in the Middle East agreed to back the IIS project because they “regard it as a sound means of assisting Islamic societies to ‘re-think’ traditional values in such a way that cultural continuity can be combined with social and economic progress.” They felt that “even a small number of intellectual leaders who had had the unusual course at McGill could play an important role in what will be a subtle, complex and long drawn-out process within the Islamic world.”81 The IIS’s quest to act as modernizing agent for the Islamic world was most effective in Indonesia. The role of Islam in the Indonesian state was already an important issue when that state was established in 1945. Early nationalist leaders rejected calls for an explicitly Islamic republic and continued to resist such pressures from Muslim-based parties. The type of Islam taught at McGill seemed less threatening than that of the traditional Middle Eastern centres. Paradoxically, McGill also offered refuge to Islamic thinkers who were disillusioned with the country’s direction under Sukarno. A new model of Islamic education was worked out at McGill, one that had implications for Islam’s political involvement in the country.

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In Islam in Modern History, Smith had acknowledged a “lacuna” in his work – the omission of Indonesia. When the IIS opened, it faced the same gap, which it proceeded to address so effectively that it quickly became the primary overseas training ground for Indonesian scholars of religion. Alongside American-trained army officers and the technocrats who came to be called the “Berkeley mafia,” a “McGill mafia” developed until it came to dominate Indonesia’s Ministry of Religion and Islamic education system.82 Part of the move to include Indonesia came on the Rockefeller Foundation’s urging. Many Americans had hoped that Indonesia might develop into what the one foundation officer called a “progressive” Muslim state on the model of secularist Turkey, which had moved to modernize along Western lines and had defined Islam as essentially a backward tradition. The first IIS forays into Indonesia tended to focus on the brand of reform Islam represented politically by the Masyumi Party.83 The reformist (or modernist) movement within Islam, which was centred in Egypt, flourished beginning in the late nineteenth century and won the allegiance of many Indonesian Muslims. “The apparent modernism of their [reformers’] activities,” maintained one writer, “lies in the fact that they sought to enact reform with an emphasis on the rational and personal, rediscovery of a pristine Islamic past, and the employment of all forms of modernity compatible with this ‘pure’ Islam.”84 Given common concerns with the issue of facing modernity, it is not surprising that the Indonesians who clustered at the IIS in the 1950s and 1960s came from this reformist stream. The IIS received the Indonesian government’s seal of approval with visits by Usman Sastroamijoyo, the Indonesian ambassador and brother of Prime Minister Ali Sastroamijoyo, and then by Sukarno. Smith travelled to Indonesia in 1955 and again in 1957 as a guest of the state, along with principal James. In 1958, using Ford Foundation money, Smith hired Mohammad Rasjidi on a five-year appointment to teach Islam in Indonesia. Born in 1915, Rasjidi had studied religion at the University of Cairo, a more reformist alternative to Al-Azhar University. Afterwards, he worked as an assistant in the Office of Native Affairs, the primary means by which the Dutch colonial regime studied and controlled Islam. He went on to become the Indonesian republic’s first Minister of Religion in 1946, creating the department that in effect succeeded the Office of Native Affairs. Though in 1946 he had described the office as “nothing but a very dangerous instrument of imperialism,” he continued to lean on its teaching authority, reserving his sharpest scorn for Muslim backsliders. As minister, he emphasized tolerance and freedom of worship while insisting that religion had a place in the state; in this way he carved out a middle path between adherents of an Islamic state and those who wanted a purely secular Indonesia. Rasjidi earned his doctorate in Islamic studies while studying on a Rockefeller grant under Louis Massignon in Paris. On his return to the diplomatic service as Ambassador to Pakistan, he grew


more and more disillusioned with his government’s direction. Many devout Muslim diplomats had backed the 1958 uprising against Sukarno’s government; Rasjidi did not, and took refuge at the IIS, which had offered him a teaching position.85 The first Indonesian fellowship students arrived at the IIS in 1955-56, a time when the Islamic movement in Indonesia, disappointed by Masyumi’s failure to win the 1955 elections, was turning to internal strengthening. Four students had earned their master’s degrees by 1961 and returned to Indonesia to work for the Ministry of Religion or to teach in Islamic universities, where they would play vital roles in shaping the future direction of Islamic education in their country. Though few in number, they were tremendously influential.86 The most prominent of the first wave of Indonesian students was Abdul Mukti Ali. Born eight years after Rasjidi, he had fought for independence in Masyumi’s militia during the Indonesian revolution and gone on to study at the Haram Mosque in Mecca and then at the University of Karachi. In 1955, he transferred to McGill to study comparative religion under Smith, winning a scholarship from the Asia Foundation. After earning a master’s degree from McGill, he returned in 1957 to become an assistant to the Minister of Religion, tasked with administering the universitylevel State Islamic Institutes (IAINs). Within a year of returning he had represented Indonesia at two international conferences on religion. In 1960, he took charge of the new IAIN program in comparative religion and authored its textbook, Ilmu Perbandingan Agama (The Science of Comparative Religions). Mukti Ali credited Smith’s approach to the study of religions with shaping his own ideas.87 Harun Nasution became almost as prominent as Mukti Ali. Born in northern Sumatra in 1919, he went for higher study to the Haram Mosque. However, he was already leaning toward modernist Islam over the orthodox forms that predominated in his homeland and in Arabia. Thus he rejected Mecca as “a medieval city in the modern age” and soon moved to Egypt: first to Al-Azhar and then to the American University. After graduating with a BA in social sciences, he took a job working with Rasjidi in the Indonesian Embassy, which set him on the path to a diplomatic career. This ended in 1957 when he joined dissident Indonesian diplomats in backing the Sumatrabased rebels, partly because he felt that Sumatra was oppressed and partly because they were “the anti-communist faction.” He returned to Egypt to study “rational and modern” Islam and then followed Rasjidi to McGill, where he earned his master’s degree in 1965 and his doctorate in 1968. Nasution later recalled the crucial influence of the IIS on his own thinking: “At McGill I obtained a wide viewpoint on Islam. Not Islam as studied at Al-Azhar in Egypt. At McGill I had opportunity ... There, it was liberal. Free. So, it was easy to inquire. There, I first saw Islam as having a rational character [bercorak rasional]. Not irrational Islam as found in Indonesia, Mecca,

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and Al-Azhar ... Islam was very rational. It was at McGill that I became aware: the teaching of Islam within and without the Islamic world were very different.”88 Nasution returned to a teaching post at IAIN Jakarta in Islamic philosophy and theology and went on to become rector. Since the university was, in Nasution’s view, “still very traditional,” he proposed a new curriculum for teaching Islam, based on McGill’s, which was implemented in modified form.89 Even as Sukarno’s government moved into opposition to the Western world order, aid programs continued to tie influential Indonesians to that world order. The “McGill mafia” constituted one major tie. The Canadian technical advisers and religious teachers who played a major role in relations with Sukarno’s Indonesia did not operate autonomously. Nor were they agents of their government. Yet the basic thrust of their advice – toward rational planning and the embrace of a Western-derived idea of modernity – aligned with Ottawa’s plans to support economic development in non-communist Asian states. Canadian government action was limited, but the Canadian presence in the region was significant in the non-state realms of technical assistance and training. Technical advisers shared the goals of the Canadian government. This blurred the state/non-state distinction. Canadian technical experts in Southeast Asia might best be seen as semi-state actors – that is, as unofficial diplomats who were independent of their government’s diplomacy but who were working toward similar goals.

4 Canada, Alliance Politics, and the West New Guinea Dispute, 1957-63

One of the first foreign ambassadors to meet with Prime Minister John Diefenbaker in 1957 was Indonesia’s L.N. Palar. Dutch-Indonesian relations had reached a crisis in 1957, with control of the western half of the island of New Guinea the immediate pretext. The Dutch were retaining this corner of the Indies as their last Asian colony; the Indonesian government was demanding its “return” to “the fold of the motherland.” Amidst this storm, Palar appealed for Canadian mediation. He cannily pointed to Canada’s role at the UN Security Council in 1948-49, when he had been the republic’s UN representative. “Canada had been most helpful in achieving the settlement between the Dutch and the Indonesians in 1949,” he said, “and it was one of the few countries which might be listened to by both parties concerned.”1 By recalling the central Indonesia-related event in the diplomatic memory of Canadian officials, he hoped to inspire a similar Canadian initiative. Palar would repeat the request when the conflict began spiralling toward war in 1962. Canadian officials proved willing each time to make suggestions, but dropped them each time at the request of a country more central to Canadian interests. They looked at the West New Guinea conflict as they did relations with Indonesia as a whole: through the prism of alliance politics. Their views of West New Guinea and Jakarta alike continued to be refracted through North Atlantic priorities. Louis St. Laurent’s Liberal government had set out to claim a more active global role; John Diefenbaker’s Conservatives were a less confident government leading a less confident country. Officials in the Department of External Affairs were sometimes willing to consider involvement in the West New Guinea dispute, but any tentative moves in this direction were blocked at the ministerial level. The government’s priorities lay elsewhere, and it saw itself as having little to gain by intervening there. Ottawa’s relations with the United States and Britain were deteriorating over issues closer to the heart of the prime minister and his Cabinet, especially nuclear weapons and Britain’s bid to enter the European Economic Community (EEC). As a

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Canada, Alliance Politics, and the West New Guinea Dispute, 1957-63

consequence, the government was less willing to risk good relations with its major allies over a peripheral issue, even one that might threaten the peace of Asia. Ottawa also wanted to avoid any action that might offend the Netherlands and its main supporter, Australia. Within the Commonwealth, Canada took its lead from Britain and Australia, not from India. It came closest to involvement when Prime Minister Tunku Abdul Rahman of Malaya tried to mediate, but even then it ultimately stood aloof. Basil Robinson, the External Affairs liaison officer with Diefenbaker, recalled a clash between the two over the prime minister’s speech to the 1960 UN General Assembly. In the wake of an aggressive address by Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, the department drafted a mild response in which Canada would raise its voice for conciliation. Diefenbaker demanded a tougher line, including condemnation of Soviet “colonial” rule over the “captive nations” of Eastern Europe. When the speech was done, he asked Robinson’s opinion. “I said it was on the rough side and that he would please the US but forfeit the role of peacemaker to the UK,” Robinson noted in his diary. “He took the word ‘arrogant’ out at one point but showed no special worry at being deprived of the peacemaking role.” Many officials deplored this attitude as an abandonment of Pearson’s legacy. For them, it “disposed entirely of any surviving naive hopes that Canada under Diefenbaker might still play a role of peacemaker in East-West or UN affairs,” Robinson wrote.2 So too with West New Guinea: the Diefenbaker government had no wish to play peacemaker. Behind this cautious foreign policy was a change in Canada’s international presence. Canada’s postwar boom was fading; the country was in economic trouble. Western Europe was on the rise, and the British government was negotiating to join the EEC; by implication, this would mean loosening Commonwealth ties and scrapping the remnants of imperial trade preference. Japan was rising in the international economic league. African and Asian states were becoming more assertive and, through sheer numbers, more powerful at the UN. Diefenbaker is often portrayed as an indecisive leader, and on many issues he was. Yet it was not just his government that was more uncertain – so was Canada as a whole. Lester Pearson’s rise to the office of prime minister in 1963 did little to reverse things. The self-imagined golden age of Canadian diplomacy was giving way to perceptions of decline. Diefenbaker’s government railed against the country’s reduced circumstances, all the while seeming powerless to change them. In the end it was the United States under President John F. Kennedy that took on the job of fixer in the West New Guinea dispute – a job rejected by Diefenbaker’s government. Alliance Politics, Arms Sales, and the Military Threat to New Guinea, 1957-59 Conflict over control of West New Guinea spelled the demise of the Commonwealth-style Netherlands-Indonesian Union in 1954. It also led to the

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nationalization of Dutch-owned businesses in 1957, the breaking of diplomatic relations in 1960, and a massive Indonesian arms buildup drawing on Soviet sources thereafter. American mediation eventually brokered a settlement that saw West New Guinea become Indonesian territory in 1963. That dispute was one of the first tests of the emerging decolonization regime. A nascent Papuan nationalist movement sought independence for the territory but proved unable to match Indonesian diplomatic strength in the changing UN. Decolonization was not at the top of the list of foreign-policy priorities for the Diefenbaker government. Yet there was no way to avoid what was one of the dominant themes of global politics. British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan was both describing a phenomenon and urging an acceptance of decolonization when he famously spoke of a “wind of change” during a 1960 speech in South Africa. Canadian officials expressed surprise at the “break-neck speed” of British decolonization plans in 1956 but could no more ignore the wind of change more than the colonial powers could. They recognized that both sides in the often bitter UN debates on decolonization tended to “look coldly on a middle course,” but they sought that course nevertheless, hoping to moderate the debate.3 By 1960, the Asian and African states had the votes to pass the UN Declaration on Granting Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples. Canadian officials had not been consulted on the text; nevertheless, they worked (along with Norway and Ireland) to moderate some of its language. External Affairs worried that “in the AfroAsian caucus there are now quite a few enthusiastic and idealistic ‘new boys’ with little idea of the practical limitations on Assembly action, and others who may be prepared to exploit their inexperience.” Despite the unrealistic tone of anti-colonial resolutions, the department wished to support a decolonizing declaration.4 The forty-power Asian-African resolution passed, with nine colonial powers (including the United States) abstaining and all others in support, including Canada and two colonial powers: New Zealand and the Netherlands. UN discussions on ending colonialism formed the background for the West New Guinea dispute. Indonesia stood in the front ranks of the Asian and African anti-colonialists. President Sukarno railed against the gradualist view of decolonization: “We cannot wait for the process – the slow process – of evolution. We must seek to speed up evolution. We must seek explosive evolution!”5 This clashed with Dutch plans for a gradual devolution of power to a reliable Papuan elite; it also ran counter to the decidedly non-dynamic Canadian belief that slow and steady evolution toward independence was best. Two new states joined the Commonwealth in 1957, the first in ten years and the start of a flood of new members. The independence of Ghana and Malaya signalled a wider association in which Ottawa listened a little less to India, a little more to the more pro-Western voices in Pakistan and Malaya. At the same

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time, it deferred more to Australia as the Commonwealth power in the region. Diefenbaker’s sentimental attachment to the Commonwealth was genuine: he was a worthy heir to those Canadian imperialists who saw their country’s glory as inseparable from the glory of the British Empire. He saw his sweep to power, in the words of his biographer Denis Smith, as “a kind of restoration: of respect for parliament, the monarchy, and the British connection, a restoration of all those traditions he believed the Liberal party had let slide towards oblivion.” There was more than a passing similarity between Diefenbaker and Robert Menzies, Australian prime minister from 1950 to 1966. Both had been raised in an empire they remembered fondly; both were also nationalists. Diefenbaker was a vocal critic of British plans to embrace the EEC. The loss of the British market for prairie wheat, for instance, could be devastating to farmers and threaten Canadian prosperity. Canadian governments had often seen Britain as a counterweight to overdependence on the United States. Britain was now weaker, but a more integrated Commonwealth still seemed a viable counterweight.6 North Atlantic priorities and an implicit regard for the Netherlands as a civilized people doing their best for the “Stone Age” Papuans combined to shape Canadian government thinking on West New Guinea. One memorandum from the DEA’s European Division noted: “Apart from the New Guinea problem, the general principles of Canadian policy with regard to the Netherlands naturally revolve about our concern for the continued safety and well-being of one of Europe’s oldest and most stable democracies. Our common membership in NATO is a most important aspect of our relationship with the Netherlands. Often Canada and the Netherlands have had very much the same point of view on NATO matters, and to a lesser extent on United Nations matters and their delegates, consequently, have kept in close touch.”7 Unsurprisingly, Canadian attitudes on West New Guinea tended to favour the Dutch. The issue came up in Parliament for the first time in December 1957 when opposition leader Pearson asked whether Canada would be making representations to Indonesia over the threats to peace and security raised by actions against Dutch businesses.8 There was nothing here of the merits of the case, only of how it would affect larger issues of concern to Canada. Pearson’s Dutch sympathies were as clear as those of the government he was questioning. Where the US government tried to avoid alienating either the Netherlands or Indonesia, Ottawa sought a middle path between those of its Dutch and American allies. West New Guinea itself was all but invisible, its people imagined only in caricature: primitive Stone Age cannibals in a remote and inaccessible land. This was an image based on journalists’ portrayals and on missionary accounts (several dozen Canadians worked with the four US-based evangelical missionary societies operating in the territory).


A typical front-page report in the Toronto Star opened this way: “Bashful natives peer from behind the giant banyan trees along the coast of Dutch New Guinea, while civilization in the guise of US oil explorers and colonialism in the guise of Asian nationalism thrust jungles and mountains into the bewildering circus of a world crisis.”9 Most famously, West New Guinea claimed the life of Michael Rockefeller, son of New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller, when he drowned during an anthropological expedition. These attitudes found their way into the diplomatic imagining of West New Guinea. “Civilization is still in a very primitive stage,” noted an early Canadian memorandum. Democracy for “the headhunters of New Guinea [was] out of the question.”10 Only as a diplomatic bone of contention could West New Guinea register; its people were barely there at all, too primitive to be actors in their own destiny. These images hardly predisposed Canadian officials to support decolonization of the territory as Indonesian governments brought the dispute to the UN. The first Indonesian effort to gain UN support was in 1954, when it managed to win two-thirds of the vote in the First (Political) Committee of the General Assembly for a resolution demanding that the Dutch negotiate over West New Guinea. Canada abstained. The Dutch government pressed hard for Canada to change its vote to a negative one and defeat the resolution once it came to the General Assembly. The Australian government pressed still harder. “We regard this question as closely affecting our Australian security,” wrote Foreign Minister R.G. Casey. Pearson made the decision after reading his West New Guinea papers on a train ride to Boston: Canada would be one of the countries switching from abstaining to voting against, along with Israel and several South American states. Those shifts reduced Indonesian support below the two-thirds needed to pass the resolution. Canada had helped avoid a Dutch defeat, but it had paid almost no attention to Indonesian views. Ambassador Usman Sastroamijoyo cited “the influence we had with the Dutch in securing the independence of Indonesia” and asked Ottawa to mediate, but officials turned him down. 11 Jakarta brought its claim to the UN four more times in the 1950s, but never again came as close to success. The fourth effort, in December 1957, brought the dispute to the crisis point. Ottawa continued to vote against West New Guinea resolutions, out of alliance solidarity as well as a conviction that the Dutch position was stronger. Policy-makers accepted Dutch reasoning: the Papuans were racially different from Indonesians and would need years of tutelage before they could even consider independence. The Dutch, in the meantime, were good colonial rulers, like the Australians who administered the eastern half of the island, and in any case they were far more qualified to rule than the Indonesians. Cabinet consequently instructed the Canadian UN delegation that it “should

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not support the Indonesian claim which is not based on sound arguments of racial affinity or historical right.”12 Discussion on the issue showed no sympathy for the Indonesian stance, which officials put down to emotional immaturity. Palar in one meeting “almost suggested that the Indonesians had to commit economic suicide in order to satisfy their own sense of selfrespect ... Emotions in Indonesia ran too high on West New Guinea at the present time to allow dispassionate discussion.”13 The word “emotional” was code suggesting child or woman. Diplomats knew the word’s power, as this excerpt from the final report on the 1957 UN agenda item indicates: “The Australian position was also ably presented although an unfortunate reference to the understandable but dubious ‘emotional reactions’ of Indonesia’s allies on this matter contributed to a still more heated emotional reaction by many Arab-Asians.”14 Indonesian threats to take an undefined “different course” after the failure of its UN resolution in 1957 made the West New Guinea issue a military concern. In SEATO and NATO the Netherlands government proposed information sharing on subversive military activities. But the need to keep Indonesia and especially its army locked into the Western sphere clashed with this call for alliance solidarity. Ottawa was not neutral between Indonesia and the Netherlands, but it tried to be neutral within NATO between the Dutch and the Americans. When the Dutch government requested “complete solidarity between NATO-partners,” calling this “the acid test of what NATO co-operation really means,” Ottawa generally agreed. Instructions were to indicate support for the Dutch case while pointing out that it “undesirable to draw a clear line of demarcation between the ‘haves’ and have nots,’ between the Asian-African group and the Western allies.”15 This was the context for Palar’s request that Canada mediate, perhaps in tandem with India. He reasoned that a Canadian-Indian team would appeal to officials’ desire to build bridges to Asia as well as a “special relationship” with New Delhi. At the same time, it would balance Canada’s pro-Dutch leanings with Indian anti-colonial sympathies. Palar also appealed to the Canadian public for sympathy, comparing the Dutch presence in West New Guinea to a hypothetical British decision to keep northern areas outside Canada until indigenous peoples could be consulted. Canadians would have been angered by this shattering of their country’s territory, he suggested. So, now, were Indonesians with regard to West New Guinea.16 Among Canadian officials, however, there was little sympathy for the Indonesian claim. In a long letter to Canada’s High Commissioner in Canberra, Far Eastern Division chief Arthur Menzies said that most officials thought the Dutch were best placed to supervise Papuan decolonization, viewing Indonesian nationalists as “beating the drums on West New Guinea” in an effort to postpone the serious work of economic development. Menzies himself, though, was part


of a minority that saw reasons to “try to liquidate in Asia those relatively unimportant vestiges of empire that could be pointed to by Asians as evidences of a continuing colonial mentality on the part of the West.” Given that West New Guinea seemed likely to eventually go to Indonesia, Menzies wanted a search for compromises so as to “further Indonesian co-operation with the West and prevent them from drifting further into an area of communist influence.” Mediation by Canada had something to recommend it, but the new government might not wish to inject itself into a controversy involving two of its close friends, the Netherlands and Australia. From The Hague, Canadian Ambassador C.P. Hébert recommended dodging the “thankless and frustrating task.” Still, officials did take some tentative mediating steps. They asked Dutch counterparts to consider “pour parlers” – that is, talks about talking, on the model of French-Algerian discussions (a step that echoed General McNaughton’s March 1949 suggestion of informal Dutch-Indonesian preliminary talks).17 It was Australian attitudes that proved decisive in shaping Canadian reactions. The Australian government looked to its Indonesian “near north” and saw danger. Casey said that his government would resent any trusteeship proposals coming from a Western country “such as Canada,” and opposition leader H.V. Evatt agreed that Indonesian expansion would be “strategically fatal to Australia.”18 This hard-line attitude was another check on Canadian action: offering any sort of mediation might offend not only a NATO ally (the Netherlands) but also a Commonwealth partner. In March 1958, the Netherlands formally requested that its NATO allies impose an arms embargo on Indonesia, and convinced several countries to cancel prospective contracts.19 Indonesia had previously limited its overseas weaponry purchases. In 1956, it had spent 22 percent of its budget on defence, compared to the world average of 33 percent. By 1958, however, it had embarked on a military buildup, driven by the need to defend itself against regional rebels and their overseas supporters. When the United States declined to provide arms, Jakarta turned to Czech and Yugoslav military jets. The USSR offered a $100 million line of credit when Sukarno visited in 1956, and another $17.5 million in 1959. Indonesia also strengthened its ties with China and other communist countries. In 1959, Sukarno welcomed North Vietnamese leader Ho Chi Minh for a state visit; in 1960, he was the first foreign head of state to visit Fidel Castro’s Cuba.20 Indonesia appeared to be drifting toward communism. Ironically, Western diplomats saw its army as the best anti-communist hope, “the one institution which was relatively united, relatively free of corruption, and possessing a morale so high that this was obvious to the casual observer in the streets,” in Canadian Ambassador Theodore Newton’s report. Newton was especially taken with army chief A.H. Nasution, “the healthy and handsome embodiment of the Conservative military best which the East can offer.”21 The army gained a share

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in power with martial law and the nationalization of Dutch businesses in 1957. From that point on, it was essentially engaged in a very slow coup leading to complete control of the government by 1966. Canadian policymakers, like their British and American counterparts, welcomed this as the best way to “save” Indonesia from communism, and thus made few protests as Sukarno and Nasution dismantled parliamentary democracy. “It would appear that the Army has taken over the Government and that the Commanding General Nasution is in reality the head of the Government,” one retired diplomat wrote in 1959. “I would think that the change has been a good one and that now real and great progress can be made in the restoration of the country.”22 This simultaneous advance of the army and the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), and the desire to back the non-communist force, formed the background to a Dutch-American conflict within NATO, one in which Canada tried to be neutral. The United States began a “token” arms supply to Indonesia in May 1958. A stiff Dutch protest raised Canadian concerns about a breach between two of its allies.23 More important from the Dutch perspective, Secretary of State John Foster Dulles continued to order occasional warnings against the use of force, declaring that if Indonesia did attack, the Americans might come to the aid of the Netherlands. Armed with this assurance, Dutch Foreign Minister Joseph Luns took a hard line on West New Guinea, confident of American support if push came to shove. Ottawa, too, was willing to caution Indonesia against using force, but only in the mildest possible way: John Holmes mentioned it to Palar at an Ottawa cocktail party.24 Canadian officials, in tandem with their American and British counterparts, were more willing to look for solutions to the West New Guinea conflict in order to halt Indonesia’s leftward drift. “It seems a palpable fact of the present situation that the ramifications of the West New Guinea dispute run counter to almost every worthwhile Western objective in Indonesia,” chargé d’affaires Russ McKinney reported from Jakarta. “Our interest in a non-Communist Indonesia is compromised at every turn.” By 1958, External Affairs was prepared to recommend abstaining if Indonesia brought another resolution to the UN, since continued support for the Dutch seemed to be pushing Indonesia into the arms of the Soviet Union. Jakarta’s decision not to seek a UN vote relieved the government of this decision.25 Despite Dutch and Australian protests, the informal arms embargo was crumbling: Britain, France, and Japan joined the United States in making limited military sales. The Diefenbaker Cabinet, too, was willing to permit some military sales in order to boost employment at home. It authorized DeHavilland to sell Otter aircraft of borderline military utility in April 1959, after first clearing the sale with the Australian government – a further sign of growing Commonwealth thinking in Ottawa.26 The Australian position favoured some limited arms sales to encourage Indonesian rapprochement


with the West, but it also opposed anything that was likely to increase Indonesia’s capacity to launch an attack on West New Guinea.27 Guided by this, Ottawa permitted the sale of DeHavilland Otters and Ford trucks, but declined export permission for Irvin Air Chute of Fort Erie, Ontario, to sell parachutes. DeHavilland’s application to sell aircraft to Indonesia set diplomatic and alliance imperatives against another goal of Diefenbaker’s foreign policy: enhanced overseas trade. George Hees, Minister of Trade and Commerce between 1960 and 1963, called exports “the key to the whole industrial picture because you can’t make anything until you can sell it – and then you can make more of it. And sell more, and employ people. The prosperity of the country depends on salesmanship.”28 Salesmanship was also the stock in trade of C.H. “Punch” Dickins, a rugged Albertan bush pilot who was the first man to deliver mail by air in the Northwest Territories. After the Second World War he became sales manager for DeHavilland, a company newly moved from Britain to Canada. In 1946, DeHavilland developed the Beaver, a versatile aircraft perfectly designed for northern conditions. Founder Sir Geoffrey DeHavilland opened a new manufacturing base in the Toronto suburb of Downsview in 1954 after winning a contract to sell 750 Beavers to the US military. A larger plane, the Otter, followed in 1958. Both found ready buyers in the US Army, which also contracted for a new design, the Caribou.29 Indonesia beckoned as another potential market. If remote areas were to be “opened up,” aircraft were the quickest method. Air travel could connect isolated communities, weaving together remote areas and making people feel connected, part of one Indonesian nation. The Canadian experience was a natural trailblazer: aircraft designed to open the Canadian North were suitable for Indonesia’s outer islands as well. By landing on makeshift jungle airstrips, or even rivers, Otters could “assist you to bring your people closer together and realize your aim of unity in diversity,” Ambassador Newton told Indonesian radio listeners.30 DeHavilland’s aggressive marketing campaign convinced the Indonesian air force to buy two Otters in 1958, with ten more in prospect if funds could be raised. External Affairs Secretary Sidney Smith approved the sale after being advised that the planes had little military application and that this deal was “a most attractive commercial transaction” which might lead to further orders. He similarly agreed to Ford Canada’s sale of 168 three-ton trucks to the Indonesian navy, worth more than $435,000 and a boost to employment. The employment argument convinced Diefenbaker to issue the necessary approval, after a three-week delay to mollify the Australians.31 The previous Conservative government, headed by R.B. Bennett from 1930 to 1935, had presided over the massive unemployment of Canada’s Depression years. Diefenbaker “always had a keen sensitivity” about unemployment, finance minister Donald Fleming recalled. “He was determined that the party

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Figure 5. P.C. Garratt of DeHavilland hands over the log books to a DHC-3 Otter aircraft to Indonesian air force officers, Downsview, Ontario, 1958. Photo courtesy of Bombardier Inc. and used under licence

was going to have a different image from the one that was attached to it in and after the [R.B.] Bennett days.”32 Unemployment stood at 8 percent by 1960. Jobs in the Toronto aircraft industry were an Achilles heel for the government, which suffered a slide in popularity after it cancelled a contract for Avro Arrow fighters, throwing thousands out of work and dealing a body blow to Canadian nationalist dreams of an independent aerospace industry. When the Otters were delivered in late 1958, Air Force Chief of Staff Suryadarma “made quite a show of the occasion,” one that featured a band, a guard of honour, some hundred air force officers, and the Foreign Ministry’s secretary-general. The aircraft were on display again during Sukarno’s tour of eastern Indonesia in 1958, during which he and his entourage were ferried by Otter, ten at a time, on the ninety-minute flight to Palangkaraya, the freshly built capital city of the new province of Central Kalimantan (Borneo). Ambassador Newton reported that the flights had provided invaluable free advertising for Canadian-made aircraft among the elite and “the isolated brown citizens” of “this primitive island.”33 With his government hardpressed for foreign currency, Foreign Minister Subandrio requested a gift of Otters under the Colombo Plan in 1959. Newton recommended agreement:


giving Otters to Indonesia, he thought, would help knit the country together, building a more united Indonesia that was in Canada’s interests. It would also underscore Canada’s commitment to an “impact” aid package and create badly needed jobs in Toronto.34 DeHavilland was anxious for more Indonesian sales. The US Army had completed its purchasing plans for Otters and Beavers, which meant that layoffs loomed unless new buyers came forward. There were objections in Cabinet because Indonesia “had behaved badly towards the Dutch, who were after all Canada’s allies in N.A.T.O.” The main issue, however, was that Australia “lived in perpetual fear” of a communist Indonesia. Accordingly, the government cleared the idea with Canberra before consenting. Indonesia ordered two more planes later in 1959, and Cabinet approved. It then gave Indonesia three more under the Colombo Plan (the only non-wheat capital aid for Indonesia under the Diefenbaker government), which brought the total Canadian supply of Otters to seven.35 DeHavilland eventually applied for permission to sell twelve of its new Caribou aircraft along with spare parts to Indonesia, a deal worth $15 million. The Beaver and Otter had been designed for the Canadian North and had then been bought incidentally by the US military; the Caribou, by contrast, had been designed specifically for military use. A twin-engine transport with rear loading, the new plane could carry thirty-two soldiers and paradrop them into battle zones. Developing it had nearly bankrupted DeHavilland until the US army finally agreed to buy 165 planes. In the meantime, the company was desperate to make sales, and Indonesia appeared to be a promising market.36 Though a “sale of this magnitude would be of considerable importance to the DeHavilland Company,” External Affairs judged that the Caribou might enhance Indonesia’s military capacity for an attack on West New Guinea – this, despite a contradictory opinion from the Department of National Defence that the plane “poses no significant military threat to Australia or New Guinea.” External Affairs Secretary Howard Green refused an export permit for Caribous, killing the sale. He also vetoed an application to sell planes for civilian aerial-survey work and added Indonesia to the list of countries requiring ministerial approval for sales of spare parts. Under-Secretary Norman Robertson, who shared Green’s interest in global disarmament, had advised him that the Caribou was a military plane and that even the Otter had military uses. After all, Robertson argued, the Americans had sent twenty-one Otters to Vietnam for use against Viet Cong guerrillas.37 DeHavilland responded with a furious lobbying campaign. Dickins pleaded yet again to be allowed to sell fifteen Otters to Indonesia. Once again, he combined Cold War and employment arguments: the sale could help Indonesia avoid dependence on Soviet-bloc trade; and it would create two hundred jobs lasting ten years in Downsview. Green remained adamant, telling Hees that “no encouragement should be given now to DeHavilland.” Each time, Diefenbaker backed up Green’s refusal.38 A Canadian

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government much concerned with employment issues wanted to give the green light to DeHavilland’s Indonesian sales campaign, but that imperative clashed with the opinion of the Netherlands and Australia. Increased attention to export promotion was a hallmark of the Diefenbaker government, but in this case it was not enough to outweigh alliance politics. Tangling with the Tunku: The Commonwealth and Malayan Mediation Efforts, 1960-61 Steadfast Australian support for the Dutch presence in New Guinea had been the major barrier to Canadian and indeed Commonwealth involvement in mediating the dispute. This hard-line stance faltered as Australia’s major allies, the United States and Britain, shifted toward an emphasis on keeping Indonesia non-communist through friendlier relations. Canberra’s pro-Dutch partisanship on the West New Guinea issue had been bolstered by a promise from Dulles to back Australia “right or wrong.” The Australian Cabinet in 1959 finally accepted the logic of British and American policy shifts, agreeing that a non-communist Indonesia was more vital to Australian security than West New Guinea. It then succumbed to a charm offensive by Subandrio, whose goal was to convince Australia that it should disqualify itself as a principal party to the dispute. In this, he succeeded: Australia stepped back from the front lines in 1959 with a Casey-Subandrio joint statement promising that “if any agreement were reached between the Netherlands and Indonesia as parties principal, arrived at by peaceful processes and in accordance with internationally accepted principles, Australia would not oppose such an agreement.”39 This Australian retreat opened the possibility of mediation from within Commonwealth channels. In April 1960, the Dutch government announced a ten-year plan for selfdetermination in West New Guinea. Though there was no target date for independence (beyond promises that it would be within “less than a generation”), the debate no longer pitted Dutch colonialism against Indonesian anti-colonialism. It was now one of what sort of decolonization should take place. Sukarno responded by breaking diplomatic relations on August 17, 1960. By raising tensions, the self-determination plan created a need for Dutch military reinforcements. Accordingly, the Netherlands amended its military-service law to allow conscripts to be sent overseas; it also dispatched the country’s only aircraft carrier and two destroyers to show the flag in West New Guinea, and it created a Papuan Volunteer Corps. Dutch plans rested on Australian co-operation in accelerating independence for its own Territory of Papua and New Guinea – a suggestion entirely unwelcome in Canberra. The Australian view, Territories Minister Paul Hasluck noted, was “the slower the better.”40 The Netherlands was embarking on a real decolonization plan that drew harsh Indonesian objections; meanwhile, Canada and other Commonwealth


countries were forced to confront the issue more directly. Within the Commonwealth, New Zealand took the most pro-independence position, advancing a plan for a single New Guinea state that would unite the Dutch and Australian halves of the island. Prime Minister Walter Nash proposed speedy self-determination for both colonies at the 1960 SEATO ministerial meeting, then promoted that idea on a world tour. But Australia, driven by its gradualist policy for its own half of New Guinea, was unresponsive, and the United States failed to offer any support on the grounds that an independent New Guinea would be an expensive liability.41 Canadian policy-makers avoided direct involvement but did give some thought to the question of self-determination for the Papuans and the effect the dispute might have on the Commonwealth and on NATO. Commentary for Canada’s UN delegation argued that “Netherlands administration should continue until West New Guinea is capable of self-determination.” Approved instructions, in the event that the issue reached the floor, were to “avoid taking the initiative and [to] oppose any attempt to involve the United Nations in a mediatory role which, at this time, would be unlikely to have useful result.”42 This flowed from support for the Dutch position, modified by a belief that UN involvement would merely put Western and Asian governments at odds – something that Canadian diplomacy consistently tried to avoid. Rising tensions drew the attention of Tunku Abdul Rahman, Prime Minister of Malaya. The Tunku had refused earlier Indonesian requests to take the dispute to the UN, and now he told Western interlocutors that Sukarno was merely using the issue to distract his people from internal troubles.43 The threat to regional peace was now high enough that he changed his mind. Malaya was a pro-Western state best known at the UN for its joint sponsorship of resolutions against China’s occupation of Tibet. At the same time, it had made good relations with Indonesia a priority, signing a treaty of friendship in 1959 even while resisting Indonesian pressure for a trade pact.44 In September 1960, the Tunku launched a bid to resolve the West New Guinea dispute, proposing that the Netherlands transfer its colony to the UN as a trust territory, on the condition it then be handed over to Indonesia at a time to be determined by the Trusteeship Council. Prime Minister Djuanda Kartawidjaja, who served as acting president during Sukarno’s frequent absences from the country, accepted Malayan mediation. However, he insisted that any solution be compatible with “the struggle to restore West Irian to Indonesian authority.” Indonesia could accept a trusteeship only if its stated purpose was to transfer administration of the territory, and only if the trust period was for one year or less.45 Malayan diplomats stated that their initiative was designed to pick up on signals that The Hague might accept interim trusteeship as a face-saving way to unload West New Guinea and to avoid communist gains in Indonesia. Given Jakarta’s military strength, the Tunku saw Indonesian rule over West

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New Guinea as the only possible outcome. General Nasution had told him that “militarily it would be impossible for the Dutch to put under control the West Irian people’s resistance. – And in an eventual clash with Indonesia, we’ll always be able to deploy our crack troops with a strength twice, thrice, as well as four times that of the Dutch.”46 Thus the Tunku planned to focus his October 1960 trip to Canada, the United States, the UN, and Britain on seeking a West New Guinea solution. Without a settlement, he declared in Ottawa, “hostilities may well break out, causing considerable disturbance and disruption to the peace of the whole of South East Asia and the world.”47 Malayan mediation efforts inevitably became a matter for Commonwealth discussion. Australian Prime Minister Robert Menzies called Djuanda’s reply “a device for using the high moral reputation of the United Nations for the surreptitious transfer of the people of West New Guinea from their present internationally protected status to an unprotected and colonial status under Indonesia.” New Zealand’s External Affairs Department rejected the Tunku’s plan but wanted to avoid saying “no” outright. Prime Minister Nash personally added to a government position paper a note that “UN trusteeship should have as its ultimate objective real independence of indigenous people, after a reasonable period of assistance and tutelage.”48 Arthur Menzies, now Canada’s High Commissioner in Kuala Lumpur, had warned that the Tunku would try to involve Diefenbaker, “in whom he has great confidence.” Canadian government thinking remained close to that of The Hague, with Green expressing in writing a desire that “the wishes of the people of West New Guinea should be of paramount concern in determining the future of the territory. Current Netherlands (and Australian) policy seems to hold the best promise of achieving this objective.”49 The government was willing to listen to the Tunku’s ideas but reluctant to make any real commitment to them. The Tunku’s thinking had evolved into a three-point plan: West New Guinea would become a UN trust territory jointly administered by Malaya, India, and Ceylon, with a proviso for handover to Indonesia when circumstances were favourable. Meanwhile, Indonesia and the Netherlands would re-establish relations and Dutch investments would be returned. But the Tunku almost immediately began to alter his plan on the fly. Keen to avoid the impression that he was backing Indonesian claims, he “pointed to the words ‘when circumstances are favourable’ in part (a) of his proposal and made the off-hand comment that he did not think circumstances would ever be favourable.” He added that he had been having second thoughts about Ceylon, and in the middle of reading turned to his aide and said, “We will cut that out, yes?” A cautious Diefenbaker undertook only to have the matter looked into.50 More changes came at the November 1960 Commonwealth meeting in London. Informed that it was “unacceptable to UK” to ignore selfdetermination, the Tunku decided that trusteeship need not necessarily


lead to Indonesian rule; it could continue until the Papuans had a chance for self-determination. Self-government might take fifteen to twenty years because of the backwardness of the Papuans. “Many are still cannibals and wild people, and the Dutch have not done anything to educate them,” he said. Like the Indonesians, he saw them as primitives. Yet as his distance from Indonesia increased, so did his willingness to weaken the commitment to Indonesian rule. By the time he described his plan to the press in London, the Dutch government had abandoned its initial suspicion and even sent a special plane to fly him to talks in The Hague, at which it offered to submit to UN scrutiny. The Dutch told their allies they would accept trusteeship with at least one Western trustee. “Ironically,” Hébert commented, “a development the Dutch initially viewed with deep mistrust – the mediation efforts of the Tunku – redounded to their credit.” The Indonesian government, for its part, was not at all pleased. A brief war of words in the Indonesian and Malayan press ended with a conciliatory letter from Sukarno that thanked the Tunku for at least bringing the issue to greater world attention.51 In this sense, the Malayan mediation effort had given another boost to Indonesia’s goal of forcing international involvement through confrontation diplomacy. Though the Tunku had announced his efforts at an end in December 1960, he quickly resumed them. He telegrammed Dutch Prime Minister J.E. de Quay to “implore” him to accept a UN investigating commission – a request de Quay was willing to accept provided that self-determination was protected. Commonwealth talk on West New Guinea continued in the run-up to the Heads of Government Meeting scheduled for February 1961. Ceylon’s government, for instance, floated the idea of a trusteeship panel of six or seven countries (perhaps including Canada) for the whole island.52 External Affairs officials responded with a four-page brief to Diefenbaker suggesting that Canada might join forces with Britain, Australia, New Zealand, Malaya, and possibly Ceylon to achieve a UN trusteeship. Its tone remained pro-Dutch, but the merits were no longer front and centre. Instead, the crux was the threat of war in the backyard of several Commonwealth countries. The brief suggested that Diefenbaker welcome the Tunku’s mediation and endorse “the principle that the population of the territory should have a voice in the determination of their own political future”; then it added that “the application of this principle is difficult because of the backwardness of the people of New Guinea.”53 The rhetorical commitment to self-determination remained, echoing Diefenbaker’s embrace of this principle in European cases. Yet it was tempered by the persistent idea that the Papuans were not yet able to exercise self-determination – this, even after Papuan political parties had begun to force the pace toward more rapid independence. In the end, with the question of apartheid in South Africa dominating the meeting, West New Guinea received little attention. Despite some talk of Canadian action on an official level, the government remained unwilling to act.

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Back to the UN, 1961 The year 1960 saw decolonization accelerate. This wave, concentrated on Africa, shaped the policies of all outside powers toward the West New Guinea dispute. The Netherlands’ ten-year plan for Papuan self-determination was a response to international pressures. Dutch diplomats pointed out proudly that, alone among the European administering powers, their country had supported the 1960 UN declaration against colonialism. They held their country up as one of the most progressive colonizers. They came to the UN in 1961 with a resolution on ending colonial rule in West New Guinea, one that offered a UN visiting mission the power to decide on independence. Months earlier, Canadian officials had doubted that any colonial power would agree to UN visiting missions, and they continued to maintain Canadian opposition to any target dates for independence.54 The Dutch offer thus appeared progressive to Western governments. But it did little to respond to the factors driving Indonesia toward a more militant course. Indonesia’s struggle for West New Guinea both drove and was a response to a more militant foreign policy under Sukarno’s “guided democracy.” West New Guinea did not matter for its own sake, but for symbolic reasons. In the minds of Indonesian policy-makers, leaving it outside independent Indonesia left decolonization incomplete. Sukarno had popularized the slogan “from Sabang to Merauke,” an assertion of territorial unity from one end of the Indies to the other. Government publications quoted Dutch officers making remarks such as, “As long as Irian is in our hands, it will be a pistol pointing at Indonesia’s chest,” and evoked the threat of Dutch backing for separatist movements. Sukarno was sketching a mental map explaining why the passion for West Irian burned so brightly, stating that Indonesians felt “incomplete and unprotected without Irian.”55 Indonesia was the largest country in Southeast Asia, and one that had won its independence early and through its people’s own efforts; as a consequence, Indonesians felt a sense of entitlement in foreign policy. Indonesian foreign policy under parliamentary democracy had been both non-aligned and cautious. After the American-backed rebellions of 1958, policy-makers saw their country encircled and threatened by hostile forces. “If we look at the map,” Foreign Minister Subandrio said, “it will be clear to us that we live in a SEATO and Commonwealth area and atmosphere. They want to isolate Indonesia.”56 The foreign policy of “guided democracy” stressed dynamism and a balancing of the great powers to attain Indonesia’s goals of completing the revolution both spatially (by regaining West Irian) and spiritually (by returning to the ideals and style of the independence struggle). Since Sukarno sought unity rather than revolutionary social change within Indonesia’s borders, the continuing revolution was best expressed through foreign policy. Nonalignment on the Indian model had stressed conciliation; Sukarno countered this at the Non-Aligned Conference in Belgrade in September 1961 with his


concept of the “new emerging forces” pitted against the “old established forces” of colonialism. The main threat to peace, he argued, was not the Cold War but this clash of new against old, this battle to eradicate the remnants of colonialism.57 Amidst a turn to “revolutionary diplomacy,” however, Subandrio was also careful to portray himself as a moderate holding back the forces of radicalism. He cultivated excellent relations with Western diplomats, including all three Canadian ambassadors during this period. Indonesia balanced the superpowers skillfully, using an ever closer relationship with the Soviet Union to try to leverage American involvement. Where the United States spoke of neutrality on West Irian, the USSR repeatedly issued statements hoping that Indonesia would “finally driv[e] out the Dutch colonialists from their territory.” Khrushchev toured Indonesia in 1960, signing an additional credit agreement for $250 million. As a ready source of funds and arms, the USSR served as “an Aladdin’s lamp for [Sukarno] to rub,” in the words of US Ambassador Howard Jones.58 In 1961, after being jilted in Washington, Nasution went to Moscow and signed a $400 million arms deal. “When I arrived at the Kremlin, Khrushchev embraced me,” Nasution recalled. “He said, ‘You can have anything you want. I am not afraid of the Dutch.’” Adam Malik, named Ambassador to the Soviet Union in 1959 with a mandate to “exhaust the Soviet arsenal,” said that Indonesia would be offered all the arms it wanted: the “sky was the limit.” By 1962, Indonesia ranked number three among recipients of Soviet economic aid after India and Egypt and was largest non-communist recipient of Soviet bloc military aid, with credits in excess of $1.5 billion.59 While relations with the USSR improved, those with the United States remained volatile. The Kennedy administration that took office in January 1961 viewed neutral governments as potential partners in containment and development. It pursued a two-track strategy toward Indonesia: friendship with Sukarno’s government, coupled with more effort to rebuild American “assets” in the army in the hope that they, rather than the PKI, would eventually take power. Ideally, once they had done so they would govern in tandem with Western-trained technocrats. In order to stabilize Indonesia and make this dream possible, however, the constant irritant of West New Guinea would have to be removed. Direct American military aid of about $20 million a year fell far short of the Soviet contribution but held enormous symbolic importance. Indonesia was allowed to pay a token sum for American arms (one-thirtieth of the book value in 1959) in local currency, and may not even have paid that in full. The new line was pushed most firmly by Ambassador Jones, who called for better relations with Indonesia, more support to the army “prior [to the] final showdown” with the PKI, and an effort to resolve the main obstacle to both goals – the West New Guinea dispute – on terms favourable enough to Indonesia “to assure removal of problem.”60

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At a February 1961 NATO meeting, the Dutch again “appealed to those who sold arms to Indonesia even with the best of intentions to recognize their moral obligation” to resist aggression. American representatives countered that the Soviets could use any NATO common front on Indonesia to their own propaganda advantage. The Dutch renewed their objections in October after finding Indonesian infiltrators in West New Guinea armed with Danish-supplied weapons.61 Dutch pressure was more successful in Ottawa than in Washington. Howard Green was establishing a reputation as a campaigner for disarmament and meanwhile was becoming increasingly reluctant to approve any arms sales at all to Indonesia. He ordered that all export applications relating to Indonesia be cleared with him personally, and he rejected even such requests as one from Pratt and Whitney to export spare aircraft parts worth $485. “Do not grant any permits to Indonesia,” Green wrote emphatically on one such request.62 Despite the American-Dutch clash over arms, the two governments held conversations over the summer of 1961 during which the Netherlands government adopted some of the State Department’s suggestions. Most notably, it offered to “internationalize” West New Guinea by transferring administration directly to the UN. The Dutch now wanted to shed the New Guinea albatross, and they were willing to consider any solution except one: handing their colony over to Indonesia. “Despite frequent reaffirmations of this [selfdetermination] policy,” Ambassador Hébert reported, “I know from personal experience that many influential Dutchmen consider the Netherlands has a tiger by the tail in New Guinea and they would be glad to let go if a face-saving solution could be evolved, even if the solution fell short of full implementation of the present Netherlands plans for the granting of self-determination.”63 By the end of the summer, Dutch soundings were under way in some twenty foreign capitals. Diefenbaker avoided any comment when Kennedy raised West New Guinea with him, and that remained Ottawa’s position: “The Canadian Government has always adopted the view that it has no interest in taking any initiative on the West New Guinea issue,” wrote Under-Secretary Robertson. In New York, Green expressed sympathy with the Dutch plan but skepticism regarding its chances of passing. Ottawa’s sympathies lay with the Netherlands, but it had other priorities.64 Policy-makers were seeking the safest ground for Canada, which meant no action at all. This was of a piece with the Diefenbaker government’s overall approach to decolonization. Officials were keenly aware that Asian and African perceptions of colonialist intransigence were at the core of antipathy between the Asian-African and Western blocs, and thus of the need for at least a few Western governments to show forward-looking attitudes toward decolonization. This was a tactical feeling, however, dictated by the belief that “emotion, inexperience and selfish interest” were behind the strong anti-colonial feelings of the “infant states.” Officials accepted that there was no alternative


to independence for all but the smallest colonies, but they still insisted on the need for “adequate preparation” and economic development.65 When asked by British officials to consider seeking membership on the new UN Special Committee on Decolonization to be formed in 1962, officials in Ottawa worried that Canadians “might often find ourselves faced with a choice between offending either our closest allies or our friends among the newlyindependent states.” Green decided against a Canadian membership bid, allowing only that the question could be reconsidered if there was strong pressure for Canada to join – which there was not.66 The Canadian government was just as reluctant to become directly involved in the specific decolonization issue of West New Guinea. While the merits of the Dutch plan were being discussed, it was left to J.P. Sigvaldson, Canada’s new Ambassador in Jakarta, to put the case in cold, realpolitik terms. Where Newton had been charmed by Indonesia and had in turn attempted his own minor charm offensive, Sigvaldson took a much colder approach. One of his subordinates in a previous post remembered him as “a big, stolid, Icelandic-Canadian ... honest, blunt, conscientious, and intelligent but rather plodding.”67 The new ambassador did not pioneer a harder line, but he did reflect the Canadian government’s increasing disenchantment with Sukarno’s Indonesia. Doubtless the Papuans would be better off under UN rule than Indonesian, he wrote, but what bothers me is what the United Nations would eventually do with the territory. It is difficult to believe that it could ever be a viable state, even with East Irian added. As a Canadian taxpayer (in a very tiny way) I am not enthusiastic about trying to support forever every large or small area in Asia and Africa that wants the status or prestige of independence. If the Dutch are tired of trying to tempt the Papuans down from the tree-tops, I do not see that it matters too greatly, even to the Papuans, whether the job is assumed by the United Nations or by Indonesia.68

In fact, it mattered a great deal to politically active Papuans. The most unexpected result of the dramatic Dutch announcement of a ten-year selfdetermination plan was that local people began to organize, demanding that the promise of self-determination be made real, and trying to become diplomatic actors themselves. An eight-man Papuan international delegation headed by Markus Kaisiepo, “the doyen of the Papuan elite,” called for an independent Melanesian federation including Australian possessions and the British-ruled Solomon Islands.69 In February 1961, elections took place across West New Guinea for a national council with powers to advise the colonial administration. This embryonic Parliament almost immediately passed a resolution that the Netherlands was “no longer free” to dispose of the territory without its consent. By December 1, 1961, the Papuans were

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flying a new national flag. (Many Papuans still regard this as their independence day.) Western governments, however, were more concerned about the threat to peace posed by the Dutch-Indonesian confrontation. Their commitment to self-determination stopped before it reached the shores of New Guinea. Kennedy personally ordered an American boycott of the New Guinea Council inauguration to avoid offending Sukarno’s government. In effect, the White House was rejecting the thinking behind the self-determination plan in favour of a course designed to cool an international crisis and – even more important – to stop Indonesia from “going communist.” The same issues were being weighed in Britain, which finally decided it had no choice but to attend the inauguration.70 While the Americans wanted to avoid offending Indonesia, Prime Minister Harold Macmillan’s government had to be more concerned not to offend the Dutch at a time when it was seeking entry into the EEC. The American, British, and Canadian embassies in Jakarta all offered the same advice to their governments: the primary goal was to keep Indonesia out of the communist bloc, and a resolution of the West New Guinea problem was the only way to achieve that aim. “Although it takes a good deal of faith to believe Indonesia can be kept permanently out of communist hands, I firmly believe that every effort should be made to strengthen those who wish to retain real independence,” Sigvaldson wrote. “Their future influence may depend on their ability to realize an objective which [the] armed forces and elite have come to accept as necessary to [the country’s] prestige if not security.” There was still some hope, he thought, that Indonesia “could become a barrier to communist advances in Southeast Asia. If there is a reasonable chance that this might be brought about, it seems important not to give up Indonesia too quickly.” In the Netherlands, Ambassador Hébert advised backing the Dutch, saying that failure to support their self-determination plan at the UN “might have long-term consequences for Cda-Netherlands relationships in political field and, perhaps more important, in economic field where Dutch have been consistent supporters of Cdn point-of-view within EEC.”71 Decision makers in Ottawa had to weigh Asian against European imperatives. Dutch hopes for General Assembly approval of their self-determination plan rested on the belief that Indonesia’s Asian and African friends would defect – they hoped for abstentions from such countries as Malaya, the Philippines, and India. But Indonesia always insisted it had forty solid votes, more than enough to block the two-thirds majority required. Papuan lobbying was more constrained, as the Dutch government declined to allow its proteges to visit neutralist capitals on their own. Papuan diplomats also faced the negative example of the Congo, where Belgian authorities had withdrawn quickly and with few preparations for independence, opening the door to civil war. They had to explain repeatedly that they did not wish


to become “another Congo” through premature independence. All of this left them open to accusations that they were Dutch puppets rather than genuine nationalists. Even so, they made well-crafted appeals to Western hopes for better relations with neutral countries. Speaking in Australia, New Guinea councillor Herman Womsiwor promised future racial harmony: “The bridge between Europe and the countries of Africa, Asia, and Oceania, collapsed now in many places, will be repaired ... It is too early as yet, but the time will come when Europe is given a new welcome among the coloured peoples. No longer as their masters but as their friends and confidants ... When this insight is more mature, it will repair the bridge. Not yet now, but that time will come and sooner than one thinks.”72 Such appeals to Western hopes, however, damaged Papuan prospects of support from neutral states. It was a dilemma they found impossible to overcome. Non-aligned governments were faced with a choice between the principle of self-determination on the one hand, and solidarity with Indonesia on the other. The Papuan delegation quoted Ghana’s representative: “We share your views completely and stand behind you but [Prime Minister Kwame] Nkrumah is a great friend of Sukarno’s and therefore we have to vote against.” The Malayan delegation claimed to support self-determination in theory, but according to one report “they take the position that to insist on its full operation in a country where there are still cannibals would take twenty or more years to see the full process going through, while the risk of war between Indonesia and the Netherlands is around the corner.” Furthermore, some officials in Malaya hoped to absorb British territories in Borneo with only minimal expressions of self-determination, so they could not easily insist on more in this case. Though Papuan diplomats made no inroads into the pro-Indonesian bloc, they were able to win the support of the Brazzaville group, composed of thirteen mainly francophone African states, in part by promoting a new mental map of imagined kinship ties in which “Dutch New Guinea is New Africa.” Papuans often looked African, and this imagined identity became a marker for building diplomatic support.73 In their first joint action at the UN, the Brazzaville countries put forward a plan that combined Papuan demands for self-determination with an Indian resolution, supported by Indonesia, for bilateral talks with the Netherlands. The Brazzaville resolution’s terms set out that if talks failed, steps toward Papuan self-determination would continue. “This ingenious combination should gain wide support in plenary,” the Canadian delegation cabled Ottawa.74 Before deciding on Canada’s position, Green ordered consultations with the Old Commonwealth. His officials reported that Australia, New Zealand, and (with some reservations) Britain all backed the Dutch plan; they recommended that Canada do the same. Green agreed to tell the Dutch that in general Canada supported them, but he refused to take any active role or to allow this position to be conveyed to any other country. The safest

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stance was silence. “Our concern,” External Affairs noted, “is not with Sukarno’s sensitivities but with avoiding situation in which lines would be hardened between Atlantic supporters of Netherlands and Afro-Asian supporters of Indonesia with possible increased danger of greater communist influence in Indonesia and even of armed conflict.”75 The Brazzaville resolution appeared to be one way to avoid this sort of polarization between Western and non-aligned states. In voting, however, it fell short of a twothirds majority, receiving 53 votes in favour and 41 against. Canada, the United States, the Brazzaville group, and most of Western Europe and Latin America voted yes. In the other camp were most Asian states, the Soviet bloc, and seven left-leaning African states. The Indian draft, backed by Indonesia, received 41 affirmative votes from the same groups, with 40 against, and thus it too failed. The Netherlands withdrew its own resolution. The Dutch declared themselves “deeply shocked” that Canada had abstained on the Indian draft, and they demanded an explanation. Robertson responded that Canada thought it inconsistent with views on the conciliatory functions of the UN to oppose even the unhelpful Indian draft, but added that Canada would have voted in favour of the Dutch resolution had it come to a vote. The Dutch government overrode its ambassador’s reluctance and expressed official disappointment, as did Australia.76 The Canadian policy of inaction in order to avoid offending either side had irritated both, though it kept the government where it wanted to be – on the sidelines. Meanwhile the United States – the key outside player – was beginning to move in a new direction that would further strain the alliance system that was so important to Canada. Hot Spot: West New Guinea Talks and Struggle, 1961-62 Indonesian crisis diplomacy, starting with Sukarno’s December 19, 1961, order to his people to mobilize against Papuan independence, succeeded in gaining the attention of Western governments. With this came an American decision that the dispute must be resolved and that the only resolution possible was to give West New Guinea to Indonesia. After meeting Sukarno on December 8, US Ambassador Jones feared that an attack was imminent. Kennedy responded with an offer to mediate, which Jones believed headed off the invasion. Sigvaldson saw no reason to share this belief, arguing that the real reason for Indonesian restraint was that its forces were not yet ready to attack. Meanwhile, other allies were responding to Indonesian militancy by involving themselves more heavily in the push for a settlement. Just before Christmas, Kennedy discussed West New Guinea with British Prime Minister Macmillan at a summit meeting in Bermuda. The two agreed that “the right course would be to do everything possible to prevent the outbreak of hostilities over West Irian and to persuade the Dutch to accept some arrangement which, whether through mediation or otherwise, would enable


them to extricate themselves from their present position.”77 Keith Holyoake, Nash’s successor as New Zealand’s prime minister, also appealed to Sukarno for peace, writing that “our sole concern is that there should be an equitable and peaceful solution which takes account of all interests involved including specifically those of Indonesia.” Though Holyoake’s failure to mention selfdetermination shocked Australian diplomats, the State Department called his message “timely and effective.” Sukarno replied that Indonesia wanted peace, but “as Netherlands are preparing with [the] proclamation of so called independent Papua I cannot remain idle but I have to face Netherlands forceful and illegal occupation of West Irian with [the] same military means.” He sent much the same response to Kennedy’s mediation offer. From Canberra, Menzies sent a stiffer letter to Sukarno warning against an attack, and duly received a “contemptuous” reply.78 Commonwealth diplomacy was not coordinated, but the British practice of keeping senior dominions informed meant they were influenced by the new Kennedy–Macmillan line and in some cases dependent on British sources for information. The United States, Britain, and even New Zealand had moved to a new policy. The Australian Cabinet soon fell into line behind what Menzies called “our great and powerful friends,” in a phrase that has since become shorthand for Australian dependence on its major allies.79 The Canadian government also expressed a view, albeit carefully couched in milder terms. An aide-mémoire for the embassy to deliver to Indonesian authorities was downgraded to guidance for Sigvaldson to take in a talk with Subandrio. Canada had been watching “with close attention and some anxiety” the deterioration of Dutch-Indonesian relations. It wished to remain friends with both sides and had no preference as to what form a solution took, but it also hoped for “peaceful negotiations” and that neither side would “take any steps which could lead to military conflict with all its attendant dangers.” As a sign that the Canadian government’s main interest was shifting, a reference to the “interests of the indigenous peoples” as a top priority was deleted from the guidance telegram. Only two months earlier, Canada had endorsed self-determination for West New Guinea at the UN. Now that was abandoned as the threat to the peace took precedence. As the United States moved, pulling its allies with it, Canada’s position also shifted, to remain midway between those of Washington and The Hague. When Sigvaldson delivered the Canadian message, Subandrio replied in familiar terms with little compromise in mind, though adding a vain hope “for anything Canada can do to help.”80 Sigvaldson shared the views of his British and American counterparts, who were worried that the West New Guinea conflict placed Indonesia at risk of becoming a Soviet satellite. “If that risk is not to turn out disastrously,” he wrote, “the wisest and most disinterested influence of the free world countries will be needed to save Indonesia from herself.” He proposed joint action to

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force talks by the three countries that still “possess Indonesian confidence in substantial measure” – the United States, Britain, and Canada. Joint action, however, should be based on the trio’s common interest in keeping Indonesia “out of the area of communist domination.” A solution to the dispute would be “more rewarding in the battle with communism than any form of economic assistance is likely to be.” One possible solution could be an Indonesian trusteeship with UN supervision and the promise of eventual self-determination – a plan that might even put Indonesia in the same boat as Australia “in resisting for some years to come the pressure to grant a right to self-determination to a people who are still close to the cave and the treetops.”81 In Ottawa the Indonesian ambassador, Palar, suggested that only Canada and Finland (as abstainers on the Indian resolution) had any right to urge talks. Norman Robertson floated a plan by which the UN SecretaryGeneral would bring the matter to the Security Council’s attention as a threat to peace, and the council would then instruct him to arrange talks. The Dutch ambassador, A.H.J. Lovinck, welcomed the idea; but instead of accepting it, UN Secretary-General U Thant conceded the long-standing demand of Indonesian-backed UN resolutions by appealing to Sukarno and de Quay for bilateral talks.82 Tensions soared after a January 1962 naval clash in which the Dutch sank an Indonesian ship, with the deputy commander of the Indonesian navy a casualty of battle. Pearson led off question period the next day by asking about the clash. Green agreed that it was a serious incident and added that Canada was pressing for peace talks.83 American and British attitudes were already hardening as both countries looked for ways to cool the dispute. Official thinking in Ottawa was now moving in the same direction. A memorandum by Assistant Under-Secretary George Glazebrook was striking for its similarities to memoranda drafted only weeks earlier by the White House national security staff. Glazebrook’s approach recalled the Canadian effort in the Indonesian decolonization dispute, which had sought to save Canada’s Dutch ally from the negative consequences of its own policies. He called for a realistic decision to abandon the principle of self-determination on the grounds that it was not possible in primitive West New Guinea. Canada should instead help the Dutch find a means to give way while saving face. This introduced “an element of old-fashioned horse-trading.” He suggested to Ambassador Lovinck that the Netherlands accept Subandrio’s promise of an eventual plebiscite following transfer of administration to Indonesia. This shift in thinking foreshadowed the eventual compromise reached six months later, but the Dutch were not yet ready to accept it. For the moment, the initiative was “out of the question” because of “solemn promises” made on self-determination.84 As during the Indonesian revolution, it would take the addition of American pressure to force a Dutch change of heart.


The Dutch government’s irritation at its allies built to a fury in February when Japan, and then the United States, blocked planes carrying Dutch troops to New Guinea. Though the Dutch were eventually able to replace their Alaska-Japan route with a flight via the Netherlands Antilles, Peru, and French-ruled New Caledonia, they felt that the Kennedy administration had betrayed them. In response, they pushed for more support from the rest of NATO, highlighting the need for self-determination and the military forces to defend it. In April the Netherlands withdrew two infantry battalions from the NATO command area for use in West New Guinea.85 Dutch officials complained that the Indonesian patrol boat sunk in the naval clash had been built in Germany and that the troops on board had been transported by American-built Hercules transports. They asked for a full NATO arms embargo, but US Deputy National Security Adviser Walt Rostow responded that the decision to sell arms to Indonesia had been reached “in the perspective of larger free world interests” in Asia. NATO was “an indispensable element of USA policy [but] would not long survive if areas outside treaty area came under Communist control.” American military supplies to Indonesia were intended to prevent communist penetration of Southeast Asia – a higher priority than the local problem of West New Guinea. President Kennedy made a similar point to the Dutch prime minister, telling him that West New Guinea was not important in the global scheme and that “by concentrating too much on the welfare of the Papuan population we may be forgetting our other obligations in Asia and free Europe.” NATO Council reactions to the American stance were highly critical. Belgium’s representative, for instance, accused Washington of “virtually abandoning its old and faithful ally” the Netherlands. Some European representatives complained that they had stood in solidarity with the United States on issues like Cuba and that the Dutch deserved to have the favour returned. On the other hand, the Turkish delegate saw the American position as justified since it “maintained possibly the last bridge between the West and Indonesia.” George Ignatieff, representing Canada at the NATO Council, positioned himself between the two camps, supporting the informal arms embargo but adding that this was not the time to criticize American policy.86 The Canadian position, as so often, was to seek a middle path during a clash between its allies. Talks seemed more and more likely, with discussion now turning to the question of who would mediate. Subandrio’s choice was Canada, a country sympathetic to the Netherlands but possessing “considerable international stature [and] reasonably objective.” Here was an appeal to the Canadian diplomatic self-image as a mediating power with a special sympathy for developing countries. Ottawa’s response was chilly. “We do not wish,” External Affairs telegrammed Hébert, “to take any soundings or to discuss with any other government the possibility of Cdn participation in the talks.”87

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Under the St. Laurent government, all the talk of mediation might have led to a Canadian role, but Green and Diefenbaker were more tightly focused on issues of core concern. They saw little to be gained by becoming embroiled in a thorny dispute in South Pacific waters on which both NATO and Commonwealth countries were deeply divided. Where Pearson might have seen an opportunity to resolve a dispute in which Canada’s allies were at odds, Green saw a dangerous situation. Since officials thought transfer of administration to Indonesia was the only likely resolution, there was little incentive for Green to help an unpopular Third World neutral leader win a diplomatic victory over a well-regarded ally. From opposition, Green had assailed Pearson for abandoning Britain and France during the Suez crisis. On a smaller scale, the West New Guinea dispute raised some of the same concerns. Green preferred silence to disloyalty. Mediation fell to the more activist Kennedy administration. Subandrio said that the Dutch had objected to Canada as mediator; Sukarno preferred the United States as more able to influence Dutch thinking. By early March both sides had agreed to talk in the presence of American diplomat Ellsworth Bunker. Bunker proposed a formula that married many of the opposing ideas, closely following Tunku Abdul Rahman’s original proposals. His plan envisioned a transfer of West New Guinea from the Netherlands to the UN, an interim UN administration of one or two years conditional on subsequent transfer to Indonesia, and an eventual act of self-determination. By putting transfer to Indonesia first and self-determination later, this scheme favoured Indonesian demands. It placed Western strategic interests first, Papuan welfare a distant second. Sukarno accepted the formula at once, while the Dutch took five months to do so to his satisfaction. The British and Australian governments also endorsed Bunker’s proposals. “History seems to be repeating itself again, the history of the Dutch-Indonesian fight from 194549 during the struggle for Indonesian independence,” one External Affairs officer commented. “Now, as in 1948, world opinion and more importantly, the attitude of the governments of the United States, Britain and Australia have become critical of Dutch policy.”88 In another parallel to its revolution, Indonesia combined diplomacy with armed struggle. Throughout the negotiations, small-scale military operations continued. This failed to attract Canadian attention. An approach in Moscow by the Indonesian ambassador and chief New Guinea negotiator, however, did. Adam Malik told Canadian Ambassador Arnold Smith that the USSR was pushing for an early attack and that Indonesian officials were resisting. Smith counselled patience and restraint. Newfoundland, he pointed out, had remained aloof from Canada for eighty years. Indonesia, too, should wait. Around the same time, Indonesia’s chargé d’affaires in Ottawa told Canadian officials that the Soviets were pressing for an attack, adding that he thought mediation a better path. He repeated the suggestion that Canada


take on the role of mediator and was told that Ottawa was deferring to the American lead.89 American mediators eventually convinced the two sides to agree to a modified form of the Bunker plan; the deal was formally signed at UN headquarters on August 15, 1962. “We are ashamed before the world,” de Quay told the Dutch Parliament, leaving no doubt who had won the day. “The Netherlands could not count on the support of its allies, and for that reason we had to sign.” All the talk of “solemn promises” to the Papuans had been dropped; Dutch efforts focused not on protecting the right to selfdetermination but on avoiding the humiliation of direct transfer to Indonesia. “The Netherlands may accept this plan, for it will not mean a surrender to force, and Dutch honor will be saved,” the Montreal Gazette commented. But a fair plebiscite now seemed impossible: “Once that annexation takes place, by whatever method, it is extremely doubtful if Indonesia will give West New Guinea either a plebiscite or independence.” The second decolonization in the former Dutch East Indies had preserved the form of selfdetermination while sacrificing the substance. External Affairs officials urged Canadian words of congratulations for the American mediation, but Green ordered them to remain silent.90 Canada and UNTEA 1962-63 With both Indonesian and Dutch troops in West New Guinea, the UN needed a security force to back up its first ever direct administration of a former colony, the UN Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA) in West New Guinea. A pro-Western Muslim country, Iran, provided the UNTEA civilian administrator. U Thant planned to ask a single Muslim country for the peacekeeping force. He first approached Malaya, which chose to stay out this time and even issued an official denial that the UN had requested troops. The choice then fell on Pakistan, which had forces available. The UN called on Canada and the United States for air support. Coastal transport would be provided by American Dakotas, but Canadian DeHavilland Otters were superior for inland landings on lakes and rivers. Though the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) tended to dislike “isolated ‘pocket handkerchief’ commitments of this kind on opposite side of the globe,” they were willing to take part so that Canada could continue its unbroken participation in UN peacekeeping operations – a stated goal of the department in this case.91 Helping guarantee a settlement served Canadian interests, in that it would end this troublesome dispute at low cost while reinforcing Canada’s record as a consistent contributor to UN peacekeeping operations. Before bringing the question to Cabinet, Green insisted on Dutch approval, which was quickly given with the comment that there was “no more acceptable source from Dutch standpoint for personnel and equipment for UN force than Cda.” Cabinet approved, sending two Otters so that one in working order would always be available to UNTEA.92

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UN forces in West New Guinea ultimately consisted of 1,522 soldiers from Pakistan, along with 64 American and 12 Canadian air force personnel. In the quality of its arms, the Pakistani contingent was notably inferior to Indonesian ground forces, who carried modern Soviet weapons. UNTEA administrators were almost incidental to the much larger number of Indonesians, who had the most contact with Canadian air officers. Jakarta was already beginning to exert effective control. “We often forgot that the administration here was still in the hands of UNTEA,” one Indonesian soldier recalled. “We became quite good at playing hide and seek with this agency.”93 Formally, however, the transfer of power did not take place until May 1, 1963. Sukarno arrived soon afterwards for a symbolic taking of possession. Ambassador Sigvaldson reported on the triumphal visit: Certainly neither President Soekarno nor other Indonesians in his party gave any indication that they regarded the final status of West Irian as something yet to be determined. In the circumstances only an optimist could believe that the Indonesians will hesitate before long to go through the motions which will finally incorporate West Irian into the Republic of Indonesia. Whatever the moral issues, I find it difficult to believe that it would be in anyone’s interest to insist on too meticulous an observation of Western ideas and procedures in regard for a plebiscite for determining the ultimate future of the territory.94

Decolonization had been achieved in form, but more as an exercise in global conflict resolution than to give local control to the Papuans, who simply exchanged one form of outside rule for another, with their own process toward independence aborted. Throughout the West New Guinea dispute, the Diefenbaker government plotted policy in the context of alliance politics. While the government’s focus on commercial considerations had reshaped Colombo Plan aid patterns, the same was not true when it came to “high politics.” Alliance loyalties trumped jobs in the Toronto aircraft industry as Ottawa decided not to sell aircraft to Indonesia after 1959. There was not as much money at stake, but the decision also showed the crucial importance of alliances in Canadian policy-making. Despite several opportunities to play a mediating role, the Diefenbaker government stayed out, just as it avoided too much involvement in clashes over decolonization in general for fear of offending either European partners or Asian-African neutrals. With West New Guinea largely invisible to policy-makers, and imagined through notions of the primitive even when it was visible, the rhetorical Canadian commitment to self-determination did not affect policy. Officials offered occasional suggestions, but on the whole the government avoided involving itself, unwilling to risk upsetting an ally by taking any steps that might stir divisions within NATO


or the Commonwealth. Instead it left the running to the Kennedy administration, declining even to act in small ways that might be helpful to Washington. Quiet support for the Dutch position and a rhetorical commitment to self-determination in October 1960 gave way to greater concerns about the possible threat to the peace through 1961. By December 1961, policy-makers had abandoned talk of self-determination in favour of whispered hopes for a peaceful solution – hopes, however, that Ottawa was unwilling to seek out. The government viewed the dispute through alliance lenses and opted for safety through inaction. Similar considerations would continue to operate as the Indonesian government attempted to repeat its West New Guinea triumph during a confrontation with the Commonwealthsponsored federation of Malaysia. On that occasion, alliance-driven logic would draw Canada into the confrontation.

5 Canada, Confrontation, and the End of Empire in Southeast Asia, 1963-66

The West New Guinea peace settlement removed the chief pretext for Indonesia’s militant foreign policy, leaving Sukarno with a choice. He could return to the path of “constructive” economic development and perhaps pull Indonesia out of its severe economic troubles by embracing an economic stabilization plan designed by the US government, or he could find a new cause on which to hang his anti-colonial rhetoric and unite his country against an external enemy. Ultimately he opted for “confrontation,” a lowlevel conflict with the newly formed state of Malaysia, one that would replicate the tactics of the successful West New Guinea campaign. Western governments, including Canada, rallied to the defence of Malaysia. The strains resulting from the confrontation would lead to Sukarno’s overthrow and to a new Indonesian regime that would set the country on the path preferred by Western governments. For Sukarno’s government, the synthesis of diplomacy and struggle that had worked so well in the past proved disastrous this time. His country embarked on a systemic challenge whose failure demonstrated the limits to the power of militant Third World nationalism. Western powers rallied to defend the international norms that Sukarno was assailing. Under Lester Pearson, who defeated Diefenbaker in a 1963 election to become prime minister, Canada stood quietly on the battlements. It offered its first military aid to Southeast Asia to support the Malaysian government, making itself a junior partner in a regional conflict for the first time. Confrontation was not simply a matter of the government in Jakarta picking a fight with its counterpart in Kuala Lumpur. It revolved around the most recent decolonization in the region. There were three British-administered territories remaining, all of them along the northern coast of the island of Borneo. Britain also governed the city-state of Singapore, its main military base in the region. Tunku Abdul Rahman, Prime Minister of Malaya, seized on vague British plans to unite these colonies with Malaya in a new federation to be called Malaysia. Sukarno’s government, which ruled the rest of

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Borneo, viewed the plan as a neo-colonial attempt to hand new territories to a government that, in Indonesian eyes, was little more than a stalking horse for British interests in Southeast Asia. Indonesian leaders called for independent states in northern Borneo and Singapore, rejecting the 1963 creation of Malaysia as neo-colonialism. In the process they raised questions about what, exactly, constituted an independent country. Indonesia was truly free, with no foreign alliances, since it had won its independence against an unwilling colonial master. It had been “born in fire.” Now it accused Malaysia, which was linked to British defence systems and dependent on Commonwealth arms, of lacking full independence. As Commonwealth governments stepped up their assistance to Malaysia, the critique was extended to them as well. According to one Indonesian newspaper close to the Foreign Ministry, Canadian support for Malaysia was “a lesson to every Indonesian that a Canadian is not a Canadian but that a Canadian is British. After all, Canadians do not even have an ‘independence’ day.”1 If Sukarno’s Indonesia made “independence” as defined in Jakarta one of its principles of foreign policy, Lester Pearson’s Canada preferred interdependence. Like the Diefenbaker government, it viewed Southeast Asian decolonization issues through the lens of alliance politics and looked instinctively for a middle path between British and American policies in Southeast Asia. Ottawa sought a space between Britain’s low-level war against Indonesian guerrillas and the American focus on Indonesia, which was larger and more central to US regional strategy. Within those confines, Canadian reactions to the new crisis aimed to help Malaysia and equally to help the British government ease itself out of direct rule over territories in Southeast Asia before they became liabilities. The Pearson government came to power pledging to mend Canada’s relations with its major allies. Paul Martin, the new Secretary of State for External Affairs, believed that “diplomacy cannot be other than quiet and cautious,” so he tried to avoid the clashes with Canadian allies that had bedevilled Diefenbaker. The new prime minister promised to pick his sure-footed way between Britain and the United States. His bottom line in international disputes, as he said in the Suez context, was to “try to find some sort of solution on which the British and Americans can agree.”2 For Ottawa, as for Washington, the war in Vietnam overshadowed all else, doing much to determine policy toward Malaysia. Yet the new Malaysia federation also evoked considerable sympathy in Canadian policy-making circles, bolstered by the Commonwealth link, by increased Australian and New Zealand involvement in the confrontation, and by disillusion with Sukarno’s Indonesia, which seemed to be moving closer and closer into alignment with Asian communist countries. Pearson had been “happy with the old Commonwealth but happier with the new,” in the recollection of Lord Home, British Foreign Secretary and then prime minister during this period.3 Solidarity with Malaysia, an

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Canada, Confrontation, and the End of Empire in Southeast Asia, 1963-66

element of Commonwealth solidarity, led Canada into the camp of states defined in Jakarta as adversaries. Alliance Politics and the Birth of Malaysia, 1963 The manner of Malaysia’s creation lent weight to criticism that it was a British scheme to replace direct colonial rule with informal empire. Decolonization, properly managed, was not a retreat but a strategy to ensure ongoing British influence: after an inevitable period of anti-British feeling such as Canada and South Africa had gone through early in the twentieth century, the ex-colonies would grow out of their resentment and become reliable British partners, given enough “patience and forbearance.”4 British policy-makers set the three territories along the northern coast of Borneo (Sarawak, Sabah, and the Protectorate of Brunei) on a gradual path toward self-government and closer association. Far more important was Singapore, the hub for Britain’s presence in Southeast Asia. British bases underpinned important investments: there was more British capital invested in Malaya than in India. The Singapore base allowed participation in the containment of communism in Southeast Asia; it also gave London a voice in shaping American containment policies and safeguarded the loyalty of Australia and New Zealand. Without it, one cabinet minister wrote, “our influence in the area could sink to that of France.”5 For a country still bent on global greatness, such a fate was unacceptable. Singapore, with an ethnic Chinese majority inclined to leftist politics, did not provide indefinite security for British base facilities. The obvious solution was to merge it into stable, relatively prosperous, and pro-Western Malaya. Where Malayan leaders and many in Singapore viewed the city-state as a Chinese island in a Malay sea, Singapore Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew portrayed the entire peninsula as a single body, stating that Singapore was a natural part of Malaya and that “to perform dissection would have taxed the skill of the greatest political surgeons who ever existed.”6 When the Tunku’s government resisted for fear of being overwhelmed by an ethnic Chinese majority, British officials spoke of sweetening the deal by adding the northern Borneo territories, thereby reducing the Chinese population below 50 percent. The Tunku finally agreed, telling Malaya’s Parliament that he had worried the merger “would spell trouble, and trouble galore” but that an independent Singapore, vulnerable to communist control, was an unacceptable security risk. With Malaya’s 1950s fight against ethnic Chinese “Communist terrorists” still a fresh memory, the Tunku’s fear of another communist threat overcame his antipathy to Singapore. Forming the new country, he wrote to British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, would “do much to arrest the spread of Communism in this region of Asia.” That was “the real object of the merger.”7 The transfer of responsibilities to an anti-communist government linked closely to Britain through the Anglo-


Malayan Defence Agreement was entirely in line with British hopes to rely more on local nationalists for containment. Malaysia would be, in Macmillan’s phrase, a “bold and imaginative development in the evolution of our Commonwealth,” for it would allow Britain to shed expensive colonial liabilities while retaining the advantages of a major economic and military presence. Britain’s Singapore-centred Far East defence system consumed one-quarter of its total defence spending. It made economic sense for a cash-strapped country to seek ways to reduce those commitments.8 The British and Malayan governments quickly reached an agreement in principle to transfer British-run territories to Malayan rule, conditional on continued unfettered use of Singapore for Britain’s SEATO duties and on a joint commission to discover the wishes of the Borneo colonies. Despite some tension between British and Malayan members, the commission was able to report popular consent for the new federation.9 Both sides agreed to a full transfer of sovereignty by August 31, 1963. In December 1962, however, the drive to form Malaysia hit a speed bump when Brunei’s Party Rakyat (People’s Party), which had won all the elected seats on Brunei’s legislature, staged an uprising to demand an independent Northern Borneo state. Though the rebellion was put down by British troops, it drew Indonesia into the debate over Borneo decolonization. The US government’s plan of action for Indonesia noted that the purpose of the West New Guinea mediation had been to strengthen the army and the “small but important group of non-leftist officials seriously interested in economic development.” Sukarno recognized the need to prioritize development in his 1962 Independence Day speech, backing that up with a new Economic Declaration in March 1963. Two months later, First Minister Djuanda Kartawidjaja succeeded in enacting an economic stabilization program. The International Monetary Fund prepared a $50 million stabilization package, while Washington pushed for aid donors to grant a combined $250 million in credits. Djuanda and the other technocrats in Jakarta had staked their future on the stabilization program, as one Kennedy administration emissary wrote: “Should they fail [to] receive US support for this program ... their defeat would be an incalculable loss not only to them personally, but more important to US and its operations here.”10 In this 1962-63 window, with Indonesia teetering between Westernapproved development schemes and the lure of a new confrontation, Ottawa pondered the correct policy toward Indonesia. This initially took the most visible form, once again, of possible aircraft sales. Policy-makers could take a relaxed, wait-and-see approach in general, but corporate efforts to sell to Indonesia required faster government decisions on whether to issue the required export permits. In his final months as Diefenbaker’s Secretary of State for External Affairs, Howard Green had authorized DeHavilland to proceed on prospective sales of Otter and Caribou planes and had allowed

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Pratt and Whitney to export the spare parts required to keep Indonesian aircraft operational. As it prepared to take over administration of West New Guinea, Indonesia tried to obtain the UN Temporary Executive Authority’s two Canadian Otters, which the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) determined were surplus. Iskandar, the Minister of Air Communications, spoke with Ambassador J.P. Sigvaldson about buying these Otters and several more. Sigvaldson recommended support for Iskandar, the “best type of Indonesian.” Arthur Menzies, who had returned from his post as High Commissioner in Kuala Lumpur to head the Defence Liaison (1) Division at External Affairs, agreed that the time was auspicious to resume sales, adding that DeHavilland thought the gift could be a loss leader for future business worth $22 million. However, Green refused to make the pitch to Cabinet. If Indonesia wanted the Otters, he thought, they could pay a fair price for them.11 Jakarta then offered to buy the planes for $100,000. This would have been accepted but for the confusion in both governments surrounding the transition from UNTEA to Indonesian rule and the April 1963 Canadian general election, which returned the Liberals to power. Post-election, the Departments of External Affairs and National Defence recommended to their new ministers that the Otters be given to Indonesia “as is,” but the new government rejected the advice. Menzies reported that Pearson, now prime minister, had made the decision, prioritizing concern about Indonesian threats against Malaysia over commercial benefits.12 DeHavilland continued to seek sales in Indonesia but could not convince the Pearson government to grant export permission. While the Kennedy administration pursued an Indonesia-centred strategy designed to gently guide the country toward economic development, the incoming Pearson government was already considering the dangers to the newest British colonial federation. The leaders of Malaya, Indonesia, and the Philippines (which had revived a pre-colonial claim to Sabah) agreed in August 1963 to ask UN SecretaryGeneral U Thant to ascertain the opinions of the people of northern Borneo before the formation of Malaysia. The summit also endorsed one of the central points of Indonesian foreign policy – the principle that “the three countries share a primary responsibility” for regional security and should not need to rely on outside powers. They also agreed to a concept advanced by Philippine President Diosdado Macapagal to form a Malay Confederation to be called Maphilindo. Under the facade of harmony and brotherhood, however, each country interpreted the agreement differently. Sukarno saw a means to get Western powers out of Southeast Asia; Macapagal saw an ethnically based barrier to Chinese expansion; and the Tunku saw a facesaving way for Indonesia to accept the formation of Malaysia.13 Bedevilling the talks was the rivalry between the Tunku and Sukarno, the former an anti-communist who had bargained for his country’s independence, the latter a radical nationalist who had fought for it. Sukarno saw freedom won


amidst the flames of revolution as morally superior to self-government won “under the rays of the full moon.” He was unimpressed with Malayan (and Canadian) attitudes to the contrary. The Tunku’s agreement to invite a UN inquiry into Borneo opinion outraged British officials, who had never before permitted such a thing in their colonies and who feared the precedent for their decolonization plans in Africa. However, British complaints were muted after Kennedy wrote to Macmillan urging that Malaysia Day be “postponed briefly to give Sukarno a fig leaf.” Lord Home, the Foreign Secretary, wrote: “If we agree to a small postponement to meet American wishes, we are more likely to obtain full American support afterwards.” Macmillan accordingly acquiesced when the Tunku accepted a two-week wait in order to allow the UN teams to finish their task.14 Nevertheless, the Tunku announced that the federation would be formed on September 16 regardless of what the UN teams decided. U Thant’s report that the Borneo territories were content to enter Malaysia did nothing to lift Sukarno’s anger that a decision had been taken without Indonesian consent. Sukarno accordingly announced that Indonesia would “confront” the new federation until the people of northern Borneo were given an acceptable act of self-determination. The move back to a foreign policy of confrontation helped ensure internal unity, with both the army and the Communist Party (PKI) once again working together for a common goal. The PKI had been opposing Djuanda’s stabilization program and coming into conflict with the army; a return to foreign-policy militancy ended its oppositional stance. The army, too, stood to gain from the reimposition of martial law, which had been lifted after the West New Guinea settlement. Indonesia could once again declare itself a leader of the new emerging forces, re-entering the lists against imperialism in its neo-colonial Malaysian guise. As Indonesia crusaded for the removal of Western influence from Southeast Asia, it moved into a closer relationship with China, North Vietnam, and North Korea. Indonesian leaders increasingly spoke of a world divided between new, emerging forces and old, established forces, which were now pitted against each other in an “era of confrontation.” There were no longer three worlds, but two.15 Meanwhile, the November 1963 death of Djuanda, chief economic planner of the 1950s and author of the 1963 economic stabilization package, effectively terminated the developmentalist option for the rest of the Sukarno years. American policy still considered it vital to deny Indonesia to the communist adversary, both for its own importance and to reinforce the American commitment to maintaining a non-communist government in South Vietnam. In the words of the Kennedy administration’s plan of action for Indonesia: “Our commitments on the Indo-China peninsula could be lost if the bottom of Southeast Asia fell out to Communism.” Though Secretary of State Dean Rusk tagged Sukarno as “the least responsible leader of any modern

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State,” he wanted American aid to continue because “particularly in the post-Sukarno era, the lodgements gained in the Indonesian economy could well become an important factor in reorienting the country.”16 American policy-makers had no love for Sukarno, but they also saw him as the only possible ruler, and they aimed to see that the PKI did not succeed him – which meant supporting the army, which was the only force strong enough to compete with the PKI. State Department officials perceived the British government as fixated on deposing Sukarno, whereas they were not willing to write him off. Instead of backing Britain, the Kennedy administration hoped that the Asian countries directly involved would negotiate a solution. This emphasis continued for a time after Lyndon Johnson became president following Kennedy’s assassination in November 1963. The British, for their part, insisted that confrontation was “not a passing outburst of bad temper, it is an integral part of a consistent national policy” to dominate the region. “The present choice for West, therefore, is not one between continued concessions to Indonesia or resistance at the cost of driving her into communism: it is between resistance now or communism later.”17 British policy-makers could not go it alone on Malaysia, given their commitment to the transatlantic “special relationship” with Washington as “the core of our policy.”18 Yet Malaysia was important to British strategy, to the Southeast Asian presence that helped Britain maintain a position as America’s second-in-command in the Cold War, and to British prestige – especially at a time when other ramshackle creations such as the Central African, South Arabian, and West Indies Federations were failing. Macmillan’s worries that troubles with Malaysia were like “Rhodesia all over again” underscored this comparison. From the regional perspective, Malaysia could help maintain an area of stability between Vietnam and Indonesia. American policy still aimed to influence Indonesia, whereas the British government had given up on that tack: they were “not trying to convert the Indonesians, but to justify ourselves in the eyes of our friends, particularly of the Americans and Australians, whose whole-hearted support will be essential to the long-term viability of Malaysia.”19 Differences between London and Washington had not yet been resolved when Malaysia was inaugurated on September 16, 1963. Protesters in Jakarta responded with attacks on the Malayan and British embassies. At the British Mission, embassy official “Red Rory” Walker paraded up and down playing the bagpipes, self-consciously demonstrating British “pluck” for the press while stone-throwing protesters broke 938 windows. Canadian diplomats watched “howling” protesters surround the Malayan Embassy next door to their own. In Kuala Lumpur, counter-protesters stoned the Indonesian embassy, then marched to the Tunku’s home, lifted him up on their shoulders and set him down on the Indonesian coat of arms, where (so it was reported) he trampled Indonesia’s national emblem. Each govern-


ment responded by breaking diplomatic relations with the other.20 In tandem with the political confrontation, Sukarno announced a trade embargo on Malaysia. As with the 1957 seizures of Dutch businesses over West New Guinea, the purpose of this was to raise the cost of opposing Indonesia’s goals. Once again, it was Indonesia’s economy that suffered most, but this was justified as a means to end economic dependence on the enemy and to make Indonesia more self-reliant. In the same way that appropriating Dutch businesses sent Indonesia’s economy into a tailspin, the end of trade with Singapore cost Indonesia an estimated $150 million as well as the outlet for half its trade. Ironically, it was in part the anti-Dutch actions that had increased Indonesia’s dependence on the Singapore entrepôt trade, for they had sent the proportion of Indonesian trade through Singapore soaring from under 20 percent to over 45 percent.21 Singapore experienced significant costs as well – a 10 percent fall in income and the loss of jobs processing Indonesian rubber. The Canadian Embassy stressed that there would be no settlement for Indonesians until the issue of economic dependence was ironed out.22 Indonesian attacks on the British Embassy were front-page news at home. Canadians on the scene added their own indignant reports. The Malaysia Day protests further soured Canadian Embassy staff on the Sukarno regime, which they saw as conniving in a flagrant breach of diplomatic protocol. Gone were Sigvaldson’s lingering hopes, however slim they had been, that Indonesia might be “saved” for the West. Even the Canadian diplomatic bag was in danger as protesters ransacked the British Mission in search of the strongroom, where Canadian documents were also stored. Sigvaldson was one of those who intervened to make sure the vault’s contents remained safe, accompanying them a week after the attack to the vault of the US Embassy.23 Sigvaldson’s reports took on an increasingly hostile tone (and, incidentally, reintroduced the old Dutch spelling of Sukarno’s name): “Soekarno is after bigger game than charity in the form of traditional economic aid grants. He wants a revolutionary change in the balance of economic power between the developed and less developed nations. There is no question in our mind that he believes the Communist countries are his natural allies in upsetting the present balance of power and it is therefore with the Communist part of the world that he is aligning Indonesia as fast as he dares. We believe that under Soekarno Indonesia is already a lost cause as far as the free world is concerned.”24 This disillusion was aimed at the local US Embassy as well as Sukarno’s government. Sigvaldson’s report on the views of the first Indonesian Ambassador to Cuba, for instance, dripped with sarcasm. “We have never asked USA Ambassador Howard Jones how the Americans reconcile their Cuban policy with their tender regard for President Soekarno ... As we see it the main difference between Castro and Soekarno is that the latter has greater charm is

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more persuasive – also he is not quite so close to American shores.” On returning to Ottawa as his posting ended, Sigvaldson dismissed US Embassy views and especially those of Ambassador Jones, “a devout mid-West Christian Scientist [who] fawned on Sukarno and showed an irrational lingering mistrust of the British.”25 Where Jones tried to cultivate positive relations with Sukarno’s government, Canadian diplomats in Jakarta mostly shared their British colleagues’ views. Once Malaysia was founded and confrontation began in earnest, they concluded – as British Embassy staff already had – that Sukarno was deliberately leading Indonesia into the communist orbit. Policy-makers in External Affairs came to share the Jakarta Embassy’s antipathy to Sukarno as well as to the conciliatory “Jones line.” By this point, the department had concluded that confrontation was a long-range Indonesian strategy, and had dismissed American and Japanese contentions that Sukarno was engaged in a fit of pique and might back down if offered a facesaving way to do so. It also saw Malaysia as “an important anti-communist element in Southeast Asia” and thought the real Indonesian target was not Malaysia but Britain. In such a situation, Canadian sympathies were obvious. While accepting British assessments, however, Canadian planners shied away from the British push to terminate all aid to Indonesia. They tended to agree with Australian and New Zealand officials, who maintained modest aid. However, Australia and New Zealand moved to a harder line after the attack on the British Embassy. Australian Foreign Minister Garfield Barwick offered Sukarno “some home-truths about relative strengths of Australia and Indonesia,” and Prime Minister Robert Menzies gave Malaysia “the strongest guarantee that Australia had ever offered.” The Malay Peninsula had to be held, New Zealand’s defence minister said, because “it points like a finger on our direction with Indonesia and Australia as convenient stepping stones.”26 Yet both governments also wanted to avoid committing combat troops to northern Borneo unless they could be assured of American support. Since they tried to straddle British and American views, it is no surprise that their thinking resonated in Ottawa. Pearson summed up the Canadian search for the middle ground between allies on a visit to Johnson at his Texas ranch. Unexpectedly, the new president asked for advice on aid to Indonesia, complaining that British officials were unreasonable in asking him to cut aid to Indonesia when they were making sales to Cuba. Pearson carefully avoided siding with either position, suggesting that “perhaps he should reduce Indonesian aid, not cut it off completely – and see what happens.”27 Here was the instinct to seek the cautious halfway mark between Canada’s major allies, expressed perfectly. Policy differences between the British and the Americans also played out in the realm of images. No Western policy-maker had a positive view of Sukarno. That said, prevailing images tended to fall into two categories. In Washington and Tokyo especially, Sukarno appeared as a juvenile delinquent


– a vain, posturing dictator concerned mainly with his own power. It followed that he was a problem that could be managed through a careful mix of firmness and flattery. (There were sharper criticisms from outside the government; Life magazine, for instance, called Sukarno “just about the biggest fool on the world scene” and Indonesia the “most brattish” of neutral nations.28) In London, and increasingly in other “old” Commonwealth capitals, Sukarno was viewed as a local replica of Hitler. The different ways that policy-makers perceived Sukarno flowed from differing policy assessments, but they also reinforced policy. If Sukarno was a new Hitler, then the American policy to use him as a barrier against Indonesian communism was fundamentally wrong-headed, stirring memories of Munich-style softness that remained strong in London. British officials urged their American counterparts not to “appease [an] Asian Hitler”; at NATO meetings they compared Indonesian demands for a plebiscite in northern Borneo as “a derogation of Malaysian sovereignty comparable to Hitler’s demands on Austria before the Anschluss.”29 British and Japanese officials carried the debate the furthest, with Japanese Prime Minister Hayato Ikeda urging a strategy of treating Sukarno as a “juvenile delinquent” who had to be guided into the right course of action by his elders. Given a graceful exit option, Sukarno might take it, so it was necessary to find a face-saving way for the village bully to back down. British officials countered that Sukarno was not committing random violence, but following a very careful “Hitler technique”; thus concessions would only breed new and more unreasonable demands. They were willing to allow that Philippine President Macapagal was perhaps the juvenile delinquent of the piece, having fallen in with a bad sort, the adult lawbreaker Sukarno. As Ganis Harsono, then spokesperson for the Indonesian Foreign Ministry, recalled, confrontation was plotted in the Western media as a dramatic play in which “Tunku Abdul Rahman was portrayed as the fast-talking, golf-playing Malayan ‘Chamberlain’ put under pressure by ‘the Indonesian Hitler,’ Sukarno, who was attempting to create an Asian Münich-like victory.”30 Malaysia Gathers Support, 1964 British officials worried that American hopes for regional negotiations would push them into a position where “appeasement of Sukarno becomes inevitable.”31 After a cabinet discussion about differences in American and British policy, Foreign Secretary R.A. Butler wrote that the Americans’ emphasis on an “Asian solution” along the lines of the Manila Summit ignored the fact that Britain was a direct party to the dispute. Butler implicitly offered a deal: “We should try to look at Western policy in Southeast Asia as a whole rather than at individual problems of Britain over Malaysia or of US over South Vietnam ... As I see it, post-war extension of Communist influence in Southeast Asia has been largely due to our failure [to] achieve such a

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united approach to problems of area as a whole. Again and again particular Western countries have fought isolated and ultimately futile rear guard actions in a single sector. Now, even if it is at eleventh hour, I think we should attempt fresh approach.”32 Butler was suggesting that Britain’s problems with Indonesia were linked to American problems in Vietnam and that a solution for both countries might be for each to back the other’s positions. On February 13, 1964, Johnson and Prime Minister Alec Douglas-Home (formerly Lord Home) made that deal formal in a joint communiqué in which each backed the other’s positions in Malaysia and South Vietnam. Stung by the French government’s calls for a change of course in Vietnam, Johnson was moving to prevent similar criticism from Britain. Kennedy had called Indonesia “the most significant nation in Southeast Asia” and had placed it at the centre of his regional policy in 1961-62 after resolving an initial tussle over Laos. As R.B. Smith has written, for the administration’s civilian officials “the most important country of the region was not South Vietnam but Indonesia.”33 By 1964, however, Vietnam was moving to the centre of American thinking. The Johnson administration was not abandoning hopes for a negotiated peace between Indonesia and Malaysia, but its priorities had shifted. Even while Douglas-Home and Johnson were reaching their high-level deal, working-level officials continued to differ. Britain, Australia, and New Zealand succeeded in forming a united pro-Malaysia front; meanwhile, though, the US State Department opted to back Thai-mediated talks. These led to a June 1964 summit in Tokyo attended by Sukarno, the Tunku, and Macapagal. After a round of golf, the Tunku told Canada’s Ambassador to Japan that he was only there for the sake of appearances: “I promised Kennedy I would go the last mile and I am doing so.” Malaysia’s External Affairs chief, Ghazali bin Shafie, added that his country mattered more than South Vietnam “because Malaysia was a going concern. Save Malaysia and then entire free world could concentrate on Indochina solution.”34 The Americans’ failure to influence Indonesia by providing aid seemed clear when Sukarno vented his anger during a speech attended by Ambassador Jones. In a widely reported remark, he lapsed into English to shout, “Go to hell with your aid!” Still, officials in the Johnson administration hoped for some form of settlement to avoid “a second Vietnam in Southeast Asia,” insisting that it was important to continue some aid for the sake of “maintaining Western contacts among future generation[s] of Indonesian leaders.”35 The Tunku appealed publicly for Commonwealth military support before heading to the 1964 Prime Ministers’ Meeting in London. Malaysian officials circulated a confidential “Review of Defence Planning and the Financial Outlook.” That document acknowledged British, Australian, and New Zealand support but sought more from other members. “Indonesian success would be a major defeat for the forces of world peace, particularly if that


success stemmed in part from inadequate support to Malaysia from the Free World,” the paper argued, before going on to make the case for Malaysia as an exemplar of Commonwealth-style evolution to independence in “an orderly process that permitted retention of close friendly ties with the former colonial power [and] left no whirlwind of bitterness and jingoism to reap.” Here, the paper claimed, was “an example of Western decolonisation at its best.” The federation was facing a deficit as a result of increased defence spending and falling rubber prices, and it might fail entirely if development ground to a halt. That would be a concern for the entire free world, since Malaysia was in the front line of the Cold War: “If Malaysia is crushed, the menace of international communism will move on from South East Asia.”36 The Commonwealth prime ministers extended “sympathy and support,” which Malaysian officials tried to convert into concrete assistance. With Canadian cumulative aid of $14 million their chief source of non-military capital assistance, they made Ottawa a main target for further requests.37 Canadian opinion was receptive by the time the Tunku arrived in Ottawa following the Commonwealth meeting. There had been talk, for instance, that Canada might represent Malaysian diplomatic interests in Jakarta. A departmental assessment of Indonesian foreign policy concluded that Sukarno was uncompromisingly anti-Western, seeking to maintain his popular support through “an endless succession of foreign adventures” driven by “personal and national megalomania.” In an echo of British thinking, it suggested that economic collapse might be the only way to force Indonesia to abandon confrontation; however, it stopped short of suggesting any cuts to training Indonesian students in Canada or to the Colombo Plan’s annual $325,000 wheat-flour grant. The forty-two Indonesian students in Canada, and their successors, could still help increase understanding of the West in their country. Since Canada-Indonesia links were minor, Ottawa did not need to worry as Washington did about “Indonesian susceptibilities or wishes in pursuing other objectives in South East Asia. In short, we have a relatively free hand should we wish to give more tangible support to Malaysia.”38 The Diefenbaker government’s sympathy for Malaya extended under Pearson to sympathy for the new Federation of Malaysia. That was reinforced when the youngest Commonwealth member seemed to be under unfair attack by a more powerful neighbour. “They are a small nation confronted by a much more powerful, expansionist one which was not brought up in the British parliamentary tradition and does not adhere to the same rules of the game,” noted the High Commission in Kuala Lumpur. The briefing book for the Tunku’s visit to Ottawa spoke of Malaysia as “one of the most constructive and moderate among the new Afro-Asian countries,” with a UN stance often similar to Canada’s own, run by a “free enterprise, Conservative” government with “a promising economic future.” Regular references to Indonesia having ten times the population of Malaysia underlined a

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parallel to Canada’s vulnerable position relative to the United States – a live issue, Canada-US relations having been one of the dominant issues of the 1963 Canadian election and continuing to overshadow Pearson’s government. Talk of Malaysian multiracialism and Commonwealth ties underscored perceived similarities to Canada and thus Canadian sympathies. Historical parallels were drawn as well; for example, one Canadian diplomat likened the present confrontation to the nineteenth-century Fenian Raids by Irish Americans on British North America.39 The Tunku arrived in Ottawa, then, as a friend of Canada. All party leaders hailed him in Parliament. “Under his leadership the peoples of Malaysia have been brought closer together in freedom, democracy and greater human welfare,” Pearson declared, in the face of Indonesian “pressure dedicated to their destruction.” Diefenbaker, now the opposition leader, added a lengthy tribute to “the father of Malaysia, dedicated to the commonwealth,” standing in “the front line of freedom.”40 The Conservatives launched a campaign for Canada to end its aid to Indonesia that echoed similar efforts by American Republicans. Diefenbaker demanded to know why aid flowed to a regime “whose objective and purpose, according to the declarations of Sukarno, is the removal of Malaysia and the extirpation of the government of Tunku Abdul Rahman.” External Affairs critic Wallace Nesbitt denounced Pearson for aiding both sides in confrontation, calling that “a two-faced, fence-sitting, wishy-washy foreign policy in southeast Asia.” He called for Canadian aid earmarked for Indonesia to be transferred to Malaysia and for the gift to Malaysia of mothballed Canadian destroyers and minesweepers, “because if president Sukarno is not stopped now then, just like Hitler in the 1930s, he will go on and on.”41 The Conservatives forced a vote on aid to Indonesia in November 1964. They had no objection to technical training; indeed, they endorsed government efforts to maintain this connection to the potential future Indonesian elite. “That is a long range project,” Nesbitt said, “and when Dr. Sukarno has passed to the great beyond and his policies with him, we hope, then the students who received training in this country or elsewhere will really be able to do some work toward developing their country in a peaceful way.” However, they objected to the $350,000 budgeted annually to buy wheat flour for shipment to Indonesia, on the basis that it freed up some of Jakarta’s scarce foreign exchange for other uses, including arms purchases. Martin defended the principle of non-political Colombo Plan aid, and the motion to remove Indonesia wheat aid from the External Affairs budget failed.42 The government did, however, agree during the Tunku’s visit to dispatch a military survey team to Malaysia to consider Canadian assistance. Confrontation’s temperature rose another notch when, in tandem with Sukarno’s Independence Day speech titled “A Year of Living Dangerously,” Indonesian forces landed in peninsular Malaya for the first time in August


1964. Sukarno’s speech explicitly cast the United States as the leader of the old established forces. In the CIA’s view, the speech placed Indonesia firmly “in the camp of Asian Communists and opposed to US – opposed not only on issues of the day like Vietnam and Malaysia, but fundamentally opposed to our thought, our influence and our leadership.”43 It was not yet all-out war, Malaysia’s UN Ambassador told the Security Council, but “even a small fire left undampened and uncontrolled will inevitably lead to a wider conflagration.” Malaysian diplomats scored a visual coup by displaying four crates of captured Indonesian arms – proof of a raid that the Indonesian delegation made no effort to deny – and circulated pamphlets from captured Indonesian paratroopers denouncing Sukarno for deceiving them.44 More important, however, was the Indonesian government’s inability to retain the solid African and Asian support that had served it so well during the West New Guinea dispute. Morocco and Côte d’Ivoire, the non-aligned members of the Security Council, both backed Malaysia, forcing Indonesia to fall back on a Soviet veto to avoid UN censure. Ceylon’s Prime Minister Sirimavo Bandaranaike, a leading member of the more radical African-Asian states, called in the Indonesian ambassador to criticize Indonesian statements for being contrary to the principle of peaceful coexistence. Ceylonese officials then invited Canadian advice on ways they might help resolve the crisis. Meeting Mrs. Bandaranaike, Canada’s High Commissioner spoke of “Cda’s and Mr. Pearson’s constant peace keeping efforts down through the years in trouble spots all over the world.” The Ceylonese leader pledged to follow Canadian suggestions and seek some sort of dispute-resolution mechanism.45 The language used to the Ceylonese showed a Canadian faith in mediation and the non-aligned channel. This contrasted with British efforts to avoid any further peace talks and with the views of Australian Prime Minister Menzies, who dismissed Mrs. Bandaranaike’s administration as “a mess of neo-Marxist pottage.”46 The Pearson government retained faith in the new Commonwealth. It hoped, for instance, that Ceylon could help ensure that Malaysia would be invited to the second conference of non-aligned nations, which was scheduled for 1964 in Cairo. Debates around the Cairo Conference were part of a battle for non-aligned opinion that might prove crucial to the fate of Malaysia. The Tunku had attacked the whole idea of non-aligned summits when the first was held in Belgrade in 1961, prompting some Ceylonese officials to call for him to make “confession and absolution” in the non-aligned world. Indonesia was wooing Africa with new embassies, a hard-line “anti-imperialist” stance on the Congo, and an Afro-Asian Islamic summit; in contrast, Malaysian efforts seemed curiously muted, in the view of Western officials. At British urging, the Tunku dispatched a party led by Lee Kuan Yew to lobby in Africa, but he did little to follow up. The Malaysian government offered a statement that its “independent foreign policy cannot be otherwise interpreted than

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one of non-alignment,” but it did not press for an invitation to Cairo. Canadian officials still hoped that Ceylon would be able to prevent the conference from condemning Malaysia. “Generous Indonesian references to communist support suggest that Indonesia is no more non-aligned than is Malaysia,” one External Affairs telegram noted acidly. Ceylonese officials teamed up with counterparts from Algeria to draft a plan for an African-Asian commission that would deal first with the issue of Indonesian troop withdrawals and then with a halt to Malaysian propaganda directed at Indonesia, but that mediation effort went nowhere. Malaysian officials felt, stronger as a result of the Cairo Conference. Sukarno was backed by Mali, Guinea, and Cuba; however, the more important delegations of Egypt, India, and Yugoslavia were “determined to keep the conference sane” and succeeded in blocking any ringing denunciations of Malaysia. Indian Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri responded to Sukarno’s complaints by asking: “What can you expect when you start crushing other nations?”47 Until Cairo, the Malaysian government had been mostly content to remain within the comfortable confines of the Commonwealth. Now, however, the battle for Asian and African opinion was forcing policy-makers in Kuala Lumpur to consider their place in the non-aligned world: Was their identity mostly as a loyal Commonwealth member, or was it also Asian and non-aligned? The pressure of confrontation created an outside threat that welded the Malaysian Federation together and gave it a unity that no other British-sponsored federation could muster. Similarly, the pressure of a diplomatic contest with Indonesia brought Malaysia into non-aligned forums and made Malaysian identity less British and more Asian. Like Canadian counterparts before them, Malaysian policy-makers began to see the Commonwealth as a bridge not only to London, Canberra, and Wellington, but also to African states. Few countries chose sides in the dispute based on the relative merits. By 1964, alignments on Vietnam were shaping attitudes toward confrontation. Sukarno’s Indonesia was the only Southeast Asian state to side with North Vietnam and, in the south, with the National Liberation Front. Western policy-makers were increasingly worried by Jakarta’s moves to align more closely with Asian communist capitals. The first Indonesian Ambassador to North Korea presented his credentials in July 1964; Indonesia recognized North Vietnam in August, gaining third precedence in Hanoi after the USSR and China. Sukarno spoke of his wish to visit a “liberated Saigon.” To the US State Department, his departure from neutrality on the Vietnam War was “a direct affront to US efforts defend South Viet Nam against external aggression – efforts which Sukarno must understand we are determined [to] pursue to successful conclusion.”48 Indonesia was not, however, fully aligned with Asian communism. Its only direct involvement in Indochina lay in training Laotian army officers.49 Jakarta’s willingness to become involved in Laos


showed both its direct interest in playing a larger regional role and its reluctance to align too closely with Asian communism: Indonesians trained neutralist officers, rather than the communist Pathet Lao. Still, Sukarno in 1965 announced a “Jakarta-Phnom Penh-Hanoi-Peking-Pyongyang axis” that grouped the Asian communist states with the leading “new emerging forces” of the area. Malaysia’s alignments were the opposite. The Tunku’s first official overseas visit as prime minister was to Saigon; his government trained South Vietnamese police and co-operated with Britain in sending a counter-insurgency team; and Malaysia was the only country in the region to respond to a 1964 American appeal for non-military assistance to South Vietnam.50 Canada’s commitment to Vietnam was also substantial. In 1954, Ottawa had accepted membership in the supervisory commissions meant to monitor compliance with the Geneva agreements ending French rule in Indochina. Staffing commissions in Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos were the largest departmental logistical operations for two decades. Most Canadians who served in Vietnam found the experience of working with Polish and Indian diplomats to be a negative one. Consequently, the deployment helped sour the bulk of the Canadian external service on India, and by extension on the whole idea of non-alignment.51 It also helped shift the thinking of policymakers on Southeast Asia toward such firmly anti-communist countries as Malaysia. The Pearson government watched escalating American involvement in Vietnam with alarm. For Paul Martin, it “overshadowed all else,” taking more time than any other issue in foreign policy.52 While certainly a supporter of American commitments to contain communist advances, Ottawa tried within those confines to exercise a limited “diplomacy of constraint” on the Johnson administration, especially after it began bombing North Vietnamese targets in February 1965; and it acted as a channel between North Vietnamese and American officials. Ottawa’s Vietnam policy during this period, Douglas Ross has argued, was to “underline Canadian credibility as a sympathetic ally” while searching for a negotiated settlement.53 Canadian support for the Americans’ regional strategy remained intact, despite quarrels over tactics. With the Johnson administration’s drift from its conciliatory policy toward Indonesia, the fissure between American and British views had narrowed. As a consequence, there was more room for Ottawa to become a partisan of the Malaysian cause. Systemic Challenge and Defence, 1965 In its struggle for independence, Indonesia had relied heavily on the UN. In the struggle against Malaysia, Sukarno chose the opposite tack. When Malaysia was elected to a seat on the Security Council, he announced that Indonesia would withdraw from the UN effective the month Malaysia took up the seat, in January 1965. The departure of the “first child of the United

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Nations” was a potentially serious blow. The UN was already in crisis over the refusal of the Soviet Union, France, and sixteen other states to help pay for peacekeeping operations authorized by the General Assembly. U Thant called Indonesia’s withdrawal on top of these troubles the worst crisis since the UN was formed. The Tunku responded to the news with a simple “good riddance”; his government called the announcement an example of Sukarno’s “irresponsibility and delinquency.” Other governments, however, were more concerned, and none more so than those of the non-aligned states, which considered the UN a source of strength that often helped them vote down more powerful governments. Yugoslavia, Egypt, and Ceylon, for instance, issued a joint appeal to Sukarno to reconsider, arguing that the UN was the best forum for African-Asian issues.54 The Canadian government, too, was disturbed. Paul Martin was proud of his role in resolving a US-Soviet dispute over new members in 1955, one that saw sixteen countries admitted; and he maintained his commitment to universality of membership thereafter. As Secretary of State for External Affairs, he declared support for the UN “one of the chief elements of our foreign policy.”55 By leaving the UN, Sukarno was assailing an institution that was central to Canadian foreign policy. He had already attacked the Commonwealth; now he was moving Indonesia another step toward opposition to the multilateral associations that underpinned Canada’s global interests. Martin recalled once again the central event in the Canadian diplomatic memory of Indonesia when he urged the Indonesian government “to reconsider such a drastic step.” The UN was the world’s best hope for peace, he wrote, but it required universality of membership in order to be effective: “I know that Canadians, who are proud to have been associated with the early efforts of the UN Security Council to help bring about a settlement of Indonesia’s dispute with the Netherlands and to prepare the ground for the independence of Indonesia and its admittal to the UN, would profoundly regret a decision of Indonesia to leave the organization. I sincerely hope that such an extreme decision will not be taken.”56 The Globe and Mail drew a similar parallel. “More than any other of the new nations of the post-war world, Indonesia owes its independence to the United Nations,” the newspaper editorialized. It had entered the UN as “the child of international cooperation” but that child was “exemplified by President Sukarno, has evidently been spoiled. How else should the world interpret the decision to withdraw from the UN on the first occasion that the organization refuses an Indonesian demand?”57 In isolation, Indonesia’s departure did not spell crisis. However, when the People’s Republic of China began to call for a rival UN, kicking in money for a “Conference of the New Emerging Forces” (CONEFO) headquarters in Jakarta, it seemed that the groundwork was being laid for a rival association of non-members. Outside the UN, Indonesia might serve as the nucleus for


a schismatic world organization, a UN for the new emerging forces built on the foundation of China, Indonesia, North Korea, and North Vietnam. Such a “revolutionary UN” was not likely to rival the one in New York, but it could erode the UN’s legitimacy or increase pressure for the admission of China, North Vietnam, and North Korea and for better terms for African and Asian UN members. Then there was the prospect that Pakistan, which had strengthened its ties with Indonesia and had objected to Commonwealth statements of support for Malaysia, might also sign on. By leaving one-third of humanity outside the UN, the Canadian High Commission in Karachi reported, “the Sukarno idea of a bad boys club competing with the UN could begin to have a shadow of plausibility with a nucleus of China, Indonesia and Pak[istan].”58 Sukarno even linked the UN to the old established forces – to the aid donors that were trying to use their money to impede Indonesia’s revolutionary course. “We can afford to operate without the United Nations specialized agencies,” Sukarno said. “This is good for our nation to stand on its own feet. I have said: ‘Go to hell with your aid!’ Yes, we will have nothing more to do with the United Nations agencies.”59 Indonesia in the end pulled out of all organizations with UN in their title, such as UNICEF and UNESCO; but it remained in others seen as important to the national interest, such as the International Civil Aviation Organization and the Food and Agriculture Organization. Indonesia’s departure from the UN spelled the end both for Canadian aid and for prospects of aircraft export permits. Martin had resisted the 1964 Conservative move to end Canada’s Colombo Plan grant of wheat flour to Indonesia; by early 1965, however, he had decided not to send the flour after all. The same fate befell Indonesia’s expectation that it would buy fifteen Canadian-made DeHavilland Otters, a $2.3 million contract initialled in 1963. Jakarta had made a $240,000 down payment, had committed another $1.2 million through a note of credit, and had provided a letter of assurance from Foreign Minister Subandrio that the planes would not be used for military purposes, yet External Affairs continued to stall on the export permit required for the sale to go through. When Indonesia left the UN, Martin cancelled DeHavilland’s export permission. “This is a form of economic blockade,” Indonesia’s UN mission wrote angrily. “Canada was one of the first nations to request Indonesia to reconsider its withdrawal from the UN and now Canada unilaterally breaks this contract.”60 Even while Indonesia was leaving the UN, the Canadian government was making its first military-aid commitments to Southeast Asia, in the form of support to the Malaysian air force. Canadian governments had throughout the 1950s resisted giving military aid outside the NATO area. The St. Laurent government’s decision to prioritize a military training mission to Luxembourg over one to Indonesia in 1953 was typical of this policy. By the 1960s, policy-makers were beginning to think that Canada, with its reputation for

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“genuine international cooperation,” might be able to serve Western interests by providing military aid to countries that would reject such aid from the United States or Britain.61 The Diefenbaker government agreed to provide thirty military instructors to Ghana in 1961 – the first Canadian military aid outside NATO. The Pearson Cabinet went on to approve training in Canada for officers from Commonwealth countries including Nigeria, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Barbados, and Northern Rhodesia (Zambia). In Martin’s words, this would “assist newer members of the Commonwealth in establishing a well-trained nucleus from which they can guarantee their own independence.” He argued that military aid, by bolstering security and aiding the armed forces in countries where they were the largest and most disciplined group, could assist in economic development. Furthermore, military training could help orient officer corps away from the communist bloc to ensure a pro-Western element; it could wean new countries from communist temptations; it could deploy Canada’s good image to help build understanding for the West in regions that were often hostile; and it could open doors for Canadian industry to make military sales.62 Malaysian military requests beginning in 1964 included training spots for their pilots, DeHavilland Caribous and Canadair CL-41 jet trainers, and Canadian air force officers to replace the British officers commanding the Royal Malaysian Air Force. All of this would soften the sting of Jakarta’s accusation that the new federation was a British tool. While visiting Ottawa, the Tunku said that Malaysia needed aircraft able to land on short strips. DeHavilland planes could transport soldiers and police in ten minutes over distances that now took them three days by foot, aiding immensely in mobility and thus counter-insurgency potential.63 DeHavilland and Canadair both mounted sales campaigns in Kuala Lumpur. The Canadian High Commission failed in its efforts to convince Ottawa to classify Caribous as economic aid; however, External Affairs did recommend concessional financing to help DeHavilland make a sale. In the Malaysian case, strategic imperatives reinforced employment concerns: both DeHavilland and Canadair were – in the words of Defence Production Minister Bud Drury, “rapidly running out of orders.”64 In response to the Tunku’s requests, Pearson announced a military survey team for Malaysia. The proposal to supply military equipment and services to Malaysia, and another for a military mission to Tanzania, created in Defence Minister Paul Hellyer’s words “a new principle”: substantial military assistance to non-NATO countries. Martin made it clear that the rationale was a Cold War one: Canadian aid “would assist materially in retarding the advance of Communism in the newer countries of Africa and Asia, particularly as assistance from the United States and the United Kingdom was unwelcome in these areas.” Malaysia was hardly likely to be taking up communist offers, but its inclusion helped convince Pearson to agree to the


Tanzania program. The Commonwealth bond had become a military one as well, with one neutralist and one pro-Western state granted Canadian military aid.65 At the same time, Malaysia and its British, Australian, and New Zealand military backers continued to press for financial aid. At a World Bank ministerial meeting, finance ministers from the four countries pressed their Canadian counterpart, Walter Gordon, to help cover Malaysia’s financing gap – US$1,350 million over five years brought on by unanticipated needs for defence spending. Gordon committed Canada to taking part in joint consultative machinery in Kuala Lumpur on additional ways to aid Malaysia. His main concern, however, was less with Canadian assistance on its own merits than with finding means to open the American pocketbook to Malaysian needs. After their meeting, the ministers reassembled to lobby the US Treasury Secretary. “I thought Dillon might be impressed if he knew that all four countries ... would be providing additional assistance and especially that Cda would be participating,” Gordon wrote. His commitments forced an unwilling Department of External Affairs to authorize the Canadian High Commission’s attendance at follow-up meetings in Kuala Lumpur. While the department remained concerned to distinguish Canada from the countries that had sent troops to Malaysia’s defence, Canada was committed to a military contribution.66 Officials crafted the military survey team’s recommendations into a package calling for Canada to provide Caribou aircraft and parts, training for the Malaysian air force, and motorcycles for the Malaysian police. The package, External Affairs argued, was “concrete and generous” and could be implemented immediately, but it would also avoid “the position of quasi belligerents assumed by the UK, Australia and New Zealand.” For the first time, the department was making a case for a direct Canadian political interest: “Malaysia’s heartening economic momentum” was under threat from the military buildup necessitated by confrontation, and the failure of the Commonwealth-sponsored federation could harm the Commonwealth as a whole.67 By January 1965, with Indonesia now cast as a rogue state, Martin proposed stepping up the military-aid program for Malaysia. Instead of a program capped at $1.5 million in 1965-66, as had been approved five months earlier, he called for immediate implementation of a program worth up to $4 million. This would provide four Caribou aircraft with a substantial stock of spares, training for Malaysian air and ground crews as well as for officers, and 250 motorcycles for the police. The Caribous would be provided immediately from RCAF stocks instead of being placed as a new order with DeHavilland. The grant was announced publicly as a greatly needed initiative “to assist Malaysia, a fellow member of the Commonwealth, to build up its ability to defend itself.” Pearson’s message to the Tunku highlighted his hope that it would “contribute to the essential security foundations for

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the further economic and social development of Malaysia.”68 Ottawa was willing to help the Malaysian cause, but it also wanted to keep its profile low. Development aid, meanwhile, also expressed Canadian priorities. In 1965-66, Ottawa allocated $4.85 million to Malaysia. The annual wheat-flour shipment to Indonesia, worth $325,000, was quietly dropped and the funds diverted to flour for Ceylon. Aid for Indonesia was now restricted to supporting sixty Indonesian graduate students in Canada.69 Canada’s military-aid package earned especially high marks in Kuala Lumpur, because it came hard on the heels of an American offer that the Malaysian government had rejected as ungenerous. Military-aid issues intermingled with the Malaysian air force’s hopes to obtain jet aircraft. Since the Canadian military-survey team had determined there was no military value to Malaysia flying its own jet fighters, Canadian aid plans left jets out. But Canadair remained keen to sell on commercial terms and to gain Ottawa’s help in winning a Malaysian contract against competitors from the United States and Europe. The company had never made an export sale, but domestic demand was not enough to keep it running at full capacity. A sale to Malaysia was thus a valuable prospect, both in direct terms (the possibility of eventually selling the country forty-five to fifty jets) and more indirectly (by strengthening the chances of selling seventy to one hundred more planes to the Australian air force). “To a considerable degree, the success of the CL-41 program depends on this particular [Malaysian] order,” one Canadair executive informed the government.70 Though the Departments of Defence Production and Trade pushed to include the CL-41 in Canada’s January 1965 military-aid package for Malaysia, it was left out, since External Affairs surmised that providing jets would look “unduly warlike.” Instead, Cabinet approved export financing for the sale of up to twenty jets to Malaysia, while couching the arrangement in terms of trade rather than military considerations. By heading off a British concessional sales offer for Provost jets, that approval helped Canadair clinch the sale in April 1965 – albeit at near cost. Thus the company was able to keep open its Montreal plant as well as prospects for future sales.71 The Canadair sale was not part of Canada’s militaryaid package to Malaysia, but in this circumstance, the two parties’ considerations overlapped, with commercial factors spurring more generous terms for the agreed-upon military aid. Military aid to Malaysia also earned Canada a place on Sukarno’s list of “imperialists with white skins,” a list that included the United States and the Commonwealth trio – albeit the last place, after New Zealand. The nationalist newspaper Suluh Indonesia, stung by Canadian parliamentary criticisms, declared that Canada should “go to hell.”72 From Jakarta’s point of view, Canada now stood with the old established forces. Canadian policy-makers were still being careful to distinguish their own role from that of the Commonwealth “co-belligerents” and to limit ongoing commitments, but they had clearly and publicly taken a side.


Regime Change and Reintegration, 1965-68 In late 1965, both Malaysia and Indonesia came unravelled. Confrontationinduced internal tensions saw Singapore ejected from the Malaysian federation in August; then a military takeover toppled Sukarno starting on October 1. Malaysia dissolved after Lee Kuan Yew’s vision of a “Malaysian Malaysia” with equal rights for all races clashed with the Tunku’s preference for a country with ethnic Malays dominant in politics. By mid-1965, each side in this battle was labelling the other as a greater threat to the survival of the federation than Indonesia. Lee blamed race riots in Singapore on Malay extremists backed by Indonesian expansionists.73 The Commonwealth governments backing Malaysia with their military forces tended to prefer Lee’s vision, but no Commonwealth government was willing to break with the Tunku. “Logically Lee has far the better argument,” Canadian High Commissioner C.E. McGaughey wrote, but since he could never win a majority of Malay votes, Lee’s real goal must be a non-aligned Chinese-led state serving as the focal point for ethnic Chinese throughout Southeast Asia. “I think you will agree,” McGaughey commented dryly, “that the prospect of yet another China is disturbing.”74 With the prospect of more fighting between Malays and Chinese, the Tunku’s government decided that the only option was a peaceful split. Negotiators from Kuala Lumpur and Singapore worked out a secret separation agreement, being careful not to let British officials catch wind of their thinking, and announced the fait accompli on August 9, 1965. The Malaysian government rejected British entreaties to reconsider. Singapore’s independence brought an “atmosphere of gloating selfcongratulation” in Jakarta, with Indonesian leaders calling it the inevitable result of Malaysia’s internal contradictions.75 The Indonesian government, however, was shortly to be toppled itself. The events surrounding the change of regime have been analyzed and argued over ever since. Junior army officers under Lieutenant Colonel Untung of Sukarno’s Presidential Guard announced a new government on October 1, claiming that they were acting to pre-empt a military coup. They underlined that by arresting and killing six top generals. General A.H. Nasution, the Minister of Defence, managed to elude the soldiers sent to arrest him. The army accused the PKI of masterminding Untung’s moves and demanded that Sukarno take action against it. When he refused, Nasution along with General Suharto, Commander of the Army Strategic Reserve, moved step by step to create a military-led regime. If there had been joy in Jakarta when Singapore and Malaysia parted ways, it was nothing compared to the atmosphere of celebration in Western capitals that greeted the advent of this regime even while a wave of killings engulfed Indonesia. The “New Order,” a regime of generals and Western-trained technocrats under Suharto’s leadership, attempted to carry out all the “constructive” things Sukarno had refused to do. The hopes of 1963, when Western policy-makers had wanted to see

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Indonesia embark on the path of capitalist economic development, were being fulfilled. There has been much speculation about Western governments’ role in the military takeover that culminated in March 1966, when Sukarno signed the remnants of his presidential authority over to Suharto. Certainly Sukarno suspected that the American CIA had been plotting to overthrow him. By late 1964, the Johnson administration had authorized a covert action program designed not to topple the Indonesian president but rather to assist the “good men in the government, armed services and the private sector” who might do so themselves if the United States backed them. In an effort to polarize Indonesian politics between communists and non-communists, the campaign painted the PKI as an enemy of Indonesian nationalism and Sukarno as a tool of Chinese communism. Even while developing his friendship with Sukarno, Ambassador Jones had been conveying his sympathy to military officers who spoke of a possible coup. The Tunku, as well, had been conniving with coup plotters in the Indonesian army. In June he had called in the four High Commissioners of the “old” Commonwealth to tell them that the Indonesian ambassador in Thailand was involved in “a fantastic development”: an army coup plot. The army, he claimed, had decided the “time has come for dramatic action to save country from Communist takeover.” Army leaders planned to wait for Sukarno’s next foreign trip and to keep him out of the country “if necessary at pistol point” while it crushed the PKI and imposed a pro-Western government. The Tunku said he had been asked to act as bait: he would agree to meet Sukarno at a summit, and the army would strike in the president’s absence.76 However, no summit meeting materialized. It was internal Indonesian factors that sparked Untung’s coup attempt and the army’s swift countermoves. Few NATO governments gave much credence to the army’s claims that the PKI was behind Untung – claims that would later be repeated as fact. However, Western governments followed up by doing all they could to encourage the army to end PKI power and confrontation. For the next six months the army and Sukarno fought a series of political battles, and Western intervention did strengthen the army’s resolve and ability to win the struggle. British officials hoped that the army would take the “excuse to deliver really crushing blow to Communists,” but worried that it lacked the conviction.77 American government actions also aimed to ensure that this crushing blow was in fact delivered. After Marshall Green replaced Jones as ambassador in July 1965, the US Embassy took a harder line. Green’s previous posting, as chargé d’affaires in Seoul, had seen a 1961 military coup against an elected government. Once ensconced in Jakarta, Green recommended low-profile efforts to influence Nasution, Suharto, and other key figures toward firm anti-communist actions. With some reservations the Johnson administration approved this policy of “inaction.” It agreed to army requests for emergency


medical supplies, rice, and communications equipment to help battle the PKI in rural Java – a battle that was actually a massacre of PKI voters, community organizers, and others. Substantial funds also went to Adam Malik, now the principal liaison between army leaders and the US Embassy, to fund a pro-army student protest group.78 The Commonwealth governments hoped just as much as Washington for the eradication of the PKI, but they prioritized an end to confrontation. British officials were willing to give assurances to the Indonesian army that if it moved against the PKI, they would not take advantage in Borneo. Encouraged, the army stepped up the arrests of suspected PKI supporters and Chinese Indonesians in the cities and instigated a bloodbath in rural areas. The new Canadian ambassador, R.M. Macdonnell, cited reports of bloody purges everywhere, with estimates of the death toll running from 100,000 up to 1,000,000 people; the Indonesian Ambassador to Canada pegged it at 500,000. “When the Army does not do the purging, it passively observes Muslim groups do the dirty work,” Macdonnell reported.79 General Suharto, dismissed as “not very intelligent ... solid rather than bright” in October, had become by early 1966, in the Canadian ambassador’s report, “a moderate, sensible and progressive leader.”80 These views reflected an increasingly common Western conviction that military regimes were much superior in developing countries to populist governments. Western governments had cheered a military coup against Algerian President Ben Bella earlier in 1965 (days before he was due to host a second African-Asian conference marking the tenth anniversary of the Bandung Conference). Soon after, in 1966, they would applaud the overthrow of Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah by his Canadiantrained army. Similarly, they were happy to witness the military’s rise to power in Indonesia. With Sukarno and the others removed, Sukarno’s attempt at a systemic challenge to the developed nations was to all intents and purposes dead. Western governments now began to consider restoring aid to Indonesia. Through informal channels, the army sent out feelers regarding aid – to the United States, Japan, West Germany, the Netherlands, Australia, and Canada. “We have finally been asked,” Macdonnell reported after an emissary with credentials from Suharto requested urgent credits to buy rice and textiles, in addition to backing for an economic-stabilization program. Macdonnell thought that the answer should be conditional on what Canadian allies thought: “If there is a generally favourable response a case can be made for Cdn participation especially if confrontation mellows. Otherwise any conceivable Cdn contribution would be a drop in [the] ocean.” Policy-makers took a cautious approach to Japanese efforts to organize an aid cartel, waiting for Suharto to consolidate his power and end confrontation. That said, for the first time in years there was a positive attitude toward Indonesia. Recent events had been enough to convince External Affairs that “any genuine

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approach from a recognizable and durable Indonesian authority should be taken seriously in light of developments since October 1 and their potential long-run significance for position of West in that part of world.” New aid might entice Indonesia “back into corporate international life [and] back into the mainstream of international affairs.” Before offering any significant aid, however, officials wanted to see a “rational and practicable development plan as evidence of serious interest of new regime in coping with country’s economic problems.”81 Japan and other governments did provide some short-term aid while working with Indonesian technocrats on stabilization plans. The crucial breakthrough, however, was a British offer of £1 million in aid. Adam Malik, promoted to become Suharto’s foreign minister, was pleased to accept the cash as the first step in a rapprochement with the British. Malik held parallel talks with Malaysia’s External Affairs chief Ghazali, a distant cousin, and together they hammered out a deal to end confrontation. Army leaders could justify their political role as a mission to defend Indonesia from the internal PKI threat, so they no longer needed confrontation. More Canadian aid now seemed possible. One External Affairs memorandum expressed it this way: “Changes in the political orientation of Indonesia have already had a profound effect on the prospects for stability in South East Asia. It is patently in our interests that the new regime be able to consolidate its internal position and to pursue external policies it appears prepared to follow. These are policies which promise to make the situation much easier not only for the smaller countries of the area but also for Australia, New Zealand, the UK, and the USA.” Consequently, Martin accepted a recommendation that Canada’s customary $350,000 grant for food aid to Indonesia resume in 1966.82 By 1967, for the first time in nearly a decade, officials were calling for an increase in Canadian aid to Indonesia “to a level more consistent with Canada’s foreign policy objectives in Asia.” They were even willing for the first time in nearly a decade to challenge the fact that most aid went as wheat flour, pointing out that most of that flour went to make Chinese-style noodles for the middle classes; in other words, it was little use as food aid. Martin began conversations with Adam Malik about new aid soon afterwards.83 Suharto’s New Order remained non-aligned in form, but it also reversed Sukarno’s foreign policy in favour of one that was to all intents and purposes pro-Western. Even university books on Marxist theory were segregated from other books, in sealed containers, to be read only with special dispensation from the rector and with the permission of the regional military administrator. Malik assured US Vice-President Hubert Humphrey of “sympathetic understanding of the US role in Asia and Vietnam” and said that “General Suharto’s success in defeating the Indonesian Communist forces was directly influenced by the US determination in South Vietnam.”84 There was little


evidence of such a connection, but the two Southeast Asian conflicts were once again being linked. The years between 1963 and 1966 came full circle in Indonesia. Western policy-makers had high hopes that Indonesia would replace its struggle for West New Guinea with a turn to economic stabilization and development along Western lines. Instead, there was a militant confrontation against Malaysia – the Southeast Asian country that was most successfully following those developmentalist lines, and the main base for a British regional presence even after formal British decolonization. Sukarno had led a challenge to the existing world order, one that ended when his army toppled him. The new military regime returned Indonesia to the developmentalist path rejected in 1963. Canadian policy in these years began with sympathy for Malaysia, a state brought to independence along tried-and-true Commonwealth lines and eager to focus on capitalist economic development. But the Pearson government did not initially convert sympathy into any concrete support for the new federation; instead it steered a middle course between American and British policies, concerned mainly to avoid US-British divisions. The course of events in Vietnam, however, changed the circumstances. Sukarno abandoned Indonesia’s benevolent neutrality by backing the North Vietnamese cause, attacking American policy in the process. The Johnson administration in turn moved away from Washington’s conciliatory approach to Indonesia, accepting a deal with Britain that had them supporting each other’s Southeast Asian priorities. That American movement narrowed the gap between London and Washington, allowing Canadian policy-makers to consider involving themselves. The Pearson government never considered emulating Australia and New Zealand by sending troops to Malaysia. Still, public sympathy with a beleaguered Commonwealth member combined with the desire to help Britain out of a colonial morass. The result was Canadian military aid to Malaysia, which earned the enmity of Sukarno’s Indonesia. Only with the removal of Sukarno from power would the Government of Canada smile on Indonesia again.

6 Pebbles in Many Shoes: Development in Indonesia, Decolonization in East Timor, 1968-99

The first quarter-century of Canadian relations with Indonesia took place under the sign of decolonization. Canadian governments included Indonesia among the developing countries, hoping that aid could guide them into open economies and foreign policies that did not oppose Western Cold War aims. Issues of decolonization predominated, from Indonesia’s own independence struggle, through the struggle for West New Guinea, into the confrontation over what sort of decolonization was appropriate for the northern Borneo territories. With General Suharto’s “New Order” regime consolidating its power between 1965 and Suharto’s formal assumption of the presidency in 1968, the stage seemed set for the realization of early Canadian hopes that Indonesia would become a reliable partner. Growing economic ties dominated Canadian relations with New Order Indonesia right up to the fall of Suharto in 1998. Meanwhile, the sign of human rights replaced the sign of decolonization in bilateral relations. Human rights did not dominate Ottawa’s Indonesian policy agenda: quite the reverse. The language of human rights, however, was more and more present in international relations generally and in Canadian diplomatic language.1 One major decolonization issue remained. Indonesian threats and covert military infiltrations into Malaysia had drawn a sharp response from the Pearson government, from aid cuts to military assistance to Malaysia. The full-scale invasion of Portuguese-ruled East Timor by Suharto’s Indonesia met with the opposite response in Ottawa. Policy-makers defined New Order Indonesia as a partner for Canadian foreign-policy goals. They did not allow one of the late twentieth century’s nastier military invasions and the subsequent death of more than 200,000 Timorese during Indonesian occupation to derail that partnership. Yet the issue of Timorese decolonization, contrary to expectations, did not fade away. A journalist once asked long-time Indonesian Foreign Minister Ali Alatas about how the issue affected Indonesian diplomacy. Alatas answered that it was a problem, but initially “only as bothersome as a pebble in a shoe.” By the 1990s, however, “the East Timor

Development in Indonesia, Decolonization in East Timor, 1968-99

problem was no longer a mere pebble in the shoe but had become a veritable boulder, dragging down Indonesia’s international reputation to one of its lowest points.”2 This is a central metaphor in the Indonesian writings on East Timor. The same metaphor fits Canadian government attitudes and policies toward the Indonesian presence in East Timor. The issue itself was never important to Canadian policy-makers. On the other hand, Canadian governments were very interested in Indonesia, for both strategic and economic reasons. Human rights were not absent from Canadian policy-making, but they arose mainly as complications in a clear regional strategy. East Timor became an increasingly burdensome pebble in the shoes of Canadian policy-makers trying to pursue a strategy for closer ties with Southeast Asia. At the same time, however, human rights took on a more and more significant place in the Canadian diplomatic self-image. Ideas that Canada should act as a voice for international human rights took hold of the public imagination, and the language of human rights became impossible to ignore in official Ottawa. This change in political climate from 1975 to 1998, when the New Order regime collapsed, encouraged a very different response in Ottawa. Instead of remaining silent and acquiescing in Indonesian rule, the Canadian government in 1998-99 acted in keeping with the government’s overall foreign-policy agenda, taking several actions designed to complete East Timor’s decolonization. A New Order: The Trudeau Government Sees Southeast Asia Pierre Trudeau became prime minister in 1968, carried on a wave of enthusiasm for change, youth, and new ideas. He threw out challenges to the existing assumptions of Canadian foreign policy, demanding that everything be questioned. A “citizen of the world,” his travels before entering politics had taken him to cities and villages throughout Asia, though he had seen fewer diplomatic chanceries. The Trudeau image, like that of John F. Kennedy in the United States of the 1960s, was overdrawn in the public imagination. In the end Trudeau had to carry out a host of policy pirouettes that brought him back to some of the same Canadian foreign-policy practices as he had questioned early in his tenure.3 Like most exaggerations, however, the Trudeau image of youthful vigour and change had some truth at its centre. Before Trudeau, Canadian relations with Asia mattered, but Europe always came first. Trudeau’s mental maps had more space for Asia. His government attempted – albeit not always successfully – to make Asia policy in a way that placed Asian events and concerns in the foreground, rather than as an afterthought to North Atlantic preoccupations. Asia policy remained a function of overall Canadian foreign policy. Despite his role in Lester Pearson’s government, Trudeau was one of those who called for new approaches grounded in the national interest. As Pearson pointed

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out, previous governments had themselves been pursuing Canada’s national interest, understood through alliance and global-security prisms. Still, the new regime derided the “helpful fixer” role that had become central to Canada’s diplomatic self-image. In a memorandum to the incoming prime minister, “tough-minded” diplomats Allan Gotlieb and Max Yalden replayed the lament of policy-makers from George Kennan to Henry Kissinger, decrying the influence of sentimental public opinion on the making of foreign policy. “To many Canadians, Canada has a moral obligation to help solve the problems of the world,” they wrote. “Like the Danes who made good furniture, the French who made good wine, the Russians who made sputnik, Canada, as a specially endowed middle power, as the reasonable man’s country, as the broker or skilled intermediary, made peace.”4 That needed to change, they argued, telling Trudeau what he wanted to hear. The result of rethinking in Ottawa was the six-booklet set Foreign Policy for Canadians. Here the Trudeau government set out an agenda for Canada as a “Pacific power.” Trudeau aimed “to elevate the Third World to a position of central concern and major prominence” in Canadian foreign policy, he and his foreign-policy adviser Ivan Head later wrote. In 1970, he declared that in the future, “the Pacific countries shall be referred to not as the Far East, but as our New West.”5 This did not mean that Mounties would descend upon Asia and deliver peace and order to the natives; rather, it was a call to refocus Canadian attention across the Pacific, seizing upon the age-old ideas of Oriental riches. The great symbol of Canadian interest in Asia was the recognition of the People’s Republic of China in 1970. That was supposed to lead to a new engagement with the entire Pacific Rim. A mission to Pacific countries in 1969 aimed in part at reassuring Asian governments that the overture to China “does not in any way imply a lessening of Canadian interest in other Asian countries ... Our change of policy on China, indeed, can be considered as only one aspect of a general intensification of our interest in and relations with the countries of Asia and the Pacific.” One foreignservice officer later explained to an Indonesian counterpart that Canada was following “a conscious policy – rare for Canada in Asia – under which we wanted to bring China out of isolation, widen our relations with Japan, and promote stability throughout ASEAN.”6 There would be no military commitments in Asia, but a new emphasis was to be placed on development assistance and links. Expansions of both sorts of economic connection paved the way for an increased Canadian interest in Asia. In general, Canada was to pay more attention to the developing world, using the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA), founded in 1968, to replace the old External Aid Office that was housed in External Affairs. CIDA was supposed to mark a shift from “give away” aid to partnership, including Canadian support for better trade terms for developing countries.7 The government also targeted Asia for trade. “The


Pacific Rim was for Canada not so much a geographical entity as a trade concept,” according to Mark MacGuigan, one of Trudeau’s foreign ministers.8 In Canada’s “third option” strategy of trade diversification, Europe came first but Asia was not forgotten. The policy failed to reduce Canadian dependence on American markets, but it did lead to expanded exchanges with much of Asia – and especially, despite the greater emphasis on Europe and Japan, with developing countries like Indonesia.9 In the new bilateral relationship, changes in Indonesia were more significant than changes in Canadian foreign policy. Sukarno had tilted at neocolonialist windmills; Suharto’s New Order, in its early years, was desperate for foreign trade and investment. The New Order was, in Canadian Ambassador W.T. Delworth’s words, a “curious alliance of academics and generals.”10 It rested on armed force and the promise of orderly development. Development (pembangunan) was the regime’s ideological underpinning – its promise to society as well as its justification for the harsh repression of political dissent and hostility toward human rights. Sukarno’s titles had evoked images of revolution; Suharto was styled “the Father of Development.” Suharto and the generals in his inner circle realized they needed to deliver economic development in order to stay in power and that they were not equipped to do so on their own. So they allied themselves with those Western-trained technocrats who had fallen out of favour toward the end of Sukarno’s rule. Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, dean of Indonesian economists and financier of the 1958 anti-Sukarno rebellions, returned to Cabinet in 1968. So did many of the technocratic planners who had started their careers in the National Planning Bureau. This tightly knit “Berkeley mafia” – named for the California university where most had studied during their exile – was a crucial partner in power for the army. Led by Widjojo Nitisastro, who had worked under Nathan Keyfitz in the National Planning Bureau, they formed a new National Planning and Development Board (Badan Perencanaan dan Pembangunan Nasional, or Bappenas) to reorganize Indonesia’s economy. They had minimal domestic support. Their constituency, rather, lay in Western capitals, whose support the new regime needed. “The bond between us,” technocrat Mohammad Sadli recalled of the group, “was more a functional bond ... based on loyalty to the group and to the national interest.”11 Once back in control of the economy, these planners returned it to the course mapped out by the planning bureau in the 1950s. They opened Indonesia to foreign investment and integrated it more closely into the global economy, while maintaining an active role for the state. The New Order agreed to an IMF stabilization package in 1966 and introduced a generous foreigninvestment law in 1967. Foreign capital had to be attracted, and the New Order would do whatever was necessary to attract it. Sadli recalled: “When we started out attracting foreign investment in 1967 everything and everyone was welcome. We did not dare to refuse; we did not even dare to ask for

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bonafidity [sic] of credentials. We needed a list of names and dollar figures of intended investments, to give credence to our drive. The first mining company virtually wrote its own ticket. Since we had no conception about a mining contract we accepted the draft written by the company as basis for negotiations and only common sense and the desire to bag the first contract were our guidelines.”12 Meanwhile, the old advisers returned. In 1968, Benjamin Higgins called for a “big push,” with massive infusions of foreign aid, industrialization, and increased production for domestic markets and exports, as well as a new dose of technical assistance.13 Such remedies resonated with Indonesia’s new rulers. With the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) destroyed through the killing or imprisonment of more than one million people, the major organized force outside regime control was the Muslim movements. The government forced Muslim political parties to combine into a single party loyal to the regime; it also tried to divorce Islam from politics. It teamed up with the Montreal-trained religious scholars, who were soon dubbed the “McGill mafia” in recognition of their parallel role to the technocrats. General Ali Murtopo, chief ideologue of the early New Order, pressed for village society to be demobilized from its intense political involvement during the late Sukarno years. That energy was to be rechannelled into economic development so that Indonesia could pass through the necessary “stages of development” toward full modernization. McGill graduate Abdul Mukti Ali, on his return to Indonesia, similarly called on local religious leaders (ulama) to transform themselves into “heavenly technocrats” (teknokrat samawai), in opposition to other Muslim leaders who stressed Muslim political mobilization.14 Suharto named Mukti Ali as Minister of Religion in 1971; another McGill graduate, Timur Djaelani, became the ministry’s secretary-general. Mukti Ali began to dispatch Muslim intellectuals to McGill and other North American centres, aiming to replace the traditional centres of higher training in the Middle East. His successors for the most part would continue this course throughout the New Order years.15 A leading destination for training was McGill, where more than two hundred Indonesian religious teachers and officials attended the Institute of Islamic Studies starting in 1972, thanks to CIDA funding in co-operation with Indonesia’s Ministry of Religion.16 Another destination was the University of Chicago, where former McGill Islamic Studies professor Fazlur Rahman taught many future Muslim leaders. Technocrats trained at the planning bureau and American universities underpinned one part of the New Order structure of power; religious scholars trained at McGill’s Institute of Islamic Studies underpinned another. Indonesia made an attractive partner for Trudeau’s government. A positive policy toward the New Order government had begun under the Pearson government, but it largely trailed Canada’s allies. The United States, Japan,


Britain, and the Netherlands were all enthusiastic about Suharto’s plans to set Indonesia on a path of capitalist economic development while at the same time making friends with neighbouring countries, including Malaysia. Canadian policy-makers were willing to assist, but they also resisted getting on the hook for too much money. Thus Canada joined the Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI), established in 1967 to coordinate aid to Indonesia, but only as an observer. That was a source of some disappointment to Indonesian planners. Bappenas chairman Widjojo and his deputy Emil Salim came to Ottawa after the second IGGI meeting. There they pointed out to officials that Canadian support was important less for its value than for its symbolic vote of confidence in the New Order. Widjojo “stressed the propaganda value of the Government being able to announce increases in foreign aid,” while Salim said that Canadian aid “could not help but have a psychological effect on the population, would express Canadian confidence in the Indonesian Government’s attempts at economic rehabilitation and could be seen as expression of Canadian interest in Indonesia.” This meeting was held just one month after Trudeau took over as prime minister, so the external-aid officials who attended continued to reflect policy formed earlier. They were happy to continue technical training of Indonesians in Canada at around current levels – at a cost of about $200,000 in 1968-69 – and to consider implementing a capital-aid project to the tune of $350,000. This was aid on a smaller scale than had been contemplated back in 1957, when Louis St. Laurent was still prime minister. “It seems that outsiders have greatly underestimated the gravity of the situation in Indonesia,” Salim noted mournfully.17 Canadian government attitudes grew more enthusiastic and proactive under the Trudeau government for a number of reasons. First, the government’s desire to devote more attention to the Pacific focused on the opening to China and efforts for more trade with Japan, but also highlighted Indonesia as “a nascent power among the non-Communist nations because of its position and population, and the development potential of its natural resources.”18 Second, development issues were high on the agenda in Ottawa; indeed, Canada’s relationship with developing countries was the subject of Trudeau’s first speech as prime minister.19 Under Trudeau, foreignaid expenditures rose steadily until they peaked in 1978 at 0.53 percent of GDP. Indonesia was a large country that had been under-represented in past Canadian aid spending. It was also a good fit for Canadian skills: like Canada, it was a vast country with an abundance of unexploited natural resources. Third, by the early 1970s the United States was starting to step back from the front lines of anti-communist containment in Southeast Asia. Instead of pouring vast resources into backing regimes that declared themselves anti-communist and committing combat troops to Vietnam, American officials were looking for ways to retrench. Though there had been a setback

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in Vietnam, there had been a countervailing success in Indonesia when Suharto overthrew Sukarno. Canadian policy-makers did not always see eye to eye with their counterparts in Washington over the war in Vietnam, but they were not keen to see the Americans pull out of the region entirely, and they were willing to step up Canadian contributions there. This was still alliance-based thinking, but it was thinking that gave Canada a more active role in Southeast Asian regional strategy than any previous government had been willing to take. When the Trudeau government identified specific bilateral partners for Asia, they chose Japan, South Korea, Australia, and the five countries that made up the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. ASEAN, founded after the end of Malaysian-Indonesian confrontation to bring together the non-communist countries under a single roof and to prevent regional conflicts between them, formed a neutral but implicitly pro-Western group in Southeast Asia. It showed signs of being a genuinely indigenous response to communism and a pillar for regional stability and non-communist economic development. The Trudeau government hoped to encourage the “slow-growing and hesitant plant” of regional co-operation. It became an ASEAN “dialogue partner.” As Trudeau acknowledged, that meant special attention to Indonesia, its largest member by far.20 Canadian aid to Indonesia from the creation of the Colombo Plan in 1950 to the fall of Sukarno in 1965 totalled $5,216,000, less than 1 percent of total Canadian bilateral aid for Asian countries. That had come almost entirely in the form of food aid and technical training in Canada. More than 97 percent of Canada’s Asian aid over that period flowed to Commonwealth members, with the lion’s share going to India and Pakistan.21 When CIDA decided to concentrate Canadian aid on a select group of countries, it stayed in line with tradition by selecting Malaysia as the first country of concentration in Southeast Asia. The first CIDA aid review, carried out in 1970, made a departure by selecting Indonesia as the only country in Asia targeted for a big aid increase, on the grounds that it had shown “evidence of its capacity to absorb and use increasing amounts of development aid.” Indonesia was the only country outside the Commonwealth and former French empire to be designated a country of concentration, with aid slated to soar to $8.75 million in 1971-72. By the end of the Trudeau years, Indonesia stood second among Canadian aid recipients, trailing only Bangladesh.22 Canadian aid was designed to “facilitate Indonesia’s transformation from aid recipient to trading partner.” Canadian hopes for trade with Indonesia had been stated many times. With a pro-Western government in place, the seeds sown on the infertile soil of Sukarno’s Indonesia looked as if they might flower at last. External Affairs Minister Allan MacEachen could call it “inevitable” that Canada would take a special interest in Indonesia. “These are boom times in Indonesia and we’re optimistic about our opportunities to share in the development,” the Canadian commercial counsellor in Jakarta


Figure 6. Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau shakes hands with President Suharto, Jakarta, 1983. Foreign Minister Adam Malik looks on. Photo courtesy of Robert Cooper, LAC, Pierre Trudeau photo collection

commented in 1975.23 Asamera Oil, which Canadian officials derided in the 1950s as a shell company controlled by foreign interests, became a favourite of Canadian ambassadors after it found oil in northern Sumatra. “I was most favourably impressed with this Canadian company’s operations in Indonesia,” enthused Ambassador A.P. Bissonet, who in 1969 chose the Asamera site as the destination for his first trip outside Jakarta.24 Toronto-based Inco was in the second wave of companies to sign contracts of work for mining with the New Order, winning rights in 1968 to any minerals found in a 6.6 million hectare area covering an entire province and parts of two others on the island of Sulawesi. Inco officials found enough nickel to justify what would become the second-largest foreign investment in Indonesia (after the Freeport mine in West New Guinea), placing Canada fourth among foreign investors in the country. Both the company and the Indonesian government seemed overwhelmed with the project’s potential. “Our only trouble here is that there is just too damned much nickel lying around,” one Inco official said. Meanwhile, Foreign Investment Board chairman Mohammad Sadli, “eyes round as saucers,” told Canada’s Ambassador Delworth that “Indonesia has never seen so much money.”25 Inco brought the mine into operation in 1973, helped by $57.25 million in government financing through the Export Development Corporation (EDC) for expansions in Indonesia and Guatemala. Inco became almost a surrogate government in the area, leading

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a substantial Canadian presence in Sulawesi. Meanwhile, there were complaints at home that Inco was laying off workers in Sudbury while expanding in Sulawesi to take advantage of lower costs and laws banning independent trade unions.26 Other Canadian investors soon swarmed in. Political co-operation trailed economic links. When, in 1973, the US government signed a deal to pull its forces out of South Vietnam, the Trudeau government reluctantly agreed to assist by remaining on the new trucesupervision commission. The Canadian experience on the Indian-led commission established in 1954 had been “frustrating, difficult, demanding and in large measure devoid of satisfying results,” in the words of one typical briefing note.27 Canadian diplomats had once hoped to have a special relationship with India, but sharing duties on the Indochina truce-supervision committees disillusioned many of them with Indian ways of doing diplomacy. The new commission did not promise to be any more rewarding, but Ottawa accepted membership while Indonesia replaced India as the Asian member of the new commission. Canadians had fewer complaints about their Indonesian counterparts, who did not play what the Canadian diplomats saw as neutralist games. India’s explosion of a nuclear bomb in 1974, using Canadian reactor technology, angered Ottawa all the more because there was nothing that could effectively be done. Indonesia took India’s place as the major Canadian partner in the region, though it inherited fewer of the sentimental hopes placed in India. Ottawa pulled out of the truce commission to general resignation; Indonesian Defence Minister Maraden Panggabean later joked that Canada had “betrayed” him by pulling out and “leaving the dirty work to the Indonesians.”28 With American forces out of Vietnam and the British government pulling its overstretched troops out of Singapore to save funds, no Western country was likely to commit forces to Asia. Regional security would depend increasingly on organizations like ASEAN. Thus “peace and security in the Pacific” topped the agenda when Suharto made his first official visit to Ottawa in 1975. At the urging of the Jakarta Embassy and trade-minded officials, an innovative $200 million line of credit became “the centrepiece of the visit,” combining financing from the EDC, CIDA, and the major Canadian commercial banks. During Peter Johnston’s term as Ambassador in Jakarta, the credit was almost exhausted and two-way trade rose from $30 million to $300 million a year, feeding an overall sense that the “third option” was having some success in peripheral areas. The largest project financed through this credit was a cement plant in Sulawesi, which was backed by $80 million in Canadian funds in the credit’s first year.29 With Canada-Indonesia relations on a firm footing, there were no complaints when Suharto’s government stage-managed a plebiscite in West New Guinea. The terms of the 1962 settlement required some form of selfdetermination by 1969. To show that Indonesia kept its treaties, Suharto


announced an “act of free choice” in the territory. It was clear that the exercise was entirely for the benefit of outsiders – a staged “consultation” in which a hand-picked group of Papuans were forced to vote unanimously for integration into Indonesia. Canadian diplomats reported the events and the lack of any real choice, but scrupulously avoided any criticism, on the grounds that the area was remote from Canada and that any comment could hurt Canadian relations with the Suharto regime.30 Canadian involvement in the “remote, primitive” land continued through the supply of Twin Otters to the Fund of the United Nations for the Development of West Irian and through missionaries attached to American-based societies, with images of the exotic and the backward persisting in accounts by Canadian visitors. The Canadian embassy was aware that “at least 95 percent” of Papuans opposed Indonesian rule, but it did not venture an opinion on the sensitive issue in Jakarta.31 This, too, set the stage for Canadian responses to the question of East Timor. The Trudeau Government, Indonesia, and East Timor, 1975-84 The eastern half of the island of Timor lived under Portuguese rule with varying degrees of harshness up until 1974, when a “Carnation Revolution” toppled the Portuguese dictatorship and brought in a new democratic government committed to decolonization. Political parties began to form in East Timor, each existing very much in the context of the Portuguese empire. The Timorese Democratic Union wanted a self-governing territory still linked to Portugal. The other major party, the Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (Fretilin), modelled itself quite deliberately after the Mozambique Liberation Front (Frelimo). Indonesia entered into Timorese politics only when Jakarta sponsored a small third party that called for the integration of East Timor into Indonesia. There were numerous Fretilin missions to Africa, and most of the party’s leadership was there to celebrate the independence of Mozambique. On the other hand, no Timorese party tried to communicate with Malaysia or Singapore or any other Southeast Asian country; each made one visit to Jakarta to consult Indonesian leaders. Two clashing historical narratives describe what followed. One was the official Indonesian version, the other an East Timorese nationalist version. In the Indonesian telling, East Timor would dissolve into civil war if left to its own devices, with a 1975 armed clash between Fretilin and its rivals presented as evidence. After Fretilin won that conflict with covert Portuguese aid, the story goes, Indonesian volunteers helped their Timorese “brothers” free themselves from Fretilin’s Marxist tyranny. The people exercised their right to self-determination by petitioning for permission to join Indonesia, which accepted East Timor as its twenty-seventh province. The Indonesian presence delivered sustained economic development and prevented a new civil war.32 Another argument, expressed more privately,

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was that an independent East Timor might become “another Cuba” – a small, radical state within the archipelago threatening regional stability. A number of Timorese pointed out that this sort of rhetoric sounded a lot like the language used by European colonialists to justify their own rule. Instead of a tale of reunification with their Indonesian brothers, Timorese nationalists offered an anti-colonial counter-narrative. It was complicated in the early years by Fretilin’s claims to be, like Mozambique’s Frelimo, the “sole legitimate representative” of the Timorese people. Fretilin declared an independent Democratic Republic of East Timor on November 28, 1975, and for some time claimed to be speaking as an independent state invaded by an imperialist power.33 Gradually that gave way to a new narrative of East Timorese nationalism. In contrast to the rhetoric of the Indonesian civil war, this narrative stressed unity. East Timorese were mostly united in 1975, it argues, until Indonesian interference painted Fretilin as a communist wolf wearing nationalist sheep’s clothing. Then unity dissolved and opened the door to Indonesian occupation. Many thousands of people died in the war and famine that followed. But step by step, the Timorese re-established unity. Massive human-rights violations helped bring them together in opposition to Indonesian rule. There were always guerrillas fighting the Indonesian army, but the resistance was most successful in building a diplomatic campaign that disrupted Indonesian alliances and won international sympathy.34 The Indonesian official narrative was less accurate, but far more influential in Ottawa – both because it was more audible and because it was more in line with Canadian government policies toward Southeast Asia. By 1974, when the decolonization of Portuguese Timor appeared on the agenda, policy-makers were inclined toward sympathy for Indonesian concerns. Indonesia was an economic and political partner for Canada, and potentially a security partner. In 1975, came the fall of Saigon and the unification of Vietnam under communist leadership, along with a communist regime in Cambodia. ASEAN, with its Indonesian anchor, mattered more than ever. Australian officials, whose views were always accorded respect in Ottawa, worried that East Timor was “a potential Cuba” on their doorstep, either because they saw East Timorese leaders as dangerously left-wing, or because they feared that an independent East Timor would be too weak to avoid falling under Chinese influence.35 With Western governments looking to local states to maintain regional security, many deferred to Indonesia. The New Order, however, was showing cracks by the mid-1970s. Divisions deepened between the technocrats and the corrupt generals close to Suharto as wealth poured into Indonesia from foreign aid and investment and from the army-run state oil company Pertamina. Under the flamboyant general Ibnu Sutowo, Pertamina ran up more than $10 billion in debts, enough to raise the spectre that the Indonesian state might have to default on its loans. The internal conflict spilled into factions within the army, fuelling rumours


of a coup plot. In 1974, tensions burst into the open as students planned protests against Japanese economic influence to coincide with the visit of Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka. Implicitly approved by some figures within the governing elite as a way to focus criticism on their rivals, the protests spiralled out of control into a general critique of the government’s development agenda and then into riots.36 The regime restored its control, but signs of division within the elite continued to suggest that the New Order was less stable than it appeared. This strengthened the desire in Western capitals to back Suharto, who acted in classic Indonesian political style as the balance wheel between contending factions. Amidst a late-1975 crisis precipitated by Ibnu Sutowo’s refusal to pay foreign shipping companies for rental contracts, the Toronto Dominion Bank decided to block its share of the EDC line of credit. Five generals approached a Canadian banker, each one reportedly depositing $10 million with Suharto’s approval in the first week of December, which suggested that the president might be preparing a nest egg in case he had to leave the country. Ambassador Johnston recommended that it was not the time for Canada to show non-confidence in the government by cancelling or suspending the line of credit extended on Suharto’s Ottawa visit.37 Facing debt troubles and divisions within the government, Suharto decided to invade East Timor on December 7, 1975. Here he repeated Sukarno’s tactic of confronting an outside enemy in order to unify the elite and draw attention away from internal troubles. Internal political splits in the Indonesian government shaped the debate in Jakarta over how to approach East Timor. Though Foreign Minister Adam Malik was issuing formal statements that his country accepted East Timor’s right to independence, Suharto was telling the Australian government that the best course for East Timor would be integration into Indonesia. There were two factions within the Indonesian government, one willing to acquiesce in an independent East Timor as long as it did not harbour anti-Indonesian dissidents, the other determined to ward off the threat posed by a small state in the archipelago outside Indonesian control. This second group pointed to communist Vietnam as the major security threat to Indonesia, stating that an independent East Timor was sure to fall under Vietnamese influence and become a security threat.38 The Indonesian intelligence apparatus, headed by Ali Murtopo, launched Operation Komodo in 1974, a campaign that the Canadian Embassy called a clandestine effort to take over East Timor by stealth. The common hope of Australian and Canadian observers was that the Timorese could somehow be persuaded to accept integration into Indonesia. Covert Indonesian efforts to accomplish this were acceptable, so long as the appearance of self-determination was respected. Canadian policymakers were well aware that Indonesia might invade East Timor if covert means failed. There is no evidence that any policy-makers wanted humanrights concerns to be expressed to the Indonesian government over this

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possibility. Human rights, quite simply, were not a big priority for the Trudeau government in 1975. The main worry at External Affairs was that an invasion might cause an outcry among the Canadian public that “would make it difficult to welcome Soeharto to Canada as warmly as we would otherwise wish.”39 One of Suharto’s highest priorities was to obtain international understanding. This was the guiding consideration of his first visit to North America in 1975. In both Washington and Ottawa, he offered assurances of an anticommunist Indonesia, then pitched for economic assistance. He raised East Timor in both capitals, telling US President Gerald Ford: “Indonesia doesn’t want to insert herself into Timor self-determination, but the problem is how to manage the self-determination process with a majority wanting unity with Indonesia.”40 There were really three options, Suharto said – independence, continued Portuguese rule, and integration with Indonesia. Of those three, just one was realistically possible. East Timor was too small to be a viable state and too distant to remain a Portuguese colony, so only integration remained. Canadian officials were sympathetic to this view and discussed options for achieving it. As one briefing paper argued, “stability in the Southeast Asian region is of significance for Canada.” The principle of selfdetermination had to be upheld, but annexation to Indonesia was certainly the best outcome. If that meant an invasion, Canada would be disappointed, but would still have “some sympathy for Indonesia’s dilemma.” One official wrote that at the UN, “there may be attempts by the high priests of decolonization to take the Indonesians to task, [but if] we assume that the only real solution for Portuguese Timor was an Indonesian take-over, I suggest that we should not do anything to increase Indonesian difficulties.”41 When Indonesian forces launched a full-scale invasion on December 7, 1975, the UN General Assembly issued a condemnation. Orders from Ottawa were to stay in sympathy with Indonesia. The UN delegation, arguing that Canada could not vote against the principle of self-determination, decided to abstain. The Department of External Affairs explained that it could not support a resolution that “deplored Indonesian action without adequately taking into account the circumstances which made the intervention necessary.” Nor could Canada risk its “substantial” ties to Indonesia. Indeed, Canadian aid in 1975-76 reached a record level of $36.7 million, third among Canada’s recipients.42 After the invasion, the worst killings took place during a three-year war of attrition between Indonesian and Fretilin forces. It went on largely out of the international spotlight, until one journalist managed to get out photos of famine victims in 1979 and Indonesia agreed to grant access to the International Committee of the Red Cross. This opening also saw the first visit by the Canadian Embassy to East Timor and the first consideration of changing Canada’s vote at the UN. “If East Timor came up at the United


Nations,” MacEachen told a gratified Malik in 1976, “we would try to adopt a position harmonious with the attitude of ASEAN.”43 It did, and the world body again condemned Indonesia in strong terms. Canada abstained, still unwilling either to oppose the principle of self-determination or to vote with the majority against Indonesia. As the resolutions became annual events, Canada’s delegation continued to abstain. Glen Shortliffe, the Canadian Ambassador in Jakarta, recommended after a visit to East Timor that Canada change to a “no” vote. Shortliffe said he had seen no evidence of the atrocities being reported by East Timorese church sources, human-rights groups, and aid workers. The vicegovernor of East Timor had reported 60,000 dead, then backtracked. Timorese accounts spoke of a campaign that approached genocide. Shortliffe reported that his visit suggested only 5,000 to 10,000 lives lost, and things much improved. He wanted the new Indonesian willingness to permit access to be encouraged through stronger support for Jakarta, including a shift in the annual UN vote. Failing to do so, he argued, could harm Canada-Indonesia relations.44 The Asia-Pacific Division at External Affairs made the same case, pointing out that ASEAN was united in support of the Indonesian position and that it expected its partners to come onside. A strongly argued memorandum signed by Delworth, bureau chief at the time, insisted that relations with Indonesia were what mattered. The Delworth memorandum indignantly rejected the suggestion made in another interdepartmental note that commercial interests dictated a pro-Indonesia stand – though he certainly wanted closer commercial relations. Instead, he directly addressed human rights, an issue that was enjoying a renaissance in Canadian rhetoric during the short-lived Conservative government in 1979-80 with Flora MacDonald as Minister of External Affairs. The humanitarian need to get food to East Timorese who had been displaced from their homes, and the fact that integration was irreversible, were in his view reason enough for a shift to vote with Indonesia at the UN: for humanitarian reasons, the sooner East Timor was dropped from the UN agenda, the better. He closed by confronting the human-rights aspect directly: “Frankly we would be dismayed if the Minister’s admirable statement on human rights were ever to be interpreted as a mandate for taking up every lost cause in the world.”45 In the event, the Canadian UN delegation continued to abstain in 1979, in explanation expressing “strong doubts about the value of the futile and repetitious debate which has taken place on this matter in recent years.” Since integration was “an accomplished and irreversible fact,” the item should come off the agenda. Indonesian diplomats expressed their “profuse appreciation” for the statement. Given that opening, the Canadian Embassy suggested that the faster East Timor’s political situation could be normalized away from military administration, the faster the item could come off the UN agenda. With the Liberals returning to power in 1980, the department

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recommended voting on Indonesia’s side. The annual resolution had become a counterproductive one, “keeping alive false hopes and a false issue.”46 Canada’s UN representative duly lined up to vote against self-determination for East Timor. To underline the presence of human-rights thinking, some Canadian human-rights advocacy was going on in Jakarta. US President Jimmy Carter’s “human rights administration” in the United States was leading a campaign for the release of remaining political prisoners arrested when Suharto seized power, though the State Department stressed that a Congressional resolution that no American aid should go to countries holding political prisoners would “not affect USAID program to Indonesia in any form or fashion.” State Department reports on human rights in Indonesia focused on the prisoners issue, not even mentioning East Timor. Meanwhile, American arms supplies to Indonesia had increased and were being used to turn the military tide in East Timor against guerrillas through aerial bombing.47 Canadian diplomats made similar efforts. In Jakarta, MacEachen called the prisoner issue “the only negative element in our relations” and urged faster releases, indicating in the same breath that he understood Indonesia’s East Timor position. At the official level, the Canadian government also sustained the quiet pressure to release prisoners.48 Friends of the Suharto government could advocate on this issue without directly challenging the regime. A human-rights trade-off emerged: in exchange for slow but steady progress on prisoner releases, the United States, Canada, and other powers were offering Indonesia stronger support regarding East Timor. The goal was to encourage them to make progress on a human-rights issue seen as achievable. The trade-off was based on a false understanding, however. Progress on East Timor seemed impossible to Western governments in large part because the Western alliance was collectively lending support to the Indonesian occupation: it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, made real by concrete Western support for the Suharto regime and its presence in East Timor. Western governments, including Canada’s, largely accepted the Indonesian narrative about East Timor, even while rejecting some of what Indonesian officials said as “patent and obvious lie[s].” For instance, one report of an embassy visit to East Timor accepted at face value Indonesian statements that only a handful of guerrillas remained, and from that incorrect information concluded that the East Timorese armed resistance “will slowly disappear as most lost causes do.”49 By the end of the 1970s, Ambassador Shortliffe could report that “Indonesia has now come to regard Canada as one of its more important, reliable and attractive partners in a variety of fields, thanks to a conscious promotion of the relationship by both sides, but largely by Canada.”50 Human rights and East Timor acted as complicating factors in otherwise smooth relations. Visiting Jakarta in 1983, Trudeau said that the East Timor issue “raised the problem


of self-determination of peoples”; however, his government had “decided that stability of the region should be the foremost concern and thus had supported Indon[esia].”51 By the end of the Trudeau years, Canada had identified Indonesia as a major bilateral partner. Government plans were hampered, however, by the increasingly effective East Timorese diplomatic campaign, which was shifting its focus from Third World nationalist rhetoric toward the language of human rights. Canadian policy-makers continued to believe that Indonesian rule was making things better in East Timor. The Trudeau government remained wedded to the Suharto regime’s development path. Human Rights and the East Timor Issue During the Mulroney Years, 1984-93 When Brian Mulroney’s Conservatives defeated the Liberal government in 1984, Canadian foreign policy reoriented itself toward better relations with the United States. Ideas like the “third option,” already being downplayed, were dropped entirely. In keeping with the language of US President Ronald Reagan’s administration, the Mulroney government spoke of human rights, but mainly in a Cold War context, with rights used as a club to beat the Soviet Union. Pro-American governments in the global South were, in the characterization of Reagan administration official Jeanne Kirkpatrick, “authoritarian” governments capable of reforming themselves into democracies over time, as opposed to Soviet-style “totalitarian” regimes. Kirkpatrick’s model was not universally accepted, but it did shape how governments thought about human rights, even for those that disagreed with the thrust and rhetoric of the Reagan administration. With Joe Clark, the former prime minister, as External Affairs Minister, the Mulroney government took a softer rhetorical line. It expressed the now traditional Canadian sympathy with developing countries, but it did not stray too far from American foreign policy except on selected issues such as apartheid in South Africa. The government also moved to cut back on aid spending and to reorient some aid to trade promotion through CIDA’s Industrial Cooperation Program. Indonesia, however, was not targeted for aid cuts; Canadian businesses even got an extra $4 million to expand in Indonesia through CIDA’s new tradepromotion program.52 Canadian and American policies on Indonesia marched in lockstep throughout the 1980s. Both governments enthusiastically supported the New Order as an Asian success story delivering rapid growth, open investment policies, and a foreign policy that combined respectable neutralism with a distinctly pro-Western tinge. Indonesia was a “little tiger” in economics, a reliable voice in international politics, and a stabilizing factor in often chaotic Southeast Asia. True, its high growth rates were widening the gap between rich and poor and its military government was no respecter of human rights, but the fashionable thinking of the day was that “soft

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authoritarian” governments were delivering an “economic miracle” in eastern Asia and that growth would eventually bring about democratization.53 Suharto remained unchallenged in power, while the governing organization Golkar regularly won elections over the two legal political parties (which also backed the New Order). No one thought these were free elections, but they followed the forms of democracy. Early hiccups such as the Pertamina debt crisis had been resolved. Though Indonesia’s levels of foreign debt were among the highest on the planet, its growth rate seemed to justify the risk. There seemed no reason to reverse the high and growing levels of loans, grants, and investment flowing into Suharto’s Indonesia. By the time Mulroney came to power, total foreign aid to Indonesia was in excess of US$15 billion; by 1990, Indonesia was the largest recipient of foreign aid in the world and ranked third among Canadian aid recipients.54 Even as overall Canadian aid began to fall from its 1978 peak, funds destined for Indonesia rose. East Timor, however, was becoming an issue in Canadian public opinion. External Affairs reports testify to growing criticism of government policy, especially from two quite diverse groups: the transnational rights group Amnesty International, and the tiny Nova Scotia East Timor Group, based in Head-of-Chezzetcook, Nova Scotia.55 In the mid-1980s, Canadian churches funded the creation of two organizations that focused on raising public awareness of East Timor: the Indonesia East Timor Program in Ontario, followed by the East Timor Alert Network (ETAN) in British Columbia (which later became a national organization). To meet the growing volume of letters, External Affairs produced a background paper on East Timor. It acknowledged that there had been severe human-rights abuses between 1975 and 1980 but then argued that the situation was improving rapidly. Furthermore, it continued, positive Canadian-Indonesian relations permitted humanrights representations. It followed that the best way to advance human rights was to increase Canadian engagement with Indonesia in the form, for instance, of Canada’s National Trade Strategy.56 In 1987, Clark agreed to allow Canadian Ambassador Jack Whittleton to join Indonesia’s Foreign Minister Mochtar Kusumaatmadja during his national election campaign in East Timor. There was no question of a free vote, but the opportunity to visit East Timor seemed to present a chance to explore the facts on the ground, and Clark had previously pressed Mochtar to permit foreign embassies to visit the closed territory. Thus Whittleton accompanied Mochtar on the campaign trail, along with East German and Nigerian diplomats. Other invited embassies had declined the invitation, so the Mulroney government won plaudits from the Indonesian foreign minister.57 Key here was the “accomplished and irreversible fact” thesis. “Like most other nations,” Clark wrote to a Liberal MP, “Canada believes that the situation has become irreversible, and accepts East Timor’s de facto status as the 27th


province of Indonesia.” This view was then reflected in such places as the columns of Marcus Gee of the Globe and Mail, who wrote that East Timor was a “lost cause” and that any efforts to achieve independence for it would be pointless at best, harmful at worst.58 Given that assumption, the logical course was to drop self-determination and to focus any Canadian attention for East Timor on human rights and, eventually, development. External Affairs, in short, was taking much the same line under Mulroney as it had under Trudeau. Clark summed up the government’s view in a 1987 letter to a Liberal MP who had raised East Timor on the occasion of Mochtar’s return visit to Ottawa. He stated that accusations of human-rights abuses were untrue, based on “material that is biased and exaggerated.” Canadian visits had found that “human well being and quality of life have improved for most East Timorese under Indonesian administration [and that] the presence of Indonesian troops is essential not least to the maintenance of public safety.” Given these beliefs, Clark’s prescriptions for Canadian policy flowed naturally: “[A] friendly and conciliatory approach is far more appropriate and constructive than adopting a negative or confrontational stance which polarizes views and positions and does little to respond to the desires and needs of the majority of East Timorese. This approach allows Canada to promote and encourage a greater focus on human needs ... Equally important, this approach develops an environment conducive to the awareness and promotion of human rights.”59 Letters taking this sort of tone prompted Conservative backbencher David Kilgour to write Clark: “Please ask someone who is not a surviving heart donor to prepare your response.”60 Kilgour belonged to an all-party group, Parliamentarians for East Timor, that was calling for Ottawa to live up to its rhetoric about putting human rights at the centre of policy-making. It was increasing domestic pressure, rather than anything happening on the ground, that prompted a reconsideration of policy within External Affairs. A 1990 hunger strike by a Kingston human-rights activist prompted a new five-page government letter. “The issues which you have raised are important ones and go to the heart of what this government seeks to do in the conduct of its foreign relations,” Clark wrote. For perhaps the first time, the government stated that it “deplored” the killings of the 1970s, but then it went on to state that human-rights abuses had been “much reduced” and that Canada acknowledged the fact that Indonesia “exercises control” even though the legal status of East Timor “remains a very difficult issue to resolve.” As a lengthy internal review of the history of Canadian policy on East Timor later noted, “nothing is irreversible and categoric statements of this sort are best left unsaid.”61 The tone had shifted, but policy had not. Between 1984 and 1991, Canadian aid worth $366.91 million flowed to Indonesia; 1991 twoway trade stood at $563 million.62

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The end of the Cold War kicked away the ideological moorings for Western support of anti-communist dictatorships. Buoyed by the positive reception for his anti-apartheid words among developing countries, Mulroney hoped to position Canada as a leading voice for human rights. He made passionate declarations at 1991 summit meetings of the Commonwealth and la Francophonie that Canada under his government would “no longer subsidize repression and the stifling of democracy.”63 Barbara McDougall, who succeeded the careful Clark as Minister for External Affairs that year, also used this sort of language. She spoke of a “new internationalism” in which Canada would speak up boldly for human rights and pay less heed to national sovereignty. East Timor provided the first test case for the new rhetoric when Indonesian soldiers opened fire on a pro-independence march in Dili, the Timorese capital, on November 12, 1991 – less than a month after Mulroney’s passionate declaration on human rights at the Commonwealth Summit. Crucially, a British journalist filmed the massacre of more than 250 people. Evidence of atrocities appeared on television news broadcasts for the first time, leading to an upsurge in public protest. McDougall ordered a strong response. “This is a shocking turn of events,” she said in a news release. “It will only serve to worsen what is an already troubling human rights situation.” In Parliament, she stated that “we condemn not only the violation of human rights in this particular instance, but also the ongoing situation for the people who live there.”64 Ambassador Ingrid Hall was ordered to express the “rising public concern” in Canada and to inform her hosts that McDougall was reviewing the Canadian aid program for Indonesia. The Indonesian government responded with a government commission of inquiry and asked its donors to do nothing until the commission reported.65 McDougall went ahead regardless, ordering a freeze on implementing three major aid projects in the pipeline, worth a collective $30 million, to express that “Canadians were outraged at the recent killings in East Timor” and to reflect concern over the entire Indonesian human-rights situation.66 Canada stood with Denmark and the Netherlands as countries choosing financial pressure as a tactic. McDougall added an unofficial ban on any permits for Canadian companies to seek military exports to Indonesia.67 The major Western powers, however, chose to wait for the inquiry commission’s report, which ultimately criticized some military officers. The army relieved those officers of duty and dispatched them for training overseas, but the only punishments meted out went to those Timorese who had organized the protest. Kim Richard Nossal has called the aid freeze “a harsh sanctionist approach,” but Terence Keenleyside was more accurate when he described it as “a carefully measured rebuke.”68 Existing Canadian aid to Indonesia continued unhampered, as did export-promotion work. Indonesia remained a trade priority, with two-way trade up 47 percent over the course of 1992. Canadian


policy toward Southeast Asia continued to revolve around ASEAN, implying a continued unwillingness to risk serious alienation of the Suharto regime. Jakarta directed a great deal of anger at the Netherlands for linking aid to human rights, but very little at Canada. Most notably, it refused to accept any further Dutch aid, or any aid through the Dutch-led IGGI group. That led to the dissolution of the aid consortium and its replacement by a new Consultative Group on Indonesia (CGI) chaired by the World Bank (which had an excellent working relationship with Jakarta). Jakarta directed no such actions at Canada, though there was grumbling behind closed doors. The only Indonesian government action against Canadian aid came in 1994, when the University of Guelph published the report of an external review of its $38 million Sulawesi Regional Development Project. When that report suggested that the project was “at risk of adding legitimacy to the Indonesian government’s approach to human rights or, at the very least, reinforcing a forgiving or indifferent attitude towards the actions of the regime,” Jakarta angrily pulled the plug on the project, ordering all Guelph staff to leave the country within two weeks. The Toronto Star responded with calls to scale back the bilateral aid program, editorializing that “any aid recipient that can afford to snub the hand that feeds it, by putting political pride ahead of development priorities, is a dubious candidate for further Canadian donations.”69 Meanwhile, policy in Ottawa wavered. Repeated rumours that frozen aid would be restored never bore fruit, apparently for fear of public reaction. “On several occasions, the government seemed to be moving towards a reconsideration of the limited aid suspension,” according to Chris Dagg, a well-informed observer of recent Canada-Indonesia relations. “Then a negative report on Indonesia would appear in the Canadian press, with the apparent effect of precluding an early return by Ottawa to normal relations.” Canadian officials promised their Indonesian counterparts new aid pledges at the July 1992 inaugural meeting of the new CGI aid consortium; but when the meeting opened they announced that they were there only as observers and would remain silent, making no new pledges. Suharto reportedly “reacted with surprise and dismay.” The change of heart seems to have been the result of heavy lobbying by East Timor supporters around the CGI meeting. In Ottawa, for instance, Parliamentarians for East Timor issued a call to suspend all aid to Indonesia.70 While officials wanted to restore aid and return CanadaIndonesia relations to their former level, there was consensus among all political parties that this was a bad idea. Liberal leader Jean Chrétien wrote that his party “firmly believes that we should not turn away from any areas of the world where violations of fundamental human rights are taking place. Just as Canada and the world undertook measures to protect the Kurds following the Gulf war, the international community should take measures to safeguard the rights of the people of East Timor.” Liberal External Affairs

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critic Lloyd Axworthy told an East Timor lobbyist: “I fully support your strong condemnation of the Canadian government’s policy towards Indonesia.” The New Democratic Party went further, demanding an end to Canadian aid to Indonesia as long as it occupied East Timor – a call centred more on self-determination than on human rights.71 Strong voices in Canadian civil society had become increasingly vocal on human rights and on East Timor, raising the political cost of doing business with the Suharto regime. Thus the aid freeze remained in place until the end of the Conservative government in 1993. Trade, Human Rights, and East Timor in the Chrétien Years, 1993-99 It is tempting to call Jean Chrétien’s tireless promotion of Canadian exports through overseas trade missions an echo of the Trudeau government’s “third option.” Yet Chrétien’s globe-straddling “Team Canada” travels, during which he tried to bring along as many provincial premiers and business people as possible, were far too loud to be described as an echo of anyone else. They were a response, rather, to the prevailing admiration in the 1990s of Asian “miracle” economies, amidst talk of “Pacific destiny,” “partnering” with a doughnut-shaped zone of dynamism called the “Pacific Rim,” and “constructive engagement” with the governments presiding over most of the assorted menagerie of “tigers,” “dragons,” and “flying geese.” The “Asian values” thesis, which accepted authoritarian governments as reflections of Asian tradition and opposed any linkage between trade and human rights, was at its peak of popularity. Under the Liberals, Canada wanted a piece of the Asian action. China was the prime target for this push, but Chrétien also led missions to India, Pakistan, Malaysia, Thailand, the Philippines, South Korea, Japan, and Indonesia, as well as assorted destinations in Europe and South America. The same sorts of considerations that had convinced the Trudeau government to choose Indonesia as a partner continued to operate, ensuring that East Timor would remain an irritant for policy-makers, whose greater concern was the Canada-Indonesia partnership. The Chrétien government’s International Trade and Business Plan once again listed Indonesia as a priority area.72 Low wages and deregulation made it an attractive investment destination. Human-rights abuses were present but in many ways made it easier to do business, since military rule held down wages and kept workers docile – at gunpoint if necessary. By 1994, Canadian investment in Indonesia was $3 billion and rising, and more than fifty companies reported exports to Indonesia in excess of $50 million. The Canadian Exporters Association stationed an investment adviser in Jakarta for the first time; CIDA funded a Canada-Indonesia Business Development Office to promote private-sector linkages; and ambassadors from both countries headlined “Partnering with Indonesia” seminars in Toronto and Vancouver. “Indonesia offers the best


fit for Canadian economic interests I have seen,” Ambassador Lawrence Dickenson said at one of these seminars, expressing a common official attitude.73 “Pour le Canada, l’Indonésie est un partenaire de plus en plus importante en Asie,” noted the first memorandum on the subject to André Ouellet, Chrétien’s first foreign minister. Indonesia was among the world’s largest countries, a liberalizer on trade issues as well as Canada’s most important investment and export market in Southeast Asia. The Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, as it was renamed by the Chrétien government, called for a warming of relations that had chilled during Barbara McDougall’s tenure. Canada would have to “renforcer ses contacts politiques avec l’Indonésie afin de faire avancer l’ensemble de ses intérêts – tants les échanges commerciaux comme le développement et les droits de la personne – en Indonésie.” To clear away obstacles and free up $30 million made unavailable by McDougall’s aid freeze, Ouellet cancelled the suspended aid projects and called for new proposals.74 While visiting Jakarta in 1994 for the annual Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) summit, Chrétien raised East Timor but argued that increased trade would give Canada more leverage to promote human rights. The APEC meetings saw East Timor rather than trade issues dominate headlines as Timorese protesters occupied the US Embassy to publicize their cause. More occupations of foreign embassies followed in the months after, though Canadian diplomats were able to avoid a sit-in owing to the embassy’s particular layout. East Timorese diplomats were making great strides in international public opinion, with overseas representative José Ramos Horta heading an effective non-state diplomatic network. In 1996, he shared the Nobel Peace Prize with East Timor’s Bishop Carlos Belo. In Canada, increasingly vocal lobbying on East Timor by churches and trade unions raised the political cost for the government in too close a rapprochement with Indonesia. “We continue to seem to be prepared to have our NGO community dictate our actions” on East Timor, Ambassador Dickenson complained in one bitter message, while no similar surrenders were made to lobbyists for human rights in China or Vietnam.75 In the words of the Australian foreign minister, East Timor was becoming less a pebble in Indonesian shoes than “a boulder in the path of Indonesia’s development.” Aware of this, Jakarta agreed to talks with Portugal and the UN, and eventually to an “All-Inclusive Intra-East Timorese Dialogue” under UN auspices. There was some consideration of Canadian support for the dialogue process, which among other things might show Canadian action and, in the words of one official, “get ETAN off our back”; this was coupled with concerns that Ouellet might not agree, “given his rather strongly held views on East Timor.” Officials ultimately decided not to risk Indonesian anger by backing the talks until Jakarta consented to them.76

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When Ambassador Dickenson visited East Timor in 1995, he reported a severe crackdown on human rights and called for Canadian efforts to resolve the conflict. “This regressive set of events,” he wrote, “would appear to reflect the intention of the GOI (or in particular the military) to solve the problem of ET by stamping out dissent, rather than seeking an acceptable political solution. It is our view that Canada, in concert with like-minded countries, should encourage the GOI to abandon the former approach and begin seriously working on the latter ... We are not optimistic that the GOI will realistically move in this direction on its own.”77 This report was the most critical yet. Released under Access to Information legislation, it was quoted by East Timorese diplomats seeking stronger resolutions at the UN’s human-rights committee. The Canadian government slowly shifted toward more willingness to act on East Timor – a shift that gathered momentum after Lloyd Axworthy took over as foreign minister in 1996. Even so, human-rights policy under Axworthy remained within the confines of Chrétien’s focus on trade promotion and continued to accept ASEAN’s belief in “constructive engagement” with regimes that violated human rights. The Team Canada visit to Jakarta in 1996 accepted this argument. As the largest trade delegation ever to visit the Indonesian capital landed and began pushing Canadian investment toward the $6 billion mark, Chrétien laid out the basis of Canadian support for the “constructive engagement” formula. “Isolation is the worst recipe, in my judgment, for curing human rights problems,” he said.78 Bilateral relations, harmed by McDougall’s aid suspension, were back on a firm foundation. Yet irritants remained. Relations were entirely positive, one Indonesian official said, before adding: “But then there is Human Rights and East Timor, isn’t there?”79 East Timor would again disrupt the smooth course of relations after a clumsy attempt to silence Isabel Galhos, an East Timorese refugee living in Canada. Indonesia’s Ambassador to Canada, Benjamin Parwoto, took the opportunity of a trip home to fly to Dili and ask Galhos’ mother to moderate her daughter’s activities in Canada. This visit, accompanied by the usual armed security detail, was seen by Canadians both inside and outside government as an attempt to silence a voice of protest. As Dickenson wrote, the apparent effort to silence a resident of Canada was “strategically ill-advised” at best. He recommended warning Parwoto that such intimidation, even if inadvertent, could “be very damaging to the bilateral relationship.” In one of his first acts as foreign minister, Axworthy called in Parwoto for a severe scolding and handed over a formal note of protest. The Vancouver Sun demanded Parwoto’s expulsion from Canada for “acting like a juniorgrade thug.” The Suharto government responded with its own diplomatic note expressing “deep regrets,” then called in Dickenson for “much tougher” verbal criticism of the Canadian government response.80


Figure 7. University of British Columbia students attempt a citizen’s arrest of President Suharto at the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation summit, Vancouver, British Columbia, 1997. Photo courtesy of Elaine Brière

Axworthy was much more sympathetic to East Timor than his predecessor had been. Where Ouellet had approved applications for arms sales to Indonesia worth $362 million (most sales were not completed), Axworthy slowed the rate of permit approval. He agreed to support the UN-sponsored IntraEast Timorese talks, he authorized a Canadian contribution to their costs, and he agreed to offer good offices to Jakarta to resolve the East Timor problem if they wished.81 (They did not: as Foreign Minister Alatas said later, he believed that “Canadian NGOs are the most ferociously anti-Indonesian in the world and he is sceptical, therefore, of the Canadian government’s ability to resist domestic political pressure and maintain its neutrality.”82) The centrepiece of Axworthy’s Indonesia policy was a “bilateral human rights dialogue” inaugurated in 1997, modelled on a similar dialogue with China that aimed to shift from “confrontation” to “dialogue” on human rights. Trade and rights, Axworthy argued, were “not mutually exclusive but mutually reinforcing.” Good governance, including respect for rights and the rule of law, made growth possible, and growth made stable, rights-respecting societies more likely.83 The belief that human rights could best be advanced through trade with authoritarian governments persisted. Human-rights groups in Canada hotly contested this view. As carried on in the press and in public debate throughout the 1990s, the clash of views was perhaps best symbolized by the APEC summit in 1997, held on the

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campus of the University of British Columbia – coincidentally, a centre of Canadian activism for East Timor. Especially in Vancouver and Ottawa, the East Timor Alert Network posted pictures of Suharto carrying the caption “Wanted: For Crimes Against Humanity.” This enraged Indonesian officials, who made ETAN an issue in bilateral relations. The Indonesian Embassy issued a public attack on the organization, declaring that it had “consistently fabricated, distorted, and misrepresented facts about Indonesia to the government, the media, and the people of Canada.” They wondered whether it was a good idea for Suharto to attend APEC “to face further humiliation from a group, which tries to impose its opinion in a displeasing manner which is unacceptable for Indonesia.”84 Suharto personally raised the matter of the posters to a visiting Lloyd Axworthy, suggesting that he might boycott the APEC summit, a vital symbol of the Chrétien government’s Asia trade strategy. Axworthy apologized for the poster campaign, calling it “outrageous and excessive and not the way Canadians behaved.” He pleaded for Suharto to attend, telling him that “we did not want ETAN to win a victory and they would claim victory if President did not come.”85 Indonesian officials accused ETAN of “soft terrorist tactics” and complained bitterly that an alternative “people’s summit” organized by Canadian NGOs featured “Suharto’s bete noire” José Ramos Horta as keynote speaker. When Indonesian officials complained that an APEC preparatory meeting in St. John’s had seen protesters get within sight of the Indonesian delegation, Canadian authorities overturned an earlier decision, agreeing to make sure that Suharto would not have to see any protesters and to reroute his motorcades accordingly. This clinched Suharto’s agreement to come to Vancouver. RCMP officers then controversially used pepper spray to make sure the motorcade could pass through undisturbed by signs of dissent.86 The desperate efforts to ensure that Suharto came to Vancouver rested on two factors. First, Suharto was the “elder statesman of ASEAN” and his nonattendance would be a blow to the summit’s overall success. The problem “affects issues going well beyond our bilateral relationship with Indonesia,” Axworthy’s department told him. If Suharto was absent, that would “be seen as damaging to APEC itself and criticisms will be made regarding Canada’s inability to manage this issue.”87 Wider Canadian foreign-policy considerations operated. Second, power had shifted in the Canada-Indonesia relationship. No longer was Canada the wealthy donor and Indonesia the desperate supplicant. Instead, Canadian leaders were seeking Indonesian support for Canadian foreign-policy objectives. Canadian wheat exporters, for instance, looked to companies controlled by business cronies of Suharto as leading customers. Canada, it seemed, needed Indonesian trade more than Indonesia needed Canada.88 That changed when a financial crisis swept through eastern Asia in 1998, wiping out the “miracle” gains of a number of countries,


including Indonesia. The financial crisis combined with public protests and divisions among the elite to topple Suharto on May 20, 1998. Seeing a window of opportunity, East Timorese activists stepped up their independence campaign. They hoped that Canada would be among the countries that supported them. This time the Canadian government did support them. The issue no longer seemed to be a lost cause; instead, there was every possibility that the “irreversible fact” could be reversed. The Cold War’s end had removed the strategic reasons to back Indonesia right or wrong. The financial crisis had removed some of the economic motivation, though trade-promotion efforts did not falter.89 Canadian diplomats now saw regional security as best served by removing a source of growing conflict. Moreover, this shift dovetailed with Axworthy’s attempt to shift from “national security” thinking toward the “human security” of individuals. Raymond Chan, a former human rights activist named by Chrétien as Secretary of State (Asia-Pacific) met jailed East Timorese resistance leader Xanana Gusmão in his Jakarta prison in October 1998. Chan and Axworthy then agreed to meet Ramos Horta in Ottawa. This was the independence leader’s first Canadian encounter at the ministerial level. After a cordial meeting during which he asked for public Canadian support for independence, Ramos Horta joined representatives of the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops, the Canadian Labour Congress, and others to repeat this request. A month later, Chan went beyond his departmental briefing notes to state that the Canadian government supported self-determination for East Timor.90 Finally, new Indonesian President B.J. Habibie decided to seek an end to the East Timor problem, which had long bedevilled Indonesian foreign policy. He offered an autonomy package, then agreed that if Timorese voters rejected that package in a UN-run referendum, they could have independence. Though some in Indonesia thought they could arrange the right result, few outsiders (and certainly no officials in Ottawa) doubted that the Timorese would overwhelmingly opt for independence. The issue now was how to ensure that Indonesian security forces did not use violence to derail the vote. As 1999 dawned, East Timor for the first time matched the preoccupations of Canadian foreign policy instead of raising an obstacle. Gusmão wrote to Axworthy that Canada, as a new Security Council member, was “in a unique position to play a lead role during the upcoming transition in East Timor, which I believe is inevitable.” The Southeast Asia Division proposed that Canada put East Timor on the UNSC’s agenda, noting that it “fits well with Canada’s efforts to raise human security questions at the Security Council level.”91 Canadian representatives argued successfully for council briefings on East Timor, pointing out that the Indonesian army was not meeting its obligations to ensure a safe vote.92 The ballot, with Chan representing the

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Canadian government as observer, went ahead on August 30 and produced a vote of more than 78 percent for independence on a more than 98 percent turnout. Militias backed by the Indonesian army responded with a wave of coordinated violence, designed in the words of one Canadian report to “overturn the ballot outcome ... and quickly.”93 For the first two weeks of September 1999, militia violence engulfed East Timor in a crisis that dominated international headlines. In Ottawa, summary reports to the minister updated the situation once or twice daily. Gusmão led the calls for an international peacekeeping force, since the Indonesian army was not keeping the peace – indeed, it was orchestrating the violence. The Security Council dispatched a mission to Jakarta and Dili, led by Namibia’s UN ambassador. Axworthy ordered his officials to arrange a meeting on East Timor on the sidelines of the APEC summit, which was scheduled to open shortly in Auckland, and won the support of his New Zealand counterpart for the idea. Canadian officials lobbied hard for other APEC members to attend. Chrétien set the wheels in motion for a joint G7 ambassadors’ démarche to Habibie, in this way implicitly raising the possibility that Indonesia’s financial health could be further damaged during a time of ongoing economic crisis. The World Bank called for an end to violence and respect for the referendum results, declaring that this was of “paramount concern to our shareholders, who constitute Indonesia’s key international partners.” The Canadian position paper for the APEC meeting called for stepped-up pressure on Jakarta – pressure that might include efforts to directly influence the army outside foreignministry channels, a possible statement condemning Indonesia over Chrétien’s signature, and diplomatic sanctions in concert with like-minded countries; however, the same paper wanted aid to Indonesia left untouched. “All levers of influence, both economic and political, should be considered in order to ensure that the Indonesian authorities live up to their international commitments,” stated one policy note.94 Up to that point, APEC – with Canada’s enthusiastic concurrence – had avoided any discussion of human rights in general or of East Timor specifically. Axworthy was now using that group to advance his human-security agenda. “We have basically taken over the agenda of APEC which is an economic forum to deal with this political security issue,” he told reporters. Eighteen APEC members, including a majority of ASEAN members, attended the East Timor meeting, an indication that Indonesia had lost reliable regional allies. Axworthy declared that though Jakarta was resisting international pressure to accept an Australian-led international security force, “we are not taking no for an answer at this point in time.”95 On September 12, after the IMF suspended talks with the Indonesian government on financing the emergency economic program, and Australia and New Zealand joined the United States in suspending all military links with the Indonesian


armed forces, Habibie finally announced acceptance of an international security force for East Timor. Australian forces were ready to go in quickly. The Canadian government had promised to try to contribute to the force but had few troops to spare. In the event, six hundred Canadian Forces personnel took part in the international force, which reported to a new UN Transitional Administration in East Timor. Unlike the UN authority that had run West New Guinea between the Dutch and Indonesian administrations in 1962-63, UNTAET was tasked with overseeing the completion of a self-determination process. In 2002, East Timor became the first new independent country of the twenty-first century, under the name and flag of the Democratic Republic of East Timor. The aborted decolonization was complete at last. Beginning in 1968, Canadian governments had looked to Asia to meet an increasingly important goal of Canadian foreign policy: the promotion of exports and trade diversification. As economic dependence on the United States increased, and Asian economies started to show impressive growth, it seemed that Canada needed a Pacific policy more keenly than before. The hope was that Canada would prosper even more by hitching its wagon to Asia’s rising stars. With increased trade interest in Asia came increased interest in regional security. ASEAN, and especially Indonesia, appeared to be promising partners for Canadian foreign-policy objectives. A partnership with Indonesia was eased by the presence of figures in the Suharto government who had Canadian connections in the economic, religious, and other fields. The New Order did not spring into being wholly formed; it gathered up threads that had come unravelled from the “continuing revolution” of Sukarno’s Indonesia. The development planners who had been the repository of Western hopes in the 1950s, for instance, inspired similar hopes once they were back in power starting in the late 1960s. Increased Canadian interest in Asia was primarily economic. That was especially true with regard to Indonesia. The Trudeau government shifted policy, with Indonesia singled out as a partner. This was not the romantic “special relationship” of the kind that some in an earlier generation had sought between Canada and India: the Trudeau government had few illusions about New Order Indonesia. A “Canada First” foreign policy, however, meant giving Indonesia as much aid as it had the capacity to absorb, in order to grease the wheels for trade. The Clark and Mulroney governments offered a tinge of human-rights talk in their foreign policy but largely accepted the economic emphasis that had guided Trudeau’s engagement with Indonesia. The 1970s saw an upsurge in human-rights thinking. Even as the Trudeau government dismissed the idea that human rights should guide Canadian foreign policy, the language of human rights was taking hold of the public imagination. Human rights was becoming normalized in the foreign policy of many Western states as something that governments should be doing,

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even if in many cases they were not. The Mulroney government enshrined human rights formally in its statements of foreign policy, and though rhetoric outpaced implementation by many leagues, policy-makers did not set out to block human rights. Indeed, with regard to East Timor their analysis of the situation as a hopeless cause dictated a belief that rights were best advanced through acceptance of Indonesian rule. This remained true even as troubles embroiled the bilateral relationship in 1991, when Mulroney’s human-rights rhetoric virtually forced his government to suspend future aid destined for Indonesia to avoid charges of hypocrisy. Officials quickly set about trying to mend the bilateral relationship, which returned to normal under the Chrétien government. Trade again took centre stage, underpinned by a rhetorical conviction that more trade advanced human rights. At no time did any Canadian government take any steps it thought would harm Canada-Indonesia trade prospects. The Mulroney government’s aid freeze was a deliberate if not completely successful strategy to contain any damage to the bilateral relationship to specific non-trade aspects. The one opportunity partially passed up was military exports, where public pressure made the political cost of aggressively marketing Canadian arms higher than the trade benefits. Canadian military products did go to Indonesia, with a strong pitch made when André Ouellet was foreign minister, but relatively restrictive policies were in place for much of the Mulroney and Chrétien periods. In all other ways, the push for closer economic relations took centre stage. For Canadian governments, public pressure also increased the political cost of supporting Indonesia’s rule in East Timor. That combined with an energetic and creative international campaign by East Timorese activists, who succeeded in proving that their cause was far from lost. Changing international circumstances created space for a Canadian policy shift in 1998-99. The end of the Cold War reduced Indonesia’s value in strategic calculations, and the Asian financial crisis did the same in economic terms. A brief moment saw the costs of a pro-Indonesia policy at a record high, and the benefits of trade with Indonesia at a relative low. East Timor provided a chance for the Chrétien government to highlight what it called human security. Policy-makers therefore worked to resolve the East Timor situation not by sweeping it under the rug but by seeking a long-term solution to the conflict. As always, they did so in concert with Canada’s chosen partners. The Canadian government was willing to play a leadership role in some aspects, seeking to pull its allies toward its position, but it remained within the usual, comfortable multilateral embrace.

Conclusion

Indonesia first flickered into existence in Canadian imaginings of the world between 1945 and 1949, but until very recently it remained, in the words of a former Canadian ambassador, “a complete blank on almost every Western and Eastern cultural radar screen,” including Canada’s.1 Despite its size and importance, policy-makers in Ottawa long treated Indonesia as a faraway trouble spot, giving it only sporadic attention. The bulk of sustained Canadian attention was non-governmental. In the background, the mental maps of Canadian policy-makers situated Southeast Asia as a peripheral region within the spheres of interest of other powers. The North Atlantic world lay at the centre of Canadian foreign-policy thinking, and Ottawa viewed Indonesia through this glass, darkly. That changed after 1968, but even then, the Canada-Indonesia relationship focused overwhelmingly on trade expansion. Canadian policy toward Indonesia was driven not by events within Indonesia but rather by Canadian priorities at home and in regions perceived as more central to the national interest. Canadian policy toward the Indonesian revolution was designed to avoid splits within the emerging North Atlantic alliance. As Indonesia grew into a major international dispute, policy-makers realized that they could not ignore it – especially after Canada joined the UN Security Council for a twoyear term in January 1948. Initially devoting its attention primarily to the reconstruction of Europe and the global trading system, Ottawa was forced to confront the decolonization issue as European states fought to hold on to their Asian colonies. The Canadian response to decolonization drew on Canada’s own evolutionary path toward self-government; its preference was for slow, non-violent changes that did not break the links between colony and metropole. This preference for gradual and orderly decolonization shaped Canadian responses to the Indonesian revolution. Ottawa was inclined to accept Dutch claims that their policy was to hand power gradually to moderate Indonesian nationalists. In tandem with existing close ties of sentiment and mutual interest between Canada and the Netherlands, this

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approach produced a general Canadian sympathy for the Dutch side. After Indonesian nationalists put down a communist uprising in September 1948, the US government began to smile on their cause. Canadian actions on the Security Council were a carefully calibrated balancing act between Dutch policy, on the one hand, and American pressure for a more rapid transfer of power to “moderate” Indonesian nationalists, on the other. Throughout the Security Council debates, Canadian diplomats served what they saw as their country’s major interests. They acted to save their Dutch allies from international isolation, offering an escape route whereby the Netherlands would lose its colony but would also save face and be able to join the North Atlantic Treaty as a member in good standing. Canadian diplomats were also able to prevent a rift within the Commonwealth as it negotiated postwar arrangements for the inclusion of India in the association. Finally, through trial and error, diplomats worked out a new role for themselves as inventors of formulas to resolve international disputes, and developed Prime Minister Mackenzie King’s notion of the Security Council as an arena for international conciliation rather than a quasi-judicial tribunal. The Indonesian dispute provided the first example of Canada acting as a helpful mediator: a self-perception that quickly became central to the Canadian diplomatic self-image. Policy-makers had not acted, however, out of any consideration of the merits of the conflict. Their goals were to bolster the multilateral associations that lay at the heart of Canadian postwar foreign policy. One fear motivating Canadian policy-makers during the Indonesian revolution was that it might set the newly independent states of Asia against the European colonial powers, Canada’s allies in the Cold War. While they saw NATO as stabilizing the defence of Europe, the existence of a North Atlantic bloc also raised the prospect of North Atlantic solidarity in defence of colonialism. Ottawa was focusing on Europe, but at the same time it did not wish to see Asia “lost” to the “free world.” Consequently, policy-makers looked for bridges to Asia, finding the readiest one in the “new Commonwealth,” which after 1947 included India, Pakistan, and Ceylon (and beginning in 1957, Malaya and an ever rising number of African states). Canadian leaders had once imagined their country as a linchpin, linking the United States with Great Britain and interpreting between them. They now saw Canada playing a similar role between old and new Commonwealth states, and even between the United States and Asia. The Commonwealth-sponsored Colombo Plan offered a means to broaden that bridge, as well as the promise that foreign aid might help Asian democracies raise their standard of living and thereby resist the temptations of communism. The West had a collective stake in the success of development in India, for instance, as a sign that capitalist development could succeed just as well as communist development strategies seemed to be succeeding in China. The Colombo Plan could be

Conclusion

expanded to include all of the uncommitted countries along China’s southern flank. The plan’s area might, in its own way, form a counterpart to American containment efforts in Northeast Asia by underpinning a safely non-communist zone from Afghanistan to Indonesia. It was within this Colombo Plan area that Canada and Indonesia began to encounter each other directly. They exchanged embassies in 1953, but bilateral relations concentrated on the prospects for economic aid. Ottawa took no leadership role in the Colombo Plan. It joined grudgingly, mostly out of a desire to help in a British-led anti-communist campaign and to bolster the economic standing of Britain and the sterling bloc, which was important to Canada’s own trading interests. The hope was that Canadian contributions might convince the Americans to ante up the larger sums needed. Though the plan was designed by other Commonwealth members and accepted for anti-communist reasons, it became another element of Canada’s diplomatic self-perception: Canada was liked in Asia, the argument ran, because it was a non-colonial power that gave aid without strings and avoided military entanglements. The humanitarian rhetoric used to sell the plan to the general public, drawing on missionary traditions and the growing commitment to social justice in Canada, swiftly gained wide acceptance. Though Canada lagged behind other contributors, Canadians imagined their country as a generous donor to the less fortunate. The self-image of Canada as a humanitarian actor joined that of Canada as an international mediator. If Canadian ideas of political self-determination drew on the country’s own experience of peaceful evolution toward independence, views of economic development were also grounded in historical experience. Canadians offered their own country as a model for development; thus they failed to understand the economic nationalism that was motivating Indonesia and many other newly independent countries. Canada was a wealthy but developing country, its economy experiencing a postwar economic boom based on extensive American investment. Its ability to absorb the flow of capital rested on skills learned from Europe and the United States – what was beginning to be called “technical assistance.” Economic development took place within a more integrated continental economy. The oil sector, for instance, was almost from the beginning a component of the American industry. Canadian businesses and individuals went abroad, more often than not, as part of North American non-governmental networks that blurred their nationality. There was little that was distinctively Canadian, for instance, about the first major involvement by Canadians in Indonesia, the National Planning Bureau. This was a UN-sponsored project controlled by the Indonesian government, staffed by a team of foreign experts led by McGill economist Benjamin Higgins. The bureau’s foreign experts were part of a network born

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in North American universities, inspired by the ideas of John Maynard Keynes, and recruited through an international-development bureaucracy based in the UN Secretariat. These experts offered Keynesian solutions in which state planning would gently guide the economy and create conditions beneficial to both domestic and foreign capital. The Planning Bureau failed in the short term, its economic forecasts shattered by civil war and its policy prescriptions unable to command the support of more economically nationalist leaders. Yet in the longer term, the bureau was able to nurture a modernizing elite of Indonesian economists who gained the military patronage needed to implement their plans after 1965. Another vital component of Indonesia’s modernizing elite emerged from McGill’s Institute of Islamic Studies. This institute was itself born from North American non-governmental networks. Its scope was defined by its major funding agency, the Rockefeller Foundation, which wanted to increase North American expertise regarding the Islamic world. It tried to transcend Orientalist dichotomies by offering instead a cross-cultural bridge to understanding, but it was not autonomous from the area-studies complex and the foundations that underwrote that complex. Its unique contribution lay in its attempt to “modernize” Islam. McGill became a major centre for the advanced study of Islam, one that provided an alternative, more Westernized way of approaching the study and teaching of religion. Its first generation of Indonesian graduates went on to reshape Islamic education in Indonesia in ways proclaimed to be more modern and rational. This made the institute a model for Islamic education in Indonesia as part of a conscious effort to steer Indonesian Islam away from reliance on the Middle East: a more “constructive” and less “fundamentalist” direction that echoed the hopes of government-level policy-makers. The National Planning Bureau’s foreign economists and the Institute of Islamic Studies both located obstacles to modern development within traditional societies. For the planners, countries like Indonesia suffered from technological dualism; the goal was to alter traditional society in such a way that it could experience the benefits of economic development. For the scholars of Islam, the goal was to change Islamic society enough that it could face the challenges of modernity. Indonesia’s experience between 1950 and 1957, however, was one of disillusion. The attempt to follow Western development prescriptions left the country poor. Between 1957 and 1959, Indonesia abandoned parliamentary democracy in favour of a system that drew its legitimacy both from appeals to indigenous tradition and from future-oriented appeals to revolutionary global change. Until 1965, the country lived under “guided democracy,” which combined revolutionary rhetoric with ideas that Sukarno claimed were rooted in Indonesia’s past. The historiography of these years generally depicts a radical nationalist regime refusing foreign investment and challenging the West. Yet it is important

Conclusion

not to lose sight of the ongoing efforts in this period to shape Indonesia in the Western image. Many army officers had trained in the United States, where policy-makers viewed the army and Western-trained technocrats as the best hope for a modern, pro-Western regime to succeed Sukarno. Guided democracy did not produce the type of Indonesia that Western nation builders hoped to see, but it continued to develop the modernizing elites necessary for the construction of that vision. The Sukarno years were not a simple slide to the left and into isolation; they were also years during which fortresses were being built within the Indonesian body politic from which the country would later be run along more pro-Western lines. John Diefenbaker’s Canada regarded Sukarno’s guided democracy with deep suspicion. For the most part, Diefenbaker followed the foreign-policy course pioneered by Louis St. Laurent and Lester Pearson and their officials. The Diefenbaker government’s emphasis on the Commonwealth tie was in part a reaction against growing dependence on the United States. Though Canadian foreign policy was constrained in many areas, policy-makers had complete control, at least, over what they did with Canadian aid. There, they affixed the Commonwealth stamp more firmly than any other donor country. They dropped any idea of capital aid to Indonesia and other nonCommonwealth countries in favour of using the Colombo Plan as a new form of ongoing subsidy for Canadian wheat farmers. In other areas they did not allow economic motives to predominate. Canadian commercial connections with Indonesia were carried out almost entirely by firms whose nationality was ambiguous at best. Asamera, the first Canada-based oil company into Indonesia, was a branch plant of the American oil industry. Aircraft manufacturer DeHavilland was a British-owned company producing for the North American market, dependent on sales to the United States. Even at the cost of potentially large job losses, the government refused to allow DeHavilland to sell aircraft to Indonesia. It took that decision on the advice of the Netherlands and Australia – evidence of these governments’ continuing ability to influence Canadian policy. Despite the more commercial emphasis of Canadian foreign aid, foreign policy in Diefenbaker’s Ottawa ultimately paid more heed to political considerations and alliance pulls. Alliance politics was also the main determining factor for the second crisis of Indonesian decolonization. As they had during the Indonesian revolution, policy-makers sought a middle course between Dutch and American positions on the decolonization of West New Guinea. The Dutch government was determined to see its last Asian colony become a separate country from Indonesia; the Kennedy administration wanted to see the dispute settled in such a way that Indonesia might return to the American orbit. Where St. Laurent and Pearson had tended to offer possible solutions to crises that threatened alliance unity, however, Diefenbaker and Howard Green favoured inaction as the safest course. Thus they resisted all calls for

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Canada to mediate the West New Guinea dispute. Ottawa still viewed Indonesia through the lenses of NATO and the Commonwealth, but it was less eager to inject itself as a helpful fixer. Those efforts were reserved for such disputes as the one over South Africa, where Diefenbaker saw a chance to shine. Canada’s contribution to the settlement that transferred West New Guinea through an interim UN administration to Indonesian rule was to take part in the UN authority’s peacekeeping force. Canadian policy-makers might have been expected to support the Dutch notion of gradual decolonization to a loyal elite, but mental maps in which New Guinea was impossibly remote, inhabited only by cannibals, trumped the idea of gradual decolonization on the Canadian model. In a 1960 speech, Green rejected the “honest broker” role for Canada that he said was Pearson’s legacy, a decade before Pierre Trudeau did the same thing.2 Yet Ottawa had never functioned as an honest broker per se. Rather, its actions centred on assistance to Canada’s allies, even if that meant sometimes following an independent course. Indonesia in 1949, Korea in 1951-53, and Suez in 1956 were all examples of Ottawa acting independently in the service of its alliances, in ways that policy-makers saw as pursuing the collective interest of the Western countries. The fact that Green could reject the “honest broker” mission, however, was powerful evidence of how ingrained the myth of Canada as peacemaker had become. There was never much question as to whether Canadian personnel and equipment would go to West New Guinea, because it was accepted without debate that peacekeeping was part of what Canada did, even part of what defined Canada. Indonesia in 1963 stood at a parting of the ways. American strategy under the Kennedy administration had been designed to remove the West New Guinea irritant in the hope that Indonesia would then return to economic development. Sukarno signalled that would indeed be his chosen path on a number of occasions, including a May 1963 settlement that granted the large oil multinationals security of tenure on their existing concessions and the chance to explore for new petroleum and gas. Jakarta agreed to economic stabilization plans, to be worked out with the IMF and backed by substantial American aid. However, the government chose a different path following the death in May 1963 of Prime Minister Djuanda, chief of the technocrats as well as a Sukarno loyalist. That month, with West New Guinea formally in Indonesian hands at last, Sukarno lifted martial law. Political mobilization began almost immediately. Supporters and opponents of Western-style development clashed, disrupting the political synthesis that Sukarno had long been seeking. The president ultimately chose to return to “confrontation” against a new enemy rather than risk divisive internal debates by following the tougher technocratic road. The new enemy was Malaysia, the product of a union among Malaya, Singapore, and British-administered territories in Borneo. Indonesian ambitions for regional political leadership combined

Conclusion

with Sukarno’s desire to avoid a divisive focus on economic development in favour of a unifying campaign of the “new emerging forces” against colonialism. Until 1963, Sukarno’s Indonesia had been largely successful in its limited foreign-policy goals. It had played the superpowers against each other to leverage substantial aid and to gain American support in its quest for West New Guinea, and it had risen to a leadership position among the ranks of the non-aligned states. After 1963, Indonesian “foreign policies became far more adventurous, frenetic, risk-taking and ideology-driven, which was a large part of the reason they failed.”3 Malaysia turned to British, Gurkha, Australian, and New Zealand forces to help defend itself against Indonesian infiltrations. With Indonesia engaged in a low-intensity conflict against a Commonwealth country, the Canadian government made no further attempt to avoid taking sides. A slant to favour Malaysia, already strong under Diefenbaker, continued after Pearson became prime minister in April 1963. Ottawa avoided direct military involvement but was clearly a partisan on the Malaysian side. Under parliamentary pressure, External Affairs Secretary Paul Martin decided not to send Indonesia even its tiny annual allotment of wheat. Sukarno adopted increasingly antiWestern positions. Within the non-aligned movement, he abandoned the three-worlds model championed by Nehru, preaching instead an “era of confrontation” in which there were just two adversarial camps: the new emerging forces against the imperialists. He refused any further aid through the Colombo Plan, then moved against British and American business interests. Finally, he pulled Indonesia out of the UN and teamed up with China to press for an alternative UN based in Jakarta, to be called the Conference of the New Emerging Forces. “What a collapse of world order [Sukarno] represents: and yet I have some hope that still another world order is imperceptibly emerging,” retired Canadian diplomat Terry MacDermot wrote to Australian Prime Minister Robert Menzies.4 Pearson’s government sought a middle path between American and British policies. Once Sukarno began to speak out against escalating American involvement in the Vietnam War, and the British government offered to support US policy in Vietnam in exchange for support for its own involvement in Malaysia, the Johnson administration abandoned its attempt to win Indonesian friendship. The Western powers watched and cultivated the Indonesian army and technocracy, preparing for Sukarno’s passing. The American shift narrowed the gap between US and British policy, allowing Ottawa to back Malaysia more strongly. At the beginning of 1965 the first Canadian military aid to a Southeast Asian country was announced, in the form of support to the Malaysian air force. Canada and Indonesia found themselves on opposite sides in a low-intensity war. Indonesia under Sukarno was a large and important country. It should have mattered, and the rhetoric of Canadian policy-makers suggested that it would matter, at least in the future. Yet never did Indonesia take on the

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sentimental hopes of the sort some Canadian figures placed in India. Policy toward Indonesia was always a function of overall Canadian foreign policy, and so was mediated through the prism of alliance politics. The opening to India always lay more in the realm of sentiment and of hopes so high they could only be dashed. Almost inevitably, that “special relationship” disappointed policy-makers, who never really gave India a central place in Canadian foreign policy. The Canada-India bond died amidst disillusion in the jungles of Vietnam as Canadians realized that India’s interests were different and that Indian officials would follow those interests. Elsewhere, the developing world was a canvas largely shrouded in mystery, with colonies viewed through the eyes of the former colonial rulers more often than not. Ottawa tried to avoid situations that divided the European colonial powers – Canada’s allies – from the recently decolonized states. Within the Commonwealth there were hopes that a truly multilateral forum of understanding could be forged. The continuing importance of the Commonwealth in the minds of policy-makers deserves more study. For a relatively long period after the end of the Second World War, Canada’s inheritance as part of “greater Britain” formed the background to policy, even if Canadians were freer of the periodic desire – found in New Zealand and Australia – to be a “better Britain” than the original was managing to be.5 Still, the Commonwealth took a back seat to the more vital North Atlantic alliance. Born of a desire to maintain imperial ties beyond their expiry date, the Commonwealth was a thin reed upon which to rest Canadian interests. With regard to the former French colonies, too, the need for good relations with France overrode relations with newly independent countries. That would change only when the French government under Charles de Gaulle began to lend aid to separatist sentiment in Quebec. Only with a threat to Canadian national unity would the Canadian government pay much attention to the former French colonies, and only with a more assertive Quebec presence within Canada would Ottawa behave in ways less influenced by the British diplomatic inheritance.6 Beneath the rhetoric of “partnership” with developing countries and “bridges” to Asia and Africa, there was not much substance to Canadian relations with the global South. An examination of relations with Indonesia confirms that general conclusion. Beginning in the late 1960s, Canadian governments began to pay more direct attention to Indonesia, but it was an attention driven by Canadian economic interests. Alliances did not depart from the centre of foreign policy. Indeed, there was a retrenchment regarding the key alliance with the United States as efforts at trade diversification failed. Trade increasingly took centre stage; the drive for Canadian prosperity could be given more attention as Cold War tensions faded. Accordingly, after 1968, Canadian attention to Indonesia was driven by economic factors. This was possible thanks to a new regime in Jakarta that bathed the state in blood in order to force it onto

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a developmentalist path. In 1965-66, under the pretext of an abortive coup, which he blamed on the Indonesian Communist Party, General Suharto replaced Sukarno as the head of the Indonesian state. It took the killing of hundreds of thousands of people to lock Suharto’s New Order in place, and human rights were set aside entirely – but the development-driven state served Canadian interests. Western-trained technocrats returned to power, backed by military patronage. When the Muslim Nahdlatul Ulama party proved one of the few Sukarno-era forces able to retain its independence, the New Order invited graduates of the Institute of Islamic Studies to join the new governing group, harnessing their skills against the power of moderately political Islam. The New Order’s major project was to strengthen the state and to eliminate popular participation.7 Civil society’s role was reduced to the implementation of economic development programs. Indeed, development (pembangunan) became the regime’s main source of legitimacy. Humanrights violations were routine, but at least the regime delivered prosperity, its defenders argued. New Order Indonesia also took up a more reliable place in the international system, rejoining the UN and promising to abide by its international commitments. For instance, the terms of the West New Guinea settlement required some form of self-determination by 1969. Suharto consented to an “act of free choice” in the territory. However, it was clear that the exercise was entirely for the benefit of outsiders – that is, a way to provide evidence that Indonesia was a state living under the rule of law and keeping its treaty commitments. Canadian diplomats had no illusions that a 100 percent vote in favour of integration into Indonesia was anything other than a show for international consumption. No one in Ottawa demanded any real self-determination for the Papuans. In the pursuit of development, the New Order threw open the doors to foreign investment. Canada joined its allies in celebration at the new regime’s course, in large part because those years marked the fruition of many of the hopes of the years 1945 to 1963. The largest Canadian investor by far was Inco, which was awarded the contract to develop a nickel-mining complex in Sulawesi. Indonesia’s invasion of East Timor in 1975 did nothing to reverse Ottawa’s embrace of the New Order. On the false assumption that the decolonization of East Timor was impossible and that Indonesian rule was irreversible, policy-makers argued that the most humane course was to accept Indonesia’s annexation of the territory. Indonesia became a country of concentration for Canadian aid after 1970. Foreign aid signalled the Canadian government’s support for Suharto’s Indonesia, but it also helped foster the growth of Indonesian civil society. Non-governmental organizations proliferated and began to carry out their own public diplomacy, creating a broad network of linkages to other countries, including Canada. These groups ultimately created the conditions for the fall of Suharto and the restoration of democracy in 1998. Official Ottawa backed Suharto to the end, but individual

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“public diplomats” had forged strong links between Canadian and Indonesian civil society that ultimately proved more important. Those links included ties to activists working for the independence of East Timor. The transnational East Timor support network was able to raise the political costs of Canadian government support for Indonesian rule over East Timor and to show that the occupation was far from irreversible. Given that, the end of the Cold War, and the 1998 Asian financial crisis, Canadian policy-makers changed course and aided in the completion of East Timor’s decolonization in 1999. The theme of decline pervades the study of Canadian foreign policy. We mourn a lost golden age.8 Yet that golden age, as generally understood, was imagined after the fact more than it was lived at the time. Document-based studies like this one reveal that Canadian governments decided their policy very much on the basis of what they understood to be the national interest. Golden-age hagiographies should be giving way to studies that show realist thinking and alliances at the root of policy-making.9 Yet the golden age legend persists: Canadians often imagine their country as inherently a mediator, almost preordained to play a middle-power role. Postwar policymakers operated under no such assumption. For those who made it, as one historian writes, Canadian foreign policy “was not the pursuit of the ideal. The irony is that their realist praxis has left them with an idealist reputation.”10 Each policy decision was intended to serve what policy-makers perceived as Canadian interests, which required a strong international trading system, Cold War containment, the preservation of ties between developed and developing countries, and, above all, multilateral associations to underpin Canada’s international presence and stature. The rhetoric used to justify policies driven by anti-communist internationalism and alliance politics was self-fulfilling. Diplomats were never pursuing “activist utopianism.”11 They acted pragmatically more than idealistically. Policy-makers’ mental maps may have predisposed them to the idea of Canada being in the middle, to the instinctive search for a position somewhere between Britain and the United States in policy as well as geography. That search for the middle ground often saw Canadian diplomats try to straddle the positions of countries that loomed large on Canadian mental maps. To prevent divisions among these governments, Canadian diplomats sought helpful solutions to international puzzles. In the process of searching and often finding pieces of those solutions, they built an image of Canada as mediator. There was no grand conspiracy by policy-makers to fool the public, but each small step taken in the national interest, yet justified in idealistic terms, helped create and build a myth. Despite their role in weaving the tapestry of Canada’s diplomatic selfimage, most “golden age” diplomats would not have claimed it was any other way. Paul Martin Sr. may not have been Canada’s most golden foreign minister, but he took more time to explain policy than others. To Martin,

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middle-power diplomacy was “governed by a subtle policy of alteration, and rarely by outright change.”12 Lester Pearson avoided wordy explications of policy, responding to one request for a definition of Canadian foreign policy by saying: “Ask me at the end of the year and when I look back at what Canada has done, I’ll tell you what our foreign policy is.”13 John Holmes, as foreign-service officer and later as academic, writer, and mentor, was perhaps the most influential of the ex-diplomats who dominated the writing of Canadian foreign relations history. To him, the Canadian diplomatic contribution lay in “the responses, in constructive amendments and imaginative formulas, in the exploiting of occasions, and in the insistence, usually in company, on certain basic principles.” The Canadian ideal was not the relentless and selfless search for peace. Instead, as Holmes said, “you hang on to your principles but you find a way around it.” It was the statements made for public consumption that “were cast too often in the utopian mould and misled.”14 Once formed, the mythical Canadian diplomatic self-image took on power of its own, shaping the space within which policy was made. The official mind prides itself on dispassionate analysis, but seldom admits that it is also affected by mythmaking, that diplomatic self-perceptions shape diplomatic decisions. Successive Canadian foreign-policy doctrines have more often than not been creatures of the myth. Either they have reacted against it and claimed to be different, as the Trudeau government’s foreign-policy White Paper did, or they take it as the touchstone and attempt to revive and build upon it. Barbara McDougall, foreign minister under Brian Mulroney, spoke of a “new internationalism” that built on the perceived legacy of peacekeeping, positing a role for Canada in “peacemaking.” Lloyd Axworthy, who filled the same role under Jean Chrétien, spoke of deploying non-military “soft power” for humanitarian ends in his bid for the Pearsonian mantle. A more recent vogue speaks of Canada’s comparative advantage in the “peacebuilding” niche. All of these doctrines are part and parcel of a Canadian diplomatic self-image that emerged in the doing, quite accidentally, through Holmes’s mundane search for “constructive amendments and imaginative formulas” designed to help build a better multilateral world order. Alliances were the most important factor in the making of postwar Canadian foreign policy. Idealism was not. Nothing was more important than harmony within the North Atlantic treaty, especially between Britain and the United States. Asian policy flowed from this North Atlantic vision; thus policy-makers interpreted Indonesia partly through the lens of its former colonial power, the Netherlands, and partly through a careful consideration of American and Commonwealth attitudes. No one in Ottawa looked at Jakarta directly: it was always refracted through Washington, through The Hague, through London or New Delhi or another Commonwealth capital. Later, as policy-makers singled out Indonesia as a desirable economic partner,

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they saw it more directly, but now through the lens of trade, refracted though the other “miracle” economies of the Pacific Rim. Policy-makers in official Ottawa were part of a transnational elite that included their counterparts in Britain, Australia, and New Zealand as well as the United States and Western European capitals. They were loyal if independent-minded members of an American–Commonwealth–North Atlantic alliance system. At the same time, and perhaps in reaction, they began to define markers of difference, qualities that made Canada different – from the United States in particular. A selfperceived mediating vocation and special sympathy for the developing world were two such markers, which in turn reinforced the Canadian diplomatic myth. Significantly, the perceived softer Canadian approach to nation building helped Canadians differentiate their foreign policy from that of the United States: perceptions of a distinct Canadian approach to nation building helped define a distinct Canadian international identity. At a time when the Canadian economy was becoming more continentalist, more integrated into the US economy, perceived differences in foreign policy helped bolster a feeling of Canadianness. Foreign policy is never formed autonomously. It is driven by internal politics, factors in the international system, and the interplay among different actors. It also derives from identity. As nations interact, part of their purpose is to define themselves to one another and to themselves. If nations are “imagined communities,” international relations are one way of imagining the nature of the national community.15 Many historians have written about Canada lacking a founding myth like the American Revolution. Yet the self-portrait drawn by Canadians about their place in the world has been all about identity. Lester Pearson and the other heroes of Canadian diplomatic pageantry were realistic policy practitioners. “Pearsonian internationalism,” however, has become a substantial piece of Canadian identity: enough to constitute a founding myth of Canadian diplomacy, if not Canada as a whole. A great deal has been written about “invented traditions” and how they often feed malevolent nationalisms.16 In hearkening back to a golden age, the Canadian diplomatic self-image is an invented tradition. Yet by its very repetition, and through non-governmental organizations that have tried to live by the myth, it has given Canadians something to strive toward. It is not useful in analyzing the history of Canadian foreign policy, but perhaps it sets useful standards. We fall short, but those who demand that our governments live up to the ideals they preach may be slowly transforming the myth into something more concrete.

Notes

Introduction 1 Senator Kenneth Wherry, cited in Christopher T. Jespersen, “Western Influences and Images of China: The Persistent Efforts to Engage and Change China,” Journal of Third World Studies 14, no. 2 (1997): 14. 2 Speech by Walter S. Robertson, Assistant Secretary of State for Far East, in The Colombo Plan for Cooperative Economic Development in South and South-East Asia Meetings in Wellington of the Consultative Committee 1956: Minutes, Statements, and Selected Documents of the Officials’ Meeting and of the Consultative Committee, with Minor Editorial Corrections (Wellington: Government Printer, 1957), 139-44. 3 John D. Harbron, “Canada’s New Middle East Role,” Middle East Report, November 15, 1955. 4 Dale C. Thomson, Louis St. Laurent: Canadian (Toronto: Macmillan, 1967), 269. 5 St. Laurent speech to Indian Parliament, February 23, 1954, cited in Charles J. Woodsworth, Canadian Policies in Asia (Toronto: Canadian Institute of International Affairs, 1954). 6 William Roger Louis notes it is not surprising that American and Commonwealth approaches to decolonization drew on the respective countries’ past experiences. Imperialism at Bay 1941-1945: The United States and the Decolonization of the British Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1977). A more critical presentation is given in Laura MacDonald, “Unequal Partnerships: The Politics of Canada’s Relations with the Third World,” Studies in Political Economy 47 (Summer 1995): 111-41. The central place of alliances is a running theme in Robert Bothwell, Alliance and Illusion: Canada and the World, 1945-1984 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007). 7 Steven Hugh Lee, “The Canadian-Asian Experience: An Introductory Synthesis,” Journal of American-East Asian Relations 4, no. 3 (1995): 193-222. A useful updated survey of the literature on Canada-Asia relations appears in John Meehan, The Dominion and the Rising Sun: Canada Encounters Japan, 1929-41 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004). 8 Lester Pearson, “The Development of Canadian Foreign Policy,” Foreign Affairs 30, no. 1 (1951): 17-30. 9 Mel Himes, Canadian Foreign Policy Handbook (Montreal: Jewel, 1996), 37. 10 Bas Arts, Math Noorman, and Bob Reinalda, eds., Non-State Actors in International Relations (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001); Daphné Josselin and William Wallace, eds., Non-State Actors in World Politics (London: Palgrave, 2001). 11 John Darwin, “Africa and World Politics Since 1945: Theories of Decolonization,” in Explaining International Relations Since 1945, ed. Ngaire Woods (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). 12 Fuller examinations of the post-1968 period include Malia Southard, Looking the Other Way: The Indonesian Bond, Partnership or Plunder (Victoria: South Pacific Peoples Foundation, 1997); and Sharon Scharfe, Complicity: Human rights and Canadian Foreign Policy – the Case of East Timor (Montreal: Black Rose, 1996).

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13 “Canadian Foreign Policy, 1947-1951,” draft speech by Escott Reid, February 15, 1957, LAC, Lester Pearson papers, MG 26 N1, vol. 12, file Reid, Escott – Canada – External Affairs 1951-57. 14 Speeches by Ali Alatas, Foreign Minister of Indonesia, and David Kilgour, Canadian Secretary of State for the Asia Pacific, at seminar on “Enhancing Indonesia-Canada Partnership,” Ottawa, March 13, 2003. 15 Alan K. Henrikson, “Mental Maps,” in Explaining the History of American Foreign Relations, ed. Michael J. Hogan and Thomas G. Paterson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Peter Gould, Mental Maps (London: Penguin, 1974); Gearóid Ó Tuathail, Critical Geopolitics: The Politics of Writing Global Space (London: Routledge, 1996); Allan Smith, Canada: An American Nation? Essays on Continentalism, Identity, and the Canadian Frame of Mind (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1994), 51. 16 Cited in C.P. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 2: 1921-1948 – the Mackenzie King Era (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1981). 17 Louis St. Laurent, radio broadcast, November 11, 1948, External Affairs vol. 1B (December 1948), 13-16. 18 John Bartlett Brebner, North Atlantic Triangle: The Interplay of Canada, the United States, and Great Britain (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1945); David G. Haglund and Stéphane Roussel, “Escott Reid, the North Atlantic Treaty, and Canadian Strategic Culture,” in Greg Donaghy and Stéphane Roussel, Escott Reid: Diplomat and Scholar (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004); Roy Rempel, Counterweights: The Failure of Canada’s German and European Policy 1955-1995 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1996). 19 “Canada and the Atlantic Community,” Paul Martin speech to Cleveland Council on World Affairs, March 4, 1965, External Affairs 17, no. 4 (1965): 123. 20 T.C. Davis to Lester Pearson, February 26, 1948, Documents on Canadian External Relations (DCER) 14: 1863-64. 21 Douglas LePan, “A Country Without a Mythology,” in Weathering It: Complete Poems 19481987 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1987). 22 Robert Bothwell, “The Canadian Isolationist Tradition,” International Journal 54, no. 9 (1998-99): 86. 23 Ronald Wright, Stolen Continents: The “New World” Through Indian Eyes (Toronto: Penguin, 1992), 5. See also Cyril Buffet and Beatrice Heuser, eds., Haunted by History: Myths in International Relations (Providence: Berghahn, 1998). 24 The point perhaps comes out best in Geoffrey Pearson, Seize the Day: Lester B. Pearson and Crisis Diplomacy (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1993). 25 The “pragmatic idealist” thesis comes from Constantine Melakopides, Pragmatic Idealism: Canadian Foreign Policy 1945-1995 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1998). 26 Speeches by Pearson and Chester Ronning, in Documents Relating to the Discussion of Korea and Indochina at the Geneva Conference, 27 April – 15 June 1954 (London: HMSO, 1954). 27 “Le voyage de M. St.-Laurent en Extrême-Orient,” Le Canada, September 9, 1953. 28 John Holmes to Under-Secretary of State for External Affairs (USSEA) Jules Léger, November 8, 1957, cited in H. Basil Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World: A Populist in Foreign Affairs (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 28. 29 Canada, Report to CIDA: Public Attitudes Toward International Development Assistance (Ottawa: CIDA, 1988), 8; Allan Thompson, “Give Peace Top Priority Canadians Tell Survey,” Toronto Star, July 1, 1995. 30 Lester B. Pearson et al., Partners in Development: Report of the Commission on International Development (New York: Praeger, 1969). 31 Jakarta letter 514, November 15, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6982, file 5495-C-2-40 [2.2]. 32 Sukarno, The People’s Command for the Liberation of West Irian (Jakarta: Department of Information, 1961) [speech at Yogyakarta, December 19, 1961]. 33 Lester B. Pearson, foreword to Alastair Taylor, Indonesian Independence and the United Nations (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1960).

Notes to pages 12-16

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Chapter 1: Canada, the United Nations, and the Decolonization of Indonesia, 1945-49 “Bintang Jasa Utama untuk WN Kanada” [Meritorious Service Star for Canadian Citizen], Indonesian Embassy news release, Ottawa, July 1, 2004; “Canadian Receives Highest Civilian Honours from the Government of Indonesia,” Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade (Canada) news release, July 1, 2004; speech by Hasan Wirayuda, July 1, 2004, Department of Foreign Affairs (Indonesia) news release; Paul Dillon, “Indonesian Salutes Canadian Nation-Builder,” Globe and Mail, July 1, 2004; Elizabeth McIninch, Friendship Beyond Borders: Celebrating Fifty Years of Indonesian-Canadian Bilateral Ties (Ottawa: Indonesian Embassy, 2003). George Kahin, “Sukarno’s Proclamation of Indonesian Independence,” Indonesia 69 (April 2000): 3. H.J. van Mook to Lord Mountbatten, September 3, 1945, Officiële Bescheiden betreffende de Nederlands-Indonesische Betrekkingen 1945-1950 (NIB), 1: 82-86. William Roger Louis, Imperialism at Bay 1941-1945: The United States and the Decolonization of the British Empire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1977); John Springhall, Decolonization Since 1945: The Collapse of European Overseas Empires (London: Palgrave, 2001); John Darwin, Britain and Decolonisation: The Retreat from Empire in the Post-War World (London: Macmillan, 1988); William Roger Louis and Ronald Robinson, “The Imperialism of Decolonization,” in The Decolonization Reader, ed. James D. LeSueur (New York: Routledge, 2003); Nicholas Tarling, Britain, Southeast Asia, and the Onset of the Cold War, 1945-1950 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); James Belich, Paradise Reforged: A History of New Zealanders from the 1880s to the Year 2000 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2001); David Goldsworthy, Losing the Blanket: Australia and the End of Britain’s Empire (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2002); Hans Antlöv and Stein Tønneson, Imperial Policy and Southeast Asian Nationalism (London: Curzon, 1995). Mackenzie King comments at Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, May 15, 1944, Documents on Canadian External Relations (DCER) 11: 1244; Clyde Sanger, Malcolm MacDonald: Bringing Empire to an End (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1995), 155-56. Circular from Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs (SSDA) to Prime Ministers, December 11, 1942, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). Louis Rasminsky (Foreign Exchange Control Board) to Hume Wrong, Department of External Affairs (DEA), December 16, 1942; Rasminsky formal memorandum to Wrong, December 15, 1942, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). Canadian Secretary of State for External Affairs (SSEA) to SSDA, December 23, 1942; SSDA to SSEA, January 8, 1943, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). Colonial Secretary’s views, in “Territorial Trusteeship,” note, March 22, 1945, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). Hume Wrong to PM, January 30, 1945; SSEA to SSDA, February 3, 1945, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). For instance, USSEA in San Francisco to SSEA, May 26, 1945, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s). Canada’s role at the founding of the UN is discussed in Adam Chapnick, The Middle Power Project (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005). H.S. Ferns, “Mackenzie King and Self-Government for India, 1942,” British Journal of Canadian Studies 2, no. 1 (1987): 110-21; Hector Mackenzie, “An Old Dominion and the New Commonwealth: Canadian Policy on the Question of India’s Membership, 1947-49,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 27, no. 3 (1999): 82-122; “Guidance to Canadian Delegation,” December 27, 1946, DCER 12: 665; SSEA to SSDA, May 31, 1947, DCER 13: 1372. Senator W. Robertson, speech to UN fourth committee, New York telegram 179, November 14, 1946, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [2]. Materials on the consultations among colonial powers are in LAC, RG 25, vol. 3280, file 8648-40C. USSEA memorandum for SSEA, October 4, 1949; memorandum for file on meeting with French ambassador by acting head American and Far Eastern Division Arthur Menzies, October 18, 1949, DCER 15: 1815-17, 1817-18.

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15 Steven Hugh Lee, Outposts of Empire: Korea, Vietnam, and the Origins of the Cold War in Asia, 1949-1954 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1995), 55-57; James Eayrs, In Defence of Canada, Vol. 5, Indochina: The Roots of Complicity (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1983), 9-12; Douglas Ross, In the Interests of Peace: Canada and Vietnam 1954-1973 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984), 38-39. 16 Enlistment of Netherlands Citizens in Canada, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2803, file 829-40; “Visit to Canada of Princess Juliana of the Netherlands,” LAC, RG 25, vol. 2167, file 53-AK-40C; “Netherlands-Canada Society,” LAC, RG 25, vol. 3766, file 7652-40; Canada 1945-1995 Netherlands/Pays-Bas/Nederland (Ottawa: Veterans’ Affairs Canada, 1995); Report of Embassy to the Netherlands, in Department of External Affairs Annual Report 1947, 47; Mel Himes, Canadian Foreign Policy Handbook (Montreal: Jewel, 1996), 157; minutes of Dutch Cabinet meeting, December 17, 1945, NIB 2: 370; Report of the Interim Committee of the Council of Warfare, December 20, 1945, NIB 2: 383. 17 Mackenzie King, parliamentary statement, July 9, 1943, Canada House of Commons Debates (CHCD) 1943, 5: 4558; Canadian Legation to Allied Governments in the UK, Netherlands letter 19, December 6, 1943, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3703, file 5495-40C [1]. 18 “Loans for European Reconstruction,” statement by Finance Minister J.L. Ilsley to House of Commons, December 3, 1945, in Canadian Foreign Policy 1945-54: Selected Speeches and Documents, ed. R.A. Mackay (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1971), 63-65; W.C. Clark, Deputy Minister of Finance, to D.C. de Iongh, Netherlands Economic Mission to USA, May 19, 1945; order-in-council approving loan, October 4, 1945, LAC, RG 19, vol. 4318, file 8411/I42-1 [1]; Soemitro, Economic Aspects of the Indonesian Problem (Indonesian pamphlet published in New York, 1949); F. Harold Banks, “Oriental Markets Beckon Canada,” Monetary Times, February 1945, 32-34. 19 M.W. Mackenzie, Deputy Minister of Trade and Commerce, to Clark, May 3, 1945, LAC, RG 19, vol. 4318, file 8411/I42-1 [1]; Canada and the United Nations 1948: 59. 20 Sanger, Malcolm MacDonald, 269; Richard Stubbs, Hearts and Minds in Guerrilla Warfare: The Malayan Emergency 1948-1960 (Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1989), 18; Darwin, Britain and Decolonisation, 108. 21 Tarling, Britain, Southeast Asia, and the Onset of the Cold War, 213-14; Frances Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: US Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920-1949 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2002), 152. 22 For instance, Nehru’s speech “The Right to Be Impatient,” December 21, 1945, in Selected Works of Jawarharlal Nehru (SWJN), Series 1, vol. 14: 257. 23 H.J. van Mook’s declaration, as transmitted by Dutch ambassador M.E. Teixera de Mattos to British Foreign Office, November 7, 1945, British Documents on Foreign Affairs (BDFA) III, E, 8: 452-54; H.J. van Mook, The Stakes of Democracy in South-East Asia (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1950); Yong Mun Cheong, H.J. van Mook and Indonesian Independence: A Study of His Role in Dutch-Indonesian Relations, 1945-48 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1982); From Empire to Union: An Introduction to the History of Netherlands-Indonesian Relations (The Hague: Netherlands Ministry for Overseas Territories, [1947]). 24 Sukarno speech, September 2, 1945, cited in Benedict Anderson, Java in a Time of Revolution (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1972), 113. 25 Sukarno to Truman, November 9, 1945; Sukarno to UN Security Council in London, November 9, 1945; Voice of Free Indonesia (VOFI) 2 (November 1945): 32. 26 Sutan Sjahrir, Our Struggle (Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1968), 24, 31. [Original published 1945 as Perdjuangan Kita.] 27 India-Indonesia trade agreement, Fakta dan Dokumen2 [Facts and Documents], III, 2: 84; Sudjarwo Tjondronegoro, ed., Lukisan Revolusi, 1945-1950: Dari Negara Kesatuan ke Negara Kesatuan [Images of the Revolution 1945-50: From Unitary State to Unitary State] (Jakarta: Ministry of Information, 1954); Visualisasi Diplomasi Indonesia/Visual Presentation of Indonesian Diplomacy 1945-1995 (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, 1995), 59-60; P.R.S. Mani, The Story of the Indonesian Revolution 1945-1950 (Madras: University of Madras, 1986), 64-76; Nehru to B.G. Kher, May 23, 1946, SWJN 1, 15: 536; “South-East Asia: Quarterly Report of the Special Commissioner,” BDFA 4, E, 4: 13-21; Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, “Recollections of My Career,” Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies (BIES) 22, no. 3 (1986): 34.


28 Resolution of the Arab League, November 18, 1946, in Osman Raliby, Documenta Historica: Sedjarah Dokumenter dari Pertumbuhan dan Perdjuangan Negara Republik Indonesia [Historical Documents: A Documentary History of the Emergence and Struggle of the Republic of Indonesia] (Djakarta: Bulan-Bintang, 1953), 451; Treaty of Friendship, Fakta dan Dokumen2, 3, 5: 107; letter read by Egyptian envoy Abdul Mounem to Sukarno at Yogyakarta, March 15, 1947, VOFI 62 (April 12, 1947): 345; “Egypt and Events in Indonesia: Audience with King Farouk,” Campbell to Bevin, July 31, 1947, BDFA 4, E, 4: 240-42. 29 Soedarpo Sastrosatomo, “Recollections of My Career,” BIES 30, no. 1 (1994): 43; John Coast, Recruit to Revolution (London: Christophers, 1952); Tom Atkinson, “Ralat Suatu Kesalahan” [An Error Corrected], unpublished typescript, National Library of Australia (NLA), Molly Bondan papers, MS4739, box 1, file 4; Suryono Darusman, Singapore and the Indonesian Revolution 1945-50 (Singapore: Institute for Southeast Asian Studies, 1992); Dua Puluh Lima Tahun Departemen Luar Negeri 1945-1970 [Twenty Five Years of the Department of Foreign Affairs] (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, 1971), 8-10. 30 L.N. Palar, The Strangers Within My Gates, unpublished memoir, Library of Congress (LOC), Jeanne Mintz papers, box 22, name file: Palar. 31 Johannes Leimena, The Dutch-Indonesian Conflict [Jakarta: 1949]; interview with General Sudirman, June 3, 1948, in Miscellaneous Documents Covering the Period January 1948–June 1948 in Connection with the Truce Agreement and the Eighteen Renville Principles (Batavia: Topographical Service Reproduction Branch, [1948]). 32 “The Food Blockade of the Netherlands-Controlled Territories in Java and Sumatra,” documentary material on the Indonesian question submitted by the representative of the Netherlands to the UN, October 1, 1947, UN document S/553; Memorandum of Conversation, June 6, 1947, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS) 1947, 6: 942-45; British Embassy in The Hague to Bevin, July 20, 1947, BDFA IV, E, 4: 238-39; information from military informant “Nathan” (Major General Doorman) to Colonel de Rome, Hague letter 220, July 3, 1947, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4714, file 50054-40 [2]. 33 Statement by Sjahrir, Security Council Official Records (SCOR) 184th meeting, August 14, 1947, 2002-3. 34 “National Freedom and International Co-operation,” Pearson speech at Town Hall, New York, April 15, 1953, External Affairs 5, no. 5 (May 1953): 173. 35 Declaration text in D.H. Rodrigues, Two Years of Statehood: East Indonesia (New York: Netherlands Information Bureau, [1948?]). 36 Memorandum by Robertson, June 27, 1946, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4075, file 11044-B-40 [1]; Memorandum for the Minister (R.G. Casey), February 14, 1950, from European and Middle East Division, National Archives of Australia (NAA), A6537, SEATS 1. 37 L.L. Sharkey, President of Australian Communist Party, to Tim Buck, Labour Progressive Party [Communist Party of Canada], November 21, 1945, York University Archives, Norman Penner papers, Communist Party – relations with CP of Australia and CPGB; Harold Pritchetts, BC Federation of Labour, to Sjahrir, in United Action for a Free Indonesia, September 20, 1947; William Kaplan, Everything That Floats: Pat Sullivan, Hal Banks, and the Seamen’s Unions of Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987), 42; Rupert Lockwood, Black Armada: Australia and the Struggle for Indonesian Independence, 1942-49 (Sydney: Hale and Iremonger, 1982); Clark to Robertson, January 22, 1946, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3758, file 7498A-40. Letters from trade unions and other groups are included in RG 25, vol. 3758, file 7498-A-40, RG 25, vol. 3703, file 5495-40 [3], and St. Laurent papers, MG 26 L, vol. 19, file 100-15, India. 38 K.C.O. Shann, “The Australian Mission to the United Nations 1949-52; plus a few extraneous observations,” NLA, John Hood papers, MS8503. 39 Statement by SSEA St. Laurent, September 12, 1947, Canada and the United Nations 1947, 175, 177. 40 “Statement for the Guidance of the Canadian Permanent Delegate to the United Nations and Representative on the Security Council, January 1948,” February 13, 1948, DCER 1948: 120-25. 41 Hague letter 371, December 4, 1947, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [2]; E.N. van Kleffens, Dutch Representative to Security Council, to Foreign Minister van Boetzelaer van

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Oosterhout, February 27, 1948, NIB, 13: 96-97; Foreign Minister D.U. Stikker’s Report to Cabinet on Overseas Relations, 14 January 1949, NIB 17: 37. St. Laurent speech, April 29, 1948, CHCD 1948, 3: 3438-50. George Ignatieff, “General A.G.L. McNaughton: A Soldier in Diplomacy,” International Journal 22 no. 3 (1966-67): 402-14. See also George Ignatieff, The Making of a Peacemonger (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985). McNaughton himself identified the same three issues. John Swettenham, McNaughton, Vol. 3 (Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1969), 132. John W. Holmes, The Shaping of Peace: Canada and the Search for World Order 1943-1957, Vol. 2 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), 69. DEA memorandum “The Indonesian Question,” December 29, 1947; Menzies to USSEA, December 31, 1947, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4714, file 50054-40 [2]. Information from military informant “Nelly,” Hague telegram 3, January 8, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4714, file 50054-40 [3]; Ali Sastroamijoyo, Milestones on My Journey (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1979), 146-47; George Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1962); Anthony Reid, The Indonesian National Revolution, 1945-50 (Hawthorn: Longman, 1974). Ignatieff, “McNaughton,” 405; Douglas LePan, Bright Glass of Memory (Toronto: McGrawHill Ryerson, 1979), 9-52; handwritten notes by McNaughton, LAC, A.G.L. McNaughton papers, MG 30 E133, vol. 299, file “Personal – miscellaneous, Canadian delegate to UN, congratulatory messages.” J.W. Pickersgill and D.F. Forster, eds., The Mackenzie King Record, Vol. 4 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1970), 153-61. Cabinet conclusions, February 19, 1948, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2641; “View of Canada on Matters Before the United Nations,” speech by A.G.L. McNaughton, New School of Social Research, New York, August 2, 1948, Trinity College Archives, Toronto, George Ignatieff fonds, F2020, series 2, 985-0039/005 (14) – McNaughton, file 15; telegram from Ali Sastroamijoyo in New York to Republic Cabinet, March 1, 1948, Miscellaneous Documents, 1-2; Memorandum for the Minister, February, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [4]; Canadian Draft Resolution, S/678, February 17, 1948; Australian Amendment, S/681, February 21, 1948. Canadian Permanent Delegate to the United Nations (CPDUN) letter 10, March 13, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [4]. Pearson to H.F. Feaver, February 23, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [4]. SSEA to CPDUN, March 9, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [4]; CPDUN telegram 293, March 3, 1948, LAC, Mackenzie King papers, MG 26 J1, vol. 440. New Zealand Prime Minister Peter Fraser, Circular to Prime Ministers, February 14, 1945, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5772, file 180(s); London letter A.52, January 19, 1946, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [1]. New York telegram 1314, October 13, 1947, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3687, file 5475-N-1-40; Canadian Delegation Final Report on 4th Committee, December 19, 1946, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [3]. J.W. Burton to Evatt and Hood, October 14, 1945, Documents on Australian Foreign Policy (DAFP) 8: 497-500; W.J. Hudson, Australia and the Colonial Question at the United Nations (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1970), 26; Peter Edwards with Gregory Pemberton, Crises and Commitments: The Politics and Diplomacy of Australia’s Involvement in Southeast Asian Conflicts 1948-1965 (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1992), 1-5; Louis, Imperialism at Bay, 289-90; Margaret George, Australia and the Indonesian Revolution (Carleton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 1980). Chifley to Attlee, July 25, 1947, DAFP 11: 153-54; press statement by Chifley, July 30, 1947, DAFP 11: 284-85. Australian DEA memorandum [April 15, 1947], DAFP 13: 135-38. Nehru speech to Indian Parliament, March 23, 1948, in S.L. Poplai, ed., India 1947-50, Volume 2: External Affairs (London: Oxford University Press, 1959), 21-29; “A Monroe Doctrine for Asia,” speech in New Delhi, August 9, 1947, SWJN 2, no. 3: 133-35. Nehru to V.K. Krishna Menon, Indian High Commissioner in London, July 25, 1947, SWJN 2, no. 3: 364-65.


60 E. Chamberlain, Decolonization, 2nd ed. (Malden MA: Blackwell, 2004), 117. 61 Dutch Ambassador van Kleffens, telegram to The Hague, April 12, 1948, cited in Gouda, American Visions, 241. 62 “The Prophecy,” Time, October 29, 1945; “Sputtering,” Time, December 17, 1945; “Ir.,” Time, December 23, 1946. 63 Robert J. McMahon, Colonialism and Cold War: The United States and the Struggle for Indonesian Independence 1945-49 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1981), 177; Ruth T. McVey, The Soviet View of the Indonesian Revolution (Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1957), 31; Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution, 209; Kahin to Passport Division, Department of State, August 17, 1950, National Archives [of the United States] (NA), RG 59, lot file 62 D 68/62 D 409, Indonesia subject file 1947-58, file Kahin, George McT. 64 Message from Republican Cabinet to Soeripno in Prague, June 8, 1948, from captured documents, published in Activities of the Republican Indonesians in the Netherlands Indies and Abroad Contrary to the Truce Agreement and the Eighteen Renville Principles (Batavia: n.p., 1948). 65 Charles Wolf, The Indonesian Story (New York: John Day, 1948), 30, 93; Wolf’s introduction to Sutan Sjahrir, Out of Exile (New York: John Day, 1949). 66 Sukarno speech on capture of Madiun, October 1, 1948, Yogyakarta, VOFI, October 1, 1948, 2-4. 67 Revised aide-mémoire from Department of State to Netherlands Embassy, December 7, 1948, FRUS 1948, 6: 531-35; Netherlands Embassy to the Department of State, December 10, 1948, FRUS 1948, 6: 544-48; D.U. Stikker, Men of Responsibility (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), 139. 68 Acting Secretary of State to US Consulate in Batavia, November 18, 1948, FRUS 1948, 6: 492-93; Soemitro memorandum to State Department officials, November 23, 1948, in Sumitro Djojohadikusumo: Jejak Perlawanan Begawan Pejuang (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 2000): 451-62. 69 United Action for a Free Indonesia, September 20, 1947, LOC, Mintz papers, Box 45, UN delegation, chronological, 1947 [2]. 70 Richard N. Gardner, Sterling-Dollar Diplomacy: Anglo-American Collaboration in the Reconstruction of Multilateral Trade (Oxford: Clarendon, 1956); William Appleman Williams, The Tragedy of American Diplomacy (New York: World, 1959). 71 Isbrantsen Co. memorandum, “Facts and Background Information on the Hijacking of the American Liberty Ship SS ‘Martin Behrmann’ on the High Seas March 1, 1947, by the Dutch navy – An Act of Piracy,” LOC, Mintz papers, box 45, UN delegation, chronological, 1947 [1]; Sjahrir, cited in Paul F. Gardner, Shared Hopes, Separate Fears: Fifty Years of US-Indonesian Relations (Boulder: Westview, 1997), 30; What’s It About in Indonesia? (Batavia: Netherlands Indies Government Information Service, 1947); A.K. Gani speech, “The Indonesian Republic Has a Right to Export,” Fakta dan Dokumen2 3, 2: 88. 72 It’s 1776 in Indonesia [New York, 1948]. 73 Acting Secretary of State to Embassy in the USSR, December 30, 1948, FRUS 1948, 6: 613-16. 74 Kennan to Marshall, December 17, 1948, cited in Gouda, American Visions, 25, 294-96. 75 Stikker’s estimate, in Cochran’s European tour report, Ambassador in Belgium to Secretary of State, February 9, 1949, FRUS 1949, 7: 214. 76 Washington telegram 27, January 6, 1949. LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [7]. 77 Business Week, January 8, 1949, in American Voices That Count Say That Holland Was Right (New York: Netherlands Government Information Service, 1949), 23-24; Paul Hoffman, ECA Administrator, to Dutch Ambassador van Kleffens, December 22, 1948, NIB 16: 299300; van Kleffens to Hoffman, December 24, 1948, NIB 13: 329-30. 78 Australian Embassy in Washington to DEA, February 9, 1949, DAFP 15: 205; Memorandum of Conversation, Lovett with van Kleffens, January 11, 1949, FRUS 1949, 7: 139-41. 79 Canadian delegation to UNGA, Paris, telegram 434, November 20, 1948, LAC, Lester Pearson papers, MG 26 N1, vol. 13, file St. Laurent, L.S., 1948-57. 80 St. Laurent speech to Parliament, April 28, 1948, CHCD 1948, 3: 3438-50; St. Laurent radio broadcast, November 11, 1948, External Affairs vol. 1B (December 1948), 13-16; Pickersgill and Forster, Mackenzie King Record, vol. 4: 166-71, 181-82.

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81 SSEA to Washington telegram EX-300, February 1949, DCER 1949: 514-17; Memorandum by Ambassador in the United States on conversation between St. Laurent and Truman, February 12, 1949, DCER 1949: 526-27; SSEA to Washington EX-419, February 17, 1949, DCER 1949: 528-31; John C. Milloy, The North Atlantic Treaty Organization, 1948-1957: Community or Alliance? (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2006); Haglund and Roussel, “Escott Reid,” in Greg Donaghy and Stéphane Roussel, Escott Reid: Diplomat and Scholar (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004); Robert Bothwell, Alliance and Illusion: Canada and the World, 1945-1984 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007), 39, 71. 82 Van Roijen to Stikker, February 14, 1949, NIB 17: 561-62; Stikker to van Roijen, February 16, 1949, NIB 17: 562n; SSEA to Ambassadors in France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, February 17, 1949, DCER 1949: 527-28; Washington telegram WA-502, 25 February 1949, DCER 1949: 546-49; Escott Reid, Time of Fear and Hope: The Making of the North Atlantic Treaty 1947-1949 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1977), 174, 177. 83 Forde to Australian DEA, December 28, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [6]; Forde to Burton, February 11, 1949, DAFP 15: 214. 84 Forde to Australian DEA, December 31, 1948, NAA, A3100, G48/124. 85 Cabinet conclusions, December 23, 1948, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2642; SCOR, December 24, 1949; Sumitro to Lovett, December 27, 1948, FRUS 1948, 6: 609-11. 86 Forde aide-mémoire to SSEA, December 26, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [6]; Forde to Australian DEA, December 28, 1948, DAFP 13: 536, 541-44. 87 SSEA telegram 170 to Canberra, December 29, 1948, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [6]; memorandum by Forde, December 23, 1948, DAFP 13: 488; Forde to Australian DEA, December 24, 1948, DAFP 13: 506. 88 Nehru to Krishna Menon, December 30, 1948, SWJN 2, no. 9: 149; Nehru to Krishna Menon, December 19, 1948, SWJN 2, no. 8: 271-72; Nehru speech to Indian Journalists Association, Calcutta, January 13, 1949, SWJN 2, no. 9: 159-64. 89 U Nu to Nehru, December 22, 1948, Fakta dan Dokumen2, II, 8: 116; Sudarsono to Usman Sastroamijoyo, Indonesian representative in Australia, December 30, 1948, DAFP 13: 54748; Nehru to Indian representatives in Asian countries, December 31, 1948, SWJN 2, no. 9: 152-53. 90 Pakistani Foreign Minister Zafrulla Khan to President of Security Council, January 3, 1949, S/1179; Lukisan Revolusi, n.p. 91 Beasley to Chifley, January 7, 1949, DAFP 15: 37-39; Memorandum to the Prime Minister, January 11, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [7]. 92 Office of Near East and African Affairs Memorandum for Lovett, January 18, 1949, NA, RG 59, lot file 54 D 190, 1949 New Delhi Conference – Nehru Pan Asian Conference; Nehru to Krishna Menon, January 9, 1949, SWJN 2, no. 9: 157-58. 93 Speeches at open sessions of the New Delhi Conference, in Poplai, India 1947-50, 660-81. 94 Republican paper summarized in “Indiagram,” India Information Services, Ottawa, January 25, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [8]; Burton to Australian DEA, January 21, 1949, DAFP 15: 133-35. 95 Kearney to Pearson, January 27, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [8]. 96 SSEA telegram 1 to CPDUN, January 5, 1949; SSEA telegram 44 to CPDUN, January 11, 1949; G.B. Shannon, Office of the British High Commission in Ottawa, to Reid, January 11, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [7]. 97 Hague telegram 14, January 17, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [7]. 98 SSEA telegram 69 to CPDUN, January 17, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4715, file 50054-40 [7]. 99 Memorandum for the PM, January 21, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [8]; statement by van Roijen, SCOR, 406th meeting, January 28, 1949. 100 “Message telephoned to Mr. Reid by Mr. Dupuy from the Hague, 4: 30 p.m.,” January 26, 1949; Memorandum to the Minister, February 2, 1949, LAC, RG 2, vol. 127, file I-15. 101 Attlee to St. Laurent, February 16, 1949; St. Laurent to Attlee, February 19, 1949, LAC, RG 2, vol. 248, file I-15; Nehru to Attlee, February 18, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40


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[9]; Chifley to Attlee, February 21, 1949, DAFP 15: 239; D.S. Sennanayake to Attlee, February 21, 1949, NAA, A6537, SEATS 2. Record of meeting between Australian High Commissioner Forde and Holmes, Menzies, and Robinson of DEA, March 4, 1949, NAA, A3100, G49/124; draft for SSEA telegram to The Hague, February 24, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [9]. Memorandum of Conversation, Acheson with Stikker, March 31, 1949, FRUS 1949, 4: 25861; Stikker to Foreign Ministers of Belgium, Luxembourg, France, and Britain, April 1, 1949, and attached record of conversation with Acheson, NIB 18: 317-19; Andrew Roadnight, United States Policy Towards Indonesia in the Truman and Eisenhower Years (London: Palgrave, 2002), 69. R.A.D. Ford, Canadian High Commission in London, to Reid, March 16, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [10]; Nehru to Secretary-General of Foreign Ministry, March 18, 1949, SWJN 2, no. 10: 382. Van Kleffens to Acheson, March 18, 1949, FRUS 1949, 7: 325-30; Stikker to Dutch Ambassador van Roijen, March 14, 1949, NIB 18: 149. Alastair Taylor, Indonesian Independence and the United Nations (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1960), 205-10. Hague telegram 73, March 22, 1949; SSEA telegram 52 to The Hague, March 23, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [10]. McNaughton to Pearson, March 24, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [10]. Statement by Foreign Minister A.A. Maramis, New Delhi, March 28, 1949, DAFP 15: 336-37. Washington telegram 1072, April 16, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [10]; Australian UN Delegation to Australian DEA, April 8, 1949, DAFP 15: 361. Communiqué of Inter-Indonesian Conference, Jakarta, August 2, 1949, in Round Table Conference at The Hague: Facts and Documents (The Hague: RTC Secretariat-General, 1949), 136-47. SSEA telegram 789 to CPDUN, November 30, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4716, file 50054-40 [11]; CPDUN letter 445, December 15, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4717, file 50054-40 [12]. Holmes, Memorandum for the Minister, December 28, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [4.1]. Ignatieff, “McNaughton”; Pearson, statement in House of Commons, November 16, 1949, CHCD 1949, 2nd session, 2: 1842. “Brief notes on Indonesia,” DEA note to Governor General’s Office [1956], LAC, RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]; “Notes on Visit to Java,” report by G.R. Heasman, March 1, 1950, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.1]. Mackenzie, “Old Dominion and New Commonwealth,” 104. Chapter 2: The Golden Bridge: Canada and Indonesian Economic Development, 1950-63 External Affairs briefing paper prepared for Sukarno’s 1956 visit to Canada, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]. Speeches by Sukarno and Balcer, Yogyakarta, November 11, 1959, supplement to “The Colombo Plan, Report of the Canadian Delegation to the Eleventh Meeting of the Consultative Committee on Cooperative Economic Development in South and Southeast Asia, Djokjakarta Indonesia 1959”; Jakarta letter 146, March 10, 1959; Jakarta letter 348, June 12, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4296, file 11038-5-E-40 [1]; A.E. Ritchie to Theodore Newton, October 20, 1959, LAC, Theodore Newton papers, MG 31 E74, vol. 3, file 2. Sir Leslie Fry, British Ambassador in Indonesia, to Foreign Minister Selwyn Lloyd, November 26, 1959; Euan Smith, Programme Planning Officer, Report on Asian Tour, February 15, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4296, file 11038-5-E-40 [2]. The Colombo Plan: Eighth Annual Report of the Consultative Committee for Co-operative Economic Development in South and Southeast Asia, Jogjakarta, Indonesia, November 1959 (London: Her Majesty’s Government Printing Office, 1959), 26.

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5 Ruslan Abdulgani, Vice-Chairman of Supreme Advisory Council, “The Lessons of Indonesia’s Experience of Planning,” n.d., Library of Congress (LOC), Jeanne Mintz papers, box 49, UN delegation chronological, 1960-64; Sukarno, Independence Day speech, 1963, in Herbert Feith and Lance Castles, eds., Indonesian Political Thinking 1945-1965 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1970), 392-95. 6 Sidney Smith speech to Parliament, February 26, 1959, Canada House of Commons Debates (CHCD) 1959, 2: 1397-408. 7 Sukarno, cited in The Cultural Life of Indonesia (Washington: Indonesian Embassy, 1951), vii. 8 Gilbert Rist, The History of Development: From Western Origins to Global Faith, 2nd ed. (London: Zed, 2002); M.P. Cowen and R.W. Shenton, Doctrines of Development (London: Routledge, 1996); H.W. Arndt, Economic Development: The History of an Idea, University of Chicago Press, 1987); idem, “Economic Development: A Semantic History,” Economic Development and Cultural Change 29 (1981): 457-66. I have examined developmentalist rhetoric in Dutch colonial policy in David Webster, “Colonial Rhetoric: The Dutch East Indies and Indonesian East Timor,” Brock Review 7, nos. 1 and 2 (1998-99): 101-18. 9 Michael Barkway, “What Can We Do in the Far East? Commonwealth Framework May Be Starting Point for Stemming Red Flood,” Saturday Night, March 28, 1950; “Canadian Foreign Policy, 1947-1951,” draft speech by Escott Reid, Canadian High Commissioner in India, February 15, 1957, LAC, Lester Pearson papers, MG 26 N1, vol. 12, file Reid, Escott – Canada – External Affairs 1951-57. 10 “‘Centre of Gravity’ of World Issues Shifting to Asia,” The Statesman (New Delhi), January 23, 1950, LAC, MG 26 N1, vol. 22, file Commonwealth Foreign Ministers Conference – 1950 – Colombo Conference, pt. 4; Lester Pearson, Mike: The Memoirs of the Right Honourable Lester B. Pearson, vol. 2 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1973), 112-20. 11 Percy Spender, Exercises in Diplomacy: The ANZUS Treaty and the Colombo Plan (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1969); Canberra telegram 73, May 14, 1950, from Canadian Delegation to Sydney Conference, Documents on Canadian External Relations (DCER) 1950: 1215-16; H.V. Evatt, draft Cabinet submission, November 4, 1949, Documents on Australian Foreign Policy (DAFP) 15: 596-98; Spender speech in House of Representatives, March 9, 1950, in Spender, Politics and a Man (Sydney: Collins, 1972), 307-29; Spender to Prime Minister R.G. Menzies, January 7, 1950, National Library of Australia (NLA), Percy Spender papers, MS4875, vol. 1, file Colombo 1950. 12 “Commonwealth meeting on foreign affairs, minutes of the sixth meeting held on January 11, 1950,” LAC, Reid papers, MG 31 E46, vol. 7, file 15. 13 Malcolm MacDonald, cited in Nicholas Tarling, Britain, Southeast Asia, and the Onset of the Cold War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 325; Nicholas Tarling, Britain, Southeast Asia, and the Impact of the Korean War (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 2005); “Pearson and Party Now on Flight to Ceylon,” Ottawa Citizen, January 3, 1950; Memorandum of Conversation between Bevin and Secretary of State Dean Acheson, September 26, 1950, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS) 1950, 6: 146; “Draft Report on the Official Discussions on Economic Affairs Held During the Commonwealth Meeting on Foreign Affairs in Colombo, Ceylon, January 1950,” LAC, Pearson papers, vol. 22, file Commonwealth Foreign Ministers Conference – 1950. 14 “Meeting of Commonwealth Consultative Committee, London, September 25–October 4,” Interdepartmental Committee on Trade Policy document, October 18, 1950, DCER 1950: 1244-51. 15 Cited in F.H. Soward, “Trends in Asia as Revealed by the Lucknow Conference of the Institute of Pacific Relations, Lucknow, 1950,” F.H. Soward papers, University of British Columbia Archives, box 1, file 6. 16 “Meeting of Commonwealth Consultative Committee, London, September 25-October 4,” Interdepartmental Committee on Trade Policy document, October 18, 1950, DCER 1950: 1244-51. 17 Cabinet conclusions, October 25, 1950; November 1, 1950; December 29, 1950, LAC, RG 2, series A-5-a, vol. 2646. 18 Cabinet conclusions, February 7, 1951, LAC, RG 2, series A-5-a, vol. 2647.


19 Nathan Keyfitz, Canada and the Colombo Plan (Toronto: Canadian Institute of International Affairs, 1961), 3. 20 The Colombo Plan for Co-operative Economic Development in South and South-East Asia, Report by the Commonwealth Consultative Committee, London, September-October 1950 (London: HMSO, 1950); Economic Commission on Asia and the Far East, Committee on Industry and Trade, “Nature and Extent of Dollar Shortage and Possible Remedial Measures” (1950), UN document E/CN.11/IandT/24; “Canada’s Relations with Asia,” St. Laurent speech to Women’s Canadian Club, Victoria, September 5, 1952, Statements and Speeches (SandS) 52/33; “The Sterling Balances,” UK Memorandum, December 1949, LAC, Douglas V. LePan papers, MG 31 E6, vol. 7 file 1. A useful summary of the plan’s dual motives is Ademola Adeleke, Ties Without Strings? The Colombo Plan and the Geopolitics of International Aid (Ph.D. diss., University of Toronto, 1996). 21 “Methods of Financing the Economic Development of Under-Developed Countries,” Alphonse Fournier, Minister of Public Works, speech to UN Economic and Social Council, Geneva, July 11, 1950, SandS 50/29. 22 R.G. Nik Cavell, speech to the Directors’ Meeting, Department of Trade and Commerce, April 17, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7337, file 11038-40 [20.2]. 23 “The Preservation of Civilization,” St. Laurent speech to University of Toronto convocation, October 27, 1950, SandS 50/43. On planning and the influential civil servants, see Donald Creighton, The Forked Road: Canada 1939-1957 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1976); and J.L. Granatstein, The Ottawa Men: The Civil Service Mandarins, 1935-1957 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982). 24 Pearson, CBC New Year’s broadcast, January 1, 1954, External Affairs 6, no. 1 (1954): 35; editorial, “A Lead for US Policymakers,” Globe and Mail, January 17, 1950. 25 Charles J. Woodsworth, Canadian Policies in Asia (Toronto: Canadian Institute for International Affairs, 1954), 18. 26 Robert Bothwell, Alliance and Illusion: Canada and the World, 1945-1984 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007), 112. 27 Australian Cabinet submission 339, February 19, 1953, National Archives of Australia (NAA), A4940, C1050; Cabinet submission 10, undated [June 1954], NAA, A4940, C1050; Christopher Waters, “Diplomacy in Easy Chairs: Casey, Pearson, and Australian-Canadian Relations, 1951-57,” in Parties Long Estranged: Canada and Australia in the Twentieth Century, ed. Margaret MacMillan and Francine McKenzie (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2003). 28 Pearson to St. Laurent, June 14, 1955, LAC, Pearson papers, vol. 18, file Aid to Underdeveloped Areas 1945-57. 29 Cavell speech to joint meeting of the Canadians Importers’ and Traders Association and the Canadian Exporters’ Association, Royal York Hotel, Toronto, October 5, 1951, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6575, file 11038-40 [7.2]. 30 “Press Reaction to the Colombo Plan,” memorandum by J.R. Murray, Economic Division, December 21, 1950, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6574, file 11038-40 [4.2]. 31 “Colombo Plan Operations,” memorandum by Assistant Secretary to Cabinet based on interdepartmental group discussions, February 25, 1957, DCER 1956-57, 1: 1217. 32 Michael Davidson, “Indonesians Look Westward,” The Observer, April 14, 1950; Dua Puluh Lima Tahun Departemen Luar Negeri 1945-1970 [Twenty-Five Years of the Department of Foreign Affairs] (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, 1971). 33 Secretary of State to Embassy in Jakarta, August 15, 1950, FRUS 1950, 6: 1039-40. 34 Memorandum of Conversation Between Dulles and Sukarno, Jakarta, March 12, 1956, National Archives [of the United States] (NA), RG 59, Bureau of Far Eastern affairs, subject files 1956, lot 58 D 3, Secretary’s Visit to Indonesia March 1956; New Delhi letter 785, August 6, 1951, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8146, file 5495-C-2-40 [1.1]; Palar to Trygve Lie, SecretaryGeneral of the UN, July 5, 1951, in “Additional Measures to Be Employed to Meet the Aggression in Korea: Reports from Governments,” UN document A/1841, 22-23. 35 Herbert Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1962); “Herodians and Zealots in Indonesia,” speech by President Sukarno at ceremony of receiving doctorate honoris causa, Columbia University, New York, May 24, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.3].

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36 Benedict Anderson, “Old State, New Society: Indonesia’s New Order in Comparative Historical Perspective,” Journal of Asian Studies 42, no. 3 (1983): 477-96. 37 Ariel Heryanto, “The Development of ‘Development,’” Indonesia 46 (1988): 10. 38 Sukarno speech to Youth League for the Development of Indonesia, January 12, 1947, Library of Congress (LOC), Jeanne Mintz papers, box 45, UN delegation, chronological, 1947 [1]; Sukarno speech, August 17, 1950, published as From Sabang to Merauke (Jakarta: Pertjetakan Negara, [1950]). 39 Cabinet foreign policy programs, in Dokumen Dasar Politik Luar Negeri Republik Indonesia [Basic Documents on Indonesian Foreign Policy] (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, 1997), 83-96; London letter 442, February 1, 1951, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6612, file 11129-40 [2.2]; Nicholas Tarling, “‘Cold Storage: British Policy and the Beginnings of the Irian Barat/ West New Guinea Dispute,” Australian Journal of Politics and History 46, no. 2 (June 2000): 175-93. 40 R.H.D. Liem, Indonesian UN delegation, “Five-Year Plan for Higher Training of Indonesian Youth,” August 1950, LOC, Mintz papers, box 46, UN delegation chronological file 1950 [1]; George Kahin, Southeast Asia: A Testament (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 122-23. 41 Council for Technical Co-operation in South and South-East Asia, Annual Report for 1952, (Colombo: Council for Technical Co-operation in South and South-East Asia, 1952), 6. 42 “Indonesia,” Public Affairs (Halifax), Spring 1951: 13; Benjamin Higgins with Jean Higgins, Indonesia: The Crisis of the Millstones (Princeton: Van Nostrand, 1963), 30. 43 Colombo Plan Reports for 1952 and 1953; Indonesia draft country chapter for 1953 Colombo Plan Report, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8390, file 11038-40 [FP16]; The Colombo Plan (London: British Information Services, 1964), 10. 44 Jakarta letter 360, August 26, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1]; LAC, RG 25, vol. 4386, file 11690-40 [1]; undated editorial from Abadi, LOC, Mintz papers, box 47, UN delegation chronological file 1953; J.C.G. Kevin, Australian Minister in Jakarta, to Patrick Shaw, Australian DEA, March 9, 1954, NAA, A11064, 809/1 [1]; “Meetings of officials, New Delhi, September 28 to October 8,” note prepared for briefing book for Canadian delegation to Ottawa Conference, 1954, LAC, RG 19, vol. 4272, file 8055-04-1 (54), part 1. 45 Pearson to St. Laurent, February 17, 1950, LAC, Pearson papers, vol. 34, file India-Canada Relations 1947-57. 46 “Canadian Representation in Indonesia,” DEA memorandum, March 20, 1950, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.1]. 47 Letter of Instructions, Secretary of State for External Affairs (SSEA) to Jakarta, unnumbered letter, August 19, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6613, file 11129-40 [3.1]. 48 W.D. Wallace, Commercial Attaché in Jakarta, to H.W. Cheney, Acting Director of Trade Commissioner Service, May 12, 1953; Jakarta letter 7, June 4, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.2]; “Annual Report of the Work of the Jakarta Office for 1953,” LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1]; R.B. Edmonds, unpublished memoirs, Indonesia chapter typescript, 6. 49 Canberra letter 245, June 15, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3230, file 5495-Q-40; Australian DEA to Jakarta, June 17, 1953, NAA, A462, 439/1/37; Australian DEA to Australian Ambassador in The Hague, March 17, 1954, NAA, A1838, TS 453/1/9. 50 Jakarta letter 38, June 30, 1953; FE Division to DL(1) Division, July 17, 1953; Gen. Charles Foulkes, Chiefs of Staff Chairman, to acting USSEA, October 14, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.2]; DL(1) internal memorandum, July 27, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4386, file 11690-40 [1]. 51 Burns statement in UN General Assembly Fourth Committee, October 3, 1949; “Trusteeship and Non-Self-Governing Territories, The Basic Conflict,” undated memorandum by Burns, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [4.1]; “Colonialism and Anti-Colonialism in the United Nations,” memorandum for briefing book on Nehru visit to Canada, December 14, 1956, LAC, vol. 6091, file 50309-1-40 [2]. 52 Marshall Green, Indonesia: Crisis and Transformation (Washington: Compass, 1990), 6; Charles Wolf, Foreign Aid: Theory and Practice in Southern Asia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960), 158, 172; NSC 5518, “US Policy on Indonesia,” FRUS 1955-57, 22: 153-55.


53 “The Colombo Plan and Its Possible Use as a Focal Point for Regional Development in Asia,” Office of Northeast Asian Affairs memorandum, April 20, 1953, FRUS 1952-54, 12: 306-11; “Asian Economic Program,” Foreign Operations Administration draft paper, NA, RG 59, Bureau of FE Affairs, Records Relating to Economic Aid, 1948-58, lot file 58 D 258, file “Economic – Regional Organization 1954-55”; extract from SSEA telegram EX-1599 to Washington, September 9, 1954, DCER 1954: 840-42. 54 Memorandum of conversation with Sunario, September 29, 1954, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 4410, file 12025-H-7-40; Jakarta letter 483, November 2, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8146, file 5495-C-2-40 [1.1]; note for file by P.A. Bridle, September 2, 1955, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7336, file 11038-40 [19.2]; R.G. Casey diary, MS6150, NLA, October 4–5 and October 10, 1954. 55 “The possibility that some of the countries of South and South-East Asia may endeavour to develop certain forms of economic cooperation among themselves; the question of how such cooperation might be related to the Colombo Plan,” note prepared for briefing book for Canadian Delegation to Ottawa Conference, LAC, RG 19, vol. 4272, file 8055-04-1; “British Aide-Mémoire on Aid to Asia,” Assistant Secretary of State for Economic Affairs Samuel Waugh to Dulles, December 22, 1954, FRUS 1952-54, 12: 1072-74; Casey to Pearson, January 28, 1955, LAC, Pearson papers, vol. 2, file Casey, R.G. 1951-57. 56 Benjamin Higgins and Guy Pauker, “Economic Aspects of the Asian-African Conference and Its Aftermath,” Ekonomi dan Keuangan Indonesia 8 (1955); Technical Assistance Administration Director General Hugh Keenleyside to UN Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjold, August 22, 1956, UN Archives (UNA), Technical Assistance Archive Group, 330/03 (4), Part D; Sukarno speech, “Let a New Asia and New Africa Be Born,” and Bandung Final Declaration, April 24, 1955, in Collected Documents of the Asian-African Conference, April 18-24, 1955 (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, 1983). 57 Molly Bondan, “Looking Back: The Asia-Africa Conference of 1955,” Indonesian Observer, April 24, 1985, NLA, Molly Bondan papers, MS4739, vol. 1, file 4. 58 Canadian fears are best expressed in St. Laurent to British Prime Minister Anthony Eden, October 31, 1956, DCER 1956-57, 1: 187-88. 59 “Amount of Canada’s Contribution to the Colombo Plan in Financial Year 1957-58,” SSEA Memorandum to Cabinet, November 28, 1956, DCER 1956-57, 1: 1214-16. 60 Jakarta letter 123, March 12, 1954; Memorandum for the Minister, March 23, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1]; Memorandum of Conversation with George P. Glazebrook of Canadian Embassy, April 9, 1954, NA, RG 59, lots 55 D 480 and 55 D 481, Records of the Philippine and Southeast Asian Division Related to Southeast Asia and the Geneva Conference, Country Files, Canada. 61 W.R. Crocker, Australian Ambassador (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1971), 11. 62 “Your Frontier-Posts Are in Asia!”, speech by President Sukarno before the World Affairs Council of Northern California and the Asia Foundation, San Francisco, June 1, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [2.2]; Sukarno speech at Semarang, July 29, 1956, in Winoto Danoeasmoro, Perdjalanan P.J.M. Presiden Ir. Dr. Hadji Achmad [sic] Sukarno ke Amerika dan Eropah [His Excellency President Sukarno’s Trip to America and Europe] (Jakarta: Grafica, n.d.); “The Era of Asian and African Nationalism: Address by President Sukarno of the Republic of Indonesia Before the National Press Club, Washington,” May 18, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.2]. 63 Press clippings in President Sukarno’s Visit to the United States, May 16 to June 3, 1956, As Covered by the American Press, Radio and Television (Washington: Information Division, Indonesian Embassy, [1956]); Laporan Menteri Luar Negeri kepada Dewan Perwakilan Rakjat R.I. tentang Perdjalanan Presiden R.I. ke Sovjet Uni, Yugoslavia, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Mongolia, dan Republik Rakjat Tiongkok (26 Agustus – 16 Oktober 1956) [Foreign Minister’s Report to Parliament on the President’s Trip to the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Mongolia and the People’s Republic of China] (Jakarta: Department of Foreign Affairs, [1956]); Bung Karno di Sovjet Uni [Sukarno in the Soviet Union] (Bogor: Multatuli, 1957); Government of China, Presiden Soekarno Mengundjungi Tiongkok [President Sukarno Visits China] (Jakarta: Chinese Embassy, 1956). 64 Memorandum for the Minister, March 23, 1956; Jakarta letter 174, April 26, 1956; Far Eastern (FE) Division to Protocol Division, May 1, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1];

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76 77 78

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Jakarta letter 438, September 5, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [2.3]; Presiden Soekarno di Amerika Serikat [President Sukarno in the United States of America]. Jakarta: US Information Service, [1956]. USSEA letter Y-206 to Jakarta, June 25, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]. Cyril James, Principal of McGill University, to Pearson, April 30, 1956, McGill University Archives (MUA), RG 2, Accession Reference Number 3852, file 6251 “Islamic Institute” 1954-57; T.H. Matthews to James, May 7, 1956, MUA, RG 2, file 5912 “Honorary Degrees Committee Minutes” 1956-57. Jakarta letter 199, May 14, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.2]; Pearson to St. Laurent, May 15, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1]. “Fill Our Hearts with ‘le Désir d’Être Ensemble,’” Sukarno’s speech to Parliament, June 5, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.2]. “Parliament Gives Indonesia President Standing Ovations,” Ottawa Journal, June 5, 1956; Norman M. MacLeod, “Indonesia President Stole Show in Ottawa,” St. Catharines Standard, June 8, 1956; editorial, “The ‘Mighty Torrent,’” Montreal Star, June 6, 1956; editorial, “La visite de M. Sukarno,” Le Droit, June 5, 1956; editorial, “Dr. Sukarno,” Regina Leader Post, June 5, 1956. Editorial, “Friend or Foe?” London Free Press, June 14, 1956; Elmore Philpott, “Have Won Freedom,” Vancouver Sun, June 9, 1956. Editorial, “Canada’s Part,” Halifax Chronicle-Herald, June 7, 1956. Escott Reid, Envoy to Nehru (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1981); New Delhi telegram 607, November 20, 1956; UN Division to Commonwealth Division, Decemeber 3, 1956; American Division to Commonwealth Division, November 30, 1956; FE Division memorandum, November 28, 1956, LAC, vol. 6091, file 50309-1-40; UN Division to USSEA, December 17, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6185, file 1617-40 [1.2]. Dale C. Thomson, Louis St. Laurent: Canadian (Toronto: Macmillan, 1967), 441. Denis Smith, Rogue Tory: The Life and Legend of John G. Diefenbaker (Toronto: Macfarlane Walter and Ross, 1995), 218. Diefenbaker speech to Commonwealth and Empire Industries Association, London, November 4, 1958, in Arthur E. Blanchette, Canadian Foreign Policy 1955-1965: Selected Speeches and Documents (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1977), 288. Diefenbaker statement on tenth anniversary of Colombo Conference, January 14, 1960, External Affairs 12, no. 1 (1960): 454-55. “The Meaning of the Commonwealth,” Diefenbaker address to Royal Commonwealth Society, Toronto, March 30, 1962, SandS 62/8. Green speech to Canadian Exporters’ Association, 1959, LAC, Green papers, MG 32 B13, vol. 12, file 13; Michael Hart, A Trading Nation: Canadian Trade Policy from Colonialism to Globalization (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2002), 220-22. Robert W. Reford, Canada and Three Crises (Toronto: Canadian Institute of International Affairs, 1968), 123. Granatstein, The Ottawa Men, 266-71; John G. Diefenbaker, One Canada: Memoirs (Toronto: Macmillan, 1975), vol. 2, 53-54; H. Basil Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World: A Populist in Foreign Affairs (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 60. Mel Himes, Canadian Foreign Policy Handbook (Montreal: Jewel, 1996), 194, 210; “CanadianIndonesian Trade Relations,” undated (1956) Trade and Commerce (TandC) memorandum, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]; Hart, A Trading Nation, 189; Theodore Cohn, Canadian Food Aid: Domestic and Foreign Policy Implications (Denver: Graduate School of International Studies, University of Denver, 1979), 45; Mark W. Charlton, The Making of Canadian Food Aid Policy (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992), 17; Diefenbaker, One Canada, 2: 140. “A New Concept of the Commonwealth,” Diefenbaker address to state banquet in Kuala Lumpur, November 28, 1958, SandS 59/13; Harold Morrison, “PM ‘Astonishes’ Colombo Experts,” Gazette (Montreal), November 27, 1958; “PM Hopes Wheat Helps to Boost Colombo Aid,” CP report by Alan Donnelly in Colombo, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7338, file 11038-40 [24.1]. Cabinet conclusions, June 4, 1959, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2744, 1959/06/04; memorandum on Diefenbaker meeting with Pakistan president Ayub Khan, November 15, 1958; memo-


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randum on Diefenbaker meeting with Indian Planning Commission, December 11, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR. Canadian Embassy in Jakarta, Annual Review for 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2496, file 10463BD-40; Jakarta letter 725, December 19, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]; “Situation in Indonesia,” undated memorandum, LAC, Diefenbaker papers, MG 26 M, Series 6, PMO files, vol. 552, file 840/I42, reel M-8911. NATO communiqué, December 1957, in Blanchette, Canadian Foreign Policy 1955-1965, 124-25. Sukarno speech, August 17, 1959, in Indonesia’s Political Manifesto 1959-1964 (Jakarta: Prapantja, [1964?]). Translation of remarks of Ruslan Abdulgani to Parliament, unattributed memorandum [December 1956?], LAC, RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]; Ruslan’s report to Parliament, July 9, 1956, Laporan Menteri Luar Negeri [Foreign Minister’s Report]. “Capital and Technical Assistance Allocations and Expenditures as at December 31, 1956,” LAC, RG 19, vol. 879, file PAC-88. Jakarta letter 269, May 21, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1.2]; W.D. Mills, Acting Chief, International Economic and Technical Co-operation Division (IETCD), TandC, to Dorothy Armstrong, 2nd Economic Division, DEA, March 26, 1959, LAC, RG 25, 7567, 11038-AB-2-40 [13.1]. Emphasis in original. Nik Cavell to Lou Couillard, Head of Economic Division, October 8, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1.2]. USSEA letter E-160 to Jakarta, May 31, 1957; DEA telegram E-1733 to Jakarta, November 12, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1.2]. “Colombo Plan Assistance for Indonesia,” Menzies to Economic Division, December 11, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1.2]; FE Division to Economic Division, December 26, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6465, file 5495-G-40 [2.2]; F.E. Pratt, Chief of Capital Projects, IETCD, to Rodney Grey, Economic Division, DEA, January 23, 1958; Cavell to Couillard, January 24, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]; J.H. Marshall, Capital Projects Unit, IETCD, to Grey, February 27, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4299, file 11038-AB-2-B-40 [1]. Sjafruddin speech to Tenth Annual Conference of the Far East–America Chamber of Commerce and Industry, New York, October 2, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2850, file 1529-40 [1]; British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan to Australian Prime Minister R.G. Menzies, December 20, 1957, and US Secretary of State John Foster Dulles to Menzies, December 30, 1957, National Archives of Australia (NAA), A1209, 1958/5039; Memorandum of Conversation, June 9, 1958, on meeting between President Dwight Eisenhower and Macmillan, FRUS 1958-60, 16: 40-41; Audrey Kahin and George Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy: The Secret Eisenhower and Dulles Debacle in Indonesia (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995). Sjafruddin to David Rockefeller, March 5, 1958, Cornell University Library, PRRI documents, microfilm 7813; Col. M. Simbolon, PRRI Foreign Minister, to Canadian Ambassador, February 20, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]; Kenneth Conboy and James Morrison, Feet to the Fire: CIA Covert Operations in Indonesia, 1957-1958 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1999). Jakarta telegram 60, May 7, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3704, file 5495-F-40 [1]; Jakarta letter 304, June 5, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2496, file 10463-BD-40; R.E. Collins, FE Division, to Ambassador Theodore Newton, May 4, 1960, LAC, Theodore Newton papers, MG 31 E74, vol. 3, file 3. Memorandum for the Minister, February 13, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]. “Airport Communications Project: Djakarta,” FE Division memorandum, April 25, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]; excerpts from Colombo Plan Policy Group minutes, April 28, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7357, file 11038-4-40 [2.1]; Memorandum to Cabinet, April 28, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7338, file 11038-40 [25.1]; Cabinet conclusions, May 22, 1958, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 1898; Sidney Smith’s handwritten note on Memorandum to the Minister, September 7, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7338, file 11038-40 [24.1].

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98 John Holmes to P. Campbell, FE Division, May 6, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495G-40 [3.1]. 99 Memorandum for the Minister, May 16, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.2]; Memorandum of Conversation, Walter Robertson with Canadian Ambassador Norman Robertson, May 16, 1958, FRUS 1958-60, 16/17 microfiche supplement. 100 NSC 5913/1, September 25, 1959, FRUS 1958-60, 16: 133-44; Memorandum of Conversation, Robertson with Indonesian Ambassador Mukarto, May 27, 1958, NA, RG 59, lot 62 D 68/62 D 409, Indonesia subject files 1947-58, United States 1958. 101 Canadian Embassy, Annual Review for 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2496, file 10463-BD-40. 102 A.E. Ritchie in Washington to Norman Robertson, October 15, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7826, file 12687-H-40 [1]. 103 Memorandum for the Minister, from Holmes, September 7, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7338, file 11038-40 [24.1]. 104 Cabinet conclusions, June 4, 1959, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2744, 1959/06/04; Cabinet conclusions, July 21, 1960, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2747, 1960/07/21. 105 “Malaya: First Anniversary of Independence”; “The Situation in Indonesia,” External Affairs 10, no. 7 (1958): 147, 157. 106 Kuala Lumpur letter 207, April 9, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7801, file 12620-40 [1.1]; Theodore Newton, South Seas Envoy: Memoirs of a Canadian Ambassador (unpublished manuscript, LAC, Newton papers, vol. 3, file 8), 8-9. 107 Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World, 54-55. 108 M.E. Chamberlain, Decolonization, 2nd ed. (Malden: Blackwell, 2004), 32. 109 Notes on Diefenbaker’s meeting with Malayan Cabinet, November 29, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR; “A New Concept of the Commonwealth,” Diefenbaker address to state banquet in Kuala Lumpur, November 28, 1958, SandS 59/13. 110 “Report from the Prime Minister,” Diefenbaker CBC broadcast on world tour, December 21, 1958, SandS 58/51. 111 “Questions to be answered on phone call today,” note by Robinson, September 12, 1958, LAC, Diefenbaker papers, MG 26 M, Series 6, PMO files, vol. 543, file 818.21 PM 1958 Indonesia, reel M-8906; Newton, South Seas Envoy, 39; Jakarta telegram 149, October 16, 1958; Jakarta telegram 163, November 28, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7827, file 12687-J-40; Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World, 80; Jakarta letter 588, December 5, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7827, file 12687-J-40. 112 Tunku Abdul Rahman, press statement, Ottawa, October 20, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5580, file 12850-M2-1-40 [1FP]. 113 “Cumulative Aid Figures 1945-1955,” LAC, Pearson papers, vol. 18, file Aid to Underdeveloped Areas 1945-57; David R. Protheroe, Canada and Multilateral Aid (Ottawa: North-South Institute, 1991), 13; The Colombo Plan, 2; Harold Morrison, “Canadian Aid Plan Criticized,” Gazette (Montreal), May 29, 1962; Keith Spicer, A Samaritan State? External Aid in Canada’s Foreign Policy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1966), 41. 114 Green speech to Parliament, February 10, 1960, CHCD 1960, 1: 937; Jakarta letter 362, July 31, 1957; Jakarta letter 479, November 1, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8214, file 10117-CH-40. Chapter 3: Non-state Networks and Modernizing Elites in the Sukarno Years 1 Jamie Mackie, “In Memoriam: Professor Benjamin Higgins, 1912-2001,” Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies (BIES) 37, no. 2 (2001): 183-88. 2 H.O. Moran, testimony to Standing Committee on External Affairs, cited in Keith Spicer, A Samaritan State? External Aid in Canada’s Foreign Policy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1966), 86. 3 Biodata from Sumitro Djojohadikusumo: Jejak Perlawanan Begawan Pejuang (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 2000), 439-43; Rosihan Anwar, “In Memoriam: Soemitro Djojohadikusumo,” Kompas, March 10, 2001; John O. Sutter, Indonesianisasi: Politics in a Changing Economy, 1940-1955 (Ithaca: Cornell Southeast Asia Project, 1959), vol. 2, 353, 490-96. 4 Herbert Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1962), 130; Canadian Embassy, Jakarta – Annual Review for 1954, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 25, vol. 2496, file 10463-BD-40 [1].


5 Soemitro, “Economic Problems in Indonesia and Our Way Out,” in Basic Information on Indonesia (Jakarta: Ministry of Information, 1953); idem, ed., The Government’s Program on Industries: A Progress Report (Jakarta: Institute for Economic and Social Research, 1954); Sutter, Indonesianisasi, 3: 774-78; Soemitro, radio broadcast on September 10, 1952, in Facing the Situation (Jakarta: Ministry of Information, 1952), 23. 6 Michael Davidson, “Inefficiency Reigns,” Saturday Night, April 18, 1950, 14. 7 Inaugural instructions to Canadian Ambassador in Indonesia, attached to Secretary of State for External Affairs (SSEA) unnumbered letter to Jakarta, August 19, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6613, file 11129-40 [3.1] 8 L.N. Palar, United States of Indonesia Permanent Observer to UN, to Secretary-General Trygve Lie, March 15, 1950; Hugh Keenleyside, TAA Director-General, to Joseph Stepanek, UN Adviser on Small Industries in Indonesia, April 4, 1951, United Nations Archives (UNA), Technical Assistance Records group (TA), Box 53, 330/1/01; H.D. Fong, for the Executive Secretariat, Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (EACFE), to W.R. Malinowski, Division of Economic Stability and Development, November 15, 1950, UNA, TA, Box 13, 330/03 (4). 9 Hugh L. Keenleyside, Memoirs, vol. 2, On the Bridge of Time (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1982), 358; John Toye and Richard Toye, The UN and Global Political Economy: Trade, Finance, and Development (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004); Richard Jolly, Louis Emmerij, Dharam Ghai, and Frédéric Lapeyre, eds., UN Contributions to Development Thinking and Practice (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004); Seeds of Progress: Stories of Technical Assistance (New York: UN, 1955); Techniques for Tomorrow: International Cooperation in Technical Assistance (New York: UN, 1956). 10 John Richards and Larry Pratt, Prairie Capitalism: Power and Influence in the New West (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1979), 129-33; David M. Quiring, CCF Colonialism in North Saskatchewan: Battling Parish Priests, Bootleggers, and Fur Sharks (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2004); David Lewis and Frank Scott, Make This Your Canada (Toronto: Cooperative Commonwealth Federation, 1943); “Government, Co-operatives and Private Enterprise in Industry,” Saskatchewan Economic Advisory and Planning Board memorandum, September 24, 1946, Saskatchewan Archives Board, Regina, George W. Cadbury papers, R-757, file 4 [3]; Frank Scott to Lorne Ingle, CCF national office, 16 June 1952, LAC, Francis Reginald Scott papers, MG30 D211, vol. 5, file 9. 11 Economic Commission for Asia and the Far East (ECAFE), “UN Technical Assistance in Asia and the Far East 1950-1955,” UNA, TA, box 13, 330/03 (4), ECAFE – TAA activities in ECAFE region [B]; Mahyar Nashat, The Institutional Framework of the United Nations Expanded Programme of Technical Assistance: A Legal Analysis of Its Origins, Structure, and Procedures (Doctor of Laws diss., University of Geneva, 1978), 109. 12 US Secretary of Agriculture Brannan to House of Representatives, cited in Charles Wolf, Foreign Aid: Theory and Practice in Southern Asia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1960), 63; Subandrio, “War on Want,” speech to Scottish Provisional Committee for War on Want, Glasgow, November 21, 1953, Subandrio untitled speech collection (London: n.p., 1954). 13 Confidential report on Saigon meeting, National Archives [of the United States] (NA), RG 59, Misc. Economic Records of the Bureau of Far Eastern Affairs 1956-61, lot file 64 D 207, Colombo Plan 1957. 14 Michael Ward, Quantifying the World: UN Ideas and Statistics (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 64-65. 15 Donald Creighton, The Forked Road: Canada 1939-57 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1976), 115. 16 SSEA memorandum to Cabinet, December 20, 1949, Documents on Canadian External Relations (DCER) 1949: 405-9. 17 Jean Lesage speech in Parliament, March 25, 1952, Canada House of Commons Debates (CHCD) 1952, 1: 758-64. 18 ECAFE Committee on Industry and Trade, “Enquiry into Fields of Economic Development Handicapped by Lack of Trained Personnel,” Final Report by the Executive Secretary, Annex K, Republic of Indonesia (Bangkok: 1950), UN document E/CN.11/IandT/39/Annex K, 3-4.

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19 Roland H.D. Liem to TAA officers, June 18, 1951; UN-Indonesia Agreement, February 6, 1952, UNA, TA, Box 20, 330/05, Agreements with Recipient Countries – Indonesia; H.C. Anderson, Director of Bureau of Finance, to Keenleyside, August 9, 1951, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [A]. 20 Goldschmidt to Arthur Guigui, Chief of Technical Assistance Division, International Labour Organization, February 1, 1952, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [B]. 21 Interdepartment Group on Technical Assistance memorandum, February 13, 1952, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8149, file 5475-DU-21-40; Noeradi, economic adviser to Indonesian UN delegation, to Martinez-Cabenas, November 26, 1951, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [A]; Cadbury to Palar, April 2, 1952; Mandereau to Anthony Balinski, acting UN technical-assistance representative in Indonesia, April 25, 1952; Soemitro to Balinski, April 24, 1952, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [B]. 22 Palar to Keenleyside, September 22, 1952, UNA, S-0441-1030, Branch registries, 1946-59, 173/71/04 [C]; Keenleyside to Herbert Marshall, Dominion Statistician, November 24, 1952; Higgins to Keenleyside, November 24, 1952; John S. Reid, UN technical-assistance representative in Indonesia, to Eleanor M. Hinder, Chief of Office for Asia the Far East, TAA Programme Division, March 10, 1953; Hinder to Reid, June 29, 1953, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [D]. 23 Colombo letter 16, June 1, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6576, file 11038-40 [12]. 24 Jakarta letter 71, July 31, 1952, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1]. 25 SSEA letter E-359 to Jakarta, November 1, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1]; memorandum on Diefenbaker’s conversation with Australian Prime Minister R.G. Menzies, December 4, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR; “Conversational Gambits with Indonesian Leaders Visiting USA,” State Department memorandum, September 24, 1954, NA, RG 59, lot 60 D 60, Indonesia desk-officer files, General: Policy Papers July 1 to December 1954. 26 Far Eastern (FE) Division memorandum for file, February 16, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.2]. 27 Australian High Commission in Colombo, memorandum to Australian Department of External Affairs, February 26, 1953, National Archives of Australia (NAA), A11064, 809/1 part 1; Higgins to Cyril James, Principal of McGill University, September 2, 1952, McGill University Archives (MUA), RG 2, box 207, file 5567. 28 Wilfred Cantwell Smith to C. Burton Fahs, Rockefeller Foundation, March 12, 1953, Rockefeller Archive Centre (RAC), RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 95. 29 Higgins to James H. Boyd, International Economic and Technical Co-operation Division, February 11, 1952, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8149, file 5475-DU-21-40. Biographical information is drawn from Benjamin Higgins, All the Difference: A Development Economist’s Quest (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992); and Donald J. Savoie, preface to Equity and Efficiency in Economic Development: Essays in Honour of Benjamin Higgins, ed. Donald J. Savoie and Irving Brecher (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992). 30 Higgins, All the Difference, 47-68. 31 Benjamin Higgins with Jean Higgins, Indonesia: The Crisis of the Millstones (Princeton: Van Nostrand, 1963), 81; Higgins, All the Difference, 59. 32 Benjamin Higgins, Nationalism and Colonialism (Cambridge, MA: MIT Center for International Studies, 1955); E.L.M. Burns, statement in UN Fourth (Trusteeship) Committee, October 3, 1949, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3686, file 5475-N-40C [4.1]. See also Higgins, “Economic Development of Underdeveloped Areas: Past and Present,” Ekonomi dan Keuangan Indonesia (EKI) 7 (1954): 778-99. 33 Higgins to James, July 5, 1953, MUA, RG 2, box 207, file 5567; “CIS Program of Research in Economic and Political Development, 1953,” MIT Center for International Studies [CIS] records (AC236), Institute Archives and Special Collections, MIT Libraries, Cambridge, MA; Donald Blackmer, The MIT Center for International Studies: The Founding Years 1951-1969 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Center for International Studies, 2002), 3-20, 67-90; Michael E. Latham, Modernization as Ideology: American Social Science and “Nation-Building” in the Kennedy Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000).


34 CIS Director Max Millikan to Djuanda, November 19, 1953, and enclosed “Proposal for Research Cooperation Between the National Planning Bureau, Government of Indonesia, and The Center for International Studies, Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” MIT, AC236, box 2, Program of Research in Economic and Political Development, 1954; Frank Galbraith to Ambassador Hugh Cumming, December 22, 1954, NA, RG 59, Indonesia desk, Cumming Hugh S. 35 Colombo letter 1355, October 26, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7337, file 11048-40 [21.1]; Keyfitz Christmas letter, October 1, 1953; Beatrice Keyfitz to “Mama and Papa,” January 8, 1954, Harvard University Archives (HUA), Keyfitz papers, box 2, correspondence 1953-4; Nathan Keyfitz, Notes of a Wayfarer (unpublished memoir, 2004, courtesy Nathan Keyfitz). 36 Keyfitz, “The Problem of Indonesian Statistics,” Planning Bureau memorandum, September 29, 1953; Keyfitz, “The Population Problem of Indonesia,” Planning Bureau memorandum, October 28, 1953, HUA, Keyfitz papers, Box 7, Indonesia 1953-54; Ward, Quantifying, 10, 22. 37 Sarbini Sumawinata, “Recollections of My Career,” BIES 28, no. 2 (1992): 44-46; “Statistical Organization and Activities in Countries of Asia and the Far East, Annex of Indonesia,” UN document E/CN.11/322/Annex E; Keyfitz to Sarbini, March 31, 1955, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [G]. 38 Nathan Keyfitz and Widjojo Nitisastro, Soal Penduduk dan Pembangunan Indonesia [Indonesian Population and Development] (Jakarta: PT Pembangunan, 1955), 125-26; Jakarta letter 72, July 31, 195, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1]; George Kahin, Southeast Asia: A Testament (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 81; report on visit to Yogyakarta by A. Goodden, British Deputy Consul-General (Commercial), September 6, 1949, British Documents on Foreign Affairs (BDFA) IV, E, 9: 231-33; “Herodians and Zealots in Indonesia,” Sukarno speech at Columbia University, May 24,1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.3]. 39 Keyfitz, “The Population Problem”; Keyfitz, “Population: The Dynamic Factor of Indonesian Development,” Planning Bureau memorandum, HUA, Keyfitz papers, box 7, Indonesia 1953-54. 40 FE Division memorandum for file, February 16, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6218, file 5495-G-40 [1.2]; Djuanda to R.G. Nik Cavell, Canadian Colombo Plan administrator, October 18, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6590, file 11038-4-40 [1]; Reid to Cavell, January 14, 1953, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8149, file 5475-DU-21-40; corrected introduction to the new edition of Soal Penduduk, HUA, Keyfitz papers, box 2, published and unpublished writings, 1969. 41 Ritchie to USSEA Jules Léger, November 13, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7337, file 11048-40 [21.1]; “Discussions with Officials in Washington Concerning the Colombo Plan and Other Economic Aid Questions,” February 28, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7337, file 11048-40 [20.1]; Keyfitz oral history. 42 “Concrete Recommendations,” undated memorandum, HUA, Keyfitz papers, box 7, Indonesia 1953-54. 43 Keenleyside to Sudjarwo, Indonesian UN delegate, February 15, 1954, UNA, TA, 330/010 [A]; D.M. Deane to Eleanor M. Hinder, TAA, January 10, 1954; Edgar McVoy to Hinder, January 4, 1954, UNA, S-0441-1030, 173/71/04 [E]. 44 Memorandum for the record by Millikan, November 8, 1954, NA, RG 59, Indonesia desk, MIT project 1954. 45 Beatrice Keyfitz to “Mrs. Fellows,” November 25, 1953, HUA, Keyfitz papers, box 2, correspondence 1953-54. 46 Garis-Garis Besar Rentjana Pembangunan Lima Tahun 1956-1960 [Broad Outlines of the FiveYear Development Plan 1956-1960] (Jakarta: National Planning Bureau, 1956); Dorodjatun Kuntjoro-Jakti, The Political-Economy of Development: The Case of Indonesia Under the NewOrder Government, 1966-1978 (Ph.D. diss., University of California at Berkeley, 1980), 27-32; Benjamin Higgins, Indonesia’s Economic Stabilization and Development (New York: Institute of Pacific Relations, 1957), 49-50; CIS Indonesia Project, “A Summary of the Indonesian Five Year Plan,” 1957; National Planning Bureau, “Some Explanations on Indonesia’s 195660 Five-Year Development Plan,” EKI 9 (1956): 661-82. 47 Benjamin Higgins, “The Indonesian Five-Year Plan: Proposals for Research,” CIS document, September 6, 1957, 5; Benjamin Higgins, introduction to Douglas Paauw, Financing Economic Development: The Indonesian Case (Glencoe: Free Press, 1960), 4.

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48 Higgins with Higgins, Indonesia: The Crisis, 76; Higgins, undated memorandum to Djuanda, in Higgins, “Business Taxation and Regulation of Profits Transfers in Underdeveloped Countries,” CIS document, April 7, 1954. 49 Higgins, Indonesia’s Economic Stabilization and Development, 94. 50 Higgins, “Encouragement of Foreign Investments in Indonesia,” CIS document, September 14, 1954. 51 Kusudiarso Hadinoto cited in Ali Budiardjo, “Abdi Negara dan Abdi Bangsa” [Servant of the State and Servant of the Nation], appendix to Awaloedin Djamin, Ir. H. Djuanda: Negarawan, Administrator, Teknokrat Utama [Engineer Haji Djuanda: Statesman, Administrator, Eminent Technocrat] (Jakarta: Kompas, 2002), 255. 52 Benedict Anderson, “Perspective and Method in American Research on Indonesia,” in Anderson and Audrey R. Kahin, eds., Interpreting Indonesian Politics: Thirteen Contributions to the Debate, ed. Anderson and Audrey R. Kahin (Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project), 77. 53 Delworth cited in “Inflation Has Been Slowed Down in Indonesia – Last Year the Cost of Living Rose only 2.4 Percent,” Financial Post, October 7, 1972. 54 George Kahin to Widjojo, March 5, 1957, Cornell University Archives (CUA), George Kahin papers, box 20, Widjojo Nitisastro; Soemitro, “Recollections of My Career,” Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies 22, no. 3 (1986), 33; Thee Kian Wie, “In Memoriam: Professor Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, 1917-2001,” BIES 37, no. 2 (2001): 176; Mohammad Sadli, “Recollections of My Career,” BIES 29, no. 1 (1993): 37-38. 55 Indonesia: Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: A Report to the President of the United States (New Haven: Yale University Southeast Asian Studies, 1963), 16, 120. 56 Ali Budiardjo to Kahin, June 9, 1961, CUA, Kahin papers, box 3, Ali Budiardjo; Widjojo curriculum vitae, CUA, Kahin papers, box 8, Widjojo Nitisastro; Subroto, “Recollections of My Career,” BIES 34, no. 2 (1998): 67-92. 57 Mohammad Sadli, “Reflections on Boeke’s Theory of Dual Economics,” EKI 10 (1957); Paul F. Gardner, Shared Hopes, Separate Fears: Fifty Years of US-Indonesian Relations (Boulder: Westview, 1997), 194-95. 58 Mohammad Sadli, “The Influence of the Military on Economic Development: An Analysis Drawn Mainly from the Indonesian Experience,” CIS paper, March 1964, 15. 59 Harold Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988); Salim Said, Genesis of Power: General Sudirman and the Indonesian Military in Politics, 1945-49 (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1992), 139; Ulf Sundhaussen, Road to Power: Indonesian Military Politics, 1945-1967 (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1982), 173; C.L.M. Penders and Ulf Sundhaussen, Abdul Haris Nasution: A Political Biography (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1985); Roger Hilsman, To Move a Nation: The Politics of Foreign Policy in the Administration of John F. Kennedy (Garden City: Doubleday, 1967), 377; Ruth McVey, “The Post-Revolutionary Transformation of the Indonesian Army,” part 2, Indonesia 12 (April 1972): 169. 60 Theodore Newton, South Seas Envoy, 14, unpublished memoir, LAC, MG 31 E74, Newton papers, vol. 3, file 8. 61 Charles J. Adams, “The Institute of Islamic Studies,” Canadian Geographic Journal 65 (July 1962): 34-36. 62 Kenneth Cracknell, “Introductory Essay,” in Wilfred Cantwell Smith: A Reader (Oxford: Oneworld, 2001); Willard G. Oxtoby, “Editors’ Introduction,” in Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Religious Diversity (New York: Harper and Row, 1976); Richard J. Jones, “Wilfred Cantwell Smith and Kenneth Cragg on Islam as a Way of Salvation,” International Bulletin of Missionary Research 16, no. 3 (1992): 105-10; “Wilfred Cantwell Smith: In Memoriam,” Harvard Gazette, November 13, 2001; typescript of Smith’s recollections in “The Institute of Islamic Studies,” excerpt from Rockefeller Foundation Trustees’ confidential report, April 1, 1954, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93; Wilfred Cantwell Smith, “Work Among the Moslems,” Presbyterian Record, April 1942; minutes of the first annual meeting of Canadian Overseas Missions Council, April 9-10, 1946, United Church Archives (UCA), Board of Overseas Missions, fonds 502, box 19, file 440. 63 Cyril James to Joseph Willits, Rockefeller Foundation, April 3, 1951, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0016, file 5586. James’s role at McGill is analyzed in Stanley Brice Frost, The Man


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in the Ivory Tower: F. Cyril James of McGill (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1991), and Dorothy McMurray, Four Principals of McGill: A Memoir 1929-1963 (Montreal: Graduates’ Society of McGill University, 1974). James, “Memorandum Regarding Conversations with the Rockefeller Foundation,” n.d. [1951], MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0016, file 5586; Rockefeller Foundation interviews with James, May 14, 1951, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93. Collected Papers of Howard M. Federspiel, Set 1: Graduate School Papers and Theses at McGill University (Newark, OH: 1994), 4-10; Smith to James, October 8, 1962, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0641, file 8263; note on visit to McGill by “RHN” of Rockefeller Foundation, October 8, 1958, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 11, file 100; excerpt from Rockefeller Foundation interview with Paul Romeril, January 25, 1959; Rockefeller Foundation Annual Report, 1955, 156-57. W.C. Smith, “The Institute of Islamic Studies,” Islamic Literature 5, no. 3 (1953): 35-38. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1978), 275-76, 325; Bruce Cumings, “Boundary Displacement: Area Studies and International Studies During and After the Cold War,” Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 29, no. 1 (1997): 6-26; Edward R. Berman, The Influence of the Carnegie, Ford, and Rockefeller Foundations on American Foreign Policy: The Ideology of Philanthropy (Albany: SUNY Press, 1983), 102. Cited in John Trumpbour, “Harvard, the Cold War, and the National Security State,” in How Harvard Rules, ed. Trumpbour (Boston: South End, 1989), 96. Rockefeller Foundation report on visit to McGill, April 1, 1954, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93. Editorial, Saturday Night, November 1952, MUA, press clipping scrapbooks. Excerpt from Civil and Military Gazette, Karachi, October 26, 1952, enclosed with Karachi letter 671, October 28, 1952, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8267, file 9455-P-5-40. Smith in Damascus to R.B.Y. Scott, Dean of McGill Faculty of Divinity, November 10, 1948, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0016, file 5586; Denis Smith, Diplomacy of Fear: Canada and the Cold War 1941-1948. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1988. E.H. Norman, Information Division, Department of External Affairs (DEA), to Smith, September 29, 1952, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8267, file 9455-P-5-40; SSEA Lester B. Pearson to Smith, April 29, 1955; Smith to James, May 29, 1954, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 3852, file 6251. Rockefeller Foundation interviews with Smith, April 6, 1951, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93; McGill University news release, December 27, 1955, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 3852, file 6251. Raleigh Parkin, McGill Board of Governors, to James, April 6, 1951, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0016, file 5586; Rockefeller Foundation resolution 51108, June 22, 1951, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93; personal communication from Howard M. Federspiel, March 16, 2005; “Report on the 12th Annual Conference on Middle Eastern Affairs, Washington,” January 31 to February 1, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3897, file 9802-40. W.C. Smith, “The Institute of Islamic Studies”; McGill University Faculty of Divinity: Inaugural Lectures (Montreal: McGill University, 1950); Cracknell, Wilfred Cantwell Smith; Jones, “Smith and Cragg on Islam”; Sister Ray Tadson, Jesus Christ in the World Theology of Wilfred Cantwell Smith (Ph.D. diss., University of St. Michael’s College, Toronto, 1984), 9-10. Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Islam in Modern History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957), 93, 50-51. Smith’s proposal to James, May 7, 1951, MUA, RG 2, box 208, file 5586. Smith, “Interim Note on Scope and Objective,” December 7, 1954, MUA, RG 2, accession no. 0000-0016, file 5869. Rockefeller Foundation interviews with James, May 13, 1951; Foundation resolution 55169, December 6-7, 1955, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93; Rockefeller Foundation Annual Report, 1951, 396. Smith to F. Champion Ward, Ford Foundation Program Director for Near East and Africa, March 25, 1961; Ford Foundation internal “request for grant action,” n.d.; McDaniel to James, April 10, 1962, MUA, RG2, accession no. 0000-0641, file 8263. Smith, Islam in Modern History, 293; Howard M. Federspiel, “Indonesia, Islam, and US Policy,” Brown Journal of World Affairs 9, no. 1 (2002): 114; Karel Steenbrink, “Itinerant Scholars,”

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Inside Indonesia 52 (October-December 1997), http://www.insideindonesia.org/content/ view/832/29/. Rockefeller Foundation interview with Smith, April 6, 1951, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 93; Smith to Fahs, March 21, 1953, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 10, file 95. Michael Francis Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: the Umma Below the Winds (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 8. Azyumardi Azra, “Guarding the Faith of the Ummah: The Religio-Intellectual Journey of Mohammad Rasjidi,” Studia Islamika 1, no. 2 (1994): 87-119; introduction to H.M. Rasjidi, Documents pour servir a l’histoire de l’Islam à Java (Paris: Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1977); B.J. Boland, The Struggle of Islam in Modern Indonesia (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1982), 157; Deliar Noer, Administration of Islam in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1978), 17; Fahs diary excerpts, RAC, RG 1.2, series 652R, box 6, file 69, Indonesia, Rasjidi, Mohamad 1953-6; Ministry of Religious Affairs: Tasks and Functions (Jakarta: Ministry of Religious Affairs, 1996), 3; interview with Rasjidi, February 7, 1947, from Letters and Documents from the Archives of Virginia Thompson, Cornell University Library, reel 8248; “Freedom of Worship,” excerpts from speech by Minister of Religion Rasjidi, January 4, 1946, in Merdeka, pamphlet produced by Central Committee for Indonesian Independence, Brisbane, August 17, 1946, 25. Smith to Minister of Education Prijono, February 15, 1956, MUA, RG 84, accession no. 0000-0865, file Indonesia, Government of; list of foreign students at McGill, 1956, MUA, RG 2, box 169, file 5869; Smith to J.A. Quinn of Ford Foundation, July 7, 1961, MUA, RG 2, box 274, file 8263; Boland, Struggle of Islam, 107-8. Ali Munhanif, “Islam and the Struggle for Religious Pluralism in Indonesia: A Political Reading of the Religious Thought of Mukti Ali,” Studia Islamika 3, no. 1 (1996): 79-126; Smith’s annual report on IIS, July 1959, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 11, file 101; Rockefeller Foundation memorandum on future funding of IIS, September 14, 1955, RAC, RG 1.2, 427R, box 11, file 99. Harun Nasution, “Mencari Islam di McGill [In Search of Islam at McGill],” in Refleksi Pembahuruan Pemikiran Islam: 70 Tahun Harun Nasution [Reflections on the Renewal of Islamic Thought: 70 Years of Harun Nasution] (Jakarta: Lembaga Studi Agama dan Filsafat, 1989), 34. Siaful Muzani, “Mu’tazilah Theology and the Modernization of the Indonesian Muslim Community: Intellectual Portrait of Harun Nasution,” Studia Islamika 1, no. 1 (1994): 91131; Harun Nasution, “Mencari Islam di McGill,” 33-38; Steenbrink, “Itinerant Scholars”; Donald J. Porter, Managing Politics and Islam in Indonesia (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002): 56; Research on the Role of the McGill University Islamic Studies Alumni in Academics, Bureaucracy, and Society (Jakarta: Centre for the Study of Islam and Society, IAIN Jakarta, 1996), 2.

Chapter 4: Canada, Alliance Politics, and the West New Guinea Dispute, 1957-63 1 Minister’s interview with Indonesian ambassador, memorandum by John Holmes, December 10, 1957, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.1]. 2 H. Basil Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World: A Populist in Foreign Affairs (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 154-55. 3 “Decolonization: Problems Posed by the Move Toward Independence of United Kingdom Dependent Territories,” DEA memorandum, January 31, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 4272, file 9764-40 [2]; discussions on Africa with British officials, December 16, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9849, file 12858-40 [1]. 4 Canadian delegation to UN, letter 849, December 20, 1960; DEA telegram K406 to UN delegation, November 15, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9849, file 12858-40 [1]. 5 “Your Frontier-Posts Are in Asia!” Sukarno speech to the World Affairs Council of Northern California and the Asia Foundation, San Francisco, June 1, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [2.2]. 6 Denis Smith, Rogue Tory: The Life and Legend of John G. Diefenbaker (Toronto: Macfarlane Walter and Ross, 1995), 269, 422; John F. Hilliker, “Diefenbaker and Canadian External Relations,” in Canadian Foreign Policy: Historical Readings, ed. J.L. Granatstein (Toronto: Copp Clark Pitman, 1986); Robinson, Diefenbaker’s World, 4-14.


7 European Division memorandum, December 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.2]. 8 Question period, December 7, 1957, Canada House of Commons Debates (CHCD) 1957-58, 2: 2029. 9 William Stevenson, “West New Guinea Financial Headache Whoever Rules It,” Toronto Star, January 29, 1958. 10 “The Dutch New Guinea (West Irian) Dispute,” DEA draft memorandum, September 15, 1950, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6290, file 11129-40 [1.2]. 11 Casey to Pearson, December 2, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6613, file 11129-40 [5.1]; SSEA to UN delegation 347, December 1, 1954, RG 25, vol. 6613, file 11129-40 [5.1]; Memorandum for the Minister, June 23, 1954, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6464, file 5495-G-40 [2.1]. 12 “Instructions for the Canadian Delegation to the 12th Session of the General Assembly,” September 16, 1957, DCER 1957-58, 1: 5. 13 R.B. Edmonds, FE Division, to Holmes, December 23, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.1]. 14 “Final Report on Agenda Item 62 – The Question of West Irian (West New Guinea),” [December 1957], LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.1]. 15 Statement by Dutch representative to North Atlantic Council, December 7, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.1]; Secretary of State for External Affairs (SSEA), telegram 502 to NATO delegation, December 9, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [1.2]. 16 Memorandum by Arthur Menzies, FE Division, December 9, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [1.2]; “Le Canada faire un excellent médiateur – Palar,” Le Droit, December 11, 1957; Livingstone Merchant, US Ambassador in Ottawa, to Secretary of State Dean Rusk, January 10, 1962, John F. Kennedy Library (JFKL), National Security Files (NSF), box 205a. 17 Menzies to MacDermot, December 10, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [1.2]; Hague telegram 104, March 5, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [11.1]; DEA 517 to Hague, December 23, 1957; Hague 522, December 28, 1957, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [2.2]. 18 Wellington 489, September 5, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [3.2]; memorandum of Diefenbaker meeting with Evatt, Canberra, December 10, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR. 19 NATO delegation telegram 614, March 7, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3]; “Arms to Indonesia,” statement by Netherlands representative to NATO, March 6, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]. Dutch policy is examined in Arend Lijphardt, The Trauma of Decolonization: The Dutch and West New Guinea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966) and C.L.M. Penders, The West New Guinea Debacle: Dutch Decolonisation and Indonesia, 1945-1962 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2002). 20 “Indonesian Overseas Defence Purchasing 1954-1956,” UK Ministry of Defence report, n.d., LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3FP]; overview of Indonesian arms-purchase efforts by military attaché in Belgrade, Col. G.B. Dailley, January 24, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3]; Belgrade letter 641, October 16, 1958, LAC, John Diefenbaker papers, MG 26 M, series 6, PMO files, vol. 552, file 840/I42, reel M-8911; Bung Karno di Sovjet Uni [Sukarno in the Soviet Union] (Bogor: Multatuli, 1957); Soekarno, Presiden Republik Indonesia di Vietnam 24 Djuni–29 Djuni 1959 [Sukarno, President of Indonesia, to Vietnam 24-29 June 1959] (Jakarta: Pemuda, 1959); Havana letter 33, May 17, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6982, file 5495-C-2-40 [2.1]. 21 Canadian Embassy in Jakarta, Annual Review for 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2496, file 10463BD-40; Theodore Newton, South Seas Envoy: Memoirs of a Canadian Ambassador, 64-65 (unpublished manuscript, LAC, Theodore Newton papers, MG 31 E74, vol. 3, file 8). 22 T.C. Davis to Newton, July 20, 1959, LAC, Newton papers, vol. 3, file 7. 23 Joint Chiefs of Staff recommendations on Indonesia, February 10, 1958, FRUS 1958-60, 17: 31-34; DEA telegram E-957 to NATO delegation, June 6, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3]. 24 FE Division to Holmes, August 14, 1958; FE Division memorandum, August 20, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [3.2].

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25 Jakarta letter 468, September 25, 1958; Memorandum for the Minister, July 31, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [3.1]. 26 Cabinet conclusions, March 24, April 2, and April 7, 1959, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2744. 27 Gillespie (RCAF) to Chairman of Chiefs of Staff, October 27, 1958, LAC, RG 24, Series E-1-c, vol. 17639, file S-G 036-100-85/340; Australian policy statement on arms to Indonesia, attached to SSEA letter 24 to Canberra, June 26, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3230, file 5495-Q-40. 28 Hees oral history in Peter Stursberg, Diefenbaker: Leadership Gained, 1956-62 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1975), 166. 29 “Canada’s Innovative Aviation Heritage,” Government of Canada digital collections, http:// collections.ic.gc.ca/canadair/index.htm; R.G. Casey diary, October 9, 1954, National Library of Australia (NLA), MS6150. 30 Newton’s 1960 Canada Day speech on Radio Republik Indonesia, LAC, Newton papers, MG 31 E74, vol. 3, file 5. 31 Memorandum for the Minister, May 14, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3]; minute by G. Kamoff, Directorate of Air Intelligence, Department of National Defence, April 22, 1958, LAC, RG 24, Series E-1-c, vol. 17639, file 036-100-85/340; Memorandum for the Minister, January 27, 1958; DEA telegram E-251 to Jakarta, February 19, 1958; Rhys Sale, President of Ford Motor Company of Canada, to Sidney Smith, February 17, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [3]; Canberra telegram 15, February 6, 1958; Memorandum for the Minister, February 13, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [3.1]. 32 Fleming oral history in Stursberg, Diefenbaker: Leadership Gained, 210. 33 Jakarta letter 554, November 14, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [4]; “Presidential Trip to Sumatra, Borneo, and Bali,” report by Newton, October 12, 1959, LAC, Newton papers, MG 31 E74, vol. 3, file 6; Jakarta letter 565, September 23, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7357, file 11038-4-40 [3.1]. 34 Jakarta letter 617, December 18, 1958; Jakarta letter 54, January 30, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7357, file 11038-4-40 [2.2]; William Stevenson, “Beavers for Borneo,” Globe and Mail, January 7, 1960. 35 Cabinet conclusions, March 24, April 2, and April 7, 1959, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 2744; Memorandum for the Minister, September 17, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY40 [5]. 36 “Canada’s Innovative Aviation Heritage,” Government of Canada digital collections, http:// collections.ic.gc.ca/canadair/index.htm; de Havilland sales brochure for Caribou, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [5]. 37 Memorandum for the Minister, October 23, 1961; R.L. McGibbon, Joint Intelligence Board, to USSEA, October 31, 1961; “Export of De Havilland Aircraft to Indonesia,” Memorandum for the Minister, February 12, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]. 38 Dickins to Green, March 13, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]; Green to Hees, April 6, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [4]; Memorandum to the Prime Minister, February 15, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]; R.B. Bryce, Clerk of the Privy Council, to A.E. Ritchie, April 3, 1962; Ritchie to Bryce, April 4, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [7]. 39 Memorandum of Conversation with Prime Minister Robert Menzies, March 15, 1955, FRUS 1955-57, 22: 144; Foreign Minister Subandrio’s Visit to Australia and New Zealand (Jakarta: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, [1959]); R.G. Casey, Australian Foreign Minister: The Diaries of R.G. Casey 1951-60 (London: Collins, 1972), 314-15. 40 Hague letter 212, April 13, 1960; Hague letter 312, June 2, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [4.2]. 41 Wellington telegram 75, June 22, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6148, file 50409-40 [4.2]; New Zealand DEA “Brief for Prime Minister’s World Tour – West New Guinea,” May 6, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [5.1]; Wellington telegram 149, September 20, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 505409-40 [5.2]. 42 FE draft commentary for UN delegation, September 19, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 505409-40 [5.2].


43 Memorandum on conversation between John Diefenbaker and Tunku Abdul Rahman, November 30, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR. 44 Indonesia-Malaya Cultural Agreement, in Malaya-Indonesia Relations (MIR) (Kuala Lumpur: Department of Information, 1963); memorandum on conversation between John Diefenbaker and Tunku Abdul Rahman, November 30, 1958, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9799, 20-CDA-9-PM-TOUR. 45 Tunku to Sukarno, September 20, 1960, MIR 39-41; Djuanda to Tunku, September 28, 1960, MIR 42-44. 46 Jakarta letter 645, December 27, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6986, file 5495-M-40 [2]. 47 Tunku press statement, Ottawa, October 20, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7801, file 12620-40 [1.3]. 48 Menzies to Tunku Abdul Rahman, October 17, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [5.2]; Wellington telegram 212, November 15, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [6.1]. 49 Kuala Lumpur telegram 230, October 17, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [5.2]; Memorandum for the Prime Minister, October 16, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5580, file 12850M2-1-40 [2]. 50 “Prime Minister’s Conversation with the Prime Minister of Malaya,” memorandum by Basil Robinson, October 20, 1960; USSEA 203 to Hague, October 28, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [5.2]. 51 Hague letter 619, December 15, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [6.1]; Tunku to Sukarno, December 3, 1960; Sukarno to Tunku, December 14, 1960, MIR 45-51. 52 Hague telegram 9, January 9, 1961; Kuala Lumpur letter 556, December 23, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [6.2]. 53 “West New Guinea,” brief for Prime Ministers’ Conference, February 27, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [6.2]. 54 DEA telegram ME-216 to Canadian Mission in New York, April 5, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5122, file 5475-AT-7-40 [1]. 55 Sukarno interview with UPI, December 28, 1957, Report on Indonesia (ROI) November 1957Jan 1958, 21; Subversive Activities in Indonesia: The Jungschlaeger and Schmidt affairs (Jakarta: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, [1957]), 76; “The Era of Asian and African Nationalism,” address by President Sukarno to the National Press Club, Washington, May 18, 1956, LAC, RG 25, vol. 7751, file 12371-40 [1.2]. 56 Jakarta letter 433, July 24, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6982, file 5495-C-2-40 [2.1]. 57 George Modelski, ed., The New Emerging Forces: Documents on the Ideology of Indonesian Foreign Policy (Canberra: Australian National University, 1963); Sukarno speech at Jakarta airport, Indonesian Observer, September 21 and 22, 1961; Frederick Bunnell, “Guided Democracy Foreign Policy 1960-5,” Indonesia 2 (October 1966): 37-76; J.D. Legge, Sukarno: A Political Biography (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1972). 58 USSR-Indonesian joint communiqué, June 13, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6982, file 5495-C-240 [2.1]; Atjara Kundjungan Resmi Ketua Dewan Menteri Uni Republik-Republik Sovjet Sosialis, Jang Mulia Nikita Sergeyevich Krushchov ke Republik Indonesia, 18 Pebruari-1 Maret 1960 [Agenda for the Visit of the Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR, His Excellency Nikita Sergeyevich Krushchev, 18 February-1 March 1960]; Jakarta letter 134, March 14, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3704, file 5495-F-40 [1]. 59 Nasution cited in Paul F. Gardner, Shared Hopes, Separate Fears: Fifty Years of US-Indonesian Relations (Boulder: Westview, 1997), 178; Adam Malik, In the Service of the Republic (Singapore: Gunung Agung, 1980), 240-41; Michael Leifer, Indonesia’s Foreign Policy (Sydney: George Allen and Unwin, 1983), 63; Russell H. Fifield, Southeast Asia in United States Policy (New York: Praeger, 1963), 256; Usha Mahajani, Soviet and American Aid to Indonesia 1949-68 (Athens: Ohio University Center for International Studies, 1970), 16. 60 Sukarno visit briefing book, April 1961, Tab F, “US Military Assistance to Indonesia,” National Archives [of the United States] (NA), RG 59, Exec. Secretary Conference files 1949-63, box 245, CF 1840, Visit of President Sukarno, Washington, 4/24-4/25/61; “Military Assistance to Indonesia,” memorandum by McGeorge Bundy, White House National Security Staff, April 17, 1961; “Military Assistance to Indonesia,” memorandum by Robert Johnson, National Security Staff, January 5, 1962, JFKL, NSF, box 113; Jones to Secretary of State,

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December 24, 1960, NA, RG 59, decimal file 611.98; Frederick Bunnell, The Kennedy Initiatives in Indonesia, 1962-1963 (Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 1969); Bradley R. Simpson, Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and US-Indonesian Relations, 1960-1968 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008). NATO delegation telegram 387, February 15, 1961; NATO delegation letter N-1414, October 18, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]. USSEA to Deputy Minister of Trade and Commerce, January 17, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]; Ross Campbell, office of SSEA, to USSEA, February 2, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6985, file 5495-G-40 [4]; Memorandum for the Minister, May 14, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [7]. Hague letter 262, May 17, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [7.2]. “Excerpt from Record of Prime Minister’s Talks with President Kennedy,” May 17, 1961; Memorandum for the Minister, August 21, 1961; UN delegation telegram 1955, from Green, September 22, 1961; Memorandum for the Prime Minister, September 25, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [7.2]. “Visit of President Kennedy May 16-18: Colonial Issues at the United Nations,” DEA memorandum, May 2, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5122, file 5475-AT-7-40 [1]; “Canadian Approach to African Problems,” Memorandum for the Minister, August 16, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5586, file 12858-40 [2]; “Movement for Independence of African Territories,” summary of meeting of European Heads of Division, Paris, October 26-29, 1959, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3283, file 6938-B-40. Memorandum for the Minister, December 8, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5122, file 5475-AT-740 [2]. Earl Drake, A Stubble-Jumper in Striped Pants: Memoirs of a Prairie Diplomat (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 49. Sigvaldson to George Glazebrook, October 21, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.1]. Australian DEA memorandum, November 4, 1960, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [6.1]. Justus van der Kroef, “Recent Developments in West New Guinea,” Pacific Affairs 34 no. 3 (1961-62): 281; “Dutch Approach on US Representation at West New Guinea Council,” Memorandum of Conversation, March 27, 1961, JFKL, President’s Office Files (POF), Box 122a; London telegram 1074, March 17, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [7.1]. Jakarta telegram 128, October 25, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.2]; Hague telegram 438, October 13, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.1]. News in Extract, “Republic of the South Moluccas” newsletter, vol. 7 5, June 25, 1962. Accra telegram 9, January 10, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]; Kuala Lumpur letter 438, November 4, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.2]; Voice of the Negroids of the Pacific to the Negroids Throughout the World [pamphlet published in Hollandia, West New Guinea, 1962]. UN delegation telegram 2883, November 23, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.2]. Ross Campbell to FE Division, October 26, 1961; DEA telegram 588 to Hague, October 26, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.2]. Teakles to Robertson, November 29, 1961; Hague telegram 493, November 30, 1961; Robertson to Lovink, November 29, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [8.2]; Lovink to Robertson, December 13, 1961; FE Division to Robertson, December 14, 1961; Canberra letter 663, December 15, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]. Washington telegram 3813, December 13, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]; draft letter from Kennedy to Sukarno, December 8, 1961, JFKL, NSF, box 113; Sigvaldson to Glazebrook, December 20, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]; British record of meeting in Bermuda, December 22, 1961, cited in Stewart Doran, Western Friends and Eastern Neighbours: West New Guinea and Australian Self-Perception in Relation to the United States, Britain, and Southeast Asia, 1950-1962 (Ph.D. diss., Australian National University, 1999), 218-19. Wellington telegram 463, December 22, 1961; Wellington telegram 3, January 9, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]; Sukarno to Kennedy, JFKL, NSF, box 113; Australian


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High Commission in Ottawa to Glazebrook, January 23, 1962, LAC, RG 26, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [10.1]. Menzies statement on West New Guinea to Australian House of Representatives, March 29, 1962, NLA, Robert Menzies papers, MS4936, box 274, Statement on WNG. SSEA telegram 679 to Jakarta, December 23, 1961; Jakarta letter 154, December 28, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]. Jakarta letter 589, December 14, 1961; Jakarta letter 600, December 27, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]. DEA telegram 16 to Hague, January 10, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6149, file 50409-40 [9]; Glazebrook to Robertson, January 11, 1962; Glazebrook to Robertson, January 17, 1962; UN delegation telegram 95, January 18, 1962, LAC, RG 26, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [10.1]; exchange of cables between Thant, de Quay, and Sukarno, in Andrew Cordier and Max Herrelson, eds., Public Papers of the Secretaries-General of the United Nations, Vol. VI: U Thant 1961-1964 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), 126-31. Question period, January 22, 1962, CHCD 1962, 1: 35. Glazebrook to Robertson, February 7 and February 13, 1962; Teakles to Glazebrook, February 19, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [10.2]. “Dutch Troops Arrive via French Airfields!” Pacific Islands Monthly (April 1962): 24; Netherlands aides-mémoire F 2568/62 and F 2568a/62, February 26, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [10.2]; Government of Netherlands to Secretary-General of NATO, April 19, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [11.2]. NATO delegation telegram 401, February 4, 1962; NATO delegation telegram 418, February 6, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 2202, file 11044-AY-40 [6]; Memorandum of Conversation Between Kennedy and de Quay, March 2, 1962, FRUS 1961-63, 23: 549-51. Memorandum of Telephone Conversation, George Ball with Rusk, February 22, 1962, JFKL, George Ball papers, box 5, Indonesia; DEA telegram 65 to The Hague, March 1, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [11.1]. Draft memorandum for USSEA by A.P. Sherwood, FE Division, April 24, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [11.2]. Moscow telegram 305, May 12, 1962; Moscow telegram 317, May 16, 1962; DEA telegram 229 to Moscow, May 17, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [12.1]. [Unsigned article] ”Premier Critical of Allies,” New York Times, August 17, 1962; editorial, “Really a Victory for Indonesia,” The Gazette (Montreal), May 29, 1962; Memorandum for the Minister, August 16, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [12.3]; DEA telegram 326 to London, September 13, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [13]. Memorandum for the Minister, August 16, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [12.3]; news release by Malayan Mission to UN, August 29, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409A-40 [1.1]; UN delegation telegram, August 16, 1962, LAC, RG 24, Series B-2, vol. 21597, file S-5081-8; Ross Campbell to FE Division, August 18, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.1]. Memorandum from office of SSEA, August 21, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.1]; Hague telegram 417, August 22, 1962, LAC, RG 24, series B-2, vol. 21597, file S-5081-8; Green Memorandum to Cabinet, August 23, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [12.3]; Cabinet conclusions, August 29, 1962, LAC, RG 2, Series A-5-a, vol. 6193. “Visit of Canadian UNTEA Personnel to Jakarta,” attachment to Jakarta letter 546, November 30, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.1]; Herlina, The Golden Buckle (Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press, 1990), 312. Jakarta letter 205, May 13, 1962, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-40 [13].

Chapter 5: Canada, Confrontation, and the End of Empire in Southeast Asia, 1963-66 1 Editorial, Indonesian Herald, January 29, 1965. 2 Paul Martin, A Very Public Life, Vol. 2: So Many Worlds (Toronto: Deneau, 1985), 498; Geoffrey Pearson, Seize the Day: Lester B. Pearson and Crisis Diplomacy (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1993), 157. 3 Alec Douglas-Home interview by Peter Stursberg, October 1, 1978, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), Peter Stursberg papers, MG 31 D78, vol. 28.

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4 “The Commonwealth, 1960-1970,” Commonwealth Relations Office Draft Memorandum to Cabinet, July 30, 1959, British Documents on the End of Empire (BDEE), A, 4, I: 61-69; William Roger Louis and Ronald Robinson, “The Imperialism of Decolonization,” in The Decolonization Reader, ed. James D. LeSueur (New York: Routledge, 2003). 5 Sir Geoffroy Tory to Duncan Sandys, April 20, 1963, BDEE, B, 8: 482-83; Cabinet Defence Committee Memorandum by Lord Amery (Secretary of State for Air), October 24, 1961, BDEE, A, 4, I: 735-38. 6 Lee Kuan Yew speech in Singapore Legislative Assembly, July 30, 1963, National Archives of Singapore (NAS), speeches, lky19630730. 7 Tunku speech in Malayan Parliament, October 16, 1961, in Malaysia and Singapore in International Diplomacy: Documents and Commentaries, ed. Peter Boyce (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1968), 10-12; Tunku to Macmillan, June 26, 1961, BDEE, B, 8: 132-35; Tunku to Macmillan, September 4, 1961, BDEE, B, 8: 165. 8 Cabinet Greater Malaysia Committee minutes, March 21, 1962, BDEE, B, 8: 287-88; “Defence in the Far East About 1970,” March 19, 1963, Memorandum for Overseas Policy Coordinating Committee of Cabinet, BDEE, B, 8: 455-73; Foreign Secretary R.A. Butler to PM Alec Douglas-Home, April 20, 1964, BDEE, A, 4, I: 277-79. 9 Report of the Commission of Enquiry, North Borneo and Sarawak, 1962 (London: 1962). 10 Michael V. Forrestal, National Security Council (NSC) staff, in Jakarta, to Under-Secretary of State Averell Harriman and McGeorge Bundy, January 20, 1963, John F. Kennedy Library (JFKL), National Security Files (NSF), box 114, Indonesia 1/63-2/63; Forrestal recommendations after Jakarta trip, March 1, 1963, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS) 1961-62, 23: 659-62. 11 Jakarta telegram, February 21, 1963, LAC, RG 24, series B-2, vol. 21597, file S-5081-8; Draft Memorandum to Cabinet from SSEA and Minister of National Defence, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.2]; Memorandum to the Minister, April 11, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.2]. 12 SSEA Paul Martin to Defence Minister Paul Hellyer, April 29, 1963; Arthur Menzies to J.P. Sigvaldson, Canadian Ambassador in Jakarta, May 7, 1963. LAC, RG 25, vol. 6150, file 50409-A-40 [1.2]. 13 Manila Accord, July 31, 1963, Malaya-Philippines Relations (MPR) (Kuala Lumpur: Department of Information, 1963), 32-34; Ide Anak Agung Gde Agung, Twenty Years Indonesian Foreign Policy, 1945-65 (The Hague: Mouton, 1973), 478-79. 14 Kennedy to Macmillan, August 4, 1963; Home to Macmillan, August 4, 1963, BDEE, B, 8: 542-47; John Subritzky, Confronting Sukarno: British, American, Australian, and New Zealand Diplomacy in the Malaysian-Indonesian Confrontation, 1961-5 (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000); Matthew Jones, Conflict and Cooperation in Southeast Asia, 1961-1965: Britain, the United States, and the Creation of Malaysia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Jamie Mackie, Konfrontasi: The Indonesia-Malaysia Dispute, 1963-1966 (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1974). 15 Sukarno speech at banquet for Liu Shaoqi, Jakarta, April 13, 1963, in The New Emerging Forces: Documents on the Ideology of Indonesian Foreign Policy, ed. George Modelski (Canberra: Research School of Asian Pacific Studies, 1963); Sukarno, The Era of Confrontation (Jakarta: Ministry of Information, [1964]). 16 “Plan of Action for Indonesia,” October 2, 1962, FRUS 1961-63, 23: 637-43; Secretary of State Dean Rusk to Australian Foreign Minister Garfield Barwick, January 9, 1964, FRUS 1964-68 26: 21-23; Bradley R. Simpson, Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and US-Indonesian Relations, 1960-1968 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008). 17 Foreign Office to British Embassy in Tokyo, text conveyed in London telegram 2939, October 15, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [1]. 18 “Future Policy Study 1960-1970,” Cabinet Memorandum, February 24, 1960, BDEE, A, 4, I: 87ff. 19 Macmillan cited in BDEE, B, 8: 287; T.E. Bridges (FO) to P.F. de Zulueta (PMO), April 26, 1963, BDEE, B, 8: 486-87. 20 “Screaming Mob Stones Embassy: British Piper Scorns 9,000 Indonesians,” Globe and Mail (G&M), September 17, 1963; Jakarta telegram 184, September 16, 1963.


21 Memorandum of Conversation, Rusk with Barwick, October 4, 1963, FRUS 1961-63, 23: 738-42; Michael Leifer, Indonesia’s Foreign Policy (London: Allen and Unwin, 1983): 91; Washington telegram 3656, November 7, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-13-MLSIA [1]. 22 Jakarta telegram 219, October 17, 1963; Kuala Lumpur letter 456, November 27, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [1]; Jakarta telegram 19, February 1, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [2]; Charles Taylor, “Indonesia’s Dream and Malaysia’s Birth,” G&M, May 10, 1963. 23 Jakarta telegram 203, September 25, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [1]; DEA telegram Y-422 to London, June 8, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 5033, file 1529-40 [3]. 24 Jakarta letter 464, November 14, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [1]. 25 Jakarta letter 447, November 2, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3 [1]; USSEA letter Y-25 to Jakarta, February 28, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [2]. 26 Background paper for Pearson visit to Washington, January 21-22, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [2]; British Embassy in Jakarta to FO, September 13, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [1]; Memorandum of Conversation, Kennedy with Australian Treasurer Harold Holt, October 2, 1963, FRUS 1961-63, 23: 730; Defence Minister Dean Eyre speech in New Zealand House of Representatives, August 27, 1964, in Boyce, Malaysia and Singapore, 210-11. 27 Lester Pearson, Mike: The Memoirs of the Right Honourable Lester B. Pearson, vol. 3 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1975), 122-23. 28 Editorial, “Let’s Move on Sukarno Now” and “What the Newer Nations Need,” Life, October 14, 1963, 4. 29 Washington telegram 3471, October 24, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3MLSIA [1]; Natoparis letter N-158, January 30, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON1-3-MLSIA [2]; Anthony Eden, “The Lesson of Munich,” G&M, September 30, 1963. 30 Foreign Office telegram to British Embassy in Tokyo, October 28, 1963, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [1]; Ganis Harsono, Recollections of an Indonesian Diplomat in the Sukarno Era (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1977), 246-47. 31 Jakarta telegram 10, January 21, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [2]. 32 British Cabinet conclusions, January 23, 1964, BDEE, A, 4, 1: 748-49. 33 Timothy P. Maga, John F. Kennedy and the New Pacific Community, 1961-63 (London: Macmillan, 1990); R.B. Smith, An International History of the Vietnam War, Vol. 2: The Struggle for South-East Asia, 1961-65 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1985), 14; Roger Hilsman, To Move a Nation: The Politics of Foreign Policy in the Administration of John F. Kennedy (Garden City: Doubleday, 1967). 34 Tokyo telegram 314, June 18, 1964; Kuala Lumpur letter 291, June 30, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [5]. 35 Jakarta letter 144, April 1, 1964; Washington telegram 1318, April 10, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [4]. 36 “Review of Defence Planning and the Financial Outlook,” Malaysian Treasury paper, July 4, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [6]. 37 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Communiqué, LAC, Paul Martin papers, MG 32 B12, vol. 225, file Commonwealth: Final Communiqué of Commonwealth prime ministers 1964; Malaysia section of briefing book for Canadian delegation to 1964 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, LAC, Arnold Smith papers, MG 31 E47, vol. 66, file 1; briefing book for Tunku’s visit to Canada, Tab F, Canadian Assistance to Malaysia, July 16, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3499, file 18-1-J-MAL-1964/1. 38 “Assessment of Present and Future Indonesian Foreign Policy,” April 9, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [2]. 39 Kuala Lumpur letter 86, March 4, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [3]; briefing book for Tunku Abdul Rahman’s visit to Canada, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3499, file 18-1-J-MAL-1964/1; Kuala Lumpur letter 203, May 11, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [9]. 40 Party leader statements welcoming Tunku Abdul Rahman, July 28, 1964, Canada House of Commons Debates (CHCD) 1964, 6: 5055-56.

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41 Diefenbaker question to Martin, July 17, 1964, CHCD 1964, 6: 5611; Nesbitt statement in Parliament, August 6, 1964, CHCD 1964, 6: 6479-81; Nesbitt statement, May 22, 1964, CHCD 1964, 4: 3496-7. 42 Parliamentary debates on External Affairs estimates, November 19 and 20, 1964, CHCD 1964, 10: 10263, 10295, 10301-302, 10313-30; “Bid To Halt Indonesia Aid Fails,” G&M, November 20, 1964; “The Commonwealth,” Conservative talking points for parliamentary debate, LAC, Wallace Nesbitt papers, MG 32 C56, vol. 6, file External Affairs Committee 1963-64. 43 “A Year of Living Dangerously,” Sukarno Independence Day speech, August 17, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [1]; CIA intelligence memorandum, August 20, 1964, FRUS 1964-68 26: 134-36. 44 Security Council Official Records, September 15, 1964; DEA telegram K-213 to New York, September 8, 1964; “Malaysia, in UN, Shows Arms Captured in Invasion,” New York Times, September 10, 1964; undated Malay-language leaflet by Sukitno Tjitrosomarto, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10114, file 20-24-3-INDON-MLSIA [1]. 45 Colombo telegram 293, September 22, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10114, file 20-24-3-INDONMLSIA [1]; DEA telegram K-240 to Colombo, September 25, 1964; Colombo telegram 300, September 29, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [7]. 46 London telegram 3576, October 9, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [7]; Menzies to Macmillan, April 18, 1962, BDEE, A, 4, 2: 666-68. 47 Cairo telegram 605, October 1, 1964; Tunku’s message to Non-Aligned Conference, given in Malaysian Government note to Canadian High Commission, October 12, 1964; DEA telegram K-252 to Cairo, October 8, 1964; Colombo telegram 323, October 21, 1964; New Zealand High Commission in Kuala Lumpur to NZDEA, October 23, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [7]. 48 Rusk to Ambassadors in Indonesia, Malaysia, and Philippines, October 22, 1964, FRUS 196468, 26: 167-70; R.D. Jackson, Canadian Permanent Representative in Hanoi, Memorandum to the Canadian Commissioner, August 20, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [2]; Acting Secretary of State to Jones, July 11, 1964, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 120-22. 49 Vientiane telegram 412, August 13, 1965; Vientiane telegram 182, April 19, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [4]. 50 Appendix to report on Greater Malaysia by British Officials’ Committee, BDEE, B, 8: 358; Michael Leifer, “The Vietnam War and the Response of Southeast Asian Countries,” in Michael Leifer: Selected Works on Southeast Asia, ed. Chin Kin Wah and Leo Suryadinata (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2005); Boyce, Malaysia and Singapore, 230. 51 Robert Bothwell, Alliance and Illusion: Canada and the World, 1945-1984 (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007), 200-10. Canadian diplomatic disillusion is spelled out in, among other sources, Escott Reid, Envoy to Nehru (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); John Holmes, The Shaping of Peace: Canada and the Search for World Order, 1943-1957, 2 vols. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979, 1982); Douglas Ross, In the Interests of Peace: Canada and Vietnam 1954-1973 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984); David van Praagh, “Canada and Southeast Asia,” in Canada and the Third World, ed. Peyton V. Lyon and Tareq Y. Ismael (Toronto: Macmillan, 1976); Ramesh Thakur, Peacekeeping in Vietnam: Canada, India, Poland, the International Commission (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1984). 52 Martin, So Many Worlds, 421. 53 Ross, In the Interests of Peace, 256; Denis Stairs, The Diplomacy of Constraint: Canada, the Korean War, and the United States (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1974). 54 British Embassy in Tokyo to FO, January 20, 1965; Malaysian Information Service, January 1965; Belgrade letter 93, February 3, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [8]; “Assessment of 15th Session,” UN Division note prepared for visit of UNGA president to Ottawa, June 7, 1961, LAC, RG 25, vol 5122, file 5475-AT-7-40 [1]. 55 “Canada, the Preservation of Peace and the United Nations,” Martin speech to Inter-Parliamentary Union, Ottawa, September 9, 1965, in Paul Martin Speaks for Canada (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1967), 28; Martin, So Many Worlds, 178-217. 56 DEA telegram V-100 to Jakarta, January 4, 1965, transmitting message from Martin to Subandrio, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON.


57 Editorial, “Ominous Precedent for UN in Walkout by Indonesia,” G&M, January 4, 1965. 58 FE Division to UN Division, January 20, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [3]; Karachi telegram 848, September 29, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [4]; Subandrio letter of withdrawal from UN, January 21, 1965, UN document A/5857. 59 Sukarno speech, January 7, 1965, cited in Anak Agung, Twenty Years, 504. 60 Note on Malaysia from Canadian briefing book for 1964 Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, June 25, 1964, LAC, Arnold Smith papers, vol. 66, file 1; Indonesian Embassy note to External Affairs, May 12, 1964; New York telegram 102, January 20, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON; “Ottawa Stops Otters Sought by Indonesia,” G&M, January 20, 1965. 61 Greg Donaghy, “The Rise and Fall of Canadian Military Assistance in the Developing World, 1952-1971,” Canadian Military History 4 no. 1 (Spring 1995): 77. 62 Martin testimony to Commons Special Committee on Defence, July 25, 1963, in Canadian Foreign Policy 1955-1965: Selected Speeches and Documents, ed. Arthur F. Blanchette (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1977), 295; Martin Memorandum to Cabinet Committee on External Affairs and Defence, August 18, 1964, LAC, Martin papers, vol. 232, file External Affairs Debates and Standing Committee on External Affairs 1963-65. 63 Tunku’s press conference, July 28, 1964; “Assistance to the Malaysian Air Force,” July 21, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 3499, file 18-1-J-MAL-1964/1. 64 Kuala Lumpur letter XAO-92, May 22, 1964; Ritchie to DL(1) Division, July 30, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-5-MLSIA [1]. 65 Cabinet conclusions, August 27, 1964, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 6265, 1964/08/27. 66 Malaysian minutes of Finance Ministers’ Meetings, September 11, 1964; Kuala Lumpur telegram 463, September 24, 1963; Tokyo telegram 514, September 11, 1964, from Gordon for Martin; DEA telegram DL-1962 to Kuala Lumpur, September 29, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-5-MLSIA [2]. 67 “Canadian Military Survey Team Report, Federation of Malaysia,” November 1964, LAC, RG 24, vol. 21579, file 2-5040-12-85/438 [2]; DL(1) Division Memorandum, December 7, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-5-MLSIA [2]; USSEA to Deputy Minister of Finance, January 15, 1965; Memorandum to the Minister, January 19, 1965; “Military Assistance for Malaysia: Political Considerations,” annex to SSEA Memorandum to Cabinet, January 19, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-MLSIA [3]. 68 Cabinet conclusions, January 22, 1965, LAC, RG2, A-5-a, vol. 6271, 1965/01/22; Pearson to Tunku, January 22, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-MLSIA [3]. 69 Cabinet conclusions, February 9, 1965, LAC, RG2, A-5-a, vol. 6271, 1965/02/09; External Affairs memorandum for NATO ministerial meeting, April 23, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [9]; H.O. Moran, Director of External Aid Office, to External Aid Board, January 20, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON. 70 F.R. Kearns, executive vice-president, Canadair, to Export Credits Insurance Corp., December 22, 1964, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-5-MLSIA [3]. 71 DEA telegram DL-193 to Kuala Lumpur, January 26, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10419, file 27-20-MLSIA [3]; Cabinet conclusions, March 30, 1965, LAC, RG 2, A-5-a, vol. 6271, 1965/03/30. 72 Jakarta letter 104, March 16, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [8]; “‘Go to Hell,’ Canada, Says Indonesian Paper,” Vancouver Sun, undated clipping [August 1964], LAC, Nesbitt papers, MG 32 C56, vol. 6, file External Affairs Committee 1963-64. 73 Kuala Lumpur letter 225, May 26, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3-MLSIA [9]; Lee speech to Consular Corps, July 30, 1964, NAS speeches, lky19640730. 74 Kuala Lumpur letter 203, May 11, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3MLSIA [9]. 75 Jakarta letter 334, August 11, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [4]; Lee Kuan Yew, The Singapore Story (Singapore: Prentice-Hall, 1998). 76 CIA memorandum to State Department, September 18, 1964, FRUS 1964-68 26: 161-4; CIA political action paper, November 19, 1964, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 181-4; editorial note, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 254; Kuala Lumpur telegram 380, June 10, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [2].

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77 Natoparis telegram 2097, October 6, 1965; London telegram 3971, October 4, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [2]. 78 Green to Rusk, October 5, 1965, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 307-8; Marshall Green, Indonesia: Crisis and Transformation (Washington: Compass, 1990), 63-64; Memorandum for 303 Committee, November 17, 1965, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 368-71; Green to William Bundy, December 2, 1965, FRUS 1964-68, 26: 379-80; John Roosa, Pretext for Mass Murder: The September 30 Movement and Suharto’s Coup d’Etat in Indonesia (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2006); Simpson, Economists with Guns. 79 London letter 1988, November 2, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8917, file 20-INDON-1-3 [4]; DEA telegram Y-65 to Jakarta, January 26, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [3]; Jakarta letter 515, November 18, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8753, file 20-22-5-INDON. 80 New Zealand Embassy in Jakarta to NZDEA, October 15, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8753, file 20-22-5-INDON; Jakarta letter 135, March 3, 1967, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10283, file 27-1-2-INDON. 81 Jakarta telegram 200, December 20, 1965, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8861, file 20-INDON-1-3 [4]; DEA telegram Y-3 to Tokyo and other missions, January 6, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [3]; FE Division paper on Indonesia aid, December 30, 1965; DEA telegram Y-336 to Jakarta, May 12, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON. 82 Memorandum for the Minister, August 26, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON. 83 FE Division to Economic Division, June 15, 1967, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10099, file 20-1-2-INDON; New York telegram 2577, September 28, 1967, LAC, Martin papers, vol. 225, file Far East (other than Vietnam and China). 84 Jakarta letter 552, December 6, 1966, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8959, file 20-INDON-1-4 [5]; Humphrey to Johnson, September 25, 1966, FRUS 1964-68 26: 470-72.

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Chapter 6: Pebbles in Many Shoes: Development in Indonesia, Decolonization in East Timor, 1968-99 Michael Ignatieff, The Rights Revolution (Toronto: Anansi, 2000); Robert O. Matthews and Cranford Pratt, eds., Human Rights in Canadian Foreign Policy (Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press, 1988); David Gillies, Between Principle and Practice: Human Rights in North-South Relations (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1996). Jane Perletz, “A Book About East Timor Jabs Indonesia’s Conscience,” New York Times, August 17, 2006; Ali Alatas, The Pebble in the Shoe: The Diplomatic Struggle for East Timor (Jakarta: Aksara Karunia, 2006). J.L. Granatstein and Robert Bothwell, Pirouette: Pierre Trudeau and Canadian Foreign Policy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990); John English, Citizen of the World: The Life of Pierre Elliott Trudeau (Toronto: Knopf, 2006). Memorandum to Trudeau, cited in Allan Gotlieb, Romanticism and Realism in Canada’s Foreign Policy (Toronto: C.D. Howe Institute, 2004), 13; Pearson notes cited in Granatstein and Bothwell, Pirouette, 34. The “Kissingerian realism” criticism is spelled out best in George Kennan, American Diplomacy, 1900-1950 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952). Foreign Policy for Canadians, Pacific booklet (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1970), 11; Ivan Head and Pierre Trudeau, The Canadian Way: Shaping Canada’s Foreign Policy, 1968-1984 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1995), 92-93, 276. “Ministerial Mission to Pacific Basin Countries 1969: Singapore,” briefing book, Library and Archives Canada (LAC), RG 25, vol. 9801, file 19-1-DC-SING-1969/1; personal notes by Louis Rogers, Director General of Asian and Pacific Affairs, on visit to Southeast Asia, June 6-14, 1977, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. “Canadian Policy Towards Southeast Asia,” undated note prepared for Commonwealth Prime Minister’s Meeting, Singapore, January 14-21, 1971, in “Visit of PM Trudeau to India, January 1971,” briefing book, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801, 19-1-DA-IND-1971/1; David Morrison, Aid and Ebb Tide: A History of CIDA and Canadian Development Assistance (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1998), 62. P. Whitney Lackenbauer, ed., An Inside Look at External Affairs During the Trudeau Years: The Memoirs of Mark MacGuigan (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2002), 145.


9 Gordon Mace and Gérard Hervouet, “Canada’s Third Option: A Complete Failure?” Canadian Public Policy 15, no. 4 (1989): 387-404. 10 Jakarta letter 280, June 22, 1971, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 11 Mohammad Sadli, “Recollections of My Career,” Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies 29, no. 1 (1993): 49; David Ransom, “Ford Country: Building an Elite for Indonesia,” in The Trojan Horse: A Radical Look at Foreign Aid, ed. Steve Weissman (Palo Alto: Ramparts, 1975); Howard Dick, Vincent J.H. Houben, J. Thomas Lindblad, and Thee Kian Wee, eds., The Emergence of a National Economy: An Economic History of Indonesia, 1800-2000 (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2002), 194-231; Bradley R. Simpson, Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and US-Indonesian Relations, 1960-1968 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008). 12 Cited in Hamish McDonald, Suharto’s Indonesia (Blackburn: Fontana, 1980), 81. 13 Benjamin Higgins, “A Foreign Aid Strategy for Indonesia” (November 1968), Center for International Studies document, Cornell University Library. 14 Ali Murtopo, The Acceleration and Modernization of 25 Years’ Development (Jakarta: Yayasan Proklomasi, 1973); Muhammad Kamal Hassan, Muslim Intellectual Responses to “New Order” Modernization In Indonesia (Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, Kementerian Pelajaran, 1982). 15 Donald J. Porter, Managing Politics and Islam in Indonesia (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002); Howard Federspiel, Indonesia in Transition: Muslim Intellectuals and National Development (Commack: Nova Science, 1998): Ali Munhanif, “Islam and the Struggle for Religious Pluralism in Indonesia: A Political Reading of the Religious Thought of Mukti Ali,” Studia Islamika 3, no. 1 (1996): 79-126; Karel Steenbrink, “Itinerant Scholars,” Inside Indonesia 52 (OctoberDecember 1997), http://www.insideindonesia.org/content/view/832/29/. 16 Institute of Islamic Studies Annual Report, August 1975, McGill University Archives, RG 2, box 504, file 9252. 17 USSEA letter Y-403 to Jakarta, May 23, 1968, LAC, RG 19, vol. 5456, file 7875/I43. 18 Foreign Policy for Canadians, Pacific booklet (Ottawa: Department of External Affairs, 1970), 7. 19 Head and Trudeau, 9. 20 MacGuigan, Inside Look; “Regional Security in Southeast Asia,” note for Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, Singapore, January 14-22, 1971, in Visit of PM Trudeau to India, January 1971, briefing book, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801, 19-1-DA-IND-1971/1; Geoffrey B. Hainsworth, Innocents Abroad or Partners in Development: An Evaluation of Canada-Indonesia Aid, Trade, and Investment Relations (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1986), 6. 21 Figures calculated from A Report on Canada’s External Aid Programs 1965-66 (Ottawa: External Aid Office, 1966). 22 Foreign Policy for Canadians, Pacific booklet; CIDA, Canada and the Developing World (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1970); Morrison, Aid and Ebb Tide, 74; David Morrison, “The Choice of Bilateral Aid Recipients,” in Canadian Development Assistance Policies: An Appraisal, ed. Cranford Pratt (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1994), 132; Hainsworth, Innocents Abroad, 17; “Canadian Policy Towards Southeast Asia,” undated note prepared for Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Meeting, Singapore, January 14-21, 1971, in “Visit of PM Trudeau to India, January 1971,” briefing book, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801, 19-1-DA-IND-1971/1. 23 Briefing note for Suharto visit to Canada, cited in Sharon Scharfe, Complicity: Human Rights and Canadian Foreign Policy – the Case of East Timor (Montreal: Black Rose, 1996), 131; Allan MacEachen speech in Jakarta, August 25, 1976, External Affairs, Statements and Speeches 76/25; Timothy Pritchard, “Obstacles to Indonesian Trade Felt Worth Surmounting,” Globe and Mail (G&M), October 8, 1975. 24 Jakarta letter 388, December 9, 1969, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 25 Confidential memorandum on Inco operations, attached to Jakarta letter 280, June 22, 1971, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 26 Jakarta letter 40, January 23, 1978, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2; Malia Southard, Looking the Other Way: The Indonesian Bond, Partnership or Plunder (Victoria: South Pacific Peoples Foundation, 1997); Jamie Swift, The Big Nickel: Inco at Home and Abroad (Toronto: Between the Lines, 1977); Arianto Sangaji, “Inco in Indonesia: A Report for

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Canadian People,” unpublished paper, 2000, East Timor Alert Network papers, private collection, Toronto (ETAN). “Ministerial Mission to Pacific Basin Countries 1969: Singapore,” briefing book, LAC, RG 25, vol. 9801, file 19-1-DC-SING-1969/1. Record of meeting between SSEA and Defence Minister Panggabean, August 26, 1976, Visit of the Secretary of State for External Affairs to Indonesia, August 23-26, 1976, Records of Meetings, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801. Peter Johnston, Cooper’s Snoopers and Other Follies: Fragments of a Life (Victoria: Trafford, 2002), 122, 129; record of meeting between SSEA and Industry/Acting Mines Minister Jusuf, August 26, 1976, Visit of the Secretary of State for External Affairs to Indonesia, August 23-26, 1976, Records of Meetings, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801; Jakarta letter 335, June 30, 1976, LAC, RG 19, vol. 5456, file 7875/I43. Jakarta letter 476, September 26, 1967; Jakarta letter 212, April 29, 1968, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8571, file 20-IRIAN [1]; Memorandum for the Minister, September 15, 1969, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8572, file 20-IRIAN [3]. The UN role is examined in John Saltford, The United Nations and the Indonesian Takeover of West Papua, 1962-1969: The Anatomy of Betrayal (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002). Jakarta letter 223, August 11, 1970; Jakarta letter 48, May 13, 1985, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2; Janice L. Sutton, So Many Goodbyes: Episodes in a Foreign Service Career (self-published, 1999), 106-25. Chronology of East Timor Integration (Jakarta: House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia, [1978?]). Fretilin statement to UN Security Council, April 12, 1976, UN document S/PV.1908; Xavier do Amaral, President of Democratic Republic of East Timor, to UN Secretary General, annex to UN document S/12055. Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation in East Timor, Chega! Final Report, Dili, 2006; Joseph P. Nevins, A Not-So-Distant Horror: Mass Violence in East Timor (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2005); David Webster, “History, Nation, and Narrative in East Timor’s Truth Commission report,” Pacific Affairs 80, no. 4 (2007-8): 581-91. Canberra letter 2424, September 20, 1974, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8586, 20-TIMOR [1]. Jakarta telegram 96, January 11, 1974, LAC, RG 19, vol. 5456, file 7875/I43; Adam Schwartz, A Nation in Waiting: Indonesia in the 1990s (St. Leonard’s: Allen and Unwin, 1994); John Bresnan, Managing Indonesia: The Modern Political Economy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993). Jakarta telegram XEGR2202, December 19, 1975, LAC, RG 19, vol. 5456, file 7875/I43. Unpublished letter from Adam Malik to José Ramos Horta, June 17, 1974, ETAN; remarks by General Yoga Sutama, BAKIN chief, Jakarta letter 16, January 11, 1978, 20-INDON-2-2. MacGuigan, Inside Look, 14; Johnston, Cooper’s Troopers, 121; USSEA letter GPO-72, February 6, 1975, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8586, 20-TIMOR [1]; Paul M. Monk, “Secret Intelligence and Escape Clauses: Australia and Indonesia’s Annexation of East Timor, 1963-76,” Critical Asian Studies 32, no. 2 (2001): 181-208. Memorandum of Conversation between Presidents Ford and Suharto, July 5, 1975, Gerald R. Ford Library, National Security Advisor Memoranda of Conversations, box 13, National Security Archive, East Timor documentation project, http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/ indonesia/index.html. Since Trudeau excluded External Affairs officials from his meeting with Suharto, there is no record of that meeting. Johnston, Cooper’s Troopers, 122-23; “Twenty Years in East Timor: A Chronological Overview” [1994], DEA file 20-TIMOR, ETAN. “Portuguese Timor,” Pacific Division background paper, [October 3, 1975]; R.L. Rogers to GPO, December 3, 1975, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8586, file 20-TIMOR [2]. Briefing note, January 8, 1976, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8586, file 20-TIMOR [3]; Hainsworth, Innocents Abroad, Table 3; Morrison, “The Choice of Bilateral Aid Recipients,” 132. Record of meeting between SSEA and Foreign Minister Malik, August 26, 1976, Visit of the Secretary of State for External Affairs to Indonesia, August 23-26, 1976, Records of Meetings, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801. Shortliffe report, September 1978, ETAN; Jakarta telegram 3011, September 7, 1979; Jakarta telegram 3193, September 25, 1979, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8664, file 20-TIMOR [6].


45 Asia Pacific Division Memorandum, October 9, 1979, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8664, file 20TIMOR [6]. 46 Statement by Canadian Delegation to UN General Assembly; DEA telegram GPL-1094 to Jakarta and Canberra, November 8, 1979; Jakarta telegram 2692, May 22, 1980, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8664, file 20-TIMOR [6]; Memorandum for the Minister, October 27, 1980, ETAN. 47 Washington telegram 1272, April 23, 1974, RG 19, vol. 5456, file 7875/I43; Human Rights Practices in Countries Receiving US Security Assistance: Report Submitted to the Committee on International Relations, House of Representatives, by the Department of State in Accordance with Section 502(b) of the Foreign Assistance Act, as Amended (Washington: US GPO, 1977); Marlies Glasius, Foreign Policy on Human Rights: Its Influence on Indonesia under Soeharto (Antwerp: Intersentia, 1999); Bradley R. Simpson, “‘Illegally and Beautifully’; The United States, the Indonesian Invasion of East Timor, and the International Community, 1974-76,” Cold War History 5, no. 3 (2005): 281-315. 48 Record of meeting between SSEA and Foreign Minister Malik, August 26, 1976, Visit of the Secretary of State for External Affairs to Indonesia, August 23-26, 1976, Records of Meetings, LAC, RG 25, G-25, vol. 9801; Memorandum for the Minister, November 20, 1979, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8664, file 20-TIMOR [6]; personal notes by Louis Rogers, Director General of Asian and Pacific Affairs, on visit to Southeast Asia, June 6-14, 1977; Jakarta letter 40, January 23, 1978, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 49 Report on 1980 Canadian Embassy trip to East Timor, Jakarta letter 230, June 19, 1980, LAC, RG 25, vol. 8664, file 20-TIMOR [6]; Canadian Embassy 1984 trip report, Jakarta letter 286, December 20, 1984, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 50 Jakarta letter 40, January 23, 1978, LAC, RG 25, vol. 10861, file 20-INDON-2-2. 51 “Twenty Years in East Timor: A Chronological Overview” [1994], DEA file 20-TIMOR. 52 Hauke Hartmann, “US Human Rights Policy Under Carter and Reagan, 1977-1981,” Human Rights Quarterly 23, no. 2 (2001): 402-30; Linda Freeman, The Ambiguous Champion: Canada and South Africa in the Trudeau and Mulroney Years (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997); Southard, Looking the Other Way, 102. 53 J.W. Morley, ed., Driven by Growth: Political Change in the Asia-Pacific Region (Armonk: Sharpe, 1993); Larry Diamond, J. Linz, and Seymour Martin Lipset, Democracy in Developing Countries, Vol. 3, Asia (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1989); Ezra Vogel, The Four Little Dragons: The Spread of Industrialization in East Asia (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); Steven Schlossstein, Asia’s New Little Dragons: The Dynamic Emergence of Indonesia, Thailand, and Malaysia (Chicago: Contemporary, 1991). 54 Hainsworth, Innocents Abroad, 16; Dick, Emergence, 206; Dept. of External Affairs, Survey of Bilateral Economic Relations Between Canada and Indonesia (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1990); David R. Morrison, “The Choice of Bilateral Aid Recipients,” and T.A. Keenleyside, “Aiding Rights: Canada and the Advancement of Human Dignity,” in Pratt, ed., Canadian International Development Assistance Policies. 55 DEA telegram PSR-2517 to Jakarta, November 8, 1984, LAC, RG 25, 20-INDON-2-2. 56 “East Timor,” External Affairs and International Trade backgrounder, January 1986, ETAN. 57 DEA telegram PSR1099 to Jakarta, April 8, 1987; Jakarta telegram 242, April 27, 1987, ETAN; Scharfe, Complicity, 142-46. 58 Clark to Christine Stewart MP, October 13, 1989, ETAN; Marcus Gee, “Nobel Prize Is No Help to East Timor,” G&M, October 16, 1996; Peter Eglin, “East Timor, the Globe and Mail, and Propaganda: The 1990s – Saving Indonesia from East Timor with ‘Maoist Shields’ and ‘Tragic Destiny,’” Portuguese Studies Review 11, no. 1 (2003): 67-84. 59 Clark to Roland de Corneille MP, April 13, 1987, ETAN. 60 David Kilgour MP to Clark, October 9, 1990, ETAN. 61 “Twenty Years in East Timor: A Chronological Overview” [1994], DEA file 20-TIMOR, ETAN ATI; Clark to Bill Ripley, March 14, 1990, ETAN. 62 Southard, Looking the Other Way, 117-18, 159. 63 Mulroney speech at Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting in Harare, Zimbabwe, October 16, 1991. 64 SSEA news release, November 15, 1991; Question Period, November 18, 1991, CHCD 1991, 4: 4912-13.

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65 Jakarta telegram, November 20, 1991, DEA file 20-TIMOR. 66 DEA news release, December 9, 1991; International Cooperation Minister Monique Landry to Walter MacLean MP, [1992], ETAN. 67 McDougall interview cited in David Webster, “Canada Expands Export of Military Goods to Indonesia,” Catholic New Times, June 25, 1995; Kent Vachon, DEA Southeast Asia (PSE) Division, to Jakarta, March 13, 1996, DEA file 20-TIMOR. 68 Kim Richard Nossal, Rain Dancing: Sanctions in Canadian and Australian Foreign Policy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994), 36; Terence Keenleyside, “Aiding Rights: Canada and the Advancement of Human Dignity,” in Pratt, ed., Canadian Development Assistance Policies, 256. 69 “An External Review of the University of Guelph’s Involvement in the Sulawesi Regional Development Project” (Guelph ON: University of Guelph, 1993), ETAN; CP wire story, July 5, 1994, ETAN; editorial, “Snubbing Canada Will Cost Indonesia,” Toronto Star, July 14, 1994. 70 Chris Dagg, “Linking Aid to Human Rights in Indonesia: A Canadian Perspective,” Issues 7, no. 1 (1993); TAPOL urgent action, May 29, 1992; draft Parliamentarians for East Timor news release, July 14, 1992, ETAN. 71 Chrétien letter, December 18, 1991; Axworthy letter, May 30, 1993, DEA file 20-TIMOR; C-401, “An Act to Terminate Canadian Assistance to Indonesia,” private member’s bill presented by Dan Heap MP, first reading February 4, 1993. 72 Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, Canada’s Export Strategy: The International Trade Business Plan, 1995/96 (Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1995). 73 Dickenson quoted in Indonesia: A Guide for Canadian Business, 1995-96; “CEA Signs Joint Venture Agreement with Indonesia,” Canadian Exporters Association (CEA) news release, March 9, 1994; Business Opportunities Sourcing system inquiry, March 1994; “Canadian Investment Advisor Project,” CEA promotional piece, 1994; Canada-Indonesia Business Development Office (CIBDO), “Indonesia: An Ideal Choice for Investment” (1994); “Safari of Two Ambasadors,” ICBC Bulletin, Q4/1994, ETAN. 74 Information Memorandum for the Minister, July 15, 1994; “Twenty Years in East Timor: A Chronological Overview” (1994), DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 75 Jakarta telegram 3040, March 7, 1995, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 76 Marginal note on Jakarta e-mail, February 21, 1995; DFAIT memorandum from Marius Grinius to Gary Smith, February 27, 1995; telegram PSE153 to New York, March 15, 1995, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 77 Jakarta telegram 179, February 24, 1995, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 78 Jakarta telegram 3104, August 22, 1996, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR; John Stackhouse, “PM Defends Cautious Approach to Indonesian Abuses,” G&M, January 18, 1996. 79 Jakarta to PSE, December 12, 1996, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 80 Indonesian Embassy note to DFAIT, January 30, 1996; Jakarta e-mail, January 31, 1996; Jakarta 3021, February 8, 1996, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR; Allan Thompson, “Ottawa Lodges Official Protest over Indonesian Envoy’s Visit,” Toronto Star, February 3, 1996; editorial, “Persona Non Grata: Indonesian Envoy Should Leave,” Vancouver Sun, February 12, 1996; Allan Thompson, “Ambassador Adds Fuel to Indonesia Dispute,” Toronto Star, February 8, 1996. 81 “ATIP Requests re Arms Sales,” briefing note for ministerial use; Action Memorandum for the Minister, October 25, 1996; Jakarta to PSE, December 12, 1996, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 82 Jakarta e-mail, November 3, 1998, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 83 Jeff Sallot, “Canada, Indonesia Agree to New Talks,” G&M, July 13, 1997; Kathy Woodcock and Carole Samdup, “Canada’s Bilateral Human Rights Dialogue with China: Considerations for a Policy Review,” Rights and Democracy paper, July 26, 2005, http://www.dd-rd. ca/site/publications/index.php?lang=enandsubsection=catalogueandid=1435; Lloyd Axworthy, “Human Rights and Foreign Policy,” in Peace, Justice, and Freedom: Human Rights Challenges for the New Millennium, ed. Gurcharan S. Bhatia, J.S. O’Neill, Gerald L. Gall, and Patrick D. Benden (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 2000), 34. 84 Indonesian Embassy statement, July 22, 1997; Indonesian Embassy note to DFAIT, July 17, 1997, DFAIT file 2970-01/Timor A-5, ETAN.


85 Jakarta e-mail, July 31, 1997, DFAIT file 8805-01/INDON A5; Memorandum on AxworthyAlatas Meeting, July 30, 1997, University of British Colombia Archives, BC Civil Liberties Association (BCCLA) papers, APEC Inquiry exhibits, box 1. 86 Jakarta e-mail, September 12, 1997; “Liaison Visit by Indonesia, September 8-9, 1997,” RCMP Memorandum; Jakarta e-mail, September 10, 1997, BCCLA, box 1; “Bilateral Meeting with President Soeharto of Indonesia,” Memorandum for the Prime Minister, November 1997, BCCLA, box 2. 87 Prime Minister’s Office memorandum, James Bartleman to Jean Carle, September 16, 1997, BCCLA, box 1; Action Memorandum for the Minister, September 19, 1997, BCCLA, box 2. 88 Marcus Gee, “$250 Million Loan Rescues Wheat Sale,” G&M, April 1, 1998; Naomi Klein, “Why Did Suharto Think He Could Push Canada Around?” Saturday Night, February 1999, 43-49. 89 Gary Smith, farewell address as Ambassador to Indonesia to Indonesia-Canada Chamber of Commerce, Jakarta, June 10, 1998, ETAN. 90 Jakarta e-mail, October 15, 1998; PSE draft telegram on Axworthy–Ramos Horta meeting, October 29, 1998; PSE to Jakarta, November 2, 1998; notes for Chan remarks to FAIT standing committee, November 26, 1998; transcript of committee hearings, November 26, 1998, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 91 Xanana to Axworthy, February 20, 1999; PSE memorandum, January 29, 1999, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 92 Draft for Axworthy letter to Ottawa Citizen [August 1999], DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 93 “Indonesian Political Situation,” September 8, 1999, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR, ATI; Ian Martin, Self-Determination in East Timor: The United Nations, the Ballot, and International Intervention (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2001). 94 PSE memorandum, September 6, 1999; Canberra High Commission Memorandum, September 7, 1999; Jakarta e-mail, September 9, 1999; Position Paper on East Timor for APEC Meeting, transmitted September 7, 1999; “Intervention Notes: Next Steps,” September 8, 1999, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. 95 Transcripts of Axworthy satellite press conferences, September 9, 1999, DFAIT file 20-TIMOR. Conclusion 1 Earl Drake, A Stubble-Jumper in Striped Pants: Memoirs of a Prairie Diplomat (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 174. 2 Howard Green speech in Parliament, February 10, 1960, External Affairs 12, no. 3 (1960): 534-50. 3 Jamie Mackie, “Sukarno’s Foreign Policies: Their Significance Then and Now, for Indonesians and Australians,” in Sukarno: A Political Biography, ed. John Legge (Clayton: Monash University Press, 2002), 10. 4 Terry MacDermot to Robert Menzies, undated letter [1964], National Library of Australia (NLA), Robert Menzies papers, MS4936, Box 21, correspondence: MacDermot. 5 Francine McKenzie, “In the National Interest: Dominions’ Support for Britain and the Commonwealth After the Second World War,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 34, no. 4 (2006): 553-76; Phillip Buckner, ed., Canada and the End of Empire (Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005), 9; James Belich, Paradise Reforged: A History of New Zealanders from the 1880s to the Year 2000 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2001). 6 Robin Gendron, Towards a Francophone Community: Canada’s Relations with France and French Africa, 1945-1968 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2006); John P. Schlegel, The Deceptive Ash: Bilingualism and Canadian Policy in Africa, 1957-71 (Washington: University Press of America, 1978). 7 Benedict Anderson, “Old State, New Society: Indonesia’s New Order in Comparative Historical Perspective,” Journal of Asian Studies 42, no. 3 (1983): 477-96. 8 See for instance, Andrew Cohen, While Canada Slept: How We Lost Our Place in the World (Toronto, McClelland and Stewart, 2003); Arthur Andrew, The Rise and Fall of a Middle Power: Canadian Diplomacy from King to Mulroney (Toronto: Lorimer, 1993). 9 Greg Donaghy, ed. Canada and the Early Cold War 1943-1957 (Ottawa: DFAIT, 1998), 20.

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10 Denis Stairs, “Realists at Work: Canadian Policy Makers and the Politics of Transition from Hot War to Cold War, in Donaghy, ed., Canada and the Early Cold War, 111. 11 J.L. Granatstein’s description of the postwar policy of Lester Pearson and Escott Reid, in The Ottawa Men: The Civil Service Mandarins, 1935-1957 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 249. 12 Paul Martin, A Very Public Life, Vol. 2: So Many Worlds (Toronto: Deneau, 1985), 527. 13 Cited in Allan Gotlieb, Romanticism and Realism in Canada’s Foreign Policy (Toronto: C.D. Howe Institute, 2004), 41. 14 John W. Holmes, The Shaping of Peace: Canada and the Search for World Order, 1943-1957, Vol. 1 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979), ix; Holmes, The Shaping of Peace, Vol. 2 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982): 4; Holmes oral history, in Peter Stursberg, Lester Pearson and the American Dilemma (Toronto: Doubleday, 1980), 125. 15 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991). 16 Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).

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Index

Note: “(i)” after a page number indicates an illustration Abdulgani, Ruslan, 45, 68 Acheson, Dean, 53 Adams, Charles, 93 aircraft industry and employment, 109-10, 111-12, 128, 150 Alatas, Ali, 156, 179 Alcan, 62 Algeria, 107, 144, 153 arms sales to Indonesia: calls for NATO arms embargo, 106, 107-9, 117-18, 125; opposed by Australia, 70, 109, 111; by Soviet Union, 103, 117, 128 Asamera Oil, 163, 189 Asia Foundation, 99 Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) summits, 177, 179(i), 179-80, 182 Asian economic “miracle,” 176, 196 Asian financial crisis, 180-81, 182, 194 Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN), 158, 162, 164, 166, 169, 175, 178 Attlee, Clement, 14, 17, 39 Australia: as Canadian partner, 162, 189; and Colombo Plan, 48-49, 51; and East Timor, 167, 182-83; and Indonesian revolution, 21-22, 27-28, 32, 35, 39-40; regional leadership ambitions, 22, 29, 104; seeks military mission to Indonesia, 57-58; and West New Guinea, 107, 112, 121, 123-24, 126; White Australia policy, 28. See also Colombo Plan; Commonwealth; Malaysia Axworthy, Lloyd: on East Timor, 176, 179-82; and human rights/human security, 178, 181-82, 184, 195

Balcer, Léon, 45 Bandaranaike, Sirimavo, 143 Bandaranaike, Solomon, 36-37 Bandung Conference, 43, 58, 59-60 Bangladesh, 162 Barwick, Garfield, 138 Belgium, 21, 41, 57, 125 Belo, Carlos, 177 Bevin, Ernest, 17, 48 Bissonet, A.P., 163 Bondan, Molly, 20, 60 Borneo: British colonies in, 121, 130-31, 132-33, 134-35; development of, 86, 110. See also decolonization Brazzaville group, 121-22 Brichant, André, 78, 82 Britain: colonial-development acts, 46, 48; and Indonesian revolution, 37-38; policy toward Sukarno’s Indonesia, 136, 138-40, 153-54; support for Suharto regime, 160-61; and West New Guinea, 121, 126. See also Commonwealth; decolonization; Indonesian revolution; Malaysia British Empire: legacy in Canada, 52, 66, 104 Brunei. See Borneo Bryce, R.B., 82 Budiardjo, Ali, 83, 91 Bunker, Ellsworth, 126 Burma, 7, 79; Canadian aid recommended, 69; joins Colombo Plan, 55; support for Indonesian independence, 36, 37; technical assistance to, 69, 81 Burns, E.L.M., 58 Burton, J.W., 36 Butler, R.A., 139-40

252

Index

Cadbury, George, 80, 88 Cadieux, Marcel, 58 Cambodia, 69, 145, 166 Canadair, 148, 150 Canadian Embassy in Indonesia, 56-57 Canadian Exporters’ Association, 66, 176 Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA), 158, 160, 164; aid to Indonesia, 11, 162, 168, 171-72, 173, 193; aid to Indonesia reviewed, 174-75, 177; Malaysia as country of concentration, 162; trade promotion, 171, 176 Canadian model, 3, 45, 50-51, 61-62, 65, 66, 90, 187 Carter, Jimmy, 170 Casey, R.G.: on Colombo Plan, 51, 59; on Indonesia, 71; on West New Guinea, 105, 107, 112 Cavell, R.G. Nik, 50, 52, 69 Ceylon, 48, 53, 87; Canadian aid, 72, 150; role in “confrontation,” 143-44, 146; support for Indonesian independence, 3637, 39; and West New Guinea, 114, 115 Chan, Raymond, 181 Chifley, J.B., 28, 36 China, 7, 30, 37, 50, 176; recognized by Canada, 158, 161; relations with Indonesia, 61, 107, 146, 152 Chinese, ethnic, 132, 151, 153 Chrétien, Jean, 175-78 Clark, Joe, 171, 172-73 Cochran, Merle, 30 Colombo Conference of Commonwealth foreign ministers, 42, 47-48 Colombo Plan, 9, 44, 186-87; as bridge to Asia, 46, 47, 51, 52, 60, 75, 94, 186; British interest in, 48-49; Canadian government attitudes, 46, 49-52; Indonesian membership, 55-56; motives in creating, 49-51; 1954 Ottawa conference, 58-59; 1959 Yogyakarta conference, 44-45, 46; technical co-operation, 84, 87; as weapon against communism, 50, 52, 75, 187 Commonwealth, 14, 26-28; Canadian military training, 148-49; Canadian views of multiracial Commonwealth, 35, 47, 66, 103-4, 143, 186; continuing importance to Canada, 44, 67, 72, 192; and Indonesian revolution, 26-27, 32, 35, 39-40; and Suez, 60, 66; and West New Guinea, 113, 114-15, 123. See also decolonization Communist Party, Indonesian (PKI): 1948 uprising, 29-30; rise of, 54, 69, 71, 92; strengthened by international disputes,

108, 135; wiped out by army, 151, 153, 160, 193 “confrontation,” 130-31, 136-45, 151-54, 162, 190-91. See also Malaysia Congo, 120-21 Cuba, 125; compared to East Timor, 166; and Indonesian revolution, 37, 40; relations with Indonesia, 107, 137, 144 Dandurand, Sen. Raoul, 7 Davis, T.C., 7 de Gaulle, Charles, 192 Deane, Douglas Maxwell, 78, 82, 86, 88 decolonization, 5, 13-14; American attitudes, 13, 14, 29; Australian attitudes, 21; British, 13, 14-15, 17, 40, 132, 135, 136; Canadian attitudes, 6, 14-16, 21-22, 27, 38, 58, 75, 103, 113, 118-19, 185; French, 15-16; Portuguese, 15, 165; Soviet campaigns, 58. See also trusteeship; specific countries being decolonized DeHavilland aircraft, 189; Caribous as aid for Malaysia, 148-49; Otters as Colombo Plan aid to Indonesia, 72; sales to Indonesia, 108-9, 110(i), 111-12; in West New Guinea, 127, 133-34, 165 Delworth, W.T., 91, 159, 163, 169 Department of National Defence, 58, 111, 134 development aid, 44-47, 75; American, 48, 59, 81; American aid to Indonesia, 55, 153, 170; Australian aid to Indonesia, 55, 56; “big push” theory, 85, 89, 160; Canadian, 5, 6; Canadian aid to Indonesia, 45, 68-69, 142, 153-54, 161, 162; Indonesian debates on development, 44-45, 53-54, 56, 68, 88-89, 90-91, 133, 190; Indonesian development under Suharto, 159-60 Dickenson, Lawrence, 177, 178 Dickins, C.H., 109, 111 Diefenbaker, John, 66; Asian tour, 68, 73-75; conflicts with civil service, 67, 72, 102; foreign policy, 66-67, 102, 109, 126, 189; increases Colombo Plan aid, 66-67, 189; on Indonesia, 71; relations with US and Britain, 101, 118. See also Green, Howard Diem, Ngo Dinh, 65 diplomatic memory, Canadian, 8; of Indonesian revolution, 6, 12, 23, 40, 42, 56, 101, 146 diplomatic memory, Indonesian, 43 diplomatic self-image, Canadian, 3-4, 8, 12, 83, 194-96; as “bridge,” 9, 43, 46; as human rights advocate, 157; as

Index

humanitarian donor, 9, 47, 51-52, 75-76, 187; as marker of difference from US, 64-65, 95; as mediating “middle power,” 16, 22-23, 42, 125, 158, 186, 190 Djojohadikusumo. See Soemitro Djojohadikusumo Djuanda Kartawidjaja, 68, 70, 90; accepts Malayan mediation of West New Guinea dispute, 113; Director of National Planning Bureau, 83-84, 88; economic stabilization package, 133, 135, 190; meets Diefenbaker, 74; positive image in West, 72, 83; seeks Canadian aid, 69 Dominion Bureau of Statistics, 78, 86 Drees, Willem, 38 Drury, Bud, 148 Dulles, John Foster, 51, 53, 108, 112 Dupuy, Pierre, 38-39 East Indonesia, State of, 18, 22, 32, 39 East Timor, 165-84; Canadian support for Indonesian rule, 167, 170-71, 172; Canadian troops in, 183; Indonesian invasion, 11, 156, 167, 168, 193; issue in Canadian public opinion, 172, 175-76, 177, 179, 184; “lost cause,” 169, 170, 172-73, 181, 184, 193 East Timor Alert Network, 172, 177, 179(i), 180 Edmonds, R.B., 57 Eisenhower, Dwight, 61 Egypt: and “confrontation,” 144, 146; Soviet aid, 117; support for Indonesian independence, 20, 37, 40. See also Suez crisis European Economic Community (EEC), 101-2, 104 Evatt, H.V., 22, 23, 27, 36, 107 Export Development Corporation, 163, 164, 167 Fabian Society, 79-80 Fleming, Donald, 109 food aid. See wheat food exports, Indonesian, 17, 18, 20, 24 food imports, Indonesian, 153 Ford Canada, 70, 109 Ford Foundation, 85, 91, 94, 97, 98; funds McGill University Institute of Islamic Studies, 97-98 Ford, Gerald, 168 Forde, F.M., 34, 35 Fournier, Alphonse, 50 France, 41, 132, 140, 146, 192; supports Netherlands in conflicts with Indonesia, 68, 125. See also decolonization

Galhos, Isabel, 178 Gani, A.K., 31 Ghana, 103, 121, 148, 153 Ghazali bin Shafie, 140, 154 Glazebrook, George, 124 “golden age” of Canadian foreign policy, 42, 102, 194-95 Gordon, Walter, 149 Gotlieb, Allan, 158 Green, Howard, 66, 67, 126, 190; on decolonization, 119; on Indonesia, 75-76, 111; on West New Guinea, 114, 118, 121, 124, 127, 133-34, 189-90 Green, Marshall, 152 “guided democracy,” 68, 71, 108, 188-89 Gusmão, Xanana, 181, 182 Habibie, B.J., 181, 182, 183 Hall, Ingrid, 174 Harris, Walter, 59 Harsono, Ganis, 139 Hasluck, Paul, 112 Hatta, Mohammad, 19, 24, 29, 31, 41, 53, 84; as anti-communist bastion, 30-31; imprisoned by Dutch, 13, 32, 39 Head, Ivan, 158 Heasman, George, 42, 56-57, 61, 83, 86 Hébert, C.P., 107, 115, 118, 120, 125 Hees, George, 109, 111 Hellyer, Paul, 148 Higgins, Benjamin, 78, 82-85, 88, 91; analysis of Indonesian economy, 84-85, 87, 89-90, 160 Holmes, John, 9, 23, 108, 195; on decolonization, 42; on development, 72; on Indonesia, 71, 108 Holyoake, Keith, 123 Home, Lord (Alec Douglas-Home), 131, 135, 140 human rights, 11, 156-57, 170, 183-84; and East Timor, 166, 169, 172-73; and Indonesia, 170, 176, 193; linkage to trade, 176, 178-79; and Trudeau government, 167-68 Humphrey, Hubert, 154 Ignatieff, George, 23, 25, 42, 125 Inco, 163-64, 193 India, 43; and “confrontation,” 144; “special relationship” with Canada, 65, 106, 145, 164, 191-92; support for Indonesian independence, 18, 19-20, 28, 35-37, 39-40; ties to Indonesia, 48, 52; and West New Guinea, 106, 114, 120, 121-22

253

254

Index

Indochina: truce commission, 6, 73, 145, 164; US role in, 135, 161-62. See also Vietnam Indonesia: apparent drift toward communism, 107, 108, 120, 122-24, 135, 137; economy, 55-56, 137, 159, 172; as “first child” of the UN, 79-80, 145-46; foreign policy under Suharto, 154, 159; foreign policy under Sukarno, 10, 52, 60-61, 116-17, 130, 135, 190; trade with Canada, 57, 68, 162-63, 164, 173, 174, 176-77, 180-81, 185; United States of, 20, 41; western images of, 72, 74-75 Indonesian army, 71; as anti-communist bastion, 106, 107-8; economic role, 68, 92, 108; martial law, 108, 135, 190; role in “confrontation,” 135; seeks Canadian military mission, 57-58; seizes power, 151-53; sponsors violence in East Timor, 181, 182; training in US, 58, 92, 98, 189 Indonesian nationalism, 13, 43; extremistmoderate paradigm, 17-18, 24, 54, 56; federalists, 19, 41 Indonesian revolution, 6, 13-43; “British phase,” 17-21; settlement of, 39, 41; UN and Canadian role, 8, 21-43, 185-86. See also Sukarno; United Nations Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia, 161, 175 International Civil Aviation Organization, 69, 147 International Monetary Fund: economic stabilization package for Indonesia, 130, 133, 135, 153, 155, 159, 190; suspends talks with Indonesia, 182 Iskandar, 134 Islam: as anti-communist ally, 94-95; in Indonesia, 19, 53, 77, 92, 97; Indonesian efforts to depoliticize, 160, 193; reform of, 92, 96-100, 187; study of Islam in Middle East, 97, 99-100 James, F. Cyril, 93, 94-95, 97, 98 Japan, 53, 102; Canadian trade advocacy, 158-59, 161-62; joins Colombo Plan, 59; occupation of Indonesia, 13, 17, 27; policy toward Indonesia, 108, 125, 138-39, 140, 153-54, 160-61, 167 Jayewardene, J.R., 48 Johnson, Lyndon, 136, 138, 140; authorizes covert action program against Sukarno, 152 Johnston, Peter, 164, 167 Jones, Howard, 117, 122, 137-38, 140, 152

Kalimantan. See Borneo Kartawidjaja. See Djuanda Kartawidjaja Keenleyside, Hugh, 80 Kennan, George, 7, 32, 95, 158 Kennedy, John F.: and Indonesia, 134, 135-36, 140; seeks delay of Malaysia, 135; and West New Guinea dispute, 102, 117, 120, 122-27, 189, 190 Keyfitz, Beatrice, 86, 88 Keyfitz, Nathan, 49, 78, 82, 86-88 Keynesianism, 78-80, 81, 86, 87, 91, 188 Khrushchev, Nikita, 102, 117 Kilgour, David, 173 King, W.L. Mackenzie. See Mackenzie King, W.L. Kirkpatrick, Jeanne, 171 Kissinger, Henry, 158 Korea, North. See North Korea Korea, South. See South Korea Korean War, 7, 8, 49, 82, 190; export boom, 55, 79; trade embargo on China during, 53 Krishna Menon, V.K., 36 Laos, 140, 144-45 Laurier, Wilfrid, 63 League of Nations, 15, 35, 46 Lee Kuan Yew, 132, 143, 151 Léger, Jules, 61 LePan, Douglas, 8 Lesage, Jean, 81 Lovinck, A.H.J., 124 Luns, Joseph, 108 Macapagal, Diosdado, 134, 139, 140 MacDermot, Terry, 191 MacDonald, Flora, 169 MacDonald, Malcolm, 14, 48 Macdonnell, R.M., 153 MacEachen, Allan, 162, 168-69, 170 MacGuigan, Mark, 159 Mackenzie, King, W.L.: on British Empire and decolonization, 14, 15, 29; on UN, 25, 34, 186; resignation, 33 Macmillan, Harold, 103, 120, 122; on Malaysia, 132-33, 135 Malaya, 7, 103; anti-communism, 74-75, 113; economic importance to Britain, 17, 132; economy, 74; relations with Canada, 72-74; relations with Indonesia, 115, 120, 127. See also Malaysia; Tunku Abdul Rahman Malaysia: as anti-communist bastion, 136, 138, 139-40, 141; Canadian attitudes toward, 131, 138; Canadian military aid, 130, 141-42, 147-50; defended by

Index

Commonwealth, 130-31, 132-33, 140-41, 149-50, 153; formation, 130, 132-33, 136, 141. See also Borneo; “confrontation”; Malaya; Singapore Malik, Adam, 117, 126, 153-54, 163(i), 167, 169 Marshall Plan, 32, 48 Martin, Paul, Sr.: foreign policy, 7, 131, 194-95; on Indonesian aid, 142, 147, 191; on Malaysian military aid, 149; urges Indonesia not to leave UN, 146 Masjumi, 53, 79, 98, 99 McDougall, Barbara, 174, 195 McGaughey, C.E., 151 McGill University, 78, 84, 91; Institute of Islamic Studies, 9, 77, 92-100, 160, 188, 193; “McGill mafia,” 98, 160; Sukarno visit, 62, 92, 98 McKinney, Russ, 74, 108 McNaughton, Andrew, 12, 24-25(i), 25(i); role in UN Indonesia resolutions, 25-26, 37-38, 39-42, 107 McVoy, Edgar, 82 mediation, 8, 22-23, 25-26, 42, 102, 126, 143, 190 mental maps, 7; American, 32; Australian, 28, 35; Canadian, 35, 47-48, 157, 185, 194; Indonesian, 19, 60, 116; of West New Guinea, 104-5, 115, 119, 121, 124, 190 Menzies, Arthur, 24, 73, 106-7, 114, 134 Menzies, Robert, 104, 114, 123, 138, 143 missionaries, 5, 92-93, 104, 165, 187; as forerunners of development aid, 52; as source of information, 7 Mochtar Kusumaatmadja, 172, 173 modernizing elites, 5, 77, 90-92, 117, 142, 160, 189, 193 Mohammed, Ghulam, 48 Mook, H.J. van, 13, 18, 20 Mountbatten, Lord Louis, 17 Mozambique, 165-66 Mukti Ali, Abdul, 99, 160 Mulroney, Brian, 171, 174 Murtopo, Ali, 160, 167 Musso, 29-30 Nash, Walter, 113, 114 Nasution, A.H., 107, 108, 151; and West New Guinea, 114, 117 Nasution, Harun N., 99-100 National Planning and Development Board, Indonesian (Bappenas), 159, 161 National Planning Bureau, Indonesian, 9, 78-92, 187-88; Five-Year Plan, 78, 89-91

NATO, 9, 23, 26, 33-34; Article 2, 33. See also arms sales to Indonesia Nehru, Jawaharlal, 65; and development, 47; support for Indonesian independence, 28, 36, 40, 48 Nesbitt, Wallace, 142 Netherlands: businesses in Indonesia taken over, 68, 69, 71-72, 103, 104; Canadian arms exports, 22; Canadian attitudes to, 16, 26, 35, 37-39, 111, 113, 189; Canadian loan to Netherlands East Indies, 16-17, 57; and decolonization, 103; and development, 46, 55; economy, 17, 24; and North Atlantic Treaty, 33-34, 37, 38-40; “police action” in Indonesia, 20-21, 26, 30-32, 34, 39; support for Suharto regime, 160-61; suspends aid to Indonesia, 174-75 Netherlands-Indonesian Union, 14, 18, 22, 41; failure of, 54-55, 102; Netherlands military mission, 57 New Delhi conference on Indonesia, 36-37, 59 new emerging forces, 117, 135, 145, 146-47, 191 New Zealand: and East Timor, 182; and West New Guinea, 113-14, 121, 123. See also Commonwealth; Malaysia; Nash, Walter; trusteeship Newton, Theodore, 71, 73, 107-8, 109, 119 Nitisastro. See Widjojo Nitisastro Nkrumah, Kwame, 121, 153 non-aligned movement: 1961 Belgrade Conference, 116, 143; 1964 Cairo Conference, 143-44 non-alignment, 60, 116-17; American views, 64, 71; Canadian views, 60; Indonesian views, 61, 191; Malaysian views, 143-44. See also Bandung Conference non-state diplomats, 5, 77, 100, 187, 193-94, 196; Indonesian, 18-20, 29, 32, 35-37, 43; Papuan (see Papuan nationalism); Timorese, 165-66, 171, 177-78, 181, 184, 194 North Atlantic alliance: as focus for Canadian diplomacy, 4, 7, 8, 14, 42, 67, 101, 104, 185-86, 192, 195 North Korea, 147 northern Canada, 15, 80, 106, 109, 111 oil, 28, 55, 163, 166-67, 187, 189, 190; pipeline debate, 62, 65 “open door,” 31 Orientalism, 92-94, 96, 188 Ouellet, André, 177, 184

255

256

Index

Pakistan: support for Indonesian independence, 36; ties to Indonesia, 48, 147; troops deployed to West New Guinea, 127-28 Palar, L.N., 20, 69, 101, 106, 108, 124 Panggabean, Maraden, 164 Papua and New Guinea, Territory of, 105, 112-13 Papuan nationalism, 103, 115, 119-21; race and, 105, 121 Parliamentarians for East Timor, 173, 175 Parwoto, Benjamin, 178 Pearson, Lester, 130; on Colombo Plan, 47, 51, 52, 55; on decolonization, 10, 22, 131; foreign policy, 5, 126, 195, 196; on Indonesia, 10, 56, 138; questions in Parliament on Indonesia, 104, 124; report on development, 9, 75; support for Malaysia, 134, 141-42, 191; on UN, 25-26, 33, 38 Pertamina, 166-67, 172 Philippines, 120, 134. See also “confrontation” Pratt and Whitney, 118, 133 Prawiranegara. See Sjafruddin Prawiranegara Quay, J.E. de, 115, 124, 127 Quebec, 34, 85, 192 Ramos Horta, José, 177, 180, 181 Rasjidi, Mohammad, 20, 98, 99 raw materials, Indonesian, 17, 24, 28, 31; prices, 55. See also oil; rubber; tin Reagan, Ronald, 171 Reid, Escott, 6, 33, 39, 47, 65 Religion, Indonesian Ministry of, 20, 92, 98-99, 160 Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI) uprising, 69-72, 91, 99 Rhee, Syngman, 65 Robertson, Norman, 36, 111, 118, 122, 124 Robertson, Walter, 71 Robinson, Basil, 102 Rockefeller Foundation, 91; funds McGill University Institute of Islamic Studies, 93-95, 97, 188; and Indonesia, 98 Rockefeller, Michael, 105 Rockefeller, Nelson, 105 Roem, Mohammad, 53 Roijen, J.H. van, 33 Rostow, Walt, 85, 125 Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF), 127-28, 134, 149

rubber, 17, 55, 61, 73, 137, 141 Rusk, Dean, 32, 94, 135-36 Sabah. See Borneo Salim, Emil, 161 Sarawak. See Borneo Sarbini Sumawinata, 86 Saskatchewan, 80-81 Sastroamijoyo, Ali, 57, 68 Sastroamijoyo, Usman, 98, 105 Scott, Frank, 81 Shastri, Lal Bahadur, 144 Shortliffe, Glen, 169, 170 Sigvaldson, J.P.: on Indonesia, 120, 134, 137-38; on West New Guinea, 119, 122, 123, 128 Singapore: as British base, 17, 130, 132-33, 164; leaves Malaysia, 151. See also Malaysia Sjafruddin Prawiranegara, 68, 70 Sjahrir, Sutan, 19-20, 21(i), 28, 78, 80-81; as anti-communist bastion, 30-31; imprisoned by Dutch, 13 Smith, Arnold, 95, 126 Smith, Sidney, 46, 109 Smith, Wilfred Cantwell, 84, 92, 93, 95-96, 98-99. See also McGill University, Institute of Islamic Studies Socialist Party, Indonesian (PSI), 79 Soemitro Djojohadikusumo, 19, 21(i), 55; development planner, 78-79, 82, 84-85, 91 South Africa, 27, 65, 103, 115, 132, 190 South Korea, 59, 152, 162 Southeast Asia regionalism, 59-60, 162. See also Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO), 59, 106, 113, 116, 133 Soviet Union: aid to Indonesia, 61, 107, 117; and India, 41, 117; and Indonesian revolution, 19, 41-42; offers development aid, 52, 81; spy operations in Canada, 29; at UN, 27, 41-42, 146 Spender, Percy, 48 St. Laurent, Louis, 33, 64(i); Asian tour, 58, 61, 73; on development, 51; foreign policy, 4, 23, 50; on NATO, 7, 39; on UN, 22, 25 sterling balances, 49-50, 55 sterling bloc, 13, 17, 187 Stikker, Dirk, 23, 31, 33, 40 Subandrio, 116-17; seeks Canadian aid, 69, 110; on West New Guinea, 112, 123, 124, 126

Index

Subroto, 91 Sudarsono, 19, 35 Suez crisis, 8, 60, 67, 126, 131, 190 Suharto: as anti-communist bastion, 153, 168; regime vulnerable, 166-67; seeks support over East Timor, 167-68, 175; seizes power, 151, 162, 193; toppled, 181, 193; visits Canada, 163(i), 164, 167, 168, 179(i), 180 Sukarno: analysis of Indonesian politics, 53, 68, 188; as anti-communist bastion, 30-31, 63; compared to Hitler, 45, 139, 142; compared to unruly child, 138-39, 146; and “confrontation,” 134-35, 137; on decolonization, 10, 103, 134-35; on development, 44-46, 54, 86-87, 88, 130, 133, 190; imprisoned by Dutch, 13, 32, 39; and Indonesian revolution, 18-19; proclaims Indonesian independence, 13; tells aid donors to “go to hell,” 140, 147; toppled, 151-52; visits Canada, 42, 44, 60-62, 63(i), 64(i), 65; visits US, 61; and West New Guinea, 112, 113, 122-23, 126, 128 Sukiman, 53, 55 Sulawesi: aid projects, 69, 164, 175; civil war in, 70. See also Inco Sunario, 59 Tanzania, 42, 148-49 technical assistance, 55, 58, 60, 78-79, 80-83, 160, 187; as anti-communist weapon, 57; Canadian, 10, 50, 75, 81-82, 142. See also National Planning Bureau, Indonesian; United Nations Technical Assistance Administration (TAA) Thant, U, 124, 127, 134, 146 Tibet, 113 tin, 17, 55, 73 Trade Commissioner Service, 56, 67 trade unions, 22, 181 transmigration, 78, 86-87 Trudeau, Pierre, 157: on development, 158; foreign policy, 158, 159, 195; on Indonesia, 160-62, 163(i), 164, 170-71; “third option” and export promotion, 159, 164, 176 trusteeship, 15, 46; Australian and New Zealand calls for, 14-15, 27 Trusteeship Committee, 15, 58, 113 Tunku Abdul Rahman, 130, 134, 151; conflict with Sukarno, 134, 136, 140, 146, 152; denounces non-alignment, 75, 143; relations with Diefenbaker, 74, 114, 142; West New Guinea mediation, 102, 113-15, 126; visits Canada, 141-42

United Nations: Canadian seat on Security Council, 22-23; on “confrontation,” 143; on decolonization, 103, 116, 119; and East Timor, 168-70, 177-78, 179, 182, 183; Good Offices Committee on Indonesia, 21, 24, 26, 30, 37; and Indonesian revolution, 8, 21-43; Indonesian withdrawal, 145-47, 193; UN Commission for Indonesia (UNCI), 37, 41, 80; UN Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA), 127-28, 134; UN Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET), 183 United Nations Technical Assistance Administration (TAA), 9, 80-81, 83, 88, 188 United States: arms supplies to Indonesia, 108, 117, 170; and “confrontation,” 13840, 143; and Indonesian revolution, 29, 30-31, 32-33, 39; investment in Canada, 50, 65, 74, 85, 89, 90, 187; as model, 3, 61, 86; support for massacres in Indonesia, 152-53; support for Suharto regime, 160-61; suspends military links with Indonesia, 182. See also decolonization; development aid; Kennedy, John F. University of Indonesia Faculty of Economics, 91-92 Untung, 151, 152 Vietnam, 53; relations with Indonesia, 107, 144, 147, 167; Vietnam war, 111, 131, 139-40, 144-45, 155, 166, 191. See also Indochina West New Guinea, 101-29, 189-90; “act of free choice,” 127-28, 164-65, 193; Canadian mediation prospects, 101-2, 107, 125-27; Freeport mine, 163; left out of 1949 Indonesian peace settlement, 41, 54-55; Netherlands self-determination plan, 112, 116; as place of exile, 13; proposals for Melanesian Federation, 113, 119; UN resolutions on, 105-6, 120-22; West New Guinea Council, 119, 120, 121 wheat: Canadian sales to Indonesia, 57, 180; in Colombo Plan aid, 67-68, 75, 189; as food aid to Indonesia, 72, 142, 147, 150, 154; sales to Britain, 104 Wherry, Sen. Kenneth, 3 Widjojo Nitisastro, 86, 87, 91, 159, 161 Wirayuda, Hasan, 12 World Bank, 149, 175, 182 Wrong, Hume, 15 Yalden, Max, 158 Yugoslavia, 107, 144, 146

257


Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens Set in Stone by Artegraphica Design Co. Ltd. Copy editor: Matthew Kudelka Cartographer: Eric Leinberger

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